Guest poster Beth Brumer-Reeve shows the power of recording even one short story from your own life or the life of an ancestor. You don’t have to wait until you have time and skill to write an entire personal history.

It must have been 1973 or ’74. My sister Heather caught the chicken pox at school. Even though I was only 4, and not yet in school, we shared a room, so I quickly shared the chicken pox as well. We were pretty miserable. I remember many baths with Aveeno, which was like pouring oatmeal in the water. It muddied the water and it wasn’t as fun to play with our toys, but my mom said it would help with the itching.

My dad felt bad for us. He told us he was making us a surprise. I could hardly wait. The only thing fun for a sick kid to watch at that time was “Sesame Street,” “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood,” and “I Love Lucy.” I loved Lucy, but I could do without creepy Lady Elaine.

I would sneak out of my bedroom to see what my dad was making in his makeshift shop in our garage. With his cigarette dangling from his mouth, he would shoo me away. “Hey, c’mon, I’m not done.” Yet I could see wood shavings on the floor, which made me very curious.

Finally, he brought us our gifts. Heather’s was a shark, about 5 inches long, carved out of wood. Then he handed me my gift. It was a beautiful wooden whale, with a smile on his face. I loved it. It was no more than 4 inches long, and could fit in my small hand perfectly. I instantly fell in love with my happy whale, and immediately Heather and I asked to take a bath so we could play with them in water.

I was never a gentle kid; constantly ripping my jeans from climbing trees, trying to do wheelies on my yellow Schwinn bike with the banana seat, wiping out on my roller skates, and playing football with the boys in the neighborhood and at school. My mom constantly told me I needed to be more ladylike, forbade me from playing football of any kind (which I promptly ignored), and suggested I not do wheelies. Which is only to give context as to how I may have broken the tail on my whale. The whale my dad made for me.

“That’s it,” Mom said. “I’m putting the whale away until you can learn how to take care of your things.” And just like that, my whale was gone. I couldn’t believe it. It was, after all, my whale. MY whale. MY dad made it for ME.

As I grew older, and more responsible with my things, I would ask my mom for my whale. “When you get older I will give it to you.”

I moved away to attend college in 1987. I asked her for my whale. She couldn’t find it.

My mom died in 2002, and when that happened, I lost all hope of finding my whale.

In August of 2012, my dad died. I flew out to Michigan to make funeral arrangements with my sisters. It was strange to be in our home, without him or our mom. His girlfriend was living there at the time, so it felt like we were invading her space, like we were intruding in “our” home, which really wasn’t “our” home anymore. She moved out later that month and took many of the possessions of the home with her.

I traveled to Michigan again in October, to help close up the house. It was the perfect fall weather every Michigander loves, when a trip to a cider mill is mandatory. The car rental place had given my economy car away and all they had left was a convertible. So for the week I was there, I drove around with the top down, the heat on, and the Robert Plant CD I found on my dad’s nightstand blasting.

My sister Elyse went with me to the house, and we put things into sections or piles. It was hard to be there, but the sun came through the windows like it had so many times in the past, and I felt a peace in being there. We loaded up our cars with paperwork we thought we would need, and things we thought were important, like my dad’s record collection, a few paintings, his pipe he smoked in the ’70s, his drafting tools, some fishing lures, and his knife collection.

I went back by myself the next day, the day before I was flying home to Utah. I walked around our big backyard, and looked at the maple trees that I had climbed as a kid. I walked by the creek I had skated on each winter, which seemed much smaller now. I saw the big white rock that I used to sit on when I was upset and just needed some alone time. I remembered my dad teaching me to play baseball, and could hear him saying, “Quit throwing like a girl!” “But I am a girl!” I would shout back. “I know, but don’t throw like one!”

Into the house I went, through the back door. I walked through all the rooms. When I came to my parents’ bedroom, I decided to check the upper part of their closets. I had done it before, and had found nothing but dust. This time, I got a chair to stand on, and a flashlight. I stood on my tiptoes in front of my mom’s closet. Something caught my eye, way in the back, too far for me to reach with my hand. I grabbed a wire hanger and used it as an extension of my arm. I hooked something and pulled it to me. It was my wooden whale. MY whale that my dad made for me, almost 40 years earlier. And I will admit that sitting in my parents’ bedroom that day in October, my whale and I had a good cry. Thanks Dad, and happy birthday.

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