The Era of Cheerios and Pool Parties

     There’s a box of cheerios in the cupboard of my dad’s kitchen that has been there since before his stroke. So, 9 months.  I thought about throwing them out- how long does cereal stay fresh? But, I decided, since they are good old-fashioned cheerios and not the bland tasting organic ones, all those preservatives will probably keep them fresh for several years. I can’t bring myself to toss them, because they are Dad’s favorite, and maybe someday he will be able to get rid of that stupid feeding tube and come home where he belongs and have a bowl of cheerios with blueberries and almond milk, the only thing I ever “cook” for him (except the one time 30 years ago when I made chicken cordon bleu).  When my older brother was staying with us recently, he nonchalantly opened those cheerios and poured himself a bowl. At first, I was mad, like, how dare he? But now I’ve taken to eating them by the handful at night, sitting outside in the lawn chair by the murky pool. I hung Christmas tree lights around the porch and cleaned the grime off all the patio furniture and even though we don’t have the pool in as good as shape as Dad would have by now, it gives me comfort to sit out there and think about the old days. The parties, endless parties, that I complained about all the time, but now would give anything to experience just once more. The chaos, the noise, the dogs running amuck and small children everywhere (I got to where I’d take a head count so no one would go missing amongst the ridiculous amount of floaties). Then there were the teenagers (and even some grown men) jumping off the roof into the pool-giving me a heart attack every single time.  I sometimes despised those parties because I was so afraid someone would split their head open doing a flip off the roof, or a toddler would slip and fall on the cement, or a creepy drunk neighbor would inevitably piss me off. I was not crazy about the clean up afterwards and the fact that sometimes there were complete strangers in our yard. But I also loved those parties because of the pride Dad took in preparation. How he would be out there vacuuming and dumping bleach into that pool (and all over his shorts), turning the heat up so high it was more like a hot tub, bringing home more beer and soda and food from the family restaurant than anyone would go through in a month.  The hardest I ever saw him work was getting ready for those parties. And now, this summer he is not here, and we don’t know what to do with the pool, and I can’t stand the silence. There is a voice in my head, when I sit out there eating dry cheerios, saying, this is the end of an era. Dad is more than likely not going to return home, and we will probably sell this house.  I try to push that voice away and have started doing strange but distracting things late at night, like vacuuming after dark because I swear I still see dog hair everywhere -even though the dogs are gone too. I go through his junk drawer looking for something useful, but it’s mostly old keys to who knows what and take out menus and lighters that don’t work. I go through the closets in every room, finding pictures of his family when they were young, even some of he and my mom, which secretly makes me happy because I don’t remember them together. I find absurd amounts of important paperwork- like the deed to the house mixed in with vet bills and pictures of the grand kids and tax returns from the 90s. The other night I really went crazy and started going through his clothes, boxing some up for goodwill and throwing the bleach-stained shorts out, and then pulling all the nice shirts and sweaters we’ve bought for him over the years off the hangers and laying them on the bed, trying to decide what he might still like to wear. My boyfriend came upstairs during all this ruckus-it was 2 am mind you-and he shook his head and said, “Honey what are you doing? He’s not gone yet”. “I know!!!”, I screamed, and then cried, and then hung the clothes back up. It’s just- if all those clothes are hanging in the closet and his stuff is in the junk drawer and the cheerios are in the cupboard, there is hope. And I just don’t know if I can hope anymore. I don’t know what to do. I wander around this house and think, everything is changing and even though I wanted change, I didn’t want it like this. My Dad and I didn’t even get along that well, honestly. I loved him fiercely and was crazy about him as a child, but in my adult years we started butting heads politically and morally and there were a lot of choices he made that really angered me (and vise versa I’m sure).  These last few years, during the Trump era and the pandemic, the two of us living together was about as insane as Nancy Pelosi and Mitch McConnell being roommates. Yet, there is something about Dad that is so endearing and kind and funny and generous, and despite how much he frustrates me, I never wanted to see him suffer the way he has this past year.  There is nothing more awful than seeing a strong, vibrant, smart, hard-working person go into an overnight decline and become a shell of themselves. I saw it with my grandparents, and it was excruciating, but nothing prepared me for my father’s decline and the end of this era….50 plus years of skiing and road trips to Kansas and 10ks and hanging at the bar and just having him around all the time, even though he didn’t actually raise me. I am not ready for this change, but it’s happening regardless. This house, like him, is a shell-full of memories and ghosts, fun times and crazy fights, but most of all, love, albeit sometimes dysfunctional. 

 

That night, after I put his clothes away and straightened up the mess I made, I did something I swore I’d never, ever do, even if someone paid me a million dollars. But, let me back track a second. While going through his clothes I found a Bethany Swedes sweatshirt (he and my mom’s alma mater from Lindsborg, Kansas), and I immediately put it on over my pajamas. I went into the kitchen and grabbed the cheerios, walked outside to the patio, but instead of relaxing in the lawn chair, I grabbed a bar stool, propped it up against the side of the house, and climbed up onto the roof. Not the very top, but the covering over the patio, where the crazy kids jump from. It was a little awkward getting up, but once I was there, I felt completely safe. I wrapped that sweatshirt around me, comforting and comfortable, munched on the dried-out cereal, gazed up at the stars, and felt more at peace than I ever have. I looked out at that murky water and thought, if this pool was clean, I would jump. I would. I wasn’t scared at all. But then I figured, knowing me I’d break my back or something, or fry my skin off with all the chlorine we’ve dumped in there, so instead I sat quietly in that sacred space and thought about Dad.  Despite his misogynistic tendencies and far right stubbornness and being organized in the most unorganized way- Dad is a Legend, and I can’t wait to write all my stories about him, good and bad. At the end of the day, family was and still is his priority, and even though he wishes I would have married a “nice Aurora man” (now there’s an oxymoron), even though he says I should have taken more engineering classes in college, even though he thinks my liberalism is some sort of crazy disease, even though…I know he loves me, and I love him, and the memories of our lives together are epic.  I don’t think I’ll ever get a chance to jump off the roof into his sparkling clean pool (well, clean except all the leaves from the neighbor’s trees), and I’ll probably never resolve some of these tumultuous feelings I have, but I do know that he provided a hell of a fun upbringing for me, my brothers, and cousins, and there is something to be said for that. And who knows? Maybe a miracle will happen, he’ll get better, and next summer we’ll throw the biggest raging pool party ever, and he will get to watch his only daughter jump off the roof. Maybe he’ll even jump with me. 

 

I love you so much Dad, and I don’t know what to do without you, even though I never listened to your advice anyways. But I do know one thing- I am keeping this kitchen stocked with jumbo boxes of cheerios for the remainder of my time here. Hurry up and get better so we can have breakfast together- and lovingly argue about whether it’s the Dems or Republicans that have screwed up this country.