Saturday to-do list...

12 September 2026: I swear, at least two times today I thought, "Gotta call Mom" and once thought, "Gotta call Mom and Dad." 

The other day, I was telling Erin that I never really adjusted to writing just "Call Mom" on my Saturday list. And that I only had to write that from December to early June. 

Every time I think it--before I am even done processing the thought--I realize the reality. And it's okay. Just really strange, surreal, and sad. 

Sometimes it hits you...

3 September 2026: I really am managing everything well and have been since December. I'm kind of proud of myself about it.

But sometimes it just crashes into me. 

Both gone in less than nine months. So much...just gone. 

I think the thing to do is just feel it. 

And I'll be okay.

80

23 August 2026: My dad would have turned 80 today. 

Just hard to believe how much has changed since his last birthday. 

New old table

20 August 2026: 

[Catch-up post...]

Since he wanted to get the boat from the Martinsburg house, Colin also brought down my parents' dining room table for me on Thursday. Very strange and surreal to have it here, but it looks good. 

Bonus, of course, was getting to spend some time with Little Man.

Not even a year ago...

6 August 2026: Headed up to NY tomorrow for what will be a very hard visit. 

I was scrolling through blog entries from last August just to be sure I was right about Jo's birthday. (I was; it's on Monday.)

Felt my breath catch when I scolled by this post. Less than a year ago. 

Surreal.

"How swiftly, at last, but unnoticed..."

8 July 2026: In 1859, shortly after his father died, Thoreau wrote to a friend, "How swiftly, at last, but unnoticed, a generation passes away!" (qtd in. Walls 437).

Once again, this biography reveals a Thoreau whose life and words stretch through time, touching this moment. As I work to clean up and clean out the my parents' Martinsburg house, they are especially poignant and well-timed. 

Less than thirty pages left and I find myself sad that I'll be done soon...

Work Cited

Walls, Laura Dassow. Henry David Thoreau: A Life. The U of Chicago P, 2017.

His favorite spot...

7 July 2026: Thinking about something I learned today from someone who knew my dad. Something that changed--just a bit--how I feel about a subject that he and I really disagreed about. I know I am being vague, but it's enough to say that I am grateful for that insight. 

Porch reading...

21 June 2026: Didn't expect Father's Day to hit me the way it has; I'm okay, but it's...hard, especially because of everything going on with my mom. 

Earlier today, I fought off some weepiness by going outside to read on the porch. (Would be weird to sit on the porch in broad daylight and cry.)

Sitting there with my big old Thoreau bio, I realized that wasn't a bad tribute to my dad, who would take his books out to the deck to read, often with Sugie or Snow with him. My girls stayed inside, but one of them wasn't happy about it. 

Three books...

29 May 2026: Working my way through three different "for fun" books, which I can't remember doing before: American Rambler (for my book club), that Thoreau biography, and The Master (those last two from my bedside table piles). 

My dad did this all the time. I can't say I saw the appeal--dividing my attention like that. But now that I have the time to do it (and am making the time to do it), I get it. Like, of course it's great. 

I didn't set out to do this as a little tribute to him, but I like that it is turning out to be--and I hope it's a habit I keep up (or at least, reading more than one book at a time).

Quiet, rainy, May day...

21 May 2026: After a very early heat wave, a few days of cool rain are setting in. We need the rain, so I am grateful (mostly). 

I ran errands most of the morning and got some work done on campus. I was home by a bit after noon. 

It's been a quiet since then--getting a bit of work done, talking with Tara (stuff with my mom is...hard), and keeping an eye on Jo (who is having another bad stomach day), and reading for fun. Reading two books at once (soon to be three), which I realize is an unintentional tribute to my dad.  

(Jo's okay now...just crashing big time on the couch. I said to her, "I am sorry you aren't feeling great, but it's been nice to be here with you today.")

Small Things Like These

18 May 2026: Early in the spring, Randy (who I wrote about here) handed me a slim book. He remembered me saying that "Hanrahan" doesn't appear in a lot of literature. This book, Small Things Like These (by Claire Keegan), he said, had some Hanrahan in it. 

I just finished reading it and my goodness: what a book! 

I found myself thinking that it's precisely the kind of book my dad would enjoy and that we would enjoy talking about. His favorite short story, after all, was "The Dead." 

This book's answer to its central question--what do you do when you must acknowledge an travesty happening almost in plan sight?--is profoundly moral without being simple or naive. Just an absolute jewel.

Five months...

1 May 2026: The new month kind of snuck up on me, but it is, indeed May 1. On my walk this afternoon, I realized it's been five months since my dad died. 

For the most part, I think I am handling this grief pretty well. It is still so hard and sad. I still find myself thinking, "I should tell him that" or "Dad would like this..." and then remember that he's gone, well...more times than I could have imagined. But I think all of that is pretty normal. 

The other stuff that's come rushing in since he died--Brandon's death, worrying about Vogel, my cousin's death, my mom's illness, so much work stress, and everything our government is up to--it's overwhelming. 

Maybe there's a gift in a quiet moment like this one, just thinking about him. 

So...it's been five months. There's been good stuff, too. And we're still here. And it's May, maybe my favorite month?

The lilac bush behind Knutti is in bloom. I snapped some sprigs to bring home. As I write this, they are filling the first floor with their fragrance. Another gift of May and everything that Spring represents.

Granted...

27 April 2026: Got some news late today about a grant application that I was working on with my buddy, Hannah, in the weeks before and after my dad's death. 

Those were such strange, hard days. 

I hated doing that work at times, even as I was grateful for the distraction and that there was work to do. (In general, grant writing is just not a genre I love.) I remember logging onto a Zoom meeting less than 24 hours after he died. It never even crossed my mind not to. 

But you just keep going, you know? That's what I told myself. 

And as silly as it was, I thought, "This is what he would want. He would be proud."

Anyway, we got the money. It wasn't anywhere close to a sure thing. So...wow. 

I think he would be proud. I hope he is. 

"I Was There to Hear Your Borning Cry"

3 March 2026: 

   

This morning, I came across the program from my dad's funeral services. My eyes went to the lyrics for this hymn, which we sang at the end. I can remember those moments so clearly, feeling comfort on his behalf--the Lord had him now--and incredible sadness for us, who didn't have him anymore.

This morning, I once again found myself crying at both its reassuring beauty and the ache that remains in his absence.

Crying again hours later, typing this, thinking about yet another funeral this weekend, this one for Troy.

So much in the world is (still) so very hard. I mean, my God, another war? 

The Lord is here for us, though, and has been since the beginning.

"On the Dark Side"

1 March 2026: Just saw that Eddie and the Cruisers is streaming on Pluto TV. My dad always loved that movie and the hit from it: "On the Dark Side." 

Listening to it now and thinking of him. Makes me cry and it makes me smile. 

Super Bowl Sunday

8 February 2026:

My grief for my father hits me in strange ways sometimes. 

This evening, after a quiet but good day of getting lots of work done and feeling fine (even good!), I find myself tearing up. 

It’s Super Bowl Sunday. I don’t really care about football and won’t be watching the game. But I started thinking about how my mom and dad watched every year, sometimes hosting my siblings and sometimes going over to their houses. I would sometimes call and do the whole “phone passed around” thing. 

And he’s not there this year. 

I felt similarly on New Year’s Eve, though it resonated in a different way. I thought, “This is my first New Year’s Eve without my dad being alive.” And I have so many memories of New Year’s Eves in the past. 

Again, what do I care about the Super Bowl? Why am I crying about him missing get-togethers that I never went to? That he and my mom usually left by halftime? I know the answers are right there and not very deep. Because he’s gone and it’s really hard and sad. 

(My mom told me yesterday that Chris and Jennifer—bless them!—were going to come by the house, bring some food, and watch the first half there.)

Long month...

31 January 2026: As we close out what feels like an exceptionally long January, our Arctic spell continues and most folks' yards have what are essentially ice-rinks on them. That's been hard, but at least the sun has been shining.

Cleaned the house this morning, did lunch and a movie this afternoon (The Bone Temple, which I found gory, scary, hilarious, and quite moving), and have been working on and off since then (mostly on). 

Work keeps coming. That's mostly good, but it is tiring (mentally) and the list is making me anxious.

***

On the phone with my mom today, she told me how the funeral home delivered a book they had made with pictures of my dad. 

When she asked me "What's new with you?" I couldn't answer her at first. I didn't want her to know I was fighting tears. 

But I had to say something even as I knew my voice would betray me.

"That just got me," I said so softly that I couldn't believe she heard me. 

"I know," she said. "It's very hard."

Later she said, "You know what's hard? Cooking for one."

"Elephant"

6 January 2026: Traditionally, I listen to New Yorker Fiction Podcast episodes while putting up and taking down the Christmas lights. I don't think I did in November when I put them up for this season, but that was a surreal afternoon. Regardless, I kept the tradition today when the lights came down, listening to Miriam Toews read Raymond Carver's "Elephant." 

What an interesting story this one is! It made me laugh and feel stressed. And then it takes a beautiful turn. And, like everything lately, it made me think of my dad. 

"What the Living Do"

27 December 2025: A little over two months ago, I kicked off what I called a marathon--one that I thought would be done in mid-November. I thought it was just about over by the time I wrote this post. I was wrong. 

It actually ended--I think? I hope?--yesterday when I got back to WV. 

Time now for stillness, I think/hope. Lots of work to do--so much--but I am catching my breath and hoping to settle in. 

I was in bed before 10:00 last night and, though I woke up--wide awake--at 4:00, I made myself drift back to sleep a few more times. I stayed in bed longer than I have in months. Jo insisted on staying with me--right up next to me or on me--for most of it. She's ready for stillness, too. 

Still so sad, though. Still so many Big Thoughts. 

Stillness is good--and so necessary. But I will lose my mind if that's all there is. I need things to do. Anchored in place, yes, but active. I need to do "What the Living Do."

On the drive back yesterday, I listened to Saeed Jones read Marie Howe's poem on the latest Vibe Check. Saeed called it a "Modern Scripture" for him and I think it might be for me, too.

This morning (walking past what used to be a video store!), I caught my reflection in the some window glass and thought of the poem's closing:

"But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,

say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:

I am living. I remember you."

Last one...

13 December 2025: My dad always made sure there were some diet sodas in the fridge when I was in NY. (He made sure everyone had a drink they would enjoy.) These last two visits, he didn't have a chance to prepare, but there were, in fact, just enough to get me through both trips. Today, I took the very last one to drink on the road. 

It's silly because it's so small. But I picture him loading them into the fridge and it's just too much. So many everyday things he'll never do again. Moving though that house these past few days was a kind of surreal I can't describe.

I am back home in WV now; the services are over, the bags are unpacked, and I am working through final exams and papers. Life goes on, but his absence from it is just so sad.