I got very excited when I heard that the musical for one of my children's school was going to be Les Miserable. I loved it as a teen! It would be so much fun to watch the movie version with my kids, as I have done with every play they've gotten involved in. Then I remembered Fushigi Yuugi.
Let me backtrack a bit. Fushigi Yuugi is one of my favorite anime series. I like to re-watch it from time to time and a bit ago, one of the children expressed an interest in watching it along with me. Sure, why not? I should state that this was the more sensitive of the two children and while this isn't the goriest or most violent anime series by a long shot the TV trope "Anyone Can Die" fully applied to this one, as well as "Woobie, Destroyer of Worlds". But we've watched Dr. Who and most of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (which is certainly more gory and violent), so this shouldn't be so bad.
Yeah, not so much.
I was pretty surprised by how into it the child was, and how the above tropes and all the other attendant twists and terms of plot affected them. We actually had a version of this famous conversation watching the show. The other child noticed their sibling getting quite involved in the show (though there was No Way In Hell the first child would admit it) and asked to watch too. Now this is my not quite as sensitive child who took the sad parts of Dr. Who and Buffy in stride often going to the next activity merrily while the other one glared at them for not fully giving in to the pathos involved. The first child did not want to watch with the second at all, sure that this would be the case again.
Until it wasn't.
We now refer to Fushigi Yuugi as the series that taught the second child "the feels". Oh yeah, the Princess Bride conversation happened again. As well as the lower lip going, and tissues being grabbed.
And the first child LOVED it. After the first death, the first child insisted on being in the room to witness the other child finally learning fandom feels. And it didn't stop there. My niece and nephew also got to watch the series and while each of them had their moments of "Oh my god - they did not just die, did they?", that set of siblings also got joy knowing the other one (and my kids as well) had an attack of the feels at the exact same spots.
So, back to Les Miserables. I sat the kids down and told them they had the option of watching the movie if they wanted to. "It isn't called Les Happy Peoples", I said. "It's Les Miserables for a reason. I knew of at least one person who went through a dark night of the soul after watching it". Their eyes got wide, but then they looked at each other... and the question is no longer who dies but who will break first.
Kids...amirite?
So sure, we'll probably watch it. And I've invited my niece and nephew along for the viewing (I know at least one of them really likes musicals) and while there will be sad feels, each of them will take comfort in the fact the others feel it too.
Only a week left to go before my kids get to summer vacation. Summers really aren't what they used to be when they were little. I remember getting them out to every free artsy thing my small town offered - music in the park, local festivals. The one thing I didn't do as often, was take them to story hours.
You see, I'm something of a ham. When I was younger I really wanted to be in plays and things but was always too timid to try out. By the time I finally did get the nerve to try for something I thought I'd be a shoe-in for (supporting cast of West Side Story in my senior year in high school), it was too late, I just didn't have any experience, and I didn't even get Shark Girl #5.
It wasn't until my 30's when I got brave enough to try to perform again. Nothing grand mind you. I was Queen Esther in my local temple's Purim Spiel for several years in a row. I've performed as a belly dancer both solo and in groups for small shows. Those were wonderful experiences I wouldn't trade for anything. But some of my favorite performances are the ones I've done for my kids just reading their favorite books to them.
My kids didn't care that I froze up at tryout for a school talent show or crashed and burned on the West Side Story try out. I had a lot of fun making up kooky, over the top voices for their favorite characters, dropping and raising my pitch at just the right moments. My rendition of Fox in Socks was a huge favorite. I think the craziest I ever got with it was reading the whole Harry Potter series twice - with different voices for all the major characters - once out loud to my son, and the second time out loud to my daughter and my son. He tried to pretend he wasn't listening the second time around, but he was good at noticing when I was getting sloppy. "Your Luna sounds like Trelawney," he said once looking over the top of his video game.
"I thought you weren't listening," I said.
His response was a grunt as I recall. But a few minutes later he put the game down and was listening as intently as his sister. (I did adjust my reading a bit so my Luna sounded different.)
They're big now. Too big to really read to as much as I did when they were young. Except, my daughter has asked that she get special reading time while my son is at camp. And she wants me to read Harry Potter again, when the new illustrated version comes out. My son said he might even listen too, you know if Dad listens, just to see his reaction because my husband has never read the books.
So, they'll mostly be off with their friends, which is a great thing, because they are growing up. And a lot of time will go to the camps they wanted to attend. But I kind of love that I know that in slow moments this summer, I'll be reading something, maybe Sisters Grimm, the Chronicles of Narnia, or the Hobbit, and maybe they'll still feel like listening.
Maybe the Princess Bride? I'll have to reread it first to make sure.
Its funny how some things can change - and how some things can still sting almost a year later. With fall beginning to bleed into August with this cooler than average weather, I started thinking about the events of last October and of course Samhain and honoring the memories of the ones I've lost.
Then I saw an old college friend of mine do something incredibly silly on Facebook. He dumped a bucket of cold water over his head as part of something called the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge. I asked what that was and he kindly pointed me to a link explaining it.
Let's get something straight: I. Hate. Cold.
My husband calls me as a lizard and says I have the shower set to Mordor. I complain about cold in the winter and when I get the inevitable nagging about how I'll wish for the cold in the oven that is PA in the summer, I can laugh and say, "Oh no I won't). I love the seasons. I love the stark beauty of winter - from inside with a thick sweater and a big mug o' tea or if I must go outside, warm boots, thick scarves and many, many layers.
I have no reason to do this stupid thing. Since Mike's diagnosis I've contributed regularly to ALS and ALS related causes. And then I remembered the words Mike wanted us to remember.
"It's OK. I laughed a lot"
*sigh*
So I gritted my teeth, got the clothes to change into afterwards ready, got one kid to hold a towel while the other kid videoed and just did it.
In related news, dolphins in the Atlantic reported headaches from my high pitched scream
There is no question this is a silly, rather childish thing to do. And as one friend warned me, not entirely safe (I did check with other health care professionals who had done the challenge and they said there were risks, but slight ones. You could get bruised or lacerated by the falling ice. If you have specific conditions with your thyroid or your heart you really should talk to your doctor before trying this). But it turns out there are a lot of very silly people, who like me donated as well as took an ice water shower. Donations towards ALS research have skyrocketed. People are becoming more aware about what this horrible disease does.
And because I do believe in an afterlife, I feel that somewhere Mike is still laughing and then doubling over again with laughter because of who I tagged (like you thought I wouldn't get payback after your bragging about your relaxing vacation. Keep laughing through the ice shower Vineyard Boy!).
I'm glad you laughed a lot while you lived bro. I'll do my best to keep the laughs coming. That's my tribute to you, silly as it is.
A long time ago, in the magical decade known as the 90's, my then future hubby and I had a talk about the way things might be were we to come to a more permanent arrangement. At this point, we completely dropped the pretense that our relationship was a fling, the word "love" had been uttered in moments of both high emotion (ahem, it was college) and calm. At this point we both knew, as Ming Ming the Duck might say:
One of the things my hubby wanted was a kosher home. Sure, I thought. Not such a big deal not to have cheese on everything and hey, if I only ate bacon outside the house, that would be a good way to limit at least one really unhealthy food I liked. But there's kosher and then there's Passover kosher.
I loathe Passover.
There, I've said it.
OK, I don't hate the holiday itself. And a lot of the food is good. But the whole house, especially the kitchen, needs deep cleaning. The daily meat and dairy dishes need to be swapped out for special ones that have never touched chamtez (leavened bread) or stuff that's even chametz like. Besides the regular rules, there's no bread, no corn, nothing made on machinery that might have touched bread or corn (we even have to get new salt, pepper, sugar and oils because of that). No pasta except for stuff made from matzoh meal. But most of all, there's no beans and no rice.
NO RICE. AT ALL. FOR ANY MEAL.
Even people on hard core no-gluten diets get rice! Why can't I have rice? There's no leavening in rice. Rice is just sitting there, minding it's own business, being a beloved staple of many different world cuisines...except ancient Hebrew! I'm sure Moses didn't even know rice existed. Why is it on the banned list?!?!? It's not on the no list for Sephardic Jews. Why can't be be Sephardic instead of Askenzai for week? They get to have rice and I'm sure I have ancestors from Spain (that's what my mom says).
One of the worst fights my hubby and I ever had was just before Passover. I spent the day cleaning with little children underfoot and he suggested we go out to eat so as not to have to redo any of the work I already got done. I said, terrific, where to? He suggested a Brazilian steak house.
A BRAZILIAN STEAK HOUSE?!?!?! I'm going to have to eat pretty much like I'm on the Atkins diet for a week, spent all day cleaning while trying to keep an eye on small children and you want all you can eat steak?!?!?!
Yes, we resolved things (we went for Italian instead and I went nuts on the garlic bread) but my loathing of the holiday continues to this day.
This year we had an out of town wedding to go to. The weekend right before Passover. And Passover starts on a Monday. Did I mention the wedding was for his side of the family? (My side would have no clue when Passover starts, nor would they need to, but his side????)
Yeah, I went. I'm actually very fond of the groom and his family. His new bride is a sweetie! And I really like weddings too. I had a great time reconnecting with family I don't normally get to see. Yeah, I've switched out the dishes, packed up the chametz, and won't eat any questionable food in the house (outside the house is another matter; who wants to join me for a sushi lunch that week?) and support my husband's traditions and beliefs. Because in the end, he does support mine, even if he doesn't get them all the time. He loves me. And I love him.
This past weekend I was fortunate enough to get to go to a Bar Mitzvah. It wasn't just any Bar Mitzvah, but one for a son of a very close friend of the family who passed away in October. It was a wonderful affair, with so many well loved and familiar faces in one place at the same time.
Oolong was there, as ready to dance as I was. She joked, "We're going to be those two little old ladies at every party who dance together aren't we?" I laughed and thought of younger versions of ourselves, dancing as teens to Rock Lobster, showing the preppies how it's done.
Another good friend sat at our table with his wife. A bunch of us teased him about future plans for children as we bemoaned the fact our children were near or at the age when they wanted to go on dates. With a sheepish grin, he remembered his dating history before finally meeting his amazing wife. We all remembered the days of being "smooth as sandpaper" while trying to figure out the mysteries of love and commitment.
The children had a great time as well. Most of them had known each other since they were in diapers, with Oolong's daughter (I dub thee Rum!) and Mike's daughter (I dub thee Coke!) mostly inseparable as usual (hence the names). The seating at the temple forced them to be at opposite ends of the pew but that didn't stop them from starting a giggle loop that had the whole row of children desperately trying to stifle giggles during a moment of silence.
That of course brought me back to the giggle loop my husband and his friend shared the day of Mike's funeral. I noticed that I wore the same high heels for the Bar Mitzvah as I had on that day. It was impossible not to notice Mike's absence, especially when nostalgia was running rampant, his voice missing in the conversations that went on that day.
It was also impossible to stay sad too long. There was so much happiness in watching the boy, who in his toddlerhood reminded me of a Hummel figurine, confidently lead a congregation in prayer (I dub thee Pepsi!). There was happiness in watching my son with him, joking around the way their fathers had done years ago. There was happiness in hearing the giggles of his youngest sister (I dub thee Sprite!) and my daughter as they ran around the temple. Wonderful memories were being made that day, and as much as there was a small ache in my heart for things lost in the past, joy for the present and the future was there too.
Now "Man On the Moon" and "The Joker" stops me in my tracks
This is a quick story I wrote soon after a big event in my life. I won't claim its perfectly polished but I got what I needed to get down on paper.
For everyone who has
ever loved a pet. And most especially for Faye and Muffin. Love you.
Twelve Times Seven
and Change
August 2001
Muffin padded silently up the stairs of the quiet town
house. Although he didn’t need to use the stairs strictly speaking, he found he
liked doing it anyway. Although it was smaller than the houses he had shared
with TheBoy, walking up and down the steps reminded him of those days when they
lived together. He got to the top, found the door to TheBoy’s room and walked
through it.
The corgi puppy that lay at the foot of the bed heard Muffin
as he entered. She cocked her head and blinked sleepily at him but didn’t seem
scared or even surprised at all. This would have astonished the man and woman
also sleeping on the bed. Just this morning the puppy had been barking
aggressively at a plastic bag blowing in the wind, sure it was up to no good.
But then again, the corgi knew right away it had nothing to fear from the
strange dog, although it just walked right through a closed door. Ghostly
golden retrievers were one thing; plastic bags that seemed to move by
themselves were another.
“Welcome to the family!” Muffin said.
The corgi wagged her stump of a tail a bit, got up and
nudged the woman’s foot. She muttered something about eggplants, rolled over,
but otherwise stayed asleep, oblivious to the visitor. The man didn’t move at
all, just continuing to snore.
“Who are you?” the puppy asked.
“I’m Muffin. I’ve known TheBoy since he was a puppy.”
The puppy gave him a puzzled look. “Since? He’s still a very
small puppy though he’s gotten big enough to walk on his own sometimes with
Mommy and me. She has to push him in a stroller or carry him otherwise.”
Muffin started to laugh, which rather offended the small
corgi. She gave a soft bark and growled a bit causing the man to mutter in his
sleep a bit, “Shh, Faye. Just a few minutes…”
Faye stopped making noises, not wanting to wake up Mommy or
Daddy but whispered fiercely, well at least as fierce as a corgi puppy could,
at Muffin. “Stop that! You’ll wake them up!”
“They can’t hear me,” Muffin said. “But they can hear you
just fine, well your barking at least. You have to love humans, the crazy
things can’t understand a thing we say, but they do try hard. At least TheBoy
does.”
“The only thing TheBoy tries is to steal my food from my
food bowl. And I think the other day Mommy fished one of my puppy teeth out of
his mouth. He chews on everything!” Faye said exasperatedly, pleased she at
least was above such undignified behavior. Then she looked over at the crib at
the side of the room fondly. “Still, he’s very cute and doesn’t mean any real
harm. It’s a good thing Mommy and Daddy have me here to keep an eye on him.”
Muffin successfully controlled his laughter this time.
“TheBoy likes to chew on food a lot, but he’s never chewed on anything he
couldn’t eat. Maybe it would help him if he just chewed on things. His Mate
sometimes gets annoyed when he eats too much.”
Faye suddenly understood. “No, Muffin. You have it
wrong. This,” she said, motioning with
her snout to the man on the bed, “is Daddy, not TheBoy. TheBoy is in that crib
over there.”
Muffin frowned. “No, Daddy and Mommy live in a big house
someplace else. Their pups are all grown, but they are over there a lot with
pups of their own and…”
“No,” Faye interrupted. “I think you’re talking about
Grandma and Grandpa.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
They bickered this way, oblivious to the simultaneous groggy bickering of the
humans, each insisting that it was the other one’s turn to walk Faye. Finally
the man got up, motioning to Faye who managed a final “Are too!” before he led
her out.
May 2003
“Hello Muffin,” Faye said as he came through the bedroom
door. The woman lay asleep with a toddler boy curled up beside her and a new
occupant in the nearby crib.
“Hello pretty lady,” he said roguishly.
Faye rolled her eyes. “You’d flatter a toothless old dog if
you thought it would get you somewhere.”
“This is true,” Muffin said. “It’s a shame I didn’t know you
when I was in my prime.”
“I wasn’t born then,” she said dryly. “Though it’d be nice
to have you here more often. Two pups! At least TheBoy doesn’t go in his pants
anymore – and don’t start that again!” she said, noticing the beginning of
Muffin’s laughter.
“Sorry. But TheBoy is still TheBoy to me.”
“That is entirely too confusing. We need to decide on something we can both
agree on. I wish you were sensible enough to see that.”
“Well, maybe we can come to some agreement on the pups’
names.”
Faye thought for a moment. “Mommy calls TheBoy, I mean the
older pup, Little One sometimes. I’ve heard her call the new pup Little Two.”
“I like that! How are you holding up with human pups in the
house?”
“Well, it’s hard right now. Mommy is still tired and I’d
like to get walked more. I know she will when she feels better. Thanks for
playing chase with me sometimes when I’m bored.”
Muffin gave a snort. “I can’t believe they call that The
Running of the Corgis. I mean I know they can’t see me, but still you’d think
someone might notice something”
“They can’t help being humans. Besides I think sometimes
Mommy and Daddy notice something,” she added kindly. “Right now they need help
noticing when Little One and Little Two are beginning to move in their beds.
It’s a good thing they have me here to let them know if they miss it!”
At that, the baby started stirring in her crib. She blinked
her eyes sleepily and looked at the two dogs.
“Aw!” said Muffin. “I think she knows her name. Who’s a cute
Little Two?”
She looked at the ghostly dog and reached towards it. When she couldn’t grab on
to it, she began to howl.
“Loud, isn’t she?” Faye said proudly. “I hardly need to bark
to let Mommy know.”
Both woman and toddler woke up. The woman rubbed her eyes.
“OK, OK, honey. I guess I can’t complain. That was a half hour you let me
sleep. Faye must be crossing her tiny little legs by now.”
Faye looked indignant “She’s one to talk. She’s no giant among humans either,”
she muttered to Muffin.
Muffin was too preoccupied with the baby to comment. Faye
remained annoyed until the woman came over to her, with the now soothed baby in
one arm. “Good Faye,” she said scratching her with her free arm. Let me get her
in a sling and I’ll get you out back real quick.”
“I come too!” said the toddler.
“OK, then let’s get the baby in the stroller and make it a
real walk. What do you say Faye?”
Faye barked enthusiastically.
December 2007
“Did he always snore this much?”
Muffin contemplated the man peacefully snoring on the bed.
“Nope. That happened as he got older.” He looked carefully at him and tested
out the name he and Faye had agreed upon. “Sleeping OK Goofball?”
The man murmured incoherently, a quick smile flitting across
his face before he rolled over.
Muffin wagged his tail. “He likes it!”
Faye nodded approvingly. “I thought so.” She padded over to Muffin to look at
the man. “I rather like Goofball’s snoring. I find I have a hard time going to
sleep at night without it. That’s why I like staying up with him.”
“You sleep just fine during the day,” Muffin teased.
“Well, it is less busy with both Little One and Little Two
gone for the day.”
“How is Loca doing with them gone?” Muffin asked. He wasn’t
entirely sure about the new name for The Mate, but Faye insisted that there was
a song that described her perfectly with that word in the title. (Faye wasn’t
terribly happy that it mentioned cats, but thought the part about mocha skin
and voodoo dolls sounded about right. Muffin still thought Shorty was better,
but Faye was very offended when he suggested it.)
“She was sad for a bit. But thank goodness I’m here. I’ve
got her on a good schedule with walking so she gets plenty of sunshine and
exercise. Doesn’t she look healthy now?”
“Almost as good as her dog.”
“Flatterer,” she said, but pulled herself up as tall as her
frame would allow her.
October 10, 2013
“Muffin I’m so tired.”
Muffin knew this kitchen. It was the one he had so many
happy memories of, with Goofball and his family a long time ago. He knew today
Goofball was very, very sad, so was Loca. And he knew why. An old friend of both of theirs had arrived
in the Summerlands just a few days ago. Before Muffin came to see Faye, he went
to see them. They weren’t too far from this home, standing out in the rain with
other friends in one of those odd parks with small stones spaced neatly apart
from each other, near a large box ready to be lowered in the ground.
Muffin looked at Faye
and knew it wouldn’t be long before she made the journey to the Summerlands
too.
“Hi pretty lady,” he said.
“I’m an old lady, Muffin. And something is wrong. I feel it
in my tummy.” The usually self assured corgi looked nervously up at Muffin.
“Don’t be scared Faye. You’ll love the Summerlands. I
promise.”
“I’m not scared about that. But what if Goofball and Loca
don’t come back in time? I don’t want to go and not say goodbye.” She started
to whimper. “Oh Muffin, I don’t want to go! Who will make sure Loca takes her
walks? Who will stay up with Goofball and comfort him when he can’t sleep?”
“They will have to manage Faye,” Muffin said kindly. He
curled up next to Faye and began to lick her. “But I will stay right here with
you until they come back – and they will come back soon. You will have chance
to say goodbye, I promise pretty lady.”
October 22, 2013
“Muffin, it’s happening today.” Faye gingerly raised her
head and managed a feeble wag. She wanted to save her strength. Little One was
upstairs after giving her a worried look before heading up to his room. Loca
wasn’t in, but Faye knew she would be back soon from getting Little Two from
school. Goofball still wouldn’t be home for another couple of hours.
“I know. I’m here to help you when it’s time.”
“I walked Little Two to the bus stop this morning,” she said
proudly. “I had the energy for that. But I’ve never been so tired and my tummy
hurts so badly now.”
“Beautiful and tough, I’ve always liked that about you,”
Muffin said.
“Flatterer,” she said and dropped her head to the ground
again.
Loca and Little Two came back in.
“Mommy how is Faye?”
The woman looked worriedly at the small corgi. “I’m not
sure. Maybe, she just ate something that really didn’t agree with her. You know
how she loves to eat dead earthworms after a rain. Did you do that again
puppy?” she asked as she scratched behinds Faye’s ears.
Puppy, Faye
thought. No not for a long time now. I
guess everyone is in a flattering mood.
Later
Faye could hear Loca’s howls from the other room. She heard
the horrible sadness and wished she could get up to tell her it was going to be
all right. Not too soon after that, a human came and carried her away back to
the room where Loca and Goofball sat, looking red eyed and weary.
Why can’t humans
understand dogs? She thought.
I don’t know. It’d make things so much easier if they
could. Muffin was in the room too. Faye thought it was odd she could hear
him and he could hear her without speaking, but then realized that it might be
because she was so close to the end.
Goofball and Loca stroked and cooed over her. Faye smiled. Silly humans, it’s going to be alright. I am
so glad, so very glad you are here though. I’ve had a happy life, as good as
any dog could ever hope to have. Oh why can’t you understand me? Please don’t
cry. Muffin’s right here. I won’t be lonely when I go to the Summerlands. And
I’ll visit whenever I can.
The doctor is coming,
Faye.
I’m ready. I love you
Goofball. I love you Loca. Tell Little One and Little Two I loved them too.
Later
They walked out of the townhouse. It was strange to both of
them not to have the familiar jingle follow them out.
“I always liked taking her out at night, spending a little
time looking up at the stars,” the man said.
The woman said nothing, but looked up too.
“Hey, that cloud looks like a Firefly class ship,” the man
said, trying to make the woman smile.
She did. “Goofball. But, yeah, I can see that. Hey look at
that one. It looks a little like…”
“Yeah, pointy ears, it looks a lot like…”
They held each other looking at the corgi shaped cloud for a
long while. From her vantage point in the sky Faye smiled at the couple.
Goodbye
Epilogue
The Summerlands was everything Muffin promised and more. It
was like the biggest park Faye had ever been in. There were woods, like the ones
Loca and Goofball loved to walk her in. But there were also fields and even
city areas for those dogs who loved and missed those types of places. Faye
found she had the energy of a pup again and quickly made new friends there. She
played chase and even enjoyed a bit of wrestling now and again. Today she lay
peacefully under the shade of a tree, watching Tank, Barkley, Sugar Bear, Charlie
and Muffin running around as fast as they could in the adjacent clearing.
Squiggy also lay in the shade with her.
Tank trotted up to her. “Muffin said today is the day. Are
you ready?”
“Yes,” she said happily. “I’m a little bit nervous though.”
“You?” Muffin laughed. “Just wow them with your good looks.”
“You’ll do fine Mamita,” Charlie said.
Sugar Bear nodded, “This is a happy day. It always makes me
happy when I see my family get a bit bigger.”
“The new addition will need a hand, learning about the family,”
Squiggy added.
“They’re a great family!” Faye said. “I can’t wait to show
them off. Coming Muffin?”
“Really? I thought you might want to go on your own first.”
“Nope. I really want the company if you’re willing
handsome.”
Muffin didn’t need to be asked twice. “Well then, let’s go
pretty lady.”
They made the journey easily, finding the house they were
looking for right away. Side by side they went through the front door and found
where the new dog was comfortably curled up, perfectly happy in its new home.
It raised its head as Faye and Muffin got closer, wagging its tail. Muffin
nudged Faye forward.
“Welcome to the family!” she said.
First song choice with this story. It helped me think of the title for this story
This post is the first of 2 postings for Magaly Guerrero's All Hallow's Grim 2013 blog party
My mother in law told me when I got married that I didn't get one guy; I got a slew of them. You see for most of his life my husband had a tight knit group of friends. They were around so much that I started referring to our first apartment as a home for wayward boys. I suppose I could have gotten sick of them all, but the thing was I liked my husband's buddies and as time went on his long time friends became my friends as well.
The one that he had the longest was Mike. The became friends when they were around 8, when they snuck out of a Yom Kippur service geared for little kids to find a big box of Hershey's chocolate bars and proceed to eat them. Yes, this is a big no-no on Yom Kippur - but then again, there was Mike...
"Then again, there was Mike..." was a phrase that made it into lots of funny stories. There was the time Mike needed a middle of the night pick up at a Dunkin Donuts off of a highway because his car broke down. He was still wearing medieval garb from the wedding he attended when he looked at my husband and said, "They sure do get a lot of weirdos here at this time of night." There was the time he got a bit tipsy during his bachelor party and volunteered to see if the fluid dripping out his car was anti-freeze by tasting it (Mike never did have much luck with cars). There was the time we (OK me) got tipsy on Strongbow at my 30th birthday party (hard apple cider is awesome BTW).
Then there was that time Mike tried to get his friend to ask out this curly headed girl he crushed on. His friend was still too shy, so Mike went right to the girl and told him about his friend's feelings. Even when Mike told me, I was still a bit nervous, but I approached his friend and we've been together over 20 years now. My mother in law also told me never to tell that story to my father in law, as he still hasn't quite gotten over the fact that the kid who got his son to eat half a carton of chocolates on Yom Kippur was the same one who got his son to date and marry a shiksa.
Someone at work asked my husband to describe Mike in one word. "Brave," is what he said. Although, goofball is what first came to my mind, after talking about it with my husband, brave was indeed a good word. Mike was always up to try something new, no matter how weird or how likely it was he might stink at it. It cracks me up that the guy who could be counted upon to spill whatever he was having on that little rug in my first apartment at one point did ballroom dancing and was a skilled juggler. He had a lot of hobbies; Mike could never stand to be bored too long. He was a voracious reader with a keen mind. My gods, how that man could drive people crazy in an argument - he loved a lively debate. Those made him laugh. I'll never forget his laugh or how I felt the day I found out Lou Gherig's Disease (ALS) would eventually take that laugh and his life away. Brave. Yes, those last horrible years, he was very brave.
I've cried a lot since the funeral. I've been angry too. (Why didn't I make more time to visit the man my husband and I loved like a brother more often at his nursing home? Why didn't I make more time when he was still well? Oh our families vacationed together every summer and the guys got together regularly for old school table top gaming, but there should have been more time.) I've listened to a lot of sad songs too, not bothering to hold back the additional tears. But then I remember Mike, who wanted those present at his funeral to hear these words from him when he was near the end of his illness "Don't worry. I laughed a lot." He would roll his eyes at sad songs and sobriety. I think of all the moments that occurred during the funeral - among his favorites would have been the giggle loop my husband and another close friend of ours got into during the moment of silence. That friend lamented "What does it say about me that one of themost hilarious moments of my life happened at my best friend's funeral? And knowing Michael would have approved?"
I think it says that his and all of our lives were much better, and much more fun, for having known Mike.
So now that I'm at the song portion of my post, I know that sad songs are just not going to cut it. These next two came up on the radio for me this last week and they made me think of who Mike was while he was here on earth. The first one is a homage to another funny man, Andy Kaufman - REM's Man on the Moon. Bits of the lyrics make me think of card and board games we played when were young and had all the time in the world. They also make me think of Mike's wit and skeptical side.
The second is Steve Miller Band's The Joker, because well, that's what he was in our group.
And, as my husband pointed out, Mike would have gotten a kick out of this one...
The following is an article I submitted for publication. The theme was a big change that occurred in the writer's life. I never heard back from the people I submitted it to and it's been several months, so I decided to pop it here. Enjoy.
This may sound a bit kooky, but one of the big changes that
happened in my life was overcoming my fear of dogs. I remember when it started.
We had a neighbor who kept, what was to my 5 year old eyes, a massive dog of indeterminate
breed. My mom pitied it and so from time to time she’d feed it scraps. One day I
went with her, and the dog, overjoyed at the possibility of a snack broke
through whatever was keeping it staked and pulled a Dino Flintstone on me.
“I’m going to die of rabies,” I told my pediatrician
solemnly.
I had recently seen Old Yeller and what stuck was not the
bittersweet story of a boy and his dog, but the idea that any time, when you
least expect it, dogs can turn on you.
“Uh-huh,” he said.
He was used to my precocious babbling and to my mother’s
nervous streak. This was the woman who brought me in every time I sniffled. Of
course she’d want a scrape checked out (never mind that the scrape was caused
by my tripping on the sidewalk – the dog itself didn’t harm me beyond
subjecting me to its breath). The doctor assured us nothing was broken, I
didn’t have rabies and that was that.
Except it wasn’t. From then on, the sight of any dog got me
screaming. The sound of jingling keys sounded so much like dog tags to me that
I’d actually flinch if I heard them. I didn’t learn to ride a bike because I
was petrified I wouldn’t be able to pedal fast enough to escape any dogs that
might be nearby.
“I have a phobia,” I later told my pediatrician.
“Uh-huh”
I don’t know if he ever talked to my parents about dealing
with it, but nothing really was done. I coped by becoming an indoors child,
only going out if one of my parents was near me. By college I was OK if the dog
was tiny and on a leash. But I’d still make an excuse to be elsewhere, fast.
College was where I met my husband, a terrific guy and an
unapologetic dog lover. We discussed everything before getting married, our thoughts
on religion, kids, finances – but we never discussed dogs. I should have
realized this was going to be an issue. He’d get the same misty look over a
puppy that some people get over babies. No dog would go un-scratched in his
presence. So when he started asking about dogs, I let him know I’d rather have
a root canal during labor. Not one to give up easily he’d bring it up
regularly, wise enough to drop it if I was getting too twitchy, but always
looking for a way to bring it up if he could.
“So…corgis are cute,” he said casually after watching an anime series featuring one.
“Uh-huh,” I said.
Well, they were
kind of cute, with their little legs and fox-like appearance. I told him I might consider a corgi. But just because
I thought they were cute as a cartoon didn’t mean I’d be OK with them in
actuality. I reminded him I’d still be nervous. It didn’t matter. He took the
small bone I threw him and began Campaign Corgi in earnest.
One day we happened to be driving by a dog rescue. He
pleaded with me to go in to look. I told him that unless there was an actual
corgi in there, I was going to turn around and go back to the car. So of
course, there in a cage with a giant St Bernard, was a wee corgi puppy.
Triumphantly, my husband walked over to the man coordinating things and asked
to see the corgi. I’m still not exactly sure how it happened, but somehow they
got me to sit down and put that tiny corgi in my lap. I remember still being
nervous. The dog was trembling too, right up until the moment she was on my lap.
And then she looked and me, I looked at her and we both stopped shaking.
In the almost 13 I’ve had Faye, she’s taught me a lot of
things. One, I’m actually something of a nature lover when not terrified. I
can’t imagine not being outside at least a little every day. Two, I’m a really
dog person! Three, it’s sad when fear keeps you from being everything you could
become. Four, love has a way of breaking fear.
So once a year the hubby, the kids and I pack up our stuff and head up to the mountains to spend a long weekend up with his side of the family. I guess I'm pretty lucky that I get along fairly well with them, at least most of the time. I'm pretty open about who I am with them; I've never really hidden the fact I'm Pagan from them. And they accept it, although there is good-natured joking all around. Yesterday morning, when I emerged fresh from the shower with the water vapor from my sopping wet curls very visibly rising up away from my head, cameras got taken out accompanied by cries of "Wow, proof she's a witch!".
They aren't terribly subtle folks. They can be a bit loud and a bit opinionated. But they can also can be very supportive. When 2 of my nieces decided to try the zip lines, they all turned out en mass, whooping and cheering them on as they climbed up and zipped across the to the other side of of the pond. Somewhere, out in the Atlantic, baby dolphins may have heard them and been encouraged to rise to the surface to get their first puff of air. My nieces, reared all their lives in this boisterous environment, drank in the adulation.
I'm not sure if I actually said anything or if my husband noticed the look of skepticism mixed with curiosity on my face. Unlike the rest of his family, he knows there are times where a quiet sentence said at the right time trumps a legion of cheering. He just looked at me and said, "You know, for someone who seems to like to link herself to kestrels and other sorts of airy creatures, this is probably as close to flying as you are going to get."
I hate it when he's right.
I was never a daredevil as a kid. A huge part of that was my mother's doing, who was doing helicopter parenting before it was "in". I had very little trust in my body to respond in any sort of coordinated, physical way until a lot later in life, and even then, there has to be music involved or I'm pretty much a klutz. That seemed like a really long climb to the top of just the little zip line. And I wasn't sure I was ready to throw myself off a perfectly good platform, even if I had seen kindergarteners and senior citizens doing it and surviving just moments before. But the hubby knew pretty much the only argument that would make me even consider it. So I quietly said, "Fine, but this is the deal. Just you gets to see, no giant horde of relatives." He nodded.
I'm still not entirely able to verbalize exactly why I didn't want everyone there. A decent part of it involves my pride to be sure. I knew I wasn't going to be anywhere as slick as my triathlete brother-in-law or even my giddy nieces when I went on. I didn't want an audience for that. There is also something that just personally makes me feel kind of twitchy about over-zealous cheering over something small children can do without too much of a fuss over it. I carefully planned out the perfect time to go - there was actually no one waiting ahead of me to go on when I went over - and after saying a quick prayer to offer up this small act of fear conquering to honor my deities, I began the climb up. The climbing really did stink, and all my old baggage about being the smallest and weakest kid in my gym class hit me every time I raised another sweaty hand to pull myself up just a bit further or I raised another shaking leg to another foothold and push myself up. I was very, very far from smooth or even just calm when I got to the top of that platform. The camp councilor was supremely patient with me even though it took me a minute to convince myself the equipment could bear my weight (which is silly - I'm fairly petite). I finally was convinced everything was OK and motioned for her to let go.
It was one of the most awesome experiences of my life. The second time I did it (I pretty much ran back to get on line when I was done) was even better than the first. The next day I tried the big zip line and that climb was really bad - but it was a long trip on the zip line and that made it totally worth it, even though I reek of Icy Hot this morning. I've told my husband that next vacation we need to have access to a zip line, and that I want to hit the local rock gym so that climb won't be quite as awful. The hubby was right - it was just like flying. And everyone deserves a chance to fly, right?
So I got inspired by a blog post from the fabulous Magaly who in turn was inspired by an equally fabulous post from fellow Stew Chef, Adelina. I could go on (and on and on) about how certain experiences I've had in the Pagan community were a big let down for me and how jaded I've become at the idea of Pagans holding hands and singing Kumbaya (at least at the idea of it happening for more than a minute without some
sort of in-fighting breaking out). But I do try not to dwell on those things. In fact, I really, really was drawn to this idea in Adelina's post: do not convince yourself that the Elders you meet who will teach you about your Craft will only be those who practice your Craft. It made me look back at some elders who made a big impact on how I follow my path today who are definitely not Pagan.
First, there was this wonderful priest in the Catholic parish I grew up in. He was a bit unusual for a priest in that he had been married first and after his wife passed away, he took up the priesthood. I rather liked the idea of that at the time; I thought someday I might do the same - marry first and when my husband died become a nun. That idea definitely fell by the wayside (I'd make a horrid nun for one, plus I've found you can lead a very spiritual life while being part of a couple and a parent - though it's certainly more challenging this way) but one thing that stuck was that priest's joy in his path. It formed the seed for my later thought process that spirituality must contain joy, otherwise what was the point of it all?
Second, there was a sweet older woman who was a seasoned lay Eucharistic minister when I first became one. Her belief that magic was an essential part and parcel of this world was infectious. Now, she saw it a bit differently than I've come to see it - she felt that the Magi kneeling before the infant Jesus was an allegory for the idea that magic exists but ultimately kneels to Jesus - but to find a normal adult who felt that magic existed, well, that was a big revelation and inspiration to me.
Thirdly, speaking of revelations, I need to acknowledge the Catholic school teacher who said the fateful words that got me started on this path, "Our Mother Who Art In Heaven". The idea to question what was traditionally thought of as holy, to rethink assumptions about the nature of Deity - it was nurtured and encouraged in that Catholic school classroom first.
Fourthly, and most recently, I was inspired by the previous rabbi at the Reform Jewish congregation my husband and I belong to. The rabbi never tried to convert me (though he admittedly was quite glad my kids were getting a Jewish education) and, like the priest at that Catholic parish I grew up in, seemed to really embody the idea of joy in his path. He also planted the idea of taking a disciplined approach to observances. If some observance wasn't useful or helpful in my desire to reach a spiritual goal, discard it. But if it added meaning, by all means, keep it close.
Last is my oldest and dearest inspiration, my father. My dad often would talk to me seriously about spiritual things. I learned about compassion, justice and critical thinking while growing up. There are quite a few fine details of faith we disagree on. But, when my dad waxed poetic about the beauty he finds in nature a couple of weeks ago, I was reminded that we still have some things in common after all.
My song for this post was a no-brainer. One of my favorite saints was St Francis of Assisi. I especially loved the hymns made from his writings. They were one of the first I committed to memory. The following hymn, sung by Sinead O'Connor, was always one of my favorites. Even though there are several lines in it that really don't work for me, I still find it comforting to listen to from time to time, and yes, I draw inspiration from it as well.
