The Last Time. . .

In an attempt to spend at least a little time writing each day, I will be participating in various writing prompts/challenges/etc. Today I am linking up with The Lightning and The Lightning Bug.



Today's Prompt: Flicker of Inspiration Linkup #49: The Last Time

Today's result:


The last time I heard his voice was at my surprise birthday party. I had turned 30 a week and a few days before and my mother-in-law had invited my family to her house to celebrate. I wasn't surprised by the party, but I was surprised he had come. My father was an introvert, a trait he passed on to me, and the fact he had traveled four hours to a near strangers house was slightly shocking. 


What wasn't shocking was how he positioned himself off to the side, nearly in a corner, of the living room. The chair he chose was between the entry way and the door to the kitchen. Typical of his nature, there was no chance for anyone to sit next to him.


Throughout the party his mood slowly turned from slightly cranky (a result of the four hour car ride) to downright cantankerous. While his chosen spot allowed him to keep an eye on everything going on in the room, it also planted him in the middle of the main flow of traffic which caused problems for his hearing device of choice. Unable to make out an specific conversation taking place in the room, and unwilling to move to a different chair, he finally retreated to the car in the driveway so he could have a good grump.


The rest of my family soon noticed his retreat and packed up to leave. Disappointed, I walked them to the car and watched them pull away without saying goodbye to him. A week and a few days later, he was gone. I sometimes wonder if our parting that day would have been different if I had known it would be the last time.

6 Years Ago Today

Six years ago today the first man I ever loved died, and even though we never really understood each other, I still miss him.

Mom & Dad on their wedding day, 6/12/1965

Where we spread Dad's ashes, June 2006.

One Wing In The Fire

You just never know when something is going to make you remember how much you miss someone you love. Today, when I got in the car after grocery shopping there was a song on the radio that made me catch my breath. I only caught the last chorus and verse (and a bit before that) but it was almost too eerie how much those lines echoed my deepest struggles with Dad's death. Here's the song with some comments from me:

Crushed

We get to town, and I call SIL2, to find out where everyone is. It is after eleven o’clock and it is my hope that they have left whatever is left of the house. SIL2 says that everyone is at their apartment and I get directions (I haven’t been to their new place yet).

When we get there, mom is trying to rest and my brothers are in the living room. They try to fill me in as best they can. I want to go to Mom, but I can’t yet face her. Some things are just too hard and I feel guilty about the relief I felt that she was not in the house. It is after midnight when TheHusband finally tells me to go see Mom.

As I enter the dark room I can hear her sniffling, barely able to contain her sobs. My eyes adjust to the darkness and I see her lying on my niece’s twin bed. “Mom?” I whisper. She reaches out to me and I take her hand as I kneel next to the bed.

“What do I do?” she asks, and I am crushed by the enormity of all that has happened. She has always been my rock, but now she is turning to me to help her through this. Her world has shattered and she needs me to help her pick up the pieces. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to do this. I haven’t learned everything she had to teach me yet.

“I don’t know. But we get through this one day, one hour, one minute at a time. And we pray, we pray for strength and healing.” I don’t say we pray for understanding, because I know that will never come. “We remember the good things and let past hurts be forgotten,” easier said than done I think, “and we hold on to one another and God.” There is no other way through this.

Despite my words, I am unsure of how we will make it through this. This woman has lost her whole life in just a couple of hours: her husband of forty years and her home, both gone. And I am lost because she is lost.

Four Wheels and a Prayer

TheHusband makes phone calls while I pack a suitcase. I don’t know what to bring. Jeans and sneakers to be at the house. Comfy clothes for late nights and early mornings. What to bring for the funeral? Will there be a funeral? Dad always said he didn’t want one, but would Mom be able to fulfill this request?

While I’m zipping here and there, throwing things in the suitcase then pulling them out again, TheHusband has made arrangements with his boss so he can drive me to my parents’ house. Or wherever it was I was going to find my mom that night. He has also made arrangements for someone to look in on Kitty (our cat). Who knows how long we’ll be gone?

It only takes an hour from the time we first get through to someone at the fire and the time we are on the road. It’s a good thing TheHusband is driving or I would be pedal to the metal, flying up the interstate. As it is I’m mental pushing TheHusband’s foot down on the accelerator (not that it does any good).

There is not much conversation; I am lost in thought as I stare into the fields. Soon it is too dark to see anything, and TheHusband asks what I’m thinking. It’s hard for me to explain, but I tell him I am thinking about Mom . . . and Dad. The officer had said they knew where in the house Dad was, but that the heat and smoke had been too bad to pull him out. They left them there and it made me angry. I tried to remember that he was already “gone” and that there were more lives at stake. His body wasn’t worth sending others into danger. But I also knew, even before I was told, that Mom wouldn’t leave before they pulled him from whatever was left of the house.

I prayed with all my heart and soul that she would either be convinced not to be there when he was brought out of the house or that Dad would not be burned too badly. “Please God, PLEASE do not let her last memory of him be all burned and disfigured.”

The beginning of the story

I was sitting in the church basement, waiting for Sr. Youth to start. Chatting and laughing with the few kids who were there. Then TheHusband came through the door and motioned to the Youth Leader that he needed to talk to her. When she came back in the room I knew something was wrong. There were tears in her eyes and she would only say “You need to go home now.” So I grabbed my purse and walked out to my car, where TheHusband was waiting.

“Everything’s fine, I’ll tell you what’s going on when we get home.” For a fleeting moment I believed him. What kind of sweet surprise does he have planned for me? But it was a lie. I knew it. If everything was fine, why would the Youth Leader have looked ready to cry and why would he look so serious? So I drove home, trying not to speed, and trying not to think horrible things.

When I pulled in to the parking lot, I knew, like you just know certain things, it had to do with Dad. “What’s going on?” I asked before we could even get inside the building.

“There was a fire at the house.”
“My parents’ house?”
“No”
“Your parents’ house?”
“No, the house in #####.”
“and. . . ?”
“They didn’t get out.”
“Both of them, or just Dad?”

I’m scared now. If it’s Dad I can handle it, but Mom too? I’m not ready for that. I’ve been preparing myself for years for the phone call about Dad. But not. . . not both of them, not at the same time.

“I don’t know, let’s just get inside.”

This is when it clicks, it’s Wednesday night and Mom should have been at work. Was she sick? Did her schedule change? What the heck is going on?

We get into the building, the adrenaline is flowing, and I can’t decide whether to run to the phone or to shake TheHusband for more information. I do both, but neither produces much results. Brother5 left a voicemail and TheHusband hasn’t been able to get him to answer his phone. It takes me ten minutes, TEN MINUTES, to think to call the sheriff’s department (it’s a small town, and the county provides law enforcement).

TheHusband looks up the number and makes the call. They give him the phone number of an officer at the scene. He dials while I grab a suitcase to pack. I hear him on the phone explaining who he is and I pick up an extension in time to hear that the house is pretty much gone and they “lost” Dad.

Lost. That’s what they said, like he simply wandered away in the grocery store. That’s not what happened, and we all know it. I want to scream “He’s not lost! You know where he is, go get him!” But I know it’s too late. Then it registers, he said no one else was in the house. Just Dad. I feel relief flood through me, then shame. Dad’s dead, and I’m relieved I’m not an orphan. What is my problem?

Rhubarb Pie

Who can resist the sweet tartness of a rhubarb pie? One that’s still warm from the oven with a flakey crust that sparkles with the promise of sugar granules generously sprinkled across its lattice top? Not me and certainly not Dad.

Recently, at work, they were serving a rhubarb custard pie. I had never in my life had this, but had to give it a try since it had been ages since I’d had anything rhubarb. While the creamy texture of the rhubarb custard was a taste treat, I was reminded how much Dad loved rhubarb desserts. And sitting there with my coworkers it was difficult not to laugh out loud as I remembered a story from last summer.

Mom had picked a bunch (and when I say a bunch I’m not talking about a fistful, or an ice cream bucketful, but a 5 gallon pail full) of rhubarb one morning. Unfortunately it was on one of her work days and she didn’t have time to do anything with it before she had to get ready and leave for work. So in an effort to give Dad something to do she told him that if he cut up some of the rhubarb that she would make him a pie the next day. He gave her a funny look and she thought that was the end of it and nothing would be done with the rhubarb.

Much to her surprise, when she got home that night (at almost one in the morning) she found that the largest bowl she owned was overflowing with cut rhubarb. Now I’m when I say a large bowl, I’m talking about one of those stainless steel bowls you could practically use as a swimming pool. After getting some rest, Mom spent all of the next morning baking pies, and bars, and rhubarb sauce, etc. A few days later, TheHusband and I were there to visit and Mom sent bars and sauce home with us. We (meaning me, because it turns out TheHusband isn’t too fond of rhubarb) would have loved to have brought some of the pie back as well, but my brothers made sure that that didn’t happen.
I guess Dad liked rhubarb pie more than any of us knew.

Dad's Final "Resting Spot"

We went and spread dad's ashes last week. The most difficult part was the drive to and from the location dad had described (15 hours for TheHusband and me - each way) but his ashes are in the mountains now, just like he always wanted.

I found myself without words to say when Brother1 asked if anyone had anything they wanted to say. But what could I say?

"Be at peace"? That wasn't right. My hope has always been that Dad found the peace he had been searching for all his life at the moment of his death.

"Rest well"? Again, not quite right. I know that as long as he ended up with his heavenly father that he is resting well.

"Show us the way home"? It was something Brother4 said, but it just didn't ring true for me. Jesus Christ has been showing me the way home all my life. Also, I have been struggling with this aspect of Dad's death. I'm not 100% certain that he had made his peace with God before he died. This troubles me, the not knowing. But I also know that there is nothing that I can do about it one way or the other. I don't believe in purgatory. I don't believe that my prayers can help move him into heaven if he isn't already there. It's God's own grace, granted to us through our faith in His son Jesus Christ, and that alone that gets a person into heaven. When you're time here on earth is over, that's it. Game over, decision made, no redos. And so I pray for peace on this. That I don't waste my own life worrying about something I have no control over.

"Enjoy your mountain"? I don't believe Dad is even aware of what is happening with his earthly remains. Or even where they are. I feel that funerals, memorial services, etc. are rituals for the living. Necessary rituals, but for the living none the less. They are a way of sharing grief, giving support, remembering and sharing things about the deceased. I understand that many people want very specific things for their funerals/burial locations, but I can't even imagine that part of my own death, and so commenting on somebody else's final "resting spot" is difficult for me to do.

So maybe that's what this post is all about. Coming to terms with the term "Final Resting Spot". It really should be "Final Earthly Resting Spot" that people say. But that's just my opinion.

And Dad, even though I know you don't know what I'm thinking or writing, here's to hoping that your true final resting spot is in the arms of our heavenly Father.

Blue Bunnies

It is Easter and today I am reminded of another Easter season several years ago and an important lesson I learned about my dad. First let me say that the relationship I had with my dad was often rocky. Partly because he didn’t know how to be the kind of father I wanted him to be and partly because I was so set on the idea of the kind of father I wanted that I couldn’t see the kind of father I had.

When I was still in high school, my mom had to call the ambulance late one night for my dad. By this point in time he had been medically retired for a couple years because of recurring heart problems, most notably congestive heart failure. That night I could hear Mom yelling. I don’t remember what exactly she was yelling but it didn’t make sense at the time so I went downstairs to investigate. Dad was in bed and not very responsive, and when he did respond it was as if he was in some kind of fog. When the ambulance crew arrived Dad was a little more coherent and didn’t want to go with them. Somehow, though, Mom convinced him it was the right thing to do. She didn’t want my younger brothers to see him being taken out of the house on a stretcher so she had me stand at the bottom of the stairs to make sure they didn’t come down. As he was wheeled past the stairs I heard him say to Mom, “Tell the boys I love them and I wish I could have seen the little ones grow up.”

I was devastated to say the least. Here was my dad, thinking he was going to die, and not a word about him loving me, his only daughter. In that moment I felt my world crashing down on me and I thought that the one thing I had denied all my life was finally confirmed. Dad had never loved or wanted me.

Dad recovered and came home. I pushed the memory of that night to the back of my mind as best I could and didn’t think about it until years later when I was in college. I was home on Easter break. Mom, Dad, and I had gone to a local retail establishment to do some shopping before I went back to school. Near the front of the store was a large display of Easter baskets with different colored stuffed rabbits in each one. Dad and I started joking about how the poor little bunnies had been trapped inside the cellophane wrapped baskets for too long and that you could tell which ones had been trapped the longest by their color. White ones had just been put in, pink or yellow had only been in a little while, blue ones were running out of oxygen but still had a chance of survival, purple ones had just died of suffocation, and the green ones were already decaying. We had a great time and Mom was so embarrassed by us that she just walked away like she didn’t know us.

A couple weeks later I received a box in the mail. I was surprised because it was unusual to get a care package from home so soon after I had just been there. When I opened the box there was one of the Easter baskets (filled with Peeps – my favorite Easter treat) with a little blue bunny inside. There was also a note from Dad that simply said “Look what I found in the shed.” The hurt from that night when I was in high school came rushing back to me. But as I cried, and held on to that silly stuffed bunny, the pain went away and was replaced by the knowledge that Dad did really love me. He just didn’t know how to say it.

What was the lesson I learned? Just because someone isn’t telling me that they love me the way I want to hear it doesn’t mean they aren’t saying they love me in the only way they know how to. Be open to receiving love in whatever form it comes.

A visit from Mom. . .

Spent the afternoon with Mom. She decided she just needed to get “out of there” for awhile. What she meant was that she needed to get away from all the reminders about how slowly things are progressing out on the lot. She goes out there everyday to pick up the mail and to check on the garage (make sure things haven’t been broken into). She sees on a daily basis just how much progress (meaning none) is being made. But there is nothing she, or anyone else, can do until the ground dries out more. I’m hoping that by early summer she will be back living in her own home.
We spent some time talking about Dad and how the boys (at least two of them) don’t really think that Dad helped to raise us kids. I see their point to a certain extent. But I also cut him some slack because of how and where he was raised. His adoptive father was not the best role model for fatherhood, and the area where he was raised was of a culture where the men were MEN and didn’t show their emotions. The men showed their love for their families by taking care of them, and that often meant long days in the fields away from the kids. And when the kids got old enough they helped out in the fields. The women were the ones who stayed with the little ones and got them off to school. The women were the ones who kissed the scraped knees and wiped away the tears. Life where he grew up was hard, and having the father he had was even harder.
Dad didn’t really know anything else until he became a part of my mom’s family when they were married. Then he looked to his father-in-law (my grandpa) as an example. But that only lasted until my grandpa died when I was about twelve. After that he had to rely on what he remembered. And by that time his own father had moved in with us and the memories of how he had been treated as a child were much closer to the surface and sometimes hard to ignore. I can remember him acting out on them a couple of times.
Anyway, I think he was scared of being a father, of repeating the behavior he had instinctively known was not love when he was a child. I think he was especially scared by me, his only daughter, what a novelty I was! He had a hard time figuring out how to raise boys, what was he supposed to do with a girl?
I’ve come to these realizations slowly over the years. I’ve wished many times over the past few months that I had come to them sooner, when there was more time to build a better relationship with him. But at least I came to them before this. My brothers have all this anger (at least I think it’s anger) and disappointment. I pray that they are able to someday see that Dad did the best he could with what he had (both materially and emotionally) to give.

Greeting Card Sentiments

Today, while watching television, I saw a commercial for “Walk The Line”. It’s the movie about Johnny Cash’s life. It made me think about Dad, the way so many things can these days, and I began to wonder if I really remember things about him. Like, I’ve always thought that he liked Johnny Cash’s music, but did he really like it or did I just think he liked it because we gave him a tape/CD one year and he pretended to like it, or am I just making things up to try to hold on to him?

I think, I am remembering true things about him. Believe me, my dad wasn’t the greatest dad in the world. In fact, sometimes he was horrible, but I still loved him. I still love the good, generous things about him.

Mostly though, I am sad today, because I find myself thinking about him more now than I did when he was alive. I am ashamed to admit that I wasn’t a good daughter to him, that in small ways, even in adulthood, I found small ways (consciously or not) to get back at him for not being the “greatest” dad. For example, I am now realizing that part of the reason I didn’t send him birthday/father’s day cards (as mentioned in a previous post) was because I never felt like he celebrated my birthday so why should I celebrate his?

How sad is that? How petty. Now I am left with years of birthday & father’s day cards (yes, I did actually buy them – just never sent them) that are of no use to either of us. Yet, I can’t seem to get rid of them. They’ve been boxed up, moved around, and thumbed through so many times over the years that donating them to some charity just doesn’t seem right. So I will probably wrap them in ribbon, box them up, move them around, and thumb through them for the rest of my life. Maybe, just maybe, those greeting card sentiments that never seemed quite right will remind me that our time here is limited, and telling someone you love them is more important than hanging on to past hurts.

TheSweetestGuy

TheHusband really is the sweetest guy I know. The other day we were talking about him getting a new job (he's had the interview and is just waiting for a call back) and how he would need to buy new clothes if he got the job.

Turns out the dress code at the new place is business casual (khakis, collared shirts, etc). TheHusband only has one collared shirt (not including his nice white dress shirts) and the following conversation ensued:

TH: Well, I do have the one black polo, but I won't wear that. It's too bad, because I like that shirt.

Me: Why won't you wear that shirt?

TH: I don't want you to be reminded of why I bought it.

Me: Why you. . . ? (light dawns on blond head) Oh. I never even thought of it before.

TH: D'oh! But now you'll remember, won't you?

Me: Yes, but wear it anyway. Besides it looks good on you.



Yeah, I don't remember many specific details (such as what shirts were bought) of the first couple of weeks after the fire/funeral. But now that he mentions it, the funeral is the first time I ever saw him were that particular shirt. And yes, it will remind me of that time, but it will also remind me of how sweet and caring TheHusband is. I mean, seriously, how many guys would decide not to wear a shirt because it might have bad memories for someone else?

God definitely knew what He was doing when He gave me TheHusband. =)

Christmas without. . .

This Christmas season has been very difficult for me. It was the first Christmas without Dad. It's not like he was the boisterous center of attention during Christmas, but, to me, he was the quiet watcher.

My brothers may remember things differently, but to me it seemed that Christmas was Dad's favorite holiday. The lights, the food, the pleasure he got from watching us open our gifts, these are what made it Christmas. When we lived on the farm, Dad would put up the outdoor Christmas lights/decorations each year. He seemed to take particular pleasure from the comments he received from the beet truck drivers. It seems our Christmas lights cheered them up on their middle of the night runs.

I can't remember him ever going to our Christmas pageants at church, but he must have. I can remember sitting squished in the back seat of the car with our peanut bags and Dad driving us around town to see the lights. We only got "peanut bags" (bags filled with unshelled peanuts, fruit, and candy) as we walked out of church following the Christmas pageants, so Dad must have gone to at least a couple of them when I was little.

Then on Christmas morning he would sit quietly off to the side to watch us open our gifts. Every year the small gifts we got for him would be stacked in a small pile beside him. Not until we had opened all of our gifts and were fully distracted would he open his. When we were younger, my brothers and I would get him things like a deck of cards, a box of chocolate covered cherries, or a tin of cookies. As we got older, got jobs, and could afford more there were the small tools and videos. But always, Dad would wait until he thought we weren't looking to open his presents and for a long time I wondered why. Then one year, while I was in high school, I sat and watched him. There was a joy in his eyes that I didn't see at any other time as he watched us open our gifts and be surprised at the simple treasures he and mom had given us. And there was a wishfulness there as well, a yearning for the ability to give us more. With seven kids to raise there wasn't a lot of money left over for lavish gifts and we often received things we needed over things we wanted. How he wished he could have given us more.

But that year, my most precious gift was seeing how he took joy in giving to us what he could. He loved watching us, discovering what our favorite gift had been. Seeing the once neat pile of gifts be replaced by the chaos of flying paper and newly emptied boxes, while the Christmas tree lights blinked silently behind us. And I think that, while he appreciated the small baubles we gave him, each year our greatest gift to him was letting him watch us build our dreams from the simple things he gave us.

This is what I'll miss most about Christmas each year. The smile in his eyes, and the quiet laughter, his presence on the periphery of the action, his happiness in my happiness.

Merry Christmas Dad.

What the heck IS havla?

So my mom and the younger brothers came down yesterday to visit us for Christmas. Along with gifts, pictures, cookies, pie, and love what does she pull out of one of the many bags? A big chunk of havla! Then she has the nerve to ask me if I know what it is. Of course I know what it is, it’s havla! This was one of Dad’s favorite foods and, as kids, my brothers and I would beg and plead for bits of this sweet treat. When that didn’t work we’d lay in wait and sneak some. We had to be careful not to get too greedy, because my mom only bought little chunks of it at a time and Dad would definitely notice.

When Mom was trying to slice it yesterday she started to mumble about how she couldn’t get it to slice. I reminded her that it NEVER slices but just crumbles into yummy bits of goodness. Turns out though that my brothers have decided they don’t like it anymore (weirdoes) and so now I have small plate of havla bits in the refrigerator that I can have all to myself (turns out TheHusband isn’t too fond of it either). So today, after several nibbles, I wanted to figure out exactly what this “havla” is. And really what I have discovered is that there are so many things about my Dad that I don’t know.

It turns out that havla is a Middle Eastern dessert. HUH?!? A Middle Eastern dessert? Now I’m wondering how this man, who was raised by two German born immigrants in the middle of North Dakota came across this wonderful dessert and added it to his list of favorite foods. So far what I’ve found indicates that this dessert originates from Turkey (my information is coming from the internet, so I admit it could be faulty). And since Turkey and Germany are both part of the European continent, it is possible that his parents, or grandparents more likely, discovered this food before coming to the U.S..

Guess it’s just one of those things I’ll never get to ask him about. While that makes me a little sad, I am happy today. I have havla in the fridge and good thoughts in my heart.

A Pregnant Rollerskate

TheHusband and I went and picked up my "new" used car tonight. It is a 2001 Volkswagen Beetle. This car makes me smile for so many reasons. Not only is it just a down right cute car, but we got an excellent deal on it (almost $4000 below the book value because the husband knows the dealer) and it has loads of features.

But what makes me smile the most is that it reminds me of Dad. No, he never owned one (at least that I know of), but whenever he saw one he would call it a pregnant rollerskate. Which then reminds me of all the other things that he named or said differently. . .

Real word/item: VW Beetle Dad's word: pregnant rollerskate
Real word/item: recipe Dad's word: pronounced "receipt"
Real word/item: library Dad's word: pronounced "libary"

I know Dad would make fun of me for buying a pregnant rollerskate, but I know he would secretly be happy for me. Besides, according to TheHusband's research, the VW Beetle is the safest car in its class. Safe and cute, who wouldn't want his daughter to have this car? =)

Then the phone rang. . .

Today was a tough day.

A coworker called me early this morning (yes, I was already at work) because she couldn't find any other number to call (she just started a few weeks ago). She was only looking for the cell phone number of her supervisor so she could call them to let them know she wouldn't be in to work because her father died last night.

When she told me, it was like getting the air knocked right out of me. All day I have been thinking of her and praying for her and her mom. I have also been thinking a lot about Dad today. Every now and then I catch myself just staring off into space. I hurt for her, and for me. I know that pain, and even though I don't know her very well I just want to take it away for her. But I can't, and I can't take it away for me. . . and there I go just staring off into space again.

It gets easier right? Or at least not so hard. . . .

Happy Birthday!

Today, Dad would be 68.

For a guy who said for 30+ years that he would die young (a story for another time) I guess 67 years wasn't so bad.

His birthday was not something he really made a big deal about. I don't know if it had to do with how he was raised, or what, but we never really made a "do" about his birthday. Mom would make him a cake and that's about it. So today I worry about her. It's another first that she is experiencing. I did call and talk to her for a bit. She said that it has been a hard day for her. She went to do laundry at the laundromat. Of course she needed to do laundry, but I think she also needed some quiet time to think about Dad. Forty years (the time they were married) is a lot of birthday memories to go through. I hope she found some peace.

Me? Well, today I am racked with guilt. I seldom sent him a birthday card (partly because we never made a big deal out of his birthday and partly revenge). Never did I call on his birthday, always rationalizing that he couldn't hear me anyway so what was the point? I did sing "Happy Birthday" for him though, even though we were half a state away from each other and he would never know. I am racked with guilt. Did he know I loved him? Did he know that I admired him for so many things?

So now, that we are more than just a couple hundred miles apart, I sing again. . .

Happy birthday to you!
Happy birthday to you!
Happy birthday, dear Dad!
Happy birthday to you . . .