At Last

At 70, I am already thinking more about my last things, than my first. This is the last car I intend to buy (used, of course!). This is the last house, the last coffee maker, the last pair of jeans.

This is not meant to sound grim. I am actually happy to own things that will last (no pun intended) me for the rest of my life. I still wear clothes from 20 years ago. Of course, they are my favorites. My computer, which I bought in the early 2000s, still greets me every morning, despite not having the ability to shield me from modern viruses or spam ware. She accepts no new updates, and demands I wait between every click. 

But, despite this, and a sizable screen crack in her upper left-hand corner, she remains my constant ally. She introduced me to social media and saw me through strenuous times, helping me write every college essay. Some call her a dinosaur, but she continues to sing those few lovely opening notes as I awaken her in the morning. She holds all my important documents, musings, letters, family photos.

Recently I bought a new computer. With the help of wonderful family members, I was able to upload most of what my old computer holds. I am appreciative, but feel I am betraying her a little. 

Since even her recycling days are pretty much over, I keep the old girl running. I ease her off to sleep at night, only to awaken her in the morning with increasing creaks and groans. I have to click off all kinds of ominous notifications warning of non-updates, non this, and non that. 

I know how she likes to do things. She only asks me to be a bit more patient, as she searches through the sludge built up over the years. She is the last of a dying breed.

Call It a Day

 

"Call it dad." My oldest son, standing with his father in the damp grey morning air on the back deck commands. His dad looks around dramatically. "It's a magnificently beautiful day," he declares ceremoniously, as he does every day regardless of the weather. 

This was his mantra, his legacy.

My former husband died this past summer. He had a particularly aggressive cancer which whittled his usual robust self to a shadow. In his final days he continued to hold court to dozens of friends and family members. His children were by his side every step of the way.

We were married for 27 years, parented five wonderful kids, did crosswords, ran turkey trots, went on fun family vacations (we were a Motel 6 kind of family), and laughed about shared childhood memorabilia. He was a bushy red-headed boy, the male complement to me. When we met, the first thing I noticed was not his smile, or his banter, but the fact that his freckled arms looked just like mine.

A more likely match you would not find. Raised Irish Catholic, we could quote from the old Latin Mass, and, later, had a reverence for Enya music. Our kids felt the solid foundation we set for them, in secular and spiritual ways. We were a family full of children, of dogs, cats and various other pets, of friends over for pizza and Broadway songs. 

But, for both of us, something was missing. For me, it was the truth that I was not so straight, and for him that he was not so secular. It was our simultaneous undoing. We separated, he (the Ivy League lawyer) putting the blame squarely on me for cheating (with a woman no less) while he too was testing his own straying waters. When financial agreements were discussed, he became manipulative, cold, a bully I had never seen before. He moved out quickly, barely saying goodbye to his children.

We communicated in spurts in the ensuing years. I appreciated that he attended the funerals of my father and brother. I came to say my last goodbyes to our family dog who he had adopted as his own. Cordial, sometimes chilly, always at arm's length. His wife, more rigidly religious than he, was fake courteous, but I sensed she really wanted to erase me entirely from his life's story. 

Yet, this man, with all his volume and bravado, was a genuine light to many. His Sunday school class. The daughters on the annual 'Dads and Daughters" overnight hikes. The children of women widowed young who needed a trustworthy father figure. His university students who learned about the importance of the Constitution and legal ethics from him. His fellow believers who needed one ethical leader among a rabble of religious shams to give their lives a semblance of meaning.

A few weeks before he passed away, I traveled with the kids to visit him at his home. We all sat, encircling him, playing and singing his favorite songs. There were some tears and lots of laughter. His daughters held his hands.

At his funeral service, the kids told stories about their dad. At one point, our youngest got up and spoke. She had been his constant caregiver for the two years of his illness, driving countless hours to be by his side during his grueling hospital stays and at his home hospice bedside. She reminded everyone present of her dad's hopeful mantra. "I have a tattoo of it," she said sheepishly. "And if there is anything we can take from my dad's life, it is that every day contains beauty and promise.

Call it dad. It's a magnificently beautiful day.

Constant Companion

 I was young once. My hair was red, my face and arms freckled. I liked to play in the dirt, and I hated wearing skirts and dresses. I rode my bike without hands, even when turning to the next block. 

I picked up my father's guitar -- the one he never learned to play -- and ran with it. I played, and played, listening to the music I loved and learning it so well I could play the songs I loved note-for-note. When I was still young, my parents seemed to understand that playing the guitar was important to my life, and bought me my own.

I still have that same guitar. He has been my constant friend, even when he collects dust in the corner of my room. I talk to him sometimes, apologizing for not checking in, not changing old strings, not honoring his place in my world. Every now and then, especially when my sons come to visit (amazing guitar players in their own right) we pull him out, dust him off, and see what the old man can still do. 

He never disappoints.