I Didn't Want To Know Anything (More)

A couple of months ago, I decided to go out to lunch with one of my many cousins (Pam) from my father's side.  For context, we hadn't seen each other in several decades. Her mother and my father (both deceased) were siblings. My relationship with my father, his siblings, and their offspring suffered when my parents divorced when I was a kid.  There was, over the years, some effort to reunite the families, but mostly, they were all out of my life.  

Enter social media. Pam and I became friends in that realm. We exchanged phone numbers. We texted and IM'd every now and again.  She has tried to get me to meet face-to-face before this summer, but I always begged off, as we were, in my view, virtual strangers despite our ancestral heritage. 

Enter a death (Sqr), another cousin.  His sister (Dot) was in town for the memorial service.  Pam invited Dot and me out for an afternoon of reminiscing some days after the service (which I had missed).  I hesitated but eventually agreed.  On the day of, I discovered that Dot had begged off, so it was just Pam and me. 

      

 For context, we hadn't seen each other in several decades.  And while we are close in age, we have people and experiences in common, the second half of our childhoods and a large chunk of our adulthoods were spent in separate worlds.  Her memories and my memories did not align. 

She shared stories of her parents, our grandparents, and the epic family divide, most of which I had never heard or experienced.  It became clear that what she sought was someone to bear witness to the trauma and toxicity that permeated our separate but equally fraught-filled child and young adult lives.  

At the end of the afternoon, I told her I'd keep a good thought for her upcoming surgery (she'd shared a devastating medical diagnosis--I was the first cousin to know) and said our goodbyes, hugging it out.  

We haven't spoken since.  Enter social media.  Pam and I are still friends in that realm.  

Happy Autumn! 

Thoughts

*Photographs and memories 

Christmas cards you sent to me 

All that I have are these 

To remember you . . . 

May is my mother's birthday month.  Before my mother's death, the first part of May was always full of preparing Mother's Day celebrations and, of course, the impending birthday celebrations.  

Since then, the month is flooded with memories of times gone by.  

This year has had that same dynamic with one exception.  This year, I can't shake the sense of longing for the relationship I wish had developed between my father and me.   

He and I weren't close. We had made peace before his death.  

And since then, I've been able to... compartmentalize the mixed emotions.  

Or, so I thought. 

It feels weird to be weighed with memories of his presence (or lack thereof) while remembering my mom in the shadow of her 85th birthday. 

Photographs and memories...   

This song is about the longing for a loved one, a romantic partner.  It has always hit me differently, these last few weeks, more than ever.  

Photographs and memories 

Christmas cards you sent to me 

All that I have are these 

To remember you . . . 

Take very gentle care,  

*songwriter: Jim Croce

Remembrance and Loss

"When someone you love dies, you never quite get over it. you just slowly learn how to go on without them. But always keeping them tucked safely in your heart."   I don't remember where I read this quote, I wrote it on a random piece of paper some months ago. I marked it author unknown and promptly stuck it in a book where it stayed until Friday while looking for some other random thing written or sketched.  Ironically , one day before the anniversary of my mother's death.

      

Turns out that day was also the day my orange boy, Buttah died. I haven't talked about it much, but Buttah has been sick. The sickness came on rather suddenly and progressed rapidly.  At first it seemed like something that would pass, he was acting a little differently but was otherwise, fine--all the markers, marked. Until the last few days. He didn't appear to be in any distress caused by pain. He leaned in to all our touches and ministrations. We made him as comfortable as we could in his final days and on Friday, he went to sleep. Quietly. 

The parallels are striking. My head and heart are in a swirl.

 
Pair Buttah's demise with remembering mom with receiving communication from an attorney regarding a pending case related to my dad and his death,  totally out of the blue, all within the same days, and well. . . loss and remembrance, remembrance and loss, like a never ending loop.




The hours, minutes, seconds of the last several days have been consumed with thoughts of mom and dad; tucked safely in a heart now cracked open needing to make room for my dear orange guy. Loss and remembrance. Remembrance and loss. Running in a loop. 

CLICK HERE for more MICRO Monday BLOGS

Welcome to Summer

dad and his mom early '60s?

Summer of 1973. By this point my parents had been separated for about five years.. There were the usual battles most of which involved his promising to come get us for an outing and not showing.

Mom covered for him as much as she could. And while losing confidence she never failed to ready us for a "dad" day.

Summer of 1973 I was graduating from elementary school. A big deal under regular circumstances made bigger being as I'd skipped a grade and was at least a full year younger than most of the other graduates.

Tickets were limited and given the track record of the previous five years, mom decided dad wouldn't be invited to the ceremony. Following some heated, some hushed conversations, dad announced that there would be a day of celebration, just the two of us.

All decked out in my green and white maxi dress, white pumps with matching handbag, and pearl necklace with matching earrings, I sat on the sofa, nervous that once again, he wouldn't show. Steeling myself for the disappointment.

But, he did show. We had lunch in a fancy restaurant where he ordered me a drink topped with fruit, stabbed with one of those paper umbrellas. After lunch we went to a play and while I've long forgotten what we saw, I remember having kept the playbill for a long time. After the play we went for ice cream sundaes.

I am not prone to hyperbole, but that day . . . best ever.

That day wound up being one of very few that we would share. That day is the one I held close when we were so far apart. The memory of that day helped lead us to an eventual reconciliation and what prompted the letter I wrote to say, good-bye.

Summer of 1973, the standard bearer for all subsequent summers.

Thank you, dad.

#MicroblogMonday

Let's See, Where Were We?

In the midst of studying, prospecting, marketing, and growing  a ton of other things have happened and / or passed over my field of vision. The picnic actually happened before the new career opportunity and I've planted my behind in the chair to write about it . . . but haven't been able quite articulate my still quite ambivalent feelings.

I will say this: at least one cousin wore a "a family that prays together stays together" tee shirt. It was quite the pleasant surprise to see my Aunt Ann and my cousin Carolyn. And it was quite disappointing that the in memoriam segment didn't occur. And even though I was ambivalent about that as well, I did bring the photo as requested. The photo I brought (and others beyond) were given to younger brother.

The above aside, I'm struck in a variety of ways by a variety of events and thoughts in the past several days since our last gathering. And they are, in no particular order:

A. Daughter, who weeks ago re-connected with her father (he had a stroke several years ago and after bumping around from one family member to another, from one state to another, landed in a rehabilitation / nursing facility in Greenwood, MS) went to visit him (and the arm of his / her family in Mississippi) this weekend past. The visit was good in one regard, not so much in another. Still processing.

B. Pepsi flavored Cheetos are apparently all the rage in Japan.  To which I say, EWWW

C. I'm battling a cold. I no longer feverish, but still not tip-top. A friend is also battling and wrote quite an eloquent post relative to the subject. I don't have her brand of being held in mom's bosom (so to speak) during childhood sickness, ours was quite the different household and dynamics---but there were some instances of receiving mom's full, un-divided attention. The memories of those instances are sweet.

D. Due to being sick, and the busyness of work related activities I'm a bit behind on the news and so only recently caught wind of the MONTANA COURT  ruling. I'm quite incensed over the entire episode and culture.

E. And speaking of being incensed....Syria...really? REALLY??? I get the sense that nations are channeling Tina.  Further, I get a sense of dread. ::sigh::

F. And speaking of dread---really Auntie Flo?? REALLY!!!!!!??? I am fifty fracking three!!!  I know, I know, many have gone well beyond that number. But, "shit, fuck, piss!!" as another friend often retorts ENOUGH already.  

G. I know I'm not one to speak, but I miss bloggers. I miss the community. I miss my friends. Oh sure, some (most, in fact) hang out on FB but it is simply not the same. No promises or declarations but I'm striving to be more active with this platform. I still have those sketches  to finish, I even bought a new sketch book, so as I say, no promises. But, well, yeah. . .

H. My former boss has continued to call and email. I must continue to ignore him. I cannot afford to be pulled back into his sort of . . . miasma.

I. Did you know later this month marks a year since Cinnamon came into our world?   On the flip side, the 6th will mark the first anniversary of my dad's death  and the twelfth, D-dog's passing.  All quite  heavily on my mind, heart.

J. And while there is much, much more that has gone on and IS going on I'll end here, except to add that the other night I had a dream. I'm struck (again) by remembering even the part I remember for, if you recall, I don't usually remember my dreams and if I do, only snippets filter to the surface. This snippet: I was walking down a street, dressed in my professional business black slacks and black jacket. An older man, he reminded me of an actor whose name and pedigree has alluded me, but think: a cross between Burt Young and Richard Farnsworth started following me eventually asking if I had a couple bucks so he could get something to eat. I then, against ALL my city wits and conventional wisdom, stopped to pull my wallet from my bag, opened it with the plan to peel off a couple of buck . . .    The older man took my wallet. I screamed. He turned and half ran, half limped away. I continued to scream but got myself together enough to chase (I mean he WAS half running and MOSTLY limping ) him intending to . . . not quite tackle him, but certainly, get my shit back.  Except, I couldn't catch him. WTF??  It was like some weird super slo-mo, non action . . . something. I was thrashing about in bead, screaming in my head, running the litany of what was in the wallet, the hassle of replacing stuff and the like. I woke with a monstrous headache and a sense of extreme dread . . . crying because it felt so real then I snapped to. . it was just. a. dream. 

And now, having said that, I can't end it there. I am going to end this episode with: WAY TO GO DIANA!!!

She said:
One: We should never give up.
Two: You're never too old to chase your dream
Three: It looks like a solitary sport, but it is a team.   (Swimming & life--I'm deciding).


See you in a few.

 

Goodbye James

Mom reports, "James died at 12:22 p.m."  Five days after his 74th birthday...on this, the sixth day of September, which is also my older brother's 54th birthday. Though my good-bye was said, there are...emotions.   
R.I.P

My younger brother relates that the cancer is taking a toll, that you've seen more days in the hospital than out in recent weeks. For this turn of events I am truly sorry for I know it must not only be taking a toll on you, but on your wife and your son...well, all your sons.

Friends who have weathered the cancer storm in recent years advise the end could be very near or much further off, the time in between could be full of very ill days or not or some mix in-between.  I am choosing to believe that your silence this time is due to your sickness and your needing to focus on the variety of treatments and the side effects therein. Thus, I'm taking the initiative. Again.

This is goodbye to you, James, the man who was once, very briefly, my father.

Since hearing of your illness a year ago, I've been fashioning this goodbye, preparing myself for this departure which solidifies your absence. I've been preparing for how this ultimate departure will impact the sons you had with my mother and how that, in turn, will impact me.

In many ways, the preparation goes beyond the last year, for you have been physically absent for decades and emotionally absent virtually my entire life. I have time and time again had to reconcile that for one reason or another you wanted nothing at all to do with me. Sure, on the rare occasion you  responded to one of  the thousands of cards or letters with some declaration of love, I was left ultimately left with the deafening silences that followed. I was left with imagining  or fashioning a scenario where we'd reconcile. But, in reality, I gave up, gave in to your absence. And then, cancer.

And thus, I tried again, we talked and it was easy. But then, more silence. Perhaps due to the illness and the toll it is taking. Perhaps due to my not adhering to your beliefs. Perhaps due to . . you, being you. The history that is our existence dictates that there is always something to blame for the nothingness.

James, this is goodbye, but I also want you to know that I am not angry. I'm not angry for the decades of silences. I'm not angry that you missed the first day of every school,  every accolade, every heartbreak, every . .  everything related to me up to and including thee entire lives of my children. I am not angry that your YOU was not, is not, cannot be, my dad.

I said goodbye to that fantasy and now I say goodbye to the man James who was once, ever so briefly, my father. The man who taught me, designed or accidental, how to be present for those I love; how to say to them at every opportunity, "I LOVE YOU" and how to mean it, how to show it with my head, heart, energy, money, and more. I am saying goodbye but also thank you. For the nothingness you exhibited helped frame the me that is me.

I am sorry for your pain and suffering and how that impacts your wife and sons. I wish for the rest of your days to be as comfortable as your family and doctors can make for you. I trust that your beliefs provide for you a measure of tranquility as you transition . . .

So, for the last time, goodbye and may peace be with you.

Your Only Daughter

Third Sunday In June

Another picture perfect Sunday, on the outside, the aftermath of much needed rain, barely visible.

Pictures are not always what the seem.

On this third Sunday in June, designated "Father's Day" I've spent barely a moment thinking about my dad and even less about their dad. My son, daughter, and I were all here together for a good part of this day and that, in and of, itself, is cause for celebration. We had a handful of meaningful conversations that led to a handful of revelations.


Catharsis, or catharses comes to mind. Each has spent part of this day ruminating over focus and dedication toward the next stages of their respective days, weeks, months, and quite possibly, years.

I've spent a considerable amount of time today in my own state of rumination as my own life has taken some turns and is about to turn again. For better or worse, time will tell. For this day, however, and the couple leading to it? far from the bike ride in the park of the most carefree of summer days.

My present may very well become my past but it could also become my future. I was shown a picture of myself today and though I disagreed with the accompanying hypothesis, I can relate to and respect the sentiment presented.  

I read this quote somewhere, don't recall where and didn't take note of the author, so forgive the lack of credit, "Let your past make you better, not bitter." I feel like that quote has been the cornerstone of my entire existence.

This third Sunday in June, this Father's Day, turned out to be grand mother of days, existentially speaking.

Games. People.

 

A part of me feels the need to write about my father but a much larger part is sick and tired of the entire rather road weary affair.  It must be addressed and it will be, just not here or now. I will say that the let's get his family together experiment is, in the words of SJP's Carrie Bradshaw, "so over we need a new word for over."

Let us then move on to a new game, Holiday (psst, Christmas) gifting One Oh None.  

 The Granny Sling Shot.  None. For one, I loved my granny. Well, both of them actually, though I didn't know the paternal one very long or very well (she died when I was young a due to fractured family ties we didn't visit often.) But she seemed nice enough. She made great pancakes. Or at least she did that one time I remember staying over. While the pictured granny doesn't put me in the mind of either of my grandmothers as neither was Caucasian, I would still feel quite uncomfortable flinging a granny off the edge of my fingers, sending her soaring through the air only to crash . . . somewhere. Ouch. No.

Now, a book. . . One! Books are almost always a good idea. You know, as much as I read, as much as I love reading, my loved ones rarely gift me with books. Weird, that. Anyways . . I have already turned fifty, in fact am a year over that mark and well on the way to fifty-two. Still, I presume much of the advice and insights from the fifty notables is applicable to fiftysomethings as well as to the 50 year old.  For example, something like, "wear comfortable clothes" means as much to me at 51 as it would have at 50. Heck, I've been following that sage advice since my thirties, at least.    

A thoughtful gift-giver musing over the 50 Things might wander over to what I'm considering the companion piece, "60 Things To Do . . . " Gifting this tome to a 50something provides said fiftysomething a bit of a head-start in absorbing the words of wisdom from the sixty experts featured. A head-start is an extremely thoughtful pose. For a fiftysomething might need the rest of her fifties, for instance, to prepare for such sixties advice like, "take your clothes off."

Okay, maybe not.

Still, I bet there is a treasure trove of useful, relevant, and uplifting thoughts within the 678 pages (combined) offered up by the one hundred and ten (again, combined) experts who have "been there."

Okay, forget the books. How about just a treasure?

Or, given how I feel today, one whiskey, neat.  

a ha

For days I've felt a little . . . off, for lack of a more descriptive word. I thought it was tiredness brought on by too much work and too little rest. Or perhaps a malaise brought on by dreary weather accompanied by inexplicable? bloating, achy knees, odd cravings, emotional jags.  


Then I attributed the out of step feeling with the chore of first, reading (objectively) and then commenting to my dad about the material he sent. The material, in and of itself (though truly a chore) didn't upset me overmuch but the fact that he, of all people, would send me (among other material) a booklet titled, "How to Raise Responsible Children" really set my teeth on edge.


Oh, then there was an aching tooth. 


Two thoughts however, never crossed my mind as possible causes for the turbidity of  my daily experience in recent days, weeks.  One: this. and Two: the actual cause or perhaps more accurately, the root: P M freakin' S! 


That's right sports fans, yours truly is having an unplanned visitor.  At fifty-one. After over a year. 


It has been so long I misread all the tell-tell signs. The bloating, the cravings, the tiredness, the insomnia, the . . . everything. 


Oy to the Vey.


For all that, now that there is a face on the issue, now that the situation is flowing, so to speak, I'm much better. Well, not better in the sense that I am intensely annoyed at having to deal with this again, still. But, now I fully understand with what I'm dealing and can therefore be more focused on that root. There are known remedies. 


Still, I find myself on this Thanksgiving Eve quite thankful and full gratitude. Miss Flo and achy knees aside, there is my good health, the good health of both and actor and his sister (though she has been suffering with a wicked cold and upper respiratory infection over the past several days) and being able to put a full dinner on the table tomorrow that we will all share (along with my mother). We will trade stories old and new, laughs, and the like. And as much as I lack enthusiasm for the process, the shopping and prepping, I am overwhelmingly enthusiastic over the end result, the fullness of body and spirit. 


Happy Thanksgiving to one and all. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to shoo the actor away from the ham (again).

No Celebration

As long as the stars shine down from the heavens

As long as the rivers run to the sea

I'll never get over you getting over me *

The day started as so many others. I rose a tad sluggish but felt energized after a shower and hot coffee. Prepped and dressed with some pep in my step, I head to the train, picking up a RedEye , deciding I wasn't in the mood for the book currently in my bag, along the way.

The RedEye, with its brief spin on the news of the previous day, entertainment tid-bits, human interest items, devotion to photos, puzzles, and games is light and fluffy enough for my short commute. My usual routine is to thumb through the beginning on the way to the puzzles. Now and again, an article or feature, that I hadn't already read on-line, catches my eye.

Now and again happened on Friday. Kyra's column catches my eye. As I begin to read emotion I hadn't realized I was still harboring over my own father, and quite possibly all fathers, my kid's, my brother, an uncle hear and there, all the fathers who missed the memo on what being a father meant spilled out of my eyes. And wouldn't stop. I couldn't rein it in the entire way to my stop and even on the short walk to the office building.

As I read about lessons taught, traditions upheld, and times treasured I couldn't help but think about lost opportunity, wisdom, and tranquility.

Not to mention companionship.

One of the reasons I'm drawn to USA network's "In Plain Sight" is due to the portrayal of Mary Shannon's (played by Mary McCormack) relationship with her absentee father. She is resigned to his absence while be haunted by his abandonment. And though she has the resources at her disposal to look for him, she refuses. I think the fear of what she'd find in him is greater than the desire to have him back in her life.

My dad rarely crosses my mind, but it is clear from my reactions to other tributes, that he remains embedded and likely always will be.

*Expose: I'll Never Get Over

Imagine

Imagine there wasn’t a history between you and me. Imagine we were not connected by years of disconnectedness. Imagine we were strangers except for the shared DNA. Imagine.

Do you imagine we could have come together after 50 years of our own separate lives with no memory of a history of birth, laughter mingled with tears, hurts, and haunts?

Imagine us meeting today. You just barely in your 70s and me a stone’s throw from 50, imagine us meeting in a busy restaurant, straining to hear each other’s silences. Imagine you wanting coffee and me not knowing coffee was one of your obsessions.

Do you imagine we’d stumble for the words to say? Would you be interested to hear about all or only some of the past 50 years? Do you imagine you’d share your tales of travels, where the world and life took you since my conception? Would you ask about my mom? Imagine there’d be pictures?

Imagine neither of us coming to this pre-arranged meeting alone, afraid of what we’d find or rather, what we wouldn’t. Sharing no previous history we didn’t have hope nor despair on which to hang our hats. You meet my daughter, I meet your son. We’re polite as are they. Imagine the look in their eyes when they realize they’re nearly the same age.

Do you imagine we’d work through the awkwardness? Would we find enough common ground on which to tread? Would we progress beyond talking about the weather or the economy? Imagine you’d tell me in 100 words or less how, why you found me? Imagine it would be more?

Imagine us meeting today. You just barely in your 70s and me a stone’s throw from 50, imagine us meeting in this busy restaurant, you nearly shouting about the clanking and clattering china, that you were my dad and how you so very much wish you’d thought to do this sooner, before you got sick.

Do you imagine I’d come away from this meeting with love, or . . ?

Imagine there wasn't a history between you and me, imagine.

Walk On By

My parents separated (and eventually divorced) when I was very young, six or seven. At the very beginning of the separation, the first few days (perhaps weeks) I was very happy as my father was mean. He seemed especially mean to his only daughter for some reason.

He, rather than mom, was the disciplinarian. He delivered discipline by hitting. A leather razor strop was his instrument of choice, but he'd use his hands in the forms of slaps and even a punch at least once.

I caught it often, not only for my own mis-behavior but also for my younger brother's. For it was my job to keep him from mis-behaving, depending on the day. You see, in addition to being mean dad was also erractic.* He'd lay down the law on Tuesday, on Wednesday he'd tell us to, "lighten up" and on Thursday we'd get beat for acting on the "lighten up" cue.

It went on like this for the entire time he was home. No surprise then, that early on I didn't miss him. But, later . . .

Part of me wanted him to be part of my life. Or at least, wanted him to want to be part of my life. I couldn't help but miss him. I couldn't help feeling devastated by his apparent disregard for me and my life.

Throughout the rest of my childhood and until this very day, he was more out than in my life. Years went by where we didn't speak. He was notoriously bad about returning letters and at least once reported that he couldn't afford to call. I've created all kinds of scenarios about our next meeting, when, where, and under what circumstances.

I figured I'd see him on the street somewhere. We'd recognize one another instantly but neither would make a move to acknowledge the other. We would simply, "Walk On By".

Dad will celebrate his 71st birthday in a couple of days. Despite our estrangement, I do wish him the best.

*Upon learning of dad's recreational drug use, I elected to lay the blame for much of his behavior at that door.

Take This Dream

My dad is a mystery to me. I know his name, can still envision his face (provided he hasn’t changed too much in 15 or so years), and feel like I’d be able to recognize his voice were he to speak to me today. However, I’m at a total loss to relate any of his favorite foods, whether or not he’s into comedies or dramas, or even if he watches movies (or television) at all. I don’t have any inkling as to what even constitutes a typical day for him. I’m not a part of his life, nor he mine.

Imagine my shock and awe to find him, his dog (I don’t even know if he really HAS a dog), and his truck starring in my most recent remembered dream.

The scene opens somewhere in the middle, as usual. I’m on a street in the neighborhood I lived with my brothers and mother when I was about 15. My dad and mom had been separated / divorced for 7 or 8 years by that point. Though he was still in my life, it was sparse and growing more so with each passing day. So, my dream opens with me on this street, in my current adult incarnation. I have Diamond. No one else from my current life is visible.

I’m walking Diamond down this street and we meet my dad and his dog, a greyhound puppy of indeterminate gender. Diamond goes nuts over this dog, she won’t back off from sniffing the dog’s butt, making the younger pup quite nervous, which makes my dad nervous. Yet, he never says a word. The dog sniffing and related dance goes on for some minutes when, inexplicably dad reaches into his pocket and hands me keys and points to a truck, his truck, I surmise.

In the midst of sniffing, dancing, yapping dogs, he motions to the truck, picks up the greyhound, turns tail and breaks into a full out run. A perplexed Diamond barks louder, then whimpers as they disappear from view. She looks up at me and I shrug. I grab her up and head for the truck. It is the truck from my youth. A 1965 or ’66 green GMC pick-up. I’m curious and excited. I get in and crank ‘er up. Vrrrroooooom. I drive around a couple of blocks, turn another corner and plop, find myself smack dab in the middle of a muddy field. Well, shit.

Every effort to extricate the truck from the mud fails miserably. I grow increasingly nervous. I look across the field to see another truck, full of people of indeterminate gender having some sort of party, or something and several start to make their way toward me, Diamond, and the truck.

As they draw nearer, my brain snaps me awake. I look at the clock-radio and realize that the song I thought was playing as part of the dream was not, or was but has leaked over to my conscious life.

Quiet Day

A bit more than half-way passed the first day of autumn leading to the first day of winter, Sunday felt closer to winter than autumn. Cloud cover, whisking winds and cold temps made going outside an un-attractive choice. Were it not for walking diva dog I wouldn't have gone out at all. It was a nestle-in day. If only I'd had the foresight to whip up a hearty soup or stew.


Daughter had to work so it was just me, Pete, Buttah and Diamond. We all agreed I would clean in the morning and then we'd settle in and watch some football games and surf the channels for the odd Sunday surprise showing of...something, anything whenever we tired of watching our teams (lose).


It was quiet except for Diamond's periodic snores, Buttah's sniffling and eventually play-by-play. The chill and the quiet conspired to put thoughts in my head. Nothing in particular but everything in general crossing my mind.


I couldn't shake loose of thoughts of my father.

Seeing the images of President-elect Obama with his daughters (over this past week especially) listening to item after item contrasting 1968 Chicago with 2008 Chicago, mom's knowing prediction, "it's the kids who will suffer the most" with regard to the news that my sister-in-law intends to file for divorce from my repeat offender brother and that he intends to fight this action, "tooth and nail" put thoughts of my father in my head.

And try as I might, I couldn't let them go yesterday.

Thoughts like what it will feel like when I get the news that he has died, wondering IF I'll get that news. Thoughts like if the memories of our few good times will totally disappear, finally becoming swallowed by the decades of bad or worse, nothingness. Thoughts like when or if I'll ever see him again and what I'll say to him if I do. Thoughts like if he ever really thinks of me, my son or daughter and what he would say to me, us should we ever communicate again.

Normally I relish my quiet Sunday afternoons. This past Sunday, an aberration, I'm sure. Future quite Sundays will be heartily embraced and quietly enjoyable.

Note to self: For the rest of this season and into the next, Hearty Soup Sunday.

Her Name

A friend asked Ellen DeG to give me a wake-up call. She did and I was tickled pink. Thanks friend.

I, in turn, asked Ellen DeG to call Neta (and a couple of others). Ellen DeG had a problem with my request for a call to Neta. "I'm sorry, I cannot say that name." I was given the option to have the call made without a name (boooo) or choose another name. Well, Neta has a middle name so I tried that. Nope. "I'm sorry, I cannot say that name." Well, fudge.

I went back to Neta, spelling it the way it sounds: n-e-e-t-a-h. No go.

I tried n-e-a-t-a. "Sorry, I..."

I thought about trying any one (or all--until accepted) of our endearments for one another. Then I thought, screw it and just went with the message without a name.

Well, double fudge.

I'm inclined to think it was just a glitch. Neta isn't a rare name nor particularly hard to pronounce. Oh sure, some folks might say Net-ta instead of Nee-ta, that would have been acceptable. But unable to say any variation at all? Odd.

Then again, my mom has a difficult time with Neta's name too.

Mom: How is...uhm, your friend, in Tennessee, what's her name?

Me: Nee-ta.

Mom: Oh, I thought it was Net-ta.

Me: No, it's Nee-ta and she's fine. (aside: yum).

Mom: Oh, I thought...well, you know your father's wife is.. Me: Yes, I know, but her name has two Ts, it's Net-tie.

Then, of course, we get on to a conversation about 'dear old dad' which is where I sign off.

Honor The Father

What do you say to a father with whom you have no relationship? To a man who alternated between ignoring and making loving declarations over the course of your 47 years? To a man who you’d like to call dad, but can just manage…

James,
It would be more dramatic to begin by saying that the storms that rolled through here about 7 this morning startled me from my slumber. To begin by saying that the thunder, lightning and the crash of tree parts and other debris into cars and onto the streets was a most un-settling way to begin the day would be, in truth, not the beginning of my day, though yes, it was un-settling.

My day began three hours earlier thanks to Pete, the cat! He started, per usual at about 4 with his meows, chin chucking and various other actions trying to rouse me. I did my best to ignore him and eventually he sauntered away, to sit and stare. By six, we decide it was time to eat. He feasts on a breakfast of turkey and giblets, I have cereal and a banana.

The storms roll in at 7 and Pete, the cat is a tad un-nerved. He was perched on the sill of one of the open windows. The crashes and lightning sent him skittering. He’s been pacing about, not quite sure of what to make of all the whirling and blowing. I close the windows against the growing breezes for fear that they might turn from refreshing to violent. Neither of us would welcome that eventuality.

I know you’re wondering, who the heck is Pete, the cat? Well, I adopted a cat at the urging of D, my daughter. You remember my daughter, don’t you? True, she was what…9 or 10 the last time you saw her? But I’ve spoken of her in the many letters I’ve sent in the interim. She’s nearly 23 now and working as a vet tech at one of the local animal shelters. The adoptions didn’t stop at Pete, the cat. Diamond, diva dog, also calls our condo home. Diamond and D will be moving as soon as my daughter can get all her ducks in a row. I’ll miss them both, but when it’s that time, well, it is.

There have been many other changes in my life, our lives since we last saw or even spoken to one other. M, my son graduated from college and has been pursuing a career in the theatre. He is working a “day” job that is very satisfying and will serve to provide him the security to continue to pursue his passions. He moved out a year ago and while I’ve stumbled on turning what was his space in the condo, into my space, the time has come for me to forge full speed ahead with that/those projects.

For the biggest change in the past few years is that I’ve fallen in love. The love is on her way, yes…her way here for the first time. I’ve visited her on a number of occasions because it was easier (since I have daughter here and such), but now…she wants to visit Chicago, me and see, rather than hear, how I live. When it’s that time, well, it is.

I don’t remember when you and I have last talked verbally or in print, but I do remember the contexts. I remember you’re stating, trying to assure me that you love me. I have to tell you, I find your declarations hard to believe given what we’ve shared, or rather haven’t, for the bulk of my 47 years. But, never fear I no longer dwell on whether or not you love me or vice versa. That part doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you’re my father and I would like to, at the very least know you and vice versa. So, on this day, the day set aside for children to honor their fathers, allow me to say, I hope that your life has been and continues to be all you hoped and dreamed. I hope your health and that of your wife allows for relaxing enjoyment during these golden years. Finally father, I hope you are happy.

I hope, you hope, the same for me.
Your only daughter, Deborah

I guess I would start there, maybe.

Daddy Dear, Rest

I found a letter he wrote to me in 1980. I’m not sure why I deemed this one special enough to save. It wasn’t the only letter I got from him. There were a couple before and a couple after this one. After having read it over several times, nothing special, particularly endearing, clever or even true pops out at me. It starts with a “hi honey” and ends with a “love dad.” The stuff in between was mostly forgettable.

His letter to me in 1980 was in response to a letter I’d sent several months prior. He makes mention of this. I gather that in my letter I mentioned the plan to “hook up” with the man who would become father to my son and daughter, he makes mention of this as well, advising me to “be careful.” This communication in 1980 would have marked the first such communication in several years—on either side. I was trying to get past an intense hatred I felt for him. I don’t know what his motivations were. He said he loved me. I had a very difficult time believing he felt anything akin to love towards me.

Since 1980 there have been perhaps ten letters between us—his to me were usually in response to one of mine to him, always several months or years after the fact. Since 1980 I have seen him twice, talked with him on the phone perhaps a half-dozen times—the last time maybe 3 years ago. He did call and leave a message on the machine a year ago. When he didn’t call back like he said he would, I called him—got his machine, left a message of my own. I’d resigned myself to his silences leading into this exchange of messages. I’ve had to all over again. The silences really don’t bother me that much anymore. I prefer the silence over the lies.

In the years since 1980 I’ve come to feel something other than intense hatred for him. In all likelihood it wasn’t even hatred I was feeling. How could I hate my father? I didn’t even know him, not really. Further, what I’ve come to realize over that time-line was I don’t want to know him. Really, I don’t.

Still, he’s been on my mind a lot lately. Perhaps the letter, perhaps the birth date that recently passed, perhaps my younger brother—his spitting image—kicking up dust these days, is bringing him to my mind, perhaps.

The last time we talked he told me he loved me. I still have a hard time believing that sentiment. How could he love me? He doesn’t know me any better than I know him. Further, the realization has finally settled into my head, my bones, my soul-he doesn’t ever want to know me. Really, he doesn’t.

Mom always accused me of being said I was just like my father. I guess, in this, she must be right.

Silence

The playback, empty of meaning, devoid of thought transmit the images of a long time gone, the facial hair, glasses, coffee breath and nicotine stained teeth. The photos logged into evidence serve to further cement those images.

She asks every day, since hearing the news, "has your dad called you back?"

Each time, the reply is no.

Mom speculates as to the reasons for the call, longingly lonely for his only daughter, regretting the choices of the past or dying. She questions why I’m not more curious, more insistent, more anxious, angry.

Despite the periods of cruelty, the missing hugs and endearments, the image of hope and expectations of reclamations crystalize anew with each passing day, each time the question is voiced.

"Has your dad called you back?" Again, the answer is no, again and again.

I’ve chosen to avoid thinking about why he called, more importantly, I’d rather not be reminded that he wasn’t calling back. The sounds of the silence have become soothing to the ear, a comfort to the mind. It’s the pungency of the images that threaten to decay the calm.

I must believe, accept that he won’t call back anytime soon.

"You don’t know, he might..." she continues to push for purity.

Mom please, stop.

The silence has become routine, golden.

Dad

My dad called today. I wasn't home. He left a rather cryptic message ending with mentioning he would call back later in the day. This was 12:16 p.m. When he hadn't called by 5:00, I called him, got their machine and left a message. Now, I wait...

Titivating delayed until further notice.

On the upside, I've been drowning the time with my new Paddle-Ball. Isn't she just gorgeous?

Dad: Mine

My dad lives in New Orleans. He and his wife had evacuated just before Katrina hit and have since returned to rebuild.

The information about the safe evacuation and return comes to me third hand. My dad and I don't talk. Since he and my mom separated in 1968 and subsequently divorced some years later, I haven't had more than 2 dozen conversations with him.

Not, that I didn't try.

When I left my mom's home, I wrote my dad many, many letters. I sent him cards and after the kids were born, I sent photos and cards and letters. I was even more determined to forge some kind of relationship with him.

Dad would respond to one of my many missives once every three or four years or so, with a note or a phone call. Either would start the same way; "baby, I got your (letter, note card) I mean to get in touch sooner, I've been so busy..." He would usually throw in at some point how bad he is about writing or how he couldn't afford to call. He would also toss out that he loved me.

Sometime after his divorce from my mom, dad re-married. YB told be once that dad's wire didn't like the *fact* of us so he couldn't be involved with us. I thought it was more complicated than that, but it stung all the same.

The silence and seeming indifference year after year has had a thunderous effect.

I wrote him five years ago. That letter, I wrote that I finally got that he wouldn't or couldn't be more and while I have mourned the loss of his involvement with me and my children, I was done. I would leave him be. I would respond to him, but would no longer initiate.

He called four months after that letter was mailed. "Baby, I got your letter, I meant to get in touch sooner, I've..." We talked for about 30 minutes during which time he related that he understood how I felt. He thought the letter sounded angry. I struggled to sound the opposite of angry, but I assured him that I was not, I was done with angry. He vowed to do better, to be better; he professed his love for me, again. I asked if there was some way we could communicate that would be easier, email maybe. He said he didn't have and couldn't use a computer.

I wrote him a letter a few months after this conversation. I haven't gotten a response.

When Katrina hit, I searched message boards, data bases and added my name to *looking for* lists. I didn't see his name. I didn't get any news as to his possible fate or whereabouts.

One of his sisters, who had heard from another sister that dad and his wife had evacuated before the storm and had been staying with their son until it was safe to return. This information was conveyed to my mom, who passed it on to me.

This was a month ago. I called the number I have for him. An answering machine or voice mail mechanism with his wife's voice picked up the call. I left a message. There hasn't been a return call.

Many years ago, shortly before she died, my maternal grandmother and I were talking about my dad. I was going on and on about how he was such a doo doo head (or some similar sentiment) and she said; "you know if your dad was in trouble and he called you for help, you will help." At the time, I was thinking she must've been smoking some of my cousin's stash.

But, you know what? She was / is probably right, because he is, after all, my dad.