Year Of Magical Thinking

Joan Didion died just a few weeks ago.

I always had respected her substance and prose style. Better writer than me (obviously).

But her so no-holds-back raw memoir (Year Of Magical Thinking, its title) about the deaths of her husband and daughter, within months, addresses the worst loss and how we (all) have to process, cope, and then go forward.

Such a personal post coming up.

I (we) lost the best Dad ever about a week ago and because COVID and other practical things I could not travel to see him and can not travel for his service. My brothers and sisters are there with our Mom. My sister-in-law, (with her own full life) who’s been in touch most every day (so grateful) through these last few weeks, will work with me so that I can see our Dad’s service online from Austin.

I’m writing day-by-day of him, almost most for family only. Work in progress from afar. It’s what I can do for now.

My Mom thought I should post my Dad’s alligator story. It was meant only for family but it’ll be online at least for now. (I’m a rave memoir reader, not really wanting to share much myself, at least so far. But if Joan Didion and Mary McCarthy and bell hooks and Nick Flynn can do it on a bigger scale, I can put a toe in the water.)

My brothers and I grew up on a gorgeous place built by our parents which happened to have two ponds, one big, one a little smaller (and lots more outdoor kid heaven). Exploring one day we found an alligator in the small pond. In Illinois, an alligator. What? How? Incidentally though, it was my Dad’s birthday so we decided to gift him the alligator. But the alligator was out of its context and so went to live at the veterinary school at the University of Illinois where it surely was in good hands.

That very evening, my Dad (on his birthday) was called to an emergency (fatalities) at the company where he was a director and he got there pretty fast to take care of people and things. (He liked to tell us how the police let him really, really speed, driving to get to the site.)

I had used to read, while in high school, after school, in his office there.

My last memory of my Dad was a slightly chilly but sunny brunch creek side in Urbana about a year/year half ago. As his usual with family (and his many friends) he was smiling and happy that day.

My tiny bookcase cypress tree will get replanted in the ground…not yet sure where yet…where it can flourish in his gardener spirit.