I woke up two days ago thinking about the way my Grandpop Tom sounded when he called us “chickadee.”
He was an aeronautical engineer who spent World War II repairing airplanes on base in Morocco until the war was over. But I remember him differently (as a child might) since we lost him to cancer when I was only ten.
I remember his operatic singing voice, rich and strong. His speaking voice was deep; sometimes playful, sometimes firm. He had big glasses, a round, handsome face, and an olive-toned complexion. His twinkling brown eyes were framed by thick salt-and-pepper brows, his hair curling just slightly at the top to match.
I adored him. His smile. His laugh.
I remember “My little chickadee.”
I see myself swinging in his backyard, the rich green grass of a Pennsylvania spring, the church across the street in view. He’d stand in front of me, letting my white-sandaled feet hit him square in the belly (no doubt full of my Grandmom’s raviolis). Every gentle shove sent him into a new reaction, and I giggled each time.
I remember waking up one morning after a sleepover. It was just him and me in the kitchen, him fiddling with the coffee pot. That’s when he introduced me to peanut butter on toast. Before then, I’d only known peanut butter on plain, soft white bread. But that first melted bite (warm and a little salty) was a revelation. I thought he was a genius.
I remember him in the sun in our backyard, the pool water shimmering invitingly beneath the summer sky. My chest tightens with love when I think of those summers. He’d swim laps or sit on the pool’s edge, goggles pushed onto his forehead, squinting at us with adoration and joy.
So, yeah, when I woke up thinking about him crooning “My little chickadee,” the writing started tumbling out:
- scenes of peanut butter toast
- his office (I didn’t see clutter on that desk, I only saw mysteries, and a really fun calculator that made the best clicking sounds)
- his singing and warmth
I nearly forgot to write about it until an episode of Only Murders in the Building when a doorman says:
“Why, that sounds just like a black-capped chickadee. What’s a forest songbird doing in my lobby?”
And I decided it was meant to be shared.
(Daily Writing 012)
Thoughts?