Letter to Dad

Hi, Dad!

I thought I'd drop a line, 'cause three different things made me think of you this weekend.

1. I was talking to a friend whose mother is in a long-term care facility in another state and has not been doing well. It reminded me of last January: my dread every time the phone rang; the exhaustion in Mom's voice; the guilt; long conversations with my siblings, filled with "if-then" scenarios. Oh, and more guilt.

Then the 3 AM departure for the airport. The long, icy drive down the rural roads. Tater-tot hot dish that Kathy Kohn made just for me. Slipping an Oreo into your sleeve during the visitation (Hey, you would have done the same for me!) (Mom was pissed when she found out! "Katherine Elizabeth! Is it true that you put an Oreo cookie in your father's casket?!?" Snnnrrrk...) Women - a long procession of women who have known me all my life - filling and refilling my coffee cup in the church basement. Packing china, washing walls. "Kids, if someone doesn't take these wool shirts, they're going in the Goodwill." And I was so frazzled that I walked out of the church where I was baptized, confirmed and married; walked out of the house I grew up in; drove my U-Haul down Highway 44 and out of Markesan for good without a backward look. Yeah, I know: where were the tearful good-byes? But there had been a big snowstorm the night before, and the roads were drifted. I was concentrating on drift-busting in my U-Haul. By the time I really had a chance to think, I was in DeMoines and too tired to give a shit.

Sorry, Dad. I digress. Why couldn't you have died in the summer? No drifting and blowing snow. And I could have lobbied to carry out our plan: launching your corpse into Hills Lake in a flaming canoe, Viking-style. Not the good canoe. One of the old ones.

OK, the other two things that made me thing of you were uprooted from the boxes of "inheritance" still awaiting my attention in the basement.

2. Ah, yes! I was rummaging and found your embroidered Goraly vest from Poland. I cooked Polish last night and thought, "If Dad were here, he would definitely have worn his vest." Like you have to every family celebration since you got it 20 years ago. I would wear it in your memory, but it's way too big.

3. (And this is HUGE, Dad!) I am sick to death of being cold in my house in the winter. In the same box as the Goraly vest I found my new best friend: your favorite Pendelton fisherman's sweater. You wore it constantly for years, until you shrunk it. Mom was throwing out your clothes and tossed it on the "out" pile. "Hey, can I have this?" "It's all shrunken!" "Yeah! It's a perfect fit!" And it IS! I have been toasty all day in your shrunken sweater. And to prevent wool-itch, I have one of your ratty duo-fold undershirts. Nice touch, sewing Velcro to the back bottom edge. I'm not sure, but I guess that somewhere in the world is a pair of long-john bottoms with the other half of the Velcro. As always, I admired your sewing skills. Perfect, regular stitches. Where did you learn to sew like that? Oh, yeah. Medical school.

Check it out! I'm a lucky girl!

I miss you Dad. Even your shop-worn jokes. Even your strange collections. Even the way you mortified me by crying every time you said the blessing. Even your ponderous "bum-bum-de-bum" hum. Even the way I couldn't whistle a tune without you drawing attention to it by joining in. Even the Oreo addiction.

It was pretty fun to call home, even in my middle age, and be greeted with, "It's KATE THE GREAT!" It was good, being great. Thanks for being my loyal fan. And thanks again for this sweater. Its the bomb!