Home: January 15, 2008

A wonderful husband and father,
an inventor,
a farmer,
a life-long-learner,
a joker,
a story-teller,
at home with his Lord.

Miss You, Dad!

"Irvin, button up your shirt."
"Irvin, comb your hair."  That was Mom and their generation of picture-taking.
This was mine.

This photo and the next one were caught by other family members.

One of the things I loved most about my dad was how he cherished my mom . . . and loved his kids and grandkids!

When Life Hands You Lemons . . .

Our farm raised cooped-up chickens and free-range kids.  In 1960, we added dairy cows.  The new gadgets were a wonder, and everyone wanted to help.

The heaving black and white bodies arrived, and it fell to me to carry the milk.  From barn to milk house, I slopped frothy pails. As Dad had instructed, I threw the cooler’s switch, and the paddle circulated.  Every trip, the shiny bottom filled with swirling white. 

When we finished and cleaned up, Dad noticed the “other” switch.  Streaks of yellow were a giveaway.  I had turned on the paddle without refrigeration.  Our milking was becoming butter. 

Not particularly happy, Dad called the “factory” to come.  They turned it into cheese. 

I did so much right.  I worked hard and tried not to spill.  I turned one switch on, but one wasn’t enough.  Dad didn’t berate me or banish me to the henhouse.  He forgave my childish mistake and made the best of my mess.

What began with such enthusiasm ended rather sourly, but Dad demonstrated the flexibility of the Father.  Sometimes life hands you lemons, but when that happens, well . . . you just make cheese! 

Daddy Always Loved Me Best

 

Daddy always loved me best.  He thought I was the best looking, the brightest, and the most talented of all seven kids.

Okay, well maybe I wanted him to love me best.  Actually, I think he loved Gwen the best.  She was soft-spoken and calm.  She went about her mischief in quiet, smiley ways.  She was also one of those irritating people who has always known what she wanted to be.  When she was young, she wanted to be a nurse, even though she couldn’t stand the sight of blood; and today, she is a nurse.  I still don't know what I want to be.

Or maybe Gayle; maybe he loved her the best.  She was first with long, beautiful, auburn braids.  The rest of us got the bowl cut.  She was strong, intelligent, and a terrific little homemaker.  I was always a little less than terrific, but even though I didn’t do my chores as thoroughly, they were done with a flourish and a song.  It was the right-brain approach.

Then again, he probably liked Kathy best.  She was a self-sacrificing missionary type who went to the wilds of Africa with her husband, oldest daughter, and red-haired baby twin girls.  She was bold and courageous and fully in charge.  I only went to California.

Leah could have won his heart.  Actually, I know for a fact she did.  She was born early and the tiniest wee bit of nothing you ever saw.  I’ve seen a picture of her dangling from daddy’s big farmer hands—all spindly legs and arms.  She became a nurse, a musician, a singer, and a pastor’s wife.  She’s still tall and disgustingly lean.  I’m not really jealous; afterall, when you have more fat, the wrinkles don’t show as much, and it’s important to lay in an extra layer of fat for those brutal California winters.

Caroline was the baby—special, with a cute little overbite.  He loved her best.  She’s six feet tall and graceful—an artist and a musician.  She married a gentleman farmer of all things.  To top it off, she works extremely hard, which is a work ethic my dad admires.  Personally, I think she’s a bit compulsive.  I’ve never felt the need to work quite that hard; I’m saving myself for retirement.

Actually, I’m almost certain he loved my brother the best—a thorn among roses.  He’s tall, handsome, musical, and intelligent.  He’s one of those brilliant engineers who can put things in space but can’t match his socks.  He married well though, and she keeps him organized.   He didn’t take over the farm, so that’s a mark against him.  But he’s the only one of us who had his own room, so Daddy must have loved him best.  It may have been a walk-in closet, but it was a special space for someone who had a special place.  I’ve always resented him for that. 

Now that I think of it, I don’t think Daddy was in the least bit partial.  He always said he was proud of us and loved us all the same.  I guess I just wanted him to love me more.  Probably a suppressed desire to be a spoiled only-child.

He loved us all the best.  He often said he wouldn’t take a million dollars for any one of us; but, of course, he wouldn’t take a plug nickel for another one either.

Now he’s enjoying his role as a grandfather of twenty grandchildren.  His grandchildren are the best looking, the most talented, and the brightest; but do you know what?  He loves my kids the best.

(written a while back)

Missing my father . . .

Graduation Day

Rasping struggles for breath,

chest heaving—tubes in and out—

nurses in and out,

teeth out.

Munch’s gaping jaw and sunken cheeks,

knobby joints in Auschwitz limbs,

long legs once sinewy strong, and

farmer-tan arms that cradled my whole world.

I don’t think I can sing, Daddy; my throat’s tight.

I hum.  The best I can do. 

You smile.

I smooth your soft, white hair,

stroke your flaccid arms.  Was that an

“I love you”?  “I love you, too.”

Hour by hour, day after day,

night after night vigils in institutional chairs,

strong coffee, tasteless muffins,

shame for laughing round the bed.

I sing.  I kiss.  Giving and

giving when for once you can’t give back.

And you smile.  I hold your big hands,

not rugged-rough, no purple-black nails,

but soft, papery thin skin, one size too big.

“I love you, Daddy.”  You squeeze.

Gasping breaths, light

fading in your pale blue eyes,

slits behind flitting lids.

I sing tear-streaked hymns.

“I love you, Daddy.”  I squeeze.

Gone.       Still

in a breathless moment.

Under tentative fingertips, warm turns cold.

I never thought I could touch

a corpse,

but how could I not touch you, Daddy. 

It’s a last goodbye.

(For my exceptional father, who graduated from this life January 15, 2008)

The Ugliest Little Tree

            The dusting of snow on the windowsills shifted back and forth with soft winter breathings.  There was no storm in the air as a pale gauzy sun descended behind the horizon, only a chill skimming fields laid out ivory with winter’s wrinkles.  Shortbread was baked and stored.  Christmas cake plump with dried fruits was wrapped tightly in foil and packed away in the unheated summer-kitchen, taking advantage of nature’s refrigeration.  Festive cards from friends and family framed the doorway to the parlor and hung on string drooped across walls.  The only thing left was to decorate a tree.  After supper, Daddy bundled up and set off with his ax into the bush to find the perfect pine.  

            Boxes of ornaments and tangled strings of big knobby lights stretched across the floor as wide-eyed youngsters waited impatiently.  At the sound of stomping boots outside, we flew to the inside kitchen door in anticipation of Daddy’s grand entrance to present his acquisition—the perfect Christmas tree.  The door opened with a winter whoosh filled with prickles and green.  There stood the ugliest little tree we had ever seen.  It limped forward directed by unseen hands.  Daddy planted it solidly in the middle of the linoleum for inspection unaware of the sinking feeling this undernourished specimen was having on our Christmas spirits. 

Our farm, almost completely surrounded by healthy forest, teemed with pine and spruce.  Even along the country roads, trees lined the fences free for Christmas cutting. This five-foot waif with its sparse branches and spare twisted needles looked more like the dry cast-offs that fill the dump a week after celebration, rather than the ones that usually adorn homes with fragrant crushed scent.

With not just a little whining and exaggerated sighing, the tree was placed in a bucket of sand and stood in a corner of the parlor cleared for the occasion.  Colored lights were strung first—wires showing, with ghastly flickers fingering all the vacant places.  Red bulbs, green bulbs, golden orbs, and odd little handmade do-dads found secure moorings, with anxious hands vying for the next ornament to come out of the box.  Holiday hymns played softly on the hi-fi as errant snow flurries peeked in at the windows.  Long strands of tinsel were meticulously laid bough by bough till, in a frenzy, impatience and enthusiasm started pitching the silver streamers every which way.  Tinsel landed on the floor and in the hair.  Some even lighted on the tree and some on me. Giggles had long replaced sighs.  Laughter had long displaced whining; and somewhere in the transformation of our attitudes, the tree received a miraculous transformation, as well.

 As the treetop star found its final perch, we stood back to ooh and ah at our handiwork.  It was surprisingly beautiful.  Our glittering tree, however, seemed more ornament than tree.  In the decorating, it had become something greater than itself.

I don’t imagine I thought deep philosophical thoughts at the time.  I was just relieved that we’d rescued the ugly little thing and let Daddy off the hook.  But as I think back now, I am reminded of the rich ornaments of grace that adorn my ugly little self.  Just as a small sparse pine tree became greater than itself with the help of our Christmas decorations, so my small sparse life in the hands of the Savior has come to reflect the adornments of a bright spiritual transformation.  God has made me more than I could ever possibly be by myself.  The beauty has come in the change.

Out of all the thickly boughed evergreens to choose from, I’m not sure why Daddy would pick the ugliest one in the forest.  Intentional?  I like to think that as he walked through the lonely snow-sculpted landscape, he chose the tree in most need of adornment.