Joe Morris: May His Memory Be a Blessing

Joe Morris died this weekend, and so I felt like talking about him a little bit, here, where I haven't talked in so long. Uncle Joey is the ringleader in my "band of honorary uncles," the stand up comics who befriended my parents when they first moved to LA in the late 70s, and who were always around, eating Sharon's food and testing lines on each other. Joe was one of my parents' first friends in LA, and he has been in my life the whole time I've been alive. So I thought I'd tell you some things. 

 The All My Sons quote, "If you want to know, ask Joe" was a constant refrain in our house. Joe was both smart and knowledgeable. Smart because he was well-read and argumentative and intelligent. I learned about music and authors and journalism from him, especially mysteries and true crime, and he was pleased for me when I got hired at Murder Ink after I moved to New York. He and Greg could go back and forth for decades about history and movie business and sports trivia. 

Knowledgeable because Joe always knew the best places to eat and the coolest places to visit in every American city I've ever visited. I don't even know how, if this was from years of going on tour for stand up, or if he just got around, but this was before Yelp and blogs. I would always check with him before going on a trip or moving somewhere. He told me where to get a muffuletta in New Orleans and where to find breakfast in New York and where to get deli food in LA. He advised me where to stop between LA and Vegas when I was old enough to go with my boyfriend but not old enough to gamble. Years ago we went to Tijuana to buy silver and then we ate in this tiny spot where I ordered enchiladas, and they came in a bowl looking like nothing I knew of Mexican food, and they were delicious. Joe specialized in hole-in-the-wall hidden gems, and probably lots of people know those places now, or know how to find out about them, but Joe knew first, and without the internet. 

Joe was also so good at gifts. When I was very little, he'd get bizarre, noisy, colorful toys from Downtown Toy Mart. I was stupid in love with this penguin ladder thing where they would go click-clacking up and around this ice mountain, and then come sliding down and start over. There were also musical toys and banging toys and windup toys. Greg did not like Joe's toys as much as I did, haha. When I was a little older, the Fred Segal sale was the same month as my birthday so he would take me there and we would find an ENTIRE BIRTHDAY OUTFIT. This was the 80s, so the best one of course was a rainbow lycra bicycle shorts and top combination that I wore out. When I was older than that, I became obsessed with the Rocky Horror Picture Show and got all dressed up for my birthday and he took me and my friends to a midnight show at the Nuart, and stood in the back so we could pretend we were there by ourselves but he could still keep an eye on us. At the end of high school when I was obsessed with everything vintage, he picked me up one morning and we started in the valley and ended up in Ktown on an epic thrifting hunt for dresses. My favorite one from that day was covered in strawberries; the shop was so tiny and had a garage door instead of a storefront, so he stood outside on the sidewalk while I looked. What I'm trying to say, is that Joe's gifts were an experience unto themselves in addition to stuff.  

Here are some more things that didn't fit anywhere else but that I want to share;

• I saw Killer Klowns from Outer Space because of Joe, and that was a disaster. But I also saw Bugsy Malone because of Joe, and that was a success, so I guess they cancel each other out
• Joey's house is where we saw all the pay-per-view boxing matches, everyone crammed into a small apartment with huge pizzas. Sharon was the first one to notice: " He bit Holyfield!" 
• He had a cat named Mushnik who was my enemy
• Joe was a regular at Dillon's birthday parties at El Coyote, at Thanksgiving, at St. Patrick's Day. He always brought green bagels and the first thing I would do when he got there is hide one for the morning after the party 
• He directed me to a mechanic in Ventura ("If you want to know, ask Joe") when I finally started driving and bought an old, unreliable Jetta
• He could tolerate the spiciest food I've ever seen a white person eat

When Greg died, I wrote the obituary for his hometown paper- people needed to know. A separate notice also appeared in Variety, which I was grateful for even though to this day I don't know why or how or if someone had to pay for it or if it was a matter of notifying them, which I wouldn't have thought to do. Then I started this blog, and it was a huge factor in processing my grief. Even though I don't really write here anymore, I decided to write this. 

Joe was a constant in my life from before I was born. Constant in both senses of the word, that he was always around AND that he was steady. Our family could count on him. 

This post is personal and disorganized, not an obituary, but a memorial to my Uncle Joey. May his memory be a blessing. 

St. Peter at the Pearly Gates

Ray Charles, Queenie, Greg....Lucy. They've all hit the road, Jack, and are in heaven now. The Suddeths will have another dog, but Lucy was our last pet that knew Greg. Lucy who nudged Greg's heart open after the death of our dog Queenie. Lucy who endured hours of my repetitive musical renditions of "I Love Lucy and She Loves Me" and "Lucille, Why Can't You Be True?" Lucy who eyed Mickey with disdain but let him eat all her food. Lucy who would have followed Sharon anywhere and whose favorite place was leaning up against Dipity's leg.

Lucy, who is Dillon's best friend. (I just can't write this paragraph in past tense yet). Dillon wakes up in the morning and first thing, he looks around the house for Lucy. Dillon goes to bed at night and Lucy's is the last face he kisses, getting down on his hands and knees. He talks to her for hours, and he bosses her around. He processes through her ("Lucy, Greg's not here, only Megan's here.") and expresses himself through her ("Lucy wants to watch the Dodgers, mom!").

Lucille Suddeth came to the family for Dillon's 18th birthday, and she has always been his dog. Some years ago, she contracted an autoimmune disease - she went blind, had some tumors, lost a bunch of teeth.......and developed magical angel wings on her face. Only fitting for such a peaceful, loving dog. Such a gentle dog for being such a big girl.

She didn't bark for months. Lucy had this spot in the corner of the dining room, and at first she would curl herself into it and observe for hours. Days. She was afraid of everything, but strangely she wasn't afraid of Dillon's loud mouth and grabby hands. She didn't like rain, to the point that we thought maybe she was a Katrina rescue. When she finally barked at the mailman we thought, "Now she knows she's home." Literally the only bad thing I ever remember her doing was chewing a pair of Greg's sunglasses that he left on the patio - and I think that actually might have been Queenie. She was an excellent chaser of squirrels and loved walks and car rides. The backseat of Greg's car was striped with dog hair that was impossible to get out; sometimes he would drive her around just for the hell of it, because she loved taking a ride.

One time the groomers shaved her wrong and she had a giant poofy head - Dillon came home and said "What have you done with MY dog?" After it grew out, he started calling her "The Real Lucy."

The thing about getting a rescue dog is that you don't know their entire history, only their history with you. Lucy was a mystery, but she came at the right time and stayed as long as she could, and then a little longer. When someone (or somedog) dies after an extended illness, it is both not a shock and yet a great blow. There were so many narrow escapes already! We love you Lucy, with your dog face and dog hair and your dog smile - you are the best dog. We're going to miss you so much, but we're grateful you're not sick anymore.

From Greg's play, Angel Feathers:

Roy

She knows how they try to trick you, this ordinary looking gate keeper who turns out to be the devil. The gatekeeper tries to trick a dead coon hunter into coming through this gate and leaving his dead hound behind. Tells him the hound dog can't come in, tells him the hound dog has to go through a separate gate for dogs. But the hound starts barking and the coon hunter smells something fishy. Or the hound dog does. Devil smell or something. Then the hunter and his dog say thanks but no thanks and mosey on down the road to a nice little garden where they run into a nice little fella, who turns out to be St. Pete in bib overalls. Well, St. Pete tells him that he and his dog are more than welcome to come into the Garden of Heaven together. Tells 'im that it's one big happy Heaven for man and beast alike. Same place. Same Heaven. 

Dime for my thoughts

And so it's been ten years since I've started this blog, ten years since my world was shot to shit. I've been wracking my brain and twisting my heart for weeks, trying to figure out what could be momentous enough to write on such a day. Then I said...fuck it. There's nothing I could write on its own that would be important enough, so here are 19 random thoughts about Greg, of varying intensity and sentimentality.

1. Greg used to hide the Christmas cookies. He would keep them in his office, and Sharon or I (never Dillon) would have to come looking if we wanted something sweet. He was the only family member who could be trusted as the keeper of the cookies, while he broke his own circus animals in half, one pink and one white. Unless it was Christmas, then it was one green OR red and one white. For a man who struggled with addiction, he had a willpower I've never been able to muster on my own.

2. Hauling my Xmas boxes up from the garage this year, I found myself thinking, "Why the fuck are these boxes so heavy BOTH ways on the stairs?" They ought to be empty on the way back down, when the decorations are situated in my house for the season. So I decided to purge. And purge. And purge. God, how I love throwing shit away! Got me thinking about Greg and that Marie Kondo had nothing on him for method. I remember him going through all of his stuff in the only space that belonged entirely to him, his office, and how he explicitly said that he didn't want to leave anyone with a pile of crap to sort after he was dead. It's been ten years, and there's still a bunch of stuff I haven't been able to go through. Was he prescient, or just a minimalist? I'm grateful either way.

3. The eyebrow! Greg always had wild brows, but as he got older there was this one stubborn hair (I think it was in his left eyebrow) that would buck convention, and that he refused to trim or tame. A single hair would seriously stick out like 2 inches from his face. That one eyebrow hair could have been an isolated eccentricity, but it does make me wonder about Greg as an old man. He was completely vain about his appearance (luckily he was handsome) and it's hard to imagine how he would have aged - of course, I'll never know. Would he have become gross? Was the eyebrow an indicator that someday he would have started to refuse bathing, settle on a cookie paunch, blow his nose into his hands? Would there have come a time when I would have been embarrassed by his elderly habits? Is that a strange thing to even wonder about your dead dad?

4. Santa Claus. This is a story I know that I've told before, but it's one of my holiday favorites and so bears repeating. One year in the duplex, when I was little, I woke up on Christmas morning. Santa must have been in a hurry, because the cookies were crumbled, white shreds of tissue paper hung from the fireplace grate, and giant muddy boot tracks crisscrossed the carpet (the CARPET!). Sharon was so angry she could have spit, but I was entranced. Someone had made magic that night, and maybe he wasn't fat and beardy... but he probably did have a little too much bug juice (or so Sharon would have said).

5. Anyone who knows me, knows that my hair has been every color in nature (and some not natural at all) except for blue. Coloring my hair is one of my favorite things to do, and I have great memories of standing over a bathroom sink with my friend Nat as we shared a box of burgundy, or not so great memories of the distinct line between gypsy black waves and two full inches of brown roots. But my favorite hair color is, always has been, and always will be pink. The first time I had pink hair was because Greg gifted me with a visit to his own stylist, in Beverly Hills. As a teenager, I could have been dolloping my hair with random splotches of bleach and kool aid, but instead she spent HOURS combing tiny highlights through my ten thousand pounds of hair and covering those with the prettiest, glowiest shade of pink. Greg didn't ask why I wanted pink hair, he just accepted who I was and helped make it so that my adolescent hair was glamorous and not sad. I think of him every time my shade changes.

6. Between full moons tonight, I'm thinking about Greg walking the dogs. When he got sober, Greg would walk Queenie and later Lucy after dark, after the world went to sleep, and he would offer up gratitude. If Lucy is a "pound dog," then Queenie was truly our "reservoir dog" because that's where a friend found her before she came to live with us. We had always had cats before - Sharon wasn't exactly a pet person (just look at her now though!) but Big Max (Greg's mom) had loved animals absolutely and always. We got Queenie on a trial run after I promised to totally take care of her every need unto eternity. That lasted about a month. At the end of her life, it was Greg who lifted an arthritic Queenie up and down the back steps to do her business. It was Greg who struggled most when it was time to say goodbye. Dillon often references Queenie, side by side in heaven with Greg. I like to think of them still taking those night walks together, except now among the stars instead of below them. They move through black space with stars all around them, kind of like the opening scene of "It's a Wonderful Life."

7. Getting to hear my aunt sing in church today was beautiful. I was not baptized or raised with religion, and I never missed it. Then when I was a teenager, something about the romanticism of Mass got to me and I asked my dad to take me to church. We used to go to St Ambrose on Fountain sort of regularly, then on Easter and at Christmas, and then rarely. But when we first started going, the priest there was awesome. His sermons were thought-provoking and inspiring without being preachy. He dwelt in love rather than fear, and he was FUNNY. I always loved pressings hands with those around me at the end of the service and repeating, "Peace be with you." Then that guy got sent to minister in Las Vegas (which was probably fitting) and the next priest was Irish and judgy. That was pretty much the end of my attendance. But I still liked how my own family lived, with integrity if without religion. Singing in church still makes my heart glad, and I'm no longer leery about organized religion- I just chuck the parts that don't apply to me. I'm glad that was an experience I first enjoyed with my dad.

8. Impulsive dance party tonight! Greg considered himself to have excellent rhythm. Opening credits to TV shows were his specialty, but he could also slow dance with me riding his feet.

9. There was this guy who used to wash windows at the gas station at Beverly and Fairfax, and Greg would talk with him forever. I used to run up to that man I barely knew and hug him, because I was a kid and he was familiar and kind, and what did I know? But Greg never thought that was wrong. He recognized people living on the street as real people and he treated them that way, which sounds simple but happens rarely. He looked straight at the person he was engaging with and he always gave everyone money (as long as they didn't have better shoes than he did). I know it's easier to be that way when you're 6'3" and strong, but Greg never seemed threatened by another person's humanity. I'd like to be more like that.

10. Luna loved the smell of Greg's feet. I can't stand men's feet (thank God my first husband wore sneakers and never sandals) and Luna couldn't stand people in general, but she would wind herself around Greg's flip flops and lick his long, elegant toes (his words). When we lived in New York and Greg came to visit, for some reason he would sleep in the kitchen instead of the living room. We lived in a railroad apartment, and the kitchen held the front door. When I would creep out in the morning to go to work, Greg would be sleeping on a mattress dragged under the kitchen table with the fan roaring, and Luna would be perched on her hind legs like a squirrel, nose fluttering like a rabbit's as she crouched over his feet sticking out from under the table, patiently waiting for him to wake up.

11. Driving back from the airport after visiting the Midwest, the Beatles "Inner Light" comes on the stereo and I have an impulsive frantic seat dancing party - I'm home! I can see the ocean! How did Greg know that his wild child firstborn would need to be a California baby? Of course, his California was not my California. His California was measured in comedy clubs on Sunset and first run movies and palm trees in December and Samuel French and running into an Academy nominated actor on the night of the Oscars at the Beverly Connection Ralphs. My California is the one of Big Sur and ocean waves and Lost Coasts, but he knew. He knew.

12. Recently I was talking with some of my mama friends about letting their kids come into bed with them. They were maybe a little horrified that my parents had a strict rule, that I could only get into the parental bed after one of them had vacated it (I guess my parents had a lot to talk about in bed). Sharon would cuddle me up in my own bed at night, but she was the early riser so most often I would creep in with Greg on weekend mornings. The fan was still on, and we would drowsily talk about a someday lake house. He told stories about how the air would smell and how peace would sift the light, and I felt safest and warmest and full of dreams.

13. One of my favorite gifts I ever gave anyone was a poem. It was about shadowboxing, a glass bottle, and a cat. I wrote the lines and Cesar illustrated. We framed it and Greg hung it. He always encouraged my writing, even when it was unformed and sloppy and weird. He made me believe I have a voice.

14. Again in the car, this time driving back to LA and weeping and warbling along with Dolly Parton's "I'll Be Home for Christmas." Would Greg find this maudlin? He was not big on Christmas music to my memory, except for outliers like James Brown singing "Santa Claus Go Straight to the Ghetto" or Frank Sinatra singing "Jingle Bells." Maybe it's hard to believe with his son belting along with Burl Ives, or his daughter popping like it's hawt to "Christmas in Hollis," but there was an exception. Greg always put his children to sleep with a song, and the song was always "Danny Boy" or "Athlone." Except in December, when the song was "Christmas in Killarney." I think there's a Bing Crosby version that they rarely play on the radio, but I will always hear it in Greg's voice, "The prettiest picture you've ever seen/ Is Christmas in Killarney/ with all of the folks at home." It's only in dreams that all of the folks are home, but what a lovely dream it is.

15. There was this hilarious anecdote when I was little, about Greg and Sharon living in an old house in Iowa, and the time a swarm of mice came out of a cabinet and Greg was swinging at them with a tennis racket, little mouse guts everywhere on white pants. That was until I moved to a 5th floor apartment in New York with a hoarder on the 4th floor. One night I was home alone (Cesar worked nights in a restaurant) and there was a mouse in the kitchen. But instead of scurrying, he swerved, slowly, and the effect was grotesque. Someone must have put down poison, but it wasn't me. I threw Luna into the kitchen and closed the door, whereupon she immediately scratched the door and whined, "This is not my fucking business, who do you think I am?" So I called Greg in a panic. He was by turns kind, sympathetic, and impatient. Finally he said, "Christ Max, I'm 3,000 miles away- what do you want me to DO? Deal with it!" So I grabbed the broom and, with a warrior cry, swept the confused and impaired mouse out the front door to the landing, and over the railing, and down five floors to his splatting death in the lobby. Greg was only a little impressed. When he came to visit a month or so later, he set over twenty traps. I had naively thought the same mouse was visiting over and over. We didn't have a mouse problem after that.

16. Walking past the cafeteria after school and the PEAK kids are rehearsing "Jingle Bell Rock" for their holiday program. When I was in elementary school, Greg videotaped all of my holiday programs and poetry recitals and assemblies. His favorite and oft-quoted line from the Simpsons was Homer whining, "How many grades does this school have?" at Springfield Elementary's own holiday program. Greg showed up for shit. He flew to Iowa when my cousin had pneumonia, and he went to people's plays that he hadn't worked with in years. He was a great writer of letters, to people who were grieving, and to people on their sober birthdays, and to people that he thought could use a word. Greg was PRESENT.

17. High Low Jick Jack Game. Greg's play "Being of Sound Mind" was about an Irish-American family coming together after the matriarch dies at Christmas, and there's a scene where they play Pitch. He was just a couple years older than I am now when it was produced. This is the first play of his that I remember being old enough to see in the theater (The Whitefire Theatre in Sherman Oaks). I loved the story, the actors, and the production itself. When I was older, I loved holding book for actors in "End of the Watch" and counting the house for "Angel Feathers." Once, I got to read the stage directions for a reading at the Lost Studio. If there's a part of Greg's life with which I feel at once connected and disconnected, it's the theater world.

18. Greg Suddeth was a writer, every day of his adult life. He wrote on Christmas. He wrote on his birthday. He wrote on MY birthday. He wrote in a notepad on vacation. If the first decade of grieving was about coming to my own terms, I hope that the next decade will be coming to terms with his work. He wrote so many wonderful plays, and they need to be out there. I need to get them out there. Hopefully by now, I am ready to be an executor in more than name.

19. It's been one decade since Greg died, and that feels significant. If I start counting in decades now, I'll be dead before a tenth (decade) anniversary rolls around.  I remember when I turned ten and my dad gave me 10 ten dollar bills, which was a big fucking deal in 1992. I don't know how much I'll keep writing here anymore, but I'm okay with that and I'm proud of what I've done. I still think of my dad multiple times every day, but not every thought warrants a public blast. I hope that my entire life I will continue have those thoughts, and I will always hear his name spoken aloud by others, and I will have big parties on St. Patrick's Day, and I will buy books, and I will love the movies, and I will see plays, and I will live richly and wholeheartedly every day until I die.

Thank you for reading, everyone.

Daddio, I just love you so. All the gratitude. All the everything.

A Birthday Post-It Note

Thinking of you on your birthday, daddio. Sorry I don't have anything much to write...unless you're willing to accept about a thousand pages of educator jargon and gobbledygook that I've been working on for a professional development certificate. Which actually, come to think of it, you probably WOULD accept, since you have always been so supportive of my teaching career. Right when I started the teaching program, you were the one taping PBS specials about education in America and buying used books based on the methodology in which I was interested. Exhibit A: That time you lost your temper because Seashell Booksellers misrepresented the condition of a Marilyn Burns math book and you blackballed them from the Greg Suddeth Educational Encouragement Fund.

I always love to see that blocky print of yours on post-its, so this still decorates the cover. And I still use it. Never gonna forget that I got the call for my first teaching job on your birthday in 2008, and you were so proud. At the time I was disappointed in a part-time job, but the universe knew what it was doing because that was the year my life started going sideways. By the time I was emotionally equipped to run my own classroom, the classroom was waiting for me. And I've loved my job all these years.

Since I was a newborn, you were in my corner, you had my back. You taught me to appreciate naps.

I'm a better teacher and a better human because you are my daddio. So grateful that you were born on August 6. This one's brief, but so full of love and appreciation. You are my light, from somewhere out there. Love you, Greg!

Somewhere out there

On Tuesday my class and I ate a giant breakfast together and then settled down on the floor with blankets and stuffed animals to watch "An American Tail."

Almost anyone my age knows the tail of a sweet mouse named Fievel and how he gets separated from his Russian family on the way to America. It's like an animated Godfather II but also a musical and directed by Steven Spielberg. I loved this movie SO MUCH when I was a kid.

Because of the Finding Nemo Incident a few years ago (see another post) I thought it prudent to give a little caveat before the movie - "You guys, this movie is from my childhood, and I hope you'll love it too. I just wanted to tell you, there's a song in it that my dad sang to me a lot when I was a kid, so I might be emotional. Just a reminder that it's ok to cry...or not cry...or express however you feel in Room 20."

Since I cry all the time about everything, my class basically took this with a grain of salt and we settled in super cozy to watch the movie. Every so often the kids might glance over, but I was surprised how focused they were. They loved "An American Tail!"

The song started that I think of as Greg's song, and the kids were so into it... except out of my peripheral vision I could sense one kid rudely staring right at ME. Wtf? Was he waiting to laugh at me? Hoping I would cry? Knowing he was looking at me, I felt completely disconnected from the music and unemotional. Still he kept looking. Finally I got pissed and looked directly at him to make a mean face... and big silent tears were rolling down his face and disappearing under his collar. Oh shit - HE was crying.

This was the kid who has yelled at me, told me he hated me, kicked a chair I was sitting in, and "dabbed" with pride when I said my feelings were hurt. This was a kid who the only way I could consistently calm him down was with this hand squeezing therapy I'd read about in a book for children with anger issues.

I don't think he was looking at me to laugh at me; I think he was checking to make sure he was safe. I wondered what he was crying about. I wondered what my writer pop would have made of a character like this kid. I wondered what kind of kid Greg was. Then I wondered if Linda Rondstadt (who sings the song) is still alive, and if I had any more coffee by the sink, and the moment was past and we finished the movie and it was great. The kid and I didn't talk about what happened during "Somewhere Out There."

These are the lyrics that always get me:
"And even though I know how very far apart we are,
It helps to think we might be wishin' on the same bright star,
And when the night wind starts to sing a lonesome lullaby,
it helps to think we're sleeping underneath the same big sky"

I do have to give this class credit; they were probably the most enthusiastic group of kids ever about stuff from my own childhood. They liked old movies and old music and old games. Gets me thinking about how Greg loved to share his favorite things, and how many of them are mine now too. I don't think a kid can take very much of the credit if her sweet sixteen party is Godfather themed, with red-and-white checked tablecloths and spaghetti. Or like how if you ask Dillon about any dead person (including Greg) he always says that they're "in Heaven with Ray Charles." That kind of cool is inherited, not inherent.

Happy father's day pop - you're one of the coolest. Miss you every day.

Homage to the Dip

It's Day of the Dip! I will be the first to admit that I pretty much love all Hallmark holidays. I don't love waiting in line at restaurants, meaty pre fixe menus, or overpriced chocolate, but I am a fan of any occasion involving cut flowers and reminders to show appreciation. So happy mama's day to the Dip!

Some readers may ask, why Dip? That doesn't seem an especially respectful or even apt nickname. Dip, short for 'Dipity, short for "Sharondipity," was first bestowed by Chief years ago, the king of bestowing nicknames. Serendipity is "the faculty of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for." Also known as making magic; the Dip's brought a lot of magic to my life.

I'm lucky as an adult to have a mom who is also a friend. The first and most shallow prerequisite of friendship is that you like to consume the same culture, right? We both like to eat sushi, watch Mozart in the Jungle, go to Dodger Stadium, drink red wine, dance around in the backyard, and poke at living things in the garden (She does not share my fervent and feral adoration of Kendrick Lamar, but she tolerates his music at blaring volume in the car, which is good enough). So ma, I'm grateful for all our good times past and yet to come, and glad that spending time with you is never an obligation, but instead my pleasure.

In case you haven't noticed, 'Dipity is also super fun. There is a man with whom I share a mild and ongoing dalliance. I know I've got a bit of a reputation, but Sharon is actually the incorrigible flirt. So the guy and I were standing around talking and I mentioned Sharon's recent frustration with the Dodgers and the profanities she recently let fly. "Whaaaaaaaat?!" he said and I said, "I know - you kind of expect a sailor's tongue from me, what with this flaming hair, and with Sharon it's more like an angel fountain spewing gutter-water, but she's got a pretty foul mouth when she's riled up." So then she walks up, he says "C'mere" and bends down to say right into her ear in a low tone, "How 'bout those FUCKING Dodgers, huh?" And of course she manages to blush a pretty pink, howl with laughter, and bat her eyelashes all at once. That Dip's a charmer.

To take it deeper, we have grieved together and pondered. We have had authentic and vulnerable conversations about equity and justice. We learn from each other. We share what makes our hearts go thump. I'm grateful for all the love and support and wisdom and generosity, both for me and for Little Man.

So here's to the Dip, the loveliest lady I know. Happy Ma Day, and how grateful I am that you are mine!

A note about the type

Greg was a man of letters (and postcards, journals, emails, post-it notes, etc). Leaving aside his profession for a post, I'd like to share a little about his personal correspondence. My dad had such distinctive blocky (mostly capitals) print. I can't really remember what his signature looks like, but I'd know that printing anywhere. So choosing the correct card was a ritual unto itself. Then there were the creative salutations and closings, random quotes and excerpts, unusual turns of phrases, and such attention to detail.

This was a "Congratulations on your new job!" card. Undated, which was rare and means I don't remember which job. 

This is the inside of one of my favorite cards that I have ever received, from when I was a kid and had scarlet fever. The cover is a drawing of me with a thermometer sticking out of my mouth. This is the inside (Oz themed, of course).

"And come to the Emerald City to get a new throat!" 

I actually forgot about this, but when I was digging through a box recently I found a fat stack of postcards from my first year in San Diego. They were all from Greg, and as I looked at the front of them I remembered that he used to pick them out at Farmer's Market. Sometimes they were invitations to the movies or a ballgame, sometimes movie quotes, sometimes just reminders that somebody loved me and was thinking about me. I think about some of the homesick kids that lived in my dorm that first year and realize how lucky I was to get so much mail. Email was kind of a thing by then but somehow, Greg knew I would be most comforted by something physically in my hand. When I look at these postcards now, what amazes me most is how tender and affectionate the language is that he uses. On the back of a postcard! For God and the entire USPS to read in transit! These are postcards from a man who was well-versed in the art of not giving a fuck about showing he cares.

This time of year always gets me thinking about Christmas tags: Greg and his brother used to make a game of writing each other's tags on Christmas presents. It was never "To: Greg From: Gary" or "For: Gary Love: Greg." The tags were ribald, witty, and full of inside jokes that you had to be really cool in order to get. Lots of references to the Twilight Zone, the Godfather, Ed Wood. I am bummed I don't have pictures of these, but the real ones are in a box, somewhere.


So, if I could just hop on my soapbox for one minute here: write all the letters. To all the everyone. Seriously! Be true and be kind. Include compliments that are specific and authentic. Get comfortable with being vulnerable on paper. Make drawings for your kids that are funny or sweet, so that they can hoard them forever and remember always that they are well loved.

12/19/17
My dearest pop,
Still missing you like nobody's business, but...

True Blue Love

The Dodgers are going to the World Series! God, but a lot has happened since the last time that was true. 29 years is a very long time, a lifetime in fact for Dillon Gregory. My emotions have ridden so close to the surface since Thursday - manic and weepy and excited and unbelieving. I do not have a long sustained post within me (not now, anyway) but it was important to me to think about Greg, to tell the world I was thinking about Greg, and to have him be part of this incredibly special time.

One of my earliest memories of Dodger Stadium is that I loved it because it was the place where I could yell for a long time without constraint, and I was a really loud kid. We watched a lot more games on TV than at the stadium then, which was probably better for a little kid anyway because I could follow the game easier and learn more about the players. Then in college I went through a short-lived and ill-advised pretension about baseball being low class whereas I was an intellectual (gross!) and briefly hid my love of the game. Grateful that passed as quickly as it did.

I am so grateful for Chavez Ravine; especially in the last 8 years, it has been there for me through grief and heartbreak and loneliness and upheaval. It's my church more than anywhere else except the ocean. Being there calms my heart and guides my perspective, so here are my favorite lessons from baseball:

1. The past and the future matter, but the present is where it's at. This season, this game, this inning, this at bat, this pitch. Baseball reminds me more than everything else to Be. Here. Now. The past is treated with respect and the future is treated with anticipation, but neither of them are allowed to color the Glorious Now.

2. That said, the past is constantly part of the present and in our Dodger hearts. Referring back to important events, paying tribute to Dodger legends, showing love for Dodger memories. This is how I aim to keep Greg a part of my life - mostly joyfully, sometimes painfully, always authentically.

3. Accept change. Despite my vociferous objections and impassioned refusals, somehow A. J. Ellis stayed traded. Bullshit! Our players change, our records change, even our seats have changed from when Greg was alive, but true blue love stays true. It's forever.

Daddio, you were SO CLUTCH. I really really wish that you were here for this. I'd like to think that if you can see me anywhere, it's at Blue Heaven on Earth, yelling and jumping and feeling all the feels. Feeling so excited. Feeling so close to you. Being right here, in the Glorious Now.

Happy World Series, everyone!!! LET'S GO DODGERS!!!

Ephemeral is as ephemeral does

Semi-recently, someone came over my house for the first time. He was looking at my picture wall and commented:
-That polaroid is getting ruined.
-Yeah.
-You should keep it in one of those dark boxes for photos.
-Nope.
-It's getting too much sun on the wall there.
-Thank you, Captain Obvious!
That's when he got wise and changed the subject.

A carefully preserved photograph in excellent condition where I never look at it, or a slowly ruined photograph on the wall where I smile at it every day while it lasts?

I stand by my decision.

I'd say 85% of the time, here are things that I believe:
Everything is ephemeral: experiences, things, relationships. This is oddly reassuring instead of frightening.
Even the 15% of black dogs barking is ephemeral, and I just have to wait it out.
Most people are trying their best most of the time.

Oh, and one more:
Fuck the "What If" game, it's a waste of time.

It's worthwhile and fulfilling to play "What If" with the future, dreams and goals are beautiful to have. But playing "What If" with the past is a pointless endeavor...that ship has sailed, homes.

This is not the same as forgetting or not caring- I actually think this attitude has deepened my appreciation for memories, because I can remember them sweetly or neutrally, instead of trying to fix them and/or poke myself in the eye.

So here's some stuff that I've enjoyed remembering about Greg today on his birthday:
He was super vain about the six pack he cultivated after getting sober, and would mow the lawn shirtless.
Greg watched TV laying on his side on the floor, with a paper plate for an ashtray, and he had the elbow callous to prove it.
At Ralph's he would always get Red Vines for me, cake donuts for Dillon, and Oreos for Cesar. Dillon and I have always been such repetitive eaters, Greg never realized that Cesar got so sick of Oreos that he looked at them cross-eyed for years after we moved out.
I was horribly embarrassed as a kid because my parents were both incorrigible flirts; somehow, I've become one too.
Along those lines, one time Greg shamelessly used me as a prop when we ran into Katharine Ross in the 80s at the pet store on Crescent Heights. She was very charming.
I knew he liked Pong and Pac-Man back in the day, but it was still surprising when he came to visit New York one time and ended up playing some Godfather playstation game with Cesar for like 4 hours straight, while it got dark outside and I whined about how hungry I was.
We used to play skeeball for hours at Kiddieland before there was the Grove. He had a special bank shot, which I still use.
He used to do this crazy dance during the opening song of shows like Boston Legal and In Living Color.

Maybe some of that stuff I've talked about before, but I think most of it I haven't - either because it seemed inconsequential or because it felt like digging around in a wound. What a great sense of gratitude that I have to be able to type easily, with a smile on my face, remembering my daddio on his birthday. Nothing is inconsequential, and it doesn't have to hurt.

Happy birthday, daddio.

Tell me how long...

8 years since Greg died. I remember when he said, "I'm done with birthday cards and Valentine's Day cards and anniversary cards and all the cards. You just end up writing the same shit over and over again. I'm out of shit to say."

I don't write here very often anymore. I still think of things to write, but I don't make time to do it. Or I feel like it's just the same old shit. But something inside me doesn't feel right letting December 19th go by without a word or two, so here are some thoughts about grief and moving on (forward? maybe just flailing around). When Greg died in 2008, it was just far enough into my adulthood to not be shocking- at least to the general public- definitely I was shocked. There are people who lose a parent in their childhood, then the weird gray area where I lost Greg, and now I'm in the stage of adulthood where I know many more people who have lost at least one parent, where I'm not the outlier in a group of my peers, even if I'm still in the minority.

Watching my friends start or continue a path I've wandered for 8 years now, I'm realizing that grief is even more meandering and circuitous than I'd realized. Why are some days so easy, and others so fucking hard? Or months. Or years. Why are some ways of honoring our dead so comforting, and others feel empty? Why are feelings so changeable, and beliefs, and dreams? And all of those things change not only from person to person, but within each person. They change for me.

The past few months have been hard ones- 7 or 8 years ago I wouldn't have been able to admit that, and even more recently I wouldn't have been willing. It kind of feels like the whole world is going to shit, and I miss my pops an awful lot. I know it's a terrible cliche, but sometimes life really IS like a highway...and I've been poised on the on-ramp lately, watching everyone move steadily by at an excellent clip while I'm inching out and reversing, inching out and reversing, unable to spot opportunities to merge or letting them pass because something felt wrong in the moment. The unfair thing is that when I'm cruising, it feels easy to keep cruising, and I know so well how it feels to be in the zone and moving jauntily along. Getting going again from a standstill is so goddamn rough; merging has always been my bugaboo. At least I know that every time in the last 8 years I've felt like this (the last 34 for that matter) somehow I find a small bright spot of courage and get out there again, and after that initial merge I get to cruise myself for awhile.

It's not a secret that Greg was a drinking man, and then he wasn't. I'm not in the program, but there's an expression that I tell myself often because it helps me keep going, and it applies to so much more than drinking:

I can't, God can, I think I'll let Him.

Those are the actual AA words, but obviously replace God with whatever deity/gender you prefer (I usually say the Universe/it). When I'm really struggling, as I have been lately, I keep going by throwing up my hands without throwing in the towel. Greg didn't raise any quitters.

Love you and miss you, pops.

A Final Toast to Don Filemon

Last night, the world lost a good man. Cesar's dad passed away. My father in law - ex father in law? - what do you call that? The father of my ex-husband (who I call my first husband when I'm feeling whimsical, even though there isn't a second husband, because I like the way it sounds better) is someone I hadn't spoken to in a long time.

The man who welcomed me into his large, complicated family. The man who, when he talked, Cesar said my eyes practically bugged out of my head trying to follow with my broken Spanish. The man who punctuated his talking with the best laugh, that I couldn't help laughing along with, even when I didn't know what the hell was going on. The man who took me into the kitchen and let me lounge against the counter while he cooked the most delicious food. The man who tied special knots into the wrappers of the vegetarian tamales so I knew which ones I could eat.

We fell out of touch, which I understand and am okay with, which I think is what happens in a lot of marriages that end without kids. I'm finally at a point in my life where I have so much gratitude for my memories and time with the Rodriguez family, and so little resentment. It's a long time now that I haven't been married; and yet, we were so young when we got married, I think we completely immersed ourselves in each other's families, with the kind of impact that lasts regardless of years gone by and radio silence.

Cesar's parents came to stay with us for a long time less than a month after my own dad died, and I'm sorry now for how stony and unpleasant I was those days. I remember how many nights I drove to the beach by myself in the middle of the night, to sit on a stone wall, unable to stand anyone, most of all myself. They were patient with me even when I was acting like a brat. The counterbalance is all the memories of happy visits and holidays. Falling in love with Cesar with both our parents' long and complex love stories behind us, around us, and in front of us.

And now, our mothers have both lost their husbands. Cesar and I are both half-orphans. And from a long distance of miles, and time, and silence, I send so much love to the Rodriguez family in their time of grief.

A Portrait of the Artist as a Dead Man

Greg would be 63 today. Instead he's always going to be 55, while everything else changes around me, growing or diminishing, expanding or contracting. The farther away he gets, the more I find myself accepting not just his death, but everything. "It is what it is" grows more deep and yet more simple all the time.

On Thursday, my friend's mom passed away. I don't know her well enough, and I didn't know her mom at all, to become personally involved in her grief, although I took time Thursday night to sit quietly and send her love and calm, because how is it not beneficial to always send out love? Later in bed, I couldn't sleep for remembering that first terrible night Greg died.

Everyone retreated to their corners, glazed with shock and faded around the edges. Sharon, Dillon, and Cesar were alone in their respective beds; I was alone in the bathtub. For hours. I stared at a glass of whiskey balanced on the edge of the tub because I was so terrified to go to sleep, and I was terrified because when I woke up, it would be the first day I was on earth and Greg wasn't. I took for granted that my parents had a past in which I hadn't taken part cause I wasn't born, but I'd never fully understood that there could be a future in which my parents didn't take part because they were dead, until the day was imminent. Somehow I thought that if I could just stay awake, then that day wouldn't dawn and the whole thing could eventually be taken back. The water grew tepid and then cold. Eventually I ended up sleeping just enough to feel shitty.

I'm grateful those early days are behind me. I can see with distance that my relationship with Greg has colored every interaction with every man in my life (romantic or platonic, casual or serious, recent or distantly in the past). I'm sure this is not a unique experience, unless maybe someone who grew up without her father, although even then who knows how absence colors experience as well.

Suffice to say, there's a lot going on in my heartspace and always has been. Although there's one man I'd to address specifically, my Little Man, my closest living link to Greg.

With Dillon, I wonder what he remembers of Greg and how often.  For him grief is both impenetrable and below the surface. I'm often left to guess at what he's thinking or feeling. Are there times that he feels lonely? Betrayed? Angry? I hope there are times that he feels loved, as I have also. It's a hard truth to admit, but sometimes I treat my brother like a mascot, instead of a person with private feelings and diverse thoughts. I forget that just because he appears more surface than most, we're none of us so easily read and understood, and that includes him, and that included Greg, and that includes me.

As Bukowski wrote, "We're all going to die, all of us. What a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn't." It doesn't, and yet somehow there is love - what kind of dumb blind luck is that?!

Here's to the circus! Much love, pop, and happy birthday.

Since you've gone to heaven....

I spent the last weekend oblivious, and it was glorious. No phone, no internet, in the wild blue yonder. I didn't have to watch Father's Day commercials or read Father's Day advertisements or even look at other people's (super sweet, I know- I know!) Father's Day facebook posts with their daddy and/or baby's daddy. I read beautiful books, watched a couple of films about yearning, and moved softly through gorgeous nature.

Then Sunday morning came and whacked me right in the face. We were eating breakfast on the couch when the last song of Brandy Clark's album Big Day in a Small Town came on and it. just. got me. Here it is:
Brandy Clark, Since you've gone to heaven

Clearly this song doesn't apply to my situation exactly (Dilly never even went to college!) but I think she so perfectly captures the emotion of grief, of missing one's daddy and longing to talk to him, worrying about one's family and measuring up to expectations. I got the weeps big time.

You know someone is not only a very good friend, but a truly good human being, when both his arms are tight around you, and you're crying into his elbow, and he  holds you as long as you need without pulling away, and also your mouth is full of bacon because it hurts to swallow.

Then we talked about memory and loss, and people who are gone and where they go, and love. Then I started making lists.

Things that seem (mostly) to get better: playing the countdown + anniversary games (first time since, one month since, x years since), revisiting the old places, only remembering how he looked when he was sick, hearing the old songs, the hallmark holidays, telling someone new in my life that he's dead, looking at old letters, and telling funny stories without choking up.

Things that haven't (so far) gotten better: wanting to share the new songs, people, places; losing the sound of his voice and how he sat, the things that I will never know or ask, the guilt about letting his work molder in a file cabinet, the corroborations and corrections (Yeah, it did happen like that or no, that's not what was said), going to the movies in December, the pangs that are all the more vicious for their unexpected suddenness and sometimes inexplicable arrivals.

Things I hope will never go: the dream visits, hearing his name spoken aloud by people other than me, the sense-memory of matching my pudgy little stride to his long legs.

A day removed and the commercials are gone, along with the resentment. I'm grateful to feel like writing. The memories are back to being more sweet than not. And I can swallow again. Thanks for being my pops, Greg! xoxox

Teacher, you have a lot of Christmas on

This year, I've been riding high on Christmas. I threw myself into the holidays with more gusto than I've shown in years, seven to be exact. I hauled all the lights & shit out of the garage, played every Christmas cd, especially the old ones, shopped like a fool, baked a million gluten-free Christmas cookies, and wore about six different Christmas sweatshirts. One day that I was rocking a Rudolph sweatshirt, red converse, and the huge Mariah Carey gold hoops with Santa picked out in glittering crystal letters inspired one of my students to say, "Teacher, you have a lot of Christmas on." I was manic. I felt like a little bird frantically beating her wings to stay aloft, because if I paused for even a minute I would have FEELINGS, and I was having none of that this year. I raced like an elf on meth through minutes and days, and meanwhile I got circles under my eyes and periodically felt my heart pounding high and fast all the way up in my neck. But I was keeping it together, I felt.

I hate driving to school in the morning when the music sucks. When good songs play on the radio, I feel my mojo rev and I'm ready to face another day of frustration, fun, backtalk and sometimes barf. I'm ready for nine year olds. This morning there was no music. It was all commercials, and I had resigned myself to a long day when I flipped to a new station right as the 101 was turning into the 33, and it was the end of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" by Springsteen. I was smiling and singing along, and Bruce was singing over Clarence doing his jolly ho-ho-hos, and suddenly I remarked to myself, "Clarence Clemons is dead too," and my voice was breaking in all the same places as Springsteen. Only his voice was breaking with laughter, and my face was suddenly wet. I started sobbing all over myself, the road blurring before my eyes. Oh no, NO, I thought to myself, why is this happening NOW? I have to go to WORK. Luckily I didn't have any makeup on yet and I cleaned myself up in the parking lot and I got through my day, and I even allowed myself to pause for minutes at  a time and talked emotionally with a couple of my friends that are going through some family shit themselves.

During one of my manic episodes, Sharon and I had to make way for the Christmas happenings, so we went through a couple of Greg's boxes, and I took home a stack of his books. I've been rereading them. I forgot how titillated my 15yr old brain was by Lucy Mancini's sex problem, and how Easy Rawlins was in a war before he became a private dick, and how Pennywise took other shapes besides a clown. But I didn't forget the joy of helping myself to Greg's huge collection of books, and how he never caught me with something and said, "I don't think you're old enough to be reading that," except for a Saul Bellow novel, and he was right about that one.

Another thing I forgot: I was going through some old notes tonight when I found one from my Aunt Sue about the Christmas letters Greg used to enclose with our cards. And my first thought wasn't, Man but he used to slave over those letters for a month, or Whoa, I was a dumb kid to be embarrassed that my dad was proud of me and wrote about it. Instead it was, Huh, Greg used to write Christmas letters. I had forgotten about that.

I'm afraid of forgetting.

I'm afraid because the pain's not so raw anymore, but it's closer now to a decade without my pops, and 7 years out feels a lot farther than 6. When someone first dies, it's like an ice pick piercing, sharp and narrow and deep, impossible to ignore. 7 years later it's like a soft hole edged in sand, shallower but wider, with more sand slipping imperceptibly away by the second. You don't always remember what's missing, until something jabs you right in the wound and you think, oh- that's right. Nothing will ever be the same again. I have lost someone who will never come back, and not wishing nor pouting nor any goddamn thing will ever make it right.

I fucking hate the last day of school before winter break. It will always be the day that Greg died. It will always sting, it will always remind me.

And yet, wallowing ain't gonna bring him back either. If I call in sick and get drunk as hell by 10am, Greg won't come back. If I go to work and yell at an undeserving kid because he's being obnoxious and I have zero patience, Greg won't come  back. So I might as well put on some trashy Santa earrings and a pair of red converse, because I'm doing the best I can and it's a fact that I miss my dad. Just a plain fact. Tomorrow I want to be gentle with myself and those around me, because even the forgotten memories are better than a lot of people get ever, and I want to honor my dad.

Merry Christmas, pops, and I love you.

If wishes were horses....

Happy birthday, Greg. This would be #62.  Course, he's frozen in double nickels-land forever. I've been so blue the past couple weeks, but only in spurts. I tell myself, it's a full moon. I tell myself, it's a busted thyroid. I tell myself, it's a sentimental novel. I tell myself, it's all these other people's dads around everywhere! I tell myself, it's this weird huge insect bite on my left shoulder. Mostly, I just ride with it- and I'm fine,  but I'm also weepy as shit.

I feel sad and I miss my old man. It bugs me that I don't remember much of his own birthdays; I remember the vanilla/vanilla cupcakes, and him opening presents and saying gracelessly and honestly, "This isn't what I wanted." I remember Sharon's 40th birthday had a big crazy ping-pong party, and I remember making a movie called "Bearing 40" for my Uncle Bear, but I don't remember Greg's 40th. I don't remember how we celebrated his 50th either. I don't remember his stories about birthdays when he was a little kid, or the early years with Sharon before there were kids of his own. I remember the Godfather party only because there are photos (there's a photo taped above my bar). It's embarrassing to admit that I don't remember; I feel guilty. I wish I'd written more shit DOWN while my dad was alive to tell me about it. Then again, if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.

Of course the 55th birthday was when he was sick, but we all thought he was getting better and he pigged out on a Pink's chili dog, which only furthered the idea that he was on the mend. That birthday was also when I got my first teaching job, which I truly believe now was a saving grace from somewhere above to keep me safe and sane and grateful to be alive.

Today at summer school, a 4yr old told me, "Tomorrow's my birthday!" and without thinking I replied, 'Tomorrow's my dad's birthday too!"

In the smallest wistful voice she said, "I really wish he could come. I wish your dad could come here for our birthday." I said, "I wish he could come too," and turned my face away. Of course, she meant Room 1 and I meant Earth, but the tone was the same. Longing, imagining, wishing...

Happy birthday, Greg. I love you and I miss you...

Oh honey, nobody dies! Not really!

Last night I dreamed that Greg and I sat courtside at a  Lakers game in the Staples Center. I don't remember why we were there or who gave us the tickets, but there we were. I was eating red vines and watching the pre-game action on the floor; the first quarter hadn't started yet. I remember standing up for the National Anthem and noticing that Greg still had most of his hair when he took off his hat. Sitting back down, I distinctly felt the sensation of my upper arm leaning against Greg's upper arm; in fact, I woke up with that feeling in my right arm, and I was sitting on his left in the dream. The weird thing is that I was sitting on the aisle, and he was sitting in the second seat, which would never have happened in real life.

The Lakers started pouring out onto the court- we were sitting in a corner where I could see down the tunnel and into a room where they were all coming from; Pau Gasol gave me a wave (I know he's not a Laker anymore) and I buried my face in Greg's shoulder in embarrassment. He smelled like Hugo Boss. I can't remember what we were talking about (not basketball, I think it was a playwright) but whatever it was caught the attention of a couple sitting in front of us, and Greg leaned forward to talk to them for awhile.

There was a pre-game show where this fat guy in a sports jacket was going around interviewing people, feeding them one-liners ahead of time and then taping his reaction on the big screen. He was up above our section, but motioned to me and came down beside me.

"Alright pretty, here's your line..." and he handed me a card which I read aloud (no cameras yet). "It wasn't until Robin Williams became my babysitter that I learned what a day off really meant." I looked up at him and said, "I dunno- this seems like kind of an off-color joke since Robin Williams is dead." He laughed loudly and said patronizingly, "Oh honey, nobody dies! Not really!" and I just stared at him until he huffed away to another section.

I turned back to Greg and said dramatically, "I've blown my opportunity to appear on the Jumbo-Tron!!!!" and he replied, "Good thing, since you're wearing a Clippers shirt at a Lakers game." I looked down at myself and I was awash in red and blue. Greg was wearing this Lakers Championship shirt from the 80's (maybe 1988?) that he had in real life and that featured cartoon Lakers with big caricature heads.

"Let me out and I'll go buy you a Lakers shirt to put over it," so I swung my legs over the side of the seat and he went out past me, up the aisle and cutting across a row of seats. He was moving fast and light, and looked so tall and so healthy, and I couldn't help shouting out, "Hey old man! You look pretty good for someone who used to be dead!" He turned around and gave me our secret thumbs up signal, then disappeared up the far aisle.

That was where I woke up. I don't know what the hell any of that meant, and the Robin Williams joke was nonsensical more than off-color. But those vivid dreams where Greg is alive and healthy and not a ghost (at least, not until the end) are few and far between these days, so I was grateful.

So was my right arm.

Tune in Now for a Special Report!

So on top of the master's program, the classroom succulent garden, the Earth Day festival, SBAC state testing preparation, and, you know, TEACHING (sometimes anyway) I started a project with my students last week. Our principal asked the grade level chairs for ideas to get the students pumped up for state testing, and since I have a group of students that has shown interest in TV news, and we are a newly minted STEM academy (the T stands for technology), I thought of using the iPads to create a news report to be shown at the assembly next week. Somehow my idea became my responsibility, and I've been scrambling this week to work on this project along with the million other things I'm spinning my wheels at lately.

The kids have been incredibly enthusiastic! We had "business lunches" to talk about their interview questions, list of topics, and potential interviewees. They came up with their own costumes (mustaches- I mustache you a question, HA). They have practiced and worked on their own time, and a lot of my time as well, of course. This last week I've been freaking and stressing and complaining- "I'm too tired for this, I'm too busy for this, I'm too goddamned overwhelmed for this!" But today the filming started.

And it was.....MAGICAL. There's really no other way to describe the experience. Following them around with their iPad and their clipboard and their fake microphone, watching and applauding as they ambushed staff and students alike with their questions, I was in heaven. Meaning that I actually felt for a second like I was in heaven, with Greg peeping over my shoulder and saying, "You done good, Maxie." I was reminded of the hours and hours he spent with his VHS video camera, tracking shots of Amy and I narrating the Vietnam War in our green helmets and flower children dresses, making music videos, panning photographs with my strident feminist voiceovers, and lots of other school projects I shanghaied him into filming over the years. He was a ruthless, encouraging, perfectionist director, and I adored not only the finished products, but the time spent with Greg basking in his undivided attention.

As I set aside the math notebook and stick a post-it in the informational essay prompts, I realize now how the time spent with me and my friends on our projects obviously took him away from his own writing. Although I never thought about it then, there must have been times that he was tired, or busy, or overwhelmed by his own shit. There's been an undercurrent of resentment (so unusual for me because I truly love my job) when I've woken up in the last month and felt more like bullying a short story into submission than coaxing a 4th grader into fraction-land. I don't ever want to lose my writing voice, and I was panicking because the well had been dry for a long time and suddenly it was gushing, and I wanted to stay home and write, and I had to go to work. Today was what I needed to realize that Greg's presence and attention was a gift, and so is mine. The words will still be there- as long as I dash off good notes in those fleeting moments between lessons. Maybe I could adopt Greg's method of sticking notes on the back door until I'm ready to tackle the next piece. Maybe it's time I got my own method.

I stopped feeling sorry for myself and started feeling grateful, and everything got so much better. I drew down on the good karma Sharon built up over the years as a room parent supermom, and I reached out to my own room parent for help. I started appreciating our awesome site leader and all of her technological support. I put my head on my desk after school and wandered daydreaming through memories of my dad and his two big hands with the thumbs put together, framing the scene.

Filming a phony news report with a bunch of children with fancy coats and raised eyebrows reminded me why I love teaching, and love my students, and why I don't ever want to burn out. Next week is back to math lessons and essay prompts, but I think I got "an elbow to the head" reminding me to make it rigorous, make it valuable....but make it joyful. Keep the kids wanting to be there and learn. Keep myself wanting to be there and learn. Have some fuckin' fun with it all!

As my journalists said today to every subject they interviewed, over and over and over, "Thank you for your time."

Pennies from Heaven

Pretty sure 6 years officially puts me into the void. Most people won't remember that Greg died on December 19th anymore, and some people might not even remember that it was Christmastime. But this is not a sad-sack self-pity whining-into-my-wine post. 6 years later and that shit is getting tiresome.

Thursday night I had a bad dream about Greg. I was in a Starbucks and there were some people there that I knew. I was in a very long line and talking to someone I hadn't seen in a few years, and I looked over that guy's shoulder and there was Greg, across the Starbucks and standing near a table. He looked kind of sick but was upright and not too thin, standing there with one of those surgical masks across his face but in regular clothes and scanning the room. A million feelings rushed through me at once and I absurdly said to this acquaintance, "Do you want to meet my dad? He's dead, actually, but he's standing right over there..." He just stared at me, so I said, "No worries, I'm just going to excuse myself though because I haven't talked to him in a few years and there's some catching up to do." I started to walk away and ____ grabbed my arm, started asking me if I wanted to sit down and what was I having to drink because we'd both been in line for a long time and were finally near the register. I tried to pull away and that's where it all got ugly. I don't remember the rest of the dream vividly, except that at one point I was distraught, with people crowding around me and trying to force me to sit down, and I tried desperately over and over to explain that I needed to get to my dad, he was just over there and I hadn't seen him in SIX years and especially he was DEAD, so I really needed to just go talk to him for a minute. Of course no one else could see him. They thought they were being good Samaritans and protecting me in my grief. Really, they were keeping me from an unknown and unimagined opportunity.

The boychiks have been naughty felines of late, and my sleep hasn't been good. I don't know what to make of that dream, except that I'm always grateful to see Greg, even in a dream, even in a lousy Starbucks.

The dream world is a strange one, and I've been a restless inhabitant for many years. One of my very close friends lost her dad a few weeks ago.- without telling all her business, there were parallels and it was hard. I wanted to console her but I knew better than probably anybody how fucking shitty she was feeling. We sat in her backyard the day after, and the sun was shining, and she asked me about a conversation with her dad, a conversation that as it happened I had also had with Greg. Our dads were both artists (writer, musician) with artists' souls and demeanor. The conversation was about being part of a small special tribe, artists with intense feelings and thin shells. We feel it all and we feel it so very much, and our dads both knew how it was a gift and a hardship. But they both encouraged us to never stop feeling EVERYTHING, because our depths of despair will be matched by dizzying love that many people will never feel in all that burning, gasping glory. We loved our dads, and they loved us, and they did the best they could and were gone too soon.

6 years farther along the path and I couldn't really tell my friend a bunch of bullshit about feeling better because we know each other too well and we're too much alike. I could say, The raw moments will get fewer and farther between, but they'll still come over you like black dogs barking and you'll feel helpless and hurting until they fade again. I could say, Try not to play the game with yourself where if you just act really REALLY good, he'll come back from this extended vacation called death, cause I played that game too long and he ain't coming back.......unless the seventh year holds a BIG surprise for me (kidding!). I can't really say it gets better, but it does get farther away. Probably the only thing I could tell my friend that would be both helpful and true is this- the bad parts fade first. The hospital scene and struggle and guilt will dissipate. The love and gratitude will remain. 

I wrote in another post about leprechaun money in Greg's office. When my cousin got married in September, the aisle was strewn with leprechaun pennies from LA. My precious creative aunt made my cousin and I these bracelets; pennies from heaven...

Fare Thee Well, Faithful Escort

I've been in an awful mood all weekend, but it took me til this morning to finally make the connection. It wasn't stress, illness, or romance, but a big hunk of metal that brought me down. After a long exhausting week already, Greg's car took a dump on me Thursday night. I got it to the mechanic's and Saturday morning, sat down in his office for the bad news. Luckily Javier has a good bedside manner, because it felt exactly like being in the doctor's office. He gave me the diagnosis and the price(it's A LOT), and I asked, "What will happen if I do nothing?" He said, "Well you definitely can't drive it on the freeway, but if you insist on driving it in town as is, it will experience a slow decline over time until it dies." I probably looked like I was about to start crying, because he continued with, "You don't have to decide right now. It's your dad's car, yes? Maybe time to start thinking about changing to a new car.." He gently smiled and gave me back the keys. 

I drove away (hobbled away) and immediately began rationalizing and denying. I don't need to drive on the freeway! I'm not too old to learn how to ride a bicycle! I'll move to the Avenue! I have a lot of friends with cars! This is totally fine! When I called Sharon, who is often more attuned to my volatile Irish moods than I am, she listened to the explosion first and then very carefully suggested leasing a car, saying "There's a lot of affordable options right now, and that way you can have a couple of.............years.............to get ready to make a decision about Greg's car." I put her off by dramatically exclaiming, "I can't even think about this right now! I'm in a master's program for God's sake!" 

But of course that's what I spent most of the weekend thinking about (and drinking wine from a jelly jar since I obviously wasn't going to be driving anyway). Every time I went downstairs to change the laundry or take the recycling, I'd give the car a baleful look. I was one glass away from literally shaking my fist. Here are all the things I understand- I know, it's just  a car. I know, someone's possessions are not the same as someone. I know, Greg cares more that I'm safe than sentimental. 

And yet.....

This is the car that's been there for me on long drives at night through the hills with the windows down. I've cried and snotted all over the steering wheel more times than I care to admit. Greg's envelope with his headshots and his ratty blue towel are still in the trunk. It was the last car we were in together before he died. I feel better when I see it in the parking lot at school. 

Someone I love asked if I could try to reframe this experience. He said, "Maybe instead of feeling let down and disappointed, you could imagine the car is telling that it's served you well, that it's tired and getting old. What if you focused on how far this car has taken you already? Consider that maybe it was there for you as long as you needed it, and feel gratitude." 

I'm not buying a new car right now, I just ain't. I'm probably not coughing up [amount redacted] either. As usual, Sharon has the wisest solution and I was too bullheaded to admit it up front. Greg's car and I have a lot of history, but this weekend was probably the beginning of the most gentle letting go of which I'm capable. Time to say goodbye.....if slowly. 

By the way, can I get a ride to school tomorrow?

A tiny flame burning...

I wonder how many people remember today is Greg's birthday. I know I can't count them on one hand, but I suspect I probably could with both hands. Our wonderful friends sent a bouquet of sports cookie flowers( sports! cookies! So Greg!) which was an incredible gesture of warmth, and I've received a few messages, but that's about it. I don't remember most birthdays after the first year someone's gone either (including people I loved very much), so I'm not resentful, but it's like there must be a birthday party happening somewhere- only was I not invited? I'm rather lonely.

Many of the people I'm closest to these days didn't even know my dad. They know about him, or they've seen photos, but they didn't know him, so it's natural that he's less and less a part of my daily life, even as I still think and dream of him often. The St. Patty's day party is precious to me because I know I'll see many of his friends, and I know his name will be said and it won't be because I brought him up first. C and I still talk about him, mostly telling stories that would sound a little dumb to someone who wasn't there, but make for great shared memories. Every year, Greg's death comes out with a new group of students during my "Star of the Week," when they get to ask me questions about my family and someone always always asks, "Where does your dad live?" Of course, he's still in my dreams.

This morning I started to say to an acquaintance, "Today would have been my dad's birthday," but I amended it to say, "Today's my dad's birthday" because technically it IS the anniversary of his birth in the present tense; but then of course I was asked, "Oh! Are you seeing him later?" and I said, "Not likely, he's dead" because it was 7am and I was tired and didn't have it in me to gloss.

So I guess at least THAT poor person knows today is Greg's birthday.

The good side is I think Greg is turning more and more into a glow in my periphery instead of a storm cloud on my horizon, which I appreciate because it's pretty disrespectful to take this person who was present and loving and creative and vivid for over 25 years of my life and reduce him to an excuse for emotional stagnancy under a guise of love. There are thin ribbon scars instead of gaping wet wounds; as it should be. Today's his birthday and I remember, and I'm sad but I'm basically fine. I honor Greg by being a stand up guy as often as I'm able, and by sending him love, and by setting a tiny flame burning on a birthday cookie from his best friend.

Love you, daddio...