There’s a place in Worcester called Culpeppers Café and Bakery on Southbridge Street. They make the best Danish anywhere and the apricot is a huge seller, so Tim has taken to buying a dozen at a time and tucking some into baggies for the freezer so we have some on hand.

Side step: Does anyone other than me find it extraordinary when you hear a tape recording of someone who’s called 9-1-1 because they’ve severed an arm, or have tripped over a loved one who’s been bludgeoned to death, or some other horrific, criminal event has taken place, and the caller is like, “Hi, this is so and so, and I live on Windsor Lane, you know, the pretty cul-de-sac off of Parker Lane, well anyway, there’s a dead body in my living room. I hope you can send someone over. Okay, thanks.”

What. The. Hell. Is. That?

My granddaughter reacted as though she’d seen a UNICORN, not a couple of kids doing what they ought to be doing – what every kid ought to be doing: on ballfields, and playgrounds, and front yards, everywhere in America — being children.

I’ve made Tim promise me that he will go places and do things when I’m gone. I really hope he makes a trip to Ireland. It’s really the only place he’s ever wanted to visit – to see. Tim was an art major in college and he’s always wanted to see the greens of Ireland – supposedly there are countless shades of the color. I want him to see them. And I want him to visit relatives throughout America. And I want him to visit Kevin in Albuquerque. And I want him to visit the Lone Star State and meet Mr. and Mrs. Pendleton, and Mr. and Mrs. Flores.

Hannah’s papers showed a clear understanding of the order of things — so imagine my surprise when I was asked to come for a meeting with Mrs. Brigham. I went into Ludlow School after the morning bell – as I’d been instructed – and waved to Mrs. Brigham from the hall – as I’d been instructed – and while I waited she busied her students with busy work.

When she opened the door, she had upon her face a stern expression. I’d never seen it before and it unnerved me. Then she said,

“Are you aware of the final writing assignment?”

“Yes.”

“The students had to write a short story, concentrating on organization and punctuation.”

“Uh, huh.”

“Did Hannah tell you what the students were instructed to write about?”

“No.” Oh, shit.

“They were asked to write about the thing that they would most hate to be in the whole wide world.”

Oh, shit.

Mrs. Brigham handed me Hannah’s paper.

I read the title —

Toilet Paper. The thing I’d hate to be.

Nurse M. is smoooooooth. She knows where I’m fitting in in relation to the stages of dying – but she keeps the death march of Sheryll O’Brien strictly to herself. She knows what I can and can’t handle – and what will keep me up at night – irrespective of the ‘Roid Runner’ in my head.

Beep-beep!

“boobs” … she said, “boobs!”

(Bullet Bungalow)

And that was how ‘it all began’. Boobs. You told me on our first phone call in your northern accent that your previous editor told you not to say boobs. Ha! Didn’t take me long to learn not to tell Sheryll O’Brien to refrain from saying anything she damn well pleases. Muah! A~

Hadley loves that story and has asked me to tell it to her countless times. I asked her a year or so ago why she likes the story so much and, out of the mouths of babes,

“Because you say the word, crap.”

I can’t remember what it was I asked for, but he’s doing shit like this all the time. Like if I ask him to put my pen on the end table, he puts it in the drawer, and I repeat that I want in ON THE END TABLE, and he says it might fall off during the night so it’s better in the drawer, and I say it might be better in the drawer, but I want the fucking pen on the end table. I don’t know why it matters to him where I put my pen, so long as I don’t impale him with it, and shouldn’t my word be the last word?

Mostly because we were leading very different lives. I was living in Massachusetts where we tend not to enunciate the letter ‘R,’ and she was living in Georgia where they tend to turn a monosyllabic word into a forty-second word. Case in point, “Doooooooooooooooooooon’s sittin by the fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiire.” In the early days of their relocation I was paying by-the-minute for long-distance calls, so I wasn’t making many of themmmmmmmmmmmmm.

“Regrets, I’ve had a few — but then again, too few to mention — I did what I had to do and saw it through without exemption — I planned each charted course, each careful step along the byway — And more, much more than this, I did it my way.”

For the record, I. HATE. JIGSAW. PUZZLES. The only puzzles I find any enjoyment in doing are the kind two year old kids do, the ones with the knob on top of thick cardboard pieces, and there’s like five pictures of farm animals, or modes of transportation, or types of fruits. You put the five pieces in, clap happily with the smiling tot and be done with it.

When Tim’s sister Ann Marie White was expecting her third child, her two young sons wanted to name their sister, Snow or Vanna. Annie and Tiger chose the lovely name of Christine for their beautiful baby girl. I smile whenever I remember the boys’ disappointment that parents got to make such monumental decisions without their consultation.

During the inner sanctum visits, the Sneades, the Bucks, the McCarthys and the Bodreaus kissed the ring of the Godmother – perched upon her leather recliner – much like the Tattaglias, the Barzinis, the Cuneos, and the Straccis kissed the ring of Vito Corleone when he sat at the head of whatever damned table he chose.

“Miss Sneade, you didn’t hand in your paper.”

“No, I didn’t, but there’s a really good reason.”

“I doubt it, but please stand and tell the class the reason.”

“I was reading my paper on the way to school, and when I got to Beaver Brook, this enormous, foul-smelling, swamp monster jumped into my path, drooled and spit, then grabbed my paper and sunk back into the murky water.”

“Well, that is a really good reason. Rewrite the paper and submit it tomorrow. The highest grade you can receive will be a B.”

“Princess Diana is dead,” I said already sobbing.

“Fuckin’ drunk driver.”

“The World Trade Centers are collapsing,” I said from the corner of my living room where I’d curled myself into the fetal position.

“Fuckin’ terrorists.”

“Betty White died.”

“Two weeks before her 100th birthday – what the fuck is that about?”

“Write that fucking book!”

When I finally arrived home, the simplest of tasks were challenges. I remember watching my kids use the toaster, or the microwave, or the blender, and mimicked them. I NEVER discussed any of this with anyone other than Tim because it made me sad – and it felt like an out-of-body experience.

Years later, Jessica gave me her used iPad and taught me how to surf the internet and create documents, and a few other things. I became hooked. The iPad helped me feel connected to the world, and it sort of helped me master technology.

“Yeah, so my all-time favorite television show is Magnum, P.I., the original one, but I like the new one cause it’s not trying to be the old one, and I fucking love Seinfeld, that’s some funny shit. Have you seen The Cigar Store Indian? Funniest damned episode. You should get it online and watch it, and the All In The Family episode when Archie Bunker is locked in the basement and gets shitfaced on booze that’s my favorite—”

I distinctly remember spending lots of time in Nana’s kitchen looking at a cute wall hanging. It had ten different sized walnut shells with happy faces painted on them and a name listed below each. I’d read them with my eyes open – then recited them a few times with my eyes closed.

“Franny, Mary Ellen, Eileen, Terrence, Annie, Timmy, Kathy, Joey, Noreen, Jimmy.”

For years I wondered who gave that plaque to the family – and why the kids were represented by nuts. Over time, I learned the answer to one of those two questions — I’ll leave it to everyone to guess which one.