My dear friend, Jacky, is on her way back home to Indiana after attending a long-timey friend's funeral in North Carolina. She says that she and her husband are taking their time on the return drive.
Good! They probably need the time to be silent and reflect on individual memories of their friend, but also to communicate and share with each other what he meant to them both.
When I first got the notice of his passing, I made no response to Jacky. It wasn't that I felt nothing. No, I felt something, but what could I have said?
There are no words adequate to convey what one feels at a time like this, no words of consolation ... nothing, really, other than the common platitudes uttered in frustration by so many.
I've spent many hours these past couple of weeks going through years of accumulated "crapola" in my townhouse .. have decided to just face it and tell it like it is .. well, not really crapola, but most of it meaningless to anyone other than myself.
So many memories. Jacky and her husband will always have those memories - both individual and jointly of their friend - and so he will remain forever in their hearts.
I am glad they went to his funeral, but I am sorry for their loss. It doesn't matter if their friend, towards the very end, had no quality of life and no chance for recovery. He was still their friend and they didn't want to have to say goodbye.
I understand. I weep for them. I empathize in their feelings of loss. I love you, Jacky, and my arms enfold you.
Showing posts with label Loss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Loss. Show all posts
Monday, May 31, 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Poignancy
I have often heard it said that the dictionary defines one big word with another. In many cases, that seems to be true. It's no different with the word "poignancy", which is defined in my book as "the quality or state of being poignant". Rrvit! And then, of course, I had to look up "poignant" ... "deeply affecting the feelings".
There's really no one word that can adequately describe how one feels when a member of the family dies, one you have lived with and loved for many years. Poignant is as good a word as any, I guess.
Yesterday morning, Polimom wrote a beautiful post about the loss in her family. It moved me deeply. I was going to publish this in response before I left to play in the tournament, but I got caught up in reading some of my previous posts - the ones where I spoke of my love for cats - and there just wasn't enough time left to do it justice.
Why am I speaking of my love for cats? Polimom lost a member of her family!
Well, it wasn't a person who died. It was Pounce, her beloved cat. Cancer took him. I couldn't believe how fast he went! A really good thing. And he died where he knew people loved him. Polimom didn't have to undergo the horrendousness of taking him to the vet to be 'put down', thank goodness.
[She and I spent the better part of an hour in the late afternoon talking about him, about the other pets in the family and pets in general, and about feelings. I figured she needed the emotional outlet and was glad I was there to provide it.]
To honor Pounce - and especially in memory of my own Serendipity, who died fifteen years ago this Valentine's Day - I'd like to re-publish a poem I wrote for her that dreadful evening when I came home and discovered that she had somehow managed, in her terribly weakened state, to climb up onto my bed before she took her last breath.
My Valentine
Words cannot begin to describe how I feel
Now that my pretty one's insides have begun to congeal.
I cannot stop petting her -- her fur is still so soft
I suppose I'll continue to find fleas until summer -- even in the loft.
I hated to leave her this morning ... she wanted to lay in the doorway -- ajar
(I guess) so she could see what she had (seems like just yesterday) chased from afar.
Queen of the fence, rooftop, trees
She went exactly as she pleased!
Now my lovely has died on my bed, her head near my pillow, her mouth open, quite dead.
I don't want her to awaken ... there must have been pain
I wouldn't want her to have to go through all that again.
Tears shed on my bed. I've dug the hole, but will have to make it deeper ...
Can't stand the thought of yukky bugs and God knows what all getting at my beautiful sleeper.
Oh, Serendipity! My unexpected pleasure!
You were such a wonderful treasure!
The above poem was written the evening Serendipity died and was first published on this blogsite here, almost two years ago. I couldn't stop crying until I wrote it. It made me feel a little better to get all of my raw feelings down on paper. I imagine, if I'd been blogging way back then in 1995, I'd have written about it.
Anyway, perhaps - for those of you who have experienced similar losses - this post will help alleviate your pain. Hugs, Polimom!
There's really no one word that can adequately describe how one feels when a member of the family dies, one you have lived with and loved for many years. Poignant is as good a word as any, I guess.
Yesterday morning, Polimom wrote a beautiful post about the loss in her family. It moved me deeply. I was going to publish this in response before I left to play in the tournament, but I got caught up in reading some of my previous posts - the ones where I spoke of my love for cats - and there just wasn't enough time left to do it justice.
Why am I speaking of my love for cats? Polimom lost a member of her family!
Well, it wasn't a person who died. It was Pounce, her beloved cat. Cancer took him. I couldn't believe how fast he went! A really good thing. And he died where he knew people loved him. Polimom didn't have to undergo the horrendousness of taking him to the vet to be 'put down', thank goodness.
[She and I spent the better part of an hour in the late afternoon talking about him, about the other pets in the family and pets in general, and about feelings. I figured she needed the emotional outlet and was glad I was there to provide it.]
To honor Pounce - and especially in memory of my own Serendipity, who died fifteen years ago this Valentine's Day - I'd like to re-publish a poem I wrote for her that dreadful evening when I came home and discovered that she had somehow managed, in her terribly weakened state, to climb up onto my bed before she took her last breath.
My Valentine
Words cannot begin to describe how I feel
Now that my pretty one's insides have begun to congeal.
I cannot stop petting her -- her fur is still so soft
I suppose I'll continue to find fleas until summer -- even in the loft.
I hated to leave her this morning ... she wanted to lay in the doorway -- ajar
(I guess) so she could see what she had (seems like just yesterday) chased from afar.
Queen of the fence, rooftop, trees
She went exactly as she pleased!
Now my lovely has died on my bed, her head near my pillow, her mouth open, quite dead.
I don't want her to awaken ... there must have been pain
I wouldn't want her to have to go through all that again.
Tears shed on my bed. I've dug the hole, but will have to make it deeper ...
Can't stand the thought of yukky bugs and God knows what all getting at my beautiful sleeper.
Oh, Serendipity! My unexpected pleasure!
You were such a wonderful treasure!
The above poem was written the evening Serendipity died and was first published on this blogsite here, almost two years ago. I couldn't stop crying until I wrote it. It made me feel a little better to get all of my raw feelings down on paper. I imagine, if I'd been blogging way back then in 1995, I'd have written about it.
Anyway, perhaps - for those of you who have experienced similar losses - this post will help alleviate your pain. Hugs, Polimom!
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Remembering Fred Wang
The Houston duplicate bridge world lost another of its more faithful members this past week. Fred Wang, who could most often be seen playing with his wife, Amy, died on Friday, October 23rd.
I last saw Fred about a month ago, when I was getting my September 'Evelyn Berger fix'. And that reminds me. Evelyn and I haven't played yet this month, and time is a flittin'. Must give her a call.
Evelyn and I were sitting N-S in one section and Fred and his wife N-S in another. So we were sitting the same direction in different sections, except Fred was seated South and I was seated North. We could easily just glance up and meet each other's eyes without even turning our heads.
Thinking back on that day, I remember feeling from time to time that someone was staring at me. I'd look up and it would be Fred, quietly watching from just a few tables away. I'd meet and hold his eyes for a few seconds and then transfer my attention back to what was happening at my own table.
The Wangs have been around the world of duplicate quite a few years, but it had been a while since I'd last seen them. I hadn't really thought much about not seeing them. You know, people come and go and I don't play every single day. Our playing schedules could have been different. Besides that, there are several venues in the area from which to choose. I mean, there could have been any number of reasons why our paths hadn't crossed.
But I remember thinking, when I saw them again just recently, how thin Fred looked ... not gaunt, really, but very thin. I thought, "I wonder if he has been ill?" I said nothing aloud other than telling him how wonderful I thought it was to see him again. He smiled and said something polite in return.
An uncommonly good-looking man, Fred and his wife made a strikingly handsome couple and were formidable opponents. He will be dearly mised.
A memorial service will be held Saturday morning at Winford Funerals, 8514 Tybor Drive. This street is very near the intersection of 59 and Gessner. I am planning to attend if there aren't thunderstorms all about. We've had more than our share of those lately!
The family is asking that anyone who wishes to make a donation in Fred's memory add their contribution to the Fred Wang Memorial Scholarship through The Esperanza Education Fund, which awards college scholarships to immigrant students. Fred's daughter, Alice, has become quite active in that non-profit organization.
Contributions can be made online at www.esperanzafund.org/support/#Donate, or mailed to The Esperanza Education Fund, P.O. Box 27507, Washington, DC 20038.
I last saw Fred about a month ago, when I was getting my September 'Evelyn Berger fix'. And that reminds me. Evelyn and I haven't played yet this month, and time is a flittin'. Must give her a call.
Evelyn and I were sitting N-S in one section and Fred and his wife N-S in another. So we were sitting the same direction in different sections, except Fred was seated South and I was seated North. We could easily just glance up and meet each other's eyes without even turning our heads.
Thinking back on that day, I remember feeling from time to time that someone was staring at me. I'd look up and it would be Fred, quietly watching from just a few tables away. I'd meet and hold his eyes for a few seconds and then transfer my attention back to what was happening at my own table.
The Wangs have been around the world of duplicate quite a few years, but it had been a while since I'd last seen them. I hadn't really thought much about not seeing them. You know, people come and go and I don't play every single day. Our playing schedules could have been different. Besides that, there are several venues in the area from which to choose. I mean, there could have been any number of reasons why our paths hadn't crossed.
But I remember thinking, when I saw them again just recently, how thin Fred looked ... not gaunt, really, but very thin. I thought, "I wonder if he has been ill?" I said nothing aloud other than telling him how wonderful I thought it was to see him again. He smiled and said something polite in return.
An uncommonly good-looking man, Fred and his wife made a strikingly handsome couple and were formidable opponents. He will be dearly mised.
A memorial service will be held Saturday morning at Winford Funerals, 8514 Tybor Drive. This street is very near the intersection of 59 and Gessner. I am planning to attend if there aren't thunderstorms all about. We've had more than our share of those lately!
The family is asking that anyone who wishes to make a donation in Fred's memory add their contribution to the Fred Wang Memorial Scholarship through The Esperanza Education Fund, which awards college scholarships to immigrant students. Fred's daughter, Alice, has become quite active in that non-profit organization.
Contributions can be made online at www.esperanzafund.org/support/#Donate, or mailed to The Esperanza Education Fund, P.O. Box 27507, Washington, DC 20038.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
On becoming an orphan
A very old man died this past week. I barely knew him, but his death has caused me to reflect on family, on life and those losses that I have personally experienced.
My brother died in a motorcycle accident when he was only 23 years old. He was the first in my immediate family to go. His death affected all of us greatly. He was the baby in our family. He was well-liked and had a brilliant mind. No one in our family was at all prepared to have Johnny leave us at such an early age, in the prime of his life and with such a bright-looking future. It was a shocking and tragic loss.
My mother succumbed to the ravages of lung cancer ten years later. Although she was not a "young" woman (she was in her 60's), she had reached a point in her life where - for the first time - she had achieved enough financial stability that she was able to do some traveling and was looking forward to seeing many more of the places she'd only read about. My father didn't much care about traveling, so Mom and Gladys (one of her long-time friends) often traveled together.
It was on one of those trips, when Mom was forced to sit down and rest while climbing some steps, that she first realized something was wrong. When the diagnosis of a terminal illness was made, she exclaimed, "Isn't this just the shit's titties?" Worst thing I ever heard her say. She had spent almost her entire life taking care of others with little or no thought given to herself. First having to drop out of high school to help support her family when her father left her mother and youngest brother and her alone, taking the two middle children with him; then getting married and spending the next almost 40 years carefully watching the family's pennies and stretching every dollar. In those years she did not work outside the home. Instead, she spent almost every waking moment trying to figure out ways to make our lives better, to cook wholesome meals, to plan fun outings (picnics, gathering berries, sing-alongs, games), to not cry (altho I often heard her crying down in the basement). She never let on that she was hurting, and so I never told her that I could hear her crying. She was a very proud person and family was everything to her.
But, as usual, I'm digressing and I'll stop. My family is really not the main point of this post.
I can remember her often saying to us as we were growing up, "I don't want to ever be a burden. If it comes to the point where I can't take care of myself, put me in a 'home'." She was adamant on that. The idea of putting a beloved family member in a home or long-term care facility has always been abhorrent to me, but once again I can feel myself digressing.
I began this post by writing, "A very old man died this past week." How old was he? He was 97. This is not a typo. He was 97. Was he in a 'home' or long-term care facility? No. He was in a home, but it was one that had originally been purchased by his daughter (since deceased), and for the past 10+ years had been supported financially (in part) by his son and looked after by a 'caretaker' who lived upstairs. This caretaker had a full-time job outside the home, but was personally available every noon hour to make sure the 'old man' was OK. It was only in the last very few years that the old man began to show signs of his true age. He starting having trouble remembering who his son was. He developed incontinence. Overall, however, his health was remarkable, and many people thought he would live to see his 100th birthday.
His death, following very soon after a pretty good-sized heart attack, seemed to take his son by complete surprise. I would have thought - I know the son - that plans would have long ago been put in place for final arrangements (especially considering his father's advanced age) and all that would have needed to be done in such an event was simply plug the plans in and get them going. (The son is an 'organizer extraordinaire'.)
This was not the case, which brings up several questions, none of which (imo) can be adequately answered or even debated ... at least, not in specifics, only in generalities (and I'm not sure how effectively these questions can be even generally addressed).
1. What price family? 2. What price memories? 3. When do we start giving up? 4. When do we lose hope? My answers are "Priceless" to #s 1 and 2 and "Never!" to #s 3 and 4.
My most heartfelt thoughts go out to this young man who is now, in his 50's, an orphan. I empathize.
My brother died in a motorcycle accident when he was only 23 years old. He was the first in my immediate family to go. His death affected all of us greatly. He was the baby in our family. He was well-liked and had a brilliant mind. No one in our family was at all prepared to have Johnny leave us at such an early age, in the prime of his life and with such a bright-looking future. It was a shocking and tragic loss.
My mother succumbed to the ravages of lung cancer ten years later. Although she was not a "young" woman (she was in her 60's), she had reached a point in her life where - for the first time - she had achieved enough financial stability that she was able to do some traveling and was looking forward to seeing many more of the places she'd only read about. My father didn't much care about traveling, so Mom and Gladys (one of her long-time friends) often traveled together.
It was on one of those trips, when Mom was forced to sit down and rest while climbing some steps, that she first realized something was wrong. When the diagnosis of a terminal illness was made, she exclaimed, "Isn't this just the shit's titties?" Worst thing I ever heard her say. She had spent almost her entire life taking care of others with little or no thought given to herself. First having to drop out of high school to help support her family when her father left her mother and youngest brother and her alone, taking the two middle children with him; then getting married and spending the next almost 40 years carefully watching the family's pennies and stretching every dollar. In those years she did not work outside the home. Instead, she spent almost every waking moment trying to figure out ways to make our lives better, to cook wholesome meals, to plan fun outings (picnics, gathering berries, sing-alongs, games), to not cry (altho I often heard her crying down in the basement). She never let on that she was hurting, and so I never told her that I could hear her crying. She was a very proud person and family was everything to her.
But, as usual, I'm digressing and I'll stop. My family is really not the main point of this post.
I can remember her often saying to us as we were growing up, "I don't want to ever be a burden. If it comes to the point where I can't take care of myself, put me in a 'home'." She was adamant on that. The idea of putting a beloved family member in a home or long-term care facility has always been abhorrent to me, but once again I can feel myself digressing.
I began this post by writing, "A very old man died this past week." How old was he? He was 97. This is not a typo. He was 97. Was he in a 'home' or long-term care facility? No. He was in a home, but it was one that had originally been purchased by his daughter (since deceased), and for the past 10+ years had been supported financially (in part) by his son and looked after by a 'caretaker' who lived upstairs. This caretaker had a full-time job outside the home, but was personally available every noon hour to make sure the 'old man' was OK. It was only in the last very few years that the old man began to show signs of his true age. He starting having trouble remembering who his son was. He developed incontinence. Overall, however, his health was remarkable, and many people thought he would live to see his 100th birthday.
His death, following very soon after a pretty good-sized heart attack, seemed to take his son by complete surprise. I would have thought - I know the son - that plans would have long ago been put in place for final arrangements (especially considering his father's advanced age) and all that would have needed to be done in such an event was simply plug the plans in and get them going. (The son is an 'organizer extraordinaire'.)
This was not the case, which brings up several questions, none of which (imo) can be adequately answered or even debated ... at least, not in specifics, only in generalities (and I'm not sure how effectively these questions can be even generally addressed).
1. What price family? 2. What price memories? 3. When do we start giving up? 4. When do we lose hope? My answers are "Priceless" to #s 1 and 2 and "Never!" to #s 3 and 4.
My most heartfelt thoughts go out to this young man who is now, in his 50's, an orphan. I empathize.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
On giving ... (part three) ...
In all my many years of living I have considered myself a giver, although there are some who might take issue with that statement. I must admit, however, that I give selectively ... not always when asked, never when 'expected', and usually only when I feel personally compelled to do so. I guess I could be labeled a "selective giver". That would probably be very close to the truth.
At this stage in my life, I have the time to volunteer. There are many organizations which are in need of services such as I have to offer, and yet I do not seek them out. I find myself too preoccupied with my own interests, too self-involved. I derive a tremendous amount of pleasure, satisfaction and enjoyment just being at home and by myself. So perhaps I could fairly be labeled a "selfish giver". (Now there's an oxymoronic phrase for you!)
Very recently, I extended myself to try and help someone I thought was a friend. I spent hours and hours talking with him personally and corresponding by e-mail, telling the truth while at the same time attempting to choose my words carefully and tactfully. He is extremely sensitive and I tried to be responsive to his moods and needs.
He has cut me off. I don't feel anger or resentment, nor do I begrudge any of the time I spent trying to be of assistance. Instead, I feel a sort of emptiness, a hollowness, an estrangement if you will.
I don't expect accolades nor would I want them. A simple "thank you" goes a long long way with me. If you cannot bring yourself to utter those words, a single smile will do the trick. Just don't dismiss me, pretend I never existed, or (worse yet) try to demean me in order to make yourself feel better. Please!
I probably will not exclude you from any future interaction with me, nor will I allow myself to go around 'bad mouthing' you to any and all who might be eager for choice tidbits or gossip, but I will be extremely reticent.
There is another instance that stands out in my memory banks. A friend of mine ... again I'm using the word 'friend' here because I thought he was! A fellow cab driver. We had gone to Astros games together, had argued and laughed ... I even confided in him (more like I asked questions) once or twice about another driver whom we both knew. I felt close to him.
We were never boyfriend and girlfriend. That was not going to happen, although I'll admit that I found him attractive 'in that way'. He had a lot of girlfriends but was notorious for treating each one like so much garbage that he could use and then dispose of summarily.
Well, one day we all (all of us taxicab drivers) came to learn that Lawrence was in the hospital ... the VA. It seemed that he'd been diagnosed with cancer, and the prognosis was anything but good.
I went to see him. If I hadn't known it was he in that hospital bed, I would not have recognized him. There are some gory details that I will not share with you, but - truly - he looked awful! He was extremely ill and cried when he saw me. I was SO glad that I had taken the time to go and visit.
I called a bridge friend of mine, Julian, whose name you might remember my mentioning a time or two before. Julian has been fighting cancer for many many years, and at this point appears to be winning his mighty battle. Julian went over to the VA just as soon as he could get his body up there and visited with Lawrence. I felt really good about the possibility of Julian's being able to inspire Lawrence after sharing his own story. Really good!
As it turned out, however, Lawrence was never again able to drive a taxicab. In fact, he was released from the VA just to go home. I heard from one of his girlfriends that his family needed food, and so one Friday afternoon I stopped at a grocery store and took a bunch of stuff over there. I was tickled that I had both the wherewithal and time to do it.
We had a nice visit. His mother and sister were there and I was happy to meet both of them. Lawrence was definitely recognizable at this point, and I found myself a little hopeful that he might even recover. But then, as Lawrence was walking me out to my car, he asked, "(My name), what kind of game are you playing?"
Boy, that brought me up short! I was stunned. I stopped, turned to look at him and said, "The game's over, Lawrence." Those were the last words we ever exchanged with each other.
Some weeks later, one of my other cab driver friends came up to me - I was in the staging area at Hobby Airport - and said, "Lawrence is in the lounge. He's changed. He'd like to see you."
I didn't go inside the lounge. In fact, I didn't even get out of my cab until I saw Lawrence, teetering and painstakingly trying to make his way towards me. I quickly got out and walked back towards the fence, figuring (rightly) that this wasted-looking individual could not keep up with me. I didn't look back. I just stayed there at the fence line.
Do you think I'm proud to admit that I did such a thing? I am not! In retrospect, I wish I had been a good enough Christian to run towards him and at least look him straight in his dying eyes and give him a hug. He reached out and I failed to catch him.
At this stage in my life, I have the time to volunteer. There are many organizations which are in need of services such as I have to offer, and yet I do not seek them out. I find myself too preoccupied with my own interests, too self-involved. I derive a tremendous amount of pleasure, satisfaction and enjoyment just being at home and by myself. So perhaps I could fairly be labeled a "selfish giver". (Now there's an oxymoronic phrase for you!)
Very recently, I extended myself to try and help someone I thought was a friend. I spent hours and hours talking with him personally and corresponding by e-mail, telling the truth while at the same time attempting to choose my words carefully and tactfully. He is extremely sensitive and I tried to be responsive to his moods and needs.
He has cut me off. I don't feel anger or resentment, nor do I begrudge any of the time I spent trying to be of assistance. Instead, I feel a sort of emptiness, a hollowness, an estrangement if you will.
I don't expect accolades nor would I want them. A simple "thank you" goes a long long way with me. If you cannot bring yourself to utter those words, a single smile will do the trick. Just don't dismiss me, pretend I never existed, or (worse yet) try to demean me in order to make yourself feel better. Please!
I probably will not exclude you from any future interaction with me, nor will I allow myself to go around 'bad mouthing' you to any and all who might be eager for choice tidbits or gossip, but I will be extremely reticent.
There is another instance that stands out in my memory banks. A friend of mine ... again I'm using the word 'friend' here because I thought he was! A fellow cab driver. We had gone to Astros games together, had argued and laughed ... I even confided in him (more like I asked questions) once or twice about another driver whom we both knew. I felt close to him.
We were never boyfriend and girlfriend. That was not going to happen, although I'll admit that I found him attractive 'in that way'. He had a lot of girlfriends but was notorious for treating each one like so much garbage that he could use and then dispose of summarily.
Well, one day we all (all of us taxicab drivers) came to learn that Lawrence was in the hospital ... the VA. It seemed that he'd been diagnosed with cancer, and the prognosis was anything but good.
I went to see him. If I hadn't known it was he in that hospital bed, I would not have recognized him. There are some gory details that I will not share with you, but - truly - he looked awful! He was extremely ill and cried when he saw me. I was SO glad that I had taken the time to go and visit.
I called a bridge friend of mine, Julian, whose name you might remember my mentioning a time or two before. Julian has been fighting cancer for many many years, and at this point appears to be winning his mighty battle. Julian went over to the VA just as soon as he could get his body up there and visited with Lawrence. I felt really good about the possibility of Julian's being able to inspire Lawrence after sharing his own story. Really good!
As it turned out, however, Lawrence was never again able to drive a taxicab. In fact, he was released from the VA just to go home. I heard from one of his girlfriends that his family needed food, and so one Friday afternoon I stopped at a grocery store and took a bunch of stuff over there. I was tickled that I had both the wherewithal and time to do it.
We had a nice visit. His mother and sister were there and I was happy to meet both of them. Lawrence was definitely recognizable at this point, and I found myself a little hopeful that he might even recover. But then, as Lawrence was walking me out to my car, he asked, "(My name), what kind of game are you playing?"
Boy, that brought me up short! I was stunned. I stopped, turned to look at him and said, "The game's over, Lawrence." Those were the last words we ever exchanged with each other.
Some weeks later, one of my other cab driver friends came up to me - I was in the staging area at Hobby Airport - and said, "Lawrence is in the lounge. He's changed. He'd like to see you."
I didn't go inside the lounge. In fact, I didn't even get out of my cab until I saw Lawrence, teetering and painstakingly trying to make his way towards me. I quickly got out and walked back towards the fence, figuring (rightly) that this wasted-looking individual could not keep up with me. I didn't look back. I just stayed there at the fence line.
Do you think I'm proud to admit that I did such a thing? I am not! In retrospect, I wish I had been a good enough Christian to run towards him and at least look him straight in his dying eyes and give him a hug. He reached out and I failed to catch him.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
The rest of the story ...
The whole world lost a truly unique individual very recently ... ... Paul Harvey.
I would like to refer you to Chuck's eloquent post in tribute to this fine man. I hope you will take the time to read what Chuck had to say. I echo his sentiments wholeheartedly.
Really, there is nothing I could write that would add anything of significance to what Chuck said, so I'll just close this by including one of Paul's "The Rest of the Story" pieces as currently available on YouTube.
I would like to refer you to Chuck's eloquent post in tribute to this fine man. I hope you will take the time to read what Chuck had to say. I echo his sentiments wholeheartedly.
Really, there is nothing I could write that would add anything of significance to what Chuck said, so I'll just close this by including one of Paul's "The Rest of the Story" pieces as currently available on YouTube.
Monday, February 9, 2009
The Big "C"
I lost another member of my family last week. I started to write a post about it, but stopped when I realized that my feelings were too dark and depressing to continue.
Ed was a first cousin, the son of one of my mother's older brothers. I never spoke with him in person, other than in passing at my daughter's wedding in California years ago. However, in the years since, we both took the opportunity to correspond when we could and I felt as tho I had gotten to know him just a little bit.
He did not have one of those terribly long and protracted agonizing months of suffering, thank the good Lord, and his pain was made somewhat more tolerable with drugs. Towards the very end he was talking about arrangements to go into hospice care.
I was reminded of a post that Judy, one of my blogger friends from many months back, published in May of last year. Judy was battling breast cancer for not the first time, and her posts were all over the charts on the emotional scale.
She chose to publish what Erma Bombeck had written after learning that she was dying of cancer. Here it is ... ...
If I Had My Life to Live Over
I would have gone to bed when I was sick instead of pretending the earth would go into a holding pattern if I weren't there for the day.
I would have burned the pink candle sculpted like a rose before it melted in storage.
I would have talked less and listened more.
I would have invited friends over for dinner even if the carpet was stained, or the sofa faded.
I would have eaten the popcorn in the 'good' living room and worried much less about the dirt when someone wanted to light a fire in the fireplace.
I would have taken the time to listen to my grandfather ramble about his youth.
I would have shared more of the responsibility carried by my husband.
I would never have insisted the car windows be rolled up on a summer day because my hair had just been teased and sprayed.
I would have sat on the lawn with my grass stains.
I would have cried and laughed less while watching television and more while watching life.
I would never have bought anything just because it was practical, wouldn't show soil, or was guaranteed to last a lifetime.
Instead of wishing away nine months of pregnancy, I'd have cherished every moment and realized that the wonderment growing inside me was the only chance in life to assist God in a miracle.
When my kids kissed me impetuously, I would never have said 'Later. Now go get washed up for dinner.' There would have been more 'I love you's', more 'I'm sorry's'.
But mostly, given another shot at life, I would seize every minute...look at it and really see it. Live it and never give it back. STOP SWEATING THE SMALL STUFF!!!
Ed is now resting peacefully. Judy, I sincerely hope that you are continuing to wage your fight against this debilitating disease that threatened to overwhelm not only you but your whole family and affected those of us in the unseen blogger world who care about you. I know there are many out there who join me in this wish.
Ed was a first cousin, the son of one of my mother's older brothers. I never spoke with him in person, other than in passing at my daughter's wedding in California years ago. However, in the years since, we both took the opportunity to correspond when we could and I felt as tho I had gotten to know him just a little bit.
He did not have one of those terribly long and protracted agonizing months of suffering, thank the good Lord, and his pain was made somewhat more tolerable with drugs. Towards the very end he was talking about arrangements to go into hospice care.
I was reminded of a post that Judy, one of my blogger friends from many months back, published in May of last year. Judy was battling breast cancer for not the first time, and her posts were all over the charts on the emotional scale.
She chose to publish what Erma Bombeck had written after learning that she was dying of cancer. Here it is ... ...
If I Had My Life to Live Over
I would have gone to bed when I was sick instead of pretending the earth would go into a holding pattern if I weren't there for the day.
I would have burned the pink candle sculpted like a rose before it melted in storage.
I would have talked less and listened more.
I would have invited friends over for dinner even if the carpet was stained, or the sofa faded.
I would have eaten the popcorn in the 'good' living room and worried much less about the dirt when someone wanted to light a fire in the fireplace.
I would have taken the time to listen to my grandfather ramble about his youth.
I would have shared more of the responsibility carried by my husband.
I would never have insisted the car windows be rolled up on a summer day because my hair had just been teased and sprayed.
I would have sat on the lawn with my grass stains.
I would have cried and laughed less while watching television and more while watching life.
I would never have bought anything just because it was practical, wouldn't show soil, or was guaranteed to last a lifetime.
Instead of wishing away nine months of pregnancy, I'd have cherished every moment and realized that the wonderment growing inside me was the only chance in life to assist God in a miracle.
When my kids kissed me impetuously, I would never have said 'Later. Now go get washed up for dinner.' There would have been more 'I love you's', more 'I'm sorry's'.
But mostly, given another shot at life, I would seize every minute...look at it and really see it. Live it and never give it back. STOP SWEATING THE SMALL STUFF!!!
Ed is now resting peacefully. Judy, I sincerely hope that you are continuing to wage your fight against this debilitating disease that threatened to overwhelm not only you but your whole family and affected those of us in the unseen blogger world who care about you. I know there are many out there who join me in this wish.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
In memory
We lost a good one yesterday, didn't we? The above photograph was taken in 1999, six years after he had an extensive surgery to try and repair an old back injury. Unfortunately, the surgery failed to alleviate his pain. In fact, it left him a paraplegic and confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life.
However, Mr. Montalban remained active in the film industry, providing voices for animated films and commercials - the last in 2007, the year his wife of 63 years died. I wonder if her death might have contributed to his decision to retire from the industry altogether.
A magnificently handsome man, he is probably best known for his continuing role as Mr. Roarke in the "Fantasy Island" series, which has been enjoying reruns for years and has long been one of my favorites. There were 124 episodes altogether. Now I've seen a bunch, but by no means all of them. Something to look forward to!
In 1947, he and a young Cyd Charisse danced together in "The Fiesta". I didn't remember that. Here's one shot of them ...
He was honored twice during his long acting career, receiving an Emmy in 1978 for his role as Chief Satangkai in the ABC miniseries "How the West Was Won", and the Lifetime Achievement Award from the Screen Actors Guild in 1993.
And for all of you Star Trek fans, I thought I'd include a YouTube clip from "Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan".
Well done, Mr. Montalban. Now you are at peace.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Cataclysmic events
There is no 'good time' to experience the loss of a family member or loved one. For a Christian, this time of year is perhaps the worst. Around Easter, because of our belief that Christ lived and then died for our sins and subsequently rose from the dead in both triumph and humility, we have the hope that our loved one is with the Heavenly Father.
I cannot speak for those of other faiths or those with no 'faith' at all except in the here and now and what they can actually see and put their hands on. I can only write from my perspective.
It doesn't matter whether or not you might have been 'hoping' that your dear one's suffering might end. Perhaps your beloved was in a terrible accident and your loss was sudden and particularly shocking. Perhaps the person died and it was only after his/her death that you realized how much this person meant to you. Perhaps you had some sort of 'closure'. It really doesn't matter.
The fact is that your dear one is no longer with you here on earth except in your memories and in your heart.
The grieving process is described eloquently, yet succinctly, in a seemingly insignificant little paperback book, "How to Survive the Loss of a Love", which includes some poems and little snippets of added thoughts that you might not find elsewhere.
I have - somewhere around this house - what is now probably a terribly dog-eared copy of this book with pages highlighted with different colored markers, depending on which loss I was experiencing at the time.
In my post "Loss and feelings" - published December 11th, I attempted to address this convoluted and often most elusive of subjects.
I used the words "maelstrom" and "whirl" to try and describe some of the emotions one feels after experiencing such a loss and how they threaten to overtake, overwhelm, and even interfere with our everyday functioning. I spoke briefly about how one will - eventually - assimilate all of these feelings and experiences into a new definition of 'normality'.
I could have used the word "morass" or even several others, I'm sure, to illustrate the helplessness and inadequacy one feels.
What's my point? Well, I guess I have only one ... ...
Unless you have experienced a significant loss in your own life, you really have not the vaguest idea of what another person is going through, emotionally. Even then, I venture to say, you are not that other person and so you still do not 'know' - nor will you ever! - what they are going through. The very best that you can do is listen, to try and provide a 'sounding board', as it were.
There's a wonderful little saying from that book that I'd like to quote for you. "I sat evaluating myself. I decided to lie down."
My friend sat evaluating and then decided to lie down.
Once again, I ask that you send your most heartfelt thoughts and prayers my friend's way.
I cannot speak for those of other faiths or those with no 'faith' at all except in the here and now and what they can actually see and put their hands on. I can only write from my perspective.
It doesn't matter whether or not you might have been 'hoping' that your dear one's suffering might end. Perhaps your beloved was in a terrible accident and your loss was sudden and particularly shocking. Perhaps the person died and it was only after his/her death that you realized how much this person meant to you. Perhaps you had some sort of 'closure'. It really doesn't matter.
The fact is that your dear one is no longer with you here on earth except in your memories and in your heart.
The grieving process is described eloquently, yet succinctly, in a seemingly insignificant little paperback book, "How to Survive the Loss of a Love", which includes some poems and little snippets of added thoughts that you might not find elsewhere.
I have - somewhere around this house - what is now probably a terribly dog-eared copy of this book with pages highlighted with different colored markers, depending on which loss I was experiencing at the time.
In my post "Loss and feelings" - published December 11th, I attempted to address this convoluted and often most elusive of subjects.
I used the words "maelstrom" and "whirl" to try and describe some of the emotions one feels after experiencing such a loss and how they threaten to overtake, overwhelm, and even interfere with our everyday functioning. I spoke briefly about how one will - eventually - assimilate all of these feelings and experiences into a new definition of 'normality'.
I could have used the word "morass" or even several others, I'm sure, to illustrate the helplessness and inadequacy one feels.
What's my point? Well, I guess I have only one ... ...
Unless you have experienced a significant loss in your own life, you really have not the vaguest idea of what another person is going through, emotionally. Even then, I venture to say, you are not that other person and so you still do not 'know' - nor will you ever! - what they are going through. The very best that you can do is listen, to try and provide a 'sounding board', as it were.
There's a wonderful little saying from that book that I'd like to quote for you. "I sat evaluating myself. I decided to lie down."
My friend sat evaluating and then decided to lie down.
Once again, I ask that you send your most heartfelt thoughts and prayers my friend's way.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Loss and feelings
A friend of mine has - within the past week - experienced the loss of a dear one.
Losing a loved one is often traumatic. Our feelings range from shock to denial to anger to acceptance to grief to guilt to relief to sadness to -- whatever we are experiencing at any given point in this whirl of emotions that occasionally overwhelm us and interfere with our normal everyday routines. Our comfort zone at times seems to completely disappear in this maelstrom, and we wonder if things will ever be normal again.
Well, things will never be the same! That loss, if permanent, will always be with us. A new definition of 'normal' will be created, and we will move on.
For me, the most important first step that one can take in the grieving process is to recognize what one is feeling so that validation can take place.
I grew up with a father who 'tut tutted' me. What do I mean by that? Well, try "It's not that bad." or "You don't really feel that way." I didn't know it at the time, of course. It is only in retrospect, after psychotherapy sessions and many many years later, that I realize how damaging statements of that nature were to my feelings of confidence and sense of self-worth. What he had meant as words of comfort did not serve to have a good effect long term.
Instead of developing into and becoming an independent and mature person who was well-grounded, I became a "woman who loves too much" - one who is dependent upon others for recognition, approval, and validation.
To compound the problem, I married my father. Not literally, you understand, but for almost another twenty years I was subjected to the same or very similar platitudes.
It was only years after our divorce and he had entered into a serious relationship with a woman he subsequently married that he said, when I called him - sobbing - on the phone to tell him that a person we had both enjoyed tremendously had accidentally shot and killed himself while cleaning his gun, "Oh, that is sad!"
Now, I am fully aware of my emotions. I was really 'down' at Thanksgiving and even for a few days afterwards this year, and wrote extensively about my feelings in the post "Religion and me" , published November 28th.
I am on a slightly more even keel now. Think I'll be OK. Not to worry.
However, because of my background, one of my more pushable 'hot buttons' is when someone tries to tell me how I feel. Please, do not attempt to tell me how I feel! I feel how I feel how I feel how I feel, and - unless you are me, you do not 'know' how I feel!!
I admit I was a little miffed a couple of days ago when I learned that my daughter said that I am 'angry' - this in re Thanksgiving and Christmas. (You'd have to read my post - linked above - to understand what I'm talking about here.) She didn't say, "She seems angry." Do you see a difference there?
I have since accepted the fact that she thinks I am angry. She has a right to think whatever she pleases. Just don't tell me or anyone else what my feelings are!
My friend buried a family member yesterday. I have sent many thoughts and prayers my friend's way. Perhaps you will have a moment to do the same.
Losing a loved one is often traumatic. Our feelings range from shock to denial to anger to acceptance to grief to guilt to relief to sadness to -- whatever we are experiencing at any given point in this whirl of emotions that occasionally overwhelm us and interfere with our normal everyday routines. Our comfort zone at times seems to completely disappear in this maelstrom, and we wonder if things will ever be normal again.
Well, things will never be the same! That loss, if permanent, will always be with us. A new definition of 'normal' will be created, and we will move on.
For me, the most important first step that one can take in the grieving process is to recognize what one is feeling so that validation can take place.
I grew up with a father who 'tut tutted' me. What do I mean by that? Well, try "It's not that bad." or "You don't really feel that way." I didn't know it at the time, of course. It is only in retrospect, after psychotherapy sessions and many many years later, that I realize how damaging statements of that nature were to my feelings of confidence and sense of self-worth. What he had meant as words of comfort did not serve to have a good effect long term.
Instead of developing into and becoming an independent and mature person who was well-grounded, I became a "woman who loves too much" - one who is dependent upon others for recognition, approval, and validation.
To compound the problem, I married my father. Not literally, you understand, but for almost another twenty years I was subjected to the same or very similar platitudes.
It was only years after our divorce and he had entered into a serious relationship with a woman he subsequently married that he said, when I called him - sobbing - on the phone to tell him that a person we had both enjoyed tremendously had accidentally shot and killed himself while cleaning his gun, "Oh, that is sad!"
Now, I am fully aware of my emotions. I was really 'down' at Thanksgiving and even for a few days afterwards this year, and wrote extensively about my feelings in the post "Religion and me" , published November 28th.
I am on a slightly more even keel now. Think I'll be OK. Not to worry.
However, because of my background, one of my more pushable 'hot buttons' is when someone tries to tell me how I feel. Please, do not attempt to tell me how I feel! I feel how I feel how I feel how I feel, and - unless you are me, you do not 'know' how I feel!!
I admit I was a little miffed a couple of days ago when I learned that my daughter said that I am 'angry' - this in re Thanksgiving and Christmas. (You'd have to read my post - linked above - to understand what I'm talking about here.) She didn't say, "She seems angry." Do you see a difference there?
I have since accepted the fact that she thinks I am angry. She has a right to think whatever she pleases. Just don't tell me or anyone else what my feelings are!
My friend buried a family member yesterday. I have sent many thoughts and prayers my friend's way. Perhaps you will have a moment to do the same.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Remembering Maxine
I was going through some of my older posts just now and one, where I described getting to a duplicate bridge game once in Lafayette, Indiana, by (literally) wading through high water, got my mind to wandering back through the years.
Initially, after re-reading this post, I thought I must have remembered the location wrong. Wouldn't it have been Columbus, Ohio, where we relocated after Purdue? But no, I was correct. It was Lafayette.
Don't remember who my partner was that night - a woman, for sure (don't recall any male bridge partners while we lived in Indiana) - can almost 'see' her, but can't pull up her name from my memory banks. Eric Rodwell and Jeff Meckstroth were students at Purdue at the time - young - new to the game - up and coming players who would go on to develop a formidable partnership. Played against them a bunch of times. Jeff is now a bridge professional ... don't know if Eric is or not. Kind of fun to remember some of those little tidbits.
From there my mind wandered to Columbus, Ohio. I was in the market for a bridge partner, so the first thing I did was look through the Columbus newspaper to see if they published high scorers from bridge games. They did! (I knew that the Lafayette newspaper did, but I was afraid that the one in Columbus might not - it was a much larger city, after all.)
I scrolled down through the list of names to see if one with an unusual spelling might be there so I could have half a chance of finding his/her phone number in the local directory. I knew I had no chance whatsoever with a Smith, Walker, Jones, Black, or Johnson, for example, and was delighted to see an "M Papurt" listed. (Only the first initial was given, but I thought the odds were pretty good in finding "Papurt" ... I mean, how many Papurts could there possibly be?)
The next question, of course, was would the number be listed? In those days (mid 60's) there were some who had unpublished numbers but not nearly as many as today!
There was only one "M Papurt" in the directory and I dialed the number. Didn't know whether I would reach a man or a woman. A woman answered. I identified myself, said that I was new to the area, was interested in finding a bridge partner locally who might be interested in a game with a complete stranger, and was she possibly the "M Papurt" who played duplicate?
Well, that was how I found Maxine. We scheduled a game within the next week and played together regularly for the next several years, until I left the area and came down here to Houston. After that, we corresponded fairly frequently at first, but then - you know how it goes - kind of 'lost touch'.
I tried to reach her by phone just a few years ago. Something had joggled my memory banks, and I got to wondering if she was still around. I was hoping she was, but knew she was closer to my folks' age and tried to prepare myself for the possible news that she wasn't.
[I had to interrupt this a few minutes ago to go back through all of my previously-published posts labeled "Bridge", because I thought I remembered writing about some of this before. I read them all. Couldn't find a previous reference to Maxine, so I'll continue.]
This was long before I had access to the internet, and so I started my search the old-fashioned way - through the long distance information telephone operator. There was no current listing for an "M Papurt" in Columbus, Ohio. I asked for a number for the local duplicate bridge club.
Dialed it. Person who answered (after I identified myself and the reason for my call) advised me that Maxine had passed away just a few years back from cancer - liver or pancreatic, one of the more horrible ones with usually terminal prognoses.
I silently said a prayer, even tho Maxine was Jewish. That's OK to say a prayer for a person of another faith, isn't it?
Then I asked whom I was speaking with, and the person told me her name. I couldn't recall the name from my 'Columbus, Ohio bridge memory banks' and asked, "How old are you?" (Is that an insane question or what, to ask a complete stranger over the telephone how old they are?!? But I did! I don't remember doing that sort of thing when I was younger - well, maybe occasionally. How intrusive!!)
She gave her age, somehow knowing that there might be a good reason for my question - I guess I'd been hoping that her name might ring a bell or that she might remember me. Turns out that she was like two or three years old when Maxine and I were regularly playing together - after all, this was many years ago!
She was very receptive to my call, and invited me to play at their studio 'the next time I'm in Columbus' - fat chance of that occurring, but the memory of our conversation is a 'warm fuzzy'.
Maxine was the one who taught me "weak twos" and opening 'light' in third seat, with partner (who has close to an opening hand but has already passed) being able to ascertain 3rd seat opener's (partner's) hand's actual values by means of an artificial club bid (alertable).
In those days - long before bidding boxes, which are in wide use today - all bids were spoken aloud.
This one time when we were playing, Maxine opened (3rd seat) and I responded "Two clubs." (I had a club suit with 10+ points.) Maxine said, "Alert", and I said, "Whaat!!" Well, I mean to tell you that the whole room absolutely exploded in laughter!
She was often bothered with 'hot spells' - was going through the change of life, and having a really hard time with it. Actually shed her skin during this process. Had never heard of that before - nor have I since! (When I went through the same process some years later, it was much different. I sometimes wish I had had 'hot spells' - I'm so often cold.)
One year we all went to Minocqua, Wisconsin, for their annual almost week-long sectional bridge tournament. (Unless you're a duplicate bridge player, you have no idea how unusual an almost week-long sectional tournament is.) That was always a good time! Most evenings would find me with a group around the piano singing the descant for "Tell Me Why."
It was during this trip - while Dad, Maxine, and I were busily smoking away and recalling the hands and events of the afternoon session - that Mom appeared from one of the back bedrooms, clad only in her top and panty hose (remember panty hose??), twirling her long hand-crocheted necklace around and strutting as tho she were a stripper. Oh Lord, was that funny! I mean!! Will have that picture in my mind as long as I live, I'm sure.
End of stories for this time. I miss you, Maxine! I miss your willingness to immediately accept and welcome a complete stranger into your life. I miss our friendship. I miss our bridge partnership. I hope that - wherever you now 'reside' - you are amongst friends, family, and loved ones. (And maybe even one or two - better yet three, so you could provide the 'fourthsome' - who play bridge!)
Initially, after re-reading this post, I thought I must have remembered the location wrong. Wouldn't it have been Columbus, Ohio, where we relocated after Purdue? But no, I was correct. It was Lafayette.
Don't remember who my partner was that night - a woman, for sure (don't recall any male bridge partners while we lived in Indiana) - can almost 'see' her, but can't pull up her name from my memory banks. Eric Rodwell and Jeff Meckstroth were students at Purdue at the time - young - new to the game - up and coming players who would go on to develop a formidable partnership. Played against them a bunch of times. Jeff is now a bridge professional ... don't know if Eric is or not. Kind of fun to remember some of those little tidbits.
From there my mind wandered to Columbus, Ohio. I was in the market for a bridge partner, so the first thing I did was look through the Columbus newspaper to see if they published high scorers from bridge games. They did! (I knew that the Lafayette newspaper did, but I was afraid that the one in Columbus might not - it was a much larger city, after all.)
I scrolled down through the list of names to see if one with an unusual spelling might be there so I could have half a chance of finding his/her phone number in the local directory. I knew I had no chance whatsoever with a Smith, Walker, Jones, Black, or Johnson, for example, and was delighted to see an "M Papurt" listed. (Only the first initial was given, but I thought the odds were pretty good in finding "Papurt" ... I mean, how many Papurts could there possibly be?)
The next question, of course, was would the number be listed? In those days (mid 60's) there were some who had unpublished numbers but not nearly as many as today!
There was only one "M Papurt" in the directory and I dialed the number. Didn't know whether I would reach a man or a woman. A woman answered. I identified myself, said that I was new to the area, was interested in finding a bridge partner locally who might be interested in a game with a complete stranger, and was she possibly the "M Papurt" who played duplicate?
Well, that was how I found Maxine. We scheduled a game within the next week and played together regularly for the next several years, until I left the area and came down here to Houston. After that, we corresponded fairly frequently at first, but then - you know how it goes - kind of 'lost touch'.
I tried to reach her by phone just a few years ago. Something had joggled my memory banks, and I got to wondering if she was still around. I was hoping she was, but knew she was closer to my folks' age and tried to prepare myself for the possible news that she wasn't.
[I had to interrupt this a few minutes ago to go back through all of my previously-published posts labeled "Bridge", because I thought I remembered writing about some of this before. I read them all. Couldn't find a previous reference to Maxine, so I'll continue.]
This was long before I had access to the internet, and so I started my search the old-fashioned way - through the long distance information telephone operator. There was no current listing for an "M Papurt" in Columbus, Ohio. I asked for a number for the local duplicate bridge club.
Dialed it. Person who answered (after I identified myself and the reason for my call) advised me that Maxine had passed away just a few years back from cancer - liver or pancreatic, one of the more horrible ones with usually terminal prognoses.
I silently said a prayer, even tho Maxine was Jewish. That's OK to say a prayer for a person of another faith, isn't it?
Then I asked whom I was speaking with, and the person told me her name. I couldn't recall the name from my 'Columbus, Ohio bridge memory banks' and asked, "How old are you?" (Is that an insane question or what, to ask a complete stranger over the telephone how old they are?!? But I did! I don't remember doing that sort of thing when I was younger - well, maybe occasionally. How intrusive!!)
She gave her age, somehow knowing that there might be a good reason for my question - I guess I'd been hoping that her name might ring a bell or that she might remember me. Turns out that she was like two or three years old when Maxine and I were regularly playing together - after all, this was many years ago!
She was very receptive to my call, and invited me to play at their studio 'the next time I'm in Columbus' - fat chance of that occurring, but the memory of our conversation is a 'warm fuzzy'.
Maxine was the one who taught me "weak twos" and opening 'light' in third seat, with partner (who has close to an opening hand but has already passed) being able to ascertain 3rd seat opener's (partner's) hand's actual values by means of an artificial club bid (alertable).
In those days - long before bidding boxes, which are in wide use today - all bids were spoken aloud.
This one time when we were playing, Maxine opened (3rd seat) and I responded "Two clubs." (I had a club suit with 10+ points.) Maxine said, "Alert", and I said, "Whaat!!" Well, I mean to tell you that the whole room absolutely exploded in laughter!
She was often bothered with 'hot spells' - was going through the change of life, and having a really hard time with it. Actually shed her skin during this process. Had never heard of that before - nor have I since! (When I went through the same process some years later, it was much different. I sometimes wish I had had 'hot spells' - I'm so often cold.)
One year we all went to Minocqua, Wisconsin, for their annual almost week-long sectional bridge tournament. (Unless you're a duplicate bridge player, you have no idea how unusual an almost week-long sectional tournament is.) That was always a good time! Most evenings would find me with a group around the piano singing the descant for "Tell Me Why."
It was during this trip - while Dad, Maxine, and I were busily smoking away and recalling the hands and events of the afternoon session - that Mom appeared from one of the back bedrooms, clad only in her top and panty hose (remember panty hose??), twirling her long hand-crocheted necklace around and strutting as tho she were a stripper. Oh Lord, was that funny! I mean!! Will have that picture in my mind as long as I live, I'm sure.
End of stories for this time. I miss you, Maxine! I miss your willingness to immediately accept and welcome a complete stranger into your life. I miss our friendship. I miss our bridge partnership. I hope that - wherever you now 'reside' - you are amongst friends, family, and loved ones. (And maybe even one or two - better yet three, so you could provide the 'fourthsome' - who play bridge!)
Thursday, August 7, 2008
A Shocking Void
The year was 1982. July 19th, actually. I was working as Marketing Manager for a prominent metal building manufacturer here in Houston when the news spread like wildfire throughout the building that my boss, the Vice President of Marketing, had been fired.
It happened as soon as he came in to work. He was told to clear out his desk and leave the premises. That's how it's done in the business world. Nasty. Very nasty!
I found myself deeply affected by this, and composed the following poem. I was able to finish and hand-deliver it before he left.
Throughout our lives we come to know
Different kinds of losses. They show
Us how to deal with pain ...
How to renew when, once again
Fate deals its swift blow.
This time, tho, I feel a great concern.
It's because of a man who must yearn
For the words to express what he now feels.
First comes shock, then anger, then he reels
Back to see what he can learn
From this latest episode in his life.
His next visit must be to his wife,
To be with his family, then out to see
What the availability in Houston will be,
To make some sense out of all this strife.
What happens to those who have worked around him,
Who feel that they have become surrounded
By a glaring myriad of colors, bad dreams & words?
Will they be able to get rid of this scourge
Of ill-feeling and awe they now find themselves in?
My feeling is one of a tremendous sense of loss ...
You are no longer, & perhaps never again, my boss.
We had a hard time learning to communicate
With each other. I hope it is not now too late
To tell you how much I appreciate what you tried to do.
You never minced any words ... you were only -- you.
Truth is a quality I appreciate & greatly admire.
(If you can't stand the heat, stay out of the fire!)
I don't mind heat, Bob ... and, if we are ever to meet again,
Please don't hesitate to consider me ... a friend.
It happened as soon as he came in to work. He was told to clear out his desk and leave the premises. That's how it's done in the business world. Nasty. Very nasty!
I found myself deeply affected by this, and composed the following poem. I was able to finish and hand-deliver it before he left.
Throughout our lives we come to know
Different kinds of losses. They show
Us how to deal with pain ...
How to renew when, once again
Fate deals its swift blow.
This time, tho, I feel a great concern.
It's because of a man who must yearn
For the words to express what he now feels.
First comes shock, then anger, then he reels
Back to see what he can learn
From this latest episode in his life.
His next visit must be to his wife,
To be with his family, then out to see
What the availability in Houston will be,
To make some sense out of all this strife.
What happens to those who have worked around him,
Who feel that they have become surrounded
By a glaring myriad of colors, bad dreams & words?
Will they be able to get rid of this scourge
Of ill-feeling and awe they now find themselves in?
My feeling is one of a tremendous sense of loss ...
You are no longer, & perhaps never again, my boss.
We had a hard time learning to communicate
With each other. I hope it is not now too late
To tell you how much I appreciate what you tried to do.
You never minced any words ... you were only -- you.
Truth is a quality I appreciate & greatly admire.
(If you can't stand the heat, stay out of the fire!)
I don't mind heat, Bob ... and, if we are ever to meet again,
Please don't hesitate to consider me ... a friend.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Lying in repose
The body of Dr. Michael DeBakey will be lying in repose in the rotunda of City Hall until 7pm this evening. Thousands are expected to visit and pay their final respects. His family will be in attendance from three until seven.
Contrary to what I reported to you earlier, Dr. DeBakey actually died on Friday night. (Why the news did not hit the AP wires until after eight Saturday morning, I have no idea.)
His innovations, gifts to and influence on the world of medicine, particularly in the specialized area of heart surgery, are truly inestimable.
[I happened to catch an interview with Dr. Denton Cooley, with whom Dr. DeBakey had once had a serious rift that lasted for many years. I was pleased to learn that they had gotten together and patched things up a year or two ago. So often, it seems, we just let these things fester inside us until we one day realize that it's too late for a reconciliation.
I never met Dr. DeBakey nor any member of his team. When my father came down here in 1986 for his aneurysm surgery, it was one of Dr. Cooley's associates who performed the operation.]
Funeral services for Dr. DeBakey are scheduled for tomorrow afternoon at 1:00 at the Co-Cathedral of the Sacred Heart downtown.
Contrary to what I reported to you earlier, Dr. DeBakey actually died on Friday night. (Why the news did not hit the AP wires until after eight Saturday morning, I have no idea.)
His innovations, gifts to and influence on the world of medicine, particularly in the specialized area of heart surgery, are truly inestimable.
[I happened to catch an interview with Dr. Denton Cooley, with whom Dr. DeBakey had once had a serious rift that lasted for many years. I was pleased to learn that they had gotten together and patched things up a year or two ago. So often, it seems, we just let these things fester inside us until we one day realize that it's too late for a reconciliation.
I never met Dr. DeBakey nor any member of his team. When my father came down here in 1986 for his aneurysm surgery, it was one of Dr. Cooley's associates who performed the operation.]
Funeral services for Dr. DeBakey are scheduled for tomorrow afternoon at 1:00 at the Co-Cathedral of the Sacred Heart downtown.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Commentator vs. Commenter vs. Commentor
Wiktionary defines "commentator" as a person who comments; especially someone who is paid to give one's opinions in the media about current affairs, sports, etc.
Also (!) in Wiktionary, the word "commenter" is found. Supposedly it replaces "commentator", which is now 'obsolete'. (RRivit!!)
I propose a compromise, "commentor", whatcha think? In fact, I might decide to continue to use this spelling until it's commonly accepted. (Fat chance, right?) Actually, I have a personal problem with 'commenter'. To me, it looks too much like 'cementer', and the two DEfinitely are not the least bit similar in meaning.
Moving on.
The conservative world, of which I usually tend to be a part, lost one of its favorite 'spokespersons' (I wouldn't want to be caught publishing an obsolete, personally unacceptable, or not-yet-in-common-use word!) very early this morning.
Tony Snow, a name some of you might recognize from a couple of years back as President Bush's press secretary, was a voice I looked forward to hearing every weekday on talk radio. (This was when I was driving a taxicab and listening to the radio a lot.)
I very much admired the way he treated his callers, always with the utmost respect. If there was disagreement, he would often say, after some exchanges when it finally became apparent that no mutual understanding was going to be reached, "We will agree to disagree, but we will do so agreeably."
He described his assignment in the White House as "the most exciting, intellectually aerobic job I'm ever going to have." Me? I enjoyed getting a visual of the man and parTIcularly savored his apparent ease in sparring with reporters' oft-repeated 'dumb' (and often intrusive and obnoxious, in my opinion) questions.
I miss you already, Tony. I know you gave it your best effort. God's getting a good one!
Folks, we lost another one a touch later this morning. This name, that of Michael DeBakey, is known world-wide as a pioneering heart surgeon.
The thing I am most thankful for is that he was honored while he was still alive for his life-long achievements.
I hope that all of you will join with me in prayer for these two good men and their many family members and friends who are mourning as I write this post.
Also (!) in Wiktionary, the word "commenter" is found. Supposedly it replaces "commentator", which is now 'obsolete'. (RRivit!!)
I propose a compromise, "commentor", whatcha think? In fact, I might decide to continue to use this spelling until it's commonly accepted. (Fat chance, right?) Actually, I have a personal problem with 'commenter'. To me, it looks too much like 'cementer', and the two DEfinitely are not the least bit similar in meaning.
Moving on.
The conservative world, of which I usually tend to be a part, lost one of its favorite 'spokespersons' (I wouldn't want to be caught publishing an obsolete, personally unacceptable, or not-yet-in-common-use word!) very early this morning.
Tony Snow, a name some of you might recognize from a couple of years back as President Bush's press secretary, was a voice I looked forward to hearing every weekday on talk radio. (This was when I was driving a taxicab and listening to the radio a lot.)
I very much admired the way he treated his callers, always with the utmost respect. If there was disagreement, he would often say, after some exchanges when it finally became apparent that no mutual understanding was going to be reached, "We will agree to disagree, but we will do so agreeably."
He described his assignment in the White House as "the most exciting, intellectually aerobic job I'm ever going to have." Me? I enjoyed getting a visual of the man and parTIcularly savored his apparent ease in sparring with reporters' oft-repeated 'dumb' (and often intrusive and obnoxious, in my opinion) questions.
I miss you already, Tony. I know you gave it your best effort. God's getting a good one!
Folks, we lost another one a touch later this morning. This name, that of Michael DeBakey, is known world-wide as a pioneering heart surgeon.
The thing I am most thankful for is that he was honored while he was still alive for his life-long achievements.
I hope that all of you will join with me in prayer for these two good men and their many family members and friends who are mourning as I write this post.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
In memory
Houston lost one of its most highly respected and well-liked citizens yesterday.
Ron Stone was a television news anchor for thirty years, the last twenty on Channel 2, the local NBC affiliate. When Ron was with Channel 2, he was most often partnered with Doug Johnson, who did the weather.
[5/15, 2am. I just finished reading a lengthy writeup about Ron. Doug's in there, as well. If you're interested and have the time, go to http://www.click2houston.com/news/15925957/detail.html. The accompanying videos that I enjoyed the most were the 3rd, a "Houston TV Legend", the 8th, "Reminiscences of the Front Porch", and the 9th, when Doug & Ron reunited for a one-nite stand in 2002.]
The nightly newscast always closed on a neat story, a piece of good news -- always.
Then, Ron would give his signature close with a smile and a twinkle in his eye, saying, "Good night, friends and neighbors."
He was a fabulous story teller!
We were members of the same church, as it happened, and I was fortunate enough to hear him speak on several occasions. He had one favorite story that he liked to tell. It's been so long since I've heard it that I'm not going to remember many of the details, but the crux of this story was the Know Nothing Party. (It was either that or the Do Nothing Party. Doesn't matter, really, either version would be hilarious!)
Ron had this knack of wrapping a bunch of fiction around a few facts, just enough facts to make the story somewhat believable, and the subject of all this hilarity, as I recall, was Millard Fillmore. I heard the story twice, actually, but I don't think it was quite the same the second time around. No matter. We laughed and laughed!
He had a way of knowing just when to pause, when to skip on ahead, which phrase would be put to best use. Never a miscue. It was obvious that he loved to speak, and we loved to hear him.
He always greeted everyone with a smile and a quick word, and looked you straight in the eyes while doing so.
While I never really knew him personally, I feel a sense of loss at his passing. At the same time, I feel lucky to have known him at all. Go with God, Ron.
Ron Stone was a television news anchor for thirty years, the last twenty on Channel 2, the local NBC affiliate. When Ron was with Channel 2, he was most often partnered with Doug Johnson, who did the weather.
[5/15, 2am. I just finished reading a lengthy writeup about Ron. Doug's in there, as well. If you're interested and have the time, go to http://www.click2houston.com/news/15925957/detail.html. The accompanying videos that I enjoyed the most were the 3rd, a "Houston TV Legend", the 8th, "Reminiscences of the Front Porch", and the 9th, when Doug & Ron reunited for a one-nite stand in 2002.]
The nightly newscast always closed on a neat story, a piece of good news -- always.
Then, Ron would give his signature close with a smile and a twinkle in his eye, saying, "Good night, friends and neighbors."
He was a fabulous story teller!
We were members of the same church, as it happened, and I was fortunate enough to hear him speak on several occasions. He had one favorite story that he liked to tell. It's been so long since I've heard it that I'm not going to remember many of the details, but the crux of this story was the Know Nothing Party. (It was either that or the Do Nothing Party. Doesn't matter, really, either version would be hilarious!)
Ron had this knack of wrapping a bunch of fiction around a few facts, just enough facts to make the story somewhat believable, and the subject of all this hilarity, as I recall, was Millard Fillmore. I heard the story twice, actually, but I don't think it was quite the same the second time around. No matter. We laughed and laughed!
He had a way of knowing just when to pause, when to skip on ahead, which phrase would be put to best use. Never a miscue. It was obvious that he loved to speak, and we loved to hear him.
He always greeted everyone with a smile and a quick word, and looked you straight in the eyes while doing so.
While I never really knew him personally, I feel a sense of loss at his passing. At the same time, I feel lucky to have known him at all. Go with God, Ron.
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