Big Babies

My beloved dad [God rest his soul] used to tell us as to the arrival of the first child in a marriage, "The first one can come at any time; all the rest take 9 months."

He used this to explain the phenomena of 8 pound preemies.

Eighty

Today my thoughts turned to my father. It was his birthday. He would have been 80 had he not stopped celebrating earthly birthdays 3 years ago. I have nothing but happy thoughts when I think of him. It's a nice reminder of a very good man.

Sevens

Milestones big and little to note today. The littlest: my site meter clicked over 77,777 today. I think I know the pal in Minnesota who was the lucky visitor.

Another: on advice from a couple people, I gave Dave the HBO mini-series "John Adams" for Father's Day. That was the best 7 hours of television I've spent in about 10 years. It was excellent from start to finish. I'm now enjoying the book.

The biggest, at least for me: tomorrow marks the second year since my dad died. A little over 700 days of a world without my father has passed swiftly because of my day-to-day duties with little ones. But there have been many times where his memory burbles up unbidden. Tears sometimes well up, but mostly warm memories envelope me.

Swing and Sway with Sammy Kaye

My mom blogs about the story of how she met Dad. I wrote about it a long time ago.

Today would have been Dad's 79th birthday.

Reagan, Heston, Dad

Thoughts of my dad have burbled up a lot in the last few weeks. I most miss Dad on Sunday mornings when the political chat shows are on [he got me watching them as a kid], when Mom is here, and when I think of men of good character because my dad is the man of good character who made the most profound impact on me.

Today I heard the news of Charlton Heston's death after years with Alzheimer's. When President Reagan died of the same disease, I mourned deeply for him and watched Nancy shattered at his loss. I grieved for being the snot-nosed kid who didn't vote for him the first time I had a chance and I grieved the loss I anticipated of my dad from the same disease. Today's loss of Heston makes me sad for his wife of many years [over 60] who has been devoted to him in sickness and in health until death.

And then I had a happy thought: what if there's an Alzheimer's wing in heaven? Might people who died from that memory-robbing disease have an extra helping of eternity to savor the memories they misplaced here on earth? Might my dad spend a moment with Reagan and Heston on the other side? He might indeed.

Commemoration Day

My father died on this day a year ago. It seems forever ago. And it seems like just yesterday. It marked the beginning of my mourning--an event that was delayed for me for the seven years of his final illness--and that continues today. But I discovered this past year that my mourning is very fleeting. It's memories that blip across my mind briefly and then go. It's noticing my son's strong resemblance to my father when I catch him out of the corner of my eye. It's a thousand whispered prayers that take a moment. It's not an onerous task, this remembering, because I loved my dad when he was alive. I have no regrets for him.

Only those left behind to remember him.

Happy Blogiversary, Siblings!

I can hardly believe it's been a year since my brother, Paul, began his photo-laden blog. That became the tipping point as shortly thereafter, sisters Mary and Peggy began theirs. They've all kept up with it for these past twelve months and I love them all. Their blogs are a way of being connected without intrusion, and informed without inquisitioning.

Of course, this time of year is also a reminder of two years ago, when Annie began her orthopedic journey that still continues, and a year ago, when my father quietly departed for bluer skies.

I may never have the traffic or readership of the bigger blogs. But this little journal is a cyber-tether to my loved ones, our memories, our shared history. It is sufficient.

Mementos of Dad

When Mom was here recently, I told her that I was a little sad that I got no memento when Dad died. My brother, his only son, naturally got the family treasures, but I was left with nothing tangible. We discussed it for awhile and left it for other topics.

The other day I received a package from Mom. In it, she included the wooden shoeshine box that I watched Dad pull out every Saturday. He learned a good spit-shine in the Army and he polished up his oxfords every week. Many of his sales calls were to farmers or dusty agricultural co-ops, so he had a lot of work to do to keep them looking spiffy. Years later when I met my husband in the Army, he, too, devoted a great deal of time and effort at keeping his boots and shoes looking neat. In fact, Dave, out of either pity or the chance to impress, taught me how to do a good spit-shine, too. [Key fact: use no spit. Cold water is much better.]

Mom also sent Dad's first rosary, blessed by Pope Benedict. Two of his friends brought it to him from a recent pilgrimmage to Rome. I find it funny that Dad's first pope as a Catholic was John Paul II, while mine was Pope Paul VI. [I missed it being John XXIII by only a few months.]

Finally, she included a small 'zen garden' that Dave and I gave to Dad for Father's Day five years ago. He was well along into his Alzheimer's and that little novelty gave his hands something to do besides trace the placemat with his juice glass. It now sits on my desktop with a small note that reads, "Serenity now."

They are all perfect little reminders of Dad: Army Dad, Catholic Dad, stricken Dad.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

Today would have been my father's 78th birthday. Last year we celebrated his 77th at Myrtle Beach. We bought him a chocolate cake with chocolate icing that he enjoyed every meal Mom let him. We splurged and bought two '7' candles. I assured my mom that I'd use them for Zeke's 7th and the girls'. [By then, they'll probably be insisting on separate cakes anyway.]

So in this year of last things, we have almost made another trip around the sun. If I were being theologically correct, I would not tell Dad 'Happy Birthday' until July 3rd--the day of his birth to eternal life. But this day is the one I will remember because of all the May 4ths of my youth, and I'll cherish the memory that his last birthday on earth was spent in my little corner of the world with my little family including my son, another May baby, who is named for him.

It Is a Good and Holy Thing to Pray for Your Dad

We Catholics are grateful for the dogma of Purgatory. It's that "place" en route to Heaven where those souls who need a little cleaning up prior to seeing The Big Guy get spiffed up. I often think of the movie The Wizard of Oz where Dorothy and friends have made it to the Emerald City, but they need to be cleaned up to see The Wizard. We find in 2 Maccabees 12: 45-46:

"...for if he were not expecting the fallen to rise again, it would have been useless and foolish to pray for them in death. But if he did this with a view to the splendid reward that awaits those who had gone to rest in godliness, it was a holy and pious thought. Thus he made atonement for the dead that they might be freed from this sin."

Today, I was pleasantly surprised that the Mass was being offered for my dad. I'm sure that in the flurry of cards I received last July after his death that some kind soul offered a Mass for his happy repose. Because our church is growing so large and there are a finite number of Masses each year, it took this long to get Dad's Mass on the roster. I have confidence that if Dad is not already in Heaven, he can probably smell it from where he's at. Today's Mass either helped him along the way, or some other poor soul who needed it worse. In what could merely be happenstance, a couple of the songs really reminded me of Dad. We sang all five verses of Amazing Grace and the offertory song was Tommy Dorsey's Precious Lord, Take My Hand. I don't recall hearing that particular hymn at our church in a very long time. And Dad will forever spring to mind whenever I hear big band music or the holier incantations from its musicians.

Hey, Dad, this Mass was for you.

Transported Out of Time and Space

Today was the regular Tuesday fun outing to the YMCA and I had two different moments where I was transported away for brief moments. My son is named after both his grandfathers and he looks like my dad in his features and like Dave's dad in his coloring. Today, I was following him into the gym and I noticed his gait and his wiry leanness and his gray warm-up pants. On all three counts, he looked to me like my dad. As quickly as I noticed, the moment vanished.

Later, well into my elliptical work-out, I was watching Regis and Kelly do their host chat and I forgot that I was walking uphill at a high level of resistance. Briefly, [ever-so], I was in their studio audience in New York, thoroughly enraptured by Miss Ripa.

Tomorrow, Lent begins, and the ever-ancient is new again. We get to be transported back to the time of Jesus and witness His sufferings once again and join Him by picking up our cross and following Him.

State of the Union and Missing My Dad

It's funny how grief works sometimes. I go for a while, not really thinking much about my dad's passing. Then out of the blue, I have a strong recollection of him and it comes over me like a wave. I must've acquired my interest in politics from the many Sundays I watched Dad watch the talking heads shows. I mostly watched him because his reactions were loud, strong and visceral. I watched presidential addresses in the same way. He used to always disregard the media punditry by sardonically saying, "Now they're going to tell you what he just said."

It's still true. I miss you, Dad.

Whimsy and Pathos

My children are at a perfect age to enjoy the "magic" of Christmas. I am not really fueling that, I'm just letting their whimsy setting reach its own level. For my money, today is still Advent. We've been lighting the Advent candles at breakfast all this week. A little controlled fire has an amazing effect on the younger set. They're excited about Jesus' birthday, but I haven't really clued them in as to when it's coming.

I haven't put up a Christmas tree for about 10 years. The last one I had was left on our porch by my husband's business partner who thought it sacrilegious to have no tree. Since then, it's been really too much of a hassle for me to bother with. And our space is really, really limited in our cozy little house. [But you regular readers know that.] Christmas festivities and decorations are an "out there" phenomena. I completely enjoy seeing the trees, lights, manger scene, et al at Church, at relatives, at friends', at work. But that's as far as it goes. This year I considered getting a tree to put up in the basement tonight so that the kids could see Santa's handiwork. But Dave talked me down from that ledge. So, no tree chez Adams. Will Christmas still come?

We have been teaching the children that Christmas celebrates the birth of Baby Jesus. We're planning His birthday party for tomorrow. We all join in by sharing birthday presents. I think I will hang the streamers and blow up balloons, just like I would if any of my family members had a birthday. I want to avoid setting myself up for a command performance every year. I don't want to pass on the notion that "if you don't have x, it's just not Christmas."

This year is the first Christmas in my life without my father drawing breath somewhere on planet earth. Christmas is always one of Mom's favorites. Her birthday is Epiphany, and I suspect she always got the short end of the stick being the 6th of 9 children in a Depression-era family. I think she compensated by embracing Christmas as the birthday season she shared with her Savior.

Our house was always happily festooned and some scrumptious yummies were only made at Christmas time. We always did Mass on Christmas morning and were forbidden from opening the presents until afterward. [The one concession was we got to open one gift in our stocking before Mass.] I have a treasury of memorable gifts [that all draw a big ticket on eBay these days], and lessons, but mostly it was the excitement, the anticipation, the day of unfettered fun with my siblings. I loved watching Mom tear up bread the night before and stuff the turkey on Christmas morn. I loved the carols. I loved practicing the carols on the piano and having a cease-fire with my sister long enough to learn the duets. I loved being with my family because the sense of security and devotion and love it instilled in me. Was Christmas the things? Or the lights? Or the trinkets? To some extent, I guess, the answer is yes. But there's the heart of Christmas that cannot be touched by those surface things.

Without my dad, it just can't be Christmas. But he's gone on and Christmas is here.

51

Photo by Paul F. Gero, all rights reserved.



Today is the wedding anniversary of my parents. They were married 51 years ago. Last year, the whole family gathered to celebrate 50 years. This year, we are all in different places. Dad died July 3rd after a long illness. Mom spent the last 7 years of their married life providing care for him. She lived her vows "in sickness and in health." And she fulfilled her vow of "til death do us part." She hasn't stopped loving him.

Last year's gathering was bittersweet because we knew Dad was ill. But it was sweet to see them celebrate a milestone that is too rare these days. On the front porch of my girlhood home, Mom and Dad toasted their day from the family heirloom goblets--the same ones they toasted from on their wedding day in 1955. The same goblets that my husband and I toasted from at our wedding in 1990 [and all my siblings did, too, at their weddings.] These goblets were crafted for my great grandparents on the occasion of their 50th wedding anniversary. They are the family emblem of longevity in married life.

Fifty-one is also important because it is the year my father graduated from Rutgers University. He was a proud Joe College. He wore his college ring [emblazoned with Tau Kappa Epsilon on the stone] until the end. I believe my brother owns it now. When we were sassy, Dad would ask us if we wanted TKE written backwards on our forehead. It was an empty threat, but it usually stopped all the shenanigans. Dad always wore two gold rings for as long as I can ever remember.

So I recall these shiny things,
silver goblets, and golden rings.
Promises made. Promises kept.
Love was shared. Tears were wept.

First and Last

In blogging, the last thing posted in a month is the first thing you come to in the archives. Let me close out this July 2006 with a picture of my father, Robert B. Gero, who died on July 3rd, 2006. My brother took the picture in September 2005, on Dad and Mom's 50th wedding anniversary. He was watching the sunset from the front porch of the house where I spent my childhood.

I miss him.

Class Reunions: Class of 1981 and 1976

This weekend, I believe, will be my 25th high school class reunion. I shan't be there. I was just home to Wisconsin and saw many, many folks who came by to pay their respects to my dad. I hadn't even really planned to go to the reunion. I suspect that I'm probably the one in my class, however, who has had the most children since the last reunion. I was at the 20th and I was barren. As the 25th rolls around, I have three. My, but things do change. My GPA used to be the more important number.

I always share reunions with my sister Peggy. She graduated 5 years ahead of me. She, like my dad before her, makes a point of attending reunions. I remember my high school graduation coming in my Dad's 30th high school reunion time. And, of course, college reunions lined up for us, too. So this year would have been Dad's 55th high school reunion from Haddonfield High. I think Dad actually made friends with the reunion-goers; friends who wouldn't have been pals with the 100 pound weakling back in the day. He was that kind of guy.

One of my all-time favorite bloggers, James Lileks, is chronicling his journey home for his class of '76 reunion in Fargo this week. Set your meters to uber-nostalgic. Dadgum but he can write. I commend this to you. Highly.

Gifts of Love

Yesterday was my father's funeral. Today, his body is being buried in the upper peninsula of Michigan in the town of his birth in a plot adjacent to his parents' remains.

Yesterday we received many gifts. The service was dignified and lovely. My brother Paul and sister Peggy and Dave and I prepared eulogies for the time after Mass when it is customary to reflect on the life of the deceased. Paul, a brilliant photographer, shared in words a few snapshots of Dad that were seared into his mind. These images conveyed the fatherly-ness of Dad--from playing catch, to coaching baseball, to helping his adult son finish the last push of college and to avoid the regret of quitting. My sister, Peggy, who works for the State, but whose passion is the kennel where she raises champion Gordon Setters, told of Dad's love of learning and his avid reading and his stalwart work ethic wherein no labor is beneath you, even the allowance chore she had of picking up dog doo. As a kid, she was embarassed by this being the source of her income. As an adult, she continues this job, times ten. She shared her moments with him near the end and at the end and that Dad had a peaceful death.

Dave was prepared to talk about his instant rapport with Dad, who also served his country as an Infantry Lieutenant. Dave knew that Dad was a patriot and valued honor. They both shared their love of "his baby girl." The tears, which began flowing at Paul's talk, and continued with Peggy's talk, overcame Dave and he just could not give his talk. He handed it to Mom afterwards so she knew what he was going to say.

In our married life, I can count on one hand the times I've seen my husband cry. At those moments, there's something in me that completely shuts off my tear ducts. I don't know why, but it's always been the case. Neither of us puddle up at the same time, although, in fairness, Dave has millions more chances to restrain tears than I do. After that, I delivered my talk:

I want to tell you about my the faith of my father.

When he was a little boy, his father died and it was the Depression. He would spend a lot of time with his grandparents in Michigan. His grandmother was an organist for her church. He would tag along with his grandmother on Saturdays when she would rehearse in the empty church. Dad would lie on his back and look up at the altar. It read "God is Love." He told me he knew it was true.

As a young man,someone told him "You don’t send your children to church. You take them." Thatmade a big impression on him long before he was a husband or father.

When Dad courted Mom, he was not Catholic. When they were married, back in the good old days of Latin Mass, and communion rails, the NON-Catholic groom had to promise to be open to children and to raise them in the faith. That was part of the deal. Not just that he wouldn’t impede their faithful upbringing, but that he would see to it that they were raised in the faith. He gave his word and he fulfilled his word.

I am the youngest of his children. I’m told that Mom would take to Mass those who could behave and Dad would stay behind with those who were too young to sit through Mass. I’m told that as a little girl of about 4, I asked Dad if we could please go to Mass with the others. He did. Every Sunday. For my whole memory, Dad was always there with us at Mass. Through the years, he participated more and more in the Mass. About the time of my First Communion, I asked him why he didn’t receive Communion. He told me simply, "I’m not Catholic."

As a teen, I was preparing for Confirmation. Like many adolescents who know a whole lot more than their parents, I was uncertain whether I wanted to make the big commitment that Confirmation entailed. I wondered if I could promise to be a Catholic for the rest of my life. He understood my doubt and he was very patient and kind. He made it O.K. to challenge and question my faith, so as to finally embrace my faith. I knew that even if Mom would be upset, he would back me up if I wanted to not be confirmed.

Very few people know that Dad’s morning routine was an early morning exercise, followed by scripture. He read a chapter of the Bible almost every morning. And he read it in 4 different versions in his concordance Bible. He looked at his faith as an intellectual pursuit.

I always believed that if I married someone like my dad, I’d be doing good. I married a non-Catholic and as I really began to embrace my faith as an adult, it began to bother me that my husband wasn’t Catholic. I asked him about it. In a brilliant stroke, he told me that when my dad converted, he would consider it. Let me tell you. I went about my Dad’s conversion with the evangelical zeal of St. Paul. Mom had been praying for Dad for over 40 years. Every little prayer for his conversion was a little piece of kindling on a pile. I pretty much got in Dad’s face and challenged him as to why he was not Catholic. Was it papal infallibility? No. Marian devotion? No. Confession? No. What was it, Dad? Turns out, he had doubt about the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist. That pile of kindling? I threw lighter fluid on it. Father Bill invited Dad to become Catholic and he lit the match.

My birthday is the day before Mom and Dad’s anniversary. Eight years ago, they called to wish me a happy birthday and then he sheepishly told me that the next day, he would be making his First Confession and First Holy Communion in a private Mass...just Dad, Mom and Father Bill. I was overjoyed for him. I demanded "When were you going to tell me this?" He said, "I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want you to start bugging David."

Dad’s conversion was completed a couple months later when he was Confirmed. The bishop was making his annual visit and Dad, a white-haired man well in his 60s, was confirmed with all the teenagers. He showed me then that IT IS NEVER TOO LATE.

A brief while later, he had his stroke and that intellectual faith, that newly found faith, that faith that was manifest in the prayers and devotion of his wife changed to a child-like faith overnight. Throughout this last phase of his life, I saw the fulfillment of God’s promises to believers. God is love. God pursues us like a Good Shepherd. He loves us where we are and he takes us as we are. He doesn’t just send us to church. He meets us in church.

Dad believed that God is Love. He loved his wife, who prayed for his conversion. I believe Dad’s years as a Catholic onlooker and later as a Catholic in full communion, is a testament to the Sacrament of Marriage. For decades, Marriage was the Sacrament that sustained his faith. In his final days, he was blessed with the Sacraments of Anointing of the Sick and his final morsel of food he ever consumed was the Eucharist. Food for his journey onward to Heaven.

For me, the greatest gift of love was being surrounded by my wonderful family, but especially for the gifts of my friends from ages past, being there. My maid of honor just happened to be in town, up from Florida, with her little girl. My matron of honor adjusted a very busy family schedule and drove several hours from the Twin Cities to be there. My last local non-sibling bridesmaid and her husband [incidentally, my first boyfriend in 6th grade] both took off work and came. All of us shared the afternoon together, poolside at the hotel, while the children swam, making plans and solving all the worlds' problems. Last night, we went to my sister's house and went to the local Lake Days festival and heard a really good band play until midnight. We retired, slept in and prepare to fly home today.

There are three little redheads whom I've missed.

Wake Re-Cap

Dad's visitation was last night at the funeral home. I found it quite interesting who came by to pay their respects. The men had become littler old men. Most of the women had become considerably more gray and a lot thinner. Some knew Dad as a salesman, others as the little old man who visited the care center a couple times a week with my mother.

I had to retrain my mind to see the face in front of me and try to remember who it belonged to 25 years ago when I left town for college. I often got it because some people had aged beautifully. I often missed it. No matter, I found out why this person in front of me was here. Many folks came to support my sisters who live near Mom. One of my classmates came to my Dad's visitation as I had done for his dad's funeral 20 years prior. Many came because they knew him from church. Mom's bridge pals and bowling pals and workplace pals all came. My uncle and his daughter, Dad's youngest brother, arrived after a two-day trek from Jersey. Paul's friends came up from Chicago.

My husband came from North Carolina. That was the greatest gift of all.

This morning, we will start at the funeral home and drive to the church. We will celebrate a Mass of Christian Burial. The priest will deliver the homily, but several of us will deliver the eulogy after Communion. I pray to get through it with clarity and grace.

Honor Thy Father

We had another family confab tonight and we were deciding how best to pay tribute to our Dad. It was a gathering of laughter and tears. Each of us has a different angle, a different story, a different perspective on Dad. We want so much for those who come to the funeral to know a part of Dad that we know and to see him for the great good man that he was. Dad took seriously the call to see Christ in others and to be Christ to others.

I wrote draft one of my eulogy for my father.

Actually, I typed it. SomeOne else wrote it.

Robert B. Gero, R.I.P.

My father died on July 3, 2006, at 11:15 p.m. in Columbus, Wisconsin, after several years with Alzheimer's disease. He was 77 years old. He is survived by his wife of over 50 years, Anne, and four children and six grandchildren.

My sister, Peggy, was with him at the end. His departure was quite peaceful. I'm on my way to Wisconsin later today. I'm taking my laptop and my hotel room has free wi-fi. I tend to process major things in my life through this blog, so I believe this will be no different.

The requiem prayer we say in the Roman Catholic Church goes like this:

Eternal rest grant unto him.
And let perpetual light shine upon him.

May his soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

My brother has more on his blog as well.