I can do a million different things at once, most of them trivial, such as dusting. I’ve never been one to procrastinate, but doing nothing at all stumps me every time.
When I’m not actively engaged in a task, my mind is always working. I might be analyzing a character arc, figuring out a past perfect tense, or projecting things like financial ruin because of my paranoia from working in a non-essential and highly competitive field for my entire life.
Over the past two years, I’ve had the good fortune to collaborate with my dear friend on her heartfelt grief memoir that is finally ready to take flight. It’s complete, at least on my end, and I’m so proud of what we’ve accomplished.
My heart swells with gratitude as I recall my collaborative journey with Michelle, the beautiful and relatively young widow behind the story. In the early months, writing her memoir felt like an Impressionist painting: a blur of colors and emotions, akin to our own personal lives, with no clear definition. But over time, like a Realist painting, the memoir and our worlds became sharper and more focused.
Through my encountering her grief, my own perspective on life and tragedy has widened and deepened. I’ve learned that even in the darkest of times, there is always hope. And that love is the most powerful force in the universe.
Thank you, my dear neighbor, colleague and friend, for your faith in me and teaching me so much about what it means to be human. I am truly blessed to have shared your “voyage.“
Almost every goodbye is a hello in disguise. Therefore, as I celebrate the completion of this project, I’m scheduling only ONE thing on the to-do list — spending downtime with the most important person in my life: me. It’s high time we reconnect and get acquainted again, even if it is only to say, “Hello! I’m here.”
In exchange for this kind of surrender, I will find peace, joy, and gratitude. It’s a paradox, but the more I let go of my need to control everything, the more I find that I am truly in control. (Michelle’s memoir really drives this point home.)
My soul is my compass, and when I don’t procrastinate, take the time to “do nothing” and listen to its gentle guidance, I am always led to the right path, because I have opened my heart to the divine.
Remembering Mom: October 10, 1925 to December 29, 2015
My mother was a constant traveler, but not in the traditional sense. All day long, she traveled from her stove to her refrigerator to her sink, and then back again.
“Stove-refrigerator-sink,” she once described her three-step life to me matter-of-factly. She loved the normalcy, the predictability and the routine — most of the time. But sometimes, when she was irritated with her children, her husband, or a church parishioner, she would break her sour mood and look afar, her eyes penetrating the kitchen walls. Her longing gaze belonged to someone standing on a community theater stage, hungry for a Carnegie Hall audience.
I didn’t pay much attention, if any at all, because her expression was too painful. The reality of her life washed out any grandeur dreams she had, such as crunching numbers in an accountant firm, one of her long-standing dreams.
That was the thing with my mom: her frustrations, disappointments and inner pain often led her to be emotionally wound up, but if you could step back and let her unravel, she would eventually find her equilibrium. It took me a long time to figure out her usual modus operandi, but when I finally did, I was able to love her fully.
Before I gained a wider, wiser perspective, adolescence was particularly rough. I had yearned for a different mother, one who wore dainty tennis skirts and crisp white sneakers, and who had a feminine sway in her hips. A mother who would come to pick me up from middle school in her shiny Ford Mustang, instead of the one kid whose mother was never there.
My mom (or dad) never stepped inside my middle school until my graduation day. (Grammar school was another matter, but that’s another story.) When I saw them, I hid behind a corner in the hallway, trying to catch my breath outside the suffocating layers of shame that had been dumped on me like stinky sludge.
Even though my dad blended in with the crowd, all I could see from my vantage point was my mom, standing there in her multi-colored dress, a tent-like garb that concealed her petite body and was as baggy as a beekeeper’s protective suit.
Her kitty heels, straight out of a 50s black-and-white TV show, clicked on the tiled floor as she paced nervously back and forth.
A hairnet captured her dark, old-fashioned ringlets, like bait worms. Her face was an expressionless doll with vacant eyes.
“Is your family here?”
“No.”
“Without family,” I felt different growing up. But I learned that while Hollywood love may be custom-made, ordinary love is not.
As I mentioned earlier, my love for my mother matured with me — especially after my young children taught me how genuinely unique and fun she was. It was then that I also fully understood why my mom rarely spoke to “Americans,” silenced by the embarrassment of her own foreign accent and awkwardness.
The upshot of the realization was that I walked tall next to her, my head held high, despite her size 4 Barbie body hidden in size 12 dresses, the unconcealed sheets of tissues lining her shoes, and the stale bread slices stashed in her purse’s side pockets (in case the food chain failed!).
My bulletproof mother didn’t believe in illness, and her passing from a stroke on December 29, 2015, showed me the perfect irony of life: we’re not in control after all.
When my mom fell ill in the spring and early summer of 2015, I felt bewildered and flummoxed (love that word!). In the process of her deterioration, I did the “next right thing,” as my program had taught me to do many years prior. Her gradual decline was a roller coaster that I became so used to and for nearly seven months, it felt like tying my shoe in the morning. But the exhaustion was unlike anything I had ever experienced, even when I got eight or ten hours of sleep. I was groggy, walking a foot behind everything that moved in my world.
When my mom landed in a nursing home, a feeding tube had been inserted into her, and it was clear she would never return to her three-step appliance shuffle, but the regular rhythms of our lives, like playing rock-paper-scissors, remained in my memory, like the whiff of Pond’s cream on her face that warmed my childhood particularly on bitter cold evenings. She had taught me well, and I went on with my old life, with familiar music playing in the background.
Three weeks before Christmas, my own “rock-paper-scissors” household routine escalated. I was a single mom and had to work, write and send holiday cards, purchase and package holiday gifts, not to mention cook and clean. I rationalized that since she was semi-conscious, she wouldn’t notice the stretch of time since I had last seen her. I certainly planned to visit after the holiday. Of course, after the holidays seemed just as frantic too, and I was driving my daughter to Massachusetts to visit a prospective graduate school. I figured once we accomplished our mission, I’d definitely see Mom again, the first week of the new year.
Unfortunately, Mom never lived to see 2016. But on December 28, in Massachusetts, my daughter and I had a terrible time finding appropriate lodging, since the first hotel room we had reserved was a dump. Luckily, we found mediocre accommodations just in time, because a terrible ice storm had made the outdoors look frozen in time.
That night, two weary travelers collapsed into bed and slumber found us easily. I opened my eyes at 5 a.m. to see the digital clock glowing in the dark room. I also knew without doubt: Mom had passed.
Her presence filled the room, every bit of her, including her lingering scent of Ponds face cream. I realized that instead of my visiting her, she had come to visit us one last time to let us know that she was okay.
Sure enough, I woke up to hear the news over the phone.
Thank you, Mom. I love you more than words can say. You taught me about faith, love, and even the power of love to transcend time and space. I’m grateful for the gift of your life.
My mom spent decades reading the obituaries, and the memoriam section, in the local daily newspaper with a keen eye, curious about what made each person unique and how their story was woven together. It were as if she tried to make sense of the world by connecting the dots between people’s lives.
My mom alerted me to anything she found interesting in that particular newspaper section, and we would end up discussing the deceased stranger and how, for example, she had outlived three deceased husbands. Or, as another example, how another deceased stranger traveled to every continent three times. Every time we reflected on these strangers, it felt like delicious gossip. Through these obituaries, and the occasional memoriam, we were able to appreciate the stories of strangers who had passed away and reflect on our own lives in the process. Paradoxically, reading and sharing our insights about the deceased kept mom and me alive!
While some may find delving into obituaries morbid and sad, in my solitude, I find it an opportunity to examine a few dozen strangers’ lives while I reunite with my mom, sync with her vibrant emotional range, and inhale her Pond’s facial cream, which she wore every night of her life. The memoriam to Mary Jane that I read earlier this year would have really lit up her world.
MARY JANE. MEMORIAM To Mary Jane It was late in the morning, It was early in spring, When I took that picture, Of you on the swing. It was so long ago, It was just yesterday, The years go so quickly, The time slips away. We should have returned, At least once a year, But we never came back, Now alone I stand here. The swing is long gone, From the top of this hill, But that doesn’t matter, For I see it still. I still hear your laughter, Feel the touch of your hand, And although that is true, Where ever I am. It was here at that time, In this place that we knew, What we had was forever, It was true then, it is still true. Rest in peace my love. Ed
One reader’s response to the memoriam, stated, “So very sweet and heartfelt. I do not know Mary Jane or Ed … but that was beautiful and I’m sure Mary Jane is pleased.”
Yes, I agreed fully. I could easily picture Mary Jane swinging in heaven somewhere on her swing, carefree and forever young and in love.
Memories can be a balm for grief. We hear the laughter, the excitement, and feel the fluid joints and hefty muscles of youth. Ponds-scented memories are like a warm blanket that wraps us up and protects us from the cold world, whispering, “Have faith. You are safe. Alone, but safe.”
They are reunion celebrations where love and faith reign supreme. Faith that we are never truly alone. Faith that there is more to life than what meets the eye.
Mary Jane is pleased. And if Mom gets to share her swing, she will be pleased too.
Her comment made me think not only about Harry, but also about my dad, whose birthday was yesterday. He passed away in 2000, but if he had lived, he would have turned 119! After thinking about my dad, his barber, Tony, came to mind, because it occurred to me how he also fit into the “best generation” league.
I’ve mentioned before that even though my dad didn’t have a formal education under his belt, he was the smartest man I ever knew. Wise beyond words. He always told me that I would understand things long after he was gone, and he was right. Between my personal grief and my entrance into the final chapter of life, my perception has widened, and it feels as if I am comprehending the world in a deeper, wiser way, just as my father had said I would one day. That being said, as I pondered these old-timers, a realization dawned on me about Tony, but before I go into that, I have to give a bit of a background.
My clean-shaven dad was also a hair fanatic. He never lost his hair, but, instead, it seemed like someone had poured Miracle-Gro into it. Ninety percent of the time, or maybe even more, his barber Tony gave him a number 2 buzz cut. The other cuts were Marine flat top cuts that made him look as if a runaway lawn mower had zipped over the top of his head. My dad didn’t ask for that style specifically, but I think Tony gave him the style just to break things up and make things interesting.
Whenever my dad took my young son to the barbershop in his old jalopy, he always got the same type of number 2 buzz cut for him. I’m sure his grandfather’s (Gido’s) influence led my son to continue the tradition of the number two buzz cut after adolescence, which he cut himself to save money.
Gido was frugal too, actually cheap. He never gave Tony more than three dollars cash for a haircut. My dad had decided that was what his haircut was worth, regardless of inflation. Period. No tip. No nothing. No raise either, even after 20 years, maybe more, of going to Tony’s on a weekly basis.
Before my dad died of emphysema, he was frequently admitted into the ER and then the hospital. There was no time for his traditional buzz cut even though in less than a month’s time, his wired hair stood up and performed endless rows of jumping jacks.
I always picture his team of nurses, running their fingers through his pure white hair, saying, “Your hair is beautiful.”
To my dad, though, his hair was a mess, out of control and unruly. Every time we were about to call Tony to come and cut my dad’s hair, a medical crisis interrupted our plan. Stubborn Dad wouldn’t let anyone else cut into his white mane, no matter how high the strands stood in attention.
It wasn’t until after my dad died that we called Tony to cut his hair one last time. We did it in honor of our dad, who was so adamant about his clean-shaven face and buzz cuts. How could we allow mourners to come and see him in his open casket when his hair was the opposite of what he, and everyone else, loved?
I was so wrapped up in the wake and funeral and losing my dad that I never formally thanked Tony, nor had I seen him ever since. But suddenly, after reading Karla’s comments about how we are losing the best generation, it brought to mind my dad and then Tony, and I started to see the light, wondering how it must have felt for Tony to leave his barbershop, tools in hand, travel to a funeral home and approach the casket where my dad was laid out in his best suit, which he had bought for the occasion long before he was even ill.
I’m sure there were plenty of plugs in the wall to connect his shaver, because even though my dad had always shaved himself, Tony was willing to do it. In addition, his hands must have been shaking as he held his scissors. Sure, he could do a buzz cut in his sleep, but how could he concentrate on doing it on a corpse? Had he even seen a corpse before? Additionally, how could he focus on the task at hand when burdened with grief? Looking at my dad’s face must have flooded him with two decades of memories, recalling the curmudgeon of a man he loved unconditionally despite his cheapness. My dad was the only customer who got away with paying three dollars for a haircut during all those years, while the barber still gave him a smile and a lollipop for his grandson.
It wasn’t about money or the bottom line. The bottom line back then was about humanity, humility, and never bottoming out of character while holding onto dignity, doing the virtuous thing even if it felt morbid. They were men of faith who had faith and hope in simple things like hard work and doing the right thing.
It’s easy to picture my dad, Tony, and Harry, too. Members of the best generation that you could count on because they made you feel like you counted. We ARE losing the men and women of the best generation, but their legacy lives on in the hearts of those who knew them.
Thank you, Tony, your act of kindness and compassion in giving my dad one last buzz cut is a reminder of the power of human connection, even in death. You reminded me of the importance of doing the right thing, even when it’s difficult. Thank you for reminding me of the beauty in the world, even in the midst of sorrow.
Thank you, Dad, for teaching me how age widens perception, like a zoomable flashlight, and helps us to see not only the dirt and debris in life, but also the fairy dust.
About this time last year, Harry was surrounded by stacks of files and folders piled high on his desk, and the phone was ringing off the hook. He was a commercial real estate agent who was used to working long hours and after a brief retirement, his real estate business seemed to be flourishing.
In addition to his business dealings, Harry had been keeping years of notes about his personal experiences. He wanted to write a memoir so that future generations could learn about his life, and the Holocaust.
I first knew Harry through my dear friend Pat’s husband and then through her. Now, over this past weekend, Pat and I found out that Harry, who had the onset of dementia and suffered a recent stroke, was admitted to a hospice facility. The doctors gave him a couple of days to live. *
Harry turned 90 this past May. He had a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face. Harry loved to ballroom dance with any woman who knew the steps, no matter her age. He would whisk her into a rhythmic routine, whether they were in a doctor’s office or the snack bar of an assisted living facility. He was a reminder that age is just a number.
His mother survived the Holocaust, and they managed to flee to America when he was seven. This was a Houdini-like feat, considering that the United States had restrictive immigration laws and policies in place during World War II, including the Johnson-Reed Act, which made it difficult for Jewish people, and other nationalities, to immigrate. These laws and policies were motivated by anti-Semitism and discrimination. (Interestingly, among this group that was denied visas to the U.S., as well as other countries, to flee the spread of Nazism in Europe in the 1930s was the family of Anne Frank.)
In America, Harry fought the bullies in grammar school but didn’t let them define him. He excelled in math, and in his spare time, helped his mother sell a variety of items from her truck that she and her new husband had scrimped and saved to purchase. Their hard work, determination, and entrepreneurial skills provided all the necessities they needed.
During his pre-med years at UConn, one of his professors gave him a dead cat to dissect. He looked at the cat, put down his scalpel, and said to himself, “I guess being a doctor isn’t for me.”
Harry’s change of heart led him on a different course.
Approximately 1.5 million Jews served in the Allied military during World War II, including 550,000 American Jews. Of these, 52,000 received U.S. military awards. Harry was one of them. His fluency in German made him a key player in the development of missiles, and he was awarded many distinctions and honors for his efforts. Obviously, he never held the discriminatory Johnson-Reed Act against America.
During the war, Harry married his first wife, a prominent Southern Belle, and started a family. Decades later, after his divorce, he married a second time and had a second family. His children from his first marriage are in their 60s, and his youngest son is in his 20s.
Harry’s career was as colorful and varied as his personal life. But he consistently worked hard and made money, until he lost it in his later years through no fault of his own. But he flexed his faith muscle, got back into the ring for another fight, and won another round of financial success, which kept him going to the sunset of his life.
I could tell countless stories about Harry, and I would love to write his memoir one day because I am wild about him in so many ways. But for the sake of brevity, I will focus on his humility. Even though Harry was a larger-than-life figure in business, and the last person you wanted to negotiate with, whether it was retail or real estate, he never forgot to share his wealth in many ways.
As a young entrepreneur trying to hit it big in the 1980s, I remember how Harry helped my t-shirt business. He purchased my entire stock for his thriving retail store, saving me from bankruptcy. Sure, my kids’ Godfather had requested his help, but Harry did this on his own accord and sold out of the entire line. (Pat met Harry through her now-deceased husband, and both men had met through their love of playing tennis, cementing their friendship on the court.)
Later on, when Harry went into commercial real estate, his primary job, as I see it, was providing mentorship. Sure, he was successful, but what’s success if you don’t pass it on? That’s what he did. Instead of getting wrapped up in his very important wheeling and dealing, he humbled himself to make room for others. For instance, one of his college-aged administrative assistants from Haiti, who was challenged financially and had no clear picture of the future, ended up with a highly successful career in real estate.
If only the world had mentors such as Harry. What a world it would be, wouldn’t you say?
So, around this time last year, Harry was wheeling and dealing again, until things started working against him, such as when he would get into a panicked state for the most innocuous reason. One of the last times Pat saw him, shortly after he was diagnosed with an onset of dementia, she had driven them both to dinner. During dinner, Harry became belligerent and argued with the professional and kind staff about the swift manner they were serving their meal. He insisted on “European dining.”
Needless to say, they never returned to that restaurant. Harry was confined to an assisted living facility at that point, and I knew his qualms about “European dining” were not about dining at all. He now faced a new enemy: deterioration and death. His goal was to rescue his life with the same chutzpah his mother had. Harry wanted to live longer and maintain his healthy lifestyle. After all, he was the kind of guy who could stroll through a burning building unscathed. Somebody or something was watching out for him, or he was plain lucky, at least most of the time.
Harry’s story is an inspiration to us all. He overcame incredible adversity in his life, yet, he never lost his faith or his sense of humor. He was a true mensch, often putting others before himself.
I toast you, Harry, with a glass of lemonade, your recipe that started with bitter lemons, now sugar sweet. May your legacy inspire us all to live our lives to the fullest and make the world a better place.
I imagine Harry, wearing one of my old custom-designed t-shirts from the 80s, smiling at me and raising his glass in return. “To life! To love! To lemonade! And to t-shirts!” he says.
* We received word only a few hours ago that Harry passed away peacefully this morning.
To recap, I learned that the doctor had faced serious sexual assault charges, including allegations involving a minor in 2020. I was unable to find out the final verdict, and it appeared that the records had been sealed.
As I said in my previous blog post, “On the one hand, I’ve never had any personal experience with him that would make me think he’s guilty of any criminal acts. On the other hand, I’m a half person, and, as already mentioned, I guard myself fiercely and certainly don’t intend to invite any more stress than necessary into my life.”
The incident left me shaken, and my mind began to wander down dark paths. I felt angry and self-righteous, wondering how people who did commit such heinous acts could get away with it. This was the final straw that broke the camel’s back when it came to my faith in people.
To backtrack, I started seeing the doctor in question two years ago after receiving a postcard advertising his services. Prior to that, I had been going to an optometrist for routine eye exams for over a decade. Optometrists are not medical doctors and cannot perform surgery, unlike ophthalmologists, who specialize in the diagnosis and treatment of eye diseases and vision problems.
Mind you, I had NO eye problems, but I switched to an ophthalmologist last year thinking that a doctor with more credentials would be better. To make matters worse, the new doctor found that my eye pressure was elevated during my routine eye exam this year. I didn’t learn about the incriminating information about him until after my appointment, when I had a month to wait for my follow-up visit.
So, my imagination ran even more wild. I obsessed about going blind without a doctor “in sight.”
I called my old optometrist, Dr. S., with my tail between my legs. She held no resentments against me and scheduled an appointment for me within the week.
Upon entering her office, she did not inquire about the reasons for my sudden departure or my return, nor did she probe me about my “personal reasons” for not going back to the other doctor. Instead, she focused on running a battery of tests on me.
I sat in a chair that felt as if it were getting harder by the minute, waiting for the final results. I thought about all the people in the universe who were at that very moment waiting, waiting in a doctor’s office or hospital, waiting to receive some catastrophic medical results that could potentially turn their neatly made worlds into a tsunami that would leave nothing unharmed and shaken.
I had spent so much time in the past “learning to breathe,” but now I had totally forgotten how.
On the verge of passing out from lack of oxygen, I inhaled sharply at the sight of a white cat with gray patches poking its head into the examination room. The cat was so pudgy that I wondered how it could fit inside a litter box. Its face was slightly askew, and when I got off the chair and reached for it, it darted away, only to return out of curiosity.
“Kitty! Kitty!” I called.
“I guess you met Marlon.”
“Yes.” My reply was followed by my long pause of anticipation.
Without further ado, Dr. S. explained everything I ever wanted to know about eye pressure, including the fact that eye pressure ranges could change in a course of a day. In the end, she told me that there was nothing wrong with my eyes.
“Really?” I asked in total relief.
I had been sickened by all the bad in the world as of late, but I knew that I would rather see it than be blind to it. I needed to be aware of the world’s problems in order to make a difference. Now, I was breathing with a familiar comfort again, relieved to know that there were still some good eggs out there.
Marlon jumped onto Dr. S’s floral skirt at this point, his gaze fixed on her soft-featured face and brown hair. It came as no surprise that she had rescued him, as she had rescued so many other cats over the many years I knew her.
Marlon was different, though. He was a sweet and loving feral cat that she had rescued after an animal rescue organization said he would never be domesticated. But she did it!
Soon after, Marla became Marlon and was nursed back to health, neutered, and domesticated against all odds by Dr. S.
Marlon’s safe home for the last few years has been Dr. S’s office, since three other rescues live at her home. Marlon is locked inside at night and comes and goes as he pleases during the day.
On a couple of different occasions, the sweet and loving cat has brought a few kitten rescues to the good doctor.
“Kittens are always easy to place,” she told me as she explained the wonderful world of Marlon.
World? At least on this territory. Marlon and the good doctor helped me to remember that there are still good people in the world. I’m just grateful to SEE them and to SEE the not-so-good and the awful lot of awful too.
After hitting some of my lowest points recently, following nearly four years as a halved person, I left the doctor’s office clicking my heels, my renewed sense of faith purring throughout my body.
As midnight approached last Saturday night, I felt like a broken-down, aging Cinderella. Instead of a pumpkin coach carriage, I reclined inside a rickshaw, glowing with strung neon blue glitter lights, a “Good Vibes” sign fluttering behind my wind-swept hair.
My Unplanned Rickshaw Ride
The familiar discomania tune “Stayin’ Alive” blasted on a continuous reel as the lean but powerful driver pedaled, snaking and snarling through the prism-lit, panoramic nighttime streets from the west side to our destination, Grand Central Terminal in New York City.
If you know me personally, you know two things: 1. I’m always reading a book of fiction. 2. I’m always mentally plotting a work of fiction. This past Saturday night, I felt like the unfolding scene created its own book of fiction.
Along our route, the driver expertly avoided a few near-collisions, including a head-on accident with a cab driver when he made a U-turn to drop me off right in front of Grand Central.
Stayin’ Alive was also the theme song of the day as the driver helped me power through a very unfortunate set of circumstances. It all started that morning with last-minute plans to stay overnight in New Jersey, where I had arrived by train from Connecticut. However, after a series of misunderstandings and mix-ups, by 9:30 pm, I had nixed those plans and, without another plan, boarded a train that I nicknamed “Tipsy Tracks” to Penn Station in New York City. I was exhausted when I arrived at Penn Station. I didn’t want to deal with the subway, so I tried to flag a taxi. I had a fairly new phone and had never gotten around to downloading the Uber app, and I was too tired to think straight enough to download it at the time.
Although all the taxis seemed off-duty or unavailable, a dirty brown mid-sized SUV suddenly zoomed out of the traffic and stopped directly in front of my rather dejected body, as the shadow of another birthday loomed three days ahead.
“Want a ride to Grand Central?” asked the rather innocent-looking man in his mid-40s, angling his body toward the passenger seat. He had clearly overheard me flagging down taxis.
I was exhausted and my legs were starting to ache, so I was tempted to just jump in his backseat. But then I remembered an ominous book I had read a few months ago, and the scene felt vaguely familiar.
“Who are you?” I asked, suddenly suspicious.
“Uber,” he said.
“Uber? I don’t have the app. I didn’t call you,” I replied.
“I’m off duty. I’ll take you to Grand Central for cash.”
I felt a glimmer of hope. I was tired and getting older, and I was ready for an easy way out. I felt as if I were a half person as I had written about in my last blog.
But then I remembered the name of the novel: Disappearing Earth by Julia Phillips.
The book begins with two young girls accepting a ride home from a stranger and then going missing.
I wasn’t a girl, but I was still vulnerable, an easy target.
The next vehicle that came by was a rickshaw with a couple in the backseat. My spirits fell, thinking that maybe I had to have a reservation to ride in one, since I had never ridden in a rickshaw in NYC or anywhere else. That was when I spotted another one that resembled a floating disco ball with a vacant seat.
“Excuse me …” I hollered to the driver, “Can you take me to Grand Central …”
Once the driver and I bargained and agreed on a rate (even in the midst of stress, I still hold tight to my frugal nature), the adventure began.
The ride was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. The driver, as I mentioned, took some pretty crazy shortcuts, but he got me to the train station safe and sound. If I had accepted the ride earlier from the stranger in the SUV, by the time my birthday rolled away, I might have been one of the many missing people, hacked up and buried underneath some rural Pennsylvania soil.
I thanked him for helping me “stay alive” and wished him well, especially considering his daredevil pedaling.
“Hope you stay alive too!” I called out sarcastically to him before I ran into the station and managed to grab a train home to Connecticut. My dear friend Camille, whom I called earlier, was waiting for my 1:45 a.m. arrival at the station. (A true friend is someone who is always there for you, no matter what, especially in the wee hours of the morning!)
Interestingly, today is the big day, but it really means nothing to me anymore. However, Bryan’s comment made me think twice about the blog I wrote last week. He said, “I often wonder if the reason I feel halved is because I moved away from what I found meaningless.”
Although I identify as a half person for other reasons, this made me widen my perspective and think that maybe I have found a new meaning in life after all. And maybe this meaning doesn’t need a meaning because it just is. It’s like being in a rickshaw at a climactic point in your novel of life, not knowing what’s coming around the bend.
As I plan to meet Brother Paul later today and then my dear daughter and her boyfriend, the kids’ godmother, and possibly a few others, I can’t help but smile, knowing that I’ve received my wish: a very low-key birthday after all.
So, as I mark my birthday today, I am grateful for the people who have loved and supported me along the way, including all my fellow bloggers. They have been my neon-lit rickshaws through those saturnine nights that cast a pall over my world, making it seem like a lonely place of ghosts and shadows.
I know that I am not alone in experiencing these dark times. But I also know that we can all find light, hope, and faith, even in the darkest of places. We can find community and connection, as well as developing the strength to pedal through as long as we trust our gut and don’t get into just any stranger’s vehicle.
Smart. Cute. Not-so-cute. We all have inner self-identifiers.
We all have ways of defining ourselves, whether consciously or unconsciously. We might think of ourselves as smart, funny, kind or brave. We might also think of ourselves as less than perfect, with flaws and limitations.
A few weeks ago, I started to understand all on my own that I am now a “half person” as opposed to the whole person I once was before our family tragedy. For me, I find it very empowering to define myself in this manner.
I used to be afraid of my limitations. I thought they made me weak and inadequate. But now I see them as a source of strength. They’ve taught me to be more realistic about my expectations and to appreciate the things I can do.
Looking back, I appreciate even more the time I spent watching the aging process of my parents. As they grew older, they became acutely aware of their limitations. For instance, after my dad’s retirement at 70, he used to be able to work about eight hours a day in the garden. But as he grew older, he cut his gardening back to a daily hour or two. My dad would come into the house after gardening, his face, the color of the beets he grew in the rich soil, and dripping from sweat, and announce with conviction, “I’m not so good anymore.”
There wasn’t a hint of self-pity in his tone. Instead, it sounded as if he had landed at a new place in life, and he opened his arms wide with acceptance. He left me with a poignant picture of what it means “to age gracefully.”
That place parallels with how I feel about being a half person. I’ve retired from my Atlas position of holding up the world, and now I just lean into it.
I used to think I had to be strong and capable all the time. I needed to be the Atlas of my family and friends, holding up the world for them too. But now I know I can’t do that. I’m just a half person, and that’s okay.
Given this new state, I am proactive and fiercely protective of myself. I’m not going to let anyone take advantage of me or make me feel bad about myself and how I feel. Walking on egg shells is becoming an impossible feat for me.
For obvious reasons, I steer clear of the real-life nemesis in my life and others who fall into that category. Right now I’m not up to exposure therapy of any form. And just because that particular therapy is not in the cards at the moment, it may be at another time.
Anyway, all this being said, I want to address two things.
First, I recently learned that my eye doctor had faced some serious sexual assault criminal charges in 2020. I’m still processing the information and at the current time, I have no updates about the crimes, which also allegedly included a minor. On the one hand, I’ve never had any personal experience with him that would make me think he’s guilty of any criminal acts. On the other hand, I’m a half person, and, as already mentioned, I guard myself fiercely and certainly don’t intend to invite any more stress than necessary into my life.
Second, my birthday is coming up next Tuesday. I’m really not looking forward to it. I wasn’t too thrilled about my birthday before I became a half person, but now it’s utterly meaningless. I used to be afraid of growing old and becoming wrinkled and frightful, but now I couldn’t care less. So it’s not about growing old and falling out of grace. It’s about staying in grace, which means being true to myself, and, to me, the day symbolizes just another day of the year.
So, here’s what I’m going to do on my birthday. I’m going to be alone. I’m going to minister to my half person. I’m going to be honest with myself and with others, the way I used to be with my son. He would always listen to me without judgment, and he would always say, “That sucks!” I miss that.
My life as a half person has made me surrender so much unnecessary energy. It has also made me realize that nothing has the same meaning as it used to. Everything is vanilla now. But I’m okay with that, too, and vanilla has always been one of my favorite flavor choices.
I do, however, find meaning in other people’s lives and in the joy they find. It fills my empty vessel with hope and faith. I know that I’ve been passed up for a number of invitations over the years because people see me as a walking image of pain. But I don’t take it personally. I’m grateful for the joys I’ve had the opportunity to share in, such as my dear friend Pat’s 85th birthday surprise party in 2020. It was a time of such raw pain, but it was also a time of great joy. I remember Pat’s radiant joy, and I felt her deep connection and compassion for life, however fleeting it was for me. These are the moments that get me through my vanilla life. These are the moments that make it all worth it.
I’m not sure what the future holds for me. I may never find meaning in life again. But I’m okay with that too. I’m content to live my life in vanilla, as long as I have the occasional cherry on top.
Last Monday night, the weather was perfect, having cooled down after a stifling heatwave, when Santana and his band took the stage at 8 p.m. sharp at the nearly sold-out 1001 Rainbows, 2023 Tour, performance at the Hartford HealthCare Amphitheater in Bridgeport, Connecticut. I attended the concert with Anna, one of my dearest friends since childhood.
Oye Como Va! The show started off with a bang and the energy immediately electric. Carlos Santana’s guitar playing was as virtuosic as ever, and the band’s backing vocals sounded soulful and soaring.
The setlist was a mix of Santana’s greatest hits, and some from the band’s latest album, Blessings and Miracles. We were treated to classics like “Smooth,” “Maria Maria,” and “Evil Ways,” as well as newer songs like “Joy.”
As the concert went on, Carlos announced to the audience that he felt Jerry Garcia, among others, playing alongside him. I had a strong sense of my deceased brother Mike and me singing together again in a dingy, off-the-beaten-track bar in Tallahassee, Florida, our voices gliding through the air as if the seventies would never end.
Years fade, and with them, people and some of their talents. But Carlos remains one of the greatest guitarists of all time, and his band members are also masters of their craft. I was also particularly impressed by the drummer, Cindy Blackman Santana.
She’s been married to Carlos since 2010. All I can say is, her drumming blew us and the audience away. She played with such passion and intensity that it felt like a supernatural experience. I kid you not, I had goosebumps during her solo acts.
The Wikipedia article about her states: “Blackman cultivates spirituality in her musicianship. “I believe that music is so sacred that once you’re playing music you are doing the work of prayer, whether you’re conscious of it or not, because you have a focused intent,” says Blackman.
Hearing her and the band was holier than a prayer. On one hand, it brought everybody together, and I mean, EVERYBODY, including elders who danced the night away while donning cataract surgery sunglasses. What really struck me was the sight of a quadriplegic man who appeared to be in his thirties. He was stationed in his wheelchair on the upper level of the theater. The man could only move his head slightly, but had no facial expression.
I was really touched by this man’s determination to enjoy the concert despite his significant challenges. Then I wondered how he felt watching other audience members out of their seats, dancing, singing, and moving in perfect harmony with the music, flowing along with the oxygen.
I didn’t know if he was envious of the movement, or, on the other hand, simply savoring the sights, sounds, and tasting every moment like snacking on a buttery concoction.
At first, I thought how lucky the rest of us were to have mobility, until I realized maybe he was the lucky one. I liked to believe that he didn’t rush from one thing to the next, consumed to the point of falling in step with the armies of walking mummies, failing to appreciate simple things like a soft breeze brushing against a pair of moving limbs.
Perhaps this particular man piqued my curiosity because grief is an isolating experience, especially for me. It can be easy to feel like you’re the only one going through it, out of sync with the rest of the world (even if they are walking mummies!). As I scanned the venue, it appeared that the young man really was the only one in a wheelchair, but I hoped that the music would connect us all in the same spiritual way that Cindy feels it, in a miraculous way that would flush out our disunion and differences.
It was interesting to see Anna’s reaction when Cindy first performed her solo drum act. She shouted out, “She’s a woman!” in a way that said, “Yes, sister! We can do anything.”
Cindy Blackman Santana
Later, Carlos made a point to say that many men have passed out from drumming in the vigorous manner that Cindy is able to.
Wikipedia’s article further defines Cindy as “a rarity as a female jazz percussionist.”
It goes on to quote her, “In the past, there were a lot of stigmas attached to women playing certain instruments,” Blackman says. “Any woman, or anyone facing race prejudice, weight prejudice, hair prejudice … if you let somebody stop you because of their opinions, then the only thing you’re doing is hurting yourself. I don’t want to give somebody that power over me.”
The keyword in her quote is “power.” There’s a loaded definition behind that word, but when we pray in the purest spiritual realm, we transcend feelings of exclusion, rejection and not belonging. As a result, hair, nails, body image – the physical plane melts, sort of like in harmony with a slow, fluid dance. That’s the power of music, a special prayer to turn to for comfort. There’s something about the combination of lyrics and melody that can reach into the soul and make you feel less alone. And when I see someone, such as the quadriplegic man at Santana’s concert, who has pushed through what people can define as limitations, and reigns over his own power of thought, it reminds me that there is always hope.
Music is a universal language that brings people together from all walks – and wheels – of life. It doesn’t matter if you’re able-bodied or not, young or old, rich or poor. Music has the power to connect us all, and it can be a powerful tool for healing and hope. In this way, it is the most powerful prayer of all.
The chilly fall air nipped at my cheeks as I rolled the garbage receptacle down the driveway to the street for the next day’s pickup.
“Meow! Meow!”
I scanned the landscape, looking for the source of the sound that had strummed my heartstrings. There, in the bushes, was a partially white, tiger-faced kitten. She was small and fluffy, but appeared well fed and reminded me of a powder puff. Next thing you know, she vanished and in case she had not a home, I left a dish of cat food for her across the way. Over the course of the following months, I assumed someone owned her since I only saw her a couple times more.
Fast forward to about a month ago, and I officially discovered “Tuna’s” story shortly after she reappeared at my house. Her feral mom had birthed Tuna, along with her four brothers and sisters under my neighbor’s shed. A few compassionate neighbors cared for the cat and her litter while a cat rescue charity had become involved trying to trap, spay, neuter and place the kitties for adoption.
Gazing into Tuna’s eyes, I felt crushed. I could tell that she was familiar with hunger, homelessness and fear. She had to hide from the pack of blood-thirsty coyotes that prowled around at night. She had never known what a human touch felt like, or a warm bed and blanket. She had only slept on hard, mud-packed ground infested with bugs. I wondered if she even knew how to purr. If I got too close, her meows would turn into low, threatening hisses.
I couldn’t help but wonder why some animals and people are born into such difficult circumstances, while others are born into privilege. The question weighed on me like an indigestible lump of sausage in my stomach. Needless to say, I became attached to Tuna and her family and tried to help as best as I could by doing things like checking to see if any of the felines were captured in the cage that had been set by the rescue group.
After I got involved, three weeks later, Tuna and her family disappeared. Our neighborhood cat watch party feared the worst. We searched for them everywhere, but we couldn’t find them.
Another week went by, and we received some good news. The feline family had relocated to a different area of the neighborhood, where they took shelter under another neighbor’s shed. I haven’t seen them myself, but I’ve been assured that they’re doing well. The rescue group is still trying to trap and rescue them, and I’m hopeful that they’ll be able to do so soon.
I was glad that Tuna and her family were safe, but I couldn’t help but think about all the other animals and people who were living in difficult circumstances.The question was one I didn’t have the answer to, but the mere thought of it triggered a flood of memories deep inside.
It all started when I got into my car in the parking lot after a rather extensive grocery shopping trip, feeling particularly exhausted.
When I started it up, a familiar song, “Fast Car,” on a random top-hits radio station caught my attention. It was Luke Combs’ remake of Tracy Chapman’s iconic 1988 hit “Fast Car.” Combs’ version had just hit the top of Billboard’s Country Airplay chart a few weeks ago, but I hadn’t paid close attention to it. I had listened to Tracy’s version countless times back in the ’80s, though.
Combs’ version is a faithful cover of the original, but he brings his own unique style to it. His voice is deeper and more soulful than Chapman’s, and he adds a bit of a country twang. The result is a powerful and emotional rendition of the song.
Little did I realize Luke Combs is the oversized, rust-colored bearded version of my beloved son, Marshall
The lyrics of the song caught me off guard that day. Instead of bolting out of the parking lot, I sank into the driver’s seat, wet from nostalgic tears. I recalled someone, around 15, with dirty blonde, long, wavy hair, flying like a bed sheet drying on a clothesline, outside of an oversized, open 1956 Ford Crown Victoria window.
“Lucy” was what Mac called me back then (and “Lug Nuts,” but that’s another story). He was the one piloting the Crown Vic. Probably one of my only true friends in high school, he sat grinning at my antics, his smile as bright as the perfectly white steering wheel of the car he had lovingly restored. We roared down the road, singing along to the radio as it blasted.
Our favorite song was Rufus & Chaka Khan’s “Tell Me Something Good.” So picture this: Mac would slow the car and pull over to an innocent pedestrian, and I would stretch my body like a piece of taffy and rocket out of the Crown Vic, belting the lyrics at the top of my lungs.
“Your problem is you ain’t been loved like you should What I got to give will sure ‘nough do you good Tell me something good (Tell me, tell me, tell me) Tell me that you love me, yeah”
Luckily, no one took offense or took us seriously, regardless of their gender or age. (I think I really gave a much-needed adrenaline rush to some of the older guys’ egos, though!)
I had often thought back to those cruising days with Mac, but I never truly understood their poignant meaning until I broke down in tears while listening to Combs’ lyrics. For the first time ever, I had an epiphany: Mac had a fast car and I felt like I belonged! We also crossed the invisible line that separated our suburban neighborhood from the city (“Won’t have to drive too far, Just across the border and into the city.”)
Here are the lyrics that transported me back to those many afternoons spent in Mac’s Crown Vic, a visceral realm where I could relive the memories of those days and understand why they mattered so much:
So, I remember when we were driving, driving in your car Speed so fast, I felt like I was drunk City lights lay out before us And your arm felt nice wrapped around my shoulder And I, I, had a feeling that I belonged I, I, had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone
I do believe that these two words are some of the most powerful words in human history: I belonged.
Listening to the song’s lyrics about poverty and hardship resonated with me in that moment.
That being said, I was the kid who got kicked out of sixth grade for asking too many questions, but over the years I knew him, I only asked Mac once about his estranged dad.
You see, Mac’s mom was a single mother of five other children. Only one sister was his biological sister; the rest were half-siblings from his mom’s other relationships. They lived in a dangerous, impoverished neighborhood of the city that we loved to cruise through, naïve as we were.
“I don’t know him.” Mac said, his voice flat and emotionless when I had asked him about his father. But the deep-rooted pain in his eyes told me everything I needed to know. It was the kind of pain you can detect in a feral cat’s eyes. The kind I detected in Tuna. Decades ago, like Tuna, I too wondered why Mac’s mom was forced to live in a ransacked two-room apartment with her children.
(At one point, Tuna was safely trapped, but her cage was accidentally unhinged and she escaped the animal rescue efforts!)
Once, in fact, Mac and I had just pulled up to visit his mom and siblings when a white van pulled in. There he was, Jack or John (Mack whispered his inaudible name under his breath) as he hopped out onto the asphalt, his face hidden under dark sunglasses and wearing an inconspicuous pair of jeans and t-shirt, pounding the pavement in a pair of new work boots.
Mac and I sat in the Crown Vic like two upright light bulbs without a fixture. Once Jack or John disappeared into the ransacked apartment building, we drove away. I did not ask questions.The only question that mattered to me was, “How much more hurt could Mac take?”
As it stood, Mac lived with his aunt, who had escaped poverty against all odds to live in suburbia. She managed to just get by on government assistance along with wages from odd jobs. The single mom and her six children lived in a small, rundown house that was once a meat store. She may have narrowly escaped poverty, but no matter how hard she tried, she could not escape the judgment of the “Fat Cats” of our town, who frowned upon the welfare-enabled “feral cats.”
Mac was the eighth resident in the tiny place. He was happy to pay rent, even though he had to sleep on a five-foot slab cot on the floor. He did it to go to our high school, where I had met him. Apparently, it was a lot better than getting bullied and beaten up at his previous high school in the city where he grew up.
From the moment I met him, the student who had been held back three times in school would proudly proclaim, “I’m a grease monkey!” and emphasize the point by bouncing in his chunky, five-inch, shiny black platform shoes down the hallways of our high school.
The second the final school bell rang, he whipped out of school in his Crown Vic in order to get to the service station where he worked as a self-taught mechanic. Although he paid rent to his aunt, whether out of guilt for abandoning his family or out of simple necessity, Mac gave most of his money to his mother. Between Mac’s money and her work as a caterer, his mother managed to obtain her nursing degree, and it looked like the cycle of poverty was about to be broken. It did, for a while.
Going into her second year of nursing, his mother was diagnosed with a rare cancer and died within three months. The other fathers of her children stepped up and took on their responsibilities. There was no room on Mac’s cot, and his sister was left to fend for herself and moved in with a friend. Mac grieved, and he did it over beers at a club in his native city that was notorious for allowing minors to drink alcohol. Then one day, one of the fat cat bullies lit his pants on fire. Fortunately, he was able to extinguish the flames, but he drank alone after that incident.
So there I sat in the grocery store’s parking lot, feeling the wind embrace me once again as I remembered how I nearly tumbled out of Mac’s Crown Victoria as I serenaded my audience in a notoriously unsavory neighborhood. As day turned into night, I would slide down the seat and snuggle up to Mac. He ignited my fire, and he never extinguished it—most of the world had done that at the time, kicking off the lifelong theme of my life.
So, I remember when we were driving, driving in your car Speed so fast, I felt like I was drunk City lights lay out before us And your arm felt nice wrapped around my shoulder And I, I, had a feeling that I belonged I, I, had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone
I was no longer too fat, too thin, too zany, too quiet, too foreign, too dumb, too smart, or too much — I simply belonged in our own private classic-car world like a well-worn robe that had lost half of its original weight.
After we graduated from high school, our Crown Vic cruises became a thing of the past. I would see him sporadically, but he was a recluse. Although he did show up for our 20th high school reunion, he ended up holing himself up in a cheap hotel instead of coming to the party, despite my pleas.
Years later, after fighting his own demons, it seemed he had turned a corner. He had married, had children, and became a successful business owner. It was the life he deserved. But then things turned again. At 45 years old, he finally came out, claiming his true authenticity. I was devastated to learn, he died two years later from AIDS complications. I felt a deep sense of grief, because I had lost a dear friend and a part of my own history.
Wiping the last of my tears, I finally pulled out of the parking lot. I couldn’t help but ponder on the bad luck and bad fate that seemed to follow people like Mac, like feral cats in a world of fat cats.
Throughout my life, I have been passionate about animal rescue. My friends know that they will never win an argument with me about buying bred pets, and I have opened my heart and home to numerous rescue cats and one dog, Crouton. On the other hand, I don’t know what kind of influence I had on Mac, but I know he rescued me in ways I can’t even explain. He certainly gave me faith when I had none.
Decades later, sometimes when the days feel long and dark and static, I remember Mac’s indigo tiny slits of eyes lighting up like fireflies. Like the headlights of a classic Crown Vic, they illuminate the path, guiding me through the darkness.
WTF? (Where's the faith?) 