So Long Ago

Peter asked me today whether I ever posted this photo, and I don't think I have. It's a sweet one of Leif with his niece Madeleine, when she was only about 17 months old, long ago in 1997. She was quite fascinated with Leif. He still had hair then and was so slim. She wanted to touch his moustache. I don't know if she had ever seen one before.

Leif enjoyed his nieces and nephew on the rare occasions when he got to see them, and they liked to climb all over him until they got to big to do so. He was a great "tree."

I'll always wonder what Leif might have been like as a father, whether he had the patience. I know he would have had love.

Will They Remember Him?

Leif's nieces and nephew found him irresistible. They would climb all over him, touch his beard, play with him, act silly, make cell phone videos together, play chess together, and generally horse around. He was good with the kids, gentle and tolerant, and amused, my gentle giant. I wondered how he felt about being with them, whether he wished he had children of his own to go home to, though he never really voiced that sentiment.

I wonder, now, whether they will really remember him. I know they will remember that he lived, that they had an uncle that died, but they were so young when he left them that I imagine they will only remember him from photos or stories we tell.

I have a lot of photos of him with them, but I don't post photos of them online. This one is an exception because it was taken six and a half years ago and their faces aren't shown. That night in July 2004, all three of them were climbing all over him and having a great time. He was pretending to roar and flex his muscles like some kind of giant and they loved it. I loved watching it. That was a happy evening with all of us together, and Leif seemed relaxed and happy. It's a good memory.

The photo was taken in our old stone house in Manhattan, Kansas. Now neither Leif nor the house is still on this earth.

The Sense of Place in Memories, and Seeing the World Through New Eyes

Everything happens in a place, and location, place, is such an important part of memories. One's home, the place one lives, is a key to so many memories. That's why I spent so much blog time on the old stone house. It was such a large part of our lives for so long.

But every place one lives has significance and memories attached to it, and as a child in a military family, and then as an infantry soldier, Leif lived in so many places. For those of us who have that peripatetic lifestyle, we keep track of where and when things happened in our lives by attaching the memories to where we lived at the time.

I find myself often thinking that Leif lived here, in this house, where I now live. He slept in this room, ate at this table, washed his clothes in this washing machine, showered and got ready for work in this bathroom, parked his car in this garage, watched movies with us in this living room. It's so hard to come to grips with the fact that he will never do those things again, though the memories live on without him.

Today the sun was streaming in behind a curtain and then a cloud passed over the sun, the room suddenly darkened, and I thought that is how long term grief feels. You go about life, finding a sense of normalcy, even, at times, a bit of the old joy you once felt, and then a shadow passes over you and blocks out the light, blocks out the happiness, even if only briefly, though it isn't always fleeting. Sometimes is lasts and lasts, like the clouds that come to stay on a dark dreary day.

Tonight Peter Anthony's friend Dave was here for dinner with his family. We had a great visit, lively conversation. I thoroughly enjoyed it, even remarking how Leif would have felt about some of the things we discussed, remembering how much he would have loved participating in that discussion. Then, because Madeleine and Dave's son Andrew came in with a butterfly she caught and put into her bug cage, and Andrew's interest in it, I recalled a time in Japan before Peter Anthony had children when he asked me why someone would want to have them. I had begun to answer him that one of the greatest joys of having children is the opportunity to see the world through new eyes, to relearn the marvels of the world that have become commonplace to us as adults.

Just telling that got me choked up and misty-eyed, Peter W. told me not to cry, and I didn't. I managed to keep it under control, but I couldn't help but remember how much that meant to me, seeing the worldl through the new eyes of my sons . . . and how I continued to do that all their lives, as they grew into men and kept showing and teaching me new things. Peter Anthony still does. I miss it so that Leif never will do that again.
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The photo of Leif above was taken on New Years Day 2007 when he was visiting here and playing with Madeleine and Aly with the video camera of his cell phone. They had such fun.

Leif - City of Refuge, Hawaii - July 1980 - Age 5

It still amazes me, and probably will for the rest of my life, how most of the time I can talk about Leif and his life easily and then something unexpected will trigger a bout of sadness and tears. Today, Peter W. had a Transformers movie on television. I was busy and wasn't watching it, but then I heard the words "Optimus Prime." I said, "Leif had an Optimus Prime transformer toy when we were in Japan, and had kept it. It was with all Leif's Japanese toys that he gave to his nephew, Marcus. I had saved them in case Leif had a little boy to give them to someday."

It was that last sentence that brought the sadness and tears. I was never one of those mothers who would pressure her children into having kids so I could have grandchildren. I firmly believe that people should only have children if they really want them, not for someone else. However, until this moment I never realized how much I had, in my heart, wanted those grandchildren, and counted on them. Now I feel the loss of the grandchildren I never had, Leif's children who will never live. I realize all the things I collected or saved for them, the photos, Leif's toys, the things from his childhood, his school records and achievements, the books I bought for them. I even have his baby teeth. Somewhere in my mind I was counting on him having at least one child, even though he had protested nearly all his adult life that he didn't want children. I was preparing for them just as I had with Peter Anthony.

It was hard to imagine Leif as a parent for most of his adult life. Not only were his lifestyle and spending habits unlikely to mesh well with responsible fatherhood, but he hadn't shown a real affinity for kids until the last years of his life, when he clearly enjoyed being with his nieces and nephew and some of his friends' children, and came to love J's little girl when he was with her. It wasn't until he was over 30 when he wistfully said one evening at dinner at our house that he used to think he didn't want children but now he felt he did and might not ever have them. In one of his online dating profiles, he said he was interested in a relationship with a woman young enough to have children, so I know that was something he was looking forward to. I wonder still whether having a child depending upon him might have given him the purpose he so badly needed, and some of the love he sought.

And for my part, today I realized that I had far more invested in the children I hoped he would have than I had ever thought. I realized how sad I am that I will never hold them, play with them, read to them, teach them, take them on trips or to Disney World, all the wonderful things I am fortunate to be able to do with Peter Anthony's beautiful children. I am so grateful for them, but I would so have loved to have a grandchild from Leif, not only for the relationship with me, with us, but someone to carry on Leif's name, to remember him, to value him, to have someone to give all the memories of his life, his special things like his high school class ring, his swords, his bokken, his military uniforms and boots.

He would have had beautiful children, beautiful and brilliant, like he was. They would have enjoyed their cousins.

Who will remember him when I am gone? Half of my children are gone. Half of my grandchildren will never be.

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This photo of Leif was taken at the City of Refuge on the Big Island of Hawaii in July 1980 when Leif was five-and-a-half years old.

Leif Ericson & Books for a Grandchild I Will Never Have

My mother's ancestry is Norwegian, and I grew up with a keen appreciation of Norwegian heritage and the saga of Leif Ericson and the discovery of America. In those days, when we were taught in school that Columbus discovered America (with, of course, no regard at all for the many peoples who already lived here and got here from elsewhere!), my friends would not believe me when I insisted that Leif Ericson was the discoverer. Now that is accepted as fact.

Leif was named after that intrepid Norwegian explorer, and the name fit him well. He would have made a fine Viking, a fine ship's captain, a fine explorer, had he been born in another time and place.

When I was a children's librarian, I purchased three books which had a "Leif" as the main character. Two were about Leif Ericson. Leif was already over 18 when I got these picture books and wouldn't have had much interest in them. I bought them for the children I hoped he would have someday. Since most books go out of print so quickly, I couldn't wait until he actually had children, and I didn't doubt that he someday would. I thought it would be both satisfying and fun to read the stories about Leif's namesake to his children and teach them about that part of their heritage.

At that time, I thought that "Leif the Lucky" fit my son. He was tall, slim, handsome smart, funny. He seemed to have so much going for him, to BE lucky, but somehow, the luck did not hold.

The third book, "Master Maid" would have been appropriate in another way. It is a retelling of a Norwegian folk tale in which a prince is able to trick a giant by listening to "Master Maid," who is able to give him the secret advice he needs. In this retelling, Leif has to learn to trust her advice the hard way and finally resolves to marry her and listen to her advice the rest of his life. Leif really needed that, needed a level-headed woman with good life skills and advice. I wish he had found the soulmate he wanted and that she had been a "Master Maid."

In his twenties Leif said he didn't want children. I wondered if he would ever change his mind. I think what did change it was his love for and romance with the young woman who had a daughter. I think he loved her daughter as his own and when he lost them both it was a terrible blow. One evening when he was here for dinner in the fall of 2007, about six months before he died, he made a very wistful comment that he used to think he didn't want children, but now he knew he just didn't find the right woman to have them with. He seemed to think he never would have any, and I could see it made him sad. He got along so well with kids, and really enjoyed his nieces. I'm sorry he never had that chance, to be a father. Maybe it would have given him some purpose in life, someone who needed and depended upon him. Maybe it would have changed him.

But those speculations are useless now.

He would have had beautiful, intelligent children and we would have loved them.

Now, what am I to do with these books, intended for them? The books that tell the saga of the great explorer for whom Leif was named, the book about the "master maid" that Leif needed in his own life. Who will I read them to?