Each year, my sister and I try to get away for a weekend at the Oregon Coast. It's just sister time - no boys allowed - and we always have fun. We do have the occasional opportunity to rub each other the wrong way, but it's always fleeting and a whole lot less damaging than some of what we inflicted on each other as children!
This year, we chose to go on the weekend that encompassed the 90th anniversary of our mother's birth. In one of my more blonde moments, I commented to Peggy, "Ninety years! I'll bet she never thought she'd live to see this day!" And, of course, she didn't, having died 18 years ago. But it's a tribute to her that not only could the thought pass through my brain and out my mouth, but that my sister and I had a good chuckle over it. Mom was never one to mince words. You didn't "pass" or "pass away," you didn't go to "eternal rest," either. You died. And we knew what she wanted to be buried in ever since we were quite young. As it turned out, she was cremated and didn't get the ecru nightgown, but that was her choice. Ecru was so 1960s by then.
We played on our computers, watched Harry Potter movies, ate junk food, drank a little wine, a little Bailey's, a little Kahlua in our coffee. We had hot chocolate, popcorn, and I took along homemade clam chowder and some delicious biscuits my son had made. We watched the waves break, and the people and dogs on the shore. We went in the pool and the hot tub, and just generally had a high old time.
Then, Saturday night late, we each got a message on Facebook that our half-brother - from our dad's other family - had posted some photos and had tagged us. So, of course, we had to look!
All of a sudden, a little cloud crept into our cozy getaway. There, on Facebook, were two photos of our very own mother that we had never before seen. Our half-brother had scanned and posted them as "Old Florida pictures," and they were from our dad's photographs that Rodney has been kind enough to go through since dad died last October.
Also among the many that he posted were pictures of Peggy, our older brother, and me. Pictures that dad had kept for all these years - the most recent were taken in 1972, 38 years ago.
After my first reaction of stunned silence, and a momentary flash of anger that this should intrude on what was otherwise a perfect weekend, I shed a few tears and went out onto the balcony to let it all sink in. This man, this biological contributor, had cared enough at some point to keep these photographs of his children. The same children he abandoned and left to be raised by a crippled woman who was old before her time because of the long, hard hours she worked at physically demanding jobs. This man who had allowed our home to be foreclosed on, who had moved from Florida to Alaska and thus out of the reach of any enforced child support, this very same man had kept these photographs of his children.
Peggy thinks the keeping was not deliberate, but simply the lack of any need to weed out those things that weren't important to him. Perhaps she's right; she often is about things like this. But for a fleeting moment, it passed through my mind that maybe he had loved us after all. That maybe - despite vast amounts of evidence to the contrary - he felt proud of us and kept those pictures as a reminder of us.
Had he not avoided us on occasions when we could have seen him, and had he not shown his disregard for us in so many other ways, maybe I could eventually convince myself that he cared. Once again, I have proved to myself that being old doesn't necessarily equate to being wise!
Anyway, Happy 90th Birthday, Mom. We (mostly) enjoyed the party.
Dear Daddy,
Daddy. A child's name for her father. It was only in my childhood that I knew you, so I suppose it's natural that, in my deepest heart, that's how I think of you. I saw you only twice as an adult, that last time in 1985 at your mother's funeral.
I learned today in an email - an email! - that, at the age of 93, you have died. I once said that when you died at least you wouldn't be able to hurt me anymore. Because each day of my life I have borne the pain of your abandonment. I have tried to forget, but I never have.
Tonight, feeling the loss of you, I would choose to remember only the good. I would prefer to think of the tall, handsome Cowboy, the man who taught me to fish, taught me to shoot, the man whose love for the wild and the woods gives me such an appreciation for the places of trees and water and silence where I live today. I would choose, if I could, to remember only the pleasant times. The trips to the state fair, seeing Roy Rogers in person, the rides in the back of your truck down long, dark highways and the rides on the Ferris wheel when you kept me safe from my fears.
If I could, I would choose to remember only the man whose shoes I lovingly untied at night after you had worked long days. The man who always seemed larger than life, who was, when I was a child, my Hero. I would like to remember only how special I felt as a child that I - only I! - have the same dimple in my chin that you had. And how, secretly, I loved seeing that dimpled chin in my youngest son and youngest grandson, knowing that even unto the third generation there was a mark that connected me to you.
But into these thoughts and memories and secret treasures, reality will intrude. I'm compelled to remember the callous way you left us without food while you spent your time with your cronies. Your unconcern when we lost our home after you and mom divorced. Your refusal to see your daughters and your grandchildren when you last had the chance.
I can't escape the sorrow I have felt for my sons, for my niece and nephew, because they have never known a grandfather. When I told them you had died, none of them shed a tear; their only concern was for me and for my brother and sister. You, their grandfather, were only an abstraction. A man whom they knew I loved and missed having in my life, but who had no relationship to them.
Your loss was much greater than theirs. You have five wonderful grandchildren: four men and one woman who are the pride of their parents and were the joy of their granny's life - our mother, the woman you left to raise us alone. And from these five young people have sprung a new generation - your great-grandchildren. Beautiful, intelligent, loving young people who will only know you through the bitter screen of their mothers' vision. You could have been surrounded in your old age with love and joy and the knowledge that you live on. Your loss, but also theirs.
Your other sons, Rodney and Jimmie - your second family - will miss you, I am told. Perhaps your redemption was in being everything to them that you never were to us. I hope it was enough for you. I hope you found peace and solace in their world.
My heart is heavy tonight, but I am pondering how to mourn a man who left my life so many years ago. I certainly don't feel the raw, heart-rending grief I felt when mom died. I've had many, many years to absorb the sorrow of your loss. But this time, of course, is different. No longer can I hang onto even that very thin thread of hope for reconciliation. Oddly, I feel the loss of you afresh; it's almost as if a hole has been rent in the fabric of my life.
Daddy, I love you and I miss you. I pray that God will welcome you and hold you close. I pray that someday we will be reunited, and that all the pain and sorrow will be forgotten. I commend you to God. May you truly rest in peace.
Your daughter,
"Girl"
