"I miss my father... I miss everyone!"

- closing lines from the movie

Central Station

There is a hurricane coming. And I am missing my father. My nuclear unit was supposed to be on the road to the Smokies by now. We reconfigured based on several realities. My husband still has these last few days of summer off with me, so we set the alarm again. I think he said something about going to the beach while there still WAS a beach. The weather people are already screaming about rip tides. Ah! The drama of the natural world, I LOVE IT! It is what's been handed down.

There was a slip of paper that caught my eye earlier this week--- where was that? Oh yes, in the phone book. I just found it again. Funny, its about a boat launch. Of course it would be! Last night my husband said they might not let us onto the sand and added "Have you ever been on the beach in a hurricane?!?" Scoff... Of course I have, my father.... Hurricane? Let's get in the car. Ice storm on Christmas Eve? What are we waiting for? Fire rapidly devouring how many acres? Would you hurry up, already! That was my father, at home in the elements.

At least one bridge I cross each time I head for the sand, I distinctly remember describing as "humpbacked" when I wrote a poem about a whale my father took me to see when I was 17. It was a small whale, and sort of trapped in a local inlet by circumstance (unexplained illness) and geography. Eventually, everyone knew it was there and it rapidly became a madhouse. But my father knew earlier and when I wanted to go in the water with it he said "Sure!" And, inspite of the growing crowds, he continued to offer it as an idea each day, until the little guy was heavily medicated and sort of towed out into the great beyond.

My father was a computer geek in the 1960's and made his way to Manhattan everyday on the train to act that interest out. It is strange to think of that now, with the all of everything else I know about him. At any given time, he was building five or six boats, sometimes for himself, sometimes for others. There was a catamaran hanging from the basement ceiling. The blue kayak was on the wall in the garage. There was a cabin cruiser in the driveway (the ONE boat we ever had that he actually didn't build). My favorite was the 25 foot canoe I watched him construct with inch-wide cedar strips. A thing of beauty is a joy forever, indeed. He would have loved these daily beach treks--- he took that long road at midnight every chance he got to avoid traffic (wink). And he would want to be there tomorrow when the storm hits; when things are really swelling.

When he wasn't reading or tending a garden, building boats or painting, he was making elaborate inlaid wood pieces of art. Someone wanted a version of The Last Supper? Sure, I'll do it. Durer's Praying Hands? Next week.

This morning, my nephew sat in our living room and picked up something I had laying in a small pin dish on the end table. He was groggy and was working hard at figuring out what was in his hand. Finally I said "praying mantis egg sac" and he gave me a nervous look. "Nope, dormant," I offered and then held out my hand for transfer to show him where the thousands of little mites had exited. He asked some questions, I gave some answers. I told him I order these sacs every year, told him where I release them, how many I still find in the same place at the end of that day, and where I find them full-grown around a year later. I pointed out the golden ridge on the sac, and told him it appears on the butterfly chrysalis I also buy for school. I told him the next time he goes to get his bike out of the garage, to look up in the house number above where there is a wasp's nest, and we followed with a short treatise on the difference between a paper wasp and a mud wasp. I was there, but believe me, that was my father talking! I was sure to tell him that his grandfather insisted we attend every backyard mantis sighting with a reverent attitude.

For a short time, my father and I were both traveling by commuter train to and from work, but on totally different schedules. I will never forget being on the train one day, reading or dozing when suddenly a familiar cough caught my attention. I waited. There it was again. I gathered my things and went in search of the source. In the faceless, unknown throng I found and then joined my father. When I am out in his world, and see the things he loved, I feel that moment again and again. Maybe that is why I go anywhere at all.