An Irish exit

Suzanne Claypool Goddard

Sometimes there are people in our lives, people not necessarily in our closest circles that we are just inexplicably drawn to. You know, the person you’re always happy to run into at the grocery store – the person that always leaves you smiling and feeling oddly hopeful.

My friend, Suzanne, was one of those people in my life. She died suddenly last week at the age of 77 from a massive stroke.

I had one of those chance encounters with her at a Bel Canto concert in Greensboro three nights before she died. Bel Canto is a marvelous professional chorus that has been performing in the Triad for over 30 years. Suzanne adored this group and served on their board of directors.

She gave me tickets to the holiday concert last year and was delighted when my wife and I attended. Last week, I bumped into her as a big crowd was filing into the church for the final performance of the year.

We hugged and chatted for a bit as we meandered in and she looked, as always, bright and beautiful. She had pretty white hair, cut stylishly short and she was always smartly dressed.

Somehow I ended up sitting directly in front of her for the concert. She introduced me to someone sitting beside her and then, as I returned to talking to the friend I was sitting with, I heard her say, “She’s the executive director of Triad Health Project and she’s just precious.”

Seriously? I’m fairly certain my own mother never referred to me as precious.

But that was Suzanne – she made you feel like you hung the moon every time she saw you.

I would often see her at work when she would drop off groceries for our client food pantry. She would always pick up food for Triad Health Project when she went to Costco and she would worry that she should have gotten more fruit cocktail and less tuna fish. She was so thoughtful about what was most needed for our clients.

Suzanne making one of her regular grocery deliveries to THP.

That was Suzanne.

She served on the board of directors at a similar agency when she lived in Dallas and HIV/AIDS was an issue she was passionate about.

I seemed to run into her more and more in the past year and she was so excited to hear that I had gotten married. She was a longtime supporter of LGBT rights and was thrilled when same-sex marriage was legalized in North Carolina.

We also shared a great love of the Episcopal Church. She was a much beloved member of Holy Trinity, the largest Episcopal Church in Greensboro, and I belong to All Saints, one of the smallest parishes. I have been thinking a lot about many of my dear friends at HT and how deeply they must be grieving this loss.

After the robust applause had subsided at intermission at last week’s concert, I turned around to see Suzanne’s beaming face as she pronounced, “Aren’t they just wonderful!?”

Oh, how she loved her singers.

When the concert was over, we hugged again and wished each other Merry Christmas.

Then I came into work a few days later to hear from a colleague that she was gone. It’s so hard to imagine that much vivaciousness suddenly vanished.

That night I had a dream about Suzanne. She was terribly excited about packing for an upcoming trip to New Zealand. I told her that that was one of the places on my “bucket list” to see, too.

When I woke up the next morning, I told my wife about the dream and she said the loveliest thing that I just know Suzanne would have adored. She said sweetly, “New Zealand. Well, isn’t that a lovely metaphor for heaven.”

I don’t know if heaven is anything like New Zealand but I am certain that no one will have a better time there than Suzanne.

I just wish she had booked a much later flight.

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Wishing you fair winds and following seas, sweet friend.

I wish I had a river

I just read my bestie Carla’s Christmas blog post and my eyes are moist from a duet of bittersweet tears. She loves Christmas and her joy for the season is as palpable as her sister’s molten chocolate lava cake.

One of the things that makes Carla such a good writer is her gift of memory and I adore how she can recall the tiniest details of her mother’s holiday decorating routine from the smell of the cloves in her cookies to the fake snow on her wreath. She says, “My mom did Christmas right.”

My mom did, too.

Magnolia leaves. That’s what I remember most about my mother’s Christmas decorating. She would scour neighbor’s yards for leaves at all hours of the night and any flat surface was fair game but the mantle in our living room was her real masterpiece. As a child, I’m not sure I knew what elegant meant but I did know that our decorations were fancier than most of my friends and that made me feel oddly proud.

It’s funny what you remember – like the crackling of the hard frozen leaves touching each other as she meticulously made her arrangements. It’s a soothing sound to me now and I think I use magnolia leaves more to hear that familiar noise than anything else.

I’ve been through a blue Christmas or two with Carla when we were both recovering from loss and contrary to the Muzak in the mall, it’s just not “the most wonderful time of the year” for a lot of folks and I can still feel like a grinch for how oblivious I used to be to this reality – until it became my reality.

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Simpler times with my brother and our dog, Taffy. I still have that Santa.

Humbling, I think that’s the word for it.

Christmas for me has changed over the past decade as the loss of parents and a partner also brought about the loss of traditions. It has taken me a long time to be “okay” with that and I still approach this time of year with a sense of weary resignation.

My dear wife likes to gently tease me about calling any holiday thing we do for the second time a “tradition.” I can laugh at myself but the truth is that these new traditions make me feel grounded and connected in ways I haven’t felt in a very long time.

Going to the Christmas Day opening of a big new movie is one of these tradtions and this year’s entrée is “Into the Woods” with Meryl Streep. An amusing aside – I always run into some of my Jewish friends enjoying their tradition, too.

It’s a delicate balance – remembering Christmas past and celebrating Christmas present and I’m grateful to have found some ways to honor both.

My mother had a large collection of heavy glass Christmas trees that she loved. Her tastes were more modern than mine but when she died, I kept them. Last Christmas was the first year that my now wife and I shared a home and when I pulled out the glass trees, she was smitten and insisted we put them out on our mantle.

Tradition…

Yes, Mom, I did marry well.

I’m so happy Carla will be with her whole family for Christmas. I’ve seen that sad puppy face when she couldn’t be there and well, it’s just not a good look for her. I love her family – they are warm and loving and loud and funny and remind me of the family I used to have.

I always say that Carla is an old soul and my heart ached a little when she cited Joni Mitchell’s “River” in her post – “It’s coming on Christmas, they’re cutting down trees.”

Me?

I wish I had a river I could skate away on.

It’s coming on Christmas

I love this time of year.

In my house, everything seems to slow down in December, creating a calm, a stillness, less urgency. There is more lounging on the couch, snug under chenille blankets that feel like rabbit fur. There are holiday movie marathons, while wearing polka dot flannel pajama bottoms and fuzzy slippers. There is sea salt caramel hot cocoa and glasses of heavy red wine. And there are meals that take longer to cook, warm our insides and bring us comfort. Tarragon tomato soup, stuffed cabbage rolls, crusty garlic bread.

December is like a long pause. A deep breath before another year begins and we start all over again. So I try to savor this month as much as I can and take advantage of this “pause.” I will read more, write more, reflect more. I will listen to Joni Mitchell’s “River” about 100 times – and cry 100 times – because it’s the saddest, most heartbreaking Christmas song on this planet, but also the most beautiful. I will not make many commitments or attend too many social engagements. This pause is sacred to me. For now, I just want quiet.

And I want Christmas decorations. Lots of them. Christmas in our new home feels warm and cozy – more so than other places we’ve lived. I wonder why that is? Our new home has inspired me to buy some holiday decor, which is not something I usually do. I’m all about buying ornaments and strands of twinkle lights, but I never was one for buying holiday decor outside of tree trimming. But this year, Christmas feels different. I’m happy and I want the space that I live in to reflect that, so I bought some mini Christmas trees and these adorable little birdies, in other words, simple things that make me happy. Every night, when I turn on all of our Christmas lights and light the candles on our mantle, our house feels . . . magical.

See what I mean? Magical, isn’t it?

These two birdies were longing for a third little tree. So I gave in.

Growing up, I loved when my mother would bring up from our basement giant cardboard boxes filled with Christmas decor. In one day, our entire house would be transformed into a winter wonderland. My mother had red and pine green candles that she only displayed at Christmas and a beautiful white and gold painted ceramic Santa. She put candles in every window and hung on the side of the house a gigantic wreath with white lights, gold ornaments and fake white snow that clung to the branches. And on one Saturday, she’d bake all of her Christmas cookies, filling the house with the scent of buttery cookie dough, toasted walnuts and cloves. Between cartoon breaks, I’d walk into the kitchen to sample her latest batch of cookies, and she’d load them on a paper plate for me to take back to the living room. My mom did Christmas right. I guess that’s where I get it from.

When I became an adult, the holidays brought up mixed feelings for me. I have a tendency to get a little melancholy, especially when I see others spending the holidays with their families. It’s the worst feeling in the world when your family texts you a group photo on Christmas Eve and you’re the only one not there or when your heart aches from just seeing your little nephews in their striped footie pajamas, opening their presents on Christmas day.

Since I moved to North Carolina nine years ago, going “home” hasn’t been an easy option. It’s too far to drive, too expensive to fly and getting enough time off from work has always been a headache. The last time I flew home for Christmas was four years ago during the middle of my divorce. My luggage was lost (and later recovered), my flights were delayed, and, oh yeah, there was that blizzard that cancelled my return flight and left me stranded in New Hampshire for five days. The upside? I got to spend my sister’s birthday with her and bake her a chocolate cake. The downside? The morning after I finally arrived home, I was shivering in bed with a 102 fever. After that trip, I instituted a five-year rotation plan.

My sister, nephew, and chocolate cake.

This year, however, the five-year plan has been trumped by a longing to be with family. I just can’t spend another Christmas on FaceTime. It will be the first time in four years that our whole family will be together. I cannot wait. No more FaceTime, no more photos texted across the miles, no more lost luggage and flight delays (we’re driving!). Just family – and my sister’s famous chocolate molten lava cakes. What more could I ask for?

Christmas-Eve Eve shenanigans, 2010. My brother-in-law loves this photo, even though a quarter of his face is cut off.

Yes, please.

Remember Pearl Harbor

December 7^th means two things to me – Pearl Harbor and the day my mother died, almost 12 years ago.

Both events caused mass shock and destruction, albeit on different scales – one historical, one deeply personal.

Pearl Harbor, December 7th, 1941.

I know it probably seems strange to you that I even note the connection between these events but as a writer, I’ve always appreciated the ripe imagery here.

My mother’s death was not a surprise attack – she had been battling a wicked head and neck cancer with weeks of radiation and then chemotherapy. The results were cruel – she lost 50 pounds and her voice only to learn that a previously undetected tumor on the base of her tongue was discovered.

I know you know – cancer sucks.

She was devastatingly brave, making even her aloof oncologist shake his head at her steely grit. He told us she probably had a couple of months left so we approached the holidays with a “We are the World” attitude, thinking we could turn the tables on cancer and make it a Hallmark Christmas.

A C. diff infection obliterated that plan pretty quickly and she died peacefully in a hospital on a blustery December night as I held her warm hand.

This is how I remember the Virginia sky the evening my mother died on December 7th, 2002.

I was happy she was no longer in pain and that her exit was full of grace and a peace that she rarely found in her life.

My bombs dropped later, as I dealt – or more accurately, did not deal – with a paralyzing grief and despair that I had never known. And there were many causalities – my loving partner (irreparable damage), my relationship with my sister (since repaired), and my own certainness in the world (a work in progress).

I eventually made my way back to the living and my life – a new life, not the one I had always imagined. And I always think of my combat experience with grief when December 7^th rolls around each year.

I think it’s important for me to remember it all – the pain, the destruction, and the armistice I finally brokered through a lot of hard work in therapy and a renewed relationship with my faith.

My mother died young – 70 – and in the past several years I’ve seen many friends navigate these same battles. I try to help in meaningful ways but for the most part, I think it is a solitary journey for each of us.

And I think Winston Churchill got it right about war, any kind of war, when he said, “If you’re going through hell, keep going.”

My beautiful, glamorous, elegant mother.

Besties’ Night Out

Addison and I deemed Friday as Besties’ Night Out (should that be possessive?). We had allowed two months to pass between us without seeing each other. Shame on us. But isn’t that how life is these days? Time feels like a roller coaster lately, a series of peaks and valleys all coming at you at 100 mph. OK, so maybe that analogy sounds a little dramatic. Then again, perhaps not.

When I arrived at Josephine’s Bistro, I found Addison settled into our table with a bottle of red already uncorked. We had a lot of ground to cover.

Addison suggested we tackle the last two months of our lives Jeopardy-style by dividing our topics of conversation into categories. I’ll take holiday plans for $200 please, Alex. In the span of three hours we covered family, health, blogging, writing, good reads, good flicks, work, stress, loved ones, conflicts, resolutions and on and on …

It wasn’t until 10:30 when we looked around and realized the restaurant had emptied out — as did our wine glasses. Evidence of good conversation and great company.

Bookends

Two writers. One blog.