A Letter to My Father

Happy Father’s Day to all the Dads out there. I wish you all the best.

The Inner Sound

                        ~Annette Gagliardi

I heard him sell his soul for a crust of bread

He declined to eat so his kids would get fed.

I heard him sweat into the night –

Earning a living with all his might.

Now, his silence rings out loud.

I hear no longer his voice  – so proud.

But my inner ear picks up his sound;

I hear the whispering wind wrap it around

My thoughts and my heart beating outright,

As I toil in the night with all my might.

And I know his rhythm has become mine.

I hear his light and I see it shine.

I’m starting my blog with two poems I’ve written for and about my dad. The first one (above) was written when he passed away. I wrote a couple others as well. Dad worked in the Black Hills Homestake Gold Mine for about eight years. This following poem is about that time.

Hard As Stone

my father dug into the Earth in the Black Hills
Gold Mine                –                two stories underground –
his way lit only by the light on his helmet
with pick ax and shovel                he dug –
pressing his muscles into
each striation of the ground

using the bundles of fibrous tissue on his back and legs
that became layered like the colored ribbons on an agate
becoming what he dug, what he hollowed out

the smooth, polished stone in shades of brown
with mahogany, umber, and sienna ribbons
following each other around the outside
and even though we cannot see them,
they run through the center as well.

what he dug became a cavern               that grew over time – with each stroke
of the ax                as it cleaved the rock

smooth, yet hard – hard as granite –
hard as the dark                                 deep, down in the mine
hard as the days and nights he excavated the Earth
digging and cutting the bedrock,
creating ridges and valleys
inside the world of stone

hard as the life
inside our mother planet
under her crusted mantle
with her breathing herself
onto him and sighing
as he tore away her flesh

hard as it is to suffer patiently
while something or someone
digs you hollow

            ~Annette Gagliardi

Hard as Stone Published in  Minnesota Voices booklet, spring/summer 2020, Wadena MN, 603wchs@arvig.net   Published in Parallel Universe, Down in the Dirt March/April 2019, Vol 163, Scars Publications. Published in Down in the Dirt Magazine, via Scars Publications on October 2018.at: http://scars.tv/cgi-bin/framesmain.pl?writers, Published in Pasque Petals, The Magazine of the South Dakota State Poetry Society, April 2018. Printed in ERR Artist Collective, ERR-otta Zine, March 14, 2018.

Letter to Dad,

            I fried potatoes with onions for lunch today. Not those already cut potatoes you get in your grocers’ dairy case; but, fresh potatoes. You know the kind you have to peel first, then slice thinly. I used olive oil which is better for fried foods instead of lard or butter. It’s in honor of you, Dad. I’m remembering spring of 1998. It was early in March, just about a week or two before you died. I came over on Saturday, late, about four p.m., to make your supper.  Mom was in the hospital and us girls were taking turns fixing meals for you. 

            Almost every time Mom went into the hospital, you would fix yourself fried potatoes with onions, and fried eggs. It’s a farmer’s breakfast. I think that must have been your favorite meal. I’d call you up to see how you were doing.

            “Fine !” you’d say. You had just finished cooking–or eating, and would sound so content. I loved how you sounded content.

            So, I had the idea of what to fix when I drove over there that Saturday, but I asked you anyway, “What  do you want me to fix?”

            I suggested a few things as I rummaged through your frig. You were always so easy to please.  “Anything will do.” you said.

            “How about eggs with fried potatoes and onions ?” I asked.

            “Yeah, that sounds good.” you replied.

            So, I peeled and sliced three big potatoes into the fry pan. I found a big yellow Vidalia onion and sliced it thin, pushing the rings out so they would mix in better. I had to put a lid on the pan for awhile because I wanted everything to get cooked through.  I added salt and pepper like Mom always did to those potatoes. The smell filled the whole apartment up and made my mouth water.  I used a little butter in another frying pan to cook the eggs like Grandma taught me. I found one big red tomato and  set it on a small plate with a knife. You sliced it as those potatoes cooked.

            Now, I think of that meal as our “last supper”.  It was your last full meal.  And, you ate it with such enjoyment!  Mom came home on Tuesday and you went into the hospital that next Friday evening, just six days later.

            But that supper together was something.  I will always remember how good everything smelled and tasted. We each had two fried eggs, toast, a slice or two of that tomato, and those great potatoes with onions. We visited and smiled at each other across the table. It was nice.

            Mom said later that you commented several times about how good that meal was. And you ate a lot!  You cleaned your plate that night. You had seconds on the potatoes with onions.  Mom said later that she was surprised you had eaten so well, since neither she nor you had enjoyed food for such a long time. She couldn’t get over how much you had enjoyed that meal.

            Later, as we sat by your death bed watching you leave us, we talked about how you had, indeed, enjoyed that supper we had together.  Then someone said that had been the last “real meal” you had eaten.  We thought you had gotten the pneumonia that Mom was hospitalized for, but it was not pneumonia at all.

            I’ll cherish the memory of that Saturday supper. I’m glad to have been able to make you happy one last time. And, I’ll never again eat fried potatoes with onions without thinking of that evening meal we had together.

            On Sunday the grand kids all came to the hospital. I loved how the Hospice people took such good care of us. You were the patient, but we all were so sick. We were sick with the grief of your dying and the thought of you leaving us. 

            Mom was the vocal parent. She was our discipline and our watch guard.  But even though you were silent about a lot of things, we all knew were you stood on every issue. You gave us such a good example by living right. You would never say anything bad against other people. You had integrity and an honesty that even today I try to match. You were always so kind to everyone. I just hope that I can be as big a hero in my children’s eyes as you are in mine.

            Each person who came into your hospital room got to hug you and hold your hand. You allowed more of us to touch you and invade your personal space more than you were comfortable with. I knew that. I could see the tiredness in your eyes. It hurt you to breath, but you allowed the kids to lay their heads on your chest and hug the breath right out of you. No complaints were heard.

             Every time someone said “I love you, Grandpa!”, you said, “I love you, too.”

            And you were so polite! We couldn’t get over how polite you were. When the technician came in to take blood gases we all knew how much that procedure hurt. And then you said “Thank you.”  I couldn’t believe it. The man was hurting you and you thank him.  Finally, the Hospice nurse said, “Don’t come back in here. He isn’t going to get those drawn again.” She saved us all a lot of pain with that one sentence.

            We were taking turns staying at the hospital with you and at the apartment with Mom. I was the lucky one, Dad. I got to sit by your bedside that last night. I could see the change in your coloring. Your face sunk in at the cheeks and your breathing changed. Silent tears ran down my cheeks as I held your hand. I got you all to myself for that night. Call me selfish, but I needed to be near you; to be alone with you.  Remember Dad, I quietly told you how I loved the way you parented me. I listed the things I remembered you doing and how great I thought they were. You were asleep of course. But, just getting them off my chest and expressing my love for you was truly therapeutic.

In the morning, each person who came in immediately saw that your condition had changed. It was like a little shock to each one. I sat comfortably in the knowledge of your change because I had spent the night. 

            The day went so fast , yet so very slow. We talked in quiet tones and in pairs, we went out to the lounge for coffee or a break.  No one wanted to cry in your room.  We all wanted to smile and tell you of our love. We wanted to get it in before you left us. Don’t forget it, Dad. Don’t forget how we all love you.

            It was a Tuesday—St. Patricks day.  Maggie and Marian, two of my daughters, were doing the Gaelic dancing at the Landmark Center that morning. It seems like so many times in my life, I needed to be in two places at the same time. The whole last four years had been that push-me-pull-you type of life. 

            When I was spending my day off with you and Mom, I was feeling guilty because the ironing, the housecleaning, or my school work wasn’t getting done. When I came over to your house late because I wanted to go to a special event at Maggie’s school, I felt guilty for giving my parents less time. I cried in frustration all the way over to St. Paul and I cried with grief all the way home to Minneapolis.

            Our lives had gotten pretty hectic with jobs, kids in school activities and both you and Mom plus my mother-in-law needed some support. How could we neglect any of you? Yet, there is only so much time in a day. Tim and I just had to use the “divide and conquer” technique to keep up. Even so, someone was always being short changed.

            So that day, I had planned to take off work to take the girls to the Gaelic celebration at the Landmark Center. We planned to go to the apartment  afterward so you and Mom could see the girls in their dance costumes. 

            Dad, I just couldn’t leave your side that morning. I so wanted to see the girls dance.  Maggie leaps so high off the ground, for such a little girl!  You would be so proud of her. Yet, I just couldn’t go away from you.

            The first-born child is always the duty bound one. So my first born, Rachel called to tell me that she would take off work to take the girls to the dance.  I will always be grateful for her sacrifice. She called and gave us their dance report and it felt as if it was vital information.       

             The girls said they were dancing for you, Daddy. Our American girls dancing an Irish jig for their German grandpa.  We all said that you’d be the only “German wearin’ the green” in heaven!”

             Isn’t it funny how those last few words are so vital?  It’s like “the last words of Christ”. Everyone’s last words are so vital, so immediate, so remembered. They are played out and then replayed again and again like the words themselves are crystallized gold. Each utterance takes on such meaning.

            What I said and what you said that last day will remain with me always—as it will with each of us.  Each sibling remembers that last thing they said to you and your last response to them.

            In the evening, your brother and sister-in-law came into the room  It was great

having most of us around your bed.  Then the question of who was with Mom came up. All of us kids accept Chuck and Leonard were there.  We knew Chuck wouldn’t come up. He just couldn’t afford to come all the way from Georgia.  But Leonard would have been here if he hadn’t been killed in that truck accident in December. 

            That’s why this was so hard on us, Dad. You know how hard it was. We aren’t  even over Leonard’s dying. How could we deal with your death so soon? It was too soon.

            When we got the call that Leonard had been killed, I actually thought it was you or Mom that had passed. When Tim said, Leonard I had to ask him to repeat what he had said. Surely not Leonard. He’s healthy; he’s young like me; he’s working and busy with his life; he’s raising his kids and working.  He’s alive, not dead. It took me several days to even get my mind around the “he’s dead” part of that. The truck accident on a lonely highway, at night—in a blizzard. How very archaic that sounded; like a made-up story in some novel you would read.  It  certainly wasn’t reality.

            Then we took the long trip up to Fargo. That part of the country looks so bleak in December with the snow crawling over the freeways and the fields. The tiny church was way out in the country, along some tiny gravel road.  I’ll never be able to find it again on my own. It was a severely sunny, cold, bleak and grief-stricken day. 

            We all missed you and Mom so much. We needed you there. But, of course, the trip would have killed you guys. Not having you there was very hard. We clung to each other and waited for Uncle Bob to come. Our Aunties and Uncles comforted us that day. They were our parents. Uncle Bob was my father. (“There your Mother; There your son”.—wasn’t that what Jesus said on his dying day?)

            You guys listed the many and varied reasons that you just couldn’t go to your own son’s funeral. The four-hour car ride; the cold wind in your lungs; the logistics of toting oxygen for two that long way, and having enough for several days. How that must have pained you!  Even though Betty’s husband, Frank planned to video tape everything, how could it be the same? To have your son die, and not be able to say good-bye was crushingly tough. You didn’t talk about it, but we all could see the deep scars it left on you.

            So, we all believed that Leonard was in heaven. Those days in your hospital room we all thought that Leonard was sitting there with us, too. And we counted him among us.

            Yet Mom just couldn’t stay at the hospital with you. You know she was just so scared of your dying. She just couldn’t take it.  Mom always told you that she wanted to go first, yet you beat her to it. I think she just couldn’t let herself see you dying. You were leaving her alone.

            And she was sick too. You know her asthma made the hospital a real trial for her, whenever she was there. Going outside was difficult. The air was either too moist, or full of allergens. She was afraid her oxygen would run out. She didn’t want us kids to see her fall apart, and she knew she would fall apart if she was at your bedside.

            Even now, I am amazed at how difficult this was for both of you. You both were terminally ill, you had these huge emotions, you had all of us kids to take into consideration, and the hospital & insurance craziness to figure out. The pragmatics of either of you in the hospital was so involved. Getting to and from, with the wheelchairs and the oxygen was an exercise in logistics.  

            We had all taken turns staying with Mom, as well as with you.  Not many people know the pain of losing both parents at the same time. We had been living with the imminent death of both of you for so long that at times it seemed like a race.

            Which one of you would go first? And then, how long would the other one last?  We all talked about it. But none of us were prepared. None of us were ready for either of you dying.

            So, about 9 p.m. when the last of the family came in and we all knew your time was short—I can’t believe how short it wasw—we discussed who should go back to the house and be with Mom. 
            “I’ll go.” I said, choking on the words. Oh God, how I hated to leave you. I knew I was saying Good-bye. I knew you were dying. All those people around your bed. And I had to say good-by to you in front of them all. Oh, Dad, I knew they were my relatives and that they all love me. Yet I wanted our good-bye to be private. I reasoned that I had had the whole night with you and we had said our good-byes.

            I drove quickly to the apartment that you and Mom had been living in the last four years. She looked so small, sitting on the couch. We both knew your time had come.  I took off my coat and we just hugged each other and cried together. Dad, we missed you already.

            Mom looked so scared. I assured her everything would be all right and that we kids would still be with her. But you know how she always clung to her despair. How can I blame her at a time when she was losing her life-long lover and partner. 

            The call came within a few short minutes. You had died.

            “Dad died. What does that mean? What does that really mean?” I thought.  Then I hugged Mom some more, and she asked me to make coffee for those relatives who would soon be coming in her door.

            We began the methodical routine of preparing for your funeral. Dad, you know Mom followed you soon enough, joining you in  heaven on May 14^th. We grieve for you both. Yet, I am grateful for the life you lived. I’m grateful for the example of your hard work, sacrifice and integrity has taught me. Even after your death, I learned how much you and Mom gave so we kids would not suffer, would inherit—and I thank you.

I know for those of you who might be related to me, this post will be a tear-jerker. It’s good to cry, sometimes. Tears are the safety valve of the soul. so read this and let the tears fall. It’s okay. Really.

Here is the letter and poem to the two Hospice nurses who took care of us.

March  18,1998

Dear Hospice staff,

            We were recently guests in your Hospice program and I wish to express my gratitude, and the gratitude of my family, for your kindnesses to my father and to us.

            Your tender mercies meant that Dad went to his final resting place the way he chose to; and that his suffering was not too much for us to bear.  Thank you for your services.

            My siblings wish for me to give special recognition to two nurses on your staff who were especially wonderful. I only know these lovely ladies by their first names of Connie and Colleen–very fitting names for a German father who died on St. Patrick’s day!  We all agree he’s wearing the green in heaven.

            Anyway, I wrote this poem in room 336 while sitting with my father. It is dedicated to your nursing staff– and especially to Connie and Colleen. You have, indeed, touched our hearts and have helped us support our father in his final hours.

            We thank you.

Sincerely,

Annette Gagliardi

(Daughter to Oscar Stabnow who was admitted March 14 and passed away on March 17th.)

             Mortal Angels

                        by Annette Gagliardi

A gentle knock upon the door;

A friendly face appears.

With tender touch and loving hearts

A mortal angel heals our fears.

Your kindness touched my heart today.

My father, in your care

Is able now to go in peace

Up heaven’s misty stair.

“What do you need?” Is all you ask,

“What can I get for you?”

I’m touched, the way you minister,

And also show us what to do.

These days and nights are Oh! so long.

And yet, they’re oh! so short,

As Dad moves through his ending days

With all of us as his support.

Your tender mercies touch us all.

They touch my heart and head.

And I can never thank enough

You mortal angels around Dad’s bed.

“If there is any immortality to be had among us human beings, it is certainly only in the love that we leave behind. Fathers like mine don’t ever die.” ~ Leo Buscaglia