MY FATHER'S SHOEHORN

  

Father's Day has arrived close upon the heels of my husband's death, and I am thinking about what a loving father he was to his three sons.  And although I am no longer married to my daughters' father, I am also thinking about what a loving father he was and is. My thoughts about my own father are more complicated.  I know that he loved me, but love wasn't a word spoken in our house, and he was mostly ill-equipped to demonstrate his love. What follows is something I wrote about him a couple of years ago.  (I wrote it in winter; thus, the reference to snow.) 

About a month ago we had some snow and I decided to put on a new pair of hiking boots that I had not yet  broken in.  I sat grumbling on the stairs as I struggled to work my feet past their unyielding backs.

 

Then I remembered my father’s shoehorn, which sits on a shelf in my office.  Within moments of retrieving this tool, I was easily and fully shod.

And then I started to think about my father.  

 

My father, who died almost 30 years ago, remains an enigma to me. His shoehorn is the only memento of his life in my possession.  When he was alive, it sat on a tray that also had a place for a wallet and keys—one of those caddies that men use when they empty their pockets. He wouldn’t have carried the shoehorn in his pocket, but he must have wanted it near-to-hand when he got dressed in the morning.  I don’t know.  I never saw him get dressed.  I never saw him less than fully clothed, except at the beach.  Although born after the Victorian Age, my folks were Victorian in many ways.  (No swearing and they certainly never told me anything about you-know-what.)

 

But, I digress.  The shoehorn is made of real horn.  I can’t recommend killing an animal for its horns, but I believe some animals shed their horns and this is a lovely relic of a pre-plastic age.  

 

It pleases me to think he might have brought this shoehorn with him from Scotland.  I like to believe it was made from the fallen antlers of a highland deer.  (I suppose it is just as likely that he bought it somewhere after he settled our family in New Jersey.  But I like my story and I’m sticking with it.) 

 

My father had to shoehorn himself into the life he was given as do we all, although some do it with more grace than others.  Born in Glasgow before the First World War, he grew up with two sisters and his parents in modest circumstances. From what I learned from one of his sisters, he loved motorcycles and climbed mountains (or what passed for mountains in Scotland).  He was, according to this sister, a wonderful big brother. 

I don't know what became of the adventure-loving young man.  I only know that by the time I came along, the mountain climbing and motorcycles were in the distant past, and the wonderful big brother had morphed into an inflexible and angry father, mostly interested in work and tinkering with cars.   

There were occasional flashes of tenderness--I remember that it was he who would get up in the night when I was sick.  And once in a great while, he would become silly and dance around a room.  But, for the most part, I lived in dread of his anger.

It wasn't until I had my first child at age 35 that I felt had done something he truly approved of.  He loved his grandchildren and seemed able to display a kindness and patience with them that he had been unable to muster with my brothers and me.  So that was progress.

Here is something I wrote after looking into his home office soon after he died: 

         The first thing I notice is what isn't there.  No well-thumbed                  books with the best passages underlined.  No personal letters.  No scraps of paper with notes scribbled on them.  No favorite photograph on  a desk or wall.  No indications of any pleasure traced through decades of a life.

 

         I take that back.  There are signs of his love of all things       mechanical.  There are books about the Queen Mary and other Clydeside ships for which he helped design the machinery, books about cars--three about Jaguars, and the real thing sitting in the garage, sleek and self-satisfied, like a profligate child, heedless of its own money-sucking ways.

 

         Then there is the computer that he set up in his 80th year, when he was already losing strength.  The computer with every bell and whistle.  I watched him just weeks ago lower his fragile self into a chair and, trembling with a love and attention never shown to any human, take this late-century miracle through its paces.

 

         And the fax machine.  What did an old, cancer-ridden man need with a fax machine?  Did he use it to message God and tell him he damned well wasn't coming?  Is that where he was going on the day 48 hours before his death when he wouldn't stay in bed, though he fell repeatedly and shook his fist at anyone who tried to help him up?       Was he making one last attempt at connection of the only kind he could conceive?

          Did my father know how lonely he was?  Has he been released from a lifetime of anger?  Or is he up in heaven barking at the angels, demanding a cell phone and a cup of tea?

Twenty nine years later, I still wonder -- Is there a shoehorn that could have allowed him to fit into the world with more grace and less anger.  What would it have taken for him to enjoy his family?  As a child, I blamed myself.  I eventually came to understand, of course, that I was the victim, not the author, of his rage.  

What would my childhood have been like if he had used his prodigious intelligence to teach rather than to browbeat?  I will never know.  

Lately, I have taken to holding the shoehorn in my hands while I contemplate what my father might have been like in his youth, try to imagine what thwarted dreams and disappointments led to his anger.  And I also ponder the fact that he inadvertently gave me backbone.  It took courage to stand up to him.  Who would I be now if I had had an easier father?   I will never know that either.  

For many years, I felt resentment toward my father.  Now, I feel only compassion for his unhappiness and sorrow for what might have been.  And I hope that -- if there is peace to be found after this life -- he has found it.  

Whatever else he was or wasn't, he was my father.  I did love him. And, one way or another, he helped make me who I am.  

WIDOW FOR A WEEK

It is one week since my husband of twenty years died.  I am not in my right mind.  When I stumbled into the funeral place a few days ago to finalize the paperwork for his cremation, I kept making mistakes. The woman I was working with called it “widow’s brain.”

 

I looked at her blankly.  Am I really a widow?  

 

I suppose I am. But I’m not ready to claim the appellation. Bill's passing doesn’t feel real. I keep expecting to see him reading in his chair.  He was always reading.  Besides, I picture a widow as an old lady, wearing a black veil. Sure, maybe the first part of that description fits, but I am not wearing a veil, either real or figurative. 

 

In truth, I don’t know much about being a widow yet, so other than reporting that I am exhausted and heartbroken, I am not ready to write about it. If widowhood were a garment, it would be lying lightly across my back; I am hesitating to pull it over my shoulders.  

 

I will, therefore, save the discussion of widowhood for a future post, and will today report on the experience of accompanying Bill during his final weeks and days.** This will not be eloquent, because, you know, widow’s brain.

 

The back story: 

 

Bill was diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer in October of 2022.  We were told there was no cure, but treatment could buy him time.  He tolerated chemo pretty well, apart from fatigue, and eventually enjoyed a few months of remission, during which chemo was paused, and we enjoyed relative normalcy. Last November, a scan showed that the cancer was active again. Two different kinds of chemo were unsuccessful, and maybe four months ago, his fatigue and weakness began to increase dramatically, and a month ago, he took an even more rapid downturn.  

 

He started home hospice on May 17, and his sons and my daughters rallied around us.  The girls came over to support me whenever they were able leave their very young children. They brought food and called me every day.  

 

Those who followed Bill’s Caring Bridge site know that his out-of-state son, Andrew, flew in with his son, Joe, just days before Joe’s wedding. They brought love and attention and memories while Bill was still able to sit up and interact with them.  He was surprised and delighted by their visit.

 

Bill’s local sons, Doug and Marty, saw us through. They took turns spending the night with us, until the final few days, when they both stayed with us. They were kindness and patience itself with their father, and they kept me afloat until Bill’s passing on June 5.  

 

Some random observations: 

Bill’s final days were peaceful.  He faced his death with grace and acceptance.  He expressed gratitude for family and friends and the extra time his treatment brought him.  

 

I was warned by people in my caregiver support group that some friends and family members might disappear, unable to tolerate closeness to illness and death.  No one abandoned us.  Friends called and came by, brought us food, sat with me, walked with me.  One friend even cancelled a kayaking trip in order to be near at hand. Bill’s two brothers flew in from Indiana a week before he passed. His two sisters sent him lovely voice messages. So many people surrounded us with love. (After Bill died, Doug told me that Bill, while still alert, had given him the phone numbers of my closest friends, and asked him to make sure that they would surround me with love. I was sure my friends wouldn’t need any prompting, and I was right. I was deeply touched by Bill’s concern for my well-being, even as he was leaving this life.)

 

Bill’s closing days were marked by both tears and laughter.  The sadness needs no explanation, but I didn’t expect the laughter.  Here are some examples:

 

Soon after Bill went on hospice, my daughter Mara asked him what – if he were able to come back to comfort us – he would appear as. I imagine she thought he might say a bird.  Instead, my Indianapolis-500-loving husband thought for a minute and said,  “A race car.”  

 

One day, while I was upstairs with Bill, a neighbor came over with her six-year-old daughter to bring us some flowers.  Bill’s son Marty answered the door, and the child looked at him, then said to her mother, “Is that her new husband?”

 

Two days before he died, when Bill was no longer speaking and not reacting to touch, my daughter Anne stood crying at his bedside, saying her farewells.  Tears were interrupted by laughter when she told Bill that Mara wanted to apologize to him for being a shithead teenager when he and I were first married. We laughed and Bill smiled.  I think that was his last obvious reaction to any words.

 

Being with Bill during his final days, I experienced both the sacred and the mundane.  I sat with him.  I lay in the hospital bed with him and whispered in his ear.  I played music for him.  His sons also talked to him and played music for him.  We tended to him. We accompanied him as far as we could.

 

There was sadness and overwhelm and punchiness from sleep deprivation.  And there was this:  Laundry had to be done.  Bills still had to be paid. The cat box wasn’t going to clean itself.  The garden had to be watered.  

Some things that happened while Bill was on hospice:  Our 2014 Prius refused to start.  A spider bit me, causing my ankle to swell up like a balloon. One of our cats puked. Twice.  And although my ankle hurt and $4500 for the car repair was momentarily startling, I had more pressing things worry about. I think it's called perspective.

 

The world does not stop for illness or hospice or death. I suppose it will ever be so. 

 

I am sad and I am grateful.  I am grateful for Bill. I am grateful that he chose me to make a life with. I am grateful that he didn’t suffer.  I am grateful for those who surrounded us, and are surrounding me, with love. 

Finally, words of wisdom from my 3-year-old granddaughter Frankie.  When her mother, my Anne, explained to Frankie and her sister that Bill was dying and would not be coming back, Frankie announced, "I'm going to be really sad and I'm going to be really mad."

And that sums up my feelings exactly.

Flowers by Frankie

** If you are wondering at my sitting down to write so soon, writing is how I process my experiences and emotions.  It is solace and catharsis. I can write and cry at the same time.

 

 

 

 

TOO MUCH STUFF!

I went to the grocery story today, and while in line to check out, I glanced at the items displayed along each side of the narrow area through which I was being funneled. What, I found myself wondering, would someone transported from the 19th century (or early 20th century, for that matter) make of all this stuff?  Even someone wildly wealthy would not have been able to imagine such an array of, well, crap on offer.  There were, among other things, candy bars and magazines, plastic toys and other gee-gaws. 

 

I'm guessing that, once scooped up and paid for, most of it (apart from the candy bars) would soon be in the landfill. 

 

What is it with Americans and our stuff?

 

I have read that visitors and immigrants from less wealthy nations are 

overwhelmed by the bewildering choices in our stores.  Well, of course they are.  Do we really need 15 brands of dish soap or 8 different kinds of toilet paper?  Do we need all the things that come encased in hard plastic? Do we need an entire aisle of water in plastic bottles? Sure, we might keep a few bottles around for emergencies, but what's wrong with tap water for daily use?  (If you don't like your tap water, you can buy a filter for your faucet - yes that involves bringing another item into the house, but if it replaces dozens of plastic bottles of water, I think it’s a fair trade.)

 

And, while I'm on the subject of stuff, let me hasten to confess that there is too much of it in my house. I want to live in 800 square feet. The only stuff I want is a desk, a computer, some books, some paper and pens, some art for the walls, and a few plants.  (OK, sure, I need some clothes and kitchen utensils and some basic supplies - you know, olive oil, shampoo, and chocolate, but you get the idea.) 

 

What is all the rest of this stuff?  

 

I have been trying to go through drawers and cupboards.  How many paper clips can two people use? Or nails?  We have so many nails and screws.  And don't get me started on the 6 or 8 screwdrivers and multiple hammers. How about coats? -- If my husband is reading this, yes, I'm looking at you.

 

Sometimes I buy things and wonder a month later what I was thinking.  Maybe these impulsive purchases are what lie behind the many yard sales I drive past every sunny weekend.  These events are where people pass off their stuff to other people, who later give it all to Goodwill, where the cycle begins again. 

 

And how about storage units?  Is this solely an American thing? Do people in other countries have so much stuff that they have rent space to hold the overflow? 

 

Apart from issues of waste and disposal, I find an overabundance of stuff to be overwhelming and anxiety-inducing.  I can't write when my desk is covered with too much stuff. (I clean it off every month or so, and still it silts back over.) And in stores with a jumble of stuff, e.g., Goodwill and thrift shops, I can't see anything. 

I don't know about you, but every time I cart another load of stuff out of my house, I feel a bit lighter, a bit more relaxed, a bit more able to enjoy my life. 

 

As Roz Chast writes in Can’t We Talk About Something More Pleasant?, her wonderful memoir of her parents’ last years, once you have gone through and sorted your parents’ stuff, you start to look at your own stuff “a little more postmortemistically.” 

 

That's exactly the view I have been taking lately. I hope I have a number of good years left, but I don't want to leave a mess behind for my kids to go through, and I don’t want to spend whatever time I have left taking care of unnecessary stuff.

 

So why not start the postmortemistical cleanup now?

 

 

OF CHERRY BLOSSOMS AND POETRY

 

A few days ago, while gazing with pleasure at our weeping cherry tree, I found myself quietly reciting this poem by A.E. Housman:

 

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

Is hung with bloom along the bough,

And stands about the woodland ride

Wearing white for Eastertide.

 

Now, of my threescore years and ten,

Twenty will not come again,

And take from seventy springs a score,

It only leaves me fifty more.

 

And since to look at things in bloom

Fifty springs are little room,

About the woodlands I will go

To see the cherry hung with snow.

 

I must have been around twenty myself when I first encountered these lines, an age at which 50 years seemed an eternity, and I could no more imagine myself at 70 than I could imagine myself flying to the moon. Yet now, I find, to my astonishment, that I have not only reached 70, but have, in fact, outlived my threescore years and ten. 

 

And how is it that I remember Housman’s poem all these years later?  Well, in my youth, I would read favorites over and over again. I wasn’t trying to memorize them, but my brain was young and impressionable, and much of the poetry that I read decades ago remains fresh in my mind, even as I struggle to remember the plot of a book that I read last month. 

 

Today, as I sit pondering Housman’s poem and the years that have passed since I accidently learned it off by heart, I am happy to report that I am still enjoying things in bloom. And although I now spend hours, rather than whole days at a time, tending to my garden, we are old friends, this patch of ground and I, and it reliably delights me with daffodils, forget-me-nots, rhodies, lilacs, irises, roses, and much more each year. 

 

And so, with gratitude for whatever years I am given, I shall, with Housman, take the time to enjoy those blossoms that present themselves for my enchantment for as long as I am able.  

 

May we all do the same, whatever our age. 

 

 

 

 

ADIOS, FACEBOOK (Don't Let the Door Hit You)

Bless me, Mr. Zuckerberg, for I have quit.  It has been three weeks since I last looked at FB.  For my penance, I shall read three books and walk each day in the fresh air.

I joined FaceBook 16 years ago.  Three weeks ago, I deactivated my account. I had several reasons for doing this. First, I am pissed with Mark Z. for toadying up to you-know-who.  Second, I don't want Mark Z. up in my business.  Third, I was addicted.  

Sigh.  Yes.  Addicted.  It's not that I was looking at it all day long; I didn't have it on my phone, so there wasn't that temptation.  Still, every time I would sit down to use my computer to write or pay bills or read email, I would first take a quick look at FB.  Sometimes, that quick look would lead me down a rabbit hole, from which I might not emerge for 15 or 20 minutes.  

How many hours of my life have I wasted on such rabbit holes?

I will confess that for the first two weeks after deactivating, I experienced something like phantom-limb syndrome.  I would sit down at my computer and look in my history for FB, only to remember it was no longer there.  I'm happy to report I'm past that now.  Sure, I will miss seeing what some people are posting or talking about, and, yes, I will miss the opportunity to share the link when I have a new blog post.   But the negatives now outweigh the positives.

I have struggled with my addiction for too long.  Over ten years ago, I wrote a post in which I vowed to only look at FB once every second or third day.  Clearly, that didn't work out. . . So, adios FaceBook, and kudos to those of you who never joined or, if you did, never became addicted.  

FB friends, I'll see you in the real world.

                             Photo by Jan Tinneberg on Unsplash

(I deactivated, rather than shutting down, my account because I didn't want to lose Messenger, which is the only address I have for some people.  When I collect contact information for those I want to stay in touch with, Messenger can go too.  I have kept Instagram for now, even though it is also owned by Meta, because I like to see family photos and I no longer post anything personal there.  If it gets to be too much of a time suck, I will ditch it too.)

And what about the other two members of the billionaire, sycophant triumvirate?  I can't afford a Tesla, and even if I could, I would not give a nickel to that man. 

Jeff B, you're next on my list.  This one is really difficult for me. I love the ease of Amazon and I hate to get in my car to shop. But, enough is enough.  I have cut down on my Amazon purchases, and when my membership year is up, I shall quit (ouch).  In the meantime, I understand that Jeff's ex has given away half of her fortune, and since some of that money came from me, I will console myself with the thought that my purchases have indirectly supported good causes.

And now, I'm going to take that walk in the fresh air.  

BREATHE IN; BREATHE OUT

We breathe.  In and out.  Most of the time we do this unconsciously.  I, for one, don't often stop to think about what a miracle this is -- what a marvel of design or invention or accident.   

 

But today I have been thinking about this and the other miracles that keep us alive. Blood circulates through no effort on our part.  Our nervous systems pass messages throughout our bodies.  Again, no volition is involved.

 

We stand up and ambulate.  We open our eyes and see.  We hear.  We taste. We smell.  Most of us take these wonders for granted--at least, that is, until one of these systems goes awry. What if we were to appreciate these miracles before they fail us?

 

What else do we take for granted much of the time?  How about:

 

Water--most especially hot, running water

Shelter

Grocery stores with food on the shelves.  

Love, all kinds of love. 

 

Gentle readers, if our bodies are working, if we have water and shelter and food and people who love us, we are so very fortunate.  Can we spend some time appreciating this?  

 

I have been living with a lot of fear and anxiety about current events.  I think I need to stop for a moment and breathe.  

 

Can we all stop and breathe.  In and out. 

Let's.

And then let's do whatever we can to repair this broken world. 

 

 

                                    Photo by Saad Chaudhry on Unsplash

BLOWING UP THE ARC OF THE MORAL UNIVERSE

I love words.  I trade in words.  Lately, I find that words are failing me.  So, this will be short.

Beginning with the Civil Rights Movement and right on through second-wave feminism, passage of the Americans With Disabilities Act, and the Supreme Court’s ruling on gay marriage, I have witnessed, and  supported, many changes for the better in this country. 

 

Yes, there have been setbacks and disappointments.  Still, I have had reason to hope that these words from Martin Luther King, Jr. were true:  The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.

 

For a long time, I have had an image of people of goodwill hanging from the arc, lending their weight to its bending.  Sometimes it has felt as if the arc were straightening, bending away from justice, but always I have believed that the power of those working for justice would continue to bend the arc, inch-by-inch, toward justice and fairness.  

Now, it seems that people of ill will are deploying a bomb (paid for by the richest man in the world) to blow up the arc, sending flying those of us who have been hanging on.

Photo by Wiki Sinaloa on Unsplash

I want to be hopeful, but right now it is a struggle. Will it be possible to pick ourselves up from wherever we have been thrown and build a new arc?

To be honest, at this stage of my life, the weight I can lend to the building and the bending is not what it once was, but I am willing to give it my very best. 

 

If only someone can tell me where to start.

TRY A LITTLE TENDERNESS

Yesterday, while reading a novel set in the early 1970s, I was arrested by a passage about a man driving his car with his child in the front passenger seat. The father was described as bringing the car to a sudden stop and putting out his right arm to hold his child in place.  I, at once, had a vision of my father (in the days before seatbelts) throwing his arm across my body to hold me back each time he came to a stop sign or red light.* Would his arm have done any good in a crash?  Of course, not. This was an automatic gesture of concern; it was him trying to keep me safe.  

 

My father wasn't someone you would have called tender, but I choose to remember this as a gesture of tenderness.  Look, my father wasn’t warm and fuzzy; in fact, he was angry much of the time.  Yet, I remember that he was the one who would sit up with me at night when I had a stomach bug, bringing me warm water to sip and waiting for the nausea to pass.  And, now, almost three decades after his death, now that my memories of his harshness are fading, it is these memories of his concern, of his tenderness that shine most brightly.

 

In the song from which I took the title of this post, Otis Redding is admonishing a man to “try a little tenderness” when his female partner is weary. But, really, tenderness is not reserved for romantic relationships. 

 

Looking around, I find it everywhere.  

 

I saw it when one of my twin toddler granddaughters ran into another room to fetch a stuffed animal for her crying sister. “Here you go, Charlie,” she said, placing the animal tenderly in her sister’s arms.

 

Or when Charlie asked her twin, with great solicitude, “How are you feeling now, Frankie?,” when Frankie was recovering from a meltdown.  

 

Or a few weeks ago when I got up on our couch to hang a Christmas garland above a window, where our cats would (I hoped) be unable to reach it, and my other toddler granddaughter, Daisy, watching me, said, “Don’t worry, Mimi, I will keep an eye on you.”

 

Be still, my heart.

 

What is tenderness?  Let’s call it kindness, concern, or thoughtfulness.  

 

Here are some examples:

 

A friend buying me a book about trees, not for an occasion, but just because she thought I would like it.  

 

The same friend helping her adult children to clean out her ex-husband’s house and take care of paperwork after his death.  This wasn’t done so much for the ex-husband’s sake, as for the sake of her children.  It was the work of a loving heart.  

 

Two other friends who have stepped up to care for extended family members when no one else came forward. 

 

A friend, digging a trench along a path next to a drop-off outside our house, and lining it with cinder blocks to create a level walking space.  We could have hired someone, but she volunteered, because, you know, we’re friends, and she had the strength and know-how to do the job.

 

The friends who offered to, and did, take care of our dog while my husband was in the hospital two years ago.  

 

A friend, not a close one – someone I had only spent time with at gatherings but never one-on-one, who left an orchid on my front doorstep after my mother died.

 

I am moved by each of these actions and gestures. 

 

Still, there are those who find it difficult to accept kindness or offers of help.  A friend told me recently that her husband was made uncomfortable by a neighbor bringing him a meal after he had injured himself.  I know that this man would step forward to help a friend or neighbor. Can we be both generous and vulnerable? 

 

We are living in an unsettled and unsettling time.  We’re not going to navigate this time alone.  So, let’s be there for one another on both the giving and receiving ends. 

 

After all, as Ram Dass famously said, "We are all just walking each other home."

 

 

 

photo by Getty images for Unsplash

* Note to any younger folks reading this -- seatbelts weren't required to be standard in cars until 1968.  

ME, THINKING OF YOU, THINKING OF ME

A few days ago, a friend sent me the link to an article, saying it made her think of me.  I was happy to receive and read the article, but here's the thing.  I'm always surprised to learn that someone is thinking of me. 

Why should this be?  

People text or call me.  Don't I know they must be thinking about me in order to do this?  I suppose so; it just isn't top of mind until someone says something like, this made me think of you or I was thinking about you this morning.  I know my life is entwined with the lives of others.  I have deep and long-term relationships with family and friends.  I think about people I know multiple times each day.  Why shouldn't they be thinking about me?  

I don't know.

And if people thinking about me is surprising, imagining them talking about me, is downright uncomfortable. Of course, we all talk about one another. This is usually a benign pastime.  Sharing information or impressions.  You know how it is, driving home from an event and deconstructing the evening or afternoon with whomever is in the car with you.  Sure, sometimes it veers into the teensiest bit of criticism or concern, but I generally trust my friends not to tear me to shreds. 

Still, I'd rather not imagine what people are saying about me.  

(I recall that in one of the books in the Anne of Green Gables series, Anne comments that she does not agree with Robert Burn's line, “O wad some power the giftie gie us, to see oursels as ithers see us.” **

I'm with Anne.)

Finally, there's this.  I never expect anyone to remember me.  If I have met someone once or twice and have occasion to see them again several months later, I assume they don't remember me, even if I remember them.  This only exacerbates my introverted tendency, when with a group of people, to stay in one place and talk to someone I know very well.

Does anyone else experience any of this?  

Please comment below. 

                                                                   Photo by Ginger Jordan for Unsplash

** Translation from the Scots:  Oh, would some power give us the gift to see ourselves as others see us.