Memorials and Celebrations

"V"s Celebratory Flowers

Friday, February 21st, 2014 was one of the most unusual, and emotional, days I have ever spent. (And trust me, there have been a great many unusual and emotional days throughout my life's journey thus far!)

As you faithful readers already know, my Father passed away on Valentine's Day, February 14th.   After his body was flown up from Florida, to be waked in the town we lived in when I was growing up, the second part of the week afterwards was spent mourning his loss, or celebrating his life, depending upon how you look at it.  

At first it felt like mourning, but as I began the process of preparing poster boards that proudly displayed photos of my Dad with me and my sister as babies, and three decades later, at our weddings, I realized that this was really a time of celebration.  

I did not find as many pictures as I would have liked, but the ones I did manage to dig up brought me, quite surprisingly, a great many smiles.   (Especially the Polaroids from the 1970's!  What fun those silly cameras were.  Talk about instant gratification long before the Internet era!  Press a button and presto!  A cheesy, poor on quality but high on character, photograph appears in a matter of minutes!)

For much of my adult life, I have been plagued by painful memories of my growing up years.  You see, my Dad, as wonderful a man as he was when he wasn't drinking, unfortunately did not make such a wonderful drunk.  My childhood was filled with fearful, and at times, horrifying moments that still haunt me today.

I am happy to say that my Father found sobriety, and for the last twenty-six years of his life, managed to live a life free from alcohol... a life that, ironically, turned out to be full of great physical pain.  One might think that this would be a perfect reason to drink, but the reality is that many people who partake in alcohol abuse do so in a desperate attempt to diminish their inner pain.  I must admit that I know this from firsthand experience, although like my Father, I have found a way to live my life, and even enjoy my life, without having to drown my sorrows in a bottle.

I apologize for digressing.  Back to the photos used to make the poster board tribute.

Digging through a scrapbook that I had maintained until I was a late teenager, I found this one Polaroid photograph of me and my Dad that made my jaw drop down in awe.  No exaggeration, this was a real shocker!

First of all, I didn't even have a lot of family photographs in my scrapbook, and the ones I did have usually did not reflect smiling faces.  Rather, there were grimaces, blank stares, annoyed glances.  Apparently, I had not yet honed my ability to catch people at their better moments!  

No.  Instead of photos, my scrapbook was filled with (no shocker here) movie ticket stubs, TV Guide (when it was in its simpler, stapled, and somehow more satisfying format) clippings about old films and favorite shows, and pictures from Girl Scout trips and activities.  Also, there were some of me and my sister (in hideous 1970's attire and hairstyles) from the vacations taken to Niagara Falls and Lake Placid with my Grandparents.   There was even one of the Twin Towers taken from the Staten Island Ferry shortly after they had been erected.  Once looked at as a work of modern wonder, but now seen as a sorrowful and chilling image.

The jaw-dropper, however, was not of a Girl Scout trip, or touristy vacation, or even a frowning family photo.  

It was a picture taken on the morning of my Fourteenth Birthday.  I always remembered (what I could remember, that is) my Fourteenth year as being filled with trauma.  The reasons are not relevant to this story, so I will not say anything else about that.

In the photograph, I was sitting on the living room couch with my Father, opening a birthday present.  We were both wearing pajamas and bathrobes (a dead giveaway that it was actually the morning of my Fourteenth Birthday and not the afternoon or evening or middle of the night!), and were looking intently at a gift rather than the camera.  And happily, the night-time clothing wasn't quite as hideous as the daytime attire.  What the heck were fashion designers thinking in the 1970's, anyway?  

Sorry.  Just my opinion.  There are many people who, I am certain, would say the same thing about my tie-dyed "Hippie" attire that I proudly wear whenever its possible... and appropriate.  I always thought I should have been born a decade earlier, so I could have been an older child of the sixties rather than an actual child.

The gift that my Dad and I were so intently looking at was none other than a book.  And not just a single book.  But a series of books.  The exact same series of black and white movie books that I now have the great pleasure of sharing with "V" week after week.  My parents had given me those books, realizing my great love of the movies.  And my Dad, in particular, was a huge fan of old movies, especially westerns.  I spent years thinking we had absolutely nothing in common, and right there, in front of my tearful eyes, was a Polaroid picture of the two of us looking through my beloved movie books.  I've had to rid myself of many treasured possessions in my lifetime, usually due to some kind of geographic move, but I always made sure that my movie books stayed with me wherever I was.

I couldn't believe it.  Here I was trying to make a poster board collage of photos for my Father's wake, and I had rather miraculously discovered the source of the books that "V" looks forward to leafing through every week.  (I only bring one or two a week, usually about someone who was in a movie we recently watched.  "V" can't read the small print, but there are plenty of black and white images of the "Old Hollywood" to maintain her interest and make her smile!)

Rosalind.  Lana.  Jimmy.  There they all were!  Caught in a cheesy, poor on quality but high on character Polaroid picture from my Fourteenth Birthday.

Me and my Father.  Together.  Sharing the happy experience of opening a gift that continues to bring joy four decades later in my role as a caregiver to a wonderful woman who amazingly just turned Ninety-Six years old!

Finding that photograph changed the tone of the whole week for me.  Rather than being a time of mourning, it happily transformed into a time of celebration.

I found many more pictures than I thought I would while putting together the commemorative collages, and my sister was able to dig up quite a few gems herself.  We collaborated on the collage, which was another amazing feat in and of itself, given the fact that we are only fifteen months apart in age, forty miles apart in geographic distance, yet often light years apart in the quality of our interactions and time together.  We even shared some really good laughs.  (My sister, much more than I, is very fashion conscious, and there was a look of absolute horror on her face when she saw images of those hideous 1970's outfits and haircuts!)  

I have a feeling that my Dad's passing, however, will change all that... and that wherever he is, it will bring him great joy.  

It occurred to me that death doesn't have to mean the loss of someone resulting in the separation of people.  Rather, it can be an opportunity to bring people together, perhaps on a more permanent basis.

My sister and I, along with our children, watched our Dad's body be placed in its final resting place on the morning of February 21st, 2014.  After that, we went out for a rare, but very meaningful, brunch together.  Hopefully, these will become less rare as time goes by.

Immediately following the brunch, I drove over the snow-capped foothills and frozen Hudson River to "V"s house, one of my movie books safely tucked in my knapsack.  I'm not certain, but I think it was the one about Shirley Temple.  Although "V" and I had enjoyed "Going My Way" the week before, right after I learned of my Dad's passing, I did not have a Bing Crosby book.  But because Shirley, someone whose jubilant spirit brought great happiness and hope to people during the Great Depression, had recently passed on as well, it seemed like the right choice.

What an interesting site to see upon entering "V"s home.  In honor of her recent birthday, as well as Valentine's Day, there were a number of bright, beautiful flowers decorating her dining room.  Sure signs of a celebration. 

And aren't there things to celebrate every single day?  Even during the sorrowful times?  Isn't life often about valuing who you are with at the moment, appreciating the present (the word present also meaning gift), and letting the past pass.

I shared my Dad's gift of the Shirley Temple book with "V", who was delighted to look through it, perhaps reflecting on a fond memory from her own past.  I wondered if my Dad's spirit would meet  Shirley's spirit somehow, or maybe Jimmy Stewart's, who was one of my Dad's favorite stars, especially when it came to old Westerns.

Later that night, we both enjoyed a special showing of "Casablanca," in honor of the soon to be aired annual Academy Awards celebration.

Guess which book is going to visit "V" next?   Here's a hint (if you need one):  Here's looking at you!

My Dad's Memorial Flowers

Memorials.  Celebrations.  Commemorations.  No matter what they are called, these events are all comprised of a collection of people who are there to pay special tribute to someone or something.

Often, the occasion is for a living person, to honor an achievement of some kind. And sometimes, it is for someone who has moved on to another place...  Perhaps more peaceful.

Either way, the essence of that person remains in the minds and hearts of those whose lives they touche, their spirits continuing to touch others, in one way or another.