I started writing this on 4/25/11. Well, I'll just say that the note is a keeper. Just two days ago my daughter came to me with the note and said, "Mom, let's keep this in the memory box, ok?"
--
Garrison Keillor once said something lovely about writing notes. I won't repeat it; I'll say that I like to touch that which others have made by hand.
There lies, on the bookshelf with my daughter's books, a note of Thanks from my parents to my daughter. She sent them a drawing for their refrigerator. The note is not dated, thought I can peg within months when it was written.
It was the last note my father wrote to those of us at this house. After that he just wrote his name... and now he is unable to do that anymore. His handwriting is shaky, and he wasn't sure if he remembered the word for "trees" (he did) so he drew a picture next to the word.
This note is a keeper. Dad wrote it with his own hand, while he still could. And I can touch it.
I have no point. Unless maybe it's to go out and touch, make contact, with someone today.
--
Postnote: Mom sent a birthday card that she had bought several weeks ago. The card-part said something about being "from both of [the parents]." And it was something that both of them would be equally likely to pick out. She wrote something like, "oops, it's just me now -- he would have agreed with me."
Mom and Dad: I love you always.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
The Other Obituary
M. Jack Mathews
June 24, 1933 - May 8, 2011
Born -- squalling and naked, most likely -- on June 24, 1933 (Notice: That's in the Depression), to Melville C. and Kathryn F. (Prugh) Mathews -- they were just teenagers: Can you believe it? Teenagers, starting a family, with a high school education, when the Great Depression was hitting people the hardest; the Dust Bowl years were upon them (granted, they were in Missouri, but it still had an effect), and they were setting in to start their lives on a farm with a newborn underfoot.
He rode to his first school on a horse -- ok, a pony-sized equine -- something for which his daughters would be forever jealous. It was a one-room schoolhouse... Can you imagine the changes that occurred in his lifetime?
Jack graduated from high school, having played football and been on the track team. By graduating, that means he did a good job studying too. He gave a valedictory speech; THAT is something!
In Evanston, IL, while attending medical school he met his future wife. Spouses don't always get the attention they should. I'll say this: While wandering the halls of the Care Center he carried a picture of the two of them, husband and wife, everywhere. I heard he sometimes slept with the picture. He carried the photo until he could no longer walk. Sometimes he would even ask her if she had seen his wife, and show her their picture. "Beloved wife" doesn't seem to capture it.
He became a doctor. Everywhere he went he embodied the spirit of what medicine is supposed to be: Caring. He lived the difference between someone who can prescribe medications, dispense treatments, offer health advice vs. someone who patients trusted to have their whole being in his care. The country doctor's approach -- "Most people get better on their own," as well as not always getting paid -- was something that his farmer-patients appreciated as well.
He is "survived by..." With all due respect, I'm going to change that to "his family members - wife, children, grandchildren, brothers, sisters-in-law - thrive by virtue of his having been in their lives."
Preceded in death...and living the legacy of love until it was his time to leave.
The Celebration of Life is exactly that In Deed: In the deeds we do each day of living, showing that this world is a better place because he walked upon it.
No, no visitation: he's not here anymore. He might visit you, though, in the sweet smell of fresh-cut hay, the whicker of a horse that recognizes you, the wag of a dog's tail, the sight of flowers in a meadow, a mountain peak as it emerges from the horizon, the rainbow after a storm, a sailboat as it catches the breeze, or a field of wheat waving at you as you drive by... yeah, he might visit you.
Love you always, Dad.
June 24, 1933 - May 8, 2011
Born -- squalling and naked, most likely -- on June 24, 1933 (Notice: That's in the Depression), to Melville C. and Kathryn F. (Prugh) Mathews -- they were just teenagers: Can you believe it? Teenagers, starting a family, with a high school education, when the Great Depression was hitting people the hardest; the Dust Bowl years were upon them (granted, they were in Missouri, but it still had an effect), and they were setting in to start their lives on a farm with a newborn underfoot.
He rode to his first school on a horse -- ok, a pony-sized equine -- something for which his daughters would be forever jealous. It was a one-room schoolhouse... Can you imagine the changes that occurred in his lifetime?
Jack graduated from high school, having played football and been on the track team. By graduating, that means he did a good job studying too. He gave a valedictory speech; THAT is something!
In Evanston, IL, while attending medical school he met his future wife. Spouses don't always get the attention they should. I'll say this: While wandering the halls of the Care Center he carried a picture of the two of them, husband and wife, everywhere. I heard he sometimes slept with the picture. He carried the photo until he could no longer walk. Sometimes he would even ask her if she had seen his wife, and show her their picture. "Beloved wife" doesn't seem to capture it.
He became a doctor. Everywhere he went he embodied the spirit of what medicine is supposed to be: Caring. He lived the difference between someone who can prescribe medications, dispense treatments, offer health advice vs. someone who patients trusted to have their whole being in his care. The country doctor's approach -- "Most people get better on their own," as well as not always getting paid -- was something that his farmer-patients appreciated as well.
He is "survived by..." With all due respect, I'm going to change that to "his family members - wife, children, grandchildren, brothers, sisters-in-law - thrive by virtue of his having been in their lives."
Preceded in death...and living the legacy of love until it was his time to leave.
The Celebration of Life is exactly that In Deed: In the deeds we do each day of living, showing that this world is a better place because he walked upon it.
No, no visitation: he's not here anymore. He might visit you, though, in the sweet smell of fresh-cut hay, the whicker of a horse that recognizes you, the wag of a dog's tail, the sight of flowers in a meadow, a mountain peak as it emerges from the horizon, the rainbow after a storm, a sailboat as it catches the breeze, or a field of wheat waving at you as you drive by... yeah, he might visit you.
Love you always, Dad.
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