First the sparkle (courtesy of my 'front yard'):And then the bit about comments AND the comment. I was fooling around backstage here at Tell Me a Story and seem to have banjaxed the comments feature. 'the hell? Swear to god, I was just trying to tweak the proscenium and shit but NOOOOOO. I went a light bridge too far and torpedoed the commentariat-age. It'll be back soon though. Sweah to gawd!
In any case, here are Hillel's thoughts, memories and the like on last night's post:
Your timing is good - wakes and shivas are much on my mind this week.
I was at just such an event at a dear friend’s house several times this week (shiva is every night for a week after the funeral) because she lost her beloved and raucously colorful mother.
Example: Barbara requested that everyone wear something purple to her funeral; apparently the room was awash with every shade of lilac, lavender, and plum.
While shiva is a quieter occasion than an Irish wake, there is still much storytelling that happens, and often much laughter too as we recall the dearly departed’s quirks and peccadilloes. Humans are storytelling creatures after all, and we bring people – those alive and those not-so – closer to our hearts by knowing their tales.
Sometimes I wonder what my kids will say about me when the time comes…Best version of Waltzing Matilda ever (if you're not deep into the single malts after hearing this....well...no comment from me):
The Jami would have been at one or another of my boys’ brises. My father, while not a teetotaler, was not a big drinker (occasionally, a congregant would give him a bottle of something as thanks for a service rendered. Let’s just say those aged well in our cupboard.). New babies, however, are welcomed into the world with wine on their lips, though I suspect that’s partly as anesthetic for the surgery the lads are undergoing.
BTW, thanks for the Waltzing Matilda. You’d have to have a heart of stone not to be affected by that song. I haven’t heard it in a long time and it gets me every time. And Bei Mir Bist Du Schoen is a good antidote (and was one of my dad’s favorites).
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