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.