An Acorn Fell

“So much has happened today, I don’t know where to begin. Well, Sue and Jill had a double birthday party, it was so fun. Well I slow danced with Bobby Cuff and I fell in love with him. By the end of the party we were going out and we slow danced a couple songs and my head was on his shoulder and his arms around me, I was so much in love than I’ve ever before. Then when it was time to leave he went into the other room with me and we Frenched Kissed. At first I didn’t know what to do I was like ahhhhhhhh! God help me! At first our braces clunked and we just moved our tongues around, personally it was kind of slimy but I liked it anyway also it was stupid kiss!”

-”My first kiss March 9, 1991 13 yrs old. Stupid kiss but it will improve!”

This is an excerpt from the 50th page of “My Private World” diary that my siblings found upon an attic clean out due to the dumpster arrival the day before. Yes, that’s right. My siblings found that journal and then read it out loud on the front walkway of our home while I desperately tried to NOT pee my pants laughing. “Bob dumped me 2 days later!” I wrote on the very next page. So goes the summer saga of what it means to live in this home where all my memories live both literally and figuratively and privacy is a thing of the past. My life bubble has expanded over time but the most boiled down version of me lives here within this home, particularly up in the attic and between the pages of my many diaries. Maybe that’s what has brought me back to Hanson over the years, those words I wrote dancing on lines of paper, waiting to be released into the world and to bring my mind back to where everything began.

Last week I was in New Hampshire for an end of summer vacation with the kids, Meg, and her kids. As I complained about how exhausted my mind and body were the first morning we were there, Meg told me she would take all 7 children to Santa’s Village while I stayed behind. “OK” I said “I’ll make the sandwiches.” After the crew left, I was alone for the first time in a while and it felt weird. Unsure of what to do, I made a fire outside, and sat down to read Dad’s book. I am ashamed to admit that I have not read A Place of Rest in its entirety and I count that as one of my biggest regrets. I didn’t take his writing seriously when I could have, when it would have mattered to him more than anything. Now that I am a writer, I know that I take after him in so many ways and I see that my style of writing has a touch of him in it. He never saw his book published and didn’t really understand when I published it on Kindle. This, for me, was sad. He devoted a lot of time and energy into that book and I wish he knew how much it meant to me that he did that, how much it continues to inspire me to write.

I sat in front of two maple trees that have grown together over the years, entwined in an arboreal embrace. I have never thought of trees as sexy but these two are. The opening chapter of A Place of Rest speaks of the “Mighty Oak” and how the fall of an acorn transformed into a whaling ship hundreds of years after it was first connected to the fertile soil of Earth. I flipped through the book on my phone and found a rather steamy section that I did NOT expect. I’ll admit that hearing Dad’s voice reading those particular passages was profoundly awkward. Moving on. As I stared up at the double maple, I realized that it was August 16th and my Nana’s heavenly birthday. “How would you like a very special gift this year, Nana?” I said aloud. “Your son needs your help and I bet you could use some company up there.” I searched the yard for an oak tree to hug but only evergreens and maples stood out. “I guess I’m going to have to hug the ones I have at home.” I thought.

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The day I had left for New Hampshire, a trip that I debated while practically drowning myself in Irish guilt, Dad, who was now bedbound after a fall he had the week before, had to have medical interventions that led to a very productive and uncomfortable evening. I’ll spare you the details in the interest of his dignity. The next morning he awoke with dramatically increased chest congestion and discomfort. Struggling to breathe, he vomited up whatever he had been able to eat plus the liquid morphine he had been given. More intervention was needed and the angels of the Norwell VNA were called to come to the house close to midnight. Jan wisely didn’t share this update with me until 8:45 Thursday morning when I saw a text from her that said “You up? Just wanted to give you a quick update.” At that point I knew that an answer to my prayer the day before was at work. Three and a half hours away and with nothing packed up, Meg and I scurried to clean, pack, feed kids, and caffeinate with the most awful coffee Meg has ever made. If you’ve ever spent any time with a Callahan, you know that they are expert cleaners. Meg’s boys busied themselves with tasks while mine were, well, less helpful.

When we were finally en route, Jan called and quickly hung up. “Uh oh” I said. I called her back and let’s just say that Jan is not the best liar. I knew from her voice that I might not get to see Dad alive again. I drove on, focused on kids, and listened to Simon & Garfunkel. It wasn’t until I reached a gas station in Newbury that I learned that Dad had passed. I wandered off into the grassy field next to the bathrooms, Maire followed me. “What’s wrong?” she said, her big brown eyes widened. “It’s Grampy” I told her “He passed away this morning.” “He did??” she questioned, her eyes now filling with tears. We hugged, then Isaac came out and gave me a full on hug, something he rarely does. It lasted at least a whole minute or two. The three of us waited for JD to come out of the bathroom. As soon as he saw us, his face went white. “He did??” echoing Maire’s shock with tears already streaming.

These kids have lived with their grandparents for a good portion of their lives, their Nana and Grampy an oaken layer of love holding them up in troubled times. If you’ve been reading these passages over the years, you know that this has been a marathon not a sprint. Every dinner, every occasion, every new decline, every triumph, every sorrow has been shared over bottles of wine, Carvel cakes, and loaves of bread. The videos I have of all those moments will be cobbled together to tell this gorgeous story of three generations all under one roof. I cannot wait until that is done and if anyone knows of a budding filmmaker who would like to take a look at the raw footage, give them my name. When we arrived in Hanson, the first person I saw was Marie Clifford who had pulled into the driveway to see how things were. “He passed Mrs. Clifford.” I told her, bursting into tears as she did too. “He did??!” she said “It’s a blessing!!” she quickly followed with. “Yes. Yes it is.” I agreed through sobs. Barb and Jan came out, Jan apologizing profusely for not having told me but, rightfully so, she was concerned about my driving upset with precious cargo. We all agreed that it was a blessing that the kids in particular were not present for his final moments. Death is not as peaceful as one would think and Dad went out with a bang.

I walked up the steps and Mom, with her barely brushed white hair, stared out the door waiting for me to come in. I fell apart as soon as I saw her. We, as you may know, butt heads on many occasions. The common denominator here, however, is love. “My hope for you is that you see all that is done here as love.” was what I said to her a couple weeks ago as we discussed Dad’s decline and need for more assistance. I know that she not only sees that but feels it. As we prepare now for the wake and funeral (quite the business I must say!), I field questions primarily from Isaac who wanted to know if he could “zoom in” to the wake if he happens to be sick that day. I told him to not worry, “we’re Irish and this will be like a party”. He took comfort in knowing that his friends could come if they wanted to. Jorge took the kids for a couple nights, getting the boys suits and all that goes with them. As his Grampy declined these last few weeks, Isaac had a number of one-liners including “I don’t have much hope for him this year”, “I’m going to need a suit”, and “If he lives another 10 years he’ll just be like a doll.” No one says it like that kid. No one. He, as you may know, has been his Grampy’s entertainment over the years and is the child who, I think, takes after him in the most unexpected ways.

The last few days have had a number of ups, downs, laughs, frustrations, bottles of wine, and Grand Marnier. Thank GOD our recycling gets picked up tomorrow. Thomas has come to be by my side all weekend, a rock of a human that man is with the best sense of humor and, I humbly admit, taste in girlfriends. Reading through Dad’s book over this week has been both cathartic and sad. I can’t go back in time to talk to him about the therapeutic process of writing, I can only move forward and carry this compulsion of mine on. Though the diaries of my youth read like a Judy Blume novel, I now know that there was a force at work in my blood, mind, and fingers that comes from a great man whose wit, humor, love, and grace will fill this family for generations to come. The very last line of his novel is just so fitting:

“Within its foliated cathedral-like dome, the autumn stillness has been disturbed by a clamorous fanfare of raucous crows, taunting a squirrel who had scampered into their domain. The bushy-tailed scavenger, ignoring their protestations, adroitly clung to branch tips, vigorously shaking the slender shafts to release the annual accumulation of the seeds of its offspring.

An acorn fell.

So ends, and so begins”

-Donald Paul

A Place of Rest

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