Father and Son (Cat Stevens)

My father-in-law died this morning, after an extended illness and a sharp decline in the last few weeks - my husband's sister called at 6 this morning to give us the news. Despite our daily expectation of the sad tidings, it's been a most difficult 18 hours - we are walking the fine line between grief and organization as we attempt to corral our family of five into a minivan, leaving South Florida early Saturday morning, stopping in Orlando to pick up Eric and then heading to South Carolina.

The funeral is Sunday at 2:00 p.m. - we will arrive very late Saturday night and depart Monday morning to return to Florida. There was no thought but that all of us would go - that's what family does. We won't get there in time for the Saturday afternoon 3:00 - 5:00 p.m. viewing - I've ordered a wreath, "the traditional symbol for endurance and continuity, constructed from laurel (a symbol of honor) and rosemary (a symbol of remembrance) and larkspur" to arrive in our stead...

Through our tears it will be wonderful to see R's sister and brother-in-law and their three children... his brother... his father's second wife - my mom, brother, sister and niece will make the 3 1/2 hour trip from Atlanta to pay their respects. We will mourn the loss of a loved one while at the same time honoring the sad occasion that brings us together - we will cry and laugh and tell stories and hug each other, tightly and often. We will know that the next time we get together, it will probably be for the passing of another of us - life is random, which makes it all the more cherished...

I loved Bob - he was strong-willed yet gentle, opinionated yet quiet, unassuming yet generous. He made me feel welcome into their family from the first time R brought me home to meet his parents - he patiently allowed me to bloom in their environment. Bob was born in Brazil, 85 years ago this December, and took pride in his heritage, even when it worked to his disadvantage - when my husband's family moved to the States when he was 13 years old, his father, a former Air Brazil pilot, had a hard time finding work...

Bob adored all our children, sending them periodic checks to supplement their college scholarships (they called him Vovo, which is Portuguese for grandfather) - he mailed me a check for $100 for my birthday each August, urging me to spend it on something frivolous (my purple Birkenstocks are a prime example... :-) Despite the geographic distance, he also gave of his time and energy - every Christmas I'd gift him with a bottle of scotch, some good cigars and a large-print book (the former two of which he had to give up a few years ago).

My husband relied on his father for active/political discussion and calmly-shared advice - Bob's life philosophy was that we are all boats on the ocean, and our job is to trust the current and make as few waves as possible. My husband worries too much - my father-in-law was a sounding board and a grounding wire throughout R's childhood and beyond...

R hasn't really processed this yet, remaining in business mode (because it's been an effective coping mechanism all his life) - however, his sister has asked him to do the eulogy, the preparation of which is bound to be painful yet cathartic. I suggested we brainstorm ideas in the car on the way up... a collaborative effort of son and grandchildren and daughter-in-law - he meant much, differently, to all of us... and he will be missed... immeasurably and (as the quote below states) irretrievably...

SONG: Father and Son by Cat Stevens

BOOK: Fatherloss: How Sons of All Ages Come to Terms with the Deaths of Their Dads by Neil Chethik

POEM: Do not go gentle into that good night by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

QUOTE: "The deep pain that is felt at the death of every friendly soul arises from the feeling that there is in every individual something which is inexpressible, peculiar to him alone, and is, therefore, absolutely and irretrievably lost." ~ Arthur Schopenhauer

Missing You (Todd Snider)

My father passed 12 years ago today - I've spent a good part of this morning going through a box of memories, culled from his home. There's his death certificate... the police report (he was dead two days before he was discovered, sitting on the front porch with a radio, still playing, on his lap)... an award from the Chamber of Commerce for his work on urban renewal... clippings of articles from when he worked for Atlanta Magazine, the Journal-Constitution and the Athens Banner-Herald... pictures of him in Korea, where he served in the Marines... copies of various letters he had written, one of which was to me, in utero, gender unknown, and thus addressed to Susie or Curt Jr...

Tuesday I will celebrate my 31st wedding anniversary (a blog post unto itself) - I spent the occasion of my 19th at my father's memorial service, after which we all changed into jeans and long-sleeved shirts and spent the remainder of the day grappling (physically and emotionally) with the chaotic debris of his life. He had continued to live in my grandmother's house after her death - I thought I would never rid myself of the smell that permeated the walls/our clothing/our hair and skin and, on visceral days like today, it comes right back...

I returned with 8 iced tea glasses (two of which shattered in transit), four small Depression glass bowls (differently-patterned rose, clear, cobalt and amber), a deck of Rook cards, a Japanese fan, his wedding ring, two dogs (one carved, one ceramic) from my grandmother's miniature collection, his Sigma Delta Chi pin, my grandfather's eyeglasses, a quilt and a mantle clock (non-working), which had been promised to me for as long as I can remember - many of the aforementioned items, along with a film cannister of my father's ashes, reside on a shelf in a curio cabinet in my dining room...

My father was a good man who hit a bad patch and never re-found his equilibrium - he loved raw oysters, smoked herring and cornbread crumbled into a tall glass of milk... books on the Civil War and by Pat Conroy... Johnny Cash, Dave Brubeck and Credence Clearwater Revival... barbequeing on the grill each Sunday... telling "shaggy dog stories"... driving long distances... and he loved me and I loved him in return, fiercely...

The blog-titled song was written by Todd about his father - I've only heard him play this live once and, with eyes closed, he choked up a few times... which of course wrenched my own heart because I understood...

SONG: Missing You by Todd Snider

BOOK: Will the Circle Be Unbroken?: Reflections on Death, Rebirth, and Hunger for a Faith by Studs Terkel

POEM: Paradox Stew (self-penned, 9/20/95)

Rest in peace, you son of a bitch!

Mixed emotions does not begin to describe this melting pot (boiling pit?) inside me.

Rage, sorrow, fury, pity, disgust, regret -

all jumbled up together, as each surfaces to claim its own identity, then is reclaimed in the steaming brew.

Just like the details of your life inside that house -

no sense of order, priority or importance.

Empty liquor bottles on top of family photos, next to jugs of urine, buried beneath priceless glassware.

You gave as much worth to useless junk as you did to sentimental keepsakes.

You equated human waste with sacred memories.

Forgiveness is a moot point.

No one could consciously choose such an existence, knowingly reducing his own life to such a pathetic heap.

Rest in peace, you tormented soul.

Find a better life, our genetic benefactor.

Feel the unconditional love, my father.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What a gorgeous day - a welcome breath of fresh air, compared to the day before.

"He loved the mountains", said one.

"We need a rushing stream", said another.

"It must be sun-dappled", I said. "Those words are always so descriptive in novels".

We found a combination of the three as we proceeded down a winding path, eager tourists and picknicking families unaware of our mission.

The first handful began his journey down the fast-moving water ("Amazing grace, how sweet the sound..."),

the second scattered him to the winds ("Rock of ages, let me hide myself in thee..."),

mine becomes earthbound on a flat stone ("Love hurts, love scars, love wounds, love mars..."), until it (he?) is finally washed over and away.

The brook strips him clean and new again, and we feel the transformation.

He has finally found the peace he deserves.

God is kind.

QUOTE: "It is told that Buddha, going out to look on life, was greatly daunted by death. "They all eat one another!" he cried, and called it evil. This process I examined, changed the verb, said, "They all feed one another," and called it good." ~ Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Blue Rondo a la Turk (Dave Brubeck)

One of my earliest memories is being with my father, listening to Harry Belafonte’s Matilda, Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherezade and anything by Johnny Cash (I *still* know all the words to his songs) – I was born in 1954 and we had a hi-fi back then. I will never forget the momentous occasion when my dad brought home a *stereo*… took great delight in setting it up… and then had me sit down on the couch, at the apex where the speakers joined to make “the sweet spot”... and played Dave Brubeck’s Take Five – magic!

The song Unsquare Dance, on the same album, was one of Dad’s favorites – he explained to me it was in 7/8 time, quite a tricky tempo as the piano, bass and various percussion instruments weave around the chorus of clapping hands. Every time he played the album, which was quite frequently, he encouraged me to attempt to clap along, which was quite fun and challenging for a seven-year-old child – even though the tune was only two minutes, I never could keep the rhythm all the way through… but he always did.

I was raised to believe there were only three ways to do anything in life: the right way, the wrong way and the Marine Corps way - that's a really catchy saying, but the reality is that "right" and "Marine Corps" are actually one and the same, leaving recruits with only two options. They can do what they're told or they can suffer the consequences - we learned not to question authority.

I believed I had a perfect childhood… up until the year I turned 27 – my parents divorced after 29 years of marriage, mainly because of my father’s alcoholism. His prestigious jobs were a thing of the past – he found himself working as a clerk at Radio Shack, making minimum wage. His self-worth plummeted – a few times the police had to be called to intervene in domestic situations. At that point, I was living an hour away, with a husband and a small child – my visits home decreased as the situation worsened.

My father died on my 19th wedding anniversary – I had not spoken to him in the 3 years before his death because he had chosen to take his life in a direction I did not wish to follow. I felt no guilt about our diverging paths, only regret that there was a finality to whatever possibilities I may have envisioned for our future. On the day after his memorial service, as my mother, brother, sister and I drove up to Anna Ruby Falls in North Georgia to scatter my father’s ashes, we took turns telling stories of our interactions with him over the years – it was like putting together the pieces of a puzzle, as we all had such different, and sometimes conflicting, memories to share.

My father is so much in me: my love of music, my affinity for the written word and my appreciation of humor, especially a good pun - on the dark side, I have also inherited his qualities of perfectionism which leads to procrastination which leads to paralysis.

There is a relatively happy ending to this story – when my father died he was living in my grandmother’s house, which was subsequently sold. There were 8 grandchildren, and, after all the debts and estate costs were settled, each received $3,000.00 – my husband and I discussed how to spend the money, and there were certainly bills that needed to be paid. Ultimately, frivolous as it seemed, we decided on a Jacuzzi for the backyard – I joked that my father had caused so much stress in my life it was the least he could to do relieve it through his legacy. I must confess I am in the hot tub almost every evening… and not a night goes by when I don’t think about my father… in a peaceful, calm and loving manner – the last 12 years have given me the closure I needed… and I hope that somewhere, some way, he feels it too…

For my fortysomething birthday (one or two?), I called a few of my close friends and asked them to join me to see the movie Smoke Signals, mainly because Dar Williams' song Road Buddy was included in the soundtrack - the film was a winner of the Sundance Film Festival in 1998, the first feature made by a Native American crew and creative team… and is about a young man, accompanied by his friend, who travels from his home on an Idaho reservation to Phoenix to pick up the ashes of his father, whom he hasn’t seen in 10 years. The movie is based on the book The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fist-Fight in Heaven, by Sherman Alexie - the poem I've chosen for today's blog post is read during the last scene.

SONG: Blue Rondo a la Turk (music by Dave Brubeck, 1960; lyrics by Al Jarreau 1981)

BOOK: The Great Santini by Pat Conroy

POEM: by Dick Lourie

How do we forgive our fathers?
Maybe in a dream.
Do we forgive our fathers for leaving us too often,
or forever,
when we were little?
Maybe for scaring us with unexpected rage,
or for making us nervous
because there never seemed to be any rage there at all?
Do we forgive our fathers for marrying,
or not marrying,
our mothers?
Or divorcing,
or not divorcing,
our mothers?
And shall we forgive them for their excesses
of warmth
or coldness?
Shall we forgive them
for pushing
or leaning?
For shutting doors?
For speaking through walls?
Or never speaking?
Or never being silent?
Do we forgive our fathers in our age or in theirs?
Or in their deaths,
saying it to them,
or not saying it?
If we forgive our fathers, what is left?

QUOTE: "I am reminded of the old show business adage. Showing up is eighty percent of the work. The rest is about concentration and focus, about being specific, all of which - just being there, just being - are deeply spiritual values. And that's what a father has to do, too. Not 'to be' or 'not to be.' Just be. Be, be, be." ~ M. G. Stephens