gone and missing...

Dad has been in my dreams for many nights now. He is how I remember him before he got sick, and at the end as he was getting better. Gregarious, funny, silly, goofy, determined, calm. Looking back through the many pictures of my dad you will notice one thing...he is always smiling. Not a cheesy 'for the camera' smile, but a genuine 'I'm happy' smile. The one you can't fake. Even in his childhood photos he is smiling, and from what little I've heard, he didn't have a lot to smile about as a kid. Through his sickness, he smiled, albeit weary at times. I am glad that he visits me this way.

One can never predict how much they will miss someone. We all imagine it at one time or another, but nothing can truly prepare you for it. Dad drifted away from us for a while after mom died, and I have to admit that in our collective confusion over her sudden death, we were all too busy missing her to miss each other. I know my dad felt lost without her, as much as he tried to tell us he now felt free to be the man he wanted - a church-going, motorcycle riding, beard growing, cigarette smoking hellion; I guess.

She never wanted to go to church, although she insisted on us kids being baptized Protestant and going through confirmation. She worried over him riding a motorcycle, so he gave it up after an accident when Scott was young. She hated his beard when he grew it ala Grizzly Adams style in the 70's, and as far as the smoking, he was supposed to have quit along with her when grandma died.

One can understand his rebellion, in a way. Even the best marriages can build resentment over time for the sacrifices and choices made in the name of the family and the marriage. But it was the manner of his swift and decisive rebellion that I found hurtful and confusing. It took me a long time to realize that it wasn't mom's control he resented, it was her departure.

all that's left - the piano

The house is empty now as I take this picture. Dad quickly did his fair share of cleaning things out right after mom died, dispensing of the reminders of her absence. Of course we all felt very confused by his actions and couldn't see the reasoning in his decisions to randomly give things away.

But now, I have never seen the house so empty, and it seems so strange on many levels. I remember looking at old pictures of the house taken when I was a baby and thinking how sparse it looked. That wasn't the house I remembered growing up in. The house of my childhood was pretty much cluttered and messy most of the time, although clean. My parents weren't ones for being overly organized. Don't get me wrong, the phone book went on the second shelf in the cupboard over the microwave along with all the bills, the checkbook, and the stamps, but that was about the extent of the organization in our house.

So many years of building a home together, choosing furniture, hanging wallpaper, remodeling. My parents did things once and only once. They couldn't afford to redecorate with the changing styles. So when furniture came in, wallpaper got hung, and walls got knocked down, it stayed that way. That was home - always the same. Although the crazy wallpaper mom decided to hang one day while I was in high school still adorns the dining room, the furniture is gone and the house is empty; except for the piano, and the gauzy curtains.

the piano - part II

My mother had always wanted to learn how to play the piano. So one day, she and my dad brought home a player piano. I have no idea how they got it home, or where it came from; it just showed up one day around the time of third grade.

We had never seen a player piano before. How cool that you could put a on a music roll, pump your feet furiously, and the keys would move magically to the music flowing out. The faster you pumped, the faster the song and the more animated the keys. It was magic!

The first song that puffed out of that wooden machine was the song "Windy". The words were even printed on the roll, so you could sing along. To this day whenever I hear that song I think of being in that porch room singing to the tune while my mother pumped away on the pedals. Who was Windy? I always wondered.

My mother was a determined woman. "Don't let anyone ever tell you you can't do something", she used to say to me. She sat at that piano and taught herself the fingerings and how to read music, and she had never played an instrument before. The first song I remember her learning was Michael Row Your Boat Ashore. Even now when I hear that song it reminds me of when I used to hear her humming along as she played (she would never sing), gentle and soothing.

the address book

Denial is a strong and powerful emotion.

Austin was poking around in my latest cell phone when he stopped; "You still have grandpa's number in your phone." "Yeah." I sighed. It was a revelation to him as much as it was a statement to me.

I was trying to call my brother last week when instinctively I called dad by mistake - their numbers only differ by the last two digits. I hung up before anyone could answer. More likely I hung up before hearing the emotionless voice informing me that this number is no longer in service. A reminder I didn't want or need to hear.

The truth is, I still have his phone number in my address book too. Don and Alice. I can't even cross it out. That would be too final.

Austin asked what would happen if we called grandpa's number? Would anyone answer? I suppose someone else could've been assigned the number by now. I admitted how I had called grandpa's number by accident, but that I hung up right away. We left the conversation at that. My mind doesn't really want to know if someone else lives in that number now - to me that number is that house. My house, my childhood - and dad's house. How strange that you can associate so much with a simple phone number. The identity it gives you is astounding to me.

That night, just before I fell asleep, a night where my dad ended up visiting me in my dreams, I wondered what it would be like to call the number and actually hear him answer.

A story seed was rolling around inside my head. Doesn't everyone have that desperate desire to communicate with a deceased loved one? One last conversation, apology, words of love or forgiveness. What would you say if you could have one last talk? What if you could continue talking; would talking be enough? That seed is carefully germinating in my head at night.

In the back of my mind I'm thinking that maybe someday I will call, and if anyone answers, just maybe, I'll ask for Don. For the time being, I'll just have to keep tending to that seed, believing he's still there, as he is, in my address book.