How does one choose the "special experiences" to write about? When your parents have been gone as long as mine have, EVERY memory is a special experience. There were far too few of them and I think they're reflected in many of my other posts.
A special experience with my dad was generally something that I did with him; like sitting on his lap while we watched TV, learning to ride my bike, trying to help with the milking. Those little things mean a lot. One memory does stand out; My father had arranged a fishing trip with some friends on Lake Superior; an opportunity to catch some big fish and just hang out with friends. I'm not quite sure how Lanie and I ended up going along, but I'm certain it involved some begging and pleading on my part, because they were TOTALLY unprepared to have two teenage girls along. I know I had no interest in actually fishing, but I loved being on the water. There wasn't much in the way of food to eat for a day on the boat and the only beverage available was beer! That didn't stop Lanie; she liked beer. I had never developed a taste for it; at least at that point in my life. The cabin on the fishing boat was rather small and we had no desire to be inside anyway, so we spent most of the day out in the wind and sun; enjoying the day. Until Lanie got seasick. Whether it was from the rocking boat, the beer or the lack of food to go with the beer, but she was SICK! And I got sunburned! My arms, my face, even the part in my hair was beet red and I was in pain. I also don't remember much sympathy for either of us from my dad. He never said it, but was probably hoping I'd learn a lesson from it; that sometimes it's just better for a kid to stay "home," which in this case would have meant staying at our cabin in Corny where I would have had food, drink and been able to get in the water whenever I wanted... It was a special experience though, 'cause it was with my dad and it definitely created a memory for both Lanie and me.
One more "special" memory of my dad is of the bookcase he built me. Now, mind you, he was a carpenter. He built houses, not furniture. But, the summer after my freshman year of college as I was preparing to move into the Zeta house for the first time, I asked him to build me a bookcase, because every room didn't have one and I knew I'd NEED one! So he built one. Out of solid oak 2x6s with a sheet of paneling nailed to the back. He tried to stain the wood to match the paneling, but the stain was too dark, so he painted the paneling to match the stain. It was sturdy. It was heavier than I could move by myself. And, it was ugly as sin. But it was mine. He built it for me and I moved it from room to room in college, with me throughout my married life and after my divorce. Barton's daughter Abigail is now the proud owner of my bookcase, although Emily painted it white to match her bed, so it looks better now; still as sturdy as can be. The thing that made that bookcase all the more special was the fact that it was the last thing my dad ever did for me. He delivered it to me at Millikin in September of my sophomore year; he passed away six months later.
One memory of my mother minimizes every other memory I have of her. It was Christmas eve and my mother wanted to attend the candlelight Christmas Eve service at church, three blocks from our 4th street home. It was a pleasant winter evening; not too cold; no snow, so we decided to walk. The service began at 11:00 pm and got out at midnight. The service was beautiful, the spirit was strong and when we exited the church we were greeted by a beautiful snowfall! Nice big flakes, gently falling from the sky. The night was quiet; no sound except for the church bells playing Christmas hymns. As we walked home, we didn't talk much; rather just enjoyed the time together, the spirit that followed us after the service, and the beautiful snowfall. That memory has stayed with me through the years and every Christmas Eve, I long to attend a traditional candlelit worship service. Unfortunately, it's hard to find a church that offers that same tranquil, reverent feeling of that Christmas so long ago. I remember the Christmas Eve after Mom passed away. I was driving by then and had come home from someone's home (probably Lanie's) and as I pulled into the garage, I realized that our driveway needed to be shoveled. I got out of the car grabbed the shovel and as I began to go to work to clear the drive, the churchbells began to chime. I stopped and listened for a few moments as tears filled my eyes with the memory of my special Christmas Eve with my mother just a few years before. How I wished she was there with me that night, when suddenly I knew that she was and I returned to my task with peace, joy in my heart and a smile on my face.
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