And Now For Something Completely Different

For starters, IF my father was still alive, today would be his 90th birthday. He died five years ago on Juneteenth. It was during my surgery-a-thon years ('20-'21). Back in those days, I usually only left the damn house via ambulance headed for MGH. I’d gotten the heads up from my sister that Daddy, in hospice, was fading and only had days left. I was physically unable to make the trip so the last time I saw him was via FaceTime.

Jen planted a wee catalpa tree in our back yard in his memory. Now that spring is finally here in coastal New England, there are buds on the trees. Leaves and blossoms soon.

Happy birthday Daddy!

Next – I had a very strange dream the other night. Hillel, his wife, Catherine, and I were in an old, abandoned, Victorian house. This was some sort of Nancy Drew/Scooby Doo/Hardy Boys kind of mystery setting. We were investigating murderers or ghosts or, possibly, murderous ghosts. In any case, something chillingly dangerous.

All of a sudden, as we were creeping down rickety back stairs toward the kitchen, flashlights in hand, a horde of zombies, who were clearly afflicted with leprosy, broke in through the back door.

Hillel and Catherine knew what to do immediately. They were on the job. Me? I was frozen in place – skeeved out and scared shitless.

Hillel announced that he would simply go down and make these new guests a proper tea (with cucumber sandwiches, scones and a nice fruit custard tart, of course) and so he did. As Hillel and his wife went downstairs to welcome the horde and prepare tea, the house transformed into their very own lovely home. The dead of night became sunny daytime and the leprosy ridden zombies, while still shambling, disgusting, undead, diseased things, became civilized, socially ept, veritable bon vivants. 

For my part, I was still in the back hall, observing. Lurking, really. As you probably know, I am, quite possibly, the antithesis of socially skilled and polished. Yes, even in a tea party of leprosy riddled zombies where body parts are dropping quicker than Republican ethics when ol’ Leon starts stuffing millions into their Y-fronts.

What’s this dream mean? Anything? Is this just my unconscious mind putting together horror/comedy entertainments for me? Honestly? I half expected Gene Wilder, Cloris Leachman, or Peter Boyle to come out from behind a velvet curtain. Yes, I know that’s Frankenstein, not zombies, but if my dream was going to be a diversion, it would be Mel Brooksian.

I believe, if there’s really any significance beyond my brain just amusing me, it’s this – this past winter’s been a real long, cold, slog. My health has been crappy (and, generally, not due to my usual NF2 ridiculousness). The weather’s been too wet, windy, and snowy for me to get outside. I’ve, pretty much, been housebound. Given that I’m not much of a people person (I’m a curmudgeonly introvert? A cuddly misanthrope? A recluse who doesn’t bite…much?) Staying in wasn’t a hardship. After all, I have Ten, Jen, Oni, Kevin AND three cats (Cake, Skitter, and Walter)!

Still, five months of bad weather, up and down health, and only getting outside to go to physical therapy, doctor appointments, those few days spent in hospital, and my usual load of MRIs, really got old and dreary. I’m, possibly, feeling a mite antsy. I actually want to get out of the house – take little walks along the seawall – build up my walking strength and endurance, stare at the waves, be on the lookout for sea monsters and shit (if I see one, maybe I could name it Clyde or Lavinia – I wonder if they like Temptations cat treats. PFFFT – who doesn’t)?

ANYWAY, this coming week should be mostly dry and in the low 50s so I should be able to get out for a few walkies. From there maybe I can work my way up to going out to lunch and people watching. I may not necessarily want to interact with other scary humans (live and in person EEK!) but sitting in a cafe with a calming cup of tea, observing from afar might be nice. Maybe a little picnic on the Common once it gets warmer?

Question — for viewing purposes, would opera glasses, binoculars, or a telescope be best? I think I’d look darling with opera glasses but binoculars might be more effective and most dashing!

Inappropriate – Who Me?

First – was it wrong for me to send Jen a YouTube clip of the Mary Tyler Moore episode Chuckles Bites the Dust while she was at her father's funeral? 

This was the ep where the WJM-TV News staff were attending Chuckles the Clown's funeral. He had died at a parade while dressed as the character Peter Peanut – a rogue elephant tried to "shell" him. Fatal injuries ensued. Mary scolded her coworkers for engaging in dark humor only to find herself, later, during the eulogy, unable to contain her laughter. PRICELESS episode!

Luckily Jen's phone was off during Pop's service. Why? She said she probably would have interrupted to play it for everyone. Yup, she and I are besties for a solid reason. Our particular senses of humor can usually be counted on to be inappropriate to any given situation.

Franz Marc

Next – sadly, I'm once again between books. I'm between books which capture my interest, draw me in, amuse and distract me, take me away from the wretched reality of imminent world war, Trump, Putin, and Netanyahu’s gross depravity, and humanity’s general numbness to our planet's ills.

What am I doing instead of diligently hunting up new engaging, inspiring reading matter?

Why, I’m surfing Threads, of course. Don’cha know there are just shitloads of cat pics and pro photographer's offerings to view. There are hilarious and troubling reports from the far distant (thank Bast!) dating fields. There are AITA (Am I The Asshole) posts that I totally MUST read, if not weigh in on. I follow a bunch of individuals in Ukraine – I want to keep abreast of what life is like for real people who are living through this invasion of and fight for their country.

I’m NOT just doomscrolling the ICEhole reports and reading of the latest idiocies and atrocities from the Pedo Administration.

I DID find a helpful post where someone asked readers to name somebody/something we trust more than Donald Trump.

My response was, naturally, fishnet condoms.

Others noted:

• The Nigerian prince who just emailed. He would like me to help him get his inheritance. I only need to send him £5k now. After he receives his birthright, I’ll get a sizable share of his fortune.

• A fart after a night of Taco Bell and prune juice smoothies.

• Arkansas gas station sushi.

• KeanuReeves254695 who texted wanting to know how my day was and, goodness, he thinks my profile picture is stunning. He very much hopes that we’ll become close. He then told me his assets have been frozen by the FBI due to some ridiculous lawsuit. Keanu totally wants to fly to Ukraine to save all the poor kittens and puppies being bombed by Russia but he can’t access his funds. Could I cashapp him a few grand – he’ll totally pay me back.

• Dr. Phil 

• The guy on the dating site telling me he’s 6’4” 200 lbs and 38 years old who’s ONLY looking to date women 25 and younger. (Yeah, dude is totally 5’8” at most but the weight’s probably accurate. Also, he’s 45-50 years old, minimum)

I’ve also discovered a helpful post regarding womb uses. Did you know, they’re useful for a lot more than just birthing babies!

• It's where we keep our butterscotch candies. When we go through menopause, we have to move them somewhere else. That's why little old ladies have butterscotch candies in their purse.

• I have the kids Christmas presents hidden in mine so they don't find them.

• Mine’s been stretched nicely by two babies, I’m looking to rent it out as accommodation in London. About £1500 a month should do it?

• It’s clearly a portal to the underworld.

• I keep my spare house key there.

• Most women don’t know that their womb can also be used for hosting ballroom dances.

• I got mine refurbished into a hello kitty gumball machine

• I keep yarn in mine. I reel it out through my vagina. Really helps with my tensioning when I crochet.

• Mine's a She Shed.

• I keep asking mine what else she can be used for and it keeps magic eight balling me “try again later” 

Me? If I can get my essential tremor nonsense under control, I can start working in clay again. I'll put my wheel and handbuilding table up there. Plenty of room!

For more useful tips on what to do with your womb, do check out Deserye Lewis’s (@blissful_ness923) page on Threads.

Jack McMurrer – in this short life

Jen’s father, died at the end of October after a brief illness. He was 87. Today is his memorial service out in Amherst.

Jack was my backup father after Daddy died. Just so ya know, it’s always smart to have one in reserve. Be prepared and all that. I was immensely fortunate.

I really, truly think he and Chuck, who departed this good planet on Juneteenth of ’21, would have hit it off big time. It’s a rotten shame they never got to meet.

In any case, here’s Jack’s obit, written by Jen’s brother Dan. Pop led a full, adventurous, admirable life.
~~~
John Anthony "Jack" McMurrer, 87, of Amherst, Massachusetts, passed away peacefully on October 26, 2025, surrounded by his children.


Jack was born in 1937 in Cambridge, Massachusetts, to James F. McMurrer Sr. and Mary Ethel (Sullivan) McMurrer. He grew up on Davis Avenue in Arlington, Massachusetts, the youngest of six children. He remained close to his siblings throughout his life.

He graduated from Boston College with a degree in Economics and was later an officer in the US Marine Corps. He spent much of his working career as a computer systems analyst for Procter & Gamble, Honeywell, Boston University Hospital, and the Massachusetts Auto Ratings Bureau. He married Donna Middendorf in 1966; they lived in Scituate, Massachusetts, where they raised their family, for almost 25 years.

Jack enthusiastically pursued multiple passions. He loved running long before it became popular, awakening before dawn and running (in the dark) around the streets of Scituate. He successfully completed multiple Boston Marathons (although he'd be quick to point out that he did so only in an "unofficial" capacity).He also loved spending weekends sailing the Massachusetts coast - and not just those easy New England summer weekends. As cool fall transitioned into icy winter each year, his sailboat was frequently the last one hauled from its mooring in Scituate Harbor. Jack was determined to take advantage of every last weekend for sailing, even long after most other sailors had turned in for the season.

In 1992, Jack retired and followed his dream of sailing a boat solo across the Atlantic Ocean to Ireland, the land of his ancestors. He purchased a 27-foot empty fiberglass hull and designed and built the rest of the boat himself over the next couple of years. In this boat, dubbed Atlantic Runner, he made two successful transatlantic crossings (approximately 30 days each) from Scituate to Crosshaven, County Cork, in the 1990s.

After a third attempted crossing ended in a harrowing rescue far out at sea during an intense storm, Jack decided to shift his explorations from sea to land. He spent a few happy years driving around the country in his pickup truck and camper, exploring the United States and its national parks.

In retirement, he lived for multiple years each in Crosshaven, Ireland; Skowhegan, Maine; and Plymouth, Massachusetts. In these and other locations, he continued his many other retirement pursuits, including writing (novels and poetry), baking bread, bicycling, fitness, and chess (he always sought to crush his chess opponents, regardless of whether he was playing his then-5-year-old grandson or a computer adversary).

A voracious reader, Jack was especially delighted by the ancient Greeks, Anton Chekhov, Winston Churchill, and Graham Greene. His favorite poet, by far, was Emily Dickinson. Jack read her works up until the very end of his life and was tickled to be living in Amherst, the only town in which she had ever lived. His book of her poetry was literally falling apart from his constant use, including enthusiastic notes, underlining, and highlighting on almost every page. Those notes reflect his lifelong love of learning and discovering new things, as he dove into new passions, including classical music and opera, long into his retirement years.

He was a sports fan with a special place in his heart for the Celtics of Bill Russell and Larry Bird, and for BC football. Jack also rooted loyally for the Red Sox, Bruins, and Patriots.

He loved waking up extremely early each day, had a particular fondness for coffee ice cream, and wore almost nothing that wasn't made by LL Bean. His multi-colored collection of crisp LL Bean canvas shirts was legendary.

A devout Catholic, Jack had a sharp sense of humor, a twinkle in his eyes, a quiet spirituality, and a gentle humility.


His final years were spent in the warm, caring communities of Christopher Heights in Belchertown and the Center for Extended Care in Amherst.

Jack is survived and lovingly remembered by his former wife, Donna (Middendorf); his children, Dan and his wife Lucy (Loewen), Jenny and her partner Robert Snow, Erin and her partner PJ Donahue; three grandchildren, Seamus, Bridget, and Patrick; and many nieces and nephews and their families. He loved spending time with all of them, as well as with his five beloved siblings who preceded him in death: Jim, Joe, Larry, Pat, and Barbara.

Jack will be deeply missed. His family finds comfort in the words of his favorite poet Emily Dickinson: 

Unable are the loved to die, for love is immortality.

Indeed, his spirit will live on in the hearts of those who he has touched.


BIRFDAY!

Yesterday, it was my birthday
I hung one more year on the line
I should be depressed
My life’s a mess
But I’m having a good time
~ Paul Simon, Have a Good Time

Okay, it’s today – today is my birthday but the sentiment’s the same.

Is my life really a mess though? I’d say no more, and certainly far less of a mess than a shit-ton of other people. My health is abysmal but I’m still alive, able to enjoy cookies, the love of a very patient, good man, AND the rest of my Valhallan famiglia.

To riff on Oliver Sacks, At 11, I could say I am sodium (element 11), and now at 67, I am a Ho – i.e., holmium. 

Holmium is a rare-earth element with the atomic number 67. It has the symbol Ho.

Holmium can absorb neutrons, so it is used in nuclear reactors to keep a chain reaction under control. 

 I absorb neutrons, I contain multitudes. Apologies to old Walt there.

“Strange to be almost fifty, no? I feel like I just understood how to be young.”

"Yes! It's like the last day in a foreign country. You finally figure out where to get coffee, and drinks, and a good steak. And then you have to leave. And you won't ever be back.” 
~ Andrew Sean Greer, Less 

And here I am, just a few years shy of 70. Back in my ultra recent surgery marathon years (2020 - 2024), I honestly, seriously, and for sure thought I’d be gone by now. I mean, how many times can I get my bean and spine opened up like a can of Campbell’s soup before the old bod says ENOUGH!? How many times can I recover to the point where I can bathe, dress, and feed myself? Take a bit of daily exercise? Enjoy the company of my chosen famiglia? Read, blog, and doodle?

Luckily, the answer is more than five.

I want to grow old without facelifts... I want to have the courage to be loyal to the face I've made. Sometimes I think it would be easier to avoid old age, to die young, but then you'd never complete your life, would you? You'd never wholly know you. 
~ Marilyn Monroe 

She never got the chance to know. Monroe was 36 when she overdosed. If she had lived, she would have turned 99 this past June.

I know a few women who’ve had work done. No judgement – their bodies/their choice. If I had the spare dosh and wasn’t already being sliced open on the regular, would I have fountain of youth type work done? Doubt it. I’d rather spend my money on other things. Like what? Travel, planting forests and fields of wildflowers, cleaning up oceans, cats, medical science research shit, and a 1970 baby blue Karmann Ghia – you know, STUFF.

So, how am I celebrating my birthday? Well, it’s a gorgeous day here in Valhalla so maybe Ten and I will take a walk down to the seawall. I won’t be able to do more than that as, in a fit of exuberance, I over-exercised the other day and re-banjaxed my left foot (joy). I might sit on the porch, reading and watching the tide come in. Later, when Jen and Oni get home from work there’ll be tacos and cake. Mmmmmmmmm!

Pop

Today is the fourth anniversary of my father’s death. He had a good, though challenging, life and made it to a decent age (85). He, like all of us, had his flaws but, for me, he was a fabola father. He got me. He encouraged me to be true to myself. He was open, accepting, and as supportive as possible given the wild craziness of life. 

I think of him, even if just for brief moments, daily. It’s been a long time since we could engage in our long, free range convos that ran the gamut from wacky general riffs to serious life commentaries, familial crapoli, books, concerts, best music EVAH, art, language, friends, and on and on. Why such a long time since we had those great convos? Mostly because I lost all my hearing almost 20 years ago – we couldn’t chat on the phone anymore. Also, as he got older and mother’s health steadily declined, Daddy became less vibrant, less present.

I wasn’t able to go visit him during his last months, weeks, and days. Why not? He lived 540 miles away, in a small, hard-to-get-to town in Western Pennsylvania. To get there from Valhalla would take either a flight from Boston to Pittsburgh (getting to and from the airports + security check-ins and waits + flight time = 6.5 hours minimum travel time each way) or a 10 hour drive (each way). The length and hassle of the trips wouldn’t have been a big deal except for the fact that his final health downturn happened during my two year surgery-a-thon. You remember, ’20 and ’21 when I had brain surgery followed by spine surgery followed by more bean cutting (which took out my brain’s ability to talk to my left leg, which meant I had to retrain my head to communicate with my leg) which was followed by yet another spine op. Yeah, those were some serious big fun times.

Even after I was able to get around with a brace and walker, I was in a shit-ton of pain. Car rides? Yeah, NOT a happening thing. Even a 15 minute jaunt to my physical therapy appointments were killer. They made time spent on a rack or in an iron maiden look like cushy spa adventures. Let’s say I took a metric fuck-ton of painkillers and powered my way down to see him. What then? It was high COVID times.  I may, but more likely, may NOT have been allowed in to see him in his nursing home.

So, the old man clocked out on Juneteenth in 2021. Mia famiglia likes to exit on holidays. Why? Decorations are already up, big meal’s already planned, guests are already invited – just tryin’ to make life easier for the party planners, ya know? My mother left on Halloween. Daddy on Juneteenth. The Amazing Bob on July 4th and my Aunt Mary Ann on July 5th (close enough). Cousin Gary took the last train for the coast two days after New Year’s Day.

Me? I want my own damn day when I go. 

How am I going to remember and honor my father today? By being true to myself – not putting up with shit, reading whatever the fuck I want to read, maybe watching Sigourney Weaver kick some ass, eating sushi, having my half thimble serving of Jamo, and doing some goddamn physical therapy exercising (god, I hate that shit!).

How will you spend this beautiful Juneteenth?

Anniversaries and Birthdays

Yesterday was the 250th anniversary of Paul Revere’s ride.

In 1774 and 1775, the Boston Committee of Correspondence and the Massachusetts Committee of Safety employed Paul Revere as an express rider to carry news, messages, and copies of important documents as far away as New York and Philadelphia.

On the evening of April 18, 1775, Dr. Joseph Warren summoned Paul Revere and gave him the task of riding to Lexington, Massachusetts, with the news that British soldiers stationed in Boston were about to march into the countryside northwest of the town.  (source) 

250 years ago today was the first major military campaign of the Revolution—the Battles of Lexington and Concord.

I’m only now learning that slavery was still legal in Massachusetts back then. In fact, it wasn’t until 1783—the same year the Revolutionary War officially ended and the Treaty of Paris was signed—that slavery was abolished here.

Two people you should know about—Elizabeth Freeman (AKA Mum Bett) and Quock Walker. They sued for their freedom in 1781, arguing their enslavement was incompatible with the Massachusetts Constitution which stated "All men are born free and equal.” Massachusetts was the first U.S. state to kick slavery, if not disgusting racism and injustice, to the curb.

It’s significant that at the dawn of our nation’s founding, these two individuals relied on the legal system to achieve freedom. We all recognize that far too often what is “legal” is not in fact “just” or “justice.” But their stories are a reminder that — at its best — the legal system can, and must, be a tool for justice and equality. It is also a reminder that lasting social change starts with courageous individuals and communities who stand up against injustice. (source)

That was then. 250 years later we have on-the-take, prejudiced-as-all-hell fuckers like Clarence Thomas, Samuel Alito, Aileen Cannon, Bruce Schroeder, Les Hayes, and so many more. Is justice even possible any more?

When my family moved from Providence, Rhode Island to Townsend, Massachusetts, we landed in my favorite childhood home. I had my own room (what luxury!). We were across from a beautiful cemetery where I could take long walks and ice skate. I remember Daddy showing me a hidden cubby. He explained that our house had been a safe-house along the Underground Railroad. I learned actual, fer reals history from my father—he inspired me to read more, to learn facts versus fairy tales.

Today would have been his 89th birthday. He died four years ago on Juneteenth.

Daddy and me—I was 21; he was 44.

Rando

The southern cassowary (Casuarius casuarius), also known as double-wattled cassowary, Australian cassowary, or two-wattled cassowary, is a large flightless black bird, found in Indonesia, Papua New Guinea, and northeastern Australia. It is one of the three living species of cassowary, alongside the dwarf cassowary and the northern cassowary. It is a ratite and therefore related to the emu, ostriches, rheas and kiwi. (source)
~~~
City I dislike: Syracuse, NY
Why? Eh, no major reason. It’s a big Western New York college town and yet it’s nearly completely devoid of rizz. It lacks charm for me…Nice ceramics museum  though.

San Marco Square, Venice—James Innes

City I think is overrated: Venice, Italy. Too crowded with careless, annoying tourists who seem to think they’re in Disneyland/World versus a place where people actually live and work.

City I think is underrated: Brattleboro, VT
Really. Go there. It small but has a few independent bookstores, lovely restaurants and pubs, a decent little art museum, farmer’s, flea, antique and other street markets, distilleries, live theater and more than a few art galleries, at least three different spas and The New England Center for Circus Arts.

City I like: Reykjavik, Iceland

City I love: NYC

City I feel most myself in: Cambridge, MA?

City I dream of living in (again): Cambridge, MA
~~~
Jen and I are still binge-watching Northern Exposure and I continue to be disappointed in most of the characters and storylines. Maurice had a few epps in a row where he showed personal growth. That arc’s apparently now on vacation. Shelly continues to be a vapid, little, self obsessed bleach blonde teen. There was actually an episode employing the old exact-identical-(but very different)-twin trope. Ya know, we didn’t need a second, new Doctor Fleischmann (though his twin was an improvement). Couldn’t the writers have made a Chris (who wasn’t such a lady magnet? Unsure that would be possible.). A Marylyn who was now an outspoken, hell raising feminist? Shelly with a brain and compassion? (not sure that’s doable but it’d be interesting….maybe)

~~~
This is from a speech my pal Hillel recently gave while sitting shiva after his mother recently died.

I love this tapestry. I know there were a lot of dedicated and talented women who worked on it, but forgive me if it makes me think so much of my mother. Her stitching and esthetics are incorporated into it, and it is dedicated to her beloved husband, but that’s not even what I mean when I say it makes me think of her. My mother’s life was a tapestry, harmoniously blending so many elements and making the sum more than the parts.

I’m not surprised to see so many of you here for her today. Community was a vital, living part of my mother’s tapestry of life. Community is the air that she breathed. She gained sustenance from being with this kehillah, participating in it, sometimes leading it, reveling in its joys, commiserating in its sorrows. My father loved to say that “you can’t Jew it alone” and my mom felt that in her very bones. She was, in many ways, a pretty private person, but having and being in community gave her purpose and energy, and made her thrive.

For mom, a critical aspect of that community is Jewish living and learning. For her, those two things were inseparable. Going through my parents’ study over the last weeks, I found reams – literally reams – of notes, study materials, and teaching outlines for the innumerable classes that she took and courses that she taught here and elsewhere. And while Jewish subjects were paramount, she had broad curiosity about the world. Paul Applefield mentioned to me that he’d come visit mom one week and she’d have torah text open on her lap. He’d come a week later, and she’d be reading a book about the sculptures of Henry Moore. Mom never went anywhere without a book or a magazine article in her hand, you know, just in case she had to wait for an appointment to start or a parking spot to open up. She wanted to put that ten minutes to good use by soaking up some learning.

My mother learned from everyone and wanted to know about people’s lives and what is important to them. In the hospital recently, she asked the nurses how they came to be in their job and what their tattoos were all about. She would ask museum docents detailed questions about art and artifacts. She talked with plumbers and store clerks and neighbors and John the produce guy, not just about what they were doing or selling, but who they are and what is important to them. She regarded everyone with utmost respect for their background and perspective on the world. For my ima, everyone had something to teach and she wanted to learn.

Often, that learning was a prelude to appreciating the world’s beauty in all its forms. She loved to travel so she could see the world’s wonders first hand, and invariably the trip would include visits to the local art museums, libraries, and botanical gardens. So mom would learn beforehand about indigenous art and customs and flora, but she wanted to see it for herself, to immerse herself in it.

One of mom’s favorite Hebrew phrases was from the paragraph before the shema:
 וּבְטוּבוֹ מְחַדֵּשׁ בְּכָל יוֹם תָּמִיד מַעֲשֵׂה בְרֵאשִׁית, which refers to god as the force that, with kindness, renews creation continuously every day. My mother saw creation as an ongoing activity, a constant presence, and thought that it is our responsibility, not just to appreciate the beauty of the world, but to participate in the creation of the world. “Enjoy every moment” she would say to us, whether the moment was travel, going to a concert, being with friends, or spending time with family. For years, my brother and I have only half joked that our mother was a guru and her mantra was “enjoy every moment.”

Unquestionably, the thread that tied together my mother’s tapestry was family. She shared a life of deep love, profound respect, mutual interests, and mutual support with my father. She was Savta to my kids and beloved Aunt J to my cousins. She was our matriarch and she kept up with everyone’s struggles and accomplishments. I have the letters where I would confide in her about the angst of my 20s because I knew I could talk with her about those things. More recently, she talked a lot with her grandchildren about what they were doing, and not just in a "that's nice, dear" kind of way, but with genuine interest and curiosity. In October, she danced at my son Caleb’s wedding and just a couple of weeks ago, she tried to wrap her head around what my nephew Max does to create software that 3D prints prosthetics.

She wanted to know what everyone was doing and being because she took absolute glowing pride in the mark that her family was making on the world. It’s kind of a running joke in my family that at least two of my kids and several of my nieces and nephews are the fourth generation to work in the nonprofit world, god help them. But my mother was so happy about the positive things that her family does to improve the world, to reinvent it as a better place, to find their place in it, and to create the community and the loving personal connections that make that happen. During this past pesach, my mother’s health was already in severe decline, but when she was surrounded by 8 of her children and grandchildren, she so rose to the occasion. Sitting in her throne in her living room, surrounded by family at the seder, mom absolutely glowed with energy and naches*… Family was mom’s happy place.
 
My mother’s life wove together beauty, presence, learning, family, and so much love. I hope you know that all of you are a part of that. That’s a beautiful tapestry you have there.

I wish that, in the nearly 50 years that Hillel and I have been buds, that I’d spent more time with his Muti—his Mother.

What is the translation of muti?
In South African English, the word muti is derived from the Zulu/Xhosa/Northern Ndebele umuthi, meaning 'tree', whose root is -thi.

*Naches
     noun
pride or gratification, especially at the achievements of one's children.

May Mrs. Bromberg's memory be a massive blessing to all.

Birches

Gustav Klimt—Farmhouse with Birch Trees

 I read a Thread by a guy (now in his 50s) who, when he was 15 years old, called his father a crap dad (which the dude says was most def not the case) His father, instead of engaging in his son’s adolescent temper tantrum, broke down in tears.

The poster, almost 40 years later, still feels heavy remorse and guilt. Commenters all told him to apologize. Gee, what a novel idea! 

Quite possibly he already had. FYI, apologies don’t make guilt and regret magically evaporate. I know, crazy, huh? Also, maybe his old man’s no longer alive to hear it.

I’ve written before about my mother. She truly was absolute crap as a mum—at least for me. I can’t speak for my siblings (two of whom I know she absolutely adored). Lucy probably wasn’t perfect for them either but she def made clear that they were loved to Jupiter and back. They received the bulk of her love and support.

Unlike the Threads poster, I never called Lucy a rotten, failed mother to her face but I’m sure she understood that I wasn’t her biggest fan. Subtlety has never been one of my talents.

Gustav Klimt—Birch Forest

As I got older and worked through a lot of the anger and resentment, I could see in the rear view mirror, that she was, if nothing else, well intentioned. Just not necessarily towards me. I was too different from what she had wanted/needed from a child.

I made an effort to see her good qualities and tried, in the half dozen times a year I visited, to meet her in her comfort zone. I would ask Lucy about herself, encourage her to tell me stories about her. I’d relate anecdotes from the last time I saw her brothers and cousins. When she was in Boston for surgeries, I’d sit with her, spoon-feeding lunch to her and telling tales of The Amazing Bob (who she loved—after all, we’d finally tied the knot versus living in sin AND he had a son!). Everything I said and asked her about was specific to her interests (husbands, boy children, her brother and so on). This made her happy.

I’d finally achieved a good relationship with my mother. All it took was leaving myself behind. Why did I do it? I wanted our last chapters to be as pleasant as possible. They were.

The price I paid for her smiles, her seeming happiness in my company was small. For a handful of weekends a year over the course of a decade, I clocked in. Put on a selfless, happy, caring daughter face. I pretended that our nasty past never happened.

The very last time I saw her she was quite frail and thin. We, (Jen, me, Mother and Pop) were sitting at the dining room table having lunch. She wasn’t eating so I began encouraging her (okay, maybe I was nagging)—you’re too thin, you need to eat, just take a little bite, if you have a spoonful, I’ll have one too, if you won’t have a morsel I’ll spoon-feed you like I do when you’re in hospital. She smiled, laughed and finally ate.

I don’t regret playing the good daughter role those last ten years of her life. She had come to understand, at least a little bit, how, in my case, she’d dropped the mothering ball.

Lucy was who she was. She did the best she could. Also, birches were her favorite tree. We planted one here in her memory.

Instability

I believe I worked through most of my problems with my mother before she died. In order to understand her behavior, I tried to see the world from her perspective. I came to understand who she was—a well meaning person who did the best she could to evolve beyond the pain and bullshit of growing up desperately poor, with a cruel father and a mother who died young from neurofibromatosis type 2. (what I have, what mother and her brother Matt had, what her cousin Carmel and Aunt Mamie had) All things considered, she did a hell of a job aside from the whole motherhood thing.

Mother wanted, no, NEEDED help in raising her more difficult children. Since I was the oldest, emotionally stable (that’s a relative thing) kid AND, very important here, only a girl, I was expected to be her assistant mother. I was to have zero needs of my own, no problems, no actual existence outside of being her dutiful helper elf.

She, much, much later in life, realized that she’d oopsied with me. We even talked about it a tiny bit. Her reason for not being an involved, supportive parent for me? She saw me as stable and not needing anything. Also, I wasn't the much preferred boy brand of child (she didn't admit to this though it was obvs+ from the get go). I may have seemed healthy and able compared to my damaged/troubled siblings but I still needed a loving, involved parent. While I got on great with Daddy, he was usually out—teaching, taking classes or working one of his many extra jobs to support us. Mother refused to get a part time gig—she was gonna have a 1950s sitcom dream life no matter what.

She could be a real nasty piece of work (to me). At the same time though, as I got older, she leaned more and more heavily on me to help her in her parental role. She’d call me at work, (we both still had hearing) sobbing, begging me to call one sibling or another or my father. She expected me to fix everything and everyone at the drop of a dime. My own life? Irrelevant.

It would have been laughable if it weren’t so desperately sad.

Why does this all come up today? I finished the book Dirtbag, Massachusetts. While there are a more than a few differences between Fitzgerald’s and my growing up experiences, one similarity that stands out is that neither of our mothers seemed to have a shred of self awareness or any clue as to what makes up a healthy parent/child relationship.

Mother has been gone for a decade now but, every now and then, I still have the impulse to ask her, amongst other questions, what the fuck were you thinking when you called me a filthy prostitute in front of company (she’d just found out that I was modeling for art classes as a way to pay for college. Saying that she was horrified is a gross understatement).

It’s no wonder I never wanted (or had) children of my own. I was both afraid of being just like her and tired of everyone else's needs being far more important than my own.

I figured being an adult meant that it was finally time to take care of me. Cats too.

Chocolate, Dragons and Plainchant

I’m gonna eat chocolate and read all day. Okay, maybe not. Seems like a fine idea though.

It’ll be up in the 50s later. Possibly Ten and I can take a walk over to Off The Hook (formerly Louis’), the neighborhood seafood restaurant, for lunch. That’d be a long hike, for me, especially over the rough roads and broken sidewalks around here. Still, it could be a great way to push myself, expand my abilities and shit. Plus, I’d have a nice, lengthy, restorative break (LUNCH) in the middle of all that exercise.

Problem, the wind’s due to kick up to Red Flag Warning (‘the fuck? Why is this capitalized on weather.com?) conditions at noon. So, NOT safe walking weather for yurs truly.

This, naturally, brings me back to reading in bed whilst snarfing chocolate eggs. A splendid plan.

The book I’m reading now is about a murder in a small, remote, cloistered monastery in northern Québec. The monks are known for their Gregorian chants.

I believe it must have been Daddy who introduced me to plainchant. Despite my bone deep love of bombast, the exquisite, simple purity of Gregorian chants drew me in like Odysseus hearing the Siren’s song for the first time. (little known fact, Odysseus was an easy mark, a total round heels)

Now, 18 years after my hearing took the last train to the coast, I can’t bring so much as a single phrase into my aural memory. This, as I’m sure you understand, blows gangrenous Krayt Dragon chunks.

My father converted to Catholicism but not until after his mother, Grandma, had died. Why convert at all and why wait?

Daddy did it for his wife, my mother—she was quite devout (if you’ll plz recall, I survived an elementary school education at the hands of angry nuns). More than for her, possibly, he became Catholic for the music. Daddy absolutely loved singing in the choir. (gotta say, from what I recall, the Catholic hymns were, in fact, musically superior to the Protestant ones)

Why wait until his own mother was gone before joining? Ruby never lost her fury over what the church had done to Ireland. Her family left Derry, in Northern Ireland, at the end of the 19th century, settling in Canada. Grandpa’s family had left a small village on the Ring of Kerry around the same time, settling in Buffalo, New York.

Daddy was well aware of the church’s sins but wanted to make his wife happy AND he had lost his heart and soul to the music. Here are two quotes from Louise Penny’s The Beautiful Mystery. The first is by a monk who had joined the order specifically because of the Gregorian chants. Like my father, he’d fallen in love.

“What did falling in love do for you? Can you ever really explain it? It filled empty spaces I never knew were empty. It cured a loneliness I never knew I had. It gave me joy. And freedom. I think that was the most amazing part. I suddenly felt both embraced and freed (by the chants) at the same time.”

This second quote is from a detective whose family had left the church.

The Catholic Church wasn't just a part of his parents' live, and his grandparents', it ruled their lives. The priests told them what to eat, what to do, who to vote for, what to think. What to believe.

Told them to have more and more babies. Kept them pregnant and poor and ignorant.

They'd been beaten in school, scolded in church, abused in the back rooms.

And when, after generations of this, they'd finally walked away, the Church had accused them of being unfaithful. And threatened them with eternal damnation.

I wish Daddy was still alive so we could compare religion’s manifest wickedness alongside the brilliant works of art and music created in its name.

That’d be one hell of a satisfying convo.

Fitting in

I’m reading the book Becoming Duchess Goldblatt. The author is Anonymous.

Part memoir and part joyful romp through the fields of imagination, the story behind a beloved pseudonymous Twitter account reveals how a writer deep in grief rebuilt a life worth living. (source)

Who is Anonymous? Does it matter? Nope—it’s her story and the way she tells it that matter most (to me). While the author is a wordsmith, she’s not a novelist or, necessarily a pro-memoirist like Joan Didion, Mary Karr or Augusten Burroughs. She’s mainly a copywriter, grant writer, journalist and editor. This book is, likely, a one off. I’m loving it.

Anonymous speaks of growing up with a wholly unsupportive nasty-piece-of-work mother, a violent and mentally ill, alcoholic, drug addicted brother and an ill but saintly, doting father. To a certain extent it sounds like a version of my own family but with fewer players.

Like in Anonymous’s household, all life revolved around my mentally banjaxed sibling. Mother coddled him—worse than I spoil cats. This, naturally, only resulted in my brother’s violent, obscenely selfish and delusional qualities flourishing, blooming like flowers in May.

In an effort to hide her wretched family life, Anonymous, outside the home, tried to behave as though everything was fine. She made an effort to conform.

I tried that too (to those who knew me in high school…NO SERIOUS AND TRUE, I honestly made an effort to fit in). It didn’t work out—AT ALL. Ya see, after moving every year or two (starting at the ripe ol’ age of 18 months), I had no idea what normal, age appropriate behavior was. The only input I got from mother was that I was to be quiet, not have any needs or wants and I was to act as the family’s servant. I was to grow up, marry a nice Catholic boy and pop out grandkids for her. It was okay that I played the flute and liked to draw but, Bast forbid I color outside the lines…EVER.

On the other hand, Daddy encouraged me to be myself—whatever that might be. It probably wasn’t until the end of senior year in high school that I started down that path. BUT, when you live in a very small town and your family is tumultuous and more than a bit odd, self discovery and exploration is a long, slow and desperately awkward slog. I believe I may have finally attained my goal—to be true to myself—at the age of 40. Better late than never, eh?

I was listening to Aerosmith’s Dream On yesterday (yes, on my internal turntable) and this Faulkner line came to mind:

The past is never dead. It’s not even past.

Clinging to Sanity with Dark Chocolate

My first brain surgery was in late October of 1982. I was 24 years old. My roommate Cindy and her beau showed up in costume Halloween night. She was kitted out in a handmade skeleton costume (black body suit with white fabric bones pasted over top). Steve, who was a tall, husky guy, was in a costume shop gorilla suit. They brought me a tiara and mask to wear—the nurses were delighted. I'm all about entertaining the nurses.

My parents came up for the surgery and my mother stayed on until I was discharged 10 days later. She still had hearing and great balance then and stayed at a convent way up on Beacon Hill. I don’t know how she finagled that but mother could be quite resourceful and endearing when needs arose.

In any case, she brought me a big bag of dark chocolate covered cherries. Those had been my favorite when I was little and, at this dark scary time, she remembered. Given that I was mother's least favorite child, to say the very least, I was stunned and touched. Maybe she didn’t wholly despise me after all?

Mother died 10 years ago on Halloween. Jen gave me a box of dark chocolate cherries yesterday—Halloween.
~~~
I have a persistent tummy ache and I know what that’s about—the midterm elections. I’ve been avoiding the polls and then I tripped over one that puts the Republi/Fascists WAY ahead at winning the House.

Zut alors! HOW can that be?! The grifters and Former Guy asslicking candidates are so transparently unqualified and vile. Are the vast majority of Americans irretrievably stupid, lazy or too damn wealthy and white for laws and government to matter? Laws and rules? Those are for the the little people.

Being a pessimist would be easier on me, I think. Instead of waking up to the shock and horror of Shrub being re-elected and the nuclear devastation of the Carnelian Con conniving his way into the White House, I would expect nothing else. Yes BUT...then I’d be depressed 24/7.

Mind you, I’m well aware that not all Southerners and MidWesterners are heartless, bigoted, ant-headed, violence craving trolls. Really! I know that much of the problem is that districts have been gerrymandered to hell and beyond. HOW can that be remedied when the Fascists have already put in the fix? Seriously—HOW?

Are the voters of GA-14, CO-3, CA-23, OH-4, TX-01, etc. predominately credulous, fact averse, loony tune, Q-anon tribble brains? Were these voters born without a functional prefrontal cortex?
~~~

Hillel is in Israel now for the fundraising Israel Ride. The cycling kicks off tomorrow. The last few days have been devoted to getting un-jetlagged and taking in some sights like the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem.

…the oldest extant Islamic monument. The structure is situated on a flat elevated plaza known to Muslims as al-Ḥaram al-Sharīf (“The Noble Sanctuary”) and to Jews as the Temple Mount (the site where the Temple of Jerusalem once stood). (source)

The Dome of the Rock sits on top of the Temple which King Solomon built in 1000 BCE (it was destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE). Abd al-Malik ibn Marwān, the fifth caliph of the Umayyad Arab dynasty had the mosque built in the 7th century CE.

My god, that’s an old pile! Hillel also tells me that there are a LOT of cats in Jerusalem. AWESOME!

For the ride, there are different routes based on what each rider can realistically do. They range from 150 – 350 miles, to be peddled over five days. Our man Hillel hopes to do the longer route.

All power to him!