Love You Messages

I called my Mom this morning to tell her that I had had a curious visit by my Dad this week. This visit was made most curious by the fact that he’s dead and has been for 14 years. It wasn’t any sort of spooky apparition type thing; I may be an avid and devout Catholic, but I don’t see the Blessed Mother in the toasted cheese. Trust me, if I did see her I’d say, “Hey, Meg…look at that…CHOMP!” and enjoy a warm and crispy bite of her mantled head.

It’s how I roll.

Over the last 14 years, Dad has come in apparition form, or so I’ve been told. Recently, my daughter told me her “apparition story”. It was 1995 – Dad had passed in January. The month was August of the same year, and it was my sister’s wedding day. We all went back up to my Mom’s house for an after-reception reception. My daughter walked in to the kitchen and saw Dad leaning up against the table and he said, “Hi Meg!” She said “Hi!” and moved on. It hadn’t registered with her four year old brain that he wasn’t supposed to be there, being as he was dead and all. She had yet to really grasp the concept. See, I have never gotten those happy visits.

That’s apparently NOT how I roll.

I’ve talked before about how Dad manifests to me and he did it again this week. Reading the blogs, you see that I had gotten pretty nostalgic last week – (yeah, well, not the Korean stuff) the post about playing in the snow in particular. Facebook and my friends there were a wealth of opportunity to think about the 1970s and my then carefree life.

Driving in to work on Wednesday, I heard the song “The Last Farewell” by Roger Whittaker – one of Mom and Dad’s favorites.

the Last Farewell - Roger Whitaker

I hadn’t heard that song since June 9, 2007 – the day of my son’s wedding. At the time, I figured it was Dad saying he was around and that he loved us. I was moved Wednesday at hearing the song; and not a little concerned – my dramatic brain started working - what’s up Dad? Why you hanging out now? Who’s gonna die? What you prepping me for? But no call of dread came through all day and when I got back in the car after work, I had a long one-sided chat with Dad. It was nice, but not very fulfilling. You know how one-sided chats are.

That was nice, I figured. A lovely cap to a lovely week.

6:30 am this morning, the phone rings. Mind you, this is about the same time of day we got the phone call that Dad had passed. Well, here it was then, my black suit needed to be dry cleaned. Crap. It isn’t hard for you to imagine the four letter word that came unbidden to my lips. Braced for the worst I picked up the phone ~ and listened ~ school was delayed an hour due to inclement weather.

Oh for crying out loud (ha – yeah, like that’s what I thought – there were more four letter words).

Driving in to work it happened again. The other song that makes me think of Dad and cry whenever it comes on - “Like a Rock” by Bob Seger.

I called Mom. I told her I loved her.

Waxing Nostalgic

Saturday was the 14th anniversary of my Dad’s passing. I didn’t write about it because the day was what every day has been since January 10, 1995 ~ without him. Since then I’ve been waxing a bit nostalgic, made easier by some darlings of the written blurt on Facebook.

It started easily enough by someone posting a picture of her home in upstate New York with the four foot high snow drifts plowed to perfection in front.

It recalled to mind my energetic youth. We lived on a higher elevation and the weather on the hill was always more dramatic than it was in town. As a matter of fact, the school used to call my Dad to ask if he thought the bus would make it up the hill. Dad would then ask us if we felt like going to school that day ~ to which we replied NO ~ and he would tell the Superintendent that the bus would never make it. Schools would close.

This wasn’t completely irresponsible on Dad’s part. He and neighboring farmers spent their share of hours towing a number of stricken buses out of a field or a ditch in the dead of winter. It was seriously a different world weather-wise.

Oh, but the fun we would have in the snow! We would dig tunnels at the end of which little huts would be carved that would include with windows peeking into each other’s minute abodes. I imagined sleeping in them, with a candle in each “window”. By the I got to that stage of the fantasy, the “huts” would cave in because one of the hated brat siblings would walk over the roof, unaware that the snow below was hollow.

If the weather was fine enough, we’d shout the quarter mile to our cousins up the road (we had developed a distinctive “call”), grab our sleds and meet in the field between the houses. It was a terrific hill, with ~ oh, the peril ~ barbed wire and a road at the bottom. The most skilled sledders forged a path that avoided both, but sometimes the smaller kids would fly through and we’d have to run down and carry them, snotty faces and all, back to the house.

Little kids were perpetually stupid.

The shale pit was the most fun, its sheer vertical drop in the middle and natural sled jumps that would injure my sister’s tail bone every single year. I think she was eleven when she stopped going and I think her tail bone still hurts.

Snowmobiling was a treat when Mary’s family ~ a farm over ~ invited us up. Of course when the pond froze solid (Dad would get out into the middle of it and jump up and down) we’d ice skate.

Hours and hours and hours spent in the frozen cold. But that wasn’t even the best part. The best part was going inside with frozen noses, ice having formed on the cotton knit gloves that smelled like cold and snow and caked with junk from your face. We’d go inside, put on dry clothes and curl up with Dad who was laying on the floor watching football. He had the best spot – by the heat duct – so that warm air would blow up into the blanket warming numb purpled toes. We’d fall asleep and wake up to tomato soup or Spaghetti-Os and hot chocolate.

The we’d be ready to go outside again at the best time of the day – winter twilight.

Iron Man

Some run the Iron Man. Some are Iron Men.



I'm sorry I didn't post this before. I thought I already had.

January 10, 1995

Like a Rock

Stood there boldly. Sweatin' in the sun
Felt like a million. Felt like number one
The height of summer. I'd never felt that strong
Like a rock

Dad passed away 13 years ago today. For whatever reason, this year the memories of that morning and the subsequent days are much more vivid than they ever have been. It might be the warm weather - it was an unheard of 60 degrees in upstate New York when we had his funeral mass. The weather this year has been similarly warm. I particularly remember the outpouring of affection from the neighbors - Dad was loved. We waked him for two days and there was a constant stream of people non-stop all those hours.

Old men with tears streaming down their faces, women with stories, friends who just came to let us know how sorry they were, my priest came. My old stoner boyfriend paid his respects. He loved my Dad. And I think Dad really liked him a lot too. My boss Jim drove all the way from Troy, following my messed up grief stricken directions - because he cared enough to show me it mattered. The church, which is a large one, was standing room only.

I'm convinced that people keep spiral sliced hams in their freezer for just such occasions. Mom called me at 6am, I was at the house by 9am, and by 10am, there was a ham on our doorstep - just out of the oven. People hear that someone has died, and they jump up and cook ham.

Almost 1000 people signed the guest book to pay their respect to an unsuccessful farmer in Frankfort, NY. A testament to his goodness and how one person can make a difference.

Stood there boldly. Sweatin' in the sun
Felt like a million. Felt like number one
The height of summer. I'd never felt that strong
Like a rock

I was eighteen. Didn't have a care
Working for peanuts, Not a dime to spare
But I was lean and Solid everywhere
Like a rock

My hands were steady. My eyes were clear and bright
My walk had purpose. My steps were quick and light
And I held firmly, to what I felt was right
Like a rock

Like a rock, I was strong as I could be
Like a rock, nothin' ever got to me
Like a rock, I was something to see
Like a rock

And I stood arrow straight Unencumbered by the weight
Of all these hustlers and their schemes
I stood proud, I stood tall High above it all
I still believed in my dreams

Twenty years now, where'd they go?
Twenty years, I don't know
I sit and I wonder sometimes
Where they've gone

And sometimes late at night, when I'm bathed in the firelight
The moon comes callin' a ghostly white, and I recall
I recall

Like a rock. standin' arrow straight
Like a rock, chargin' from the gate
Like a rock, carryin' the weight
Like a rock

Like a rock, the sun upon my skin
Like a rock, hard against the wind
Like a rock, I see myself again
Like a rock

Guest Blogger is Back!

Christmas Song of the Day: Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer

Now you know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen
Comet and Cupid and Donder and Blitzen
But do you recall
The most famous reindeer of all

This song is special because we would sing it with Dad whenever we were in the car with him. You know, he must have had worries and anxieties but when we were little, we never knew it. We thought that there was nothing more important in the world than us and he would sing Rudolph with us over and over and over and over. I wonder sometimes if it bored the crap out of him.

Guest Blogger is back!!!

It was the day I always hoped would never come. I knew it was inevitable, sure, but I hoped nonetheless.

Growing up in a family full of girls, I was never exposed to the secret world of males. A world where groin grasping is commonplace and flatulence is funny. No, these were things I only heard of and, naturally, scoffed at. Things that had no place in my life.

Until today. When my beautiful son broke the father/son code, by sharing with me a fun little game his father had taught him...

...pull my finger.

Hi Dad

It's human nature to apply human characteristics to things which are not human. I think that's called anthropomorphism (what a great word!). You know what I mean; like identifying the man on the moon, or seeing the Blessed Virgin Mary in a toasted cheese sandwich.

Humans think they are so superior. It's all about us.

Sometimes though, it's all about ME. Just go look at my URL name. I'm sufficiently self-absorbed that I take anything even remotely within my periphery and discern how it affects me. ME ME ME.

So now you have some background.

I miss my Dad. He died January 10, 1995 and I think about him every day. I sure could have used his unexampled strength, love and support during the last 13 years. I've had some rough moments.

He has 'allegedly' appeared in one form or another to certain family members at different times. Dreams, visions. Even once, when we were burying him in May, he physically showed himself to my then-husband. Smiled at him, appeared sad that my kids were crying, walked over in his unique bow-legged walk and stood next to my Mom.

Yeh. Thanks for making an appearance Dad. To the EX. Whatever.

But he does come to me. And in ways that I think make him smile, because Dad was a joker and he loved a good laugh and he knows I'd get it. And just to get back a little of my own, I think of him most powerfully when I drive by a farm and smell manure. If I smell silage or freshly cut grass for hay I think of him too, but mostly Dad, you smell like crap. Heheheheheheheh.

He's surprised me too. On the day of my son's wedding, I was driving to the church when Roger Whittaker came on the radio singing "The Last Farewell". I haven't heard that song in many years. I think Dad was just letting me know he was around and that he was at my son's wedding. I started to tear up, but didn't want to ruin my makeup. He had made me so happy.

Lately, I've had rather a lot to think about too. And as is my habit, while driving in to work, I tuned into Archbishop Fulton J. Sheen's Life is Worth Living on EWTN. Bishop Sheen was a favorite of Dad's and mine; 15 or 20 years ago, we had a few sets of his talks on tape and we would see who had memorized the most. It made us laugh to recite long passages of his tapes together. Yeah, I know. Who does that?

And this morning Bishop Sheen recited a favorite poem of ours from all those years ago. I recited a specific passage with him (stunned that it all came back so easily), and could almost hear Dad reciting it with me. So Hi Dad. :) Enjoyed the shout out today. I love you.

This is for Pah. An excerpt from "The Hound of Heaven" by Francis Thompson:

"Strange, piteous, futile thing !

Wherefore should any set thee love apart ?

Seeing none but I makes much of naught" (He said),

"And human love needs human meriting :

How hast thou merited --

Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot ?

Alack, thou knowest not

How little worthy of any love thou art !

Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee,

Save Me, save only Me ?

All which I took from thee I did but take,

Not for thy harms,

But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms.

All which thy child's mistake

Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home :

Rise, clasp My hand, and come !"

Halts by me that footfall :

Is my gloom, after all,

Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly ?

"Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,

I am He Whom thou seekest !

Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest me."

Dad

Every Sunday after milking, my Dad would buy 7 or 8 Sunday papers (the Utica Observer Dispatch) and deliver them to family members on the hill where we lived. It was his chance to get out, see his brothers, nieces and nephews, and spend a few happy hours gossiping (or playing basketball with Uncle Bob's boys - but that is another post). Sunday was always a day to relax - as it should be.

Dad would always take us kids with him. There eventually were seven of us. One didn't need car seats in those days, and besides, he could charm his way out of a DWI if he had to. Not that he did, but it was a different time. Dad was highly regarded in the community and well loved by everyone. Anyway, part of the fun for us kids on these Sunday jaunts would be singing songs. We'd sing Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer or Jingle Bells, but I think our favorite was "Teddy Bear Picnic". We'd start off softly, "Watch me catch them unawares..." spying on the teddy bears, then the crescendo would gather as we sang about the fun the teddy bears were having; "They never have an-neee CARES!"
Then as the teddy bears had to go home to bed "because they're tired little te...deee....beeeearrrrs" we'd whisper again. If we weren't singing, he was telling us about Goldilocks and the three bears. Every. Single. Week. The patience of the man was almost endless.

No matter how tired he was after working 18 hours running the farm, at night, if we asked him to read to us, he would. I remember one book in particular - it was a "3D" or hologram version of Cinderella. That, or he'd again tell us the Three Bears story. That was a favorite - we delighted in Dad's attempts to imitate the archetypical family ensemble, from Papa Bear to baby bear. Mama bear always made us howl.

Point is (besides this ridiculous glimpse of my childhood) is to never underestimate the impact you will have on the lives of your children. The smallest act of love and being there will stay with them long after you have passed on and they are raising their own children.