I have spent the day working. Did payroll. Schedules. Which are tricky now, but that is another story. Ate. Watched an episode of The Crown. Spent time with Nora. Worked on wine dinner menus. And laundry.
And.
I chose to be grateful.
So many men who have been mentors and allies and friends and guides to my children since Philip died.
And.
My dad.
Wow. I just keep coming back to that picture of him, young, a fire fighter. All three of us girls lined up on his lap, looking at us with nothing but love and adoration.
My children knew a dad who loved them. Delighted in them.
So did I.
And wow there are so many more stories that are scribbled in the margins.
So now I sit quietly on my patio as the mountains go from navy to charcoal. The sky from salmon and apricot to peach and submarine grey and dark smoke and ink spill.
A dog barks in the distance.
The poorwhill calls. Why does his song make me feel so real and alive? Sometimes he is up close. Now he is far down. Perhaps near the draw by the willow at the bottom. Beyond my fence.
Crickets or peepers or something like are the background music.
Yesterday as I looked out my bathroom window, knowing that Nora was to return any minute from her road trip across the country, I saw something that grabbed my attention.
Startled me, actually.
An aoudad.
Actually three of them. On the ridge between my place and my BFFs yurt just beyond. I could barely see them. Just their silhouette, the horns curving. Majestic necks. Walking as if they were fauns on their way to a royal gathering. Important news to discuss.
And then they were gone.
So earlier this evening i spoke to my dad. And yes, I speak to dead people all the time.
He was complicated. He grew up on a farm in dust bowl Oklahoma, if that gives you a clue. How many siblings? Six? And a grandma. And an cousin and an aunt. And a baby sister with downs syndrome.
My daddy loved me so much. Oh, how he loved me. I have pictures of his face, adoring mine. He adored my mom.
And he beat us and hurt and was scared and had a profoundly difficult childhood, not just beaten by his dad, who, by the way, also loved and adored him too.
Thank god for EMDR, which is another story altogether. But that said, after December 21,2003, I never had another fight with my dad or my husband.
Just ask my kids.
Anyway.
Today I chose to spent moments here and there in the middle of my day doing payroll and schedules and menus and whatnot to remember the many men who have blessed me and my children. John Arnold in Marblehead. Mike Thomas in Temple. Raymond Skiles right here in Alpine. Rick Keith.
And more. So many more.
Which is the core of my belief system. There is so much more.
And so i sit here on my patio in the quiet. Well. Not so quiet if you count the gentle breeze and the peepers. The tumbling dryer. The dogs down in the draw. Patrick and Madi are tucked in to a romantic dinner in Boise as he returns from a firefighter assignment. Thomas has little caesars with his cat, Nelson, in town. Maggie and Nils live life largely in Austin. Rose and her beau came to pick up her kitty and head back home after epic road trip. Nora and my dog friend Xolo are in town doing kid things with Nora’s friend and I am so glad to have her back from epic sister road trip.
Tomorrow is a new day and the worries and realities swirl.
But tonight I remember the dads. And the not dads but holding the ropes people, and the hurts and joys and losses and griefs are kind of a lot.
And the waxing moon rises over the side of my house and instead of watching Netflix or reading a book I wrote something on my phone.
