Tag Archives: memories

May 31, 2012 · 7:27 pm

Life in a box

I found out today that a former co-worker of mine has died. I had no idea he was ill, as I did not keep up with him after he left the company we worked together at. What I do remember of him was his white shock of hair, a warm smile and an easygoing spirit. Apparently some of his friends were having a life legacy box created for him. An organization has members who are woodworkers donate their time to create beautiful wooden boxes, which can be personalized. They can then be filled with mementos, letters, photos, etc. to honor one’s life. These boxes are delivered to those in hospice. The box is passed on to family members once the person passes. I think it is a beautiful concept.

It made me think about how Alzheimer’s, and I’m sure many other diseases, can overshadow one’s legacy. Years of decline, both physically and mentally, can strip away so much of what makes a person unique. What’s left behind is this shell of a person, who often seems numb and distorted from suffering and the medications designed to ease the suffering. But to allow those final images to dominate our memories allows the disease to win.

I thought about what I would put in a box for Dad. Definitely something green, probably a symbol of a shamrock to represent his birthplace. Maybe some rosary beads since he was Catholic. A picture of my parents when they were dating. A picture of Dad holding me as a baby. I would include a photo of the Titanic, because he loved to study the history of that ship. I’d probably put a cigarette in there, because so many of my memories of Dad include him smoking. (My mom still hasn’t thrown away the last pack of cigarettes that Dad had at home.) Can’t put a pint of beer in a box but maybe a Guinness coaster or ad, since that was one of his favorite brands. Maybe a tiny bottle of Old Brut, the cologne he wore the most. I’d throw in a Bing Crosby CD.

It’s kind of funny how my memories of Dad are a distinct mixture of virtue and vice.

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May 21, 2012 · 3:27 pm

It’s the little things that matter the most

The Memories Project has made me realize that it’s all of the small memories, the everyday happenings, that often have the most meaning in one’s life. I was reminded of this again last night when I was talking to my mom. She’s still lamenting that she will never get to sleep next to Dad again, and snuggle up to his warm body. Memories are so important, but recalling a particular Christmas or summer vacation can’t give my mom what she needs most right now, which is simple companionship, the warmth of another living human being.

It’s a good life lesson. As a society, we spend so much time and effort trying to catch all of these special moments, the birthdays, anniversaries and family vacations. We take photos, videos, blog about them, post stories on Facebook and updates on Twitter. And that’s not a bad thing. What I hear from other bloggers and what I’ve experienced myself is that we are missing vital pieces of our family’s story, whether it’s a photograph that has no date or names on the back of it, or a letter that’s missing a page. With all of the electronic archiving that goes on in our lives now, I’m guessing it will be virtually impossible to lose record of those big moments in your life.

I tried hard over the last year of my father’s life to remember the details of each awkward, cryptic conversation I had with him, because I feared each one might be the last. But now, what’s important to me is the memory of holding my Dad’s hand at the care center and later at the hospital, and feeling him squeeze back. No words were necessary to convey the feelings and emotions being exchanged.

Those smaller moments that you don’t feel are worth recording right now? That may be exactly what you end up missing down the road. So try to appreciate both the ordinary and special moments with your loved ones.

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January 28, 2012 · 3:10 pm

A psychic connection?

I have not told my mom yet about The Memories Project as she has a lot on her plate right now, and my mom is about the least tech-savvy person I know, so it will take a detailed explanation for her to understand what this project is about. She’s proud of her technophobia, which she will happily tell you if she gets the chance. In fact, she came up with a little ditty that she would tell all of the nurses and caregivers that were assisting my dad when he was alive. It goes like this:

Don’t text, read a textbook instead.
Don’t Google, giggle instead.
Don’t Twitter, leave it to the birds.

I told her she should get it copyrighted.

Anyways, my mom and I were talking the other night, and out of the blue she asked, “Do you remember how your dad loved to sing in the shower? It was usually some Irish tune, like ‘Danny Boy.’ He had such a good voice.”

That really threw me for a loop, as I had just written about this small but distinct memory about the shower the week before on this blog. It made me feel that there is some kind of deep connection there, whether one wants to call it psychic or not. Most of the time I’d like for mom to stay out of my head but in this case, it struck me as a very special moment.

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January 15, 2012 · 1:28 pm

Dad’s love of books and libraries

The most time I ever spent with my dad one-on-one was as the library. We practically lived there every Saturday, arriving in the early afternoon and staying until closing. All of the librarians knew my dad by name, and didn’t mind special-ordering books that he requested.

Photo credit: City of Downey, Calif.

Visits to the library evoke good memories for me. When I was younger, dad and I would go our separate ways upon arrival. I would head to the children’s section and dad would head to the periodicals, where he liked to peruse newspapers from around the country and the world. As I got older, I joined him on the adult side of the library, and would often bring homework or research projects with me to complete in the quiet, peaceful atmosphere that the library offered.

I also remember my dad and I collaborating at the library to find a way to ease mom’s nerves as she battled menopause. There was a gift shop in the library, and my dad would give me money to go buy her a trinket. We’d also agree to tell her how good dinner was multiple times that night when we got home. Our plan usually worked, much to our relief, as both of us shied away from emotional outbursts.

Those lazy Saturday afternoons spent in that soothing hush, and bringing home a tall stack of books to devour at my leisure, those weekly library trips are a treasured memory for me. I think they were for my dad as well. In fact, at my parents’ home, two books still reside on my father’s nightstand, gathering dust, awaiting to be read.

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January 9, 2012 · 5:56 am

Dad, the die-hard Notre Dame fan

I think dad was more enamored by the history of sports than by the action on the field. He loved to talk about the legendary baseball players like Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig and Joe DiMaggio. His European roots meant he also enjoyed soccer, and would watch matches on the Spanish TV station to get his fix. My dad and I would giggle over the Spanish-speaking announcer, who would turn the word “goal” into a minute-long phrase. He also loved to follow his favorite college football team, which of course was Notre Dame, the Fighting Irish. What other team could he possibly root for? He would watch a game anytime one was on TV, and had plenty to say about the coach at the time, Lou Holtz, but he didn’t necessarily keep up with all of the stats and recruiting news.


We watched more baseball games together than football, but I clearly remember two bowl games in consecutive years that had dad and I on opposite sides. Notre Dame and Colorado met up in the Orange Bowl in 1990 and 1991. The first year Notre Dame won handily 21-6; the second year, Colorado managed to eek out a 10-9 victory. My mom still remembers the shouts that came from the couch during those games. It was one of the rare memories I have of a bonding moment with my dad.

As a typical teenager, I had to be the opposite of my parents, so I chose to root for Colorado instead of my dad’s beloved Notre Dame. I wish we had had the chance to go to a Notre Dame game together, I think dad would have been thrilled. Dad, I promise to root for Notre Dame this upcoming season in your memory.

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January 7, 2012 · 9:39 am

Kennedy, table for three

As I was making restaurant reservations last night, it got me to thinking about how Dad would change our last name if we had to check-in and wait for a table at a restaurant. This didn’t happen too often, as we mainly ate out at fast food joints, where there was no wait and no reservation required.

Interior of The Red Chile. It hasn't changed! Photo credit: Ai M., Yelp

But there was one Mexican restaurant we used to frequent, The Red Chile in Cerritos, Calif. and it was often packed when we went and we would have to wait awhile for a table. (I just Googled it and it is still going strong, and people still wait for an hour for a table!) My parents were particular about where they wanted to sit (not too close to the front) and since we were semi-regulars, the staff learned to humor my parents. We pretty much ordered the same thing each time as we were creatures of habit. My mom ordered the chile relleno, my dad a burrito, and until I was older, I would just get refried beans with cheese and a side of tortillas. It was the only time I ever got real butter and I loved slathering it on the warm, soft tortillas and how the melted butter greased my fingers as I bit into a folded tortilla.

But back to our name. My dad was obsessed with the Kennedy family. He read numerous tomes about their lives and could make your eyes glaze over with his litany of Kennedy tales that he could recite at the drop of a hat. And if you wanted to make my dad mad, just say something critical of the Kennedy clan. He was not fond of his last name because he didn’t think it sounded “Irish enough.” So when he would put our name down on the waiting list, he always wrote, “Kennedy” instead of “Johnston.” He then would quickly depart outside to smoke a cigarette, leaving my mom and I to remember that we were “Kennedys” at least for the duration of the meal.

As I became a typical surly teenager, I would blow our cover to the restaurant hostess. “Our name is actually Johnston,” I would say as she led us to our table. I’m sure she didn’t care what our name was, as long as we paid.

Dad, I guess you can go by whatever name you please wherever you are now. No reservations required, and no waiting lists ever.

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