Day 24 - February 12
One day I'm listening to father, and the next, he doesn't exist?
On his glass-topped table, I fill a notebook with plans, reminders, numbers and lists. I make coffee at his counter, savor the last bites of Boston Cream Pie from his fridge, and call for flowers and music arrangements from his land phone. From his cell we call family and friends…Poland, Virginia, Tennessee, and Chicago…Bristol, New Jersey and Herkimer…Florida, Owego, Pennsylvania…California…
I drive his car to appointments. At every intersection I remember his voice. He always watched the traffic to his right for me until there was an opening. Every single time he announced, “Clear right, Cher!” when he thought it was safe to drive on.
His high school graduation ring is with mother’s on a dresser in the hall. I slip hers on my little finger next to my wedding ring, and his on my middle finger. Every time I look down at my hand, I see myself, with mother on one side and father on the other.
I find words to the hymn father wanted sung at his funeral, “Jesus Led Me All The Way.” I look up Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem, “A Psalm of Life,” which father had recited to me one day after lunch. We lingered at his table as usual, while he told stories. That day he started reciting a poem he’d learned in high school. Hearing the words, I knew then, it was his story. He said, “This is my favorite line,” and proceeded with heart-felt gusto, “Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!”
I call Paul Johannsen, Norm Moran, and Ben. They will be there, as father had wanted. They will pay tribute to their teacher, their friend, their co-worker, their brother. I talk with the local pharmacists who helped father through the maze of medications in his life for the last several years. Steven calls all of father’s doctors. He mails the letter to hundreds of names we gathered from father’s saved envelopes. They go out to New Zealand, Japan, Switzerland, Germany, Siberia, Australia, Poland and all over the United States.
The story rings out--like bells tolling, balls rolling, lists checked off, hours ticked by. Nothing feels different, or looks different. Every piece of father’s life is still in order. But no matter how hard we work, we know we can’t keep it together much longer. The funeral is coming in four days.
A few summers ago father was excited about the new ferry in Rochester. It crossed Lake Ontario. Toronto, Canada was its destination. Harold and I were visiting and father wanted to take us on the ferry. We hadn’t planned for a trip to Canada, but Harold travels often in his work, so he was prepared with a passport. I however, did not have one. This did not daunt father. He said we could call the town clerk in Hornell, NY and see about getting a copy of my original birth certificate.
We traveled country roads south, on a beautiful summer day to Hornell. We discovered the hospital where I was born, now a nursing home, we tracked down the clerk’s office, and indeed, procured my birth certificate.
Tickets reserved, we sailed off the next morning for Toronto. The ferry was magnificent, actually! Inside it was designed on the order of a futuristic airline, in grand proportions. We watched the bustling waves of our wake as we ferried out of the Rochester port. We toured all day in Toronto and returning that evening, watched the sunset off the back of the ferry deck.
The trip was exhilarating, an unexpected adventure. Today the ferry no longer exists, whether due to financial or political reasons, I do not know. But I do know there will be no wakes cut by that giant sea vessel leaving the Rochester port again.
Also, I do know, as I approach an intersection I will never again hear his words, “Clear right, Cher.”
I am so very grateful for father’s undaunted spirit and watchful eye. And though he is gone, the same spirit will move us forward each day this week of planning and checking off lists.
The spirit guides my fingers on the keys of this tale.
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