THANKFUL FRIDAY

I’m sitting on my couch (the new one!), watching the pre-parade line up on TV, trying to type up a gratitude post on Thanksgiving Day. Doesn’t seem like a difficult task and really…it isn’t. Today’s post is a very simple one. Today I am grateful for being able to safely gather with friends and family. I am thankful for new friends made this year. I am thankful for a bountiful table surrounded by love and laughter.

But I am also taking a moment to feel grief. The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade was always a tradition of my childhood. Watching that parade now instantly transports me back to my childhood home. I’m sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace and Dad is sitting in his beloved recliner with the day’s newspaper spread out on his lap. He’s not even reading it. Instead, the two of us are running commentary on the parade. Occasionally, Mom would yell at one of us from the kitchen to get up and do some chore. The job of the person who was spared from the chore was to yell out the float, balloon or band that was currently on the screen. You dropped whatever it was that you were doing if someone yelled out “You gotta see this one! Hurry, hurry, hurry!”. I can’t watch that parade today without missing that fireplace and the warmth of the fire Dad kept going.

I can’t watch that parade today without missing my Dad.

The holiday season is bittersweet. I am thankful for the bitter parts and the sweet parts.

I’m also really thankful for the new couch.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

I fell flat on my butt this week. That’s not a metaphor. In an attempt to lighten my heart towards the falling snow, I stepped outside to take some pictures. I knelt down to take a picture of an ice covered tulip and when I stood up, I completely lost my balance. I stumbled back and then fell over, my left buttcheek hitting hard against the cold wet pavement of the circle drive. I fully embraced this fall and let myself roll all the way back so that I was lying flat on my back on the cold, wet drive. I laid there for a breath or two before thinking “I should get up before someone runs over me with their car.” and I peeled my body off the ground. I stood and assessed the damage. A rough spot on my left palm and a bruised left buttcheek. A wet coat. All in all, it was a pretty minimal list of damages.

I heard on the radio that Riders In The Sky will be playing at a local venue here sometime next month and I was instantly taken to that year I took Dad to see them in concert. Every detail of that evening swam around in my head. Dad had arrived at my house dressed in his best western wear. He had on his nicest bolo tie and his dress cowboy boots. Of course he had his white cowboy hat. I took him to Cattlemen’s Steak House, THE cowboy place to eat in Oklahoma. I bought him a steak and we split a dessert before heading over to The National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum for the concert. Dad was so happy that he cried. Later on, I posted Happy Birthday wishes to a friend from high school that included wishes for cookies. She responded with how she would much rather have my Dad’s roasted peanuts. She had been in the habit of driving over to my parents’ home weekly for bags of roasted peanuts particularly during baseball season when she would be rooting for one of her children in a game. Her comment made me chuckle. After all this time, people still miss those peanuts and their visits with the Peanut Man.

This was the week for nudges from Dad. While I was driving home, the radio host mentioned his gratitude to all who had reached out to him during last week when his father had passed. He said that week was the hardest week he’d ever had. I felt myself falling backwards with his words and I embraced the fall. When I assessed the damages this time, I was surprised to find minimal damage. Dad’s passing wasn’t the worst week I had ever experienced. I had been prepared for it and had accepted it without any shock or disbelief. My memories of time spent with Dad do not fill me with bittersweetness the way other memories do.

My balance has been wonky, leftovers from my vaccination. I have been working in my daily yoga practice not just on balancing on one foot for an extended period of time, but on slow transitions between standing poses. Moving one foot back at sloth speed to come into warrior I. Taking my sweet time lifting up and transitioning into warrior II. That place in between, when you are moving from one thing to the next, that is where you build strength. The moments in between are where we find our balance. This is where we learn to embrace the fall as it happens and to assess the damages later. I have found that after committing to the fall and moving slowly into that fall that I find there is less damage.

For this week at least, I am left whole and filled with some good memories.

OUT OF TOWNER

The ghost of Paul Revere

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I have managed to be out of town every August 1st since 2006. I didn’t realize this until Michael said something about the date while we ate our last lobster (lobstah) rolls of our Boston trip. He said “Is today a bad date?” “It’s not a great one” I replied while shoving a giant piece of lobster meat into my mouth. This was all I said on the subject. For our last day in Boston, the temperatures dropped to the high seventies. All week long, until that day, we were in the middle of a sweltering heat wave. It wasn’t a big deal for me because I spent most of the first four days of our trip in conference rooms listening to developmental biology talks. Michael, on the other hand, had two-shirt days. Really three-shirt days, but he didn’t pack enough t-shirts for that. We thought it would be cooler when we took a day trip up to Salem, but that turned out to be the hottest day. Some poor park ranger drew the short straw and was stuck out on the replica tall ship at the Maritime National Historic site. They had provided him with a tent like shelter and he refused to leave his square of shade to even point out where the masts are usually placed on the ship. It was so hot that I felt like I was sweating between my fingers, so I don’t blame that unlucky park ranger for refusing to leave his square of shade.

The best thing about that day, about the whole trip really, was the ferry ride we took back to Boston. Michael sat down at a table inside the ferry and we dumped our backpacks. He looked at me and said “go do what you need to do.” I swapped out lenses on my camera and headed outside where I was able to position myself at the very front of the ship. The ferry maneuvered it’s way out of the harbor and then began to pick up speed. Then we were speeding across the Atlantic and there I was at the very front of the ship feeling the full effect of racing across the water. I stood there with the wind hitting me full blast, snapping terrible pictures and practically giggling with joy. When Michael finally came out to find me, I turned to look at him with this giant grin on my face. “THIS IS AMAZING!” I yelled at him to be heard over the wind and sound of the engine. I am usually hesitant about getting on big boats. It is not from a fear of drowning, but more from a fear of boredom. It all stems from that one time Dad and I got trapped on a paddle boat ride up the Mississippi. Dad was not a good swimmer, but thought that even he could swim faster than the boat we were on. We both fantasized of jumping overboard. But this ferry? Dad would have loved this ride.

I wonder how Dad felt about fried clams. I ate enough of them for the both of us.

As we made our way through security to board our flight home, Michael got caught up in the security check point. Something about him that day lit up all the bells on the scanner. His luggage got scanned twice and he received a personal pat down from a TSA officer. It was not a big deal. We had plenty of time to kill before our flight any way. After he finally made it through, we were settled on a bench repacking his stuff and I kind of chuckled. I looked at him sideways and said “J was totally just fucking with you.” Michael was curious as to why I thought this, but I didn’t have the best explanation for him. It just felt like something J had a hand in. I could almost see him standing next to one of the TSA officers with a wicked grin on his face as he whispered in the officer’s ear “why don’t you recheck that bag.”

August is a weird month.

Ghosts are everywhere.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

There is a Simpson’s episode called “Lost Our Lisa” where Lisa defies her mother by trying to take the bus to the museum to see the Orb of Isis. She gets lost and then she calls her dad for help. Lisa calls him because she knows that he will be on her side, mostly because Homer is always getting himself into some kind of trouble. What follows is a madcap adventure where Homer tries to get to Lisa, which he does, but by the time Lisa is safe and sound, the museum has closed. It was the last day for the exhibit and Lisa missed it. So, Homer breaks into the museum so Lisa can see the exhibit. They have the whole exhibit to themselves and get to see something that no one else has ever seen. One of the greatest things about that episode is how Lisa experienced things she never would have had a chance to experience if it hadn’t been for Homer. I can say the same when it comes to my Dad. He was the adventure seeker, the rule breaker, the guy who step on the other side of the velvet rope to get closer. Dad was my Homer and I was his little Lisa.

My Dad would be eighty years old today. At first I thought “that can’t be right!” but he was born in 1939. So yeah, my Dad would have been eighty today. There has been no one who could bring lightness to my seriousness the way my Dad could. Not even Chris. Dad just had a way. He taught me to seek out those adventures on occasion. Sometimes it’s okay to break a few rules. Dad used to put his tray table down as soon as we reached altitude and I would always get onto him. I would tell him that it was too soon and it made him look too eager for whatever snack the attendants were going to bring us. He found it hilarious and whenever we would fly he would ask me if it was okay to put his table down. It became a great joke, but you know what? It was a lesson in doing what you want, when you want and not caring what anyone around you thought about it.

Here is what I believe. I believe that if Dad’s mind hadn’t flown the coop, he’d still be putzing around breaking rules and seeking out new adventures. Wow, and typing that sentence made me well up a bit. I did not expect that. In yoga class on Wednesday, Kelly talked about Mercury being retrograde and usually I roll my eyes at this kind of talk. Except this time Kelly said something about letting go of the emotions that will bubble up during this time of retrograde. It is a time for letting go of some shit and I thought about some shit that I was hanging on to in regards to my Dad. I have been holding on to some resentment and anger. Not for Dad, but for circumstances surrounding his last year with us. I have also been holding on to some guilt for not doing more to intervene to change those circumstances. My Dad taught me what it means to be unabashedly authentic. Those are the things I should be holding on to. Not the resentment or anger or guilt.

I am thankful for every hot air balloon chased, every tray table that was set down early, and every moment of lightness and silliness.

VETERANS DAY

The World War I Memorial and Museum starts their celebrations at least a week in advance. This year the building is lit with images of poppies. I’ve yet had an evening free where I could go and see it. It hits me every Veterans Day; every time I see social media fill up with photos and thank you notes. Veterans Day arrives and at first I view all of it from a distance. I don’t really remember Veterans Day being a big thing. The pastor during Sunday service might have given a sermon on soldiers and faith and then request that all military veterans stand for recognition. I don’t remember parades or fan fair though. Veterans Day was one of those holidays celebrated quietly with only a moment of gratitude taken before moving on with our day. Then I remember.

My Dad was a veteran.

It’s an easy thing to forget. My Dad’s time in the U.S. Air Force ended long before I came along. Randy is the only one of Dad’s children who was around during Dad’s service and I don’t know how much of that time he remembers. Dad never really mentioned his time in the military. He could go on and on about the camping and beauty of Michigan where he was stationed and how much he enjoyed living there. But he never mentioned anything about his actual time on base. The few things I know came from my mother. She talked only once about the tensions between the US and Russia during the Cuban missile crisis and how Dad was on call at the base. Russia was entering US airs space daily. It was a very tense time. Dad never spoke a word about it.

That was his way.

Dad would on very rare occasions impart snippets of the serious moments of his life. Years after doing so, Dad told me about riding on a charter bus with his fellow Union members to the Oklahoma State Capitol to protest the Right To Work amendment. I was so surprised by this story. I knew my Dad was proud of his Union and attended all of the meetings, but I had no idea of his actions. Dad would tell us stories of fishing and camping. He would talk about the mischief he would get into with my Uncle Russell. Yet he never talked about the serious moments. Not even towards the end. And when I think about it, Dad was not the only service member in our family to not really mention their time in service. Pepaw, a veteran of the second World War, would tell you a few details about his time spent in the South Pacific and only when prompted.

I overheard a story on the news of a veteran’s reaction to someone thanking him for his service. This man was gracious in his response but then gave some advice. He said instead of saying “thank you”, tell a veteran “I remember". It is more meaningful to be remembered. I am grateful for those who have the fortitude to serve this country in the military, but I also want to remember and never forget those who served. We forget that our veterans serve for only a certain amount of time before moving on and living ordinary lives. They move on, have careers and raise families. They retire and grow old. Instead of thanking a veteran, maybe we need to prompt a veteran to share their story.

To remember.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Michael and I are planning a big camping trip to Colorado with the Cabbage this summer. I have told him stories of the family campground resorts that we would sometimes stay in when I was a kid. I talked about kids running around in packs and the movie nights and the potlucks with Bingo. All of those places seemed to be stuck in the 50s and had this nostalgic Amercana feel. Dad and I would joke about how cheesy some of it all seemed at times, but we all enjoyed ourselves. I want that for the Cabbage. I want her to be able to just run off with another pack of kids and hang out around the big bonfire making s'mores. I would also like to leave some of Dad's ashes in Colorado since it was his most favorite place to visit. 

Earlier this week I had a dream that Michael and I were setting up our camper in this tiny camp spot that we were sharing with Mom and Dad. They're camper was already set up and Dad was puttering around the campsite, asking us questions about our setup process. I remember that everything was wet, like it had just rained. Dad asked me if everything was okay. I nodded. Then he said "let's get the campfire going" and we all sat around the campfire. The sun had just dropped down. Yet when I looked up at the sky, it had already filled up with stars. I stared up in amazement and I urgently tugged at Michael's sleeve. "Do you see this?!?! Do you see this sky?!" I said to him while sweeping my arms wide. It was so beautiful it brought tears to my eyes and I woke up with my pillow and cheeks damp from the tears. 

I remember on that very last trip, waking up around two in the morning and stumbling to the bathroom. When I came out of the bathroom, I glanced up at the sky and what I saw in that first brief glance nearly knocked me flat to the ground. It was as if the sky was only inches from my face. I could feel the weight of space pressing down on me and I felt dizzy as I looked up at the wonder of all of it. In all of our many many trips to Colorado, I don't remember ever seeing the sky look so breathtaking as I did on that last trip. I imagine that it is always just as remarkable but that this time was the first time I was actually paying attention. I want Michael to see this sky. The truth, though, is that my memories might just be all memories. We might end up at Fun Valley Campground to discover that they've traded in Bingo night for how to pin stuff to Pinterest. Those packs of roving children will no longer be roving, but sitting around the Wifi router. The Cabbage is already disappointed that our pop-up does not have a TV.

The one thing I can be sure about is that dang sky. 

I am thankful for all of those memories. I am thankful for those times that Dad visits me in my dreams. I am thankful that there is a sleeve of someone that I urgently want to tug so that I can show them something amazing. 

I am thankful for you.

CREATING TRADITIONS

Pumpkins are carved

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I cannot carve a pumpkin without thinking of Dad. I know that I have told the story a thousand times about how Dad and I would carve a pumpkin together every year. It was such an ingrained tradition and we never carved anything fancy. This was all before pumpkin carving kits and Pinterest, back in the day when people carved their pumpkins with knives and risked slicing off digits. That's part of the fun. I did not buy us special pumpkin carving kits this year partly for this reason and partly because there are bits of carving kits of past hiding around in the back of a kitchen drawer. We didn't really ever use anything out of those kits but the scraper and even then a spoon turned out to (still) be the best tool for the job.

They got a head start on the Cabbage's pumpkin while I was folding a basket of laundry. So by the time I was elbow deep into my pumpkin, Michael was already carving away at the face the Cabbage had drawn on her pumpkin. I could hear them behind me as Michael sat at the dinning room table with the Cabbage peering over his shoulder, directing Michael's knife. Was it so long ago that this was me doing the exact same thing, peering over Dad's shoulder and directing his carving knife? I smiled as I continued scraping the inside of my pumpkin. One of the tricks of pumpkin carving that Dad taught me, was to not just thoroughly scrap the sides of the pumpkin but to also scrap the bottom of the pumpkin. This way you roll the guts into ball as you go and then all you have to do is dump the pumpkin upside and watch as all the goop falls out. It is a lot of scraping and you should expect a hand cramp somewhere in the middle of the whole process, but it is the cleanest, most efficient way to pull out the insides of a pumpkin. 

I paused to rest my cramping hand and rub my forehead with back of my sleeved arm. I looked over at Michael who was doing the finishing touches on the Cabbage's pumpkin. The Cabbage was now dancing around behind him, no longer directing or even really paying attention. I wondered if he got it, if understood what kind of memory he was building with her. He didn't have the same kind of childhood as I did. He's never talked about carving pumpkins or participating in the same kind of traditional holiday activities as I did. Sure, he went trick-or-treating, but I don't know if he's ever been to the kind of Halloween party where kids bob for apples and jump over broomsticks. Collinsville used to have a Halloween festival at the fair grounds. One activity was to toss a bunch of money into a hay bale and let a group of kids dig around in the hay collecting whatever coins they could find. This was how we learned that I am allergic to hay, but it was my favorite thing. We didn't do this every year, but every year Dad and I carved a pumpkin. Always. Even when I was old enough to do it on my own. 

Michael asked the Cabbage about next year's pumpkin, something about maybe getting a carving kit so she could carve the pumpkin on her own. She told him that she didn't want to carve the pumpkin on her own. The Cabbage told him that she wanted to help him carve the pumpkin like they did this time around. I wonder if she has taken the lead in setting a tradition. I wonder if Michael recognizes that. I wonder if he realizes that maybe one day when the Cabbage is much older, she's going to tell stories about how she and her dad used to carve a pumpkin together every year. 

OLD STEAM ENGINES AND DAD

And then an old steam engine showed up.

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While we were tooling around Science City the other weekend, I saw a group of people gathering around one of the second floor windows that faced the rail tracks. Curious, I went up to one of them and asked "What's everyone waiting for?" They told me that an old steam engine that had recently been restored would be pulling into Union Station sometime in the next ten to twenty minutes. We hightailed it out to the pedestrian bridge that crosses over the railroad tracks so I could get a good spot to set up with my camera. 

And then we waited. 

And waited.

People walking across the bridge to visit Union Station would stop and ask what we were all looking for. Once they were told of what could be coming around the bend, they would stop and our little crowd started to grow. We all took up a perch and waited.

And waited.

Then, way off in the distance, you could hear it, that slow hollow "woo-woo" sound of an old train whistle. You could just barely see a puff of smoke way off in the distance.

And we waited. 

You could feel the excitement spread through the crowd as the sound of that whistle grew closer and closer. That small maybe puff of smoke turned into a trail of smoke that you could follow and finally that steam engine huffed and puffed it's way into the station. I stood on that bridge snapping pictures (I have yet to upload and edit those) and I was a little surprised by the tears that welled up in my eyes blurring the view finder of my camera. I had started thinking about Dad. 

Dad loved all things mechanical and old, particularly cars and steam engines. In fact, I am sure that if Dad was still with us (both physically and mentally) he would have known way in advance about that steam engine visiting Union Station. He would have called me to tell me about it and we would have made plans for him to visit that weekend to see it. We would have had camp chairs out by the tracks, so we could sit and wait. And if I think about it hard enough, I can see his face. I can see the glint of excitement in his eyes and I can see his joyful expression as that train rounded the bend and came into view. It is such a clear vision in my head. I'm even positive he would have found a small train pin to put on his cap and he would have brought his old train whistle. And I would have taken a picture of him standing next to the steam engine.

That train was worth the wait.