This appeared in my first book "Rhythm & Rhymes of the Heart 2002-2004" and also my last book "The Book of Stories From the Lake" released last September. I've read it aloud at different book signings, appearances and workshops. It never fails to get a response from the audience, and I am very proud of the fact they allow me to touch their hearts and awaken memories of those they have lost. I am humbled when they share their experiences, when they cry and give me a quick hug, for I know this is not an experience unique to me. Grief is universal; it knows no language or recognizes any social standing.
I can't help but smile as I imagine my father, rolling his eyes as I read/post/send this little column again, in all it's mushiness and love. I am the oldest child, so God willing, I will be the first to see him when it's time. We all miss you, Dad. See you when we get there, and save me a seat at the stove.
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Since my father passed away two days ago, I have had time to think about my relationship with him over the past few years. It seems my dad and I never saw eye to eye on anything. We didn't have the same politics, we didn't agree on religion, and we certainly never talked about sex, except for him to tell me that I shouldn't have any. In fact the only thing we agreed on was that we loved to laugh and tell jokes.
One thing I am sure of, however, is that he loved me, and that I loved him. He was my daddy.
I am the oldest of six. When I was little, one of the ways my dad showed my mom how much he loved her was to let her sleep late on Saturday morning. He would make breakfast. Eggs over easy, bacon and toast, with a side of hash browns with onions, I have never been able to duplicate the recipe. He could whip up french toast, sausages and pancakes with the ease and finesse of any chef, and not spill a drop, not drop a dish.
My father had a lot of different interests, many diverse talents and hobbies. But to me, the thing he did best of all was make mashed potatoes. Creamy and light, whipped high with Land 'o Lakes salted butter and whole milk, it was something we had every night with dinner, seven days a week. We never tired of it.
I realized in the plane over Chicago on the way to his funeral that was how my dad said goodbye to me, the last time I spent time alone with him. My folks live in Texas.
Living in western New York and away from everyone, I didn't start travelling until very recently, as I didn't leave my own family much, and airline tickets were too expensive. Now that I'm older and my kids are grown it has become a priority in my life to visit my siblings, who live all over this great country.
It was the last trip to Texas in September, where we all gathered to visit with each other. I was being chauffeured around to visit my brother's new house, when I thought about how my father's condition had deteriorated from when I had seen him two years earlier. He sat at the kitchen counter most of the day, watching tv, reading, or looking out the window. He sat there, alternating between his "breathing machine" (nebulizer) and smoking a cigarette. He rarely went out anymore, and was resigned to spend his days in this peaceful prison he had created for himself. Dying from emphysema, he had accepted his fate, a slave to his addiction, and was content to live out his last days in this way. He would sit there, patiently waiting, until my mother came home from work. Then she would cook dinner and they would share the rest of the evening together.
One morning, it was decided we were all going to my brother's house for dinner. As the day wore on, I started to feel a little queasy.
"Oops" they told me after a while. "Your stomach might be upset from the tap water, just drink the water out of this store bought jug. Sorry! We forgot to tell you that might happen."
In all the excitment they forgot to mention it, something about too much chlorine in the water, but by that time it was too late. I spent most of the afternoon in the lavatory and was not feeling up to par for a dinner party. My stomach was raw and all I wanted to do was lay on the couch and sip some hot tea.
I begged off. "I'll stay here with Dad" I volunteered.
"We'll watch t.v." as if this was a new activity for him. He just smiled.
After the 6:00 p.m. news was over, he looked down from his perch at the counter and said to me "Hungry, kid?"
He called everyone "kid" even his own mother when she was alive.
"How 'bout some mashed potatoes?"
"Sure" I told him. "I'll make them, you stay put."
Having made them since I was a kid and watching his technique, I could prepare them with my eyes closed.
So I took out the potato peeler and began to peel what must have been my nine millionth potato, having carried on the tradition with my own family. Potatoes every night, except when we had pasta. I was an Irish girl who had married an Italian boy, after all.
I cut them in quarters the way I always had, but he pointed out to me know they were too big.
"A little smaller" he directed from his command post.
"Measure the milk" as I began to ready the hand mixer.
"Let me cut the butter" he added, "because you never put in enough."
Before I knew it, he was up off his stool and standing right next to me at the stove, his frustration getting the best of him.
"You can beat them with the mixer as I add the milk" he instructed. So I stood there, standing at the stove like I had a hundred times before, and I waited as he poured the milk.
Standing next to me, I suddenly realized that my dad was now as short as me, having shrunk several inches over the years. He seemed to realize it too, as our eyes met in an instant, with the recognition of the loss of his stature.
"Hey shorty" he smirked, the twinkle in his eyes still sharp, "go sit down." So I did.
As he folded in the last chunks of butter into the pot, he absent mindedly hummed a tune that I couldn't place the name of, but remembered from my childhood.
As is the tradition, he removed the beaters from the handmixer. In our family, the cook gets the first lick of mashed potatoes off the beaters, presumably to taste and see if it needs any more salt. But we all knew it was because they tasted so good and he couldn't resist.
He handed me the other beater, and we clicked them together like wine glasses at the conclusion of a toast announced at a fancy dinner. He looked at me and said "you first."
So I did, and they were as I remembered. Delicious and potatoey with just the right mix of butter and salt. Sitting at the kitchen counter, we ate the whole pot, just me and my dad. He hummed that song every now and then. After a while, I was humming along.
I've thought about that moment alot since September, and the significance of it. The turn of events that led me to stay home with him that night. The song that I couldn't remember the name of, but recognized so quickly.
It wasn't until much later I realized the song he was humming was "Goodnight, Irene," but he always changed the name to "Eileen."
He made the mashed potatoes because he knew that I loved them, and he knew that was all he had left to give me. I am so grateful to God for giving me that brief, silly moment with him. It was a wonderful gift I will remember always.
I know that he has shared himself with my sisters and brother in ways that are special just to them. I know that he said goodbye to my mother, the love of his life for 50 years, four months and 16 days, in a way that will warm her heart and keep her going.
But I will be forever thankful that I had that night in the kitchen with my dad, eating mashed potatoes out of a pot and humming "Goodnight, Eileen"
Goodnight, Daddy. Rest in peace.
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