tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49529596972101541762024-03-13T21:40:55.725-04:00adventures in overthinkingmy journey to enlightenmentMary Swan-Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15710836090312358678noreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4952959697210154176.post-30402791942804960632011-08-18T06:53:00.000-04:002011-08-18T06:53:31.728-04:00Tomatoes from HeavenI am blessed to be surrounded by a lot of positive people. My husband, my sister, my kids, several good friends, even the majority of my Facebook peeps are rays of sunshine. So it's taken me a long time to figure out how such a darkness could have fallen over me in the midst of such light. My dad was one of the most positive people I know, and when I lost the daily dose of, "Your hair looks great," or "I love your new boots," it was enough to cast me into a depression that thankfully medication has lifted.<br />
<br />
In the month or so before the medicine, the really dark days, I told Brad I was sad because I couldn't "feel" my dad. I wasn't finding pennies all the time, I wasn't having moments of divine intervention as I had been. It felt as if he left me, and I wasn't ready for that. Before, it seemed like I was dealing with things pretty well. So much so that I even fooled myself.<br />
<br />
Since the depression has lifted, I still hadn't really felt my dad, but I was still able to deal with things better. I talked to him and about him more. I asked his advice about different situations. I asked him to show me signs about different things. What I didn't ask for was vegetables. <br />
<br />
My dad loved to garden. He had been a farmer and then taught vocational agriculture, but by the time I came along his mad skills were limited to a thriving vegetable garden in our side yard. Growing up, we rarely had store-bought vegetables. We always had fresh potatoes, tomatoes, beans, and asparagus from our garden. We had cherries, peaches, apples, pears, and plums from our fruit trees. Obviously, this is why I'm so picky about my produce.<br />
<br />
But of all the things he grew, tomatoes were his favorite. I remember going to the store with him to get plants: early girl, beef eater, and cherry. In later years, I convinced him to get Roma--my personal favorite--and after he broke his hip and could no longer tend to his garden, we got him a topsy turvy planter so he could grow his beloved tomatoes on his front porch. And he did. Every time I went over, he'd take me to the porch to show me his tomatoes. Send me home with too many. "Dad, I'm the only one who eats tomatoes," I'd protest. But I couldn't bear to hurt his feelings so I'd take them home and eat them all.<br />
<br />
I inherited his love of gardening, and Brad and I grow lots of our own veggies. This year, in an effort to save money and expand variety, I started seedlings in the spring on my countertops. Eggplant, several varieties of peppers, asparagus, green beans, beets, and cucumbers. Unfortunately, after "the last killing frost," our garden was still way too wet to till. My poor little seedlings were outgrowing their tiny pots, so in an effort to save them, I planted them in my flower bed. The dirt isn't so good out there, mostly clay, but I added some compost, and lo and behold they grew.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, as the weeks passed, I kind of forgot what I'd planted where, so imagine my surprise when the three biggest plants started producing tomatoes. I didn't plant any tomatoes. Did I? No. I'm sure I didn't. I bought some Roma tomato plants and planted them in the back garden, but I didn't plant any tomatoes in the flower bed. So as I stared befuddled at the "volunteer" tomato plants, it hit me, and I started to laugh out loud through my tears. Lily asked, "What's the matter, Mama?" <br />
<br />
"Nothing, Baby Doll," I said, "Papa sent me tomatoes from heaven."<br />
Mary Swan-Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15710836090312358678noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4952959697210154176.post-47728193135024585832011-03-08T12:51:00.000-05:002011-03-14T11:25:43.916-04:00Sunday Britches--my eulogy to my Dad<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">Most everyone who knew my dad had a story about him. The past few weeks, I've heard a ton of them. In his passing, in his memory, I would like to share a few of my own.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">He fed the birds and shot the cats and squirrels—with a pellet gun, just to scare them—except mama squirrel. She ate peanut butter sandwiches out of his hand.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">He loved pretty girls—look at my mom--and never missed an opportunity to steal a kiss from one. He loved fabulosity and used to say, “If you like it, buy it; don’t look at the price tag.” Good thing my mom tempered his extravagance with some common sense and frugality, but not before I lived that belief right into Chapter 13.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">He had stories galore from standing next to Woody Hayes on the sidelines at a Buckeyes game, to teaching Jackie O to ride a horse. He applied makeup to some Hollywood movie stars, and once he told me that lip balm icon Bonnie Belle’s father had offered him a boat to marry her. Some of these stories we shrugged off as his overactive imagination, but most of them were true in some fashion. I half expected, like the movie, Big Fish, that some of those people would show up at his funeral.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">He made up crazy songs and sang them LOUD and off-key, Ho hum Hilario, Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dum, Clo-bird, the snowbird. Clo-Bird the snowbird, was also his doctor and high-kick partner. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">He pushed my sister, brothers and me to be the best and never accepted anything less than our best efforts and often not even those. If you didn’t catch the football, chances were good you were gonna take it off the head. But as a result, we were all pretty good athletes. My sister, he said, could hit a ball farther and throw a football more accurately than most boys he knew. I haven't played football with her, but I have witnessed her blasting a baseball, and it's true. Whether it was because he spent time working with us, or we were just afraid to be anything less, he got what he wanted.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I spent part of my childhood being scared of his loud voice, but found a buddy in him when I was a teenager and he was retired. He would record my soaps for me when I was at school, then we’d watch them together. Even after I’d outgrown watching soap operas, he continued and would occasionally update me on the characters. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">He cried watching movies and once told me he couldn’t read books because he found himself so wrapped up in the characters’ tribulations that he couldn’t sleep at night. Empathy. He used that word all the time. I didn’t realize until much later how much he embodied it.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">He never said I love you, until my brother Chris died. Then he never missed an opportunity to say it. Really. It got to be embarrassing. He would tell telemarketers he loved them. But he evened it out. And by the time he passed, I think everybody who loved him knew that he loved them back. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">He showed my sister and me what true love looks like in the way he loved my mom for 53<span style=""> </span>years. He gave our husbands big shoes to fill, but he loved them and seemed pleased with the job they have done loving us. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">He was proud of his boys; I listened to him brag alternately about each of my brothers even though they may never have gotten to hear that. My brother, Jonny, said it best, “Later in life he became the dad that I had always wanted him to be.” But that we could all live long enough to accomplish that.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">My dad was larger than life. Talking about him in the past tense remains almost too much for me to bear. He taught us how to live and how to love. He had the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever met. He didn’t make to 106, but he sure had a hell of a life. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Peach wouldn’t want us to be sad, but I’m sure he was pleased to see how many people turned out to celebrate his life. So here’s to my dad, lover of all, slayer of hallucinated tigers, killer of bees, and destroyer of training wheels. If he were here right now, he would chuckle, shrug his shoulders, and say, “You know what happens, don’t you?” Yeah. Shit.</p>Mary Swan-Bellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15710836090312358678noreply@blogger.com10