A daughter looks at seventy

I’ve been writing this post for almost 25 years. Sure, I’ve been known to procrastinate, but that isn’t the case this time. No, this post has been – just like me – a work in progress. You see, I’m turning 70 at the end of the month (please act surprised) and that’s a daunting milestone for most folks, but for me, 70 has been the Demogorgon shadowing me since my mother died in 2002 – at the age of… yes, 70.

**My movie star mom set the bar high for birthdays. I only wish she had been able to celebrate a few more of her own.**

I was 45 when I lost both of my parents. Correction – they weren’t lost – they were stolen by cancer. My father was 79 – not a bad run – but my mother was only 70. And I’ve carried around a chip – more like a cinderblock some days – on my shoulder about it for a very long time. Even after all these years, it’s still an automatic equation I do in my head when I come across an obituary – how many years longer did that person live than my mother. Grief math is real and it’s even more painful than Algebra 2. It made me resentful for a very long time, but I’m grateful for some good friends whose own losses have helped mollify my perspective over the years. Like my friend Maryanne who was five years old when her mother died at 35 – unfathomable. And Jen who was only 21 when her mother died in a car accident when she was 53. By the way, both of these women grew up to be extraordinary mothers – which seems just right.

Look, I know I’m not special – well, maybe to a few people – lots of folks surpass the age at which a parent died. And for many, just like me, it is a landmark event that makes you scrutinize your own life more intensely. It’s a bit like taking a selfie from a low angle and it’s not always a pretty picture.

I thought that my overwhelming feeling about reaching the age at which my mother died would be relief – I made it. I wasn’t prepared for the existential dread of it all. It began the first of the year with sudden waves of sadness and anxiety. I could feel myself missing my mother more than usual – a physical longing to be in her presence again. And I started revisiting her illness and death in ways I had not done in a long time – vivid images of her beautiful face wincing from the hideous pain that was strangling her. I’ve been so lucky over the years that when I see my mother in my dreams she is never sick. I mean my dreams are not always the gauzy fluff Hallmark movies are made of – sometimes she’s cranky and we argue, but she is beautiful and well.

**Memes are so funny – until they’re not.**

It took me a while to realize that part of my anxiety was the reality of facing my own mortality. In the haunting lyrics of the late great John Prine – I am an old woman. Me! Sweet suffering Jesus, how did that happen? And even with my superpower of denial, I couldn’t hide from my angst because it seems like every other person I know turned 70 this year. I guess that makes sense. I’m on a group text chain with about 10 women I went to high school with – including two I’ve known since elementary school. The group doesn’t overshare and usually just chimes in for birthdays, news of grandchildren, and more so in the past few years – illness and death. Two of the women in the chain have been widowed recently and more than a few have had some serious health issues. One of my closest friends from the group was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s a couple of years ago. That one shattered me. She’s no longer able to participate in the group chat, but her husband checks in with us now and again to give us updates – and a whole hell of a lot of perspective on living.

Carol, Lee Anne and me – We were lucky to be seated alphabetically in Mrs. Crabel’s 4th grade class at Spotswood Elementary and became lifelong friends. We celebrated Lee Anne’s 70th in April at a 70s music concert. We may have danced like no one was watching.

So there have been a lot of sweet and funny 70^th birthday wishes and memes being exchanged this year. I think I’m the last to go and I hope I can still find the messages amusing. It’s a diverse group of women – we certainly don’t all align politically and I’m the only gay in the village – but we share a unique history. We have known each other through braces and acne and weddings and funerals. And it is a great comfort to me to still be connected with people who knew my parents.

**This is Tom – one of my very favorite men who also happens to be my attorney. Fun fact- he’s a real life Atticus Finch and we celebrated his 70th a few weeks ago.**

My mother was big on birthdays and everyone in our gang looked forward to my party every year. To be fair, I think their enthusiasm had more to do with my mother’s amazing crème puffs than me, but it was always a fun day. My last birthday with my mother was spent in the hospital at her bedside. She had been put on a course of steroids and was feeling downright perky – not gorked out on morphine as she was for so much of her last months. A friend brought a beautiful box of pastries to her room, and she was able to eat a bit. It wasn’t my best birthday, but I will always be thankful for the gift of her full and pain-free presence that day.

**Mom’s puffs were the life of the party!**

Even my esthetician, Chagit, turned 70 last month. I’ve known her for longer than either of us can remember, and I think of her foremost as a friend – not the person who gives me bitchin eyebrows every month. Fortunately for me, she’s great at both. Like my high school mates we have been through a lot together – like turning 50. We have laughed ourselves silly about how we totally freaked out all those years ago about what we thought was a milestone. If we make it to 80, I’m sure we’ll still be laughing about it. We’ve both gotten older, but oh, so much wiser. Just ask us.

**Chagit is the Rembrandt of eyebrows and the Jewish mother I didn’t know I needed.**

As my birthday draws closer, I’ve been thinking a lot about my life – especially my regrets. I have plenty of them and for the record, I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t. A life without regret is one without reflection. I have a long list of minor ones – like not learning to play the piano and those tragic perms I got in the 80s – and a shorter one that often haunts me – the one that includes things I’ve done that hurt people I deeply loved.

Author Ann Patchett beautifully captures my relationship with regrets in her novel Tom Lake when she writes, “We remember the people we hurt so much more clearly than the people who hurt us.” I am grateful that I remember. Regrets are phantom scars that never quite fully fade away. I think that’s a good thing. They remind us of when we needed to be better – and I hope I have been.

And here’s a little inside elder wisdom for you – don’t fret too much about those people who hurt you. In my experience, karma has been stealth but highly efficient. Patience, Grasshopper – and stay on the high road.

All the cool kids turned 70 this year – even Hope from *thirtysomething*. Time for a reboot? *Silver Yuppies?*

Lately, I’ve also been thinking about legacy. My dear friend Sue who has been an “other” mother to me for a long time, turns 84 later this year and she asked me to help write her obituary. Sue is in good health for the most part, but she’s a lifelong educator and has her lesson plans in order in all phases of her life. She’s accomplished quite a lot in that life and it’s hard to condense it into the standard obit template. Working on this task has made me think about what I would want people to remember about me. Sue doesn’t know this, but she has helped me write my own obituary. She sent me a beautiful birthday card a few years ago that still sits on my desk. The front of the card features an image of poet Amanda Gorman above the words Be the Light. Inside the card, Sue wrote some lovely things to me, but one sentence stood me still and I revisit it like a touchstone on days when those regrets get the best of me.

“I doubt that you have seldom met a person or cause that you did not embrace in one form or another.”

That’s it. That’s my obit. And it’s enough, but I do hope you don’t see it anytime soon.

**I’m so lucky to have Sue as a role model for aging gracefully – with fabulous eyewear.**

My mother’s mother lived to be 90. Go figure – no Fitbit and steeping vegetables in bacon fat served my grandmother well. I can’t recall her ever talking about being old, but I do remember being at her house and watching Neil Armstrong walk on the moon. That was in July of 1969 – a few months before she turned 70. My family were all upstairs asleep – Grandma and I were the only ones who had stayed up late. We sat on the couch together in the dark watching the grainy coverage and when Armstrong took his one giant leap for mankind, my grandmother shook her head and softly said, “I never thought I’d see the day.” I think that’s how I’ve felt about turning 70 for a very long time. I’m not a fatalist at all – I just couldn’t imagine what living longer than my mother would look like. I’ve never been great with maps or directions, and I will soon be entering unchartered territory. I guess I’m lucky I have so many good folks a wee bit ahead of me on the trail. I hope they drop a few Werther’s from their pockets along the way to guide me.

**Grandma saw some things in her 90 years.**

I thought long and hard about how I wanted to celebrate this biggie birthday. The last thing I wanted was a party – too loud, too much. I knew I wanted to be near water – close to nature and far away from the madding crowd. It’s a bit tricky because my birthday falls at the end of summer when it is still beastly hot where I live. And to know me, is to know that if I’m hot, ain’t nobody happy. So, if all goes well, I’ll be on the rugged coast of northern California on a deck that hangs over the Pacific – wearing a hoodie and holding an Olivia Pope sized glass of red wine. I’ll be with my dear wife, my beloved sister and my best friend from college – who, of course, also turned 70 this year. Her brother – her best friend – died last year. He was 72. I can do the math, but I detest it.

The consistently wise Anne Lamott wrote an essay for The Washington Post a few years ago on the occasion of her 70^th birthday and said, “I think I am only 57, but the paperwork does not back this up.” I would say neither do the knees, but here we are. And I’ll take it with abundant gratitude – and maybe if I’m lucky, a crème puff or two.

**My mother loved this quote by novelist Henry Miller and even found it on a fridge magnet. I’ve kept it close for almost 25 years and** **understand it more fully now that I’m of a certain age. I think it sounds like a worthy mission statement for my next decade. Cheers, Mom!**

Eulogy for Lynn Parsley

Note: My dear friend Lynn Parsley died on March 20^th, two days before her 68^th birthday. Cancer sucks. Lynn gave me many gifts, particularly the last few months of her life, and I will most certainly write about them when the time is right. She also gave me the great honor of giving her eulogy at her memorial service last week. I think these things are meant to be spoken, not read, but I’m sharing it with you anyway. I think Lynn would like that.

Lynn Parsley, ten days before her death. Living, not dying.

I married into friendship with Lynn Parsley. Lynn and my wife Joy were best friends for almost 25 years. So, when I got Joy, I also got Lynn. Lucky me! And Joy? Well, she got my grumpy cat. Life is not fair, friends.

I loved Lynn Parsley – and so did all of you. Lynn made meaningful connections her entire life and perhaps more remarkable than that, she kept most of them. The parade of visitors through her sunroom the last month of her life was like an episode of This is Your Life on steroids– friends from 3rd grade, sorority sisters, most of Ardmore, dogs, on and on for days. Lynn was never careless with her relationships. She nurtured them and treasured them, but you know that. You may not know the person sitting to your left or right, but it would not take long to make a connection while playing Six Degrees of Lynn Parsley. It might be Book Group, Movie Group, GLADS, Sunday school, Cabana Night, Sherosa, Adam Foundation, therapy, or you just happened to stand in line with her one morning at the DMV and you had an amazing conversation about the multiverse and became friends. Lynn thrived on connection and being with her people, and if you were her friend, you were her people for life.

Lynn Parsley was an ever-amusing array of opposites. She was one of the smartest people I’ve ever known – she could quote Richard Rohr and Honey Boo Boo in the same sentence. Her cake was never baked. She was endlessly curious. She traveled all over the world, but perhaps her favorite journey was the drive to Garden City and her beach condo – with the mandatory stop at the Strawberry Patch – always two scoops. Lynn loved ice cream more than anyone I know over the age of 12.

She was famously frugal – have coupon, will shop – and in her honor, our local Kohl’s store is closed today.

And yet, she was abundantly generous to charities and anyone in need – usually in quite ways – never giving for recognition. And Lynn was one of those people who never had to be asked to give. She just did – over and over again.

She had a wicked sense of humor and it never deserted her. She could tell one of her goofy Delbert and Doreen jokes and then land the wittiest retort.

A few weeks ago, I texted her a picture of a bumper sticker I saw in the Harris Teeter parking lot. It proclaimed, Enthusiastically Episcopalian.

Lynn immediately texted back, “Well, that’s an oxymoron.”

One day she would be telling me about a fascinating Japanese documentary on Albert Einstein and a few days later she’d be raving about much she loved the latest Minions movie.

Lynn loved movies and she texted me during the Oscars and said she hoped there would be movies in heaven and Milk Duds that wouldn’t pull out her fillings. May it be so.

We reminisced about one of our favorite movies, Starman, a few weeks before she died. There’s a wonderful scene in that film where an alien, played by Jeff Bridges, is sharing his observations about humans with a scientist.

The alien says, “You are a strange species. not like any other. Shall I tell you what I find beautiful about you? You are at your very best when things are worst.’’

That was Lynn Parsley.

And things certainly went from bad to worse in the past few months and Lynn was always the one that made us feel better. She never gave up hope – her faith sustained everyone who loved her. And, of course, no one loved her as much as Kathy and I cannot speak of Lynn today without speaking about Kathy. And Lord knows, she hates that. I’m sorry, Kathy.

Kathy Ausen was the love of Lynn’s life. Lynn always felt like she won the lottery with Kathy – her beautiful Norwegian, and if you’ve ever had Kathy’s chocolate chip cookies, you know that she did. Their relationship was filled with love and humor and all the things that good marriages are made of, but it was also brimming with integrity and respect. Their relationship was shiny in all the best ways – like a beautiful crystal prism reflecting the best of both of them.

Bearing witness to Kathy’s strength and grace these past several years has made me appreciate the vow “in sickness and in health” in a truly sacred way.

Thank you, Kathy, for always holding us up with your elegant mettle.

When Lynn’s prognosis suddenly changed from months to weeks, she leaned into her death – certainly not happy about it, but peacefully accepting. Joy and I went to the house that night not knowing what to expect. There was Lynn in her recliner with a beatific smile on her face. She said, “I’ve decided that I want to die on the same day as Jimmy Carter so that we can hold hands and jump together.” She’s waiting for you, President Carter.

Lynn’s serene acceptance of her death gave us the glorious gift of celebrating her life while she was still here with us, and boy, did we! We had a drive-by early birthday parade and she was able to sit outside on a beautiful sunny Saturday and say goodbye to so many old friends. Most of them cried, but Lynn didn’t. She smiled that winsome smile and held their hands and said things like, “I’ll see you on the other side.”

Kathy told us later that evening that Lynn was reflecting on the day and said, “I’m already in heaven.”

Lynn loved the poet Mary Oliver and a passage from her poem, In Backwater Woods, perfectly captures Lynn’s presence in her final weeks.

To live in this world, you must be able to do three things, to love what is mortal, to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it, and when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.

Our beloved Lynn has let go, but the good news is that we never have to let go of her.

Lynn Parsley Forever!

Deborah Lynn Parsley, March 22, 1955 – March 20, 2023

Eulogy for my dad

February 10, 2023

The sunrise was beautiful yesterday. It reminded me of all the early mornings I spent fishing with my dad at the beach when I was growing up. The night’s blue light was beginning to fade while the sun cast its first golden rays, creating brilliant hues of pink and orange across the sky. I paused in the street to take it all in. I could almost smell the ocean salt in the air.

I can still picture my dad standing at the shore a few feet away from me with his fishing pole, looking out across the vast ocean, content and at peace. Occasionally he’d look my way to check on me and would run to my side if he saw me struggling to reel in my catch. He’d let me believe I was doing the work, even though his strong hands were guiding mine. The pride I felt from him when I would catch a fish always made me feel like I could do anything.

Those quiet mornings on the beach were special to me for so many reasons. My dad worked a lot to take care of the four of us, so any opportunity I had to spend one-on-one time with him felt like a gift. I was always looking for ways to connect with him and learn from him. Dad was a patient teacher and he got so much enjoyment from sharing with others the things he loved. Now, as an adult, I realize my dad was giving me more than just fishing lessons.

My dad taught me how to truly be present in the moment and appreciate the beauty of nature and life, but most of all each other. He taught me that you didn’t have to talk to connect, that simply sharing space and being present with another person can be more powerful than words. Those values have shaped me and guided me in my life, especially these past few months.

Toward the end of my dad’s life, I saw so much of what he has given me reflected back to him through my own actions. Our time together became all about presence, patience, unconditional love and being in the moment. It was a cold washcloth on the head. Encouraging him and cheering him on when he walked 13 feet. Feeding him a spoonful of canned peaches. Playing his favorite music artists—Elvis, Jackson Browne, Sinatra—singing to him hoping he would remember the lyrics, dancing around the room to make him laugh. Wiping away his tears. Sitting next to him in bed just holding his hand in the quiet of his hospital room.

I don’t think I truly knew what love was until my dad got sick.

No one took better care of him than my mom. I always felt and saw the love between my parents. But it was so much more apparent these past few months. It was heartbreakingly beautiful to watch the tenderness between them. My dad lit up every time she walked into the room. “Hello, sweetheart,” he would beam. My dad was happiest when he was with my mom. He worried about her and always told me as I was leaving: “Take care of your mother.” He never stopped wanting to protect us.

My dad was my family’s anchor. A steady, constant, and loving presence in not just our lives, but everyone who had the pleasure of knowing him. He was selfless, always thinking of others. Even in the work he did, he always talked about taking care of his people. Throughout his career, he had to carry out layoffs and shutdowns of manufacturing plants, which weighed heavy on him. He did everything he could in his power to save peoples’ jobs and their families and delivered the difficult news with empathy and grace.

He also had a wonderful sense of humor and a silly side. One time he auctioned off items from his closet to my sisters and I with real money. We never knew what we were bidding on because he would hide it behind his back and talk it up in a way that convinced us we had to have it. One of my sisters ended up with a tie rack. There were some tears when it was time to pay up and some of us didn’t have enough money in our piggy banks. I’m pretty sure I remember my mom yelling at him when she got home.

My dad would get extra silly on Saturdays when he was in charge of taking care of us while my mom was at work. My sisters and I loved Saturdays with my dad. He made ordinary trips to the grocery store fun. The toilet paper aisle was our favorite. My dad would pause in front of the towers of Charmin and ask “Do we need toilet paper girls?” and we would provide an emphatic yes as my dad intentionally reached for the toilet paper at the bottom of the stack as we watched all the packages tumble to the floor in a heaping mess. Then he would nonchalantly exit the aisle with his shopping cart while saying “You girls better pick that up. You’re gonna get it.” Sometimes we’d laugh, other times we’d frantically and nervously put the toilet paper back on the shelf out of fear we’d get in trouble.

My dad told me once that being in the Navy taught him discipline. He said “You could withstand almost anything and get through it.” My dad was the strongest and bravest person I’ve ever known. He survived un-survivable things. His resiliency astonished everyone, even his doctors. Part of that may have come from the Navy, but I believe my dad’s strength was innate. That strength and all the other beautiful parts of him will live on in me, in my sister Gina, in my sister Amanda, and my dear nephews Aiden and Dylan. My dad said it perfectly: “We will continue on together.”

The night my dad died, my family and I walked outside of Hospice House into the cold February air with broken hearts. I looked up and saw a full moon glowing brightly in the night sky.

It made me think of years ago, after a tearful goodbye with my dad, a text he sent me as he was boarding his plane. It read:

“The same moon that shines on you shines on me. Let’s stay connected.”

****

Chester Stanley Kucinski, Jr.

February 18, 1947- February 6, 2023

Odd couple

**How do you measure a year in a life? Remember the love.**

Grief is a greedy bastard. You can quote me on that.

My mother died twenty years ago today. No Hallmark cards for this milestone. Come to think of it, I bet there are – I just haven’t seen them, but now I’m certain to get a pop-up ad in my Facebook feed. Anyway, I knew I would write about this anniversary and well, let’s face it, I’ve had a lot of time to gather my thoughts. I had decided a while ago that I wanted my post to be more of a celebration of my mother’s life than a somber reflection, maybe share some stories that would tell you what I want you to know about her. The kind of stories that reveal someone’s true character. Like the time my conservative Republican mother cared for one of my suitemates in college after she had a miscarriage. Yes, it sounds like an Afterschool Special, but it really happened.

I attended college at James Madison University in Harrisonburg, Virginia – the small town I grew up in. I lived on campus and was quite the naïve freshman when I met my two suitemates from Northern Virginia – Molly and Julie (yes, the names have been changed). They had been good friends in high school – schools much larger than mine and they arrived at JMU with a lot more experience in all manner of things than me. They seemed nice enough, but I rolled my eyes when I saw their matching Winnie the Pooh comforters when I walked past their room on move-in day. I had to readjust my initial impressions after they both snuck their boyfriends in that first night. It was a lot for a greenhorn virgin to process. I was terrified we would all be expelled if Mrs. Layman, our dorm mother (shut up, I’m old), discovered the contraband boys. Fortunately, Mrs. Layman was ancient and could have never made it up the three flights of stairs to our suite.

Turns out Molly and Julie were fun, sweet girls and I really liked their boyfriends, too. We became fast friends and they schooled me in some of the more colorful electives of higher education. I’m not sure what my mother thought of my new friends, but she was nice to them – fed them, let them do laundry at our house – real perks when you’re living in a dorm. One weekend that fall, most of us went away for some reason – I can’t remember where – and Molly was the only one left in our suite. She had seemed edgy for a few days and I assumed it was a combination of boyfriend issues and cramps – a debilitating duo for sure.

When I got back to campus that Sunday evening, I went to check on Molly. She was tucked under the covers in her bed, looking rather wan. I asked her if she was okay. And then she told me about her weekend. She had been feeling bad on Friday evening and went to the infirmary – where she had a miscarriage. I think I stopped breathing and I became very aware of my own racing pulse. She told me that she thought she might have been pregnant – she had missed a period – and that’s why she had been so upset lately. The infirmary released her on Saturday and sent her home with a few parting gifts. Turns out an 18-year-old young woman scared and away from home needed more than some Ibuprofen and a box of Maxi Pads. So, she called my mother. At this point, I remember thinking having a heart attack would have been preferable to talking to my mother about what had happened. And what did my mother do? She picked up Molly and brought her to our house and gave her ginger ale and Saltine crackers and let her spend the night in my old room. Now I was ready for a trip to the infirmary.

**My formative years were pre-internet. There was no Siri. The struggle was real.**

Mom was a wonderful mother in many ways, but she never had “the talk” with me. Everything I learned about reproduction growing up was from a grainy film I saw in the basement of the Health Department when I was in Girl Scouts. Let’s just say that I did my own research. I barely dated in high school – mainly because I knew I was gay and well, such things just weren’t talked about back then. My mother was strict and I knew she would have a strong opinion about Molly’s situation. When I finally gathered the courage to call her to tell her I had gotten home safely from the weekend, she didn’t mention what had happened. We small talked for a bit and when it was time to hang up I somehow managed to form the words, “Thank you for taking care of Molly.” Gulp. I braced myself for her onslaught of disapproval, but her response was brief and resolute: “She needed a mother.” We never spoke of it again and I think that might be the only story about my mother that you need to know.

I’ve certainly known that feeling of needing a mother over the past two decades. I deactivated my Twitter account a couple of weeks ago. It’s not like I had a following or anything, but creepy Elon Musk was just a bridge too far for me. I did enjoy some of the snarky humor on the site and once in a while, it was fun to connect with a celebrity or two. I followed the actor Mira Sorvino – I found her posts relating to #MeToo very insightful. Her father, the late great Paul Sorvino, died this past July and Sorvino made a post I understood all too well.

**When Twitter is used for good and not evil.**

As a writer, I cherish words and I swoon when someone chooses just the right one. Unmoored. Mira Sorvino nailed it. I knew exactly what she was speaking of – that uneasy and sometimes scary feeling of drifting with no sense of direction. Pilots can sometimes experience this as spatial disorientation – feeling like they are flying in a straight line when in reality, they are leaning into a banking motion. Spatial disorientation was determined to be the cause of John F. Kennedy Jr.’s plane crash near Martha’s Vineyard in 1999. Kennedy was confused about his plane’s position over water while descending at night and lost sight of the horizon. In simple terms, he wasn’t where he thought he was. I think grief is a form of spatial disorientation. There have been many times during the past twenty years that I thought I was doing fine – or at least okay – when, in truth, I was drifting dangerously off course. Once in those early years, I spectacularly crashed and burned and hurt people I deeply loved. These days I try to practice gratitude over regret, but the residual damage can never be undone.

**What it feels like when grief is your co-pilot.**

I grabbed for any lifeline when I was searching for the horizon and my younger sister was the one who most often caught me. She was only 38 when our parents died. We have taken turns rescuing each other over the years and in those truly despicable moments when we have both been dismally adrift, we have somehow managed to keep each other upright. During these times, we often recall stories about our parents – most of them not as dramatic as the one I shared from my college days. Most are funny and sweet and quite ordinary. The sharing of the knowing is what keeps our loved ones alive and we treasure these conversations. Often, when we’ve made it through a particularly rough ride, we find ourselves laughing at our own resilience. And we always express our gratitude for each other. We know our parents would be proud of us in these moments.

So, I knew I wanted to be with my sister to commemorate the anniversary of Mom’s death. It’s a little tricky since my sister lives in California and I’m here in North Carolina, but she’s always been a bit of a gypsy and as fate would have it, she’s on the east coast for several weeks for work. I wanted us to meet in a place that was meaningful to all of us – me, her and my mother. The town we grew up in no longer holds any comfort for us. It’s a funny thing when you lose your parents, you lose your hometown, too. We have no connections there – just the house we grew up in. Charlottesville, Virginia has always held a significant place in our lives. My mother spent a lot of time there as a child – her mother’s sister lived there and they often visited from their home in Lynchburg. My father attended the University of Virginia and passed his love of all things UVA on to my sister and me. My brother went to Virginia Tech, so the UVA gene skipped a sibling – but that made for a lively rivalry over the years. My sister also studied at UVA for a while and I lived in Charlottesville for a dozen years when I was a department store buyer for Belk. It remains the most beautiful place I’ve ever lived in and some of the happiest times of my life were spent there. It feels like home to me in a way that Greensboro or Winston Salem never have.

Wait, I may have buried the lead here. On a blustery Saturday night in December of 2002, my mother took her last breath as I held her warm hand in a quiet hospital room in … Charlottesville. Her death was beautiful and peaceful, so Charlottesvile felt like the perfect place to celebrate her by doing some of her favorite things – like shopping and drinking champagne – both aerobic activities in her book.

And then, on a Sunday night a few weeks ago, three University of Virginia football players were gunned down on a charter bus in a parking lot on campus as they returned to Charlottesville from a class trip to Washington, DC. Unfathomable. Charlottesville was once again the site of unthinkable violence and thrust into the national spotlight for the most heinous of reasons. My wife and I awoke to the horrible news on that Monday morning when we turned on the TODAY show. There have been over 600 mass shootings in the United States this year – this year – we rail at all of them, but when they feel personal, it is different. I was gutted. I immediately texted my dear friend Chris who has lived in Charlottesville for almost fifty years. It felt important to be connected with someone else who was heartbroken.

**Charlottesville knows how to grieve.** **Mourning on the** **Lawn.**

That’s another thing about grief – it stirs our innate communal needs. We desperately long for union with others who feel the same way. Anderson Cooper has a new podcast about loss and grief, Is That All There is With Anderson Cooper. It reached No. 1 on the Apple Podcast charts in the United States after two days in release. Turns out grief is the Taylor Swift of podcasts. Cooper is 55 and lost his father when he was 10 and his brother, to suicide, when he was 21. Cooper has known grief but kept it at a distance until his mother died a few years ago and he had to deal with sorting out her things – and, in turn – his unattended grief. He felt isolated and wanted to hear about how others navigate this lonely journey. The podcast is very personal and deeply moving, especially when Cooper’s voice cracks with emotion as he articulates his own grief. You see, grief is also a great equalizer – it can even bring intrepid war correspondents to their knees.

I listened to each episode of Cooper’s podcast at my desk because I wanted to take notes. I can be nerdy like that. The other day, I went back and reviewed them because I knew there would some pearls of wisdom I had gleaned about grief that I would want to share in this post. Turns out that nothing I wrote down that Cooper and his guests had shared was anything I had not said or thought myself these past twenty years. I had just found so much comfort in hearing other people say these same things. Grieving is such a solitary act that this communal experience felt so affirming to me – life affirming, because to be alive – to be human – is to grieve. As Dr. BJ Miller, a hospice and palliative care physician, succinctly sums up in Episode 3 of the series, “A full life includes sorrow.” The title of this episode slayed me – Sorrow Isn’t an Enemy. In fact, sorrow is often our link to others and why we share our stories over and over again – to feel connected and keep our lost loved ones alive.

There will be lots of stories in Charlottesville this weekend and on Saturday evening we will have dinner with some dear friends who knew and loved my parents. They will have stories, too. There will be lots of laughing and most certainly a few tears. And my mother will be gloriously in the middle of all of it.

You see, joy and grief may seem like a peculiar pair, but they really can coexist. Perhaps not always peacefully, but the good news is that they mate for life.

**Joy comes in the morning. Photo credit: The University of Virginia**

The missing years

**I celebrated 45 birthdays with that guy on the left. Not nearly enough.**

My dad passed away peacefully on a beautiful Sunday morning 20 years ago today. These deathiversaries – as I am wont to call them – have become sacred days on my calendar and I try to celebrate my father in a special way. He loved being outdoors, so you’ll most often find me on a long walk or a stroll in some gardens. And I find myself almost always happy. That was one of my father’s most indelible traits – he was an eternal optimist. Damn him. It’s a tough act to follow for sure.

Twenty years is a big one to wrap my head around – so I did some math. That’s funny because I’m not good at math but I did figure out that I have now lived 31% of my life without my father. That’s almost a third of my life – you can check my work on that. I’m not sure why I did that because it certainly didn’t comfort me. I guess this is just my convoluted way of telling you that I have lived a long time without my father.

Lately, I’ve been imagining a conversation with him – probably over a Coors Light – his beer of choice. I would give him a recap of some of the highlights of the past two decades. (There are a lot of ways to measure 20 years.) Without a doubt, the very first thing that I would tell him is that his beloved University of Virginia Cavaliers won the NCAA National Championship in basketball in 2019. Nothing on this earth would have made him happier. Nothing. My father loved sports – as a participant and a fan. More importantly – to me at least – he was a good sport, too. He was a humble winner – although his teams didn’t do a lot of that – and he was the rarest of men – a gracious loser. No one was louder than him watching a game – well, maybe me and my sister. We inherited his sonic capacity for yelling. I don’t use that voice very often anymore – it terrifies my cat and makes my dear wife question her choices in life. Dad was always in it to win it, but was amiable in defeat and would optimistically lament, “We’ll get ‘em next time.”

**That one shining moment when my father knew for certain that he had made it to heaven.**

Here’s an ironic sidebar. That magical night UVA captured the national championship, I watched the game alone in my condo silently while said dear wife was sleeping. You see, she cares less about sports than anyone I’ve ever known. It is one of her few flaws and I have learned to live with it. Let me remind you that that game went into overtime. Silent overtime. Granted, I was ferociously texting with my sister in California and my dear friend Chris in Charlottesville – but I didn’t make a peep. That said, I’m fairly certain that I damaged some internal organs by keeping all of that emotion inside. When the game was over and UVA had finally won THE BIG ONE, I wept with unbridled, albeit hushed joy. And I swear I could smell my father’s cologne. He was right there beside me. He still is in so many ways.

**Rarer than a Bigfoot sighting – my dear wife enthusiastically cheering at a football game. (Probably because it was over.)**

I would also tell my dad about the lore of the Bubba lucky charm. He had season tickets to UVA football games – no doubt where he honed his good loser skills. After he died, I kept the tickets for a few seasons. They were great seats, and it was nice to get together with Chris in Charlottesville on sun dappled fall afternoons. I don’t recall exactly how it began, but we invented a good luck ritual to use during games – the Lucky Bubba. My niece and nephew called my father Papa Bubba, and it became an endearing nickname that we all used. Chris and I decided that during each game we would be allowed three “Bubbas” to use when we needed something good to happen for UVA. We took this lark quite seriously and used our three lucky charms strategically. Sure, more often than not, UVA would still lose the game, but the Bubbas worked enough times to keep us engaged. And when a Bubba brought us to victory – well, that was the best. We still rely on Dad’s lucky charm – mostly by text. Laugh if you will, but we’ll always have that 2019 national championship.

**Me (quietly) celebrating UVA’s Natty with my dad. And yes, those are of tears of joy.**

I would most certainly tell my dad that I got married – real married. A lot can happen in 20 years. He would be pleased that I married a woman who shares his very best qualities. My wife is also an optimist and like my father, wakes up cheerful every morning. And like him, she is tall. My father regarded height as a virtue. He was 6’4’’ so I guess he did have a particular perspective on the subject. My wife also shares my father’s reverence for nature – particularly flowers. He had a green thumb and grew the most beautiful roses. He loved caring for them, and I can still picture his long frame bent over pruning his beauties on a hot day.

**My dad was an everything’s coming up roses kind of guy, so it makes sense he had such a way with them.**

I don’t know if I would tell Dad about the pandemic, but I have often thought that he would have done well with it. My dad was a resolute handwasher. He grew up dirt poor on a farm with no indoor plumbing, but I guess my grandmother instilled the importance of proper handwashing in him. He had big hands to match that tall frame and when he would come in from working in the yard, his first stop was always the kitchen sink to wash his hands. His hands were graceful, and he was never in a hurry as he scrubbed them. He was almost prayerful about it – as if he were giving thanks for the beauty of the earth and the soil between his fingers. I can just think of him washing his hands and feel peaceful.

The lucky truth is that I have a conversation with my father almost every day. These chats can run the gamut from fuchsias to flounder to Tony Soprano. My dad is in so many of the things that I love, too, and I’m sure that’s no coincidence. I don’t have to search for a connection to him – it runs deep inside me. No, I’m not the eternal optimist he was, but I am more often hopeful than not, and I think he had something to do with that. And Lord knows, I’m a good loser and I have found this to be an invaluable gift in this life.

**In old pictures, my dad looks like a movie star to me. James Garner was his doppleganger.**

My father had a mantra long before mantras were fashionable. He would tell us, “Only cry in victory, never in defeat.” As I kid, I thought he was talking about sports. Turns out it can be applied to all sorts of situations and his words have been a compass for me these past 20 years. And that is why should any of my tears fall today, they will gently land on the corners of a smile.

Thanks, Bubba.

Bookends

Two writers. One blog.

grief