Jen Remembers Bob

Yesterday was Bob's After Party. It was a well attended shindig with a lot of folks standing up to tell their fave tales of my MOST Amazing Bob. This is what Jen had to say:
~~~
I met The Amazing Bob on July 17th, 1995.  It was my first day at Copy Cop, and my first job in the BIG CITY.  I was a nervous wreck.  NOTHING about that day remains in my memory bank, except for the moment that I was introduced to Bob.

The person giving me the ten cent tour eventually brought me to the back of the store where the jobs were QC'd and packaged (official name: "The Wrap Department")… it looked crazy and chaotic back there and folks seemed annoyed that I was in the way.  I started thinking that I'd made a big mistake, taking this job/moving up to Boston etc.  This place was not exactly generous with the warm fuzzies.

Bob was crouched down on the floor, taping up a large box. When he saw me, he stood up… and up and UP and UP.  I was rooted to the floor, watching this beanstalk of a man unfold before my very eyes.  The man was TALL.

Bob gazed down at me, giving me the warmest smile I'd seen all day, and simply said Hi…. I took in his smiling eyes, his casual stance and his beautiful flowing grey hair and thought WOW, this guy looks like a ROCK STAR.

I decided this place can't be so bad if a guy like Bob works here, so I stayed…. for  **18 YEARS**

For a chunk of those 18 years (the BEST chunk), Bob and I worked as a team down in the basement press room doing Wrap/QC, a team  by the way, that was assembled by his wonderful and devious lady friend, Donna Maderer.   I learned years later that she had arranged the whole pairing (thank you Donna!).

Bob and I got along like a house on fire, a house that giggled while it burned.  We worked hard, but also had the chance to goof around.

Goofing around consisted of many very productive things:

Pitching practice — Most of you know that one of Bob's passions was pitching.  I'd played softball as a kid, but rarely picked up the sacred BASEBALL. Bob put an end to that and started teaching me how to pitch...with an actual baseball, downstairs in the press room.  He was an amazingly patient and encouraging teacher and before long I was firing off fast balls, knuckle balls and curve balls, all very necessary skills for the printing industry of course.

Rubber band target practice — Bob's good friend Bob Broughton ran the cutter which was just a little ways off from Bob and my work space. Tradition stood that every day at about 10am, the Bobs would take a break and head to Dunkin' Donuts.  Bob bought coffee, and Bob bought a donut (I bet you can guess which of the Bobs was the donut lover)... Broughton always placed his coffee on the side of the cutter nearest us, with the lid removed for cooling purposes...which, if you look at it from Bob Grant's perspective, was THE PERFECT TARGET.  Bob and I set up camp like a couple of kids in a snow fort, gathered our rubber bands and fired at will. Surprisingly few would actually make it into the coffee, but when they did, Broughton, a patient and tolerant man, would stop what he was doing to fish them out.  He wouldn't even glance over at us as we howled with victorious laughter; he just continued cutting, business as usual, which made us laugh even harder.  For the record, he never put the lid back on the cup.

Tape Gun wars — This "activity" was saved for special occasions and was often paired with "Christmas Caroling", two things that Donna, who's desk was a mere 15 feet from our area, COULD NOT TOLERATE. Here's how it worked:  Bob and I would each arm ourselves with a tape gun and a box, wait for the clock's second hand to pass 12 and then go on a  full metal taping spree for a minute to see who could add the most amount of tape to their box.  It was LOUD, and the fact that we would cackle with joy as we were competing, drove poor Donna to the edge.  She would storm into the little office and SLAM THE DOOR. The first time this happened I was horrified and felt awful, but Bob thought it was great fun. I realized Bob and Donna's relationship was a beautiful and complex one, and it was OK to sometimes make Donna mad.  Bob magnified the situation when he added the singing of Christmas songs to the end of each tape gun war.  I don't think I've ever met anyone who hates Christmas songs more than Donna does. You can imagine how hard she slammed that office door once we started singing Jingle Bells. Bob Oliviera, the boss of the press room dealt with the issue by giving Donna his office, so that she wouldn't have to deal with me and Bob! Talk about a win win situation.

When occasionally confronted about our behavior, Bob would point to me and say she started it, to which I would respond no, YOU started it... and we'd go back and forth, each getting more and more impassioned until either the person confronting us would roll their eyes and back off or Bob or I would kick imaginary sand onto the others foot.  We continued with this practice, on and off, for years to come, long after Bob had retired. We'd play it up for Donna, who would faithfully play her part and tell us kids to cut it out or threaten that we wouldn't stop for ice cream.

Bob and Donna had a wonderful bond and an amazing relationship. They loved and supported each other, and strove to make each other happy. Goal number one in the Maderer/Grant household was making sure the other was happy, whether this meant a trip to St. Fratelli's bakery, asking how the Red Sox played the night before, helping find the perfect word for a blog post or simply being there for one another. Bob and Donna were world class pros. They complemented each other in ever evolving ways. On the rare occasion when one might not quite be on the same page as the other, they would pull out their famous Yes Dear and everyone was content. Long ago,  Donna's sister Ann gave Bob a T shirt that had Yes Dear printed on the front which was just perfect.  Even if Bob wasn't wearing the shirt, all he would have to do to convey the sentiment was pull on the front of whatever shirt he was wearing and we'd all get it.

When the chips were way down, when Bob or Donna was facing a serious health issue, they made the most of it by finding ways to laugh. They giggled their way through some major stuff, and those of us lucky enough to know them learned some valuable lessons. To this day, when a doctor or nurse asks me to confirm my name, my first urge will be to declare I Am Spartacus! Bob actually mustered up this line last week in the hospital, to the absolute joy of his friends and family.

Bob was a rare gem... he had life all figured out. He found the fun in everything, treated everyone with kindness, and encouraged others to do the same. It was simple for him.

He accepted all of us for who we are and didn't try to change us. He was always there with a smile or a joke, or some incredibly insightful words. His smiles started in the deepest part of his soul and radiated through his every pore. We were all warmed by his love; he made each of us feel so special.

Miles and I were talking recently, and he shared that sometimes when he felt  down or frazzled, he'd call Bob for a lift. Before he knew it he'd be laughing and within about ten minutes on the phone, feel so much better. I agreed that Bob does the same thing for me.  Miles wisely noted that now that Bob is gone, we have to become that person for others...talk about being a chip off the old block.

Bob would advise all of us here today, to remember to Pace ourselves – so please do so.

I will miss you Bob...more than I can say in words. Thank you for absolutely everything.

Raw

The always VERY serious Maderer/Grant Dynamic Duo

There are moments, long ones, when being without TAB feels well beyond my ability to bear. His health'd been declining pretty steadily for, mebbe, the past five years. I saw that, I knew it and it scared the ever livin' fuck outta me. I feared losing him...a way, mega lot.

Who am I without The Amazing Bob? He loved me for me – Nf2ed, neurotic BS spewing, fart machining, chubby, molto opinionated, potty mouthed, naggy bitch that I am. And yeah, those are my good points.

I loved him – his dicky tickered, grumpy ass, homebody, jazz head, punning, poetry writing, beautiful, kind, giving, baking, silly creative self.

He got me. We were on the same wavelength.

Today my soul, my being is a raw, abraded mess.

Here are some more memories of my wonderful AMAZING Bob:

Rhonda

Us, right after we said our I dos – 15 years after the fact.
Miles told his chums that we just wanted to, ya know,
make sure things'd work before signing on the dotted line.

 I just remember Bob as this oasis of calm in the Copy Cop madness (and the hot wax mess that i was at 19). He was like a soothing balm and I loved that he liked corny jokes. He was part of the rescue mission that was the group I encountered at Copy Cop. You all shaped me as an adult whether you realized it or not.

Bob Ray

I can still hear Bob’s voice booming out of the Kopy Kop PA. And I have a really warm memory of him being one of the best people I ever met. I don't have any specific reasons for that, it was just something I instantly knew, that he was then and forever one of the good ones.

I also remember, when you had invited me over to take some photos as reference for a painting, his stern admonition: "No nudies.”

Brenda

I remember starting in Copy Cop and Bob made me feel so welcome. I thought his humour very quirky and couldn't figure it out for a while! I was always in a good mood working with him and even when I messed up (more than once!) it was never a big deal...maybe it (probably!) was but he never let on. I always thought you guys made a great couple.

Sue

During the early 1990s, while working at Copy Cop, I accepted a position, that brought me to the  company’s main branch. There, my kind-hearted, early morning colleagues (Bob, Donna and Jen) made me feel most welcome.

One of the perks — receiving a daily wake up call, accompanied by a verse of poetry, from Bob.

What a wonderful way to start the day!

Hillel

When I think Of Bob, I think of a poet, a master baker, a rabid Red Sox fan and a voracious reader. I see Bob an exemplary father and a delighted grandfather. He was a cynic, a wordsmith, a wit and a man whose tough life experience was faced with a gentle soul. For me, the most lasting image of Bob is of a warm, attentive, doting and deeply in love husband. I’ve known Donna for a long time and I will always be grateful to Bob for bringing her so much joy, comfort, understanding, perfectly matched humor and his always comfortable presence.

And really, we are all so lucky that those are Bob’s gifts to us all.

This next memory is from Patti Jordano. She’s TAB’s heart guy’s (Doc Drachman) tremendously fab nurse practitioner.

It has been my honor to care for your husband over the years. I will miss seeing him in clinic. The two of you had a beautiful relationship. I will miss hearing Bob say to you (at the end of each appointment), that we said “eat more cookies.” I always laughed when he said this.

Yeah, he always got a big, fat Yes Dear from me for this grinning translation of the good medic’s instructions.

I want him back. NOW! K? Please?

Being There -- Teil zwei

The Green Miles checking The Amazing Bob for a heart beat

Time is a whole different beast when you’re in the hospital. It’s as though the earth’s rotation is, mostly, slowed as we travel around that big yellow star of ours.

I was back at Mass General by 6:30 the morning after we’d brought The Amazing Bob and His Nasty Heart Attacks into the ER. He was in a regular room now and had just finished his Wheaties and banana breakfast. As the day wore on and the parade of internists, heart specialists and techs all had a good look-see, it became clear that this wouldn’t be a quickie stay.
TAB seemed, for the most part, fine and dandy. It was as though I was visiting him at a grimly health conscious Norwegian spa. OK, he was def missing his ciggies, cupcakes and Coco but, apart from that, he was in decent spirits.

He’d occasionally ask me where we were and when we could go home. Scary stuff. The docs and nurses assured me that confusion was normal after heart attacks and this would pass. It did.

As the inpatient days stretched out, with no end in sight, I began telling time by when the orderlies arrived with the meal trays, when Jen, Oni, Ann or Steve would arrive for visits (Steve at 3 PM, Jen and Oni at 5 and Ann at 6), by how many games of Scrabble we’d played and whether we’d finished The Globe and The NY Times.

I want/need to be in motion, always doing. I want progress and I want it NOW! Yup, I’ll never win any awards for calm mien. There’s no Ms. Tranquil Spirit sash coming my way.

What did I do when overcome by an antsy attack? Walks. Mass General is a giant-ass hospital -- there are miles of corridors and stairs. Thank dog.

The first surgery was another angioplasty. TAB’s fab cardiologist, Dr. Drachman, came out afterward to let me know that the procedure wasn’t a goer. TAB would need bypass surgery.

Oh...joy.

An aside -- Dr. Drachman, very thoughtfully, had an ASL interpreter for me. Here’s the dealio though -- I’m not fluent in ASL. Being a late deafened babe, I get by via a combo of lipreading, signing and having stuff written down for me. Communication, other than written, is a challenge for me. The interpreter was wonderful but she didn’t speak/sign my kludged together language. As it turned out, as long as Dr. D slowed down his rate of speech slightly, I could read his lips near flawlessly.

TAB and I met his bypass surgeon -- an austerely efficient and direct dude. He was, we’d been told, the absolute best. Given his spectacular rep, the lack of warmth seemed like a real piffle.

The Green Miles, TAB’s son, flew up from DC. We spent our days and evenings at MGH -- in Bob’s room, running around the halls and stairs, lunching at Harvard Gardens and then, on the big day, in the Gray Family Waiting Area with all the other families whose honey’s were under the knife.

Hospital time moves slower than regular non-hospital time. Time, spent waiting for the love of your life to get out of bypass surgery, dawdles lethargically -- periodically, seemingly, coming to a full stop.

We’d been told Bob would be having triple bypass. When his surgeon came down to tell us that everything went very well and we could visit Bob in the ICU shortly, he told us they found further obstructions and it ended up being quadruple bypass.

Miles and I joked that MGH had been running a special -- buy three and get the fourth bypass for free. How could anyone resist such a deal?

17 days after zooming up route 93 north in an ambulance with a jet engine, The Amazing Bob and I came home.

One Year Ago Today

On this day, last year, my sweet former feral, Warrior King Rocco had to go down for the Big Sleep.

In honor of my bestest boy, I’m re-posting Jen’s wonderful, beautiful story of him.
~~~
Rocco first appeared a few weeks before we moved to The Neck.  Actually it was his shadow that appeared and it engulfed us – long, pointy eared and giving the impression that a giant beast was sneaking up behind us while we sat enjoying our first view of Hingham Bay from the bottom of the seawall steps. When we turned to find out what creature had cast such an ominous shadow, we caught a glimpse of the tip of his head from above. It was just Rocco – a tiny, curious, adorable, fluffy tuxedo kitten who would later become a giant part of our lives.

Once settled in our new houses, Donna and Bob cast their magical cat net, hoping that Rocco might fall in and make their home his own. They left food outside, sprinkled treats around their door, lay cushions out in the warm weather and a heated cat-house in the cold. Rocco gladly accepted their generosity but was never quite able to muster the courage to cross their threshold. He was most comfortable outside, where he remained for about ten years.

Little did Bob and Donna know but for probably half of those ten years, Rocco was forming a plan.  He was going to retire one day, and when he did, he was finally going to join Bob and Donna inside their comfortable, warm, loving home. Good plans take time though and, being a smart resourceful cat, Rocco didn't rush it. Nor did he mention to either of them that one day they'd all be collecting their Social Security checks together. Imagine their surprise, one chilly morning, when Rocco dashed between Donna's legs, into their living room!

Bob and Donna were the perfect housemates for Rocco. They rolled with it when Rocco moved into their basement for his first two two months indoors (being inside was scary!). And they rolled with it when he decided he'd had enough dusty subterranean lair living and moved up to their bedroom (where he would remain for the rest of his life).  Bob and Donna simply loved Rocco, and wanted him to be comfortable and happy, and Rocco loved them right back.  Never had a more deserving sweet kitty found such wonderful, loving human doormats.

Bob would've been heartbroken at Rocco's passing today. Donna will dearly miss her supportive four legged little buddy who has seen her through these last eight months without The Amazing Bob.  I believe Rocco held onto life as long as he did so that he could be there for his best pals Bob and Donna, during the hardest times of both their lives.  He was good like that, a true rock, the wonderful Rocco.

Time spent with a cat is never wasted. ~ Colette
~~~
I miss my boy somethin' fierce. Yeah, Coco's getting extra treats today and tuna for dinner...possibly a new catnip toy and a dozen or so supplemental hugs. Yup.

Me and my guard cat

The Amazing Bob giving Rocco covert skritches

Rocco and Coco in the kitchen studiously ignoring each other

Squirrel Wars

The Amazing Bob and Oni have a thing about squirrels. They hate them. Since we moved down to the Neck it’s become quite the passion for them both.

Bob’s fury is based in the fact that they, the wee furry grey bastards, keep getting into the food he leaves out for the birds. He works hard at putting the right mix of sunflower seeds, cracked corn, white millet, peanuts, squash seeds and stale bread out there so that the Blue Jays and Cardinals are regular visitors.

Yeah, we get the flash fowl but, more often, we have these fat fucking rodents waddling around the yard, chowing down like pre-game Steelers' fans with Pimanti Bros. deluxe double egg and cheese sandwiches in their grasp.

We quit putting up nice bird feeders after a few collapsed under their weight.

Why does Oni hate the varmints? Eh, I guess a few got into the basement and started redecorating with tiny turds instead of chintz curtains and danish modern side tables. He finally got them moved over to a lovely split level on Sea Street though -- so, ya know, it all worked out.

You should see Bob and Oni in summer. We’ll all be chilling on the veranda, watching the tide come and go, listening to the WEEI broadcast of the Sox getting their asses kicked, when, all of a sudden, giant rubber bands go flying, super soakers are brandished. Our menfolk are AT WAR!

Fluffy varmints scamper up trees. Jen and I put noses back in books. Our warriors go back to the game.

It’s an exciting life.

Below are two email exchanges between Bob and I. Notes from the front and all.

Me: I was reading that cardinals and blue jays prefer feeding platforms. I wonder what I can build that won't be overrun by squirrels.

The Amazing Bob: How about a feeding platform that accommodates birds and bird food
but all around the edges are sharp poisoned spikes and flame throwers and so on?

Me: Works for me. We'll have to ask the blue jays and cardinals what they think of the plan.

______________________________________

TAB: Just heard a noise on porch.  Went out, saw that a squirrel had pushed the squash
off the porch rail and was eating at it.  I never have a nuclear weapon handy when I need it. 

Me: I'm so sorry Hunny Bunny. Maybe Santa will bring you a Fat Boy for Christmas this year.

TAB: It's amazing you know that.  I've also heard it called Original Child Bomb,
but more often Fat Boy.  I love the way you know all these little but important things.

Me: Maybe I have that wrong and it's Fat Man and Little Boy (his faithful Indian companion). And yeah, my head is a jam packed store house of misremembered minutiae.

TAB: I love that you know what I'm talking about without me having to supply Cliff Notes.

Being There

On the first day of January 2010 The Amazing Bob was having, what he thought was, painful indigestion. We both knew it could be his heart as he’d had an attack (along with an angioplasty and stent installation) a few years earlier.

Calmly (no, for reals!) I suggested we head into Mass General to check things out. ‘No, no. It’s just gas,’ my dear TAB says to me. I gave him the I’m-humoring-you Look. 

When Jen rocks this attitude, this mien, she has one eyebrow arched so high it should submit flight plans to Logan Airport. When I do it, well, my eyebrows aren’t as talented so I quirk one side of my mouth up instead. More or less.

I gave The Amazing Bob my ultra stern I’m-trusting-you-not-to-be-a-tough-guy speech and popped next door to Jen and Oni’s for a bit. Upon my return, TAB allowed that, 'yeah, we should head into Mass General.'

Eek! Things had to be molto serious if TAB’s saying ‘yes, let’s go to the hospital’ without me having to nag and guilt trip him, more than I already had, into it.

In a fogged and profoundly fearful state, I knocked on the kids’ door to tell them what up and ask them to move their car so I could drive TAB to the hospital. Level headed Jen says ‘I’ll call 911. We’ll get an ambulance. You go sit with Bob.’

Damn, she’s fabulously awesome under pressure!

Within three (!!!) minutes we had a houseful of firemen, trained for just this sort of thing. At the five minute mark TAB was on oxygen. Eight minutes after Jen made the call, EMTs showed up and took over.

Before I knew it we were in the Mass General Emergency Room with a team of docs and nurses buzzing around -- all fast, efficient, cheerful and stunningly gorgeous. Really. It was pretty wild and a little funny. TAB was being worked on by four exotically attractive female docs along with a fleet of very pretty nurses. It was like being on a TV hospital show only all the actors were Miss Universe level beautiful.

Def not the stiff and grim scene I’d anticipated. It was like watching a whole cast of Gelsey Kirklands performing The Nutcracker.

In scrubs. Sort of.

That night flew past as I sat on the sidelines, watching the marvelous pros save The Love of My Life™.  Jen and Oni appeared a few hours later, after looking for us at the ERs of Quincy Medical Center, South Shore Hospital and Milton Hospital. Why? Em, I forgot to tell them where we were headed and the ambulance was traveling at light speed.

Could they have texted my cell? Sure and they did! The phone was at home with Coco.

By the time they’d come to the end of their Find TAB and Donna Scavenger Hunt, Bob was out of immediate danger. The docs advised me to go home, get some rest and come back the next day.

Bob wouldn’t be coming home anytime soon.

Blast From The Past

This is a post from another lifetime. I had these imaginings seven full years ago. In that stretch my rear view mirror's witnessed a shit ton of action. I've clocked some excruciatingly sad and scary as hell times AS WELL AS revelationally happy ones.

I never thought I would smile and feel whole again after The Amazing Bob shuffled off this mortal coil. Time and Ten – they work a splendid treat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

In an alternate universe, on an alternate time line I was, I did. I became...

When I left my carnival life behind, I sought out and joined The Big Apple Circus where I learned to ride ponies bareback without fear and fly, in sequins and spangles of course, on the lofty trapeze. Then, THEN came the Cirque du Soleil where I learned how to fly nicely with others (always profitable, salubrious even, to get along with your coworkers).

After that I would have become involved in theater—painting sets and hunting up appropriate props for any given show. Brooklyn Heights would have been my home. Or Alphabet City—either one.

Naturally, this is where I would have met The Amazing Bob—he exists/WE exist in ALL alternate universes. He would have been the theater company’s resident poet, re-write king and, of course, total hot babe.

In an alternate universe I was a squatter, I was besetzen. I occupied, painted and sculpted in an awesome industrial space within the Kreuzberg section of Berlin. Yeah, das bin mich!

In an alternate universe I worked on the pediatric burn ward at Mass General  going home each night in tears, drowning the pain by proxy in Chianti and Jamisons.

In an alternate universe, I never met TAB and spent my years tweaked out on any random opiate to get past the exquisitely intense feelings of alienation. I refuse to believe that universe could ever possibly exist.

The Amazing Bob with grandkiddles

In an alternate universe, TAB and I had a zillion kids (much like the dream I had last night). He would be the stay at home loving, wondrous parent and I would be the bread winner, the eclair earner, the grub getter. TAB is amazing with kids. Kids and animals. And humans of all kinds. Me—not so much and that’s OK. I’m good with cats. OK, I’m a feline doormat—NOT the same thing as being good with cats, I suppose.

On that note—in an alternate universe, all our cats, indoor and porch dwelling, would get along like halvah and green grapes, like Tristan and Isolde, like Cheech and Chong. Ah, you get where I’m going on this.

In an alternate universe, Jen and I are the same age and went through high school hell together. We were skateboarding, stoner, art babes, standing together against the frumious bandersnatches who stood in our way.

Alternate universes are interesting places to vacation.

What Damn Season Are We In?!

When is football season? Now that my beloved Amazing Bob is gone, I don’t know. Why is this important? It’s not really. I’m just remembering late August days when I’d come inside to find him engrossed in a game that was NOT baseball. I’d begin my annual rant.

It’s still baseball season dammit! Why are these steroidal freaks on TV now? It's not fucking time yet! Hell’s bells, it’s 85º out. You can’t play football in hot weather – it’s got to be played when the leaves begin to change color and there’s a crispness to the air. BASEBALL. It’s baseball season! Dammit!

And then, my beautiful TAB would smile that beautiful, transcendent smile of his  – enjoying the theatrics as I faux-stormed upstairs to read.

Officially, football begins on begin on Thursday, September 8, 2016 but pre-season games have already happened.

On Thursday, August 11, the Saints lost to the Pats 22 –34
On my birthday, August 18th, the Bears lost to the Pats 22 – 23

TAB would be happy about this. Me? I don’t care for football but I mentioned that already.

Baseball season isn’t officially over until Sunday, October 2, 2016. So there.

From The Amazing Bob:

Beautiful Catch
While playing left field last week
I made an elegant, leaping, last second catch;
The ball slapped securely into my glove,
But my timing was off: I made the catch
About 20 years to late.
I crashed to the grass like a tranquilized giraffe.
My knee is healing slowly.
The pain remains like a string around my finger,
reminds me that even amateur athletes
must age gracefully
or pay Father Time
Leg-breaker rates.
8/92

Baseball isn’t a life and death matter but the Red Sox are.
~ Mike Barnicle

Here are two other recently found poems of TAB’s.

Several Ways of Saying Different Things
I.
Being married was like taking a foreign language course
that I never passed, never completed, never quite understood,
“What time is it?”

“The pen of my aunt is on the table.”
“If you really loved me you…”
Fill in the blank
II.
I was like one of those characters in the Wizard of Oz
looking for my soul
but not really sure I had one.
Dorothy never showed up
so I did the dishes every day.
III.
My parents never had food fights:
They ate, cleaned their plates
then threw the dishes at each other.
IV.
My wife couldn’t get what she wanted from me
So she turned to food.
The food ate her.
V.
It took nearly fifty years but I’m learning to take nourishment.
I never knew it could taste this good
2/91

Just FYI, the wife in the poem above is TAB’s first one. Not me…just so’s ya know.

Italian Countess (for Donna)
She’s a tough Italian Countess though some folks don’t know her name;
She’s a real committed artist; you can see her joy and pain.
She could’ve lived in Paris hangin’ out with Jean Paul Satre
But went instead to Pittsburgh learning how to do her art.
She settled down in Boston, got a condo and a cat;
Don’t treat her like a yokel ‘cause she’ll tell you where it’s at.
Plays baseball when she wants to, likes to get inside my head;
She’ll cook for me on Sundays – or I’ll cook for her instead.
I love the way she giggles; drives me crazy when she cries;
She plays classics on her flute; got the most delicious thighs.
I love it when she’s playful, adore her when she’s wise.
Spent a lot of time adrift in the magic of her eyes.
She’s a sweet Italian Countess; Lord, I dig her style in bed.
She’s good for me like music, like a loaf of home-baked bread.
We’re learning how to argue, how to share and when to trust;
Learned to pick out shades of grey, and I’ll want her till I’m dust.
7/90

This is my 56th day without The Amazing Bob. Life without him is a thin, pale, molto sad, dull thing and, boyhowdy, that’s a colossal understatement.

Angry? Who me?

A friend told me, the other day, that my anger levels are scary. Another said that I rock a shit-ton more rage since The Amazing Bob moved on — she’s worried about me.

Huh. I'm Furiosa all the time now? Rilly?

Yup. Mind you, neither, as far as I could elicit, feel that I’m all over the place with my passionate furies. I’m not blazing amorphous ire at friends and fam. Nope, it's directed at our desperately mentally ill, grifter asshole president and his entire on-the-take, I’ve-got-mine-so-screw-you Republican party.

OF COURSE I’m in a mondo fury about what up in Washington. The Lying-Sack-of-Shit in Chief and his supporters are out to destroy all that is good about this country. They wanna go back in time to a place where women were subservient, blacks existed only to serve, Mexicans picked produce for pennies and then went back home across the border, Indians stayed invisible on the rez and the only immigrants were from predominantly WHITE European countries. They’re steering this ship into pre-1900s territory. You know, when the rich lived in preposterously giant mansions (so cute and quaintly termed "cottages") with servants to clean their poopy bottoms. If you’re sick, NOT wealthy or white? Well mon ami, we die and we die HARD – painfully, protractedly and, preferably, unseen by our betters.

You see, me with my lady parts, advanced age, distinct dearth of wealth and the Nf2 ridden bod – I kinda take this shit REAL personal-like.

BUT
A) Is this near constant level of profound fury healthy? (Answer: Not so much, no.)
B) How much of this is transference? That is, YES of course the “right” is mondo rage worthy BUT how much of this is over TAB’s early, untimely death?

One person, who feels TAB's exit stage left is the root cause, has said that she doesn’t understand my anger – feels, given the circumstance, it doesn’t make sense. After all, I did all I could to take care of my handsome man (yes and then some). He was 74 and his cancer had come back in molto hostile spades. Sad – yes but shit happens. What’s the anger about?

I’m angry because I’m in deep motherfucking, horror-show pain that TAB’s gone. He was the center of my being, my other half, my world. I’m not mad at TAB, the good docs, any of my ire deserving relations or myself. No, I’m torrentially enraged with the very universe. How could this beautiful, fabulous, caring, stunning man’s life be over and out? NO FUCKING FAIRS!

I CAN get to this placid-ish space again. OH YES I can!

When this friend first said that she didn’t grok my fireworks, I said oh no, it’s not about TAB’s death, it’s about the state of the world. I’m just desperately sad about TAB. Umm…yes and NO.

I remember, back in another lifetime after TAB and I first got together, an acquaintance said that I seemed so much happier, calmer with him in my life. Yup. Truth. The Amazing Bob cooled down my heat soaked, serenity-free heart. Another dear friend has said that he doesn't see me as a rage queen – no, you're just a passionate soul. That’s more poetry than I deserve but I'll take it.

While this anger is normal and understandable, I’ve got to find a way back to tranquility base. Can I manage this feat without my MOST Amazing Bob?

What's It All Mean?

I used to remember many of my dreams. This was good and useful. Why? Dreams, the images, thoughts and emotions that pass through my bean while I sleep, can be/have often been a way to understand crap I’m grappling with when awake.

Dreams can be a way of gaining insight into my tamped down emotional pains and fears.

Dreams can be my brain trying to sort out problematic real life situations—puzzling shit out. Sometimes they’re just comments or snapshots, telling me what I already know, like:

I miss The Amazing Bob.

The Amazing Bob walked in. It was as though he’d never left, never been horribly ill. We were so happy, so goddamned content as he curled into my arms under the covers. We lay intertwined and peacefully dozed, full of the mega joy-joy bliss. (source)

I miss working in clay.

The creatures I formed weren’t light, floating strips and slabs of textured terra cotta. No. They were inelegant, carved, solid things—women in cumbersome, suffocating layers of Victorian garb. More of a Botero vibe than Giacometti or Brancusi. (source)

Yeah, that dream was about way more than wanting to play in the clay again. I took from it that creating sculptures outta clay is an effective way for me to work through and drive out my anxieties, frustrations and fears.

I miss Kevin.

As it turned out, he hadn’t been dead these past 26 years. Nope, he’d been kidnapped by some unnamed, evil foreign power. Why’d they finally release him? No clue. Maybe he'd, for the last time, annoyed the croutons outta them with his caustic and creative insults. (source)

Sometimes I dream about MGH and brain surgery.

I was heading in to MGH for a spot of brain surgery… Instead of it being an all day event (my last one went 18 hours), I was told that it would take just a few hours. I pressured Bob to stay home since this wasn’t, supposedly, gonna be a big deal. More though, I didn’t want him to worry. (source)

Last night’s dream was odd—maybe more so than usual—and I don’t understand what it means.

I was sitting at the bar of The Frog and Peach, waiting for a take-out order for me and Ten (who was waiting at home). The young dude, sitting on the barstool to my left, started making conversation. He seemed pretty animated AND interested in yurs truly. It was odd. I mean the guy looked so Future Farmers of America wholesome, mainstream and YOUNG (like, mid/late 20s at most). WHY was he so focused on me—a chubby, old, deaf broad with a nerve damaged, lopsided face?  I wasn’t suspicious of his motives—he seemed so genuine. No, I was more concerned with how I was gonna break it to him that:

1. I was “spoken for” already. i.e., not available.
2. I was deaf (though, oddly, had no trouble reading his lips).
3. He was WAY too young for me. Had he failed to notice that I was old enough to be his mother?

Instead of telling him all this, I waited until he excused himself to go to the loo. I slipped out the bar door to my car and attempted to vamoose. Earnest Boy caught me as I was pulling out of the parking spot. As I rolled down the window, about to explain my Irish exit and wish him well, my foot slipped off the brake and I crashed into a parked car.

OOF!

I went back into the bar in order to find the car’s owner and spoke to a waitress. Could she help me find the car’s owner? No. Not only that, the car owner was unfindable by anyone so I was free and clear to go home without suffering the financial consequences of my doofusosity.

At this point I woke up. What’s my take away from this dream?

• MAYBE I’m not quite as damaged and unappealing as I think I am?
• It was wonderful to not have to pay the price for the damage I caused. Wouldn’t it be nice to never have to suffer the consequences of harm we’ve inflicted (intentionally or not).

Dunno, it was an odd dream.

Miles Goes To College

The Saturday Baseball Mutants: Dave, The Amazing Bob, The (future) Green Miles and Bro

These are some of The Amazing Bob's reminisces from when his fabulous son, The Green Miles, went off to college.

It was 1995 when my son Miles started at Syracuse University, a bit north and midway between Albany and Rochester, New York. He had graduated from Brookline High School that spring and was eager to begin his life with people unconnected to the past.

I do remember when we first talked about choosing a college, I suggested someplace local -- Emerson, for example. He explained to me that he had lots of relatives who had never lived anywhere but where they were born, and he didn’t want to do that. He wanted to go someplace out of state, California perhaps. I reminded him that visits would require round trip plane fair, which we couldn’t afford. We left it there.

On my way to the subway after work, since I had to pass by the Boston Public Library, I stopped by sometimes to get info on scholarships, grants, loans, student aid, whatever. Miles and me would go through the stuff and make decisions.

We would also talk about college life.  I stumbled through a a talk about STDs and unwanted pregnancies. We talked school cafeterias being good places for food and conversations. I reminded him that he comes from a long line of drunks. We talked about the differences between high school and college, like class size, personal academic responsibility and so on.

And then, on the planned day, he left.

In the days after Miles went to the very distant Syracuse, my apartment, the city and my life seemed larger and emptier, especially since I’d been a single Dad. The comfort of my daily routines were disrupted like in school, when a girl you have a crush on gets promoted and assigned to a different school Or your best friend gets transferred to a base in East Nowhere. I knew he hadn’t abandoned me and I hadn’t thrown him out but the uncertainty about my future and his was dense and intense.

I probably held my breath from the time he left until his first call a couple of days later, when he told me he was at the other end of that distance. He had a room and a roomie and was surrounded by people as temporarily dislocated as him.
He assured me he was eating and enjoying his first big immersion in independence. I was so relieved, I completely neglected to warn him, scold him or advise him about anything. But he was there and well.

As time went on I noticed it was a relief doing laundry half as much as before and buying half as much food. It was a physical relief, not a financial one, since I sent him mad money as often as I could.

Now that I was an Inter-state Single Dad, I had more time and energy to court the vivacious Donna, go shopping, eat out or catch a movie once in awhile, or play in bed until I was wheezing, sweating and grateful for the randomly bestowed blessings of an indifferent universe.
 ____________________________________________________________________

Bob Grant, love of my life and father to the equally amazing Miles

I Remember

We try to keep Time linear
By numbering our years,
By celebrating annually
On our rickety web of biers.

“Hurrah for us still sitting here!”
And so we all partake
We give ourselves one more slice —
Paper thin! — of birthday cake.
~ The Amazing Bob

Yesterday was Jen’s mother’s birthday. She turned 76 (!!!).  Had my most Amazing Bob lived, he would’ve hit that on this past January 10.

And today is Memorial Day. Did you know?

As the Civil War neared its end, thousands of Union soldiers, held as prisoners of war, were herded into a series of hastily assembled camps in Charleston, South Carolina. Conditions at one camp, a former racetrack near the city’s Citadel, were so bad that more than 250 prisoners died from disease or exposure, and were buried in a mass grave behind the track’s grandstand. Three weeks after the Confederate surrender, an unusual procession entered the former camp: On May 1, 1865, more than 1,000 recently freed slaves, accompanied by regiments of the U.S. Colored Troops (including the Massachusetts 54th Infantry) and a handful of white Charlestonians, gathered in the camp to consecrate a new, proper burial site for the Union dead. The group sang hymns, gave readings and distributed flowers around the cemetery, which they dedicated to the “Martyrs of the Race Course.” (source)

TAB did two tours in Nam, came home and joined Viet Nam Veteran’s Against the War. Kevin Alexander Scott was in Bush I’s Iraq folly, caught some devastating desease while there, came home and died a slow, awful death.

War, huh, yeah
What is it good for
Absolutely nothing
War, huh, yeah
What is it good for
Absolutely nothing
Say it again, why’all
War – Edwin Starr

and

Come you masters of war
You that build the big guns
You that build the death planes
You that build all the bombs
You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masks

You that never done nothing
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it’s your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets fly

You’ve thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
For threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain’t worth the blood
That runs in your veins
~snip~
And I hope that you die
And your death will come soon
I will follow your casket
By the pale afternoon
And I’ll watch while you’re lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I’ll stand over your grave
‘Til I’m sure that you’re dead
Masters of War – Bob Dylan

Roller Coaster

I’m on a big fat, crazy mood roller coaster now, babies.

Just one tiny week ago I had my first, honest to Bast, actual good day since The Amazing Bob and I entered MGH Land for, what we thought would be a scary BUT quickie, not-really-a-big-deal checkup, on Monday, June 27th. For those of you playing the home game that’s 128 days ago. Four months.

I’m struggling to have both my monster sorrow, my Godzilla sized heartache and, at the same time, cheer myself a bit. Balance – I need some motherfucking balance, mon ami! All woe all the damn time is hard fucking work. I’m tellin' you, it’s exhausting! Also too, this emotional heavy lifting? Doin’ the Misery Mambo 24/7? It does NOT burn calories. Did you know that? How fucked up is this?! (answer: VERY!)

I need a break. Another one. I want to be in the damn lagoon again NOW!

And yes, I’m impatient with myself (want balance NOW!). Très. I knew, even as I floated in a wistful bliss state in that pool of silica infused warm water, that I would crash back to planet earth. And I have.

Today I’m going to stop by the Y and find out if they’ve got a hot tub or if there’s a time/place where I can just float. I’m also gonna hit the local Lush and pick up a few of their “bath bombs.” No, I can’t float in my tub BUT nice warm, mineral and smell-good infused soaks might be just the thing.

As I was motoring home from a visit with Janice yesterday, the Stones’ song Emotional Rescue began playing on my internal jukebox.

I will be your knight in shining armor
Coming to your emotional rescue

The lyrics are, generally, pretty creepy but I LOVE this tune. I’ve never been a Jagger fan. Nope. While I was real keen on his voice, I HATED his praying mantis-esque jangling, strutting, rubbery mouthed, over-the-top theatrics.  Nope, didn’t find him hot stuff AT ALL.  Much like the undeniably beautiful Roger Daltrey swinging the damn microphone – it was a distraction from the amazing music, NOT a hip, seductive embellishment.

But that’s just me. I know. All my friends were utterly entranced by Jagger and Daltrey’s stage antics. Thought they were a thousand kinds of dead sexy. Meh and a half.

Also too, I'll be my own knight in shining armor, thenkyouveddymuch.

Me? Keith Richards, (KIEF!), was my preferred rock god. In the Stones’ universe, at any rate. Yeah, he swaggered while he played BUT that seemed, to me anyway, all about channeling the music.  When you’re playing and really truly ON FIRE, the music you’re creating possesses you. It does. Yes, this is a memory from way back when I used to play flute and NO, I’m not saying I was ever in the same zip code as Richards' chops.

Painting does the same thing for me.

But where was I…?

Oh right, trying to survive The Amazing Bob’s last out. Bath salts, possibly the Y and, ya know, I’m thinking of breaking out my old flute. Yes, I know that I’m deaf now – hard to miss that. I’m thinking of just, in the privacy of my own home, with only the cats to complain, playing scales. I remember that being meditative. Sure, I won’t hear if I’m flat (I always went flat versus sharp) or if my tone’s lovely or no BUT it could possibly be an interesting, focusing, contemplative thing.

OR I could zip back to the lagoon – move in and just float for the rest of my TABless days.