Steadfast

There’s a historic cemetery that I like to visit in the early morning.  It’s quite humbling and enlightening to witness the sun peer through the tall pines and illuminate the worn marble headstones of the departed.  No matter what may be troubling me, as I make my way around the solemn paths of graves, I gain somber perspective and inevitably I think of my father.  

My father was a simple man, not formally educated.  All he ever wanted was to have a good time and take care of his family.  He never really ventured far from home, and I remember how I resented this.  More than a decade after his death, I’ve come to realize the beauty in the simplicity of his life – he loved being home.  Jack Dunphy was forever steadfast.  

At some point during my walk, I’ll focus on a particular headstone.  I read the name and observe the carved dates in the stone.  I begin to wonder what their life was like; whether they were happy or not and what it must feel like to be dead for a couple of hundred years.  It’s eerily sobering to ponder my existence in these terms:  that we’ll all be dead at some point… and time will continue on, generation after generation, but to what avail?  Is there a divine plan?  Or just random passage of time and events that shapes and misshapes our lives.  

 

Certainty

     How do you move forward when you’re tied to the past?  At what point is it “unhealthy” to keep commiserating about what could have been, should have been…  I’m convinced that the more one ruminates, the more they are ineffective and disconnected from what might lie ahead.  Naturally, there is a future of some sort, but the landscape uncertain.  Certainty doesn’t avail itself until it does…

But what if the questions, tension, and turmoil that torment us are somehow, some way of fate urging us to not give up, to keep holding on….. 

The reality is things have changed, people have moved on with their lives and we're  just another compartment of their past.

We have to change, adapt… survive… and wait for Certainty to avail itself.

Beauty

     Beauty surrounds us:  it’s pervasive.  Even in the everyday, seemingly picayune moments of the day, beauty is present.  It infuses our souls… enables us to breathe.  In these challenging times, it is of vital importance to remember the precious gift of beauty and to value each day with our family and friends.  Yes, beauty is omnipresent and perhaps one goal we should strive for is to recognize and appreciate all that is beauteous.  We owe that to each other, to ourselves.   Perhaps the next rainfall will offer a cascading dalliance as water from the heavens falls down on the earth.  Maybe the kindness of a stranger will strengthen our hope for humanity… or the innocent smile of a child may offer warmth to a soul surrounded by cold.  Life can be so simple, so full of beauty... we just need to be able to witness it.  

How Do I Tell Them...

 Sparrows by the hundreds perched on high.    Shrill cries pierce the  air.  Flight ensues.  Autumn pervades early night.   Longing, loss... How do I tell them?  A new squadron appears overhead, a   Formation of fate.  How do I tell them?  Practice is over, home awaits.  Bittersweet arrival.  Transgressions many, solemnity lost.  How do I tell them?
     Past Portraits configure amidst  dust laden shelves.  A mantle yearns for family to gather round.  How do I tell them?  Cold death calls. 

Fathers Aren't Supposed To...

Death ends a life, but the relationship struggles on in the survivor’s mind, or something like that. I often remember this line from Robert Anderson’s play, I Never Sang For My Father.
The main character, Gene, always had issues with his father and when his father died, the problems were still unresolved. Perhaps I identified with Gene when dealing with my own father, fearing that some day he’d be gone and that like Gene, I too would have to deal with the irresolution. Fortunately, I never really had any real drama with my father. No misplaced love; no resentment for his failed marriage; no real contempt for drinking himself to death. The only unresolved issue I had to deal with after my father died, oddly enough, involved a winter coat. Now, keep in mind that this was no ordinary coat. Pure wool, an elegant full length, and quality lined, this was without a doubt the best coat my father ever owned.
The Christmas before my father died, he had not been feeling all that great; his liver disease was not cooperating with the holidays. Of course, no one knew that this would actually be his last Christmas; we just figured that he’d feel better in the spring. Perhaps it was a matter of denial that motivated me to purchase that wool coat for my father, as if that quality lining would somehow allay my father’s ailments. Or maybe my gift was simply a result of his complaining that he was always cold and wanted a new coat.
For years, my father wore his old brown suede coat. This shade of brown was quite unique, a rust color mixed with orange. My sister declared it was the ugliest coat she had ever seen, but dad said that it was warm and that he liked it. The only other coat he owned was his dark blue work jacket that adorned his name on the front and was streaked with grease. The more I inventoried his wardrobe of winter attire, or lack thereof, the more I was convinced that my present for him would be cherished. How could it not, considering the usual gifts he would normally receive. He always treated himself around the holidays to new socks and underwear as a present to himself; Susan, my sister was known for her movie gift passes; and Ben, my younger brother, chose not to celebrate christmas and therefore never bought presents for anyone. The truth of the matter was he was a cheap bastard, and no one expected a present from him anyway.
Christmas morning, before he opened his present, dad claimed he had no idea what I had got him. "Oh, what’s this? You shouldn’t have...You didn’t have to get me anything." He did this every year, acting like there was no need to get him a present. Even though Ben was a non-gift giver, somehow I knew that if I didn’t have a gift for my father, he would be very disappointed. I guess he came to expect at least one decent gift, and he knew his only chance was me.
When he opened the box that the coat was in, dad looked a little confused.
"What’s this," he asked. At first, I thought he was kidding, but as he kept examining the contents, I wasn’t so sure.
"Dad, it’s the coat you wanted," I responded, still unsure if he was serious or not.
Dad carefully unfolded the coat after he had taken it out of the box, inspecting the it as if it were some foreign object.
"Well, put it on, will you," I encouraged him.
Reluctantly, he stood up and put the coat on. It may have been a little big in the shoulders, but everyone knows that it’s best for overcoats to be roomy I assured him.
"I don’t know, it doesn’t feel right. Where am I gonna wear it to," he asked.
I could not believe he had just asked me that. Where was he going to wear it? I managed to keep quiet and gain control.
"What do you mean, dad? Outside, to the store, to church, everywhere you go; it’s nice and warm, and it looks good on you." What else could I say?
He did not seem to be listening to me; he kept looking in the mirror, turning around, continually asking if it was too big.
"I dunno; didn’t they have any others?"
"No, dad, they didn’t," I blurted out. "I was lucky to find this one so late in the season. I can’t believe you don’t like it."
He told me that it wasn’t that he didn’t like it, he did, but it was just that it really wasn’t his style. "It’s too fancy" is exactly what he said. What would guys down at the old garage think when he’d visit them on Saturdays? Wouldn’t the bottom of the coat get caught in the car door? He went on and on, and I just kept quiet, drowning in disbelief. Try to get something a little extra special and look what happens. Did he want more socks, movie passes, or that I plan to be in Vegas for all of the holidays like Ben? Why couldn’t he just wear the goddam coat and act like he appreciated it? The rest of the day was ruined; I could not wait to go home.
Somehow, I managed to never replace that Christmas present for my dad. I took the coat with me when I left that night; in fact, I had exchanged it for a refund the following week. What I did not do, however, is get my father another coat. The stores already had their spring apparel displayed and most of the winter clothes were gone. Besides, I was frustrated. Frustrated that my father didn’t like the coat. Frustrated that all of his life, he never owned anything decent. Frustrated that his life didn’t turn out the way it was supposed to .
Fathers aren’t supposed to die until they are at least in their late seventies. They’re supposed to see their sons get married; and be grandpops that come to all of your kids’ baseball games; and pick them up after school, and sit at the head of the table for Christmas dinner. That’s what dads are supposed to do... not rot away on a hospice bed in front of their kids who never really understand the void that will continue to torment them.