We dropped our boys at sleepaway camp this week, something we have dreamed about for a few summers now. Anxious little Elizabeth decidedly did not set out on an adventure of this kind, but independent young Matt absolutely loved it. His memories are so strong that we decided to bring our California kids to Wisconsin so they could attend the same camp.
Our family signed up for this adventure last fall, thinking we would drop off Fitzgerald and Oliver then bring Eleanor to my dad’s house. My mama bear instincts are such that I wasn’t about to return to California and be a plane ride away from my boys. I was delighted that we could remain in the general Midwest vicinity, should anything pop up. Matt could work from the Chicago office, while Bird and I would get time with Grandpa Holmes.
After my dad’s sudden passing in December, we talked about cancelling altogether. Surely we could have gotten a refund. But, truth be told, I never seriously considered it. We wanted this summertime retreat for the boys. Plus, there is so much to do at my dad’s house. I am the executor of his estate (a fancy way of saying I am in charge of his stuff) so we stayed the course.
Driving away from camp, through long stretches of farmland, I reached for my phone to call my dad and tell him we were on our way. It’s a familiar urge at this point, one that has both haunted and heartened me in his absence. We used to talk all the time. A bit more about my phone-call-loving father, as well as what I would tell him if I could call to him today.
Thank you, as always, for your very kind words about my father and your support on this grief journey of mine. If you are going through a loss or difficult time of your own, I highly recommend two books by my friend, Marisa Renee Lee: Grief is Love and Waiting for Dawn.
Long before I knew of any other family with a cell phone, my father brought home a rectangular brick with a key pad and declared he could now reach us from the road. A lifelong traveling salesman, this new contraption made business sense. It also delighted my dad personally, as he was a guy who loved to make phone calls. His ability to find a payphone just about anywhere was uncanny; his penchant for leaving detailed voicemails unmatched.
The advent of mobile technology meant he could check in much more regularly. I remember overhearing my mother tell him once: Peter, stop calling! We won’t have anything to talk about when you get home!
Although I was always one to call my parents, my conversations with my dad began in earnest after my mother’s passing. He was almost always reachable, no matter the time or the place. And if he couldn’t talk then, he would call me back soon. He often greeted me with an enthusiastic “Hey Lizzy!” or a very sweet “Well, if it isn’t Elizabeth Ann.”
For decades now, I reached out in quiet pockets of my day, random car rides between errands, after school drop off, or on a walk. In the hospital last December, as I stepped away for a cup of coffee, I thought: Now would be a good time to call dad. The realization that I couldn’t — that he was in a coma and would never wake up — quite literally stopped me in my tracks.
I remember our last phone call vividly. It was not 20 minutes before he collapsed. I could hear the music of the store he had stopped at to do some Christmas shopping. We were firming up plans for him to come to Los Angeles for the holidays. I told him all about our “Friendsmas” party the night before and how our kids were invited to join a living nativity for Christmas Eve. We were going to talk later that afternoon.
Being back in the Midwest with my family this summer, all I want to do is call my dad. Everything here reminds me of him, from the smell of the pine trees to the taste of lake water. Here’s what I would tell him if I could:
We visited the Holmes family cottage. It was my first trip to the north woods in two decades, back to a spot that meant more to you than anywhere else in the world. Emily, Carolyn and I carved out a few days to be there with our families — and, gosh, how magical it was! A trip back in time, imagining the childhood summers you spent with your brothers and sisters at the lake, along with memories our own family made each year. Watching my kids swim from the shore to the middle of the lake was surreal.
Drum roll, please…I WATERSKIED. Remember all that lake water I drank one summer as I learned this specific skill. How old was I? Old enough to be traumatized by it, LOL! You loved to waterski and absolutely insisted your daughters give it a go. “Let the boat pull you up!” you shouted. You were right. I got there as a kid and got back there last week (thanks to my brother-in-law, Andy, for driving the boat). There is nothing quite like gliding along the top of the lake.
My kids love Wisconsin. Full stop. We talked about this last summer, after your heart surgery, when our crew came to the Midwest to be with you and spent a few days near the Dells. Between this week’s family trip up north and the cabin we rented before camp drop off, the deal is done. Bird adores swimming in the lake, undeterred by weeds or critters — or anything, really, so long as she is in the water. Oliver and Fitzgerald learned to fish from their cousin, Aiden, and are now totally hooked (pun intended).
We’re taking good care of your home. It is both wonderful and so very hard to be back in the house you and mom built together. You never wanted to move — and you never had to, which is its own sort of blessing, truly.
Emily, Carolyn and I have gathered there several times to begin sorting through its contents. We are being careful and cautious, as you would want us to be. Each drawer is a new surprise, a jumble of hand-written notes, throwback photographs, business receipts, and the occasional travel size shampoo you swiped from a hotel. C made us sweatshirts that say: “Show Up. Work Hard. Dream Big.” They are light blue, just like your eyes.
We have begun divvying things up. Beyond a few specific bequests, your wishes were broad but clear: A third, a third, a third. Everything in threes for your three girls. I devised a color-coded Post-It note system for the bigger pieces, giving us a chance to mull things over. I’ve tucked a few smaller items in my suitcase so far, including my first cross-stitch sampler, a photograph of Grandma Holmes with her sisters, and your high school varsity lettermen sweater, which was folded carefully in the hope chest upstairs.
There are some things I can’t face yet. Your office — the den, as we called it — feels impossible. We tidied up the desk and floor, dusted the (very full) shelves, and admired a few treasures stashed throughout. It remains the most “you” place in this whole house. How can we begin to undo that?
I also have not been able to touch the unofficial Wall Street Journal archive you compiled for me in mom’s old dresser, a decade’s worth of stories filling the drawers. Do I need these print copies? Not all of them, no. Maybe a few. It is the collection of them, stored as you did, that means the most.
But mostly: I miss you so much. I miss the sound of your voice, the twinkle in your eye, the squeeze of your hugs. None of this feels real. I have to push through the denial to get anything done. Mom’s voice is in one ear, telling me to be productive and keep at it, while your voice is in the other, reminding me to savor this time in your space.
The feeling I’m trying to channel is the one I found thanks to an old home video, of all of us enjoying the sun on the dock at the cottage. What could be more you?
Wish me luck as I tackle this new phase of adulting while grieving, friends. And for those of you who have cleaned out a sentimental space, I would be so grateful if you shared lessons you learned. Anything and everything would be helpful — including what service you recommend to digitize home videos like the one above. Pop your thoughts in the comments or send me a note at Hello@SoManyThoughts.com.
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.