MEMORIES OF MEMORIAL DAYS PAST

Memorial Day Weekend.  People are busy with trips, picnics, camping, gardening...late spring leisure activities, even though where I live it is cloudy and cool -- only 56-degrees during my morning walk along the waterfront.  But this weekend always reminds me of my midwest childhood when Memorial Day was the start of summer and already hot and sunny.

Also the Indy 500 happens this weekend, which made me think of my dad and my paternal relatives in southern Indiana and the childhood drives from our northern Illinois town to Bloomfield, Indiana the nearest little town to the farmstead where my dad grew up.

We passed through Indianapolis on those trips,  -- home of the Indy 500 -- and the biggest thing to happen in Indiana ever, it seemed by all the excitement.  Once further south, in rural Bloomfield where my relatives lived,  parades and picnics and visits to cemeteries were organized around the start time of the race, with the ongoing commentary tuned in on the radio for the entire day. The excitement would build as the men in the family cheered for their favorites as the race was close to ending.   Drivers like A.J. Foyt, Andy Granatelli, Parnelli Jones, and Mario Andretti -- not exactly hometown boys, but heroes of The Brickyard nonetheless -- seemed to always be in the hunt.  As the checkered flag moment approached anyone within earshot of the radio was hushed so the winner's name would be heard and celebrated.  The RADIO!  Seems weird now and makes me feel very old -- but we were in a very rural area and TV reception was horrible, if anyone had a TV at all in the late 50's/early 60's.

My mom called Memorial Day "Decoration Day".  This is a term dating back to the Civil War; a day set aside to honor the Civil War dead.  Eventually it became more widely known as Memorial Day to honor all war dead, but wasn't officially declared a National Holiday until 1971, a fact I find surprising.

The old name, Decoration Day, made perfect sense to me as a child.  I knew it as a day for an outing

to "decorate" the graves of family members who had passed away.  Few if any that I knew of in my family had died in war. Still, fresh flowers, plastic flowers, little live plants, wreaths on wire hangers -- any and all were loaded into the trunk of the Chevy and the whole extended family caravanned to the cemetery.  If we were in Indiana, the cemetery was on the edge of little Bloomfield were my grandparents and a couple of uncles were already buried.  If we stayed home in Illinois, the cemetery was out in the country, the gravesites under shady oaks where my maternal grandparents and parents now rest.

I loved going to the cemeteries.  I found both to be so restful, peaceful, and beautiful.  Both in quiet rural settings with old-fashioned gravestones that marked each plot, giving names, birthdate, and date of death in fancy lettering.  Some, not my family, but some we noted as we wandered about also told a bit about the person who had died.  I loved these little one- or two-line insights into a life.  I filled in whole biographies with my imagination.

I don't visit cemeteries on Memorial Day anymore.  As an adult I moved 2000 miles from "home" and my visits to the midwest now are few.  But today I am thinking of those childhood pilgrimages to honor loved ones and offer some decoration to the stones that mark the lifespan of people who lived, loved, worked, played and raised families.   My ancestors were farmers; my parents the first generation to migrate to the city.  My generation (my brothers and I) never knew the hard-scrabble life of subsistence farming in the Great Depression, taking for granted what my parents provided for us with long hours doing factory work, building a blue-collar Post WWII middle-class life that led to us having so many more opportunities than they ever dreamed of.   I honor them, all of them generations past, and I thank them on this day of Decoration and Memorial.

I planted flowers in my garden today and I lit a candle for those who have passed.  I even briefly tuned into the race....just to hear the roar of those engines and the feel the memory of the warmth of an Indiana sun on my face.

May your Memorial Day be full of warm memories too.  May we all appreciate those who served in so many ways to provide a path to the life we live today.

At least, that's the view from here....

AGES AND STAGES, PART 2: MEMORIAL SERVICES

I no longer think it would be cool to have my Memorial Service end with everyone dancing to Sympathy for the Devil.  At one time (not really that long ago, actually) I thought that would be a fitting send-off......rockin' to my favorite Mick/Stones song.  I've matured.  A little.

Yesterday my BFF of nearly 30 years and I spent the day at my house revisiting the Memorial Service plans we made in 2006 (type of service, music, flowers, memorials, burial/cremation, etc.)   I had typed the whole plan up and stashed it in a file drawer. It was a semi-serious enterprise then, amidst lots of laughter and silliness, mostly meant to create a record of what we'd like so other family members didn't hijack our final hurrah with trappings we most definitely DIDN'T want.  For example, my friend didn't want any photos of her sitting around staring at everyone with a forced static smile.  I, on the other hand, wanted a full video montage of my life with with a rockin' soundtrack backing.  She had some crazy notion then that rose petals strewn up the church aisle would be nice, especially if mixed with sparkly confetti.  (WHAT?!?)  I had a whole seasonal thing going on, with bright cut flowers for summer and lit greens for winter.  We both agree we still will not abide any of those God-awful floral arrangements with the "Loving Mother" or "Beloved Grandmother" banners stretched across a wreath on a wire stand.

Both of my sons were here in the morning, one helping the other move into a new apartment.  They  thought our get-together yesterday was weird.  They shook their heads and smirked at their silly mom and her "bestie" spending a Saturday refining plans for celebrating our deaths.  Well, that's because they are in their late 20's, not their mid-60's.  The dawn is still at their backs, the sun barely over the horizon.  For us, well, that dusky horizon is before us and the sun is getting low in the sky.

Yesterday's enterprise was still an occasion of laughter -- well, whenever she and I are together, it's an occasion for laughter.  We find each other infinitely amusing.  But it was tinged this time with many more tears.  We've had a few more funerals in our lives since 2006, have endured some changes, have gotten older, and the whole topic has taken on a bit more urgency -- or at least seriousness.

I've ditched the Stones in favor of a couple of UU hymns I love (but I'm keeping the video with Jackson Browne's For a Dancer playing in the background).  She has given up the rose petals and confetti and isn't even sure if she wants a Service at all.  I had thought a nice bookmark for the mourners as a remembrance would be a good parting gift...but gosh, who even reads real books any more? That idea has been scrapped too.

What we both discovered as we went over various parts of the outline we'd created nine years ago, was that there was less extravaganza and more simplicity.  Less for others to tend to and more consideration given to making everything as easy on those left behind as possible.  Often instead of filling in the blanks on our form with minute details, we just wrote -- "whatever will feel right to the family", "whatever is easiest", etc. etc.

I know now, having created a Memorial Service for my mom in 2008, what details go into making a beautiful service.  It was one of the most loving and meaningful things I've ever done and I still remember the initial confusion of many who came and found our non-traditional service surprising, then ultimately moving and deeply meaningful.  You don't need a church or clergy to say a prayer, to read a poem, to give a eulogy, to sing a song, to chuckle at a favorite story, to share a life with those who loved the departed.  You don't need confetti.

There's something very comforting to me about writing down my final wishes.  I so appreciated having in my mother's own handwriting what she preferred, especially since it went so far afield of the traditional funeral rites she (and then I) had grown up with.  She wanted to be cremated, no funeral home visitation, no formal church funeral, no potluck "open house" party afterwards.  So we created our own Memorial Service, a month after her death, for extended family and a few friends.  We gathered her immediate family (children, grandchildren) to bury her urn next to my dad in the shaded corner of an old country cemetery where so many others of my family rest,  then the family spent a night socializing together -- the first time in many, many years since we'd all moved from one side of the country to the other.  It was a reunion Mom would have rejoiced in seeing.

I am writing my requests down too.  But ultimately, like my mom, I just want things to be simple, for my family and friends to remember me with love and care (and a good deal of laughter), and then to live their lives joyfully in connection to each other and the wider world.

This is the Age and Stage of facing mortality, of making plans, of watching that horizon grow closer and hoping for a brilliant sunset full of light and hope. ©

At least, that's the view from here...

JACK WAS NIMBLE

I am having people over on Saturday.   I should be cleaning, shopping, getting ready.  But that's not what Jack would do if he could be writing instead.  That's what I tell myself.  I don't really know what Jack would do.  I didn't know him that well.  I didn't know him much at all, really, other than the "public" Jack who stood on stage and mesmerized us with his words.

Jack McCarthy, Stand-Up Poet.  That's what he called himself.  He showed up at our Unitarian Universalist Fellowship a number of years ago and hung out.  Sat sort of towards the back, slouching a bit at the end of the row, when he came to Sunday service.  Didn't say much.  I heard he was some sort of poet, so I was immediately intimidated and bestowed upon him all sorts of magical powers he probably didn't possess.

Then he started performing his poetry at local coffee houses.  And organized Invitational Poetry Slams at our Fellowship -- got all the best local poets to come and compete.  Local poets who had already made names for themselves in National and International Slam Poetry competitions.  I was completely and utterly blown away.  The raw power, the amazing stringing together of words that created image and emotion, told a 3 minute story that often stayed with me for days and weeks.  I became a FanGirl of Slam Poetry.

What I later learned about Jack was that he was legend in the Slam community, first at his home base in Boston, then the Northwest and points in between.  He was the "old guy" who hung with the 20-somethings and mentored them, shared space with them, competed with them.  And they loved him.  We all did.  He could make you laugh until you cried, then cry only because the next three lines of his poem were so poignant there was no other choice.  Following the flow of his words was like watching a kite fly in a blue sky, swirling, soaring, diving, reviving.

When he decided to teach a performance poetry class at our Fellowship I was the first to sign up.  I was elated.  I wanted to see if I could in any way produce that magic too.  I used to have dreams of writing. Not "daydreams", actual nighttime lucid dreams in which I wrote the most amazing things -- all kinds of writing -- and I'd know in my dream that it was real, that I was doing it, but the moment I came back to this world, the words drifted slowly away and were lost.   Still, I had never thought of myself as a writer.  I wrote. Yet to say "I'm a writer" was too big.  But Jack taught me otherwise.

The first thing he said at the first class was, "If you say you are a poet, you're a poet."  And with that out of the way, he showed us how to be better poets.  And encouraged us to keep learning, practicing, just doing it.  He was a "performance poet" where the verbalization of the words he wrote were as important as the words themselves.  I loved that.

Every class we were asked to come up to the front and read/perform a poem.   Being externally motivated and used to "teacher-pleasing" I always read with the hope of getting Jack's "atta-girl".  I was usually disappointed.  His response to a reading was usually a non-committal comment, but nothing like accolade, although he was very kind to one very bad poet and I loved him for that.  Once he even pointed out to the group that one poem I read was a good example of spotting a beginner poet, those who always seem to write about the craft of writing poems.  Grrr...  Another time, after what I still consider to be among my 2-3 very best poems, he said this:  "Sometimes you just know when you get it right."  I took that as high praise.

And I learned from his stingy compliments that my heart-song was my own to sing, whether anyone else liked it or not.  So I just kept going.  Kept writing.  Started going to Open Mics and Talent Nights and organizing readings with my women's poetry group.  People responded to my poems with laughter, tears, and applause.  It's a fabulous feeling to get that approval.  But that pales in comparison to the few who came up afterward to tell me they were touched, could relate, I spoke their own experience.  Writing, for me, is about connection.  The highest praise I can hear is that someone felt their own experience reflected and validated in my words.

And maybe that's ultimately what Jack taught us.  That each person's particular experience has universal appeal when we speak it out loud, sometimes on stage, under the lights...allowing our own vulnerability to give permission to another to touch theirs.

Jack died today.  He's one of those people who touched many lives.  I'm sure his memorial service will be packed with all sorts of people who will be a reflection of his amazing life.  I will sit towards the back, slouching a bit, remembering a man whose poems will never die.

At least, that's the view from here...©

Jack McCarthy  May 23, 1939 - January 17, 2013

"PLEASE ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE MYSELF..."

I'm an obituary reader.  Always have been.  Probably for the same reason I love memoir.  I relish the glimpse into others' lives -- who they loved, where they lived, what they did for a living and for the world, what they learned and leave as a legacy.

Lately, I've noticed something a little startling.  Since publishing a photo with the obituary is now "en vogue", I immediately scan the photos before going back to read the "stories" and with nearly each obit I think I recognize the person!  I rarely do know them, but at first glance everyone looks familiar!  I realize this is because most are around my age or a little older...."elders" over 60.

The lie I tell myself is that I don't look my age ... certainly don't look as old as those people who regularly show up at high school reunions, Class of '68 for Hub and Class of '69 for me (yes, we were high school sweethearts).  And I want to believe I don't look the age of the people in the obits.  But the reality is, I certainly identify them as my age cohorts, or those of my parents, aunts, uncles, cousins -- people I know!

I also always look for a clue as to the cause of death.  I like it when they say what caused the deceased demise right in the first paragraph, especially if the deceased is my age or younger.  I like to think "Well, that couldn't happen to ME!"  I want to be reassured that I am living in a land where death doesn't visit.

But I also notice lately that I'm relating more and more to what did them in.  I know people with heart disease, cancer, Alzheimer's!  I know people who died unexpectedly, or in an accident, or on a trip.  Death visits all the lands in which I roam.

One time I was on a visit to see my parents when they were probably in their 70's.  My mom took a phone call and turned to my dad and said, "Honey, we lost another friend...."  I will never forget the look of grief on her face, shock and sadness on his.  I will never forget the phrase, "....another friend."  At a certain age, death comes calling with frightening regularity.

When an acquaintance around my age died suddenly a few years ago, it was a wake-up call of sorts.  So a couple of gal-pals and I got together to plan our own funerals.  It was a lark.  It was fun.  We laughed a lot and made elaborate plans for our funeral/memorial services.  Music, flowers, eulogies.  All of that needs updating now.  (I no longer think it would be "cool" to play "Sympathy for the Devil" to end the service,  no matter that I'm still a Stones fan.)

We also wrote our own obituaries.  One common thread of the obituaries I read every day is that they are relentlessly positive.  Each person was the greatest person who ever lived.  I'm sure they could also be total "shits" but who wants to remember someone's flaws and foibles?  I love that in memory, only the best traits survive -- at least in print.  I have a boxful of yellowed newspaper clippings, obituaries saved by my grandmother and then my mother, of relatives who died.  They are a treasure of family history.  They, too, were the best people who ever lived.

I also want to be remembered fondly, for being a loving wife, amazing mother, cherished grandmother, exemplary friend, devoted to my spiritual practices and my community.  (Please leave out the parts about me being a little neurotic, meddlesome, self-centered, anxiety-prone, and whiney).

Finally, I want my cause of death to be "excessive dancing" at age 106.   And if you want to throw in a little Rolling Stones tune at the memorial, well, that might be OK after all.

At least, that's the view from here....©