Category Archives: fathers

Jul27

Elaine

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Last week, we had not one, but two memorials to attend. Not just to “attend,” but to participate in because they celebrated the lives of such significant and beloved humans. My age, which is not so advanced at 54, allows an ever-increasing number of these losses. Which makes perfect sense, of course, but that doesn’t make a single thing about letting go of people you love easier. Tim and Elaine. As far as I know, mostly unbeknownst to each other, even though we all know we’ve got a Kevin Bacon thing going on with almost everyone. Elaine passed away just three days after Tim, so this latter post will be about her.

It was ten years ago this month that we lost Hap, my dad, a loss that I have written about numerous times, but it was at exactly that time when Elaine reentered our lives. On purpose. A lot of people showed up for us when we lost Hap. Most didn’t know what to say or do, and of course–there was nothing to say or do. But Elaine found something to do.

She’s not “mine” to talk about, which is why I haven’t written or posted anything yet about her passing. I don’t know her children well enough to share any news on their behalf about their mother. But this is what I do, write/talk/share to process, and no one has to read it anyway. But I have an ever-present fear that I will forget things, or that others will. And I don’t ever want to forget–or to be unable to conjure the memories.

I first met Elaine when I was only about five or six years old. Even from that long ago, my impression of her is strong because she was so pretty. Sounds shallow, maybe, but to a young child, all moms look like moms. Elaine had a unique, attractive energy about her. Her daughter Lisa and my sister Judy were classmates and friends, and that’s the context of my exposure to Elaine. I remember her pretty smile, the way she spoke to me as if I was just another person worthy of conversation rather than the incidental Kindergartener. I remember her dog, Raindrop. She was social, I got that about her before I knew what the word meant. And as a child, I felt singularly unintimidated by her adulthood. She was a tall woman, not unlike the woman I would grow up to be. Stylish hair and clothes, broad hands and tan feet. Wearing jewelry. These are the details I recall as I see her in our driveway in the 1970’s in my mind’s eye.

At some point during our childhoods, Elaine’s family moved a suburb over, and I know that my parents socialized or saw her at various locales and events over the years. However long it had been, greeting cards would still come in the mailbox for big occasions from Elaine, and she was always on the invite list for our family showers, weddings, anniversary parties…

Ten years ago when Hap died, Elaine was a single woman still living just minutes away from us, still in touch as much or as little as anyone else was with my mom. I’m sure, although I have no recollection, that she showed up at the visitation and/or funeral for my dad. I’m certain she sent cards…plural. And clearly she called or otherwise “checked in” with my mom, Dolores.

When my dad passed away, he had been in a nursing home and we had really lost him in the two years leading up to his death to the harrowing Lewy Body dementia. So although we grieved, our grief had already been in process and his death was a release from an earthly body and mind that he had well outgrown. We were sad, but not in shock or traumatized by his passing. But because of his disease, each of us had spent a great deal of our time with him; his death left quite a literal void in the daily schedule, mostly for our mom.

It wasn’t long after Hap died that my mom came to my sisters and me saying, “Elaine has invited me to go to Florida for a month or two this winter.”

I think Coleen, Judy and I all thought it was a grand idea, but my mom had never gone anywhere without our dad. They were not the couple who had separate trips of any kind, and they loved their travel together or with the rest of us as a family. I was truly surprised to hear Dolores finish the conversation by saying, “…and I think I’d like to say yes.”

Thus began a renewal of friendship that has helped sustain my mom through her widowhood this past decade. Elaine was not widowed; she didn’t pretend to know what my mom might be going through. She just knew that they both liked each other, and shopping, and cute shoes, and eating lunch, among many other things. Turns out, they were completely compatible winter travelers despite one being an early bird (Elaine) and one being a sleeper-inner (Dolores.) That first winter and every one after that (with the exception of the global pandemic travel interruption) they rented condos in various Florida locations for four or six weeks. They made vodka and tonics in the evenings and they drove their rental car onto the beaches where they set up a chair and talked. They bought groceries and had their breakfasts and coffee at home, and they hung out at the pool. They rented movies and went out to dinners sometimes. I wish they’d gone out even more, and not worried about the cost! My mom was the driver and Elaine, the navigator and copilot. They found flea markets and fish fries and sometimes bought so much that another bag was needed on the return trip home in March. They complemented each other well on those trips. I must admit that I came to enjoy picking Elaine and her suitcases up on an icy January morning before dawn to deliver the two of them to the airport, and likewise for the March airport pickup, when the weather wasn’t any better yet than when they departed.

But it didn’t end there, with the winters away. Elaine became the friend who would invite Dolores to the local outdoor pavilion band concert, to the senior club lunch, to the free dinner that came with a community center talk on finances. It is Elaine who suggested that they pick up lunch or pack snacks and open their portable chairs to sit and watch people like me kayak or paddleboard on Coe Lake. I didn’t realize until it was already happening how valuable Elaine’s invitations were. What would my mom have done with so much extra time on her hands if not for these invitations?

My mom’s best friend of over 55 years, Ellie, was always in the picture, and since they were widowed within a year of each other, they leaned heavily on each other. We’ve always done holidays together with Ellie’s family, our family, and they did weekend Mass and dinner or breakfast together, so it seemed a natural progression to put all of these “golden girls” together. At some point I started referring to them that way, along with Ellie’s son in law’s mom Lois (it sounds reductive to me to even explain these relationships because they are simply all “family.”)

It’s no secret that I have not worked a “real” job more than a decade now, so it felt incumbent upon me to plan the occasional fun outing with my Golden Girls. We started with annual Dyngus Day, the day after Easter, a street festival celebration in Cleveland with Polish food and beer, pierogies, and plenty of polka music. Eventually, the ladies sported matching shirts for this yearly event. We’ve driven to look at Christmas lights, a farmer’s market for fall cider, even an afternoon on a rented pontoon boat. During all these times, the most enjoyable part of the date was hearing the ladies talk about old times…old Cleveland buildings where they had worked, danced, shopped. Where they lived, how they met their husbands, the kind of food their mothers made for dinner. After each outing, I would receive an email from Elaine, or a thank you card, a box of chocolates or even a wrapped gift. More often that not, all of the above. She shared a birthday with my husband and never forgot to wish him a happy one.

These outings won’t stop now in Elaine’s absence; in fact, they began before she was part of them. Even though she was the second eldest of the crew, I didn’t expect she’d be the first we’d lose. She was not frail and didn’t act old. She may have had struggles like knee pain and diminishing eyesight, but she remained enthusiastic and charming in her pursuit of her days’ endeavors. She lit up talking about her grandchildren and great-grandchildren, one or two of which were brand new at the time of her death.

A couple of weeks ago, she and my mom attended their usual chair yoga class together. Later that day, Elaine took herself to the doctor, where it was discovered that she was experiencing heart arrhythmia. She was transferred to the hospital where she had a suspected mild stroke, but was doing well enough to not only visit with family, but to compliment and make friends with the staff. A couple of days later, still in the hospital, she experienced a more catastrophic event that she could not recover from. Thankfully, hospice was her next stop. My mom and I were able to visit her there, as she slumbered peacefully with her beloved family around her, filling her ears and heart with the love she had passed around for years.

As I type this, my mom is out “bopping,” as she calls it, after her hair appointment. Last night, she went to an ice cream social at her church. I know there’s an Elaine-shaped hole in her heart and in her days, but she’s trying, and I’m proud of her for it. If not for Elaine’s intervention a decade ago, Dolores might be a much older version of the woman she is today. Maybe less independent, maybe less fun. A guest on The Modern Yoga Podcast recently spoke about “watering your friends, rather than watering your friends’ plants,” and I can’t think of a better description of Elaine’s friendship. When my mom needed nurturing, “watering,” Elaine didn’t just ask if we needed anything. She showed up, without expectation or pressure.

I’m so grateful she was still independently living the fullness of life right up until the day of her hospitalization. One of God’s angels on earth, and I know she will keep watering her loved ones from a higher ground now. As the saying goes, we are all just walking each other home. What a blessing Elaine has been as a companion.

https://obits.cleveland.com/us/obituaries/cleveland/name/elaine-gommel-obituary?id=52423333

Jun18

The Best Worst Hour

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(2012?)

The best, worst hour of every day is the hour (or two, but that just doesn’t sound as catchy, now does it?) that I visit my dad, especially now.  Initially, it was many hours at a time, unless it was a hospital behavior ward which limited the visits to one or two hours.  But back in those days, whether it was one hour or several, things were more “worst” than “best” for sure.  There was nothing to be grateful for at that time, other than the fact that my dad was safe.  It was too soon to smile about memories and be grateful for all that he had been.  We were still in the thick of it, losing him while he fought us and was angry with us for letting him be sick.  I don’t know when he let go, I don’t know when he knew how much and what was drug-induced and what wasn’t.  

My mom still has a telephone message on her voicemail from him from three months in, around September, when he was maybe in one of the hospitals or else early on at Manor Care North Olmsted.  She played it for me yesterday, and in it he sounded so sweet.  He asked how she was feeling, noting that he hadn’t been feeling great, and that he didn’t have his phone (he would ask the nurse’s station to call my mom for him in the early days) but that she should try to get ahold of him whenever she could.  It’s a mystery to me when he might have left this, because she was simply there almost all of the time.  I had a message saved on my voicemail too, from October.  I received it while Jeff and Mom and I were in Florida, packing up their now sold retirement home – another emotional story for a different chapter.  In the message to me, he was agitated because he somehow had the idea (he would wake up with these ideas, probably from dreams but then didn’t make the distinction between dream and reality – either that or he just flat out hallucinated it) that my mom was angry with him, accusing him of seeing another woman. He wanted to impress upon me that of course that was absolutely not true, there was no other woman, and would I please convince her of that?  When I switched from a Blackberry to my IPhone, I was told the message could not be saved.  I was initially very upset, but I know that it already wasn’t my dad, and while I would love to have his voice with me always, it really IS in my head. I’m sure I won’t always be able to hear it, but that’s the nature of things.  

It is so hard to describe his early illness and nursing home “incarceration” because he was still very much Hap, and yes fought us on things.  But at the same time, his fight wasn’t convincing because while he knew who all of us were and that he was mad at us, he also thought concurrently that he was on a cruise ship or at the office.  So you see, we really did have to do what we were doing, and never know who/what you’d get when you went to visit.  

I’m going to go back to the past later, but for a different perspective, let’s talk about today since it is fresh in my mind.  It was a completely uneventful visit, but still pertinent to the subject of “the best hour, the worst hour” of my day.  Parking your car at the nursing home is never a fun thing – what’s next, you know, is to walk into a place that is familiar, too familiar, but unfamiliar as well.  You don’t want it to be familiar, it’s for other people.  The anxiety grips you as you walk towards the door, because you  know what kind of smells are going to hit you when you enter, and that there will probably be at least one person hanging out in a wheelchair, looking like nothing you’ve ever wanted to allow into your life. Maybe they are just literally hanging there, belted in.  Their head is probably lolling to one side, perhaps they are drooling.  Perhaps they can say hello to you, but many times they cannot.  Now that you’re “a regular,” the sight of such a person no longer disturbs you and you smile and greet them by name.  That’s part of the paradox of the best/worst.  It never gets less gross, disgusting, inhumane, or horrifying.  Yet you embrace all of those things, and the people to whom they are happening, with compassion.  You don’t notice that Bob’s hair is always greasy and never combed and that he spits when he talks.  You don’t care that the food is all over the faces and down the fronts when you are in the dining room with the others.  You don’t balk at seeing the top of the diaper out of someone’s pants, or people without their teeth.  You stop noticing the damaged toenails of the diabetics or the nose-picking of the guy with the really long fingernails that no one ever seems to cut.  They are beautiful and you come to love them for what you know they must have been once.  You see your own mortality, frailty, and probable future, and you have compassion.

But before that, let’s be honest, it sucks.  Today, I went at lunch time, and my dad was already seated at “his spot” in the dining room, by the window.  He had been shaved, which is always a plus – because he looks like my daddy again, clean-shaven, beautiful skin.  To see him look disheveled, although it is common now, is nothing like the dad I knew (unless we’re talking early morning before the shower – then that white hair was wild!).  Now, though, showers are about every three days in the nursing home.  That part is done by the aides, so we get to ignore or forget what exactly that process looks like.  Does my dad just sit there on the shower chair?  Does he participate, or let them do all of the work?  Is he ever “with it” enough to be embarrassed  any  more?  He made a comment to my mom once at the Manor, pointing out a giant FEMALE aide, and telling my mom “she gives such a good shower!”  If that’s not proof my dad was ‘gone’, I don’t know what was.  The man was ridiculously modest, especially around women.  I can’t say that enough times or with enough emphasis.  So, today, my dad was clean shaven, hair combed back, and that made him look good. He was also sitting up straight, which helps the illusion of health also;  some days, he is leaning over to the left, drooling and with one arm draped over the wheelchair.  He matched today, thanks to whomever took care of him.  His sweatpants and sweatshirt matched or complemented each other, which is always a toss up.  

You may think that we are uninvolved, that we could demand he be put in a particular outfit every day, that he doesn’t like this, doesn’t like that – but we found out fairly early on that most of those type of demands aren’t for the patient, if we’re being honest.  They are for the family, so it doesn’t hurt so bad.  Dad has no idea if he matches, and no one there does, either.  Earlier at the Manor, if his shirt was inside out or something didn’t match well, we might mention it or try to fix it for him.  All this did was to confuse my dad.  It was to make US feel better, not him.  Because he felt just fine with it backwards or whatever.  That’s part of the learning process for us – the prettier nursing home (which couldn’t keep him locked in), the demands on what he wears and eats (which he no longer has a clue about) and things like phones and television remotes (which he loses, or adds to his hallucinations, or throws), and even the photos and calendars and mementos we have placed all around him in his room, are for US.  He lives in a very particular world, and those things do not matter.  In fact, they interfere.  

Today, his appearance made me say “hey, good lookin’!”  And I leaned over him to give him a hug.  He hugged back, which he doesn’t often do, and he smiled.  He seemed strong today, awake and aware.  Not aware he has dementia and is in a nursing home, but more aware that it is daytime, I am sitting with him, and that he should pick up his fork and eat lunch.  Other days he looks vacant, hazy, or has his eyes closed even as he mumbles as if we are speaking .  Still other days he “answers” someone calling to him a few feet away, a hallucination.  Some days, he needs help eating, having no idea or no desire to engage with the food, or because in his mind, he is in a different reality.  He will treat his napkin like a form and his finger like a pen and begin working, despite the plate of food in his way.  But today, he was pretty good.  He burped, and then laughed.  A return to being a baby, is how I look at it.  He looked at me sheepishly, and I told him he was just cracking himself up, that all men were seventh grade boys at heart.  He liked that, and he laughed and looked at me.  

Nowadays, those are the days that make me cry.  When my dad smiles, not a polite smile for someone else but a smile because he is chuckling at something, there is nothing in the world that is more beautiful for me to see.  He was always such a good looking man, and smiling was such a part of him.  When he smiles at me, with those blue eyes and beautiful face, I miss my dad.  Those few times are glimpses into the happy, Happy man that he was.  And happy for Happy was a deliberate choice.  He was filled with natural optimism and glee, but he just refused to be anything but happy, no matter what the situation.  And I love him for that, and I embrace that lesson from him, but oh, how fast the tears come, though I’m smiling through them, when he smiles at me.  Then I hug him, and kiss him.  

The meal is always a variable, too.  Today, he was drinking okay by himself from a normal cup.  I keep meaning to take a milkshake to ascertain whether or not he can still drink out of a straw, in case it comes to that.  Because more and more he is having trouble with the mechanics, and the brain command to DO the mechanics, of eating and drinking.  Sometimes, he forgets in mid meal after he was just doing decently.  Often while drinking, once the glass is half empty (yes, yes I know Hap would say half-full) he holds it to his lips but can’t get any.  I have to remind him, tip your head back, dad… and so far, that helps and he is able to get the rest out.  As for the solids, well, it’s a mess.  He probably can’t really use both hands with a knife and fork, so he uses one hand or the other and a fork or spoon to feed himself.  Today, he began with his jello (that’s another thing I refuse to correct – I am gonna let that man eat dessert first!) and yes, it is messy.  They usually put a giant sized bib on all the residents, which early on seemed so wrong for my dad and he often didn’t use it, but his skills have deteriorated so it IS useful – but I don’t think he is any more aware of what it is or that someone placed it on him than he knows what day today is.  Since he had used his spoon with the jello, he dug in to the green beans with it next. That didn’t work as well, so I suggested the fork.  But until I replaced the spoon with the fork in his hand myself, he did not make the change.  And so, it is messy, but I don’t help him unless he physically will not feed himself.  I figure, the longer he can do something, we should encourage him to do it, if for no other reason than to give him something to do in a long, long day of sameness.  But again – that’s me talking.  His day may seem full and exhausting to him, and in fact I don’t think his day is a day at all.  I think he cycles in about three hour increments.  There are days he is fabulous at lunch and terrible at dinner, and days that mom comes home saddened because he seemed so bad at lunch, but when I go for dinner he is a new man.  Such is this disease – whatever it is.    

Now that my dad is more ill, and he is safe and cared for, and my mom is doing decently and is healthy, I have the luxury of feeling like these are not the worst of times. That enables me to have the best hour of the day with my dad, too.  While he may be concentrating on his green beans, I can be nostalgic and remember who he was.  And while, of course, I didn’t love him enough or thank him enough when I should have, I can now sing to him, songs I know he used to like, like Donna Wells “Happiest Girl in the Whole USA” or “I Never Promised You a Rose Garden” by Lynn Anderson, or old country classics or folk songs.  He liked “Green Green Grass of Home” and “Honey,”  and Kenny Rogers songs.  I can rub his shoulders while I talk to him, and if I have time for a real treat, I massage his arms and legs with moisturizer.  Listen, I’m no saint – I put gloves on first, for his protection as well as mine.  We don’t need to exchange germs and bacteria any more than we are anyway, and okay I admit it…I still get grossed out by bodies.  But that is okay… because I know, no matter what level of sanity someone is at, it just feels damn good to have someone massage your arms, leg muscles, neck.  I know why I love manicures and pedicures, and it’s not just because of the pretty polish. 

I recently saw Amy Grant on tv, discussing caring for her elderly parents.  Her mother had recently died after having dementia, and her father has it now.  She was distraught that this was what the final chapter was like for two faithful servants like her parents, but she said that she was very moved by what a friend told her:  this is the last great lesson your parents will teach you.  Amy decided that if this was what her parents were teaching her, she damned well better be all in and learn it.  While the choice is not a conscious one of my dad’s, God works in mysterious ways and I know that I am learning about myself, my husband, my family, and every individual I come across during this experience.  Part of the best hour of the day is being forced to sit there and really not think of or care about anything but reflecting on my dad, on the life he gave us, on the relationship that we had… of all that he gave up, joys he experienced, how he has suffered.  How much I owe to him.  How unique and wonderful he is.  How blessed I am that this hurts so bad, that I have nothing but good memories and that’s why this is so devastating.  What a gift to be 43 and just now to have lost my dad, and what a gift to be so torn up about it.  Some people don’t talk to their parents.  Some people live far away from them. Some people are always fighting.  I am devastated to lose my dad this particular way, but I am so blessed and grateful that it IS this painful, simply because of what that says about all that came before.  Sometimes I wonder if my dad’s prayers are being answered.  If he prayed his whole life for my mom to be healthy and live a long life, for his children to be healthy and prosperous, and for God to give him the suffering instead.  I would not doubt it.  

I know that the angels who take care of my dad (well first of all, I do know that they are not all, and not always, angels) do not know him at all.  They don’t know that he was much more fun, kinder, more generous and loving than the person they take care of in the bed next to his or the room across the hall.  All I’ve got is our example to show these people how remarkable he was.  Do I love that every single nursing home and hospital so far has brought us people who sought us out, saying things like “wow, you girls and your mom sure do love your dad!” Hell yes.  I’m proud that people notice, and I am sure that is part of my sisters’ motivation too.  Not as in we want people to see us visiting so we get ‘credit’ – no, not that at all.  Rather, it is what he truly deserves, and he also deserves to have people see it and know it – THIS is what love looks like when you have been such a wonderful father.  Learn from him, people.  This is a man we will never leave, never forget, never cease to thank and love and blanket with affection to show the world how special and superior he was.  Everyone thinks this of their loved one, or most, I am sure.  But, sorry – we are here to show you different, more.  Hap Harral was in a league of his own.  

Jul15

Happy Trails…

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Happy Trails…

My husband Jeff and I have driven south on I-77 to various parts of North Carolina about a kazillion times over the past 20 years. That’s the kind of math I do. Mostly together, although we’ve each made our solo trips as well. Back in the day when I was working a more traditional office job, we’d leave at the end of workday and arrive late in the dark of night. In more recent years of self-employment for us both (if one would want to refer to me as “employed,”) we’ve been able to leave whenever we want, since technology now allows almost a normal workday for his consulting business. It’s a route we know well (I only know it well because it’s one interstate, idiot-proof right up until the end) and have done in the darkness, the rain and snow, in old cars, new cars, and rental cars.

Depending on which relatives we are visiting, the drive can be anywhere from 7-9-ish hours. Sometimes people balk at that, especially knowing the serpentine West Virginia turnpike is included, but we love our hours in the car. That turnpike is my favorite part, and I’m the one who usually gets to drive it. The best trips are those taken in Red Snapper, the name of my 2015 Volkswagen GLI 6-speed. She’s not a youngster anymore, and neither am I, but we are bonded. There’s nothing like a road trip in the car you love. Jeff enjoys the drive, but he’s also a fan of flying anywhere. Me, I’d rather drive 8 hours than fly for one. The packing, the people, the pressure…to me, that’s an annoying way to travel.

Snapper and I took that very trip the day before yesterday, returning our granddaughter to her home after a week-long visit in Ohio. It was just the two of us in the car, my 7-year old grandgirl and me, and while we did leave fairly early upon awakening that morning, we had one stop about an hour from our house to see some extended family in their newly purchased home. From there, Kennedy and I had a fun, uneventful ride which involved plenty of car snacks (the key to any road trip) and a book series about fairies on Audible. Kennedy didn’t even take a nap the entire drive, and I assured her that I would not, either!

I prayed for safe travel, always have. Sometimes on these drives, I notice dozens of police patrol cars, waiting to pick off anyone speeding. My cruise control is always set for a particular number not too terribly far past the speed limit, so I’m not usually too worried about them. On this trip, I noticed very few speed traps. It was, however, the day after the fourth of July extended holiday, so I’m sure it was now a slower day to get back to a normal weekday presence. What I did notice, however, was the plentiful number of cars, from Ohio to West Virginia to Virginia and now North Carolina, pulled over and changing a flat tire on the shoulder.

About 30 years ago when I worked for the local franchise of Cox Cable, I worked with a woman whose husband was a police officer. One day on patrol on the nearby interstate, he pulled over to help a stranded motorist, and a distracted driver plowed into him with sufficient force to knock him right out of his footwear. I didn’t know the man, and I barely knew his wife, but that image has always stuck with me. I have considerable anxiety whenever I see people loitering near the side of the road, especially on the highways. Nowadays, people are standing around using their phones, not even thinking about keeping safe distance from the traffic whizzing by. I’ve been a broken record cautioning all the kids in our family as they obtained their driver’s licenses over the years to get far away from the vehicle and call for help. Some fervent prayers are said when I pass a person crouched and changing their own tire, without the benefit of flashing caution lights or much help.

We enjoyed the drive, popping gummy bears and sharing a Pop-Tart. We stopped to gas up and refill our snack tank as well with yogurt and granola, cheese and crackers near Tamarack, West Virginia. Kennedy was excited as ever about getting to both of the upcoming tunnels cut right through the mountains. As we neared the big hill (as my husband calls it) aimed to pass Mt. Airy, North Carolina, I said to myself (silently), “after all these years of uneventful trips, please don’t let us get a flat tire like all of these people! The last thing I want is to strand a 7-year old on the side of a mountainous road.”

Truly, rain or shine—and at least one time it was fully 8 hours of pouring rain—we had never had a problem on this drive south, nor the return trips north. Well, sure, there was the one time about 15 years ago when Jeff went alone, using my mom’s green minivan, and discovered he had no brakes as he slid down the interstate hill, but that was the only exception. He’s fine. He had to get to a service station and find a way to get his brakes fixed or replaced to continue. I remember being at a workday lunch, seated outdoors with my friend, when he called to tell me what was going on, but I quickly blocked out what might have happened.

My present-day internal prayer was answered, in a way. We did not end up with a flat tire. Instead, a semi-truck a few vehicles in front of us had shed his tire treads, or however that works, and that created a big problem for several vehicles. I saw the big black impediment flying first as it approached the car in front of me. With two full lanes of high-speed traffic and a narrow shoulder with a big valley drop beyond it, there was nothing to do but ease off acceleration and hold the wheel in both hands as the giant black rubber demon was spit from the rear of that vehicle, through the air and into the smiling grill of Red Snapper.

It felt like playing leap-frog with a car, as we heard (and felt!) the loud roll of an object beneath us giving us an ungraceful lift. I had been in the left lane, passing, so I kept both hands on the wheel until I could change lanes right. Kennedy just said, “what was THAT?!” but seemed unperturbed, and that’s the reaction I gave her right back, explaining what we had just hit. There was a sign for a rest area up ahead, and I planned to stop there and take a look. My tires felt fine, the steering wasn’t pulling to one side or the other, and no gauges were setting off alarms. As we approached the rest area, however, I could see that the exit ramp leading towards it was closed and blocked off. As we kept going, I knew we had some damage underneath, or were perhaps dragging a piece of the actual shredded tread, because I felt as well as heard a rhythmic dragging from the underbelly of Red Snapper.

We exited the interstate and headed towards a Marathon gas station, promised less than a mile ahead. The slower the vehicle went, the louder it was, and I gratefully pulled into the parking lot and told Kennedy to stay in the car while I looked at the damage. Poor Snapper’s jaw was fallen open, and the dragging I had heard was the shield, like a turtle’s thin under armor, ripped apart and dangling at various places. It had been riding along the road, and parts of it had been resting on the moving tires like they were sanding stones.

I was easily able to snap my little red car’s mouth shut again, but as for the thick, smelly, road-rash burned plastic shield, it was too big for me to handle. It was still too secure to pull completely off, but it couldn’t be left dangling. I opened Kennedy’s door and invited her inside the gas station with me. She unbuckled her seat belt from around the booster seat, reached for my hand, and I said,  “we’re gonna fix this with girl power.”

Inside, I found a narrow store, smaller than most, but adrenaline told me we would make something work. I had been looking for bungee cords, but in their absence, found some good old sturdy duct tape. I’m from Parma, Ohio, and my dad was NOT talented in the household arts. I grew up in a culture of duct tape. I remarked to the young woman behind the cash register what our situation was, and she said that she had a special clearance table with zip-ties and bungee cords. “Oh! Then I will take both of those too, please!” When I asked her to cut the packages open for me, she reached into the right front pocket of her threadbare jeans and pulled out her own knife to do so. Girl power, indeed.

Back at the curb, with Kennedy standing beside me to supervise, I used a combination of my newly purchased tools to shore up the dragging parts of my car. It all felt pretty secure, but we still had a couple of hours to go. We hopped back in the car, shared a few good sprays of what she calls “handzitizer,” and were on our way back to Interstate 77 South—this time, staying in the slower lane. I called Kennedy’s dad and told him what had happened, just so that he could call some local body shop or dealership while it was still the workday. I wanted to have the car looked at before I pointed it back up north for 500 miles the next day.

We stopped one more time along the route, after hearing the drag return, and recommitted my support strategy. By the time we pulled in to see Kennedy’s parents and little brother Jackson waiting for our arrival, we were again dragging a bit. But we had made it, safe and sound.

“Better than a flat tire,” I thought to myself. More expensive, maybe, but if it kept us from being sitting ducks on the side of the road, still my preference.

I could have opted to try and have the car fixed while I was there, but Hurricane Elsa was promising that adding another day to my planned date of departure was probably adding two days or more unless I wanted to drive in constant rainstorms and high winds. Early the next morning, I showed up at the local VW dealer and asked for mercy. I told them what had happened and requested that they’d hoist Snapper up and make sure whatever was going on under there was safe and secure enough to drive her all the way to Ohio safely.

Without hesitation, they were ready to help. A small-framed young man with dark hair came around from behind the counter and walked out to look at the car with me. He asked for my keys and took the car right back to put her on the lift. While he did that, I chatted with the two other guys in the service check-in department. One hailed from Michigan, a word that many Ohio State University football fans won’t even say out loud (he told me Michigan claims Toledo, and in an earlier life I would’ve told him he could have it, but now I’ve got a nephew who lives there). The other jovial bearded dude was about to take a motorcycle trip to Willowick, Ohio, in a couple of weeks to meet his wife’s father for the first time. We joked, we compared notes on places we knew or had in common, and then I retreated to the waiting area so that I could text my progress to my family.

The waiting area was a small but colorfully appointed alcove with murals of various VW models painted on the walls. My eye was drawn to the image of a red car with a street sign painted above it: Happy Ave.

Ah, so my prayer had not only been answered, but with a little extra wink from my dad.

Instantly, my mind went back to another trip to North Carolina that I had taken, long before I was married at all, around 1990, to visit my best friend who was stationed there with her Marine Corps husband. That trip was taken in a white diesel VW golf hatchback, the one my dad had procured for me to drive in high school. It was becoming overheated in the mountains, smoke under the hood and red lights on the dash, when the small-town mechanic we managed to coast towards suggested only that it be towed to the Volkswagen Dealership in Winston-Salem. Still a kid in most ways, around 20 years old, I remember calling my dad, sobbing. “What should I do?” “I have to rent a car!” “It’s going to be expensive!”

Hap laughed. Chuckled, more aptly. I could picture his smile, and I knew he was actually somewhat delighted by my predicament, once he knew I was safe. When I mimicked the accent of the mechanic, and lamented at the time lost both on the way to the destination, and then on the way back to pick up the car, he simply said, “but look at all the interesting people you wouldn’t have met otherwise.”

Two and a half decades later, I would recycle that message as I delivered my dad’s eulogy.

Yep, Hap’s fingerprints were all over this.

Rather quickly, the tidy young man who had first taken care of me came back to hand me my keys. Everything looked in order, and they had been able to simply remove much of that plastic protector that had run the entire length of the car like a ribcage to protect the organs of Red Snapper.

“You’ll want to get that replaced as soon as you get home,” he cautioned. “And don’t drive too crazy on the way.” As I handed him my credit card, he waved my hand away.

There was a time I used to appreciate when a man would be so deferential to a young lady, making sure I was well taken care of in a situation like this. I realized now, I appreciated a young man being deferential to an older woman in that same way.

I drove myself home, a little slower than usual and with the music not quite as loud so that I could hear the subtle complaints of my car. Being restrained a bit reminded me by contrast of how much I enjoy the relative freedom of the open road, a sunny day, a scenic route, loud music, open sunroof, and a fast car. For all of his sacrifices for us, I know now that my dad had this same enjoyment; that’s why he drove as he did, and as much as he did. That’s where I get it from, I guess. I feel so close to him on those drives, finding myself grinning or becoming aware of a tear in my eye, depending on the song on the radio and the current view.

Toby Keith and Chris LeDoux sang, “Now our windshield’s a painting that hangs in our room…it changes with each mile like the radio tune…”

A careful 9 or so hours later, I was home safe and sound and cutting into a rotisserie chicken with my hubby. (Unrelated, Jeff has told me that if someday I don’t make it back home to him, he will probably eat rotisserie chicken about three nights a week.)

And just this morning, one of my sisters told me that back when we were kids, riding in a yellow Suburban we had nicknamed “the Looney Bin,” she had asked Hap about the thick black curls of rubber on the freeway as we headed to a beach vacation. Heck, we may have even been heading to the Carolinas! She said that he explained to her how perilous they could be when they flew off of the 18-wheelers into traffic. Something he was worried about on those trips, maybe.

I don’t pretend my dad has special powers up there, now.

But “Our Father” does.

Jun17

Every day is Fathers Day…

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Not long ago, I found a letter that my dad wrote to me in April, 1987. The reason for the letter was my high school senior retreat day at Padua High School. It was a beautiful surprise to see my dad’s handwriting again, all confident, cheerful and scrawly, and to “hear” his voice again in those words. When I saved this letter and put it away, I’m sure I never gave his words another thought. The thing is, though, I didn’t have to remember his words, because every single day, he told me the same things in his actions. It amazes me how much his own words mirror the words I used later in his eulogy to describe him and his life. This is vintage Hap, solid advice! And it reminds me that while we may think the most important thing we can say to someone while they’re here is “I love you,” the greater gift may be to say, “I know that you love me.” The letter is pictured here, but difficult to read, so I will transcribe his words: (spoiler alert!! He spills the “secret of life.”)

Mary Beth,

Time for our Father Daughter talk! (Equal billing)

Mary, the whole world is yours if you shut out the negatives. Don’t think the bad of anything. Enjoy your work–your school, now or ever. Please try & be happy with any situation you’re in. I know it sounds stupid but you can make or train yourself to accept & enjoy all challenges. It’s never too hot, too cold, too far, too anything. Don’t be afraid to reach out. I enjoy you & I love you & I want you to be a doer. Mary, honest, the secret of life is to love man and God, don’t dislike, nothing is worth the emotion of hate. I tease you about your loving me. I know you do. I get a lot of mileage out of teasing you about it. It’s really more important to me to know that I love you. You & your sisters have always thought of me & are nice to me, you all know I loved you. What I really want you to realize is how special Dolores Mae is. None of us can comprehend how much she loves. The nicest thing you can ever do for me is to treat mom as the special person she is. Then treat yourself as the special person you are. Reach out & enjoy. Please care enough about the people you know & live with to be a positive influence on their lives. I truly believe you are special. Take whatever school or job you may & love it & enjoy it until the next one. Try to enjoy everything & every one. I wish I had realized much earlier in life how special the gifts of God are. End of lecture. I love you. I will never not love you. -Hap