Four simple words completely crushed me. "So, What's the point." His eyes clarified that he really meant "so what..." Dads have that power.
I had just completed my masters thesis, which I dedicated to my dad. He told me that since he would never get around to reading it anyway and since we were faced with a long, quiet drive from Austin Texas to Las Vegas Nevada, I might as well explain it to him on the road. "And spare no details" he challenged.
Four hours later, I arrived at my triumphant climax and then paused to catch my breath and his response. He paused in solemn reflection. He always enjoyed drama. Then he trumpeted those four words. I took this pretty hard.
I mention this to help explain myself. You see, since I lost dad, I have gained a freedom. I often find myself musing over how I might have pained over what dad would think, but now that he is gone, I don't have to answer to him. In fact, I don't feel like I answer to anyone now. Well, as long as my wife is not reading my blog anyway.
How unfortunate for him and unfair for me to have allowed this drama to partially define our roles. I wish he were still around, so I could redefine things. I know he would want to support me.
I'm sure he'd encourage me to tell him all about it. Then, he'd smile and say "So what."
9/28/2009
9/08/2009
The Family Plot: Decorating
So the latest shenanigans involve Lisa, Raul, Agnes and Me decorating the family cemetery. Nothing formal; envision people preparing for a yard sale and you are closer to the real picture. At various times, someone would find something to bring from the house to the graveyard. And why not? It had taken the form of a real cemetery. Now there is a beautiful iron fence, gate, and sweeping trellice announcing in bold: BUTLAND CEMETERY. And there is a real body in there too!
Recent mysteriously appearing contributions include cacti of various types in pots, statuettes from around the house now standing guard over their master's patch, and my favorite, one of dad's hats, with a feather that has also seen better days sticking out of it, perched on the stone that used to be his temporary headsone while we waited for V.A. to send the real deal. (I am not sure if the pile of 5 empty beer cans, one spent bottle of cheap vodka and several dixie cups lying at 11 o'clock to dad's head were placed there as decoration or were a by-product of drunken oversight, but seem to fit the scene nicely too).
During these days of decoration I noticed once as we were leaving, Lisa was hiding something from me. As we exited the cemetery, I saw her lag moments behind me, pull that secretive something from her pocket, and leave it on the aforementioned rock. We did not speak of it, but I wondered what it could have been.
Later in the week, Raul called me. He had been to visit Dad's grave. He said he liked the aesthetic improvements. His favorite, the rubber frog, the one that used to sit on the back porch, now perched on the rock. I could almost hear Lisa and Dad sharing a cross-dimensional chuckle at her special surprise for him and us.
The magic of this whole process begins to take form. Everyone had a part to play in his final days, final dispatchment and final disposition. In doing it his way, Dad somehow empowered us to bring a soul of creativeity the trip with him.
Meaning is slippery. Like a frog. But each of us has grabbed onto meaningful ever-after moments. More importantly, I believe each of us feels like we are co-creaters in meaningful connections with what is now our beloved past.
Recent mysteriously appearing contributions include cacti of various types in pots, statuettes from around the house now standing guard over their master's patch, and my favorite, one of dad's hats, with a feather that has also seen better days sticking out of it, perched on the stone that used to be his temporary headsone while we waited for V.A. to send the real deal. (I am not sure if the pile of 5 empty beer cans, one spent bottle of cheap vodka and several dixie cups lying at 11 o'clock to dad's head were placed there as decoration or were a by-product of drunken oversight, but seem to fit the scene nicely too).
During these days of decoration I noticed once as we were leaving, Lisa was hiding something from me. As we exited the cemetery, I saw her lag moments behind me, pull that secretive something from her pocket, and leave it on the aforementioned rock. We did not speak of it, but I wondered what it could have been.
Later in the week, Raul called me. He had been to visit Dad's grave. He said he liked the aesthetic improvements. His favorite, the rubber frog, the one that used to sit on the back porch, now perched on the rock. I could almost hear Lisa and Dad sharing a cross-dimensional chuckle at her special surprise for him and us.
The magic of this whole process begins to take form. Everyone had a part to play in his final days, final dispatchment and final disposition. In doing it his way, Dad somehow empowered us to bring a soul of creativeity the trip with him.
Meaning is slippery. Like a frog. But each of us has grabbed onto meaningful ever-after moments. More importantly, I believe each of us feels like we are co-creaters in meaningful connections with what is now our beloved past.
9/03/2009
Dreams of Falling, Anyone?
We heaved the box to the grave on a camping cot, family gathered 'round, sharing the load. As carefully as possible, and holding breaths we slowly reel dad's cardboard cocoon down via two carefully placed and poorly secured ropes. On everyone's mind, apparently, was, "I hope we don't screw this up. We don't want the kids to see Grandpa come sliding out of the end of this flimsy thing and crumple to the ground."
Didn’t everyone’s minds fix onto the firm ground of potential disaster? We were suspended by possible horrors in “what if” land What if he falls out but misses the hole? Does one of us point attention to a singing bird in a nearby tree while side-sweeping him with a subtle shoe? What if he falls out and into the hole. Do we just continue? Do we all act like that was planned and begin shoveling dirt after? What if the box gives way enough around the duct taped top that an unwelcome arm flops out. Do we stick it back in? Do we ask if anyone wants a divinely offered second chance to claim his rings? Do we take turns giving him a farewell shake good-bye?
Months later, as family groups informally recall the home funeral, these scenarios, played out in grippingly disturbing ways in everyone's minds, have become a sort of gallows’ humor. First, there was the surprise in discovering that I was not the only one who was worried about the structural integrity of his paper cube. It was designed to be burned, after all. Nope, sooner or later, everyone there has confessed to having similar dark thoughts about the final maneuver. What drama!
Somewhere along the path, our stumbles have become experience and frailties turned to wisdom. Who would have thought that the universal dream of falling could bring us all together for laughs and healing?
Didn’t everyone’s minds fix onto the firm ground of potential disaster? We were suspended by possible horrors in “what if” land What if he falls out but misses the hole? Does one of us point attention to a singing bird in a nearby tree while side-sweeping him with a subtle shoe? What if he falls out and into the hole. Do we just continue? Do we all act like that was planned and begin shoveling dirt after? What if the box gives way enough around the duct taped top that an unwelcome arm flops out. Do we stick it back in? Do we ask if anyone wants a divinely offered second chance to claim his rings? Do we take turns giving him a farewell shake good-bye?
Months later, as family groups informally recall the home funeral, these scenarios, played out in grippingly disturbing ways in everyone's minds, have become a sort of gallows’ humor. First, there was the surprise in discovering that I was not the only one who was worried about the structural integrity of his paper cube. It was designed to be burned, after all. Nope, sooner or later, everyone there has confessed to having similar dark thoughts about the final maneuver. What drama!
Somewhere along the path, our stumbles have become experience and frailties turned to wisdom. Who would have thought that the universal dream of falling could bring us all together for laughs and healing?
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