Category: Old memories

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A quote that made me cry

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.

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Noodles

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.

 

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Sundays at the diner

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.

 

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One week

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.