August. It was our last day at Windblown Hill, the farm house where Dad grew up, and it was time to pack. The girls were downstairs with our nanny while I was tucked away in the home’s master bedroom, Mimi and Pa’s old room. I started to organize my things, our things. I stood in the big closet, a space overrun with old clothes and stacked boxes and accumulated diapers and unopened pool toys. It was when I was folding my t-shirts that I noticed that an entire wall of the closet was more closets, hidden away. I opened them.
There were shelves. Shelves labeled with names of people and places I recognized, labels written in what I imagine was my grandmother’s handwriting. Odd that I hadn’t seen or noticed her shaky scrawl before.
There were folders of bank documents, and old Christmas cards. There were boxes of notecards and corresponding envelopes that said, in red engraving, Windblown Hill. It was in the last cabinet I opened that I saw the green box labeled Strachan.
Dad.
I pulled it out. Opened it right there on the soft carpeting of the cluttered closet. I began to pore over its contents. I found Dad’s birth certificate; learned things I never knew – that he was born in the city of Chicago, that he was 7lb14oz, that he arrived in the world at 2:13am. I also found his acceptance to prep school, many report cards, endless newspaper clippings from his football days at Hotchkiss and then Yale. But it was the letters that got me. Letters Dad wrote when he was away at boarding school, letters penned in a more juvenile and legible version of the handwriting he’d come to have many years later. Letters to his parents, his family, his beloved dog Si.
I sat there and I read each one. These letters were full of standard-issue updates about studies and football. It turns out that Dad struggled a bit academically and would warn his parents from time to time that he might fail math or French. His letters were full of clues to the boy I of course never knew, the boy who would become my father.
He began most letters with a humorous greeting. Dear Left-Behinds. Dear Hillians. To Whom It May Concern. And he would sign many of his letters Happy Hunting! I loved how he peppered his letters with expressions – Gee! Boy! – There were details I relished. In one letter, he wrote a list of “goodies” he wanted his Ma to send. The list included the following: Cheese (like a good Wisconsin brick), little chocolates, jellied donuts, oranges. He promised to eat the latter before they spoiled. In one letter, he confessed to leaving his pajamas on a boat and asked that his parents send his other pair.
Many of his letters alluded to a theme of homesickness, of Dad having a hard time heading back to school after being home for a bit. In these letters, Dad assured his parents that he was okay, indeed “back in the swing of things.”
Some things surprised me. My Dad, the smartest man I’ve ever known, was sloppy in his spelling and his grammar was not great. I smiled when I read his apologies for his “hap-hazzard” letter writing ways, but he insisted that he had more fun this way. Dad was a serious guy, but also, somehow, all about having fun.
Some things didn’t surprise me. That there was much mention of football, of animals, of hunting. These were things I knew. Dad’s football friends were still fixtures in his life and I knew them well. Dad’s profession would become all about the animals he loved even as a boy. Though an ethicist, Dad enjoyed his hunting and his fishing. To the end, these were important aspects of his life.
But my biggest surprise? It was finding a poem that Dad wrote when he was seventeen for the Hotchkiss Lit magazine. It was called True Beauty. And here’s the final stanza:
So take heed, O Cruel World, to what you always miss;
Of self-blinded leaders of Today, Beauty’s what is bliss,
You can have your false-faced women;
You can have your ill-starred life.
These happy scenes are my sermon;
True Beauty is my wife.
Spending time at his house was not easy. To be so immersed in memories, in history, in the trappings of the deceased is no small existential feat. It didn’t help, or maybe it did, that I was not drinking for this visit. Historically, I would have dipped, and deeply, into the contents of that little wet bar tucked away in the library between Pa’s incredible book collection. I would have guzzled the wine in an attempt to blur it all. But this time, it was about clarity, about sharp lines, about seeing.
And I did. I did see. Despite an anxiety I felt to absorb it all, all the tiny and treasured details of a family’s life, my family’s life, I saw some. I saw my own little girls running in the green grass where Dad frolicked as a boy. I saw them dance barefoot into the stables to say hello to the horses. I saw the whirl of family pictures hung up, and tucked away.
And through pictures, and letters, and words, I saw Dad. A younger version of him. The boy who would in time become the man I miss so much. So much.
And so. It was a hard visit, but hard in a good, Nietzschian way. It was a going, a grappling, a giving in. It was a seeing. A celebrating. It was beautiful in a less-than-easy, but also very true way. Maybe, just maybe, this is what Dad meant by True Beauty. Oh how I wish he were here to ask.
*
I miss him. Still. A lot. Always. What I am thankful for though is that much of the sadness about losing Dad has evolved into sweetness. A few weeks ago, after the big storm, I found myself looking out at the snow and thinking of Dad and the picture I have of him wearing his Irish hat and Barbour coat and walking our labs on my childhood block. Ultimately, I’m not sure what prompted me to post the above words today, several months after I first wrote them. I think perhaps that the more I dip into parenting my own girls, into the conscious and unconscious shaping of their childhood, the more I find myself thinking about my own past, my own childhood, about Mom and Dad and all of us girls and sundry cats and dogs, living our days, celebrating the city and the country, the humans and nature, the past and the present, of life.
Weeks before Dad died, I asked him something. He sat in an old, tattered chair in our TV room. He was weak, thin, foggy with pain. I had a hard time finding words because I knew we were in our final stretch. I asked him if I could write about him when he was gone. And he smiled. It was a pained smile, but still bright. “Yes,” he said rather cheerfully. “As long as you don’t trash me.” Remembering this moment makes me sad, but also makes me smile. He gave me the thumbs up to do something I knew even then that I would want to do, and need to do. And I am grateful for this. For his approval. Because I’m not sure how I could have gotten here – to this day, to this very happy and grateful point in my life – without remembering him through my writing.
He was a handsome lad, no?
{Dad and the dogs on our wedding day in December 2004. Photo by the incomparable Philippe Cheng.}
*
Have you lost a parent or another loved one? How have you coped with this loss?
Has writing helped you through hard things and hard times?
Have you stumbled upon things that belonged to your parents or grandparents, clues to who they were when they were young?
Do you mind reading my words about Dad? Because I am realizing more and more how important it is for me to write about him. For myself. And also for my girls who have his eyes but never had a chance to know him.
I have not lost a parent, though I am still grieving the loss of my grandfather, to whom I was very close, in late August. But what this post reminds of me is of the tremendous mysteries contained even within those we love most and know best. A couple of years ago a woman contacted my father. Her brother had been in his fraternity in college before going to war, where he was killed. She was writing a book about him and asked if she could use my father’s poem as the epigraph. The poem he’d written and sent to his friend’s family after his death. I was and still am sort of shocked by this! I remember writing about it when it came out, marveling that this man of science was also writing poems. I love that you found your father’s words. And that his layers keep revealing themselves to you even after he is gone (though I can also imagine that this makes you long for him, and I don’t mean to be dismissing that).
Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. xox
Yes, you are right. There are mysteries contained in all of us and isn’t this what makes life so interesting and endlessly rich, that there are bits to learn about those we love, those we have lost, and even ourselves? I love hearing this story about your dad writing a poem. The revealing of layers after the fact is actually wonderful and intriguing though I do find myself having some regrets about not taking more time to really ask my dad questions about his childhood and life and to truly listen to his wonderful stories. As Husband and I were getting ready for bed last night, we talked about this and I expressed some sadness that I didn’t capitalize on the time when Dad was alive to learn as much as possible about him. I decided that I am going to email his friends at some point to collect stories to tuck away. I love the idea of doing this.
Anyway, I know that not everyone will be able to relate to my words today and that is okay. What’s interesting (to me) is that the more distance I get from Dad’s death, the more I want to write about him. I think in the beginning I was careful about not writing too much about my grief and my life after losing him because I wanted to send the message that I am moving on, and okay. And I am. But now. I have this growing desire to explore who he was to me, and to get stories down about him for my girls.
Also, and I know people don’t want to ever think about this, but chances are we will all experience the loss of one or both parents in the course of our lives. Part of me wishes I was better prepared for that experience, if there is such thing. Part of me wishes that someone told me to sit down with Dad, soak up his stories, before it was too late. In part, I think that is what my words are about. I hope that everyone realizes life is short and that there is perhaps no greater gift than getting to know the people who made us and love us. I know I wish I had more of a chance to do this with Dad.
Okay, cutting myself off to tend to the domestic mayhem in my midst and prepare for this wonderfully soggy day.
And, yes, see you tomorrow!!! Really cannot wait.
xxo
I have begun reading your blog in the last few months and connect with it in many way- NYC, mother to girls, constant thinking. I also lost my Dad, 6 years ago. 2 months after I turned 32. 4 months before my wedding. Very suddenly. I miss him in a way that I struggle to put into words- but people who have lost a parent that they were close to, particularly one who never got to meet their children, etc- get it instantly. I was at home where I grew up last week which moved the daily background thoughts of my Dad right into the forefront of my mind as it always does. In that way that makes you smile and feel sick at the same time.
Not long after my father died, my brother drove to NYC to visit me, and drove my fathers car. While sitting in the parking garage by my building, inhaling the scent of Dad that was still there, we found hand written notes in his glove box. There were lists of what he was getting us all for Christmas, to do reminders, and 3 pages of notes he had scribbled in preparation for his speech at my wedding, that he never got to give. At the time it crippled me to see them, to read them. Years later, they are still heart wrenching but I love having them and in fact just framed one to put on my desk. His thoughts, in his hand writing, about me. Its probably one of my most important material possessions.
Thank you for this post- it made me cry and it made me smile and think of my Dad.
I really, really take a lot from your writing, from the coffee to the love of (and struggle with) wine, to the daily moments with little girls, to the shoes, to the much deeper thoughts on life.
Andrea – You have no idea how much your words have already brightened my day. This is one of those posts that is a bit harder because it is raw and real and concerns something deep and private, but I believe that these, ultimately, are the posts that matter most, and matter most to me. At the end of the day, I am a person who has been shaped by things and one of the things that has shaped me most is the loss of Dad. It was something that split my young life into two and it was the hardest thing I have been through. By far. And yet it has also brought me enormous gifts – an abiding passion for the written word and for human story (Dad was all about passion and I feel I am honoring him by following mine), an awareness of mortality and the beauty and brutality of Mother Nature, a willingness to be not okay and vulnerable and searching, a deep and profound respect for the hard job of parenting. So many things have come to me in the last five years and I am beyond grateful.
And yet I hesitate. I fear many people do not want to swim in these darker waters, that they would prefer to read about cute parenting moments (of which I have many), that it is imperative to keep things sufficiently light. And I do this sometimes. But I do not want to do this all of the time and feel strongly that I shouldn’t. I feel good about my decision to examine my evolving grief even if it is not easy, even if it renders me very porous, even if my readers are made a bit uncomfortable. It’s that important, and important to me.
Something I’ve been struggling with a lot lately is that my girls do not ask about Dad. They don’t even give me the opportunity to talk about who he was or even that he died. I know this will change, that they are young and that their collective curiosity will only grow, but it is hard for me because he was such a huge part of my life and in many ways, in ways evidenced by my post today, he still is. I guess I just don’t want to wait until they think to ask. Instead, I am giving myself the license to write when I want, to tell the stories I remember, to ask the questions that feel important.
Anyway, it means a great deal that you can relate. I am realizing that there are so many of us out there who struggle with things – loss, love, crutches whether they are coffee or booze or sex or shopping. At the end of the day, we are all flawed creatures, and exquisite in our imperfections, but oh is it nice to realize that we are not alone.
Thank you so much for this today, Andrea.
xox
A – Both of my mother’s parents died before I was born. For reasons that I won’t get into here, she had challenging relationships with both of her parents which makes conversations about them hard for her, even today. So, i pieced together the basic elements of their characters over the course of my childhood and then left it alone. The reason I bring this up, however, is that my intense curiosities about them have never waned. I’ve learned to live with those curiosities and the fact that they will never be satisfied because I know the questions are hard for my mother. But I still want to ask all the questions – What did their voices sound like? What did my grandmother smell like? What funny sayings did my grandfather have? What would they have thought of me? And I yearn to hear stories about them – all those big and small moments from 40 and 50 and 60 years ago that might make me feel some connection to them. But I can’t ask.
You on the other hand, treasured your father and yearn for these curiosities. And they will come. I don’t recall being curious about my grandparents until about the second grade, and Big Girl will be there in just a couple of years. So be patient. Your girls will want to know everything about him. And you will get to savor every last drop of the telling. I promise.
I know this was a tough post, a raw post, one of those that will hang with you (and us) for a while. As you know, I haven’t dealt with this personally…and I think I have to insert “yet” at this point in the sentence, as I will probably have to (knocking wood, not soon, but who really knows, eh?).
What strikes me is that you discovered these words of your dad…and someday, your girls and their kids will discover yours. Here. On this site or in whatever form it takes in the future. They will get a glimpse into you, your soul, your being…and also your dad’s via posts like this one. It is an amazing gift you are giving them, to go there, to be raw and vulnerable and real for them in your words. Don’t stop writing about him…do it more. Please.
Every time I read something you have written about your dad, I often think about what my kiddo will remember about her childhood, about me, our family. Thank you for this, because it always brings me back to realities of what is truly, without a doubt, vital for my connection with her. What will she cherish? What memories of me will stand out, be the ones she carries with her? Part of me thinks I know, but I”m sure it may be something I’m not even aware of.
As usual, your words inspire and provoke and reach in and touch…thanks, you.
Thank you, Heather. It’s so weird or maybe not at all weird but as tough as these posts are on an existential level, they are actually much easier for me to write than other things. I think it is because my feelings are so strong and I know just what I want to say or ask. There is no contemplation of style or effect or audience… It is about getting something down – for me, for the girls, and for you guys.
You and C both awakened me to something today, something I think I’ve known, but not necessarily consciously. This place, this blog, is really its own box of memories, of glimpses, of clues – to who I am, to who my family is and was, to who my girls were as babies. It means so much to me to know they they, and we, will be able to look back and sift through all of this.
I am endlessly intrigued by the question of memory and find myself wondering which moments will stick as memories. This actually affects how I parent and in a good way I think. Just this morning on the bus, Middle and I had the silliest exchange. We were running late, soaked with rain, crunched between people, but we were able to giggle and talk about life and donuts and I thought, “I hope she remembers this tiny moment.” And she is the one who says she wants to be a Rememberer when she grows up, so maybe she will.
Oooh – And while we were waiting and waiting for the bus to come, she was moping a bit because the frog umbrella she was carrying was broken. She wanted to run home to get her Minnie Mouse one and was bummed when I explained that we didn’t have time. I took her umbrella from her, fiddled with it, and fixed it and oh how her blue eyes lit up. “You fixed it!” she crooned, utterly amazed.
And then she said something: “You know what you should be when you grow up, Mommy? An umbrella-fixer.” How plain incredible is this? I secretly loved the idea that she doesn’t think I am grown up yet. Because am I? Are any of us? Isn’t that what we are all still doing? Growing up? Okay, a tangent. But a wonderful one, no?
xox
Remembering your father in your blog is appropriate and inspiring. The memories of good times and the people who have guided us from children to adults is always interesting.
I have lost both my parents and several very close friends. I find having a selective memory is really helpful. Its better to dwell on the good times and forget the mis-steps that people may have had on their journey through life.
Appropriate and inspiring. I certainly hope so. I find myself suddenly really hungry to remember it all… The beautiful, the basic, even the tough stuff. Today has made me realize how much blogging for me has to do with memorializing moments big and small, and remembering big and small. Thanks, Julia.
Soon after Dad died, while we were at Windblown Hill, T and I found those letters, and we laughed and cried our way through reading them. They were so Dad – impish, playful, with hints of his real day-to-day struggles and worries, but it was not like him to visit those upon anyone, even his mother and father, so he kept it light. And that poem; we found that, too, and it struck me then as profound and meaningful, but life went on and while I vowed to return to it and to the letters, scanning them all for us all to have forever, I never followed through. Now I think we must do this, and I have a vision of a little box of Dad’s writing (maybe a lunchpail instead) that we give to each of our children on a birthday when they will begin to understand that these words are a key to unlocking a part of them that is so strongly there, but that they might not otherwise know (Dad’s book will be part of this lunchpail!). It will do for them what this post has already done for me; re-reading the excerpt of the poem you published here triggered something in me and made me smile. As you know, I am sometimes overcome with an idea about something I want to do, or a book I want to write, and not long ago the topic of my mental obsession was beauty. At the time I traced it to my musings about Baby Sister and her diagnosis, but now I know (remember) that it goes back much further than that.
I try to make an effort to talk about Dad, or Potsy, a lot to Baby Bulldog. It helps that we are often in one of our extended family homes, where pictures of Dad as boy and man are everywhere. Baby Bulldog already has his own story of where Potsy is and why we can’t see him, but of course he doesn’t really understand yet. Last weekend we were talking about him, Potsy, and Baby Bulldog said something that broke my heart, but of course made sense: “I don’t love him, Mommy. I love my mommy and my daddy and my baby sister, but I don’t love Potsy.” He doesn’t know him, not yet – how could a 3-year-old love someone who is just an idea, a person he’s told he came from but who he’s never met? I gave my son a big hug and I said, “I know – but you will.” And, thanks to this box, and all of our memories, and your words, he will. Love you.
Oh, C. You know how much this comment means to me because we talked on the phone earlier, but I wanted to respond here too. You said it before, but these posts are really for me, and my sweet babes, and our family. And it is icing that others here are relating, but it is truly about us Donnelleys and our collective efforts to remember the man that meant, and continues to mean, so much to us. I adore the idea of a lunchpail full of writings and relics – his, ours – to give to our kids. How incredible would that be?
I want to say something here that I’m not sure I’ve mentioned here on the blog, but as you know, Dad died when he was working on a book. Until the very end, he sat there in his chair, papers scattered like lilypads around him (do you remember that line, C, from what I read at his funeral?). His work was so important to him, his ideas treasures and he wanted to finish. And he didn’t have the chance. And you, C, are working to get that book finished and published and that is a brave and wonderful thing to do and I am proud of you and humbled, too. Dad would be overwhelmingly proud.
Anyway, I could go on and on and I will this weekend when I see you when you come here to pack up and make your move totally official. I am sad that you are selling your place, but I understand and I am so optimistic about the home (!) and life you are building. It is no small feat to start over in a new place and you have done a wonderful job of it.
Know something. Your words here mean the world. We are in this together. This mothering without one of our parents, this stumbling through the magical mess that is life, all of it. I am a lucky lucky girl to have you and our other sisters.
Love you. Love you. Love you. x11
My arms are literally tingling with goose bumps. What a beautiful piece! I have buried both my parents…and on many occasions, I’ve found boxes filled with their things that revealed people I didn’t even know. Fun, mysterious and complicated people, who I now miss, in addition to the man and woman who raised me. My parents were of a generation that did not talk, so I am grateful they behind pieces of their complicated puzzles.
What gift, to find that box. What loving tribute you wrote. I think I might have to go to the basement and revisit some on my boxes. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you so much, Allie. A wonderful thing happens when I open up about this loss of mine. I realize that there are so many of us who have been through similar things and that we are all part of this terrible and enlightening and very real club. I am smitten with the idea of learning more about Dad, about collecting clues, soliciting stories from Mom and his friends. I just wish I had these impulses when he was around to tell me it all first-hand. I guess that’s just not the way it works, right?
I hope you do revisit your boxes. How wonderful to have these treasures, right?
Your words mean a great deal today, so thanks again.
Thank you for writing this post, I read it early this morning and have been thinking about it ever since, i wanted to leave a comment but am just flooded with thoughts and emotions. My dad is currently dealing with Parkinson’s and Dementia–and on a daily basis I think enjoy this time, soak up this time with him. And yet it is so hard to see him and spend time with him. Watching him grow older before my eyes, seeing the confusion on his face and the blank stares at times is just gut wrenching. Knowing he won’t be here long and processing that grief and sadness is overwhelming at times, Then there are the moments of wonderful clarity when my dad is there the tough, stubborn, opinionated, passionate man who raised me and those too bring mixed emotions of joy and grief.
Thank you for opening this conversation–as a society we aren’t comfortable with grief and loss,. But everyone I know is touched by loss-loss of a parent, grandparent, partner or sibling. And loss is hard, slow, complex and layered. Hearing the memories of your dad reminds me to celebrate the memories of mine–so thank you.
Thank you so much for this. Yes, it is hard. To watch someone decline and slip away some. It complicates things immensely. I remember feeling that, feeling words lodged in me, words I wanted to say but couldn’t somehow. I agree with what you say about society. That we aren’t encouraged to examine and explore grief and loss, at least not publicly. Part of me gets this. It is good for us to hold ourselves together and to move on and to embrace what we have rather than focusing too much on what we have lost. But I really do believe that we can discuss these topics thoughtfully in a way that is ultimately very real and uplifting. That is what I plan to do, or try to do.
Thank you, Nancy Jane. So much.
After I lost my father in 2010, I found a picture of him grinning in his Boy Scout uniform – he was probably 14 or 15 years old. I’d never come across the picture before, and for some reason, it was so much more comforting to me than recent pictures that I have of him. My dad was 69 when he died of melanoma, and in so many ways, it felt like he was unfairly cut down in his prime. But the Boy Scout picture reminds me that he had decades and decades of a full and happy life after that picture was taken – four kids, six grandkids, a 50-year marriage, and almost 15 years of early retirement that allowed him to spend lots of time on various civic activities that he found fulfilling and interesting. I wish he was still here, but I’m glad he packed so much into the time that he had.
Amy, I love this. It makes so much sense to me. I think your words have helped me realize why that box meant so much to me. Because it was a glimpse into a part of Dad’s life that I didn’t know about. And the reality is he had a very good, packed life. Even when he knew he was dying, he would be the first one to say that he had a really good 66 years and that’s more than a lot of people get. We of course wish we had many more years with him, but I was so amazed at how gracefully he accepted his end. He was pissed, sure. Angry that he couldn’t continue with his husbanding and fathering and fishing and thinking, but he was also very reverent of Mother Nature and didn’t curse her as much as I probably would have in the same situation.
Thank you for your words, for making me (and so many of us) realize we are far from alone in all of this.
Beautiful post, and just know that we do love reading these — serious posts, posts about your dad, posts about loss. Don’t feel like you have to shy away from them.
I often think about what you say here — about the importance of learning as much as possible about our parents. I am incredibly lucky to still have my parents in my life but find it a little bit of a challenge to get them to talk very specifically about the past. I would love it if they rambled on about the old days, but they NEVER do that and I suspect don’t really like to. So… I have decided that the best I can (and should) do is to really enjoy the present with them. I hope that’s enough.
Rebecca, thank you. This is an important comment for me to read because I think that I am romanticizing what could have been, theorizing that if Dad were still here, I would pepper him with thoughtful questions and he would regale me with all of his life stories. And the reality is that that might not have happened. I think we all need to just enjoy what we can get, the time, the stories, all of it, while our parents and loved ones are around. I know that I appreciate time and moments with my girls SO much more because I have experienced this kind of loss. I do not take any of it for granted and I think this, ultimately, is a really good thing.
And thank you for encouraging me to write more about Dad and grief here. I don’t plan to do it all the time as that would be too much, but I like to know that I have a good degree of freedom to come here and process all of this. Because if I have learned anything at all, it is that this is a process and not an easy one or short one.
What a gift, your find and this post. I am so glad that you shared it.
Thank you so much, Amanda. This means a lot coming from you xo
A beautiful and poignant blog.
I too have the gift of a box of letters my father wrote home during WWll. My aunt had found it in her things and gave it to my mom who gave it to me. She said she figured it would be the inspiration for something I wrote some day. I used a bit of it in my first novel, but I still think she is right. There is something more for me to write from that box.
The thing that got me about those letters, like you, I discovered the young man in my father I never knew. I got to see how he saw the world, a young, idealistic man drafted into the war in 1941, convinced it would not last longer than a few months. Reading through I saw how it changed him, how he tried to downplay the horrors of what he saw so his mother and brothers and sisters wouldn’t worry. That hint of what he would be as a father, always smiling, protective and telling us all it would be alright, no matter what.
I have not read through them in a long time. Maybe I will soon. But not without a big box of tissues! My father died in 1986 and even now, writing this little bit about him can bring me to tears.
Joanne, thank you. I love that you also have a box. A box that might have the raw material for your writing, too. I imagine there are quite a few of us with literal and metaphorical boxes to pull from.
How amazing are the hints, the clues, the glimpses? I think this is one of the reasons why I love blogging and will continue to blog. I love that my girls will be able to read all of my words here if they choose. That they will be able to see me in all of my efforts and imperfections, that they will be able to see how I struggled to be a good mom and writer and person and how this struggle was, and is, the biggest privilege of all.
Thank you. Again.
I lost my Mother Oct 21. She was an articulate woman before numerous strokes robbed her of her ability to speak. I, too, enjoy words.
When she passed, it fell on me to write her eulogy. Words, beyond the facts, wouldn’t come. I was unable to write the story that would honor her in the way she deserved. Thankfully, her younger sister took what I had and wrote a story beyond the facts.
4 months later, I still haven’t found my own words that tell her story. I am my mother’s daughter. To say, “I am SO my mother,” can be said with pride and with exasperation.
Perhaps it’s my own story I’m having trouble putting words to?
It makes so much sense to me that you are having trouble putting words to her story and your own? These are enormous existential tasks. I know that for me distance and time have made all the difference. While Dad was sick, I tried writing about all of it and found myself getting stuck and tripped up because it was just too close. I would imagine that if you give yourself a little bit of time, the words will come. I am sorry for your loss, Karin.
Do you process what you’re thinking by writing about it privately?
I have told my husband and sister, who at this point I assume would be the ones to go through my things if I were to die first, to please take anything personal I’ve written (i.e. journal type) and throw it away without reading it. I have actually written it on the first page of some past journals.
If I am journaling, I am probably processing. The conclusions I reach at the end may be very different than where I begin. Even I might disagree with what I thought at the beginning. There are times I may come across as a bit nuts. When I reach the end of whatever bit I’m thinking my way through, I destroy the journal. Supposedly, if they run across one, I’ve not reached my conclusion. I might just be trying on ideas to see how they feel.
IF I’m the spouse left behind, I think it would be hard to not read things he had written (not that he does).
My Dad spent hours reading things my Mother had written. I don’t know if she would have intended that as they aren’t things she had shared with him while writing them. While some things where joyful for him to read, many made him sad as she wrote about hard things too. Did she intend for Dad to know more about her after her death than before?
Such interesting things to think about. Thank you. I hadn’t really thought about this before, but I don’t really do much private writing to process. I write on this blog and then I have private conversations of course, but I do not write things that I do not want people to see. Not sure why exactly. Clearly, for some reason, I like processing here in a pretty public way. Something in me wants a witness or many witnesses, I guess. Interesting.
The whole question of whether we want people to know more about us after our death than before is so fascinating…
I LOVE reading words about your dad. So glad you shared them. Some of your best writing, I think.
Thanks, you. This means a lot. A lot.
(Let me take a minute to compose myself.)
That. That was absolutely gorgeous. I’d like to tell you what really stands out to me, but honestly, it all does. Your attention to detail really pushes this post over the top, for me. I was there in the closet with you, looking over your shoulder as you read. I was with your dad at school, writing letters about how strong I was, knowing full well that vulnerability motivated me. I looked out the window after the big storm and saw your dad — dressed like my wife’s dad in a wool waistcoat and cowboy hat, tucking her hands into her mittens in a mountain snow.
If there’s one thing that stood out, it was this: “…letters penned in a more juvenile and legible version of the handwriting he’d come to have many years later.” I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. Our expressions change as we age: our faces, our vocabularies, our voices, and even our handwriting. I keep seeing it more and more as my family sends me handwritten notes from across the world, as they croak hello into the phone. Then I see it in myself. And I hope hope hope that my son, one day, celebrates these years the way you celebrate your dad here.
Again. Absolutely gorgeous post.
Brian – Thank you so much. I have realized pretty recently how in love I am with details. The tinier the better. I love walking around this city and noticing small things that most people probably miss. I love studying my girls and their gestures. I love sitting down to the screen and imagining the bits of the characters I am creating. And it was so cool and incredible for that reason for me to find that box. Because it was chock-full of details about a man I loved so dearly.
And the question of change. What an enormous and ineffable thing. How we are all changing day to day, year to year, evolving, becoming, changing. This is one of the most fascinating things to me – how we are all works-in-progess, constant in our tinkering and tweaking and editing and evolving…
Thank you so much.
Have you read Nicholson Baker’s “The Mezzanine”? A master of detail*. I recently picked it up again for inspiration.
__________
* And a master of the footnote. Especially of interest is the lengthy note about a few historically celebrated philosophers’ penchants for cruel hobbies, as well as the nature of the footnote itself, ending with the line: “Footnotes are the finer-suckered surfaces that allow tentacular paragraphs to hold fast to the wider reality of the library” (121). Irresistible, isn’t it.
So much I want to say about this post. But at the moment I just don’t have the time or energy (we fly home from Seoul today). So for now let it suffice to say that of all the things you’ve written about your dad, this is the most telling. Even as you’ve explored your own pain, you haven’t really explored your dad as a person. Perhaps because you knew him so well, but the pain of his loss was new and not fully understood. But with this post I feel like I’ve gotten to know a bit of the man whom you loved so much, and have come to better appreciate the mix of serious and silly that he was, and which in turn you are. Thanks for sharing him with us. I’m sure he’d be proud of all that you’ve written about him. xoxo.
Thank you, Gale. You have always been such a wonderful supporter of me and my blog and I am so so excited that you are tired and in Seoul!!! I never thought to put it together that Dad had a silly side and a serious side, an irreverent side and a focused side… and that I have these sides too. That’s really cool to think about, so thank you. I can’t wait to hear more about your trip and the souvenir(!) you are bringing back. xo
Oh Aidan, I can’t express to you the smile that creeped across my face as I read this. Oh, how I could feel your love for your father through your words – what a gift you have. More, more, more.
Thanks so much, Sara. This means a great deal. And I do plan to write much more about all of this.
Aidan, when I began reading your blog in 2010 I was drawn to the stories you wrote about your father and loss. Also you had a way with words about your life and being a mom which resonated with me. As you know I lost my dad in 2008 and my mom in 2009. I found your words therapeutic because you knew the pain as well as I did. I feel the love that you express here, I feel it loud and clear. By sharing these feelings you are reaching others that have gone through loss or are going through it. There are so many things that I can share here with you but the bottom line is that you touch lives and I believe it’s important to share these feelings. I love the post, I love all the details about your dad. I know he would be really proud of you and I love his picture with the dogs. xoxo
Wow. Thank you, Ayala. This means so much particularly because I know you have dealt with many of the same things I have. It is indeed a difficult but enlightening club we belong to. And I am grateful for the reminder from you – and others here – that my words are not just floating out there, but reaching real people who have faced, or are facing, these very tough things. It brings me immense satisfaction to think that my words here might be helping people as they navigate life’s very tricky terrain. Thank you so much for your loyal support of me and my writing, Ayala. It means more than you know. And, yes, I love this picture. A new fave. xox
I have wanted to comment on this all day. But I haven’t known what to say. I don’t know if it’s because I haven’t been able to properly process (since I haven’t felt a loss like this – I mean, I have lost people close to me, but not like this…or so it seems) or if it’s something else. So I will say: thank you for this post. And I do enjoy reading these words and hearing about your dad and your family. It seems like he had a big influence on you and seeing that is nice.
Elise – Thank you. I really appreciate this comment particularly because you didn’t know what to say. I think a lot of people read and don’t know quite what to say and then just say nothing, but I am a big believer in saying something and this something from you is wonderful.
Thank you, thank you for writing this. While I am lucky to have both of my parents alive and immersed in my life, my children’s life, my everyday, this has pushed me to collect as many stories as I can from them. To really listen. To ask. To remember. To appreciate. To hold on.
Thank you!
Oh, I am so happy that this is what you took away from my post today because that is what I was thinking. I really wish someone had told me to appreciate what I had, to ask and to listen, to memorize the small details of a man who would not be around forever. I think it is so easy to take things for granted, to assume we have so many years to talk and to learn, but that’s not always the case. Thank you, Jacqueline!
I strongly believe that the words which ache to be placed on the page are the ones worth writing. The intimacy and truth in your words are beautiful and so very important. I am joining the chorus here–I am so grateful you decided to share your heart here. xoxo
Oh, Aidan. I read this post yesterday and again today. I love that you could read your Father’s letters. And that you were able to sink deep into what that meant, even the hard edges.
I understand your pain about missing your father. February and March are a particularly painful time for me because it marks the anniversary of my father’s passing. Your courage in writing these words offer so much comfort to those of us who know of the sadness that you talk about.
Sending hugs and healing. Thank you. xoxo
this is beautiful.