Red Nose

Again.

Again.

Another madman; another mass shooting. Only this time the madman slaughtered little children. Kids who were looking forward to Santa or enjoying their Hanukkah gelt are now gone in a hail of bullets, leaving their parents to grieve.

Once again, I cannot wrap my mind around this. I cannot figure out what happens to a person to make them commit such a horrible horrible crime. How does a person determine that, not only must he murder his mother, he must also murder children and teachers?

Once again, there are people who say it's not the ridiculously easy access to guns. Oh no, it's the lack of prayer in schools that causes these people to go off. Don't believe me? Here is just one paragraph from an actual comment on Washingtonpost.com:

The problem is the “craziness” of mankind. The “craziness” in America is creating selfish, evil, and criminal activity since SCOTUS “banned” the “Holy Bible” and its’ teachings from our “public schools”; a ban of the “Biblical” teachings as proposed, presented, and installed in our Constitution based on Christian values.

And then there are the idiots who post "serves them right" type awfulness:

It may sound crase [sic] but one can only hope that the majority of the children killed belong to pro-gun parents.

Are you fucking kidding me?? That remark is not only crass (or "crase"), it is simply and utterly cruel.

Yesterday's tragedy is the 13th such tragedy this year alone. I can't help thinking that once again, we will all be horrified, we will all cry and hold our loved ones, and then we will continue on our way until the next one. But someday, somehow, some way, we have to figure out how to make it stop.

I wish I knew how.

Back To The Stars

Image from BOTA.org

My brother-in-law died last Wednesday morning, the day after surgery. His vascular system was too weak to sustain his blood flow.

I miss him.

I was going to post a picture of him, but none of pictures I have really captures his smile, his gravelly voice, his unique sense of humor.

He answered the door one morning; the guy at the door was delivering a dumpster.

"Hi, I'm from Solid Waste," said the guy.

"Don't be so hard on yourself, man," said my brother-in-law.

He knew more about esoteric disciplines than anyone else I know. He met a Mason once and stunned the guy with how much he knew about Freemasonry.

"Only Masons are supposed to know that," said the guy.

"The knowledge is out there, man. You just have to look for it," said my brother-in-law.

When we were busy cleaning and painting Joe's parents' house, an evangelical Christian proselytizer came around. We sent him to the side of the house to talk to my brother-in-law. My brother-in-law talked to the guy for around an hour, explaining the hidden (dare I say "occult"?) meanings of the Bible verses the guy quoted. He quietly blew the proselytizer's mind.

"Keep on reading that Bible, man, but look deeper," said my brother-in-law.

I didn't see him all that often, maybe once or twice a year. He had such a presence, such a good, loving heart, that I just... miss him being on this Earth. Knowing him, though, I'm pretty sure he'll be back.

Strange But True

Once or twice a week Joe works a late shift, which gives me a chance to watch all of the weirdo reality shows that both fascinate and repel me.

I catch up on the toddlers in tiaras, I watch bars being rescued, and I listen to ladies say yes to the dress. Right now I'm watching "Taboo", which is featuring segments on female bodybuilders, a woman who has undergone pretty extreme tattooing and piercing and tooth sharpening, and folks who are into a form of body modification called bagel head, where saline solution is injected into the forehead in the shape of a bagel. I wonder if they go for a little schmear.

So the other night I was doing a channel spin and landed on "Long Island Medium," a show about a woman who is your quintessential big-haired, platinum blonde, stiletto-wearing gal who just happens to communicate with dead people. She does private readings and parties, and sometimes, right out in public when she leasts expects it, a spirit will speak up and she'll pass along the message.

I'm not going to speculate on whether she's a scam or not. Maybe she is; maybe she isn't. I've seen Ricky Jay debunk spiritualists and astrology, but I've also seen Joe after he saw a ghost at Antietam Battlefield.

Here's what happened.

While the Long Island medium lady was talking with a family about their mom, telling them what the mom wanted them know, a lump rose in my throat, my eyes misted over, and I felt Mom sitting beside me. It was a strong, warm presence -- not in me; beside me. And then I just broke down crying from missing her, from feeling her. I talked to her through my tears. And pretty soon the feeling faded away as the Long Island medium lady moved on to her next client.

Could it have been a visit? Could it just be a reaction to a silly reality show? Both? Neither?

Maybe I'm just nuts.

Thoughts on a Rainy Day

It's raining today.

Not a big thunderstorm or a brief shower, but a steady, gray rain -- sometimes light, sometimes heavier -- but always rain, soaking everything.

It seems right, after yesterday's tragedy. It would be wrong, somehow, to have a bright, sunshiney day today. The police have defused the first tripwire in the shooter's booby trapped apartment. The living mourn their dead; the wounded begin to heal, if they can, both physically and psychically.

And the man? That young man at the start of his adult life who stood in front of a movie screen and slaughtered as many people as he could? In custody, thank God.

That he is deranged is obvious. But how does that happen, I wonder? What flips the switch in the animal part of the brain and makes a person believe that mass murder is the only way to give life meaning? Drugs? Guns? Video games? Religion? Chemical imbalance?

All over the internet, all over the news, people of all leanings put out their theories. Some say it's because guns and bomb ingredients are shamelessly easy to get; another says that if only everyone in the theater had been armed, this would not have happened. Some say it's because violent video games, TV shows, and movies plant a seed in a mind that's dangerously unstable. Some even blame belief in evolution, or they say that the movement away from Jesus Christ is the cause. I wouldn't be at all surprised to hear that Fred Phelps blames it on those evil gay people.

Really, who knows? I doubt we ever will.

I certainly don't know. I really don't. I can't help thinking that once that switch flips, the deranged person will find a way to do whatever those inner demons say to do. It could be anyone, anytime, anywhere -- a switch flips and a decision is made. The Unabomber, Oklahoma City, Columbine, 9/11, Virginia Tech -- anyone, anytime, anyplace -- life is there, life is gone.

So call your parents and hug your children and hold your loved ones close. Keep on living.

The rain has stopped.

Thanks for Visiting; I Miss You

This afternoon I took a nap in front of the TV set. The PBS series Moguls and Movie Stars was on.

I had one of my surreal dreams - I know, all dreams are surreal.

In the dream, I was watching the exact episode of Moguls and Movie Stars that was on. Now that's not so inexplicable; my brain simply transferred what my ears were already hearing into the dream. Anyway, I was sitting on a comfy sofa in a handsome rec room watching the show on a big, old fashioned console TV.

Then my father came in. I was quite surprised, but shouted "Hi, Pop!" He waved, then put on his coat and went out the door. I knew that he was going out to the garden, because he had on his weekend clothes. Then all these kids started coming down the stairs; I knew they were guests. I figured they wouldn't want to watch the show, so I turned off the TV and went upstairs to the kitchen. Just before I got there, my Aunt Ruth came out and said, "Oh hi! I'm so glad to see you!"

I was stunned, because I knew she was dead! So I said, "But you're..." Aunt Ruth interrupted me and said, "Your mother will be here in a sec." I saw her coming in and I waved...

...And then my brain realized that I was dreaming, and I woke up with tears in my eyes. Seriously, tears in my eyes.

But I'm happy for the visit.

My Mom, My Pop, and My Aunt Ruth, in the 1930s

 

A Collection of Souls

I had to do Mom's final tax return last month, which meant that I had to root around in the records a little bit. I found her wallet in the blue steel records box and went through it to ensure that there wasn't anything else that I needed to take care of. (I suppose it's time to throw it out, but I can't quite do that yet.)

At any rate, I found her stash of prayer cards -- 23 of them. At Catholic funerals, these little cards are provided as remembrances of the deceased.

The cards generally have a holy image on the front and a prayer on back, along with the name of the person and the date of the death. Some of them have Jesus, several have the Blessed Mother, a couple have nature scenes.

This one is oldest one in the collection; it's the prayer card for my paternal grandmother, who died on December 31, 1929. The front says "Death can never separate those who are bound together by the ties of pure love."

This one commemorates my brother, Johnny, who died October 25, 1950. I never knew him; he died two years before I was born.

She also has my Pop's card (of course) and her nephew's card, and the card from the pastor of the church. She has the prayer card for my gramma's best friend, who died in 1974. The rest memorialize her friends, except for this one:

I'm not sure what to do with them -- well, I'll keep the family ones of course -- but it seems a little disrespectful to just throw the rest away. They remain little pieces of memory, remnants of lives. I suppose I could add them to mine.

Yes, I have some too; my own little collection of souls.

 

 

Tomorrow

Tomorrow is the one year anniversary of Mom's death. I thought about going to the cemetery today, but I didn't. It just didn't seem like something I wanted to do. I mean, what would I do there? Stand by my parents' grave and my brother's grave and cry on this bitter cold day? I can do that just fine here and stay warm. Really, there's more of my mother right here in my living room than there is in the cemetery. I can look in every direction and see her in the art on the wall, the antique clock ticking softly, the photos on the side table.

That was quite a day, one year ago. I was sitting right here with two of my pals, doing crafty things, when the nursing home called. The nurse said that Mom had expired.

Expired. LIke a coupon.

My pals hugged me, Joe held me, I started making calls. My sisters, my brother, the funeral home... then we drove out to the nursing home because I had to do something; I couldn't just sit at home. I thought we had let enough time elapse that the funeral home would have already picked up her body, but I was wrong. The young woman who was taking her away was still there. She asked if I wanted to see her.

I thought about saying no, but I didn't. I said yes. Since I wasn't there when she left, I thought I should take a last look before I packed up her few remaining things.

So the young woman unzipped the carrying bag and I went in the room. I let the tears come as I touched her cool skin and kissed her forehead and looked at her still, peaceful face.

And I said goodbye to my mother, one year ago tomorrow.

 

Gnashing Of Teeth

Well, I'm a little under the weather. I've had this weird ache in my head -- it feels like someone pinching the bridge of my nose.

I suspect that I ground my teeth to a fare-thee-well last night. I know why, too. It was because I had a pretty vivid dream.

Do you ever have "theme" dreams? I mean, dreams that might differ in the details but have the same general feeling or progression? I have a few: Angry Yelling dreams, Stuck on Steps dreams, Anxiety about Events dreams. And in the last year, Mom dreams. (Go figure.)

I had this particular dream between six and eight this morning. I woke up early, but since Joe was working the late shift and I'm on vacation, I rolled over and went back to sleep.

The dream was both a Mom dream and an Angry Yelling dream. At first, the dream was that I was helping Mom move into assisted living. One of old men tried putting the moves on her, but she was having none of it.

Then the scene morphed. I was in the assisted living office and the accounting person was trying to get me to pay Mom's bill. She said I had to pay it, but I could set up a payment plan. I got really angry and said that I could only pay $1 a week because that was all I could afford, and anyway, what was this payment for?

The accountant said it was for my Mom's maintenance.

I yelled, "But she's DEAD! What kind of maintenance could she possibly need?"

And then I woke up.

So yeah, Angry Yelling Mom Dream, accompanied by gnashing of teeth.

I suppose I might experience some more of these sorts of dreams as the anniversary of her death approaches. It is, I'm sure, a sort of a psychic working out of missing her and moving on.

I'd best be sure to wear my nighttime mouth guard.

 

'Tis The Season

Once again it's Holidailies time! It's a sure sign of the season, along with twinkling Christmas lights, frosty weather, and sinus problems.

This will be the first Christmas without Mom, and it is making me sadder than I thought it would. I can't read any of my "Mother" entries without tearing up or downright crying, so I don't read them anymore.

Instead I focus on little things that make me happy: twinkling Christmas lights, the slanting sun illuminating the bare trees, a hot cup of coffee. I bake -- yesterday I made shortbread cookies and dipped them in white chocolate, yum! I sit on my ass without guilt. I watch a lot of hockey on TV and I play a lot of silly games online and it takes my mind off my melancholia.

There is talk of spending New Year's Eve in Ocean City. If I go -- it will depend on Joe's work schedule -- I will go down to the ocean at midnight and throw this year into the ocean, where it can sink to the bottom of the wide, dark sea.

And then I will look at the stars and breath the cold, clean ocean air and welcome in a fresh new year.

 

Thirty Days of Truth 3

Day 3 of the Thirty Days of Truth: Something You Have to Forgive Yourself For.

My Pop died in 1991. My Mom died last January.

I have to forgive myself for not being with them when they died.

Pop died sometime in the night, so who could expect anyone to be there? Still, I hadn't visited him in the nursing home for a week or maybe more. Alone in a nursing home in the middle of the night, he breathed his last breath.

Mom died on a Sunday afternoon. I saw her just the day before and she had visitors right up until two hours before the end, but I wasn't there. She, too, slipped away from here all by herself, alone in a nursing home.

But who knows? Maybe they weren't alone; maybe they were surrounded by angels and saints; maybe they didn't even know they died.

I do know that I have to stop beating myself up for not being with them at that moment.

I have to forgive myself for that.