Tributes

Father's Day and with it always comes a sense of melancholy.
Who was my daddy? The man I call my old drunk, dead daddy?
Ah. The stories I've heard, the few I remember. Not so good but I know where I get certain traits- some of them good, some of them bad. He was a story teller, he was a cowboy, his best friend as a child was a Seminole Indian down in the Everglades.
He was a bad drinker.

Well, I didn't see him from the time I was five until I was thirty years old and that visit was a short one. He died not long after.
Bless his heart.

I told Jessie this morning that she could thank ME for getting her such a good daddy. And that I had to figure it out for myself because I sure as hell didn't have any examples to follow.
When Mr. Moon came along in my life I couldn't figure him out at all because he was not a fucked-up human being. This was a novelty to me and a mystery, as well.
He was...happy.
He was a good man.

When I was cleaning yesterday, I came upon a letter his mother had sent me back when Glen and I had only been together a few months. Here's what it said:

Hi Mary:
Just a note this morning to say Happy Valentine's. I am feeling much better but would feel a lot better if I could get out more.
I just don't like cold weather.
How is school coming along?
We sure are looking forward to you, Glen and the kids coming up in March. Let us know what part of March you plan to come. Glen has told us so many nice things about you and your little ones.
It will be so nice to have more sweet children to love along with our sweet grandsons.
Mary we are a very close family and we have a lot of love for each other. Glen has always been a wonderful son and we are so very proud of him.

He has a lot of pride and a lot of love to give. He has never been afraid of work and has set his goals high.
I know if he has the right one to share this with he will make it.
Mary, I am not trying a sales job but we do want him to be happy and have something out of life. From what he tells us he has found this all in you and your children.
So you see honey we are very excited to meet you.
We want you to feel free and very welcome in our home.
Love....Glen's Mom and Dad

Well.
That explains it all, doesn't it?

And when I actually met his mother and his daddy and his sisters, I realized that this was indeed a family with a lot of love. More than I'd ever experienced and they held out their arms to me and my babies and gathered us in with great joy.
And I fell in love with them as I was falling in love with that crazy-tall son of theirs and that was in 1983 and by 1984 we were married and in 1985 we had Lily and he started his first business (with the help of his daddy) and he worked twelve hour days and I worked hard, too, taking care of the children, the house. It wasn't an easy life. But it was a good one. And in 1989, Jessie was born and there we were- full house, full family, full-on everything.

Glen stepped into the role of husband, father, provider like he was born to the it. I think he was.
He juggled a plate full of responsibilities and worked like a demon but he always took the time to take the kids fishing, to be at their ball games, to take us all to the beach for a weekend, to get to the meetings at their school. To go on field trips and Scout camping trips.
And he took care of the mama. Which was probably harder than all the other stuff put together, crazy as I was back in those days.
But as if all of that wasn't enough, he helped his parents move to Florida, helped them build a house, got them all settled in.
Soon after his mother died and then within a year his daddy had died, too, but he'd had the goal of moving them here and he did and they were so grateful for that. His mother did NOT like cold weather. She told the truth about that.
And about how hard he could work, how high he set his goals.
She told the truth about everything.
And I'll never forget watching Glen and his daddy work together at the tire store when Glen had that place. They giggled. Those big old men, they delighted in each others company all day long and although Glen was the boss, his daddy was the one he went to for every sort of advice, for reassurance, for support.
Listen- good daddies make good daddies.

Oh. I feel all flustered today and tired and sad. I'm still thinking about Clarence Clemons, I'm thinking about the joy that certain people can bring to this world, some of them on a huge stage, some of them on a small one.
I'm thinking about kindness.

I'm thinking about the men we've loved who brought us joy and how huge the hole is when they're gone. I'm thinking about how lucky I am to have known Glen's father, how lucky Glen was to have had him.
I'm thinking about how lucky I am was for Glen Moon to walk into my life when he did, standing up to every one of his almost-seven feet, the way he slung a fifty-pound bag of dogfood over his shoulder like it was nothing, nothing and the way he smiled at me when he did it. I'll never forget that. Maybe I knew right that second that his shoulders were strong enough to take on even me and my babies.

Yes. I was lucky and yes, I was fucking smart. I saw, I realized, I listened, I learned that men could be trusted, that men could be good fathers, that men could bring joy.
Comfort and joy.
He still does bring those things to me. More than ever.

I didn't have much of a daddy but I sure picked out a good one for my babies and it has proven to be the best thing that I ever did.

Last night when I found out that Clarance had died, Glen was already in bed and I told him and I cried and I cried and I cried and he held me and I tried to explain what was in my heart about how Clarance had been the human, wailing voice of the E-Street Band, how he'd worn those crazy polyester suits onstage with a big ol' hat sometimes, how he could wear anything he wanted to because he was Clarance Clemons, the Big Man, and Glen just held me and said, "I know, I know."

When I was a single mother in nursing school I used to listen to Bruce all the time and my favorite song was Thunder Road. It was about a Mary and the lyrics gave me hope that I would be saved. That somehow, redemption would show up on my door in the form of someone who could love me.
And it did. And he did. And that song is like the thing that kept me from completely sliding under until that man showed up and wouldn't let me go back inside, who coaxed me out and kept his promises.

So ah-yah, it's all tied together in my mind, somehow on this Father's Day.
Which of course, it's all tied up together anyway, always, on every day. Pain and joy and redemption and death and birth and love and kindness.

Here's a video of Bruce, blurry as hell, from 1976, playing Thunder Road, about the same time I first saw him and Clarance onstage. I'll copy the lyrics for you after it so you can read 'em if you want to. Watch the love at the end between Bruce and that Big Man and the joy they have in each other and think about men and their daddies, think about men and the way they can love if they have been loved, think about the men you have loved, who may have been kind to you, whether father or not, who have brought you joy, whether father or not, and Happy Father's Day, first to the man who is the father of my babies and then to his daddy and then to Jason, who is such a good father to our grandson and then to all the rest of the men so big either in body or soul or heart that they do not shy away from showing love.

That's all.



The screen door slams, Mary's dress waves
Like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays
Roy Orbison singing for the lonely
Hey that's me and I want you only
Don't turn me home again
I just can't face myself alone again
Don't run back inside, darling you know just what I'm here for
So you're scared and you're thinking that maybe we ain't that young anymore
Show a little faith, there's magic in the night
You ain't a beauty, but hey you're alright
Oh and that's alright with me

You can hide 'neath your covers and study your pain
Make crosses from your lovers, throw roses in the rain
Waste your summer praying in vain for a saviour to rise from these streets
Well now I'm no hero, that's understood
All the redemption I can offer, girl, is beneath this dirty hood
With a chance to make it good somehow
Hey what else can we do now
Except roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair
Well the night's bustin' open, these two lanes will take us anywhere
We got one last chance to make it real
To trade in these wings on some wheels
Climb in back, heaven's waiting down on the tracks

Oh oh come take my hand
Riding out tonight to case the promised land
Oh oh oh oh Thunder Road, oh Thunder Road, oh Thunder Road
Lying out there like a killer in the sun
Hey I know it's late, we can make it if we run
Oh oh oh oh Thunder Road, sit tight, take hold, Thunder Road

Well I got this guitar and I learned how to make it talk
And my car's out back if you're ready to take that long walk
From your front porch to my front seat
The door's open but the ride it ain't free
And I know you're lonely for words that I ain't spoken
Tonight we'll be free, all the promises will be broken
There were ghosts in the eyes of all the boys you sent away
They haunt this dusty beach road in the skeleton frames of burned-out Chevrolets
They scream your name at night in the street
Your graduation gown lies in rags at their feet
And in the lonely cool before dawn
You hear their engines roaring on
But when you get to the porch they're gone on the wind, so Mary climb in
It's a town full of losers, I'm pulling out of here to win.

Fathers and Daddies

Father's Day is going swimmingly over here at blessourhearts so far. The fisherpeople chose (quite rightly, I think) to come home last night rather than to spend another fiery hot night in the un-airconditioned house on the island. I know that those of you who do not live in this part of the world cannot imagine why I keep talking about the heat but as my son Hank said last night, "It really is impossible not to talk about it."
It's that hot.
Sure, we've had heat in these temperatures before. But it's so still. There is no breeze, just the bake of the sun on the earth and it's quite literally like opening the oven door when you open the the door to outside.
It's a force to reckoned with.
I let another baby chick die yesterday and I'm sure it was my fault. I've had the chicks outside in the bigger outside box and although I checked them frequently yesterday, I was gone for quite awhile and when I got home, one of them was dead, lying stretched out in the dirt, already stiff.
I will not be taking those chicks out today.
I buried the poor thing beside the canna lilies in one of my flower beds. It was the chick we'd named Elvira.
The other ones seem to be fine and they are growing at a phenomenal rate but I have decided that trying to raise baby chicks in any other season but early spring is not a good idea. There is a reason things happen when they do- that babies hatch in the spring and not in early summer.
At least here in Florida. Probably in most places.
I find it telling that my own babies were all born in either May or June except for the one I "planned" and that pregnancy was so different and so much more difficult than all the others that it makes me wonder about things.

But back to Father's Day.
I hadn't planned on cooking Father's Day breakfast this morning because I hadn't planned on Father being here but he was and he wanted eggs and sliced tomatoes and bacon and biscuits, of course. I found I didn't have either enough butter or ANY shortening to make the biscuits with but I had some cream cheese in the refrigerator and to tell you the truth- I don't know how long it had been there. But it smelled and looked fine and I used that in place of the shortening and I tell you what- those were some of the best biscuits I ever ate.
I peeled the tomatoes from the garden and sliced them up and scrambled eggs and put the biscuits in a shallow bowl with a green napkin to keep them warm and fried up the three pieces of bacon I had in the house and I think he was pretty happy with it.
Now he's out, cleaning the boat. When the fisherpeople got in last night they were exhausted, overheated, and wanting nothing more than a shower and to crawl into sheets that weren't dripping with humidity.
It was a fishing trip they'll never forget and I think it's one telling metaphor that they didn't see any dolphins the entire trip but saw a crazy number of sharks.

Why am I having such a hard time writing about Father's Day?
I just looked at the Father's Day post I wrote last year and I said the same thing.
But I said a good piece about the man who is the father of two of my kids and the Daddy of all of them. I don't think I can say it any better today so I'm sending you back there.

And because I do truly have a lot of love and affection for the other-father of two of my kids, I'd like to send you to a post I wrote about him here.

Look. I didn't have a good daddy. I didn't have a daddy at all. But perhaps because of that, I knew what I wanted and didn't want in a father for my own children and if that's so, it was worth it not to have a daddy of my own.

I think so. I do. And since I am the most blessed-beyond-belief woman in the world, how can I bitch about something that led me to here? I don't think I can.
I can only say I thank my lucky stars and every powerful force that I have what I have, that my children have the love of their fathers.
And I want to say Happy Father's Day to all the daddies out there. The ones with kids here and the ones with kids coming (Jason! Billy! Xbox!).
Happy Father's Day, y'all. Thanks for loving the babies. Thanks for loving the mamas because when you love the mamas, you are loving the babies. Two-for-one. Thanks for being the men who make the children feel safe and loved. Nothing on earth can make up for lack of that. Believe me.
Nothing.

And the pictures I'm posting are from Lily's wedding. Her daddy is walking her down the aisle and my other kids' father is there celebrating with his beautiful wife, my kids' other mother.

You see what kind of life I have?

Tonight we're going into town to see Jessie play some bluegrass at the Legion Hall and that's going to be fun. She fished hard all weekend and tonight she'll dress up and play mandolin and I'll hold her daddy's hand and we'll be so proud of her.

And in a few months, we're going to greet our grandchild together and this is going to be one lucky child because Mr. Moon is going to be his or her granddaddy.
I still haven't gotten my mind around that one, but it makes me cry to think about it.

Well. My brains are baked. I can't figure out any ending but that's okay because really- there is no ending to this story of fathers.

I will say this- when my kids go to write about Father's Day sometime, they're going to have good stories to tell. Really, really good stories that make them laugh so hard and maybe make them cry, too. In a good way.
And that's my every wish come true.

Happy Father's Day, y'all. I mean it.


P.S. Roll Up The Rugs
I love you, baby.

The Mythological Good Man

I desperately want to write a post about my husband (whose name shall be revealed here now- it is- are you ready for this? Mr. Moon!) because it's Father's Day tomorrow, but for some reason I'm having a terribly hard time with it.
It's really no wonder that I am. I grew up with first a father who was a drunk of such persistence that after he threatened to kill my mother, my brother and I, my mother had to leave him, and then a step-father who was a child molester and a psychological terrorist.
So I never really had what you'd call a father (or at least what I'd call a father) and because of that, I was probably drawn to men who were, for the most part, charismatic bad boys whom I figured I could fix with my love, attention, and devotion.
Yeah. That didn't work out so well.
And when Mr. Moon came a courtin', he was so off the mark as to the sort of man I'd be attracted to (see above) that my immediate reaction was to show him the door but something inside of me, some wise and aware part of me, cautioned me not to do that, but instead to open it wide, let him come in and plight his troth.
Which he did. And then managed somehow to move in with me after about fifteen minutes.
The first thing I noticed about Mr. Moon and the first thing every one notices about him, is his height. He's almost seven feet tall.
Everywhere I go with him and everywhere I have ever gone with him, his height has attracted attention. Especially from women.
"How tall ARE you?" they ask him, eyes wide and head tilted to the side, the better to take in all of the glorified goodness which is Mr. Moon.
"Did you play basketball?" they ask.
And he treats every one as if they were the first person ever, ever to comment on his height. With courtesy and with humor, and that was one of the first things I ever noticed about him. That and the way he walked and held himself, which was as if he was taking advantage of every single bit of height he had, proud to be a giant among men, born happy to be born special, and smiling all the time.
He smiled so much I wondered if there was something wrong with him. Honestly. I did.
And then when he fell in love with me, I was certain there was something wrong with him, but I figured that if I married him quick he'd not have time to notice how crazy I was, how needy, how very ill prepared to be the wife of a man like him.
He says he fell in love with me because the sweater I was wearing kept falling off my shoulder and because I made biscuits the way his grandmother did. I say it's because of the way I could shovel horse shit off the back of a pick-up truck for the garden.
Whatever. Whichever.
We got married.
I've realized since then that the man has a need to take on a challenge and I suppose I presented a huge one. I was obviously "not right" as we say around here. I had so much pent-up anger and hurt and bad stuff in me that it's a wonder I didn't have a bio-hazard sign tattooed on my forehead. But because he's got a heart so big that God had to give him a body the size of a giant to fit it in, he ignored all that crazy stuff and just saw a woman who needed a good man and two kids who needed a good dad and figured he could make it all alright.
He went from being a fairly casual house-painter to being a business owner who worked twelve hours a day, six days a week in a matter of months after we were married because he knew that what a husband and a father does is support his family.
He supported us, he was there. He gave everything he had to being the father and the husband he was raised to think a man should be. Although he didn't tread on the boundaries of my oldest two's biodad, he did everything a daddy would do for them. He went to school conferences and concerts and plays and recitals and karate events and he supported them in every way possible.
And he took care of the mama.
He gave me such a net of safety and love that I was able to admit and get help for all the hurt and anger and fear the fathers had instilled in me and he supported me as I did that. Sometimes I raged at him, even though he was innocent, because I couldn't rage at the men who'd damaged me. And he let me. He let me cry, he let me scream, he let me go through all the shit I had to go through to become if not quite whole, at least a lot less broken.
He couldn't do it for me, but he made it possible for me to do it myself by always, always being there.
He gave me two more babies and I doubt any one of my children would say they could have a better father than Mr. Moon. My two oldest children have two dads- but both men are their fathers. And both have given them very special and distinct gifts but I don't think that in their minds they have any doubt that at any time, their stepfather wouldn't do anything in his power to help them if they needed that. No questions asked.
In fact, he's proven that more than once.
On the worst day of my life, when one of my children got hit by a car and was taken to the hospital, I called him, right after I hung up from that call that no parent wants to get. I was in hysterics, crying and he said, "I'll meet you at the hospital." I was about five blocks from that hospital. He was about five miles. He beat me there. And he was the one to put his head in the ambulance to see our girl because I could not do it out of fear, out of terror. He sat there in that tiny cubicle in the emergency room, right beside her, even though he passes out at the sight of blood. He was there.
He's been there. He's the daddy.
He's the husband.
We're so different, in so many ways I can't begin to list them, but when you get right down to it, when you get to the core of the heart of the matter, we agree. The family is what's important. The children are what's important.
Our love is what it's all based on.
We love the water, we love the porch. We love to travel together, we love to sit home and eat dinner in front of the TV. We love to garden.
We love each other.
Twenty-four years after meeting him, and after twenty-three years of marriage, I love him more than ever. That sounds like a cliche but it's just the damn truth. We're both getting deaf, we're growing more and more eccentric, we're not the spry and cute young chickens we once were, but dammit, all that stuff is just...stuff.
And he's still almost seven feet tall and his heart is as big as ever.
All I can say is that I sure am glad I was wearing that sweater that night. And that I can make good biscuits and don't mind shoveling horse shit.
And that he loves me.
And not just because he is my comfort and joy but because he loves our babies. Each and every one for who and what they are. No buts about it, no questions asked.
I may not have had a father, but I found one for my kids and I did a damn good job.
And in doing so, I achieved what I had never even dreamed I could ever do, which was to create the sort of family I never had, but always wanted.
So thank you, Mr. Moon for always being here.
Don't stop. Don't you ever stop.