on a sunday

I got up early and went for a walk

One of my favorite signs

Then I drove downtown

I went past the Art Museum

To a favorite diner

I met friends for breakfast

They drove their cool Bill Blass Mark V

And we saw this Oldsmobile in the parking lot

Afterwards we went to the resale shop

There was a sweet dog outside

They were having a sale

I saw Opera Pumps

There's always a crock pot or two

I got a couple of Playbill yearbooks to remind me of New York

Then it was time for a nap

cremains of the day

Russell took the news with a sigh of resignation when his Doctor told him that the cancer had returned. Eighteen years ago he had been an unstoppable force, determined to prevail. This time the Doctor didn’t act that concerned and neither did Russell. Whether he was too battle weary or simply resigned to the inevitable, he just didn’t seem to have the fight in him this time. Diagnosed in the summertime, he was gone on the first of February.

Suddenly we found ourselves putting together a memorial with his favorite flowers and his favorite music, and oddly enough, a borrowed urn which I referred to as “Loaner Russell.” It seems the mortuary missed their promise date, and so I borrowed an empty container from the display shelf. It wasn’t the first party that he missed Instead of Russell, I had a demo. Only someone with three decades of automotive experience would see the humor in that.

A week later I got the call that Russell was ready and I could bring Loaner Russell back and do the swap. The real Russell was surprisingly heavy both physically and emotionally, and I was glad that I asked a friend to come along. I thought the trunk was too utilitarian, so Russell rode home on the back seat.

And there he was. We put Russell on the round table in the family room and I talked to him every time I walked by. But we all understood that this was only a temporary abode that raised a question we had thus far failed to ask- what exactly to do with him. During the later stages of his illness we talked about trusts and heirs and cremation, but I never asked where he wanted to be and he never volunteered.

It was a little bit the same when my Mother passed away in 2007, the Michigan clay in December was frozen too hard to bury her urn, so it sat atop my brother’s television until spring. It kept her warm, I told myself, and besides- she’s always enjoyed television so it wasn’t an altogether inappropriate place to spend the winter.

But cremains sometimes go astray in their temporary settings. I recall a frantic telephone call a few years back from my friend Steven in Los Angeles. He was having new built-in bookcases made for his home office, and had hauled all of the old freestanding wood ones to a consignment shop in Palm Springs to sell. But somehow he had overlooked a black velvet bag which contained the mortal remains of his Mother, Alice. I hung up the phone and raced right over to the shop but they were in the midst of their summer shutdown.

By the time they reopened I was first in line. I looked through the cabinets but found no signs of Alice. I told the shopkeeper that Steven thought he had left the remains of his cat in the bookcase- it sounded a bit too odd to me to admit that he had really misplaced his Mother. They looked but didn’t find anything- she had most certainly been tossed in the dumpster by a well meaning employee when the cabinets were checked in, and in this case it really was perfect- Alice was a devoted shopper who loved a bargain. I say hello to her every time I visit the store.

And so Russell rested on the family room table where he so often sat at his computer. His little polished box is home for now we find a more lasting one- perhaps a hillside overlooking the desert, the boat ride on the ocean, or maybe even divide him up among a favorite racetrack or two- I can imagine myself smuggling him into the infield. I hadn’t really given much thought to the transience of cremation, but it really does leave a big question for those left behind- and I admit that I am struggling with the finality of the choice we ultimately make.

And at the same time I’m aware that I am being totally irrational. Wherever we finally place him, he’ll never leave the house. I talk to him constantly there, and he often replies- by blowing a light bulb, moving a picture, or even the day of his memorial when an hour before the service the cable on the TV he most often watched went out. That TV alone, the others weren't affected. It came back on a couple of hours later. So I don’t really think he’s leaving us, a thought that I find oddly comforting. But there’s the matter of the earthly dust. Cremains. Mortal Leftovers, Ashes, Dust. Isn’t it really just dust?  

a thousand julys

Six years today.

No tears this year, just memories. The shock has disspiated and we have, collectively, pretty much dealt with things. Life is resilient, whether we expect it to be or not.

When you lose someone, there is a terrible shock.

But at least you are spared the anticipation and dread which becomes part of the anniversary.

Everyone says the first year is the hardest- it's a year full of firsts without him. Birthdays, holidays, important days to be gotten through somehow. We all got together on the first anniversary, I wrote about at the time as one year later. We knew we would all be thinking of him, so we had a bowling party in his memory. It was very theraputic all in all.

I must admit the burden eased that day, the fact that we all survived a year together without him made it easier somehow. And I was very fortunate- I unknowingly got the chance to say goodbye. You can read about it here.

But he's never very far away from me. As his childhood friend Betty reflected, our summer will always have a thousand Julys.

For Betty, and for John, whom we miss today and always

patsy cline imitation

It started with an phone call from Ken. I don't believe he asked "would you like to go with us and nearly end up in a fiery crash?". At least, I think I would have had the good sense to decline. Oh well, sometimes its better not to know.

No, I think I remember now. Ken was taking the rat pack to the Christies party in Monterey to kick off the Concours weekend. We were hoping for a different year than we had experienced in 2006. And we certainly got that.

It started off perfectly- we had a six passenger Premier I jet, less than a year old, waiting for us in Burbank. We brought our own travelling bar and hors d' oeuvres. We had a slight delay while Nick looked for his misplaced ID, but we idled away the time in a hip retro-chic lounge in Toluca lake where the interior lighting is made of 1959 Cadillac tail lamps. Add faux leopard skin and stir. After a quick round, we were off to the jet center.

My first impression of the Premier I is that it was small but luxurious. It had leather seating for six and a small luggage area in the back which we used for cocktail service. Tami and Nick shared Flight Attendant duties, we nicknamed them both "Trixie".

All was well until about 15 minutes out of Monterey. The pilot advised us we were about to descend into the San Jose area. One can imagine this was a surprise. Ken went to ask the pilot what was going on and was told "Sit down, Sir- we're having an emergency". Note to pilots- best to avoid casual usage of this phrase. Can be upsetting.

So we talked amongst ourselves for a few moments, imagining exactly what was wrong with the plane. Shortly before landing, the pilot came on and told us that the flaps on the wings which extend upon landing had malfunctioned and so they had to divert to a longer runway. MUCH longer, it turned out. The tarmac at San Jose was a full 65% longer than Monterey and thus we were able to land safely, although we touched down FAST. Had we attempted Monterey, we probably would have crashed through the party in the hangar and continued onward to the water. Too splashy of an entrance for me.

So there we were on the ground at the San Jose jet center. Safe, thankfully, but an hour from our destination and with a plane that needs repairs. Not the best. Our team sprung into action. Nick began calling flight services, Ron went online to research hotels in case we were stranded, Ken and Dan took a cab to a liquor store and returned with a bottle of decent vodka. Martini in hand, Tami and I retreated to the pilots lounge where a giant TV was tuned to the history channel, which we both enjoy. We were treated to a program about the history of cremation, which considering the evening, we did NOT enjoy. We chilled. Dan went to the gift shop and got each of us a spiffy San Jose Jet Center hat, and a junior stewardess set for Tami. Gift bags. Just like the Oscars.

After two and a half hours of fun, the maintenance crew finished rebooting the plane's computer and pronounced us fit to fly. We rounded up our merry band, and, much wiser about cremation than we had been, boarded for a return to Burbank. Throughout the hour long trip home, we chatted bemusedly about whether the flaps might really work when we got home. Thankfully, they did and we landed normally this time.

Once we got home, we gratefully deplaned and loaded into our waiting cars. It was about that moment that we noticed that we had never actually reached our destination at all. But neither did Patsy Cline. We raised a glass to her.

That night at home I was reading online about the accident record of the Premier I. It seems that so far, two of the six million dollar jets have been totalled in crashes involving the same failure we experienced, causing them to run off of the end of the runway and crash. Imagine Fred Flintstone trying to stop a plane. I shuddered once I read the reports. At least we were together. We were very lucky.