The Space Between, and After

David Ward, June 18, 1945 - August 18, 2018

I have written already about my father, but it isn’t even close to everything within the scope of  that dash between the dates.

I could write about him trying to teach me to ride a bike, but I couldn’t overcome my own fear of falling.  He didn’t want to give up, but I made him.

This Is Not an Obituary

(There is an old man, reduced to breath and bones and dreams of pain, dying more slowly than he or anyone would like, in a bed in Oak Ridge, the same bed his own mother died in.  He sips some water when awake enough to realize how parched he is.  The only thing he has eaten in days are bare spoonfuls of ice cream.  There is just enough of him left to know he is in pain, but the morphine finally arrived yesterday, so perhaps that will make it easier.  Perhaps his dreams will be more restful.)

On some day in August 2018 (yet to be determined when I begin writing this), David Ward, formerly of Kimper, Kentucky, died at his home in Oak Ridge, Tennessee at the age of 73.  David leaves behind his wife of 53 years, Rhinda, as well as his four children and four grandchildren:  Yancey, who cared for him in his last years and is owed a debt the rest of us can never repay; Rebecca and her husband A.J. and their two children, (the Older with her quiet, cautious internal musings, and  the Younger with her open heart waiting to be broken); Selena and her husband Dan, and their two children (their own Boy with wide eyes and smile, and their Girl with straight back and her love of flowered hats); and Bethany (the promise of second chances) and her husband Tim Hall.  David was preceded in death by his sisters Joyce Williamson and Kay McKinney.  He is survived by his sister Jan Gosser and brother Cecil Ward, and numerous nieces, nephews, cousins and friends (too many people who loved him, and whom he loved, to list here).

Swing and Sway

"I want Princess Leia sway," says my five-year-old. Because her seven-year-old sister had asked for that picture, too.

"Slave. Slave. Slaaaaay-vuh."

"What's a slave?"

So, see, my kids love it when I print coloring pages from teh intrawebs for them. Name cartoon-character-of-choice (and yes, I count Star Wars among that, even pre Cartoon Network Clone Wars series among that), and somewhere on the Web there's a coloring page for it. Even if it means you need to go to DeviantArt (gotta make sure it's the adult-material-screened search when they're looking over my shoulder) and find a pencil drawing. Characters from the Mario videogames are big, various superheroes, too. The past week, there's been an ever-increasing demand for Star Wars characters. And Princess Leia, slave, because you see, doesn't her hair look so pretty, when it's not in the Cinnabons on either side of her head? And her costume -- isn't that so much more interesting than that boring white robe?

A Complicated Woman

Part the First: Dreaming

I still have dreams about my grandmother's house. In my dreams, it still has white clapboard siding rather than red brick, and wood paneling with dark marks and circles and ovals and striations that my brain always ordered into faces. In my dreams, the only toilet and shower stall are still in the basement, open to all the world, and I can smell the mustiness. Not that the basement was a scary place when I was kid -- all the grandkids loved it. My brother Yancey and I, and our cousins Maria and Crystal would go down there and play, chasing each other around and being chased by imaginary bad guys who would periodically capture us and tie us up with invisible chains to the support columns. The outside of the house had little in-ground hidey-holes that had windows looking out into them from the basement stairs; my grandmother's cats would nest there, and have kittens, and we could watch the brood squirming and mewling from the other side of the glass.