full of grace

On this date, seven years ago, my father opened his eyes for the last time as my sister and I sang to him a prayer to Our Lady. It was 3:05. Today, an alarm goes off on my phone each day at 3:05 as a reminder to say a little prayer: "Jesus, I trust in you. I will sit at your feet and listen to you speak." It has little to do with that day, and yet everything.

I was devastated at that moment. Standing at his bedside as his heart beat its last, I felt that I'd been cursed with the experience. The last thing I wanted to remember about that day was that moment. But my sister, when she looked at the time, cried out that it was the hour of Divine Mercy. I had no idea what she was talking about, or why she found it to be so fitting that we had been singing the Hail Mary at that moment. It would take years of searching for me to realize the power in that moment. And now, after seven years, I almost wish I could experience it all again so that the memories could be different.

The first thing is that I wasn't even supposed to be there. I had an appointment to get my hair cut at noon, and after that, the earliest I could hope to arrive was around 5:30. Dad would be fine, after all, and it was silly to change everything just because he'd been taken to the hospital. But I'd cancelled the appointment, and left at 10. My sister was surprised to see me. My brother had arrived before me, and had been visiting--sitting vigil, I realized. I was taken aback by what I saw in Dad's corner room of the ICU. When we heard that another brother's flight had just arrived, I offered to pick him up, but since I was the newest arrival, I was told to stay. Brother left to get brother while sister stayed with sister. Still two siblings outstanding, and none of us wanted to believe.

Not really knowing what to do, we chatted awkwardly, then began to sing together. Eyes opened, eyes searched, eyes closed, heart stopped. And I was filled with tremendous guilt. My brother had gotten there first; he should have been there. My brother had just landed; we should have waited to pray. Mom should have been holding his hand; not us. Who wants to be there to see someone they love die, anyway? Guilt gave way to anger, frustration, pain, sorrow......questions.

So much has happened, has changed, has been explained since then. So much has healed my soul, although there is still -- will always be -- a gaping hole where he would be in my life. When I have questions or complaints about life. When the boys do wonderful or irritating things. When I just need to hear his voice, feel his hug, see his silly dance, feel his shoulder under my head.

Not long ago, I read about a volunteer initiative at a hospital that ensures that no one dies alone. These people sit waiting on call or in the chapel at the hospital and sit with those whose families are not available, or who don't have families, and love them to the next world. Sometimes with prayer or song, sometimes in silence, but always with a hand to hold. The article warmed my heart, and made me long for the opportunity in my own community to be a part of something so generous, so loving, so beautiful, and I realized I had turned a corner. Being there at that bedside was a blessing, whether I wanted it to be or not. I still wish my brothers and my other sister could have seen him before he died, and I still wish I could share a cup of coffee or a glass of wine with him, but the most important thing is that we were there, and we recognized his life in his death.

I've since learned so much about Divine Mercy, and about mercy in general (though 'in general' does not begin to address the beauty and magnitude of God's mercy) and I am so awed by the timing and the significance of the moment. After seven years, I'm willing to say that I would not give up that memory, despite years of trying to forget. Thank you, Lord, for answering that prayer in the way that only You know is best.

2. emotions: bliss

Warmth from the sun on the top of my head, as my hair flies freely behind then before me. Being pushed on a swing, high into the air by my father, I know, young as I am, how amazingly free Heaven must be.

Climbing onto the swing, anticipating what is to come even now brings a calming joy to my mind and heart. As he would pull the swing toward him, me moving backwards, blindly, trustingly, through space, I felt a safeness that was almost irrational. Trust that the hands would be steady and true, the arms strong enough to outlast my fascination with the combination of cadence, gravity and levity. Even when I learned to pump, and could have control over the duration of my adventure, I still preferred--or imagined--the experience of being pushed.

The first time I experienced bliss was on a common playground, flying through the air. When I see a swing, I remember, with every fiber of my being, that bliss, that joy, that time with my father. There are times when I feel that connection to my Father; times when I'm free falling in faith. Now is not one of those times. But I won't let go. The very fact that I can remember and recall, and feel the memory of that bliss means that it is not out of reach.

heart homes

I spent the day today in a place that I came to realize was a "heart home." There was time with family of the heart,  too, but there was also specialness in the places. 

In this geographical place, I found my husband, my wings and some roots, as well. But this place is also pretty in a way that's unconventional. Driving around, I remembered the feelings that inspired me to come to school here.

But the water is my heart home, my place of refreshment, renewal and rejuvenation. Standing on the shore, feeling the salty air, hearing the waves, is where I 'belong' -- like going home when I was a kid.

It's kind of funny because I didn't grow up, or even spend much time, around water. That makes me wonder where that home feeling comes from. Is it something natural and inborn? Or is it something I came to love somewhere along the way? We did vacation on Cape Cod one summer, but in my memory, the water/home connection has a chicken and egg quality.
Perhaps there is something more for me to grasp. I took pictures today, which will surround me for a while. If there's more to know, the answers will come in time. Until then, my heart's windows are opened wide once again.

your little girl

Dear Dad,
Five years ago today, Guy, the boys and I put a nice, sharp pencil and the Sunday crossword in your coffin with you. This after a good chuckle about choosing one of the readings for your funeral in part because it contained the word "hoary" and we had to look it up. A really good crossword word, hoary. I haven't done a crossword since--not even the easy ones. Come to think of it, I don't think I've really used a pencil much, either; just pens. I can see you, just beyond my eyes, when I look up from my computer. I miss you. We all do.
Five years ago today, we travelled through the worst snow I'd been on the road for in forever. Well, since that time driving home from Rochester, when I figured you must have x-ray vision, because I sure as shootin' couldn't see the road from the back seat! You kept telling Mom that everything was fine, as long as you could concentrate. You could tell those white lies so convincingly! ha! I digress....I have pictures of where the road should be on our way to church that morning. And I told the boys that it was so like you to make sure there was a storm like that! It's lucky we made it to the house in the first place, and then to head to the church--and lunch afterwards! Only you.
Five years ago today, we stood in the snow in the cemetery, huddled together as much for actual warmth as for support. I remember so little of the ceremonies--the funeral Mass or the burial--but I most certainly remember the love, the joy we all share for having had you in our lives, the shared sadness. And I remember the Marines who came, a two and a half hour trip that took them nearly five; how young they seemed, how brave, and determined. In their dress blues, they saluted with rifles as the church bells rang their noon glory. When they folded the flag, they fought the need to shiver, unable to feel their fingers in their dress gloves.
Five years ago today, we invited those Marines to lunch, insisting that they join us, and eat before the long trip back to Syracuse. They agreed, but when we arrived at the restaurant, and they asked me to retrieve the flag for them, I realized they came as much out of a need to properly refold the flag as for the free meal. I was again impressed at the fact that you "survived" the Marine Corps. I wish we could have talked more about your time in the service after Mr. Johnson convinced you that it was something you should be more proud of. All I will ever know is that you were never sure it had been the right thing for you to do. Given that's what I knew from you, why would I be proud of you and so impressed? Because you followed through. You made the best of what you considered to be a less-than-ideal situation, and came through it a stronger man. It was a struggle, but you showed me that some of the important parts of  life are just that: struggles. But the result is as important as the journey.
Five years ago today, we all agreed that Valentine's Day would probably always be very different for us. Bittersweet. A beautiful day to share and remember the love we feel for one another, but also a day to remember losing one of our best examples of that love and devotion. A day on which I am deeply reminded how fragile yet strong loving wholeheartedly can make us. Thank you for that gift--something I never thought I'd say. Rose Kennedy said, "It has been said 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, (protecting its sanity) covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessons. But, it is never gone." Dad, I think, somehow, whether because of Paul Harvey afternoons or Reader's Digest magazines, you had something to do with my love of quotes. It could also have been your knack for making up convincing reasons and explanations for just about any question under the sun (or moon!). I believe Rose Kennedy was quite correct, although the scar tissue sometimes gets in the way of other healing, stretching and growing.
Five years ago this week, I faced just how much I was blessed to have you for as my dad, my guardian, my mentor, my first teacher, my friend. I love you still, and can see your spirit in the boys, in my dear Guy, in my siblings, and their families. Your legacy lives on. And yet, I miss you. I will always be your little girl, and will always feel like that little girl when I think of you, and when those thoughts bring tears to my eyes; an ache to my heart. The tears are a bit further between, and my insides feel a bit less hollow, but the love has continued to grow. Continue to laugh with us, and guide our feet on the journey. Remind us to take the long way when we can, and to savor the sights and sounds, the experiences of our expeditions. Lead us to the ice cream and frozen yogurt shoppes of life, whatever sustenance they will provide for our souls, minds and bodies. Guide us in love, hope, and faith, all of which you demonstrated to us, unwaveringly. Thanks, Dad. xo
Love,
Stephania

peaceful dove

Tomorrow is our Consecration ceremony, the end of our 33 day retreat. This morning, I realized a personal significance of tomorrow being the day: February 11, the Feast of Our Lady of Lourdes. For the past 33 days, I have known the date, and the Feast on which it was occurring, but what did not occur to me is that meant today is February 10.

Five years ago today, Dad died, while my sister and I sang the Hail Mary portion of Gentle Woman.* As we sang, his eyes opened, and he first looked toward the window, then toward the door, outside of which stood my mother. His eyes locked on her, then closed, and he stopped breathing. A friend of Mom's was there at the time, and "assured" us that it was just a nerve thing; that he wasn't really seeing us, or looking for Mom. My sister and I, however, really believe that he was seeing Mary at the window, and Mom at the door: the two women he would most want to see at that moment. The ICU nurse, when I asked her, said that what science says and what faith says may seem conflicting at times, but that peace is the result.

Dad was quite Marian, I just never really thought about it much. I knew he had what I saw as deep faith, although the more I consider my own faith, the more I wonder how much searching he continued to do. What I know for sure is that he prayed to Mary often; as he drove, in strange cities, as he mowed the lawn. I remember him telling me about Mom asking him what he was yelling about while he pushed the lawnmower in the back yard. He was saying the rosary, but could only hear himself if he said it LOUD! He said that Mom was concerned about what the neighbors would think, with him yelling Hail Marys like that. He kept doing it. (Mom tells that story slightly differently, of course!) Turns out that when he said the rosary, he decided to pray it for all of us, his children and grandchildren. And, in typical Dad fashion, he figured out how to ensure that he didn't miss anyone. In the second stanza of the prayer, he used our names: "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for _______ now, and at the hour of death." The first three decades, at the time, went through thirty of us. The next decade was for Mom, and the last for any other special intentions he had.

This morning, it all tied together for me when I looked at the Order of Mass to see what the opening hymn was to be. My first thought was, "That's one Dad liked to sing." Then I could hear him singing it, long before the organ started playing. The next thing I heard was Liz and myself singing. That's when I realized today's significance. I was somewhere between relieved, troubled and surprised--it's the first time that Dad hasn't been the first thought of the day on February 10. In fact, I had just finished saying an extra prayer for Uncle Flash, whose birthday was Friday, and Auntie Em, who still misses him terribly. But I was also thankful, as I'm fairly certain now that both Dad and Uncle Flash have been guiding me through this retreat: they both have always been reference points for me with regard to faith and spirituality (mostly because they were so very down to earth and silly, too).

Tomorrow will be all the more special for me. And with this realization, this difficult week, beginning with today's anniversary, and ending with Dad' birthday on the 18th, will be easier to bear. "Teach us Wisdom; teach us Love."



*Although this version (and all the versions I checked on YouTube) has the Hail Mary at the beginning of the song, we learned with the "Gentle Mother" verses first. We had sung through the whole song, and were beginning to feel Mary's grace in the room when we began the Hail Mary. Through our tears later that evening, we teased each other that Dad just wanted us to stop singing. I love this song.

me, and only me!

The question: What will you do with your evening alone in a hotel room?

The answer: Be me!!

The first thing I did after checking in, to be perfectly honest, was cry. Not the sobbing, core shaking kind; just the full eyes leaking down the cheeks kind. As I looked around the room, I realized that even if it were the Taj Mahal, it would still feel drab without the love of my life. I miss him, and it's only been three days.

In fact, I've never missed him this much--as a married woman. I sit here, with two other tabs open on my screen (Pinterest and Facebook, of course!! haha), and recall the first time I went away for the weekend without him. How long we'd been dating is irrelevant, and lost in the archives of my mind, but I clearly see the photo I took with me and I acutely feel the tight knot of feeling--a strong combination of love, sorrow, anticipation and joy--that my last thought each night, and my first each morning.

Tonight, I don't have a photo propped up by my pillow, but I do have plenty on my computer and on my phone. And each one makes me smile, remembering each event, each moment, each vacation and silly time a picture was taken, and the love projected, and protected, by our relationship. Tonight, I do feel the same knot. One difference: tonight I am wearing one of his undershirts as my nightshirt, and instead of having his high school ring sitting next to my keys, I have two rings from him on my left hand.

So how did I spend my evening alone in a hotel room? After I cried, just a little, I did a little yoga, booted up my computer, and called him. And I told him everything in my heart, along with the stories of our weekend. We laughed, we shared, and I felt better; more like myself. Then I watched The Blind Side, painted all twenty of my nails, and browsed Facebook and Pinterest. And threaded together some words, of course.

I'm bein' me. And it's all good now.

jars and vessels

The recipe called for 2/3 cup of smooth peanut butter. When I checked the shelf, I found not one, not two, but three nearly empty jars. From the three jars, that apparently no one could use to make a sandwich, I managed to get just about all I needed for the cookies. Of course, this means that plenty of sandwiches could have come from those jars! It seems every time I use the peanut butter, there are nearly empty jars on the shelf.

And every time, I wonder where I have gone wrong.

When I muse aloud where I've gone wrong, the response is usually along the lines of "what are you talking about??" In reality, I really want to know! What I mean is, I never would have considered opening another jar if there was anything at all in an open jar already on the shelf--or in the case of my growing up, in the lazy susan. I would have gotten peanut butter all over my fingers trying to get the last bit out to put on my bread (like I did today for the cookies), rather than risk Mom seeing two open jars. I don't even remember her ever saying anything to me about it; it was just one of those things I knew, no matter what--whether it was peanut butter, ketchup (two bottles in the fridge yesterday), cereal (two open boxes of mini-wheats last week), or anything else (like the two bottles of water on my counter right now), we, or at least, I, would not risk the perceived waste or extravagance of multiples like that.

Three jars.

I guess to be fair, I must say that two of the jars were creamy, and one was super chunk, but the fact of the matter is, there were also relatively full jars open on the shelf, too. That's a grand total of five jars open, three of which were just about spent--but would never have gone anywhere if Henry hadn't asked for peanut butter cookies. Sheesh.

Where did I go wrong?

As I've mentioned before, in the past I have been prone to meltdowns. Occasionally, they appeared to be triggered by such minor infractions or annoyances. (In reality, they were stress related, but since the stress was due to my own internalization, we all managed to blame them on dumb stuff like spilled milk.) Did I not ever make my displeasure obvious when it comes to multiple open containers? Did I freak out too many times, so no one paid any attention? Am I really the only one who cares that there is an entire shelf of open peanut butter? Really? Have I cleaned up and taken care of the extra stuff too readily (like today, and like the ketchup yesterday), thereby not making the job seem unlikeable? Or the opposite--did I have one of them clean it up too often, so they really, truly convince themselves that they cannot see the already open containers?

From time to time, I've asked, "Why is there an almost empty jar of peanut butter on the shelf?" (I could not ask today--I was the only one at home.) Invariably the response is, "I thought it was empty." Which of course leads to the question, "Why didn't you rinse it and put it in the recycle then?" In response to which I'll hear, "Oh! I thought you meant the other jar...." Our household version of "not me," it seems.

Then again, every time I come across these jars, I'm reminded of one of the funniest things I ever saw out our kitchen window. As I cleaned up the kitchen after breakfast on a beautiful, sunny and crisp fall day, I looked out the window and saw a peanut butter jar bouncing across the yard. Thinking I would head out pick it up and put it in our recycle, despite knowing it was not from our can--it wasn't our brand--it started to bounce up the cherry tree. That's when I realized the jar was attached to a squirrel. More correctly, the squirrel had stolen someone's relatively empty jar, and was attempting to snack on it! I watched him carry the jar up; no mean feat, as the jar was clearly larger than him! Before long, the jar fell from the tree, making a rather loud "THUNK" as it hit the ground. As I laughed until I cried, I found myself quite thankful that I had not been under that tree! Ever since, I have been pretty scrupulous about cleaning out the jars before putting them in the recycle.

But I still wonder when or how my kids will "get" the whole "finish one before you start another one" thing. Or if I've really missed out on teaching them a really important life lesson.

fears: pt. 3

Then there's my scariest fear: trucks on the highway. There's a possibility that came about when I was behind a truck that had a blowout. It causes him to fishtail all over the highway, with large pieces of rubber and a bunch of smoke everywhere. The thing is, I don't remember that scaring me a whole lot. I was driving the station wagon I had learned to drive in, and I was alone in the car--I even remember the landmarks around me, and that it was a beautiful, sunny day.

No, I think this fear started much later, and may even be related to the 'visions' I had associated with my (at the time undiagnosed) hypothyroidism. That would put the beginning somewhere in my early 20s, when I really started doing a lot of highway driving. For sure I can place it before I worked at a department store a half hour away, during the early bird shift. That's when I shared the fear with a friend I carpooled with occasionally, who then told me that truck drivers are probably the safest drivers on the road.

The really odd thing about this fear is how it come and goes. Truthfully, it hadn't bothered me for a while, even with the long summer commute I have, and the long trips I've been on, driving by myself. Then I saw a truck swerve a little, and straddle the line for about a mile, and it all came back: the panic I have to force down so I can concentrate on driving, and the white knuckle grip on the steering wheel. Ever since, I am back to "the big lean" to the center of the car when my husband passes a truck, and my own speeding up after four deep breaths when I have to pass. (It's less of a problem for me when they pass me. Weird and inconsistent, I know--that's how I know it's not all that rational!) And all the while, I can see the same vision behind what my eyes are seeing.....

What is this vision? Put simply, me being squashed by a semi on the highway. The vision has always varied slightly, I think based on what size car I am primarily driving. When it was mostly a mini-van I was driving, I see me and my car pancaked against the jersey barrier (which also makes me have the irritated thought that it is a "jersey barrier" not a "new jersey barrier." See? Not rational!), and the truck just driving away, not even noticing. When I drive a smaller car, or when I was driving a station wagon, as the truck moves over to change lanes, it either runs right over the car, or the car becomes wedged underneath for a few miles. Either way, in my mind's eye, I hear a screeching of metal and tires, and I end up gone. Perhaps the fact that I have never seen myself dead in these visions is a positive, but I do know that I come out of the vision "knowing" that's how I'm going to die.

One summer, I had a similar fear, but of crossing bridges. Dad and Mom had decided we would vacation in Vermont, and I remember hiding on the floor of the car when we crossed one long, high bridge. My sister and our friend, Nancy, were trying to coax me out to see the view, my mother was exasperated, and my father felt terrible that he couldn't do anything about it but continue driving. Somehow, I seem to recall it starting as a joke, and ending up being a real fear that summer. Not afterwards, though--just on that trip.

None of this keeps me off the road, though. In fact, I love driving and taking trips in the car. Driving to Florida this summer was a wonderful treat, and I'm looking forward to a trip to Savannah in the next couple of weeks. Being on the road offers a different kind of freedom, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. Trucks, you won't beat me! We'll just share the road.


But the moment you turn a corner you see another straight stretch ahead and there comes some further challenge to your ambition. 
                                                                                                ~Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.

fears: pt. 2

One thing I am afraid of: walking into a dark room. From time to time, I wonder why it's so scary to walk into a dark room: if there is something hidden in my past that I've suppressed that's caused it, or if it's a common, normal "survival instinct" kind of thing. Most of the time, I just make sure I know where the lights are, and that enough of the space will be lit up enough for me to get through.

Hallways don't normally bother me, unless I'm unsure of whether there is a room along the way. Yeah, that's right, a long, narrow dark space doesn't bother me nearly as much as a big dark square that occupies the same mathematical area. (Fears don't always make sense, you know!) And the other oddity about this particular fear is that if I wake up in the middle of the night, walking into or through a dark room usually does not bother me. I know I am not afraid of the dark, just dark rooms.

From the time my parents first left us home alone without a babysitter, I've known this fear. Going to bed after dark meant walking through one dark room, and past three others--four, if the hall closet was open. I would leave the light on in the family room where I would have been watching TV, and turn on the kitchen light. Then I would go back and turn off the light in the family room. Next, I would go to the end of the hall, past the Living Room, and turn the light on there; then backtrack and turn off the kitchen light. I would leapfrog all the way to my room this way--a process that involved 8 light switches (ons and offs) just to get to my room.

In our current house, it's only occasionally a problem, because there are two streetlights that seem to take care of the problem for me most of the time. Once, at the dance studio where I worked, I was asked to go into the front of the building to get a bag of costumes. I made it as far as the door. When I opened it and saw how dark the room was, I had to turn back. I didn't know where the light switch was, or how big the room really was. I just couldn't do it.

I have a similar fear of open closet doors while I'm sleeping. Literally, I cannot get to sleep if a closet door is open. All my life. When we were first married, I told Guy about it, and, the wonderful man that he is, he has always remembered to close them if he sees one open. He's the only one I had ever told, which actually did lead to at least a couple of restless nights away from home with friends or relatives. Then, one night, in a hotel or something, my brother made a point of closing a closet door near bedtime. Our eyes met, and he said, "I know I'd never be able to sleep with that open." I remember laughing and saying that I have that trouble, too! Although it felt good to know I was not alone in my fear, it did make me wonder what could have made us both, with 12 years between us, have the same fear.

Being embarrassed about this fear of dark rooms never occurred to me, but being afraid of doors open to dark closets did. I wonder why that is almost as much as I wonder why I have the fears in the first place. Yet I see no reason to "fix" it. I just turn on lights when I need to, and turn back if I have to. Much the way I deal with the other stuff in life that comes at me. And sometimes, I get a flashlight.

fears and foibles

As the sky darkens ahead of the storm in the forecast, I happen to see an ad for umbrellas. This always makes me snicker, the way the computer people "know" when something is going to happen, and advertise accordingly. This particular ad, however, will not work on me. Why? Because I have some kind of irrational fear of umbrellas.

I don't know how long I've had this fear, or what brought it on, exactly, but I do distinctly remember looking out a window in Xavier Hall one rainy day in college, and thinking, "I can't go out there--look at all those umbrellas!" I don't remember if I had to go out to the street for my next class or not, but I do remember the fear, the panic, very well. The most interesting part is that I have a very, very specific reason for wanting to -- NEEDING to -- stay away from the umbrellas on the street.

Perhaps my perceptions of the people who worked in that fair city would present some background....

My grandmother, during one of my holiday breaks, asked how I liked it there--not just school, but the place, too. After all, when my siblings left for college, they stayed in the college towns afterward, so it was natural to wonder if I would do the same. (Actually, in the end, I did, but that's another story for another time.) I told her it was pretty, for a city, and a nice size, but the people were not terribly friendly, and everyone seemed in a great hurry all the time, driving, walking, biking. I told her that as far as cities go, I'd prefer New York. (Yes, even with its umbrellas!)

Fast forward to my umbrella panic. The very specific reason I took issue with the umbrellas people walking on the street were using is that I saw each and every one of those umbrellas poking me in the eye. And sooner or later, I figured, one of them would walk off with my eye attached to it, never to be found again. It's been over twenty years, and I've only recently started using an umbrella, and only when I know I will be the only one in the parking lot after work.

I know the fear is irrational for a few reasons: no one else I know is afraid of getting their eyes poked out by umbrellas; I've never known or even heard of anyone getting their eye poked out by an umbrella (but I'm certain at some point it will happen in a CSI episode!); and I've only been able to share my fear with a select number of people. I don't even think I told my college roommate, and I told her just about everything!! It's odd, too, because of how much I absolutely love rainy days! I loved playing in puddles all the way through college. Walking in the rain was something to look forward to until I stopped wearing contacts. And rain always reminds me of the really cool umbrellas my sister and I had when we were kids: they were shaped like bells and every other panel was clear, so it was like being in a rain tent when we waited for the bus. There's also the more reasonable understanding that if I were under an umbrella myself, the little pointy parts from someone else's umbrella would have to stay further away from my eyes.....

Maybe it was the fact that I was on my own for the first time, and if something happened to me, I'd have to depend on strangers to take care of me. Maybe it was the realization that I was 6 hours away from home. Maybe it was something someone said. I know it was not because of a love of horror movies -- I'd never liked them, and the scariest ones I ever watched were old King Kong movies on TV. (The way I devour CSI and Criminal Minds now, though, you'd never realize I thought movies like Cujo too gory!)

So, I politely decline when anyone offers me an umbrella, or even the opportunity to share one with them. I'd rather get wet, thank you very much, and keep both my eyeballs intact.

jazz lover

This past weekend, one of our sons performed in the band's annual Jazz Festival. Of course I went to see him, and I enjoyed every minute of the performance, as well as the time I put in volunteering for the event. Something happened, though, that made this particular performance all the more special.

I saw my dad.

Oftentimes, my friends or family members will tell me of the dreams they have had about those they have lost, but in all these years, I've only had two dreams (one that was particularly reassuring, and one that still has me perplexed), and I've felt his warm, one-armed hugs on many occasions, but this was the first time that I saw him, with me, where I was.

When my sister and I were kids, my parents had a subscription to the local Little Theater, and we would go to see all kinds of plays, musicals, and concerts. The Clemens Center Theater was--and still is--a beautiful place, and always seemed so huge to me; with velvet covered seats, long aisles, a balcony, and a nifty orchestra pit. We learned theater etiquette there, which carried on to lecture hall and classroom etiquette later on. We learned to read the program, cover to cover, because each person listed is listed for a reason (that's why we watch credits after movies--as Kermit said in The Rainbow Connection, "Those people have families, too."), which has recently led me to designing programs for the Jazz Festival. During intermission, Dad would encourage us to go for a walk with him, up and down the aisles, exploring the details of the theater. We might take a look at the reliefs on the walls, or wonder about the instruments in the pit, or even sit in a vacant seat for a moment to see how different the perspective was. The result of all of this is that when I go to any theater, I drink in the details, comparing and contrasting them with the performance, other theaters, even the cost of my ticket. I love it! And it reminds me of all those intermissions with Dad.

In that way, I've been reminded of him many, many times, but only in my heart. And a smile comes to my lips as I say a silent "thanks" to him for teaching me to appreciate what others might take for granted. And, like him, whenever I leave a performance, I tend to be humming or singing one of the songs, or repeating favorite lines.

Following a few of the boys' concerts, I have been moved to tell them that I think Grampa would have liked some piece in particular, and I do believe it when I say it--it's not just to bring up his name. There have even been a few times that I have cried, wishing he could have been there to see and hear them.

Saturday was different.

I knew our son had a solo, but I didn't know which song. Sitting in the balcony's opera seats with Mom and our youngest, I sat excitedly chatting and sharing stories with a dear friend. Our band started to play, and they sounded great. The all looked so enthusiastic, and the band director beamed at them. (I like the opera seats because I can see his expression, too.) Just before the solo, I saw Dad. He was sitting on the edge of his seat, his smiling eyes half closed with joy. His lips, also smiling, were slightly parted in his "da--da--da" position as he oh-so-softly sang along. Elbows raised, fingertips touching as though ready to snap out the rhythm, he chair-danced along.

As my heart leaped, two tears ran down my cheeks and I watched Dad tune out everything except his grandson: never a more beautiful sight.

senior moments

Perhaps I should begin with the fact that I cry at dog food commercials. I always have. I'm just that sentimental. Remember that ad campaign that said, "This changes everything"? I have no idea what was being advertised, exactly, but I do know that every single time I saw a commercial, or even a print ad, I ended up snivelling in a corner somewhere. It's actually one of my finest traits, I think. However, when the public eye is mixed in, I'm never sure how my family will react. They know me so well that Henry, our 15-year-old, considers this reaction typical when we rent movies: (in his words) "You will watch snorfling on the couch, without saying a word, and then when it's over you'll sniff and say, 'That was a really good movie.'" This revelation by him has led to the unfortuneate result of me laughing inside while snorfling--or in the case of The Green Mile, nearly sobbing--which sets off some really strange turmoil in my emotional center!

The coming months will be filled to overflowing with public emotion. Jonathan is a senior. And a football player. And an all-around good kid. The school year is three days old, and I've already found myself wondering how many tears will be acceptable to him. The conclusion I've come to is that he will just have to deal with them, and so will I. So many reasons for "Senior Moments" to hit me right in that emotional core; the spot where all my memories come together with my life force. Pride, joy, anticipation, and the realization that my boy is well on his way to being the man I've always hoped he'd be, and his friends and classmates, too. They have always been a tight group, and seeing just how they support and play off of each other in this special time when they are top dogs amazes and impresses me so much my eyes leak.

Yesterday, there was a Pep Rally at school. For the first and only time, all four boys are in the same building for school. The fact that all Jonathan's brothers would be there made me cry. The fact that I taught dance to about a third of the cheerleaders at some point hit me in the gut. The captains of the Soccer and Football teams taking a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors "very seriously" made me melt. Seeing the tough guy Seniors from those same teams dancing in crazy costumes for a dance-off not only made me laugh until I cried, it made me so proud of how far they have come since meeting each other in Kindergarten. But the moment that nearly pushed me over the edge, the moment that took all the strength I had, was one planned by the Pep Club and Cheerleaders all on their own.

Senior football players were brought to the center of the gym by the cheerleaders, blindfolded, and told that they would get a kiss on the cheek from one of the cheerleaders. When the blindfolds were removed, they would have to guess which cheerleader had kissed them. Little did they know that their moms would be the ones passing out kisses. "Would that embarrass you too much, to kiss him in public?" I was asked when informed of the plan; "Would it bother him?" We moms sat in anticipation, all of us knowing this was a true Senior Moment; a real chance to make a lifetime memory. For me, that kiss on the cheek brought back every first day of school kiss since pre-school, and also a foreshadowing of that hug and kiss that will find us leaving him at a dormroom somewhere with strangers, feeling even more helpless than when we left him at Kindergarten. (That's us, not him, by the way; he's ready to fly, and will undoubtedly be nervous, but certainly not as scared as we will be!) What touched my heart the most, though, was how well the girls who planned this know the moms they selected. The moment was for the moms, of that I have no doubt.

My emotions about this one moment, and the many before and to come, are not related in any way to sadness. I am not upset that "this will be the last [fill in the blank]." Nor am I thrilled at that same filled in blank. I am, however, simply filled to the brim with joy and happiness that I have had this boy of mine in my life for the past 17 years. For almost half my life, I have cared for, helped, yelled at, apologized to, carted around, ridden with, cheered for, played with, questioned, answered, fed, cooked with, awakened, rocked to sleep, laughed with, cried with, stood up for, stood back from, encouraged, discouraged, taught, and learned from this person who started out so helpless and has become so amazingly independent and strong. I cry at these Senior Moments because they are one-of-a-kind moments, blindingly beautiful, and I know that I cannot possibly take in enough information about them to keep everything about them handy. Nor should I. I'm looking forward to sharing Senior Moments with each of our boys, but for now, they belong to Jonathan. And Guy. And the other senior parents that have, truly, become family in a very unique way.

first memory

This morning, listening to the radio, the question was asked, "What is your earliest memory?" They went on to say what the top first memories are. A list which ranged from gifts and celebrations to dentist appointments. I have always been aware of my first memory. Before I tell you about it, I must say that I find it oddly comforting. Even I have a difficult time understanding why. My first memory could easily have been my last moment....

In 1972, I was three years old, and a hurricane caused flooding in Elmira, NY, where my father worked. His office was unusable, and the Holiday Inn in Horseheads became home base until the clean-up was completed. Long after I began recalling the day, I learned these details, which is what made me realize it was a memory, and not simply a strange dream. I could never figure out why we would be at the Holiday Inn....

So many times growing up, I heard stories about Agnes from teachers, preachers, parents, strangers. Agnes was a turning point in the collective conscience of the region, and even here in Camp Hill, PA, I sometimes hear mention of the storm and it's aftermath, although my connections here are a younger crowd, so the memories are more shared history than personal observations. I learned this morning from a case study of Agnes that Elmira and Wilkes-Barre, PA, sustained the worst urban flooding associated with the storm. Again, this explains so much....

Agnes occurred early in the hurricane season, and the flooding in late June meant that Dad's office was closed for most of the summer. Along with use of guest rooms for office space, the Holiday Inn allowed use of the hotel facilities, which for us meant use of the pool. I clearly remember that the pool was crowded--certainly more crowded than I have seen a hotel pool in my grown up life. In my memory, as a three-year-old, I see more people than I am used to.

We went to the pool that day to have fun in the sun: to swim, sunbathe (back then it was a far more acceptable practice), and relax. I remember toddling around with my sister, and faceless people larger than me--not necessarily strangers, but people not specifically important to the memory. I remember being in the pool with my Dad, and being tossed in the air, scooted around in the water, and jumping to him. I remember feeling perfectly content and safe. Especially feeling safe and comfortable. I remember the sun being bright and clear, not a cloud in the sky. And I remember clearly that I didn't just fall into the pool; that I decided to step in. And I even remember being aware of the fact that Dad was not in the water for me to jump to. I remember that the water was a fun place to be. I remember the sensation of sinking through the water, and being surprised that the water did not catch me.

The next thing I remember is seeing Dad's watch; a beautiful watch. I don't recall the band, the brand or even the color of anything but the watch face: a white analog watch face--the kind that needed daily winding. Seeing the watch meant that Daddy was there, that there was no reason to resist being lifted out of the water, out of the pool, carried to the towels we had laid out, and covered with one of them. I was not at all afraid. I then remembered Mom saying, "You went in the pool with that watch on?"

That's where the memory ends. When I hear a question about first memories, this is what flashes through my mind, and my heart. And when I get to the end of the clip, tears sting my eyes every time. There was a time when the tears were free-flowing because of the questions they brought. Today, and for quite a few years now, the tears are less painful, more reassuring.

A watch face. A memory.

Love.