Brummelbär

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Dad, daughters, Diana Schwenk, family, fathers-day, kindness, Life's like that, love, memories, parents, Relationships, Stuff my parents used to say and do

“Dad had such a deep voice,” I said to my mom on the phone a few weeks back.

“Yes, that’s why I called him my Brummelbär (Brummel bear), his voice rumbled from deep within,” she replied with tenderness in her voice.

I guess I’ve been thinking a lot about dad lately, with Father’s Day and his birthday looming closer. I used to dread June because it brought Father’s Day, my brother’s birthday and my dad’s birthday, and when I didn’t have a lot of money, it seemed taxing to buy three cards and gifts in one month.

Man, what I wouldn’t give to have that worry back, to have dad back.

Yet, I can’t really complain. I was blessed for 52 years with the best possible man for me, as my father. He was a good man, a kind man, a peaceful man. And he loved us.

As best as I can tell Brummel means rumble. And mom’s right. His voice rumbled from deep within like a bear. And it remains in my heart, in my DNA it would seem, guiding me, and still brings me comfort when I most need it.

So glad I captured his voice in this video!

The Slippers

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children, Dad, Diana Schwenk, family, grief, growing up, Hump Day Chronicles, life, Life's like that, loss, love, memories, parents, Relationships, Stuff my parents used to say and do

 

I have an old, ugly pair of slippers from Wal-Mart.  They make a click-clack noise. The same kind of click-clack noise Dad’s favourite slippers used to make when he walked across the kitchen floor.

*******

Winter 2012

Michaela and I went back east to spend Christmas with family. Dad was wearing those slippers and click-clacking across the floor. The noise drove Mom crazy. The next time Dad reached for those slippers after a trip into Hawkesbury, they were gone.

In the garbage.

Mom had had enough.

So me and Michaela went to the Fairview Shopping Centre in Pointe Claire and found a pair of slippers for Dad at Old Navy. We’d intentionally picked silent slippers to avoid that click-clacking sound. We couldn’t wait to give them to Dad for Christmas. On Christmas Eve we handed the wrapped slippers to him. He opened the package and angrily tossed the slippers to the side. 

“I hate them.”

They weren’t his well-worn favourite slippers and they weren’t the kind you could just slip on either. You had to bend down and stick your finger in the back to get them on.

*******

How I wish you were still with us Dad, so we could get you the perfect slippers.

The kind you wouldn’t have to struggle to get on.

The kind you could just slip your feet into.

The kind that would click-clack across the kitchen floor and drive Mom crazy and cause that smile of defiant satisfaction to tug at the corners of your mouth…

~ HUMP DAY CHRONICLES ~

The Ring With The Blue Stone

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children, Dad, death, Diana Schwenk, family, foundation, gift, good character, grief, growing up, History, Hump Day Chronicles, lessons, life, Life's like that, love, memories, Mom, parenting, safe, Stuff my parents used to say and do, values

My parents in 1960 and the ring with the blue stone

When you want to build something, you start with a good foundation. When you want to understand something, you start with the fundamental pillars of the subject. In other words, you learn the history, the mechanics of it, the whys and whats and wheres.

In the same way,  when you feel lost, it helps to go back to where you began so you can remember where you came from, what you have learned about this business of living, what you truly long for in life, and how you can get it and how you can share your gifts with the world. Sometimes you grab onto a symbol of the past and carry it with you like a talisman that you can look at, or touch when you need to be grounded.

Since Dad passed away, I’ve been in kind of a fog. I got the basics covered, you know…  I wake up, brush my teeth, shower, dress, exercise, go to work, eat, go to bed and start it all over again the next day. 

But I’ve lost a bit of my oomph.

A bit of my zest for life.

Dad was always my rock.

He had this way of making me feel secure and letting me know that he was there for me, no matter what.

My Plan B, if Plan A should fail.

Although I rarely resorted to Plan B, I knew I could if I had to, I knew it was there if I needed it.  

This past New Year’s Eve, as I was deciding which piece of jewelry to wear for an event I was attending, I came across the ring with the blue stone. The ring that cost forty dollars in 1960 and took Dad several weeks of saving so he could buy it for Mom to celebrate their first anniversary.

Dad was so upset when Mom gave me that ring almost thirty years later. But I’m so glad she did, so I could find it on the last day of 2016 and slip it on my finger. And with the wearing of it, remember the values he taught me and the traits he exemplified; like a good work ethic, empathy, diplomacy, loyalty and strength of character.  

What a gift!

What a great foundation from which to find my way again!

~ HUMP DAY CHRONICLES ~

If I Had Known…

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200 words, Canada, Dad, daughter, death, Diana Schwenk, Diana's Enormous Book of Quotes, family, Father, grief, growing up, Heinz Schwenk, Life's like that, love, memories, parents, Relationships

One year ago today, Dad passed away peacefully after eating supper in his hospital room…

If I had known that that last time we were together would be the last time I would ever see you, I would have looked at you more closely. I would have listened more carefully to what you had to say. I would have said to you all the things I ever wanted to tell you.

― Anonymous, page 49, Reflections upon the Death of a Father by Harold Ivan Smith

Dad, I wish I would have stayed longer that Friday. I wish I’d taken the opportunity to be with you alone to talk, to listen, to sit silent, to watch you sleep, to watch you eat your dinner.

I wish I would have looked into your beautiful blue eyes that never changed with age and searched them out for the wisdom you’d learned over the years.

But we thought you had turned a corner. And so we left that afternoon as you slept. And we sat the ‘get well’ teddy bear on your table with my handwritten note, “It was good to see you Dad, we’ll be back tomorrow, love you …”

~ DIANA’S ENORMOUS BOOK OF QUOTES ~

I Get That Now

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Berlin, Dad, death, Diana Schwenk, family, Father, Germany, grief, growing up, Heinz Schwenk, Hump Day Chronicles, life, Life's like that, love, memories, Opa, parents, Relationships, stories

Opa, 66, with his Daschund (Cherry) in 1973.

Opa (my paternal grandfather) became a father at 27 years old when Dad was born on June 28, 1934.

Born in 1907, Opa lived through two world wars and the depression. Over the years, Dad told me many stories of his childhood growing up in Berlin, Germany.

Like the time he stole a horse from the Russians so that his family and neighbours could eat meat.

And the time he and his teenaged buddies lifted a Volkswagen over the owners fenced-in yard with a small gate – too small to drive a car through!

But I know very little about Opa. I know that he was raised by his aunt, and that he may not have known some of his siblings.

And once when Dad was in elementary school, he wet his pants in class because the teacher wouldn’t let him go to the bathroom. Opa went to the school the next day to talk to the teacher. Dad never knew what Opa had said, but the teacher told Dad that day that if he ever needed to go to the bathroom, he had permission to just go, didn’t even have to raise his hand to ask.

I know that Opa was athletic and participated in track and field. I know from our visits to Germany as a family, that Opa struggled with alcohol and by the time he was a senior, a half bottle of beer was enough to do him in. Yet even at a ripe old age, Opa could still walk up the stairs on his hands.

Opa passed away on June 28, 1987 (My Dad’s 53rd birthday). Opa had suffered a stroke on a Thursday. Dad booked the earliest flight he could get but unfortunately Opa passed away around the same time Dad’s plane landed in Berlin that Sunday.

I remember when Dad phoned to tell me Opa was dead. He was so calm on the phone, so matter-of-fact. I, on the other hand, burst into tears. Dad tried to console me. When I composed myself, it dawned on me to ask Dad how he was doing and comment on how awful it must be that his father died on his birthday. “I’m fine. Everyone dies eventually Diana. I’m ok.”

On June 28, 2012, I happened to be back east at my parent’s place for Dad’s 78th Birthday. We were talking about this and that when suddenly out of nowhere, Dad with glistening eyes said, “It’s 25 years ago today that my father died.”

I touched Dad’s arm.

What could I say?

Maybe you never quite get over the death of your father.

I get that now.

~ HUMP DAY CHRONICLES ~

 

Those Blue Shorts Dad Used to Wear

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British Columbia, Canada, Dad, Diana Schwenk, dreams, family, growing up, Hump Day Chronicles, Life's like that, love, memories, Mom, parents, Pinantan Lake, Relationships, Stuff my parents used to say and do

The other day in the early hours of the morning I was sleeping and in my dream Dad was waking me up. I opened my eyes and he was wearing those blue shorts he used to wear and an undershirt. It was a younger version of Dad and he was handing me a gift…

I woke up thinking, I got to remember this dream and the gift. Later in the day I’d forgotten the gift. I should have written it down when I woke up.

“Those blue shorts. Man I saw him clear as day in that dream,”  I thought to myself. And then yesterday after work,  I remembered I had a picture of him, wearing those shorts and an undershirt!

Mom was always good at taking pictures. I still joke that if I go to the bathroom, I have to lock the door to prevent Mom from coming in to take a picture. But back in 1985, Mom and Dad came to visit me in Pinantan Lake. They’d flown to Calgary, rented a car and drove through the Rocky Mountains to see me.

Mom with Dad wearing those blue shorts and undershirt

Dad, me and Mom at Paul Lake

Me, Shannon and Dad

Mom and Dad on the last day of their visit to Pinantan Lake

It occurs to me as I write  this post, that Dad was two years younger than I am today back then and in my dream it’s sort of like two peers connected for a moment in time. And maybe that’s all the gift I really need to remember. I miss you so much Dad, thanks for visiting in my dreams.

~ HUMP DAY CHRONICLES ~

Have you ever looked at picture of your parents at the age you are now and wondered what it would have been like to hang out with them as peers?

The Waiting Room

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courage, Dad, death, Diana Schwenk, family, Fear, grief, Happy Birthday Dad, Heinz Schwenk, Hump Day Chronicles, joy, kindness, laughter, life, Life's like that, living in the moment, loss, love, memories, parents, Relationships

Mike raising the flag for Dad’s birthday (June 28) and Canada Day (July 1)

Dear Dad,

Eight months ago when you left this world to go to the next, we, your family made a pact to come together for your birthday so that none of us would have to be alone.

Arno and Ela came from Germany. I came from out west, sadly without Michaela. And Mike, Heather and Spencer drove in from Montreal’s west island to meet at yours and Mom’s home. In my head, this family reunion would be joyful and fun because we would all be together. I thought we would celebrate you, maybe even release balloons with personal notes to you.  But that’s not what happened.

I’m not saying that we didn’t share great memories and moments of laughter, after which Mike brought out your silver tray and shot glasses just like you used to do when entertaining guests and we clinked our glasses in your honour. But always the underlying and unspoken fact that you were not sitting out on the deck with us was with me, and I suspect with the others as well.

Frankly, life is not the same without you Dad. I don’t mean to sound all dark and gloomy – honest I don’t, I’m merely stating a fact.

I recently read a book that said when we lose someone we love, we think we are immediately entering our new life without them. Where we usually end up though, is in a kind of metaphorical waiting room – between our old life and our new life. And there we sit, doing things the same way as before, hanging on and reluctant to change or let go for fear of forgetting our loved one.

The book goes on to say it’s normal to do that but the author encourages her readers to take baby steps by changing little things in their routines, a bit at a time, until they are fully participating in their new life. Stepping into their new lives does not, however, make them forget their loved one.

And that’s what we’re doing Dad, each one of us in our own way, but it’s hard. It’s particularly hard for Mom. We’ll figure it out though, Dad. I know you would want us to enjoy life. And even as I write these thoughts here…

I can almost feel your hand reassuringly patting mine and hear you saying, “C’mon Diana…Everything is OK, it’s going to be fine.” 

~ HUMP DAY CHRONICLES ~

Happy Birthday Dad

Love you and miss you

Diana xo

Instant Coffee

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coffee, Dad, death, Diana Schwenk, family, grief, growing up, Hump Day Chronicles, love, memories, parents, Relationships

Do you, or did you ever, have someone in your life that you could spend hours with, never speaking a word?

I think when a relationship gets to that point, you’ve hit a level of comfortable-ness where the two of you are just happy to be in each other’s company.

When I was school-aged, I would get home about 30 minutes before dad who liked to enjoy a nice cup of instant coffee after a long day’s work.

I had the timing down to an art. Dad was one of those people who seemed to live within a specific routine. Maybe that’s why he was always a source of comfort to me. No matter what else was going on at school, in the world, wherever, I could count on dad to do and be exactly where I knew he’d be.

So at the exact right time, I would plug the kettle in and when he’d walk in the door, I’d be making his coffee with one level teaspoon of sugar and a bit of milk. After our initial greetings we would sip coffee together quietly; dad doing one thing and me doing another. Neither of us ever feeling pressure to fill the silence with words.

People wondered about us. Wondered why we didn’t talk and how we could be so in tuned to each other.

I still love my coffee. But I’m a brewed-pot-of-coffee kinda gal now. Yet for some reason, I found myself buying instant coffee one day, a few months after dad passed away. I know now that I was just looking for a way to be with him again. A cup of instant coffee seemed like the best way to do that.

Now on Sunday afternoons when I’m thinking of dad I make myself a cup of instant coffee.

At first I worried that I had nothing to say. And then I remembered we never really had a need to break the silence with words. He knew I loved him and I knew he loved me.

I will always treasure our quiet coffee-time memories Dad.

~ HUMP DAY CHRONICLES ~

Who’s one of your favourite people to spend time with? What do you like to do together? Is it something that you don’t do with anyone else?

I Didn’t Know

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caring, courage, Dad, death, Diana Schwenk, family, Fear, grief, health, Hump Day Chronicles, laughter, life, loss, love, memories, pain, Relationships, shock

I stood there in front of everyone and looked out at all the people before I spoke. My family sat in the first row. I felt I had to stand for dad, channel him somehow, be calm and reassuring like he would be. After all, I’ve been told so many times in my life that I am like him.

I didn’t have an opportunity to write down what I would say, so I’d be winging it. And all at once it occurred to me that I should tell those who came because they loved my dad, that I was in shock, that my mother and brother were in shock and that we would need them all to ask about dad when the shock wore off in about three months – because we’d want to talk about him. I’d read that in a book once and had even made myself a note to contact people I care about three months after they’d lost people they loved.

What I didn’t know from the book is what it feels like when the shock wears off. I didn’t know that it’s like getting dental surgery and thinking to myself, ‘I handled that pretty good,’ and then the freezing wears off and the pain comes with such a force it throws you off kilter, completely catching you off guard. I didn’t know how FINAL death is, how empty I would feel inside, how my heart would hurt, how afraid I would be to forget his blue eyes, and the sound his drumming fingers made on the table, what his laugh sounded like, how his strong voice seemed to come from deep within when he spoke. I didn’t know how important the stuff I didn’t give a shit about before would become, like his coin collecting and how I am constantly looking for the young queen with the crown on the new twenty-dollar bill or the quarters with the poppies and putting them aside so I can…

so I can what?

I don’t know.

I didn’t know that I would have good days, that the memory of him would make me smile, that I could share stories and laugh remembering them, that I could even have days that I wouldn’t think of him at all and yet my body would betray me with restless nights, low energy, aches and pains as if it were carrying the load for my broken heart.

This past Sunday (month 4 since he passed away) I was hit with another wave of grief. It came in the form of a realization that I will never see dad again, at least not in this world. Of course I knew that before, but it’s as if my mind was protecting me earlier, as if I kind of just glazed over that point, as if the freezing hadn’t worn off yet.

I guess you really don’t know until you know.

~ HUMP DAY CHRONICLES~

Shipwreck

Tags

courage, Dad, death, Diana Schwenk, family, Fear, grief, hope, life, Life's like that, loss, love, memories

Yesterday evening, I was at my local deli/bakery buying a cheesecake. While I was waiting for the clerk to fetch the cake from the back room, a woman beside me told that she loves cheesecake but could not ever buy one because her husband is diabetic.

“My dad was diabetic,” I told her.

My breath stuck in my throat.

Tears pressed on the back of my eyes.

Was.

My dad was diabetic. Past tense. I just never know what will trigger my grief.

The following story was making the rounds on Facebook a few weeks back. It brought me comfort. It helped me understand what to expect. I share it here, in the hopes that it may bring comfort to someone else.

Someone on Reddit wrote the following heartfelt plea online:

“My friend just died. I don’t know what to do.”

A lot of people responded. Then there’s one old guy’s incredible comment that stood out from the rest that might just change the way we approach life and death.

Alright, here goes. I’m old. What that means is that I’ve survived so far and a lot of people I’ve known and loved did not. I’ve lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can’t imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here’s my two cents.

I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did.  I don’t want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don’t want it to “not matter.” I don’t want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can’t see.

As for grief, you’ll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you’re drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it’s some physical thing. Maybe it’s a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it’s a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.

In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don’t even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you’ll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between you can breathe, you can function. You never know what’s going to trigger the grief. It might be a son, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything…and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.

Somewhere down the line, and it’s different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O’Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you’ll come out.

Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don’t really want them to. But you learn that you’ll survive them too. If you’re lucky, you’ll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.

~ HUMP DAY CHRONICLES ~