My Father’s Hands

December 15, 2008

Yesterday was my father’s birthday.  It has been many years since he passed away but there is hardly a day that goes by that I don’t remember him–and miss him.  It may be part of the reason I am so attached to that bit of land up in Northern Minnesota.  I can remember so many times driving those last thirty miles toward home after I moved to South Dakota.  And all I could think about when covering those final miles was that I would drive up in front of the house and my father would come out of the door, draw me into his arms, and kiss me on the lips.  That images is totally engraved on those northern acres.  Today many would think it weird to be kissed on the lips by their father, but all of my siblings kiss each other that way–even the sisters sometimes.  And having one of my brother’s smack me on the lips is almost like having dad back.  Oh, I miss him.  I am sure it is from him that most of my siblings and I got this crazy creative gene.   We all have more ideas in an hour than some have in a lifetime.   Of course, it makes us a little crazy and hard to live with, but . . .

Below is a piece I wrote about a year after my father died.  I’d had a dream and just followed it.  

Jamie

My Father’s Hands 

 

Last night I dreamed my father gave me a beaded bag with trails of heart-shaped beads wandering across the pale cloth.  Something in my soul wants to finger the trail of beads to discover what he meant by this gift.  Does he mean follow this trail, my darling girl, the trail that is both made of the heart and leads to the heart? 

So many books about mothers and daughters, fathers and sons-but what of the daughter caught by a golden thread to her father’s soul?  What of that child? 

I see a grown woman, a grandmother now, who looks down at her own stubby fingers one day and sees her father’s hands.  They are not the hands of a piano player or a dancer but the sturdy hands of labor, of getting things done, of endurance and strength.  She remembers his hands in one scene and then another: tying her skates in winter, sketching the walls of his new house, or solving an intricate problem on paper as if each blunt fingertip had its very own brain and only when his hands moved could he think. 

She remembers the warmth and strength of his hands as he kneaded the calves of her legs late in the night when growing pains hurt badly enough to wake her up crying.  She sees his hands holding cards in a favorite game of whist or bridge or gently patting the shoulder of a friend he meets on the street.  She sees his two hands resting on a steering wheel while driving to Grandma’s house or holding the very edges of the Sunday paper after church, a plate of powdered-sugar donuts hidden on the other side of the news.  She remembers the way her father’s hands would pick up her needlepoint project and run the yarn through six rows tugging just a little too tightly so that she could always see in the tapestry of the finished work, his rows beside her own.

It is his hands she sees holding the Louis L’Amour book late in the evening letting go only to take a sip of the beer warming on the side table, his hands building two of their houses to shelter those he loved most, his hands fashioning the ugliest boat ever out  of wood and plank, his hands turning wood, twisting metal, picking berries and then building a special screen to roll the berries down to clean them.

She sees his hands playfully slapping her mother’s backside or holding her against the fridge to steal a kiss, and his hands wielding the razor that plowed a smooth path across his lathered chin while she, sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, waitied for the moment when he would turn and growl and try to kiss her cheek like a rabid dog until she screamed and ran out of the bathroom giggling. 

All of this she sees in an instant when she looks down and sees her  own square hands, so sturdy and strong. 

And then she sees his hands, swollen and bruised, a blueberry stain on the back where the IV had kept him alive for three more minutes, five more minutes, and then that last and final breath, of death.  And then he was gone, living on in the short fingers of her own hands that crack in the winter just like his did. 

 Note:  My father married on June 18, had the first of eight children on June 18, and died on June 18.  It was Father’s Day on the day he passed on.)

By Jamie | Posted in About Being All You Can Be, Personal Essays | Tagged , , , | Comments (0)

Coming Home Again

June 24, 2008

We just got home from Washington D.C.  We went for the Silver Docs film festival in Maryland and Milt went to lots of movies and I wandered the city and played with beads.  It is good to be home again–always.

This morning I was searching the web for some information on another person who is doing video letters from prisoners to their children at home–very cool.  Anyway, I came across a blog called “Writing the Line Between Heaven and Earth” and I recognized that as one of my own titles.  I stopped and clicked onto the blog and it WAS one of my own titles.  I had completely forgotten that I tried to start a blog almost exactly a year ago (the only post on there was July 17).  It made me wonder how many other remnants of myself are floating around out there in cyber space.  It is like outer space where all these tests and trials have been jettisoned into space and never brought home so they just . . . float.

Who cleans up the web?  A question.

I am sitting at my kitchen table and the smell of the white peonies I cut yesterday is almost overwhelming.  I shook the ants off and put them in a blue vase for my mom and dad.  Peonies were the flowers they had at their wedding.  In my family, June 18th is a significant date:  the date my parents married, the date they had their first child, and the date which marked my father’s death.  In the year that he died, it was also Father’s Day and he died with all eight of his children and our mother in a circle around him.  I think just in his honors that I will post a small piece I did called “My Father’s Hands”. 

 

My Father’s Hands

 In last night’s dream my father gave me a tiny bag with trails of heart-shaped beads wandering the pale cloth.  Something in my soul wants to finger the tiny heart-shaped beads wondering what he meant by this gift.  Did he mean follow this little trail, my darling girl, and you shall carry anything that comes after with ease. 

So many books are about mothers and daughters, fathers and sons, but what of the daughter caught by a golden thread to her father’s soul?  What of that child? 

I am a grown woman, a grandmother now, who looks down at her own stubby fingers one day and sees her father’s hands.  They are not the hands of a piano player or a dancer but the sturdy hands of labor, of getting things done, of endurance and strength.  I remember his hands in one scene and then another; tying myskates in winter, sketching the walls of his new house or solving an intricate problem on paper as if each knubby fingertip had its very own brain and only when his hands moved could he think. 

I remember the warmth and strength of his hands as he kneaded the calves of my legs late in the night when growing pains hurt bad enough to wake me up crying.  I see his hands holding cards in a favorite game of whist or bridge or gently patting the shoulder of a friend he met on the street.  I see his two hands on a steering wheel driving to grandma’s house or holding the very edges of the Sunday paper after church, a plate of powdered donuts hidden on the other side of the news.  I smile and remember the way my father’s hands would pick up myneedlepoint project and run the yarn through six rows, tugging just a little too tightly so that Icould always see in the tapestry of the finished work his rows beside my own.

I see his hands holding the Louis La’Mour book late in the evening, letting go only to take a sip of the beer warming on the side table; his hands building two houses to shelter those he loved most, his hands fashioning the ugliest boat ever out of wood and plank, his hands turning wood, twisting metal, picking berries and then building a special screen to roll the berries down gently to clean them.

I see his hands playfully slapping my mother’s backside or holding her against the fridge to steal a kiss, and his hands wielding the razor that plowed a smooth path through his lathered chin and me, sitting on the closed lid of the pot, waiting for the moment when he would turn and growl and try to kiss my cheek like  a rabid dog.  I would squeal and run out of the bathroom giggling. 

All of this I see in an instant when I looked down and saw my own small, square hands, so sturdy and strong. 

And she see his hands, swollen and bruised, a blueberry stain on the back where the IV had kept him alive for three more minutes, five more minutes, and then that last and final breath, of death.  And he was gone, living on in the short fingers of my own hands that crack in the winter . . . just like his did. 

 

By Jamie | Posted in About Being All You Can Be, On Writing | Tagged , , , | Comments (0)

The Mother Load

April 8, 2008

Tonight is the anniversary of my mother’s death and tomorrow (April 9) is the anniversary of her birth.  My relationship with my mother was a complicated one.  It is odd how when parents do it right their children sometimes get a little “too big for their britches.”  That was a favorite phrase that my father used when we tried to rule the household.  But my goal is to revisit my relationship with my mother tonight and not my dad. 

 My mother had eight children.  I was third girl and was followed by five brothers. 

 No, not a summary.  I want to do what Natalie Goldberg urges writers to do and ” write to the bone.” 

 I looked down at my mother for some reason.  I thought she was not very smart, that she took things too seriously (particularly her Catholic faith), and that she didn’t really “get” me.  I was always a dreamy little girl with my nose in a book and she was a busy mom with a large household to run.  I constantly felt guilty for not doing enough to help, and the shadow of that guilt still follows me today.  My mother was not good at saying what she meant and would always couch things in a kind of passive-aggressive way, speaking from the side of her mouth.  “Long suffering” is another term I’ve heard that describes my mom. 

 I often wondered what my mother did with her dreams and aspirations and I used that against her somehow.  How could she “settle” for so little?  Did she drown that dreamy part of her when she was young and never let her re-emerge?  And why did I think that who she was was not enough?  Didn’t she raise eight children to be creative and responsible adults? We are all still alive today and doing well raising families of our own. 

 As I think about it now, I think my own scornful thoughts were retaliation.  I wanted my mom to see ME.  I wanted her to tell me she was proud of me, that I had become someone she liked and admired.  I wanted her attention—desperately.  I still do. 

 Now I sometimes feel like my own children don’t get me; that they judge my life and find it wanting.  Isn’t it strange-what goes around comes around. 

 So on this, the eve of both her birth and death, I want to remember some of the things that were right with us.  Both Mom and I loved the quiet times.  My fondest memories are of putting puzzles together on rainy or snowy days, picking blueberries together, and playing scrabble for hours on end even though she never could beat me. 

 In my last year of college, I moved home to save money.  I was in my final semester of courses and planning a spring wedding.  I was tired . . . tired of thinking, tired of partying, tired of working so hard and pushing to put myself through college.  For one semester, instead of working so hard in a bar to pay the bills, I just moved home for the winter.  I did my classes, studied and then spent hours and hours and hours with my mom playing scrabble.  We didn’t talk much-my mother never was much for deep conversations but it was so comforting to just be there with her. 

 I am older now and wiser (I hope).  I realize fully that both of my parents gave me all I needed in order to pursue an education, create a nice life, and extend that life forward for my own children and my work.  I have the steadiness of my mother, the creativity of my father, and the love of life and children that both of them shared.  Something that I have learned in my constellation work is that the gift of life is the biggest gift of all—and my parents are much, much bigger than I am and always will be even though they are both gone now.

 Oh, and what I wouldn’t give to lay out a scrabble board or grab the berry bucket and head to the woods with my mother just one more time . . . just one more time.

 I miss you, Mom. 

 Love,

 Patti

 P.S.  My legal name is Patricia Lee Lee.  I have gone by “Jamie Lee” for the past twenty years except with my family–all of my brothers and sisters still call me Patti. 

By Jamie | Posted in About Being All You Can Be | Tagged , | Comments (0)