Posts Tagged With: Fathers Day

Day 2394: A little bit different

Yesterday, when I was being a little bit different than anybody else I know, I noticed this:

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and I knew that “a little bit different” was a little bit different from any other blog title I’d used before in the past six-and-a-half years.

When I looked at all my other photos from yesterday …

…they were all a little bit different, so I knew I would use that title for today’s blog post.

This morning, I realized that this post might be a little bit different from most published today by not mentioning Father’s Day up front. And then, when I looked at my photos again with a little bit different perspective, I realized they all related to my father. I guess I see them that way because I’m related to my father and we are both a little bit different.

My late father was humble and kind.

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He cared much more about other people than he did about money …

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… but he worked very, very hard to be a good provider for his family.

He had a beautiful singing voice and was very musical. He bought us a piano when my sister and I were young.

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My father paid for piano lessons for his little-bit-different daughters but never learned to play himself. That calendar photo of the dog playing piano (which is a little bit different)  arrived yesterday in the mail from my wonderful cousin, Lani. Lani, like the rest of us, is a little bit different and she also loved my father.

Lani, and everybody else who knew my father, would say that my father was incredibly funny, although they might tell that story in a little bit different ways. My dad  told me he wrote little-bit-different rhymes for his high school year book, including this memorable one (which is a little bit different from totally kind):

Jerry is a drummer rare.

If he didn’t play, we wouldn’t care.

Perhaps you can see his influence in this little-bit-different certificate I’ll be presenting later this week to an exiting board member of my group therapy professional organization:

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When I was very young, my father moved us to a little-bit-different home which was a block away from the ocean, on the North Shore of Boston. I’m now living on the little-bit-different South Shore of Boston.

I think my father would have noticed the irony in that little-bit-different last photo in that sea-side montage.

My father was a life-long Democrat and so am I, although we were a little bit different in our politics.

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That very different photo reminds me of my father in several little bit different ways.  He brought home all the different magazines from the pharmacy he owned but never  ridiculous rags like The Globe or the National Enquirer. Also, he would sometimes ask my different friends this little question, “Are your parents still together?”  Leave it to my father to throw in little-bit-different conversation starters when talking to my friends.

My father really enjoyed our little-bit-different cat, Tuffy, who my parents got me when I was recovering from major heart surgery at age 10.

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Harley, pictured there,  reminds me a lot of Tuffy, in looks and in temperament although, of course, they’re a little bit different. My dad and I used to play a little-bit-different game with Tuffy, where we would sit on the floor in the kitchen and roll back and forth little-bit-different balls made of Challah bread,  with Tuffy trying to catch them. Tuffy, who was a little bit different in her taste in treats, would catch the bread balls and eat them.

My father was a married to a clean freak …

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… who was a little bit different from most clean freaks by letting us sit on the floor and toss bread balls back and forth with our cat. My father had this little-bit-different joke he used to tell about my mother:

I got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, and when I got back Weezie had made the bed.

Leave it my father to tell a joke that was a little-bit-different from the truth, even though he was impeccable with his word.

I took driver’s education in high school, but my memories of learning to drive are all of my father.

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My father was one of Boston’s safest drivers (which believe me, is not saying much) and because of him, I am a safe driver, too.

After my father retired, he and my mother travelled abroad …

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… but I don’t think they made it to Barcelona. My traveling has been a little bit different but I haven’t been to Barcelona, although I did travel to Spain with my beloved friend Jeanette.  I have memories of Jeanette and my father getting along really well, although they were a little bit different  from each other (but who isn’t?). Maybe someday I’ll make it to Barcelona, which I understand is a little bit different from the rest of Spain.

My father grew up in an Orthodox Jewish household and so did I, although our upbringings were a little bit different.  Whenever we ate out, we only had fish or meatless dishes.

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My father was sensitive to other people’s feelings and was pretty sensitive himself.  We hurt each other a few times in our lives, but we always forgave each other, keeping the connection alive as long as he was.

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I only heard my father swear once, and that was when he was very angry about a young man who had hurt me when I was in my early 20’s.

My father took care of much of what grew on our property when I was growing up, as my little-bit-different boyfriend Michael does today.

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My father had a wonderful smile, which he did not keep to himself.

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Actually, neither of those animals really evoke my father, but this one does:

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I think my father and I were a little bit nuts, in a little bit different ways, but who isn’t?

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Also, I have vivid memories of my father on Saturdays eating pistachio nuts, which he was nuuuuuuuttssss about.

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My father had a wonderful zest for life, which I believe I’ve inherited.  Yay!

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I’ve tried to color in some details about my father in this little-bit-different post, which is not by the numbers and which attempts to capture the magic of  my Dad.  I hope it’s no mystery why I miss my father, every little-bit-different day.

Here‘s a song my father sang to my mother on a special anniversary (and he sounded a little bit different from Nat King Cole and Frank Sinatra):

 

I look forward to all your little-bit-different comments.

A little-bit-different thanks to all who helped me create today’s blog post and — of course! — to YOU!

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Categories: love, personal growth, photojournalism | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | 21 Comments

Day 1631: See

See, I’ve already written several posts with the word “See” in the title (see Day 1354: See the love in everything, see Day 1245: What we choose to see, see Day 1202: Share how you see the world, and see Day 610: See the world). When I look at those previous posts, I see how my blogging style and choices have changed over the years. You might not see the differences, but I do.

See, the main reason I’m writing today’s “See” post is because yesterday I saw my friend Deb and we went to SEE in Harvard Square to seek new eyeglasses. See, Deb (who I’ve seen for about 50 years) and I  see eye-to-eye about many things, including  how great the frames are at SEE. Deb and I are a little concerned we won’t see each other as much when I move near the sea, but I see lots of fun times for us in the future.

Would you like to see the photos from SEE?

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Do you see Christina in that last photo?  She works at SEE and is also a counseling and psychology graduate student at Lesley University. I could see a lot of great qualities in Christina that will serve her well when she sees clients in the future.

Would you like to see my other photos from yesterday?

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Can you see “Happy Father’s Day” in that sign above?  I don’t get to see my late father any more, but it makes me happy to see him in this old photo of us.

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I see that YouTube has this song, which I remember my father singing.

I’ll be seeing you in your comments, below.

See, I am very grateful to all who helped me see and share all the elements of this post and — of course! —  to you, for seeing my blog, here and now.

Categories: blogging, personal growth, photojournalism | Tags: , , , , , , | 27 Comments

Day 531: Long slow distance/Letter from home

Yesterday, while my son was at his keyboard lesson, I took a walk. The weather was overcast and threatening rain.

I meant to take my umbrella, but — these days — I often forget at least one little thing.

It didn’t matter. I had my iPhone and, therefore, my music with me.

Long Slow Distance, a tune I’ve loved for many decades, started playing.

I saw many things from different perspectives, as I walked away, got lost, and then made my way back to my son, in time.

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As I re-approached the place where Aaron’s piano teacher lives and gives lessons, yesterday morning, the word “home” came into my mind.

Perhaps that was because Letter from Home — also beloved by me for many years — was playing.

That song speaks to me of loss. And love.

I miss my father, this Father’s Day.

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Thanks to the Dixie Dregs, to Pat Metheny, to Anna Maria Jopek, to families everywhere, and to those who go long, slow distances — away from and toward home.  And thanks to you for your visit here, no matter where you are on your journey.

 

Categories: inspiration, Nostalgia, personal growth, photojournalism | Tags: , , , , , , , | 34 Comments

Day 167: Fathers Day

This is a difficult post for me to write. That’s because I believe I haven’t really dealt with my father’s death, 16 years later.

I talk to other people about the grieving process, and how it doesn’t have a particular time frame or correct course.

So I’m not even sure what I mean, when I write that I haven’t “really dealt with” his passing yet.

Here is something I’ve told other people, when there’s a goodbye:

The pain of the loss is a direct reflection of the importance of the connection.

People have told me they have found that a useful and helpful statement. I have found it helpful, too. But the pain of my father’s loss — according to that statement — would be huge. Maybe even unbearable.

My father’s death came after a long illness, so it wasn’t unexpected. At the same time, I never really believed that he would ever leave; so his absence is unexpected, every day.

People with certain beliefs might say that he has never left, so there is no need to grieve him with the full measure of pain.

And sometimes I do feel that he is present, and even watching over me.

However, I don’t get to interact with him, the way I used to. I don’t get to experience his humor, connection with others, musicality, thoughtfulness, quickness, joys, disappointments, and moment-to-moment reactions to life. I don’t get to see the expressions on his face and those on the faces of people interacting with him. (I know what delight looks like, on many different visages.)

And I miss all that, so much.

I’ve also said that my single regret about life — the one thing I could change, if I could — is that my father died three months before I got pregnant with my son. He never knew he had a grandson, and it’s such a loss that the two of them never got to meet and enjoy each other.

People with certain beliefs would say comforting words about that, too. And I’m open to the possibility that these comforting words are all true.

In any case, I’m so glad I got to have so many days on earth with my father.

And on this Fathers Day, I am very aware of this:

The pain of the loss is a direct reflection of the importance of the connection.

That pain is there, I know. And maybe it’s part of everything I am and do, today.

And I am grateful for its beautiful source.

Thanks for reading.

Categories: personal growth | Tags: , , | 3 Comments

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