The Days In Between

I often wonder why it is that there are certain things about a person that aren’t often fully realized or recognized until after that person’s physical presence is gone.  Do we not see those things because we aren’t paying close enough attention?  Do we not take the time to consider the value of our interaction with and of the lessons learned from that person?  Do we see it on some level and just not think about it, articulate it, or appreciate it until we see that that’s all there is?  Is our view - or our awareness - shaped by loss, or experience, or both?

Thinking about all of that starts me thinking about the concept of rippling and about the intangible things that a person can leave behind, often without even realizing he is doing it.

I woke up with a raging headache and thought about my maternal grandfather; I remembered how he used to rub my forehead and the area around my eyes tirelessly when I was with him and had a headache.  Every time I put sheets on a bed, I think about my maternal grandmother: she always put the flat sheet on top in a face-down position so that the “good side” showed when she pulled the top of it over the edge of the bedspread and folded it over.  I think about my paternal grandfather whenever I see a man joyfully playing with young children; he was the king of the piggy back rides when my sisters and I were little.  And I think about my paternal grandmother when I notice that the bottle of Heinz ketchup is almost empty; I often follow her example of making something out of almost nothing and use her recipe to use that last little bit of ketchup to make BBQ sauce for chicken for my family.

And then there’s my dad, a man who taught me so much, most of which he did inadvertently.  Many of those lessons have become seasoned with the shift of my perspective over the years; all of them are more valued by me than I can adequately explain.  Some come from big events and big days in our lives, but most of them come from the in-between kind of days when we were just hanging out or just going about our everyday business.

I recently came across a video clip showing the different ways that people reacted to a man whom they thought was homeless:

CLICK HERE TO WATCH THE CLIP

The whole piece is framed around the idea that the people who reacted in a kind, compassionate manner were extraordinary – or even heroic.  Watching the clip, though, I thought about what my dad would say about the people and the situation shown: Why wouldn’t a person be friendly and try to help the homeless man? he’d say.  In his eyes and, because of him, in mine, the people who came to the aid of the man aren’t heroes and they aren’t extraordinary – the things they did to help the guy are normal and ordinary parts of human compassion.  Those in the film who aren’t kind are the ones outside the norm; they are the ones who are remarkable, just not in a good way.

There are so many other lessons embedded in me from interaction with those in my past, and I am appreciative of every one of them.  In return for all that has been given to me, I will continue to strive to pass on these lessons to others around me, on the difficult days, on the great days, and on the days in between.

Turkey Sandwich

When I was about ten years old, my parents decided that my family needed to split up for a couple of days so that we could visit both sets of my grandparents over the Thanksgiving break.  We drove the 400 miles to my mom's parents' house, spent the night, and then my mom and my two younger sisters stayed there while my dad, our yellow lab Dobie, and I continued down the highway 300 miles more to get to his parents' house.  

When we got there, my granddad was in the kitchen, with food cooking on the stove and in the oven and in all stages of completion all over the kitchen.  He was the big-time cook in the family; he loved cooking and was very good at it.  As usual, he let me sit on a tall stool and help him stir, measure, and pour, which thrilled me.  The kitchen was filled with conversation and great smells as we prepared and then ate the Thanksgiving dinner.

The next day, Grandmom had to work, but Granddad, my dad, and I stood in line so that Dad and I could ride the merry-go-round that their town sponsored every holiday season.  We ran a few errands and then ended back at my grandparents' house where we sat on the front porch and ate leftover turkey sandwiches that my grandfather had made.  I remember the taste of the sandwiches like it was yesterday; each one was cut into two perfect rectangle halves, on soft white bread and with the turkey chopped and mixed with a little bit of mayo and very finely sliced celery.  It was just the way I liked it.

Two days later, my dad woke me up before the sun was up, and we loaded our suitcases and Dobie into the station wagon for our trip back to my other grandparents' house.  As we hugged my grandparents, my granddad handed my dad a brown grocery sack and said, "Four turkey sandwiches for the road!"  We thanked him, with Dobie lying down in the "way back" of the car, we got into the front seat, and set out on on way.

A few hours later, Dad commented that he was hungry.  The thought of the perfect turkey sandwich was making my mouth water too, and so I climbed over the seat to get the bag of food.  I noticed that the top of the sack was opened, and when I reached inside, I discovered the only thing left in there was shredded plastic wrap.  Evidently, Dobie had helped herself to all four sandwiches as we drove down the highway.  

Dad and I were so disappointed.  We ended up stopping at a truck stop for lunch, which of course wasn't nearly as good.  To this day, I think the best part of the Thanksgiving dinner is eating a leftover turkey sandwich, cut into two perfect rectangle halves, on soft white bread and with the turkey chopped and mixed with a little bit of mayo and very finely sliced celery.  I attempt to recreate Granddad's version every year, but to date I have yet to eat one that is as good as Dad and I thought those sandwiches in the brown paper sack were going to be that day.  Maybe this year ...

Road Trips

 My parents took my sisters and me on lots of road trips when we were growing up.  Both sets of our grandparents and the rest of our extended family lived in states other than where we lived, and it seemed like we piled into the station wagon and hit the road fairly often.

Like lots of families during that time period, we traveled on a pretty low budget.  We packed a cooler and a bag with things like colored pencils and paper and a deck of cards, and we were good to go.

We took lots of camping trips, did a good bit of sightseeing and touring, went to Disneyworld and several water parks, and made it to the beach on several occasions.  All of that blurs together as Good Time Family Fun in my Memory Bank.  There were, however, a few specific events during my childhood involving family road trips that I remember as standing out the most, things we did while traveling as a family that I think about again and again, memories that always bring a smile to my face.  I’m not even sure of the exact timeline of these.  All three happened as part of the travel my family was doing - they were side-shows, far removed from the main event; they were spontaneous; and they were unforgettable.

We lived in Albert Lea, Minnesota, when I was in kindergarten.  I loved that house for lots of reasons; I learned to ride a bike without training wheels in the front yard there, my younger sister came home from the hospital as a newborn to that house, and it had a cool laundry chute that went from the second floor to the laundry room in the basement.

One day, our parents were packing the car before we embarked on another road trip, and my sisters and I were in the den gathering up a few books and toys to take with us.  The TV show that was on came to an end, and the next thing that came on was a movie: “The Wizard of Oz.”  I had never seen it before, and I was mesmerized from the start by the tornado scene, the characters, the way it went from black-and-white to color, and the music.

About 30 minutes into the show, my parents completed their last-minute preparations for the trip.  I’m sure they were ahead of schedule for the time they had planned to depart on the trip; my dad hated to be late and went to great effort to make sure our family was on time wherever we went.  He came into the den and started his battle cry of “Load up!  Time to go!” but then saw us sitting on the floor, as he termed it, “glued to the TV.”  When he realized what we were watching, he and Mom sat on the couch behind us, and we watched the rest of the movie together, with Dad singing along to every song in the movie: from “We’re Off to See the Wizard” to “The Merry Old Land of Oz” and “If I Were King of the Forest.”  The movie and the music were great, and I’ll never forget how time seemed to stand still as my family sat there in the den that day, entranced, entertained, and together.

A few years after that, my family had moved to another state, and we were in the car again on a road trip.  I don’t remember where we started or where we ended up, but I do remember the best part of that trip:  Dad was driving along the highway while the rest of us looked out the window.  I don’t know who saw the little carnival in the hillside first, but I do remember the moment when all of had it seen it.  My sisters and I oohed and aahed at the Ferris wheel and the other rides we saw.  It looked like fun, but we were On the Road and On a Schedule.  Probably no one in the world was more surprised than we were at that exact moment in time when, without a word, Dad pulled onto the two-lane road at the foot of the hillside and started driving towards the carnival.  I remember thinking I was dreaming.  He pulled into the gravel parking lot, parked the car, and said, “Who’s up for some rides?”  Better than Christmas!

 When I was a pre-teen and even into my high school years, my family celebrated New Year’s Eve by staying overnight in a Holidome about 100 miles from where we lived.  My sisters and I each got to invite a friend, and, once we got to there, our parents pretty much unleashed us in the open space inside the hotel.  We ran in the halls, jumped on the beds, rode up and down the elevators, went into the sauna room, ordered room service, watched music videos on MTV (which we weren’t allowed to have at home), and swam in the indoor pool.  Just enough freedom, lots of fun, excellent people-watching (one year we watched a woman swim laps in the pool for hours in a shower cap) – it was perfect.

I’m not sure if there is a specific lesson from or a point to looking back at memories like these, other than just remembering and thinking about how much fun we had together as a family.  Maybe there’s a little bit of a “Take time to smell the roses” lesson in there, and that we certainly did.  We definitely appreciated each opportunity, each day, and each other along the way, and for that, as well as the memories that time will not allow us to forget, I will be forever grateful.

I remember riding in the backseat of the car with my sisters, barreling

down the highway on family trips, listening to Dad sing this song.

Symbols and Signs

Recently I went to visit my dad’s grave for the first time since his funeral.  I’ve actually never visited anyone's grave before, except to stand beside it as we laid to rest the remains of another family member.


I’ve heard some people say that it can be peaceful or healing to visit the grave of a loved one.  Because it’s the location on this Earth where the last bits of cells of that person are, it seems logical that one would be likely to feel some kind of connection there. 


My dad's body - or his ashes, rather - is buried next to the plots of my maternal grandparents.  The cemetery is a beautiful place in the country, with big trees and rolling hills.  Their headstones are very nice, and they have colorful silk flowers in the grave marker vases. 


I vaguely remember meeting with the guy from the funeral home (Mortician? Undertaker? Funeral director? Salesman?) with my mom and my sisters the day after Dad died and being asked what inscription or symbol we wanted on the front of the Dad's tombstone.  “How about ‘What the hell just happened?’ ‘Hell, no, this isn’t happening!’ or ‘Cancer sucks!’?” I remember thinking at the time.  I was holding on so tightly to the conviction that the night before - and, actually, the entire 75 days before - had all been just a really bad dream, one from which I would awaken and be shaken by but then go on with my Real Life.


Many of the big decisions about the burial had already been made:  Dad and Mom had made most of their own “arrangements” (what a freaky term) years in advance, and Dad had said for as long as I can remember that he definitely wanted to be cremated when he died.  The three things we had to decide on that terrible day were about the urn, what would go on the tombstone, and what would be written in the obituary. 


For the urn we chose a basic wooden box; we thought that Dad would think the vase-type urns were too “girly,” too fancy for his taste, or - as he sometimes termed things - "a waste."  We convinced the funeral home guy to let us use his computer and then we somehow found a way to type up the obituary for the newspaper.  Once that was done, the decision of the grave marker was all we had left to do there, and, for some reason, it seemed like the most important of the three to me. 

We flipped through the “Marker Manual” and, in much the way Dad picked out many of the things he bought for as far back as I can remember, we were able to make the decision because we knew what we wanted when we saw it:  a winged foot, which is the symbol of Mercury, the messenger, the Greek god of trade, and a commonly used logo for the sports of track and field and cross-country running. 




The day I went back to the cemetery, I stood for a while in front of my dad’s grave and waited.  I looked around in search of some kind of Sign.  I found myself thinking, “Come on, Dad!  Give me something!”  Finally, I sat down on the grass in between the plots of my dad and my grandparents and decided I would try to just breathe, just take in the scenery, just sit there and pay my respects to them.  A little voice in my head kept butting in and saying, “This is crazy!  Dad’s not dead!” but I kept at it anyway.


After about 10 minutes, I decided it was a little crazy for me to be sitting there waiting for something; while the cemetery is a pretty piece of property, it certainly isn’t where I spent any time with my dad or my grandparents, and I didn’t feel any special pull or connection to them there.  As I stood up to leave, I felt tears forming in my eyes and then spilling over to fall down my cheeks. I looked around one more time and then started walking towards my car, feeling lost and alone and so, so sad.  I don't think the cemetery is a place of peace for me right now; I don't think anywhere really is.