It's my birthday today. Marcie was not only a huge fan of birthdays in general, but someone who reintroduced me to celebrating them for myself. She was also my biggest fan, and therefore my most ebullient celebrant. I miss that.
I am going to try and enjoy my time today, but I will share more about my birthdays and Marcie in later posts. This week, I mean.
Have a good weekend, folks.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Tough to watch
The most innocuous things can knock me down and send me back into grief. Television shows do that instantly.
I rid myself of television a few months ago. The only viewing I can do is through the web, and I avoid it. Most shows I watched before Marcie died were because of her and wanting to spend time with her.
Some I simply did not like except to see her enthusiasm for them, such as the Amazing Race, Survivor, and other reality shows. These appealed to Marcie's voyeuristic side.
"I know it is like, total trash, but I love seeing these people just make fools out of themselves," she said.
Some others were not so bad. We watched Weeds on Showtime at the suggestion of Tanya, caught Lost together once in a while, and watched Animal Planet. I refrained from her Desperate Housewives, Dancing with the Stars and American Idol. Ugh.
But I did enjoy watching The Office with her. She filled me in on the little details, kept me informed when reporting took away from my viewing time, and laughed constantly while she watched it.
Last night, because I remember how much she loved it, I tried watching a few episodes on the web. While the laughs were still there, I found myself in tears afterward.
I needed the Marcie touch, the little guffaws, the happy banter, the commercial runs to the bathroom or kitchen and her joy at watching.
All I could think was how much she would have loved each scene with her favorite characters. But who would have thought a television show would carry such emotional weight?
Maybe I'll watch Lost, too. Ugh.
I rid myself of television a few months ago. The only viewing I can do is through the web, and I avoid it. Most shows I watched before Marcie died were because of her and wanting to spend time with her.
Some I simply did not like except to see her enthusiasm for them, such as the Amazing Race, Survivor, and other reality shows. These appealed to Marcie's voyeuristic side.
"I know it is like, total trash, but I love seeing these people just make fools out of themselves," she said.
Some others were not so bad. We watched Weeds on Showtime at the suggestion of Tanya, caught Lost together once in a while, and watched Animal Planet. I refrained from her Desperate Housewives, Dancing with the Stars and American Idol. Ugh.
But I did enjoy watching The Office with her. She filled me in on the little details, kept me informed when reporting took away from my viewing time, and laughed constantly while she watched it.
Last night, because I remember how much she loved it, I tried watching a few episodes on the web. While the laughs were still there, I found myself in tears afterward.
I needed the Marcie touch, the little guffaws, the happy banter, the commercial runs to the bathroom or kitchen and her joy at watching.
All I could think was how much she would have loved each scene with her favorite characters. But who would have thought a television show would carry such emotional weight?
Maybe I'll watch Lost, too. Ugh.
Characters: "Otto Van Otterson" (pt.6)
We searched in mostly silence, using the long foray into Hillcrest as much to exercise as to sate Marcie's curiosity. Marcie and I were out of breath as we trudged up and down hills with no real destination. Finally, she stopped to rest.
We had wandered over to the bus stop bench in front of a Union Bank. Across the street lay one of Marcie's favorite places.
"We need to go there and get chicken pie some night," she said, pointing at the Original Chicken Pie Shop.
All I knew of chicken pot pies was Stouffer's, a dinner we sometimes had at my father's in my childhood. I hated them, but I was willing to try a new source once.
"Sure," I said. "So tell me. How did Otto come to be the ambassador for the river people?"
She was tiring after an hour of wandering, and she smiled and rolled her head back, her red hair catching the sunlight just so as I looked over at her. She looked at me sidelong, smiling.
"Well, I don't really think he's the ambassador by any appointment," she said. "He's just really gregarious and friendly in his own quirky way, and he always smiles."
"So he is more of a goodwill ambassador?" I asked. "Kind of a San Diego Chicken for the Mission Valley Homeless?"
She looked at me and rolled her eyes, tugging on the straps of her backpack, which I slid off her shoulders.
"Thanks," she said. "And Otto is a diplomat, honey, not a mascot. Why do you have to trivialize everything?"
She almost pulled it off, but she guffawed as I went silent, into her hands. "Okay, okay," she said, snorting a little.
"The first time I saw him, I was on the 25 and we were pulling into Fashion Valley," she detailed. "He was standing at the corner behind the Town and Country and waving."
I had seen him do this once, at the entrance to 163 from Hillcrest. I at 6th and University by City Deli and watched. People honked or waved back. He made incoherent sounds at the passing vehicles, waving especially at people who yelled at him.
I had instantly respected him, his suit and beard well-groomed, if one was layered over others and the latter long and in need of a trim. His life was not easy, but he was enjoying it, and his possessions sat at his feet as he took time to hearily hail.
"Hmm," I said.
"Then he showed up at CVS, " she said. "Then one day, I saw him with another homeless guy who had shoplifted from us over by the bus stop at the freeway entrance, by Texas street. The police were arresting the young guy."
I looked at her as we crossed and passed the Hillcrest Stationary store, and she took my hand and swung it as she continued. I remember her smiling.
"The police kept telling him to stay over by the bus bench, and he kept going back and mumbling in his language, then he would smile and pretend to sneak up on them," she said. "Then he would be standing nect to them..."
She stopped and cracked up, so I shook her hand a little and waited. "Well?" I asked.
"He would... huh! He was imitating one of the police, standing behind them with his hands on his hips and pointing at the younger guy, then when he would start warbling how he did, they would make him go back," she said.
"So he was harrassing the police?" I asked, incredulous.
"No, no," she said. "I overheard them asking the guy why he hit Otto before I got on the bus. I saw them let the guy go when I transferred."
I nodded, "Because Otto didn't press charges?"
She shrugged. "I decided that Otto had convinced them to let him go, and since I knew the other one lived at the river, and I knew Otto sometimes sat with other river people, that he must be their representative, looking out for them."
"Huh," I said. "Who knows?"
She squeezed my hand. "Oh, I know," she said, a twinkle of mischief in her eye. "I totally know, honey. Otto is the ambassador. He has lived here most of his life and he is the king of the urchins."
"The king?" I asked.
"Well, you know what I mean," she said. "He is dignified and he has pride and character, and he kind of sets an example and does his own thing."
And she looked around, turning her head and yanking my arm downward, turning me.
And there he was, lowering a bag gently into his Mayfair cart as he jabbered at the wind. He pulled a small, feather-bearing fedora cap, a bit stained with sweat, onto his head and laughed, the sound echoing across the street.
As he turned around and scanned the street, Marcie tucker her head in my chest and whispered happily, "Oh my god, don't look, honey, don't look."
Of course I knew I would need to provide a full report and should therefore not look away.
But I did, and he waved and then pushed on, muttering in a language all his own, master of a worl we simply visited from time to time. One very specifically and beautifully drawn by my future wife.
She peered up at me with her wide smile and her mischievous wide-eyed look. "Is he gone?" she asked.
I nodded and she pulled me down and smooched me, the salt of her sweat and sweetness of her ever-present gloss refreshing and wonderful. "Okay, let's go get a chicken pie."
We did, and I didn't like it. But we walked all the way down Washington to Gelato Vero, and that I did indeed enjoy. And there was still more to Otto to know, though not much and more a note than a story.
We had wandered over to the bus stop bench in front of a Union Bank. Across the street lay one of Marcie's favorite places.
"We need to go there and get chicken pie some night," she said, pointing at the Original Chicken Pie Shop.
All I knew of chicken pot pies was Stouffer's, a dinner we sometimes had at my father's in my childhood. I hated them, but I was willing to try a new source once.
"Sure," I said. "So tell me. How did Otto come to be the ambassador for the river people?"
She was tiring after an hour of wandering, and she smiled and rolled her head back, her red hair catching the sunlight just so as I looked over at her. She looked at me sidelong, smiling.
"Well, I don't really think he's the ambassador by any appointment," she said. "He's just really gregarious and friendly in his own quirky way, and he always smiles."
"So he is more of a goodwill ambassador?" I asked. "Kind of a San Diego Chicken for the Mission Valley Homeless?"
She looked at me and rolled her eyes, tugging on the straps of her backpack, which I slid off her shoulders.
"Thanks," she said. "And Otto is a diplomat, honey, not a mascot. Why do you have to trivialize everything?"
She almost pulled it off, but she guffawed as I went silent, into her hands. "Okay, okay," she said, snorting a little.
"The first time I saw him, I was on the 25 and we were pulling into Fashion Valley," she detailed. "He was standing at the corner behind the Town and Country and waving."
I had seen him do this once, at the entrance to 163 from Hillcrest. I at 6th and University by City Deli and watched. People honked or waved back. He made incoherent sounds at the passing vehicles, waving especially at people who yelled at him.
I had instantly respected him, his suit and beard well-groomed, if one was layered over others and the latter long and in need of a trim. His life was not easy, but he was enjoying it, and his possessions sat at his feet as he took time to hearily hail.
"Hmm," I said.
"Then he showed up at CVS, " she said. "Then one day, I saw him with another homeless guy who had shoplifted from us over by the bus stop at the freeway entrance, by Texas street. The police were arresting the young guy."
I looked at her as we crossed and passed the Hillcrest Stationary store, and she took my hand and swung it as she continued. I remember her smiling.
"The police kept telling him to stay over by the bus bench, and he kept going back and mumbling in his language, then he would smile and pretend to sneak up on them," she said. "Then he would be standing nect to them..."
She stopped and cracked up, so I shook her hand a little and waited. "Well?" I asked.
"He would... huh! He was imitating one of the police, standing behind them with his hands on his hips and pointing at the younger guy, then when he would start warbling how he did, they would make him go back," she said.
"So he was harrassing the police?" I asked, incredulous.
"No, no," she said. "I overheard them asking the guy why he hit Otto before I got on the bus. I saw them let the guy go when I transferred."
I nodded, "Because Otto didn't press charges?"
She shrugged. "I decided that Otto had convinced them to let him go, and since I knew the other one lived at the river, and I knew Otto sometimes sat with other river people, that he must be their representative, looking out for them."
"Huh," I said. "Who knows?"
She squeezed my hand. "Oh, I know," she said, a twinkle of mischief in her eye. "I totally know, honey. Otto is the ambassador. He has lived here most of his life and he is the king of the urchins."
"The king?" I asked.
"Well, you know what I mean," she said. "He is dignified and he has pride and character, and he kind of sets an example and does his own thing."
And she looked around, turning her head and yanking my arm downward, turning me.
And there he was, lowering a bag gently into his Mayfair cart as he jabbered at the wind. He pulled a small, feather-bearing fedora cap, a bit stained with sweat, onto his head and laughed, the sound echoing across the street.
As he turned around and scanned the street, Marcie tucker her head in my chest and whispered happily, "Oh my god, don't look, honey, don't look."
Of course I knew I would need to provide a full report and should therefore not look away.
But I did, and he waved and then pushed on, muttering in a language all his own, master of a worl we simply visited from time to time. One very specifically and beautifully drawn by my future wife.
She peered up at me with her wide smile and her mischievous wide-eyed look. "Is he gone?" she asked.
I nodded and she pulled me down and smooched me, the salt of her sweat and sweetness of her ever-present gloss refreshing and wonderful. "Okay, let's go get a chicken pie."
We did, and I didn't like it. But we walked all the way down Washington to Gelato Vero, and that I did indeed enjoy. And there was still more to Otto to know, though not much and more a note than a story.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Characters: "Otto Van Otterson" (pt.5)
Marcie, her interest piqued, simply had to see Otto for herself. The description I drunkenly relayed carried the double disadvantage to her of being both intriguing and less than reliable, given my state.
Of course, it wasn't really unreliable, but Marcie had her issues early on with any drinking of any kind, due in large part to alcoholism in her own family and her awareness of it in mine.
"Honey, you were so drunk, it could have been some random homeless person that you decided looked like Otto," she said. "I just want to go up to Hillcrest and see if he's there."
This was, of course, a mini-adventure, and she would have it with or without me. With sounded safer, not because of Otto, but simply because there was such a profusion of shady characters invading the Hillcrest homeless scene in 1995.
"Okay, we'll go on an Otto safari," I said. "Let me pack a bag with some water and get my wallet."
I packed some water, Marcie's puffed Cheetos, some fruit and a sweater for Marcie in my backpack. Then, while Marcie waited and watched, I also packed a transit map of downtown, a compass, binoculars, my camera, and her survival knife.
"We go to track the almost impossible to find Otterson," I said, effecting a British accent and the breathless excitement of the stereotypical upper-crust documentarian. "This is an ambitious endeavour, and not without its perils."
Marcie started doing her silent laugh as she slipped her own backpack on. We walked down to the stop for the 11 bus and waited, but soon Marcie was antsy.
"You know, I have seen his crew up on 6th by the park lately," she said. "Maybe he has moved there, too. Can we walk up and check the west end out?"
I nodded, and I followed her up the hill a ways, then relieved the silence of the trek. "So where is he from?"
Marcie turned around, eyes wide and biting her lip. "I don't know," she said, voice a little high. "But I used to tell the girls at CVS he was abandoned as a child by the river."
"So he was like Moses?" I asked, smiling.
"No, don't be silly," she admonished. Marcie rolled her eyes and continued walking, the clapping began as she hunched forward and the story poured forth.
"I think his parents were vacationers from Hungary or Austria, and one day, they decided to go home," she said. "They decided that Otto should stay, so they went down to the river and waited until he was playing in the water, then slipped away."
I listened and smiled, but I interjected, "Oh, poor Otto was abandoned!" I said.
"Mmm HM!" Marcie murmured, continuing. "An urchin, lost in a land where nobody spoke his language. All they left him was a paper napkin and some flatware, because they wanted him to not eat with his fingers, which he had never learned to do properly."
I noted the nice summation of the origin of the flatware in the coat pocket, but wondered what food he had. "How did he eat?"
"He spent his early years working the farms in Mission Valley, doing hard labor for money to buy food with," she said. "He also bought a watch from time to time. He never learned to wind them, so he replaced them when they stopped ticking, keeping the old ones."
We both laughed. Marcie looked back with her gentle, doting smile, head cocked a bit. She appreciated our interaction and the attention to her story. I was enjoying it and I stopped her and kissed her, then took her hand.
"How did he know what to do?" I asked as we walked, arms swinging, hands clasped. "Farm work is labor, but there are some basics you need to know, especially with a language barrier."
She smiled and a little laugh escaped her. "His parents were goat farmers in the old country," she said, turning to me and smiling again as I laughed. I shook my head.
"Well, that's what I like to think!" she said. "They were goat farmers who decided to leave Otto behind in the land of opportunity. Unfortunately, he never had one."
I nodded as the story obviously prepared for a dark turn with her voice changing.
"When he was noticed by a police officer one day, wandering round talking to himself, he was taken away," she said sadly. "He lost his little knickerbockers, now way too small for him anyways, his silverware, and his watches."
"Aww," I said.
"They kept him for years and years in a mental hospital, then when Ronald Reagan closed all the hospitals, he was let loose," she said. "He promptly wandered back to Mission Valley."
I nodded and scanned the last bit of Balboa Park's west side for homeless. There were a few, but the weekend volleyball games at "Gay Beach" had likely chased off most of them.
"Everything was different," she said in a mournful tone. "There were few farms and the valley now had a big freeway in it. Otto had only the plastic ware he left the hospital with, a set of pajamas and some moccasins he sewed himself in occupational therapy at the hospital."
I started cracking up, but she grabbed my arm a little higher up and tried to calm my guffawing as she continued, suppressing her own chuckles.
"But in a stroke of luck, he found a suitcase dropped on the side of the road, perhaps fallen off a station wagon, with just what he needed," she said. "Soon, he was in a new woolen suit, sporting not one, not two, but three watches, and with a set of silver utensils."
She stopped as we prepared to cross west toward Banker's Hill. "And what made it fancy," she said. "What made it fancy was the CLOTH napkin, actually a handkerchief, which he found inside the suitcase."
"So he was all set?" I asked.
"Yes, he was all set," she said, clapping her hands as we walked northward. "But he needed work, and for that, he turned to the river, where his destiny awaited."
I began to ask, but she stopped me. "Honey, let's go see if we can find him in Mission hills. I don't think he usually wanders this far. He's not very mobile."
I nodded and we walked on in silence for a while. When we passed Jimmy Carter's, I prompted her. "So was his destiny to be ambassador of the river people?"
She fell forward a little, acting silly. She looked up at me. "Oh, so you're enjoying Otto's story?" she asked.
I nodded and she took my hand and squeezed it. "Well, I'll share more later."
Of course, it wasn't really unreliable, but Marcie had her issues early on with any drinking of any kind, due in large part to alcoholism in her own family and her awareness of it in mine.
"Honey, you were so drunk, it could have been some random homeless person that you decided looked like Otto," she said. "I just want to go up to Hillcrest and see if he's there."
This was, of course, a mini-adventure, and she would have it with or without me. With sounded safer, not because of Otto, but simply because there was such a profusion of shady characters invading the Hillcrest homeless scene in 1995.
"Okay, we'll go on an Otto safari," I said. "Let me pack a bag with some water and get my wallet."
I packed some water, Marcie's puffed Cheetos, some fruit and a sweater for Marcie in my backpack. Then, while Marcie waited and watched, I also packed a transit map of downtown, a compass, binoculars, my camera, and her survival knife.
"We go to track the almost impossible to find Otterson," I said, effecting a British accent and the breathless excitement of the stereotypical upper-crust documentarian. "This is an ambitious endeavour, and not without its perils."
Marcie started doing her silent laugh as she slipped her own backpack on. We walked down to the stop for the 11 bus and waited, but soon Marcie was antsy.
"You know, I have seen his crew up on 6th by the park lately," she said. "Maybe he has moved there, too. Can we walk up and check the west end out?"
I nodded, and I followed her up the hill a ways, then relieved the silence of the trek. "So where is he from?"
Marcie turned around, eyes wide and biting her lip. "I don't know," she said, voice a little high. "But I used to tell the girls at CVS he was abandoned as a child by the river."
"So he was like Moses?" I asked, smiling.
"No, don't be silly," she admonished. Marcie rolled her eyes and continued walking, the clapping began as she hunched forward and the story poured forth.
"I think his parents were vacationers from Hungary or Austria, and one day, they decided to go home," she said. "They decided that Otto should stay, so they went down to the river and waited until he was playing in the water, then slipped away."
I listened and smiled, but I interjected, "Oh, poor Otto was abandoned!" I said.
"Mmm HM!" Marcie murmured, continuing. "An urchin, lost in a land where nobody spoke his language. All they left him was a paper napkin and some flatware, because they wanted him to not eat with his fingers, which he had never learned to do properly."
I noted the nice summation of the origin of the flatware in the coat pocket, but wondered what food he had. "How did he eat?"
"He spent his early years working the farms in Mission Valley, doing hard labor for money to buy food with," she said. "He also bought a watch from time to time. He never learned to wind them, so he replaced them when they stopped ticking, keeping the old ones."
We both laughed. Marcie looked back with her gentle, doting smile, head cocked a bit. She appreciated our interaction and the attention to her story. I was enjoying it and I stopped her and kissed her, then took her hand.
"How did he know what to do?" I asked as we walked, arms swinging, hands clasped. "Farm work is labor, but there are some basics you need to know, especially with a language barrier."
She smiled and a little laugh escaped her. "His parents were goat farmers in the old country," she said, turning to me and smiling again as I laughed. I shook my head.
"Well, that's what I like to think!" she said. "They were goat farmers who decided to leave Otto behind in the land of opportunity. Unfortunately, he never had one."
I nodded as the story obviously prepared for a dark turn with her voice changing.
"When he was noticed by a police officer one day, wandering round talking to himself, he was taken away," she said sadly. "He lost his little knickerbockers, now way too small for him anyways, his silverware, and his watches."
"Aww," I said.
"They kept him for years and years in a mental hospital, then when Ronald Reagan closed all the hospitals, he was let loose," she said. "He promptly wandered back to Mission Valley."
I nodded and scanned the last bit of Balboa Park's west side for homeless. There were a few, but the weekend volleyball games at "Gay Beach" had likely chased off most of them.
"Everything was different," she said in a mournful tone. "There were few farms and the valley now had a big freeway in it. Otto had only the plastic ware he left the hospital with, a set of pajamas and some moccasins he sewed himself in occupational therapy at the hospital."
I started cracking up, but she grabbed my arm a little higher up and tried to calm my guffawing as she continued, suppressing her own chuckles.
"But in a stroke of luck, he found a suitcase dropped on the side of the road, perhaps fallen off a station wagon, with just what he needed," she said. "Soon, he was in a new woolen suit, sporting not one, not two, but three watches, and with a set of silver utensils."
She stopped as we prepared to cross west toward Banker's Hill. "And what made it fancy," she said. "What made it fancy was the CLOTH napkin, actually a handkerchief, which he found inside the suitcase."
"So he was all set?" I asked.
"Yes, he was all set," she said, clapping her hands as we walked northward. "But he needed work, and for that, he turned to the river, where his destiny awaited."
I began to ask, but she stopped me. "Honey, let's go see if we can find him in Mission hills. I don't think he usually wanders this far. He's not very mobile."
I nodded and we walked on in silence for a while. When we passed Jimmy Carter's, I prompted her. "So was his destiny to be ambassador of the river people?"
She fell forward a little, acting silly. She looked up at me. "Oh, so you're enjoying Otto's story?" she asked.
I nodded and she took my hand and squeezed it. "Well, I'll share more later."
Monday, June 23, 2008
Update issues
The photos are overdue. I'll get to them, but it's still hard to look at them and see her face so many times and keep it together. I'll probably end up posting the last two chapters on Otto
first. I have been home today from work, and not at the top of my game, so no update today.
first. I have been home today from work, and not at the top of my game, so no update today.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
The blouse
I remember what you said that night
in a dim-lit coffee house.
Your cigarette cherry glowed red light
and smoke rolled up your blouse
"I hope you'll take it slow with me,
I've been in quite a state.
I'll give it time and then we'll see,
If we still want to date."
You puffed again and I drank a bit
and nodded, acted cool.
The cherry glowed, your face was lit
I stared, a happy fool.
"That's fine with me, I'll take my time,
and learn what makes you tick.
And after all, we're in our prime.
We need not be so quick."
You rolled your eyes and took a drink
as night slipped over day.
You looked at me and paused to think,
I wondered what you'd say.
"But don't dare drag your feet with me,
I have my pick of men.
I've many places I must see,
And some to see again."
I smiled and took your cigarette.
I puffed and blew a ring.
I smiled and said, "On that I'd bet,
the men and everything."
You took it back and pulled a drag,
then turned and put it down.
You took my hand, picked up your bag,
Smiling behind a frown.
"I'm serious you know," you said.
"You may not have a chance."
"So if you want then go ahead,
and show me some romance."
For seven years we wined and dined,
and loved and laughed and fought.
To wed me you were "not inclined."
"Never," or so you thought.
Then after one more coffee cup
that morning in the fall,
You gave your one-time "never" up,
and said we'd change it all.
For seven more we lived a life
as one made out of two,
For me, you were a loving wife,
and I, a mate for you.
I remember what you said that day,
the glow of dusk's last light.
You took your time, as was your way,
and spoke into the night.
"I'm glad you took it slow with me,
I've been in quite a state.
And soon my soul will have to flee,
I'm sorry, it can't wait."
"So many places I did see
and some I saw again.
You didn't drag your feet with me,
said, 'Now,' when I asked, 'When?"
"I'm meant it back then when I said
you may not have a chance.
But I'm so glad you went ahead.
It was such sweet romance."
The night you left I saw your face
inside the coffee house.
Your smile behind a knowing frown,
above your pretty blouse.
in a dim-lit coffee house.
Your cigarette cherry glowed red light
and smoke rolled up your blouse
"I hope you'll take it slow with me,
I've been in quite a state.
I'll give it time and then we'll see,
If we still want to date."
You puffed again and I drank a bit
and nodded, acted cool.
The cherry glowed, your face was lit
I stared, a happy fool.
"That's fine with me, I'll take my time,
and learn what makes you tick.
And after all, we're in our prime.
We need not be so quick."
You rolled your eyes and took a drink
as night slipped over day.
You looked at me and paused to think,
I wondered what you'd say.
"But don't dare drag your feet with me,
I have my pick of men.
I've many places I must see,
And some to see again."
I smiled and took your cigarette.
I puffed and blew a ring.
I smiled and said, "On that I'd bet,
the men and everything."
You took it back and pulled a drag,
then turned and put it down.
You took my hand, picked up your bag,
Smiling behind a frown.
"I'm serious you know," you said.
"You may not have a chance."
"So if you want then go ahead,
and show me some romance."
For seven years we wined and dined,
and loved and laughed and fought.
To wed me you were "not inclined."
"Never," or so you thought.
Then after one more coffee cup
that morning in the fall,
You gave your one-time "never" up,
and said we'd change it all.
For seven more we lived a life
as one made out of two,
For me, you were a loving wife,
and I, a mate for you.
I remember what you said that day,
the glow of dusk's last light.
You took your time, as was your way,
and spoke into the night.
"I'm glad you took it slow with me,
I've been in quite a state.
And soon my soul will have to flee,
I'm sorry, it can't wait."
"So many places I did see
and some I saw again.
You didn't drag your feet with me,
said, 'Now,' when I asked, 'When?"
"I'm meant it back then when I said
you may not have a chance.
But I'm so glad you went ahead.
It was such sweet romance."
The night you left I saw your face
inside the coffee house.
Your smile behind a knowing frown,
above your pretty blouse.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Stories...
We'll continue with Otto tomorrow. I will also return to Marcie's maternal instincts and her caring side as well. I am sure you see that it all shines through in her way of relating to her "urchins."
Marcie's cast will expand into her less-developed characters after Otto, all of whom she wove memorable biographies around. Tomorrow, however, I will be posting a poem and some pictures to look at. I hope you enjoy them both.
I will be working intensively over the next week and attempting to finish off the grant work I have at the district before moving on. Then, the big scouting trip to San Francisco begins. So that's where I am at.
Email with questions if you have any. We return to our regular programming Sunday or Monday.
Marcie's cast will expand into her less-developed characters after Otto, all of whom she wove memorable biographies around. Tomorrow, however, I will be posting a poem and some pictures to look at. I hope you enjoy them both.
I will be working intensively over the next week and attempting to finish off the grant work I have at the district before moving on. Then, the big scouting trip to San Francisco begins. So that's where I am at.
Email with questions if you have any. We return to our regular programming Sunday or Monday.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Characters: "Otto Van Otterson" (pt.4)
Otto had been underground for a while when I finally spotted him again. He was nowhere near his native riverine environs. Otto had moved up in the world.
Otto was living behind The Lamplighter, a karaoke bar in San Diego's Mission Hills. I may not have noticed him in my drunken state as I wandered out and enjoyed a cigarette after way too many drinks. Who knew "The Chauffer" by Duran Duran had so many fans?
Regardless, there I was, staring at a homeless person across the street who worked around the green-handled Mayfair shopping cart, his back hunched, turned to me. Then, with the successful attachment of a piece of wire to his junk-festooned carriage, the man turned.
Otto smiled and raised his hands in a grandiose expectation of applause. I could hear him above the din of the bar as he chuckled then warbled out a celebratory-sounding, "Rumanumanumanuma SKOP!"
He took the handle and, with some untranslable and nearly inaudible utterance, rolled out of sight. It was as if he knew he needed to be seen, my drunken mind told me.
I immediately called Marcie, who met my invitation to join me in a raucous night of debauchery and drink and song with derision earlier that night.
"Hello?" she asked, sounding annoyed.
"Hi, honey," I said. "I have good news!"
"What good news? That you're not nearly as drunk as you sound?" she asked. "Or that you will actually save your last buck and take the bus, not walk home at 2 and skip class tomorrow?"
Well, there was precedent. I had walked home several times to allow one more dirnk or a cup of coffee. It was a bad habit only because she worried.
"Mmmm BETTER news!" I shouted into the phone.
"Oh, dooo tell," she said, softening and now preparing, I assumed, to mock me in my drunken state.
"Guess who I just saw," I demanded, smiling as I did. "It's someone important!"
"One of your many cousins?" she asked.
"No, no," I said. "Important to you."
I steadfastly refused to tell her, despite her demands, but also told her she would regret not trying anyways. She relented.
Jane? No. Chrissy? No. Chip? No. My (her) parents, brother or my father? No, no and um, no way. She threatened to hang up.
"I found Otto!" I exclaimed.
"Otto van Otterson!" she said, laughing. "Where is he? You didn't try to talk to him, did you?"
I relayed the whole incident and she peppered me with questions. Was he wearing his suit? Yes, but it was a new suit, it appeared, and only one of each kind of clothes. How did he look? Healthy, but his hair was really long and his beard was, too.
"So was he wearing his silverware still?" she asked.
And there was the question I had hoped she would ask. He had, indeed. but there was something new and classy to relay.
"He had what appeared to be actual silver flatware," I said. "He also had a can opener next to his new knife."
I had spied the change from across the street, clearly seeing the utensil heads and heir dull sheen, the triangular head of the opener drawing the eye in a stark display against the other new element in his dress.
"He had a black handkerchief or maybe a fancy napkin in his pocke," I said.
Marcie cackled into the phone. "He was wearing his formal dinnerware," she said, cracking up. "He was, he was... he was probably headed to Saint Vincent De Paul for an important address at the General Asembly of the United Urchins!"
She gasped in ragged breaths and I stayed quiet after a chuckle, listening to her laugh and then, "Oooh, that's good, honey," she said. "Thank you for telling me. You're very thoughtful."
"I'm glad your friend is okay, honey," I said.
"So am I," she said. "Have fun tonight, and try not to overdo it."
I let that hang in the air a bit. It had already been overdone. But her happiness was very clea, as was her relief. I was in awe of her compassion, despite her teasing and mocking tone. She doted on Otto in her own way. That mothering again, I guessed.
"I love you honey," she said. "I'll see you later."
"Okay, baby," I said. "See you then."
And though she was relieved, she simply had to lay eyes on him herself. And while we stalked the ambassador, Herr Otto Van Otterson, Marcie would amaze me with her idea of what lay behind Otto's life.
Otto was living behind The Lamplighter, a karaoke bar in San Diego's Mission Hills. I may not have noticed him in my drunken state as I wandered out and enjoyed a cigarette after way too many drinks. Who knew "The Chauffer" by Duran Duran had so many fans?
Regardless, there I was, staring at a homeless person across the street who worked around the green-handled Mayfair shopping cart, his back hunched, turned to me. Then, with the successful attachment of a piece of wire to his junk-festooned carriage, the man turned.
Otto smiled and raised his hands in a grandiose expectation of applause. I could hear him above the din of the bar as he chuckled then warbled out a celebratory-sounding, "Rumanumanumanuma SKOP!"
He took the handle and, with some untranslable and nearly inaudible utterance, rolled out of sight. It was as if he knew he needed to be seen, my drunken mind told me.
I immediately called Marcie, who met my invitation to join me in a raucous night of debauchery and drink and song with derision earlier that night.
"Hello?" she asked, sounding annoyed.
"Hi, honey," I said. "I have good news!"
"What good news? That you're not nearly as drunk as you sound?" she asked. "Or that you will actually save your last buck and take the bus, not walk home at 2 and skip class tomorrow?"
Well, there was precedent. I had walked home several times to allow one more dirnk or a cup of coffee. It was a bad habit only because she worried.
"Mmmm BETTER news!" I shouted into the phone.
"Oh, dooo tell," she said, softening and now preparing, I assumed, to mock me in my drunken state.
"Guess who I just saw," I demanded, smiling as I did. "It's someone important!"
"One of your many cousins?" she asked.
"No, no," I said. "Important to you."
I steadfastly refused to tell her, despite her demands, but also told her she would regret not trying anyways. She relented.
Jane? No. Chrissy? No. Chip? No. My (her) parents, brother or my father? No, no and um, no way. She threatened to hang up.
"I found Otto!" I exclaimed.
"Otto van Otterson!" she said, laughing. "Where is he? You didn't try to talk to him, did you?"
I relayed the whole incident and she peppered me with questions. Was he wearing his suit? Yes, but it was a new suit, it appeared, and only one of each kind of clothes. How did he look? Healthy, but his hair was really long and his beard was, too.
"So was he wearing his silverware still?" she asked.
And there was the question I had hoped she would ask. He had, indeed. but there was something new and classy to relay.
"He had what appeared to be actual silver flatware," I said. "He also had a can opener next to his new knife."
I had spied the change from across the street, clearly seeing the utensil heads and heir dull sheen, the triangular head of the opener drawing the eye in a stark display against the other new element in his dress.
"He had a black handkerchief or maybe a fancy napkin in his pocke," I said.
Marcie cackled into the phone. "He was wearing his formal dinnerware," she said, cracking up. "He was, he was... he was probably headed to Saint Vincent De Paul for an important address at the General Asembly of the United Urchins!"
She gasped in ragged breaths and I stayed quiet after a chuckle, listening to her laugh and then, "Oooh, that's good, honey," she said. "Thank you for telling me. You're very thoughtful."
"I'm glad your friend is okay, honey," I said.
"So am I," she said. "Have fun tonight, and try not to overdo it."
I let that hang in the air a bit. It had already been overdone. But her happiness was very clea, as was her relief. I was in awe of her compassion, despite her teasing and mocking tone. She doted on Otto in her own way. That mothering again, I guessed.
"I love you honey," she said. "I'll see you later."
"Okay, baby," I said. "See you then."
And though she was relieved, she simply had to lay eyes on him herself. And while we stalked the ambassador, Herr Otto Van Otterson, Marcie would amaze me with her idea of what lay behind Otto's life.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Characters: "Otto Van Otterson" (pt.3)
Though he would come to be a familiar sight to us, we did not see Otto again immediately. In fact Marcie expressed her concern for him a month or so later, noting his absence from the environs surrounding CVS.
"Honey, remember my little friend Otto?" she asked, her lower lip out a bit. She looked sad.
I nodded as I prepared for tennis class. "Yes, I do... is he okay?"
"I don't know," she said, her hands going from palms up as she looked to the ceiling a moment, dropping against her thighs. The release of bottled-up tension was always like this for her. She was obviously a little upset.
I gave her a hug and tucked her head in my neck, getting a little kiss there for my efforts. She sighed.
"He's just so old and so nice, even if he is a little crazy, so he's vulnerable" she said. "I get worried because I never see him with a group, he's always alone. Now he's gone missing."
I sat her down and held her hands. "He's going to be fine," I said. "He has been there this long, he'll be there again when he wants to. Has he disappeared before?"
"Yes," she said, her voice higher. "But he usually just goes away for a month and it has been like three now."
"If he has been on the street this long, what makes you think he is vulnerable?" I asked.
"Well, I don't know," she said. "But he's a gentleman. I kind of look at him as the ambassador of the people wearing the crazy pants. He is dignified but different."
I guffawed and looked at her, giving her my "tell me more" wide-eyed, fascinated, eyebrow-arched look. She bit her lip and looked off into the corner and then back at me, holding and shaking both my hands at once, then letting go to gesticulate.
"Okay, so he always has a handkerchief in his breast pocket under his jacket," she said. "And he never says anything I can understand or the girl can, but it always sounds the same when he greets us as he walks in."
I nodded and lowered my head, mouth open, prompting a little. Marcie leaned in.
"It's like 'Gooda Morgadanga' which sounds like good morning, but he say it at any time of day," she said, her hands lazily circling as she dished a bit. "And he always adds this stuff to it, like 'jergamergagubbelmub," or some other gibberish. You heard him!"
I nodded. "So he's like the ambassador from the country of Pantalonia Loca? Where the river people wear their traditional crazy pants, multiple vests and watches for all of the possible time zones they could be in at any time? And they speak something Germanish, with extra babble?"
She smiled and her beautiful, more delicate cackle, more of a bubbling, lilting laugh, rolled out. She was reassured and happy again. "You forgot his official ambassadorial plasticware and napkin," she said.
"Well, what's that for?" I asked. "Is it something everyone in Pantalonia has?"
"Well, actually, I call his little country Riverland," she said. "And the plastic utensils are in case a meal breaks out and he has to think fast."
"Like an emergency diplomatic meal?" I asked, chuckling.
She fell forward again, laughing and doing her in-laugh. "Yes!" she gasped out. "Or in case he needs to bring his own utensils for a state dinner... at the... at the mission!"
She started regaining her composure.
"He has had the same golden plastic utensils forever, or he had a good supply of them," she said. "I saw him eat a whole McDonald's Happy Meal with them when I went to lunch with Amy once.'
She looked at me and sighed. "He was very careful to clean them all and place them in order, inside to outside, spoon, fork, knife, and to replace his napkin and put the little fold in it to make it all official."
I nodded and held her hands again. She kissed me on the cheek. I was going to be late.
"So you will tell me if you see him, right?" she asked.
"Oh, sweety, of course I will," I said. "I promise to keep an eye out for him."
And as luck would have it, Otto was not far away at all. If anything, he was closer then ever, if in a new venue.
"Honey, remember my little friend Otto?" she asked, her lower lip out a bit. She looked sad.
I nodded as I prepared for tennis class. "Yes, I do... is he okay?"
"I don't know," she said, her hands going from palms up as she looked to the ceiling a moment, dropping against her thighs. The release of bottled-up tension was always like this for her. She was obviously a little upset.
I gave her a hug and tucked her head in my neck, getting a little kiss there for my efforts. She sighed.
"He's just so old and so nice, even if he is a little crazy, so he's vulnerable" she said. "I get worried because I never see him with a group, he's always alone. Now he's gone missing."
I sat her down and held her hands. "He's going to be fine," I said. "He has been there this long, he'll be there again when he wants to. Has he disappeared before?"
"Yes," she said, her voice higher. "But he usually just goes away for a month and it has been like three now."
"If he has been on the street this long, what makes you think he is vulnerable?" I asked.
"Well, I don't know," she said. "But he's a gentleman. I kind of look at him as the ambassador of the people wearing the crazy pants. He is dignified but different."
I guffawed and looked at her, giving her my "tell me more" wide-eyed, fascinated, eyebrow-arched look. She bit her lip and looked off into the corner and then back at me, holding and shaking both my hands at once, then letting go to gesticulate.
"Okay, so he always has a handkerchief in his breast pocket under his jacket," she said. "And he never says anything I can understand or the girl can, but it always sounds the same when he greets us as he walks in."
I nodded and lowered my head, mouth open, prompting a little. Marcie leaned in.
"It's like 'Gooda Morgadanga' which sounds like good morning, but he say it at any time of day," she said, her hands lazily circling as she dished a bit. "And he always adds this stuff to it, like 'jergamergagubbelmub," or some other gibberish. You heard him!"
I nodded. "So he's like the ambassador from the country of Pantalonia Loca? Where the river people wear their traditional crazy pants, multiple vests and watches for all of the possible time zones they could be in at any time? And they speak something Germanish, with extra babble?"
She smiled and her beautiful, more delicate cackle, more of a bubbling, lilting laugh, rolled out. She was reassured and happy again. "You forgot his official ambassadorial plasticware and napkin," she said.
"Well, what's that for?" I asked. "Is it something everyone in Pantalonia has?"
"Well, actually, I call his little country Riverland," she said. "And the plastic utensils are in case a meal breaks out and he has to think fast."
"Like an emergency diplomatic meal?" I asked, chuckling.
She fell forward again, laughing and doing her in-laugh. "Yes!" she gasped out. "Or in case he needs to bring his own utensils for a state dinner... at the... at the mission!"
She started regaining her composure.
"He has had the same golden plastic utensils forever, or he had a good supply of them," she said. "I saw him eat a whole McDonald's Happy Meal with them when I went to lunch with Amy once.'
She looked at me and sighed. "He was very careful to clean them all and place them in order, inside to outside, spoon, fork, knife, and to replace his napkin and put the little fold in it to make it all official."
I nodded and held her hands again. She kissed me on the cheek. I was going to be late.
"So you will tell me if you see him, right?" she asked.
"Oh, sweety, of course I will," I said. "I promise to keep an eye out for him."
And as luck would have it, Otto was not far away at all. If anything, he was closer then ever, if in a new venue.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Characters: "Otto Van Otterson" (pt.2)
The random appearance of Otto on the bus Marcie used was a considerable diversion for her as we roamed the aisles at Ralph's loading our cart with goods. She was spilling over the whole time.
"Otto is one of our store urchins," she said. "I love that word. It totally conveys a sense of wretchedness, of abandonment."
"Isn't an urchin just an orphan or poor kid?" I asked.
Marcie bit her lip and rolled her eyes, pleased that she was about to impart some telling bit of knowledge on me. "It means poor and mischievous child," she said, touching my arm and then grabbing me to pull me close. "Or hedgehog!"
She made her "tongue slips out of her gaping mouth as her eyes open wide" before biting her lip, prompting me for the correct response.
"So Otto is like a mischievous urchin with a prickly side?" I asked.
"Yes!" she said. "He is toooootally mischievous and you have to be nice or he gets extremely offended."
I nodded and she turned, pushing the cart as she scanned apple sauce and explained. She was obviously relaying long-established lore, as she rattled off the tale without much focus.
"Otto, which is what everyone at work calls him, thanks to me, is full of the devil," she said. "He comes in, he goes up and down every aisle, he gets one of almost everything, then he comes up to buy it."
She started chuckling silently, suppressing her laughter in her chest. She turned to me and stopped the cart and let out one of her delighted guffaws. She looked off to the side and clapped her hands together, bouncing at her knees as she relayed the story.
"Okay, okay," she said. "So Otto brings up like an entire cart full of things to the counter EVERY time he comes in."
She continued, still bouncing and clapping, smiling.
"He wanders the whole store, and he makes a big production out of it all," she said. "Every thing he wants, he takes off the shelf, he inspects it with his glasses, which are different every time we see him and usually don't have lenses, then he holds it up high and drops it in the cart."
She demonstrated with a small box of granola bars, holding them up with her thumb and forefinger, then dropping them into our own cart, smiling smugly with her free hand on her hip, nonchalant.
"He smiles like this, like he has struck gold every time, and he looks at whoever is watching him or nearby," she said. "It's a crackup."
I nodded. "So he's proud of what he is buying? What does he buy?"
She leaned way back and then forward, smiling and bouncing again, clapping.
"Everything," she said. "It is so random. One time, he took every bottle of lens cleaner and rewetting drops off the shelf and loaded them onto his cart, then he piled a bunch of stuffed animals and every kind of candy we hadon top. Another time it was our cheap granny bras and trash bags with some soda and an empty battery display."
She was trying to hold in the big secret, so I prodded. "So that is a lot of money. How much did it cost to get all that?"
"It didn't matter," she said. "He'd pile it all into his cart, roll up to the counter and smile, then slowly have us check everything, saying nothing and just grinning from ear to ear with his little coin purse and wallet in his hand."
I nodded, wondering if it didn't matter because he was a well-to-do senior or because he seemed to have vast reserves of cash. It turned out that such a boring twist was not in the offing.
"It could be radios and walkmen and batteries and gum by the box or a ton of baseball cards or whatever, he just picked anything," she said. "When his cart was full, he would come up, smile and watch you put in all the prices. He watched you do it, then waited."
She stopped bouncing and clapping and looked at me, biting her lip a little sideways. She shook her head, "I learned my first day. I thought I was doing so well, and I kept asking if he wanted things behind the counter and he would nod or gesture. he had like $300 in stuff."
I nodded and her hands went to her hips as she tilted her head sideways.
"And wouldn't you know it? He only had two dollars," she said, smiling, then laughing. "It's funny now, but I was mad. Then he took like ten minutes to choose a pack of gum, a box of cookies and a mini Kleenex pack."
She tilted her head back a little and smiled, then let her eyes close. "I was... sooo... mad. I could have screamed. I could have just screamed. It took me an hour to put everything back. The girls thought it was a big joke."
I was chuckling with her. "So what did you do after that? Kick him out of the store?"
"Oh, no," she said. "I would let him wander around and if he came up to me, I just looked in his cart, tapped on the register and said, 'Okay that will be a million dollars, sir!' and he would give me his money, then I would tell him how much stuff to pick for his budget."
"Well, that was nice of you," I said. "Was it always kleenex and gum?"
"No," she said, clapping and bouncing again, looking off then at me. "I usually had him get a watch, some candy and a random hygiene item. Then he was out of money and had to go. I would have one of the girls put his things back. They hated him."
"So how did you end up naming him?"
"I noticed him and I knew I wanted to keep an eye out for him, because he was just this totally fascinating character," she said. "So I gave him a name."
"Why Otto?" I asked.
"Because he speaks his own little language and it sounds like German, but it's nonsense and he only speaks to himself usually," she said. "You heard it on the bus."
Indeed I had. "So why is he named Otto van Otterson?" I asked.
Marcie looked at me and leaned in close. "Because he is like one of the river people" she whispered conspiratorially. "And I can imagine him floating on his back, speaking his language and backstroking down the San Diego River."
Her eyes went wide, and she looked at me as if she had just let me in on a huge secret. I appreciated the little story with a chuckle and added, "I guess I could see that."
It was quite the image, but Marcie had even more to relay. Otto was more than an urchin to her.
Otto had his own mythos, and every time we saw him, she told me more. Soon, it seemed, we saw him everywhere we went.
"Otto is one of our store urchins," she said. "I love that word. It totally conveys a sense of wretchedness, of abandonment."
"Isn't an urchin just an orphan or poor kid?" I asked.
Marcie bit her lip and rolled her eyes, pleased that she was about to impart some telling bit of knowledge on me. "It means poor and mischievous child," she said, touching my arm and then grabbing me to pull me close. "Or hedgehog!"
She made her "tongue slips out of her gaping mouth as her eyes open wide" before biting her lip, prompting me for the correct response.
"So Otto is like a mischievous urchin with a prickly side?" I asked.
"Yes!" she said. "He is toooootally mischievous and you have to be nice or he gets extremely offended."
I nodded and she turned, pushing the cart as she scanned apple sauce and explained. She was obviously relaying long-established lore, as she rattled off the tale without much focus.
"Otto, which is what everyone at work calls him, thanks to me, is full of the devil," she said. "He comes in, he goes up and down every aisle, he gets one of almost everything, then he comes up to buy it."
She started chuckling silently, suppressing her laughter in her chest. She turned to me and stopped the cart and let out one of her delighted guffaws. She looked off to the side and clapped her hands together, bouncing at her knees as she relayed the story.
"Okay, okay," she said. "So Otto brings up like an entire cart full of things to the counter EVERY time he comes in."
She continued, still bouncing and clapping, smiling.
"He wanders the whole store, and he makes a big production out of it all," she said. "Every thing he wants, he takes off the shelf, he inspects it with his glasses, which are different every time we see him and usually don't have lenses, then he holds it up high and drops it in the cart."
She demonstrated with a small box of granola bars, holding them up with her thumb and forefinger, then dropping them into our own cart, smiling smugly with her free hand on her hip, nonchalant.
"He smiles like this, like he has struck gold every time, and he looks at whoever is watching him or nearby," she said. "It's a crackup."
I nodded. "So he's proud of what he is buying? What does he buy?"
She leaned way back and then forward, smiling and bouncing again, clapping.
"Everything," she said. "It is so random. One time, he took every bottle of lens cleaner and rewetting drops off the shelf and loaded them onto his cart, then he piled a bunch of stuffed animals and every kind of candy we hadon top. Another time it was our cheap granny bras and trash bags with some soda and an empty battery display."
She was trying to hold in the big secret, so I prodded. "So that is a lot of money. How much did it cost to get all that?"
"It didn't matter," she said. "He'd pile it all into his cart, roll up to the counter and smile, then slowly have us check everything, saying nothing and just grinning from ear to ear with his little coin purse and wallet in his hand."
I nodded, wondering if it didn't matter because he was a well-to-do senior or because he seemed to have vast reserves of cash. It turned out that such a boring twist was not in the offing.
"It could be radios and walkmen and batteries and gum by the box or a ton of baseball cards or whatever, he just picked anything," she said. "When his cart was full, he would come up, smile and watch you put in all the prices. He watched you do it, then waited."
She stopped bouncing and clapping and looked at me, biting her lip a little sideways. She shook her head, "I learned my first day. I thought I was doing so well, and I kept asking if he wanted things behind the counter and he would nod or gesture. he had like $300 in stuff."
I nodded and her hands went to her hips as she tilted her head sideways.
"And wouldn't you know it? He only had two dollars," she said, smiling, then laughing. "It's funny now, but I was mad. Then he took like ten minutes to choose a pack of gum, a box of cookies and a mini Kleenex pack."
She tilted her head back a little and smiled, then let her eyes close. "I was... sooo... mad. I could have screamed. I could have just screamed. It took me an hour to put everything back. The girls thought it was a big joke."
I was chuckling with her. "So what did you do after that? Kick him out of the store?"
"Oh, no," she said. "I would let him wander around and if he came up to me, I just looked in his cart, tapped on the register and said, 'Okay that will be a million dollars, sir!' and he would give me his money, then I would tell him how much stuff to pick for his budget."
"Well, that was nice of you," I said. "Was it always kleenex and gum?"
"No," she said, clapping and bouncing again, looking off then at me. "I usually had him get a watch, some candy and a random hygiene item. Then he was out of money and had to go. I would have one of the girls put his things back. They hated him."
"So how did you end up naming him?"
"I noticed him and I knew I wanted to keep an eye out for him, because he was just this totally fascinating character," she said. "So I gave him a name."
"Why Otto?" I asked.
"Because he speaks his own little language and it sounds like German, but it's nonsense and he only speaks to himself usually," she said. "You heard it on the bus."
Indeed I had. "So why is he named Otto van Otterson?" I asked.
Marcie looked at me and leaned in close. "Because he is like one of the river people" she whispered conspiratorially. "And I can imagine him floating on his back, speaking his language and backstroking down the San Diego River."
Her eyes went wide, and she looked at me as if she had just let me in on a huge secret. I appreciated the little story with a chuckle and added, "I guess I could see that."
It was quite the image, but Marcie had even more to relay. Otto was more than an urchin to her.
Otto had his own mythos, and every time we saw him, she told me more. Soon, it seemed, we saw him everywhere we went.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Characters: "Otto Van Otterson" (pt.1)
The Route 1 bus lurched to a squealing halt and the air in the hydraulics fired off as the door opened and the bus lowered. Marcie stared at the bus stop.
A laughing and rustling sound of paper bags slipped lazily into the cabin and the driver rolled her eyes, looking into the mirror bored.
"Oh my god, honey, don't look, don't look..." Marcie whisperes, grabbing my arm with one hand, hiding her face behind her ever-ready People magazine with the other and looking at me behind it wide-eyed, smiling and obviously keyed up.
Of course, this usually meant I had to look. Marcie would likely be asking me questions about the experience she told me to avoid. I looked and Marcie ducked her head completely into her lap, her magazine over the top and back.
"Heeee hee, ohmigod, stop, ohmigod," she squealed under her breath.
There would definitely be a quiz later. I paid close attention.
An elderly and scruffy gentleman clambered onto the bus, each foot stopping on each step, side by side one step at a time. He stared down as if to watch closely for any danger at his feet, then stomped as he reached the top, nodding to the driver.
"Muhuh?" he laughed, gesturing around at the bus and scanning me and my fellow riders as if asking a question. "Muzzum Muzzum Muzzum."
He was dressed in a brown, pinstriped suit, a derby hat and tie, all somewhat grimy. Beneath his buttoned jacket one could discern several different shirts, all button up, all enclosed by a tie, their collars stacked and close on his throat.
"You have your fare, sir?" the driver asked, her impatient face obviously familiar to the point of some tired contempt. She bit her lip and glared in the mirror.
"Muzzum, Muzzum," he said, clearly affirmatively, then pulled two crumpled bills from his pocket and raising them high over his head, his free hand now sweeping toward the back of the bus as he glanced around again.
I understood the gesture and offered him applause. He bowed and then deosited the bills into the farebox. The bus driver glared at me now.
"You need to not encourage him or we are never getting out of here," she said.
Marcie grabbed my arm, still hiding her face, but obviously laughing under the magazine, and pulled me onto the bench.
"Eh heh shesh mechuzzum muh," the odd man said, smiling at the driver with his hand out, another cocked on his hip. He looked away smugly, waggling his head a bit.
"You want a transfer?" the driver asked, snatching one of her pad and slapping it into his hand.
He snapped it into his palm, crumpling it and shoving it into his pocket in a smooth and practiced way, then picked up his half dozen grocery bags. Their contents were a mystery, but I inspected him discreetly as he strutted past in his own little world.
He was a hodgepodge of accoutrement. In place of a handkerchief in his pocket, he had donned a fresh paper napkin and, quite carefully placed, a spoon, fork and knife set against it. He wore a watch on each wrist, and several bits of string, plastic binding and even a white plastic grocery bag on them as well. He bore a lapel pin. It was Underdog.
His personal hygiene was a mixed bag. When he passed by, a strange mix of Old Spice, stale water and roting feet wafted past. He had a gray and white beard that was not well-trimmed but appeared impeccably combed. His fingernails were clean but his hands were filthy. He was a walking contradiction.
He looked around at each person as he walked by, and Marcie stayed down, squeezing my arm as she saw his broken, stained white Keds shuffle past. He sat in the back of the bus and immediately set his face against the window, flattening his cheek as he arranged his bags without looking.
"Ohhh, that is one of our regulars," Marcie said as he passed. "He is a total character. He is like, my favorite CVS urchin ever, but I don't want him to see me when I am not in the store. He stares at me a lot."
I nodded, suddenly imagining something more sinister than eccentric. "Does he bother you? Do you want me to talk to him?"
She looked at me and gave me her, "Are you THAT stupid?" look.
"Honey, he doesn't do it because he's menacing, he's harmless," she said. "God."
She was quiet for a minute as we rolled through Banker's Hill. In a sudden moment of inspiration, she grabbed my hand again and turned to me, whispering. "Did you see his shirts? I think he just layers them on when they get dirty!"
I nodded, and added, "And I think he just ties things to his wrists or puts whatever he finds on like a bracelet. He was also wearing two watches."
"Oh, Oh my god," she said, slapping my thigh with her other hand excitedly as she bit her lip then whispered, extra quietly. "He looks at watches every time he comes into CVS. He has like three watches on chains, one for each vest."
I shook my head and as we hopped of the bus outside of "Gay Ralph's" in Hillcrest, Marcie was holding my hand, obviously pleased to have seen the CVS regular in our area.
She stopped me as the bus pulled off, and said, "Okay, let's wave to Otto!"
And so I did, as his faced, plastered to the bus window, rolled by. He waved back.
"Otto?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. "Otto Van Otterson. That is what I call him. I don't know his real name, actually. I can't ask him because I don't think he ever really talks."
There was much to know about Otto, as I would find out. But there was even more to enjoy in what Marcie filled in the gaps in her knowledge of him with.
A laughing and rustling sound of paper bags slipped lazily into the cabin and the driver rolled her eyes, looking into the mirror bored.
"Oh my god, honey, don't look, don't look..." Marcie whisperes, grabbing my arm with one hand, hiding her face behind her ever-ready People magazine with the other and looking at me behind it wide-eyed, smiling and obviously keyed up.
Of course, this usually meant I had to look. Marcie would likely be asking me questions about the experience she told me to avoid. I looked and Marcie ducked her head completely into her lap, her magazine over the top and back.
"Heeee hee, ohmigod, stop, ohmigod," she squealed under her breath.
There would definitely be a quiz later. I paid close attention.
An elderly and scruffy gentleman clambered onto the bus, each foot stopping on each step, side by side one step at a time. He stared down as if to watch closely for any danger at his feet, then stomped as he reached the top, nodding to the driver.
"Muhuh?" he laughed, gesturing around at the bus and scanning me and my fellow riders as if asking a question. "Muzzum Muzzum Muzzum."
He was dressed in a brown, pinstriped suit, a derby hat and tie, all somewhat grimy. Beneath his buttoned jacket one could discern several different shirts, all button up, all enclosed by a tie, their collars stacked and close on his throat.
"You have your fare, sir?" the driver asked, her impatient face obviously familiar to the point of some tired contempt. She bit her lip and glared in the mirror.
"Muzzum, Muzzum," he said, clearly affirmatively, then pulled two crumpled bills from his pocket and raising them high over his head, his free hand now sweeping toward the back of the bus as he glanced around again.
I understood the gesture and offered him applause. He bowed and then deosited the bills into the farebox. The bus driver glared at me now.
"You need to not encourage him or we are never getting out of here," she said.
Marcie grabbed my arm, still hiding her face, but obviously laughing under the magazine, and pulled me onto the bench.
"Eh heh shesh mechuzzum muh," the odd man said, smiling at the driver with his hand out, another cocked on his hip. He looked away smugly, waggling his head a bit.
"You want a transfer?" the driver asked, snatching one of her pad and slapping it into his hand.
He snapped it into his palm, crumpling it and shoving it into his pocket in a smooth and practiced way, then picked up his half dozen grocery bags. Their contents were a mystery, but I inspected him discreetly as he strutted past in his own little world.
He was a hodgepodge of accoutrement. In place of a handkerchief in his pocket, he had donned a fresh paper napkin and, quite carefully placed, a spoon, fork and knife set against it. He wore a watch on each wrist, and several bits of string, plastic binding and even a white plastic grocery bag on them as well. He bore a lapel pin. It was Underdog.
His personal hygiene was a mixed bag. When he passed by, a strange mix of Old Spice, stale water and roting feet wafted past. He had a gray and white beard that was not well-trimmed but appeared impeccably combed. His fingernails were clean but his hands were filthy. He was a walking contradiction.
He looked around at each person as he walked by, and Marcie stayed down, squeezing my arm as she saw his broken, stained white Keds shuffle past. He sat in the back of the bus and immediately set his face against the window, flattening his cheek as he arranged his bags without looking.
"Ohhh, that is one of our regulars," Marcie said as he passed. "He is a total character. He is like, my favorite CVS urchin ever, but I don't want him to see me when I am not in the store. He stares at me a lot."
I nodded, suddenly imagining something more sinister than eccentric. "Does he bother you? Do you want me to talk to him?"
She looked at me and gave me her, "Are you THAT stupid?" look.
"Honey, he doesn't do it because he's menacing, he's harmless," she said. "God."
She was quiet for a minute as we rolled through Banker's Hill. In a sudden moment of inspiration, she grabbed my hand again and turned to me, whispering. "Did you see his shirts? I think he just layers them on when they get dirty!"
I nodded, and added, "And I think he just ties things to his wrists or puts whatever he finds on like a bracelet. He was also wearing two watches."
"Oh, Oh my god," she said, slapping my thigh with her other hand excitedly as she bit her lip then whispered, extra quietly. "He looks at watches every time he comes into CVS. He has like three watches on chains, one for each vest."
I shook my head and as we hopped of the bus outside of "Gay Ralph's" in Hillcrest, Marcie was holding my hand, obviously pleased to have seen the CVS regular in our area.
She stopped me as the bus pulled off, and said, "Okay, let's wave to Otto!"
And so I did, as his faced, plastered to the bus window, rolled by. He waved back.
"Otto?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. "Otto Van Otterson. That is what I call him. I don't know his real name, actually. I can't ask him because I don't think he ever really talks."
There was much to know about Otto, as I would find out. But there was even more to enjoy in what Marcie filled in the gaps in her knowledge of him with.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
A little more notice
I received an email from someone who argued that there was some kind of sour grapes involved in what I have written in some places on this blog. There are not.
Marcie loved the people in her life, despite a lot of pain she faced. To show the strength of that love, it is important that the reader have an inkling of the obstacles she faced in maintaining it.
I certainly do not feel comfortable with some of the stories I relay here. Many of them lay bare some of my own faults, some of which I have since, with Marcie's help, buried and moved on from. But they cannot be hidden without obscuring the real story.
Marcie was silent and often asked me to hold my tongue. I won't do that, since every time I didn't, she seemed to benefit.
Why would I change that now?
Thanks for reading onward, thanks for writing in. More to come.
Marcie loved the people in her life, despite a lot of pain she faced. To show the strength of that love, it is important that the reader have an inkling of the obstacles she faced in maintaining it.
I certainly do not feel comfortable with some of the stories I relay here. Many of them lay bare some of my own faults, some of which I have since, with Marcie's help, buried and moved on from. But they cannot be hidden without obscuring the real story.
Marcie was silent and often asked me to hold my tongue. I won't do that, since every time I didn't, she seemed to benefit.
Why would I change that now?
Thanks for reading onward, thanks for writing in. More to come.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Notice
Since a family member requested it, I have pulled three posts for now. I originally intended to back-side publish them but they went live instead of into my drafts. At this point, however, I am going to lay a few things out:
-Someone called a family member and alarmed them.
If you have an issue with the blog, write to me. I will deal with permissions and issues like this on my own.
-The family member mentioned posts including Marcie's and my intimacy
I am writing abook about Marcie that Marcie would want to read even if it was about someone else. It will be honest, occasionally very direct and it will be adult when it is appropriate and true.
-Issues of privacy and Marcie being a "private person."
I do not consider this a valid concern. Marcie put up with a lot and it was admirable. I will not cut back on the full details except perhaps to mask an identity slightly that is otherwise innocent. Maybe.
My editorial outlook and truth are all that will control what is in the book. I have 183 separate posts not published on the active, visible blog and reserved for the book. When I decide to start publishing items, there will be short narratives first.
If it is true, I will do my best to protect feelings. I will not, however, lie, or paint an incomplete picture for the comfort of everyone who might see it. This blog is my property and I will judge retractions on a case by case basis.
The posts will be replaced with something that tells the tale with less identifying data.
To the person who called the family member: please write me an email or call me at my number and let's talk. One way or another, you need to speak your peace, too.
That is it for now, folks. But there is more coming, and we may be going invite-only. But this much is for sure: if I know you and you have something to say, be direct.
As for the truth and Marcie's life, it is fair game for publishing and only my choice to respect the wishes of others rules in regards to the truthful description of events and people in it.
-Someone called a family member and alarmed them.
If you have an issue with the blog, write to me. I will deal with permissions and issues like this on my own.
-The family member mentioned posts including Marcie's and my intimacy
I am writing abook about Marcie that Marcie would want to read even if it was about someone else. It will be honest, occasionally very direct and it will be adult when it is appropriate and true.
-Issues of privacy and Marcie being a "private person."
I do not consider this a valid concern. Marcie put up with a lot and it was admirable. I will not cut back on the full details except perhaps to mask an identity slightly that is otherwise innocent. Maybe.
My editorial outlook and truth are all that will control what is in the book. I have 183 separate posts not published on the active, visible blog and reserved for the book. When I decide to start publishing items, there will be short narratives first.
If it is true, I will do my best to protect feelings. I will not, however, lie, or paint an incomplete picture for the comfort of everyone who might see it. This blog is my property and I will judge retractions on a case by case basis.
The posts will be replaced with something that tells the tale with less identifying data.
To the person who called the family member: please write me an email or call me at my number and let's talk. One way or another, you need to speak your peace, too.
That is it for now, folks. But there is more coming, and we may be going invite-only. But this much is for sure: if I know you and you have something to say, be direct.
As for the truth and Marcie's life, it is fair game for publishing and only my choice to respect the wishes of others rules in regards to the truthful description of events and people in it.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Before the Quirks
As I reflected on the aspects of Marcie that made her so unique, I realized that I would not be giving a whole or complete view of her without extolling some of the things I admired about her.
Quirks and unique eccentricities and creative things are all things we enjoyed. But what we sometimes overlook are those aspects of people which define their person.
Marcie was a mother. She did not have children, nor did she want them. But understanding her meant knowing what she did, and what she did was take care of people.
Marcie provided everyone she cared for with love. It was not always the unconditional acceptance they wanted from her, but it was love nonetheless. She underwent much for family and friends, put herself out when necessary and generally wrapped us all in blanket of her beneficence.
Marcie transformed the way I thought of mothers and the function of mothering itself. In my own experience, there were few positive models to build a view of mothers. Those I had were flawed in ways that had somehow harmed me or caused disdain.
My own had left when I was turning nine to essentially run around with criminals. I knew many "can't wait until they are 18" types who smacked me as more inconvenienced than happy about their motherhood.
In foster care, I met single mothers, some of whom became welfare mothers, some of whom would desperately cling to the nearest man who would look at them. Divorce and inconstancy of heart was everywhere and broken children the norm for me.
Foster mothers? We won't even go there. Suffice to say that in the 1980s, there was a shortage of them and the business end of it all was good, and they knew it.
Mothers weren't doing too well in my book.
Marcie and I had a very good relationship on a lot of levels. But what swayed me, so very opposed early on to marriage, to decide I could marry her was that she took care of me as much like a mother as she did a lover.
Don't get me wrong here. She was not my mother by any measure. But she illustrated a better and more motherly aspect in her relationships, including ours, than most women I had known in lie.
She had a lot of practice at it, and I am making a list of the weight she carried in her life, as mother to all, even her own.
I will post that in detail, then something closer to her and me afterward before we explore her quirks, starting with her characters.
Quirks and unique eccentricities and creative things are all things we enjoyed. But what we sometimes overlook are those aspects of people which define their person.
Marcie was a mother. She did not have children, nor did she want them. But understanding her meant knowing what she did, and what she did was take care of people.
Marcie provided everyone she cared for with love. It was not always the unconditional acceptance they wanted from her, but it was love nonetheless. She underwent much for family and friends, put herself out when necessary and generally wrapped us all in blanket of her beneficence.
Marcie transformed the way I thought of mothers and the function of mothering itself. In my own experience, there were few positive models to build a view of mothers. Those I had were flawed in ways that had somehow harmed me or caused disdain.
My own had left when I was turning nine to essentially run around with criminals. I knew many "can't wait until they are 18" types who smacked me as more inconvenienced than happy about their motherhood.
In foster care, I met single mothers, some of whom became welfare mothers, some of whom would desperately cling to the nearest man who would look at them. Divorce and inconstancy of heart was everywhere and broken children the norm for me.
Foster mothers? We won't even go there. Suffice to say that in the 1980s, there was a shortage of them and the business end of it all was good, and they knew it.
Mothers weren't doing too well in my book.
Marcie and I had a very good relationship on a lot of levels. But what swayed me, so very opposed early on to marriage, to decide I could marry her was that she took care of me as much like a mother as she did a lover.
Don't get me wrong here. She was not my mother by any measure. But she illustrated a better and more motherly aspect in her relationships, including ours, than most women I had known in lie.
She had a lot of practice at it, and I am making a list of the weight she carried in her life, as mother to all, even her own.
I will post that in detail, then something closer to her and me afterward before we explore her quirks, starting with her characters.
Friday, June 6, 2008
The Quirks of Queen Marcie - Characters
Among Marcie's most endearing quirks was her curiosity about people and their lives. This came, of course, from her innate voyeuristic tendencies and intellectual curiosity, but it also beautifully stimulated one of her most wonderful qualities, her creative side.
Marcie was not content to simply people-watch, but her usually reserved nature meant that she never asked the questions of people she most wondered about. She simply wondered and imagined the answers for herself.
Usually, the answers were, when combined with her detailed observations, hilarious.
As the first of her quirks I will explore, I wanted to nail down what she called "characters." This label was based on their actions and qualities, but with fanciful embellishments, they became characters in the literary sense, fully fleshed and realized in Marcie's mind.
It was a privilege to hear her stories, true, imagined, or mixed gleefully for her own internal amusement, and I hope you enjoy them. Our cast includes:
"Otto Van Otterson," "RiverMannonite," "MumbletyPeggy," and "The Shaker." These are people about whom Marcie thought her most fanciful things and convulted, unfounded but amusing stories.
I hope that, over the next week or so, you enjoy exploring this foremost among Marcie's quirks, her ability to amuse herself by filling in the details she does not have with those she would most enjoy.
Marcie was not content to simply people-watch, but her usually reserved nature meant that she never asked the questions of people she most wondered about. She simply wondered and imagined the answers for herself.
Usually, the answers were, when combined with her detailed observations, hilarious.
As the first of her quirks I will explore, I wanted to nail down what she called "characters." This label was based on their actions and qualities, but with fanciful embellishments, they became characters in the literary sense, fully fleshed and realized in Marcie's mind.
It was a privilege to hear her stories, true, imagined, or mixed gleefully for her own internal amusement, and I hope you enjoy them. Our cast includes:
"Otto Van Otterson," "RiverMannonite," "MumbletyPeggy," and "The Shaker." These are people about whom Marcie thought her most fanciful things and convulted, unfounded but amusing stories.
I hope that, over the next week or so, you enjoy exploring this foremost among Marcie's quirks, her ability to amuse herself by filling in the details she does not have with those she would most enjoy.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Marcie's quirks
Marcie had some quirks, as we all do. For me, they were endearing little aberrations which led me to her more strongly. I think I will reflect on these before they are lost over the next few days, as they are just as important a part of her as all the things that were conventionally good.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
The Big Scrap
I will be building a big gallery of Marcie's pictures, both from her albums and from the boxes of loose pictures she left behind. This will be a long-term project. I intend to make it a social project so that people can help classify and label the photos.
I will sen more information as the project develops. This will not be easy for me. I have avoided flipping through pictures and albums with people because I get overwhelmed. Just be patient...
Thanks, folks.
I will sen more information as the project develops. This will not be easy for me. I have avoided flipping through pictures and albums with people because I get overwhelmed. Just be patient...
Thanks, folks.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Just a simple sharing post
Marcie was worried that I would be too overwhelmed to function when she left me behind. We spent sad days preparing and making sure I knew where to find materials, checkbooks, bills, records and all manner of household business items.
I have had occasion to change my insurance and add new documents to the pile I keep in the Elantra. But I never took apart the whole bundle when I did, I discovered another one of Marcie's little notes, guiding me on what she thought I might not understand.
It doesn't matter that I may not have needed it. It was her way of nesting a note somewhere I would find it months later. I still hope to find more.
I have had occasion to change my insurance and add new documents to the pile I keep in the Elantra. But I never took apart the whole bundle when I did, I discovered another one of Marcie's little notes, guiding me on what she thought I might not understand.
It doesn't matter that I may not have needed it. It was her way of nesting a note somewhere I would find it months later. I still hope to find more.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Affirmation: Another Note
I have always wondered if these dreams constitute any connection between Marcie and I, or if they are just the workings of my mind, weaving tapestries to occupy my thoughts and soothe me.
I have explained how I feel about the intertwining of phenomena and perception, especially as it regards the potential for life and ego survival beyond death. But a path to acceptance of life after death does not a proof make.
Regardless, the merest of coincidences can do so much for me as I face Marcie's absence. She seemed to have wanted me to run into her in my daily life long after she was gone. Her presence, as was the case before her death, is one of assistance and a deep understanding of me.
I have found another note. This note clarified a part of our lives and a function I have to assume that Marcie previously handled for us. I will share it tomorrow, when I have had time to fully formulate a context that relays the depth the simple missive otherwise hides from the reader.
Have a good Sunday, folks. F.
I have explained how I feel about the intertwining of phenomena and perception, especially as it regards the potential for life and ego survival beyond death. But a path to acceptance of life after death does not a proof make.
Regardless, the merest of coincidences can do so much for me as I face Marcie's absence. She seemed to have wanted me to run into her in my daily life long after she was gone. Her presence, as was the case before her death, is one of assistance and a deep understanding of me.
I have found another note. This note clarified a part of our lives and a function I have to assume that Marcie previously handled for us. I will share it tomorrow, when I have had time to fully formulate a context that relays the depth the simple missive otherwise hides from the reader.
Have a good Sunday, folks. F.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
A Mistrust of Praise (Conclusion)
"You are so beautiful," I said, holding her hand and kissing her forehead.
She looked at me dubiously and croaked, "You don't have to say that."
Her voice was a hoarse, breathless whisper. I heard it as much with my heart as with my ears. I had waited two days to hear it again, and I was in tears that I had my chance.
"You are so beautiful," I said. "You inspire me, you make me a better man and a better person. I am in love and have been for 14 years. You teach me, you love me, you take care of me and you have grown up with me."
She looked, her eyes uneven, one pupil larger than the other. She could not see me well, I knew. But her hearing would be the last thing, and she needed to hear it all. Spasm or not, she squeezed my hand. Her eyes closed. I squeezed back.
"You are and have always been the most loyal, sweet, smart, kind, thoughtful, generous, adventurous, glamorous, sexy and loving woman I have ever met," I said.
She gulped and I kissed her cheek.
"You are the greatest honor I have ever been given, and I say given because do not know that I have ever earned or deserved you or even had a hope of really being worthy," I said.
Tears slid out of her eyes and she mouthed "You have," then eked out, "You are, honey."
I felt the hot trail of my tears burn down my cheeks as I continued to recall my list of things to say. "I didn't always praise you at the beginning. I was afraid that you would take me for granted or maybe you would take advantage, I was insecure," I said "I'm sorry."
She nodded at it all and I kissed her nose, letting a tear mix with hers before I gently wiped her cheeks and rasped "I am glad I got over it, and I always meant what I told you about how good you are."
She opened her eyes and the strength of her voice startled me. "I am glad too, honey," she said, then, her voice fading again, she added "You always said what you felt."
I knew she was tired and I leaned down. "I love you, beautiful," I said.
She looked up at me with her eyes slit and mouthed, "I know." A rueful half-smile almost formed and she was out again. It was a gentle joke to lighten the moment. I kissed her again and her breathing was the slow, familiar rhythm it had become.
I knew she accepted at least my own praise, and that I had offered her as much as she could handle in a moment of wakefulness. She accepted not my praise of her baking or cooking, which she could dismiss as a recipe and secretly enjoy, but of her.
To get that acceptance and see her lightly revel in my attention was an honor in its own right.
She looked at me dubiously and croaked, "You don't have to say that."
Her voice was a hoarse, breathless whisper. I heard it as much with my heart as with my ears. I had waited two days to hear it again, and I was in tears that I had my chance.
"You are so beautiful," I said. "You inspire me, you make me a better man and a better person. I am in love and have been for 14 years. You teach me, you love me, you take care of me and you have grown up with me."
She looked, her eyes uneven, one pupil larger than the other. She could not see me well, I knew. But her hearing would be the last thing, and she needed to hear it all. Spasm or not, she squeezed my hand. Her eyes closed. I squeezed back.
"You are and have always been the most loyal, sweet, smart, kind, thoughtful, generous, adventurous, glamorous, sexy and loving woman I have ever met," I said.
She gulped and I kissed her cheek.
"You are the greatest honor I have ever been given, and I say given because do not know that I have ever earned or deserved you or even had a hope of really being worthy," I said.
Tears slid out of her eyes and she mouthed "You have," then eked out, "You are, honey."
I felt the hot trail of my tears burn down my cheeks as I continued to recall my list of things to say. "I didn't always praise you at the beginning. I was afraid that you would take me for granted or maybe you would take advantage, I was insecure," I said "I'm sorry."
She nodded at it all and I kissed her nose, letting a tear mix with hers before I gently wiped her cheeks and rasped "I am glad I got over it, and I always meant what I told you about how good you are."
She opened her eyes and the strength of her voice startled me. "I am glad too, honey," she said, then, her voice fading again, she added "You always said what you felt."
I knew she was tired and I leaned down. "I love you, beautiful," I said.
She looked up at me with her eyes slit and mouthed, "I know." A rueful half-smile almost formed and she was out again. It was a gentle joke to lighten the moment. I kissed her again and her breathing was the slow, familiar rhythm it had become.
I knew she accepted at least my own praise, and that I had offered her as much as she could handle in a moment of wakefulness. She accepted not my praise of her baking or cooking, which she could dismiss as a recipe and secretly enjoy, but of her.
To get that acceptance and see her lightly revel in my attention was an honor in its own right.