Digging An Ash Hole....

Today was July 5th. I've pointed out in last year's blog post: Eat, Drink, Be Merry, Blow Things Up, Get Married, July 4th was one of my Dad's favorite holidays. July 5th was also a big celebration, as it was my parents' anniversary. Timehop can be your best friend or worst enemy, depending on one's grief level for a day. Today it reminded me that I posted this gem of a picture seven years ago - Dad outside of a Chinese place we went for their anniversary that year. Spoiler alert: It wasn't good. But the picture are priceless. 

This year we celebrated in a different way. Mom has been working tirelessly at dismantling Dad's old garden in the corner of the yard. These last few days we, with the help of some other great people, finished a few projects in the yard to prepare for today. And then we planted some items in his old garden. First, however, we spread some of Dad's ashes in the holes. 

Which means we dug ash holes. For an asshole. I mean, for Dad. He would have loved that joke, so don't feel bad laughing at it. 

First we spread some of Dad's ashes in both of the holes:

                               

Then we had to listen to my sister freak out because I told her she had some Dad on her hands before we planted a burning bush and a lilac tree in the front corners of the garden he spent so much time building, maintaining, and enjoying the fruits of his labor from. 

                     

The neighbor's even rescued his hideous pet pig that Mom banished outside years ago. He loved that pig. And then somehow, the ears fell off. That's right, Mom, I'm looking at you. Last week the best neighbors ever saw him outside. Mom told them we were going to put it in the garden when we were done with it. So they took him home, glued his ears on, and painted him. Today, Grandma felt like his future was so bright he needed to wear shades.

But then we gave him the very serious job of watching over the garden. And not just because Mom is happy to get rid of that hideous little statue that Dad sat next to his chair for years. But because we didn't want Dad to be lonely. 

When Mom and Dad moved into this house, more than 35 years ago - she told him she wanted a purple tree and a red tree and that was it. So now she will have that. Hopefully the burning bush we planted isn't any indication of Dad's afterlife. But the lilac tree was dug up this morning from a place he planted it in the front yard - years ago - from just one little stick. As we pointed out today, with Dad in there they should grow like crazy. If nothing else,he was sometimes full of crap - so he ought make for great fertilizer. (Again, don't feel guilty, he would have gotten a kick out of that one too.) 

We didn't take a handful of ashes and blow them away so we could make jokes about blowing him off one last time. (Keep it PG here, kids). But we did partake in one of his favorite activities while in the garden. We took a selfie of everyone who stopped by, after we finished the garden. 

We also headed to Dari-Dip earlier this afternoon and picked up dilly bars.We all know much that man loved Dari-Dip and his ice cream. So we had friends, family, ice cream, and a hideous pig. 

Mom said a few words about how today was their first date 39 years ago. Apparently, Dad was always looking for a great deal and took her to Burger King. Which is fitting, because she did treat him like a king for the next 37 years. After that we just stored him in a box in the closet. 

And she did go to great efforts to make sure he has a great spot. Where we can visit him, talk to him, and if my dog was any indication today - roll around in the dirt at. 

All in all, Dad would have given it two thumbs up. 

And then told us we planted him wrong. I'm pretty sure of that. 

See ya tomorrow, Pops. Try not to kill the plants. 

Just Another Day

Father's Day can be tough. I get it. Your parent is gone. A piece of you feels missing. It's easy to believe that the day doesn't have meaning. Or rather, that the meaning for your day is gone. Some of us treat it as it's just another day. 

My mother and I had a long discussion about this very thing, this morning. Everyone is allowed to (and should) grieve in their own manner. Some choose to move along as if the day doesn't happen. Others decide to mourn the loss of their loved one. My mother is amazing for lots of reasons. First, she put up with all of my dad's crap long enough to have two (amazing, if I do say so myself) children. Then there was "typical" mother stuff. I know some people have less than wonderful parental experience. But, to me, all the things my mom did as I grew up just felt like things parents were supposed to do: she showed up to all my games (and I played a lot of sports), she encouraged me, she supported me, she did my hair, took me to school, picked me up after every (oh God, so many) practices. This seemed normal to me. The being truthful when I sucked at things part was hard then, but now I see the merit in it. This was all so common place in our house - the fact that I had great parents - that I thought everyone had this. Dealing with my father's cancer the way she did was extraordinary, however, there was never a doubt in my mind. She did everything in her power to make sure my sister and I had a father for as long as we could. But she's also beyond compare for sadder reasons: she knows how much we loved our father - so she gets our sadness. But she also lost her father when she was just 19. Well, she didn't lose him - she knows where he is. But it also puts her into the: what do we do with Father's Day now club. So she's understanding, she's helpful, she's willing to listen to me about it and comprehends the importance of those early morning discussions. 

Now, this doesn't mean she always agrees with me. Last year she did scold me for trying to do a Native American rain dance with hopes that it would ruin all the Father's Day cookouts. This morning, she did, though. Father's Day sucks. Yes. My father is dead. Don't worry, I'm not going to make a bad joke about that. I did that this morning on Facebook. 

But that doesn't mean I can't celebrate him. It doesn't mean I can't mock him. Laugh at him. Poke fun at his expense. I mean, the beauty of having a dead Dad? I always get the last word. That must be burning him up somewhere. Let's hope he's not really burning up though. So today we celebrated. And laughed. And told Dad stories.We even went through some of his old t-shirts, looking for ones to wear.

I will forever remember today as the day I learned my father must have worn half shirts in the 80s - because seriously, look how short this shirt is. 

We went to breakfast at one of his favorite local spots. 

We sported mustache rings I purchased at a Relay for Life event a few weeks ago.

We went to his favorite casino and I lost all my money. My sister looks so happy here because she did NOT lose all her money. I should have taken a picture before we went in, instead of as we were leaving, eh? 

And then we went to one of Dad's all-time favorite places. 

And ate Redamak's burgers. 

We listened to stories about Dad taking Mom up on the back of his motorcycle when they were young. Back when Mom let him have a motorcycle. This means she was either not smart yet, or really in love with my Dad. 

Then we came home. My mother made us each two framed collages of Dad. We decorated them and sealed them back up. 

It was a great metaphor. The pictures won't change - just like our memories. But we can add to them, enjoy them, and cherish them. We can revisit them every day and smile. They are forever ours. Just like the day can be, too. We still have a father.So we can celebrate Father's Day. We just get to spend the money on ourselves instead of on him. Not exactly a win. But we'll call it a tie.  

And don't worry, I still found an appropriate Dad shirt to wear. Even if it was tempting to wear a #1 Dad shirt just to confused the masses.

Oh The Places You'll Go

Today is a year to the day of Dad's funeral. A lot has changed in a year. We've been places, we've grieved, we've laughed, we've made new friends, we've cherished old relationships, we've heard stories we didn't know about Dad, we've finally gotten past the routine that used to be our old life. 

It's been over 52 weeks since I had to clean a trach, or make Dad a smoothie. It's been 365 days since my Mom said "Hey, let's harass your Dad and put him in the wheelchair and take him outside." 

Dad has, however, been on an few field trips. 

He went to work with me

He went out to breakfast with Emily, Mom, and I

He went out to coffee with my friends 

 

I would like to say I took him (most of) these places on purpose. But really, I put him in my purse one day and there he's stayed. At first it was because I forgot...and if you know me? You know there's one of everything in my purse. It's a Mary Poppins bag. Only Mary Poppins (probably) didn't have a dead guy in her bag. Who knows though. Where DID that spoonful of sugar really come from? We'll never know. Then it just became a habit to jokingly pull him out at places and say I brought my Dad along. Most recently, it's been more of a sense of comfort, perhaps. Knowing he's always there. 

And he is, not just in mini-urn-to-freak-out-friends fashion - but in my  heart. I felt like my heart would break into a million bits the day he died. Instead it grew larger. So that I could carry him, his memories, his love wherever I went. 

In exactly a week, I'll take him with me - probably in both heart and urn - when I walk my baby sister down the aisle. It's not the wedding I ever envisioned. I always thought that Dad would be there. And that we'd see his terrible Dad dancing when their first dance happened. But he will be there. In spirit, and in our memories. And in the terrible jokes I am going to say the entire way down the aisle with her. I'm sure that he would approve. He'd probably disown me if I didn't. And in his memory, I think after I give her away (I've been trying to get people to pay for years, but no luck. I suppose I'll have to go for just giving her away at this point.) I'll say "First, let's take a selfie." I hope that Pastor Duane is ready for us next week. 

And I hope I can do half as good as he would have at telling her how proud he is of her, how much he loved her, how much we'll all miss having her around all the time. And not just because someone has to be the butt of all my jokes. But because she's my little sister. The only person that shares my Mom and Dad's blood with me. The only person who knows my Dad the way I do. Although, to be fair - we can eat gluten without guilt once she's gone. And Dad would have agreed that this is a win. 

We'll probably have to make Dad's urn a tiny suit. He always said that he only wore suits to funerals and weddings. I'd like to imagine he looks a bit like this next week, when we all gather together to finally give my sister away. 

That face he's making? It's him saying: Stop taking pictures. Knock it off. Or maybe it's: How'd I get such a pretty lady to stand next to me? (Hi, Mom!)

If only they'd kept that gift receipt 23 years ago. I'd be an only child. And my life would be less full. (Of jokes. CHECK!)