Author: Kathleen Fisher

Last week was twenty-one years since my dad died.  I can tell you in vivid detail what that day was like.  I can tell you about waking from a sound sleep by a ringing phone, that the soul can fly away before you even put your key in the ignition, that six siblings and their spouses crammed into a hospital room at four in the morning.   I can tell you about my heartbroken Mom who thanked God for taking away the pain.  That before I left that room, I leaned into my dad’s ear and said, “Just let us know that you’re o.k. when you get settled.”  I can tell you everything, but I can’t tell you what my dad’s voice was like because I no longer remember.

My parents lived in the same neighborhood for more than forty years.  Across the street lived Ed and Doll and their two girls.  Nancy and I were best friends (she says in utero), drifted apart in high school and then back together when we got older.  We were a big family, they were small.  My dad worked for the Edison Company as a safety manager, Ed worked for the same company as a lineman.  Their house was neat and tidy, ours was bursting at the seams and usually messy.   My dad was a DIYer with a garage full of tools, and he never hesitated to lend them to Ed, which wasn’t the case with other neighbors.  You can tell a lot about a person by the way they take care of their tools, is what Dad said. 

Dad’s last summer was a daily progression of life slipping away.  It was also filled with acts of kindness that can still make me cry all these years later.  Ed and Doll were acts of kindness.  Every day one or both of them would stop by, check on my mom to see if she needed anything, pop their head in to ask Dad how he was faring, offer to bring the garbage cans to the curb.  They showed up when showing up was not for the faint of heart.   Mom was always grateful, and when she cleaned Dad’s things out after he died, she gave his red tool chest to Ed.

Doll had health issues of her own.  She had suffered her first stroke in her 40’s, and years later, a series of mini-strokes followed by another major one.  After many weeks of watching her in a coma, Ed made the decision to remove her feeding tube and let her go.  Nancy would say that her father murdered her mother.  I didn’t see it that way, but Nancy wasn’t in a listening mood when it came to her father.  The last time she saw him was at her Mom’s funeral, and they never spoke.

A few years ago, Ed wrote a letter to Nancy in hopes of trying to find some middle ground in their relationship.  I made his case, said your mom would be devastated to think this is what became of her family, that you are showing your kids that resolving conflict is kicking somebody out of your life, and maybe they’ll do the same to you one day.   I begged her to hear him out, but she never responded.

I eventually gave up, and our friendship has withered away as a result.  I gave up because she told a story that made her dad out to be a heartless, cruel man who tossed his wife aside like a cigarette butt.  I gave up because I saw that same man stoically come into my parents’ home every day, cheerful and helpful, and then cry on his way back home.  I gave up because death is full of emotional landmines, and the ones surrounding the end of her mother’s life weren’t just targeting her. 

I gave up because listening to her litany of accusations was too much when all I longed to hear was the sound of my own father’s voice.

The Big Daddy was getting ready for work and turned on the t.v.  He likes to have the business channels on so when they interview the “financial analysts”, he can get pissed off first thing in the morning.  They can’t hear you cuz they’re inside the box.  Oh boy, he says the other day, I think the t.v. is going out.  Look at that picture, it’s all red.  Oh geez, oh my gosh, oh man, now there’s no picture.  And he’s pacing around all nervous-like in his bike pants saying, “Whadda we gonna do, whadda we gonna do?”  Watch the other two t.v.s

Then he gets real serious and says I guess this means we’ve gotta get a new t.v.  Hold your spandex there, Mr. Toshiba.  Maybe I can come home early from work, and gosh I guess we’re gonna have to bite the bullet and get a new one – maybe something a little bigger this time.  Here we go.  We don’t have to get one right away, I tell him.  Yes, we do, he says.  We do cuz I know how you like to have it on when you’re cleaning up here and I’d just like to take care of this for you ASAP.  Riiiiiiiiiiight.

Out of  habit I turned the t.v. on a few days later, and the purtiest picture you can imagine popped up.  It was like Jesus rising from the dead.   Oh yeah, that boat anchor of a t.v. was resurrected.  How long it lasts nobody knows, but now we’re back to The Big Daddy telling Rick Santelli he’s full of shit and me picking up coffee cups, towels and underpants.

It’s a grand life here at the estate every morning.

 

My mom is a dog lover and has had a dog most of her life.  Mom’s last dog had plenty of health issues as she got older, and ended up costing her a whole lot of money.  The dog eventually was put to sleep, and Mom announced that she no longer would be a dog owner.  Anybody who even thought about getting her a dog was going to have to march it right back to the pound. 

She’s changed her tune of late, and my sisters have been taking her around to look at dogs for adoption.  They found a Shihtzu rescue group, and Mom decided to adopt Maxwell.  The process involved a three page application with references and a home visit.  Yeah, for a dog.  After all that was completed, Max ended up being adopted by a young family with kids, even though his bio said he wasn’t good with kids.  

The Dog Nazis made a house call to make sure Mom didn’t barbecue dogs, and brought another dog for her to consider.   A ten year old blind dog.  The Helen Keller of dogs.  The I’m going to cost you a fortune dog.   It seems Mom didn’t meet their age requirements to adopt a younger dog, and they were making a hard sell for the healthy senior to adopt the disabled senior.  Mom was patient and hospitable to them, while my sisters delivered the stinkeye and whispered the snark.  When they didn’t get anywhere with that plan, they suggested that my sister, Ann, fill out an application to adopt Maxwell (who hadn’t been adopted after all) and then give him to my mom.  She submitted a new application, and got an email first thing the following morning saying you’re never going to believe this, but Maxwell has found a new home.   Again?

Mom ended up adopting Duffy from the Humane Society, and he sure knows how to rock the cute.  My sister sent an email to the Dog Nazis saying what a farce their organization was, and implied that Mom has a vast fortune of money that she likes to give to to dog rescue groups, despite pleading from her kids and attorney to scale back her contributions.

Those sisters of mine make it their job to look out for Mom, and they’re not amateurs.  Getting into a bullshihtzu match with either of them is a fight you don’t want to have.

It has been an eventful week, best described in photos……….

The whole family has been anxiously waiting by the phone for the bank to call to approve our refi.  I read the Bible to keep my mind off The Troubles.  Or maybe it was Tina Fey’s book.  I can’t remember now cuz my headpiece was so dang tight my brain hurt. 

The Big Daddy got mad that it was taking so long and shouted to the banker, “I pity the fool who doesn’t give us a mortgage.”  And he tried to make a fist to show he meant business, but he’s got arthritis in that one hand.

“Calm down”,  I said.  “I think I know of a way to make them understand the situation better.”

Finally, Mr. Potter putted the “approved” stamp on our papers.  I was so happy my curls tightened up and I said, “Now with the savings I can get a new crown on that tooth way in the back there.  See?”

“Let’s have the whole clan over to celebrate and I’ll make my famous Jesus Pizza,” The Big Daddy said.

“What about your cousin,” I asked.  “One and all”, he said.  “One and all.”

Even our moms got to come until the cops found them and took ’em back.

Source: sodahead.com via A Speckled Trout on Pinterest

When everyone left, we went to bed in our newly refinanced home and fell fast asleep.

Source: chiccham.blogspot.com via Kate on Pinterest

 Where he came to visit me in my dreams………….

Source: google.com via A Speckled Trout on Pinterest

…………….and he was just about to put the moves on me when the house tipped over.

The Big Daddy and I are trying to get in better shape, along with making better choices when it comes to food.  We figured with both of us committed to the same goal, we’d be likely to have more success.  

The other day, BD was eating a bowl of ice cream.  Wow, that’s a lot of ice cream.  It’s a small bowl, he says.  It’s like the Leaning Tower of Mint Chocolate Chip.  I gave him a talking to in my mom voice about our agreement.  Which married men just loooooooove.   This is all I’m having and then I’m done, he tells me.  Well, what about the Twix bar you had?  Jeezus, he says, how’d you know about that?

How’d I know about that???  The guy leaves evidence wherever he goes.  Candy wrapper on the counter.  Dirty dishes in the sink.  Lid off the cookie jar.  I can figure out everything he’s eaten in about 15 seconds just by investigating the crime scene.

I eat my ice cream right out of the carton.  Standing at the kitchen counter.  With the lid in my hand.  As soon as I hear footsteps, the spoon gets shoved in my pocket, the lid gets popped on and voila……….ice cream back in the freezer and nobody’s the wiser. 

Men have such commitment issues.  If they only paid closer attention to the women they love, they’d see the light. 

When I turned 50, I intentionally decided to shake things up a bit.  There was a group of women I knew that were writers, and met every month for several years.  I pleaded my case to join them and have been with them for four years.  Throughout the first year when it was my turn to read something I wrote, I wanted to throw up.  Every. Single.  Time.  It is still something I hate to do, even when I’m satisfied with the finished product, in fear that they’ll find out that I’m such a hack at writing that I have no business being there.      

A few weeks ago, I told The Big Daddy that I had a good writing week.  I was happy with what I was posting, the stories were still swirling in my brain, and the daily numbers of hits on this blog were decent.  Then there was this week.  In one way or another, I heard from every person in my writers group, either through email, Facebook or in the comment section, for no reason other than to touch base and cheer me on.

I was walking my dog past the house of one of my writing friends and she came out to chat.  She walked me home and we talked about kids, work and writing.  I told her about something I wrote a year ago, and she insisted that I get to work on finding someone to publish it and She Would Not Let It Go.   Right now, she said, get in the house and send it off.  I decided to send it to our paper for a column called “As I See It.”  The next day I heard back from them and I am about to be a published author for the very first time.    

Oh my, this was a piece of the dream, and Cinderella feels like she got asked to the ball.  All of those fairy godmothers of hers worked night and day to make sure she looked pretty, and she is very, very grateful.

This summer has been a disappointment for The Big Daddy as far as crops.  The heat was brutal and killed off much of what was growing.  A raccoon pulled down every stalk of corn for a late night snack, and as soon as the tomatoes start to ripen, the squirrels eat half of them and leave the rest to rot. 

He has, however, reaped a bumper crop of potatoes – so far more than 50#.  I love potatoes.  I would eat potatoes every day.  Whenever I have made dinner, The Big Daddy says what’s with all the damn potatoes, have you ever heard of rice.  Yes, I’ve heard of rice, but my people worship at the Altar of the Potato.  Do your people know that the Potato Famine is over, he asks.  For my people, the Potato Famine will never be over.

Now we have Big Daddy Reds coming in by the buckets and all of a sudden, he’s discovered the potato.  I’ll make extra to heat up the next day and they’ll be gone because he ate them all.  Man, these taters are good, he says.  They’ve always been good.  Ya can’t beat fresh taters right out the ground, can ya?  No, Big Daddy Farmer, you’re the best Tater Man in the state.

It’s like all these years of me telling him how good they are, and and he never heard a word I’ve said until now.  I bet he had taters in his ears.  Or ears in his tater.