My parent’s house sits on the edge of a small valley. On one side are a couple of small subdivisions, where my parents bought a lot and had a house built about 30 years ago. On the other side is a huge, gentleman’s ranch that specializes in genetically superior black angus cows. I don’t pretend to know anything about cows other than that they moo and are often the source of burgers. But the matriarch of the ranch, having lost her husband in the past few years, hosts an annual post-Thanksgiving party for empty nesters, divorcees and widows. This year my mother was invited to the soiree and spent the afternoon preparing some sort of beet, goat cheese dish. At about 5, a friend picked her up and they went over for the dinner. This left me alone to begin my annual Decoration of The Windows. This is something I do every year for my mother. I also sometimes whore myself out to the rich and famous to make their windows ever so lovely for the holiday season, as well.
I should interject here, if I haven’t before, that my mother has a far more active social life than before my father died. Now people call her up and inform her that she is either to meet them at a particular time at a party or restaurant, or they tell her that they are on their way to pick her up for some event, or they let her know they have pruchased a ticket and she needs to show up for the event. After these social adventures we always sit down for a rehash of the event and any juicey gossip that is lingering in our way too small community.
Tonight my mother told me a couple of tidbits that nearly brought me to my knees in grief. Apparently our neighbor across the valley, who is the manager of the superior angus cow ranch, and my mother had been chatting about this summer. He told my mother that on the evening of June 20th he had heard crying and screaming from our side of the valley that was so out of the ordinary that he was getting in his car to come see if we were all right. We have neighbors, but upon looking at the lights of the various houses, he determined ours was the source of the noise. But then it abruptly stopped, he saw the lights go out and he went on to bed. This would have been about the time that we learned the emergency room held a body matching the description of my father. It would have also been the time one of the policemen drove up to the house to ask my mother and me to accompany him on the 45 minute drive to the hospital. And, it would have also been the time that when I saw the police car arrive in the drive way and the police offcer began walking down the walk, I collapsed and began screaming against his legs.
There was another woman at the party who works at the local post office. This summer when we began checking the mail after my father died, the woman told us she had never seen one single family receive so many condolence cards. My mother and I repeatedly picked up crates of envelopes wishing us well. We are still trying to answer the many cards and notes. Tonight the post office lady told my mother that it was my father who finally freed her from her ex-husband and his abusive ways. After their divorce proceedings, he apparently leaned over to the man and told him to never again bully his now ex-wife or make her cry again. She said the man has heeded those words and has treated her decently since their divorce.
These stories hurt and pick the ever present scab of grief raw every time I hear one. They make me realize that this is real, but they also help me to understand the many wonderful things my father did during his lifetime. I am sure there are a number of people who thought him unfair. But for the many women he helped to escape their abusive husbands and the murderers he put behind bars, he did wonderful things. And for those of us who loved him with abandon, he was amazing every day.
It is likely that I will be writing more about my father as the holidays approach. I can’t help it. For most of October I was able to pocket my more public grief. But I can’t right now. It is present and sitting in my lap or perched upon my shoulder. The holidays were one of the few times I saw my father while I was growing up. It seems like there are memories everywhere I turn right now. So I will let it out here at Caloden.