For me, it begins with oatmeal raisin cookies. Dad would eat those by the pile.

On the rare occasions when he would eat fast food, his Wendy’s hamburger was apparently in danger of being stolen… he would eat the whole thing in three bites, his cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk.

When he finished a can of diet coke, he would take several final sips… getting every last drop.

He had the same affinity for consuming every bit of Yoplait yogurt. It started with licking the lid. After he ate the yogurt, he would tilt the container every which way, capturing any hiding bits from the underside of the lid, the bottom corners. A final lick around the top completed his ritual.

Lord help us all when Dad got a cold. At least three weeks of HHHHHH-HHHHH-HHHHH-HHHHHUUUUUMMMMMMM!!!!!!!

When we would hunt for Christmas trees, us girls would always pick a huge tree far away from the car. Every time, we heard “It’s too tall.” But Dad would get down and saw the tree down, becoming increasingly annoyed as he worked. And of course, when we got home, he had to saw off the top and narrow the trunk base because it was too big.

“I love you, Po.”

“You are my favorite daughter.” To all three of us.

I loved hearing Dad speak French. It always seemed so fancy. Which reminds me of our family trip to France. “Julie!” Bellowed from the balcony on a waterfront street in Nice. I huddled in the car to avoid being spotted as the intended target.

Dad was so good at Jeopardy it was annoying. I fancy myself a pretty good Jeopardy player, but he blurted out the correct answer with ease. Same with crosswords. He had his mother’s knack for figuring those things out without cheating.

English muffins, Raisin Bran with yogurt instead of milk.

Going out and starting our cars and scraping our windows on snowy days while we got ready for the day.

Fairmont. I wonder how many times he circled the hill on that curvy road?

“You Turkey!”

Dad made a comment one day that began a discussion that we would have over the years. I was visiting the Tualatin house, and noticed that the rope swing had been taken down. Oh how we loved that rope swing. I know every knot of that thing as if it was sitting in front of me now. Dad pushing me from the stump, flying high over the Edgar’s fence, and then rushing back to Dad, enjoying the thrill of almost hitting the tree trunk. In fall, we would all have to rake leaves, and I can still smell the crisp sharp leaves as we flew off the swing into he pile. One of us always had the unfortunate luck of landing in dog poop, but it was worth the risk.
I asked Dad why they took down the swing. He simply said “Nobody swings on it anymore. One day, you got off the swing, and although you didn’t know it, you would never get on it again.” I thought about it and realized that this was true of so many things. The stairs from the kitchen that each of us has marched up and down for 44 years. One day, his feet touched the top step for the last time, but he didn’t know it. However, the “rope swing effect” applies backwards as well. One day, Isaiah toddled up those same steps for the first time. And he still bounds up and down them to this day.
Dad, the rope swing effect was in play the last time I talked to you. I didn’t know that it was the last time I would hear your voice.

I feel like my body is physically caving in from the pain of your death. This darkness is unrelenting, permeating my dreams and waking hours. I can feel that you are ok and I’m catching the signs. But I want somebody to put the rope swing back up.