Aug 4, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
August 4th is always worth remembering. At least in my family. It’s not a holiday. No anniversary or birthday. It’s much more somber. It’s the day my Dad died.
And this time, it’s been thirty years. It just happened; it happened a lifetime ago.
I was young, then; in age and in mind. I was 13 with no mind to chase boys but less desire to play with dolls. I was in that stage. I sat at the kitchen table looking through the brand new JCPenney’s winter catalog. The one that every kid waited for. The pretty girls in sweaters on the cover. The hundred pages of toys in the back. The catalog was delivered in that afternoon’s mail, and it was always a treat when Mom said we could open its pages. She knew it meant wishlists and yearnings for things we could not afford, and days of begging for early allowances. But she was good about it all; taking it in stride of being a parent, and let me look.
It was hot. Hot the way August is always hot in the midwest: sticky and stifling. The air conditioner lent itself to a damp cooling inside.
Dad had come home from work early that afternoon. I was the only one around. It was a pleasant surprise, he wasn’t due back in town until that evening. Dad was the manager for a tri-state sales route. His team looked to him for leadership. He was good at what he did. I think it was in his blood.
He drove up, and I was thrilled. Just me. Just him. Some quality time. Unfortunately, at 13 years of age, a girl’s idea of quality time with her dad doesn’t typically mean house cleaning or mowing the lawn. But that’s what Dad had in mind. He wanted to do for my mom, what she always did. He wanted to take care of house and home.
I wish I would have known… I wouldn’t have complained. I would have helped, I would have been happier. I would have… done anything.
It was a few hours later when my brother walked home from his “business” of selling sodas to thirsty golfers two blocks away. It was his best day so far that summer. He was excited that Dad was already there to share in his accomplishment.
Mom’s coffeepot had a plug-in timer (before pots themselves were manufactured with them built in). The timer was defective, not always working. Sometimes the coffee would brew too early, or worse, not at all. So Dad had brought a replacement. “Shh,” he smiled, hiding the packaging after he installed the new one. “Don’t tell Mom. It’s a surprise.”
Mom came home shortly after and got busy making dinner. Corned beef and cabbage boiled on the stovetop in her old green pots and pans ~ the same green pots and pans that were mimicked in my kitchen playset. The aroma was Irish. Every so often, she’d ask me to put something on the table, or move something from it. As long as I could keep dreaming with the catalog, I was content to earn my pages.
Dad was in the Front Room. That’s what we called it back then. The living room. The TV room. The sitting room. All rolled into one. The Front Room. He was sitting in his black BarcaLounger, and it stuck to his arms and legs with a sticky ripping sound every time he moved for his ice water.
My brother was in the room with him; they were catching up, watching TV, being guys.
I heard my Dad call for Mom. She went to him, and I heard the panic in her voice. He wasn’t responding. I tried to look at the catalog, but it was confusing. The pictures blurred, but I didn’t want to look away. I didn’t want to be pulled from my dreaming into reality.
The neighbor-husband came. Did my brother get him, or did he just hear our screams? There was talk about phone calls, and people on the way, and more yelling.
This isn’t real. I stood between the Front Room and the kitchen; between before and after. I saw my dad laid on the floor, I saw the neighbor breathing into him. And I walked away. I went to my room and knelt and prayed.
This is my fault. I wasn’t happy to see him earlier. But, God, I’ve learned my lesson. And if you let him stay, I promise to love my dad more. I promise to do the chores without complaining. I promise…
But God had his own plans. Dad had a massive coronary. And at 6:04 that evening, I wrote in my vinyl-covered kid diary, “Dad just died.”
And my life was split between “Before” and “After”.
Before Dad died, we swam in the pool together. He took my brothers camping, but not me because I was a girl. I baked play-doh pies for him. We played Atari together.
After Dad died, we moved to California. I grew up. I had a daughter of my own. I take her to Disneyland. She paints. We play Wii together.
And I write. I remember, and I write.
I remember fireflies caught in spider webs along the highway. I remember backyard camp-outs and Sparklers on the Fourth of July. I remember the garden and big tomatoes. I remember teaching him how to read to us like Mom does, “with the voices”. I remember long drives to Grandma’s house, and beer-batter smelt, and a yard overwhelmed by dandelions which he always claimed was a weed but we didn’t believe him. I remember the story of the Bear Rug, that I still have. I remember the Rockford Files. I remember whiffle balls and crooked swingsets and building cardboard forts. I remember going into hysterics that night when Mom went to plug in the coffee pot timer; and I revealed Dad’s last act of love for her.
I remember you, Dad. I remember you like yesterday. I still miss you that much. And I know you’re proud. I love you back.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
May 17, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
Surrounded by stems and fallen petals, I found myself pulling even more from the bunch in my hand. One at a time. Carefully, singularly, methodically, purposefully. “He loves me.” Drop. “He loves me not.” Toss.
“He loves me.” It wasn’t a childish desire to be loved. It was a statement about my lack; my unloveliness. If I pulled enough petals, still I knew I could not find the one that would magically bring me back to the place where I felt worthy, secure, treasured. Yet I continued to pluck, falling more and more into despair.
“He loves me not.” How could he, after all I had done?
“He loves me.” Doubtful.
“He loves me not.” How could he, if I don’t even love myself?
Why do I try so hard to show that I don’t love myself? Am I hoping beyond hope that someone will intervene, show me I’m wrong, prove that I have something to offer?
These things cannot come from anyone but myself. Am I hoping for a fight? To prove that I’m right, that I’m unloveable?
“He loves me.” Then it shouldn’t matter.
“He loves me not.” So why does it hurt so much?
I dropped the remaining stems from my grip. I hadn’t realized how hard I’d been holding on, and my hand ached from letting go. My heart ached from being empty.
“Look at this mess,” I told myself as I stood, dusting the pollen and half-dead petals from myself. I watched as the debris fell to the ground. I had made the mess worse. I always make things worse. It’s just what I do. Where the meadow had been green and lively; my little patch was now squashed from the weight of me, covered in the remains of what were once many beautiful flowers. I took beauty, and I trashed it. That’s just like me to do that and not care until it was too late.
Each petal suddenly represented a Wrong I had experienced. From others. To others from myself. This was that hateful word. That was that unspeakable act. The pile took on a life of its own, and grew. The beauty vanished under the darkness of shame, of guilt, of fear. I shrunk and backed away until I bumped into him, quite by accident.
He had been there, watching me toss his love aside. I was embarrassed by my childish feelings of rejection and humility; by my own self-centeredness.
I looked about, able to view the edges of my little world. It was bigger than I imagined, had paid attention to. I saw mounds of pulled petals. Some were mine. Some belonged to others. And still he stood there.
I had been so focused on my own little mess that I never heard him shout, “I do love you!”
I was in awe as I watched him lift a handful from my pile, and I could see, even in the individual petals, there was purpose. There was meaning, and reason. I couldn’t make sense of it all, but I knew I didn’t have to. He was now holding them, and I made no attempt to take them back.
Each one I had counted as “He loves me not” were blown away in the soft warm breeze. They were no longer valuable except as pollen and mulch; to help grow, but not to be grown of themselves.
Each “He loves me” united with the others. And the meadow became alive with a glorious blanket of fragrance and color that greeted my heightened senses.
I turned back to him. Now that his hands were empty, perhaps he could take me into his security.
“My darling,” he whispered. “I already have.”
I looked down to find his hand on mine, his strength already surrounding me.
And I chose to stop running, to stop plucking. I chose. To believe. He loves me.
“Yes,” he strongly and peacefully affirmed. “I do.”
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Apr 19, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
Anyone who knows me, knows I’ve recently rediscovered my affinity for the Backstreet Boys.
I fully admit, I have always been one of those girls who dreams of the fairy tale rescue and swoons over love lyrics sung by boy bands. It’s not so much the love stuff as it is, I’ve just always liked bubble gum music. To be honest, I’m sure they could sing about cow patties and I’d find it extremely wonderful.
And on a day when I felt like a cow patty, it was the Backstreet Boys and God who made me feel better.
Have you ever had one of those days where you just don’t know what’s going on? A day where you feel troubled, lonely, sad, or just mellow? A day when everyone else seems content and you seem… left out?
I had a day like that. Friday, February 18, 2011. There was no reason for it. I wasn’t harassed or bothered by anyone. In fact, nobody even noticed. I think that was the point. And in my loneliness, I started thinking about past relationships. I quickly found myself noting the good qualities I missed, and glossing over the bad traits that I’d left. Isn’t that what loneliness does to us? Takes away reality and leaves us with false memories through rose-colored glasses?
I turned to the greatest Love Letter ever written: the Bible. Since it was the 18th, I read Proverbs 18. And came upon verse 10: “The name of the LORD is a fortified tower; the righteous run to it and are safe.” I had a beautiful vision of running away from the men of my past, running from their hurts and their intentions, the broken pieces of me that they kept chipping away… and I ran, instead to the arms of my Beloved, my Savior. As I called upon the name of My LORD, He opened his arms. With one arm He scooped me, curled and ashamed, into His protection; with the other, He drew His shield of protection to cover me, us; and thwarted any attacks meant to hurt me. I was safe. Safe in His arms. I breathed in His heavenly scent and relaxed.
I kept that feeling of protection, of worthiness, with me throughout the day. A few hours later I needed to get a few things from the local Target, and as I was passing by the cd’s, I saw it. The Backstreet Boys’ playlist cd. Fourteen of their greatest hits at a discount price. It called me. It called me loudly!
The weather in February is always fickle. I was lucky enough to have one of our first warm days of the year, and a moon-roof in my car that begged to be opened. I put the cd in and was transported back to summer days, long nights, giggling girls, college dates … more emotion than memory. I felt… happy.
The second song began to play. I found myself driving detours back to work just to make it last. My Proverbs Experience came to the forefront, and I was drowned in these words, sung by a boy band; placed in my heart by The Man. I’ll never listen to it the same way ever again.
Truly, no matter where I go, or what I do… I am loved. By the One who loves me back.
Go ahead. Google the lyrics to “As Long As You Love Me.” You’ll see exactly what I mean.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
