Yesterday was (Grand)daddy’s birthday. It’s been three and a half years since we lost him.

This was the first year that I turned the calendar to September and didn’t think, “oh, I gotta make Daddy cookies for his birthday.”

I decided yesterday, though, to make his favorite cookies every year on his birthday.

This week, I’ve gotten, from friends:

three letters/postcards

figs

wine glasses

a blouse

a bottle of wine

cat food

help for another friend’s mom

a moisturizing mask

a notification that some good lighting is arriving for my teaching videos

advice

comfort

care

I’m feeling loved.

On Monday night, my cat headed outside right after dinner, as usual.

On a normal night, he would have come home and found himself in my room, pulled by his desire to suck on my ear, sleep on my face, and wrap himself in my hair.

But then he didn’t come home.

For days.

While my son was out looking for him on Halloween, he got a call from someone just under two miles away. And then Thoth was home.

We don’t know everything about his journey, though we’re sure he said hi to as many people along the way as he could. His friendliness was probably mistaken for confidence–confidence in his ability to get himself back home after wandering too far astray.

Here’s what we do know.

He was sighted in a close neighbor’s yard, inspecting her chickens.

He was so loving at a house a mile away that they wrote down all the information on his collar in case he came back looking lost.

The kids at the last house, 8 and 9, have a dog. But now, after spending time with Thoth, they want a cat.

One neighbor took a picture of him, peering over her fence. It’s a look we recognize.

We’ve ordered a tracker, since he really misses being outside. And since a bunch of close neighbors will ask after him if he spends too much time inside.

So maybe the next trip won’t be so mysterious.

On this National Coming Out Day, I think of my great-aunt Arlene and the day I realized she had probably been gay.

She lived up north, so I only met her twice, but when I did, she was smart and funny.

I don’t remember what prompted me thinking about it, but when I told my mom what I was guessing about her sexuality, mom said, “oh, we’ve all thought that for a long time.”

Yet Arlene was the only relative who came to visit who wasn’t asked about her dating/married life.

I don’t know anything–she might have been out, but my Florida family didn’t mention it. It’s more likely she was closeted, at least to them. Her brother, my (grand)daddy, was a conservative military vet, after all.

My mom’s assertion that it was an open secret infuriated me. How could my grandfather–and how could my mother–consistently vote against someone they loved having equal rights?

To all my friends who have come out, thank you for your courage.

To any of my friends who haven’t yet, I’m sure there’s a reason.

And I apologize for my family backburnering your human rights because of their focus on other bigotries and their anti-socialist hysteria.

We’re still not sure how Graymalkin got out–we’re guessing it was when Dante took out the recycling Monday night.

So he was gone almost 48 hours.

Last night, we got a call from a guy a block and a half away. He had opened his door; Graymalkin was on his doorstep. He said they hung out for about twenty minutes because Gray was so friendly. Then he went to check his mail–and that’s when he saw our flier and called.

Knowing that Gray was friendly makes me feel a lot better.

He is traditionally skittish around strangers. He was absolutely terrified for three hours about a month ago when AT&T was installing a new cable line. Visitors have to hang out for a long time before he’ll decide they’re not a threat.

So we assumed that he would stay cowering somewhere, afraid to make contact with anyone.

I’m incredibly relieved that he overcame that–that he knew he needed to trust the kindness of strangers in a desperate time.

He got home a few minutes before book group started. Usually, when the nephews are here, he hides. Two year olds and blind kittens aren’t a good mix.

Last night, he lay down between the boys, in the center of the living room, and he didn’t freak out when he was roughly petted or when his tail got stepped on.

He was home, so he was safe.

Me, in my senior year of high school (92-93):

In the Fall, I unexpectedly started growing this:

The first time I felt him kick, I was getting an award, but I couldn’t tell anyone there about his achievement, since he was still a secret:

When I did finally tell people, in my third trimester, one of my friend’s moms threw me a shower:

He was born after graduation, 6 days before I turned 18.

The nurses told me it was weird that he furrowed his brows. “He’s got a lot to think about,” I said. “The other babies don’t do that.” “Mine does.”

I didn’t have much of anything for him. Or anyplace to go, until my (grand)daddy came for us. The other mother who shared my hospital room gave us her second car seat, so we could leave the hospital legally.

This is him, with his great-great grandmother, Bessie:

This is him, unhappy because we let the swing stop:

Despite our difficulties, we managed to be okay, almost always on our own. He didn’t know we were poor or unusual. When people would comment on how young I looked, he would patiently explain, “she was in high school when she had me!”

We have been together for 25 years. We built a good life in California, filled with friends and laughter and Simpsons and books and travel and Weird Al Yankovic and kittens. 

I love you more than anything. Here’s to the rest of our time together.

The most dapper on-site coordinator

This week is hard.

A year ago tomorrow, my mom called to tell me my daddy was dying.

And I couldn’t get there–I couldn’t have made it in time (and I had just had a small, but emergency, out-patient surgery).

He was mostly asleep, thankfully, through those couple of days.

A year ago Friday, I called on a lunch break to see if I could catch him awake. There were things I wanted to say.

But he was asleep.

And then he was gone before I could call again.

I wanted to say, I’m so glad you stepped up to be daddy when I needed one, that you were there for me.

I wanted to say, when my PTSD therapist tells me to picture a safe place, I am a little girl again, sitting on your lap, eating the popcorn you would make me when the inevitable summer thunder storm would force me out of the pool. The smell of butter and salt and chlorine mingle in a comforting miasma.

I wanted to say, please don’t die disappointed in me. Because I got pregnant, because I moved to California, because I teach at a university, because I’m a liberal non-gun owner.

I wanted to say, you gave me the safe place to fall so I could make my own decisions, that it hurts so much that who I grew to be disappoints you, but that I will always always love you and that I hope you know I had to be who I am.

Tomorrow is St. Urho’s Day. I’ve talked about it here, but the important point to know is that it’s a Finnish-American holiday I celebrate with my family.

For the past thirty-something years, I’ve made two batches of Ginger Chip Cookies (a cross between gingerbread and chocolate chip)–a Finnish recipe I Americanized–something perfect for our holiday. One batch is for me and my nearby family and friends.

The other batch was for my Daddy.

This is the first year I won’t be making and mailing that second batch.

St. Urho Statue

My (Grand)Daddy spent a lot of time on his grandparents’ dairy farm in Michigan. His grandmother only spoke Finnish, and he only spoke English, but he said they still understood each other.

John and Mary Waltonen, my great-great grandparents from Finland

Not surprisingly, he was an adventurous child. Once, after having been to the picture shows, he tried to jump off the barn, thinking that an umbrella would slow his fall, as it had for a cartoon character.

My grandfather as a young man, with his younger sisters and parents.

But my favorite story from his youth is this one.

He played William Tell with one of his sisters–putting an apple on her head–and getting the bow and arrow ready.

He shot her in the cheek.

And then, somehow, he managed to convince his other sister to let him try on her.

And he shot her in the cheek.

The moral of this story: Waltonen women cannot resist that man.

Today, he would have been 89. If there’s an afterlife, I hope he’s with his sisters today and that all arrows shoot straight and that cartoon physics rule the land.

A very bad boy and his trusting sisters