Postscript


A ladybug standing on a leaf. Photograph taken...

A ladybug standing on a leaf. Photograph taken with a Canon D60 camera Türkçe: Uğur böceği. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As I wrote in my last post, my dad died on May 8.  In the six-to-eight months prior to his death, Dad finally gave up his driver’s license.  It was a momentous occasion on many levels.  For most of us, we felt a huge rush of relief that this then 93-year-old man with failing eyesight, bad hearing, and poor reflexes would no longer be behind the wheel of a two-ton automobile.  For him, it was the last relinquishment of his independence and a situation to be mourned.

Since he and Mom no longer needed the car, Dad decided to sell it.  I put it on Craig’s List, but wasn’t surprised when it garnered little response.  Although the car is in good shape, it’s a boat of a 1993 station wagon with almost 100,000 miles on it.  There was no way Dad would get the $2400 he wanted, let alone the $1800 or so recommended by Blue Book.  So the vehicle languished.

With Dad’s death, all bets were off.  We offered the car at a much reduced price (receiving no takers) and debated the idea of donating it to charity.  Then Fate intervened.  My sister’s best friend knew of a family in Vermont with several children (including at least one with disabilities) who needed a vehicle but could not afford one.  Would we be willing to donate the car?

YES!

I’m not sure Dad would  have been happy with our decision, but the rest of us were quite pleased.  On the day before the father of the family came to get the car, my husband made sure it was running smoothly and I went over it pulling out any personal items belonging to my parents.  There wasn’t much — my father (OCD in so many ways) kept the interior of his car as clean and well-maintained as he did the exterior.  I left behind the few folded road maps and all things pertaining to the car itself.  I removed several pairs of sunglasses, a plastic urinal (poor Dad), and a few Swiffer sheets they used for cleaning the inside of the windshield.

Then it happened.

Beneath the driver’s seat (what I always thought of as “Dad’s Seat” even though Mom drove the car as well), I found a discarded brown paper sack, folded and flattened and crinkled.  Assuming it was garbage, I was about to chuck it in the trash when something in me suggested I open it.  Inside was a pair of earrings, silver hooks with a line of beads descending, ending in a ladybug-shaped charm.  I stared at them, dumbfounded.  What on earth?

All we can figure is this:  At some point, back when he could still drive, Dad must have seen these, thought Mom would like them, and bought them for her.  Then he stuffed them under the seat (maybe because she was traveling with him and he wanted them to be a surprise) and forgot about them.  Never mind that I can’t remember my father buying anything for anybody more than three or four times.  (At Christmas, he let Mom shop for the rest of us and gave her money to buy whatever she wanted.  I never knew if he was worried he’d buy the wrong thing or didn’t want to bother with shopping.)  I have a hard time imagining him finding the impetus to purchase these earrings, but where else did they come from?

At any rate, Mom calls them her “gift from beyond the grave” and wears them often, along with his wedding ring on the gold chain I slipped it onto the night before he passed.  Those things bring her peace at a unpeaceful time and lay a warm hand on her aching heart.  In the end, it doesn’t matter if Dad bought the earrings or not.

But I like to think he did.

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About Melissa Crandall

A million years ago--round-about the first Ice Age--I cut my writing teeth on fanzines and science fiction media tie-in novels. I'm happy to say that I've since branched out to include fantasy, horror, essays, and narrative nonfiction. This site will keep you up-to-date on my adventures in writing. I live in Connecticut with my husband--who frequently wonders what he got himself into by marrying a writer--two cats named Tuna and Gypsy, and a semi-neurotic Australian shepherd named Holly.
This entry was posted in death, dying, Essays, Family, Father, Life, Loss, love, Melissa Crandall, Parental death and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

5 Responses to Postscript

  1. SB says:

    Thank you. Yes for all the pain associated to me, SB is in fact who I was. That loathsome person you once knew is no longer, he died a painful death a very long time ago. Please give my condolences to your mom. Your folks were always kind to me and I wish I could have been a better person to you long ago.

  2. alex says:

    I know I am an unwelcome memory from the past, and for intruding I apologize. For whatever
    it may be worth, I am truly sorry for the loss of your dad. I also know what that loss feels like.

    .

    • Ummm…since there are several Alexs in my past, not sure who you are unless the initials SB strike home? If so, I’m likewise sorry to hear of your loss. Your father was a nice man and I have several good memories of him.

  3. Nice, heartfelt post! It’s been delightful to see the changes regarding your father and his place in your heart. This bit seems to be some needed cement!

    Makes me wonder what might have been missed or ignored without my eyes there when my dad died. Perhaps more important now, what meaningful items might we leave to be discovered, inadvertent or perhaps purposeful. – Makes you think.

    • When Dad died, a friend told me to be open to the messages that would come my way. She related that when her parents died, she received what she felt were many messages from the other side. I know I’ve had some eerie experiences in the past regarding loved ones who died, but if there’s any message in those earrings, I think it’s totally for my mom…and I’m happy about that.

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