Later December 19, 2008

Hi again,

Blech, I am so sick of being at the ol’ homestead. I know it typically would have broken your heart to hear that but now that you’re gone, I figure it’s okay to say that, maybe even a little flattering. PMS probably has a little something something to do with it, but everything is driving me crazy. Hell, Red and I even had a minor tiff and she’s been my real rock through all of this. Plus, I’m finding myself missing Nic and home and the fireplace and wireless internet and even the Christmas tree. I never really got into the Christmas spirit this year, not even before all this shit happened. I assumed it was because the move up the hill prevented me from putting my Christmas tree up in October like I usually do, but maybe I had an inkling that something was going to happen…something bad enough to ruin my holiday spirit for many Christmases to come. I remember how hard Christmastime was for you after Grandpa died and now we’re in that same boat. I hope your birthday is good for you, Jesus, but I can’t say I’m going to get into the party this year.

Red and I might head to Duluth tomorrow to hang out with Nic and probably spend one night. Maybe that’s a bad idea considering Mike and his family are finally going to sleep at home tomorrow night for the first time since you died. I don’t know if it’s awful to leave Mom completely alone that first night or if we should wean her off of our company gradually. She said she doesn’t care and I get the impression that she really doesn’t. Why would she, right? Besides, it would give her more time to spend with Margaret and, as far as I’m concerned, she can go right ahead…just as long as they don’t smoke in this house. Can you believe they were already smoking here when Red, Nic, and I got home the evening that you died? Of course you can believe it. Nic, being new to the family, was shocked by how disrespectful they were being. They smoked in the house again the next day too. Of course they waited until we were all downtstairs and of course we smelled the smoke wafting down the stairs and of course I started seeing red. I made a loud comment about how rude they were being and then asked them to smoke outside. Red reminded them gently that there’s a baby in the house and they apologized and put out the cigarette(s). Yesterday Margaret was coming over again and Red asked Mom politely to please not allow her to smoke in the house and Mom actually had the nerve to say, “I won’t. I forgot about Taylor being here the last time I told her she could. I would never do anything to hurt her.” Yeah, that pretty much sums up how she feels about her children. Red was all, “thanks for being concerned about US” and Mom made some snide remark about us not caring about secondhand smoke with all the time we spend in bars. I resisted the urge to punch her in the face and instead reminded her that smoking is banned in bars and has been for quite some time. Before we return permanently to our former lives, we are going to have a talk with her about smoking in the house in general. Thankfully, Mike is going to tell her that it’s not allowed and if she does it, Taylor will no longer be coming to visit. Sadly, we, her children, could tell her that if she smokes in the house, we will no longer come home, but it probably wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference.

Speaking of smoking, the last morning in the hospital, shortly after we had gotten the bad news that you were most likely brain dead, Mom had the gall to say she really needed a cigarette. Before I could control my emotions or instincts, I told her that if she ever says that in front of me again, I will punch her in the face, that it’s incredibly insensitive to talk about fucking smoking at a time like that, when my father, somebody who had done everything possible to stay healthy, was lying on his deathbed. Fuck it. I give up. I spent way too much time fighting and crying over this issue when I was a kid. You can only cut up so many packs of cigarettes and write so many tearful letters begging your mother to quit smoking so she can someday know her grandchildren before you reach the point where you just don’t care anymore. I’ve decided to let go of the fact that she’s incredibly immature and remind myself whenever necessary that she’s an adult capable of making her own decisions, even if I almost never agree with them. If she doesn’t care that she’s killing herself, she can go right ahead. If she doesn’t care, I don’t care. It’s not fair, Dad.

I miss your smile and your voice and your advice and your concern for me and your laugh. Hell, I even miss that stupid tractor channel. I would give anything to see you lying on the couch, petting Lucy. How am I even going to call home anymore, knowing that there’s no chance of you answering the phone?

I think I remember telling you before that Red and I have been keeping a list of the things we absolutely don’t want to forget. Of course, we don’t want to forget anything about you, but these are the ones that have really made an impact on us.

I never want to forget you gagging every time you brushed your teeth. I hated it. It freaked me out and made me feel a little like I was going to throw up every time I heard you do it, but it was such a part of who you were and I’d shave my head to hear it now. You’d be happy to know that Nic occasionally gags when he brushes his tongue and each time he smiles proudly at me. They say women are attracted to men who are like their fathers…

Speaking of the things I didn’t like but would sacrifice anything to hear again, the slurping, Dad. You slurped everything. You slurped cereal, soup, pop, fudgsicles. Remember the time five or six summers back when you were eating a fudgsicle (which you called a fudgicle) on a hot summer day and I made a comment about the slurping making me crazy? We went out tubing the next day and when Red was sick of being on the tube with me, she got into the boat. You promised me that you would take it easy on me and just pull me around the lake on a leisurely ride if I stayed on. I was skeptical, but reluctantly agreed. The ride started out leisurely but before long you yelled, “this is for the fudgicle!” and started hauling ass in circles, jumping me over the wake, sailing me through the air. I totally deserved it and, to this day, it remains one of my favorite memories of you. Of course, when I say favorite memories, there are literally hundreds of them that make the list. How could one guy be so awesome all the time?

I love that every pair of jeans was a pair of “blue jeans,” that even when you were wearing black ones, you referred to them as your “black blue jeans.” Do you have any idea how cute that is? Middle-aged men probably never like to be referred to as cute, but I can’t help it. You always were. And you know? There are a lot worse things to be called than cute.

Also cute was the fact that every marker was a “magic marker” to you.

One of my very favorite things about you was your laugh. I’m not talking about the quiet smirk with the shaking head, though I was a fan of that too. No, I’m talking about the full guffaw that you blessed us with only when something was really funny to you. The last time we went to the shack together, when Gretchen was up from the cities, we told you about Mom not knowing the difference between “shit” and “the shit” and using them incorrectly. Dad, I am so happy we told you about that and so sorry we didn’t tell you sooner, because you blessed us with one of those contagious laughs every time you thought of it afterwards.

I know Mike has been talking about your legacy, legacy, legacy. I’m not even sure what he means when he talks about your legacy. Is he going to plant trees? Is he going to change my oil? Is he going to be a good family man? Maybe I don’t even know what a legacy is. But I do know one part of your legacy that I will definitely be carrying on myself. “Right arm. Farm out.” Enough said.

For somebody who seemed at times to be afraid of technology, I was proud of you for becoming so much more comfortable with it in your later years. Sure, you still freaked out a little and asked for help every time you needed to use your credit card in a retail establishment, but you were becoming a pro at surfing the internet. I was impressed with the way you navigated your way around, emailing, shopping online, reporting temperatures to the National Weather Service. You had questions but they were always legit, never stupid, and honestly, most of them could have been avoided if your computer wasn’t such a dinosaur. I wish you’d had the chance to experience high-speed internet on a newer computer, but even if you’d lived another thirty years, I don’t think you ever would have caved on that issue. You were satisfied with your internet, even when it took twenty minutes for a page to load. Slowly but surely, it got the job done and that was good enough for you. God, grant me some of that patience.

I think caller id was one of those modern technologies that you loved but would probably never admit to loving. I’ll never forget seeing you run from the living room to the kitchen to see who was calling and then running back to the living room to answer the call on your favorite phone. I never understood why you were so partial to that old corded phone with the numbers worn off. I imagine you’d heard that calls on cordless phones are often picked up by scanners and, damn it, your phone conversations are nobody’s business but your own. And though I know you never would have gotten your own cell phone, you sure were proud of knowing how to use Mike’s when you came to get us for Grandma’s funeral. I’ll always remember you bragging about knowing how to use it and then calling my cell phone to demonstrate. You made me proud, old man. As often as we called you “old man” it feels so wrong now because you weren’t old at all. Not old enough to die.

Well, Red’s getting into bed, so I guess it’s time for me to get ready to turn in for the evening. I still have half my book about the Armistice Day Blizzard to read. As excited as I was about it, I’m glad you ignored me when I told you to buy it for Buddy and Katy. It’s not that good.

Sleep well if there’s any such thing as sleep in heaven and if heaven is in the central standard time zone.

Before I go, Red wants me to tell you that you left your legacy on her face in the form of three big zits. You won’t soon be forgotten.

Later Fahj,
Ang