Dear Dad,
Been thinking about you and your red sneakers lately. Guess I'm wishing we could go for a walk, the way we always did before the boys were born. Thinking about it now, I wonder why we stopped taking those day trips and walking around looking at stuff--and looking for a great ice cream or fro-yo shop. You had such a knack for finding them! Nowadays, I would think you had Googled them before we left, but there was nothing but your good nose, and maybe some work connection that had visited before. Today, I'm wishing we could do that again. My guys don't see ice cream as a treat so much; rather, to them it's a staple. Sorry about that. I still remember, though.
Anyway, with Jonathan's college search, I find myself remembering our discussions from my own days debating my options. This morning, at Drew's Confirmation breakfast Mass, Msgr King encouraged the parents and sponsors to allow and encourage our confirmandi to make life decisions; to learn who they are, to make mistakes, to cry, to rejoice, and to grow into the adults they are destined to be. I had a wonderful example in you. Although, looking back, there is a part of me that wishes you and Mom and my teachers had just flat out told me what to do, I do appreciate that you left my college choices to me. I remember the late night talks we'd have in the kitchen, discussing the relative merits of fields of study as diverse as Social Work and International Law, the reasons Hotel/Restaurant Management was perfect for me, and then, of course, why Hotel/Restaurant Management was so not me, so clearly I should change my major to Recreation and Leisure Management. And after that, why it made such perfect sense for me to leave school with an AS, and go back in two years or so to get a Bachelor's in Secondary Education, so I could be an English teacher. There are times when I wish I could have told you that I wish fewer people had told me I had the talents and intelligence to be whatever I wanted to be. I don't know if I ever told you that my real dream was to go to SUNY Purchase and study dance. God only knows what I had planned to do with the rest of my life, but not having the nerve to audition has been the only real regret I've ever had. I doubt that I told you, because I'm fairly certain you would have gladly taken me, and waited outside the door, and given me one of those wonderful left-arm hugs before I even had a chance to change my shoes. We're trying to be as open-minded and supportive of Jonathan. It's scary and exciting all at once, and I wish you were here to reassure us, to give us pointers. To offer one of those hugs that had a way of making everything okay.
We're slowly working on some of those house projects I'd hoped you would be able to help with. The boys have pulled up that hideous carpet, and we just need to decide what we'll do with the floor now. The chimney still need to be tiled, and I was just looking at the ceiling today and remembering how devoted you were to breaking off each and every one of the 'stalagtites' in the bathroom and the front bedrooms when we moved in. They do--still--look far better than they had, and I thank you for it every time I look up at them. The kitchen is the next thing on the agenda, I think, and every time I think about it, I picture you, Guy and Ryan debating who should be the first to break through the wall to the outside. Sometimes, I look around and think that you would have helped get some project or other done faster, but then I remember that even if you had moved here, you'd be busy, too. You'd have made a life here, and many of the projects would have taken a backseat to life--just like they do now. And I smile with relief. We're doing okay; the best we can with what we have, as far as time and money. It'll all be okay.
So, in a nutshell, I guess I want to make sure you know that we're doing well. I'm doing okay. There are ups and downs, and times when I get angry, confused, frustrated, lonely, but there are more times when I see the blessings in my life: the boys (including Guy), our home, our jobs, our friends and families. Life is really good. It would be better if you were here, but we--I--have to make the most of what we have today. What could have been is fine to think about now and then, but it's only made up. Realness helps to make what could be possible. That's my focus. Thank you for giving me the strength to be me; for encouraging me to make my own life happen. That helped me to find the people I need when I find myself faltering. I love you. I miss you with all my heart--often. But now, it's more often a gentle tug, and feels almost 'right.'
Have a piece of cake for me, and I'll do the same.
Happy Birthday!
Love,
Stephania
xoxo
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Friday, February 17, 2012
the day before
Tomorrow is Dad's birthday. I wonder, sometimes, if that is the appropriate thing to say. From time to time, I have said that February 18th would have been his birthday, but if you want to know the truth (and I do), it will always be his birthday to me. I digress...
For as long as I can remember, I have written something to Dad for his birthday: notes, cards, sometimes long, newsy letters. That winter he died is the only time I didn't, and it didn't feel right at all. Of course, what I was doing instead, what the six of us were doing, was chucking huge chunks of frozen snow at the ground, trying to clear the driveway. We threw them, and I screamed with all my might. I was so angry at the stupid, freaking snow, and the stupid, freaking universe, that I threw the biggest, sharpest anvils of ice and snow as hard as I possibly could. It helped. That day. Again, I digress....
When I was little, I wrote simply, "I love you, Daddy." As I got older, I wrote things like, "With love from your favorite dancing daughter," or "Your favorite daughter with a birthday in February." Dad had favorites, and everyone was one. Until Anna and Mattie were born, Chrissy was his favorite granddaughter, and afterwards, she was his favorite granddaughter in all of New York State. (Anna and Mattie lived in New Zealand, then Minnesota.) I was his favorite Stephania. He'd always find something, even if it was "You're my favorite dog named Spot." On anyone else, it might come across as being condescending, or conciliatory, but he pulled it off with a magical combination of love and humor. I loved that, and I try to keep it up with my own kids, my nieces, nephews, and other loved ones. Mostly because it makes me think of him whenever I say, "You're my favorite Bubba." And also when the reply is, "You're my favorite Momma."
Later, when I was in college, and beyond, living far away from home, birthday cards were the ideal opportunity to fill him and Mom in on what was going on. I'd sign the card, and then fill the rest of the space with news, anecdotes, questions, invitations and usually stuff it with pictures or clippings. I never was at a loss for what to say, and it never really mattered if I got a response. It was good to share.
After he died, when we were cleaning out his desk, we discovered all those cards and letters. Every one that each of us had ever sent him--and also the ones from his sisters, and from Gramma Katie--were stored in a drawer. Through the tears that streamed down my cheeks, I remembered times when I'd go down to "visit" him in his space in the basement where his desk and chair were, where his workbench was, and all his tools, and he'd be looking through the contents of that drawer. I never knew, nor did I ask, what he was looking at. When we saw the cards, letters, and even pictures--photos and drawings--in that drawer, I knew, without a doubt, that he was looking at love; soothing his soul. I sorted the items as best I could, tied them with ribbon, and returned them to the senders. I still have mine, tucked in a nook in my sewing room. And like him, I keep most of the notes and cards the boys and Guy give me. I don't take them out, but they aren't yet far away. Someday, I might need them.
The past couple of years, I've written words to him as Notes on Facebook. And today I find myself pulled to the words I want to share. Trouble is, it's so hard. With all my heart, I believe he is with me all the time--in my family, my children, my husband, my friends, even--and yet he's just not here. On his birthday, I miss him most of all.
I thought I was doing okay today. I thought this year was going to be different; a little less caustic (because that's what the sorrow is: it burns my heart), and then I read a post and a comment on Facebook. A friend I "met" through a friend said that after four years, "it still cuts straight to the heart." Occasionally, we commiserate on having lost our Daddys, but when a friend of hers said that now she is "in a place of real understanding...." I completely fell apart. That's what hits me hardest, I think, grown women who miss their Daddys. That's what brings it back to me--every one of my scars bleeds fresh, and I just want to crawl up in his lap again.
So there will be words for Dad. But not right now. And as I write them, sitting in his chair at my computer, I will imagine him reading them--again and again.
For as long as I can remember, I have written something to Dad for his birthday: notes, cards, sometimes long, newsy letters. That winter he died is the only time I didn't, and it didn't feel right at all. Of course, what I was doing instead, what the six of us were doing, was chucking huge chunks of frozen snow at the ground, trying to clear the driveway. We threw them, and I screamed with all my might. I was so angry at the stupid, freaking snow, and the stupid, freaking universe, that I threw the biggest, sharpest anvils of ice and snow as hard as I possibly could. It helped. That day. Again, I digress....
When I was little, I wrote simply, "I love you, Daddy." As I got older, I wrote things like, "With love from your favorite dancing daughter," or "Your favorite daughter with a birthday in February." Dad had favorites, and everyone was one. Until Anna and Mattie were born, Chrissy was his favorite granddaughter, and afterwards, she was his favorite granddaughter in all of New York State. (Anna and Mattie lived in New Zealand, then Minnesota.) I was his favorite Stephania. He'd always find something, even if it was "You're my favorite dog named Spot." On anyone else, it might come across as being condescending, or conciliatory, but he pulled it off with a magical combination of love and humor. I loved that, and I try to keep it up with my own kids, my nieces, nephews, and other loved ones. Mostly because it makes me think of him whenever I say, "You're my favorite Bubba." And also when the reply is, "You're my favorite Momma."
Later, when I was in college, and beyond, living far away from home, birthday cards were the ideal opportunity to fill him and Mom in on what was going on. I'd sign the card, and then fill the rest of the space with news, anecdotes, questions, invitations and usually stuff it with pictures or clippings. I never was at a loss for what to say, and it never really mattered if I got a response. It was good to share.
After he died, when we were cleaning out his desk, we discovered all those cards and letters. Every one that each of us had ever sent him--and also the ones from his sisters, and from Gramma Katie--were stored in a drawer. Through the tears that streamed down my cheeks, I remembered times when I'd go down to "visit" him in his space in the basement where his desk and chair were, where his workbench was, and all his tools, and he'd be looking through the contents of that drawer. I never knew, nor did I ask, what he was looking at. When we saw the cards, letters, and even pictures--photos and drawings--in that drawer, I knew, without a doubt, that he was looking at love; soothing his soul. I sorted the items as best I could, tied them with ribbon, and returned them to the senders. I still have mine, tucked in a nook in my sewing room. And like him, I keep most of the notes and cards the boys and Guy give me. I don't take them out, but they aren't yet far away. Someday, I might need them.
The past couple of years, I've written words to him as Notes on Facebook. And today I find myself pulled to the words I want to share. Trouble is, it's so hard. With all my heart, I believe he is with me all the time--in my family, my children, my husband, my friends, even--and yet he's just not here. On his birthday, I miss him most of all.
I thought I was doing okay today. I thought this year was going to be different; a little less caustic (because that's what the sorrow is: it burns my heart), and then I read a post and a comment on Facebook. A friend I "met" through a friend said that after four years, "it still cuts straight to the heart." Occasionally, we commiserate on having lost our Daddys, but when a friend of hers said that now she is "in a place of real understanding...." I completely fell apart. That's what hits me hardest, I think, grown women who miss their Daddys. That's what brings it back to me--every one of my scars bleeds fresh, and I just want to crawl up in his lap again.
So there will be words for Dad. But not right now. And as I write them, sitting in his chair at my computer, I will imagine him reading them--again and again.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
in my mind
Red and white sneakers.
Lately, when I think of Dad, that's what I see in my mind's eye: his red and white sneakers. I haven't the foggiest idea why. It baffles me sometimes; stuns me at other times. Frequently, it just plain amuses me.
He had those sneakers for as long as I can remember. Red and white leather. Just the plain, old, walk around, casual style of shoe that used to be called "sneaker" before Nike and Reebok and the lot started specializing shoes. They were big (for me, anyway) and not just a little clunky (by today's standards), but, boy did he love them! And something about them must mean something to me lately. In some ways, I wish I knew, but I also figure that once I figure that out, I won't see them so clearly the moment I think of him. It's the letting go that's always the hardest.
Today is Valentine's Day. On this day, in 2007, in the midst of a wild blizzard, we listened to taps played for him, and a 21-gun salute, which happened to occur at the same time as a church's noontime bells. "God and Country," my sister said later. "His two great devotions." Five years later, and I still miss him, of course, but right now the missing is not so painful, fresh, sharp. Not this week, anyway.
For a long time, I think it would have hurt to have those shoes appear to me. They were the shoes he wore walking around the neighborhood every morning for a while. The ones he was wearing when he almost slid into Newport Bay when we took the Cliffwalk. (an event that looked more humorous to us than it felt to him!) There are times when I imagine that he wore them to my graduations, and our wedding, though I know he wouldn't have--just, possibly, to the parties afterward.
When I see his shoes, they are on his feet. I guess, to be precise, when I think of Dad lately, I see his red and white shoes, along with his legs from the knee down--though I couldn't tell you if he's wearing jeans or some other pants. Probably jeans--I don't recall him having other 'casual' pants. And when I see his legs and red and white shod feet, his right ankle is crossed on in left knee, and his left forefinger is hooked in the heel. His comfortable, conversational position. A position that always amused me, and one that I am so glad I have a picture of (although he's wearing his brown loafers in the picture, and my nephew is on his lap).
I don't know why I see the red and white sneakers. I don't know why they bring me such peace. If there is a reason, I hope I don't miss it, simply because I'm not ready to identify it. Whether there is a reason or not, I'm grateful for the memory, the vision, the warmth.
Happy Valentine's Day, Dad. I love you!
Lately, when I think of Dad, that's what I see in my mind's eye: his red and white sneakers. I haven't the foggiest idea why. It baffles me sometimes; stuns me at other times. Frequently, it just plain amuses me.
He had those sneakers for as long as I can remember. Red and white leather. Just the plain, old, walk around, casual style of shoe that used to be called "sneaker" before Nike and Reebok and the lot started specializing shoes. They were big (for me, anyway) and not just a little clunky (by today's standards), but, boy did he love them! And something about them must mean something to me lately. In some ways, I wish I knew, but I also figure that once I figure that out, I won't see them so clearly the moment I think of him. It's the letting go that's always the hardest.
Today is Valentine's Day. On this day, in 2007, in the midst of a wild blizzard, we listened to taps played for him, and a 21-gun salute, which happened to occur at the same time as a church's noontime bells. "God and Country," my sister said later. "His two great devotions." Five years later, and I still miss him, of course, but right now the missing is not so painful, fresh, sharp. Not this week, anyway.
For a long time, I think it would have hurt to have those shoes appear to me. They were the shoes he wore walking around the neighborhood every morning for a while. The ones he was wearing when he almost slid into Newport Bay when we took the Cliffwalk. (an event that looked more humorous to us than it felt to him!) There are times when I imagine that he wore them to my graduations, and our wedding, though I know he wouldn't have--just, possibly, to the parties afterward.
When I see his shoes, they are on his feet. I guess, to be precise, when I think of Dad lately, I see his red and white shoes, along with his legs from the knee down--though I couldn't tell you if he's wearing jeans or some other pants. Probably jeans--I don't recall him having other 'casual' pants. And when I see his legs and red and white shod feet, his right ankle is crossed on in left knee, and his left forefinger is hooked in the heel. His comfortable, conversational position. A position that always amused me, and one that I am so glad I have a picture of (although he's wearing his brown loafers in the picture, and my nephew is on his lap).
I don't know why I see the red and white sneakers. I don't know why they bring me such peace. If there is a reason, I hope I don't miss it, simply because I'm not ready to identify it. Whether there is a reason or not, I'm grateful for the memory, the vision, the warmth.
Happy Valentine's Day, Dad. I love you!
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