It’s rare that someone makes me laugh – truly laugh from some primal part of my soul. Sure, I’m good for a polite snicker or even a chuckle. A belly laugh? That’s rarely me. Then comes along a blogger like Allie Brosh, the popular author of “Hyperbole and a Half” and all my apathy, my impassiveness, my weariness at all of the attempts I find to be so banal immediately disappear. (Yes, I’m a little hard on comedy. That explains my love of improv. Wait, maybe it doesn’t. It might explain my sketch writing.)
With a few words and a poorly drawn stick figure, she can have me on the floor gasping for breath, tears rolling down my face. She’s absolutely amazing. She’s hysterical. She’s hilarious. Unfortunately, she also suffers from debilitating bouts of depression. For the last 18 months she’s been taking a break trying to cope with her illness, occasionally popping up briefly on forums while everyone waited for her return and worried.
Today she posted her first full length post speaking openly about her ongoing struggles with depression; her honestly has made me admire her that much more.
If you haven’t discovered her, let me introduce you to her – through her laughter, through her struggles and hardships:
Our garage is like almost any garage – kind of ordinary in its rectangular-ness mixed with a hint of boring. It’s a space where only cars and items that aren’t quite loved enough to hangout inside live. The occasional yard tool loiters aimlessly against the wall. Every day I come home, open the door and am greeted with the sameness – the blandness. A life tucked away slowly passing through each season. I spend as little time as possible there. No particular reason to linger. Just grab everything from the car, close the door and wait for another day. Ordinary.
Then came Saturday when I opened the door and found…
Photo Bomb! From left to right: Holt Boggs, Topping Haggerty (Director), Jonathan A. Spear
Closeup! Holt Boggs & Jonathan A. Spear
Ahhh! Magic!
Be sure to look for “Fifi and Mr. Pickles” a short by Topping Haggerty coming to you later this Summer.
I lied when interviewed for our office’s newsletter. I could tell I was losing the interest of the designated “journalist” as I detailed all of the improv, sketch writing, short filming I had recently done. So when she asked “are you currently doing anything? like now?” I felt I should say, “yes” even though “yes” was really more a “no”. I said I had been writing, which while not sketch writing was still a mostly true statement – I wrote emails. It counts! I implied I was planning on performing, since I performed quite regularly at my desk for the “amusement” of my coworkers and myself. Those laughs are sincere. I just know it! But it was all a lie. I wasn’t doing anything. I wasn’t writing. I had no plans to perform ever again.
That’s when I was approached to be part of a show celebrating Shakespeare. Would I like to be part of a puppet sketch? I waffled. I offered to carry them with promises I was a really great and reliable carrier. This is true. Well, unless it’s really heavy and then I’m an equally accomplished whiner. The other part of my offer, should I be turned down on the carrying gig, was to volunteer to be in the show and say one line. That line was, “mailbox”. I know, it sounds random, but in my Puppeting 101 class it was an exercise we used to move our puppet around a space and speak. Basically, your puppet believes everything it sees is a mailbox. They get excited when they see it, they yell, “MAILBOX!!!”, run over to it and usually look a bit defeated as they sigh, shake their head and say, “no mail”. (It’s a little sad. For the record, most puppets would really like to find something in that ever empty box. If you know a puppet, write it a letter.) The sketch writer/performer/orchestrator considered this and came back with a sketch where I had one line. I got to say “Shakespeare!” Which is “mailbox” only in early modern English (what Shakespeare wrote in – your fun Shakespearean fact for the day).
I’d never been in a real show. Sure, I’d done student shows and then there was our show this summer, where people read my words, but not a show where people who I hadn’t bullied might attend and pay real money. These future audience members would doubtlessly have higher standards. But despite all doubts I performed last month as part of a puppet cast that taught Shakespeare 101 using my best Jean Luc Picard voice (sure, you think that’s just Patrick Stewart, but there’s a subtle and distinct difference… in my head.) with a puppet I decided was Puck. I did this for six shows where audience members laughed and people called out “Shakespeare!” to me after the show. It was great fun, I met some great people and it that had the added benefit of not making me a complete liar for the office newsletter. Whew! Karma bullet dodged.
One Quick Observation Before I Leave
Like the rest of the troupes that appeared with us celebrating Shakespeare, I grew up with the Muppets. I’ll even admit that Jim Hensen is the only celebrity whose passing brought me to tears. In my mind his death meant that Kermit had passed away as well and I was beyond heartbroken. I completely believed in the Muppets and their magic So, needless to say one of the fun things i loved about having a puppet on my hand was seeing the effect it had on people – on the audience and on the cast. The Richard the III’s (there were more than one – UK parking lots were very busy this season) whose faces would melt as they’d wave to each puppet and softly say, “hello”. The Rosencrantz who cheerfully inquired, “Puppet! What time is the show?” and waited for the puppet to respond. The audience member who stopped me and said, “the puppets were the best!” – not, “you guys” and all the people who’d just pause when you’d place them on your arm and their countenance would soften a wee bit upon seeing them. They’re magical. I was proud to be a part of this group that brought such joy.
We few, we happy few, we band of [puppeteering] brothers.
I need your help. Yes, I’m talking directly to you. Don’t even think about looking over your shoulder. Well, unless you’ve found yourself at the center of a spy thriller or you’re a conspiracy nut (and by “nut” I mean “thoughtful individual who clearly sees all of those clandestine government plots and truly understands ‘they’re out to get you’”). Anyway, back to the help I need.
Some Background (everyone loves a story)
Some of you are aware that I follow a blog written by a 24 year old (now, 24 ½!) who is out in Asia in the midst of a two year adventure. It’s called Backpackology. Unfortunately, that adventure became a little too adventurous and he lost all of the tools he uses to bring his blog to life. After months of not writing, where we were pretty sure his entrails were decorating some mad hermits wall in some remote jungle (because what mad hermit would live anywhere else), he posted an update letting everyone know that he was indeed alive. A collective sigh or relief was breathed throughout the internet and money was exchanged as the bets were called in. “I had $25 on him being alive! Hand it over, folks!”
In the update he announced he’d started a Kickstarter campaign. If you’re not familiar with Kickstarter, it’s .”..a funding platform for creative projects…” It’s something I use to back some of my favorite projects, and you can learn more about them here: Kickstarter Basics
The great thing about Kickstarter is that once the project is funded, you can receive rewards for your donations. In this case I pledged for a “dare”.
The Help I Need (see, cleverly titled so you’ll know this is the “ask” part of the blog)
This is where I need your ideas. The “Dare” level gives me the “opportunity to dare [him] to do something (ANYTHING) that [he] will film and publish on [his] blog. The stipulations are: it must be legal, it can’t take longer that one day to perform, cost more than $50, it can’t harm other or live animals and it cannot cause seriously harm to [him] or [his] belongings (though psychological harm is completely permissible so long as it’s funny).” (I’m loosely quoting since Kickstarter won’t let me cut and paste and I don’t feel like typing everything at the moment due to a profound sense of laziness.)
Now, I mostly contributed at this level to help him continue to do what he loves doing and that he is quite talented at sharing and well… because I want to continue to live vicariously through his adventures since my big trip at 24 was to mosey around New Orleans and get a hurricane glass from Pat O’Brien’s. WOO! Cheap, tall glass y’all! (I know, I was a wild one.) That being said though, I’d like to make an attempt at a dare, but I’m drawing a big blank. See, I’m at an age where my dares are more along the lines of: “I dare you to go straight home and stop risking your life and worrying your family.” I realize this technically falls under the category of “lame”, but in my defense, and why I’m now turning to you adventurous sorts (again, no need to look over your shoulder, I do mean you), everyone I asked had the exact same reaction (granted, they’re all about my age – we wave canes at one another and curse change – you know the sort). Even people I approached from around the area of the world where he’s traveling gave it some thought and stated coming home was the best adventure. (You know, I kind of thought they’d be good for some off the beaten path kind of ideas.) For the record, he’s traveling around China, Korea, Pakistan, India, Kyrgyzstan to give you some idea. The only “near” adventure I could think of was to have him participate in the celebration of Holi, in India (or Pakistan) but that occurs at the end of this month which is before the project is officially funded (which is also right before April 1st – come to think of it that may be the most appropriate time to propose a dare).
Wikipedia Commons – Sandeep Pranavam
So, you worldly travelers, can you think of any offbeat festival to attend, any odd regional food you’d like to see tried (he did try a 1,000 year old egg… there was video proof… umm blech), any fun, ridiculous, inspiring, crazy (yet safe) thing I (and of course by “I” I mean “we”) could suggest? (I’ll definitely post the results here once he’s completed it). Think big! Think fun! Think challenging! Think of what you’d want to do if you were 24 ½! Think of something that doesn’t sounds like, “board a plane back to the United States and become a sensible, contributing member of society so you can die in obscurity like the rest of us – tally ho and such, call your mother” because that would be stealing my idea.
I was stopped in the hall today and asked if I’d mind being interviewed for the school paper. Ok, so it may have been the office newsletter. Potato potato (err… that sounds so much better in my head.) Who can keep up with these things?
You’d think saying, “yes” wouldn’t be particularly difficult. However, I am me. You see, on the one hand, the ego-maniac inside me was saying, “hell, yeah what took you so long? I am AWESOME y’all! What what!!” while on the other hand, the extremely shy introvert reminded, “it’s impolite to brag.” And my introvert won the first round to the jaw dropping horror of my inner megalomaniac by uttering this tried and true line, “well, I’m not very interesting.” (Only this time I did manage to say it politely versus how I used it to be an absolute jerk over the holidays. For the record, they did have it coming.) The woman responded encouraging, “that’s not true, you do take improv.” “No, I haven’t been in an improv class in over a year.” She frowned disappointedly and ummm’ed a bit. It was the kind of reaction that nearly made me look to see when the next round of classes would be offered up from Merlin Works or The Hideout. Crap! I am actually dull! My ego maniac leapt on the opportunity and slapped me, which caused me to blurt out to the great protests of my introvert, “but I did write for a sketch show! We had a three week sold out run and I just finished filming my second sketch in December.””OH!” Enter the huffing introvert, “however, I’m a poor subject, I’m afraid.” My ego maniac glared.
Suffice it to say that despite the overwhelming protests of the introvert inside me, I will be interviewed over the next few days.
I just want to thank my friends for their suggestions on Facebook when I went to them and asked, “what do I say to make myself interesting?”
They offered up the following:
Tell them you know about MMORPGs. (This is true. I do. In fact, I know a lot. I’m fairly certain that would bring out all of the “Big Bang Theory” lovers and the next thing you know I’d be spilling my guts about how I’m a Half-Elf or a Forsaken as I wave goodbye to my disappearing career opportunities. This is sometimes known as a crit fail, epic fail, Captaining the USS Failboat or more simply being ganked by THE MAN.)
You can talk about graphic novels. (I could. In fact, I have talked about them much to the horror and dismay of someone who loves reading romance novels and felt like that reading choice was far superior to a graphic novel. She audibly snorted when I mentioned that some graphic novels had won literary awards. Still, I may be going out on a limb here, but I’m also thinking this is yet another career limiting choice that will force me into a “Big Bang Theory” discussion. “You’re just like Sheldon!” Oh frabjous day.)
Tell them one of your short films was nominated for a TITie award. (It was, but you kind of see a theme here. Right? For the record, that stands for The Institution Theater and it’s what they dubbed their awards. My “Hot Spots” short sadly lost. You can enjoy the winner here:
Talk about zombies. (Hoo boy. Not that I don’t have thoughts on zombies. Not that I haven’t written a sketch about zombies or worked on an idea for a zombie web series. It’s just that… you guessed it – “Big Bang Theory”.)
Tell them about your journey to find your sense of self after leaving a polygamist marriage (as wife eight), having broken free from a small village in Saskatchewan (how often do you get to say that?). You’ll obviously want to talk about your descent into the world of drugs, how you garnered the name Crack-a-tow-a on the mean streets of Minneapolis, and of course your “redemption” story in a small monastery in the northern Alps a la Julie Andrews. (Now this one has real possibilities and kind of wins for originality AND huge bonus, no one will be inspired to utter a single word about the “Big Bang Theory”. I’d just need to polish up on “Breaking Bad” or possibly watch a few episodes of “Intervention” and “Sister Wives” for ideas on who this new Beth is, but then again – could be career limiting.)
So, I think that means Richard’s suggestion wins:
“No comment,” drop the mic, and walk out. (Bring your own mic if needed).
We’ll see how it goes.
Note: I know you love “Big Bang Theory” and “Rock, Paper, Scissors, Lizard, Spock” and I respect that “ish”. However, I may see it exactly as my friend Jerin sees it, as black face for geeks/nerds. Thus, I pick on it. I also pick on it because I have low self-esteem and it makes me feel better about myself. Oh, and possibly because if one more person compares me to Sheldon, I will physically hurt them. I have mass.
Here we are at the end of 2012 and what a great year it has been. While I don’t have a Top 10, I thought I’d run through some of the personal highlights that made this year so great. Now I fully accept that I may be the only person interested in this, but by golly I’m doing it anyway despite the yawns and alt+tabbing. (Oh, you thought I couldn’t see that did you?)
This year I’ve read more books than I have in awhile and while that number isn’t impressive by any stretch, I still did it and count it towards my personal achievements. As a person who used to live in books, my past non-reading has been a bit embarrassing. This week I’ll finish up A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini and then it’s off to Margaret Atwood’s Handmaid’s Tale. That only leaves me with a gigantic stack of books (about 2’ high – I have the best intentions) that I’ve been meaning to read for a long while.
I wrote a lot of sketches this year, I got terrific feedback from Esther’s Follies on one I submitted to them, and we had a show that sold out over a three week run. Fantastic!
I was involved in three film shoots – two were for sketches I had written and the other was for a fellow classmate’s sketch. I can say that in my shoots, I was surrounded by incredibly amazing people who taught me a great deal. I’ve learned a lot and hopefully, if we continue to shoot sketches, I’ll become a stronger director. Right now, I’m more of the, “ummm hey guys like if you could maybe like ummm read the line like this… yeah, ok? Roll sound. Roll camera. Scene 1B Take 5. Action.” type.
Behind the scenes for Dunes
Below is my classmate Richard’s sketch “Good Morning” (you’ve gotten to see mine already – time for something new) where I got to play the role of Production Assistant and door slammer extraordinaire. It turns out I not only have a knack for door slamming, but it’s really quite enjoyable. (Note: I got to slam that door no less than about 20 times.) Now if I could only spin that into a job. I know I’d excel. Maybe move up the door slamming ranks until I became a Slammer Supervisor and allowed to slam two doors at once or maybe a French door on occasion – I mean, if my performance evaluations went well.
(Features many of the cast from our “Moral Compass Rumpus” show and all of the writers.)
I finally used my “big girl” camera and while I’m not entirely amazed by the results, I learned more about it and more about film (yes, yes, I’m a hold out). Namely, that I may be investing in a DSLR vs. the SLR I have in the future.
Film – Chinese Lanterns – State Fair of Texas 2012
I’ve asked Seth a ton of questions and learned many new things. Seth endured high school with me and is one of those insanely smart people who kindly puts up (for reasons I don’t understand but appreciate) with a random question a month. Seth gets nothing in return save the knowledge that I’m kind of an amusing air head and that fuzzy good feeling that comes from helping the hopeless. This year I’ve learned about topics from Copyright Law to Lomography to purple vs. the light spectrum. He also tries to encourage me to use my camera. He claims it’s not scary. I’m supposed to go on a photo stroll. Yes, I will get on that. You can see Seth’s amazing photos here.
I’ve had some great times with some great friends despite April’s attempt to try and bump me off. She’s now got me in a regular walking group. I think her diabolical new plan is to make my heart explode. In the last two months I’ve walked further and climbed higher than I have in a long time. New muscles reintroduced themselves to me by way of “I can’t move my legs”. Muscles like hip flexors said their hellos. Hey guys, where have you been? Ouch.
I’ve waited over a month, but I’m so excited I couldn’t wait any longer to announce (and update family and such):
In two short weeks we’ll be shooting my second sketch titled Dunes. I’ve got a knock-out cast and the best crew that a director, offering free food and snacks, could ask for. Let’s hear it for Dasani and fruit roll-ups! And I’m so excited I’m ending sentences in prepositions and beginning sentences with conjunctions, because it’s the only way my fingers can type grammar sommersaults! (I don’t think I scored a “10″ with the English judges. )
I’ll keep you posted and promise to torture you with the video soon. (Think toothpicks and dripping water. The kind of torture that will have you saying “good job, guys” and maybe drooling a little bit.)
DISCLAIMER: The cast and crew of Dunes will not be held responsible for drool.
I knew this was going to be a great Thanksgiving when I woke up, headed to the grocery store for no particular reason and then as I left was greeted at my car by the most cheerful Thanksgiving herald. A woman smiling ear-to-ear who waved cheerfully and shouted “Happy Thanksgiving!!” This delightful Thanksgiving muse had blessed my day and it was going to be fantastic.
For Thanksgiving I had a simple to-do list:
Smoke turkey breast
Take photos to show Dad using funky photo app on iPhone
Take normal photo in case Dad didn’t quite see how glorious aforementioned smoked turkey breast looked
Post photo to FB to incite envy – both at the gorgeous golden turkey and the artistically taken photo
Call Dad to wish him and CJ a very Happy Thanksgiving
Politely inquire about how his cooking is going
BRAG! BRAG! BRAG!
I went over the checklist several times with a proud smirk on my face as I prepared the grill and lit up the briquettes that would ultimately lead me to a personal grilling victory. The fire shot up. It was gorgeous. I took my celebratory red carpet walk into the kitchen and grabbed the thawed breast. As I freed it from the Butterball wrapping, several questions winged through my head. “Why is there so much liquid?” “Why is it wrapped in a stringed net?” “What the…?” I grabbed the Butterball casing that declared this to be a “Turkey Roast”. “Ok, ok, play it cool. No need for the Thanksgiving Meltdown 2012: The Return of the Meltdown – a sequel to Thanksgiving Meltdown 2011 where we discovered the turkey was actually pressed meat and not a couple of delicate turkey breast slices in a lovely gravy.” It seems that when I grabbed the small turkey thing at the store I only read as far as “Turkey -st” and my brain filled in “Brea-” refusing to see the actual “Roa-”. Unfortunately, this happens more than I care to admit, which results in a lot of surprises of the “almost, but not quite” variety. I see what I want and then my hand grabs the thing right next to it.
I honored this mix-up by declaring half-heartedly that I’d ruined Thanksgiving, then I troopered on to find the roasting pan. I could do this. About 10 minutes into cooking the roast, I noticed a smell in the air and then smoke began to drift out of the oven. Something at some time had spilled and it was a very stinky something. Roast out, oven cooled, and then oven scrubbed. Back in with the roast. We never could identify what had spilled, but we both were sure it wasn’t ours. Still, looks were passed since there was a lot of “something we didn’t spill” for someone not to know who it belonged to. “Breathe, it will be ok. No Meltdown 2012.”
An hour passed and it came time to fix the sweet potato casserole. It’s just not Thanksgiving in the South without this delightful sweet marshmallow concoction. I peeled the yams and as I looked at the peels, I lamented not having a composter (you see, if I just created a compost pile outside, Sam would move in, so I need something a little more contained or just beagle-proof). After staring and refusing to throw the peels into the trash it was decided, I needed to slowly send those down the disposal. A few seconds in, water and chopped-up peel were excitedly spraying up from the other side. I skulked into the computer room where my answer to “How is it going?” was something like, “Great. I mean if you count breaking the sink.” I decided at that point that any vegetable that needed to be washed would just be done in the bath tub. “No meltdown” was my less-than-enthusiastic sounding battle cry.
After some Googling it became apparent that Roto-Rooter could be avoided. Jay removed the trap or the “p” pipe or whatever it’s called. We agreed I’d be the best to clear out the muck, since I don’t have the sense to be grossed out by it. Incidentally, I’m the one you go to for dead critter removal. Don’t tell Sam that it was me who took the last 1/3 of her baby bunny. I cleared the pipes of sweet potato, who knows what, and an odd 3” slim metal thing that had to have been there for years giving unwilling food bits who hadn’t accepted their sewage destiny safe harbor. Covered in a brackish stink, I scrubbed down and continued on. No meltdown.
Sam threw-up. Jay took care of it. No meltdown.
But really the breaking point came when I went to free the yeast rolls from the oven and I threw the entire tray up in the air and all the rolls skittered on the floor. You see, I really like yeast rolls and I treat myself to them once a year. Seeing their little yeast corpses on the floor nearly caused me to snap and collapse to my knees. “Oh delicious yeast roll, what have I done to you?” Jay gave me a big hug. “I’m eating one. I don’t care. It’s the thing I love best.” Jay knew better than to look surprised. Yes, that’s gross, but too bad! I was having a bad day and I didn’t do it at your house. Plus, people need germs and this over-Purelled sissy world is only producing sickly people with pitiful immune systems. Eat dirt. (Or so I told myself to justify standing there brushing my roll and blowing on it. 5 second rule! Screw you MythBusters! You don’t know! )
The rest of the dinner went without a hitch or a full blown meltdown.
And that’s when I came down with this cold. Please, pass the tissue. More NyQuil STAT!
I am descended from a long line of martyrs. Now, you might be thinking the lion snack, pyre kindle, rock dodger sort, but you’d be mistaken. See, I’ve long suspected my family actually survived through the centuries by being fabulous finger pointers. “Oh, you’re looking for a witch? Have you spoken with Goody Johnson? No reason. I’m just saying there may be naked devil frolicking. Hey, since her property is right next to mine and she doesn’t look like a pond floater to me, if you catch my drift, I was thinking you know maybe we could just add that to our lands. Hey, did I mention the frolicking and the warts? I think there was cavorting!” In fact, all of my friends know that if they ever need someone to bury the body, they should definitely not include me due to my finger-pointing genetics. Even If I wanted to keep their secret, my DNA would kick in and the next thing you know I’d be at the local sheriff’s office spilling my guts. No, we’re more the sort of martyrs with our ever-lengthening faces who believe we were meant to suffer. It can make the holidays a real hoot. And while I’m not always like this, I have some glorious moments.
A recent example: I was driving home one night and I suppose the radio wasn’t entertaining enough and the traffic wasn’t particularly challenging, so that allowed for some quality me time. Time to really over think things – to rework reality. I started picking on myself and it went something like this: “you know, none of your friends parents like you – true story”. I made a list in my head of all of my friends and their parents – a list that would make what I was saying completely true. I crawled out on that mental ledge and followed with “you’re kind of unlikeable, there’s probably something wrong with you.” Now let me say this was up there with the time I called April and declared, “I only have three friends” to which April calmly took a breath and asked about several other people that I hadn’t counted – people I really liked and she was able to negotiate through my very German, “no, that’s an acquaintance”- the “du” vs. “Sie” roadblocks I threw in her way until I came down off of that ledge. I’m kind of famous for these glorious moments, I’m not so proud to say. So, as I drove and thought of every parent that disliked me including in-laws, I became smaller and sadder. This was my narrative I chose to tell myself that evening for no better reason than I was bored.
And then the small part of me that hates to be beaten up rallied. “Julie’s mom doesn’t feel that way. Ern’s parents don’t feel that way. In fact, if you think about it, more of them like you than don’t and the ones who don’t, you’ve always had a “right back atcha’” attitude anyway, so let’s admit we’re being silly.” I perked back up and recounted the ways that Julie’s mom had shown me over the years that she did still think about me and she did believe I was an ok person. I used that knowledge to feel ok again. To feel likeable. To feel like I wasn’t some friend toad who when introduced to parents was seen as some loathsome and repulsive parasite latched to their beloved kid. (Did I mention I’m very skilled at making myself suffer?) Those were the people who mattered to me – those incredible, amazing people who I admire and they like me. I’m ok.
Reminding myself of the real truth, the real story, allowed me to not only feel better about myself, but about the people around me. And the real story is that Ernie’s parents always ask about me when Ern comes into town. Julie’s mom follows my blog and was one of the top people to respond to my Facebook posts – something that goes well beyond what my own family does and it’s something that means a lot to me. And all of that helps me feel connected to my past.
Last week Julie told me that her mom had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Julie, who is a doctor, explained what that meant for the coming year and then asked if I would write a reminiscence – something her mom could read because she likes my writing. I had a small meltdown, and then I sat down at 3:30 am the following morning and wrote a small bit that will never do this amazing lady justice or properly express how much she means to me or how incredible I think she is.
Of all the phases in my life – school, graduation, college, marriages, friend’s children being born, this is the one I like absolutely the least. I want to stomp my feet hard enough or hold my breath long enough so that Death pauses, furrows a brow and says, “you know you’ll just pass out, but I suppose this once because of your moxie and that particular shade of blue on your face, I’ll cry uncle then come back in about 15 years, deal?” (I basically want Death to be the character from Terry Pratchett’s novels. Relatable with a great fondness for cats.)
Like my aunt and my mom, she’s one of those people I have always assumed would always be there. That decades from now I would still be hearing stories of her wanderings or hearing her boasting about and celebrating her incredible children and grandchildren. That I would be admiring her beautiful nature photos or the latest art piece she had created. That wherever the wind stirred the tall grass and gently encouraged the wind chimes into performing a fairy’s chorus that I could smile in the knowledge she was somewhere out there – Monte and Polly at her side.
And quite selfishly, on the 6th anniversary of my mother’s death, I admit that among the reasons I’m sad is that there will be one less person in this world that thinks I’m ok.
)
