“Do you recall when Dad shared this story with you?”
I was glad to hear Jon recount Dad’s sad tale. Without knowing it, Jon had confirmed a missing piece to the puzzling last day of our paternal grandmother’s life.
Hints between the lines of what my paternal grandfather didn’t tell and what made print in two newspaper accounts of the fatal car crash allowed me to piece together the why. What came as a surprise were the two extra jigsaw pieces Jon threw on the table I hadn’t known were missing.
But isn’t this just how stories are put together? One person receives part, another deduces some other detail, both keep what they know until one day, they sit down to compare parts and piece the story together. Of course, we never know whether we’ve gotten the story right since much gets lost in history and in our own and others interpretation. But it doesn’t stop us from trying, especially when the story concerns one we love.
When it comes to Daddy and his story, there are many missing pieces and lots of room for interpretation. There is a period of Dad’s life — two years, maybe more — that I’ve come to regard as the silent years. His sister Carol once asked Dad about this period of his life but Dad declined to talk about it.
Some can’t wait to tell what’s going on in their lives while others keep their stories to themselves. Dad told his story as he felt the need, or when he hoped something good might come from the telling, which is how my brother came to know what he shared. Yesterday made me realize some stories are better kept in reserve until ripe for the telling.
I began with flowers from my garden. Today it was pink English roses. No longer in peak form, but still lovely and fragrant, it didn’t take long for the room to carry their scent.
While my husband was in the kitchen cooking a Mother’s Day Brunch, I dressed our table with fine linens, and wondered about table settings. I rarely use my fine china. And today, true to form, I eschewed bone white for the antique hand-painted china my mother gave me long ago. I leaned into the dark recesses of the china cabinet to pull out four old, hair-lined cracked blue and white plates. Small dinner plates. Folks, back in the ‘good old days,’ must have eaten smaller, healthier portions. And for brunch, small plates are perfect.
Next stop: the upper kitchen cabinets, the ones so high up they are all but forgotten. Up on the tips of my toes, I carefully lifted out four of my mother’s Fostoria glasses that I’ve had since my mother’s first bout with cancer. It was 1994. Mom thought she was dying. And she was giving away all her treasures. Probably thinking I’d have more occasion to use her prized Fostoria than my siblings, Mom wanted me to have them.
As I washed and shined the place settings for service, I remembered how Mom occasionally went though this same ritual, whenever she was in the mood to ‘put’ on the dog,’ whenever she wished to serve her meal on something other than her everyday china.
Usually it happened when the preachers were coming. “The Preachers’ was what she called her Southern Baptist preacher and his wife. As a kid, I was always thankful that ‘the preachers’ didn’t come often. Having ‘the preachers’ over always meant extra work for us kids — not to mention the pretense of good table etiquette. The house had to be clean — no small chore in our house. And Mom’s Fostoria glassware and Desert Rose dinnerware were always taken out of storage to dress the table.
Never ever was her food any different though. The food Mom served was just her everyday finest, with the addition of some wonderful dessert for good measure. As a general rule, Mom rarely made dessert when cooking for just us. However, when company was coming, dessert was a fixture.
Today, in that same grand way of Mother’s entertaining, our meal was everyday simple. My husband made breakfast tacos and I made Mom’s home-made hash browns. But in keeping with the spirit of ‘puttin’ on the dog’, we had a lovely Strawberry Shortcake with my husband’s scratch biscuits, sweetened with a little sugar.
Setting the table with the good china and crystal and silver is always a little extra work. But oh was I glad to do it, in memory and in honor or two great mothers.
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.
an everyday life 