I’ve always loved this bit of wisdom from Zora Neale Hurston:

There are years that ask questions and years that answer.

Well, Dad died exactly one year ago, and I have a lot of damn questions about the last 365 days. Most of them start with, Why…?  A few, How…?   But most of the time, it’s just: What the hell happened?  

I asked Vivian and Suzanne this morning, When you think of Grandpa Jeff, what’s the first thing you think of?

Without so much as a pause, they both blurted out, in sync:  FEE FI FO FUM!!
When the girls had overnight visits with Grams & Grandpa, that was one of his favorite routines:  rumbling down the stairs to scare them while they hid under the covers, giggling uncontrollably.  This little schtick never seemed to get old, for either him or Viv & Suz. Until the day came that Dad no longer felt like a giant, and the girls, somehow sensing this, stopped asking.

You think back on the things you said, the things you didn’t say, the things you wanted to say but didn’t, the things you never thought to say until just now.

About 12 years ago, I told Dad I thought maybe I should have gone into teaching—and maybe I still would. He scrunched up his face and said, Oh, God. No! No you don’t! Don’t do it!  Granted, he was about 35 years in at this point, eyeing retirement, perpetually pissed about where he wasn’t allowed to park, and living for KSU football losses so he could stir the pot with the Wildcat fans every Monday morning. Not what you’d call a recruiter.

I wonder what he’d say about what I’m doing now? Probably tell me I’m crazy, but secretly be proud. Maybe even pass along his podium or Grab Bag, some of my favorite artifacts from playing school in his classroom while he and Ryan were shooting in the gym.

Today, we honored Dad with a piece of pie and a good cup of coffee at a small-town cafe— the kind filled with people he would’ve loved to ask, Well, how much rain did ya get last night?

I got to be with my Mom, who just, every day, continues to show me who I want to be when I grow up. And my aunties, who refuse to let us go it alone.

Crough women are strong women, Dad always said.

Lots of questions remain. And just for today, this was our answer.