I Hope He Finds His Spiral Notebook

Early Monday morning, my father died, leaving behind my mother, his wife of 61 years, my sister and me, plus our kids and many more loved ones. We lost Greta, my other sister, in 2011. In fact, Daddy found her the morning after she had died in her sleep. We never spoke about how that affected him. My brain is incapable of imagining what that pain must feel like.

This week has consisted of crying, planning, talking, laughing, hugging, and focusing on supporting and loving each other. Today, I’ve had a peaceful and quiet Sunday. I talked on the phone with my mom for a long time and have spent the rest of the day focusing on myself. I floated in the pool and soaked up some sun. I listened to music. I read. I slowly sipped this morning’s coffee and smiled when I thought about how Daddy and I both like cream and sugar, while Mama just likes cream. I ate peanut M&Ms for lunch. I hugged my son. I texted my daughter. I hugged my dog. I hugged my husband…a little tighter and a little longer than usual. And somehow, I was inspired to write to my dad. 

Our home was always warm and welcoming of whichever ragtag weirdos we brought over. My parents have always helped people they cared about in any way they could. My mom gave rides to various urchins we hung around with. My dad gave a helping hand to a broke boyfriend or fatherless girlfriend with car questions. My sisters and I, I know, were very fortunate that these are the parents we got. I knew that I needed to start writing about my dad and document the 50+ years of my life that I was lucky enough to have my father be a part of. I filled page after page of the spiral notebook Daddy has been using to keep random notes on. Blood sugar readings. A list of Swedish or Polish relatives. A hand-drawn scale sketch of the living room and fireplace layout, including correct angles and drafting markings. In my grieving mind, I thought that if he’s out there somewhere, he’ll find his old notebook and read my letter.

Trigger warning: this isn’t overly gushy or emotional, but, well, it’s about my dad dying. Don’t read this right now if you’re not ready to read it. But if you're reading this and are lucky enough to have met Howard, I would love to hear your special memories. 

 

Dear Daddy,

Monday morning you finally were in no pain. Had no more worries. Felt no more frustration that your body could not do what your brain and heart wanted it to do. Your last 4 or 5 months of life were filled with pain and fear, worry and anger. No more. And that’s not how I will remember you, your head in your hands as I watched you a few weeks ago. No longer able to do the things you loved; you were broken. It hurt so deeply to see you a shell of your once so vibrant and big life.

No.

I will remember your goofy expressions, your tongue often sticking out in photos. You taught me so many things, but most of all, you taught me to laugh. I will remember countless hours watching the Marx Brothers or listening to Spike Jones or the Smothers Brothers as a family growing up. We always were laughing. You and I often would softly make little silly comments or jokes to each other when someone else was having a serious conversation. Our family has always been just silly. And I loved growing up to be silly. It taught me to be calm and find humor in every situation. Even in your death. Brooks and the kids and I have been silly while we are grieving. I am so proud that my kids were raised surrounded by love, encouragement to try and be whoever they want to be, and silliness. Just like you and Mama raised us with. And of course, you both raised us with music.

When the funeral director asked Mama, Libby, and me what songs we wanted played at your service, we all were stumped. We all love music so incredibly much. How could we condense your love of music into just one or two songs? As I drove home from spending the day planning your memorial with Mama and Libby, I was stressed trying to find the right songs. And then I realized that choosing music for you was an impossible task. I almost asked the funeral to play Spike Jones…I would have laughed, but I think some folks would have been highly offended! I was able to just let it go because I knew I could listen to the music you and I (and the rest of our family) love for the remainder of my days and never hear enough to replace the hole that Greta and now you have left in my heart. My children, too, were raised surrounded by music and love it immensely. You created such beautiful, love-infused stringed instruments. You hummed and sang along with the radio while you drove. KVIL on the way to Mema and Grandaddy’s while I was riding in the back-facing rear seat of our woody station wagon, I could hear your warm bass happily singing along to Abba or Willie Nelson all the way from my secret fort in the third row seat. You always attended our band concerts and my piano recitals. You had a beautiful, deep rich bass voice. I hold a very dear memory in my heart of you singing hymns in the Methodist church when we still attended before Greta got sick. I was very young, doodling with a golf pencil on the back of a donation envelope. I know I was small, because I recall my little legs sticking straight out on the pew. I was too short to bend my legs over the shiny wood. Your voice wasn’t all that loud in church, but the deep and clear bass vibrated steadily beneath the organ and the choir. It’s a comforting memory during this uncomfortable season of my life. The season of the dead father. A season I will never not be within.

Realizing that it is now my time to step up and for me and Libby to take care of Mama has been an honor. You spent over 61 years taking care of her financially, physically, and emotionally. You worked so hard to provide for us all, to keep our home safe and beautiful, and to support our every new hobby or curiosity. Or hairstyle. Or attempt at having an awkward teenage boyfriend (and boy, were most all of them terrified of Howard!) I have accomplished everything I have in my life because you and Mama never made me feel I couldn’t do something. I am fiercely independent and proud to provide for my own family now. Just like you spent your life doing. You made sure my sisters and I always had a working car, food to eat, and a place to live while each of us tried to figure out how to be an adult and raise our own kids and pets. We knew you and Mama would let us fly but would always be there to catch us. Even just a few months ago, you both loaned us $10,000 for a few weeks after we hit a snag getting our house closing done. We didn’t even ask for a temporary loan, but you and Mama offered and made sure we got this house we fell in love with. I was very happy we could immediately pay you right back in full. You taught me to do what I say I’ll do. Taking care of Mama is a huge part of that. Just in this week since you died, I have had the privilege of spending a lot of one-on-one time with Mama, something that’s rare with siblings and later grandkids around for over 50 years. You may not be aware of this, but, MAN, your wife can TALK. and TALK. Our house wasn’t loud in the sense of anger and yelling and fighting, but it was certainly loud with laughter. Me practicing the piano (which I think is relatively pleasant) to me practicing my drum set (which, bless you both for letting me play drums!) to Greta learning to play oboe and Libby figuring how to play the banjo on her own. We hosted big holiday dinners and lots of birthday parties. Our house was loud. It’s been nice to have it a little quiet while Mama and I have talked. I look forward to hearing more stories about you from her. Already, she has surprised me with a few recollections that I had forgotten or hadn’t heard before. These will never leave my heart. The look of deep and immense love in her eyes as she talked about you will stay a snapshot in my mind for eternity.

I am sad you didn’t get to see our new house. After struggling for many years, I think Brooks and I finally grew up enough to start taking care of our future like you did. We bought a house and are saving money now...what?!? I am confident that we will make sure our kids will always be taken care of, even after we are gone, because you taught me how to take care of a family.

Back to this house, Pop. It was built in 1970, and we have questions. Example: A third of the electrical outlets in our house either have no power at all or they’re loose, making plugs fall out of them. I kind of need you, please, to tell me how to fix it (or tell me I should hire a professional). I wanted to cook you and Mama a delicious meal – to have you and her and my sister and niece and our kids and son-in-law over for my famous Thanksgiving dinner in our new house. I hope I can convince Mama to take a short ride to our house so I can cook for her here. And yes, I eat 75% of the crispy turkey skin by myself while I’m carving just like you used to do. The dog usually gets several bites, too, just like you always gave to your dogs. Thanks, by the way, for always letting us kids get pets and keep strays over the years. I am so glad to have grown up with dogs and fish and gerbils and whatever else one of us dragged in.

As I have earned my living writing, I have actually struggled with writing just for myself. I look forward to reading all the short stories you’d been working on for the past few years. It makes me happy that you found creative writing later in life as an outlet for yourself. I’m sorry none of your submissions ever got published, but maybe we can collaborate, and my sister and I can add to some of your stories and make them something really special. Who knows? It’s a nice thought. Thanks for being so organized and keeping all your files well-labeled. Finding your writing on your laptop this week inspired me to write. And I have been hand-writing and typing for HOURS today. At different phases of life, I have blogged or journaled, sometimes for a few years at a time. And almost every time, I have later destroyed or deleted everything I’d written. It’s part of my process, I guess. Writing is crucial to me working through the rougher parts of life. While sometimes I am sad that I no longer have those words and feelings I was experiencing then, I also realize that destroying those words is part of my catharsis. I hope I don’t destroy these words here, but I might. Mental health is weird.

But also, Daddy, please know that we are all here taking wonderful care of each other. Isn’t that really the primary thing you would have wanted? I imagine we may be arguing in December about who gets to try to make your homemade version of your mom's cinnamon rolls. I don't think they'll ever taste as good as yours. I am so fortunate to have asked for your recipe years ago. I've just never been brave enough to attempt making them. I will this year.

I got through the years after Greta’s death by almost drinking myself to death and leaving my family with absolutely nothing. You have my word that I am not abandoning my almost 5 years of sobriety while I get through the years after your death. I promise you, Dad, I will keep writing to you. They may never be published online, but I hope you find a way to read my letters to you. Just promise to turn out the light after you’ve finished snooping in my office. And that’s parsley in my desk drawer. Ahem.

“I’ve had a perfectly wonderful evening, but this wasn’t it.” – Groucho Mark

I think I’ll apply that to this week. I’ve had a perfectly wonderful week, but this wasn’t it. This week has been terrible, but there have also been some brightly shimmering, beautiful moments this week…reconnections with people I haven’t spoken to, sometimes in many years. I have felt such love and pride for you as I’ve been hearing stories from so many people who loved and were inspired by you. So many people who learned from and laughed with you.

Daddy, you have left an enormous hole in our lives and our hearts. Thank you being an honest, decent, and hilarious man. I love you.

“He may look like an idiot and talk like an idiot, but don’t let that fool you. He really is an idiot.” – Howard Block; nope, I mean Groucho Marx. You earn 59 points if you can guess who Daddy said that about.

All my love and tears,

Rachel

(the youngest offspring…who often was called by both sisters’ names, both of YOUR sisters' names, Mama’s name, and/or the dogs’ or grandkids’ names before you got to my name. I’m not mad though. Really.

P.S. Say hi to Greta and our other loved ones wherever you’re all hanging out. I’m sure you’ve already ripped up the cheap flooring and installed tile. By hand. By yourself. Yes, I know I was not a very helpful assistant with your car and home projects, but you were kind enough to let me think I was useful. I am VERY good at retrieving tools and stirring concrete. I am still flabbergasted thinking about the time you built a 2 or 3 story tall windmill in our backyard. Or shorter. Or taller. I was pretty young, but I do know it was well above the roof line. Cars would often stop when our family was sitting on the front porch and ask about it. Made of metal and canvas. Not for electricity or anything other than just because you felt like designing and building a windmill. I watched you weld metal pieces and over time building this fascinating creation, taller and taller. Then, one day, you decided to take it back down. So you disassembled it. I need to find some pictures of that windmill.

P.P.S. I promise I read the VW owner’s manual before I even opened the door to your car, let alone drove it.

P.P.P.S. Can you please help Brooks replace the weather stripping on our French doors?

P.P.P.P.S. Greta keeps whispering in my ear, pretending she’s a parrot named Petey. She denies it every time I confront her. CAN YOU MAKE HER STOP PLEASE?!?

P.P.P.P.P.S. I’ll leave my spiral notebook in the top drawer of my desk for you to read. And like we usually said when parting ways, “see you later!”