January 19th

So... it's been five years since my dad's sudden death and I was starting to compose a post in my head that I felt would have been up to the occasion, but then it got really late and I was really tired because of all the stuff I've been doing today and I was feeling bad about that, but then I realized, a whole lot of the stuff I was busy doing was entirely appropriate for remembering my dad.

I wrote a bunch of code.  Finicky code, writing out numbers into html strings so they turn into orderly tables when chucked into an email.  Dad thought computer programming was pretty interesting (he's the only reason I ever took a comp sci course) and while I don't know that he would have said he loved spreadsheets, it really looked to a lot of people like he loved spreadsheets.  I remember him carefully taping together six or eight sheets of paper so he could properly survey the family budget at the end of the year and present it to the rest of us.  So, code to print numbers in orderly tables — entirely appropriate for today.

At the playground, the kids were fine on their own and Mr. Right and I could talk but I couldn't stand still, antsy after all the coding.  Jumping jacks, running in place, stepping exercises on the beams holding in the playground mulch — very much my dad.  I remember him coming home from work and picking up a stretchy band or a compression bar and doing random exercises while chatting with us about the day.

I wore my giant overmitts.  He always had cold hands and had a complex layering system of liner gloves, regular mittens, overmitts, Gortex shell mitts for the rain...  I'm sad I got to be fast and reasonably skilled at knitting only after he died.  I still sometimes think of knitting him some mittens.  Dead loved ones are like amputated limbs; sometimes you get tricked into thinking they're still there.

And then, finally, I did some administrative tying up of loose ends.  Re-upping my developer account, adding the Linux class (that's the one I wanted!) and dropping the Theory of Computation class (kind of sad, but I can't take both), checking a credit card expiration date...  Boring but necessary and Dad was the sort to take care of that kind of thing on time and not complain about it.

He was also the sort to do a lot of reading, he always had a pile of books on the go at once and a few copies of the Atlantic magazine hanging around to be thoroughly gone through, perhaps underlined in a few places or a particularly great article clipped for sharing or saving (the one on Lincoln's depression is the one I remember most clearly).  And then he'd initial the front cover and date it so he'd remember he'd read it.

I'm not sure he'd be too into audiobooks, what with the lack of something to scrawl an initial on or stack beside the couch, but I don't let that bother me.  If he were still here, I'd be giving him a hard copy of The Antidote, which Mr. Right got for me and I'm almost done listening to.  A sort of practical philosophical book on "the negative path to happiness".  Stoicism and all that.  Dad was a stoic in the better sense of the word, the sense The Antidote examines.

 

Comments

[mar mar]

We didn't quite remember your dad the way we'd planned: the kids were having too much fun: paintball, nerf battle outside (not very Quakerly, but I think your dad would have loved it -- about 8-10 neighborhood boys running around the front yard laughing and having a great time, with M in the middle of it all playing along as best a 6 year old could), an overnight for J with the twins. J came home to get his clothes and he lit the yarzeit candle and wanted to say a prayer to Abuelo, which he did very nicely. And I pulled out the wonderful photo album you put together to show everyone how much J looks like his Abuelo did at this age -- even your sister was shocked and M immediately said: that's J! Genes are an amazing thing.

Myself, I took a bike ride and made it up all my hills for the first time in a long time. Went to pick up the credit card I'd left at a restaurant last night (something your dad would never leave, but certainly would approve of my retrieving it -- at least I knew immediately where it was and tracked it down). Your sister and I drank some cheap champaign and toasted your dad over dinner by candlelight -- we lit both the little Nicaragua clay houses. M loved them.

And we looked at the stars. 5 years. Amazing. I'm sure your dad is very proud of all of us and delighted with your knitting, programming, blogging and thinking ....and especially what a wonderful mother you are.

[Elizabeth McGonagle]

I miss his quiet, steady presence in the neighborhood. But in reality his quiet, steady presence is in the hearts of those who knew him, and we're all better for it. It doesn't seem like five years.

[AnnaSara]

Thinking of all of you and sending love from Sweden!

[Judy]

One of the very best tributes I've read for dear Kennan. You've illuminated him here. If it's in the daily lives of our children that we would most like to be remembered (and surely that was his hope), his memory is doing well by you. xoxo

[Liz Ward]

With all these wonderful memories so vivid and alive, he is still here, surely.

[Kelly]

I've never felt that anniversaries have to be different from our daily lives to be remembered or honored. But then Mike gives me grief all the time for being horrible with birthdays and other dates. I'm guessing your dad would have been/is happy that your life is so full and busy that you end the day completely spent.

On another note--I didn't know stoic could have a bad connotation. I've always thought (assumed?) it was a compliment.

[Rita]

This is just beautiful, as are you. You have so much of your father in you. He would be incredibly proud of all that you are. Sending lots of love your way.