December 13, 2008

See photos from the wedding

September 1, 2008

Trying out a new underwater camera, an inexpensive waterproof digital.
Here's one sample photo.

August 9, 2008

Mason's birthday party at Downpout Water Park at Algonkian Park in Loudoun. Click for photos.

July 18, 2008

Idaho visit for Special Olympics. Click for more

December 30, 2007

Life marches on, whether I want it to or not

--I left Glen Allen yesterday after a soul-enriching 10 days in the boyhood home and surrounding countryside. I took a lot of walks, had a lot of conversations about a lot of things, spent time traveling down roads I'd nearly forgotten about, both literally and figuratively.
-- I received copies of my new film and started sending out orders and thank-you copies.
--Year-end accounting is prominent in my to-dos.
-- Mom's roof is well on its way to being patched after a year of leaks.
-- The lavender-scented Schermerhorns are slogging through bouts of norovirus, the so-called "Winter Vomiting Flu" virus, and we Vienna Schermerhorns are doing the same.
-- Mason and I worked on his Pinewood Derby car yesterday, before he was stricken by the horrible virus. Robin and I are hopeful we don't get it.

It is possible to talk and think about Dad without feeling profoundly sad and verging on or plunging into a sob. Dad was so vigorous at the time of his death, so strong, so present and so seemingly satisfied with the state of things around him. He told some of us about his funeral plans and how he wanted us to respond, and it was not with sadness. I really miss him, though. (Darn it, there go the tear ducts again.)

December 20

I can't believe it yet, but my father died Dec. 18.

I want to tell you about him. (Click here to see a short montage of pictures of Dad in the last few years.)

In our family, when we are not too very serious, we joke about Dad and his love of food.

Dad was famously indifferent to what he ate, actually. Mom would tell us with some regularity that food she found barely palatable would have been industriously eaten by Dad hardly before she had a chance to glance up at Dad to comment.

But Dad had a nose for good food, too. He and I worked downtown in Richmond for about seven years, me at the newspaper and Dad at Virginia Power. We met for lunch fairly often and Dad’s choices of deli or restaurant were always delicious.

In fact, the last conversation Dad and I had was over hot dogs and hot chili. Dad was telling me about a dessert called a choco-taco. We discussed whether it was a little extreme to go to the same Mexican restaurant four times in one week. You can imagine which side of that discussion Dad supported.

Dad plowed through books like he plowed through plates of spaghetti: with gusto, interest and omnivorous intent. It was always easy to buy gifts for Dad because interesting books were the playgrounds of his evenings.

He had a quiet but persistent curiosity. He used to spend his lunch hours at the State Library in Capitol Square, reading out of town newspapers for the different takes on news that each offered. I always thought that was the coolest thing.

Dad was always ready with a funny or interesting tidbit from his latest books. His memory for what he read surprised his Randolph-Macon professors. I recall him telling me how he did really well in a variety of classes because he had always read so widely.

Mom said Dad always wanted a brother or sister, so maybe that’s what the intelligent only child in the country does, get lost in books to make up for a lack of playmates.

Dad did not lack for playmates as an adult, it seems to me. Between sports he played on teams, like softball or tennis, and the stuff we did at home, I don’t think Dad got a chance to feel lonely. Dad was a good chess player and seems to have done a good amount of reading about the game. I never came close to beating Dad in dozens of chess matches we played.

Dad loved crosswords, too, partly, I think, because he loved to think about and play around with words. That’s got to be a genetic thing, because I love to do that, too, and both of my kids, Dad’s grandkids, do too.

Wordplay, that’s called. But Dad had a special talent for what you might call word torture. I’m talking about puns. He’d spin elaborate set-ups to play perfectly terrible tricks on common phrases. I will never forget his involved story about the icy Norwegian village where a lonely traveler went to get advice on beasts of transportation. Various people in the village shrugged before he got to someone in the know. “Yes,” this someone said. “Try Rudolph.
Rudolph the Red KNOWS reindeer.”

And Dad loved to play with people. Dad LOVED to play with people, whether they were willing to be played with or not. I accused Dad of skating on thin ice with people and sometimes maybe going a bit too far and CRACK! But I think Dad had a way of buoying himself in those situations with his big smile. He had a great smile.

I would like to inform the small army of annoyed waitresses that Dad’s playful side was counterbalanced by his thoughtful, giving side. In Korea, Dad spent hours taking dictated letters from wounded soldiers who couldn’t use their hands. Dad was a faithful daily visitor to my Aunt Jo when she lived at Crump Manor. And that was years and years of visits, bringing coffee and doughnuts and an active sensitive mind to the nursing home.  I think those visits helped Aunt Jo make it to her 100th birthday.

Dad had rounds to make in his retirement, hither and yon, and he left ranks of amused bank tellers, coffee shop baristas, auto mechanics, nurses and book shop cashiers in his wake. The days of those people will be dimmer now, and they’ll miss him.

Someone told me that when your father dies, a part of you dies, too. It’s too soon for me to say if that is so. Dad and Mom both did an amazing job of letting us kids stand on our own two feet, make choices, make mistakes and take our lumps. They were always there to help us back up, though. They built in so much of themselves in us through example and instruction that the part that Dad takes with him leaves its echo in our souls.

Dad, the joker, the wordsmith, the confidante, would have something to say about his abrupt departure from our midst. I have struggled without success to put myself in Dad’s place and come up with that one-line quip that would have made us all laugh.

Or groan.

In my mind, Dad’s spirit picks itself up and looks down at himself in the driveway.
“Well!” he must have said. “I didn’t see that coming. I missed supper by half an hour. ”

Dad, you always did know how to finish a story.