Tag Archives: death

Birthday Letters

Posted in Family, Stories by my dad by

On January 16, 1943 my dad was born.  I don’t know anything about his birth.  Whether he was born in a hospital or at home.  Whether he was a good baby or a tyrant.  How much he weighed or if he sucked his thumb.

Today if he were still living, he would have turned 70 years old.

He wrote himself a birthday letter a fews years back.   I happen to have a copy.

Jan-1998

Happy Birthday, Bob—–Happy 55 years.  A real milestone.  I feel like celebrating this b.d.,  unlike my 30th, which went by unnoticed.  Unlike my 40th which went by with hardly a ripple or even my 50th, supposedly the biggie, hardly made a dent on my psyche.

But 55 is the short side of the century mark.  So that makes it a milestone in my books, and I’m finally at the age where it makes not a tinkerers damn about anyones books but my own.

A brief synopsis—–I was born into a family of five siblings, a bootlegger father, and my mother was a housewife.  My family was mildly dysfunctional to say the least, my parents divorced when I was 11 and my mother struggled to keep her brood together.

I went to High school here in town, finally got laid, got drunk and enlisted in The Marine Corps just a few days after graduation.  Spent four years in The Corps, traveled around the world, went to work for various construction companies in West Texas and never once let college cross my mind.  Made a lot of parties—-a few friends and generally went around with my heart on my sleeve.

Anne, my wife and I had a wild, roller coaster, wonderful relationship from day one when we met in The Crystal Lounge bar, a downstairs dark, dank place where people drank, fought and loved with equal fervor.

Anne had two boys from a previous marriage that I was too young and dumb to see the joy in.  We later had two daughters that have remained the light of my life to this day.  The boys have forgiven my shortcomings and remain friendly toward me, too.  Thanks boys.

55 years—-that must seem like an eternity to someone in their 20′s or thirties, but to me it has been but a short journey on this meandering train we call life.  Meandering, wandering, everlooking for the path of least resistance, just like the nameless creek near Hoover, Texas where I gathered clover blossoms to plait into a braid for Anne’s hair.

                                                                                                                                                  ~1998~

Happy Birthday Dad—-happy 70th.  Two birthdays have now passed since you left us.  And lots has happened.  I miss you, but it does get easier with time, but there are still days that sadness is all around me, thick as fog.   I love you more than I ever have, and I’m so thankful for your writings that you left us.  I feel I know you better now than I ever did in real life.  I wonder why we feel like we can’t open up to others, and especially the ones who love us most?  I know I’m just as guilty.

You were a good dad.  That’s probably all  you  wanted to hear while you were living, and I don’t know if I ever told you.  But you were.   I wouldn’t change it for anything.

You tried your best, I know that now.  It’s certainly not easy being a parent, I know that now too.

I never realized just how tender you were.  You were always so tough and big and strong, that I guess I didn’t think about your feelings much.  I’m sorry for that.

Thanks for being a number one dad to me.  Thanks for supporting me in everything I ever did.   Thanks for taking time to spend with me, even if it was laying in the floor taking kissing bets during a bowling tournament on T.V. or skipping rocks on the Illinois.  I have fond memories, and those are what I carry with me now.  It’s all I’m left with, the memories and your stories.

You’d really love Emma.  Sometimes I imagine that you are here and see you laugh at her or hug her close.  She reminds me of you sometimes.  Especially now as she’s learning to walk.  She’s got this stumble about her, that’s very Grandpa-esque.  Or sometimes they way she lays while she’s sleeping or a look on her face makes me think of you.  You are a part of her.

I know you’re in Heaven and I’m going to be there someday too.  It’s good that this life isn’t all we’ve got, isn’t it?  So, until we meet again Dad, enjoy yourself, and I’ll do the same.  There’s much happiness here still, and memories to make with others.

I love you bigger than Hog Eyes and Sauerkraut Mississippi.

Until then……

Love,

Angel

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Picture Perfect

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After we buried my dad February of last year, I drove back to Texas basically with a pickup, plants, and a photograph.

The pickup still sits in front of my yard, longing for a spin around town.

The plants, I’m proud to say, are flourishing.

And the photo sits on a shelf in my dining room.

It was one of his favorites.  At one point, being technologically disinclined, he asked my sister to put it as his profile pic on his Facebook page.  I don’t know how he expected her to do that, as he had the picture in a frame two states over, but nevertheless.

It’s a tiny picture, maybe a 3 X 5 in a cheap brass frame with parts of the frame chipped.  It displays a much younger us.

I remember the day.  Thanks to a generous landlord aunt, my sister had recently scored a cheap one bedroom rent house, albeit in need of some TLC.  I was helping her paint, when our dad showed up to check on our progress.  I’m covered in paint.  He’s not.  The hat I’m wearing leaves me to question.  Was I painting in that hat or was it on his head and I put it on mine?  I don’t recall the detail.

On the back, he’s written, “me & ang, yukking it up in ’91″

I can’t remember the exact conversation, but I know it went something like this:  my sister holding a camera, my dad draping his arm around me, my sister telling us to say “cheese”, and right before the camera snapped, my dad sucked in his gut, and I busted out laughing.

“Yukking it up in ’91″ he called it.

If I’d  known then that we had only twenty more years together.  Twenty years.  It sounds like a long time when you say it, but it sure goes by fast. What would I have done differently?  Anything?

Throughout those years, we had many more times of “yukking it up”, and I’m grateful for every one of them.

But I can’t help but wish we could have one right now.

Miss you dad.

In Memory of my dad—number forty something

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The green spiraled journal draws me in.

It belonged to my dad.

The very first thing I bought when I became an adult was a storage building.  It sits on my mom’s property (once upon a time it was my grandmother’s property) and my dad put a few boxes of belongings in there nearly twenty years ago.   In one of the boxes was this journal.

On the cover he has printed:
The Journals of Robert Lee—-soldier, statesman, author.

It is filled with his thoughts, his hopes, his disappointments, his memories.
Stuffed between the written pages he has a few cards from loved ones, pictures of my sister and I, and bills from the IRS.

I love this journal, although it is mostly sad.  He wrote when he was going through a very difficult time, of which I was completely unaware, but heck I was a kid then, barely out of high school, and completely wrapped up in my own life.

I discover that I didn’t really know my dad.  But who really did?

He hurt more than I know, and I don’t mean physically.

Today is the 15th of April, 1996.  Tax Time for most folks, but to me it is different.   Today I join the ranks of the homeless.  I haven’t learned a lot in my 53 short years aboard this planet, but I’ve learned this, we are just a short journey from this predicament that I find myself in right now.  It’s a feeling that I don’t wish on friend or foe, but I’ll come out of the water bushed and gasping of air, out of breath and hoping for a low hanging limb from which this wrecked body needs just a minute to catch it’s breath.  Then I’ll fight onward, searching for new friends, looking in familiar haunts for a few old compatriots, who’ll say—welcome ol’ shoe, come sit awhile and rest.

April 18, 1996—
It’s not good being homeless, but I have been getting reacquainted with my mother.  Before I was always in a  hurry when I went to see her, but now we are taking the time to talk to each other.  Today we spoke of my grandparents, the last who died in 1975.  I wish that I could have gotten to know them.

As I reread this journal, no as I pore over his words, I get the “missing my dad blues”.   The “If only’s”  The “I wish”.  It doesn’t help that its a rainy day in July either.  Much like my dad wrote on the page he titled, “July or is it June 27?”

I moved into my new digs yesterday.  Went to the store and bought boloney and beer.  It’s a cloudy, dismal day, in fact I’ll call this place “The Dismal Swamp”  It’s a dump, held together with spit n’ glue, but at least the neighbor’s are nice—which means that they don’t bother me or even come out of their own hovels.  I’m into Charles Bukowski, poet, short stories, novels, drinker extraiordinairre.  Life is good as we let it be.

He was phenomenal with the written word.
Dawn comes on a silvery black flash that gently turns to a pale blue as the sun makes it’s ascent into the morning sky.  Departure time is steadily approaching and I feel a twinge of excitement as the clock ticks onward toward the time of making my exit.  My brother warned me about this happening, he said, “don’t let one year turn into ten” when I first moved here for just a year.  Well, June marks the 10 year span that I’ve spent here in Green Country.  I can see the changes here in Okla.  that have occurred since coming here.  Mainly, traffic flow, the driving here is atrocious.  But that does not take from  the few close friends that I have made here.  I’ll always appreciate them.

He was funny.
“Guess I’ll go by leon’s house and see if he wants to go fishing with me n’ doc tomorrow—-it is the fourth of July and we do live in the bosom of democracy, so why not fish.  Uh Oh.  Outta beer.  So I’ll take to task the advice of my ol’ mentor and friend, Horace Greely—-Go West—-about 2 miles—–the have Busch on sale.” 

11-19-96
Keeping a journal and trying to keep sounding interesting is so boring.

Yes, dad I agree with that one whole heartedly!  He continues…..

My life is boring, but the mundane way of life is peaceful.  Living quiet has it’s own reward.

He got lonesome and had regrets.

Nov. 24, 1996
I dreamed of Jo and Angel night before last.  They were small and cuddly and we laughed and played.  I awoke all discombobulated and out of sync.  It’s good to dream old dreams.  I miss the girls so much.  I hope Angel is doing all right out there in the west.  She is so private it’s hard to find out anything from her.  Joley has John so I don’t worry about her so much.  Joley is my little mother.  I know that she will see to it that I am taken care of.  I hope that I never need it tho.  I’m sorry now that I didn’t know how to love the girls’ mother.  Hindsight has perfect vision.  But I just didn’t know, and for that I am sorry. 

Jan. 13, 1997
I’m lonesome and being broke don’t help.  I’d visit an axe murderer if he’d stop by my digs. 

Although these notes are sad and some remorseful, I receive peace when I read them.  I know how much my dad loved me.  There was never a time I doubted that.  He wrote of it many times.  His heart was full of love.

I am the proud father of 4 children.  Two boys and two girls.  How this mixed blessing came about, I’m not exactly sure.  It just came at me out of the blue, kinda like a fighter with a good left hook.

I also receive comfort knowing I’ll see him again.

Feb 7th or 8th
I know God is my friend and I hope he lets me hang around for a few years.

Thanks God for the years.

There’s more.  There’s lots more.  But I’ll leave you with that for now.  I don’t think my old pop would mind me sharing this.  It helps me, and I know there are family and friends who miss him terribly.  I hope it helps them too.  Sometimes we just want to hear from our loved ones one more time and this is the way that I do that.  When I read these words, I hear his voice.  I see the twinkle in his eye.  I see him throw his head back when he thought something was funny,  yet keeping his laugh inside and quiet.

I see him in my baby girl too, little bits of him.  There are times I wish he could see her, but then I remember…..I’m pretty sure they’ve already met.

The Demise of the J&A Chicken Ranch

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Well folks, I’m here to announce my flock of 14 birds is officially down to eight.

I’m sad.

The casualties are:
1 yellow chicken killed by a coyote in plain sight
1 yellow chicken found lying dead in the coop in March 2012.  Cause of death: unknown
The remains of one yellow chicken (mostly feathers) found in an abandoned outbuilding in April 2012, obvious murder

MIA:
2 black and white chickens
1 black chicken

I should have eleven chickens.  I had eleven chickens earlier in the week.  But tonight, I only counted eight.  I scanned the vicinity and found none, so I waited until dusk for them to come in to the coop to roost in order to get a good count.  There are only eight.

I looked everywhere for signs of foul play.  Or would that be fowl play?
I got nothing.  Not a feather, not a speck of blood, not a chicken track.

I’ve questioned the dogs.  I’ve interrogated the horses.  Played a little good cop/bad cop.  They’re not talking.  Not even when I offered a reward of 1 bucket of oats for any information leading to the arrest of person or persons involved in the disappearance of 3 chickens in one week.

It’s a classic whodunit.  Has something bad happened to my three chickens?

Or have these hens simply crossed the road to get to the other side?

I will be interrupting your regularly scheduled program for any urgent news updates.

Stay tuned.

 

 

 

The Coyote Snatching

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It’s getting on sundwon here at the J &A Chicken Ranch and the girls are heading in to roost for the night.   All thirteen of them.

Yep, you read that right.   No typo intended.  Thirteen. 

As life would have it, murder, mayhem, and malice struck the Chicken Ranch early Sunday morning past when an unsuspecting fowl fell victim to the first coyote snatching on record. 

J-Dub had just stepped outdoors just shortly after dawn, when suddenly the door flew wide open, expletives filled the room, and the gun cabinet was heard opening and closing.  Sitting in the lazy boy enjoying my morning cup of java, I hurriedly asked him what in the Boone’s Farm was going on as he dashed back through the living room on his way back outside.

“A coyote just got one of your chickens!” 

I jumped up (as much as one can jump while 7 months pregnant) and stood in the door frame to witness a nasty, vulgar, repulsive coyote running across the pasture with a helpless, vulnerable, limp, yellow chicken hanging from his jaws.

Shots were fired at the coyote.  The chicken was dropped with a poof of feathers and dust, and the coyote ran off with shots kicking up dirt behind him.  Another coyote who was off to the right watching the action and hoping to have a chicken for breakfast also ran off. 

We only had  pistol handy that morning and unfortunately, a bullet never made contact with the coyote.  But in a matter of minutes, the ne’er-d0-well was back to pick up it’s abandoned meal only to be  scared off again with another round of shots. 

I told J-Dub I was going to get my chicken out of the pasture.  I was not going to let that murdering cur have the satisfaction of tasting even a morsel of my golden girl.  Sparing me the task, J-Dub walked out and carried the dead bird back to the house and disposed of her.

Realizing the dogs would return, I quickly penned all my hens and secured them safe and sound in their coop where they have spent the last 5 days miserably.    They were mad for a good while, and the other day I think I even caught a couple of them with a file and a saw tucked under their wings.  A blueprint drawing of the coop with arrows and lines was discovered crumpled in the corner.  It was obvious to any onlooker that plans for a Coop Break was underway,

I got home early enough today to let them out for a couple of hours of exercise before dusk.  You’ve never seen such elated birds.  They ran, and pecked, and flew, and clucked.   I sat outside with a rifle not 30 feet away when dusk settled and I dared those good for nothings to sneak up to the house again.

In the famous words of Scarlett O’Hara….”I can shoot straight……if I don’t have to shoot too far.”

In Memory of a Yellow Chicken:

Memorial Day

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The flags were flying high and proud at Ft. Gibson National Cemetary this past Monday.

I took a solitary road trip to visit my dad’s grave.

This trip was a journey of healing for me. 

Not complete healing, only partial.  But I’ll take partial.

My dad’s death hasn’t seemed real to me.  He lived in another town and although we facebooked regularly, we only saw each other about every 4-6 months.  He would call me up or send a message saying “I’ll be out that way about Tuesday.”  Just out of the blue like that.  Whenever he’d take the notion.  I’ve been expecting to hear from him anyday now.

Driving into the cemetery, searching for section 24, site 146 and seeing his gravestone made  it real for me.  Realizing that I would be driving into his town, see the stores, see the family, see the memories but not see him, made it real for me.  Not feeling his hug and his sloppy kiss on my cheek made it real for me.

Whenever we’d leave town, he’d stand on the porch on Cedar Street, lean on the railing and wave us good-bye for as long as we could see him.  That too didn’t happen this trip.  It won’t ever happen again.

It was good for me to face it all.  A tiny piece of my broken heart was sewn together this past weekend.  And as time passes, more stitches will be added.  The void won’t be so vast.  The hole won’t feel so empty.

The stages of grief are:

Denial

Anger

Bargaining

Depression

Acceptance

Today, I accept it. 

Tomorrow may be a different story. 

But today I’m okay.

 

Now

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Don’t come to pay me homage
or spill tears upon my stone.
Come now and let me touch you,
Let me know I’m not alone.
I need the sweet assurance
of your warm and gentle smile.
I yearn to hear your laughter,
sit beside me for a while.
When Jesus comes to take me
to my home in heaven’s place,
I’ll go in peace, contented
that I’ve seen your smiling face.
I will not smell the flowers
or hear you sing my praise.
Bring them now to warm my heart
throughout my living days.
Your kindness and compassion,
greater love you can’t endow.
Come share these precious moments
while I live…..come do it now

~Patience Allison Hartbauer

This poem was in a book sitting on my nightstand of the Bed and Breakfast I am staying in while visiting my dad’s grave for memorial day.

It’s a reminder to me to cherish the time we have with loved ones who remain. We may be visiting their graves and cherishing their memories all too soon.

Ranch Security

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 I don’t know how many of you are familiar with Hank the Cowdog books by author John Erickson.   Good ol’ Hank, Head of Ranch Security, can usually be found protecting the ranch from varmints and keeping everyone safe with his side-kick Drover.

Well here at the J & A Chicken Ranch we have our own head of ranch security by the name of Drew Miller.



Drew Miller was rescued by the animal shelter as a pup.  My mom and niece Ashy picked out this little, cute ball of black and white fur.  They were told by the shelter that he was probably a Border Collie.  Well, he ain’t no Border Collie. 

We don’t really know what he is.  

Drew ended up at our house at about 6 or 7 months of age.

 

 He’s a good, gentle boy most of the time.  Except when there’s a varmint on the loose.  I’ve seen a side of Drew on the attack that I don’t like seeing.   He killed a mama possum once that I witnessed and am still having night sweats over.  You can read about that murder here.



But that was a possum.  They play dead.  I mean, how hard is it to kill something that’s playing dead?  Even Hank and Drover could do that. 

 

Then there was the porcupine.  You know those fights where one says, “You should see the other guy?”  That’s what the porcupine was telling his friends back at the Prickly Pub.

Either last night or this morning, we had a very close call.  After church I went out to tend to all the animals and there lying dead in the back yard about 3 feet from the house was a  black and white animal.

Yep, you guessed it.  A skunk. 

My mama used to sing a little song to me when I was a little girl.

Black and white kitty, sitting in the woods.  Isn’t that little kitty pretty? 

 I went right over to pick it up, but shooooo weeeeee, (pinch your nose here) it wasn’t that kind of a kitty.

I’ve never seen a skunk up close.  For obvious reasons.  I thought he would look more like Flower in the movie Bambi.  Uh, No.  Skunks are uuugggllly.

Drew  killed that poor rascal in our backyard.  And miracle of all miracles, it did not let off its stench.  Had this been a Hank the Cowdog story, Hank would’ve  gotten sprayed, tried to go home for supper, got run off from the house ’cause of his stink, and sent to live with the barbaric coyotes for a month till the smell finally wore off.

Which makes me envision Drew Miller, stealth-like, stalking that skunk, then pouncing before the poor fella could even defend himself.

Either that, or these 50 mph winds we’ve been having for 2 days are tricking us.   Only time will tell.

 Drew Miller, a.k.a. Killer, serving and protecting. 

I think I’m going to get him a badge.

In Memory of My Dad #7–Golf

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My dad was a golfer.  There was usually a set of golf clubs in the back of his work truck, just in case.  As a little girl I remember times when he’d suddenly remark, “Let’s go hit some golf balls.”  Oh the joy I would feel.  I was going to get to golf!  So he’d grab his clubs and that handy little golf club picker-upper and we’d head to large park or walk across to the empty field across the street.  I quickly learned I wasn’t there to golf with my dad, but I was sent to get the balls after he’d hit them.  He’d holler at me, “There’s one to your left, or farther, go farther.”  I never even got to swing the club.

Here’s a story written by my dad about golfing:

You may hear women complain of being a golf widow.  Big Deal.   It’s you the golfer who is hurting.  It’s your hands that are numb and bleed at night, it’s your back that aches and twitches.  Your legs are sore and your neck is sunburned almost black from hours of standing over the golf ball.  You are in a mortal panic, it’s you who is one of the walking wounded.

When you play a good round of golf, you are deathly afraid that you can’t repeat the swing your next time out.  When you play badly you think, “why couldn’t I have been born a mule, then I could get some use out of all this green grass.”

You say to yourself, “I don’t need this kind of suffering,”  but you know that you’ll be back tomorrow and that’s what makes the wonderful world of golf so exasperating.

Golfers like to wear shirts with small animals emblazoned over the pockets.  Penguins.  Alligators.  The small Polo horse and rider.  I have many shirts with the alligator logo.  Once playing in South Texas I hooked a ball far into the left rough.  When I went into the jungle grass looking for the ball, I spied an alligator with a shirt that had a little golfer over the pocket.  I don’t even think he was a member of the club either.

I used to play a pretty decent round of golf, but since having this stroke, anytime that I don’t fall out of the golf cart is a good round.  I could play the game with a broom stick and a road apple now and still score as good.

You’ve got to look good to play the game halfway decent.  I have a pair of green canvas golf shoes and an oversized Reebok Sweatshirt, and a pair of wide shorts that end just below the knee.  Billy Brewski calls it my grunge look.  I may play to a thirteen, but I look like a three out there.

Shoes are more important than “top of the line” golf clubs.  Especially if you are just starting out in golf and walking a lot of holes.  You need to invest in a good pair of golf shoes if you are going to take the game seriously.  Cheap golf shoes have crippled more men than Madonna.  I first started to play the game of golf with a pair of shoes bought from Sears-Roebuck.  They were a putrid black and red check against a cream background.  I liked to have crippled myself before investing wisely in a pair of Foot-Joys.

Better yet, take an already broken-in pair of shoes to the cobbler and have them converted into a pair of golf shoes.  Say to the cobbler, “I’m giving these shoes to a friend, the lucky stiff.  He don’t know how lucky he is getting to play golf everyday while I’m at work.”  This may get you a price break from the cobbler. Now he may only charge you $17 instead of the $20 for the $9 job that he is doing on you and the golf shoes.  Also you won’t feel so bad when you throw the shoes away and swear off the game for good after shooting a light running 85.

To have a good time on the golf course it is imperative that you get to the course bright and early.  You can’t have much fun on the golf course at night, unless you are accompanied by a blonde and a blanket, and are waiting for a Drambuie front to move in.  Of course this kind of stroking and putting isn’t recognized by the USGA.

The first order of business when you arrive at the course is to order a Slo-Gin fizz.  This will steady your nerves and stop the churning of your stomach from the night before when you made the golfing date show up bright and early to have a good old-time.  It will also help relieve the pressure on your sternum so you can make at least a partial shoulder turn without tearing something loose deep inside of you.

Next move.  Find out who you made the golf date with the night before.  Greet everyone you meet with a big smile and a huge “Hi there.”  Soon you will see someone else with a puzzled look on his face, saying, “Hi there” to everyone he meets.  It’s 8 to 5  this is who you made the date with the night before.

Get on the first tee and follow tradition, lie about how you are playing.  Say “my handicap is a thirteen, but I’m playing to a nineteen.”  Then the other golfer will tell a couple of lies himself and the games are ready to begin.

Forget about playing even close to your regular game.  It’s the deal you make on the first tee that counts.  Keep the bets small, never more than a $2 nassau.  Then lose about $6 or $8 bucks maneuvering your opponent into the unenviable position of buying lunch.  On a good day you can come out ahead by $8 or $10 using this ploy.

Advice is always prevalent on a golf course.  The best I ever heard was when a guy came in after shooting about 150.  He asked the members of his foursome what he should give his caddy following the round.  “Your clubs,” was the answer he got.

So go on out on these unseemly warm days we are having.  Remember these few rules and you’ll have a good time.  And if that don’t work, say to heck with the USGA—-grab you a blonde and go at night.

In memory of my dad #5

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As we packed up the house this past week, and walked out the door to spend the night in our new home, I looked around the rooms at the emptiness of them.  The pictures were off the walls, the furniture had been carried out.  There was nothing  left except an old chair or two and a sack of trash here and there.  The sun had set, the day was done, and we were exhausted.    

Pausing at the door, I took a deep breath and told my husband, “I’m
sad.  This is sad.”  He sweetly replied, “Well we can bring sleeping
bags back and stay here. ”  I giggled.  “No, it’s not that.  It’s just that there are lots of good memories here.”

 Memories of birthdays, Christmases, celebrations of many kinds.  There are memories of family, friends, snowed in days, and dog dribble.

And there are memories of my dad, who died barely 3 weeks ago.  Those are the memories I don’t want to leave.

The house I’m moving from is the last place I saw him walk.  That’s the last place I saw him alive.  And it makes me sad.

I’m leaving that place.  And it almost feels like I’m leaving him and his memories.  I can still see him coming down the hall into the kitchen.  I can hear the crinkling of the Chips Ahoy Chocolate Chip Package being peeled back.  And then there he goes, back down the hallway to the bedroom with a handful of cookies in his big old paw of a hand. 

Or I see him with his coffee cup struggling down the hallway, sloshing his coffee.  My husband used to tell a joke about him.  He’d say, “My father-in-law doesn’t drink coffee, he spills most of it.” 

The last time he was here was at Thanksgiving.  My sister insisted we watch a movie.  He finally agreed, even though he’d already seen it.  He laid on the floor with my sister and we laughed and laughed.

I sit in this house right now, the house I’m moving from.  I don’t have internet at my new place yet, so I come here to blog.  I’m alone in this quiet house, but if I sit real still, close my eyes, and listen hard, I can hear my dad.  I hear him holler for me to come fix the TV in the bedroom because he’s pushed the wrong button on the remote, or figure out how to get to his email on the computer, or get his basket of pills out of his truck. 

I see him laying on the end of the bed, on his stomach, snoring with the TV blaring when I come home from work.  I only wish I could hear him snore one more time.  Just one more.  I wish I had more coffee spills to clean and TV remotes to fix.

But I can’t look back, I have to move forward.

I have new memories to make.  New roads to travel. 

I wish he was here to travel them with me.  I wish we were making memories still.  I want him to see my chicks.  I want him to stay in my new house.  We laid laminate flooring instead of carpet, simply for the ease of cleaning up coffee spills.

I’m moving ahead, but there will be times on my journey, I must pause to remember my dad.

Just for a moment, but not too long.
I have promises to keep,
and miles to go before I sleep,
and miles to go before I sleep.