Then and Now

What I remember most is how long it took to type out, hunched over my mother's electric typewriter out in the barn-made-office where our oil company was housed. The song had nearly 68 lines and I was not first in class in typing. And it really made no sense as to why I'd picked this song over other that were his favorites, other than I could see my father singing it and doing a hilarious dance to its jaunty klezmer Broadway tune, as I typed the lines. 

My dad, big as life, funny, irreverent, was gone. Something in the words, in the practice of transcribing them, brought something concrete to the chaos. I handed the note to my mother, folded up, and asked her to put it in the coffin with him. As odd of a request as it was, I know she understood.

The strange things we are called and compelled to do is how we make sense of things, I've learned this in the nearly 28 years since that piece of paper was slipped into his blue ultrasuede jacket, as easily as his casket was slipped into the marble floor that day. Today I have my own "burn box," held on the shelf of my home, filled with the most select group of emails, letters, poems, writings that I want to take with me as I return to ash. Everything in my burn box holds the deepest meaning for me, each piece given to me by loves of my life in moments that will forever be etched on my heart. I want to ensure, for myself, that I can carry this love into my future lifetimes, not an immolated gift for the gods, but love that is deeply entwined with my very essence, encased in my forever, wherever that may be. 

A year ago, I posted the following poem to my Facebook page, no doubt touched by the funny synergy of Leonard Cohen's act. Today we bury a friend, she, herself like my father, far too young and vibrant to be gone. I'd ferry her off with champagne if I could, and a picture of her sweet boy and the man who has been her lifelong backstop, and the best memories, painstakingly typed, all of those who will be here today for them and for her. What we take with us matters, what others give us for the journey, this side and the next, makes the most of life.

Ghosts on the Road
-David Rivard

A bookkeeping man,
tho one sure to knock on wood,
and mostly light

at loose ends—my friend
who is superstitiously funny, & always
sarcastic—save once,

after I’d told him
about Simone’s first time
walking—a toddler,

almost alone, she’d
gripped her sweater, right hand
clutched

chest-high, reassured
then, she held on to herself
so, so took a few

quick steps—
oh, he said, you know what? Leonard
Cohen, when he was 13,

after his father’s
out-of-the-blue heart attack, he slit
one of the old man’s

ties, & slipped a
message into it, then buried it
in his backyard—

73 now, he can’t
recall what he wrote—(threadbare
heartfelt prayer perhaps,

or complaint)—
his first writing anyway.
The need to comfort

ourselves is always
strongest at the start,
they say—

do you think
that’s true? my friend asked.
I don’t, he said,

I think the need
gets stronger, he said, it
just gets stronger.

Episode 3: Where Fran discovers a creepy old man and a new superpower...

A big nap and another big hit of meds and I am in a much more cheerful mood, which as given me the emotional bandwidth to laugh about a few things. It's the little things that matter, right?

Years ago when I was training to be a Pilates instructor, my teacher taught me to really pay attention to the way I hold my body that might increase pain or fatigue. This has been helpful this week, actually, as so much of my time has been sleeping sitting up and moving in a really awkward way and trying to relax those worked up muscles that are running for cover. 

So during this body observation, I realized that I walk around during the day with my upper body slightly rigid with my hands clenched at my sides, much like the small people do when they are learning to walk. I didn't really notice this until yesterday when it dawned on me that I looked like Bob Dole gimping around with that pen stuck in his hand. Of course, then I googled Bob Dole and came up with this Pepsi commercial of Brittany Spears and Bob Dole with all of the exploding bottle tops and Bob watching Brittany in the dark with that rigid pen in his hand during his Erectile Dysfunction advertising heyday and that gamey look on his face and got completely creeped out. And now, thankyouverymuchinternetz, I cannot scrub it from my eyes.

The other thing that this body observation gives me is the notion that I have a new supertool. I am pretty much sure I can deflect bullets with my breasts now. I am also pretty sure Wonder Woman could too, but the television censors wouldn't let the public know. Seriously. It was the cuffs AND the boobs.

On the plus side, there are friends who truly understand...

Me: My new superpower is the ability to deflect bullets with my breasts.
Joanna: Good. I'll stand behind you.
Me: Too bad I can't shoot them from my breasts, eh?
Joanna: That's the next stage when you have nipple reconstruction. You can choose bullets, fairy dust or champagne.
Me: [peeing.]
Me: I think I am going to choose all three. One for every occasion!
Joanna: Great idea. Not sure if insurance will cover all three, but we can pass the hat.
Me: With cuts in the city budget, I am pretty sure they will need me on the force.
Joanna: True. You will be in high demand.
Me: I could be the new Bond girl, saving A2 from harm, seducing evil men only to entrap them with my guns...ha! guns for sure!

This opens up a whole new world of possibilities...

Update:  The fiesty and ever-firey Deb Fisch sent me this knock-out clip. Yes, I like girls of that caliber....bwahahahahahaaaa.  First the fairy dust, then the bullets, natch.