If I Were a Bluebird...

 Funny how music can evoke the essence of someone. Today, while doing some cleaning, I was going through a pile of CD's, and came across a CD compilation I put together for my father many years ago. It was the fall of 2003, in fact, and he was losing the battle against cirrhosis of the liver. His had given out and there wasn't a thing they could do.

He and I had been estranged for several years , and it was strange to think that this was really happening, and without time for us to truly reconcile. He lived 10 hours away, and the disease was progressing way too fast. My older sister, Cheryl, was staying with him at the time, so I put together a care package for them, and included the CD.



The one connection we always shared was music. Even at the worst of times between us, we might still be able to connect by sharing an album or a song. When I put this CD together I considered deeply what songs he would enjoy in one way or another. Some were nostalgic, and some just spoke to his likes and the situation at hand. An homage to memories of moments past, a tribute to the one major bridge between us.

So, when I found the CD today, I had to play it. It brought to mind the way I felt at the time I made it, the tears that were shed as I assembled the tracks, imagining my dad listening to it, and what he would think of each song. It was, in a way, a long distance I love you.

Many of the tunes conjure images of days at the cabin on White Ash Lake. We spent many weekends there growing up, and I can remember fishing from the rowboat with my dad. Or fishing off the dock, reeling in sunfish and perch. The sun on the water, the breeze through the trees, the laughter of children, the grown-ups playing horse shoes and telling stories. Sometimes there would even be music - my aunts playing ukelele and accordion, everyone singing along to songs like "You are my sunshine". Bright days...

I recall sleeping on the cabin porch, my parents in the bed across the way. The air so fresh. The night sky laden with stars. And, then, the sound of the birds early in the morning, the chill at the first light of day. I listened to the adults talk over coffee and eggs in the morning, my mom and my grandmother catching up on grown-up things.

A few of the selections on the disc stand out to me...

"Bluebird", by Emmylou Harris, brings to mind the many miles my father traveled for work. He drove a great deal of the time, listening to music on his radio, then 8-track, then cassette player, over miles and miles. He acquired a vast collection over the years, and I would often "borrow" an album or two. I would, in turn, make him a tape from time to time, something new for him to listen to.

One of those tapes was of Jennifer Warnes singing the songs of Leonard Cohen - "Famous Blue Raincoat". He loved it. To this day it's still one of my favorite albums, and every time I listen to it I am reminded of my father.

Tom Waits' "Picture in a frame" - Tom's gruff voice, beautiful words and melody, illustrates how I imagine my father's love for my mother to be. When it was young and innocent. Raw and new. Such a beautiful song. I hope he liked it. Saw himself in it the way I saw him.

"Song of Bernadette" by Jennifer Warnes - this one always brings me to the brink of tears. Such emotion, beautifully sung, the strings, Jennifer's golden voice. I know my father loved this song, and I always will. "Every now and then, we try/to mend the damage that we've done/Tonight/Tonight/I just can't rest/I've got this joy here inside my breast/to think that I did not forget/that child/that song of Bernadette".

Amazing bridge, music. Like magic. The sounds and flavors and interpretations infinite - unlike our time here on this planet. My father used to say that Hell was a place where there was no music. I'm inclined to agree.

At first I couldn't sleep. Now, it's all I want to do...

Six months. Goes by in a blink. So hard to believe, but she's been gone six months. Oh, how I miss you, Mom. I think of you all the time. And when I'm not thinking of you, something, the smallest thing, brings you back to my mind.

I have been prone to bouts of insomnia during times of stress. All summer long, while you were sick I had trouble sleeping. I tried relaxation, ambien, wine, walks, music. My brain wouldn't shut off, and when it finally did and I started to fall asleep my legs took over and walked miles all night.

I remember the day it changed. Your life was coming to an abrupt end. We had no idea it was going to happen so fast. You never wanted to talk about wills, or power of attorney--things like that. But now we were running out of time. I went to your house and we talked a bit about it again, and decided that I would print everything out for you to read and sign. Then I had to find witnesses to sign the papers. I remembered the name of one of the pastors at the church you and Laura attended and looked him up. Called him. He was so kind and willing to help. He and his wife came by so quickly. I brought out the papers and read them out loud to both you and the pastor and his wife. After reading the will you looked at me and you said "Very Good". One of the last coherent things I ever heard you say.

Then the pastor sat with you and read from scripture. It's not my thing, I'm afraid I couldn't tell you which bit he read. But he read it to you, and then prayed with you. He told you that you would be going to heaven, and you said you"hoped so". He said he "knew so". That's when every fiber in my being calmed. Something went click and I knew that I would actually be able to sleep that night. It was a long day and night. I didn't get home until after midnight. But I did sleep.

I went to work the next morning and by early afternoon the call came from Cheryl telling me that you were truly dying and that there wasn't much time left. I left work and went straight to Oostburg. There were no more conversations to be had. It was true. You were leaving.

And then you were gone.

Afterward I did have trouble sleeping from time to time. But once I slept it was all I wanted to do. It's all I want to do now. I've been a night owl my whole life. I like to sleep in. But it's different now. Sundays are the worst. I tell Joe, when he comes into the bedroom to see me sleeping still, "give me a reason", "what's my motivation to get up and join the world today?". Eventually, I do get up. I do what is necessary, and that's about it. Hey, the vacuuming is done, the bed is made. Whoop-dee-doo.

I'm trying. I really am. I feel ashamed. Other people, normal people, get up early. They get things done. By the time I get going (unless it's a work day) it's already noon. As if I don't already have enough guilt in my life, there's this. I know that I'll stay up late. I'll do some chores, take care of the birds, surf a little web, watch something on Netflix, crochet. But I'm missing the flame, the flicker, the gusto. Maybe it's just winter blues, maybe the spring will make it better. I hope so. In the meantime, I'm in a walking coma.

You Can't Fool Me

Damn, I miss her. My Mom. How is it we go on, day after day, and she is no longer here? No telephone can reach her. No email, no Facebook post. No US mail, either.

It's will be three months, come Thanksgiving. We had hoped she would live to see Christmas. Maybe even the Superbowl. No such luck. She's gone, and there is nothing can be done about it.

I miss her. I've wanted to call her so many times. I've had news to share. Funny stories to amuse her with. I miss her laugh. I miss making her laugh.

Since I was a child, one of favorite things was to be able to make Mom laugh. No matter what it took. Whether it was singing a goofy song, ratting my hair out in a pseudo-fro, or dressing up in way-too-oversize overalls and talking with a bad southern accent, I loved making her laugh. If I could make her laugh, everything would be okay

Even in those last months, when things were so serious and scary, I wanted to make her laugh.
To amuse. Divert her attention. Ease her mind. Ease my own. And sometimes it worked. Laughter does heal, after all. But not enough.

I keep hoping to dream of her, at least. To have some sleep-driven conversation. To hear her laughter. Especially when she would laugh so hard it was followed-up at the end with a big, long, snort. I want to see her face. I want to hug her again. Hold her hand again. Travel cross-country with her again.

I know, I know, I can carry her in my heart. Memories will always keep her near. But you can't fool me. It's not the same. And, not for nothin', but that ain't funny.

Sadness Upon Sadness

Pretty Boy Pumpkin

8-24-06 to 9-4-10

As if my heart wasn't breaking already, we have lost another beautiful soul. My beautiful birdie Pumpkin. His illness came on suddenly. There was nothing we could do but make him comfortable. The vet tried. We tried. I held him in my hands this morning and talked to him softly as he passed away. My husband and I both cried. His playmates will miss him. We will miss him. I will miss him incredibly. He has been a spunky, cheerful, faithful friend. He was Tori's best friend. The flock will never be the same. But we will love them all. And we will talk of Pumpkin every day.

Maybe he is perched right now atop my mother's shoulder. Both gone within one week. My heart aches with sorrow.

We love you, Pumpkin.