Of Mice and Men

Best laid plans, sometimes go awry. Maybe not as dire as Steinbeck's Lennie, but have not had much to say or write, too much loss & betrayal this past 10 months, just numb. 

We lost my Dad in mid-April on the 15th. Of all, he the literary genius would see the ironic symmetry to death & taxes. It was unexpected and yet expected...just not yet, as he battled cancer. I'm now an orphan. I grieve in private, not good at asking for help. For friends that have loyally been there, thank you. 

This past Monday, was the anniversary of my Mom's brain injury that resulted in her death on June 3rd. I got through the day, but felt a throbbing in my head and heart the entire 24 hours. So many upcoming anniversaries of sad events, I guess those increase as we get older too. Not writing now for sympathy or to bum anyone out-but it is also cathartic to sometimes just let it go....death and loss shape you, as much as joy and rebirth.

We plan to celebrate my Dad's life with a memorial at his beloved neighborhood public tennis courts in Cambridge. For all his learned-ness and degrees, there was never affected-ness and look at me. He could afford a private tennis club, but chose public courts as his temple. He was a teacher, he was a mentor, he was a scholar, he was brilliant, he was my Dad. Always the voice of reason,  he also could give you ten different viewpoints on one topic and convincingly extrapolate on all. His love of words and learning was always there, and he instilled that in many others. He was of the proletariat, even if his IQ was of the universe.

The last day we had a conversation in the hospital, before he slipped into a morphine coma to take away his crushing pain-we talked about the Longboats from the Melville classic "Moby Dick" and  singer/faerie creature Tori Amos. He had had a conversation with Tori Amos, about just this subject. He knew I could relate to the elfin and faerie part of it all. As my Dad was a Melville scholar, I feel as an homage to him I need to go back and read them all....even if it kills me! :) He taught me a love words, turgid is one I use often...

My Dad taught me to change a flat tire when I was 12, so that I would always be independent. He also reminded me constantly that my behavior was my responsibility in the world, that our actions always had consequences and that the world does not "owe" us, you "owe" the world service of some sort and need to work your ass off to get what you want-like he did. I wonder how many parents still teach that to their children? 

He was more German in his reserve of not being a hugger or telling you he loved you, but the Irish popped out with his wicked sense of humor in play on words and mirthful grin, that I will always picture him with. 

He had the greatest collection of t-shirts with various superheros and slogans such as "Question Authority" . He loved black turtlenecks, which was my tradition to give him a new variety-cashmere, sport Lycra or plain cotton each Christmas. He was never sentimental, yet I know he loved these turtlenecks and me.

He had more uses for Shoe Goo and Duct tape than anyone I know-a thrifty midwesterner from rural and farm background, he would fix a pair of tennis sneakers until they finally fell apart. He was not a farmer, although I am pretty sure I inherited my need to dig in dirt and breathe in big, open fields, from him. 

He was of course an avid reader. He also tracked trends on Wall St and had stacks of the financial pages from the Boston Globe and the Wall St Journal on his dining room table. He saw Gold as a future, before many.  He was the Google algorithm-turning any question into an answer. He consulted and contributed to Wikipedia, always questing for more knowledge. 

When my Mom died last June, I thought I wouldn't recover. It was more crushing to find how lacking in common empathy some people I had considered friends were, when I needed them. Death can cause you to be temporarily insane or someone you haven't been, as you grieve. Death teaches you to hold on tightly and fight for those you love. It also teaches you to move on and not waste time. 

Losing my Dad has been crushing, yet somehow I feel like the strength he always wanted his daughters to have, put me on auto-pilot. Like flipping a switch and having to go on, be the professional, be out there-not curling up in a corner to grieve. I have been insanely busy with work, from the day after he died, have taken only a few days off. When the busy season tapers off, I know this will hit me harder...for now I coast on, and keep going on. I'm sure my Dad would have an appropriate quote, possibly from a 70's song for this...I keep hearing the Ohio Players in my mind. Shades of a summer spent on a lake in Michigan, my first experience with leaches.

As each new business possibility has popped up in the past month, I look skyward and thank him. I feel like he is dancing up there and enjoying creating some new energy down here. He worked as a chef in a restaurant but also taught ballroom to get through school and always loved Latin dancing, even spending time in Cuba. He was an atheist, I doubt there was ever a moment he prayed or thanked god in such a way as looking skyward implies, yet I know he was a thankful person. He ate way too much cheese and hated soup, from his days of working through school, fine-tuning his immense brain. 

My questioning of what spirit is and how embodied, comes from him. Christmas was a big holiday when we were kids, but why have a tree, when you can have an inflatable Santa? He had a big presence in life, and he continues in death. I see his face constantly. He may not have believed in faeries and little people or the other-worldy, but somehow I think he may now. If my Dad believed in Karma, which I'm pretty sure was outside the realm of his intellectual process to quantify-he would have presented the positive side of karma as you get back 2x what you put out there in effort/good deeds/etc, not the bitter utterances of "it's a bitch" or other small intentions.

I am constantly reminded of him, by little things and think to call him and realize I can't. I saved one of his last voicemails to me, so thankful to have that memory of his voice. Our last phone conversation I told him I loved him, so thankful I did. I am glad that I was there and awake, in the middle of that very long night. He wasn't alone and I hope he knew how much he was loved, when he left us.