Not Down Or Out

It could be worse. I might not be laughing.

Tag: Family

Fun at Funerals

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Most of the funerals that I have attended have been sad even when death seemed like a relief for the deceased and his or her family. However, as I wrote in my last post “I Miss Sherry,” sometimes funerals are far from sad. They may even have funny elements that overcome tears. I have attended another funeral that included humorous moments and my mom recently attended one that crossed the line into territory that was ironic, if not funny.

About ten years ago I attended the funeral of the husband of a woman who had taken care of an ailing relative until that relative’s death. I was grateful for her kindness to my relative and remained in contact with her for many years after my relative’s death.

We had nothing in common except for the shared experience of caring for a lovable person until her death. I do not want to be disrespectful of the woman who gave so much loving care to my family member so I will call her Jane for purposes of telling this odd funereal story.

Jane grew up in a home fraught with anger and tension. When her family was ambivalent toward her, it felt like a relief. She spent some time in foster homes where she was unpaid help around the house. I have the impression that she never felt at peace in any of the places she lived.

This made Jane determined to own a home of her own. She lacked the education to do many jobs that might have brought her goal within easy reach. Caregiving seemed a good fit to her sunny and patient temperament. I hired her to care for my relative five days a week for several hours a day. She handled the evening meal and put my relative to bed at night. Jane made sure my relative was clean and comfortable.

Jane did so much more than that. She brought so much humor to every activity that I sometimes stopped in while she was there to share in the laughter. In her day, my relative was irreverent and often laughing, but the aging process was taking its toll. She was more often unintentionally funny than intentionally so. At times she was quite depressed and claimed she was ready to die. Jane did her best to cheer up her new charge. I still laugh when I recall walking into the room at an inopportune moment and hearing Jane say with no expression in her usually animated voice, “And now it’s time to wash the beaver.” My relative’s ankle was held high in the air–the way a cat might extend its leg while grooming its hindquarters and Jane was about to apply soap and water. My relative’s embarrassed grimace melted into giggles at the sight of my open mouth.

Jane was good company. She talked about herself without airs or humility, as if everyone’s life was as hard as hers. After my relative died, she called me up and said she would not be at the funeral, not because she was moving on easily but because she lived to serve the living and it was someone else’s job to shepherd the dead to their resting places.

She called to invite me to her home, and I felt I could not say no after all of the kindness she had shown someone I loved dearly.

Jane had married a man at least twenty-five years older than she was. In his prime, he was a handsome man with a modest income and boundless patience for a woman with little education and few skills. Their home was partly self-built, partly constructed. The entire front yard was a habitat for artificial creatures made of painted Styrofoam, plastic, wood, and plaster. There were deer and reindeer, castles and birdhouses, welcome signs and whirligigs. The dining room walls were covered with shelves of knickknacks. By knickknacks, I mean to include everything from gifts you collect if you buy a McDonald’s Happy Meal to china figurines. There were plaques with funny sayings. There were LP records, cassette tapes, CDs, and VHS videotapes. Jane and her husband Ed had dogs. I am an attorney and I dress in black nearly all of the time. It only took a moment for me to attract enough fur to the cuffs of my pants to form my own pet. As I took an offered seat I knew that it would take a dry cleaner to rid me of the fur that transferred to the seat of my pants.

The living room was in the part of the house that Jane and Ed had built themselves. If you dropped a pen, it might roll across the floor because one end of the house dipped while the other seemed to have buckled. There was an upright piano that Jane played while the dogs howled in a cacophonous chorus that called for everyone else to clap because a sing-along was not possible in the din.

It was not Christmas time, but the room was filled with expensive moving dolls in winter garb. While we snacked on cheese and crackers, Jane turned on the dolls. Some of them, like the little drummer, played Christmas tunes. Some of them kissed Santa.

Jane smiled at me when I complimented her on the staging. “After the childhood I had, every day is Christmas and I never want to forget that,” she said.

Ed turned out to be an ailing man himself. All day long he waited for Jane to come home and take care of him. He was a big man and it was plain that Jane put her back into getting him up and getting him down and waiting on him with love and consideration.

She insisted that I have a tour of the rest of the house. My heart just about broke when she showed me the tiny tub in which she bathed her husband. There were three beds in their tiny bedroom. There was a double bed for Ed, a cot for Jane, and a twin bed for the dogs.

Everything was broken and she was proud of the fact that these were things she found scavenging others’ curbs on the night before the garbage men would come. She even had a word processor. It was not really a computer. Maybe it was an advanced electric typewriter. Ed was teaching her to write. She was writing her story because she had no children to be retelling it for her and felt the need to leave some record of her life.

She was not entirely selfless. Shortly after I arrived we were joined by a neighbor who let me know that Ed helped keep a roof over Jane’s head and helped her with decision-making. Bob took care of her physical needs.

I will confess that I was a little surprised, but maybe I shouldn’t have been. Jane’s earthy humor came from some place. I came to understand that Bob kept her young even if he was only a little younger than Ed.

Ed seemed oblivious to their neighbor’s intimate relationship with Jane.  I say that because, after a dinner that good manners compelled me to compliment, Ed tried to do a little heavy-handed matchmaking. I beat a hasty retreat when he suggested that the four of us watch Debbie Does Dallas.



I sent Jane Christmas gifts for several years. I once took her to lunch at a dive in the neighborhood. I went to the mass at which she and Ed renewed their wedding vows and met the patchwork community of blood and foster relatives she called family. Bob was there in what I am prepared to swear was the same combination of baseball cap, t-shirt, jeans, and windbreaker as he wore when I first met him. Everyone else present was someone Jane had cared for or a family member of such a person. There were people in wheelchairs and children with braces on their legs. I fit right in because I, too, had experienced this simple woman’s kindness and cared about her.

She was the wealthiest person most of them knew, and you didn’t have to work at it to overhear several try to borrow money from her. Ed handled this with a gallantry I would not have expected. He would struggle to his feet and get an arm around Jane’s shoulders and say very gravely, “I’m sure Jane would love to help you out. My wife has a tender heart for everyone who has helped make so much happiness in her life. Blame me for her not lending you money today. I don’t have long now that the lung cancer has got me. Jane’s going to need the money to bury me.”

He died shortly after they renewed their vows. I took my mom along to the funeral for company and because she had never met Ed, but had certainly learned a lot about Jane.

We had a long drive to the funeral home. The priest who officiated at their renewal of vows came to say a few words over the casket. Ed wore a handsome suit that Jane had bought in a thrift shop in anticipation of the event. She led us to the casket and pet his hand with hers like he could tell she was still at his side. “I took good care of him and he did the same for me,” she said before turning to greet other guests. I cried for her and for him and a little bit for myself, because I have had many gifts in my life but have never been loved like she was. I have never been so conscious of the fact that what matters most in life doesn’t have a price tag.

When it was time to leave for the cemetery, the pallbearers were assembled. Ed was there in his usual windbreaker and baseball cap. He was the only person who dressed for the occasion. The rest of the pallbearers were boys in t-shirts, jeans, and gym shoes. Most needed a bath and a comb.

They escorted Ed’s body in its simple wooden casket out to the hearse. Mom and I walked out to my car where we expected the funeral director to line up cars so we could proceed to the cemetery. It was the same cemetery where my family has plots, but we were quite a distance from it.

Most of the rest of the group, including Jane, were still inside the funeral home when Mom said, “Isn’t that the hearse leaving?”

It was. The hearse took off at about 40 miles per hour without waiting for the mourners to assemble. It left a trail of dust and a couple of skid marks on the pavement as the driver tried to control a crazy turn. We took off after it and did a pretty good job of following until the driver powered through a red light and swung up onto the highway. My brakes squealed as I struggled to stop before a truck could take us out. Some of the pallbearers had managed to follow us. They had no idea where the cemetery was. I led the small caravan of pick-up trucks and RVs to the cemetery. It was about a forty minute drive that required us to make various twists and turns. Several times we had to pull over and wait for someone to catch up.

In the privacy of my car there was plenty of time for Mom and me to discuss the fact that we had never been to a funeral like this one. Usually there are a couple of cars driven by representatives from the funeral home. Everyone has a sticker or two on their cars to warn other drivers that this is a funeral cortege. People turn on their headlights for the same reason. Someone blocks busy intersections to ensure the entire party gets through if a light changes. Ed was about to be buried with much less pomp and ceremony.

When we got to the cemetery there was no sign of the hearse or any other hearse. I drove to the sexton’s office and Mom got out to ask for directions. She was just coming out when one of the pallbearers yelled, “There he is. Don’t let that varmint get away a second time.”

Sure enough, the hearse hurtled past us toward the old section of the cemetery, crossed a busy street without regard to oncoming traffic, and came to a shuddering stop by an open grave.

It was a hot day, but a little breezy. The pallbearers decided to cart Ed’s casket over to the grave so all would be in readiness when the widow showed up. Bob opened his trunk and revealed a cooler of beer. He offered us a bottle. My mom whispered to me, “What time is it? Ten in the morning?”

It was nearly eleven. I also declined his offer.

My mom egged me on to “give the hearse driver a piece of your mind.” I declined because I doubted he would listen. He reclined on the ground beneath a tree and read a newspaper.

The other pallbearers hauled folding chairs from their vehicles and set them up. Folks had picnic baskets and blankets. They started chomping on fried chicken, potato salad, and watermelon. We had quite a wait. Mom and I sat in the car and talked about the scene before us. Someone turned on a car’s radio and there was a festive atmosphere.

In the years since Ed’s death I have read a bit about how our attitudes toward death differ in different parts of American society. I would have had trouble eating in the presence of a dead body roasting in the hot sun, but no one but my mom shared my compunction. Death was a normal part of life and Ed’s closest friends were enjoying a little private time in his company before burying him.

Eventually we got in the right mood because we expressed no surprise when Jane and the priest and the rest of the mourners arrived and Jane scolded the men for beginning without them. They jockeyed for the remains of the picnic while the cemetery staff looked on in amusement. It took some time for us to get to the business of burying Ed. By then it was long past the time when people cried.

Bob smooched Jane’s cheek and wrapped an arm around her waist in casual contemplation of their future. The pallbearers tossed a ball to each other in the middle of the cemetery road. The priest headed home after hugging Jane and wishing her well. Jane thanked everyone for coming then asked a cousin to turn up the music because she had always liked the song that was playing.

I had planned to drop my mom off and proceed to the office, but that seemed out of keeping with the celebration of Ed’s life that his widow, family, and friends had planned. We decided to go out for lunch.

My mom’s other “fun” funeral was the funeral of one of my high school classmates. Rick (names changed in this story, too) died of a heart attack at the age of 50. His parents are my mom’s very good friends. Rick was a difficult man. When I met him in high school, he was a “stoner” who liked to dress in a leather jacket and hat and jeans and boots. He made fun of me for being a “brain.” He studied anthropology and worked “digs” in various parts of North and South America. He may have smoked some stuff that was good for what ailed him but a little mood altering. He taught classes. He bought a piece of rural land on a tree-covered lot and built an underground bunker where he reportedly lived with chickens. I am pretty sure some of this is lore rather than truth because, if it were entirely true, it would all be too strange.

He got a girlfriend pregnant and she had the baby (named Todd), so Rick was a father. But he never paid child support or sought to spend time with his son. The boy’s mother, Haley, was a free spirit in her own right. She tried hard to make things work, then took her boy and went in search of Rick’s “alter-ed ego.” She married an Air Force airman. His name is Joe. He is, by all accounts, a solid and dependable man. They had a baby named Tom.

This did not give Haley the settled and normal life you might imagine. She got involved in some church that decided to do its best to convert Russians to the Christian faith by trading conversion for U.S. citizenship. While her husband was deployed overseas near Iraq or Afghanistan, she arranged to bring three children to the U.S. All were young adults, close to the age of independence. They hoped to achieve U.S. citizenship and economic “independence” in relatively short order in exchange for accepting Jesus Christ as their savior. Haley also hoped they would adapt and move on swiftly.

One proved to have attachment problems. These were demonstrated through various incidents in which the child “acted out”–whatever that means. Haley sent that child to someone in Florida who claimed to be able to work miracles with children with attachment disorders. We never heard about her again. A second child learned English, finished high school, and moved out. Again, I cannot recall ever hearing of him again. The third was a “keeper.” He finished high school and managed to get scholarships and jobs to finance college. He seemed to embrace his new family as well as faith and friends in the U.S.

The adoptive/adopted kids were not the only ones growing up during this timeframe. Todd and his half-brother Tom grew up as well. Rick’s parents worked hard to stay in Todd’s life. They made trips to bases where Haley and Joe were based. They paid for Haley, Joe, Todd, and the rest of the family to visit them. They paid for other things, too. All this time Rick was a missing-in-action dad working out of his bunker in the woods.

On those few occasions when Rick came to town to visit his parents there were problems. He appropriated family heirlooms. He picked fights. When his parents changed the locks on their home, Rick strode around the house yelling for them to let him in like a scene from the story of the Three Little Pigs. He eventually showed up during a visit by Haley, Joe, and Todd. He met his son.

He huffed and he puffed and he blew the house down.

He huffed and he puffed and he blew the house down.


No one thought the meeting had made much of an impression on Rick or Todd, but children are unpredictable and so is blood. The boy may have romanticized his “real” father. An intelligent, socially maladapted eccentric sounds like a perfect antidote for a spit-and-shine airman of a stepdad looking for folded corners on a sheet and blankets tucked in so tightly that you could bounce a quarter off the bed during weekly inspections.

Father and son may not have ever met again. I cannot recall hearing of any other meetings. When Todd was about eighteen years old, Rick’s parents got a call from a county sheriff. Their son had not shown up in town for awhile. Someone thought that was odd. An officer drove out to the bunker to see if Rick was around. The officer discovered that Rick had died and been gone for some time.

It was a time for regrets and lots of tears. No matter how difficult the relationship was for them, Rick’s parents grieved over death. Rick’s parents had him cremated and arranged to have his remains buried in a local cemetery where they will one day be laid to rest. The land and bunker where Rick lived had liens against it for unpaid taxes. Rick had not left much. Even the missing heirlooms were gone. I don’t recall hearing he had any chickens left at the time of his death.

Rick’s parents paid for Todd to attend his father’s memorial service. Joe planned a trip that would bring him into town a couple of days later. He would pay his respects and collect Todd. Haley chose not to attend.

Everyone gathered at the cemetery at the appointed time, including my mom. I was not there, so may have the facts a little out of focus. A friendly minister was on hand to lead a small group of about ten people in prayer for Rick. A female relative brought an iPod and some speakers and played some appropriate music. Two cemetery employees stood by to cover the urn with dirt at the conclusion of the brief ceremony.

Rick’s parents said a few words about the son they would miss–had long missed. When the minister concluded the brief ceremony and Rick’s mom was weeping softly for her troubled son, Todd made his move. Snatching the urn from the ground, Todd tucked it beneath his arm like a football and took off with it.

The assembled senior citizens lacked the reflexes necessary to stop it. Todd’s grandparents yelled after him to stop. He yelled over his shoulder that his dad would never want to be buried in anyplace as dumb as a cemetery. Todd didn’t have a car. Everyone scurried to their cars and pursued him. All to no avail.

They have not heard from Todd since the memorial service. They called Haley, but she declined to comment on the matter. Joe, who was scheduled to visit a couple of days later, has not been in touch.

Rick’s parents have talked about what happened. There has been speculation that Todd rented a car and drove to Wisconsin to spread his dad’s ashes in the woods where he lived and died. However, Todd never saw the lot or the bunker and did not grow up in the Midwest. He knows Air Force bases here and overseas. How could he have made it to his father’s last home without help?

Did Haley and Joe assist in the “theft”? We do not know. They are adamantly silent.

Perhaps Todd still has his father’s cremains. If so, his grandparents would be happy if he returned even a portion of them so that they could bury Rick beneath the headstone they had ordered that now marks his death but not his final resting place.

There was talk of filing a complaint with authorities, but that would have been done to find the cremains. No one wanted to create a legal record of Todd’s actions that might mar his future. Who owns the cremains of a person survived by parents and a newly adult child that inherited nothing else from his father? Do the parents have the priority claim because they claimed their son’s body and paid for the cremation? Does the son, as heir, deserve to make the decision?

Rick’s parents feel like they have been deprived of “closure.” Closure is everything in modern times. It is the nearest thing to commercial failure for ending a once successful movie franchise. It is burial that usually gives closure when a child has been lost and the family has waited in vain for his return. We can mourn lost loved ones any place, but a grave offers expressions of grief a locus that the four winds or a box beneath another “lost” relative’s bed cannot.

The memorial service has meant the loss of another family member. Rick’s parents have invested many years in sustaining a relationship with a grandson who has finally forced them to admit that their son is lost to them and will likely never be found. Now he appears to be gone, too.

Rick’s mom has gone for some counseling, but she has given up on understanding what happened.

The two funerals are connected in my mind. We choose our friends but we don’t get to choose our family. Jane had very few comforts in childhood but manages to revere people who were charged with caring for her and let her down. Todd was surrounded by love but chose the one person who kept him at arm’s length when he felt his loyalty torn in two directions. Sometimes death means a quick transition to a new life for a loved one. Sometimes death fails to put a period to the sentence of a difficult life. Both funerals serve as reminders to me that whatever comes my way, I’ll handle it better if I keep my sense of humor.

I Miss Sherry

It was 1992 or 1993, and I was living in Chicago because my dad had passed away, leaving my mom and brother to run a family electrical contracting firm. Danny had passed the contractor’s exam (a feat for one so young), but he still had to complete his electrical union apprenticeship, and I thought I could help run the company until he completed his studies and could devote his full attention to managing the business. I also intended to live with my mom for awhile and help cover some of her living expenses until we could figure out how my dad’s pensions would work.

I left D.C. after eighteen years of living there. My sister Kathy stayed behind. I left many dear friends and a good job. It was a crazy time in my life, a time when things all the time seemed upside down and inside out and I longed for peace. It was a time like what I’m going through now.

One of the people I left behind was a new friend named Sherry. She was as outrageous a person as I have ever met. The first time we met she was my “floater secretary” during my regular secretary’s absence. She was irreverent, disrespectful, hilariously funny, and completely inappropriate. There are times when I think of outrageous things to do or say, but I bite my lip. Sherry had no such filter to keep her from getting into trouble. The first time she made a bad mistake in the workplace, she strode into my office, shut the door, placed her hand on the wall, bent forward and flipped up her skirt. She announced that she was prepared to be spanked for her behavior. In direct contradiction of this behavior, her underwear read “F*CK U.”

I think my mouth fell open. “I am not interested in spanking you,” I said. “Firing you, yes, but spanking an adult is not something I do.” Oh. I can be so prissy that my mom once said she wished I had done something really bad as a kid so I would know you can get past it. I have. Mom just doesn’t know about those mistakes.

Sherry flipped her skirt back down and sat in one of the empty chairs in my office. “Well, I’m not interested in getting fired,” she announced. She raised one eyebrow.

We stared at each other. It was not the first time I had heard of workplace spankings. I managed luxury hotels before I went to law school and saw many surprising things in that line of business. On one occasion, the hotel’s owner summoned me and a coworker to his office and announced that he knew that I and this coworker had circulated an informal newsletter at one of the hotels. He did not care for the gossip included in it. My coworker immediately stepped forward and claimed sole responsibility. The owner shook his head and said, “I recognize Cheryl’s verbiage.”

My coworker offered to let the owner spank her. At that point he laughed hysterically and threw us both out of his office with a stern warning to refrain from further outrageous behavior.

On a later occasion, while I was an attorney, a word processing employee and “floater secretary” mishandled an assignment for me. She worked in a word processing pool and was not someone I knew well. Her supervisor instructed her to go to my office and apologize. She came into my office, shut the door, apologized, and then asked me if I would like to spank her. Deja vu.

I do not think I am the sort of person who ever liked receiving spankings. I strove very hard not to receive them and have no interest in delivering them.

I told the woman’s supervisor what happened. And the word processing employee was not terminated. I have always wondered whether someone else in the law firm was called upon to administer the discipline I could not. You meet unusual people in my profession.

Sherry was assigned to work for someone else after she worked for me. He was a powerful partner in the firm. While she worked for him, he traveled to Alaska on business. In those days, there were no laptops available to take on business trips. We did not have cell phones. There was no such thing as an unlimited calling plan. Sherry accidentally disconnected the partner while he was on hold. When he called back, he was FURIOUS. And he told her at length what an imbecile she was. Then he asked her, “Have you any idea how expensive it is to make a call from Alaska?”

Her answer? “Hold please, while I call the phone company to find out.” Then she put him on hold.

Even after she lost her job, I kept track of Sherry. We met occasionally for lunch. She told me about her failed marriage to some former hockey player. He was doing time for a crime I cannot recall. I met her son and her even more unspeakably hilarious mom. She brought some boss who seemed not altogether indisposed to spanking to my home to watch a movie and share a pizza. During the movie, Sherry excused herself to visit my bathroom.

Imagine my surprise when I visited my bathroom and found a sink full of shaving cream and hair. While she was in my bathroom, she decided the boss was going to get lucky that night, helped herself to my supplies and shaved her legs in my bathroom sink while the rest of us watched the movie. My mouth still hangs open when I think about it.

I ended up leaving DC to return home to Chicago. We stayed in touch. I think I need a few friends who express personality traits so long suppressed by polite company that I might forget anyone possessed them but for these friends’ company. I need shocking once in awhile.

I have already written in my blog I See Dead People, about Sherry’s death. She died in her thirties of a brain aneurysm.

I actually got the news from the woman from the word processing department who also asked me if I wanted to spank her. She was assigned to me as a “floater secretary” for the day and took the call while I was at lunch. She decided not to have the caller leave me a voicemail message. She delivered the news in person as a kindness to me even though I had tattled about the spanking incident.

Sherry’s family wanted me to know that she might have wanted me to be her son’s legal guardian. She had told family members that she had written a will to that effect, but, her cousin thought it might not have been anything as formal as a will. The cousin thought Sherry might have written her wishes on a cocktail napkin and put the napkin in her car’s glove compartment for safekeeping. The cousin said that I was welcome to attend the funeral, but should be ready for a backwoods brawl if I tried to take the child back to Chicago.

I am not a properly maternal person. I teach, so I do enjoy the company of young people. But the people I teach are in college and post-college settings. Children are not my thing. I never stick out my arms to hold people’s babies. I do not pat the seat next to me and say, “Come sit here and I’ll tell you a story.” (In fact, I think other people’s insistence on such access is a problem. It seems inconsistent to put children on their guard against Stranger Danger and then insist they submit to “familiar strangers'” hugs and kisses.) I like adults.

I called an attorney from Tennessee to find out what the ordinary estate rules were for that state. When I spoke to Sherry’s mom, I told her that I had never spoken to Sherry about estate planning, had never agreed to be a guardian for her son, and planned to attend the funeral but had no intention of taking her grandson.

Sherry’s mom was not unfriendly. She welcomed me to come for the funeral but warned me not to listen if the cousin who first contacted me hit me up for money before, during, or after the funeral. “She will tell you that Sherry didn’t have enough money to pay for her own funeral. That’s true enough. But we will find a place that will bury her. Everyone knows you gave Sherry the money to move down here so they figure you have money they could find a use for.”

My mom warned me sternly not to go to the funeral. “You’ll just be asking for trouble.”

I flew down to Tennessee later that week for the funeral. I took a cab to Sherry’s sister’s home. Sherry had two sisters. Both were more unusual than Sherry. They were angry and violent. Sherry told me that she had a fight with one sister and, when Sherry turned her back, her sister lobbed a toaster at the back of Sherry’s head. It caused a concussion. Sherry’s sister had married a violent man and he had overwhelmed her violence with his own.

The other sister was very sick, but a secretary to some powerful DC lawyer. As a result of that relationship, she walked around in the mantle of his power, blistering with vile words anyone who upset her. She never raised a hand against Sherry, but that sister could wound with words and did.

Sherry’s mom was unabashedly funny in the way that the TV show Hee Haw was funny. The words might be simple, but the mind was sharp as a tack. When Sherry was married to the hockey player, mother and daughter visited his family in Canada on Canada Day. The in-laws were a bit pretentious and belabored the fact that Canadian fireworks were going to outshine anything you could see in Tennessee.

On watching the much lauded fireworks display from the in-laws’ lakefront condo, Sherry’s mom was asked to compliment the display. She responded, “I can fart higher–and in more colors!”

The house was a lovely home, but you could tell there were going to be problems as soon as I arrived. The cousin hit me up for a thousand dollars to help pay for the funeral. She told me that the mortician was working on Sherry as a favor and the cemetery was a sort of “potter’s field.” I was given the impression that a thousand dollars was needed or we’d be burying Sherry in a potato sack.

My hostess came down from her bedroom in what can only be described as a cocktail dress. It was black, but cut up and down so I knew at once the color of her underpants and that she wore a garter belt and stockings rather than pantyhose. No bra.

There were whispers about the other sister. She had arrived late for the wake, insisted on delivering a long speech about her own health issues and how she should have been the one being buried, and then had passed out, putting an end to the evening’s festivities as everyone had to rush home to tell their family, friends, and neighbors about the “hillbilly” (not my word choice) event. The family had taken the sister to the emergency room to get her checked out and had not gotten “home” until midnight. Everyone was tired.

I was several times told that the family would fight me to the death for Sherry’s son. I was told that the attorney who once got lucky after sharing pizza and a movie at my DC apartment had assured the family that, if Sherry had prepared a will naming me as legal guardian to her son, then “that will would never pass across the desk at a probate court’s offices.” I was asked if I knew the whereabouts of the cocktail napkin.

When it was time to go to the church, Sherry’s mom said she would drive me and the cousin to the church in Sherry’s car. I thought someone else should drive, but the car had a stick shift, and I can only drive an automatic. I got into the backseat because, if I had gotten into the front seat, the temptation to open the car’s glove compartment would have been strong. Sherry’s mom asked her son-in-law for a few pointers. He leaned into the car through the driver’s window. Sherry’s mom got a little excited.

She threw the car into reverse, hit the gas, and all four of us hurtled down a wooded hill until we crashed into a large enough tree. The son-in-law was lucky we didn’t kill him. All of us had mild to moderate whiplash that we decided to ignore.

We continued on to the church. As we drove, we realized that the trunk of Sherry’s car had been damaged. The trunk was stuffed with Sherry’s belongings that had been removed from her apartment so the family could avoid incurring more expense. While we drove, articles of Sherry’s clothing fluttered out of the flapping trunk and blew off into the humid breeze the car stirred up. Other members of the family later reported that a blue bra had slapped against a windshield and someone else had caught a pair of underpants as a keepsake.

At the church, the casket was open and set at the front of the church. Sherry’s sisters had an unhealthy fascination for their sister’s corpse. The sick sister redid Sherry’s makeup and ended up putting the cosmetics back in her purse. The other removed an immense, black hat from Sherry’s head and slapped it on her own head. She declared that she was going to wear it because (1) the brim would be crushed when the casket was closed; and (2) I think, most importantly from her point of view, she looked better in it and it matched her black dress!

Someone had set the church’s organ to play what I would describe as spirituals. When the first notes of The Old Rugged Cross pealed out, it was a rousing rendition a little more appropriate at a revival than a funeral and so loud that many in attendance exclaimed and batted their homemade fans until one of Sherry’s sisters ran up to adjust the volume. She announced that we could all rest assured that Sherry knew we were seeing her off in style. “That music was loud enough to be heard in the far corners of heaven and hell.”

I sat in the row behind the family. I was introduced as the lawyer “who had come to steal Sherry’s baby.” Sherry’s “baby” was about eight or nine years old. He stood up and removed his belt, folded it in half, pushed his fists together and then pulled them apart so the leather of the belt made a loud smacking sound. He called out loudly, “That’s right, now I’ve got the belt.”

He looked up at his supposedly abusive uncle for approval, and I wished that there was a will naming me as his legal guardian. But the boy had a father who would one day get out of prison and come looking for him and Sherry’s family was where she had brought her son when she seemed to have a premonition that her death might be near, and I had no legal standing to protest these people’s claim to the boy because no one had found even a cocktail napkin with my name on it, and I am a lawyer and do not lay claim to others’ children without even a phone conversation to indicate that a person means to have her beloved boy placed in my care. As you might now suspect, this will be a moment I never forget, a road not taken, a cause for regret. I am ashamed to say that I did not even stay in touch to monitor the situation.

People got up to say a few kind words, but they mostly spoke about themselves. One of Sherry’s sisters told us how she was going to keep Sherry’s hat forever because it looked better on her and she felt certain Sherry would agree. The other told us more about her illness and her fears that she would die before her own young child was old enough to remember her. She let it be known that her boss’ law firm would fight me tooth and nail if I tried to take Sherry’s boy back to Chicago with me. The boy cried then and I wondered what Sherry had said or done to make everyone look at me so suspiciously. I hardly knew this boy. I probably had known her for a year or two. It had not been enough time for me to develop any relationship with this boy, given my lack of interest in other people’s children.

The sick sister ended the eulogies by losing her footing. Her husband ran forward to catch her before she could fall and strike her head a second time in as many days. I cannot recall whether I spoke (I always speak) or what I said (if I did speak, I cannot imagine what I could have said to save this sad and crazy memorial). I don’t want to go back and read my journal entry. I remember enough from that strange day.

The pastor delivered his own sermon. I have already written about how Sherry’s recent declaration of her faith in Jesus Christ meant she was already in heaven “with Elvis . . . and Jesus, too.”

It was a long drive to the cemetery. A friend of the family contributed the plot. It was a field of green grass, some of it long enough that you knew no one got around to mowing every week. There were very few headstones and the ones that were there were small and flat. It was the kind of sunny day in summer when the air is so thick with humidity that you wade through it. The cicadas and crickets and every other manner of insect whined in a cadence that rose and fell but never quieted enough to let you form a clear thought. There were flies that pestered. My heels sank in the dirt. The grass was coarse and raspy against my nylon-covered ankles.

We gathered by the grave under a yellow and white canopy, all of us fitting in its shade if not beneath its covering. The hole was dug and you could smell the soil that someone had covered with a length of artificially bright, fake turf. The minister was taking his time as he picked his way from the parking lot. The casket rested on a sling of leather belts. There were children present and they had started to run about the cemetery playing tag.

Sherry’s sister, the one who hit Sherry with the toaster, threw herself down at the very edge of the grave and commenced to cryin’. I am talking about grief that seemed out of proportion to her demeanor. She stretched out onto the fake turf like she meant to climb into that grave, too. But she reached back at one point to straighten her skirt so we saw a little more of her legs and behind than was polite but a little less than would have been downright salacious. The hat never slipped from its perch atop a topknot of careless curls. The woman’s husband bent down, picked her up in his arms and carried her back to their car so prettily. For all the crying, I cannot recall a spilled tear.

The rest of us were frozen by the tableau.

I had arranged for a limousine to pick me up at the cemetery. It was finer than the hearse. It was an odd contrast to the collection of attendees’ cars. When the pastor finished his prayers, I said goodbye to Sherry’s mom and just walked away from the whole mess. I am not usually a coward, but I felt I had been dropped into a hot mess of family stew that was so poisoned that I had to get away from it.

When I got home I still had plenty of troubles and sorrows of my own to address. But I felt like I had briefly wandered onto some movie set. All of the classic signs were there. It was a place in which the observer squirms and thinks, “Oh, don’t go there. Don’t get in the car. Don’t open the door. Please don’t look in that closet. Whatever you do, do not go into the basement. Don’t trust them. For crying out loud, can’t you see the danger here?”

In movies, the person does what no one else would do. She succumbs to a bad case of stupid and for her troubles she is roundly punished. And the rest of us take our lickings with her. We are scared within an inch of our own deaths by the prospect of what will happen to one who has been lured into a danger from which there can be no escape.

I did not tread further. I let the limousine whisk me back to the airport. I caught the last plane to Chicago for the day. I picked up the burdens of my own life–bookkeeping for a failing family business, grief from the loss of a father and then a friend, a crazily demanding job in a place with its fair share of strange people–and I tried not to look back.

In the times during the last two years when things have been upside down and inside out people have told me that, if we could trade our problems for someone else’s, we would still take up our own burdens and carry on.

I think they are right. It’s tempting sometimes to try on someone else’s cares and woes and imagine we could handle them, even handle them better. But our own cares are familiar and we often have years of preparation for handling them.

But, every once in awhile, I think about a place in Tennessee where I watched men lower a casket into a grave in the midst of a tragic stew of family drama and I wonder, if I turned back and opened the door, whether I would find all my worst fears realized or flowers growing despite the tears that would surely fall because I still miss Sherry.

You Gotta Ride the Rails, Little Lady

Grandpa Tom

Grandpa Tom

This week I had to cancel plans to visit my sister and friends in Washington, DC because my landlady has decided not to continue leasing my apartment. I have to move and the news has upset me. I know, I kicked cancer, but, seriously!!! I am tired. And I cannot help wondering why I never get the “test” in which you get a million dollars and the heavens watch to see if you will use some of it for charity.

Someone from among my friends suggested that I should have planned a trip to Disney world. She says that, if she kicked cancer, that’s where she would go.

I do not have children. I am not required by the natural law of making children’s dreams come true to visit the place. My family visited Disneyland for our last “family” vacation in about 1972. My sister and I were in high school. Grandpa Tom wanted us to see the West. He was 100% Irish, but he retired in Santa Fe, New Mexico with Grandma Elsie (50% Swedish/50% German) and he “went native.” He adopted the bolo tie. He explored every historical site in the area. He read the history. He had always told us stories of natives living in the western states while the women (sometimes Grandma Elsie all by herself) washed the dishes.

In my grandpa’s stories, the natives were smart and possessed a wonderful sense of humor. I am not sure where he learned his stories, but his father was a railroad engineer (as in a designer of the engine cars). They lived along the railroad tracks in many American cities. Perhaps his father told them. Perhaps he read them. After he moved to New Mexico there was little talk of Ireland. He identified with the native cultures. We think he adapted his “look” to blend in. He even started to refer to the Spanish that claimed the territory and subjected the native population to their rule “bloodless devils.”

He wanted my sister and me to take the train to New Mexico. We traveled by ourselves. Our parents loaded Danny into the backseat of the station wagon and set out by car while Kathy and I shared a two-bed sleeper compartment and dined in the diner car with its linen tablecloths and napkins.

(c) I don't offend by borrowing this photo.

(c)–Hope I don’t offend by borrowing this photo.

It was a wonderful experience. Having spent several preceding summers under the camp names Kettle and Little Pot at Norwesco, a Girl Scout camp in Wisconsin, with five cots in the tent, this was luxurious. We even had misadventures. We stored our Brownie Hawkeye camera in the tiny cabinet in our sleeper until our porter exclaimed that, “You don’t put your camera in the shoe box.” We were unaware of the fact that he could access shoes from the shoebox when outside of our room so that he could shine them. “Everyone knows you can’t leave your camera in the shoebox.” That was not true until after we rode the train. Grandpa had wanted us to see the world from a train and we learned many things from our experience. One thing that I learned was that a train ride can be marvelous! I loved the many luxuries and the stress-free travel.

Brownie Hawkeye Camera

Brownie Hawkeye Camera

We met up with rest of the family in Santa Fe. After an excellent exploration of the surrounding area, we set off in the station wagon for Arizona and then California. We visited with one of my dad’s friends from the Marine Corps. The two men posed gut-to-gut after deploring the way in which married life had softened them. At the last second one of them sucked it in and made his buddy look bad. I think it might have been my dad. He was a prankster.

We visited my mom’s dear friend who lived near the ocean. Her family seemed unfamiliar with Chicago. The kids kept asking us about Illinois where we “pushed cows and pulled pigs”–whatever that means. The culmination of our trip was a day at Disneyland.

I can remember every detail of the railroad ride to Santa Fe, but the only thing I can remember of Disneyland is Pirates of the Caribbean.

Fast forward about thirty years to the summer I took my niece and her son to Disney world. My plan was to rest in the hotel room. I was exhausted after a difficult project completed while I was sick with an upper respiratory infection. I was hospitalized the evening before my departure. I thought I was having a heart attack, but it turned out that my esophagus was seizing following weeks of coughing. I slept and read novels in the comfort of an air-conditioned room. Lisa and Ryan spent day and night in the park.

I only joined Lisa and Ryan one day. I paid for the lunch with the costumed cartoon figures and wanted to see Ryan’s reaction. I drove to the park and took a little train ride to the correct portion of the park. As I recall, I went to Frontierland. The heat was devastating for me. Then we ate lunch. I took pictures. When lunch was over the kids decided to continue on with their steady pace of rides and meals. I arranged to pick them up later at the park. Lisa asked me if I would mind taking back with me a bunch of souvenirs.

A storm was rolling in off of the ocean. I carried my umbrella, Lisa’s umbrella, a purse, a camera bag, and a bag of toys. At one point it did rain, and I was grateful to be under cover by that time. I joined the line for what I presumed was the little train that would take me back to the park entrance. I waited with lots of other people, but it never occurred to me that we were all waiting in the covered waiting area for anything other than the little choo choo. No one spoke with anticipation of a roller coaster–no one. When we finally entered a building the wood-slatted walls of the building reminded me of the train station. Then I turned a corner and saw the loading area for a roller coaster. It was the California Gold Rush ride.

A costumed employee who looked like Pecos Pete waved me toward the ride. I did not want to get on the ride. I explained my reluctance. I did not want to ride a rollercoaster. I was sick. I did not have anyone with me to share the ride. I was holding too many items to hang onto the handrail.

“There are only two choices,” he said. “Get on the ride or push and shove your way back out of here.”

It was, for me, an impossible choice. I refused to get in.

That’s when Pecos Pete snarled, “You gotta ride the rails, little lady!”

I got in and Pecos Pete locked me in. For the next five minutes or so I screamed as my behind slid from side to side in my seat. It was all I could do to hang onto the items in my arms. I did not have a free hand to stop the relentless motion.

I screamed until I coughed. Then I could not stop coughing.

When I got out of the rollercoaster someone had to grab my hand and drag me out. I looked like I had been dragged through the bushes backwards. A park employee came over and offered to escort me to the train ride when I could not stop coughing even after they got me some water.

The moral of the story is that you take a train when you want a scenic ride in comfort, but you never know when you buy your ticket if you’ll be taking a choo choo or riding the rails with Pecos Pete.

I may not like the fact that I will be moving in the next forty-five or so days, but I can complain all I want and I will still have to ride the rails. The thrills and chills are part of the price of the ticket in life.

I’ll keep you posted on how it turns out.

Taking Off

I had a bad surprise yesterday. My landlady for the last eight years announced I will need to move. My home is owned by her and her brother; and they have made a family decision to have me leave. She did not say it, but it sounds like a family member wants to live here.

I have never wanted to own my own home. I managed luxury hotels when I was in my twenties and had quite enough of property management. I used to enjoy moving, even looked forward to it as an adventure. My last move took a “day”–thanks to two immense moving trucks and five professional movers.

After I heard the news I got into my car and drove for about an hour because I hated the fact that my home was not really mine. The car will be paid off in less than a year–so it felt like mine as I drove in holiday “exodus” traffic.

I found myself wondering again about fate and about our capacity for steering in life. In the last two years my body has been treated for cancer–an ongoing event that has had me feeling alien in my own skin at times. After a gut-wrenching shedding of a massive amount of blood that left splash marks on my walls at home, I had parts of me excised. I have experienced what it feels like to have had nerves cut in surgery and (when the pain of surgery abated) to have no feeling whatsoever in the proximity of my incision. Then I subjected myself to radiation and chemotherapy that killed and damaged countless cells in an effort to root out the really sick ones. I have felt like every part of my body was strange (shedding, peeling, leaking, rushing out of or off of me). I lost much of my hair, eyelashes, and eyebrows. Blood ran from my nose every day for months (as well as from all of my other orifices). My nails bubbled and peeled. Even my own body smells changed for a time and I hated them.

I lost a loved job teaching part time at a law school for having been diagnosed with cancer. I have returned to work there, but nothing is the same except the students and how I feel about them. Just this week I was invited to teach again this fall. The invitation requires me to teach my fourteen classes and attend five (now) mandatory meetings. The list of the five dates of mandatory meetings was accidentally omitted. The invitation tells me that the school reserves the absolute discretion to terminate me at any time for no reason. The invitation omits any mention of compensation. Ordinarily, an offer of employment requires each party to promise something to the other. Here, what is promised to me is nothing. The email invitation laid bare the deal–if I return, I get nothing from the school.

The last bastion of peace and quiet in life has been home and we will soon be parted, too. I have so many “things” in this apartment. I will have to part with some of them, too, before this is over. Every move I have ever made has involved some shedding. But I have long thought of this place with the living room laid out like my Grandma Elsie’s, its sunny yellow walls, and silver and turquoise bathroom, as a haven. It will be very hard to pack it all up and move.

This coming week I finish three more classes. That will get me down to one online class. I was looking forward to the summer slowdown. I was hoping to write. I have not done reading for pleasure in months. I recently began work for a search firm–as an independent contractor–and hoped I would have the summer to devote to it. I even made plans to go on a short vacation–ten days with family and friends in DC. I will probably have to cancel the vacation. There may not be any time for writing or reading. I will have to juggle to not lose this new opportunity to stretch my wings with the search firm.

That’s what finally did it. That thought is what finally broke me down emotionally yesterday. It is what made me drive back to the apartment so as not to risk others’ lives by driving while in distress–distress that I felt to the roots of the hairs on my head and arms. I haven’t cried for what I have experienced during the last twenty-one months. I have cried through physical pain and suffering but never for having learned I had cancer. I did cry when I heard I lost my job. And I cried yesterday for the loss of my home and my plans and all the lost freedoms. I finally cried for the cancer, too. It was not for very long. It is not like me to cry for things or events. I cry for other people in pain and animals abandoned. But it was another form of shedding that I guess I had to experience because I will stretch my wings.

This entire dreadful, painful, frightening, awful experience has been about peeling away what is nonessential. It has been a wrenching agony since it began and I have hated it even as I marked how things have started to improve. The very foundations of who I am and what I want have been tested, shaken, and stripped away. Soon it will just be me.

I sent my friends in DC a message yesterday to let them know that I might not make it out to see them this summer. I realized as I sent them that message that I have lost family and friends in the last twenty-one months, too. My aunt and uncle died. There were friends who were not strong enough to walk with me through cancer treatment and dropped me. (I am intensely grateful for the many family and friends who did not jump ship.)

I have been very focused on images of birds, but maybe this is the story of a butterfly. Maybe I will take flight after the last of the shedding, peeling, stripping, and leaking of all but the essential me is complete.

I should end this posting there–on a positive note.

But I am NotDownOrOut and part of the essential me has to ask, “What the f*** is going on here?”


Cars pull up and honk to see if I am leaving

Cars pull up and honk to see if I am leaving

I cannot stand those GPS systems with their ceaseless commentary on my driving. One of the increasingly appreciated advantages of being divorced is that no one complains about my driving. No one presses an invisible brake when I am slow to do the same. No one comments on my preference for a less well traveled route. No one exclaims when I choose to gun my little car and overtake another because its driver ticked me off.

When I travel with my sister Kathy she likes the instructions, the reassurance, the computer co-pilot. I think she would admit that my sense of direction is a little better than hers. As a result, the GPS system’s announcement that it is “recalculating” feels more like an expression of patience than the criticism I perceive it to be.

Today I finally went for the four month follow-up on my first thorough gynecological exam after hysterectomy, radiation, and chemotherapy. It has been twenty months since surgery.

I got up at 5 a.m. and left the house before 6 a.m. for my 8 a.m. appointment. I could not take it for granted that there would be a parking space at the hospital. This week I have taught five classes. I graded piles of papers. I reviewed resumes and spoke with students searching for jobs. I gave references for jobs and admission to the bar. I wrote recommendation letters. I spoke with attorneys for a prior client about an old matter. I was exhausted this morning, so exhausted that I climbed in the shower before I had bothered to turn on any lights.

I was lucky enough never to have acne, but this past week I have enough blemishes to warn passersby of impending doom. I am red! My joints ache. My blood pressure crept up. My tinnitus has been distracting when I want to empty my mind and concentrate on slow and steady breathing.

I got in the car and drove before I could focus on anything other than the need to get going. When I arrived at the hospital I was in time to get one of the last spaces. It was light out by then and I had to slouch in my seat because everyone who saw me tapped his or her horn to see if I was leaving.

There was no sense in getting out before 7 a.m. That’s when the elevators on the first floor open. I was afraid I would fall asleep so tried reading John Grisham’s The Racketeer, but it has been difficult for me to read fiction lately. I am going through a stage when the only things I feel are real.

When I entered the building it was like going back to your hometown after a long trip. I found everything old felt new. A police officer arriving late nearly mowed me over in the hall. The elevator lobby was under construction and I felt like the place was foreign rather than familiar. I rode the elevator to the second floor in the company of a red-dressed bird. This woman wore the tightest, brightest red blouse and capri pants. Over this she wore a pristinely white jacket. Atop her head she wore a curly black wig that cascaded in all directions. Wrapped around her head and across her forehead was a black and white polka-dotted scarf. The ends trailed down one side like she was singing back-up for the Jackson Five way back when. Beside her was a woman in a maxi dress with alternating horizontal stripes of orange and tan. The pumps matched. I kept wondering why I did not receive the memo because the colors were even more eye-popping than the women’s physical attributes. They were attention-getters, too.

In my navy blue shirt, navy blue pants, and navy blue slip-on shoes I felt invisible. I wanted to be invisible. I longed to be someplace else and to have more important things to do, but nothing was more pressing than this appointment.

Of course, I was the first patient present. The receptionist called me to the desk then told me to sit and wait because I was more than an hour early. It was after 7 a.m. and my appointment was at 8 a.m., but there was no point in arguing. She called me five minutes later when there was still no one there.

A nurse came out and brought me back to be weighed and have my blood pressure checked. One was down and the other was up. I explained that I was suffering from some “white jacket syndrome.” I learned that the physician’s assistant who last examined me was the only person present. I knew what this meant and tried not to panic.

I was shown to a room and sat for almost another hour before the P.A. came in.

I was the one who had to do some recalculating today. The exam still hurt, but my anxiety level was much lower. For one thing, as she took notes I had my clothes on. Last time I was led naked through the hallways twice and felt very vulnerable even before the P.A. decided to take my history while I sat half naked (the half that sat on the table was covered).

There was less info to share. The time went by faster. The P.A. could not predict anything without test results, but she let me know that she saw nothing that raised her concern. I hope that this is progress and that some of my fears will be eased when I return to see the P.A. in October.

I ended up driving out to my mom’s place and we spent the afternoon together. We took a ride to the Queen of Heaven cemetery in Hillside, Illinois. Back in the early 1990’s there was a local man (Joseph) who claimed to see the Virgin Mary there after he first saw her in Megjugorje.; He visited the cemetery because he was directed to a cross near a three-trunked tree. When my dad was alive, he took me and my mom there to see what was happening. In those days, Joseph would come and pray and see and speak with Mary while others crowded around him saying the rosary. People took interesting photos and rosaries turned gold.

One of my mom’s friends had a plain rosary turn gold. I have visited the location a number of times, including after my dad died. On the Christmas after my dad died, I took some Polaroid pictures of the plain wooden cross. The dark wood cross glowed gold on an overcast day while rain fell on me. I took the photos while I kneeled at the foot of the cross. Was it the flash bulb? Why was the effect not repeated in each photo taken from the same place at the same day and time?

I still have one of those photos and gave one to a former coworker who was quite devoutly religious. She also was dying at the time and said the photo gave her great comfort. I will try to find the photo album and scan a few of the remaining photos for this posting later. There are some others that make it appear that a door opened in the sky. I think the sun reflected off of the sides of the camera’s aperture. Nevertheless, they are cool to look at.

Photo taken June 14, 2013

Photo taken June 14, 2013

At any rate, the scene has changed since Joseph died. The cross was moved several years ago to an empty area of the cemetery. A parking lot was installed. The cross was set in the center of a blacktop area that people could not trample. No large group was gathered. A lone man walked the perimeter lost in prayer. Someone created a little shrine for a statue of Mary. The toes of Jesus’s feet have been touched so many times that the stain and sealer have worn away. Bare, white, and deteriorated wood is exposed. A couple people have left items. We said a prayer before leaving.

Photo taken June 14, 2013

Photo taken June 14, 2013

For my mom it was a let down. She was hoping to feel that energy that we last felt from the crowd when we visited there. It would have been a connection with my dad, whose birthday just passed and who we will remember this Sunday on Father’s Day.

But I had the opposite reaction. I put my hand on the cross and thanked God and Mary for helping me through the last two years of trials and treatments. I realize that others have experienced far worse than I have and want to keep this in perspective. But there were times when all I had to keep me going were faith, family, and friends. All I feel were gifts that helped me endure. And I felt as I touched that cross that a burden of fear and sorrow lifted from my shoulders.

I found myself recalculating.

If My Dad Had Lived Longer

Marge Lange (godmother), Dad, Grandpa Kayo

Marge Lange (godmother), Dad, Grandpa Kayo

If my dad had lived longer this would be his eighty-first birthday. He died of acute pancreatitis within about 48 hours of the disease’s onset. We were all at the hospital when it happened because I had a premonition of trouble. I was in my office in Washington, D.C. on Friday morning when I felt a strong impulse to call my mom. I do not speak lightly of the strength of that impulse. One minute I was devising a strategy for sidestepping the IRS’s handling of a client’s tax challenge. I stood in front of my office set of the Commerce Clearinghouse Standard Federal Tax Reporter and thumbed through the index for inspiration. Then I heard her voice and she was saying, “Call me.”

It had happened to me once before. I was at work and I heard her voice. I called her right after she had climbed up onto a chair that had wheels so that she could reach something in the pantry. She misjudged her balance, fell from the chair and put her head through the pantry door! I stayed on the line with her until my dad could get home in case she suffered a concussion. As a result, when I heard her voice, I responded.

She told me that my brother Danny was on his way to Dad’s office. Dad was feeling so sick that he could not get home alone. He thought he should go to the hospital, but he wanted it to be the hospital close to home. When Danny got Dad home, they went right to the hospital.

I had spoken to my dad the night before his illness. We had a good talk. He wanted me to move back to Chicago. I was considering doing that. He wanted me to get an annulment of my marriage. I had decided to pursue that. (I still have not gotten that done.) He was happy. But he wanted more. He wanted my sister Kathy to move back to Chicago, too. At that time, Kathy and I were living in Maryland. I was divorced and free to relocate if I could find a good job opportunity. My sister had a husband and two children and a job she enjoyed. I did not think Dad could persuade her to come back to Chicago, but he was a determined man.

When my mom let me know that my dad had a diagnosis and was expected to make a full recovery, I already sensed that it was not going to turn out well. I was so concerned that I left my office as soon as I heard my dad was sick. I took my car to a repair shop and had four new tires put on it. I packed a suitcase and put it in my trunk. But my mom convinced me not to start the drive to Chicago. She was certain that Dad would be okay.

The next day I went to my sister’s house. Kathy and I went to the mall. When we got back, my brother-in-law Jeff had a suitcase for Kathy. He told us to hit the road immediately. He would pack his and their girls’ suitcases and follow us on his own within another hour.

My mom had been at the hospital that morning to visit my dad. He wanted to see Danny. She figured there was time for that later in the day. She went to her job at J.C. Penney. Dad slipped into unconsciousness shortly thereafter.

Kathy and I drove through the night and got to the house at about four in the morning. It was a thirteen hour trip. My mom was up when we got to the house. She could not sleep. We went right to the hospital. Dad was still unconscious. I remember that he looked terrible. He wore glasses. They were not on his face. That was strange. He always wore them, even when he fell asleep in his favorite chair at the house.

He was swollen. I was afraid to touch him because he had painful neuropathy after a terrible case of shingles. He could not bear to use his hands other than for necessary tasks. The doctors told us to speak to him. He might be able to hear us even if he could not respond.

The doctors wanted to open him up but were afraid that general anesthesia would kill him. We agreed to surgery without anesthesia. I have no idea if we did the right thing. The surgeon did not find anything that helped Dad. There was some talk about a gangrene length of bowel, but my dad had that week passed a stress test. His bowel was working on the Thursday before his death. I know. He spoke of it (funny how people start talking about that stuff and cannot seem to recall any longer the time when the topic was considered personal).

After the surgery was over, we crowded around the bed to look him over. He was more swollen. His color was orange, like a bad case of “spray tan.”

The doctors told us that it was a matter of time, but it sounded like the time might be a day rather than hours. My Aunt Joan, my dad’s only sister, came to see her brother one last time. My dad’s friend Jack came for a couple of minutes. We hovered in the corner of Dad’s room and in the waiting area, taking turns sitting with him.

My mom and Kathy headed back to the house for something to eat, maybe a nap. Danny and I stood by at the hospital. As soon as my mom left, Dad’s vitals showed he was crashing. The doctors rushed in and said, “Get your family back here.”

I whispered good-bye and ran for a payphone (this happened in 1992 before cell phones). By the time I came back, Danny was in the hallway. The doctors were in the room trying to revive my dad. It was not possible to save him.

My dad was a “King” on his mother’s side. At that time, no King male had lived past 59 years of age. Harry King (my great-grandfather) died before 59. Dr. Edward P. King (my great uncle) died before 59. Even after my dad’s death, the King curse continued. My cousin Steve died before 59. (We are all thankful that my cousin Michael thereafter broke the chain.) My dad was 59 at the time. He had four months to go to turn 60 and break the chain. It’s a funny thing about fate. It probably doesn’t dictate anything, but, until someone breaks the chain, fate seems in control.

I am going to tell you about something else in addition to how my dad died, because death is sometimes just an ending and lots of us know what it is like to lose someone suddenly.

Grandpa Kayo, Grandma Babe, and Dad

Grandpa Kayo, Grandma Babe, and Dad

My dad was the life of the party. He taught my sister and me to dance. He was very good at dancing. I was a kid in the 1960’s. We used to “twist.” It was a blast. I always get tears in my eyes when I think of him dancing with me on my wedding day and then taking my mom into his arms. I married a man who could dance. The marriage did not last, but dancing with my ex-husband is something I still remember fondly.



My dad enjoyed a party so much that there were times he went to a party at Norm and Jane’s house across the street and stayed late enough to make them breakfast when they woke in the morning.

Dad and his cousin Mary at a meeting of the Cousin's Club

Dad and his cousin Mary at a meeting of the Cousin’s Club

[Yes, Mary is wearing her earrings in her hair and nose. My dad also mixed a strong drink, as did his cousins.] My dad lived boldly. We had a summer cottage when I was a kid. My dad loved to throw newcomers into the lake during their first visit. One of my cousins knew about this and so stayed inside the house so that he was never close to the water. He also perched on a tiny chair that had belonged to my grandma, thinking he would be safe. My dad filled a huge pot with lake water, dragged it into the house and tossed the water right into his face! Everyone got wet.

One night we were partying at my grandparents’ home and my dad got mad about something and went out for a walk. He did not come back. We were an hour’s drive from home. My mom piled us into the car and we all went out searching for him. When no one could find him, my mom gave up and took us home. Imagine our surprise when we arrived home to find him sleeping on a lawn chair on the driveway. He had wandered up onto the toll road, flagged down a police car, and convinced the police officer to drive him all the way to our house.

When he was about my age, he suffered through an illness that left him in a weakened condition, but he refused to let it get him down. He got into a fight with someone who was big enough and tough enough to wipe the floor with my dad, but my dad would not give in to threat. He said to the guy, “I’m not just going to kick your butt. When I’m done with you, I’m going to kick the butt of every one of your friends.” The other guy growled. My dad knew this was going to get ugly and his Louisville Slugger (always kept in the car in case there was a game (fight)) was in the car and not at hand. My dad said, “I want all my friends to see it. Wait right here while I go get them.” Then he ran away. As he explained it, “I beat him with my superior intellect.”

My dad loved God and country. He convinced many a fallen Catholic in the family to go back to the church. He said the rosary every day as he drove in his car. He stood every time he heard the national anthem–even when we were at home. He was a Republican block captain and always voted–even during the many years when he and my mom would vote and cancel out each other’s votes. He loved the Marine Corps and often put out American flags at our homes.

Dad and Grandma Babe

Dad and Grandma Babe

My dad was a bad boy who thought boys should be boys. He pulled the fire alarm when he was in grade school. He played pranks. He used to follow his slightly older sister Joan when she went out on dates so he could keep an eye on her and her boyfriends. He always had a list of jokes in his pocket. He used to keep an old-fashioned fire extinguisher at the house. He would fill it with water and chase us around spraying us with water long after our little water guns had gone dry.

My dad did not forget his own history. When my brother Danny got into trouble, my dad would wrap his arms around my mom and say, “Boys will be boys.” He would not falter in his belief that a bad boy could turn out to be one hell of a good man. (My brother is a man my dad would be so proud to know.)

Dad, Grandma Babe and Aunt Joan

Dad, Grandma Babe and Aunt Joan

My dad loved my mom. There was fighting in our home. My mom used to darken the house and we would lie in wait for Dad when they were “on the outs.” When he walked in the door, we lobbed Tupperware at him. He would chase us all around the house until everyone was exhausted. Then he would toss my mom over his shoulder and carry her off to their bedroom. We did not understand about “make-up sex” in those days, but we knew as we put ourselves to bed, that everything was okay in our world. I can still remember my dad kissing my mom first thing every time he came home and last thing every time he left.

Mom and Dad on their wedding day in 1956

Mom and Dad on their wedding day in 1956

My dad always said, “It only costs a little more to go first class.” He was a clothes horse. When we went on vacation he had a vacation wardrobe. He wore yellow trousers, red trousers. The man even had Kelly green trousers. He always picked out the best thing. He had the best umbrella, the best rifle, the best fishing pole, the best camera, and the best tools. We did not always have much, but whatever we had was nice. If we could not afford the “best,” then we waited. We worked hard. We saved our money. Then we went out and got it.

My dad used to go on ahead. When we used to go to the mall, my dad always walked well ahead of the rest of us. We would walk slowly, stopping to look at things.  Sometimes we would catch a glimpse of him on another level of the mall or far ahead of us. At the end of our circuit of the building, we would find him sitting on a bench eating an ice cream cone. I think of him that way now, waiting some place down the road for the rest of us to catch up with him, eating an ice cream cone.

If my dad had lived longer, today would have been his birthday. Happy Birthday, Dad.

In Sickness and in Health


One of the duties associated with having been nominated to receive a Liebster Award is that you should name others to receive it as well.

I have read that some have named a single blog while others name as many as 11. Today I am naming two:


Both are written by wives loving a husband through cancer. Around the world today there are millions of husbands and wives giving care to a partner through sickness.

I am not married. I was once a long time ago. I am soon to be divorced twenty-five years and was married for seven years before that. I am not fascinated by the condition of marriage. I did not destroy my wedding photographs, but I donated my wedding dress to charity, threw my wedding band into the Potomac River, and gave my engagement ring to my niece because I did not want to see it in my jewelry box any longer. I do not watch TV shows in which women say “yes” to dresses and shriek at family and friends for failing to make a wedding day perfect. I can be counted upon to smile and cry during others’ weddings, usually because I am a little disappointed that my own wedding day remains my happiest memory in a good life.

My husband left me. That is unusual. I understand that women initiate about 66% of divorces. This is ironic when you consider how much literature there is out there for women who seek to bring a man to one knee so that he will propose, she can accept, and they can dedicate their lives to the accomplishment of the best wedding anyone has ever attended.

Many of my friends who remained married, many of them happily ever after, are now in the process of guiding children through the last years of a college education, through the acquisition of a first post-college job, or into the bonds of matrimony. There have been times when I have envied them their finger-painted-art-covered refrigerator doors and their Mother’s/Father’s Day celebration breakfasts in bed, but I am not envious of their tuition bills or the prospect of planning and paying for the best wedding anyone ever attended.

I enjoy as a way to pass the time when my mind is fried and my body will not relent at bed time. But I confess that I am saddened by the number of racy photos of brides in lingerie to be sent to the groom on the morning of a wedding to keep him focused on the prize, the photos of tackle boxes filled with mini-bar-sized bottles of alcohol alongside make-up and hair devices in the bride’s toolkit, images of high fives during a post-ceremony kiss, and the snapshots marked “need this photo” for our special day.

I remember my wedding day with (a depressing amount of) good will because of what was not happening. I did not begin the day reviewing a checklist of poses that the photographer had better capture for my album. I did not have, nor imagine for a moment that my groom had, cold feet. It never would have occurred to me to send him pictures to review prior to the ceremony. I did not need a shot of liquid relaxant to walk down the aisle because I was anxious about perfection eluding me. I did not usher friends in front of the camera for lots of “must have” memories. In fact, I found the few photos my photographer staged for us kind of silly.

I just got up, got dressed, and walked down the aisle on my dad’s arm and pledged love to someone who was a friend and a lover. Of course, things did not end well. Maybe I should have cared more about the details. I suspect that is not what makes marriage work either.

I do admit to being envious of the brides who got it right. I read Sarah and Andy’s story because they read The Princess Bride to each other while Andy recovered from surgery following his diagnosis with stage 3B gastric cancer. When they wed they planned to have a family. They found themselves unable to have a child and unable to adopt one. They exchanged the dream of a an art-covered refrigerator door for late-night dashes to the ER following the removal of Andy’s stomach. Despite all this, every time I see one of Sarah’s postings show up in my Reader page on I smile at their photographs of post-marriage kisses taken in sickness and in health. I find myself rooting for the latest posting to disclose a landmark in Andy’s recovery. It’s hard to be cynical in the face of a good love story. Sarah makes me believe in their dreams.

In the blog Happily Homeless 2, Handsome Husband is not Every Woman’s dream. He’s already divorced, a recovering alcoholic, raising children. He remarries, this time joining his life with that of a woman raising children of her own. They seem like hopeless romantics. Both are so open to remarriage and the difficult task of blending families. It’s reassuring to know that once married, many men and women remain open to doing it again. But men seem a little more open to it than do women, ironic when you consider how men are perceived as needing to be dragged to the altar:

The perceived benefits of divorce differ by gender. Women were far more likely than men to say that having their own self-identity was a top reward….
…….43 percent of women said they emerged from the split against remarriage.
Only 33 percent of men said they wouldn’t remarry., quoted at

In the case of Happily Homeless and Handsome Husband, you have two people who believe in marriage (and each other). They also deal with cancer. But, unlike Sarah and Andy who face it together while young, they deal with it at the end of a twenty-three-plus-year marriage while young-at-heart. I have not gone back yet to read the earliest entries in Alison’s blog. I found it recently and have read its latest chapters. Instead of talking about a perfect wedding, Happily Homeless describes a different type of ceremony. The gown is a hospital gown worn by the groom. The best man and other attendants are the couple’s children. The flowers are sent by well-meaning friends. The family and friends are there to say good-bye to the groom. The bride is dealing with the pain of life without him. I cried as I read of this couple’s happy ending, too. And I envied them even though they also walked a painful path because they held on so tightly to each other until parted by death.

What makes me nominate these two blogs for the Liebster Award is that the award and these two blogs are about caring. The bloggers discuss what happens when life gets tough and your partner needs you in ways you don’t need your partner. They speak of how you sometimes have to find balance because suddenly the ground beneath your feet is shifting. They tell tales in which no one gets by on fairy dust or magic. They are about the hard work in marriage. They focus on the relationship being built and maintained. They still have dreams and fantasies, but they have realities that test the fabric of their dreams and prove that dreams can be as tough and as flexible as rubber as it meets that bumpy road.

The stories of caregivers are what you cannot foresee when you watch TV shows about brides choosing the right dresses and bridezillas picking the wrong battles. Some think the battle is over when someone’s put a ring on it. Some think that they need their liquid courage to walk down the aisle. Some think that the beginning of a honeymoon is the beginning of life lived happily ever after. Some think marriage is about the right poses in a book of memories. Some begin the next day and days after it facing a whole new set of challenges. And the truly heartwarming thing is that some people make it! They (men and women) take their vows and find ways to keep on living them:

I, ____, take you, ____, to be my (husband/wife). I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.

I smile at weddings because they are the start of a venture that holds the promise of something wondrous. My heart may still ache when I think of loves that fail, but it is healed by the stories of loves that last when health is failing. I am grateful for the chance to observe people cling to each other proving that the finest in us is what counts, not the finery that surrounds us.

Good-Bye, Gick

Ed, Marge, Mary & Babe

Ed, Marge, Mary & Babe

I opened the email and read the news that Gick had died:

My mother, Margaret Rosemary Theresa Kelly Moder went to heaven Monday morning at 9:12AM. We had just left her side when it happened.

Gick was my Grandma Babe’s cousin. In the picture above, Gick sits between her husband Ed and her sister Mary. My Grandma Babe sits over to the side.

Gick’s mom and my great grandmother were sisters. Gick’s mom was May and my great grandmother was Nellie. Nellie was the eldest. Nellie Hanley married Harry King. They had two children: Dr. Edward P. King “Bub” and Mary King “Babe.”

When Nellie was 50 she had surgery to correct a deviated septum. She died shortly after it of meningitis. Babe was 18. Her dad would last only three years without his Nellie. Bub was already in the Navy. Babe went to live with Aunt May, Uncle Tim, Mary, and Marge. Aunt May was a fighter. She argued with everyone, especially her sisters Nellie and Agnes “Ag.” May was the baby of the family of six children, so you know she must have been tough to take on Nellie (11 years her senior). But she took in Babe. Babe always felt that Mary (seven) and Marge, aka Gick (five) were like her little sisters.

Marge was a “gal.” She loved her bicycle. She and her cousin Bece once rode their bicycles from Chicago to Wisconsin. Bece got a terrible sunburn. Marge, with her beautiful Irish skin somehow fared well. Marge boxed, too, if you can believe it.

Marge always had dogs. She and her kids once brought a carload of turtles home from a vacation to Fenton, Missouri. She and her kids also had pigeons (Homer and George) and a crow (also George).

Mary was the one with all the style. According to Marge, Mary always knew how to tie a scarf to make an outfit. Marge loved her leather coat with a fur collar so much that she wore it on the train during the summer! Before such a thing as air conditioning. But Marge was fascinating in her own right, without resort to the slightest artifice or fancy.

Marge met Ed at the Rathskeller. He was on his way up the stairs to leave with his friends as she was walking in with a girlfriend. He looked at his friends and said, “That’s it.” He turned right around and followed her down the stairs. It was love at first sight. He walked Marge and her friend back home at the end of the evening. She appreciated the escort. Ed was “charming.”

Of course, she didn’t want anyone to know they met in this way. So she concocted a better story for her four children and waited until they were older to tell the truth–like when they were all adults! She told the kids that she met Ed at a USO event. For their 40th anniversary, her son Tim ordered some minted coins bearing the USO emblem on them to commemorate that meeting. That’s when Marge finally admitted that the USO had nothing to do with her having married his dad.

Ed invited Marge to travel to Monmouth, NJ for his receipt of his second lieutenant Army orders. May let Marge travel with a friend’s wife. Ed offered Marge a ring. Marge told Ed, “A girl likes to be asked.” So he formally proposed. Marge accepted. Ed later trained at Harvard University. Marge married Ed at the chapel at Harvard University in front of eight witnesses in military uniforms.

Ed was in the United States Army Signal Corps. He served overseas in Shanghai. But he was there when she needed him. They raised four children. I’m not sure how many grandchildren and great-grandchildren she lived to hold in her arms and love. Those grandchildren and great-grandchildren called her “Gick.”

When I was a kid Babe and her husband Kayo, Mary and her husband George, and Marge and her husband Ed were close friends. They used to get together to play cards and drink and laugh. They called these events “meetings of the Cousins’ Club.” The six had lots of fun.

Cousins Club

The Cousins’ Club plays cards: From left to right: My dad, Mary’s shoe, Marge, Ed, my mom, George, and Babe. Kayo was the photographer.

We lost George in 1974. We lost my Grandpa Kayo in 1986. Mary died suddenly and dramatically in her doctor’s office in 1990. Ed died in 1993. Grandma Babe died in 1996.

Mary, Marge, and my mom

Mary, Marge, and my mom

Marge and Ed had a long life together, but he died long before she did–in 1993. She died May 6, 2013, moments after her family left the room. I hope Ed came for her and she just said, “That’s it,” and followed him.

I could not make it to her funeral. I wish I had been there. My mom cannot stop talking about how Marge’s kids chose a green casket, because Marge was so proud of her Irish roots.  Her entire family sang a song written for her to the tune of Danny Boy (my mom’s favorite song). And they ended the service by singing every last verse of When Irish Eyes Are Smiling:

When Irish Eyes Are Smiling

There's a tear in your eye, 
And I'm wondering why, 
For it never should be there at all. 
With such pow'r in your smile, 
Sure a stone you'd beguile, 
So there's never a teardrop should fall. 
When your sweet lilting laughter's 
Like some fairy song, 
And your eyes twinkle bright as can be; 
You should laugh all the while 
And all other times smile, 
And now, smile a smile for me. 

When Irish eyes are smiling, 
Sure, 'tis like the morn in Spring. 
In the lilt of Irish laughter 
You can hear the angels sing. 
When Irish hearts are happy, 
All the world seems bright and gay. 
And when Irish eyes are smiling, 
Sure, they steal your heart away. 

For your smile is a part 
Of the love in your heart, 
And it makes even sunshine more bright. 
Like the linnet's sweet song, 
Crooning all the day long, 
Comes your laughter and light. 
For the springtime of life 
Is the sweetest of all 
There is ne'er a real care or regret; 
And while springtime is ours 
Throughout all of youth's hours, 
Let us smile each chance we get.
--Chauncey Olcott, Geo. Graff Jr., & Ernest R. Ball

We’re smiling through our tears. The Cousins’ Club is back together again.


It Will Be a Sunny Day

Last Photo of Arlene

Last Photo of Arlene

We soon will gather to say goodbye to Arlene and Dan. She died on April 7 in Richmond, Virginia and he died on December 4 in Cape Coral, Florida. Both were cremated. Their children are bringing them home to the Cremation Garden in the neighborhood in which they lived for most of their marriage.

I visited the place yesterday because my mom, Arlene’s only sibling, does not want to be late and wanted me to scope out the route and time it.

Later that afternoon my mom asked me to pause in my relentless clicking of the TV’s remote to let her check the weather forecast for the coming week. The meteorologist predicted it will be a sunny day. I wondered aloud whether the weather could affect the experience of a memorial service. My mom thought so. “No one wants to get wet,” she said.

I said, “I will cry anyway.”

My mom looked at me and nodded, but there was no question but that she wishes for her sister a sunny day.

I woke this morning thinking about sisters. Sometimes we live all of our lives in each other’s company. Sometimes we live so far apart that there can be miles between us when we are in the same room. We’re a little like socks in a drawer.

I’m always finding that one sock stays where I put it while the other slips down my ankle and disappears into my shoe. How is that I can have a pair of socks and one is clean while the other always seems in need of a pre-soak? There are even socks that have lost their mates. Did one fall along the way? Did one go down the drain of the washing machine? How does a sock go into the dryer and never emerge? I never seem to discard the remaining sock. Instead I either keep the remaining sock in the hope the pair will reunite or I pair it with another sock and the new pair continues to see the world.

I started hunting through old photos for pictures of sisters. Here are a couple that I found.

Hattie Fitzgerald w Margaret and Doris U

In this photo, my great grandmother Hattie sits alone in a chair. Beside her, sharing a single chair, are sisters Margaret and Doris. Hattie made no effort to edge closer to the two women sitting beside her. There is no reason why she would. All three women are my relatives, but Hattie was not related to anyone else in the photograph.

Sisters Doris and Margaret started their lives thirteen years apart, had sixty-six years together, but ended up spending many years apart, too. Doris died twenty-three years after her sister did. They were nothing alike and yet very close. Margaret went to school and became a school teacher. Doris rode her pony to town when she started high school and then rode home and never went back. While Margaret “saw the world,” Doris lived on the family farm nearly all of her life. In fact, Doris died within weeks of auctioning the farm, almost as if she knew that, without it, she was no longer tethered to this world. Moreover, Doris had a twin sister named Dora that died moments after birth. They never got to spend a day together after being so close during gestation that they shared a womb.

Hattie also was born an identical twin. She lived to be ninety-nine years old. She outlived her husband and one of her two sons. She also outlived her sister Susie. Susie died at the age of twenty-six of rectal cancer. Hattie never had a day’s serious illness in her entire life. As I looked at the photograph, I tried to imagine what it would have been like if Susie had been alive, too. Would Hattie and Susie have shared a single chair, as Doris and Margaret did, or would Hattie and Susie have insisted on having their own chairs? There is room for two in that chair. Is it possible that Susie’s spirit followed Hattie throughout Hattie’s life? I guess not. It does not sound like much of an existence, even for a spirit.

I have a photograph of Hattie and Susie in my home. My dad never would let my mom hang it in their home during his lifetime. He thought the photo was awful. The heads are touching, which might lead one to wonder whether the sisters were conjoined. They were not. I kind of like the picture. Susie’s side shows some more damage than Hattie’s side does and her expression seems distant and less happy, as if she might have known her time here was short.

Hattie and Susie Sullivan

Hattie and Susie Sullivan

I have other photographs of Susie that show her out with a beau or standing at the garden gate. In those photos she is serious but not at all remote or reflective.

My mom and her sister were not close. They lived under the same roof for seventeen years, and were only about three years apart in age, but they never told tales of shared misadventures or secrets whispered between beds set a couple of feet apart in a shared bedroom. My aunt told me several times before she died how my mom brought me (then a baby) to Arlene’s graduation from St. Anne’s Hospital Nursing School. They stood up for each other when they married. We spent holidays together and many family celebrations. The sisters did not often pick up the phone and chat, but there were no fights. When Arlene and Dan retired in Las Vegas, the sisters sent each other cards and notes every birthday, holiday, and anniversary.

Arlene and Dan came to Chicago for a visit a few years ago and my mom and I went to dinner with them and Dan’s sister Ann. We had a nice evening and caught up on family events. When word came that Arlene was accepting hospice care, my mom flew out to D.C. to visit with my sister. Kathy and Kathy’s husband Jeff drove my mom down to Richmond to see Arlene. It was during one of their visits that Jeff photographed the sisters together for the last time. My sister, Arlene’s son, and Arlene’s daughter-in-law stand behind Arlene’s wheelchair.

In the photograph, my mom is the one who appears distant, but she was the one who made the visit happen. She returned to Richmond again during her visit with my sister. When it was time for my mom to go, Arlene was asleep in her bed and my mom did not wake her because she wanted to leave open the possibility that they would see each other again and spare both of them the exchange of “goodbyes.” Arlene died several days later.

The limitation inherent in every photograph is that it captures one moment in time and never really captures history beyond that instant. Like the socks in a drawer, sometimes sisters are rolled together so tightly that you cannot tell them apart. At other times they are so far apart that it feels like they will never be reunited. No matter how far apart these sisters may have walked in the seventy-four years they lived as family, what I know for sure is that my mom is hoping that, for her sister, tomorrow will be a sunny day.

Open Wide

All Are Welcome

All Are Welcome

Years ago one of my students told me that she had described me to her mother as the smiling-faced alien who emerged after her spaceship had landed and said to the denizens of this planet, “All are welcome. All are welcome.”

I remember blinking a few times as I tried to figure out whether this was a compliment or a criticism. It certainly was a mixed metaphor. I like the notion that I welcome folks and put them at ease, but the alien spaceship has several possible interpretations. There is, of course, the image of a trusting Richard Dreyfuss taking the hand of a stranger and walking into the spaceship at the end of Close Encounters of the Third Kind. There the aliens are benign creatures who have, if memory serves, collected and then returned countless folks who traversed a sort of Bermuda Triangle one century without aging. I like the image of the alien in Cocoon. Brian Dennehy was the right blend of affable and inscrutable as he welcomed our aging citizens on a voyage that would rejuvenate and repurpose them.

Then there is the image of the merciless alien attack in response to our musical overtures in Independence Day. That feel good film about whoopin’ “E.T.’s ass” always makes me think of my bird house in which the open wide front door is represented as the maw of a cat (pictured above).

If you have ever seen a cat play with its food then you know that canned cat food must be the equivalent of what rolls on the grill at the convenience store at about 2 a.m. The cat has so much more fun with living prey. You watch the “menu” disappear inside the cat’s mouth and then emerge dazed and damp. The cat will bat it around and pounce upon it a time or two. This part always makes me think about how we blindfold and spin around children at birthday parties right before we set them upon an unsuspecting picture of a donkey or a piñata. What looks like fun can be disorienting for someone enlisted into play by “friends” who enjoy another’s vulnerability.

Why is it impolite to play with one’s food? Is that rudeness perceived by the cook or the meal? I digress. I do not think my former student would compare me with such a violent image.

My student’s description of me certainly was a mixed metaphor. The line “All are welcome. All are welcome.” actually comes from a movie about spirits from another plain rather than aliens from a spaceship. In the movie Poltergeist the medium Tangina Barrons separates the spirits who have died but not “passed over” from the Beast by urging them to walk into the Light. She says:

Cross over children. All are welcome. All welcome. Go into the Light. There is peace and serenity in the Light.

We got word this week that our family is about to lose another member. My Grandma Babe’s dear cousin Marge (called Gick by her grandchildren and great-grandchildren) has this week moved from her home to hospital and now to hospice. It is not cancer that will take her. Gick has lived well into her nineties and will die naturally. And she is ready. This is what her son wrote to us:

Mom wants the end to come right now, so we tried to explain that God has a different plan, so we just have to “let nature take its course” as the Hospice social worker says.    Mom asked the lady if she was going to live.   The lady said “Yes”.   Mom said “Damn it!”   …..   I think she is ready.

After spending April following stories of terrorism, police pelted with pipe bombs, shoot-outs, ricin-laced envelopes sent through innocent hands of innocent postal workers to our political leaders, explosions at fertilizer plants, violent weather, and deaths by cancer (like the death of my Aunt Arlene and the impending death of Handsome Husband in the blog, I was prepared to take this news about Gick hard, but I am greatly comforted by the thought of a long life ending peacefully in a room surrounded by people who love her through her death into a new life in the Light.

When Gick’s sister Mary died, Mary was in the doctor’s office for a check-up. She simply looked up in the corner of the room and raised her hand. She said, “God, take me,” and was gone. I like that image.

In 1996 my friend Ivanka gave me a book by Henri J.M. Nouwen, Our Greatest Gift: A Meditation on Dying and Caring (HarperSanFrancisco 1985). At the time I was caring for Grandma Babe, Mary and Gick’s cousin. Ivanka wrote inside the book that she selected it with the assistance of a nun who said that Cardinal Bernadin was using the book to prepare for his own death. I read passages from that book whenever I am troubled by the concept of death. In the chapter on caring for the dying the author speaks with Rodleigh, one of the Flying Rodleighs, a circus troupe’s trapeze artist act from Freiburg, Germany. Rodleigh told the author of his experience as a flyer and his great trust in Joe, his catcher. The author of the book sees the moment of the catch as a metaphor for crossing over. Today I read this for comfort:

Dying is trusting in the catcher. To care for the dying is to say, “Don’t be afraid. Remember that you are the beloved child of God. He will be there when you make your long jump. Don’t try to grab him; he will grab you. Just stretch out your arms and trust, trust, trust.”

I like that image, too.

I don’t have any albums by the rock group Creed, but I once saw Chicago resident Marty Casey perform the song With Arms Wide Open on Rockstar INXS The lyrics suggest it might be about a couple starting a family, but it could just as easily be about the reuniting of family in the Light.

“With Arms Wide Open”

Well I just heard the news today
It seems my life is going to change
I close my eyes, begin to pray
Then tears of joy stream down my face

With arms wide open
Under the sunlight
Welcome to this place
I’ll show you everything
With arms wide open
With arms wide open

Well I don’t know if I’m ready
To be the man I have to be
I’ll take a breath, I’ll take her by my side
We stand in awe, we’ve created life

With arms wide open
Under the sunlight
Welcome to this place
I’ll show you everything
With arms wide open
Now everything has changed
I’ll show you love
I’ll show you everything

With arms wide open
With arms wide open
I’ll show you everything …oh yeah
With arms wide open..wide open

[Guitar Break]

If I had just one wish
Only one demand
I hope he’s not like me
I hope he understands
That he can take this life
And hold it by the hand
And he can greet the world
With arms wide open…

With arms wide open
Under the sunlight
Welcome to this place
I’ll show you everything
With arms wide open
Now everything has changed
I’ll show you love
I’ll show you everything
With arms wide open
With arms wide open

I’ll show you everything..oh yeah
With arms wide open….wide open

Anytime we undertake a strange journey with arms wide open and meet a welcome that speaks of homecoming there will be happy tears in addition to the sad ones.  I pray that, when the time comes, I can extend toward the catcher my hand open wide and trust, trust, trust.

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