Tag: Death

  • Mom and Dad’s Wedding Anniversary

    Today would have been my parent’s 58th Wedding Anniversary. My Ma passed away five years ago, and as we close in on October, it will soon be six years. Normally, I rarely remembered my parents anniversary as it felt a little weird to me to celebrate their anniversary, but at the same time, I should celebrate their anniversary because without it, I wouldn’t be here. Point being that it was not foremost on my mind, and my Ma usually reminded me when it was coming up.

    Their 50th Wedding Anniversary was a big deal, for more than the obvious reasons. Me and my brothers, wives included, threw a big dinner for them. Friends and relatives came in to help celebrate, and me and my little family snuck in town, and surprised my parents. It was great time; great food, great drinks, great stories. It was great, and a wonderful celebration of two very wonderful people who were filled with love, and gave some much love back to the world.

    I had forgotten today was their anniversary. Just about two hours ago, when I looked at the calendar on my computer, did I see the reminder.

    I talked to my Dad yesterday, we had a great conversation, but it didn’t come up. I’m not prone to remember these things, and I wouldn’t expect my father to say anything.

    He still has his wedding ring on. When we were home last, I made a point to check to see if he still had it. Sure did. And why would he take it off.

    There are so many days that trigger memories of my mother. Today is one of them, clearly. But a couple of days ago, it was my eighteenth anniversary of moving from Texas to New York, and that is a date that I am very proud of. And as I thought about my move, I remembered my Ma hugging me and crying as I left for the airport. And at my niece’s wedding this Summer, couldn’t help but wonder how Ma would have reacted to seeing her granddaughter getting married.

    My family doesn’t talk too much about missing Ma. It’s very much understood that we all miss her, and that won’t ever go away. Where we are now is telling funny stories and fond memories when we all get together. Don’t get me wrong, we are all still working through our grief, as that will be a long process. But, talking about her isn’t painful anymore.

  • ODDS and ENDS: Surprised I’m Here, Gotta Have Goals, and Sports

    (Nothin’ to do, nowhere to go…)

    I’m forty-seven years old. Not ashamed of my age, and other than a slight pot belly, I think I look rather good for my age. But for the life of me, when I was a kid, like nine years old, I never imagined that I would be this old. Well, sometimes I thought I’d be really old, like eighty, walking with a cane, shuffling around, being all grandpa like. No, when I was a kid, I thought I’d be in my twenties, and then, nothing. Thirty seemed like it was so far away, let alone forty. That some how, it couldn’t be possible that I would live that long. Not that I had some death wish, or believed I was doomed. No, it was more a matter of time. It’s time, the time it would take to become old seemed insurmountable. There just was no way that I could become that old… When I think about me at nine year old, I think he would be surprised that I am still here. And so bald…

    But the thing that makes getting older tolerable, is having a goal. Something to work towards, or look forward to. My Grandma Groff used to say that all the time when she would come and visit. That and it helps to have some spending money. But the goal thing, having something to accomplish, that has made a big difference if the last year for me. Not that it’s completely gone, but I don’t have that feeling of flounder much any more. That I’m just passing through my life, instead of being active in it.

    Growing up, we were a sports family, and then there was me; the un-athletic kid. I mean I tried. I tried my hand at baseball and basketball up through junior high. I really did love playing baseball, but I wasn’t athletically gifted; Batting ninth and right field were my lot. I took tennis lessons in high school, as my dad believed that we should do something physical, and not be a total loaf. I was pretty good at tennis, but I didn’t have the killer instinct for me to actually be competitive. After high school, I stopped playing any sort of sport. And then I had a daughter, who now is very into soccer. Which is cool, because I really like watching it. In my kid’s mind, watching soccer must mean that I know how to play soccer, right? I had written a week or so ago about helping the kid get ready for the soccer club try out. I enjoyed that, mainly because I was spending time with my daughter, but it was good being out and active. I also see in her mind’s eye that she is starting to think I am an athletic type of person. I enjoy this admiration I am receiving from her, but I know that in a year of two, it’s going to dawn on her how awkward and uncoordinated I really am.

  • Short Story Review: “Smoke” by Nicola Winstanley

    (The short story “Smoke” is part of Nicola Winstanley’s short story collection, which is entitled SMOKE.)

    I took a writing class, long time ago, and the professor pronounced to us on day one, that “Your characters are your babies. And if you want to be a good writer, you have to make your babies suffer.” He was a bit dramatic, but academically, his was correct; characters have to be knocked down to make their eventually rise have any dramatic or cathartic weight. This is not a revolutionary idea, as its just essential to storytelling.

    Nicola Winstanley isn’t afraid to make her characters suffer. In her title story, “Smoke,” she allows the nine-year old Amanda to suffer, but also shows us the suffering of her family, and how each of their own pain affects and inflicts on the others. As the story begins, children are being called home for supper by their mothers, but Amanda’s mother has recently passed away, so no one is calling for her. At home, her older sister Judy, dealing with the loss in her own detached way, instructs Amanda to make herself a dinner of toast, as that is all the food in the house that their father has left for them. They tell themselves that their father is still at work and will be home soon. Eventually, he does come home, but its late, the children should be in bed, and he seems aloof to how to take care of two daughters, let alone himself. What follows is a story about a family dealing with grief, but the focus is on Amanda and her wrestling and discovery of the emotions she is experiencing – as for a nine-year-old, these emotions are just beyond her ability to articulate and understand them, but her feelings are strong enough to engage her to action.

    At times I felt that this story was brutal in its honesty. Amanda at first believes that her mother has just gone away, as if there was a chance for her return, but Amanda’s actions betray this belief of hers. Winstanley marvelously illustrates how Amanda does everything in her power to keep the loneness and the emptiness within her at bay, but Amanda is a child, and handles these complex feelings as a child would – playing with a friend, eating sweets, hiding from her sister, and waiting for her father to return. All for not, as slowly it dawns on Amanda that she is alone.

    The other touch that I enjoyed with this story was how the other two family members dealt with their own grief. Judy’s reaction is to leave this home, and stay with a friend’s family. Maybe Judy is saving herself, finding a way to survive this situation, but to do that she has to abandon her sister. And then there is their father, who’s way of coping is to not be in the home, which clearly no longer feels like a home. Though the story never goes into detail what is keeping their father away, it’s a question that I never felt needs to be answer. No, he is looking out for himself as well, because Winstanley drops an illuminating point, by observing that while the girls are going without, he has time to get new glasses for himself.  From this point, Amanda begins to spiral down, and it is painful to watch. She doesn’t have clean or good fitting clothes. There isn’t enough to eat, and she goes to school hungry, and without a lunch. She finds some sympathy with other children, but she also finds unwanted attention from the local teenagers.

    And here the story takes a turn, in a direction I wasn’t fully expecting; Amanda tries to find her way out of where she’s at. Maybe she doesn’t fully understand why she’s doing it, but we know. The need to sleep in the same bed with her father. The attempts to clean their home. Amanda tries to eat better, and be better. Amanda doesn’t give up, she tries, she fights for security, and to keep the loneness away.

    With the end of the story, and the reconciliation between Amanda and her father, I felt that these characters were now seeing each other, acknowledging that they need to and can do better. But… but there is a melancholy to this ending. The damage has been done. The trauma has been created. These few days of this story might be some of the most impactful days of her life. I felt that at the conclusion of this story, I knew Amanda would be okay, but it would be a journey where she would have to deal with her feelings of abandonment, neglect, food anxiety, authority figures, and shame. There was such a hopeful melancholy with this story, that I just felt crushed by a feeling of compassion for these characters.

    It wasn’t the reaction I was expecting, but as the days went on after reading this story, I kept thinking about Amanda, and how this story very quietly illuminated the exact moment in this person’s life where they stopped seeing the world as a child does, and started taking the first steps toward understanding the world of adulthood.

    Nicola Winstanley made her baby suffer. Yet, Amanda came out on the other end. It was hard at times reading certain passages, and not because something shockingly brutal happened. No, difficult to read because I know that those little indignities that happen in childhood, those are the deepest cuts that take a lifetime to deal with. Maybe I would prefer to be the kid eating sweets, trying to ignore that pain deep down. Nicola Winstanley had the courage to confront that pain, and let Amanda start her healing.

  • ODDS and ENDS: Worst Week, Worster Week, Worstist Week, and I Quit

    So, the week started off bad with the Cowboys choking, but at least the Eagles collapse was a much bigger story. One might say that there was little solace in that fact, but they would be wrong – I really enjoyed watching the Eagles lose to Tampa Bay. I am pissed about the Cowboys, but this will be the last I write about it. Just can’t believe that no one showed up to play on that team. Sure, every year I think they will win the Super Bowl (that’s how I was raised) yet in a realistic sense, I thought for sure they would make it to the Conference Championship, and then lose to San Francisco or Detroit; whoever made it there. But enough of that.

    Then my wife hurt her back on Monday.  Now, she is one tough woman, and I have been doing my best to comfort her, but there is nothing I can do to take her pain away. It’s a pretty helpless situation to be in, and that goes for both of us. Slowly she’s been getting her mobility back, but it has been rough going. The whole week got shot to hell for both of us, so it feels like we are running behind, too. I know she will be better soon, and we will get thing back on track, but it’s just frustrating.

    And then the kid had a big test at school that she was positive that she wasn’t going to do well on. It’s a reading and writing test, and she’s not wrong, she is having trouble with writing her thoughts down. Part of this is left over effects from Covid causing school closings, and this is the educational crack she fell into. And unfortunately, many other kids did as well. I helped her prep for the test this week, and she can comprehend and do the work, but she just doesn’t have much confidence in herself when it comes to the test. This was another place that I felt very helpless this week. I was trying to encourage her, build up her confidence, and I even used sports metaphors about how you have to believe and expect to win first, then put in the hard work to be successful. I don’t know… We haven’t got the results yet on the test, so it’s agonizing waiting to hear how she did.

    Finally, to shit out my week, I learned yesterday that a good friend of mine from college died suddenly the night before. There was no warning… they were here and then they weren’t. Logically, it’s been twenty years since I was in college, and unfortunately these things will happen now. That’s a meaningless thing to say because logic in these situations never makes anyone feel better. I hadn’t seen them in close to eighteen years. I hadn’t spoken to them in, like, fifteen years. Hadn’t communicated with them in five, and the last interaction we had was about five months ago when we “liked” each other’s pictures. Just thought there would be one more chance. Like the next time I was in Texas, I would head out to the theatre they worked at, and I would see them. And they would be friendly and kind, and hug, because they were kind. The kindest. They were especially kind to me when I was new in the theatre department, and didn’t know anything. They were kind to help me then, and as I see the tributes on social media, I am hearing again about their kindness, and how wonderful they were to everyone.

  • Kissinger is Dead and All I Got was His Glasses

    I never had a very high regard for Mr. Kissinger, but every time his name is brought up, this is what I think of:

    There are a great number of opinions of Henry out there, which are being floated today, and I can’t speak for everyone, so I won’t…