It happened during the great purge – the day we wiped the house clean of my parent’s lives.
We were tired. Like tin men, we had moved through mountains of memories. Recycle this. Trash that. What remained were a few pieces of clothing.
My sister reached in, pulling out blue wool. The shade that once matched Mom’s eyes match mine now. I watched my sister’s fingers draw circles in its softness. Of sturdy Irish fiber, the sweater and Mom were outside prickly — but comfortable when wrapped in their warmth.
So much had happened since Sis and I picked this sweater out for Mom. Had it really been twelve years? Hard to imagine anyone else wearing Mom’s sweater.
My sister looked at me. “Do you want this?”
Caught off guard, I don’t know how to answer. I only know Mom had — Mom had wanted this sweater. She loved wearing it. She bragged it kept her warm on below freezing days, even when the Oklahoma wind whipped up her legs. Without bothering with buttons, Mom would draw its looseness tight against her body before hurrying out to brave the cold.
Back in the closet, Sis drew Mom’s sweater toward her face. Then, looking at me, she buried her nose in its folds. Breathing in, she shook her head. “Gone.”
Sailing down in the riverboat, African Queen, Rose Sayer was desperate to know. For quite to her surprise, Rose (played by Kate Hepburn) had fallen in love with the “gin-swilling riverboat captain” Mr. Allnut (played by Humphrey Bogart) before knowing his first name. It was a novel place for the straight-laced, old-maid, African missionary Rose to find herself in.
Released right after Mom graduated high school, The African Queen was filmed on location in the Congo. Never a big movie fan, but always a sucker for a good romance, Mom loved this movie. We watched it together on our old black and white television set in the early sixties, when I was 7 or 8. And last Monday, I watched it a second time in color — when my husband and I went on a double date with Bryan and Amy — in the comfort of our own living room.
Double dates were popular back when my parents were first dating. Whether my parents first date was a double date I don’t know. But what I do know is that my parent’s first date was a blind date and that the lady responsible for setting it up was my mother’s friend Rosie. Until last week, I didn’t know Rosie’s last name.
Dear…dear…What is your last name?
I was desperate to know. You see, I was finally sitting down to the put-off business of acknowledging formal expressions of condolence on Daddy’s passing, while his death could still be counted in weeks rather than months. And Rosie had taken the time to send a flower to the funeral home in memory of Daddy.
Given Rosie’s importance to my own life, it’s ironic that I’ve only two memories of Rosie. The first was made when I was 5 or 6. Rosie found me in typical form, crouched down in the dirt, playing in front of our house. Rosie caught me lost in a world of make-believe as I caught her walking up our drive-way.
With a child’s bold curiosity, I asked Rosie who she was and how she had come since she had not arrived by car. She told me her name was Rosie. Then she told me she was my mother’s good friend. And though this was BIG news — for I didn’t know my mother had any good friends — this news paled when Rosie told me she had flown rather than drove. It strikes me that if Rosie had driven a car that day, I wouldn’t have remembered meeting her. But because she had flown like a bird, I remembered her forever.
The second time I met Rosie was at my mother’s funeral. It was then that Rosie told me of her part in getting my parents together. I will be forever grateful that Rosie shared her memory, for by doing so, Rosie offered me that rare glimpse into my parents past, a more carefree time before the onset of children and mortgages.
After I finished Rosie’s note, my Aunt Jane mentioned that Rosie had also sent a nice card to Mom’s funeral. Jane recalls Rosie writing that Mother had been her best friend. I learned from my Aunt Jo that Rosie, Mom and Aunt Jo knew each other from the early fifties, when the three worked together at S.H. Kress & Co. So not only did Aunt Jo help me find Rosie’s last name, I found out that Mom and Dad met at Aunt Jo’s house and that Daddy was responsible for introducing Rosie to her husband, who died this past January.
It amazes me how people come in and out of our lives, especially when the connections are brief but carry such everlasting impact. I don’t imagine Mom would have been an ‘old-maid’ without Rosie’s help. But I sure wouldn’t have been a maid without her.
I can’t sleep. My mind is whirling with thoughts and images of the last few days. I need to park them somewhere and here is as good a place as any.
Dad died Sunday. That you know. Leading up to the moment of Dad’s death, it was a hard three days. It’s difficult to watch a loved one suffer. But even in the laboring for life and death, there are gifts of grace. These I wish to record for posterity.
The first occurred Saturday afternoon. My brother and sister had gone out to bring back lunch, leaving me behind. Dad liked having someone sit on his bed, someone to hold his left hand. So this was where I was — holding Dad’s hand through the scary parting.
Dad’s eyes were open. It had been almost two days since he had closed them. Most of the time, Dad fixed his eyes on some faraway point. I followed his gaze more than once to bump into the popcorn ceiling above his bed. His gaze seemed to extend beyond what I could see. I feel certain of this, for twice, once with Christi on Friday afternoon and another with all of us Saturday morning, Dad pointed toward the ceiling. With his free right hand reaching up, index finger extended out, Dad pointed at specific spots on the ceiling, his hand moving from right to left. Christi asked Dad, “Do you see Mom?” “Do you see Pugsley?” “Sherlock, maybe?” The last two were favored dogs, and anyone who knows Daddy, knows how much Daddy loved his dogs.
On Saturday, as Dad was gazing out beyond the popcorn ceiling, I leaned down to Dad’s face, and whispered, “Daddy, I wish I knew what you are thinking — and what you are gazing at so intently. But since you aren’t able to share with me, I have something important I need to share with you.”
Looking back on it, I’m surprised at how quickly my words wrestled Dad’s attention back to me and this wonderful world in which we call home. Dad squeezed my hand, as if to let me know that he was ‘all ears,” his way to let me know that he was ready to listen when I was ready to talk.
“Daddy. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. But if death should come to separate us, I want you to know that the love we share will never die, that the love we have for one another will flow into eternity. The other thing I want to say is this: Daddy, I will watch over Christi and Jon for you. I will do my best to support them through the ‘thick and thins’ of life. But I know I won’t support Jon with money. Your experiences have taught me that gifts of money hold no solutions for Jon.” At this, and at one point before, Dad squeezed my hand. I felt at peace and sensed Dad’s peace as well.
I had thought that would be my final gift to Dad. I was wrong. That came yesterday, when I put aside my introverted nature, and presided over my father’s funeral. It was too important to leave in the hands of one who didn’t know him. So with the help of my four children, who each took a part, with the help of my brother, who collected a set of old tunes that my Father loved, and with the unscripted memories of more than a handful of others, including my sister who shared her own, we said goodbye to Daddy. We paid tribute to the man I liked to call “best daddy in the world.”
A few came up afterwords to say how proud Daddy would have been of me. But here’s the thing: Daddy was always proud of me, even when there was no reason to be and even when there was reason not to be. It will be this that I will cling to in the days ahead. And maybe this Louis Armstrong song, which began Dad’s graveside service yesterday. For truly, we live everyday life in a wonderful world. Our time here is short. But surely that other side — the one that lives beyond the popcorn ceiling– is wonderful too. At least, based on Daddy’s witness.
It happened during the great purge – the day we wiped the house clean of my parent’s lives.
“Dear…dear….What is your first name?”
an everyday life 