44. You Used to Say…

For James Joseph McKibben

You Used to Say…

You used to say… “fuzzy wuzzy was a bear.” I’d be lying in my bed, getting ready to wake up and begin a new day. School. Maybe a baseball game on a Saturday. Maybe I’d be lucky to have the day off but the lawn needed mowing. And you’d come in and sit on my bed. Being a morning person, I’d already be awake. I was always awake before everyone else. But despite needing to wake up and get started on my day, you’d tuck me into my sheets like you used to do at bedtime when I was little. You had this way of tucking me in where you’d push the blankets and sheets beneath my legs, then under my body, leaving the arms last. The arms would get the tightest tuck. And like the Pharaohs of old, I’d be mummified. Only instead of traditional cloths, it’d be in my sheets with all the MLB team logos on them. Unable to move, you’d sit on my bed and use your fingers to comb through my sandy blonde hair and say the lines “Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear. Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair. Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn’t fuzzy was he?” And then we’d talk about what needed to be done that day. “Are you ready for school today?” “Do you know where your cleats are?” “I need you to fill up the gas can because the mower is almost empty.” I wish all mornings began in that wuzzy way.

You used to say… “nature abhors a vacuum.” A more astronomical view would say that most of nature is a vacuum. Space is nature, too, after all. But it was your way of making sure I committed to things. It was your way of making sure I knew that if I didn’t make a decision, a decision would be made for me. That shirt you want and is the last of the stack at the store? Better not think too hard on it or else someone comes and buys it before you do. Nature abhors a vacuum. That person you’re waiting for the right time to ask out? Nature abhors a vacuum. That movie you’ve been waiting to see… looks like it’s filling up quickly. Don’t wait too long to buy that ticket or you might have the decision made for you. Nature abhors a vacuum. That job that looks perfect? Better just go for it before someone not you gets it. The anxious side of my brain hated this. The more rational and calm side always knew you were right. The battle continues.

You used to say… “Grab it!” I was playing outfield on my little league team and you were coaching it. You were sending flyballs my way and watching me stand there, feet anchored to the ground. “You gotta move around a little bit. It’s sometimes hard to gauge if the ball is over hit or under hit your position.” So I’d bend my knees and be more pliable. “When you know where the ball is going to go, bring your glove to the ball and grab it out of the air. Don’t let the ball come to your glove, bring your glove to the ball. Grab it!” Good baseball advice? I have no idea. You weren’t exactly a baseball pro but he you coach both of Katie and MaryAnn’s softball teams and coached both my Luke’s and my teams, too. Like all baseball shit, good life advice, too. Don’t be anchored. Be flexible. When you’re finishing something, don’t let it end with a fizzle. End it with some intentionality.

You used to say… “no matter where you go there you are.” You were raised Catholic. You almost went into the priesthood. Or at least, that’s what you used to tell me. I never knew how much to believe you on that. We sometimes mythmake our histories. Or sometimes our brains need a good exit ramp for our memories to justify the life choices we make. Regardless, glad you weren’t a priest, though. I very much like my existence, thank you very much. At some point, you had your fill of Catholicism tried the Baptist route. Didn’t care for the Baptist thing much either so the search continued. You ended up with the Presbyterians. At one point in my life, I believed that one sheds a strict Catholicism that you’re born into like a tiger sheds its stripes, but we aren’t tigers. We’re butterflies. Or we can be. And your spirituality needed more than the guilt, shame, and anger that you were raised with. So you transitioned to calmness. You transitioned to forgiving those who wronged you, even if the person who wronged you was yourself. You transitioned to a larger God. “No matter where you go there you are” was always said with a wry smile on your face. A kind of smile that finished the sentence with “…and that is enough.” You had a little Buddha nature in you. I mourn this one the most.

You used to say lots of stuff, but those one stick out the most. Miss you, dad.