Superhero

I grew up thinking my dad was some sort of Mormon superhero. I never heard him utter one swear word or forget to read his daily scriptures or miss a church meeting or GOD FORBID turn down a church calling, that would be akin to insubordination. He was self disciplined and fastidious. Me, not so much, especially with my high school grades.

I remember getting a big fat hideous "D" in 11th grade accounting and dreading nay, wanting to die, thinking about my dad's reaction to my horrific grade. I would have gladly taken a Guantanamo water board torture or the Spanish Inquisition than face him. I often wondered if my dad was ever an impetuous teenager, or if by superpowers bestowed upon him through a Starfleet command of the brethren, he popped down to earth like Capt. Kirk being beamed through a transporter, in full adult form. He was not human to me.

Growing up, I realized dad was not a superhero after all, he apparently did endure high school and was not beamed to earth by Starfleet Command or the brethren. I found the evidence, in a small document tucked away in an old yellowed envelope. As I scanned over the grades, musing to myself that he really didn't do much better than me, I saw it there at the top--2nd term physics--a beautiful hideous "D" and I just smiled.

6191 Surrey Court

As I mentioned a few posts ago we had an estate sale for the family home I grew up in. It held 37 years of memories and I just wanted to say thanks and a final good bye.

Thanks for putting up with my awkward years and a few awkward friends along the way.



My first date and my corsage that was the size of a head of lettuce.




Tacky holiday decorations, relatives and flocked trees.



My mother's hair do's that defied gravity.



Thanks for welcoming my odd friends, the ones my 2 cousins (on the right) didn't know how to react to.



Memories of Alli, dressing up for Halloween, crank calls, proms, tears, laughter, boys, long phone calls and a lot of giggling.



My first baby shower.



Thanks for providing a lawn for football and basement full of old toys for 15 grandchildren.



Thanks for seeing me through some rough single years, like the 1st Christmas without my children.



I love you old house. I love your big front lawn, your silly umbrella trees, my pink carpeted bedroom, your basement where I laid next to my dad to watch t.v., your kitchen were my sister made popcorn on the stove, your fireplace, your patio where we barbecued, your flowers and for being my comfort and my safe place to land. Good bye old friend.

Quota

I found this letter, this gem, in one of my father's scrapbooks. The year was 1949 and he was on a Mormon mission, the kind where the missionaries had a quota of books to sell, Books of Mormon. Mission President Francis was apparently pissed that my father hadn't sold his quota. Slacker. Francis was damn adamant about not selling to "colored men or those who don't speak English" good thing Dad was in Kansas and not in South Chicago.

Estate Sale

We were in Salt Lake over the Memorial Day weekend. We met as a family to have an estate sale of our home of 37 years. My Dad saved everything. We had to clean out file cabinets of saved Father's Day cards from the 1950's to the first minted Tupperware. The night before the sale we split up the items with value, but what I didn't realize is how much I would be affected by the non-value items. Nothing in my life was more surreal than watching smelly annoying people traipse through our home, pick up my parents belongings and ask prices for them. I was mostly too busy through out the day to process any of it, but there were moments that stopped me flat. Watching a woman handle my mother's bathrobe. Flashing across my memory was breakfast being made in that robe and being attended to during sickness, Christmas mornings and preparing the Sunday roast. Another moment was a man holding up my dad's white shirts asking me for a price. I saw mom ironing those shirts and dad wearing them everyday for work, asking me as he walked through the door "how is my Shell doll?" It all lasted around 6 hours, a life time of stuff was sold and negotiated for a price. As I sat in my hotel bathroom crying the next day, I realized that all that stuff was just exactly that, stuff. I can never sell the memories, like mom canning peaches in a hot kitchen or dad laying out 3 football fields worth of Christmas lights in the garage, painstakingly looking for the one defective bulb. Later, we met at dad's grave site, cried, and talked about what we loved about him. It was a fitting ending.

Good-bye Dad, for now.

Dear Dad,

I will miss you.

I will miss your whistle as you came through my front door, I will miss your wisdom that has navigated me through life, I will miss our long phone conversations, I will miss your arm around my shoulder.

If you were sitting beside me right now, I would hold your hand and look into your warm eyes and tell you: "You are the greatest man I will ever know."

Love,

Shell