23 September 2014

September Days All Roll Together

Hiya Dad,

            Well these days in September so far have all rolled together, a mish-mash of flooring and work at Tower Court, of getting ready for the garage sale there last Saturday (Mom made over $300 and Charlotte made about $50 from her toys, bike, and rice krispies/drinks treat table).  Today is the first day of Fall, it is Cris' birthday, and it is three months since you passed away.  We're to go tonight to dinner with Aly, and then a concert at Logan Street Sanctuary.  I've been okay there, you know ~ "my" sanctuary for music and peace, but those first few concerts after you died were really tough ~ especially that first one, when the band played "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" ~ god how I cried into Cris' chest. I'm getting better there, no more tears there so far.  Tonight, I expect something will make me cry.  I'm prepared, I guess, to ride the rollercoaster that is today.

            I wish you were here, Dad, so I could drive you down 9th Street to see my banner hanging on the corner of 9th and Conner, right by the Copper Still; I still can't quite believe it was selected to part of the Banner Art Gallery downtown.  They chose "When Roses Bloom", Dad, and it looks so bright and colorful, so happy. 

             I wish you were here so that I could tell you all about my Reclaimed River Salvage Sculpture project ~ how you would love the fact that I was chosen by Nickel Plate Arts to be one of three commissioned artists tasked with creating art from "river salvage" ~ trash pulled from the river during this year's White River Clean Up day.  How you would love the fact that the other two artists are well-known metal sculptors and I am not ~ you would love that they chose me to be the "odd" artist!  I wish you were here so that I could tell you about the day I went to "pick out" my trashy salvage pieces ~ it was amazing to see all the crap people have thrown into the river.  It was exciting to try to find things that I can "use" in my piece, but it was also sad, because all that crap should not be in a river! I wish you were here so that I could show you my "work in progress" ~ so far, my "salvage" pieces are cleaned and painted ~ my construction phase begins tomorrow.

            Dad, remember when I wrote my "goodbye" to Johnny Cash when he died, and remember how I ended up with handwritten notes from his four daughters?  Well, there's an addition to that story, and I am just going to out the whole thing in here for you to read at your leisure ~ hey, share it with Johnny Cash, I know you see him all the time now, so let him know about all of this, okay? I'll write you again after Friday, when I'm see Rosanne Cash in concert!

Love,

Alys

Saying Goodbye to Johnny Cash            

12 September 2003

Today, Johnny Cash crossed Jordan; I am sure June was waiting with outstretched arms to greet him.  In my mind’s eye, I see them walking together, pain-free and eternally at peace, in a sunny meadow with flowers swaying in a soft breeze and butterflies flittering around them.  Johnny hums.

I know that Johnny Cash is now blessed to be out of pain and back with June.  Yet I am so bereft that he is no longer in this world – is it crazy to feel so lonesome for someone that I never even knew? Maybe.  Still, I have loved him forever.

I was born in 1963 – I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t listening to Johnny Cash.  He was always there.  I have had a lung disease all my life, and it went undiagnosed for many years when I was little.  There wasn’t much Doctors could do – shots of penicillin and daily antibiotics waged war with weekly bouts of pneumonia.  For many years my health was worse than precarious, and everyone believed I would die.  I don’t remember much about those years.  I have two younger brothers – I don’t really remember when they were born – they just seemed to be around after a while.  I remember being sick, I remember Doctors, and I remember Johnny Cash.  

My parents had the Folsom Prison and San Quentin albums, and once they realized that he was my favorite, they bought many of his other albums for me.  I loved the albums Ring of Fire, Blue Train – so many favorites. My dad ran speakers back to my bedroom, where I was confined by illness for weeks at a time, and we had a record player that you could stack records on – 5 or 6 at a time.  My mom was a wonder at knowing exactly when to turn the stack over.  She knew I was listening.

When Johnny Cash sang The Big Battle, it was as if he was singing for me.  I knew it was a story-song about the Civil War, but it was also about the universal sadness and pain and death and sorrow that war brings, and I had my own war with my disease and lived with thoughts about those dark things every second.  The song was also about everlasting perseverance – “I’m dropping the gun and the saber, and ready for battle am I!”  I would think, “if that boy can keep going, so can I.”

I have had a life-long love for Ireland because of Johnny Cash.  When Johnny Cash sang about the Forty Shades of Green, I felt peaceful and comforted; I could visualize the places in Ireland that he described and they became my vision of Heaven.  His voice sounded both melancholic and joyful; poignant memories of a far away land seemed so real in his voice.  Sure, it was “just a song,” but to me, he was singing about Heaven.  Johnny Cash could inspire and evoke more emotion than any other singer I have ever heard.

I walk the Line and The Ring of Fire have always been my favorites.  The world loves these songs; everyone understands them.  I Walk the Line taught me about the integrity two people take on when they commit to each other for life.  The Ring of Fire is simply the best love song ever.  “I fell for you like a child” says it all for me.  Children love so deeply and so instantly.  As a child, listening to that powerful voice sing of those powerful emotions, I yearned to feel that way some day.  I wanted to live, to grow up, and find my own Ring of Fire.  (I did – he took me to see Johnny Cash – a lifelong dream – October 18th 1995 at the Vogue in Indianapolis.  We stood in the first row, and I cried a lot, and at the end, as he shook hands from the stage, Johnny Cash took my hand and held it and smiled at me.)  Ring of Fire was the first song my daughter ever sang – I will never forget her little voice coming from the back seat of the car, singing along to an old tape I had made from my records.  She wasn’t even two years old.  My son Johnny’s favorite song is Blue Train.  Johnny Cash will be ever-special to my own children – they will carry on my love for him.

So many Johnny Cash memories for me – I could write an essay about every song he sang and what each meant to me.  Every song really did mean something special to me.  His voice alone – its strength – seemed to empower me sometimes.  I am forty years old this year – an age many experts believed I would never reach.  I have two wonderful children – many experts believed I never could have children.  I look back deep into my life and I see Johnny Cash was always there, always a part of my life.  I took his records with me when I went off to college; I have them still.  When I married my own Darling Companion, I heard the Ring of Fire in my head as I walked to meet him at the altar.  My old home-made tapes are stacked on a shelf; their CD versions are in my car at all times.  For me, Johnny Cash is everywhere.

As I try to understand that my Johnny Cash is gone from this world, I keep thinking about my most consistent and REAL memories from my early years, from about 5 to 10 years old, when I was so very sick and had high fevers and hallucinations.  Many "scenes" in my mind from childhood are fuzzy-edged and some are merely photographs from my parents' albums.  I see the photographs and think -- "Oh my god THAT'S my memory -- it isn't a memory really but it is just a photo that I have seen all my life and I think it is a memory!"  Then I realize that my real memories are few and far between.  The most dominant real memories I have are of lying in bed, sick, with fevers that caused me to feel like the bed was swaying and monster-faces were zooming at me.  My mom would put on a stack of Johnny Cash records (which I knew by heart) and I would try so hard to focus on the ballads -- the words, the stories.  I would try to "see" the stories instead of the monster-faces.  I would close my eyes and listen to his voice and just focus on that wonderful sound -- so rich and emotional.  People say that he often sang of somewhat dark things ("dark as a dungeon, damp as the dew, danger is doubled, pleasures are few, where the rain never falls, the sun never shines, it's dark as the dungeon way down in the mine . . .") and I always believed he knew how awful I sometimes felt, with the darkness and pain that was my prison.  That darkness included an overwhelming fear of dying in my sleep.

There were many times that I felt like I was slipping away -- not in a conscious "oh I am dying now" kind of way, but just a knowing that I was simply fading out.  Fevers, exhaustion, the pain of every breath -- it was so hard and I was so little!  I remember many many times as a song would end -- the pauses in the records between songs seemed SO LONG to me -- and I would feel like I was just slipping away and I remember thinking "The Long Black Veil is next" or "Give My Love To Rose is coming" or "now it is Remember the Alamo" and I would think "oh I want to hear THAT one."  And I would hang on.  I would just hang on for the next song.  I loved his voice so much.  I was just a little kid – it wasn't until years and years later that I realized that I truly credit Johnny Cash with keeping me alive many times when it just would have been so much easier to let go.

So the world mourns a legend, his children mourn their father, his friends and colleagues mourn a great talent that they all respected -- and I mourn because of what he meant to me when I was little and sick and alone and scared in my bed. He was my comfort.  I hope he heard his beloved mother calling to him -- "come on home now, son, it's suppertime."  As hard as it is so say goodbye, I am glad that for Johnny Cash, there is Peace in the Valley.  And I know that, just like he promised me all those years ago, there will be peace in the valley for me, someday.

  

~ Alys Caviness-Gober

12 September 2003

Addendum  16 September 2014 

             Eleven years have passed.  Right after I wrote that "Goodbye",  I posted it on a Johnny Cash forum  website, where the world was mourning his passing.  I did not realize at the time that Bill Miller was running the website, nor did I realize that Kathy Cash frequently communicated with fans there.  Bill read it and shared it with Kathy, who shared it with her sisters Rosanne, Cindy, and Tara.  Kathy wrote to me on the website, thanking me for sharing my thoughts about her father.  Can you imagine that?  What a kindness on her part, to be so gracious.  I felt compelled to send her and her sisters each one of my "Forty Shades of Green" necklaces ~ simple strung necklaces made with polished emerald chips, cultured pearls, and Swarovski crystals.  Tara Cash is an incredible jewelry designer, so my necklaces seemed almost silly to send.  To my amazement, each one of the Cash daughters sent me a handwritten and heartfelt "thank you" note, and Kathy wore her necklace during an interview on the Larry King Show.  When Rosanne's thank you note arrived, I was absolutely dumbfounded ~ I have been a fan of hers since her first album came out; "Seven Year Ache" stands the test of time,  "September When It Comes" broke my heart, and "The River And The Thread" album is perfection.  Anyway, after I received her note, in a moment of true intrusion into her life, I felt compelled to send her the "lyrics" to a song I wrote "for" her ~ ridiculous of me; she is an incredible songwriter and I can't write music, I know nothing about music (yet I hear songs in my head and I write lyrics/poetry for them).  I probably should not have crossed that line ~ the one that marks a "crazy fan" ~ but, I sent the lyrics. (She was kind enough to not just mark it "return to sender".)  Honestly, the grace of those incredible women, as they grieved the loss of their father, was overwhelming to me ~ to have shared their father so publicly their whole lives, then to share his loss so publicly, and yet behave so graciously and compassionately to someone like me, is astonishing.  These women, who have carved out their own destinies in the shadow of their famous father ~ how I admire them.       

                Time passed.  Shortly after The Johnny Cash Museum opened in Nashville, my family stopped there on the way home from a rare family vacation, a trip to New Orleans to celebrate several "big" family events: my 50 birthday, my daughter's graduation from college, my son's 20 birthday ~ all rolled into one family extravaganza.  My husband and I had gone to New Orleans twice before ~ as always, my husband gives me the world: "Big River" came alive for me ~ as a child, listening to that song, I never thought I would ever see the Mississippi or New Orleans, but my husband took me there.  En route, we stopped in Jackson ~ yes, the "we got married in a fever" Jackson!  As a child suffering fevers, I had not understood that song ~ I thought they were crazy to get married when they had fevers, because fevers were awful: they made me dizzy and nauseous, with uncontrollable tremors.  Obviously, as a kid I did not yet understand the kind of fever the song references.  Anyway, our family trip to New Orleans allowed us to revisit some of our favorite southern haunts with our kids, and add The Johnny Cash Museum to our list of "must stop" places. On a beautiful sunny day, my husband bought me the one souvenir I truly wanted: Tara Cash's "Cry Cry Cry" pendant.  I wear it every day. 

                Time passed.  Three months ago, on 17 June 2014, my father suffered a massive stroke.  On June 20th, my sweet mother and I spent my 51st birthday at his hospital bedside.  On June 23rd, after a week on life support, my father left this world.  I can't talk too much about his passing.  It hurts too much, and it is my grief ~ possessively, I mean. "Mine".  Each of us ~  my mother,  my siblings,  my children,  my nieces and nephews ~ possess our own personal grief.  Mine is inextricably mixed up with music ~ as always, the soundtrack of my life includes Johnny Cash.  I have over 400 "favorite" songs on a USB drive,  to which I listen in my car ~ these days, when "I Still Miss Someone" and "Suppertime" come on, I have to pull over; I can't NOT cry.  When Rosanne Cash's "September When It Comes" plays, I can't even move ~ the duet with her father continues to break my heart.  Again, I think of the grace of the Cash girls, remembering how kind they were to ME after they lost their father.  I do not have to publicly share the loss of my father with anyone; I cannot imagine the pain they endure having to share their loss and their grief with Johnny Cash's adoring public.  To this day, I feel badly that I "invaded" their grief by sharing my personal "Goodbye" ~ yet, I have to trust that they truly understand and appreciate what their father's music means to me. 

                Not long ago, I found out Rosanne Cash's "The River And The Thread" tour includes a concert at Clowes Hall in Indianapolis, and I bought tickets.  My best friend Lorraine, my husband Cris, my daughter Aly and her boyfriend Evan, and I will see Rosanne Cash perform!  My son Johnny isn't going with us, because a month ago, he left for Germany, for his senior year of college, attending Westfälische Wilhelms-Universität Münster.  The recent "loss" of my son ~ although temporary ~ has mixed in with the recent loss of my father.  It has been a tough year. 

               Yesterday, I found out that my friend Lorraine has been working some magic behind my back ~ she emailed somebody who contacted somebody who made some arrangements, and the upshot is that I will be taken backstage after the concert and I will meet Rosanne Cash.  I will MEET Rosanne Cash.  Unbelievable.  My friend is worried that I might be disappointed if Rosanne does not "remember" all of this "history", all of "my Johnny Cash story," the necklaces, the thank you notes, everything.  I told her, no I will not be disappointed.  I know who Rosanne Cash is in my life; I do not need her to remember me.  I hope I can meet her with some measure of grace and poise; I hope to be able to say thank you.  I hope to be able to find the words to thank her for sharing both her music and her father with me.  His music is a gift that has lifted me, carried me, sustained me throughout my lifetime, and her music continues that Cash tradition in my life.  The gift of Johnny Cash is one over which she and her sisters had no control, yet they have  given it with utter selflessness and beauty.  I hope I can find the words to thank her. 

A Day In August ~ Charlotte and The Acorns

Hiya Dad,

            Here is just a little story I've meant to share with you for a while now; I'm sorry I do not remember the exact day it happened.  On one of the last days Johnny was home, Phil brought Charlotte up for a day visit to go to the pool. We walked over; Phil and Johnny charging ahead of us, Charlotte and I meandering more slowly behind them.  I was looking ahead at my son walking with my brother, trying so hard not to be sad about Johnny leaving soon.  As we were walking, Charlotte saw some acorns scattered about ~ she picked one up and said, "We saw these when we went with Grandpa."  I was amazed that she recalled such a thing from the day we took your ashes to Ft. Harrison.  I said, "yes, we sure did, I saved a couple that were under Grandpa's tree."  She nodded, and rolled the acorn around in her little fingers, inspecting every side of it. Then, quite abruptly, she tossed it into the street, saying, "This one isn't Grandpa's."  I love that she would only treasure an acorn that was "yours," Dad, and I love that she said we "went with" you. 

Love,

Alys

24 August 2014

Johnny

Hiya Dad,

             Today Johnny left for his year at the University in Muenster, Germany.  I honestly do not know how to describe to you how I feel today, how I have felt leading up to this day.  The past few weeks have been a blur of preparation, last minute obstacles to overcome (I think we did overcome all of them), and trying very hard to only show Johnny my love, my pride, my sincere happiness for his great adventure.  I cry when I am alone, though, almost constantly.  I told Aly that she simply cannot "leave" for a year; I just cannot take it if she is also too far away for me to hug every once in a while . . .

              I am so glad Cris is going for a week to help Johnny get settled and make sure he is going to be okay; I know Johnny could do it all by himself, but is a comfort to me that Cris is going. That being said, my grief and my sense of loss is overwhelming ~ I know it is in part because we just lost you two months ago and all of that loss and grief is rolled into my feelings about "losing" Johnny for a year.  I miss him so much, Dad. It is hard to see the Jeep in the driveway and know that Johnny's not here. I need to go finish organizing his bedroom but I just cannot go in there yet.  It just breaks me apart inside. I want so much to hear him bounding down the stairs . . . Dad, I miss him so much.  I miss you so much.  It is hard to go see Mom and not see you in the little window or walk in to find you in one of your chairs.  I can hardly bear it, so how must she feel, there in that house where you "are" everywhere she looks?  I can't wait to get her out of there and into Tower Court.  We will work fast; all the work and stuff that needs to be done to move Mom is about the only thing I can hold onto right now; it is the only thing that is keeping me from a complete meltdown after I saw Johnny and Cris walk down that corridor. 

             Dad, how am I to get through this year?  What am I to do on your birthday?  On Halloween? Christmas?  How do I hang up Johnny's stocking? Johnny's birthday is in April and he will be in Germany ~ how do I do that day?  All of these days, without you, without Johnny. How do I do it?  My birthday will roll around in June, and then three days later, your death anniversary.

             

             I am right now not sure I can do any of it, I am right now unable to imagine those days, and all the days in between them.

Love,

Alys

23 August 2014

Hiya Dad,

            A short note today, I just really cannot write much.  Today is Jim's 45th birthday, and it is also two months since you died.  Dad, can you tell me: does this get any easier?  Will days of celebration be forever tinged with grief?

Love,

Alys

21 August 2014

Aly's Birthday Dinner

Hiya Dad,

            Our busy grown up Aly-Paly turned 24 today; seems like just yesterday she was that little golden-curled toddler following you around everywhere, out in the woods behind your big house ~ remember the tree house you built for her there?  The platform is still there . . .

            We all went to dinner at a Mexican restaurant of Aly's choice ~ Aly, Evan, Cris, Johnny, Lorraine, me, AND MOM!  

(Cris, Aly, Mom, Johnny)

Yes, Dad, it is true ~ Mom went with us ~ her first time in a restaurant in, what, 15 years or so??  She ate everything on her plate (vegetarian special).  It was a bittersweet dinner for us: so very happy to celebrate Aly, but sad you were not there, and sad Johnny leaves in three days.  Mom gave Johnny your Hamburg derby, Dad. It looks great on him . . .

Love,
Alys

30 July 2014

Baby Olive

Hiya Dad,

            Baby Olive was born 28 July; today I took Mom to meet her, per Charlie's instructions, to the St. Vincent's Women's Hospital ~ the same hospital in which Aly and Johnny were born, the same hospital to which I drove you and Mom when Wee Charlie was born just three months after your first stroke ~ do you remember that day, Dad?  Such joy and such disappointment all in one; I should've remembered that Charlie can let us down faster than spit, I should've remembered that fact.  Dad, it was hard to go pick up Mom and not you, it was hard to drive the route that I drove everyday to your bedside in St. Vincent's Hospital.  You know that the St. Vincent's Women's Hospital is right by St. Vincent's Hospital, so I had to drive Mom (and myself) right past the place we had our weeklong vigil with you, right past where we had my sad birthday with you, right past the place where you took your last hard breath.  A hard drive, even with the happy prospect of greeting a new little life at the end of it.  Why did I think Charlie might realize how hard that drive was, and how much the happy Baby Olive part of the day meant to Mom and me?

            Dad, I cannot even tell you how wonderful it was to hold Olive, she is so sweet. I wore one of your old soft striped shirts so that your arms could hold her, too.

            Jamine was to come that day too, per Charlie; we did not know she had come the night before and had already met her granddaughter.  When Mom and I arrived at the hospital that morning at about 9:30, we were told we need the "passkey" code to go enter the hospital and visit a room.. "No one gave us a passkey, we said; we did not even know the room number.  Dad, I should've known right then that we should leave; I knew something was wrong, but I didn't listen to myself ~ I was so focused on seeing the baby. I was so focused on having one truly bright and happy "thing" for Mom (and for me) ~ I was just thinking about seeing the baby and nothing else. Shame on me.  Anyway, I texted Erica and asked for the passkey.  She answered, but she sent no greeting: just the numbers (I should've known then Dad, really).  Happily, we went up the elevator and found the room ~ and there was Charlie, too, so we were so happy to meet Olive, our beloved Charlie's new baby, with him there.  

            Charlie and Erica seemed glad we were there. Charlie left after a few minutes, said he'd been about to leave when we got there. Mom and I stayed with Erica about 45 minutes, then we went down to the cafeteria to wait for Jamine and to eat something (I was starving!).  Jamine arrived about an hour later, and we got some food for her and talked a while ~ she told us she had seen Olive the day before. Anyway, right after Jamine arrived, Charlie called me, saying we were staying too long, but I told him his mom had just arrived and we hadn't been in the room very much at all. He said okay, and I thought that was the end of that: just Charlie jumping to conclusions as always (as if we had been in the room for hours and hours), just Charlie being Charlie and criticizing things that did not need criticizing.  Anyway, we all went up to see the baby ~ we were in the room that time less than an hour.  Then back down to the cafeteria, to eat more and just visit.  Another hour or so later, back up we went, the final visit in the room ~ about another hour, shared with a friend of Erica's. All in all, we visited with Erica and Baby Olive for not even three hours total.  When Mom and I left, Jamine stayed behind (you know she likes to stay late late late, Dad, usually into the wee small hours of the night ~ she seems to always think people who have "normal" days/lives do not mind her nocturnal visits!).

            So, Mom and I had a wonderful though poignant day ~ wonderful to see Olive, hard to see her without you.  You and I, Dad, always so crazy for babies.  Hard to not have you there. Hard to be so close to where you died.  Hard to drive home that same route.

            I won't go into all the ugly details of the hours and days that followed: suffice to say later that day, I received an ugly text message from Charlie, and Mom got the more personal version: he yelled at her in her driveway.  Apparently, even though we were TOLD to "go Wednesday," we were not at all welcome.  Apparently, they gave the passkey to only those they wanted in the room (the two grandmothers). Apparently, it was our fault for going when we were told to go, and asking for a passkey we did not know they did not want us to have ~ we were, in short, set up to "make them mad" or whatever.  I told Mom: now we know; they got what they wanted (as you probly know, your wish to "keep the house forever" is sort of coming true: I refer to the lease-to-own contract for your huge house that Charlie, Erica, and Mom signed two days before Olive was born ~ even that was handled in a quite ugly and offensive manner by Erica and Charlie.  Phil wrote the contract ~ despite his misgivings, which I am sure you can imagine ~ yet Charlie and Erica insisted on having another lawyer review it before they'd sign it.  Guess who the other lawyer is, Dad?  The same lawyer who represented Danny when Charlie went to court after his dad beat him up in public ~ Danny's lawyer.  Honestly, sometimes I wonder if Charlie has any sense at all, but Phil says Charlie just does not remember that was Danny's lawyer back then.  Phil went with Mom to that guy's office when they signed the contract, thank god ~ I don't think she could've walked into that guy's office alone.).  Days of hateful emails to both Mom and me from Charlie, full of accusations and vitriol about how he "has to protect Erica" ~ from us???  From "Aunt Alys" and from "Baba" ~ really??? Okay, fine, whatever. Suffice to say, Dad, that forever my feelings for Charlie are changed, forever.  I love him, I love his children: I do not care if I never see them again; I can love them from afar.  I told Mom, "I'm done."

            I haven't seen Olive since that day in the hospital.  Mom has seen her a couple of times; Charlie is trying to at least keep some sense of family with his Baba, but things are different now.  Well, what is different is that Mom is not so blind towards the real Charlie anymore.  She'll keep the peace, she'll of course continue to believe in his goodness and his love, but there is at least a little crack in those rose-colored glasses that she wears.  A kinda sad but necessary thing, I guess. As for me, I have too much else to think about, to do, to be sad about because I miss my son and I am bereft and sad in general ~ I cannot put any effort into anything about Erica, Charlie, and their children. Dad, it just isn't worth it ~ you told me when Charlie was a baby, "Alys you cannot live your life for him" and you were right. I've seen Charlie several times since Olive was born, I've talked to him on the phone ~ I can do the surface social stuff just fine.  It is what it is, forever. Onward.

Love,

Alys

25 July 2014

Home Inspection

Hiya Dad,

            Today, I was in the crawl space at Tower Court; hard to believe but true ~ it was just like it was 30+ years ago when I was down there with you, fixing some pipe or another.  The Tower Court odyssey is a journey of miracles, obstacles, and moments indescribable.  Mom asked Jim to move Heaven and Earth; you well know, Dad, Jim has to get any mortgage for her.  We found out that the brother (executor of the estate) had already engaged a realtor to get the house ready to sell ~ they claimed they would "get it all fixed up" and list it for $184,000 ~ a completely ridiculous claim on so many levels. The details of the shenanigans involved in real estate and this particular "sale" are unimportant now, but I will say these things (knowing you would agree): the realtor was an ass, the brother was an ass.  We all hoped for an "as is" sale, but of course the realtor being involved sort of made that idea moot ~ still, as the negotiations went on, it became obvious that, no matter what the final price was to be, they were not going to clean a thing, fix a thing, yet they acted like the house was still worth $184,000. They knew Mom wanted the house, they knew she had lived in it before, they knew you had just died, they knew everything, and they quite simply took advantage and inflated the price.  Jim and Phil did some intense negotiations back and forth with the realtor, and at one point, we were all prepared to walk away ~ even Mom said, "this is too much" (the "this" being the realtor/brother's attitudes).  I took her to look at some houses in Old Town; that was rather depressing day. We planned a day in Rushville; property is cheaper there, and Phil wanted her there, near him and Charlotte.  Mom was resigned.  But, we all knew one thing: she had her heart set on Tower Court; she wanted to go home. 

            On 16 July 2014 (the day I took Mom for her first eye shots without your insurance coverage), Jim told me the deal was done ~ the house was hers. I am the one who got to call her ~ I knew she was in her bed recovering, with the phone beside her.  I called, we both cried ~ she kept saying over and over, "Alys are you telling me I get to go home?" and I kept saying, "yes, yes, Jim and Phil did it."  We agreed: we were not wrong about the signs: Jim and Mom driving by it after we took your ashes to the tree, she and I going there the next day and my hand reaching for that door handle and opening that door, us walking through the house, finding out the timing involved in the man's stroke and death and the eviction of the son, just all all all of it ~ signs that it was meant to be: Mom and I, we believe. The next day, I took the earnest money to the realtor's office.

             (I sent the photo below to your friend Bob: he replied, "who is the man with your mother?" It took me a minute to realize that "the man" to whom he referred was Johnny . . .)

            So, yes, today I was in our old crawl space ~ the home inspection was today, and I followed right behind the inspector, photographing everything he saw as relevant to the condition of the house. Well, truth be told, I did not go onto the roof!  But, I was in the attic (and THERE were stored Mom's interior shutters for the master bedroom windows!) and I was in the crawl space ~ the inspector kept turning his head and saying, "I cannot believe you, a lady, are in this crawl space with me."  I just laughed and said, "yes, well, here I am, gotta get the photos of anything that is a problem!"

            Dad, the house is in pretty good shape, but there's a lot that needs to be done ~ most of the stuff that needs to be replaced or fixed will not help Jim negotiate a lower final price, but we will work on everything as best we can ~ a labor of love for our Mom. (You did not leave her much, Dad, you know that, but that's a different letter ~ one I can maybe write to you one day, about how I feel about all of that awfulness, but for now, I am putting all of that aside.)  Anyway, it is not going to be easy to get the house in good enough repair for Mom to move in, but we are going to do it ~ Jim is coming out for a week right after Johnny leaves, so he and Phil and I will get a lot done then. In the meantime, Dad, you should know that your boys were perfection ~ they both did their best for our Mom. You should be so proud of them; I know you are proud of them.

Love,
Alys

29 June 2014

Wee Charlie's Train Ride 3^rd Birthday and Tower Court

Hiya Dad,

            Mom and Jim went back to the tree early this morning before Jim had to get to the airport; he wanted to carve your "signature" exactly like you signed your paintings. Didn't he do it perfectly?

            On the way back home, he and Mom drove by our old house; it was a whim, I guess ~ Mom has never even driven by it, not once in 26 years, even though you guys lived only a quarter a mile away from it.  You know she never wanted to move, that was a crazy thing you did, after we were all grown and moved out. You sold our wonderful house and moved into a bigger house in a pricier neighborhood right up the street ~ honestly, Dad, none of us really understood your need to "show the world."  It was just more cleaning work for Mom. Anyway, Mom and Jim said the old house looked kind of abandoned, and Jim suggested Mom and I go back today after Wee Charlie's party and see if any of the neighbors know what's going on with the house.  Mom has to move; you know full well she can't afford your big house now.  I agreed to take her there after the party; we might as well look into our old house, since she loved it so much.

            I wish we hadn't gone to the birthday party.  Wee Charlie was of course sweet and handsome and perfectly two and half years old ~ I still am not sure how I feel about June birthdays for a 26 December birthday. Erica is so very pregnant; Baby Olive will be here in another month or so. But, Charlie was ~ you know he can be quite sweet, but also he is sometimes so obviously Jamine and Danny's son ~ he was ~ how can I say this?  He did not seem to know or care how hard it was for Mom (and me) to be there, trying to celebrate anything.  He did not spend time with Mom, he did not make sure Wee Charlie spent time with Mom. It was just weird, and hard.  Jamine was mad because we decided not to ride the train back to Fishers; you know the train ride was from Fishers to Noblesville and back to Fishers, but they told us that upon returning to Fishers, we all might be stuck in the parking lot for a while because of the Freedom Festival traffic. Mom and I did not want to chance that happening; so, I drove from our homes in Noblesville to the train station in Fishers and then we rode the train to the Noblesville Square, for the party at Alexander's Ice Cream Parlor. Cris drove our van back to Noblesville to meet us at Alexander's ~ he did not even get to ride the train. I do not know why Jamine was mad: why oh why would we want to ride BACK to Fishers and then drive home to Noblesville if we didn't have to?  The train ride to Noblesville was just too awful, too emotionally hard: Mom, Aly, Johnny, and I all felt too keenly the missing person ~ you, Dad.  I cried as we passed our old backyard at Tower Ct ~ remember, Dad, how much we loved it when the train went by?  It just made me miss you more; I am glad we did not ride the train back.

            Crazy things happen, Dad.  You know I took Mom to the Tower Court house after the party.  It did look abandoned; the grass was long and unkempt, there were vines growing in the gutters.  We talked to the neighbors on both sides (I call them "the new Aumans" and "the new Umingers") and they told us that the man who owned it had died two and half years ago and his young son had been living there, alone, but at age 20 he was not really capable of keeping it up ~ the bank was about to foreclose, the Homeowners' Association had just filed a lien for unpaid dues, the ex-wife was causing problems. The neighbors told us the man had died of a stroke, Dad ~ it turns it was at the same time you had your first stroke two and a half years ago; he was only 56 years old.  The man's brother, who lives in Elkhart, is the executor of the estate; he had to evict his own nephew, the very week you died, Dad.   It is as though that house sat there for two and a half years, waiting ~ waiting for you to pass away, waiting for Mom to be able to come home to it. 

            We looked into the front windows ~ Mom's wooden inside shutters in the living room and dining room are still there, Dad.  From the windows, we could see that there were a few piles of things in the rooms, but clearly, the kid was almost moved out. Mom and I walked around to the back ~ Dad, our beautiful forest is gone, someone cut down ALL the trees.  They put in a three-season screened porch, though. Nice thick wood, beautiful.  Gross outdoor carpet, but the porch itself was nice.  Mom and I went into the porch.  We were peering in the kitchen doors ~ our old sliding glass door was replaced by wide French doors, and suddenly my hand was reaching for the handle.  Dad, as I was reaching, I was thinking to myself, "what the hell are you doing" and as I grasped the door handle, Mom was saying, "Alys what are you doing, that's not going to ~" but she never finished the sentence because THE HANDLE TURNED AND THE DOOR OPENED.  Dad, we were shocked speechless, but we both knew ~ that was YOU making my hand reach for that handle, that was you turning my hand and opening that door.  That was you, saying to Mom, "ok Radka, you win; it is time to come home."

            Dad, you know the rest. We walked through our old house; it was crazy familiar and strangely surreal to see all the sameness and the changes: the color scheme was all bizarre shades of "baby poop" (seriously, every possible horrible shade of baby poop you can imagine) and your walnut paneling was covered by regular drywall, and my old room was painted blood red.  It was crazy. But it was still home.  I knew in that moment that if there was any way to get that house for Mom, we would all die trying.
Love,
Alys

28 June 2014

The Tree at Fort Harrison

Hiya Dad,

            Losing you is beyond words, but I will try.  The entire week was surreal; the roller coaster that is life support and doctors and wishing and praying and accepting cannot be described.  Being there for Mom, being the one who has been here for you both, made all of it both harder and easier.  Harder because I am the one "child" who lives here, I knew I would see and feel you everywhere in my daily life, and I am the one who has been and will be with Mom the most.  Easier because I knew how you felt about your last few years, and I was with you when Mom called 911 for the ambulance.  Dad, I know.  I know you did not want the ambulance.  Even then you could not speak, but you gave me that look, that "don't you dare" look, and I said, "But Dad she's not ready."  And your look changed; you knew.  You knew you had to go to the hospital, not because there was any chance for you, but for Mom, because she was not ready to lose you.  You knew you had to go for Jim, for Phil, for Jamine ~ for all of them to have time to come, to say goodbye.  I held your hands, and you kept squeezing my hands as we looked steadily into each other's eyes for those final endless seconds, really only a few minutes ~ steady so steady, and I just kept telling you, "I love you so much Dad, Aly loves you, Johnny loves you, Mom and I will be with you every step of the way, it's ok, it's ok, I love you."  I just kept saying that over and over, and your eye was fixed upon me, so clear, so firm, with so much love and total understanding.  Then, very suddenly, you were just gone.  I knew you were gone, I knew your body was mechanically continuing, but I knew the stroke's damage was too much.  I could not tell Mom, when she came into the room, saying, "they're on their way, they're coming."  I just said ok.  I knew that you and I had just made a pact: you would endure all the indignities and Hell of however long it took on life support; I would endure helplessly watching you go through whatever was to come, and I would endure helplessly watching Mom come to accept and let you  go.  Dad, you and I held up our ends of that pact.  We did it.

            Jim flew out immediately; he had to leave and return ~ he had already committed to attending a medical conference in St Louis.  Poor Jim, being in the Navy, he has had very little time with you since he graduated from High School and went to the Naval Academy.  It was so clear he was not ready to lose you; it was so clear and so hard to watch.  When he left for the conference (he drove there and back, he was only gone two days), I thought he might become more ready, but when he returned Saturday, he was still trying to be so hopeful.  I think in so many ways, out of us four, it was hardest for him ~ as a doctor, he knew the prognosis; as a son, he could not accept.

            Phil came, every day.  You know Phil, he does not say much, but he knew, Dad, he knew that first day.  He is smart enough and strong enough to just let it all unfold as it had to, the roller coaster of Mom and Jim and Jamine and doctors hedging and hemming and hawing and all of it.  Having him there, silent in the corner, helped me more than I can say.  Gilda came with him that last day; I told Cris not to come that day, because I knew I would need him to be there for Aly and Johnny.  Cris sent me a text that said, "You are the strongest person I know.  I love you."  That message sustained me; he was there with me, helping me stay strong for you and for Mom.

            Yes, Jamine came, too, Dad, I know you knew she was there ~ I hope that pleased you; she has been so absent and so hateful for so many years.  I hope you were glad in the end that she was there. I tried to not fight with her, Dad, I really did, and I am so sorry that there were times when I failed in my efforts.  My own feelings got in the way, and I am sorry; I have no excuse except I was just near breaking at every second, and she knows how to push my buttons.  The important thing is that she was there, and you knew she was there.

            Last Monday, 23 June, everything changed.  I know that sounds melodramatic, but death changes everything, it just does.  There were definitely times I felt like I could not make it one more second.  Of course, we all endured.  Phil, Mom, and I endured the horribly creepy conversation with the "caring" people at St. Vincent's ~ the Palliative Care Team ~ honestly, you REALLY would've hated that, the nightmare of strangers asking Mom to "tell us a little bit about your husband; we like to get to know who we are helping."  Really??  Their job is to unplug machines and administer drugs to ease pain and passing.  What did they need to know about the man you were, in order to DO THEIR JOB?   Someday, I'll let that experience go, but it really was hard to sit there while my always-polite grief-stricken mother tried to cooperate and answer their questions.  I just wanted to scream: "You creepy unctuous jerks, you don't care and you don't need to KNOW.  Just tell us what the actual process is like, so we know what to expect and how to help Mom through it!"  But, I held my tongue, and eventually they did get to the descriptive part of their spiel.  They made it sound easy; it was anything but.

            Dad, you had the strongest heart.  All those years of riding my bike behind you as you ran your twenty-five mile weekend runs prepared me for the hard truth of that last day ~ I knew your heart would go on pumping, if you could breathe on your own.  The physical mechanisms in your poor body would go on for a while, god your heart was so strong.  I knew you would breathe hard like you used to when you ran, I knew it would be gruesome for Mom, I knew it would break us all.  We all knew what to expect; knowing what to expect does not always help.

            I know you know everything that happened that day; I know you know everything that happened that whole week, because you made sure we knew.  Waiting for the hospital staff to take you off of life support was its own Hell ~ it took them a few hours, god knows why.  In that time, somehow, you rallied enough to look at me and nod and let me know that you knew that Aly and Johnny had been there to say goodbye on Wednesday.  In that time, you rallied three times for Jim to answer his heartbroken question.  Three times, he asked. "Dad, it's Jimmy. I have to know. Do you want to stop fighting? Do you want this to be over?" and three times you answered, firmly nodding your head affirmatively, steadily looking into his eyes.  The first time, he completely broke down,  "ok Dad but that's not the answer I wanted."  You need to know, Dad, that Jim was perfection.  He is strong and wonderful and stubborn and he did what he HAD to do: he asked you his question two more times in the next hour and a half.  You rallied each time, you gave him the thrice-confirmation he needed, even though you knew it broke him a little each time you nodded.  You gave us all firm and clear instruction: to let you  go.  Forever, I am grateful for that incredible effort, forever I am so proud of you for giving that gift to Mom and Jim, to all of us.

            Dad, you ran that last race so hard, your final endurance run took almost three full hours.  I can't really talk about it too much; the first hour and a half was so hard, hearing your breathing, knowing you were leaving us.  Jim and I were on each side of the bed holding your hands when you truly went away and all that was left was your heart pumping, your body shutting down.  Jim looked at me and said, "I think he's gone." and started crying.  Dad, your strong heart went on for over an hour.  Mom was alone with you at the end, it was just the two of you, as it had to be.  You need to know, Dad, that Mom was perfection ~ she was brave, she was strong; all day, she told you over and over, "You go on ahead, Jim my darling, you wait for me in the cafeteria and this time, I'll find you."  She never faltered, Dad, not once.

            Of course, afterwards, we were in a "system."  Phil and I realized that neither of us, the two who were probably the most prepared for the longest time for your eventual death, neither of us had thought to "make preparations."  So while I was in the hallway calling Cris to ask him to tell Aly and Johnny (two phone calls I just could not make), poor Phil was in the hallway with me, on his phone calling mortuaries to arrange for someone to come get you, to arrange your cremation.  You need to know, Dad, that Phil was perfection; he did every hard thing with the most incredible grace and steadiness; he was simply Phil, totally and completely; he is so brave and amazingly tough and incredibly sweet. He chose a crematorium in Speedway, he went there the next day to finalize everything.  I told him I had to be the one to pick you up ~ I was your chauffeur, and I needed to bring you home.  He did not want me to do it because he said the place was depressing, but I insisted; it was always my job and I wanted to do it one last time.            

            Crazy things happen, Dad.  When I went to Speedway to get you Friday morning, the State had not yet sent back the death certificate, so they asked me if I could come back later in the afternoon.  They were so nice, Dad, really; you would not have minded them at all.  Of course, I said yes, so my day was in part driving back and forth to Speedway.  As it turned out, Johnny accompanied me that afternoon; I was not sure he should endure such an experience, but he insisted.  When we got there, they had to tell us that the death certificate was still not back, but they had sent a courier for it.  They offered us coffee, soft drinks, we declined.  One nice man told us there was a "Mug N Bun" just up the road ~ famous for something or other, and so Johnny and I decided to go ~ Dad, I'd never heard of the chain, so was completely surprised to find out that it was a 1950s style carhop drive up place. Johnny got a root beer float; of course he did ~ you were there with us, weren't you?  I knew then why he went with me; it was perfection.

            We went back to the crematorium, and all was ready.  The lady asked if I knew how to fold your flag; I had to say I did not.  She said, "no problem, one of our guys is a Veteran too and he folds the flags for families ~ it'll just take a moment." Dad, you should know that never did I expect to feel comforted by the people at a crematorium, but they were a comfort; Phil chose a perfect place to take care of you.  As Johnny and drove you home that last time, we actually felt good, we actually felt happy in a way, so clearly were you still with us.

            Today, Dad, we honored your wishes and took your ashes to that tree at Fort Harrison.  Honestly, none of us want you to be there "forever".  We know, the tree was at the finish line of that race that ended on the golf course ~ the Fort Harrison Family Fun Day race that you won, beating out all the uber-fit soldiers half your age, but really, it seems to us such a crazy place for you to choose. Fort Harrison is now a state park; the golf course is now public ~ how could we leave you there? But, we did.  It was unbearably sad.  Jim held it together as best he could, so hard for me to watch him.  Charlie was all dressed up for you; Jamine and Emmy were there.  Phil and Gilda brought Charlotte; she was so sad and so sweet.  She was so Charlotte, noticing all the acorns scattered about.  None of us had thought ahead; Johnny scooped up a little bit of you and wrapped you in a dollar in his wallet; he was crying, saying you would go to Germany with him that way.  Aly did everything she could to be strong, to comfort me and her Baba, to hold Charlotte's hand and just be with her.  Dad, you should know ~ they were ALL perfection.

            I can't write any more, Dad.  Tomorrow I have to take Mom for Wee Charlie's train ride and Alexander's Ice Cream Parlor birthday party.  I can hardly bear it, because I was planning to take you both, I can hardly bear that you won't be with us.  I will have Cris and Aly and Johnny with me, and we will help Mom.  Because you would want us to go, and it is important to Charlie, we'll get through it. I do not know tonight how we will get through it, but we will.

Love,
Alys