I grew up in in
the mountains of New Mexico in a roadside attraction built by my father.
With the
exception of, “I love you,” I have probably spoken this one sentence more than
any other. I defined myself as the daughter of Ross Ward, the man who created
Tinkertown Museum.
I did not mean
to write a book. After my father died from complications of early onset
Alzheimer’s disease, I sat down with my journals to try to understand what had
happened to me and to my family in a five-year period that began just before I
turned thirty.
I often say that
caregiving is all about being just hands and feet. You’re running and doing. You’re
putting out fires (in my case both real and metaphorical,) without any time for
introspection or emotion. As I burrowed into my stacks of yellow legal pads, it
was the head and the heart that I was after.
I sat with all
of the pages and all of the photographs I’d taken and tried to pay attention to
where I felt a kind of heat. I wrote to figure out where I’d been. I wrote to
understand what I’d lost. As I wrote, I began to see not just my journey, but
the journey of my family. As I wrote, my compassion deepened. I wrote toward
questions. Eventually, I wrote my father back to life.
“Leaving
Tinkertown,” was published by the University of New Mexico Press in 2013. I
have such a hardwired connection to my family and to the glorious red dirt of
my home state that it makes a lot of sense to me that I would find my identity
as a writer by telling the story of my relationship with my dad.
In the years
since the book came out, many people have gifted me with their own tales of my
father. Other readers, who didn’t know my dad in life, tell me they feel as
though they’ve made a new friend. I’ve met other caregivers and joined my voice
in the chorus of those working to raise awareness of Alzheimer’s. We need to
find ways to provide respite and home care. We need to increase federal funding
for research and ultimately we must find a cure. To achieve these noble ends, it’s
my belief that we all need to see the faces of those affected by this terrible
disease. We need to hear the stories. All the stories. Writing and publishing
“Leaving Tinkertown,” has expanded my life in so many surprising ways. It’s a
fitting memorial to the man who showed me how to live with humor, creativity
and joy.
When Dad was
first diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, we were all sad and angry and afraid, but
with Dad’s carny credo, “The show must go on,” as our mantra, we kept moving.
The “show” is still on the road. Tinkertown Museum is open to the public and my
kids sell tickets during the summer months. They never got a chance to meet
their grandfather, but he is a big part of their lives. I’m so glad they have
the old stories to keep them company as they begin to tell their own.
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