In this time of global uncertainty, I think the longing for something familiar is relatable for many people. Where is the Big Mac? Where are the fries?
I wasn't surprised by my father's death. He was battling stage 4 lung cancer, treatments stopped being effective and he was deteriorating rapidly. But no amount of knowing his death was approaching could have prepared me for the overwhelm of sadness I'd feel. It's been a little over a week and I have cried every single day since then. The tears and sadness are normal after a loss of a loved one, but the grieving process as a whole is not normal right now. We can't spend time with family and friends and share memories. We can't have a service to celebrate the person we loved. We can't do the "normal" things, and all I've been searching for is one piece of familiarity or normalcy. One element of comfort.
I knew what my dad's obituary would say, how it would read, and where it could be found. I knew when it would be published, and I was trying to prepare myself for another flood of tears when I held the paper in my hand. Instead, I felt a sense of peace and a little bit of closure. This moment, this one normal thing - the obituary - that now made the grieving process seem normal.
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My parents divorced when I was very young, around 2 years old, and I never lived with my dad. We visited often and he was always in contact. I have vague memories of him living in a trailer where he captured a photo of me eating pork and beans right out of the can.
I have more vivid memories of him living in Noblesville. The house seemed enormous with its two stories, an attic that could have been another living space, large doorways and high ceilings. I remember him chasing us up the narrow flight of stairs with his eyelids turned inside out. I remember sitting on the floor listening to a cassette of a story and following along in the book before I was able to read. I remember finding an orange in my Christmas stocking and a book under my pillow where I'd left a tooth that had fallen out. I remember his voice after my sister and I would fight and he'd tell one of us to sit on the front porch and the other to sit on the back porch. He never said how long to sit. We had to figure out when we were "ready."
I remember yanking apples and cherries off the trees, picking strawberries from the garden and grapes from the vine. I remember going to the store and choosing the fruit we wanted to snack on for the weekend. I remember being put on compost "patrol." He used that word often for any job and it somehow made it feel more important.
I remember climbing to the top of the large tree in the backyard only to say "I can't get down." He would never come up and get us, but say "come down the same way you went up," and he'd instruct us step by step how to do just that. This also might have been the birth of his phrase "can't means don't want to." We must have said "I can't" a lot because I remember hearing that phrase a lot. He was not a believer in not trying, even when the task at hand seemed difficult.
From that same tree hung two large ropes that held a swing. I remember it being handcrafted, painted green with yellow flowers and our names in white letters. I remember trips to the junkyard where he'd photograph us in beat up cars because it was funny, and assembling working bicycles from scraps of broken ones. I remember walking into his art room where it impossible to not inhale the fumes from the paint and chemicals.
I remember standing in the alley playing catch and being told to release the ball when your hand is in front of you and not when it's next to your head. I remember numerous times feeling the sting in my glove after my dad threw the ball, and feeling a small sense of accomplishment the first time he said "ow" when I delivered a hard ball to him.
I remember frequent camping trips where we learned how to pitch a tent, bait a fishing hook and start a fire. I remember drinking milk and juice from thermoses, and eating egg sandwiches that had just turned soggy after being stored in a bread bag. I remember asking at every visit for him to make fried macaroni.
After Noblesville, he moved to Rome, GA, and this was the first time we got to fly on an airplane. We were "assigned" to a flight attendant who kept watch over us the entire time, and we even got to visit the cockpit. I remember going roller skating and bowling with the neighbor kids who said "y'all" a lot. I remember walking to the video store and returning every time to hear my dad say "we saw that already and didn't like it." The first one I remember getting no objection was Ferris Bueller's Day Off. I remember riding in the car with the windows down and singing at the top of our lungs to The Beach Boys.
He moved again to Cary, NC, and I remember at least three houses down there. My dad moved around a lot and I never lived with him. The houses changed but a lot of things stayed the same. He was always wearing a hat. He always loved baseball. Everyone was impressed by his artwork. He expanded my love of music and appreciation for the small beautiful things around us. He taught me it's okay to be silly and have fun no matter what anyone else thinks. And one thing I remember, no matter where he lived, was the bottle of Palmolive that sat on the counter. I don't recall what age I was when I learned the familiar scent was the soap and not him, but I know it was always there and I'd know that smell anywhere.
I don't know when I'll stop being sad, and maybe I never will be. But as long as I've got a bottle of Palmolive, I know I'll be okay.
I remember an exceptionally kind and gifted man for whom I had great respect. Your blog is beautiful, Jane. Thank you for sharing your memories. You are a wonderful writer and daughter.
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