White Fluffy Icing

I was in Galveston when I learned that Dad died.

I was having lunch at a restaurant with a big group of people, including my gracious hosts, when the phone rang.  It was a number I didn’t recognize, and not wanting to be rude, I let it go to voice mail.

Ten minutes later, the phone rang again as we were walking out.  This time, it was Matt.  I picked up.

“Are you in a place where you can talk?”

He had his serious, listen-to-me-carefully tone, which told me immediately that something was wrong.  It wasn’t The Boy, though — he was too composed for that.

“Yes,” I said.  Terse.  I know something’s up – out with it.

“I’m going to tell you exactly what I know, because the information I have isn’t very clear,” he said.

“Okay.  What’s wrong?”  Frustrated now, not with Matt, but with the situation.  Trying to control my voice.  Whatever this is, it isn’t his fault.

“I just talked to your brother.  I think your dad passed away.”

I’m walking as I hear this, trailing my hosts at a safe distance.  I stop.

“What?”

My eyes dart from left to right as my brain sifts this information.  I feel adrenaline wash over the lining of my gut like ice water. The coastal sunshine is suddenly intensely bright, the roar of the Gulf suddenly deafening.  Fight or flight.

“I can’t be sure.  Your uncle A.B. called Kirk, and Kirk called me.  All I know for certain is that there was an ambulance at your dad’s house.”

Left-right-left-right-left-right-left-right.

Andy is there, in the crowd with me.  He notices I’ve fallen behind.  I’m looking down, hiding from the blinding sun, but he sees my wild dilated eyes anyway.  Without looking, I reach for his hand.

“Hole up… ho-hole-hole up, guys,” he tells the others.  He stands there quietly, holding my hand. Watching my face.

“That was Matt,” I say, dazed.  “I think my dad died.”

Collectively, the group stands up taller, then steps in close.

“I’m okay to walk.  Let’s walk,” I say, meaning it.  Thankfully, they believe me.

“Andy, can you…?”

“Yes.  I’ll drive.”

**********************

A couple of weeks later, I scraped together all the emotional fortitude I had and made a phone call of my own.  I called Bob, who, to my knowledge, was the last person to see my dad alive.

Dad had been renovating his childhood home, which is a 100+ year old frame house that began its life as a one-room school.  It needed a lot of work, and being retired, Dad needed something to do.  It seemed right.

Bob was one of the contractors Dad had hired to help.  The day he died, Bob had come by the old house to discuss the project.  Bob pulled up in his truck, and Dad came out to say hello, and pretty soon they were standing around with their forearms dangling into the bed of the pickup, as men in these parts are wont to do.

Bob grew up nearby and knew the area well.  However, Bob was several years older than Dad, and despite the tiny size of the community, they’d never met until they started working together.  Standing around the truck that morning, they talked about old times, the history of the place, how much things had changed over the years.  Bob would tell me later that it was like they were reminiscing about a common history they didn’t have, as though they’d skipped the same rocks and picked the same cotton and swam in that old rice canal together as kids.

Bob had already completed the first phase of the project, which was to remove all the old existing insulation.  They discussed the next phase, whatever that was to be, and then Dad asked Bob how much he owed him for the work he’d already completed.  Bob told him the amount, Dad paid him, they exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then Bob left.

Some time later, maybe an hour, Dad called a second contractor named Luke.  Bob had recommended him to help Dad work on the windows in the old house.

While they were talking, Dad interrupted and told Luke that he would have to let him go, that he didn’t feel well.  Then Luke heard the phone fall, and the call dropped.

Luke could have done a lot of things at this point.  He could have shrugged and proceeded with his day.  Instead, he called Bob and told him what happened.

Bob was at another job site many miles away by this point, too far away to do anything.  Luckily, he remembered Dad telling him that he had a bad heart.

He called 911.

Dad was gone by the time they arrived.

**********************

Calling Bob wasn’t easy, but I wanted to thank him for all he’d done.  I told him about my long-standing fear of something happening to Dad while alone, that he wouldn’t be able to call for help, and that he would suffer.  Thanks to Bob, I have the peace of knowing that his last day was a good one, and that it had happened quickly.

What I didn’t expect was for him to thank me.

He was like an angel, Bob said.  When we met, I saw his peaceful, happy face and I knew he was a man of God.

I must say, this isn’t what one expects when one phones an insulation contractor.

The first time I ever came out to the house, I climbed a ladder to have a look around in the attic.  When I looked down, he was bracing the ladder for me.  I didn’t ask him to, and he didn’t say anything — he just did it.  That thought doesn’t occur to most people, but he honestly cared about making sure I didn’t fall.

He went on.

When he asked how much he owed me, I expected him to say that he’d pay me later, or to give me the old check’s-in-the-mail routine.  But he wanted me to have what I’d earned.  I told him not to worry about it, that we’d settle up when the project was over, but he insisted on paying me on the spot.

Then he told me about their visit that morning, and how he’d never felt such an instant connection to someone he’d only just met.  It was a strange feeling, he said, to develop such a close friendship so fast.

I decided to tell him a few things about Dad, about what it was like to be his kid.  How reassuring and laid back he was, how he never liked to be in a hurry.

That’s when he thanked me.

Honey, I know I’m giving you the last pieces to the puzzle for that day, but you’re giving me puzzle pieces, too.  You’re confirming that he was an angel to me.  Meeting him and then losing him so quickly changed my life.  I think about him every single day.

What can you say when you hear that from a stranger about your dead father?  I stopped trying not to cry.

“He was a great man,” I squeaked out.  “And I loved him very much.”

I know you did, honey.  I’m sure you miss him.  I know I do.

**********************

About a week later,I was starting to get concerned about not doing my “grief work” — that I was squirreling away all my anguish and sadness to deal with later, and that later might never come.  I didn’t want to be stuck in the fog forever.

That’s when the dream came.

In my dream, I’m in my car, waiting at a red light.  The phone rings.

It’s Dad.

Hi, Daddy, I answer.

“It’s me again, Margaret,”  he says, chuckling.  A reference to the old Ray Stevens song.

I smile.

How are you?, I ask.

“I’m doin’ okay.  How are you?”

I’m alright.  I’ve just been really busy.  (I’m probating your estate, I think to myself – a reality I haven’t yet accepted.)

“How’s The Boy?”

Up to his old tricks, I say.  Still getting in trouble at school for sassing his teacher.

He laughs, hard, then trails off.

The Boy and I stopped by your house yesterday, I say.  This is my way of bringing it up, the fact that he’s gone. He was never good about broaching subjects.

Another pause.

“You’ll be fine, sweetie.”

I know, Daddy.  But I miss you.

“I miss you, too.”

What do we do with all of your things?  Like Grandpa’s old tractor?

“Kirk knows.  Matt can help you.”

I’m crying silently, hoping he can’t hear.

What about the land, Daddy?

“I thought maybe you’d want to put a nursery or an orchard out there.”

And just like that, I’m lying in my bed, awake. Then the real tears come, to match the ones in my dream.  I don’t sob, I don’t sniff, I don’t even blink much.  I stare at the ceiling while my eyes leak.  My pillow is wet.

An orchard.

In my mind’s eye, I see neat rows of trees.  As I walk among them, the rows snap together, longitudinally and diagonally, like the crosses at Arlington National Cemetery.

An orchard?

I see the four of us: Mom, Dad, Kirk, and me, walking with buckets, picking fruit from trees at a farm.  A memory from childhood.  I suddenly remember how much both of them loved trees.

An orchard?

Another flashback:  I see two of my uncles, walking with my parents among the acreage that we called the backyard.  They are carrying branches and putty knives and little pots of goo.

I ask Daddy what they’re doing.  He tells me they are grafting branches from other trees onto ours.

What’s grafting?  I ask.

“It’s kind of like gluing,” he says.

But why?

“Uncle David’s branches have better pecans than ours.  Now our trees will grow his pecans.”

Tree surgery.  My seven year old brain found this odd.

An orchard.

 **********************

I doubt that I’ll become a farmer anytime soon, but if I were to plant an orchard, I would probably choose pecan trees.  And what better way to showcase pecans than classic pecan pie?

This is my grandmother’s recipe.  I like it because it’s not too sweet, like many pecan pies can be — you don’t have to fight your way through all the sugar to taste the fruit.  A dollop of lightly sweetened whipped cream sets it off perfectly.

Grandma Peltier’s Pecan Pie

3 eggs, room temperature, slightly beaten
2/3 cup light Karo corn syrup
2/3 cup dark Karo corn syrup
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
3 tablespoons sugar
4 tablespoons butter, melted and cooled to room temperature
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 1/2 cups coarsely chopped pecans
About 1 cup pecan halves
Unbaked pie shell
Whipped cream or vanilla ice cream, for serving

Preheat the oven to 375°F. Combine eggs, syrups, flour, sugar, butter, and vanilla. Whisk until well combined, or beat on low speed of an electric mixer for about two minutes. Stir in chopped pecans.

Pour the mixture into the unbaked pie shell. Place the pecan halves atop the filling decoratively. Bake at 375°F for 15 minutes, then reduce the oven temperature to 350°F and bake another 15 minutes. Reduce the oven temperature again to 325°F and bake until center looks done (not shaky), about another 25 minutes, for a total baking time of about 55 minutes.

Remove from oven and let cool before slicing, to allow the filling to set.  Serve with whipped cream or vanilla ice cream — or if you’re feeling frisky, rum-brandy ice cream.

Tags: baking recipes, dessert recipes, holiday recipes, memoirs, pie recipes, Texas recipes