It’s been 11 years.  lately, it seems like 11 years. “seems like only yesterday” eventually doesn’t. at first, i’d scribble 100 Phyl-moments that trigger joyful recollection.  after 11, reminisce includes the bad stuff too. but even that is somehow missed. she’s still never-ending fascination to me, ’cause your grandma’s a one and only. here’s some i may’ve mentioned but not at length; times when your grandparents didn’t think as one.  but keep in mind, our 41 years together dwarfs the discord.

Phyllis was drop dead gorgeous (pardon the expression; one she used for friends that weren’t half her beauty).  those eyes, lips, and goddam cheekbones.  i called her Pretty.  every day i told her what i truly believed, that she was the most beautiful girl in the world.  she’d respond either “yah, right” or “i used to be” or “not any more”.   when little, she was hit by a truck on a winthrop street.  so on the other hand, despite a very feminine, very perfect bikini body, she walked like Walter Brennan on “The Real McCoys”.  ever empathetic, i also called her Glunkies.  i  said she was Miss Universe taking the crown and walking the runway like an At-At.

how resolute she was.  ALWAYS speaking up when others couldn’t or wouldn’t. ALWAYS opinionated. in fact, probably the angriest she’d get at me was in that vein.  she was exceptionally passionate and would get loud, or Phyllis-mode; loud-er.  everyone loved her for that. except maybe her idiot husband, beside her, amidst her passion. i’d catch her eye, and ever-so-slightly jiggle my fingers downward, in an ill-fated motion to tone it down.  duh.  DUH. DUH.  a lesson i never learned.  whether amongst everyone, her wrath right then (“Don’t YOU tell me to…!!!”) or saved to fly off the handle the next instant we were alone (“i cannot fucking believe you….!!!”) it’d move the richter scale for a week. and a reminder for at least six months.  eventually, asshole that i am, i bought a tiny gadget with a button, when pressed, said, “Yes, dear”. i thought it funny.  she didn’t.  That one, begat volcanic armageddon.

i called her Tough Cookie too.  how tough she was phyl-sically, difficult to write about.  she had a will to live, second to none.  age 40 or so, an incompetent doctor ignoring allergy, gave her sulfa drug. she inflamed, but insisted on staying home.  i dragged her to Kaiser.  She went into anaphylactic shock. i recall exact blood pressure was 35/28. over 24 hours, 4 succeeding kaiser doctors told me there was no hope. a very young Dr. Tim Horita appeared with a Chicago allergy expert and “Nes Gadol Hahah Sham”.  a great miracle happened there.  she said she couldn’t have left the kids.   jump 25 years…i was upset with Cedars.   brought her to UCLA chemo, and insisted we drop Cedars.  i’ll never forget, she said “No. You’re not the one who’s dying. I’m want to be here.”  later, we were on the way home from a new chemo at Cedars, and she was burning up. we did epipen and benadryl in the car, went right back to Cedars, not to the clinic but to emergency.  again a horrible anaphyllactic shock allergy to the chemo.  again, miraculously, 48 hours later, she and they pulled her through.  born 7-11, but to little good fortune. her adenocarcinoma was exceptionally rare and statistically twice a deadly as pancreatic, but she willed herself that extra 15 months.

Diet Coke, Cedars, and Boston burial were her choices.  i should’ve said far more against all three.  but hysteroscopy, Kaiser, and Kaiser Hospice she left up to me.  my foolish, foolish choices.  i was so-o-o wrong….subtractions I believe would’ve given us far more time.

She always worked phenomenally hard, from junior high in Winthrop to retirement in L.A.. when i first met her she had 4 jobs; Suffolk Franklin Bank mail department, Filene’s Department Store clerk, Northeastern University Electrical Engineering secretary, Charlestown School Department student teacher.  all at once.  she wrote down every penny spent.  no exaggeration.  even the kids’ births, she worked child care at home, though we were not in accord.  Jr. Hi, H.S. Reading, English, ESL, Librarian. 7 credentials; then our retirement.  she told both friends and me, “since we retired, we’re getting along better than ever.  we should’ve  retired sooner.”  that lasted a year, destroyed by C.  fuck you, C.

i miss even not seeing eye-to-eye; the bad times too.  i miss it all every day.  i love you, Pretty.

it would be 75th today.  in Peabody to tell you all about the last 3 years when i couldn’t be here.  and did i ever mention i miss you like crazy and love you to the sky? quintessential mom and most beautiful girl ever?

i wish we had one more dance.  and not in the figurative sense either.  real dance.  slow, you’re head on my shoulder.  or fast, with your only move,  shoulders rocking back and forth with your fingers snapping, no pretense.  Nor rhythm known to man.  so dynamite cute and so you.

If it were a song you knew, you’d kill it.  in the literary sense.  you’d toss back your head and wail away, nowhere near the melody.   Right now i can hear “Brandy, you’re a fine girl, what a good wife you would be.” percolated in one repeating note.  some’d call it shouting.   or “fun, fun, fun, now that daddy took her T-bird away-ay” sounding like the waste management truck at 6 am.  adorable and so Phyllis.

treasure your moments.   i’m treasuring mine.

it’s impossible.  ten years.  more impossible is that i’ll not see her again. i know there aren’t degrees of an absolute, like ‘more impossible’, but fuck you unless you’ve been thru it.  i think of, dream of, and talk to her every day; it’s pretense, but fuck you unless you’ve been thru it.

Hi Pretty. Wish i lingered on the good memories for a decade, but most thoughts are regrets.  So easy to say appreciate the moments.  Whether just awakening from a dream of you or watching some schmaltzy kdrama, my thought balloons go from reminiscence to regret.  So missed the boat.  Not the place to dwell, but know, every night,  i ask our Abiding God to switch our places (s’posed to be you here, and me gone, anyway), or even just for one minute more.  He/She ain’t listening.  His/Her greatest injustice is His/Her greatest blessing.  Our kids and those grandkids you so heartbreakingly cried “I’m never going to hold” are healthy, bright, and, thank that God, have your incredibly charismatic personality.  Can’t ask for more than that, unless you’re bitter me.  And i ask every fucking night.  He/She ain’t listening.
So i just miss you like crazy and love you to the sky.

Phinnie, Eva, Paige, Brooke, your grandma was remarkably unique, certainly a one-of-a-kind.  EVERY year, i recall and jot more Phyllisisms, idiosyncrasies that i haven’t written about before.  Certainly must be in the hundreds by now.  A few new, some good, some not-so-good but, as anyone who knew that indelible personality: pure Phyllis.  This year’s recollections, so you can better know your most special grandma.…

—She loved the rain.  Whether in Winthrop or in Agoura where it seldom rains, if it did in daytime, Phyl’d go outside, stand in it, and just watch.

—Every time our cat Jelly Bean would hiss, Phyl’d get in her face and repeatedly sing to her, in discordant notes never before heard by mankind, “Jelly Beany, She is a meany”

—Phylis’ Trick #32  When double coupons came out and her Campbell’s Soup tin was bursting with coupons, she thoughtfully started warning people behind her in the supermarket line, that maybe another line’d be better; she was sorry but she’d  be taking extra time ‘cause she had a lot of coupons.  Then she realized, if she dropped the warning, there were impatient people behind her rolling their eyes when she looked for or presented her coupons, the clerk would be rushed, so Phyl would slip in a bunch of double coupons for stuff she hadn’t even bought.

—If Phyl had no idea who was calling, she’d stall and say, “It’s good to hear your voice”.

—After doing only my own laundry for ten years, i understand the (i thought) inane thing that medium said Phyl said.  And i cannot believe Phyl, aside from finances, shopping, housecleaning, and working full-time, did and put away the laundry for all four of us, without ever, even ever, complaining, or letting us help.

—She seldom ate breakfast, but the few times she did, she loved drizzly eggs, almost burnt bacon, strawberry crepes, or McDonald’s breakfast burrito.

—Phyllis’ Trick #33.  Most years, she or both of us went east four times a year for one to four weeks.  There were so many people to see. If she weren’t fond of seeing someone, she’d put them off til the last 2 or 3 days, because, though she’d never lie about the dates of our visits, she’d say if we saw them right away, they’d expect us to see them again before we left.

—Yes, we really loved each other, but were at odds oftimes.  If i did the tap-tap finger motion to signal she was talking too loud, she’d get really angry, but bide her time til i was speaking. Then she’d say “speak up, you mumble.
When Phyl was mad at me, she’d make one syllable words into two. “Plee-eeze, don’t_ or “You are a pru-ude.” or “You are so ru-ude.”
She’d moan “Why can’t we be like…” (alternating the names of couples we know) or “Why can’t you be like….” (alternating the males we know)?   Except for the one i heard for 40 years, “Why can’t you be like John Travolta?”  Usually i just sulked, but, if i followed with “What can i do”, she’d inevitably say, “You need to sweep me off my feet.”
if i lectured or disciplined the kids or cats, she’d kiss the kids or nuzzle the cats and say, “Don’t worry about that mean old daddy.”  It was always ‘Bad Cop, Good Cop’, because, to Phyllis, neither Jody nor Adam ever did anything wrong.

—She always fell asleep first.  i always found it impossible to believe how lucky i was to be married to the most beautiful girl on earth.  i spent hours watching her sleep.  i’d flick the pony tail she always wore to bed.  she’d never awaken.

—Her two cautionary refrains, ironic now, and for ten years;  “Not so bad. It should be the worst thing that should happen.”  and her one i’ve written of and live by,  “Always think, what if it’s the last time?

—One of her school friends asked her, “Which credentials, elections (she was 11-0), and awards are you most proud?”   She said, “My boys.”

That’s more of your dads’ Mom.  She lived for and adored her boys, and would’ve, you.
We miss her like crazy and love her to the sky.

1999. July 4. our 25th anniversary. Jody was home from Brandeis, Adam from AHS. Rather than doing something special i opted for our annual family together tradition of going to the Independence Day Dodger game and fireworks.
How fucking stupid could i be. (not a question)  To say Phyl was disappointed doesn’t come close.  Maybe dispirited or crestfallen or one of her favorite words, woebegone.  You know Phyllis.  She did not remind me 1000 times.  But close.  And i certainly deserved it.  Moving west; losing the baby shoes; July 4, 1999 was right up there.  i was and am so-o sorry.  But even those worst days were the best days of my life.  i miss you like crazy, Cuckoo.

Here’s the story Jody wrote that night….

Most people celebrate the 4th of July as the birth of our country, the day, in 1776, we seceded from Britain to become a nation of peace with “freedom and equality for all.” I also observe this day as my parents’ anniversary.  A lot of Bennett family birthdays, anniversaries, and celebrations occur on holidays.  Whether these coincidental multi-celebrations are created unintentionally or they are, in fact, deliberate attempts to help our more ancient ancestors remember key dates in their children’s lives, I prefer to believe the former, because the latter might imply that my father, being born on the biggest of all Christian holidays, might have some direct ties to The Almighty.  That simple little thought has caused the fear that 1000 years of peace in the future might be overlooked, because Goldberg is fighting Hulk Hogan on WWF Monday Night Nitro.
My own 4th started out when Dad took the family out to a 4th of July brunch buffet in good old Agoura.  We arrived, walked up, and found we were there a half-hour before the place opened.  A minute and a half later, my Mom announced the her feet were killing her.  After sitting in the car for 20 minutes, arguing and complaining about each other (my mother issuing such compliments/insults as “I hope you are famous one day, Jody.”  “Ummm…thanks, mom,” I say, “me too.”  Mom continues, “if only you weren’t so conceited.”) They finally let us inside to feast upon omelettes and dishes made in front of our watering mouths.  There was a big table of bacon, sausage, ham, and a young lady with a tight t-shirt cutting and serving roasted chicken.  I believe it was Adam who noted, “That young lady has some nice breasts.” (if that one eludes you, how about this?…) I personally didn’t find the chicken breasts very appealing, but she did have a nice rack…..of lamb.  Momentarily the fighting stopped, long enough to toast my parents.  But sadly, I had to drive to work, so I could flip burgers and apply heat to pre-heated, re-refrigerated pizzas shaped like a mouse head, all for the honor and glory of Corporate Disney.
There are 2 types of workers at Disney.  Those who become excited when a new animated feature comes out, worship a talking mouse, idolize billionaire-globalmaster-owner of everything that is, Michael Eisner, and go into euphoric hysterics every time a new Donald Duck beanie baby comes out.  Then, there are those, like me who could care less about a 6 foot rat and only smile when we receive our paychecks.   ‘We’ refer to work as Mouse-shwitz. ‘They’ think a funny story revolves around spending 3 hours searching for a car in the Chip-lot, when it was actually in the Dale-lot.
There is one tried-and-true 4th of July tradition in our family.  The 4th of July Dodger game/Fireworks show.  I admit I love baseball.  I don’t follow it or anything….but it is one of the very few sports I love.  Maybe because I always played Pony-ball  as a kid, or maybe because it’s the most unique sport in the world.  Most sports revolve around getting the ball away from the other team.  In this sport, one hits the ball as far away as possible, then runs away from home, only to return later.  It encourages individuality in the batter’s box as well as teamwork in the field.  And it is the American Pastime.  Of course, tonight Dad opted to skip the game and just get there in time for the fireworks, so the previous part was kind of useless.
As I sat on the outfield grass, with the music blasting and the wondrous colors around me, I could only ask myself, why the birth of our nation of peace is celebrated with big explosions, as if to say. “America’s been kickin ass since 1776.”  Why do they play “Born in the USA” when it’s an anti-war song?  While I am wondering why I am caught up in the old glory, and “Proud to Be an American”, my arrogance is humbled before the men who have died defending us.  John Adams said, “I may not believe in what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.”  I may have mis-quoted a bit, but it’s what really makes me oooh and ahhh at the blazing colors in the sky.
I saw something else beautiful that night.  There were 3 big bursts.  A red U, a white S, and a blue A.  Adam thought it was the coolest part of the day.  But, when I saw it, I turned to tell my parents, and saw my father move a stray hair from my mom’s cheek and kiss her.  That was the coolest part of the day.

         Every year there are triggers, and i remember more of your grandma.
Found this picture.  Lot of memories.
We had our bumps.   My posts may seem to exaggerate our marriage as unruffled.  Phyllis was as close to perfect as anyone, but our marriage had lotsa them ruffles, mostly because your close-to-perfect grandma was married to me.  Of like 200 pix, i don’t think i’ve posted any without her smile.  Easy, cause she was nearly always smiling. But….not always such.
i screwed up often.  Sometimes i really screwed up, especially with her family….  She wouldn’t appear angry.  She wouldn’t yell.  She wouldn’t speak.  Instead, there was’The Look’.  For a girl who had little filter and never hid her immediate feelings, it was incongruous.…a blank, pouting stare on that astonishingly beautiful face.  But i knew the thought bubble above The Look was always, “I can’t believe I married this guy.”
Thankfully it wasn’t often.  i have only one picture of the look.  But it’s historic.  The very first time i got the look.  Our honeymoon.  Welcome to marriage.  On the plane and at the hotel, she was pouting i hadn’t said a proper goodbye to her parents when we’d left Logan.  i had no recollection, but don’t doubt she was right.  Maybe the very first “I can’t believe i married this guy.”  Needless to say, she was not happy that i took this picture.
i remember the stare when i drove Jody without a seatbelt.  And when i yelled at him when he was late running to second base.  Still those salient moments weren’t even slightly comparable, in frequency nor disdain, to the most storied blank stares in all world history.   i never took a picture of these, because i didn’t want to die.  They begat notions to be shared with literally everyone on planet Earth who ever encountered Phyl; “He took me away from my family” and “He lost the baby shoes.”  Those were so often heard that trying to pinpoint a first enunciation is like trying to pin down when “Let there be light” was first said.
So those are the warts.  Or really, trifles.  If those are the worst of our marriage, we were pretty good.  No affairs, screaming fights, separate beds, disagreements on kids, namecalling, and never a moment we disavowed our love.  Sure for a pair that often argued, this may seem faintly positive.  Nah.  It’s more faintly negative.  Not sweating the big stuff, we were pretty good.  After all, Cuckoo, i did accompany you to multiple Neil Diamond concerts.
You just need know we loved each other.  Everybody, and i mean EVERYBODY, adored your grandmother.  She was beyond special.  She really was near-perfect, mainly her quintessential compassion; for her kids and her family; her bazillion friends, and countless animals, elders, lgbt, bullied, and forsaken.  She had that extraordinary heart, and, by the way, was the most stunningly beautiful girl ever.

NINE years.  i think of you every hour.  Sometime, as when Phinnie is here in the house, every minute.  The very worst, every fucking time, is the desperation that there’ll never be the love and pride with your grandchildren.  i revert to that last week. You said, “I’ll never get to hold my grandkids.”  The nadir of my bitterness.  Yeh, we had the blessings of 41 wonderful years together and the kids. As life winds down, the pain dulls, and the world makes a little more sense.  But the missing-you is constant.  i tell you all the time.  i miss you like crazy.  i love you to the sky.  You were my world.
i’ll add the idiosyncratic stuff i wrote tomorrow.  Doesn’t seem appropriate today.  Nothing in life seems appropriate today.

7-11   Happy Birthday, Cuckoo.
10 years and 200 posts, seems i’d exhausted your million passions, zillion idiosyncrasies, and bazillion Phyllisstories.  So when random stuff about the grandkids’ grandma, both good and bad, that i’ve never before noted, comes to mind, i jot it down for October and July.

On days of commemoration, you always sent notes to those we knew who’d lost a child.
The kids reminded me, when you drove and listened to your audio murder mysteries, if you missed a phrase you would rewind even a word, multiple times, til you heard it right.  And if you didn’t know a word, you’d write it down and look it up later.   The same way you’d read before falling asleep.  You’d be fighting nodding off, and i’d say, “You’ve been on that page for 20 minutes”.
The first few years we were together, then married, If you were with new people, you were so stunningly beautiful, it was every-fucking-time common, actually expected, that somebody would hit on you.  My Mom’s friends, relatives, my friends, other teachers, guys in stores, even your doctors.  Really.
We didn’t see eye-to-eye on lots.  Even if my take was reasonable, the culmination to many of our arguments was your,”I’m putting my foot down,” sudden confirmation it was over.
You paid a zillion dollars nearly every year to get those hugely oversized custom red glasses.
i finally remembered the name of your library presentations about the L.A. River Channel.  You called it Swiftwater.
You’d refer to our kids as “both my boys….”
I’ve never mentioned you were really hurt the day Jody was born when, that night, they raised the velvet rope at Valley Presbyterian, and my Mom was late.  It’s certainly not to the level of the baby shoes or leaving Boston, but one of the defaults when you got mad at me.
The Honey Bunch story.  You’d never known or heard of anyone else named Phyllis.  Everyone knows you were always reading.  In second grade you started walking, by yourself, to Winthrop Library.  You’d sit on the library floor and read all 43 Honey Bunch books.  In only one book, there was an obnoxious girl who bullied Honey Bunch.  Her name was Phyllis Bumper.  After that, you said you hated your name.
Surprisingly often, though the years, i notice something new-to-me like a cat hanger in the closet, a tiny poem about motherhood in the other bathroom, eensy wood or ceramic the kids made in school, a funny fridge magnet, or any of 100 minuscule tzutkes in boxes in your drawers. In the garage last month, i found a large box of each of your Agoura High Bulletins the years you were Parent President and another box of various, all different, glass keepsakes from the Chatsworth High proms you ran as Senior Class Adviser.
You always forgave kids’ overdue book fines, unless it was one of the bullies.
Colleagues, Agoura parents, students, neighbors, townspeople loved you,  You never blew her own horn or that of our kids.  You nearly never spoke of yourself, if it weren’t self-deprecating.  You always credited other kids, parents, teachers.  You were the one the teachers trusted to speak out. Parents too. You won every election you entered.
Annually, the arrival of Girl Scout Thin Mint Cookies, Cadbury Eggs, Egg Nog, pumpkin cookies, and blueberries (“Sweet as shugah”) were holidays.
Dinner was sup-pah, a drinking fountain was a bub-blah, my Mom was Buh-neece.
When you took exception to my manners, you’d say, “I can’t take you anywhere” or  “That is just ru-ude” (always with 2 syllables;  3 syllables when you’d call me “a puh-ru-ude”.
You never threw away an ever-present diet-soda 6-pack plastic holder without cutting it up, for fear the stupidest fish in the world might strangle in it at the dump.
Thought i’d noted all of them, from Agatha Christie to Janet Evanovich, Columbo to The Closer; you had to know every word (more rewinding and ereading) in your mystery shows and books.  Somehow i had forgotten to mention all your Alfred Hitchcock Presents books and tv shows and movies.
When i’d rub your feet in bed, if you or i’d be falling asleep, and i stopped, you’d kick me to keep going.  You’d say, “You’re not doing a good job.”
Politically, as passionately far left on everything, especially women’s and gay rights, as you were, anyone named Kennedy or Clinton was upper humanity.  They could kill a girl or nail an intern, and it must’ve been the girl’s fault.
Drippy eggs and very crisp bacon.  No tarter sauce with your clams; no butter, antennae, or eyes on your lobster.(“Get them off!!”)  Zucchini, eggplant, scallions, spinach, lettuce and every vegetable ever with no taste. Cinnamon rolls, garlic breadsticks, strawberry crepes.  All washed down with you-know-what.
The cats also could do no wrong, even comparatively.  When Webby’d go hunting and come to the back door with  an oh-so-cute baby bird or lizard or mouse squirming in his mouth, you’d always say, “Oh, Webby brought us a present.” For ten fucking years, our evil damn pee-kitty Squeaky would miss the litter box, and you’d say, “She’s old, she can’t help herself.”
From childhood, you were a workaholic.  Although you always worked full time, you never complained, other than being tired, while doing 99% of the cleaning, clothes shopping, groceries, dishes, home improvement, laundry, and finances for all four of us.  i’m certainly not complaining, but no-one believes that you got quite angry at me if i did any of the laundry or dishes or bills or food shopping.  You’d say,  “I don’t like the way you do it.”   Then, (see previous) “I’m putting my foot down.”  Fortunately, you could burn jello, and never insisted on cooking.

It’s not that i think of you every hour or every day.  You are always on my mind. i miss you so much, Cuckoo.  i love you to the sky.  Happy birthday, Phyllis.

     we live in a small town between los angeles and calabasas on the south and thousand oaks and camarillo on the north. all 4 are bigger cities than agoura.

     we are on hillrise, the second street off the freeway on kanan road.

     our very first date (phyl remembered, i didn’t) was at the cleveland circle theater in boston; a new, soon-to-be-forgotten-by-everyone film, “little big man” with dustin hoffman.   

     yesterday, a production company released a film detailing the movies made in the thousand oaks area. so i just learned one of those, “little big man,” was filmed in 1970 on kanan road in agoura, about two miles away.