The Baumhoff House

The Baumhoff House 

Two years after we moved in to our new house, a house my father and mother had built on property owned by my ancestors, my Catholic father called Holy Trinity Parish and asked if a priest could come do a blessing. It seemed very obvious to me, my dad and my brother too, that Peter Thoma (my great-great-long deceased grandfather) had taken up residence. The verdict was still out for my mother and sisters. He wasn’t a scary ghost. He was just kind of being an asshole. He’d move things. My brothers skis… the dusting supplies… my dad’s rosaries. 

The priest came and left behind a vile of holy water. I wasn’t there for the blessing. In fact, I didn’t even know about it until much later. I’m not sure why they thought protecting me from knowing that getting rid of ghosts was less scary than talking about them being in the house. I was twelve. 

Over the course of the next ten years things were calm. Yet, I never did feel entirely comfortable in my own home. I’d bolt up the basement steps every time I did laundry, convinced that one of my childhood dolls stored below them would reach out and grab my ankle. And, I was always, for some reason, anxious when I was home alone. We lived in the country. I’d always triple check the lock on the sliding door in the dining room, convinced that someone or some THING was always lurking. When you look out at cornfields in the dark, it’s not hard for the mind to wander. 

By age 19, I had moved out and in to my first apartment. For two years I enjoyed college life away from my parents. But by age 21, still going to school and completely inept at managing my life, I moved back in. By this time, my parents, enjoying their freedom (I had left them an empty nest), had re-arranged the bedrooms. My mother had moved out of the room she shared with my father and in to my old room. She had also moved the bunk beds I shared with my sister in to my brother’s old room. That’s where I’d end up… at 21, sleeping on a bunk bed in my parent’s house. Winning! 

One night, about a year later, I went out with my friend Val. I don’t exactly recall where, but if it was Val it was probably a bar where she downed at least six beers and I nursed one. After what I’m sure was a terrific night out, where Val would be asked to dance 18 times by cute guys and I’d watch, we left. I was always the designated driver, back before that was a thing. I crawled in to bed on the top bunk and closed my eyes about 2:30am. I’m guessing I’d been asleep for an hour when I felt my dog on my bed. He was small, but the weight of him moving around by my feet was enough to wake me. I sat up and snapped “Ashes, go lay down.” With a swoosh of my arm, I pushed him off the bed. In an instant, I realized what I’d done and gasped. I’d essentially thrown a 12-pound toy poodle terrier mutt off the top of a bunk bed. I looked over to see if he was all right. Shockingly, he was okay. He lightly hopped towards the closet and seemed to disappear. I was confused. Still getting my bearings. Then I gasped again. “Wait. What?” Then I remembered. I was on the top bunk. How’d he get up here? And more importantly, Ashes had been dead for four years. 

My head started to reel. I was leaning over the edge of the bed and it was at this point I saw her. The lady. It all seemed to happen in slow motion. My eyes found her feet. I could barely see them peeking out from under her long skirt. She wore black boots - the old-timey kind, with laces. Her skirt was full. It seemed dark. Maybe blue. There was a bit of light coming in the window helping me to see, but not enough to see clearly. She must have been wearing a bustle. Her top was the same color as her skirt. It was a dress. One of those turn of the 19th century dresses. Finally, my eyes met hers. She was smiling. Just smiling. Her pale skin and dark hair piled on top of her head was lovely. For a brief moment I felt comforted. But she was not alive. And in an instant, the smile that seemed warm and welcoming was the most frightening I had ever seen. She held out her arms to me. 

I closed my eyes. I shook. I screamed, “Leave me alone. Leave me alone. Leave. Me. Alone!” I opened my eyes. She was gone. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught my clock radio. It was flashing. 12:00am. Yes, a clock radio. I’m that old. 

I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I grabbed a blanket and went downstairs to try and sleep on the couch in the family room. I didn’t wake my parents. I’d tell them what happened in the morning. Maybe it wasn’t Peter, after all. Maybe it was his wife. God, what was her name? I can never remember. By morning, I was barely able to tell them what happened. I had other things to worry about. I couldn’t move. I was so overcome with fear that my body had shut down. My arms were heavy. Paralyzed almost. For three days I lay on the couch unable to use my legs without an assist from my mother. 

My mother, the nurse, decided I had some odd strain of flu. After she died I found her report cards. She was a B/C student. Flu, my ass. I had no other symptoms. That ghost did this. My dad supported me and doused the house with another round of holy water. 

For weeks I slept in the family room until my mother gave the ultimatum, “move back to your brother’s room (she could never call it mine) or move out.” I went back to the room and, without incident, survived another two years. With my act finally together (well as together as it can be at 24) I moved in to my own apartment. It wasn’t until I was in my thirties that I had another experience. My mom was dead. My dad had moved in to a retirement community. I was left to keep the house clean between showings. My dad wasn’t well enough to do the work and my siblings all lived out of state. I’d have to go in alone. I hated it. Every time, I hated it. 

One afternoon, while cleaning the dead flies out of the windowsills (the house always had an Amityville Horror level of flies in and around its windows), I smelled something strange. Was it incense? It smelled kind of like the incense from the church that they used over the coffin where my dead mother lay. Or was it smoke? I couldn’t tell. It was simply unfamiliar. It scared me. I gasped. Again. I knew my mom was here. She and I had a tumultuous relationship, especially near the end. I was certain that if she really had come back, she wasn’t here to communicate “I miss you!” but rather, “I told you I’d haunt you, and here I am”. She was always threatening that she’d haunt us. “If you don’t clean up your room, I’m going to haunt you when I’m dead and gone,” she’d say. 

I had a lot of pent up anger and so unleashed on her for the next 30 minutes. With that mysterious smell still wafting in the air, I grabbed my purse and got the hell out. I needed to get away from her and that horrible haunted house. As I opened my car door, I noticed Mr. Scholten across the street, waving at me. I waved back, “Hi Mr. Scholten!” And then noticing something really important, it all made sense. I laughed. “What a great day for a barbecue! I can smell it over here.” I wasn’t talking to my dead mother. I was talking to dead meat. 

This ghostly encounter surely made me second guess the first. There’s always an explanation, right? But as much as I try to rationalize it, I always come back to… if I had the flu, why didn’t I have a fever? And, I’d grown up with ghost stories. I mean my aunt was sitting in a room when a thimble just floated past her and occasionally she’d get pelted with buttons when no one was home. And while, sure, I was talking to the smell from a barbecue wondering if it was my dead mother, it was one of the most healing and cathartic one-sided conversions I’ve ever had. 

Maybe my mom was there. Maybe she was saying, not, “I miss you” or “I want to haunt you,” but rather, “You know what, Teresa, you were right. There was a lady. I know her now. Her name was Catherine. And we’ll both be here waiting for you… with open arms.”

Swing and A Miss

A Story About my Dad and Tigers Baseball

Happy Father's Day! Miss you, Stinky.

nos·tal·gia:

a wistful or excessively sentimental yearning for return to or of some past period or irrecoverable condition.

That yearning for me is about Ernie Harwell calling Tigers baseball on the radio circa 1974. Or rather, watching my dad listening to Ernie Harwell call a Tigers baseball game.

Watching my dad listen to a game was as entertaining as the game itself. The way his face lit up, with smile widened and eyebrows lifted at the crack of a bat. Or the disheartened frown and eye roll he’d express following a “swing and a miss”. The way he would clap his hands and then rub them together vigorously at a two-run homer. Or how he would grimace and swear with his signature – under the breath – “a**hole, son of a b*@!h” as an error was made.

I was raised in a Tigers household. I became a fan by osmosis. If it was summer and my dad wasn’t at work (which he too often was), he was listening to Tigers baseball on the radio. He was listening while driving in his car, while lounging in his Lazy Boy in the living room or sitting in the garage looking out at the summer sky. If the game was on, my dad was tuned in. I didn’t really know much about baseball then. I’d listen as Harwell announced a change up, or a slider or a breaking ball. I had no idea what those plays were or what they looked like, but I knew that my dad knew what that meant and that was enough for me.

I also liked the energy a game brought to the house. It wasn’t lively. It was quiet and contemplative. At dusk and on especially hot days, the roar of the crowd lulled my dad to sleep.

After my mom passed, when I became primary caregiver to my dad, I started to pay more attention to the game. Knowing the players was a way to connect. I could say things like, “How do you like Torres or Infante?” or “Did you catch Verlander’s no-hitter?” He’d ask me, “Who’s your favorite Tiger?” I’d say Inge (yes, Inge… for a time) and my dad would cringe adding, “That idiot?” Two weeks later he’d ask me the same question. I’d say “Inge” and he’d cringe and call him an idiot all over again. I wasn’t becoming a rabid fan, but I was really growing to love the game. Plus, it was a chance to show my dad that I cared about the things he cared about. It was a chance to bond.

My dad passed away as the Tigers were on their way to another Division Title. I couldn’t watch the post season. It was too painful. Not because the Tigers blew it (which they did!) I just missed my pops too much.

Some time later, I was running errands when I happened across Tigers baseball on the radio. I didn’t change the channel. It helped that the Tigers were winning. Dan Dickerson didn’t put me in the “way back machine” the way hearing Ernie Harwell did, but he helped to evoke enough good memories for me, that even though I had reached my destination, I sat in the parking lot and listened.

It was easy to imagine my dad saying something like “You know, when Scherzer was 8, he practiced 16 hours a day in an abandoned field in St. Louis with his Uncle Max… who he is named after… who really isn’t his Uncle... but his dad’s best friend… who coached Scherzer’s little league team...” This, of course is entirely made up on my part, but entirely like the kind of factual random information my dad would know about a player.

Sometime before my dad died, my brother gifted my dad a book, “The Final Season” about the last season the Tigers played in Tiger Stadium. Having lost his vision, I read to him from the book. He’d interrupt to share a similar story about a player. I always wondered where and when in his life he gathered all this information. He always knew enough to carry on a lively discussion with my brother over the phone or with his visiting buddy, Dean. It was always such a joy to see him talk baseball.

What I realized sitting in that parking lot is that I will always have a profound love for the game, especially the Tigers. Because, in the end, baseball isn’t really about baseball for me at all – it’s about my dad.

The Lady with Binoculars

 

Photos can be deceiving. This is Fryman Canyon. I rarely hike Fryman. It's not an overly birdy area and it's mostly LA's fittest and finest (or those working hard to be fit and fine.) It's a difficult hike. Not strenuous, but straight up for the first mile or so. Not sure what the grade is. I tend to go off the beaten path getting away from the crowds. I think that's a bit more intense. Still, you do see people on this trail as well. 

Today, I started the hike at 11:45am. I am hiking later because I'm working hard to take off the COVID 7 (not bad as COVID added poundage goes, but still a challenge.) If I go early there will simply be more bird activity and I know myself. I won't walk as fast or get the aerobic benefit of pushing myself because I'll be too distracted. By 11:45 the bird activity would be diminished for sure. Still, I had tossed my binoculars in the car, just in case. I would be so disappointed if I heard some Vireo or Warbler and didn't get a look. Birding FOMO is very real. 

When I jumped out of the car, nary a bird to be heard. Oh maybe the occasional House Finch or hummer, but definitely quiet. I contemplated bringing the binoculars. What would be the point? I could really focus on the desperately needed exercise. I AM SO OUT OF SHAPE RIGHT NOW. Then it dawned on me... you know, when you are surrounded by LA's fittest and finest, it is slightly embarrassing to be LA's slowest and out-of-shapest? If you bring your bins, Thome, you can stop whenever you want to "look at birds." They'll never know. Genius. So I grabbed the bins. Halfway up the first section - that's the toughest part - I was able to stop a few times to "look at birds" as the health conscious and scantily clad throngs sailed past me. 

After stepping off the beaten path to the less traversed trail, I thought I'd be golden. Half-way up I stopped to catch my breath for the third time. I was doing the bend-over-God-help-me-what-have-I done-thing, when I heard a young, 20-something gal talking on her phone speeding towards me. I thought, "Perfect! You got this, Thome. Look like a birder!" I pulled up my bins and pretended to look in the distance. The young woman smiled as she trucked past me, breathlessly. As soon as she passed I dropped my bins and bent over again. In an instant, I realized, she'll probably be curious as to what I was looking at. Sure enough, as she rounded the bend, I saw her look in that direction. The only thing to see - a few snags (barren trees) and a couple of distant homes. I saw a look of confusion come over her face. I knew she was thinking, "What is that woman looking at?" I laughed. 

Some genius. I surely didn't come off as a birder but as a creepy woman with binoculars looking into people's homes. Then I laughed again because I didn't care. Turns out I'm more comfortable being the creepy woman who looks into people's homes than the out-of-shape woman who needs to exercise more.

Have a great weekend! Get outdoors.

Three Out of Five

Three Out of Five 

I was in love with Jonathon Michael Simpson (Michael to his friends and family.) I was in love two weeks after he first sauntered over to me and said hello. He was tall, 6’3”. So handsome - dark tan skin, blonde hair, perfectly sculpted, like Michelangelo sculpted, arms. He was from California. I was from Michigan and I thought a guy from Laguna Beach who went by his middle name was just about the most exotic creature to show up at the car dealership on Plainfield where I worked nights as a receptionist to put myself through college. His brother was a salesman. He was a construction worker. He’d stop to visit with his brother in one of the six small cubicles that lined the showroom floor. Eventually he’d stop to visit me. When he asked me out the first time, I believe I peed myself a little. 

Guys didn’t pick me. Oh sure, there was Roy with the chipped tooth who drove a Monster Truck and there was Chuck who sold used cars, but we were just sleeping together and I had to promise not to tell anyone about it. No, guys like him didn’t pick me. Men didn’t pick me. Michael picked me. And at age 21, he became my first real boyfriend. 

And by “real” I mean I did have a boyfriend once in the 7th grade, Kevin Averman, but only because the two most popular girls in school said he liked me and I should date him because, well in their words, “Teresa think about it, there’s really no one else who’s going to pick you to go out.” So I said yes, but only on the condition that we never had to sit next to each other on the bus and we didn’t have to talk to each other at school. You see Kevin was a pasty redhead. Hypocritical, I know (as I am a pasty redhead myself!) But earlier that year I had written in a notebook that someday I would marry a tall, dark-skinned, Italian, Catholic named Michael. I was that specific. Kevin certainly didn't fit the profile and even though my Michael was a blonde protestant, he still fit three of the five traits. It was a sign. 

Soon, Michael was my everything. I was a great girlfriend. We went to the big lake every weekend because he missed the Pacific Ocean. We watched movies at his moms in the basement where he lived because he couldn’t afford his own place. And we went to bars. Lots of bars. Mostly bars. Because Michael liked to drink. A lot. He was a tolerable drunk most nights and an angry drunk occasionally, but then he’d only punched walls and not me. He was a gallant drunk… I guess. 

One hot summer night, two years into the great romance, Michael was way too drunk to drive home. This was a problem because he had a manual transmission. So there, in the parking lot of some random bar in Grand Haven he taught me how to drive a stick. I managed to drive us home safely, grinding gears only half the way. He was surprisingly proud of my accomplishment. He wasn’t proud when I landed a 3.9 my junior year of college or when I got promoted to office manager at my second job. He was enormously proud, however, that I drove a stick and got us both home safe. He was so moved by the experience in fact, that there, in the driveway at 3:00 am, he grabbed my hand got down on both knees and asked me to marry him. I believe I peed a little. 

In fifteen seconds a hundred things ran thru my mind. First, he had told me once he left a guy for dead in California and I spent an inordinate amount of time watching “America’s Most Wanted” looking for him. Even though he never hit me, I was a little afraid to say no in this moment, but is that reason to say yes? I should say no. But I’ve told him I loved him. Why would you say no to someone you love? I should say yes. But if I said yes, then I’d have to tell the children I haven’t even had yet that their father drunk proposed. And who wants to tell that story the rest of their life? So no. But then again… he had 3 out of the 5 traits (tall, tanned, Michael.) So, I swallowed hard and I said, “Yes, I will marry you.” 

The sex that night! I mean the sex that follows a marriage proposal is fantastic, right? This. Was. Not. Fantastic. This was “ew” alcohol breath and okay yep, and we’re done. 

Morning came. He was hungover. I was quiet. I was a little excited to tell my mother I was getting married. But he didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything. Then the day passed. And another. No mention of the proposal. No let’s go pick out a ring. No let’s find a date. Nothing. At first I was hurt. Then I was angry. By fall, I was relieved. Six months, countless Al Anon meetings and one police station visit to file a restraining order later, I left Jonathon Michael Simpson. 

Here’s the thing, I do appreciate the list my 7th grade self-made. Although she could have added a few more qualities like respectful, smart, funny, etc. She could have even added her own career and financial goals. But that’s okay. She was young. No. What she missed… What I missed is that this list should never have been about the kind of guy that would pick me, it should have been about the kind of guy I wanted to pick… The kind of guy that made me want to be a great girlfriend because he was a great boyfriend.

Eventually, I did figure it out. And I picked a great guy. We’re happily married. As it turns out, he’s a tall, dark-skinned, Italian, Ex-Catholic, named Fred. Four out of five. Not bad.

 Mogen David

originally published in ArtPrize Anthology

“How are you today, Bob?” someone in the retirement community would inevitably ask my dad. “Crabby!” He would respond without hesitation. This was always followed by a good laugh from the person doing the asking. It was all in the delivery. Despite his desire to communicate a “bah humbug” demeanor, my three-hundred-pound, wheelchair bound dad was really more teddy than grizzly bear. And at Christmas, despite his Ebenezer Scrooge ways, he was always more Santa Claus. He never wanted to put up a tree. He didn’t want family to make a fuss. He just wanted to give presents. 

He was always that guy who would slip you a $2.00 bill, or give you a candy bar, or made sure you grabbed “a pop from the riffy” the minute you walked in the door. His generosity, even on this small scale, drove my controlling, slightly neurotic mother nuts. The complexity of that relationship is best saved for another day. This is meant to be a heartwarming story, not a lesson in dysfunctional families. 

Moving on. 

After my mother passed, my father moved in to a small, one-bedroom apartment in a complex for retirees. He wasn’t much for social activities with the old folks. He didn’t like bingo or travel shows but his quick wit, kind heart and impressive storytelling abilities during communal mealtimes made him a favorite between workers and residents alike. 

Each Christmas, he would ask me to buy a dozen or so small presents that he could gift to the staff. This included perfumes, chocolates, flavored coffees, lotions, etc. In addition to the various sundries and treats, I always had strict orders to buy a pint of bottom-shelf whiskey for Mike, the janitor and apricot brandy for Cheryl, his caregiver. When I’d arrive with presents in tow, I’d have to review all the gifts with him.

“Show me what you got,” he’d say, clapping and rubbing his hands excitedly. I’d hold up gift after gift. “That’s nice,” he’d say, “I think Sue, the cleaning lady, will like that.” Or “Hide that one! I want Jessie, from the kitchen, to have that.” On and on he’d go. When it came to the chocolate, he would usually offer a “You paid how much for that?” Spending money on good chocolate was lost on him. “Why buy Godiva when Three Musketeers are just as good?” After he approved each purchase, I’d display them on his cedar chest. Then, without fail, as I was leaving, he’d motor his scooter over and peruse them all over again. No doubt he would re-organize and look over them each morning until all the gifts were gone. 

One year he phoned me a few weeks before Christmas and asked me a question. “Do Jewish people still drink that Mogen David wine for Hanukkah?” “That Mogen David wine?” I chuckled. Why on Earth did he want to know this? He then added, “Will you please go pick up a Hanukkah card and, if they drink that wine, pick me up a bottle of that, too?” That was an interesting request. “Why?” I asked. “There’s a Jewish guy that lives here. Everyone is always throwing Christmas up around here and there’s that one lone Jewish guy. He should get something Jewish.” 

Taking my orders, I went investigating on his behalf. (My Catholic upbringing left me unable to answer the question myself.) Lo and behold, I learned from a friend that some Jewish people, especially older Jewish people, like the sweet wine. I went to the local grocer and picked up a bottle of Maneschewitz (similar to “that Mogen David”). I phoned to ask if he wanted me to sign the card. He gave me an emphatic, “No! Just bring it to me. Cheryl will fill out the card.” I couldn’t imagine what personal message he wanted Cheryl (his caregiver) to write that I couldn’t, but I didn’t ask. I brought the wine, a Hanukkah card and Hanukkah gift bag a few days later. 

A few weeks later I stopped over to my pops. I realized I had never asked him about the Hanukkah gift. “Hey Dad, did that guy like his gift?” I asked. “I don’t know,” he said. “You don’t know?” I pushed. “Nope,” he responded. He seemed to be communicating in that half conversation, non-forthcoming way that my husband uses when he wants to drive me slowly insane. I kept pushing. “Well, did he thank you?” While I knew there were some curmudgeons that lived in this community of senior citizens this seemed like such a nice gesture. I thought surely, he was thanked. After a pause, he offered quietly, “He doesn’t know it was me.” I was confused. 

My father explained. The gentleman that he gifted the wine to was the neighbor in the apartment next door. I was surprised. I knew immediately that this was the cranky guy that did not like my dad. This was the guy that kept his television so loud that it bled through the walls. This was the guy who made it so my dad had to wear earplugs in his own apartment. This was the guy who, after repeated requests to turn down the volume, left my dad with no other option than to call the management and complain. This was the guy that was so unhappy he was called out for his loud television habit that he stopped talking to my dad. He continued. “I didn’t tell him it was me. Why would I do that? He doesn’t like me.” My father shared this in a very matter of fact way. There wasn’t anything to talk about. Everyone got presents and this guy should, too. End of story. 

I was speechless. 

A few months after my father passed, I attended a lecture given by a Rabbi. He explained that in Judaism the act of giving is called a mitzvah. He shared that giving anonymously is one of the higher forms of mitzvah. As he spoke, I couldn't help but think of my father. I cried. 

I once read an inscription in one of my dad’s old yearbooks. It read, “Hey Bob! I know I don't know you well, but thanks for the candy bars!” My father had a compulsion to give his whole life. I sometimes wanted him to stop. I felt like he was doing it for the wrong reasons; that he was doing it for acceptance. I thought it was unhealthy. (I am my mother’s daughter, after all.) I learned otherwise that day. 

Over my lifetime I watched my father give. Yet it wasn't until that moment I realized that in his giving, over and over again, year after year, I saw that his generosity was not something he did, but something he had become. Through his lifetime of mitzvah he became not only the giver, but also the gift.

I Hated My Dad

I Hated My Dad

I hated my dad. Hated him. H-A-T-E-D him. I’d scream it on the regular. 

To him: “Go away. I hate you.” 

To my mother: “Why don’t you make him leave me alone?” 

To the Universe: “ARRGHHHH!!!! I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.” 

That relationship was fraught from a very early age. 

My dad wasn’t a physically abusive man. He was emotionally abusive. He was a teaser. He liked to tease. That’s it. Teasing. Still, it was tough. Never-ending. He pushed and pushed and pushed me to tears. He pushed me until I’d beg, “Leave me alone.” He pushed me until I screamed, “I hate you.” And then he’d push me some more. 

My dad worked two jobs my entire young life; from the day I was born until I was in my mid-twenties. One job was from 7am-3pm, Monday through Friday, at Kelvinator’s – a factory. He was on the line. I think he was a foreman for a while but didn’t like it. The second job was 4pm-11pm, Sunday through Saturday, 7 days a week, at Granny’s Kitchen – a restaurant. There he was a maître d' and a manager. At least that’s how I remembered it – the work schedule. That left about, what, 16 hours of time each week that we’d be together? Saturday mornings and Sunday mornings and occasional run-ins throughout the week. I think he went in to work at 2pm on the weekends. He’d get time off occasionally, but the point is he worked… a lot. Still, in those off hours there was plenty of time to interact and that interaction was all too often painful. 

Here’s the thing… the teasing was silly. Mostly childish. Sometimes inappropriate. Always relentless.

“Hey Teresa! Cousin Robbie called. He has a crush on you,” he’d say. 

“You’re lying. He didn’t call.” I’d reply, praying that the conversation would end there. 

“Oh yes he did. He thinks you’re cute.” He’d say this in a sing-song way to make sure there was a better chance to get under my skin. 

“No, he doesn’t. Stop saying that.” 

Singing again, “Someone has a crush on Teresa.” 

“Stop it. He does not!” 

“And Teresa has a crush on Robbie.” 

“STOP IT! I do not.” 

“Teresa and Robbie sitting in a tree…”

“Shut up!” 

“K-I-S-S-I-N-G.” 

“Leave. Me. Alone.” By now the tears were flowing. 

“First comes love. Then comes marriage…” 

“Stop it! I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.” I’d scream, running to my bedroom. 

As I ran I’d occasionally hear Imelda (my mother) pipe in, “Dammit Bob, Leave the girl alone.” But it was never enough. I couldn’t stop him. She couldn’t stop him. Or wouldn’t. That’s what the little girl in me decided. “If you loved me, you’d divorce him,” I’d cry to her. She never did. 

Usually two days later, after the worst of the exchanges, he’d come home with a stuffed animal from Meijer or a bicentennial coin from Old Kent or a ham hoagie from Granny’s. I loved ham hoagies. He wouldn’t say sorry, but he’d give me a gift of some sort. 

Only a few days would pass before things would start again. Maybe this time he’d ask me what time it was. I didn’t know how to tell time. Clocks confused me. It took me awhile to understand how to read a clock. I knew I was late to it. I was embarrassed. He knew this was difficult for me. I’d not answer and pray he wouldn’t ask me again. He would. And when I couldn’t answer, he’d laugh and tell me that everyone I knew could tell time and I had better figure it out because I didn’t want to be late for everything my whole life. “Teresa can’t tell the time! Hey everyone, Teresa can’t tell the time.” He’d share to the household. No one really paying attention, I’m sure. Still, again, I’d cry. 

The pattern repeated itself over and over again. Tease. Cry. Buy. Repeat. 

Occasionally, he’d take me (all of us kids) to a Museum, the zoo, the beach or the Meijer store. I vividly recall our drives to get groceries. He’d ask me to bring a book so I could read to him or he’d quiz me on my address and phone number (in case we ever got split up.) He’d give us quality experiences. I loved these times with my dad. I loved THIS man. And I thought this man loved me. The other dad, the one that was teasing non-stop, he didn’t love me. How could he? How could someone be so cruel to someone you love? I never understood why he couldn’t be this man all the time. If he loved me, he’d stop teasing me. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. I know that now. 

My dad was a mess. 

As I got older and the teasing diminished and the therapy began, I’d try to make sense of it all. I knew I couldn’t figure him out on my own. I knew this had to be a joint effort. Finally, in my late twenties, I made a decision to heal this dysfunctional relationship. At 28, I wrote him a letter, several pages long and decided I would read it to him. 

I vividly recall that day. I found him sitting in his bedroom where he and his Lazy-Boy knock off with its food stains and worn armrests had been banished. My mother had him put it there, too embarrassed to have anyone see they owned such a “piece of garbage.” He was saying his rosary, like he always did. “Hypocrite,” I always thought. Sometimes I’d say it to him too... especially when he’d tease me as we left church. We’d exit the doors after 11am Mass and by the time I’d gotten home I’d be sobbing. I hated him for pretending to Love God in one moment and hate me in another. 

I took a breath and asked him if I could read a letter to him. I asked if he would be open to hearing what I had to say about our relationship. At that time, I had been learning a great deal about reincarnation, so I explained to him that I wanted to be sure we cleared up everything in this lifetime so I didn’t have to come back and deal with him all over again. My very Catholic father quietly said, “Okay, go on.” 

I read the letter aloud. I asked why my pleas to stop the teasing went unheeded. I asked why he was so cruel. I asked why he never hugged me. (He was not a hugger.) I asked why he never intervened when I was in relationship with a major abusive alcoholic. I asked why he didn’t love me the way I needed to be loved. I asked about so many things – some too painful to share now. I apologized for how much I told him I hated him and that I only said it louder and louder because that was the only way I thought he would stop. And when I was done reading the letter, we both sat there in tears. 

After a few minutes of silence, my dad spoke. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry.” He added, “I didn’t know. I didn’t know.” How could he not? I thought. But I didn’t want to fight. I wanted to understand. We talked. Really talked. He said he didn’t know how to stop. He told me my mom did ask him to stop. He told me he thought that someday I would stop crying and that I would learn not react. He thought that was a good thing. He told me some other things I can’t share with you. He told me he didn’t intervene with the boyfriend because he knew I’d make a choice and that he was certain the boyfriend would win and he didn’t want to lose me. He told me that he saw the way that man treated me and that he prayed to God I would leave the guy. He told me that he’d cry himself to sleep at night in pain for me. He said that to me. I cried harder. The tears were good. So good. Healing. For the first time my dad made me cry for all the right reasons and my heart was so full of love it almost exploded. 

We talked for probably another three hours that day. When I left the room, I knew that our relationship was forever changed. I knew that my dad heard me. And I knew that if reincarnation was a thing, I wasn’t going to have to deal with him again. We worked it out. Or were working it out. I still didn’t understand him. I still didn’t understand why he did the things he did, but I knew I didn’t need to know. It didn’t matter. What mattered is that we had a new beginning. A father-daughter do over. I understood how rare that was and I was grateful. 

Over the next 15 plus years, he’d “check-in” with me. Occasionally, he’d ask, “Hey there, how you doing T-bunk (his nickname for me)? Are we okay? You’re not holding on to anything are you?” And I’d say no. Sometimes I’d ask him questions about his life and the conversations would get deep. He would share with me the emotional trauma of his youth and the challenges he faced as a husband. And sometimes when he’d start to tease, I’d randomly yell, “$75!” “What the hell is $75?” he’d ask. “That’s the money you’re going to owe me for a therapy session if you don’t behave.” And he’d laugh. His big belly would shake and my heart would get that – I’m-gonna-explode – feeling again. 

My dad was a rare breed. He was an old dog who wanted to learn new tricks. He wanted to be a better person. He tried and he failed over and over again, but he never stopped trying. He bought me so many things as a kid but my favorite was the one he didn't purchase. It was him. He showed me what it means to be broken and whole at the same time. 

I had this vintage glass bottle. I loved it. It was that soft green, like honeydew, not pine. I used it for bouquets. At some point I dropped it and it got three different cracks, but it didn’t break. None of the cracks were strong enough to shatter the bottle. And, it still held water. It was broken and whole. It was damaged but kept on giving. I loved it even more. Just like my dad. Once I saw his cracks his Light shown brighter than I had ever known. He showed me that becoming a better person is hard and that it’s something you do for yourself and in doing for yourself you can help others. He showed me that the work is not perfect and the result is not perfect and that’s okay – even with the cracks you can still be whole. Broken and whole.

I loved my dad. Truly loved my dad. L-O-V-E-D him.

Every Twenty-Eight Days: FOR DECADES

 

I have a colleague who is struggling with some women specific issues right now
and it sent me down a rabbit hole of thought. Turn away if you don’t want to read about periods and lady business, because I’m going all in here.
Graphic Content Ahead. 

I got my period when I was 15 and I stopped when I was 47. I’m very lucky. In the grand scheme of things, I didn’t bleed as long as many women. I got my first migraine at age 8 and when I got my period, well, migraines and periods became fast friends - nearly every month for 32 years they’d show up together. How nice. I did the math. 384 periods and, I’m guessing, at least 300 headaches to varying degrees, estimating 250 migraines. TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY MIGRAINES! Ask my husband. He’d concur. 

It wasn’t until the early 2000’s that migraine medicine finally started working for me. Thank God. I remember my mother telling me once, “If you think putting your head through a wall will make things better, it won’t. Trust me,” she added. “I’ve tried it.” I took her advice. Never did. But it took every ounce of my being more often than I’d care to admit not to grab a sharp knife to slice open the back of my neck to relieve the pressure. 

When I watched my colleague working through her obvious pain I remembered all the times I did the same. I remembered the times I would tell my staff I was taking a lunch and then I’d drive two blocks from the office to try and sleep off a migraine – or wait for the nausea to pass. Closing my office door to hide on the floor. Waking up at 4am with severe cramps knowing that I had a 7:30am meeting to prep for. On and on, year after year for THIRTY-TWO YEARS! And I haven’t even talked about the bleeding. Oh. My. God. The bleeding! 

Excruciating moments... Sitting in a meeting with a major donor – in their home - and realizing that my period had JUST started. Excusing myself quickly so I don’t leave blood on the chair. Grabbing my purse as I run to the bathroom only to realize I don’t have a tampon or pad because I was certain that my period was going to start next week. Then using up a half role of toilet paper stuffing it in my underwear, praying that they won’t notice the bathroom supply diminished by half and that the meeting will end soon. Then returning to the meeting with a fresh application of lipstick because surely that will distract them into thinking I only went to the bathroom because I had to pee. And, yet, somehow, I still managed to stay focused on the conversation AND secure the $10,000 donation WITH BLOODY TOILET PAPER WADDED IN MY CROTCH! 

And the time that I wore that new white blazer to work and halfway through the board meeting I look down and realize that the inside of my right cuff has thick “red marks” on it because apparently I didn’t manage my tampon removal and placement as effectively as I thought I had. And yet I still was capable of presenting the strategic plan in such a way that I got unanimous approval from the board… all the while effectively HIDING PERIOD BLOOD ON MY SLEEVE! 

Those are just TWO of my stories. TWO from three hundred eighty four periods. I have heard so many stories from other women. Women who bleed so hard they have to wear a tampon and two pads. Women who have left their mark accidentally in a variety of places from conference room chairs, to dining room chairs, to living room chairs, to Hotel Rooms. White HOTEL ROOM TOWELS!?!?! OMG. WHY?!? It’s an accident. It’s always an accident. Women who have to sit at their desks with warm compresses on their stomachs as they balance monthly accounts. Fast food workers have to excuse themselves to prying male bosses as they request a 10 minute break (not a five) because their supplies are in the car. Too many stories. I did the math again. Ten women, bleeding for 20 years, once a month – leads to the possibility of 1,200 times when a period or the challenges associated with that period existed. TEN WOMEN. 1,200 BLEEDS! 

And this is where the rabbit hole took a deeper dive. I started to think about famous women throughout time and how we just never talk about their periods or all the challenges that can and often accompany them. I thought about Betsy Ross sewing that damn flag and wondered if some of the American Flag material ended up in Betsy’s rag bag and then ended up in Betsy Ross’ bloomers. I think it happened. Betsy Ross was on the rag with the American Flag – maybe LITERALLY. And then, after she made the flag she had to wash her own rags just to be used again. SHE HAD TO WASH HER OWN PERIOD RAGS. They all did. 

And what about Madame Marie Curie? Was she fighting through cramps at the same time she was slowly being poisoned by radiation? “Oh I know I want to die right now, take a hot poker and shove it through my belly button, but there has to be a better way to give an X-ray. I will carry on” I mean, at some point in her research, that woman was bleeding. 

And then there’s Harriet Tubman. HARRIET TUBMAN! Working the underground railroad. Did she organize it around her period or did she just plow through? I’m guessing she plowed through. I mean… Harriet Tubman. Wouldn’t it be great if in one of the scenes of the movie HARRIET, some guy who sprains his ankle and doesn’t think he can go on begs her to slow down and she just lifts her skirt to reveal a rope belt attached to a pile of rags between her legs and says… “If I can push through with this, you can push through with that.” Harriet Tubman was a bleeder and a bad ass... a bad ass bleeder, if you will. 

Kamala Harris, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Taylor Swift, Mamie Eisenhower, Sally Ride, Amanda Gorman… Your favorite woman here: ____________ All of them dealing on some level with their period and the challenges that are inherent therein. And, I haven’t even mentioned dropping a 5-9 pound ball through your vagina. I never have, so I can’t even imagine the wonders pregnancy and motherhood brings. Nor have I mentioned that when the bleeding stops… there’s a whole other host of fun stuff to deal with. (Guys, if you’re still with me… that’s menopause and that's sarcasm.) 

And finally, here’s the point. Here’s why I am writing this... because… 

WOMAN, YOU ARE REMARKABLE! 

You persevere. You go about your day making the world go round without ever stopping a meeting to say, “Hey guys, I just started bleeding from a hole between my legs. I feel a migraine coming on and I’m cramping. Can we just take five for a little quick self-care?” No. That’s not said. Instead you go on. You do great things. Over and over again. They can be grand things or simple things, like getting dinner on the table or finishing a term paper or picking up meds for the kids or for your folks when all you want to do is crawl into the fetal position and pass out for five days. The history books won’t remind people that everything you accomplished you did so while bleeding every 28 days for decades. On this, the month to celebrate women, I salute you. 

(The photo above is an old picture of me. I grabbed it because I'm guessing by the color of my skin that this was a period day or a migraine day. Or both.)