Jaci Dawn

Add another May date to the previous post (May dates to remember): May 5, 2011.

I had barely walked into the house last night when Don told me the news: my dad was gone.

I just talked to him on Sunday.

It wasn’t altogether a surprise: he had COPD and was on oxygen. Sunday he was feeling terrible and weak. But it was still unexpected.

My brother had to drop everything he was doing to drive over to Ely and take care of arrangements: cremation, banking, all that stuff. My dad had everything written down and pretty much spelled out, so it is just a matter of implementation. But it is all on my brother’s shoulders because he has power of attorney and he lives that much closer than I do.

I picked up the phone calls – at least some of them. I can think of some family friends who still need to be notified and if I get a second wind tomorrow, I will probably call them. Or if Terry finds Dad’s personal phone book and sends me the phone numbers.

It’s strange: I never talk on the phone. I hate talking on the phone. Last night and today I have talked more on the phone than I usually manage in a year’s time. I’ve spoken with cousins that I haven’t seen in ages.

I haven’t cried much: that will come later.

I did remember that I was supposed to ask Levi a technical question for Dad. Then I remembered I couldn’t tell Dad the answer. I still do that sometimes with my mom: think of something I want to tell her and then remember she’s been gone since 1995.

I’m not thinking clearly enough to do a cohesive post on my dad. That will come later.

I’m rattling around, starting things and forgetting to finish them, operating in a fog: that is the first stage of grief. It’s a kind of adrenaline that comes and you move into high gear, take care of things, clean house, keep moving because you’re afraid if you stop you will collapse.

You won’t collapse.

So many good memories. I went looking for a particular photo I wanted to scan today and it wasn’t in the photo album. I must have removed it at some point in time for some reason and now it’s loose in a box somewhere. My folks were dressed up for a Hallowe’en party: Dad was in a yellow dress with black polka-dots, nylons & a wig. Mom was in a suit coat and sported a big black moustache. I want to find that photo but I don’t know where to look.

Dad was always doing something for Hallowe’en. He had this Frankenstein head that was made out of papier mache. I think my mom made it. We kids thought it was the best costume ever and we never let Dad get rid of that head. I think – I hope! – Terry has it now.

My mind runs from year to year, picking out events and dates – mostly the good stuff. There was a lot of ugly stuff, too. Dad was a very strict father. He lived by the rule that children should work. I used to think of him as having a snaking long bullwhip that he cracked over our heads whenever we were idle.

I think of the on-going war he had with my best friend. There was a black board in the kitchen where my parents wrote notes (usually lists of chores for us kids to do when we got home from school). Dad also wrote strange things on it like “Gung Hay Fat Choy!” every February. (To this day I am amazed when someone says, “What does that mean?” What? Were we the only WASPs that celebrated Chinese New Year every year? Apparently so.)

One day my best friend took the chalk and did the unthinkable: she wrote on the blackboard. Worse, what she wrote was off-the-wall and bizarre and she drew a picture to go with it: Krazy Kat was here!

She didn’t even sign it. My dad would see that and think one of us kids did it and … and …

And he thought it was the funniest thing. He wrote a message back to Krazy Kat.

For the rest of the years that we lived in that house, my dad and my friend left each other messages on the black board. Off-the-wall funny messages. And they pretended that they did not know who the other party was, writing their messages when the other one was not looking.

I’m still in shock. Still thinking of things we need to get taken care of and wishing I could be there to help my brother out.

For the next few days I will be blogging about my dad.

But it’s Mother’s Day! So here’s the irony about the date on the calendar this weekend: in 1995, my mom died on the day before Father’s Day. In 2011, my dad chose to join her on Mother’s Day weekend.

Maybe that’s why I want to find that photo…

Love you Mom & Dad!!