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I dreamed of you last night, Dad. It was a small thing, you were typing away at a keyboard and having trouble hitting the keys you meant to (not sure if it was because you couldn't see clearly, or physical dexterity; not a problem you had when alive, either way!). I suggested a large-key keyboard, but you didn't want one.
If there was more, I've forgotten. I don't know what you were typing, or to who, or if we said anything else.
After that, I was in a car, as a passenger. Someone - I can't recall who - was us along the top of a cliff, looking for a road down to the seaside. You were in the car as well, I think, but I wasn't looking at you. I don't think you were the driver, but I'm not completely sure that you weren't. Perhaps I was in the front seat and you in the back? But you were there. I was scared of the height, and scared of finding a steep road down, but the driver kept going forward until he could turn and drive through a parking lot that was almost level, and we hardly had to go down at all to get to the sea, even though we should have had to go a long way down. I never had to face the drop.
And then I woke up. I don't remember if anything was said there, either.
Today would be Dad's 68th birthday, if he had lived. And this year, as usual, I would struggle to remember his birthday, and succeed because of a bit of info that is not even true.
I tended to forget the exact day of Dad's birthday because, when I was little, I never learned it properly. I never learned it properly because Mom tended to forget the exact day. Mom did that because she had once been engaged to another man, whose birthday was November 23! So she would tell me his birthday was either November 23 or November 27, but she had to check the calendar or her notes to get it right. Fortunately, Dad was fine with this; he had a good sense of humor about this. After all, he ended up with my mother and the other guy didn't!
I eventually learned to remember which day it was because Thanksgiving could fall on his birthday, but not the other guy's. (This actually isn't true; Thanksgiving is not the LAST Thursday, but the FOURTH, and thus can fall on either date. But it still emphasizes that it's the later of the two, even if it was a mistake on my part when I was younger.) That was important because when it did, it messed up the fancy meals. Thanksgiving should be turkey, but Dad's birthday should be Cornish pasty. The Cornish pasty won when the two overlapped, and a few years we had it for both anyway.
Daddy loved that dish. I didn't; the crust he so loved was both too chewy and too dry for my taste, which is really fairly impressive. These last few years, he no longer had it, though. He had diabetes, which he was controlling by a modified low-carb diet, and high cholesterol which he controlled partly by diet and partly with medicine. That recipe, between the carbohydrates and the suet and lard, was no longer on his diet.
Happy birthday, Daddy. I miss you. And I hope that now, you're somewhere you can have - or remember in great enough detail to nearly count - your pasty again. (And I hope you'll forgive me for not having any myself, even in your honor.)
If there was more, I've forgotten. I don't know what you were typing, or to who, or if we said anything else.
After that, I was in a car, as a passenger. Someone - I can't recall who - was us along the top of a cliff, looking for a road down to the seaside. You were in the car as well, I think, but I wasn't looking at you. I don't think you were the driver, but I'm not completely sure that you weren't. Perhaps I was in the front seat and you in the back? But you were there. I was scared of the height, and scared of finding a steep road down, but the driver kept going forward until he could turn and drive through a parking lot that was almost level, and we hardly had to go down at all to get to the sea, even though we should have had to go a long way down. I never had to face the drop.
And then I woke up. I don't remember if anything was said there, either.
Today would be Dad's 68th birthday, if he had lived. And this year, as usual, I would struggle to remember his birthday, and succeed because of a bit of info that is not even true.
I tended to forget the exact day of Dad's birthday because, when I was little, I never learned it properly. I never learned it properly because Mom tended to forget the exact day. Mom did that because she had once been engaged to another man, whose birthday was November 23! So she would tell me his birthday was either November 23 or November 27, but she had to check the calendar or her notes to get it right. Fortunately, Dad was fine with this; he had a good sense of humor about this. After all, he ended up with my mother and the other guy didn't!
I eventually learned to remember which day it was because Thanksgiving could fall on his birthday, but not the other guy's. (This actually isn't true; Thanksgiving is not the LAST Thursday, but the FOURTH, and thus can fall on either date. But it still emphasizes that it's the later of the two, even if it was a mistake on my part when I was younger.) That was important because when it did, it messed up the fancy meals. Thanksgiving should be turkey, but Dad's birthday should be Cornish pasty. The Cornish pasty won when the two overlapped, and a few years we had it for both anyway.
Daddy loved that dish. I didn't; the crust he so loved was both too chewy and too dry for my taste, which is really fairly impressive. These last few years, he no longer had it, though. He had diabetes, which he was controlling by a modified low-carb diet, and high cholesterol which he controlled partly by diet and partly with medicine. That recipe, between the carbohydrates and the suet and lard, was no longer on his diet.
Happy birthday, Daddy. I miss you. And I hope that now, you're somewhere you can have - or remember in great enough detail to nearly count - your pasty again. (And I hope you'll forgive me for not having any myself, even in your honor.)
