Thursday, July 12, 2012

Dad Thoughts

It's been a few weeks now since our dad passed away, and I've had bits and pieces of stories popping into my head ever since - all these random things I hadn't thought about in ages but suddenly remember like they just happened.  So I figured I'd jot a few down before they popped back out again.

Robert Ero Kutsi.  Dad.

Grocery shopping was one of my favorite things to do with my dad.  There were seven of us so it seemed like we were always making a trip to Red Owl or Juba's for something.  Mom would make the list and Dad would do the shopping.  The actual list was a loose guideline - he'd always toss extra stuff in the cart.  By the time we left we'd have row upon row of brown paper bags lined up in the back seat of the car.  Then when we arrived home and a box of Little Debbies was pulled out of the bag, he'd always say, "Oh, I can't believe it.  That little old lady must've been sneaking things into my cart again."  Every time.

Of course everyone knows he was Mr. Golf.  Always golfing, talking about golf, teaching golf lessons, coaching the golf team, relaying his last round shot by shot.  (I'm really not exaggerating here.)  I cannot say the same for myself, but it was always fun to hang out in the clubhouse and drink iced tea. Sometimes we'd go down to the driving range or the putting green and just mess about. 

When I was in Junior High I decided to join the golf team as my brothers and sister had before me.  Not really a perfect match - my skills were sadly lacking but I gave it a go anyway.  At the time I was much more interested in Cyndi Lauper and David Lee Roth, and my fashion sense was '80s over-the-top vintage all the way.  When it came time to take the golf team picture for the yearbook, I was wearing something like a long printed skirt topped off with a tuxedo jacket with tails and Converse high-tops.  I remember my dad just having a bemused look on his face as I stood there with everyone else in their polo shirts and windbreakers. 

Not only was he our golf coach, but he also taught us all eleventh grade English.  Most people would probably not be thrilled to have their dad as a teacher, but I always thought it was kind of cool.  He also taught the parents of many of my friends, so that was pretty funny too, especially if he told us stories about them being troublemakers.  Thankfully he was a teacher most people liked, even when he gave them a hard time, and I was the kind of kid who came home and did my homework after school without a lot of pestering. 

His classroom for the longest time was on the third floor in the corner.  There were no windows, and he had the ceiling plastered with posters.  The one I remember was of Ernest Hemingway, but they weren't all literary or educational - some were just goofy.  I liked to go up there after school sometimes when I was younger, and once in awhile he'd let me correct test papers for him.  By the time our class came around he'd moved to the second floor to an actual room with windows, but I kinda missed the old one.

For the most part, he just told stories.  I think I described him once before as the ultimate storyteller and mischief maker.  He was always getting in trouble for not creating a lesson plan - after twenty plus years I doubt you need one - and he'd get way off track.  Yet somehow he'd teach you something eventually, or at least entertain you enough to stay interested.  And he was fair.  If you could give an articulate answer as to why you answered a question the way you did, more often than not he'd give you the benefit of the doubt.  He and a fellow teacher, Mr. Wickersham (Wick), were buddies, and I think their storytelling abilities were nearly equally matched.  Each of them told stories about the other, and the two of them together were nothing but trouble, in only the most charming of ways.

The story I always remember involved my brother's friend Patty.  One day she was tardy or absent, and my dad had to fill out the attendance slip.  Well, apparently he got to thinking about lunchtime, because instead of her name he wrote 'Patty Melt' on the slip.  The office called him a few minutes later asking, "Bob, what is Patty Melt?"  I don't know why that one sticks with me, but it still makes me chuckle.

When I was really young, I used to love when he'd read to me.  Both my mom and dad were incredible readers.  My dad would ham it up, creating voices for all the different characters.  There used to be a series of books called Sweet Pickles, and I remember one character having a temper tantrum in the story.  I don't recall if it was a turtle or a duck, or whatever, but my dad went all out.  He was huffing and puffing, red in the face, and the voice kept getting funnier and funnier the madder he got.  By the end of it, we were both crying from laughter. 

He was also a softie.  His eyes would tear up easily, then he'd give an embarrassed grin to deflect attention.  I guess all the Kutsis are softies.

And he could make friends with anyone.  My mom and I would be at the mall shopping, and we'd come out of a store twenty minutes later and he'd be deep into conversation with somebody he'd just met.  They'd be sitting there on the bench together as if they'd known one another their entire lives.  That always amazed me.  My brother Jace has that same talent.  He could also spot a fellow Finn a mile away and would make a point of sharing that connection by throwing in some Finnish word or reference.  He dressed up as Miss Piggy for the Pork Producers golf tournament.  He joked around with every waitress, particularly if they seemed to be a little crabby that day.  Then they were really in for it - endless harassment until they finally gave in and smiled. 

A perfect man he was not, but he was our dad.  I'll miss all of these things about him.  I suppose it was his time and he was, as he'd say, "ready ready ready to rock-n-roll." 



This photo was taken in August 2011, the last time I got to see him.  xo
  



Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Love Grows

I was thinking this morning - a gray and dreary morning - that it has been quite some time since I've written.  Looking through some old notes, I came across this story and noticed that it was written exactly four years ago today.  And now the sun is out, so I figured I'd share it again...xo.


4/10/2008

Today was one of the happiest days I've had in a long time.

My mom always had the best garden in the world when I was growing up.  She was constantly outside digging around in the dirt.  I have a picture of her when she was just a little girl, holding a watering can, smiling away like a born gardener.

When she visited me in NYC, we walked through the Liz Christy community garden on Houston Street.  It's easy to miss when you're rushing around consumed by your own life and worries.  But it's there, hiding behind an iron fence - a little patch of tangled paths and wildflowers, bashful violets, and proud perennials.  Once you find it, you feel as if it's blooming just for you.  My mom loved that 'secret garden’ and would often ask me about it. 
I love it too.

Today I planted old-fashioned pink roses in that garden, in memory of my mom.  Or, I should say,  I watched as a real gardener named Penny planted them for me.  Sadly, I did not inherit the gardening gene.

The sky was blue and it was warm.  The first really perfect day of spring.  Our roses now snuggle up beside that iron fence, and will eventually climb it to reach for the sun.  Keeping them company is a gorgeously fragrant magnolia tree, in full bloom today.

I dropped in a little note to my mom before the last handful of dirt filled the hole.  I promised to visit her often in the secret garden.

Then my new gardener friend, Penny, made an innocent suggestion that meant more to me than she'll ever know.  "Here, why don't you hold the watering can, and I'll take your picture?"

I've never been happier to be my mother's daughter.