Rose Part 1

 Rose has been on my mind a lot lately. I miss her. Rose shared her stories with me. And there were many. I had a long string of text messages between the two of us that spanned close to a year's worth of conversations. I didn't know my save setting had an expiration date, so now I have just about a month's worth. It gets harder for me to remember all the grand exchanges with Rose so now is the time to capture them here as best as I can. They left a mark on me, an impression, her words of wisdom.

I turned to Rose when Andy was at his worse. He was at his worse for years. She loved him as I did, and understood my sorrow, and admired my fortitude, my tolerance, although we both wondered many times if our collective tolerance was love, fear, or ignorance. Now I see it as desperate denial but it bonded us, perhaps was why we ever became such close friends in the first place. To shroud a lost child until he finds his way back.

Rose told me that her dream, if she could leave a mark on the world, would be to have enough money to save all the unborn children from abortions. To have the money to support the mothers financially so that they would not have poverty as a reason to abort. To build homes where children saved from abortions could stay and thrive until they were adopted. Saving the unborn. Protecting the unwanted.

I have two cats sleeping on either side of me right now. Rose loved her cats. She missed them when she was in the hospital. She told me that they wouldn't leave her alone each time she returned from a stint at Virtua or Lady of Lourdes or Cooper. There were many happy reunions. 

Rose told me about Ed. About John. About Vince, Fred and Mario. But mostly about Ed. John was her husband, the father of her three, but Ed was the love of her life. Ed laid eyes on her at a house party of a mutual friend and liked what he saw very much. Ed would drink two beers every night after dinner and then smoked a joint. Two beers and a joint Ed. Ed planted a beautiful tree in the front yard as a present to Rose and each season it flowered magnificently as if attesting to Ed's ceaseless adoration. Ed would make Rose laugh each time he got an erection and asked "Now, what am I supposed to do with this?" I can still hear her laugh, hearty and genuine. I have only heard her cry a couple of times, but our conversations were fraught with laughter. Revelations and naughtiness. Confessions between confidants. 

All this exposure would mostly feel strange between a woman and the woman in love with her son. We were greater friends than we were family, and that makes sense since her family is disjointed, despite her best efforts to avoid that. Rose spoke of very fond memories of hosting large holiday dinners at her home. Whether or not the rest of them hold these memories as close to their hearts is a mystery. Close to the time she died, I remember Rose lamenting to me "I don't understand my children. They use to be close. Now it's like they are always mad at each other." Personally, I don't think any of them came close to taking after Rose in the "live and let live" department. Grudges had nowhere to dock in her kind harbor. 

Rose told me stories of her childhood. Of death, remarriage, a distant mother with a hard outer shell and a twisted relationship with her stepdad. A half brother who had an even worse experience than she did (although that is arguable) - as a teen, having to prove herself and her worth with cake decorating, a talent she carried over into her adult life as a side gig while at Conrail, adding even more hours to her long day by bringing in elaborately decorated cakes to sell to her co-workers. Rose told me toward the end of her days, that she finally made peace with her mother and spoke to her photograph, saying that she forgives her and loves her, always did. But that now she also understands. 

The Montessori School and Puppies

 My mother and I approached my son's preschool on foot, bypassing a line of cars waiting in the drop off car line. My son was not physically in this dream, but it was understood that he was a young child. (This has been a frequent theme as of late; my son being the age of a young child.) When my mother and I got to the door of the school, it was more like a window opening, the kind you see at an ice cream shop where you walk up and order and the transaction is done through the window. A receptionist greeted us and I told her we were here to pay the tuition. (Could be a subconscious reminder to pay my daughter's rent, which I have been putting off). Laurie S. (the head of school when my son was in preschool) stood in the background, behind the receptionist. The receptionist said the tuition owed was $95K. My mother began to write a check for that amount. I stopped her, saying that I was not letting her pay. My mother looked very confused and tired and sickly, like she was not in a good frame of mind, and she said was annoyed that I was stopping her from paying. (Could be the memory of the last time we went to lunch and mom got angry when I tried to pay the bill.)  I said something like, "if you want to give away $95K so badly, don't give it to this school. Give it to me!" There were puppies inside the school, behind the receptionist, three or four of them barking and running around like puppies do. 

If God didn't send him, then who did? The Husband Conundrum

Today I was likened to a demon. I was called a pig. A stupid ass. Then a martyr. Then a thief.

I am not shitting you. The accusations flew in from nowhere, disguised as pings from a pal. I thought this was over. Maybe it won't ever be.

The temptation to respond was palpable. Given such ripe material, who could resist? But that would only drive the knife deeper into an ever open wound. 

Funny thing is, she is right about one thing. I am part demon. Sometimes, evil feels good. 

                                                                                            Henry Fuseli, 1781

Clarity is a glass half spilled.

I have had a surge of unexpected energy and it motivated me to blog. Or perhaps it was the day I just had. Excuse me a moment whilst I turn off James Brown's YOWS-ing from xpn's Funky Friday segment ... I cannot compose my thoughts and listen to music simultaneously. Ah, that's better. The clicks and taps from the baseboard radiators and the Friday evening work traffic buzzing by are all I hear now.

Hot yoga with Dorian was how I began this Friday. Surrounded by 20 and 30 and 40 somethings, I feel like a powerful representation of what the new 55 looks like. I know it's not that old, but when I can keep up with and even surpass those youngsters, it feels like a super power reserved for only those who don't know what a Rolodex is. I think of how far I have come from when climbing steps meant sharp pain with each riser and squatting was impossible. How I can tolerate the intense heat and the drops of sweat that enter my nostrils and cling to my eyelashes like a prisoner valiantly withstanding a Chinese water torture. My lungs fill and my chest expands and contracts rhythmically as we are reminded that yoga is "breath with motion" and focusing on that clears my head for that 75 minutes. It is the only thing that is able to. Clear my head, that is.

Later, a sit down with my husband in a local bar. We have remained caring and patient with each other throughout this separation. It is time when important decisions must be made. Financial decisions. Divisional decisions. He insists it is so simple. I am made to feel like I am the antagonist, looking to complicate things unnecessarily and for selfish reasons. As is so many other aspects of our relationship, we disagree on the best way to handle this. We were partners, so I thought, in everything. But now, I am labeled a helper. This will all work out, as mom always says. Everything does. I pay the bill, and he thanks me for the drink. I say, laughingly, that's going in his column. He finds it unfunny and calls me insane and asks "you know what I can't figure out about you?" and I say don't tell me. Because after all this time, he should know.

Ma, tell me a story.

Not long ago, my son would ask me for a story as he drifted off to sleep. I’d always tell him tales of growing up as a 70s kid, making spook houses and backyard carnivals and bumper sledding. My son falls asleep with his phone. We all fall asleep with our phones. I remember how I used to fall asleep as a child. My mom sitting on the side of my bed, rhythmically bouncing so I’d feel a rocking motion, hand on my back and humming a song. Then, before leaving, she’d turn the crank on my music box, and the delicate tings of a lullaby filled the room. I’d sing the Apple Jacks lyrics to the melody and it fit perfectly. I can’t go back to being a kid, and times like these I wish I could. I can’t change the culture my kids will remember when they reflect on their childhood. Will they ever want to go back? I can’t relive the past. I can’t freeze time. I can still sing the Apple Jacks song, though.

Eulogy II

Coming up to one year since dad's passing. Now, my uncle (close to me like a dad) is failing. I never did get around to posting the eulogy I delivered for my dad on August 31, 2018 at St. Jude's Church, where I was baptized, confirmed, married. Where I remember hanging out in the parking lot with Lorraine, Lori and Linda, listening to The Shondells' Crystal Blue Persuasion blaring from the speakers of the Trabant on a hot summer carnival night...

------------------------------

YO, Razz ...

As many of you know, that was one of my dad's endearing ways to greet you. 

YO, Razz! 

I can still hear him say it. It was meant for those he was happy to see. Today, you are all Razzes.

There were thousands of endearing things about my dad. It's difficult to know where to begin. Mostly, he shaped our lives in ways both colossal and subtle.

I want to start with a journal entry I wrote a few years back, one that I titled "You always want more."

"Looking across the table at my kids as we dine on sushi, I smile as I watch my son. He is fixated on the engineering behind chop sticks purposely rigged with a rubber band to make them 5-year-old friendly. The aroma of black tea as the cup nears my lips reminds me of pot incense. My daughter orders her usual steamed rice and edamame. 

Then, I overhear a request from a booth two doors down.

"Orange soda."

I want to immediately scream NO ICE. And at that moment, I realize how very different this dinner out with my kids is compared with those of my youth.

You see, growing up in the recession-burdened seventies in a blue collar neighborhood with a Depression-era father meant dinners out were either for a special occasion, or must involve a too-good-to-pass-up coupon. The special occasion was usually a birthday. As for the coupon, it was almost always McDonalds. I can still see him at the counter, always finishing his family of five order with TWO large orange sodas, NO ICE. And three extra courtesy cups.

So to this day, I am compelled to respond NO ICE to any mention of orange soda. And that is exactly what I did that evening in the Japanese restaurant. I chuckled to myself as I did so and thought of those days gone by, and all the other instances where my father's rationing and frugality made for good natured dad bashing conversations between my siblings and me. We eventually came to realize and appreciate that being raised by a spendthrift had no ill effect on us. It taught us conservation rather than wastefulness. It motivated us to work harder to earn more if more is indeed what you want. 

The only think I want more right now, is him.

My dad was a party. He was an aging child full of awe, finding humor in just about all situations. He was ever-questioning himself and others on topics both simplistic and profound. He possessed delightful spontenaity, whether it be coming home with a stray pet, a curbside treasure or another mechanical dancing figurine to add to his man cave decor. He had a sly style of slipping in clever one liners when you least expected it. Even though rendomly expressed hundreds of times, I never not laughed at Joe Bananas and His Bunch, music with a peel! He was extremely resourceful, and could and would fix anything, from Lincoln Continentals to lawn chairs. He was much smarter than he realized. His heart was immense. He was loved and respected by many, but not as much as by his devoted wife of 58 years, Catherine (yay, mom!) whom he cherished and with whom he flourished. And by his children. 

My dad will continue to bless our lives as we remember what he taught us by example, and as we share memories of him with each other. I thank all of you for being here this morning to celebrate his life. 

Eulogy

I'd like to read to you a portion of a travel journal I keep. This is from 2013, and it describes moments from the day that Pop introduced his home town, Maida, to my children.  It is titled Day Three In Maida. 

"Nonno pours espresso, thick and black, while Giovanna pins whites along the terrace clothesline. She has finally changed her blouse from the lively floral printed sleeveless to a plain blue tee.  Nonno still wears the button down he sported at the airport upon our arrival. Change is not common here.

We hike the steep road leading to the town square, "la piazza". Tall, rugged walls of slate gray rock to our left, a guardrail bordering our right. And beyond, the Appennino mountains rise and then fall, offering a glimpse of the Mediterranean Sea. The town is a series of dilapidated layers. Nonno leads us to the house where he was born. It resembles a large stall made of weathered burnt orange brick, pale stone and cement. One floor, one door, and a terra cotta shingled roof out of which sprouts vines and weeds and tangled thorny branches. Eight children lived in that house, once upon a time. He points to a small courtyard just below, and tells my kids that this is where he kept his donkey, many years ago. 

"And my girl-a-friends, I bring here, too," he confesses only to me, smiling. I laugh, and imagine this, his inspiration point ... Two teens, bathed in moonlight, sharing romance atop a scrappy, work-worn mule."

Reading this again, I am taken by how this one casual exchange exemplifies so much of that which defined my father-in-law. His humble beginnings. His powerful work ethic built upon being the eldest of a large family, and doing whatever was needed to provide. His ever-present pride in his roots and family, most especially of his son, the true light of his life. His charisma and passion for finding love, which he so successfully accomplished by marrying S, my mother-in-law, a beautiful woman who adored him and whom he cherished as well. His humor. And how hilarious he could be at the most unexpected times, like that afternoon in Maida. Or the thousands of other times we made memories together. Pop always made us laugh. He was generous and quick to happily share himself, from good stories to a good meal to the shirt off his back.

Most of all, he made us feel loved and protected. He made others feel welcomed, appreciated, valuable. He saw the potential in people, and cultivated it, just as he lovingly and diligently cultivated flowerbeds and his amazing vegetable garden. Gabe, Gabriele, Gabi, Nonno, Pop ... enriched so many lives, simply by example. I bet you are thinking of how he had an impact on your life, and you are grateful for that. We are all very lucky to have those memories, and to have been influenced and loved by one so loved. On behalf of  S, and our children, I thank you for sharing these memories and this morning with us.

My Best Boy

Separation is tough. The most difficult moments inevitably involve my stressing over how my children are handling it. There are two homes now. Split time and halved wardrobes. To them, this back and forth must feel like parallel parking using a manual clutch on a steep incline. And I was 21 when I mastered that skill, not 10. One thing I can say, they consistently make me proud. And make me laugh. And when those two things happen simultaneously, the voice inside whispers "it's going to be okay."

Him: Are you going to dad's house today? 

Me: It's not just dad's house. It's my house, too. 

Him: (laughing) I know. That was a test. 

Me: (laughing) Did I pass?

Him: Yes. 

Dick or Treat ? An easy call.

The dog sits comfortably next to me, occasionally peering up with eyes that offer reassurance and unspoken loyalty. He calls her from downstairs, his voice shrill and commanding. She starts. Hears  "Come! Treat!" She scampers underneath the bed, hiding. :) Animal instinct. Don't fuck with it. :) 

And so it goes ...

Nonno is losing weight steadily, but his appetite hasn't waned. Nor have his habits changed.  He leaves delightful surprises at every turn.

For as many doctor appointments he's had, we've not yet confirmed the name for this condition. 

Crumbatosis? Dontgiveafuckanoia? I best consult with a Smashandgrabbacakeologist. 

I am having a particularly shitty day. But that's ok. There have been good moments recently. Even yesterday. I took Nonno to the eye doctor. He has trouble seeing, on top of everything else. His one eye has a cataract and the other one needs a corneal transplant, which they cannot do now since he is being treated for cancer. Anyway, he felt eye glasses could help. He spent $700 on a new pair and says they don't change anything. So he wanted to take them back. I agreed with him. Take them the fuck back. I was ready for a fight. So was he. The optometrist immediately dismissed us.

"There's nothing I can do. You have to see the opthamologist. He's only in on Wednesdays."

Ok, then, let's make an appointment for Wednesday. He also told us maybe there is an "adjustment" time needed. My FIL argued with him but since he is so hard to understand, he wasn't getting the feedback he expected. He was getting more and more frustrated. The man begrudgingly scheduled an appointment for next week and excused himself to the back to take a phone call. We left before he resurfaced.

Walking to the car, my FIL pulls something out of his jacket pocket and shows it to me ... a hinged designer glass case with the price tag hanging from the side.

"Heh, they cheat-a-me, I cheat-a-them."

I laughed, an accomplice to elderly theft. I said, "If the cops show up at my door, blame the drugs."

Then we went to the thrift shop. He wanted to buy some clothes and I figured if he left with three or four cashmere scarves that I wrapped around his neck, no one would question it. If that failed, we could blame the drugs.

My word for the week, (the year?) is Patience.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NkwJ-g0iJ6w

I didn't know who won the S B until 60 minutes ago. Don't judge me.

My father-in-law came into my office this morning as I was entering business bullshit into the computer. He had that scrappy blue blanket draped over his head again. If the lights were dim I would swear I was being visited by the blessed virgin Mary. I asked him what he needed. He wanted me to check on the computer to find out how much longer he had to live. He was serious. "I wanna know. I wanna date." I was tempted to feverishly hit a bunch of random keys while staring intently at the screen, like they do in the movies when they're hacking into some sophisticated software in order to save the world, then triumphantly announce "Got it! February 29th!"

My therapist said I'm treading water. It feels more like quicksand.

Where's Gandalf when you need him?

My FIL is becoming more and more emotional. He cries a lot. I guess it seems like a lot because I am the one home with him the most. He's always been what is now called dramatic, which to me sounds theatrical and staged, needing attention. I would say he's always been more like … highly charged. Like the running of the bulls. An attention seeker, but in an unpredictable, illogical, intense way. He's not charged anymore. He is also weakening, becoming very thin. It is strange watching this happen. Watching someone change so quickly. This morning, he cried as he and I were eating breakfast. He said that he must have not been a good person all his life since God gave him cancer. He wondered out loud what he did wrong. As much as I wanted to, I did not respond. People think what they think in the grips of desperation without regard for logic. I told him that his situation is very hard because he knows his fate.  He is consumed by his disease. I may die tomorrow, I said, but I don't know that and don't think about it. I asked him again, is there anything that would make him feel better about the here and now? Seeing friends? He said friends only want to see you when you are well and good, not when you are sick. I again could not respond. I had no wisdom to impart. We ate in silence for a while. I thought about how my mom always says  "things have a way of working themselves out." Not something someone so hopeless wants to hear. It sort of falls into the category of "things could be worse" … to which I always think "yes, and they could be a lot better." Things working themselves out goes by another name … fate.  I don't think any words right now could be of much comfort to him.  He didn't see this coming. He feels defeated, knows how his story will end. No one can predict what tomorrow brings. I hold on to hope. The best stories have twists and turns and are filled with the unexpected, both good and ill. You cannot close the book when the story turns bad. "... even the very wise cannot see all ends." In hindsight, I should have used that moment to tell him he is loved. I hope not to miss the next opportunity. And if he again questions his fate, maybe next time I will tell him, keep reading. 

Friday Fix

There's a local farmer's market that I frequent. It is a Friday thing for me.  I don't shop there now since the weather has turned cold, but I still like to go there nontheless. Today I bought a vanilla chai latte with whipped cream on top from Silvia's coffee bean stand, the first vendor you hit as you enter from the back lot, and walked around. It makes me feel good...comforting. And I like the diversity of the place. It is like an international buffet but without the cafeteria trays, sneeze guards, sundae station and chocolate fountain. Karla sells Peruvian Spinach Pie and shrimp and mango ceviche. Georgina has the Mexican spot, and I eyed the pineapple salsa, but passed when I realized all that deep green stuff was cilantro. That and curry are vile, wicked flavors, spoke a little voice inside my head. Then there is Ali. As in Mohammad. He is Iranian and smiles often, flashing Chiclet-sized teeth that gleam like the top of a mosque at dawn.   His specialty is Middle Eastern fare, but his sign reads Mediterranean Cuisine, as to not invoke contempt or fear from the masses, I suppose. I had an interesting encounter with Ali once. After I shared that I was on a hunt for fresh saffron, he bade to to visit his "other" location, four miles down the road in a small strip shopping center where his neighbors included a check cashing place and a pawn shop. We arranged a set meeting time for the following day, which, oddly, was 15 minutes before the official opening time posted on the hours sign. It was a sunny, warm day with enough passersby to take away most of the uneasiness that I felt as he unlocked the door for me. He was in the throes of cooking an enormous vat of rice, there were four or five pots of softly bubbling shishkabob sauce on the massive stove top, and the aroma of it all hit me so hard it almost lifted me up as if on a magic carpet. He asked how much saffron I wanted, and really, I had no idea. "Enough to make a few portions of saffron rice, " I answered, and he laughed in such a way and with such a look in his eyes that we both knew this was going to be a profitable day for the Persian and his stash. I didn't care. I was so enthralled by the prospect of scoring genuine, elusive saffron … by the time he finished disappearing behind a exotically colorful curtain leading to a storage room, re-emerging with an old Jiffy jar filled with deep orange threads of herb, shaking two teaspoons of it into a small zip-lock baggie, bringing it to his face and deeply inhaling and encouraging me to do the same before sealing, then telling me it would cost close to $45.00,  I wasn't sure if I should cook with it or pinch it onto a Zig-Zag, roll it up and smoke it! It was the closest thing to illegal trafficking that I had ever encountered. Ali thanked me profusely and went back to business, cooking up a sandstorm, smiling as he did so. He has a passion for cooking and it shows. I left feeling excited and triumphant. I scored that day. Boy, did I score. The risk was well worth it. Most are.

On a sad note, the farmer's market is slated to close in the spring, after more than 30 years of business. The large, retail pharmacy next door wants to expand, and the building owner obviously sees dollar signs before long-standing community-based entrepreneurship. I signed a petition appealing to save the market. I watched others do the same. I have hope. And a shit load of rice and saffron. :)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LRRLTxIxNtM

Midnight hour almost over ...

The kids are excited about the prospect of waking to a snow day. I remember those times. There was a street light across from my house, and I'd stare out the bay window watching the flakes fall against the reflection of the lamp, waiting for them to intensify. When they fell fast and heavy and blew sideways it was a good omen. Sitting in a cold kitchen drinking warm tea, waiting with great anticipation as the announcer's voice rattled off school closing numbers from the crackling transistor radio. A collective cheer arose when the digits were confirmed. I remember it like it was yesterday. The snow day brought everyone out on our street. Everyone shoveled. The highway's din was muffled and replaced by the scraping sound of metal against concrete. Ultimately, a snowball fight erupted, and the memory of seeing dads versus moms versus kids trying to pummel each other, white bombs sailing overhead and smashing, the giddiness and laughter echoing all around, is one of my best. There is something about going home, even in these memories, that always feels right. I guess that is true for all things right. You are drawn to them. They never leave you.

Nag Champa

It is always there, the sadness. Even in moments spent with my kids, when they make me laugh or I just watch them from afar or listen to their conversations, when I feel great joy and comfort from that, the sadness hovers. Sometimes, the sadness feels insurmountable. It is physical, in my gut and swims through my veins, a heavy shroud like a second skin. I've been told to get help, too. What help is there? I help myself. I have only myself.

I see him sitting there in the same shadowy spot day after day, a blanket covering his head. It reminds me of the time I watched a caged gorilla in the zoo sit inside a busted cardboard box, looking stunned and stagnate, eyes fixated on nothing, repeatedly grabbing hay with his massive hand and flinging it onto his outstretched legs.

I burn another stick, watching the smoke rise. I want to lay in a ball on the floor, warmed by love, and drift off to sleep with visions of smoke rings rising, then twisting, then dissipating like effortless calm in a perfect world.

All the world's a stage … four.

I have been trying to make the house more zen. With candles and meditational music and shit like that. Weird but, every time I trim a wick, I feel like a Mohel.

I hate mornings. I hate getting texts in the morning in optimistic tones that use annoying words like "what's on your agenda today?"  What's on my agenda? Throwing myself off the second floor landing. Pooping. But not in that order. Or maybe in that order, depending upon the force of impact.

My father-in-law knows his time is limited. I think a lot about how that must feel. I cannot fathom it. Like a prisoner on death row, with invisible bars and RAI International for entertainment, he sits all day and waits for five hours to pass to take more meds. I asked him this morning, is there anything special you would like to do, anyone you'd like to spend time with? He said no. He just wants to die right away. I get that. I made him a pancake with chocolate chips and he liked it. It was a good moment.

The Mirror.

I took another barre class today. It is a form of exercise that combines Pilates and ballet moves. I used to take ballet and tap lessons as a kid. I was also a cheerleader. Not to toot my own horn, but I was voted Most Coordinated and Graceful by a panel of inner voices back in 1981. Every year since then, I renominate myself and am never surprised when, again, I am presented with the title. Anyway, I digress. The class was led by a very fit, 50+ instructor who resembled Annette Bening.  It was all women, except for one man who came with his wife. He had a bit of a male porn star look to him ... a good head of hair trapped in a David Hasselhoff 80s style, a cheesy calf tat, muscle shirt on thick, undefined shoulders, an unseasonal tan and large teeth.

Nix the Shar Peis, add 23 years, a wide, terry cloth sweat band across his forehead 
and head to toe nylon/polyester. Yep, that's the guy. 

He was next to me and made a lot of noises. (It is not an easy class.) Forceful exhales, grunts, squeaks, moans ... loud enough to be heard over the special dance mix version of Call Me Maybe blasting from the mp3 player. I tried not to close my eyes, in fear that images of Most Watched XHamster would pop into my head ... Carly Rae Jepson and the Squeaky Grunter going at it in the janitor's closet of a Starbucks ... and break my concentration.

So I kept my eyes open. And I watched myself in the wall of mirrors. I liked what I saw. Chop off my head, and I am looking at the body of a 26 year old. A coordinated, graceful, decapitated young woman who, for the moment, is free from her inner voices.  Then, a myriad of mirror images washed over me, of blissful abandon in shades of blue, blinding me with their energy. I felt alive and happy. Then the music stopped.

I came home, took an Aleve, and took a nap. I had a wicked headache.

Maybe some Jerry would help.

I deleted a recent post. After re-reading, I realized it oozed self-pity. I'm living with someone who knows they are dying. Who doesn't feel well enough to do much more than walk a few feet every couple of hours. Yea, it's tough seeing that. It's depressing and difficult. It sucks and this is only going to get worse. I must try not to dwell on that. Moments present themselves all too briefly now. The best I can do for him is to try to make those moments … less shitty.

This always lifts my spirits. Who knows, maybe I can get him dancing. Imagine that.
For all you non-Heads, try to get past the vocals. (hehe)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vK2dcofd-ew

"I don't want to fade away ..."

Whenever I hear Clapton, circa Derek and the Dominos or Cream, I think of Kathy S. She and I were besties in high school. We were inseparable, joined at the hip by teenage angst. She was the youngest of four, I the oldest of three. It was cool to stay at her house to experience a different family dynamic. Her two older brothers wore their hair long and both were intellects and naturalists and hippies. Rick and Joe shared a bedroom next to hers and from there we would borrow their albums and play them over and over and over. We would write down lyrics on the brown paper bag covers of our text books and in the margins of our spiral notebooks. We both worshipped Jackson Browne and wrote really awful poetry inspired by our unpopularity and unrequited love. Rick was studying to become a veterinarian and once Kathy stole pills from his room thinking they were Quaaludes. They were horse tranquilizers. She convulsed, was rushed to the ER, and got her stomach pumped. Her near-death experience yielded a three-month grounding, and only enhanced her poetry a tad. I still have notes we exchanged and poems we penned, stored in a box that I made in middle school Wood Shop. I lost touch with Kathy years ago, but am reminded of her in songs and whenever I see a reference to Yeats. He was one of our favorites. We were trying to be intellects, too. You try to be a lot of things in high school. I wonder if we ever stop trying.

I will share these with my 15 year old daughter. I know we will both pick them apart with abandon while enjoying belly laughs. I could stand a good belly laugh. Read at your own risk. Hope your urge to chuckle trumps your urge to vomit.