On Thursday night, I left my very part-time job exhausted. Eva had asked me to come pick her up at her father’s so he wouldn’t have to leave home again. I made a wrong turn on the drive I’ve made 1,000 times– and almost got lost.
I wasn’t wearing my good glasses. I didn’t have my readers and the perscription was a couple years older than my current one, but they were the glasses that best matched my outfit and I didn’t expect to be driving outside of my normal routine.
And then I reached the hill at the intersection 13th, West Lafayette Street and Bushkill Drive.
I hit the curb at this intersection fairly often; I think a lot of people do. Knock on wood– it’s the only thing I usually hit.
I last hit the curb in September 2024, causing a bad flat. This was about two days after I drove by myself from Atlanta home in one day, 13 hours! Without incident.
I couldn’t have been going that fast because I’m fairly certain I had stopped at the light. But somehow I not only hit the curb, I think I drove over it.
The tire pretty much exploded.
I pulled onto the side of the road and texted my daughter to contact AAA. She and her father came and Eva attempted to change the tire herself, and she got all the nuts off. But she didn’t have a good enough jack for a car parked on ice on a hill. And she didn’t chock the wheels.
So after the car almost rolled over her arm, we waited for AAA.
Eva took the car to Mavis the next day and as we knew, the tire was shot. But we… no, I mean I… bent the wheel rim.
I called the Volkswagen dealership and they said it would take 4 days to get the part. And I thought to myself, I have a 2015 Jetta. There’s got to be a million of them in junkyards with perfectly good wheels.
That was my dad’s voice.
So Eva called the Hubcap store, and an hour later we found ourselves in West Easton in their industrial park facing a perimeter-guarding goose and an ominous gate.
If you look at the photo, there’s a small triangular roof behind the garages. That’s where we needed to go.
And the building had a sign up at the crown of the roof but not on the door.
And when we walked in, they had our Jetta wheel rim on the floor. It was $175. I had $100 cash in my wallet that I intended to take to the bank and put the other $75 on my Amex.
And then Eva went to Mavis and made an appointment to get the wheel mounted the next day.
And then we had a snowstorm. Which Eva handled like a champ with our crappy spare tire
Eva returned to Mavis the next day and two tires (another tire had a bubble) and $415 later we had all four tires again.
Now it’s almost midnight on Monday, on the day by dad died four years ago, and I find myself wanting to tell him so badly:
You didn’t even have to tell me and I found a wheel rim for my car.
I will be telling parts of this story on my Substack newsletter that I plan to post tomorrow morning. I write about my publishing company, Parisian Phoenix Publishing; books, the ones we publish, books for writers and fun books to read; and writing. You can subscribe here.
I had booked a table at Books and Booze 2 at Madness Distillery in the Country Junction Plaza in Lehighton, Pa. (With a name like Madness Distillery, how could I stay away?)
I had packed the books earlier this week but left decisions about signs and other marketing materials until today, and despite sleeping decently last night, my brain would not kick in. So it took all my focus to get out the door on time.
And I had to drop Eva off at her dad’s so she could borrow his car for the afternoon.
About a mile from the house, a bee flew onto my windshield at a stoplight. I pointed him out to Eva. About four more blocks down the road, he was still sitting there. I said to Eva, “If we take him all the way to your dad’s, he’ll be more than a mile away from his hive. How will he find his way home? Will he have food? Will he be warm? How is he just sitting on that windshield?”
And then I added a final thought: “If we leave him at your dad’s, that’s like someone dropping you off in England and telling you to swim home.”
We stopped. I said my goodbyes. I waited for my daughter to cross the street. The bee had not gone. So I resumed my drive.
About 4 miles later, I got onto the highway. Little bee did not fare well as my speeds increased. He slid across the windshield (toward the top), putting one foot down and another up, trying to get his grip.
I had to speed up even more, and now we’re about 12 miles away from home. The bee is starting to curl into himself and press down into the glass. I wonder: Would it be kinder to turn on my windshield wipers and smoosh him?
I can’t stop watching him, but I have to, because I’m driving 70 miles an hour on the highway. I’m getting upset, and fighting tears as my nerves fray. I ponder exiting the road because of this bee. I call Eva. I tell her everything.
“Mom, it’s a bee.”
“He doesn’t deserve to suffer. Nothing deserves to suffer.”
“Mom, life is hard.”
I cackle. I hang up. I get one more mile, and the bee rolls into a tight marble and disappears. He was on my windshield for about 15 miles.
About this time, I realize my mother married my father 50 years ago today. My father died three years and eleven months ago. My wedding anniversary was Thursday. My husband and I married 26 years ago. We splint up six years ago. And my mother’s 71st birthday was also Thursday.
The GPS took me past the site of the dirt track where my father raced micro-stock when Eva was a toddler. Past the post office where my father got his mail. Past one road to his house. Past the diner where he ate most of his meals. Past the gas station where he bought his cigarettes. Past the other road to his house. Past the funeral home where we had his services.
My parents divorced when I was 15. But my mom always loved my dad. And I think he never got over her. So I texted her when I arrived at my destination– which was alongside the lake where my dad would drive his boat.
“You married Dad 50 years ago today. I miss him soooo much.”
I set up my table, met some of my fellow authors, and tried to shake off my nerves.
Photo by author Shannon Delaney, a family member of my dear friend Mitzi from Pocono Lehigh Romance Writers and Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group
I counted about 20 people who attended the event– not including anyone with the other vendors at the event. I sold three books: two hardcover copies of Larry Sceurman‘s Bookworm’s Magical Journey and one advance copy of Geraldine Donaher‘s young adult Mouth Shut Head Down, which doesn’t officially launch until January.
The distillery had a sign in the window. It read “Adult Book Fair Today.” I think what they meant was “Book Fair for Adults today” or because it was a distillery, “Book Fair today. Adults only!”
But it immediately made me think I should have brought more erotica. The only erotica title I brought was Juicy Bits. Most of the authors for Booze and Books 2 were romance authors, and it looked like the most popular offerings were romances-with-shirtless-men-on-the-cover. It looked like most vendors sold 2-4 books, though I later learned that some vendors sold none. (To be fair, tables cost $10, so no one had huge expectations of kicking off a bestselling book tour at this event.)
The event is between coal country and the Poconos, so I thought my spicy horror novels would do well. I also brought our romances, Trapped: What if Skunks Were Matchmakers? and Any Landing You Walk Away From… (the author of the latter, Dawn O’Harra, is from the Poconos). I made a Halloween section on the other side of my novels, with Hugo Yelagin‘sLovecraftian Deadlightsand Eva Parry‘s tarot journal. Any Landing served as a transiton into non-fiction, and I brought Motorhome Gypsies and Coach of the Building (as the author of Coach teaches public school in the area) and then Larry Sceurman‘s fiction to appeal to any men accompanying wives and his children’s book because many romance readers are moms. And Geraldine’s book? Not even sure why I tossed that in.
Two hours into the event, my mother returned my text. “Hadn’t even given it a thought.”
When I left the event, I was hungry and pining for pizza. The GPS took me a different way home, perhaps recognizing my emotional distress from the previous route. It took me home the route I had anticipated on the way up– it took me through Palmerton, Pa., one of my favorite places. I celebrated my 49th birthday in Palmerton. Read about that here.
As I was driving away from the venue, I thought to myself: That looks like I’m heading toward Palmerton. Maybe I can find that awesome little pizza shop in Palmerton. I looked at the GPS. It told me my next turn was onto Delaware Avenue, which, if I remembered correctly, was the main street in Palmerton. And the pizza shop was on it.
Sure enough, I entered Palmerton. Pulled up right in front of the pizza shop. Went in, ordered two slices dine in, grabbed a boxed iced tea, and paid the employee $8.64 (which is roughly the price of one Grilled Club Chick-Fil-A sandwich).
15 minutes later I was back in the car.
That little detour changed my mood. Perhaps a gentle reminder that we find our own destinies and don’t have to conform to outside expectations.
Gayle and I have been friends a long time. So last week, she asked, as friends often do, “What are you doing on your actual birthday?”
My birthday was on Monday and nobody celebrates on Mondays. She offered to take me out, if I wanted to go somewhere and have fun. I texted back, “What is this fun you speak of?”
Enormous TV with the best resolution I have ever seen
I asked her the budget, and she said $50. I thought “arcade.” I have been trying to make it to various small arcades in the region, but as small businesses, they often don’t have hours conducive to my plans. So I looked up Dave & Buster’s, knowing we have one by the Lehigh Valley Mall.
Gayle said, “You want to go to a sports bar?”
And I said, “No…. They have an arcade.”
But further investigation revealed that the have half-price games on Wednesday, so I asked if we could postpone until then to take advantage. Gayle said sure.
She tossed lunch into the deal, so I ordered the Hawaiian chicken sandwich with pineapple, slaw, and sriracha. Gayle ordered a house salad and we agreed to share all the vegetables. I say all the vegetables because I replaced my fries with asparagus, and we got sides of Brussel sprouts and roasted cauliflower.
Surprisingly, the Brussel sprouts were a disappointment. They tasted too crunchy, as if they were fresh and raw. The seasoning was decent, but they didn’t have the decadent, drowning in roasted flavor that parmesan-crusted Brussel sprouts normally have when prepared in a restaurant. The cauflower was great— but the dipping sauces for both were heavily mayonnaise-based. And the asparagus turned out to be thin and perfectly dripping with goodness. As was the sandwich, which surprised me with how thick and hearty the patty was and how sweet and abundant the glaze was. A very messy sandwich, but worth it.
With the server’s assistance, we purchased a Dave & Buster’s Power Card with something like 200 (or was it 250?) chips on it. At about 2:30, we headed into the arcade and started our exploration. My first game was a mechanical, full-size version of Hungry Hungry Hippos. I will tell you at our Lehigh Valley Dave & Busters, the blue and the green hippos have a disadvantage, the ball popper holes do not function properly. To digest a respectable amount of balls, one must take advantage of the yellow or orange hippo.
I taught Gayle to play Air Hockey, and Centipede, and then I challenged her to Mario Kart (on Easy) and then we did Hot Wheels. And Rampage! We tried axe throwing and tried our skill shooting hoops. We even did some electronic bowling. And we tried the kids’ games— Cut the Rope and Doodle Jump.
I looked at my watch and it was 4 o’clock and even though we still had forty chips left (and at half-price most games costs 3.4-5 chips per player), Gayle let me have the power card and now I’m plotting a visit with the Teenager.
At that point, I picked up the Teenager and we headed to Joan the Photographer’s house. Joan wanted to take me to Point Phillips Hotel for dinner, where they have an on-site smokehouse and some of the weirdness seasonal cocktails I have ever seen.
That region has very Pennsylvania Dutch roots— and my grandfather- and grandmother-in-law are buried in that area. At the restaurant, the waitresses’ shirts said, “if you ain’t PA Dutch, you ain’t much” which led to Joan’s partner claiming to be the most PA Dutch person in the room.
To which I made a challenge. The Teenager is 3/4 Pennsylvania Dutch on her father’s side. Darrell’s mother’s side is Pennsylvania Dutch (his grandfather didn’t learn English until he started school at age five back in the one-room schoolhouse days) and his father’s side is 1/2 PA Dutch and 1/2 Welsh.
The food (and cocktails) were delcious and then we spent some time at Joan’s house, where he partner learned, apparently for the first time, that the Teenager is/was a musician. Discussion ensured of her experiences playing low brass and the differences between a euphonium and a baritone. Some old marching band videos were shared, and one thing led to another and suddenly the two of them had a trombone.
Amidst a near-full moon, the Teenager picked up a musical instrument for the first time in three years and even though she had never played trombone, she attempted to find some notes.
And my illustrator Joseph Swarctz of the Echo City Capers series drew me this “sexy Angel” for the conference coming in the fall. I think she’s fantastic. He asked me, over lattes at Panera because we were being fancy at our business meeting because it was my birthday, if I felt any different.
I had mentioned that as I get older, I suddenly realized how old everything else around me has gotten. Like the used car I bought in 2019, it’s almost ten years old now. And don’t even get me started on The Teenager– she’s going to not be a teenager anymore next month.
The mood (and the drama?)
I expected my birthday to be a catch-up-on-work day. I had hoped my birthday would be such. And I hoped that would distract me from the fact that since my father passed away, my family no longer talks to me. My mother sent me a passive-aggressive birthday card last week and my stepmother, who shares my birthday, made it clear that she does not want me in her life, first by ghosting me for more than a year and then by calling me up in February and listing everything I’ve done that she disapproved of during our 30-year-relationship.
Both my mother and my stepmother have experienced a lot of loss in the last few years, so I’m going to remember that. This isn’t the place to talk about family history, trauma, and the list of all the terrible things that can or did happen to people. We all live, we all love the best we can, and we all make mistakes. I think that’s part of why my dad meant so much to me– he understood that.
My dad
My dad was an extremely imperfect person, and now that I reflect upon it, he would make the most amazing fiction character. He was only five-feet tall and wore black motorcycle boots, jeans and Harley-Davidson t-shirts. He had tattoos, some of which honored the important people in his life. He was an alcoholic, and when I was a kid, he drank a lot. And sometimes that led to violence between him and my mother. Violence that I witnessed.
He also could fix anything. He had this sharp, strategic mind that could solve puzzles. He liked the Pittsburgh Steelers and would play Uno with me as he laid on the couch and watched Sunday night football. Which, as a parent now, I see is the easiest way possible to spend time with a child and still do what you want to do. For a while, I even collected football cards to share something, other than Uno, with my dad.
My dad would always have friends around with motorcycles or cars that needed fixing. They would arrange trades or bring gifts, which might have been because he wouldn’t take money.
I could tell stories forever about my dad, but the point is, that it always seemed like he gave people the benefit of the doubt, even when it was clear they were a mess, and I think that’s because he understood that we all have imperfections and some of his, he couldn’t fix. He could changed his behavior in a lot of ways, but sometimes those imperfections still hold us back.
So, it’s my birthday. And the only relatives who contact me do so on Facebook– and I have one cousin who posts this fabulous picture of us kids by my grandmother’s pool. I am between my cousins in the middle of the back row.
But for someone who did not expect or intend much birthday celebrating, it was a chaotic one and I have a feeling it might all extend into next week.
The PreGame
On Saturday, I presented a workshop to the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group. So, some of last week I “lost” in preparation for this event, which went fabulously, though I spoke too fast and squeezed what should have been two presentations into one. I thought I could use Sunday to recoup some lost client time.
How wrong I was.
I started with a Substack newsletter for Parisian Phoenix Publishing. You can read that here. I caught up on some email and watched a replay of a webinar I missed when I went up to the Times-News on Thursday. Then, it was time to go to Barnes & Noble in the Southmont Shopping Center where Joe was selling a LOT of books. It was one of our best days there ever for Echo City Capers.
And when I got home, I thought, now I can focus on some ghostwriting for my mafia novel client.
And then the Teenager approached. “Hey, Mom. I’m going down to groom [my friend and fellow author Tiffani Burnett-Velez’s] dog. You’re coming, right?”
Well, five-plus hours later I came home with a full belly and a copy of Tiff’s first novel because we traded– her first, for my fourth. And a cookie.
The family even sacrificed a cherry pie they had purchased for themselves to celebrate my birthday. And Tiff and I talked about neurologists longer than we probably should have. Because mine is the best one ever.
And during the drive home, the Teenager mentions that she has time on my actual birthday if I want to have a little adventure in the afternoon. So, I send her a list of ideas.
My birthday
The Teenager was definitely confused and perhaps disappointed by my final choice of Palmerton, Pa., for our outing. But I have a strange soft spot in my heart for that town and after my trip to Lehighton earlier in the week it felt like an easy choice.
Our first stop was the Country Harvest grocery store because according to Google maps they had doughnuts and a coffee bar inside. And unexpectedly, or perhaps very expectedly, The Teenager and I found lots of fun items in there. Including the iced teas we both had in school, and varieties of cat food that The Teenager’s finicky cat might eat. And for some reason The Teenager wanted puffed rice, and we picked desserts from the cooler and I bought a copy of the Times-News.
Then we walked down the main drag to go have a quick slice of pizza. Imagine our surprise when we discovered an amazing taco pizza, which we chased with a walk past the park and a visit to the public library so I could use the bathroom and enjoy the beautiful architecture.
The Teenager mentioned that she recognized the town and she felt like it was a place she had visited with my father on the motorcycle. That made sense, I told her, because my dad loved to take the motorcycle along the Lehigh River and through the picturesque hills and valleys of the region. So to celebrate him, we spent some time with the crane machine, another of my dad’s favorite activities.
I think what made the day special was that all we did was walk, talk and enjoy the scenery. Toss in some desserts and a good slice of pizza and what more could I ask… well, and it turns out we also had the presence of my dad.
The Christmas season, in general, makes me anxious and uncomfortable. The reasons for this don’t matter. Just accept the statement. I spent Thanksgiving alone this year, though I know I could have gone to my in-laws. This year has been a year of firsts, first everything without my father. And spending most of my holidays home alone has been part of my grieving process. A great big letting go of all the expectations and obligations.
It’s the first weekend in December. The Teenager has asked to give up the Christian trappings and embrace our pagan side. So, we intend to celebrate Yule. She wants a small tree covered with pine cones and other items of nature. I’d like to make a dinner that includes rabbit or venison.
Yesterday, we ended up in Bethlehem– The Christmas City– and stopped to see The Teenager’s grandparents (in part because The Teenager added the grandparents to our phone plan since a certain phone service that focuses on seniors has sent phones Grammy cannot use and that don’t dial 9-1-1 when her husband is having diabetic seizures in a stranger’s driveway. Good job, Consumer Cellular.) Grammy is learning how to use her iPhone 13 and even FaceTimed her sister who lives six hours away. Even if the FaceTime was an accident.
I got to see Grammy’s tree and train, and eat the last slice of Grammy’s shoofly pie. While Grammy comes from Pennsylvania Dutch stock, she struggles to make a wet bottom shoofly pie. So she’s been working on it. And we brought the dog, so the dog got to see Grammy and Poppop and the squirrels in their backyard.
Then the teenager and I spent some time doing chores and resting before embarking on the one totally ridiculous thing that is our holiday tradition: watching Denis Leary in The Ref. And this year we watched it sipping chocolate laced wine, eating dusty road sundaes without the chocolate syrup and waxing our legs.
Every day I see more and more ways The Teenager has absorbed the values of my estranged husband and I, and the things that make us uniquely us are important to her. And that makes me happy.
And it’s not easy to be happy these days, under the weight of grief and the stress of disability.
Half way through the movie, The Teenager wanted potato chips. So she called her dad. He happened to be in the middle of Target. He brought us two bags of Doritos, one original red for The Teen and one Cool Ranch blue for me.
I did not work a full ten hour day any day this week. But you know what? That’s okay.
My stats on Sunday were 105%, then 98 Monday, 88 yesterday and 94 today. What happened?
I don’t know. I was in pain Monday, stiff and uncomfortable yesterday and almost fell today but caught my balance.
And then Andrew at Apex put me through legs. We did split leg squats and he got to watch my hip do the funky angles it does. And I got to feel every fiber in my knees, quads and hamstrings.
Plus, I walked more than 8,000 steps today while my legs were stiff. Well after that workout they are not stiff but jelly.
The Teenager showed one of her dog walking clients some of the neighborhood dogs and their tricks— here is the video.
And then for the final event of the day we went to Waffle House as earlier this month we had heard that August 24 was National Waffle Day.
I had a scrumptious hash brown bowl with egg, cheese and jalapeños.
I walked into the house after the gym today and I was met with empty rooms, deflating balloons, empty pizza boxes and cake crumbs.
The teenager is with a client. The guests have gone, even the one that drove a distance and stayed overnight.
Throughout the teenager’s life, she frequently lamented that she was the youngest in the class snd never had a birthday during the school year. That inconvenient June birthday.
But yesterday she was able to gather people who celebrated her and had seen her grow and wanted to marvel in who she was as a person, as a young adult, for a graduation/birthday party.
She wanted pizza From Nicolosi’s in Forks Township and pretzel nuggets and dip from the Pretzel Company. (And I think out friends will be patronizing Nicolosi’s now— several of their flights with the pieces cut in half is a great way to spoil guests.)
She wanted to bake her own cakes and decorate them, which she did.
She wanted to play Cards Against Humanity. And we did.
The party started with a raucous discussion of the Hess’s Department Store and ended with promises of homemade pie.
And the dog only ate a small chunk of the red velvet cake.
The teenager is now a high school graduate and soon she will no longer be a teenager. She will be the young adult or the offspring or some other nickname, but she will always be my pride and joy.
So much of parenting is learning, slowly, to step aside and let your child grow into her/his own person. To be mindful and humble and supportive without smothering. To be proud, but subtle. To encourage and guide, but not nag.
And to trust.
To trust your parenting. Your child. And that young person’s decisions.
And seeing that child grown— the love that pours out of you… eventually you might feel like a deflated balloon and then that child does something that makes you float once again.
I will always be my daughter’s mother, but the bulk of the intense, hands-on work is done.
And so today, Curly led us in making an infused oil of basil, lavender and sea salt to bless ourselves and my home with positivity.
It’s all part of the cycle— especially for women— maiden, mother, crone. I guess I might have to transition to the crone phase now.
For the first time since December 15, I felt like myself. I’m still grieving. I’m still hurting, but by the time end of today (12/26/2021), the overwhelming hurricane of different emotions had pushed me into its eye. And I felt like me.
Yesterday was a hard one. My mother called early in the morning, wishing me a Merry Christmas. Really, my brain couldn’t even fathom why she would wish me a Merry Christmas when I was home alone and my dad is newly dead.
The holidays are always hard on me. They start with hope and usually end with disappointment. I had often said I wish I could ignore them all together. Just skip. And go to Paris.
There were no presents to open Christmas morning. I let the teenager open hers early when we needed some joy in the midst of funeral stuff. No decorations. I never got the Christmas tree up. I never listened to Christmas music this year— and I love Christmas music.
The world stopped when my father died.
The teenager has multiple pet sitting responsibilities. Something like eight visits a day. And her father just got his new car on the 23rd, so I had expected to have a car to visit family without her.
My nephew came down with Covid so there would be no gathering with that side of the family.
So my little funeral tantrum that led me to spend most of the service in my car apparently prevented my exposure to Covid.
I did have a bit of a something— a cold? A sinus issue? Backlash from not taking my allergy medicine for a week?
And I had hoped maybe I could go have some of Mom’s lasagne.
But by the end of her phone call, I think she hung up on me. I don’t know if she realizes it, but her last words were, “well, excuse me for being alive.”
That stung.
I thought she would understand how much I was hurting. She lost her dad when she was 21.
I spent the day alphabetizing and organizing some cards I’ve been saving. It tools about six hours, while watching reruns of ER and drinking coconut rum and pina colada lemonade.
The teenager brought home sandwiches from Sheetz. Other than that my meals were Christmas cookies and potato chips.
I went to bed around 8:30 pm and woke at 4:15 a.m. I did my physical therapy cobra poses and went downstairs to have my coffee.
When I arrived at work, my body struggled with anxious feelings, trouble breathing, difficulty regulating body temperature. I was no longer sick, though the post nasal drip is still very real.
When we got to Freestyle— our assignment for the day— there was no work for us. So a bunch of us had to transfer to Freestyle Pick and go out into the warehouse to pick our own work. And although the Freestyle carts are 80 items instead of 40 like ordinary fixes, I had a great time. I always liked picking. I arrived back in Freestyle not first but not last.
And I got to see the warming sunrise through the warehouse windows.
My guess is that I performed at about 90% in Freestyle QC/ship.
And then, at the end of the day they asked me to go pick again! And despite my back hurting a bit on the right side, once again I had a great time. The Freestyle/Direct Buy cart took me 45 minutes. I imagine the goal is 40 minutes.
That motion drove the feeling of panic away.
And before I left, I grabbed some hard-boiled eggs to share with the dog. I had asked the teenager to grab some jarred vodka sauce at the grocery store when she was between clients and she one-upped me.
She went to George’s Pizzeria and bought their homemade vodka sauce. My favorite.
And our cat foster godmother, now the teenager’s client and the teenager’s boss at Apricity Pet Care, left her a bottle of wine to bring home to me.
While the teenager finished her afternoon shifts, I made spaghetti. I sautéed a chicken breast and heaps of fresh broccoli, kale and spinach. I mixed it all up with George’s vodka sauce.
We ate like queens.
And then as I cleaned up the leftovers and packed my remaining work lunches for this week (Mr. Accordion stopped by and brought me his scrumptious halupkis that I finished today), the dog grabbed my favorite cat by the scruff of his neck and starting running around the kitchen with him in her mouth.
The cat was fine. The dog just wanted to carry him.
I try so very hard to find something beautiful to say even in the midst of pain.
I try to be grateful.
I try to be humble.
I failed today.
And that’s okay, but it’s also not, but you can’t flog yourself over the past.
So you get stuck.
In the hurt.
We buried my father today. My rock. My daddy. I feel like he tried to temper my flaws, gave me confidence when I had none, and made me laugh when I thought the world was crumbling.
I didn’t attend the services. I arrived eight minutes late for the family viewing time and by the time I made it into the chapel…
I left and sat in my car.
A lot of people loved my dad. He made everyone feel like he was their best friend. He made everyone feel like part of the group.
And he wasn’t there to make me feel like I belonged.
I’m disappointed in myself because I can hear his voice in my head trying to smooth things over, and he hated when I get emotional.
I resurfaced at the diner, with “Smiley” (one of our favorite waitresses) bringing us pancakes and fried food.
My sister Dawn, the back of my brother’s head, and the teenager
I spent most of my morning trying to be practical and do what needs to be done. And maybe get some breakfast before heading to my father’s viewing.
My morning coffee companion
The teenager went to her morning job— a cat sitting visit— and then had breakfast with her father and my college roommate.
I finally forced myself to eat an egg with some kale.
And I found myself sitting quietly.
Struggling to find shoes that fit.
Photo 1Photo 2Photo 3Photo 4 Photo 5
We drove up to the funeral home and met my aunt and my uncle’s widow and her family. My older sister and her husband came next. And then my stepmom and her sister (and her extended family).
My uncle’s widow thanked me for my recent writings as they helped her adjust to the reality that my father has left his earthly life.
(Later, my stepmom’s nephew hugged me and his wife told me how beautiful some of my recent writings and reflections have been.)
Together, we entered the funeral home. And the funeral director apologized for being in her slippers, but honestly it brought me a sense of home.
We walked into the chapel, and my dad was surrounded with red and white roses and celebrated with so many flowers from friends, relatives and colleagues (some of whom even signed his nicknames for them instead of their given names).
Photos everywhere.
Photo 1: On the top, that’s a photo of my dad and his older brother, Earl Ivan Jr. or “Skippy.” The photo on the bottom right is my dad on microstock race night with my nephew holding the now teenager as a baby.
Photo 2: My dad holding the now teenager at the West End Fair, at the tractor pull. It was my first outing with the baby on my own. She was about 8 weeks old.
Photo 3: I had to take a photo to remind me of how peaceful Dad looked, with a slight smirk like he got the last joke. He just needed a remote and some pretzels. The teenager said before he passed on Wednesday morning, she could feel his reluctance to leave us, but the calm when he did.
Photo 4: My stepmom and my aunt, the last remaining sibling
Photo 5: the teenager and her dad
My brother and his dog
My mother came and said some nice things to my stepmom, thanking her for always being nice to myself and the now teenager, and my stepmom said we are easy to love.
My friends and Parisian Phoenix staff — Gayle and Joan— came. (And the whole day was a theatrical farce of people coming and going and not seeing each other.)
My college roommate slipped out with the teenager’s dad to grab sandwiches.
And my in-laws not only came but my mother-in-law, at my request, made chicken and potato salad and brought many other goodies. Including Memmy’s fruitcake and Uncle Lee’s baked beans.
It was a long afternoon — and people kept leaving things in Dad’s casket: cigarettes, a Harley Davidson hat, flowers, a racing patch.
Angel Ackerman 