I was working in the garden this morning, raking the ever present pine needles off the gravel, when I had a bit of an epiphany. I was thinking about yesterday morning and mulling over what happened to me emotionally. It began a couple days ago when Lana was hired for a new job and needed a copy of her high school diploma. A search ensued. I found my high school diploma as well as one from college. I found Allie’s high school and college diplomas and Eric’s diploma from law school, but nothing for Lana.
During the search process I pulled out photos, family documents, baby books, sentimental notes, birthday cards, report cards and momentos of all kinds. I uncovered photos I’d been looking for and photos I did not remember. I came across precious paperwork about my grandparents and great grandparents. In my paternal grandfather’s file I found the poem my maternal grandmother wrote after my brother Jeffie died at the age of seven. There was also the Thanksgiving sermon my father gave three months after Jeffie’s death.
Grandma Alice’s poem left me gutted. I had the biggest, baddest cry. It’s been sixty-five years, but it still feels painful to think about my family’s loss. My father’s words surprised me. It was poignant that he talked about Jeffie in his sermon and I believe the little girl he was speaking of was me. I will share Alice’s piece, and a snippet from the sermon, but back to the epiphany.
Clearly, the work of a human is never ending. The emotional journey is long and can be excruciating, but compelling, as part of the human process. Growth can be subtle, but so beautiful. I want to feel the feelings and do the work, but it seems life is a constant interruption. It seems that marriage is a constant interruption. My relationship is ever-present and needs a lot of tending. Sometimes I’d like to just put it on the back burner, on a low simmer, and tend to myself. Tend to myself in relation to my thoughts, my history, my feelings.
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| Our Boy George |
Every time we think we have a method for getting six pills a day down his gullet he goes on strike and clamps down that square jaw. Peanut butter worked once, then he turned up his snub nose. Same for pill pockets. For a few days we just forced them down, but it wasn’t easy. This is a dog who literally will bite the hand that feeds him. I’ve put pills down the throats of Dobermans and German Shepherds with no problem. With this guy it’s a fight to the finish. He’s stubborn, but so are we. For now, soft French cheese has won the day. Seems appropriate.
He’s been up at night, popped a stitch somehow and started bleeding. We took the donut off to feed him and he reached up with the bad leg to scratch his ear. Aargh. The sedative makes him snore so loudly that we’ve been taking turns sleeping in the guest room. And by taking turns, it’s usually me that bails. To be honest, Boy George has been a bit of a jerk, but he’s our jerk and we love him.
Now that I’m writing this I’m wondering if the epiphany is that I’m burned out from caring for the dog. Maybe both things are true, and to quote Robert Frost, we have miles to go before we sleep. This is going to be a long process. The recovery seems long, the marriage seems long, the life seems long. I know how grateful I am for all of it. I am fortunate in many ways and I am so loved. But for the moment, everyone can talk and snore amongst themselves. I’m going back into the hidey hole where I’ve got 1960 on my mind.
Excerpt from “One Man’s Thanks” by Reverend Lynn Partridge. November 20, 1960:
Occasionally when I come home after having been away all day, which is unusual for me, I find a little girl with flashing eyes who says, “Hi! Daddy. Pick me up.” Sometimes I do, most always, I must admit. And she hugs me, tight and warm, nuzzling beneath my ear. And I am thankful for the young in life, through whose wondering eyes I am sometimes allowed to see a view of life quite startling to me, where the people are all big, the tables the height of one’s head. In that queer world it is a long climb into an easy chair and one meets the strangest creatures eye to eye. And sometimes I remember, in those misty moments, and in this one, too, a son I once had, but no longer do. What I remember is not his talk or quizzical way, but his courage and his bravery. As he lay, irreparably battered on the so-clean table of the hospital room, he did not know what would become of him, and yet he did not cry out, but smiled and talked. And I am thankful that I had the strength and the wisdom, too, not to scare him with death. When it came to him, as it must to all, it was as natural as it can be, not horrible as it may. And I am thankful, too, for the strength and honor, if such I have, to be a worthy father to a son such as he.
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| Doug, Wendy, Priscilla, Jeffie |
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| Grandma Alice with Doug, Priscilla & Jeff |
Poem by my mother’s mother, Alice Freehafer
He’s gone
Gone awhile, yet not so long
That finding some discarded truck,
Or crumpled sock, or handmade toy
Quickly stops a busy foot,
And fills with wonderment and joy
A tired and aching heart.
For here again is that dear boy.
His spirit fills the room.
Here is a truck that was pushed aside
To make way for a thought still untried,
Here is a sock rolled up in a ball
Because feet bare are best of all.
Here is that hastily hand made toy
Made by the hands of our dear boy.
Brief
Brief is the moment,
And then the ache,
And the emptiness of the room.
Then being the woman that you are,
You slowly pick up the broom.
He’s gone
Gone awhile, yet not so long,
That in the bustle of the day
A casual phrase from casual lips
Rocks a rollicking room.
His words, oft heard
Now yours from a flippant tongue.
A pause, a glance at an unmasked face,
Or simply rattle on.
Whatever is done, the fact remains
That again he was very near
Near?
Near to a heart, yes,
But near to a hand
As spaceless infinity
He cannot be gone!
He cannot be gone!
He’s here in every room.
He’s out in the yard climbing a tree
Or sliding in the snow.
He’s hopping out of the school bus now
Or in the car to go.
He’s standing beside the Christmas tree
His eyes bright with the glow,
Snipping and pasting and griping away
When rain continues all day.
And then the heat of summer here with fish and dust galore,
And thousands of bugs just waiting for
A jar with a holey lid.
Then leaves begin to change and turn
And nuts fall all around.
And there he goes to find a box
To gather them off the ground.
He cannot be gone!
He cannot be gone!
Oh, God
He’s gone
It’s true…
Words, words, painful words
Why do I write as I do?
Certainly nothing comforting here
To help you when you’re blue,
Except to tell you that another heart
Remembers and is aching,too.
If only my faith could help you now,
There are many things I’d say.
I’d say the loving God I feel
Is with your son today.
Loving, so tender, warm and true
As to make it Christmas the whole year through.
But these words probably cannot help
Knowing you as I do.
He’s gone
Yet he will never be gone.
He’s here.
He’s there with you.
Just as he filled the page I write
He seemed to be born anew.
But memories fade I’ve heard you say;
I say they only soften.
But memories aren’t the thing you know
It’s his spirit pure and true.
It’s the qualities that made him Jeff
That no other child could do.
This is the challenge that faces us now,
Not fluid memories.
Follow the example your son has set
And he’ll always be near to you.
Bravery and loyalty, love and trust
To be true to him, follow we must.
Vitality and eagerness and creativeness
Craving for learning and happiness.
These are his stars and to keep them bright,
They must be born anew in our hearts each night.
These are the things that will help him grow
As each new day we start.
To try we’ll give him a purpose in life
Rather than oblivion in the dark.
And so this Christmas when we hear,
Of a babe in a lowly manger
And how he’s born anew each year,
And how wandering men bowed low in fear
Yet followed his radiant star.
Remember that Jeffie’s little star
Can glow with a lovely light,
And he, too, can be born anew
On this beautiful Christmas night,
And be with us and be with you,
Not just tonight, but our whole life through.
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My parents, my grandparents and my brother are all stars in the sky now. Sometimes I feel their spirits.
George is doing slightly better and turns four years old today.
I’ve found Lana’s diploma and have almost cleaned up the chaos created by the search.
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| The search |
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