Absence, Presence, Apples and Abundance

A week or so ago, we went to my parents' house to pick apples. 

My mom and dad have a LOT of fruit in their yard: apples, pears, applepears, kiwi, figs, raspberries, tomatoes, grapes, plums, and of course, blueberries.

Every fall, my dad has picked the apples and given many of them to me in boxes and bags to make into applesauce, apple crisp, apple muffins, and--when I'm feeling really brave--apple pies. My parents have also made apple leather, pies, pie filler and dehydrated apples, with jars and freezer bags full of fruit dating back several years.

The evening after I picked apples with my kids, I was inexplicably sad--although I probably should have been able to guess what was wrong. Finally, I went to bed and cried my heart out thinking of my dad picking apples from those same trees. He wasn't where he usually was, doing what he usually did, which somehow I found unbearable.

A few days later, I wrote this in my journal: 

I've been thinking of my dad a lot, and we've looked at so many pictures of him lately that I feel like I can always see his face. In some ways, I feel like he's with us more now than ever before.... I guess he's with us in a different way. He's with us in our memories, but we can't see him, hear his voice, spend time with him, etc.--we only have experiences from the past.

When I was at university—two decades ago now—I studied the literary theory popular at the time, which included the idea of an “absent presence” within a text. This implied that something could be more there because it wasn’t there. Confusing as it might sound, this phrase has stuck with me, and I often think it applies to situations in life.

Now "absent presence" is how I think of my dad, and it is especially fitting because of his personality.

As I mentioned in a previous post, it has been hard to accept that my dad is gone because of how full of life he was. In my sister’s eulogy at our graveside service, she also described him as full of laughter and full of love.

He was a collector, too, his house full to overflowing with everything he loved: tools and gadgets, books and movies, paintings and art supplies, nuts and dried fruit, and even chess sets, games and toys for the kids. My mom, of course, has her own collections, as well :)

If we ever needed a blender or picture frame, a piece of wood or pair of boots, my dad almost certainly had it. Going through his knife collection, my sisters have found dozens of pocket knives, several fish-filleting knives, and a growing number of electric carving knives (16 at last count!). And you don't want to know how many fishing rods he had. It's a little overwhelming, but that was my dad. Whenever we were looking for Christmas or birthday gifts for him, we used to joke, "What do you get for the person who has a hundred of everything?" 

My dad was also full of ideas, and we see evidence of his creativity all around his backyard in the form of plant experiments and restoration projects (a car, a boat, a ride-on mower). Some of my last conversations with Dad were about a motor he had taken apart to fix and put back together, and he was excited about his next challenge with another vehicle. He wrote pages and pages of his thoughts and was always looking for his next subject to paint--Eric being one of his favorites.

Yes, my dad really did paint this.

This afternoon as I drove to pick up my kids from school, our van was full of the sweet cinnamon and apple scent of muffins I'd baked to bring along for their snack--once again evoking that absent presence I was talking about. Clearly, my dad is still here in abundance--and we're grateful for that.