Day 33- February 21
The first night Sarah joined me for dinner she volunteered to help after dessert. We found a hammer, then it all came down--calendars, mirrors, clocks, ceramic plates, wooden plaques, wax hangings, straw hangings, woven hangings--purposely positioned for twenty years defining the boundaries of this personal space…wall by wall. She used the hammer claw to remove every nail and picture hanger in father’s home.
The next night I walked down the hall to eat dinner with David and Marie, returning in the evening to putter and pack at father’s. They gave me a key to their home. When I tired, late into the night, I returned to sleep in their guest room--my pattern for twenty-one days.
Tonight Sarah comes over again. We eat leftovers and look for an evening project, settling on a little iron wall hanger. Ornate, Italian, with five tiny hooks, mother used it to display European pot holders over the stove. Through the years a very thick grease build-up has caked in all the decorative creases. Remembering her own mother’s advice, Sarah looks for an old tooth brush and white toothpaste. We find both and she proceeds to sit, methodically scrubbing away while we talk. Father would have applauded our diligence.
I ask Sarah if she would like to choose a vase to take with her. We talk about her sister and she picks one out for her too. Last year I arrived from Chicago one May day as father’s eighty-second birthday was approaching. He already had plans in motion. Sarah and Rebekah were baking him their specialty cheese cake with homemade chocolate sauce and fresh strawberries, and father wanted to have an Open House.
“Cher, we’ll keep it simple. We’ll have cheesecake and just tell a few friends they can stop by for a piece any time on my birthday. Well, maybe I’ll make my pineapple cake with the cream cheese frosting too. What would you like to make?”
He began to go down the list calling friend after friend. At one point I counted up and realized he’d talked to almost forty people so far, and he was far from finished. “Dad, I think we are going to need more food!”
When the day arrived we not only had cheesecake and pineapple cake, but we also baked two apple pies, blueberry squares and a chocolate cream pie! Friends filled his rooms from their early lunch breaks until dinnertime. He held court on the living room sofa while Sarah, Rebekah and I served pie and cake on his china and crystal. June washed dishes half way through so we could start over.
We kept it simple, if by simple one means taking care to make sure every friend and guest feels specially treated and loved. What better way to celebrate his birthday than to allow him this pleasure.
In the summer between my visits, along with his neighbors, Sarah and her friend, Bethany, maintained father’s garden for him. They weeded, watered and harvested. I arrived to finish the other gardening chores. Father raked straight lines in the soil between each row of the faithfully weeded vegetables. “Cher, I think this is the best garden yet, don’t you?”
He taught us by example to reach out boldly, to care and love unconditionally, and to find pleasure in the joy of living.
The toothpaste is doing it’s job. We scrub till iron roses from Italy shine clearly above each hook.
We share moments together in his space, caring for his memory, grateful for what we have learned.
The first night Sarah joined me for dinner she volunteered to help after dessert. We found a hammer, then it all came down--calendars, mirrors, clocks, ceramic plates, wooden plaques, wax hangings, straw hangings, woven hangings--purposely positioned for twenty years defining the boundaries of this personal space…wall by wall. She used the hammer claw to remove every nail and picture hanger in father’s home.
The next night I walked down the hall to eat dinner with David and Marie, returning in the evening to putter and pack at father’s. They gave me a key to their home. When I tired, late into the night, I returned to sleep in their guest room--my pattern for twenty-one days.
Tonight Sarah comes over again. We eat leftovers and look for an evening project, settling on a little iron wall hanger. Ornate, Italian, with five tiny hooks, mother used it to display European pot holders over the stove. Through the years a very thick grease build-up has caked in all the decorative creases. Remembering her own mother’s advice, Sarah looks for an old tooth brush and white toothpaste. We find both and she proceeds to sit, methodically scrubbing away while we talk. Father would have applauded our diligence.
I ask Sarah if she would like to choose a vase to take with her. We talk about her sister and she picks one out for her too. Last year I arrived from Chicago one May day as father’s eighty-second birthday was approaching. He already had plans in motion. Sarah and Rebekah were baking him their specialty cheese cake with homemade chocolate sauce and fresh strawberries, and father wanted to have an Open House.
“Cher, we’ll keep it simple. We’ll have cheesecake and just tell a few friends they can stop by for a piece any time on my birthday. Well, maybe I’ll make my pineapple cake with the cream cheese frosting too. What would you like to make?”
He began to go down the list calling friend after friend. At one point I counted up and realized he’d talked to almost forty people so far, and he was far from finished. “Dad, I think we are going to need more food!”
When the day arrived we not only had cheesecake and pineapple cake, but we also baked two apple pies, blueberry squares and a chocolate cream pie! Friends filled his rooms from their early lunch breaks until dinnertime. He held court on the living room sofa while Sarah, Rebekah and I served pie and cake on his china and crystal. June washed dishes half way through so we could start over.
We kept it simple, if by simple one means taking care to make sure every friend and guest feels specially treated and loved. What better way to celebrate his birthday than to allow him this pleasure.
In the summer between my visits, along with his neighbors, Sarah and her friend, Bethany, maintained father’s garden for him. They weeded, watered and harvested. I arrived to finish the other gardening chores. Father raked straight lines in the soil between each row of the faithfully weeded vegetables. “Cher, I think this is the best garden yet, don’t you?”
He taught us by example to reach out boldly, to care and love unconditionally, and to find pleasure in the joy of living.
The toothpaste is doing it’s job. We scrub till iron roses from Italy shine clearly above each hook.
We share moments together in his space, caring for his memory, grateful for what we have learned.
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