if he were still in this plane of existence, my sweet poppo would be 105 today.
as much as i miss my dad, as much as i would love to sit with him, to talk with him, to be quiet with him, to hug him, under the circumstances that we find ourselves in this country at this time, i would have to say i am glad he is not here.
because my dad’s heart would be utterly broken.
my dad fought against all this. he fought for the freedom of this country. he fought against fascism and authoritarianism. he fought against cruelty. he fought for democracy.
my dad’s own freedom was stolen from him when he was taken prisoner of war in WWII, his army air corps b24 shot down over the ploesti oil fields, his fellow dedicated airmen parachuting out, taken into camps by bulgarian forces.
my dad persisted through all of it – his injuries, his solitary confinement, his fear.
my dad came home, back to the country he loved, the country for which he fought and sacrificed, the country with a democracy about which he was zealous, the country where he and my sweet momma would build their own family.
so if my dad were here now, he would be crushed by what is happening. he would be crushed by the evil and deliberate intentions now set in place. he would be crushed at how his country is being severed. he would be crushed that anyone – any one! – in his family would champion any of this horror. he would be crushed that his family – his very family – had broken apart because of that. he would be ravaged by utter sadness.
my dad would be unable to celebrate his big birthday.
because no chocolate ganache cake could make it all better.
the heat dome has driven us to this place – under the steps in the basement – back past the really big bin with roller blades and tennis rackets and a kickball and badminton set – where there are a few old window air conditioners.
we pulled one out and installed it – just like last year – in the dining room window.
but this heat dome is incessant and suffocatingly hot – particularly in our old house – a house with charming radiators but no duct work for central air.
so we went back on the prowl under the steps, specifically looking for a slimmer-lined air conditioner i remembered from decades earlier.
we found it a little further back – in the spider web zone – and pulled it out to plug it in and test it before any attempt at installation.
written in sharpie on the pull-out filter was “1999” and as i washed it i pondered how we might make the air conditioner work. both accordion pleat side wings were broken and, clearly, the unit was far too old for which to find replacement parts.
we put on our thinking caps.
after a couple of hours of rube-goldberg-ing a set of wings we uninstalled from a different broken unit – to applause by my dad – who was seemingly guiding us from the other dimension – we used a combination of 2×4, hand towel and black foam to brilliantly – and in a clearly, umm, aesthetically pleasing way – install the air conditioner in our bedroom window.
it occurred to us – during both the thinking-cap-period and the period-of-installation – that we did not know if this unit might be leaking coolant – which could be unhealthy. but, after research and some deductive reasoning, realized that the cool air pumping out of the unit belied any leak and that we were – likely – safe. (though, of course, i would be checking in on any and all physical displays of freon poisoning we might exhibit.)
problem presented. problem solved.
in the cool flow of air circulating somewhat noisily around our house – aided by ceiling and standing fans – our thinking returned to the real problem at hand – one of the reasons we literally were determined to make a thirty-plus year old air conditioner work instead of investing several hundred dollars into a new one.
the real problem? the decimation of this country.
while we watch the current administration completely destroy the safety nets, the healthcare, the retirement, the rights and freedoms of millions and millions and millions of people they clearly don’t give a damn about, while we watch congress completely – sickeningly toadyingly – abdicate their responsibility to we-the-people while revering upping-the-ante cruelty, while the republican supreme court justices horrifyingly and repeatedly make the jump from objectivity to capitulation, while we reel in shock at the rapid descent into fascist, authoritarian ideology, while safety and any security is completely undermined, we wonder what will happen.
and my sweet dad – this man who served this country in the second world war, who was shot down, missing in action and taken prisoner of war, who never fully recovered from the post-traumatic stress he voluntarily experienced to aid this country and its experiment of democracy – this man hasn’t a clue on how to guide us.
and then he’d insist – “you can’t take it with you.”
and so, he and my momma would help others, donate money to causes, spend little on themselves (save for my dad’s love of a good pair of shoes and a sleeve of grocery store flowers for my mom).
but times are different and my parents – on the other side of the plane of existence – are rolling their eyes, nauseated by the bloated greed demonstrated by the new administration of this country.
it appears that the idolatry of the dollar (or, say, billions of dollars) is wiping out any sort of moral conscience that might have poked through the supposed-human-skin and the supposed-human-heart of the current leadership regime.
to marginalize, disenfranchise, suppress, endanger, incite violence upon, decimate – people, communities, natural resources, wildlife, national lands – all for personal capitalistic, bigoted extremist, vile self-serving, narcissistic money-hoarding gluttonous greed – is beyond my comprehension.
i wonder when it is that this country hits the place that it is beyond repair.
they – those “in charge” – have scoffed at negligence. they have gone way past corruption. they have made a laughingstock of indecency. the depravity of their mindset – everything for the almighty dollar, no matter what – is ruling the land.
and, shamefully, people – real people – the regular folks – we the people – will suffer greatly.
is that what they mean by “make america great again’?
thirteen years ago my sweet poppo died on memorial day. his very last day on earth, it was during the wee hours of the night into the very early morning that he changed planes of existence, devastating those of us left behind.
my dad – at that time – was 91, with baggage he had dragged behind him for over sixty years since his time in the army air corps, shot down during the ploesti oil field raids in romania, taken prisoner-of-war in bulgaria.
he had been a somewhat quiet man during much of his life. he didn’t share – in detail – of his time missing-in-action or as a prisoner in a dank cell – until i was in high school. it was a lot to carry and, once home from the war, the post-traumatic stress was impactful on the rest of his life. post-traumatic stress is like that. it takes a toll in so many ways.
as i think about him today – and honor his dedicated service to this nation and the lives of those who died in service – i know – without even a singular doubt – that he would be horrified at the present state of affairs here and now.
his commitment to bettering others’ lives – fighting fascism – preventing human misery – was steadfast…enough so that he folded himself into the engineer gunner position of b-24 boomerang betsy and fought against all that was trying to destroy that which he believed in – the values of democracy. he would not align himself with anything that would not defend or advance these ideals. he would push back against any and all attempting to subjugate dominion over the freedoms for which he had fought.
my sweet poppo – were he to be here – would be sickened to watch cowardly leaders capitulate to the corrupt agenda to dismantle democracy. he would be heartbroken to watch people he loved abdicate all decency and conscience to a singular man whose grandiose narcissism seeks to vindictively avenge his enemies and instill an autocratic state.
my dad – even from wherever he is – would never tolerate such vileness. he had seen enough suffering to last him forever. he would be disgusted by an administration that is glorifying the richest – lining their pockets with the needs of the poor. he would remind, “you can’t take it with you.”
no. you can’t take it with you. power and control and ultra-wealth and digital coinage and oil and mining fields and real estate and gold-gilded accoutrements and fancy cars and 747s – the stuff of cold-hearted greed doesn’t make the cut from grandiose living to that other dimension.
but legacy follows you everywhere.
eleanor roosevelt asks, “when will our consciences grow so tender that we will act to prevent human misery rather than avenge it?”
now is the time.
and my dad? well, he reminds us all. “remember the little engine that could?” his words inscribed in a copy of the book, “you can too.”
when the twenty-one gun salute echoed in the muggy florida air, i had the shivers. my sweet poppo was gone and nothing would ever be the same.
we were at the national cemetery in bushnell, gathered under a portico, torrential rain on and off. my sweet momma was both heartbroken and stalwart. we all lingered before it was time to drive back and celebrate my dad’s life. it is just a month and a half shy of thirteen years ago.
the pride that i felt – with patriot guard riders leading our way to this honorable cemetery – was something i recognized. it came from a feeling of stability, living in a relatively steady democracy and honoring this man – my dad – who had valiantly fought for that very premise – democracy over fascism, the populace over authoritarianism. barack obama was president and i did not read the news every single day expecting chaos to reign or nationwide or global disaster to be absolutely imminent. i rested assured that the people elected were intelligent, honest, respectful, compassionately decent people of the utmost integrity who had others around them with the same virtuous qualities. i was not panicking. my daddy had died and i could be totally present with his sending-off and present in my grief, the grief i shared with my family. i assumed that – alongside any desire i might have to be involved in day-to-day politics – i could also sit back and trust that – as a citizen – i was being represented by someone who had a moral compass.
i thought that would just be there – always – the strength, freedom, courage, the ideals of liberty and the unity of the states of this country. i believed that the spirit of this nation – the immortality of it as depicted by the american bald eagle – would always prevail.
fast forward.
2025.
now – more than ever – i see that tomorrow’s sky is not just there. we are fearful of losing it all…every last bit of this country’s democracy.
the soaring eagle that dipped and swooped over us on the trail – time and again – gave me the shivers just like the twenty-one gun salute did. i hoped it was some sort of positive sign from the universe, maybe even from my dad.
my sweet poppo is weeping somewhere, knowing that his sacrifices – his time as a world war II airman and as a prisoner of war, his injuries, his post-traumatic trauma – may not endure this time in our nation. it crushes me to think of his utter disillusioned disappointment.
and then I hear him, “do you think the rain’ll hurt the rhubarb?”
it feels somewhat risky to write this ahead. who knows what will have taken place between when i am writing and the day this blog publishes. it all seems a downward spiral, a tornado of ruin. i shudder to think about next week as i write this today. and the next week. and the next. and the next year. and the next. and the next. and the next.
i feel fortunate – and now, with the perspective of the day, even more fortunate – to have lived – until now – in a country that has functioned as a democracy. my sweet poppo – a POW in WWII – fought against the very peril we are now facing. even with all its failings, with all the grappling for equality, with the what-seems-continual fight for freedoms and rights, we have not been in a place where we are segregating ourselves from the rest of the world, where leaders are distortedly centric, maniacal and extreme, where we had to fear for our future – day by excruciating day – as we watch the dismantling of our very republic.
and now, here we are.
and – once again – i look to all the people who voted for this disaster and ask, “is this what you wanted?”
and, i would add the question, “why?”
it is most difficult for me to comprehend the glee of the moment for those who support all this. it is most difficult for me to grok how people wish so much harm for other people. it is most difficult for me to understand how this storm makes them happy, makes them feel successful, makes them feel even remotely human.
what tornado – what grey cloud of torturous destruction – ever brought any good into the world?
my sweet poppo and i would go out to get a “real” tree every year – sometimes as late as just a couple days before christmas. together we would pick out the one that seemed the most right. they’d wrap it in netting and he’d strap it to the top of the car with rope. decorating it meant also watching him meticulously place each strand of tinsel – individually – on the tree. because we placed the shinybrites on together after he first wrapped the tree with lights, it seemed like we needed to be a part of the tinseling too.
now, tinsel – real tinsel (and, well, even the newfangled plasticized tinsel) requires a special skill set of patience. one piece at a time, stepping back, looking at the balance of tinsel, placing another, repeat. but, when my dad wasn’t looking – thinking many of you might admit to this as well – i would back up with several strands in my hand and launch them high into the air so that they would fall on the tree, scattered and perfectly placed. eh. not so much. they would land in clumps, impossible to disguise as meticulously-placed.
tinseling was not my forte. and, once christmas trees were my own, they ceased to have tinsel.
but tinsel has always had a warm place in my heart and always-always makes me think of my sweet dad. i didn’t realize it back then but later it became obvious that placing each of these strands – one by one – was both a generosity of his for others – to lift them into festive – and perhaps a way for him to immerse into the heart of the holiday as well, to arrive. when it was time to take down the tree back then, my dad would – again – ever so slowly and carefully – remove each piece of tinsel, protecting and preserving as much as possible to be used again the next year.
and so i have a bit of tinsel in the box of decorations – just to simply look at it brings my dad here.
many years ago i added this tinsel tree to my tiny-tree collection. each year, i place it where it is seen and this year, well, it got top billing placement, seen as soon as you walk in the front door.
the holiday itself has passed and the frenetic has somewhat slowed down. it’s time to look ahead – there is a new year arriving.
this new year will have many challenges…it’s already presenting itself that way. i am hoping to meet them with presence of mind and fortitude and meticulous patience – like my dad tinseling the christmas tree – slow and steady, one day at a time, one challenge at a time.
the shinybrites remained tucked away and silver and crystal ornaments took over this holiday. soon – in a week or two – these will also be packed away, ready for next year, save for a few to keep light in the living room even on the darkest winter days. the tiny trees will go into the bin, though i can see one or two staying on for a bit, also lingering to bring light into the darker months. i’ll place the tinseltree in the bin with the other decorations – happy to have had its company, happy that it places my dad in our living room.
and we’ll gear up and turn toward the new year. much as i’d like to avoid it, i know the only way to the other side is through.
and so it’s time to tinsel the new year – to find as much light as we can and to carefully place it around us so that it might be something others can see. to carry love and generosity past these holidays and into next, a reminder to participate in that which lifts others, to protect, to preserve, to be meticulous.
i’m thinking – in the way people hang signs or posters with messages or have daily calendars full of positivity – that i will place a piece or two of tinsel on the frame we have in our room. maybe that way – each morning when i wake and sip coffee under the quilt, david and dogga by my side – i will be reminded of light and reflection and every one of my dad’s silent tinsel lessons.
maybe tinsel – like sprinkles – will make me a better-equipped person in these fraught times than i would be without it.
somewhere – in the infinite infinite – i suppose that my sweet momma and poppo might be with my big brother, nibbling on crumbcake and coffee ice cream. maybe they are having a chat about christmas eve norwegian fish pudding and rum cake. or maybe about burning your fingertips making krumkake. maybe they are reminiscing about singing carols in the living room – gathered around the organ or the piano, my brother with his guitar, my uncle with his beautiful tenor.
i suppose that the party might be bigger…with their baby daughter i never met, with my grandparents, with their siblings, with friends they treasured. they may pop open the martini & rossi asti or blend some eggnog, assuming there is electricity. maybe they are swinging on stars and peering through the clouds at us here; maybe they are missing us.
in the way that things are in this place right now, i am glad that my sweetest mom and dad are not physical witnesses to what is happening, for their hearts would be broken by the ugliness of these times. i am grateful – in an odd way – that they do not have to experience what will be in the next for this country, for our world. even with everything they saw and endured in their lives – which is plenty considering they were born in 1921 and 1920 – i know that what’s happening and what’s coming would challenge and disappoint their beliefs and values to the core.
and so, in the meanwhile – between now and the infinite infinite – i will miss them. the axis has never returned to balance since they’ve been gone and this time of year brings that home even more.
i do believe, though, that if my momma – ever the letterwriter – could write in the sky – out there by the moon – she would. she’d likely draw words with the help of clouds and contrails. and she’d spell out something like, “daddy says ‘hello brat!‘” and “don’t forget to live life, my sweet potato!”.
when i look up – or inside – i can hear them both.
last night i decided that our version of contentment is different than others’ versions of contentment. our bar is lower. definitely lower.
and i’m content with that.
it doesn’t really take much to amuse us. we aren’t big retail shoppers or cruise people or fine dining connoisseurs. we don’t belong to “the club” or drive fancy cars or reserve lodging at all-inclusives. a bit of frenetic goes a long way. but everyone has their thing and everyone has their bar – set at where they feel like they have “reached it” or – at the very least – the “there” to which they are headed. for some, that bar is really meaningful.
we, on the other hand, are moseying around, meandering, checking in on the horizon from time to time. there is no artificial or competitive bar to beat ourselves up over. and tonight, i suddenly realized that i’m ok with that.
my sweet momma taught me long ago how to make something out of nothing – how to make adventures out of the mundane, how to make special that which is ordinary. it wasn’t like she – with chalk and a chalkboard and books of exercises on gratitude – taught lessons. instead, it was just simply watching her. she didn’t require a lot. i don’t remember her having shopping sprees or demanding anything spectacular for vacation. even her cooking was simple: she was a frozen-veggie person, having converted from canned veggies. i don’t remember red peppers from growing up. i don’t remember real garlic cloves or avocado. i do remember her roast beef and i can still picture the index sized recipe card titled “a decidedly delicious way to roast beef” – a simple recipe for which she was well-known. and i remember her lemon pudding cake. we didn’t go to restaurants but for very special times in those growing-up years. she didn’t try to entertain me or over-schedule me.
and so i feel like i learned early that life is what you make it and dreams can be any size you wish.
for out that window – in the big ole world – there are many rungs in that great big ladder of life. neither of my parents seemed to really concern themselves with those rungs, that ever-rising bar. they just were who they were and they made the most of that.
in the days and weeks and months and years that have gone by since both my momma and poppo transitioned to the next plane over, there haven’t been times that i – one of the few people who would truly – really-truly – care about them and the details of their lives – have wondered about their work, their jobs, their salary, their retirement plans, their investments, their titles or certificates of merit, accolades of their careers or even the stuff they owned. i haven’t given thought to their bar or whether or not they achieved “it”.
what i have thought about is the contentment i saw on my momma’s face when her family walked in the door, the sparkle in my dad’s eyes. what i have thought about is the smell of coffee first thing in the morning and sitting at their kitchen table, just talking about whatever. what i have thought about is their generosity of spirit – giving to others in need whatever they had. what i have thought about is their loving support of their children. i’ve thought about the stink-eye of my mom and the grin of my dad. i’ve thought about hearing the words “my sweet potato” and “brat” from their lips. i’ve thought about stories and chocolate ganache cake, egg mcarnsons and cold homemade french fries. nothing too complicated, nothing striding up and over the bar.
and so i guess i come to it honestly, this contentment. keeping expectations in check and appreciating the tiniest things make every single thing that happens count. i am ticking these off on fingers and toes, not in mutual funds and bonds and annual passes and the latest models – for those are someone else’s contentment.
i won’t say no to goodness as it shows up. i will tuck it in with us. and i will keep my eyes on the horizon, even as we wander, lingering and moving on.
and in the moments that follow this great big life i know that none of this will matter: my gpa, the degrees on my wall or stashed in a bin, the bank account or the vault with jewelry, the car in the driveway or even the cds – with my name on them – in stacks of boxes in the basement. what i hope will matter is the look of contentment on my face – standing in a warm old house gazing out the ice-flaked window knowing – simply – what it feels like to love and to be loved. what i hope to leave is that it really doesn’t take much to be content and to make the most of it.
in the way that dads are corny, my sweet poppo was just that – a little bit corny. somehow, it seems it’s supposed to be that way. his humor was lighthearted and the way he repeated some jokes was comforting. “do you think the rain will hurt the rhubarb?” he’d quip. waiting just a few seconds, he’d respond to himself – if you didn’t beat him to it – “not if it’s in cans!!” and then he’d laugh. every time.
i think he was buying time to think when he’d quip about the rhubarb. it wasn’t like he was intently concerned about the rhubarb. matter of fact, i only remember them growing rhubarb maybe one or two years, back behind the house. and even then, it wasn’t like he was a huge rhubarb fan. i think the only way he liked it was with strawberries – in a pie.
but his jokes were harmless and predictably silly. no stand-up routine for him, he was just daddy-o, trying his best to carry on. and because he wasn’t a giant conversationalist – he turned that over to my sweet momma – he’d just fill in the gaps. “well, how do you like them apples?” he’d say.
i’m pretty sure he’d had loved the corn we grew in our backyard this summer. the squirrels and chippies had everything to do with this crop. they’d deplete the birdfeeder in mere hours, tossing kernels and seeds everywhere. i have no doubt where the cornfield came from. but it was pretty astounding to see. we suddenly became prolific mini-farmers.
it was everywhere. next to breck, our aspen. inbetween the ornamental grasses. under the birdfeeder. under the potting bench with our herbs. next to the garage. yesterday we found it in the front garden bed.
i could hear david’s dad columbus chuckle from the other side when we found it in the front garden. a cornfield-lover from way back, i figure he might have had something to do with that. we laughed as well, delighted in a – hmmm – corny kind of way.
for the longest time we left it all right where it was. there was something really pleasing about glancing out at the corn.
but then we decided it was time to pull it out, so that it wouldn’t suffocate our intentional plantings. we took pictures and then pulled it, thanking it for the entertainment it had provided.
outside on the driveway we talked to our westneighbors. we talked about our hummingbirds and our feeders and the birdbaths we had placed in our yards and the chippies and squirrels stealing seed and the birds gathering in the bushes. we were all zealous, loving the little creatures in our yards. “we’ve turned into our parents,” i noted and we all nodded and laughed.
reverse threading 