A Grief, Observed

(I made this entry to another blog that I've decided not to follow through with. Yes, I chickened out.)

I don't know if I'll use this blog or not, to talk through some of my stuff about the death of my father. But if C.S. Lewis can be this brave, maybe I can, too.

RIP, J.C. Stith

(I made this entry to another blog that I've decided not to follow through with.)

I think it's almost presumptuous for children to judge their parents. There's so much we don't know about them, and so much we'll never know about them because we see them through the lens of our childhood.

It came to me today that my father must have worked very hard to reclaim his life from whatever evils had taken hold of him, when he chose the high road of his Church and his God. I respect that deeply, and I wish it had not taken his death for me to realize it, because now I can't tell him.

J.C. Stith was a musician, a singer, and appreciated a good homemade ice cream. He loved his children, whom he did not see often. We did know.

Epiphanies, and Siblings

(I made this entry to another blog that I've decided not to follow through with.)

I had an epiphany late Saturday night (July 16) that what I want is absolution for basically not being 'good enough' in my own way to reach out to my Papa better before losing the chance to do so, not having made the effort to act more compassionately and reach out to people more, all the life-changing stuff I set my hand to a couple years back, but the only person who can grant me that absolution is me.

Or, ok, in our entwined situation, maybe my twin.

Who said, because I was so far away, that he wished his 'smart sister' were here to deal with this stuff, instead of him. *I* sure don't feel any better equipped to do that dealing because of a fancy piece of paper that says 'bachelor of science' on it.

Music

(I made this entry to another blog that I've decided not to follow through with.)

One of the hard things is thinking, what did I *not* see in his [Papa's] apartment? I didn't realize it until yesterday: I didn't see much music. For a musician, that's just odd. I mean, look at my collection.

Almost no DVD's, though there was a player, almost no CD's, just 10 or so, very few VHS tapes. Where are the albums of classical music? Where's the stuff a bunch of my tapes were made from back in 1987?

Going through things...did the car still exist? Found a piece of paper dated 2003. Is it meaningful or not? Better save it. Just in case.

***

We talked, my aunt and I, about the women in our family, our generalship -- she calls it the power gene[*] -- and our capacity to suck it up and deal. We do that. We suck it up and deal. Need to go through your own father's apartment and decide what to keep and what to send to Goodwill? Get one of us -- we know how to suck it up and deal. Because someone's got to. So, we do it.

The thing is, now that I'm back home and, technically, have nothing to do for the next two weeks, it's really hard. Like I'm in limbo, with sporadic fits of tears. I want to get back into working on the book, and yet...I dug up J's email about suggested names and stuff, and I've got the file open right now, and yet...


[*] I made her laugh when I told her I explain our family by describing it as a "strict age-based matriarchy".

Singing

(I made this entry to another blog that I've decided not to follow through with.)

My inheritance from my father is a simple one, and one I can never forget: my voice. Perhaps that's why I don't care about keeping any of his 'stuff'. I already have the important stuff with me, every day.

I don't know if I have the werewithal to make these entries what they should be. To truly say what's on my mind. I really don't. I'm going to try, and if the experiment fails, it fails.

Anyhow. I normally eat a dairy free diet, since I have a mild allergy to the stuff, to keep my throat and voice as clear as possible. Sure, I fall off the wagon...but I always get back on it, sooner or later.

Today was the first time I sang since I got the news about Papa, two weeks ago. I woke up Friday, I think it was, after dreaming about a song by Gordon Lightfoot (Too Many Clues in this Room) from the album Summertime Dream; I dreamt that I was humming it, and I wondered when I woke if I'd been sleep-humming, if there is such a thing. Funny, by the time I mentioned it to my flatmate I couldn't remember which song it was, but I knew it wasn't any of the ones that I'd always felt a particular connection to off that album, like The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, or Protocol.

I hadn't been sleeping well, so I remember thinking it was a good sign that I was dreaming.

Coincidentally, after that dream, and after 6 weeks in Ireland eating as much dairy as I wanted, I went back on the wagon that day.

So, I walked down to the reservoir and back this evening, and found myself thinking of a song off the George Michael album Listen Without Prejudice, vol. I. Praying for Time is the first track off that album, so I decided to play the tape once I got home, and sing along.

It was pretty good, Michael's range and mine aren't a great fit, but I like the tunes and the lyrics, so, there could be worse duets. I don't feel low when I sing, it's impossible for me to feel low when I sing. Or to sing, when I feel low. So, this was a good sign, a sign that getting out of the apartment and taking a walk was a good idea, rather than staying in the house telling myself not to have another glass of wine. So, that was good, because the bulk of the day has been pretty mope-riffic and depressed. I'm not motivated to do anything.

Papa's inurnment is Thursday. I want to send something for Father D. to read, since neither Twin nor I will be there, but I can't think of anything.