Mirrors and Nines
I have been thinking a lot lately about how I'd like to be remembered after I die.
Likely I'm brewing on this because I lost my dad a few months ago, and it bubbled up to the surface yesterday at the memorial for my Uncle.
Death seems to know my family this winter.
I suppose everyone thinks about their own immortality at times, and there is nothing unusual about my thoughts, I wouldn't even argue that I was that close with my Dad. At his heart, he was a good man, but there were so many layers on top of his core goodness, that it made him very difficult to live with however, even if the bad years outweighed the good ones, it is the good ones that last in my memory the longest.
My Dad taught me to drive. It was the one thing, his trophy thing, that he did better than anyone else we knew. He drove massive logging trucks up and down the local Cascade mountains for a living when he was younger, and he always had a harrowing tale to tell about those days - but he never lost a load, and that was an enormous source of pride for him.
My first driving lesson was to drive up and down our long narrow drive way. Flanked by prickly cedar shrubs on both sides that threatened to scratch the paint job or take out a mirror, he had me go back and forth - up and down the driveway for about an hour a day. It was humiliating because I was sixteen years old, but also because the neighbors likely thought we were crazy. Both we true. Up and down, back and forth. Later on, he would teach me to do the same with the horse trailer in tow. A sizable feat, now that I think about it.
Dad taught me to use my mirrors. I never had to put my arm around the seat and turn to see what was behind me. I always knew where I was because of my mirrors. I think about him when I'm squeezing my Suburban in and out of urban spaces, and also because I know I will be teaching my child to drive in a few years. We will probably head over to Grandma's driveway to begin the lessons. (If she still has a driveway)
Dad's favorite number was 9. He would often preach about all the particular things you could do with nines. It was always in his lottery lineup. I think about this now because I noticed my son teaching his little sister a trick with the 9 times tables. Something his Grandpa showed him I'm sure, because it sounded very familiar. Dad loved math. Math is in everything, he would say. And he was right.
I wonder what Dad would think about these little things being a part of his eternal legacy. He'd probably chuckle. I wonder what little things my people will remember me by. I hope they remember me when they are out in the forest, and look up. That is one of my favorite things to do. I hope they feel my presence on the trails. That would make me smile. But more likely, it will be something that I say or do in an unconsciousness way. Whatever it is, I hope it is a good memory. Something that provokes a smile, or a sense of fondness. Isn't that all we can hope for anyway? Not to be remembered for our faults? My dad had many, and I probably have more than him. Wouldn't it be nice to know that everything is truly washed away, and only the good remains? That might just be my heart prayer in this moment. When its all said and done, that only the good would remain.
Likely I'm brewing on this because I lost my dad a few months ago, and it bubbled up to the surface yesterday at the memorial for my Uncle.
Death seems to know my family this winter.
I suppose everyone thinks about their own immortality at times, and there is nothing unusual about my thoughts, I wouldn't even argue that I was that close with my Dad. At his heart, he was a good man, but there were so many layers on top of his core goodness, that it made him very difficult to live with however, even if the bad years outweighed the good ones, it is the good ones that last in my memory the longest.
My Dad taught me to drive. It was the one thing, his trophy thing, that he did better than anyone else we knew. He drove massive logging trucks up and down the local Cascade mountains for a living when he was younger, and he always had a harrowing tale to tell about those days - but he never lost a load, and that was an enormous source of pride for him.
My first driving lesson was to drive up and down our long narrow drive way. Flanked by prickly cedar shrubs on both sides that threatened to scratch the paint job or take out a mirror, he had me go back and forth - up and down the driveway for about an hour a day. It was humiliating because I was sixteen years old, but also because the neighbors likely thought we were crazy. Both we true. Up and down, back and forth. Later on, he would teach me to do the same with the horse trailer in tow. A sizable feat, now that I think about it.
Dad taught me to use my mirrors. I never had to put my arm around the seat and turn to see what was behind me. I always knew where I was because of my mirrors. I think about him when I'm squeezing my Suburban in and out of urban spaces, and also because I know I will be teaching my child to drive in a few years. We will probably head over to Grandma's driveway to begin the lessons. (If she still has a driveway)
Dad's favorite number was 9. He would often preach about all the particular things you could do with nines. It was always in his lottery lineup. I think about this now because I noticed my son teaching his little sister a trick with the 9 times tables. Something his Grandpa showed him I'm sure, because it sounded very familiar. Dad loved math. Math is in everything, he would say. And he was right.
I wonder what Dad would think about these little things being a part of his eternal legacy. He'd probably chuckle. I wonder what little things my people will remember me by. I hope they remember me when they are out in the forest, and look up. That is one of my favorite things to do. I hope they feel my presence on the trails. That would make me smile. But more likely, it will be something that I say or do in an unconsciousness way. Whatever it is, I hope it is a good memory. Something that provokes a smile, or a sense of fondness. Isn't that all we can hope for anyway? Not to be remembered for our faults? My dad had many, and I probably have more than him. Wouldn't it be nice to know that everything is truly washed away, and only the good remains? That might just be my heart prayer in this moment. When its all said and done, that only the good would remain.
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