toys under the tree

30 years ago yesterday was the last time I talked to my dad. It was his 63rd birthday, and he was in the Veteran's Hospital in Fargo, undergoing treatment for cancer. Dad was in rough shape, but I'm sure he sucked it up and chatted with me for a bit on the phone. He was optimistic about his chances to beat cancer, and put on a very brave face. But after surviving pneumonia as an infant, living through the Great Depression. front line combat in World War II, and losing half of a lung, Dad's luck was running out. He passed away 3 days later, on the 15th of December. This was his last birthday.

My sisters and I jumped on a plane, my brother got emergency leave and we all headed home. We all made it home to be with Mom and the many relatives and friends that gathered to say goodbye to Dad. Five days after Dad passed, his father, my grandfather, passed away. We had Dad's funeral one day, Grandpa's the next. A bittersweet Christmas.

Growing up, I was aware that Mom and Dad were children of the Depression. Mom was raised on a family farm that was modestly prosperous, so there was enough food, a warm house and the stability that comes with a large extended family. Dad was one of 8 kids, and lived in poverty. The family moved from time to time, from farm to farm, and my Grandparents eked out a marginal existence. The kids were expected to contribute as early as they could to the family survival. Dad left school somewhere in the 8th grade, and worked every day for the rest of his life. Christmas was nearly non existent, often the only cheer for the kids were gifts from relatives, particularly an Aunt who would bring food to the family and simple gifts to the children. Christmas joy would be in the form of a pencil, an apple, some candy. This was the stark reality they lived in. Dad would only sparingly tell me of these things, and he never complained about it. Mom would tell me these stories too, and tell me that Dad never really had a Christmas with gifts under the tree until he was much older, as a married man with his own family. As a kid myself I would have mixed feelings about this, feeling sorry for my dad for the many spare Christmases he experienced, and perhaps a little guilt over the comparatively lavish gifts I received over the years.

These memories later prompted me to get Dad something different for Christmas one year. I was now a young man with a job, so I had some money to spend. Not much, but my resources were now beyond that of a kid. So I bought Dad an electric train set. Getting this for Dad was somewhat of a leap for me, I was not sure how he would react to this. A man in his late 50s getting a train set. But after all, this is the late 70s and we are all now enlightened, so what the hell. It was a simple set, an engine, a few cars, a caboose and an oval track. But it was a real electric train.

I remember when Dad opened the gift. As he used to say, he got a real 'charge' out of the train set. I assumed he would probably set it up once in awhile, run it for the grandchildren, and that would be that. I was in for a surprise. Upon opening the present, he immediately found a room to setup the train, and played or 'monkeyed' around with the train all Christmas Eve, with me, my brothers in law, and my nieces and nephew. He liked it. He really did. Later, he built a wooden box with hinges and a hasp. He took the train set with him wherever he traveled, even to the campground he and Mom were caretakers for in the summer. There was a pavilion there with an electric outlet, and he would set it up on the cement floor to entertain guests and campers.

I still have that wooden box and the train set it holds. I haven't taken it out in years, but I have dreams of setting it up again, and maybe handing it down to a grandson some year, although I am in no hurry to be a grandparent. And maybe then I will tell that child about another kid, who was raised in poverty, worked with his hands his whole life, witnessed the horrors of war, and yet could still find joy in finding a toy under the Christmas Tree. Maybe that is the Joy of Christmas we hear about so often.

Happy Birthday Dad. Merry Christmas everyone.

I won't forget, mom

I just finished closing out my mom's estate. It was a modest estate, we dispersed her possessions to various family members and friends, converted her investments to cash and once I was satisfied that all the bills were paid, I divided up the cash between my sisters, my brother and myself. Mom designated me to be the executor of her estate, and I did my best to follow her wishes. I was kind of dreading the final acts of being the executor. For the last 5 months I was getting regular reminders of Mom, her mail having been diverted to my house. As executor I was obliged to go through everything, make sure the Social Security and pension checks stopped arriving, and pay the few bills she had. Now the mail has stopped arriving. Her possessions have been scattered to the wind, the money she had in the bank is dispersed, and those that survive her continue to grieve in our own ways. I worry that I might drift apart somewhat from my siblings, as some of those ties that bind are gone. I wonder if now I could be called an orphan, as both of my parents are gone. I am sad.

Among those things of mom's I found what used to be a nickel. It's been flattened and curved, and you can just barely make out Jefferson's head and other markings. When I found this, I thought what an odd thing to keep. Then I remembered that I had given this to Mom when I was a kid. Our house was just a block from the railroad tracks, and I would often stack some coins on the rails as a train was approaching. The odds of finding these coins after the train had passed were small I discovered. Maybe it has to do with a train traveling 70 miles per hour, weighing several hundred tons, and the coins are somewhat smaller. Physics I suppose. Never took that class.  I probably lost a fair amount of my allowance money on those tracks, maybe I felt obliged to give some back to Mom, in the warped shape of a Jefferson nickel. Mom kept that nickel for the better part of 40 years in her jewelry box. I was somewhat astounded, as Mom was not necessarily very sentimental, but she certainly had that soft side. That nickel laid next to her rings, jewelry, and other treasures she had. It meant something to her. She never mentioned it to me. It's odd to think of parents keeping little treasures, we forget that they were young and and idealistic, had romances, and collected memories.

It caused me to think, mom did a lot of things that she never called much attention to. She was collecting memories. Growing up, Mom was the disciplinarian. Dad was tough on the outside, very soft on the inside. Mom had some inner grit that kept her going. She could get cranky at times, and sometimes she was a real PITA. Then, she would surprise you. When I was 17, I had a real POS car. But it was my car. I was having a lot of trouble with it, and no money to fix it. Mom and Dad never had much cash, so I was left to my own devices to get things fixed. One day, I was particularly upset with my car, and was sitting on the front porch being miserable about it. Mom came and sat next to me, and starting weeping. I asked her what was wrong, she said she just wanted me to have a good car, and was sad it wasn't working out for me. It made me think that maybe car problems are not so important in the whole scheme of things.

Much later in life, Mom and Dad were retired and living alone in northern Minnesota. Dad had cancer, and it as it turned out, not long to live. Mom didn't have a driver's license, but she got dad moved from one hospital to the next, rented a room nearby so she could be near him during his treatments, and never once complained to any of us kids. She didn't want to worry us. It's the dead of winter, she's lugging suitcases, helping my dad walk around, getting cab rides, dealing with doctors, and keeping my dad's spirits up the best she can. Never a complaint. We would forget about these things when she would be a PITA.

Mom kept things that meant something to her. She did things that she would not call attention to. She was being a mom. When I was little, I wondered how it was that she would always have an answer to my questions, she knew how to treat me when I was sick, how to get to school, what to make for dinner, you name it she had the answer. I thought, I will never know this much stuff. What will I do when I have kids? How can I get ready for that? I was worried. I would fail as an adult. Better to leave society now before I cause any permanent damage.

Well I survived child rearing, they turned out ok mostly. I realized as I was going through those years, we do the best we can and then make it up as we go along. We don't call attention to a lot of the stuff we do, probably because we are too tired. We just do. We collect memories, little mementos and treasures that would not mean much to anyone but ourselves. And without realizing it, we turn into our parents. Sort of. Maybe that is the final revenge of parents. Our kids start channeling us. I hope mine are around to wheel me out in the sun when I'm too feeble to do so. And maybe call me once in awhile.

Mostly, I hope my kids remember me when I am gone. As a parent, I was constantly reminding my boys about this or that. Don't forget I would say, which was just ensuring they would. Mom would do the same to me. Don't forget this or that, remember to do this. Yes mom, I will. No really mom I will. Then I would inevitably forget. She would get after me, tell me I need to be better about remembering things, then she would give me the same reminder in a day or two.

Now the long goodbye is over. I put off writing about this until now, I wanted to save these thoughts and have some closure. I'm still sad, and probably will be for a long time. That's normal, and probably even a little healthy.

Mom, I did learn those lessons. I won't forget. I have a flattened nickel to help me remember. I'll won't forget, Mom.

Goodbye Mom. Say hi to Dad for me. When you see Aunt Max tell her we miss her too. If you see Gene tell him I'm really pissed he's not coming back. You all can have a laugh about that. I won't forget any of you.

Double Nickel

I celebrated turning 18 with my high school buddies, we drank a whole bunch of Budweiser, got sick, told lies, and enjoyed hangovers the next morning. When I turned 21, I was with Gene and Garry, we hit up some cocktail lounges (bars) in the big city of Sacramento, enjoying the free drinks they would give to anyone turning the legal age. I still have the margarita glass I drank from when I actually turned 21, Gene snuck it out of the Peppermill Lounge under his cowboy hat. Really. I took about a month to celebrate my 21st, I was testing the limits drinking, partying, and generally being alive on the planet. It was a good time.

I celebrated my 30th birthday with my oldest son, 5 days old, puking on me and keeping me up for days on end. Despite his making my birthday a sleep deprived, stinky and sticky day, he turned out ok, having graduated college and finding employment. 

When I turned 44, my brother and oldest sister flew in from 'out west' and surprised me. I had to teach that night, so they came with to watch their little brother at work. Later, when I was looking over the practice tests I was going over with my students, I found the one my sister had. On it, she had written a note to my brother "....I didn't know he was this smart"  I assume my brother agreed with her.

11 years later, I am now almost old enough to qualify for the senior menu of most family restaurants. Good grief. I have not really been looking forward to 55. But, I have moved now from denial to acceptance. I'm not ready to embrace 55, that might take awhile. A little at a time, please.

How did I get here? 55. OK, if you have already crossed this bridge, you probably have no sympathy for me. Well, go get your own blog. Knock yourself out. I'll read it.

As for me,  I look back on my life thus far and see a journey that has not been very linear or by the numbers. I have lived, celebrated, mourned, wandered, loved, been fearless and scared. I made and lost friends, lost my dad, my best friend, and too many relatives and friends. I've swept floors for a living, earned some college degrees, picked up some scars you can see and some you can't, and made a fool of myself on occasion. I have witnessed the joy of childbirth, held my nieces as they fell asleep in my lap, comforted some people and scared others.

I have known joy and depression. Loneliness and friendship. I get pissed, dejected, elated and sometimes feel numb.  I marvel at how quickly life changes. 

My mom says that everything happens for a reason. I don't know about that. I just don't. I am convinced that one thing leads to another, and have learned the value of that. The ripple in the pond thing.  I am aware that I cannot change the past but I probably look backwards more than I should. More often than not, I am lead by my heart rather than my head, I believe life is lived in the heart. My intuition may not always be right for others, but it has generally served me well.

 Like most, I do the best I can with what I have. I was raised by loving parents, a mother who was emotionally tender and vulnerable, and a father that was tough as nails with a very sentimental core. They did the best they could. They kept me clothed, fed, and provided a stable home despite the issues they had between them. I tried to apply some lessons learned from them on my sons, and avoided some others. I did the best I could.

So here I am, 55 and looking forward to the next 50 years or so. I still enjoy an occasional beer, am very glad I don't have to change any more diapers, and I can live with being old enough for the senior menu. Out of vanity I'll probably continue to pay full price for awhile though. The driver's license may say I'm 55, but when I'm running down the road on my Magna, I feel 17 again. The wind is at my back, the sun is shining on my face. My heart is leading me down that road. One thing leads to another.