Things Forgotten

One of the best gifts I’ve ever received is little more than an inch long, a fragile thing made of metal and plastic. It arrived on my doorstep two weeks ago, the hard work of a cousin who spent the last several months converting old family reels into digital files.

I knew so very little of my father’s childhood. His mom died when he was a little kid, and his dad passed not long after my father went away to college. What I knew of the years in-between was a very sad time, coping with the loss of his mother and dealing with an abusive stepmother.

My dad spoke of it sparingly, but he would occasionally make the passing remark about how he wished his dad was still around. About how he wished he’d had a chance to meet my siblings and I. I knew he played the saxophone in a band. I knew he was a railroader who was away from home a lot, and he eventually kicked out the woman when he realized how badly she was treating his three youngest kids. I knew he sometimes took my dad and his brothers on trips to lakes “up north” but never realized how frequent or full of joy those trips were (nor how far away they sometimes traveled to get there). I never knew he was the source of my dad’s silly demeanor until I saw him wipe away fake tears and pretend to be devastated when my dad was leaving for college.

Or perhaps he wasn’t really pretending.

All of my childhood, I would hear about these old family reels, tucked away at my dad’s brother’s house. But we never got to see them. Never got to see my grandfather smiling and laughing. Never got to watch this footage with someone who was there (my dad passed away three years ago, as did the brother who had these reels).

It’s been a rough three years. So much death I can hardly stand it. And most recently: a beloved aunt who was like a second mom to me passed away on Christmas.

This past week when everyone was waiting to learn whether or not a groundhog would see its shadow, I whispered a “happy birthday” to her and told her I missed her. Like all of these other recent losses, she was gone too soon. The life expectancy is dropping, and I’m seeing the data that proves it in real time. In real life.

And then we had another bittersweet day yesterday: my dad’s birthday. I had a few reasons to make a trip home to Indiana — baby hand-me-downs for a family member, a birthday present for a niece, etc. What better weekend to plan the trip than on my dad’s birthday? My entire life, no matter where I lived, I made it home for his birthday (or called that day and visited soon thereafter).

As luck would have it, we wound up staying in a lake house “up north” thanks to a friend and her kind family. It was our first time visiting this town and this lake, but being there reminded me of the reels: Was this one of the many lakes he visited with his brothers and their dad? Had they ever stood where I was standing?

I will never know for sure, just as I will never know the names of most of the people in these reels. But I know they are smiling; laughing; enjoying life. I can see they loved my father. That he was happy.

And that, as it turns out, is enough.

What We Have Lost

This has been a year of taking inventory. I count three boxes full of ashes, light and insubstantial, scorched earth where once there was water and weight.  

I can hold my bodybuilding father with a single hand, my mother too, though I wrap both arms around them for good measure. I place them side by side and stare at their oaken reflection in a mirror before my gaze turns to the rest of their once-upon-a-time.  

I count empty beds, empty chairs, empty shirts and shoes. 

I see the Cubs jersey he wore when my big brother was in little league. I see the chess set he made by hand. I see cheap winter boots, still muddy from the last time he wore them.  

I see her hutch full of mementos and tea cups: a collection carefully curated over the course of a lifetime. I see an old cabinet covered in chipped paint that she never got to restore. I see family photos posted alongside grandchildren’s artwork (treasured as if it belonged in a museum).

I see the antique trunks they refurbished together. 

I see the old dictionary he purchased when he was a student, the pages at once crisp and worn following decades of careful use. 

I see the binoculars that accompanied him on trips to his tree stand, where he would watch (but never shoot) deer — the same binoculars she would later use to spy on a family of cardinals that moved into her backyard. 

I see the lists I made when I thought lists might somehow save her.

I see dark where there was once light. Impressions where there was once shape. 

I hear the ringing in my ears where there was once the shuffle of tired feet. 

This has been a year of deprogramming. Of stuttering past the dozens of Pavlovian instincts that marked my day. 

Of taking photos and sending them to no one.  

Of sitting down for lunch and reaching needlessly for my phone. 

Of hearing a pun and clenching my jaw. 

Of seeing a black shadow and waiting for it to move.

It has been a year of distance. Of grandparents disappearing into the dark corners of nursing homes.

Of cancelled play dates and the rise of Zoom.

Of pacing from one white wall to the next and dreaming of life beyond them.

Of relationships strained by politics and politics magnified by social media.

Of six foot distances extrapolated by an infinitude of months.

It has been a year without distraction. A year without movies, without theater, without concerts.

A year without relief. A year where the agony of loss upon loss upon loss has been compounded by the total and absolute lack of everything and everyone.

A year where nerve damage climbed onto grief’s back and clawed its way out, leaving a trail of scars in its wake.

This is our broken year. I pick up the pieces and swallow them whole, dust and decay where once there were stars. 

The Gift of Light

My daughter’s high-pitched voice is typical for someone her age: it drips like honey so damn sweet, some days I could eat her words. But when she recently said, “I want to make a gift for Grandma and Papaw,” it was the resolve in her voice—a drive well beyond her years—that really caught my attention. “I want to make something they can see from heaven,” she said.

The words hit like a gut punch that re-filled my body with the same sadness I’ve been pushing down for what feels like eons. Think of a video game character low on life force receiving a sudden surge of energy; now, imagine that energy is fueled entirely by grief that never truly diminishes.

And no: this sadness isn’t rooted in my mother’s recent passing, nor my father’s passing just a few months prior. Rather: if really pressed to trace its origins, I’d say this melancholy Big Bang sparked when my father first started losing his balance and dexterity, and then multiplied exponentially with every new symptom, every fruitless medical exam, every horrifying prognosis (and so on). These things pulled me toward the event horizon, and their deaths pushed me the rest of the way in.

There is no turning back, and most days I feel like I’m floating weightless in space, witnessing life at a distance and just waiting for cosmic forces to do what they will. But occasionally my daughter pulls me back down and wakes me up, a 33-pound anchor with just enough force to tether me momentarily to this planet.

“OK,” I said, looking down as she strained her neck to make eye contact. “What would you like to make for them?”

I expected a lot of hemming and hawing, but her quick reply indicated she’d been giving this a lot of thought long before she vocalized her request.

“A rainbow for Grandma and a sun-catcher for Papaw,” she said without missing a beat.

I told her we would make both, or we could possibly even make a rainbow sun-catcher—a single gift they could share—but it would be a few days, because we needed to think about the best way to approach the project(s). So we studied rainbows and light, and I explained how, in a way, a rainbow is a sun-catcher: that it is a refraction and dispersion of light cast by the sun. 

And so one day while watering the flowers at my mother’s house, with the sun beating down from over our shoulders, she hatched an idea: “We can make a rainbow for Grandma to see right now! You make the rainbow, and I will catch it for Papaw!”

And so I did. And she did. And I thought our project was complete.

“No, no, no,” she said when I intimated as much later that day. “I still want to make a rainbow for Grandma and a sun-catcher for Papaw. Something they can see forever. I want to draw the rainbow, but I don’t know how to make a sun-catcher.”

I told her I would research ideas. A few more days passed, and she grew increasingly insistent.

“Mom, I really need to make those gifts for Grandma and Papaw,” she said. “How else will they know I love and miss them?”

There was no denying the urgency in her voice. I gathered the necessary supplies and we got to work, the only real hiccup being the lack of proper “indigo” and “violet” markers (she was insistent we make the rainbow exactly according to prism specifications). But we improvised with what we had, and she beamed with pride upon the completion of each project.

And then even more so a couple days later when we turned her drawing into a t-shirt she can wear whenever she wants to send a message to her grandmother. And I suppose she’ll beam again when we frame the original, but that is a project for another day.

---

Somewhere in-between the first arch of the rainbow and the finished shirt it hit me: we were completing these gifts on the eve on my parents’ wedding anniversary. Their first one since my father passed away. Their first one since my mother passed away. Their first once since my jaw became inexorably clenched in its current position.  

I gaze at the sun-catcher, now irreverently taped to our window, and notice a puff of air eke out of my lungs. It travels up through my trachea and escapes from behind my teeth. A sigh.

I try to focus on the light but find myself succumbing to the push and pull of gravity and inertia—of nothingness and everything—all at once.

My feet rise from the Earth and then come down again, every hushed step and terrible stomp a battle between unseen forces. 

I go where they take me.

On Caroll Spinney's Passing

Caroll Spinney with Big Bird, his largest creation.
AP

One of my earliest memories as a child is being sucked through a clear plastic tube – a la those pneumatic tubes that bank drive-ups use – and zipped through a hospital, naked and exposed for all of the world to see while I screamed at the top of my lungs for someone to let me out.

Scratch that. One of my earliest NIGHTMARES as a child – one that continued to haunt me well into adulthood – was the result of being alone in a children’s hospital, my parents unable to be there all day, every day, with solo trips to CT scans and MRI machines leaving me with a lifelong fear of confined spaces and surly nurses.

It was a scary time for me, and it left a deep mark I still can’t entirely shake.

But there was one bright light. It was yellow, covered in soft feathers, and gifted to me by my big brother, who was visibly holding back tears as he gave it to me to keep me safe at the hospital.

It was a Big Bird doll in honor of my favorite Sesame Street character (the fact that he became my hospital buddy made me love him all the more). I have vague recollections of talking to him, and him to me, my little brain processing all the lessons I’d learned from the show and applying them to my new, terrifying world.

I remember, too, when my family moved a few years later, and that doll was somehow lost in the shuffle. Whether my parents donated him or tossed him and thought I wouldn’t notice or we just never unpacked that box, I don’t know, but I remember feeling so sad, so alone, when I couldn’t find him.

I felt a little like that today when I heard about Caroll Spinney’s passing. It’s so strange how the death of a celebrity – of someone we’ve never met but feel like we know – hits us in the gut. And though I’m sure Big Bird will continue to live on, this is the end of an era. Time is passing. Lives are passing.

And I find myself wishing, perhaps now more than ever, that I had something – anything – to bring me that same level of solace I once found in a tiny Big Bird doll.

Mis-Lead: Toxic Metal Continues to Find Its Way into Children's Products

Nothing says “sweet dreams” quite like a lead-laced sleeping bag.

One of the most upsetting things for me, as a first-time parent, was realizing my daughter’s first-ever sippy/straw cup contained lead paint. I’d spent HOURS looking for the perfect cup — one that stored her drink in glass (because of all the gross chemicals that leach into water from plastic); had a silicone straw (for the same reason); and yet was encased to prevent breaking if thrown or dropped. So when I discovered a cup from a “green” company that ticked all of those boxes, I felt like I’d hiked to the top of a parenting Everest. 

That bubble burst in a (not-so) glorious fashion a few months later when a friend sent me an article that confirmed the unthinkable: the demarcations on the glass portion of said sippy cup were done with lead paint. And the silicone straw? It contained cadmium. 

I was livid. Frustrated. Upset. How was this even possible? Isn’t lead paint — particularly for items INFANTS will come into contact with — banned? Would there be a recall? Was the company — which sold and continues to sell many of its products at Whole Foods — going to issue a massive apology, be completely ashamed, and explain away the matter as a manufacturing error? 

The answers astounded me: there would be no recall. Having lead paint on a surface infants and toddlers drink from is somehow still legal (there are certain restrictions, but they’re a joke, particularly when you consider the amount of lead that is safe for babies and toddlers is ZERO). 

Worse yet, even though the company (Green Sprouts) offered to replace the glasses with “paint free” ones for free, there was no real apology (and certainly not a recall). Rather, they explained it away as “within legal limits.” And I say again: NO AMOUNT OF LEAD IS “SAFE” FOR ANYONE, LEAST OF ALL SMALL CHILDREN. Even small amounts of lead exposure, particularly for infants and toddlers, can cause intellectual disabilities, brain damage, kidney failure and possibly death. 

Lead paint should have gone the way of dinosaurs, blast into extinction by the meteor of public awareness. But instead: it persists — presumably because it’s dirt cheap — and even companies with “green” in their name and mission continue to use it with reckless abandon.

Skip ahead two years. I’m at Walmart looking for a camping chair for my daughter when I stumble upon this adorable rocket ship sleeping bag from Ozark Trail (Walmart’s own line of outdoor gear). It feels soft, like cotton, and since my daughter is currently obsessed with all things pertaining to space, it seemed like the perfect purchase. I was trying to figure out what the lining was made out of when I instead found a tag indicating the sleeping bag (for some inexplicable reason) contains lead and “can be harmful if chewed.”

All of the anger I felt two years ago came flooding back. Like many three-year olds, my daughter still puts WAAAYYY too many things in her mouth, and the odds of her eventually suckling on her sleeping bag are pretty high. So while on one hand I’m grateful they at least had the wherewithal/legal foresight to mark the bag with this disclaimer — our sippy cup manufacturer gave no such notice — I’m still beyond upset that lead is still widely used in consumer goods, particularly those made for children. 

This. Is. Not. O. K. 

So how do we make it stop? We could storm the legal bodies that set the limits (namely the CPSC, in the case of consumer goods), but no one really seems to listen to anyone unless money is exchanging hands. And let’s be honest: whether out of necessity or simply the desire to save, the vast majority of consumers are more likely to roll the dice on a cheaper product, rather than invest in a more expensive item that has been rigorously tested and certified to not contain harmful materials. Such products do exist in some consumer categories, but they are cost-prohibitive for many families (infuriating when you consider lead shouldn’t be allowed in any products regardless of price tag, and no companies should allow it under the flag of “well, it meets [lackluster] government regulations”) .

So what is a consumer to do?

For starters, look closely at product labels. If it has a “contains lead” warning, don’t buy it. If it includes a warning about how it doesn’t meet safety requirements for the state of California — the state with the strictest regulations — don’t buy it. Companies make merchandising decisions based on sales. If we keep buying it, they’ll keep making it. If we don’t buy it, they’ll eventually stop. It’s economics 101.

And if you buy something with no such warning label that is later determined to contain anything unsafe: raise a stink. Call them. Write them. Demand they do better, and stop buying them until they do. 

Because contrary to many idioms, “love” isn’t the universal language — money is. And until we start speaking with our wallets, products containing lead and other harmful materials will continue to find their onto store shelves.