A YEAR AGO TODAY

A year ago today, my dad passed away. I think his nurse, Judy, knew what was about to happen, so she graciously excused herself from the room. “I’m going to go and get Ali” she whispered. She made it to the door and dad took his last breath. She and Ali, his other nurse that day, had been so caring and compassionate while dad was in hospice. I’ll always be grateful to them. 

I’m glad it’s been a lazy, quiet, don’t-go-anywhere kind of day. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel. I’ve looked at the hundreds of photos I took of my dad. I’ve managed to smile and even laugh. He really was “something else”.

I looked outside at the snow and ice that fell overnight. A year ago today, the DMV was enjoying temperatures in the 70’s. According to the forecasters, it’s going to warm up again. I can almost hear my dad. “God is in control. They’re talking like they’re taking credit for it.” This is one time I hope they’re right, Dad.

HIS NAME WAS NOT NEIL

I really appreciate the IMDB. It painstakingly chronicles a person’s body of work; lifetimes of collaborations, achievements, awards, hits, misses, and obscure efforts. You’d think, when perusing some profiles, that some beloved individuals would be the happiest, toughest, wealthiest, most carefree, grateful, well-adjusted people on Earth. Look at what they were a part of! Did we even know they DID that? Look at how they entertained and poured out their talents to delight others. Look at how fit and  beautiful they are! Oh, what we would do if we were in their shoes!
That’s the dilemma. That’s the mistake in meshing ordinary human beings with the characters they portray. In real life, problems— internal and external— don’t get resolved by the time the commercial is done, the curtain closes, or the credits roll. Popularity, fortune, and fame, to those who don’t have it, should fix everything, right? Clearly, they don’t. Suffering doesn’t discriminate.

You’ve got to have more than the superficial trappings of life to overcome the ugliness, heartbreak, disappointment and sadness in this world— something that cannot be bought; something that cannot be manufactured by human ingenuity; something inside.  

The enemy of our souls is not partial. His M.O. is still “steal, kill, destroy. It seems it’s the beautiful people; those whose lives and good fortunes we covet; those we hold in higher esteem than ourselves; those whose fictitious paths we hope to travel; those we only pretend to know; those we imagine are close to us, that he targets most. “If the beautiful people have to suffer” we foolishly think, “what hope is there for the rest of us?”

“What a pity”, we say. Then we go back to our routines because our sense of loss is fleeting. Our mourning is brief. There’s no real connection, because there was no real relationship. The screens, large and small, that were between us when they lived, will remain, and we will always be able to access those familiar strangers we called by fictitious names, and never feel the intense loss their loved ones endure. 
We didn’t know Kristoff. We knew Neil. Anytime we want to see him, he’ll be where we always encountered him— in living color. There's no such luxury for his loved ones and true friends.

LOOKING BACK

The recesses of your mind—such a tricky place

There’s good, bad

Bliss, arresting sadness all over the place

And all it takes is one thought; one eye catching thing to send you there

You pray to find a new, safe, healthy clean slate to write a new memory

But where?

The things that take you back where you don’t want to go

Are still alive and well

Maybe a little worn since stumbling through your life

But triggers still; your heart will tell

Your brain suggests you fix your face, reassures dignity’s in place

Now if only your racing heartbeat will subside

But some experiences leave scars

That make you relive the hard truth;

Self preservation kicks in

Pride, anxiety tags along, too

No need to question how you are

Of course you’re not okay

But consolation comes to testify you’ve grown since yesterday

It’s human nature to think, to love, to mourn

No crime in how you feel; 

There’s no stopwatch that says by now your heart’s wounds should be healed

Just limit the revisits to the recesses

But if you must go there

Sort out the good; there’s no crime, no need to regret that you cared

Love’s never wasted

Love’s NEVER wasted

Lesson learned, but loving’s not a waste of time

The joy you tasted, Perhaps is what remains

To remember fondly and move on?

It’s just fine.

MONDAY THOUGHTS: VIRGINIA POLITICS

I can imagine my Dad picking up his Washington Post, getting his magnifying glass, closing one eye, and devouring the latest in Virginia politics, while interjecting an exasperated, “Well look-a here! Umph, umph umph. See? They say they want the governor to resign, but they don’t want THIS boy to be the new governor. No indeed! Who’s in line after him, ‘cause they gonna make SURE it’s not HIM”. You ever heard of Emmitt Till?”

Dad, a man who was born in the Deep South in the 1920’s, used to say that “Sam”, (his term for random Black men), always thinks he can play by the same rules, and gets comfortable, but he forgets—he didn’t make up the game. 

The rules don’t apply to Sam. The rules change  randomly. 

“If you gonna be on the team, learn the game. Learn how to say “nice doggie” until you can get you a big stick”, he would say.

Dad had a lifetime of experiences with overt, and covert racism. He shared those stories. 

Now I can’t help wondering, in this “Me too” climate, if the prospect of a second Black governor, of a state with an ugly human rights history, is so unbearable; so much worse than having a recovering racist governor, that allegations of sexual assault— the historic go-to crime, for which so many innocent boys and men have been lynched or imprisoned— have suddenly surfaced? 

Who dropped the vetting ball during the campaigns, or is the new trick to hold on to incriminating information and only trot it out when it’s convenient? 

In the words of old grandmothers, “There’s a dead cat on the line.” 

MONDAY THOUGHTS: RIP DARRELL

I found the tweets: My sister Robyn wrote, “Are we talking about the miraculous "no torn stockings, but burned leg" episode?”

@dcflemflam wrote, “Vanessa, it’s me. The biker from the past” 

I can’t remember if it was Easter or Mother’s Day, but it was a sunny Sunday afternoon in the early 70’s. A dear family friend, my Dad’s Navy buddy Leroy Highe, who’d survived the explosion while aboard the USS Bennington, was in the hospital. There had been a fire at his workplace and he was fighting for his life once again. My parents took us to the Ulmer’s apartment on 13th Street, SE, because we were too young to go to the hospital. Margaret and George Ulmer were like family, too. It was always fun visiting their apartment. If you just had to have a babysitter, Margaret was it. She could really cook, always had tasty treats, and was always kind and fun. Their only son Warren was like a brother and he had the best toys and board games. 

Before my parents left for the hospital, my Mom reminded us we were



still wearing our “church clothes”. I remember how much I loved the white lace tights I was wearing. After an hour or so of being inside, Margaret didn’t mind if we went out. There was a sidewalk right outside the door that led to the back of the building, and a large, grassy yard facing 13th Street. She admonished me to stay right in front of the building where she could see me. She also reminded me of what my Mom said, “Don’t mess up your good clothes”. I went down the stairs and out the door. There wasn’t much to do except walk around. At some point I remember seeing Warren’s friend Darrell riding  his bike. I watched as he rode across the grass and down the sidewalk. He’d disappear behind the building and then appear again. As he rounded the corner one last time he decided to ride on the sidewalk where I was standing near the door to the apartment. I guess we both thought the other would move when he collided into my right leg. I remember how strange it was that the wheel of the bike continued to spin. I don’t remember crying or anything. I guess we were both in shock; just standing there taking in what happened. After a brief exchange— my declaration that he ran into me, and his half apologetic, half perplexed argument that I should have moved— I went into the apartment. As 
soon as Margaret saw me and the black spot on my tights, she said, “Lord, you done messed up those stockings! What happened?” I told her I was just standing on the sidewalk and Darrylell ran into me with his bike. “Well, it doesn’t look like they’re torn or anything. Take them off and I’ll wash them.” I was 
having trouble, so she helped me balance myself. Then she saw the blood oozing from my lower leg. The lace tights had held back the 
bleeding. She screamed, then apologized for screaming. “Come on! I gotta get you to the hospital
” Somehow the tire had burned a hole in my leg. At the hospital, Margaret had no patience with the intake nurse who was asking all of the obligatory questions. I remember her uttering the words “bleed to death” then whispering to me, “You’re not gonna die, I just want you to see a doctor NOW.” It was the first time I got stitches, and had to wear a big gauze bandage for weeks. The wound didn’t heal nicely at first because of my skin’s tendency to form keloids. I always joked that the smooth, V-shaped (or L depending on how you look at it) battle scar that remained was a lesson— when you see something coming at you, AND you have time to move out of the way, DO it. It’s funny, but I was never mad at Darryl and we continued to all play together whenever we’d visit the Ulmers on 13th Street.
A few years ago he found us on social media. We laughed about the over 50 year- old bike incident. He even apologized again.
I found out last night that Darrell passed away. His funeral was Saturday. When I saw the obituary photograph, I could still see the 10 or 11 year-old I knew so many years ago, standing astride his bike, wondering if I was going to tell on him; wondering if he was going to be in trouble. “It was an accident” I remember telling him. It’s funny how kids think. I guess we both learned lessons that day.
Rest In Peace, Darrell Dion Fleming. 
http://m.huntfuneralhome.net/obituaries/wall?obituaryId=4019214