It has felt like tomorrow since yesterday.

2 years later.

A dream came to me this week. Sharon and I are walking on Wilshire towards Fairfax, by the old May Co store and the streets are all abustle with holiday cheer. People mob the sidewalks and through a gap in the crowd I see an old fashioned library study carrel. A man in a fedora is peeking out from the top, and I think to myself, "That hat looks like it belongs to Greg. That head looks like it belongs to Greg."

But we keep walking and I don't raise the alarm or say a word to Sharon because that happens all the time and besides, Greg is dead anyway; I'm walking down the street and someone turns a corner and he looks like Greg, or someone is in line at the movies and he looks like Greg, or someone is sitting in a bar and he looks like Greg. And most of the time I get closer and he doesn't look anything like Greg, or he looks a little like Greg, or he walks like Greg but doesn't sit right or lean his head the right way. And so I figure the guy in the study carrel was the same story- another tall guy with an Italian nose and green eyes.


Except that since we're walking right past the carrel, I take a look inside and it IS Greg, and he's not sick or sad or even the slightest bit dead, and all I can say to him is "Why are you just sitting here?" and before he can answer, I wake up.


What's the point of the dream? I don't know. I do know that for months after he died I saw Greg constantly -without the study carrel- and every time my heart would pound and I would startle someone and I'd likely as not burst into tears afterward or follow him several blocks out of my way to figure exactly what it was that tricked my eye, and my mind. 2 years later, I still notice someone but it's more objective and I don't forget even for a second that Greg is dead. Not even in my dream. I guess that's progress for you- even if it hurts to feel like I'm letting go.

Perhaps sometime in this wide mysterious universe in which we live, I will walk down a street somewhere and see the tall man in a black coat and fedora hat and cry out the name that is always on my lips and he will turn.....and it will be my dad. Sometime, someday.

Until we meet again....
Black hole love.

Sh*t my dad says (that we cribbed from other sh*t)

So everyone has figured out by now that Greg and I watched a LOT of movies, tv shows, misc forms of entertainment together. Some of the best lines from said entertainment found their way into our conversational rotations and became catch phrases we bandied around like nobody's business. It was a secret connection, partly because we clearly alarmed other people with these random outbursts; sometimes I'll still occasionally say one of these aloud, even though the most common reaction is a blank stare...I know my dad is cracking up somewhere. Below, a selection:

"Pull the STRING! Pull the STRING!" - Ed Wood
"Yadda Yadda, warden." - Lenny Bruce
"If you're funny, I'm a pretzel." - Sweet Smell of Success
"Uh-oh, nymphos." - Shock Corridor
"You big banana-head!" - The Asphalt Jungle
"Next stop, Willoughby!" - The Twilight Zone
"Whatever you do, don't sell that cow!" - Bonnie & Clyde
"There's always room for one more.." - The Twilight Zone

"Gooble Gobble, we accept you- one of us! One of us!" - Freaks

There were so so many more, but I'm drawing a blank and unfortunately he's not around to ask for reminders. I'll come back and post more as they occur to me. And finally, one of our very favorites (which involved lifting our shirts a bit and pinching our belly buttons):

"Helloooooo (la la laaa)" - Seinfeld

Greg & Social Consciousness

Oh man, I have a serious Walmart hangover. It's all T's fault, really: after camping, I realized I needed a mess kit for the upcoming portable Suddeth Thanksgiving. Everywhere I checked they weren't thin enough, or foldy enough, or cute enough. Unfortunately, T's evil Walmart kit was....just right. I felt (and probably sounded) just like a drug addict, slouching down the aisle and muttering, "This is the LAST time, I swear!" and pulsing in the back of my mind was the thought, "Greg is seriously unimpressed with you right now."

You see, Greg not only didn't shop at Walmart, but he could also provide you a list of precisely how Walmart was ruining the world. He loved his soapbox tirades, but he also prided himself on being well-informed in his rage. As I got older, it became a joke that he would literally take a little hop and a bow at the end of a rant, stepping down from his soapbox.

Other issues that got him going:
Education: When my dad was a student teacher of history, he got in trouble for showing videos of Vietnam War protests and holding "current events" discussions. Many other teachers at that time didn't address the "social studies" aspect of history, but he made his students be aware and participate in the unfolding of their own lives. When I became a teacher, he ordered innovative math curriculums and taped PBS specials about early childhood literacy and poverty as a learning disability.

GLBT Rights: Greg and I went to a SAG screening for Milk, which led to a discussion of Proposition 6, which I had never heard of and which was on the ballot the year after Greg & Sharon moved to CA. Prop 6 would have made the firing of all gay teachers mandatory. Of course, Greg was livid then and he was livid in 2008 about Prop 8. According to him, "Gay marriage isn't a sex issue, and that's where people get confused. It's an issue of civil rights. Marriage is a basic civil right for everybody or for nobody."

He watched Rachel Maddow and Jon Stewart, but he also told me that he read conservative newspapers in college, because it's "important to know your enemy."

He believed in unions, but he wasn't naive.

He gave away hundreds of dollar bills, dozens of hot Thanksgiving plates, and several blankets.....but the recipient had to have worse shoes than his.

He believed in animal rights, but not at the expense of human rights. PETA billboards made him shout. Hurricane Katrina news coverage made him give.

He put his money where his mouth was and pushed hard to see Barack Obama elected as the first Black president of the US. I'm so grateful it happened during his lifetime.

Oh, and he also campaigned for George McGovern. Ha.

Many Happy Returns, Pop-Pop.

One of Greg’s famous lines: “I don’t like children…..except my own.” It was a grand line, but I’d like to offer some evidence to the contrary.

His dramatic skills were put to good use in Dillon’s classroom, where he came in to read Halloween stories several years in elementary school. Greg would put on his black fedora and an all black outfit and go to town on picture books for the whole class, complete with scary noises and punched-up dialogue.

His height came in handy during helicopter rides for our friend Aaron F, although when Greg’s big fat older daughter saw how much fun Aaron was having, she needed some helicopter rides of her own.

His Irish heritage was a boon to any child that visited his office, where leprechauns were known to deposit their loose change and pot‘o’gold spillover. As a rational adult I know where that money must have come from, but I swear to God I never saw it land. And I was watching carefully. When we moved to the big house, the leprechauns came with him. Those quarters came in handy for college laundry.

More adults were afraid of Greg than babies. You’d think his size alone (not to mention those eyebrows) would have set off screaming fits, but babies loved to be held by Greg. They had a cool way of staring into his eyes, and he would give them a mile-long stare back.

The ability to engage didn’t slip away with older kids either. Whether it was taking my visiting niece out to lunch or sitting in the hospital room of my high school friend who’d attempted suicide, Greg knew how to play it cool. He never pushed too hard, pandered, or ignored. As a teenager when you don’t know if you want everyone to look away forever or to get just an ounce of fucking attention for once, he knew how to keep a balance.

So Greg did like other children….or at least children liked him. However, the second part of his statement was indeed true. Greg was an amazing father who loved his own kids beyond faith and reason. I think there are a couple of lessons in there that might as well be shared.

One area of inflexibility involved baby talk. Greg never talked down to children or babies; he didn’t believe in it. We did have to have a little discussion when I was in 3rd grade about how even though there’s no such thing as a bad word, some words are less appropriate than others for school. I think there were some George Carlin quotations involved. Anyone who doubts his authority on the matter of baby talk should witness the verbal skills and vocabulary of each of his children (and their modesty, ha).

As much as he loved a well made film, I don’t think it was for love of Victor Fleming that Greg hauled a gigantic old-school wood-paneled television up to the 2nd floor of our duplex the afternoon that Wizard of Oz was supposed to air, when I was three years old. It was well worth the effort, because I watched the VHS tape he made every single day for the next year (literally). Child-rearing lesson #2: figure out what your kids will like…..and make plenty of copies. This came in handy with his son as well, as Greg taped about a hundred of Dillon’s Dodgers games over the years.

I was sung to sleep many nights, but Dillon was sung to sleep every night. Unless Greg was on vacation or on location, he sang one of a few Irish lullabies: Danny Boy, Christmas in Killarney, Athlone, etc. He knew how to make his kids feel safe, how to relax them into slumber and send them off to Nod in style. So the 3rd rule: if you want your kids to sleep through the night, make sure they know somebody’s looking out for them; in the real world, the dream world, and everywhere in between. Also- don’t show them The Exorcist right before bed when they are the same age as Regan and their name is Megan unless you want them to shit a brick every night for the next week. But that’s a story that belongs in a different post, Greg & the movies.

Nicknames from Greg: little max, maxie, champ, my darling-my blood, little popinjay.
Nicknames for Greg: Daddy, Daddio, Cool Papa G, BDG, GDS, Da.

One of the topics that came under discussion in the last year of Greg’s life was what my kids were supposed to call him, should I end up having any. He was deciding between Grandaddy and Pop-Pop. It makes my heart ache when I see tall gray-haired men and their grandchildren, especially at the movies. I am so grateful for the excellent rearing that I got…..Happy Birthday, Daddio. Enjoy your vanilla/vanilla cupcake and dream a little dream for me.

Scattered Thoughts on Greg's Literary Light

As someone who loves books on a deeply personal level, as well as working in bookstores for a decade and teaching as a reading specialist now, I can say with authority that my father was a major reader. He read novels, plays, history, and writing advice with almost equal fervor. He read every night before bed. He read on the can. He read on set. He read while waiting for other things to happen. He had the most awesome early editions of wonderful books, and the spines were so cracked you knew they weren’t just for show. And I had access to every one of them…..

I am a serious book nerd, as pretty much everyone who knows me knows. Written words are my most important art form, above performance, painting, and photography. While Sharon gets the credit for making me into a capable reader, Greg gets the credit for making books a part of my very soul. I was always welcome to read anything from his collection, as far back as I can remember. I assume he figured that if it was too mature for me, I would give up and put it back. The only author he ever tried to warn me away from was Saul Bellow (he told me to wait a decade, I didn’t, and Herzog bored me into never trying Bellow again). Thanks to Greg’s easygoing attitude, I had read James M. Cain, John Irving, and JD Salinger before I was 14. I read absolutely for pleasure and all of the time. (I just realized that sentence works in both the past and present tense of read)

When I moved to New York, Greg enrolled me in my own personal book-of-the-month club, and every thirty days or so I received a brown paper package in the mail with some new reading material. Sometimes he sent a book of his own that I hadn’t read yet, sometimes it was a brand new book, and sometimes it was a cool edition from a used bookstore. You’d think it would be pretty hard to introduce a bookslave like myself to new authors, but it was because of Greg that I developed a deep fondness for authors like Philip Roth, Maile Meloy, Annie Proulx , and Suzan Lori-Parks, among many others. He ended up sending me about 36 books before I moved back to CA- that’s dedicated parenting for ya!

Some of Greg’s favorite authors that are also mine: Richard Yates, Raymond Carver, Elmore Leonard, James Baldwin, Raymond Chandler, James Ellroy, Albert Camus, Nathaniel West, John Kennedy Toole, Andre Dubus, and the list goes on and on and on. It would be faster for me to mention the authors I love that weren’t influenced by Greg’s taste.

I’ve mentioned this story before, but after one of Greg’s chemo treatments in June 2008, he and Sharon went to Borders and brought home the new hardcover by David Sedaris. I’d mentioned that I had been in the library queue for months and was still #534 or so- for a broke student teacher, Greg tossing the book in my lap with a smile was nothing short of a miracle.

Naturally, all this reading is inextricably tied in to a love of writing, but this has been a long enough entry and I’ll save all that for another time. I’ll close with an inscription from the edition of Writing Down the Bones that Greg gave me and that I came across recently:

MY DEAR MAX,
ONE OF MY TEACHERS ONCE SAID, TAKE GOOD CARE OF YOUR GIFT. YOU ARE GOING TO BE A WONDERFUL TEACHER, BUT DON’T NEGLECT YOUR WRITING GIFT. HAPPY 25TH BIRTHDAY!
MUCH LOVE AND MANY IRISH KISSES,
DADDIO

Erin Go Bra-less

Letter from Sharon: March 2010

ST. PATRICK’S DAY 2010
Past……present……future

PAST: Oh, the memories!! From the first time I boiled a corned beef all those years ago, and it was so tough we had to laugh so I wouldn’t cry about it….the road ahead lead to St. Patrick’s Day becoming one of our favorite Suddeth family traditions…….St. Patrick’s Day was the one day of the year where the ol’ Dutch lady honored her Irish love in grand style, and in the process, our home became filled with not only the smell of the best corned beef this side of the Rockies (I‘m just sayin‘…) , but also overflowing with so much love and laughter and fun! That night always made me feel like our house was “home” to all our family & friends, almost like a family reunion where so many busy lives came together for a few hours to share and catch up and remind ourselves of how richly blessed we are to know each other. But for me, it was even more personal………it was a small way to let the world know how proud I was to be Greg’s wife, and to acknowledge the richness he brought into my life. And so, it was just perfectly fitting and so incredible that you all brought that energy and love back to our family in our backyard on St. Patrick’s Day last year………….I still often sit out there under the stars and feel it.

PRESENT: I’m taking a year off. There……….I said it. Talk about mixed emotions. But I guess the most honest thing to say is this: It just doesn’t feel right this year. I’m grateful that I don’t have to try and explain in words what I’m feeling in my heart.

If you’d like, I invite you to Megan’s blog for her dad: gregsuddeth.blogspot.com. Max, like her father, finds a way with words that will make you laugh & cry, sometimes in the same sentence……oh, so Irish of them, don’t you think??? It’d be great to read some of your favorite St. Patrick’s Day memories there if you’d like to share them.

FUTURE: Never say never!! I have a feeling there’s still more corned beef in your future one of these years ahead! But ‘til then, I’m looking forward to keeping in touch with all of you….looking forward to backyard bbq’s, taking in some dodger games, coffee dates, and just hanging out……………let’s not let time pass too quickly before we find some time to share.

I hope that each of you will take a few minutes on St. Patrick’s Day this year to feel the love coming back to you that you brought to our home for so many years………… remember the good times………..share some Irish Hugs & Kisses along the way……………

Baby, you can drive my car...

A couple weeks ago, Dillon made a very astute observation from Dillon-land. We were having a riled up argument about Greg’s office, in which I yelled, “It’s Greg’s office, not yours, and anybody can go in there who wants to,” to which Dillon promptly replied, ‘Greg can’t.”

He made a similar observation when we were driving to Trader Joe’s in Greg’s car (very agreeably on that occasion) and as we drove along with nothing but the radio between us, I thought about all the great memories I have of being with my dad in his car, both as passenger and driver.

I learned how to drive in the Ford when I was in high school, and I distinctly remember night drives when he would pick me up from my acting classes at SMC. I would come out of class around 10pm to find Greg leaning against the driver’s side door, sometimes smoking, often just checking out the night sky. He would move around to the passenger side so I could drive home. Once we were at a red light and the green arrow came on, so the left turn lane started to move. I was zoning out and let my foot off the gas too, even though I wasn’t in the turning lane but in the lane to the right (luckily at the head of the line). Once I slammed my foot back on the brake, I sheepishly looked over at Greg and all he said was “Happens to the best of us, Maxie.”

So clearly it was through no fault of my driving buddy that I didn’t get my license until I was in my mid-twenties. Circumstances and reluctance went hand in hand and I made very good friends with public transportation, but when I moved back from New York it was time to get drivin’. Greg took me to the DMV for my test (yes, THREE times before I passed) and had the same chill attitude and supportive neck squeeze ready each time. In retrospect, I admire so much that when I did pass on the third try, his reaction was so understated (as if I wasn’t almost a decade late, as if it wasn't my third try) that I felt even more proud of myself than if he had jumped up and down and sang.

When Greg got sick, he still did most of the driving most of the time. The last time he drove me somewhere, he was backing out of the driveway and said, "Can you check for cars? I can't turn my neck lately." After that we traded seats. December 5th, 2008 was the last time that I drove Greg somewhere in his car. We went to two different Ralph's grocery stores looking for a specific Sinter Klaas present for Sharon that he had in mind. We had to lean against the car for a minute in the parking lot while his head cleared. I was so glad to do that small thing for my father.

From the passenger end, I have a million great memories of Greg driving. This wasn't the Ford, but Dillon went to preschool in Atwater Park, which was a bit of a jaunt. I used to love when Greg and I would listen to the radio and drive over there together. I remember when we heard "Yesterday" on KLOS and Greg told me that Paul had written it for his dead mom.

When he used to take us to Union Station or Dodger Stadium, he would jazz the gas on that big hill up to Temple from Beverly, and Dillon and I would squeal ‘Wheeeeee!” The other way around, I always felt a happy rush when I saw him turn a corner at Union Station or LAX or Bob Hope Airport; that was when I really felt home from San Diego or New York or wherever. Also, I don’t need any parenting expert to tell me that the best conversations with teenagers happen in the car, where it’s impossible and dangerous to talk face-to-face. Side-to-side led to honesty, patience, and empathy – on both ends.

A year ago it made my stomach clench to see Greg’s car in the parking lot at my school, because it reminded me just exactly why it was there and who can’t drive it anymore. Now I’m grateful to be driving Greg’s car because it makes me feel close to my dad. Driving at night, radio blaring, windows cracked, cold California jasmine-scented breezes pouring in….I learned from the best. Thanks, Daddio.