One year since Dad died and I think why today? Why does THIS day matter so much. Why are we all crying and trying not to? Two days ago we celebrated the completely arbitrary designation of a new year and today should also be arbitrary. And yet last night I found myself helpless to stop the choking sobs. Willing my throat to loosen up and for my nasal passages to unclog. Trying to think about the sides of buildings and the composition of concrete to make myself STOP thinking about him.

Today, I struggled to get out of bed. But I did. I made it to the livingroom in my pajamas where I dropped into my recliner and started to sob. 

Nine hours later I called Marv at the Studio and he said, "Do you have a bad cold?" I said, "No, I've been crying all day. That's what happens when I cry all day." 

Because it is the age of technology, I Facebooked with my family - who all were mawkish and crying all day, too. Lynn, brave soul, went to work. But she left early to melt down with Kevin. They went to the cemetery and planted a cheery Christmas wreath on Dad's grave. I could see Kevin diligently cleaning off the snow, knowing how he scrubs the markers on Memorial day and also knowing the grief that floods his heart. He's the brother I never had except by marriage, and the son Dad never had. Lynn married his son. LOL I, on the other hand, married someone of whom Dad once asked, when he came over and found me mowing the lawn, "Why doesn't He get his monkey ass out there and mow it?" I actually liked mowing the lawn. Still do, though I don't like lawns...just on principle.

Dad never did like my first husband. And after Michael left for a younger woman, Dad REALLY didn't like him. Michael was scared of him, actually. All those stories of Dad's younger, Hell-raising days apparently left their mark on him. Ironic in a way that Michael was afraid of the Legend of Dad, and yet told me I needed to just get over it - referencing my actual interaction with Dad's abuse when we were kids.

I think that he never has actually come to see that irony. I just saw it myself. It's kind of funny. Because by the time Dad died, I was pretty much over it. Not a forgiving person by nature, I'd forgiven him and come to accept him for who he was. That said, he was a Hell of a lot nicer as a senior citizen than he'd been when we were kids. 

After he died, Lynn went through all his papers and found two letters that he'd written that absolutely break my heart even thinking about them. 

3-7-94

Dear Lynn, Tami & Jodi

As time goes by & I reflect on my life as your Dad I see missed opportunitys, Broken Promises, & memorys that were never made because of my careless use of time & poor choices for prioritys. Be that as it may, its all history now & I cannot change it even as much as I would like to. However I would like to say that the memories I do have of you all growing up into young women are great & I treasure them each & every one.

I am so proud of each of you as individuals, you are warm, kind, Paichent (sometimes) & understanding of which I give Mom much of the credit. She is the greatest. There is not enough time or words to express how much I love each & everyone of you or how important you are in my life. I know you are all busy creating adult lives for yourselves & looking for happiness & fulfillment is a full time endever & takes a lot of time.

Be good to each other

love each other

Always be true to each other

With all my love

Dad

To Lynn, Tami, & Jodi,

This is an open letter to my 3 lovely daughters. I would like to take this opportunity to say my final goodbyes. With life sometimes being very fragile we don’t take the time to say how much we appreciate care & love the people in our lives.

First of all I would like to say how much I love each & every one of you & how special each of you are to me.

We have a tendancy to put it off or say I have plenty of time for all that stuff. I’ll do it when I’m in the mood. As I grow older & realize I’m not as smart as I thought I was & some of the dumb, selfish inconsiderate things I’ve said & done it makes me wonder why I’m here at all. Latly I have had a lot of regrets in my life regarding my relationships with the people that are dead & gone in my life & the missed opportunitys. I was not sensitive enough to moms needs & I think she felt that no one cared & made a decision that would be our last.

_________

Missing here of course is the handwriting...sharp and hard to forge, but never beyond the capabilities of us girls. We would forge and sign his name to letters to the school, signatures on permission slips and absences that weren't even necessarily unwarranted, but just unacknowledged. We might get sick indeed, but having Dad sign a slip saying so was pretty much out of the question. 

Though when we puked, he would put on quite a show, donning tall rubber boots, dishwashing gloves and a gas mask to clean up after us. Mom was as queasy about it as I am now, and I can't even believe how in my single motherhood I managed to do what he did with his riot gear on.

And the fact that we found hazmat suits in his attic after his death surprised none of us even a little. Next to the sissy bar pads, rubber raft, assorted toys and memorabilia, what's a hazmat suit? 

All day, everything I did reminded me of him. The toast with cheese on it in the toaster oven. One of my childhood favorites that still delights me in some way beyond it's cheddary goodness. The exquisite agony of being tickled fiercely while he would "play" us like banjos, singing "How in the heck can I wash my neck if it ain't gonna rain mo more." 

And I face the delicate balance of my painful memories of being kicked and whipped with a belt. The time Lynn and I surreptitiously broke the half inch dowel that he used to hit us with and we threw it deep into the crawl spaces in the attic. We knew that we were in for it if he found it or caught us, but in a rare act of rebellion and self-preservation, we did it anyway. And he didn't replace it. He asked after it, and like the narrator of Bill Cosby's story, we were not about to provide the weapon of our own punishment. 

The belt...well, what can you do when he so clearly needed it to keep his pants up. And even at that, we were often treated to the sight of his plumber's butt as he worked in the garage. 

But then I fly back to the top of the pine tree, where I would sway in the warm darkness of a summer's night, pockets full of flour bombs and eggs, watching for a shadow to move below me so that I could attack from above. There was NO father in the world who could put together a nighttime game of War like Dad could. Fire extinguishers that we would have to refill and pump with compressed air before we could become the target. 

His funeral was, by all accounts, one of the best anyone had ever been to. He would have been pleased, I think. Anyone else get a Craftsman sticker, pried from a toolbox, affixed to their casket? Anyone else get a Superman sticker applied to the top? Anyone else get buried with a wrench and a flashlight? And honestly, have those poor undertakers EVER been asked to put chicken slippers on a deceased person for burial? I doubt it. 

And no one but us knew that he wears those slippers still and will for eternity. Why? Because he loved the last joke. He loved to have the surprise. He loved those slippers. Anything for a laugh.

That, I suppose, is his legacy. For better or for worse. I made a decision never to hurt my kids (physically anyway - I'm sure they have things they can tell their therapists about). But to make someone laugh is the apex of human existence. And there is nothing...NOTHING...that laughter can't make better. Not even death. 

Songs that I learned as a child, and am confused as to WHY I was sung these songs:

It Ain't Gonna Rain No More No More

{Introduction} It ain't gonna rain no more no more It ain't gonna rain no more How in the heck can I wash my neck (If) it ain't gonna rain no more It ain't gonna rain no more no more It ain't gonna rain no more How in the heck can I wash my neck (If) it ain't gonna rain no more - - FASTER AND FASTER - - {alternate words provided by Tin Chicken} It ain't gonna rain no more no more It ain't gonna rain no more How in the heck can I wash my neck If it ain't gonna rain no more Peanut sittin' on the railroad track His heart was all a flutter Train came roaring 'round bend Toot Toot .... Peanut Butter It ain't gonna rain no more no more It ain't gonna rain no more How in the heck can I wash my neck If it ain't gonna rain no more

And Mr. Moon...which I can't find the exact words anywhere else, but there are some similar versions out there. Here's the version we sang:

Mr. Moon, Moon, Bright and silv'ry moon, won't you please shine down on me. 

There's a man behind the tree with a big shot gun. I'm afraid to stay and afraid to run, 

So Mr. Moon, Moon, bright and silv'ry moon, won't you please shine down on meeeeeee.

Nice.

And to round it out and in conclusion, a favorite that I found the words to...though I only ever really remember the chorus...

In a cavern, in a canyon,
Excavating for a mine,
Dwelt a miner, forty-niner
And his daughter - Clementine

CHORUS:
Oh my Darling, Oh my Darling,
Oh my Darling Clementine.
Thou art lost and gone forever,
Dreadful sorry, Clementine.

Light she was and like a fairy,
And her shoes were number nine,
Herring boxes without topses
Sandals were for Clementine

Drove she ducklings to the water
Every morning just at nine,
Hit her foot against a splinter
Fell into the foaming brine.

Ruby lips above the water,
Blowing bubbles soft and fine,


But alas, I was no swimmer,
So I lost my Clementine

How I missed her! How I missed her!
How I missed my Clementine,
But I kissed her little sister,
And forgot my Clementine.

Then the miner, forty-niner,
Soon began to peak and pine,
Thought he oughter join his daughter,
Now he's with his Clementine.

In a churchyard near the canyon,
Where the myrtle doth entwine,
There grow roses and the posies,
Fertilized by Clementine.

In my dreams she still doth haunt me,
Robed in garments, soaked in brine;
THen she rises from the water
And I kiss my Clementine.

I remember learning that in Kindergarten, and being enchanted with it. Apparently the maudlin always did appeal to me.