Some Wonderfulness

Less you think my life is one dismal cloud of sadness, it isn't. This blog that you three visit is only a sliver of what happens around the Sunshine homestead. Unfortunately, this blog tends to cover (lately) a lot of ugliness. Sorry about that. Life happens.

I thought I would give you all a reprieve and share some fun stuff today. First, in case you didn't get the memo: BASEBALL SEASON IS BACK. My team is the Arizona Diamondbacks. Their record in the past several years (with few exceptions) has been about as cheerful as closing an accidental business in Birmingham. However, as Bliz's father (my official baseball pen pal) has so aptly pointed out to me, "bad baseball is better than no baseball." True stuff.

Then there is this item. My father was a union electrician until he retired in 1999. During the 1970s, my childhood, there was little work for such a vocation in the Phoenix metro area. From the time I was in first grade until he was laid off while I was in sixth grade, he worked various jobs, mostly out of town. Depending upon where he was working he would travel home for the weekends (when he was in Holbrook, AZ) or once every three to four months (when he was in Texas). He worked in California, New Mexico and Nevada as well as throughout Arizona. Sometimes he would be home for a couple of months. It wasn't stable money, but he did what he thought was best and we didn't starve.

In his spare time, he and my mother took up stained glass. It was a hobby. Mom made small sun catchers and Christmas ornaments, that still decorate my tree. My father designed and made windows. He is 79 now and I have the last window he ever made embedded in my front door. When I move, it will go with me.

Around 1980, Dad had been out of work for quite a while. But then again, for those of you who remember such times, a portion of America was out of work. We had two extended family members living on our couches, which brought our crew to seven mouths to feed. Our neighbor at the time, knowing all of this approached my father and asked him to design and make a stained glass window(s) in her farmhouse door. He was paid $650 for this project.

A few weeks ago, I was driving through the old neighborhood, reminiscing about my childhood. There was where the vacant lot we played in--which turned out to be a superfund site. There was the Britt's house. There was the Keatley's, the McCloud's, the Apodoca's homes. I went by every one of those houses. And there was the farmhouse door, on Mrs. Brown's old place. I was surprised actually, because it wasn't the first time in 35+ years I had driven by, but the first time I actually saw it. I cruised the neighborhood twice. The second time I stopped in front of the house and took a picture.

After mulling it over for two days, and with the encouragent of a couple of cyber-pals, I sent the current owner of the door a letter, just letting him know who made the stained glass windows in his farmhouse door. I asked him to keep my number if he ever decided he no longer wanted it. I would love to take it off his hands and would be happy to replace the farmhouse door with something else.

Then I fretted. I heard nothing, telling myself I was silly to even write such a letter to a perfect stranger asking for his front door. Truly, who does something silly like that?

Finally, I dismissed it, chastising myself for getting all worked up about a silly door. When I finally let it go is when the phone rang. The man on the other end, a perfect stranger, was the owner of the house and told me I could have it.

We settled on an amount (the cost of his new door). I found someone to install it (on a Sunday morning) and the deal was made. I found a place in my home to display the door, because it won't fit where a door would traditionally go. In this case, it would be a piece of art and it would be in my living room.

My 79 year old father and his new front door. 

Then I started to fret again. What if I was wrong? What if the stained glass door wasn't the one my father made and I was just silly? After all, it isn't like Dad made every stained glass window in Phoenix. So, at our breakfast Friday I asked. I showed him the picture I had taken and then sat back and watched his eyes.

As a whole, my father's baseline isn't happy. Content, yes. Grumpy, usually. But truly the only times I can say I have seen him happy is on three occasions: each time he held his new grandchild for the first time. However, when I showed him the picture of the door and told him my week-long saga I saw a different man. I told him I had managed to acquire this from the now-owner of Mrs. Brown's old home. His face filled with pure joy. His eyes just lit up. He said, "I was going to replace my front door anyway. This will be perfect!" Of course, that wasn't the final place I had originally planned for this door. But that's fine. Even better, actually.

Dad now has his door back. It is more than just a silly door. It symbolizes, at least to my brothers and I a time in our lives when the very act of living was difficult, even as kids. Our parents were truly down and out. But Dad found jobs here and there. To Dad, working was what made him a man. Because happy or not, in his mind, a man isn't a man if he isn't supporting his family. Getting this window for him in the twilight years is a culmination of the fruits of his labor. It is his. I am proud to have done this for him. It is Some Wonderfulness for all of my family. It is also proof whenever we don't take that chance, we will never know what can happen.