Most likely you followed the link from my first page or the seventh or twentieth page of Random Thoughts stories. Here are some more, all about my middle son Greg, and I hope these are just as amusing and thought provoking. And, as always, your comments are appreciated.
I'm one of those totally modern people who only have a cell phone, but I don't carry it with me every second of the day. I don't get that many phone calls and there aren't that many people I care to speak to, quite frankly. I'm notorious for screening my calls and not answering ones if I don't recognize the phone number. For so long, the phone only brought me bad news that I sometimes wish I didn't have one at all.
This morning, I left it in the bedroom while I checked my email, fed the cat and took my meds. When I went back there to watch television and try to take a nap because I get up way too early, I noticed I'd missed a call. It was only a few minutes after 8 a.m., so I was wondering who would call me so early on a Sunday morning. It could have been lots of people from my daughter to various friends who know I am an early bird. I skipped listening to the message and just saw who the missed call was from. It was my friend from Edina, Roberta. It may sound funny, but I always felt a connection to her because she and my father have the same birthday. I've known her almost twenty years, when we met at an Edina Newcomer's playgroup back in the fall of 1988. I was there with Lowell who was three, she had her youngest, Scott, who was maybe 18 months. Our other kids were in school. It was hard enough keeping up with my kids ages to remember those of my friends, so I'm just guessing on ages. We became friends despite not sharing many of the same interests, and even though I moved away, we still stayed in touch. We'd caught up two weekends ago, when she called for my birthday. I knew what her kids were doing, that she was trying to sell her house and move to Madison, Wisconsin. She sounded happy and excited about her life.
I'm glad I didn't listen to the message, because I probably wouldn't have called her back. She just asked me to call her, not letting on anything was the matter. I probably would have put it off for a while, maybe not even calling her back today. Instead, I called her right back and heard the tears in her voice. Roberta doesn't seem like the type who cries over every little thing, like I do, so I knew something was very wrong. My first thought was her 80 something year old mother had died. I knew she would be upset about that, but I could tell this was worse than that. As she said the words, tears came to my eyes because I knew how excruciatingly difficult it was to say those words. Her oldest son Paul was killed in a freak car accident the night before. I had a flashback to July 7, 1999, and the hospital waiting room where I called her to tell her Greg had died during surgery. Paul was riding in a taxi with his girlfriend somewhere in Boston and there was a high speed police chase and they just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The cab was stopped to let them out, but only Paul had gotten out of the cab when it was hit by an SUV going around 100 miles per hours. I finally found something about it online, so I know a little more than what she told me. Paul was two years younger than Greg would be 23. He died on the scene. His girlfriend is in critical condition. The taxi driver, the man who hit them and his passenger are all in the hospital. Her husband Jon is flying out to Boston today, to handle the horrifying details. He always seemed like the kind of man who could handle any kind of situation and I have no reason to doubt he won't somehow be able to cope with this. His brother and some other family members are meeting him at the airport and will help him get through this. Just like Fred and I got through it, even though we were divorced. We held on to each other for support because the thought of having to do it alone was unbearable.
I can close my eyes and picture Roberta in her family room and know how she feels. The shock, the non-believing and especially the anger. She said she called me because she knew of all her friends, I'm the only one who could completely understand what she is going through. I feel so badly I can't be there to help her, but I know she's not alone. She has a lot of friends who will rally round her with love and support. Scott is there too, I'm sure, but she said she was most worried about him. He lost his big brother, just like Lowell did. I hope he handles it better than Lowell, who lost so much when Greg died. In the blink of an eye, their world changed forever. I told Roberta to make sure Scott got counseling, because he needs someone to talk to about this. Lowell refused to go, even though I begged him and nagged his father about it.
Of her two boys, Paul was the steady one. He did well in school, he had friends, didn't succumb to peer pressure, like playing hockey. Like Greg, he had a strong love of music and was in a band. He was always polite and seemed to fit right in to Edina and its standards, unlike my kids. He knew exactly where he wanted to go to college after they took their college trip and it was no surprise he was accepted for early admittance to Tufts, outside of Boston. Scott on the other hand, was more of a challenge, kind of like Lowell. I remember one day when Roberta called me to tell me overnight, Scott's hair had become curly. Or that he was taking a break dance class, or that he was the lead growler in a band and later that he left NYU after only a few weeks there to come back to Minnesota. I knew the boys mostly from hearing Roberta talk about them. I doubt I've seen them since I left Minnesota almost ten years ago, so I doubt I would even recognize either of them if I saw them. Like most siblings, they were so much alike and yet so different
Roberta would tell me stories when we would talk on the phone about Paul and his band or his girlfriends at Tufts, outside of Boston. Unlike Evelyn, who hated it back east, Paul loved it and after he graduated, he got a job in the Boston area, at an insurance company, like his father. He was still playing music and he had a steady live in girlfriend who he probably would have married one day. He was going to apply to law school in the fall, and have a good life, like his parents. Yes, I knew all about Roberta's kid's plans, just like she knew about my children's lives.
I've been to their house countless times, sat at her kitchen table or in the family room as we visited. I remember the summer we would sit and watch the gorgeous guys who were building her deck. Since our kids weren't the same ages, they didn't really play together, but they knew each other. Right now, it is like a vacuum even though it's probably filled with people. Paul is everywhere in the house, yet he is nowhere. People are filling it up, bringing them food and not knowing what to say, because there is nothing you can say. There will be both tears and laughter, as Paul is remembered. When all the people were at my house, people who were mostly friends or coworkers of Fred's, I escaped to the basement and to Greg's room. Roberta sat with me there, holding me as I cried. She also sat with me at his memorial service. I want to do the same for her, but I can't and I feel helpless.
Our phone call was short, because after those devastating words are said there isn't much else to say. I told her she would survive this, even though there would be many times she wished she wouldn't. I told her to call me anytime to talk. She said she was hesitant to bother me, to bring up memories, but I told her not to worry about that. I had told her two weeks earlier how I wasn't able to deal with my friend Nancy and her daughter's cancer. It's a totally different situation. In Roberta's case, she had a part of her world end in a split second. In fact, she said she thought when the doctor phoned them last night at 4 a.m., it was a practical joke, until she called the hospital back. She never saw this coming, whereas I had time to prepare for Greg's death. And she's in Minnesota, while her son's body is in Massachusetts. I can't imagine how helpless she feels over that.
After we hung up, I called Evelyn. I told her what had happened and she got tears in her voice too. She is in the middle of packing but she said she would try to go over to Roberta's house today. She will be going in my place and I am grateful that she offered to do that. I told her again about how not too long ago Roberta has sent me a picture she'd found when she was going through things at the Edina School district. It was a picture of Lowell when he was maybe in first grade and on a class field trip, but it took me a minute or so to recognize him. Roberta said she knew it was Lowell immediately, because that's how she remembers him, as a little boy. She also sent me some pictures of Evelyn and Lowell at her house, when she got her dog. It seems like a thousand years ago. That's how I will remember Paul, as a shy teenager.
Now Roberta and Jon are faced with telling and retelling everyone about how Paul died. Saying those words never gets easier. Saying my child is dead is the worst obscenity there is. They have to make funeral arrangements for their child, a thing no parent should ever have to do. While Paul's room is probably not the same as it was when he lived there, they have to face emptying it out. What will make that even more difficult is the fact they're trying to sell the house. All those memories that will be so much harder to let go of now that there will be no new memories of Paul to make in the new house. I think about how Greg never came to Arizona, was never in this house. How little by little, his room was dismantled by Lowell, Evelyn, Fred and myself. We all wanted a little piece of him for our own sanity. We didn't want to lose his possessions like he lost his presence. I'm sure they will hold on to certain things that have special memories because it will help them hold on to Paul. As I write this, Spud sits at my side, so I know this to be true.
Evelyn went over to Roberta's house and while I know this was hard for her, I am proud of her for making the effort. She did it for me, and for herself. We used to drive past their house quite often because it's on a major street in Edina and the kids would always want me to honk the horn. Not to let them know we were going by, but because years ago, when they had a huge tree cut down in the front of their house, they had someone carve a large gnome into it, and my kids always thought that was hysterical. She said the house was full of people, and she told me Roberta was still in her pajamas when she got there. I found out that Jon was on his way out there, and that Scott looked terrible. There was one girlfriend of Roberta's who was taking charge, and I was glad of that since I couldn't do it. She told both Roberta and Scott that if they needed anything, to call. Mostly Evelyn wanted to talk about her experiences and I let her vent. Evelyn said the saddest thing was being in a room again full of crying boys who didn't know how to express their grief.
I think about the pain Roberta is feeling and I relive it all over again. How the world goes on even though you want it to end, how you want everyone to feel your pain. This happens hundreds of times a minute, because people die all the time, all over the world. Only thankfully, I don't know all of those people, and I don't have to feel their pain. I feel Roberta and her family's pain and know from experience that only time can dull the hurt and it will never go away completely. I can tell her that and lots of other things to try and make her feel better, but she will have to find her own way to cope with her loss, just as everyone else does. Now I know that no matter what, Roberta and I will always be friends because of this tragic shared bond, belonging to the club of mother's who lost a child, a club that needs no more members.
© 27 May 2007Last month, I looked up the word muse in an online dictionary. It had come up a few times in an email correspondence with an online friend of mine. I copied it so I would remember and not have to bother to look it up again. It can be either a noun or a verb, and I quote here.
Muse
n 1: in ancient Greek mythology any of 9 daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne; protector of an art or science [syn: Muse] 2: the source of an artist's inspiration; "Euterpe was his muse" v : reflect deeply on a subject; "I mulled over the events of the afternoon"; "philosophers have speculated on the question of God for thousands of years"; "The scientist must stop to observe and start to excogitate"
The dictionary went on to add the following about the origin of the word muse.
Word History: The Muse has inspired English poetry since Chaucer invoked her in 1374. Muse comes from Latin Msa, from Greek Mousa. There are Greek dialect forms msa and moisa, and all three come from an original *montya. As to the further origins of this form, a clue is provided by the name of Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory and mother of the Muses. Her name is the Greek noun mnmosun "memory," which comes from *mn-, an extended form of the Greek and Indo-European root *men-, "to think." This is the root from which we derive amnesia (from Greek), mental (from Latin), and mind (from Germanic). The reconstructed form *montya that is the ancestor of Greek Mousa could then mean something like "having mental power."
I could have called my random thoughts random musings, but at the time, it didn't occur to me. Or even amused musings or amusing musings, however that's already taken. There are still many web addresses using muse as a play on words available. Perhaps my musings would have been different than my thoughts. Probably not, because it's just semantics, the ideas would not have changed. I could have chosen opinions, beliefs or even feelings. It's still how I see the world, my surroundings, at a particular time and what I feel like commenting about it.
Several years ago, I read a book by Mary Gordon called Spending. I've read it was a departure from most of her books, and it is the only one by her I have read. In it, a female artist has a man as her muse. He meets her at an art gallery and offers to pay expenses so she could paint and not have to worry about supplementing her income with teaching. They were also lovers, as real life muse and artisan usually are portrayed. In the story, the author only referred to the man as "B". By the end of the book, she was a very successful painter, both financially and recognizably, and he had lost and then regained his money. They end up together as lovers yet apart in their daily lives. The author finally does tell you what his name is and jokes that it is not a romantic name, not the name of a hero or muse.
By coincidence, all this thinking or musing about muses came from the friend I mentioned above, who I shall refer to as "B" also. His name starts with that letter, too. I have been in correspondence for nearly seven years, off and on but mostly off, and have yet to meet him. We did speak on the phone once or twice. He found me through my Random Thoughts. He was looking for a phrase in a poem and I had somehow had those exact words in one of my stories. I don't believe we ever discussed which story; that's not important. What is important is how he is still a part of my life, despite the distance between us.
It was late 1999, and when I got his email saying he'd read my stories. I wrote a polite reply thanking him for taking the time to write and I thought that would be the end of it. Instead, he wrote me back and I replied and it continued for several months. Each email got progressively more caring and affectionate. I started calling him Dearest B and he would address me as Sweetness or Sweets. At the time he was separated, and eventually, in one email he professed his love for me. I confessed I felt the same about him. How could I not? His words were magical and seductive, and his emails were the bright spot of my days, which were not that bright back then.
Shortly after Valentine's Day, he told me he was going to try to work things out with his wife. What is about Valentine's Day and me? When I was in college, John dumped me for my friend Lynne. It was the day after Valentine's Day and after he had bought me the most gorgeous and delicious chocolate heart shaped cake. They lasted about three weeks. In a way, my marriage ended shortly after that date, also. There was another relationship that ended right after Valentine's Day, too. That one I ended. For me, Valentine's Day isn't a day for lovers; it means the end of a relationship. At the time, I told him I couldn't do this, and told him not to write me anymore. I deleted all his emails, which was a mistake, and closed that chapter of my life.
Or so I thought. I got an email from B later in 2000 and it was friendly but distant. He talked about my taking him fly fishing then sent me a graphic that was supposed to be about fly fishing. Yes, I still have it and several others, but not all of them. I am sure in one of them he mentioned reading the book, Spending, and talking about his being my muse. That one I can't find, but I don't believe I am making it up. Years went by and I still thought about him every now an then and would wonder how he was doing. At the end of 2003, I got another surprise email from him. It resulted in a few emails back and forth, and then another prolonged absence from each other's lives.
I think I was the one to write him, to restart a dialogue between us. It was April of this year and I asked him if he remembered me. He said, yes, of course. I was bored at work and had googled his name and it brought back so many memories. I don't know why I decided to write. I guess I was lonelier than usual or just missed his stimulating way with words and thoughts. He sent a long email back, saying among other things he was still nominally married. Is anyone happily married? I only know of a handful of couples that are happy; the rest stay together out of lethargy or complacency or fear of being alone. Realizing a real relationship between us was still improbable, I replied anyway.
Time passed and the exchanges stopped again. I needed some advice in his professional specialty, so I wrote him again in June. B said he would get back to me on it, but as of today, he hasn't yet. I guess you get what you pay for.
While still waiting for an answer to my question, out of the blue, I got an email from B the other day about the fundraising event that was going on that exact day for Leah, my friend's ill daughter. I always felt he was reading my words, even in the years when we didn't communicate. Was I unknowingly trying to win his approval? I was pleased when I got the email saying he wished he could be with me at Leah's event, and replied saying that. I didn't think I'd hear from B again for months. To my pleasant surprise, I got another email that night, and one almost every day since then.
To say those emails, just musings on a computer screen, are important to me is an understatement. They are from a man I am in awe of, because of his brilliance. After all this time, there is still a strong attraction there. He thinks I'm a great writer and who am I to argue that point with someone far more intelligent than I? B writes me late at night, when I am in bed and they have been there for me when I wake up. I don't open them right away. I read all the other emails first, saving his for last, anticipating his words and savoring them once I click the button and can devour them. They make me feel special. I hope in my replies I let him know important and remarkable he is, and how much I care about him. I am assuming that before long, the L word will again slip into our conversations. He'll have to say it first, but I can tell the feeling is still there. Or maybe he will fight saying it, for fear it will cause me to tell him to stop writing me again. I won't make the same mistake twice. Or maybe he will just run away, again afraid to take the risk.
©24 August 2006He took the chicken's way out and is now gone from my life. I miss our bantering and teasing and as he said in our last email, it was all just pretend. This time I did save all his emails. I can't pretend he didn't hurt me, but I understand where he was coming from and wish him all the best. I guess he really never was my muse anymore than I was his. Something tells me I'll hear from him again one day, but it won't ever be the same.
©edited 27 April, 2007As I sit at my computer, the television set in the room is turned on to one of the all news channels. Normally, at this time, I would have Without a Trace on, but since it's one I've already seen and more than once, I had no problem missing it for breaking news. Even though I love Jack Malone, I think he would forgive me for ignoring him today. This episode will undoubtedly be aired again, but the story about the Minneapolis bridge collapse will not.
Ever since I was twelve and sat for the entire weekend with my mother and brother watching the events unfold on television when President Kennedy was assassinated, I have been fascinated by breaking news stories. I happened to be in my junior high school library that Friday afternoon when I overheard the librarian and her radio announcing the president had been shot. I returned to my classroom and told everyone what I'd heard, but no one believed me. Not long after that, the principal came over the PA system and reported Kennedy had died. Everyone got quiet, because most of the kids in my class had never lost anyone. I had and I immediately felt for Caroline and John John. I don't remember but I'm sure I cried in school. And we all cried that entire weekend. It seems that breaking news is almost always tragic and sad.
When the Challenger shuttle crashed in January 1986, I was at a Junior League board meeting. When it ended, I went home and turned on the television. Over and over again, I watched the shuttle lift off and then tumble back to earth. Today, the only astronaut whose name I can remember is the teacher's, Christa McAuliffe. I know there was another woman on the shuttle, but time has erased her name from my memory, as well as the men who lost their lives in that event. It is nature's way of helping one keep somewhat sane, I guess, to make the memories fade over time.
The next big event was the Oklahoma City bombing in April 1995. We lived in Minneapolis then and for that, I don't remember where I was. For many important events, I do remember where I was. Like when John Lennon was shot. I was already in bed but my ex was up watching football, and he came in to tell me what had happened. I don't remember where I was when Elvis died, however. While the disaster in Oklahoma City was horrible, I didn't sit in front of the TV for hours. I couldn't; I had a family to take care of and other responsibilities, but I did watch as much as I could. The parent's sorrow tore me up, as did the visual of the damaged building. And to think an American could do that to his own country appalled and disgusted me.
Thanks to the Internet, I am subscribed to several news sources that will send me emails to tell me of breaking news. I never used to turn the TV on in the morning, preferring to savor the quiet in my house. Then came September 11, 2001. When I woke up and checked my email, I noticed at least a dozen emails screaming breaking news in their subject line. I only looked at one or two of them before I went to the TV. At that time, only one of the World Trade Towers had been hit. It was around 8 in Arizona, but I called my children back in Minnesota to wake them up and tell them to turn on the TV. They weren't happy about being awakened, lazy bums that they are, but they did as they were told. For a while, we watched the other tower be hit and talked about what was happening. I tried to explain to them that this was probably the defining moment in their life, as Kennedy's assassination was for my generation.
For the next several days, I sat in front of the television. I would switch from CNN to MSNBC to Fox News and back again. Heaven forbid I might miss something! I would change the channel depending on what announcer was on or who was being interviewed. Like most people, I have favorites and ones I just can't stand, so that would determine what channel was on. Again, I cried along with the nation, while we were in shock over the devastation those two planes and the terrorists had caused. In the first hours, coverage was non-stop. There were no commercials. Each station scrambled to find new people to interview, new ways to dissect the story. There seemed to be an endless supply of victims and experiences to air for the rest of us. As the days wore on, I still couldn't take my eyes off the TV, until after three days I had had enough and went out and turned it off. After all, I was thousands of miles away from the disaster and I knew no one in New York who might have been affected by the events and life has to go on, even when you don't want it to anymore.
Last Friday, I was at the computer and checked my email. Since moving to Arizona, I don't usually watch the local Phoenix news, because it is so removed from me. Every so often I do, but I have no loyalty to one certain station, nor could I name but a few of the news anchors on any of the channels. Sitting in my inbox were several breaking news messages. As I opened the first one, it said two helicopters had crashed in Phoenix. Now that I have a television set in the computer room, I switched from whatever had been on to Channel 15 which is who sent the email. On my cable system, it is channel 9, so at first I wasn't sure which one I was supposed to watch. As it turned out, all five channels in Phoenix were broadcasting this story.
The stations had all sent up their news helicopters to cover a police chase. Apparently, two of the helicopters got too close and crashed. That became the story instead of the police chase. I admit it, I love to watch police chases on TV, and wonder each time why the chasee thinks they are going to get away with it. Only a month or so earlier, I watched for a good hour, some woman drive up Interstate 5 in California to get away from the police. I never did find out why she was being chased, but no one was hurt in the end.
The two helicopters crashed in a large park in central Phoenix and it was a miracle there was no one on the ground. Or that they didn't crash into any of the nearby buildings, filled with innocent people. So only the four people in the choppers died. I think if they hadn't been television personalities, the story wouldn't have been that big a deal. It wasn't until much later, we found out what had happened to the man being chased. He drove to some house in the western part of the area and eventually, police talked him out of the house without any violence. He could have been charged with causing the crash, but he wasn't. He did steal two vehicles and damaged two police cars, so he will be going away for a long time.
For the rest of the day, the five channels did what all stations do when they are covering breaking news. They repeat the same things and show the same video over and over again. At first, they didn't report the names of the dead, but finally they did. I didn't know any of them, had never seen any of their stories on the news. The two stations that had lost their friends and co-workers, of course covered it more personally. They had reporters at the hangar where the helicopters should have been parked. But they were all fairly young and I did feel badly for them and their families. Later it was announced that one of the men had just lost his young granddaughter the day before, and I cried when I heard that. The anchor almost lost it too, as she said he was up in heaven with her. This event didn't make the major news networks except as just a story. They didn't cover it like the Phoenix stations did. Now those fine men have all been laid to rest and this story will just be a faint memory to most of us.
Then yesterday, I started getting the barrage of breaking news emails a little after 6 p.m. They said a bridge in Minneapolis had collapsed, so I stopped watching whatever it was I had been and turned on the news. I lived twelve years in Minneapolis; two of my children had been born there and one died there. There were many memories and experiences in my life tied to the area. I watched in horror and shock as they showed the 35W bridge, damaged, bent and broken and submerged in the water. I had driven over that bridge countless times. I saw the cars and trucks just sitting there. I saw the school bus but was so relieved to learn the 60 or so kids on there were safe. Breaking news had captured my attention again.
I was immediately grateful neither of my children lived there. But I was concerned for my ex, but was fairly certain he would have had no reason to be on that bridge at that time. As the coverage unfolded, I had many emotions. I was glad they didn't think it had been terrorism, though as Evelyn and I later discussed it, what a waste of energy that would have been when there were many bridges that were more vital to the country's survival than one in Minnesota. She told me she had heard from her father and that he was okay, just as I had thought.
As people came on and talked about the situation and what they had seen or experienced, names and places became pictured in my mind. The main hospital people were being taken to, Hennepin County Medical Center was where Greg had been born. The Twins were playing a game that night and while I was in that hospital, the dome had been inflated for the first time. At first, I thought that bridge was the one we used to go to the University of Minnesota hospital, but Evelyn pointed out to me it wasn't. We would get off 35W and take the Washington Avenue bridge. Until I was told that, I thought about all the times I'd gone to the U hospital. First, as a volunteer to two families who were there for their child to undergo a bone marrow transplant. Then when I went because my son was a cancer patient there.
When I tried to call Evelyn, I couldn't reach her. She now lives in California, but her cell phone number is a Minneapolis one, so we heard the beeps, then the voice saying all circuits are busy. She had tried to make outgoing calls too, and heard that message. Neither of us had really heard that while trying to reach her since Katrina. Finally, she was able to reach me. I told Evelyn if I didn't use that bridge to go to the hospital, then I used it to go to Rosedale, a shopping center in Roseville or to Surdyk's, a liquor store that had a great gourmet food section in it. She tried to argue with me, but I reminded her I would have been coming from Edina, not West Saint Paul. She was concerned for her friends, but when we talked about it, she was pretty sure none of them would have been there at that time. She was shaken up and we talked for quite a while, till she finally got off to go to bed.
I tried to gather more information and went to the web for that. They didn't really have any new information, so I stuck with the TV. When Lowell came home from work, I told him what had happened. He didn't seem particularly interested, until it hit him what I was talking about. He actually watched a bit of the coverage with me. Evelyn wanted to speak to him and they talked for a few minutes, till he gave the phone back to me.
I fell asleep with the TV on a news channel. I had seen the new mayor, the new governor and heard from the new senators. It's been about ten years since I left Minnesota, and probably four since I've gone back there. I might never go back there, but that doesn't mean I don't have strong ties to the area and its people. The time we went to the hockey Gopher's dressing room to meet the players when Greg was playing hockey. We would have taken that bridge then. Just going to Dinkytown or Nordeast to eat or wander around. All the times we went up to Duluth and the North Shore of Lake Superior or up to Thunder Bay in Canada. When we first moved to Minneapolis and went to the Soo Line railroad freight station. There were a lot of reasons to use that bridge.
I woke up in the middle of the night and put the TV back on. By now, the shock was over, there were few people to interview because it was just early morning in Minneapolis. As proof the breaking news was not so breaking, the stations had commercial interruptions, because that's how they make money to cover these events. The TV is on now, and I change stations frequently. As with most breaking news stories, there really isn't much new to report. The cause of the bridge collapsing won't be known for months, just like the cause of the helicopter crash in Phoenix. New witnesses are being interviewed, but they're not saying anything new. The pictures aren't really showing anything new, except for the one from a surveillance camera that showed the actual collapse. The number of dead keeps changing. Last night it was 9, but this morning it was 4. They say it will rise because over twenty people are missing. There must be cars in the actual bridge wreckage, as well as those that might have fallen into the Mississippi River. By the end of the day or next day, most likely this will become less important and the news channels will go back to talking about the war and other things. It will only be important to those directly effected by it. People who were injured, or lost loved ones, as well as all those commuters who now have to find a different way to get wherever they need to go. For me, it will get lost in the back of my mind like most breaking news stories.
It is selfish of me, I know, to resent all the outpouring of love and support people who lose someone in a major tragedy get when I got none of that when my world, as I knew it ended. No one interviewed me nor was the story of Greg aired on local TV, much less national stations. We didn't get money or sympathy from anyone outside of our circle of acquaintances. If my ex hadn't worked for the newspaper, all that would have announced the loss of Greg would have been his obituary, but instead, there was a short account in the paper that told his story. I know as I have sat here and written this, families all over the world have lost someone they love and it doesn't make the news, much less breaking news. I only hope there won't be another big breaking news story for a long while.
©2 August, 2007Over the years, I have spent many hours in the kitchen. In most households, it's the gathering place and the center of family life. Kitchens are warm and comforting places, where food and smells entice people to come and gather. From the first kitchen I remember in my house in Chicago, to the one I have here in Prescott, kitchens and cooking bring back memories and inspirations. Cooking for me was fun and therapeutic as well as functional when I had a family of five to feed daily. I like to experiment and seldom follow a recipe, because in all my years in the kitchen, I know what works and if something doesn't, I can toss that out. It's a special place to be for most people. For the last few days, I have been a substitute helper at one of Prescott's elementary schools. It's made me reflect back on the role the kitchen has played in my life.
Our kitchen in the house on Merrill Avenue was pretty standard. Sink across from the stove and the refrigerator to the right. All kitchens should be that way, in a triangle, for the most efficiency. I can still picture my Grandma Anna at the stove, making chicken soup or macaroni and cheese. Or standing at the counter making strudel. And I was right beside her, asking questions, asking her to show me how it was done. My grandmother never got angry with me as I bugged her, but instead patiently showed me and explained to me what she was doing. I'd get a small piece of dough to roll out and put some raisins and nuts on it and she'd bake it along with the rest of her strudel. She'd let me add the cheese to the cream sauce for the macaroni and cheese we all loved so well. And of course, in that kitchen, hundred of grilled cheese sandwiches were made for when I came home from school at lunchtime. It would be cooked and just staying warm on the stove so I could sit in front of the television set and watch Bozo and Lunchtime Little Theater. I always had chocolate milk made with Bosco and Jay's potato chips. That kitchen holds a lot of fond memories for me.
I suppose I gained much of my knowledge and experience in college. At Berkeley, I worked in the kitchen in the dish room. It was my first experience with cooking in quantity, and forgetting about quality. At Chico, in my home economics course I learned much more. Back then, home ec was a required course in high school. I remember planning meals that one could fix under thirty minutes. And how to budget your money. How to plan a meal for less than a dollar. It was a long time ago. We experimented with coloring food to see how that affected the way people viewed it. No one wanted to try perfectly good green mashed potatoes. I learned a lot about cuisines from other countries. And I tried apple pie for the very first time when we had to make four pies in each kitchen. I liked it, and realized there are lots of foods I hadn't ever seen or tried and not to be afraid of new things. I also had a weekly radio show at Chico about cooking. I wanted to be the next Betty Crocker, but that would have required getting a master's degree, so I was just the Betty of my own little world.
Fred and I lived in many places before we finally settled down and bought a house, and those kitchens have little memories for me. Maybe the one in Santa Margaritia, because the kitchen itself was forgettable, because I've forgotten it. However, it was where I made my first and only real Thanksgiving dinner there. My mom came up and we had the whole feast. I cooked a turkey, made stuffing from cornbread, the pie and the mashed potatoes. It was ridiculous to have cooked all that food for three people. I decided that day never again, and that was my last homemade Thanksgiving dinner. I also did a lot of baking there, and perfected my skills. Since I had nothing to do all day, I cooked and baked. I even baked our own bread. I had started my cookbook collection by then and tried new recipes all the time. Sadly, I also noshed too much on what I cooked. The year in Santa Margarita was one of my worst at the time.
The kitchen in my first house wasn't too special. It was small and didn't have many cabinets. The house itself had been built in 1904 so it had a spectacular dining room, but the kitchen was built for functionality only. Over the years, it had been updated, but it served our purposes. Evelyn was just a toddler and Greg a baby when we lived there. I can see the high chair in the corner, where I fed them. I didn't do a lot of cooking then, because Fred was working long hours in his first job after grad school. He was working at General Mills, but he wasn't Betty Crocker; he was in marketing. It was during those years I decided our family dinnertime would be 5:30, because the kids had to have a set dinnertime. It was also where I got my first microwave oven, one of the greatest inventions ever. Or maybe one that began the decline of family meals. I tried making a few things from the cookbook they provided, but I stuck to using it mostly for reheating Fred's dinner's when he'd get home at 10 p.m.
My favorite kitchen was the one on Gwynne Road in Memphis. I designed it myself. The space was long and narrow which made it easy to maneuver. I got a Thermidor cook top and double convection ovens. The contractor we hired to do the work helped me select the cabinets and counter top. I wanted pink counter tops to go with the wallpaper I'd picked out, but he gently convinced me that a more neutral color might be better for resale purposes. I took his advice reluctantly. Mr. Mocha was done in one week's time. I was very impressed with him and his work. There were lots of cabinets and room to prepare a meal. At one end of the kitchen, I had a circular eating area built into the counter so it was one huge piece of wood and Formica. That way, the kids could watch me in the kitchen and not be in the way, plus it was perfect for breakfasts and lunches, if it was just the four of us, meaning the kids and me. Fred wasn't around much then. When it was all five of us, we ate in the dining room. Every year we would bake and decorate dozens of cookies for the holidays. I did a lot of creative and satisfying cooking in that kitchen. This was when my cookbook collection really started to grow, so I had lots of new recipes to try.
The kitchen in our house in Edina was almost the same shape as the one in Memphis, but more than half of it was an eating area. I always wanted to redo that kitchen, but it never happened. I could reach the refrigerator, stove and sink without taking two steps in any direction. It was so small, but I made it work. When I would go grocery shopping, it wasn't too far from the garage to the kitchen, which was more than convenient. The kids were growing up and I can picture them making their own lunches for school each morning or helping me fix dinner at night. I insisted the kids take at least one bite of what I fixed and if they didn't like it, they could go nuke a hot dog. Lowell used to throw his asparagus on the floor until I found out and only gave him one spear. When I needed to save money, spaghetti was a favorite, just as it had been when I was growing up. Comfort food was my grandma's macaroni and cheese.
It was during those years I became a regular volunteer at the Minneapolis Boy's and Girl's club Kid's Café. It was a project started at one of the clubs and they needed people to help with preparing food, eating with the kids and cleaning up afterwards. The kitchen was strictly utilitarian, and everything had been donated for this project. Even most of the food was donated. My children came with me and it became a regular weekly event. Instead of cooking for five, as I was used to, we had to cook for almost 100. It was an eye opener, but I enjoyed every minute of it. It was fun to work and create nearly edible meals for kids who didn't complain for a second. Everything was served family style and it was the norm to see most of the vegetables thrown away. Nothing was fancy, but it was nutritious and had the four food groups. They even had Thanksgiving dinners every year, and that was an interesting project. The kids could invite their parents, so there were almost twice as many people to feed, serve and clean up after. Those were some of my favorite Thanksgivings. Back then, we only had one sink to wash everything in, unlike today. But no one ever got sick, so it makes you wonder if people aren't over reacting these days.
The kitchens I had in my apartments in Portland and Raleigh were adequate, but when one lives alone, one doesn't prepare family meals. My microwave was fully used with prepared dinners. I ate a lot of soup in the winter and salads in the summer. I stopped baking because it was only me who would be eating it. It didn't help that my place in Portland was just above a bread making factory or that in Raleigh I was less that a block away from a Krispy Kreme. It didn't matter what I did in the kitchen, just as long as what I ate filled me up.
My kitchen in Prescott is my second favorite. It's big and has lots of room to work in. I need a new refrigerator and I'd love a gas stove, but for now, it will have to do. I have plenty of cabinets and drawers, which over time I've managed to fill. I love the Jenn-aire grill oven I have, too. There is lots of light and I do follow some of my traditions in this kitchen. I still make one or two batches of cookie press cookies for the holidays. I make my grandma's macaroni and cheese and freeze some of it so I don't get tired of it. I still mostly have salads in the summer and soup in the winter, but every so often, I get creative. It's not much fun to cook for one, and even less fun to clean up.
As I stated in the opening paragraph, I have been subbing in an elementary school kitchen. It was hard work, and every day I would come home with sore muscles and completely exhausted. I am not accustomed to doing such strenuous labor, but over the week, I did get a little more used to it. I liked serving breakfasts most, because it wasn't as fast paced as getting the kids through the lunch line. I talked to the kids and would treat them as though they were special. I'd make sure they took cereal as well as the hot dish. I asked them how they were doing and tell them to have a great day. On the last morning, there was one boy who was wearing a t-shirt that read I (heart) Johnathan. I told him I loved Johnathan too and then asked him who Johnathan was. He said he was his brother who had brain cancer. I caught my breath and told him my Greg would watch over him. He didn't quite know what I meant, but that was okay. I felt so sad during the rest of the day.
Friday was my last day that I know of at Abia Judd Elementary School. It was trout treasures day, only that wasn't what was actually served. For whatever reason, they weren't sent to the schools and instead they were some sort of fish sticks. The kids seemed to like them, at least more than some of the other things they had been served. Hopefully, one day I will get to taste a trout treasure, but perhaps not. I'll miss Susanne and Linda, but I'll probably be sent back there at some point. In the meantime, I will putter around in my kitchen, creating when the mood strikes me and dream of being able to teach grandchildren one day some of the things I have learned over the years. After all, I have to pass down my secret recipes, don't I?
©16 September 2007Starting back when my mom got the 1963 Chevy Bel-air, we used to name our cars. She sold the 1957 Oldsmobile Super 88 my father had bought to get this car. That car had been named Nellie so my mom named the new one Nellie, too. It was Nellie who took us across country from Chicago to California in 1963. She was a four door sedan, had no air conditioning and was blue. Evelyn also names her cars, the old Toyota being called Trevor and her new one is named Spencey. It must be because naming something makes an inanimate object seem more personal and real.
When I was at Cal, my mom told me she had planned to give Nellie to me one weekend I came home, but that of course, was after the fact. I'd gotten a ride back to Los Angeles from someone and went back with the person who drove me down. While she was waiting for me to come back to Los Angeles to take possession, someone smashed out the back window, so she junked it or something rather than get it fixed. I was so annoyed, because I'd practically grown up in that car. I learned how to drive in that car. And suddenly, it was gone, as was my first chance at freedom. If it had been the Oldsmobile, I would have been furious because I had such special memories of the car.
I didn't get a vehicle of my own, more or less till I married Fred. We bought a 1965 Ford Econoline van that we turned into a makeshift camper and took across country twice. On a lark, we bought a 1959 Mercedes Benz 219. I loved that car. Then there was our very first new car, a VW Rabbit when Fred started working for General Mills. After that, they kind of blur in each other. I had several babymobiles or minivans are they are really called. The Renault station wagon, the Jeep Wagoneer and my red Discovery were all good transportation for me. Some of those had names, some did not. The Discovery was called Big Red. I loved that thing despite the lousy gas mileage it got. It just fit me and the kids for some reason. But when it was time for me to be on my own, I knew that car wasn't the right one anymore.
For the first time in my entire life, I was able to decide what kind of car I wanted. Over the years I had wanted a sport car, convertible, VW bug, and a Mustang to name a few. They were never practical once I had children, so I just dreamed of having one for my own. I considered buying a Mustang, but that didn't really make sense either. I was used to having a vehicle with room to carry lots of stuff. I knew I had to get something that would be more than just a car to get places. I decided on a Saturn station wagon. It was kind of sporty looking but I could fold the back seats down and fit large items in with ease.
Saturn was known for their no negotiating policy. I liked that because I am no good at haggling to get someone to lower their price on anything. I couldn't decide between green or gold, but eventually picked out gold. I wanted a stick shift, so that limited my choices. I also had to have anti-lock brakes and cruise control. The one thing I forgot was power windows. Financing was a bit tricky, because most of my credit history was intertwined with Fred's and it was going to be in my name only. Finally, it all worked out and I went to pick up my new car. I don't know if Saturn still does this, but back then, when someone took their new car out of the showroom, the salesman took a picture of the buyer and everyone who was there came to wave goodbye. It was also back then when they used to always have donuts in the waiting room. That I know is gone, at least at the dealership to which I last took my car.
I hadn't driven a stick in years. Back in high school, my boyfriend Frank had taught me drive one, on his friend's car. It took me a while to get the hang of it, but I finally did. I didn't get a chance to drive a stick for years. It was much easier to drive an automatic, especially in traffic. The one time I was able to drive a stick again was when I got a loaner when the Discovery was being repaired, I asked for a stick and drove it for a few days and found out I enjoyed it. But then I didn't have an audience. I took a deep breath, turned the engine on and shifted into first. I took my foot slowly off the clutch and pressed on the gas to my great relief, I did not stall the car. I drove back to the house with some amount of pride and dread. This was the car I was leaving Minnesota, my family and the life I'd known for twenty four years.
On an August day in 1997, I headed east to Maine. In the back part of the wagon was a small fraction of my belongings. I took some clothes, two sets of dishes, a few books, my fly-fishing stuff and of course my computer. It was as full as I could get it. I also had my cat Sylvie with me, because I couldn't leave all three of my cats behind. I drove through Wisconsin towards Chicago, a trip I had taken countless times. Heading into Indiana, it hit me there was no turning back no matter what and onwards I went. After two very long days, Maine and Portland were in reach along with my new start on life. I'd been to Maine twice before and I just loved the beauty and tranquility of the place. The first time was when Fred and I drove through the state on our so-called second honeymoon and when we all took the infamous college tour trip before Evelyn's junior year in high school.
I had nowhere to live, no job and I didn't know anyone in Portland. Still, I felt that was where I needed to be. I still can't explain why I felt I had to be in Portland, but looking back I know I made the right decision. I only wish I had stayed there, but you can't undo what has happened. The first priority was to find a place to live and thankfully, that didn't take too long. I rented a two-bedroom apartment on the East End. From my kitchen window, I could see the ocean. In all honesty, it was probably Casco Bay, but to me, it was the ocean. It didn't take me long to move my meager possessions into my new home.
I didn't register my car till I got there. I remember going to the motor vehicle department to do that and get a new driver's license. I took one of the best pictures ever for that license. I decided my car would have a vanity license plate and I chose my online screen name, Trules. I was first called that by an friend from England who didn't like Truly, and it stuck. When I walked out, one of my tires was flat. I couldn't believe it, but it was. I called the Saturn 800 number and they sent someone out there to put the donut tire on so it could be driven to be fixed. Maybe that was an omen. It never occurred to me before now. When I put on the first license plates on, I knew that car had to be called the Trulesmobile.
I had been in Maine maybe a month when I decided I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself and get out and explore the area. I took off towards the south and the ocean on old US highway 1. Along the way, I stopped at a few flea markets and anything else that caught my eye. I was sitting at a red light, when all of a sudden, a car smashed into me. Into my brand new Trulesmobile! I immediately started to cry. My car looked horrible to me, all smashed up. My nice brand new car that I picked out all on my own was now damaged goods. I recalled the other times I'd been hit, specifically the time in Memphis. I was sitting in the left lane waiting to turn off Poplar Avenue when a car cut in front of a truck driving in the direction towards me, and that caused another car to careen out of control and right towards me. I was frozen; there was no place for me to go. So much for defensive driving and leaving myself an out. I watched as this car sped towards me, but he was a pilot for Fed Ex and managed to just clip my car. There wasn't much damage at the time, but the force of the jolt caused countless problems down the road. I was certain my new car would have delayed symptoms and wanted it replaced. That didn't happen.
I wasn't hurt, but I let the police officers take me to the hospital. I got x-rayed and they said I was fine. Then it dawned on me, I had no way to get back to Portland. I must have been 40 miles away. Again, the tears came. I explained that I had just moved here and knew no one to call and come get me. The nurses must have felt sorry for me, and found money to pay for a cab. I could have gotten a rental car, but most of the places I went to were close enough to walk to. My neighbor Karla took me to the store with her so I could get groceries while my car was being repaired. Someone from the repair shop in Arundel had to come up to get me so I could bring my car home. It looked as good as new. But in the back of my mind, I expected it to slowly fall apart. Thankfully, that didn't happen either.
I drove that car up to Acadia National Park with Greg in 1998. He had just had his second lung surgery a few weeks earlier. We had lobster for dinner and I still have the plastic bib he wore that night. It was his first and only time to eat "lobstah", and it's a memory I cherish. He and I also drove down to Raleigh when I went there to look for a place to live there. One day, we went east to Wilmington, and I let him drive my car. Once he got into fifth gear on the interstate he was fine. That was our first visit to a Waffle House, too. On the way back to Maine, he complained because I insisted we veer off the interstate and take two back roads. If it was up to me, I'd always take back roads, unless I was truly in a hurry to get where I was going or I knew there was nothing to see. One back road was the Skyline Parkway. It started in Virginia where the Blue Ridge Parkway stopped, and having been on the Blue Ridge Parkway before, I knew how beautiful it was. In New York State, we took the Taconic Parkway and that was delightful too. In spite of his griping, Greg did enjoy seeing something new and different. Those memories are so precious to me, because I'm the only one who had them with Greg.
The Trulesmobile was towed here from North Carolina. Once again I had to go get a new driver's license and plates. It is here I wish I had power windows because I prefer the windows open instead of using air conditioning under most circumstances. My car loves driving in Arizona, with high speed limits on the highways and nice and twisty roads to out of the way places like Jerome. It takes me to my appointments and to work, as well as to the store and to see my friends. There aren't too many places one can live without a car these days, and Prescott is definitely one of them.
I was on my way to work at my new job last Saturday when I got hit again. I had just turned left on Highway 69 towards Prescott Valley. The traffic going into Prescott was stop and go, backed up to even beyond Sunrise Boulevard. It had poured earlier that day and I found out later that there were several stop lights that weren't working near the mall, causing the back up. The light turned green for me to go, but I couldn't go right away as there was still a car in the intersection. When I could, I made my turn. I don't even remember being hit. All of a sudden I was parked on the shoulder. I got out of the car and looked at the back and breathed a premature sigh of relief. The car was fine there. I looked back to the car that had barreled into me. I started to walk over to the driver, but she didn't want to exchange information. She said she'd called the police. I managed to stay calm. I called Leon and had him call the house and tell them I'd be late since I didn't have that number with me. Then I called Lowell and he offered to come down and wait with me before he had to go to work.
It was cool and windy and the clouds were ominous as though it would storm again any minute. Suddenly, a car pulled off the shoulder in front of me. Two elderly ladies got out and said they'd been stopped at the red light the girl had run. They wanted to do the right thing and came back to be witnesses. They told me when they saw my car hit, they thought it was going to flip over from the force of the impact. I took their names and numbers and one of them tried to talk to the girl, but she told her to go away. They waited outside with me for a while, till they got too cold. They comforted me and kept me calmer than I would have been on my own. Especially after I walked around to the front of my car and saw the damage. I wanted to cry. My front bumper was hit and bent, part of the lights in front were gone and the front side panel had a big chunk broken out and several major cracks. Finally the police came and the first thing they did was ask if everyone was okay. Then he asked for my license and papers and went to the other car to get hers. Another officer came too, and then they went to talk to the two ladies. They drove off unnoticed by me, and I felt badly I wasn't able to again thank them. Because of them doing the right thing, the blame for the accident was placed on the right party.
Lowell stayed with me for a while and kept hugging me and telling me everything would be fine. He's really good at keeping me centered. He tried to convince me the car would be easy to fix. It wasn't till the next day he told me Arizona has a law that says if it costs too much to fix your car, then it can be declared totaled. Since my car is ten years old, I got very upset. I will insist it's repaired. I'm a Taurus and I can be as stubborn as need be when I set my mind to it. Lowell left me finally to go to work. I later checked the Kelly Blue Book for its value and it was $5,210.00 so I felt a little better. I thought it was closer to $2,000.
Once the police officer had finished the accident report and gave me back my driver's license and papers as well as a copy of the report, he told me I could go and that I wasn't at fault. I finally knew what the girl's name was. She claimed she had been going 35 miles per hour on a highway where the speed limit is 55 miles per hour. To run that red light, that had to have been red for at least seven seconds, she had to speed up. At 35 miles per hour, she could have stopped. When I called her insurance company, they said it had been reported and someone would call me on Monday. Early on Monday morning, I got a call from Nicole. She said the driver had said it was my fault, and I quickly corrected that mistaken idea. I told her she was the first driver listed on the accident report and she was the one who got ticketed. Nicole said she'd have to talk to her insured and get back to me. I asked her if I would get a rental car WHEN my car was being repaired. It was my first suggestion that there was no other option. Today, I am still waiting to hear from them. At least my car is driveable even if it isn't presentable.
My car has been registered in three states and each time I splurged on the vanity plate. I still have my Maine and North Carolina plates. The Trulesmobile has been all over the state of Arizona, as well as much of the country. If I count correctly, she's been through twenty five of the fifty states. It's gone to Las Vegas many times. I've taken very good care of my baby, getting regular oil changes and everything else it needed. It's got just a little over 80,000 miles and I plan to keep it forever, mostly because it's the last car anyone in the family has that Greg has been in. I know that may seem silly and sentimental, but it's really important to me. It's my job to keep him alive as best I can and memories of him live in that car. As well as many other memories. In a week or so, I am convinced the Trulesmobile will be good as it was before and be with me for many more years.
©25 September 2007The summer of 2009 has been a season for reflection. I know it has nothing to do with my 40th high school reunion, though that might have been a catalyst. It might have something to do with my studying to be a counselor and what I have learned in the first three classes I have taken. I know a big part of it was the tenth anniversary of Greg's death and the impact that had on me. Whatever the reasons and factors are, I have made some decisions and took some actions that have changed me forever.
I started thinking about reunions last year. It's can't be reality that it has been forty years since I left Grant High School. Ah, but it has. That took me back to when I left Chicago and got me thinking about the kids I knew in elementary school. It's a frequent dream I have of being on the south side and trying to reach my childhood home on Merrill Avenue. I can picture the house in my head as clearly as if I were inside yesterday. The cement front steps, with a small porch to the left. The living room and dining room with the kitchen off to the left. For such a small house, I don't know why it needed a dining room. On the right side of the house, the master bedroom, a bathroom, and then two small bedrooms. The one closest to my parent's was my brother's. My bedroom was the last one and across from the eating area of the kitchen. There was a den built on the back of the house where my mother retreated to after my father died and my grandparents moved into their bedroom.
In my dreams, I can't ever get to the house. There's always something blocking me. It's been a freeway and tall office buildings. One time it was a shopping mall. Or there's just no way to get there. All the streets are blocked and whichever way I try to go, I can't. I still remember all the street names. I still remember where most of my friends used to live. When we left, I was glad to be leaving Chicago and looking forward to making a new start, which I did in California. These dreams cause me to wonder if I didn't want to leave Chicago and all my family.
I knew my reunion was this year, and it dawned on me one day, that the high school I would have gone to in Chicago would be having their reunion too. Sometimes I am amazed at how dense I am. I started thinking about the thirty or so kids that I spent six years with and started googling some of them. I was shocked when I googled the boy that all the other girls were in love with and found he had recently died. I hadn't thought about Dennis much in the past years if at all. I clicked on his obituary and learned he had been a vetrenarian and lived in Western Massachusetts. He was divorced and while it didn't say so, I found out he had killed himself. I was shocked as I read through the comments on his obituary's webpage. I saw a few familiar names, including one girl I had kind of remained friends with after I left Chicago. I sent her a quick email, which turned into several, then a phone call, then nothing.
A few months later I got an email from another girl, who had seen my post on Dennis' page, and wrote me. Same thing except for the phone call. I had learned about some of the old gang from both of those ladies and didn't really give things much thought after that.
Then, because of my classes, I decided I needed to face a major fear of mine. I had only been to my father's grave three times in my life. None of the times were because I wanted to go. Each time I was obligated to go and by the third time, going and thinking about it became a major obstacle in my head. The first time was when I was 16 and went to Chicago to visit my grandparents. My grandmother made me call every single fourth cousin eight times removed to say hello. She said they were waiting for me to call. I did, and they'd say, who are you? I'd reply, Eddie's daughter. Then they'd say Eddie who. My grandparents thought a trip to the cemetery would be beneficial for me. It wasn't. Then next time I was there was about 15 years later when my grandfather died. There was my father's headstone and a hole and I fell apart. When my grandmother died ten years later, there was only a handful of people. My mother's brother and his wife, my cousin Marty and me. My aunt had to pry me out of the car because I didn't want to go anywhere near there.
It had been a good fifteen years since I went to Chicago when my other grandfather was still alive. In therapy, I have talked a lot about how my father's death when I was 5 years old has affected me and how much I missed not having a father. I had been thinking about going to the cemetery for a few years. This summer I decided it was time. I talked my son Lowell into going with me. We took a week long road trip to spend about an hour standing over my father's headstone. We hadto ask how to find my father's grave, since I had no clue. He was in the Gardenia section in row 12. I wanted to run, but I've been running from my fears for far too long, and how could I expect a client to face their fears if I couldn't face mine.
I opened the car door and looked to around. Lowell held my hand as we walked around the graves till I saw it. A big headstone that said Jacobson. I paused, but kept walking. Neither of knew what I would do. I was afraid I would fall apart and Lowell would have to drive my shattered soul back to Prescott. My grandfather was on the left, my grandmother in the middle, and my father on the right. There was space for my mother on the other side of my grandfather, which I thought was bizarre. It was so typical of my grandmother to want to be next to my dad. It doesn't matter, as my mother was cremated and her ashes were released in the Atlantic Ocean when I lived in Portland.
I studied the scene. There were two bushes to each side of the headstone. My grandparents paid for perpetual care so the gravesite was tidy. I stood by my father's and the tears came. Not as many as I had imagined. It had been 52 years after all. I silently talked to my father. I left a few strand's of Greg's hair there, like I do when I go someplace significant to me of to what I think would have been to Greg. I got a tissue out and cleaned the bird shit off of his headstone, but not my grandparent's. I barely gave them a second look. I wiped down the bigger stone with my maiden name on it. Lowell stood with me, holding my hand or hugging me if I needed a hug. He didn't say, are you ready to go or imply I was crazy to have driven 3 solid days to get there for this. Lowell was my rock as he has been since he moved to Prescott. After about an hour of crying and reflection and wondering what might have been, I was ready to leave.
I had spoken to my therapist the day before. Jeanine called me to see how I was doing. Of course she knew I was making the trip. We talked about places Lowell and I should go, because Jeanine is originally from Indiana and was very familiar with Chicago. We stayed on the northwest side of Chicago, which I was completely unfamiliar with, so her suggestions of places we should try were welcomed but not practical.
How did I feel? I wasn't destroyed, which was a good thing. I hadn't fallen apart and wanted to get into the grave with my father. After a few minutes, I realized what I felt. It was strength. I felt empowered by having gone to a place that held such painful memories and dealing with the place and the memories in an adult way. I faced my fears and could move on and maybe let go of that part of my past. Yes, I missed so much, growing up without a father. I never felt like everyone else back then, when the nuclear family was the norm. I didn't have him to walk me down the aisle, so to speak, when I got married. For over 50 years, the "what if's" had plagued me. Now I could say I am what I am now because that's what I am supposed to be. I felt empowered and relieved and sad and regretful. I felt loss and I felt a peace and resolution that had been eluding me for decades. I could still look backwards, but I could continue moving forward as I had been trying to do for years.
About a week ago, I got an email from Rhonda, the girl who had written me. She said the Bowen reunion was coming up and I should go look at the web site created for it, since there were pictures of me on it. I couldn't imagine why, since I didn't go there, but I looked. The boy I was in love with in 6th grade had posted class pictures from all the elementary schools that fed into Bowen. There were only two from Hoyne, my elementary school. Oddly enough, they were the same two I still have. I looked at the pictures of those 12 year olds, who had everything in front of them. This was before Kennedy was shot and we were still naïve. I looked at Dennis who was dead. Luckily, I had written everyone's name on the back, in my 12 year old handwriting. Marci, who was my only real friend back then. Ione and Linda who all the boys loved. In her email, Rhonda suggested I go to the reunion. If only I had thought about that before I went to Chicago. I wouldn't have gone though. It's just not me.
I spent some time on the Bowen reunion site and saw pictures of some of the people as 58 years old. I found out Ethan had changed his name to Alex. Their reunion is this Saturday and mine is the following Saturday. I have no interest in mine though I registered for it and have looked to see who has died. Only a few of them have current pictures and the people I am most curious about have not responded. I was shocked to see that my boyfriend in senior year listed an email address. I briefly considered sending him a note, but what would I have said?
I am sitting in a hotel in Las Vegas as I write this. Last night, I met my daughter's in-laws for the first time. I thought about her wedding in October and being back here. Evelyn and Darlene and one of Darlene's daughters came to the hotel with Lowell and me, and we walked over to get frozen hot chocolate from Serendipity 3. Evelyn and I went to Serendipity in New York City almost 20 years ago, when I took her for her 10th birthday. Tonight we are seeing Motion City Soundtrack in concert. Since she introduced me to them, they have been my favorite band. I am listening to them on itunes as I write this on my macbook pro. When did I become a mac person?
I continue to look back over my life, as most people my age do. There is just one more thing I need to do so I can finally move forward and I plan on doing that in the next few weeks. I am still looking forward to things, too. I am so excited about seeing MCS and Blink 182, too, tonight, though Blink may make me sad, since they were one of Greg's favorite bands. I guess that's what life is. A lot of looking backwards with a good dose of looking forward to balance it.
©23 July 2009Lyrics from Even If it Kills Me by Motion City Soundtrack
I’m not saying that I’m giving up
I’m just trying not to think as much as I used to
Cause "never" is a lonely little messed up word
Maybe I’ll get it right some day
For the first time in a long time I can say
That I want to try
I feel helpless for the most part
But I’m learning to open my eyes
And the sad truth of the matter is
I’ll never get over it
But I’m gonna try
To get better and overcome each moment
In my own way
I so want to get back on track
And I’ll do whatever it takes
Even if it kills me
There 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.