That Wasn't So Hard!

I left the house just after 5:00 p.m. on Friday night and made it home by 7:00 last night. I was away for a grand total of fifty hours. Considering I have a hard time leaving the house for a few short hours before I start getting homesick, I was amazed how easy this quick trip felt.

I think the key was the five and a half hour drive going to and from my destination. I rarely sit alone with my thoughts these days. When I am at home, I am either tending to the business of my day, on the computer, watching TV or sleeping. I rarely sit still and gaze off into the sky. Maybe never.

Five and a half hours of computer, telephone, texting and television silence. Who knew it could feel this good?

Fall is an amazing time of year to drive down the prairie highways. The landscape is beautiful but I couldn't think of how I may have missed the "peak" of the colorful autumn season by a week or two because some of the trees were stripped bare of their leaves.

It looked like harvest was complete most of the way but then I would drive past a crop that had a wide swath that looked "bountiful" to this non-farming-kind-of-girl. The year's work was almost done and fall is the time of year our farmers reap what they sew.

I have been mourning the loss of daylight since the first day of fall. The day when the darkness started overtaking the daylight hours was a very sad day for me. I like to bask in the sun like a cat and I was missing the daylight before it was even gone.

My brother mentioned he feels the opposite when our days start to shorten. It means the demands of the yard and all of the outdoor maintenance of the summer season is winding to a close. He can do his "fall clean up" then sit back and enjoy the darkness. Darkness = time off, in my brother's eyes.

I thought of our farmers (namely our dad) who work from sun up until sun down throughout the growing season and wondered if Dad felt the same as my brother as his work days started to shorten. Did he take that as a sign from above to slow down? Or did it create even more pressure for him as he raced against the daylight to do all he wanted to get done?

I don't remember our dad as "a farmer". I hear stories of how he got by on a few hours of sleep when there was work to be done. Dad was a worker. Was he working towards creating that window of "leisure time" that this generation has come to expect as a reward for a "job well done" (or done good enough)?

I would like to hear Dad's stories about harvest time. He worked under pressure. He had asthma that was nearly debilitating at times. Was fall one of the worst time of years for him as the grain dust infiltrated his mask and robbed him of the ability to breathe? Did the easing of the daylight hours bring him the same gift of relaxation my brother now feels? Or is the ability to recognize and savor life's natural cycle of slowing down a gift Dad would be grateful his son has inherited?

This quick trip to visit Mom and my brother was to tend to the parcels of land that Dad purposely kept, to pass along to his four children. We were just tending to the paperwork to make that reality come true easily one day.

This trip should have been all about thinking of Dad and his wishes. It should have been a time to reflect on the hard work and sacrifice Dad made to build an "empire" he wanted to pass along to his children. This trip should have been filled with memories of a time long ago and honoring the gifts Dad has left for his family.

Instead (this story has a boring ending) my mind was filled with my recent conversations with Revenue Canada. In an effort to ensure there are no surprises as we tend to the business of changing land title registrations, I called our friendly neighborhood tax department to ensure this would not result in any negative tax implications for Mom. Instead, I found out that this transfer of ownership will trigger GST. A story that does not yet have an end as I await a phone call from a Revenue Canada agent.

Despite everything we are trying to do, to make Dad's simple wish take place (without Revenue Canada taking a large piece of Dad's hard earned legacy), it seems there is going to be a "cost" incurred.

It seems so simple. Dad wanted to give his children a physical piece of his legacy. A gift. That is all. And Revenue Canada is dictating the rules as to how this will affect ownership and thus, taxes must be paid.

Thankfully memories, stories and that which we hold in our heart is not taxable. Take that, Revenue Canada! We are rich in so many ways which you cannot touch.

That which is not taxable is the best gift of all...

Here Goes Nothing

I am sick to death of thinking, breathing and living through the minor house renovations around here as of late.

This house and all that has been done, needs to be done (and redone) and will never get done have permeated every thought I think and every breath I take.

So many of the "professional jobs" have left a trail of things-to-be-fixed in their wake. Today, our garage, playhouse and a basement windows will be replaced. Tonight, the interior of our newly cut "egress window" in a downstairs bedroom will be done.

All I can wonder is "How much more will have to be done &/or redone?" at the day's end. "Will they do the job I hope and expect them to do?" "How many unexpected expenses are going to crop up now?" "Why did I start all of this in the first place?"

The high cost of home ownership is heavy. I know I will not regret a penny spent on taking care of the four walls which shelter us from life's harsh weather.

But I do not like how these household renovations have dominated my thoughts and how it has shifted my focus to all of the inadequacies of the workmanship, the fact that things that were done became "undone" and that there is simply no end to this.

There is no end but at least I did what I could.

I have two used gallons of paint that are bought and paid for so I can continue painting for some time to come and it wouldn't cost a penny. Just time.

I fritter away an awful lot of my time. I really do.

I feel incapable of doing anything of substance after my daycare day is done. I don't want to spend my weekend "wasting" my one day off doing work around the house. Socializing takes an energy equivalent to working around the house so I seem to need to offset "social time" with "down time" to replenish my resources.

Yet when I actually focus on any one of the household tasks at hand, I am energized with more ambition than I had to begin with. The more I do, the more motivated I become. Then "real life" walks in the door and drains me of what I thought I had.

So I am walking into this day with a state of great ambivalence. I am eager to get this work done yet fearful that it will create more work that I don't want to make time for.

I think I just stumbled across the key to my discouragement. I don't want to make time for this house work. I just want to sit still in the state of it being done. Over. Complete.

If I have invested the time &/or money to get the job done, I don't want one more domino to fall. I just want the job done right. From start to finish. The end.

I want the job my dad would have done...

Yes Mom, I understand what you are saying when you said no one can hold a candle to the way Dad worked. No one.

He was but one man, but he was the one man who could do a job from start to finish and finish the job at hand.

How Do You Walk Away?

The pit in my stomach, the heaviness in my heart and the anxiety as I felt as the weekend was looming has returned.

I have to go to work today.

I savored every moment of each of the past three weekends which I have had off. I had time to run errands. I had time to accomplish small things. I even had time to run in circles. I had time to breathe.

I know "this" is the job I most need to relinquish. But I also know this is the job I just can't quit.

My boss has told me time and time again that she couldn't continue doing what she is doing if I wasn't working with her.

The last time we worked together she had just returned from her eye specialist. She walked in the door and the first words that fell off her tongue were, "I am going blind. That's what my doctor just told me ..."

She has macular degeneration. She is an accountant. She lives, breathes and works with numbers all day. Numbers are to her, what words are to me. She needs her eyes.

She stays up all hours of the night working out mathematical mysteries, balancing the books and working on various financial projects she always seems to have on the go.

Numbers are her therapy.

The kinship I have found within this friend who I work for stems from many things. We have walked a parallel path.

Her husband had a massive heart attack and survived three years after the fact. He never came back to live at home again. Though he died five years ago, I can feel how much she misses him still.

Her two sons have characteristics which mirror (in many ways) my two oldest sons. There have been some storms they weathered which I could relate to on so very many levels.

I could relate oh-so-well to the years she spent in that land of limbo. So much of what Mom talked of, during the time when Dad was hospitalized, came back to me as my friend walked such a similar walk.

There are some feelings which feel so similar to how I felt in among my ex-husband's family. The family dynamics. Some of the family's challenges. The way she speaks also reminds me of my mother-in-law. Her oldest son has some of the characteristics of my ex-husband.

I relate as a friend, a daughter, a mother and even as daughter-in-law at different times, in different ways.

Our paths were destined to cross. The challenges we have faced within our lives are so parallel.

She once told me that she could talk to me because she knew I would understand. Because she knew I had once walked down a similar road.

She has told me how she looks forward to our work-days together. We work 98 to 99% of the time but we take little station breaks now and again and chat. She tells me stories of her life and reminisces with ease. She will talk of recent events and how they have affected her. She talks to me as a friend, as a mother, as a mother-in-law and as a parent.

She once told me she feels such comfort in knowing I am coming out for the day. I thoroughly enjoy our days once I get there. It is simply the discomfort of leaving my home and knowing the day is all about work, with a side order of friendship tossed in for good measure.

It is the side order of friendship that keeps me coming back for more.

She keeps telling me she wants me to earn more of a wage from her. I tell her the money is the last thing in the world I am worried about. I'm not in this for the money. I can say that without a word of a lie.

She has groomed me to do more than run a daycare. She is my mom's salvation because Mom thinks I should be doing more than running a daycare. But these things called "numbers" are like ice in my heart.

I don't want to work in a black and white world. I like the fuzzy, gooeyness of words, relationships and kindness. As much as my little people challenge me at times, they entertain and amuse me. They keep things "real" for me. They keep me at the top of my game. And I get to nurture them from the comfort of my home.

The accounting/banking part of me has taken a back seat in my life. I believe I have packed it in the emergency bag within the trunk of my car.

Like that spare tire and booster cables, I can do the accounting and numbers in whatever way is necessary. I just don't want it to ride along side me in the passenger seat of my car.

This car is headed in the right direction. I'm glad I have my back-up talents and supplies that I can bring out as necessary. But I don't want to get stuck with those tools on a full-time basis.

Saturdays are hard. They are like changing a tire. I can do them as necessary but I would just as soon call on a professional to do the job for me.

Yet at the end of the day, I am grateful I went. It is always a satisfying day. I feel appreciated and the warmth of our friendship is always sends me on my way feeling better than I did when I woke up in the morning.

How does one "quit" this? One doesn't.

And that is why so many people out there are doing things that they simply can't walk away from even though it is not fulfilling the part of their soul that needs filling. There are a million and one reasons we do what we do.

I am grateful this is only one small part of my life. I am even more grateful that I am compelled to do this out of friendship and it isn't the almighty dollar which is controlling me.

I would walk away from this pay cheque without a second thought. But I won't walk away from a friend. There is no amount of money that can compensate us for some of what we do.

Walking in Mom's Footsteps

I am approximately two months younger than my mom was before she "lost" my dad, her husband of 34 years plus the five years they knew each other before that. She would turn 55 years old less than two weeks from the day that she lost the man she married and faced a life she could never in a million years have predicted.

I can't think of one thing in the world that could have prepared Mom for the life she would now face On her own, with a seventeen year old son who would graduate in three months and a twenty three year old daughter with a marriage in crisis. My sisters were only 32 and 34 years old at the time. Younger than my oldest son ...

It is good that we don't know what life has in store. It seemed impossibly hard at the time but we only had to digest one day at a time. In retrospect, I see now how Mom was already looking ahead and preparing herself in ways we couldn't even begin to imagine, as her children.

Dad was hospitalized for the four years, eight months and almost two weeks he lived after the massive heart attack that stole the essence of who he was. There is no word that defined Mom's role at that time. She fell somewhere in between the cracks of being a wife and a widow. It is a hard place to live - in that place with no name.

But Mom persevered. She just kept taking the next forward step at a time when she had no idea where those steps would lead.

She didn't ask for help. In the immediate aftermath of Dad's heart attack, family came out to offer comfort, support and friendship. I remember little from that time.

All I seem to remember is Mom bouncing back and holding down the fort, running the household, raising my brother and (from what I can guess now that I have a little more perspective) trying to keep things as normal as possible for my youngest brother. He was a young man cub, just on the cusp of being in a place where Dad would have probably had so many life lessons to pass along. But just as Mom was used to the role where she became a cub scout leader because Dad was not available for those extracurricular roles, Mom stepped up to the plate and became who my brother needed her to be.

Mom and Dad had a reputation of taking in family members who moved to their city and providing lodgings and the comforts of home as needed. Mom continued to fill that role and in doing so, she came to know many up and comers within our family.

Was that when she realized the value of keeping company with those younger than her? As long as I have a memory, Mom has never been one to complain of any kind of body or health ailment. When Dad was hospitalized and nothing of significance would change over the course of time, she said she could have screamed when people asked how he was. There was nothing new to report and there never would be. For a person who never talked about sickness at the best of times, she most certainly didn't change when times changed.

Never once did I hear Mom complain about being alone or having everything fall on her shoulders. She hired people to do what she could not do and we did hear a lot about how no one in this world could work the way Dad did or perfect the job that was being done to the standard that Dad upheld. Living with a perfectionist is hard. Living without them is harder.

No one would ever meet Dad's standards. Whether it was in regards to home/yard/or vehicle repair, nor in any other way. As far as I know, Mom never even considered the possibility.

It was Mom against the world. She did what had to be done and hired people to do what she could not. There was no such thing as defeat for Mom.

That was thirty two years ago. And Mom is still feisty, determined and a force to be reckoned with.

She still despises talking about illness, aches and pains and anything related to doctoring. The idea of moving out of her home and moving into a condo type of arrangement with other "seniors" is almost unspeakable. Mom has never wanted and still does not want to live with "old people". I thought that was a rather hilarious statement because Mom is 87 years old herself. Until I toured the home my uncle has just moved into.

My uncle could benefit from some of the services of a retirement home and having the option of meals and laundry being included was a good fit for him at this juncture of his life. He has been through a rather worrisome time and it would seem (from the outside, looking in) that having little to worry about would alleviate some of his stress load and give him the opportunity to live a more carefree life.

Except there are so many other people so much worse off than him, who live there.

When I was talking with Mom last night, I confessed that I finally had a glimmer of understanding about her deference about moving into a retirement type of setting. We spoke of my uncle who is a well read, educated, well spoken and thoroughly interesting man, being in an environment where he could all-too-easily become someone's sounding board as they go on tirelessly about their ill health and other woes. He is so kind that he would stop and listen for as long as a person cared to talk. That is just who he is.

Just because a person can use some of the services provided in this setting does not mean that they have lost their ability to live a full life outside of their room.

My uncle has so much to offer this world. He listens and understands in a way few others do. He is so empathetic, compassionate and caring that my fear is that his positive energy could be drained if he doesn't have an outlet which "fills him up" on the other hand.

On another note, I have an aunt who moved to an assisted living facility (not quite) three years ago. She is four years older than my uncle but was close to his age now, when she moved in. Granted, she has a few more health issues to contend with. But it saddens me to hear how the past few years have worn her down.

Two of her sisters have died during that time. She has lost a fair bit of her vision and is unable to read. She lives in a home where people, friends she has known for a good part of her life, move in and "move on". As a rule, there is usually only one way to leave a facility such as this. I don't know how it must feel to live in an environment where death and dying is commonplace.

My aunt has lost so much. Her body is fighting mightily on but she is tired. She phones Mom and they have run out of things to talk about. My aunt used to be full of news because she was living in a facility where she saw and heard so much news to share and brighten Mom's day.

I look at growing old so differently these days. I am adopting a lot of Mom's thinking with a renewed perspective. I look at Mom, the life she has had and where she is at. People admire Mom for her strength, feisty and independent ways, her quick thinking and her ability to stand on her own in the face of adversity.

I don't know how she does it. But I am starting to see why she advised me not too long ago, that I need to find young friends. Too much talk of illness, death, dying and all of the things that can go wrong in the last half of one's life is the wrong place to divert one's energy.

I believe my sisters have this thing figured out because they surround themselves in their family. Their children, their grandchildren, youth, vitality and that invincible spirit one has when life hasn't taught you too many harsh lessons.

Where do I want to be thirty years from now? I want to be happy, healthy and nestled in an environment where I feel needed, wanted and loved. I "want it all". I want all the things that money can't buy.

I look at who Mom was, when she was my age. I look at who she is today. I look at who I am and I wonder what I can learn.

Life has become so terribly serious. We need to surround ourselves with people who bring us up and draw us out to become the best person we are capable of being. I count myself very fortunate. I have all that I need to get where I hope to be.

One small step at a time, in the direction I hope to go will propel me from one year into the next. If I can become half the person my mom is, I will be content. In fact, I am already pretty content, so I'm halfway there.

“Everyone needs to be needed, wants to be wanted, and loves to be loved.” ~ Heather Lende

The Missing Christmas Card

I peek inside the mailbox every day, wishing I could be expecting a Christmas card from you. But I know better. It won't be coming this year. Not like the years which have preceded this one ...

We started exchanging Christmas cards thirty years ago.

You came and spent our first Christmas 'without Dad' with us. You filled a gaping hole in our hearts, our supper table and our Christmas memories that year.

You have a quiet way of knowing. You look at each one of us and seem to hear so very much more than we are saying. You speak everyone's language because you listen with your heart.

You were and still are a favorite uncle to all. We filled pages upon pages (within our family's book of stories and memories), with all the ways you impacted all of our lives.

You quietly went about your life thousands of miles away from the place you call 'home', yet you remained connected and a great part of our family despite the miles and time that distanced you from us.

Every time you came home, there was great rejoicing among all.

Your nieces and nephews said perhaps it was because you came home at Christmas time, bearing gifts for all (and there were a lot of us). You were our family's very own personal Santa Claus.

You gave and you gave and you gave.

We gave you our hearts, our trust and our loyalty in return.

You were an icon within our family. Similar to Santa Claus, only better. Because you were real. You weren't just a fictional character who appeared only once a year. You came back home at times of celebration, for reunions, for good times and bad. Santa is a fickle, fair-weather friend. You showed up for 'life'.

Yes, it was the year after you 'showed up' for our family when I sent you that first Christmas card.

You are such a gentleman. Full of honor, respect, generosity and impeccable manners. You replied to that first letter I sent to you and we became Christmas-time pen pals.

Your letters were always personal. You always asked about my family. You always made some comment about some little quality about 'me' you had noticed. You put pen to paper and reading your words was always a gift.

You see what goes on beneath the surface of a person. And you speak to that quality. I truly believe your perception brings out the best in people. I know I feel a little more special than I really am when I read your words.

I am so very grateful that life, time and circumstances gave me the opportunity to know you a little more than I knew you, beyond our annual Christmas card exchange.

I tentatively invited myself into your world when I approached you with the idea of collecting memories of Dad's family. You were on board before the ship even arrived. You not only encouraged me, you said you thought it would be a great idea before you read my proposal.

And so our voyage began.

Six years ago, Mom and I went out to spend several days with you after Christmas. It was the beginning of 'our story'. Not just our family's memoirs. It was the beginning of the story of getting to know 'the man behind the gifts, kind words and annual Christmas letters'.

When I first came up with the idea to collect stories for Dad's family, it was because I had a quest to know more and to hear everything I possibly could, about my own dad.

Wrapped up in the incredible gift of hearing story after story about Dad, was the gift of knowing his brothers.

You were my go-to-brother, when I had a question.

You must have cringed when you opened up email after email. Question after question. Clarification on the answers you provided.

We wrote a lot. We talked many times. You came to my home and allowed me to do you the favor of being your 'host'.

In all the times we spoke, you rarely spoke of yourself. You would talk of your friends. And boy, do you have friends! You have kept in touch with people you have worked with and come to know. You never broke the connection. Your friendships go back decades upon decades.

Then I thought of our first Christmas card exchange. Of course! You would keep in touch with anyone who took the time to keep in touch with you. Where there is a reciprocal exchange of words (whether it is once a year or every week), the seed of friendship is watered and nurtured so it has the opportunity to bloom whenever the sun may have the chance to shine down upon it.

You, the horticulturist of our family, planted many seeds along your way.

You aren't able to 'tend your garden' this year. You, for the first time since I have known you, are tending to yourself.

It must have been an excruciating year for you. Yet you kept doing what you had done, all the years which preceded this one and just kept moving forward.

Still thinking of others. Still doing for others.

Then ... you broke.

We all have our limits. You reached yours this year.

You are still my hero. I wrote your Christmas card and mailed you a small piece of my heart. You may or may not remember it this year. You have a lot of other things on your mind.

I peek into my mailbox each day, wishing I could see your handwriting on an envelope. I know it won't be there. But I feel it in my heart. You would be showing up in my mailbox if you could be.

I brought out your card and letter from last year and reread them this morning.

The small things. Realizing you spelled my Youngest Son's name with a "C" instead of a "K" and correcting it (with a notation in the margin). You took note of these small nuances of life.

Your letter was anything but a form letter. It was to me. And to me only.

You spoke of our most recent visit and "how much ground we covered" (that was your very kind way of referring to the fact I had talked your ear off) when we went out for supper when you were last down. You made a gentle reference to the great restaurant I 'found' for us (I took the wrong turn and we ended up on a very, very long detour to what should have been a very short trip).

"You remember everything," you have told me time and time again. Oh, my dear uncle, it is you who has set the bar. It is you (who has an eye for noticing the subtleties within people, within life and within the actions of those you encounter), who remembers so much.

You speak to the 'little things'.

Even now. Even when I spoke to you a few days ago, you thought to ask about my 'young guy' and you asked about my middle son's farm. Even now.

You have so much to contend with at the moment, yet you are still seeing and hearing far beyond the surface of what a person says. You spoke to my cousin about a reaction you saw in her, when she didn't say a word. Even now.

I have placed last year's card up in my tree in a place of high honor. It is exactly the place where I hold you within my life.

I am sending you my hope and wishing it could make a difference. You have truly made a deep and lasting impact upon me, our family, your friends and the world around you.

You have planted many seeds along the way. It is time for you to bask in the autumn sun and reap the rewards of a garden well tended. 

Be well, my dearest uncle. Maybe next year I will find your handwriting in my mailbox. I am full of hope. Always have been. Always will be.

Twenty Seven Years Ago ... Remembering

Twenty seven  years ago ...

I vividly remember standing in my sister's kitchen without a voice, without emotion and without a doubt, I remember being angry at what was expected of our family in the days that preceded Dad's funeral.

I can remember the emotion almost as if I was living it today.

Mom and my sisters did everything. I stood there and watched. I am not even sure if I listened. I simply watched in horror as they choreographed the events which would take place on the 11th of December, 1987. Four days after Dad died.

It seemed absolutely ludicrous to me that this was expected of a family at a time like this. It was like planning a wedding in less than four days.

Arranging a minister, a church, a time, food, music, flowers, attendants, clothes, words with meaning, writing an obituary ...

I believe someone asked me if I could write it. I don't even know if I answered. What!?!?!! How in the world can someone write something at a time like this? What are you guys doing?

I walked through those days in a fog. Even though we had long since grieved the loss of the father/husband/brother/uncle/friend my dad used to be, the final act of taking his last breath was still final. His life was over. Now there was business to be tended to.

I remember going back home with Mom. My life was sort of falling apart all around us at the same time and I was completely numb to everything that was happening.

Mom sat at the dining room table in her home, with the horrific display of flowers from the funeral surrounding her and she quietly sobbed.

I was as useless as an umbrella in a tornado. I stood there. I don't even think I touched her shoulder. I know I thought I should but I can't remember if I did. The 'umbrella' I held did not shelter either one of us. I was frozen in time. Mom was in the moment.

All I remember thinking is how much I wanted to take those flowers and heave them through Mom's living room window. Thankfully, I was too stunned to act.

I was much quieter in those days. I kept so much more to myself.

I hated Dad's funeral.

Dad spent his entire life going by his middle name. The minister didn't know that and called him by the wrong name for the entire service.

His coffin sat in the front of the church. Dad was in there. Dad was in there? Dad was in there!! Oh. My. Lord. How in the world would we get through this horrific moment in time?

I hadn't cried yet. My marriage had broken apart one week prior and I hadn't cried over that. My husband was making our lives very difficult and I hadn't cried over that. I was living life in limbo, with two small children to protect. And I hadn't cried.

I remember sitting in that church thinking 'If I ever start to cry, I may never stop'. So I didn't cry. I remember looking down. I remember thinking I could not make eye contact. I remember wandering through the ridiculous 'tea' they (we?) held after the funeral. People tell me they remember coming to Dad's funeral. I just remember the blur of faceless bodies.

I have no idea why I wrote these words today. They are not at all what I intended to say. I am thinking of my friend whose mom died two years ago today. I am thinking of the way I invested the year 2014 to making, honoring and collecting memories. I am thinking of the personal touch and special funerals I have attended over the course of the past few years. I am thinking of my own inevitable demise.

I want to write my own obituary. I want to plan my funeral. I want to take the responsibility out of my children's hands because it is a horrible job. Or at least I thought it was twenty seven years ago.

I want to live my quiet little life loudly. I want to make lasting memories which will come out of nowhere and make my children smile long after I'm gone (or better yet, while I am still here to laugh with them!). I told my Second Son "I want my funeral to be short. And snappy. And happy. I want people to laugh."  He took half a second to reply and said, "I've got a lot of material to work with!" and he seemed pleased with the idea of turning a sad event into a lighthearted one.

Maybe I should start that obituary today. I will write what I want to become true. Then I will go out and live the rest of my days making it all come true.

Maybe. Just maybe. I am already doing just that...

If Only For an Hour ...

"If you could sit on this bench and chat for an hour with anyone from your past or present, who would it be?"

(Sorry, I don't have a picture of a bench)

That was the question posted on my Facebook feed one morning. I read the words and exhaled one simple word "Dad".

Then I wondered how that conversation might go. One hour goes by fast when you are speaking about matters of the heart. I wouldn't want to waste a breath. What could one say to someone you haven't had a conversation with in 31 years...

Me: I think about you a lot, Dad.
Dad: I know ...
Me: I have felt your presence with me at times. Were you really there?
Dad: More than you will ever know.
Me: I'm sorry.
Dad: Why?
Me: I wasn't 'enough' to you after you were hospitalized. I should have done more, said more, tried more, believed more...
Dad: I knew what was in your heart. That was all that mattered.
Me: I became more concerned about Mom ...
Dad: That is what I wanted.
Me: What was it like ... to be trapped in a body that did not work?
Dad: We only have an hour. Let's talk about living, not dying ...
Me: I moved back 'home', Dad! Right after you died. I needed to move away. And I wanted to be closer to 'you', to our roots.
Dad: I was there ...
Me: I wanted to get to know your brothers and I am doing it, Dad! I am!! They are incredible and wise and kind. Oh, so kind. Dad, they talk about you with such admiration.
Dad: I wish they could hear what I think about them. I wish they knew how I felt ...
Me: They see it in the pictures of you. They remember how you treated them when they were younger and how that really never changed. They hold you in such high esteem because of your actions. You were a role model to them, Dad.
Dad: See what I mean about knowing what is in another person's heart? Believe it when you feel it. It is real.
Me: You are missed, you know. I wish you could walk at Your Son's side to guide and encourage him. He is a great man you know...
Dad: Yes, I know.
Me: He is so much like you, Dad. Too much in some ways...
Dad: Let him learn from my mistakes ... family first, work second.
Me: We know that in our heads and by some miracle I have been able to take that lesson and make it work for me. Why is it so much harder when you are a man?
Dad: We only have an hour ...
Me: What can I tell him? Can you find him and give him an hour of your time? I need to tell him what you want to say but he needs to hear it from you!
Dad: We never know why we are given what we are given. We have this time. Let's make the most of it. I want you to know that I believe in you. I believe in all of you. I always have ...
Silence. Just silence, as I look into his eyes and there is no need to memorize them because I already have...
Dad: If I could do things over again I would want to do them differently but chances are, that I would end up doing it all exactly the way I did it the first time, you know. I was following the path that I thought I was destined to live...
Me: Mom thought there was a better path.
Dad: There is always a 'better' path. When you are not on it. When you are on it, you see the obstacles and sacrifices then suddenly the path you abandoned looks better.
Me: I know exactly what you mean ...
Dad: Mom believed in me more than I believed in myself you know. I was doing the best that I could do but we get stuck on a path because we know it so well. It is only in looking back, that we see there could have been a better way. It was important that Your Sisters were well established in their own lives before we made any big moves or changes. Everything would have changed if I had done one thing differently. Everything...
I sit quietly and know what he says is the truth.
Dad: What is, is good. It is so very good. You may not have been born if it had been any other way. Nor so many of the grandchildren. Everyone is making a difference. Everyone. You all need to know and remember that. Even when it doesn't feel like it is, every little thing is important. It all matters. Remember the time I came out and talked with you when you were sitting in the trailer? Little at the time. Not so little now...
Me: I remember it well
A wordless conversation transpires and so very much is said without a word being uttered.
Me: Our family has grown so much since you were here. So much has changed. Yet much has stayed the same.
Dad stares off into the scenery as if he sees and knows exactly what I am saying and so much more...
Me: Mom found the baseball cap that Your Grandson gave to you and gifted it back to him along with the memories he wrote about on that day ...
Dad: I'm glad (he tears up and his words get caught up in his throat. Then he manages to sputter out the words) ... these are happy tears.
Me: Your Grandson felt exactly the same way.
Dad: I know. I know ...
Silence as we both gaze into the skies above and think of all that we know without knowing.
Dad: I have to go now.
Me: Can you go see the others? They need to hear this. They need to see you. They need to feel you!
Dad: I cannot make any promises. Tell them to trust in their hearts. Let them know that I am there. I always have been. I always will be.
Tears fall down my cheeks my shoulders throb with the ache of wanting to sob aloud ...
Dad: Family first. Don't forget. Work second ...

I open my eyes and I was back home in my world. A world where family is (almost always) first, a world where I (try to) believe in my heart and I am grounded, oh-so-grounded, knowing that the decision that I made on that fateful day in December, 1987 (when Dad lost his battle here on this earth), I was being guided to find this very spot of paradise. Right here on earth.

He is gone but he is here. In so very many ways. Always in my heart. "You are forever in my heart, Dad. I hold my memories dear and create conversations where I try to believe I hear what you are telling me..."

"Trust in your heart. I am there. I always have been. I always will be." His words echo in my mind like he was sitting right beside me. If only for an hour ...

Quiet Influence

They say talk is cheap and perhaps 'they' are right because sometimes talking (or writing) has been the only affordable thing for me to do. What 'they' don't say is that words are priceless.

I am in the enviable position of collecting memories for my dad's family's Book of Memories. Not only have I been on the receiving end of listening to my dad's brothers talk about their childhood memories, their parents and grandparents, but I have been collecting tidbits from anyone who cares to share them, to round out our family's story.

There are still many finishing touches to go but presently I am honing in on the chapters of my grandparent's seven sons. The uncle's chapters will signify the 'end' of this prequel to our family's history. Last week I sent out one final request for memories and stories to all of my cousins.

Last night ... I received the best gift that life has to offer.

One of my uncles has five children. Each one of them wrote their own personal stories, memories and told of the many ways their dad has influenced their lives. This gift came hot on the heels of Father's Day and I can only imagine how their dad must have felt when he read what they had to say.

There was such a common thread about the man that they wrote about. Yet each person's slant was just a little different than the other.

His oldest son told of how his dad impacted the way he was a father to his own family of five. He remembered the little things that his dad told him that made a big impact. Another one of his children said (something to the effect of), "I don't know if you will remember this Dad, but ..." and went on to tell a story about how their dad's comments and actions molded them.

The wisdom that this uncle has passed down to his children is so reminiscent of the little morsels of advise that I remember Dad telling me. Small stuff. It is all small stuff. A comment here, there and everywhere sprinkled upon a lifetime equals a great deal of information.

But it is action that speaks louder than words (thus, the 'talk is cheap' credo that I mentioned at the beginning of this barrage of words). What speaks loudest and most consistently from this quiet man I call my uncle is his actions. He is a man of integrity and did not go off spouting what he did not live out loud.

This is the common thread that I have found among my family's memories. Actions speaking louder than words. Learning from example. Emulating that which has been seen. The soft voices within my dad's family only punctuate their actions.

I didn't grow up really knowing my cousins on my dad's side of the family. I knew who they were and we had sporadic contact throughout my childhood but they were strangers to me. Yet as an adult, each and every time I talk with any one of them I feel like I have known them for a lifetime. The invisible thread of family, integrity and the quietness of their manner underneath the surface accentuates everything that ties us together.

If they could see us now ... our grandpa and grandma; my dad and my uncles and their wives; and our 'greats' and all of those who carved the path that we are now following ... I think that they would be pleased.

There may not have been an abundance of words but there was a life lived with integrity that will carry on throughout the generations that follow.

My cousin quoted some words from "How to Have Enduring Influence" (please click on the link to appreciate the wisdom it imparts - copyright laws prevent me from copying and pasting the article here) that say more than I ever could. It talks of the way that we are continually influencing everyone we meet in our lives.

Seeds of hard work, honesty and integrity were planted here. I am grateful to be 'part of this crop'!

Live your life you want to pass down to your children. It is the best inheritance they could ever receive.

Immersed

It was a beautiful, rainy day Sunday. I gazed outward and enjoyed a day that begged me to stay indoors where it was warm and dry. And that is exactly what I did ...

I let the day take me wherever it wanted to go. An email that I had received from my uncle steered me in the right direction and I was off.

Immediately upon receiving my uncle's email the day prior, some words came to me. I didn't exactly know what to do with them so I printed them off and eventually attached those words within a reply to my uncle. They eventually became yesterday's post.

Yesterday was Father's Day and as much as I abhor those Hallmark Holidays and try not to give them any more of my attention than any regular day, yesterday was different.

A good friend's father passed away the Friday before Father's Day this year. I could not help but think of her as the day neared and my focus was redirected. I thought of all of those who have lost their father. There are so many.

In my quest to find the picture of Dad that I was looking for, I came upon other pictures with dads and their children. I posted a few on my cousins' Facebook 'pages' and emailed others...

My cousins commented almost immediately and sporadically throughout the day. The entire time that this Facebook dialogue was happening, I was working on Dad's family's book project. I lost myself in it. I became 'as one' with the characters of our story.

I love the way I feel when I have the opportunity to completely immerse myself in this project. I feel so warm and full of ... 'love' isn't quite the word for what I feel. But it is close. It is an all-encompassing warmth. It is like I am embodied by those who I am writing about. There is such an overpowering feeling of 'telling their story' with compassion and trying to understand.

I was wrapped up in memories, stories and feelings. I could feel their energy even though their physical bodies left us so many years ago. I most especially felt a tug from my dad's oldest brother and I was in the most direct contact with his two youngest daughters yesterday.

I can feel an ache in their heart where their father used to be. He has been gone for 34 years, but he had unfinished business. I can feel it. It pulls at me and won't leave me alone.

Yesterday was a gift in every sense of the word. Far too many people I know are missing their dads. For some, the grief is so very new and raw. For others, it is an ache that never quite goes away.

Thanks, Dad. You filled my heart and left me whole. I had no idea how fortunate that I was but I am trying so very hard to share what I have.

If you could see me now, Dad what would you say? Sometimes, just sometimes, I think I hear you whisper. I'll keep listening...

If You Could See Us Now

"What would a favorite deceased relative be doing or saying if he or she were with you right now? "

Every time I see a ‘piece of Dad’ within one of my children or my brother or a family member’s mannerisms or actions I smile quietly to myself and I think that Dad would be pleased.

I cannot quite imagine what Dad would be doing if he had lived to see retirement. I cannot imagine him being still. I can’t envision him incapacitated by his health or body and idly watching life go by. In my mind, if Dad couldn't have lived the life the way that he was accustomed to living it, I don’t think he would have been content...

Yet, when I heard of the times that his brothers got together and enjoyed some winter vacations down South, I can picture him in the midst of his family and fully relishing that time (though I do see arguments about who was paying for what, as that seemed to be the norm among Dad and his siblings - they are generous to a fault and never wanted to have someone pay their way).

As different as my grandpa and his mother-in-law (my great grandma) were, the common thread that I hear between the two of them is the importance of family. “Never lose touch” was the essence of the message that she told one of my uncles when he was a child. I have heard that it was very important to Grandpa that his sons forge partnerships among themselves and stay connected.

I think of the ways that Grandpa would be pleased to see the way his sons rallied around and supported Grandma after he died. I think of the closeness that has reached out far beyond his seven sons and touched the generations beyond them and I think that Grandpa would be so pleased to watch over his family and feel what we feel when (we manage to) get together.

I cannot help but think of the connections that my uncle has made in his life. Whenever I speak with him, he seems to mention in passing, a friendship that has weathered the test of time, distance and change. Not just one friendship. Many. Those who reach out and touch my uncle's life are given the gift of having him reciprocate that contact. He makes you feel unique and special no matter who you are. He listens to you when you speak. He senses what is important to you and he speaks back to you in a language that tells you that he ‘gets’ you. I cannot help but wonder of the impact of the time that he spent with his grandmother … and if she could be watching over him right now, that she would be pleased to see how he took her lessons and words to heart and lived them.

I think that every time we do something that we know in our heart is something that would please a parent or grandparent, we sense a little heavenly ‘wink’ from beyond. I often wonder what Dad would say if ‘he could see us now’ and I live a lot of my life accordingly.

I hope that we have done you proud...

To anyone who is missing their dad this Father's Day weekend, may you feel his presence envelope you and hear the whisper of his voice telling you that he couldn't be happier with the person you have become and the life you are living.

The Sun Will Shine Again

I am not certain what the magic formula is (for this feeling of contentment I am feeling these days), but I am liking it!

I think that the blue sky and sunshine are making the difference. Soaking up good old natural Vitamin D in the way it was intended to be absorbed is the greatest mood builder of anything that I know.

I remember days when my lows felt lower and my highs felt higher. I could park myself on the front doorstep of my home and simply breathe. I would gaze up into the infinite sky above me and I felt very, very small. It put my troubles into perspective.

I could be gazing at a blue sky, stars or the moon. I was always gazing upward.

One time I was 'running away' from my troubles within my marriage. My only means of transportation was a bike.

I hopped onto that bicycle and headed north. I had no idea where I was going until I got there.

My compass was set on a park by the river that had brought nothing but joy and happiness into my life.

There was a hill that I tobogganed down as a child. A park where I got to know my (then) future husband. Walking paths where I walked with a friend. Playgrounds where our children played. The memory of Dad driving 'this close' to the river when I was a child and feeling like we were in grave danger (but knowing without a doubt that we were safe).

I cycled to my destination and found a spot among the trees on that toboggan hill. I laid down on the grass and gazed up into the starlit night.

My troubles felt smaller. The universe told me that it this moment would pass. It didn't tell me the answer but it did alleviate the stabbing pain in my heart.

Mantras from Alanon meetings flooded my thinking and I knew they were right. Hand this one over to a higher power. Let go and let God.

I looked upward and let my troubles drift off into the sky above me. I let them go.

Eventually, I hopped back on my bike and headed home. There was no where else to go. I was very pregnant with my second son at the time and I had left my (not quite) nine year old son at home with my husband. Reality awaited me.

Our house was not a home in those days. I remember sitting on the front doorstep of that house and wanting to find my way back to the home that I once knew.

I may as well have been wishing on a star because that one small wish came true.

Our marriage unravelled before, during and after the birth of our second son. Dad died days after I walked out of that house with my two children, with no where to go.

I walked through those days and it is all pretty fuzzy. But I remember one thing...

My sisters came home to see our dad and instead they stumbled across the-mess-that-was-the-end-of-my-marriage. My husband refused to leave our house and I didn't know (for sure) which way to turn. And my sisters said one thing. They said, "You should move back home..."

And I did.

I packed up my children and came back to my roots. That was twenty six and a half years ago.

I made a wordless wish upon a star and it all came true.

I still gaze upward when I feel lost. I always find solace in the universe that I can't see beyond. Because I know the answers lie there. Somewhere. They are simply easier to see when the sky is blue and the sun is shining.

Thank you, Sun. You have broken through the clouds and life feels good once again. It always comes back to this. The cloudy days don't last forever. Just keep looking up. The sun will shine again. It always does.

It Can Change on a Dime

It can come out of no where. I know this. I deny this. But I know that this can come true. It didn't. But it could have...

Life can change on a dime.

Yesterday? It didn't. Nor did it the day before. But it could have.

Our family has faced some devastating losses this past while. We have been reminded that life is precious and every day is a gift. We know that we must cherish what we have, while we have it. And I believe we do ...

Yesterday morning, my brother sent all of us a text that started with the words "Don't be alarmed but Mom called an ambulance..."

I took him at his word. I think (hope) that he sensed that all was fine and that my mom's trip to the hospital was a fact-finding mission as she took a trip to the ER for further testing.

Two days prior, my sister sent a text to us that had much the same vibe. They had taken her husband to Emergency and he was spending the night in the hospital as a precautionary measure. He has been doctoring for a while but the tests were delayed and they still didn't know what they were dealing with.

I have a feeling that all is going to work out just fine in both of these cases. I have no idea if it is a strong sense of assurance or if it is simply denial. I am not going to question the 'why' of it. I am just going to believe.

I can't help but think of my cousins who have walked a similar path with their parents and the outcome was not so straight forward. They walked down an unfamiliar road to a destination that they did not choose.

Sometimes you see it coming. Sometimes you don't.

Almost three years ago (to the day), I wrote this:

"I lied. I'm not ready. I'm packed and ready to go at a moment's notice. But I'm not ready."

I had barely hit the "Publish Post" button of my last blog entry when the phone rang. It was my brother. Mom was on the way to the hospital by ambulance as we spoke.

Our request is simple. Not only do we hope that they soon find the root of this health issue for Mom ... but we ask that whatever they may find, may be fixable.

I feel like a young, naive child again when I implore to the skies above, "Just fix her ... she is worth fixing!"

Thursday, March 10, 1983 was the night that my dad suffered a massive heart attack. His body didn't give up the fight but we lost our dad that night.

Is it a coincidence that Mom's health issues hit a crescendo so close to this same date?

My instincts are telling me that all is okay. I don't have a little voice whispering doubts in my ear. I simply feel ... calm.

Is it the calm before the storm? Are my spidey senses keen and aware that our family is not in danger at this time? I guess the truth of it is that I just am okay with feeling okay. I will continue to plan future events because (I think) we all enjoy the anticipation of something fun and easy on our horizon.

Life can change on a dime. Don't stop living because of it. Live harder. Breathe deeper. Laugh longer. Savor that which is good while you have it. Not because you are afraid of what lies in store ... but because it is simply a good habit to incorporate into your daily life.

http://imgfave.com/collection/243725/No-regrets

A Leaky Tap

Our bathtub tap has been dripping for so long that I dare not say. It started out that you could stop the drip by really tightening the taps ... but that eventually stopped working. I put off the inevitable much longer than I should have. Our cat loved it because he had a nice fresh water source (and our cat is fascinated by drips). It was nice to entertain the cat in such a fashion, but I think that I have heard that in some countries there is actually a fine for not repairing a leaky faucet.

Anyway, I knew I had to take care of this. The drip was coming much faster and it had no where to go but worse.

So ... Saturday morning I asked the guy who is doing my basement renovations if he would mind fixing my tap while he was here. Seemed like an innocent request, right? Here's the timeline of events since then:

Saturday night:

Take apart the tap and discover that things are so badly corroded I should get new taps; I run out and pick those up right away.

Sunday morning (8:30):

The installation begins; only the manifold inside the wall needs to be replaced - everything is so badly corroded that it is impossible to attach the new pipes to the old ones.

This is where the nightmare begins ... running out and getting parts; the parts not working ; then having to stem the water flow to the bathtub taps so we can turn the main water back on; and having to wait until Monday until a more well supplied plumbing store is open. The running back and forth to stores and trying every stop-gap measure along the way took until 3:30.

Monday evening:

He arrives with just what he needs to fix the problems he was having the day before. A time consuming job, as he had to precisely measure and solder things together but this was better than having to cut a hole in the wall behind the tub and get at it from behind. So this was good.

Finally! Everything was ready to attach the new tap system to the manifold in the wall. And ... the new taps were faulty. They not only dripped, it was a steady trickle of water. Once again .. we were back to where we started ... drippy taps. So ...

Tuesday:

He bought a new set of taps and tried them out. And they worked! Tuesday evening we could have a bath! But the hole in the wall still had to be drywalled and the tub surround was off (he wanted to make sure there were no leaks before he sealed everything back up again).

Wednesday:

No leaks! Eureka!! So, he got the wall repaired, the tub surround back on and caulked and sealed everything back up again. All we had to do was to wait 24 hours for the silicone to dry before we could use the shower once again.

Thursday:

Technically, we could have a shower sometime around 10:00 this morning. Good to know.

5 days from the beginning to the end of this little saga. I haven't got my bill yet. That is a frightening prospect. But almost any price is worth it. To know that I would have run into this had I tried it on my own makes me realize how lucky I am that I asked someone I know and trust to take care of this 'small' problem.

The gift in all of this, is the person who did this for me. In a day and age of fly-by-night trades people; or the young and inexperienced; or those who want to take a short cut; or those who want to take advantage of a person .... I have a person I know personally who I feel did the job that my Dad would have done.

My Dad was the type of person who did the job right. He didn't take the shortcuts. He spent whatever time was necessary to fix the problem for good. No band-aids. You get to the bottom of the problem and you do it once.

In all the years that Dad has been gone, Mom has never found anyone that can compare to Dad, when it comes to home repair or renovation (or anything else, for that matter). I think she found his perfection in his work, a frustrating thing to live with at times but she recognized the value of the end result of Dad's work. They don't make men like Dad anymore ...

I've had the blessing of coming upon old pictures of Mom and Dad in this quest for family history. And just the other day, Mom asked if it would be too much trouble to add 'a little something' to the book to honor Dad.

I'm choking up a little bit here, as I write this. We 'lost' Dad 25 years ago when he had a massive heart attack (his body survived, but we lost every other part of him). I can talk about him, honor him, think about him and he is a warm memory. For some reason, this minor home repair gone awry and finding someone who treated the problem in the same way Dad would have ... has me missing him.

Life is funny that way. All is good ... then poof! A small incident triggers 'leaky eyes'.