Month: October 2016

I found it in one of mom’s home and garden magazines in early October, and my eyes lit up. They ran a big feature about Halloween decorations which included a pumpkin that had the words “Happy Halloween” etched through its smile, and I thought it was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. Trouble was, my artistic ability tapped out around drawing a stick figure, so I’d be unable to recreate it myself. Instead, I excitedly plopped the page in front of dad looking up to him with eyes pleading for him to carve it for me.

It took him hours. And I’m sure it drove him crazy a few times, working the carving knife ever so slowly and precisely to capture the minute detail, but I think it appealed to the meticulous way about him. How it maybe had a calming affect on him to master intricacies, like whenever my necklace chains would knot together and he’d sit at his workbench patiently weaving them free. But he brought that pumpkin to life  – and I was so excited and proud to put it out on our porch that Halloween.

I was so young then, but never forgot it. When I moved back to Michigan from Chicago, summer was giving way to fall – and I spent the month of October living with my parents while I searched for an apartment. It drove me nuts on occasion, like dad’s insistence on watching almost nothing other than nightly news and NCIS, but it was rather lovely – being under that roof together again after so many years away. As Halloween drew near, I knew I wanted to revisit our tradition of carving pumpkins. And honestly, I really wanted an excuse that would bring just him and I together for an evening. Dad feigned enthusiasm, but I pressed on.

About a week before Halloween, mom and I went to a market so I could pick out pumpkins. I spent nearly 30 minutes turning over one after another insisting that only the best would do. Ones that were wide enough, tall enough, and free of bruises and scrapes. When I finally chose two, one for dad and I each, we placed them at the foot of the fireplace until we were ready to carve.

When that night came, I went over the the fireplace to bring dad’s pumpkin to him. As I lifted it slowly, the bottom gave out and all of its orange innards spilled across the floor. I shrieked as mom came bounding around the corner to see the mess at my feet. In the last week sitting there, it had rotted through and was collapsing in from the outside – making it useless to carve.

I was pissed, and I think dad was perhaps a bit relieved, insisting he’d sit with me as I carved my own – but I wouldn’t have that.

At the market, mom and I had picked up a few smaller, decorative pumpkins to place throughout the house – so I grabbed one from the kitchen table and placed it in front of dad.

“Here you go!” I smiled.

He turned it over in his hands, just larger than his palm, and looked at me with an eyebrow raised trying not to laugh.

“Really, Toots?”

“Oh yes sir. We’re going to make it work.”

And, like he did many years ago with that magazine clipping, he surrendered to his daughter’s will.

We spent the evening laughing and talking while we worked away on our pumpkins. Me, carving sweeping features into its side, and dad using a razor, shaving away layers to reveal a goofy, grinning smile. I always thought he was more creative and artistic than he gave himself credit for.

I can’t tell you what we talked about that night, but we spent hours perched at the kitchen island just enjoying one another, and it was so, so wonderful because a few days later, I moved into my new place.

I think of that night a lot, and it always makes me smile. Sometimes, the best moments aren’t how you plan them, and need a little nudge to get going. You can make memories happen if you give them room to.

I’ll miss my carving buddy this year. But I’ll laugh when I think of that silly, small pumpkin and the man who carved it to make his daughter happy.

I was never very marriage minded growing up. I didn’t delight in fantasy over magazine clippings of wedding dressings and cakes and decorations – dreaming of the day I’d meet the prince charming they’d fit around. It’s just not something I spent much time thinking about, save for a moment.

If I pictured my wedding, I couldn’t tell you where it would be, how I would look or who the guy standing at the end of the aisle would be – but I could tell you I’ve thought a lot about the guy standing at the start of it. I’ve envisioned that moment – when dad would see me for the last time as his little girl, and slip his arm tightly around mine to give me away. I wondered if he’d cry, what he’d say, how it would feel. And later, when vows were pronounced and champagne was drank, taking to the dance floor to twirl around in the safety of my father’s arms.

There are a lot of beautiful songs out there, but I always loved “Stand By Me” and thought maybe that would be the song we would dance to. I loved it for its simplicity and for saying the only thing that really needs to be said – that I’m here for you, no matter what. That’s who dad was to me after all – someone who was an unwavering source of strength and comfort.

As a daughter, there are a few defining moments you have with your father  – and honestly, it’s hard not to feel robbed of this very important one.

The other weekend, I went to my first wedding since losing dad with my mom and brother in tow. We celebrated with neighbors that have become friends and had a wonderful time. But when they announced the father, daughter dance I felt my chest tighten, watching from the side. I took a deep breath and tried to smile as I thought about what a beautiful bond that is between dads and their little girls, and how lucky I am to have as strong of one as I did. But it was hard.

Next to me however, was my brother. Another man who has been a guiding influence in my life. One who has watched over me for years, and who one day may have to fill some very important shoes. He already has.

You see – the moment we lost dad, I folded over in a breathless shriek. I caught myself against the back of a chair as I felt the agony crack open from deep inside. But then a pair of strong arms scooped me up and hugged me close, turning me away. It was my brother, and he cradled his hand against the back of my head talking calmly into my ear. It was the most absolutely beautiful, selfless gesture, and it made me feel safe in that swirl of confusion and sorrow. How can someone be so strong in a moment like that, and put their own pain aside? Because he’s his father’s son – watchful, protective.

And because he, just like dad, is always standing by me.

Mom texted me about road closures, and I saw the remnants of torrential rain outside my window, but still – I got on the freeway and headed to work. An hour and only a few miles later, and I’d become locked with hundreds of other commuters, slumped mercilessly over our wheels wondering just how much longer this may take – and I couldn’t help but think of dad.

The man knew every road in metro Detroit, every alley, every service drive – because despite having all of the time in the world, he always had to take the fastest route. He’d thunder through nasty neighborhoods if it would shave a second or two off of his drive. That’s just how he was.

He’d bailed me out before – many times – when I’d call in a panic lost or looking for a way around congestion. And he’d always have an answer, stopping whatever he was doing to stay on the phone and guide me turn by turn until I was safe. Even after I moved, he’d pull out his maps and reading glasses to navigate from time zones away. I’m sure my hysterics drove him crazy sometimes, but I think he secretly loved knowing he was needed – that even though I’d gotten older, I was still just a little girl who needed her father’s help.

Back on the freeway, I pulled up traffic maps on my phone, trying to re-route around the brazen lines of red and wanted nothing more than to be able to call dad for his advice. To ask if roads the GPS was suggesting were safe, or if there were clever short cuts and exits I could use to bypass some of the mess. And it hurt knowing I didn’t have that comforting voice on the other end of the line to bellow back directions.

It’s funny the things you miss about someone, and the moments that spring them to mind. Their quirks. The traits that are so uniquely them. How little things were actually really big, sweet, important things.

And realizing how much you wish you still had them here to help guide you.