16
November 20
St. Peter, North St. Paul
On the longer trip to St. Peter’s and well-over half way through my pilgrimage, I checked my progress. At Mass, I listened more intently and realized it was easier to pay attention. Even the amount of time for Mass seemed shorter now; as a kid when it seemed to drag on for hours. My reflections were longer and easier to write.
To be honest, Father Daniele Scorrano’s Italian accent on the words repeated in each Mass drew me in. With that accent and the gorgeous marble altar, I could easily pretend to be in Italy. St. Peter was staffed with priests from a missionary order in Italy, I read later. Father Scorrano’s sermon centered on faith and trust as a corollary to the gospel of Luke 19:28 about the servants entrusted with their master’s gold. He explained that for us, the gold is our talents. God gives us the talents and we are charged with using them, improving them and not burying them away. It was simple, yet elegant, just like the beautiful church itself.
After we knelt in a pew midway in the front section of the church, we looked for Florentine and Anita, Mom’s younger sisters. When I spied them, I realized how tiny they were, like Mom. Our photo together after Mass in front of a bronze statue of St Peter captured how each of us looked like Mom, well, Scott not as much. On the way from church to a nearby restaurant, Scott blurted out that hugging Florentine and Anita was so much like Mom it made him cry.
At the best local diner, we slid into the small booth and all felt Mom and Dad were there too. We updated each other on the members of our families and the aunties shared stories of growing up with my Mom that made us all tear up. Like Mom, they could be laughing before the tears dropped off their face. We laughed about my Dad’s antics and wondered if St. Peter appreciated his namesake. St. Peter’s was worth the drive.
Lessons from Dad
While we were dating, Scott got to know my parents well. We played cards, ate Mom’s great cooking, and appreciated each other’s company. Scott would also help with projects. Painting the barn and the granary was a huge project. Dad had all kinds of inventive methods and gadgets for farming and applied his creative mind to this daunting project as well. He fashioned S-hooks to hook the paint cans to ladders, had an ample supply of brushes and rags, and drove the loaders, tractors with a bucket loader on the front, up to the granary. On the orange Oliver loader he had added wooden tines for picking up hay that he strapped step ladders on. Unfortunately, the Oliver had an hydraulics issue so the bucket would not stay level, but instead would tip down. Since it was summer and he was busy as all get-out with no time to fix it, he improvised. He’d raise the Oliver bucket to the highest point, then bring in the Case loader to hold the Oliver bucket level. The Case loader had its own cute quirk: though its bucket remained level, with wonky hydraulics, it would randomly drop a few feet. Scott and I were quick learners. Once the Case was positioned, we’d scramble up ladders to the wooden tines, then onto the step ladders and paint like mad. We’d brush on the thick, barn-red paint with incredible speed and minimum accuracy, paint slopping on us and ground below in a Charlie Chaplinesque slap-dash method. With my fear of heights my knees would wobble violently during the entire process, causing the ladder to shake if I reached too far. Plunk. As we painted, the Case loader would drop. It worked well for Dad as he didn’t have to be around to lower the bucket. Being afraid of heights, on a ladder and free falling a few feet at random intervals was the unique combo of excitement and fear that amusement parks provide. Maybe Barn Painting Plunkeroo would never be a licensed ride, but we had a blast.
Adult me, cancer me later realized that my fear of a shortened life made me view time like painting the barn. In 2008 I started this book, stopped and made little progress for ten years then I realized I wanted and needed to finish it, driven yet afraid that a tumor would grow in some spot vital to memory or grammar or typing and would prevent me from completing Once Upon the End. I never knew when a diagnosis would drop me so I truly gave everything I could to living the best life possible. I might fall down, I might not be able to stand up on my own, but damn, I would have the most fun doing it.
Dad also gave me a gift of understanding time that I treasured and applied to my life, post the mets diagnosis. At 60 he stopped milking cows and kept beef cattle until he was 81. Then mostly fed a large clowder of feral cats (Dad also passed on his love of collective nouns. A gaggle of geese, a murder of crows and my own: a migraine of children and my search for the right way to describe tumors — batch was too bland, corruption or plague seemed more accurate). When he needed to replace his 1982 farm truck, he stopped in at the Schwieters Chevrolet dealership in Cold Spring. I wish I could have been there when he asked the sales person, “What do you have with 10,000 miles left?” The sales person started to show him newer trucks, but Dad repeated his request, “What do you have with 10,000 miles left? That’s how many I think I have.” He left with a 2003 blue Chevy Silverado but never got all his miles in. Gulp. Admittedly, there were times I figured my miles.
With my first diagnosis, Scott noticed that I hadn’t bought any clothes in months and expressed relief when I picked up a new pair of pants. I hadn’t even realized I had avoided buying anything, but I bragged to my friends that my husband cheered on my shopping now. But in truth, the pants symbolized my belief that I had ample time to wear them. I liked to shop but had unconsciously limited my purchases. Stage III and IV created a sharp awareness of my timeline. It was hard to justify the expenses so I struggled to replace the Sorrel boots from high school since–Dad also shared his frugal nature with me. “Don’t buy any green bananas” is a brutal way of saying not to make long term plans if you might not live long, but I would even find myself cycling through the freezer, making sure to eat the last bits of cauliflower or any other food only I enjoyed. I culled my wardrobe so Scott, Ben and Mack would have less to deal with and without needing shoes for work, halved my shoe collection. I could walk forever and would never wear them all out in my time. I did walk a lot and actually wore a few pairs of tennis shoes almost completely through and replaced them only after I realized I had hypocritically scolded Mack for not replacing shoes that were “bald.” A perk for Mack of living in California was with no ice, bald shoes are less of a safety hazard. I was loath to replace my cell phone until it stopped working completely, and had an irrational fear of replacing my golf bag, a sick dread keeping me from buying a new one during the winter only to be unable to golf in the spring. If I bought any clothes there were either highly discounted or thrift shop finds. Even new underwear and socks gave me pause. It was never the money, but always the time. I drove a 12-year-old car with 125,000+ miles on it and would not even consider shopping to replace it. I drove very little, loved how it handled in the snow and figured that old car and I shared a similar mileage limit. Thanks, Dad!
It was hard to capture his personality in print but the morning after he died, I wrote his eulogy. Patti, Joe and I read it at his Mass:
First I want to thank everyone for being here to celebrate Dad’s life. He would be pleased by the respect you’ve shown him and honored by your presence. It is a privilege to speak about him.
I want to preface this eulogy by saying that most of my writing is letters of recommendation for students so….
In his 82 years, Dad was quick with his wit and also willing to share his wisdom and his opinion…whether you liked it or not. He grew up the youngest in a family of five with four older sisters so though he did not suffer from hand-me-downs, he also had plenty of eyes ready to tattle if he was naughty. By far his favorite childhood stories centered on recess and in later years, the many days he missed while taking care of the farm. From little on he was a farmer by choice. He loved tending his animals, fixing machinery (two of everything and maybe a spare for the second too) and being his own boss.
His family was always near and dear to him and it all started with a blind date with little MaryAnn Ludwig that grew to 57 years of marital bliss and a lovely family with whom he shared his many jokes and compelling theories of life. He enjoyed the simple pleasures in life: in the summer swimming in the evening after chores, the miracle of life with the birth of calves in early fall or lambs in the spring, the endless search for the perfect dog, and good food all year: a slice of raisin cream pie, a box of fig bars, peanut butter. Oh-so-much peanut butter.
Though he wasn’t much for clubs and organizations, his fondness for dance was evident in the many evenings spent square dancing or ballroom dancing. He was a great dancer and leader–instrumental in the formation of the Koronis Night Owls Square Dance Club. He also enjoyed great card games with friends and family. He wasn’t a big sports fan nor did he take vacations, but he did love his birthday. February 16th, well really all of February. Once we even left up the Christmas tree for him!
All in all, Dad would have wanted this to be brief so we could move along to the dinner and desserts. He lived a great life with a good death. Lived and died on his terms able to tell us just two weeks ago to start hospice ” I am ready to go. I am soooo ready to go.” And just days before his death while Mom and I prayed a Rosary, he would chime in occasionally with his eyes closed, but his voice clear and fast. When Mom reassured him that “We are taking care of each other. You can go in peace. We’re ready,” and he replied, “God’s not ready.” His last clear communication imparted wisdom. We were not in control and needed to leave it up to God. Only a few days later, God must have been ready: Dad’s great life ended with a good death.
Together we recited a stanza of a Robert Service’s WWI poem “Carry On” Dad memorized as schoolboy and we’d memorized from him:
And so in the strife of the battle of life
It’s easy to fight when you’re winning;
It’s easy to slave, and strive and be brave,
When the dawn of success is beginning.
But the man who can meet despair and defeat
With a cheer, there’s the man of God’s choosing
Certainly, I did not understand it as a child, but as an adult, I recognized that man God had chosen.
