“I mean, they say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time.” ― Banksy
The family had the opportunity to meet for the July 4th holiday. It was fun, relaxing, and a memorable time with my loved ones.
But, of course, some one was missing.
My dad was a big part of every vacation spent “up north.” We see traces of him everywhere. I’m happy we have this place filled with memories of him, his sister and his parents.
In 2001, Rick and I lived in Edgewater, Maryland. Making the trip up north wasn’t as easy since we lived 10 hours away from the Detroit area. However, my dad had taken my Aunt Ariel back home as her last wish and we wanted to spend some time with them.
Ariel had been diagnosed with cancer the year before, at age 80. She moved into a home we shared with my Dad and Brandon in order to receive better medical care in the metro-Detroit area. I was living in Maryland so I was only around one week a month. Dad became Ariel’s round the clock caretaker. He went beyond what any brother would do. After Ariel’s leg was amputated, he helped nurse her back to health. When the cancer returned, he honored her last request and moved with her to Huron Beach for her final months. She died in December 2001.
I found this quote on Facebook today. It was posted by my friend Sarah, whose dad passed away suddenly this week. He was widowed years ago and raised his three children alone.
He was a great father and a talented artist. My heart goes out to his kids.
The quote that made me cry:
“Above all else, it is about leaving a mark that I existed: I was here. I was hungry. I was defeated. I was happy. I was sad. I was in love. I was afraid. I was hopeful. I had an idea and I had a good purpose and that’s why I made works of art. ” -Felix Torres
Of course my dad was not an artist. But he had a “good purpose”…to love his family and do anything he could for his ailing wife, his 2 children, his 2 grandchildren, and his great-grandsons. He left a lasting mark that he existed, and we are all his works of art.
Marsha and I were swimming the other night, and she brought up something that had also been occurring to me…even the most irritating things Dad used to do have become a fond memory for both of us.
Memories of grandpa on a car trip…he hummed constantly.
It didn’t matter what the music was (well, maybe not Bran and Linz’s satan music). He would half hum, half gloss over the words throughout the entire trip. Cher was his favorite, and I would often play CD’s that included her songs when we rode across the country from Michigan back to our house in Maryland.
Marsha remembered all the trips up north with him, not only singing, but also reading every road sign along the way.
He irritated us sooooo much. God, I wish he was here to irritate us some more!
As far back as I can remember, my dad boiled turkey bones to make stock. Only, in our family, it was called broth and it was immediately used to boil egg noodles. We always looked forward to the day after Thanksgiving, when the house would be filled with the aroma of boiling turkey broth.
I loved watching him tear down the carcass, chop the onions and get the process started. Boiling it down to just the right flavor was of the utmost importance. You had to sacrifice the amount if you want rich-tasting broth. Too much often meant weak and watery flavor. When he was telling me how to do it, he would tell me to… “boil it down more, boil it down! Nothing worse than weak broth!”
Dad had hit or miss results (usually “hit”) – because he sometimes put so many noodles that the broth was dried up. He always cautioned me when I was boiling noodles from some of the leftover broth, not to put too many in, because “they soak that broth right up.”
For me, the noodles also remind me of his mother, my grandma Ariel. She was raised by a Pennsylvania Dutch grandmother and I can remember her making chicken and dumplings on Sunday afternoons. I’m sure my dad inherited the egg noodle/broth eating from her. For years, I never came across other families who ate their noodles in turkey broth, or who partook in our family’s habit of eating noodles boiled in canned beef boullion, either. Most of my friends just boil egg noodles in water. However, once they tried them at our house, they loved them.
This picture is from November 25, 2011, the day after Thanksgiving–the last one with my dad. He wasn’t too “with it” that day, but he did enjoy the noodles I boiled from the turkey carcass! I guess some things can’t be forgotten.
Handling your father’s death:
Learn to cope by remembering that even though your father’s physical presence is gone, the relationship you had with him still exists. It lives on forever through you. The experiences you shared and the talks you had are always there. Hold tight to your memories, good and bad, and keep the relationship alive despite his death and physical absence.
Read more: How to Cope With a Father’s Death | eHow.com
I think that one of the things I fear the most is forgetting the experiences and talks. I lose more and more of my memory every day. I think that’s why I wanted to start this blog. If I write everything I can remember now, before the memories fade, I will have a tool to help me remember.
How many memories will come up unexpectedly in the next year?
I was working on our new website tonight. It’s been in the works for far too long and I need to get it launched before I send out the June mailing. I’d been working steadily for about an hour, when I decided to see if there were better pictures of myself and Rick to add to the site.
I opened Picasa and started scanning all the photos on my Imac. That’s when I found this picture of my dad.
It was taken Sunday, December 13, 2009. I thought back to what was happening in our lives then.
Earlier that spring, we had made Dad move down from his home up north because he had been scammed out of his entire bank account and needed us to take over. He just wasn’t rational about his supposed sweepstakes winnings and kept sending money to scam artists. He was just too old to live alone on the beach, and we all agreed — and convince him — that we wanted him to live near us in the few years he had left. I found him an apartment a few blocks away. We soon had him moved into his new digs, and he was a regular at the diner located just down the road.
Rick and I went to the diner most every Sunday. Sometimes we picked him up, sometimes he was there ahead of us, sometimes he came in while we were eating. He really enjoyed his breakfasts.
I am sure I remember this particular Sunday. He was there when we arrived, and we sat in the booth right next to him, instead of crowding into his. I slid down the huge adjoining booth to get close enough to talk, because he was hard of hearing and I didn’t want to shout.
Wow. It all came rushing back so fast! How can I remember something from nearly 3 years ago so clearly.
He will never be gone. His spirit is still with us, in our hearts, our minds, and our memories. I feel like I can still talk to him, because is presence is so strong. I just wish I could hear him answer me, one more time.
I came across this photo when I was scanning pictures for the funeral. I just love this, partly because how cute it is showing the two “baldies.” But also because it shows my patient dad just waiting for the cuckoo clock so he can amuse the grandchild. I think it gives a glimpse into my dad’s personality, don’t you?
Last Saturday we buried my dad.
As soon as we left the cemetery, Rick and I went home and packed to go up north. I thought I would be swamped with memories when I first saw the house. After all, Dad had lived there until we made him move down to an apartment nearer to us. But I really felt the loss more on the trip up to the house.
I pictured being about 10 years old, or younger, sitting in the back seat with him driving the family up north for vacation. I remembered seeing the scene through my 10-year-old viewpoint. My brother sat next to me in the back seat, behind my dad. My mom was in the front passenger seat. I remember looking over the seat through the front windshield at the highway ahead. I also remember feeling that we were a family, a happy family, and our vacation was ahead of us.
The pain this memory caused was tangible. How many years ago was that vacation? How many decades? More than I care to remember. I only know that the time seemed to flash by in an instant. And now I was making the same trip up north that we had so many times. Only today it was after burying my father next to my mother.
Time goes on. But it takes some getting used to.
My dad died May 23, 2012, at the Hope Health Care Center in Westland, Michigan.
He had 89 glorious years on this earth. His family has lots and lots of memories of our time with him here. As part of our grieving process, and to be sure that the world understands his legacy, I’ve created this blog. It will contain pictures, memories, and facts about his life with us as well as things I can remember hearing about his life before we knew him.
It will also contain random thoughts about our life with him, and will, hopefully, help us all to heal the ache that results from missing him.