Joe

When we were small, my brother and I had adjacent bedrooms at the end of the hall, and there was one spot in the hallway that could be seen by both of our beds.  On special evenings, after Jay and I tucked in, Dad would settle himself there in a chair with his guitar, and he'd begin to play.  He'd start with something we all knew, like "I've Got A Lovely Bunch of Coconuts" or "Hey, Look Me Over" and the three of us - Jay and I from our beds and Dad from his chair - would sing together, our voices finding each other's in the dim light.  Dad would break into a rousing version of "Won't You Come Home, Bill Bailey" and I'd be smiling, tapping the rhythm out with every part of me, practically dancing under the sheets. We'd sing tag-lines like "right through a taxi"  and the cheeky "without her knickers" and Jay and I would giggle.  It was a musical slumber party.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, Dad would move to the slower songs, the ones that Jay and I didn't know as well, like "Five Hundred Miles" and "If You Were The Only Girl In the World."  He'd croon the love songs from his college days and the ones I'd listen to him sing in 4-part harmony at get togethers with family friends.  Dad's voice would curl like a single ribbon of sound into our rooms. The dark never seemed so warm.  Gently, Jay and I would fall off to sleep, music weaving through our dreams.

...

A Fathers Day post has incredible pressure.  I've been fretting for the past several weeks about how I best honor my dad, Joe Douglas.

I will simply say this.

No one is more like Joe Douglas than his daughter.  No one. And I'd be willing to bet that there was no one before me in the family lineage that was as much like my father as I am.

I say this with a great amount of pride, although my father may cringe a bit.  We've laughed about it together quite a bit over the last few years. He and I both know that the qualities we value in ourselves aren't necessarily what others value.  In fact, some people think we're pains in the asses.

My father learned to live with that, and you know what?  So have I.  It's incredibly liberating.

See, Joe Douglas and I are complicated beings.  We strive to be better than we are, and we're mad at ourselves when we're not.  We're surrounded by people (wives and husbands and siblings and children) who are worlds kinder and more patient and generally way easier to love than we are, and honestly, it can blow to be compared to them.  I am Jan's daughter, Jay's sister and Mike's wife - I listen to the constant stream of professions of love and admiration for those three. People are downright disappointed if I show up to an event without one of them in tow.  I get it, and I agree, but it can get tiring.  Dad and I are never going to compare in certain arenas.  Sometimes we try; other times we say to hell with it.  We want to be patient and kind - we'd like a few rounder edges sometimes, but mostly you have to love us for being stubborn, outspoken, sticklers for structure, gruffly committed to justice... things that aren't sexy but are true. We hope you forgive us for our shortcomings, but if you don't, well, we both think... "Piss off."

I can love my dad in a way that no one in the world ever has or ever will.  As his only daughter, so much like him, my love is unique and complicated and... perfect.  It is one of the only times in my life I can say that something I do is perfect.  I don't profess to know him best, but I know Joe Douglas like no one else and I honor him for everything he is.  He is... beautiful.  He is... exceptional.  He is... ever-evolving, ever struggling, and I think that is the most honorable place to be.  He is my hero, not just for who he is, but for who he hopes to be every single day.

And that has to be enough.  It is for me, his very proud daughter.

Happy Fathers Day, Joe Douglas.

Mom

I asked my husband, "What do you think is the best quality I inherited from my mom?"  Without pausing for breath he quipped, "Well, you definitely didn't get her patience."

Very true; painfully so. But ha ha.  Yes, I laughed at that.  I tried to show I had a sense of humor, but quickly (remember the patience problem) moved back to pressing him.  He said, "Give me a moment to think about it."  I stood nearby, patiently waiting a whole few seconds, thinking that he'd be able to connect my mom and me somehow, but time stood still.

This didn't look good for me.

I'd like to say I left the scene to give him space to think, but I was feeling a bit prickly.
After 90 seconds, I approached him again.  "Any luck?" I asked.
"Still thinking," he said.
"You do think I have some good qualities, don't you?"
"Well of course, or I wouldn't have married you."
"Huh," I grunted.

Later I spoke with my mom.  She was on her way back from her 50th year college reunion.  Imagine?!  She was on a layover at the airport and texted me to say hi.  (By the way, I love that my 70-something year old mom texts 45-year old me. How cool is that?) I texted her back, nonchalantly saying that she could call me if she wanted; I was home alone because Mike had taken a drive.

God, I wanted my mom to call me.  I wanted my mom.

She called.  She never fails.  We talked about her weekend, which sounded reflective in a way I can only imagine.  What is it to reflect back 50 years to when you were in college?  What is it to tick off the successes, but also the deaths, the illnesses?  What is it to remember youth and to see decline?  Talking with her reminded me of a time I was speaking with her mother, my grandma Erickson, and Grandma was saying very matter-of-factly, "I'm one of the last of my friends.  Everyone has died."  Grandma Erickson volunteered at the senior living center and helped people far younger than she was.  She watched people wither and go. It's a brutal reality.

At that moment, I didn't want to be a voice on the end of the phone. I wanted to stop time, to sit across from my mom and hold her hand.  Not that she needed me, but that kind of reflection - one of really seeing what's in front of you - seems too honest and cruel.  My mom's nowhere near there.  Right?  She is vibrant and lovely and ALIVE for a long, long, long time.

I listened as my mom dealt with this somewhat painful reflection.  But shamefully, as I listened I wanted something from her.

"So, Mom, what do you think is the best quality that I got from you?"  It felt dirty to even ask; to plead for something good.

After a moment, she replied, "Your empathy."

And I wanted to cry.
Because my mother had said what I wished for most,
because she valued that part of me so much,
because even while in her own emotional churning, she was as generous as ever.

After I got off the phone with her, she texted me.
"Kindness would also apply! xoxom"

I will never be the woman my mom is, but I know I will die trying.

May you all know the love that I know from my mom.