Only when the video was posted on YouTube did I really feel the significance of our gift to our father.
All together for the first time without my mother, on our island in Maine last week, we chose the pivotal night between arrivals and the first sad departures to celebrate birthdays. It was to be for the several just ahead when we would be off-island again, but became one big celebration for all of us since this family is so spread across the country (and in England).
What I did not know was that earlier my father had remarked to my sisters that he appreciated how his sister had held a “living wake” a year before she died because she wanted to actually hear what people would say. Of course, my sisters took the not-so-subtle hint and offered to “Roast and Toast” him before we cut into the traditional spice cake. My father, who has been a largely quiet, reserved and unknowable icon to his children, was glad to proceed.
Out side Philadelphia, there is a tiny church, a true oasis (as all should be), serene on the top of a hill surrounded by the bustle and noise of suburbia. The Quakerism on one side of the family bristling at the rites of an organized religion on the other, still it has been a special place in all our lives. Our parents were married here. My earliest memories were moving among the pre-revolutionary markers while my grandfather tended the stones of his wife and mother-in-law. I had brought my own children there for picnics and history lessons.
In 2005, my Uncle Bill died at the age of 74 on a motorcycle after playing in a softball game. We brought some of his ashes to lay by his mother. He would share this spot with my parents when the time came. On a beautiful May Day full of blossoms and sunshine, we gathered to say “auf wiedersehen” to my Uncle, but for my sisters and I, it was to say good-bye to our parents as well.
They stood hand-in-hand, my mother wrapped in her ever-expressive colors, a bit bewildered by all the fuss and the number of vaguely familiar faces, but delighted by the colors of the flowers, the sunlight, the music and the laughter.
“Oh, I could really live right here!” she purred.
“We’ll be sure to come visit you,” my sisters cried.
“I’ll bring my guitar and play for you some more,” I promised.
Except for her and the babies of yet another generation, we all knew that the next time all of us would be back to this place together would be to mourn their loss and celebrate the life of this wonderful couple. For me, having that living moment, the image of my mother and father in that place, so happy and fulfilled at the end of their lives, the slow, agonizing deterioration of my mother has been easier to bear.
So last week, when it was time to speak to our father, to let him hear the tales one more time, to voice the honor and appreciation we hold for his countless gifts of love and support, no one held back. There were many tears, but so much more laughter. More flowers bloomed, burning the image into our hearts that will last our lifetimes.
And to think we can see it all on YouTube!
Monday, August 18, 2008
Letting Go in Celebration
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Best Laid Plans
As I sit down to write this, within minutes the jet that was to carry us towards Oregon will roar over my head. In grief and regret, I remain here on the ground feeling groundless.
What was so joyfully planned and anticipated is postponed. No matter the good reasons, my eyes well with a deep sadness for once again disappointing my Oregon daughters. We talked and cried together on the phone last night. They have generously expressed their love and granted forgiveness, but still the gap of 20 years since visiting their Oregon homes may stretch to 21.
Typical of reunions, a cold that swept through the family in Maine has landed hard with me. In these few days between coastal visits, an agenda of tasks, reports, deadlines, applications, paychecks, etc, etc, seemed insurmountable to my swollen head, and I collapsed accordingly.
Plus, shouldn’t the World stop to watch the Olympics?
Most importantly, I juggled our trips around too many events to keep the summer straight, and failed to take into account pre-season soccer beginning 3 weeks before Labor Day instead of two. My son’s coaches were very unforgiving when asked to consider his absence for a week instead of one day. In college, I had been unable—even after two years—to overcome a coach’s disappointment over a lesser transgression. I could not bear the responsibility of a similar blight on my son’s career.
I could have boarded the plane this evening on my own, but the deepest struggle—the one that had lain painfully beneath the surface for weeks—was now exposed. As much as my heart longs to see my daughters and sister in their homes, no matter how much I want to stand on the edge of the earth looking for whales and eagles that still circle so many years since my living there, I am not ready.
Although this trip would have contributed greatly to my personal healing in some ways, there is business that must be organized here before I can go anywhere else. It is clear to me that my past is littered with postponement of business for pleasure. Often choices have been made to take the vacation despite failing contracts and runaway obligations. Blindly, I might turn towards the reward before the profit was earned. The largesse of my family and friends that have tolerated and supported me like a well-meaning addict cannot last forever. I could not take one more adventure on the promise that I will be better for my work upon my return.
The reward of a peaceful trip must be earned.
So tonight my daughters go about their daily chores sadly, my son kicks the ball despondently. My heart aches with a raw clutch of tears as if I have failed all my children once again.
In retrospect, I could have planned this better, been more realistic about my ability, my time, and my finances. I could have better cared for their feelings. It has been painful for all of us to dangle this, then snap it away.
Even as the plane now roars overhead (literally), two seats short of full, I am planning how to reschedule for myself a few months from now, for both of us in the Spring, perhaps even for all of us this summer, a trip to embrace my daughters as a man who has earned the time to revel in their homeland.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Shooting Stars
The ferry ride to an island is like passing through a door into another world.
We get out of the car. Chains clank, the diesel roars. The dock slips away so suddenly, so mysteriously that for an instant, in the sudden stillness of our journey, it feels the pylons and the shoreline are really what is falling away, until the movement of the boat is apparent, shuddering under our feet.
At the bow, we stand braced against the wind, legs a little bent and loose to absorb the waves' slap and break. Today the clouds are dark and swirling with threats of rain, the shoreline grey with mist, lobster boats roaring in fits from one buoy to the next.
Time is suspended, waiting to set feet on land again. With nowhere to go, nothing to do, we chat with strangers, as if friends, about their connections to the island. Beyond, the sea stretches, vast and unknowable, inviting us to trespass to a future promise and danger.
Back on land, my son immediately recognizes houses and docks that have been just paintings to him forever on our walls. Each turn reveals vistas of shorelines and possible adventures, both of us with 14 year old imaginations the first times we each have come here. Over the hills, we discover the harbor with sailboats at rest, and clusters of houses leading up from shore like an old village in a whaling story.
In these modern times, still in the tradition of island life, hands on the steering wheel raise in greeting to every passing car. Only a few roads, there are plenty of walkers and bikers, all waving in union, sharing this precious piece of land surrounded by the infinite sea.
We help my father step ever so slowly and carefully, painfully, from rock to rock out toward the water’s edge. He sits in the wheelchair, wrapped against the wind, nearly blind and deaf and at the end of his life, absorbing this memory. We take turns reading to him, or describing the patterns of surf spray or menacing clouds approaching from the mainland. His grandchildren and one great grandchild explore the tide pools around us as we had done 40 years ago while he painted on those very same rocks the paintings that still hang on so many of our walls
A picture of my mother sits on the end of the counter at one of the houses (we have rented three), reminding us of her unforgettable presence, even as she is so far away and drifting further from all of this that she has created and loved so deeply.
And tonight, overhead, the quantity of stars, the Milky Way heralding the Universe even further beyond the sea, inspires like the greatest of sermons, shooting stars punctuating. Humbled and tired, I let the warm laughter of family blanket my aching soul. Against my wishes to listen and participate, my eyes close with exhaustion, all the hard work of these past months coming to rest in the long embraces of sisters and father and so much more. 
Time moves on, lives end. The generations replace themselves. Yet life on an island is something set apart, a suspension of the battle, the eerie calm in the center of the storm.
With God’s blessing, we rest, visit, and rejuvenate.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Sing a Song of Sexpence
A frolicsome group of friends was gathered for its weekly Friday evening social last night. During dinner,
“Ten days, after all…” the heads all nodded together.
Except for two of us who looked at each other, having to draw much deeper within ourselves to find any sympathy around that time frame: ten days being just another ten more days in a long drought.
After nearly 20 years shut up in its case, the time has come—as part of my general over-hauling—to take my guitar to the repair shop. It is an instrument of beauty and graceful sound, purchased nearly 40 years ago with all the hard-earned money of a summer between college, and deserves fine-tuning.
The odd man in a dark shop, over-flowing with challenged guitars needing his careful attention, surmised that a few hours of adjustments to the bridge, saddle, neck and frets might regenerate the action passably. Additionally, he promised the clarity of sound would be worth an entire neck replacement should that be needed. I left my treasure with him, feeling completely illuminated by his confidence and reassurance that the brightness of the action could be restored.
Music in my family has always been important, but it was my sisters who had the perfect pitch, blending their voices while washing the dishes or hiking in the woods. I took up the guitar in sixth grade as a class project and was invited, if I wanted to sing, to do so in the next room or, preferably, way beyond (we were not always polite with each other and even worse about my father's accordion practice). Somebody else needed to tune the thing for years.
But without the expectation and pressure to be good at it, I continued to play in the next room, and after awhile, me and my guitar were welcomed on the camping trips. For a lark and a tease, one day I put a sister’s poems to melody, then soon began writing songs of my own. I experimented with school talent shows and eventually, by college, was playing regularly in public, solo, duo or with an occasional band.
I never had the fortune and talent to mount the stage at Wembley Stadium. It was surprise enough to play for a few hundred now and then. I did learn that very little is sweeter than being fully embraced by your own voice blending with others reflected back by a good sound system. And in all the years of playing so many notes, actually a verse and a half was recorded that might qualify as album quality (if they were still being made). 
So it was easy to allow marriage and children to change my priorities and pack the instrument away. For these many years since, my guitar has rarely seen daylight, much less a spotlight, but has occasionally accompanied a tired little one to sleep.
What a joy unfolds when you discover that some things set aside remain with you always. Callouses can be rebuilt, the fingers thought too stiff can relearn their nimble movements. My mother, even deep in her world of Alzheimer’s, not recognizing anyone, could remember every word of every song I played for her last month.
All this week, I strengthened those lost callouses on the adequate but unfamiliar electric guitar, and stopped by my old home to sing out tunes on my piano in the empty evenings while my family has been away. I have passed the time, breathing heavily in anticipation like a young man looking forward to his third date with a new love.
The guitar is sadly not repaired in time for me to take it on my trips. But I am learning that patience is so much more than just a virtue. Ten days go by, then 10 more, then 10 weeks more, and as much as we want to immerse ourselves in the hope for the pleasure of the reward, impatience only builds frustration and anxiety.
My fingers itch. My voice resonates modestly without accompaniment. My heart throbs with the anticipation of new songs. The guitar will be repaired eventually. It is worth the investment. There will still be other trips for me to bring it along and sing a few songs for family and friends on the edge of a cliff at sunset.
I will love again.
