Random Thoughts from a Restless Mind

Sunday musings…

1) Seige. A group of herons. Right up there with a mob of meerkats.

2) Gale. The gales of November may remember, but the 50MPH gusts over Lake Erie this morning are shaping up as unforgettable.

3) Privacy. There is an LA impresario of the highest end social scene who opines that privacy is the new luxury. At best I am a “C” list celebrity with “B” list aspirations, so I have no first hand knowledge to share (if I go to the grocery store in a T shirt I am completely anonymous). I admit a serious respect for Meg Ryan who slipped from public view some years ago; “I lost interest in Hollywood at the same time Hollywood lost interest in me.” Her piquant observation sheds a bit of light on this new “privacy” trend: “I can still get reservations but I only show up in other people’s paparazzi pictures now.”

There’s an awful lot of truth still contained in the near-existential question: would you rather we rich or famous? For those who are both it may very well be that privacy is the most expensive thing they buy.

4) Grief. We find ourselves, Beth and I that is, at a moment in our lives when death and dying is seemingly coming at us from all directions. Parents have departed as have friends, and tragically the children of friends. How to process these losses, how to grieve, is a bit of a challenge for us. What does it mean to grieve? For how long does/can one do it? Is grieving an outward-facing activity or is it necessarily one that is cocooned within? There are no answers to these questions of course, at least not universal ones that can be applied to every person and every death.

While I openly confess that this topic is never far from my mind, grief and grieving find their way here in “Musings” this morning as my sister and her husband bury his brother (gone at approximately my age or close thereto). While thinking about Peter’s death I stumbled upon Scott Van Pelt’s ESPN moment when he acknowledged the “Deathday” anniversary of his Dad’s passing some 31 years ago. Google it. He is wonderful in these two minutes. Van Pelt gets two things very right when he encourages one to address the loss openly, and to then use that opportunity to reach out and just as openly express your love and gratitude for the opportunity to do that with those still here with you.

Grieving looks different on everyone who bears the grief. Beth continues to be a rock, stolid after losing her Dad, her Mom, and her beloved little mutt in 2 years time. I, on the other hand, openly wept at the end of Mr. Van Pelt’s piece when he spoke to his Dad and hoped that he would have been proud of the life his son had created. I know that Beth deeply misses her parents. She still finds herself picking up the phone to call when something that would make one or the other of them smile comes up, only to put the phone down in a quietly wistful moment. My Mom is still here, as are all of my siblings (and Beth’s) and our entire generation of grandchildren. No matter how often one did it before, how hard must it be to reach to call a sibling who is no longer here to answer?

Grieving may be a process with neither a true beginning nor a true end. Our Jewish friends may have it more right than the rest of us when they “sit Shiva” after the death of a family member. One week given to grief. Fully permissioned to grieve in whatever manner best fits you with both a start and a finish. One doesn’t stop missing the dead when Shiva is finished of course, but one has permission to stop grieving. From there one could do worse than choose to follow Scott Van Pelt’s gentle suggestions that remembering is good, missing is healthy, and loving is healing.

5) Mist. Apropos of the above, here is a re-post of the last time I got to visit with my Dad when he was his old self:

My siblings and I only need to remember one weekend each year when it comes to celebrating my Dad. His birthday almost always falls within a day or two of Father’s Day. So it was that I found myself in Rhode Island the past couple of days, in the company of my Mom and a guy masquerading as my Dad, a guy who was very curious about the new fella who’d dropped by for a visit.

Getting old is not for sissies, my friends.

Somewhere inside, deep inside, there’s still some of my Dad in the jumbled up connections of his mind, carried by the body that failed him in such spectacular fashion 2 ½ years ago. Dad is extremely intelligent, the only family member in his generation to have gone to college. Quite the athlete, he used football and the GI Bill to pay for school. Like so many in his generation he then worked, raised a family, and put himself through grad school. He won his club championship in golf twice at the ages of 50 and 60. No typo. Beat the reigning RI State Amateur champ on his home course for the first one.

As we sat on the porch of his house overlooking the par 5  14^th hole, I had an ever so brief visit from that guy. From my Dad. Like a citizen of Brigadoon he came slowly through the mist of his mind to join me for a bit. We’d always bonded over golf. My brother and I never turned down an invitation to join him on the course, either as partners or as caddies for him and his buddies. It was quite a privilege to do either; my Dad’s most elemental essence was expressed on the golf course.

A light breeze was blowing through the forest in the back yard just beyond the rough. We chuckled at the golfers who failed to take the wind into consideration, sheepishly trying to sneak into our yard to retrieve their out-of-bounds second shot. Dad talked about caddying as a kid in the Depression. We both noted the absence of caddies as the foursomes passed in and out of view. It was really very nice.

I quite like the Dad of my adulthood. Quick to smile, slow to anger, unfailingly loyal and kind. It’s hard to imagine now how distant he was when I was a boy, his friendship as an adult is so easy. I’m not sure how long we sat there to be honest, nor when I noticed that he was slipping away. As surely as the village of Brigadoon disappears, the mist had returned to claim him. I got up, walked over to his chair, held his hand and gave him a kiss. I wished him a Happy Birthday and a Happy Father’s Day, hoping that I’d made it on time. That he was still there. That he knew it was me, Darrell, his oldest child. I told him I loved him.

He smiled and gave my hand a little pat as he disappeared into the mist.”

I’ll see you next week…

This entry was posted on Sunday, February 24th, 2019 at 4:04 pm and is filed under Random Thoughts. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.