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On Ten Years Without My Father

Hat Trick

The last thing my father ever taught me was how to install a showerhead.

I was twenty-five years old and taking care of him at the end of his life in a small condominium in Southern California. The cancer had gone to his bones by this point and he was unable to get out of bed on most days, let alone install bathroom hardware.

So there I stood, barefoot in the shower while he sat on a chair in the anteroom of the bathroom, calmly giving me instructions in the same patient tone he had used with me since I was child.

My feet kept sliding in the tub and my bangs fell into my eyes as I scrunched up underneath the upper faucet, doing my best to work a wrench around the old showerhead.

I was tired, annoyed, and adolescently resentful of the task at hand.

The new showerhead was a detachable one with a nozzle hooked to the end of it so that when the nurse who visited my father’s house twice weekly needed to bathe him she could let him sit on a stool in the tub while she rinsed him off.

I grunted and winced as the wrench slid off the nozzle time and time again, growing more exasperated with each incarnation of my efforts. With one final exertion the old showerhead finally twisted into release and I stepped back, blowing the bangs out of my eyes with a noisy sigh.

“Okay,” I said, “so now I just screw this one on?” I asked, holding up the new showerhead.

“Well, first you need this,” my father said, holding out a small spool of shower tape. I looked at it blankly.

“Shower tape?”

This was already way more of a project than I’d bargained for. Was shower tape really necessary?

“We don’t really need that, do we?” I asked.

My father set his jaw and silently held the tape out to me again.

The look in his eyes flashed me back to a thousand different moments over the last twenty-five years of his careful instructions. Learning how to tie my shoes, or  how to do long-division, or when he taught me to parallel park a car.

My father was an engineer, his mind automatically breaking things down to their parts in order to navigate new sums. He loved building things, figuring out how to make something work, how to take it apart, or how to make it better.

Once when I was in ninth grade he showed me how he had calculated the exact speed he needed to reach in the car at a very precise location in our neighborhood in order to coast an entire 1.2 miles back to our house.

My father couldn’t not think about things in this way.

I was always the opposite. Messy, impatient, unwilling or unable to pay attention to the details of a thing.

I stared at the shower tape in his hand, and he stared back at me. A face-off.

“Fine,” he finally said, withdrawing his hand and the tape. “Just put on the showerhead and see what happens.”

“Fine, I will.” I replied impetuously.

After another ten minutes of grunting, wrenching and bang blowing, the showerhead was installed. I was triumphant.

My father watched carefully from his perch in the bathroom as I stepped out of the tub.

“Give it a try,” he said and I detected a note of mischief in his voice.

I turned the handle slowly and immediately water began to spray in all directions from the base of the showerhead. Not the actual showerhead, mind you, but the part where they were screwed together.

“Ack,” I screamed, as myself and the walls around me were drenched with cold water.

After I’d blotted my face with a towel I turned back to see my father, once again, holding the shower tape out to me.

“That’s what this is for,” he said.

My father died just a few weeks later, never having even taken advantage of the showerhead I so carefully installed (twice).

A month later I moved into a new apartment. For the first time in my life I didn’t have a roommate or a boyfriend to help me set up the place and one of the first things I noticed the day I moved in was that there was no showerhead.

Once again I found myself barefoot in the tub, wrench in hand, bangs in my eyes.

But this time a thin spool of shower tape sat carefully balanced on the edge of the tub next to me.

Next week marks ten years since my father died, and an entire decade of being parentless. I’ve never ceased to be grateful for the things he taught me, and not just for what he taught me, but for the way in which he taught me them.

Now that I am a parent myself I often sit back, watching my daughters’ exasperation over something I am trying to teach them, a certain little smile on my face, as I eventually recall my offer and let them try to figure it out on their own, let them find their way back to my assistance when it’s needed.

On four occasions over the last decade I’ve had the need to install a showerhead and each time I’ve dutifully bought a little roll of shower tape, grateful tears in my eyes.

Dad, I miss you.

Dad Mountains


  1. Beautifully written, Claire. As always. The scene you described is one I recognized and experienced a time or two. xoxo

    Comment by Ron Stempkowski on August 1, 2013 at 10:40 am

  2. Hi… I love this story. It is the small things, like shower tape, that will stick out about someone you’ve lost that takes you back. I know about those grateful tears, they are wonderful reminders of wonderful people. Thank you for sharing.

    Comment by Meredith on August 1, 2013 at 10:40 am

  3. What a patient, special man your father was and it seems as though you carry those traits in your genes
    Thank you for sharing this story.
    Xo on the anniversary. They’re hard.

    Comment by Michelle on August 1, 2013 at 11:23 am

  4. Great Post Claire! Thank you for sharing your story. I finished your book and I loved it!

    Comment by Kristen on August 1, 2013 at 11:37 am

  5. Claire, stories like this about missed parents and sadness are so much more powerful when they are expressed through and everyday occurrence. By describing the “showerhead incident”, you have allowed me to see what you saw, feel what you felt, and hear what you are saying. You are a true storyteller, but we all know this very well!

    Comment by Tony Davis on August 1, 2013 at 12:05 pm

  6. Simply amazing!

    Comment by Daniela Salazar on August 1, 2013 at 1:28 pm

  7. What a great story. It’s funny the little things we remember and take with us. There are many little things I do that my grandma taught me and when I catch myself doing them I always have a little smile on my face.

    Comment by Susi on August 1, 2013 at 6:54 pm

  8. Beautiful Claire… love how those little details & moments, that don’t seem like much at the time, ripple back from the other side…

    Comment by kwqr on August 1, 2013 at 8:43 pm

  9. Beautiful memories – my favorite part is that he calculated what it would take to coast home!

    Comment by Lisa Lilienthal on August 1, 2013 at 9:04 pm

  10. It’s funny how the little things are most remembered! I’ve missed you here!!

    Comment by Chris on August 1, 2013 at 10:00 pm

  11. What a good man. This makes me think of my own Grandpa and his patient way of giving directions verbally.

    Comment by Caro on August 1, 2013 at 10:19 pm

  12. I agree with Chris; have missed your voice here. Thank you for sharing your words, Claire. They are a gift to us all.

    Comment by Melissa on August 1, 2013 at 11:26 pm

  13. And now I have tears in my eyes. Beautiful story. :)

    Comment by Liz on August 2, 2013 at 12:14 am

  14. I have tears now too, from missing my own Dad who died 5 years ago. I love your writing – thank you! XO

    Comment by Amy Kennedy on August 2, 2013 at 9:46 am

  15. Sweet, sweet, sweet. And who knew– it’s shower tape that makes that lump in one’s throat appear. :) As always, thank you for sharing. xo

    Comment by Hallie Sawyer (@Hallie_Sawyer) on August 8, 2013 at 6:50 pm

  16. So beautiful….I have so been enjoying your book. I am nearing the end, savoring each word. XO

    Comment by chrissy on August 17, 2013 at 12:07 pm

  17. Lived this vignette – one of my favourite stories inside stories of ROI was the WW2 revisiting with your Dad. This is the other side of the coin – present and guiding in the everyday world. precious memories

    Comment by Grace Bower on August 23, 2013 at 6:29 am

  18. Gorgeous and poignant. I love your last few sentences. So perfect.

    Comment by Jen in SC on August 24, 2013 at 7:39 pm

  19. Hi Claire,
    Checking out your blog today to see how things are going. I believe I met your dad around the time of the ‘shower head’ experiment. Hard to believe it’s been ten years. I share ‘my’ story of your dad often. Find a reason to have a reading in Seattle sometime. All the best.

    Comment by Scott Douglas on September 12, 2013 at 9:34 pm

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