daddy's girl

"There's something like a line of gold thread running through a man's words when he talks to his daughter, and gradually over the years it gets to be long enough for you to pick up in your hands and weave into a cloth that feels like love itself. " ~John Gregory Brown, Decorations in a Ruined Cemetery, 1994 






Dear Dad,


Its hard to imagine its been two years ago July 5th, that you passed on to your heavenly home.  I see myself perched on your lap on the old "pontoon."  We never had fancy.  We never did name brand, or expensive.  The cabin was rustic with an outhouse and all eleven cousins slept in a loft overhead.  I can still smell the sawdust that clung to you no matter how many times you washed.  You were undoubtedly fishing, and a can of Old Milwaukee is probably hovering somewhere nearby.  Its a wonder lake water doesn't course through my veins.  

I have a love of the simple things, just like you.  A rusty shovel, a tin can, the sun, the sand, and lake water lapping at my feet.  Ahh, bliss.

Who and what we love is clearly written on our faces.  My baby brother, Lee, must have been just a month old. 

So, just like we did two years ago, we all came together.  This past week, Lee came home with Kelly and Madi and Alex.  

The cousins picked up right where they left off.  They built forts out of grandma's blankets.  Went tubing  at the lake.  Ate Hawaiian pizza at Zorbaz.  Stayed up way past their bedtime, and laughed so hard their cheeks hurt.  

We told old stories.  Whispered about the things we hope our children will never find out we did.  We laughed.  Kelly cried.  Nobody wanted to leave.  

The kids all decided to go to The University of Minnesota and live in the same house some day.  Except Nolan. No way would he ever be a Gopher, not even for the love of his cousins.  

We took mom to church and filled up an entire pew- yep the back one, just like always.  And we pointed out all the things your hard working and skilled hands had made for the church.  The baptismal fount, the table that holds the guestbook, the information kiosk, etc.  Then we sat down with pastor Roger and discussed the stained glass artwork going on two wooden frames, made in memorial to you.  

Pastor Roger's sermon talked asked us to think about what we want people to remember about us.  Dad, I want them to remember, I am a Daddy's girl, who grew up to be just like you.  

This is a really big week.  I feel as though I am traveling at light speed through my days.  Today I have sedation at 1pm with an mri scheduled at 2 pm.  We will peek at my pesky brain blob and see if the zap we aimed at it took hold.  I will get results early Wednesday morning.  I'm taking my prayer list with me and if anyone would like to be included, please feel free to leave me a request here or in an email.  Blessings to you all... 

A year ago today...

Dear Dad,

It feels both like yesterday and yet forever ago at the same time.  Its barely one year ago today, as Lee, Mom, and I sat making plans with the hospice nurse for your care.  You were already slipping so quickly from life, but as long as you fought and as strong as your spirit was, we couldn't have known how quickly you'd leave us.

I go over and over the events of that day looking for the clues or signs we missed that July 5th was your last day on this earth. My mind fills with the sight of the big white and blue striped coffee mug meticulously filled with syringes of morphine by the nurse.  You searched my face when she asked that we get you in bed.  "Why," you said, "am I sick?"  I faltered a minute before I said, "Well, we just think you ought to rest a bit."  Who was I to crash reality down on you, when you had so bravely held it at bay?

After all, she told us. In a soft spoken, easy manner, she told us. You were in your final stages. Maybe days, maybe just a day or two. She had a comforting way about her and she put our minds at ease, even as you wrestled that day. You didn't want to lie in bed, you never lied down in your bed.  You fought off the covers, kicking your legs out of the bed. You muttered and spoke things we couldn't quite make out. You brushed my hand away as I tried to lay my hand on your arm. But that mug filled with syringes- enough for a week- was where we set our eyes.  We left you to rest.

My head was filled with what I would say, how I would provide comfort, the way in which you'd leave your place amongst us. We'd gather, we'd say our words. We planned- always a plan. But then I forgot the essence of who you were- and it always involved plans gone awry. Besides, clearly Dad, neither you, nor I, were ever really in charge of the plan. It frightened me, yet it comforted me. If not my hands, HIS hands, as I would come to see.

At sunset we stepped outside of the apartment for a quick breather. We stood in the driveway with our mouths agape, straining to see the glory painting the sky- blazing a trail straight up to heaven. Just hours later, as we gathered, not in your room, but just outside of it, you quietly slipped away from us. It was your way Dad. There was no bedside handholding, no words uttered, no tears shed-until we realized you had gone on ahead of us, without us.

I smile through the salt of my tears when I think about the way the sky lit up fire engine red and blaze orange, the night your soul went to heaven.  You saved the best for last.  It was a far better exit than I could have imagined or planned, and even in death you taught me.

Sometimes the purpose of a day is to merely feel our sadness, knowing that as we do, we allow whole layers of grief, like old skin cells to drop off us  ~ Marianne Williamson

I sit here today with the lifesaving chemo drugs flowing through the needle sticking out of the port in my chest.  I'm sitting with the sadness of missing you.

But, I've remembered to kick the covers off Dad.

To not spend too many days in bed.

To fight Dad, just as you fought.

With our heads up.

With grace.

And to always look for the glory in the sunset.

I love you and miss you Dad,

Snickelfritz

The story of a girl...

This is the story of a girl...

who woke up on a Sunday missing her Dad.  Not just any Sunday, but his birthday when he would have turned 81.  And she was sad... and the skies were mottled and gray, dripping with her grief...

Until she noticed the pink around the edges of the grey, or what some would call the silver lining.

And so she started to think of happier times.  The crazy, goofy, silly times they had shared.

And how last year a great, big, huge, gathering of people squeezed themselves together in 1 tiny house to celebrate eighty years of a life well lived.  And the girl smiled, knowing exactly what she would do.

So she gathered up her family and went back to that tiny house.

And even though her father's shoes and his hat with the big cow on it were exactly where he had left them, she smiled.  With her family at her side she packed left behind belongings, cleaned up the yard, and sat wrapped in her memories.

Then the family loaded up the car and visited the Dad in his final resting place.

And when they tired of swatting at mosquitoes they left and enjoyed one last stop.

A little ice cream...

And a little cake to celebrate as the girl knew her daddy loved to do.  And even though she still missed him, her sky that day, was no longer dripping with grief. 

Do you know?

Do you know

how any times I forget you aren't here Dad?

like in the grocery store yesterday when I saw the red fall-smelling apples.  My first thought... Ohhh, I'll make an apple crisp with these and Dad will love it.

Do you know

nobody else will care whether I make an apple crisp, or I don't make an apple crisp?  Do you?

Who knew stupid apples would cause me to break down?

Do you know

when I walked into your old house last night,  I saw your shoes on the step, and your cap on the hook, and I hurried around the corner expecting to see you sitting?  I hate I have to remember time and again I won't... see you.

Do you know

with the whirlwind of company and commotion I felt like I was doing well?  Till they left... and now its quiet again and the familiar ache came sneaking back.

Do you know

I found you, anyways?  You were waiting for me in places I hadn't expected.  Under the stash of your old army photos, you were in your letters home to your parents.  Reading your words I could hear your voice in my head.  You wrote about guard duty in Germany, KP duty, inspections, and the weather.  You reminded me, my love for the small details in life, came from you.  I am my father's daughter.

Do you know

the last bit I read was the part about you breaking your watch?   I think you left that part just for me, so I would know you were there.  What was it with you and your watches that always seemed to get misplaced or broken all the time?

I know, you know.

Earlier mom told me she thought she'd donate your watch.  But I asked for it.  Not because of its inherent value, I mean its just an old timex.  But something urged me to keep it.


You know, I know.

For once, that watch of yours is completely intact, and despite numerous trips to the hospital and back, you still managed not to lose it.  I think you knew, I'd need it.  All along...

You knew.

“Summer is the time when one sheds one's tensions with one's clothes, and the right kind of day is jeweled balm for the battered spirit. A few of those days and you can become drunk with the belief that all's right with the world.”

~Ada Louis Huxtable

























By all accounts I know I should be drunk... with summer.


I know I am in a bubble. First we have a big move for my parents planned for the end of this week, into their new apartment. After we get them settled for a few days, my brother and his wife and their two girls are coming for a visit the following week.

So much to do, to look forward to, to enjoy. It keeps us all in the bubble. As if by our activity, we can keep everything we cherish within our collective grasp.  We're afraid to sit still, to stop moving, to get off the ride.

While the boys went with their father to a baseball game, I worked in the yard yesterday.  I started with just pulling some stray grass growing amongst the flower beds.  With the soil saturated from all the recent rains, they slid out easily in large clumps.  The steady monotonous work was soothing. I watched my fingernails fill with dirt and remnants of grass. My fingers were caked with clay. I pulled and I pulled.

Soon, all that was left  were the thistles.  Maybe its my frame of mind, my inability to leave the safety of my bubble, but I found myself barehanded, tackling those thorny weeds.  I tugged and pulled at their spindly base, wincing at the prick on my fingers when coming in contact with the thorny stems.  Yet, I never once moved to get my gardening gloves.  I sat with a tweezer last night, surveying the wounds and slivers covering my hands.  They are battle scars and a badge of honor, that serve as reminders of the heavy burden I carry.

For all of the beauty of my blooms and blossoms, simply can't take away the worry in my mother's face. Or my sleepless, restless nights.  Or the change in my Dad's words, his appearance, his growing weakness.

Our bubble is showing signs of weakening.  I tread lightly, holding my breath, knowing the bubble will one day burst.  The thorns and the thistle will take over, no matter how many times I bravely reach to yank them from the ground.

I am doing this

I can hear it in his voice every time I call and say we can't come. We have hockey practice, homework, skating skills, dryland training... I think all he hears is "too busy." My Dad tells us its fine. He understands. But I know he doesn't really. Today I went to visit Dad alone, the boys at a baseball clinic for the afternoon.  I so badly want the sight of me to be enough.

But the disappointment registers instantly on his face when I tell him I am by myself.  I used to bring the boys to him and they would play catch in the front yard.  But the boys are stronger, bigger now.  Dad is weaker, and not able to move very far without his oxygen levels dropping.  The boys were so excited to go to their baseball clinic.  I try to explain, but it just sounds so empty.  He sits quietly, nodding his head. The whoosh of his oxygen tank the only sound in his room.

Finally he looks at the calendar and asks if I'll take him to his next doctor's appointment on Wednesday at 2:45. "We could go for lunch at Village Inn, and then you could take me to my appointment afterwards" he says.  I cringe, knowing he has forgotten the kids will be out of school at 3. He reads my face and says, oh... well don't worry I have 4 more appointments coming up, maybe one of those will work? I know I will take him to one or more of those times, trying to make it up to him.

How did this get to be so difficult? When did I start having to choose? My family, or my family.  I want to do both.  I need to do both.

I realize as I am driving back home today, it HAS been a long time. I take the side streets I avoid in the winter that are usually clogged with snow and ice. The houses look weathered. The trees are brown and bare, the grass dormant and bent over from the load of snow its hidden under for months. I recognize the culprit, the same one responsible for the look on my father's face. Winter-weary.

Its sunny today and I can feel the warmth of the sun, as I squint, feeling more intensity in the rays streaming in through the window. I wind my way down by the river and am surprised to see how much it has retreated. I pull over to look.  I sit there for a bit, with the words "I want to do both" playing in a loop in my mind.  Slowly, I begin to chain my thoughts together, using the beams of the sun to glue and bind them into a solid path.

I reach for my phone. "Dad," I say. I know its free pie day at Village Inn on Wednesday.  If mom takes you to your doctor's appointment, I'll bring the boys over and meet you at Village Inn after school gets out.

I know convincing the boys to go for pie will not be a hard sell.  Dad will get the cherished time he wants with them, without having to wear himself out.  After a pause, "That'll be fine," he says.  The absence of the disappointment in his voice is enough for now.

I continue home.  I can do this.  I am doing this.