The every-other-year trip to sunny Oklahoma to visit with Grandma (great-grandma to my grandkids) was quite the stressful situation this year, which is the year my hubby’s and my sole remaining parent turns 87. She was hospitalized for ten days a couple of months ago with a terrible case of food poisoning – we don’t buy the ‘flu’ excuse, it wasn’t flu – and we flew our daughter out there to stay with her when she got out because we couldn’t take the time off. Daughter made arrangements for home health care, which she needs because she lives alone in a too-big house. The one her mother bought just off Main Street, which survived the tornado that took out the hotel a block in front and the Presbyterian Church a block behind. Back when my hubby was 8 years old and Norma and Clint ran the hotel.

She has also lost sight in one eye, so needed someone to take her car keys away for public safety’s sake. This also makes her depth perception non-existent, and has led to a series of nasty falls that have us and her other son’s family who lives about 45 minutes away most paranoid. Her friends and neighbors love her, but don’t want to be the ones to discover her dead one day alone in that big house, but she’s stubbornly clung to her independence since her husband of 50 years died over a decade ago.

Luckily she has very tough bones, product no doubt of her youthful career as a Rodeo Queen – champion barrel racer – and the number of times she’d been bucked off her horse. But it’s inevitable that one of these days she’s going to break something, and all her choices will be gone. That would be a very sad end to a wonderfully storied life, and not something we would ever wish upon her. So our job was to unite with the rest of the family and try hard to convince her that she should go into a nice assisted living facility less than a minute away from #2 son.

Her mind is going, at least the short term memory part. She often repeats herself, and tells the same long-ago stories over and over again to anyone there to listen. I figure the assisted living crowd will love her greatly, and never tire of her stories because their memories are bad enough that they’ll always be fresh! Plus there’s bingo, Bible study her son the Baptist minister teaches, good meals served to her in her apartment or at a table in the great-room (with the big screen TV), and the staff is there to make sure all her meds are current and given on time, which prevents those overdoses or underdoses elderly people are so prone to.

Plus, we bought her a nice mini tape recorder so she could go ahead and tell those stories for posterity, write that wonderful book about her life that we’ve wanted her to write for years. Something about her hard-earned wisdom of getting right back on that horse no matter how much it hurts after you get thrown. So pertinent to dealing with the nasty curve balls life throws at us all if we live long enough, and at which she is a certifiable expert.

She lost a husband in WW-II, then married my hubby’s father because he insisted. Loved her the moment he met her, despite her strong independent and rebellious streak. They lived those 50 years in a love story that has been a never-ending inspiration to me, Clint was the best man I’ve ever known apart from his #1 son. She is lonely now, and vulnerable. The boys and sister-in-law pressured her pretty heavily for the change in her circumstances, as of course they had to do because they’re her boys and the love her and they worry endlessly about her.

I had a different job. She got me when I was just 18, and we’ve had the most amazing relationship all the years since. More like best friends or twins from birth, we’ve always been completely honest with each other and aren’t afraid to criticize or generally bitch, or laugh at the silliest or raciest things, as if we shared a private joke.

So I was totally honest. We know we’re going to lose her if we don’t get hit by a bus any time soon, and it doesn’t matter all that much to me how or when. I’m still going to wail and cry and miss her terribly. So will her sons. I respect her independence, and am not going to insist or cajole or push in any other way for her to commit herself to an assisted living facility, but I will say it’s a nice place, nice people, plenty of company and they’ve never heard her stories! It could literally add years to her life, though she is like me in dreading the thought of living to be 100. Yet she might, so she should make arrangements accordingly.

Norma Jean is already the last one standing of her family and friends from childhood, so that’s not a wish she can still dread like I do. So I told her something she’s told us a million times, her way of dealing with the patients of the Gould Farm facility she volunteered for through her church after Clint died. When they asked her advice – and they always did because they considered her their grandma too – she’d always tell them they already knew the choice they would make, so they didn’t need her to tell them otherwise or to support that choice.

That’s what I told my beloved Norma. She already knows what she must do, and she does. She has put it off long enough, and will make the move. I told her we’d do nothing with her house and all her nice things. Not sell it (I might need it someday!) or rent it out, just seal it up and let the bank keep on paying the bills and Brinks to keep it safe. Then, I said, if she ends up hating the place, we’ll just take her home again. I think that helped.

While I’d love to be in a position for her to live here on the mountain with us and let me care for her until it’s over, she’s deathly allergic to animals and nature these days. Plus, my only bathroom is in the basement and the only spare room in the loft. It cannot be. I could leave my family here and move into that big house with her, but she really could live to be 100. What about my life and my kids and grandkids and such? Totally impractical, and there’s no more work in Oklahoma for a 58-year old man like my hubby than there is here. Where he has a job he likes and pays the bills, letting us stay here in our beautiful retreat from the wider world.

But I’ve volunteered for a mission too. She’ll send me the tapes of the stories, I’ve promised to transcribe and send back, she can edit and add, I’ll get the final manuscript all typed up. And then I’ll find a publisher and get it published. Real history, wonderfully funny and exciting and sadder-than-sad stories that may help others well beyond her own lifetime. She owes that to the world, and I aim to make it happen.

I love you most sincerely, Norma Jean. You’ve always been my heroine!

Yes, Grandma is once again gifted with a baby grandson, this one making his appearance on Valentine’s Day! No doubt a signal that he’ll be as much of a heartthrob (and/or heart-breaker) as his big brubby and his Daddy, whom I often describe to people as one of…

The Few, The Proud, The Incredibly Good-Looking. Yup, he’s a Marine. Seems to like it okay, will soon hit the decade mark with the Corps. We’d been hoping he would be stationed nearer, but it seems they like him too much where he is now. Welcome to the world, grandson #7!!! I hope it treats you well, and that you will spring lightly along your journey.

Proud and happy as I am to report another grandchild in the growing ranks, it’s been a rough couple of months on the loss side of the scale too. First a friend succumbed after a hard-fought five year battle with ovarian cancer. Days later a another dear friend discovered he had cancer of the spine. He went out relatively quickly, which is just as well with this particular cancer. Yet another old friend fought his cancer hard, checked out last night.

This photograph is of a Christmas season show for our popular New Vaudeville Night in Florida nearly 20 years ago. The weekly fun-fest was sponsored by our friend Rick whose kite shop served as our anchor, and who died in April of last year.

There on the left is our son – who died in 1992 – as EB [Easter Bunny] wearing a Santa suit and being berated by the three characters on the right for trying to muscle in on Santa’s extended holiday money-making gig. EB only gets one day a year, and since he’s laid off in December anyway, thought he’d pick up some extra bucks filling in for Santa at some mall or shopping center – or New Vaudeville Night.

Second from left is our friend Gus, who on this occasion is Santa’s son Solomon Claus, filling in for the old man by gathering up the Christmas wishes of a host of lovely young women in the audience that night. Gus died a few weeks ago. Next to him is the show’s emcee, Nelson Nermal the Nerd, who is the only one still kicking. And on the right is our friend Jerry, dressed as Uncle Sam who is also there trying to muscle in on Santa’s gig. Jerry died last night [2-18]. No wonder we’re feeling really old lately (and not just because it’s February)!

I asked my Mother-in-Law a loaded question once when she was losing her dearest friend since childhood to cancer. This was before our own loved ones and peers started dropping like flies. If we reach a time when more of our loves are on the other side of death’s veil than are still present in the world, does death start looking less like an enemy and more like a friend? She didn’t answer, which was probably wise of her. More than two decades later I am beginning to recognize that I’d known the answer all along. Just dreaded the experiencing of it, I guess.

Through these sad weeks filled with painful deaths and significant losses, one event serves to reinforce the lesson learned. Dearly beloved Great-Aunt Melba died too, a week ago Monday. Peacefully in her sleep, age 96. No fear, which is just the way she’d lived.

Seems when contemplating life and death on planet earth from this end of things that there’s a lot we could fear if we were inclined to do so. Fear for the newly-arrived, for what their world will be, how they’ll make their way in it, what suffering they will no doubt see. Fear for the checking-out, wondering if this veil of tears was all there is, or if it really is just a sort of grade school for something more waiting for us once we’ve shed our cages of gross matter and moved “on” – wherever “on” might be. And at times like these, I usually end up right back where I started on the never quite objective contemplation…

Being afraid doesn’t generally prevent people from being born, and it’s never stopped people from dying. Every single human here to wonder (and/or fear) gets both conditions whether we want them or not. So I’m siding with Aunt Melba on this one – No Fear.

Joyful greetings, young grandson! Tearful good-byes, my dear ones.

In the immediate family circle are O’Sheas and Coins and O’Cains and O’Rourkes and other names so blatantly Irish nobody could confuse the issue by the number of Rastas and Buddhists and Presbyterians and atheists (and God-Knows-Whats) in the crowd. Even though we did outnumber them. After the mass there was a photo collage presented in the fellowship hall, probably 600 people stayed to see it.

The trip to Jamaica and those tough-looking Rastas who literally carried Rick for miles into the mountains to see a holy man. The Tibetan monks and their beautiful sand mandala who were so delighted by their host’s soaring spirit. The notable artists and musicians who never passed through without spending time with Rick. The children he’d taught through the years, now grown with children of their own old enough to go to college. The beautiful red-haired boy, the courageous and determined young man, the cultural guru, the thin and frail middle-aged man who looked an awful lot like Jesus if that holy man’s eyes twinkled nearly as brightly as Rick’s.

We cried buckets of tears, but were reunited in our grief. We had too often lost touch over the decades. All past petty tiffs forgotten, love of Rick uniting us all once again as if we’d never grown apart. Then, later that evening, came the wake…

It was in the city near Rick’s house, hosted by a wonderful couple with one of those Irish names and an acre of yard. All of it put to use for this event, and all the neighbors forewarned. There were two groups of fiddlers and harpists, a stage at the other end of the yard stacked with equipment. A couple dozen notable rock and reggae musicians jammed all night off and on. A drum circle filled in the breaks. There were children lined up for the tree swing and trampoline, guarded (and herded) by teenage volunteer sitters. There were rows of tables filled with food, watermelons galore, coolers of pop and water and more beer than anybody could keep track of, magically replenishing kegs of Guinness, and a picnick table bar on the deck stocked with more kinds of wine than I could identify as well as literal cases of Jameson’s Irish Whiskey. Parking overflowed the vacant lot a few blocks away manned by volunteers with light sticks, a constant crowd of about 500 constantly shifted through the night. It was still going when we checked in, 8 hours after driving home through three states!

My friend Rick enjoyed the love of so very many people, each of whom claimed him as his/her BEST friend. He could make you feel that way even in a crowd. What we all received from him is important enough to last these generations for many generations more, and comes complete with the power to change the world. We are so blessed…

The greatest gift Rick gave to those of us who loved him is each other. Our charge now is to hang on to those ever-widening, ever-proliferating circles of love and friendship. My family’s all for it (though we won’t be moving back to the city). I think a lot of others are too.

Kiteriggers Memorial Site

Sadly, I write today about a very dear old friend who didn’t wake up yesterday (April 15). Gladly, I also get to write about another friend whose brand spanking new young son was born right about the same time our old friend died. Funny how life seems to work out that way, when tears of sorrow mingle so readily with tears of joy. I must be getting old (again… still?).

My friend Rick wasn’t supposed to live past 16, when he was gravely injured in an auto accident that killed his friend. Confined to a wheel chair from that moment on with paralysis progressing steadily, he wasn’t supposed to live past 25. We celebrated his 50th birthday just last year, so he beat the odds big time. Became a college teacher, a sage to young people and deep soul’s heartbeat to diverse creative communities. Rick was beloved by hundreds, and holds a special place in my own life as one of the most Culturally Significant human beings I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing and loving.

So it was with a sense of karmic aptness that I greeted the morning mail to find news of another big event, the birth of a fine, healthy son to another friend (I’m still trying to work out the details on an arranged marriage for Sunshine, but it might be too soon…). I don’t believe in reincarnation, but it’s humbling nonetheless to experience life’s comings and goings as such a cyclical phenomenon – the wheel just keeps on turning, even when it seems right that the sun stop in its tracks to grieve a lost light.

Kite-maker believed in the power of laughter

We’ll all get our chance to step off that wheel eventually, go wherever it is our frail bodies keep us from going while we’re here learning things that need learning, maybe teaching the little we’ve learned. It’s nice to know that the opportunities keep on coming in as those spent keep on checking out. Just as it should be.