"It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was." - Anne Sexton

About a week ago, I started thinking about today's post. I knew it had to be poignant; one cannot pass by a day like this and not write something meaningful. I also knew I didn't want it to be a tearjerker. I've cried a great many tears over this date and in the years to come, I'll probably cry more. Plus, I have so much to be thankful for, I'd rather celebrate than grieve.

So in homage to the 12th anniversary of my dad's passing, I'll simply share a few memories I have of him, memories that always bring a smile to my face.

I remember going everywhere with my dad. We'd go to my grandparents house in Linesville (and, if she was home, getting a visit in with my cousin who was only 18 months my senior), we'd go to Montgomery Wards to visit his old co-workers Bill & Donnie, we'd visit mom at work at MMC, or we'd just drive to the pharmacy in town. Most kids living in Conneautville today wouldn't believe there used to be a real pharmacy in town; in the last 15 years it's been two or three pizza "parlors" or just an empty building. But it was a genuine, old-school, one-pharmacist show: you could pick up your prescriptions, buy an overpriced comb, a greeting card, some P.O.S. toy for the kid and get your lottery tickets all in one place. Really neat. Every time we'd go there, dad would buy a lottery scratcher for me to scratch off, or a Slush Puppie, or even a .Ronnie Milsap tape that I just had to have. You can't put a price on Ronnie Milsap.

I remember going Christmas shopping with him for mom. His gifts for her were as predictable as the "Why did the chicken cross the road?" joke. A Hanes Her Way sweatshirt - in a color unlike any that she already head - and possibly a new pair of slippers. Or a bathrobe. Boring, but safe gifts that were utilitarian in application and given with love. However, after about 14 years of this, I think she let him know that if she got another sweatshirt, her head might start spinning Linda Regan-style. The next year, he bought her a rocker-recliner. It wasn't the prettiest thing but he bought it with the idea of getting a chair for her that reclined. One year, he bought her a pair of 18K gold earrings. They were heart-shaped and had some sort of viney design in them. She only wore them for special occasions but she loved the hell out of them and still has them.

I remember him letting me drive down my grandparents road when I turned 14. They lived on an old, pothole extravaganza of a road with a lot of loose gravel. It was a farm road, no need for pavement! I thought I was hot stuff, operating that 1989 Ford Tempo down a straight-of-way going all of 25 miles per hour (at best)! I thought my dad was the coolest person EVER that day. I did the same favor for my best friend when she first got her learners permit. I let her drive down Center Road and she was so busy waving and beeping at Shaffers house she nearly ran us off the road. That ruined me from teaching anyone to drive ever again. Thanks, D.

I remember all the softball practices he attended and helped with even though he wasn't an official coach. He'd hit pop-flies for us in the outfield or help the odd-girl-out warm up her arm before practice. He taught me how to score and play by watching the Pirates on TV and taking me to two games down at Three Rivers Stadium. He'd always buy me packets of baseball cards and with every card I'd pull out and inspect, seeing if I recognized the player, I'd ask him if that card was worth anything. Have I always been worried about money? Was it bred into me?

And this might sound odd, but I think my favorite memory is one I'm not even really part of. I remember laying in bed at night while my parents were still awake downstairs. I knew they were watching shows that I was either too young to watch or couldn't stay up late enough for. I couldn't see it, but I could hear a different side of my parents, a side I never really saw. They were laughing their asses off at whatever they were watching and it was a real comfort. It's not like I needed the comfort; more often than not, my childhood was uneventful and secure until I was a teenager. But my mom rarely showed affection towards my dad in front of me and to hear them laugh let me know that all was well with the world.

Since my dad passed away, although a lot has changed and I'm in a really good place in my life, there's always been - and always will be - a big void. He didn't see me go to prom, graduate high school or college, or get married and have babies. He won't meet his grandchildren. He won't know his son-in-law who, by my estimation, is a lot like my dad.

But I think if I keep writing about him and talking about him that his memory will never die and my kids will know him through me. I'm sure my dad had his flaws, everyone does. And it's not that I don't want to remember his flaws - it's that I choose not to. So what Anne Sexton said is absolutely true: It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.

Raising the Bar on the Freak Scale

Okee-dokles, all of you who replied so positively to my freakshow post that I'm a bit less timid about sharing the other half of my ghostly experiences. I must warn you though: if my previous post didn't leave you a bit leery of my mental stability, this one just might!

So here it is...*ahem*...I've conversed with the deceased in my dreams. Five times to be exact. Three times it was family, twice it was friends who've passed. Given that today and tomorrow mark anniversaries of painful and trying moments in my family's life, I'll share two of my experiences.**

The first time I ever spoke with someone who passed, it was my dad. I don't remember how old I was, but I think it was in my early 20s. I dreamt I was driving down Townline Road with him in his old black truck, a 1979 Ford F150. It was originally maroon but in true redneck fashion he, my uncle and my grandpap painted it black with black tractor paint. Yeah. Mom and I christened it the Black Beauty at that point. What else could you call it without hurting the guy's feelings? He was damn proud of that truck. We lived in a small town, he worked blue collar jobs, but it was a farm truck if ever I saw one. The seats were shot: springs were poking through, the stuffing was falling out, there was a perpetual layer of grime on it. He bought a seat cover but it, too, tore where the springs were. The floor was always covered in dirt road dust. It was dirty, but it was his and far be it from us to make fun of it.

I digress. We were driving down the road and in between us was our dog, Buffy. Buffy, a white terrier-poodle mix, passed away when I was 10. I asked him what it was like, you know, being dead. He told me he was happy, that he had Boo (Buffy) with him, and that he saw Grandma and Grandpap too. Then I woke up. I woke up with a certainty that I had, in fact, spoken to my dad.

I've heard and read that the dead do visit us in our dreams because it's one medium our brains can't control. As children, our minds have no barriers - barriers that are built as time wears on, society tells us that ghosts don't exist, you can't see or communicate with people after they die. I don't believe that's true. I believe that if you keep your mind and eyes and hearts open that they'll come to you in any way they can. In my case, it happens to be in my sleep. Occasionally, I'll see an unexplainable flash of light or something move just outside my peripheral vision and when I look there's nothing there. I know that's probably my dad or Aunt Joann. Aunt Joann whole-heartedly believed in angels and given the life she lead, and the big ol' heart and spirit she had, she's most definitely earned her wings.

The other dream I had, I was at a picnic at some random park. I had both of my kids with me, as well as my husband. Off in the distance, I saw my grandma. I walked up to her and saw that she was crying. Someone asked her why she was crying, and as if I wasn't there, she said, "I'm never going to see my great-grandchildren grow up, I'll never get to meet them."

This hit home not only because I'd just had my second child, but three of my cousins had recently had kids too. She'd met her first few great-grandchildren, the ones who live up in New York. But us younger kids, we all had our kids 4+ years after grandma passed away. There are a lot of little pieces of her family running around that she never got to meet and although I knew that was a possibility growing up, I'd never thought about it until I had Beth.

So please don't think me a freakshow! I don't tell many people this side of my life because, quite honestly, it's weird and as if I don't have enough self-esteem issues, I don't need another reason to think people don't like me. Hell, it freaks me out when it happens!

Anybody want to bear their weirdness now? Please?

**If you're family and want to hear the other experiences, email me and I'd be glad to share them!

The Last Lecture

If you watched the special on 20/20, you'll understand why this is such a loss. This man's courage, charisma, and optimism was unbelievable and we should all strive to live every day the way this man lived his last months. Please stay and watch the YouTube video I've posted, it's Randy Pausch giving "The Last Lecture." You won't regret it.

The obituary
The Last Lecture Website

George. Or...I Can't Find Anything Else to Blog About.

Since it's all anyone can talk about, I suppose I should say something about George Carlin.

A lot of people, and by "a lot," I mean millions of people, found George Carlin to be a comedic genius. I'm not sure I hold him in the same esteem. I mean, he had funny moments, and certainly a few funny lists, but I don't rank him anywhere near the top.

First of all, he was profane. I'm all for profanity, I use it frequently. Too frequently, perhaps! But when "fuck" is mentioned, in some derivation, four times in one sentence, that's overkill.

Second, he pledged no allegiance to anything: not to a god, not to our country, nothing. I couldn't care less about his lack of religion/spiritualism; hell, I applaud it. But no allegiance to our country? As a red-blooded American who's proud as all get out of being an American, I can't wrap my head around that concept.

Mexicans are proud of Mexico (so much so, in fact, that they'll fly their Mexican flags while they're [maybe] citizens of American living on our American streets), Canadians love Canada, Greeks love Greece...how does an American-born man, granted all these great freedoms, a man who is known for pushing the envelope of the coveted freedom of speech, not love America?

I don't know. I'm sad he died, of course, I'm sad when almost anyone dies. I'm just not as sad now as I was, say, when John Ritter, or Jack Lemmon, or Johnny Carson died. They were funny.

Got a lot on my mind lately

Some of my rambling thoughts...

1. Just read The Redneck Mommy's most recent post and it brought a lot of bittersweet feelings to the surface about the people I've lost in my life, especially my dad and my aunt. A lot of the sensory memories fade as time wears on...how it felt to hug them, hearing their voice, etc....and all you have left are pictures. Or rather, you do still have pictures, and your memories. I want to feel a hug from my dad again, or hear my aunt defend herself when incriminating stories of her naiveté are brought up at family gatherings. It pisses me off that I can't.

2. I'm learning that I may not be the best judge of character, at least not at first. Does this mean that I'm potentially wrong sometimes? Oy.

3. Why did I have to wait three extra weeks and spend $30 just to find out that my daughter had a sinus infection, which I've known all along and told the pediatrician three weeks ago? Damn HMO.