Cornflower Sky

My father is gone now. He was 91 at the time of his death more than 20 years ago. He shed no tears over not living long enough. 

If he were frank with you - and he would be - he would tell you that the only good reasons for living this long were the people he loved – especially my mother, whom he adored, and his kids, the ones he defended from every possible terror, including those we weren't afraid of and wished he'd stop talking about.


He was an introverted man of books and beliefs. Many nights, when I was very young, he'd rock me in the living room rocking chair, lights out all over the house except for one in the upstairs hall. On every one of those nights, Dvorak's New World Symphony played on the hi-fi, its "Goin' Home" lyrics drifting from the speakers. As I rested in his lap, he'd stroke the side of my face, his palm hard, but the sound it made, passing over my ear, as soft as a whispered wish. My father sought solace in his family - even its smallest member. Even the one who thought the music was beautiful but way too sad. Even the one who'd pretend to be asleep, so he'd carry her to bed and turn the music off. 

My father could laugh - hard. He laughed until his shoulders shook, and he could barely breathe. Usually, my laugh is like my mother's - but my torso-wracking, rib-cracking, tear-streaming, wheezing, swearing I'm about to die laugh - was inherited from him. My brothers often laugh that way, too. 

My father had definite ideas about how a family should operate. He made it clear that in our house, family meant safety and that family never tore each other down. After a girl who lived up the street vowed to beat me up the next day, he knelt by my bed, thinking I was asleep, and whispered in my ear, over and over, that I was not afraid. 

As was its habit, the Universe would frequently and randomly stroll up to my father, shove a pie in his face, and walk away. Our family road trip to Tennessee was like that. It was spring, when everything should have been budding and green in the South.



If the success of this vacation could be predicted by how calmly my father packed the car, how efficiently everyone worked together, and how long it took to get everybody out the door, this one was doomed. Things were going wrong even after my father finally backed the car out of the driveway, which was when our vacations usually took an upswing. We stopped for the night in Covington, Kentucky. I don't remember that there had been any issues with the weather, but in the morning, my father was complaining about the rain of frogs and locusts sure to delay our departure from Covington. 

“And you watch, Phil!” He was pointing at my mother and almost yelling - not at her, but at the Universe, whom he was convinced would be along any minute with another pie. Now he was pointing at the window. “I’m going to open those curtains, and there’ll be two feet of snow out there!” When he pulled the cord, and the curtains opened, there were three feet of snow out there. Our car was buried, and the parking lot impassable.  

One night, in my early twenties, I made a naive choice that left me stranded miles from home. I called my parents who got up in the middle of the night and drove for an hour-and-a-half to come get me. My father and I stood outside the car. I told him I was sorry he and Mom had to drive that far. He said, "Honey, I’d drive around the world for you.” 

When portable in-car GPS navigators became available, my brother enthusiastically showed one to my father who was fascinated by anything navigational - maps, compasses, sextants, all those things. "I am so glad I'll be dead before I have to use one of those things," he said.

He died peacefully one March morning, a success at never having had to use one of those things and a success at more important things, too. When I left the nursing home, the sky was cornflower blue, filled with stacks of cumulus clouds, and it was unseasonably warm, a perfect spring day. The Universe denied him this day in Covington but blessed him with it on the morning of this much more important trip. 

Goin' home, to be truly goin' home, must have felt so good. He'd been away so long.

The Phobic Do-Gooder

 A Pause in the Workday 

An office building where I used to work is wrapped in tall, wide windows. One winter day, something hit the glass not 20 feet from where I stood. There was a loud thump, and when I looked, a dark shape fell.

Image, Teece Aronin

I hurried to the window and peered down. On the ground, a sparrow lay on its back, its head submerged in snow. Its little breast rose and fell, rose and fell, and if it hadn't been for that, I would have sworn it was dead. 

I worried that if the bird didn't right itself soon, it would suffocate, but I hesitated to help. I love birds, but I love them from a distance because I'm a little bit phobic about them - fish, too. I think my fear is that they'll flap or flutter in my eyes.  

One of my coworkers came over to see what I was looking at, and because she was famously tenderhearted, I asked, "So, Jean, what are you going to do?"

An Origami Bird

While Jean was off looking for a box and I kept useless watch over the sparrow, one tiny leg sprang up and then the other, as if an origami bird were unfurling in the snow. 

Next, the sparrow flipped right-side-up, blinked, and looked around. It wore a party hat of snow on its head and another, smaller one, atop its beak. 

Suddenly, there was Jean, gingerly traipsing up to the bird, cardboard box in hand. When she got close, the bird took off but fell again. Jean came closer, and this time, when the sparrow took off, it kept going, faster and higher until it was clear that it needed neither Jean nor the box, and certainly not me. It disappeared into the wild, gray yonder.  

I need to get over my phobias before they stop me from helping when there is no Jean around. The fact that something is different from us doesn't mean we don't share the world with it, and it doesn't mean we shouldn't help. 

Besides, maybe some of the things that flap or flutter have a phobia about me.