Three Years (part two)

“Footprint”

Dear Dad,

You had some big-ass feet. A size 11, if I’m not mistaken? I can still hear the sound of those giant spoons shuffling down the tile hallway on a Saturday morning. It was an unmistakable sound; unlike Mom’s swift little steps that hurried down the hallway, on her way to start her weekend cleaning binge. They were calm, yet joyful… shwsh, swoosh, shwsh, swoosh… all the way down the hall. If I was lucky, I’d awaken to your soft shuffling, rather than the vacuum cleaner, but that was always a gamble. Either way, once those feet shuffled by, I knew it meant the weekend was here. It meant I’d come out of my room to find you at the dining room table eating a bowl of Cheerios and starting in on the newspaper. It meant you were about to greet me from behind a page of ads, look up and say “Mornin’ kiddo. Looks like they’re having a sale at Fry’s, wanna go?” God, I miss that shuffling sound.

Big-ass feet (and Turner toes) aside, though, you’ll never know the true size and strength of the footprint you left behind. You’ll never know that every one of your friends came to visit you in your last few days, and you held on until the very last person who needed to say goodbye had shown up. You’ll never know that more than a hundred people filled the Northridge Country Club on this day three years ago, the day before New Year’s Eve, to show their support — a crowd that included your family, your friends from 40 years ago, Mom’s side of the family, my friends from high school (some who wished their dads were more like my dad), the entire office of Fischer Tile, and the tile setters and finishers that gladly took standing room at the back when every last seat was filled. You’ll never know how many wonderful, funny, and perfectly inappropriate stories were shared in your memory. You’ll never know that Aurora still asks about you. You’ll never know that you have another granddaughter, Rowen, and she has your eyes.

Three years ago on this day, we gathered to say goodbye. I remember every moment of that day in vivid detail, unlike the entire month prior, spent in a fog of tears, hospice care, DNR’s, phone calls and planning… with only broken pieces of memories from that time that still occasionally surface. Today is a day of closure. If you can hear me out there, somewhere, give me a little shwsh, swoosh to let me know you’re listening.

“Borrowed Time”
My dad played the guitar almost all his life. I remember being serenaded to “Froggie Went a Courtin’” as young as five years old… he even learned how to play “It’s a Small World” for my sister and me after our family trip to Disneyland.  He was diagnosed with advanced stage kidney cancer in May of 2005, and doctors estimated that he had only one more year left with us. I took this photo on May 19th, 2006, shortly after that year had passed; when he was living on “borrowed time.” Not long after, his cancer treatments left his hands and fingers too sore to play the guitar again. And the song he was playing here? Stairway to Heaven.

Three Years (part one)

to view *PHOTO SLIDESHOWS* – click here

Dear Dad,

Yesterday marked three years that you’ve been gone. I’ve decided that today I will celebrate the time you were here with your favorite story. I’m sure you never knew just how much of an impact you made on so many lives in your 55 years.

“Golf Balls”
Once there was a man, who had two young daughters. At the end of each day, he would read their favorite stories, tuck them into bed, and kiss them “good night.” The girls grew older, and soon each of them had moved out on their own. One day, while visiting with their father, the girls asked him for some advice. They each were married, had mortgages, and an endless supply of bills to pay.  There was never enough time in the day.
The father, who also happened to be an avid golfer, remembered a story he had been told many years ago. He went to the garage, and returned with a jar full of golf balls, a cup of pebbles, and a cup of sand. He asked his daughters if the jar of golf balls was full; they agreed that it was. He handed the cup of pebbles to one of the daughters, and asked her to pour them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. He asked again if the jar was full; they agreed that it was.
Finally, the father passed the cup of sand to the other daughter, and she poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full, and once again, the girls agreed that it was.
“This jar represents your life,” the father began. “The golf balls are the important things — your family, your children, your health, your friends, and your favorite passions. If everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full. The pebbles are the other things that matter; like your home, your job, and your car.
The sand is everything else — the small stuff. If you put the sand into the jar first,” he continued, “there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff you will never have room for the things that are important to you.
Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness,” he continued. “Play with your children. Take time to get medical checkups. Take your spouse out to dinner. Play another 18. Take care of the golf balls first — the things that really matter. The rest is just sand.”

Just put me in a ziploc…

I thought I would start my very first blog by sharing some of the
humor and insanity that is my life… So, here goes…

Dear Dad,

It had been a few days since your “departure”, and arrangements were
well underway. It was only a few days before Christmas, and we had a
memorial service planned for you at Northridge Country Club for the
30th. I think we just wanted some closure before the new year started.
I was assigned anything that had to do with technology or graphics for
your memorial service. Of course, that meant Valerie got stuck with
some of the less-than-desirable chores… specifically, picking you up
from the funeral home.

Me: “What took you so long?”
Valerie: “I had to pick up Dad. When I got there, there was too much
of him to fit in his box, so I had to wait while they opened it up and
tried to fit the rest of him in. And then he kept sliding around on
the seat on the way home, so I had to drive slow.”

Earlier that week, we had gone to the mortuary (what an awful word)
and made the arrangements for your cremation, and we picked out a
beautiful wooden box with an angled lid that had a golf scene painted
on it, and we thought it was absolutely perfect. The fact that it had
an angled lid is important… you’ll understand why in a minute. Mom had
decided on a resting place in the mausoleum (The Wall) that faced the
giant oak tree at the Green Valley Mortuary, because it was in Cameron
Park, where you had always wanted to retire. So, she picked a space
that was built to hold two urns, so she could be placed there with you
someday. Awwww.

While urn-shopping, we were told we had to choose from the box-style
urns (not the fancy vases you see on fireplace mantles), so that both
of you would fit. We even picked out the *best* piece of marble in the
wall just for you, which you would be placed behind. Looked big enough.

There was a special ceremony in which your piece of marble was
removed, revealing your Cubby Hole of Eternity behind it. There we all
stood by the oak tree, where we were supposed to be sharing in this
profound, life-changing moment. But there was something so glaringly
obvious that it was impossible not to notice. We looked at your box,
looked back at Cubby Hole of Eternity, looked at the box again… umm…
your wooden box, in part due to its super special slanted lid, took up
about 80% of the Cubby Hole. Where was Mom supposed to go?!

Before anyone could say anything about it, she looked up at us and
said, “Well, I’m just one little person. You can just put me in a
ziploc bag, and then I’ll fit in there.”