My dad's scarlet letter

There is nothing quite like the glint of fake jewelry soaring through the hot Nevada air toward their demise to cement a memory.

My dad was a baseball player. Actually, he was a man-of-all-sports, but baseball was his true love, the one that could have taken him to college and beyond, had the motivation been his and not just the talent. Raising four fairly girly daughters kept him from tossing the ball around in the back yard. Since girls didn't fit the definition of "ball-tosser-arounders," it's likely it simply never occured to him to attempt it. When grandsons finally showed up after six granddaughters, it didn't make a difference. He was out of practice, but some talents never leave us.

I wonder if he realized the irony that two of his best pitches, the ones that clearly demonstrated that even rusty, the man had an arm that was meant to throw, were fueled by defeat. Part of the events that had brought us to that moment are second hand; I had spent the night with my best friend at her mom's house in West Las Vegas, while my parents trolled the Strip. Sometime before I returned, but after their morning breakfast buffet of thinly sliced prime rib and sugary pastries, a desperate man approached them, jewelry in his hand, deceit in his heart. He was losing badly at the tables, and needed to shed some valuables to get back in the game. The  flash of gold, the promise of value beyond the price contained in the watch and the necklace, sunk deep into my dad's heart. And possibly my mom's too, as, in her own words, "I pulled out my hundred, too." I imagine the deal was over almost as fast as it began.

It was after that moment that time began to stand still. By the time I had rejoined them, doubt and regret had started to eat at my dad's heart. Both were emotions he knew well; doubt was always right behind all of his schemes to get something more from something less. The wooden duck decoy business. The reverse osmosis laundry ball. The myriad of real estate deals that never panned out. Oh, how he wanted to be a success. To finally edge away from his regret over his blue-collar lay off and his inability to provide for his family in the aftermath. What he didn't realize was that being laid off is generally more forgivable than spending your entire life afterward in a funk of desperate regret. 

They had already started to bicker as I climbed into the car at our rendezvous point. Dad was trying to convince himself and his wife that the item's imperfections implied that they had value. Mom was blaming him for his impetuousness. Both were dreading the inevitable. I don't remember much as we drove to the hotel where my uncle was a security guard to find a jeweler. I know there was a long walk through the casino, trays of necklaces with tiny tags, and expectations that were predictably dashed. The finality of the jeweler's eyepiece as it dropped back to his chest, swung a few times, then lay still.

It is impossible for me to leave Las Vegas without remembering. The air in the car was thick with blame and regret and guilt and shame. Words didn't help, nor were they easy to find. To keep talking about the event made it worse. Small talk was crowded out by past and present and future.

Just after you climb out of the valley of sin, the desert stretches north. Somewhere in the midst of all that nothingness, we suddenly stopped. I watched my dad climb from the car. The necklace and watch were ceremonially cast away, as far as my dad's once-golden arm could get them as his wife and daughter looked on. He hoped that by casting them away and then making a pact to never talk about the event again, it would be erased. The fingerprints would bake away in the sun. The rust that had already started to eat away at the necklace would be helped by the wind and rain. The watch would run out of time.

But the ache of that morning lives on. The attempt to erase acted like cement. Knowing my dad was trusting and too-hopeful and eager to get something for nothing became a rust that degraded my faith in him. Oh how I wish it hadn't. The glint of defeat that is my last visual memory of the jewelry was never erased by any subsequent success my dad could show me. He couldn't process it for himself, so I neither could I. I could neither side with him or against him, because to do either was to go against one of my parents, and that didn't feel right, even though it was the general way that things were played in our family.


How I wish I could tell him that I forgive him for being hopeful and eager. Assure him that those aren't bad qualities. Joke about the glints of flying gold to take away their power. What I understand now is that it was never about the loss of a few hundred dollars. Those few hours and cheap items became a glowing symbol of all the ways he failed those around him, instead of a moment of poor judgement.

He wore that necklace and watch, and all that they implied, on his heart until the day he died. Only three of us could actually see them, but I regret to say that almost everyone could feel them.

Christmas 2014

I love, love Christmas. This was a great year. A few things I want to remember:

• Watching Elf (I love Buddy the Elf, he makes everyone feel special and has no guile or ill-will towards anyone. I wish I could be more like him.) while I made our traditional Christmas Eve dinner of french dip sandwiches, brown rice, and clam dip. Ben even said, "Great dinner, Mom," as he got up from the table. A true Christmas miracle.
• Laughing with Shane's dad and grandma on Christmas Eve as we visited in her kitchen. I didn't ever think we would have Christmases like that again. I'm so grateful.This picture is priceless.

• Visiting the mall, just because, on Christmas Eve day. I love to be out in the hustle and bustle, especially when I know I'm only there for fun, not for necessity. We found a shirt for Shane to wear on Christmas (because he likes to wash his clothes before he wears them, so he rarely has a Christmas shirt.) We attempted to cash in on some sub-$2 gas at Costco, but the line was insane.
• Watching Shane play with his toy: a Keurig 2.0 coffee maker that his friend gave him for Christmas. 
• Had a Coke (or two or three) for the first time since Halloween.
• Ben's excitement when he saw his Christmas presents. He jumped for joy on more than one present. He didn't sleep at all Christmas Eve, and tried to get up at 1, 3:30, and 4:45, before succeeding at 6am. Yawn.
  
• Observing Thomas. He understands Christmas now. But he still gets excited, and is a good kid about not letting on about the gig. He got one of his big presents early - like October early, so it I kept wondering if he was sad, or felt disappointed. But he rallied and had a great Christmas. I still remember Christmas when I was in 8th grade - I got a brown leather jacket that I can still smell, and some green stretchy pants and a big sweatshirt - but what I wanted was a Nintendo so I could play Mario Brothers like my friend Amber. I still remember how sad I was but trying to not let on. Christmas is hard when you grow up.

• Eating breakfast with Shane's mom and stepdad.

• Driving to my mom's in a beautiful snowstorm.
• Having a nice, teary, one-sided conversation  with my dad in the quiet of his backyard. The snow was falling so softly on the trees. He would have loved the way they looked. I could feel him right there. I'm glad he had some time on Christmas, and that I found a quiet place to feel him.

• Driving home in the second worst Christmas Day storm we have ever weathered.
• Taking silly bow pictures with my sisters. I love them!

• Admiring the beautiful Nativity set my mom gave us.
• Thinking about the fact that next Christmas, it could all be so very, very different. My mom is having a pretty serious and complex back surgery in January, and things might have to change. I feel so lucky to have spent all my Christmases (except for one!) in my mom's home, with my family. I love them all so much.
• Sitting with most of the boy crowd in the living room during dinner at my mom's. All my boys, Amy's sons and husband, and my oldest nephew Zack, and my great nephews all chatted together over the traditional ham, potatoes, green bean casserole, Brussels spouts casserole, and homemade rolls.
• Embarrassing Thomas with an inappropriate conversation with half of the family. It's so fun to embarrass teenagers. Just mention their parent's having sex and they lose all composure.I love it. And my older sister is really good at it.
• Being zen about it all. I didn't let anything get to me (or I tried really, really hard.) I didn't even rush everyone out the door the way I usually do. Or fussed about what was going on in the kitchen. It's true that the cat throwing up noises that Ben made (nonstop!) in the car almost put me over the edge, as did the hustle and bustle before dinner, but I did it. Oooommmm.

• Wearing the running skirt, Deathly Hallows necklace, and slippers Shane bought me all morning. I've asked for slippers for years and years and he finally bought me some. The running skirt I had him buy in September when they were on sale, and the Deathly Hallows pendant was a wild card that I threw at him at the last minute after I realized how much I was envying Amy's. (Every time I think of it I think Amy's story about library patron who saw hers. Amy, you should put the quote in the comments so I can get it right!)
• Perfecting the Christmas morning pull-apart rolls, which have been slightly undercooked for years and years until I realized that you have to put them in the pantry, instead of the fridge, overnight. Thanks, Pinterest!

Merry Christmas! I hope yours was lovely.

Smoke Gets in Your Eyes: book review and thoughts about death

Two summers ago, I went to my friend Sheila's funeral and burial. Since Sheila had been cremated, there was no casket. Instead, most of her ashes were concealed in an urn that was placed inside the burial vault while the mourners looked on.

It was sort of shocking to me to watch her urn being put in the ground in front of me. In my experience, the burial of the remains was always performed behind the scenes, after the dedicatory prayer, and out of the sight of loved ones. I thought a lot about this event, and the more I thought about it, the more I appreciated it. Sheila's young daughters, who would certainly come to visit in the future, would know exactly what was underneath the beautiful headstone that marked Sheila's remains. They weren't preserved to look "natural" or "lifelike." They were simply non-scary, non-threatening ashes, remains of a lovely life cut too short. They would never wonder if she still looked the same as when the casket lid was shut (as I often do when I visit my dad's grave site.)

The shock became sort of comforting as I thought about it. The obviousness of the events took wonder about a dead body below the ground out of the equation. No dead body preserved with chemicals in a cement vault in a metallic casket, all for the mourner's comfort and the cemetery's landscaping convenience, paid for at a premium price, with the feeling that anything less than the best makes you cheap. (Sidenote: I was called "cheap" in conversation just this week about this topic. The exact words were "you are too cheap to be embalmed." Um, okay. I guess I am. Because yes, I not only don't like the thought of my dead body being filled with chemicals, I also don't like my loved ones paying a large sum for it. I'll own that, but not in the way it was said.)

Now, I'm not really 100% sold on cremation. But I also don't oppose it in quite the way I did when I was younger. The culture I live in seems to believe in the traditional funeral establishment. But I don't count myself as one of the believers. Sheila's funeral was simply another step in my own (morbid) journey of how I've come to think about my own death (a long, long time in the future, thankyouverymuch.) I decided years ago to not be embalmed. I've also decided to have a green burial (more on this later in the post.) I don't judge others for their desires for their own burial, but those are my current plans for that future event.

Which brings me to the book I've been reading: Smoke Gets in Your Eyes & other lessons from the Crematory, by Caitlin Doughty.  It is possibly one of the best autobiographical memoirs I have ever read. Told in first person, Caitlin tells of how she became obsessed and morbidly afraid of death as a child, which led to her first job in a funeral home, pushing the big red button on the crematorium for people from all walks of life.  She also has a blog and a website, www.orderofthegooddeath.com

I cannot say enough good things about this book. Caitlin talks very openly about our society's lack of death rituals, especially as most people become increasingly less involved in religion. Most of us are afraid of dead bodies, convinced that they will give us diseases, that we don't have any rights to the deceased's body after death, that we cannot transport them on our own or keep them longer than a few moments after they have passed from life to death. Our society likes to have death be behind closed doors. We are are secluded from death because it reminds us that we will die, and we don't like to be reminded.

I loved this book. I loved how she tackled the societal beliefs and norms that we have about death. Reading about the lack of regard many people have for their dead made me sad that I didn't participate in more of my own father's burial. I wish I hadn't let fear keep me from helping to dress him. I know I am a daughter, and that it would be weird to dress my father. But I wish I had. Even just his outer clothing. What I dislike about my lack of involvement is that it came from fear. Fear of my dad's scary dead body. I know that my sister participated in the dressing of one of her close relatives, and that she felt a great amount of peace from it. I regret not doing something similar for my dad. I won't let that fear impede me in the future.

If I thought I had strong beliefs about what I wanted to happen to my own body after death before reading it, they are even stronger now. Even though it sounds weird and new-agey, I think a home funeral would be very special to have or attend for a loved one. When I die, I don't want my family to be afraid of my body. (Nor do want them to keep it in the back bedroom as it waits for resurrection.) I want some sort of middle ground type of event to mark my passing. This passage perfectly describes my feelings for my body:

The way to break the cycle and avoid embalming, the casket, the heavy vault, is something called green, or natural, burial. It is only available in certain cemeteries, but its popularity is growing as society continues to demand it....The body goes straight into the ground, in a simple biodegradable shroud, with a rock to mark the location. It zips merrily through decomposition, shooting its atoms back into the universe to create new life. Not only is natural burial by far the most ecologically sound way to perish, it doubles down on the fear of fragmentation and loss of control. Making the choice to be naturally buried says "Not only am I aware that I'm a helpless, fragmented mass of organic matter, I celebrate it. Vive la decay!"

And another good sentence or two:

I understood I had been given my atoms, the ones that made up my heart and toenails and kidneys and brain, on a kind of universal loan program. The time would come when I would have to give the atoms back, and I didn't want to attempt to hold on to them through the chemical preservation of my future corpse.

I know, I know. It's morbid. But it's inevitable, and I don't want to pretend my own death (or the death of my loved ones, as much as I don't want it) won't happen (in a really, really long time.) I don't want to pretend I will always be young. I want to embrace the process of life, that leads, you know, to aging and eventual decomposition. It will happen whether I fear it or not. It feels brave. It feels empowered.

Check out Caitlyn's website. Read her book. It's disturbing, but I think we need to be a little disturbed. I think we need reminders of our mortality. We need to make decisions about our own deaths.

Mowing my dad's lawn

I can only remember mowing my parent's lawn one time. I was 22. I wore a black tank top and a black pair of terry cloth shorts. My dad was out of town while he tried to find a job in Las Vegas, where he could live with my uncle and aunt. It was a hot Saturday morning and mid-way through my two oldest nieces showed up and we drove to Brookside gas station for cokes. It wasn't fun and I remember it being hot, and the particular way that the mid-morning sun dappled the backyard lawn through the trees.

I thought about this singular experience on Friday when I mowed it for the second time. I thought about how personal the grass seemed, like it was a reflection of my dad somehow. A reflection of his service and vision and hard work. If there was one thing my dad was good at, it was yardwork and yard design. I thought about my mom, who was planting flowers in the east flower bed, the one with the rocks that had just the perfect surface area for my feet to walk on in incessant circles on hot summer days.

The side yard on the west was a mess of overgrown trees, both intentional trees and many volunteers. I took the shears and cut and cut away at the burgundy-leafed branches that hung over their allotted space. The best moment was when the branch would spring just a little higher after my cut, free of the weight of so many leaves. My dad would have done the same trimming with more intention, I'm sure, but I have no doubt he would have approved of the reemergence of grass and curbing.

I was happy to see the rose bush I butchered on the day my dad died blooming. There are no reminders of the volunteer tree I cut down. I can't remember now why I escaped to the yard and indulged in therapeutic trimming, but it's still a fond memory of that day.

Father's Day was never a big focus. It should have been, but in a family of 6 where 5 are female, the man tends to lose most of the battles. I know we often combined my dad's early June birthday with Father's Day. He didn't mind. He was happy to receive the new book Amy would find for him, the shirts my mom would offer, the kisses and hugs from the grandkids and the German chocolate cake (his favorite.) I can't remember the last Father's Day gift I gave him. But, on Friday, I knew I was giving him a gift. Of my time. Of my memories. Of my kids pulling weeds and blowing tree pollen from the patio and driveway. I wish I had more time to do these tasks, or that I lived closer. The lawn has to be mowed every week, after all. I'm not the only one of his progeny who have or will mow it.  But for at least one week, it was done my me. Which I hope counts for something.

Gratitude Two: Wry humor about pigs.

My dad had a crazy sense of humor. It is one of the things that I might miss the most: seeing him laugh, and hearing about the things that made him laugh.

Because I was missing him a little this morning, I grabbed my copy of the book his best friend made of letters and stories from their long friendship. I cannot look at this book (or even open it) without sobbing. It fills me with hope that he still exists, somewhere. It makes me frustrated that we can't have more of this earthly life together. It makes me mad that he had to die so young. So really, it isn't a book I've opened more than a few times. But I guess I needed it today.

So, my gratitude for today is this thoughful missive from my father, circa 2003. It makes me do that crazy laugh/cry thing that all women do during the cemetery scene of Steel Magnolias. Hope through despair and all that business. In this letter, my dad has sent a John Irving book to his friend Kent. A short story called Trying to Save Piggy Sneed has caught his eye, and these are the thoughts he has on the story. I doubt that many of you will find it as funny as I do - sometimes you just have to know the person for their thoughts to be funny or profound or meaningful - but know at least one of you will enjoy this paragraph.

When I initially saw the book at Border's, the word "Piggy" caught my eye. Why? Anything that mentions a pig, interests me. Because deep down, I know that if I had been born anything but human, I would have liked to been a pig. Perhaps a Dorack Hog. A big breeder. Don't you think it would be a good life, if your were a pig and had all the sows you wanted? Don't you think that would be a good life? Even at the end, after they had converted you to Bacon and you smiled down from heaven you could recall all the good times. (Do you think there is an afterlife for animals?) With a wry grin on your snout, you blissfully recall your favorite sows. That is if you were a "lucky" pig as you rutted and rooted your way through life. If you were just a common everyday run of the mill pig, I guess being a pig would not be all that great Perhaps in the after life you might shudder a bit as you remembered my Uncle Roe as he drew the sharp life across your throat and bled you out as you dangled from the butchering house ceiling.

These little letters, shared between best friends of nearly 50 years, are a treasure. Even if I had corresponded with my dad, he wouldn't have written these things to me. These were ideas that he shared with his friend, not his child. Having them makes me glad he did have at least one good friend. One who let him talk about his desire to be a pig. One who even laughed at it and enjoyed my dad's thought process. Maybe he even thought to himself which merits of being a pig would have appealed to him.

It makes me realize: what I am doing by blogging is important. It probably won't change the world. I'm not going to ever be a famous blogger. But I am leaving my words behind for others to read. Maybe one day this collection of words will bring someone who loved me comfort of some sort. I cannot have a new conversation with my dad. But the words he took time to write and send to a friend bring him back to me in a way that my memories never will. And that is something to be truly grateful for.

September. It really existed!

Oh, bloggy, bloggy, blog. I have so neglected you this summer. I've blogged 5 times since Ragnar. In June. Lame.

But, as my title stated, September existed. We lived through all 30 days of it. This is what we did:

* September 1 saw the last of the soda for me. I have a goal to run sorta fast and I'm not going to have soda be the reason I don't make that goal.

* I was asked to sing in the choir for our stake conference in two weeks. I pretty much laughed in the guy's face, but I agreed to show up for 5 weeks of practice. I firmly sat with the crowd labeling themselves "altos" because my voice doesn't go near the notes that are required for the seats labeled "sopranos." (It's actually kind of fun. I stalk a girl named Shelly from my old ward who has a voice that I can both hear and follow the entire practice. She suffers me sitting next to her. And singing in the chapel with a choir sounds pretty cool. I can't vouch that the choir will sound good on October 14 because of me, but I'll show up and sing.)

* I bought a dress. It is so cute and I love it and I wish I could wear it everyday. (I haven't bought a dress that I really liked in years.) I've avoided Macy's since it came to Utah 10 or so years ago, but now that it's open really close to my work I wandered over there one day during lunch and found 3 things I had to have. One was the dress and the other two (a layered ruffle skirt and ruched shirt) I bought and had Shane set aside for me for Christmas. (I'm terrible at buying things for myself.) (But I do like nice things. And I love the oranges and browns and blacks this fall.)

* My kids moved up a belt in karate. Thomas is a blue, Ben is a high yellow. And, best of all: their class is at the same time so I'm not running back and forth to karate 3 times every time they have class.

* I ran my fastest mile. I've been trying to beat my old fastest mile since March.

* I helped my mom one morning organize her garage. We had a lot of fun together and I loved hanging out with her and helping her do something that made a difference. She can park in her garage for the first time in almost 2 years. Wahoo!!

* While visiting my mom, I went on the same (almost) run that I did on the day my dad died. I was missing him and thinking of that day when I realized that I was running in front of my uncle's house. I stopped and ended up seeing both of my dad's brothers. They probably thought I was looney standing there in running clothes, but it was so wonderful to see them. They are living reminders to me of my dad and I can't see them without being grateful for themselves and for my dad. They remind me so much of my dad it makes my heart hurt. But I love them all the same. I hugged both of them and told them I loved them, which is something I've never really done in my life, but since I could hug them and I can't my dad, I took the opportunity. I think it made my dad happy.

* I ran 55 miles, swam 4 or so times, and did one ZWOW workout that had me limping for 3 days.

* Finished Enna Burning. And maybe another book but I can't really remember (I am getting old!)

* Went on a lovely hike with Shane and the boys to the Albion Basin in Little Cottonwood Canyon. The weather was perfect and the kids were pretty good about hiking, so it was a good day.

* Visited the Brigham City Temple open house. It was insane - we went the last Friday night before it ended and it took us 3 hours. It was very pretty and I loved seeing the inside of another temple. I didn't take a single picture - yay me.


* Finished Downton Abbey season 2. I'd put it off because I didn't want it to be over (dumb, I know!) and so I finally sat down and finished it one afternoon. But: blessings come to those who wait because that very next Sunday my friend on Facebook put a perfectly legal link to the new episodes that are being aired in England. I get my Downton Abbey fix every Sunday night now - my life is now complete.

* Watched all three Lord of the Rings extended version DVDs with my kids and husband. They were our Friday and Saturday night entertainment for all the weekends in Septemeber. It was fun to go back and watch them. I was super uncomfortable watching the fighting scenes with my kids, and I made Ben hide his eyes a couple of times but it was still awesome. Although, on the very last night, just as we were watching Frodo and Sam and the rest head to the Grey Havens to send off the ship, Ben said "What are these movies about?" It made me laugh (even though I was also crying - can't watch Frodo leave Middle Earth without crying even though I hate him as a character). What are they about? Just friendship and loyalty and courage and doing the impossible and hoping for something when it has zero chance of coming to pass and good and evil and perseverance. Oh, and the Aragorn eye candy isn't bad either. That's all.

* Sucessfully avoided my 20 year class reunion. I did however, run by my high school on what happened to be the day that the reunion started and took a self-portrait. It was as good of a class reunion as I've ever had or will ever need. Go Devils! Long live SHS!

* Made shepherd's pie. Twice. And no one gagged. Mmm, it's so good!

So did you go to your class reunions?

I miss him.

Yesterday I walked up to the park with my kids after school. It was a nice day and we didn't have any homework and I couldn't stand being inside anymore. Plus, I always find myself being the Nazi mom - do your homework! No you can't have another snack! Stop fighting! - after school, so it was a nice break from the norm.

The park was relatively empty when we got there. Only an older gentleman and his granddaughter and dog were playing. Thomas rode his bike around the pathways and Ben and I settled into kicking the soccer ball around (I was really trying to be Mother of the Year or something.) Then the little girl decided she wanted to play and so I sat on the bench and watched. The grandpa was watching the kids as well while he threw a ball for his dog.

My friends used to always say my dad looked like a Mexican. He had darker skin, black hair, brown eyes. He had strong, muscular arms. I remember how the skin on his elbows looked - sun-darkened from the hours of mowing the lawn, pulling weeds, walking in the desert while looking for arrowheads. As I watched this grandpa throwing the ball, I noticed his elbows. They looked so much like my dad's. And I saw his quiet, patient nature, so like my dad's. And then, as the granddaughter drifted off to the playground and Ben was playing by himself, he started to kick the ball back and forth with my son. I watched him chase down the ball and then kick it hard so Ben would have to chase it down. He drop-kicked it every now and then just to see if Ben could return the kick. I could tell he was enjoying himself.

It made my heart hurt. My dad was never the one to kick the ball with the grandkids. He always walked a little bit to the side, favoring his back - I never would have imagined him running the way this man was. But I still saw the similarities. The man's quiet smile, the way he didn't make a big deal out of the fact he was playing with someone else's kid, the way he didn't mind when it was over, just smiled and went back to throwing the ball for his dog. I teared up a little, wishing my dad had done more things like that with my kids. Or that he was still around to do them. But I was glad, too, for remembering.

The ones that we love never really leave us. I never knew that until the past year since he died. I find my dad with my on my runs, in little reminders like grasshoppers on the path and flowers in cemetaries and bits of snow that fall out of trees onto my head. No, I can't see him or touch him or even hear him, but I believe he is constantly around me. I found him again yesterday in the elbows of a kind old man. Maybe my dad was whispering in his ear - kick the ball to that kid over there  - I just don't know. But I loved being reminded of him. As many times as he wants to send me reminders of his love, I'll take them.

This and that...Christmas Prep Edition

This: I want to remember - Friday night Thomas and I went to Target to do the kid's brother gifts for each other. We were walking out of the store and Thomas slipped his hand into mine and held it. It was such a great moment - he's teetering on the verge of Teenagedom, and I know enough to treasure them.

That: watched the Glee Christmas special and was so amazed. They read the scripture that you hear on Charlie Brown Christmas - Luke 2:11 "For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord." Two of the characters took back their iPods and earrings and donated the money to charity. We decided that we could take back a few of the presents we had bought as "filler presents." Kids these days have so much! It was awesome to recognize that bigger isn't necessarily better.

This: I'm trying hard to do some different things exercise-wise. I've started doing the workouts on bodyrock.tv. The hosts are a bit narcissistic and they do moves that I can only do in my dreams, but I feel really good doing them. Plus they are doing a 12 days of Christmas series, so every few days the release a new workout. Kind of fun to shake things up. And I swear I feel less out of breath during my runs, which makes me happy.

That: We spent Sunday putting up a tree at my dad's grave with my family. I loved seeing my sisters, brother-in-law, nieces and nephews. We had a lot of fun and it was so nice to spend some time doing something for my dad.

This: I also spent Sunday with our dear Grandma Margaret, who turned 90 today. She is so amazing and I love her a lot. I took a picture of her holding her newest great-granddaughter who is only 2 months old. The manager brought her a handful of Olive Garden mints at the end of dinner and told her happy birthday. Grandma's face lit up and she told him how much she loved eating there. It was a great moment.

That: Shane's other grandma made us over 40 crocheted snowflakes and bells to decorate our tree. I have them everywhere. They are so beautiful and I can't believe she would make something so beautiful for us. She even made us an angel to go on the top of our tree.

Do you have some this and thats that you want to remember about this year? I can't believe Christmas is only 6 days away.

Gratitude 5: Do overs...

So my last post?  I take it back.  Because for the past two days, I haven't been grateful that my dad has passed on. I miss him. A lot.

Me and my family went to my mom's yesterday to do a few things around her house. Her gutters were full, and she had a blind she wanted hung in her living room. It didn't even occur to me that November at my mom's house means leaves. Lots and lots of leaves. My side of town is still very new-ish. In our old house, we might have filled a garbage sack each year with leaves. But my mom has trees that my dad planted 20+ years ago. A whole lot of leaves had collected on the lawn and the flower beds and on the driveway and everywhere else a leaf could possibly find itself.

So while Shane got his hands dirty in the rain gutters, me and Thomas and my mom and Ben raked and swept and blew the millions of leaves. Luckily, a neighbor was using his lawn mower to suck up the leaves in the front yards of the houses on the street, so a lot of the leaves we raked into piles went with him. The rest were scooped into garbage cans and later garbage sacks.

My dad was there so strongly with me as I worked. I wished so much that I could hear a whisper of him, but I didn't. I just thought about him and how many times he had likely raked the same color and shaped leaves from the same corners of fences and angles of rocks within flower beds. How many times had he bagged the leaves and what did he think about while he did it and where was I when he did it, because I only have one distinct memory of ever raking leaves and it was only because I wanted $20 to take to the Sadie Hawkins dance? Did he like raking leaves? Did he use the rake to gather the leaves into the bag, or did he scoop them all up by hand? So many questions I never asked. I doubt he hated leaf-raking, because he loved his trees. But, like so many other things we never talked about, I can only guess.

The day was a success. Shane finished the gutters, we all did the leaves, and then Shane and I hung the blind. It is the first time my mom has ever had a blind in that window, but it looks fabulous and I feel much better that she has some privacy. We had a lot of fun chatting and moving furniture around and eating pizza. I shared the joke that behind every successful man is a surprised mother-in-law (not sure if my mom caught than one.) But I missed my dad, and felt bad that my mom has so much house to take care of alone.

I feel like a broken record with all these posts. I echo myself in each one, talking about my dad like running my tongue over and over a painful cavity. I never knew his loss would leave such a giant hole in my life. I prayed for his release for so long, and am now finding out that death, for those left behind, is permanent. Even though I can still feel his influence and I know his spirit lives on, free and whole and healthy, I can't touch him or have any new conversations with him or make him happy in any temporal way. It sucks. I miss him and I mourn the loss of the relationship we could have had here on earth.

So today, I'm grateful for do overs. I can take back what I said, that I'm glad my dad is gone. Although I would never, ever want him to come back in the state he was in when he left this earth, I wish tonight he'd had more good years to spend on this earth. There were life-long friendships he left behind. There was a wife who wanted more time with her healthy husband. There were daughters who still had conversations. There were grandsons who needed to be taught about hunting artifacts in the desert. There were leaves that still needed to be raked and blown and bagged.

Gratitude 4: My earthly father who now lives in heaven

Today, I am grateful that my dad is dead.

My dad's reality for the last 6 years of his life wasn't fun. The few months before Ben was born showed me a dad I didn't know. He was vague. He had a lost, lonely, despairing look in his eyes. I worried about him driving by himself. I worried about the tone that was in his voice: one of hesitation, confusion, a grasping for conversation that was new for a man who usually had more than enough to say. He lost interest and enjoyment with his coffee shop friends - people whom he had spent hours with everyday for years and years. It was awful. I remember that his diagnosis - which came when Ben was 10 months - was awful, but it at least explained why my dad had lost himself in so many strange ways in a year.

We crossed so many milestones. There were the good times after his diagnosis when he knew what was happening but was still with us. I spent Thursday afternoons with him for a few months during this stage. We would go get a coke and drive around my old hometown. We might see a friend or family member and chat with them. He knew who I was, he knew who my kids were, and he showed his love in so many ways - he held the door open for me when we walked in the gas station; he hugged my kids and patted their backs with his large, familiar hands; he said thank you for the tomato-macaroni soup I made him. But he wasn't himself; he didn't see our emotions anymore; I hit myself in the head with the pantry door one day when I was just on my way to go home; I left in tears of sadness and pain, but he couldn't see those emotions. He didn't register Amy's tears one day when we all met with his therapist, seeming shocked when it was pointed out to him that she was crying. He didn't know that my mom's heart was breaking when he left to go live in the rest home and she rested her head on his shoulder and cried. So many tears shed with him unable to understand any of them.

The last few years I both dreaded and loved spending time with him. I put on a cheery face and a happy voice. I told him stuff that we did. I showed him pictures and took his picture and pretended he understood what I was doing and knew who I was. I repeated myself incessantly if I said a phrase that he responded to, even a little, just to see if he would respond again. I tried to do the talking for two, but I knew deep down that there was really only one: me.

But now: I know he knows who I am and hears my words. And that has been the case since August 5, 2011.

He comes me on my runs, putting grasshoppers on the trail to remind me that he is there (I don't know why he chose grasshoppers, but that was his mode of communication a few weeks ago as I ran on the Jordan Parkway.) He comes to my kids birthday parties, an uninvited but welcome guest. He reminds me to watch over my mom and love my sisters. He comes back to me all the time in music and pictures and memories and silly phrases. He has so many hopes for our family's future and he's praying on the other side that those things will come to pass in their time. He sends off his great-grandchildren to this world with a hug and many pats on the back and a silly joke that might border on inappropriate. They leave heaven knowing him. Luckies.

I feel him now more than I ever could when he was trapped inside his mind for so many years, and I am thoroughly, 100% grateful he is able to do that. He missed so much.  He was so limited on earth for so long. I know there was some sort of recompense, some sort of solace for his soul, though I don't know what it was. But now he is free and doesn't have to be bound by the constraints of this world. By dying, he became the father he couldn't be on earth.

Mopey

My poor little neglected blog!  I think about writing posts and then I get overwhelmed and don’t write anything.  Mostly because I don’t want to sound sad or mopey, but I kind of am. Sigh.

It’s kind of strange having a parent die.  You join this club: the fatherless, or the motherless. Hopefully it isn’t both, and hopefully it isn’t too early in life.  My dad was close to 70, but I still feel sad he didn’t have more years to enjoy this life.  A few years before he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, he had kind of a break down.  It changed his life for the better, but I think it was hell for him to go through at the time.  I can remember having a conversation with him where he told me that a few days before, he had gone around to a few of the cemeteries where his parents and grandparents were buried.  He said something to the effect that his people lived long lives, and since he had a lot of years left in him, he was going to make sure they were good years.  He changed. But, despite his hopes, he still got sick within 2 years of this pronouncement.  

I am sad he didn’t get those years he had expected. 

 

I think about him so much.  I thought that I thought a lot about him while he was here; I would imagine him sleeping in his bed, away from home, silent and trapped.  My heart would ache for him.  But he was still in a place I could imagine, I could still touch him if I wanted to.  But now I can’t visit him or touch him or imagine where he is, and I think about him all the time.  I know he’s around, because I’ve felt him, but I still don’t know his reality.  I wonder if he misses us. I hope that he isn’t lonely without his family around him.  Hopefully being with his parents is a good consolation.  And Steve, my brother-in-law.  He and Steve have probably had a few good (possibly inappropriate!) laughs by now.

So yeah, I’m sad.  I know he’s in a better place, but I just miss him.  Maybe it’s because he’s himself again for the first time in so long, and I know I’m missing out on being with that dad.  I think about the morning that he died and our lovely laughing moment in the Cracker Barrel and I know he was laughing with us. 

I just didn’t realize how much I would miss him.  Or how high the dues were to join The Fatherless Club.  (Look at me being melodramatic.)  I know a lot of choice people in this same club, so I have good company.  But it doesn’t make it easier.  Maybe you just never stop missing them.