One of my last visits to see my dad coincided with my late mom’s birthday — or maybe it was their wedding anniversary. In any case, I mentioned the date and remembered her with fondness.

My dad smiled, got a far-away look in his eyes, and after several long moments he nodded and said, “I miss her.”

His voice caught just a little. Like most men of his generation, he was not good at expressing his feelings. I could feel the enormous depth behind those three words.

Mom and Dad were together for nearly 62 years, from a Sunday afternoon in the cold World War II days of December 1944 until the anniversary of D-Day in 2006, and he spent the last 14 years of his life without her. Red and I had less than half as much time as my parents, but now I have a bit of firsthand knowledge of what it took for him to say, as calmly as he could muster, “I miss her.”

When I wrote the other day about the Canada geese leaving town for their winter quarters, the WordPress algorithm suggested “Last goodbyes” at the bottom of the page among the three “Related” posts. That was my post about our Celebration of Life after Red passed in early summer. Of course, the memory brought the inevitable tears to my eyes.

There are no “last” goodbyes, are there? I seem to say goodbye at least once a day. My friends who have had similar losses tell me the feeling never completely goes away, you just live with it, compartmentalize it, deal with it, et cetera et cetera. I get it — for awhile I had moments where I had to sit down and let the grief wash over me, feeling lost and paralyzed, but these days I am functioning more or less as well as I used to.

Every so often, though, a friend will ask with concern, “How are you doing?” and I will need several long moments before I nod and say that I’m hanging in there. And it’s true — no worries, folks, I really am doing all right.

Still.

I miss her. 

The Facebook Memories feature showed me that on Oct. 25, 2016, I had written, “Well, that was interesting news. More to come.”

I was puzzled — what interesting news did I receive seven years ago? When I realized what it was, I was amazed at the power of healing.

It turns out that Oct. 25, 2016, was the day that a corporate drone sat me down to tell me I was no longer needed to do the best job I ever held down. The fact that I didn’t remember tells me I’m pretty much over it by now.

Sure enough, here is what I wrote for my post of Oct. 26, 2016: 

When the news broke late last week that layoffs were imminent at the corporation that owns the venerable small-town paper where I worked for most of 14 years, I started to think about how logical it would be to lay me off. I suppose all of my co-workers had similar thoughts about themselves, but I just had a feeling.

I don’t take horoscopes seriously, but I do read mine because they often contain good advice. On Monday morning, I read it out loud to Red and we both laughed nervously:

“Changes at work are coming: This could be the luckiest turn of events that’s happened in months. To prepare yourself, bone up on your skills and make sure your client base is ample.”

If ever there was a moment when I went over to the dark side and embraced the idea that my fate is sealed by the position of stars light years away, that might have been that moment. Whether or not I “believed,” in any case, by golly, it was good advice.

And: A little after noon on Tuesday, I was given the word that I was part of the company’s latest round of cuts to contain costs.

It was a cordial conversation, and I was assured this was not a performance decision but an economic one yada yada yada, and they explained some nice going-away benefits, and off I went to let the folks who work with me know they were safe, and only I was leaving (at least in the newsroom; a trio of other, tremendous support people were also let go).

Now, my dear friends and colleagues have railed about how could the company do this, and I love them, but let’s note that the goal is to keep the doors open, and under this ownership the newspaper has endured for 12 long years since the previous owner decided he couldn’t make a go of it any longer. My fondest desire was always to grow the paper despite the odds, but in the absence of such growth, the alternative is to cut costs, and frankly I was the costliest cost in the room.

The paper survives to fight another day. My loyalty has always been to the 154 years of folks who toiled under the banner before me and with me, and not to the corporation that bought the brand, and perhaps that helped put me on the list. You know what? It doesn’t matter. The brand survives, and if anyone can save it from oblivion, it’s the incredible journalists and other people who still work in that building.

I am so proud to have been a part of that tradition and grateful for the high bar set by the people who walked those hallways before me. Anytime I started feeling my oats, all I had to do was remind myself, “Bluhm, you’re no Chan Harris,” or someone would come along to say it for me. I wouldn’t have tried as hard as I did without those noble ghosts chasing me.

Today is the first day of the next phase of my life, and oh, what an adventure it shall be.

(Sadly, all but two of the stalwart colleagues I mentioned that day have now also been “made redundant,” as they say across the pond, as the corporation continues its agonizingly slow death spiral. But I’m still proud of what we accomplished despite the clueless corporation in those years, as we did what we could to preserve what is now 161 years of local history.)