15 june 2005
Jumping Off the Raft Without Dad
by Nanci Olesen
To hear the audio version of this Zone article CLICK HERE!
It’s almost Father’s Day. My father is dead. Last year Father’s Day was the actual anniversary
of his death. This year it’s a day later.
When he was in the hospital two Father’s Days ago, my sister said, “Well, we don’t have to get him
anything this year...” and we laughed softly, as if it was some big relief.
I feel achy and tired again. Men in their seventies who are gray and good humored are peopling the streets. I turn
around at the restaurant where I work, and there is another dad, old and twinkly eyed, ordering a bowl of soup with
his grown daughter. My hand shakes as I pour their coffee.
How come I got so lucky to have such a nice dad? How come
he was always there, with his big hand on my shoulder, tearing up over my speeches or concerts or plays? Telling me
how proud he was of me?
How come I have a full catalogue of his jokes in my head?
He calmed my worried mom. He drove her crazy with his made
up poems and his constant banter about literature. He was lazy and curious and sensitive and very entertaining.
It
was very sudden how he died, and even though it’s been two years I still feel like I’m just standing up,
weak kneed, after being knocked to the ground.
I look around dazed: “No. Is it summer already again? Where’s Dad?”
We have carried on. I mean, we’re normal. We get it about life and death. We make reference to him around
the table. We tell his jokes. My kids opened the Monopoly game at the cabin last summer and found a note from an unfinished
game describing who was where and who owned what. My son, who can barely stand that Grandpa, who was the only one
who truly understood baseball, has died, said, “well, Grandpa is NOT going to be able to finish this game.” and
crossed him off the list. Everybody laughed.
Summers are definitely different now. The cabin is very quiet. I mean
this man knew how to TALK. From morning to night he was singing a silly little song or relating some long story about
an English student he had thirty years ago. And he could do millions of different kinds of jumps off the raft. He
wanted us to watch every single pencil or swan or cannonball. The kids practically drowned from laughing.
“Jim!” My mom would call, from the dock. “Jim! That’s enough!”
But it never was.
He pretended like he didn’t hear her, and kept jumping. The kids joined him on the raft and jumped after him,
shouting “Watch! This is Buddha!” “Hey Hey Hey LOOK! Here’s a Superman!” “Watch
this! Watch this! I call this PROFESSOR!”
Then we’d all tread water forever, talking and laughing.
Dad had a poem which he always read at the end of
his radio show, “the Spice of Life.” The last line goes like this:
“So hold each day, like a precious gem, for it will ne’er be yours
again....”
We’re on our way to the cabin this Father’s Day. My mom will be there, waiting for us, nervously.
We
will make as much noise as we possibly can as we jump off the raft.
—Nanci Olesen
producer and host, MOMbo: 1990-2007 |
