hello my friends,
this morning i remembered that I’d forgotten something. I forgot that my dad died 15 years ago today. It was the first time in 14 years that I didn't think of Dad or the date. For a few minutes before the sun came up, it wasn't an anniversary, it was just another day. December 9.
I was a little in awe of my ability to forget.
For years, I'd held on stubbornly to remembering. Remembering is good for writing. Memories are excellent material. But forgetting can be just as revealing.
The first anniversary, in 2011, i replayed every event of the day he died, nearly down to the minute. We were driving to Jerome, Arizona, where I was going to report a travel story about the town's notorious ghosts. As the clock crept closer to the time dad had died, i felt a panicked urgency, as though if I could go back in time, to Huntly Stage, I might change the outcome. We sped west on Interstate 40--there was a full moon in the rear view and ephemeral souls awaiting us in Arizona—and Dad was behind us, too, back in time, back in Virginia, where we'd left him.
Later that weekend, though, I found Dad again, in a refurbished ghost-town-within-a-ghost-town just outside of Jerome called Gold King Mine. It was closed for the holidays, but it suddenly seemed strangely imperative that we visit, so I dialed the phone number on the sign and got Don, the owner, on the second ring, who offered to open just for us. “Costs five and a quarter each,” Don warned, and two minutes later he roared up on his four-wheeler, a bowlegged pencil with an ancient white beard, scuffed cowboy boots and a beige Chihuahua in a herringbone coat named Killer.
Don let us have the run of the place, he and Killer trailing us from a respectful distance as we poked around the salvaged mining shacks in various stages of radical disrepair. There was a dilapidated dentist’s office ($1.50 for the first tooth pulled), a shoe shop, and a 1924 rattletrap car with wooden wheels. Studying its rusty skeleton, I could almost sense the person who’d gripped its metal steering wheel all those years ago. It wasn’t a ghost as much as, well, an energy. Or, to quote kids today, was it an aura?
But when we came upon a sign for Ye Olde Blacksmith Shoppe, with an arrow pointing to a lopsided wooden garage, the hairs on my arm stood on end. My father had been an enthusiastic collector of old cars, including a 1920s Model A; and he had a soft spot for eccentric characters and old-fashioned signs, the cornier the better. And that’s when I knew: If Dad’s hazy, vaporous spirit was still flitting about anywhere on this planet, it was right here, in the crumbling junk pile of Gold King Mine.
Dad outside The National Geographic Society, 1980s
Over time, I've come to realize that Dad is wherever we are. He was certainly hanging around early this morning when I read a post by my friend Julia whose dad died on the same day three years ago; and, startled into remembering, I went outside and saw the salmon-striped sunrise.
He was there a few minutes later when, on the way to the gym, the roads mostly empty and the horizon still glowing, Maisy put ona song about writing a song that carried me someplace else.
He was there in the letter I wrote to him in my head as we drove—
Dear Dad--
I saw a Pontiac Grand Am
The sky was pink
A flock of birds flew by
Maisy is learning to drive
Pippa got into college
I played the song three times
I wrote a song for you.
And he was there yesterday morning when I stumbled by chance upon an article he'd written in the 2000s. I must have read it when he published it, but I'd forgotten how beautiful it was. Reading his words was like hearing his voice. So alive! And yet I still didn’t remember what day it was.
Dad was writing about being in college in Ohio, in 1959, playing jazz in a quartet and learning to take pictures—learning to see— and eventually moving on, as we all must: “SEE YOU NEXT FALL,” Dad wrote. "So the sign would say, but one year it would no longer apply to you. You weren’t coming back. Well, you’d had about enough of it anyway, you thought."
Forgetting is normal. It's a good sign. It means we're living, and as someone wise once said to me, we remember what we're meant to remember. The brief flashings stay with us even when we think we've forgotten.
what stories + moments do you carry unconsciously? what does it feel like to write them in a letter or a list or a song or a poem?
as Dad would sign off,
Later,
Love, Katie
dad _+ me, Huntly Stage, 1990
RETREAT ANNOUNCEMENT!PORTUGAL, APRIL 25-MAY 2, 2026
I'll be joining my dear friend kelly burns at her retreat, Essencia, in the mountains outside of Faro this April. This is a special opportunity to return to our essential selves through movement, nature, and creative expression; to strip away excess layers, and to reconnect with what truly matters. My teachings on Zen, writing, and flow will support Kelly's magical yoga, breathe work, and somatic practices.
Kelly and i met on a writing retreat at Lake Atitlan in 2023, and she's shared her yoga and healing wisdom with us at Flow Camp; I'm honored to join her at Essencia this spring. Knowing Kelly, this will be a profoundly transformative experience.
Space is still available, and doubles start at $2550 for the week. Wild View Retreat is a sanctuary of natural beauty and calm. There are 10 miles of trails on the property and plenty of time and space for resting, reflecting, and a day trip to the coast.
Sign up with the code KATIEARNOLDPORTUGAL for 10% off your registration. Click link below to learn more! And please reach out with any questions!
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