Lessons in the Mansion of my Heart-Conclusion?

I woke into the dream and the warmth of her on my lap. She was listening but looking at me often and smiling. I didn't understand the whole thing at all, everything was in broken stutters and rapid clicking and syllables, all running together in bits I could discern then not.

For some reason, I decided to speak, "I don't think I understand," I said. "Could you repeat that more slowly?" I asked, looking at the last person to speak, a man who had a vaguely familiar face.

"The point is that we don't break down all the barriers we build up until we come here, because they don't come with us," he said. "So, we were discussing how barriers are built, and how much easier things are when they never are put in place."

I nodded, and he continued.

"Barriers are protection, and they keep us from feeling vulnerable, even when they are figurative," he said. "But barriers limit us, not just the world around us, so it's more of a weakness to have them than a strength."

Gary cut in at this point and I looked up at him. Marcie squeezed my hand... "Listen..."

"The main discussion is about the stuff outside your house, there, Frank," he said. You build the barrier, you don't just lose the contact with the people you want to lose it with, or the exposure to them, but a lot of other things never some to knock on your door."

I looked out through the weird window and the mountains beyond and saw piles of stone and wood, barbed wire and building materials. a small assemblage of vehicles, tractors and trucks, seemed to be parked close by.

"That would be one big wall, and a lot of barrier to get through or over," Gary said, continuing as I inspected the faraway scene. "We were just talking about how few fences you have, but how much of a maze your world is to navigate as is."

I nodded. I looked into Marcie's eyes, their blue brilliant and glowing a bit, as I was used to now in these dreams.

Marcie whispered, "Honey, if you build it up, you'll never tear it down, and someday it will just be you in a crumbling mansion, with no way to get out from behind it and grow." Somehow, silently, the class disappeared, and she was all that was left, and stroked my nape as she talked to me quietly, melodically.

I looked in her eyes and smiled, bit my lip, "Well, a lot of things keep landing on my doorstep that I don't want because the house is so open."

"You don't have to answer every time, and you don't have to ask people in past the foyer, and you don't have to let the ones you keep into the innermost part of your heart, you just have to keep making room when you need to, and let people wander around and out, if they want." she said.

I nodded and gulped, and she cupped my face, something only she ever really did in all my life. It had been so long since I felt it, I had almost forgotten that special touch. But it was so vibrant, real. I felt hot tears.

"Don't make a fortress out of your mansion, because I love that place the way it is, and so do you," she said. "Just keep it in mind, and keep your heart open. I know you'll get more joy out of being the wild and untamed man you should be than some crazy hermit in a castle."

I looked up and realized she meant more than just my thoughts to be less open, and that some of the other ideas I had in my life may be just as strong for barriers as a hard heart.

"Okay, I will wander but I won't isolate myself," I said. "But sometimes I am going to need to retreat. It's all way too much sometimes, and I am not my best when it is."

She nodded and smiled, "You know where our friends are, and you know who really loves you, so don't retreat, just go love them back a little."

The dream ended with a kiss, and my pillow and face were wet. It was 5:25 AM, so I stayed up and watched the sun rise over Mt. Helix. It was cold in the morning again, but I did not really feel it overmuch. When the ground was lit, I went home.

Lessons in The Mansion of my Heart-2

I watched her sway around and put on her jewelry. She was always so simple in her tastes for it. Here, in the opulence of this place, she still wore simple earrings, with little blue stones hanging from hair-thin but brilliant golden threads.

She smiled at me in the mirror as I watched, then said, "You should get up and get ready, we are meeting some friends on the other side of campus."

I got up and seemed to know where I was going. I stepped into a walk-in closet, modest but well filled with clothes. Everything was white and touched by colors, from vivid blues to intricate patterns in small accents.

I reached into the clothes and a light, silky shirt with a small red looping embroidery seemed to just slide into my hand. I slipped it on, and noted the hanger held a pair of pants and even some boxers.

I slipped it all on. It was light but felt somehow strong. It was all loose enough for comfort but did not make me look big. I smiled at her and caught myself in the mirror. As young as she looked, I felt old.

"There's my handsome man," she said, kissing me on the lips and holding my cheeks with that stroking, gentle touch she always had. She tugged my goatee.

I slipped on some sandals as we headed to the door. Garfield accepted my pat on the head but then curled back up in his little velvet bed.

We walked through the mansion and I realized I was asleep in that strange space with her again. That dream space without dominion, where I could not control everything, but also was not forced to play a part I did not control.

It made me happy. I was with her. She squeezed my hand.

We passed doors with names on them and I smiled at them, felt an ache at others. She stopped and said, "Let's go see someone for a minute,"

"Oh, Francis, look at you," the young woman said as we walked in. "I sure have meissed you, son."

We hugged and I did not know her name, but I felt familiar and safe, and she talked for a while about me and my love for the pool as a child. We had never had a pool, but I had loved swimming.

I was about to ask a question but was interrupted as she took out a book. "Well, you two have someplace to be, and I will be right here whenever you want to visit. We don't take turns around here, you know."

I was almost confused but as we walked out I went to close the door and stopped, looking back in. "Bye, Grandmommy," I said.

"Goodbye, Francis," she said, seeming pleased I had figured it out.

We walked past a few rooms and one made me stop. It was someone special, someone I had cared for. I wondered if her room being there meant she had died. I sighed and Marcie touched my hand as I went to open it.

"She is in there, but you can't see her right now, because she can't see you, okay?"

I nodded. I opened the door and looked around. It was like a teenage girl's typical room, stuffed animals and posters, superimposed over the wood and finery of the house itself. The bed was made, and I felt a chill as I looked at the pictures on the wall.

"Let's go, sweetie," Marcie said, stroking my back.

We left the house through a side door. A clean, cement road with stone or tile lines in it stretched off into impossibly steep and beautiful mountains. I gasped at the deep blue and white clouds. I could see for thousands of miles,

"How far?" I asked.

"We should fly. We don't need to, but I know you like that," she said, kissing my cheek.

We were off. I followed her and she wove graceful, arcing swoops and turns through the strange mountains, which soon gave way to green valleys of trees and grass.

I recognized the campus. The University sprawled below in a some strange mix of antebellum and Greek architecture. Advanced modern touches like glass domes and green roofs with pools if shallow water were throughout.

We landed on a small balcony, and she gripped me in a hug as I floated tentatively down.

"I have one little surprise for you," she said. "Someone you always could learn from."

"Hey, Frank! What's hoppin?" a man said.

I looked into the room beyond. It was an impossibly well-appointed auditorium-style classroom. People I did niot recognize filled the seats. But I knew the man in front of the class.

"Professor Melton?" I asked, guessing his name despite his youthfulness,

"You betcha, man!" he said. "Take a seat! I think you'll enjoy our discussion."

I tried but woke before I made it to the chair.

Birthday Girl! (a blog post that should have been)

Dear pals,

So Marcie turned 41 Sunday, as all of you know. here in San Diego we had a nice brunch at Jake's and sipped a bit too much in the Mimosa department. We were late for her dinner at Bob's and Barbara's, but we made tardy worth the while, for sure. Thanks to everyone, what a crowd!

She scored the Lost DVD set with all the episodes she missed when she was bedridden, a ticket to San Francisco (for both of us... for the first time!) and some MORE Jo Malone. God, how much loot does one woman get? As much as she wants, methinks. Send more, she hates that but secretly enjoys it, too...

I can't believe last year I was facing a life without our girl. I would have been utterly lost. Somehow, I just know I would have been broken down and maybe died myself. I am so proud of her. So tough, and so sweet. She's my hero.

I am sorry it has been a week or two since I updated, but I am thinking I might change the blog to "crazy husband loves redhead" or something. This old blog was more about keeping everyone up on her struggle. She's not entirely comfortable with it, now.

Thanks again, everyone! I'll update on the changes and anything else to come when I have it fleshed out. What a strange chapter in our lives. I am glad to turn the page. This one will stay up so we can all remember just how tough it was.

G'night folks!

F.

I wish... so much.

Mischief from an earlier time

"So what's up, Mr. Francis Stanley Pruett?" it read, her soft, elegant cursive out of place on the carefully folded notebook paper.

I looked over at her and listened as Ken Norton, our speech professor, droned on about persuasive and forensic speaking and the subtle difference between snooze and bore. I smiled as he scanned the class's eyes, including mine, then took my pen.

I scribbled as he took the chalk and turned his back.

"You know what's up," I replied, replicating her secret triangle perfectly and tossing it, letting it skip off her book and bounce off the wall into her lap.

She took it and read, then rolled her, eyes, looking at me and shrugging as if to say, "No I don't."

It grabbed my crotch and made a pained expression, then, making sure Ken was busy, let my tongue hang out of my mouth as I stared blankly at her and rocked my hips.

Her eyes went wide, her ears reddened with her cheeks and she bit her lower lip, glaring as if to say "stop" as I fluttered my eyelids in mock ecstasy. I heard the chalk hit the tray and returned to my note-taking posture.

"And Frank, if I were to say that enthymemes were employed..." he asked, his hands on his hips.

"We would be talking about a forensic speech in which certain key elements were left implied," I said.

He smiled, and I realized he was just asking his go-to student, not really after me, but Marcie smiled when he turned away again and pointed, mouthing, "ha ha," and squinting with her tongue at her teeth as if having a little laugh.

I smiled and listened to Kenn for a bit, then started to fold a piece of paper when the original hit me in the head.

"Everyone was watching you," she wrote. "Do something else."

I smiled and wrote back, "Sure," then folded it all back together.

I also finished my own little magic triangle and wrote, "So, what's up, Miss Marcelyn Ann Stoddard?" I tossed it back to her when he turned for a bare second, then waited. Ken started writing on the board and I stood, looked at her and thrust my hips before sitting down.

The classroom rustled a bit and Marcie hid her head in her book, her ears beet red. Ken stopped and turned. The chuckles subsided and he smiled as I adjusted interestedly in my desk.

My own came back and read.

"I have a bottle of wine for our picnic tonight... or not," she had written.

We drank it at the break, sharing only a few sips with out classmate, a Texan who had given us all a harrowing story of eating pork and developing worms in her brain.

How do you not give someone like that something to drink? Even if you're a bastard, she is bound to tell you something amusing.

It didn't matter at the time. We decided to finish class drunk after downing the whole bottle in 30 minutes.

It was the best day in speech class... ever.

A Moment with Marcie-Epilogue

It was the most clear and concrete long dream I have had of her, this last one, and there was of course a lot that I left out. But I think what was most striking, both in the garden and tea house-cum-shrine-cum pagoda, was how direct Marcie was.

One of the things that most bothered Marcie was that I took my time to decide on a course of action or a matter at hand. It frustrated her.

In most of my dreams, there is a modicum of control. I can manipulate the world at will around me and change the scene however I like. But in dreams with Marcie, things do not always work my way.

However, our conversations have always been very soft. This last dream was much more eye-to-eye, There was something she needed.

I always ask myself if what we dream is simply the firing of random neurons and nothing more. This always has put a sad little doubt in my dreams of her. But I think what Marcie's message was went well beyond, "I am real."

Marcie, in the place she visited me, wanted me to see these visits as just that and take them at face value. We discussed them long before she passed and she promised me them. She also said she might not know how she would feel about it.

Marcie was concerned I would never move on. She was right in her own way. I will take my time, likely infuriating her with my "Hemming and hawing" as much as this post, "agonizing" and analyzing the dream, probably makes her toss her hands up, roll her eyes and sigh.

Inasmuch as she can, that is.

What strikes me is not that she simply says, "I am who I am." That came across very strongly in my dream. Her honeymoon with the hereafter and her confusion were not even on the table. Her eyes were open and she was playful but sharp and incisive.

Of course, the question remains as to whether or not the dream is just a random firing of neurons that line up in a very favorable or enjoyable way. I think her answer is that it doesn't matter.

Mine is that as well. I agree with her reasoning, that she will be with me whether I decide she is not there (and suffer), or decide she is and embrace it. But I also agree for my own reason.

Even if everything is the pseudo random or random firing of neurons as far as how we perceive and experience the world and our minds in a dream state, the fact that Marcie did not "guess" what I was thinking and was off a bit was very important.

We can convince ourselves of anything, but the fact that something in me wants to be convinced to have an open mind on this situation and its implications.

So my reasoning is this: in life we were two people who grew to become a part of each other in addition to being our own separate selves. That which I took in from Marcie continues within me. I did not always agree with or understand her, and she did not always agree with or understand me.

That being said, it does not matter if she is made of memories and patterns and thoughts, or she is simply a soul coming to visit me when I am open to her or most able to sense her. That is not important or valuable.

The fact that I can experience her and her motives and personality in such a detailed way that we still do not have the same mind on things, that she left in me an understanding and a bit of her will so strong it makes its point and mistakes mine means I can continue to learn from her.

I don't care what the nature of it all is, as far as her presence's source.

Some ask me about all of this and faith. f it is a question of faith, then I will simply say that what faith I have is vested in the idea that we all continue to affect the universe as the ripples of our presence , relationships and actions multiply and go on.

That the phenomena that we collect around our existence, which can be said to describe us, now may lack one companion, "physically alive," in their company does not mean that they do not grow in number, or that we no longer direct them to.

I enjoy that she is still there at all, and I would rather agonize a little than decide, then get too hard-headed and -hearted to accept that beautiful maybe it all implies. And if I am just enjoying a little ripple of her presences, then it's a good wave to ride.

Reviving The Birthday Spirit (Pt. 5)

It was drawing closer, and Marcie had determined the precise moment of my borthday's optimal celebration. This provided the proper framework, of course, for the preparation of lists, acquisition of goods and formulation of plans.

The third element created a quandary for me. Marcie was a person who knew immediately what she most wanted within any genre of selection proffered. Cake? Why, chocolate, of course, with chocolate butter-cream frosting.

For me, there were factors and moods and potential changes of mind to consider. I honestly didn't try to drive her insane. I was just quite a natural at it.

"Honey, it's a simple question," she said, dropping her hands to her sides, one with the pen and the other with her "special list for baking" pad. She leaned forward and rolled her eyes up as I responded.

"Well, it's liek two weeks away and I don't know what the hell I will want," I said. "I mean, I could end up wanting something completely different. I just don't want to commit yet."

Foregoing the obvious metaphors at this point in our relationship may have kept the peace, but Marcie was not one for offering such spurious and insincere comforts.

The solution slithered over me like a Zen snake. I leveled my gaze serenely at her and smiled. "I know what I want," I said.

"Well!" she said, raiding her hands and looking up at the ceiling. "It's a miracle! Frank made a decision."

I nodded slowly and smiled, whispering, "I want one of those Baskin-Robbins cakes you told me about," I said.

She looked crestfallen and I immediately regretted the idea, but pushed that sentiment back, as I did not really want an ice cream cake.

"Oh, the one I told you I thought I might like to try?" she asked, nodding. "Well, you know I can't make you one of those."

"I want you to relax and celebrate, too," I said, taking her hand and kissing her forehead. "But if I change my mind, I will tell you. This way, we are both covered."

She was disappointed, but she smiled and looked up hopefully. My deception was complete, but more importantly, I had learned to balance her need for forethought with mine for spontaneity, a lesson I would draw on for 14 years more.

In that moment, I just knew she was mollified yet still psyched at the possibility of baking for me. But the choice to throw out a red herring was made in a storm of memories.

The choice was only just so clear to me, and overshadowed indeed. It was overwrought, more likely, but I gladly indulged in my throes of memory. But I knew that mollification was no substitute for her simple pleasure at making me happy.

"Thank you for helping me look forward to my birthday again, honey," I said, slipping my hands under hers and onto her hips, leaning down and looking into her beautiful blue eyes. "I love you."

She bit her lower lip, and I knew she wanted to protest, but she was too pleased at the appreciation and the gratitude. It was a simple tithe I paid her, but one dear to her.

"Oh, honey," she said. "If all it takes is an ice cream cake to make you happy, then I can go buy you one right now."

She didn't. But we understood each other better, and there was much to be learned before that first birthday together happened.

Marcie On Our Other Birthdays

I will finish my story about Marcie and birthdays and growing up and getting over blah blah. But I wanted to mention one little thing Marcie did for someone in the family.

My grandmother, as I have said, was like Marcie when it came to cooking. Unlike me, however, grandma was also a baker. Yes, I know I have mentioned her making me cakes for my birthday. She also made delicious cobblers, pies and a variety of items.

As she got on in years, grandma Pruett slowed down on the baking. This impacted a lot of people, but one in particular. My father had a special cake he liked.

Grandma Pruett made my father his pineapple upside down cake for his birthday. I don't know when she started doing this, but it was likely his choice for cake in his formative years, in Hawaii.

I will ask him later today over dinner at Pampas Argentine Grill.

My mother had made my father pineapple upside-down cake as well, from scratch with a yellow cake mix and pineapple juice in places where water was called for, and lots of brown sugar topping.

Of course, her departure meant my grandmother resumed preparign the treat for him. At any rate, as Grandma got on in years she did not continue with the cake-baking. It was just too much.

Marcie, luckily, having a father also raised in Hawaii, knew just what to do. She made my father his pineapple upside-down cakes for years on and off, delivering one at his birthday faithfully. She took great joy in it.

It's just another thing her departure leaves missing in our lives now. But I try to note all of them, because the big things are just part of the good she brought into the world. All the little things count, too, and bring pain in their absence.

Reviving The Birthday Spirit (Pt. 4)

I had a long walk home. I stepped on a sharp pebble, stubbed my big toe on an uneven piece of sidewalk and realized, in that very moment, that my Champion shorts were actually my Champion boxers.

I got home without being seen by anyone I knew. I remember wondering where she had gone, at first. My thoughts eventually shifted to the whole argument itself.

I understood her being upset. She was something to celebrate. But why on my birthday? For years, birthdays had been just days in my life. At home, birthdays were a visit to Grandma's for a cake.

But birthdays were also a privilege that could be taken away, a bargaining piece for an aunt who knew that the less joy in a life, the more precious the joy was. A simple act to remove it could coerce a lot, and coerce she did.

Foster care was no birthday destination, but I had observed my 16th there. Ny 17th was spent in juvenile hall under false charges that were later dismissed. The military ate my 18th and 19th birthdays. I had no real memory of either except having to stand a watch on both. One was in DEP, one aboard.

Others featured poverty, even homelessness on the 23rd birthday. My 22nd was spent on the road, wandering the highways fairly friendless, wondering how many more I might see before I found a place to be.

I took a long stroll down memory lane before I decided I had remembered enough of the bad

I decided that, despite my issues with progress and personal misgivings, I would try to sincerely celebrate with Marcie. I cleaned up the remains of breakfast and put away the dishes, noticing the late afternoon hour.

I showered and heard the door open and close, then latch. I did not call out and she did not come into the bathroom, so I dried off and tried to engineer a way to broach the subject, bridge the gap, heal the wound and move on.

I walked out to see her without a plan, having just dressed quickly as she unloaded things into the cabinets.

Honey?" I asked.

"What, Frank?" she asked. "Are you waiting for your meal."

"I am glad you are home," I said.

I closed the distance between us and let her try, half-hearted, to push my hands away until she stopped and turned into my chest and hugged me. The words came to me.

"I want to celebrate with you," I said.

"You do?" she asked, croaking, rasping. I still remember the hot tears soaking through my t-shirt where she pressed into my chest.

"I am so sorry," I said. "I was so stuck on the past that I didn't think of how much better my life is with you, because of you. I do want to celebrate, okay?"

She nodded and stroked my back as she whispered."I'm sorry I stormed out of here," she said. "But you looked cute following me down the street in your underwear."

The birthday was yet to come, and it would come with a very special gift and a little fuller discussion of the issues at hand.

Reviving The Birthday Spirit (Pt. 3)

It was a week later that Marcie, having sulked and for a day or two before resuming our normal relations, began to prod again. It started from the side, so to speak.

"Frank, what do you want for breakfast?" she asked, not looking at me, but rather standing in the kitchen entrance staring straight at the wall, lips tight.

"Just eggs and potatoes," I said. "Thank you."

"Yeeeap," she said, banging the pan on the stove and starting the gas burner. Cupboards opened and closed with force. Utensils rattled and I stopped reading my Logic textbook.

"Honey?" I asked.

"What?" she shot back, tersely, annoyed.

"You don't have to make me breakfast, you know," I said.

"FRANK! Would you just leave me alone and let me cook?" she spat, looking out from the kitchen, her eyes dark with anger.

"Well, you seem upset, so maybe you should just relax and we can go get some cinnamon rolls from Hob Nob or something," I said. "It's okay."

"You don't want me to cook for you and you don't want me to bake for you or celebrate your birthday," she said. "Of course I am upset! I feel like I am a live-in for a self-pitying jerk who just needs a roommate and a sure thing."

Humor was probably not the direction I should have gone in. But life without mistakes is like being asleep without dreams.

"Well, you make a solid point," I said. "But you shouldn't discount the cooking and housecleaning, those really help, too."

Raw potatoes cut into wedges did not hurt. However, she was not amused in the slightest.

"Fine," she said, picking up the potatoes as she spoke. "Fine. You like sleeping with me and kissing me and being fed by me and having a clean house. But you won't let me celebrate your birthday?"

"Honey," I said, trying to give her a hug. "I was just kidding, you know that."

She wriggled away and stood back, arms folded under her breasts, left foot forward as she nodded. "So we'll celebrate your birthday or we wont?"

"I stopped approaching and looked her in the eye, silent and defiant. I waited.

She moved her head as if to say, "Oh, really?" and her lips parted, her mouth hanged open a bit before she bit her lower lip and spoke.

"Why don't you celebrate your birthday?" she asked. "What's wrong with you?"

I told her one part of the truth. It wouldn't help.

"I haven't celebrated it since I was in foster care, except my 21st," I said. "I just never had anyone remember it after that."

"So I want to remember it," she said. "What's wrong with that? I love to bake, I love you. I want to bake you something special, I want to do things for you on your birthday and I want you to enjoy yourself."

She let me hug her and buried her head in my chest. "I am sorry for throwing potatoes at you, but you can be such an ass."

I nodded and sighed. Deciding to let her in on more of my thoughts and issues was a good idea, but my delivery proved disastrous and my timing perfectly inappropriate.

"I appreciate that you want to celebrate with me, Marcie. I just don't think I have much to celebrate or be proud of this year," I said.

Of course I know now that this struck right at her heart. I realized it as soon as she pushed away from me and said her piece.

"Really?" she asked. "You just think this whole year has been a complete waste? I'm sorry, I had no idea."

She covered her eyes and leaned down, taking her purse and sweater and crying, pushing my hand away as I tried to console her. "You are such a jerk, Frank," she sobbed. "Thanks for making me feel like chopped liver, I needed that!"

And the door slammed. I followed her and pleaded with her to come home all the way to the bus stop in my bare feet.

"I'll be back when I feel like it," she said. "Celebrate that."

The driver stopped me from getting on. "Sir, you have to wear shoes on the bus."

The door closed and the 1 rolled away. She didn't look back.

Reviving The Birthday Spirit (Pt. 2)

"I don't remember asking you not to celebrate it," I said. "I just remember not being used to celebrating it, at least, not for a long time, and asking you not to overdo it."

She smiled up at me and released the hug, taking back the chocolate and nibbling a piece as she leaned against the counter and nodded. "Do you remember telling me about your grandma?"

I did at that. Grandma Pruett had prepared me many a cake after my mother left the house. Mostly chocolate and occasionally a marbled fudge cake, it was something she did and derived much joy from.

"She did that for us because my dad couldn't bake," I said. "Yeah, I remember your eyes lighting up."

"Then you just shot me down," she said. "You told me not to bake you a cake, you didn't want to celebrate because you weren't twelve years old anymore."

I nodded. It had been a canard

"Well, honey, I was ashamed at my delay, if you remember," I explained. "I was turning 24 and had just begun college. Most of my friends from high school would have graduated. I felt like I had to catch up."

"You told me that later," she reminded me. "But in the mean time, you just told me no, you did not want a cake, and you did not want to talk about your birthday."

She took another nibble and licked her lips, turning her attention to the cake. "But you changed your mind, didn't you?" she asked.

Or she did, but though it all took me back, I simply hugged her in a snuzzle and murmured an "mmhmm."

It had been a good year. I would start my first term as an Associated Students Senator in the fall, had scored all A's and was hired to tutor over the summer and as an instructional aide in the Chicano Studies Department. But I was not happy.

I had chopped my income, having severed ties with my business partner and slowly backed away from club and rave promotions to keep peace with Marcie. My writing was being published, but the pay was low.

I kept returning to the sense that I had fallen behind. It permeated my consciousness. No achievement was untinged by it. No failing escaped magnification by it. I kept it to myself, but it was slowly eating me.

Marcie had been very happy one May morning. She served me some fried eggs (hard yolks, no run and lots of pepper, just how I liked them). She sat across and watched me eat, her hands and forearms on the table as she grinned.

I looked up and stopped chewing. I swallowed. "What? You look very mischievous..."

Her eyes went even wider and she bit her lower lip before it all came out at once. "Guesswhatscomingupsoon!" she demanded, her hand sliding over and grabbing my fork forearm.

"Is it a concert?" I asked. The guessing game had begun, a favorite of ours.

"Noooo," she said, smiling. "It's more personal."

"Is it... a vacation?" I asked.

"Nooo," she said, shaking her head. "Not until I have been at the job for a year, at least."

Is iiiit your parents' anniversay?" I asked, knowing our own was well off into September.

She began to look exasperated and shook her head. "Nooo, honey," she admonished. "It's about you!" She shook my forearm and bit her lips, sitting straighter in her chair, sure I would guess it this time.

My heart sank and the egg swelled in my throat to ten times its size as I did guess what she meant. I whispered, "My birthday?"

Her eyes popped wide open and she bit her lip before she excitedly squeaked, "Yes! Oh, I can't wait to bake you a cake! We are going to have a great time and celebrate the end of the 24th complete year of Frank."

I nodded and scraped at my plate. "I don't want to celebrate my birthday this year, honey," I said. "I would just rather let it go by like it has for the last few, okay?"

She was silent. I looked up in her eyes and she was pouting and frowning. She was mad that I had spoiled her fun, but she was also concerned. "Frank, why not?" she asked. "Is there something wrong?"

"Well, I just don't want to make a big deal out of it," I said. "I am not a twelve-year-old. I don't have to have the world revolve around me for a day, really."

She withdrew her hand. "What if I want to celebrate your birthday?" she asked. "What if it's important to me?"

I was suddenly very tired of the conversation. I looked up and simply said, "Marcie, please don't make an issue out of this, I just don't really celebrate my birthday and I haven't for a long, long time."

She looked utterly hurt and bit her upper lip, sucking it in a bit. She stood abruptly and grabbed her purse. "Fine, Frank," she said. "You know, you need to get over whatever it is that makes you such a grump. It's not attractive, you know."

She slammed the door after snatching the grocery list. I was bewildered at her insistence, but momentarily glad she had dropped it, no matter how riled she was.

But I was wrong, and not only about the argument, or for not being open with her, but in that she had not even begun to argue... not by a long shot.

It is a fight I am still grateful she picked.

Reviving the birthday spirit

Marcie loved birthdays. If it was her own, she had a mixed view, loving the attention and the opportunity to celebrate but loathing the passage of years (despite her defiance of age). But in others', she took a great and pure joy.

Marcie was invigorated by the celebration of the birth of people she loved so much that I simply had to ask directly. She was humming to herself as she decorated a cake for her friend Kathleen at work.

"Honey?" I asked. "Can I ask you a question?"

She turned and looked at me with her half-open-mouth smile and wide eyes lit in the kitchen's indirect sunlight.

"Are you going to ask me what I put in the icing?" she asked excitedly.

Whether a work fellow, a close friend or a family member, Marcie could be counted on for a cake. Marcie did not make just any cake, though. Her recipes created cakes of unparalleled moistness, flavor and density.

She also improvised to suit particular preferences among her favored recipients, carefully considering the balance of flavors before assembling them. She was truly a maestro of tasteful baking and great confection-making.

I knew her question meant, "Ask what I want to answer first then I will answer what you want to ask." I complied.

"Oooh, yes," I said. "What did you put in Kathleen's cake?"

"Well," she said, turning to the counter and putting one hand on her hip. She enunciated each word. "Let me just tell you."

She held up the wreckage of a Scharffen Berger "Cacao Bittersweet" slab for me to inspect. "This is in the cake itself," she said. "Some I melted and added coconut."

She turned her nose up smugly and spun to the counter again, grabbing a container of half and half. "This you can use for your coffee, because I used it to replace the milk in the recipe."

She turned again and showed me some almonds, crushed in a small bowl. "These will be sprinkled on top of the frosting after I am done."

She smiled and I juggled the three to hold all at once. She turned and helpd up a little bag of Dove dark chocolate hearts.

"These will go around the outside of the cake and one in the middle," she said. "On top of the coconut and almonds."

"Wow," I said. "That is pretty deluxe."

I set the items aside and asked. "So you just love making birthday cakes, don't you?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Sometimes," she said. "Especially if it's for someone who I enjoy talking to. I like even more if they let me do what I want and make something of my own for them, or if it's something new."

"So what kind of cake is that?" I queried, nodding at it with my own half-smile.

"It's a deluxe dark chocolate cake with coconut and almonds that I used espresso for," she said. "It's delicious."

I nodded. She handed me a small bit from the center of the cake she had removed to make the final product sit flat. I took a bite.

I tasted the very moist cake first, then some bittersweet chocolate with a tinge of cocount. With no icing, it was already wonderful. The espresso was invisible in it.

"Wow," I said. "That is riiich!"

"I know," Marcie said. "Kathleen is going to love it. I made it to reflect what I think of her and her antics."

"So what you are saying is, 'Kathleen, you are a nutty, hyperactive woman with a sweet front, chunky middle and smooth exterior who goes down well with milk?" I watched her as she began her silent laugh.

She stop laughing as her breath came back, "Yes," she squeaked. "And I don't mind helping you get fatter, so have... a... cake..."

She took her breath in in deep, gasping breaths between chortles and cackles. she gave me a hug. "She totally lvoes my cakes and refuses to share them, which I completely understand."

"So you give her a cake you know she will eat all by herself?" I asked.

"No," Marcie said. "Oh, no no no. I give her a cake big enough to eat with [people at work and still have half left, which she tells everyone is for her family."

I nodded and she started cracking up. "Then she hides it and eats it all by herself until it's gone."

She took a few seconds then added,"Frank, I love her but she will eat ALL of it. I don't know how she can stand it, but she looooves my cake."

"So that is why you like her birthday so much?" I asked.

Marcie looked more pensive for a second. "I think I like to celebrate birthdays for people that have that lust for living. I like people whose appetites are as large as their personalities."

"I understand," I said.

"Kathleen can be annoying, but she's her own persona and I love that about her," she said. "So a cake for that kind of endless entertainment is nothing, let me tell you, honey."

She gave me a hug and looked up in my eyes. "Do you remember your first birthday with me? How you told me not to celebrate it?"

I certainly did.

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 and Rainy Days (1)

A rainy day and some time for lunch reminds me of Marcie's love of murky, stormy weather and the patter of rain on a roof. I shared that passion with her, and it made for some wonderful moments. But ours was a lively love of the weather. There was no melancholy about it.

A gray day looking out from the corner offices-something Marcie would have loved!

Marcie was big on atmosphere, and even bigger on weather. San Diego's constant stream of sunny, warm, with the occasional cloud and a light breeze, 70s, was a rut to her. The same went for me. Rainy days? Now those were special.

I remember the first time we had a rainy day together. Marcie was smiling as she looked out at a darkening sky one evening from our abode on Cortez Hill.

"Honeeeeey," she said, not so much calling as calling my attention.

"Yes, baby?" I asked, looking at her as she looked out our window, checking in all directions, delighted obviously by the impending storm.

She turned and looked at me, wide-eyed. "It's going to rain!" she whispered in her odd, excited low voice. She read the Union-Tribune's weather forecast. "It might rain all weekend. OOooooh! This is perfect! We're staying in tomorrow."

I nodded and watched as she went from window to window and stepped out on our patio, then hopped in and grabbed my shirt. "Cookies!"

"You want me to get cookies?" I asked.

"Noooooooo!" she stretched it out, then fired off her correction in a single word, a pile of giddy syllables lolling about in her gleeful mouth. "WhatkinddoyouwantIwanttobakesome?"

She stood and bit her lower lip, bouncing at her knees and clapping her hands together as she waited. It was incredibly cute, and she was acting like such a little kid...

"Choc-o-late chip!" I exclaimed, crowing it in a falsetto that sounded like a human coyote cry. I rolled my head back and around. "Chocolate chip coooooookieeeeees!"

"Ha Haaaaaah!" she cackled, grabbing me around the waist and kissing me. "Extra chips!"

"Extrrrra chiiiiips!" I chimed in.

"Extra vanilla!?" she asked, her eyes popping incredibly wider at the quesion we both knew was more of a proclamation.

"Exxxxxtra Vaniiiiilla!" I sang back.

"Okay..." she said, letting go and stepping back, thinking...

"Cinnamon rolls for breakfast and breakfast for dinner?" she asked.

"Mooooorning all day!" I said, which made her slide back over and hop, pulling my hands until I hopped, too.

The floor was a trampoline. Seamus stared with a paw raised, pointing in confusion as he mewed ineefectively, unable to penetrate our cloud of inclement celebration.

"Candles and movies?" she asked, swinging my arms.

"Moooovies and caaaandles!" I bellowed, tickling her sides until she cackled.

She stopped me and leaned in close. "Wine and nookie?" she asked, breathing in my ear, lowering her voice and nuzzling a bit.

I nipped her jawline gently, then leaned back, howling at the top of my lungs, "Liiiiquor and sex!"

There was a knock at the door. Marcie turned beet red and went to our room, embarrassed. I opened it. There stood the mail man, smiling his oddly uneven Asian grin. He handed me a little box. I smiled and thanked him, signing the slip.

"Thanks," I said, noting the box was from Gevalia. Coffee! Just in time.

"Enjoy the cookies, Mr. Pruett," he said.

I did not have any idea how much I would. Marcie, red-faced, came out and took my hand after I closed the door. We retired to the bed and the weekend began.

Mother's Day Memories

Note: The post below is actually yesterday's and I forgot to post it, instead clicking save. Sorry, folks!

Marcie and I celebrated Mother's Day in our own way. We did the standard stuff, including brunch with Marcie's mother, often an adventure in itself. It was always an effort to isolate Barbara in a happy land far away from the buffet-skeptical Bob's comments.

Marcie always made it a point to reach out to my grandmothers. She was very good to Grandma McNab/Craigg, or "Big Mom." She made friends and impressed her early.

But Grandma Pruett was always disappointed if Marcie did not show when I did. I have explored that special relationship before. It was close-knit. Marcie's laugh was so infectious in our family's events, and it filled the room and grandma with joy.

So close were the two that, though both are gone, my Aunt Mary told me still keeps the seat that Marcie sat by Grandma in clear for them when I come over, and I appreciate it. It brings tears, though. Marcie was a proud addition for Grandma.

Marcie gleaned valuable information on me from Grandma, too, who always seemed to impart on Marcie a deeper love for me with her disclosures. I am sure she could have gone the other way with some of my foibles.

After one particularly good conversation, Marcie pulled me down and hugged me. She did not explain until we left in the car a bit later.

"Honey," she said. "I am so moved by your Grandma and her little stories about you."

I looked over at her, and she let her hand slide up and down my leg as she bit her lip.

"She told me that when you were a little boy, after your mom left, you went to all your aunts and wished them a happy mother's day."

It was not unusual for me to do that. I appreciate what mothers do and go through. But Marcie kept talking and pulled over. She had tears in her eyes.

"She said she remembered that you told your Aunt Theresa that you were thankful for all of your aunts because being around them made your mom being gone hurt less," she said.

The year grandma shared this with Marcie, Aunt Theresa had died of liver cancer.

I did remember saying something like that after Aunt Theresa asked me if I was okay the Mother's Day after my mother left. I was not playing, though the event was at Wells Park, because I had been told I couldn't after arguing with my sisters in the car on the way there.

"Do you miss her?" Aunt Theresa asked.

I remember nodding and shrugging, "She left because she doesn't care, though."

She cares," Aunt Theresa said, unpacking some potato salad. "Maybe she'll come back."

I looked up at her, my big 10-year-old eyes wet and burning as I croaked "Do you think so?"

And as she hugged me and said she didn't know, and I heard her sniff, I told her it was okay, that having her and all my aunts around made it hurt less. Then I wished her a happy mother's day, embarrassed that I made her cry.

Aunt Theresa told me to go wish my aunts a happy mother's day, and she would talk to my dad (her big brother) if he said anything about it. I did so and then was allowed to go play.

Marcie, after hearing the whole story, was holding her hand to her chest and crying. She squeaked out, "I know you were a good boy, and that she thinks you are that same boy and remembers that on Mother's Day should tell you how special you are to her."

Of course I knew. But what I also knew is that Marcie was special to Grandma. What i also knew is that seeing Grandma at the grave site or in her coffin is not seeing her at all. It is remembering her, alive, which moves me.

So I have not been to the grave sites after the funerals, just as Marcie will never be in the ground.

I want to remember the people I love as I loved them, not as I lost them. That goes for Aunt Theresa and every other mother in my family, even those with no children of their own.

And that now goes for Marcie, too.

Apologies...

I am taking a brief break, perhaps. I don't want to blog myself into a heart attack, after all. Actually, tonight I will have dinner with Marcie's parents. I will continue with the story of our little wedding and such afterward.

I plan to share the video with them, so that will be tough. I may bring a few videos, actaully. Ditto for pictures... Rough night ahead.

Chrissy's visit

So, Chrissy finally made it by today, and we shared a very Marcie-memorializing Rubio's meal. Chrissy had the taco combo while I had the mahi mahi combo. It was nice. Chrissy divulged that, since she's now living in Rockford, Illinois, fish tacos are far from common fare.

We went through a couple of albums and I, of course, let her pick out a few pictures. I let her take a very precious one from Terri Dambrose's wedding, of Marcie getting drunk with them, drinking straight from a bottle, her drss off her shoulder on one side.

God, she was so hot. Marcie definitely outshined the bride (sorry, Terri).

Back to the visit. So, Chrissy was a good sport and looked through Marcie's things, taking a few scents and creams, which I hope bring her joy and good memories of my baby. I also, since they shared a Lucy love, gave her Marcie's Lucy monopoly set.

She also selected a Matisse book for her coffee table and one other. Marcie would have been very pleased to see her take them, and I know I am.

The visit was over all too soon. However, I will be trying to make a trip to Rockford sometime soon, when neither mosquitoes nor cold bite one overmuch. We'll see how life unfolds.

I'll post some pictures of Chrissy and Marcie over the years when I get a chance. G'nite, folks.

Some Reminders...

Sunday, February 3 will be the last day to cut and paste the sauce and dinner recipes, including the nutty rice. Please save them now.

You should send me an email when you want to speak privately. Sometimes, I do not have your email address and you don't necessarily share it with me when you post. Keep it in mind, folks.

I will get around to listing Marcie and my stuff on Ebay, Amazon, etc. I will replace the Amazon store to the left with her and my items when I do.

If there is something personal you want of Marcie's and have not told me, please do. This also goes for long-lost friends, old coworkers and relatives who have been recalcitrant. No, you won't haul away bags of loot, but I would like for our loved ones to have keepsakes of some personal value, and I am trying to also lighten my load before I start my work.

One last reminder: you all have stories and dreams to share. Especially for you who woke early in the morning Oct. 29th, I extend the invitation to share with everyone here. Everything we celebrate about Marcie's life extends her reach not only in our own lives and hearts but in those of the people you sharing will touch.

This weekend I plan to take some pictures of our old house, intersperse them with pictures of Seamus in it, and maybe take some shots of the old Suncrest Place and Casa Arleda. We'll see.

Much love,
F.

Marcie and baking

Many of Marcie's friend knew her as a skilled and creative baker. Certainly her family did. Her brother, mother, father and various friends all received cakes for their birthdays, as did I. It's another element of her that I miss.

Marcie had her own way of baking, but was taught her skills by her friend Terri Dambrose's mother. Mrs. Dambrose watched Marcie and her brother Bobby after school for years while Barbara and Bob worked at a bank and General Atomic, respectively.

Marcie was an apt student for Mrs. Dambrose and Terri once complained to me that she was jealous that Marcie was more interested in cooking and baking with her mother than playing with her.

Marcie never received a recipe book from Mrs. Dambrose, but chose to take a few recipes here and there, add her own touches to them, and make them her own. Things ended up richer, more chocolate, fluffier, denser, or any variety of states of improvement or modification Marcie thought to try out.

None of it ever failed to please.

If one thing was certain in Marcie's cakes, it was that there would be buttercream frosting. Butter, sugar, and any of a wide variety of flavors and spices, from vanilla to cinnamon and cocoa to coconut, all eventually turned into a dense, sweet spread that could only be applied after the cake had cooled.

Her chocolate cake was the most sought-after. Deep, almost black cake with a dark brown chocolate icing that was not only a thick coating but also a filler for crevices. There was never a piece with too little frosting on Marcie's cakes.

I had my first cake from Marcie long before my first birthday with her. She made a cake for herself for her own, as much to share with her parents as it was to please her. She made and extra one, a little minicake for me to have while she stayed the night with them.

It was a revelation. I had had good cake before, when my relatives baked. But this was decadence in miniature. She truly could have sold her cake to coffee shops and fine dining establishments, but she never would consider it. Baking was for love, not money.

Baking was also a social connector for Marcie, and luckily I had just the person for her to connect to.

Grandma Pruett made me cakes for my birthday after my mother left. Grandmommie Girvin, my great grandmother on the maternal-maternal line, who Marcie never met, also did. Both were bakers of cakes in the "from scratch" tradition, just as Marcie was. But Marcie never met Grandmommie Girvin, who died when I was still young.

She did meet Grandma Pruett. Grandma had to cook for 17 kids, but that did not mean she watered down the quality. She wove flavors of Hawaiian and Portuguese cooking into her meals, something I recognize now in the flavors of my youth.

Marcie loved her for a lot of reasons, and they conspired and shared at our family functions for hours. She was crushed when Grandma died. She could not attend the funeral as she had just found out about her own cancer. It was a tough time.

But in their heyday, Grandma and Marcie regularly traded baking secrets and cooking tips after they finally met, not to mention plenty of stuff about me, I soon learned.

Marcie learned to substitute some of the pineapple juice from a can of it for some of the liquid in an pineapple upside-down cake, and to use it with brown sugar to make a good topping, too. She also learned that I was a sleepwalking Houdini-child who liked to escape from dead bolted homes and curl up with the neighbors' dogs.

Grandma loved to share, and we have a lot in common that way.

The one realm in which I never stepped with Marcie was baking. I could never quite get into it, true, but she would chase me out of the kitchen if I tried. However, I did make her candies, using a recipe I will share when more time has passed.

I do not miss all of the extra pounds her baking put on me, but I do miss that joy she had in making her cookies, her cakes and even her pies, which she hated but indulged me on from time to time. And of course, I miss sharing sweets with her.

I miss, most of all, her giving me surprise plates of cookies or little treats she had baked up. Sometimes, it was just because she had been harsh in a fight, or just because I had done something I did not know she had observed which pleased her. Often, it was just because

But it was always a treat, and a loving gesture. I miss those most.

Her recipes are safe for now. I plan to share them with friends and one friend has the big collection for a project. But for now, with all this talk of cooking and Marcie and my time in the kitchen, I just wanted to share the part that was simply hers.

I was no assistant beyond an errand boy when Marcie baked, and no expert beyond a taster for her batters and creams and frostings. But I was her biggest fan, and i could watch her for hours, that is, until she chased me off.

Or until she gave me a blender beater full of dough and chocolate chips.

G'night folks,
F.

The San Francisco Moment

The blog may seem to have turned into a logbbook, but I have a point in sharing my San Francisco adventure. I will fully flesh it out in the book, but the trip has been multilayered and revelatory. The voyage, the stay and the departure were all one big moment of Marcie.

As I have shared with Jane and Christi, and which Jane already knew, the world Marcie lived in was divided into realms. Work people only rarely met family. Family and friends mixed sparingly or not at all. Lastly, the spouse was not to get to close to, or to interact too much with, the girlfriends.

There were some exceptions, to be true. I occasionally got to spend limited amounts of time with Tom and Chrissy Patterson before they moved to the Midwest, Jane was a common and welcome guest (though I was often shooed away by Marcie) and Lisa and I often enjoyed long calls. Tanya was persistent and had known us both as neighbors, so Marcie was occasionally willing to interact with me in tow. But, when it came down to it, I was generally cut out of girlfriends' lives. I took an interest in their activities, but she kept the wall there.

That changed as Marcie became ill. I met Walt, Lisa's boyfriend, now husband, and we went sailing with them and had dinner, something I greatly enjoyed. Calls and visits with her girlfriends became longer, more personal and connective.

But Jane remained largely a mystery, as did Christi, a person I met once and heard of several times and had even heard a story or two about (when I was not told to go out and surf or to leave Marcie with Jane in peace). Jane was the near-sister who occasionally summoned Marcie to her side for joy and merryment, support and indulgence.

But I started to really discover Jane and Christi before the memorial, then at it, then after it as we cleaned up the wake. I knew I wanted to visit them in San Francisco when they offered to have me up. Then I truly began to understand a little about why Marcie loved them so.

Jane, Jason, Christi and their whole world unfolded before me, and with it, a special corner of Marcie's life, that "magic trip" that always lifted her spirits. So, I may call Christi and Jane angels, but it may be because they showed me just what Marcie's heaven could look, feel, taste and sound a lot like. The experience was at least in part due to Marcie herself. Not simply because she was such a friend to Jane, though.

In Marcie's world and in any given realm within it, everything was always planned, usually thoughtfully so. When Marcie summoned me from my exile (for their girl time) to see Jane to her car, she told Jane and I before we left that she wanted us to stay in touch and support each other, no matter what happened to her. It was a devastating thing to hear, as we both still expected a good outcome, and it meant she felt her way of living and separating her social groups was no longer serving any good purpose. It was a tough walk to the car.

In that little dictate, she gave me the greatest inheritance she had, the last of her friends. In so doing, she let me out of my box and then told me where to find more of her to love, in San Francisco.

F.

Merry Christmas

I am missing Marcie more than ever this morning, of course. Christmas was a favorite time for her, save for the obligations to be social with either throngs of people (my family) or to sit "in audience" whilst certain characters held court and regaled us with tales of the wondrous "before" (hers). But we managed to enjoy every one of the ones we had together, thank you.

Here's hoping that the tales you listen to are gifts themselves, that the throngs bring you a festive spirit, and that the day and its activities go by at the pace you would most prefer it to. Merry Christmas, folks.

F.