These are photos of my dad’s study in his house up in Tennessee. I took them last month before I started dismantling it. The photos were a last minute brainstorm, and one which I’m grateful I had. Before I started removing items that I or my children might want, some of which I brought back and some of which I’m keeping in a storage unit up there, I realized that this room - an addition to the house – was so important to my dad and such a powerful memory for all of us, it would be a shame not to have a record of his pride and joy:
As you can see much of what engaged my dad was politics. He was a political scientist and a collector of political items. The second of my older sons, who is a political and history fiend himself, would like to have those items but isn’t in a place right now to actually take them – hence the storage for a while , until he is more settled.
My dad died three months ago today (the 14th) and I have spent some time since going back and forth trying to take care of things (I am an only child – it’s all mine. Which is not as great as it sounds especially when you don’t want much of it and you’re handling it all alone without a spouse of your own for support and assistance.)
And I will spend more time in the next few months doing the same. It won’t be over for a while.
Isn’t it interesting considering my recent interest in estate sales? I think so.
Much food for thought here. About what’s worth having faith in and what’s not. About what we cling to. About what we overcome and then what we are overcome by. About what we can’t let go of. About how we change and the contrast between youth and old age between high hopes and sober realities. About what we construct to represent ourselves. It’s sobering but also energizing.
I saw my dad a week before he died. He was in the hospital in bad shape, and seeing him I didn’t think he would be alive in five years but nor did I think he would die the following week.
My oldest son, who was probably the grandchild closest to him, made the trip up from Atlanta. He had vacillated, having originally planned to come up the following weekend but upon hearing that we were coming deciding to make a quick trip.
How grateful he is for that intuition that pushed him north that day.
For as I said my father was struggling. His wife Hilary was faithfully and valiantly at his side as she remained during the entire illness up until the very end. It was hard, especially for her, but as I said, none of us expected how quickly it actually went after that week.
What I will always remember is this.
As I said ,my father and my oldest son were close. Chris lived with him and my mother off and on while he was in college – in between apartments and so on. Besides – he was the first grandchild. They had known each other for almost thirty years.
And that Saturday afternoon, even as my father struggled , even as I often doubted he was all there, he showed that when he was there..he was.
He roused himself and said to Chris…tell me about your new pad..
For Christopher had recently moved into a new apartment.
He asked him about his finances…as he always did. Always concerned.
And then Chris, trying to find something to talk about, turned of course to sports. It being October in Knoxville he started talking about the Vols. About the coach, Derek Dooley.
Amy… my dad said, his eyes barely open, his whole face slack and weakened..Amy…I want you to get me a pair of orange trousers
I thought..okay. He’s lost it. Because I wasn’t in on the joke.
But Chris was and he started laughing and my dad murmured..I’m serious.
And I think I saw him try to smile.
Chris and I have talked several times since about that conversation. About how even in his weakened state that conversation was exactly like every other conversation the two of them would have…Chris’ life..his career…his finances…the Volunteers…
About how grateful we are for that glimmer. To the extent he was there..he was completely there. It was exhausting for him, but right then, he gave the gift of himself one more time. It hurt, but he gave.
So…retreat or gift?
What will it be for us, today?
What, then, will it be?
Your father’s study is beautiful. I’m sorry for your loss.
My 2 cents: you and Hilary and all children take from that room what you really want and then hold a book/ bric a brac sale in the Spring…..with some items outside by which you can lead people to that wonderful gorgeous study. I have been emptying (refurbishing for sale etc.) an inherited house of my youth now for several years…. one shouldn’t need a grief counselor or a shot of Jack Daniels to throw away Dad’s army discharge papers…but I nearly did. I’m almost done but it’s a process of incremental realism and decreasing object preciousness….and yes, it’s theological…as in Ecclesiastes and in that “dust in the wind” song by Kansas. But don’t play that song on your ipod while you’re working on that room….unless you’ve got an extra $40 for Jack Daniels or $70 for the grief counselor. Throwing away a precious sentimental object feels like throwing away dad or mom and eventually being thrown away ourselves by others. That’s a stage. You’ll come out the other end of this ascesis…this detaching-from-this-life process…tougher than leather. But it is a process via letting go of objects and letters and photos…and of a man who could ask for orange pants in honor of a mutual team….when things are toughest. None of that is easy. Christ is right next to you…hugging your shoulder. No doubt.
Amy, this reflection of yours was simply beautiful. I find it comforting, too, having had more or less the same realization as I watched my Mom slip away in 2010. When she was there, she was ALL there. In the last really significant encounter I had with her before she lost the ability to speak, I was leaving on a short trip. She motioned to me to lean in, and she traced a cross on my head, blessing me in the old manner of Catholic parents. This was particularly significant for me, something she knew all too well. I like to think that the divide between “mind” (or soul) and brain holds, and that encounters like this point to this reality. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking. But it does give me hope.
Praying for you in this challenging time, and grateful for your generosity in sharing such a personal and salient reflection.
PC
Amy, it was definitely a flash of inspiration to take photos of your father’s study. How I wish I had done that with my father’s. He’s been gone for 5 years this month and I find your words to be a beautiful reflection on the relationships with which God blesses us in this life. In December I finished the 1year+ process of emptying my husband’s parents’ house. There’s absolutely nothing easy about the process, but there are graces and lessons to be learned throughout. Thanks for this.
I’m happy for you for these pictures – they speak of a life well-spent which will be well-remembered.
My oldest was up there today clearing out the items he wants. I was rather surprised by some of his choices – but pleased. As would his Grandfather. Who will indeed, be remembered.
It is a wonderful room. I especially like the computer in front of the bank of windows and wonder what the view might be.
Could your son’s visit in Knoxville have been planned to coincide with the TN/KY basketball game this afternoon? Coach Martin doesn’t wear orange pants, but he has some great orange ties.
I am sorry for your loss.
Yes it was Elaine – but he ended up not going to the game. He spent longer in the house than he had anticipated.
Oh..and the view from those back windows is just some trees at the back of the lot. The views from the front of the house – standing in the driveway at least – is better. You can see the Smokies – especially this time of year when the leaves are down.
Thanks for this lovely post, Amy. I’m accompanying my father on his slow, painful journey with lung cancer. It won’t be much longer now — he’s been in “extra innings” for over a year now, and just decided to finally stop treatment.
I read the excerpt of your new book – can’t wait to read the whole thing.
My husband and I each looked at the pictures of your father’s study and thought – if we had that room in our house and no kids, we’d spend all day there, leaving only to go to the kitchen or the bathroom.
I am sorry for your loss. He sounds like a wonderful man.
It is a wonderful study Amy…a portrait of your Dad’s life.
I was once commissioned to do a painting of the deceased father of a client…which is always a great challenge. We decided to do an interior still-life of his beautiful study rather than a formal portrait, because it captured an entire history rather than a moment in time. Your photo reminds me of it.
May he rest in peace…