What I remember most about Dicky and how I perceive him still is tied to his last year on earth. He was always part of that tumbling family history that we have together growing up, and those memories live on for all of us, I think. But when Dick faced his final year of life without a job or future prospects due to his health conditions and a narrowing of his world financially, and emotionally, he found himself back under the family roof. I knew what it was like to essentially be "alone" with our parents for four years, so having Dicky back home was a godsend for me, but also tough for him in ways I wasn't fully mature enough to recognize yet, but knew in my bones.
Honestly, considering the dynamics of pre-divorce Ruthy and Mace, and Dick's own long bout with a fiercely tempestuous and gut-wrenching disease, I thought he handled the move well. His small personal space was to be the recreation room, with a second television provided for his private area. I spent most of my nights home from school down there with him at his invitation, playing endless games of Risk - a favorite of ours, albeit he understood more about foreign policy than I did - and watching Night Gallery and various other shows Daddy wouldn't go for on the main television. For me, Risk was like making up Middle Earth fantasies with places like Czechoslovakia and Yugoslavia. For him, it was time he could control and amass his own defenses and create a world at his pleasure. We'd talk about everything and nothing during those long evenings. He'd riff on jokes, politics and ideas, for me or the world at large - but he'd never talk about the "thing" he had. I think it was a way to suspend reality. I used to look back to those board game nights and wish I'd taken our conversations deeper as if that is what he needed at the time. Now I realize that the reason he liked to 'hang' out with me was precisely because I didn't. In between working a gawdawful nightshift job Dad got him and sleep, he was able to forget the present insults to his life, and just be.
Some days I'd come home from school and he'd be waiting for me with game board set up and ready to go. Other days, he'd say, "Hey, let's go get a Mr. Misty Freeze at DQ" and we'd head off for a spin around town drinking our green DQ freezes (man, they were good, too. It had to be a certain kind of Mister Misty that included icecream). Once or twice he decided spur of the moment to head to Gramp's for a quick, mid-week visit. The entire drive would be just open conversation about school, life and especially politics. It's those drives across Iowa rolling hills in the late afternoon that I began to take special note of the magic that golden-light time of day casts on the landscape. Dicky wanted me to be more aware of the politics of the day and he'd fill me with his observations. He talked about Nixon, the war, current events, the cold war. I told him my History teacher talked about Communism and anti-Commie sentiments, and I asked the question "What's wrong with Communism?" The classroom erupted, the teacher - who was a really good guy - laughed....and so did Dicky. When we landed at Gramp's he'd chat with him about politics (Gramp loved his US News and World Reports) and his obsession with UFOs, with some old-guy reminiscing of days past......I always wondered: Had Gramp seen an UFO at some point? Occasionally, we'd head over to Aunt Ve's near Drake and surprise her with a visit. Same thing would take place there: an old one getting to share her memories with young, attentive visitors. He made their day, always. My takeaway from Dicky from that time was his ability to turn himself completely over to the people who most of us just forgot about, and he really listened to them. He engaged them, charmed them and left them feeling relevant again. Aunt Ve and Gramp were funny to listen to. Their stories were hilarious; their memories sharp and rich. Even at 23, Dicky seemed meant to gather, observe and acquit himself in a manner that truly affected people in a positive way.
I don't recall him ever being insecure or questioning himself or his life, but I'm sure he did. He always seemed self-possessed, even when his health made him vulnerable. I was at a stage where I did question myself, all the time. He sensed this and spent time with me in a way that I wasn't used to in that household, given the life and death issues he had. Not to complain, because I often preferred blending into the wall during those years at home. My issues were petty, or seemed to be, by contrast. Cystic acne was my cross to bear at that time in my life, but by comparison, at least I had a lifet o look forward to....or so was the general thinking on my part. Dicky, as the focus, worked hard to move that constant glare elsewhere. He focused instead on whoever else was in his reach. He was adamant about my art and that I pursue art in a manner that was true to myself. Very much Dicky, I know, but the idea of selling out to a steady job instead of pursuing my art was not something he had high regard for. He gave me a $100 when he had little to spare to put towards a school of art to attend when I graduated from High School. In the recesses of my mind, I always knew I'd come back to painting - I always felt a little push from Dick in that direction. He's got more than a little bit of influence on my obsession with politics, too :)
In that last year, Dicky found a dog - or rather the dog found him and he stayed on with us. The night before Dick died, his beloved dog, Rags, disappeared forever. Rags came to us when Dick returned home to live, showing up out of the blue and staking his claim on Dick's heart. He was a wiry little guy and very clever. I thought we had movies or photos of him, but I've not been able to find a single thing showing what a crazy little creature he was. He was called Rags because he had a penchant for leaping at the laundry hung on the line and pulling them off. Dick made rags and used them for Rags to leap up with astounding athleticism. He'd do flips and jump nearly 5 feet from a standing position. Dick loved that old pooch. I don't think he was with us more than a year when Dick died. The night before Jeanne, Kim and I drove to U of I hospital, we couldn't get Rags to come inside, even as a storm started to rage outside. We heard him in the night just outside howling into the wind, but he still wouldn't come in or come close enough to catch. The morning we left for Iowa City, we didn't know it would be Dick's last day on earth and while we tried to get Rags safe, he was completely, bewilderingly gone by then. We never saw Rags again. We posted signs and searched everywhere. It was as if he vanished into the same place he came to us from. I still believe he was here for a short time to be a companion to Dick in his final months.
Dicky did some weird, uncharacteristic things in that last year, but I remember him as the kind of guy he was when his disease didn't chew away at his spirit in his darker moments. Right now, I picture him hanging with favorite people who have passed since - thinking especially of Leonard Nemoy. I can still see Dicky giving me the "Live Long and Prosper" hand sign as I drove past him on my way to school....
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