Remembering

Eleven Years ago today, my dad died (seated on the right with me on his lap). I refuse to say, “I lost my dad.” I know exactly where he is. His death was unexpected and shocked my entire family.

An eleven year anniversary isn’t unusually memorable or remarkable, but I noticed that the calendar matches exactly for 2002. March 20 was a Wednesday then, as it is now. Dad’s funeral was on March 25 which, like this year, was a Monday. Most notably, the Sunday after dad’s burial was Easter, like this year.

It was shortly after dad died that I first entered the Erma Bombeck Writing Contest (she was born on my dad’s first birthday). That first time I entered the human interest division rather than the humor division. Naively, I submitted what I felt would be the obvious winning entry. Evidently the judges didn’t agree.

I’ve continued to enter the Erma Bombeck Writing Contest and even won an honorable mention one year. I wrote a column in the Springfield News Sun for almost five years, but the first submission will always be special to me because it is a tribute to my dad.

I share the piece again for some, for others this will be a first:

Communion and Confirmation

     My family congregated around my father.  We had just been presented with the most formidable decision of our lives.  How would we ever reach consensus?  My mantra developed from previous gatherings where our diversification was evident: “I’ll bet none of us would eat a bologna sandwich the same way.”

There were no special orders in my mother’s kitchen.  Bologna, costing only 59 cents per pound, was efficiently folded into bread-and-butter menus.  Mom prepared sandwiches as if on assembly line.  White bread spread with oleo was the foundation for the meat and condiments.

None of us would use margarine or butter now.  White bread isn’t in my culinary repertoire.  Cathy drowned things in catsup.  Mustard was anathema to Jack.  Bob welcomes variations of breads and condiments.  Sue hasn’t even said the word “bologna” since leaving home.  The parental role seemed to be lost in this rumination.

It never seemed odd that each chose different professions.  After 30 years in the business world, my calling became teaching students with Learning Disabilities in a suburban school. Cath taught for over 25 years at the parochial school we had attended.  Bob transitioned from Bank Manager to Loan Originator after a “down-sizing”.  Sue was a Systems Analyst.  After graduating with a degree in Engineering Technology, Jack opened an auto salvage yard.

My bologna logic demanded that our dietary requests remain constant though other parts of our lives had not.  The nuances of our personalities affected even our religion.  Two retained the Catholicism of our upbringing.  My spiritual road detoured through Methodism and made a stop in the Lutheran Church.  The youngest two appeared to have no church affiliation, though one’s marriage vows were exchanged before a Baptist minister.

Now the five of us, with our mother, encompassed the rudder of our family.  My laconic father, whom I often compared to the mighty oak because of his stature, had been felled by a cerebral “accident”.  His 6 foot 4 inch frame was stretched diagonally across the hospital bed so his feet wouldn’t hang over the edge.  He was still bleeding into his brain while he was hooked to a myriad of machines.  The doctors informed us my dad had no brain activity.  We were gathered to decide my father’s fate.

What I might have previously considered an inconceivable solution came to me very quickly.  This would not be my father’s concept of living.  Surprisingly, the rest of the family had the same insight.  We were unified in our decision.  As he had once given us wings, we had to let dad go.

The differences were inconsequential.  Our hearts were the same.  That core would nourish us longer than any bologna sandwich.

Godspeed, Dad!

Reminiscing

One year ago today was the end of a miserable month for me. One year ago today, my friend Father Bob died. He was the fourth friend to die between August 12 and September 12, 2011. The other three had died within four days of one another. Three of the four, including Bob, died from cancer.

Father Bob was first my pastor and then my friend for 35 years. I was the organist at the first church he was assigned. He loved music, architecture, antiquing, and travel. We could talk for hours. Our sensibilities and politics were comparable.

Over the course of our friendship our relationship changed – several times. Once, at our common church, I didn’t see him for several weeks. When we did see each other, I told him,  “I’m so glad to see you, I could give you a hug.” He was horrified I would say such a thing or consider it. A short time later, he was transferred to another parish because his time was up at the first church. After a few months, I drove to Mansfield to visit him and was stunned when he opened the front door of the rectory, threw his arms into the air while shouting “Liiin-daaa!!!” and enveloped me in a welcoming hug.

Okay, I guess.

We shared many hugs since then.

Years later we talked about this change and he explained about becoming more comfortable with himself and his priestly role.

At some point after he had moved away, in a long range planning moment, I asked him if he would say my funeral. We both laughed many times over the years about his response. Over exuberantly he said, “Oh, Linda! I would love to say your funeral.”

I even reminded him about that on one of my final visits to him after he was under hospice care. He was going to say my funeral.

Our relationships had challenges too.

Husband and I traveled to his parish when we wished to be married. After about a half hour, Bob stated that he wouldn’t marry us. Bob didn’t feel Husband had the right spiritual outlook.

I admit, their senses of spirituality were diametric.  Years later, Bob explained that actually he didn’t feel that Husband was good enough for me. Husband and I will celebrate our silver anniversary next month. (So this is what having an older brother is like.)

Bob did oversee the renewal of our vows five years ago. He even cooked us a dinner that Husband and Son still talk about. Now, every time I see dried onion soup mix, I think of Father Bob and the delicious potatoes we had that evening.

Bob was an intrinsic part of a local memorial after my dad died, traveling to Urbana on a Tuesday evening to participate.

One memorable Saturday, I was within an hour of him visiting another friend. On an impulse, I surprised Bob. Turned out he needed a friend that evening. He allowed me the opportunity to help at the Saturday vigil Mass then took me out to eat. I never asked how he explained to his congregation about the stranger who helped read the Passion Gospel that evening.

Our birthdays were only 3 days apart – both December babies. (He was 362 days older). Every year he sent a card for my birthday. And, it was never “just a card”, it was a card that I could tell was picked just for me. One time, it had the World’s Longest Garage Sale on it. Who finds cards with the World’s Longest Garage Sale on them?

About every three months since I’ve stopped teaching, the two of us have traveled to centrally located Marion, Ohio to share a meal at Red Lobster. More than one waitstaff was asked for the check early because we would intended to still be at the table long after the attendant’s shift was over.

It is very difficult for me to “lose” my friends (I hate the euphemism – he’s not lost, but is truly found.) It seems more difficult this time – perhaps because of the length of time Bob was a part of my life, perhaps because I’m not in contact with anyone who shared Bob’s life.

Bob had a favorite song that I used to play at Mass. It was Prieur de Notre Dame by Böellner. One time when I visited him, he asked me over and over and over again to play it for him. “Nobody plays it like you.” “Just one more time.” I played it at least eight times for him that time.

Now, every time I play it, it is for you, Bob. I just wish I could see how much you are enjoying it.