“My father often told me he wanted to live in a cave. He said it was because he really wanted to be famous and figured that would do it....
You are never too old to miss your dad. I do, every day, especially on his birthday, the holidays (he loved Christmas and made me promise I would always have a tree), D-Day from his time served as a Ranger in WWII, when I barbecue or watch ice skating, and in mid-August when we said good bye. He was my 'Poppy' and, like yours, my memories are close and comforting. Because it is also my daughter's birthday season I dust off these memories at the end of summer, with words I wrote for his funeral service --
He encouraged me to be a strong person and gave me permission at every turn to be myself, even when neither of us knew for certain who that was. He could do anything, fix anything, and 'rig something up' when my dream was not affordable... always there to figure it out.
He wanted me to be a terrific sports person which I never was. So I did a very smart thing, I had a little girl who is a wonderful athlete and terrific sport. He was so proud of her.
He asked me to tell everyone he had a very good life and so I do, because we did. And I have the memories to prove it. I think of him mostly as incredibly nice. And good, gentle, wise and so funny. I told him he still had the the most beautiful blue eyes I ever saw and that, if I had another chance, I would still pick him for a father.”
Last week I got an e-mail from a friend who was also a neighbor on the very unique and special block we all lived on during our growing up years. A block-long, elm tree lined street that we could play baseball in the middle of, ride our bikes down the steep hill at the top of, play 50-all-scatter in the backyards of every summer evening and have those super barbecues in our back yard.
My parents were best friends with the other parents and the kids were, and still are, the best of pals. Her e-mail was titled 'memories':
..." I'm holed up in the house, because summer is hot, mosquito-y & humid, watching "Anchors Aweigh!" w/Gene Kelly & Frank Sinatra. I got a pleasant flash of memory when I watched the scene where Kelly dances w/a little Mexican girl (Mexican Hat Dance--very cute). It made me think of being w/your parents as an eight-year old during the summer, staying up till 2 AM doing the Twist! What a great memory. I always looked forward to your parents visiting us up North in the summer & what fun we had cranking homemade ice cream, fishing & watching your dad do handstands off the raft. And what a water skier he was! Game for anything your dad was. My memories of your mom go back to how she enjoyed my visits when I practiced my violin or just came over for a chat. Her laugh is still in my memory bank!Just wanted you to know what a special place they have in my heart. They were such a positive influence & an island of good cheer in the neighborhood.....”
Eight years old. The age my daughter became that year, which started another stroll down memory lane, destination August 20th, my daughter's birthday.
I was surprised, when I telephoned home on a Sunday in February, to hear that my dad had the flu. He was a real contradiction – as a terrific athlete -- golfing, skiing, ice skating, tennis; he could even do cartwheels (I loved that because change fell out of his pockets when he tried to teach me. I never could do them)-- but he said he had inherited a poor heart when he needed bypass surgery and took early retirement. On this winter day he seemed in great shape, only 68 and so enjoying that golf course next door. But he didn't get better and between March and July I made several trips as the diagnosis of liver cancer came and then the treatments and the hope and the worry that goes with that. But he was optimistic and seemed to be doing it right. Being far away with a young child and a business, there were mixed feelings about going or not going with each scare and trip to the hospital. Mom was trying to take on all the care and never asked me to come or acted like it was too much, but of course it was. Each time she would say not to come I would worry and go and then he would recover and I would go home trusting in remission; so hard to do the right thing when unsure of what that is.
The call in August felt different and urgent; my arrival found an empty house. In emergency I found him looking tan in his shorts and golf shirt, trying to reassure me with a laugh—until I looked in his eyes and knew he wasn't going home again.
My daughter was in New York with her dad and I left things in his hands because I could do nothing else. Mom and I went to the hospital every morning, spent the day and I would go back in the evening until the end of visiting hours. As time went on it became clear that he was not improving, eventually not aware of us at all, but still he stayed and so did we. I would watch tennis or golf on TV and try to describe the events, I'm sure he was laughing.
One afternoon mom and I were chatting outside his room when a lovely tall woman approached us and asked if we would sit and talk with her. She said her name was Miss Birdsong and it was her job to help in difficult times. She was calm and serene; I remember she wore a sort of suit with a little hat like an upside-down lace cup with a black velvet ribbon. Every afternoon she appeared and we would go out to a sunny room to talk with her. One day she asked if we knew what my dad might be waiting for. She said that often, as people are readying to leave the world, there is something unfinished or undone that they are waiting for. We couldn't think of anything really, we had spent time saying the things we meant to say so we could think of nothing.
By then I had been in Florida nearly two weeks and it was approaching my daughter's 8th birthday. I wanted to be with her but didn't want to leave so we agreed she should fly down. Mom and I made a birthday cake and shopped for presents so there could be a festive mood when she arrived. On the way to the airport I stopped at the hospital to tell my dad I was going to pick her up for her birthday. He became very agitated and I assured him that I wasn't going to bring her to see him, getting his message clearly; he did not want her to see him or remember him this way. No, I explained, I was having her come to be with us for her birthday and because we had been apart for so long and he became calm again.
We got home (after a mandatory stop at Taco Bell) and had presents on the porch with neighbors dropping in to see the birthday girl. Suddenly the sky darkened to pure black, became heavy and impossibly still. I jumped up and said 'Hospital. Now.' As I turned onto the main road a huge double rainbow appeared in the sky, curving right to the spot that marked the hospital and I followed it all the way there. Racing up to the room my dad was alone and quiet; warm and peaceful. The nurses rushed in as I tried to speak to him; he had died moments before as I flew to be there.
I went home for my mother and we spent some time with Miss Birdsong. “Of course”, she said –so kindly-- that is what he waited for –his “girls” to all be together; to take care of each other now, as we would continue to do in the future. Of course.
We had a small military funeral for my very wonderful dad. When the folded flag was given to my mother the soldier presented it 'on behalf of a grateful nation'. And we were feeling mightily grateful amidst the sadness. I closed the service with these words:
“My father always wanted to be famous and so he did a very smart thing. He had a daughter for whom that is true and will always be. I hope, like Tom Sawyer, in his best sneakers and Scottish golf hat, he is leaning over the balcony now to hear this... my famous, famous father.”
And lastly, before Emily and I returned home, I wanted to take Miss Birdsong a thank you gift and to tell her how much her time and words had meant to us. I looked for her on the floor and then went to the nurse’s station to inquire. They directed me to the administrator’s office because they couldn't answer my query. The administrator was quite puzzled and assured me that there was no Miss Birdsong on their staff. There never had been in her recollection. Never? Never.
Of course. My special lady. And I truly hoped it would not be the last time I would meet her. Perhaps I have always had her near. I hope so.
From that day too, when I've really needed it, 'Poppy's Rainbow' has appeared in a still and darkened sky to reassure or show me the way. Now, as another summer comes to a close, I am keeping the light of happy memories burning bright and saying once again “thank you Miss Birdsong”.
And Poppy -- your girls miss you.
What. am. I. doing. here? After seventeen years I am a stranger in a strange land; no less a foreigner than the day I left New York to move to Ireland. Twenty five years in the city should count for something and it does: a beautiful daughter, a wonderful profession as an artist-potter, memories of love and delightful friends. But the "today" of my life is confusing and way too dependent on the weather. Which ever way the wind blows, I'm glad to be here and that you are too... let's begin. yes, let's