Suzy Says

It seems appropriate to get a reminder of my long-lost father on the Day of the Dead.

The Peregrine Fund sent me an advance copy of their new book, “Return of the Peregrine: A North American Saga of Teamwork and Tenacity”, which tells the story of how the peregrine falcon was rescued from the Endangered Species List.

The book is arranged chronologically, and is beautifully written, researched, and illustrated. It’s a fascinating read for scientists and non-scientists alike. I am honored that my father was included in this labor of love, and I know he would have been very pleased. The chapter on his contribution – figuring out how to measure the level of DDT in the eggshells of peregrine falcons – includes his own account of how he thought of it, which I had never read before, and the brief bio (how I still hate seeing 1931-2001 after his name!) mentions in passing that he published more than 250 scientific papers, which was news to me, too. I knew there had been a lot, but not that many!

So it was another small gift, like the stories and anecdotes his friends and colleagues have shared with me – a way of knowing my beloved father and friend a little better, even though he is no longer here (except in my heart, blood, and memories).

Dr. Cade, the head of the Peregrine Fund, is part of one of my favorite Halloween memories (OK, I’m a day late on this one!). When my brother was four years old, Dr. Cade threw a Halloween party at his house, which was an especially appropriate venue, because it was a Victorian house at the top of a hill, and more importantly, had its own graveyard. I’m not sure if it was the Cade family’s graveyard or the previous owners of the house, but it made a pretty big impression on the seven year old Me. In those days, we lived in rural upstate New York, since my father was working at Cornell, and I later learned that it was not all that unusual for rural families in the 19th century to have their own family graveyards.

Anyway, after the party, the parents were to each take a batch of kids into the town to trick-or-treat. The rule in my family was that you had to be five years old to go trick-or-treating, but there was no way my brother was going to wait another long year to go, especially since his two annoying older sisters got to go. So he sneaked into another family’s car when the time came, and by the time my parents figured it out, it was too late. Even then my brother knew it was easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.

He approached the first house, still not completely convinced that saying three words would result in candy (a rare commodity in our house). Along with the other kids, he said the magic words, and along with them, received free candy. He raced down the driveway shouting joyfully, “It works! It works!”

I don’t usually remember my dreams. When I do, they’re often so demented and strange that I have developed a theory to explain this while excusing myself from insanity. Once you go to sleep, your brain is off work, so it goes out to play. Hence the weird dreams.

I do remember having a dream about a fire last night, and it reminded me of a real fire when I was a girl.

We lived in the country, and our nearest neighbors were farmers. It was in the summer, and it was still light outside, so I really didn’t want to go to bed. To that end, I kept asking my Dad for various things: to be tucked in, a glass of water, etc. When I ran out of ideas, Dad had long ago run out of patience. I got out of bed and went to sit in my window seat, which looked over the neighbor’s fields. I noticed a strange glow in the sky, and I called out to Dad to tell him. He came running up the stairs, absolutely furious, and looked out of my window. He said “Oh my God” and ran out of the house, followed by his faithful dog Ginger.

Dad discovered that there was a creek between our house and the neighbor’s by running through it and ruining his pants. Swearing, he arrived to find that the barn was on fire. He and the neighbor managed to rescue all the animals in the barn before it collapsed in a blaze. The firemen arrived and put it out, and the fire didn’t spread to the house.

Naturally, all this excitement excused us from bed. My brother came downstairs wrapped in a blanket and got the cookie jar (which contained Oreos with mint filling – I don’t think they make this varietal now), and we went and sat on the front steps, eating cookies and watching the glow and sparks of the fire. From time to time, my brother said, “I’m scared”, but he certainly didn’t seem to be, even at the time, and if he was, it didn’t slow his consumption of cookies. It’s funny to think that he is now a country fireman himself.

Since I’ve been up here, I have had time to think, and to think about time itself. Yes, much of the day is occupied with doing chores and taking care of Mom, but there is definitely time left over to think, if not to write. For I find that I am more or less permanently tired and therefore uninspired. I finally have time to write, but no inclination to do so. It seems that the idea of “if I just had time, I’d do [fill in the blank]” is not necessarily the case – or at least, not for me.

Yet I do have time to think.

A year ago today, I marveled at the fact that my brother, sisters, and I had survived an entire year without our father. Another year has passed by, another 365 days, and we have survived that, too. In some ways, it seems like just yesterday that we lost him – the grief and anger and sorrow are still fresh – but in others, it seems like so very long ago. It’s been so long since I heard his voice or his laugh or saw his smile. I have been to London twice since we lost him, and though my head knows he is gone, my heart still expects to see him glance up over his reading glasses, break into a smile while simultaneously folding up “The Times” and hugging me across the barrier at Heathrow. No-one meets me at the airport now, and even if they did, they wouldn’t be my father, my friend.

A day doesn’t go by that I don’t think of you, Dad.

Two years ago, when you were in the hospital, we were consumed with fear and worry about you. Now, we are all occupied with taking care of Mom, knowing that the end is coming, but not when, and doing our best with the time we have left with her. Her departure is as long and lingering and painful as yours was sudden and unexpected and they assured us, painless. The contrast between the two could not be greater. But one thing remains constant: your children united in the face of disaster, doing the best we can under the circumstances and loving and supporting each other.

And one more thing does, too: we all love you, always.

It’s my sister Megan’s birthday today!

Here’s how we looked 31 years ago, when Megan was a baby. How well I remember being called to the principal’s office that bright spring morning when she was born. I had never been called to the principal’s office before, and I was a little scared as I walked down the silent hallways, my footsteps echoing. As I walked to my doom, I mentally reviewed all the things I had done wrong recently, then all the things I might have been caught doing wrong. Then I was at The Office.

When I opened the door, the school secretary smiled at me brightly and said, “You have a little sister.” I had not expected this at all, and it was such a relief that none of my crimes had been found out. And oh, yeah, a new little sister. I ran back to my classroom and burst through the door yelling, “I have a little sister!” All the girls yelled, “Yay!” and all the boys yelled, “Boo!”

I’m still saying yay. And Megan has changed from a tiny, 5 pound baby to a tall, beautiful woman, and more than my sister, she’s my friend.

I never know what to do with myself now on Sunday mornings when Rufus and the cats are sleeping. I used to look forward to this time every week, because I always wrote to my father and always found an email from him waiting for me on Sunday mornings. He wrote to me at the end of the day, when he had changed for dinner and had dinner on its way. Then he’d go up to his study with a glass of wine from his collection and write to me, overlooking the garden. I would write to him on Sunday morning, quiet but for church bells and fog horns, the day before me. I have to say I have much less interest in my email now I know I will never again see one with the subject “Letter from Pooh” (our nickname for Dad since we were kids and he would tell us Pooh stories), but a part of me keeps on hoping I will.