Last night I made cookies.  A new recipe, something I noticed in a magazine the last time I was at the library, all ginger and dark chocolate.  Before I began  blending the butter and dark brown sugar I automatically reached for my “cookie spoon.”  Because I can’t make cookies without the special spoon that has been passed down to me from my mother, and her mother before.

It doesn’t always happen, but on this evening as I pulled the spoon out of the drawer I thought about my grandmother.   She made the best spice cookies I’ve ever eaten, out of the crumbs of other deserts, probably with this very spoon.  She was born in 1888 and lived to be 94 years old.  She had a hard but  good life, just like most people, and during her lifetime the world changed.  She lived through the depression, feeding her family from the farm, drove a wagon pulled by horses, and learned to drive a car as an adult out in the cornfield.  I’m not sure that she ever truly believed we sent men to the moon.

I guess her life wasn’t anything extraordinary, a woman raising her family through changing times.  It happens everywhere – it’s happening now.  But when I think of the things she witnessed and learned to accept as normal, from cars to telephones to planes I am in awe.  Anyway, the warmest memories I have are of all of us sitting around her big table in the old farmhouse, eating something wonderful that she cooked for us.  And sneaking her  cookies when we thought she wasn’t looking.

My cookies were great.  But not quite as good as the ones she made from leftover crumbs.  I hope she and my mother are pleased that I still use their spoon.  I think they are.

Father’s Day sort of blindsided me this year.  For five years I’ve make a conscious effort not to notice things that relate to fathers in an attempt to stem the pain. This year it was more of an unconscious thing that I didn’t notice the day was approaching.  Earlier in the month I walked into a department store and was assaulted by all the Father’s Day signs, suggestions,  and piles of wares.  It surprised me and yet there wasn’t the usual stab of real physical pain right under my ribcage like I’ve felt in years past.  It was more like any person might be surprised when they see the Halloween stuff go up in stores in late August.  More like, “Yea that’s right, this month has Father’s Day.”

This year, though I truly wish I could still call my Dad and wish him a fabulous day, I am more content to just wish all the fathers out there a great day.  I’m happy when I hear someone talk about spending time with their own father without feeling the deep sadness that I can’t do the same.

So Happy Father’s Day to you all!  And if you can spend some time with your own Dad, enjoy your day; make some memories, share a laugh, a hug, a thank you.   Do it for yourself, do it for your Dad.  Maybe even as a favor to me.

This long weekend is Memorial Day here in the States. It’s when we take time to remember the men and women that gave their lives so that we could be free. It’s also a time where families tend to the grave sites of their loved ones. So yesterday my husband and I took his aunt and uncle around to all his family plots. It was a daylong event, one you might think would be overwhelmingly sad. Instead it was a flower filled day, complete with family stories, laughter and memories. We were glad to be together, happy to remember those who weren’t there with us, to tell  familiar tales once again as we watered flowers, planted geraniums and in general just said “Hi!” to each and every one of them. 

Today I went to visit some of my own relatives in their final resting places. I visited my grandparents, and my uncles. I found all the cemeteries peaceful, beautiful places. I read many other headstones as I wandered, figuring out stories, wondering about lives.

It’s good to take the time to remember. And to say thanks.  

I’ve been dreaming, and Dad has been with me in each dream. I can’t remember the details about the first one three nights ago, but the night before last he and I were walking through the empty rooms of the house I grew up in. He and Mom were moving and we were making a last pass through the rooms. I remember a beautiful turqoise color on the walls of their bedroom, the evening sun shining low in the window. I saw the darker shapes of paint on the wall where pictures had hung, the marks in the carpet where furniture had once stood. There were a few things left in the house, Mom’s old bathrobe, a couple of boxes stacked up. Apparently Mom was at work and was going to come by after she got off the job, pick up the last of her things and drive to their new home on her own.

Early this morning I was dreaming again. I was on a tour bus traveling somewhere exotic with a large group of people. Somehow we were also learning computer programing, and a large part of the dream was me trying to learn how to load icons onto a computer. But the icons were three dimensional plastic pieces, like toys out of a cracker jack box, and we loaded them into the computer by using fishing line to tie them into a glass box, sort of like an aquarium. Then I had to paint a background and I was struggling with how to incorporate the background with the appropriate icon. Kathy and Valerie, friends from grad school’s first study group were there, trying to teach me how to do this. They said it was easy, but I didn’t think so.

Then I was back on the bus and the tour was ending. I was writing on a really big laptop a very long, detailed tour evaluation. I was the last person on the bus, aside from the tour director and the bus driver and I was hurrying because Dad was coming to pick me up. Suddenly my evaluation format changed. Instead of words in paragraphs, the words divided up into blocks of random text, each block being incased in clear plastic and turning into refrigerator magnets! I was upset because I didn’t have time to rewrite the evaluation, and I didn’t know what I had done to change the format. I was worried that if the refrigerator magnets got out of order the tour guide wouldn’t be able to read the evaluation.

Then I was outside the bus, standing near my VW mini van which appeared to be loaded with all my possessions, and on a picnic table was the laptop with the troublesome evaluation. I was still trying to get the format corrected when I heard my name being shouted. It was Dad, far off down the curving road. He was wearing a short sleeved shirt and a tie that was flapping in the wind. He waved at me and yelled he was going back to get the car because he had parked at the other end of the road, just beyond the curve. He’d be back to pick me up.

I nodded and went back to my problem on the computer.

Then I woke up.

So. Three dreams, three successive nights, and Dad in each of them. Coming to pick me up. That’s sort of unsettling, but after more thought, it’s sort of comforting too.