Mary Beth Writes

I found a plaque at Goodwill (I lost the photo I took of it...) that made me laugh out loud.

I asked Jesus, "How much do you love me?"   

"This much." he answered.

Then he stretched out his arms and died.

I understand the heartfelt statement of faith and gratitude, but wow, if you are going to laminate your faith statement onto a plaque – maybe run it past a writer first?

This sounds as if the Son of God was doing okay until he encountered the Sins of You.

So anyways… D is for Death.

Oh yeah, this will be short and easy.

Central statement of this essay; death sucks.

But also; death brings weird clarity.

What you miss after a person dies is a black light that will tell you what you had.

When my dad died when I was a young teenager I realized I was no longer afraid of getting yelled at. There’s a legacy, huh? I also lost family meals at the dining table. (It was just mom and I after Dad was gone. We ate a lot of hamburgers and pie at the Swedish Coffee Pot. ) I lost an exacting person who possibly, if I had excelled, I could have pleased. I never got to have a dad who said, “Hey that was good!” I missed those stories one wonders about when you start living your own adult life, when you try hard things, when you try to be a leader, when you parent your own kids.  I would have liked to ask what becoming an adult was like for him. I have clues, but I don’t really know what he would have said. So death shows you what you miss, what you don’t miss, what you forget to ask, what you didn’t get.

Let’s talk dogs, not dads. It’s easier. Not easy, just easier…

When older pets die, invariably the first thing one doesn’t miss is the strain, work, and expense it was to take care of them in their decline. The lack of responsibility is a relief. 

But as time goes by there comes that day when you are standing in the kitchen talking to someone and you fall into that old story about “that night it was freezing cold, and you were slow on the walk, and you were also busy talking with our son, and Becky casually brought a frozen bunny head into the house, a snack she had found for herself along the way…” And now you are laughing so hard you are weeping.  

When those sad and hilarious tears hit – there is one of the mysteries of death.

You always knew you loved that wonderful dog but most of the time your love was a pleasant background hum in your life. In that retelling of a great old story, that old  love piles up like snow in front of a snowplow. Suddenly it is all over and around you, a great big wash of clear, sweet affection.

Death also seems to take all the love there was and reduce it into itself like a Haute Cuisine French sauce. And every once in a while you will be surprised by the steam, aroma, and the pungent glorious taste of that remembered joy and love. It messes you up bad (bring on the hankies) but you could care less. Your grief is right here now – but for this bit of time, grief is also joy, thankfulness and a profoundly deep need to laugh and be happy.

I don’t know why this is. Certainly not everyone we lose affects us like this. But some of them, blessed be, stir us still. The hole where they are gone demands to be filled with something good and that’s about as close to “love never dies” as I can understand.

Logically, you wouldn’t hurt this badly and you wouldn’t be wiping snot and tears off your face if you had not shared your life with that goofball mutt for 14 years. But who’s kidding who? She was one of the shiny ribbons woven into mortality. Even now, years later, telling Becky stories is STILL a happiness that vibrates in me when I remember her. Nothing in my regrets the day our gangly son brought home this gangly pup who would raise our kids and then break our hearts. Death took her, but left us bigger and better.

Death cracks and breaks us. Sometimes I think that is the point. The cracks are where light comes in and shines out. 

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" She was one of the shiny ribbons woven into mortality" . What a beautiful way to put it! And I love your new website. Congrats to you and LEN!

Thanks. And thanks for letting us know this wasn't working at first. And yeps, I am thinking of your mom, also. Shiny ribbons through our lives.

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A Long Ago (sort of) American Camelot on the Mississippi

 I finally finished reading “Empire by Collaboration” by Robert Michael Morrisey. It is a history of the Mississippi River from what is now the general St. Louis area down to its confluence with the Ohio River. This is the area Len and I traveled to see the solar eclipse in August 2017. While we were there, we visited Fort De Chartres and Kaskaskia, we saw old houses in tiny river towns, and we saw one of the oldest cemeteries I’ve seen in the US; it filled with 18th century gravestones inscribed with beautiful French names.

Where are the Movies that don't Blither and Lie?

Last night we watched last year’s “Happytime Murders” with Melissa McCarthy, Maya Rudolph and a bunch of puppets who look like Muppets. Yes, the director is Brian Henson.

The plot? A former kids’ puppet show is making a comeback, and someone is machine-gunning down alumni puppets in order to get a bigger cut of potential franchise income. Phil Philips, puppet detective, partners with Melissa McCarthy to find the culprit. Along the way we see various episodes of puppet porn.

I laughed a lot and then the movie was over.

Went to bed. Woke up this morning irritated.

Sandhill Cranes of Kearny at Dawn

We were on vacation and now we are home:

First thing to report: we only had one fight.

Why is it so hard to keep a poor Black man who has committed NO crime out of jail?

(Our Brother’s back story is here:  https://www.marybethdanielson.com/content/what-happens-personal-finances-when-one-grows-poor-and-black-america )

.....

Our Brother is not in jail. This has been a challenge for him, for the people he loves, and for those of us who try to help and support him. Keeping O.B. out of jail is a modern-day Pilgrim’s Progress.

“Oh,” you ask. “Did he commit a crime?”

Love, two days later.

As some of you know it was an unromantically large number of years ago when Len gave me flowers. (The story is here.) 

The next morning, he drove me home on his way to work (read the first article if you have forgotten how why I spent the night at his house and in his bed…)

He ignored me for a day while I rested and recuperated in my apartment.

#UTLAStrong!

My niece Susan is a speech therapist educator in the Los Angeles public schools. She is on strike and I am proud to be in her family. Teachers are the foundation of everything else we all do. For most of the skills most of us depend on to live our lives - If no one teaches you, you don’t know.   

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