Writing Wings For You

Marie Lukasik Wallace ~ # I LIVE Poetry – I'm passionate about life and writing and all things creative and poetic!

Tag Archives: family stories


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It’s the Small Things

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When I wrote, “Where are you Daddy?”  I was really lost.  It seems like a rollercoaster of emotions this grieving thing.  I don’t like it much…but I understand the need for it.  I also know that there is beauty and glory in all of it.

It’s the little things that remind me of him…my daddy.  My sister and I balled when we went to his house and saw peppermints  on the counter.  He always had them with him in his pocket.  You see my dad quit smoking 30 years ago, and his peppermints replaced that habit…so you can imagine, he always had a pocketful.  Then, my sister taught him how he could let the grand kids sneak up on his lap and steal one out of his pocket.  We built those memories together.  At the same time, he also replaced beer with Sam’s cola.  So, if we were at the store, he would ask us to get him beer & cigarettes…cola and peppermints.  What fond memories.

I still hear him through music, even if it’s music we didn’t listen to together.  Sometimes it’s the emotion or feeling that will zip right to my heart and remind me of him.   Last summer on a road trip, and when he was in the nursing home, we listened to a lot of Carole King, Tapestry.  He sure loved that album…I listened to it over and over while he would sleep.  What a brilliant, soulful woman who gets to the heart of everything.   While I listened, I KNEW which songs would be at his funeral…funny thing is that others have used “Way Over Yonder” for funerals before…and I never knew it.  I just knew that at that at the time my daddy was in the most pain of his physical body, I prayed for his sweet release and told him he could visit “yonder” anytime he wanted…and that his mama and papa would greet him.  And I also knew that the song “I Feel the Earth Move Under my Feet” would be played at the end…because my daddy would want people dancing, not crying.  Even the last week of his time on earth, when he could barely move, he would rock in his chair or tap a finger to that song.  It will always be our song.

I believe with all my heart that he graces me with his loving presence every day.  I just get to be still and listen and look.  It will be in the little things, the song of a bird, a dog that looks like his, or maybe even a Sam’s Cola.

 


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Daddy – Please Re-Remember

daddy talking with hands

Maybe tomorrow

My daddy

You can somehow

Re-remember

How to form words

And you can tell

Me your stories again.

#fieryverse


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Why You MUST Write – A True Story

I implore you.  If you feel the calling, you MUST write.  There are too many people who depend on you to share the gift you’ve been entrusted with.   It’s vital.

Day before yesterday, I freaked about writing my dad’s story…What qualifies me to write it?  How do I finish it when my dad can’t talk?   Am I good enough?

There were so many questions and feelings of inadequacy.  I reached out to my amazing writer friend, Bridget. She knows how to give a voice to others because she writes people’s stories.  I knew she understood what it was like to reach a point of vagueness, or sheer terror, and feelings of inadequacy…and still she wrote on.  She reminded me that if I didn’t write his story, then my dad truly would not have a voice, especially now that he can’t talk at all.

Today, I went to the nursing home and read my dad another chapter of his story….a story I know that has deep meaning for my daddy.  I read it aloud to him, and he crumbled and cried.  Was I looking  to make him cry?  No, of course not.  But what this revealed to me was the power of hearing the voice of a vaulted man.  This is a man who never showed emotion of any kind.  This is a man who used alcohol to not feel pain…not feel emotion…in an era where men were to be invincible over any kind of vulnerability.  When he cried, he showed me that he had been real and honest with me. When he cried, I knew he had heard his own voice out loud.  When he cried, I knew I had captured the essence of what he was feeling.  He had entrusted me with that part of him that revealed to himself he was human.   I remember earlier this summer my dad had said, “You gave me my life back.”   He needed me to be his voice.  He desperately wanted to be a part of this world and to belong.

Lastly, when I left, I reminded him, “Daddy, you’ve done some great things in your life.  You have left a legacy for your grand children and great grand children.  I am proud of what you have accomplished.  I am proud to be your daughter because you are honest and kind and good.”  He mouthed the words thank you with some sounds, squeezed my hand tight fiercely and kissed me.

Yes, he made mistakes…some really bad mistakes in which he felt the deepest darkest shame. But the darkness had not defined him.  As a writer, I got to reveal that the shame was only part of the story…that alcohol was the antagonist for a short time.  But the real Ernest, the one who overcame the darkness had risen and become a victor in his own story.   His reveal had provided a path for others.

This, my writer friends, is your mission, giving a voice to those whom can not speak or do not know how to speak.  This is how we heal our world, one story at a time.


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Love Your Peeps – A True Story of Alzheimer’s

Many of you know that I’ve been racing against time and Alzheimer’s in getting my dad’s story.  Sadly, my time is coming to an end.  This disease is so cruel.

Two weeks ago, I had sent my daddy two chapters of the book I was writing about him.   I was excited because I had worked really hard on them, and listened carefully to his recordings to get things down just right.

It’s not easy to write about someone who’s feelings are tightly vaulted, and who has often been very critical in my life, AND he’s my father.  I wanted to get it right.   He called me and said, “Shame on you.”  I freaked out wondering what I had said that could cause him to be upset.  Had I gotten details wrong?  Did I send the right story?

Then he continued.  Sheepishly he said, “You made me cry.  You wrote that as if you had been there.”

Inside, my heart was dancing.  He liked it!  I had gotten this most sacred portion of his story right!  Yippee!

Then, he said the ultimate, something I’ve waited for all my life, “I am proud of you.”  Shocked, I gasped and replied, “Thank you daddy.  That means a lot to me.”

A little later he said I was a good writer.   Yes, you can tell me that I really don’t need his approval, and I would agree…but there’s some part of a human that wants this approval.  I was elated and on a high…The next day, I got the call that my dad had a stroke.

The moment was bitter sweet.  I got to embrace the sweetness for such a short while.   And then, I got to find out how unmerciful Alzheimer’s really is.  And, I got to see some of it’s beauty.

I saw my dad as he must have been as a little boy…playful, fun, joyful.   And then I saw it bring him to his knees.

He begged me to bust him out of the hospital…he knew,though no one had said anything to him.  He knew that he would go from rehab to the nursing home.

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So, I got to celebrate the small things, like dancing to Carole King’s, “I Feel the Earth Move under My Feet,”  even if it was only one hand.  I was grateful for any movement. It was joyous to see the joy in his face and know he could have some happiness in his life.

This past week when I called, he could only mumble undiscernible sounds.  I could hear him try to communicate with me, but he couldn’t.  Through the phone, I felt his disappointment, and it crushed me…we had had our own language, and now we had to learn a new language to communicate.

Throughout my busy week, it was conference week, I sent messages from my heart to my dad.  And when it was my last conference on Thursday, I called again.  I knew he couldn’t talk so I just talked on the phone while he made sounds…attempting to hear changes in tone or rhythm to see if I could understand.  I was determined to find a way.  But I didn’t succeed.  I was grateful he at least knew I was there and could make some sound.

Then yesterday came…I was sure I had devised a way we could communicate and had created a signal he could use to let me know how he was doing…but yesterday, he couldn’t make a sound…Not one audible sound.  The phone just laid there.  I couldn’t even tell by his breathing how he felt.  It’s funny that the little girl in me still wanted a physical connection.  I kept talking in hopes he could still hear me.  I believe he could, and I told him that I would see him in 4 days. It doesn’t feel soon enough because it’s happening so fast.

The moral of the story:  Love your peeps…hold them tight, squeeze them tight, love love love them with all your might…you never know how long you have them.  And be grateful…grateful for their touch, grateful for their smiles and movement, and yes, even their undiscernible sounds…because it’s still of the physical world, and it’s still a connection.

I love you daddy…hang in there until I can see you.

Ree

 

 


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A Father’s Story in honor of Father’s Day

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What qualifies a person to write another man’s story?  For a life is not a life unless it is fully experienced and lived, and the writer can hardly capture the essence, let alone tell a full story.But the one who has done the living is a tired soul and his hands are feeble and in pain, and his heart has been in pieces and it’s difficult for him to sort out.  And so it is that the writer must be the one to document whatever he/she can. For once a life goes, so do their libraries of stories.Two years ago, I felt the calling to get to know my dad when I walked in a Hallmark store and found a book called, “My Father’s Legacy.”  In the book are “get to know you questions” about family history, not just dates, but celebrations and dreams and memories. There were so many questions I didn’t know the answer to for my family, even basic questions of family tree information. You see, I have always wanted to get to know dad, but his life and his feelings have always been vaulted with at least a hundred locks and a secret code.  As I examined the book, I realized there was so much more I didn’t know, and the questions seemed simple enough.  So I thought to myself, “Let’s give this a try.”I introduced the book to my dad and told him I’d like to document family history and some traditions for posterity. “Hey Dad, maybe I could ask you some questions?” Dad said, “I think that’d be all right.”   When I would visit, I would ask a few questions and then I’d randomly call him and ask him some more.  However, if the question became too personal, dad would quickly close up and withdraw and suddenly had to go “feed the critters” or eat, even if he just called me!The next step on our journey, my dad then began to accept that if the question was in the book, then it was legal, and I could ask it.  It would make me giggle because he would look in the book to check if the question really was there.   What this phase allowed me to do was gain his trust.  He would feed me tidbits to see what I would do with the information.   Because my intentions were honorable and how I handled his information was honorable, he began to trust me.  From there, we could go a little deeper. There were times I would call, and he’d have to get through the roughness of his day, (Alzheimer’s has people living in fear and worry), and then I would get tidbits of information.   Other days after finishing his stories he was just done and hung up.  It was disappointing, but I knew it was part of the journey. Through patience and diligence and ears bleeding getting through the toughness of dealing with someone who is closed and stubborn and sadly going through mind games of his own, we began to forge a new relationship.  He began to look forward to my calls and sometimes called me.  The darkness was revealed less and less and the pep in his spirit was back.This week I got to visit him in Texas.  I came prepared with a list of questions in various areas, because I never know what he will be open to answer.  Needless to say, I didn’t get a lot of the prepared questions answered, but fortunate for me, I was open to the experience and whatever he had to offer me.   Because of this, I was pleasantly surprised more than once.We went on an adventure to visit his hometown of Georgewest.  He got lost, and I didn’t catch it because I had my head down taking notes…But the best part? GETTING LOST WAS A BEAUTIFUL THING. Because we were in the car seven lovely hours without phones or computers or people clamoring for his attention, we just got to laugh and be ourselves. Sometimes we didn’t talk at all.  And we can’t forget the Dairy Queen!  We both enjoyed our most favorite treat, icecream just like little kids!Daddy woke up the next day ready to take on the world.  He even talked about feeling inspired to write.  He said he had a dream that I didn’t just “come to Texas,” that I was “sent to Texas” to inspire him. I got a brilliant idea to create a feast for Father’s day.  I used a sheet as a table cloth, because daddy didn’t one, and I picked flowers from his garden and put them in his favorite mason jars.  It takes very little.  And twenty minutes before people came over, daddy gave me the most real, the most honest that I have ever seen him.  He was unafraid, and gave me the advice of a lifetime in regards to alcoholism…but I will save that for another time because it’s a most wonderful story all by itself.The trip wasn’t all peaches and roses, but it was time I treasured and got to know my daddy better. The focus was on being present and noticing. I will never know how much longer I have with him, so I embrace what I have.  Smile your silly smile dad and enjoy.

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LOVE you!!!