Eight years ago today, my world ended.  Never made sense since.

Three thoughts never added….

Here’s exactly what hell is like.  As every grandparent ever, i cannot believe how cute and creative our grandkids are.  Wonder of wonders. An incredible gift.  And each moment of joy is negated because ‘our’ is just me.  There is nothing in my life within a billion miles of the insane unfairness that Phyl echoed when she said, “i’ll never get to hold my grandkids,” toward the end.

If there was an injustice, phyl said everything i, or in school, very often the whole faculty was hesitant to say, even when i said, “maybe let somebody else say it this time?”  Because i always knew before she said it.  i knew the look.  She could never hide her beliefs and passions in a thought bubble.  She could only go on offense.  Serious, reasoned, ordered, and blunt, but in attack mode.  To name a few (really) i’ve seen her go off on Republicans, gay rights, prom rules, dui, animal rights, the national anthem (that one, vs. the state’s top h.s. football coach, made the front page of L A’s 2nd biggest paper), abortion, college costs and loans, senior rights, censorship, flood control channel, school discipline, and her lastest two; digital vs. print and safe haven.
In fact, though we had problems, our own most common go-at-it was not a product of  finances, or parenting, or passions, but, i’ll call it, marriage.  Phyl was always, as in Seinfeld, “a loud talker”.   When we were alone, her idiot husband sometimes pushed her buttons with a half inch (seemingly innocuous) hand motion.  Though, he swears, it was a knee-jerk response over which he had little control, no bad intention, and regretted the instant he did it.
When she was telling him off, for either not talking or not listening, she would, with fire in the most beautiful eyes on earth and trembling lips in our universe, be extra loud, though never yelling.  And her callous husband, who should’ve learned from the first four hundred times, but didn’t, would make a small up and down motion with two fingers, which, in our early years begat from her, “Sorry, was i talking too loud?” but, over time, had morphed into, “Don’t you fucking dare tell me what to do, asshole!”.  Sometimes followed by the true semi-apology, “i never swore til I married you”, and sometimes by a stiletto-like “i want a divorce!”
Cuckahyodeez, you know it’s true, mybeauty.

i run every day to musical memories.  A good guess at Phyl’s faves…
5.   Stay Awhile—The Bells   (our song)
4.   First Time Ever i Saw Your Face—Roberta Flack
3.   Sweet Caroline—You-know-who
2.   Lady In Red—Chris De Burgh
and number 1, foh shoo-ah….Dirty Water—The Standells    (crazy that absolutely everyone who grew up in 021_ _   zip code knows it….and no-one else)   You can take the girl outta Winthrop, but you can’t take the Winthrop outta the girl.  i miss ya like crazy, Phyllis.

7 years today.  it’s supposed to get better, but nuh-uh; she was my life.

“What can you say about a sixty-four year-old girl who died? That she was beautiful. And brilliant. That she loved her boys.  Books and cats.  And me.”

Even more of you remembered this year…

-you always had that big brass ”Love Story” coaster, but we never watched or even mentioned the book or movie.

-your rain checks for coupons or sales

-on hot days, continually putting ice cubes in the cats’water

-never put toilet paper roll on the roll bar(germophobic), nor folded up a paper bag (cockroachaphobic)

-as demure as a hurricane, when anyone criticized a Kennedy or a Clinton.

-acknowledged the biggest buyer in America of  girl scout thin mint cookies

-making sure the very last-second piece of garbage was put out before trash pickup

-our lobster tail protocol we vowed to share equally, but you’d always swear you’d had enough and give more to me.

-your “i can’t take you anywhere” look, when i’d socially faux pas.

-putting the book fair money into “my strongbox”, a remnant of your family’s penchant for watching westerns.

-going to sleep, pressing the top of my foot against bottom of yours

-“I can do two things at once”

-washing the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher.

- your nightly bedclothes; oversized red glasses, and full length flannel pajamas

-“I’m a morning person”

-always sending cards or calling family, friends, colleagues on the anniversary of the date they lost a child.

-your return address ‘return a dress’ stickers

-eggs had to be very drippy and bacon very crispy, especially in your toast concoction.

-lausd wouldn’t allow pesticides so you killed bugs in the library by drowning them in squirted windex.

-sleeping, oh-so softly snoring, with the tv on and cats on your neck.

-after the far-fetched stories of fish caught in plastic 6-pack rings, you cut ‘em up.

-dialoging with the cats, and later our babies, back and forth, between your Phyllis voice and an unmistakable, very similar, barely higher pitched voice for their say

-the ”I can never have nice things” look when my gift underwhelmed you.

-after you read yet another Agatha Christie during hockey games in front of my friends, I was overjoyed to finally find the last two you hadn’t read…..only to tell me she wrote a ton of obscure books as Mary Westmacott which you then had to have.

-ending every phone call, “OK bye”.

-never a dull moment.

-how you kindled, coddled, encouraged, educated, embraced, and cherished the gifts of gab and friendliness in your boys (even if all three of you are a wee bit loud).

-how very happy you always were to see the kids or your family or your friends, and how very happy they always were to see you

There are stars that shine on earth, even after they’ve disintegrated. as there are individuals whose memory lights the world after they’ve left it. These lights illuminate the path for us.

        Enough already.  If I were reading these hard-to-believes, it’d be, “Yeh, sure.”  And multiple times?   Just too far-fetched.  Personal interpretation by someone who wants desperately to believe.  Subjective, wishful, but understandable; buoyed by coincidence.

I believe none of the above, because I was there.

Ok.  The more time between “encounters”, the more self-doubt that it’s the first paragraph; all coincidence and longing.   So much so that completely novel experiences are dismissable.   I left the house two weeks ago and a raven was staring at me on our front walk.  A few days later I opened the front door to the first hummingbird I’d seen in 8 months, flitting, eye level.  Sunday, when all the soccer kids left, I was the only one left in the stadium, and was visited by the second raven I’d seen since the Versace incident.  Even then I thought ‘too much, too soon, too coincidental’ to share.

Then yesterday happened.  “Yeh, sure.”

Agoura High starts today.  Yesterday was the very last summer day I could run the track.  Usually there’re a few lacrosse or track or soccer kids straggling out there before football takes over at 2:30.  They pay no attention to the old perv who dances to his music eight times around.

Yesterday, no-one else was there.  Just me and the ravens who swooped in from a light tower when I started running.   Though I run daily, except for the once I called Bob over to verify, I’ve seen a raven in the stadium, only when I’m alone.  Only then.  I tried to get an in-flight photo from the old iphone 4 I run with.   One came back to alight again way up in a stadium light tower, and I tried a telescopic pic from running underneath. (see pics)

One of the white butterflies kept flitting by as I was running.  I see them often and always associate with Maureen because of what happened at her burial.  It was 95 with bright sun, so I could see the butterfly’s shadow as I ran.  Empty stadium; just me, the butterfly, and the raven.  The fourth lap, the raven took off and was swooping around over my head, before he alit on the raling aside the track (couldn’t get pic) then way up on another light.  Over my shoulder, I keep seeing a shadow that I assumed was the butterfly.  I have nearly 700 songs on my iphone, only ten or so about loss.  “She’s Gone” by Hall and Oates came on.

“Everybody’s high on consolation. Everybody’s trying to tell me what’s right for me. My daddy tried to bore me with a sermon. But it’s plain to see that they can’t comfort me. Now it’s up to me, ooh what will be? She’s gone, oh I, oh I’d better learn how to face it. She’s gone.”

As the song comes on, I cross to lap 5, and I have to stop.  Directly at eye level, I see the pursuing shadow belonged to an orange and black hummingbird now right in my face.  Just hovering.  In my way.  wtf.  After a few seconds, it divebombs at my head so I have to duck.  Yes, Phyl, I lost the baby shoes.

True.  Really.

Tomorrow, the self-doubt will arrive, and I’ll revisit the diminishing returns of coincidence and my own disbelief.  But, damn, I was there.

1. Mom and Papa belonged to the Venice Yacht Club. They had a boat in Marina Del Rey. At the end of the finger hosting the slip was a big yacht owned by the Jackson family. I’ve loved Michael’s music since “ABC” and “I Want You Back.” We’d wave and say hello.
2. One Saturday, I was looking for cards, toys, autographs at a small show on Hollywood Boulevard. The old guy from whom I bought my basketball cards, had a table with tsutskes. When I got there, just by coincidence, the dealer was talking to a short, chubby Italian man in a suit and a tall black kid wearing a green doctor’s mask. Weird, but I knew it was Michael. I doubt anyone else did. Even weirder, Michael wanted a little antique Mickey Mouse figurine, but instead of paying, he offered to sign his latest record which the stocky guy was holding. The dealer was not happy, but I said I know who he is from the Marina, and I’d give the dealer $35 for the record, signed for my class. (I probably should’ve offered $10.) The guy in the suit, whom I learned later was Frank DeLeo, his manager, put down an “Off the Wall” dance album, and Michael signed it. They gave me his secretary Candy’s number, said call, took Mickey, and left.
3. I called Candy. She asked if it were possible to have my class write to Michael (at the family house on Hayvenhurst; there was no Neverland, nor any innuendo of anything then). When the school year began in September, my class wrote letters. I wrote a cover asking if he could sign a photo to room 13, with my usual note, if they send a secretarial or reprint, that’s fine, but please just let me know, so I can explain to the kids.
We heard nothing. Coincidentally or unfortunately, we figured Michael was probably preoccupied, because that was precisely when he put out this novel little video. I think it was called “Thriller”. I taped and played a censored version for my kids. I tried to explain that he was a bit busy (leaving out the part that he was now the megastar of THE biggest video in history, and likely busy with everyone in the world.) But they constantly asked if he got our letters, so I called Candy. Of course, no response.
A few days later, at 4:30 p.m., two hours after class and just before the school was closing, our Sunny Brae office manager, Mrs. French, got a phone call asking for my class. The caller said he was Michael Jackson. She hung up on him.
The next day, at 4:30, our secretary, Mrs. Plotkin, got a phone call from a girl named Candy, asking if Michael Jackson could talk to me. She said I had left for the day, but she would take the message, which I still have.
Needless to say, I was distraught. I called Candy. No response. They never called back.
A few weeks later, a big box arrived in the mail addressed to room 13. Michael Jackson had sent 30 posters, personally autographed to each of my students. Having seen him sign, and over the years becoming pretty good at this; these were real. (If any of my kids are reading this, I hope you kept yours.)
4. Phyllis was the senior class adviser at Chatsworth High. She had some famous students and celebrities’ kids. One of her girls was the daughter of the saxophone player who led the band backing Michael Jackson’s first solo tour. The “Bad” tour went from September, 1987 in Asia and Europe through November, 1988 in Los Angeles. Phyl’s young lady student was assigned the west coast shows, to fetch a kid out of the audience to go on stage with Michael for his opening entrance, “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin” And you know Phyllis; that kid was going to be 7 year-old Adam Bennett. Though the kid was supposed to be chosen from the lower seats, Phyllis had the fix locked in, and we got tickets in the front row of the Sports Arena balcony, so no-one could see me taking illegal pictures of Adam on stage, with the fancy plastic camera I was sneaking in.
Then, just before the very, very, very last goddam stop of his 14 month tour, Michael Jackson got sick. The November Los Angeles shows were postponed til after New Years. The girl’s father had a previous commitment overseas. She was replaced. And we went to the concert and watched some other little fucker go on stage with Michael. That was our last “encounter”.

Just saw an ad for the new horror movie opening tomorrow, “The Curse of La Llorona”. Reminded me of two of Phyl’s most common pre-counsels;”You’re gonna get in trouble.” and post-counsels: “How could you be so stupid.” (The latter was never a question).

I seldom had behavior problems because drama, dance, parties, and stories were some of the more (let’s say) unique educational experiences I provided, as class rewards. And class peer pressure (“Don’t!!! Or he’s not gonna let us….”) is a bitch. One of these areas of reward Phyl and I both shared (though mine was a bit over the line of good taste) is we loved to scare the crap out of the kids, and they loved having the crap scared out of them. Just, as always, Phyllis did it with classics, while I was more déclassé. Former students, even in their fifties (Alma, Carrie, Maria, et al; sorry) always best remember two things; our plays and my Grim Reaper story. I caused many a nightmare. (One reason for Phyl’s counsel.)
Phyl’s means was literature of course, and, as such, were quite acceptable activities. Her go-to’s were Shirley Jackson and Edgar Allen Poe. My go to’s were movie scenes and made-up stories. less palatable to the curriculum folks, but more intriguing to the kids. In fact, the only thing we ever did together was our middle school Halloween show at Henry in Granada Hills. .
Phyl’s favorite readings were “The Lottery”, “The Raven”, and “The Telltale Heart.”
My favorites were the stuff of Phyllis’ constant warning and derision; like the opening scene of “Night of the Living Dead”, “Tales from the Darkside”, and a pirated copy of “Thriller”.
(Some day I”ll explain that long complicated story that included Phyl’s doing, but started when my fifth graders actually corresponded with and were phone-called by Michael Jackson, pre-Neverland, in 1982, when “Thriller” had just come out. Really.)
My advanced storytelling began in Huntington Park, in 1974, when, as a reward. unbeknownst to my students, I put an older kid in my classroom closet, covered with cold, cooked linguine, turned the lights off, made up a story about “The Spaghetti Monster”, had the kid run out at the crucial time, and scared the bejeezus out of my class. I did not foresee my post-wired students throwing the spaghetti all over the room. (Though over half-century ago, if any of that class is reading this, I am sure you remember. Maybe Mary and Marlene too?) In fact, if you go to room 31 at Middleton in Huntington Park today, I’ll bet there’s still dried linguine on the ceiling. I swear this is all true.
Of course, neither Phyllis (“We wah just married, and now yah gonna lose yah job!!!”) nor the principal were pleased.
So I switched to common scary legends that I could embroider on the fly: The Grim Reaper, The Bogeyman, and for school diversity, a Mexican legend most of my kids at Sunny Brae in Canoga Park (again, I hadn’t foreseen, not just the older kids) knew. La Llarona, was a woman/ghost/witch who kidnapped and drowned her own children, then spent eternal nights, wailing and looking for them amidst living children.
So I tell the scary story, we talk about the legend, and my class goes to lunch. Next thing I know there’s screaming on the yard, kids running everywhere, little kids shrieking, crying, and either cringing against the buildings or desperate to get back in their classrooms.
My fifth grade girls had told a few first graders that La Llorona was in the girls restroom. Parents came to the school. Some took their kids home. Some students wouldn’t come the next day. The principal (a wonderful, wonderful lady who went way too easy on me, and so very unfortunately just passed. Way too soon) took the brunt of it and had to send a District-approved letter home explaining it all.
And, as seemingly always, Phyllis had been right.

Happy Valentines Day, Cuckoo, inside and out, the most beautiful girl ever.
pic 2  one of Phyllis’ favorite short stories; corner-dogeared by your grandmother in 1963. She knew that first paragraph by heart.

Pics 3,4 THE valentine you loved to give me every year and your usual Phyllis pennywise post-it…..
pics 5-12 moving memories back after the fires, i rediscovered photos, letters, &(really–)a small bag with the 2013 valentines you never got…..
i love you to the sky.

valentinesday1

for phinnie, paige, eva, brooke: some day

The valentines I give you are from your grandmother and me, because this day was always special.

In school, every year, for every class, 5^th or 8^th grade, our class had a party.  The price to attend was a name-designated, signed paper valentine, personally handed to each and every classmate.  Some of my proudest moments are former students, from as far back as 1973, telling me they still have one or more of their valentines, especially from me, or a boy or girl they liked.  I’ve saved many of theirs too.  As librarian, on Valentines Day, your grandmother used to send each and every faculty and auxiliary member, even the ones she didn’t like, a valentine and a bottle of water to go with their candy.

I always gave your grandma 4 cards and something.   Wish I didn’t regret, but reality is I never got it right.

For years, I’d buy her the clunky gold jewelry she said she loved; a locket, necklaces, rings, cameos; til she told me to stop buying, because she “loses everything” and “You’re spending too much.”  I never said anything, but, after years, realized the truth.  Your grandma seldom liked or wanted to spend the money on the jewelry I picked.  She didn’t want to disappoint me, and, excepting one bracelet and necklace, she’d lie that she loved it, wear it on Valentines Day, and then secretly return it.  After all, this was Phyllis.  There is no-one like her.  All other times, she wore her “smoky topaz”, ” a stone inset in gold on a gold necklace given to her by her previous boy friend.  She’d ask if I resented that.  I didn’t want to disappoint her.  I always lied and said I didn’t.  She never said anything, but, after years, she realized the truth, and stopped wearing it.  It wasn’t anywhere near as noble or heart-rending, but I kinda think of it as our idiosyncratic “The Gift of the Magi”, one of your grandma’s absolute favorite stories,

I went to roses and Sees.  Again, she didn’t want to disappoint me, until a few more years later, she told me what all her friends but me knew; that she “hated flowers because they die.”

So it was many years of various forms of chocolate. asti, supper, and cards.

What it should’ve been was what she’d actually say; “Wine and dine me”.  She wanted a romantic cruise.  Sadly, we had cruise reservations twice, but bad stuff prevented it both times.  But we had 41 Valentines Days, retrospect is 20-20, and your grandpa/pappy is an idiot.

Even so, Valentines Days with your grandmother were many of the very best days of this idiot’s life.

Not for kids warning

Part 2 Dirty

I just never thought dirty jokes were funny.  Phyllis had the bawdy sense of humor.  If someone told us a dirty joke, Phyl would laugh, then, sure as losing her keys, look at me and apologize to the joketeller; “Don’t mind Alan, he’s a prude, p-roo-d, overenunciating the word into three disdaining syllables.  Then, to me, the ubiquitous, “You’re no fun.”

I don’t tell dirty jokes.  Don’t hear ‘em either.  When you’ve lost your partner, there aren’t a lot of situations in which someone tells you one.  And I don’t laugh at blue anyway.

But maybe that’s changing a bit too.

Just lately, I’ve laughed at D.L. Hughley’s comedy specials.  And the Comedy Central Roast, in which everyone trashed the sex life of Phyllis’ favorite, Ann Coulter.  And then came last week.

Jody is senior producer on the upcoming “To Tell the Truth.”  Coincidentally, it’s an Anthony Anderson show, as is Adam’s “Black-ish.”  I attended a taping wherein Jody and staff brilliantly (you’ll see why) booked the guest who was the owner of the cute beaver with the most hits on Youtube.  Jody said, before this show, censors and reps of the show’s owners, Disney and ABC, sensing what the producers might be up to, sat everyone down, and warned them about vagina jokes.  Sitting in the audience, I didn’t know anything of this.  The hour show was really well-run and put-together.  The guest stars, including, Kirstie Alley and Joel McHale and the first three sets of contestants, a world record holder, a jockey, a sculptor performed well.

Then came the Youtube animal owner.  Contestants: “My name is—“, “My name is—“, My name is___”.  Anthony Anderson announced, “Panel, only one of these people is telling the truth–” etc.  It also went nicely.  Until Anthony Anderson asked a contestant, “How big is your own beaver?”   Joel McHale said, “Can we see your beaver?” and something about ‘trimming your beaver’s hairs’.  I was hysterical.  There were my-age couples on each side of me, and five high school girls in front of me.  None peeped.  All had been watching intently.  Now they were embarrassingly glancing at me choking on the floor.  I was way too loud, and my sides really hurt.  So painfully I flashed childbirth.   The lady behind me was gone too.  Then Anthony Anderson asked, “Do you let your ferret sniff your beaver?” My God, I’ve never split a gut like that.  I was hysterical when I saw Jody afterwards, when I was driving home, when I awakened the next morning, right now too.  Really.  Phyl would be proud of me.  Really.