Our splurge was always eastern lobster.  Nothing tastes better.  Nothing.  Before we moved west, Phyllis’ “supplier” was a thirty-something fisherman “up the (Winthrop) centuh”.  She’d phone him, then saunter onto the pier in his backyard looking like Miss Universe.  She’d smiled that killer smile and flirted with him.  Then he’d drool and give her whatever 2 or 3 pounders she’d pick, for like a dollar.

Our all-time favorite restaurant was J.T.’s., out in Wayland, but way worth the ride.  All you can eat chicken (one pound) lobsters.  Nirvana.

Usually when we returned flying west, we’d pack “some guys” in ice and bring back dinner.  Sometimes friends or family would visit and bring “some guys”.  My lobster-cooking high school, college roommate, and bff Mike’s stated goal, when we visited Quincy, was “to try and get you to say ‘:That’s enough; no more lobster.’” (never happened.)   Mike was THE big cheese at Mass Medical and NE Journal of Medicine, so sometimes he came west for meetings and conventions.  We kept a big lobster pot in our garage, and Mike’d bring 8 or 10 pounders.

Phyl always ate straight out of the shell, never with butter or a side dish.   After we married, if we were in Massachusetts, we’d go out and order twin lobsters in Winthrop.  If we were home, I’d cook ‘em myself.  She would not watch me put ‘em in the pot, but she wasn’t above yelling from the next room, “You better not overcook ‘em!”   The subsequent procedure was always the same….She made me take off the antennae and eyes, because “I can’t eat, if the poor thing’s looking at me.”  After the first bite, she’d always say, “Sweet as sugah”.  And after she’d eaten the claws, she’d always lie and say something like. “I’m full.  You have the tail.”  Then we’d share the tail.  That was myphyllis.

Phyllis loved Halloween. For days beforehand, she’d decorate her library and home and dress up in her witch’s outfits or her many QVC Quacker Halloween sweaters.

The classes would come to hear her literature lesson that always ended with her inimitable, East- Boston-accented, wildly over-dramatic reading of Edgar Allen Poe’s ‘The Telltale Heart’….

“Thump,Thump. Thump,Thump.” “from un-duh the flo-uh”.

She loved Ralphs’ pumpkin cookies, Hershey’s Kit-Kats, and Marie Calendar’s pumpkin pie.

At home, when she’d answer the door, she’d always yell, “Trick-or-treat”, before the kids. She’d talk to each kid or the parent, about his or her costume, even though we usually had a bazillion kids.

And always, “I miss the change of seasons,” which, incidentally, like the time change, I wouldn’t hear again for six months. “Yes, Phyl,” i’d say, oh-so-condescendingly. But i’d give my life to hear it again.

Always something there to remind me.

Phyllis loved Steve Irwin.

Of course she absolutely loved anything to do with animals.  I’ve written about 6meows, Marley, Pooh, Ducklings, Dewey, Cleveland Amory, Peter Gethers, Joy Adamson, James Herriot, Clinton’s Buddy, any dog in our neighborhood, and of course the litany of those feline jackasses we slept with.

Phyl ran to watch Steve Irwin, Crocodile Hunter, whenever he was on.  When he died, she was distraught.  Three weeks ago, I took Alma, whom I had in grade 5 in 1973, “(and with bff Carrie my favorite students ever,) now a cancer survivor, who’d visited Phyl in Cedars, and whom we both loved, to Dancing with the Stars.  I’d barely heard of these “stars”.  i’d seen one in the market in Agoura, and had a big argument with another in Studio City.  Otherwise I knew only of Bindi Irwin, Steve Irwin’s daughter.  She was easily the best dancer there.  I so wished Phyl could’ve been there.

Last week, on one of the gym’s treadmill, I was watching Monday night football on the far tv.  They play rock music, but there are also two tv’s, sound off.  Dancing with the Stars was on the near tv, and it was Bindi’s turn.  They musr’ve been doing a pre-dance tribute to Steve Irwin.  They showed 8 or 9 year-old, little Bindi giving the eulogy, though the sound was off.   I flashed back to myself bemused, as I watched Phyl bawling, as she watched little Bindi eulogizing “my daddy” back then.  On the treadmill, in front of everyone, I absolutely went to pieces, bawling and shaking uncontrollably.

Three years.  Am in Boston.  Still in awe.  I love you to the sky, myphyllis.        Yes, she’s beautiful inside and out.  And for the last umpteen posts, I’ve written the inside.

But she’s also the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.  Yah, eye of the beholder.Yah, every husband says that.  The difference is, to me, Phyllis is.  Really.  My God.  An absolute fucking gorgeous knockout stunning goddess.  Without question, the most beautiful girl I’ve ever, ever, ever seen.

And it wasn’t just me.  I knew it, but didn’t really know it.  She seldom mentioned interest from other men, but after we were married and living together, it was ridiculous right away.  I’ll never forget, when we talked about it the very first month.   Our eye doctor made a pass.  Her therapist made a pass.   A family friend who owned a deli.  The teacher that drove her to work hit on her. I’m not exaggerating.  To her, it was less about her looks, more that they were weirdos.  It had always been, if we walked into a room with guys, whether my friends or strangers, she was suddenly the focal point of all life.  But that first month of marriage was still an eye opener.

I truly believe, she knew she’s (she’d say) “attractive”, but no idea how beautiful.  She was never confident about it.  I told her all the time, “You’re the most beautiful girl in the world,” and all the time she’d say, “Yah, right.”   She seldom, if ever, talked about it, unless it was about losing weight.   I never mentioned her weight, because it stupidly and now inconceivably didn’t matter to me, which was a very bad mistake.

But, once in a blue moon, calling herself “attractive” was as far as I heard her go.  Afterwards, Diane said when they got dressed up, Phyl would say she knew she “really looked good.”   Marietta told me Phyl joked she named her breasts, “pride” and “joy”.   Paula said Phyl told her she knew I’d never stray.  Inklings I never knew.   I couldn’t grasp how anyone so exquisite, couldn’t realize how exquisite.

For anyone who didn’t know, I’ll reiterate from three years ago, as this will always be my feeling, her beauty….

I have no recollection of what you were wearing, but I do remember the very first millisecond I saw your face.  My eyes popped sockets like in the cartoons.  There were harp symphonies, competing with wolf whistles and sirens.  My body was numbed, as if struck by lightning.  Because I’d been struck by lightning.  Game over.  Thank you, Jesus.  I’d obnoxiously thought I’d been all-that, but suddenly realized there was a higher league.

By far, the single most gorgeous face I’ve ever seen.  Ever.  And just a goddess body.  Those compelling and alluring almond eyes that made my legs buckle; the full lips from venus; the long, straight, mahogany hair that framed your face like the setting of a diamond; a chest that entered a room five minutes before you did;  olive-bronze skin, those incredible dark-porcelain cheekbones that rose to the cosmos.  And that smile that lit the world around you like fireworks on the 4th.  Corny as hell, but accurate metaphor, Your only imperfections were incongruous, chubby knees that I learned to love more than any of the other.

At first I called you Little Phyllis, because I loved the name you hated, and your room was filled with dolls and pictures and albums, many of the cutest little girl.  But soon my sickness won out.  You moved with a slight limp from getting hit by a moving vehicle when you were little.  It caused you to walk a bit heavy-legged.   It was slightly discordant.  Miss Universe moving down the runway like an at-at.  So I called you Glunkies.   A little later, due to your legendary stubborness, I started calling you My Cuckoo, which I loved to say for 40 more years.

Totally unpretentious, though a knockout.  It was ridiculous how you were hit-on all the time, but, unlike other beautiful people, had no pretention you were special.  You were selfless.  No ego at all.  In fact, a bit insecure.  A vulnerability that was precious.

You never had that mirror-mirror attitude.  Just a gigantic heart.  Throughout the years, other than motherhood, it was your greatest attribute.  E-v-e-r-y-o-n-e liked you.  Anomalous, no-one was jealous, though no-one had your looks.  As your whole life, you had a bazillion friends.  Not just friends, but close friends.   And, as always, you brightened a room like the sun, and soon the room revolved around you.

And so does my life.

Yahrzeit today.  Three years.  Whizzed by in what seemed like a decade.   So real post today, back to emptier, happier thoughts tomorrow. If the final stage of grief is acceptance that she’s gone, then you would presume healing and those minutely happier thoughts.  But if acceptance means realizing she’s not ever coming back, and all you can do is hope it’s not futile to cuss and dream you’ll ever see her again, then you know why I haven’t written in a while.  “I was jumping rope, and suddenly it all seemed so futile.” (Peppermint Patty in Peanuts) Three years.  Jody, Adam, and i said kaddish at etz chaim this morning,  Another Boston visit Wednesday.  Miss you like crazy is so euphemism.  Évery time i see a son or grandkid, our home, a new cancer treatment, a senior couple, anything religious, a love story or song, any of 700 other permutations;  there’s no there there, because life just doesn’t  make sense without you. Time’s not a factor. Nuh-uh.  As if enough self-pity.  But it just never gets better.  The mountain of regret (i won’t post) is for what should’ve been your due.  Holding you grandkids, finally having free time,  being illness-and pain-free, thirty-plus more years.   You deserve myriads more than that.  You deserve it more than anyone.  But, nuh-uh. Myphyllis, i love you to the sky.  That you’re there somewhere is my only dream.  My only anything.   You were, are, always will be my life.

Phyllis’ Temper.

My Heaven’s doubts that irked folks, especially last month around Phyl’s birthday and our anniversary, must’ve irked Phyl too, as there’s a new hummingbird nest on the, what else? The cat mobile next to the Winthrop sign at our front door.  Moreover, just last night, right after my newly Republican sister Maureen facebook-posted a jimmied picture of Hillary Clinton hugging Bin Ladin, not only did Erica and Tara blister Maureen, but, for the first time since Maureen and Jocko bought their Weymouth house twenty-five years ago, they saw a hummingbird.  A blue hummingbird buzzing their window!  Right after.  For those of you who don’t know, Phyllis LOVED Hillary. Bill even more.  Sightings 11 and 12.  You cannot make this stuff up.

Phyl’s Book Scholarship.

Because California Readers, a nonprofit, dissipated into LASLA, I had to take over the administration of the financials.  Tammie and LASLA will still administer, choose, and present the awards at the annual luncheon, but to cash the checks, do the taxes, and deal with Barnes and Noble, the only option I actually had was for the Phyllis Bennett Memorial Book Scholarship to become a nonprofit corporation with an EIN, IRS and State of California tax number, an LA County Fictitious Business Name, in a series of 4 announcements in the Agoura Acorn.  This took 8, that’s EIGHT, visits to Wells Fargo, and one each of visits to the IRS, Franchise Tax Board, Ventura County Government Office, Los Angeles County Supervisors Office, and the Agoura Acorn over 6, that’s SIX, fucking months!  To those of you who wondered why your months-ago checks  hadn’t been cashed, and thank you’s not sent, i was not allowed to put them or even know if i could put them in any bank til last week.  You cannot make this stuff up.

Meeting Spencer and Phyl’s 3^rd Yahrzeit

Bubbe, Papa, Jody, Tracy, Eva, Phinnie, Leah, Kevin, Soren, Saskia, and I all plan, if all is well,  a visit to Boston, days of the third week in October, undoubtedly centered around Erica and Tara’s delightful newborn Spencer and cripple Maureen’s depressing, invalid bedroom, if anyone wants to meet  up for 10 minutes.

If I lose you posting, percussion vids of Eva, Paige, and Phinnie and (long ago promised) pix of our Tucson wedding prank to follow.

sharing karla’s letter…2 notes: As karla is elementary, her award could not be presented at the lasla luncheon.  2-i’ve redacted the name as the book scholarships are announced for students who have especially helped a librarian, but are really, as phyl’s wishes, designed for students whom the librarian has especially helped, because, as you know, phyl’s focus was always the lonely, bullied, unpopular, or despondent student.

7-11    reflecting on the birthday of the most compassionate, selfless girl it’s ever been my supreme fortune to know, and the most stunning, exquisite beauty these eyes have ever seen.

(new vid from new pix of mom)