I have reason to believe this blog will look very different, very soon. Yes, I had thought that might be so earlier this week, but I under-estimated how many small steps there were that required coordinating log-ins with “Is It Really You? Use this PassCode within 15 Minutes to Verify” emails . . . with my Blog Migrating Manager (not his real name or title, you’ll have guessed — I’ll link to those details when we’re all done here) eight time zones away.
As I mentioned last post, this entire process has been reassuringly methodical from my perspective, and I’ve learned a thing or two about unnecessary stress — that is, about recognizing some stress as unnecessary (thus saving my freak-out energy for the real thing!). And I’ve also learned a thing or two about my ability to navigate some of the (admittedly simpler) arcane virtual hallways and doors of myriad service providers.
Three or four mornings over the course of this process I’ve woken to an email from That Other Time Zone, an email that set a small task and explained clearly how to do it. And each time, my shoulders scrunched up and my gut clenched, and some corner of my brain rolled the little video of Everything That Could Go Wrong. But I’ve noticed that the scrunching and the clenching and the attention to that video have lessened — and I’ve also noticed that the best way to vanquish the discomfort completely is to “just do the task.” Much more useful than the scrunching and the clenching. Because when I go straight to my laptop and follow the directions in the email, turns out that nothing much does go wrong. The one time that it did, there was a simple work-around. . .
Hence the title of this post. Lewis Carroll’s White Queen claims that she has sometimes “believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast,” and she assures Alice that, with training, Alice might aspire to the same. My own number might be smaller — only Two Impossible Things . . . but I’m achieving, not believing. Apples, oranges; let’s not compare.
Funnily enough, I’ve been thinking about my Dad and how he would tell me that as long as I could read directions and follow instructions carefully, there wasn’t much I couldn’t do, if I set my mind to it. As it turns out, what I’ve set my mind to has been governed, unsurprisingly, by personality and undoubtedly by cultural expectations and opportunities. I’m definitely more cautious than my dad. That man would rewire a room, hook up a gas appliance, manage minor car repair, wield a torch to solder a pipe, get a lawn mower running again, despite not having learned any of this skills until he married my mom and started a family. Add in some masonry, cooking, baking, childcare, gardening, and an active role civic politics. All this before YouTube videos walked us through every step of unplugging the shower drain.
At a family reunion the summer after my mother died, her younger brother (the self-described Brat Baby of that large family, reminding us still, at 85, that he was always his “mother’s favourite”) spoke of my dad, who’d died 13 years earlier, as being “too stupid to know he couldn’t do something.” A crudely expressed backhanded compliment; I’ve resented him (mildly) for it ever since. But the formulation resonates, oddly: I can see a Beautiful Stupidity in my father’s life. A selective stupidity. Stupid to any suggestion that his intelligence couldn’t be applied methodically to a task that appeared daunting or “out of his wheelhouse.”
As so often happens when I begin writing here, I wander down paths I hadn’t expected. Even when I started this post, I hadn’t recognized Dad’s presence — the continuing influence of his confidence in my abilities, his deep belief in my intelligence — in the small tasks I’ve had to tackle as part of this blog transfer. What a sweet gift this realization is, this morning. And it’s thanks to you, in part. To your inspiring presence here. . . . Thank you!
I see that the passcode that I sent across a continent and an ocean this morning unlocked a door for the installation of MailChimp, as my new email subscription service. My second not-so-impossible task this morning was to delete the Feedburner service (the one that will be discontinued in July, and thus was the trigger for my upcoming move). I think I did that quickly enough that subscribers should not receive duplicates of this post. If you did, I apologize for the inconvenience; it shouldn’t happen again.
I fully expect that by my next post my words and photos will be ensconced in a gorgeous new template that I will be figuring out how to navigate. Hope you’ll be here for that. Meanwhile, the comments function is still working here and I’m keen to hear from you. Perhaps you could tell me about “impossible things” you’ve done lately — doesn’t have to be before breakfast. And whose influence can you trace in your ability to do those? Or whose did you have to overcome, to prove wrong?
xo,
f
Your reminiscence about your father is so lovely!! And you've got to hand it to the Brat Baby 🙂 Every family has one! 🙂
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Thanks re my dad memories. . . and I think you’re probably right about the Brat Babies. Sigh. . . .
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oh, and did you see? First comment on my new site! Kicking it off to a good start!
Wonderful memory shared here today, and how our childhood follows us throughout life. As I navigate early retirement, not without wondering if I've done the right thing, I tell myself that I can find meaningful activities that satisfy my creativity, and more importantly, that the motivation to do the things I want is there, if sometimes buried deeply under fear of failure.
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It’s a scary and exciting transition. A yoga teacher who overheard me expressing some trepidation about the leap reminded me, “You are more than your job, Frances” — and I tried to hang onto that and believe in it. Turns out it’s true. You have so many avenues to express your creativity and now the time to really explore those. I’ll be curious to hear what you think a year or two from now. Be patient with yourself and maybe don’t try to do too much this first while.
My father passed away just over a year ago, days before the pandemic was declared. I’ve been missing him and his wisdom a lot lately. One of the lessons I learned from him, both through what he said and the example he set, was that there’s no shortage of things to do in retirement as long as you don’t want/need to be paid. That has led me into some very interesting volunteer activities, some of which I’ve been able to continue during Covid because they’re online.
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I’m sorry about your loss. I still miss my dad 21 years later, although in quieter ways.
As you’re finding, he was spot-on when it comes to retirement’s possibilities. Great that you’re finding satisfying volunteer work and can continue some of it online.
Thank you for sharing the wonderful legacy from your father; a parenting lesson for all. I have always admired the White Queen, who was determined to be herself no matter what.
ceci
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You’re very welcome, Ceci. I have to be honest and admit that I scarcely remember the White Queen as she was written and mine is probably a composite of various film representations. Maybe time to reread!
The blog looks beautiful!
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Thank you! I’m really pleased with it, although still figuring out my new dashboard, stickshift, location of gas tank, etc.
I experienced incredible frustration with my blog last year. I completely lost everything and needed to reinvent. Sometimes the smallest details seem critical (or not?). This year, as I approach my 70th and deal with an aged mother, an ailing depressed husband and a brother with a serious neurological disorder, I am learning to accept my disappointments as insignificant bothers.
Your story about your dad strikes a chord with me. My father came from a family of thinkers and dreamers. He married into a particularly materialistic family of tradespeople. His efforts at practical tasks were often treated with disdain within the hearing of his children. I’m a lot like him. My last conversation with him (from the South Pacific) was about Captain Cook and the transit of Venus. We could share books, languages and ideas and he never expected me to forgo travel during his lengthy illness.
I hope that you get the last pieces of the blog puzzle in place.
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I would have been devastated to lose all my years of postings as you did, Joanne, but I spent some time before I made this move realizing that I could let it all go as I have other homes and artifacts along the way. It’s always going to be a possibility with something this ephemeral, built of electrical impulses. Very inspiring that your new blog arose phoenix-like from your loss.
And I find your recollections about your father very moving. How fortunate that you two had each other — your memory of that last conversation with him, wonderfully esoteric as it was, is more precious than either of us could ever write in a blogpost. xo
Commenting again just to let you know that the new blog looks wonderful! I commented on the old look yesterday. Thank you for your encouragement in these days of early retirement.
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Thanks and you’re welcome, Lorrie!
I am so glad to see you again, etherially speaking – I couldn’t get through until today! I am very glad that our connection is no longer interrupted, and that I can enjoy your postings as well as the new look!
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Thanks for persisting, Marsha! I’m keen to see where this new look might take me and this lovely community.
It’s just lovely to see you here Frances … with past posts intact. If I lived nearer I’d bring you a bunch of peonies as a “welcome to your new home” gift 😃 🌺
Your dad was a wise man to give you that advice… such a positive and encouraging way to think. How lovely to sense his presence as you wrote.
I understand your initial reaction to those early morning emails and I’m so glad it’s all going smoothly.
Rosie xx
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Aw Rosie! So sweet, and I’m enjoying those imaginary peonies with all their colour and fragrance.
And yes, he was a wise and lovely man, still guiding me 21 years after he left us. . .
I’m also glad that the picture of you in your stripe top on the sea shore has arrived successfully too. It’s my favourite!
Rosie
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I was so relieved that made it over as well; wasn’t sure how it would “translate.” It’s a favourite of mine as well, a completely haphazard shot that worked despite (or because of?!) my bike helmet, sea breeze’d hair! 😉
Did my first comment arrive?
Rosie
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Yep! See? This WordPress is processing comments beautifully!
Your father gave you and therefore your family the best foundation for success! Lucky you! I’ll carry his thoughts forward and use them again.
Karen
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Thanks Karen! He’d be happy to know that.
Congratulations on the blog-remodel. A nice reward after all the angst. Looks lovely.
Your memories of your father resonate with me. My Dad died when I was just 33, but he packed a lot of living, learning and encouragement into the years I had with him. Taught me how to use a hammer, mix cement, lay brick, put up drywall and do a myriad of other tasks that would help me manage so much of life in the succeeding decades. Like your father, he taught himself how to do all those things and so much more, having been orphaned as a teen during the Depression. How fortunate we are to have had fathers who said, “Yes, you can!”
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Thank you, Mary! I’m really pleased!
Sounds as if our fathers might have got along. I’m impressed that you picked up so many skills from him directly. What a memorial!
Having a good dad is invaluable. Mine died almost 28 years ago, far too young, and the effect on our family was quite something. I think we all felt rudderless, grown as we were with families of our own. Mine was kind, intelligent, generous, funny and never dressed things up – if he had something to say, out it came. Like I say, invaluable. I think of him quite often and always talked about him to my own children who have no memories of him. My mum was convinced they would be together again and, when she died, I really hoped he was there, waiting for her.
Impossible things; finally learned how to be patient. A strange benefit of this pandemic year.
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Those of us who had good dads are so lucky! I’m sorry you lost yours so young and that your children only know him through your stories, but it sounds as if his memory lives on and his influence continues to be felt.
It’s true. . . I’m not sure we quite understand all the odd gifts we’ve amassed through these pandemic months, but patience will be on the list.
Beautiful, minimalist, classy, and clean… the blog looks super. Familiar and yet not. Good job, you! Love, love that little memory of your dad. Dads… and stepdads… so happy we had them in our lives. I did not have my own dad in my life past the age of five… but how incredibly lucky I was to be blessed with the man my mother chose to marry. Gulp. Now see what you started. 🙂
xoxoxoxoxo
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Thanks, Sue! I’m really pleased!
Now, can I pass you a Kleenex — I’ve read what you’ve written about your stepdad before, and he sounds like a Dad worth a few tears. xo 😉
Sue, my husband had a very similar experience – his dad died when he was 9 and his mother remarried two years later. While I sadly never knew his father, his step-father was a *wonderful* man, and my husband maintains to this day that as sorrowful as it was to lose his father, he was lucky indeed to be gifted with the man his mother chose to marry.
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Such a big loss for a young child; so good to hear of step-fathers who can fill that role with grace.
The new blog looks wonderful. And, in case you wondered, it showed up in my feed reader without my having to make any changes, even better. Happy birthday, Frances. Thank you for writing about loss as an ongoing thread of life.
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Thanks Lisa . . . and you’re welcome! I hope we might be fellow bloggers for years to come. . .
What a change! From different widgets and lots of colour to a simple white page. I wonder if all this blank space will induce you to fill some of it with more of your sketches. Looking forward to coming along to wherever this may lead you.
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I’m struck by that as well, Eleonore, and waiting to see what the space wants now. . . I’m glad you’ll be along for the discoveries.
Your new blog is so beautiful,minimalist and “clean”-I love it!
The story about your Dad connects everything so lovely- having a wonderful Dad (and memories) is very important and priceless in life
Dottoressa
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It’s good, isn’t it? Thank you! I love it as well.
I know you had a wonderful father as well — we’ve been very fortunate.
What a lovely new space! I hadn’t been here in a while. Good for you for tackling the technological aspects of the move. It sounds as if Phil was a good guide!
And thanks also to you and everyone for the memories of their fathers. My father, gone 11 years this coming December, was the opposite of handy. What he was, though, was an expert listener and guide. So many people have spoken to me before and after his death about how at some crisis point in their lives, they came to him for conversation and sage counsel, which he gave without ever taking the agency away from the person listening. I remember when my husband was going to take as his first teaching job, a position in Inuvik. He phoned my father at a conference in Chicago, and my father very carefully outlined all the pros and cons of such a move. My husband made his decision; it was the right one (he didn’t take it), but my father never pushed him in a particular direction. I can still hear his warm voice. Thank you for letting me think about him this fine May morning!
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Thanks, Brenda! I’m really pleased with it — worth all those days with shoulders above my ears and they’re moving back to normal position now. . .
I love all these reminiscences about fathers (is it really 11 years since yours left?). . . There’s something special about having a spouse, partner, friend who knew our parents well and benefited from their wisdom, isn’t there? And that’s a very good memory — listening well is such a precious skill.
This new look is lovely! Like you threw open the curtains and let the light flood the room.
My father, eldest of 6, became head of household when he was 9, supporting his mother and siblings, and later his own family of 8 kids with non-stop work. I think of him daily as I shorten my focus to 6 inches to get though these last years.
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Isn’t it great? I love your description — it does feel that way.
Hard to imagine doing what your dad did from such a young age. . . but it’s a different kind of tough to face some challenges in our later years. Good that you can derive some strength from his memory.