59. The Written Word
Guess what I did. I started reading Bullet Bungalow, you know, my first published book. Debbie, Jennifer, and a new pal, Josephine Power, recently cracked the spines on the Pulling Threads series for the first time. They started talking about Kitt and Fred, and John and Joy, and Mayflower and Laurel Falls, and stalkers, and beachfront properties, and, and, and — so I decided to join the fun, fun, fun.
I mentioned in a recent blog that my body is slowing down — just a bit — nothing major, but enough to make a few differences in how I spend my 24/7. The takeaway is that I’m napping a lot more than I used to, and during the times when I’m awake, I don’t always have the mindful energy to string sentences together, so it’s a hard push to complete 3 blogs per week.
So what’s a girl to do? If the girl is an author, she can read one of her books.
OR—
She can read a book written by someone else.
There’s an itty-bitty problem in that for me — I do not want to start a book I may not finish. Imagine my getting halfway through the only Agatha Christie book I’ve yet to read, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, and I drop dead — before he does — or before I learn who done him in.
That would piss me off for all eternity.
Seriously.
It. Would. Piss. Me. Off.
At the very least, it would cause me to search for the long-dead mistress of mystery-writing upon my entrance through the Pearly Gates. (Little known fact: the Bible is the best-selling book of all time; William Shakespeare and Agatha Christie are the top-selling authors of all time). I remembered that bit of useless info, then did an internet search to verify my memory. It’s all good!
Okay, back to the horror of horrors, I’ve started a book, I’ve made some significant progress into the story, I drop dead before finishing it — no thank you, very much. To avoid that possibility, I’ve resisted cracking the spine of Agatha’s book. Since I know the storyline of Bullet Bungalow, and the trials and tribulations of Ms. Mahoney, I feel safe starting it. AND, I’ve felt safe cracking the spine on a book called Providence Noir. The book jacket explains this little gem.
Akashic Books continues its award-winning series of original noir anthologies, launched in 2004 with Brooklyn Noir … (and) … Boston Noir. The series delves deeper into the underbelly of New England with Providence Noir.
Ann Hood wrote a fantastic introduction that reads in part—
I’ve asked fourteen of my favorite writers to contribute short stories to Providence Noir. We have stories to make you shiver, stories to make you think, stories that will show you my beautiful, noirish city in a way it's never been highlighted before.
No doubt, I have a very unique reason for reading a collection of short stories, but I wholeheartedly recommend Providence Noir, to those who enjoy small doses of the darker side of humanity and really good storytelling.
Okay, putting that aside, we’re going to revisit a previous blog, Isn’t It Ironic, for two reasons. First up — I think I’ve mentioned this before, but it deserves repeating. One of my most favorite sounds in the world is the cracking of the spine on a hardcover book or journal when it’s first opened. There’s just something about a hardcover experience — holding a book with some heft, the sight of words filling pages, the first opening of the book to some random place, the stretching of the rigid spine — AND. THE. CRACK. I always repeat the process a few more times — just because the crack of a book spine feels and sounds sooooo good.
What does not sound good is the crack I’m hearing in certain parts of my spine when I move — particularly when I turn my head from side to side. The cracks don’t happen every time I move, and they don’t cause any pain, but they’re happening with more and more frequency — and they freak the hell out of me. It’s hard to tell exactly what’s happening inside of me, but I can make assumptions based on the munching that’s been going on (the newest munch-area is my right wrist, and yes there is pain there and it has raised a concern for me — the person who relies on her hands to do the typing to keep her from going bonkers — so there’s that) AND the increased cracking sounds along my spine make me wonder if they mean anything serious, or they simply cause a shudder, that has on occasion been accompanied with a crack.
So, where are we?
The crack of book spines – love it. The crack of body spines – not so much.
Isn’t it ironic?
A shared love of music.
I received a multi-page note, handwritten by my brother, Don. The very first thing you should know about the Ramblin’ Man (remember the name I just gave him — it is not coincidental). Anyway the man is incapable of sitting down. When his feet hit the floor in the morning, he is upright on them ALL DAY AND ALL NIGHT LONG. The only time I’ve seen Don sit with any regularity or length is when we are at the beach. He does his fair share of lounging, but that bit of time is definitely offset with frequent l.o.n.g. w.a.l.k.s.
For Don to sit his ass long enough to write anything is noteworthy — for him to take time to dig through his memory-bank and list the concerts he attended over the years is quite remarkable and therefore, I am remarking on it.
The Ones That Got Away, is the title of the first page of concerts on his list. Obviously, the following groups and performers were on his Wish List, but for whatever reason, he never saw them. As a bonus treat for me, he included a bit of commentary — I am going to put a bit of my own commentary because — well, I’m me. The Rolling Stones (The best band of all time, bar none.) (Top 5 for me.); Beach Boys (My second favorite.) (Not even in the top 20 for me.); Allman Brothers ( Song: Ramblin’ Man.) (Wait. What? Don Sneade didn’t see The Brothers in concert? This one surprised the hell out of me because I saw them several times and I was NOWHERE near the Southern Rock fan that Don was. Go figure.); David Bowie (Song: I love, love, Heroes.) (I do, too, but I had NO IDEA my brother wanted to see Bowie in concert. If I’d known that, and if I’d gotten 2 tickets — back in the day when I would have sold my soul and several body parts to see Bowie, my brother SO WOULD HAVE BEEN THE ONE I WOULD HAVE TAKEN.); Bob Seger (Songs: Main Street, and Sunspot Baby.) (This one surprised me. Not that Don wanted to see Seger — but that he didn’t see Seger. And BTW my list of Seger’s favorites is way too long.); Linda Ronstadt (Very talented.) (And gorgeous — I’m sort of surprised he didn’t mention that. I have no problem mentioning this — Ms. Ronstadt was my first ever female crush. Check out her album cover for Hasten Down The Wind. Enough said.); Bob Dylan (Probably the greatest solo artist and song writer.) (Arguably, in my humble opinion.); Jackson Browne (Great music.) (No argument, here).
Okay, that was the list of artists he would have loved to have seen. The second list is titled, Been There Done That — these were concerts he attended, listed by date, and in most cases, where the concerts took place. I’m telling you — this chronological endeavor was quite the ass-sitting commitment — not quite a 24/7 undertaking, mind you — but still.
I’m not going to run the list, but I am going to mention one concert. I discussed it briefly during a recent Sunday phone call with Don.
“I loved the list of concerts you sent.”
“Yeah. That took some time.”
“I bet. By the way, you and I were at the same concert.”
“No shit. Which one?”
“I’m saving that bit of info for a blog.”
Pause. “I bet I know. I bet it was Aerosmith at the Brooks Concert Hall at Holy Cross.”
It was —— isn’t it ironic? And isn’t it bittersweet?
Yeup.
New topic.
My favorite things to read during the long, lonely nights.
Cards
My postman Jose, has been working overtime with card deliveries to 183 Wildwood Avenue. I’ve received so many lovely cards, and I’ve enjoyed them all. In fact, I’ve become quite protective of them — enamored by them. Each folded gift — because let’s face it, that’s what they are — has brought unexpected joy to me. Most cards have a printed saying on the outside and the inside — all have come with a penned note by the sender. I make an effort to not read the return address before opening the card because I really enjoy being surprised.
I’ve been keeping the cards in a pretty box, and on some nights, I ask Tim to set Hadley’s rolling table near my chair and to put the box there so I can look through the cards again. It’s become a lovely, peaceful practice.
One night, I was looking at a card from a woman who lived on Wildwood many years ago, and these words popped into my head, “Huh, that looks like a card Susie would send.” Susie is a very sun-shiny woman, a fresh-faced beauty who spent as many daytime hours outside walking or gardening as she could. The card she sent held her personality.
It had a pastel blue background and an old-fashioned bicycle drawing in the foreground. Resting in the affixed handlebar basket was a bouquet of wildflowers. Long stems with gold and green foil leaves flopped over the sides, and a lone, oversized flower raised from the heavy cardstock. The card’s message was simple and genuine: Thinking of you … and sending positive thoughts and feel-good wishes to brighten your world. Those words hit the mark. Then, there was a beautiful note from Susie inside that most certainly brightened my world.
I pulled a random card from the box. This time it was white and had a scripted name across the top. That’s it — no fanfare. It was from my sister-in-law, Helen. The card itself, and the handwritten message inside is exactly what I knew it’d be — simple, direct, and so perfectly Helen. There are no words to comfort you — but know that you are loved and always will be. And, just like that, I felt her love — and I was comforted by her words.
I pulled another card from the box. It had a beautiful lavender envelope, and waiting inside was a beige parchment card with a single-stemmed, “Wish flower,” as Hadley calls the blow-away weeds. The flower had lavender swaths with dark, sparkly — some already released into flight.
The handwritten note inside was from the sister of my brother-in-law, Tom. Patty is a nurse and she penned a few words about the scourge of metastatic breast cancer, then set about expressing her gratitude that I was blogging about this experience and the impact it’s having on her, and she assumed on others, as well. This is not only a “thinking of you card,” but a fan letter. I just learned about the blog and it is wonderful … I’ve laughed out loud, and I’ve cried a lot. Keep the blogs coming! I am looking forward to hearing about Opening Day.
A sidestep. It would take an entire blog to tell you how many people have contacted me about the blog. I get feedback on Facebook, which is loads of fun, but the behind the scenes messages I’ve been receiving — from people I know, and people I do not know and will never meet is quite something. There has been an outpouring of love and support — but there has also been the telling of tales and sharing of painful losses — from complete strangers.
My books, Be and Be, still – helped one woman who emailed me through my website. I think I understand now why Dad pulled away during hospice. I assumed he would want to spend more time with his family. As the days went on, he wanted to spend them alone. After reading Be, still, I think he wanted more and more time for himself. If Dad was spending his time reflecting, like you’ve been, then I know he was enjoying his last months because he had a really full life. Thank you for a different perspective.
So, there’s that. And it was really gratifying. And it was one of many.
Back to the cards and notes I’ve received. I pulled another random card from my box. This card was sent by a woman who has been besties with my sister-in-law, Kathy, forever. First a little about the card itself. It’s a bold, colorful painting of an ocean making quite the impression on a rocky jetty. The abundant white froth and dark blue waters lets you know the seas are strong, but the horizon dares to butt against the rage with soft muted pinks and grayish-blues.
It’s a really beautiful card — and it was most likely chosen because I love the ocean. That, in and of itself is thoughtful —— the handwritten note inside, even more so. Paula said she was, impressed and inspired by your ability to express your feelings and tell your story in such an eloquent, interesting and emotional way. She mentioned her heartfelt concerns for Tim and my girls, and then she ended with her thoughts and prayers.
And. Then. This. Happened.
She ended her lovely card with—
P.S. I hate the fucking WORDLE, too! – Love, Paula.
Love Her – Just Sayin!
Hellooooo, She Devil.
Other memorable cards and letters.
As a Christmas gift, I gave my mother, my sister and both of my daughters boxes of note cards. I chose cards that reflected their personalities. I knew there’d come a time when they’d want to send a note off to someone — you know, after my passing, and I wanted to help make the event easy-peasy for them.
The cards I chose for Mom are very pretty: beige background with an array of thinly-stemmed wild flowers with a few tiny butterflies flitting about. The field of flowers are done in soft, muted blue and white tones. The bottom edge is scalloped cut — an attention to detail I knew my mother would appreciate, and the envelopes are a soft blue color, like her eyes.
Mom prefers sending correspondence the old-fashioned way — through snail-mail. Partly because her poor fingers just don’t work as they once did, but mostly because she has a recessive gene when it comes to things with buttons and sequences. I take after her. I suck at technology — but, I’ve mastered texting — thank you very much. Not so much for Mom. God love her, she’s tried, but let’s face it, banging out a hello text should not take upwards of a half-hour.
Her inability to text never bothered her, until I became sick. On more than one occasion she’s said she wishes she could send a thinking of you text to me.
So what’s an old woman to do?
If she’s my mother, she makes do with what she has.
As they say, “Necessity is the mother of invention.”
I received these in the mail — the snail-mail.
My thoughts and prayers for you are constant.
By the way – this is a text message.
AND
My darling daughter, Sheryll. I love you!!!
Here’s another text message. See how modern I’m becoming.
Is that the most adorable thing EVER!
Yes. It is.
I sent a signed copy of Be to the woman who went with Marchrie and Helena to the beach THAT DAY —— the third musketeer on that ill-fated trip, the woman who helped my sister in so many ways. I received a lovely beach-themed thank you note. The picture on the front of the card was of long-bladed, grass dunes, and weathered fencing along a pathway to a sandy beach. In the distance, beautiful blue waters played beneath a tranquil sky of soft pastel pinks, purples, and corals. The card was signed by Mary-Sue-Lou-Jo.
What a hoot!
A little trip back in time. There were two handwritten notes I received at Christmas. The first note accompanied the beautiful painting Jennifer Lane Courville gave me. She quoted Jeanne Willis, a children’s book author from England.
Where do people go to when they die?
Somewhere down below or in the sky?
“I can’t be sure,” said Grandad, “but it seems—”
they simply set up home inside our dreams.”
I believe that is true. I hope for my loved ones, it is.
And, now, a handwritten note of most significance.
You’ll remember, from a previous blog, that Don and Denise made the trek north from Georgia to spend Christmas with me. I wrote in my Christmas blog—
…The thing I wanted most on my last Christmas was the gift of human contact. The embrace of family members — some who drove a few miles to see me, and others who traveled the Eastern Seaboard to give and receive a hug.
Had I not been diagnosed in November, my brother and sister-in-law would not have driven from Georgia to Massachusetts for Christmas. They always celebrate the holiday down south, choosing to make their annual trek north during summer months, so we can all bask in the warmth of family love on the sandy beach in Wells, Maine.
This year my 66 year-old brother did the 1,055 mile drive to ensure that I’d get the ultimate combo Christmas/Birthday gift ever!
Him.
…When I heard that Don and Denise were making the trip north, my anticipation of milestone celebrations turned into sheer excitement at seeing them
I sort of missed the fact that after their visit, they would be leaving — and I’d never be seeing them again …
When my mother and sister made a hasty retreat from my home (on my birthday afternoon) — supposedly because they didn’t want to overstay their welcome — I knew IT WAS COMING.
IT began when Denise got up and put on her coat. The room silenced. I stood from my recliner and waited for her goodbye hug. She said her “I love you,” and stepped away. We didn’t look at one another when we parted. And I tried not to look at Don when he approached, but I couldn’t help myself. By the time he reached me his eyes were full of tears.
My brother is a strong man, but he is a tender-hearted man, as well. There have been occasions when I’ve seen his tears form, but there have been very few times when I’ve seen his tears flow. He held them tight when he wrapped me in his arms and whispered how much he loved me. It took a good minute for us to end our embrace.
I watched him exit my home and plopped onto my recliner — without a single thought I might fracture my ass. Within seconds, he was back inside my house and I was once again in his arms.
During that embrace, I whispered, “I’ll see you on the flip side.” I kissed his cheek and he left. A handful of days later I received an envelope with his handwriting on the front. He has very distinctive handwriting. Inside was a piece of paper that simply read.
Yes, see you on the flip side! Your loving brother.
None of us knows for sure if there is a flip side.
My faith ensures me that there is a Heaven — what it will be like is anyone’s guess. During my long, lonely nights, I’ve come up with a few thoughts on the subject.
I’ll share them in an upcoming blog — but for now.