BEING A FATHER ISN'T FOR SISSIES

     What defines a father beyond the biological definition? To me, it's the way the "cape" falls over their shoulders, the holes in the bottom of the shoes from constantly trying to keep up, the worn folds of their wallets, premature graying at the temples, deep laugh lines at the corners of their eyes, and the permanent worry crease between their brows....all symbols they've shared a child's life.

I was blessed to grow up with two grandfathers who were both upstanding men. One, Grandpa Jo, I didn't see as much, but he spent every Christmas Eve with us. His trademark? A cane. One he square-danced with. I remember sitting on the hearth and giggling while he'd demonstrate. His hair was white as snow, his eyes chocolate brown, a WWI veteran who died at the age of 92 with a piece of shrapnel still lodged in his hip. Thus...the cane.

Grandpa Swain, feisty, stubborn, and almost as wide as he was tall, cursed worst than an old salty sailor. "Son-of-a-bitch" flowed eloquently off my toddler tongue by the age 3. When his father died, Grandpa was only 13 years old and the eldest child. He dropped out of school and went to work in the silver mines of Park City, Utah, to provide for his mother and siblings. He taught himself how to build houses from the sketches, to blueprints, to framing, plastering (no sheetrock then) until the last stroke of paint coated the walls. He owned a successful construction company wherein he taught his sons the trade that carried on long after he was buried. He owned the "pink cadillac" I blogged about months ago, always had a 6-pack of beer hidden in the fridge in the basement for "grandma's hair" and I imagine still swearing a blue streak beyond the pearly gates.

I was "daddy's little girl" and knew how to manipulate the title to my advantage whenever possible. The eldest child, only daughter, and commander of three little brothers left in my guard after school until parental supervision arrived home from work I got a taste of parenthood at an early age. I watched my parents struggle to keep us in a nice house in a respectable neighborhood. My dad taught me the meaning of work and a paycheck during the summer where I worked in his print shop and earned enough to buy my own school clothes from ninth grade on. Today, he's in the throes of Dementia, and my title of "daddy's little girl" has changed to warden, caretaker, and a couple of unsavory names yelled when his mind triggers a bad episode. I'm now the "parent," a role I got by default being the only daughter and closest relative. Watching your pillar of strength throughout childhood crumble, is difficult to describe and some days unbearable.

That's why I'm thankful for the strong arms of the superhero I married a century ago (some days feel that way). He drags me to my feet when I collapse and pushes me when I don't want to go on. He fits the description in the first paragraph above. Raising 4 children (2 surprise twins) and stepping in to juggle the balls I have in midair when I need to escape life for a moment, I'm sure was not in the travel brochure when he signed up for marriage. No, I'm pretty sure at age 23 there was only one thing on his mind when he took the matrimonial leap, however, life is in constant motion, and three years later, the game plan had changed drastically. Still in shock from when I announced we were going to be parents several years and a few grandkids ago, he's never once faltered since "dad" became his new name. He's changed dirty diapers, walked sick babies, rushed kids who thought they were invincible to the hospital, hunted down boyfriends who had his daughter out past midnight, towed cars teenagers pushed beyond mechanical limits, and even bailed one out of jail when he discovered the hard way that laws were in in place for a reason.

But he also taught them all how to drive a car, ride a motorcycle (a prerequisite of being a member of our family), camp, hunt, fish, work and save money for the things they wanted, and most importantly, to respect others. They are all now adults, applying the lessons their father taught them in their own lives, and when life turns sideways, they know Dad will don his tattered and patched "cape" to swoop in and save the day if he can, or stand beside them when he can't.

Happy Father's Day to all the men in my life, past and present, and to those who have shadowed a child along life's path by kicking a stone away, or holding a hand when one wandered too close to the edge.

REFLECTION...

Tonight's musical toast:  "Please Remember Me" courtesy of Tim McGraw

In case you didn't notice, I've changed my blog look. If you truly didn't notice, I suggest a doctor appointment be made first thing in the morning!  It's summertime (although someone needs to let the "man upstairs" know, because in my state today, it snowed in the North and the South end dropped 20 degrees) and I wanted something bright and cheery - whimsical and fun like summer should be. May keep it, may not. Takes me three plus hours to redo a blog, so this may stick, at least for a few days. Give me your thoughts.

Today's Memorial Day. A day of reflection and remembrance. I grew up with it being called "Decoration Day." My grandmother was big on decorating the graves. It was one of her many "celebrations" when the family would pack the station wagons with picnics and children and head for the little cemetery located in the then tiny town of Midway, Utah. The cemetery sits on a hill, overlooking the valley. The roads were barely covered in asphalt, with chuck holes large enough to consume a Volkswagen bug.

Grandpa spent the day before Decoration Day cutting wire hangers for hooks and gathering empty mason jars. My grandmother and aunts stripped their lilac bushes (and maybe their neighbors after dark, too) and clipped all the irises, packing them in buckets of water, we children were in charge of keeping from sloshing all the way up Parley's Canyon. When we pulled away, there wasn't a blooming flower left in the yard.

Once at the cemetery, Grandma gathered the grandchildren, forming a hand chain (that lasted about ten minutes) and she took us on a field trip to each grave marker of relatives that had passed. She shared the stories of their lives, their family lineage, and any other juicy tidbits she could share to help us remember. My great-great-great grandmother was a Cherokee Indian and the stories my grandmother told of how she served as an ambassador to the tribes the pioneers encountered as they crossed the plains westward.

Now that I'm a couple of years older and wiser, I regret not recording my grandmother retelling the stories from those days on our personal graveyard tour. My own memory can only recall bits and pieces, and after my mother had her stroke, taking her voice, the stories have sadly been lost or confused. For this reason, my friends, "journal" your thoughts while you have them to pass on to those generations that will go on without you.

It's been years since I've been back to the little cemetery, but I try every year to place flowers on as many graves where I live now, as I have family members who have passed. Sadly, we have a few friends here who have died, but the rest are reserved for those gravesites where nothing sits in remembrance. If it's a government issued brass plaque with a military insignia, all the better...or sadder.

"Memorial Day" was first observed on May 30, 1868, when flowers were placed on the graves of both Union and Confederate soldiers in Arlington National Cemetery. In 1971, Congress made it an official federal holiday, placing it officially on the last Monday in May.

I hate war, but I realize it's necessary. Unfortunately, it never seems to end, just changes countries and boundaries. The flag draped coffins never end, and families bid tearful goodbyes to their soldiers at airports, while other families bid goodbye at graveyards. My husband served in the National Guard. When my grandfather died, my daughter was small but stood beside us when the gunfire salute was sounded and the flag folded and handed to my aunt. She whispered to me, "When Daddy dies, does he get a flag?" A sobering thought. Yes, he will.

Three movies dealing with war have left an indelible mark in my memory, none of which I could watch a second time, but will never forget. Saving Private Ryan with Tom Hanks hit me because when it showed the troops meeting violent deaths when landing on the shores of France, I realized my daughter (the same from above) was living in France, two miles from Normandy Beach.



The Hurt Locker probably the most intense movie I've ever watched, drops you in the middle of the Iraqi War, with an elite three member Army bomb squad, walking the streets where anybody and anything is a potential bomb. Not even the street itself is safe (significant scene).



But the most moving war movie I've ever seen and challenge you to watch if you haven't, is Taking Chance, with Kevin Bacon. Maybe because it's based on true story or that my son was nineteen when it came out, that it settled inside my soul. You travel with a volunteer escort officer as he accompanies the body of nineteen year old fallen soldier on his trek across country to his hometown. You will be taken aback by the respect shown our soldiers in the smallest, unknown ways. At the end, you see the real solder, meet his real life friends portrayed by actors, and his family who lives on without him. A wonderful, heart wrenching story.

Okay, now my water works are malfunctioning. I love my country, my freedoms, and those who fight for me to keep it. My heart goes out to mothers and wives, especially, whose husbands, sons and daughters are away in service to our country, on my behalf. This is also the first time I've witnessed mothers leaving families behind when called to duty. Thank you.

Life goes on, but let's not forget or take a moment before this day comes to a close, to find some personal way to "reflect and remember."  Thanks for stopping by friends. Have a safe holiday.