Celebrating, With or Without You

My dad, my giant personality in a giant body Dad, should be celebrating his 80th birthday today, but he's not. We will celebrate, we will raise a glass (and if it was warmer Jack would smoke a cigar but it's freezing outside and that stinky thing is an outdoor activity), and I will tell my girls stories about their grandfather, ones they have most certainly heard but ones that give me comfort and make me laugh and allow me to feel, just for a bit, that he is a part of their lives in a way that is not just stories but real day to day grandfather stuff.

Several nights ago my sister and I went back and forth via text, hashing out dates and years and time frames that all led to the demise of Bill and Sharie's once promising life together. Ashley was 8 (I think), I was 16. Maybe, I know I could drive because all I wanted to do when they told us was leave and go to a friends' house, which they did not allow. I actually thought they were kidding, several of their good friends had recently made the same announcement; I thought it was a Keeping Up with the Neighbors kind of joke. It was not. I realized that the specifics, now over thirty years later, didn't really matter at all. Our lives were changed forever, the ripple effect of their decision still in play today.

Dad moved to an apartment just a few minutes walk from our house. In no time he had married his secretary but just stop right there. Dad's secretary was 10 years his senior, not smoking hot, and a bit bossy, in a matronly kind of unpleasant way. She vehemently disliked both my sister and me; her first direction as the new Mrs. Lang was to change the locks on the apartment that was now theirs. Interesting way to cozy up to the stepchildren, she continued on this charming path for most of their 19 year marriage. When Dad died I think she was genuinely surprised at our grief, and it was clear to me, that even after 19 years, she had no capacity to understand just how much Ashley and I loved our Dad. I felt a tiny bit bad for her. Tiny bit.

The stepmother died a few years ago. I had remained in contact with her as she had been very interested in my children and had, uncharacteristically, been very kind to them, always remembering them at birthdays and Christmas. She said once she was doing what Dad would have wanted and I appreciated that effort, even though I knew that there was little anyone could do to represent what my father might have meant to my children.

Mom and Dad worked hard to maintain a very friendly relationship. My sister, still very young, benefited greatly from their willingness to work together. It wasn't perfect and while I went off to college, she took the brunt of the saga of the divorced parents. It's never easy but I appreciate so much that they tried. They had been friends since high school, and they continued, in a new and unique way, to be friends until Dad died.

Yesterday, on the phone with Mom covering the Mother's Day things, she was quiet for a minute and then said, "your father would be 80 years old tomorrow". The quiet was now on my end. Mom just turned 79, she was a year behind him at Hillcrest High.

"I know Mom, I know."
"Your dad would have done 80 so well."

Sitting at the island in our kitchen, the same island that came from Mom's house, on the phone with my mother while one daughter bakes a Mother's Day cake and the other sets the table for the dinner, I imagine what life might look like if there were two more places set at that table, if our downstairs guest room was full of grandparents and love and laughter.

"I always loved your dad Allyson, I always did."

I know that too Mom. 
Happy birthday Dad, we all miss you so very much.

Downstate Rush: State of Reality T.V.

Years ago, when I first moved to Chicago, I would often drive back to Kansas City, just the dog, me, and eight hours of farmland. Back before satellite radio and cell phones and any kind of high tech mobile entertainment there was FM radio and stations that catered to their surroundings. Driving downstate meant hours of country music as the CD's I meant to bring were often sitting on the kitchen table, forgotten in the race to get out the door. Once I got past Springfield there was little else but talk radio and in downstate Illinois that meant Rush Limbaugh.

I grew up in a Republican household. I was weaned on Nixon and Reagan. But this was new, what this man was saying was unlike anything I'd heard at home and it was horrible. Hours later my father assured me that this was not what he believed, Rush Limbaugh did not represent the vast majority of the Republican Party, and that his audience was small. Rush Limbaugh, dad assured me, was a footnote in the wide open spaces of the Midwest; he didn't speak for everyone.

Last week the president awarded Rush Limbaugh the Presidential Medal of Freedom.

In a speech that was more reality television than the constitutionally mandated informative update to Congress, Trump handed out scholarships, reunited families, and awarded the highest civilian honor to a man who has attacked every single segment of the population: women, minorities, children, anyone who disagreed with him (I refuse to quote him).

My dad was wrong. His audience was big, growing, and now, rewarded.

Recently, as part of a class, I reread The Federalist Papers. Interesting reading in the age of Trump, the first president in my memory to completely alter my interpretation of Hamilton, Madison, and Jay. For all the brilliance in their work they missed one important element: that one day we may elect a person so morally corrupt, so uninformed on the working of government, that all the checks and balances won't matter. The founders assumed that this country would choose educated, honest, and kind people to hold executive office (remember, they were modeling the position for George Washington, Mr. I Cannot Tell a Lie). Even with the tremendous foresight of the founders, Hamilton in particular, they did not establish safeguards to protect a democracy from a president who lies about things so easily verified. Rush Limbaugh, Presidential Medal of Freedom recipient, has spent years preparing Trump's base for this moment, and now it is our choice how to respond.

My father isn't here to see the Limbaugh enabled Trumping of the US. I'm confident he wouldn't like it, confident that he would, like Mitt Romney and John McCain, find a way to look beyond republican party platforms and cast a vote for country over self. There's hope in that, and we all could use a little more hope right now.

Blue Line, Green Line, Chicken on a Bus: Getting There is The Whole Journey

The first time I rode on a subway I was about 6 years old, with my father, and, in all places, underneath Mexico City. A most unusual entree to public transportation for a girl from Kansas City but my father, whose usual means of transport while traveling was in the back seat of a car being driven by someone other than himself, thought it important for me to be comfortable on mass transit. Perhaps knowing that my future would not be one of backseat riding, he took me on the train in every major city we visited. By high school I understood the hilarity of my father having the driver pull over and drop us at a train stop, with instructions to pick us up a bit further down the line.

In Boston, following a minor traffic accident in the Callahan tunnel at the hands of an angry taxi driver fueled by a deafening Mahler, we moved on to the T. In Puerto Vallarta we rode a bus with a chicken. He left me to navigate the DC Metro alone, a first, setting me up for years of confident transit riding in Chicago, London, Paris, Philadelphia, and yes, Kansas City. Following a knee surgery, unable to drive, I rode the KC bus to work every day for weeks, which proved to be the source of amusement for many of my coworkers, as well as a good books worth of stories.

Last night we had dinner with the more adult than child daughter of one of my oldest friends, in town for a conference. The last time I saw her she was in a diaper, bundled mightily, and rocking in a basket in my living room. I expected a bit more than that but was quite surprised when, after dinner, she pulled out her phone and mapped the best route back to her hotel, "the green line I think" (to be fair I was also surprised that she ordered her own food, didn't drool once, and stood without assistance). It seems the ability to find your way, wherever you may be, is impressive.

This afternoon my daughter Mary texted me, would it be all right to go with friends to the Anti Cruelty Society after school? They needed to visit to complete a science project, due next week, "we'll take the blue line".

Thanks Dad.

The Other Side? Hate, Anger, Contempt, Disdain, Hostility, Deceit

"Take each other's side", she said.

My mother, who generally abstained from political discussion, was suggesting, as she browned hamburger or drained pasta, that we do what?

"Stop arguing your own side and argue the other. It will help, especially if you want to go to law school". Did I want to go to law school?

My mother voted for George Bush because he was handsome. She grew up in Texas,  home to a preponderance of Republicans, and the best reasoning she could dream up in voting for George Bush was his boyish good looks. Politics were not, and have never been, of any interest to her but the woman can argue with a calendar as to what day it is.

My father, a Texas Aggie republican, and his daughter, a burgeoning democrat, were momentarily silenced from the conversation that had been going on for years.

Note both practical conservative and liberal crunchy footwear.

Dad drew me in to politics, bringing home his love of history and debate to dinner every night, at no time more heartily than the summer of 1980, when Jimmy Carter was poised to lose the White House to Ronald Reagan. Reagan was everything Dad wanted him to be, I felt tragically sorry for Carter and all the tragedies of his administration, and John Anderson was an interesting, albeit idealistic, option. My father spent hours explaining to me the insanity of an Anderson vote (twelve years later he quietly cast his vote for Ross Perot unable to take any more of the Bush years). That summer I had knee surgery and spent a week in the hospital, the same week as the Republican National Convention. I remember quite clearly the nurse apologizing when she realized that then, in the days of only three network stations, the only thing to watch on my hospital television, was the convention. My week of bed rest was spent arming myself political ammunition.

Weeks later Sharie shut us both down with this simple idea, "take the other side".

For all the madness that is my mother this idea, her own nod to Atticus Finch, has served me well, not only in political debate, but in the day to day interactions of an adult, a mother, a wife.

And so, in this election, I have tried very hard to argue the other side. I have read countless articles written by people in support of Donald Trump, or in support of those things he propounds to believe. In years past this approach has worked, and ultimately, while I may have not agreed ideologically with candidates, I could find a level of respect for them and their beliefs. Not so this year.

In fact I am challenged to find one piece of good in either the candidate or campaign. Beyond that, I am horrified as I watch the unearthing of hate and anger which, it seems, has been lying dormant for years in a country that extols acceptance and equality as it's virtues. The ongoing rebuttal of fact, the creation of new rules and the lowered standard of behavior is simply mind boggling. No matter how many times I try to argue the other side I find there is simply nothing there to argue. I am at a complete loss as to the dismissal of intelligent thought when faced with this childlike and temperamental behavior. This alone would, and should, disqualify a candidate. It seems in 2016 his lack of moral compass and ongoing disregard for standards of civil conduct seem to only propel him further along. People finding their voice in this candidate scare me far more than the candidate himself.

I question the intelligence and temperament of anyone willing to vote for a man so completely unqualified and unprepared for this job, and I do not understand those that chose to not vote out of disgust for both options. You may not like or agree with one, but you must exercise your precious right to vote. Maintain your politics at the state and legislative level but don't forgo your chance to keep this republican out of the White House.

Dear Mom, I have tried, really I have to argue the other side. The truth is I can't see the policy for the hyperbole. I can't find the truth for the misrepresentation of politics and process. I can't find the good for the abhorrent and repulsive behavior. I have tried.

In my heart I know my dad, the lifetime republican, would do the right thing. Never a democrat but decent and kind and passionately tied to education and truth my father would vote to keep this man and his contempt for women, minorities, and the disabled out of the White House.

Take this opportunity to do the right thing.

Merry Christmas She Said

She smiled warmly when I stumbled in, "Merry Christmas" she said, in deeply accented English.

It was after 11:00 pm and I had spent the past six hours making a two hour trip, weather delays trapping me on the ground in a city I did not want to leave. There were no more than five of us on the plane, the last flight from Kansas City to Chicago, on Christmas night. It was snowing, in both places, perfect for Christmas, unless your Christmas is to be spent flying from one winter wonderland to another.

My dad took me to the airport. Even with an early dinner we had to leave before Nana's Christmas cake, a brandy soaked tradition. It was to be the last Christmas for my 90 year old grandfather, the year he repeatedly asked where he had tied up his horse. It was a Christmas that all seven kids had made it home, when my grandmother was still able to cook, my dad still able to carve the turkey and a family all together for one last precious time. Waving good-bye was like leaving the ghost of Christmas everything; taking me away from my family on Christmas is unthinkable, stepping onto a plane scattered with strangers, like torture.

Frustrated that I drew the short straw, that no one else, not even the other clerks and paralegals who weren't traveling, offered to be there on the day after Christmas, I moped and pouted with the time I did have with my family. I was angry at my horrible boss, the one who removed his glasses and used the end piece to clean his ears whenever we met to discuss medical records or boring depositions. The one who callously said "you know I'm Jewish, I could work on Christmas day" when I asked if I could at least come in late the next day; my need to repeatedly quote him not really enveloping the spirit of Christmas.

Because my father flew frequently, often three or four days a week, he was familiar to almost everyone at the American Airlines counter in Kansas City. Having Dad deliver me to the airport meant a seat in first class as they often extended this courtesy to his daughter when available. On this night, given that I was one of five people flying, my seat in row 3 was secure. He waited with me until they finally boarded, the two of us sitting in the lonely and cold airport, the bar closed and the place deserted. I encouraged him to go home, but secretly hoped he would stay, scared to be alone and wishing that maybe they would finally just cancel this flight and strand me, helpless and unable to get to work. The plane had to be in Chicago, the flight would go, even if we had to wait all night.

Two hours later they called the few of us remaining to board. Leaving home was difficult, saying good-bye to my father who was my Christmas constant, horrible. The plane was de-iced, we pushed back from the gate, and O'Hare closed to incoming flights. We waited. I buried my head in my mixed nuts, not at all interested in small talk with the nice flight attendant who was probably not exactly where she wanted to be either. I questioned all the decisions: grad school away from my family, the terrible job at the hideous law firm, the one that made me cry almost every day as the bus approached my stop. My dad suggested I quit, find something else, but I knew I was learning, more about what I did not want to do than what I did, and the miserable pay was better than nothing at all.

After almost two hours of waiting we took off. I cried when the wheels left the ground.

O'Hare was deserted, as quiet as I had ever seen it. My lone bag spun on the carousel, as lost as I was. I threw it over my shoulder and made my way out, heading to the taxi stand rather than the train as Dad had given me cab fare, not wanting me to spend the remainder of my night on two trains and a bus getting home. I stopped in the restroom before leaving.

She smiled warmly when I stumbled in, "Merry Christmas" she said, in deeply accented English. Merry Christmas said the woman who had spent her Christmas cleaning restrooms at the airport, away from her family and friends, working at a job I have always considered to be among the worst imaginable. My day of self misery was over; "Merry Christmas" I said to her, and thank you.

September 25th

 "If you listen to your heart", she said, "he'll always be with you". 

Climb Back Up There Boo

"Climb back up there Boo, give it another try".

Dad had decided it was time for me to have a pony; we were test driving a lovely black mare, quite large by pony standards, mean as hell by mine. Horseback riding, to this point, had either been wedged behind Dad, atop his giant palomino, scaled to accommodate Dad's former football player frame, or perched cautiously on Mom's Sunshine's Blonde Bomber, a show horse that was never actually ridden by any of us, but one that photographed well and won plenty of pretty blue ribbons.

Dad brought the mean pony over, I climbed back into the saddle. Over the head and tossed to the side, the candidate threw me at least six times. Five times, at Dad's insistence, I led him to the rail and pulled myself up with the reins. Sore and frustrated I walked out of the ring, closed the gate, and laughed as Dad tried to corral the wild beast. Together we walked him back to the barn, "not this one Dad". He laughed, "nice try Boo".

He taught me everything I know about the person I want to be. Life is much more fun when you swim in the waves.

Take Me Out to the Royals Game

My love of baseball was cultivated in a time when baseball was the star of the game. I am so old that my first games were at Municipal Stadium in Kansas City which was torn down so long ago that a community garden now grows on the site. It was here I chose Lou Piniella as my favorite player and learned what the numbers 1 through 9 signified. It was here that I developed a passion for a summer day at the ballpark, warm and sticky, with 9 innings and a blank scorecard in front of me, in anxious anticipation for the 7th inning stretch. It was here I sat, between my father and grandfather, topped with a Royal Blue ball cap, Cracker Jack in hand, ideally happy for many a summer day.


Once again I am ideally happy. Once again the game of baseball is the star.


In the twenty nine years since the Royals last played in the post season I have grown too comfortable with the idea that the glory days of Kansas City baseball might have passed and that the Royals of my youth, George and Hal and Willie, might just be the only names to remember. My annual visit to Kaufman Stadium became more of an opportunity to share my childhood with my girls than one with any expectations for great baseball. Far too many stories began with "remember when Freddy Patek...?". (No one did.)

I've never been so deliriously happy to be completely wrong.

Playing the kind of baseball that is incredibly fun to watch, putting together runs like puzzle pieces, and behaving like genuinely good guys who are just as excited to be winning as their fans are, the Royals are headed to the World Series. This team that together only hit 95 home runs in the regular season has now swept two teams and won 8 straight post season games, putting together runs pitch by pitch. The team that has not one super salaried star but plays together like they've been doing it since 1985 (even though most of them were not yet born in 1985) is showing everyone what scrappy baseball looks like and why it works. The Royals are making baseball a team sport once again and we are enjoying every stolen base.
 

When the Royals moved from Municipal Stadium to Kaufman, we moved with them, summer days now spent in section 306, third base side.It was here that I announced to my Dad I was too old for the baseball cap he had dropped on my head, here that my grandfather saw his last game, and here that I watched, with my dad, Grandfather and sister, the Royals win Game 7 of the 1985 World Series. My view has changed; Royal blue cap on head I'll watch every game of the upcoming series with three new seatmates, not in section 306 but 500 miles away, remembering how great it is to be a Royals fan and loving every minute of this amazing year.

Is This the End of the Story?

Usually on September 25th I share a funny story about my Dad. There's been no shortage, my Dad was the funniest person I have ever known. But last week, when I realized that The Day was again sneaking up on me I could not think of one wonderful story about my Dad that I wanted to share. Not one more. And then it hit me, I'm working with a finite amount of stories, the real truth is that his story is over, and what is left is mine to tell but there will be no new material. That smarts.

Dad's stories are generally big and colorful and hilarious, which is just how he lived his life, and which is just how I remember him. But in the 12 years that he has been gone I have lost some of the day to day memories, those stories where he was just simply a good guy raising two daughters, being a good friend and father who worked hard and did what he thought was best. Somehow in the scramble to remember the time he egged the neighbors in Mexico, the ones whose chickens woke us each morning at a very non vacation hour, I have lost some of the simplicity of daily life with the best person I have ever known.

It happened, I know this because so much of who I am is Dad. I hear him when I joke with my girls about growing up, in my ability to remember the name of almost every person I meet (or to at least place them correctly), and in my near passionate interest in history and politics (albeit from the other side of the table). I know that when I am really happy, when my house is full of good friends and family and I am cooking and laughing and enjoying the people I love, my Dad is not too far away. I do not smoke cigars or eat beef but so much of what I like about me is what I loved about Dad.

Maybe that is how I remember the stories, by making my own: by being the best Mom I can; by treating my children with respect; by teaching them how to laugh, especially at themselves; by being a good friend to the amazing people who chose to spend time with me; and by working the best I can at what I love.

Maybe his stories are always with me, if I just slow down to listen and make my own.

Great stories about my Dad found here. The ones I remember.

Jimmy Carter in the Pantry, Now on the Stage

When you opened the pantry you saw this, green Carter stickers covering every single jar, or so it seemed to my ten year old eyes. For those few months leading up to the 1976 presidential election my family owned more peanut based products than Lillian Carter.

My father was a Republican, a rooting tooting flag waving Texas educated Republican. The candidacy of Jimmy Carter was the greatest gift ever bestowed upon my politically minded and quick witted father; he had dinner party material for years thanks to the peanut farmer from Georgia. He also had peanuts, tons and tons of peanuts.

The son of one of Dad's best friends, a Texan, was a Jimmy Carter loyalist. The boxes began to appear not long after Dad returned from a Houston trip: peanut butter, peanut brittle, spicy Texas peanut barbecue sauce, roasted peanuts, salted peanuts, raw peanuts. There was peanut oil, peanut flavored cereals and peanut butter cookies. And every single one of them was wrapped in a bright green Jimmy Carter bumper sticker.

Disgusted, Dad wanted to toss the peanuts. Not so said Sharie, don't be wasteful, we'll eat it all. And so she set about, cooking skills generally limited to the browning of hamburger, to add a pop of peanut to every thing she created. For months we suffered through a myriad of dinners: goulash, spaghetti, stroganoff, all rooted in hamburger and with a dash of peanut butter. What was once a baseball game treat, roasted peanuts now appeared in every school lunch. My teeth suffered the joy of peanut brittle months before Christmas.  Early impressions of President Carter, because we were still eating peanuts long after inauguration day, were a bit peanut shaped.

Dad mellowed in his resistance, Sharie continued to thaw hamburger and I learned about inflation, energy, hostages and the Panama Canal.  By the time he left office, after four long years and a general creaming by Ronald Reagan, we were out of peanuts. History tells us it was not the most successful presidency, bested by the likes of scandalous Warren Harding and impeached Andrew Johnson. His work as a former President has been far more effective and respected, almost all of which my peanut loving father has missed.

President and Mrs. Carter are speaking Monday in Grand Rapids. We will be there with the girls who will know much more about the former president than I did at their age, but with far less peanut flavor.

Father's Day Tradicion

When dinner was dad's choice, on his birthday or father's day, he would choose pork tenderloin, Spanish rice and banana cream pie. He rarely wavered and, I think, preferred his mother's birthday meal to all others. Once I progressed beyond Minute Rice and microwave popcorn I did my best to learn how to make my grandmother's version of Dad's favorite meal. The pie portion was always a disaster but in time I was able to put together a decent pork tenderloin, despite having not eaten pork in ten years, and some very nice tasting Spanish rice.

Yesterday morning the girls and I wandered the aisles at the grocery store, trying to come up with something interesting to make for dinner as Jack, who usually opts for dinner out, choose spending Father's Day at home. He's a meat eater married to a quasi vegetarian so on this day, and his birthday, I will consider the idea of perhaps, but not always, preparing meat. It was the mangoes that inspired me, "what if we make a pork tenderloin on the grill, we can have fish also, and then make tacos?". We bought avocados, cilantro and tortillas, plus jicama and cucumber for a salad.

As Kate and I put together a marinade for the pork I decided to add rice to our meal, using a salsa verde to make a green Spanish rice. It was then that I noticed, without intention I was creating my own version of my Dad's favorite meal, and my Mexico loving father would have welcomed my stuffing his beloved pork tenderloin into a corn tortilla to be topped with tomatoes, cilantro and crema.

The one who cheered for me most and yelled at me often (most notably on that decision to not eat meat) still impacts the choices I make every day. Salud Dad, it was a most delicious dinner, but we skipped the pie. Best to end on a high note and ice cream cones are just down the block.

Dammit Allyson It's Mother's Day

He would have said, "God dammit Allyson, it's Mother's Day".

And I would have said, "but Dad it's your birthday".

And he'd guffaw and lean back in his chair, "yes, and it has been for  years. Go, celebrate with your family, you're a mother now, more important than being a daughter".

"But Dad..."

"Although I really don't know about you celebrating Mother's Day, as far as I can see you should just celebrate Father's Day twice. Seems to me that husband of yours does all the hard work."

But he didn't say that, although I know that he would have.

Happy Birthday Dad, Happy Mother's Day Me.

And Dad, Jack does all the laundry.

 

My Dad and his Ten Pretty Toes

We knew by the snoring that he had fallen asleep.

There is a better than average chance that this was my idea but at 7 my sister was a very willing participant, if not instigator. Being 15 I was the one traveling with bright red nail polish, which does throw a bit of suspicion my way.

We tiptoed over to Dad's bed and pulled back the comforter. There they were, ten big old man toenails just aching to be bright red. Toe by toe we covered them all, he barely moved, save a few loud snore grunts. Leaving the comforter back, so as not to ruin his pedicure, we went to bed.

Dad woke up first, always an early riser, especially in Mexico. Ashley and I slumbered on until he could take it no more, "get up lazy girls, let's go get breakfast". He slid into his old huaraches, the ones he had made for him every year, and we walked across the street. I first saw them when we stepped outside, the bright sun reflecting gloriously off of Dad's ten shiny red toes. They peaked out from the front of his huaraches, those wonderful old sandals braided together with rough leather, all attached to an old tire tread sole. They were truly hideous, an absolute departure for my wonderful buttoned up father. He wore them constantly, but never like this before.

The minute Ashley saw the toes I knew we were finished, there was no way we could keep this under control while our big former football playing father stepped to the counter, his sparkly toes begging for an outdoor table with a nice view. His large frame kept his eyes at least six feet from his pretty toes; I think he was somewhere in his chilaquiles before he stole a glance at his feet. And there they were, in all their manicured glory, ten glorious toes that he had never before studied with such intensity.

"My toenails are pink."

We giggled, "really kind of red Dad, not so much pink".

This was a man who, having graduated from Texas A&M, was well versed in every shade of maroon known. The subtle differences in pink and red escaped him.

"We'll be removing this soon?"

Yes, of course, but I didn't have any polish remover. And Dad didn't have any other shoes so we walked the three blocks to the pharmacy and used his toes as a visual aid to describe, in my high school (but not fluent in beauty products) Spanish what we needed. The nice lady smiled and nodded, as if we were the 43rd American tourist family to come in that day looking for polish remover for our father's toes.

We begged him to stay red for the day, he insisted it be removed before going to dinner. Dad's brush with his wild side lasted less than six hours, time enough for him to outdo his previous record of total  "God Dammit Allyson" expletives hurled at me, one fired off every time he glanced down at his feet.

Those huaraches had never looked better, he wore it well.

A Story About My Dad

I love this picture of my Dad.

My grandmother loved to tell me stories about Dad in college, how he would call and ask if he could bring a friend home and then show up with 8 others. How the boys would sleep on the floor, all over the house, and she would cook for them all weekend, and then send them back to school with food to last for months. How the boys loved to visit and spend time with Dad's younger sister, and how much he hated his friends "making eyes" at Lynda.

When Dad died we had a memorial service at his club, which was his request, rather than a sad and weepy funeral in a church he had lost touch with years before. Many of his friends spoke, as did I, and it became just what he hoped for: a roast and celebration of his amazing life. Bo, a friend from college, told stories about Dad eating "fish" on Friday, a chicken fried steak from Worman's, on which he had sprinkled water, to bless it. He remembered the first drill of freshman year when all the underclassmen were removed from their beds in the middle of the night: 29 young men from west Texas in t-shirts and boxers and my Dad, in monogrammed pajamas.

It was always that way.

My dad was happiest when he was with his friends. He was the cook, the tour guide, the chauffeur and the host. And he was always, almost always, appropriately dressed.

My dad was the same guy at 62 that he was at 18. Monogrammed pajamas became monogrammed robes, chicken fried steak was still a sacred food, and his friends, we know, loved him just as much as he loved them.

It's good to know who you are, even if you need your initials on your sleeve to remind you.

Happy birthday Dad.

Elephant in the House

Re-posted from September, 2008, when Mary, at four, was a John McCain fan and I saw history repeating itself in my home.

When you ask Mary who she is voting for she replies quickly, "John McCain".

My father was a Republican, a flag waving rompin' stompin' Republican educated at Texas A&M. I was schooled, at a very young age, that the only party was the grand old party. On my 18th birthday Dad took me to register to vote. That November I proudly cast my ballot for Walter Mondale. My father was defeated, a failed father. And I a failed voter, Mondale of course losing in a landslide.

My father tried for years to correct his mistakes. He did everything in his power to show me the Republican way. He tried, he really did, but in all that schooling he taught me to be an independent, and critical, thinker. He also created a political junkie who lives for this time of year. I never turned to Dad's side, we battled for years, he finally resigning himself to his vote canceling out mine (and vice versa). All his dreams came true when they built the Bush library on the A&M campus, two of the greatest things in the world coming together in one place. Dad proudly wrote his check of support and then had my name added to the Donor Wall.

My four year old daughter, who has a doll named Barack Obama, is going to cast her four year old vote for John McCain. My father, wearing an Aggie hat and waving a McCain sign, is dancing in heaven.

Old Table, New Math

We sat for over two hours at the dining room table. Jack was at the Ryder Cup and I was left alone, on September 25th, with two third graders and 4 pages of magic squares.

They began in first grade, this cruel mind challenging math odyssey meant to torment the parents who might not have done so well in math when they were in school. I went to Kate's teacher, holding the paper in front of me and said "tell me, did I learn this when I was 6? I have no idea how to do this", and she assured me that this was all new. My parents were not made to feel inadequate and small by the numbers lined in a square, somehow totaling the same seemingly random number. 

It doesn't seem that long ago that I sat at this table with my dad, struggling to make sense of X , trying to understand why a letter was suddenly appearing in a number sentence. He worked patiently but to be fair, he wasn't too successful. That X still confounds me; I dread the day it creeps into the folders of my budding mathematicians.

My dad would enjoy this, watching me struggle with his two granddaughters, hoping that they both inherited their father's aptitude for math and not mine (which did not happen).  As a parent I now know how hard it must have been, to watch me look at a page of algebra as if someone had put an essay in German in front of me and asked for a translation. As a daughter I know he would laugh at my want to tear my hair out when simple division elicits a completely blank stare.

And so we sat on September 25th, not toasting my dad over steaks with big glasses of wine as has been the case in years past, but at the same exact dining room table where I sat not so long ago, quietly toasting his memory with magic squares. He would have liked to have been there, and I could certainly have used help with the math.

Treading Water in the Shallow End

Not so many years ago someone said, when referring to me, that I was simple minded. Not her words exactly but the essence was that I was lucky to be able to go through life unencumbered by deep thoughts, and I do know that she used the word deep. Prior to that I had not heard the word deep used, outside of swimming pool references, since junior high when Susie would pass me notes that said "that is so deep!" after quoting lines from her favorite Air Supply song.

The truth is, I can be deep, just like I can be obnoxious, but more often than not, I chose not to be. If deep means that I am so burdened by the challenge of daily living that I cannot be cordial to the cashier at Trader Joe's then I agree, I'm simple. If being deep means that I need to suffer through the agony and angst of motherhood, without allowing myself to be overcome with joy at the deliciousness of children, it's perfectly fine with me to stay in the shallow end.

When my father was in the hospital, when we thought he had just had a major stroke and was certainly dying, the very night that I flew 500 miles to hold him close to me one last time, my aunt greeted me in the hospital hallway with "thank God you're here, we need to laugh a bit", and I felt, while suffocating in scared and lost, appreciated and home.

My truth is that I prefer to laugh, and sometimes I prefer to laugh when it might not be appropriate, when common convention tells us to be somber and morose. I've had my share of opportunities; from a life that was once so easy and fun, people have died, plans have changed, and I have cried.

After my grandmother's funeral, when none of us were ready to step away and let this be over, we moved our horrible day to a favorite restaurant. Late into the evening, after a wonderful meal and countless bottles of wine, the waiter asked what we were celebrating. The laughter that had been nonstop for hours came to an abrupt halt, there was an awkward pause, and I answered, "our grandmother". It was not the answer he expected but it was the best answer we had, and it was just the answer that Mimi would have loved. In the end it was the laughter that allowed us to hold onto each other for just a while longer.

Treading water in the shallow end has served me well.

I wish I could carry your smile in my heart
At times when my life seems so low
It would make me believe what tomorrow could bring
When today doesn't really know.

Now that's deep.

All Out of Love, written by Graham Russell, Clive Davis, and Lewis Martinee

Egg in the Mud

"You come here, you haven't been here in so long", and that, when coming from San Francisco is hard to resist. My side of the world was less exciting, and she was promising a spa day in Napa. I bought my ticket.

Where once we had been separated only by a bookcase, we were now over 2,000 miles apart, a thought unimaginable ten years prior. Before email, before Skype, we talked on the phone, constantly, and wrote letters, the wonderful old handwritten kind that now sit in a box in my closet. We met freshman year; I remember quite clearly that she was wearing a lime green suit and white pumps, although she dismisses this, horrified at the idea, and her very comfortable jean and cashmere sweater wearing self seems to negate my memory quite effectively. We were assigned as roommates sophomore year, the girl in the white pumps and the loud girl who wore plaid, which is how she remembers me, an image I cannot dispel. Her second impression, after a thorough scrutiny of my cassette tapes, was that I really liked Billy Joel. She was edgy, she had Flock of Seagulls hair and a taste for new music, crazy stuff like R.E.M. and INXS, I had a bob and John Denver. We were further apart than San Francisco and Chicago.

She spent her nights in the architecture studio, I spent mine at the Wheel. When my late night revelry caused her to oversleep and miss a final I thought we were done. A kind professor, a big heart and my slumbering through the last of Sociology 302 kept us together.

Where she is organized, I am madness. Eventually she learned to sign my name, being the responsible one when we moved from dorm to apartment, and bills had to be paid. As a person who liked to be at the airport two hours before her flight and forced to rely on someone who happily sauntered to the gate as the doors closed, she returned home with a wonderful gift to say thank you for living, only so briefly, on my schedule.

Years later she was at the gate to greet me, of course she was, she had been there for hours. I bet my flight was late. We ate at the garlic restaurant, Johnny Rockets and Hamburger Mary's; we got food poisoning somewhere on the wharf (and lived through it in her Marina neighborhood one bathroom studio apartment), and we rented a car and drove across the Golden Gate Bridge towards Napa Valley.

We stopped in St. Helena, the best small town I have ever seen, and ate sandwiches in the park from a wonderful market, next door to the most amazing kitchen store I could imagine. We were on our way to Calistoga, and the mud baths. Her friends recommended Dr. Wilkinson's Hot Springs, home to the man and the mud. My father was entertained by the entire idea, amused at the idea of the two of us paying money to be immersed in a pile of wet dirt.

Mud smells, and it's hot. It clogs your pores and makes it hard to breathe. With at least a fifty year cushion, we were the youngest people in the room. Every one of us was naked, although it seemed that we were the only ones exhibiting any sense of modesty at all, the rest of the mud sinkers, all seventy plus years of them, wandering from room to room, wearing little but scraps of dried old mud. Forcing yourself, naked, into a pile of warm mud takes youthful stupidity, old determination and strong arms.

My father delighted in this story, "Everyone else was old? And they didn't change the mud? You sat, naked, in used mud?". This had not occurred to me. "Why do you think the mud was so warm? What do you think the old gals did in that mud Allyson? How bad did it smell?". I hung up and called San Francisco, the shriek of horror could be heard across 2,000 miles.

Many years later, when Jack had to call her, on her birthday, to tell her that my father died, she cried, "not today, please not today". But she has shared this day, one of my very favorites, for bringing her into my world, and the worst possible I could imagine, for taking away someone I loved so much. It's become Bill Day, for celebrating and toasting my dad, but it will always be Egg's birthday, a reminder of the passing of time and the value of true friendships.

Twenty six years later we are still friends, best friends.

I wrote this to post on September 25th, but was, of course, late.
Happy birthday my friend!

Willing, But Not Able, to Share

When my sister was born, my father, who apparently desperately had hoped for a son, was not at all disappointed. According to my mother, who had just labored through the most traumatic and near death event of her entire life, he proudly held daughter number two and said "I will have wonderful sons-in-laws". And he does, but quite unfairly Jack only knew Dad for a very short time.

They should have had a chance to get into trouble together; there should have been mornings when I was so mad at the two of them that I considered leaving them alone with each other forever. They should have gone fishing in Belize in the winter and Canada in the summer, carelessly scheduling a trip that coincided with my birthday. They should have obnoxiously wagered Nebraska vs. Aggies football and they should have golfed, inconveniently, when I needed help with the children, but they didn't. Jack knew post car accident Dad, an aged and more fragile version of the Wild Bill that raised me. Dad's life changing car accident robbed him of the mad vitality and fearlessness that drove him to drive down the side of a mountain in a teetering on the edge car, to hurl raw eggs at neighbors in Mexico, and to launch himself through a hotel room wall in college (although I am not supposed to know about that one). Jack knew kindler and gentler Bill, who moved slowly and cautiously through his days. I'd take that version, any version really because I still miss my dad. And now, nine years later, what I really miss is sharing him.

He should have had the chance to know his granddaughters, to celebrate Kate's recent book writing achievement and Mary's consistent straight A report card. He should have cheered them at soccer games, played with them on the beach and told them stories about their mother that they should never had known (as his mother told me about the hotel room self body launch). He should have had the chance to hold them, to know them and to love them. And they should have had the chance to know and love him, but they didn't.

I should have had the time to share my dad.


Today is my Dad's birthday. Every year I think it will befuddle me a bit less, that I might be too busy to notice, but I'm wrong, it gets me still. The children who distract me and overwhelm me with love also remind me just how vast the empty space is, his missing presence grows larger as their capacity to have known him grows.

Mary and Mary and Mary

What should have taken about 20 minutes quickly stretched into an hour. The chance to run freely through a dimly light church sanctuary was irresistible, and the task at hand, selecting a gift tag from the altar tree, was sidelined en lieu of exploration.


Mary was immensely curious about all the candles, and the statue of Mary (THE Mary, not my small one) looming over the candle lighting area. We lit a candle and I explained about remembering those who have died, and saying a prayer. For my grandmother, a very old soul Catholic, the Virgin Mary was the mother of all and the one to whom you appealed for help in any situation. My Mary nodded, very focused and interested.

Mary knelt down on the prayer desk and I stepped away, over to the tree but still in hearing distance of her quiet, church appropriate, voice. She blessed herself, "Father, Son, Holy Spirit, amen" crossing her chest from right to left.

"Hello Mary, this is Mary. For Christmas, could Mimi and Grandaddy come back from heaven, just maybe for the day? That would make my mom really happy. Thank you".


She stood quietly, blessed herself again, and then promptly threw one small leg over the top of the kneeler. Wiggling furiously she managed to get her entire body on top before I could grab her and pull her away from landing on row after row of lit candles. I said my own blessing, for this child, for her kindness and her spirit; and for the circle of life that brought her to me. Merry Christmas Mary, Merry Christmas Me.