For our next “Read a Million Minutes” installment, we read Beth’s Job by Carole Roberts and illustrated by Michael Garland. No magpies in this one, but I still say thanks for the inspiration to Magpie Musing.
I just moved my mini-pharmacy from the kitchen back to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. I hope I didn’t jinx anything.
This is a rat. Her name is Sarah. (Yes, by the girl who likes to be called Sarah when playing dress-up and pretending with her brother and sister.) It’s just about the cutest darn rat I’ve ever seen.
They’re blooming!
Before I was so rudely interrupted with it’s-still-fall-dangit snow, I had lots of fall colors to share. We took a road trip Sunday to the Mississippi River — we’re only a couple of hours away. We fed the fish in Decorah. We also had lunch at a pizza place in Decorah, apparently home to lots of Norwegian-Americans. We also stopped in Marquette and McGregor. It was tons of fun. I’ll post some now and some later.
My red peppers? Finally turning red. Yay!
No, I didn’t dance with him that night. It was my prom. He was there to send me off into the night and there when I got back. He was always there. Until three years later, when he left forever.
I often forget that my memories are different from others, especially my youngest brother, who was 6 when Dad died. He’s the one who looks most like Dad, and he knew him the least. How unfair. Yet … it’s unfair and life-defining, no matter the age.
It’s been 25 years since Dad died. A generation. A silver anniversary. Weddings. Births. Graduations. Illnesses. Deaths. Moves. Vacations. Jobs. Retirements.
I’m two years away from the age he was when he died. My son is 6.
I used to see him in my dreams. Now I see him in others. Something in the way my son squints his eyes. The way my husband puts his hands on his hips and takes in a project he’s just completed. (Of course they’re not related. But they have things in common. They would have enjoyed each other a lot. Without either one of them saying much of anything.) A chuckle. A word. The lines in my face.
Once, when I was old enough to drive, I promised to take some friends to a basketball game one night. It was storming, and Dad wouldn’t let me drive. That didn’t mean we missed the game; I just didn’t get to drive. Dad took us. I was mortified, in the way only an eye-rolling 16-year-old could be. He let me be mad. He never raised his voice. (Oh, WHY didn’t I inherit that trait from him?) He picked up each one of my friends, drove us through the night, dropped us off and sat through the entire game in the car in the parking lot. He was at the curb when the game was over, and he took us all home.
He was always there.
Another time, my parents visited me in Nebraska. I worked in a data-processing center (yes, back in the days of punch cards), starting each day at 7 a.m. I was poor. I had roommates. I didn’t have a car. I stood in the frigid cold, waiting for the bus at o’ dark thirty in the morning, freezing my butt off. When Dad was there, he got up every morning in the dark, went outside, started his car and let it warm up. He drove me to and from work in that toasty car every day.
He was always there.
Until just a few months later. Then he was gone.
It’s 25 years since then, and so much has changed. Except one thing. I miss the comfort of knowing Dad was always there.
Still.
Always.
~~~~~
Thanks to Matthew at Child’s Play x2 and his brother, Ben, at Babbling Dad for inspiring me to write about my dad.
This is what we were doing a year ago. Wow. Time flies.
I started singing Alice Cooper’s School’s Out for Summer when I did the last pickup of the school year. They asked to hear it on the radio. I said I’d find it on blip when I got home, and I did. We listened to the song (but didn’t watch the video). They all drew pictures.
This is Cooper with a “rock-n-roll guitar” raising the roof on the house.
This is Cooper singing.
This is the guitar.
This is the card from the kids. We’ve got a bird’s nest theme going …
