Family – I-70 WEST AND BEYOND

The empty chair.

We had just been seated, deciding what was what in the stack of small, folded menus on the table, when Thomas said, “When we are out together, the three of us, there will always be an empty chair.”

I was in a restaurant with my two sons the night before Thanksgiving at a restaurant in Portland, where my daughter-in-law had snagged a hard-to-get reservation. Over the past several months, I had been at many tables in restaurants in many different cities with Thomas and Grant, but had never noticed the empty chair. Thomas’s words hit me hard in their reality, but he was right. When the three of us are together, there will always be an empty seat because tables are two-, four-, or six-tops, but never three-tops. The reminder of Emery’s absence is continual and shows up in places I never would have thought of before.

I sat down with my family for every dinner while we all stayed at the rental house in Boulder after Emery’s death. I remember during one of the first dinners, it didn’t seem like there were enough of us at the table. I had a sense of needing to wait because we weren’t all there. The one who showed up in the memorable outfit, whose small hands wore the biggest rings, who would have special teas for all of us after the meals, that she had blended to help with digestion, wasn’t there. There wasn’t an empty chair at that round table, but the emptiness was profound. I didn’t understand then that that feeling of someone missing would weave its way in and out of everyday. It’s a sensation of deep longing and searching, even though I know the reality.

The last time I had been out to dinner with all three of my children was on September 8th, 2024, the day after my Dad died, and they had flown into Kansas City from three different states We went to a nearby restaurant and were seated at a four-top table that evening. There was no empty chair. As my tears flowed with my accounts of my Dad and their grandpas’s last days, Thomas and Grant, who were seated across from me, would reach out and take my hand or my arm, and Emery, who was seated next to me, would lean in to hug me. We were whole. The seats were filled, and we supported each other in our grief. The empty chair now stands in the starkness of loss. I thought about how different it was, just the three of us in the restaurant in Portland, holding each other up emotionally because our fourth is missing. We will always be navigating the space we live in without Emery, moving on instinct, as there is no script or map for the journey we are on.

It’s a slow drip when someone dies, and reminders are ever-present. My phone auto-corrects morning to mourning. My favorites still appear on the screen in my car when I make a call. Two of the phone numbers are no longer in service, the oldest ones and the youngest: Dad and Emery. I can’t bear to remove them. I’ve been asked multiple times while at doctor appointments, “Is Emery Golson still your emergency contact?” In the early days, I simply answered yes, as no felt like too big an answer. My saying yes is now on a case-by-case basis, depending on my emotional strength that day. Sometimes, the efficiency of the person behind the desk who deletes Emery Golson and enters another name feels too insensitive, even though I haven’t told them why, and they are simply doing their job. I randomly get emails to my email address that begin with “Dear Emery.” They are junk emails, soliciting money, but I can’t bear to unsubscribe from them. I’m afraid to delete anything with Emery’s name on it. I’m holding onto every piece, every shred, every fiber of her that I can.

Empty has shown itself in so many ways this past year, besides the chair. Shortly before Mother’s Day, I told one of my sons that I was no longer a mother in Boulder, so it would be difficult to spend the holiday there. They told me that wasn’t at all true, as I was a mother everywhere. I knew they were right, but in the physical sense, I was not a mother to anyone in the town where I live. It felt similar to being asked how many children I have. I’ve never hesitated with the three, but don’t always share more unless asked; when I do, it’s still three, but I have to add that one is no longer living. It’s a hard sentence to say and a hard one to hear.

Experience has shown me the consequential difference between using adjectives and verbs with my daughter. Death as an adjective feels too final, too abrupt. “Emery is dead.” The verb “Emery died” is softer, gentler. It is what she did, and not who she is or became, and although it’s only semantics, the difference matters greatly to me.

In the early days after Emery died, Grant told me he often misspelled ‘siblings’ when writing emails to Emery and Thomas. He said that Thomas would correct him, reminding him that ‘siblings’ had one b, not two, but for some reason, he couldn’t remember. He told me he had recently written an email mentioning his siblings, and this time he paused over the word, remembering that ‘siblings’ has only one b. He told me it would be easier to remember now, since he had only one sibling. That hit me in the same way the empty chair would months later. One sibling, one empty chair. The void of that empty space is far larger than the chair or letting go of the extra b in siblings. It’s love. It’s remembering. It’s about making a shift in everything we know and finding Emery’s presence so profoundly in her absence.

A few days after Emery died, the family gathered at Miles’s house to celebrate his birthday. I hadn’t been in the house since the night Emery was taken to the hospital. As I opened the back door, the emotions of the night and seeing the EMTs carry her down the stairs on a stretcher felt like I was living the moment all over again. I had been worried about seeing her shoes at the door because Emery’s shoes were always at the back door, as they didn’t wear shoes in their home. Shoes hold an emotional weight and vulnerability, amplified after death. I knew that seeing Emery’s shoes at the door would no longer be about a momentary pause, but instead, would represent a journey that had ended; treads that would no longer move across the ground with her energy.

Thankfully, Miles had moved Emery’s shoes, but in their absence, I wondered where they were and felt an overpowering need to see them, to try them on, even though her feet were one size smaller than mine. This would become a pattern for me that still exists a year later. I don’t avoid the pain or ignore it; I want to sit with it, put it on, walk in it. Her cowboy hat, however, still hung above where her shoes would have been. I touched the rim as I walked past it, but resisted putting it on my head.

Ten months later, I’d be in Portland for the 3rd or 4th time in a year. It was the day after my dinner out with my sons, and we were all seated around the table for Thanksgiving dinner. There was no empty chair, but there was an empty spot at the end of the table directly across from where I was seated. I acknowledged the spot as we went around the table, one by one, and shared what we were thankful for, a hard task in a year that has been so painful. And yet, there seemed to be more gratitude at that table than I remember in past years. We all felt Emery’s energy at the table, shifting our emotions from grief to gratitude, from sadness to love. I’ve slowly begun to reframe the empty chair. There may be a physical vacancy, but love and gratitude have filled in the space emotionally, and I’ve become acutely aware of Emery’s presence in her absence.

She Loved to Garden – 2016

*an edited essay originally written in 2016

Mother/Daughter and our shared love of digging in the dirt

My daughter is learning how to be a farmer. The same daughter who didn’t hide her disdain for my reaction of delight to my Mother’s Day gift of a rototiller when she was five. Emery had not been consulted, and she was not pleased. She asked me why I couldn’t want stuff like the “other” moms wanted for Mother’s Day, like jewelry or perfume or makeup. I’m not sure if any of my mom friends wanted makeup for Mother’s Day, but I understood what she was asking me. Clad in overalls, work boots, and an embarrassing amount of dirt under my fingernails, I gave myself a sweeping gesture with the arm that wasn’t holding the shovel and asked her jokingly, “Do I look like the kind of person who would ask for makeup for a gift?” At the same time, I understood what she was saying, with her emphasis on, like the other moms. She just hadn’t seen the other moms in their more casual element. I’m sure they also had days they wore slippers to the grocery store because they were faster to put on. Without naming names, I could name one.

Out of my three children, it was Emery who spent the most time with me in my gardens. This was partly because she didn’t have a lot of say in the matter, as most of our days were spent at home, and there was always something that needed to be taken care of in the garden. Emery was the one who would follow behind me on the flagstone paths I had laid, asking me the names of the flowers and shrubs. I told her the Latin names because, after working at a garden center where we were required to use them, it had become a habit for me. I had no idea she was really listening to my answers.

While still in kindergarten, Emery referred to most of my shrubs and several of the perennials by their Latin names. This is not a typical thing for a kindergartner to do, but she had done it for so long that it became normal. While discussing the spirea bushes, Emery would ask which ones I was referring to— the Vanhouttes or the Japonicas? She preferred the Vanhouttes as they reminded her of a fountain with white water and thought the Japonicas (princess spirea) were “show-offs.” She was right. They were.

When Emery was in kindergarten, my flower garden became very important to her because, unbeknownst to me, my clever little girl was hatching a plan. Her teacher, whom she loved dearly, tutored kids in the summer in areas where they needed extra help. Emery wanted more help in reading, but I think what she really wanted was more time with her teacher, whom she adored. Emery wanted their lessons to take place on the swing in the garden, because “it was the nicest view we had.”

After a few visits with Miss L, Emery began referring to my garden as the Garden of Love. She decided it would be the location for Miss L’s wedding. Miss L wasn’t dating anyone at the time, or at least that I was aware of, and when I mentioned that to Emery, she didn’t seem overly concerned; instead, she asked where the best spot would be for her to stand when the photographer came to take pictures, and did I have the phone number for the newspaper? (This was in 1996, when most people had daily delivery of the local newspaper.) I told her under the arch, definitely under the rose-covered arch. She had sucked me right into her plan, and I was an eager participant, scheming for a bride who didn’t yet have a groom. She was specific about all the details… who to invite, what she would wear (her second decision after the location), the music and the cake, which would be the only food served at the wedding—yet still, no mention of a groom. The only single man Emery knew was her Uncle Bill, who lived in Seattle, and at one point, she mentioned that he would probably be the groom. Minor details.

The wedding plans faded as Emery moved into first grade, but once again, she became obsessed with her teacher, who looked like Snow White, but who already had her prince.

We did not have a wedding in our garden of love that summer, but several years later, I attended Miss L’s wedding with Emery. As we watched her exchange her vows, Emery looked at me, and without words, I knew exactly what she was thinking—the garden of love and the arch of roses. And yes, it would have been beautiful.

Emery’s take on the beautiful corner of the yard had me seeing it differently, whether weeding, spreading compost, planting, or simply sitting on the swing and enjoying it. It truly was a garden of love; regardless of if a wedding was taking place there or not, love was always present.

Similar seeds for a love of working the earth had been planted for me when I was about the same age Emery had been when she first took an interest in my garden. I spent a lot of time at my grandparents’ house in the summer, where my Papa spent his days gardening in his expansive garden behind their house. I marveled at the bounty he’d bring into the kitchen at the end of the day and was eager to try new foods I had never tried before, such as okra, turnips, and hominy, all of which my mom would never cook or eat. It was my Papa who showed me the magic of planting a seed in the ground, and after a little bit of work and what seemed like a very long time, it would grow into something that could be eaten. That was nothing short of a miracle for me.

A few years later, I planted my own garden—a small, weedy patch in the back corner of our yard, where I planted a handful of watermelon seeds. Much to my surprise, it worked, and the shiny black oval seeds grew into watermelons that looked just like the ones on the front of the seed packet. While tending my little weedy patch of a garden, I discovered a large watermelon hidden behind a tangle of vines and weeds that looked ready to be picked. I sat down, broke it open, and enjoyed the fruits of my labor. It wasn’t cold or sliced, but it was the best watermelon I had ever eaten. I ate the whole watermelon, its juice running down my chin to my chest while I buried my face in the warm pink fruit, pausing only to spit the seeds out. Digging in the dirt was in my genes, and I’m proud to claim that it has become a part of my daughter’s genetic makeup as well.

Emery and her husband, Miles, recently purchased acreage outside of Ft Collins, Colorado, and are learning how to be permaculture farmers. Along with chickens and bees, they will also be raising goats. When Emery was young, we spent a lot of time at the petting farm near our house, and the goat pen was always her favorite. She’d talk to the goats as if she were their mother—scolding, praising, and trying to teach the aggressive ones manners. Fast forward twenty years, and Emery has found her goats again. The same little girl who was deathly afraid of silver fish had no problem taking on a pen full of rambunctious goats, while I kept a safe distance on the other side of the gate.
A few nights ago, Emery texted me from Taos, where she and Miles were at a workshop for permaculture farming.

“I got my spirit from you, Mom.”

I read those words, paused, then reread them. I didn’t want to stop reading them. It’s beautiful to see yourself in your kids, and even more beautiful when they see themselves in you.

To you, Emery, who at one point wished for makeup, not rototillers, for me, along with manicured hands, but at the same time, insisted on spending time in my Garden of Love, because it was the best view we had. I loved sharing my love for gardening with you, but now it’s your turn. Now I get to follow you as we walk your land, and you point out all the plants you and Miles have put into the ground, along with the many gifts Mother Nature has planted before you. Keep digging into the rocky Colorado dirt, my beautiful girl, and you’ll find treasures that you never imagined…the biggest one being yourself.

A red coat and a gray vest.

A few years ago, Emery took me to a vintage store in a nearby town that had become one of her favorites. She had been talking about it for months, but finding free time with her busy schedule wasn’t easy. She had purchased several pieces there, including clothing, her dining room chairs and some art. She told me I’d not only love the merchandise but also the store’s unique western decor, as well as the owner, whom she now knew on a first-name basis. She was right on all counts. As soon as I walked in the heavy wooden front door of the store, which sat on a corner and was once a filling station, I felt right at home. The decor in the shop matched my own decor, both the decor I own and the decor I want to own.

Emery immediately spotted a vintage Mexican tourist jacket, insisted it was “me,” and told me I needed to try it on. It was expensive, but Emery told me jackets like that were rare, especially in pristine condition. Given its uniqueness, she thought it was well-priced. Emery has talked me into buying more than one item, both clothing and otherwise, that I was reluctant to purchase because it was too expensive. But she was rarely wrong, and every piece I shared the excitement of the purchase with her has turned out to be a treasure. Swept up in her enthusiasm, I tried the jacket on. The store owner, Susan, told us it had been a rare find and she debated keeping it for herself — words that made me start justifying the price tag in my head, given Susan’s enviable style. I hung it back up and continued to shop, telling myself I needed to think about it, but knowing full well it would be going home with me.

As I made my way around the shop, weaving in and out of furniture, home decor, and clothing, a gray knitted vest that I guessed was from the 1940s caught my eye. Unfortunately, it had caught the eye of another shopper, who picked it up as I was nearing the rack, holding it up to check the size. I moved on, continuing my way around the handful of clothing racks, eventually making a full circle and returning to the gray vest, which had once again been returned to the rack. I took it to the dressing room to try on, and, of course, it fit perfectly and was priced well. Without hesitation, I took the vest to the counter and set it down, knowing it was a sure thing, but I still needed some more thinking time, or persuasion from Emery, on the jacket.

Now, if you’re still reading this and thinking, “Ok, so what?” Hold on. There’s more.

Emery continued with her persuasion, reminding me that it was so me and such a rare find, so I set it down next to the vest to buy them both.

The woman who had held up the vest previously asked, “Did you put this here? Because I was going to buy it.” 

“Yes, I did.” I figured that would clear up her confusion, although at the same time, I was beginning to feel defensive. 

“But it’s mine and I am going to buy it,” she responded. 

“Yours? But it was on the rack. You returned it.” 

“But I was going to go back and get it, so it’s mine.” 

Now I was definitely feeling defensive. 

“I put it on the counter, which to me indicates that I was going to purchase it,” I said, my pulse now racing. 

“But you saw me holding it up.” 

“But you returned it.”

The conversation went back and forth, with both of us claiming the vest was ours to purchase, with little movement on either side. Then something shifted. I saw Emery and the store owner watching our back-and-forth and realized that, as Emery’s mom, I wanted to set a good example. Had she not been there, I would have held my ground, and things may have gotten ugly, but I would have gone home with the vest. Instead, I was the bigger person and said, “Ok, the vest is yours.”

I gestured for her to go ahead of me, and she thanked me, made her purchase, and headed for the door. Before leaving, though, she turned around and, with grace and kindness, said, “That was really nice of you, and I appreciate what you just did. Really.” And then she left. She wanted that vest, and maybe even more because I was in the process of buying it, but in that moment, it didn’t matter. I had done the right thing, or so I thought. I had set a good example in front of my daughter and the store owner, who watched the entire drama unfold. Or so I thought. After the woman left the store, leaving only the store owner, Susan, Emery, and me, Emery told me I had done a nice thing for the woman, as she looked like she was suffering. After the woman left the store and only the store owner, Susan, Emery and I remained, Emery told me it was nice what I had done for the woman as she looked like she was suffering.  

“Suffering?” I asked. “Well, maybe. She looked sad. Maybe she had had a fight with her boyfriend or husband, or maybe she had just lost her job or learned her mom had cancer. She looked sad. And now she has the vest she wanted, and she seemed a little happier when she left.” My first thought was that Emery saw far deeper into the woman’s emotional state than I had. As much as I liked the vintage vest, I had done the right thing, or so I thought.

“But… I can’t believe you let her buy it, Mom. I mean, it looked so cute on you, and you had it on the counter. Everyone knows that means you’re getting ready to purchase it.”

Had this been a moment of kindness I had demonstrated for Emery’s benefit, or a display of weakness?  The store owner, Susan, chimed in. “Yes, that was nice what you did, but clearly it was your vest.” 

A few minutes later, another customer came into the store, and the store owner, whom I now also know well enough to call Susan, asked her opinion on the matter. “Do you think that putting something on the counter by the register means you’re going to buy it?” The woman agreed wholeheartedly with Susan (and Emery). Then, the store owner filled in the details, explaining how kind I had been by letting the woman have the vest that I had clearly claimed. Now I’m the nice, albeit pushover customer, or so it seemed. Susan said she felt bad and was going to look for similar vests on her upcoming shopping trips, and for some reason, I knew she wasn’t just saying that to placate me.

I was happy with my jacket purchase because I loved it, but I was still struggling to let go of what had happened. I wished I had been more assertive. I wanted the vest.

But there’s more…

When reviewing my credit card statement a few weeks later, I noticed a large charge from a gas station—a charge I hadn’t made. I had recently driven to KC and back and assumed the fraud had happened somewhere in western Kansas while I was getting gas, although the dates didn’t quite align. Having gone through credit card fraud a few times, I knew the drill. I called my credit card company and reported that my card appeared to have been compromised at a gas station. They credited the charge and told me a new card would arrive within a few days. A few hours later, while stopped at a stoplight, it dawned on me what the charge was for. The boutique where I had bought the vintage jacket was located in what had been a filling station, which is why the charge listed the filling station’s name instead of the boutique’s. I knew I was right as the amount was exactly what I had paid for the jacket. I called the credit card company back. First, I wanted to ensure that the merchant had been paid. Then, I asked if the charge could be put back on my card, a request they told me they had never run across before. They told me they couldn’t do that as that account had been closed. “Consider it a gift,” the woman told me. Or maybe karma, I thought.

But there’s more…

A few months later, Emery came over with a gift bag and handed it to me, explaining it was from Susan, who owned the shop where the drama had occurred. Inside was a gray vintage sweater vest, similar to the vest I had given up. She told me Susan wanted me to know it was her gift to me. I was deeply touched that she had remembered and followed through on her promise. I’m usually good with my thank-you’s, but for some reason, my plans to write her a thank-you note were forgotten. I went to the boutique a few times afterwards to thank her in person, but she was never there.

The next time I saw Susan was at Emery’s celebration of life, a day that I’ve forgotten more about than I’ve remembered. I remember her approaching me and hugging me with tears flowing down her cheeks, and the only thing I could think to say to her was,  “I’m so sorry…I forgot to thank you for the sweater.”

She nodded, and of course, she understood.

Mother’s Day, May 2025

Crested Butte, Colorado, my 60th birthday

I always think of you when I hear the Fleetwood Mac song Gypsy. For years, that song has reminded me of you, and I always picture you in your Alaska days. Tonight, during their show, for the first time, I felt myself reflecting on my pre-Arlo days, thinking like a gypsy in spirit. I kept thinking about how cool it would have been if you and I had met when we were both in our twenties. I think we would have been best friends. Thank you for gifting me with a part of your spiritual gypsy soul. Love you always! Emery December 3, 2018

Emery sent this email to me after a Fleetwood Mac concert, when she was living in Fort Collins and I was still in KC, but would be moving to Boulder the following summer. I liked to think of Emery and me as friends—going to concerts together and wearing vintage clothing with braids in our hair. I held her idea, knowing that someday we would go to a Fleetwood Mac concert and pretend to be in our early 20s, instead of a young mother and grandmother. Those words hold far more value for me today, as do the conversations, the photos, the experiences, and the plans that never came to fruition, because now they carry the weight of being finite entities.

This is not the typical beginning to a Mother’s Day post for me, with musings of Pop-Tarts on make-shift trays and kids fighting over who gets to sit next to mom. Instead, I’ve been dreading this Mother’s Day. Emery, who is why I landed in Boulder and who ensured I was given a proper Mother’s Day celebration, is gone. I don’t know what to do with the day or myself, knowing that her plans for us to celebrate our roles as mamas will be painfully absent.
Last year on Mother’s Day, Emery and I celebrated our motherhood doing what we loved — we played in the dirt and planted three carloads of perennials in her front yard. Emery did what I never could on Mother’s Day. She told Miles she wanted to spend the day planting with me after our family brunch. It was her version of me wanting to go to the movies by myself for Mother’s Day, but unlike me, she asked for what she wanted and got it. Miles took the children fishing, and Emery and I rolled up our sleeves and dug in the dirt. We planted, we laughed, we told stories, and we cried, all with the beautiful music of Stephen Sanchez in the background. Emery preferred the wild, untamed, and overgrown look of an English garden, whereas I preferred the orderly and tidy look of a French garden. I told her we would know exactly who planted what in three years, as her area would be a tangled mess. She smiled at me and said, “I know, Mom…exactly like I like it.” I told her it would be fun to see the results of our plantings on the following Mother’s Day, when much of what we planted would be beginning to show blooms. She suggested we do the same thing the following Mother’s Day. I agreed. I loved the tradition we had set into motion.
 We talked about travel plans — a trip to NYC, and when the children were at an age when she could leave them for a longer stretch, maybe Paris. She said she would visit me when I returned to the house I had rented on the Oregon Coast the following year, cloudy days and all and asked me where I wanted to celebrate my 70th birthday. Emery had planned my 50th and 60th birthday celebrations, so I knew my 70th would be no exception. The anticipation felt good. We had so much to look forward to. That ended on January 4th, at 11:38 am — a time on the clock and forever in my heart that marked my before and after. It became my line of demarcation between when my life was whole and when a big part was gone. It marks the time from when I looked forward to the trips and plans made, to not wanting to do anything. It is my before, when joy was present and my heart felt full, and now the after, when I can barely get out of bed in the morning, can’t sleep at night, and cry without reserve or explanation at inopportune times. It marks the time when I knew who I was, to the time when I have no idea who I am, or who I will become in my grief of missing my darling girl. It marks the time before, when I bought two Mother’s Day cards last year to be given on two consecutive Mother’s Days, because they were that good, to the time after, where there will always be an unsigned Mother’s Day card in the top drawer of my desk, because I bought it for Emery, and no one else.

Thomas and Grant, who I became a mother to before Emery was born, have mothered me since January 4th and the 48 hours that preceded that difficult day. They held me up, gave me their shoulders to cry into, came to me from another room when they heard me sobbing, and never once told me it would be ok, because we all knew it never would be. As we were leaving Emery’s hospital room the morning she died, Thomas said, “You can’t hold your sister’s hand while the machines that were keeping her alive are turned off and walk out of the room the same person.” He was so right. We are all changed, and our love of Emery and each other is holding us together. Through their love, I have found my respite and refuge and because they are a part of me, they are the ones who can help me carry the tremendous load of grief I have for the part of their life and mine that is missing. They have been by my side as we navigate this unfamiliar journey that often feels like an icy precipice with limited visibility on a knife-edge cliff. They have become my strength, my comfort, and the outstretched hands in person and words over the phone that have become my stability. They are my comfort. They are my world. They are my opening into the wisdom of how we will carry this grief and how to set it down, if only for a moment. They carry stories that only we know, that are now safeguarded for Emery and Miles’ children, Arlo and Muna. To Thomas and Grant, I’m honored that you call me Mom on this most difficult of Mother’s Days and every day after. You hold my heart.

Emery’s Dad, Charlie, and I were with our girl for her first breath and also her last. We linked the circle of Emery’s being in the hospital room, overcrowded with machinery, anticipation, and hope, while time slipped and stalled and ended with a painful loss, whose depth we are still grappling with. And just as Thomas would later confirm, we filed out of her room, different from the people who had entered.

I’ve been going through the files on my computer titled Emery. In it are countless letters and essays I’ve written to or about Emery, along with her emails. I found the words I wrote for her Celebration of Life, and next to that, a copy of her death certificate. That last entry makes it feel like the file had been closed, but it hasn’t. It can’t be closed just like I can’t tell people I have two children. I have three, two of them living. In rereading the essays and letters, there is a common thread of my difficulties letting go that began with her starting kindergarten and ended with her getting married and eventually moving to Colorado. I didn’t want to let go. I didn’t know how. I learned the night after getting her settled in her dorm room at college, when she called and asked if I could return to college and be her roommate; she didn’t know how to let go either. I knew she was joking, but I also understood the sentiment behind her words. We missed each other when we weren’t physically close. One of the letters I found in the collection was one she wrote me for my 60th birthday. I stopped and started it several times as it was painful to read, and decided to include part of it, given that it’s Mother’s Day.

August 30, 2015 (from Emery)
“You taught me to always listen to my intuition and follow my heart. I’m so glad I listened to you, because I wouldn’t be who I am today if it weren’t for you.
This is what I’ve learned about the heart and the mother and child’s bond:
When two people are near one another, their hearts’ electromagnetic fields synchronize. This synchronization is like a support system, one heart learning to beat with the other. The first begins in utero, when the mother’s and baby’s hearts synchronize. When you’re away from that person, your heart goes through a period where it has to focus on beating without the other heart, and it takes some time for your heart to get back to beating on its own in a normal fashion. This is the feeling of heartache or of missing someone. It is real.
As two people who have spent so much time together, our hearts sigh with relief when we are together, Mom, because we are so familiar with each other. So, when I say I love you from the bottom of my heart, I really, really mean it. I love you so much, Mom. Emery”

You were right, my darling girl; the feeling of heartache is real. I wonder how much time it will be before my broken heart goes back to beating in the way it beat before January 4th at 11:38, if that will ever happen.
I’ve often spoken of the umbilical cord when writing about mothering, or the metaphorical cord after the physical one has been cut. I’ve referenced my umbilical cord stretching itself to three different parts of the country, where my three children live. I don’t know how far Emery’s cord stretches now, but I know it’s still there. I can feel its tug when I see Muna’s big brown eyes and soft curls, so much like her Mama, or when Arlo leaned in at our birthday dinner, wanting me to tell him stories about his Mama. I will tell him all the stories I can remember, and story by story, word by word, he and Muna will have the tools to paint a picture of their Mama when she was a child. I feel the cord wrapping itself around my own heart, which is no longer intact, yet, the connections continue —a red-tailed hawk circling overhead, a quarter found on the floor next to my bed with 1990 on it, and a framed photo also near my bed that randomly fell over yesterday. Connections are different, but present.

I used to tell my kids that I would stand before a moving train if I had to to protect them. I spoke metaphorically, but the deeper I got into motherhood, the less metaphorical that statement became. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop that train on Jan 4th, Emery. I couldn’t even find the tracks, and as a mother, not being able to come to your rescue has been so painful that I sometimes struggle to find my breath.

My Mother’s Day post in 2017 was dedicated to Emery as she had just given birth to her son, Arlo, four days earlier, ironically, on my firstborn, Thomas’s, birthday.
It feels timely to include an excerpt from that post.

Mother’s Day, May 4th, 2017
I will always be your mother, and you will always be my daughter, but now we’re entering into a new place, given that we both are mothers now, and that in and of itself is just about the most beautiful and perfect thing I can think of on this very first Mother’s Day for you.
You will have days that you feel like you are swimming upstream in mud, and it will be hard to maneuver yourself out of the mire, but you’ll figure it out, and before you begin to slump into a human question mark, rest assured, dry land is never out of sight. You’ll stumble, you’ll fumble, you’ll eat a bag of chips with a salsa chaser for breakfast, and you’ll call pajamas clothes for more days than you care to admit, and to that I say “do it.” And do it repeatedly because you deserve every morsel of not-so-healthy and every hour of long past time to get out of your jammies. You’re a mama now. Claim that right with pride.

You grew up with a mom who often felt like that frazzled, wild-haired bus driver in the Magic School Bus series, which I greeted at the time with a sigh and a promise to myself to get it right the next time. Still, decades later and without apologies, I realize that the messy, the dirty, the not wearing the right shoes, or shoes at all, and letting go of a whole lot of shoulds and coulds, just might have been one of the best gifts I could give you. I can’t end this letter without a big shout-out to your partner in life and love, Miles. His hands-on fathering melts my heart. What a lucky baby Arlo is to have you both as parents.
From one mother to another, I wish you the best of everything and several consecutive hours of sleep this Mother’s Day, dear Emery. Only now that you are a Mom can you begin to understand how much I love you. And I do. So much.
Still.

To all reading this, celebrate your role as a Mom, or celebrate your Mom today. It matters deeply

Mother’s Day, May 4th, 2017

I will always be your mother, and you will always be my daughter, but now we’re entering into a new place, given that we both are mothers now, and that in and of itself is just about the most beautiful and perfect thing I can think of on this very first Mother’s Day for you.

You will have days that you feel like you are swimming upstream in mud, and it will be hard to maneuver yourself out of the mire, but you’ll figure it out, and before you begin to slump into a human question mark, rest assured, dry land is never out of sight. You’ll stumble, you’ll fumble, you’ll eat a bag of chips with a salsa chaser for breakfast, and you’ll call pajamas clothes for more days than you care to admit, and to that I say “do it.” And do it repeatedly because you deserve every morsel of not-so-healthy and every hour of long past time to get out of your jammies. You’re a mama now. Claim that right with pride.

From one mother to another, I wish you the best of everything and several consecutive hours of sleep this Mother’s Day, dear Emery. Only now that you are a Mom, can you begin to understand how much I love you. And I do. So much.

Still.

To all reading this, celebrate your role as a Mom, or celebrate your Mom today. It matters deeply.

Mother’s Day, 2012

The moments that your heart holds tight….

It’s the small things in life that seem to hold the most real estate in my heart – not from birthdays or weddings or special holidays, but rather, the moments from every day life that surprise me and have me wanting to push the pause button and absorb it before it moves past. I had one of those moments on my last morning in Colorado, while staying with my daughter, son-in-law and 10 month-old grandson.

I was sitting on an ottoman that I had pushed up in front of the windowed door to the deck with my grandson, Arlo, on my lap. It was early morning and the sun was still making it’s last climb over the horizon, leaving a soft yellow glow in the house; that very peaceful time of day when everything seems to move a bit slower, including 10 month-old babies. A herd of 20 or so mule deer were slowly making their way across their land, close enough to the house that they were easily spotted by both of us, even though their coats were camouflaged against the color of the winter grass. When Arlo spotted them, he quickly looked up to me to insure that I also saw them, then pointed his small finger at them, looked up at me again and smiled. Arlo is a very busy, very mobile baby, so the moments seemed borrowed in a way and I held onto them as long as I could as I knew while it was happening that it was a moment and a feeling I’d later savor.

We sat there for several minutes, quietly watching as the deer slowly made their way across the land behind the house, Arlo’s eyes wide with fascination. When he had seen enough, he turned his attention towards me and grabbed my necklace, as he often does because he’s a baby and that’s what babies do, but this time he held it in his small hand as if he was really examining it, rather than simply trying to pull it off of my neck. It’s a small silver disc with the words “protect this woman” surrounding a small turquoise piece in the center. I’ve worn it continually around my neck for the past 5 years. He seemed very curious about it. Someday, Arlo, I will tell you about the day that I found the necklace in a small shop in Leadville, CO. I will tell you that in the previous months, I had climbed to the top of five 14,000 foot peaks, by myself, and although I have a weakness for silver and turquoise, it was the words on that small disc that had me buying it without hesitation. I’ll explain how even though it is only a piece of jewelry that I wear around my neck, somehow, it makes me feel just a tiny bit safer. I’ll show you, someday, what it felt like to climb those five tall peaks and will give you the handful of tips I discovered as we climb them together.

I will also tell you about the first morning after my young family had moved into our new home, when your Mom was not even three, and I saw a huge buck circling the large cedar tree in the front of our house and how mesmerized I was by the site of him and the fact that there he was, right in our own front yard. There’s just something about watching deer so close to where you live in the early morning hours. I’ll tell you that those 5 acres that surrounded our new home made me feel like I was living on a ranch as I had never lived in a place with so much land around me. You’ll laugh about that one, no doubt, as living with a lot of land around you is all you have known, but that’s ok. At some point, I’ll tell you the rest of my deer story… the part where the deer could wipe out days of work in my garden during their early morning feedings and how I spent countless hours and endless experimentation trying to deter them. Even so, that morning when I saw the buck circling the cedar tree, just feet from our front porch, still wins on the deer memories for me. Did I mention that it was snowing lightly that morning?

As I sat there in the quiet house, with Arlo on my lap, I felt the awe of the role of Grandma that I was blessed with a short 10 months ago. It’s a role that I covet dearly, first, because I am a mom and to see my baby take on the very role that shaped the biggest part of my life is beyond miraculous to me. Second, because of my own grandparents and the important role they all played in me becoming who I am today. My love of knitting, sewing, gardening, photography, writing and love of travel were all introduced to me by my grandparents, whether directly with a hand reaching over mine as I held a red plastic knitting needle as it formed stitches or indirectly, simply by exposure.

The silver bangle that I’ve worn on my right wrist since I was 16, is one of many continual reminders of their influence in my life. I can remember my maternal grandmother, always with an armful of silver bangles, and the noise she would make when she entered a room. Her granddaughters were each given one of her bangles when she died and I’ve carried that little bit of her on my wrist ever since. There are other reminders that come in flashes – the first bloom of the iris in the spring, a well-written, witty letter, a bolt of fabric with its limitless possibilities when a sewing machine and a lot of patience are added, skeins of yarn and needles and the hope of sweaters that will fit and the ever present camera that resulted in boxes and boxes of beautifully captured photographs. These are the pieces of my life that have given me my sense of passion and have pushed my creativity in ways that continue to challenge me. If I can contribute in a similar way to my own grandson’s life, I will feel like I’m not only sharing some of who I am with him, but I’m giving thanks to my own grandparents in the process.

Last week, I was in a baby store shopping with someone who I’ve called my best friend since I was 15 years old. She was shopping for her 6 week-old grand son, and I was shopping for Arlo. We hadn’t been there long when it hit me and in between the oohs and ahhhs and is this cute? too cute? and how big will he be in 6 months?, I stopped, pondered the reality of the moment, and commented.

“Look at us….friends for 3/4 of our lives, you living on the east coast for most of it, and me in the midwest, and here we are, in a baby shop in Breckenridge, Colorado, shopping for our grandsons. Could you even have begun to imagine that out of all the searches we made together… the clothes, the parties, the guys, the fun the beer and the cheap clothes and babysitting jobs to pay for those cheap clothes and maybe someone with a fake ID to buy the cheap beer, that someday our search together would be for baby clothes… for our grandsons???”

A beautiful passage of time seemed to have had us both in its collective hug and the 46 years had brought us to a moment that I think caught us both off guard. We became grandmas for the first time 9 months apart and after sharing so many firsts, we’re sharing one again.

So, Arlo, that moment we watched the deer with the sun rising at our backs, tucked away in the quiet of the house with you seated on my lap, was one moment of countless moments to come. I have so much to tell you and share with you and if just one of those many moments impacts you enough that someday you’re sharing it with your own child or grandchild, or really anyone, then I will have succeeded and that yarn of all of our collective experiences will continue to knit the stories that will connect the generations. We are all a part of the creation of something quite beautiful – stitch by stitch, row by row, that continues to grow.

Thanksgiving 2024

Life is short. Make it sweet. These words were printed on a wooden block that fell off a shelf and landed inches from my feet as I filled my coffee cup at McClain’s Bakery in Kansas City. I picked up the wooden block just as one of the employees came over with profuse apologies and returned the block to the shelf next to the coffee urns.

I took my coffee to a nearby table and opened my computer to work on some writing, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the falling block and its message. It felt like a tap on the shoulder that I couldn’t ignore. Life is short. Make it sweet. It also felt like something Dad would have noticed, possibly adding that he could have made a better block with letters carved instead of painted. It’s also possible that Dad was trying to bring those words to my attention with a block that was not precariously perched but fell anyway and landed at my feet. There have been so many incidents since Dad passed, starting with the red-tailed hawk, where his presence was undeniably felt. I’m counting the falling block as another one.

In the past several months, I’ve experienced the highest of highs and lows that had me crumpling and wondering if I’d ever be upright again. In July, my granddaughter, Frankie, entered the world, exploding my already full heart. The next month, my sister, Robin, was diagnosed with Stage 4 pancreatic cancer, and a month later, my dad died—a timeline of the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. My cousin, sensing the profound grief and sadness I was experiencing, told me to look for the sparkles every day, especially now, as they will become more important than ever. I decided to follow her advice. During Dad’s short stay in hospice, I sat by his bedside for several hours and let my mind weave its way through countless memories, some bringing tears to my eyes and others a good laugh. Because the hospice nurse told me even though he might not react, he could hear me, so some of those memories I shared aloud with him. The door to Dad’s room was open, and during a quiet moment, a woman, who I didn’t know, came in, walked over to me, leaned down, and hugged me. I was surprised, confused, and comforted. She told me she hoped it was Ok, and I nodded, not knowing what to say; then she added, “I sat with my dad a month ago, and I know the feeling. I recognized the look on your face when I walked by, and it looked like you needed a hug.” I thanked her, told her she was right, and then she was gone. It was all so fast that it took me a minute to absorb what had happened and the gift I had been given from a complete stranger. Life is short. Make it sweet. I was grateful for my cousin’s reminder, and since then, not a day has gone by that I’ve not seen a sparkle. The block falling at my feet was an unexpected but very welcomed sparkle.

I’ve been through the lowest of lows these past few months, but it was in those lows that I’ve been reminded of what really matters, even though it was something I knew all along. Thanksgiving is about toasting and giving thanks at a beautiful table filled with platters of food and the cranberries I insist on bringing, even though my daughter tells me nobody likes cranberries. And just like last year, I will bring home an almost full dish of cranberries that I will eat for a few days and then throw away. Thankfulness is the incredible group of people from around the world who I met while at a writing retreat in Greece last July and who I now call my friends. Thankfulness was the birth of baby Frankie, who arrived days before I left for Greece and who became my priority when I got home, booking my flight to LA two days later to hold her in my arms. Thankfulness is the moment when I set down the burden of heavy anxiety I had been carrying with an exhale and a sigh of relief because the doctors said Robin’s bloodwork looked good and her cancer was asleep. Thankful is knowing Dad had an easy and peaceful passing, confirmed by the hospice nurse who, in her compassionate delivery, told me he had a perfect death — quick, painless, and peaceful.

I’m thankful for the love my kids have given me with their emotional and physical support and for showing me through grief and sadness that family and friends are what hold us together in life more than anything else. Family. Friends. Cousins. My Mom. We’ve all been holding each other up and, in doing so, have found our strength, our resiliency, and, thank goodness, our humor. A comparison between poorly folded sheets in the linen closet to the flag the two soldiers ceremoniously folded at Dad’s military ceremony was some of that necessary humor.

I’m thankful for unexpected reminders that life really is short and to make it sweet. In a time when life has felt so difficult and I wondered what I could find to be thankful for this year, I’ve come up with a list that holds more meaning and depth than most years, which I’m calling my Thanksgiving sparkle.

Happy Thanksgiving to anyone who reads these pages. I hope your day is filled with unexpected sparkles with people you love and cranberries that no one likes but someone made because they love you.

Continuing Tradition with 24 Beats

Dad started what would become a tradition when he and Mom moved to their retirement home 15 years ago. I don’t remember if it was Veterans Day, Memorial Day, or the 4th of July, but on the first patriotic holiday after moving in, Dad went to their patio and played taps. He told me he didn’t know if anyone else could hear it (adding that most had compromised hearing, so probably not), but even so, he felt it needed to be played to honor and respect the many Veterans who had died. His playing was noticed, and so it continued and soon became his tradition.

When our family was at Dad’s interment ceremony at the Veteran’s Cemetery in Higginsville, Missouri a few weeks ago, the ceremony began in a small chapel. I transported Dad’s ashes again, although this time in the back seat of my car as Mom was riding shotgun. When we arrived, the urn of ashes were placed on a small table in the front of the chapel with the tricorn folded flag in front of it. Two uniformed service members unfolded the flag and with ceremonial respect and measured precision, refolded it before handing it to our mom. A lone bugler, who was positioned outside the chapel, played taps as the flag was being folded. I was Ok, or as Ok as one is when their father dies, until I heard the sound of taps being played. I thought about the many patriotic holidays when Dad played taps, whether anyone could hear it or not. Today, with the urn of his ashes on the table while two uniformed servicemen refolded the flag, I realized the significance of an unknown bugler playing for a man they had never met – the same man who never let a patriotic holiday go by without playing taps on his patio for the soldiers he knew and most that he never would. Someone was playing taps for Dad. With that realization, my tears flowed. Dad would have loved the precision of the military ceremony and the respect paid to him, but most of all, he would have loved the sound of the bugle being played in his honor and having his family present to witness.

Taps is a 24-note melancholy piece of music played by a single instrument, usually a bugle or a trumpet. It began as a last call before lights out that was played on military bases. It eventually evolved into the familiar solemn farewell that few can hear without being emotionally touched. It is played slowly, respectively, and never with embellishments.

I miss you, Dad, especially on days that held such deep meaning to you. It took me hearing taps at your funeral to understand why playing the 24-note piece became not only your honor to those who lost their lives in service, but your personal obligation. Today, on Veteran’s Day, I have no doubt that someone will play it for you, in your honor.

Unexpected moments.

Two different versions of pensive…

When I got in the car after carefully placing the cargo in the front seat, I texted my siblings and told them Dad was riding shotgun and I was on my way back to Mom’s. I hesitated before sending it, wondering if it was inappropriate or possibly disrespectful, but then realized it was exactly what Dad would have said had his dad been riding in the passenger seat in an urn that sat in a box, placed in another box in the front seat. Because Dad was a veteran and will have his ashes interned at a military cemetery, his ashes were accompanied by a flag given to me at the funeral home, appropriately folded into the symbolic tricorn shape with no red or white stripe showing, only the blue field with stars. Picking up his ashes in a Kansas City suburb at least 30 minutes away without traffic was a task on a list of things that had to be tended to and one I said I would do as I had a free morning. I’m glad I agreed to what now felt like an honor despite the rush hour traffic I had to go through to get there. When I glanced over to the passenger seat and saw the box with the tightly folded flag sitting on top of it, I knew it would be a moment I would recall later and more than likely write about because it was a new experience for me because it was my Dad, or his remains, as the funeral home now referred to him, who would make this a story and not just something to check off in a long list of things that needed to be tended to.

When we made our initial trip to the funeral home to sign papers and go over details after Dad passed, my brother, Tom, in preparation for being the one to pick up the ashes, asked if the urn had a screw-off lid; we had been seated around a dining room table in a room that looked like it had been decorated to make families feel at home. Except for the display of jewelry that could be purchased with your loved ones’s fingerprints in the center of the table, it felt like an informal gathering around a dining room table. I don’t recall the woman’s title who we were meeting, possibly the owner, but she took her place at the head of the table after helping Mom into her seat and pouring water for everyone. Once seated, she smiled at my brother and said he was not the first to ask the question.

“Yes, the urn has a screw top lid, and the ashes are in a bag. The urn is then placed in a box, and that box is placed in another box. No need to worry about ashes ending up on your front seat.”

I appreciated the break of solemness with the dose of reality. The subject was difficult, and I was learning the importance of finding the humor and breaking out in laughter as often as possible. At this point, it felt not only good, but necessary for the soul.

It wasn’t my first time transporting ashes. Several years ago, the container of ashes of our yellow lab, Marley, rode in my lap when our family took them to our farm to scatter. I remember thinking the container was heavier than I thought it would be, even though Marley’s weight was down considerably when we had him euthanized. Unlike Marley, Dad’s ashes will not be scattered but will remain in the urn and be interred at a military cemetery. I couldn’t help but glance over to the box, which didn’t look the least bit out of place as boxes often rode shotgun in my car en route to the post office to return something, but never with a flag on top. I turned off the music in my car because I wanted to talk to myself or, if I’m being honest, maybe to the box and the spirit that filled my car. I knew the box only contained the ashes of Dad’s body and not his spirit, but it gave me the same feeling as talking to the headstones of my grandparents when I used to go with Mom and Dad on Memorial Day to lay flowers on their graves. On one such trip, Dad had no blooms available for cutting in his garden, so he stopped at a convenience store and picked up a small bundle of plastic flowers. When he put them on Grandma and Papa’s graves, he added a note that said, “Sorry about the flowers, Dad, it was the best I could do.” His dad raised hybrid irises as a hobby, so he knew flowers well, and the apology was appropriate. Conversations graveside on Memorial Day were not solemn for Dad but rather practical. I followed that lead while conversing down Blue Ridge Boulevard with the box of my dad’s remains riding shotgun and I was smiling for most of the journey. Afterall, I got my humor from my Dad.

I was blessed to have Dad for the entire 69 years of my life, and I’ve seen most of my friends go through this process some decades ago. I had to wonder if they felt the confusion I did right now of grappling with the fact that my physical dad was gone. Forever. I will always carry him inside of me — his humor, his smile, his generosity, and the way he viewed life, but never being able to call him on the phone and follow his sometimes indirect storytelling path is hard for me to wrap my head around. His cell phone has been deleted from his T-Mobile account, and I went through his phone beforehand to make sure he didn’t have any unanswered messages and to check his contact list to make sure everyone had been told about his passing. Still, I can’t take his number out of my phone. And I’m struggling with using the past tense when speaking of him. I wonder… do these issues fade in time? Become more natural? More comfortable? More familiar?

Dad was 96 and had a very good life for 95 and 3/4 years, and that is what I keep reminding myself. A few days after Dad passed, my sister, Susan, and I went to our usual coffee spot near our sister Robin’s house in an urban setting of Kansas City. Exiting the car, we saw a red-tailed hawk perched on a fence post. As hikers, we both were familiar with the bird of prey, but not in an urban setting. Susan looked at me, and I looked at her, and we both nodded. Dad. After an hour in the coffee shop, we returned to the parking lot, where the hawk was still sitting on the post. This time, there was no question. Dad. I later read that “the sudden appearance of a hawk may indicate a loved one who recently passed is sending signs through this spirit animal about their continued presence.“

We both felt a sense of comfort and reassurance. A few days later, I felt the same sense of comfort while I looked over to the box that occupied my passenger seat at a stop light and smiled. You’re still with me, Pops, and I feel your presence. The tightly sealed urn wrapped in bubble wrap in a box that’s in another box with your ashes in it is as close as I’ll ever be to you again physically, but you’ve taught me to be curious and question things that don’t make sense and if you believe something, to trust that belief. I believe you gave Susan and me a nudge with the red-tailed hawk.

I know that processing Dad being forever gone will come in spurts and not always at the most opportune times. In the days leading up to Dad’s death and the weeks that followed, the only people I saw were family, nursing staff, hospice care staff, attorneys, bank employees, and the woman who explained the packaging of the ashes at the funeral home. I’ve been immersed in a place I didn’t anticipate being in on a visit to my hometown to see my sister, Robin, who was recently given the terrible and hard-to-process diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. This process has exhausted me to my core, and I’ve cried more in September than possibly in the entire of my life, yet here I am, still upright, with memories crowding my mind, each one vying for attention. I worry about Robin while in the throes of mourning my father’s death.

I keep circling back to a letter Dad wrote and tucked into my suitcase when I left for college. He typed his letters as his handwriting was difficult to read, always with the oversized “LOVE, DAD” scrawled across the bottom of the page. He said, “This could have been considered the 8th wonder because it is not like me to write letters, except possibly to tell some unsuspecting parent that their child wasn’t graduating.” You didn’t know when you typed that letter, Dad, that it would become one of my most cherished letters and give me the idea to do the same with my children. My kids all got letters that I tucked under their pillows after making their beds in their dorm rooms, something I insisted on doing simply for the letter placement.

“There were times, Laur, when I could have knocked you on your ear, but believe it or not, it was always out of love,” the letter continued. Several months ago, Dad had been admitted into the hospital due to issues with his pacemaker and, within 24 hours, was diagnosed with pneumonia complicated by COPD, followed by being intubated, a very dangerous procedure for a 95-year-old. Two days later, and with much surprise to the doctors, they were able to remove the intubation, and Dad began breathing on his own. I saw him that day, early morning, and it was just the two of us in the room. Maybe it was his near brush with death at that time, or maybe I just caught him at the right moment, but we had one of the best conversations we had ever had despite his difficulty in talking. He told me I was a “real pain in high school, which was a very challenging time…for both of us.” Those words made me smile, and I couldn’t disagree with them because Dad was right. Then he added that he parented me the same way his dad parented him, which meant ignoring a lot of the behavior and letting me be who I needed to be in the same way his dad had done with him. It was honest. It was real. He added that he thought his dad knew he was sneaking out of his bedroom on Saturday nights while in high school and hitchhiking to downtown Kansas City, where he was given playing time with the jazz band The Scamps. I felt more connected to him in that moment than I ever have—his rebellious spirit clearly having made its way into me, although my stories paled in comparison to his.

The letter ended with, “I’m sure I’ll continue to get upset sometimes with you, but I love you so much and always want the best for you. And no matter the struggles, you will be OK.” 8/20/73

9/26/2024. Thanks, Dad, for writing those words to me that I read alone in my dorm room, and now, 51 years later, I’m reading again, alone in my living room. I’m holding onto the “you’ll be OK” part with everything I have right now.

Writing Dad’s Obituary

I’ve written things I didn’t want to write, pieces I regret ever seeing the light of day, and countless stories, essays, blog posts, and a few memoirs that may never be finished. Some pages come easily; others are slogs, but I stay with it if I feel like something’s there. A few days ago, I was given the difficult task and deep honor of writing my Dad’s obituary. I was honored my family gave me the responsibility of writing it, but I also struggled. Not because I couldn’t find the words or the stories but because I didn’t want to write in past tense. It was also hard to edit my words to an appropriate-sized piece as I wanted to include far more than would fit into the parameters of an obituary. I called the Kansas City Star to ask them what the average length of an obituary was and was told there was no limit. She told me they had seen a few at 900 words, which was rare, and if I had a lot to say, 800 words was a good number. As we spoke, I looked down at my word count. 982. OK, I told her I’m good. Inhale, exhale, and start deleting.

I settled into a table at the back of a cafe with a big cup of coffee and my computer and started typing. I was only a few sentences in when I realized that typing in a public place had not been a good idea, as I was only a few sentences in when I began to sob. If anyone around me knew what I was typing, I’m sure they would have stopped staring and sent over some tissues. After an hour or so, or about a large cup of coffee later, I finished editing, cutting a few hundred words in the process. The cutting felt painful because who am I to decide what is put in and what is left out when it comes to such a public reckoning of who my Dad was and what he did in his life? Dad was a storyteller. He would have also struggled with the assignment. I felt proud and sad at the same time and made a promise to myself that it wouldn’t be the last time I wrote a piece about my Dad. I was also sad, because Dad was one of my favorite readers, always with a comment, and this would be one piece he would never read.

Dad was blessed with 96 years, and up until two months ago when he fell, most of those 96 years had been good, with Dad holding onto his attitude of “today is going to be my best day yet,” regardless of what he had on the calendar.

I left the cafe with the kind of headache you get after crying, a pain that is felt more emotionally than physically. I got into my car, called my sons who happened to be in town and told them I was on my way to meet them for lunch, then I backed into a truck who was entering the parking lot. I’m a good driver and can count on one hand how many wrecks I’ve been in with a couple of fingers left over, none of them serious. All I could think of was, seriously? This is how I’m ending my morning? The couple exited the truck, and the man said, “Oh great, I see you don’t even live here… Colorado?” “Yes, I do, but I’m here for a while because”… I considered my next sentence as it felt manipulative, but I said it anyway… “My Dad passed last week, and I’ll be in town for a while.” The woman sighed and told me how sorry she was. The man went back to his truck in search of paper. Both of our vehicles were damaged, his worse than mine, but both were drivable. We exchanged information, and I got back into my car and cried because I wasn’t sure what else to do, then started laughing because seriously, had I shared with the couple that I had been in the cafe writing his obituary…well, you can’t make this stuff up and it sounded like I just did.

The events of the morning would have been a great story to share with Dad. After hearing it, he would have ensured that I was OK and the person I hit was OK, then would have found the humor in the situation along with the irony. He was good at that. Had he been in a similar situation, he would have chatted with the other driver and likely shared a story, ending with a handshake and a laugh. You were the storyteller, Pops, and I was honored to be given the gift to tell yours.

Bob was often called a Renaissance man, “a fully-rounded person, knowledgeable in many areas, including the sciences, arts, and humanities.” To that, his family would add that he was the one who got the call when the car wouldn’t start, the disposal was jammed, or help was needed to get an oversized mattress down a narrow flight of stairs. Dad was the first call when a trusted Volkswagen was no longer trusted and needed a tow. He improvised with his equipment more than once by taking his belt out of the loops and using it as the tow rope. Dad was always available and ready to roll up his sleeves and go to work whenever his family needed him. This philosophy was also how he spent 28 years working Monday through Friday at Olathe High School, where he was a guidance counselor with an open-door policy to anyone who needed advice, encouragement, counsel, or simply someone to talk to.

Bob was born in Pleasant Hill, Missouri, on August 1, 1928. He died on September 7, at Foxwood Springs in Raymore, Missouri, where he and his wife Nancy had lived for the past13years. When Bob graduated from high school, he joined the Army and was stationed in Pisa, Italy. His musical ability was recognized, and he was asked to form a band with the German prisoners of war. He didn’t speak German (or Italian), but he shared the language of music with his band, communicating with notes, not words.

He met his wife, Nancy, at Central Missouri State University in Warrensburg, Missouri. They were married after he graduated, and on August 29th, they celebrated their 71st anniversary. He had a special evening planned 71 years ago that would end with a marriage proposal, but he couldn’t wait. Bob pulled off the highway under a Miller High Life billboard and popped the question. Nancy said yes, and on every anniversary after, including this last one, he would tell anyone around that he still couldn’t believe she said yes.

Bob and Nancy had four children: Robin Blackman of Kansas City, Missouri (Jim Cumley), Laurie Sunderland of Boulder, Colorado, Susan Ketterman of South Egremont, Massachusetts (John Clarke), and Tom Blackman of Olathe (Renee Barta). They also have five grandchildren: Thomas Sunderland, Grant Sunderland, Emery Golson, Randi Jo Blackman, and Evan Blackman, as well as five great-grandchildren.

Bob was a curious man with many hobbies, most of them worked on in the garage, which never had a car parked inside. Instead, it became the headquarters for Bob’s many creations, which included everything from making furniture to carving intricate designs and figures to building a telescope that he spent countless hours working on in an unheated garage. His biggest project was building a sailboat. The maiden voyage was at a nearby lake, and before pushing the newly crafted boat into the water, he announced that he had no idea if the boat would float or sink. Thankfully, the boat didn’t sink and became another weekend hobby.

He taught his children, his students, and anyone who knew him the power of kindness and the beauty of living with a “glass half-full” attitude. At age 90, he connected with a few musicians at his retirement facility and formed a jazz band where he played the coronet. Playing music was one of his greatest passions, and even at age 96, he still played with strength and soul, never using sheet music, always by ear. His last concert was ten days before he died. His love of jazz began in high school when he would sneak out of his house and hitchhike to jazz clubs in Kansas City, where he was given opportunities to take the stage, eventually playing with the band The Scamps. Expressing himself through notes played on his horn was one of his greatest joys, and although they wouldn’t let him play his coronet in rehab, his mouthpiece was on the table next to his bed. One of the nurses said they weren’t crazy about him using the mouthpiece due to breathing issues, but they weren’t about to take it away from him as it gave him so much joy. Two days before his passing, when he was beginning to fade, a video was shared of him playing a solo during a recent concert. His eyes were closed, but he had a big smile on his face, and his foot began to mark time under the blankets. When asked if he knew who it was playing, he shook his head and said, “No, but he sure is good.” You got that right. You sure were good.

His kindness, his smile, and his “today is going to be my best day” attitude will be forever missed.

MY PAPA’S NATIONAL GEOGRAPHICS

This isn’t my typical post, but it is the perfect 10 year anniversary gift to myself.

@TheKeepthings published my piece about my Papa, who was a life long collector of National Geographics. He bound and hand lettered hundreds of issues, including Volume One, Number One, into books. @TheKeepthings is a memoir project where people share stories of lost loved ones and the things they left behind. It’s filled with beautiful stories that I’d encourage everyone to read. I feel honored to be a part of this project.

https://thekeepthings.substack.com/p/my-papas-national-geographics?utm_source=substack&utm_medium=email&utm_content=share