Dear Dad, 2024

Dear Dad,

This is the ninth Father's Day without you. Did I remember to call you on the last one in 2015? I hope so. I don't remember.

I was just glancing through pictures from back then, and it's odd to see how young Quinn was in particular. She was only eight when you died. There is such a world of difference between eight and seventeen. How much of you does she remember? So many of those memories must include your being sick or needing a walker. That's so unfair. I wish she had more experiences like mine, where you shared information about history and the world at the dinner table, surprised us with poems, dashed around city streets going from one gallery or bookstore to the next, always greeting me with a smile, and tucking a twenty dollar bill in my palm at every visit claiming it was overdue allowance. 

We never really got an allowance growing up, did we. There was a week where I remember I got a dime, and my brothers each got a nickel, and then there was a stretch where you had a stack of comic books you drew from once a week to mostly the boys because after my first couple of copies of Magnus the Robot Fighter, I lost interest. Then randomly in high school you thought twenty a month or a week was deserved for no reason I can think of. We had paper routes, so we didn't need it, but I liked the extra record money. I guess my approach to allowance with my kids has been the same. I'm happy to just get them what they need when they ask, or hand them money if they are going somewhere they might need it, but they seldom ask for anything. They have what they need. They don't feel entitled to more. I feel like my brothers and I grew up with that same sense. When I hear people say if you don't pay kids for chores they won't appreciate the value of money, I never buy it. I think it depends on the kids and the circumstances and the examples they see around them. The example I got was to make good choices, and books and art were among those.

So, let me think what I would update you on if I could call you this year.

I guess first is to let you know that Mom is okay. She had a scary fall down the front steps on her birthday back in October, and that was a mess. She broke her heel and had to be off her foot for months. It still hurts, and she's moving a little slow, but she's healed up remarkably well. Arno and Barrett and I took turns going out to help. She had lots of support from friends. Physical therapy made a difference, and she's back to her regular life as far as I can see. She's making beautiful work, including finishing up the project with the small cabinets to house books based on different trees. You'd be amazed. I know she still misses having you there to help her determine when a piece she's working on is officially done. All the current work is stunning. 

Mom actually told us a really funny story about you recently. We were in Pleasant Ridge for an unplanned evening (after touring U of M we were supposed to go straight to the cottage, but decided to visit Mom and stay there a night and she put together a meal so much more elegant and tasty than anything I could have done if given a week to think about it) and we started telling Dad stories. And she described how the first time she tried to cook for you in your apartment she opened the oven to find the smallest skillet she'd ever seen, and your response was, "Oh! I lost that six months ago!" She also said your cabinets were filled with empty boxes you found attractive, and things like a chipped teapot that couldn't be used but were all aesthetically pleasing. We may have a gathering later this year just to record everyone's stories about you (so they aren't lost like a tiny skillet in an oven).

The U of M tour was fun. We've taken four official college tours with Quinn so far: Beloit, Lawrence, U of I Chicago, and U of M. So that's two small schools in small towns, one small school in a big city, and a very big school. My inclination is to have Quinn not too far away so she still has access to things like home and the doctor she likes etc., and in a small enough environment that she doesn't fall through the cracks if she's not assertive. But big schools have advantages, too, I just worry. I just want her to have a good college experience. She doesn't know what she wants to study, but she's good at all subjects and loves to learn.

Quinn's a lot like you in many ways. She's quiet and serious and smart, but with a really wry sense of humor that takes people by surprise. She's particularly good at Spanish and art and writing, and of course geography still. She joined the debate club and the National Honor Society this past school year, and she also had a paid internship with some sort of sustainability company. She has nice friends, her grades are good.... The only thing I can think of to improve upon would be for her to practice piano regularly. I ask her every semester if she wants to continue lessons, because I know it's frustrating for both her and her teacher that she's not putting in the work, but she insists she wants to keep going. If she wants lessons she can have lessons, I just don't know what's happening from her point of view. Anyway, Quinn is lovely. It's easy to imagine how much you would enjoy going with us on college tours.

Mona's doing great. I wish you could see her art. I know you called her out as a genius many years ago, but her aunt recently said the same thing when we were in New York recently. I'm not entirely sure what's happening in her apprenticeship because she's very private about her life, but I know she loves the things she's learning and appreciates her teacher. There is so much more interesting stuff to know about tattooing than I ever realized, and she loves learning it all. I really think this path is a good fit. Plus she loves having her own apartment above the store, and she regularly pops in on us at home to hang out, especially now that Aden's home for the summer. I love seeing all the siblings together.

Aden's taking the slow path in college, which is fine by me. UW Stout is affordable, and she loves it, and she's still grappling with managing ADHD and anxiety and performing well in her classes. She's very good at what she's doing, and has won several awards so far, but turning in regular assignments, etc., is still a struggle. She's made some beautiful art, some of which I've had framed to hang in the house. Her current obsession is sea monkeys. Aden continues to be a delight, and I'm glad she wants to take advantage of being in  There are lots of classes she still wants to take, and I don't have any timeline she needs to fit into. 

How many years were you in school? Hamilton College, Univ of Geneva, Columbia, Wayne State.... I think I'm missing something. I have it in my head that you were at Teacher's College for a bit, but Mom disagrees. I know I wrote all of it down (your entire school and work history) on my laptop years ago where you gave us a hilarious blow by blow of many things, but that was one of the items lost when my computer crashed. I figure if anyone could see the value of taking your time to enjoy being in a learning environment while you can, it's you. So I tell Aden her grandpa would have approved, and to take whatever classes make her happy.

All three kids are so sweet and funny and kind. I worry about them and love spending time with them and wish you could visit with them. You would find each as fascinating as I do. 

Your other granddaughter loves college (of course) and is studying art history and anthropology. I hope I get to see her this summer, maybe at the cottage if we're lucky. Your grandson is bright, creative, funny, and surprising. He had his first cello lesson the other day, and if it sticks, I may wind up building one more cello after all. I really thought I was in the clear and would never need my cello form and templates again! But we'll see. He's one of the few people on Earth I would actually make a cello for.

Oh, and speaking of building, I was just in New York where a couple of my violins were part of a show of women luthiers! It was the second leg of a touring exhibit of instruments, and the showroom was just down the street from Carnegie Hall. You would have loved this trip SO MUCH. I wish you could have been at the makers' brunch with me and Mom and Arno, and I was on a panel talk that I think you would have enjoyed, and the concert that evening (all woman quartet playing music by women composers on instruments in the show) was amazing and you would have loved everything. It's impossible to walk around that city and not think of you with every step. We even walked all the way to the Cloisters on our last afternoon in town (which on my wonky knee was quite a feat). You made it to the Cloisters finally, didn't you? Wasn't that a running joke for a while that you kept meaning to get there, but somehow never did? The whole trip was wonderful, Arno's new office is great, their renovated apartment is incredible.... You should have been there. I wish you could have been.

Ian's good. He spent part of this Father's Day at the violin store running the rental charges. I've been really happy to see him use more of his retired-from-the-Army time to get involved in projects he's interested in, like his Wisconsin Association of Railroad Passengers group, and more Linux things. The other apartment above the violin store freed up, so we made it an office where he can set up the 3D printer, etc. I still need his help running the business, but I want him doing more of what he wants to as he can. Oh, and we're finally in the process of selling his childhood home. It's been two years since his mom passed away, and he agreed it wasn't good for the house or the neighborhood for it to just be sitting. Emotionally that's all still a lot, so I handled as much of that as I could. Losing a parent is awful, so I understood. I wish I didn't understand so well.

I'm trying to get myself unstuck with my writing projects. It's weird that for me being stuck has nothing to do with actual writing. I don't have any trouble writing and have never suffered with any kind of writer's block, but I have a need to finish a project before committing to the next, and the wedding novel has been stalled for years at this point, simply because I don't know what to do with it. I finally decided to send it to an editor and get professional advice. We'll see. She's had it for a couple weeks, which means in my head I feel like the whole book is garbage. Few things are worse than handing someone a book you wrote and then having to wait for them to read it. But it's a start, I hope! I just want to be unstuck and start playing with more of my projects.

Health wise, this year has been annoying. I feel like I was fine, and then I turned 55 and fell to bits. My right knee got all swollen and I couldn't walk for a few weeks. Physical therapy is helping, but yuck. I was kind of relieved when I found out the mandolin orchestra wasn't going to Spain this summer, because I don't think I could handle airports, etc. I'm on a CPAP machine now, which is stupid looking but I like sleeping through the night. I'm wearing aligners again because something was off with my bite. I had another biopsy, which was uncomfortable to say the least, but the results were benign. I have a thyroid check coming up, I need meds for my blood pressure, and I have another colonoscopy scheduled in about a month. I figure since colon cancer took both you and my grandpa, that's not something I can afford to ignore. That's too many things! I don't like going to the doctor. I have thoughts for when the last child is out of the house for getting both Ian and myself in a better eating and exercise routine, so maybe that will help with some of it.

I'm sure there was more I wanted to say, but I'm getting tired and I have a lot of work waiting for me tomorrow. I do miss our Monday chats. I don't reach for the phone anymore when I think of something to tell you, but I still think of things I would say all the time.

I miss you. I miss you so very much and it still hurts. Is there an age that's too old to just want your dad? If there is, I'm not near it yet.

Ha, the dog just came in to nudge me into petting her, and I make that same funny wgshkk! wgshkk! sound to her that you used to do to our cat and dog. Domino is such a cutie. She'd have let you pet her!

I love you, Dad.

Kory

How We End

Someone I love has been told they only have a matter of months to live. It is unlikely they will see the year 2025. They may not even see summer.

Many of us have played the hypothetical game in our head of what we would do if we were presented with such news. I have a feeling it's one of those scenarios that is not what we imagine. I remember thinking vaguely long ago that if I ever had a miscarriage that I would probably accept it logically and move on. Two miscarriages taught me otherwise. I also remember being in a gut wrenching situation with one of my kids where I pictured myself at one point being a weepy mess over a particularly hard decision, but when the time came I was simply relieved. When my grandmother died, I was incredibly sad, but I was also surprised to discover that I was set free from holding onto the idea of her as someone crippled by dementia. Since all of her lived in memory I could remember her at her best without betraying reality, and there was joy in that. So I have no idea what it really is to be told you have little time left on this earth.

My first thought about what I would do if given only months to live, has always been something like "Stop doing dishes." But maybe not. Maybe in reality I would embrace the ability to do that while I could. 

Would I focus on myself or others?

It seems like the most appropriate time to be selfish because who would judge you negatively for it? And yet the first thing that pops into my head would be to finish projects for my kids while I could. I've made a violin for both of my older girls, but the one for the last daughter is still in pieces on my bench. I think I would feel desperate to get that done. Along with photo projects, and letters, and making sure they knew the stories behind things I want to leave them. But maybe those pursuits are selfish in their own way.

In the past, I would have said the thought of being faced with a terminal diagnosis would inspire me to travel somewhere. To see something I've put off and always wanted to see. I've never been south of the equator. I've never been to Africa. But would I want to use a small amount of time to do something new or something I already know I love? I think I might resent every minute that I'm stuck in a plane on a runway if I could just be home.

I suppose that's a good measure of how well you're living your life, if you'd be happy with an average day as your last.

I love my life. I like the house we live in, even though there are still a million projects to do in it. I'm happy crawling into bed every night between my husband and my dog. I think at this stage in my life, I would be content to spend my last days at home, or maybe at our cottage my grandparents built. I know my grandfather in his final months spent as much of it at the cottage as he could. My grandmother died in a nursing home, but the last time I spoke to her, in her mind we were having that conversation on the cottage porch. It's a peaceful place.

I've often thought that if we won the lottery (somehow without playing) that I would keep my job. I love my job. I think I might stop doing cello work or bow rehairs, though, since those things tend to provide me with more frustration than joy. (Not because I don't enjoy doing them, they just both take up all my bench surface, which I can't stand. If I had a dedicated cello workspace, and a bow bench where I didn't have to put all those supplies away each time I switched back to instrument work, then I wouldn't mind it. So maybe I should be doing that now somehow?) If I were dying, would I keep working? Possibly. Some of my happiest moments have been spent sipping a cup of hot cocoa on a cold morning while sitting alone at my bench, looking out the windows, and deciding which repairs to tackle first. But maybe I wouldn't get that anymore even if I wanted it. I'd have to help figure out how to shut it all down or pass it on.

Part of me thinks I would like to scramble to put out whatever novel I'm working on. But I also know how much that takes me away from time with other people. That would probably be too big a sacrifice, unless I could convince people I love to hang out near me while I do it. I would hate to leave my books unfinished.

I know sometimes when you're sick, it can actually be harder on the people worried about you. No one likes to feel helpless. No one enjoys survivor guilt. How much would I get to selfishly be as angry and in pain as I really feel, and how much would I choose to spend my time and energy comforting my family and friends instead?

I think about how much it would mean to me to see this person one more time, and accept that the situation is complicated enough that such a visit may be too much of an imposition. They are not obligated to accommodate anyone at this time. I just want them to have whatever brings them comfort.

I like to think it's better to be given time to say goodbye and wrap up any loose ends that need tending. An unexpected end seems crueler. I remember when I was in violin making school, and I had a long commute every day, seeing a story about another driver dying on the freeway, his car crushed between two trucks. It really shook me. I kept thinking about how he likely had food in his fridge he had planned to eat, and maybe a book on his nightstand he'd never know the end to. What if you die wearing an outfit you can't stand? Sounds stupid, but I'd rather go in my favorite cozy sweater.

Contemplating death is very different now than it once was for me. There's something alluring about flirting with ideas of death when you're a teenager that doesn't have the same appeal once you have more days behind you than ahead. The list of people I've lost at this point is getting long. There is weight to those losses somehow. There are days I feel that weight, and it's all I can do not to cry at any given moment.

I dread the losses that are still to come. I feel like they haunt me on the periphery of my daily life. 

Because I think often of the days almost nine years ago when my dad was in hospice. There was so much love and laughter and sorrow and grief all tightly woven together, and we all said we would learn from it. I knew better. I wanted it to be true that we would make more time for each other, and not let the days slip by so easily that years could pass without being able to hug the people that matter, but I knew real life wouldn't allow for that. We get distracted. We get busy.

And in some ways that's all right. That's what life is, the day to day bits and pieces. Being able to make your own breakfast and walk the dog and hang out with someone in front of the TV and wearing a favorite shirt and anticipating the comfort of the pillow you like at the end of the day. 

Hug people while you can. Love them while you can. And remember that the little things are actually the greatest things. If tears are how we know we care, at least I know I care a lot.

Dear Dad (2023)

Dear Dad,

So much to tell you about this year!

First, some general updates on the kids, which is the thing I most miss being able to talk to you about. 

I can't believe when you died they were only 13, 11, and 8. That was half Quinn's life ago at this point. There is such a world of difference between those ages, and 21, 19, and 16. I mean, could you have imagined Mona with a driver's license? She's still the only kid who has one, although Quinn is doing a good job in driver's ed and should have no trouble passing her test when she's ready. We need to bug Aden about finally taking her test again, even though she's not keen on driving. Mona seems to like it, and Quinn is getting more comfortable behind the wheel. 

Anyway, Aden loves her college, but she's been struggling. I think we missed catching that she likely had ADHD and anxiety issues when she was growing up, and now there are bigger complications with that at a college level. It's so hard to know sometimes what things are typical kid problems, and what things run deeper. All kids have bouts of laziness and bad time management, but how are you supposed to tell that from something parenting alone can't correct? We're working on some things with a therapist over summer to see if we can get her to a more confident place come fall. Aden is so talented and kind and lovely... It hurts to watch her not be able to do the things she wants to do. Regardless, she's managed to grow up quite a bit in her couple of years away at school. 

I'm glad Aden's home this summer. Although she's living in the downstairs nook, since Mona has kind of taken over their whole room. I know for Aden that home does not feel the same as it used to. That's such an odd transition, isn't it? When I visit Detroit, the house is still home, but there's really nothing there that's mine now. And yet, when I lie in the guest bed in my old space, I still recognize the patterns on the wooden door and the way the light shifts in the room. Somehow that's enough to feel like I belong.

Aden's been doing some nice print work. A lot of art schools have apparently abandoned print making, but not Stout. She does some adorable animation. The best news recently was that apparently one of the big video game design studios is now in Madison, which would be nicer for an eventual job than maybe all the way out in California. (At least for her mom.) She's hoping to spend time with friends up at the cottage before going back to school. Her new housing assignment will include a real kitchen and a private room, and she's looking forward to cooking again, and more privacy. She's playing a lot of a game called Tears of the Kingdom. She still has the bluest eyes you've ever seen.

Things for Mona have begun to turn in a good direction! She's been frustrated with her unfruitful job searches and was feeling stuck, but she's now on track to apprentice with the new tattoo shop opening across the street from the violin store soon. She had a great interview, they loved her work, and she's prepared to put in the hours and effort to learn those new skills. Mona will also be moving into the Airbnb space above the shop, so that will be a short commute. I think it's a good fit. She'll get to create art that's personal to people that they literally carry around with them everywhere, and make a good enough living to still pursue other avenues with her art as she likes. I'm excited for her.

The biggest adjustment to her moving out may be less of not having her around (since I'm sure she'll still come to the house and hang out from time to time), but more of the bird being gone! I can't picture that corner of the dining room without Keiko. He's so loud! And present. And lately he's been hanging out in a tinier cage next to the TV so as we watch things, he watches us. (And tells us that he's an adorable Keiko bird.) You never got to meet Keiko, but you'd have liked him. I wonder if seeing him would have reminded you of stories of your own birds that maybe you hadn't told us before.

Mona's sewing some beautiful things lately. Things far more intricate and professional looking than I ever came up with. We got her a really nice straight stitch machine. Apparently the better the machine, the fewer things it does, and this one does straight stitching really fast and well. I think what sold her on it was the extra arm that you can use to lift the sewing foot with either your elbow or your knee, so you can keep your hands on your work by the needle to spin it, etc. Saves Mona a ton of time. She's got an Etsy shop, and she works diligently to fill orders. You'd be as proud as I am of how hard she works. I'm already looking forward to updating you next year on how it all goes.

Quinn is good! She is SO relaxed and happy compared to a year ago. Remember how reserved she was, even back at 8? Like, not so much shy (which she is), but like she had her guard up a little all the time. Now that she is able to be herself in the world, she still spends a lot of time in her room and she'll never be an extrovert, but she moves differently, with a grace that wasn't there before. It's like she can breathe. I love it.

It's a scary time for trans-people right now, particularly kids, but so far Quinn's had nothing but support. I have friends in states that aren't so lucky. I'm grateful for her school and her doctor, and that even the people at the social security office who helped get her gender marker changed were happy to help.

She's doing well in all her classes (particularly Spanish), she continues with piano in a sluggish way but insists she doesn't want to quit, and she wishes she weren't so tall but otherwise is just quietly being Quinn. She's in charge of having dinner on the table at 6:00 when I get home from work four nights a week (which she does with the aid of a Hello Fresh box).

My favorite thing with Quinn is that during the school year, I get to straighten her hair every Sunday night. She has lovely waves in her hair, so of course she wants them gone. I miss the physical contact you have with smaller children that evaporates when you have teens. Getting to put on a movie and play with Quinn's hair for about 90 minutes while we watch something together is something I look forward to each week.

Speaking of missing smaller children, we got ourselves a baby-sized dog! I needed her. I really craved having something to scoop up who was excited to see me in a way that doesn't happen when your children are bigger. Ian was a holdout on the idea of a new dog after Chipper died, and periodically I'd ask him if I could start looking, and he wasn't ready. But then Quinn said she wanted a dog, and of course Ian relented. Now we have our little Chihuahua-rat terrier mix, Domino. You would love her. Everyone loves Domino. And this dog would have happily let you pet her all you wanted. Mona and I even flew with her to New York where we stayed with Arno and Deepanjana, and by the end of the trip she was doing the subways like a local dog. I got some nice pictures of her by the Nick Cave mosaics in one of the stations. (You'd have liked those, along with the Chuck Close ones.)

Arno and Deepanjana are doing the best I've ever seen them. Their lives are more than I can adequately describe, but they are thriving. And Ellora got into her dream school! She loves Berkeley, and is currently doing work in Madagascar. The newly expanded apartment is honestly the nicest place in New York as far as I'm concerned. Crazy that after Ellora moved away that they finally have extra space and a second bathroom.

Barrett and Dosha are doing great, too. Barrett's soon-to-be-published book is so good! It's filled with Mom's drawings, and he even found a way to include a picture of my viola. I don't know if that's the instrument I would have wanted to represent me in a published book, but that instrument has cochineal in the varnish which is what he needed. (I just remind myself that people interested in cultural entomology are not going to be scrutinizing my lutherie skills the way violin makers would, so it will be fine. But that's the viola I made for myself when Ian was deployed, and the only time I had to carve was after midnight and between newborn feedings so its claim to fame is that it exists at all.)

Rivyn is amazing. It just hit me that he's the age now that Quinn was when you died. That's kind of mind boggling. That little baby you got to hold briefly in those last few days at home has grown up to be imaginative and funny and is such a delight. He cycles among several interests and is better read at this point than most of the adults I know. I wonder how much of Barrett you'd see in him and what elements would be completely new.

Ian is well, but he's still adjusting to the passing of his mom. It's been a year. He's still undecided about what to do with the house out in Portland. I get it. After grandma died, I realized I couldn't drive by her old house without feeling a lot of pain. There's something deeply awful about being severed from a place that was once a close part of you and your story. I don't know if once Ian lets go of his childhood home if that's the last we'll see of it. I don't know if when someday we have to let the house in Pleasant Ridge go if I'll ever see it again, or if that whole neighborhood will just be gone from my life. It's a jarring, unpleasant thought. I don't know if there's a way for Ian to resolve any of that in his situation that doesn't hurt, so in the meantime it just gets postponed. Grief is hard. Grief is persistent. 

Mom's done a lot of traveling this year. She spent a few weeks in India and had an incredibly nice time, then she and I got to travel to Austria! What an amazing trip. She got to hear my mandolin orchestra perform in Graz, and in Salzburg. I made her watch The Sound of Music before we left because we were in some of the places that appeared in the movie. Somehow Mom had gotten to this point in life and not seen it before. I feel like you must have watched that movie, right? I saw it as a kid, so someone must have been there. (I guess this goes on the list of questions that it's too late to ask.) Mom's amazing. Her work is more beautiful than ever, she's busy. She misses you, of course, but is doing okay. Still the best cook ever. Every time she serves us a meal I think about asking you in that book of questions what your favorite food was, and you wrote "anything Karen makes."

I'm doing okay. I'm frustrated (as usual) with my lack of progress on book stuff, but will make time soon (I hope) to sort it out. The store is really busy, and I need to make time to work on the commissioned instruments on my bench. My health is fine, which I don't take for granted, and we have what we need.

I miss calling you on Mondays. I miss curling up with you to try and help with your crossword puzzles. (I know I was never any help, but occasionally there was a Star Trek clue that made me feel useful.)

Hey, I'm not crying this year as I type this. Is that some kind of progress? I don't know. It's probably good that I can think of you in a similar way to how I think of people who are still here, and not focus almost solely on your being gone. But I really really miss you. What I wouldn't give for one more hug from my dad this Father's Day. You gave great hugs.

I love you, Dad.

Kory

Dear Dad, 2022

Dear Dad,

Wow, what a year. We’re in this weird phase of moving out of the pandemic, while the pandemic is also still here. The beauty of being vaccinated, though, is hospitalization and death seem off the table. Long Covid is still a concern (I know too many people suffering with that to take it lightly), but the fear has lifted. Now it’s just an annoyance. I’m tired of masks. I’m tired of takeout rather than eating in restaurants. I’m tired of the social stress of people behaving without care for others and the divisions it causes. (Someone actually stuck a flyer on the door of the violin shop by the sign saying we require masks condemning our “virtue signaling.” That was just cowardly and rude.)

But the exciting thing about life getting back to something closer to normal is we get to do stuff again! There are concerts to play, and people to see.

The event where I thought about you most was when Mom and I went to Venice. Dad, we went back to Venice! But this time I got to play a concert there with my mandolin orchestra. I wish you could have heard us. You’d have loved it. We played against a backdrop of Tintoretto paintings. It was wonderful to have a chance to travel with just Mom for a week in Italy like that, but you would have loved it so much. The food, the canals, the gelato, the art, the endless places to wander. . .  You wouldn’t have kayaked with us, though. Mom and I would have waved to you as we paddled and you stayed in your suit and tie on a nice civilized path alongside the water. But oh, Dad, you would have loved all of it.

The garden back in Detroit is looking amazing. I don’t know how Mom does it. Our yard is such mess! Literally, right now, because we had a new deck put in, and the old pile of deck garbage is still here. The new fence doesn’t go up for another week or so. But it’s so nice to be in the backyard! I’m sitting on the new deck right now in the shade of the beech tree, perfect temperature, nice breeze, no fear of rotting boards giving way underneath me and sending me to my doom. We even strung some lights from the garage to the terrace above the new deck the way I always meant to and never did. We might repaint the mural on the garage wall from a dozen years ago. Quinn in particular feels it's time to paint something much better. Mona has ideas.

I got to do the varnish workshop again, finally. I still had those three instruments in the white I bought to use in 2020 before the pandemic shut everything down. And I had three instruments of my own to varnish, so that was fun. (I don’t think I’ll build three instruments at the same time anymore. Two is plenty. Three gets overwhelming.) I built a violin for Mona that she doesn’t want, but I’m glad I did it anyway. The little bird Aden drew on the back of the scroll came out cute. The violin sounds nice! I still need to make one with simpler wood for mom to paint. That’s one of the many projects that never quite seems to happen, but I do want to make a violin in the white for mom to decorate. That would be cool. I wish I could have done that with you, too! I’m trying to picture how fast you would get that done. It would be funny, because my part, building the instrument would take months, and then you would paint something amazing in under ten minutes and that would be the only thing anyone would comment on or praise. (And that would have been fine.)

Which reminds me, I did an internet search not long ago for your ties. I think often about all those ties you painted in that sweatshop in Brooklyn and there have to be some of those still out there in the world. I feel certain I would recognize your work if I saw one, but who knows? Mona and I went through a portfolio of Mom’s old prints from early in your marriage and before, and it’s fascinating to see what elements of her style have persisted, and what things are hard to recognize as her hand. Maybe those ties of yours don’t resemble what I think of as your work. Maybe I’ve passed one on the street and didn’t know.

Writing is weirdly stalled. I need to buckle down for one more edit on my latest novel, and figure out what I’m doing. I feel if I play the numbers game, I have a shot at a traditional publisher. But maybe I’d like the control better of staying indie and just investing in real marketing for a change. Or maybe creative control but with some support from a hybrid publisher is the way to go. I don’t know. All the non-writing bits of writing gets really discouraging and frustrating. But I like the new book. It’s fun. (And wouldn’t make you weep like the first one did!)

I think the oddest thing at the moment that I wish I had you here to talk about is the transition away from having kids in the house. We spent so many years where everything was centered around the needs of our kids, and scheduling things based on school calendars, or having to base so many meals adjusted to boring palates. . . And now they are essentially all grown up and it’s wonderful in new ways, but very different. Ian and I actually have to figure out what we want to do. We’ve spent a long time tag teaming to get things done, but now we can do things together again. So there are good things which are exciting, but it’s also a bit sad. I’m looking back on all their childhoods and wondering if it was okay. I don’t get a do-over. Maybe it wasn’t enough. I tried, though. I really did try.

I keep thinking there will be some relief at least in not being responsible for all of them in front of me all the time, but then I think about that lunch at your house where Alit was over. She’d just had her first child, and she said she had been experiencing nightmares where she was scared for the baby or didn’t know where she was and was panicked, and you looked at her sadly and said, “That never goes away.” So I’ve thought ever since that I should be prepared for that to be the case.

Luckily, though, at the moment it doesn’t seem to be. Aden finally got to leave for her first year of college, and when I don't hear from her, it means she's happy and busy. At the moment, Aden’s off being a camp counselor to six and seven-year-olds. She loves it. She found the job herself, and she’s teaching little kids art, and seems to be really enjoying everything. She loved her first year of college. There were a couple of complications, but you know what? She handled it all herself and did fine. She loves UW Stout. She’s made good friends. She’s adorable and sweet and making beautiful things. Aden’s even in a print club where they did some giant woodcut pieces that they printed on fabric using a steamroller! How fun is that? Anyway, she’s amazing. She’s still magical. All blue eyes and happy laughs and funny and kind. Just like the tiny girl you remember, only taller. I really miss her. I was supposed to have a week with her between college and camp, but then Ian’s mother died, and she agreed to go with her dad to Portland to help him sort out the house and the estate stuff. I don’t know if she was helpful in a practical sense, but the emotional support she gave Ian was invaluable. With a little luck she’ll be home for a week or two at the end of the summer, but that seems like a long time away. We have lots of Star Trek to binge together whenever she gets back.

Speaking of Ian, he’s doing okay. I think he’s still in a bit of shock after losing his mother so unexpectedly. The stress of managing the house in probate, etc., is a bit much. I’m trying to help where I can. But I know what it’s like to lose a parent, and there’s really only so much anyone can do. That’s just a hole in your life that never gets filled. You learn to walk around the hole or face away from it sometimes, but it’s always there. I feel like the yard that is my life has a few big holes at this point, and maybe when there’s nowhere left to walk that’s how you know it’s time to go.

I wish you were here to talk with Mona. She finished high school a semester early, and graduated 6th in her class! You’d have been so proud, but you wouldn’t have had a ceremony to watch. She tried a semester of college online through UWM, however it was awful and turned her off of college entirely. I keep telling her that that wasn’t college, that was sitting at our dining room table watching assigned YouTube videos, and she should do a real semester of art school somewhere in person before she makes up her mind if that’s of any value or not. I feel like she might have listened to you. She did apply to Pratt based on the idea that you thought she should go there when she was only 11. You loved college so much (14 years of it? Am I remembering that right?) and you would have had lots to tell her about why she should give it a go. She’s not really listening to me, so nothing I say gets through. If you were still around, I would find a way to send the two of you off to Paris for a bit, and you could give her the tour you once gave the St Paul School boys, and you could draw together and see all the museums, and I would be satisfied that that was enough of an education if she still didn’t want to do school. She is focusing in on jobs and putting together a resume. The most enticing plan of the moment is to set her up in Nancy’s house in Portland and let her get a fresh start in a new state, but with housing and transportation covered so there is a cushion while being far from home. We’ll see. I know she will be fine. It’s just hard to see her so anxious while she’s living in a time of unknowns. But damn I wish you could see her work. She’s so good. She won the Racine Art Museum Peep contest this year with her Peepzilla, so her sculpture abilities are as strong as ever, but her ink drawings are mind blowing. I would give anything for you could see.

Quinn came out as trans recently. She surprised us with a cake that was the trans-pride flag inside. Not that the news was a surprise, just the cake. Remember all those conversations we had when she was only two and insisted she was a girl? Changed her name and everything for a couple of years? I know you thought I was being overindulgent and not helping her in the world by going along with it at the time. But now I’m wishing I’d advocated more for her earlier. It’s so hard to know. She needed to come into herself in her own way and her own time, so maybe an official coming out did have to wait until now. I don’t know. But I’m really proud of her for being so courageous. This country is so cruel to trans-people, and the rhetoric is so nasty, that I’m already fearful about places she can’t go and be safe. As if anyone has anything to fear from someone as sweet as Quinn! I wonder how you would have handled her coming out? I suspect it might have taken some adjustment (heck, I will be stumbling over pronouns for a while out of habit), but I also picture you doing some amazing drawing full of rainbows and weird birds to send her in celebration. I know your love would never have wavered. There’s nothing not to love about Quinn. I’m hoping the fact that her entire family is in her corner will help what will likely be a complicated path. I’m going to smooth it as best I’m able.

Well, the lights above the new deck have switched on in the dusk, and the bugs are far too interested in my laptop screen. Time to wrap this up.

I love you, Dad. That never changes. I hate that you didn’t get to go with Ellora on her tour of colleges (I can’t imagine anything that could have made you happier!), or that we can’t really tell you she got into Berkeley. I hate that you don’t get to see how little Rivyn (not so little now at seven!) is a bundle of creative energy like his father and such a pure delight. You would be amazed at the beautiful work Mom is doing lately. She told me she misses how she always counted on you to look at a piece and be able to tell her when it was done. It feels unfair that life goes on and you’re missing some wonderful things. But life isn’t fair.

I love you. Happy Father’s Day. I will try to make you proud even though you can’t see.

Love, Kory

Death Of My Mother-In-Law

My husband's mother recently passed away. We're not exactly sure when. Ian called her on Mother's Day, and she didn't pick up, which wasn't unusual for her. A couple of days later he got a call from her doctor's office saying she didn't appear for a post-surgery followup. He called a neighbor to check on her. The neighbor found Nancy dead in bed.

It was sad breaking the news to the kids. They called her "Oma," which was the name she picked for herself when she became a grandmother as a means of differentiating herself from my mother. Aden and Quinn were at home, so they were told in person. Mona had just left that morning for a summer job in a different county, and we had to tell her over a bad phone connection. They were all somber. But Oma has always been a somewhat remote figure in their lives living all the way on the West Coast, so I don't know if they really knew how to feel. I'm not exactly sure how to feel, because it hasn't really sunk in for me yet that she's gone.

Nancy was many things. She was generous. She was curious. She was adventurous in that she traveled to more places than anyone else I know, but then also led a predictable and simple life at home. She managed to get a good city job in the planning department in an era when I don't imagine that was easy to come by for a single mother. She was a teacher, at one time in a one-room schoolhouse in California, and until recently a tutor in English as a second language. She was thoughtful. I never heard her raise her voice or say anything mean about anyone (short of a few politicians). She was practical, preferring often to eat out of reusable food containers than regular dishes. She liked heating her house with a wood stove when possible. She seemed unconcerned about other people's judgement, wearing what she liked, and was unapologetic about her tastes and interests. She loved colorful things, clever woodworking from the Saturday Market, shiny souvenirs, Hawaiian pizza, dangly earrings, maps, Jeopardy, and skiing. She drove a stick shift most of her life and always named her car. (In the last several years she drove a Prius.) Most importantly to me, she did an excellent job of raising her only son into the man I love. Her example taught him self-reliance, and respect for women as equals.

The thing Nancy prized over all else was her independence. Her childhood home was not pleasant. She didn't associate family with joy, and the responsibilities that family can impose she did her best to see as her choice rather than as an obligation. She was incredibly good to her brother, nieces, and nephew. She was certainly good to us.

However, Nancy seemed most satisfied with doing things apart from family. She had friends, and activities, and routines, but we were only allowed to know about them superficially. She reminded me very much of the way teenagers only give one word answers to their parents so as to keep their private lives private. The kinds of questions I might ask my own family felt more like prying with her. She preferred we didn't intrude, so we had to be content with some things being left unanswered. I don't believe it was anything against us, but a pleasure she took in being owner of her life. 

I did have the opportunity to get to know her a bit better on a road trip she joined me and Ian on back in the late 90s when I needed to deliver a viola I'd made to a player out in New York. When Ian's not driving, he tends to sleep on long car trips, so Nancy and I had many hours together just to talk for a change. I learned a lot that explained why the two of us navigated family events and interactions so differently. I find my family a source of inspiration and peace. Growing up, she found hers something to overcome. She told me once of a pivotal moment when she was 18 and had graduated from high school, and while driving her car came to a literal fork in the road where she could go back to a home she disliked, or pick a new road and create a different life. She picked the new road and never looked back. That was Nancy.

The fact that when she found herself pregnant she was able to make all the sacrifices it took to create a settled life for a baby is impressive to me, since raising a child is the opposite of freedom. But she did it. She kicked out the man whose unreliable behavior could not be tolerated around an impressionable child. Ian's dad died when Ian was only three. Nancy was a single mom in the 1970s and somehow managed everything on her own. No support from family. No resources except what she could find by herself. She raised her son to be capable and independent, as well as ethical and kind. (Although, having enjoyed much of the hippy culture of the 60s, I don't think she ever knew what to make of Ian's decision to join ROTC. Teenage rebellion takes many forms.)

Nancy worked for decades as a city planner in Portland OR. It wasn't a coincidence that when light rail was installed, there was a convenient stop near her house. She was incredibly smart about her finances so that she could provide for her little family of two. To say her home was modest is an understatement. But she provided as many opportunities for her son as she was able, including getting him into an expensive Montessori school with a scholarship.

The only place she splurged when she could was travel. Reading of her adventures in every Christmas letter was always surprising.

We wished more of her travels had led her here while her grandchildren were growing up, but we did manage a family trip out to Portland a summer before the pandemic hit. We'd taken the kids out there once before when they were small, so this was the first time we were able to really show them around. I'm glad we did, since we had no idea it would be our last opportunity for such a visit. Nancy somehow found space for all of us in her tiny home and our kids got a sense of where their dad grew up, and got to know their Oma a little better in person instead of from afar.

Nancy was one of the few people to read all three rough drafts of my novels when I first wrote them long ago. That's a lot to ask of anyone, and I appreciated it more than I think she knew.

I can't think of anyone who lived a life somehow so completely on their own terms and yet unselfishly the way my mother-in-law did. She never neglected a birthday or forgot to send things for the kids to open under the tree every year. She used a lot of her time volunteering at the art museum and the science center after she retired, and I wish I knew just how many adults she helped learn to speak and read English. She lived the life she wanted while also helping many. Not enough of us can say that.

Literally in the end, she went the way she wanted to go. Her health and cognitive function were starting to slip into a state where her independence was threatened. As much as she loved her son (and there's no doubt she loved her son), the last thing she wanted was for him (or anyone) to be involved in her care or decision making. She always intended to die as she lived: On her own terms. Her spiraling health concerns simply brought her down more rapidly than we were expecting, but maybe not earlier than she was ready for.

So as sad as it was to learn that she died in her sleep at home, it also wasn't tragic. The "when" was too soon. The "how" was exactly what she would have preferred.

Nancy was unique. I hope she enjoyed her life. She will be missed.

Dear Dad, 2021

Hi Dad. I miss you.

It's been almost six years. I know because your youngest grandchild is six. I haven't seen him in over a year because of the pandemic, but in pictures he's looking so big compared to that tiny baby you got to hold before you died.

Six years is a long time, but on the upside, I can now talk about you at some length without bursting into tears. I'm able to share stories about you with my kids that make them laugh or smile without it also bringing me down. That doesn't mean your absence isn't still difficult, but grief is strange like that. I've adapted to it. Although that sometimes means it hits me in a wave at an unexpected time.

This year is looking up compared to last year at this time. I'm actually surprised by how quickly we're able to go back to normal in a lot of ways, considering how practiced we got at our socially distanced protocols. Things are opening up instead of closing down. It's amazing what it does for your attitude to know you could go out and do something, even if you stay home anyway.

But this Father's Day we did go do something! Mom is here (after a visit to LaCrosse) and we got tickets for all of us to the Milwaukee Public Museum. We have a membership, but you need timed tickets as part of their Covid protocols. Plus we all wore masks, which is no big deal at this point. We mostly wanted to see all of our old favorite displays before the museum moves in a few years. Things like the giant T-Rex eating a Triceratops in that spooky storm setting probably won't survive because they are out of date with current science, but it's fun to visit while we can and remember how nervous it used to make Aden when she was little. We even had the fun on this trip of introducing a family to the hidden snake button. (No kid should go to the Public Museum without getting to push the snake button.)

Last year when I wrote you, Aden was getting ready for her first year of college. That's where we still are, because she wound up deferring both semesters. Covid not only made us nervous, but it made the college experience look really rather abysmal. But our whole family is now fully vaccinated (YAY!) and things are looking up for fall. I think things will be normal enough at Stout again that it will be worth going. The silver lining in the deferrals is that not only did I get an extra year with Aden at home (which I've really appreciated), but she kind of has the fear of leaving home out of her system now. She's had a LOT of home lately, and is ready to move on. It's nice to see her excited rather than nervous. I think she's going to enjoy college.

Mona finished her virtual Junior year fifth in her class. Virtual school has been a mess for many, but a boon for Mona. She's on track to graduate early, and I'm trying to convince her to go back to in person learning for her last semester. I think she needs friends and socializing and time out of the house, but she wants us to sign her up for the continued virtual option. We'll see. Mona remains complicated in many ways, and it's hard to know sometimes if we actually know what's best for her. Currently she's excited about applying to art schools, both near and far, and she's been using the studio at the violin store to work on pieces for her portfolio. I wish you could see it.

Quinn graduated from Fernwood and will be moving on to Rufus King High School in the fall. He may have to take a city bus there, so that's something we still have to figure out. After a year of virtual schooling, he's ready to be in person. He did get to do the last month or so of eighth grade in person, but it was still odd with masks, and partitions at lunch, etc. The graduation was weird. It was held in the Bay View High auditorium so we could all spread out. The one part of the ceremony I was really looking forward to was the slideshow of the photos. Each kid was supposed to submit a baby picture, a slightly older picture, and a current picture, and they would show them on a big screen to music. It's fun to see how each kid has grown. And I submitted photos for Quinn twice! Both times under the wire--first time by email, second time by text as requested. So I was, um... disappointed when on the screen under his name they had to use a stick figure as a stand in because the pictures somehow didn't go through. Oh well. (It's kind of funny, and I have it on video.) 

Anyway, Quinn is now the tallest person in the house, and definitely has the longest hair. He's still smart and funny and sweet. He'd give you a good run for your money at Scrabble. (Remember when he tried playing with us when he was really really little, and he put down "Japon" and we had to explain that "Japan" wasn't spelled that way, but more importantly you couldn't use proper nouns? He was so embarrassed. We should have just let him play whatever he wanted, but he would have been upset with us later for not making him stick to the rules. He still likes rules.)

Ian likes not being in the Army anymore. I definitely like him not being in the Army anymore. He's doing a great job running the building and keeping the finances in order at the shop. I married a good man, Dad. I remember how you had your doubts twenty-something years ago when I told you we were getting married. That upset me until I talked to Grandma about it, and she just smiled and said, "Do you think there is any man you could pick that your father will believe is good enough for you?" I know you came around eventually, but I thought you'd like to know it's still good, and we're happy we're together.

Business is busy. I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed lately because there is so much to do, and I'm about to lose my assistant. She only came up about twice a month to work, and I know that's not enough to count as really putting a dent in my workload, but it was nice to occasionally not have to do everything. It's hard doing everything. But I am grateful to have a job that survived the pandemic. I just keep hoping at some point I'll catch up on all the work at the store, and have more time for the projects I need to finish on my bench at home. I put in long hours, but never seem to get there.

But there's lots to pay for coming up, so I should just be grateful for the work. Besides college to fund starting this year, our deck out back is falling apart, and we have to replace it this fall. Remember how weird that deck is? At first glance people always think it's great, but it's ridiculous. Too many levels accomplishing too little. And it's just rotting all over and is officially a hazard. The new design should be scaled down, but with more space that's actually usable. We'll see. We really didn't want one more big project right now, but we don't really have a choice. (Short of not stepping outside the back door anymore to be safe.)

Chipper died back in March. That was hard. He was such a weird little thing. I know it made you sad that you couldn't pet him. I wish there had been a way to explain to his little doggie brain that he didn't need to fear all men. Anyway, I think of him most when I'm in the kitchen. I was used to him planted at my feet with that hopeful look on his face as I chopped things. I miss him being underfoot, and I miss his wanting me to scoop him onto the bed in the mornings. Did you have moments when you missed Anna? She was a weird dog, too, and I know you and mom were relieved not to have to factor her into your schedules anymore once she died, but wasn't it kind of nice having a dog? Someday we'll get another one, but not soon. That freedom from one more responsibility is definitely nice, but I miss having something to pet when I sit on the couch.

Writing is sort of stalled. I need to get the last project wrapped up before I can put my brain into the space of the next one, and I'm sort of stuck as I send out queries and wait to hear back from people. I hate waiting for other people to do things when I want to move forward. But I do still need to do a full couple of rounds of editing, so I have to make time for that. I wish you could read the new novel! I miss your proofreading skills, although Barrett (and occasionally Arno) has been wonderful for that.

You know what you would have loved? Visiting college campuses with Ellora. Arno described to me their process of visiting potential schools, which in pandemic times means no tours, just wandering outside of buildings and getting the general vibe of an area. They visited Yale and Amherst and Harvard, etc. It sounded like a lot of fun, and right up your alley. We still haven't seen Aden's college! I'm taking Aden up in August for her orientation, so we'll see it then. It has me thinking back to when you and I visited Oberlin. Remember how the dorm I was supposed to stay it looked too freaky, so I ended up in your hotel room instead? I liked that trip. I feel like we didn't have enough trips together like that, but I don't know when we would have had the chance.

What else would you want to know about this past year. . . Politics improved a bit. Trump is out and Biden is in, and I don't miss the daily weight of panic that the news used to bring. The Middle East is still on the brink of mayhem, racism is still a dire issue, environmental reports and mass shootings usually make me want to cry, but at least there are grownups in charge again, so I don't feel desperate about breaking news every hour. You would find so much to clip in the papers, some of it better.

My orchestra gets to play in the new fancy hall this coming season! I wish you could come! I'm still glad you got to hear me play in that Russian concert back in the Pabst several years ago. That was a good concert. I'm lucky to get to play with such talented people. I discovered during the pandemic that if I don't have something specific to prepare for, I don't take my instrument out of the case. So I guess my idea that my viola should be on my "if stuck alone on a desert island" list isn't a good one. 

Aden and Mona got to take a trip to New York to spend a couple of weeks with Arno! I drove them out there and stayed a few days to help get them acclimated, but then they were on their own to learn to navigate the subway system, etc. It was a good growing experience for both of them. They learned things about themselves and each other that were surprising. Mona even called me one night to say that she hadn't realized how much I usually facilitated certain conversations, and that she was having trouble finding things to talk about with her sister. Without someone there to dictate the plans, etc., they had to negotiate between themselves, and they have very different ways of moving in the world that don't always mesh. I know it upset them both not to be in sync, but it's part of learning to be with others. I think it was good for them, even when it was hard.

My kids are getting so grown up, Dad. I mean, Aden's going to be 20 this year. 20! It's simultaneously really young and really old. I don't know how to process it some days. How did you deal with it when I moved away? I remember my friend Alit saying at lunch at your house after she had her first baby how she was having nightmares about something happening to her child out in the world, and she wondered when that goes away. You said it didn't.

What were your worries? Were there any moments where you felt more reassured that I was doing all right? Knowing my girls made it to and from Central Park on their own made me happy. Aden's actually been using the bus since she returned to Milwaukee, because now that doesn't seem daunting compared to NYC. I hope the world is kind to them so I don't have to worry too much.

Sheesh, I feel there is a lot more I should be telling you, but my mind is sort of blank. The pandemic stuff made everything blurry and flat. It's hard looking back on the past year and to put anything in any order, or see anything as significant. Maybe next year's update will be more exciting! I would say for this year, things are okay. Life is never easy, but I have what I need. You don't need to worry. I hope part of this reality is that your nightmares are over.

I love you.

Happy Father's Day.

Kory

 

Death of a Bow Maker

I received the news today that my friend and colleague, Steve Haas, has died.

Steve was a bow maker and a restorer. He called me a week before he went in for heart surgery this summer. He was optimistic. He anticipated having more energy when the operation was over. I offered to help with any last minute work that showed up on his bench, or to take a turn at walking his dog if needed. He said he had everything covered. He promised to call me when he was home again, and said he would make an effort to find time to go to lunch. Our last lunch was a summer ago not far from his new shop.

But then Steve never did call me back about that lunch. I left messages on his voicemail to check in. I heard word from other musicians who came through my shop that the surgery had gone badly. There were complications and he was in the ICU. Last week someone told me he was on life support. The news this morning was not unexpected, but is still a shock. To know for certain someone in your life is truly gone is always a shock.

I met Steve in the mid-90s when I moved to Milwaukee to learn violin making. My school had summers off, and my teacher recommended I use that time to learn to rehair bows. It was a valuable skill that would be welcome in any violin shop, and he said the person I should learn from was Steve Haas at Classical Strings. That's where the symphony level players took their instruments.

There was no job, though, at Classical Strings. I called Steve and introduced myself, and told him I wanted him to teach me how to rehair bows. He didn't think he could help me with that, but agreed to meet me for lunch. We went to his favorite Mexican place. I was in my late-twenties and enthusiastic, and by the end of the meeting I had convinced him to let me join his shop where he would teach me what he knew.

Steve looked amused and a little dazed as we returned to Classical Strings. He told me point blank he wasn't sure why he was giving me a job, since it didn't make sense to train his future competition. But I was persuasive. Teaching me to rehair bows would be beneficial to us both, I promised, so he took me on, mostly to answer the phone and deal with customers, which would help keep him on the bench. (The hardest part of running your own shop, and also doing the bench work, is battling interruptions.)

I won't lie; working for Steve was hard. He was demanding. He was quirky. He was typical of many people in my trade in his attention to detail and in creating a small world of exacting habits.

The day he made me learn to use his vernier caliper, I cried, because he wanted me to do it in a way that made sense to him, not in a way that helped me. It took hours. I wasn't allowed to take notes, I wasn't allowed to ask certain questions, I was simply supposed to be able to do it the way he did it. The woman who did restoration work at the next bench consoled me when Steve left the room, and said that happened to everyone. The crazy part of that whole exercise was that I had my own dial caliper that I could read just fine. I never needed his, ever, so I don't know what the lesson was truly about. However, most of the lessons I learned were invaluable. It was worth the occasional bout of tears to have access to that knowledge.

The most infuriating quote in Steve's shop was, "There's the right way, the wrong way, and Steve's way." Which meant you could be right and still be wrong. So, no, not an easy place to work, and I was on the payroll for a decade.

But there were other quotes that stay with me. Such as: "One slip with your tool and you've changed history." Steve's respect for the instruments and bows that came through his shop was genuine. He knew what he was doing. His work was excellent. The standard he set was intimidatingly high. It was maybe a year of working on bows in his shop that he stopped feeling the need to inspect everything I did and trusted me to simply do the job.

And training me to rehair bows did turn out to work in his favor, because at some point he entered a battle with cancer during which his hands became unreliable. The chemo took a toll, and for a long stretch I was doing all of the bow work that came through the shop. I was glad to be able to help. I was proud that my work was at a level that it could pass for his. Steve seldom doled out compliments, but there was a moment in the middle of those difficult couple of years that he told me with great seriousness I was the best bow rehairer in town. On days when I am frustrated with my own work, I cling to that statement to get me through.

When I graduated from violin making school, Steve took me on closer to full-time and year round. I moved into repair work, which is a different skill from building. Under his careful eye I learned full setup, how to dress boards, straighten bridges, glue seams, adjust soundposts, fix cracks, bush a pegbox, raise a nut, find a buzz, and to clean violins properly. Everything I know about repair I learned from Steve.

Steve told me once that one of his favorite stories was how at my first violin making competition I was the only person in the line of people receiving comments from a judge that did not get a lecture about the proper shape of a fingerboard. The judge sighted up the neck of my instrument and said appreciatively, "You dress a lot of boards." I told him that was very true. And every one of them had to be up to Steve's standard, because you could not get away with anything less at Classical Strings. Steve told me he thought about that often, and how it always made him smile. That may have been the first time he gave any real thought to how what he knew was being passed on into the world beyond what his own hands accomplished.

Steve made beautiful bows. I've never made a bow, but he said if we ever found the time he would show me what to do. We never found that time. I told him a couple of years ago that if he had another of his bows available for sale I would like one. But he hadn't made bows in ages, and they didn't cross his bench very often. I still wish I had one of his bows.

Steve had a variety of struggles, and we didn't agree on certain things, but I admired that he was always trying to grow. For someone whose inclination was often to be rigid, he could recognize when he was wrong and say so. He listened to me instead of just arguing, and told me later if I'd changed his mind on topics I found important.

He was a good musician, too, although I don't know if he thought of himself that way in comparison to the professionals that came through his shop. He played guitar, and there was an ease to what he did that I don't have. Whatever instrument Steve pulled into his lap at the shop ended up playing the opening bars of "Smoke on the Water."

I am lucky to be able to say that I went from being Steve's employee to his colleague and his friend. When I opened my own shop in 2008 he was nothing but supportive. The idea of competition in this field is negligible. It's good to share the work. Our interests and skills complemented each other across town, where I like to deal with people and a rental program and sales and quick service, and Steve liked to work alone doing intricate projects over a long period of time. We sent clients to each other as seemed appropriate. And whenever I had a question or a problem or needed someone to brainstorm with about shop issues, Steve was always at the other end of the phone. I can't believe that resource and all he knew is lost to us now.

He was always looking forward, but actively appreciated whatever stage of life he was in. He only ever had positive things to say about his kids. He loved his work. His new shop was charming, and I think he recently had gotten around to unpacking the final box.

Steve was in a good place when he called me this summer. He insisted he wasn't scared. He'd had many health problems over the years, but he had faith that this surgery would keep his life going in the positive trajectory it was moving. He was at peace with himself.

He will be missed.




[ADDENDUM Posted on Facebook the next day:

I want to say a little more about Steve Haas now that I've had a bit of time to process his passing. The post I wrote on my blog yesterday was stream of consciousness in what short amount of time I had before heading to work. It's since been edited a little and amended. But there is more to say.

Steve was a complicated character, but an example to me of what you can do when you rise above. He did not come from an easy background. He was met with adversity at several turns. But he didn't whine about things, or complain unnecessarily. He always looked to the positive, even when it was something small. I remember when he was ill with chemo how he would talk about it honestly, but then focus instead on whatever movies he'd watched to distract him from the nausea. He often found the silver lining, and it troubled him when he couldn't.

Most people never saw behind the scenes of how their instruments were tended in his shop. They would have been pleased to know the kind of care he took, and ensured the rest of us did, too.

I wish Steve had made himself get out more, especially to play music with other people. He had a lot to share, but isolated himself a bit much. Which I get. The kind of work we do is better done in solitary much of the time, and that instinct bleeds over into other things. But he liked when I made the effort to visit him in his shop and would show me what he was working on. He liked and admired so many people in our community, probably more than they know.

Steve was generous to me on many levels, including finding ways to keep work on my bench even as my husband got deployed and I suddenly had to juggle everything with small children. He'd figure out which projects I could do on my bench at home at night, and never made it seem like a burden that my hours were suddenly so scarce.

And Steve could not have been more supportive of my opening my own shop. He even had the crazy idea of working for me at one point when he was in transition and wanted to let go of certain responsibilities that are part of running a small business. He thought I looked like a nice boss. I told him it made more sense for him to maintain his own shop identity and I would just keep sending him restoration and bow work as it came up, and he could keep sending me renters. Teaming up officially would have been a disaster, but I was incredibly flattered that he wanted me to consider it at all. Could anyone expect a higher compliment from a mentor?

I have Steve's number on the wall by my bench because he was always the first person I'd call when I had a shop question. He usually had an answer. I'm not sure what to do in this new world today where he won't be at the other end of the line.]

A Doughnut from Machus

Today's my dad's birthday.

I don't think birthdays count when you're dead. I mean, at the end of this month it will be J.S. Bach's 334th birthday, which is vaguely interesting, but doesn't mean much. That information places him in a historical context, but unless he was still around to celebrate, he isn't really turning 334. He's just gone.

This is the fourth birthday of my dad's where it doesn't count.

Except it still kind of does.

I feel like I don't need markers on the calendar to remind me of my dad. I think of my dad all the time. It still hurts that he's gone more than I would have imagined. But then he still haunts places like Facebook where on days like today an algorithm clicks into gear and tells me to wish him a happy day. I hate that algorithm, and we need to untangle my dad's memory from it somehow.

So thinking specifically about my dad on his birthday a couple of things come to mind.

The first is that we shared a birthday month, but not an astrological sign. I'm a Pisces, and he was an Aries. Not that I think those things mean anything at all, but my dad every once in a while would offer to read us our horoscopes from the paper when he came across them. My mom's inevitably said she would be receiving more responsibility, so she was not a fan. The running joke when my dad read our horoscopes was claiming never to remember which sign I was. I honestly could never tell if it was a joke, or if he really didn't remember.

The second thing is the doughnuts from Machus. In his years running the gallery he acquired a sort of fan club of people who didn't necessarily bring in much business, but who liked to hang around and talk to my dad. My dad was smart and funny and wacky in subtle ways. I understand why certain people just wanted to be in the gallery with him. I did, too. There was one man in particular named Dr Stemple (who died several years ago) who used to bring my dad a doughnut from Machus on this day every year. They were dense, and covered with thick chocolate. My dad loved them, and used to say it made up for the number of hours Dr Stemple distracted him from work he was supposed to be doing.

I'm too busy to run out today and find the equivalent of a Machus doughnut. Weirdly, the closest thing might be those waxy chocolate covered doughnuts from Entenmann's, which my dad liked just as much as the expensive doughnuts.

I miss my dad. I wish he were around so we could celebrate today. I'd get him whatever doughnut he wanted.

Happiness may be a choice, but it's not always the right one.

When my husband and I decided to get married I didn't originally picture myself in a big white dress.  I seldom have interest in doing what other people usually do, and I was not one of those people who had her "big day" all mapped out in her mind ahead of time.  The marriage interested me, not the wedding particularly.

As the details of the event came together I learned a lot of valuable lessons.  There are certain rites of passage that remain in the culture for a reason, and how you handle them can tell you a lot about yourself and others.  I assumed from the start I would just buy myself a nice dress I could use again because that kind of sartorial practicality seemed like me.  But it also seemed like friends of mine who had married before me and chosen a big white dress.  One of those friends told me to just try one on, because why not?  When she had, she'd discovered she liked it.

To my utter surprise I liked it too.  Because it's fun and it's a way to set that day apart from any others.  I realized that my wedding day was the only day I could wear such a dress and have it mean something important.  I could certainly wear a wedding dress any other day I wanted, but it would only be an oddity or a costume.  I had one chance to wear such a thing with any meaning to it.  Why would I pass up that chance?

Father's Day 2017

Dear Dad,

You've been gone almost two years now.  It still hasn't really sunk in that I won't see you again, or get a hug from you anymore.  I miss making you laugh on the phone.  I miss being able to ask you questions when I'm having a grammar moment.  I don't automatically reach for the phone now when those moments happen, but I still haven't quite let go of the belief that you are out there and I just haven't seen you in too long.

When I haven't seen someone in a long time I'm usually a little surprised when we are reunited that there are details I forgot--bits of mannerisms or scents or motions that go with a person that you don't hold onto well at a distance.  I'm still adjusting to the idea that my perceptions of you will not be updated or renewed, but I'm left with whatever I already have.  It's not enough, but it will have to be.

What would I tell you today, this Father's Day without you again, if I could call?

Half-Staff

Quinn (and consequently I) have been taking Latin lessons once a week at the local university for a couple of years now.  I love having an activity that I get to do with just him where we can chat in the car and walk together to the library and maybe share a snack if there's time.  Plus the Latin is fun, too.  All of that I sort of pictured ahead of time when we signed up.

What I hadn't pictured was our regular inspection of the flags.

We fly an inordinate number of flags in our country.  Quinn loves flags (or, at least, he loves anything related to geography that can be put into an orderly list) and can currently identify all 197 country flags we found on an online quiz.  He pays attention to them in a way I normally don't.  On our short commute to the university we pass many flags flying outside of schools and government buildings and people's homes.

It seems more often than not anymore, those flags are at half-staff.

The Packets

One of the lovely things about my dad was he collected packets of articles for people he cared about.  He lived to file articles.  There are still dozens of large boxes of them to sort through since he died, and it will be a long term project to go through the raw feed of material he meant to separate out into particular piles, but I have in my possession about fifteen packets just for me and my family.

From the time I left for college to about a year or so before he died, my dad assembled collections of articles for me in big yellow envelopes.  He did that for my brothers.  He did that for other friends and family as relevant articles presented themselves.  If you expressed an interest in a topic around him you might get a file of papers in the mail.  It was his obsession to clip and save from printed material, and in its distilled form the packets were personal filing masterpieces.  I don't know anyone who got one who didn't feel special for receiving it.

If he really deeply loved you, though, you got a lot of packets.  And my dad deeply loved me.

One Year

Sunday morning, August 7, 2016. 

My dad died one year ago today.  A whole year has gone by.

I’m sitting in Yellowstone park.  My family is all in various stages of rest in the tent.  I got up to use the bathroom and then decided to sit by myself for a bit, here, half in/half out of the van.  It’s chilly at the moment, but should warm soon into a comfortable day.

Hey Dad

I miss you.

Did I call you last Father's Day?  If I didn't I meant to.  I know I didn't get a hold of you every single one, but I certainly thought of you.  I'm thinking of you today.

I actually think of you every day.

Remember how I used to call you on Mondays?  Mom was usually out drawing in Ann Arbor and I knew you'd be a little lonely, so I'd call?  I miss that.  I still reach for the phone at work when I have a quiet moment on Mondays and want to tell you something, but then I remember.

At a Loss

Some days you don't get to pick your attitude.  I know there is many a pithy quote to be found on Facebook about choosing a positive thought and about how all you can control is yourself so you have only yourself to blame if you are not happy.

Well, when things are on an even keel, sure.  Some days, though, we need to cut ourselves some slack if we don't have the energy to force some more noble perspective.

My birthday is this week and I'm not feeling good about it.  It's my first birthday without my dad.  His birthday would have been on Easter this year and it's the first one of his since he died.  I don't like these kinds of firsts.  I keep tearing up unexpectedly.  I can go weeks at a time at this point where I don't think of dad in terms of loss, just in terms of pleasant memory, but not this weekend.

Thanks and Dreams

Thank you to everyone who has offered condolences on the death of my father.  There have been so many comments and emails and cards and I appreciate them all.  It means a great deal to me that I can express myself safely in this space the way I need to, and feel supported as I do it.  Thank you.

We've had my niece staying with us, and the days have been filled with summertime fun: trampoline, kites, archery, biking, concerts in the park, ice cream, books, crafts, movies, games....  In the morning my kids start school and a whole new (intensely packed) routine gets underway.  The daytime brings many distractions.

But at night I've been dreaming about my dad.  In the dreams he's as he was several years ago, before the need for a cane.  There was one where my mom and my brothers and I were with him in the library at home, talking and laughing.  We were having such a nice time, and I kept thinking, "Oh, I hope no one remembers he's supposed to be dead so this doesn't have to end."  In another, my dad came along with me to a place where I was having a rehearsal, and I decided before we started to play to go out in the hall where he was waiting with my husband to see if he'd like to come in and listen to us practice.  He was sitting happily with Ian and laughing when I found him, and again I thought, "As long as no one reminds us he's supposed to be dead this will be okay."

Death of My Dad

I'm home again.  I've been back a week now.  I was away for almost three.  It feels much, much longer.  Despite everything I can't quite grasp that my dad is really gone.  That realization comes and goes at odd times.

I need to sort out the death of my dad in writing.  I'm already forgetting so much.  I don't want to forget anything, but I also need to get some distance in order to function.  To preserve these memories I have to revisit them, but I can't live in that place right now.  I believe by writing them down I can safely set them aside for another time when I'm ready.

I don't know if this post will be of interest to anyone but myself.  All I know is it is long. 

Eulogy for Dad

My father, Arnold Klein, died on Friday morning, Aug 7th, a week after going into hospice at home.  He was surrounded by his family and got to say goodbye to many people.  He was 86 years old.  He was a year and few months shy of his 50th wedding anniversary.  He was dignified and gentle.  He was deeply loved.  The world is much lesser without him.

Parallels: Rivyn and Dad

I have a moment while the nurse is here.  I am tired.  The horror of watching my dad starve to death weighs everything down and makes any laughter we can't suppress at odd moments feel disrespectful.  But sometimes you have to laugh and sometimes you have to cry and it is what it is.

And sometimes you have to write.  I need this chance to organize my thoughts into words to settle me a little.  Or I might go crazy.  My dad informed my mom this morning that it takes great effort to go truly crazy.  I believe it may take just as much effort not to.

So what I would like to write about today are the parallels between my dad at this stage, and my nephew, Rivyn.  The obvious themes of life and death seem to scream at us at every turn.  I can't imagine struggling through this time with my parents without all the kids here to reaffirm what life is really about.  But in particular to have this precious, remarkable little baby in the house---there are no words.  You can't not smile when you look at that baby.  We are all so sad, but then here is this adorable, sweet new person interjected into all of it.  He is a lifeline.  He reminds us simultaneously of what we have and what we will lose.  We're all glad my dad got to meet him.  We are all devastated that they will never know each other.

Funeral for a Fish

Mona's pet fish, Rainbow, died this week.

The fish was not looking good for a while, and there were many tears in anticipation of his death.  Mona had a lot of time to contemplate life without her beloved fish.  Now that the worst has happened she seems to be doing okay.

Mona and Rainbow, 2011

Mona got her fish for her 8th birthday.  She has been an excellent fish owner.  We never had to remind her to feed Rainbow and she was good about cleaning out his bowl.  She made him a stocking that she hung up by the fireplace every Christmas.  (He usually got a small bottle of water.)




Mona put his bowl on her favorite plate.  She always provided colorful items nearby so Rainbow would have pretty things to look at.