This post has been floating around in my head for quite awhile – shifting and taking shape and revealing itself to me slowly. I have debated posting about it for a long time, and keep justifying it in my head. It feels relevant to the idea of ephemera, has been part of the reimagining of my business – that kind of thing. But really, it just feels necessary. I’m sick of this secret.
This post is about my favorite piece of my own ephemera. It’s not a photograph or a card, or a great letter – though I have many to choose from. This is about an empty envelope.
When I was seven years old, my parents had a talk with my brother and me about strangers, and how we were never to go with anyone except one of them or a short list of others we knew very well. Knowing that things don’t always go according to plan, my dad asked me to come up with a password that someone else would need to have in order to pick us up from school in some kind of an emergency. Being seven, obviously the first thing to pop into my head was Purple Bumble Bee. And so that was our password.
Luckily we never needed to use it. The years passed quickly, life went on, and the phrase went dormant, settling somewhere in the deepest part of my mind.
My mom tells me that one day when I was a baby, she was hanging up my little clothes on the line and just started crying imagining the day when I would leave home. I am not a mother, but I know that is a hard and universal thing. I went off to college in the fall of ‘95, about an hour and a half away from home, and, missing me, my mother sent cards left and right to 219 Littlefield, my freshman year dorm room.
And it was in my dorm room on March 5, 1996, that I found out my dad had died. Actually I thought I still had time. He was very ill from heart disease, and had been in the hospital again. My mom could only get out the words, “Not yet, but soon,” on the phone. That was a lie – he was already gone. I actually didn’t know that until a couple of years ago. I guess people just do what they can. So I hung up, frantically found a bus, my best friend’s mom picked me up at the station, brought me to the hospital, and I realized I was too late.
This blew.
You see, while my mom and I were close, and she would send me these cards every week, my dad and I were not so much. Since those days when I was seven, I had turned into a pretty typical teenager. Like a lot of people, my adolescent years were not my best, and by the time I went to college, I had turned into kind of an angry little thing.
Not that I was so awful – I wasn’t even disobedient. The worst thing I ever did was probably lie about being at the library. But I flew off the handle, acted out, and questioned everything. Especially my father. I hate to say this, but I’m pretty sure I thought he wasn’t very smart. And I thought he was too closed-minded. I was judgmental, and I consciously tried to separate myself from him as much as I could, aligning myself and identifying more with my mother who I understood better.
I didn’t go home before it was too late because I just didn’t really think he was going to die. Yes, he was sick, but he was always sick. It was just a part of our atmosphere like the way you know you’re Irish or Puerto Rican (or both, in my case). It was just our thing.
So for him to die before I could apologize – before I could turn into whoever I was really going to be – was no small thing. To make matters worse, I think I just gulped it down. Because that’s what you do when everyone saw it coming. You don’t feel like you have permission to be upset for very long.
The next week was Spring Break, and after that, I went right back to class, and tried not to talk about it. It would come up in conversation, and people would give me that look – that sad look – and I’d say it was no big deal and change the subject. I didn’t want any attention on it or from it, I just wanted to move forward and pretend that was true. I ended up moving far away from home, and I’m sad to say I’ve visited kind of seldom. At the time I didn’t know that was why I left, but it was. Distance.
It’s been a long time – fifteen years ago today. Someone smart told me that sometimes when people die too soon, you look for the point in time where you could have fixed it. And yes, I’ve played it over and over in my mind – if I’d been more patient, or nicer, or smart enough to know how serious it was. If I’d been a better daughter, or gone home a few hours earlier, or any number of impossible things, maybe it would be different. Not that I could have saved him – I know I couldn’t change that. But that maybe we could have simply remembered all of it better.
Don’t worry. Here’s where it gets kind of sweet.
You know about my box of letters – my big beautiful mess that is still no more sorted out than it was 2 years ago. By far the most precious item in it is this. It’s the envelope from one of those cards my mother sent to me in the fall of 1995. The card itself got separated a long time ago. My dad wasn’t big into writing on these cards. I don’t think he ever even signed one – I’ll have to check. But on this one, sent 6 months before he died, he wrote his own little P.S. on the back of the envelope.
Purple Bumble Bee. My mom and brother don’t even remember what that is.
So maybe now you can see why this worthless, useless, empty thing is priceless to me. I am so thankful that he wrote that down – that he said something – even though I can never know for sure his intention. I know it’s possible he just wrote it on a whim, or as a joke. But now that I’m older, I have to wonder if he knew his life was ending. Maybe he wanted to send me a message I wouldn’t fully understand until now. To remember that he had been a rebellious, imperfect kid himself, having lost his own mother at 15. Maybe he knew I was going to feel guilty. Maybe he was smarter than I’d given him credit for. Maybe he wanted me to know that even though it wasn’t ok that we weren’t finished, that he was ok. That he was choosing to remember a simpler time, and a kinder one, when all you needed was three words to prove your worth. And that I could too. That maybe I wasn’t so bad.
-Tara
PS. I feel like I should clarify that I am not sad today. This is kind of a sad story, but I feel like it has a happy ending. Tonight I’m going out to an action movie, and eating empanadas at a Puerto Rican restaurant – activities of which my dad would most definitely approve. And next time I promise I’ll show you something a little cuter than this.
PPS. If you knew my dad, or if this post reminds you of something in your own life, I would love to hear about it in the comments section.
Thank you for sharing such a personal story Tara. It’s interesting to me the little things we hold on to when loved ones pass. I lost my grandmother when I was 4 and it took me a while to understand why she left. In my memory, I remember her wearing a turquoise woven sweater, the same color as her house. Every time I see the color turquoise , I can’t help but instantly think of her.
Never let go of your envelope or your beautiful messy box.
Thanks Ariel – nice to hear from you. That is really lovely about the turquoise
I lost my Dad just before turning 13- and one of the things I held dear was a letter he sent to me one summer when I was at camp. It was so unlike him and I’d forgotten about it until your post. Thank you for being so sharing- otherwise it might have remained forgotten a while longer.
Wow. Beautiful. Thank you Tara. My father is like this some. My mom would write these long notes on my cards and my dad would sign it “ditto”. HA! In my younger years, like you, I took that for not caring. I almost lost my father to leukemia about 12 years ago. I was in my early 20s. And, I think as I got older – and he became sick – we both understood each other a little better. My dad survived, fortunately. He still isn’t the kind to show extreme emotion, but I *know* he has those feelings. He is a little better at expressing at times. But – it is my perspective that has changed with time – I’m just better at reading him now.
I love this.
Thank you for sharing this… love seeing what ephemera means to you.
Lovely. Feeling a little convicted, since I’m still in a bit of a rebellious stage when it comes to my own dad. Something to think about. And if you’re at La Isla tonight, I’m feeling pretty privileged that you shared that restaurant with me
. I hope the empanadas are especially good today.
Yes, it was La Isla!
What a touching and heartfelt story. I love your honesty and bravery. Thank you for sharing!
Thanks everyone – I am really enjoying reading your comments + stories, so if anyone else has any to share, please keep them coming.
Tara! So moving, so gut-wrenchingly honest! Yes! Dad loved you so much and wanted what was best for you! He would love the person you have become over the past 15 years and would be so very proud of you, as I am. Yes, perspective is everything. Hope he ‘s reading your blog somewhere. Mom
Love you, Mom – see you soon
Love this, just read it again
hopefully see you in a few weeks x
What a sweet story Tara, thanks for sharing it. Your dad sounds like he was a special guy.
Even though it felt like you spoke different languages and lived in different worlds, your dad had a big heart and you were always in it ♥ And I’m sure he knew that he was always in yours as well, he was just good like that ♥
Thank you so much for sharing, Tara. You’re an inspiration. I’m facing the hard consequences of not sharing much less significant things with the people in my life, and here you are telling the world about one of your most difficult times.
While my grandpa was in a nursing home with end-stage Alzheimer’s, I sent him a postcard from Italy even though I knew he wouldn’t know who sent it. I found out later that he had carried it around with him for days after receiving it. Recently I’ve read that Alzheimer’s patients have an easier time accessing memories while reading than they do in conversation. Maybe that little piece of mail helped him find a bit of connection during that time. Putting it on paper really can make a difference.
Love this.
That was a really lovely story, Tara.
I have my own box of letters and postcards, including a few you sent me back in the day! It’s funny how reading just a few words or a phrase that you identify completely with a person is able to bring that person right into the room with you.
When I was going through some things the other day, I found a letter my grandma had sent me at summer camp when I was a kid. You know, summer camp, where you’re supposed to spend every waking moment outside, swimming or hiking or playing games? She wrote that she hoped I was staying inside, because it was really hot out there. I had to laugh at the absurdity of it, but it brought her back to me for a moment.
I got a late start reading this- and I’m glad I read it while I was by myself because it made me cry.
I got a similar call about my grandmother when I was at UT. She has not been sick at all. All I could and can think about are all the family events I missed because I was “busy at school” 4 hours away. I don’t know if it’s the age, but everything I took for granted then has become so important now- my last conversation with her, the Russel Wright china she put away for me because she knew I’d appreciate it, the quilt she made in which every square was an icon from my life…
It’s a different generation, and she had lived a fuller life. I can’t imagine your loss.
Thanks for sharing your story, and the sweet message he sent.
I wish I could just click “like” on all these comments. Or maybe “love.” Thanks all.
Thank you so much for sharing your heart-wrenching but ultimately uplifting story with us Tara. What a great reminder to live in the moment and not take one single day for granted (easier said than done of course).
I’ve been writing secret letters to my daughter since she was little and after posting them through the mail so they are postmarked, I tuck them away in a little box that I plan to give her on her 18th birthday. My plan all along has been to capture in words, those tiny seemly insignificant things in the moment they are felt, so they can be held onto and remembered for years to come…no matter what direction it takes us.
Thank you again for sharing. I’m off to write a little note to my daughter now! xo Ez
This is such an excellent idea… I think everyone should do this!
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Oh, this is so touching. Makes me think of my dad who now lives half a world away. I just started communicating with him via email after many years of no contact for mostly reasons of not ever being close growing up and now just living my own life with seemingly ‘no time’ to write that email or make that call. Thanks for the reminder that it’s important to tell those we love that we care and not keep it a secret.
This was a very moving story! My dad died 6 years ago and for a long time I’ve regretted not telling him how much I loved him before it was too late. Well, about a week ago, I had the most amazing dream! My dad told me that he loved me and I told him that I loved him. Simple but very powerful!
sweet Tara, this is so beautiful…thank you for writing down, and seeing the card and the message, in his hand, with the “xxx” — is really one of the most heartwarming things I have seen in a very long time…lovely story, lovely you…
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Beautiful story. I cried too. My mom passed almost 27 years ago and my dad moved to a retirement place last summer. I’m sure he’s not even aware of all my up and down feelings for him. They still continue, but at the same time, I am there for him if and when he needs it, and he does know that. You just come to a place where you deal with it. I can’t say I would have been in the same place emotionally to deal with it 20 years ago. Thanks so much for sharing!
This is my favorite part of the comments here:
“You just come to a place where you deal with it.”
It’s so very true.
Julie
I loved this story.
My own father died in the summer between my freshman and sophomore years of college. I was living in Cincinnati, facing the world with open arms and paying as little attention to my family as a young adult tasting freedom often does. My dad hadn’t been ill as yours was, but he had an accident that called me home, and was in a semi-comatose state for long enough (how long? I’m not even sure now. A month? Longer?) that there was no point in staying home and I’d gone back to my new life. And then he died, just before Father’s Day 1988. I know it was right before Father’s Day because I had sent him a card, and few weeks later it was returned to me (I think a family friend who’d been handling things from the hospital sent it to me). I still have that card, but I’ve never opened it. I cringe to think of how banal and completely inadequate my words most assuredly were, and by not opening it, there’ s a small sliver of hope that I actually said something meaningful.
Oh wow – I can definitely relate. Thanks for your comment. I hope someday you can open the envelope… Or not… I kind of like the idea of this secret thing stuck in the past. An envelope time capsule. You can use it as an excuse if you like
wow. i am in tears with your hurt, my hurt, your memories, my memories, your joys, my joys. what a wonderful thing to share with such raw prowess & lovely written word. thank YOU!
What a beautiful, wonderful story! Thank you so much for sharing. I also have a father who I just assume will always be there though he is almost always in some sort or peril be it health or mental, You’ve inspired me to give him a call and send him a letter. Thank you for this reminder!
He shared the code. That bonded you. It’s really wonderful in the kind of simple, dad-like way. The lasting connection. Nice. Made me think of my dad, and our challenges, and how much I wish I could have patched things up before he passed on. Thanks for sharing.
I’ve almost lost my dad twice in the past few years through a heart attack and cancer and, after reading your post, I wrote him a message to say how much I love him. We shouldn’t leave it too late to say how much we care about our loved ones. Thank you for sharing your story.
It’s been a year this week since my dad passed, it’s been a tough week, I feel like I should cry, like I need to cry and now I am after your story so I thank you in a good way. I keep a slip of paper in my wallet where my dad wrote “Happiness is being a Florida Gator” and a card in my jewelry box that he picked out himself and signed, it’s the little things:) Thanks for sharing yours:)
It’s one of those days…where you wander aimlessly on the Internet, and one click leads to another, a website to a random picture to a blog you’ve never visited before. It’s the Fourth of July, no real plans for the day, feeling lonely and isolated. And I stumbled across your post about the empty envelope, and Purple Bumble Bee, and the flood gates opened. So I’m having a good, hard cry, not knowing exactly what I’m needing to release today. Missing my own Dad (who has been gone for 15+ years). Reminded me I have an old birthday card from him right here, in my desk drawer. Looking at it, remembering his handwriting, wishing I could see and talk to him just one more time…
Hopefully the tears will stop soon and I’ll feel better for having gotten it all out. It’s probably just what I needed…
Tara, I can relate to your story for two reasons:
one – my gramma was always decorating envelopes for birthday and holiday cards that she sent me. Anything from little doodles to poems about my life at that point. After she died in 1998, I found all of the envelopes I had saved over the years. It’s a wonderful legacy and remembrance for me.
two – my dad died my senior year in college. I too was away at school and couldn’t get there before he passed. I choose to believe he didn’t want me to see him that way and believe your dad wished the same. Instead, you remember “purple bumble bee” which is a better thought!