Actual Unretouched Photo

I was halfway through the day when I realized that today is the sixteenth anniversary of my dad’s untimely death. He was forty-seven. He died on the last day of summer.

I remember odd things. The neighbors across the street brought over a homemade version of Dairy Queen’s Peanut Buster Parfait. I can still taste the rich chocolate. I have the recipe, but I’ve never made it myself.

My sister (the one who doesn’t speak to my anymore) arrived at the house too late. My dad had already died. I’ve never heard a human being wail as she did when she heard the news.

I wore a black wool sweater dress to the funeral, which I planned myself. My uncle conducted the service. Dad died on Thursday and the funeral was on Saturday morning. I was completely composed and dry-eyed until the moment when I realized I would be escorted down the center aisle of the church to sit in the front rows reserved for family. I wept as I walked up the aisle because my mind flashed back to my dad walking me up the aisle in my wedding dress only two years earlier.

I could not stop crying.

When the funeral ended and the church emptied out, I turned and saw a vaguely familiar face. Near the back of the church, a man sat alone. That man was my uncle, the brother from Wisconsin my dad hadn’t spoken to in years and years. They were estranged. Days later, I found a typed copy of the letter my dad had sent to his brother years earlier–that letter said, “We never liked each other anyway. Just tell your children you used to have a brother and now he’s dead.” It was a long letter, full of hurt and anger.

I ripped up that letter, determined to end that feud forever. Now, I kind of wish I’d kept it.

So it was bittersweet seeing my uncle at my dad’s funeral.

My brother wasn’t there at all. He’d been estranged from my dad, too, and didn’t reach news of my father’s illness until after his death.

After the funeral, I changed into a cotton dress with kelly green stripes. The weather had warmed up and I just couldn’t stand the wool anymore. So, all the post-funeral, quasi-famiy reunion pictures show everyone in solemn clothing and me in a very 1980s cotton green striped frock. I regret that.

My dad hated his last job. He worked for a newspaper as a technician. He despised the union he was required to join. That union sent a gorgeous plant to the house when my dad died. That beautiful plant dropped its leaves, one by one, died little by little. I watered more. I watered less. I fussed and coddled that plant. And then I saw it had bugs. And then it died.

When I had a garage sale after my dad died, someone stole his pool cue right out of my driveway. I’m still bitter about that, even though it only cost about $125.00. Who steals a dead man’s pool cue from a garage sale? I hope that person was impaled on that pool cue. (Okay. Not really.)

My dad was a ham radio operator, a computer geek before there were computer geeks, a fan of Paul Harvey and Johnny Carson. He dabbled in photography, community theater and painting. He rode a motorcycle across the country. He drove a compact car back and forth to Ohio to visit his father, sometimes in the snowy winter. He stood in his bare feet in the snow at Mount Rainier just for the sake of a funny photograph. I always laughed at him prancing through the house singing, “I feel pretty! Oh so pretty!” and “Tip-toe through the tulips . . .!”

He hardly ever cooked, but when he did it usually involved buying a complete set of aluminum mixing bowls or a new set of knives. He loved kitchen gadgets. The only thing I recall him cooking, though, involved warm cantaloupe, which turned my stomach. He loved chocolate chip cookies and warm pudding with a splash of milk. He was the strong, silent type, a crusty guy who hid his gooey soft heart with a gruff exterior.

And the seasons continue to change, dragging us along by the hand, even as we look backwards for one last glimpse.

Perhaps you are already laughing your head off while you are reading The Quinn Report, but just in case you haven’t read her blog yet, I suggest you hurry over. You could tell her I sent you, but since she doesn’t know me, she might think you are insane.

Some days, I feel adrift. I bob along, tread water, scan the horizon for a boat to rescue me. I don’t feel like picking up, cleaning, interacting, washing, drying, folding and putting away. The thought of producing yet another dinner crashes over my head like a rogue wave.

I don’t sleep enough. I’m bleary in the mornings, yet night arrives and I’m bright-eyed with all the gears in my brain whirring at full speed. Before I know it, midnight arrives and I pull the covers up and calculate how little sleep I’ll get. The weariness drags me under.

My house is full of children every day. My 7-year old invited two friends over to play today, and just when those children went home (at 6:00 p.m.), the two neighbor boys arrived. Ten children were in my house at various times today. Granted, that’s fewer than Barbara parents (she has twelve children), but still. Some days these children are like an anchor–and I mean that in a good way and a bad way. I dream of freedom, of grabbing my car keys and driving somewhere. Alone.

The experts say you should remain calm. Don’t fight a current. And so, today, when I felt myself being dragged away from shore, I did what any reasonable housewife would do. I swam with the current, just paddled along, kept moving.

I tidied up the living room so at least one room looked presentable. Then, I made a pot-pie from scratch, including pie crust. My 3-year old daughter “helped” me make the crust–she dumped in the flour, mixed it a little with the pastry blender, used the rolling pin and then generously sprinkled the extra pie crust with cinnamon sugar. She grinned at me each time I showed her how to help. She gleefully proclaimed, “I am a good girl!”

And I’m kept afloat by the power of her crooked smile.

Occasionally–and not as often as I ought–I like to introduce you to a blogger you probably aren’t reading yet. Go check out Ellipsis. She has a poignant post today about the memories invoked by the distant drums of the high school marching band.

A particular church woman only calls our house with very bad news. She called tonight at 8:54 p.m., but my husband was still at a meeting. He’s on a board for an organization that provides housing and treatment for homeless people and once a month, they have long meetings.

When he returned home a bit later, I met him at the door with the news that a man from our church died tonight. He immediately headed back out to assist the new widow. In the past year, this particular woman’s adult daughter died unexpectedly, too, so she’s had a rough year.

My husband returned home at about 10:00 p.m. He said the funeral will be Saturday and, “Don’t make any plans,” and I said (please slap me), “Well, that’s the story of my life.” And it is, but I don’t mind.

Truly, I do take these things in stride. I am concerned for the woman who lost her husband tonight. I understand that her loss trumps my weekend plans. Perhaps if my dad hadn’t died almost exactly 16 years ago, I’d resent my husband’s job constantly intruding on our lives.

But when my dad died, the pastor I called said, “Well, I’m not sure we can get the church set up for a funeral. The janitor’s been out of town.” He didn’t come over to sit with us. He didn’t offer condolences. His cold-heartedness still stuns me.

So even though I am so far behind the scenes, I am almost invisible, I support my husband as he heads out into the night to sit with someone in their loss and grief. It’s what I do and it helps him do what he needs to do.

Here is the girl who prefers not to be photographed, thank you very much.

Once, in college, I knew a girl who liked a boy who liked me. Then, that girl hated me. One night, as I quietly prepared for bed in my dorm room (my roommate always went to bed so early) I heard voices in the bathroom that linked my room to the next suite.

They were talking about me. More specifically, they were mocking me. I stood in silence and eavesdropped in horror until my roommate bolted from her bed and whacked that bathroom door, bringing that mortifying incident to an end.

I still think about how it felt, though, to hear people making fun of me. It’s odd and even today, on occasion, I stumble into the same strange land.

* * *

With regards to the outrage I hear expressed over occasional mis-spending of the $2,000 FEMA debit cards . . . it sure seems to me that once you give someone something, it’s theirs to do with as they please. So, if people displaced by the hurricane wish to buy something outrageous and expensive, they have that right. Why are people so outraged? Haven’t they ever been behind someone in the grocery store who was buying something with food stamps that seemed to them to be inappropriate? Don’t they know people who spend good money on cigarettes and beer while their children receive free lunches? This is just more of the same thing. People who get “free” money seem to spend it a little carelessly, if you ask me.

* * *

Twenty years ago, I met my husband. My summer roommate pointed him out to me and I pulled aside the curtains just in time to see him spit on the ground. He’d been running in the North Carolina summer heat and he was sweaty. He looked nothing like the Man of My Dreams. A few days later, we met after I made a smart aleck remark during a Bible study. Imagine. Me, being sarcastic.

Well, that wasn’t a big stretch, was it?

And twenty years later, here I am, living happily ever after with a man who has ugly feet and a heart of beauty.

The past two nights, I’ve slept all night without waking to cough up a lung. And yet, I’m still so tired.

That doesn’t matter, though. No rest for the weary. This morning, my husband took our 7-year old to play soccer while I took my daughter and her 12-year old brothers to the photographer’s studio at 9:30 a.m. Every year, I make sure the kids get a professional picture taken and every year, my daughter has cried. She is incredibly shy and has a 10 foot circle of personal space which people continually violate.

This year was no different. The photographer took only seven photographs and did manage to capture one fleeting smile. By the end, though, she was curled on my lap (my daughter, not the photographer), crying. (I’ll post a picture tomorrow when I’m not so weary.)

I realized when we pulled into the parking lot that my daughter thought she would be photographed with Piglet–and not the stuffed Piglet that I brought along, but the Piglet from Disney World. I realized this when she said, “I want to see Winnie-the-Pooh.” I said, “There’s no Winnie-the-Pooh,” and then I thought, oh, oh, wait a second. She thinks when I said Piglet, I meant BIG Piglet.

How disappointing that must have been for her.

I spent a couple of hours at the church this afternoon setting up my classroom where I’ll be teaching preschoolers during Sunday School. My daughter was oh-so-helpful during this effort.

She had a birthday party to attend this afternoon, so we were gone until 5:30 p.m. When she went to bed at 7:30 p.m., I went back to the church to finish up. By the time I returned home, it was 10:00 p.m. and I didn’t sit down because I knew I would not get up again. I washed dishes, then peeled potatoes and set up the bread machine so we’ll have fresh bread for lunch. We’ll have roast (in the crockpot) and mashed potatoes for lunch after church tomorrow.

Too often, I run the kids through McDonald’s drive-in after church on Sundays because it’s very difficult to cook when you are not in your kitchen.

I love to sleep. And yet, I stay up too late. I’ll be sorry in the morning.

When I was six years old, my dad asked me as we passed in the hallway of our tiny rambler, “What do you want for Christmas?” And I said, “A puppy.” He snorted and said, “Fat chance.” (Or maybe it was something more gentle, but it recorded itself as “fat chance” in my brain.)

At Christmas, a wiggly box was placed upon my lap and I lifted the green-wrapping papered lid to find a black poodle. I named her “Midnight” and she was the star of many of my crayon drawings.

The following October (1972), my mother gave birth to my sister (at home, with no midwife–now, that is quite a story which has nothing to do with this post). Shortly thereafter, I returned home from second grade to find every trace of my puppy gone. No water bowl. No food bowl. No puppy. My parents thought a sudden disappearance would be best.

Recently, I mentioned Midnight to my mother and she has no recollection of that dog whatsoever. None. I began to wonder if I made up that story in my head, if I created some kind of personal myth that became more real the more times I told it.

I know a picture exists of me and that puppy. I know it.

The other day, I passed a television showing coverage of Hurricane Ophelia. The caption said, “Nag’s Head,” and I remembered the time I slept through a hurricane in Nag’s Head, North Carolina in 1986.

Then I started to wonder if this were another legend I made up in my head. So, I stayed up way too late, googling around, searching for evidence that Nag’s Head, North Carolina, was, indeed, hit by a hurricane in 1986.

And it was. Hurricane Charley hit in August 1986, but the winds of 90 miles per hour did little damage.

It’s true, then. I slept through that hurricane. Evacuations were not mandatory, so our drama troupe of college kids hunkered down at the church where we were staying. It was shaped like an ark, that church. I crawled into a bed and collapsed and later discovered I was sharing it with a curly-haired bass-player who was suffering from jock-itch. His name was Dana. Probably still is.

I slept while the storm raged because I had an undiagnosed case of mononucleosis. When the storm passed, my then-boyfriend (now-husband) drove me to a clinic where a doctor asked me to remove my shirt so he could diagnose my sore throat. I still remember the nurse’s raised eyebrows, but I was too sick to object.

When my dad married my stepmother in 1977, she brought into our family her own cache of personal legends. I heard over and over about her handsome, tall, English boyfriend named John and about her job working at Orcas Island during the summers. She’d talk about college and her degree in political science and about orchestras and symphonies and marching bands and how she lost twenty pounds in college by shunning potatoes and bread.

And eventually, all the stories started to repeat, as if they were on a loop. I suppose that happens to all of us. At some point, we run out of stories and pretty soon, we start to accessorieze the stories we tell. How much is truth and how much is embellishment? Will people we love stop us if we tell the same story too many times? Or will they politely listen, much as I listen to the stories my mother and my stepmother tell?

And can I find a picture of the black puppy I am sure I had when I was 6? If I do (when I do), you’ll be the first to know.

I had to resist the urge to stab myself in the temple with my red pen this morning. No, really. I wanted to jab my pen into that soft part that pulses in and out during chewing. The cause of my anguish? Introducing my children to the art of writing a memoir.

They each declared that they couldn’t think of anything to write about. They can’t remember a single, solitary event from the past. I strung together half a dozen ideas out of thin area. None of those suggestions would work for them. Our three-week trip to Houston and Orlando? The night their baby sister was born at home while they swam at the pool? Having fun at the fair the other day with their dad? First day of school? Getting a new pet? Christmas?

No. Nothing would do. But the first step in their instructional book said to come up with three to five topics. Then they were to pick one. The final step for today was to brainstorm ideas. I was to limit their time to ten minutes, allowing more time if necessary.

I did appreciate that little joke. “Limit” their time. As if.

I looked at the clock. The 10-month old would be awake any second. My daughter stood at my elbow demanding sticky tape and scissors. The blue-eyed twin dropped his pencil and banged his head onto the table. The brown-eyed twin wiggled his legs until the floor shook and I shouted, “STOP SHAKING YOUR LEG!” He wailed that he couldn’t think because he was starving.

At those times, I do not get sweet and sympathetic. My voice grows in fury. I begin to beg. I cajole. I threaten. I say unhelpful things like, “Hurry up! Just pick an idea! This is not rocket science! Do not make this harder than it is! Come on! Come on! Come on! Pick one!”

My teeth start to hurt because I had to clench them together to keep bad words from slipping out.

Finally, my blue-eyed twin retreated to a couch where he sat huddled under a blanket, pouting. His brother sat at the table with all ten of his scrawled ideas crossed out. He finally decided to write about the train trip to Texas he took with his dad and his brother seven years ago. But once he started brainstorming, he scribbled down two sentences and then declared, “That’s all I could think of. I’m done.”

I pointed out that perhaps he could write about something he could actually remember, like OUR TRIP LAST SUMMER. I fumed internally. Not only can my children not write, they can’t even think. This is the more disturbing fact.

Half an hour later, my blue-eyed twin said, “Mom, I’m sorry. I just needed some time to recollect.” He had completed his assignment and filled his brainstorming page. His brother stole his idea and decided that he, too, would write about the fair. Although the handwriting was messy, they seemed to have put some thought into their work.

So, I abandoned the whole red-pen-stabbing idea. But just to be safe, hide the stapler.