Most likely you followed the link from my first, fifth or fourteenth page of Random Thoughts stories. Here are some more, and I hope these are just as amusing and thought provoking. And, as always, your comments are appreciated.
My daughter loves the band Better than Ezra. Actually, she is obsessed and passionate about them beyond normal. Lately, her life and activities have revolved around them. She is on her way back to my house after having seen them in Los Angeles and San Francisco the last two nights. This doesn’t count the two times we saw them on the drive out here from Minneapolis and the two times after that. Or the two dozen or so times she’d seen them this year before that.
I can’t remember when this obsession began, but I know she was introduced to the band by Greg, who liked them briefly but then went on to more obscure and outrageous bands. He introduced her to them, and his band even covered one of their early songs. I think part of her way of dealing with Greg’s death has to do with this band.
My first time seeing them was in Houston and I really didn’t believe Evelyn when she said she needed to be standing outside the doors an hour before they opened. Actually, we got to the venue a good two hours earlier than that, and were lucky enough to see the lead singer and the guitarist walking on the streets. She wouldn’t let me say hi to them, although I did wave. We were first in line, passed the time talking to the people behind us, and once the doors opened, she rushed in and staked a place up at the stage right in front of where her favorite band member, Tom, who plays bass (like her brother and father) would later be standing. I went to the back of the hall and sat down. She met up with one of her friends from the BTE chat group and forgot I was even there.
Cowboy Mouth opened the show. They rocked and rolled and screamed and they got the crowd going. At one of their songs, their diehard fans throw tootsie rolls and at another, they throw red spoons. Both bands are from New Orleans and BTE’s drummer came out and played with Cowboy Mouth during their set. Their drummer came out and sang with BTE and played drums for their last song.
When it was time for BTE to play, I maneuvered my way up to the front where Evelyn was. BTE is more introspective and lyrical, but I was familiar with most of the songs they sang that night. Tom was right in front of us and Evelyn was screaming and in heaven. After the show, we waited outside by their bus and I met the three members. I was tired and worn out but I remembered to put Kleenex in my ears so they weren’t ringing, and gladly fell asleep back at the hotel.
Next stop was Austin, just about two hours away. We were supposed to meet up with that same girl, so we again got to the venue extra early. The place, Stubbs, is pretty well known for music and the bands would be playing outdoors. I took a concert poster off the wall which I later had signed by the guitarist who is the most reclusive of the band. We happened by when BTE was doing their sound check, so I went down to listen but again, Evelyn was contrary and wouldn’t join me. No word from her friend, so we went in to eat before the show, and who was also eating there, but BTE! After dinner, we got in line second, and struck up a conversation with the people in front of us. Three girls tried to cut in front of us, but I pointed out to them that if they had arrived at 6:15 like they’d said, and we’d been there since 6, well, obviously we were there first. Evelyn was of course embarrassed, but I didn’t care. She went up to the front, and I found a big rock to sit on. During the break, I was lost in thought when I realized someone was holding my hand. I looked to see this young (mid 20’s) man and thought, ok, he’s drunk, but I think he felt sorry for me being there alone. He was from New Orleans and now lived in Austin and we had a nice chat.
When the concert was over, Evelyn found me and I’d hoped to introduce her to this guy, but he was no where to be seen, so naturally, she didn’t believe me. Her friend from Houston had shown up and off we went to go wait for the band to come out by their bus. I got annoyed that Evelyn forgot I was there and walked away, to meet up with the guy that had come with her friend. He and I commiserated about how silly we thought the girls were. Finally, Evelyn came and we went back to the room. She was so excited because Tom had asked her where her mother was.
No more concerts till the following week. They played in Phoenix on October 2nd, which would have been Greg’s 21st birthday. I had warned Evelyn I would probably cry during the entire time. One of her friends from Minneapolis had flown in the day before to go to that concert and the one in Las Vegas so once more, I was ignored. Again, we were second in line, and passed the time talking to the people in front of us, who were big Cowboy Mouth fans. Since we were there so early, we got free CM t-shirts. Finally, we got inside and picked a place near the stage. This was theater in the round, so the band was set back a ways. By now, I was familiar with some CM songs and knew when to throw my red spoon. Except for the first concert, no tootsie rolls were thrown at any of the following shows.
BTE took the stage and the lead singer decided to let some people sit on the stage in front of them. He said it made it feel more like they were in a rec room. I cried through the two songs I usually do and Evelyn comforted me. I comforted her when she started crying during a song that as far as I can tell, isn’t sad. Again, we waited, for the longest time, till they finally came out. I told the lead singer at the Vegas show the next night, he had to wear the white belt. He has this ridiculous white studded belt that he occasionally wears, calls it his rock star belt and is pictured wearing on the website. I knew he had it with him, because he wore it in Austin. This time, I had my picture taken with the band members. When the drummer finally came out, it was a good hour past the time the concert ended. He had gone to high school in Tempe and had a lot of his friends at the show. One who drove by and gave us one of his drum heads, which Evelyn grabbed. We still had a 90 minute drive back up here and it was very late and I was dead tired when we got here.
Even though Las Vegas is only a 4-5 hour drive, Evelyn insisted we get up early and be on the road by 9. Once we got to the hotel, I left them to go shopping, my favorite Vegas activity. I went back to the room, expecting to find my ticket there and take a nap, but no ticket. Fifteen minutes later, Evelyn, her friend and another friend burst in the room. I knew the other girl would be joining us there, and she is a nice girl, also obsessed with the band. They began dressing for the show. Me, I went in my regular clothes. The plan had been to meet at 5 with other fans at the House of Blues for dinner and then wait in line. They didn’t get back to the room till almost 5, so that arrangement was scrapped. A short taxi ride over to the Mandalay and again we were second in line. I was exhausted from the concert the night before and no sleep, so I was determined to find a place to sit and watch the show. I sat on some stairs right next to the stage, pretty much unbothered.
I again focused my attention on Cowboy Mouth’s bassist, seeing Greg in him. I sang along this time and accidentally hit their guitarist with my red spoon. The stage was about 5.5 feet high, but still, the girls stood up at the front. I think I had a better view from the side than they did. And yes, the lead singer did wear the belt!! I was glad this was my last concert. When it was over, I went back to the hotel to sleep, but the girls waited around and they were lucky enough to get to go to the VIP room with the band, and later, to spend an hour talking to the drummer.
Evelyn’s friend didn’t have a hard time talking her into going to LA and SF for the next shows. I don’t think Evelyn would have gone on her own, but what was her friend going to do here at my house? They will get back here late tonight and she leaves tomorrow, giving Evelyn and I a few days alone. She’ll be leaving here to give her enough time to get to Denver where she will again see them, and the following night in Omaha. She won’t see them again this month, though she has plans for shows in November and December.
I am encouraging her to see them as much as possible this calendar year, because next one, she has to get a real job and start thinking about getting an advanced degree. The time to follow the band will have come to end, whether she likes it or not.
©7 October, 2002I have two good friends who are currently dealing with the problems of their aging mothers. I can sympathize with them because I have dealt with this already. I try to listen and offer support as best I can.
One is a lady in her seventies whose mother is in her nineties. The mother lives back in Michigan and my friend's brother and the mother's brother are actively in charge of the day to day details. This makes it hard for my friend, who hears that the home she is in doesn't take good enough care of her mother. Her mom is mentally sharp, but at 90, her physical condition is deteriorating, She feels there isn't anything to do from this far away. There are a lot of friends and family that do go visit her to keep her connected with the world. I encouraged my friend to go back during the summer, but for personal reasons, she didn't.
My other friend has to deal with her mom on her own, and on a constant basis. The mom lives across town and has Alzheimer’s and is confused and relies on my friend for everything. Her physical condition is relatively good for someone in their mid eighties, which makes things harder, I think. It’s gotten so bad my friend had to have the gas shut off so the mom wouldn’t accidentally leave it on and either asphyxiate herself or burn the house down. She phones constantly because she doesn’t remember calling or speaking to my friend. My friend is actively trying to get her qualified for state supported nursing home care, but here in Arizona, the process takes time.
With my mom, it was different. She moved from Los Angeles to Minneapolis so that I could take care of her. I should have realized things were wrong from the beginning, but I had three children to take care of and just didn’t give my mother’s condition the attention it needed. I helped her find an apartment not far away and visited her on a weekly basis. I took her to the doctor. Her mental condition was effected by lots of small strokes, which each time, made her more confused. She came to my house for Thanksgiving dinner and said something about having watched the Brady Bunch on tv that day. My kids and I started naming all the different episodes of the show we could remember, which we found humorous, but then my mother said, it wasn’t the Brady Bunch that she’d seen and it was no longer funny. Or when I took her to the grocery store in the winter and even though she had a list, she forgot bread. I tried not to get annoyed, but I did not succeed.
Then my mother had a car accident. It was either the accident that caused a major stroke or the stroke that caused the accident. Either way, she was too ill to live alone and that day, I was told to have her sign power of attorney to me before she couldn’t write. It was good advice. Then began the process of getting her approved by the state of Minnesota for nursing home care. I had to get her pension, social security and proof of my father’s World War II service to the state and then they would pay the rest. A social worker gave me a list of care homes to look at and I picked one not 5 miles from the house. She went directly there from the hospital, leaving the task of cleaning out her apartment to me and my family.
My mother was never neat. There were always piles of papers and things all over the place. This time it was much worse. Among the surprises we found, was a chicken sitting uncooked in the microwave oven. I just threw the whole thing out. As I did most of her things. She spent a year in that nursing home, actually probably happier than she had been for a while. My mother was a people person and she liked being surrounded by people. It didn’t matter that she didn’t know them, or that they were ill, too. She was a favorite of the staff for being outgoing and easy to take care of. Only Greg never minded going to see her with me.
Then she had a major stroke. I was given the option of putting a feeding tube in her, and even though I knew she wouldn’t want that, I did think it over for a day. I think the staff said it was too late to ease my guilt in not choosing to put it in. I watched my mother die of starvation for almost three weeks. I would go for the first few days, when she might had ingested something, with her favorite food, a chocolate milk shake. Because she was a strong woman, she fought against death instinctively. I would tell her that my father and her mother were waiting for her and even that I had resolved things with my brother to try to ease her mind. At 4:30 a.m. on March 17, 1992, I awoke and knew she had finally gone. She was just 66 years old. I wasn’t surprised when the home called at 7 to tell me the news. She was cremated and had no service because she knew no one in Minnesota.
I wish there was something I could say to my two friends now going through this, but there really aren’t any magic words that would help. Each one is going through different things so I try to be as supportive as I can. I look at my daughter and son and wonder what they will have to go through for me. I’m 51 and I feel as though I am falling apart little by little. I won’t go into all the details, but it’s true that aging isn’t for the weak. I have told them I don’t want to go into a nursing home, and I hope they listen. Hopefully, they will have people to support them as they live through this trying ordeal one day. Even better, that I just go peacefully in my sleep.
©8 October, 2002When I first walked into the Monday Club, I knew what to expect. The women would all be much older than me, at least 65 and older. I'd been a member of several similar clubs back in Minnesota, and I was used to working with older women, and often times very impressed by them. Many had endless energy and enthusiasm. They had done exciting and interesting things in their time. I knew that I could learn much from them, as I had done in the past. And I’m always flattered when they think I’m so young. Back in Minnesota, I was, but now, I don't feel that way.
One of the first women I met was Carolyne. If I had to guess her age, I’d say seventy. (She’s actually seventy-one) She's wrinkled, and I think she dyes her grey hair a light brown. She speaks softly so you always have to lean in to listen closely to her. She looks fragile, and maybe she really is, but I don't think so. I think she is solid steel inside. I liked her immediately.
I got to know her slightly at Board meetings, where she is the Parliamentarian and I'm the recording secretary. She sits to the left of the President; I sit to the right. We also sit at the head table at regular club meetings. I know she has three sons, but I don't know where she was born or grew up, or if she went to college. I would like to know, but I just haven't had the time to ask her yet. Today I will get to meet her family, as she is having a get together of family and friends to remember her husband, Stuart, who passed away the other day. I knew he was in a nursing home, that he was very sick, so this is a blessing for her. She had his body cremated, and because he was in the Navy, will have his ashes buried at sea.
One of the first times I spent time with Carolyne alone was when I met her, walking through the Veterans' Administration hospital's grounds. I had parked, but Carolyne didn't know where to park, so I got into her car, and we ended up parking at the hospital and walking in. She drives a minivan, something I refer to as a babymobile, since I drove one for so many years. I liked it because I could separate my three children. We had both volunteered to help sell donuts and coffee to people there for the Veteran's Day parade. While we were waiting for the crowd to arrive and buy our goodies, she and I walked over to a building where the women's auxiliary was selling baked goods. We joked about what we wanted, but weren't going to buy. She ended up buying two pies to serve her family at Thanksgiving and I walked them back to her van for her. On the back, she has a few bumper stickers about ballooning. When I returned, I asked her about it. She told me one of her sons was interested in it, and that she always goes to New Mexico on her own to watch her son in the balloon races. During the few hours we were there, we got to know a little more about each other.
The next time we were thrown together was at the annual Christmas brunch at the Pine Cone Inn. I'd never been there, but it had been highly recommended to me by a special friend, so I was looking forward to going there. For some reason, they'd not set up long tables for us to sit at, and we sat in booths. Carolyne sat next to me. We gossiped about some of the other women, the food, the decorations. After our meal, was the entertainment. Carolyne and I just looked at each other. We didn't need to say anything, because much as we liked the woman providing the entertainment, it struck us both as highly ridiculous. She is another Monday Club member, but she lived many years in Hawaii, and her performance was the hula. She did one sort of Christmas song, and I am sure everyone else in the restaurant wondered what on earth this group of women was drinking. We applauded her performance at its conclusion, and we both wanted to get the heck out of there. But that was not to be. We were to sing Christmas carols. Another member led us in singing, and Carolyne and I sang half-heartedly. Until we got to one song, that I happened to know *naughty* lyrics to substitute for the regular ones. I whispered them to Carolyne, and she laughed, and she sang them quietly with me, when we got to that part of the song. I was a little embarrassed to tell her those lyrics. They're not that dirty, but you never know what the other person will think. Somehow, I knew Carolyne would be amused, and I was correct.
One other incident that we shared, was when our district president came to visit our Club. All I knew about this woman was her name, but Carolyne warned me ahead of time that she was, to be polite, a miserable speaker. I can relate to that, since I don't like public speaking. We had a potluck lunch for this woman, and as our guest of honor, she was the first one through the food line. Carolyne and I held back, even though we were at the head table. I wandered to the kitchen, to judge if there would be enough food for everyone. Most people, especially those who live alone, forget what a serving for 6-8 really is. There wasn't anything left at the end, and the pickings were pretty slim when I got my food. Many serving dishes were empty. I had plenty to eat, however. But I looked over at Carolyne, and we both looked at our guest of honor's plate. It was filled to maximum capacity. I noticed things on her plate that I never saw on the buffet table. And she ate every last bit. I knew Carolyne was thinking the same thing as me. That no well brought up woman would fill her plate like that. And yes, Carolyne was right. This woman was no public speaker. At least she was brief.
There have been other times we shared knowing looks. We have helped set up or clean up on Club days. We sit next to each other when the Board goes out to lunch. She's nothing like my mother was, but I do look up to her in that way. I have great respect and affection for her, and I would like to believe she feels the same way about me. I'm flattered that she thinks enough of me to invite me to share this day with her and her family. We will both be on the Board for another two year term, and I know I will enjoy the experience more, because of Carolyne.
©2 April, 2000P.S. Carolyne moved to San Diego almost two years ago and I have not seen or heard from her since, though
I know she is doing okay. I miss her a lot.
Get the boxes out, it looks like I’m moving again. I have sold my house in promise and now I have to figure out where to go. I have spent hours on realtor.com looking for places, mostly back east. I have some fifty listings saved from Florida to Vermont. I have a feeling I will end up in the middle, since right now eastern Tennessee is the favorite. Though, so far I can’t find any high speed internet providers which may be it’s downfall.
My little Arizona experiment is over. I really thought this is where I would spend the rest of my life. I had researched where I should go and Prescott had everything I wanted. In the three plus years I’ve been here, the place has grown like crazy. There are more traffic lights going into town then there are in a major city. I tried hard to make this home; I joined organizations, participated in my neighborhood activities. So when I leave, I won’t be able to say I didn’t make the effort. I have a few friends I will miss, but that’s about it. I think when my closest friend left here two months ago, it decided things for me.
I can go just about anywhere I want, which makes the decision harder. I sort of found myself up in Maine and sometimes I wish I had never left there. When I look for places there, I can’t afford anything. I was planning on leaving Raleigh when I moved here, so that’s not a likely possibility. I have looked again at Asheville and the surrounding area where I had thought about at the same time I looked here, but once again, nothing seems to fit me. I wonder if there is such a place that someone like me would feel at home. Sometimes I think about buying property in the middle of nowhere and becoming a total recluse. Sometimes I wish I could afford to live in a major metropolitan area like New York City and get lost in all the hustle and bustle. I’ve looked in Chicago where I grew up and can’t see going back there, either.
Moving is something I’ve done so often that it not a big deal to me. I plan on leaving a lot of things behind here, furniture and odds and ends, but especially hurts and heartaches. A new place and a new start might be just what I need. But where and when and how still remains to be answered.
©16 November, 2002I hate the holidays. Not that I always did, but I sure do now. All the fuss and tension and for what? To impress your family and friends with how wonderful and capable and creative you are. Let’s disregard the cost and stress and disruption of normal life.
The first Thanksgiving after I got separated, I went back to Minneapolis from Maine, and I left on Thanksgiving Day. It was horrible. I had only been gone a few months and the kids were resentful and it didn’t help that my ex was gone. I flew out about the same time he returned. The second one I went back and it was a little better. The third one was the first without Greg and once again, I went back there. The fourth one since I left Minneapolis, we all went to Las Vegas. Last year, I stayed here and was invited to a friend’s home. This year, I am staying here again and have plans to go to a restaurant with my neighbor. I can’t believe how many Thanksgivings have come and gone since I left.
My neighborhood association has a community dinner and that is today. Normally, I wouldn’t go to such a thing alone, but I am part of a singles group that gets together a few times a month and goes to this sort of event as a group. This singles group is nothing like you are picturing. Yes, we are all single but most of us are not looking for a partner nor a relationship. It’s very relaxed and casual and the women outnumber the men by three to one. As a group, we will also go to the Holiday dinner next month and the New Year’s Eve party. Joining this group was one of the efforts I made to see if Prescott was meant to be my home. I enjoy the women in the group and sometimes we do things by ourselves.
The dinner tomorrow should be pleasant. Everyone pays $2.50 which covers the cost of the turkey. The rest is pot luck. I was asked to bring a vegetable. Even when I cooked, I never fussed over vegetables, so this was a challenge. I could have made mashed potatoes, or sweet potatoes. I could have prepared the famous green bean casserole that is advertised all the time on television these days. Instead, I am going to be creative and take bits and pieces from several recipes for a spinach and artichoke dish. I went to the store yesterday and bought the ingredients I need and in a bit, will go into the kitchen and play Martha Stewart or Betty Crocker.
I hope the dish comes out but if it doesn’t, well, it was an experiment. There will probably be 100 or more people there and if one out of ten tries it, then I’ll be happy, and it will be gone. I think I am a good enough cook to know how to adapt a recipe so I am confident it will be delicious. I will enjoy the company and the food, but I’m afraid I have little to be thankful for this year. It’s just the beginning of another long and lonely holiday season that I will endure and be thankful when it’s over.
PS. I just finished my creation and it looks and tastes great. There was plenty of variety and I think everyone had plenty to eat. I enjoyed the company of my group and I think we all had a good time.
©17 November, 2002That is today’s date. It happens to be my parent’s wedding anniversary, the birthday of Christine and this year, Thanksgiving day. Of those three, only one is still being celebrated.
I wish I knew more details about my parent’s courtship and their marriage. I’m not sure her wedding album still exists. It might be something she left behind in California when she moved out to Minnesota for me to take care of her. I wouldn’t be able to name probably 90% of the people in the pictures. She left just about everything in her apartment back then, because she was already very ill but no one knew it.
I don’t know how they met, though my mother told me she was in love with some man from Philadelphia at one point, but she didn’t like his mother. I know she didn’t meet my father until after the war. I suppose they both lived in the same south side Chicago neighborhood or met through mutual friends. I know my mother didn’t make any improvements in the mother in law department with my grandmother.
If they were both still alive, it would have been 54 years. However, they were only married eight years because my father died at 34. It must have been a big wedding with all the relatives on my mother’s side. My maternal grandmother was the youngest of 13 and her husband the youngest of 22. There were aunts and uncles and cousins all over the place. My fraternal grandparents didn’t have as many siblings, but there were enough. I seem to remember they went to New York City for the honeymoon.
I think my parents truly loved each other and had a happy marriage. I don’t recall them ever fighting but then again, I don’t recall much. My mother never remarried though I am sure she would have liked to. This date used to be the start of my winter sadness, with December 22 (my father’s birthday) in the middle and ending after February 19 (the day he died). Now the sadness lasts all year, with the anniversary of my mother’s death (March 17), her birthday (june 24), the day Greg died (July 7) and Greg’s birthday (October 2).
Christine was a gift given to me and my family. My daughter and I became Care Partners, which meant we were trained to help families at the University of Minnesota who were there for bone marrow transplants. We met Chris and her mother Barb in November of 1995. She was there to have the procedure as a possible preventive measure against her getting MLD. I don’t remember what the initials stand for, I only remember the coordinator of the program saying cancer made MLD seem like a picnic. She had just turned 20 and was a beautiful, healthy girl with her whole life ahead of her. Except that both her parents carried a recessive gene for MLD. Her two older brothers had it and so did she. Her life expectancy was about 10 years and they wouldn’t be pretty. While I meant to keep in touch with her parents, I haven’t because I can’t bear to hear their two boys are also now dead, nor to share my grief.
Evelyn and I got very close to Chris and I loved her like another daughter. She and I had many talks about life. She was incredibly brave and at least she didn’t have to go through what her brothers did. Deteriorating mentally day by day. The last time I spoke to her mother, she had told me the oldest, who was 27, had been lost for 4 days in a small town near their home. He was finally found in a swamp. He may have looked 27, but mentally, he was probably about 2.
If Chris were still alive, she’d be 27, and probably as ill as her brothers. Just waiting for death. Instead, she died on February 1, 1996.
And because of the way the calendar falls, it’s also Thanksgiving Day. A day for football and stuffing oneself on turkey and being thankful I am not spending the day with my children for the second year in a row. My neighbor across the street invited me to go out to dinner with her, so that is what I am doing. I’d have been just as content to stay here and do nothing which may be what I should have done. I am trying to be thankful for what I have, because I do really have a lot. More than most, but somehow, I am overwhelmed by thoughts of what I don’t have. I have to keep these emotions hidden from others, and I am thankful I will be able to do that.
©28 November, 2002I have stopped listening to Blink 182 and Better than Ezra for the moment, at least at home, and have gotten out a CD of Beethoven's Piano Sonatas. I need to hear the soothing music that I know so well right now, instead of rock and roll. This takes me back to my high school, teenaged days when I first discovered classical music. For this, I owe many thanks to my old boyfriend, Frank, but really to his parents, who provided him years of piano lessons in the hopes he would become a concert pianist. I have no idea what he is doing now since I have not seen or heard from him since we were both at Berkeley many years ago.
I have no idea how many times I heard Frank practice the Tempest or the Pastoral sonatas, but I never tired of listening to him play, even when he played small sections over and over again, trying to master them to please his piano teacher. Even now, I can picture him over their grand piano and his longish hair flying to the music. What a wonderful gift he gave me, the love of classical music.
Growing up in Los Angeles, I was fortunate enough to have the Huntington Library in San Marino to patronize. I used to drive from the Valley to San Marino, a good half hour if the traffic wasn't too bad, and check out records. Somewhere, in my box I call my life, I might still have my library card for them. It used to be free, but I seriously doubt that is still the case. There were beautiful gardens on the property, but probably what most people know about the Huntington is the art gallery that displays both Pinky and Blue Boy. I have seen them both on several occasions, and they are painting that I love greatly.
My favorite was the Artur Schnabel recordings of the sonatas Frank was learning, and I do have them on records. Not that it does me any good, not having them here nor any longer owning a record player. The CD I am listening to is not his playing, but Alfred Brendel, who I know nothing about but I am not sophisticated enough to know the difference. I just know I love the melodies and the music. Even though I have not heard them in years, I still know the music, can hum along with it. One time, when I was in Raleigh, driving from a fly fishing shop to my apartment, I put the classical music station on the radio and heard the Tempest, and immediately I know what it was. As I turned the volume louder on the radio. I'm sure my smile grew proportionately. There are only a few pieces that I know and love as well and would recognize on just hearing a few notes.
I should become familiar with all the sonatas, and more classical music in general. I used to listen to Mozart, Brahms and Mahler and owned many records of their music. Perhaps I need to find Mahler's first symphony or Mozart's 40th and play them over and over again like I do popular music. There is something peaceful and relaxing about listening to music you love and brings back memories hidden away in the recesses of one's brain.
©4 February, 2004Today I updated parts of the web site I created in my son Greg's memory. I added some pictures (finally!!) and little bits of copy here and there. It's a labor of love that whenever I work on it, I can't help but cry. I got an email from a lady who had gone to his site this morning and took the time to write me about how it touched her. I used to get those more often, and I always add them to the comments page. It means so much to me that a total stranger would take the time to send me a note and that Greg has affected another person's life.
When I returned to Arizona from Minnesota after Greg's death, I was at a total loss of what to do, how to cope. If I hadn't bought the house I'm living in, I'm sure I'd be somewhere else. I'd only been here for four months when he died. The urge to run was never stronger than at that time. Greg never was here in person. He's here in spirit though, through little mementos I have of his and my memories of him. I have pictures of him and Evelyn and Lowell, too, surrounding my computer and in other rooms of the house. I keep a lock of his hair in my purse so he is always with me. Sometimes, I reach into my purse and touch his hair, if I need to feel his presence more strongly and it is comforting. I don't care if people think it's weird.
So creating a web site in his memory seemed the logical thing to do once I got back up here. After all, it was Greg who taught me most of what I know about computers. Plus, it gave me something constructive to do. I had to find backgrounds and other graphics, look up sites to be linked, and create the different pages. I'm so glad I did it, because I would have forgotten much of what the memorial service was like. There wouldn't be a way to tell the world what he meant to me. I wouldn't have known what song Greg used to wake up to every morning if not for the speech his best friend Tony Rosen wrote for the memorial service and sent to me. I found a copy of To Live and Die in LBI on line once, and on the evening of the night before the fourth anniversary of his death, I listened to that song over and over again at full volume and begged Greg to wake up. I tried to get his father, brother, sister and other friends to send me some special memory of Greg without any success.
As with all web sites, this too is a work in progress. I need to rework the linkage from the different pages on his site. I couldn't find the one where other people had sent me their thoughts of him at first, because it's hidden in the memorial pages. Sometimes it's difficult to go to his site, to read what I've written, just as it is to know what a void he has made in my life. I am often told to get over it, to stop grieving for my son by well meaning people who just don't understand what a loss it has been. Had I lost an arm, would they tell me to get over that? Probably, but that would at least be something they could see, that there was a physical loss. A part of me is gone and no one can see it, but I try to keep it alive with Greg's web site.
©26 February 2004There are more stories I have written to read. Please remember these are my original stories and thoughts, and to copy or otherwise use them without my permission is a copyright violation. I would love to hear your random thoughts on any of these stories.