How a City Girl Does Country All Wrong

his “bucket brigade” when I was little, carrying water in buckets almost as big as I was out to the garden and to the chickens. One of them said Dad always told a story about how, when anyone called me Billie the Kid (one pitfall to an otherwise cool name, Billie), I would turn beet red and steam would shoot out of my ears. “And if looks could kill, we’d ‘a all been a goner,” he quoted. So Dad nicknamed me Outlaw on the spot, which seemed to appease me. I could hear Dad on our last phone call at Thanksgiving. “Hey, there, Outlaw,” he said, sounding every bit like Sam Elliot, “what’re ya up to on this fine morning?” I was barely awake and only half listened to him on speaker phone while I made my breakfast.  I wonder if he wanted to tell me how bad things were. I wish I had paid attention.

Honestly, though, I wouldn’t have been shocked if they’d said they didn’t know Daniel Hatcher even had a daughter. I assumed he didn’t talk about me much, and I teared up, hearing their stories.

January 8, 2013

One moment of eye-to-eye contact. It is impossible to know if he knows who I am. He could only mutter under his breath, and I can’t understand what he is saying. Mom is on her way, thank Goddess. Today was a hard day.

January 9, 2013

Mom and I sat on either side of Dad and held one of his hands. “Dan?” she said, like she was asking him if he needed a pillow, “Billie and I are here. We love you and want you to know you can be at peace now.” I could actually see his body start to relax and his breathing grow easier.

How did she always know what to say? It was all I could do to keep myself from blubbering.

When she went to see the nurse, I finally spoke the words I needed to say to him. “Dad, I always wanted you in my life more, and I blamed you for not being there. But maybe I should have gone looking for you. It’s not like I didn’t know where to find you. I don’t blame you anymore. I love you.”

January 10, 2013

The respite nurse called to let us know that Dad passed away during the night. Mom is taking care of the funeral arrangements. I am so relieved because that is far above my pay grade.

January 14, 2013

I am exhausted. The last few days have been nerve-wracking. I am staying at my friend Olivia’s house in Boise’s North End, and my mom is sleeping on the pullout couch with me for a few days. She arrived the day before my dad passed, and even though most of my dad’s final decisions had already been covered, it was still a lot to work through. I have to keep pushing macabre thoughts from my mind. I have these flashes of my dad in a Tim Burton-style filter, the way Burton blends love and sadness, creepiness and humor. It's distracting.

We had the funeral service tonight at a small church near the farm. The people were a bit backward but seemed to think a lot of my dad. Tomorrow, we are taking his cremated remains back to the farm to bury them.

Mom will have to leave day after tomorrow. I guess I should start figuring out what my next step is. I can’t stay with Liv forever. My life in Seattle is kind of screwed up, so do I move here to Boise and try to go to BSU or go back to Seattle and start over? I have no clue.

January 15, 2013

Life can sure throw you a curve ball sometimes.

We drove up to the farm to bury Dad’s ashes under his favorite tree. The farm is in an unincorporated area called Milepost, and it was nothing like the wild, weedy mess that I thought it would be. There are twenty acres, with over half of it covered with pasture and hay, but the area close to the house is extremely organized and set up for subsistence. I say that like I know something about it, which I don’t, except the chickens and goats fertilize the crops, the crops feed the animals, and the crops and animals both fed my dad.

After Mom and I placed the box of ashes into the hole (someone had already dug one for us) and we covered the box, I was really starting to get a sense of peace about things. The weather was clear and we could hear a small creek that ran through the woods on one side of the property. Mom told me a couple of stories I had never heard about Dad, about our short time here on the farm before Mom and I moved out. We sat on a ragged bench next to Dad’s tree.

“It’s strange being back here with you. You know, farm life is just not for me, but we did have some good times here. One summer, we set up a fire pit, right here, actually, and we’d roast corn and have s’mores until you fell asleep and he’d carry you to bed.” She looked up towards the snow-tipped mountains wistfully. “Remember, your dad would play guitar and we’d sing those corny folk songs?”

I shook my head. “Who’s Shelly?”

“Oh, that’s me. Your dad’s the only one who has ever gotten away with calling me that.”

We walked back up to the driveway and found another vehicle parked beside mine. It was dad’s lawyer/friend, Bill Conliff. I was surprised and yet not surprised, when my mom gave Bill a huge hug and said how glad she was to see him. She ruffled his hair and smooched him on the cheek, in her gentle way, like he was her long-lost brother. He reddened a little but took it with a