April 9 - November 4, 2007

Many many hours and days and weeks and months have gone by, passed pulling with them people, elated happiness, great sadness since I have written here.

It all began in February when Bunny proposed to Stinky. I traveled to Italy, Pop traveled to Germany and then Italy. We met family we bonded with Italy, we were ready to move forward. Moo returned to the states in April, she settled in and we began to prepare for her wedding. Neen completed his first year of college with a 3.94 and returned home. We were all back together again. Such fun.

June 8, 2007. My father passed on leaving us stunned and soaring in a vortex of sadness. He died quickly, relieving us the need to live through his desire to not age in a home or connected to tubes but to die at his own hand if necessary with dignity. His passing has not yet settled with me. I still cry, I still look at trees, clouds, birds and spectacular sun sets and wait for the phone call from him to tell me to go look. Finding an old, old, old, down right ancient, saab station wagon in the parking lot at the Whole just about killed me. My father's passing brought me cousins, aunts, uncles. Stories, photos, dinners, smiles and heart pain. The boat is gone from the drive way, the solar house is infested with raccoons and rotting away.

I wrote this June 27th. My Daddy died, Friday, June 8th of a stroke. He would have been 82, July 11. We were at the garden in the early pre work day when the phone call came. "UofM hospital, 2 emergency vehicles, raincoat over pajamas, just now figuring out the cell phone to call you....."My mother did not accompany him to the hospital as she had on her PJamas, and well, I think she knew. It was fast. Moo and the Neen were able to get to the hospital to see him but not before he was gone. My mother was the last to nag him. He is resting in peace.
The days after his death are a blur. I stand in numb shock some days and true un denying clarity on others. Moo gets married to Stefano regardless. There are chores to be done and letters to write regardless. I have had to add my Daddy to the in memoriam on the wedding program, right there with Hughie. The grampa memorial. I cry as I type this.
I have been very busy at work, at home, at the garden. I have neglected this journal. Zoe says that I have left everyone in Rome.
Currently the garden is right on the edge of kicking it out. The swiss chard is gorgeous, the reds and the few thrown in golden tones pick up the garden in all of it's green. I just planted amaranth this weekend for some color.
The bathroom is painted Erica purple as Veda calls it. I have a spot of paint on my index finger to remind me that I have to go get new fabric to create curtains.
The downstairs bathroom is wheat green yellow, Pop calls it puke. I have found that chores of painting has kept me sane among the insane members of my family. They know who they are. I have been a tower of restraint, and I am leaning ever so slightly beneath the weight of their neurosis.
Grilled eggplant and driving down back country roads along ripening wheat fields are a couple of things that make me think of my Daddy. Me breathing the air and seeing the sights without him twists me up. Green herons, hummingbirds and the moon. The almost daily phone calls to let us know about the weather, a show that we should be watching, or an astronomical siteing that we should be prepared to stay up all night for.
The night of his death a screech owl let loose in our yard. Loud screaming as if in denial.

I have never felt so ill or so dispised as I have in the past few weeks. I am immune most days to the arrows and darts.

My father's silence is no different now than it was when he was alive, as he listened to the nagging, weighing the ups and the downs. And I find that though I can talk, if the spirit so moves me I can be silent, listen and observe before I move my mouth.

The memorial service was on a hot saturday afternoon. I woke up to cut a woods bouquet in my pajamas, barefoot I walked the hog dodging the poison ivy to pick this and that. A cattail from the pond across the road stood centennial above it all, hickory, oak and fir. Ivy, plantain, day lily and lilac. My mother wanted a photograph and an urn of ashes, my sister wanted his odds and ends: his sun pin, the flaming chalice pin and his magnifying glass, the material, what she has left. Veda brought the The duct tape, mark the the WD40. I wanted the leaves and the trees and the pond and the weeds, all of the woods. We gathered in the big church beneath the arched ceiling, fans working it above. 180 to 200 of us family, friends, comrades, students and colleagues. On a pedestal sat the snowbirds under glass. Neen played a clarinet solo. Moo read Death by Kahlil Gibran. They were proud tearful grandchildren. Neen sat behind me next to Bucko with the Petite One, I sat with my arm behind me so I could hold his hand. klm lead a responsive reading, and told a story that was about Daddy and her when he got caught doing some creative recycling behind a Wayne State building on a sunday morning. He found hobart dishwasher trays, and thought they may fit the churches Hobart. They got tsked at by a fellow UU lady because they got caught trash picking. It is strange what folks hold on to. Creative recycling can be good and bad, it can become an insane addiction that can ruin relationships in the end. It was hard for me to have my Dad made fun of enough as it is growing up.

My cousin Mark spoke, watching my face, I tried to send him strong, but Moo sat next to me in tears pushing him the other way. He spoke about the insect on water that will for ever more remind him of my father, his uncle. Mr. Silverman spoke, a colleague, he was good and could have gone on some more and it would have been fine with me about the things my Dad got done in his life as a high school Science Department Head. The Petite One sang A Blue Boat Home. Donna spoke. Pop spoke, we laughed and we cried. All in all it was a good thing.

My mother wanted an "old hymn" sung at my Father's memorial. My sister disagreed and stated with certainty that she knew what Daddy would have wanted. My choice was to go with whatever my Mother wanted. My sisters choice was to choose a hymn that was politically correct. Now you have to understand that lyrics rewritten to outsmart the original lyrics are typical Unitarian practice. I have discovered that I have no need to rewrite the world to be comfortable with it. The words were written, placed in a hymnal, which floated to a congregation, that sang the songs over and over, words interpreted by many over and over again. the song was of an era and there for it meant something to someone. If you must rewrite the words bend them so they are politically correct, write your own damn song right down to the last quarter note and get a grip.
The organ played my Dad home as loudly as it possibly could. We vibrated with Alex.

I wrote this June 28th. Once I get out of the confines of Ann Arbor into the wilds of due west I am soothed by ripening wheat fields that roll in gold and the slight green of still young. No animals on my drive out, just cars and trucks and trees and finally fields of corn and wheat. Another summer, but a very different one. A very unusual one. A trip abroad, a death, a wedding another trip abroad and then another one. No time to get things done for ourselves. Lots of time that is slowly dwindling to do for others. I have not read a book in weeks. I have knit in spurts. I have painted two bathrooms. Cooked many dinners. Shopped for hand rails, found a huge mirror just sitting in a garage waiting for me, chose a light fixture that looked cool there but will take some getting used to now that it is up and on. I have been to the florist, the jewelers, the tuxedo-man's joint, I have gone hunting for paper and bought perennials in the hopes that they will flower for the wedding. I have unscrewed 3 inch screws out of rotten wood of the deck with the Neen looking on. I have planted a garden. I have harvested garlic.

Italy begins to arrive on July the 3rd and I realize that I have not yet taken time off for the wedding. What am I thinking.? We have not figured out flowers for the two vases at the "alter" and have not cleaned the wax off of the candle holders that the Moo wants to use, let alone found two tapers. The flower twinkle dresses are laid out on Beth's dining room table. Shantung silk with tiny pearls sewn across the entire yardage for the skirts and plain shantung for the bodice. A big bad ass bow in champagne for the finishing touch. The groom is trying to get me the mother to let loose on the bride to be's gown over the air waves of gchat. Silly besotted man. What do I look like? The Neen is up north with Ugo and Gramma learning to carpenter. They are building a shed. They put the rafters up yesterday.

I flew to Malmo, Sweden for work. I left on Tuesday and returned wednesday.

July 14th, 2007. Bunny and Stinky were married at the UofM league garden. We all got dressed up. The bell tower bells rang out from the time we stepped out onto the mall for photos, right through the ceremony. It was awesome. The sun shone on family and friends. We sat down to dinner in the ballroom, Beth led us in Amazing Grace, we sang as we held hands around the tables. We ate and then danced until midnight.

Bunny and Stinky left for Milano and their new home way to soon for me, but then the knowledge that we would all travel to Rome for a September 1st wedding kept things interesting.

I flew back to Malmo Sweden for work and was gifted with a long walk in Copenhagen. We walked to the mermaid and back to the hotel which was across from the Tivoli.

We flew into Rome and the whirl wind began. We toured, ate, walked, sang, watched. We started our tour in Fregene with dinner on the beach and then stayed in Rome. We toured with an Italian, two Argentineans, and three Americans. We spoke spanglish, english, italian and italish. We saw Bunny and Stinky wed in a chapel dressed in gold and angels on September 1, at eleven am. For three minutes we were not tourists but members of the bridal party, and the tourists were on us like the pigeons were on the arborio rice that we threw. There were the hired paparazzi to deal with all day and night. After the wedding in Piazza Novona we drove to Fregene to the sea and met with Marco, Daria and later Donetella. Then the wedding party and dancing and eating and drink.

My Uncle Jimbo passed on Friday October 19th. He was my favorite uncle on the planet. College educated farmer with a degree in the Korean War. We visited him in ICU at Ohio State. He could not talk, but his Ohio twang came out regardless. I am glad and sad that I spoke to him on last time. It wasn't enough.

November 1st, 2007. Our Grandma Mary passed away. Here we sit numb.

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