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.