I just learned this morning that my other grandmother (my Dad's mom), died last night. She was my last living grandparent.
I had just learned yesterday morning that she had gone to the hospital. It all happened so quickly. She died peacefully.
I want to write more, but I can't think very well right now.
Showing posts with label it's so hard to say goodbye. Show all posts
Showing posts with label it's so hard to say goodbye. Show all posts
Thursday, July 23, 2015
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
AB, rest in peace
On Sunday, three fire trucks and an ambulance pulled up to the house across the street. Firemen and paramedics entered the house, and a few minutes later, carried our neighbor Angelo to the ambulance on a stretcher, still pumping at his chest.
It did not look promising.
I learned later that evening that Angelo had died, of a heart attack.
Angelo and his wife, Jean, bought their house when it was first built, in the 1950s. They have been our neighbors since we moved in across the street from them, over 20 years ago. They are old enough to be my, or my husband's, parents.
They are wonderful neighbors, kind, friendly, not nosy or intrusive, yet they keep an eye on the house when we are not here. They share oranges from their trees with us each year and back when they used to go out to farmers markets more frequently, they would sometimes bring us peaches or apricots. They wave when we walk by and they are sitting on their porch. They smile when we are watering our lawn or getting into our car and they are bringing out the recycle bin. They buy girl scout cookies and Scout-O-Rama tickets when the neighbor kids sell them. They chat with us when we have time, and smile and wave when we don't.
They have many adult children. The ones who live close by have, for years, come for Sunday dinner, often bringing the grandkids.
Angelo and Jean kept their yard looking beautiful for many years until they could no longer physically handle it. They loved the flowers they planted each spring. They loved planting, watering, watching things grow. They cried when their big beautiful old tree in the front yard died and had to be cut down.
Over the past couple of years, both Angelo and Jean have had some health issues. Their wonderful grown kids have taken turns taking care of mom and dad. It is obvious they love their parents very much. They take care of the yard, although they do not plant as many flowers as their parents did. They take their parents shopping, help them cook, hang out with them on the front porch. They bring the grandkids to visit. Some of the kids come from very far away. One lives in Hawaii. She comes and stays for weeks at a time.
The kids are good neighbors, too. Friendly, but not nosy or intrusive. They wave and smile, and chat with us when we have time, just like their parents.
Angelo was a good man. He loved his wife and his many kids and grandkids. He was smart and funny. He was a good neighbor. The world was a better place with him in it.
Goodbye, Angelo. May your soul find peace and contentment.
It did not look promising.
I learned later that evening that Angelo had died, of a heart attack.
Angelo and his wife, Jean, bought their house when it was first built, in the 1950s. They have been our neighbors since we moved in across the street from them, over 20 years ago. They are old enough to be my, or my husband's, parents.
They are wonderful neighbors, kind, friendly, not nosy or intrusive, yet they keep an eye on the house when we are not here. They share oranges from their trees with us each year and back when they used to go out to farmers markets more frequently, they would sometimes bring us peaches or apricots. They wave when we walk by and they are sitting on their porch. They smile when we are watering our lawn or getting into our car and they are bringing out the recycle bin. They buy girl scout cookies and Scout-O-Rama tickets when the neighbor kids sell them. They chat with us when we have time, and smile and wave when we don't.
They have many adult children. The ones who live close by have, for years, come for Sunday dinner, often bringing the grandkids.
Angelo and Jean kept their yard looking beautiful for many years until they could no longer physically handle it. They loved the flowers they planted each spring. They loved planting, watering, watching things grow. They cried when their big beautiful old tree in the front yard died and had to be cut down.
Over the past couple of years, both Angelo and Jean have had some health issues. Their wonderful grown kids have taken turns taking care of mom and dad. It is obvious they love their parents very much. They take care of the yard, although they do not plant as many flowers as their parents did. They take their parents shopping, help them cook, hang out with them on the front porch. They bring the grandkids to visit. Some of the kids come from very far away. One lives in Hawaii. She comes and stays for weeks at a time.
The kids are good neighbors, too. Friendly, but not nosy or intrusive. They wave and smile, and chat with us when we have time, just like their parents.
Angelo was a good man. He loved his wife and his many kids and grandkids. He was smart and funny. He was a good neighbor. The world was a better place with him in it.
Goodbye, Angelo. May your soul find peace and contentment.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
RKT, 1972-2013, rest in peace
My friend killed himself.
I just learned yesterday afternoon that he killed himself a few weeks ago.
I didn't see it coming, even though I was probably one of the last persons to talk to him.
His daughter is friends with my daughter. We've known them 6 years. He was divorced from his kids' mom. She had been ... Away, for a while. But she recently came back into the kids' lives.
He had sole custody and had been the kids' only parent for years. But he worked a lot. His boss demanded long hours and Saturdays. And so at first he was happy to have her back in the kids' lives, giving them another adult to turn to. But then after a while, she seemed to be working hard to turn the kids against him. Even though she had been gone for years, she had the kids convinced that she was the better parent, the one who loved them more, the one they should stay with. They spent less and less time with their dad.
She let the kids run wild. He set limits. You can guess which parent they preferred... And which parent they were increasingly angry with...
He talked to me one day, about his legal rights, obligations, options. I can't say, here, specifically what we talked about. Client confidentiality and all that. Looking back, he was more agitated than I'd ever seen him, but it was understandable, under the circumstances he described.
We also talked the next day, as friends. He called to let me know how things were going. He talked about how frustrated he was, to have sacrificed so much to be the good dad, always putting the kids' needs first, working overtime to buy them Christmas gifts, while the ex just disappeared for 10 years. And then to have her reappear and have the kids preferring to be with her. He was understandably hurt and angry. He loved his kids, but felt like they were turning against him. He felt rejected, hurt, angry, sad... He wondered if he was handling things properly, if he was doing all that he could do.
I listened a long while, and commiserated with him, told him his feelings were completely understandable. I told him that I was sure the kids would come to understand much more as they matured, that they are teenagers - notorious for being insensitive and self-centered and ungrateful - that the excitement of having a mom again would wear off as they started to see how often she "forgot" to buy groceries or pay the electric bill, that as they grew older they would realize what a great dad he is and that they never went without food or shelter or cool toys for Christmas, or love, when they were with him. I also told him I thought he was handling things well, doing a good job of taking care of his kids, that he was a good dad...
When we hung up, he seemed.... determined ... and ok, if not happy. Determined to do the best he could for the kids even if they seemed to resent him for it. Less agitated, though still frustrated.
The next day, he killed himself.
I will never know whether there were other burdens he hadn't shared, whether something else happened during that day that sent him too far down the path of despair, or whether I just missed the signs of his total despair and desperation. He certainly never said anything about feeling suicidal or about the kids being better off without him. As far as I can remember, there was no sign or feeling that he was giving up... but maybe I missed it....
Should I have tried harder, helped more? Was there anything at all I could have said or done that might have helped things go differently...? Should I have been giving him the number for a suicide hotline? Were the signs there and I just didn't see? I just don't know.
A couple of times over the past couple of weeks, I'd thought about calling him, but it wasn't unusual to go weeks or sometimes months without talking to him - we were both busy, and our main connection was our kids, and my daughter was out of town the past couple of weeks. It wouldn't have mattered, I guess. By the time I was thinking about calling him, a few days later, "just to check in," he was already dead.
Maybe if I'd been the kind of friend to call daily? But that would have felt like interfering, prying, being nosy, in the context of our parent-to-parent friendship. We were close enough to share our kid problems and dilmemmas, to ask each other for favors now and then, to hang out and share pizza occasionally while our kids hung out and played video games or went biking, but not the sort of buddies who call each other daily. Maybe I should have tried harder to be that kind of friend for him.
He was a good man. He worked hard. He was honest and kind and handsome. He was creative, inventive ... building things, photography, music... He loved his kids more than anything. He was kind to the people at his workplace; the customers loved him, thought of him as a friend or almost as family. He was a good Dad.
His passing has left a hole in my heart.
I hope the kids will be ok. I hope their mom will step up and be a good mom. The kids are going to need her.
----
Goodbye, Robert. May your soul find contentment, peace, and love.
I just learned yesterday afternoon that he killed himself a few weeks ago.
I didn't see it coming, even though I was probably one of the last persons to talk to him.
His daughter is friends with my daughter. We've known them 6 years. He was divorced from his kids' mom. She had been ... Away, for a while. But she recently came back into the kids' lives.
He had sole custody and had been the kids' only parent for years. But he worked a lot. His boss demanded long hours and Saturdays. And so at first he was happy to have her back in the kids' lives, giving them another adult to turn to. But then after a while, she seemed to be working hard to turn the kids against him. Even though she had been gone for years, she had the kids convinced that she was the better parent, the one who loved them more, the one they should stay with. They spent less and less time with their dad.
She let the kids run wild. He set limits. You can guess which parent they preferred... And which parent they were increasingly angry with...
He talked to me one day, about his legal rights, obligations, options. I can't say, here, specifically what we talked about. Client confidentiality and all that. Looking back, he was more agitated than I'd ever seen him, but it was understandable, under the circumstances he described.
We also talked the next day, as friends. He called to let me know how things were going. He talked about how frustrated he was, to have sacrificed so much to be the good dad, always putting the kids' needs first, working overtime to buy them Christmas gifts, while the ex just disappeared for 10 years. And then to have her reappear and have the kids preferring to be with her. He was understandably hurt and angry. He loved his kids, but felt like they were turning against him. He felt rejected, hurt, angry, sad... He wondered if he was handling things properly, if he was doing all that he could do.
I listened a long while, and commiserated with him, told him his feelings were completely understandable. I told him that I was sure the kids would come to understand much more as they matured, that they are teenagers - notorious for being insensitive and self-centered and ungrateful - that the excitement of having a mom again would wear off as they started to see how often she "forgot" to buy groceries or pay the electric bill, that as they grew older they would realize what a great dad he is and that they never went without food or shelter or cool toys for Christmas, or love, when they were with him. I also told him I thought he was handling things well, doing a good job of taking care of his kids, that he was a good dad...
When we hung up, he seemed.... determined ... and ok, if not happy. Determined to do the best he could for the kids even if they seemed to resent him for it. Less agitated, though still frustrated.
The next day, he killed himself.
I will never know whether there were other burdens he hadn't shared, whether something else happened during that day that sent him too far down the path of despair, or whether I just missed the signs of his total despair and desperation. He certainly never said anything about feeling suicidal or about the kids being better off without him. As far as I can remember, there was no sign or feeling that he was giving up... but maybe I missed it....
Should I have tried harder, helped more? Was there anything at all I could have said or done that might have helped things go differently...? Should I have been giving him the number for a suicide hotline? Were the signs there and I just didn't see? I just don't know.
A couple of times over the past couple of weeks, I'd thought about calling him, but it wasn't unusual to go weeks or sometimes months without talking to him - we were both busy, and our main connection was our kids, and my daughter was out of town the past couple of weeks. It wouldn't have mattered, I guess. By the time I was thinking about calling him, a few days later, "just to check in," he was already dead.
Maybe if I'd been the kind of friend to call daily? But that would have felt like interfering, prying, being nosy, in the context of our parent-to-parent friendship. We were close enough to share our kid problems and dilmemmas, to ask each other for favors now and then, to hang out and share pizza occasionally while our kids hung out and played video games or went biking, but not the sort of buddies who call each other daily. Maybe I should have tried harder to be that kind of friend for him.
He was a good man. He worked hard. He was honest and kind and handsome. He was creative, inventive ... building things, photography, music... He loved his kids more than anything. He was kind to the people at his workplace; the customers loved him, thought of him as a friend or almost as family. He was a good Dad.
His passing has left a hole in my heart.
I hope the kids will be ok. I hope their mom will step up and be a good mom. The kids are going to need her.
----
Goodbye, Robert. May your soul find contentment, peace, and love.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
A Too-Short Life
My Aunt will start the new year by burying her youngest child. Suddenly my problems seem insignificant.
I got word yesterday morning that my Cousin - my Dad's youngest sister's child (the youngest of her three daughters) - died suddenly. Her live-in boyfriend returned home from work on Friday and found her on the couch, dead.
There was no sign of forced entry into her home and there were no marks on her body, nor alcohol / pills lying around that would indicate any sort of violence or suicide. According to the coroner, she looked "peaceful."
I am ashamed to admit that I did not know this particular cousin well, and so I don't even know exactly how old she is. (I mean, "was.") (God, that's hard to write). She is (was) quite a few years younger than I am, and I have always lived hundreds or thousands of miles away from her. My Dad was not particularly close to his youngest sister, either, and so we did not visit with her often as my cousins and I were growing up. There is no anger or estrangement, just not a particularly close relationship.
But I do remember visiting my Aunt when I was about 35, and this particular Cousin of mine was in college at the time. I was driving through the town my Aunt lived in, and stopped to visit for a while. My Cousin was at my Aunt's house with a few of her friends that day, and we all had dinner together. I am guessing she is (was) now in her early 30's.
I remember that she was beautiful, vivacious, and friendly. I remember that she laughed a lot with her friends and family, that day that I visited. I remember the obvious love between her and my Aunt.
As a Mom, I cannot even imagine the sadness and despair my Aunt must now be feeling. To lose her youngest child, at a too-young age... It hurts just to think about it.
I got word yesterday morning that my Cousin - my Dad's youngest sister's child (the youngest of her three daughters) - died suddenly. Her live-in boyfriend returned home from work on Friday and found her on the couch, dead.
There was no sign of forced entry into her home and there were no marks on her body, nor alcohol / pills lying around that would indicate any sort of violence or suicide. According to the coroner, she looked "peaceful."
I am ashamed to admit that I did not know this particular cousin well, and so I don't even know exactly how old she is. (I mean, "was.") (God, that's hard to write). She is (was) quite a few years younger than I am, and I have always lived hundreds or thousands of miles away from her. My Dad was not particularly close to his youngest sister, either, and so we did not visit with her often as my cousins and I were growing up. There is no anger or estrangement, just not a particularly close relationship.
But I do remember visiting my Aunt when I was about 35, and this particular Cousin of mine was in college at the time. I was driving through the town my Aunt lived in, and stopped to visit for a while. My Cousin was at my Aunt's house with a few of her friends that day, and we all had dinner together. I am guessing she is (was) now in her early 30's.
I remember that she was beautiful, vivacious, and friendly. I remember that she laughed a lot with her friends and family, that day that I visited. I remember the obvious love between her and my Aunt.
As a Mom, I cannot even imagine the sadness and despair my Aunt must now be feeling. To lose her youngest child, at a too-young age... It hurts just to think about it.
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Christmas 2012
My kids made a gingerbread house.
My daughter ate the gingerbread tree already. She said it was delicious. It looks delicious, doesn't it? (Good thing I got a picture first.)
We also decorated our tree. And put the train around the base. And bought presents and wrapped them and put them under the tree....
And I put a couple of decorations out front, to cheer up our house for the neighbors...
Check out the refurbished newspaper vending machine that my husband converted to use as our mailbox. The plastic light-up snowman is a nice touch, don't you think?
I sent Christmas cards to a few folks.
I decorated the mantel and our green m&m...
I was hoping that if I gave her my duster, she'd use it. (So far, not working...)
We've been to a holiday party or two. And had lots of fun, too, actually.
But something is missing this year. Our pal Sparky.
This is a photo of him from last winter, when we visited the snow. He was notoriously hard to photograph -- as soon as he saw the camera, he'd come toward you trying to sniff and lick the camera. But here he is in all his fluffy glory.
He always loved the snow. And damp grass in the springtime. And the mountains. Life just isn't the same without him.
But life does go on, and it's Christmas, and I love it as always. The decorations, the baking, the once-a-year Christmas music, the lights, the gifts, the festive atmosphere, the celebrations with friends and family, the love in the air ... I look forward to it every year, no matter what.
Merry Christmas, everyone.
My daughter ate the gingerbread tree already. She said it was delicious. It looks delicious, doesn't it? (Good thing I got a picture first.)
We also decorated our tree. And put the train around the base. And bought presents and wrapped them and put them under the tree....
And I put a couple of decorations out front, to cheer up our house for the neighbors...
Check out the refurbished newspaper vending machine that my husband converted to use as our mailbox. The plastic light-up snowman is a nice touch, don't you think?
I sent Christmas cards to a few folks.
I decorated the mantel and our green m&m...
I was hoping that if I gave her my duster, she'd use it. (So far, not working...)
We've been to a holiday party or two. And had lots of fun, too, actually.
But something is missing this year. Our pal Sparky.
This is a photo of him from last winter, when we visited the snow. He was notoriously hard to photograph -- as soon as he saw the camera, he'd come toward you trying to sniff and lick the camera. But here he is in all his fluffy glory.
He always loved the snow. And damp grass in the springtime. And the mountains. Life just isn't the same without him.
But life does go on, and it's Christmas, and I love it as always. The decorations, the baking, the once-a-year Christmas music, the lights, the gifts, the festive atmosphere, the celebrations with friends and family, the love in the air ... I look forward to it every year, no matter what.
Merry Christmas, everyone.
Friday, November 30, 2012
Update, just in case I have any readers left...
Since the last time I posted, here is a quick summary of what has happened in my life:
Work:
* Lots of depositions have been taken, of witnesses and experts.
* Lots of disclosures and discovery documents have been drafted and updated.
* Numerous emails, letters, motions, and other litigation-related written volleys have flown across my desk and the desks of opposing counsel.
* Numerous telehone calls, with clients and with opposing counsel.
* A couple of court hearings.
* One (unsuccessful) settlement conference - it is hard to settle when the other side refuses to budge from their "$0" number.
* One (unsuccessful) attempt to submit an official bid in response to an RFP from the State for mediators. I didn't receive the required insurance documents in time. It didn't help that my insurer promised them weeks before, then did not timely deliver. But the bottom line is that I should have followed up sometime before the day before the bid was due.
* Numerous job applications and a couple of interviews. No bites so far.
Family:
* My daughter finished her first swim team season, having improved her "personal best" times substantially, and started her first-ever high school basketball season. Turns out high school basketball is a lot more intense than junior high. She is exhausted after every practice. Her first game is this weekend. I am supposed to run the time clock and I am terrified of making that damn (LOUD) buzzer go off at the wrong times.
* My son got off to a good start in school this year, with his teacher saying he is a great kid and diligent worker in class (first time ever!!). However, yesterday he complained the teacher was mean to him -- which means he probably did something annoying and got called out for it.
* Our dog, Sparky, died. He had been losing weight over the summer, and we took him to the vet. After several expensive vet visits, they figured out he had "tick fever." They put him on a lengthy regimen of antibiotics and steroids, but he continued to lose weight initially. He was skin and bones for a while, but by October he had recovered from the tick fever and was feeling happy again, and he had regained most of the weight. Then he died suddenly, in the space of hours on October 21, from "bloat." I had never heard of it before my poor dog died of it, but according to at least one web site, it is the second leading killer of dogs. We are all so devastated by Sparky's death... He was such a good friend... I can't believe we didn't know to take him to the vet right away; we thought he just had gas and that it would pass, as it does with people. It doesn't. If you own a dog and don't know what bloat is, you need to learn about it RIGHT NOW. Click on the link.
* My husband got placed on administrative leave from his job just before Thanksgiving. So far, they haven't even told him exactly why. They are "investigating." So now he is hanging around the house all day every day and I love him dearly but, being the somewhat introverted person that I am, I really crave my "personal time" that I used to have. So now I stay up until the wee hours of the morning just so I can have some quiet time in the house after everyone is asleep. And then I don't get enough sleep and I'm tired and cranky all the time. And my husband is (understandably) stressed. And so our household is a little less than fun right now.
* We had Thanksgiving dinner at our wonderful friend Sheri's house because our oven is currently not working. We just got the stupid thing in 2003, and it's a brand that is supposed to be good, and although it wasn't the fanciest model, it wasn't the bottom of the barrel model either. It should last longer than 9 years! So we either need to get it repaired or replaced. Meanwhile, we gave thanks that our friend's oven was working so that we had a wonderful home in which to cook Turkey and other Thanksgiving deliciousness and share a good meal with friends and family.
* I listened to "Alice's Restaurant" on the radio on the way to Sheri's house on Thanksgiving day and laughed for the first time since learning that my husband was on "administrative leave." Here is a link to a video of Arlo playing the song live (the embedding feature is disabled, sorry!):
http://youtu.be/5_7C0QGkiVo
-----
There's more. These are just the "highlights" (or "lowlights, in some cases).
-----
None of this explains why I haven't posted. I just haven't felt up to writing anything that wasn't necessary for work. I also got an iPad for my birthday. It sucks up a lot of my time playing stupid games and writing email and surfing around on Facebook while I watch TV in the evenings. Time I used to spend writing blog posts. So blame Apple, if you miss me. :)
Work:
* Lots of depositions have been taken, of witnesses and experts.
* Lots of disclosures and discovery documents have been drafted and updated.
* Numerous emails, letters, motions, and other litigation-related written volleys have flown across my desk and the desks of opposing counsel.
* Numerous telehone calls, with clients and with opposing counsel.
* A couple of court hearings.
* One (unsuccessful) settlement conference - it is hard to settle when the other side refuses to budge from their "$0" number.
* One (unsuccessful) attempt to submit an official bid in response to an RFP from the State for mediators. I didn't receive the required insurance documents in time. It didn't help that my insurer promised them weeks before, then did not timely deliver. But the bottom line is that I should have followed up sometime before the day before the bid was due.
* Numerous job applications and a couple of interviews. No bites so far.
Family:
* My daughter finished her first swim team season, having improved her "personal best" times substantially, and started her first-ever high school basketball season. Turns out high school basketball is a lot more intense than junior high. She is exhausted after every practice. Her first game is this weekend. I am supposed to run the time clock and I am terrified of making that damn (LOUD) buzzer go off at the wrong times.
* My son got off to a good start in school this year, with his teacher saying he is a great kid and diligent worker in class (first time ever!!). However, yesterday he complained the teacher was mean to him -- which means he probably did something annoying and got called out for it.
* Our dog, Sparky, died. He had been losing weight over the summer, and we took him to the vet. After several expensive vet visits, they figured out he had "tick fever." They put him on a lengthy regimen of antibiotics and steroids, but he continued to lose weight initially. He was skin and bones for a while, but by October he had recovered from the tick fever and was feeling happy again, and he had regained most of the weight. Then he died suddenly, in the space of hours on October 21, from "bloat." I had never heard of it before my poor dog died of it, but according to at least one web site, it is the second leading killer of dogs. We are all so devastated by Sparky's death... He was such a good friend... I can't believe we didn't know to take him to the vet right away; we thought he just had gas and that it would pass, as it does with people. It doesn't. If you own a dog and don't know what bloat is, you need to learn about it RIGHT NOW. Click on the link.
* My husband got placed on administrative leave from his job just before Thanksgiving. So far, they haven't even told him exactly why. They are "investigating." So now he is hanging around the house all day every day and I love him dearly but, being the somewhat introverted person that I am, I really crave my "personal time" that I used to have. So now I stay up until the wee hours of the morning just so I can have some quiet time in the house after everyone is asleep. And then I don't get enough sleep and I'm tired and cranky all the time. And my husband is (understandably) stressed. And so our household is a little less than fun right now.
* We had Thanksgiving dinner at our wonderful friend Sheri's house because our oven is currently not working. We just got the stupid thing in 2003, and it's a brand that is supposed to be good, and although it wasn't the fanciest model, it wasn't the bottom of the barrel model either. It should last longer than 9 years! So we either need to get it repaired or replaced. Meanwhile, we gave thanks that our friend's oven was working so that we had a wonderful home in which to cook Turkey and other Thanksgiving deliciousness and share a good meal with friends and family.
* I listened to "Alice's Restaurant" on the radio on the way to Sheri's house on Thanksgiving day and laughed for the first time since learning that my husband was on "administrative leave." Here is a link to a video of Arlo playing the song live (the embedding feature is disabled, sorry!):
http://youtu.be/5_7C0QGkiVo
-----
There's more. These are just the "highlights" (or "lowlights, in some cases).
-----
None of this explains why I haven't posted. I just haven't felt up to writing anything that wasn't necessary for work. I also got an iPad for my birthday. It sucks up a lot of my time playing stupid games and writing email and surfing around on Facebook while I watch TV in the evenings. Time I used to spend writing blog posts. So blame Apple, if you miss me. :)
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Ten Years
On this day in 2002, three people I loved died. It wasn't this date, though -- It was January 20. But it was the Sunday of the MLK day weekend.
Teri was one of my best friends. We originally met because she was a teacher at the school where my husband taught. She invited us for dinner with her and her husband, and it took off from there.
Teri had an upbeat, positive outlook on life, but in a practical sort of way, without being sappy or annoying about it. When I was in a good mood, she was fun to share it with. When I was in a bad mood, she knew just how to help. She was not one to say, "There, there, it will all be fine!" without further analysis. Instead, she would listen carefully, understand, and then encourage positive action to make things better.
She would call me often, sometimes to ask for advice or a favor; other times just to talk and "catch up."
Sometimes, she would call me at a "bad" time when I was feeling stressed out and overwhelmed and frazzled and, well, just not in the mood for a telephone call. It was almost as if she knew I needed her. Because I loved her, I would push away my impulse to say, "I can't talk now. I have to go." And we would talk. And I would feel better as we talked. And by the end of the telephone call, I would feel calmer, happier, more ready to face whatever problems the day had thrown my way.
She invited my husband and me to the "Magic Castle" in California -- a members-only club for magicians, to give them a venue to practice their new tricks. Somehow she had a connection who could get us all in, so we went. It was fantastic and amazing. We went from room to room seeing different acts, from card tricks to pulling doves out of a hat to vanishing objects and floating assistants -- all incredible -- and enjoying delicious food and good wine.
We started a book club, and read a lot of great books and talked about them while enjoying more good wine and great food.
We hosted baby showers for each other, and she asked me to be a part of the baby-naming ceremony at her synagogue after her first child, a girl, was born. The ceremony was fascinating. I'm not Jewish, so it was the first time I'd ever been to synagogue, and the first baby-naming ceremony I'd ever seen. I loved it. She named the baby "Maya."
As our babies grew into toddlers, we would get together and let the kids play - they would paint or color or play with toddler toys. My daughter was about a year and a half older than hers, but they got along reasonably well and seemed to enjoy seeing each other. Maya was a bright baby, with wise and beautiful big brown eyes. She was friendly and outgoing and happy.
Teri's husband, Efrain, was a soft-spoken, somewhat shy person around adults, but he could entertain a child for hours with nothing more than a ball or a stick and his incredible imagination and sense of fun. Perhaps because he grew up without much in the way of material goods in Mexico, he had learned to make the most of what he did have, and to make it fun.
He had such patience with babies and toddlers. When my daughter was learning to walk, he'd walk with her all over the house, stooped over so she could reach his hand, never complaining that his back hurt or that he wanted to sit down. She'd smile and smile at her accomplishment: walking with Efrain, showing him treasures in every room.
We loved this family, almost as if they were a part of our own.
And then it all came to an end. Too suddenly. Too soon.
On Friday, January 18, 2002, I arrived home after pulling an all-nighter at work to complete a project, and I faced a weekend of work, too, to finish the next project. I was tired, and overwhelmed, and stressed out, and resenting the fact that work was going to ruin what should have been a three-day holiday weekend.
Teri called, wanting to get together over the weekend, and I had to say I couldn't. We talked a while, but probably a shorter time that we should have. I felt calmer and happier when we hung up, but not quite ready to face the day. So I skipped our daughters' class that day. We had both signed our kids up for a community "play" class, so we could talk while our kids played. I took a nap instead.
I may never forgive myself for skipping that class, and for rejecting her offer to see each other that weekend, because I never saw my friend again.
I worked all day Saturday, and all day Sunday. I worked all Sunday night, and got home Monday morning.
On Monday, I learned that Teri, her husband Efrain, and their daughter Maya had been killed in a car crash on Sunday evening. I cried a lot and kept repeating "Nooooo, no, no, no, no, no, no, noooo" over and over. I wanted to make it un-happen, but I couldn't.
I wanted to turn back the clock to a time when life was good, and beautiful, and happy... to a time when the only petty thing I had to complain about was work. I wanted to turn back the clock and un-hear the death story (surely this couldn't be reality, could it?), turn back the clock still further, and accept Teri's offer to get together over the weekend, or at least call her on the phone on Sunday to delay her departure from home.... anything so that she would not have been where she was at the death-time, so that death, in the form of a drunk driver, would not have taken her, and her beautiful family, from me.... from all of us.
A drunk driver, Francisco Romero, had been driving his BMW SUV southbound at a speed of more than 100 miles per hour on Pima Road (speed limit 55) near its intersection with the ironically named Happy Valley Road, in Scottsdale, Arizona. He hit a dip in the road at the intersection and his SUV literally sailed through the air and across the yellow middle line, and hit Teri's little Subaru car, which was northbound nearing the same intersection, head on. The SUV bounced off my friends' Subaru, and hit the pickup truck driving behind them.
Teri and her daughter, Maya, were pronounced dead at the scene. Teri's husband, Efrain, died at the hospital a short while later.
The couple in the pickup truck behind Teri's car were also severely injured. A passenger in the drunk's SUV was killed, and another severely injured. The drunk caused a lot of heartache in one blast of stupidity - four dead and three injured, in less than one minute. He was later sentenced to 31 years in prison for those crimes.
Maya would have turned two that week. She was scheduled for a big birthday party with chocolate cake and ice cream. She had not yet tasted chocolate. She never would.
Maya and Teri had visited me at home a week or two before. Maya and my daughter had painted and I had admired their art work. Before leaving, Maya handed me her painting and said firmly, "You keep." I did. I still have it. She'll never paint me another one.
She was such a bright little girl, friendly and enthusiastic and beautiful. Words like "tragic" or "awful" don't even begin to capture it...
The worst thing about losing three dear friends at once was that grieving was ... still is ... so difficult. You start to recover your breath from the shock of losing one friend, and then the memory of the loss of another punches you right in the gut. I couldn't breathe properly for weeks.... and it still takes my breath away today if I'm not careful.
I'd start to dry my tears about Maya and then, Efrain.... sweet, kind, creative, fun-loving Efrain. He was from Mexico, had come to this country on a green card, worked hard, studied hard, earned his citizenship, and then married Teri. His beautiful daughter was the light of his life. When the paramedics arrived at the accident scene, his first thought, despite the pain he must surely have been suffering, was his baby girl in the back seat. "Take care of Maya first," he told them. They didn't have the heart to tell him she was already dead.
I'd start to breathe again and then I'd remember... Teri... she's gone, too... and the wind would be sucked out of me once more. My book club buddy. My confidant. My fun friend. My fellow mom. My massage therapist. A few weeks before Teri died, I had been in a very minor car accident, and had pulled some muscles in my back. She was a certified massage therapist, and she insisted I let her use her healing skills. She was good; the sessions helped a lot.
At the last session, a week before she died, something prompted her to tell me how much she valued our friendship, enjoyed the fact that our families got along so well together, our kids could play together, but that she really loved how we could just talk... Thank God for Teri's openness. I was able to tell her that I loved her, too, was so thankful for her presence in my life... I wouldn't have another chance to do that.
Some memories brought a tiny bit of comfort, a sense that at least my friends had achieved some measure of happiness and contentment before the terrible loss.
His whole life, Efrain had always wanted a yellow VW Bug, like the toy car he had played with as a child. Teri and Efrain had shared one car for as long as I'd known them, but shortly before the accident, she had managed to save enough money, and had bought him his dream car as a birthday gift.
Teri had wanted nothing more than to have a child. She had struggled for years to get pregnant. Maya was her dream child, and I'm so thankful she had the chance to have her baby....
They had recently purchased a home with a pool, and adopted a dog.
And Teri and Efrain were so much in love, with each other and with their baby girl. They were grateful each day for the good life they were able to live.
And as I daydream about the happiness they had found it hits me again, the horrible, awful, unnecessary, and completely unfair loss of such good lives ...
I went to the funeral, in California. The funeral parlor was packed with mourners, each with his or her own special sense of loss, yet I could not imagine a loss more profound than the loss Teri and Efrain's parents faced: not only the loss of their child and daughter- or son-in-law, but also of their dear sweet Maya, their darling and long-awaited grandchild, before she even turned two. Parents should not have to bury their children, much less their granddaughter... How does one even begin to accept that such a travesty is true?
Seeing the coffins was another punch in the gut. Two regular sized plain wooden boxes, and one tiny one for Maya. It was just so wrong. It felt like we were burying them alive; they couldn't really be dead, could they?
I stood in the rain with tears streaming down my face. I was glad for the rain, for the vast gray, gloomy clouds and the cold, damp day. Sunshine and singing birds would have been unbearable.
The cemetery was beautiful. Grassy rolling hills, trees, simple flat grave markers on the ground ... unobtrusive, simple ... one could look around and maybe begin to feel a small bit of peace.
Words were spoken over the coffins. People stood, numb and stone-faced or teary-eyed ... or cried and hugged each other ... or sat in limp helplessness in the mud against a tree .... while others - mothers and aunts and grandmothers - wailed and screamed "NO!" and flung themselves on the coffin. Your choice. So many ways to feel grief....
There was an awful racket as the giant machines were revved up and brought over for the task of lifting each of the coffins and lowering them into the giant hole.
The three coffins were lowered into the gaping pit. Two large ones, and the smaller one between.
The pit was not beautiful. It was breathtakingly awful. Too big. Too deep. Too dark for my friends to endure.
And then, as is apparently the tradition at a Jewish funeral, each of the attendees was handed the shovel in turn to begin the process, which the machines would later finish, of filling the giant grave. I almost couldn't bear it, putting that heavy, rain-soaked earth on top of my dear friends (surely they're not really dead, are they?) but I did and once again the breath was sucked out of me as I realized the finality of it all. They are not coming back.
Someone poured a jar of beach sand in with the mud. Teri had always loved the beach... The thought, unwelcome, "as if it matters now."
No one knew quite what to say or do. Nothing could make any of it any more bearable. So I stood, and cried. Someone came to me for a hug, but I felt no comfort. There is no comfort at such a time for such a loss. Not from humans, nor from God.
Teri was one of my best friends. We originally met because she was a teacher at the school where my husband taught. She invited us for dinner with her and her husband, and it took off from there.
Teri had an upbeat, positive outlook on life, but in a practical sort of way, without being sappy or annoying about it. When I was in a good mood, she was fun to share it with. When I was in a bad mood, she knew just how to help. She was not one to say, "There, there, it will all be fine!" without further analysis. Instead, she would listen carefully, understand, and then encourage positive action to make things better.
She would call me often, sometimes to ask for advice or a favor; other times just to talk and "catch up."
Sometimes, she would call me at a "bad" time when I was feeling stressed out and overwhelmed and frazzled and, well, just not in the mood for a telephone call. It was almost as if she knew I needed her. Because I loved her, I would push away my impulse to say, "I can't talk now. I have to go." And we would talk. And I would feel better as we talked. And by the end of the telephone call, I would feel calmer, happier, more ready to face whatever problems the day had thrown my way.
She invited my husband and me to the "Magic Castle" in California -- a members-only club for magicians, to give them a venue to practice their new tricks. Somehow she had a connection who could get us all in, so we went. It was fantastic and amazing. We went from room to room seeing different acts, from card tricks to pulling doves out of a hat to vanishing objects and floating assistants -- all incredible -- and enjoying delicious food and good wine.
We started a book club, and read a lot of great books and talked about them while enjoying more good wine and great food.
We hosted baby showers for each other, and she asked me to be a part of the baby-naming ceremony at her synagogue after her first child, a girl, was born. The ceremony was fascinating. I'm not Jewish, so it was the first time I'd ever been to synagogue, and the first baby-naming ceremony I'd ever seen. I loved it. She named the baby "Maya."
As our babies grew into toddlers, we would get together and let the kids play - they would paint or color or play with toddler toys. My daughter was about a year and a half older than hers, but they got along reasonably well and seemed to enjoy seeing each other. Maya was a bright baby, with wise and beautiful big brown eyes. She was friendly and outgoing and happy.
Teri's husband, Efrain, was a soft-spoken, somewhat shy person around adults, but he could entertain a child for hours with nothing more than a ball or a stick and his incredible imagination and sense of fun. Perhaps because he grew up without much in the way of material goods in Mexico, he had learned to make the most of what he did have, and to make it fun.
He had such patience with babies and toddlers. When my daughter was learning to walk, he'd walk with her all over the house, stooped over so she could reach his hand, never complaining that his back hurt or that he wanted to sit down. She'd smile and smile at her accomplishment: walking with Efrain, showing him treasures in every room.
We loved this family, almost as if they were a part of our own.
And then it all came to an end. Too suddenly. Too soon.
On Friday, January 18, 2002, I arrived home after pulling an all-nighter at work to complete a project, and I faced a weekend of work, too, to finish the next project. I was tired, and overwhelmed, and stressed out, and resenting the fact that work was going to ruin what should have been a three-day holiday weekend.
Teri called, wanting to get together over the weekend, and I had to say I couldn't. We talked a while, but probably a shorter time that we should have. I felt calmer and happier when we hung up, but not quite ready to face the day. So I skipped our daughters' class that day. We had both signed our kids up for a community "play" class, so we could talk while our kids played. I took a nap instead.
I may never forgive myself for skipping that class, and for rejecting her offer to see each other that weekend, because I never saw my friend again.
I worked all day Saturday, and all day Sunday. I worked all Sunday night, and got home Monday morning.
On Monday, I learned that Teri, her husband Efrain, and their daughter Maya had been killed in a car crash on Sunday evening. I cried a lot and kept repeating "Nooooo, no, no, no, no, no, no, noooo" over and over. I wanted to make it un-happen, but I couldn't.
I wanted to turn back the clock to a time when life was good, and beautiful, and happy... to a time when the only petty thing I had to complain about was work. I wanted to turn back the clock and un-hear the death story (surely this couldn't be reality, could it?), turn back the clock still further, and accept Teri's offer to get together over the weekend, or at least call her on the phone on Sunday to delay her departure from home.... anything so that she would not have been where she was at the death-time, so that death, in the form of a drunk driver, would not have taken her, and her beautiful family, from me.... from all of us.
A drunk driver, Francisco Romero, had been driving his BMW SUV southbound at a speed of more than 100 miles per hour on Pima Road (speed limit 55) near its intersection with the ironically named Happy Valley Road, in Scottsdale, Arizona. He hit a dip in the road at the intersection and his SUV literally sailed through the air and across the yellow middle line, and hit Teri's little Subaru car, which was northbound nearing the same intersection, head on. The SUV bounced off my friends' Subaru, and hit the pickup truck driving behind them.
Teri and her daughter, Maya, were pronounced dead at the scene. Teri's husband, Efrain, died at the hospital a short while later.
The couple in the pickup truck behind Teri's car were also severely injured. A passenger in the drunk's SUV was killed, and another severely injured. The drunk caused a lot of heartache in one blast of stupidity - four dead and three injured, in less than one minute. He was later sentenced to 31 years in prison for those crimes.
Maya would have turned two that week. She was scheduled for a big birthday party with chocolate cake and ice cream. She had not yet tasted chocolate. She never would.
Maya and Teri had visited me at home a week or two before. Maya and my daughter had painted and I had admired their art work. Before leaving, Maya handed me her painting and said firmly, "You keep." I did. I still have it. She'll never paint me another one.
She was such a bright little girl, friendly and enthusiastic and beautiful. Words like "tragic" or "awful" don't even begin to capture it...
The worst thing about losing three dear friends at once was that grieving was ... still is ... so difficult. You start to recover your breath from the shock of losing one friend, and then the memory of the loss of another punches you right in the gut. I couldn't breathe properly for weeks.... and it still takes my breath away today if I'm not careful.
I'd start to dry my tears about Maya and then, Efrain.... sweet, kind, creative, fun-loving Efrain. He was from Mexico, had come to this country on a green card, worked hard, studied hard, earned his citizenship, and then married Teri. His beautiful daughter was the light of his life. When the paramedics arrived at the accident scene, his first thought, despite the pain he must surely have been suffering, was his baby girl in the back seat. "Take care of Maya first," he told them. They didn't have the heart to tell him she was already dead.
I'd start to breathe again and then I'd remember... Teri... she's gone, too... and the wind would be sucked out of me once more. My book club buddy. My confidant. My fun friend. My fellow mom. My massage therapist. A few weeks before Teri died, I had been in a very minor car accident, and had pulled some muscles in my back. She was a certified massage therapist, and she insisted I let her use her healing skills. She was good; the sessions helped a lot.
At the last session, a week before she died, something prompted her to tell me how much she valued our friendship, enjoyed the fact that our families got along so well together, our kids could play together, but that she really loved how we could just talk... Thank God for Teri's openness. I was able to tell her that I loved her, too, was so thankful for her presence in my life... I wouldn't have another chance to do that.
Some memories brought a tiny bit of comfort, a sense that at least my friends had achieved some measure of happiness and contentment before the terrible loss.
His whole life, Efrain had always wanted a yellow VW Bug, like the toy car he had played with as a child. Teri and Efrain had shared one car for as long as I'd known them, but shortly before the accident, she had managed to save enough money, and had bought him his dream car as a birthday gift.
Teri had wanted nothing more than to have a child. She had struggled for years to get pregnant. Maya was her dream child, and I'm so thankful she had the chance to have her baby....
They had recently purchased a home with a pool, and adopted a dog.
And Teri and Efrain were so much in love, with each other and with their baby girl. They were grateful each day for the good life they were able to live.
And as I daydream about the happiness they had found it hits me again, the horrible, awful, unnecessary, and completely unfair loss of such good lives ...
I went to the funeral, in California. The funeral parlor was packed with mourners, each with his or her own special sense of loss, yet I could not imagine a loss more profound than the loss Teri and Efrain's parents faced: not only the loss of their child and daughter- or son-in-law, but also of their dear sweet Maya, their darling and long-awaited grandchild, before she even turned two. Parents should not have to bury their children, much less their granddaughter... How does one even begin to accept that such a travesty is true?
Seeing the coffins was another punch in the gut. Two regular sized plain wooden boxes, and one tiny one for Maya. It was just so wrong. It felt like we were burying them alive; they couldn't really be dead, could they?
I stood in the rain with tears streaming down my face. I was glad for the rain, for the vast gray, gloomy clouds and the cold, damp day. Sunshine and singing birds would have been unbearable.
The cemetery was beautiful. Grassy rolling hills, trees, simple flat grave markers on the ground ... unobtrusive, simple ... one could look around and maybe begin to feel a small bit of peace.
Words were spoken over the coffins. People stood, numb and stone-faced or teary-eyed ... or cried and hugged each other ... or sat in limp helplessness in the mud against a tree .... while others - mothers and aunts and grandmothers - wailed and screamed "NO!" and flung themselves on the coffin. Your choice. So many ways to feel grief....
There was an awful racket as the giant machines were revved up and brought over for the task of lifting each of the coffins and lowering them into the giant hole.
The three coffins were lowered into the gaping pit. Two large ones, and the smaller one between.
The pit was not beautiful. It was breathtakingly awful. Too big. Too deep. Too dark for my friends to endure.
And then, as is apparently the tradition at a Jewish funeral, each of the attendees was handed the shovel in turn to begin the process, which the machines would later finish, of filling the giant grave. I almost couldn't bear it, putting that heavy, rain-soaked earth on top of my dear friends (surely they're not really dead, are they?) but I did and once again the breath was sucked out of me as I realized the finality of it all. They are not coming back.
Someone poured a jar of beach sand in with the mud. Teri had always loved the beach... The thought, unwelcome, "as if it matters now."
No one knew quite what to say or do. Nothing could make any of it any more bearable. So I stood, and cried. Someone came to me for a hug, but I felt no comfort. There is no comfort at such a time for such a loss. Not from humans, nor from God.
Monday, July 11, 2011
GIKC, 1924 - 2011
My Grandma died in May, just about exactly two years after my Grandpa died. (I never called them "Grandma" and "Grandpa," but that's what they'll be for purposes of semi-anonymity in this post.)
I miss her presence in my life.
That is what she had become. For the past 10 or 15 years or so, she had not wanted visitors. Maybe it was too hard, any more, to cook and clean and be the gracious hostess. She was a bit of a pack-rat, and so maybe it was hard to present a clean home for guests. Maybe it was partly because when her son, my uncle, killed himself in the mid-90's, it just made her feel less open to the world. Too much hurt out there, or something... Or maybe it was too hard for her to contemplate clearing away the clutter of her books and papers, the manuscript she was working on, only to have to pull it all back out later, in the loneliness after the guests left, and reorganize her papers, and her thoughts. Maybe she felt she had earned the right, in her 70's and 80's, to be a bit of a hermit, to hang up her "hostess" hat and put on her philosopher hat, to see the world on her terms, and her terms only. She never said why, she only ever said it was "not a good time to come... maybe next year." Only next year was never a good time, either.
So, she was a presence. A voice on the phone. A pretty face in a photograph. She would call occasionally to talk (not so much to listen, really). She sent occasional letters or handwritten cards, presents for the kids... my Grandpa used to send occasional pictures, but I got no more of those, after he died two years ago.... He always saw her as beautiful, and she was. She talked with my Mom daily, and so I kept up with her life, her triumphs and troubles, her ... self. But I had not seen her for years before her death.
Still, I miss that presence dearly.
* * * * *
I visited my grandparents each summer when I was a kid. Some of my favorite memories are from the time when they lived in a fantastic house in Florida, near one of the best beaches in the world. I posted a photo of me in front of the house with my bike, here (scroll down to number 4). I think I wrote in that post that I never quite forgave my grandparents for selling that house and moving to Atlanta. Well, I've forgiven them now. Atlanta opened a whole new set of opportunities for both of them, and they shared its delights with me, just as they had shared the delights of small-town Florida with me when they lived there.
My Grandma was young, though she seemed "old" to me at the time -- she was only about 40 years older than me -- and in Florida, she would take me to the beach, and shopping, and out to fun restaurants for lunch, or out for ice cream, or for walks around the neighborhood.
She taught me the value of neighborliness and caring for others, as she took small baked treats and brought me for short visits and lively conversation with the elderly woman next door, who was confined to her bed.
Although my Grandma was what they called, at the time, a "housewife," she also devoted a pretty large chunk of time to helping my Grandpa with his insurance business. He was very successful in his chosen career, in part because of her good advice and savvy business skills. She had her hands full, between my Grandpa and that huge old house. Also, two of my uncles still lived at home, attending high school. But more than any of the titles you might give her based on her day-to-day life -- wife, mother, secretary, office manager -- she preferred to think of herself as a philosopher. She loved to contemplate ideas, to think about the deeper meaning of things, and of life in general.
In high school, my Grandma's guidance counselor had told her that it was "too bad" she was a girl, because otherwise she "could have gone far" with her intellect. In her later years, she really resented the fact that she had been discouraged from pursuing intellectual interests based on her gender, but at the time I think she accepted it as "the way things are," and so she married my Grandpa when she was 18. They were married for 67 years, until he died two years ago.
They had a sometimes difficult, but very devoted, relationship. He struggled with alcohol off and on throughout his life, and that caused a lot of stress in their marriage. He often was not a happy drunk. But despite the difficulties, she always cooked and cleaned and cared for him, and helped him make his way in the world of insurance sales. He, in turn, provided well for her and his growing family, financially, and respected her for her intelligence.
I remember sitting in their grand old kitchen in Florida, and later in their smaller kitchen in Atlanta, or riding in the car with them, while my Grandpa would read articles from the paper and ask to hear her thoughts about things. Sometimes he would share things he thought were amusing. Other times, he seemed to want to spark a debate with her. And still other times, he just wanted to know her opinion.
She shared her opinions freely and forcefully, on any and all topics. She was not a shy, retiring person, but a force to be reckoned with. If you disagreed with her, you had best be prepared to make a good, logical argument about it. Usually, it was easier to just do what she said.
She wanted the best for those she loved, and she had a keen memory for details, and this often came across as a controlling nature. If she were your boss, you'd say she was micromanaging you. It could be frustrating to deal with her, because she always thought she knew the best way to handle a situation, and would be angry if you didn't do it "her way." But given time, she always got over her anger and returned to loving you, even when you didn't do things her way -- and regardless of whether your way worked out ok for your or not.
She loved to take me places and show me new things: the beautiful and/or controversial art at Atlanta's wonderful museums; the joy of music in the park at dusk, while watching the fireflies blink on and off; the view from the top of Stone Mountain; the varied treasures one could find at flea markets and antique shops... and she would have my uncles take me to "kid places" like Six Flags Over Georgia, or a baseball game, or the Star Wars movie. She encouraged a broad range of interests and activities, but did not feel compelled to participate in all of them.
She was a wonderful cook, and always a gracious hostess. Whenever I would visit her, she would make her latest favorite recipes for me and my Grandpa to savor, and would offer up a selection of books she thought I might enjoy (she knew how much I loved reading), and would have the softest bedsheets on the bed, with the TV remote on the nightstand... heaven, for a kid. One could become quite spoiled, visiting my Grandma.
She and my Grandpa also were adventurous in their choice of restaurants and would patronize everything from fancy fine-dining establishments, to local "hole-in-the-wall" family-owned ethnic restaurants, and even chain restaurants. The only requirement was that the food be delicious. And that requirement could be overlooked on occasion if the place was fun for a kid.
She and my Grandpa took me out to enjoy some of the finest food and most-fun restaurants Atlanta had to offer. Everything from the best-ever home-style BBQ, cornbread, and collard greens at a small diner that was always crowded on Sundays after church, to virgin daiquiris at the revolving restaurant at the top of the 76-story tall Peachtree Plaza hotel (a very exciting experience for a kid from a small town in Florida), escargots at a fine French restaurant, or curry at their favorite family-owned Thai restaurant down the street.... And, let's not forget Morrison's cafeteria, which has since closed its doors. How I miss Morrison's. They had the best macaroni and cheese, and always good fresh fruit like watermelon, and great fried chicken, pot roast, prime rib, or broiled fish, veggies cooked perfectly (not overcooked and mushy), and delicious chocolatey desserts.... I loved Morrison's, and have never found another cafeteria that comes anywhere close to the quality and variety Morrison's provided daily.
I think I mentioned already, my Grandma loved to read and to discuss philosophy. But she wasn't above enjoying popular culture, either. I remember sometime in the mid-'90's, she was delighted to discover old re-runs of "Cheers." And she became a devout Atlanta sports fan in the early '90's when Deion Sanders was making headlines playing for both the Falcons and the Braves. She was fascinated by his abilities, and her enthusiasm for his achievements and for sports in general was contagious.
* * * * *
One of my uncles has been charged with finding a publisher for the philosophy manuscript she worked so hard on during the last years of her life; it was the culmination of a lifetime of studying and dissecting philosophy, religion, scientific thought... The thing she wanted most was to be remembered for her ideas, her philosophy. I can't wait to see her words in print, to learn what her final thoughts were on the meaning of life.
* * * * *
She died a harder death than she had to, I think. She fell and hurt herself a couple of times over the past year, and refused to go see a doctor or go to the hospital, I think in part because she did not want to leave her writing, her life's work, until it was done. None of us knew how bad the injuries really were until she finally admitted that she had taken to bed and started hiring people to come help her with various things. She'd pay someone to get the mail and do her shopping, another to come by and bring her food and help her to the bathroom and back, another to care for the dogs... By the time she decided to go to the hospital (I started to say, "by the time we convinced her to go..." but that would be inaccurate. No one ever "convinced" her to do anything; she was determined to be in control of her own actions at all times), it was too late. She was too weak to withstand the surgery she needed in order to save her life. So the doctors sent her back home, with hospice care, to die.
It is not the death I would have chosen for her, if I had a choice.
When my uncle and his wife (my wonderful aunt) appeared at her bed side, my Grandma first fussed at them for coming and tried to send them away, but later she told them she was glad they had come. Thank God for small miracles. Thank God they were available, and able to come and care for her. Thank God she accepted their gift of time and love.
* * * * *
My Grandma told me a story once, about her riding the "Lady Bird Express" campaign train [fn 1] in the '60's across the South, and filling in as a "body double" for Lady Bird Johnson when Lady Bird was tired. She would wear one of Lady Bird's outfits and stand on the back platform of the train waving at the crowds as the train rolled slowly through towns where no stop or speech was scheduled. I have no way to verify if this is true, because of course the official campaign staff have never stated that anyone filled in for Lady Bird, but I suspect it is true because it is the kind of thing my Grandma could have pulled off.
* * * * *
For over 30 years, I've been able to say, "Atlanta? Yeah, my grandparents live there." Well, I can't say that any longer. They are both gone now, and Atlanta will never feel quite the same for me again.
* * * * *
Sorry for rambling so much. I am having a really hard time with this one. I just can't capture my Grandma's spirit and essence quite the way I want to... It's too mixed up with too many losses. The loss of ... My Grandpa. My uncle. My Florida Childhood. Atlanta "back then." Family harmony (see my prior post entitled "Write a Will. Please, Write a Will."). And of course, my Grandma herself, in a way lost slowly over time as I was able to see her less and less over the years; but in a way, suddenly gone forever...
... it's just too hard.
* * * * *
I'll always remember my beautiful, challenging, smart, kind, difficult, adventurous, controlling, charming, graceful, and wonderful grandmother. The world is a worse place without her.
* * * * *
footnote 1: Here is a link to a short online blog post about the Lady Bird Express campain train. Johnson had passed the Civil Rights Act, which was hugely unpopular in the South. Nevertheless, Lady Bird Johnson campaigned on a "whistle stop" train tour for her husband across 8 Southern states - without him - in an effort to drum up support for Johnson and for his domestic and civil rights policies. She faced many hecklers and jeers, but she delivered her message calmly and gracefully.
I miss her presence in my life.
That is what she had become. For the past 10 or 15 years or so, she had not wanted visitors. Maybe it was too hard, any more, to cook and clean and be the gracious hostess. She was a bit of a pack-rat, and so maybe it was hard to present a clean home for guests. Maybe it was partly because when her son, my uncle, killed himself in the mid-90's, it just made her feel less open to the world. Too much hurt out there, or something... Or maybe it was too hard for her to contemplate clearing away the clutter of her books and papers, the manuscript she was working on, only to have to pull it all back out later, in the loneliness after the guests left, and reorganize her papers, and her thoughts. Maybe she felt she had earned the right, in her 70's and 80's, to be a bit of a hermit, to hang up her "hostess" hat and put on her philosopher hat, to see the world on her terms, and her terms only. She never said why, she only ever said it was "not a good time to come... maybe next year." Only next year was never a good time, either.
So, she was a presence. A voice on the phone. A pretty face in a photograph. She would call occasionally to talk (not so much to listen, really). She sent occasional letters or handwritten cards, presents for the kids... my Grandpa used to send occasional pictures, but I got no more of those, after he died two years ago.... He always saw her as beautiful, and she was. She talked with my Mom daily, and so I kept up with her life, her triumphs and troubles, her ... self. But I had not seen her for years before her death.
Still, I miss that presence dearly.
* * * * *
I visited my grandparents each summer when I was a kid. Some of my favorite memories are from the time when they lived in a fantastic house in Florida, near one of the best beaches in the world. I posted a photo of me in front of the house with my bike, here (scroll down to number 4). I think I wrote in that post that I never quite forgave my grandparents for selling that house and moving to Atlanta. Well, I've forgiven them now. Atlanta opened a whole new set of opportunities for both of them, and they shared its delights with me, just as they had shared the delights of small-town Florida with me when they lived there.
My Grandma was young, though she seemed "old" to me at the time -- she was only about 40 years older than me -- and in Florida, she would take me to the beach, and shopping, and out to fun restaurants for lunch, or out for ice cream, or for walks around the neighborhood.
She taught me the value of neighborliness and caring for others, as she took small baked treats and brought me for short visits and lively conversation with the elderly woman next door, who was confined to her bed.
Although my Grandma was what they called, at the time, a "housewife," she also devoted a pretty large chunk of time to helping my Grandpa with his insurance business. He was very successful in his chosen career, in part because of her good advice and savvy business skills. She had her hands full, between my Grandpa and that huge old house. Also, two of my uncles still lived at home, attending high school. But more than any of the titles you might give her based on her day-to-day life -- wife, mother, secretary, office manager -- she preferred to think of herself as a philosopher. She loved to contemplate ideas, to think about the deeper meaning of things, and of life in general.
In high school, my Grandma's guidance counselor had told her that it was "too bad" she was a girl, because otherwise she "could have gone far" with her intellect. In her later years, she really resented the fact that she had been discouraged from pursuing intellectual interests based on her gender, but at the time I think she accepted it as "the way things are," and so she married my Grandpa when she was 18. They were married for 67 years, until he died two years ago.
They had a sometimes difficult, but very devoted, relationship. He struggled with alcohol off and on throughout his life, and that caused a lot of stress in their marriage. He often was not a happy drunk. But despite the difficulties, she always cooked and cleaned and cared for him, and helped him make his way in the world of insurance sales. He, in turn, provided well for her and his growing family, financially, and respected her for her intelligence.
I remember sitting in their grand old kitchen in Florida, and later in their smaller kitchen in Atlanta, or riding in the car with them, while my Grandpa would read articles from the paper and ask to hear her thoughts about things. Sometimes he would share things he thought were amusing. Other times, he seemed to want to spark a debate with her. And still other times, he just wanted to know her opinion.
She shared her opinions freely and forcefully, on any and all topics. She was not a shy, retiring person, but a force to be reckoned with. If you disagreed with her, you had best be prepared to make a good, logical argument about it. Usually, it was easier to just do what she said.
She wanted the best for those she loved, and she had a keen memory for details, and this often came across as a controlling nature. If she were your boss, you'd say she was micromanaging you. It could be frustrating to deal with her, because she always thought she knew the best way to handle a situation, and would be angry if you didn't do it "her way." But given time, she always got over her anger and returned to loving you, even when you didn't do things her way -- and regardless of whether your way worked out ok for your or not.
She loved to take me places and show me new things: the beautiful and/or controversial art at Atlanta's wonderful museums; the joy of music in the park at dusk, while watching the fireflies blink on and off; the view from the top of Stone Mountain; the varied treasures one could find at flea markets and antique shops... and she would have my uncles take me to "kid places" like Six Flags Over Georgia, or a baseball game, or the Star Wars movie. She encouraged a broad range of interests and activities, but did not feel compelled to participate in all of them.
She was a wonderful cook, and always a gracious hostess. Whenever I would visit her, she would make her latest favorite recipes for me and my Grandpa to savor, and would offer up a selection of books she thought I might enjoy (she knew how much I loved reading), and would have the softest bedsheets on the bed, with the TV remote on the nightstand... heaven, for a kid. One could become quite spoiled, visiting my Grandma.
She and my Grandpa also were adventurous in their choice of restaurants and would patronize everything from fancy fine-dining establishments, to local "hole-in-the-wall" family-owned ethnic restaurants, and even chain restaurants. The only requirement was that the food be delicious. And that requirement could be overlooked on occasion if the place was fun for a kid.
She and my Grandpa took me out to enjoy some of the finest food and most-fun restaurants Atlanta had to offer. Everything from the best-ever home-style BBQ, cornbread, and collard greens at a small diner that was always crowded on Sundays after church, to virgin daiquiris at the revolving restaurant at the top of the 76-story tall Peachtree Plaza hotel (a very exciting experience for a kid from a small town in Florida), escargots at a fine French restaurant, or curry at their favorite family-owned Thai restaurant down the street.... And, let's not forget Morrison's cafeteria, which has since closed its doors. How I miss Morrison's. They had the best macaroni and cheese, and always good fresh fruit like watermelon, and great fried chicken, pot roast, prime rib, or broiled fish, veggies cooked perfectly (not overcooked and mushy), and delicious chocolatey desserts.... I loved Morrison's, and have never found another cafeteria that comes anywhere close to the quality and variety Morrison's provided daily.
I think I mentioned already, my Grandma loved to read and to discuss philosophy. But she wasn't above enjoying popular culture, either. I remember sometime in the mid-'90's, she was delighted to discover old re-runs of "Cheers." And she became a devout Atlanta sports fan in the early '90's when Deion Sanders was making headlines playing for both the Falcons and the Braves. She was fascinated by his abilities, and her enthusiasm for his achievements and for sports in general was contagious.
* * * * *
One of my uncles has been charged with finding a publisher for the philosophy manuscript she worked so hard on during the last years of her life; it was the culmination of a lifetime of studying and dissecting philosophy, religion, scientific thought... The thing she wanted most was to be remembered for her ideas, her philosophy. I can't wait to see her words in print, to learn what her final thoughts were on the meaning of life.
* * * * *
She died a harder death than she had to, I think. She fell and hurt herself a couple of times over the past year, and refused to go see a doctor or go to the hospital, I think in part because she did not want to leave her writing, her life's work, until it was done. None of us knew how bad the injuries really were until she finally admitted that she had taken to bed and started hiring people to come help her with various things. She'd pay someone to get the mail and do her shopping, another to come by and bring her food and help her to the bathroom and back, another to care for the dogs... By the time she decided to go to the hospital (I started to say, "by the time we convinced her to go..." but that would be inaccurate. No one ever "convinced" her to do anything; she was determined to be in control of her own actions at all times), it was too late. She was too weak to withstand the surgery she needed in order to save her life. So the doctors sent her back home, with hospice care, to die.
It is not the death I would have chosen for her, if I had a choice.
When my uncle and his wife (my wonderful aunt) appeared at her bed side, my Grandma first fussed at them for coming and tried to send them away, but later she told them she was glad they had come. Thank God for small miracles. Thank God they were available, and able to come and care for her. Thank God she accepted their gift of time and love.
* * * * *
My Grandma told me a story once, about her riding the "Lady Bird Express" campaign train [fn 1] in the '60's across the South, and filling in as a "body double" for Lady Bird Johnson when Lady Bird was tired. She would wear one of Lady Bird's outfits and stand on the back platform of the train waving at the crowds as the train rolled slowly through towns where no stop or speech was scheduled. I have no way to verify if this is true, because of course the official campaign staff have never stated that anyone filled in for Lady Bird, but I suspect it is true because it is the kind of thing my Grandma could have pulled off.
* * * * *
For over 30 years, I've been able to say, "Atlanta? Yeah, my grandparents live there." Well, I can't say that any longer. They are both gone now, and Atlanta will never feel quite the same for me again.
* * * * *
Sorry for rambling so much. I am having a really hard time with this one. I just can't capture my Grandma's spirit and essence quite the way I want to... It's too mixed up with too many losses. The loss of ... My Grandpa. My uncle. My Florida Childhood. Atlanta "back then." Family harmony (see my prior post entitled "Write a Will. Please, Write a Will."). And of course, my Grandma herself, in a way lost slowly over time as I was able to see her less and less over the years; but in a way, suddenly gone forever...
... it's just too hard.
* * * * *
I'll always remember my beautiful, challenging, smart, kind, difficult, adventurous, controlling, charming, graceful, and wonderful grandmother. The world is a worse place without her.
* * * * *
footnote 1: Here is a link to a short online blog post about the Lady Bird Express campain train. Johnson had passed the Civil Rights Act, which was hugely unpopular in the South. Nevertheless, Lady Bird Johnson campaigned on a "whistle stop" train tour for her husband across 8 Southern states - without him - in an effort to drum up support for Johnson and for his domestic and civil rights policies. She faced many hecklers and jeers, but she delivered her message calmly and gracefully.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Sad News and Puppy Training
So much going on lately... so much to write about... I hardly know where to start.
First, I'll mention that my grandfather died two years ago. See this post. And now my grandmother is probably dying. We were all surprised that she lasted past Mother's Day and past my grandfather's "death day," May 10. Perhaps she will surprise us more, with a miracle, and heal herself and rise from her death bed to live another 10 or 20 years. More likely, she will continue to decline and eventually die from the kidney infection and kidney stones that are currently inoperable because she is too weak.
This breaks my heart. I'll write more later about it. Right now, I just can't manage it.
* * *
My uncle, the one who lives in Japan not all that far from the Fukushima nuclear plant, came to visit. He was cleaning out his storage locker in L.A., where he and his wife placed all of their stuff before moving to Japan nearly 20 years ago. He has paid to store the things all this time, but has finally decided it is time to part with most of it, and quit paying for the past. He rented a truck and brought me his piano and some other items that he wanted to "keep in the family," as well as a few boxes of papers and memorabilia that he asked me to store for him indefinitely.
It was great to see him. He is as much fun with kids as I remember from my own childhood, and my kids absolutely loved having him around.
He is also having marital problems and spent a lot of time while here talking with my mom and me about the issues in his marriage.
This also breaks my heart. I'll write more later about it. Right now, I just can't manage it.
* * *
We got a new dog about 6 weeks ago. Another St. Bernard. She is about a year and a half old, and absolutely beautiful. We got her from some folks who were about to have a new baby and said they just could not handle a big dog, too. Particularly a not-very-well trained one.
She is housebroken and sits on command. But when we got her, she had a terrible habit of jumping up (not a good thing for an 80-plus pound dog, who will be 100 to 140 pounds when she is full grown).
Within just a few days at our house, she mellowed out considerably. She loves that she can go in and out as she pleases. She loves that she gets lots of love and affection from all four of her new humans, plus gets to play with two other dogs. She has quit jumping up and instead sits next to you and looks up with the sweetest brown eyes ever. You just can't help but pet her, and I swear sometimes she purrs like a cat....
She was somewhat neglected by her former owners -- they left her in their small back yard a lot, and never took her for a walk. I had to buy a "head collar" to control her; a regular collar was not workable at all -- she is far too strong and pulls way too hard, and she resisted all efforts to keep her from simply taking off to run where she pleased. But she is getting used to walking with some slack in the leash, and enjoys our fairly regular outings.
She still has some issues. She barks at lots of people, and most dogs, when we walk her. She is just trying to be friendly, to get their attention.... but it is scary for them, and other dogs tend to get offended. We are trying to train her not to do this, but it takes time, and patience, and it is hard.
Just had her spayed yesterday -- had to wait until she was out of heat to get it done. Can't believe the former owners didn't do it, as they stated that they had no intention of breeding her, even though both her parents were registered purebred Saints.
I'll post photos and write more later.
* * *
Work is busy, too. A good thing, after last year's fiasco of clients who didn't pay and slow business. I think the economy is getting better. More of my clients are paying, and there are more of them this year.
I'll write more later.
* * *
Just wanted to give you all a quick update. I'm not gone. Just busy... and somewhat preoccupied with sad news and puppy training.
First, I'll mention that my grandfather died two years ago. See this post. And now my grandmother is probably dying. We were all surprised that she lasted past Mother's Day and past my grandfather's "death day," May 10. Perhaps she will surprise us more, with a miracle, and heal herself and rise from her death bed to live another 10 or 20 years. More likely, she will continue to decline and eventually die from the kidney infection and kidney stones that are currently inoperable because she is too weak.
This breaks my heart. I'll write more later about it. Right now, I just can't manage it.
* * *
My uncle, the one who lives in Japan not all that far from the Fukushima nuclear plant, came to visit. He was cleaning out his storage locker in L.A., where he and his wife placed all of their stuff before moving to Japan nearly 20 years ago. He has paid to store the things all this time, but has finally decided it is time to part with most of it, and quit paying for the past. He rented a truck and brought me his piano and some other items that he wanted to "keep in the family," as well as a few boxes of papers and memorabilia that he asked me to store for him indefinitely.
It was great to see him. He is as much fun with kids as I remember from my own childhood, and my kids absolutely loved having him around.
He is also having marital problems and spent a lot of time while here talking with my mom and me about the issues in his marriage.
This also breaks my heart. I'll write more later about it. Right now, I just can't manage it.
* * *
We got a new dog about 6 weeks ago. Another St. Bernard. She is about a year and a half old, and absolutely beautiful. We got her from some folks who were about to have a new baby and said they just could not handle a big dog, too. Particularly a not-very-well trained one.
She is housebroken and sits on command. But when we got her, she had a terrible habit of jumping up (not a good thing for an 80-plus pound dog, who will be 100 to 140 pounds when she is full grown).
Within just a few days at our house, she mellowed out considerably. She loves that she can go in and out as she pleases. She loves that she gets lots of love and affection from all four of her new humans, plus gets to play with two other dogs. She has quit jumping up and instead sits next to you and looks up with the sweetest brown eyes ever. You just can't help but pet her, and I swear sometimes she purrs like a cat....
She was somewhat neglected by her former owners -- they left her in their small back yard a lot, and never took her for a walk. I had to buy a "head collar" to control her; a regular collar was not workable at all -- she is far too strong and pulls way too hard, and she resisted all efforts to keep her from simply taking off to run where she pleased. But she is getting used to walking with some slack in the leash, and enjoys our fairly regular outings.
She still has some issues. She barks at lots of people, and most dogs, when we walk her. She is just trying to be friendly, to get their attention.... but it is scary for them, and other dogs tend to get offended. We are trying to train her not to do this, but it takes time, and patience, and it is hard.
Just had her spayed yesterday -- had to wait until she was out of heat to get it done. Can't believe the former owners didn't do it, as they stated that they had no intention of breeding her, even though both her parents were registered purebred Saints.
I'll post photos and write more later.
* * *
Work is busy, too. A good thing, after last year's fiasco of clients who didn't pay and slow business. I think the economy is getting better. More of my clients are paying, and there are more of them this year.
I'll write more later.
* * *
Just wanted to give you all a quick update. I'm not gone. Just busy... and somewhat preoccupied with sad news and puppy training.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Thank You ... Yes, You!
Some of my favorite blogs and bloggers have been disappearing lately.
Some of them just quit showing up, but their blogs remain intact, sort of suspended in time, and I have no idea whether they are alive and enjoying life too much to keep blogging, or whether something tragic has happened....
Some blog less and less frequently, and I check less and less often for new posts, eventually concluding they simply aren't coming back...
Others announce their intentions to quit blogging and either leave their blog intact or take it down....
Other blogs have simply disappeared, without warning.... I click on the link to their blog one day, and it's just gone.
It makes me sad when I realize a fellow blogger has disappeared from my little blogger world.
Do you do this, too? Get sad when a blogger, a voice you've grown accustomed to, quits? I feel sad when I don't get a chance to say goodbye, good luck, have a nice life...
It's not like we're friends in "real life." They certainly don't owe me anything, not even a decent goodbye. But I get used to stopping in every week or two, dropping a comment here or there, seeing a comment from them occasionally on my blog. I enjoy their unique voices and perspectives.
I miss them when they're gone.
So -- I offer a big thank you to those of you who have stuck around, who blog for me (I know, you don't really blog for me, but just let me pretend, ok?) so I have an interesting story to read when I'm bored, something funny to read when I'm down, a new perspective to consider when I want to be challenged, or just a voice in the blogosphere, reassuring me that I'm not alone in this crazy journey through life, that we all face challenges, that there are fun times to be had, that there is good music and good art out there, that there are shared experiences, that there are dedicated people in all professions - engineers, secretaries, waiters, business owners, artists, teachers, nurses, dentists, cab drivers, homemakers, and yes, even lawyers - who make the world a better place because they are in it.
(Wow, can I win the Faulkner prize for longest sentence written today?)
Yes, I have "real life" friends who fill these roles, too, but they are sometimes at work or out of town or otherwise unavailable when I'm bored or sad or feeling philosophical. The beauty of the blogosphere is that it is always there. I can read what you wrote three weeks ago and enjoy it just as much today, when I need a laugh or a thought-provoking rant or an entertaining story.
If I haven't said it to you on your blog lately, I hope you know I mean *you* when you read it here on my blog: Thanks for being there, fellow bloggers. You really make my day!
Some of them just quit showing up, but their blogs remain intact, sort of suspended in time, and I have no idea whether they are alive and enjoying life too much to keep blogging, or whether something tragic has happened....
Some blog less and less frequently, and I check less and less often for new posts, eventually concluding they simply aren't coming back...
Others announce their intentions to quit blogging and either leave their blog intact or take it down....
Other blogs have simply disappeared, without warning.... I click on the link to their blog one day, and it's just gone.
It makes me sad when I realize a fellow blogger has disappeared from my little blogger world.
Do you do this, too? Get sad when a blogger, a voice you've grown accustomed to, quits? I feel sad when I don't get a chance to say goodbye, good luck, have a nice life...
It's not like we're friends in "real life." They certainly don't owe me anything, not even a decent goodbye. But I get used to stopping in every week or two, dropping a comment here or there, seeing a comment from them occasionally on my blog. I enjoy their unique voices and perspectives.
I miss them when they're gone.
So -- I offer a big thank you to those of you who have stuck around, who blog for me (I know, you don't really blog for me, but just let me pretend, ok?) so I have an interesting story to read when I'm bored, something funny to read when I'm down, a new perspective to consider when I want to be challenged, or just a voice in the blogosphere, reassuring me that I'm not alone in this crazy journey through life, that we all face challenges, that there are fun times to be had, that there is good music and good art out there, that there are shared experiences, that there are dedicated people in all professions - engineers, secretaries, waiters, business owners, artists, teachers, nurses, dentists, cab drivers, homemakers, and yes, even lawyers - who make the world a better place because they are in it.
(Wow, can I win the Faulkner prize for longest sentence written today?)
Yes, I have "real life" friends who fill these roles, too, but they are sometimes at work or out of town or otherwise unavailable when I'm bored or sad or feeling philosophical. The beauty of the blogosphere is that it is always there. I can read what you wrote three weeks ago and enjoy it just as much today, when I need a laugh or a thought-provoking rant or an entertaining story.
If I haven't said it to you on your blog lately, I hope you know I mean *you* when you read it here on my blog: Thanks for being there, fellow bloggers. You really make my day!
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
There's a First Time for Everything
With the death of my kitty on Saturday, we are a cat-free household.
I have had cats for as long as I can remember.
When I was somewhere around 3, or maybe 4, my Dad, Mom, & I moved into our house in Gainesville, Florida. The prior human owners moved across town. The cat, however, refused to leave. The humans took him with them, but two days later, he was back, a little thinner and looking somewhat worse for the cross-town trip, but happy to be home. He meowed until we let him in and found him something to eat (tuna, probably), then curled up and slept. We called. They picked him up, and a couple days later, he was back. This happened a few times until, finally, they asked if we wanted a cat.
"NO," said my Dad.
"YES!" said I.
"Oh, why not?" asked my Mom. "After all," she said, "we seem to have moved into his house."
And so we got Morris, our orange tabby cat. He was best friends with Petey (actually "P.T.," short for "P.T. Barnum"), the dog next door. The two of them terrorized the other neighborhood cats and dogs, as well as the birds fed by the very kind lady who lived across the street from us.
Morris was joined later by Sylvester, who died too young, and then Gobbolino, who lived a very long time and moved to Alabama with us, long after Morris died.
I left Gobbolino with my Mom in Alabama and moved to Virginia to live with my Dad for a year after my parents divorced. When I moved to Virginia, I got a dog, a Siberian Husky that I named "Bandit" because of the gray mask across his eyes. My new stepbrother promptly got a gray cat that he named "Smoky." Can you tell what decade that was?
Smoky was a pretty cool cat, though. She used to come with me to deliver the papers on my paper route.
A couple of years later, I got a striped kitten and, being tired of the literal and/or obvious names, I named it "Spot."
I couldn't keep a cat in the college dorm, of course, but I did still have Spot and Gobbolino at my parents' respective homes.
Then, I got another kitty and named her Rabia. After the great cat-breeding experiment of '88, she had kittens. They were adorable. I kept one of them, a sleek black Egyptian-looking regal beauty I named Cleopatra.
I moved to Arizona with Rabia and Cleo, and they both lived a good long while. Meanwhile, I met my husband, who had his own kitty named Angus.
Angus died, too young, after escaping on Christmas Eve when the carolers came to the door, and getting hit by a car. Not a happy Christmas...
Later, we got a little Himalayan kitten we named Merlin, and we rescued a beautiful tortoise-shell calico named Isabella from the pound. For a while we had 4 cats and everyone I knew was starting to doubt my sanity.
And then Merlin died, too young, from congestive heart failure.
And then Cleo, and then Rabia, died, leaving only Isabella, my tiny furry calico.
Isabella had always been tiny, no more than 8 pounds at her heaviest. But over the last couple of years, she had lost weight and was just skin, bones, and a lot of fluffy fur. She looked like she weighed about 6 pounds, but it was really more like 4. Poor thing. But up until recently, she still seemed happy. She would sleep by me at night, purring. She followed me around during the day.
But then she started spending more and more time under the bed, coming out only to eat, puke up her food, pee or poop somewhere she shouldn't, and then go back under the bed. She wasn't grooming herself well, and didn't much like it when I brushed her. We had tried everything: thyroid medicine, antibiotics, special foods.... nothing helped. She just wasn't happy, and we weren't either. At least we have tile floors so the mess wasn't as bad as it would have been with carpet, but oh, it was awful always wondering where you'd find the next pile or puddle...
So it was time. I took her to be euthanized. She always hated car rides. She'd meow loudly the whole way to the vet, every time we went, protesting that she hated the car, hated the vet, hated that I was doing this to her. But this time, she meowed just twice. I poked my fingers through the cage on the seat next to me and stroked her cheek and told her it was the last car ride she'd have to endure. Who knows how much pets understand, but she got quiet after that and didn't meow the whole way to the vet. It was strange.
I hate the whole process at the vet. It's just so hard to look in your beloved pet's eyes and tell her goodbye, knowing you're responsible for deciding she has to go, right now. Even when it's the right thing to do, it's just so awfully hard.
And I hated that I was in a hurry on Saturday; I had to get downtown to meet with all my students. It seems terrible to rush through euthanizing your little furry friend. But there I was. In a hurry to let her get on with dying. Some might say, "in a hurry to kill her." Ouch.
She seemed ready - or maybe she was just paralyzed with fear. She didn't struggle at all, just sat in my lap and shivered a little, leaned over and rested her head on my chest, and then, after the shots, she closed her eyes and slept, one last time, forever.
And then the ride home with the empty cage.... except it's not really quite empty. It's filled with guilt. Did I really do everything I could have done? Was it really her time to go? Should I have tried harder to find a cure? Would she have been happy being an outdoor cat instead of being a dead cat? Damn that's hard.
And then entering a house with no cat. For the first time in 40 years, I don't own a cat. Damn, that's kind of hard, too.
We do still have Sparky, our Saint Bernard, but he's too big to curl up on the bed and sleep with me at night. And besides, although he smiles a lot, he doesn't purr.
* * *
Maybe it's time to get a kitten?
I have had cats for as long as I can remember.
When I was somewhere around 3, or maybe 4, my Dad, Mom, & I moved into our house in Gainesville, Florida. The prior human owners moved across town. The cat, however, refused to leave. The humans took him with them, but two days later, he was back, a little thinner and looking somewhat worse for the cross-town trip, but happy to be home. He meowed until we let him in and found him something to eat (tuna, probably), then curled up and slept. We called. They picked him up, and a couple days later, he was back. This happened a few times until, finally, they asked if we wanted a cat.
"NO," said my Dad.
"YES!" said I.
"Oh, why not?" asked my Mom. "After all," she said, "we seem to have moved into his house."
And so we got Morris, our orange tabby cat. He was best friends with Petey (actually "P.T.," short for "P.T. Barnum"), the dog next door. The two of them terrorized the other neighborhood cats and dogs, as well as the birds fed by the very kind lady who lived across the street from us.
Morris was joined later by Sylvester, who died too young, and then Gobbolino, who lived a very long time and moved to Alabama with us, long after Morris died.
I left Gobbolino with my Mom in Alabama and moved to Virginia to live with my Dad for a year after my parents divorced. When I moved to Virginia, I got a dog, a Siberian Husky that I named "Bandit" because of the gray mask across his eyes. My new stepbrother promptly got a gray cat that he named "Smoky." Can you tell what decade that was?
Smoky was a pretty cool cat, though. She used to come with me to deliver the papers on my paper route.
A couple of years later, I got a striped kitten and, being tired of the literal and/or obvious names, I named it "Spot."
I couldn't keep a cat in the college dorm, of course, but I did still have Spot and Gobbolino at my parents' respective homes.
Then, I got another kitty and named her Rabia. After the great cat-breeding experiment of '88, she had kittens. They were adorable. I kept one of them, a sleek black Egyptian-looking regal beauty I named Cleopatra.
I moved to Arizona with Rabia and Cleo, and they both lived a good long while. Meanwhile, I met my husband, who had his own kitty named Angus.
Angus died, too young, after escaping on Christmas Eve when the carolers came to the door, and getting hit by a car. Not a happy Christmas...
Later, we got a little Himalayan kitten we named Merlin, and we rescued a beautiful tortoise-shell calico named Isabella from the pound. For a while we had 4 cats and everyone I knew was starting to doubt my sanity.
And then Merlin died, too young, from congestive heart failure.
And then Cleo, and then Rabia, died, leaving only Isabella, my tiny furry calico.
Isabella had always been tiny, no more than 8 pounds at her heaviest. But over the last couple of years, she had lost weight and was just skin, bones, and a lot of fluffy fur. She looked like she weighed about 6 pounds, but it was really more like 4. Poor thing. But up until recently, she still seemed happy. She would sleep by me at night, purring. She followed me around during the day.
But then she started spending more and more time under the bed, coming out only to eat, puke up her food, pee or poop somewhere she shouldn't, and then go back under the bed. She wasn't grooming herself well, and didn't much like it when I brushed her. We had tried everything: thyroid medicine, antibiotics, special foods.... nothing helped. She just wasn't happy, and we weren't either. At least we have tile floors so the mess wasn't as bad as it would have been with carpet, but oh, it was awful always wondering where you'd find the next pile or puddle...
So it was time. I took her to be euthanized. She always hated car rides. She'd meow loudly the whole way to the vet, every time we went, protesting that she hated the car, hated the vet, hated that I was doing this to her. But this time, she meowed just twice. I poked my fingers through the cage on the seat next to me and stroked her cheek and told her it was the last car ride she'd have to endure. Who knows how much pets understand, but she got quiet after that and didn't meow the whole way to the vet. It was strange.
I hate the whole process at the vet. It's just so hard to look in your beloved pet's eyes and tell her goodbye, knowing you're responsible for deciding she has to go, right now. Even when it's the right thing to do, it's just so awfully hard.
And I hated that I was in a hurry on Saturday; I had to get downtown to meet with all my students. It seems terrible to rush through euthanizing your little furry friend. But there I was. In a hurry to let her get on with dying. Some might say, "in a hurry to kill her." Ouch.
She seemed ready - or maybe she was just paralyzed with fear. She didn't struggle at all, just sat in my lap and shivered a little, leaned over and rested her head on my chest, and then, after the shots, she closed her eyes and slept, one last time, forever.
And then the ride home with the empty cage.... except it's not really quite empty. It's filled with guilt. Did I really do everything I could have done? Was it really her time to go? Should I have tried harder to find a cure? Would she have been happy being an outdoor cat instead of being a dead cat? Damn that's hard.
And then entering a house with no cat. For the first time in 40 years, I don't own a cat. Damn, that's kind of hard, too.
We do still have Sparky, our Saint Bernard, but he's too big to curl up on the bed and sleep with me at night. And besides, although he smiles a lot, he doesn't purr.
* * *
Maybe it's time to get a kitten?
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Happy Anniversary
Here is what I have done today so far:
Made appointment and took my 16 year old cat to the vet to be euthanized.
Cried.
Showered, dressed, drove to law school.
Met with 12 students regarding their progress in my legal writing class and provided assistance as necessary with the pending assignment as well as answering questions they had about anything we've discussed all semester, including grammar and writing style, proper citation form, research issues, and organization and legal analysis. (I met with the rest of the students in the class a couple of days ago).
Here are the things I was supposed to do today that did not get done:
Pay insurance bill.
Grade papers.
Draft joint pretrial statement.
Here is what I'm supposed to do tonight:
Celebrate my anniversary with my husband.
Here is what I feel physically and emotionally capable of doing tonight:
Curling up in a ball and sleeping for 15 hours.
Someone send me a giant Kahlua and coffee with whipped cream, please, so I can wake up, relax, and feel happy again. Thank you.
Made appointment and took my 16 year old cat to the vet to be euthanized.
Cried.
Showered, dressed, drove to law school.
Met with 12 students regarding their progress in my legal writing class and provided assistance as necessary with the pending assignment as well as answering questions they had about anything we've discussed all semester, including grammar and writing style, proper citation form, research issues, and organization and legal analysis. (I met with the rest of the students in the class a couple of days ago).
Here are the things I was supposed to do today that did not get done:
Pay insurance bill.
Grade papers.
Draft joint pretrial statement.
Here is what I'm supposed to do tonight:
Celebrate my anniversary with my husband.
Here is what I feel physically and emotionally capable of doing tonight:
Curling up in a ball and sleeping for 15 hours.
Someone send me a giant Kahlua and coffee with whipped cream, please, so I can wake up, relax, and feel happy again. Thank you.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Uncle Rene
My Dad is heartbroken about the loss of his favorite Uncle Rene, who died last week. Uncle Rene was the “last link” to my Dad’s father’s past. My Dad’s father, Fred, died around 1980 (I’m ashamed to admit I don’t remember the exact date), when my Dad was in his 30's. My Dad’s grandfather died before Fred married and before my Dad was even born (in the early ‘40's). There were other brothers, too, besides Fred and Rene, but they also died a while back, so Uncle Rene was the repository of all the remaining history from that side of my Dad’s family.
He was also a charming man with a wry sense of humor and a great memory for details.
When my cousin got married in New Orleans quite a few years back, my Dad, stepmom, step-siblings, and I attended the wedding. It was around the same time that the Super Bowl was being played there (in the Superdome, which Uncle Rene fondly called the “stainless steel wart”). Of course, the Super Bowl has been held in New Orleans 9 times, so it’s a little hard to avoid getting married around the same time the Super Bowl is being played in New Orleans, so I don’t blame my cousin for that unfortunate timing. (I also won't mention which time it was, since this is a sort of anonymous blog and all that.) [See Footnote 1]
Sadly, my Dad waited too long to book a room at the "Taj Mahal" hotel where the wedding reception would be held, and was forced to look at other options nearby. And, due to the massive number of rooms booked for the Super Bowl, affordable and decent hotels were hard to come by in New Orleans.
My Dad, bless his heart, tried to book a decent hotel, but this was before the internet was popular - that is to say, before one could actually look at photos of the place and read reviews about it easily. One was forced to rely on less accurate sources of information, such as the minimum wage worker who answered the phone when you called the 800 number that you looked up in the telephone book (do any of you still have one of those?), who assured my dad that the motel he booked was a fine motel, and was in a safe and nice part of town just a couple of miles from the "Taj Mahal."
I can’t remember if it was a Travelodge, or Holiday Inn, or some random unaffiliated motel, but I am thinking it was a chain, because I remember thinking it was something that you would expect to be somewhat decent, if not exactly the Ritz.
It turned out to be an extremely dumpy and disgustingly dirty roach motel right next to the freeway overpass in a crappy part of town, complete with pubes in the bathtub and gun-toting gangsters in the parking lot. And I’m not kidding about either one of those.
We checked in, but stayed only long enough for my Dad to use the telephone (this was also in the days before cell phones were ubiquitous; and at least the awful room had a working telephone) while the rest of us stood around trying not to touch anything. My Dad called Uncle Rene and asked if he knew of any hotels available near his home, because this one clearly wasn't going to work. Uncle Rene graciously offered to let us stay with him instead, and so we checked out and drove to Uncle Rene’s house.
That was the best decision ever.
In addition to enjoying an immediate welcome with wonderful iced tea and snacks, and clean bathrooms and linens, and my charming great-Uncle Rene, we were treated to tales of the family’s history, complete with a driving tour of historical homes of New Orleans that were built by my great-grandfather.
You see, my grandfather’s (and Uncle Rene’s) father was a home builder in the early 1900's in New Orleans. He was quite successful, apparently, due to some fantastic yet relatively low-tech innovations that he built into his homes.
The first fantastic innovation was to build very large and wide eaves on the house. This did two things in pre-air-conditioning early 1900's New Orleans: (1) it provided shade, thereby helping to cool the home; and (2) it allowed the homeowner to open the windows even if it was pouring rain, which it did frequently in the summer in New Orleans, to keep the house cool even during the hot, humid, summer days with storms. In a more typical (at the time) New Orleans home without such large eaves, the homeowner would be forced to close the windows to keep the driving wind-blown rain from soaking everything in the house. Then the house would be hot and humid and extremely uncomfortable. Wide eaves kept the rain out, thereby allowing the homeowner to open the windows and take advantage of the breezes and the evaporative cooling effect from the rain.
The second fantastic innovation was to “bug-proof” the homes. He accomplished this in two ways. First, most homes in New Orleans are built up on pillars, or "pilings." That way, when the City floods (as it inevitably will - can you say “Katrina”?), the house is (hopefully) sitting high enough off the ground that the water won’t come in. So my great-grandfather put metal “caps” on top of the pilings, that stuck out a couple inches from the top of the piling, with the edges angled downward. This prevented bugs such as termites, carpenter ants, and roaches from entering the home, because they couldn’t climb up to the wooden part of the house. They could climb up the pilings, but then they’d hit the metal sheet. Some bugs could even crawl upside down on the metal sheet to the edge of it, but they couldn’t make it around the edge to the other side to enter the home. Instead, they would fall back to the ground and presumably go bother someone else.
In addition, he put boric acid inside the framing of the walls before installing the plaster (this was before the days of drywall, of course). That way, if any bugs did start to get in, they would hit the bug poison and die before infesting the home. [See Footnote 2]
In hot, humid, bug-infested New Orleans, these were welcome inventions indeed!
Sadly, my great-grandfather fell on extremely hard times during the depression, and was unable to recover his fortune before he died in the late 1930's or so.
But his legacy lives on in the homes he built that are still standing today. And you can tell his homes by looking at them - large eaves, and little metal strips sticking out from the pilings.
And my Uncle Rene’s legacy lives on, too, in the memories he provided for me that day in New Orleans, and for my Dad across his lifetime, as well as for his own children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.
We miss you, Uncle Rene.
* * * * *
Footnotes (Because I'm a lawyer, that's why!):
Footnote 1: Did you know that, although the Super Bowl has been played in their hometown NINE TIMES, thus giving them more opportunities than any other team has ever had to actually play in the Super Bowl at home, the hapless New Orleans Saints have never played in any Super Bowl game in any location? Then again, they are on a roll so far this year - maybe they'll finally make it to the big game!
Footnote 2: Note that boric acid is practically harmless for humans - barely more toxic than table salt - yet a small amount kills a lot of bugs. My great-grandfather had his kids (my grandfather and Uncle Rene, and the rest of them, too!) assist with the boric acid installation, among other aspects of the house-building process.
(Of course, these days if you tried that, you'd have OSHA and Child Protective Services and possibly a whole host of other government agencies breathing down your neck and threatening you with fines and jail time. But back in those days, having your children install bug poison was a viable option!)
He was also a charming man with a wry sense of humor and a great memory for details.
When my cousin got married in New Orleans quite a few years back, my Dad, stepmom, step-siblings, and I attended the wedding. It was around the same time that the Super Bowl was being played there (in the Superdome, which Uncle Rene fondly called the “stainless steel wart”). Of course, the Super Bowl has been held in New Orleans 9 times, so it’s a little hard to avoid getting married around the same time the Super Bowl is being played in New Orleans, so I don’t blame my cousin for that unfortunate timing. (I also won't mention which time it was, since this is a sort of anonymous blog and all that.) [See Footnote 1]
Sadly, my Dad waited too long to book a room at the "Taj Mahal" hotel where the wedding reception would be held, and was forced to look at other options nearby. And, due to the massive number of rooms booked for the Super Bowl, affordable and decent hotels were hard to come by in New Orleans.
My Dad, bless his heart, tried to book a decent hotel, but this was before the internet was popular - that is to say, before one could actually look at photos of the place and read reviews about it easily. One was forced to rely on less accurate sources of information, such as the minimum wage worker who answered the phone when you called the 800 number that you looked up in the telephone book (do any of you still have one of those?), who assured my dad that the motel he booked was a fine motel, and was in a safe and nice part of town just a couple of miles from the "Taj Mahal."
I can’t remember if it was a Travelodge, or Holiday Inn, or some random unaffiliated motel, but I am thinking it was a chain, because I remember thinking it was something that you would expect to be somewhat decent, if not exactly the Ritz.
It turned out to be an extremely dumpy and disgustingly dirty roach motel right next to the freeway overpass in a crappy part of town, complete with pubes in the bathtub and gun-toting gangsters in the parking lot. And I’m not kidding about either one of those.
We checked in, but stayed only long enough for my Dad to use the telephone (this was also in the days before cell phones were ubiquitous; and at least the awful room had a working telephone) while the rest of us stood around trying not to touch anything. My Dad called Uncle Rene and asked if he knew of any hotels available near his home, because this one clearly wasn't going to work. Uncle Rene graciously offered to let us stay with him instead, and so we checked out and drove to Uncle Rene’s house.
That was the best decision ever.
In addition to enjoying an immediate welcome with wonderful iced tea and snacks, and clean bathrooms and linens, and my charming great-Uncle Rene, we were treated to tales of the family’s history, complete with a driving tour of historical homes of New Orleans that were built by my great-grandfather.
You see, my grandfather’s (and Uncle Rene’s) father was a home builder in the early 1900's in New Orleans. He was quite successful, apparently, due to some fantastic yet relatively low-tech innovations that he built into his homes.
The first fantastic innovation was to build very large and wide eaves on the house. This did two things in pre-air-conditioning early 1900's New Orleans: (1) it provided shade, thereby helping to cool the home; and (2) it allowed the homeowner to open the windows even if it was pouring rain, which it did frequently in the summer in New Orleans, to keep the house cool even during the hot, humid, summer days with storms. In a more typical (at the time) New Orleans home without such large eaves, the homeowner would be forced to close the windows to keep the driving wind-blown rain from soaking everything in the house. Then the house would be hot and humid and extremely uncomfortable. Wide eaves kept the rain out, thereby allowing the homeowner to open the windows and take advantage of the breezes and the evaporative cooling effect from the rain.
The second fantastic innovation was to “bug-proof” the homes. He accomplished this in two ways. First, most homes in New Orleans are built up on pillars, or "pilings." That way, when the City floods (as it inevitably will - can you say “Katrina”?), the house is (hopefully) sitting high enough off the ground that the water won’t come in. So my great-grandfather put metal “caps” on top of the pilings, that stuck out a couple inches from the top of the piling, with the edges angled downward. This prevented bugs such as termites, carpenter ants, and roaches from entering the home, because they couldn’t climb up to the wooden part of the house. They could climb up the pilings, but then they’d hit the metal sheet. Some bugs could even crawl upside down on the metal sheet to the edge of it, but they couldn’t make it around the edge to the other side to enter the home. Instead, they would fall back to the ground and presumably go bother someone else.
In addition, he put boric acid inside the framing of the walls before installing the plaster (this was before the days of drywall, of course). That way, if any bugs did start to get in, they would hit the bug poison and die before infesting the home. [See Footnote 2]
In hot, humid, bug-infested New Orleans, these were welcome inventions indeed!
Sadly, my great-grandfather fell on extremely hard times during the depression, and was unable to recover his fortune before he died in the late 1930's or so.
But his legacy lives on in the homes he built that are still standing today. And you can tell his homes by looking at them - large eaves, and little metal strips sticking out from the pilings.
And my Uncle Rene’s legacy lives on, too, in the memories he provided for me that day in New Orleans, and for my Dad across his lifetime, as well as for his own children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.
We miss you, Uncle Rene.
* * * * *
Footnotes (Because I'm a lawyer, that's why!):
Footnote 1: Did you know that, although the Super Bowl has been played in their hometown NINE TIMES, thus giving them more opportunities than any other team has ever had to actually play in the Super Bowl at home, the hapless New Orleans Saints have never played in any Super Bowl game in any location? Then again, they are on a roll so far this year - maybe they'll finally make it to the big game!
Footnote 2: Note that boric acid is practically harmless for humans - barely more toxic than table salt - yet a small amount kills a lot of bugs. My great-grandfather had his kids (my grandfather and Uncle Rene, and the rest of them, too!) assist with the boric acid installation, among other aspects of the house-building process.
(Of course, these days if you tried that, you'd have OSHA and Child Protective Services and possibly a whole host of other government agencies breathing down your neck and threatening you with fines and jail time. But back in those days, having your children install bug poison was a viable option!)
Monday, October 26, 2009
A Tough Week in New Orleans
My Dad’s favorite uncle, Uncle Rene - his father’s brother - died last week. His mother’s sister, Aunt Betty, died last week, too. Rough week for my Dad.
My grandmother’s sister had been fighting cancer for most of this year. When it was first diagnosed, it already had metastasized, so there was not a lot of hope of a cure, even from the beginning. She lived longer than they expected her to live (about 9 months after the diagnosis), and she lived with grace and joy and a sense of the wonder of life, determined to experience what she could, enjoy what she could, and be with family as much as she could, while she was able. However, she had been under hospice care for some time. She was awake and alert and happy to receive cards and visits for her 84th birthday on October 16. Since her birthday, though, she had not done much but sleep. She died this past Friday, October 23. Her daughter was with her. I am sure she felt loved. We will miss her dearly.
My grandfather’s brother had seemed very healthy, especially given his age - he would have been 94 this week. He had a bit of fluid around his heart a couple of months ago, but they got rid of the fluid (diuretics did the trick, I think) and pronounced him healthy. He died of a heart attack last Monday, October 19. It was sudden and as unexpected as a 94 year old person's death could ever be. I hope he had a chance to say his goodbyes and to enjoy all the things he wanted in life. I hope he died relatively peacefully, and that he, too, felt loved. Because he was.
Both lived in New Orleans for most of their lives. That is where my Dad’s family is from, and where many of his relatives have lived for generations. Both funerals will take place this week. Many folks in New Orleans may not notice their passing, but my family is understandably a bit shaken.
I’ll share a bit more about Uncle Rene, and about my family history, tomorrow.
My grandmother’s sister had been fighting cancer for most of this year. When it was first diagnosed, it already had metastasized, so there was not a lot of hope of a cure, even from the beginning. She lived longer than they expected her to live (about 9 months after the diagnosis), and she lived with grace and joy and a sense of the wonder of life, determined to experience what she could, enjoy what she could, and be with family as much as she could, while she was able. However, she had been under hospice care for some time. She was awake and alert and happy to receive cards and visits for her 84th birthday on October 16. Since her birthday, though, she had not done much but sleep. She died this past Friday, October 23. Her daughter was with her. I am sure she felt loved. We will miss her dearly.
My grandfather’s brother had seemed very healthy, especially given his age - he would have been 94 this week. He had a bit of fluid around his heart a couple of months ago, but they got rid of the fluid (diuretics did the trick, I think) and pronounced him healthy. He died of a heart attack last Monday, October 19. It was sudden and as unexpected as a 94 year old person's death could ever be. I hope he had a chance to say his goodbyes and to enjoy all the things he wanted in life. I hope he died relatively peacefully, and that he, too, felt loved. Because he was.
Both lived in New Orleans for most of their lives. That is where my Dad’s family is from, and where many of his relatives have lived for generations. Both funerals will take place this week. Many folks in New Orleans may not notice their passing, but my family is understandably a bit shaken.
I’ll share a bit more about Uncle Rene, and about my family history, tomorrow.
Monday, July 20, 2009
My First Fishing Lesson
When I was a kid, probably about eight years old, maybe younger, my Grandfather (yes, the one who died in May) took me fishing. My Grandpa loved to fish, and wanted to instill in me that same love of fishing.
I was young, so I don't know exactly where we went, but it was beautiful. We drove a long way from my Grandpa's house, out to where the roads were curvy and the trees were tall. We carried the fishing gear from the car to a curvy, wide, meandering stream. There were tall green trees, beautiful green grassy areas, nice benches to sit on, and occasional bridges across the stream.
My Grandpa showed me how to attach the bobber to the line, and the hook.
My Grandpa showed me how to put the bait on the hook, and then he let me try it for myself.
He showed me how to cast the line out into the water, and encouraged me as I practiced until I could do it well.
He told me how to watch the bobber and feel the line to determine when a fish was nibbling.
He showed me how to "set" the hook when the fish nibbled, and how to reel them in.
And reel them in I did! I caught 3 good-size fish that day! My Grandpa proclaimed that I was the youngest expert fisherwoman in the entire state! He was so proud of me.
When we got home, he proudly told my Grandma and uncles what a great job I had done fishing -- and catching, which we all know is the hard part. (After all, anyone can go fishing, but not everyone actually catches anything!) We had delicious fresh fish for dinner that evening, and my grandpa once again proudly proclaimed that it was "thanks to my fine Granddaughter's expert fishing skills and my beautiful wife's wonderful cooking skills" that we were eating so well that evening. (He really knew how to pour on the praise).
A week or so later when I returned home from my Grandma and Grandpa's house, I told my Dad about how Grandpa had taken me fishing and that I caught 3 big fish. He was impressed and asked, "Where'd you go?" I thought he probably wanted to go there himself, as he loved fishing, too.
I said I didn't know exactly, but it was beautiful, and I described it for him.
*
*
*
"Oh, the trout farm, huh?" he said.....
So much for my "expert" fish-catching skills.
*
*
*
But you know what? To this day I remember the fishing lesson, the fun we had, and my grandpa's real pride in me. Even my Dad's cynical response a week later couldn't take that away.
I was young, so I don't know exactly where we went, but it was beautiful. We drove a long way from my Grandpa's house, out to where the roads were curvy and the trees were tall. We carried the fishing gear from the car to a curvy, wide, meandering stream. There were tall green trees, beautiful green grassy areas, nice benches to sit on, and occasional bridges across the stream.
My Grandpa showed me how to attach the bobber to the line, and the hook.
My Grandpa showed me how to put the bait on the hook, and then he let me try it for myself.
He showed me how to cast the line out into the water, and encouraged me as I practiced until I could do it well.
He told me how to watch the bobber and feel the line to determine when a fish was nibbling.
He showed me how to "set" the hook when the fish nibbled, and how to reel them in.
And reel them in I did! I caught 3 good-size fish that day! My Grandpa proclaimed that I was the youngest expert fisherwoman in the entire state! He was so proud of me.
When we got home, he proudly told my Grandma and uncles what a great job I had done fishing -- and catching, which we all know is the hard part. (After all, anyone can go fishing, but not everyone actually catches anything!) We had delicious fresh fish for dinner that evening, and my grandpa once again proudly proclaimed that it was "thanks to my fine Granddaughter's expert fishing skills and my beautiful wife's wonderful cooking skills" that we were eating so well that evening. (He really knew how to pour on the praise).
A week or so later when I returned home from my Grandma and Grandpa's house, I told my Dad about how Grandpa had taken me fishing and that I caught 3 big fish. He was impressed and asked, "Where'd you go?" I thought he probably wanted to go there himself, as he loved fishing, too.
I said I didn't know exactly, but it was beautiful, and I described it for him.
*
*
*
"Oh, the trout farm, huh?" he said.....
So much for my "expert" fish-catching skills.
*
*
*
But you know what? To this day I remember the fishing lesson, the fun we had, and my grandpa's real pride in me. Even my Dad's cynical response a week later couldn't take that away.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Goodbye, Old Friend
I may have mentioned my dog before. He is (was) a Basset Hound. We got him when he was "about 4," according to the folks we got him from, which means he could have been anywhere from 2 to 6 at the time. My daughter was almost 4 at the time, and my son wasn't born yet.
My daughter had been asking for a dog since she was eighteen months old. We would pass dogs on the street or at the dog park and she would say, "I want a doggy." I bought her a stuffed doggy, but that just made her annoyed with me. At the time, she didn't know the words for "alive" or "real" so she said, "No! I want a doggy that walks." So a couple months later, I bought her a small battery operated stuffed dog that walked when you turned on the switch. She was not impressed; I could tell by her huffing and sighing. As soon as she learned to express the concept of "real" and "alive," she told me she wanted a "real, alive doggy."
So in 2002, my husband and daughter responded to an ad in the paper seeking a "good home" for a "loving dog." I'm not sure exactly how these folks came to possess our dear Hound, but they didn't know exactly how old he was - they just knew they couldn't keep him because they discovered after they got him that their kid was allergic to him.
He was friendly and sweet and seemed healthy and happy, so my husband and daughter brought him home. He rode happily in the back seat with my daughter. He leaned over her and hung his head out the window, tongue flailing in the wind. She thought that was hilarious, and laughed the entire way home. She named him "Woody," after the cowboy in Toy Story, which was a fairly new and still very popular movie at the time.
He was an exceptionally good-looking Basset Hound. We would buy a calendar each year, with Basset Hound photos for each month, and our wonderful Woody always looked as handsome as the professionally photographed purebred pooches.
Woody adjusted quite well to us and to our home. At first, I wasn't sure whether to trust him with my daughter. Basset Hounds are not small dogs, even though they are only about 15 inches tall at the shoulders; they really are large dogs on very short legs. They have huge strong jaws, and are stocky and heavy for their size, which made me a little nervous given that my daughter was a very small age 4. He outweighed her by at least 15 pounds. I never fully trust animals around young kids anyway. Even a very friendly and patient animal can "snap" if he is hurt or startled. So I watched him carefully, but he was always very patient and gentle, and never snapped.
She had a lot to learn about how to treat animals. I explained many times how to pet him properly and that she should not hurt him. But as soon as I would look away, she would pull on his very long, adorably droopy ears, or hold onto his tail, or poke at him, or climb on him... I think she didn't mean him any harm, but was curious, and somewhat used to stuffed animals that could be poked and prodded at will. He never responded in anger. She could poke and prod and he would just sit there, occasionally nudging her with his nose. If she hurt him, he would simply get up and walk away. Eventually, she learned to treat him kindly so he wouldn't leave.
Woody also learned the particular joys of children. They are messy eaters, so all he had to do to get yummy snacks was hang around under my daughter's chair while she ate dinner. And they also love to give treats to dogs, so all he had to do to get treats between meals was look at her with those soulful brown eyes, and she'd run for the treat jar and give him a snack. I think that was part of the reason why he was so willing to put up with her poking and prodding - he knew she was a great food source!
When my son was born, Woody was immediately fascinated with the little guy. I think he was glad to have me home for maternity leave, too, and he would sleep at my feet as I held my son, or sit in the kitchen with me while I made lunch. And as my son grew, and became mobile, Woody was as gentle with him as he had been with my daughter, putting up with all the pokes, prods, and pulls as my son learned how to properly pet and play with a dog. And he always kept the floor under my son's high chair clean and clear of all crumbs and dropped food.
Woody loved to play - he would chase balls (and sometimes bring them back), play tug of war, and run and chase and run some more. The kids loved to throw the ball for him, then chase him around the yard; he loved outrunning them. He would tease them, too, letting them get almost within range of him, then darting off to run in circles some more.
He loved to walk with us (on the leash of course), anywhere we wanted to go. He'd prance down the street, tail in the air and nose to the ground, seeming to say "It's right this way guys, I can smell it... this way now, let's go!... Yup, here it is, I can smell it now!" And we invariably got comments wherever we went: "What a beautiful dog!" "Wow, is he a Bassett Hound? He's so perfect!!" "Oooh, can I pet him?" "Wow, he's sooo friendly!!" He would wag his tail and lean happily against whoever was petting him while gazing up into their eyes with his beautiful and soulful brown eyes. He loved being out and about.
He also loved to go to the dog park and play with the other dogs. He was always friendly and never got into fights or even growled at the others. He would sometimes get frustrated when he couldn't keep up with the other dogs running around because his little legs were so short. Then, he'd run behind them barking, "woof! ... woof! ... woof!" Very cute.
He also loved to play at the park with the kids. Sometimes he'd follow them up the stairs to the slide, then slide down after them. Other times, he'd just sit or lie in the sand and watch them climb and swing and run around.
When I left my job and opened my own law firm, I began working mostly from home. Woody loved that. He would sleep on his blanket near my feet most of the day, and bark to alert me when the mailman came by or when anyone knocked at the door. I loved his "big-dog" bark - it made me feel somewhat safer while I was home alone. Sometimes we'd go for walks in the morning before it got too hot; other days, when the weather was nice, I'd sit out back for a while and read cases and drink my coffee while Woody chased the birds in the yard or slept in the sun. Mostly, I worked at my computer and Woody slept on his blanket on the floor.
Woody was not a perfect dog. One of his favorite activities was knocking over the garbage can to get to the "treats" inside. He could also stand with his paws on the edge of the kitchen counter (he was quite tall when standing on his short back legs - he had quite a long body) and reach nearly to the back of the counter with his tongue, so you could not leave any food on the counter. We always had to leave him outside when we were away because he couldn't be trusted inside by himself. Once, my husband and I made the mistake of leaving a half-eaten pizza on the coffee table in the living room while we went to the kitchen to get beverages. The pizza was gone when we returned. And he knew he wasn't supposed to sleep on the couch or on our bed, but if I walked into the living room or bedroom after being in the kitchen for a while, I often would find a warm indentation in exactly the shape of a curled-up doggy on the couch or bed... while Woody appeared to be asleep, innocently, on the floor several feet away. Yes, he could be rather sly...
But he was always a faithful friend. He always greeted us when we came home, happy to see us. If you were sad, he was there to comfort you. If you were happy, his tail was wagging too.
Last summer, he started getting a little... slower. He stopped knocking over the garbage, and completely stopped climbing on the bed and on the couch. We took him to the vet, and it turned out his spleen was severely enlarged. Over $1000 later, he was our spleen-less wonder-dog. He took several weeks recovering from the surgery, but he did perk up a bit. He still did not climb on the bed (can't say I was too disappointed about that one), but he enjoyed his walks again and followed us happily around the house. He seemed happy for the holidays, anyway.
But the hair didn't grow back on his pudgy pink belly where they had shaved it for the surgery. And after an initial few months of seeming better, he slowed down again. So this spring, it was back to the vet, who said he seemed to be having troubles with his liver function and thyroid, plus he had high blood pressure. She said we could try additional x-rays and surgery if we were so inclined, to determine if cancer was the problem, but she didn't really recommend it, because if it were cancer, the surgery and chemotherapy would be very expensive and likely would not substantially extend or improve the quality of his life. She prescribed several different medicines and supplements, which were supposed to help if it was not cancer, as well as an antibiotic and some pain killers.
Woody loved the treats he got with his morning and evening pills. Four treats every morning and four treats every evening. But again, after an initial couple of months in which the pills seemed to help, he just seemed to be slowing down again. And over the past couple of months, he slept more and more, ate less and less, and seemed less and less happy. Another trip to the vet, more prescription pain medicine -- but there was no way to cure him, no way to make him young again. He continued to lose weight. And in the last couple of weeks, his face just looked gaunt; his ribs appeared and felt prominent despite his puffed-out belly.
So last Monday, my husband and I had to face reality. Woody was not going to get well again. He did not look happy. Over the weekend, he had just seemed to be in pain, despite the pain medicine we were giving him twice a day. And on Monday, his breathing was labored and irregular. My husband and I talked about it and made what has to be one of the hardest decisions one can make: time to euthanize our beloved friend.
My daughter is out of town, camping with some relatives in Virginia. Sadly, she did not get a chance to say goodbye to her faithful friend. I hope she will forgive me. My son cried a lot, and said his goodbyes, and then we took him to his grandmother's house, and then we took Woody to the vet one final time.
As I walked him out to the car, he wanted to walk around the yard and mark his territory one last time, so I let him. Poor Woody tried to pee on the fire hydrant in the corner of our yard, but fell over sideways. He's persistent, though. He tried again -- success! -- then walked to the car. I had to help him in. Long gone are the days when he could jump in by himself. No more standing and hanging his head out the window, tongue flapping in the wind. No, this time he just laid on his side, on the back seat of the car, looking sad and withered.
At the vet's office, we petted him and told him what a good dog he had been and how much we loved him. He sat for a while, then lay down on the blanket they had for him, and didn't move again. They gave him the shots, and we comforted him while the drugs put him to sleep and then stopped his heart. It is not easy to watch your beloved doggy die. I wish I could say he seemed peaceful or happy as he died, but the best I can say is that he seemed ready for it, and at least he won't suffer any longer.
I'll never see him again, and I miss my little friend terribly. I miss having an automatic vacuum / floor sweeper to clean up after the kids when they make a mess at dinner time. I miss having a dog to walk. I miss having a dog who barks when someone is at the door. I miss hearing my son shout with joy ("Woody!!") when we come home from running errands. But most of all, I miss Woody's friendly presence and sweet brown eyes watching me while I sit here at my computer doing my work and reading your blogs.
* * * * *
Dear Woody, you were a true friend and a good dog. Thank you for being so patient with my kids, and so loving to all of us. We will all miss you terribly and remember you fondly.
Goodbye old friend, goodbye.
.
My daughter had been asking for a dog since she was eighteen months old. We would pass dogs on the street or at the dog park and she would say, "I want a doggy." I bought her a stuffed doggy, but that just made her annoyed with me. At the time, she didn't know the words for "alive" or "real" so she said, "No! I want a doggy that walks." So a couple months later, I bought her a small battery operated stuffed dog that walked when you turned on the switch. She was not impressed; I could tell by her huffing and sighing. As soon as she learned to express the concept of "real" and "alive," she told me she wanted a "real, alive doggy."
So in 2002, my husband and daughter responded to an ad in the paper seeking a "good home" for a "loving dog." I'm not sure exactly how these folks came to possess our dear Hound, but they didn't know exactly how old he was - they just knew they couldn't keep him because they discovered after they got him that their kid was allergic to him.
He was friendly and sweet and seemed healthy and happy, so my husband and daughter brought him home. He rode happily in the back seat with my daughter. He leaned over her and hung his head out the window, tongue flailing in the wind. She thought that was hilarious, and laughed the entire way home. She named him "Woody," after the cowboy in Toy Story, which was a fairly new and still very popular movie at the time.
He was an exceptionally good-looking Basset Hound. We would buy a calendar each year, with Basset Hound photos for each month, and our wonderful Woody always looked as handsome as the professionally photographed purebred pooches.
Woody adjusted quite well to us and to our home. At first, I wasn't sure whether to trust him with my daughter. Basset Hounds are not small dogs, even though they are only about 15 inches tall at the shoulders; they really are large dogs on very short legs. They have huge strong jaws, and are stocky and heavy for their size, which made me a little nervous given that my daughter was a very small age 4. He outweighed her by at least 15 pounds. I never fully trust animals around young kids anyway. Even a very friendly and patient animal can "snap" if he is hurt or startled. So I watched him carefully, but he was always very patient and gentle, and never snapped.
She had a lot to learn about how to treat animals. I explained many times how to pet him properly and that she should not hurt him. But as soon as I would look away, she would pull on his very long, adorably droopy ears, or hold onto his tail, or poke at him, or climb on him... I think she didn't mean him any harm, but was curious, and somewhat used to stuffed animals that could be poked and prodded at will. He never responded in anger. She could poke and prod and he would just sit there, occasionally nudging her with his nose. If she hurt him, he would simply get up and walk away. Eventually, she learned to treat him kindly so he wouldn't leave.
Woody also learned the particular joys of children. They are messy eaters, so all he had to do to get yummy snacks was hang around under my daughter's chair while she ate dinner. And they also love to give treats to dogs, so all he had to do to get treats between meals was look at her with those soulful brown eyes, and she'd run for the treat jar and give him a snack. I think that was part of the reason why he was so willing to put up with her poking and prodding - he knew she was a great food source!
When my son was born, Woody was immediately fascinated with the little guy. I think he was glad to have me home for maternity leave, too, and he would sleep at my feet as I held my son, or sit in the kitchen with me while I made lunch. And as my son grew, and became mobile, Woody was as gentle with him as he had been with my daughter, putting up with all the pokes, prods, and pulls as my son learned how to properly pet and play with a dog. And he always kept the floor under my son's high chair clean and clear of all crumbs and dropped food.
Woody loved to play - he would chase balls (and sometimes bring them back), play tug of war, and run and chase and run some more. The kids loved to throw the ball for him, then chase him around the yard; he loved outrunning them. He would tease them, too, letting them get almost within range of him, then darting off to run in circles some more.
He loved to walk with us (on the leash of course), anywhere we wanted to go. He'd prance down the street, tail in the air and nose to the ground, seeming to say "It's right this way guys, I can smell it... this way now, let's go!... Yup, here it is, I can smell it now!" And we invariably got comments wherever we went: "What a beautiful dog!" "Wow, is he a Bassett Hound? He's so perfect!!" "Oooh, can I pet him?" "Wow, he's sooo friendly!!" He would wag his tail and lean happily against whoever was petting him while gazing up into their eyes with his beautiful and soulful brown eyes. He loved being out and about.
He also loved to go to the dog park and play with the other dogs. He was always friendly and never got into fights or even growled at the others. He would sometimes get frustrated when he couldn't keep up with the other dogs running around because his little legs were so short. Then, he'd run behind them barking, "woof! ... woof! ... woof!" Very cute.
He also loved to play at the park with the kids. Sometimes he'd follow them up the stairs to the slide, then slide down after them. Other times, he'd just sit or lie in the sand and watch them climb and swing and run around.
When I left my job and opened my own law firm, I began working mostly from home. Woody loved that. He would sleep on his blanket near my feet most of the day, and bark to alert me when the mailman came by or when anyone knocked at the door. I loved his "big-dog" bark - it made me feel somewhat safer while I was home alone. Sometimes we'd go for walks in the morning before it got too hot; other days, when the weather was nice, I'd sit out back for a while and read cases and drink my coffee while Woody chased the birds in the yard or slept in the sun. Mostly, I worked at my computer and Woody slept on his blanket on the floor.
Woody was not a perfect dog. One of his favorite activities was knocking over the garbage can to get to the "treats" inside. He could also stand with his paws on the edge of the kitchen counter (he was quite tall when standing on his short back legs - he had quite a long body) and reach nearly to the back of the counter with his tongue, so you could not leave any food on the counter. We always had to leave him outside when we were away because he couldn't be trusted inside by himself. Once, my husband and I made the mistake of leaving a half-eaten pizza on the coffee table in the living room while we went to the kitchen to get beverages. The pizza was gone when we returned. And he knew he wasn't supposed to sleep on the couch or on our bed, but if I walked into the living room or bedroom after being in the kitchen for a while, I often would find a warm indentation in exactly the shape of a curled-up doggy on the couch or bed... while Woody appeared to be asleep, innocently, on the floor several feet away. Yes, he could be rather sly...
But he was always a faithful friend. He always greeted us when we came home, happy to see us. If you were sad, he was there to comfort you. If you were happy, his tail was wagging too.
Last summer, he started getting a little... slower. He stopped knocking over the garbage, and completely stopped climbing on the bed and on the couch. We took him to the vet, and it turned out his spleen was severely enlarged. Over $1000 later, he was our spleen-less wonder-dog. He took several weeks recovering from the surgery, but he did perk up a bit. He still did not climb on the bed (can't say I was too disappointed about that one), but he enjoyed his walks again and followed us happily around the house. He seemed happy for the holidays, anyway.
But the hair didn't grow back on his pudgy pink belly where they had shaved it for the surgery. And after an initial few months of seeming better, he slowed down again. So this spring, it was back to the vet, who said he seemed to be having troubles with his liver function and thyroid, plus he had high blood pressure. She said we could try additional x-rays and surgery if we were so inclined, to determine if cancer was the problem, but she didn't really recommend it, because if it were cancer, the surgery and chemotherapy would be very expensive and likely would not substantially extend or improve the quality of his life. She prescribed several different medicines and supplements, which were supposed to help if it was not cancer, as well as an antibiotic and some pain killers.
Woody loved the treats he got with his morning and evening pills. Four treats every morning and four treats every evening. But again, after an initial couple of months in which the pills seemed to help, he just seemed to be slowing down again. And over the past couple of months, he slept more and more, ate less and less, and seemed less and less happy. Another trip to the vet, more prescription pain medicine -- but there was no way to cure him, no way to make him young again. He continued to lose weight. And in the last couple of weeks, his face just looked gaunt; his ribs appeared and felt prominent despite his puffed-out belly.
So last Monday, my husband and I had to face reality. Woody was not going to get well again. He did not look happy. Over the weekend, he had just seemed to be in pain, despite the pain medicine we were giving him twice a day. And on Monday, his breathing was labored and irregular. My husband and I talked about it and made what has to be one of the hardest decisions one can make: time to euthanize our beloved friend.
My daughter is out of town, camping with some relatives in Virginia. Sadly, she did not get a chance to say goodbye to her faithful friend. I hope she will forgive me. My son cried a lot, and said his goodbyes, and then we took him to his grandmother's house, and then we took Woody to the vet one final time.
As I walked him out to the car, he wanted to walk around the yard and mark his territory one last time, so I let him. Poor Woody tried to pee on the fire hydrant in the corner of our yard, but fell over sideways. He's persistent, though. He tried again -- success! -- then walked to the car. I had to help him in. Long gone are the days when he could jump in by himself. No more standing and hanging his head out the window, tongue flapping in the wind. No, this time he just laid on his side, on the back seat of the car, looking sad and withered.
At the vet's office, we petted him and told him what a good dog he had been and how much we loved him. He sat for a while, then lay down on the blanket they had for him, and didn't move again. They gave him the shots, and we comforted him while the drugs put him to sleep and then stopped his heart. It is not easy to watch your beloved doggy die. I wish I could say he seemed peaceful or happy as he died, but the best I can say is that he seemed ready for it, and at least he won't suffer any longer.
I'll never see him again, and I miss my little friend terribly. I miss having an automatic vacuum / floor sweeper to clean up after the kids when they make a mess at dinner time. I miss having a dog to walk. I miss having a dog who barks when someone is at the door. I miss hearing my son shout with joy ("Woody!!") when we come home from running errands. But most of all, I miss Woody's friendly presence and sweet brown eyes watching me while I sit here at my computer doing my work and reading your blogs.
* * * * *
Dear Woody, you were a true friend and a good dog. Thank you for being so patient with my kids, and so loving to all of us. We will all miss you terribly and remember you fondly.
Goodbye old friend, goodbye.
.
Monday, May 11, 2009
TBC, 1922-2009
My Grandpa died last night. It's odd calling him "Grandpa" here. In reality, he always had me call him by his first name. But I'm still trying to be a bit anonymous, so "Grandpa" it will be, in this space.
He was 87. He had been very ill with heart troubles so it was not unexpected. But I still feel the loss profoundly.
When I was a kid, I used to visit my grandparents every summer for a few weeks at a time. I posted about their awesome house in Pensacola, Florida, here (scroll down to number 4) . I loved that house. But even more than the house, I loved the people in it.
My grandma was (still is) a wonderful cook and was generous with her time, taking me shopping, to the beach, out for ice cream, and for walks around the neighborhood, visiting neighbors and just enjoying the days.
My uncles were lots of fun, playing games (board games, hide & seek, ping-pong, bumper pool... you name it) with me, taking me bike riding, building sand-castles at the beach, and even playing the guitar for me.
And my Grandpa... I could sit and watch golf or reruns of old cartoons (Felix the Cat, anyone?) with him on the weekends. On weeknights, he loved to watch Johnny Carson, and I loved that he let me stay up late enough to watch it with him. I fell asleep to Johnny Carson many a night. Sometimes while we watched tv, he would play scrabble with me. He always won, but he always let me think I had at least given him a run for his money.
When I was very young, he sometimes liked to pretend to pull coins out of my ears. Or he'd say, "what's this?" while pointing at my shirt (and I would look, thinking I must have spilled something), and then "watch out for that!" while chucking me gently under the chin or on the nose with that same hand. I would laugh and laugh.... and he would smile that smile and do it again.
Once when I was about 12 he took me golfing and let me drive the golf cart. What a thrill! Too bad I didn't really know how to drive and I almost ran over some trees and other golfers and my driving privileges were revoked within fifteen minutes. But it was a wild, fun ride while it lasted!
My Grandpa sold insurance for a living. He was good at it because he really cared about his clients. He had lifelong clients who loved the service and thorough explanations and assistance with wealth management that he provided. He was the top seller in his region and/or in the United States many different years. My grandma assisted him sometimes at the office, and sometimes my grandparents would take me to the office with them for an hour or two. My impression was that my Grandpa's office was always clean, bright, well-run, efficient -- and that the people there seemed genuinely happy to see him walk through the door.
Because he worked a lot, I didn't see him as much as I saw my Grandma and uncles, but he would come home from work, invariably cheery, happy to be home, singing some old Bing Crosby song or Irish ditty, and smiling as though his family had just lit up his world. He loved to sing old songs for me, and he had a deep, resonant voice and such a happy twinkle in his eyes when he sang. Oh, how he loved to sing.
He would always talk to me when he came home from work as he kissed my grandma, saying, "Isn't she just the most beautiful woman you ever saw?" (Frankly, my 8 year old self thought they both looked a little old, 'though at the time they were only in their 40's, not so much older than I am now... ) I always agreed with him though, and indeed, my grandmother is a beautiful woman. I would never have thought to look for it if he hadn't pointed it out, but she has beautiful eyes, perfect cheeks, and clear, smooth, perfect skin... Looking at photos, it turns out she was amazingly beautiful when she was in her 20's - movie star beautiful, even. I haven't seen her in several years, but I imagine she is still beautiful, if a bit older, possibly grayer and more wrinkled...
After my grandparents moved to Atlanta, they loved to take me out to lunch and dinner, and particularly loved to introduce me to new foods. I think they were enjoying the new variety of restaurants in Atlanta, and were thrilled to have someone, even a teenager, with whom to share their joy and enthusiasm. I might never have tried escargots if my Grandpa hadn't talked me into it. Or Thai food. Or Indian food. Or frozen yogurt. Thanks to my Grandpa and Grandma, I learned to keep an open mind, to try new foods, and to enjoy new tastes.
They would also take me to hear concerts in the park, to art museums, and to the revolving restaurant at the top of the 70+ story Peachtree Plaza Hotel. All heady stuff for a 13 year old who had lived most of her life to date in a smallish college town.
In his free time, for many years, my grandpa liked to paint. He used oil paints and mixed the colors with such love and joy. He painted birds sometimes, and landscapes. I wish I had one of his paintings now.
He also loved to fix and clean things, to keep them in tip-top shape. Probably this was a result of him living through the depression and learning not to waste things, but it was charming nonetheless. I remember he loved to keep his shoes well-polished; and he loved to polish mine, too. I hated this as a kid, when scuffed up, dirty sneakers were "cool" and bright white ones made you look "geeky." Looking back on it, though, it was really sweet of him to take the time to keep my shoes nice for me.
He used to smoke a pipe when I was a kid. I loved the smell of the pipe tobacco, and the gentle sound of him packing and then lighting that pipe. As he got older, his doctor advised him to quit smoking, and my grandma demanded that he comply, so he gave up his beloved pipe. For years he struggled, though, smoking cigarettes off and on. The cigarettes didn't smell as nice and I don't think he enjoyed them as much, but he could buy a pack on the sly for not too much money, unlike the investment of a pipe and expensive tobacco which my grandma likely would have thrown out. He thought he would be able to sneak in the cigarettes. He'd go for a walk and light up while he was out, being careful to finish the cigarette several blocks before returning home so the smell would dissipate. It didn't work. My grandma could always tell when he had been smoking.
He struggled with alcohol, too. He liked to drink, and sometimes drank too much. My Grandma really hated dealing with his drinking. She used to tell him he was going to smoke and drink himself to death. His own father had died of a heart attack in his 50's. My Grandpa made it to age 87. Perhaps the stress relief provided by the alcohol and tobacco wasn't such a bad thing after all. Or perhaps he would have lived well into his 90's as his mother did, if he had quit drinking and smoking sooner. In any event, 87 isn't such a bad ride.
My Grandma and Grandpa had a somewhat difficult relationship at times. But I know they loved each other. She cared for him to the very end, and I am sure he was happy for her lovingly-prepared home-cooked meals, and her attention to his health, when he could no longer care for himself these past weeks and months.
And they had their good times, too. He loved to read and summarize articles from the newspaper for her while she cooked or drove. (She usually wouldn't let him drive; said his driving made her nervous). Sometimes they would debate issues, and they both seemed to enjoy sparring about politics and world events, or discussing whether "Dear Abby's" advice was any good that day.
They both enjoyed travel, too, when they were able. I remember many car trips to the mountains with them, in Georgia and Tennessee. We would stop at little roadside restaurants and dine on fried catfish and fried okra, or barbeque ribs and corn on the cob. Awesome food in beautiful places. My Grandfather dreamed of moving to a cabin in a small town in the mountains.
In more recent years, as my Grandpa's health deteriorated, he was unable to travel so much. But he discovered the internet, and he would send me (and my mom, and my uncles, and probably everyone else he cared about) several emails each week (sometimes several each day). He took the time to send individual emails to each person or to targeted groups on topics he thought might interest them -- rather than sending everything to everyone on a huge mailing list, as many folks seem to do these days. For me, the topics usually were law, politics, travel... and occasionally a joke or two, or some photos. He learned so much about computers, too, and would often send emails warning me of internet viruses or telling me about some great new program he had discovered. I loved this new connection with him. And it is oddly fitting to write a tribute to him on the internet. I think he would have liked that.
But over the past several months, his health declined substantially. It was difficult in many ways, knowing that he was weakening, suffering... but one of the most difficult things was knowing that he was unable to sit at his computer, unable to connect with the world in the way he loved. I miss his emails. I've kept a few, unopened. I'll open them in the coming weeks and months, and maybe it will feel like he is still here, sending his love. I hope so, anyway. Regardless, it will be fun to see what he found interesting and thought I would be interested in.
My Grandpa was a product of his times - certainly not perfect, and the family had its share of dysfunctional interaction. My Grandpa could be difficult and ornery, withdrawn and sullen, even a bit mean, if he had been drinking. But he was, overall, a good man. He worked hard to provide for his family. He loved his beautiful wife (my wonderful Grandma), even when they fought, and he loved every one of his kids and grandkids. He sometimes felt he did not do enough, perhaps did not know how to do enough, to make sure we knew we were loved. But I always felt his love. It was in his singing, his smile, the twinkle in his eye, the time he shared with me.
Grandpa, I miss you already. I hope you are in a place of peace and comfort. I hope you know that you were, and are, dearly loved.
.
He was 87. He had been very ill with heart troubles so it was not unexpected. But I still feel the loss profoundly.
When I was a kid, I used to visit my grandparents every summer for a few weeks at a time. I posted about their awesome house in Pensacola, Florida, here (scroll down to number 4) . I loved that house. But even more than the house, I loved the people in it.
My grandma was (still is) a wonderful cook and was generous with her time, taking me shopping, to the beach, out for ice cream, and for walks around the neighborhood, visiting neighbors and just enjoying the days.
My uncles were lots of fun, playing games (board games, hide & seek, ping-pong, bumper pool... you name it) with me, taking me bike riding, building sand-castles at the beach, and even playing the guitar for me.
And my Grandpa... I could sit and watch golf or reruns of old cartoons (Felix the Cat, anyone?) with him on the weekends. On weeknights, he loved to watch Johnny Carson, and I loved that he let me stay up late enough to watch it with him. I fell asleep to Johnny Carson many a night. Sometimes while we watched tv, he would play scrabble with me. He always won, but he always let me think I had at least given him a run for his money.
When I was very young, he sometimes liked to pretend to pull coins out of my ears. Or he'd say, "what's this?" while pointing at my shirt (and I would look, thinking I must have spilled something), and then "watch out for that!" while chucking me gently under the chin or on the nose with that same hand. I would laugh and laugh.... and he would smile that smile and do it again.
Once when I was about 12 he took me golfing and let me drive the golf cart. What a thrill! Too bad I didn't really know how to drive and I almost ran over some trees and other golfers and my driving privileges were revoked within fifteen minutes. But it was a wild, fun ride while it lasted!
My Grandpa sold insurance for a living. He was good at it because he really cared about his clients. He had lifelong clients who loved the service and thorough explanations and assistance with wealth management that he provided. He was the top seller in his region and/or in the United States many different years. My grandma assisted him sometimes at the office, and sometimes my grandparents would take me to the office with them for an hour or two. My impression was that my Grandpa's office was always clean, bright, well-run, efficient -- and that the people there seemed genuinely happy to see him walk through the door.
Because he worked a lot, I didn't see him as much as I saw my Grandma and uncles, but he would come home from work, invariably cheery, happy to be home, singing some old Bing Crosby song or Irish ditty, and smiling as though his family had just lit up his world. He loved to sing old songs for me, and he had a deep, resonant voice and such a happy twinkle in his eyes when he sang. Oh, how he loved to sing.
He would always talk to me when he came home from work as he kissed my grandma, saying, "Isn't she just the most beautiful woman you ever saw?" (Frankly, my 8 year old self thought they both looked a little old, 'though at the time they were only in their 40's, not so much older than I am now... ) I always agreed with him though, and indeed, my grandmother is a beautiful woman. I would never have thought to look for it if he hadn't pointed it out, but she has beautiful eyes, perfect cheeks, and clear, smooth, perfect skin... Looking at photos, it turns out she was amazingly beautiful when she was in her 20's - movie star beautiful, even. I haven't seen her in several years, but I imagine she is still beautiful, if a bit older, possibly grayer and more wrinkled...
After my grandparents moved to Atlanta, they loved to take me out to lunch and dinner, and particularly loved to introduce me to new foods. I think they were enjoying the new variety of restaurants in Atlanta, and were thrilled to have someone, even a teenager, with whom to share their joy and enthusiasm. I might never have tried escargots if my Grandpa hadn't talked me into it. Or Thai food. Or Indian food. Or frozen yogurt. Thanks to my Grandpa and Grandma, I learned to keep an open mind, to try new foods, and to enjoy new tastes.
They would also take me to hear concerts in the park, to art museums, and to the revolving restaurant at the top of the 70+ story Peachtree Plaza Hotel. All heady stuff for a 13 year old who had lived most of her life to date in a smallish college town.
In his free time, for many years, my grandpa liked to paint. He used oil paints and mixed the colors with such love and joy. He painted birds sometimes, and landscapes. I wish I had one of his paintings now.
He also loved to fix and clean things, to keep them in tip-top shape. Probably this was a result of him living through the depression and learning not to waste things, but it was charming nonetheless. I remember he loved to keep his shoes well-polished; and he loved to polish mine, too. I hated this as a kid, when scuffed up, dirty sneakers were "cool" and bright white ones made you look "geeky." Looking back on it, though, it was really sweet of him to take the time to keep my shoes nice for me.
He used to smoke a pipe when I was a kid. I loved the smell of the pipe tobacco, and the gentle sound of him packing and then lighting that pipe. As he got older, his doctor advised him to quit smoking, and my grandma demanded that he comply, so he gave up his beloved pipe. For years he struggled, though, smoking cigarettes off and on. The cigarettes didn't smell as nice and I don't think he enjoyed them as much, but he could buy a pack on the sly for not too much money, unlike the investment of a pipe and expensive tobacco which my grandma likely would have thrown out. He thought he would be able to sneak in the cigarettes. He'd go for a walk and light up while he was out, being careful to finish the cigarette several blocks before returning home so the smell would dissipate. It didn't work. My grandma could always tell when he had been smoking.
He struggled with alcohol, too. He liked to drink, and sometimes drank too much. My Grandma really hated dealing with his drinking. She used to tell him he was going to smoke and drink himself to death. His own father had died of a heart attack in his 50's. My Grandpa made it to age 87. Perhaps the stress relief provided by the alcohol and tobacco wasn't such a bad thing after all. Or perhaps he would have lived well into his 90's as his mother did, if he had quit drinking and smoking sooner. In any event, 87 isn't such a bad ride.
My Grandma and Grandpa had a somewhat difficult relationship at times. But I know they loved each other. She cared for him to the very end, and I am sure he was happy for her lovingly-prepared home-cooked meals, and her attention to his health, when he could no longer care for himself these past weeks and months.
And they had their good times, too. He loved to read and summarize articles from the newspaper for her while she cooked or drove. (She usually wouldn't let him drive; said his driving made her nervous). Sometimes they would debate issues, and they both seemed to enjoy sparring about politics and world events, or discussing whether "Dear Abby's" advice was any good that day.
They both enjoyed travel, too, when they were able. I remember many car trips to the mountains with them, in Georgia and Tennessee. We would stop at little roadside restaurants and dine on fried catfish and fried okra, or barbeque ribs and corn on the cob. Awesome food in beautiful places. My Grandfather dreamed of moving to a cabin in a small town in the mountains.
In more recent years, as my Grandpa's health deteriorated, he was unable to travel so much. But he discovered the internet, and he would send me (and my mom, and my uncles, and probably everyone else he cared about) several emails each week (sometimes several each day). He took the time to send individual emails to each person or to targeted groups on topics he thought might interest them -- rather than sending everything to everyone on a huge mailing list, as many folks seem to do these days. For me, the topics usually were law, politics, travel... and occasionally a joke or two, or some photos. He learned so much about computers, too, and would often send emails warning me of internet viruses or telling me about some great new program he had discovered. I loved this new connection with him. And it is oddly fitting to write a tribute to him on the internet. I think he would have liked that.
But over the past several months, his health declined substantially. It was difficult in many ways, knowing that he was weakening, suffering... but one of the most difficult things was knowing that he was unable to sit at his computer, unable to connect with the world in the way he loved. I miss his emails. I've kept a few, unopened. I'll open them in the coming weeks and months, and maybe it will feel like he is still here, sending his love. I hope so, anyway. Regardless, it will be fun to see what he found interesting and thought I would be interested in.
My Grandpa was a product of his times - certainly not perfect, and the family had its share of dysfunctional interaction. My Grandpa could be difficult and ornery, withdrawn and sullen, even a bit mean, if he had been drinking. But he was, overall, a good man. He worked hard to provide for his family. He loved his beautiful wife (my wonderful Grandma), even when they fought, and he loved every one of his kids and grandkids. He sometimes felt he did not do enough, perhaps did not know how to do enough, to make sure we knew we were loved. But I always felt his love. It was in his singing, his smile, the twinkle in his eye, the time he shared with me.
Grandpa, I miss you already. I hope you are in a place of peace and comfort. I hope you know that you were, and are, dearly loved.
.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
