I think it was Wednesday when I started seeing tattoo specials for Friday the 13th. One post on Facebook had intriguing flash— so I looked up the location. It was half a block from my gym and three blocks from my house.
I have wanted a Friday the 13th tattoo for quite some time. And I promised the teenager custom mother-daughter tattoos for her 16th birthday but between the pandemic and her age, it didn’t happen.
So I asked if they would tattoo my girl who turns 18 next month.
And the answer was yes.
I asked her— she was interested.
This is not a replacement for our custom mother-daughter tattoo, but it was my third and the teenager’s first tattoo.
She wanted the potion bottle that says “try me” and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to honor my own strength during my recent trials— and get the sword on my upper hip—or get the Zippo lighter in honor of my dad.
My dad died five months ago this coming Sunday and he smoked for almost sixty years. My husband and I toured the Zippo factory.
How better to celebrate and remember my own strength than to have a tattoo honoring my father?
And I inadvertently put it near where my name and birthday were on his arm. At least I think.
I also took three foster cats to the vet and lived to tell the tale. On Friday the 13th, I got a tattoo close to the anniversary of my father’s death by an artist nicknamed “Psycho Mike.”
It was a fabulous session and two fabulous tattoos at The Tattoo Factory in Easton, Pa.
They say with time it gets easier, and I suppose I have to trust.
But this week has been damn hard.
My first big injury without my father and my first bit of car trouble without my father.
Both times when I used to turn to my father.
I tried to reach out to my mother, but there’s just something about that relationship that always goes sideways. And I whatever I try to do to fix it fails.
I shared a poem I wrote about grief to Nancy, my blind friend, when I saw her today. And I think she’s anxious to see where I can go with it.
And first thing this morning— I saw this post from a very clean and well curated antique shop in downtown Easton, advertising its fresh wares.
Now I am not an antiques person, but V. Murray Mercantile puts a lot of effort into curating and presenting their merchandise. And this post featured a vintage Schmidt’s Beer lamp, which was my father’s preferred beer.
And I just wanted it. I wanted the beer lamp. I wanted it so I could think of my dad and the light he gave my life. And he could still give that light. And at the same time, it could poke a little fun at his struggles with alcoholism, because he knew his flaws.
Stroh’s Brewing produced Schmidt’s and closed in 1999, selling its business to Pabst, according to some quick, unverified internet research. That was the same year I got married. Apparently, they revived a beer called Schmidt’s in 2019, which ironically was the year my husband and I amicably separated.
I discovered this website which appears to be from the beer’s 100th anniversary merch shop, and feels like the internet version of a ghost sign: Schmidt’s Of Philly, but has a 2019 copyright and seems to be legit even though the history stops fifty years ago.
I signed up for the mailing list.
So the teenager and I went downtown at 1 p.m., fighting construction.
The store is only open 11 a.m. to 3 p.m., and the lamp sold first thing.
I am crushed, but I know realistically it is my grief I am feeling and has nothing to do with a vintage lamp.
It’s about the little girl, who used to run from the house to her dad’s workshop with little brown bottles of beer whenever her dad asked for a cold one. He was usually tinkering with his Harley. Sometimes the lawn mower.
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.
I intended today’s post to be about my medical appointments, but grief and death have a way of sneaking into everything.
So, let me start this post by saying I’ve been released from physical therapy and let’s hope I do yoga and more weight training to improve more and free myself or even more pain.
I haven’t been to the gym in two weeks because first came the schedule change, then my trainer got sick and then my dad died.
My dad, visiting the teenager at her waitressing job
Today, my college roommate reached out to say she would drive up from Baltimore if I needed her. And I started to weep in the parking lot of physical therapy, because she and I have been extremely sporadic in our contact since we graduated. I never even told her when the teenager’s father and I split up.
I did finally tell her, but only after she sent a Christmas card.
So many people have been kind in the wake of my father’s death, but to have such an act of kindness offered just hit me hard.
And then, as I have often since we met with the funeral home, I checked for his obituary. This time, I found it.
Now it could just be I’m grieving and therefore have a lower IQ than usual— I somehow got the dog’s bowls stuck together— but it is a little tricky to navigate the options on my phone to see the obituary.
And finally, my daughter looked at me this morning and said, “you know how you always say that my generation has an easier time with body acceptance… for me, that wasn’t social media or TikTok or anything, it was Poppop. He never said anything when I started gaining weight, and if I said something, he’d say, ‘Nobody gives a sh*t. Fat, skinny, you’re still my grandkid.’”
And he’d know how to get those damn bowls unstuck.
Nobody gives a sh*t. Fat, skinny, you’re still my grandkid.
Since my father died yesterday… yesterday… (it feels like a lifetime ago and at the same time like maybe it didn’t happen at all), I thought it might be wise to keep today quiet.
I canceled my appointment at the gym, as I feel a little drained and shaky from all the emotion yesterday and I know I didn’t eat right.
I started to get dressed and ended up merely putting on a clean t-shirt with my fuzzy cat-in-the-hat pajama pants.
I read more memories people sent me— so many people knew my father. My mother stopped by. My neighbor stopped.
I started laundry. I did dishes. I got out the broom and swept for a while.
I found the pendant my father gave me, engraved with “my little girl yesterday, my friend today, my daughter always, I love you.” It’s on a silver chain that’s tarnished with age with my Celtic knot charm and my amber.
I mopped the kitchen floor. I answered texts and talked on the phone.
I ordered a case of Parisian Phoenix’s next title— Twists: Gathered Ephemera— a poetry manuscript by Darrell Parry, father of the teenager who has been, as always, very helpful and dependable.
I invited my blind friend Nan over for dinner, as she loves to watch me cook and I figured by feeding her I would, in turn, feed the teenager and I.
She accepted.
So while I waited for the teenager to return from school, I wrapped her Christmas presents. The teenager would also swing by Nan’s apartment building.
It was a ridiculously warm, sunny December day and I opened the windows so the cats could frolick.
And when Eva and Nan arrived, we brought Nan to the kitchen and I cooked pork loin, chicken burgers and pre-seasoned pulled chicken. While I cooked, the teenager opened her Christmas presents.
With the holidays fast approaching, and Yule is one of those holidays, I thought she might need some of the items I gave her. I also thought Nan might enjoy watching her open her presents. The teenager works a lot in coming weeks as people travel to see family. Today seemed calmer.
And I thought we could superimpose some joy onto our sorrow and grief.
I packed up leftovers for Nan to take home. Nan and I had soft tacos.
And after dinner, I poured Nan a County Seat Spirits whiskey and water while I had a Yuengling. And we celebrated with a drink in my dad’s honor.
And Nan always makes the teenager and I laugh.
And the neighbor that visited earlier, little dog’s mom, returned with the fanciest chocolate covered pretzels I ever saw. She made them at work and thought we could enjoy them with family after the viewing on Sunday.
Daddy, I promise to seek laughter and joy when I miss you.
My father has been dealing with illness for the last couple weeks, since Thanksgiving.
He was in the hospital twice over the last week, because a twist of complications from COPD and Covid made it impossible for him to breathe. And he wouldn’t eat or drink.
But a week before that he was here and fine.
And yesterday he was stable.
The hospital had sent him for a brain scan because he was delusional and rather hateful. And they discovered that somewhere between seven and 30 days ago he had a stroke.
Well, despite being stable, he apparently had a bigger stroke last night— and it left his legs paralyzed. And he developed pneumonia.
So… I drove to work this morning having last heard that my father was stable and my stepmom was asking family members if we could help care for him while he recovered.
I saw two deer frolicking on the Bizzy Hizzy lawn as I drove to the Stitch Fix warehouse. They were happy and bouncing around, and I was optimistic, Wednesday, after all, is my Friday.
I clocked in and headed to my assigned table and even nailed those numbers as I QC’ed my first few fixes.
I noticed the warehouse seemed hot and sticky and I suspected I smelled funny.
Then my step mom called. She had bad news. Dad was dying.
I walked up to some random supervisor and explained what was happening. Another person who seemed to be more in charge grabbed my Bizzy box and told me he would clock me out.
I had been folding a lovely jewel tone green sweater.
I called the teenager and told her not to go to school.
I drove home racing into a beautiful sunrise.
There was a drug raid at the house two doors down.
The teenager was burning a candle.
We drove to the hospital with no issue and the guard almost stopped us until I told him my dad was dying.
And then when we arrived in the room, my dad looked tiny and frail. He’s always been tiny but never frail.
And this towel in his room was folded like a swan. It seemed out of place, but serene.
We all sat there— my brother for a while, the teenager, my stepmom, her friends, and I— watching my dad gasp to breathe. They didn’t have his teeth in. My sister arrived around 10. She went to the bathroom. The doctor came into the room.
My sister said, “hi, Pop.”
The doctor hugged my stepmom.
And the teenager and I watched him stop breathing. And his death was that quick. 10:07 a.m.
I snapped this photo because if you look near that wad of cotton on his left arm, he has a tattoo of my name. And I might not ever see it again.
My dad was 73. And smoked almost 2 packs a day for almost 60 years.
I have received hundreds of condolences on Facebook today— so many little remembrances of who he was. A message from a high school peer of mine who used to do tractor pulls with my dad. Another high school peer who bought my dad’s tractor trailer. A Target peer whose mom worked for my dad and stepmom, and my dad used to try and explain the tools to him.
Aunt Sharon’s desk
We told my Aunt Sharon. But she said she already knew in her heart.
And we took Dad’s phone charger from his hospital belongings bag so my sister could charge her phone. His teeth are in that pink case. I also took a toothbrush from the hospital. Not sure why. I just wanted it.
And then we got ready for the funeral director.
And then with the viewing and funeral set, we went for pizza.
The people in the local pizza place gave us the pizza for free. My dad made that kind of impact on people.
We asked my mother-in-law if she could make her fried chicken and potato salad for after the viewing. She volunteered to make “Lee’s Beans,” too.
My stepmom’s sister arrived at 7, so after 12 hours I headed home. The teenager looked at me as we walked to the car.
“This is the first time we ever went to the car without Poppop standing in the garage to wave at us,” she said.
Angel Ackerman 