Oct. 28: Proud/exasperated sports momma

Katie’s cross-country championship was last week. It happened right in the middle of a torrential rainstorm, and runners were sliding and falling down all along the route. The parents were none too thrilled to be there either; it wasn’t just the rain (we’re Oregonians and used to it) but the hail, wind, biting cold, mud, and moderate flooding. What a mess. When it was over, and they started announcing stats for the season and all that, I really felt like they needed to just say who won and let us all go home, but nooooo…

Anyway, Katie’s team won. This is from the weekly school newsletter:

Congratulations to the RCMS Girls Cross Country Team who are the 2012 Willamette River League Champions! This past week, the girls brought home some serious hardware in the form of a giant championship trophy. Earning league honors were the following students – L. Hayes won 1st place (girls league champion), M. Edwards earned 3rd place, A. Marshall 5th place, and J. Iranshad finished in 6th place. Also contributing to the league championship were team members: M. Benware, A. Betancourt, D. Cyphers, E. Edwards, K. Gwynn, M. Harris, K. Manullang, H. Ranum, A. Ruth, and R. Viola. Way to go girls!

Things for which I’m proud:

• That Katie participated in an athletic activity by choice.
• That she did it without whining (I think I whined a lot more about it than she did).
• That she was so excited about their big win—not for herself, but for her team.

And WOW, those Edwards girls! They belong to my pal Cindi. That Cyphers girl isn’t too bad either—in fact, getting to cheer for the girls alongside her mom (Dina!) made the season a lot more fun for moi.

So yeah, it’s cool. I’m pretty sure Katie only decided to join the team because I said I’d buy her running shoes, but in the end she really did like it. I hope she sticks with running, too, because wouldn’t it be cool if she DIDN’T inherit my trip-over-myself-ness and actually benefited from something her body does?

The other thing that happened recently was even more exciting (she said, knowing you would read her sarcasm between the lines): Jack’s football team made the playoffs. The results of two games yesterday mattered: Jack’s team had to win their game, and a Tigard team had to lose theirs.

Both happened.

Dammit.

This changes our travel plans for next weekend, and definitely not in a good way, but Jack is happy so I’m pretending I am too. We have at least one extra week of practice, and who knows how many games, and OMG will somebody just kill me because I am so tired of this sport! Don’t tell Jack I said that. Meh. Jack knows what I think.

Here are things that are amusing about 5/6 football:

• The way the boys congratulate each other after a good play. It’s so cute to watch those little guys doing what the big guys do. The coaches teach them a lot about sportsmanship.
• The “take a knee” thing. The boys are all so good about it—something unexpected happens on the field, and suddenly every kid’s on his knee. Even on the sidelines. I am sooo trying this at home.
• That kid we call “supernintendo.” Long story, but it makes me chuckle every time.
• The crying. There’s a lot, and sometimes it’s loud. I know I shouldn’t think it’s funny, but I just imagine that 15 minutes later, that kid’s gonna be really embarrassed that he wailed in front of his macho buddies. (Note: wailing is totally allowed for broken bones, concussions, etc. I’m talking about the stubbed toes wailing. Weeeeener kiiiiiids!)

I wish so much that my dad was around to see Jack play football. He would be crazy-proud to sit in the stands and cheer him on. Not to mention that Jack wears #7, in honor of Grandpa Curt’s hero. Melancholy face.

Alright, let’s get back to our regular programming. What are my kids doing succeeding at athletics anyway? It’s like they’re not even mine.

Jul. 1: June in review

Shoulda posted this yesterday. Oops.

Special days I celebrated this month and how:

• The last day of school on June 14. From what I remember, it was a good time.
• Mother Mary’s birthday. We took her out for lunch but that’s about it. Bad Jen.
• Father’s Day. I don’t remember how we celebrated. Wow. I’m a terrible daughter and wife.

Gifts I gave and/or received this month:

• End-of-the-school-year parting gifts from friends. Such sweet surprises!
• Mother Mary’s birthday gift was a slightly customized version of this bracelet. I got myself a matching one. The etsy seller has some really fun items—she’s my new favorite. 

Books I read this month:

• Why Moms Are Weird, again, by Pamela Ribon. I so enjoy the way she weaves stories.
• Forget About It, by Caprice Crane. Very light, but cute.
• Angels & Demons, by Dan Brown. A page-turner.
• The Girls’ Guide to Hunting & Fishing, by Melissa Bank. Fun read.

Movies and TV shows worth mentioning:

• Katie and I saw Brave. Loveliness.
• I Redboxed Jeff, Who Lives at Home. Great cast, so-so movie.

New recipes or restaurants I tried:

• The kids and I had breakfast at IKEA. I like some of their regular food, but had never tried their breakfast before. It was delicious. Totally cheap and way yummy.
• I made key lime cake balls. More accurately, they were cookie balls. Or truffles. Yes, truffles sounds better. Key Lime Truffles. Here’s the closest thing to the recipe I ended up using. They were pretty good, but I will definitely add more lime juice next time to cut the crazy-sweetness.

Special or unusual purchases I made:

• We bought two tents for using at Relay for Life this year. I never thought I’d own a tent, since I hate camping so, so, so much, but THANK BUDDHA the North Clackamas Relay isn’t in the wilderness. With air mattresses and my favorite down comforter, I be way cozy, but JUST FOR ONE NIGHT. Then I go back to having a nighttime restroom closer than a half-lap away.
• I bought the supplies for our Lap Beads Relay for Life fundraiser. My fingers are sore from adding jump rings to eleventy billion charms and lobster clasps.
• Floats! I floated! I’ve pre-purchased four more floats; just the idea that I have them available to me at any time is relaxing all by itself. That’s weird, isn’t it?

This month’s disappointments:

• We had to send Oliver away. Sad face.
• June 7, the anniversary of my dad’s death, is always a tough day. It’s been seven years.
• The weather. Ugh. We’ve had a few perfect and gorgeous days, but they’ve been unpredictable, with way, way too much rain and cold.
• Sunshine visited, but then she left again.

My accomplishments:

• My office is in a usable state again! Lucy’s got roaming rights to the entire house now, so I don’t have to be downstairs all the time and that means I’m pretty much living in my office. I like. I like very much. It’s a happy place.
• I made planning calendars all pretty-like. Picture proof to come.
• I lived through the school year. That’s big.

Anything else noteworthy:

• Katie and Jack had their piano recitals—Katie’s fifth, Jack’s third. They’re both doing so well and really enjoy it—though if you ask Jack, he’ll deny it. Katie is starting guitar now, and I’m sooo glad it’s not violin. Early guitar practice, even when the notes are wrong, is much less likely to make my ears bleed than anything as vile as a violin. Vile-lin. THAT’S what it should be called.
• One of Katie’s electives for the last term of sixth grade was Musical Theater. I don’t know why they called it that, because there was nothing musical about it. The class went to a high school play—not a musical, just a regular ol’ play—and their big performance at the end of the term was changed from an evening program to a during-class performance; most parents couldn’t even be there. We took off work to watch, and I was surprised at how unprepared the students were—they didn’t have props or microphones when they needed them, didn’t know their lines, and the whole thing was as though they were doing it for the first time. I don’t expect perfection, but I don’t see what guidance the teacher gave them at all. I was disappointed with what could have been a very fun learning experience for them.
  
  This wasn’t the only meaningless middle school elective, though… my friend’s daughter took a sewing class in which the only project was one of those no-sew fleece pillows. WTF???
• I finally figured out how to get Jack to clean up his room: ground him. Unfortunately, he thought it was kinda cool to be grounded, so it took him a week to clean enough to be set free. Whatever… it’s done. We had to go through his garbage carefully, though. Where Katie keeps every scrap of paper EVER (oh, how I wish I were exaggerating), Jack throws out old yearbooks, pictures, books he wrote in first grade, and clothes. Sheesh.

Here’s to a sunny July! Smell ya later, doods.

Jun. 19: Happy Father’s Day

Happy Father’s Day to all you dads out there! Today especially, I’m grateful to my husband for being the good dad he is to our kids, and I feel fortunate to have a kind and loving father-in-law. This holiday is different now that my own dad is gone, but there are still plenty of special people to honor, so we celebrate BIG in our house. Like, soooo big: today Vic is doing laundry, I’m organizing my office, and the kids are playing outside. Yep, we go ca-razy.

It’s never easy to shop for Father’s Day gifts and cards for Vic, because most of the stereotypical dad things just don’t fit him. He doesn’t wear ties or play golf (regularly) or fight for the remote or work in the garage or fix cars or use excessive amounts of duct tape (my dad did ALL of those things). Victor does, however, work in the yard a lot and the kids always veer toward garden stuff when we shop for him. I try to discourage them because the time he spends in the yard is not exactly joyful to him; new garden tools are something he buys only when he absolutely must.

Instead, Katie and Jack chose to make this candy card/poster for Vic. They proudly presented it to him this morning:

Before they started writing and gluing, I helped them compose the note and asked which candy they wanted next to their names. Katie shouted “Smartie!” at exactly the same time Jack shouted, “Airhead!” That was a lot easier than I expected. Don’t say our kids don’t know themselves.

Grilling for dinner. Yum.

Jun. 7: Honoring Dad

We lost Dad six years ago today. He’s been on my mind a lot lately because I spent the weekend painting an armoire he built for me. Painting always makes me think of Dad, and painting something he made is even more special. A little more anxiety-inducing, too.

Here are many of the ways I would have disappointed him with my project:

1. I painted the armoire navy blue. Although I like the way it looks, Dad never would have gone for such a dramatic color. He also would have suggested an oil-based enamel but OMG, that’s way too much work and the cleanup sucks so I went with latex. Semi-gloss, but still. He would not have approved. Pffft.
2. I painted it the wrong color first. I knew I wanted navy blue, but I was so worried it would look black that I went with a shade lighter. That was a bad decision. It was dark blue, but nowhere near navy; therefore it matched nothing in my house. I spent way too much $$ and time on all this. Dad never made bad paint decisions. They were usually pretty boring, but never bad.
3. I cursed a little. OK, a lot.
4. As I painted, the thought of getting a tattoo crossed my mind. Dad would have HATED that.
5. While waiting for the armoire to dry, I painted both sides of the front door of the house. I did the inside because I thought it would look pretty. He would have frowned on that. No reason, really. Just wouldn’t have liked it.

The things of which he would have approved:

1. I primed.
2. I used good brushes and no gadgets. Dad was a purist when it came to painting. I would be less of a purist if he hadn’t once given me a huge box of of brand new supplies. I haven’t bought a brush or roller in forever.
3. I used my awesome canvas dropcloth. Oh, I know there’s no reason to get excited about a dropcloth, I do, but this was one of Dad’s last gifts to me. As I cleaned up a particularly messy project once, I mentioned that I needed a good canvas dropcloth, one that we could open up and it would tell stories about all the projects we’d ever attempted. And a couple weeks later, he brought one to me. This dropcloth definitely has stories to tell, and as of last weekend, it has two more. The first is about Jen’s bad color choice; the second is about when Jen painted the front door for no good reason whatsoever.
4. I made touch-ups using a variety of light sources so’s to get every single inch of the armoire properly covered.
5. I cleaned up my brushes like a good girl.

Here’s my favorite part of the armoire: the back, where Dad “autographed” it. I love this because it’s one of the few things I’ve kept that shows Dad’s oh-so-distinctive handwriting. I painted around it to remind future generations to never paint over it.

I miss you so much, Dad. Whether I’m painting, or washing my car, or eating while driving: (to paraphrase Stephen Schwartz) so much of me is made of what I learned from you. Today and always, you are with me like a handprint on my heart.

Mar. 25: Day 5 of music meme

Day 5: a song that reminds you of someone

There are so many songs that remind me of friends, enemies, frenemies… but I chose today’s song because the memory it triggers makes me laugh out loud. This is a song that my dad used to holler occasionally in the car—it always surprised me because he gave no warning, no indication that he was feeling especially good or attractive. He just belted it. It was horrible, and it was awesome. It was horrisome.

“I Feel Pretty,” from West Side Story

Reminds me of Dad every time I hear it. He could be so goofy sometimes.

Mar. 4: Happy birthday, Dad

I loved my dad oh-so-much, but he had moments of not-niceness. He made fun of fat people when he himself was far from svelte. He was mean to service people; he always talked down to them, and undoubtedly ate more than a few spit-laced meals during his life. Really, he was mean to anyone he thought was “beneath” him. It was embarrassing.

And stubborn? Oh my word, the guy was so stubborn. So opinionated and so stubborn. Having a conversation was sometimes impossible and sometimes very un-fun. It was a mistake to bring up politics in his presence. As soon as I realized my political views had veered far from his, I tried to avoid the topic.

But Dad had admirable qualities too. He absolutely adored his grandchildren. Extended family members told us he never shut up about how proud he was of his own kids. He took pride in his home and was usually neatly dressed. For years, he wore a shirt and tie to wash his car and dress shoes to mow the lawn—no joke; we have photo evidence. He got haircuts faithfully every four weeks. I remember visiting him in the hospital a couple years before he died and he had gone several days without shaving—I thought he looked homeless! I don’t think I’d ever seen Dad with a day’s growth of beard.

My dad was incredibly clumsy. He didn’t have an awkward look to him—he wasn’t always tripping or running into things like a doofus—but if an accident could occur while he was doing something, it would. One day he was installing a shelf above a windowsill for the cat to sleep on, and he lost his grip and the heavy shelf fell right into his forehead. He had a gash and huge bruise for weeks. He broke his elbow twice doing I don’t remember what. He was like Michael Jackson with tape on his fingers—always, always, always. The Harrison Ford-like scar on his chin, which he told us he got in the war, was actually from when he fell on a coffee can as a kid.

Dad’s hands were callused because he worked hard his whole life, though for the last 15 years he was all white-collar. He was thorough and reliable and smart—a sales manager’s dream employee. He didn’t believe in calling in sick to work. My 9th-grade home ec teacher went on and on one day about how men are such babies when they’re sick, and I had no idea what she was talking about because Dad was never like that.

If he knew a little bit about a subject, he’d make it sound like he knew everything about it. He could B.S. like nobody else I knew. We were adults before we ever figured out how full of it Dad was. When Jack starts making up stories, we tell him how proud Grandpa Curt would be to hear his grandson becoming a bullshit artist like himself. Dad also had an amazing way of making people laugh—sometimes at him—and his sense of humor was endearing. Besides his big hugs, I think I miss his laugh the most.

Today Vic and I were on our way to lunch when I started talking about what a butthead my dad could be. I supported my statement with many examples (I didn’t even have to think very hard) and he agreed that Dad was full of contradictions. I said, “It’s a good thing I turned out nothing like him.”

Silence.

Then Vic smiled.

“Tell me how Dad and I are different, Vic.”

(I didn’t say that in a demanding voice at all.)

He smiled a little bigger. “You’re a girl,” he said.

“Yes?”

“And… um…”

I waited. He said nothing. Not real words, anyway.

“Um…” He started to turn a little red.

“Just shut up. Just shut up right now.”

Today Dad would have been 69 years old. I am more like him than I want to admit or my husband dares say. I like to think I inherited just his good traits, but I know I got some of that rotten stuff too. Now you have more sympathy for Vic than ever, huh?

Jun. 7: Five years past

It was five years ago today that my dad died, and as every year since then, I did my best to honor him. Today it meant eating dessert when I didn’t need it. Oh, who am I kidding? I never really need dessert. But neither did he. ‘Twas fair.

There’s one thing I’ve thought about this year more than others since Dad’s been gone, and it’s this: I’m glad he’s not here to see me going through this cancer thing. It’s not that I’m glad he isn’t here at all, but watching him watch me would be tough on all of us. He never dealt with illness well, but the big, serious stuff really freaked him out, especially when it happened to me or Kathy. I think this would be very difficult for him.

And I guess it’s because he had so little control over his emotions—especially when they induced tears—that I have more concern for how he would be if he were here than for, say, my mom or Kathy, who are actually here and are actually having to go through this with me. I know it’s hard for them, but I also know that they understand themselves enough that they’re able to manage their feelings.

I like to think of Dad up there with Mickey Mantle—his idol—bending his ear and annoying the hell out of him… not watching me fight for my life. Maybe he knows that everything’s going to be OK so there’s nothing to worry about, that it’s fine for him to take his eyes off us for a moment or two. Maybe he’s made a deal with the Dude. Who knows; maybe he’s watching me from down below. Or maybe he’s in a little box on top of my china cabinet, like he’s been for a while now, and that’s that.

Wherever he is, I carry him in my heart. I still think of him every day, I miss him every day, I wish he was here every day. But I have to say that in five years the physical ache of missing him has subsided. Time definitely makes a difference. Everyone assured me of that five years ago, when I felt raw and fragile and half-orphaned, but I couldn’t grasp it then. Now I can. Time helps. And memories don’t have to fade. Neither does our love for the important people we’ve lost. But over time that heaviness, that sense of abandonment, starts to disappear. We begin to feel that going on without that person—as tough as it may be and as much as we may not want to—is really possible.

So, five years without Dad have gone by and for the first time I feel like I’m NOT constantly fighting back tears while I mosey on through the everyday-ness of my life. Oh, the tears come—above it all, I’m still a girl who misses her daddy. But I know that happiness follows, and I’ve discovered that it’s easier (for me) to let the tears flow and just-keep-swimming, just-keep-swimming, just-keep-swimming.

It feels healthy.

Which is, ironically and strictly speaking, what I am not.

When Kathy and I were putting together the slide show for Dad’s memorial service, she couldn’t get the words out for a couple days to tell me why she so treasured this picture of Grandpa Curt lovin’ on two-year-old Katie:

When she was finally able to say so, she explained, “It’s like Dad is comforting Katie, saying, ‘It’s okay, sweet girl. I love you. I’m here. It’ll be alright.’”

Oh, how I cherish that idea, especially right now. Dad’s lovin’ on us as we fight my cancer, and he’s assuring me and Mom and Kathy: “It’s okay, sweet girls. I love you. I’m here. It’ll be alright.”

Dad, you are missed. You are loved. You are remembered. You are in our hearts.

May 12: Hair watch #1, Day #1

Mother Mary suggested I do a regular photo update on my hair growth. Good idea, huh? They say after chemo that people’s hair often comes back a different color or texture, so it’s all very mysterious and fascinating to those directly involved. Not so much to anyone else, and for that, I apologize. But it’s my blog, and I can show my hair if I want to.

When I had a full head of hair, I had a VERY full head of hair—my hair has always been thick. Depending on its length, my natural curl has shown itself in different ways. When it was short, it could be quite curly; when it was long, it tended to weigh down the curl and had just a slight wave. But after my dad died, my hair turned really, really curly. My hairdresser was shocked at how much the texture changed. I’ve read that grief can do that to a person, but it’s kinda funny because Dad always hated my hair curly. So maybe *he* gave me cancer!

We’re calling today Day #1 of hair growth. It’s been 15 days since my last chemo and that’s when any hair that’s grown since the previous chemo falls out again. Also, since yesterday was the day we got official word that chemo is done done DONE, it seems right to start from scratch today. So here goes… maybe we’ll do this monthly until it gets interesting-er.

---

Alright, I wrote that stuff above and then took a picture of my noggin. I’m not sure now that this is such a good idea. I mean, I don’t think anyone else will care, but the sight of my hair growth (or currently, lack thereof) is going to send me into a deep depression in which I age dramatically in a very short time. Because OMG, look at the top of my head:

Do you see all those grey hairs??? Check them out in a close-up:

Here’s a close-up with helpful notations:

Really, really bad idea, Mother Mary. You are totally paying for the therapy I’m going to need after this. And I may just send you the bill for my hair plugs too.

Apr. 25: Wagon ho ←(me)

Once upon a time, about 25 years ago, I had to make a covered wagon for a history project. My dad took me shopping for a model kit and miniatures, and I set to work. And by “I,” I mean that my dad let me hold the glue while he did all the work until he said I was holding the glue wrong and made me leave. This was not my choice—I wanted to make the wagon myself—but he was quite certain I would do something wrong so he wouldn’t let me touch it. I remember feeling a little weird about turning it in with my name on it; it really should have said “Curt,” and Mr. T-Bury would’ve given Dad the A.

Times have changed. I was in high school when I made that history project, and now my daughter is in fourth grade making a covered wagon. Is it just in Oregon that kids gets this assignment? If so, I’d rather be schooled in California where we could make dioramas of the Donner Party feasting on their friends.

(By the way, did you hear the latest on the Donner Party? Researchers don’t think they ate each other after all. Such a disappointment, that news.)

Katie brought home her assignment details a couple weeks ago, and although I looked online for a model kit right away, I didn’t order anything because I planned to buy something locally. Little did I know that covered wagon model kits aren’t easy to find anymore—not shoebox size, anyway. There’s an itty-bitty dumb one that just about every hobby shop has, but it’s about 4x6x2 and the tag might as well say “for wiener kids only,” it’s so lame.

The project is due on the 30th, and knowing this could take some time, I wasn’t going to wait until the last minute. I spent most of Friday making phone calls and driving around Portland looking for covered wagon kits. I eventually gave up, so the four of us spent yesterday making phone calls and driving around Portland looking for covered wagon supplies. It was the least fun we’ve all had together in a long time. At one point Katie said, “Why do Jack and I have to be here too?” and I thought Vic might reach back and strangle her right there in the car. I would not have stopped him.

This morning Victor, Katie and I sat around the kitchen table with all our parts and pieces and glue guns and balsa wood and dowels and other covered wagon supplies and got started. Katie lasted a few minutes before she quietly moved over to the family room to watch TV. Within an hour she was in the neighbor’s backyard, playing on the swings. Vic and I asked WHERE THE HELL IS KATIE? just a couple times and then decided the project was easier without her.

We are not the kinds of parents who do our kids’ homework, and we are not the kinds who insist on “helping” the way my dad “helped” me by temporarily allowing me to hold the glue for him. But we also aren’t about to let our accident-prone kid use a saw or a hot glue gun, or get an F because her project is a total shit-pile of balsa wood and muslin. Is this really a suitable assignment for a fourth-grader? Are those sneaky teachers just testing the parents?

The covered wagons are always displayed in the library, and it’s been very obvious to me in years’ past which kids had a lot of parental “input.” Some wagons definitely looked like they were made from model kits or with the help of a skilled carpenter; the ones at the other end of the spectrum were mostly cardboard and staples. Those are the ones that other parents point at while laughing derisively. Well, the bad parents do. I’ve seen them. I’ve been them.

Katie told us she’d already made a first aid kit for her wagon, and when she showed it to me, I saw it was a tiny piece of paper on which she’d drawn a red plus sign. I knew then that she’d need as much help with the contents as she needed with the wagon itself. Grrr. She is amazed at the ideas I’ve come up with for different ways of representing typical wagon train supplies. I’m all, HEY KID, I’VE DONE THIS BEFORE.

(Well, I kinda have.)

I know, I know… somebody’s getting back at me for not really doing my own covered wagon homework 25 years ago. And my dad is probably watching me from on high (or low), still cursing at me to just give him the glue, go away, and let him do it all by his own damn self.

Jan. 26: From the family archives

My dad’s cousin emailed some old pictures he found of my dad. I love this one of the two of them:

That’s Wade on the left, Dad on the right. I think Wade looks like he stepped right out of a Norman Rockwell painting. I have no idea how old they are here… maybe 8 and 10? That would make this about 1952 or so. And I don’t know whose house they’re at, either. Mom, can you tell?

Here’s a pic that makes Dad look like the sportsman he considered himself to be. Not sure where the shirt and tie are; isn’t that how he normally dressed for hiking? Looks like the golf shirt and ridiculous fishing hat were the wardrobe choice for that day’s adventures. And even though his feet aren’t showing in the photo, I can almost guarantee you he was wearing wing-tips.

I don’t know who the other people are, but that’s Dad in the middle. The guy on the right looks like Jack from The Rouge, but it’s most likely not. Mom or Deanna, maybe you can identify them?

The third picture appears to be my dad discreetly peeing on a rock. Even though he’s gone, I’m pretty sure he’d die all over again at the thought of a picture of him peeing (or even looking like he might be peeing) being published on the Internet. I’ll be saving that one for when I feel the need to seek revenge over the memory of some way he embarrassed me.

Ah, I do love old photos. Thanks, Wade!

Oct. 8: Shifting the Sun

My friend Laura shared this poem with me on Facebook this morning. Since I lost my dad, I am drawn to poetry about fathers; I especially appreciate how this one doesn’t suggest that death shouldn’t change one’s life—and yet, it’s uplifting at the same time. Very nice. Thank you, Laura.

SHIFTING THE SUN

When your father dies, say the Irish
you lose your umbrella against bad weather.
May his sun be your light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Welsh
you sink a foot deeper into the earth.
May you inherit his light, say the Armenians

When your father dies, say the Canadians
you run out of excuses.
May you inherit his sun, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Indians
he comes back as the thunder.
May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Russians,
he takes your childhood with him.
May you inherit his light say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the British,
you join his club you vowed you wouldn’t.
May you inherit his sun, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Armenians,
your sun shifts forever
and you walk in his light.

by Diana Der-Hovanessian

The analogy of sinking “a foot deeper into the earth”—I can certainly relate to that. But my dad’s “club” that I vowed I would never join? That’d best be described as the Republican party, and yeah, um, that ain’t happenin’. I wish I could honor his memory by voting Republican, but he’s gonna have to count on Kathy for that one. Sorry, Dad!

Otherwise, I think this is beautiful.

Jun. 7: Another anniversary

I wrote this in 2007, on the two-year anniversary of my dad’s untimely death. I just re-read it and feel that it still applies in almost every way. Rather than write a new remembrance of him this year—I honestly don’t think I have it in me—I’m tweaking this one a bit. Sorry for the re-run, Dad, but it’s new and improved, if that helps.

It’s been four years now, and June 7 is still remembered as the worst day of my life thus far. I hate the changes that have come about since Dad’s been gone. I always have extras now when we distribute the kids’ school pictures or copies of studio portraits. Our family buys far fewer Father’s Day cards. There’s one less thing to stress over when it comes to gee-what-do-I-get-the-dads-for-Christmas—but what I wouldn’t give to still have that stress.

I don’t know how else to explain it except to say I feel broken. It’s like the place in my heart that was reserved just for Dad burst when he died. But that’s life now—and no, it’s not the same without him, and I doubt we will ever completely get used to him being gone. I still think “I need to call Dad...” way too often. He’s missed out on so many things, so many birthday parties and holiday dinners and school functions and those infamous advice-offering phone conversations he loved. The annual selection of his new car. A presidential election he would have followed closely and been furious over in the end. He’s missed two new James Bond movies (one good one), and watching “Pirates” with Jack. He’s missed so many Yankees games.

He has missed out. But most of all, we have missed him.

Kathy’s and my best friends have both lost their fathers since we lost ours. Unfortunately, we have learned very little about how adoring daughters are supposed to survive this painful phase; in fact, four years later we still sometimes feel like the news is brand new. I found this quote that gives us a tiny bit of simple hope that we are not suffering in vain, even though we’re still struggling to find a lesson in our grief.

“If you learn from your suffering,
and really come to understand the lessons you were taught,
you might be able to help someone else
who is now in the phase you may have just completed.
Maybe that’s what it’s all about after all.”
—Source Unknown

One thing Kathy and I discovered in these four years is that everyone grieves in very different ways and often on very different timelines. More than anything, we now know that there’s no such thing as a “normal” grief process. Really, whatever we feel is “normal.” And so I close with this quote, in the hope that it might possibly be a comfort to others when they come upon similarly difficult anniversaries.

When Does Grief End?

Grief hits us like a ton of bricks,
Flattens us like a steamroller,
Hurls us into the depths of despair.
We know in a flash when grief hits,
But when does it end?
Like the month of March,
Grief rushes in like a lion,
And tiptoes out like a lamb.
Sometimes, we don’t know when grief leaves,
Because we don’t let go of the lion’s tail.
Why do we hold on so long?
Grief offers us safety,
Protection from the world.
We don’t want to let go
Because we secretly fear
That we’ll forget our loved ones,
And we don’t want to forget—ever.
We don’t want to let go
Because we fear the future
And having to face life without our loved ones.
We don’t want to let go
Because we make the mistake
Of measuring our grief with the depth of our love—
When neither has anything to do with the other.
How do we know when grief has run its course?
How do we know when we’ve grieved enough?
Cried enough?
“Died” enough?
How do we know when it’s time to let go of the tail?
We know when we feel joy again, in something or someone.
Joy in living. Joy in life.
We know when we wake up in the morning
And our first thought is on something other than our loss.
We know when we look ahead with a smile
And back with fond memories,
And when we no longer dread the nights.
We know when our life starts filling up with new interests and people,
And we start reaching for the stars.
Grief ends when we let go of the tail.

—Margaret Brownley, Bereavement Magazine, Jan/Feb 2002

Kathy, I’m thinking of you a whole bunch today. And I speak for us both when I say we’re thinking of you a whole bunch today, too, Lori, April, Tina and Jocelyn. We are all sisters in this grief.

But most of all, I want to say this to my dad, who hopefully has a good Internet connection on his cloud (or fiery lawn chair): For a long time I was afraid I would forget you or stop missing you, until I realized that neither of those things will ever happen, even if I wanted them to. Not a day goes by that you aren’t in my thoughts. I miss you and love you so very, very much.

 

P.S. Every year I ask my friends to do something simple to commemorate my dad. I offer the following suggestions this year; they all involve food, so it shouldn’t be difficult. These were some of Dad’s favorites, and if you indulge today, please do it as a shout-out to Curt:

• Oreos, preferably Double Stuf
• anything from Hickory Farms, and lots of it
• Crème brûlée
• Filet mignon
• Big Mac
• Cheesecake
• Potato salad, if it’s as good as his sister’s
• any of the saltiest cured meats

Kind of a wonder eating all that crap didn’t kill him, huh?

Mar. 4: Dad’s day

Today Dad’s on my mind more than usual because it’s his birthday. He would have been 67, had he not passed away unexpectedly in 2005.



This photo is from a surprise party Kathy and I threw for Dad on his 43rd birthday. I don’t remember our line of thinking as to why this was a birthday worthy of a big celebration, but its unremarkability is probably how we pulled off the surprise. He always acted irritated when we put him in the spotlight, but he loved us for it anyway.

Like when we were on a monorail in Las Vegas and Kathy and I started telling other people in the car that the guy on the bench behind us was our dad but he was ignoring us because we were embarrassing him even though he sat there laughing to himself. You could tell he was torn between wanting to knock our heads together and group-hug us.

Here’s my 2008 tribute to Dad on his birthday. I wrote on this day in 2007, but had just returned from our anniversary trip to Florida and the Caribbean and didn’t give it the attention it deserved. Still, reading it again just now reminded me that we share this day with the Baughman girls too. Bless you, Cherie, Shelly, and Lori. I didn’t blog on Dad’s birthday in 2006, but Kathy and I had this tribute printed in The Oregonian that day (misspelled heading was not ours, and fixed before going to print).



Dad, you are missed tremendously. You are loved even more. On our calendars, this day is always going to be yours.

Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell. ~Edna St. Vincent Millay

July 9: Baby Jen is sooo booored

First, I want to thank Camille for making this post possible. She asked me for some pictures of me and my dad together and I sent her a bunch but lamented that this one had a wrinkle across it; she ‘shopped the wrinkle out, fixed the color, and e-mailed it back to me. Yay, Camille!



So, there’s baby Me, sitting in Daddy’s lap… this was sometime mid-1969. Dad probably just finished washing the car (seriously, that was usually what he wore), and it was time for cuddles with his little baby girl that looked like a little baby boy.

And so to get comfortable, he lit up his pipe and blew huge puffs of tobacky smoke right into my personal space. Did baby Me care? Not a bit. In fact, Daddy completely bored baby Me, as evidenced by my big baby yawn. Either way, I doubt my lungs were pink for very long. To my parents’ credit, the dangers of second-hand smoke were not widely known back then or Mom never would have allowed this scene to take place, much less let it be captured on film!

I love this photo; it’s always been one of my favorites but means even more now. I hated those years when Dad smoked but oh, what I would give to smell that pipe again.

June 7: Letter to Dad

Dear Dad,

It’s been three years now that you’ve been gone. I can’t begin to catch you up on everything but I’d like to share some of the more recent happenings.

Remember at Kathy’s 40th birthday party, when you were horrified at the lack of completion of our painting and trim projects in the living room and dining room? Well, four years later they are still incomplete. I have new furniture but haven’t quite gotten around to the painting stuff. But with all you taught me about the importance of primer, you can see why the project is such an undertaking, right? What? You can’t? You’re still horrified? Oh.

But remember the half bath, which also needed new trim and some wall repair? It’s done! It’s totally done! I even primed and repainted the whole thing, and the room is smaller now because of it. Aren’t you proud of me? What? You’re still thinking about how shameful my living room and dining room are? Oh.

You know those portraits we have going up our stairs, of each of our family members at our wedding? Well, my mom—yes, that woman you once had the smarts to marry—thought she’d be oh-so-clever and replace her a-hole ex-husband’s (not yours!) picture with Rupert Everett’s… Yeah, I know. I shouldn’t have said a-hole. Sorry. Can I get back to what I was saying? … Everyone that noticed Rupert Everett’s picture thought it was hilarious. But it bothered Katie so she peeled it off. Mom noticed Rupert missing the next time she visited, so she thought she’d be oh-so-clever another way and hang the photo upside down and crooked. Katie (who is “OCD, like you and me!”) went to fix it later and it fell off the wall, bounced down the stairs, and shattered. She was very upset. I totally blame Mom. I know, you do too. Now there’s a big hole where Mom’s portrait was. It throws off the feng shui of the arrangement. I need to rearrange all the frames. I know, I know. It’s on my list.

Yes. Yeeeeeeeeees. The list is very long and very old. Yes. I’m sorry I mentioned it. Can I change the subject?

Katie played in her first piano recital last week. She did well, and we were so proud of her. I know you would have been there and hated every moment but hers and insisted she was better than even the high-schoolers. And the reason I brought Mint Milanos to the reception instead of Double Stuf Oreos? Duh, I didn’t want to share the Oreos.

You know, Mom buys Oreos for the kids because they were your favorite cookie. Can you believe that? I don’t think she ever bought Oreos for me. I wonder when she’s going to start buying them turkey ham and remove the packaging and tell them it’s real ham. ‘Member when she did that to you, but we all kept it a secret until I finally spilled the beans when I was an adult? And then you were torn between feeling swindled and being impressed at her wily ways? Ha! I loved that. C’mon, you did too.

Speaking of mystery meat, Darlene let Katie have some Hickory Farms Summer Sausage one day and now she asks for it all the time. Doesn’t that make you proud? ‘Cept I know if you shared a plate that you’d let her have about a tenth of what you ate yourself because that’s your thing.

I try not to think about this much because it makes me incredibly sad, but I’m afraid Jack isn’t going to remember you very well. I think he knows he’s supposed to miss you because he says pretty often that he does. But don’t worry—we are all working to keep your memory alive. That’s why Mom gets the Oreos. And when I walk into the kids’ rooms and tell them it’s clean-up time and kick around everything they’ve left on the floor, I tell them to stop crying and look, I’m just being like Grandpa Curt. Kathy has plans this summer to have them follow her around and pick up every piece of carpet lint and speck of dust she points to. So, y’see, Jack’s too young to remember much about you personally, but we’ll make sure he knows who his Grandpa Curt was, for better or worse.

Dad, I’m sorry to tell you that Ralph Knudson passed away unexpectedly a year ago. I’m actually glad you weren’t around for it because it would have been very hard for you. He was such a kind man and respected you very much and had such nice things to say at your memorial service. I know that you would have felt terrible for April but I’m also sure that you would have found a way to tell her that would mean a lot to her. You always came through at times like that with surprisingly heartfelt messages. It almost made up for the times you were kind of a shithead.

Heh heh. I didn’t mean to say that. Well, I didn’t mean to say that to you.

Mom, Kathy, Katie and I went to the Saltmarsh Christmas Eve thing this past year. It was a lot of fun even though we didn’t recognize most of the generation after ours. Uncle Mel pretended to remember us but I think we just confused him. (I’ll never forget what our cousin Deanna said about planning her daughter’s wedding reception to be held on their property: “If I can just keep Uncle Mel from peeing in the yard, I’ll call it a success.”)

I ran into Lori at Keller Auditorium the other night. No, not your niece Lori; the girl you thought of as “Hickory Farms Lori.” She’s now lost her dad too. It really has sucked for me and Kathy to be the voices of experience as our best friends have gone through the hell of saying goodbye to their fathers. At the same time, it’s nice to be able to put our grief to some good use and be a shoulder for their very special families.

Admit it, you want to know but could never bring yourself to ask: yes, Mom’s doing really well. She’s got a beautiful home and is very happy being back in Medford. Kathy and I love that she’s using the Saltmarsh name again; in fact, I think she’s more of Saltmarsh than you ever were. She’s run into lots of old friends. Oh, and guess what? She voted DEMOCRAT. Heh heh. Doesn’t that just rattle your chains?

Well, I didn’t make it to Shari’s for breakfast this morning like I’d planned to, but I’ll be going this afternoon. I’ll take in the newspaper and do the crossword puzzle in PEN at the counter and only order coffee, just like you always did. And I might stop for a Big Mac later today but I won’t put one in each hand and drive down the freeway. That was really dangerous, Dad—it’s kinda surprising you lived as long as you did with that bad habit.

I miss you and I love you and I’m thinking about you today more than usual. Hope the harp music isn’t driving you nuts or it’s not too hot, wherever you are.

June 6: Dreams, Dad, Drugs

Gah, I had the strangest dream last night.

• Strange thing #1: I was friends with all the Sex and the City women. We were at the same college, though apparently just hanging out on campus and not attending. And one day I just sorta realized, “Hey, these women are famous all over the world and here they are on our little college campus, doing the same things we do and being our friends!”
  
• Strange thing #2: All of them except Sarah Jessica Parker—who was not Carrie, but SJP—were killed in a car accident in Japan or someplace like that (this might stem from Chris’ fakey movie spoilers—thanks, jackass!). Miranda’s funeral was held soon afterward. Charlotte’s funeral was later and we were getting ready to go. Sarah Jessica was very upset and we were all comforting her but I think mostly we just wanted to pretend this celebrity needed us normal people.
  
• Strange thing #3: The third woman was not Samantha but some other woman, and she showed up at Charlotte’s funeral. Then we all went to hers together. Yes, we all went to hers together. And I tried to put pantyhose on over my pantyhose. And Vic was mad because he couldn’t find our The Little Mermaid DVD and he thought we should play it during at least one of the funerals.
  
• Strange thing #4: My dad was alive again. We’d had his funeral in 2005 but his death had been faked by the spy organization he was working for. Kath and I always suspected this...
  
• Strange thing #5: My mom made us have another funeral for our dad and made him attend. It was held on a hill in rural Clackamas County and we all sat on logs like it was summer camp. Dad sat and took notes throughout the whole thing, probably of errors made in the eulogy. I chose “Time of Your Life” to be played at the service.

I woke up with the words to “Time of Your Life” going through my head. I looked up the lyrics and some of them seem somewhat appropriate for a funeral, but if you really examine them, it really is more of a break-up song—which is what Green Day kept trying to explain to people when the song got overplayed as a “good memories” song. Anyway, here they are:

Another turning point;
a fork stuck in the road.
Time grabs you by the wrist;
directs you where to go.
So make the best of this test
and don't ask why.
It's not a question
but a lesson learned in time.

It's something unpredictable
but in the end it's right.
I hope you had the time of your life.

So take the photographs
and still frames in your mind.
Hang it on a shelf
In good health and good time.
Tattoos of memories
and dead skin on trial.
For what it's worth,
it was worth all the while.

It's something unpredictable
but in the end it's right.
I hope you had the time of your life.

Tomorrow it will be three years since my dad died. And what’s been going through my mind over the past few weeks as I’ve anticipated this anniversary is that I wonder if Dad had regrets. I like to think he enjoyed his time here, that he loved us and was happy with his life, for the most part. I do wonder if—if he ever would have admitted them—he wished he’d done things differently. And if he had known he was going to die when he did, how he would have spent his last days. Quite frankly, I think he would have spent them alone and crying. He never had a very good hold on his emotions and he hated being seen in a vulnerable state. He probably wouldn’t have known what to do with the last of his time here and would have felt totally overwhelmed by it. I guess for his sake, I’m glad he went unexpectedly so he didn’t have time to think about those things.

I’m also glad he didn’t grow ancient and bedridden because oh, how he would have hated that. But if I could have it the way I want? I would want him here because I have missed him every single day for three years. He’s never far from my thoughts. I still think “I need to call Dad” when I find things that would make him laugh. I still hear his overused jokes and phrases that were so “him.” In all the ways he drove me crazy and in all the ways I adored him, I wish it could be so very, very different.

I’m planning on writing something about him here tomorrow, hopefully in a more positive way. But as you think about what you’ll be doing tomorrow, I would be honored if you would do at least one of the ten things on this list to remember Curt Saltmarsh. Thanks. We all thank you.

As for the strange dreams, I’ve been on potent painkillers the past few days because of this headache. I think they’re to blame. I’m going to blame them anyway. Because if it’s not the drugs, then it’s just me; it’s just my wacky little brain coming up with this stuff all on its own. And that is more frightening than the dreams themselves.

Mar. 4: Dad's day

Today’s my dad’s birthday. I miss him every day, but today he’s on my mind more than usual. I try not to think about how we would have had him over for brunch last weekend. I would have given him a funny card that he would have pretended wasn’t one bit amusing. He would have hung around for about five minutes after dessert and then made an excuse to get back home. Dad was not one to relax at other people’s homes, although he was better about it if there were kids he could play with and/or tease.

It’s hard for me to picture him with my kids now. I mean, they were 3 and 5 when he died, so they’ve changed a lot. I’m sure Jack would proudly show off his Lego creations. Katie would read to him, maybe draw. She always liked to play games with him, and he didn’t put up too much of a fight when she brought out one after another. Seems like lots of the pictures I have of Dad with Katie and Jack, he’s doing some kind of kid activity with them that I don’t remember him ever doing with me.

Dad worked with me on learning to ride my bike without training wheels. He occasionally played board games with us. But the “games” I remember most were rock-paper-scissors (he was ruthless) and 52-card pickup. Not the most precious of my Dad memories.

He taught me how to wash a car. I kick ASS at washing cars, and I love to do it. In fact, even though I appreciate Vic’s efforts when he washes my car for me, he’s not nearly as precise as I am and usually gets teased about it (and then he threatens to be more like my dad in ALL ways of life and then I shut up).

Dad also taught me about painting and I proudly admit to being a total paint snob because of it. So far almost every time I’ve gone against his advice I’ve regretted it. I learned about the importance of primer, of good brushes, of cleanup and preserving. He taught me why it’s a good idea to mark cans with the date and what room was painted instead of having cans of “mystery paint” stacked in the garage for 25 years.

I could go on and on and on. The man certainly left his mark, for better or worse. Even so, I’d give anything not to have had to say good-bye to him in 2005.

Happy birthday, Dad. You are loved, and you are remembered, today and always.

Aug. 14: R.I.P., Yankee dude

Yankee Hall of Famer Phil Rizzuto died today. So, Kath, I guess Dad has another Yankee buddy in Heaven. I'm sure they're all gathered, making fun of the Red Sox and Red Sox fans and anything else having to do with Red Sox. And Dad's probably trying to work in some jabs about the Mariners too.

I read this amusing bit about Rizzuto in one of today's articles:
Yankee fans also loved his unusual commentary. In an age of broadcasters who spout statistics and repeat the obvious, Rizzuto delighted in talking about things like his fear of lightning, the style of an umpire's shoes or even the prospect of outfielder Dave Winfield as a candidate for president. He liked to acknowledge birthdays and anniversaries, read notes from fans, praised the baked delicacies at his favorite restaurant and send messages to old cronies. And if he missed a play, he would scribble "ww" in his scorecard box score. That, he said, meant "wasn't watching."

I'm embarrassed to admit that my knowledge of Phil Rizzuto is limited to that I learned from watching the Seinfeld episode ("The Pothole") when George loses his keys. It's one of those when all the storylines tie together and is hilarious.

George puts his keys on the table. On the ring is a miniature head, clearly a caricature of someone.

JERRY: What is that?

GEORGE: Ahh, Steinbrenner gave 'em to us, in honor of Phil Rizzuto being inducted into the Hall of Fame.

He squeezes the miniature head.

HEAD: Holy cow!

JERRY: They don't actually have to squeeze his head to get him to say 'holy cow,' do they?

GEORGE: Just the last few innings of a double-header.

Dad, please don't annoy Mr. Rizzuto, mmkay? You may know a lot about baseball, but he actually played the game.

—Jen

June 7: Another anniversary

It’s been two years now. It was the worst day of my life thus far, and I hate the changes that have come about since Dad’s been gone. I always have extra pictures now when we distribute the kids’ school pictures or copies of studio portraits. Our family buys far fewer Father’s Day cards. There’s one less thing to stress over when it comes to gee-what-do-I-get-the-dads-for-Christmas—but what I wouldn’t give to still have that stress.

I don’t know how else to explain it except to say I feel broken. It’s like the place in my heart that was reserved just for Dad burst when he died. But that’s life now—and no, it’s not the same without him, and I doubt we will ever completely get used to him being gone. I still think “I need to call Dad...” way too often. He’s missed out on so many things, so many birthday parties and holiday dinners and school functions and those infamous advice-offering phone conversations he loved. Bugging me about my remodeling projects. The annual selection of his new car. He's missed a James Bond movie, and watching “Pirates” with Jack. He’s missed so many Yankees games.

He has missed out. But most of all, we have missed him.

Kathy’s and my best friends have both lost their fathers since we lost ours. Unfortunately, we have learned very little about how a daughter is supposed to survive this painful phase; in fact, two years later we still often feel like the news is brand new. I found this quote recently that gives us a tiny bit of simple hope that we are not suffering in vain (though we're still struggling to find a lesson in our grief).

“If you learn from your suffering,
and really come to understand the lessons you were taught,
you might be able to help someone else
who is now in the phase you may have just completed.
Maybe that’s what it’s all about after all.”
--Source Unknown

One of the other things Kathy and I discovered in the past two years is that everyone grieves in very different ways and often on very different timelines. More than anything, we now know that there’s no such thing as a “normal” grief process. Really, whatever we feel is “normal.” And so I close with this piece from Bereavement Magazine (that must be a joyful subscription, hm?), in the hope that it might possibly be some comfort to Lori and April over the next few anniversaries that pass for them.

When Does Grief End?
Grief hits us like a ton of bricks,
Flattens us like a steamroller,
Hurls us into the depths of despair.
We know in a flash when grief hits,
But when does it end?
Like the month of March,
Grief rushes in like a lion,
And tiptoes out like a lamb.
Sometimes, we don’t know when grief leaves,
Because we don’t let go of the lion’s tail.
Why do we hold on so long?
Grief offers us safety,
Protection from the world.
We don’t want to let go
Because we secretly fear
That we’ll forget our loved ones,
And we don’t want to forget—ever.
We don’t want to let go
Because we fear the future
And having to face life without our loved ones.
We don’t want to let go
Because we make the mistake
Of measuring our grief with the depth of our love—
When neither has anything to do with the other.
How do we know when grief has run its course?
How do we know when we’ve grieved enough?
Cried enough?
“Died” enough?
How do we know when it’s time to let go of the tail?
We know when we feel joy again, in something or someone.
Joy in living. Joy in life.
We know when we wake up in the morning
And our first thought is on something other than our loss.
We know when we look ahead with a smile
And back with fond memories,
And when we no longer dread the nights.
We know when our life starts filling up with new interests and people,
And we start reaching for the stars.
Grief ends when we let go of the tail.
--Margaret Brownley, Bereavement Magazine, Jan/Feb 2002

Kathy, I'm thinking of you a whole bunch today. And I speak for us both when I say we're thinking of you a whole bunch today, too, Lori and April.

With love,

Jen

May 29: Sad goodbye

Life was a lot more fun before I answered my phone today. Before I answered my phone today, the most troublesome thing I had to deal with was Vic’s bad haircut.

April called this afternoon to tell me that her dad, Ralph (Forrest) Knudson, died suddenly on Friday night.

There aren’t very many people I’ve known longer than April, nor as well. We became friends our junior year in high school. We were college roommates for a while, threw each other bridal showers, played bridesmaids in each others’ weddings, and met each others’ babies when they were fresh and new. We even have similar birth stories—we easily draw dirty stares from women when we say we’ve both got two children but neither of us has ever been in labor (heh heh heh).

Part of what helped us become close friends was getting to know each other’s families. April’s one of six kids, so get-togethers at her house were major affairs. I remember several Saturday night parties where chaos reigned—kids running up and down the stairs, arguing over what was on the TV, teasing the dog, and teasing each other—but Pat and Ralph didn’t seem to mind a bit, and kept themselves busy by alternately getting to know us and making sure there was enough food for everyone. Ralph was especially eager to please, constantly distributing plates of snacks and checking our soda cups to see if we needed refills. We’d laugh at his earnest ways, but also thought it was kinda cool how involved a dad could be with his teenagers. I think most of us had the kind of dad that spoke to his kids’ friends only if he had to.

If I answered the phone when April’s parents called our dorm room, they would chat with me a bit before asking for her. I saw them often when we’d go home together on the weekends. And by the time Jim and April’s wedding and all its associated events came in August 1991, I considered myself one of Pat and Ralph’s kids, as they very much made me feel like part of their family.

And then something unexpected happened. They became my friends. My roommate and I threw parties, and Pat and Ralph would show up. Victor and I threw parties, and Pat and Ralph would show up. A lot of times April wasn’t even in town, but it didn’t matter because we no longer needed her to connect us. It was easy to see that these were loving, thoughtful people who truly cared about others. And a lot of times when you talk about couples like that, it’s assumed that it’s mostly the wife who sort of “directs” their efforts. Not so with Pat and Ralph. He was as much a part of their relationships with others as she was.

In recent years, Ralph would often corner my dad at our parties and ask for advice on business issues—Dad acted like he was annoyed by it, but I know he appreciated being considered an expert. And so at Dad’s memorial service two years ago, Ralph went up front and shared very kind words for the kind of man he perceived my dad to be. I remember afterward that I thanked him for speaking, but I hope he knew just how special that was for me and my sister to hear.

I’m not the only one with the Knudsons in my background. Pat and Vic’s mom went to college together and later served on some of the same school committees because their kids were close in age. Victor’s Little League coach? Ralph. Smallish world, I know.

To April, Julia, Doug, Camille, Michael, Heather, and your families, I’m so sorry. Losing your father, especially in such an unexpected way, is truly tragic. Now that I’m two years past losing my own dad, I should probably have some wise words for you. Unfortunately, they don’t exist. It just plain sucks. There is still a huge void in my life; too often I still think, “Oh, I need to tell Dad…” Time does ease the physical pain of the loss, but the hole in your heart… well, I won't lie to you: it’s probably there to stay.

It sounds trite, but it’s true: the world lost a very special person last Friday night. Ralph Knudson was incredibly kind, goofy, concerned, and thoughtful. He was someone unique, for many reasons, and will be missed tremendously. He’s been part of my life for such a long time; it’s hard to imagine the changes his absence will bring. I wish I didn’t have to find out.

--Jen