Letting Go Of The Grass.

"Hey, Mom. Can we die together? Like at the same time. Or at least on the same day?"

This sudden, scratchy inquiry emerges from the eight year old snuggled under my armpit. One minute we're howling at what Miller inadvertently called Christina Aguilera's "calluses" (she meant cleavage, but noticing how rough around the edges Xtina looks tonight, I think calluses might also be a pretty accurate descriptor) and the next we're having our quarterly "Revolt Against Death" talk. Just one of several heartsick habits here.

"I really want us to die on the same day, Mom. If we can. Because I don't think I could go on without you. That would be too sad for me." Voice now quivering, she is on the verge of tears and I quickly pull her closer so she isn't hit by my falling jaw.

It's at this moment I give brief thanks for the fact I have started feverishly biting my fingernails again. Because that's likely the only thing that's currently preventing me from being able to claw into my chest cavity with my own fingers to pull out my aching heart. Cue my mental Iron and Wine montage. Geese sadly fly south over autumn's ending while I'm quietly whispering the likely sad truth my heart wants to share as beautifully as Sam Beam.

"One of us will die inside these arms

eyes wide open

naked as we came

one will spread our ashes round the yard..."

"That's not the way it works, Miller. It's not up to us. Plus, if I have my way, you are going to live many, many years beyond me into what I imagine will be your really beautiful, wonderful life." That's about all I can muster before I start biting into the east side of my mouth to defer the pain from my chest. And look! Calluses Aguilera is back from her commercial break and so it appears we can thankfully start the laugh tracks again.




"So has anyone ever tried hanging on?"

This was another couch question tossed at me a few weeks later, seemingly from left field. Well, actually from my left armpit where the always curious blondie was again snuggled deep in my side while windshield wipering the top of her lemon Italian ice with her spoon.

"Tried hanging on? Hanging on to what? And who is hanging?" I obviously have no idea what this kid is talking about right now. But if you've ever held court and conversation with an eight year old girl, you know this kind of confusion isn't uncommon.

"You know, like when you die. Has anyone ever tried to hang on to, like, the grass? Or a tree branch? You know...like right before you die and before you're sucked up to heaven or the sky or wherever you go. Has anyone ever tried to hang on to the grass?" She musters up what I imagine is supposed to be some sort of a death face, eyes crossed and rolling up into her noggin while she pretends to grab at something.

How absolutely sweet and amazing and hilarious and wonderful. How absolutely,  annihilatingly Miller. I begin to imagine people frantically hanging onto garden gnomes and grasping flamingo necks...people white-knuckling tree branches and grasping onto fistfuls of grass and I can't help but laugh.

Thankfully, she starts laughing too.

"I don't know, Miller. I just don't think that would actually work, do you?"

She pauses to give it more consideration and smirks.

"Probably not. I mean, I don't see a lot of people hanging around. So that probably wouldn't work even if you tried, I guess." She seems a little bit sad as her raspy voice trails off a bit, but soon we both start a low-grade church giggle that thankfully lasts for the next several minutes and lightens the air.



Death and dying questions and conversations happen frequently in this house. They originate from both the boy and the girlie, who are each pretty thougthful and sensitive souls.

"Why are we even here if we just have to die and leave after? That's just really sad."

"Does everything have to die?"

"What happens when you die?"

"How many dead people do you know?"

"Have you every touched a dead person?"

Most often, when the death chatter comes, it's in response to a very overtired, melancholy voice simply stating the obvious.

"I really don't want to die."

This is probably a great time to give credit and thanks to Leo Buscalgia and Daniel, his calm, knowing leaf, for arming me with some simple, lovely language to comfort my little fretting "Freddies." Death can indeed feel very big and scary if we linger too long, molding our mental death masks.  Instead, let's acknowledge it and move on, loves. Let's try to concentrate on living our best life and doing our individual and collective jobs. Better to "experience the sun and the moon, the wind and the rain" and to "learn to dance and to laugh."

Because in the end, once all this wonderful living takes place, Daniel the wise, wide leaf gently reminds us, "Everything dies."

That's how it's beautifully described in Buscalgia 's book "The Fall of Freddie the Leaf."  That's the way it's ideally supposed to be.

But as we know, and are sadly reminded, that's not always the way it happens. We were reminded of this recently when a very bright, lovely, and promising 16 year old took his own life as it was seemingly just entering the starting gate.

He was extended family, the son of the cousin of my former husband on the Batchelder side of his family, which comes flanked with an unspoken "once you're in, you're in" motto. Sicilian mafia style. So regardless of things like divorce and time, our family tightly remains family and my kids saw first hand several adult hearts fracture as we all baked and fondled Kleenex and tried to grasp this magnificent loss and what it meant to all who loved him dearly and were left behind to cope.

This prompted the kids to ask some really difficult questions. Being naturally curious and slightly obsessed death themselves, they really wanted to understand why a person would feel the need to end their life. Why would someone actually choose to die?

"But why, mom?" (repeat eight million times)

There are sadly established things that can't be properly compartmentalized with words. Suicide is one. Especially when from the comfortably-seated audience you only see a successful, wonderful, hopeful motion picture playing out. So I've tried to carefully navigate this, explaining that one of the most beautiful things about teenagers is they are often boldly brave and incredibly impulsive.

However, one of the most horrible thing about teenagers is that they are often boldly brave and incredibly impulsive.

I keep telling my kids that it's OK that it doesn't make sense right now. I hug them tightly into my chest, smell their beautiful heads, and tell them how much I love them. Maybe even too much for their own good. I tell them they can, and should, keep asking me questions and that I will always try to help them find the right answers. I will also help them cope with the fact we may never find all of them.

I keep hoping that's enough.

A few weeks after the funeral, the kids randomly asked to see Cody's 16th birthday video again. We sat on the couch, arms and legs tangled, watching on the tiny screen of my phone. The chorus to Fun's "We Are Young" played and both kids began to quietly sing along. I could barely hold my 4.7 ounce phone up. "He was really handsome, Mom," Jackson remarked. I couldn't muster more than a cracked half yes from my throat, which I followed with a nod and a squeeze to his hand. I could feel Miller move her giant blues from the video to my black streaked face, which would have no doubt given Alice Cooper's a solid run for his money back in the day, and she watched and waited as I pushed my sweatshirt sleeve around to mop my face up, soaking the cuff.  She sweetly patted my back to reassure me as the video ended, and with one small, perfect sentence, this eight year old defined this horrible heartbreak better that any adult could on their most articulate day.

"I think Cody just felt like he needed to let go of the grass, Mom."

Independence Day

It's 2:00 in the afternoon and here I sit after refereeing a tug of war match between two adorably destructive groundhog babes and my delicious dill plant. Tom Waits is hoping he doesn't fall in love with me and I'm drinking lukewarm coffee from a chipped Salmon Falls mug, looking for an "area of opportunity."

To be more specific, I'm LinkedIn-ing and Monstering about, searching for new employment.

How appropriate it seems to "Groundhog Day" back here a minute to a few Thursdays ago when the garden dill had no teeth marks and still stood favorite-leather-knee-boots high. I was happily employed until 1:00 that afternoon when I was suddenly asked to join a meeting which presented me with an unexpected, yet oddly familiar, story about the economy, big business practices and the necessary reduction in force which was erasing my position. All of this was very kindly accompanied by sincerely-said sorries, a manila envelope with a final paycheck, and two empty W.B. Mason boxes to pack up my four month old office up in. There we were--my wonderful ED, our lovely VP of Ops and me, awkwardly making jokes and smallish talk while untacking and packing my kids' wallpaper art collages, one adorable zombie crayon kitty, three appropriately dark, wonderfully obscure photos from the very recent ex, my wilting magnolia plant and the same chipped mug I'm currently sipping this horrible coffee from.

Thank you life IT department for the auto upgrade to unemployment v.2.0.

I'm a bit familiar with this crazy carnival having been through the same thing only eight months earlier with the same company. Cue the circus music, kids! Please draw your attention to the center ring! Fun under the big top begins with getting the Malbec and coffee stains buffed from your molars and dragging your kids along to hang in the oddly mesmerizing waiting room of the local breast imaging center to get things literally handled before your dental and medical insurance runs out at the end of the month.  Hurry! Hurry! You won't believe your eyes! Marvel at the severance options and a few potential internal job opportunities.  Step right up! Test your stomach and skills on the roundup of resume rewrites! Watch as they're dangerously done without an editor in the early afternoon over a basil gimlet because you're unexpectedly unemployed and you should not drink Malbec and risk staining your newly cleaned tusks!

Maybe I can get a temp job barking at the Stratham fair in a few weeks.

The 48 hours following the RIF had me shaking my fist at the universe from various places--from under my jacked up CRV while changing the pancaked tire preventing me from commuting my kids to school, from the drive thru window at Dunkin Donuts where they were out of half and half (and NO young man who looks as though he's enjoyed a full bottle of Lorazepam, I would certainly not like skim milk instead. Look at me for a second, dummy. Do I look like I drink skim milk?!) and from the unemployment office where I sat nodding off next to a man smelling of road tar and pipe tobacco waiting for what seemed like a week to get confirmation that I would not be getting any unemployment benefits for some time. There's nothing like having a few days unravel like this and then, after dragging yourself from the unemployment line to the car, having your iTunes shuffle up The Drams' "Wondrous Life." I briefly considered wandering out into the middle of Old Rochester Road into an oncoming Coast bus.

Yeah. I see what you're up to, universe. Time to cue the awesomely talented stiff upper lip, because unlike moments when I might actually fall for a flirty Basil Hayden-fueled text sent at 1:00 in the morning, I'm not falling for this. Plus, I'm out of tissues to wipe any potential mascara streaks. Oddly enough, they were used to clean up the horrible, sans-skimmed burnt coffee I spilled all over myself after jerking my car out of the Dunkin Donuts drive thru.

After hearing I was looking for work for the second time in the past year, a fabulous friend took me to lunch and ask me if I was getting tired of it all. She's known me for a very long time. You MUST be sick of it by now she challenged, hands quickly miming her fret and frustration (or showing off what I'm guessing would be white belt karate skills) while highlighting what she apparently sees as my constant, convoluted struggles. She also made a quick side note that she's quite convinced that I'm due to fall apart at any moment.

I didn't even bother argue that last point. Because some days I feel like my head might actually launch from my shoulders.

Instead, I told her that what I'm really most tired of is having to talk about it sometimes. It's really hard to tell your friends these parallel tales. Oh sure "it's their job"--a sad, grossly unpaid one--to listen sympathetically, unaffected, and to chant "rah rah" comments while clinking rocks glasses or sending you job leads and nominating dating candidates. And sure, I'll bet there's been days when I must have said some of those same certain words and phrases my friend was using to describe my life in her same silly astoundment. Affair! Divorce! Single! MY POSITION HAS BEEN ELIMINATED!

How astonishing!

Lately, however, I find I'm saying some of these very same words that were perhaps once shared in dismay with a new, slightly reckless and perhaps dangerous sort of exultation.

"Yay! Unemployment!"

O.K., it's not like I'm behaving as though I've been cast in an episode of Glee or living out a horrible scene from the very underwhelming Rock of Ages. Sure, you can thank me later for that. I just really, really, really don't want to be totally identified by these unfortunate events. I would rather be amused by them. I would rather you all be kind of amused by them as well.

Let me be clear for a sec. I do have moments when I feel it's really very unfortunate that I can't change some of the things that have happened to me and my darling deductions.

However, let me also take a sec to thank sweet baby Buddha that I can surely change who I am in relationship to it all.

I've recently watched some of my favorite people redefine themselves. How incredible to watch them move quite gracefully, some rather abruptly, beyond big personal despair or over various roadblocks towards a promissory note of something better. One tossed up a self-proclaimed (and completely beautiful, I must add) Hail Mary and was brave enough to break his own heart and leave the ones he loved because he knew he couldn't stick around here a minute longer and be the person he deserved to become. One friend taught her already sickeningly talented self to make the most amazing silver jewelry that you should immediately go and buy for yourself or for me or for someone you love because it's as strong and beautiful as her spirit and generosity. Another dusted off his former garage band bent and soon discovered that a zillion talented people, and at least one who can't sing for shit, would all love to go and get a room with him. I watched a truly beautiful Miss Somebody pull herself away from an almost deadly deadly siren song sung by a boy in now-tired NY rock boutique finery and sporting a very pretty, shiny Gibson that never held tune to her much shinier charm and class. She walked away and became the hero of a far more well-written, beautifully self-penned love song. I've watched and admired all of these people. And I've taken a few notes.

Father time can shut his pie hole. When you think about it, time isn't really running out. It's here. Right at this moment! Happy fucking Independence Day, kids! And until I make my next career move, I'll invite you watch me as I just allow things to decisively and beautifully fall apart a bit. Just look! Today finds me able to actually write something down. It's been months and months since I have had the ability to sit and focus long enough to write anything other than a grocery list. Let's face it. Some jobs have a terrible way of exhausting us. Some slowly, unknowingly kill important parts of us. Some take a pillow filled with the money needed to knock off the items on that sad bit of flash writing currently known as the grocery list and will push it slowly into our creative faces and asphyxiate the dreams we want to chase most.

I know it's temporary, but damn it's nice to be able to push that pillow off my face for a bit. I'm hoping some of you might get the chance to come for air when you can. Unless you're really into that sort of thing--and more power to you should that be the case. I'm more of a handcuff girl, myself. Either way, let's all try and be brave and even a little bit reckless when we're forced to find the next version of ourselves. Which means I shall now daringly hit publish and hang tightly on to the very alluring thought of being able to do something I love, even for just this day.

I'm telling you, that one thought is my life raft.

Did you just say something?

Gut.

Funny to note this word has been consistently showing up this past year. In both the most heady and lowest-of-brow conversations. I've been sucking and tucking it in, using it as a term of endearment and also as a hilariously sharp, knee-jerk slam with my closest friends. But mostly? I've been trying to listen to and respect that pleading voice. The serious one that lies well beyond the one that points out it's likely time to do some additional weighted crunches.

I have been a little bit pissed off at myself this past year. For not really respecting and listening to my gut.

Because that guy always knows.

You really don't have an appreciation for that when you're an 18-year-old college freshman, first away from home and being smartly groomed by a Lambda Chi senior for your first, and thankfully only, physically-abusive relationship. I have long forgiven that very foolish girl for ignoring her inner gut and sticking with the sinewy, spiteful guy who could indignantly pin her down by the neck with his forearm, choking her face red while pulling off her jeans without permission.

That young girl hadn't really had the opportunity to develop her listening skills (I suspect she already thought she knew everything) or the strength and inner confidence required to push aside the familiar fear and bruises fostered by that debilitating relationship. Let's face it. Even though her gut and her friends screamed till they were likely hoarse, all involved generally agree that the fragile, anxious undergrad deserves and gets a pass for her stubborn, nieve choices.

But that was over two decades ago. Now the girl is an adult with an 18+ year relationship/marriage in the rear view mirror and priorities that include two young children. Yeah, if you've read my past rambles you know how that tired old story goes. But we all survived. Quite well, in spite. The gut and I came out from behind the perfect facade that politely hid our flaws and we were properly armed with a much better understanding about the convoluted, profoundly beautiful and sometimes fucked-up nature of relationships.

Therefore one might also think I'd be ready to successfully use my post-divorce mulligan, being fully-armed for the next round with all of these fancy life and love lessons now stuffed like clubs in my golf bag. Without the stupid visor.

But no.

With my gut knowing full well what is right and good for me, I still almost completely screwed up my do-over with a giant scary divot.

How terrible.

I blogged about the end of that relationship a bit. My mulligan. The one that hit the green on the first swing and was a seeming lovely near miss. I considered it my first real chance to start over. To hopefully do, and get, better. But if I am being completely honest here, my gut was always poking me (instead of me poking at its overhang). Instead of paying attention to the wise, knowing voice trying to caddy me through this sand trap, I repeatedly beat my gut's intuitive echo down with a Callaway Hot iron.

I'm telling you your gut always, always knows and gnaws when you are making a bad choice. Or being a foolish dumb ass.

Sure, you can ignore its pleas with creative justifications. I was pretty fantastic at that, actually. But the centered, smartest and truest place inside me always tried to remind me I was doing the wrong thing. I just didn't have any real trust in that voice. Or in myself. I never fully listened.

I went through such profound sadness when that relationship ended. The kind that cripples your insides and outsides and inspires (forces) your friends to show up and shove Kleenex in your hand while dragging you out the door for a day of retail therapy even though you look so horrible that you have no business showing your frighteningly pouty face in public. Unless you are going to Walmart. Which we were not.

At first glance it looked like all of the horrible blubbering and sniveling was rooted in the loss of the guy and the fairy tale ending and came with the certain realization in the first 24 hours post-guillotine that there was absolutely no winning this round.

I'm certain some of it was because of this.

What I soon realized however, with a little distance and perspective, was that I was actually most sad and pissed off with myself. For not listening to my patient, reiterating gut and for ignoring the voice that became so loud that perhaps the other guy heard it loud and clear and chose to listen on my behalf and save us from a costly, horrible next round. Perhaps.

But that part doesn't really matter.

What matters right now is that my gut and I are happily shooting under par these days. I'm guessing I'm a better listener these days and I actually like what it has to say most of the time. And while this isn't a self help or advice column, if you're sweet enough to be reading this, I likely know you and probably give a shit about you in some way so I kind of hope you take the time to carefully listen to what your gut has to say when it talks to you. And I'm also hoping in the future, when it has something really important to offer up to either one of us, it doesn't require an air horn or a titanium sand wedge to the noggin to get our attention and keep us listening.

Jackass + Golf + Air Horns =You're welcome...

He is Superman. And he knows what's happening...

My dad is Superman.

No really. He is.

He doesn't wear the tights and flowing red cape. Instead, he's the hero who would quick knot a turquoise beach towel around his neck and skip through the house bare-chested and arms flapping wildly a la Chris Farley to save us all from a deadly serious or boring moment.

I say this all the time: I am certain about life's uncertainties. But I am quite certain my dad is Superman. I am also certain I am beyond lucky to have been able to ring up my dad today and hear his very kind, sweetly mellow voice on the other end.

For those of you who know my dad's health history...well, you know. For those of you who don't, my dad has kicked cancer's ass in no less than four separate steel cage death matches since he discovered his first lymphoma lump weaseling in under his armpit when he was only 32 years old. Over 30 years ago. He was told it was terminal, was told to get his affairs in order, and was given only 90 days to do so. Instead, my dad informed the doctors he had some things he would need to be tending to besides this cancer business, one of which included making an appearance at my high school graduation ceremony, which was still several years off.

And he did.

More recently, my dad has miraculously survived two open heart surgeries in the last seven years which were necessary to deal with the nasty effects of the massive amounts of radiation blasted at his tic tac toe-scarred chest over the years. And while having your chest cracked open to fiddle about with the very organ required to keep you alive is never a cake walk, it is particularly complicated for a man with only one kidney and only a few decent, sturdy veins required to do these sorts of things successfully. But he survived, and in his true wise-assey fashion was fighting through his anesthetic haze several hours before medically scheduled to slur a sleepy "MOOOooooOOOOooo" to the nurses to celebrate the new bovine valve that was now helping to keep him alive.

He's a very cheeky Superman. I'm not kidding.

So today is the day we celebrate our dads and I've started this entry, oh, a half million times. I'm tired and frustrated. I do not want this to sound too heavy, because that is so not my dad's style. Today I want to find a way to thank my Superman, because as Michael Stipe sings, he knows what's happening. My dad has obviously learned a few important life lessons and I feel lucky enough to have payed attention to a few. Far more attention than I paid in World History class, which I was thankfully able to squeak through, and therefore graduate so my dad could actually see that ceremony he beat down round one of cancer to attend.

So thank you, dad, for these lessons listed in a rather random, quick but very heartfelt manner. Mainly because I really need to get outside and finish the raised beds I'm building (side note: you would be proud. I've only said the f word twice. And I don't think the neighbors heard.) And because I've already been lucky enough to tell you over the phone today how much I love you. And that's what's most important, right?

1. It's not just about you.

The night before my dad's first open heart surgery I drove up to Portland to meet my folks for dinner. We met at the hotel, nervously joked with dad about where he wanted to go to eat for his potential Last Supper, and after my mom and I talked up our Mexican cravings, dad decided on Margarita's. While settling up the check after eating more guacamole than any person has a right, I noticed the large amount of food still on his plate. I asked if the nerves about the surgery had ruined his appetite.

This was when I learned my father doesn't really even like Mexican food.

WHAT?! My mother and I were just gobsmacked. Why in the HELL were we shoveling tortilla chips and pico into our faces then? Why were we here and not somewhere else shoveling penne a la vodka down and chasing it with Malbec if that's what he preferred?!

Because he wanted to make my mom and I happy, that's why. Sometimes it's not just about you. Even when perhaps it should be.

2. Best fashion lesson? Wear your heart on your sleeve.

My dad takes the side of Rosey Grier over Robert Smith. It's alright to cry, boys. Whether it's exuberant tears of joy when your son gives his acceptance speech for winning the coveted Fitzpatrick trophy, tiny tears of gratitude when your daughter tells you she is expecting her first child,or whether it's tears of profound sorrow like the ones we shared yesterday when his best friend lost his own courageous battle with cancer, "Blubber away." And while you're at it? Scream joyously from the high school stands, shake your fists furiously at the TV when the "Red Flops" lose,tell people you love them, because in spite what some songs say, the word is NOT overused. Step in when someone is being bullied and be angry with your children when they fuck up. Accessorize your sleeves with the true emotion that propels you through each day and moment.

3. Be Loyal.

My dad believes in loyalty. Unlike pro athletes, most politicians and those people who marry knowing they can simply file for a divorce if shit goes south, my dad has those beautiful old school notions of loyalty. As far as I can tell he's been completely loyal to my mom, every employer, his friends and his family. Even to Giants football. See? When he pledges to do something, he means it. He does it. Shouldn't we all?

4. Everyone should have a good nickname.

You know you have truly arrived in my dad's heart or on his shit list if he has appointed you with a nickname. This isn't so much a life lesson as it is one of my favorite things about my dad. Every neighbor, family member, squirrel at the bird feeder, bad driver, or unethical politician had a nickname granted by my dad while I was growing up. They still do. And there is nothing like hearing my dad tell a random tale without calling a single person or pet by their actual name:

"Big news. Pomp's scagdog was hit by the snow plow last night. Looks like spacedog will be running the neighborhood now, huh Gerbis?"

It's something endearing and rather hysterical. It's also likely the reason why our guinea pig currently goes by a million other names (including Little Manny Manatee) instead of his real name, Oliver.

5. Send in the clowns.

Be mature enough to know you don't always have to be mature. You know, tell your brother when he shows you a picture of his colonoscopy and mentions it looks like outerspace that you think you can "see Uranus." Watch Beavis and Butthead. And then quote them. A lot.

Find ways to laugh. At life. And at yourself once in awhile. It really just might be the best medicine.


6. Believe.

This is the last, but probably the most important lesson my dad and my mom (who as you might imagine, has some of the most fabulous nicknames thanks to my dad)etched into my noggin. Well. This and the infamous "don't you DARE run away with that German carnie blaring Sweet Emotion from the DJ booth in the Raupen-Bahn, because he is still a GD carnie!" lesson.

But anyway. Yes. Believe in stuff.

You should start with yourself. Believe in your abilities. And in those of your kids, family and friends. Believe the USA can win a gold in hockey and that the Red Sox can win the pennant again. Believe that something bigger might be at hand. Believe things can and will improve. Believe in a day when you'll get to see your daughter bobby-pin her Bulldog blue graduation cap on her noodle because she somehow passed that awful test on the Visigoths. Believe you will get walk her always anxious, sweaty hand down a wedding aisle, and believe you will get to wrap your weathered hands gently around your first grandson. And then your granddaughter, who follows.

When life hands you kryptonite news, kind of like Fox, my Superman reminds me it never hurts to believe otherwise.

Thanks for all you have taught me, Dad. I hope you know I love you more than this ramble likely shows.

And Happy Father's Day, Superman.

They Called him Pappy

I called him grampy. My memories of him are few, but vivid. I remember his chiseled face topped with serious heavy eyebrows. I can remember sitting under the shady purple maple on his front lawn, me in his lap in an aluminum lawn chair watching what would be some sort of construction on my future home happening directly across the street. We could look behind us and if we craned our necks left we could also watch the smoke stacks from the mill where he worked as a pipe fitter. I remember he smelled of faint pipe smoke. While he didn't ever say too much to me, at least that I can recall, I remember someone (I think my mother) saying I was the apple of his eye. I also remember the day he died. I remember grabbing my books off the sticky bus seat and getting ready for my stop but suddenly hearing the high pitched voice of Priscilla LeBrun, a neighbor who lived on the street prior to mine, walking up onto the bus and calling my name. Then my brother Kirk's. She said we needed to get off the bus here. She didn't say why, but I had an idea. My grandfather's lung cancer had spread in the weeks earlier. I remember the sores that had developed on his thinning, crinkled mouth. I remember feeling so scared for him, not because of the look on his always brave face, but because of the looks on the faces of others as they came and went. I remember how painfully long and anxious the stay was at our neighbors until they put his tiny body into the back of the hearse and took him away before my brother and I were allowed to come back home.

I also remember walking up to his casket at his wake. My mom encouraged my brother and I to go up with her when there was a lull in the lines. She whispered that it was OK if I wanted to touch his hand as she reached out to do the same. I remember feeling that familiar nervous flush flash into my face, hot. A curious enough child, I lacked all confidence to verbalize my innermost thoughts on most days. But standing here and watching her reach out to touch her father's hand, I wanted to do the same. I wanted to feel what death had done to Grampy. And so one of the final memories with my grampy is my hand mimicking my mother's, reaching out to lay on his grey crepe-wrapped cold knuckles that were folded perfectly still on his belly. 

My grandfather was known to many as Pappy. Staff Sergeant Kenneth A. Sanders was very young when he served in the army infantry and fought in what is known as the single most bloodiest battle fought on foreign soil. Yet I’m told he was the oldest among his men, and so they nicknamed him Pappy.

This morning I’ve reminded my kids for the millionth time to brush teeth and to get dressed so we can ride to Rochester to see the Memorial Day parade with friends. It's become important to me. We're getting ready to watch the wreath and carnations fall into the waters below the Memorial bridge and to clap as the wheelchairs filled with the few remaining vets from our area are pushed by. My daughter is already scared about the volume of noise from the anticipated gun salute as taps plays out.

I am thinking about Pappy Sanders as I always do on these particular days dedicated to our heroes. Beside my cup of coffee sits his his Bronze Medal case, black with gold lettering. My Uncle Kenny shared it with me and and I am so grateful he's entrusted a piece of our important family history with me. It opens lengthwise to a buttery gold velvety lining. Just under the Bronze Star Medal which says "Efficiency, Honor, Fidelity" is a folded letter type written on communion wafer-thin paper. It says this:

Headquarters 89th Infantry Division APO 89, US Army CITATION FOR BRONZE STAR MEDAL Staff Sergeant KENNETH A SANDERS (then Sergeant) 31281973, Infantry, United States Army, distinguished himself by heroic achievement in connection with military operations against an armed enemy as assistant squad leader, Company "I", 353d Infantry, on 5 April 1945 near Forha, Germany. After his platoon leader advanced alone into enemy territory to rescue a wounded man and was wounded himself, Staff Sergeant SANDERS with complete disregard for his personal safety, crawled under severe small arms fire to the exposed position where is platoon leader lay, he administered first aid, still under fire, and then carried him 150 yards back to safety. Improvising a litter, he enlisted the aid of four comrades and carried the wounded leader two miles over rough terrain to the battalion aid station. His courage, initiative, determination and devotion to duty saved the life of his platoon leader and was in keeping with the best traditions of the armed forces of the United States. 

Thank you, grampy, for your brave service to our country. I love that I am cut from your brave cloth. I am lovingly remembering that faint smokey smell of your chest as I sat on your lawn chair with you. And I am so very proud to share a little bit of your story today.

Secondary Thoughts from the Third Row

My most recent date landed me in the third row of the Portsmouth Music Hall in the semi-center of the seacoast arts scene where seats were filled with foodies, Chuck-Taylored nominees and pockets of vocally rabid fans (made up of mostly of our local theater & music punks) who were out celebrating at the Spotlight on the Arts awards show last night. I had a couple of very smallish, sweet dates who were excited to stay up late on a school night with friends and family front and center to watch their dad and many others in our extended family perform.

Although I'm not a big "awards" fan per se, I do love the notion of celebrating the hard work of the diverse and deep talent pool we swim in. That's nice, right? And after taking a few mental notes last night, I'm thinking why not jot down some post-show "awards" based on the offbeat and amazing stuff that organically happened upon cramming hundreds of talented, interesting, creative and intoxicated artists under one roof for a night. After all, I haven't finished a complete piece of writing since November and I can burn an hour on my lunch break and pound this out.

So here they are. A few of my favorite highlights from The Spotties, in no particular order and with apologies for shitty grammar and errors I'm just too lazy to get nit-picky about on such short notice:

1.Best Vocals (non-performance) - Three way tie between the amazing casts of The Gay Bride of Frankenstein, Rent, and local punk and music icon Tom Colletta. There is no arguing with the infectious enthusiasm of the GBoF and Rent cast members who flanked me last night and were out of their seats with fanatical screams (in harmony, of course) and hands in the air for most of the show. And this was long prior to them winning their well-deserved awards. And for the GBoF crew, after spending what I imagine was half the day driving up from NYC to attend the show. Bottle that enthusiasm and forward to me, please.

And while I'm not quite sure what Tom was evangelizing to both the performers and the audience during the Dio tribute, in his patented bespectacled style he grabbed just as much attention as anyone on and off stage for his stiff-armed, animated vocals. Can I just state that I love "Aunt Edna" and the history both he and his hair bring to any musical event? He really is our Billy Ruane, isn't he? Just without the financial backing.

2.Best Vocals (performance) - This is tough. I truly loved Ashley Kelley's soaring solo performance (see it below. AMAZING!)and the fabulous ensemble medley that kicked off the show, but I think it's got to go to Sam Vlasich from Red Sky Mary who had the chore of tackling the vocals for the Dio tribute. I'm guessing he might be 17 years old. I'm too lazy to go and find out. Let's just say I now completely understand why everyone is raving about Red Sky Mary. That vocal performance in Rainbow in The Dark was truly impressive. This guy needs to be a on a bus straight to the Strip in LA. Once he graduates from high school, that is. Bravo, Sam. Well done.

3.Best Visuals & Vids - Another tie. So how about that fun video by Eric Ott featuring the music and millions of mugs that sprinkle our seacoast stages and clubs? Very nice work, Eric. Next shout goes to the creepy, hallucinatory Skeleton Bones video done by the very talented Harry McCoy. Yeah, yeah. Cry nepotism all you want, but the video is fantastic. Keep in mind the guy co-wrote and directed a movie that is still being touted by the Sundance Film Festival. He is one of the most visually creative people in our area and he proved it on a great and larger-than-life backdrop last night. Believe it.

4.Best Hair (& share) - Another tough one, but I'm going with Jon Nolan. Not sure if J-No woke from a pre-show nap with his wife and beautiful kids, but his hair stood up (literally) well during the entire show. And I really appreciate him sharing a delicious sour lemon candy ball with me. Because they are one of my few favorites. Thanks, Jon.

5.Best Use of Explicit Language (in front of my kids) - Another tie! (Sorry. If you don't like ties, make up your own list). First award goes to Scottie McLaughlin (who won Best Actor in a Musical for his role as Tom Collins in Rent) for quickly catching himself post *BEEP* and pausing during his acceptance speech to apologize to my unsuspecting daughter, who was likely admiring his shoes during the tongue slip. The second goes to Eric Ottfor dropping a genuinely unintentional but very enthusiastic f-bomb into the compliment he gave directly to my son for his performance in the Skeleton Bones video. Side note: These are the known and oddly-endearing inherent perils one faces when escorting children through The Founders Lounge to the bathroom.

And you know what Eric? He was effing good. :)

6. The "I Would Believe You if You Said That Randy Rhoades, Eddie Van Halen, Steve Vai, or that Yngwie Guy is Your Dad" Award goes to Tim *Texas* Theriault and Jon *MC* McCormack for that crazy amp-crushing dueling Dio tribute. I mean seriously. What in the hell was happening up there last night?!?! Thanks for the total time warp back to '83. My ears are still ringing angry.

7. The Sweet Surprise of the Night Award - What a great sight to see Christopher Tierney walk himself out on stage. That was rather beautiful and heart-tugging. Christopher's horrifying Broadway Spiderman mishap has made big news, especially in our little sandbox where he once used to play. It was fantastic to see him on the mend and to hear him sincerely pat his peers (our beloved and insanely talented Billy Butler and host/head honcho at The Rep Craig Faulkner) and our arts community on the back. I love that this scary and sad story has a happier ending and that Christopher was able to be part of the celebration.

So congrats to all of you who were nominated and to those who won. There's too many of you to name. Thanks to those who make delicious art (OK, I have to shout at Kevin Hahn...I love your amazing brunch and Bloody menu at Pepperland Cafe and I am happy you got yourself a Spottie again this year)and special thanks to all of you who volunteer, who own or book our favorite haunts, and who put in personal time and energy to make a night like last night so accessible and free to our community. I look forward to seeing the photographs of the MMOS belly promotion (Scott Yates and Denise Wheeler, I'm talking to you) and to hearing more stories from the post-party show because hey, someone had to get the very-excited-for-their-dad (but slightly exhausted) Mini MCs into bed at a semi-decent time.

Simply put, it really was a really great night. It seems fitting to just echo what was said several times last night from the Music Hall stage, in the Herald, and on many of your FB updates today:

This really, truly is a brilliant place to live, isn't it?


Here's a few links featuring some of last night's performances and winners. I am still waiting for them to post a Dio clip, and will add when they do. But until then, enjoy. :

Ashley Kelly KILLING it:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IAg5zfoX_Jw


Miss M gets an "I'm sorry, baby" from Scottie:
http://www.youtube.com/user/seacoastonline#p/u/17/1IIjrcNH8Ag

Dan (I own as much of his amazing artwork as I do his amazing music) Blakeslee:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vSYP5v5_Yv0


Martin (I call him 'Tini) England:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jUb1NjPg-nk&feature=share

Tim (Who would rather I call him "former" vs "ex" and so I call him "ex" to poke fun) McCoy and The Papercuts:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r9_0t3AbvwM

The Weight of Yarn

For those of you stitch strumpets and yarn hustlers, I'm actually not talking technical about the worsted, superfine or superbulky weight of the strings I enjoy fiddling with when the temperature drops.

I'm talking about the anchoring heftiness of a recent knitting project.

Instead of clicking my Logitech keyboard, I have been clicking a pair of Takumi Clover size 6 needles against one other. I started a rather tedious and ambitious project at the beginning of October. Tedious because if you have ever straight stitched for more than two months, well then you know there is no grand excitement or clever mystery to this monotonous handiwork. I guess I consider the project to be ambitious because I have a couple of young kids, a busy job, and addiction to Showtime programming that often requires my full attention and forces my needles to pause so I can grab Kleenex or hide under the puffy pastel pink Cinderella sleeping bag my daughter constantly keeps on the couch. All of these wonderful things tend to wrestle with the productivity of my hand-spun fun.

The other slight challenge of this business was that I had started this project as a gift for the significant someone. Each weekend the project was carefully forced into witness protection about an hour before his arrival and would resurface when things were safe and he was back in his car commuting home.

Pardon me while I stop here a moment. I am aware there are approximately eleven or so generous, patient people who read and encourage my rambles. Thank you for doing so. I actually know #11 personally and while he is a very talented lad, I do not believe he knits. Of this lovely small group, I am certain at least three of you knit. And I pause here because I know exactly what you are thinking right now. I picture your mouths all agog and your thought bubbles exclaiming in bold Calibri Oh my GOD she broke THE cardinal rule of knitting! Holy Shit! NO! You NEVER break The Rule!

For those of you non-knitters, I am speaking of the 'Labor of Love' Rule, also known as 'The Sweater Curse'. There are slightly different versions of this rule/curse, but let's just say that the curse suggests that if one knits a sweater or special project (like a VERY awesome, slightly nerdy Dr. Who-inspired stripey and endless scarf) for their love before there is a legal and binding commitment, within days or weeks of delivering the said labor of love to said sweet, he will drop you like it's hot (hot) and waltz off looking all Snoop-D-O-double-G and very handsome in that fucking awesome thing you just knit for him. Which he will quite likely wear in an upcoming Facebook photo. That shows up in your news feed and leaves you wanting you to stab said knitting needles into your eyes.

Well. Something like that....

Now that all of you are up to speed on the curse, let's continue.

Here is another little interesting tidbit about yarn. Yarn has an insane memory. Even when you slide it from needles and pull it straight, it will put up a fight to hang onto its former shape. The purlish bumps and bends, though no longer supported by their partnering stitches, will beg to stay as they were. Once you rip a project apart, the yarn often becomes too difficult to knit with again. Certainly feel free to try if you enjoy that sort of a struggle. But I digress. Often.

Back to this lovely winding scarf. I mean story.

If any of you are fellow Virgos, or should you believe that shit about the sixth sign of the astrological year having an obsessive attention to detail, well you can certainly appreciate the horror of starting an important project and discovering mid-project the dreaded (pardon the mommy-ism) "boo boo". An imperfection so small no one else may ever notice, certainly not your bespectacled recipient, but a tiny mistake that you can't seem to keep your obsessive eyes and hands off. Here's the thing. Part way through this tedious project I noticed something was off. Maybe a small twisted stitch? I really couldn't be certain, as I am not an expert knitter. But there was a tiny flaw. I could tell.

So what's a girl so ruled by Mercury to do?

In projects past, I would have been pissed. I would not have considered it, like some might, to 'add character'. Oh, hell no. This? Well this is a perfect opportunity to flog myself like Agent Nelson Van Alden (sorry if you don't watch Boardwalk Empire. Your bad. You are really missing out). Instead of appreciating the good, I would have painfully perseverated on the crooked bit, stitched several more anxious rows, and then I would have ripped the shit apart. Simply yanked it back and then started over (possibly from scratch if I couldn't get my stitches back in a regimental row).

But this project was different. I simply couldn't rip it back. I really didn't even have any sort of desire to. At the point when I noticed the little odd twist of yarn, I was already deeply in love with this thing. The stretch of days between seeing my guy sometimes felt as endless as the straight-stitching. This growing autumnal wave of soft vintage Berroco was already long enough to warm my legs and I imagine I must have looked like Linus each time I pulled it from the bag and snuggled in to knit for the night. I loved the feel of this yarn. I also loved that this was the first project that allowed me to look at its larger beauty and appreciate its unique origin and heartfelt intentions. I was very proud of the purpose behind it, designed to wrap JP in his favorite colors and keep him warm this winter mid-week while we were apart from the other. I think it is safe to say that I was a smidge smug. I imagined my humble acceptance speech for the 'Girlfriend of the Year' award I was sure I would earn.

A few weeks ago JP and I broke things off.

Of course this is gut wrenching and personal and a rather big swim though painful waves that pound at the heart. At this age, I don't think that two people choose to spend such a pretty fabulous year together without believing that they might get a piece of the happily ever after. And no, I do not believe I was smacked with 'The Sweater Curse' or punished by breaking the 'Labor of Love Rule'. If I let that kind of foolishness come between me and embarking on knitting something made with creative, sincere love, well then (please! please! please!) hang me like David Carradine from the very project I've feverishly and thoughtfully labored.

The bottom line? We had a very near miss. Maybe that's why this feels extra difficult in the early days.

It was hard to pick up the knitting again. The first time I pulled the scarf out I was in a pathetic panic. I felt an anxious and immediate need to finish it, put it in a box and to send it off to Somerville. As soon as possible. I was completely overwhelmed; sobbing sad tears and snotting all over it. I'm hoping that bit of charming news will make the intended recipient(and everyone else on my gift-giving list) happy to know that I have recently decided to keep the scarf. I'm keeping it for myself.

This scarf has become quite a lovely, lengthy metaphor. I am happy to report it is almost complete and I can now click my needles together each night without focusing on the slight imperfections woven into the relationship that inspired it and without wanting to completely rip myself or the past apart like an old knitting project. I have begun to appreciate how the heavy, long tangle of geeky stripes warm me at night in lieu of the guy it was intended for. I'm also thinking of super-nerding it out with some tassels when it's finally complete.

So, yes. I'm keeping the scarf. And while I'm at it, I'm keeping hope that both JP and I find someone warm and cozy to share our happily ever after with. But until then, I am really looking forward to giving old man winter the finger while wrapping myself up in this slightly imperfect but rather profound gift to myself.