As I had said before, I was ill the whole time during our wedding trip. This did not end with wedding day.
After the wedding, Marcie decided we should walk to the Stratosphere. On the way there, Reverend Paged by His Cellphone pulled over and offered a ride, which we took.
We started toward the doors. "I can't wait to try the ride," Marcie said.
"I can't wait to have a drink and relax," I said, pinching her butt.
"Honey, can we take the ride first?" she asked, pushing up against my arm with one of my favorite parts of her. It was a surefire tactic.
"Yes, we can," I said.
We hit the ride. It was not much of a roller coaster, far too short and not very fast, but it was high above the valley and we saw for miles and miles.
"Oh, that was fun," she said to the attendant. "Thank you."
But as we cleared the door into the Top of The World Lounge, she leaned in close and whispered, "Honey, did you think that ride was kind of short?"
"Yes," I said. "Mercifully short. I'll meet you at the bar?"
"Oh, honey, are you okay?" she said. "Oh, geez. I'll be at the end of the bar."
And so another dash to the restroom ensued, this one without anything but a lot of horrible cramps and loud gas. I felt pretty greenish when it subsided.
We enjoyed our drink and I kissed her as she looked out on the view of the valley. She commented that I felt hot and I made a lame joke.
It was time to go. "Let's do the roller coaster at New York New York next," she said, excitedly charging down Las Vegas Boulevard.
I stopped and she looked at me. I waited for her to put it together. She refused to budge, and I realized that she was working her list. Lists were like inviolable plans from which nothing shall stray in Marcie's world.
"Honey, it will be so fast, and if you get sick, you get sick," she said.
"How about I rest and try to not get sick anymore on my honeymoon?" I asked.
"Fine," she said. "But don't expect to wait on you and baby you. You're sick, you have a little stomach ache. You're not dying."
She worked on me for a half hour. Finally she called, got a reservation and left the room, snarling "Fine, if you want to be such a big fucking baby, I'll go by myself."
When she came back, she brought me some Pepto from the4 Osco or Sav-on down the street. She apologized and then let me cuddle up with her while she described her roller coaster adventure.
"Well, it is totally fun," she said. "You go through loops and barrel-rolls, you're like 150 feet off the ground, and people are screaming the whole time."
She had sat in the front with "a nice young man," as she put it. I knew it was a jab at me, but i just kissed her as she described the roller coaster car, which was a cross between "an old New York cab and a hot rod."
I enjoyed her happy banter as I drifted off a little. She woke me up and kissed me, and after a very sweet first-time-as-a-married-couple lovemaking session, we took a bath.
When she got out and started to dress for later, I closed the doors and rejoiced that my stomach had held out with the pepto, though its disquiet was coming back with a vengeance.
We went out for a nice bite at the Monte Carlo's steakhouse, where I ordered a meal I thought my stomach had settled enough for the next day. It had, until I got back to the room and lost it.
That night, we saw George Carlin at Bally's, and his act became a part of our ritual visits. As a side note, I had to get up four times total from the opener through Carlin's act, so some of it seemed fresh the next year, though Marcie did not think so.
Marcie got home, drunk and happy, and passed out in her evening wear. I was awake until some more pepto kicked in.
I thought the last day of our little elopement would be the best. I awoke with a settled and happy stomach. My fever had broken, leaving a spectacular Frank-shaped, wet dent on the bed. I felt great.
We ordered in for breakfast and Marcie crossed off yet another item from her list. We had a tender morning and wandered down to gamble for an hour or so, then off to her next stop: Mandalay Bay.
Mandalay Bay had hosted the Lennox-Tua fight the night before, and the crowd had not completely dispersed. We enjoyed a little walking tour of the grounds first. I was fine.
Then, after a quick peek of the head into a restaurant, a smell kind of hit the wrong nerve and my stomach rumbled audibly.
"Oh, honey," Marcie asked. "Are you hungry again?"
I was not, and I gave her a grim shake of the head. "No, no. I think I am fine."
We walked past a couple of restaurants more, and watched the pretentious wine tower with its rigged bartenders going up and down on wires. My stomach was more sour by the minute. I chugged some pepto.
By the time Marcie tried a little more gambling, my belly was in full revolt. We made it to the shark encounter, then Marcie said we shoudl give the shark exhibit a visit.
I was dubious, and my stomach agreed with that outlook. "Let me ask if they have restrooms in the tour, okay?"
No restrooms.
"Frank! Come on!" she said.
I was not glad that I skipped it, but shortly after she left on her own, instead of waiting a little for me to be sure all was clear, I went into the restroom. I got out when she returned. but she had already written her little note.
As she tucked it away in her purse, she commented, "You know, you are going to regret not petting the sharks with me and not riding the roller coaster. Mark my words."
I do regret those things, of course. I also regret every moment in which I could have gone with her to a movie I did not really want to see, or taken a walk with her in Point Loma instead of surfed mission beach.
I regret working my job when she was sick, not being able to be there every second, and every lost moment that necessity and society and general life kept us apart.
But they did not seem like important things at the time.And these regrets are far outweighed by the times I took the risks she wanted me to so we could have more life together in the time we did get.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Marcie's Own Words
Rather than tell you how Marcie felt about our days in Vegas, i will simply share her joy in a slideshow of some of the notes she made on pieces of paper, postcards and napkins. I'll explain some of them tomorrow.
For now, enjoy this little treasure trove of her person in her own hand and her own words and see if you don't just fall apart seeing how excited and happy she was then.
To see the postcards and notes better, click play and then click on one of the pictures to go to a much larger and clearer view.
I miss the happy lightness you can almost hear in her writing, as I am sure the rest of her family and many of her friends do, too.
For now, enjoy this little treasure trove of her person in her own hand and her own words and see if you don't just fall apart seeing how excited and happy she was then.
To see the postcards and notes better, click play and then click on one of the pictures to go to a much larger and clearer view.
I miss the happy lightness you can almost hear in her writing, as I am sure the rest of her family and many of her friends do, too.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
A tough time to wed (Pt. 6)
We were on our way to the land of married respectability in the week before the wedding. Everything was arranged and we were set to travel. Our suite at the Monte Carlo was reserved, plans for entertainment firmed up and our flight was reserved. One last thing before we left was a late lunch the day before our departure.
We chose Indian. We'll call the restaurant "Bombay Barf," as its choice would turn out to be a bad one for me.
Marcie enjoyed a curry dish while I had chicken tandoori. Unfortunately, I took a big bite of the chicken before I realized that it was lmost wholly uncooked in its center. If you have ever had frozen chicken that is tossed into the oven unthawed, then you know the sensation. I tasted cooked goodness then squishy, almost gelatinous inner meat.
I spit it out and sent it back. I was served, some 15 minutes later, a fully cooked tandoori by a scowling and curt subcontinental who seemed to think I was putting him out by demanding properly prepared food. Never mind. I left it on the plate and Marcie accepted that.
The damage had been done.
In the morning, I woke feeling slightly woozy and a little tired. I also had an urgent need. I ended up spending a painful half hour there. I will spare you the details. Nausea was not alone in keeping me company, though. I wanted to stay a bit longer, but was informed that might lead to some worse pain.
"Honey, I am sorry you feel so sick, but you'll feel better when it's all over with and we're married," Marcie said through the door.
"Great!" I thought. She believes I am faking illness or suffering from nerves.
As if to test me, Marcie proceeded to cook a hearty, massive breakfast for us, the last thing I wanted at that point. I poked at my eggs, ate my toast and drank my orange juice, and tried to avoid looking at the bacon, whose usual greasy, salty goodness was vaguely, nauseatingly repellent to me. She noticed.
"Frank," she said, clattering her fork. "Would you eat your goddamn food? I swear, you are being such a baby. This is what you wanted, too, right? Or were you just trying to appease me? No, tell me so I don't get my hopes up and end up left at the altar, because I swear that will be the end for us."
I looked up at her and I croaked, "Honey, I am just sick. I think the chicken did it. I don't want to cancel our wedding, I just don't feel well. I'll be fine, though."
"Yeah, the chicken did it," she said, narrowing her eyes and tapping her fork angrily on the plate. "You only had one bite of that fucking chicken, I watched you, so don't tell me you were poisoned from that little bit
But my temperature climbed, reaching 102 that afternoon as I finished packing. I tried a cool shower, adding a good half hour to my considerable time in the facilities for the day. No dice. Later, I even had to invade and take over the kennel's bathroom when we dropped Seamus off, and spent a good 15 minutes there. Things were getting worse.
"Stop it," Marcie said under her breath, her ferocious glare and tight lips showing her at the end of her rope with me. "You need to buck up and be my man, not wimp out and play sick. And if you are sick, you need to try to get it under control."
So it went. Eventually, she realized this was not playing sick. But by that time, we were in the air. She was pleased to be on the way and overwhelmed with giddiness, and that change in her attitude opened her eyes. Maybe I was sick, after all.
As she looked over at me on the plane, she leaned in and whispered, "Oh, honey, you are sweating so much," she said. "Are you okay?"
I squeezed her hand and was more relieved that she realized I was not faking my illness than concerned with telling her I was sick again.
"I'll be okay, honey," I whispered. "I think the sweat is because my body is fighting it off."
The second we were in the terminal, I went into the bathroom. I took time to, after my more urgent need, wash my face and make myself presentable. I was very pale and remained so for the whole trip, as the wedding video shows. But when I came out, she took my hand and squeezed it, kissed me and leaned into my chest, and I knew she understood how sick I was.
We had a wonderful night despite my illness, and gambled a bit to boot. We came out $200 ahead, but I demurred on visiting the steak house we had planned to. She understood. But my illness would interfere with other activities, which her little notes remind me of. Those, I will post tomorrow.
F.
We chose Indian. We'll call the restaurant "Bombay Barf," as its choice would turn out to be a bad one for me.
Marcie enjoyed a curry dish while I had chicken tandoori. Unfortunately, I took a big bite of the chicken before I realized that it was lmost wholly uncooked in its center. If you have ever had frozen chicken that is tossed into the oven unthawed, then you know the sensation. I tasted cooked goodness then squishy, almost gelatinous inner meat.
I spit it out and sent it back. I was served, some 15 minutes later, a fully cooked tandoori by a scowling and curt subcontinental who seemed to think I was putting him out by demanding properly prepared food. Never mind. I left it on the plate and Marcie accepted that.
The damage had been done.
In the morning, I woke feeling slightly woozy and a little tired. I also had an urgent need. I ended up spending a painful half hour there. I will spare you the details. Nausea was not alone in keeping me company, though. I wanted to stay a bit longer, but was informed that might lead to some worse pain.
"Honey, I am sorry you feel so sick, but you'll feel better when it's all over with and we're married," Marcie said through the door.
"Great!" I thought. She believes I am faking illness or suffering from nerves.
As if to test me, Marcie proceeded to cook a hearty, massive breakfast for us, the last thing I wanted at that point. I poked at my eggs, ate my toast and drank my orange juice, and tried to avoid looking at the bacon, whose usual greasy, salty goodness was vaguely, nauseatingly repellent to me. She noticed.
"Frank," she said, clattering her fork. "Would you eat your goddamn food? I swear, you are being such a baby. This is what you wanted, too, right? Or were you just trying to appease me? No, tell me so I don't get my hopes up and end up left at the altar, because I swear that will be the end for us."
I looked up at her and I croaked, "Honey, I am just sick. I think the chicken did it. I don't want to cancel our wedding, I just don't feel well. I'll be fine, though."
"Yeah, the chicken did it," she said, narrowing her eyes and tapping her fork angrily on the plate. "You only had one bite of that fucking chicken, I watched you, so don't tell me you were poisoned from that little bit
But my temperature climbed, reaching 102 that afternoon as I finished packing. I tried a cool shower, adding a good half hour to my considerable time in the facilities for the day. No dice. Later, I even had to invade and take over the kennel's bathroom when we dropped Seamus off, and spent a good 15 minutes there. Things were getting worse.
"Stop it," Marcie said under her breath, her ferocious glare and tight lips showing her at the end of her rope with me. "You need to buck up and be my man, not wimp out and play sick. And if you are sick, you need to try to get it under control."
So it went. Eventually, she realized this was not playing sick. But by that time, we were in the air. She was pleased to be on the way and overwhelmed with giddiness, and that change in her attitude opened her eyes. Maybe I was sick, after all.
As she looked over at me on the plane, she leaned in and whispered, "Oh, honey, you are sweating so much," she said. "Are you okay?"
I squeezed her hand and was more relieved that she realized I was not faking my illness than concerned with telling her I was sick again.
"I'll be okay, honey," I whispered. "I think the sweat is because my body is fighting it off."
The second we were in the terminal, I went into the bathroom. I took time to, after my more urgent need, wash my face and make myself presentable. I was very pale and remained so for the whole trip, as the wedding video shows. But when I came out, she took my hand and squeezed it, kissed me and leaned into my chest, and I knew she understood how sick I was.
We had a wonderful night despite my illness, and gambled a bit to boot. We came out $200 ahead, but I demurred on visiting the steak house we had planned to. She understood. But my illness would interfere with other activities, which her little notes remind me of. Those, I will post tomorrow.
F.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Getting Ready For the Big Sell
Last night with Marcie’s parents was easy and short. I had my visit and conspired with Barbara to get her out of the house one night for a little dinner. On to current events.
I am about to be unemployed if the budget plan does not change here at San Diego Unified. I have options, and I have ideas. That’s all I really need for the moment, and I can always go back to writing the news and blogging more formally. No problemo.
But I need to start cleaning my house out. Everything must go. I will sell the best stuff online, other stuff through Craigslist and a big whopping load through a walk-in-and-make-an-offer sale. Every single penny, will be going into the mega-memorial mission and to (if any cash is left over) subsidize the writing of her book.
I have been putting this off for quite a while. Now it’s time to get it going. I hope that, in two months, I will have cleared the decks of most of our stuff, furnishings and all. Some things will be saved, of course, but most must go. I will begin with the videos, both tape and DVD, and the newer books.
Once I have cleaned out most of that, it will be all about the yard-garage-estate sales. I plan to keep enough cookware, etcetera to take care of myself (saving only the best gear), but to get rid of the extras. When I say everything must go, I mean it. Only the sacred will remain.
I am posting this so that, if her friends see this, or her family, they can tell me what they might be interested in having first. Think about it and let me know if there is something special, folks. Okay, wish me luck and send fundraising ideas.
Much Love,
F.
We return to Marcie and my wedding when my scanner works again. Damn thing is on the fritz… I want to share what she saved and wrote of our trip. After that, we’re back to Seamus and Marcie and I.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Apologies...
I am taking a brief break, perhaps. I don't want to blog myself into a heart attack, after all. Actually, tonight I will have dinner with Marcie's parents. I will continue with the story of our little wedding and such afterward.
I plan to share the video with them, so that will be tough. I may bring a few videos, actaully. Ditto for pictures... Rough night ahead.
I plan to share the video with them, so that will be tough. I may bring a few videos, actaully. Ditto for pictures... Rough night ahead.
Monday, April 7, 2008
A tough time to wed (Pt. 5)
After our long drive in Marcie's little Tercel, I decided to make every effort I could to show my interest in our wedding. Marcie was, happily, amenable.However, I was till busy and a zombie from my workload.
I wanted a spa or jacuzzi tub, I jotted to her in a note to her about the wedding. "More to slide around in with you than anything because I don't much like to take baths," I wrote.
Done. The Monte Carlo suite, which we previewed online, had a tub for two... couples. It was damned swimming pool.
"Room service at least once," I asked. Agreed, as it meant more time in the sack for us.
Things finally had hit a nice pace of accommodation and the occasional rough spot was soon smoothed over with negotiation and excited planning.
However, I was till busy and a zombie from my workload. When I got home at 10:30 one night and Marcie wanted to talk wedding rings, I snapped. It was not a shining moment, I admit.
"Honey, why the fuck are we even talking about this?" I said, 30 minutes later as the late news came on. "Can't it wait? I don't want a diamond ring, I just want a simple band to show people I am taken."
She nodded and listened, and I stupidly took that to be license to continue.
"What? Do you want us to be paying off rings for the next 10 years?" I asked. I instantly regretted it.
Her face melted into grief and she covered it, wailing through them "I knew you didn't want to get married, Frank. I am such a fool. You just go along with me because you don't want to argue."
She left the catalogs on the kitchen table and ran into the room, closing the door and locking it behind her. I slept on the couch after a half hour of fruitless apologies and admonitions from her to leave her alone.
When we did get the rings, after a tearful reconciliation the next morning, she refused to buy anything but a simple band for herself (of gold) and a silver one for me (as I have always disliked gold).
I have worn my father's gold ring, which she loved when he gave it to me and which includes three small diamond settings. But my simple band, which I still wear, is as beautiful a reminder to me of our love as I need or ever needed.
I would say that Marcie forgave me, but I am not sure that is completely true. She saved the receipt, which I still have, but unlike every other memory from our trip, which have notes for her memoir, it is unadorned by her writing.
In a way, I suppose I did not deserve to be forgiven for that outburst. She, on the other hand, deserved a ring that would take a lifetime to pay off, if that is what she wanted. I wish I had given it to her.
But her pride, nobility, and resolve to never show weakness would have won out over any grand gesture. She would rather carry the wound without comment.
There were other little sins that, in her passing, she noted. These, I know, were long ago resolved and forgiven, or understood to not be sins at all.
But my illness before and during our wedding, because of her fears of my commitment to the event, abounds in her notes, which tear at my heart still when I read them.
I wanted a spa or jacuzzi tub, I jotted to her in a note to her about the wedding. "More to slide around in with you than anything because I don't much like to take baths," I wrote.
Done. The Monte Carlo suite, which we previewed online, had a tub for two... couples. It was damned swimming pool.
"Room service at least once," I asked. Agreed, as it meant more time in the sack for us.
Things finally had hit a nice pace of accommodation and the occasional rough spot was soon smoothed over with negotiation and excited planning.
However, I was till busy and a zombie from my workload. When I got home at 10:30 one night and Marcie wanted to talk wedding rings, I snapped. It was not a shining moment, I admit.
"Honey, why the fuck are we even talking about this?" I said, 30 minutes later as the late news came on. "Can't it wait? I don't want a diamond ring, I just want a simple band to show people I am taken."
She nodded and listened, and I stupidly took that to be license to continue.
"What? Do you want us to be paying off rings for the next 10 years?" I asked. I instantly regretted it.
Her face melted into grief and she covered it, wailing through them "I knew you didn't want to get married, Frank. I am such a fool. You just go along with me because you don't want to argue."
She left the catalogs on the kitchen table and ran into the room, closing the door and locking it behind her. I slept on the couch after a half hour of fruitless apologies and admonitions from her to leave her alone.
When we did get the rings, after a tearful reconciliation the next morning, she refused to buy anything but a simple band for herself (of gold) and a silver one for me (as I have always disliked gold).
I have worn my father's gold ring, which she loved when he gave it to me and which includes three small diamond settings. But my simple band, which I still wear, is as beautiful a reminder to me of our love as I need or ever needed.
I would say that Marcie forgave me, but I am not sure that is completely true. She saved the receipt, which I still have, but unlike every other memory from our trip, which have notes for her memoir, it is unadorned by her writing.
In a way, I suppose I did not deserve to be forgiven for that outburst. She, on the other hand, deserved a ring that would take a lifetime to pay off, if that is what she wanted. I wish I had given it to her.
But her pride, nobility, and resolve to never show weakness would have won out over any grand gesture. She would rather carry the wound without comment.
There were other little sins that, in her passing, she noted. These, I know, were long ago resolved and forgiven, or understood to not be sins at all.
But my illness before and during our wedding, because of her fears of my commitment to the event, abounds in her notes, which tear at my heart still when I read them.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
A tough time to wed (Pt. 4)
So, having relinquished my say in the venue, it soon became apparent that Marcie was not sure when and where she wanted to marry. She vacillated between Vegas and the chapel in Hillcrest until the last few days.
"Silver Bells," she said one Sunday morning as we enjoyed roasted potatoes and eggs. "Silver Bells wedding chapel is where we will get married."
I nodded and smiled, continuing my morning repast. "So that's up in Hillcrest?" I asked, casually prodding her to let out some of her excitement.
I looked up when the fork clattered on her plate. She folded her arms across her breasts and bit her lower lip, leaning down onto the table.
"No, Frank," she said, shaking her head. "No, this is the chapel in Las Vegas i was telling you about for the last two weeks."
However, for that last two weeks I had been working at a feverish pace, desperately trying to save some money for some gifts, to gamble with, anything. I was essentially a zombie.
"I'm sorry, honey, I'm just really tired," I offered.
She was very sad and upset looking, and she reached across the table and took my hand. "Do you wanty me to cancel everything, honey?" she asked, biting her lip again, shaking her head.
"I don't want to force you, because you'll just end up hating me," she said. "So, if you're not sure about this, or you're not ready, we can wait."
I pulled my hand away and wiped my mouth, then stood up, bewildered. I had no idea where this could go and did not want to know.
"Honey, that is the second time you offered to call it off," I said. What are you trying to tell me? Are YOU having second thoughts?"
She glared.
"I want to marry you, but I cannot keep up with your changing ideas and you don't tell me anything, or you tell me than I say something you don't like."
"You could show some interest, you know," she said. "God, it's like I am dragging you to the altar, Frank. It's totally humiliating."
I did not hug her this time, but took my plate, dumped it in the trash and left the apartment. As I began walking, she drove up and pulled over in front of me.
"Frank, god damn it, get in the car," she said.
I sighed and hopped in, and that was likely the worst mistake to date. She drove us around the neighborhood as she laid into me for every little thing she thought I was doing wrong by not doing them.
I had no doubt I wanted to marry her, but was beginning to dread what married life might end up like for me.
"Silver Bells," she said one Sunday morning as we enjoyed roasted potatoes and eggs. "Silver Bells wedding chapel is where we will get married."
I nodded and smiled, continuing my morning repast. "So that's up in Hillcrest?" I asked, casually prodding her to let out some of her excitement.
I looked up when the fork clattered on her plate. She folded her arms across her breasts and bit her lower lip, leaning down onto the table.
"No, Frank," she said, shaking her head. "No, this is the chapel in Las Vegas i was telling you about for the last two weeks."
However, for that last two weeks I had been working at a feverish pace, desperately trying to save some money for some gifts, to gamble with, anything. I was essentially a zombie.
"I'm sorry, honey, I'm just really tired," I offered.
She was very sad and upset looking, and she reached across the table and took my hand. "Do you wanty me to cancel everything, honey?" she asked, biting her lip again, shaking her head.
"I don't want to force you, because you'll just end up hating me," she said. "So, if you're not sure about this, or you're not ready, we can wait."
I pulled my hand away and wiped my mouth, then stood up, bewildered. I had no idea where this could go and did not want to know.
"Honey, that is the second time you offered to call it off," I said. What are you trying to tell me? Are YOU having second thoughts?"
She glared.
"I want to marry you, but I cannot keep up with your changing ideas and you don't tell me anything, or you tell me than I say something you don't like."
"You could show some interest, you know," she said. "God, it's like I am dragging you to the altar, Frank. It's totally humiliating."
I did not hug her this time, but took my plate, dumped it in the trash and left the apartment. As I began walking, she drove up and pulled over in front of me.
"Frank, god damn it, get in the car," she said.
I sighed and hopped in, and that was likely the worst mistake to date. She drove us around the neighborhood as she laid into me for every little thing she thought I was doing wrong by not doing them.
I had no doubt I wanted to marry her, but was beginning to dread what married life might end up like for me.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
A tough time to wed (Pt. 3)
An hour or so after we had our argument, Marcie returned and put her foot down on where we would marry and how.
"We are not having anyone at our wedding," she said. "No friends, no family, no reception, no priests and no wedding poo for me to have to do."
I just nodded and listened. She was still pretty fired up.
"We will get our license here and we will get married at a chapel, or we'll get a license in Las Vegas and do it there, whatever works," she said. "Don't complicate it, don't add things to it and don't mess with me, Frank."
"Mess with you?" I asked.
She looked at me as if she knew I was aware of what she meant and glared. "Just don't stress me out! You always have all this... this shit to say about everything! Lay off me and don't pick fights with me."
I just nodded and pulled her into a hug. She thumped me on the chest lightly in the hug and I could hear her voice shake as she added, "If you don't want to get married, just say so, because I don't want you to sabotage everything. Just be honest with me."
I was very hurt, but I wanted to get her back to normal. Still, I had to think clearly about how to make her understand her fear of me not being on board was unfounded. I sighed.
I gently leaned back and looked her in the eye. There were tears, and her chin was wrinkled as she looked down and away. I lifted it a little and kissed her gently as she started to sob.
"Honey, I asked you first, remember?" I said. "Many years ago? You said no, never. It was very hard for me to deal with that. But I always wanted to get married, so you just need to not freak out on me so much and we'll get there."
I held her close again and she moaned her apology into my chest.
"Okay, honey, I love you," she said, her breath hitching. "I am sorry I am such a big mess, and I know I am being difficult. I'll try to calm down."
I chuckled and stroked her back, but she leaned back and looked at me very intensely.
"What's so funny? I'm upset, honey, why would you laugh at me?" she asked, her pout on full display.
Primarily, I had chuckled at the irony of my future wife, who kvetched endlessly over 'Bridezillas,' being so hard to deal with near her own very basic, stripped-down nuptials. But, of course, I was not foolish enough to open that can of worms.
"Oh, honey I am just glad you're home and we're standing here holding each other, and I am relieved it was all a big misunderstanding and not some burning issue to deal with, okay?" I offered.
She nodded and squinted, and whispered, hoarsely, "Okay, honey, thank you."
It was true, I was relieved. It may seem deceitful to have not shared both thoughts, but I rarely have less than three in mind at any given time, so I just chose to share the one most germane to her needs
Not that she believed me completely. She just accepted the premise and moved on... to our next little hitch before the hitching, as it would turn out.
"We are not having anyone at our wedding," she said. "No friends, no family, no reception, no priests and no wedding poo for me to have to do."
I just nodded and listened. She was still pretty fired up.
"We will get our license here and we will get married at a chapel, or we'll get a license in Las Vegas and do it there, whatever works," she said. "Don't complicate it, don't add things to it and don't mess with me, Frank."
"Mess with you?" I asked.
She looked at me as if she knew I was aware of what she meant and glared. "Just don't stress me out! You always have all this... this shit to say about everything! Lay off me and don't pick fights with me."
I just nodded and pulled her into a hug. She thumped me on the chest lightly in the hug and I could hear her voice shake as she added, "If you don't want to get married, just say so, because I don't want you to sabotage everything. Just be honest with me."
I was very hurt, but I wanted to get her back to normal. Still, I had to think clearly about how to make her understand her fear of me not being on board was unfounded. I sighed.
I gently leaned back and looked her in the eye. There were tears, and her chin was wrinkled as she looked down and away. I lifted it a little and kissed her gently as she started to sob.
"Honey, I asked you first, remember?" I said. "Many years ago? You said no, never. It was very hard for me to deal with that. But I always wanted to get married, so you just need to not freak out on me so much and we'll get there."
I held her close again and she moaned her apology into my chest.
"Okay, honey, I love you," she said, her breath hitching. "I am sorry I am such a big mess, and I know I am being difficult. I'll try to calm down."
I chuckled and stroked her back, but she leaned back and looked at me very intensely.
"What's so funny? I'm upset, honey, why would you laugh at me?" she asked, her pout on full display.
Primarily, I had chuckled at the irony of my future wife, who kvetched endlessly over 'Bridezillas,' being so hard to deal with near her own very basic, stripped-down nuptials. But, of course, I was not foolish enough to open that can of worms.
"Oh, honey I am just glad you're home and we're standing here holding each other, and I am relieved it was all a big misunderstanding and not some burning issue to deal with, okay?" I offered.
She nodded and squinted, and whispered, hoarsely, "Okay, honey, thank you."
It was true, I was relieved. It may seem deceitful to have not shared both thoughts, but I rarely have less than three in mind at any given time, so I just chose to share the one most germane to her needs
Not that she believed me completely. She just accepted the premise and moved on... to our next little hitch before the hitching, as it would turn out.
Friday, April 4, 2008
A tough time to wed (Pt. 2)
So we had finally set our plans and picked our date (or rather, Marcie had bought tickets to Vegas and I had been happily ambushed). However, as could be expected, I wanted to protest a bit, modify the plans slightly, imprint the occasion with my own touch... BAD idea. Everything I said was taken wrongly.
"Maybe we should just get married here and then fly off to Vegas," I mused as we talked about the hotel to stay in and the attractions to sample.
"Well, where do you want to get married?" she said, her slightly higher voice sounding more like exasperation with room for compromise than frustration and anxiety.
"I don't know, just someplace local, I guess," I said.
She nodded and typed loudly on the keyboard, slapping it as she huffed. "How about Wedding Bell Chapel, the one my parents were married at?" she asked. "They just need us to have our marriage license and set an appointment. We can be married in San Diego and gone an hour later."
I thought about it and figured she was trying to be low-cost or modest. I wanted her to have a nice wedding, which I thought all girls wanted. As it turns out, I was way off, though I did not know it when I crossed the line and suggested something she was not willing to consider ever, at all: the big church wedding.
"Well, we can probably get into one of those one-day Catholic marriage classes and get married at Sacred Heart, if you want," I offered. "Then we can have a nice wedding. We won't have to pay for much, and everyone will be pretty good to us in my family..."
She glared up with her lips drawn and pressed together, then waited for me to explain myself. I did not know what to say. "What?" I asked.
"FRANK!? Are you stupid? The last thing I want is to talk to a priest about marrying the man i have been living with for seven fucking years," she said. "I don't want a big wedding, I don't want a big reception, I don't want any of that."
"Honey, I just thought you would want this to be special, and," I said, but shut up.
"I HATE weddings! I hate weddings and I will NEVER make anyone go through all the shit I did for my girlfriends' weddings," she said. "Everyone becomes this greedy, selfish monster and just craps all over their friends until they get their stupid day of attention from everyone and collect their loot."
I began to agree with her and put my hands up to calm her down, but she slapped them away before I could hug her.
"I don't know how many times I told you what HELL it was to be everyone's maid of honor, BLAH BLAH!" she said. "Sure, you are the maid of honor, pay out the ass and then 'Whoosh!' off to the honeymoon they go, never to be heard from until they get bored with being someone's wife."
"I'm sorry, I did not think you felt that way about your own wedding, honey," I said.
"Whatever," she said. "If you are so stuck on being in a big wedding and having your herd of family members dropping off their tribute for your father's approval, then we can just not get married. How does that sound?"
She did not wait for me to reply, but stomped out of the room and grabbed her purse. She did not say where she was going, but she drove off as I asked, stamping and cussing me out under her breath.
I was bewildered. But we were just getting started.
"Maybe we should just get married here and then fly off to Vegas," I mused as we talked about the hotel to stay in and the attractions to sample.
"Well, where do you want to get married?" she said, her slightly higher voice sounding more like exasperation with room for compromise than frustration and anxiety.
"I don't know, just someplace local, I guess," I said.
She nodded and typed loudly on the keyboard, slapping it as she huffed. "How about Wedding Bell Chapel, the one my parents were married at?" she asked. "They just need us to have our marriage license and set an appointment. We can be married in San Diego and gone an hour later."
I thought about it and figured she was trying to be low-cost or modest. I wanted her to have a nice wedding, which I thought all girls wanted. As it turns out, I was way off, though I did not know it when I crossed the line and suggested something she was not willing to consider ever, at all: the big church wedding.
"Well, we can probably get into one of those one-day Catholic marriage classes and get married at Sacred Heart, if you want," I offered. "Then we can have a nice wedding. We won't have to pay for much, and everyone will be pretty good to us in my family..."
She glared up with her lips drawn and pressed together, then waited for me to explain myself. I did not know what to say. "What?" I asked.
"FRANK!? Are you stupid? The last thing I want is to talk to a priest about marrying the man i have been living with for seven fucking years," she said. "I don't want a big wedding, I don't want a big reception, I don't want any of that."
"Honey, I just thought you would want this to be special, and," I said, but shut up.
"I HATE weddings! I hate weddings and I will NEVER make anyone go through all the shit I did for my girlfriends' weddings," she said. "Everyone becomes this greedy, selfish monster and just craps all over their friends until they get their stupid day of attention from everyone and collect their loot."
I began to agree with her and put my hands up to calm her down, but she slapped them away before I could hug her.
"I don't know how many times I told you what HELL it was to be everyone's maid of honor, BLAH BLAH!" she said. "Sure, you are the maid of honor, pay out the ass and then 'Whoosh!' off to the honeymoon they go, never to be heard from until they get bored with being someone's wife."
"I'm sorry, I did not think you felt that way about your own wedding, honey," I said.
"Whatever," she said. "If you are so stuck on being in a big wedding and having your herd of family members dropping off their tribute for your father's approval, then we can just not get married. How does that sound?"
She did not wait for me to reply, but stomped out of the room and grabbed her purse. She did not say where she was going, but she drove off as I asked, stamping and cussing me out under her breath.
I was bewildered. But we were just getting started.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
A tough time to wed (Pt. 1)
Everything went off as planned when Marcie and I were married. Except one little element. I was as sick as I think I could ever be. Unfortunately, the run-up to our marriage made this condition completely suspect in Marcie's eyes.
Marcie had always sustained that she would never marry me. I was first to propose, in 1996, before we went to Humboldt for my journalism degree. She immediately rejected me.
"No way, I am not marrying you," she said. "I don't even know if I am ever getting married."
I do not know if I was hurt, offended or both. Whatever the case, I shot right back at her. I cannot remember exactly accurately so far back, but I can approximate. I may have even had a little acid on my tongue, as well as egg on my face, so to speak.
"You've probably got the right idea," I said. "I don't want to be tied down, either. We're happy how we are. Besides, I promised my dad I wouldn't get married, and I planned on keeping that promise until I at least turned 30."
We did not speak for the rest of the night, and I felt distant from her until we moved into our house in Arcata. In the mean time, still smarting from my rejection, I told my father I wouldn't marry her, as much to prepare him in case I left her for a marrying girl as it was to let him know we would be living in (delicious) sin for some time to come.
Time healed that wound over. I put away the idea of marriage, which had been skeptical of despite my Catholic pedigree, and enjoyed my life with my apparently permanent wonderful live-in lover and all of her domestic talents. I thought the issue of matrimony was off the table forever.
But Marcie didn't forget my words, though we never discussed it again. She held me to them, in fact, in a way I never thought she would.
The day after her birthday in 2000, she came to me crying and sat next to me, holding my hand and looking down as she heaved and sniffled. I was completely baffled. "Honey, what's the matter?" I asked. "Is everything okay? Is your family okay?"
She shook her head "no," then "no" again, and then sniffed and wailed in her hoarse, sad, heartbreaking voice. "You're 30 now, why haven't you asked me to marry you? Don't you love me enough to try again, Frank? I think I deserve it."
"Of course you do," I said, feeling the sting of hot tears on my cheek. "Are you sure? I thought you didn't want to marry me?"
She looked up infuriated and shook her head and squinted as she spoke. "I knew you would mention that, you asshole," she spat. "If you don't want to marry me, just say so. You fucking..."
I cut her off and pulled her into a hug. "Shhh, shhh..." I said. "no, no. I love you, honey. I love you. Will you please marry me? Don't be mad."
And after smacking my back and sobbing for a few minutes, we went to bed. Some time later, as she panted in post-coital-making-up exhaustion, she gasped in my ear, "Yes."
"Huh?" I asked, half adrift already under her.
"I'll marry you, stupid," she said. "I love you, Frank. I want to get married."
""Thank you," I said. "When?"
"I got us tickets to Vegas for November," she said. "Next month."
And so that was that. I was pleased, even though I knew I had been very had in the best possible way.
F.
*I am taking a little break from the posts on Seamus to revisit the story of our wedding trip. We resume Seamus Week Sunday with... film!*
Marcie had always sustained that she would never marry me. I was first to propose, in 1996, before we went to Humboldt for my journalism degree. She immediately rejected me.
"No way, I am not marrying you," she said. "I don't even know if I am ever getting married."
I do not know if I was hurt, offended or both. Whatever the case, I shot right back at her. I cannot remember exactly accurately so far back, but I can approximate. I may have even had a little acid on my tongue, as well as egg on my face, so to speak.
"You've probably got the right idea," I said. "I don't want to be tied down, either. We're happy how we are. Besides, I promised my dad I wouldn't get married, and I planned on keeping that promise until I at least turned 30."
We did not speak for the rest of the night, and I felt distant from her until we moved into our house in Arcata. In the mean time, still smarting from my rejection, I told my father I wouldn't marry her, as much to prepare him in case I left her for a marrying girl as it was to let him know we would be living in (delicious) sin for some time to come.
Time healed that wound over. I put away the idea of marriage, which had been skeptical of despite my Catholic pedigree, and enjoyed my life with my apparently permanent wonderful live-in lover and all of her domestic talents. I thought the issue of matrimony was off the table forever.
But Marcie didn't forget my words, though we never discussed it again. She held me to them, in fact, in a way I never thought she would.
The day after her birthday in 2000, she came to me crying and sat next to me, holding my hand and looking down as she heaved and sniffled. I was completely baffled. "Honey, what's the matter?" I asked. "Is everything okay? Is your family okay?"
She shook her head "no," then "no" again, and then sniffed and wailed in her hoarse, sad, heartbreaking voice. "You're 30 now, why haven't you asked me to marry you? Don't you love me enough to try again, Frank? I think I deserve it."
"Of course you do," I said, feeling the sting of hot tears on my cheek. "Are you sure? I thought you didn't want to marry me?"
She looked up infuriated and shook her head and squinted as she spoke. "I knew you would mention that, you asshole," she spat. "If you don't want to marry me, just say so. You fucking..."
I cut her off and pulled her into a hug. "Shhh, shhh..." I said. "no, no. I love you, honey. I love you. Will you please marry me? Don't be mad."
And after smacking my back and sobbing for a few minutes, we went to bed. Some time later, as she panted in post-coital-making-up exhaustion, she gasped in my ear, "Yes."
"Huh?" I asked, half adrift already under her.
"I'll marry you, stupid," she said. "I love you, Frank. I want to get married."
""Thank you," I said. "When?"
"I got us tickets to Vegas for November," she said. "Next month."
And so that was that. I was pleased, even though I knew I had been very had in the best possible way.
F.
*I am taking a little break from the posts on Seamus to revisit the story of our wedding trip. We resume Seamus Week Sunday with... film!*
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Seamus' and Marcie's everyday homecoming ritual
Marcie and Seamus had a huge love affair, with complexities that rivaled Marcie and my own. There were spats and reconciliations, worries and insecurities, and more than a few scares to go around. There was depth there that some of the damaged and cynical might doubt or deride.
Marcie referred to Seamus, as I indicated in another post, by a variety of nicknames. "Little lover," Little Lamb," "Love Bug," "Love Bear," and even cuter names from time to time. He always learned the new monikers dutifully, then responded to them as he did "Seamus" until they passed out of vogue.
When I came home, Seamus was in either of two places. He was in Marcie's presence or locked away in the bedroom for a timeout. Yes, a timeout.
Seamus is a worrier. He watches over his house with a keen eye and expects that within it is maintained a rhythm he can rely on. Marcie provided that for him. If she was a few minutes late and I was already home, he would begin pacing the house and, later, the side yard and back enclosure, letting out low, cautious meows to draw her out, as if he were a lost kitten in the wild. It was adorable, if a bit melancholy.
But the sound of her car pulling up was all he needed to perk up and fly to the door, meows and chattering happiness overwhelming him as his whole body shook and purred. It was very precious to watch. As she would approach, he would start twirling and rubbing, his head waggling to and fro to keep eye contact.
"Oh, helloooo, my little lamb," she would say, the "o" sound raised to a high falsetto.
Seamus, a very prompt-driven chatter, would immediately let out a series of half-meow-mews. Marcie usually stayed outside the screen door as if awaiting an invitation in.
"Did you miss me? Did you wait for me in the window?" she would ask, smiling and totally enjoying his little prancing, punctuated with toe-carpet tugs and the sound of his contented purr-meows, which usually started by the time the ritual questions of greeting had commenced.
"Have you been a good boy?" she would ask, biting her lip or chuckling lightly as his whole body vibrated. "Oh! You want me to come in? Well, I don't know..."
By this time, Seamus would usually have raised hi meows to a fever pitch again, drawing them out over a second or two.
Marcie would relent, opening the door and slipping in, carefully setting her bags down or handing them to me so she could squat and pet him, gingerly avoiding stepping on his toes as he tried to simultaneously rub against her and pull on the carpet.
"I know, baby," she would say. "You had such a hard day, didn't you. You just tell me all about it, that's right."
About the time I started to feel jealous, he would run off to the kitchen, leading her to the pantry, and I would get my kiss from her. I am sure that I had a ritual she assigned to me as well, but to observe the one she played out every day with Seamus was quite a privilege.
Sometimes, I don't know if he has forgotten or just has more hope than me. But he'll stalk the house and the yard, letting out his low meows and mews. He still sleeps under her shrine and sometimes stares at it from the floor. I imagine he recognizes her picture.
I try to greet him at the door like she did, because I know he loves the certainty and the security of it. He seems to enjoy that a lot, even if sometimes I choke up at the memories the act evokes.
When I see him staring at her picture from the floor, I pick him up and put him in my lap so he can purr and sleep, then I gently settle him on his pad under the shrine. Maybe he dreams of her like I do. Maybe she greets him at the doorway to dreams and they play out their little ritual.
That's something I would like to be a witness to again.
F.
Marcie referred to Seamus, as I indicated in another post, by a variety of nicknames. "Little lover," Little Lamb," "Love Bug," "Love Bear," and even cuter names from time to time. He always learned the new monikers dutifully, then responded to them as he did "Seamus" until they passed out of vogue.
When I came home, Seamus was in either of two places. He was in Marcie's presence or locked away in the bedroom for a timeout. Yes, a timeout.
Seamus is a worrier. He watches over his house with a keen eye and expects that within it is maintained a rhythm he can rely on. Marcie provided that for him. If she was a few minutes late and I was already home, he would begin pacing the house and, later, the side yard and back enclosure, letting out low, cautious meows to draw her out, as if he were a lost kitten in the wild. It was adorable, if a bit melancholy.
But the sound of her car pulling up was all he needed to perk up and fly to the door, meows and chattering happiness overwhelming him as his whole body shook and purred. It was very precious to watch. As she would approach, he would start twirling and rubbing, his head waggling to and fro to keep eye contact.
"Oh, helloooo, my little lamb," she would say, the "o" sound raised to a high falsetto.
Seamus, a very prompt-driven chatter, would immediately let out a series of half-meow-mews. Marcie usually stayed outside the screen door as if awaiting an invitation in.
"Did you miss me? Did you wait for me in the window?" she would ask, smiling and totally enjoying his little prancing, punctuated with toe-carpet tugs and the sound of his contented purr-meows, which usually started by the time the ritual questions of greeting had commenced.
"Have you been a good boy?" she would ask, biting her lip or chuckling lightly as his whole body vibrated. "Oh! You want me to come in? Well, I don't know..."
By this time, Seamus would usually have raised hi meows to a fever pitch again, drawing them out over a second or two.
Marcie would relent, opening the door and slipping in, carefully setting her bags down or handing them to me so she could squat and pet him, gingerly avoiding stepping on his toes as he tried to simultaneously rub against her and pull on the carpet.
"I know, baby," she would say. "You had such a hard day, didn't you. You just tell me all about it, that's right."
About the time I started to feel jealous, he would run off to the kitchen, leading her to the pantry, and I would get my kiss from her. I am sure that I had a ritual she assigned to me as well, but to observe the one she played out every day with Seamus was quite a privilege.
Sometimes, I don't know if he has forgotten or just has more hope than me. But he'll stalk the house and the yard, letting out his low meows and mews. He still sleeps under her shrine and sometimes stares at it from the floor. I imagine he recognizes her picture.
I try to greet him at the door like she did, because I know he loves the certainty and the security of it. He seems to enjoy that a lot, even if sometimes I choke up at the memories the act evokes.
When I see him staring at her picture from the floor, I pick him up and put him in my lap so he can purr and sleep, then I gently settle him on his pad under the shrine. Maybe he dreams of her like I do. Maybe she greets him at the doorway to dreams and they play out their little ritual.
That's something I would like to be a witness to again.
F.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Meeting Seamus
Marcie was keen to pay attention to my memories and try to heal me where she could, as I mentioned in previous posts. Seamus is a living example of this trait of hers. When we first moved in together in early 1994, I commented that I missed having a cat.
I had had only one cat of my own. Garfield, named so by my little sister Virginia, was a beautiful part-Siamese, part Burmese with grey-striped points. He was tall and strong, and I got him from a newspaper delivery customer when I was 13. He was like a dog in a lot of ways.
Garfield came to his name being called, and usually with a loud, very Siamese "Miaaaaaaooooowwwww" as he walked, letting me know he was on his way. He would leap onto me when he got into range, into my arms, and either curl onto his back or hang his paws over my shoulder. He simply trusted and loved me absolutely, and I loved him too.
He was amazing.
His life was not ideal. I was not allowed to let him inside. Nonetheless, I sometimes snuck him in through my window when it was frosty or dangerous outside, often getting caught and punished for the effort. His beautiful long fur was always needing brushing and flea control. I tended to it with joy.
When I entered foster care, at 15, I had to leave him behind. I do not know what happened to him. I have been told he ran away by some. By others, I was told that, in a spiteful fit, an uncle drove him onto the freeway and dumped him there. Still another claimed he was sent to my grandfather's ranch but died there. I do not know which is truth, but they have all hurt very badly over the years to contemplate.
Marcie knew how much this wound still sat with me some eight years later. She noted and enjoyed how much I bonded with little Samantha, her family's cat. So, on my first birthday with her (actually a bit before), she decided to conspire with her mother for a very special gift.
When we took Seamus in, he could sit in my palm and clean himself, which he did. He also like to perch on my head, then sleep at Marcie's, his paws and belly straddling her, a furry little insulator.
He was also a little fervid ball of furious fur. He was bright and loved to play fetch, and battled endlessly with his ultimate enemy, a vase full of peacock feathers. Marcie fought with him for her right to decorate, and he advocated heartily for her continued replacement of the savaged plumes. His other apparent enemy was the foe of all kittens: the villainous moving feet of humans under bedclothes. He dispatched them with aplomb regularly for almost a year.
In his kittenhood, Seamus also had a fixation. Socks were collected and secreted into unknown places, never to be seen again.. No sock was safe from his collecting habit. Many a time I wondered where my socks had gone just moments after removing them. For months, the mystery continued.
One night, I removed my socks and left them on my shoes. As I began to tune into the X-files, I saw a little paw snake out from under the coffee table and snag on, dragging it away. Seamus trotted rapidly by with the purloined hosiery in his teeth. With a rustle behind the television styand, he was gone. I peered behind the stand, and no sign of him was visible.
Then, a little pink-brown nose peeked out from the small circular hole in the back of the stand cut for cords by the manufacturer. I wondered how he fit through, then suddenly he burst out from the back of the stand, pushing the flimsy panel open and racing off to some priority destination in another part of the apartment.
I opened the rarely seen interior of the stand and gazed upon a fetid lair lined in socks and a variety of catnip mice (referred to as 'catnip mousies' in Seamish). Here, then, was the mystery unraveled. I removed the most needed socks, my own stock of them being somewhat low, and left the rest, sharing my discovery with Marcie.
Seamus looked on nervously as we sifted through them, and yowled agitatedly as we collected a few for more appropriate use. As soon as we moved on, he crammed himself noisily into the back of the stand and rustled about. We did not see him until bed time.
"You put all those in there for him, didn't you?" Marcie asked. "I mean, it looks like it was all arranged in there like a bed for him."
The socks were three inches deep when I opened the door. It looked designed, not the casual and random collection of footcoverings one might expect of a cat. I was, however, innocent and as bewildered as she was.
"No, honey," I said. "We just have to face the reality that our cat is not only a little crazy, he's also a foot fetishist."
And as it turns out, he had more strange habits and practices to share.
For the moment, we had discovered the first unique item of personality in our new family member. But more importantly, he and Marcie developed a deep and special bond of their own over time that mirrored our own relationship closely, a subject for another post.
F.
I had had only one cat of my own. Garfield, named so by my little sister Virginia, was a beautiful part-Siamese, part Burmese with grey-striped points. He was tall and strong, and I got him from a newspaper delivery customer when I was 13. He was like a dog in a lot of ways.
Garfield came to his name being called, and usually with a loud, very Siamese "Miaaaaaaooooowwwww" as he walked, letting me know he was on his way. He would leap onto me when he got into range, into my arms, and either curl onto his back or hang his paws over my shoulder. He simply trusted and loved me absolutely, and I loved him too.
He was amazing.
His life was not ideal. I was not allowed to let him inside. Nonetheless, I sometimes snuck him in through my window when it was frosty or dangerous outside, often getting caught and punished for the effort. His beautiful long fur was always needing brushing and flea control. I tended to it with joy.
When I entered foster care, at 15, I had to leave him behind. I do not know what happened to him. I have been told he ran away by some. By others, I was told that, in a spiteful fit, an uncle drove him onto the freeway and dumped him there. Still another claimed he was sent to my grandfather's ranch but died there. I do not know which is truth, but they have all hurt very badly over the years to contemplate.
Marcie knew how much this wound still sat with me some eight years later. She noted and enjoyed how much I bonded with little Samantha, her family's cat. So, on my first birthday with her (actually a bit before), she decided to conspire with her mother for a very special gift.
When we took Seamus in, he could sit in my palm and clean himself, which he did. He also like to perch on my head, then sleep at Marcie's, his paws and belly straddling her, a furry little insulator.
He was also a little fervid ball of furious fur. He was bright and loved to play fetch, and battled endlessly with his ultimate enemy, a vase full of peacock feathers. Marcie fought with him for her right to decorate, and he advocated heartily for her continued replacement of the savaged plumes. His other apparent enemy was the foe of all kittens: the villainous moving feet of humans under bedclothes. He dispatched them with aplomb regularly for almost a year.
In his kittenhood, Seamus also had a fixation. Socks were collected and secreted into unknown places, never to be seen again.. No sock was safe from his collecting habit. Many a time I wondered where my socks had gone just moments after removing them. For months, the mystery continued.
One night, I removed my socks and left them on my shoes. As I began to tune into the X-files, I saw a little paw snake out from under the coffee table and snag on, dragging it away. Seamus trotted rapidly by with the purloined hosiery in his teeth. With a rustle behind the television styand, he was gone. I peered behind the stand, and no sign of him was visible.
Then, a little pink-brown nose peeked out from the small circular hole in the back of the stand cut for cords by the manufacturer. I wondered how he fit through, then suddenly he burst out from the back of the stand, pushing the flimsy panel open and racing off to some priority destination in another part of the apartment.
I opened the rarely seen interior of the stand and gazed upon a fetid lair lined in socks and a variety of catnip mice (referred to as 'catnip mousies' in Seamish). Here, then, was the mystery unraveled. I removed the most needed socks, my own stock of them being somewhat low, and left the rest, sharing my discovery with Marcie.
Seamus looked on nervously as we sifted through them, and yowled agitatedly as we collected a few for more appropriate use. As soon as we moved on, he crammed himself noisily into the back of the stand and rustled about. We did not see him until bed time.
"You put all those in there for him, didn't you?" Marcie asked. "I mean, it looks like it was all arranged in there like a bed for him."
The socks were three inches deep when I opened the door. It looked designed, not the casual and random collection of footcoverings one might expect of a cat. I was, however, innocent and as bewildered as she was.
"No, honey," I said. "We just have to face the reality that our cat is not only a little crazy, he's also a foot fetishist."
And as it turns out, he had more strange habits and practices to share.
For the moment, we had discovered the first unique item of personality in our new family member. But more importantly, he and Marcie developed a deep and special bond of their own over time that mirrored our own relationship closely, a subject for another post.
F.
Monday, March 31, 2008
On Our Seamus
He deserves his own post. He deserves a book, in fact (at least a well-illustrated children’s book). He is Seamus, the mix of child and working cat and best friend to me, confidant, sleep-inducing, comforting, living blanket and all-around joy.
There are a number of stories that Seamus touches on, but some of my happiest moments were in being with Marcie and him in various adventures, misadventures and cuddly piles of domesticity. He is getting on in years and turned 14 today, but he is just as spry and game to play as he ever was. This week, read and learn about the little witness to our love that Seamus, a quite atypical kitty, was and is.
Of course, really cute pictures and a film or two may be in the offing as well. I’ll try to restrain myself, though.
F.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Five months today - A letter to Marcie
So, today marks five black months since I lost the one person in my life whose true-heartedness, beauty, intelligence, independence, sweetness and depth could completely enthrall me, and did.
To my beloved wife,
I have been trying to open my eyes and wake from this nightmare, now in its sixth month. Perhaps that word seems strong, but after 14 years of you, such a sweet, long dream, the profound absence of you is so very stark.
I hope to share, again, what you gave me. I do not know if you got all of this before you passed, and I now am so grief-wracked that I cannot remember clearly what I shared. All the more reason to do so again, freshly, I guess.
You defined so much about me. You encouraged me to continue in what I did that you loved, and you brought me around on anything you didn't. I could not refuse you, though it was never easy to lead me to change, I know.
Your gentle admonitions, calling me to reflect on my gentler ways, softened and warmed my warrior heart. Your drive to seek goodness before riches, and to appreciate what is free (and to free oneself), directed my work to higher purposes. You inspire me to be a force for good.
Your loving and attentive touch healed so many wounds in me that I cannot begin to list them. You taught me that some of those wounds, once closed, should never be reopened. I will try to uphold that outlook without your constant and sweet reminders. You teach me to forgive, a lesson I will try to not forget.
"Honey, don't cast pearls before swine," you said.
I don't know how many times and in how many situations you used that line to remind me that I should not pour myself into fruitless or unappreciated efforts. I still struggle with that. But even when I do toss them, your voice echoes the maxim.
You used to draw my attention to the simple beauties around me, the leisure and the ease of our life together, no matter how I wanted to build it up more. You teach me that simple pleasures are more lasting and dear in their absence than wealthy indulgences.
Your life affirmed to me how family, though precious, is almost always the source of the worst pain we can experience. The things you put up, and the dignity you showed while doing so, amazed me. You were a noble and strong example I will try to emulate.
I know you said you want me to get out and find my way in a world without you. I don't know if I can.
I do promise to draw on all the strength you have given me, all the lessons we learned together, and all the memories I cherish of you to get through just one more day, or hour, or minute, or second. Maybe something will turn, maybe it will not.
Either way, whether for a happier tomorrow or the last of them, I carry on, still thoroughly in love and absolutely crushed.
Right now? Marcie, I wish I could touch something more of you than a box of your ashes and a picture, because what I need now most is your soothing caress.
Your Husband
To my beloved wife,
I have been trying to open my eyes and wake from this nightmare, now in its sixth month. Perhaps that word seems strong, but after 14 years of you, such a sweet, long dream, the profound absence of you is so very stark.
I hope to share, again, what you gave me. I do not know if you got all of this before you passed, and I now am so grief-wracked that I cannot remember clearly what I shared. All the more reason to do so again, freshly, I guess.
You defined so much about me. You encouraged me to continue in what I did that you loved, and you brought me around on anything you didn't. I could not refuse you, though it was never easy to lead me to change, I know.
Your gentle admonitions, calling me to reflect on my gentler ways, softened and warmed my warrior heart. Your drive to seek goodness before riches, and to appreciate what is free (and to free oneself), directed my work to higher purposes. You inspire me to be a force for good.
Your loving and attentive touch healed so many wounds in me that I cannot begin to list them. You taught me that some of those wounds, once closed, should never be reopened. I will try to uphold that outlook without your constant and sweet reminders. You teach me to forgive, a lesson I will try to not forget.
"Honey, don't cast pearls before swine," you said.
I don't know how many times and in how many situations you used that line to remind me that I should not pour myself into fruitless or unappreciated efforts. I still struggle with that. But even when I do toss them, your voice echoes the maxim.
You used to draw my attention to the simple beauties around me, the leisure and the ease of our life together, no matter how I wanted to build it up more. You teach me that simple pleasures are more lasting and dear in their absence than wealthy indulgences.
Your life affirmed to me how family, though precious, is almost always the source of the worst pain we can experience. The things you put up, and the dignity you showed while doing so, amazed me. You were a noble and strong example I will try to emulate.
I know you said you want me to get out and find my way in a world without you. I don't know if I can.
I do promise to draw on all the strength you have given me, all the lessons we learned together, and all the memories I cherish of you to get through just one more day, or hour, or minute, or second. Maybe something will turn, maybe it will not.
Either way, whether for a happier tomorrow or the last of them, I carry on, still thoroughly in love and absolutely crushed.
Right now? Marcie, I wish I could touch something more of you than a box of your ashes and a picture, because what I need now most is your soothing caress.
Your Husband
Friday, March 28, 2008
Soothing the beast
It has become more and more obvious since Marcie's passing that she served as a check on my wild side. It was most welcome as I am, at times, far too fierce.
When I cam home upset by work, or the world in general, and wanting to go out and take on the whole damn mess, she could almost effortlessly calm me down, soothe me and put my mind on other things. She knew I needed it.
Her calmative effect on me is sorely missed.
I find myself holding my ground and digging in where I may have let things slide. I am also running a bit wild and telling people what's on my mind, regardless how appropriate or not.
It's all "Damn the torpedos!" all the time.
She calmed me with her love, with her simple caring for me and her gentle demeanor overall. I try to reflect on what she would do or how she would react to how I want to deal with situations.
I guess she's still helping, but I feel that hard edge on me sometimes, and I wonder if I am simply supposed to be that way. I hope not.
When I cam home upset by work, or the world in general, and wanting to go out and take on the whole damn mess, she could almost effortlessly calm me down, soothe me and put my mind on other things. She knew I needed it.
Her calmative effect on me is sorely missed.
I find myself holding my ground and digging in where I may have let things slide. I am also running a bit wild and telling people what's on my mind, regardless how appropriate or not.
It's all "Damn the torpedos!" all the time.
She calmed me with her love, with her simple caring for me and her gentle demeanor overall. I try to reflect on what she would do or how she would react to how I want to deal with situations.
I guess she's still helping, but I feel that hard edge on me sometimes, and I wonder if I am simply supposed to be that way. I hope not.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
The doves
Marcie and I always had a large assortment of birds that came to expect seeds or nuts or other favors from us. We gladly obliged. The birds not only enthralled Seamus, but also brought us no end of joy.
Our favorites were the mourning doves. Gentle and sweet, their calls haunt the dawn and dusk at times in San Diego. You can hear it here. They whistle when they fly off very prettily.
I had no idea before I posted this that the males were the ones who deliver the sad signature song. I believe they truly do mourn.
Our favorites were the mourning doves. Gentle and sweet, their calls haunt the dawn and dusk at times in San Diego. You can hear it here. They whistle when they fly off very prettily.
I had no idea before I posted this that the males were the ones who deliver the sad signature song. I believe they truly do mourn.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
"Hard Sun" Video Tribute to Marcie
Here it is, Marcie and I getting married, this time with a song that reminds me of the guiding and stabilizing force Marcie was for me. Truly, she was and remains my muse, my lover, my soul mate, my guiding light and, to a degree, my source of hope.
I will try to cut through the pain and write more about this on a deeper level this weekend... I have another video tomorrow to share that tells more of her.
By the way, Eddie Vedder was Marcie's rock crush. She loved the guy. I think he has the best voice of all the grunge rockers and certainly has the most staying power. Anyways, that's the artist singing here.
I will try to cut through the pain and write more about this on a deeper level this weekend... I have another video tomorrow to share that tells more of her.
By the way, Eddie Vedder was Marcie's rock crush. She loved the guy. I think he has the best voice of all the grunge rockers and certainly has the most staying power. Anyways, that's the artist singing here.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Toughest Post Ever
I finally finished a passable digitization of our wedding tape. It has been nothing but tears working on it. I hope you enjoy it, tears or not.
I'll try to post something substantial on our wedding trip some other time. For now, just know Marcie, who wanted nothing to do with a big wedding, got her wish. No "bridezilla" moments and no outrageous spending or gift collecting. All she wanted were love, privacy, and two in defiant testimony of sentiments they held for each other.
I was sick the whole time with flu, my voice cracked at the ceremony, and I was so very deeply in love I thought I would drown. I had no idea that i would be one of the lucky few who never quite surface. I do now, and I am forlorn even more for it.
I will post another version to the tune of "Hard Sun" sometime after I buy a copy of the soundtrack to "Into the Wild." It's the perfect length to match the video.
I'll try to post something substantial on our wedding trip some other time. For now, just know Marcie, who wanted nothing to do with a big wedding, got her wish. No "bridezilla" moments and no outrageous spending or gift collecting. All she wanted were love, privacy, and two in defiant testimony of sentiments they held for each other.
I was sick the whole time with flu, my voice cracked at the ceremony, and I was so very deeply in love I thought I would drown. I had no idea that i would be one of the lucky few who never quite surface. I do now, and I am forlorn even more for it.
I will post another version to the tune of "Hard Sun" sometime after I buy a copy of the soundtrack to "Into the Wild." It's the perfect length to match the video.
Sometimes I don't think I can keep on going. It will be six months on Saturday. I feel as if it was just yesterday that I held her in my arms, or even last night.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Easter without
Marcie and I had our own reasons for celebrating holidays, and our own rituals. There were presents at Christmas, candy for the neighborhood kids at Halloween, and all of the standard fare of American holidays. But we also had special traditions.
Easter had the advantage of always falling on Sunday. This meant that we had the morning together usually, then the evening was spent with relatives, hers or mine, depending on the year. But the mornings...
Easter morning usually meant a delicious breakfast and some languor. That time of ease always made the holiday tolerable, no matter the evening destination.
We always brought each other cards and candy,usually See's. We would exchange those gifts and others, and generally reflect, sometimes over mimosas or screwdrivers. Oh, yes... drinking a bit sometimes was in the plan, usually well before noon.
Without fail, we spent the balance of the morning of the first holiday of spring in bed every year.
Last year was a little different. We spent the time in bed simply napping. I remember she wanted peeps, the marshmallow candies. I bought her some. She may have just wanted to taste them one more time, but she did not say as much.
I held her, hoping for a better Easter this year, when our languor would be of a more lively sort.
Needless to say, it did not feel like Easter today. I was not good company for my father, who met me for breakfast, though I tried.
I was just caught up in her, dazed all day. No matter the distraction, a pounding workout with probably way too much weight, a vegetarian chili that took hours to prepare and cook, numerous little tasks, they all failed.
All I could think about was kissing her lips from around a chocolate creme egg from See's, something we made into a tradition after she kept half of one on her lips one morning at our little loveshack downtown on Ninth.
We kissed and it went everywhere from there, and Marcie said "Okay, so next year, that will be my signal that I am ready," she said in the afterglow.
Some years in lingerie, some in her skirt or still in pajamas, she would wiggle a piece of her chocolate egg from her lips when she caught my eye. I looked forward to that signal all Easter morning for thirteen years.
Now, it's just another something we won't get to do together again.
Easter had the advantage of always falling on Sunday. This meant that we had the morning together usually, then the evening was spent with relatives, hers or mine, depending on the year. But the mornings...
Easter morning usually meant a delicious breakfast and some languor. That time of ease always made the holiday tolerable, no matter the evening destination.
We always brought each other cards and candy,usually See's. We would exchange those gifts and others, and generally reflect, sometimes over mimosas or screwdrivers. Oh, yes... drinking a bit sometimes was in the plan, usually well before noon.
Without fail, we spent the balance of the morning of the first holiday of spring in bed every year.
Last year was a little different. We spent the time in bed simply napping. I remember she wanted peeps, the marshmallow candies. I bought her some. She may have just wanted to taste them one more time, but she did not say as much.
I held her, hoping for a better Easter this year, when our languor would be of a more lively sort.
Needless to say, it did not feel like Easter today. I was not good company for my father, who met me for breakfast, though I tried.
I was just caught up in her, dazed all day. No matter the distraction, a pounding workout with probably way too much weight, a vegetarian chili that took hours to prepare and cook, numerous little tasks, they all failed.
All I could think about was kissing her lips from around a chocolate creme egg from See's, something we made into a tradition after she kept half of one on her lips one morning at our little loveshack downtown on Ninth.
We kissed and it went everywhere from there, and Marcie said "Okay, so next year, that will be my signal that I am ready," she said in the afterglow.
Some years in lingerie, some in her skirt or still in pajamas, she would wiggle a piece of her chocolate egg from her lips when she caught my eye. I looked forward to that signal all Easter morning for thirteen years.
Now, it's just another something we won't get to do together again.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Getting closer...
So, I have been trying different settings to transfer a special video off of VHS. My latest tries have me getting pretty close to postworthy quality. I'll let you all know when I get it, and you can see it here. It may be a day or two more...
Friday, March 21, 2008
Moments I miss more and more
I was standing in line at Lalo’s Tacos this afternoon when I was hit by a flood of memories regarding lunch and my Marcie. I have detailed how very in love we remained throughout our relationship and our marriage, and lunch was one of the things we tried to do together from time to time, usually treating them as “minidates.”
This habit, of course, was more often indulged after I developed a liking for seeing Marcie in her work clothes. But it had always been a feature of our life together. I remember days at Anthony’s on the bay, looking into her blue eyes and holding her hand on or under the table as we ate.
She sometimes complained that I was not talking much. I would sometimes just start complimenting her, which pleased her greatly, or playing “footsie” on her silky legs, which tickled. But I usually just told her what was in my heart.
“We don’t need to talk,” I would say. “I’m just happy to get to see you.”
One discussion of this kind that we had, at Lalo’s in particular, came to mind today. I had called her to meet me as I tended to their ad in San Diego CityBeat. I did not like my job, as much as I loved CityBeat, and was pining for a return to the writing career I’d had to abort for practical reasons.
“Honey, why are you being so quiet?” she asked, practically throwing her taco onto her plate. “I gave up lunch with a friend that I had planned for weeks to come be with you.”
She was not interested in my stock distractions, my stock (if very sincere) answer, or the kiss I gave when I leaned over, to quiet her. She pushed me away, back into the seat across from her.
“No, honey,” she said. “You ask me to come to lunch with you and then you don’t talk to me, you don’t say anything, we just eat. What’s the point? It’s like we’re going through the motions when we eat together. It’s crazy.”
I looked across the table at her and thought about it. I had my reasons, but generally I thought she understood and things like this could go unsaid. In truth, I was a little hurt, and maybe it showed.
“Well,” I said. “Mostly, I call you because I want to be with you, and I need to share some time with you during the week when I work. You just make me happy and proud to have you.”
I tried to touch her hand and she pulled it away, giving me her stern and impatient glare, as if I had not told her enough. I just folded my hands together and looked down, and sighed.
“Sometimes, though, I really just need to be with you, and it doesn’t matter that we don’t talk or we eat and smile and chitchat, or maybe we have a little rest on a park bench,” I said. “I just need to see you, so I know why I put up with it all and why I do things I don’t want to. It’s because I want you in my life and happy more than I want all the other little things I think are important to me.”
I was gulping a little and I waited a few seconds to continue. She took my hand and I blinked a little as I looked up in her eyes. I composed myself as she squeezed my hand and rubbed it, nodding in her very understanding way.
“Sometimes I don’t want to keep on doing what I do, or being here in
She leaned across the table, kissed my cheek and then my lips, then slid out of the bench and walked to the restroom, purse in tow. I watched her go, and then wondered if she was going to leave with a plate of food on the table. Maybe I hadn’t said enough, or maybe I had hit the wrong nerve.
She slid into the seat next me and kissed my cheek, taking my hand in hers and squeezing it between us. “I’m sorry, honey,” she said. “I understand completely. I’m glad I came.”
She never sat across from me again, but always sat next to me after that, and we didn’t speak much more at lunch, but we smiled a lot, and we acted a bit like teenagers while we waited for our food. I always felt revived, enlivened by her.
Today, as I sat in the bench table where we had that talk, I realized that I really don’t have that same big reason to deal with it all that used to. Still, I imagined she was there having her fish tacos and chattering about her workmates, flicking her long red hair back and playing footsie.
It didn’t work. There was no loaded silence we came to enjoy together. There was no sweet Marcie voice, just the chatter of a dozen people I did not know. There was only the taste of a stripped-down grilled chicken burrito, not her lips or her neck. There was the feel of my boot scratching an itch on my shin and then my hand rubbing and soothing away the soreness of last night’s run, not her little foot sliding up my calf or our socked feet playing footsie.
And in the context of her vast absence, it all just hurt.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Submitting short bits
I will be submitting stories about Marcie and I to various outlets as I build up to the trip and my larger project. I have a few venues in mind, but if any readers have ideas on places to write to, I am more than willing to listen and follow up. Simply hit the little comment button below, then click on my email address above the comment entry part of the page that comes up.
When I am accepted for publications, I will let you all know right here. Stay tuned.
Suggestions on anything, or questions, are always welcome. Just send them via email and tell me if you want answers in email or on the blog.
F.
When I am accepted for publications, I will let you all know right here. Stay tuned.
Suggestions on anything, or questions, are always welcome. Just send them via email and tell me if you want answers in email or on the blog.
F.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
The morning
As I was listening to the radio on the way to work, a song came on which struck a chord (thought not much more after I read its lyrics). Still, it reflected on a small part of my and Marcie's love affair that occurs to me almost every day.
She used to wake me gently if she woke first. "Honey," she would say. "Sugar Bear, it's time to get up."
But I was no Sugar Bear in the morning. In fact, sometimes I would simply startle awake, no matter how gentle the waking. Worse, if she moved the bed around, I apparently cussed (which I tried not to do around my sweetie much).
Still, after a splash to my face and some time to adjust to morning, I would wander in and hug her around the waist from behind as she put on her makeup.
"Hi, baby," she would say. "Are you in a better mood now?"
Her sweet and loving voice always made me smile. So this song, aside form why its singer is separated from the unknown voice he seeks, was suitably touching to me, despite being from the Barenaked Ladies:
Sometimes I really need to hear the sound of that voice. I luckily can listen to a few recordings I kept. I also sometimes hear her voice in my mind very clearly. I wish I could hear it in my ears, even if she were cross.
F.
She used to wake me gently if she woke first. "Honey," she would say. "Sugar Bear, it's time to get up."
But I was no Sugar Bear in the morning. In fact, sometimes I would simply startle awake, no matter how gentle the waking. Worse, if she moved the bed around, I apparently cussed (which I tried not to do around my sweetie much).
Still, after a splash to my face and some time to adjust to morning, I would wander in and hug her around the waist from behind as she put on her makeup.
"Hi, baby," she would say. "Are you in a better mood now?"
Her sweet and loving voice always made me smile. So this song, aside form why its singer is separated from the unknown voice he seeks, was suitably touching to me, despite being from the Barenaked Ladies:
Sound Of Your Voice
The moon is full but there is an incompleteness
The days are beautiful but I feel a bitter sweetness
If I had a wish, or even a choice
I'd wake up to the sound of your voice
How I miss waking up to the sound of your voice
I let you down and fell right off of your good list
I hope each day you'll find peace and forgiveness
The alarm clock rings, What a lonely noise
And I long for the sound of your voice
Oh, how I miss waking up to the sound of your voice
Take it from me: there's not much to see
In this void
The saying goes there will be other dances (don't give up)
This little song is about second chances
Just say the word and I will rejoice
And wake up to the sound of your voice
Oh, how I miss waking up to the sound
To the sound (sound)
To the sound (to the sound)
To the sound
Waking up to the sound of your voice
Take it from me: there's not much to see
In this void
The moon is full but there is an incompleteness
The days are beautiful but I feel a bitter sweetness
If I had a wish, or even a choice
I'd wake up to the sound of your voice
How I miss waking up to the sound of your voice
I let you down and fell right off of your good list
I hope each day you'll find peace and forgiveness
The alarm clock rings, What a lonely noise
And I long for the sound of your voice
Oh, how I miss waking up to the sound of your voice
Take it from me: there's not much to see
In this void
The saying goes there will be other dances (don't give up)
This little song is about second chances
Just say the word and I will rejoice
And wake up to the sound of your voice
Oh, how I miss waking up to the sound
To the sound (sound)
To the sound (to the sound)
To the sound
Waking up to the sound of your voice
Take it from me: there's not much to see
In this void
Sometimes I really need to hear the sound of that voice. I luckily can listen to a few recordings I kept. I also sometimes hear her voice in my mind very clearly. I wish I could hear it in my ears, even if she were cross.
F.
Accidents happen
Yesterday I had my first road accident ever as a driver. It seems I could not have avoided it in this case, one way or the other, but I am still disappointed about the whole thing.
It felt more like an assault than an accident, likely because it started as an assault. I was heading down
However, before that annoyance could become a more serious hazard on the road, huge wall of metallic blue, (the side of a lifted truck), pulled up alongside me in the turning lane/median and started merging into my lane. I swerved as the chrome step on the passenger’s side headed for my side window.
-CRUNCH-
A man in a Honda civic had apparently come to a full and complete stop at a driveway, or (as I suspect) backed into traffic. I thought at first I must have hit him, given the circumstances. He was fine. His car was only lightly damaged, and was drivable.
But my Elantra was not happy. The fender was smashed in a little, but more importantly, the wheel had been crushed in and snapped completely free of the drive train. I have no idea how that could happen in a straight-on collision with the corner of his car, especially since the bumper was only slightly damaged, and I was heading straight in one direction.
Suffice to say I have had time to think about it.
The damage was all on the corner of his vehicle, as if it had been backed hard into something… like my poor car. It had some scraping but was mostly crumpled straight in from the corner inward. I think he hit me, and I think he was backing out hard when he did it.
Tellingly, my fender was more damaged behind the headlight cage than it was in the front, and the bumper had only a slight scrape, with the fender behind it was increasingly crushed, as if the impact was into me, not him. We’ll see how the insurance handles it all.
Fault will likely lie with me, as there is a no “faultless,” or “we get what happened there,” clauses in our crappy little state of insurance that is, “required by law for you to buy, but not required by law to reasonably accommodate reality on the road.” So, a bump in my rates is likely.
The important thing is that, by 10:30, I was at work and feeling okay (if shaken and stirred to boot). I have my rental car, my own vehicle is in the repair shop, and everything will be fine. But I did not want to have a traffic accident on my record, and now I do. Grrr…
Bah. BAHH!
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Taking the time to do it all
Well, folks, it looks like I will finally be catching up on all of my "to do" stuff this week. As of Friday, I am taking a week of leave from work. It has to be done. Some plans I have for the week include:
Wish me luck, and watch for the new store and other efforts. If everything goes well, who knows? Maybe I'll have time for a road trip. Maybe Humboldt this time...
Thanks for reading on. I know I owe all of you a wedding video, but it looks terrible and scratchy, so I am going to try to transfer it all over again this weekend. I do have a poem for tomorrow... and news later tonight.
Much love,
F.
- Start the online store and pack it with Marcie's and my things
- Begin selling off the household goods and the appliances
- Start building a memory box for Marcie so I can store what is meaningful enough to keep
- Rebuild a wardrobe, since everything is just too big now
- Tend to my financial health (tax appointment Saturday, portfolio adjustments)
- Start gathering consular information on the international transportation of ashen remains
- Crank out a few dozen résumés and cover letters for good-sounding jobs
- Reconnect with Marcie's family and get them over or take them out for a dinner
Wish me luck, and watch for the new store and other efforts. If everything goes well, who knows? Maybe I'll have time for a road trip. Maybe Humboldt this time...
Thanks for reading on. I know I owe all of you a wedding video, but it looks terrible and scratchy, so I am going to try to transfer it all over again this weekend. I do have a poem for tomorrow... and news later tonight.
Much love,
F.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Marcie and Saint Patrick's Day
Marcie was not much of a fan of St. Patrick’s Day at the pub. Irish and beautiful as she was, she just never quite hewed to that cultural tradition while she was with me. That did not mean she wanted me to eschew celebration on the night of Saint Patrick’s. We just went about it differently than most.
The most Irish we became on Saint Patrick’s was to buy a bottle of Bushmill’s and a six pack of beer, enjoy some corned beef and baked or fried potatoes, skipping cabbage and going with a nice salad instead. She also foisted split-pea soup with bacon on me, usually. Dessert was a delicious bit of cake, usually chocolate with some green dabs of butter cream frosting, a nod to the reason for it all. Following that, we had the usual indulgences, mood permitting, of course.
However, I can honestly say that I have not been out on Saint Patrick’s since the second year we were together. Never once did we go to an Irish bar with my red-headed beauty in tow (or towing me). Tonight, that changes. I am going out and staying out, and trying to have a bit of merriment with it all.
I wonder, if it happens, how long it will take when I do go out tonight for me to get that old feeling of discomfort I used to while in bars or at friends’ houses without her…
Sunday, March 16, 2008
The Sunday Brunch Ritual
Sunday brunch with Marcie was always a treat. The meal was elaborate and dressed up in every possible way. As we were both cooks, it could get a bit excessive, but it was always delicious.
Marcie would cook up meat, whether ham, bacon, leftover Saturday steak, or sausage. She or I would whip up eggs or omelette's, to order. Then the potatos.
Marcie was a potato queen. From a potato, she could summon baked (included twice and thrice variations), fried, french fried, mashed, hashed, homestyle and scalloped goodness at will. Sundays were a potato bonanza of potential, all from scratch.
By far my favorite tater from Marcie's kitchen was the broiler homestyle roasted breakfast potato. This flavorful and somewhat healthful treat was always dressed up just right. Marcie would bake the potato, red or russet, for just a little time, then chop it up, still firm, toss it in oil and broil or bake it to crispy goodness as she made everything else.
It was delicious. We not only used variants of it for breakfast, but also to side along our roasts and various dinners. The potatoes were always delicious reheated, too. A recipe for you all to reproduce them with:
Mind you, it is hard for a person who eats breakfast early when he eats it at all, usually some cereal or fruit or a combo thereof, to wait on food. Adding in sloooooowwwwlyyyy cooked bacon, home fries and other wonderful-smelling items, and you have one impatient eater.
"You need to let me cook how I know how to and go do something else," I remember her saying after I urged Marcie to turn up the heat.
Marcie took an hour each Sunday to cook bacon, slowly bubbling it in its own juice and fat, spreading a pork smell all over the neighborhood. Ditto for ham. She took her time.
Maddening! I pushed a lot, and too far at times. She booted me out of the house once over it, and tossed all the food away twice aside from that after I groused about it not being ready yet.
"Why don't you just go down to Denny's and eat their breakfast food if you can't wait for me to cook for you?" she said, torqued at me just too far. She dumped the food into the trash can and hauled it out to the dumpster, infuriated.
I learned eventually. I left and went surfing or walking when she started cooking, and I tried to have a cup of coffee to hold down my hunger until she was ready to eat. Still, I would find myself going crazy with hunger when I got home.
Which I think she rather enjoyed, as long as I kept my mouth shut and ate gratefully, which I alwats did eventually.
This little meal, this ritual, was just one that Marcie and I shared. Many other meals we cooked were also cooperative efforts, complementary dishes put together on a whim with indulgent details. I do not hold out much hope of finding anything like it ever again, but at least we had it, and eventually got it right.
Marcie would cook up meat, whether ham, bacon, leftover Saturday steak, or sausage. She or I would whip up eggs or omelette's, to order. Then the potatos.
Marcie was a potato queen. From a potato, she could summon baked (included twice and thrice variations), fried, french fried, mashed, hashed, homestyle and scalloped goodness at will. Sundays were a potato bonanza of potential, all from scratch.
By far my favorite tater from Marcie's kitchen was the broiler homestyle roasted breakfast potato. This flavorful and somewhat healthful treat was always dressed up just right. Marcie would bake the potato, red or russet, for just a little time, then chop it up, still firm, toss it in oil and broil or bake it to crispy goodness as she made everything else.
It was delicious. We not only used variants of it for breakfast, but also to side along our roasts and various dinners. The potatoes were always delicious reheated, too. A recipe for you all to reproduce them with:
Marcie's Roasted Breakfast Potato
1 potato per person (two if of the small rose variety)
2 mushrooms per potato
1 tsp per potato dried onions
1 tbsp olive or canola oil
cayenne pepper*
black pepper*
Sea salt*
dash of sage*
*(use what you like!)Bake or microwave the potatoes until about halfway cooked. Chop them into small disks or wedges, as you prefer. Heat the broiler to 500 degrees or 450 if roasting, and toss the potato slices with the chopped mushrooms and dried onions and oil in a small bowl. Arrange it all on aluminum foil on broiler or cookie sheet. Broil for 10-15 minutes or until lightly browned or crisp. Roast for 25-40 minutes, or until browned as above.
To this we would sometimes add special breads, from waffles to pancakes, toast to cinnamon rolls from Hob Nob Hill. But by far Marcie's favorite was my French toast. I took pride in whipping up fluffy, light and well-flavored French toast for her.
Another recipe I hope you will enjoy:
Frank's French Toast
2 pieces of soda/sweet bread per person
1 egg (or equivalent egg substitute) per person or 2 pieces of bread
1 tbsp heavy cream or half and half (milk okay, too) per egg
1 tbsp cinnamon
2 tsp powdered or confectioner's sugar
dash of nutmeg for each slice of bread
syrup and butter (to taste)
slice of apple (garnish)
mint leaves (garnish)
Combine the egg, cream/milk, cinnamon and sugar in a bowl and mix it well. Heat some vegetable or canola oil in a pan (butter is okay, too) big enough for two pieces of bread (at least) to lay flat. Prepare some syrup , either by heating it in second pan or in the microwave. If making roasted or broiled potatoes, a steel bowl in the oven will also do. You can add the nutmeg to the syrup.
When the pan is hot (about medium heat to high-medium will do), quickly dip the soda or sweet bread into the egg mixture and then flip it, coating both faces lightly. Do not let the bread sit in the mix. Place the egg-washed bread on the pan and cook until just brown on each side.
Add a pat of butter if desired to the hot syrup. As soon as you finish cooking the French toast, garnish the bread with apple slices and pour syrup over it all. Top with the mint leaf garnish and a dash of nutmeg if it is not in your syrup.
This was the core of our best breakfasts, our anchoring repasts for calm and luxurious Sundays in our mutual company. Occasionally, I would make Marcie a screwdriver or a mimosa, taking one myself. That almost always fueled a wonderful after-breakfast treat or languid make-out session on the couch.
I replicated it all today for old time's sake, changing out healthy options for everything as I could, and sighing that I would not be kissing her or taking a contented nap in her lap. But it was nice to do something I know she would be happy to see me do what I grew fond of distinctly under her influence.
But it was not always joy on Sunday mornings for my sweetie and I. Marcie and I had one nearly unresolvable difference. It concerned when we ate, and it could get heated at times. Marcie could not eat a heavy breakfast too early in the morning. I was starved from the moment I awoke.
I replicated it all today for old time's sake, changing out healthy options for everything as I could, and sighing that I would not be kissing her or taking a contented nap in her lap. But it was nice to do something I know she would be happy to see me do what I grew fond of distinctly under her influence.
But it was not always joy on Sunday mornings for my sweetie and I. Marcie and I had one nearly unresolvable difference. It concerned when we ate, and it could get heated at times. Marcie could not eat a heavy breakfast too early in the morning. I was starved from the moment I awoke.
Mind you, it is hard for a person who eats breakfast early when he eats it at all, usually some cereal or fruit or a combo thereof, to wait on food. Adding in sloooooowwwwlyyyy cooked bacon, home fries and other wonderful-smelling items, and you have one impatient eater.
"You need to let me cook how I know how to and go do something else," I remember her saying after I urged Marcie to turn up the heat.
Marcie took an hour each Sunday to cook bacon, slowly bubbling it in its own juice and fat, spreading a pork smell all over the neighborhood. Ditto for ham. She took her time.
Maddening! I pushed a lot, and too far at times. She booted me out of the house once over it, and tossed all the food away twice aside from that after I groused about it not being ready yet.
"Why don't you just go down to Denny's and eat their breakfast food if you can't wait for me to cook for you?" she said, torqued at me just too far. She dumped the food into the trash can and hauled it out to the dumpster, infuriated.
I learned eventually. I left and went surfing or walking when she started cooking, and I tried to have a cup of coffee to hold down my hunger until she was ready to eat. Still, I would find myself going crazy with hunger when I got home.
Which I think she rather enjoyed, as long as I kept my mouth shut and ate gratefully, which I alwats did eventually.
This little meal, this ritual, was just one that Marcie and I shared. Many other meals we cooked were also cooperative efforts, complementary dishes put together on a whim with indulgent details. I do not hold out much hope of finding anything like it ever again, but at least we had it, and eventually got it right.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
A Sky Fit For a Redhead
One of the best things about Marcie and my neighborhood was the close proximity of lovely viewpoints along the various segments of Mountain View Road. I saw the sky and raced home to catch it reminding me of her with its brilliant color and complex depth.
Click to enlage the shots and get a better look at the gallery...
Sunset kisses are another thing she was very good at giving me. I miss that almost as much as the warm softness of her body bundled up and wrapped in my jacket and my arms as she watched the sun set with me on blustery evenings like this
I recommend a chilly, stormy sky sunset if you can, alone or not.
Click to enlage the shots and get a better look at the gallery...
Sunset kisses are another thing she was very good at giving me. I miss that almost as much as the warm softness of her body bundled up and wrapped in my jacket and my arms as she watched the sun set with me on blustery evenings like this
I recommend a chilly, stormy sky sunset if you can, alone or not.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Chrissy's Dream
I loved hearing about Chrissy's dream because it shows the side of Marcie that was more concerned with her loved ones and friends than herself. This held up through her illness, to the very end.
Marcie's strength and empathy were always in play, and even if her patience wore thin and she grew tired of some problem she saw a fix to, her heart could only be sweet.
She might grouse later or point out the silliness of the people she comforted, but her consoling touch, which I miss most acutely, always shined. At times, i think she only complained to keep her tough image up.
We who loved her saw right through it, I know...
Chrissy shared:
Thank you for relaying your beautiful and very telling dream of her, Chrissy. What a wonderful moment to share.
Much Love,
F.
Marcie's strength and empathy were always in play, and even if her patience wore thin and she grew tired of some problem she saw a fix to, her heart could only be sweet.
She might grouse later or point out the silliness of the people she comforted, but her consoling touch, which I miss most acutely, always shined. At times, i think she only complained to keep her tough image up.
We who loved her saw right through it, I know...
Chrissy shared:
"Shortly after Marcie passed away, I had a dream that she was picking me up at the San Diego Airport. When I saw her, she was dressed in a beautiful long, white, flowing dress. She came up to me I walked toward her. We were so happy to see each other. She had come to pick me up, and I knew we were going to her memorial. She put her arm around me and she said, 'You're going to be ok.' It was so special, because in my time of sadness she was comforting me, only she was already gone."
Thank you for relaying your beautiful and very telling dream of her, Chrissy. What a wonderful moment to share.
Much Love,
F.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
A Dream with a Message
All my thoughts and signs of Marcie, as well as a peek at a friend's personal blog, triggered a dream last night. But it seemed like some little bit of Marcie was coming through with a purpose, and not the random synthesis of imagery drawn from our lives.
In the dream, Marcie and I were making out in an airport lounge, sitting in a little round booth with some hors d'œuvre and glasses of wine. A beautiful lilting voice came over the loudspeaker as we kissed.
"Flight Three for Mbingu now boarding at Gate Seven," it crackled, interrupting the music in the lounge, and our kiss.
"Mmmph... mmm," Marcie said, her hand on my jaw as she stopped. "We have to get to the gate or I'll be late."
I nodded and grabbed her bags, admiring her sleek form in her little aqua camisole and long but clingy white skirt. She was wearing white heeled sandals of some kind, and I remember thinking that they showed off her toenails' little flowers very well as we walked.
When we arrived at Gate Three, children were playing and clamoring around a few smiling adults. A young man stood in a white uniform that looked an awful lot like an Army uniform in Navy white, I noted. Everyone was dressed for summer.
"Marcie," a beautiful Indian (or perhaps Pakistani or Bangladeshi woman, I could only guess) said, beaming and taking her hand. "I am so glad you made it. Why don't you take these four and take them with you?"
She gestured to four little girls, one of them a redhead who immediately attached herself to Marcie's leg, the other three African, dressed the same, in little white gowns, one wearing her hair in hanging braids, the other two, smaller girls wearing little cloths wrapped on theirs.
The taller, braided one showed the other girls something in her arms, "It's my baby," she said. "I saw a brilliant glow in her hands and on her forearms, cradled but translucent, the faintest outline of a baby's form visible.
They murmured and the girl slipped her arms under her gown, smiling a moment at me. I smiled at the smallest girl, who looked at me a little confused, and she came over and took my hand, pulling me. I started to go, but the woman took my arm with a warm and gentle but firm grip.
"No, Serena," she said. "Francis is not going on this flight, but you will see him later, okay? Now go with Marcie."
"Sorry, Serena," I said, and before I could ask why I was not going, Marcie spoke.
"I call him Frank, Niyati, " she interjected, smiling at the women. Marcie stepped in close and her face slipped into a little sad smile. "Honey, I have to go now. I'm sorry, but they said you can't get an entry visa yet."
I suddenly realized that Marcie was seriously going without me, and that is why I had no luggage of my own. I began to protest and Marcie kissed me. I felt a strange electric jolt down my back and opened my eyes, my throat hard and pained as understanding dawned and I remembered.
Niyati rubbed my back as I listened to my little bride and the tears flowed.
"We'll have our second honeymoon, honey," she said. "But not right away. I have things to do, and you have things to do, too. I won't leave you alone. I'll call you, okay?"
I could only nod and then kiss back. The four girls hugged around us until Niyati took their hands and put them in Marcie's or on her skirt gently. Marcie pecked my cheek and Niyati took her bag.
"Okay, ladies," she said. "Time to go now. Marcie, I will see him home after everyone is in."
"Bye for now, honey," Marcie said. "Come see me when you can."
"I will," I said, hoarse but determined to sound strong, which I was not nearly.
They walked into the gate and were gone. Niyati rubbed my back and smiled when I turned to her.
"She waited for you in the terminal so you could see her off," Niyati whispered. "She is very stubborn. But it was okay to let you come here for her. You have been very good to her."
"Why can't I go?" I asked.
"It is rare for people even to come here," she said, "You have been here before, and you knew your way back, and you will know your way here when you don't get to go back again."
She sighed and smiled, stroking my cheek and smiling. "You may have been waiting for your gate call once, but this was Marcie's. Your ticket is expired, and your reservation is for a much later flight, so you can't board yet. You also need an entry visa to fly, and yours is not ready yet."
I nodded. "So I don't get to board until I die?" I asked.
"You will not die, no one really does who comes here, but you cannot be responsible for anything when you do come to depart," she said. "If there is something not yet done, you cannot board."
I was calmer but sad. I stared at the gate and sighed heavily, wondering how I would visit if I could not fly yet.
"Stay here a moment," Niyati said. She walked over to the confused soldier, who waved as she guided him into the gate. I waved back and nodded. I envied his luck.
Marcie walked backto the edge of the gate and beckoned to me sneakily. She bit her lip and looked at Niyati, who was greeting a young woman and a couple.
My heart surged. I smiled and ran to the gate on my quiet step, sneaking rapidly and leaping at the end, but a huge wall of a man suddenly stood before me. The gate slid back from me behind him.
He put his hand on my shoulder and Marcie came over as he spoke. "I know you can't help it, and I know you think you want to take my wrist, and you want to slip by, and you want to go, Francis."
I nodded and looked up at him. He may have been seven feet tall or so, but I didn't care. I considered the best course for a moment but my thoughts were scrambled as Marcie kissed me.
"Honey, you are very brave and I know you want to be with me, and I am so happy you ran to me for one last caper," she said. "But just run to me when you see me somewhere else, okay? We'll have our time together."
The man let go of my shoulder. "Thank you, Marcie."
I had one last kiss before the dream ended. As we kissed, i felt her mischievous delight with me and her passion. I woke and felt her hands on my cheeks and her lips on my own, phantoms of her again acting as company to me.
Sometime this weekend, I will share Chrissy's dream of her. I have been trying to digitize the wedding video. We will see. I may also get the archive of messages from Tanya, and I have found more little notes. Good night, friends. If any of you have dreams to share. please let me know.
Extra note: The name I heard was "Natty," but this is as close as I found from theplace I think the woman was from or supposed to be...
In the dream, Marcie and I were making out in an airport lounge, sitting in a little round booth with some hors d'œuvre and glasses of wine. A beautiful lilting voice came over the loudspeaker as we kissed.
"Flight Three for Mbingu now boarding at Gate Seven," it crackled, interrupting the music in the lounge, and our kiss.
"Mmmph... mmm," Marcie said, her hand on my jaw as she stopped. "We have to get to the gate or I'll be late."
I nodded and grabbed her bags, admiring her sleek form in her little aqua camisole and long but clingy white skirt. She was wearing white heeled sandals of some kind, and I remember thinking that they showed off her toenails' little flowers very well as we walked.
When we arrived at Gate Three, children were playing and clamoring around a few smiling adults. A young man stood in a white uniform that looked an awful lot like an Army uniform in Navy white, I noted. Everyone was dressed for summer.
"Marcie," a beautiful Indian (or perhaps Pakistani or Bangladeshi woman, I could only guess) said, beaming and taking her hand. "I am so glad you made it. Why don't you take these four and take them with you?"
She gestured to four little girls, one of them a redhead who immediately attached herself to Marcie's leg, the other three African, dressed the same, in little white gowns, one wearing her hair in hanging braids, the other two, smaller girls wearing little cloths wrapped on theirs.
The taller, braided one showed the other girls something in her arms, "It's my baby," she said. "I saw a brilliant glow in her hands and on her forearms, cradled but translucent, the faintest outline of a baby's form visible.
They murmured and the girl slipped her arms under her gown, smiling a moment at me. I smiled at the smallest girl, who looked at me a little confused, and she came over and took my hand, pulling me. I started to go, but the woman took my arm with a warm and gentle but firm grip.
"No, Serena," she said. "Francis is not going on this flight, but you will see him later, okay? Now go with Marcie."
"Sorry, Serena," I said, and before I could ask why I was not going, Marcie spoke.
"I call him Frank, Niyati, " she interjected, smiling at the women. Marcie stepped in close and her face slipped into a little sad smile. "Honey, I have to go now. I'm sorry, but they said you can't get an entry visa yet."
I suddenly realized that Marcie was seriously going without me, and that is why I had no luggage of my own. I began to protest and Marcie kissed me. I felt a strange electric jolt down my back and opened my eyes, my throat hard and pained as understanding dawned and I remembered.
Niyati rubbed my back as I listened to my little bride and the tears flowed.
"We'll have our second honeymoon, honey," she said. "But not right away. I have things to do, and you have things to do, too. I won't leave you alone. I'll call you, okay?"
I could only nod and then kiss back. The four girls hugged around us until Niyati took their hands and put them in Marcie's or on her skirt gently. Marcie pecked my cheek and Niyati took her bag.
"Okay, ladies," she said. "Time to go now. Marcie, I will see him home after everyone is in."
"Bye for now, honey," Marcie said. "Come see me when you can."
"I will," I said, hoarse but determined to sound strong, which I was not nearly.
They walked into the gate and were gone. Niyati rubbed my back and smiled when I turned to her.
"She waited for you in the terminal so you could see her off," Niyati whispered. "She is very stubborn. But it was okay to let you come here for her. You have been very good to her."
"Why can't I go?" I asked.
"It is rare for people even to come here," she said, "You have been here before, and you knew your way back, and you will know your way here when you don't get to go back again."
She sighed and smiled, stroking my cheek and smiling. "You may have been waiting for your gate call once, but this was Marcie's. Your ticket is expired, and your reservation is for a much later flight, so you can't board yet. You also need an entry visa to fly, and yours is not ready yet."
I nodded. "So I don't get to board until I die?" I asked.
"You will not die, no one really does who comes here, but you cannot be responsible for anything when you do come to depart," she said. "If there is something not yet done, you cannot board."
I was calmer but sad. I stared at the gate and sighed heavily, wondering how I would visit if I could not fly yet.
"Stay here a moment," Niyati said. She walked over to the confused soldier, who waved as she guided him into the gate. I waved back and nodded. I envied his luck.
Marcie walked backto the edge of the gate and beckoned to me sneakily. She bit her lip and looked at Niyati, who was greeting a young woman and a couple.
My heart surged. I smiled and ran to the gate on my quiet step, sneaking rapidly and leaping at the end, but a huge wall of a man suddenly stood before me. The gate slid back from me behind him.
He put his hand on my shoulder and Marcie came over as he spoke. "I know you can't help it, and I know you think you want to take my wrist, and you want to slip by, and you want to go, Francis."
I nodded and looked up at him. He may have been seven feet tall or so, but I didn't care. I considered the best course for a moment but my thoughts were scrambled as Marcie kissed me.
"Honey, you are very brave and I know you want to be with me, and I am so happy you ran to me for one last caper," she said. "But just run to me when you see me somewhere else, okay? We'll have our time together."
The man let go of my shoulder. "Thank you, Marcie."
I had one last kiss before the dream ended. As we kissed, i felt her mischievous delight with me and her passion. I woke and felt her hands on my cheeks and her lips on my own, phantoms of her again acting as company to me.
Sometime this weekend, I will share Chrissy's dream of her. I have been trying to digitize the wedding video. We will see. I may also get the archive of messages from Tanya, and I have found more little notes. Good night, friends. If any of you have dreams to share. please let me know.
Extra note: The name I heard was "Natty," but this is as close as I found from theplace I think the woman was from or supposed to be...
A very difficult project
So, I am calling it off and going to bed. I have been trying to digitize a very special tape. You'll know when I get it finished up. Night, folks.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
A very tough day
So, todays was a day that, no matter what I did, was filled with Marcie. I imagine my dreams will be quite hard to put away when I wake up tomorrow.
First was the lady with her redheaded child who crossed the street in front of me at Park and Adams. The little girl, very "Natalie Wood" in her jacket and gloves, save for her fiery red curls, waved as she walked by and smiled.
A block or two later, Lily and Christine crossed the street from Cream, a local coffee shop. Lily is a pug, and Christine is her mom. I'll get pictures next time.
When I got to work, I was clicking through my old emails and came upon a nest of Marcie's. I read them and had to go for a little walk. I am waiting for Tanya to send me one she discovered, too... that will be hard as well.
On my way to the post office for my passport appointment, a song came on by Stevie Nicks. Marcie loved Stevie Nicks and I have always been bewitched by lady songbirds. It was "Changes," loaded with parallels and pain, and an acoustic version from one of my favorite all-decades rock channels, KPRI.
So much of it is so very relevant to our last months together that I had to pull over and sit for a bit:
Landslide
I took my love and I took it down
I climbed a mountain and I turned around
And I saw my reflection in the snow covered hills
'Til the landslide brought me down
Oh, mirror in the sky
What is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?
Mmm Mmm... I don't know... Mmm Mmm... Mmm Mmm...
Well, I've been afraid of changing
'Cause I've built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Children get older
I'm getting older too
So...
(Guitar solo)
I've been afraid of changing
'Cause I, I´ve built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Children get older
I'm getting older too...
I'm getting older too...
So, take this love, take it down
Oh if you climb a mountain and you turn around
If you see my reflection in the snow covered hills
Well the landslide will bring you down, down
And If you see my reflection in the snow covered hills
Well maybe... The landslide will bring you down
Well well... the landslide will bring you down
Every time I hear it, I hear her singing to me, though I am well aware that Stevie Nicks sang it for her father. Marcie and I once had a long cry to it after her first surgery, the removal of her breasts.
It came on as I tended to her 4 separate wound drains. I thought I was hurting her, and I asked, but she just crumbled again and shook her head, hanging it away from me sadly. She said, "No, it's the song, honey."
I really listened to it for the first time and knew she was singing it about herself to me in her heart. I guess my heart sang it back, and now I am the one under the landlside. And man, did it bring me down.
I miss her more than I ever did, but I guess she is calling me more strongly than ever, too. That, or I am just grabbing at every single chance to stay connected and on track.
First was the lady with her redheaded child who crossed the street in front of me at Park and Adams. The little girl, very "Natalie Wood" in her jacket and gloves, save for her fiery red curls, waved as she walked by and smiled.
A block or two later, Lily and Christine crossed the street from Cream, a local coffee shop. Lily is a pug, and Christine is her mom. I'll get pictures next time.
When I got to work, I was clicking through my old emails and came upon a nest of Marcie's. I read them and had to go for a little walk. I am waiting for Tanya to send me one she discovered, too... that will be hard as well.
On my way to the post office for my passport appointment, a song came on by Stevie Nicks. Marcie loved Stevie Nicks and I have always been bewitched by lady songbirds. It was "Changes," loaded with parallels and pain, and an acoustic version from one of my favorite all-decades rock channels, KPRI.
So much of it is so very relevant to our last months together that I had to pull over and sit for a bit:
I took my love and I took it down
I climbed a mountain and I turned around
And I saw my reflection in the snow covered hills
'Til the landslide brought me down
Oh, mirror in the sky
What is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?
Mmm Mmm... I don't know... Mmm Mmm... Mmm Mmm...
Well, I've been afraid of changing
'Cause I've built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Children get older
I'm getting older too
So...
(Guitar solo)
I've been afraid of changing
'Cause I, I´ve built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Children get older
I'm getting older too...
I'm getting older too...
So, take this love, take it down
Oh if you climb a mountain and you turn around
If you see my reflection in the snow covered hills
Well the landslide will bring you down, down
And If you see my reflection in the snow covered hills
Well maybe... The landslide will bring you down
Well well... the landslide will bring you down
Every time I hear it, I hear her singing to me, though I am well aware that Stevie Nicks sang it for her father. Marcie and I once had a long cry to it after her first surgery, the removal of her breasts.
It came on as I tended to her 4 separate wound drains. I thought I was hurting her, and I asked, but she just crumbled again and shook her head, hanging it away from me sadly. She said, "No, it's the song, honey."
I really listened to it for the first time and knew she was singing it about herself to me in her heart. I guess my heart sang it back, and now I am the one under the landlside. And man, did it bring me down.
I miss her more than I ever did, but I guess she is calling me more strongly than ever, too. That, or I am just grabbing at every single chance to stay connected and on track.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Chrissy's visit
So, Chrissy finally made it by today, and we shared a very Marcie-memorializing Rubio's meal. Chrissy had the taco combo while I had the mahi mahi combo. It was nice. Chrissy divulged that, since she's now living in Rockford, Illinois, fish tacos are far from common fare.
We went through a couple of albums and I, of course, let her pick out a few pictures. I let her take a very precious one from Terri Dambrose's wedding, of Marcie getting drunk with them, drinking straight from a bottle, her drss off her shoulder on one side.
God, she was so hot. Marcie definitely outshined the bride (sorry, Terri).
Back to the visit. So, Chrissy was a good sport and looked through Marcie's things, taking a few scents and creams, which I hope bring her joy and good memories of my baby. I also, since they shared a Lucy love, gave her Marcie's Lucy monopoly set.
She also selected a Matisse book for her coffee table and one other. Marcie would have been very pleased to see her take them, and I know I am.
The visit was over all too soon. However, I will be trying to make a trip to Rockford sometime soon, when neither mosquitoes nor cold bite one overmuch. We'll see how life unfolds.
I'll post some pictures of Chrissy and Marcie over the years when I get a chance. G'nite, folks.
We went through a couple of albums and I, of course, let her pick out a few pictures. I let her take a very precious one from Terri Dambrose's wedding, of Marcie getting drunk with them, drinking straight from a bottle, her drss off her shoulder on one side.
God, she was so hot. Marcie definitely outshined the bride (sorry, Terri).
Back to the visit. So, Chrissy was a good sport and looked through Marcie's things, taking a few scents and creams, which I hope bring her joy and good memories of my baby. I also, since they shared a Lucy love, gave her Marcie's Lucy monopoly set.
She also selected a Matisse book for her coffee table and one other. Marcie would have been very pleased to see her take them, and I know I am.
The visit was over all too soon. However, I will be trying to make a trip to Rockford sometime soon, when neither mosquitoes nor cold bite one overmuch. We'll see how life unfolds.
I'll post some pictures of Chrissy and Marcie over the years when I get a chance. G'nite, folks.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Little Things She Might Have Liked (pt. 2)
So, today I took a big step in my life that touches on Marcie and my relationship on a number of levels. Marcie was a little paranoid about me. She was protective, true, but paranoid nonetheless.
I did give her a few reasons to be cautious. I was fast to the sword, so to speak, when I felt she was being slighted (or picked up on). I wrote for "underground" newspapers and fanzines, and had a very adventurous social set to run with.
I did not always show the most prudent judgment. I liked to do little feats, walking on my hands or balanced on handrails around City College, where I was the AS Senate President, or standing on tables in the cafeteria to emphasize a point or a joke.
Extra money came from working doors at punk shows and concerts. My whole approach could be called, "risk management be damned." So I understood to a degree.
I remember the day she let me know that I was going overboard. I was carrying a full load of A's at City, plus AS, running a side business, putting in late nights working doors and writing.
She took my hands, and stood very close, wringing them with her own and nodding, "Honey, you have to slow down," she said. "I am worried."
She gave me a tearful list of concerns, admonishing me from hugging her, as she had a lot to say. In the end, I reassured her, mostly by letting her know we would talk about initiatives before I launched them. I stuck to that.
Motorcycles were one of those risks she just set her foot down and refused to budge on for me. I wanted one, she couldn't see it.
"No, I would be worried sick about you all the time," she said. "Frank, just let it go. You bring it up like once a year and it just freaks me out. Just drop it."
And usually with a harrumph and an abrupt exit, she would go somewhere and close the door. She would remain tense and stern until the requisite apologies and placative gestures were proffered, including but not limited to gifts and some concession to her wisdom on the matter.
This ritual continued until 2004 and her cancer ended most of those ritual discussions. But the issue did not go away, though I had forgotten it.
It might be easy to magine my surprise to receive, during one of her trips to San Francisco to see Jane, an email from the aforementioned friend with the following contents:
Motorcycle Mamas
I quizzed Marcie and probed, then told her, "I guess I'll get a motorcycle and take you out into the hills on it from now on, won't I?"
"Sure, honey," she said. "When I am better. I think it would be fun, but I don't think you should go buy a bike, because I don't want to worry when I am sick like this on top of it."
Today, I bought a Harley Davidson Sportster from Buddy Carr, a former professional skater and businessman. His wife Tracy reminisced that he had caught her eye with the bike. Son Tosh came out and joined us when Buddy turned the engine over. Nice folks.
My Uncle Tim and I looked it over. It's Beauty. We both agreed it was 1989 Sportster with a belt drive, cam kit, lots of chrome and plenty of good maintenance. Here's Uncle Tim, with it as we prepare to unload it from his truck .He seemed pretty delighted:
I had worn my leather jacket, gloves and biker boots (all but a helmet) for the pickup, and immediately took the bike for a short spin down the block. Immediately meaning "shortly after I was browbeaten by Uncle Tim and Neighbor Jim."
It was awesome.
My plan is to take my time, get to know the bike, get a learner's permit and the registration changed, working on the bike as I go. When I have my license, I will, for my first freeway trip, take Marcie out to the mountains on it, as we said we'd do.
When I go, I'll find someplace pleasant and gentle, or a place she had loved, and leave a little of her.
I did give her a few reasons to be cautious. I was fast to the sword, so to speak, when I felt she was being slighted (or picked up on). I wrote for "underground" newspapers and fanzines, and had a very adventurous social set to run with.
I did not always show the most prudent judgment. I liked to do little feats, walking on my hands or balanced on handrails around City College, where I was the AS Senate President, or standing on tables in the cafeteria to emphasize a point or a joke.
Extra money came from working doors at punk shows and concerts. My whole approach could be called, "risk management be damned." So I understood to a degree.
I remember the day she let me know that I was going overboard. I was carrying a full load of A's at City, plus AS, running a side business, putting in late nights working doors and writing.
She took my hands, and stood very close, wringing them with her own and nodding, "Honey, you have to slow down," she said. "I am worried."
She gave me a tearful list of concerns, admonishing me from hugging her, as she had a lot to say. In the end, I reassured her, mostly by letting her know we would talk about initiatives before I launched them. I stuck to that.
Motorcycles were one of those risks she just set her foot down and refused to budge on for me. I wanted one, she couldn't see it.
"No, I would be worried sick about you all the time," she said. "Frank, just let it go. You bring it up like once a year and it just freaks me out. Just drop it."
And usually with a harrumph and an abrupt exit, she would go somewhere and close the door. She would remain tense and stern until the requisite apologies and placative gestures were proffered, including but not limited to gifts and some concession to her wisdom on the matter.
This ritual continued until 2004 and her cancer ended most of those ritual discussions. But the issue did not go away, though I had forgotten it.
It might be easy to magine my surprise to receive, during one of her trips to San Francisco to see Jane, an email from the aforementioned friend with the following contents:
I quizzed Marcie and probed, then told her, "I guess I'll get a motorcycle and take you out into the hills on it from now on, won't I?"
"Sure, honey," she said. "When I am better. I think it would be fun, but I don't think you should go buy a bike, because I don't want to worry when I am sick like this on top of it."
Today, I bought a Harley Davidson Sportster from Buddy Carr, a former professional skater and businessman. His wife Tracy reminisced that he had caught her eye with the bike. Son Tosh came out and joined us when Buddy turned the engine over. Nice folks.
My Uncle Tim and I looked it over. It's Beauty. We both agreed it was 1989 Sportster with a belt drive, cam kit, lots of chrome and plenty of good maintenance. Here's Uncle Tim, with it as we prepare to unload it from his truck .He seemed pretty delighted:
I had worn my leather jacket, gloves and biker boots (all but a helmet) for the pickup, and immediately took the bike for a short spin down the block. Immediately meaning "shortly after I was browbeaten by Uncle Tim and Neighbor Jim."
It was awesome.
My plan is to take my time, get to know the bike, get a learner's permit and the registration changed, working on the bike as I go. When I have my license, I will, for my first freeway trip, take Marcie out to the mountains on it, as we said we'd do.
When I go, I'll find someplace pleasant and gentle, or a place she had loved, and leave a little of her.