In remembrance of my dad’s passing two years ago, I thought about posting a photo of something that once belonged to him, but is now in my possession. The possibilities were endless…a fleece cap I gave him for Christmas one year, which he actually wore; leather boots he’s had for as long as I can remember and are still in excellent condition thanks to his fastidious nature; a monogrammed cigarette lighter, which contributed to his demise; a small folding magnifying glass he used in his drafting work; bolo ties that accessorized his square dancing outfits; etc., etc., etc. Instead, though, I’ve decided to post this video…again. Apologies to my close friends (you know who you are) who have seen this before, although you might like to listen…again.
Originally posted December 14, 2009, and again on November 22, 2010.
I’ll be away again…tomorrow, November 10, through next Wednesday, November 17. W and Lucy will be here, and some pics will go up thanks to the miraculous WordPress auto-post.
Unlike my usual quarterly visits to family in Eastern Kentucky, this trip, for the most part, will be dedicated to helping my mom start her move from the place she and my dad have lived for the past 35 years to her new addition on my sister’s home. It’s a sad move for me…a final separation from the place I was born and spent my first few years with grandparents…the place I returned to for half of my first-grade year (for reasons that are fuzzy, though the experience is not)…the place where memories of my parents and sister were nurtured my entire adult life…the place that is home to very good family, just down the road…the place where my grandparents and father now rest, high atop a hill, at a beautiful spot chosen by my grandfather. It’s home to the small barn and shed that my dad built with his own hands, and it’s home to the view from the back porch, favored by him and the view from the front porch, favored by my mom.
Thankfully, a longtime friend and neighbor on the adjoining property is now the new owner. He doesn’t mind if I stop by to visit…or sit…or just roam and reminisce. I’m so happy about that, ’cause I would feel completely lost if a stranger came away with the few acres that my parents loved and cared for all these years.
So, here’s wishing many happy years to both our neighbor and my mom in their new homes…and I’ll see you next week. :o)
The photo is of me and my mom’s horse, Lady, taken by W 10 years ago.
Goldenrod: any composite plant of the genus Solidago, most species of which bear numerous small, yellow flower heads (so says dictionary.com)
When I think of goldenrod, I always think of…here we go again…my dad. I remember hearing, since way back, that the innocent looking plant wreaked havoc with his allergies, so, when I think of it, I think of him. My sister recently commented elsewhere that it was around this time last year when he started getting sick (actually, sicker…he was already suffering from what was probably late-stage emphysema), and I remember that time well, as I had visited just a month before—late August—and he was already coughing more than usual…said it was his hay fever acting up. Later, whenever I talked to him on the phone, he was still coughing, and he said not to worry…it was the weather and, still, allergies. But, he’d stopped eating, too…he didn’t tell me that part, apparently ’cause “I ask too many questions.” Well, when I’m 400 miles away and I’m worried about family, that’s what I do…I ask questions.
It makes no difference now, and still, when I think of goldenrod, I think of my dad.
Today I was going through old photos—old being last spring—and came across ones that I had taken while on a visit to family in Kentucky. So I spent some time skimming hundreds of captures during my week there in early May…bumblebees on sweet peas, as-of-yet unidentified butterflies and moths, daisy-like flowers that are probably weeds, three-leaved clovers…and I was suddenly overcome with sadness. Through all those images, grief re-emerged over my father, who, unbeknownst to us at the time, had only another six months of life left. I remember taking all of those photographs last spring as I walked the fringes of his small hay bottom, stopping now and then to take in the complete silence and gaze at the old house up the road—the one I had spent my first few years in. I chased flying insects from grass blade to flower head and after returning to the house I remember him asking me what I was doing outside and him not really understanding when I told him I was photographing flowers and bugs…just as he didn’t understand W and me wanting to drive cross country five years earlier. “Why do you want to do that?” he had asked.
Many of his attitudes perplexed me, but at least he was here to perplex.
So I guess that’s how the grief thing works. Time helps heal the wound until one brushes up too closely against its memories.
