And time goes marching on....

Happy Birthday, Greg Suddeth- today you would be 58 years old. On your birthday in 2008, we were sitting around the table outside when I got my very first job as a teacher. You were very proud and not at all surprised. This year for your birthday, I got another gift. After 3 rewarding, challenging, and wonderful years as a reading intervention specialist, this year I'll be teaching 4th grade in my very own classroom. I know that once again you're proud, and not at all surprised.

Some days I'm okay, and other days I still feel utterly lost. It never helps to say "My situation could be so much worse," because it could also be so much better. I can't look around and say "There but for the grace of God go I...." because someone somewhere with her dad by her side is saying that very thing about me. A smart guy once told me, "It is what it is, and it will be what it will be." He was even able to say it about his own impending exit from the world. Now I need to start living by the same words.

It's so hard to accept what I never want to accept, to be courageous when I feel cowardly, to be wise when I feel like a fool. But Daddy, I'm trying.

Happy Birthday Greg, and I love you.

Sometimes it's the little things

I've been using my summer vacation to catch up on television; namely, on Project Runway. I'm in the middle of season 8 so I'm way behind, but no spoilers please! Sometimes parents do amazing huge things for their kids, but sometimes it's the smallest gestures that make a kid feel loved and safe and okay with the world. A TV show about snarky designers and fashion-forward aesthetic and backbiting models makes me miss my dad.

My fascination with Project Runway started in New York. I'd never watched a reality show before, but I got hooked thanks to some of my fashionable friends. Every Wednesday night, we would pick up pizza and beer, throw together a salad, and sprawl out on somebody's bed or couch or futon to watch that week's episode and talk with our mouths full and rail against the judges. It was one of the most fun communal television experiences that I've had.

When Cesar and I moved back to CA from New York, we didn't have a television and I didn't have many friends, so I dvr'd Project Runway at my parents' house to keep up with the current season. There I was, flopped pathetically on the couch about to watch another episode solo even though I'd long since figured out it's less fun to make catty comments and laugh hysterically with no one there to hear you. In strolled Greg, cupcakes and pink milk in hand, and he simply said, "Are we ready to watch Project Runway?"

Even though Greg felt that reality television was the bane of an acting existence, and even though Greg thought that Heidi Klum talked suspiciously like Elmer Fudd, and even though Greg didn't know his taffeta from his chiffon, we bonded over PR. (It helped that he absolutely loved Tim Gunn, who reminded him of a beloved theatre colleague.) He gamely critiqued designs and argued with the judges, because he knew that I needed a fashionable pal.

It takes a certain kind of father to watch a show with his daughter about which he personally doesn't give a shit, and it takes a certain kind of father to know that some teenage girls really need to see Breakfast at Tiffany's, and it takes a certain kind of father to know his kid well enough to appreciate her interests, even when they aren't his own. I'm lucky to have that kind of father.

So, Greg: isn't Gretchen the biggest bitch ever? And wasn't that one dress totally atrocious? And do you really think Casanova deserved to win that challenge, or was it a pity prize from the judges?

Thanks for keeping company with me, Pop. Love you......

Let Us Now Praise Famous Women.

Happy Father's Day to the dearest of daddios! So I love writing the blog, and I hope that you enjoy reading it, but we all know that it’s not really reaching the intended audience (unless there’s bandwidth in Heaven). Greg already knew most of the stuff I write about, but I miss telling it to him in a way that I know he’s getting. With that in mind, let’s have a special shout-out to the lady of the house, while she’s around to enjoy it!

Obviously Sharon picked an awesome fellow to make babies with- look at the stunning, (modest, humble) results of that double endeavor. Therefore, today’s blog entry is all about the Mama.

Lovin’ all up on Mama Sharon (in no particular order):

#1 Smart Cookie- she keeps her head when all about her are losing theirs. Sharon manages to be very very intelligent without being a smug little bitch about it, and I’m so glad she encouraged me to always be proud of my smarts. She packed me off to college without telling me what to study or then devaluing my creative writing degree. Instead of pointing out that I wasn’t exactly going to graduate with a plethora of job offers, she was proud of me for following my passion.

#2 Long before the Obamas were playing Roses & Thorns around the dinner table, Sharon asked every day, “What was the best part of your day and the worst part of your day?” As a kid I adored it; even a teenager rolling her eyes at the cheesy set-up loved being asked about her life in a general, non-threatening, non-specific way. This lady is a very good communicator: with adults, with kids, with everyone. She has sass, but she still lets you know she cares.

#3 Haaaaaawt mama! Do I need to say this again? Sharon is a beautiful, beautiful lady. Loooooooooong legs and a sense of style. I’m reassured just watching her age- I’ve got some GOOD genes on my side.

#4 She champions her loved ones in everything they do. Greg was the best playwright in LA. When I was a writer, I was the best (female) writer in the house. When I became a teacher, then I was the best teacher those kids are ever gonna have. Dillon is the best singer to tackle ‘God Bless America” and Lucy & Mickey are the best-looking dogs on the block. The force of her confidence makes it feel true, and the feeling of truth makes everyone work harder to fulfill her expectations.

#5 Earth mama deluxe- I don’t know how else to say it, but the lady just emits a glow. Sharon makes everyone around her feel good. I know the serenity was hard-won and the mellow wasn’t innate, but nothing feels more natural as she matures. She welcomes everyone into her home, and her heart. Everyone loves being in her life. There’s no higher compliment.

Love youse, mama Sharon and daddio Greg!

A Daddy That's All Ours

I had the pleasure of spending last Sunday with some lovely friends and their lovely kiddos. En route from one spot to the next, my friend L and her four year old daughter E and I passed the time by playing storyteller in the car. Seeing as L and I got a little distracted talking about grownup stuff, E became petulant and interjected, “I have a daddy and he’s all mine.” I turned around and playfully answered, “Well I’ve got a daddy too and he’s almost all mine.” She retorted, “My daddy’s still alive.”

Zing! No comeback there.

She got me to thinking though. I’ve got a daddy and between me and Dillon, he’s all ours. We have a daddy in the sense that everyone’s got a daddy (and a mama too) because we’re humans and not insects, and so it takes two to tango. However, I have a daddy and I also knew him and he raised me, which is already more lucky than a lot of kids. What’s more, he’s dead but he’s still there. And not in some haunting metaphysical checking-up-on-me-from-Heaven way, but because he helped make me who I am.

He’s there with me when I hunch over the keyboard, trying to crank out some words that sound good and mean something all at the same time. He’s there when I drive the back roads fast, late at night, cool breezes pouring in through the window. He’s also there when I work with my students and they write me letters at the end of the year that say, My heart doesn’t want you to go. He’s there when I take pleasure in fine storytelling, theatrically or cinematically or in a novel. He’s in the roaring fan that lulls me and Dillon to sleep. He’s there for the inside jokes and the shorthand and the lyrical turns of phrases. And he's there when I say please and thank you. Especially, he’s there when I’m kind and when I’m generous.

Of course, it’s not all rosy. He’s also there when I lose my temper and slam shit against the wall, and when I drink too much because I’m sad. He’s in the insomnia that grips me in the night, and the Irish melancholy that grips me at odd hours.

He’s there in my victories and in my flaws. He’s there because he made me, he taught me, and he released me to be my own person.

Oh Daddy, my heart doesn't want you to go.

Do they play Blackjack in Heaven?

So I'm one of those teachers who believes in letting my students see my human side (rather than having them believe that I sleep under my desk and wash in the kindergarten bathrooms). I truly believe that opening up to students and letting them open up to me enriches their academic experiences and teaches them valuable social skills....of course, sometimes I land in sticky situations as a result.

During testing, I work with students that have small-group testing environments mandated in their IEPs. Since we are a smaller group, we often finish early, but students can't be released back to their classrooms until recess. In order to pass the time, I bring puzzles, coloring books, beach balls, and cards. Today I was playing War with one of my students to pass the time (and help with his number sense). As I was shuffling he commented, "Cool! Who taught you to do that?" This is where the conversation went from there:

Student: "Cool! Who taught you to do that?"
Me: "My dad taught me."
Student: "That was nice of him. So your dad likes to play cards with you?"
Me: "Yep, we used to play cards to pass the time when I was home sick from school."
Student: "How come your mom didn't stay home with you?"
Me: "Well, my mom is a nurse and my dad was a writer, so it was easier for him to stay home."
Student: "Where's your dad now?"
Me: "Ummmmm....are you ready to play?"
Student: "So where is he?"
Me: "...."
Student: "Is he at home?"
Me: "Actually, he doesn't live here anymore. My dad died."
Student: "Oh, that's a sad thing....That's really sad. I'm sorry that happened to you."
Me: "Thank you."
Student: "Are you ready to play now?"

I've almost always been able to head off this question in the past, or change the subject, but this time my mind just went blank. I'm always petrified of traumatizing a student or creating a huge fear for his own parents or accidentally being the introduction to the concept of death. For some reason though, I felt like this particular student was really asking. He didn't want to let it go, and I couldn't bring myself to lie. Strangely enough, his reaction as a little buddy was so cleansing for me. He was so very sincere and thoughtful. Asking the question, genuinely hearing the answer, acknowledging my loss, and then refusing to dwell on it- one of the most appropriate expressions of grief I've received in the past 2 years.

Once again, I think I'm helping my students, and instead they help me.

All Signs Point to Greg

“What I want- what’s most important to me- is that I have a guarantee. No more attempts on my father’s life.”

That is what I wrote on the card that I sent after my dad’s heart attack in 2006. Greg was someone who always appreciated a carefully chosen perfectly appropriate (inappropriate) quote. Thanks to a generous donor, I was able to fly to LA for St. Patrick’s Day in 2006, after missing a few years of parties. It was the first time I’d seen Greg since the awful phone call about driving himself to the hospital while having a heart attack (goddamn stubborn bull!). I was so fuckin’ fiercely grateful to hang on my daddy’s arm during the wearin’ o’ the green.

All those March 17ths were kind of strange anomalies in Greg’s personality. He was a kind and thoughtful man, and certainly he appreciated his good friends, but he wasn’t exactly a social butterfly. Those are the nights I remember seeing him shine, leaning up against the kitchen counter looking handsome and catching up with a pal. The famous Suddeth St. Paddy’s celebration has undergone many permutations, from sedate dinner party, to family fun fest, to gangbusters booze-o-rama, and everywhere in between. Guest lists have swelled and shrunk. Then in 2009 there was a wake. Then 2010 was a year of quiet. And now the party is back and it will be different, but this year it feels better to have a different party than not to have one at all. Greg’s not the only one who will never step through the door again (I also miss you, Jenise F, Mark G, Mort L, Liz C). I know that I’ll miss Greg shooting the shit in the kitchen, or smoking in the backyard, or eating standing up, but I’m grateful for the memories.

One of the wilder years, there was a crowd of friends-of-friends that didn’t know what time to leave. The party’s an open invitation and always has been, but that year some folks forgot to take their friends home with them. Turning off the music didn’t work, putting away the booze didn’t work, gentle nudges toward the door didn’t work. You know what worked? When Greg came out the back door with a prop M-16 from one of his plays. It became a running gag of how to end a party.

I remember a different night very late, when we were picking forks out of the plants and pouring beers down the sink and Greg commented, “An alcoholic would never be able to understand why so many people leave half-full drinks laying around the house.” It was that kind of character observation that made my dad an excellent writer. It’s that kind of sharp eye that I aspire to have.

There was also the year that Suddeths far and wide blew into town (Greg’s brother Gary, sister-in-law Vicki, and niece Molly) to see what all the fuss was about. Greg and Gary sang some of the same Irish songs I was used to hearing as lullabies. Those boys sure could carry a tune….

Of course on top of my memories of parties past, Greg’s wake 2 years ago is on my mind as well. The haze is past and I just want to say again that I am so grateful for all that everyone did and said and was. You held Greg’s daughter together. You honored his memory in so many ways.

It’s shocking that he’s been gone for 2 years- when I let myself think it. The Irish melancholy held a grip on my life for a long long time, but slowly the peace in me is beginning to re-emerge. Just because Greg lost his mom young and I lost my dad young doesn’t mean that I need to repeat my dad’s mistakes in order to keep him in my life- I don’t need to be angry or drunk or afraid to prove I still grieve for him. I’ve figured out that it isn’t disloyal to survive- even to thrive- even to be joyful. However I keep going without my dad is between me and him, and it’s nobody’s business but our own.

Sláinte, da.

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.