Faith in All Things

I originally posted this on January 21, 2011. I still wonder at the best son ever!

Today, as most of you on here know, my son, Bill received an award for "Virtue of the Month" for his school. It's a Catholic school and often the virtues seem hard for a kid to achieve. Today Bill received the award for the virtue of Faith.

I had to think very hard on what it meant to receive such an honor. In what way did my son epitomize Faith? The principal of the school spoke about it today during the prayer service for the award-ees (one from each grade). She said it just doesn't mean being a believer and having Faith but showing that Faith through acts and deeds. My Bill is a sweet heart. He is kind, generous and will help anyone who asks. He is my angel.

I thought about this word Faith and what else it could mean to us.

When my son started Kindergarten last year, at the same school, it was horrible. Everyday at work I was in excruciating agony  waiting for the phone to ring. Did he hit someone today? Did he throw a book at someone? Throw a chair? Spend the day crawling under the desks? Or was in the office? Many times he was in the office and I was never told. He would spend time with the Sisters and they would give him things to do. Rarely did i get a call to come get him but they did come.

It was an unbelievable stress. It was not the first time. When he started preK4, at the base daycare, we really knew something was wrong. Then the diagnosis of Autism. I did not have time to be upset - I had to mobilize my resources for Bill. All for my Bill.

I could never give up on him and I wasn't planning on it. If I did feel a moment of weakness I felt terrible for it. There were not many but I would lying to you if I said there were never any. I had to just say to myself, "I'm not giving up on my son." I had to exude that. He had to know it and so did everyone else!

I HAD to have Faith of my own. I had Faith that Bill would be...okay. I had to have Faith that I was doing everything I could for him. That I was there for him. That we all were. As a family...and a community.

A friend and mentor that used to work in my office, called to congratulate Bill on his success today. I had forgotten that she was there last year when he started Kindergarten. It seems a blur now. She saw what I went through. The struggles and now the successes. She was there for me then and still is...for the whole family.

There are many more, of course, to thank. To thank for having Faith in Bill.

I continue to have Faith in my son. Faith in my family. Faith that comes from surrounding him with family, friend, teachers and professionals.

Now Bill has confidence and Faith in his own abilities. Faith that he knows he is loved. Faith that he can do anything. And if you really know Bill...you don't doubt it.

Thank you. Thank you all. For your Faith.

No Memory is Ever Alone: A Christmas Memory

I read once that we really don’t have memories like we think. We remember things in living color like a movie or hazy remembrances but overall, we think we remember events, like something happening when we were 3. I’m not convinced. I see photographs of my brother and I hanging up our stocking and in my mind’s eye the pictures move and we are in the movie of that day. I have to say, I really don’t remember doing it but I know we did and there’s the photographic evidence. Memories are funny things. Some people claim they don’t have any happy memories of childhood and that may be so. I doubt it but cling to any bad things that ever happened as what really did. If that makes any sense. I think we do remember some things but what we don’t – our brain fills in the rest. Like a partial water color painting that needs to be completed. We see the image and then know what we need to complete it. Good, bad or indifferent – they are in there somewhere. The memories. I have a Christmas memory. Well, its really a conglomeration of several Christmas days. For years they were the same routine and that’s okay. My mind can easily fill in the rest. I recently told my Mom that I recall every Christmas morning was very nice. She was pleased to hear it. Why would I remember it any other way?

Our house in Margate was a nice sized house a block from the beach. Growing up a block from the beach, looking back, was a real treat. Even in the winter, the beach served as a barren wilderness or landscape to which we had many adventures – my brother and I. Jack was 3 ½ years older than I and it was close enough to be playmates but far enough apart to have our own friends. The Margate house was 2 stories and had a living room, formal dining room, bathroom, kitchen and, what was originally maid’s quarters, a bedroom with a bathroom behind the kitchen by the back door. That room was Jack’s room. Upstairs was my parent’s room with a “Jack and Jill” bathroom that lead into my Dad’s office. Behind the office we my little room which was partially converted from a dormer into attic space. I was the furthest from the Christmas tree. Jack was the closest. Christmas eve we would hang our stockings. We each had one with our name on it that my Mom had made and embroidered our names and beneath our names was a Christmas tree and, I think, a cat or maybe a mouse. I recall one had a tail and the other stocking it had no tail. Funny to remember something like that. My Dad would take a picture of us hanging our stockings in our PJs. When we were older, we would be in whatever we had on that day. But Dad always took a picture when we were well into adulthood. We would excitedly head to bed and even if we thought about trying to catch Santa come down our fake fireplace, we knew he wouldn’t show if we were watching. Christmas morning Jack would come up the stairs and wake me up. First, he would have scoped out what was under the tree and in the stockings. The “Santa Claus” present would be a large unwrapped gift. I would get a large Fisher Price (little people) toy like the airport or castle and Jack would also get something big like the GI Joe truck with the spy gear. Jack would come up and tell me what I had gotten but I wasn’t mad about it. My Mom told me that my first Christmas, Jack was very concerned that Santa know I was there. Since I hadn’t been the year before – how would he know? Jack and I would bound down the stairs and, I think, wait for our parents to get up. The house would still be dark and the glow from the tree and candles in the window would light up the room and presents. We would sit at the bottom of the stairs and wait for them to get up. I don’t remember actually going in and waking them up, ever. But they must have heard us attempting to be quiet and get up.

My Dad would come down and turn on the fake fireplace and oh, another tradition I almost forgot about. By the front door of the house was a large round speaker about 3 feet tall with a marble top. He had snaked wires down from the upstairs and would hook up the stereo. Then he would put on the Sing Along with Mitch (Miller) Christmas album. We had our favorites and Mitch and the gang would sing them all. With that playing he back ground we emptied our stockings. We always had the chocolate gold coins, walnuts and an orange in the toe…among other little treats. When we got older it was socks as our stocking gift among the other usual stuff I mentioned. That never changed. Then the big gift! We would wait to play with the big gift when we were done opening the others. Usually, it was clothes. But not disappointing – the Santa Claus gift was always something we could play with and never missed anything else. My father would make a pancake breakfast after that. He made pancakes in the shape of glasses. He wore glasses and it was his way of being fun. My Dad was normally not one to go in for fanciful things but the pancakes were an exception. After breakfast, we would get ready to go to my Grandmother’s (my Dad’s mother) in Philadelphia. My Dad would put on, what he considered, a festive ensemble. He was a college professor and had a fairly large wardrobe for a man of the 1970s. He wore a sport jacket (even the tweed with suede patches on the elbows), slacks, shirt and tie almost every day to teach. For St. Patrick’s Day he would put together all his green items of clothing and Christmas he would go with reds. Christmas ties were not common place back then but he had a red tie that he wore with a white shirt and a red plaid jacket. I always thought he looked dapper. Jack and I would wear something dressy we had. I had one dress and my brother had one suit or jacket that looked dressy. We didn’t like dressing up. My Mom, if she came with us, always looked sharp. I don’t blame her for not coming. My Grandmother’s house was an interesting scene…I will get to that. After getting ready, we would leave our toys behind and load into the car to head to Philadelphia. The drive was usually about 2 hours. There still is no real easy way from my Dad’s to the Tacony Palmyra Bridge and over into the city. The drive up the White Horse Pike had many landmarks we would look for the speed our journey like the large wine bottle of Tomasello Winery and intersections in little towns. My kids can’t believe how we could have survived anytime in the car without electronic devices but we managed. As we went down the highway, I would look at the many houses and think about the children that lived there opening their presents and what was Christmas like in their houses. And then we would drive over the bridge.

My Grandmother’s house was really my Uncle Frank’s (my Dad’s brother) house that he shared with his wife, my Aunt Dot. My Grandmother lived there because she was old. I only remember her being old. The photos of me on Christmas day standing next to her chair. She was small with white hair and I don’t remember any actual conversations with her. My Mom had many with her. She told my mother family history that I now know. There aren’t many left that know the Patton past. The house was on Cardiff Street, down the street from the Police station and not far from St. Tim’s, where she went to church. Now they are referred to as townhomes but we called them row homes. Narrow red brick homes with garages on the alley behind. The front step went up a little grade from the street. One which my cousins and I would try and sled down (about 5 feet) and tear up the grass, much to my Aunt’s displeasure. The house had a living room in the front followed by the dining room and in the back, under the stairs to the second floor, was the kitchen with stairs to the basement (which used to be the garage). I never wanted to ever go in that basement with its aroma and dim light. No way. But I know I probably did on a dare from my cousins. The carpet was high shag and couches had clear plastic on them. The house was also filled with smoke. My Uncle and Aunt smoked like chimneys and drank beer. Anytime of day, Aunt Dot would be in the kitchen, sometimes with my Grandmother, drinking beer and smoking. Her black bouffant hair, black eyebrows and red lips stand out in my mind. And that mouth! Yes, she was loud. So was my Uncle Frank. He had been a Philadelphia police officer, as was his father, and he made no apologies for how he acted. The dining room table was also covered with a thick plastic table cloth and in the corner was a bird cage. He would get drunk and take a stick and bang the cage and curse at the bird. This sets the scene we would walk into. The college professor and his kids. If they weren’t there when we arrived they would arrive soon after. My salvation from boredom – my cousins. I was particularly happy when my cousin, Scotty, would come. With him would also be his 5 brothers. Scotty is second to youngest. The youngest, Peter, would often get ditched by us back then but as he got older he was included in our adventures. If my cousin Frankie came, we were a trio to be reckoned with. Scotty, Frankie and I are a few years apart. Even though Frankie’s sister, Marylou, is exactly my age, I always gravitated toward Frankie. The small row home would be filled with loud Irishmen involved with drinking, smoking and suffering from Irish Alzheimer’s (remembering nothing but the grudges). My brother would be hanging with the older boys and me and my crew would head out on the streets.

By the streets, I mean the several blocks around my Grandmother’s house. Thinking back, we were insane. We would go out into the night and play that we were spies or behind enemy lines. Really, I was. I knew nothing of the city streets and, frankly, neither did my suburban cousins, I’m sure. We would run down the street, hide along the fences and discuss the great questions on our minds. Like some Star Trek plot about whether or not Captain Kirk could have defeated the Gorn if he was on any other planet. We would then be unsure of our exact location and have to retrace our steps. None of us letting on if we were scared. No, the adults never noticed we were gone. We would slip back in. Into the smoke filled and loud room. There would be attempts to get everyone together for a group photo but it never worked out exactly right. Often heads were cut off or people weren’t looking. We would then get ready to leave. The hope was that my Dad would be sober enough to drive home. When we got older and the celebration moved to my cousin’s house, we would often stay over. When my brother got old enough to drive, and was not drunk, he would drive us home. But home we would head. I remember going back down the roads we traveled on. The dark, clear night would reveal streets and roads with houses glowing from Christmas lights. And when we turned onto Barclay Avenue in Margate, I would see the strand of large colored lights that my Dad strung on the 2^nd floor deck and candles in the windows. A sight that lasted over 30 years. If I close my eyes, I can still see that view. And I can still remember. I remember the warm glow I felt inside by seeing my home at Christmas.

Merry Christmas and may all your memories be as warm and bright as you remember. 

Weep No More, Sad Fountains

I haven't written a post in a while and its not that I am not inspired. I am. I have had a lot of life changes over the past few months that including moving, health issues (mine and of loved ones), job changes and the usual drama of having two school age kids that are starting at a new school. So many subjects, so little time. During the holidays I would hate to write about something sad but something profoundly sad has indeed happened recently and I feel that I have to write about it above all other things. It haunts me.
Tuesday morning there was quiet crying at my kids' school from staff, parents and other people that were in and out of the office. On my way out of school I saw a priest and asked him what happened. He told me a mother of a middle schooler had passed away. I was immediately struck with sorrow over this woman's passing. Maybe it was because I have a 5th grader and I cannot imagine what something like that would do to her. I tried all day to find out what happened and even trolled Facebook and the internet with her name. At first I didn't have the right spelling but once I did, I asked a mutual friend what he had heard. He said nothing but yesterday he sent me a message with the most devastating of news.
Because this is still fresh news and not publicized, I will refer to her just as Alice. I googled Alice and found she had been a top real estate broker. Immediately images of her popped up. Her bobbed blond hair and blue eyes stared back at me. Her glistening smile and movie star quality just leapt from the screen. Then I had to think if I even met her. We are new at the school and I wasn't sure. Maybe I saw her around. The pictures show this unforgettable quality. I looked her up on Facebook and it showed her with older children and a little girl about my daughter's age. Pictures of her daughter winning a scholastic competition, trips to Disney and her real estate listings. The web had news of her success in the local real estate journal and business journal. Wow, this woman was really something and what a great life! Alice had everything to live for, at least to me but not to her.
Alice committed suicide. Our mutual Facebook friend sent me the message yesterday morning. I had just come out of store and saw it come up on my phone. He described what he knew and it was gut wrenching. I felt like Thor had just thrust his mighty hammer into my chest and I wept. I don't know why I was and still am so shaken by this. But maybe I do. I just couldn't stop crying. I drove to my mom's house and sent her an email with the message I received. I couldn't talk about it. She tried to talk to me about but I said, "I just can't." Its too much.
I have been looking everyday for news or an obituary. Something. But there's nothing. Still remains is her smiling, confident face looking back at me. I looked up the bridge she jumped from and there is forum about jumpers. Morbid as it is, I looked. On Monday morning there are descriptions of what people saw. The car, the woman with blond hair, her husband arriving on scene in disbelief. And her name. These jumps don't make the news because it is such a common bridge to jump from. It makes it all the more terrible, awful and devastating.
"Why Alice? Why did you do it? You had 3 children from middle school to college." I wish I could ask her. I wish I could ask anyone I ever knew that decided to check out on their own. I am mad at them. Mad that they left me. Mad that they didn't tell me. And, no, there were no signs from anyone I knew that ever did it. I didn't know Alice but I sat in the car thinking...
I think of this middle school girl whose mother committed suicide a month from Christmas. My daughter is in 5th grade. Terrible, awful, devastating. Now, I wish I knew Alice better. I wish I could help the family. I wish I was there for her. The guilt from a suicide never leaves those left behind. Family, friends, co-workers, acquaintances. I think it's because we really don't know. And we will never know what happened to Alice. Beautiful, blond, blue eyes, lovely family...I like to imagine that when someone commits suicide that it's because they have a mental condition and are off their meds. Sure, that HAS to be it. I think, Alice must have had a mental condition like bi-polar or depression that was well controlled and that is why she was so successful. Something happened and a switch flipped and she couldn't help herself. Maybe she got news of a terminal illness...
Why else would someone do it?
I don't know because just Alice knows. I can't know. I am just sad and want to hug my children all night...
Be at peace Alice. Sleep in heavenly peace...

Which One Am I?

“There are only three ages for women in Hollywood - Babe, District Attorney, and Driving Miss Daisy.” Goldie Hawn, First Wives Club

I love that quote and 20 years ago when I first heard it, at age 29, I thought it was pretty funny. Now, I find it disconcerting. At 49, I find I’m teetering on the edge of DA and Miss Daisy. In my, case it’s probably more like Side-kick, Crazy Aunt and Demented Mom/Grandmom. This makes things difficult as a writer when I want every heroine to be played by me – when the movie is made. I always imagined Demi Moore would play me in the movie of my life or Courtney Cox, depending on the budget. Yikes. They aren’t looking too good either.

It’s been said that age is just a state of mind. Well, my state is ever expanding. Today, at the local department store, I grabbed some capris to try on. I held them up and thought, “Wow, these will definitely fit, they’re huge enough.” Sob. I put them on and them quickly returned them and decided not to try on anymore. Crap. When did this happen? Then I think back to where I am in the grand scheme of “Hollywood.” Crap. I used to write my heroines to be in their late 30s, thinking I could pull that off. Most people think I am younger than 49 but in the past several years…I feel the mirror has two faces. There is my own self-image and what there really is. Getting fatter aside…I am looking older. I know I am. I have been Skyping with my kids and I can see myself on the screen and I think, “Do I really look like that?” The creeping lines under my jaw line and the neck of ages. Maybe make up can fix it. After all, Essie Davis on Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries is the same age I am and she’s playing someone in her early 30s. I’m thinking make-up can do the same for me.

As a writer this makes me re-think things. Perhaps, because I was making the heroine as myself, I’ve been limiting her. I don’t mean exactly like me, personality wise, but like me in look and stature. This is a hard pill to swallow. I can, of course, swallow it and embrace the edge of 50 but in my mind it is still a precipice to which I am backing away from at great haste. I guess I’m just not ready for what is coming with age - the body changes, the skin changes, the gray hairs that I make the stylist cut out (this is why my hair is so short) and so on. I don’t think I’m ready to be Martha Kent or Aunt May. I’m thinking more like a villain. That could be next in my writing. Hmmmm…villain. I can see that and how I would look in the movie.

 I would love to be one of the Avengers, Tributes or Jedi but maybe I should be happy to be Cruella DeVille.   

Ghosts of Hometowns Past

 I am half inclined to think we are all ghosts…it is not only what we have inherited from our fathers and mothers that exists again in us, but all sorts of old dead ideas and all kinds of old dead beliefs and things of that kind. They are not actually alive in us; but there they are dormant all the same, and we can never be rid of them. Whenever I take up a newspaper and read it, I fancy I see ghosts creeping between the lines. There must be ghosts all over the world. They must be as countless as the grains of the sands, it seems to me. And we are so miserably afraid of the light, all of us. - Henrik Ibsen
I have this weird thing. I don't have any desire to visit anyplace or home I ever lived in. Once I leave a place, I totally leave it body and soul without any intent on returning. I know that does sound weird that I don't feel any sentimentality about my old stomping grounds but I don't.
My husband is happy to visit the streets he grew up on in Jersey City. We drive down into the city and the entire way he talks to our kids about what he remembers seeing on the drive into the city when he was a kid. He shows them the park where he road his bike, buildings that housed schools he attended and the empty lot that held the house he had lived in as a child. My kids can recite these locations as well. He will also point out a street where he knew almost everyone that lived there and wonders if the families are still around. His sentimentality is admirable. He parents are gone and he is estranged from his siblings and I assume these trips down memory lane help him remember them and their lives together. My Father was the same way. On one of his many visits to Philadelphia, he took pictures of himself in front of the all homes he lived in as a child including the house he was born in (yes, he was born at home). My Father wasn't very sentimental but this was something he enjoyed doing, perhaps for the same reason my husband does. I find no desire for such solace however a recent trip to the past made me realize why I don't visit my past hometowns. Its too painful.
I recently went to St. Petersburg, Florida to visit my Mother. It was the first time I have been back in about 10 years or so and I was surprised by the ghosts. I found every corner I turned there were ghosts. As I pulled up to my Mom's house I saw the neighbor had her porch, lit up with twinkly lights, and in my minds eye I saw myself and my husband with her and her husband. Her husband died last year but I could see us there plain as day - laughing and drinking. Spooky. My Mother's house used to be owned by my husband and its where we spent time when first dating and were engaged. Walking through the door I had that feeling I had never left. It was the same feeling I felt as I rode in from the airport and I found it uneasy. I can't explain why I felt this way. I have wonderful memories of St. Petersburg. Its where I met my husband, had my children, our first home and many friends. But the memories seem to be a cloud in which I have to clear through. This cloud of the past had me so distracted that I hit a curb in my Mom's car and got a flat tire. Luckily, the place we always got our tires from was still in business. Much had changed in the area but there was so much that stayed the same that it was like I time traveled.
I still saw the ghosts. They were at Biff Burger (which held our weekly Bike Night), the ride down 30th Avenue, driving past the Sunset Grill or Siam Garden (where I had my baby shower for my son). It seemed so real. As I zipped over the Howard Franklin (Frankenstein) Bridge with the windows open and the bright sun blaring through the window, I was reminded of when I first moved to Tampa and was single. I decided to drive my Mom around Tampa one day. Past my old apartment, old job, the Air Force base, Davis Island, Downtown and lunch at Kojak's BBQ. There were ghosts. It still strikes me as I think about it. How clearly I saw things as they were. I could see myself with my friend, Mike, walking out of our old job and chatting. I saw myself getting mail at the mail boxes at my old apartments (now condos) and I could see through to the glimmering courtyard pool. I used to sit by it, sunning myself, and wait for my laundry to get done. And I am sad.
This is where we come to real reason I don't go home again. I really can't. I would call it self preservation more than anything else. I am terribly sentimental and it makes me sad to see the places I used to live and the life I used to have. Not that my current life is not great but I long for some places of the past and the ghosts.
I wonder what it must be like to live in the same town for one's entire life or generations of the same family in the same town, street, house...how does that feel? I always thought I wouldn't like that but as I get older the thought of putting roots seems to make sense but then again my children aren't being raised that way. They have moved 6 times in 11 years and that makes for itchy feet for moving on. Still, I wonder what that must be like. What it must be like to have family close by with holidays and Sunday dinners. I know they exist and I wonder if I would even like it. And would there still be ghosts?
I drove through St. Pete and Tampa and talked to my husband on the phone and told him what I was driving by and  fun times we had. Funny how sharing these memories with him made the visit more bearable. By the time I left, I longed to return.
I realize I have to make peace with the ghosts and the memories of these past hometowns but that doesn't mean I will visit them again in person but certainly in memories.

Dear Jack

“I walked out this morning and I wrote down this song
I just can't remember who to send it to…” – James Taylor

Dear Jack,

I know it seems strange I am writing you a letter but there is just too much to say staring at your ashes. It struck me the other day, like an anvil across the temple, that I will be 49 in February and for the first time you will not be older than me. I never really thought much about it as the 2 ½ years have moved through the cosmos since your death but now as I get older…you do not.

I still see things that make me want to call you. An obscure science fiction reference, a bar or just a childhood memory brings you into full view and you are not there. In some ways I am still mad at you for leaving me. I always knew Dad wouldn’t be here forever but I thought you and I would see it through until our natural ends. A couple old farts laughing at our own in jokes. Using our own “twin speak” to communicate, as we always had. With you and Dad gone…who else knew me as well? The three of us and banging around South Jersey or up to Philly to see family…we had our own way. Remember when Dad’s Volkswagen square back was our shuttle craft? Of course you do! And you always sat in the front seat or as my kids call it, “shotgun.” I think about us playing Star Trek or Planet of the Apes on the beach. Especially in the winter with the stark barren landscape it made for wonderful alien planets. I got out our Christmas stuff yesterday and found your stocking. The one Mom made you. She made us both stockings but I can’t find mine. Yours floated to the surface and smacked me in the face. Your memory is inescapable. Isn’t that what we all want? I know Dad’s biggest fear was that no one would remember him. What was yours?

I thought you might get married and have kids. Don’t laugh! It was possible. Anything would have been possible for you if you wanted to do it. Of this I am sure. I am also mad because you didn’t have kids. I feel cheated out of a niece or nephew that would have had your eyes or smile or humor. I have wonderful surrogate ones that I love like my own but you still cheated me out of your kids. Now I sound angry and if you were reading this you would start to get pissed. Sorry. But it’s how I feel. You thought I squandered my degree from Temple by working as a waitress or mall rat or any number of jobs. I think you squandered the life you had left. And I’m mad about it. Get over it.

I play the ukulele now. I started on that Martin that was abandoned in the garage in Margate. Yeah, yeah, I’m sure it was yours once. I know you would get a kick out of it. Me playing and posting videos on YouTube. I wonder what nick-name you would give me. I could think of one but I know you would be much cleverer about it. I think about how we could be playing and singing together and, I’m sure, laughing about it. I have been working on “Wish You Were Here.” That was our song that we would sing together every time you brought out your guitar. It takes on new meaning to me now. Oh, how I wish you were here. I make these crazy memes and post them on Facebook. I think about how some of them no one gets but me and maybe you. It’s hard to lose someone like that. Someone that gets you.

I met Elena. She was pretty cool. She wasn’t what I imagined, not your usual type but I liked her. I think about how you could have brought her around to a family function or I could have met you both for a drink and that we would have gotten along great. I think the family would have loved her. I think we could have been friends. She had a kind open face and I wept when she handed me your ashes. I asked if she had a minute and she just sat there as I sobbed over missing you so much. I told her a few stories of our family and how even though you didn’t want me to have the ashes…I would have talked you into it or you would have yielded.

You would love little bill’s YouTube adventures. He is so funny! He makes up songs, scenes and wanted a laptop to video edit. I wish you were here to ask about it. Trinity wanted a laptop to play games. I wish you were here to ask about it.

I miss you and I always will and no matter what happened towards the end that made you hate me…I wish you didn’t. I wish you would not have had me banned from the hospital. I would have come if I was in better health and just busted in there. I would have forgiven you and you would not have to forgive me for anything. The forgiving is mine to do. I don’t forgive you for leaving me and how you exited…too young. I looked at a picture from Grandma and Grandpa’s 50^th anniversary at camp. You, me, Roger, Mom, Grandma and Grandpa. Me and Mom are the only ones left. Sobering, I know. Same with my wedding pictures. Me and Bill with his Dad and his three Aunts, Mom, Dad and Roger. Me, Bill and Mom remain. Such is the life of getting older I suppose. But I feel awfully young to have so much loss.

I know you hate when people feel sorry for themselves and I don’t really. At least I don’t try to dwell on it…it’s just the way it is sometimes. The kids want to have some kind of service for you in Vernon Center. They feel you need to be with Grandpa, Grandma and Roger and I agree. We need closure. I hardly heard from anyone when you died except for the Kirk side of the family. Complete silence from other camps but I don’t care. Everyone thought I was mad at you and I was and I suppose I said some mean things about you too. For that, I am sorry. I was hurt and so were you by all that happened and in the end only you and I know exactly what went down when Dad moved to Virginia. Maybe now that I have your ashes and we can plan something…the healing can begin. For me, Mom, Elena, the kids, family, friends…and all those you left behind.

You don’t have to worry about no one remembering you. I always will. I will think of you when I go see Star Wars next month. I will think of you when I see James Bond next week. I will reminisce about us riding our bikes up to Margate Twin to see Planet of the Apes or the Pink Panther movies and wonder if we would still get the biggest size of popcorn they had…and share it.

Love your sis,

Sally

xoxo

Say Goodbye

I suppose saying that I don't like goodbyes is kind of odd. Is there anyone that does? Maybe to say I don't like them is not really it. I don't do goodbyes. When my daughter was 18 months old and someone would say, "Goodbye," she would respond, "No bye byes!" and run away. I imagine she thought that if she didn't say "goodbye" the person would stay. I wish that were true.
I am probably the worst at saying goodbye. I will go to a party at someone's house and sneak out before it is over. I won't even say goodbye to the host. Rude? Probably. Goodbyes take so long at things like parties and family events. It can turn into a half and hour of hugging and kissing. I just want to leave. I remember the last time I saw my Grandmother she said goodbye to me like she was going to see me the next day. I think she understood that there is no reason to make a big deal out of things like that. For me, maybe its just selfish. I want to sneak out and not a big fuss made and certainly don't want anyone to keep me from leaving.
I can't put my finger on why I am like this. The "no bye bye" attitude I have. I have been like this as long as I can remember. Perhaps it's because I discovered early on that people do leave and things don't remain the same. And some people and things don't come back. My Grandmother said something very profound once, "Nothing is permanent." Seems like a small statement but holds huge truth to me. She lived to be 98 years old and had buried her parents, a child, her husband and a grandchild. Of course there were many more that preceded her but she never dwelled on it. Not once.
Even though I don't like goodbyes I always seem to be the one who is leaving. I counted up that before age 40 I worked about 20 jobs, been to 7 schools and called 12 dwellings "home." Yes, there is no moss on this rolling stone but at the same time I think about people that lived on the same street their entire lives and admire it.
Yes, I am the one who leaves and that does make things easier, for me. The ones left behind are the always the ones that have an empty space of where I once sat, drive by a house I once lived and a voice that is no longer there. I am also the one less likely to show up at my own going away luncheon. I just want to leave. Selfish. I know. Just say goodbye to me like you do every time we part. Like you will see me later and I am okay with that.
Lately, I have been the one left behind. My Father, Brother and Grandmother all left me in the past 3 years. Childhood homes sold. Memories seemingly changed, altered, erased...I'm not sure how to describe it. With these people and places gone there are no new memories, just old ones. I am starting to embrace that nothing is permanent. I am selling things to make room for new interests. I am playing an instrument and thinking of working on a language. I am writing. I am looking at my children and wondering about how many goodbyes they will face. My son will hug me and cry that he never wants me to die. I know, I don't want to say goodbye either.
I deeply consider my own mortality. Its almost as if death is something we are just waiting for and fill it up with things to do until then. I guess that is basically as true as it can be. In the mean time I will fill it up with the laughter of my children, the caress of my husband, the hugs of family, the beauty in nature, the banter of my co-workers and the music that I am creating because goodbye can come at any time. For any of us. For all of us.