February 1: Cardinal in the Backyard

Years ago, my taught me that the sight of a cardinal was a visit from a loved one who had passed; a sign that all was well in the great beyond.  When I saw this cardinal on the fencepost in my yard a few weeks ago, I was glad.  

Tomorrow will be a year since my Dad’s passing.  I miss him.  I miss his voice on the phone; I miss his to-the-point e-mails; I miss his jokes and his laugh.  It’s hard to believe that we’ve been a full season of life without him in this world.   I can hear his political commentary in my mind, see him in my growing plants and garden plans, think of his outsized joy in his grandsons. I remember him by telling stories about him or using a patented dad-phrase.  It’s not enough - it never will be - but the memories are of a  man who loved and was loved; who had a good life.  That’s happy.

January 1: A Cardinal Year

It’s no secret that my Dad was a huge fan of the St. Louis Cardinals and his love of a team with a scrappy, mean bird as a mascot is rather a funny thing.  My Dad could be scrappy but he was never mean.  His affection for the team dated back to his childhood and it never wavered.  Even when his team was struggling, Dad maintained hope that the game - and the season - could be turned around.  Some of my greatest joy in life is found in memories of the conversations he and JT had as the Cardinals - by then JT’s team - won an improbable pennant and then World Series in 2011.  The sight of a cardinal has always reminded me of my dad and all his best qualities: his liberal politics, his sense of humor (and exquisite timing), his skill with profanity, his joy in his grandsons.  With his passing in 2023, the sight of a cardinal feels like my Dad is at hand, counseling patience as I wait for my new hip, condemning ignorance and stupidity, or shouting “Jocko” when there is flubbed play at sport.  In 2024, the first of each month will be devoted to cardinals in all their forms in my world.  First up is this Christmas gift from my sister.  

It will be hung over the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, keeping watch over my home and reminding me of my dad.

Christmas Cardinals

My dad was a baseball fan and the St Louis Cardinals were his team.  He passed on the love of baseball to both my sister and me.  In turn, I passed it on to my son.  Via Grandpa, JT became a Cardinals fan.  Some of my fondest memories are the sound of the two of them on the phone, dissecting their team’s prospects and celebrating their triumphs.   My Dad’s passing earlier this year made the 2023 baseball season bittersweet for me.  But I’ve found comfort in memories of Dad brought on by cardinals.  This set reminds me of the joy he found in his three grandsons.  It’s made me happy all of the holiday season, a reminder that Dad is still here to celebrate his boys, cheer on his team, condemn Republican stupidity, and look after us.

December 1: Christmas Cactus

At the close of my visit to California after my father’s passing in February, I brought home some clippings from my Dad’s Christmas cactus, a beautiful plant that he had been growing for years.  The cactus spent the Summer and Fall outside under my watchful eye.  I was pleased as the transplants took hold and began to grow.  The plant is the recipient of a lot of attention; I talk to it as if my dad can hear me.  In the cold weather, it’s come inside and sits front and center to soak up the Winter sunlight.  

I didn’t expect any flowers this year but that is exactly what has happened.  

In my mind, these bright blooms can only have one source, the green thumb of my dad reaching through the great beyond.  Each morning I say hello to him and the blooms.  I think that my early-rising Dad would appreciate a morning greeting as dawn emerges.  And that I feel his spirit as the day begins is a lovely gift from this precious plant.  

Gratitude Journal: Christmas Cactus

I cling to my daily gratitude practice like the lifeline it is while I live with my painful hip and the food restriction said hip requires.  There is a hand-lettered note on my nightstand reminding me to find grace.  At the end of each day, I meditate and identify that grace.  

Pain and anxiety about my hip are my constant companion and some days, grace feels like a mighty small antidote.  But I cling to it….it’s not small unless I make it small.  Lately, a daily measure of grace can be found in my Christmas cactus.  A pretty little plant is growing from the two stalks I took from my dad’s enormous cactus.  My plant got its start in February, after my dad’s passing.  When I see it, I am reminded of him.  That it is flourishing is a source of such comfort and joy to me, and I am grateful for it on a daily basis.

July 1: Christmas (Cactus) in July

Nearly all of my houseplants are outside on the front porch for the Summer and that includes the tiny transplant from my Dad’s Christmas cactus.  It held its own after I returned from California in February, though it did not grow.  For obvious reasons, this particular plant is special to me, so I put it on the porch with some reluctance and in a spot where I would be sure to see it every day.  In mid-June, I saw red growth on the end of all four stems.  This is the first Christmas cactus I've grown and I wondered if the spots of red meant a bloom was coming.  Turns out that the red was the start of new growth.  

Those red buds buds grew into four new stems and then four more red buds followed.  I know now that means more stems are taking hold.  Huzzah!

I check in on the cactus every morning when I drink my coffee on the porch.  That the plant is an offshoot of my Dad’s is a source of comfort and peace to me.  The new growth feels like a message from him and I am best pleased to see it.

Gratitude Journal: The Growing Season

Since my dad’s passing in February, I’ve made it a daily habit to thank the universe for something good before I tuck in and fall asleep for the night.  It’s a good and worthwhile habit and a welcome addition to the other ways I thank the universe for the grace I find.  Acknowledging gratitude is a tried and true way for me to find peace, which I find to be a necessary step on the way toward happiness.  Over the years, the habit has kept me from being overwhelmed when sadness lingers.   

I often find gratitude in the things I spy in the natural world.  In May and June, when the weather is splendid and the world is filled with new blooms, it’s not a hard search.  There’s the bright impatiens that greet me on the front porch every day.  

Or the zinnia seedlings and canna bulbs I planted on the back deck, seeming to grow larger every day.  

As this year’s growing season takes hold, I miss my dad a great deal.  But I sense his spirit in these flowers I planted and I am grateful for his presence.

Dad

The Backstory: My Dad passed away in February.  Later today, we'll have a celebration of his life and this is the obituary that my sister and I wrote for the celebration.

In the last 20 years of life, pressed to generate a Christmas list, Wayne McMillen sat down at his computer and made some very specific requests.  The things he sought would vary, but often included items like “a small farm in Grafton, Vermont, for Summer living.”  Frequently, he required “effective relief pitching for the St. Louis Cardinals.”  Nearly as often, he advised that he needed “a Democratic victory in the next election.”  On a regular basis, he needed a “headband to keep his hair out of his eyes when gardening.”  The list was a holiday tradition worth opening your e-mail to read.

It was a collection of impossible, intangible, often funny items.  And the intangibles were the point.  Wayne McMillen knew that he was blessed and lucky in this world.  He never forgot that and was forever grateful for it.  His chief blessing came in the form of his grandsons, Cole, Spencer, and JT.  If you asked about those boys, you’d better have some time on your hands.  Wayne was a fiercely, ridiculously proud grandfather and his grandsons know they were loved beyond measure.

With his wife of 58 years, Carol, who spent a good deal of her life being greeted as “his chickadee or his old crow…I can never remember which”, he raised two daughters, Stacy and Kristin.   Born in Louisiana, Missouri, he came west with his family at age 12 and settled in Oak View, California.  He met his wife Carol at Sacramento State – stories vary, but it may very well be that they met when she kicked him out of the women’s dormitory after hours – and they married in 1964.  Together, they lived in Eureka, Hanford, Sacramento, Clovis, and Martinez, California, before settling for good in Clovis in 1975.  Wayne had a fierce affection for Clovis and would hear no words against his adopted hometown.  His family came to believe that he even enjoyed the sweltering heat of a Central Valley summer.  “Good for the tomatoes,” he would remind you.  Wayne had a hobby farm and over the years Carol put up with chickens, an old Alice Chalmers tractor, orange trees, almond groves, and a flock of geese who imprinted on Wayne’s voice and would quack to him when they heard him call “Geese!” in the mornings.  As he spent his first years of life on his grandparents’ farm, his various farming endeavors were a tribute to his true roots.  Wayne loved life on the farm, even the lack of indoor plumbing and electricity.  He did his best to recreate his own, smaller version and we thank Carol for keeping his little farms modern.*In his retirement, Wayne gardened, travelled with Carol, cheered on his grandsons at endless sporting events, and volunteered at HiCAP and the Clovis Senior Center.  He enjoyed his barbeque and smoker, and watched a whole lot of sports and political news.  It is believed that he actually liked to listen to Willie’s Road House on the Sirius XM radio.  Saturday nights were reserved for Molly B’s Polka Party.

Wayne worked in the insurance and risk-management fields for most of his life and had an encyclopedic knowledge of co-pays, co-insurance, deductibles, and all things insurance.  If you had an insurance or Medicare question, he had the answer and he’d happily - and patiently - help you to navigate the red tape.  He never stopped pointing out the errant cord that might trip people, or the poor choices that might expose people to lawsuits.

Wayne passed away in February 2023 after a short illness. He is survived by his wife Carol and daughters Stacy and Kristin and her husband Martin.  His true legacy exists in the form of grandsons JT, Cole and girlfriend Lauren, and Spencer and girlfriend Shyanne.  Also surviving him are his brother John and his sister-in-law Chris, his sister-in-law Valerie, and several nieces and nephews.

Soon after his passing, some peach trees he’d ordered were delivered to the house, additions for this year’s garden.  They were a welcome reminder of the things that mattered to Wayne.  In his memory, his family encourages you to eat a fresh peach, slice a warm tomato, and tell the people you love how much they matter to you.  Wayne would want it that way.

 

One Small Flower

Earlier this year, JT and I got matching tattoos on our left forearms.  I have to say that I rather liked it and knew pretty quickly that my first tattoo would not be my last, though I had no specific plans.  But I kept thinking about flowers and plants and once my dad died, I knew. 

My love of plants and gardens is the biggest gift my father gave me.  I will miss talking plants with him and I decided to keep those memories close to me for the coming years.  Gardening is about growing things; it's taught me the value of patience.  In this 56th year of my life, a year when I am once-again sorting out who I am and who I will be, a reminder to look anew at life seems fitting.

This flower, a forget-me-not, is on my inner right wrist.  I can see it whenever I like but can tuck it away if I please.  It's a welcome reminder of my dad and the joy he took in growing things.  My dad was not the tattoo type and he likely would not have approved.  But I do think that he would understand the power of a floral talisman to keep me company and guard my memories.  

Gratitude Journal: The Growing Season

A few week ago, when I got back to New Jersey after my stay in California, I took a walk at Colonial Park and saw a forsythia just starting to bloom.  That’s an early bloom; the first of the season.  My first thought was “I’ll tell dad.”  Then I remembered that he’s not taking my calls these days and, honestly, it sucked.  To have the start of Spring without my dad around to discuss gardens, seedlings, and all things turning green has been hard.  

I learned to love gardens and plants from him and I am reminded that in these growing things is the comfort I need.  Plants grow and then fade and die.  In some cases, that happens in a year.  In others, a growing thing (looking at you, redwoods), can last for ages, well past the life of one human.  There are lessons in that, of course.  Human life is fragile and short when measured against historical time.  What can endure is the mark we make on this world and the people around us. 

In that respect, my dad has the edge.  For his kind heart, he was known and admired by so many people.    He adored his grandsons beyond a reason and rationality and they knew it and loved him back.  He was fiercely loved by the rest of us as well.  And his gardening lives on, in the peach trees he ordered in December, delivered from his favorite nursery a few days after he died.  In the lemon trees he planted in all of his yards; in the daffodils I saw blooming around his house and all the places he lived in Clovis; in the irises that grow in my backyard; bulbs that came from his grandmother’s garden. 

Days and then years will come and go.  But Spring will always bring new growth.  In that fresh green, I will look for my gardener dad and the joy his plants brought him.  I know I’ll find him there. 

February Book Report: In Praise of Miss Read

On the first day of this month, I woke up early and as I lay in the darkness I remembered to say “white rabbit, white rabbit” before I got out of bed.  I won’t say that I expected good luck to join me for the month, though I did hope as much.  Alas, that is not how the day played out.

Most of my plans for February were set aside so that I could fly West and spend time with my family, and especially take time with my mom.  To look after my own heart, I turned to my favorite Miss Read books, Changes in Fairacre and Thrush Green.  These series are beloved favorites for me, stories that I have read again and again.  I find friendship and familiarity in the lives of the characters who live in these imaginary places.  

Changes in Fairacre takes place just past the midpoint of the Fairacre series and is full of reminders about the comforts still to be found amidst the fragility of life.  As Miss Read settles into the cottage she has inherited after the death of her dear friend Dolly Clare, she remembers her with a sweet fondness, and determines to move forward to enjoy life.  It was a message that was especially timely for me this month.

Thrush Green is the first of the Thrush Green series and I first read it in the Summer of 2006, a very hard time for me.  That year, the book was a great comfort.  When I reread it now, it’s both a comfort and a reminder of how strong I can be when the need arises.

These familiar novels were the backbone of my reading this month.  They were both companion and comfort as I thought about my Dad and the fragility of life.  Being strong when it’s called for is my superpower.  In my favorite books, I find the strength that I need to see me through the hard parts of life.

As February Closes

As is my habit, I created a February word graphic.  For a short month, there was a lot packed in to some bittersweet days.  I’ve had all the feelings and then some and I'll leave them here for now.

Headed Home

I’ve been in California since the 2nd of the month, to be with my family after my dad’s death and to spend some extra time with my mom as she navigates this next chapter in her world.  She’s a trooper, as my sister and I expected, but it’s a big change for her.  This time has been a blessing, as I helped her with some practical tasks and took the time to remind her of her own strengths as she plans for her future.  I head back home to New Jersey this morning confident that my mom will be okay and I’m looking forward to being home. 

My house is my favorite place in the world, a blessing beyond compare in my daily life.  It’s welcoming and cozy; my always lovely place to land and refresh my spirit.  It’s the place with my front porch, my plants, and my books, the things that feed my soul on a daily basis.  I’m ready to see JT, to see Lucy Cat in her sunny basket (and, if we’re honest, to entertain her grievances about my absence, a process that may last a few weeks).  I’m ready to prop my feet on my ottoman, make a pot of tea, rest my head on my cool pillow under the down comforter in my soft bed, and sip my morning cup of coffee as I admire the dawn sky from my back window. 

Home is where my heart is and I’ll be so glad to step through the front door tonight.

Sunlight, Warmth, and Daffodils

I’m in California right now, my second visit in so many months.  I came to see my family and to stay with my mom for a bit as she sorts out life without my dad.  I’ve missed the second patch of extreme cold in New Jersey by being in California in February and it must be said that I’d truly forgotten how beautiful my home town is at this time of year.  It’s been warm - mostly in the 60s - and there has been sunshine and skies clear enough to enable me to see the Sierra Nevada mountains nearly every day.  The daylight is lasting a bit longer with each sunrise and that’s been very nice as well.  

Spring is my favorite season, always.  The slow arrival of blooms and greenery feels like a yearly unearned miracle unfolding before my eyes; each day bringing us something new to admire.  Even a mild Winter, like the one we’ve mostly experienced in New Jersey this year, is cold.  As it drags on, I long for the easy days of warmer weather and my joy in the arrival of Spring is always unmeasured and unbound.

Being in California now is, of course, a respite from our cold.  That I’m here helping my mother to transition to life without her husband of 58 years is a reminder that our time on earth passes quickly.  But there is sunshine and daffodils have begun to bloom, two things my dad would have enjoyed, and I take comfort in that.

My Dad

 

My father died on Wednesday, February 1.  If you knew Wayne McMillen, you knew…. 

His grandsons hung the moon.

His wife Carol was his little chickadee or his old crow….he could never remember which. 

He looked out for people who needed help - always -  and he thought you should do the same. 

His work ethic was strong and believed that a job worth doing was worth doing well. 

He was unmatched in his mastery of profanity. 

He told a great story and laughed often. 

He shot the moon - successfully - every damn time he played Hearts with you. 

His garden was beautiful, always, but his tomatoes will be better next year. 

He had an encyclopedic knowledge of baseball and thought St. Louis would win it all this year.

He advised that you "don't take any wooden nickels."

He called you Jocko if you made an error on the sporting field and he was not amused. 

That “can’t never does”. 

That he cared deeply and was much beloved.

That his daughters are loud and bossy and now you know why. 

Think of him when you admire a flower in the garden, enjoy a tomato still warm from the sun, set up a tent in the woods, and laugh at good story.  He’d want it that way.