Category Archives: Father’s Daughter Moments

Enough said…

Velda

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Almost every obituary starts with something like:

Velda L. (nee James) Seege, age 86, of North Tonawanda NY, passed away on Thursday, July 19th, 2012 following a brief illness.  Mrs. Seege was born on March 26th, 1926 in Plainview Arkansas, daughter of the late Seth and Katie James.  Worked at….Survived by….Arrangements….the facts.

Then there is a flurry of activity, there are children and grandchildren and great grandchildren to be consoled, there are cars to be driven from places hours away, flights to be booked, who’s picking up whom and where will they all stay.   Then there is a gathering of relations and ceremony and farewells.

For me there is much to be told after all of this, I’m not done.  I’ve known Velda Seege, usually and proudly referred to as Gramma Velda, for thirty five years.   She’s not my grandmother, but the mother of my dear friend and summer sister Kyle.  She is that person that I see almost every time I find myself in Buffalo, that person that has always welcomed me with a knowing smile, a very distinct and powerful laugh a willing ear and God knows she’s heard some of the best and worst of my life.  And a glass of white zinfandel, I moved on from the white zinfandel, she did not….a signature drink is a signature drink no matter.   These are the things I knew about her, these are my precious moments with her.

In the past few days I’ve learned about her independent nature (wait I knew that) her courage, her talents, and the wonderful role model she was to her three daughters.  Not an apron and pearls kind of role model but a real life, here’s what you need to know, kind of role model.  I learned this mostly through the eulogies written and delivered by her daughters.

They say that parents are completely different people after each child is born and that each child’s experience is different in the family.  Nowhere could that have been more apparent than in the presentations done by these three women.  Kim, the oldest, spoke of Velda’s growing up in 1930’s Arkansas, her antics, the framework of her steadfastness, the talents she developed.  Kristen, the youngest, spoke mostly of her life after her husband passed away.  How she came to share her home, how she insisted on putting in the pool (ulterior motive keeping the kids and grandkids close) her work ethic and the friends she made over and over again.

Kyle told the story through her father’s eyes.  Of course she would, she is a fellow father’s daughter.  When he died so suddenly back in 1988 there was no formal eulogy done by the grieving, then much younger, women. As I recall that was left to others.   Kyle spoke so eloquently of him and Velda dancing together so beautifully that everyone on the dance floor would stop to watch.  She spoke of her getting to know her mother so much better after her father had gone, the things they shared and the rock that Velda became to her. Only a father’s daughter could portray the joy that would be their first dance after 25 years albeit in heaven.

Kyle comforted me with her words and I her with the many hugs that we exchanged over the past few days.  Father’s daughters sometimes struggle after they are gone with the relationships they are left to build with their mothers.  There is never any doubt of their love and respect but how exactly do they evolve the mother/daughter relationship going forward.  Kyle is a role model to me in so many ways, I always say she is the smartest woman I know and her words of love for both her father and mother gave me direction once again.

And so we said goodbye to Velda, we spoke of our many interactions with her and the things we loved most about her.  We moved on to the repast to share even more about her and celebrate her life with a toast.  Yes there was white zinfandel and I almost had a glass…but no. She will be remembered fondly by many for a very long time and I’m begging someone to please send me the recipe for her pepper jelly.

So clever is my friend Kyle that she managed to have a respite table at the repast.  All the women seated at this table were of the book club, vacation taking, worked with, former something or other, wine drinking variety.  We all knew each other but many of us had never met.  There was the; oh you’re Alana, oh you’re the women who went to Italy, yes I’m that Sandi.  We were delighted to sit with Reed’s mother and sister and enjoyed their company.  Our table would be the one to turn sorrow to celebration….have a seat Kyle we’ve been waiting for you to make your way over.   All the love you need is right here where you left it.

From the Cape, Sunday, June 17th, 2012

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Well Thomas, we’ve arrived. Sorry I wasn’t better company, I’ve had my neighbor Marty on my mind.  The obituary said he died “suddenly” and that to me just smacks of innuendo and, well , possible suicide.  I guess it all comes together when you consider he turned sixty in February and has been out of a job for the last two years.  He was so full of adventure that first year, riding his motorcycle every day, optimistic, friendly.  I guess his demons, as Mary calls them, got the best of him.  I recognized the signs, I’ve seen them so many times before but I know like I know there isn’t anything I could have done.  I’m really feeling for his children.  Grown though they are I’m sad that his death and Father’s Day are so close together, they will suffer doubly year after year.  But they are young adults just starting out and anticipating building their families.  They will keep him alive for their children and they will know him through them.  It reminds me that when Terri and I are gone it’s entirely possible that no one will utter your name again.  The sadness of that makes me tired sometimes.  It’s the reason why I write about you so much, perhaps that will keep your legacy alive.  I was thinking that the residual effects of life are what make up a legacy, I don’t know what the effects will be for Marty but I know that there is so much more to tell about you.  Thanks for watching over us, like I said we’ve arrived.

2012 Father Daughter Dance

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My wonderful friend,Tonine, captured the sentiment of this picture of our friend Paul and his daughter Greta perfectly when she wrote:

Precious. Some of my fondest memories of my dad and me are of us dancing. From the days of stepping on toes to waiting my turn when he was dancing with my mom……to my wedding day. Now, my mom and I dance together, just a month ago at my cousins wedding I asked my mom to waltz, although it was my mom and I on the dance floor, in our hearts we were dancing with him.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for sharing. To this day, I keep a photo of my father and I dancing on my wedding day, 25 years ago. Tonine

How many times I’ve declared I am a father’s daughter. You’ve all heard me say it with pride and confidence that I am what I am today for the gifts the man gave me.  My father, when he went had given us so many fond but simple memories that its hard to believe its been seven years.

There were lessons and rides in the car and Cokes out of the big red Coca Cola cooler. Tips and tricks to teach us everything from adding in our heads to how to avoid a hang over.  He taught us to call if we were in trouble even in the middle of the night, especially in the middle of the night.

I watched cartoons with him on Saturday mornings and read the Times with him on Sunday mornings.  I watched and cursed at the Mets, I rode with him on the truck, I had coffee with him in the diner and parked my car behind his without a drop of gas in it knowing full well he would take care of it.

But I never danced with my father. He was not a dancer, he could barely walk some days but did it anyway never letting on the pain he was in most of his life.  I was honored to have him walk me down the aisle (which was one of the longest in Bergen County) and held him up the entire way as he whispered to “slow it down honey”.  Never was a man so grateful to get to his seat but proud to have done something so outside his comfort zone for his daughter.  Although he wouldn’t be able to do that for my sister when she got married, he could no longer walk,  he had the pride of knowing he had his best suit on and as many lucid moments as he could muster.  His wink to her said it all.

There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t quote my father, think of him or speak his name but I never danced with him.  I had to let that sink in for quite some time today. And then I let it go, happy in the knowledge that there are so many wonderful fathers like Paul who are making fond memories for their daughters.

Sometimes the poorest man leaves his children the richest inheritance.  ~Ruth E. Renkel

 

Today I Will Be Happier Than a Bird With a French Fry

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Now this is a mantra that speaks to me on so many levels. 

First, there are french fries involved.  I’ve sworn off french fries for some time now but, to me, sworn off means picking a select few off someone else’s plate. You know the ones you like, for me it’s the really golden ones with fluffy insides and just a touch of oil left behind. Fabulous.

Second, given the ratio of french fry weight to bird weight they can barely fly away with their good fortune.  So we’re talking bounty and abundance, something I totally believe in.

Mostly this mantra is nostalgic to me.  When we were kids McDonalds didn’t have indoor seating (shutup I know I’m old) we ate in the car.  Our car was a 1960 something Studebaker with a bit of a hole in the floor and, I think, red seats.  My father liked to “go for a ride” which was the equivalent of let’s get the hell out of the house but we have no money.  On really good rides we would wind up at McDonald’s  for dinner out, unheard of in those days.  But there we’d be in the backseat with our cheeseburger and vanilla shake watching my father throw some of his french fries on the hood of the car so we could feed and watch the birds. 

What a wonderful show they put on.  The tug of war would make us all laugh so hard we could barely eat our dinner.  Watching a bird try to escape with an entire french fry would crack us up again, especially when he forgot he could fly and fell off the hood of the car. 

So when I came across a plaque that said, “Today I will be happier than a bird with a french fry” I laughed out loud in the store.  And then I began to think about the legacy of the story.  I’m reminded that we didn’t have much, but we didn’t know it.  We had enough and that was perfect for leaving us with memories we treasure.

Now every morning when I look at that plaque (of course I bought it) I smile and I know like I know that I, too, have enough.

Father’s Daughters

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“There’s something like a line of gold thread running through a man’s words when he talks to his daughter, and gradually over the years it gets to be long enough for you to pick up in your hands and weave into a cloth that feels like love itself”.  ~John Gregory Brown

And then he is gone, but you remain with that cloth wrapped around you as if your life depended on it.  And, in a way, it does.

That cloth has been woven with words, and examples and smells and lessons and rides in the car and gas tanks filled on a Saturday morning and wintergreen lifesavers and bikes saved from the junk heap and badminton games in the street and toasts and peaches in frosted flakes and cartoons and the Mets.

Add to that, the knowledge of screws vs. nails, how to read a dip stick, when to change the furnace filter, how to add quickly in your head, integrity as your first line of defense and a work ethic that really is beyond reproach and you’ve got texture in your cloth.

Father’s daughters will forever be in debt for that love, the lessons, and the information that can only be gleaned from a generous man who understood that to make your way in the world you would need more than pink.

When that father is gone, rituals will take his place.  Mine is to have a four hour conversation with him as I make my way to the Cape.  We’ll catch up on the latest, the greatest, the worst, the tears, the memories, the screw ups, and the triumphs.  Just before the smell in the air turns to salt and cedar you can almost believe that it smells just like Old Spice.   

I wish you a wonderful Father’s Day whether it’s in his arms or in his legacy.