I finally decided to pull together my various scraps of scribblings from over the years, to try to create something resembling order. The first thing I found were notes from a conversation that I'd had with my grandmother at some point. She died in 1992, and the lined paper is yellowed and brittle, but more fascinating now than it clearly had been when I jotted down the items. I had to work a bit to remember what my notes actually referred to, so I thought I'd better elaborate on them now, while I still can.

Ginger

That's the inauspicious heading to the first set of notes. Ginger was the family cat when my aunts and uncles were children - which would have been in the 50's. I remember Aunt Bobbie sharing stories of pushing Ginger around the block in her baby buggy. Neighbors would stop and bend over the buggy to admire the "baby." She laughed as she recalled that they would inevitably draw back in shock when, instead of the plastic baby doll they expected to see, there lay an orange cat, bonnet on his head and blanket tucked around him. Everyone loved that cat, it seemed.

But the notes refer to other memories of Ginger that I only vaguely remember and would have entirely forgotten had I not written them down. Ginger's story at the Resler household, according to my notes, began when the neighbors moved away and gave the cat to Gramma. Ginger soon made herself at home and would open the old wooden screen door by leaping on it. From the outside, he would leverage his weight to swing it open, and from the inside would take a flying leap onto the screen, hanging on while it swung him into the great outdoors. Until one day when Ginger made a running dash for the door, planning on his usual graceful exit, only to find it securely locked. He bounced off of the screen and flew back from whence he came. A very undignified maneuver made even more so by the fact that it was witnessed by my grandmother, a young woman at the time, who was bent over, howling with laughter, tears running down her face.

This episode notwithstanding, Ginger was a suave man about town and was often seen catting about with a sweet little black and white cat - whom Gramma deemed to be his girlfriend. They could be seen hanging out in the yard or cleaning one another with wild abandoned. This went on for an unmarked period of time until one day the girlfriend retuned back to the house without him. Ginger was never seen again. A snowstorm had recently fallen and Gramma said that she figured he was likely killed in the storm. But shortly after that, she found Ginger - dead and having been obviously hit by a car. He had dragged himself back home. Gramma rocked in her chair and thoughtfully ticked her tongue. She loved her animals, be they squirrels, cats or dogs. And Ginger held a place in her heart.

My notes also tell of the joy of moving into her new home on Hiawatha Avenue - the same home that Ginger lived and died in. It was just across the street from Minnehaha Park, which was a wonderland of tennis courts, old depot buildings, abandoned train tracks and, of course, the falls. Hiawatha was a busy street even when I was a child, and we were mostly forbidden from crossing the street, though we did it anyway. But in 1952, when my dad was about 13 years old, they were just moving into that house. Gramma related to me how excited they were to be moving in. This home represented a life that was beyond her wildest dreams. And though it would, of course, now be 100% un-PC to do it, she said that she and her sister "Dotta" (Grace) ran through the house whooping and "Indian calling," so unrelenting was their joy.

But that home was not only in a busy neighborhood, it was also in an area of high crime and gangs. Just down the street were the bars where my Dad would "roll drunks" for money in his teen years.

My notes refer to an incident that Gramma related where she was chased on foot by a man. She ran, fast as lightening, and managed to get to her home and lock the door before he caught her. This was a recurring theme for my grandmother throughout her youth, and speaks as much to her own disabilities as to the culture at the time and her neighborhood's dangerousness. Other notes during that same conversation relate to her being chased in a car down the busy street as she came home one day. Life was full of fear for her even after marrying my grandfather.

But she touted my Grampa's strength and protectiveness, telling me about the time that some young men in a car harassed them. Grampa, driving like a maniac, almost forced them off the road and yelled at them. I wish I had kept more notes on that or remembered it, but that's all I have on that. On another occasion, Gramma and Grampa were together at the local convenience store and saw a young man being abused by other boys. Grampa grabbed the offending boys, "conked their heads together" and drove the sobbing child home.

Of course, my notes also refer to one of the most oft-repeated stories that Gramma would tell. When she was 17 years old, her mother was dying of stomach cancer. Gramma said that her mother told her that HER mother, who had passed away years earlier,  visited her to tell her that in three days she would return to "take her home." Three days later, she found her mother dead. I heard this story many times over the years and Gramma would tell me the reasons for the cancer, which usually involved the time her mother got her arm caught in the mangle of an old washing machine.

Anyway, it's time to give the cat her shot and feed the animals. I just wanted to take a moment to share this little scrap of paper from the heap.

Yesterday as I moseyed around the State Fair grounds, I happened upon Frank Barr who, with his wife, makes Faerie Houses. He was manning their booth and it seemed like a chance to chat with a fellow artist. Also, there was nothing going on in his booth.

As he was asking me questions and we were trading information, I realized that as an artist, my life seems pretty pathetic. I found myself trying to make it seem a little more like what it really is - just life - but I think I sounded like the knight in Monty Python and the Holy Grail: "Just a flesh wound!" Bleeding all over the place. 

It just doesn't sound good, you know? No, Frank, I don't do art fairs anymore and the kiln is broken, and no, I don't actually have a studio anymore, and well, no I don't really teach anywhere anymore. And no, I'm not still working at the art center. And no, I don't have really anything to do with it anymore. And well, okay, it's true that I don't sell my work anymore. But REALLY, it's all good! Oy, I ended up wishing that I hadn't even stopped to chat. He had this look on his face like he was trying to figure out why I was still standing there talking to him. And I wasn't really sure at that point. Probably should have kept walking. And eventually, after clearly too long of a conversation, I did.

Then I went back to the West End Market and bought a piece of pottery there. It was super cute. And I kept my yap shut.

Today is both National Dog Day and my birthday. I'm trying not to take that personally. I had promised the dogs earlier that I would take them out somewhere, but now I'm wondering if they remember and plan to hold me to that, because I kind of don't feel like it anymore. The sun was out and shining and now it's cloudy and I'm kind of tired.

I'm upstairs in the office and the dogs are up here with me. They aren't normally allowed up here, so kind of this is going somewhere, right? Damn close to an adventure if you count that they had to walk past the cat boxes on their way up here. 

I can hear the cats fighting out in the hallway. I have no idea what's up with that, but Gypsy is now at the door whining because she's the official investigator of all cat goings-on and probably needs to know what's happening.

Well, anyway, another thrilling birthday and I suppose I should change and go get Marv and head to dinner. I should also mow the lawn. It's looking pretty damn scraggly.

Walking the Dogs

So, in the course of doggie events, it became necessary to walk the dogs. And it became anecdotally evident to me that the very act was conducive to human interaction and just had to make the world a better place.

In what became a two hour walk, we strolled through Central Park, and two small children came running over to the dogs and stopped about five feet away, pondering the possibilities. I got down on my knee and beckoned to them. Their parents sat at a picnic table about twenty feet yonder, watching. 

The little one, who was about two years old reached out and touched Gypsy, then reeled back, squealing with delight. Gypsy was nonplussed. The older one, I'd gauge him to be about four, sidled closer, but didn't touch. 

Then little droolie (the small child) again reached out to Gypsy, who stepped towards him to sniff the purple juice leaking from his tiny lips. He again convulsed with delight and the giggles bubbled out of him. 

I asked his older brother if he wanted to pet Nikki, who was bored and aloof, looking for all the world like an old man who wanted nothing more than a nap. He explained to me that he didn't have a dog, but tomorrow was going to get a fish. He held out his hand and Nikki gave it a non-committal sniff.

"Someday maybe you'll get a dog, huh?" I asked him. He smiled and nodded.

The little one, in the mean time, was dodging around Gypsy as if he were trying to plan his next foray into her fur. She watched him and wondered if his fingers were also lined with that sweet smelling sauce. 

The kids' mom, who had maintained her distance, came over with her camera and got down about five feet away. "Carlos...Carlos" she called to the little one. And then something in Spanish which I didn't understand but apparently meant, "Look this way, Kid, I want to take your picture." He gleefully laughed and ruffled Gypsy's mohawk. She took several pictures, which assume were blurry, but will serve as proof of the encounter none the less. Then she sat back on her heels and grinned at me. 

I grinned back. The dogs panted and the kids smiled at the dogs. 

A small bridge was built today between my neighbors and me through our dogs. We don't know each other, we don't live within blocks, we don't even speak the same language. But we know that when a two year old giggles, it's time to pay attention. 

And THAT is what a dog walk is about.

The End.

Last day of July 2014

I'm not entirely sure how it got to be August already AGAIN. Summer is half over and my tomatoes still haven't even developed little BBs. It's not right. But I did get several zucchini that I donated to the food shelf, though the response that I got when I dropped them off was "Oh no...zucchinis." I wondered if that were a commentary on the amount of zucchini they have already received or on the preferences of the people who get food from the food shelf. Perhaps next year I will ask them what kind of produce they would most desire rather than thinking solely about what kind of produce I can actually grow. Not that those two things will actually coincide in any way, but it might be a challenge worth pursuing.

Today I came home for lunch and was excited and surprised to see my brand spanking new social security card in the mail! They said two weeks, but it only took four business days! I felt a little like Navin Johnson in The Jerk (played by Steve Martin) - hopping around "my social security card is here! my social security card is here!" (This will make sense only if you have seen the movie and get the reference.) It's kind of surreal. I mean, yes, I knew that I did change my name, but on the other hand, IT WAS ACTUALLY DONE! I spent a little time practicing my new signature before signing the card, but really it's still a work in progress.

Marv has a group of wood carvers in town this week and we meet every evening for dinner. Today one of the women asked me if I ever practiced my signature when I was a kid. I said, Well, I practiced signing my first name and the last name of the boy that I loved at that moment, but my OWN name? No, not really. You know what's funny, is that now I can't even remember any of those boys I had a crush on in school. Even though I was so completely devastated that my love was unrequited at the time.

I got to dinner at The Depot a bit late tonight, but Marv was kind enough to save me some walleye. Several of the women (and none of the men, I'd like to point out) were shocked that I would eat "cold" walleye. (It was still lukewarm, by the way.) Who are these people and how did they get to be so bourgeois that they won't eat food if it isn't served piping hot? I explained to the woman next to me that it was fine and that I'm not a picky eater. And the woman across from me said, in a rather disdainful way, "How do you like cold walleye?" I said, "About as well as I like hot walleye." Which I guess sounded like I don't like walleye at all, but really only meant that I like it exactly the same. It doesn't matter to me. Someone actually suggested that I send it to the kitchen to have it heated. I mean REALLY!

It made me wonder a bit when we suddenly became so concerned with food that temperature was a potentially disqualifer for eating perfectly good food. I mean, it's not like it's mayo that's been sitting under a blazing sun for four hours. It's walleye that's been perfectly broiled and sitting on a plate for twenty minutes cooling to room temperature. Not only will it not kill me, but it tastes just fine.

So I ate my piece of walleye and half of a baked potato and the woman to my left says, "Well, you certainly polished that off!" And I was so sorry that she was leaving for home tonight and wouldn't be back tomorrow.

One of the women down the table eats like a little bird and always sends food home for our dogs, which is very sweet of her. I chose not to share with her that her walleye filet was lovely for lunch yesterday. And not for the dog. And guess what I'm having for lunch tomorrow? That's right ladies, not only will I eat a room temperature piece of fish, but I'll eat YOUR leftovers for lunch tomorrow. And I'll LIKE it!

Lunch today was less than stellar. We need to go grocery shopping, so what we have in the fridge is primarily condiments. So for lunch I had a piece of bread with chopped pickles, onions, tomato and mayo topped by swiss cheese and broiled. I can't recommend that one. But it was edible. (So you can only imagine that broiled walleye - at any temperature was a pretty big treat.)

I could have eaten the zucchini that was in the fridge, but it seemed like it would require more preparation than my lunch time would allow, so I figure I'll eat it Saturday when I can really look at it and contemplate my plan of attack. I also have a lot of rhubarb, so likely this weekend I'll whip something up with that.

I have my name-change get together Sunday. I hope my guests have appropriately low expectations, because I'm really not doing much outside of mowing the lawn and slicing up some things. I actually don't even know what I was thinking when I suggested it. I don't have parties, and I don't know what one does at a party. I suppose one grills? But I don't know if I even have propane. And where do people sit? Where do they eat? Ah, well, it's only Thursday night. I'll figure that out on Saturday. No need to get ahead of myself. Right now I just have to remember where I left my iced coffee and watch some TV. :)

What a day! At the moment, I'm hiding in the upstairs bedroom with the music cranked. Why? Because the rat terror downstairs will NOT stop barking. She's in her kennel at the moment because she attacked Nikki (the other dog) AGAIN. Her separation anxiety is just out of control. I tried to go downstairs a few minutes ago and sneak out the back door, but it didn't work. She heard me and commenced her wailing. So I'm back upstairs in the cat's room listening to Johnny Cash as loud as the computer will go. If I thought I would survive the jump from the second floor window, I'd go out that way. I am considering medication (her or me, I haven't decided yet), or boarding her for the next five days.

I love country music, but I have stuff to DO, and I can't leave this room without hearing her bark. She has SUCH bad separation anxiety that I can't even go to the bathroom without her screaming incessantly. And I can't take her in the yard off - leash because she can get under the gate. I can't get anything done because I can't have her and my dogs in the same area because she attacks Nikki. I had her on the leash in the yard with me, and Nikki just got too close and Dottie went for her! I put her in her crate, and was trying to get some work done, and she just SCREAMED without pause or stop. 

This morning I took her to the dog park for an hour and ran her around for a mile and a half and then walked her two miles this afternoon. I give her marrow bones to chew, etc. etc. Everything that has worked for EVERY other dog I've had with SA fails miserably with her. Nothing wears her out. Nothing keeps her interested. She just wants to bark and scream unless I actually just hold her in my lap. (In which case, she's fine as long as Nikki stays away...which isn't fair to my dogs and I can't just SIT there all weekend.) I have her for five more days (three already) and I think I'm going to lose my mind. 

So basically, I've exhausted everything I can think of short of Benadryl. I had to come upstairs and turn on the music loud and my dogs are outside (I can still hear her screaming outside, so there's nowhere to go to get away from it.) Gypsy doesn't want to come in the house because then she's trapped with the screaming.

I have been advised by a local animal rescue that I can give her a half of a Benadryl. And myself a glass of whisky.

Yesterday morning I got a perky email from my older sister reminding me that her little dog would be visiting. I vaguely recalled an exchange some time earlier that went (in my memory) like this:
"Hey, we're going on vacation! Can you watch Dottie?" and I thought about it for about a millisecond and responded, "Sure."

End of discussion, right?

Well, apparently there's a point at which that "sure" becomes "Yes, today, please!" because Dottie arrived yesterday and I've spent the last 24 hours trying to figure out what happened between "vacation" and "sure."

Today at work, Bob asked me what, exactly I meant when I said the dog screamed all the time, so I did my imitation of Dottie's crescendo from a mere irritating whine to a full boar ear-piercing scream. When I finished, he was suitably impressed and remarked that he once knew a dog who sounded exactly like that. I didn't ask what happened to the dog.

But actually, the fact that I can present her with the novelty of chewing on marrow bones and other things does seem to mitigate her craziness a bit. I also gave her a peanut butter-filled frozen Kong today. I can't actually find the Kong, but I'm just going to assume it's in her crate somewhere and push aside the slight concern that she actually ate the whole thing.

She also makes my other dog, Nikki, seem comparatively sane, which is no mean feat. When I got home yesterday, Nikki was barking her fool head off all the way out the door and across the lawn. Then she stood barking at the fence until I walked through the house from the front door (where she'd exited the premises) to the back door where I bade her - in what now seems a needlessly churlish way - to get her hairy butt back in the house and shut her pie hole. Ah, what I would give for a bark that were so easily stopped!

My dogs have never had it so good. We took the dogs to the dog park yesterday to get out some of Dottie's electrified energy, and it seemed to have some effect as she was quiet all night, which actually surprised me greatly. So this morning we went again! The dogs are stoked to have Dottie as a guest as it seems to mean that everyone gets great things to chew on and daily trips to the dog park. YAY!

Yesterday evening I very nearly implored Marv to save himself and stay home, but trooper that he is, he opted to take his chances. I, not being so trusting, made him promise that if he didn't sleep all night due to this decision, he forfeited his right to be a pain in the ass because he was exhausted. He promised. We shook on it. And then we went to Walmart and stocked up on chewing apparatus (for the dogs.) (Is that apparati?)

I was prepared to let Dottie chew on a live cow if it would make her stop her incessant whining and barking. And, by God, it worked! She didn't start barking again until Marv came downstairs this morning.

I came home for lunch and came and left to the sounds of whining and barking though. And tonight it's been an entertaining evening of watching Nikki eyeballing the crate full of chewables and Dottie guarding them. Dottie wants to take the items out of the crate - no doubt to parade around in front of Nikki and Gypsy, but she has had to learn the hard truth that she can go in the crate and she can come out of the crate. But the treats stay locked up. Gypsy, like Dottie, gets snappish and crabby when treats are on the line, so there are NO treats outside of crates.

At night we're "locked down" now. Nikki in a crate, Dottie in a crate, and Gypsy is in the Big House. In other words, there's a gate stopping her from going in the kitchen or downstairs, and a gate stopping her from going down the hallway upstairs and to the bedrooms, but she has the livingroom and dining room to herself. Three cats were locked in the "cat rooms" upstairs, and poor Basil was wandering the house - wherever he goes at night

Well, one day down, and only nine more to go!

Wednesday again and June is almost over. I switch to my later shift in July, which will be good from the perspective that I won't have to be at work until 9:30am, but sucky because I work until 6pm instead of 4. If I could just find a job where I don't start until 10 and I get done at four...well, we'd really have something!

Yesterday I had training in St. Paul all day, which meant that I had three hours on the road. That's never a good thing for me because it means that I have time to myself to think, which pretty much invariably means an existential crisis. the internal dialogue goes like this:
WHY am I not following my bliss? I have a novel...no, a memoir to write. I have pottery to make. I should be a landscape designer. I want to go back to school and get my MFA and lead a life of a Bohemian artist! And, while I'm at it, I think I'll grow my own fruit!

Now repeat that in varying permutations for three hours. By the time I got home I was exhausted and depressed. Marv and I went to dinner at Mill City Restaurant (FKA Bostons) and I was explaining to him the merit of living only three minutes from work (no time to think), and he apparently doesn't have those same thoughts when left to his own devises. Well NO, I said, why would you? You're living the dream. You have ME! And he gets to carve and read and do the crossword at his leisure. Sheesh. Granted, he worked as a teacher for decades FIRST, but why split hairs?

I also didn't say he has never had kids or anyone else to answer to or support. He's never had to NOT do what he wanted with his free time because he HAD to do something else. If he didn't want to do something, he just didn't. No one to explain to. Now, I didn't say that because he has, at times, expressed some regret about never marrying or whatever, and I don't want to make him feel bad, but COME ON.

I mean, the thing is that I've made my choices and I don't regret having kids and the life that it meant. But I'm not sure it's possible to be a single mom and just do what you want with your life. It should be, but I don't think it is.

Now my kids are (sort of) full grown and on their own, and I suppose I could re-arrange my life to pursue a creative life. In fact, if I had more discipline, I'm actually pretty sure I could. But I don't, so I know I have no one to blame but myself. I need someone to tell me what steps to take. What do I do first? And who am I accountable to? Myself? Well, that's not going to fly. I can't hold myself accountable for what I consider to be something done strictly for myself. I need someone else to MAKE me do something I want to do. And even I can see how messed up that is.

I want to write. And I amuse myself with my writing. But I need a deadline and a reason to do it beyond just wanting to. Like submissions. But I hate rejection. Which is a problem. So basically, I need someone to tell me what to write about, let me write whatever I want about it, tell me when I need to submit it, and then lavish me with praise. Again, I see where the problems are with this. As my co-worker would say, it's cray cray. But that's how I roll.

So here's what I want right now. I want a little column in the paper (the local one is fine), that is essentially just an entertaining column about...well, I don't know. About what? Life? And honestly, I think If I submitted some articles they'd probably let me. I mean, this paper could seriously use something entertaining, because it's boring as Hell and the people who have daily columns are dull as dirt. And not very good writers, to boot.

So I need a theme. or at least a topic list. Or something. HELP!

A week ago last Monday, I submitted my petition for a name change. I'm finally going back to my maiden name. $322.00 to basically buy back something that was mine a LOT longer than it was not. But I figure it's an investment in myself. And, as my friend put it, I finally get to throw off the albatross of my married name. So it'll be worth it. I sometimes sit and try to think of myself as that person. And I picture a thirteen year old girl. I don't know why. But I do. But I also feel a freedom and a kind of giddiness that is clearly psychosomatic. But after the divorce, one of my first and deepest wishes was to be rid of my ex's name. But I kept it for a few reasons - the truest one being that it was easier not to deal with it. Others included the expense and the kids. But Grey moved out and Gabe's been moved out for a while, and there just didn't seem to be a good reason not to fill out some paperwork and move on with my life.

I went to the courthouse and let the woman behind the plexiglass know what I intended, and as she started to wearily point me to the direction of where I might find the forms, I apparently delighted her by telling her that I already had filled out the appropriate forms and was prepared to pay the (exorbitant) fee. The fact that she was so clearly pleased says more about the dreariness of her job, I think, that my preparedness.

So that was a week and a half ago, and since she told me that I'd be getting a court date in a few days, I actually thought that meant that I would be getting a court date in a few days. I've been checking my mail box and (GAK!) I listened to my voicemails on the off chance that they decided to call me instead of sending me a letter. So far no dice. Honestly, the fact that I have to go to court and essentially plead for the powers that be to give me back what is actually MINE kind of rankles, but I get that this is how the game is played, and I can make some rationalizations, so I'm playing along. But what I want is to show up at court with Marv and Mel and have them stamp the papers and decree that I am ME again! For some reason, most of the people I tell this to have shared with me what a pain in the ass it will be. New Driver's license, update the bank, the social security administration, etc. Yeah, well, people get married and no one tells them that it's gonna be a really hassle to change their name.

Once again today, my empty mailbox disappointed me and I think if I don't hear by Friday there will be a phone call to the City. This is simply not that big of a city that there should be a line for administrative crap.

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.

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.