Bumpity-bump-bump-bump

Tomorrow is the anniversary of my Dad's death. It's a tough day for me. I loved my Dad dearly and I miss him desperately, but by the same token, I am, in a twisted sort of way, eternally glad that my siblings and I were there at the end of his life (ish, anyway). I will, however, drink my symbolically dirty martini tomorrow, and remember my Dad, and the sweet will outweigh the bitter.

I hope, anyway.

My Dad was a fantastic father and grandfather. He raised his three kids at a time when it was assumed that a single dad just....wasn't. His patience and time with his grandchildren was astounding, whether it was telling my niece stories about "The good Adrianne and the bad Adrianne," watching Dora brave the "foooooooky [spooky] forest" with Grace, or letting Peter kick his... well, you know, in putt-putt.

He taught us to cook eggs over medium, make eggnog, drink gin, and that love was forever. He loved to tell stories, to his kids and his grandkids, and about his kids and grandkids. One of the best things about having him close by is that, whenever he kept one of his grandbabies, the parents got a day's (or weekend's) worth of stories when they got the kids back.

Hence, bumpity-bump-bump-bump.

When Peter was a little boy, he was riding in the car with my Dad and my sister. They were either in a neighborhood or a parking lot; regardless, there was a speed bump, and as my sister drove over it, my Dad, in his Dad-way, said, "Bumpity-bump-bump-bump!" To which Peter (who was a very somber and serious little boy, and also had trouble with hard G sounds, so Granddaddy became Dranddaddy) said, "Bumpity-bump-bump-bump? Drandaddy, I don't know THAT word!"

Needless to say, my Dad LOVED this. I think Peter was probably about 3 or 4 at this point; my Dad told this story every chance he got (going over speed bumps, someone saying "bump", someone talking about Peter as a young boy, etc.) for YEARS. And, yes, I say "bumpity-bump-bump-bump" to this day going over speed bumps, and I think about my little boy and my dad.

Until today.

Today, sadly, when I think of my Dad and the sound of bumpity-bump-bump-bump, it's the sound of him turning in his....well, box, since we've not dealt with his ashes yet (which is utterly my fault, don't blame my sibs!).

I can't stand to think of what my Dad would think of Betsy DeVos.

Now, he was not a fan of over-testing (ironic, since I spent a lot of my childhood letting Ed. majors learn to test on me). But I will guarantee you that he could spend a solid half-hour, at a minimum, talking about the difference between growth and proficiency, and when either might be important. And I am certain that he never, even the semester that he taught in Wyoming (when he had to deal with skunks and rattlesnakes and any number of critters), felt that he needed to be armed in case of grizzly bear attack. And while he was, at times, both spiritual and religious, he would never, ever, have consented to have state-supported religion as part of a public school.

He would be appalled.

He would be horrified.

He would, in fact, be going bumpity-bump-bump-bump.

I don't know what's going to happen in the next four years. I was terrified on November 9th, and then I convinced myself it wouldn't be that bad.

I was wrong. It's worse.

We are attacking the only things that can keep this country strong - our brains, our schools, and our children.

May God have mercy on our souls.