I'm tired of death. Tired of selling Dad's things. Tired of cleaning his house. Tired of seeing his pictures. I'm tired of remembering everyone else I've loved who is gone. The last three years have been incredible.

Ken
Aunt Bobbie
Dad
Festus
Angel
Sunscreen Man
Toonces
Liz
Marge

Every one seems like another chunk from my heart, and it hurts. There was a long period there where no one died, even then it was Grampa in 1975 and Gramma in 1992. Then quiet. Jezebel in '06 and Meer in 07. Then quiet.

Then BOOM.

And while everyone is with me every day in my memory, I feel steeped in Dad's death to a point where it feels oppressive. I can't get away from it for a moment. I have to check Ebay every day. Go to Dad's every weekend. My house looks like Ebay exploded.

And mostly I'm just tired.

I'm tired of cleaning and listing stuff and taking pictures and shipping stuff and answer questions about items that I don't know one fucking thing about. I'm tired of detailing what's in magazines and combining postage and screwing things up.

I'm tired of sitting down at work all day and then being so tired that all I want to do is sit down.

I'm tired of listening to the faucet drip and the dog lick herself. I'm tired of dirt and garbage and packing tape. I'm tired of interacting with my family all the time. I'm tired of schedules and spreadsheets.

Oh, well. What can you do? Nuthin'. You can't do nuthin'.

Listening to Glen Hansard singing "Leave." God I love that man's voice...When I first saw the movie Once it was so hard because he looks a bit like my ex. But I can't help loving watching him sing. Marketa Irglova is also amazing. It's funny because while on one hand I agree that musicians are, as a breed, a difficult ilk, but they really are so sexy...the way they express themselves...the way they lose themselves in the moment.

Even someone as physically maybe not so attractive as BB King has a hold on my soul because of the way he sings and plays that guitar.

Now I'm listening to the two of them singing "Falling Slowly."

When I was a teenager, I was in love with John Lennon - an infatuation which is easily ignited by by a listen to a song.

The same way that a picture can reach in a pull out your emotions. A song does that, too.

I look at pictures of my dad from when I was a kid, and mostly I feel nothing, because that part of my life has been moved to a non-reaction section of my brain. But I look at pictures of my dad in the last 10-15 years of his life, and it makes me cry instantly, because I can relate to that guy. He's the one who tried so hard and wanted so much to be a part of our lives. The younger one...not so much.

Now I'm listening to John Lennon's "Serve Yourself." God I love him.

I don't know why I don't listen to more music. I love it, but I think what I hate about it is when there are other people around and I have to turn it off, or down, or the CD ends...LOL

It's Monday again. I'm sitting here in the mostly dark with just my candle burning. It's quite, which is nice after a long day enveloped by noise. I spend the day answering the phone. I got yelled at once, had the smoke alarm blaring in my ear because a caller burned his toast, listened to the "drums" of a child banging on pots and pans while his mom tried to transact some banking with me on the phone. I think probably I'll lose a large part of the hearing in my right ear because it's subjected to unrelenting loudness all day. And that's to say nothing of the coughing, hacking, drinking, smacking sounds eminating from the cube next to me.

But right now it's quiet. I'd like to go to the library and get a book on tape, but they close too early for that on Mondays. I'll probably head downstairs and work on some pottery in a bit. Stick in a movie or something.

I'm tired tired tired, but I have some pots that need attention before they dry out.

Well, that's all I have the energy for tonight!

I'm very excited to have a new computer to work, write and surf the web on. It's SOOO much faster than the laptop, and so it's much more fun to get onto because I know it won't take me half my day to wait for it to get up to speed!

So here I am, just an hour or so after bringing it home, putzing away! I haven't plugged in the CD drive (they don't come with those anymore), and I haven't put any of the software that's extra onto it, but here it is!!!

I had a short day today, and took full advantage. I have a rental car because mine is getting fixed - painted tomorrow. The rental is a Dodge Avenger. It's up there with the coolest cars I've ever driven.

The kitchen floor was green linoleum, softly textured with what looked vaguely like a combination of shamrocks and the card suit spades. The walls were covered with bright wallpaper - floral patterns of greens and yellows. The wallpaper filled inserts in the cabinets so that the entire kitchen had a rhythm that said, "Hi 70s. We're here." This was where goulash came from. Where dishes were washed, dried, and broken. Where we ate tomatoes with sugar on them. Where one day a wind storm blew a 2x4 through the window. Those windows, which we would duck and hide below, skulking out of the room when we'd see Chuck Knoss, the neighbor, coming across the back yard looking for Dad. We didn't want him to know we were there because Dad owed him money and didn't have it to repay.

That's where the McDonalds glass broken when someone put their hand inside to dry it. It sliced their finger and the blood gushed. We ran to the neighbor's house because Mary Duffy was a nurse. Oddly, I can't remember if it was my finger or Lynn's. I'm checking my pointer finger, and there is a scar where I would expect to find it...but was it from that day or another? I don't know.

That's where Lynn and I would regularly fight about whose turn it was to wash, and whose to dry. Once this argument ended with me bent backwards over the kitchen counter and Lynn holding a knife over me. At that point Dad burst into the room - drawn by the screaming no doubt - and broke it up.

This is the room where I hyperventilated at the kitchen table because Dad was screaming at me and while he HATED it when I would hyperventilate, it was a technique that would usually make him stop his rant and keep him from hurting me.

This is where I sat at the table and was writing something when Jodi came running in and pinched me. My "Whaaaa?" was immediately followed by Dad thundering in to smack me because Jodi told him that I'd pinched her.

This is where we'd wait with anticipation for Dad to pull one pound Hershey bars from our ears, and unpack the banana split's and apple turnovers from the bags from Short Stop. Where we'd grab the bottles of Tab or RC to be secreted away and drunk later, when we could pull them out, pop the top off, and make everyone jealous because we still had ONE BOTTLE left when all the pop was gone.

This is where we would pile up the eight packs of empties to be returned to Short Stop for the deposit so we could buy more pop, comic books and Sno-balls.

This is where I found Dad on the floor. Where the paramedics tended to him and he refused to go in the ambulance. He was too dizzy to stand up. Sitting on the floor in a t-shirt and his underwear. He finally road with Kevin to the hospital where they held him for two days before declaring he had a severe ear wax build up that was giving him vertigo. God, was he mad. They'd done all these TESTS and it was ear wax? Well, I said, how were they supposed to know without doing the tests? Exasperating.

This is where the intercom was...we'd call out to the garage to let Dad know he had a call, or tell him dinner was ready, or just bug him. We could hear him yell back, annoyed that we were interrupting again, or we'd hear his muffled voice and know that he was in the paint booth. Or we'd hear the grinder and know that he could never hear us over all that noise and we'd put on our shoes and run out to the garage.

The kitchen cupboards were familiar and full of both the mundane: Dinty Moore stew, as well as the unexpected: a bottle of gin that was mostly used to melt the ice when we were out of salt, but also could be served in Dixie cups to remind Lynn and I how disgusting drinking was. Okay, that only happened once, and the lesson was learned well. I think we were about seven and nine years old, and must have taken down the gin to sniff it or something. Maybe we even tasted it. I don't remember. What I do remember was sitting at the kitchen table with this Dixie cup of gin. The idea was that we were supposed to drink it. Teach us a lesson. I don't remember if we actually did though.

I have a photograph of Lynn, my grampa, and myself with a northern pike. I must have been about three years old. The fish was about the same height as I was. Grampa was wearing his overalls and his cap - a round cap with a brim that was flat on top. My grandparents were in this kitchen. My parents. Friends.

I made zucchini bread in this kitchen with Jenny Sutherland. We put in WAY too much baking soda and it was disgusting and inedible. I think we must have been about twelve.

Mostly when I walk into the kitchen what I remember is following Dad into the house. The way the house smells like Bondo. And mold. How he'd always offer me a Diet Coke (no, thanks.) I remember when we were talking about a friend of mine who used to foster kids, and he cared for a baby whose father had broken both of this little babies legs. Like little twigs he snapped them. Dad started to cry, and got up and went into the other room. He returned with a folder in which was the transcript of his time at the Children's Home Society. Of his own disturbing childhood.

There are pictures everywhere now on boards. Pictures from the memorial service. Pictures that break my heart all over again every time I walk into the house. I look at the pictures, and I know what the era was in which they were taken. Whether they were from those years when Dad was so mad all the time. I know that look. The one that said you were in trouble for breathing. Some were later, when he'd been left alone by everyone and started to think about whether just maybe it was his own doing. Maybe he needed to settle down. maybe it was time to just stop and be a better person. From that time when he was a better person.

When he was older, he would laugh more. Smile more. Hug us. Tell us he loved us. he'd practically beg you to stay just a little longer. And you would, but it was never long enough for him. And I rarely took him up on his offer to make dinner. I never quite got to that place where I was comfortable just being with him. I never quite let down my guard. There was always this strain of fear I guess. Something that warned me not to get too close or sit too long.

I always thought that there would be another day when I could try again. But we ran out of days before I ever found that place where I could relax with him and not feel tense. As long as we were moving around the yard, digging in the garage, standing outside...I was okay. but sitting down with him was hard. because conversation would always go to what I should be doing. What the kids should be doing. I always felt like it went to his comfort zone, which was making me feel like I wasn't good enough. The kids weren't doing well. If only I had a garage, or fixed up the house, or cleaned, or could stand up to the people at work, or WHATEVER. Sometimes I would end up crying after talking to him, and I'd call my mom, who would commiserate because she, too, knew that he didn't MEAN to make me feel that way. he just DID. What he wanted to accomplish was the opposite...to tell me how I could make things better. To improve my lot, or I don't know... But it always served to make me feel small and alone. And like a failure. Which was what I grew up feeling like, and what I strove to get away from. When my marriage ended, Dad was quick to tell me what a piece of shit Michael always was. Which didn't actually help. I knew that he meant it to make me feel better, but it made me feel like I'd made all these mistakes all the way back 15 years earlier. I knew that he didn't like Michael. That was no secret. But I felt judged. And when he would talk about what the kids should be doing, I felt judged and again, like I'd failed. Which is how I still feel.

So when I go to Dad's house, I look around and I feel like a failure all over again. Look around. It's a pit. What was I doing trying to live my life and letting him live like this? I know that it wasn't like I could come over and change his world, but why couldn't I just come over and help a little? And I can answer that, too. Because he would drive me nuts.

So I would go over and we would joke around, and we'd go to Home Depot, or I'd get 2x4s or tile. We'd talk about other things...Marv and what HE should be doing. Which was fine mostly because I knew that Marv does whatever he wants to do, too, and he's just fine. So nothing Dad said bothered me on that score.

But after a while I would start feeling like I had to get away. It was that sense of fear or flight or fight or something that would just appear and drive me away. I loved him, but was afraid to love him. I was afraid to be loved by him. There'd been too many years of fear and pain. I just couldn't seem to put it all behind me.

And now, I go to the house, and that fear and pain is still there, but he's gone, and it seems like everything that was good went with him, and now I'm just left with this gaping wound of what's left behind.

I can't look at a dowel - which I've found several of - without thinking of being beaten with them. Ditto for the belts. At what point does that go away? I've spent more of my life NOT being beaten than I did being beaten, and yet, here I am again. In that place. Mentally and physically. I'd finally put it all somewhere in my head where I could deal with it. And boom, it's all right back in my face. The good, the bad and the ugly. The dichotomy that was my dad. that was our relationship. All sorted out at one point now thrown back up in the air like 52 pick up.

And I know that it will never be over. That you can't really ever completely settle this complicated of a relationship. You can put it somewhere else for a while and then come back to it later. But it's not gone. It's just over there. And I could deal with it over there. THIS, I don't know how to deal with.

So I'm depressed again. I spent most of my life depressed. And I really thought I'd put all that behind me, too. I forgave him. I moved on. I still forgive him. But now I have to be in it all again. Steeped in his world. And I finally loved him...from afar mostly...but I did. And I was good with our relationship as it was. So now we have this new relationship. One where he gets to write me letters from the grave and I don't get to respond. One where I feel like I wish we'd had something different, but I can't imagine how we could have, and if he were alive, how it would be different now. And just thinking about it, I feel uncomfortable again just as I would when he was alive. But I want him to be alive again. I want that relationship back. I want to be able to go see him, and then leave and know that he would still be there when I came back.

I want to be able to hang up after talking to him, and go on with my life, knowing that we'll talk again in a month.

I just don't want him to be dead anymore. I'm not liking this. And I can't change it any more than I could change things when he was alive.

Well, I'm here puttering away on my new computer, and I just closed the window on the last blog that I wrote before saving. (Accidentally...I still don't quite know how to drive this thing...) So I'm starting over.

I had a short short day today because I worked last Saturday, so Marv and I hopped in my super cool Dodge Avenger rental car (my car is at Abra), and tooled all over Faribault picking up boxes. We then zipped onto the freeway, stopped at Starbucks and headed to Dad's to show off my accomplishments from last weekend and drop off the boxes. Then to Best Buy where I acquired this fancy schmancy computer, and then to Greenmill!

Now I'm home and after a super quick set-up time, I'm already surfing, writing and in general enjoying the world of speedy technology!

Not much to report really. Just kind of exploring this new computer and loading some stuff on it...I have a CD drive to connect still (they no longer make desktops with the CD drive in them! Apparently it's obsolete. Whatevs.) Gotta get the word processing stuff on there, too. But in the mean time, I'm just kind of enjoying the speed and the big screen!

What I wanted to do today:
Work on some pottery
Write my blog
Watch a movie with Marv

What I did today:
Worked
Went to dinner with Marv
Did pottery while watching a couple of movies
Sketched in my blog
Did laundry

Pretty close.

The Five Stages of Grief:
1) WHAT THE FUCK!?!?!?
2) Unbe-fucking-lievable.
3) This sucks
4) This really really sucks
6) It's never going to go away.

The dogs are out in the hallway scruffling about being left out of the room. But I sleep better without them and I have to be at work at 7:30am. Then I'm picking Grey up at Maelee's and heading to Richfield where I will drop off a debit card for a member before heading to Dad's house to further torture myself while I get filthy. Can't wait. I might stop at Best buy to look at the computer and/or go to Unique/Value Village because it's winter clearance time and I need new pants. I don't know WHERE the fuck my pants go. It's a mystery. How can they just disappear? And yet, they are gone. I'm missing a black pair of jeans and a blue pair of jeans.

Sunday after breakfast I'm going to go to Lynn's to do my taxes on Turbo tax - which apparently Minnesotans are not supposed to use this year. then to Dad's again.

Fun times will be had by all.

I'm taking a long lunch today and it couldn't come a moment too soon. I'm actually having heart palpitations at work. This hasn't happened to me in a very long time. And it's not caused by my work, but rather by my work environment. Specifically, one person in my work environment who is driving me batty. Seriously. I need to bring in some soothing music or burn a candle or something before I go insane.

Marv told me that according to someone who did some study on annoying cubemates, I'm letting my reptilian brain control me, rather than using my higher functions like emotional brain or...I don't know what. Something that would make me NOT want to build a wall between my cube and hers.

She's loud. But she's not JUST loud. She talks to her self NON-stop in a loud voice. From the moment she enters the cube to the minute she leaves for one of her four hundred smoke breaks (each at 10 minutes), she TALKS. "Let's see...it's 2:30. So I just need to get this email set up and then..." ON AND ON.

But wait, there's more! She also coughs (because she smokes like a chimney - though according to her she smokes less...less than WHAT? I want to ask, but don't), she clears her throat (loudly), she blows her nose (loudly) all the time. She has this barking laugh that drives me insane, mostly because it's LOUD.

I try to separate out what she can control (loud talking) from what she can't (nose blowing?) and mitigate my irritation that way, but it's a losing battle.

This woman has it all. She's the total Annoying Cube Mate package. I was wracking my brain yesterday trying to think of something that she could add to her repertoire that would make her more annoying, but I failed. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure there's someone out there who is more annoying. But I can't imagine it any more than I could imagine what it would be like to sky dive out of a rocket ship.

But what can I do? So she takes long breaks - frequently. Does it bother me that she is essentially giving her self an extra 80 minutes a day not working? yes. But would it bother me MORE if she were sitting there making loud noises for that 80 minutes? Immensely! So I say, Smoke 'em if you got 'em! Let's see if we can't make that three pack a day habit four. I know it seems like a lot, but in this life, you have to push to reach that next level of achievement! Don't rest on your laurels!

I could go on with the annoying habits, but it's enough to just vent. And I have just spent 15 minutes of my break thinking and talking about her, so that seems like enough as well.

Soon enough I will be doing my version of Pee Wee Herman in "Pee Wee's Big Adventure." You know at the end where they are showing the movie of his life and he says, in response to his girlfriend who wants to watch the movie, "I don't have to watch it...I LIVED it." That's me. I don't have to write about it, I'm LIVING it.

So this weekend, I spent several hours working on Dad's basement. Saturday Mom was there with me and Marv, so we went out to Houlihan's - which has great brunch by the way - and celebrated her birthday. Then back to Dad's house where Mom continued in her quest to sort his thousands of videotapes. We worked on one tool bench, which consisted of emptying and sorting the contents of twenty drawers and the counter top into about fifteen boxes of assorted types of tools: electrical doo-dads, sockets, ratchets and their accessories, screws, washers and other non-nail hardware, painting supplies, compressor-driven tools, and more. After a combined total of about twelve hours, you can almost tell that we did something.

I washed my hands so many times that if one didn't know me, one might think I was prone to compulsive cleanliness. Even my FACE was filthy. But it was interesting. We were sorting hardware - bags upon bags of washers, screws, bolts and the like. I would pick up a little bag that contained about 50 or more of the said items, put the things that had fallen out of the bag back in it and hand it to Marv, who would patch the hole with duct tape. Holding out his hand to receive a bag and the other hand to give me the one he'd just patched, he'd say, "There's MORE?" Every time. Times fifty. But it continued to be funny because of the way he'd say it. Like he was astonished anew at each bag that appeared.

A thousand tiny little pieces of flotsam managed to find their way into boxes. One box of "miscellaneous" turned into two and then four. I had a box of "What the HELL is that?" tools. We moved some of the things that seemed worth cleaning up to sell up into the "selling room," which is a room on the main floor of the house where items that might some day land on eBay start their journey out of the darkness and into the light.

I'd find these random little tools that were just goofy, and somewhere in my mind I'd hear a distant memory speaking to me: "That goes with the torch." or "That's for the compressor." So many tools that I could remember from my teen years spent in the body shop fixing cars. I glowed with pride when Dad would tell me, "Wow! You really have a gift for painting!" And I remember the way that you are supposed to spray paint a car. The long smooth flow left to right with your finger on the trigger, and then the quick release and flick of your wrist that starts you back on your journey to the far left side of the car. The way that the next line of paint will feather onto the previous coat with an exactly perfect overlap. Too much, and you'll sag. Too little and you leave a paintless gap.

It brings up vast oceans of memories to be sorting through this random crap. Memories of working in the garage, of the way he would never throw anything out because everything could be fixed or re-utilized in some way. Not an environmentalist by anyone's standards, my dad truly was one of the first recyclers. He saved things not because he wanted to keep them from going into a landfill, but because you just never knew when you were going to need that seemingly useless thing. And I admit that even as I tossed items that were VERY clearly garbage, I could feel him saying, "HEY! What are you doing with that? It's perfectly good." But I knew in my heart that if *I* could throw it away, it's really garbage. Because I can't throw away anything useful either. Only it actually has to be useful in some real-life way, and not in some imaginary, if only there were pixie dust kind of way.

On Saturday, I looked in the binder that my mom started. She's been going through Dad's spiral bound notebooks and pulling out things that seem meaningful. There's a letter from Dad's dog Max...of course Dad wrote it, but Max signed it. It's written after Max died, apologizing for having to leave Dad. It broke my heart. Then there was another letter to us girls...I wasn't able to read the whole thing. But at the bottom, underlined three times, were the words, "I LOVE YOU SO MUCH."

I skimmed these letters, unable to read them, and started to sob. I walked out of the living room and into the kitchen, followed by Mom and Marv, and Mom hugged me and we cried together. She said, "It's so hard." What else can you say. It's so hard.

Last Thursday after work, Billie and I were walking from Depot Square down about a block to the long-term parking lot where those of us who work the late shift have to park. (The early birds get the close spots.) I don't mind because I don't get much exercise sitting all day on the phones, so it's kind of nice to get just that short walk. We're talking and walking and almost to the cars. We stop to talk a bit - finish our thoughts - and we watch a Ford F150 turn it's wheels and start to slowly back up...into my car. It crunches the back door, and then stops. I hear the passenger - a man - say, "I think you'd better go forward." I hear myself moan just a little as the big truck rolls forward and the rear driver's side door pops back out and releases with a crunching sound.

The subsequent exchange of information and the days of exchanged emails though aren't really the part of the story that relates to my whole state of mind.

On Monday, the driver's insurance company called me at work to ask me where I wanted to bring my car to have the damage repaired. What body shop do I want to use?

It's a seemingly innocuous question except that it started a cascade of emotions and questions. I'd NEVER in my life had to find a body shop. I GREW UP in a body shop. Resler's Body Shop. That's my body shop! Since Dad retired, I'd never had any car that had any body shop needs. When I was in my teens, I got in an accident that would, in another life, have totaled my car. It didn't occur to me to do anything but drive it home, put it in the drive way and pick it up later. Good as new.

When I got divorced and my out-laws insisted that they wanted the van back, Dad got me a free van. It just needed some work. Dad and Kevin fixed it up, put a new paint job on it and it was good to go. No fuss no muss. No wondering about body work, or worry about rust holes. All better.

I always knew that if I needed a body shop, it was right there at home waiting for me. I grew up with the vernacular of a body shop coursing through my literary veins. I could discuss DA's and bondo, fiberglass and wet sanding. I know what orange peel is and what sags are. I understand the process of stripping a car. I know how to get a candied finish.

What I don't know, apparently, is how to answer a simple question, "Where do you want to bring your car?" I was stymied. More than stymied. I was hurt by the question. Finally I just said that I didn't care. The very nice woman - who probably thought i was a lunatic - gave me the name of the nearest body shop - an Abra shop (previously known as "the competition" and "where the losers bring their cars.") She said that she'd contact them and have them call me. I hung up the phone and started to weep. At work. Over choosing a body shop.

Is it wrong that I want to watch them work on my car? And that I will hate them for doing it? And that I will hear Dad in my head also watching them and telling me that I should have gone somewhere else because he knows a guy who could do it for free because that guys owes him a favor?

Maybe I'll strike up a conversation with them and tell them about the sale that we'll be having. Selling lots of body shop things that they could probably use. There are new paint guns, and masks. There are cans of paint, thinner, adhesive...

Eventually we will have everything sorted out in the basement. Boxes of this and that. And it will go to new homes and the name engraved on the handle won't mean a thing. That buzzing engraver that distorted but never completely disguised Dad's handwriting - "RESLER" "RESLER" "RESLER" etched forever into my heart.

Today marked my first foray into the world of extreme adventures. Just moments after the initial horror of realizing I'd accidentally signed myself up to participate in the Polar Plunge, I realized that I would do it. No such thing as an accident and all that.

I worked this morning in Lakeville and then headed over to Jodi's to pick up Grey, who I'd dropped off this morning.

We went and got something lunch at Arby's and then headed to the "staging area" aka Brunswick bowl. The bus ride to the lake left us there at about 2:45 or so. I don't recall the exact time. But our timing was all off because our jump time ended up being 3:30 instead of 2:30.

Other than the logistics, I wasn't worried about it. My biggest concern was the certain knowledge that NO ONE looks good in a flying pig hat, and being I'm about as fat as I've ever been, I, in particular, do not. Again, OH WELL!

We got to the warming house and shed our outer clothing, stashing our dufflebags and whatever else we had and then posing for a few pictures. Holding hands with Alex, who was flanked by her mom, LeaAnn, I trudged over the walkway and through the legs of the inflated polar bear until I stood facing the yawning stretch of open water that had been carved in the lake. I was vaguely aware of someone saying something about Affinity Plusicles, and then there was a splash and the next thing I knew I was hurling myself into the frigid water.

The burning cold of the water took my breath away and I could hear Alex shrieking in my right ear. Reassured by her screams that she was still sentient enough to make noise, and I was still sentient enough to hear it, I hung on and hustled through what felt like a quarter of a mile of ice-cold water and slogged up the exit ramp. There was a moment when I was pulling my body from the water that I felt a sudden drag and exhaustion. It was the extra weight of my water-logged clothing. Also, it's cold. Really cold. Prior to actually jumping, I thought that the water temperature would be warmer than the air temperature, but at that moment, honestly, what difference does it make? It's like contemplating the difference between hitting your head repeatedly with a hammer or a monkey wrench. Either way, you'd just like it to stop.

In the few feet from the end of the exit ramp from the Hole - as I've come to see it - to the hot tubs, my body started to shiver. I mean really shiver. That sickening quivering feeling that you get when you've had four cups of coffee and no food and it's only eight a.m. A mix of adrenaline and hypothermia. The hot tubs were being vacated - not fast enough - by the previous group of jumpers - people I saw at that moment as a lazy bunch of bastards in my hot tub. "Get OUT!" was the insistent scream that echoed in my head. Wisely, they beat it and our group slid into the most blissful tub of hot water that I have ever been in. We hooted and high-fived. Alex voiced what I think we all were either consciously or subconsciously thinking: "I DID IT! I REALLY DID IT!"

After the hot tub, we zipped to the heated tent and while I was not completely oblivious to undressing in front of people I'd never really hoped to get naked with, it was not at the top of my list of things to worry about. Top two concerns: 1) Get out of these f'ing wet clothes and 2) get into those f'ing dry clothes. Nothing else really mattered at that point. I kind of wish there'd been a stop watch because I'm pretty sure that I set some kind of world record for fastest change of clothing.

We exited the tent and reunited with our now BFFs outside. A few more woo hoos and I headed to find my sister and her family. I remembered that we'd exchanged a "we'll meet here," and saw them waving from the coffee stand up on the hill. Warmed by my Olympic changing event, I waited in line for the bus to return us to the Bowling alley and then to our car. I have to admit that while I had experienced the kind of cold normally reserved for accident victims, I felt pretty sorry for the spectators. I had adrenaline to warm my blood. They had only each other and Caribou. That's only one reason I think that next year they should also jump. Gives you something to keep you warm! (Ironic, no?)

Anyway, Starbucks Chai and salmon at the Depot rounded out my evening and I now have a new appreciation for my electric blanket. (Don't worry Electric Blanket, I always appreciated you.)

It's a two dog, two cat night and I'm just happy to have lived to experience it!

I have on my desk at work a photo of Marv, the kids and myself. It's a family portrait that I had done not too long ago - within the last year or so. My boss came over and told me that when I show the picture to someone new I should explain who Marv is because otherwise they ask her later, "So is that her dad?" She was kind of teasing, so I put a small post it note that said, "Not My Dad" with an arrow pointing to Marv on the picture. She and laughed so hard she said she wouldn't have to do sit ups that night.

I told Marv about it, and he said that one of the new waitresses at the Depot asked him, "will your daughter be joining you tonight?" I asked him what he responded, and he said that he said "no." I punched him and said, "You did not. What did you really say?" He said he ignored her. LOL

Anyway, it always strikes me as odd because we've been together almost four years now. At some point you just kind of think that everyone - EVERYONE - must know. Whether they know you or not. A friend of mine asked me why people even care, and I said that I don't think it's so much that they "care" per se, but rather that it's just human nature to try to put things into an understandable category. You see a much older man with a younger woman, and you have to put it somewhere, so you rifle through the files trying to figure out where this fits.

Anyway, so the man who is NOT my father and I decided to head out tonight and do something fun. It's been a while since I've had the energy. I arrived at his house, and he had built a shelf unit today and wanted to slap it into the red room. Not gonna happen. I said, This is how the room got to be cluttered in the first place. So we re-arranged the TV room so that it would be in a good spot.

Then we headed north to the Woodcraft Supply store, which had anti-fatigue floor mats for about half price. Then to Baker's Square for pot roast. Then to Starbucks for lemon poundcake and chai for me and mocha latte for Marv.

Then we stopped at Barnes and Noble where I got several magazines. Marv is fasting and didn't get anything.

Then around 9:45 we headed home. It's now about 11:50 (I'm practicing using the numbers) and I need to get to sleep. I'm wearing my "Sleeps With Dogs" nightshirt that Marv got me for Christmas and indeed the dogs are sleeping on my bed.

saturday I work in Lakeville and then will be hurling myself into a hole cut in the icy lake. Not really sure why, but there it is.

Anyway, I'm off to sleep now. :)

As I lit my green candle, and settled into bed with left over pizza and the dogs, it strikes me again, as it does several times a day: "My dad is dead." And some part of me pushes the thought away as quickly as it arises. I feel a rising tide of images - some visual, some sensory - of my dad. His scratchy cheek as he gives me a quick kiss. The warmth of his skin under his dress shirt that last day I saw him. I see his hands - fingers slightly bent from arthritis as they clutch a can of Diet Coke.

And I shove the thoughts violently away from the center of my mind into the recesses, where they can gather strength to attack me again tomorrow.

I wipe the flood of tears from my face, blow my nose, and try again.

I open the book of travel stories and try to accompany Catherine as she shoots the rapids on the Colorado River. Some of these stories I recognize from our week together at the Split Rock writing retreat. She didn't read her stories, but she would share them with the group as we traded our own stories amongst ourselves. Ever supportive, she left a lasting impression on me as a person of great strength and kindness. I like to think I share some of those qualities, but I doubt that I will ever share her prolific writing abilities.



I can't focus. An unmedicated victim of ADD no doubt. I made some cups with goats on them tonight and threw a birdhouse while I listened to "Unbroken" on CD. I read for a bit, wrote for a bit, cried for a while, filled the dog's water dish and meditated on this weird mole that seems to be growing at a disconcerting clip. My doctor says we should do something about it, but some dark and morbid part of me hopes that it will just consume me and let me off the hook from all the grief that I feel now, and that I know that I will face in the future. I realize that to anyone outside my brain, this seems horrifying and ridiculous, but it brings me a sort of comfort. Probably something my therapist would have loved to work with, though I'm sure it wouldn't have surprised her.

The dog came in from the cold, but it seems to have settled in her feet and her ears because she's burrowing her frosty little body into my leg, trying to get as close to the electric blanket as she can. She's given up her bobbing and weaving and is quiet now because the pizza is gone and there's no hope for her of getting even a smackerel and she knows it.




And as I sit here thinking of other things, there's a guy in my head with a little poker keeping that other voice away.

"He's dead."
I know.
Shut up.

It seems truly impossible. Unbelievable. I think if I just stay here, and NEVER look back, it will be like it's not there. This truth. This unbearable reality. The guy with the poker replies, "He CAN'T be. You don't know this guy. He doesn't die. It's just not something he would do." And I get the newsreel with the images of him in the garage a few months ago, handing me boxes of tiles and saying, "What are you going to do with all these?" He offers me a diet pop, which I decline, and invites me to sit on the couch. We are roaming the isles at Home Depot. Sitting at Arby's. And again I can't take it and I weep.



But it's not enough to cry. It doesn't fix anything and it doesn't make me feel better. He's still dead and I'm still sad. And even the word doesn't seem big enough to encompass this loss. And THAT word, LOSS, doesn't seem big enough either.

Next weekend I jump into a frozen lake. And I've gone from ridiculing the idea, to dreading it, to thinking, "Good. That will be a feeling that's totally new and which will seriously take my mind off this OTHER horrible feeling for a while." Like the only thing that could possibly divert me from the sudden flashes of realization that he's dead is to have a sudden flash of my own mortality. And maybe I'll have a heart attack and drown. That would also be distracting.

Sometime in the days before Dad died, I remember thinking with surprise that the depression that had gripped me for years seemed to be really gone. I felt anxious, sure, but not that clawing darkness that hovered in the background even when it wasn't actively gripping me. And now, it's back. Skirting around, trailing me like a shadow. Making it hard to be alone with my thoughts.


I was trying to find a poem today on my computer and came across one that I'd written about my dad just a year or two ago. And it's funny because I have a lot of them.

Anyway, I'm tired and now I'm going to put some lotion on my clay-dried hands and go to sleep. Tomorrow is Sunday, which means breakfast and crossword, which I always like.

It has come to my attention that I am exhausted. Not just a little exhausted, but that kind of "I think I'd like to just lie down in the middle of the bread aisle" exhausted that I think so many would love to succumb to except for the danger of carts.

So, with that in mind, I share the following story that shows my deep love for my children.

Last night after work I came home with the idea that I would heat up some lentil soup, make a sandwich and just chill out. However, when I got home, Greyson was just finishing up making chicken parmagian (or however the Hell you spell that.) He was going to throw in the pasta in 7 minutes because Maelee was expected in 15. Apparently it's 8 minute pasta. Anyway, they were having their Valentine's Day dinner a day earlier than expected. By me.

So Marv and I went to McDonalds where I had a salad. Then I was...well, Exhausted...so I dropped him off at home and came home to shed my work clothes, and climb into bed with a good book. But, because this is never the way my life goes, Gabe says to me, "Will you give me a ride to Archery?" It's only over at the fairgrounds, so I affirmed that I would, and put my shoes and coat back on. As we were on our short journey, he invited me to shoot with him.

I would like to interject that I was EXHAUSTED. And, also, I don't like to socialize with people I don't know, so, you know. I said, sure. How often does an 18 year old boy invite his mother to do ANYTHING with him? Not often.

So with much trepidation, I followed him into the Rice County Fairgrounds Archery building. I'd worried aloud that the other people who would be there would all be his age, but he assured me that there would be other "old people" for me to bond with, and there were, indeed others my age there. He grabbed a compound bow and arrows and we sauntered over to the range. A guy that I SWEAR I know - I think he's a cop or something - gave us a primer on how to use said bow and arrow. Apparently we had that shiny brand-new look upon us.

I was happy for the info, but Gabe was doing what kids his age do: looking around and saying, "Yeah, I know that." (I could tell that he didn't, though.) Anyway, I watched Gabe shoot at the pheasant target for a while before I felt confident enough to get a bow and a quiver-full of arrows of my own.

My target was a deer, who happened to be positioned about 18 inches from a beaver. I honestly can say that the idea of hunting beaver with any sort of weapon, much less a bow and arrow, had never crossed my mind. And I wasn't shooting at the beaver, but he did make me want to shoot him. He had a certain look on his face. Sort of smarmy and challenging. Like he knew that if he flinched, I would miss him anyway. Even if I was aiming for him.

I was pretty pleased with my shot that hit the deer smack between the eyes. I realize that with a bow and arrow especially that isn't where you want to hit the deer, but still it was satisfying.

The next hour or so passed pleasantly with Gabe and I sharing laughs and cameraderie over our pretend killing spree. And I like to think that I proved myself a worthy enough companion that he might invite me to share in his world again some day. But even if this was a one-time experience, it was a nice way to pass an evening, and I realized, on the ride home, while we shared my stash of Girl Scout cookies, that I wasn't as tired as I'd thought.

My last Wednesday free. I got to a regular Monday through Friday schedule starting tomorrow. Which will probably be good from the perspective of being able to keep up with the workflow, but is not good from the perspective of I DON' WANNNNAAAA! And the latter wins.

Today to celebrate my last day of weekday freedom, Marv and I went to the Maple Grove Goodwill (Senior discount day Goodbye!), then to the Rush Creek Studios, which is right by there, then to Minnesota Clay. After that we went to the Original Pancake House which has, hands down the BEST eggs benedict. (Or Eggs Benedictine as Marv - who went to St. John's - would say.)

Then we went to Value Village. I totally forgot that he wanted to go to the Woodcraft store to get a floor mat. DAMN! Anyway, we were then totally pooped, and I brought him home to meditate before Pinky showed up for dinner and carving. I came home and laid down. Dee Dee called, and I was on the phone with her for about two hours. I tried like Hell to recover her Plenty of Fish info, but it seems that it was somehow deleted, so we set up a new account for her. Which is, I'm sure, even better than the last one, because I think we're just getting better at this every time! So we got that done, and she got a chat request from some guy almost immediately, and went to go chat.

I havent' had dinner, but I'm also feeling pretty lethargic, so I'm not sure that's going to happen at all at this point. My eyes are burning. I hate to hit the hay at 8:15 on my last free Wednesday though. Feels like a snow day or somthing - like I should just savor it.

I got into a bit of an argument with Dave today on Facebook. Sometimes his views and his naivete that allows him to just post any damn thing he sees that supports his opinion just get me SO frickin irritated. So I pretty much let him have it. He sent me a private message that said he was deleting his posts and mine and we could debate in private. I said I didn't want to debate with him, I just want him to stop posting untrue crap that insults both the person it refers to and every one who reads it. So far no response to that. LOL

Anyway, as I was delving into my old Yahoo account, trying to find Dee Dee's old Plenty of Fish info, I stumbled across the emails that I'd exchanged with my ex-whatever, Jeff.

And I have to say, that if I were him, I would have been incredibly impressed with my insight, honesty, and just plain old word smithy-ness. I mean, I was! LOL it did make me wonder what he's up to. I got a friend request from him on Facebook about a year ago or so...I don't remember when. I never replied and it's still there. It's weird. I don't want to talk to him or reconnect, I just want to glimpse inside his brain and see if he's still as completely fucked up as he was four years ago. Too bad there's not an app for that. Just a matter of time though I think.

My father's motto and mantra for most of my growing-up years was "expect nothing and you'll never be disappointed." I always thought this was such a cop-out. A way to say that you should never strive and make yourself vulnerable to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. In a way, I guess I still feel that it's a sad affront to hope.

In his later years, I heard him say this less and less as he opened up his heart more and more. I can still remember being in my early twenties, living near him in Richfield, married with small children. He stood in the doorway of my home, leaving by way of the side door that opened into the garden. He stood there a moment longer than I thought completely necessary before saying, "I love you." I didn't know what to say. I couldn't remember ever having heard him say that before, and I wasn't sure what kind of response to give. It forced me to think...did I love him, too? Could I say it to him? It was too much too fast and I didn't have time to respond.

I wonder now, did he expect nothing? Was he disappointed?

My dad used to tell us girls that he was going to make us a go-kart. He had all the parts, he said, and we would have races. This thing would go eighty on the freeway. I didn't really expect there to be a go-kart, and I was not disappointed when one never appeared. My dad was full of a lot of talk, and per his own motto, we expected very little of it to culminate into anything real. I don't remember ever expecting any of his proclamations of what could be to become anything more than the fantasy that he created. When my kids were little, he started telling them about the go-kart, too. I didn't particularly want my kids racing down the freeway in a homemade go-kart at eighty miles an hour anyway, but I wasn't worried. They, however, did seem a little invested in this dream of his. And while I re-phrased Dad's motto, the gist of it was the same: There will be no go-kart. Expect no go-kart, and you will not be disappointed when there is no go-kart. And it worked because there was no go-kart and the kids didn't expect one. But still, I felt like a kill-joy. Even though I don't remember ever experiencing anything like joy when it would come up. But I have to admit, it did become a source of some humor. I think perhaps that Dad meant it as a joke after a period of time.

But when I think about my relationship with my dad, it really was all about expections and disappointment and learning how to control both. On both sides. When I was a kid, I had hopes that he would be the funny, charming, joking Dad that he COULD be, all of the time. I wanted THAT guy to live with. Instead, I got the moody, sometimes violent Dad that I grew to hate, then tolerate then eventually love. I shed the expectations that he could be that guy all of the time. I actually started to forget that he could EVER be that guy by the time I left home at seventeen. I left and I didn't look back. It was over ten years after that before I heard the story of his childhood, and was able, as a parent, to see the pain that made him who he was when I was a kid. I was in my late twenties when I heard of his abandonment as a baby, the tearing away of his family when he was seven, and the abuse that followed. And not just his abuse, but the pain of everyone involved. Suddenly I understood what he meant. Not that you don't appreciate what you get, but that sometimes the pain of an expectation dashed is greater than thrill of anticipation when you are really believing that it might happen for you.

When you are a child, you can't help but expect things. In fact, it's more than an expectation, it's a demand. "Mine!" "Gimme!" And perhaps when you spend your early life receiving what you want, and then one day you not only lose everything you had, but can never again have it...and you KNOW it. It's not possible that you might have it again...you find that you suffer less if you don't want. Don't expect. Don't hope.

Which is every bit as depressing and sad as I ever thought it was when Dad was telling us "expect nothing and you'll never be disappointed." But perhaps it starts out that way, and transforms into something else. Instead of a way to insulate yourself from your needs and your inability to satisfy them, it becomes a wide-eyed openness to whatever may come.

I learned not to expect the go-kart, but the wonder of what I MIGHT find in that cavernous garage never left. I had no expectations when he would say, "Did I show you what I got last week?" But I certainly wondered. And honestly, there was usually no way to prepare yourself for what you were shown. And disappointed? No, definitely not. Because there was no expectation. I think surprised is always a better description of my reaction to his latest acquisitions.

One day I stopped at his house after work. I don't remember if I had a reason for going or not. Most likely I did. I didn't usually stop by unless I had a reason. I walked into the kitchen and saw a wheelchair. Huh. I thought. He must be having some mobility issues. Though there was hardly enough room to turn around, much less navigate with a wheelchair. But I proceeded through the house and upon entering the hallway saw that in the living room there were two more wheelchairs. Now THIS was something to start to wonder about. In the office was yet another wheelchair. "Dad," I said, as he put on his shoes, "what's with the wheelchairs?" In his deadpan style, he grabbed his cap and headed out the door commenting only, "I'm starting a team."

The real story was that he'd bought a wheel chair, for prices ranging from five to twenty-five dollars, depending on when you asked, and cleaned it up and re-sold it for up to two hundred and fifty dollars - again depending on when you asked. But that was the most common number quoted.

Anyway, that first taste of a successful sale led him to purchase several more wheelchairs. And to be honest, it's definitely contagious. Every time since then that I see a wheelchair at a thrift store, I think about it's condition and price and while I wouldn't say I'm STRONGLY considering getting one. The thought does cross my mind.

At Thanksgiving this past year, we suggested to him that we should bring all these wheelchairs out and have wheelchair races. His initial reluctance (these are SALES pieces after all) gave way to his enthusiasm for souping up anything with wheels. By the time we'd exhausted the conversation, we'd discussed jet packs, flames, safety gear, handicapping (with irony), and every other permutation of wheelchair racing that you can consider. In our minds, we'd done it to death. And I think had Dad's shoulders not been causing him so much pain, we WOULD have done it.

Which brings me to the surgery on January second. Dad was in tremendous pain. I know that not because he ever said it, but because he agreed to have surgery. In my Dad's family, you only went into the hospital if there was no other choice. It was a place to die. And if you did go, the key was to get out as soon as possible. And so, Dad took his Tyrannasaurus arms, as we called them, to have them surgically repaired. He couldn't move his shoulders without great pain, and so could only really maneuver from his elbows up. Thus the moniker.

On Wednesday, they fixed his rotator cuffs and some other tears and things that they found. So nice that he was fully repaired upon going to his grave. Anyway, he wasn't even out of the anesthesia before he was trying to get his shoes on to escape the hospital. So probably too soon he went home.

And the next day he laid down to rest and never got up again.

And we are left to wonder, what did he expect? Really. What DID he expect? I wonder. On one hand I think he expected to recover. Well, in truth, expect is probably too strong of a word. He probably HOPED he would recover. But expectations are a funny thing, because I think he also expected that he would die. He left a list of things he wanted at his funeral. He put money in his bank account. He bought two bananas: one ripe, to eat before the surgery, and one green, to eat when he got back. He didn't want to get more than that because he didn't know what would happen. It's that old joke about not buying green bananas because you could die any minute. And he presented it as a joke to my sister, but I think also he meant it.

So if we assume that his expectation was to die, then he wasn't disappointed. The one time in his life that his motto truly did NOT work, and he wasn't even around to appreciate the irony.

Anyway, the older I've gotten, the more I've thought about those words, "Expect nothing and you'll never be disappointed." There were times in my life when I wholeheartedly agreed. Damn right. Expect nothing because that's exactly what you'll get! Which is one way to look at it.

Another way is the way that I think I prefer: If you have no expectations then you can be surprised by what you get, instead of disappointed when you don't get what you wanted.

I'm not sure that's the lesson Dad was trying to teach - if there was a lesson in it at all - but that's the one I'm going with for today.

January 19, 2013.
After work I drove to a member's house in North Minneapolis to have them sign a line on the title that they'd missed. It was very near to the cemetery, so I stopped by and happened to have my notebook on me. Here are the notes:

The earth that covers your grave is cracked and the flowers - two weeks in the winter's cold - are weary of their vigil and hang their chilly heads. I take the eucalyptus from the bedraggled bouquets knowing it will infuse my car with an exotic smell that will sooth as it needles my memories.

I don't stay long. Just long enough to be filled anew with the grief of losing you. I try to reconcile my right to feel this way against the memories of what we were not.

I know that we never really got much closer than arms length, and I know, too, that you wanted more. But I had no more to give you and I am reconciled to that in your death as I was in your life.

And yet, the child within me cries out "DADDY!" into the wind. The bare trees wave and the crows fly high, and no one hears. Not even you now...perhaps the only one who would have wanted to hear.

I went to pick up the kids from Tommy's house in Richfield. It was too icy to drive there yesterday - especially with my very bald tires. (It's on my list.)

I was surprised by the quantity of snow that was on the ground there. Apparently they had 3-5 inches yesterday. Whereas we, here in Faribault, got nada. We got a lot of rain, ice, sleet, and slush. No snow. So the roads were a virtual skating rink. The kids missed school today, but the frustration comes from Greyson's NOT calling or emailing his teachers, and he missed his appointment with the advisors where they were all going to meet with his ethics teacher! He "forgot" to contact them. I even reminded him, but no.

So anyway, I'm frustrated with that. You can lead a horse to water and all that. These are the times, which are frequent and nagging, that I would LOVE to have him live with his father or his grandparents and let them try their hand. It ain't easy!

Anyway, so tomorrow I have to bring him to school early and carry him to his advisors office to make him make a new appointment. I'll do that right after I give him his bottle and burp him. (At least I'm not bitter.)

The boys were at Carolyn's all weekend and didn't mention that their grandfather had died three weeks ago. So weird. So I talked to Carolyn and told her. She's so sweet and offered to do anything she could to help. Nothing really she CAN do, but it was nice of her to offer.

I also ran into my dad's neighbor's at McDonalds. I was running in to return my Redbox movies at the McD's in Richfield and there they were. I talked to Maria for a while. She was telling me that her dad died eleven years ago. He was on his first day of work riding on the back of the garbage truck - you know, where they used to ride to get the cans? And he fell off. She said he fell asleep and never woke up. I'm not sure exactly what she meant. I assume she meant a coma. Anyway, they brought his body back to Mexico, but because of all the paperwork, her dad was in the funeral home for a month before they could ship him. He was forty eight years old. So basically, she wins. Next to that, I got nothin. She said to let her know when we'd be at Dad's house and she would make us some food. (Mexican...yum.) Such a sweetheart. I can see why Dad liked them so much. It was funny, because when they first moved in, he was so bigoted about it. Upset that the Mexican family was moving in next door. But then soon he was fixing their bikes, and dragging the kids over to do stuff. They've been there for fourteen years. So by now, the kids, who are 14, 12 and 5, are part of Dad's extended family. They were so crushed when he died. Maria reminded me of how Dad used to always snowplow EVERYONE's driveway after a snowstorm. And of course, he would make us shovel everyone's walks. LOL I'd forgotten that.

I talked a few weeks ago to Dad's former neighbor, Lucy, and she said, and I quote, "Your dad was such a good neighbor to Chuck Knoss and I." And then later, "Chuck Knoss thought a lot of him." Um...how many people do you know who refer to their late husband by his first and last name? When she said it, my immediate reaction was to tell Dad. LOL He would have gotten a kick out of that and probably would have been able to explain it as well. We ALL called him Chuck Knoss. Like it was one word. But his WIFE??? Weird.

I have to call the high school tomorrow, too, to let them know that it's all my fault that Gabe didn't make it back for school today. They don't open until 8, and I'm already hard at work by then. Today at lunch we did Meals on Wheels. I can't BELIEVE how frickin' hot they keep those assisted living apartments. I think that's why they are so expensive - the heating bill. When I lived with my Gramma, she also kept the house at tropical temperatures. And it didn't matter if you were two rooms away from her, she could sense when you were near the thermostat, "GET AWAY FROM THERE!" she'd scream at you. And you would be standing there in front of the dial, fingers poised to make the very necessary adjustment, thinking, "HOW THE HELL DOES SHE KNOW I'M HERE!?!??!" Makes no sense. She had the senses of a dog. Like how do they know when someone will be home in fifteen minutes? How did the dogs know that Marv would be coming around the corner three minutes before he actually did? God only knows. Gramma probably would have.

Something in my room REEEKED of pee, and I couldn't figure it out. Well, today I did. It was a towel in the bathroom. I was on the pot, and the cat was sniffing it in a particular way, so I grabbed it and YES that little hairy bastard had peed on it. It was dry but stinky. so I threw him out of the room. Now it's just me, Tigger and the two dogs. There's barely room on the bed for me!

eulogy:
There is no way for me to sum up my relationship with Dad, and I can’t even imagine trying… I think most of his family and friends feel the same way. We all knew who he was and yet he was someone a little different with each of us. He was so completely engaged with whoever he was talking to, you always felt that intensity. Whether he was telling you what you SHOULD be doing for a career, or explaining the ins and outs of something that you were pretty sure he’d never actually done, he was all yours for that time. There was no one else in the room when he zoomed in on a conversation with you.

But he also had his “Classic” sayings and behaviors: “YEAH BOY!” “AH! GOD!” “Come on, you know you want to…” that he would say to everyone, but you knew that THAT time, he meant it just for you.

Monday night, Doug, Jack, Jodi and my son Gabe were sitting around talking and I said that I thought Dad used humor as a way to keep a little bit of a safe distance from his emotions. He knew that a joke could deflect something that looked like it was going to get too emotional. And in a way I think, his final instructions for his funeral were his way of trying to save us all once again. Just like when your pipes burst at 2am in January or your car broke down on the side of the road…this was another emergency that he knew how to fix.

Cuz all a guy needs to do to ease the devastating pain of losing Dad is to laugh. And all you need is a couple of guys who know what they’re doing…and here we all are. Dad left us the tools and the knowledge of how to use them.

Unfortunately this is not a completely fool-proof plan. I know that we will be feeling his absence forever. I was always so relieved that he could fix the pipes, or get the car going – or at least bring his car dolly and get you out of there. And I guess in a way he’s doing it again. “We gotta get a handle on this,” I can hear him saying, “And then we can deal with the rest of it later.” Laughter, sharing stories, leaning on each other…that’s how we’ll get a handle on it. We’ll have the rest of our lives to deal with it.

In the meantime, this feels like an okay way to let him go. This feels about right, Dad. So Thanks. Thanks for being there one last time.


Graveside sonnet:

He is not here and will not feel the chill
Nor hear the silence of the falling snow
He will not hear the crows that scream and scold
But knows the truths that only death can know

He basks at last in God’s eternal glow
And finds the answers sought throughout his days
In peace he rises as we lay him low
To feel no more the pain of earthly ways

Surrounded by his family’s loving gaze
Everything he thought forever lost
Reunions full of love and holy praise
Taking place while we stand here in the frost

Celestial arms hold him while we wait
To meet again at Heaven’s holy gate

Today's sonnet:

The icy hand of Sorrow grasps at me
I dodge and feint but cannot break from her
She marks me with her angry filigree
And etches deep your living moniker

No smudge can make the burning lines a blur
No reason takes your name from off my heart
My every caution makes her grip more sure
And soon my frail resistance falls apart

Your voice, your laugh forever in the dark
Where silence mocks the echo of my pain
The searing ache that comes from Death’s sure mark
The howling of the wind that blows in vain

Keep back! I scream, to keep my thoughts at bay
But Death, you know, will always find a way.

My head feels like a pile of poop. But I talked to a co-worker who lost her dad early December, and she said she's just starting to feel a little clarity now. She said she didn't know if it was because she's just starting to really deal with the loss. we had this conversation because I told her how I was feeling just kind of foggy and lost today. That's not even really a good description. I felt - disconnected. Like my body was HERE, but my brain was somewhere else. An out of body experience where you still have to answer the phone.

Anyway, my mood is rubbing off on poor Marv, who was, I think, in a relatively good mood when we met for lunch, but while I tried to convey a perkier attitude than I was feeling, I could feel his buoyancy fading. And I feel guilty. I don't mean to bring anyone down, and I swear I'm trying to be "up," but I fear that I've never been much of a liar, and it shows on my face anyway. I'm trying so hard not to think about it that it ends up being all I can think about.

So after work, we went to Grand Plaza and had a sampler platter, then he wanted to walk home. It's frickin' freezing, so I guess that's how bad he wanted to get away from me. But I drove him home anyway and went to get gas in the car. My gas gauge isn't working properly. One more thing to worry about, but at least it's still under warranty. so I came home with the intention of putting in a movie and finishing up some clay stuff that I started eighty seven years ago. (Did I mention that my kiln should be back up to par now???) But I was freezing cold and decided that I would just warm up the electric blanket and stick my toes under there. then I thought, Well, I meant to write anyway, so why not do that? now I think I'll do my yoga. I have to do that anyway, and it will warm me up and give me some energy. I was too full before, so maybe now I'll do that.

Criminy, what's my word count? Maybe I should force myself to write a certain number of words. Or force myself to be meaningful. Or at least make sense. Nah. That's too much pressure. So it's 8:45pm now, and I'll do my yoga and then who knows. Maybe I'll do some pottery before I totally poop out.

Okay, it's an hour later and I did the yoga. My carpet stinks like animal pee. Dog or cat, who can tell? It's DisGUSTING. God, I wish I could rip up the carpet and start over. But perhaps I'll go rent a carpet cleaner again. or maybe just sew the animals' pee holes shut. GOD!

Two posts in one day. That's some kind of a record or something!

Darrell came over today and fixed my kiln. Though it's funny because the button that you push  in for the kiln to run would NOT stay in when I tried it, but the Marv came over and I pushed it to show him that it wouldn't stay in and...you guessed it...it stayed in. I'll have to let Darrell know.

 Anyway, I read a bit of Les Miserables, and then watched The Office (season 2), and took a little nap.

Then I got up and made some spinach artichoke dip (which, if truth be told, is really a multi cheese dip with spinach and artichoke added for texture and to rationalize putting all that cheese in one place.)

 Then I went to the grocery store for dog food, bread, chips (to convey the dip to our waiting mouths), and some diet cherry 7-Up and diet cranberry Mist. I had been thinking to myself that those two beverages seem to be about the same thing, so I laughed a little when I pulled them out of the fridge later and Marv commented, "Aren't those pretty much the same thing?"

 I heated up the seafood linguini from Sunday and the chicken wings from Tuesday and served with the fresh dip and chips.

We did our version of Chopped: commenting on the presentation, taste and creativity.  I noted that I wasn't really sure that I did a good job of marrying the components, as the chicken wings didn't seem to tie in with the other foods. Although the linguini and the dip were good together and the wings and the dip were good together. But I gave one of my wings to the dog and wondered aloud if the Chopped judges did the same thing with things that they don't like. After dinner we watched Babe (the pig.) I haven't seen that since my brain surgery forced me to watch the same two movies over and over and over in 1996. Babe and I think it was the Little Princess. Can't remember. Anyway, I watched it about 9 times back then, and haven't seen it since. Marv loved it. Then we went to McDonalds for a French Vanilla Latte (what did I do with that...must be downstairs. Damn. I'm all warm under my electric blanket.) and then brought Marv home and now I'm in bed. It's 11:00 pm, so I'd better just get my FVL and do my Sudoku and hit the hay.

Today is january 24. Exactly three weeks since my dad died. My new years resolution was to write every day, and I did that for the first two days of January. Then I continued, but wrote an obituary, a eulogy, and a graveside sonnet. Not what I had in mind. Since then, I've been writing sporadically. I'm on paper, in my notebooks and on a little tablet I keep in my pocket or on my computer - which is less reliable as it seems to decide to delete my words, which just frustrates me and makes me want to write LESS.

 Anyway, I just did The Firm's yoga workout. I barely broke a sweat but it feels like enough for today. I'm tired of my back and hip hurting and feel that perhaps this will help. It's been at least five years since I seriously did any working out, and I think it's time to start again. So I'm going to try to do this easy work out every day for a week, and then maybe amp it up a little by adding the extra touches that are not "for the beginners, you'll stay here" as Kirsten keeps advising. I can feel the stretch and pull in my back, which feels good. The pain is a bummer.

I have to call Jeff back and tell him that yes, I did injure myself playing racquetball, but I have no one to blame but myself since I just can't seem to rein in my competitive spirit even in the face of a young guy in his early twenties who clearly can spank me at any sport he should choose. But I feel like I could get him in Scrabble. Though I don't think I'll have the chance.

 Anyway, Marv is waiting for me at the Depot, so I'm going to have a cup of soup. Then I think I'll head to the library. I kind of feel like going for a walk, but it's zero degrees outside and that is giving me pause.

Well, I have internet at home now, so I'm inclined to take this up again, though at the moment I'm at Barnes and Noble in Burnsville flipping between reading a biography of Paul Newman (75% off, so it was only a couple of bucks!) and this slow internet connection. In just a few days I, along with my sisters, will be in Washington, D.C. Our first "Sister's Vaca." I'm excited to go, but nervous. I'm always nervous. Always anxious. I often feel it's my defining quality, though I think only Marv knows how bad it is. We often joke about my habit of fretting all night instead of sleeping. The other day, we were talking about my dissertation for my PhD in Fretology. My professor's name was Frederick Fretterer. I did a comparative study including four groups: Fretters with nothing to fret about, fretters with things to fret about, non-fretters with things to fret about, and my control group: Non fretters with nothing to fret about. Is it any wonder that my household now includes a ferret? I think it's not a coincidence.