The Power of Observation

Megan and Mom and Marc have got me hooked on mysteries.  What is it about mysteries and the Dempsey family?

Of course, now I want to be a detective.  Do you think I would be a good detective?  You would have been a good one.

The other day I was wondering if I could get a tiny tattoo on the inside of my left wrist and hide it for eternity from Mom, who would hate it.  As you know I wear my watch on my right wrist despite being right-handed.  I thought, well I could just switch my watch over to my left hand every time I was going to see Mom, and the band would hide it.  I knew that if you were here, I would never get away with that.  You would notice within minutes if I changed the wrist I wore my watch on, and you would ask me about it, and probably before I even had a chance to answer you would have discovered the tattoo.  You noticed everything!

I can think of more than a few times when you noticed me doing something I wasn't supposed to be doing and you just caught my eye, made use of raised eyebrows to make sure I noted that you had seen me, and then never brought it up again.  Detective Discreet Dempsey, that's what they'd call you.

Miss you.
A

The Most Interesting Person in the World

Thinking about that chandelier in the dining room, I remembered a photography assignment I had in High School for a self-portrait.  Clad in all black with hundreds of layers of black eyeliner circling my raccoon eyes, I set up my picture with my face being lit dramatically by only the lantern bulb from the chandelier.  It was a very moody, very serious, very deep (obviously) portrait of a 16 year-old suburban girl who was the most interesting person in the world.

My cat Barry is one of the most absurd creatures on earth, everything he does looks ridiculous and goofy and makes me laugh out loud.  But, the best part about Barry is that he takes himself utterly seriously -- he looks like some sort of prancing buffoon, but he thinks he is the king of lions.  His old owner described one of his poses as his "Most Interesting Cat in the World" pose.  Several times a day I laugh out loud and say, "Barry, how do you take yourself seriously?"

A sixteen year-old girl who has faced no serious hardship to speak of and yet is dressed as if she's in mourning for all of life and sets up a moody self-portrait lit only by the lantern of a chandelier is not dissimilar to Barry, in a lot of ways.  How did you take me seriously?  But, you did.  Or, at least you did long enough to help me with my photography assignment.  I went to you to help me take the actual photo and to set up my composition, and you didn't laugh once.  You took it as seriously as I did, utterly patient and devoted to the project.

While you teased us endlessly (which has given me a fondness for people who can make me laugh about myself), you also knew when it was important to support us and take us seriously.  This was one of those moments.  I would have been humiliated if you had mocked my very serious artwork and my very serious process and my very serious eyeliner, but you would never have done so.  You worked with me on the composition and you looked through the viewfinder and pressed the buttons on the camera.

You were supportive when you read my self-serious college essays and with all of my photography.  And I can picture your face, your smile, it wasn't fake.  You were proud.  You loved helping me with photography -- we picked out my DSLR camera together, you gave me a zoom lens for it for Christmas one year.  You were happy if we were happy, in the most true sense of it.  Not to mention that you loved gadgets and reading the instruction booklet on a new toy was like Christmas for you.

You took me to hockey games and hockey card trading shows (??) when I decided I was obsessed with ice hockey.  You even found a way to get me a signed jersey from an old client of yours, Bobby Nystrom, who used to play for the Islanders.  We built stilts in the driveway one time when I guess I wanted to... what, audition for the circus?  You were kind and supportive and truly did just want us to follow our passions and be happy.  How lucky we were, as kids and as adults, to have a father like you.  Thanks for taking me seriously, Dad.  I love you.

Amy

Toasters and Tires

However many posts Megan and I write about your safety freak tendencies, we never seem to cover off on everything.  A few forgotten: toasters and tires.

First, toasters.  I was lead to believe (by you) that if someone were to stick a knife or a fork in a toaster, then that person and everyone in the room would instantly die.  This extended to even going near a toaster with a knife or a fork: instant death.  You might never have actually said these exact words, but the gravity with which you issued warnings about utensils and toasters conveyed this exact message.  Fork + toaster = instant death.

No part of me ever questioned the validity of this lesson or wondered if maybe you were exaggerating ever so slightly about the danger presented here, this was just the truth.  Several years ago I was staying with a friend and her family at their lake house in upstate New York.  We were all sitting around drinking coffee and having a casual breakfast one morning, when I saw my friend approaching a toaster with a fork in her hand.  Oh my god.  I could see it all unfolding, her intentions were clear: she was going to use that fork to retrieve the bagel from the toaster oven, and in the process she was going to kill us all.  I dove across the room in slow motion, screaming "nooooo" and nearly tackled my friend.  I was too late.  She had already stuck the fork in the bagel, which was in the toaster, and pulled the bagel out.  And you know what?  Not one of us was dead.  She and her father both looked at me like I was insane, and I sort of brushed it off.  I knew I had to wait until later to sit alone and re-examine all of the lessons I'd learned from early childhood to adulthood.

Just a couple of days after you died, the house on Thompson Street played a terrible trick on us.  I was sitting and reading (or maybe binge watching TV) in the breakfast room, and Mom was headed to bed. She came back a couple minutes later and beckoned me into the dining room.  "Something weird happened," she said, "when I went to turn the lights off and now they are stuck on."  She tried to turn the lights in the chandelier in the dining room off, and when she'd done so she had heard a loud pop and then the switch had ceased working.  The chandelier bulbs were stuck on.  The second switch in the hallway had no effect on them either.  Hmmm, I thought.  We didn't want to leave those lights going all night, and I was a little bit scared that there was going to be an electrical fire.  I really, really wanted you to be there to deal with it.  You would have known instantly what was wrong and how to fix it.

Brilliantly, I came up with the idea of unscrewing each individual lightbulb from in the chandelier to get them to turn off for the night, and we could deal with the broken switch in the morning.  Covering my hand with my sweatshirt, I unscrewed the bulbs one by one.  As I did so, I wondered if I was making some serious mistake that was going to cause the house to blow up.  Again I really, really wished I could ask you.  Would you say what I was doing was wildly insane and stupid?  Or would you say that it was the right thing to do until we could get an electrician in?  I had absolutely no idea, but I pretended to Mom that I was completely confident in my plan and that all was well.

As soon as Mom went to bed, I ran upstairs and woke up Marc.  He grumbled from the other side of the door, what?!  "Ummm," I said, "I may or may not have just set the house to blow up over night.  Can you please come take a look?"  Marc came downstairs and examined things and said that I had done the right thing and all was well and that the house was not going to explode overnight.  However, from his slight hesitancy I could tell that what he was really thinking was that he wished he could ask you and that he should pretend for my sake that he knew what he was talking about, as I had pretended for Mom's sake.

If the seriousness of going near a toaster with a fork was what you made it out to be, I can't imagine how you would have reacted had you seen me with my sweatshirt sleeve pulled over my hand unscrewing the hot bulbs on the broken chandelier.  It felt like I was breaking all the rules.

Your other obsession was spare tires.  This past summer, I got a flat tire driving home from Jennifer's wedding on Long Island.  I got it fixed that night, and then forgot to get a back-up spare tire.  You told me that I needed to get one immediately.  I said yes, sure, I will soon.  You cannot drive without one, you said.  Yep, I continued to placate you.  Then you launched an email, text, and voicemail campaign that would have any outsider thinking you worked for the spare tire lobby.  Relentless.  I finally got the back up and about a week later got another flat tire on the way out of town one weekend.  Triple A came to fix it, but it was too late to find a tire shop to get a back up that night.  I would have to delay my trip until morning, unless I drove to Pennsylvania with no spare.  The Triple A guy told me I could chance it, and I looked at him like he had suggested I stick a fork in a toaster while lying in a bathtub: "Um, no, my father would kill me if I drove without a spare."  I did wait until morning, and I do have a spare tire, and I do not put utensils in toasters, and amazingly I did not start an electrical fire with the chandelier in the dining room.  And I miss you.

Love a

One of those days...

I'm sorry.  I just emailed Megan and called her a "stupid fascist" for making me cry with her gardening post.  It's just that I could see so clearly what she was describing: you going on and on, extolling the virtues of the gardening bench as if you were selling it on an infomercial.  You loved explaining things and showing off the features of gadgets.

And today's just one of those days that I wanted to pretend you didn't die, you know?  I just wanted to take a break from it for a day.  I went to the blog casually because Megan said she had posted, and I figured I'd give it a quick read.  I've got a lot of other stuff I've been trying to sort through mentally today, and after spending all of the morning and the first half of the afternoon in the haze of a migraine, I've been trying to be productive this evening.

So it caught me by surprise to read Megan's post and to picture you so clearly, and to hear your slow voice, and to burst into tears.  I guess today isn't, actually, a day in which you didn't die.  There's no break from it, it still happened.  And I still wish it hadn't.  But, I'm sorry, Dad, that I called your other daughter (LFD) a stupid fascist.  She knows I didn't mean it.

I'm still the MFD, right?

Love you.

a

Gardening bench

Since we moved back to NY three years ago, we've started gardening. Until last summer, when we moved to Sea Cliff, we did all our gardening at your house. You lucked out! That was a huge help for you and meant that Mom stopped bugging you about a lot of the gardening work.

One day, during a particularly rigorous weeding session, you gave me a gardening bench to sit on. A gardening bench, I thought scornfully? That's for old people with bad backs.

Well, it was kind of amazing, actually. It's comfy and sturdy and really did help me last longer than I would have just crouching or bending down to grab the seemingly endless weeds and vines. Anyway, I asked you about the bench, and per your usual treatment of gear, you gushed about it and all the bench's virtues. The top comes off for washing. If you turn it upside down, there is a pad you can use for kneeling down. And on and on.

I said I might get one and you winked and me, and said, Megs, don't buy a bench! Next time you and Mom came over, around my birthday, you brought me my own gardening bench as a gift.

It's spring now, and if you were here, Dad, we would be going over everything that's blooming in detail. Let me tell you what's happening in our garden:
- The peach tree is getting leaves and little pink flowers are going to open any day now. I am saying prayers that the flowers are precursors to fruit...
- The very first flower opened on the camellia bush, it's a pinkish red
- All of the hydrangeas, which we cut back the way you advised us to, are growing leaves, both from the old branches and from the bottom up
- I just cut back the butterfly bushes, which you're supposed to leave until early spring
- The little tree you and Mom gave me (at the same time as the gardening bench) was the first thing to get leaves in the whole garden
- The lilac has tons of buds and could burst out any time
- Idriss is in heaven because his gigantic mint patch is coming back in, and soon he'll be able to cut the mint for tea. Our thyme and chives are also back
- The strawberry plants are getting their first flowers and tiny fruits
- The little holly in the planter died (I didn't like it that much anyway)
- I planted two small rhododendrons in the back corner in the hopes that they'll cheer up that area
- I am planning a small shade garden in that corner near the privet, with astilbe and Japanese anemone

I have looked for organic heirloom tomatoes but I guess it's too early to plant them yet. Same goes for the pink peonies I'm hoping to find soon.

It's a beautiful April, Dad. It's so hard that you are not hear to chat about the garden and maybe start golfing. Every blue sky, every clear sunset, every mild afternoon I think of you. I wish you could have had one last spring.

When the Lions Come

The other day I watched a small boy go to his father for protection when a small house cat entered the room.  The father was squatting down, tying the shoe of his five year-old son, and when the two year-old spotted the cat, he side-stepped over to the crouching father, eyes on the cat while one hand reached out to his father for support.  He didn't hide behind his father's back, just kept one hand on him to reassure himself, for protection should he need it.  So casual was the whole thing, it didn't seem as if the father even noticed.

Chuckling to myself, because really what was there to be afraid of with this tiny housecat, the older child looked up at me and said that his brother was scared of the cat.  I smiled again.  Then the small boy looked at me, one hand still perched on his father's back, and formed his words slowly and carefully.  He's at the age where sentences are still a big deal, where they take effort to compose.  "I'm scared of him because he scratches."  Deadly serious.  "Fair enough," I said, "that's a pretty good reason to be afraid of something."  And I looked at the cat again, and thought, well, yes, relative to the size of the boy, the cat was huge.  To him, it was as if a lion had come into the room.  I was a bit overcome by the moment, the casual safety the boy sought out in his father, the gesture of protection offered by the Dad just by virtue of his very existence.

It made me think of the ocean, when we were kids, and standing in the salty waves with you, tall and strong, my protector.  The regular beach was the beach near our house, which was Long Island Sound, where we'd go nearly every day in the summer with Mom and loll about on round plastic tubes in the calm, flat water.  Scratch our feet on the rocky sand.  But the ocean, the ocean was a grand treat which we would sometimes drive to on weekends with you and Mom together.  Going to the ocean was a very, very big deal, and the waves were massive, and the sand was free from rocks, and the water was so salty it stung your eyes, and there was always ice cream and hot pretzels.

You'd take us out into the rough water and we'd stand up to our waists and let the waves come at us, breaking just before they got to us and sweeping us up in their frothy white aftermath.  You'd hold on tight to our hands so we couldn't be swept too far away, and I had no fear when my hand was in your hand.  Occasionally, the force of the wave would be so strong that I'd lose my grip on your hand and get thrown about under the water, not knowing which way was up or down, being pounded into the sand, sand in my bathing suit and mouth.  But your searching hand would always scoop me back up and I'd be safe again.  Sometimes you and Megan would walk out farther than I could stand and I would beg to come with you.  Sometimes you would let me come and would hold me up the whole time.  How glorious it was, to be in those waves with you.  Waves and adrenaline rising and falling and all the while knowing I was safe because one hand was on you.

About eight or ten years ago, you and me and Mom went out to visit a friend of yours who was renting a house in the Hamptons for the summer.  It was one of those houses that had direct beach access, sitting right there on the ocean sand.  We went out back and everyone sat around eating and drinking on the beach.  Except me, I made a beeline for the water.  Be careful!  Mom urged.  Yeah, yeah.  I jumped in and started swimming.  The waves were big, the water was rough and salty.  Because it was a private beach, there were no lifeguards.  No one else was swimming.  I went out farther than I meant to, and when I decided it was time to go back in, I realized that no matter how hard I swam, I wasn't moving any closer to shore.  In fact, I had drifted off quite far from where you all were sitting at the picnic blanket on the beach.  I tried to wave in your direction, but no one noticed.  I kept trying to swim in, but nothing was happening.  I've never been a strong swimmer, more of a doggy paddler, and this was my first time caught in a rip current.  Of course, I didn't know it was a rip current at the time, I just felt confused and frightened.

The harder I fought to get back in, the farther I seemed to get off shore, and the farther I seemed to drift down away from you guys.  Of course, every thing I now know about rip currents says don't fight against them, but I didn't know it at the time.  I just desperately wanted to get back to safety, and it seemed like I was fighting an imaginary foe, running up a down escalator.  By the time I reached full-fledged panic (another absolute "no" when dealing with a rip current), I saw you.  There you were, walking down towards me on the shore.  And immediately, I calmed.  You were there, it was as if you had grabbed my hand, or I had side-stepped toward you and crouched ever so slightly behind you in the face of a lion.  The panic subsided, I managed to ride out the current and eventually made it back into shore, at least half a mile down the beach from where I had started.  You were there the whole time, watching me, waiting for me.  I had been too far out to yell to, and so we hadn't spoken, but just knowing you were there, knowing someone was watching me, that was all I needed.

I love you, Dad, thank you for protecting me all of these years, because even if it was a move so subtle you didn't even know it was happening, you've always been the one I run to when the lions come.

a

A Major Life Event

One day in the hospital, the nurse came in and asked you how you were doing.

"Well," you said, " you know, every time I have to go to the restroom I have to take off these wires connected to my ankles (the ones to keep you from getting blood clots), and then I have to put on these socks (the ones with the treads on the bottom so you don't slip on the linoleum tiled floors), and then I've got to stand up, and negotiate all these wires (the ones hooked up to your IV), and unplug some from the wall, and roll the IV in there with me, and then when I come back I've got to reverse the whole process to get back into bed.  Going to the bathroom has become a major life event."

The nurse just sort of stared at you. I don't think this was quite the answer she was expecting.  But this was so precisely you.  It's just so exactly how you would describe something.

love you.

amy, MFD

That pause after a movie

We were a movie-going family. We mostly still are, although not together as much. 

Friday or Saturday nights were ripe movie time, especially Friday. Shake off the week, pick up a pizza, and catch a movie. 

You and mom, to this day, buy treats at the movies. Chocolate-covered almonds, goobers, nonpareils, popcorn (you not mom). I love how the first thing you did when you got into the theater was get onto the snack line. Very important. 

But after the movie, with everyone grabbing their stuff and racing out the door, you just stayed still. Mom would get impatient, but you liked to take a moment and take it all in, think about it. The pauses were definitely longer with better films. 

I thought about this tonight when Idriss got up from his seat at the movies, and it annoyed me for no reason. Sit down! I whispered. I'm not ready to go yet. I guess I got this pause enjoyment from you. 

Love you Dad. 

M

Cul-de-sac

When coming to my house in Sea Cliff from Port Jefferson, the standard GPS directions take you off the main road a few blocks before my street, and lead you through a lovely sort of roundabout / cul-de-sac with a few small roads lined with tall trees and lots of gracious old homes and a few traffic circles connecting the lot, in Glen Cove.

The first time you came to my house, you couldn't stop talking about this hidden little magical section of Glen Cove. You told me you'd never been there before, despite being from the neighborhood, and you'd never even noticed the street. You couldn't get over it, with such grand houses, and wondered if it was part of an estate previously with the pillars at the entrance.

I just wanted to tell you that every single work day, I leave the main road to walk or drive through this beautiful section of my neighborhood, and I always think of how much you loved it at first sight. I love it, too, and am grateful for the level of grace and beauty it can introduce into my long and sometimes grueling days.

Love,
M

MFD / LFD

Most favorite daughter. Least favorite daughter.

Amy and I have "argued" over the coveted MFD for many years, and you used to love to get involved in this sibling rivalry.

One time, we were on the phone and Amy called. You told her you'd call her back, and then you got back on the line with me and proudly proclaimed: You won the call waiting face-off. That must mean you're the MFD.

But  many other times I was the LFD. I wish I could think of an example...I am sure Amy can oblige.

When we found all the cards and letters and papers from us in your office, some of the cards I gave you were signed "Love Megan (the MFD). We obviously thought it was hilarious. I mean, I am 37, and still arguing over this with my sister. Ridiculous.

Megan x

Gabby!

You used to call my friend Sarah "Gabby" because her middle name was Gabrielle.  Remember that? Gabby!  You would exclaim cheerfully.  You did this for twenty years or so, starting when we were in elementary school.  Sarah loved it, loved getting attention from you.  Everyone did.

Somehow it gets harder every day, Dad.  

On Discretion

To say you were discreet is a bit of an understatement. The world was on a need to know basis, as far as you were concerned -- regarding everything.

"Dad, how much money do you make?" we would ask as little kids. "A small percentage of a million dollars" was the inevitable answer.

A few times, nearing adulthood, I tried to approach this topic more seriously. I explained that I had no idea how much money it took to live in the actual world (unfortunately, this seems to still be the case), and would really appreciate some information to go off of, for example just a range of what it took to live like we'd lived, send three kids to college without debt, etc. i.e. how much money do you make? The answer remained the same, a small percentage of a million dollars. You never adjusted for inflation, and a million dollars seemed a lot less impressive a number in the early 2000's than it had in the early 80's.

On the third or fourth day you were in the hospital, the doctor came in to report absolutely no news, and at the end of his content less briefing, you said thank you. You were so polite throughout your time in the hospital, so gracious.  I interjected -- could you at least tell us what his white blood cell count is today? Up until that point, the white blood cell count was really the only indication of trouble, and I wanted to know if it had gone up or down. I just wanted to know anything at all, really, already wildly sick of hearing "we don't know what's going on."

The doctor said he didn't know offhand but that he could check. That'd be great, I said. Then you interjected -- that won't be necessary.

"But I'd like to know," I said. "You don't have to know if you don't want to hear."  I thought maybe it was stressing you out to think about it.

To me: "You don't need to know." Then, to the doctor: "She's not authorized to know."

The doctor laughed heartily, assuming this was a joke. He probably wasn't used to bedridden patients denying authorization of non-sensitive information to their closest relatives, the ones camped out in the hospital with them.

I rolled my eyes. Dad.

The doctor waited for you to say you were joking, but of course he would have been waiting a long time. He looked at us both hesitantly, then to me: "I'm actually not able to give you the information if he tells me not to, soooo...." Still waiting for you to laugh and say you were joking.

But I knew you weren't, and it wasn't worth fighting over. It's not as if I were prepared to do anything with the knowledge of your white blood cell count. It's fine, I mumbled, and stared straight ahead. I couldn't believe you were being so controlling and treating me like a child in these circumstances. But then, of course I could believe it, and I knew your reluctance to cede control to anyone wasn't about me personally. I let it go.  Add white blood cell count to the list of need to know items, along with salary and a host of other information.

I like to think of myself as discreet, and I am, largely. I don't gossip much, I keep people's secrets, and there's tons of things that I know about that I never let on that I know about. On the other hand, I'm not as much of a need to know person as you were, and have a compulsion to tell the truth even when I could just as easily evade saying anything at all.

On The Good Wife the other day there was a conversation that reminded me so much of you and me. Alicia's campaign advisor was giving her guidance on how to answer a tough question they both knew would come up in an interview she was prepping for. She kept insisting she had to tell the truth. He kept saying, you're not going to lie, but you're certainly not going to say the whole truth. You're a lawyer, he said, listen to what's actually be asked and answer that question. You can easily say "no" and not be lying if you think of it that way, they are asking you if it happened to your knowledge. Since you don't have definitive knowledge of it you say no. But it did happen! Alicia argues. Not to your knowledge, he says.  She squirms in her seat.

Maybe it was all your years of practicing law that made you act like this in a lot of ways too. You did not reveal more than you had to, ever.  To a degree, I think this is about power.  He who holds the information holds the reigns.  But it was more than that, it was your training and it was also just who you were.  Tony and Jim seem to be like that too.  In the weeks after your death when they were helping sort out all the initial finance stuff, I kept asking "so, should I call so and so company and tell them my Dad passed away?"  Every time, Tony said no.  And he would leave it at that.  I was like Alicia, squirming in my seat, itching to tell the absolute whole truth and nothing but the truth, even if no one was asking me.  FInally I said to Tony, I don't understand, why wouldn't I make these calls and tell them this happened?  And he said, well why would you make them?  You don't have to volunteer that information right now.  More squirming.

Sitting with my accountant a few days ago, we kept having conversations that reminded me of this, of the Alicia moments.  And, as my boss reminded me the other day when I told a freelancer more than he needed to know, "there is a difference between honesty and transparency."  Mmmm, I said, not really.  But, I know there was to you.  You were the king of discretion, through and through.

love a

Easter

Happy Easter, Dad.  We missed you today.  Megan hosted, and Aunt Terry, Scott, Jennifer and Joe, and Uncle Harvey all came in addition to me and Mom and Marc.  We laughed a lot, as everyone always does when Jennifer is around, and no one said it, but I know we were all thinking of you.  Your absence was a massive presence in Megan's tiny house.

Finding a moment alone, in the bathroom washing my hands, I stopped and tried to picture you there today.  I could see you, hear your voice, see your royal blue sweater and your slacks -- you always looked so nice -- and we'd be standing in the kitchen, just the two of us, for a minute, and you'd sort of pull me aside and fix me with a look and ask me a question or two.  Nothing serious, you'd just take a minute away from the festivities to find out what was going on with me, how things were.  You'd talk in a low voice, as if we were conferring important secrets, in these moments, these exchanges of whatever it was you'd ask about -- work, my apartment, the cats.  You made it feel important, our secret conference.

Aunt Terry told a story today that in the end made me laugh out loud, but I didn't hear the entire middle part. Sometimes she pauses so long in between sentences you can have whole dialogues with yourself in your own head before she picks up again, startling you back into awareness.  You were the same way.  You could drag out a story, a sentence, sometimes even a word, like no other.  I loved that about you, and thank god Aunt Terry is still around to lull me into a daydream or two in between words sometimes.

Uncle Harvey decided after all these years that he needed to move into assisted living, which he seems sad about.  This winter took his remaining spirit, and he is 91 afterall.  But he refers to the other residents as inmates and refuses to expound on what it's like there.  He misses you, I can see it in his eyes, that far off look.  Listening to the two of you banter was a hallmark of every Easter and Thanksgiving of mine for the last thirty years.  I used to love hearing the two of you go back and forth on the same old argument year after year, as if you were reading off of a script, both of you grinning ear to ear, basking in each other's company.

Walking to my car this morning, the sunny chill in the air outside hit me as the Easter air of so many years.  Going to Aunt Ruth and Uncle Harvey's house out in Massapequa, Megan and I in our fancy dresses and tights and patten leather shoes.  Walking over to the duck pond in the slight briskness of early spring, running and screaming from the geese.

You know, I hate to admit it, but there were many years during my 20's when I found it frustrating that I lived so close to you and Mom.  Mom expected me home for every single holiday, every birthday, mother's day, father's day, it all added up, and I missed a lot of weekends.  It seemed like a burdensome demand on my time, for a while, especially when I was working non-stop.  And so I tried to argue at some point that Easter wasn't a real holiday, I tried to boycott having to celebrate it, I tried lots of different angles to get out of it - sometimes purposely booking trips that kept me out of town over Easter and then pretending I hadn't realized the date until after it was too late.  What a fool I was.

I know now how lucky I was, Dad, to have all that time with you.  All those holidays, all those birthdays.  To think of a single one of those days as a burdensome demand on my time seems like the most shortsighted and stupid thing I've ever done.  But so it goes.

Happy Easter.  I really can't even begin to express how much I missed you today, Dad.  So much.  You'll be happy to know that in true Dempsey fashion we spent a good portion of the day talking about our various pets, showing pictures of our pets, showing each other pictures and videos of bunnies, and bickering about who could borrow various books and in what order.

love,
a

Oysters

Hi Dad,

I'm sorry I've been so quiet lately. The truth is, Idriss and I went on vacation, to France and Morocco. We got to see his whole family, including our nephews and niece, who are getting so big, and are just lovely people.

We also escaped, just the two of us, to the South of France for a few nights. We stayed in Avignon, which was just gorgeous. So elegant and chic, so French, but with kind and friendly people, and so low key. It was the first time we've had a trip together in a long time.

In Avignon, there is a large food market called Les Halles. In that market, there is an oyster place. Here is something I didn't know before Dad, and maybe you didn't either: the French eat oysters in the morning. How do I know this? Well, for starters, Les Halles closes at 1pm. And, when we went for breakfast, there were lots of people eating oysters. And drinking wine, I might add.

I am not sure if it's been documented on here Dad, but you were an oyster man. Frankly, you were a seafood man. Clams, mussels, oysters, bouillabaisse, roasted whole fish, swordfish steaks, flounder filets...you name it, you loved it.

In fact, one of the happiest memories I have of you is from my wedding (first one - ahem). We had a raw bar. And after the ceremony and pictures and lots of socializing, you made up a gigantic plate of tidbits from the raw bar outside, carried it into the restaurant, sat at the bar, ordered a martini, and savored your favorite things all together at that moment. I have a picture of you looking happy as a clam (couldn't resist).

So, Dad, maybe you should have been born French. Then you would have had more oysters your whole life. But I hope you had enough.

I miss you Dad. Love you so much.
M

p.s. I took this little video of church bells ringing in Avignon. So graceful sounding. I know you would have liked them.

The words

Every night, when Amy and I were little, you tucked us into bed. I guess Mom had had it with us by that point of the night.

And we had this lengthy tucking-into-bed ritual. You had to make sure the covers were just so, and I had to be surrounded by all my favorite stuffed animals.

Then came the words.

What were the words? I don't remember! It's killing me. It was a lengthy recitation of love and maybe stories and assurances that mom would come and tuck us in later and so on. Amy, do you remember more details?

And then when we said, practically daily: Hey! Mom never came and tucked us in! She would assure us that she had, but that we were asleep and didn't remember.

I'm going to think hard about the words. I want to remember them.

xx