Daddy

I can’t give my dad a gift for Father’s Day this year. He’s been gone for over three years now and it hasn’t gotten much easier. In fact, it’s taken me two years to finish this blog. I know that people say he’s better off since he’s no longer in pain and that is true but it doesn’t make me miss him any less. So in lieu of giving him a gift, I thought I’d give one to myself by telling everyone else about him and what made him so special to me.

Daddy was the eleventh child, next to youngest, of immigrants. His father was from Austria, his mother from Czeckloslavakia. No, I’m not going to give you a history lesson of his life. But to understand Dad, you had to know where he came from. Pap was a gruff man not given to affection. Grandma was quiet, spoke no English and, from what I understand, bitter about her arranged marriage. They moved quite a bit when Daddy was young, going where the work was. It had to be hard, especially since “foreigners” were not well accepted back in the day. As a result, Daddy was a shy man who didn’t make friends easily, although the ones he had spoke very highly of him.

Although Dad’s dream was to become a school teacher, he worked in the steel mill as a machinist to support us. He retired after forty-five years of service there. In addition to his job, he had the farm he bought from our Pap where he raised beef cattle, pigs, the occasional chicken and, of course, we six children. If anyone needed a sense of humor to go along with that, it would have been him.

And had it, he did. A very dry, often strange humor it was. I remember a commercial would come on the television for life insurance. An older couple was sitting at their kitchen table discussing their final rewards and the arrangements that would have to be made upon their passing. The punch line, if you will, of the ad was that the couple didn’t want to be a burden to their kids. They wanted all of the funeral arrangements to be made prior to their death. Every time this commercial was on, Daddy would turn to Mom and say “I think I want to be a burden to our kids. How about you, Mary?”  

Daddy wasn’t very affectionate when we were young. I guess he was too busy or, given his upbringing, just plain didn’t know how to show it. He showed his love to us in different ways other than the physical. We all had cute nicknames, ones that only he called us. Some were appreciated, others not so much (I was Sylvia, go figure). Although to this day, we call our youngest sister “Bee”, which was Dad’s name for her from birth.

No, he wasn’t affectionate but he showed his love in many ways that we learned to appreciate when we were older. If you needed a hand fixing a car or moving to a new home, Dad was there. If you were short a few dollars before payday, he would lend it. In the summer, all of our refrigerators were full of fresh vegetables from his garden. We all ate the best beef from his farm. You never went to his house without eating. He loved to feed people so we all knew to be hungry when we visited. It was his way of showing love.

What impressed me the most about my dad, made me love him even more, was the way that he took care of my mother after she had a stroke. Mom was bedridden almost from the beginning; many would have had her cared for in a nursing facility. Not my dad. From day one, he was with her in the hospital and when she was able to come home, he took care of her. He bathed her every morning, fed her all her meals and cried when she got bed sores. He sang her favorite songs and read the Bible to her because he knew she had always enjoyed both. While we kids were there to help when we could, Daddy was her caretaker for over two years, the one she trusted the most. And when she took her last breath, he was with her.

I took Dad into my home eighteen months before his death after he had fallen and could no longer live alone. While I was sad to see that he was unable to do most of the things that he loved any more, particularly his farming, I enjoyed the time I spent with him then. I grew closer to him than I had ever been, learning things about him that I had never known. He became my friend.

He shared his love of cooking (a little of this, a little of that), tried to teach me how to relax (which didn’t take) and constantly told me I needed to quit working sixty hour weeks (It’s not worth it, Sooz). He told me about his father (who spoke twelve different languages), working at the mill (Midnight shift is for crooks and whores!) and how much he enjoyed camping with us as kids (We always had good campfires, Sooz.)

What he didn’t teach me was dignity in dying. He fought it to his last breath. Six times after he moved in with me, we called the ambulance. And five times he came back. We started calling him Lazarus…you’d have to understand my family’s strange sense of humor to get that. But in the end, he had been in pain for too long and he missed his beloved Mary too much to stay. And as he was with me from my beginning, I was with him at the end (along with twenty others who loved him), holding his hand and telling him to go home.

I miss you, Daddy! Happy Father’s Day!

An Inch Shy of Stupid

Every parent/grandparent has been there. That uncomfortable moment when something a young child says makes you feel dumber than dirt. And with a child as precocious as Elijah, I’m in that moment more often than I like to admit. The child soaks up knowledge like a sponge. Remembers everything he’s told, except how to stay out of things he’s not supposed to be in, and constantly asks questions about it (refer to previous blog about that). You have to read on to see what I mean.

I was playing a fishing game with him recently and when he “caught” a whale shark, I screamed “Look out, Elijah, that shark is gonna chew you up!” He gave me his patient look, the one that makes me wonder if he’s actually an adult in a child’s body, and replied, “Yaya, whale sharks don’t use their teeth to eat. They are filter feeders.” Um, ok. Yes, I asked. “What is a filter feeder?” I’m thinking, gotcha, brain child! “They eat plankton through their gills when they swim.” Thank you, Wild Kratts, for the idiot moment I just suffered.

While looking to add to his collection of dinosaurs, we scoped out the toy store’s offerings one weekend. “Look at this cool Raptor, E.” says I. “You don’t have one of these.” With a heavy, exaggerated sigh, he says, “Yaya, that’s not a Raptor. It’s an Allosaurus. Raptors are small. An Allosaurus is HUGE!” I see I’m going to have to pay a little more attention to Dinosaur Train, which is responsible for this bit of stupidity.

I sleep with a stuffed dog named Rufus. Yes, I admit it. He’s a gift I cherish. One afternoon Elijah and I were hanging out in my bedroom and Rufus’ origin came into the conversation. I explained how I got him for Christmas from his Auntie Debbie and that he’s very special to me. “I don’t like him.” Says Elijah. “Well, he really loves you.” I replied. He gives me a very serious look, as if trying to determine my intelligence level, and says, “Yaya, he’s not real. He’s a pretend dog and they can’t love people because they’re not alive.” Well, gee. My only pet has been fake all these years and I didn’t know it?

I was teaching the boy letters and numbers not too long ago and he asked me, “Yaya, how do you know so much stuff?” “I learned it in school, baby.” He considered that and asked, “Yaya school?” “No, just regular school and college. You’ll be starting school in a couple of months and someday you will know even more than me.” He kind of laughed and informed me “I know I will.” Should have offered him chocolate instead of encouragement.

I give up. I can’t win. And he’s only four. What will I do when he’s ten? Or fifteen? I used to be competent. I had all the answers to his questions. Now I’m finding out that I’m just an average person with no idea how to keep up with his ever expanding quest for knowledge. I’m going back to school. I’m starting back at Grade One and working up from there. Maybe then I’ll have the skills to keep up with him. Or not.

The Perfect Neighbor

Moving from a home with over an acre of ground in the quiet country hills of Pennsylvania to an apartment in the city of Baton Rouge took a lot of adjustment. And to be honest, even after more than a year, I’m still adjusting. With that in mind, I decided that I would make a list of qualities a good neighbor should have and give it to the office people at the apartment complex. Just to let them know how to screen those who were to be living near me or above me or … well, you get the point. The following is what I’ve come up with (so far). My idea of the perfect neighbor.

Goes to bed at the same time as I do (or close to it). No slamming doors and drawers or stomping after I have laid my precious little head down on my pillow. Or more importantly, no waking up the kid after we fight for an hour or more trying to get him to sleep. Ditto for early morning as far as the child is concerned.

Keeps their dog from barking at me every time I go out to sit on my patio. It’s my patio. I pay for it. I do not owe any canine an explanation as to why I am there or what I am doing. I have nothing against dogs, I really don’t. As long as they are well mannered.

Keeps their dog from barking all night long. Waking up the neighborhood dogs. So they can bark all night long. Again, I have nothing against dogs. But incessant yapping really gets on my nerves, especially when it’s after midnight and I have to get up at 5:00 a.m.

Does not drive past my window after 11:00 p.m. with loud vehicles. I’m not asking much here. Just don’t drive past my place with your loud pipes and music blaring when I’m either sleeping or trying to relax. Or after the aforementioned child is asleep.

Tolerates my strays. I feed 4-6 stray cats on any given day. They sit on my patio waiting every morning. They don’t bother you or your stuff. They don’t come to your door waiting for a handout. They come to me because they know I have food for them. Just have a little compassion for them because they don’t have a home or anyone to love them.

Keeps their intimate life between themselves. I don’t want to hear your arguments…or making up…from my place of refuge. It isn’t just consideration for your neighbors, it’s respect for yourself and the person you reside with. Everyone couple argues. But when walls are paper thin, it stands to reason that you would do your fighting on a slightly lower level. As far as the making up part, if you want to be porn stars, I’m sure you can find an agent on the internet. Just don’t practice within my range of hearing.

Well, that’s pretty much it. I don’t think it’s overly obsessive. Ok, so it is. I somehow doubt that anyone will listen but it’s worth a try. At the very least, I put it down on paper and got it out of my system. Until the next dog barks. Or a loud car comes flying past at midnight. Maybe I should look in to buying an island somewhere. A place where I don’t have to worry about such matters. Does anyone know of one for sale for about … well, I have about $10 in my checking account.

Emotions

Anger and impatience eat at my soul

Depression draws me inside
Deep seated fear breeds
Questions rock my every thought

Will there ever be enough

Or will the constant struggle to survive continue
Is success on the horizon
Or will my doubts cause my failure

Will he find me and kill me

Will I ever feel safe
If I had stayed, would I be dead
Or were they idle threats from a drunken mind

Will my friends remember me

Or will I just fade into the distance
Will time tell the story
Or will I never know

Can I finish all I have started
Where is my ambition, my drive
Is it hidden under selfish desires for too much
Or do I wish for too much

Will I live to experience the rapture

Or be buried deep long before

Will I ever be needed, feel deserving
Or get dragged down further by my unworthiness

Will I ever be loved again

Will I ever again feel caring arms around me
Will I ever again experience another tender kiss
Will I ever be enough

When The Why Button Gets Stuck

It is the age of discovery. Four. When life begins to get really interesting. For the four-year-old. And for their  parents. The kid is seeing things in a different way than he ever has before. And the parents are desperately searching for the remote to turn off the why button.

At our most recent trip to the emergency room…Why are there beds in here? So people who don’t feel good can lay down until the doctor comes in to see them. How did the doctors get here? (Note: by this time, it is after 3:00 a.m. and we’ve been here for over four hours.) They followed the nurses. Why did the nurses come here? Because this is where they work. Why do they work here? Because the doctors need them. Why do they need them? They are afraid of needles. Oh. Why…? I don’t know.

Driving home from the mall…wow, that’s a tall building. What kind of building is that? An office building. What’s an office building? Where people go to work. Is it fun work? Not always but sometimes. I don’t think I want to work there. You’re too young anyway. (At this point, I am biting my tongue, wondering why I kept the conversation going.) Why am I too young? Because they don’t let kids work until they are, like, 18. Why? Hey, Elijah, look at that dump truck!!!

Pointing to my hair…what’s that white stuff? It’s some of my hair. Why is it white? Because I need to color it. Will you color it red again? Yes, I will. Why do you color it red? So it matches the rest of my hair. Why does your hair get white? Because you ask so many questions. Why do I ask so many questions? Because that’s how you learn things. Why do I need to learn things? Hey, Elijah, do you want some chocolate?

Why can’t I go outside? Because it’s raining. Will I shrink if I get wet? Yes, you will. Why is it raining? Because the flowers and grass need water. Why do they need water? So they can grow and look pretty. Do I need water to grow and look pretty? Only at bath time. Where does the water come from? It comes from the sky. What’s water? *facepalm*

Ok. I get it. He’s four and he has a lot of questions. And that’s how kids learn. But every other sentence out of his mouth is a question. Will he ever stop?  I sincerely hope not. Seriously, I hope he never stops.