Blue acrylic tree

This is a painting that we had found in the storage unit. It has a small note on it that says "Acrylic $12." I believe this one was a part of the collection that he displayed the year that he was in the Black Swamp Arts Festival in Bowling Green, Ohio. He was sad that not as many people were interested in buying paintings anymore, yet proud to be participating. He had done arts and crafts fairs back in the 1970s. He enjoyed displaying his work. Even more he loved the social aspect of the experience.

This one makes me cold, simply because it elicits the feeling of an ice cold winter's day. It captures the cold weather and the peaceful ambiance that winter can bring. He didn't do many winter pictures, because they didn't allow for as much color. I am also wondering if this was perhaps inspired by an art class activity in which we had to paint monochromatically.

Mountain with a road

This is a painting that we discovered in Dad's storage unit. I had never seen it before, but was completely entranced by the beauty of the mountain. The colors are so vibrant, that this picture doesn't even do it justice. He didn't do a lot with mountains and we lived in one of the flatest places in the United States. This one makes me dream of visiting some, though.

Dad's Primary Still Life

Another type of painting my father enjoyed doing was still life. Some of them were quite realistic. Others were more contrived in his own mind. He was always creative in the colors that he used, blending imaginative color schemes with reality. This one consists mainly of primary colors. I can't remember where this one ended up. It's another poor shot from last year.

I remember this one hanging up in our house while I was growing up, also.

Dad's Trees

My father adored trees and forests. I wonder if I get part of my love of walking in the woods from being exposed to all of his paintings of trees while I was growing up. This is another poor shot of a painting that I took last year in a hurry. It hung in my parents' bedroom.

My father is the one who taught me that grass is more than just green. I love to use that concept in teaching my students, even if they are under the age of 6.

Dad's Red Tree

Dad loved to paint trees. He also loved the color red. This is another poor shot of my father's red tree. I remember this one hanging in our living room while I was growing up, along a narrow wall.

It reminds me of how Van Gogh always exaggerated the height of his trees...

My cousin has it now. She was kind enough to send me a cool evening shot of it hanging on her wall:

Comparing these two just demonstrates the effect of lighting on a painting and in a photograph...

Dad's Fire Bush

When we were cleaning out my parents' house and storage units after Dad passed away, we decided to divvy up his paintings. Finally, we could all have a piece of his beautiful art. He never wanted to give any of it up, because they were parts of him. I wish I would have taken better photographs of some of them. This is a really bad angle on one that I dubbed Dad's Fire Bush. He never titled his paintings, so we just describe them. I had taken this one to give my cousin an idea of what was available, so that she could have some of "Uncle Rick's" art, as well.

I do believe this one hung in their home for many years. It's simple, yet interesting.

GBE 2: A Snapshot of My Father and Art

The past week, I went back home to the Toledo, Ohio area for the first time in 14 months. It is never a cheap trip. I can't bring my dog with me, and it is difficult for me to find someone to watch him. I also just wasn't sure if I could handle that emotional journey. My mother is slipping deeper and deeper into her Alzheimer's. Dad's grave finally has a stone. They have redone the whole family plot. I knew that seeing his name and dates carved in stone would bring a finality that needed to be acknowledged but was hard to finally see.

I took along my "companion," for lack of a better descriptive word. He has a station wagon that would more easily fit my father's paintings than my small Corolla. I needed to bring back his paintings. My friend has graciously given up storage space in her shed for over a year. They shouldn't be sitting in a shed, anyway. And I needed to bring a part of him home to be with me. Dad hated to give up his paintings, as they were like his children. When he died, though, we divvied up a lot of them, so that we could all have a piece of Dad. I brought back 20 on this trip and still have dozens more to come. My sister also has tons of them with her.

When I saw this prompt in the group for last week, I could only think of the Toledo Art Museum. It is my happy place and was also one of Dad's.

This is a picture of the museum at night. I always smile when I see it. The architecture is amazing. The collection inside is phenomenal. Every style and time period is represented, with constantly changing exhibits. Many are static, though. We all have our favorites. I know where to find all of mine, and my father's.

On this particular night, my father and I decided to have a Daddy-Daughter date. We went up on a Friday night to walk the museum. He didn't go much after I moved away, because it was so difficult for him to maneuver. When we were there, he remembered that Friday nights were concert nights. Tickets were expensive, but he splurged on two tickets to the Brahms concert being performed that night in the Peristyle by the Toledo Symphony. We ate a meal in the museum cafe. I relaxed with a glass of wine. On our way in, I literally ran into my childhood pastor and his wife, who are pushing 90. We got to reconnect with them.

Sitting through that concert, my father had a peaceful look of contentment on his face. I was moved to tears, both from the beauty of the music and the happiness of spending this time with my father. He was stressed about Mom and exhausted. But for a few hours, he could relax. Somehow, deep within, I also knew at the time that it would probably be one of our last events together. His health had been rapidly deteriorating for quite some time.

After visiting my father's grave for the first time since he died, I took The Man with me to the art museum so that he could see it. It was like revisiting a part of me that I had forgotten. We didn't have much time to soak it all in, but I managed to see a lot of my old friends again. I could even feel my dad's spirit walking with us.

Over the next several days, in his honor, I am going to be sharing with you some of my father's own works of art. Please feel free to share them and to comment. I hope you enjoy them. Look for the tag "Dad's Paintings." Thanks for visiting.

Raspberries in Geneva

On my way home this morning from dropping off my babysitting charge at her day camp, I stopped at the grocery store to pick up some breakfast and lunch. Today's plan was to do nothing but write, as now I have the rest of the day to myself.

I love the fresh produce of the summer. I am trying to grow a lot in my own yard, but am somewhat limited by living in the city. I have tried to grow red raspberries in pots, but can only get a handful each year. I know there is a trick to it that I am missing, but I digress.

The red raspberries looked absolutely delightful this morning. I would prefer to buy them from a local grower, but was nowhere near a farm, nor a farmer's market. (I will have to pick some up this weekend.)

I am currently sitting outside, working on various writing projects. The temperature is expected to hit the 90s again, but right now I have shade from my tree. There is a cool breeze blowing. The neighborhood is quiet and calm.

As I pop warm raspberries into my mouth, I am transported back in time with my father. The Montessori school I attended had trips to France every other year for kids in the upper elementary grades. Technically, you were only supposed to go once. I got to go twice, because my younger sister went on one trip. My father is the adult who accompanied us.

One day, we were in Geneva, Switzerland. Everyone else went on an excursion somewhere. Dad and I decided to spend the day simply hanging out along the shores of Lake Geneva. We bought a giant bottle of Evian water, a loaf of French bread and a quart of red raspberries. I had never had them before. We had dozens of black raspberry bushes all over our property, so I was used to their super sweetness. Red raspberries definitely had a taste that was a bit more tart, yet a sweetness that rolled around in my mouth, creating a sense of happiness. I had a new taste of summer.

I eat red raspberries often. You can find them year-round in the grocery stores. I haven't had black raspberries in years, save a couple I found on a trail when hiking the other day. But now, it's primarily while eating them outside in the summer sun that I am transported back in time to that afternoon over 20 years ago, bonding with my dad while sharing a simple meal.

Photo by Pukey Cow on SXC

GBE 2: Defining my sense of self

I found the GBE 2 prompt for last week to be quite appropriate, especially as it was due on June 2nd, which was Dad's one-year anniversary. I wanted to relate my feelings on this topic on June 2nd, but friends who surprised me for the day didn't allow me to have the time to do so.

My sense of self had always seemed strongly developed. I attended a Montessori school as a child and currently teach in the philosophy. The method naturally allows for a strong sense of self in children. I remember in high school, I missed out on a lot of that teen angst because I already knew who I was and what I wanted to do.

When my father died a year ago, I felt that sense of self shaken up. I was no longer defined as being Rick and Norma's daughter. I was now the daughter of a man who had passed away and a woman who was disappearing from Alzheimer's. My own personal tragedies from August 2010 - June 2011, too much loss for one year, weighed so heavily on my soul that I could not help but define myself by them.

As this one-year anniversary was coming closer, I started to feel impatient. I knew that my definition of self was going to change on that day. I was ready for it. I needed that one-year cycle to finally be complete so that I could truly move on. I also knew in advance it could be a difficult day, so I just wanted to get it over with. I love to be in tune with my emotions. I need to roll around them and truly feel every ounce of the pain. At the same time, I have gotten tired of the hurt.

I woke up yesterday morning, somewhat apprehensive. I had been at some friends' house the night before and we were up until 3 am talking. I woke up at 9 because I was supposed to spend the morning with my BFF. I ate and then met up with her around 11:30 to go to the Public Market. As we started walking around, I felt a sense of enlightenment. My shoulders felt less weighted down. I was breathing easier. I felt a sense of relief and happiness that I haven't in a while. I had made it. It felt almost like my birthday.

We then met up with the Man for lunch and then took a long walk along a bridge to the pier. I have a bridge phobia that seriously irritates me. The first time he and I went on this bridge, which really is nothing more than an elevated walkway through a swampy area, I was on the borderline of having a panic attack. This time, with the two of them by my side, I managed to conquer it in both directions and felt fine. (It's weird - I can never predict how I am going to react, nor will I necessarily have the same experience twice on a bridge.)

I could almost feel Dad's excitement at my latest accomplishment as I exited that gate.

I have been doggie sitting all weekend, so the Man came over for Chinese takeout and movies. A little before 10:30 pm, I opened a bottle of wine and poured a glass. Dad died at 10:30. I wanted to mark the moment with a toast in his honor. Almost immediately, I got a similar picture from my sister. It was one of those rare sisterly moments where we had the same thought at the same time.

I managed to sleep a full eight hours last night. I woke up this morning and felt kind of funny. I felt like a toddler taking her first steps all over again. My sense of self has completely changed. I will never again be exactly who I was before, but I already see more of those glimpses inside myself. My core is the same. But I no longer feel defined by my father's loss. It's time for a new chapter in life.

I'm a little weepy

It's 9:30 p.m. on May 30th. One year ago it was Memorial Day. One year ago we found out Dad wasn't going to make it. One year ago at this time, I was trying to leave the hospital and Dad cried.

Watching my father cry was one of the most painful things in the world. I only saw him do it a handful of times in the 30-some years I knew him. He cried the first time we watched My Girl and quickly ran out of the room. He cried when my 2 year-old cousin Max was killed in a freak accident. He cried when his mother died in 2010. (I never saw him cry when his father died when I was little. My mom said she only saw him cry once.) He cried over losing my mother to that evil world of Alzheimer's. And he cried that night when he realized he was going to die.

Because it was so rare for him to do so, his tears always triggered some of my own. That particular night was exceptionally difficult. For my whole life, he had been the one comforting me. Now it was my turn to comfort him.

That memory keeps popping up, particularly at night. Bedtime is that evil time when all of those thoughts invade your cerebral membrane. You lose the ability to stave them off any longer. Emotions are set free and tears being to roll.

Tonight marks three more days until his one-year anniversary. There is something peaceful to me with that number. I don't know why I keep going back to Jesus and the resurrection and three days when I think about my father. I am more of a spiritual person than a religious person. Perhaps it is because he was so faithful at the end of his life.

I also know that in three days, that first year's cycle will be complete. For me, I have to mark the passage of time. To make it through one full year after a painful event always feels like a triumph. I know I am that much closer to the end. I almost look forward to it in a weird way.

My tears this evening are not nearly as plentiful as they were a couple of days ago. They are more seeping out of the corners of my eyes. My sister would say that my eyes are leaking. They are responding to the pain and emptiness that I feel without my father around. He was one of my best friends; we were extremely close. That hole is by no means smaller one year later. It has shifted and readjusted itself, sort of like a woman's body weight does over the years. It is never going to go away, either. It just stings a little less with each passing day. And I breathe so much easier.

Remembering....

Today is Memorial Day. It's the day that we remember those who gave their lives to keep our country free. For me, it also is a different kind of memory.

Last year, I went home for Memorial Day weekend. I was personally finished with the school year and planned to stay home for a while. We were having a meeting to discuss Dad's future. There was also going to be a memorial that following weekend for his cousin who had just passed away from cancer. (Yes, my family had an extremely rough year.)

When I got to town, I went up to see Dad at the LTAC facility. They had him sitting up right in a chair, but his eyes were firmly closed. He was very uncomfortable and clawing at the armrests as if he were trying to get up and lie back down in bed. I remember crying and texting my sister that we just couldn't let this go on anymore. He was in too much pain and it wasn't fair.

By Memorial Day, my sister was in town and Dad's sister was in town for the meeting. His other sister and Mom's sister-in-law were en route. I was slowly getting up that day when I got a phone call from my friend. Her mother was one of Dad's nurses.

"Andrea! Your dad is awake! His eyes are open!"

Hallelujah! I had waited six long weeks to see those eyes open. I quickly called everyone and raced up to the hospital. I was so happy to look into his eyes that I cried and took pictures of his beautiful face. We were dancing with joy as we went out to dinner and then stopped by my cousin's house before our meeting.

Then the meeting came.

Dad's kidneys were at 50%. Our options were to either do dialysis, which his Power of Health would not allow, or to discontinue the feeding tubes and move him to Hospice. As much as it hurt, we knew what the right decision would be. I made my sister sign the papers, because my hand just wouldn't work. I called Dad's brother, whose gut reaction was, "I can't come up this week. I have to watch my granddaughter." You know how you get when slapped in the face with something so unbelievable.

The hospital agreed to take him off of his tubes and to just give him a little bit of water, to sustain his body until the rest of the family could arrive to say goodbye. I spent as much time up there with him as I could. I read to him. I played our favorite PBS version of Jane Eyre. I just talked to him. I wanted to squeeze out every last possible moment with him that I could.

That night was the most difficult. I was so tired I could hardly stand up. I needed to go home and get some rest. When I said I was going to leave, I hugged him and he turned his head so that his face pressed into mine. When I pulled away, he had tears streaming down his face. He knew he was about to leave and he didn't want to go. I can still feel that cheek pressed into mine. A few days later, he was gone.

I am sobbing as I write this. Anniversaries always bring up the pain again. I will be completely caught off guard. Last night, we were watching TV while waiting to cook out on the grill. Eric turned on a Memorial Day concert and suddenly I was overcome with emotion, knowing what today was. I had to sit outside and just let it all out. Today I was okay, until I started writing this post. We shall see how I am next Saturday, when it is Dad's one-year anniversary.

Thank you for letting me remember.

Reflections on My Father From A to Z

When I embarked upon my first A to Z Challenge last year, I was expecting to just randomly post things that reflected who I was. Instead, it quickly turned into a way for me to deal with my father - his illnesses and his eventual death. He fell ill in the middle of April. My posts continued into May, ending, I believe, with P is for Peaceful Passing. Writing about what was happening was one way for me to deal with the inexplicable pain of the long goodbye.

This year's challenge began in time for an anniversary. To me, I started to lose my dad on April 14th when he went into the hospital. My gut told me it was the end, though I hoped for a better outcome.

[And rabbit trail here - it feels wrong to say a better outcome. It's a selfish thought. The right outcome happened. When he finally passed away, he was finally free of all pain and problems. We are the ones who wanted to keep him here, which wasn't right for him.]

Anyway, April 14th felt more like the real anniversary of losing my father. I have no idea how I will respond on June 2nd, the anniversary of when he finally slipped away from this world to enter the next one.

So, for this year's challenge, I decided to honor my parents. I blogged about my father from A to Z here, and about my mother from A to Z over on How to Laugh at Alzheimer's. It was a freeing, yet difficult task to accomplish.

I started plotting out the alphabet about my father back in about February. I felt stuck on so many of the letters, but had faith the right words would come when it was time. It felt freeing to share so many of my memories. As that anniversary approached, though, my writing voice disappeared for a little while. Part of it was I was really sick over Spring Break. Another part of it was simply having the weight of that first year being lifted off of me. I am the kind of person who has to mark anniversaries. I need to get through that first year and then I have some semblance of closure from the loss. Once I felt that initial closure, I didn't quite feel the need to purge as much.

I did make an effort to catch up, though. I did complete posts through the rest of the alphabet in time for the end of the challenge at 11:59 p.m. on April 30th. Now I am just a little late on posting my reflections.

I found myself using topics that were not on my original list. Some of them weren't as good as I had originally hoped they would be. But, they are off the cuff and honest and unedited. Pure, raw emotional responses to a word beginning with a particular letter of the alphabet. Now, a couple of weeks later, I find myself saying, "Oh yeah! I was going to talk about thus and such!" I realize I can still do that. I will probably blog about my Daddy memories for years to come. I will never fill that void that is left inside of me and will never stop missing him.

Will I do this challenge again next year? Yes. This blog is my everything blog. Anything goes here. I write about all kinds of thoughts and ideas. I just have no idea what the alphabet will bring me next year.

Here is the list of posts that I did this year about my dad. Following this list are the posts from last year's challenge, as well.

A is for Artist
B is for Books
C is for Cooking
D is for Daddy
E is for Ev'ry Mountain
F is for Farts
G is for Gardening
H is for Heart and Hugs
I is for Insert Intelligent Sarcasm Here
J is for Jail
K is for Kids
L is for Laughing
M is for Manly Man
N is for Naughty
O is for Opinionated
P is for Pride
Q is for Quiet
R is for Richard
S is for Siblings
T is for Tickling
U is for Unique Bedtime Routine
V is for Vicar of Dibley
W is for Watch
X is for Xenial
Y is for Young
Z is for Zappy

The 2011 Challenge:

A is for...
B is for...
C is for Candida
C is for Cookie
D is for David and Dylan
E is for Eddie
F is for Fiona
G is for Grover
H is for Hiking
I Am Mine
J is for Juggling
K is for Kindness and Karma


L is for Love and Loss
M is for Meetings and Memories
N is for Numb
O is for Options
P is for Peaceful Passing
Q is for Questions

My Daddy Tribute: Z is for Zappy

Again, I refer to that fabulous site that has assisted me greatly during this challenge. I found a word on The Phrontistery that describes my father well: zappy. The definition is "lively; entertaining." If you have been reading through this blog or knew my father in person, you would have to agree that this sums him up pretty well. Even when he was sick or just wasn't feeling well, he was an entertaining man. He was a bundle of energy that could fill a room, in a good way. He was a tremendous person who is greatly missed by many people.

To those of you who have been taking this journey with me this month, I would like to say thank you. I didn't quite pull it off in the proper fashion, as I have had to write in big bursts of posts. But the challenge is now complete. I feel reconnected to my father again. I have laughed and cried while reminiscing about him this month. With it being a year since he got sick and almost a year since he died, I am feeling more and more closure and acceptance. Thanks for sharing this with me.

My Daddy Tribute: Y is for Young

After Dad died last year, many people asked me how old he was. They assumed he was older, considering all of his health issues. When they heard he was only 68, they all said, "Oh, that's so young."

Yes, it was young. His own father was even younger when he died. He was only 66.

My father knew that he was going to die at a young age. I don't know for certain how he knew, other than his acknowledgement of all of his health issues. He had been sick since he was a young boy. I didn't realize how sick he had been until family discussions after he had passed away.

Perhaps that is why my father always stayed young at heart. He always got along well with kids and enjoyed joking with them. My friends all loved him. The kids at the jail where he worked between the store and his retirement got a big kick out of him. As people shared memories of him, they often talked about his jovial spirit.

I guess Billy Joel said it best when he said that only the good die young.

My Daddy Tribute: X is for Xenial

According to The Phrontistery, the word "xenial" means "of or concerning hospitality toward guests." I guess you could say that my father was a xenial person.

My parents' home was always full of guests. When I was a young child, they had an annual Christmas party. The small apartment in which we lived at their store would fill up with dozens of friends and family. Dad belonged to AA and sponsored numerous young men. They were always welcome in our home and often played in the pool after meetings. I had many friends who had to leave home for one reason or another. My parents would put them up for a few weeks until they could get back on their feet. We had more friends over than family during many holidays, such as Thanksgiving. At any function, my father was one of the first to greet every guest. He had a knack for remembering everyone's name and something about them. He always made people feel welcome and appreciated.

My Daddy Tribute: W is for Watch

When Dad would shower and shave, he would remove his rings and his watch. He hated it if I sat and watched him shave, but every once in a while he would allow it.

One day, when I was two years old, he forgot to put on his watch before leaving the bathroom. When he realized it was missing, he practically tore apart the bathroom looking for it. I believe it belonged to his father, who had recently been diagnosed with cancer. (He died when I was three.)

When he was ready to give up the search, Dad finally decided to give in and ask his beloved daughter if she had any idea where Daddy's watch could be. I looked up at him with my angelic face and said in my sweetest voice, "It's not in the toilet!"

Dad made a beeline for the bathroom and lifted up the lid. Sure enough, there was his watch, at the bottom of the toilet!

Lucky for him, and probably for me, the watch dried out and was functional again for several more years. And thus was born Dad's favorite story to tell everyone I ever met.

My Daddy Tribute: V is for Vicar of Dibley

Dad was a huge fan of British comedies. In his later years, he regularly watched The Vicar of Dibley and Keeping Up Appearances. Just like when he was watching The Golden Girls, he would laugh hysterically at the jokes and puns, even if he had seen the episodes a dozen times before.

When I was a kid, I remember watching lots of other comedies with him. He was a big fan of Benny Hill. As an adult, I realize how much of that actually went over my head. Sometimes I can't believe I was allowed to watch that with him! He also watched a lot of Monty Python's Flying Circus and the various movies. He also was hooked on Absolutely Fabulous.

It's his fault that I am now addicted to the same.

My Daddy Tribute: U is for Unique Bedtime Routine

When I was little, I had a bedtime routine that was unique to my father and him. The normal part was that I was supposed to go potty before climbing into bed. What was unique was how my father would get me to actually pee.

I had a large Raggedy Ann doll that someone had made for me. She was one of my favorites and always accompanied me to bed. While I would sit on the toilet, Dad would lie on his back on the bathroom floor. He would suddenly yell, "Raggedy Ann! Your clock struck again! BOING!" and throw her up in the air. I don't know why that was so funny, but I would laugh until I...well....you know.

Every once in a while he would perform a variation, using my beloved blankie. I remember one night when he misfired and Blankie ended up going over the shower curtain and got wet. I wasn't too happy about that.

Once my business was finished, I washed my hands and scampered through the door to their adjoining bedroom. The three of us would curl up in the bed to talk and to read books. When my sister got a little older, she would join us. And then I would have to go to sleep in my own bedroom.

Those are some of my most favorite memories of my father. We joked about that for years.

My Daddy Tribute: T is for Tickling

Many families have a favorite pastime of tickling battles, especially when the kids are little. Dad was positively brutal when it came to the tickling! He would chase me around the house and always managed to get my feet. No matter how much I kicked and screamed, he would keep on tickling my feet!

To this day, I cannot stand to have someone tickle my feet. I don't even like my feet to be touched. I remember when I got hit by a car while crossing the street in college, I had to go to the hospital to be examined. The doctor ran his finger up the bottom of my feet to make sure I still had feeling. I almost kicked him in the nuts as an impulse.

I know that some people would say that it's my father's fault that I have an aversion to feet. Maybe it is. But I don't see it as anything really bad or truly traumatizing. To be honest, I think I just have sensory issues with my feet in general that have nothing to do with them being tickled. I eventually got used to people touching them when I underwent reflexology for migraines and other ailments. As for my father, that tickling torture is just another one of my fond memories from childhood.

My Daddy Tribute: S is for Siblings

My father was the second in line with one boy ahead of him and two sisters behind him. He seemed to be a classic middle child, always trying to get attention. The older of his two younger sisters is my godmother. She wanted to contribute some of the memories of the siblings to this project and sent me an email of them. Here are a few of my favorites from her collection.

He was forever the teaser…..talking to my friends about the ghosts in the cemetery behind our house. I remember one night my friend was over and we made an anonymous call to a boy. Rick got on the other extension and made sure that boy knew who was calling On another night when Mom and Dad were out, he talked my friend and me into getting dressed up and stuffing our boobs with socks and then standing next to Monroe St. like that. When a car came and slowed down, we would run into the bushes

Of course, you can’t talk about Rick without talking about farting. Not sure why my brothers both got such a kick out of that!!! Rick used to fart and say “FINS” after which stood for SNIF spelled backwards. More silliness!

One time Linda had a date for a prom and Rick and I dressed up like her parents and greeted the poor guy at the door who had no idea what he was in for We thought we were so freaking funny!

Not sure what just made me think of this but Rick always from a young age gave the BEST gifts. He always put so much thought into the gifts he gave and had such great taste. I still have some necklaces he gave me about 40 years ago and I still wear them from time to time.