Autum Meanderings...

Another post transferred from MySpace...

October 2, 2007 - Tuesday

Autum meanderings...

I'm not sure what it is about Autum, but that's my thinking season. Even as a child I would ponder life as the leaves shifted from a lush green to rich shades of crimson and gold. I would think of the past and dream of my future. At 30 , I still find myself drifting off with the falling leaves. Each breeze a loved one from my past embracing me and each rain drop a tear I once shed. I don't know why Autum sends me here each year, but it does. It's something I look forward to. It helps put my life into perspective, and refreshes me. I remember who I am and remind myself of who I want to be. It's odd, I don't necessarily mourne, but reflect on the lives of those I've lost.

I used to tell my grandparents that I wanted to be either an artist or a poet when I grew up. I suppose I'm both of these things, but could never make a living by them. I remember bounding across my grandparent's kitchen to stir the chicken soup with my grandpa hot on my heels. We used to have chicken soup, ritz crackers and cheese for lunch over there. Me, Grandma and Grandpa would sit around the card table and play war and Uno all afternoon. Later on we would have a coffee cup of milk and oreo cookies out of the "grandma" cookie jar. My grandmother gave me that cookie jar later in her life. I smile at that little gray haired lady in my kitchen everyday.

On the other side of my kitchen, hanging on the wall, is an article from the Mr. Thrifty. It's about my dad's bakery. There's a picture of him decorating a cake while me, my mom and my brothers watch close by (my sister was off being a cool teenager that day, I'm sure). We used to get up in the middle of the night and go into work with my parents on Saturday mornings. My brother, Jeff, and I would bring our blankets with us and curl up on the big hundred pound sacks of flour and sugar in the back. They were like no other kid's bunk beds. My friends would beg to come to the bakery with me and help bake. We would fill cream sticks, count out rolls for the Triple Crown or Byler's orders. We got to decorate the gingerbread men with little icing buttons, and help guide school tours. This was my childhood. It was like no other child's I know. It was wonderful while it lasted. There was this big oven that took up the whole wall with shelves that rotated inside. Everday I would run up to my dad and he would pick me up to look in there. It was the highlight of my day when he picked me up. It was a ritual. Somewhere when I was about 6 or 7 years old my dad told me he couldn't pick me up anymore because I was getting so big that it just hurt him too much. Now, I realize I was young, but it didn't make sense to me that my dad, this big hulking muscular man couldn't pick me up. I wasn't a fatty - I probably weighed 45 pounds at the time - if that. Soon there were more and more days that Dad would stay home from the bakery until eventually it was just Mom running it alone. My parents sold our bakery when I was in 5th grade. My dad had rheumatoid arthritis and had just suffered his third heart attack. From that day on it was me and dad. We did everything together. I took care of him and he took care of me. A few years later - I think I was in junior high - Dad had a stroke the night before Thanksgiving. That was the year we spent the whole winter visiting him in the hospital. Santa delivered everyone's gifts in trash bags that could be thrown in the car and taken to the hospital to be opened with Dad. After the new year he was finally transferred to Edwin Shaw and eventually made it home for my birthday in March. Yeah, me and Dad were inseperable. I could tell him anything and he always had great advice. I found my friends coming to him searching for direction just as much as I did. All of our friends really, mine, Jay's, Jeff's and even Linda's. All the while was my mom in the background busting her ass to keep us afloat. She worked so hard, and found time to be a mom too. I know she was tired, but I think tired, or not she looked forward to doing things with us. We went to every concert and ballet in the park there was. We were at every county fair, and every parade you could think of. Mom is still like this. She busts her ass to keep her head above water, but I've never seen anyone enjoy life as much as her- hardships and all. I have always loved my mom, but she's the kind of woman you don't really fully appreciate until later in life. As a kid I didn't fully recognize her sacrifice, but as an adult I thank her everyday. I'm glad that she is here to enjoy her grandchildren and do all the fun stuff she did with us as kids.

I can't help but wish my dad could have enjoyed all his grandchildren, but if he were still alive I'm fearful it wouldn't be the case. I miss Dad terribly and everyday my heart breaks all over again that he's not here, but I know God was holding him in the palm of His hand for some time before taking him home. I'm selfish to wish he were still here. He was in pain constantly, and if he were still here today, what kind of quality of life would he have? Not good, I can tell you that. I was mad at God for years before coming to peace with Him. I spent my 17th birthday in a funeral home looking at the lifeless body of my father. I kept thinking I had done something to make God take him away from me. Perhaps if I had done something different I would still have my dad. It was the cruelest thing I had ever experienced. I was a kid. My dad never got to see me graduate, or get married. He never had a conversation with my husband, or at least gave him a good ribbing. He has never held my children, smelled their freshly washed hair or pretended to eat the plactic food they prepared just for him. My oldest nephew, Shane, was just about 1 when Dad passed away. He met one of his grandchildren, an honor my sister knows as her's alone and cherishes. Between all of us kids, my parents have 10 grandchildren! My mom sits and cries when we're all together and her house is full of spastic children running in every direction. We all wilt a little at the thought of Dad missing it. We know he's watching, and hasn't really missed any of it, but it's just not the same as having him here with us.

I often ask myself if Dad would be proud of the woman I've become. Have I made choices in my life that reflect the kind of person he had dreamed of me becoming, just as I dream of my own children? I will never know for sure, but I like to think that he would be proud of me. I'm not perfect - far from it, actually, but I'm proud of the choices I've made - even the hard ones.
It's taken many autums to find this peace I have with my life. It's taken many autums to forgive God for taking my father at such a young age, and ask for forgiveness in return for my anger.

Here we are again, in my season of thought. The season of my past, and the season where I dream of my future. I dream of what the future holds in store for me, my husband and most of all our children. I will spend many quiet moments lost in my thoughts in these months to come, and I can't wait!