Soon Now, Almost
Dad's funeral is coming up soon. Very soon. Like, this-time-next-week-it-will-be-over soon.
And naturally, I'm dreading it. I've been avoiding it all summer.
But everything is ready, or as ready as I can make it.
The programs are being printed, I added pictures to the autobiography of his that I'd rediscovered and those are being printed off, the graveside service is ready, the food and drink and the venue is ready, the newspapers have run the announcement again, the only thing left to do is write what I want to say.
My chosen cousin had a her laptop crash when she was about to speak about her father at his funeral, and she spoke entirely from the cuff. It was wonderful.
You'd think that someone with 4 effin degrees, 3 of which in literature and writing would be able to come up with something, but I am stuck. I have been stuck in all matters creative for weeks now.
I'm thinking maybe I work backwards.
I want to end up with "Peaceful Easy Feeling" by the Eagles.
Towards the end of it all, he would repeat himself, a lot. Like, a lot a lot. And one of the things he would always talk about, was how he'd stumbled across this documentary about the Eagles, the rock band, he'd clarify, not the bird. And he would go on to tell me how it was a really good documentary. He'd tell me about how back when they first came out he never thought too much about them, he always thought the were "dirty, old hippies." But as a result of the documentary, he was drawn into their story, and of course really exposed to their music as well.
Towards the very end of it, but not that very far - he was still able to navigate Netflix and Amazon to find something to watch - he called me up on the phone as I was driving home from work. This, too, was a feat at that point.
I was at the last big intersection, and big here is incredibly subjective. It's a four way stop light surrounded by a state forest. Still, it gets busy there in the afternoon and so I was waiting my turn in line at the stop light. He calls up, and we don't exchange too many pleasantries as we'd just talked that morning, and we're pretty well caught up.
He gets straight to the point, had I heard about the Eagles? Yes, I say, they're one of my favorite bands. He tells me about the documentary on them, how they were dirty, old hippies, how he was surprised to find their music was really, really good. I agree and respond as if this conversation was happening for the first time.
This time though the conversation doesn't go as usual. This time he actually has the documentary playing in the background, and one of the songs he's really come to like is playing, and he tells me to hang on. I imagine he holds out the phone towards the television at this point so I can hear the song with him. And that's all we do. For an endless count of seconds we sit, me in traffic, minutes from my home in Massachusetts, him in front of the television in Germany, listening to the same song, listening to "Peaceful Easy Feeling." And I'm trying so hard not to lose it, because he can't bear it when I cry, and also I still need to drive that last bit home.
He comes back to the phone. We both agree that it's a really good song. He gets my assurance that I'll watch the documentary soon, and says the song's about to end, he needs to get back to the documentary.
And now I'm sitting in traffic, staring at my phone, laughing and crying and marveling at the fact that Dad and I would ever share a song, this song, of all songs.
Which is one of the thing I've always loved about him, though it took me awhile to learn this about him. It may have taken him 40 years to come around to The Eagles, but he did. He learned about them - by accident or choice - and he really came to appreciate them. And this is true about all things in life with him. He left school, but spent his entire life learning. And not just learning, but taking in new information, assessing the information he had and coming up with a new solution if he had to. As a surveyor you have to, or you get lost really quick.
When I was born, he would always get me in the middle of the night when I was hungry. When I was little, he didn't tell me to be a teacher or a nurse or a wife. He encouraged my dream to be an astronaut, but I announced I was going to be the first woman on the moon, he said to skip it, as we'd already been there. He said to be the first woman on Mars instead. I still love him for that. All his life he was my champion, learning for me, about me and with me. And so, if there's anything I would ask you to take away from my father, it is to keep on learning, to evaluate. Logically, critically, and then to move on, together.