A Letter to My Dad About Some Important Things

Dear Dad,

Remember the day of Mom’s funeral? It was glorious, mid-August, and if you wanted a word to describe the space between the sunrise and the sunset as a noun, I would say exultation. Butterflies and hawks, all things light and bright and airborne, accompanied us, the yang to the yin of your day…

How many times did you say it doesn’t snow like it used to? Well, you got a beautiful, magical nor’easter that shut down the town. I walked around the block in the morning before the funeral Mass, the first to make tracks along Main Street in the kind of snow that whispers and sparkles.

As we drove to the cemetery, we were the only ones on the road, save for your distinguished guides lining either side of the street—those elegant old East Hampton trees, heavy and proud with snow like kindly wizards.

Three members of the Honor Guard were waiting for us at the cemetery, standing at attention in their dress blues, snow on their eyelashes. I can see now the white gloves that folded your flag with such love and care…I bet you know, of course, it takes 2 officers and 12 different folds, ending in a triangle of white stars on a blue ground, a sliver of starlit sky to guide you on your way.

And their faces, so full of reverence for a member of their Navy family. I saw in their eyes what your service meant to you—and I’m sorry, and kind of embarrassed, I didn’t understand sooner. My feelings about the military were colored more by what I had seen about Vietnam, but everyone says, and you should know, how special the WWII veterans are. My friend Kathy told me that her father, who would have been 91, enlisted in the Navy when he was just 17. “You probably didn’t get it back then," she said, “because these veterans didn’t talk or boast about their service at all.” I am making you a promise that I will submit your name and a photo to the online World War II National Registry.

I can see you nod and smile… I think that means I have the go-ahead : )

After the flag was presented to George, a bugler played Taps. I also think you told me, though I mustn’t have been listening, how beautiful and perfect that song is. The notes shimmered through the snow like golden leaves becoming, swelling, not wanting to leave quite yet, the first notes ever played of the last song in the world.

Day is done, gone the sun
From the lakes, from the hills, from the sky
All is well, safely rest
God is nigh.

And the snow, it kept coming, swirling and whirling like we were inside that most beautiful mystery with you. It fell on the white roses that we left for you, blossoming in the middle of winter in your enchanted forest. Each snowflake a koan, and each petal an answer..

Is being the same as to be?
Or is becoming bigger than being?
Was the first song heard by the listener or the musician?
Did you hear the roses bloom in the snowfall?

One easy answer: What we decided to sing to you in closing after Father said the prayers. We sang loudly. We sang strongly. I sang it like I always sing this song, like you’re right there next to me and singing it with me…

Take me out to the ball game,
Take me out with the crowd.
Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack,
I don't care if we never get back.
For it’s root, root, root for the home team,
If they don't win, it's a shame.
For it's one, two, three strikes, you're out,
At the old ball game!

So you know, we were also joined at the cemetery by a couple who was wandering by the church and attended your Mass. Afterward they came up and hugged me and said that even though they didn’t know you before, they felt like they did now (Confession: During Mass, several of us kind of talked a whole lot about you and shared some of your best stories.)

Leave it to you to make new friends at your funeral. : )

All my love,
Pune

I love this song, and especially this version. A honky-tonk cellblock “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” kinda.

 

Meezer Monday: Twofers

You’d never believe me if I told you why my guys get along so well. It’s not like I did anything except answer Bing’s simple request, via the animal communicator: “Bring me my kitty!”



Oh, I brought him his kitty all right (or “alright” if you listen to mod-era Who), a big lug twice his size who stalks him and knocks him down at every opportunity.

It’s OK, I think little Bing could kick Derrick’s big honky a$$ if he really wanted to.



OK, so they don't really eat refried beans, but...

Meezer Monday: Nun Sequitur

In order to be like Bing and Derrick and live life more in the moment, I’ve been systematically shredding all my journals. They’re full of crap mostly, but it’s kind of a symbolic gesture of letting go of my old baggage. Anyway, I recently came across this ridonkulous entry accounting a visit to my parents’ house, written probably about 10 years ago.

What you might need to know before reading: Bizzy was my sister’s sweet cocker spaniel, and Sister Rita was a) a nun at my parents’ church and b) their good friend.

“…Mom accidentally got peanut butter on her shoes, which Bizzy licked off later during lunch when they were telling the story of Sister Rita’s false teeth…Apparently she left the “bridge” (the back ones, like the place they go on Star Trek) at my parents’ house, and Dad had to send it back to her. He wrapped it in bubble wrap and sent it first class, and Sister Rita called two weeks later asking, ‘Did you send it yet?’ Yes, of course, he said. And then all the sisters prayed to Saint Anthony, and the next day she received them in the mail.”

What does this have to do with Siamese cats? See the ceramic meezer that Derrick is posing with? Sister Rita found it hanging around the convent, knew I liked cats and asked my parents to give it to me. I love it to this day, and I figured this was a nice chance to say that nuns can have really good personalities, in case you didn’t know that already, and good senses of humor, too.

Because there are lots of Sister Marys:



One of my favorite Jesus-y songs:

I Lack the Christian Life

I was sitting in the Panera across from the Nashville Convention Center yesterday when the soundtrack in my brain started playing “The Christian Life.”

What’s up with that? I haven’t heard it in awhile, and it’s really not the sort of song you listen to for fun. To even get past the first verse, there has to be this weird line-up of factors: an open heart and a satisfied mind and a buttload of irony, combined with “let me show off my snobby musical taste” and a plastic Mary statue on the dashboard. Oh, and it sounds best when you sing along, badly and loudly, after drinking too much at someone you like’s birthday party.

The version playing in my head was this crazy-good megamix, too. My memory had decided to grab the best bits of the three versions I know, so there was a shot of Louvin Brothers, a fifth of the Byrds, with a little Gram Parsons on lead vocals.

Sure, I'm in Music City and I’d just heard Emmylou Harris speak about how she got started helping shelter dogs (did I explain I was at HSUS Animal Care Expo?), and maybe I was feeling especially prim and proper since the nice woman who served me recommended I get my bagel sliced because it would be more “ladylike.” (How the heck did she know I probably would have pecked at it and pulled it apart like a chicken? No offense to chickens. )

No, it wasn’t any of those things. It was more that the Panera across from the Convention Center happened to be catty-corner to the McKendree United Methodist Church Christian Life Center. I was just an example of the power of suggestion, one of those manipulated bozos who’d probably run and buy a Coke at the movies when they show those subliminal messages on the screen.

Perhaps that’s why I left Panera and wandered past the Ryman Auditorium, straight to the tackiest Elvis-filled souvenir store (YES! quite like a crow finding something shiny) I could find. I purchased the first item that made me laugh out loud. (If you Google “The Slut’s Pen,” you’ll find out where to buy a dozen for 48 bucks.)

And no, I won’t describe it here because, believe it or not, I’m not that kind of girl. Er, blogger.

Music to realign your cosmos
The Christian Life, The Byrds (w/GP singing lead)

Return of the Grievous Angel, Gram Parsons & Emmylou Harris
The ‘calico bonnet’ line makes me think of my cat Paloma, so even if it weren’t for the gorgeous lyrics and harmonies, I’d love this dang song anyway.