Neanderpundit

I stopped smoking almost four years ago, now. Anyone who has, will tell you of the Dream; the cold sweat in the middle of the night, the rude awakening to the fact that you’ve blown it, oh, shit, all that work down the tubes and I smoked, I did it, I smoked, damit dammit DAMMIT!!!!!

Then you realize it was a dream and drift back to troubled sleep, and the night is ruined.

I stopped smoking- not for health reasons, but because of my inner miser, being completely unwilling to cut loose 50 bucks for a carton of name brand smokes. Yeah, I rolled a while, got good at rolling out a thin butt with one hand while driving and closing the little cloth bag of Drum with my teeth and the other hand. Finally, had to give it all up. The withdrawal lasted, all told, around 4 months, and on the other side, I’d had The Dream nearly a dozen times. These days, it’s not common, but I had one last night. A mess. I worked from 8 Am to after midnight, getting a system past runoff and into production, and no sooner than my head hit the pillow I was dreaming. Thankfully, it wasn’t the one with the goat and the accordion player this time but the smoking dream will fuck you up. Heart racing, I sit up in bed, m lips still stuck to the imaginary cigarette, my fingers sill warm, taste still in my mouth. I exhale and I can practicaly smell the smoke. There is the sense of having made connection with an old friend (I loved smoking, and I always will) and then the betrayal of the work I’ve done.

Actually the dream with the goat and the accordion player is probably less troubling, all in all.

I was going to have to do this.

I went out to dad’s gravesite today, cleaned the stone, chased away a few spiders, discouraged some lichens.

I have been in my life, fortunate enough to have known a handful of truly great men, men whose lives and accomplishments were admirable beyond belief.

I feel I have walked in the company of saints.

My father was one of those.

Everyone who knew him felt the same, to a man.

I was lucky enough to have gotten to know him, and even get past being an asshole kid and treat him as a friend, before he died, long before his time, at age 57.

Today I stood at his grave and longed for him, wished he was here to answer my questions, to mentor me as only he could, to be Dad. I wished he could feel my daughter’s tender cheek against his stubbly face. I wished my daughter could know him, be with him, walk hand in hand with him.

I bear a horrible and awesome burden, the burden of raising a child. Most times I have no idea what I’m doing. Dad was incredibly wise in that respect.

I hope I can be to my daughter a small portion of what he was to me. I pray that he acts as her guardian angel.

I miss dad. I miss him so damned much it tears me up inside. It’s tearing me up to type this now.

I guess I’m lucky that he wasn’t a bastard, someone I didn’t care less about, but he was an incredible man, and if I’m ever a tenth the man he was I’ll be a giant.

If you love your dad, if he means anything to you, I hope you were good to him on this day. All i can do, is clean dad’s headstone, and try to raise my daughter as best I can.

At mass this morning they played my favorite song, “all that is hidden” by Bernadette Farrell, and Dad’s favorite song, “Amazing Grace”.

That’s about all I can say, right now. Happy Father’s day.