The Lefty

A Dad, A Potato Salad and The Family Cookout That Wasn't to Be

It’s been about a month now since we lost my father-in-law, Tom. In the past several years, I’ve been through the painful, sudden loss of a child and the loss of my beloved, charismatic stepfather. I’ve lost my caring mother-in-law too. Each loss creates its own hollow inside me as the realization sinks in. This recent loss is taking a while.

Going through a person’s home after they have died is intensely poignant. Their absence is as strong as their presence once was. The things you find fill every niche of your heart and can have the effect of pulling the person you once knew out of thin air. If you stop to spend too much time looking through them, you’ll never leave the house. They are a life’s busy things, personal notes, recipes and to-do lists. They are aspirational CD sets (!) of The Great Courses, anthologies of poetry, Shakespeare’s plays. There are the extra things, like holiday cards and gift wrap, purchased but never used.  And family things, like photos, or the set of tall, curved green glasses that four grown siblings make wistful noises about: “Aww, remember? Mom used to serve parfait out of these in the summer!” Mysterious things too: What’s the story behind this vintage gold chain in his closet; whose pocket watch was this originally?  

Tom was a man who listened more than he talked, and what he said was measured and kind. He was savvy about money, but what money he made was most often used to lift others up. He didn’t take anybody for granted, nor did he take the responsibilities of life lightly. He had a serious appreciation for hard work, and believed you needed to earn your pleasures. When he turned 60 or thereabouts, he hiked the 211-mile John Muir trail in the Sierra Nevada mountain range of California, with two friends. In the photos he looks happy and victorious.

He took pleasure in cooking for others. After his kids left home, he decided her would do all the cooking so his wife could have time for creative pursuits. You can tell a lot about people by the tools they have in their kitchen. In Tom’s kitchen we found all the supplies for a series of Chinese cooking courses he had taken: A good wok with brush and long-handled stirrer, a bamboo spider. He had a Joyce Chen wooden spatula, angled for a lefty. (I wish I had known such things existed! As a lefty myself, I’ve found that small tools often feel wrong in my hands because of their angles and curves). I should have bonded with him about being a lefty, as the only ones in the family. But again, he wasn’t one to talk about himself.  I found a knife in a hand-sewn leather sheath for gutting fish, an elegant French Sabatier slicing knife, and a dented aluminum measuring cup with a lid, circa 1960s.  I’m guessing he cooked up some pancakes on a griddle over the fire, or stirred a pot of soup after a day on the trail. I’m sorry I missed those years of his life. I gathered a few of his cooking tools to bring home with me, things that appealed to me, things I thought I might use. And I took the aluminum camping cup because it tells me stories, and I’m especially happy to use his Lefty spatula.

We hadn’t been expecting Tom to go when he did. We’d been planning his 90^th birthday in August. We had tossed around all kinds of ideas about how we might celebrate: Host a catered dinner, or a “Tom Merryweather, This Is Your Life!” party, complete with a nostalgic slide show; arrange a swanky dinner “at the club” featuring caviar and the best champagne; rent a pontoon on a lake and cruise around all day. We could see if the Goodrich Blimp could make a special appearance–in fact, Tom’s wife, Marilyn, once rode in the blimp, high above their hometown of Akron Ohio. The sky would have been the limit for him.

Suggestions were sent out for consideration, and eventually word came back that Tom had decided what kind of celebration he wanted for his birthday: A family cookout, nearby at his daughter Betsy’s house. He specified the menu: Barbecued ribs, a potato salad, corn on the cob, and watermelon. Ever humble and unpretentious, he dreamed up a menu that reminded him of his Ohio childhood, and the farmland that had become asphalt and concrete. I was charmed by his choice; it said so much about him. In June, planning ahead for late August, he described the menu to me over the phone. “Which one of those dishes do you want to make?” he asked. I told him I’d be happy to make the potato salad.

A month later, I texted Tom: “Hi Tom, I’m looking at the Martha Stewart website today for an assignment I’m writing, and I came across this recipe. It sounds good to me–with Dijon mustard, pickles, shallots and dill. What if we made this for your birthday party? (We could hold off on the eggs or put them on the side in case some people don’t want them)”.

https://www.marthastewart.com/1540333/dill-potato-and-egg-salad

Not being one for texts, it took two weeks for him to reply: “Looks good to me”.

And that was it. Within the next two weeks he suffered a stroke, alone in the night.  He was the last of his generation of the family to leave us. His loved ones gathered in Akron on his birthday in August for a memorial, instead of a cookout. There were deluxe floral arrangements in summery hues, speeches and tears, appetizers in silver chafing dishes, and a slideshow. It was truly a “Tom Merryweather, This Is Your Life!” moment. His extended community came to pay their respects and to share their own stories. There was talk of kindness, generosity and friendship. Old neighbors stopped in to lay eyes on Tom’s grown kids. There was wine and beer, but it didn’t feel right to have champagne. Afterwards, we all went to the Diamond Grill https://www.diamondgrille.com/location, a classic steakhouse, where we toasted to Tom and a life well-lived.

There were no ribs, no corn on the cob. There was no watermelon with seeds to spit out, and I didn’t get to make him a potato salad. It was a lovely tribute, but needless to say, it wasn’t what we’d planned. Life never is, if there’s one thing I know for sure.