My Dad Needs A Blog

I’ve been trying to get my Dad to start a blog for awhile now.  Or at least guest-post on here.

Dad needs to blog for lots of reasons.  The main one being, dude is too verbose for Facebook.  Today, he posted this:

32 years ago today – 31.03.81 @ 12:50 local time in Dallas, Texas – life changed forever. It was the happiest day of my life. After two weeks of very early and difficult labour, my wife and I finally made into the delivery room for a C-Section. It’s a girl, the doctors said. For a fleeting moment I was slightly disappointed; I thought I had wanted a boy. A few moments later, a nurse said, “Well, Dad, you’re going to be doing a lot of this so you better get used to it,” as she handed me a tiny 3lb 12oz wrinkled bundle of pure love, joy, beauty and peace named Lorna Karen Duff. She looked like a wee organ grinder’s monkey because she had a tiny Dixie Cup taped askew on her head to keep her from pulling out her IV and she fit quite snugly into my left hand. We were bonded together instantly and I really, truly believed that even then, in those very first moments, we understood one another completely. 32 years later I still do.

That little Read More… line that showed up on his post made me cry.  Because that’s me.  And that’s my Dad.

He needs a blog, right?  How many of you would read it?

My Dad, sometime before I showed up. We have the same happy face.

I’d Take Them With Me

Today’s Daily Prompt has me thinking.  What would I take with me?  In truth, I’ve thought about this a few times.  Mainly while waiting in the ‘safe place’ for a fireman to come up and tell me the fire is out.  Or there isn’t one.

There isn’t much else to think about, sitting behind a fire door, when the ‘safe place’ doesn’t feel very safe.

So, yeah.  I’ve thought about this question.  What would I take with me if my house was burning down?  The answer is not much.  And everything.

The prompt says to assume that people and animals are safe.  So, I will.  And I’ll add something else.  My chair is safe.  Because it would be under my ass.  Or piled with the stuff Sarge and I would take with us.  Sarge would be steering it with one hand while the other one had me in a fireman’s lift.  Because love lifts us up where we belong.  Or something.

Since we are safe and singing, this stuff is stacked in my chair.  Because we are safe and singing and resourceful:

My Grandma’s Graduation photo.  Because I love her and it down to the ground and around the world.  It lived in a white album when I was a kid.  And it was on a wall as I went through high-school.  I imagine Grandma saw everything.  Dad gave me a copy and she’s smiling in my living room.  I’d take her with me.  Because there’s still so much to see.

The photo of Grandma and Grandpa standing in front of their first house.  For all  of the above reasons.  And because the look so freaking happy.  And relaxed.  And hopeful.  And because they are my inspirations for married life and love and pretty much everything else.

A pencil drawing of my Poppy, dated 1949.  Because I talk to him, too.

A photo collage of Grandpa’s newspaper clippings.  He was a champion flower-grower.  My cousin put his award notices together with a packet of Daisy seeds that I still remember.  One of the best gifts I received on our to trip to  New York.

My Butterfly Box.  It’s where I keep old cards and letters and yet more photos.  Like the one of Nana and Poppy at a wedding.  And another one of them smiling in the 60s.  My green Italian leather notebook is in there, too.  And a purple one, which isn’t Italian.

The notebooks are on top of the first pair of sunglasses I ever bought with my own own money, and a card from my mother when I didn’t have any. It reads: When things are bad and getting worse, put a cookie in your purse. It was tacked up in my kitchen at University for a long time. Because my friends used the saying as a mantra. And because some people call me Cookie. Only designated people. So, please don’t. I’d lose my street cred, if I had any.

I wish my favourite pen was in my Butterfly Box. It isn’t. But my wooden name-train is. I call it a wooden name-train because it’s my name. On wheels. Made of wood.

The ‘A’ has de-railed. I guess you could say the name-train has been with me a really, really long time and knows me really, really well. You’d be right.

And since The Box is one thing, I’d stick some more memories in it. I’d cruise by the fridge, still hanging over Sarge’s shoulder, asking him nicely not to turn the wrong way and accidentally smack my head off the wall while I swipe my magnet collection. The oldest being a pair of family cats and the newest is one from my Dad.

Maybe surprisingly, I’d let most of my books burn. But I’d look for my copy of Death and the Penguin, the one Sarge wrote in before giving it to me. Perhaps he would curse the fact that our books aren’t alphabetised, before throwing the book at me. Maybe I’d stick it down my favourite butterfly shirt. So I could hold it between us. We’d be a book sandwich.

And out we’d go. Maybe singing. Upside down. And sideways. Definitely grateful. Taking only my family and my memories. Like always.

We can always find another wall.

2012: The Year That Was

I began 2012 feeling out of sorts. We came home from a party in the dark. Left the house for dinner the next day, in the dark. Mostly about why my left ring finger was still naked. Seriously, though. I felt bad that we slept through January 1^st.

As I sat backwards on the bus on the way the second party of the year, I vowed not to waste another day. By the end of that week, I’d written a few thousand words, and read three books.

Toward the end of January, I might have mentioned to my Dad and some friends that I was planning to propose to Sarge. Because of that trusty extra day in February. And because I love him. So much. That, too.

I originally thought I’d take him to the zoo, point out a ring around the neck of a very well-behaved penguin during the penguin parade. And I’d ask him amongst strangers and more penguins.

Then I thought I’d book a table at the Russian place where we had our first dinner date.

In the end, which was really the beginning, I opted for some pebbles and a candy ring. And by the grace of the angels and Sadie Hawkins, he said yes. And then we went back to the scene of our first coffee date, he got down on one knee, and I said yes. Again.

A few weeks after that, I submitted my Masters application, which was subsequently rejected. I believe for a very split second, I forgot the all-important Show, Don’t Tell. This mistake sent me into a darkened room for a while. I came out to go venue-shopping and to process what happened, I wrote this.

During the first flourishes of wedding planning, I missed my grandparents. I do every day, but this was a different kind of ache.

We found a venue, I found a dress. On the day Dad and Anne saw both of these, Dad said he had cancer. My worst nightmare. Really. I had no words for awhile. And then I found these.

Our engagement party also saw the beginning of Dad’s treatment. We burned things to celebrate both. And part of that treatment involved writing our invitations. Thank you, Daddy.

Other stuff happened. I visited a friend I hadn’t seen in ages, I became the cat’s Aunty, the contract ended on a job I loved and found another one I loved not so much. And I contemplated a career-change. Only to realise again, I can only do what my heart says.

I prayed to all my good ghosts this year. Really hard. And to be honest, not all of those prayers were answered. But the best ones were. My Dad is well again. And Sarge kindly accepted my proposal.  Everything else leaves room for better things.

As for next year, I know where I’m going and who’ll be with me for the next adventures.

And I can’t wait.

Don’t Wake Up In Kansas

My mother lives on Long Island (My accent changes when I speak to her but that may be another post.)

Last week, she said ‘a storm is brewing, but it won’t be as bad as a hurricane.’  Today, I awoke to news reports of the East Coast closing off and shutting down.  I got worried.  Part of me wanted to be back there (it happens occasionally), stocking up on batteries and board games like everyone else.

As a kid, storms and power-outages were fun for me.   A break from routine.  The radio and ghost stories.  In shadows, but happy.  Even my parents were nice to each other, as I went from one house to the other during a particularly bad storm.  I remember Dad had electricity, Mom didn’t.

Anyway, good times.

Now, I worry a little more.

I called my mother earlier tonight, to see if she was prepared for Hurricane Sandy.

‘They closed the roads, the tunnels, everything.  The lights are flickering.  But I’ve got the flashlight and the radio.  I’m good.  If it gets wild up here, I can go downstairs.  Or I’ll go to bed.’

‘Just don’t wake up in Kansas,’ I said.

‘That’ll be one way to fix up the house.’

And so, dear readers, don’t wake up in Kansas.  Unless you live there.  East coasters, stay there and stay safe.  And play a board game for me.

Write Taller

OK, so.  You know where I mentioned that I made a list of things to do before I turned 30, but this blog is not about that list?  I’m 31 now.  And it still isn’t.  However.

I’ve been thinking about my life.  And where it’s going.  How 31 isn’t exactly what I thought it would be when I was 21.  Or maybe even 25.  Except for the part where I have indeed met a wonderful man who is weird in all the right ways, and who I sometimes think loves me more than I deserve.  I can’t tell you how much I love him.  Because there aren’t enough words.  So, that’s the good part.

But there’s also the part where I thought I’d be a therapist by day and a writer at night.  With my own shingle hanging on the door of my house in the country.  A house that included a husband, who happened to be mine (nearly there), kids (we’ll be working on one of those on the honeymoon.  There, I said it.  Make it so) and a non-yappy medium-sized giant of a dog (my initial dream did not account for allergies.  I’m now thinking a nice tranquil fish tank.  0 to Zen in 3 seconds).    The house would smell of nice things like Yankee Candles and coffee and finger-paint.  But not apple juice, because it makes me barf.

Somewhere between my copy of The Developing Child and The Norton Anthology of English Literature would be copies of my own books.  One of which would be being optioned by Hollywood.

I would nearly drive over the dog’s tail on the way to the phone, an old-fashioned one.  My brother would be on the other end of the line, someone who looked like the best bits of my mother and my father put together and therefore like me.  He’d be calling to take me out for ice-cream, just because.  Like that old commercial.  (OK, that’s pure fantasy.  One that gets me through the day sometimes.)

After ice-cream, we’d go to Dad’s house for dinner and everyone would be waiting there.  We might have pancakes and beer, and then I’d beat everyone at Poker.

I’d sneak my Grandma a draft of my new book.  She’d take off her shoes and put them under the coffee-table before reading it.  She’d speed-read a la Johnny-5.

‘It’s good.  Keep going.  And make me taller,’ she’d say.  And then she’d wink.  With that, I would know I’d won.

Then Sarge (because he’s always been the man of my dreams) would carry our kids, upside-down by their feet, out to our stylish yet big enough mini-van.

And tomorrow, we’d go around again.

Now.  This post was going to be a list of things I want to do to get there.  Things I still haven’t done.  But words are better than bullet-points and lists.   I will get there.

If some things are beyond my reach, I’ll just write in the gaps.

Keep going, yes? (Image: Johnny-Five.com)

Those Fascinating Things

Sarge and I sent a few overseas and faraway invitations on Saturday.  We went across the street to the post office, with me actually praying that I wouldn’t drop them.

We arrived safely at the post office and with each PAR AVION stamp applied; I dug my nails deeper into his shirt.  This was not a metaphor for anything.  Or a comment on the fact that we are suddenly more engaged now than before.  I was just counting.  Really hard.

However, when we dropped the stamped addressed envelopes into the somehow really bright red post box, I said, ‘It’s official now, unless you want to tip the box.’

‘No tipping.’

‘But I did fall out of the chair that one time.’

‘No more tipping.’

When we got the samples, I was excited to read the details of strangers’ weddings.  It’s even more mind-blowing to see our own names on there.  Weird to think of those cards on their way to other people’s hands and hearts and houses.

I lay awake at 5.38 yesterday morning, wondering what people would think of the ‘no hat’ rule.

In the middle of the invite, in not-so small print it reads: Dress:  Scottish traditional (no hats).  I don’t like hats.  Because I have a big American head.

When I brought up this point with my mother, she said, ‘What does that mean?’

‘If at all possible, men in kilts and no hats on anyone.’

‘But you can’t tell people what to wear.’

‘Other couples specify Black Tie.  And I don’t like hats.  Same thing.’

‘If you don’t like hats, then don’t wear one.  It is not the same thing.  And I want to wear one of those fascinating things.  Like Fergie’s girls.’

‘You mean a fascinator?  Please don’t.’

‘Whatever.  One with feathers on it.’

‘That would be fascinating.  Just don’t wear it at my wedding.’

‘I just might.’

‘Look, even my future mother-in-law doesn’t like hats.  She appreciates the rule, Mom.’

‘Oh, really?  That’s useful for you.  Go with it.’

Having said all that, this post on big hats almost makes me want to change my mind.  Almost.  But not quite.  And anyway, the invitations are printed already.  It’s official now.  No tipping.

What are your opinions on big hats and preferred wedding dress-codes?

Image via Wikipedia

Two Years Of Shots

Today is Gin & Lemonade’s second birthday.  My move from Glasgow to Edinburgh is not so recent any more and I no longer have a cat who thinks she’s a dog.  I don’t even have a boyfriend, because he’s now my fiance.

A few days after I posted my first blog birthday post, I dumped some coffee on Hemingway and he left me.  And then he came back.  Since then things have gotten weird and more weird.

While I’m still trying to make the world a more accessible place, it isn’t my day job any more.  I’m looking for another one of those. But I still think Shakespeare is overrated.

This has been an interesting year, so far.  I proposed to Sarge, and then my Dad got cancer.  Dad celebrated our engagement by wearing a beard hat and burning stuff.  Including cancer cells.  And I missed my grandparents.  Some things never change.

Sarge and I went venue shopping, and tried to make our own invitations.  The only thing we made was a mess.  We sent away for them, and Dad might be writing them out as I type.

So, that happened.  And I blogged about it.  I’d like to thank you for being there to celebrate with me, worry with me, and celebrate again.

I can’t wait to see what happens next.

Most posts start out in notebooks. These are full. Time for new ones.

Orchids And Violets

Wednesday was the start of Edinburgh’s Festival(s) season.  Naturally, Sarge and I left town.  We loaded my lap up with the box of wedding invitations, balanced my Dad’s birthday present on top of the box and went down-hill to the train station.  Narrowly missing the heels of some tourists along the way.  Nipping a tourist is 50 points.  (Click here for more on what I think of tourist season, and a little more on how I came to be here.)

We boarded the train with our very local picnic and arrived at Dad’s house with a box, some books and Sarge’s nameless laptop.

Anne brought some KFC home for dinner, because it’s on the list of stuff Dad can eat these days.  We talked about the wedding and started my addiction to this year’s Olympics.    Athletics was the gateway.

After Dad and Anne went to bed, Sarge read and I scribbled, figuring out a major plot point for something I’m working on.  As I wrote, I actually said, ‘Aha!’

‘Are you alright?’ Sarge peered at me over his book.

‘YES!’

I stopped mid-sentence.  And started the comedy portion of our evening just by going to bed.  I’ve said before that getting onto and off of an air-mattress is, for me, like something out of an I Love Lucy episode.  That’s still true.  I checked.

The next morning, after removing my knee from Sarge’s spleen, we gave Dad his present.  A book and a card that said: Happy Birthday, You Magnificent Old Fart!  Because he is.  All of those things.

Dad sent us on a mission to find fancy pens to write the invitations, and we went to the art store by way of the pub.  Sitting there coaxing the sun out, we decided we were on holiday.  And so, I took a photo of my beer.  Because that’s what people do on holiday.  Or is that just me?

After the pub, I was in the midst of texting my best friend to see if she was working.  And she appeared.  Seriously.  I hadn’t sent the text.

‘How’d we do that?’

‘We just do.’

She introduced us to the two adorable little girls she looks after.  And then they showed us the pictures they’d been drawing.

‘Better than anything I could do,’ I said.  I asked the girls the only thing I can think of when presented with children these days.  ‘Do you like penguins?’

The girls were so cute my womb might have skipped all the way down the street. We followed it into the art store.

We stopped in front of the pen racks.  ‘Want, want.’  And I wasn’t talking about art supplies.

We did find two pens in different shades of purple.  Sarge tested them out by writing PENGUINS.  Of course.  We bought 4 pens, and then went to find Dad the book he actually wanted for his birthday.

We’d all planned to go to a folk club that night.  Dad was too tired to go, but sent us along with Anne and her Mum.

Now.  To me, the sign of good music is stuff that makes me cry.  None of the stuff we saw on Thursday did it for me.  We did, however, overhear a very loud ‘conversation’ about 50 Shades of Grey.  In the mixed company we were in, I may  have wanted to cry from embarrassment.  That’s the stuff memories are made of.

The next day, Dad wanted to get started on the invitations.  Sarge made a spreadsheet from the list.  Because he’s organised like that.  I was looking up addresses on my email and Facebook messages.  Dad wrote and wrote.  He may have cried.

‘What’s happening?’  Sarge asked, looking up from his spreadsheet.

‘Dad’s just having a moment.’ I said.

‘Think of all the places these’ll go.  All for you guys.  You did a wonderful job.  I want to be a fly on the wall when people open these.’

And then he listed some people who are gone, those who won’t be sending back an RSVP.  And then I cried.

‘Next!’ I said.

And we ended up with this:

The top one is a sample of Dad’s celebrated (by me) handwriting!

There will be more where those came from, when I send Dad another list of addresses.  Like Sarge, Dad is more organised than I am.

Getting Out Of Dodge

Today is the last day of Dad’s cancer treatment! It’s also his birthday tomorrow. To celebrate, we are bringing him our wedding invitations. So he can write them out. Because my Dad has the best handwriting of anyone I know. And anyone I don’t.

It’s Not A Tie

When I was a kid, and Father’s Day or his birthday rolled around, I would buy my Dad a tie.   Or a wallet.  I wasn’t very creative back then.  At Christmas, people would get something from the craft-fair at school.  Nothing with glue or dried macaroni on it, because I thought that was a waste of food.  But if my Grandparents needed a magnet or a bookmark with a purple tassel on it, they knew I would hook them up at Christmas.

The big decision for my Dad was whether the tie would have stripes or zigzags on it.  Or how many photo slots would be in the wallet.  Would this year’s shirt have one of those little green alligators on it?  Who knew?  Ask Grandma.

My father doesn’t like surprises.  Back then he would use sneaky tactics such as the Alphabet Game to find out what I saved up my allowance to buy him.

‘Does it begin with a T?’

I looked at him sideways.  Because I could.  ‘Yes.’

‘Is it tiger?’

‘Yes, Daddy.  I broke into the Zoo and got you a tiger.  Because six year-olds can do that.  Real guesses, please.’

‘Is it a tie?’

‘Yes!  How did you know?  Oh, no.  Now you know.  I’ll have to switch it for a wallet.’

This happened every year.  One year, I was particularly devastated.  I had kept THE SECRET for two whole days.

Since he knew about the tie, I also got him a heart sticker.  Which he put on the dashboard of his Blazer.  I have never been a hearts and flowers kind of girl, but I loved that heart.

These days, I ask for a list of books he wants to read.  One year I found him a not-so-tiny model car.  And the year I surprised him with The Sopranos box set, Sarge and I watched it first.

I’ve always known it’s not about the stuff.  I like gifts people will appreciate.

For the past few weeks I’ve been going to spend Tuesdays with Dad.  Watching old movies or tennis after his radiation.  I’ve always loved hanging out with my Dad.  I appreciated him before he got cancer, and I still do.  I cherish all my time with him.  But I wish we didn’t have to share this time with 24 different medications.  And even though this stuff will make him better in the long run, I wish he didn’t have to take it in the first place.

The only thing I want to give Dad for his birthday in a few weeks is, ‘Dad, you are cancer-free.’  That and a six-month supply of his favourite rice pudding, as it’s the only thing he can eat right now.

That’s it.  And it’s not a tie.

Well, there is one more thing I’d like to give him.  I figure Sarge and I can work on that next year.

Proof that Dad and I have kept up the sappy-but-still-true magnet tradition.