The red-winged blackbirds have returned. Mary Jane and I heard the first song of the season on one of our warm days here last week. It was just a few days earlier than Aldo Leopold's noted arrival of this winged harbinger in my wildlife phenology calender. Grass is greening, buds swelling, bulbs pushing up through cold dirt. In a few weeks we'll install a raised bed in the yard for veggie gardening. Our church will soon build a chicken coop and MJ and I will be Chicken Care Coordinators for a flock of 10 laying hens.
Soccer season is underway with Anna's team -- the Snarps -- having their first practice last week. MJ's yet-unnamed team will start soon, with Scott coaching.
Charlotte had her second birthday! They celebrated in style, and we'll do another celebration when we visit Maryland in just a week. Can't believe she's 2 already ...
Anna had 10+ inches cut from her hair and donated it to Wigs 4 Kids in honor of our dear, brave friend Ally Barnett. I am a proud mama. Also a sad mama as I bagged up 10 inches of THICK and beautiful sandy blond locks and sent them away. Mary Jane also got a short cut for spring to complement that cherubic face of hers.
Scott and I both continue to train for our respective races. He's doing a 20-mile hilly run at the end of May, and I'm doing a sprint triathlon in June. Scott will also soon build nice big shelving units for the girls' rooms. We're researching a new purchase, something close to Bill's heart -- cars. Looking at a hybrid Toyota, among others. As Bill would say, make sure it has "good safety record and performance!"
As a family, we're participating in/raising money for the American Brain Tumor Association at a Joggin for the Noggin race on April 17.
And plans are in place for summer camping and travel -- starting with Maryland on March 27 .
All this is to say, Life Goes On.
We work, play and make plans. I'd say I am doing well, but with a caveat. There's just an emptiness I carry in my heart. I don't want to go as far as to say there's a cloud hanging over me, but let's just say light fog follows me around. Or maybe I'm just in a fog at times. My Dad was such a big presence in my life. Almost everywhere I look, everything I think about, brings back a memory. He influenced me so much more than I realized. And now all I have are those precious memories and his legacy, which is large, yet it's not him ... As Heather said, "I just feel like I want to hug him."
Grief never goes away -- I still grieve for my mom, who died 9 years ago. But it does lessen over the years and becomes more of a dull ache versus a sharp pain. And you measure your happiness against it, appreciating life's goodness that much more.
I've so appreciated all the cards, phone calls, e-mails and friendship. They keep me grounded in goodness versus wallowing in a pool of sad. When I start to wallow, I think, "No. You've got it good. You had it good. You had two awesome parents." And I truly believe that. For almost 30 years I had a mother like no other. Sue Beecheler. For 38 years I had a father that could beat out the best. Bill. I do -- absolutely -- allow myself to mourn, to cry, etc. But wallowing, no. There are too many gardens to plant, trips to take, kids to hug, friends to laugh with, too much cycling and swimming and running, too many books to read and songs to sing, too much love to be had.
Do you realize how many phone calls it takes to erase someone from a consumer existence on earth? Canceling credit cards, bank accounts, memberships, subscriptions, utilities. I don't know how many times I've had to say, in response to why is this being canceled, "He died February 23." or "He's deceased." I haven't come close to crying during these calls because they feel so superficial, but I've felt angry. Many people on the other end of the phone have offered condolences. Some have not. Some have been rude and questioned Dad's death. I suppose they're used to scam artists. One person asked if my Dad would take a survey and I said, "He can't because he's dead and as far as I know, dead people cannot take surveys."
I've also had Dad's mail forwarded to my house.
Now, every day I'm reminded of Bill. I see an older guy quickly walking down the sidewalk -- think of him exercising. See a red sports car -- Bill. Hear a certain song -- Bill. Eat a meal I know he'd love -- Bill. It's constant. And most of these reminders bring slight sadness but also a smile to my face.
However, the mail ... sitting down and opening all the stuff Dad would have touched just a short time ago ... This is a stab in the heart. Bill had a love/hate relationship with mail. He'd complain endlessly about junk mail and charity requests he'd get (because he gave to just about everyone who asked!). But he'd also spend a few hours a day going through every piece of mail, unlike many of us who recycle half before even opening it. So as I go through all the letters/bills/notices with William or Bill Beecheler on the front, I'm brought to tears. I picture him sitting at the kitchen table, facing his woods, opening letters to the tune of the Today Show in the background on TV. He'd probably have his walking or working clothes on, ready for the next part of his day. Or he'd be in his chair in the evening, half asleep, quietly cursing his third letter in as many weeks from the World Wildlife Fund.
As I went through his mail the other day, one particular parcel really tore me apart. Dad got his 2011 membership cards for Boat U.S. This is a boat owners association offering services and discounts. The card is blue and white with a red curvy stripe and lighthouse buoy at the top. "William C. Beecheler, Member since 1991." The accompanying letter says, "Welcome Aboard!" It rips me up, thinking about the upcoming boating season without the Beach Buoy and Captain Bill on Lake Erie. Truth be told, I'm writing this with tears streaming down my cheeks.
But I'm doing okay, as are Heather and Linda. Grieving is about tears and sorrow and pain but also about moments void of suffering. In the midst of tears, you don't think you'll even get those moments, but they come and you enjoy them all the more.
I've downloaded new tunes on my iPod (check out Vampire Weekend!), watched the kids scooter and bike outside as snow melts and spring actually makes it way to Madison, spent lunches and evenings laughing with friends, attended an environmental film festival, watched the kids faces light up at the school Fun Fair, began planning family vacations in northern Wisconsin and at national parks, planned for a raised gardening bed in my backyard, and signed up to be a chicken care coordinator as our church builds a coop and adopts 10 laying hens! (Mary Jane was begging to get chickens in our backyard. I thought the neighbors might frown upon that, so this was our second option. MJ has never been so excited.)
My Dad would want nothing less for Heather and for me than for us to live full, happy lives. That's what I'm focused on, during those non-suffering moments.
I've also started to go back and read all the entries from this blog, which I started way back in May 2009. I'll be wrapping up Twelve Footers soon.
We chose this to go in the program at Bill's funeral services:
A Parable of Immortality
I am standing by the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength, and I stand and watch until at last she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sun and sky come down to mingle with each other.
Then someone at my side says, "There she goes!" Gone where? Gone from my sight, that is all.
She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side and just as able to bear her load of living freight to the places of destination. Her diminished size is in me, not in her.
And just at the moment when someone
at my side says, "There she goes!"
there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout: "Here she comes!" -Henry Van Dyke
I got these thank-you notes today that read, "Love lives on, in little kindnesses and gentle words." We've be on the receiving end of so many kindnesses -- big and small -- and heard a book full of gentle words.
"People are so nice."
Dad would often say that. There were about 500 friends and family members that came to to say goodbye to Bill on Thursday and Friday, despite inclement weather. Some I knew well, some were familiar names or faces, some I met for the first time. One quiet man walked up, shook my hand and expressed his sympathies. "So sorry, I don't recognize you," I said.
"I'm Elliot. I did your Dad's lawn care." Elliot said my Dad was a favorite customer. Elliot would arrive for work and Dad would take him to the barn to show his latest toy or talk about cars. "Before I knew it, an hour would go by. Your Dad was such a friendly guy."
Dad's dental hygienist came and expressed similar sentiments. As did his church youth leader from 50+ years ago, the secretary at his insurance agent's office, bus drivers he knew when he was on the school board. So many times I heard, "Your Dad was so much fun." or "We had good times together." or "He enjoyed his life and helped me enjoy mine." One of his cousins said it was my Dad that made her finally decide to buy a red convertible. Not surprising!
A large contingent came from Lorain Products (or Emerson as it's now called, after numerous name changes). Dad took a buyout from his company just in time, right before a wave of layoffs. Morale dipped as more people lost jobs -- jobs that are few and far between in northern Ohio. But even after Dad left, he maintained friendships, visiting the company regularly, taking chocolates for the ladies on Valentine's Day. His Lorain friend Kathy showed up at the visitation and recalled how he even brought candy to her house after she retired. So many people from that company expressed how much it meant to work with my Dad. He was not only dedicated and reliable and dependable. One man told me, "Work was tough at Lorain sometimes. There was a lot of pressure. But your Dad ... He gave us a lot of joy."
The same was said by his friends from Firelands school board.
Bob Plow, one of Dad's longtime friends and colleagues from Lorain, told a story about how he and my Dad took a trip in one of Bob's tiny airplanes. My Dad was on the school board at the time, and they were flying over an area where the district wanted to build a new school. My Dad wanted aerial photos to promote the project. Shortly after take-off, Dad whipped out his briefcase, opened it up, and took out Cokes and peanuts, saying, "We have now reached our cruising altitude. You are permitted to unfasten your seat belts and move about the cabin. Enjoy your flight!" That story struck me. Wherever he was, my Dad shared joy and humor. He packed it in to his full life.
As my Aunt Marj said, "Your Dad always gave 110 percent. He lived more in 65 years than most of us will if we live much longer than that."
Another friend to pay respects was David Sinclair, longtime Lorain colleague (who incidentally accompanied my Dad on a business trip to Germany to visit me while I studied in Europe. Several friends from that time recently recalled how much fun we had with Dad.) David wanted me to know that my Dad, although known as a company clown, was very well-respected at Lorain Products. "When we wanted to get something done, we'd let people know that if they didn't make the grade, we'd send Beecheler their way." Just hearing Dad's name would whip people into shape.
As painful and gut-wrenching as it was to see my Father in a casket, to see my children and my sister uncontrollably crying, to see Linda's desperate tears and to be myself convulsing with a deep anger and sorrow ... the funeral services were uplifting at times. Just knowing how many people loved Dad, were influenced by him and will miss him -- that meant something to us all.
And I realized how much I take after my Dad, how much I also love people.
My dear high school friends and their parents came to the services, brought over meals and reminisced about times with Bill, one friend saying how my house was her second home. My friends Kim and Judy ... I've known them since kindergarten. They were there when my Mom died and again for Dad. Same goes for many of Heather's high school friends. (One of Heather's friends remembered dancing around our kitchen with Bill!)
Our large family of Borns and Beechelers. My aunts Donna and Marj and Renea and my oodles and oodles of cousins. (Thanks, Jared, for plowing Dad's driveway multiple times last week!) They loved Dad. My Uncle Bill reminded me how when my mom first started dating Dad -- who came from a large town -- the farm boys called him "City." He took the teasing in stride and learned to fix every piece of equipment on that farm. Uncle Bill said one day their granary burned down. The first thing my Grandpa -- "Pa" -- said, was, "We need to call Bill Beecheler at work and get him down here." Uncle Bill thought Dad would never be able to get away from his demanding job at Lorain Products. And he was skeptical that my Dad could help. The electric system had burned to ashes. But, of course, my Dad left work and worked all night on that granary. "It was unbelievable, but your Dad re-built that whole electric system. He flipped a switch, and it worked. He was a genius."
For Dad, fixing stuff was fulfilling, and his way of showing he cared for all his many people.
"People are so nice," he'd say.
I can't neglect to mention four of the most important people in my life: Alli, Jen, Kelly and Janel. I met these women in 1990 in a freshman dorm at Miami University. Over the years, we've shared births and marriages and deaths. We've traveled together, danced together, cried and laughed uncontrollably, shared inside jokes. We're sisters. Well, in the most adverse winter weather, these friends drove in from Chicago, Michigan and southern Ohio to be there for me on the day of Dad's funeral. (They all left busy lives behind, including Janel leaving a child with leukemia and Alli leaving a new baby.) They looked so lovely, and I can't express how good it felt to hug them. (And thanks, too, to my college friend Kate who has provided so many comforting words and such nurturing support.)
People.
Upon arriving back in Madison, I faced more good people. My dear friend Shelley rallied our neighborhood to be there for us. Aside from sending flowers, they all donated to hospice in my Dad's name, left a generous landscaping gift certificate for us to plant a garden in memory of Dad, and now they are taking turns providing meals for our family of four. Humbling. Oh, and Shelley and Amy CLEANED MY HOUSE while we were away. Incredible.
So I feel an overwhelming sense that I carry on my Dad's gratitude for his friends and family. His presence is missed in such a large way. This vacancy will not be filled. But his love lives on in so many people -- including me.
