A Love Note for My Dad

My Dad died, three years ago, January 8th. This is the first year that my Mom has felt more like marking the day with the laughs and memories that she focuses on during the rest of the year, than on what it was like to slowly lose him over three years. She's a funny woman, and my Dad was a wit too, so this mindset is a good thing.

Maybe it really settled in over Thanksgiving and Christmas. My family and I spent time looking through old photo albums, which gave any one of we grown-ups good reason to tell the kids all sorts of stories. Most of them, mostly true. Or, our version of the truth. For example, there is no arguing that each year my July birthday party was at the Woodland Hills Swim Club. There are lots of squishy-looking pictures of my sisters, friends, and cousins celebrating in flashy bathing suits. And, no arguing that my incredible Mom made a double-layer chocolate-iced chocolate birthday cake each July, despite knowing it would slide and melt into an unrecognizable gooey blob in the heat (not, a bad thing). But after that, facts start to scramble. Example - comment from person 1..."remember so-and-so peed in the pool so often that our eyes turned yellow?", followed by person 2..."no, so-and-so actually turned the snow yellow sledding the winter of the teacher's strike". Forget for a second the "ewww" factor. Honestly, how mixed up could we all be?


And so it is with stories of my Dad. Even while he was alive and well, one of us would have a much different memory of a certain Dad thing than everyone else. And sometimes, no memory of it at all. Like, one Christmas Eve years ago, my Dad stopped the car at one of the best homes in the "rich" neighborhood we cruised each year after Christmas Mass (looking at the lights, not to break and enter), because my Mom felt sick. Forgive us, but she left the car dressed in her Christmas dress and high heels, to throw up on the yard decorations while we sat and watched. We all remember that. What I wish I'd paid attention to was my Dad, who apparently said as she bent over and heaved, "God! She has great legs." I missed the best part, as it was happening. But, one of my sisters caught it, thankfully for the rest of us.


It's interesting what happened to Dad stories, when he died. I didn't truly begin to appreciate my Dad until my late 20's, which might be true for lots of people. I think that's true for my sisters, too. The dozen years or so from that point on were a gift, just because our perceptions shifted, and we paid closer attention. So I thought I grew to know him very well. But in the last month of his life and the first weeks after his death, I got to eavesdrop on and be the audience for stories about my Dad. Other people filled in blanks I didn't think were missing. For example, I knew he was a veteran. One veteran buddy I'd never met, visited my Dad often in the rehab facility he was working so hard to come home from. A week or so before Christmas, his buddy was leaving Dad's room as I got there, and he was there again a few days later. That time, I got to listen while they chatted and laughed awhile. About little things, details I never thought to associate with my Dad. My heart grew three times as big (with apologies, to the Grinch). I wished that I hadn't turned down his many invitations to hang out at the VFW with he and his buddies (apparently because I couldn't fit it in for one reason or another - silly). His buddy was one of many loved ones who came to support my Dad while he was in a place he'd rather not have been. And I got to see a lot of it, and appreciate that he had a big, wide, full life beyond my sisters and I.


At the funeral home and in the days after, I met more veteran buddies, and saw great-aunts and cousins and decades-long friends of my parents that I hadn't been with in years. Of course there were lots of stories, some I'd heard, and many I hadn't. But the biggest turned out to be...how much my Dad meant. Just that. Which is everything, I guess. He wasn't perfect - he'd be the first to tell you that. But he was imperfectly perfect - perfectly, him. His loved ones cried and laughed comforting my Mom, and the rest of us. I wouldn't worry about paying for grad school if I had a dime for each time I heard someone tell us - with bona fide fervor - what a true gentleman he was, what a beautiful and strong-willed soul he has, what a trusted and dependable friend/cousin/nephew/co-worker/soldier/neighbor/athletic teammate/citizen he was. Not just once, but again and again. My Mom still hears it through the cards, visits and emails that folks make sure she gets throughout the year.

I know I'm inadvertently leaving out lots of adjectives and accolades. My Dad deserves all of them. I hope I told him enough how proud I was of that, and that I love that......he was a big reason that veterans will benefit from the new VA Hospital in Washington, Pa, which he pestered local politicians for (firmly, and diplomatically). Love that he bounced back from job losses and career disappointments, and from health issues he hid from my sisters and I so that we wouldn't worry. Love that he adored the Food Network even though he could only make popcorn and coleslaw. Love that he was patient enough with us to throw pitch after pitch, and help us plant a vegetable garden in the backyard, and let us dance on his feet, and let us make mistakes if it meant we'd be a student of them. Love that he cried when he found the perfect spot for the grave of the dog he had a love-hate relationship with for over a dozen years, and cried when he accidently mowed over a bunny den hidden in the yard. That he wasn't afraid to show rage when I became a crime victim, or when others experienced an injustice. Love that he sat in the front yard with me some nights and pretended that he could also see the astronauts hopping along on the moon (I SWEAR, I did). Love that he made me chase down tennis balls and shoot baskets til I hit them right. That he was the biggest, most heartfelt cheerleader to the patients alongside him in the hospital or physical rehab, and to his loved ones throughout all their lives. Love that he loved my Mom so openly, and admired her legs til the day he died. That he was the most appreciative Grandpa that ever walked. That he loved to laugh at Will Ferrell with us. That near the end, he let me wheel him to Mass, and help him in the bathroom, and told me he wasn't afraid to die anymore.

My Mom and sisters, and other loved ones, have their own lengthy love notes to my Dad. And though he's not here they're still being written, by us all.

His funeral prayer card included this verse from 2 Timothy: "I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith". And so you did, Dad. Perfectly.

To Work, or To Bueller?

I just might be the luckiest person in the world. I'm at the very beginning of a five-month vacation, thanks to a happy timing situation. The graduate program I entered doesn't start until early June - that is, a 122-day gift.

On 5 month vacation eve I was sure I could divide the time into daily 25/25/25/25, read/nap/read/nap segments, with interruptions to play in the kitchen, try to improve how well (badly!) I run in snow, romp with the dogs and kids in my life, spoil my Mom as much as she'll let me, spoil friends and neighbors a little too, maybe finish the house DIY project list, find great hole-in-the-wall food spots. If Ferris Bueller were a middle-aged woman, this might be his list.

It's Day 2+ and that plan still sounds pretty solid, but somehow it already feels like it's time to go back to work, in some shape or form.

Some of you are in a similar situation - displaced with a package to decide how to invest, or considering re-entering the work world, looking for the right or a different vocation (in addition to motherhood, or as spouse), looking to take the best next steps. And there's a time-gap between now and whatever you've chosen. Or are thinking about. So there might be some impatience. And even though the vocational question has been answered for me, I'm itchy, too. Some itchiness is good, I think. But I'm afraid that too much of it, or too much vacation, would send me into a little self-absorbed tunnel. (Lord....someone please tell me if I'm already there)

So, an insane question: to Bueller, or to work? I'm going to try to do both in the next 100+ days. Some work here, a Bueller Day (or two) there..... So with that in mind, here are parts of the revised 5-month plan. For starters:

• Just before Christmas I learned that we displaced workers can work part-time, without losing a bit of our full unemployment benefits. How great is that?! (if you want it). The "how to" information is hard to find on the PA UC Benefit website, but the local office shared the information. A fantastically helpful woman there told me exactly how much I could earn each week without sacrificing benefits, and walked me through a few other things. The number for this area: 412/267-1315. I just applied to the special needs school where I've volunteered awhile, and to a local running store. It helps to keep in mind that a part-time job doesn't need to be completely related to what you'll eventually be getting paid to do in your "real" job. Duh. But it took a little while for that to sink in.


• Volunteering is unmatched on many levels, but volunteering-with-benefits is even better. For example, in Pittsburgh, a volunteer within the Carnegie Museum network gets free admittance to all four of the museums, plus exhibit previews, and earns discounts on merchandise and classes. I hope to be "working" at the Science Center, but I'll get the Art Museum, Natural History Centre, and the Warhol in the deal. Amazing, if you're a geek like me. There are lots of opportunities.....a good friend of mine is a volunteer teacher at a local center, and earns credits for services there. It's an excellent way to satisfy a number of needs or desires, including frugal creativity (if that's one of yours, like it is for me).

So, these "fake" jobs, plus the original vacation plan. Lovely!! And, looking ahead to when I'll be back on a full-time schedule, I hope to take as much of this next five months with me as possible. Remember....Ferris, to Sloan: "The question isn't 'what are we going to do', the question is 'what aren't we going to do'". Or something like that.

Yes, I'm thinking it's entirely possible to be a working Bueller. Bueller. Bueller.

Confessions 2

Confession #1 - again, there's nothing very helpful here about mid-life career changes (soon, promise), but you might again give thanks that you've never....

#2 - I got stuck inside a port-a-john at Lake Arthur, during the off-season, on a solo trip. Yes, by mistake. The 911 operator snorted (a la, a big wild boar) because she was trying to hide the laughing. I don't blame her.

#3 - I owned a "Barry Manilow Live!" album at some point in my teens, based on the unnaturally high volume of pictures my parents took of me holding it with that year's birthday cake. Next Christmas, I am not looking through my Mom's old photo albums.

#4 - Just as creepy....one of my sisters and I used to sing our entire Donny & Marie album collection, in our backyard. Where no one would hear us. But now I think I understand some of the pained looks our neighbors used to give my family.

#5 - Even though I made peace long ago with not being a Mom-of-the-First-Order, sometimes I miss the children I didn't have.

#6 - When I row on the erg machine at home, I sit on an old boyfriend's sweatpants to cushion my butt from the hard seat. Any therapist might have fun with that one. I know I do.

#7 - I have "house" underwear, and "public" underwear. Enough said.

#8 - Sometimes I'm afraid that I feel big things too greatly. It can be a stupidly powerful thing, but at least it leaves no room for doubt, or second-guessing.

#9 - I am the luckiest girl in the world.

#10 - And, I'm more thankful now than ever for the many beautiful souls I know and have known. As this great new year starts, I wish every one of you continued fullness of joy, resilience, and realized hopes.

Off, to jump on a pair of old sweatpants. Just one of many confessions that keep the daily "life spark & joy" machine humming.

Barking at Snowmen

Dog #2 is smart. I don't claim that as though I had anything to do with it. She was already over three years old when I adopted her in the Spring of 2008. Once in her new home, she quickly started to make Dog #1 look like he'd forgotten to study. Or studied, ever. And Dog 1 is no mental slouch.

#2 anticipates everything, watches everything, uncannily understands new direction, and commands, and situations. And she seems always to be planning (sweetly) how to get me - or any other poor soul - to agreeably do her will. If there were an Amazing Race for dogs, I'd send her off to run it without a worry.

Which is why I'm surprised that Dog 2 barks at snowmen. With a fury born in the depths of hell. No matter how many times we've walked past the snowmen in the same front yards. She should know better by now, right? I mean, snowmen may make the best damn pee poles any dog could unleash on but, snowmen-as-menace only happens on Calvin and Hobbes' watch.

I'm sure that somewhere inside, Dog 2 realizes that snowmen are just snowmen, and that barking at them might be silly, or irrational, and not gonna make them flinch or budge one bit no matter how much she wants them to. Whatever her reason, she maintains this bit of perception-as-reality thing. And that's okay. It's a manifestation of hope.

I've started to label my own bits of deep-seeded, profound irrationalities as "barking at snowmen". Silly? Irresponsible? Making excuses? Maybe some would call it that, like those who thought it was nuts to start a new career at my age, or run marathons, or to love whom I've loved, or hope for great love again. But I think barking at snowmen is just one aspect of hope. And I've never been a hope-quitter.

There is some in me, for me. Always.

Confessions

Confession #1 - this post doesn't have a thing to do with midlife career changes, now that THAT'S finally been established, but it may help anyone reading this to recognize other common ground. Or, to be thankful that you've never (for starters)......

#2 - I once pissed-off tennis legend Ivan Lendl. While he was putting for par during Mario Lemieux's old charitable golf tournament. Lesson learned...something about an increased whisper decibel level phenomena on golf courses. So my boyfriend at the time said (thanks, Greg).

#3 - I loved Beavis and Butthead.

#4 - I have vacationed alone, and at times loved it, and sometimes hated it.

#5 - I got my first, real, lip-on-lip kiss when I was six years old. From David Tokas, while we cruised the neighborhood side-by-side on our bikes. The best....and we didn't crash.

#6 - I let the dogs lick the dinner plates. That earns an "eeewww" 50% of the time.

#7 - I've never had a spa treatment or massage outside of a medical tent at marathons. Which is just fine by me.

#8 - I was a Partridge Family girl. Edgier, funnier, than the Brady Bunch.

#9 - I am a seven-time pizza-eating champ. It's one of the reasons my former husband married me. And I think I have enough eating soul left, to challenge Adam Richman someday.

#10 - I pray often, but should probably listen more when I do. That's partly the reason for running. It's listening time.....

Off to listen, and to be thankful for a long, long list of "confessions".

Blogging Virginity, 2

I haven't lost my blogging virginity yet, mainly because I'm still wondering exactly what this should be all about. I told friends that this would focus on our universal mid-life truths, issues, and resiliencies, but I'm not anywhere near qualified to address those things on behalf of, um, "US". Especially since dealing with truths and issues probably became a daily reality for everyone, starting about when the delivering doctor cut the umbilical cord. Yesterday's poopy diapers became the poopy parts of toddler-dom, and so on....leading to today's poopy ________(feel free to fill in the blank).

But the day-to-day living thing is not all about poop (and I'm not typing that word again). Yes it's always there, but it co-exists with - and is often crowded out by - lots of good stuff. Lots. For example, I lost my high-paying corporate marketing job this summer, which "divorced" me from a great paycheck and lots of wonderful co-workers - great friends. But this corporate separation was humane and monetarily generous, and was the hard boot-up-my-ass kick I needed.

So, I'm thinking I should limit "Remove That Fork, I'm Not Friggin' Done Yet!" to chronicling life's current re-invention - changing careers at age 46. Which involves going back to school, which started with finishing prerequisites this past Fall. With 19-year-olds. Who are both completely different and remarkably the same as 27 years ago. In addition to mothering that group, this career shift means completing a 22-month graduate program that begins next June. I'll be mothering a slightly older group of mostly females there, and working with a really, really unresponsive lab partner - a cadaver. I will NOT be doing a sorority-sister do-over (they'd probably blackball me over the cadaver thing anyway), even though I can still recite the Greek alphabet while blindfolded and hopping in circles on one foot. This change also means plugging through almost three years without a paycheck, without losing my home and starving my two rather large dogs, and, entertaining myself and others in frugally creative ways.

So, I can share some of the tricks and things I learn along the way. Without revealing too much insider info about my lab partner-to-be. The rest I can't tell you about because I haven't lived it yet. But check back in once in awhile.....maybe we'll all learn more than we bargained for.

Blogging Virginity

Well, here I am. Delivering a bouncing baby blog after about a three-day "gee, it might be fun to blog" pregnancy, then a "sure, what the hell!" puuuush. Not that I've ever given birth to an actual human. That's the thing about looking back at your 46th birthday, and the loves and achievements and disappointments and millions of others things come and gone. You wish, and sometimes wail, often laugh and give thanks, and always bounce back. And occasionally, substitute alternate births once you accept that being a Mom-of-the-First-Order wasn't in The Plan for you.

That's where "remove that fork, I'm not DONE yet!" fits, or is. All people deal with hardships and transitions and tragedies, plus the wonderful flip-sides of those things. You expect to. What I didn't expect at this point, was the total, complete, didn't-see-it-coming weirdness of......being 46. I mean, c'mon. I have survived "big" things - a violent crime, divorce from my college sweetheart, the subsequent loss of the love-of-my-life relationship, the death of my Dad - and countless other real or perceived disappointments and injustices. I've reinvented my life so many times - and very well, if I can say - that I should have a patent. So what's up with this goofy..... weirdness? I hate this next phrase and almost can't write it, but is this what "mid-life crisis" is?

One thing I know, would even guarantee, is that I've done weirdness before. Even though it doesn't seem like it at the moment. So have you. And we will, over and again. Each time an expected or unexpected transition, or "significant life milestone" unfolds. There are LOTS of those. Occasionally, when minor injustices hit. And sometimes, weirdness just materializes for no damn tangible reason at all. But each time, we scream to win each round with it, and fight like bloody hell to keep our spirit one step ahead of whatever might have enough legs to try to run us down.

THAT'S why I only had a three-day blogging pregnancy. No matter what life impairments we create, or encounter, or have thrust on us, we're never done. Or beaten. Always, some life-spark whacks us upside the head to remind each one of us - and anyone who says or thinks "please, just stick a fork in that poor soul" - that we're just not ready for that. Not willing or gonna give up, or give in to the worst possibilities.

So....we give birth to blogs to help squeeze out some of the head-wanderings that just shouldn't be aired on facebook. Even if no one visits. But for those that do, let's have some fun with weirdness, and the quest to out-run it.