As I scurried around my little cottage, not doing much at all, I paused to gaze at the painting now hanging on my dining room wall. It had once hung in my childhood home. Then, just a few years ago, it was one of the few pieces my dad carried to his final residence in a retirement community.
We were not a family of art collectors by any means. This treasure is only one of two original works that ever found my parents’ walls. Even when his dementia took hold, dad marveled and drew his visitors close to show them how the artist used a simple knife’s edge instead of a painter’s brush to create this masterpiece. The painting, he explained, reminded him of his childhood explorations on the outskirts of his small Nebraska hometown.
On Father’s Day weekend last June, we made the five hour drive to be with my siblings for one last visit as he lay in his hospice bed. Just an hour into our journey, in the middle of nowhere, I saw a cardinal glide to the highway guardrail. He landed as if in slow motion and watched us cruise past. I peacefully knew that it was my mother signaling that she was near and it was his time to join her again. And indeed, when we reached the final fifteen-mile corner, my brother called to let us know that the others were all there, but we had missed him. I thought we might. And it was OK. His dementia had given space for a long goodbye.
Now, on this winter’s day, I think of him again as I peer down the imagined well-worn path, through the grove of indistinguishable trees. And there, at the edge, just beyond the meandering trail, is a hint of blue suggesting the Elkhorn River, the place of refuge for the tenth of thirteen, the seventh son. I can see the scrawny youth with a buzzcut head and twinkling blue eyes, wearing hand-me-down jeans too short for his lanky legs. He likely had nothing more than a stick and a stone to torment the crows, chasing racoons and squirrels.
Many years later, he would again travel to places reminiscent of this magical space, his car now full with picnic baskets, bats, and balls to entertain his own five children. It might have been the destination for hotdogs and s’mores or a hunt for worms destined for bamboo fishing pole hooks kept in the trunk - just in case. Perhaps for this little girl, it was an opportunity to sneak away for a wispy, solitary walk down the path searching for fairies and butterflies, imagining stories of my own.
The memories for me now foggy. Perhaps I could have taken a moment more to ask about his youthful stories of the river, just beyond the grove. Or what he might have remembered of the dreamy little girl lost in her own world.
Next week, February 21st, will be his eighty-third birthday. The first one he has missed.
Thank you for reading Someday Is Now. I invite you to pause for moment and consider these reflections. If you’d like, share some thoughts in the comments.
What family heirlooms do you cherish and what stories do they tell?
Where did the car rides of your childhood take you?
What foggy memories do you have? Who might you ask to add some lost details?
What happened to the painting? The artist was my godfather and may fathers cousin.
My heirlooms are the people I've birthed and the friends and family that are framily. And the quiet and growing peace I hope to leave behind. You remind me to value today. Thank you, Friend.