my dead muse

I’ve written a lot about my dad, but it’s dust out in the ether just like him. My first blog on Wordpress, where I learned what it meant to be a writer and a fatherless daughter, vanished because I forgot about it as we moved cross-country with our four kids. In my mind, I was prolific and the writing was brilliant. But that's what memory does, it turns everything golden.

My dad was complicated, as was our relationship. My early days were shaped by his part-time parenthood, punctuated by extravagant trips, upscale dinners, and hours in bookstores. I remember a raucous fight because my table manners weren’t up to snuff for a ten-year-old. An early morning delivery of a white blazer so I had something suitable to wear to an upcoming birthday dinner and Broadway play. And the book reports he required me to write for every book he purchased. Thank goodness he didn’t keep track and I never had to write one for Forever.

As I grew into a person who checked boxes that worked for him and began to have my own thoughts as I created my life, our relationship changed. I went from being a dependent who wife number three wouldn’t allow to stay at her house, to a person who would discuss Proust as we munched on fresh bread and Stilton. I became the person he’d call when he felt like giving up on life and then the person who was trusted with making the final decisions about his medical care. As I sit and think about capturing our relationship in a few measly paragraphs, I can offer grace for the years I was an afterthought because when all the riches were stripped away, I saw his true essence and I know I was part of his heart. It just took him a while to figure it out.

When I was a pre-teen, he sat me down and told me to find a passion. My brother, who is two years younger, had an early love for cars and architecture. (My guess is that love was forced upon him because my dad’s best friend was a Delorean-driving architect.) But I liked Seventeen magazine, roller skating at Hot Skates, and chocolate sprinkles on my black raspberry ice cream. I was a smart kid trying to be cool. Surviving under the radar was my only calling. For years I felt the weight of that conversation. When he was alive, I knew I loved words, but I didn’t find my true purpose—writing—until he was gone. Lucky for me, my muse is just as powerful in death as he was in life.

A butterfly circles my window as I write this. It’s his birthday today. He would have been 84. No doubt he’d be here for dinner, sitting on the deck entranced by the bald eagle looking for prey, sipping on a Bombay martini, and complaining about the state of our government.

He would love what I’ve created. He’d lap up my kids and their larger than life personalities. He’d be a hand on the shoulder for his oldest grandson who has inherited too much of his personality. He’d be in awe of the granddaughter he bought 100-count marker sets for because she found her passion before she could speak. He’d let out a guttural laugh as he listened to the antics of the two youngest Farleys. “A darty, don’t you mean party,” he’d correct. “No, Grandpa. A day party…a darty.”

His books are scattered across my shelves. His ashes and letters are next to my bed. And some days, his voice still whispers in my ear…Juls, you’ve done it. You’ve found your joie de vivre.