I blamed it on writers block, but I realize now that’s not what it was. The transition from north easterner to westerner has not been seamless, but it has happened. Some of it has been painful, some of it joyful, but all of it true.

One of the reasons I think my books were successful in the east was because of the things I wrote about – and invited – the reader into my life.  I was inspired to write about the things that moved me, the circumstances that molded me and how I was reacting to the current events in my life at that point.  There was a connection I  had never felt before, and it was addicting.

At book signings readers would smile and say after reading my columns I reminded them of their mother, their sister, their daughter, their aunt.  Disclaimers such as “don’t write this down”  or “off the record” always preceded talking to family and friends.  I stopped talking with my mouth and began communicating via my keyboard.  I got a job at a newspaper and wrote about the community and its wonderful people.  Stories From the Lake was much more than a byline; it became my lifeline.  

Writers see things no one else does; the connections of how something came to be, why someone acts the way they do,  the choices we make and those that are out of our control.

Everyone has a story, but sometimes they just don’t know how to tell you about it.

In the summer of 2008 my beloved and I (yes, he has earned the right for me to call him that again) went to a psychic in the community known as Lilydale in upstate New York.  Not expecting anything to come of the visit, we waited patiently in the vestibule outside the little home of the gentlemen who would tell us our futures, and remind us of our past.

The little man told me things I had forgotten about and reminded me of things I didn’t want to remember.  How did he know I had stomach problems when I was a kid?  How did he know I was afflicted with painful, pus-filled boils until I was 16?  So when he started talking about my father and my grandmother scolding me to ‘keep writing, don’t stop!’ it got my attention.

His parting words to me were “remember where it all began” which, in fact, was when I was  8 years old and given my first typewriter with specific instructions to “write a story.”

After years of banging my head against the wall trying to find employment in the normal world, I finally realized I don’t belong there.  There are stories to be told and more memories to be made.  I started telling them 10 years ago, but dropped the ball.

2012 will be the year to finish the projects begun, but walked away from. because I was too afraid to venture deeper.

Like Miss Haversham’s heavy, dust laden draperies being ripped off the windows,  dirt and memories flying everywhere,  this will be year to finally realize what needs to be done.

I have to tell the rest of the story.

Happy New Year and may you be blessed with the continued gift of life, love and adventure.

What’s your story?  Tell me.

The two brothers sat side by side, watching the snowflakes as they fell in big clumps, piling up on the ground right in front of them. The big bay window seemed like a wide screen t.v. as they sat for hours on end watching the day unfold. They loved to watch the cars go by every morning as Mommy and Daddy went about their day.

But today was Saturday and everyone was home, scurrying every which way to get things done. It was Christmas Eve and the boys knew that soon the ‘good smells’ would be filling the kitchen of the little house where they lived.

Daddy lugged the tree up from the basement earlier in the week, struggling and laughing as he stood the cardboard box in the corner of the living room. Surveying the remnants of box, they recognized the greenery and stray tinsel leftover from Christmas Eve’s past. Standing proudly in the same corner where it always stood, the brothers loved to watch the twinkling lights and shiny ornaments sparkle during the evening hours. They would lay on their backs on either end of the comfy couch, silent and content as Mommy hung the last of the candy canes, listening to the Christmas music playing softly on the radio.

Do you think we can sneak one? The older brother winked to the younger.

Do we dare? The young one whispered excitedly and they brushed against the tree gently to make one of them fall silently to the ground. Munching it quickly, they shared the sweet even though they knew it would never be missed, as there were many, many more throughout the tree.

Coming up from the basement with the last of the decoration boxes coupled in his arms, their father smiled to himself as he watched them lick their lips to get the last of the peppermint chips.

His face fell slightly as he spied the little box within a box, hidden knowingly so as not to remind them. The box that had once held an ornament he and his wife had purchased together, one of the few gifts they had gotten for each other for their first Christmas together. It was plain, a sparkly snowman that had hung from their tree for many years.

Suddenly it was gone, and they never knew what had happened to it. They looked everywhere, under the couch, underneath the chair cushions, and even outside near the car. They surmised it must have fallen from the Christmas tree during the hustle and bustle of opening presents, mistakenly thrown out among the wrapping paper. It was a sad reminder for several years that sometimes, bad things just happen.

“Better not let your mother see you do that” he whispered, and they nodded in agreement. Besides, it was time to get back to the window. They had an important job to do and didn’t want to mess it up.

I wonder what he’ll bring us? The younger one said to the older.

Who? He answered with mock innocence, knowing full well “who” his brother was talking about. He loved to tease him because it was so easy.

Who? His brother screamed, and then calmed himself. He didn’t want Mommy to know they were getting excited. They didn’t want to have to leave the window and not witness his arrival.

Who? He whispered now, almost to himself. You know who!

Yes, I know, I know! older brother answered, the enthusiasm of the younger contagious.

I can’t wait for Mommy and Daddy to see what we got them! he said suddenly, and his brother nodded excitedly in agreement.

They sat there all day, in front of the big bay window, and watched with hearts pounding, their eyes darting from corner to corner as the snow continued to come down, coating the cars and the tops of hats worn by those who passed by.

They were becoming sleepy, the afternoon sun fading and the room becoming dim, until the lights of the tree shone brighter and brighter. Their eyelids were getting heavy and long, dry yawns began to escape from their mouths. Try as they might, they were no longer able to keep their heads up, and laid on the carpeted floor in front of the window.

It will be ok, the older said to the younger as they snuggled up together, the warmth of each other’s bodies calming their quickly beating hearts.

Let’s just stay here until we hear him…the younger said as he drifted off to sleep.

Yeah, until we hear him…and soon they both were snoring lightly, a slow and rhythmic breathing that comes from the sleep of knowing you are loved.

Mommy and Daddy stood together, their arms wrapped around each other, smiling at the two brothers who lay contently on the floor.

“I wonder what dogs dream of?” Mommy said sweetly, kissing the side of Daddy’s cheek.

“I hope they dream of Santa Claus, just like everyone else” he said simply and kissed her back.

“Merry Christmas, boys” they whispered, and walked towards the staircase and upstairs to their bed.

They left the two sleeping dogs in front of the big bay window, who dreamt the dream of children, of wrapping paper, presents and St. Nicholas.

They slept close together, both of their furry paws protecting their gift for Mommy and Daddy, a gift of love and adoration for those they cherished.

A plain, white snowman ornament they had found in the dirt and hidden behind a lilac bush, just the day before.

Merry Christmas!

I never realized that I was able to deal with overbearing managers because I had dealt with teenagers. Making the boss look good and letting him think it was his idea is a direct result of dealing with a 14 year old girl.  Just hand them a mirror and they’ll forget what all the fuss was about. Consoling a distraught 6 six year old because his frog died is exactly what happens when a co-worker didn’t get the raise they wanted. Sometimes you just have to let them whine a little. Making a drunk superior understand he can’t drive home from the party is almost as much fun as telling your 17 year old he can’t go out with his pants hanging down to the middle of his rear – its dangerous and not anything people want to see.

The question has arisen from time to time as to where I get some of my ideas for columns. I wonder sometimes myself. Sometimes they will just come from out of the blue as I sit in front of a blank screen. It’s as if I’m waiting for someone to turn on my fingers so the words will flow out – an endearment my beloved uses sometimes when addressing the dogs. (“Look, boys!  Mommas got words coming out of her fingers!”)

When I am feeling especially inspired, the story seems to write itself.  The starting point might be a title that sticks in my head, or a group of words that seem to belong together.   I remember reading an instruction for a recipe where it called to ‘peel a tomato before blanching.’   I thought to myself  “What?  Life is too short to peel a tomato!”   That has stuck in my head like a song that continues to play over and over in my mind, and now that I’ve used it maybe it will finally go away.  Or maybe it thinks it’s better than that and should be a book title.   I’ll know if it shows up again tomorrow.

Some friends and I were sitting at the local watering hole the other evening and they tossed out some ‘titles’ they thought would be appropriate as starting points for columns.

But I realized among all their good intentions, there’s one fact I can’t change.   I need to pull the titles from my own heart, my own history and my own fingers.  Thankfully, there’s plenty more where this one came from.

I’ve been consumed with budgets and all things financial of late, as we settle into our home here in Idaho Falls.  Having only one regular paycheck to count on makes you stretch your mind as well as your dollars.  It has not been without merit, though.  You look at your priorities a little differently, and become much more aware of how lucky you are to have one.

I met a lot of good people at the bank job of my memory, some which went on to become members of “The Ducks” (life-long friends and who I’ve known almost 20 years now) and those who I’d rather forget.   Amidst bank mergers and closures in the early 90’s, I was one of the first to be let go when the departments were ‘focused out.’  That’s what they called layoffs back then; focusing.  In any event, I had hoped their lens wouldn’t locate me and my little job as an assistant to a private banker, but alas, no such luck.  I was not only focused, they used the magnifying glass on my department, deeming me the most expendable.

There was a female loan officer there who wrote the wordiest and most succinct loan proposals for her clients.  Her penmanship was flawless, but she was known for more than that.  Because her proposals were so long, she wrote in the tiniest of letters, sometimes so small you needed a magnifying glass to read the sentences.  But the letters were perfect.  I often kidded her and said she missed her calling, and should have been a neuro-surgeon, performing scar-less operations with the tiniest of stitching.  But she loved banking.

There was another female assistant there who was diagnosed with Hodgkins Lymphoma, the very disease my youngest daughter would face 10 years later.  Watching my coworker battle the chemo and radiation treatments with grace and dignity, she served as the example of how to deal with a disease and still go to work every morning.  Watching her, I knew what to expect to happen to my daughter, and to always keep a positive face on everything.

Nearly twenty years later, the bank still stands, although yet under another name.  The miniscule writer was eventually focused out as well, as were many of my friends.  The lens knew no boundaries, and highly paid VP’s were either demoted, let go, or reassigned to other states.   My friend with cancer survived her ordeal but not her job.  It was not a good time to be a banker.

Perhaps the fall of the financial institutions, the mortgage crisis and the debacles on Wall Street these past years were the result of many of these mergers, magnified layoffs and mismanagement.  The ones who were not spared the glare of the lens were probably the ones who were the most aware of management’s arrogance, and called them on it.   Never before had I worked in such an industry where you had to keep your head down and your mouth shut.  The world was changing in more ways than one.

Banking has a vastly difference face nowadays then it did back then.  People are in more control of their finances, and have the luxury of choosing what institution they want to park their funds with.  It’s a competitive market again, one that is constantly evolving and changing.  I’m not sure if it’s a good thing or a necessary evil.  Probably, it is both.

I often wonder what became of the miniscule writer and her heart for banking, if she found another job as fulfilling or if her love for creating was crushed.  There should have been more like her.  I know that my desire to write was enhanced by simply reading the scenarios she created in describing her client’s loan requests.

It’s funny where you find inspiration.

I hope she found what she was looking for.

In a way, she helped me find what I was.

Awakening with the feeling of swollen eyes, a stuffed nose and a head full of cement, I was quickly reminded of allergies I suffered as a child long ago.   Years of allergy shots had alleviated the symptoms of hay fever and other allergens, and I have been able to live an antihistamine free life for about 15 years.

Apparently, there’s a whole lotta new stuff that I’m allergic to out west.

Narrowing the culprit down to Cottonwood trees and a few wild flowers, it took a few days to get back into determining the right dosage of Benadryl.  Now that I have, things are fairly back to normal.   I’ll probably have to schedule a visit to the allergist here in town, but that won’t be until next year.  I write this with certainty and I know we will probably be living here for a while.

Accepting the fact that I will not be able to find a ‘regular’ 9-5 job any time soon, I have concentrated on freelancing and independent contracting, which has been ok.  It gets me out there and I can contribute to the household, but still not in a way that I could develop relationship with co-workers.

Instead, I have made some good friendships with women whom I work out at the club.  One of my friends back east left me a Facebook message with the equivalent tone of “My God, do you live there?”

In a word?  Yes. 

Yes, I do.  That place has literally saved my sanity.

After living here for nearly six months and not having a connection to anyone or anything really weighed heavily on me.  Without the distraction of somewhere to go (besides Walmart) and something to do (besides go food shopping or to church) it became a constant struggle to even get out of bed.  That black cloud has passed, simply because someone suggested, “Hey, let’s go get a drink.”  How organically simple it all really is.   How easily we are distracted by what is important, and what is trifling.

The holiday weekend continued with our first attendance at the local baseball league.  Basically farm teams for the franchise, the players were young men barely out of high school or attending junior college.  They played with passion and developing skills showed promise as we glimpsed the slow journey towards being professional.   Paid peanuts for now, we know they play simply for the love of the game.

The stadium was a smaller venue than what we are used to, but not lacking in ambiance and stature.  The scoreboard lit up like the pros do, and videos played as the players were introduced during their time at bat.  Commercials were abundant and reflected what the play was.   Any ball hit into the foul zone and disappearing into the street where the cars were parked was followed by the same commercial.  After the initial sound of breaking glass, we heard “If that was your car, call Idaho Falls Auto Glass at 888-443-8875 for a quick repair of your windshield.”  We laughed as my husband (ever the comedian) joked we both realized in New York the commercial would have sounded more like “If that was your car, don’t get glass in your ass as you drive away.”

Hot dogs and beer, popcorn and cotton candy, we sampled it all, just as we did when we were kids.  Clapping and stamping your feet at the arrival of certain players, and standing to sing “Take Me Out To The Ballgame” at the seventh inning stretch reminded me of home on Long Island and going to the city to see  a Mets game with my dad.

As I looked around me, everyone was singing loud and proud,  swaying back and forth linked arm in arm.  For a short time hands were on hearts, just as they had done with the Pledge of Allegiance at the beginning of the game.

Several times over the course of the game I thought of my children and how much I missed them, even wishing they were youngsters again and sitting here beside me.  They would have loved this place.   They would love it for their children.

It was a defining moment for me to realize they were adults and had lives of their own, that I had perhaps judged this place too quickly.  Yes, there are cults here there will defy all intelligent discussion; it’s either their way or no way.    I have learned, as others have, how to distinguish them from the norm and not even engage them at all.

“You’re just in the ugly beginnings” a friend wrote to me, reassuring me I would find my way.  She was right, there are so many other things here I realize there is yet to discover.   It’s a good place to raise a family and to start a new life.   I miss the lake, I miss the feeling of completeness and I miss the familiarity of knowing where everything is and what to do when I go there.  My memories were clouding my future.

It took me four months to find a church, six months to find a good hairdresser, and the same six months to find someone to call friend.  I will probably never find a good place to get a manicure or a pedicure and have accepted that.  Some things are just New York and can’t be duplicated.

Overall, except for employment, I realize these issues are mundane.  I am grateful that my husband has a good job, that we have a place to live, and have food on the table.  We are healthier in mind, body and spirit compared to where we were this time a year ago.

Our holiday will be spent grilling out in the back yard, watching the dogs run around and bark at the birds, just like back home.  I will miss my children and my grands, realizing that every day I don’t see them is another stroke on the clock of time that I have lost.  Visits back east will become even more memorable and cherished, and times listening to the lake whenever I am able will forever fill my soul.

I hope that they treasure the time they have together, as I did with them, and drink it all in this holiday season.

But most importantly, to remember what this day is really about and what we are celebrating.  I have the freedom to complain, and the right to moan about the mundane, because daring men declared we were born with the right to do so, and were willing to die for it.  I will return to New York one day, I  know this for a fact.  But I am grateful for the freedom and ability to travel around to discover what life holds in store for all of us.

God Bless America and God Bless Idaho Falls.  The Ugly Beginnings are over.

Already disappointed the local butcher and grocery store don’t carry things like porter house or t-bone steaks, I silently stewed as I ran my other four purchases through the self check out aisle.  Some how, hearing the robotic “blip, blip, blip” sound as the scanner reads the UPC codes is mildly comforting.

The weight of several  corn on the cob has a tendency to rip the plastic bags, so I always double bag them after I place them in the first bag.  It was the last of my items and I leaned over to grab my purse to pull out my debit card.  Keep in mind I hadn’t moved.  This was all done in a twisty-turning movement, courtesy of years of yoga classes.  With my back to the screen and the scanner, I was surprised to hear the robotic “blip, blip, blip” song start up again.

This time I did move, and was surprised to see the back of another woman.  I could tell she was young enough to be in a hurry, but old enough to know better.  Miss Iminahurry ran her items over the scanner just as I had done, tossing them in the bag after each ‘blip’ and then stood up to look at the total when she had finished.

She stared at the screen for a minute, smacking a giant wad of pink bubble gum, moving closer to make sure she hadn’t misunderstood the number.

“Why is it so much?”  I heard her whisper.

She still hadn’t realized I was standing there.  Life had fallen off its axis and she was trying to right it.   Perhaps the amount of hair spray in her jet black curly hair had not only frozen the curls in place, but also decimated some brain cells in the process.   I was in that kind of a mood.

She looked closely at the screen and then stood back on her heels, as if to call for assistance. I could picture her mind saying “This machine must be broken, all I bought was milk, bread, butter and some Captain Crunch.”   

As she turned to call for someone, she saw me.

She looked at me and I smiled.  She looked at the total on the screen and then back at me.

Okay, I thought, I think she might figure this one out.

Then she looked at the screen and back at me again.

Here it comes, the thought is coming to the surface, yes, its almost there……

“Oh. Weren’t you finished checking out?”

Houston, we have contact.

I smiled.  ”No, darlin’.”  I decided to answer in my best southern drawl.

They don’t cotton too kindly to New Yorker’s here, I have learned, so I periodically break out in another dialect.  Sometimes I’m even British.   Today, I was from Atlanta.

“I wasn’t.” I  crooned, ever so sweetly.   “But I thought it was right neighborly for you to buy my groceries for me on this right fine day.  Thank you, ever so much!” I smiled my biggest Miss Julia smile I could find.

She looked at me, still confused as to the chain of events, trying to piece together parts of this big puzzle she realized she had missed.

It was at that moment that I realized I was looking into the face of real innocence.  There was no attitude, no agenda, no angry response.  She was just a girl from her own private planet, otherwise known as Idaho, who just wanted to go home and eat her Captain Crunch for dinner.

“It’s okay, darlin’” I said then, relieving her of the burden of this difficult scenario.  ”Let’s call the manager and work this out.”

She’s lucky today wasn’t the day I was from New Jersey.

I’ve been banging my head against the wall trying to get acclimated to this new town which will be my home for the next ten years, to no avail.  The neighbors either ignore us completely (because we are not of their faith) or they are knocking at the door at 8am on a Sunday.  There are no boundaries, no consideration and no tolerance.   Not content to be just my neighbor, the lines in the sand have been drawn.

There’s no happy medium.

I’ve also been trying to find a job, also to no avail.   Even joining Eyelash Nation hadn’t helped, although it did give my eyes the definition it needed, so the interviewers would at least look at me when they spoke.  Two and three return interviews always end with “we’ll call you when we’ve made our decision.”  What it really means is “we’ll call you when we find out if you are Mormon.”

But no one returns phone calls in Idaho Falls.  No one.   Even after several interviews, no one calls to tell you anything.  Unless you are of the chosen faith.  I have friends who are Mormon back east, but I have never been exposed to the zeal and cult like responses I have seen here.  Even living 20 miles from the birthplace of Mormonism, I am astounded at the lengths some of the people will go to ‘save’ us from this awful life we live now.

I hate to sound so negative and judgmental, but this has been my experience.   Any attempt at conversation is met with short, tempered answers, be it in the grocery store, Walmart, church or the club.   No warm and fuzzies here, even though the atmosphere is supposed to be family oriented and welcoming.   It looks like that from the outside, anyway.  Everyone smiles at you, but it is an empty smile.

Spring has been unusually rainy and unseasonably cool Idaho.  I decided to stop whining about the weather (for just a little while, anyway) and do something about how I was feeling.   After attending my daily yoga class (the one great thing about this place is its athletic club) I noticed a woman who had beautiful hair.  It was cut professionally and I thought to myself she must not be from here either.    Like pews in a church, we all place our yoga mats in the same place every session, and I didn’t dare set up next to hers.  I waited until class was over, and then asked her who her hairdresser was.  I went there immediately after we all whispered the final “Nameste.”

I couldn’t have been happier with the result.  My washed out, over processed blonde hair which was the result of the last salon I had been to (and sat for 3 hours listening to the raindrops since the girl was not very chatty, what a surprise) was replaced with vibrant and shiny red, with a tint of blonde highlights.  I was ecstatic.   I felt like my old self, and was returning to my roots in more ways than one.  I figured if no one wanted to talk to me when I spoke to them, I would have to embrace who I was and make them want to talk to me.

The change was dramatic and instantaneous.  My hair became the conversation opener I needed, and I quickly made two friends –women who were born and raised here but had moved away.  One from the church we attend and another at the club, they both were returning after several years of being away.  Each has their own story to tell, from disillusion with the legal system, the good ‘ole boy sense of justice, to connections in the Mormon church being the only way to get a job.  Moral corruption is rampant, all falling under the guise of religion.   If I hadn’t had decided to get the fukitall attitude, I would never had met them.

Shortly before I arrived in Idaho Falls last December, I contacted the editor of a local newspaper.  I had hoped to transfer my column and story-telling to this town, in both a way to get to know my new neighbors and for them to get to know me as well.   At
probably $25 an article, I knew I wouldn’t be getting rich, but it was a way to get my name out there.   At best, they had one page of local news, while the rest was all stuff grabbed off the AP wire.

“Sure” he said.  “Send some clips from your portfolio.”   So I did.

Several months later, I still hadn’t heard anything, so I called him again.

“Who are you?”  He asked.  “Have I talked to you? “

“Yes” I reminded him – “you asked me to send my portfolio. Plus, you did a story on my book signing at Barnes & Noble for Mother’s Day.”

“I did?”  Wow, I thought, this guy must be overworked.

“Please send them again.” So I did.

Three more weeks go by, and in between those weeks, I left several phone messages.  Finally, I asked if he would give me the courtesy of a return phone call, to acknowledge he had received them (since he didn’t the first time) and whether I would be considered for a freelance position.

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember who you are.”

Seriously?

I have a very long fuse and I don’t get angry very easily.  But months of frustration with this place, the people and missing my family & friends just got the better of me.

“I am appalled at your unprofessionalism”  I said.  “Not only do you not return any phone calls or emails, but you act like you have never heard from me, when in fact you asked for copies of my portfolio twice.”

“Well” he responded.  “I’m sorry that I have disappointed you, but the truth is, I don’t remember you and had to be reminded who you were.”  This was an attempt to make me feel like my writing was not memorable.  It didn’t work.  I know when I suck and when I don’t, and the stuff I sent him didn’t.

I took a deep breath and then said what I was thinking since I got here.

“If I were Mormon, you would remember me.”

A pause and then the response which told me how he really felt.  Threatened.

“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard of.  You have no clue.”

“No” I ended with a sense of satisfaction and knowing that God does everything for a reason.

“A New York reporter asking for a job in a two bit town in Idaho.  Now THAT was stupid.”

I let it sink in for a few seconds and then added “I won’t waste anymore of my time.”

“Good” the Perry White wannabe replied.  Good?

I still haven’t figured out why I am here, except of course to be with my husband.

I may be given the gift of advocating for some of the wrongs done to people here, although I would remiss to think I could do that by myself with all the odds stacked unevenly against me at every turn.  People are hesitant to say what they really feel, as it won’t be easy to get to the truth.   I don’t know what my role will be and if it will every really be played out.  He is the one with the job, and I can’t jeopardize that reality.

I have embraced the fact that I am an outsider, and always will be.   It is something I have never had to deal with, even suffering through the angst of adolescence and single parenthood.  I have always fit in, wherever I went.

But at least now I don’t have to wait for return phone calls.

I first wrote this in February of 2003. Since then, I have run it various times as a tribute to my father.  Sometimes I need to see it on Father’s Day, other times I like to see it again on his birthday (July 9).  It’s hard to believe he has been gone 8 years, but comforting to realize he and my mother are now cooking together again.  

This appeared in my first book “Rhythm & Rhymes of the Heart 2002-2004″ and also my latest book “The Book of Stories From the Lake” released last September.  I’ve read it aloud at different book signings, appearances and workshops. It never fails to get a response from the audience, and I am very proud of the fact they allow me to touch their hearts and awaken memories of those they have lost. I am humbled when they share their experiences, when they cry and give me a quick hug, for I know this is not an experience unique to me. Grief is universal; it knows no language or recognizes any social standing.

I can’t help but smile as I imagine my father, rolling his eyes as I read/post/send this little column again, in all it’s mushiness and love. I am the oldest child, so God willing, I will be the first to see him when it’s time. We all miss you, Dad. See you when we get there, and save me a seat at the stove.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Since my father passed away two days ago, I have had time to think about my relationship with him over the past few years. It seems my dad and I never saw eye to eye on anything. We didn’t have the same politics, we didn’t agree on religion, and we certainly never talked about sex, except for him to tell me that I shouldn’t have any. In fact the only thing we agreed on was that we loved to laugh and tell jokes.

One thing I am sure of, however, is that he loved me, and that I loved him. He was my daddy.

I am the oldest of six. When I was little, one of the ways my dad showed my mom how much he loved her was to let her sleep late on Saturday morning. He would make breakfast. Eggs over easy, bacon and toast, with a side of hash browns with onions, I have never been able to duplicate the recipe. He could whip up french toast, sausages and pancakes with the ease and finesse of any chef, and not spill a drop, not drop a dish.

My father had a lot of different interests, many diverse talents and hobbies. But to me, the thing he did best of all was make mashed potatoes. Creamy and light, whipped high with Land ‘o Lakes salted butter and whole milk, it was something we had every night with dinner, seven days a week. We never tired of it.

I realized in the plane over Chicago on the way to his funeral that was how my dad said goodbye to me, the last time I spent time alone with him. My folks live in Texas.

Living in western New York and away from everyone, I didn’t start travelling until very recently, as I didn’t leave my own family much, and airline tickets were too expensive. Now that I’m older and my kids are grown it has become a priority in my life to visit my siblings, who live all over this great country.

It was the last trip to Texas in September, where we all gathered to visit with each other. I was being chauffeured around to visit my brother’s new house, when I thought about how my father’s condition had deteriorated from when I had seen him two years earlier. He sat at the kitchen counter most of the day, watching tv, reading, or looking out the window. He sat there, alternating between his “breathing machine” (nebulizer) and smoking a cigarette. He rarely went out anymore, and was resigned to spend his days in this peaceful prison he had created for himself. Dying from emphysema, he had accepted his fate, a slave to his addiction, and was content to live out his last days in this way. He would sit there, patiently waiting, until my mother came home from work. Then she would cook dinner and they would share the rest of the evening together.

One morning, it was decided we were all going to my brother’s house for dinner. As the day wore on, I started to feel a little queasy.

“Oops” they told me after a while. “Your stomach might be upset from the tap water, just drink the water out of this store bought jug. Sorry! We forgot to tell you that might happen.”

In all the excitement they forgot to mention it, something about too much chlorine in the water, but by that time it was too late. I spent most of the afternoon in the lavatory and was not feeling up to par for a dinner party. My stomach was raw and all I wanted to do was lay on the couch and sip some hot tea.

I begged off. “I’ll stay here with Dad” I volunteered.

“We’ll watch t.v.” as if this was a new activity for him. He just smiled.

After the 6:00 p.m. news was over, he looked down from his perch at the counter and said to me “Hungry, kid?”

He called everyone “kid” even his own mother when she was alive.

“How ’bout some mashed potatoes?”

“Sure” I told him. “I’ll make them, you stay put.”

Having made them since I was a kid and watching his technique, I could prepare them with my eyes closed.

So I took out the potato peeler and began to peel what must have been my nine millionth potato, having carried on the tradition with my own family. Potatoes every night, except when we had pasta. I was an Irish girl who had married an Italian boy, after all.

I cut them in quarters the way I always had, but he pointed out to me know they were too big.

“A little smaller” he directed from his command post.

“Measure the milk” as I began to ready the hand mixer.

“Let me cut the butter” he added, “because you never put in enough.”

Before I knew it, he was up off his stool and standing right next to me at the stove, his frustration getting the best of him.

“You can beat them with the mixer as I add the milk” he instructed. So I stood there, standing at the stove like I had a hundred times before, and I waited as he poured the milk.

Standing next to me, I suddenly realized that my dad was now as short as me, having shrunk several inches over the years. He seemed to realize it too, as our eyes met in an instant, with the recognition of the loss of his stature.

“Hey shorty” he smirked, the twinkle in his eyes still sharp, “go sit down.” So I did.

As he folded in the last chunks of butter into the pot, he absentmindedly hummed a tune that I couldn’t place the name of, but remembered from my childhood.

As is the tradition, he removed the beaters from the hand mixer. In our family, the cook gets the first lick of mashed potatoes off the beaters, presumably to taste and see if it needs any more salt. But we all knew it was because they tasted so good and he couldn’t resist.

He handed me the other beater, and we clicked them together like wine glasses at the conclusion of a toast announced at a fancy dinner. He looked at me and said “you first.”

So I did, and they were as I remembered. Delicious and potatoey with just the right mix of butter and salt. Sitting at the kitchen counter, we ate the whole pot, just me and my dad. He hummed that song every now and then. After a while, I was humming along.

I’ve thought about that moment a lot since September, and the significance of it. The turn of events that led me to stay home with him that night. The song that I couldn’t remember the name of, but recognized so quickly.

It wasn’t until much later I realized the song he was humming was “Goodnight, Irene,” but he always changed the name to “Eileen.”

He made the mashed potatoes because he knew that I loved them, and he knew that was all he had left to give me. I am so grateful to God for giving me that brief, silly moment with him. It was a wonderful gift I will remember always.

I know that he has shared himself with my sisters and brother in ways that are special just to them. I know that he said goodbye to my mother, the love of his life for 50 years, four months and 16 days, in a way that will warm her heart and keep her going.

But I will be forever thankful that I had that night in the kitchen with my dad, eating mashed potatoes out of a pot and humming “Goodnight, Eileen”

Goodnight, Daddy. Rest in peace.