Bruce and The Message

“Anyone want to join me? I’m going to Home Goods.” My sister’s tone was breezy, nonchalant, with no hint of the unfolding conspiracy. 

“Sure!” I said. “Let me grab my purse and slip on some shoes.” 

As was later reported, the moment the front door closed behind us, and the audible crunch of car tires on gravel signaled our departure, three laptops flipped open. My brother-in-law, Matt, friend, Cathleen, and Dave began frantically tapping on their keyboards along with thousands of others around the world. Their goal: scoring tickets to Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band’s Land of Hope and Dreams show at Boston’s TD Garden. Matt was 15,000^th in the queue – yes! 15,000! Dave was at 1,700, and Cathleen was closest to the prize at 850. Whoa. There are a lot of Bruce fans out there. 

Closer, closer, closer … and bang! Cathleen nailed them! Two tickets for Sunday, May 27^th, Loge 4, 6^th row. The hoots of triumph were quickly hushed as this was to be my birthday surprise.

Unlike Cathleen, who estimates her attendance at Springsteen shows at 20 times or more, Dave and I had never seen Bruce perform. We like his music but were never ardent fans. This concert drew us for more than the music. This concert was a call for unity, awareness, love, and resistance in the face of cruelty, retribution, and authoritarianism, and we wanted to be in the audience with 19, 598 others to hear Bruce deliver that message.  

But we had to get there first. 

Once the glorious surprise was presented, Dave and I headed to Boston over Memorial Day weekend. It was a grim, rainy day of cancelled parades, drooping flags, and dispirited picnics as we pulled up in front of the Hotel Indigo on Friend Street. We spotted Edison, the doorman, in his long black overcoat and cap as he stepped to the curb. I rolled down my window and yelled, “Eddie! So good to see you!”

He beamed at my greeting and said, “What took you so long? We’ve had your room ready since noon. And… you have a new car!” 

Yes, Dave is thrilled with his new lease trade-off, a fire engine red EV Ioniq 5, and we were equally thrilled to be back at the Hotel Indigo, our favorite hotel in Boston. 

We hopped out of the car, hugged Eddie, chatted a bit, turned over the keys, and went to our room to settle in. 

Dave had been planning this night since February and had pictured a leisurely stroll to the North End for a delicious Italian dinner at Antico Forno or Ristorante Villa Francesco before the concert. As I stood at the window watching windblown sheets of rain pelting the building across the street, I voiced my doubts. 

“We have umbrellas,” Dave said, his tone disappointed and, yes, a tad annoyed at his wuss of a wife. 

After all, this was his surprise. He had envisioned the whole scene: Hotel Indigo, Eddie’s welcome, a stroll, dinner, and Bruce.  He came to stand beside me at the window and gazed sadly at passersby hunched against the downpour. I pointed out three restaurants within view, each on the same block as the TD Garden, all a short walk from our hotel. He did not argue further. 

Cathleen and her husband had sent me a Land of Hope and Dreams tee-shirt, so I was in uniform, part of the Bruce clan. In the lobby and the elevator, other guests commented, “Nice shirt! You going tonight?” There was a vibe of anticipation, of community, and my shirt was my badge of inclusion, pretender though I was. 

Having not been to an indoor concert in a major venue in decades, we didn’t know the drill. We’d chosen a food court adjacent to the Garden and wound up parting ways as we inched among and between Bruce fans to check out the offerings. Lines were long… but not at the pasta place. Not usually a good sign, but the pasta pomodoro looked tasty enough, so I submitted my order, and stepped aside to wait, hoping Dave would find something he liked. 

A man standing behind me ordered a panino, then turned and asked, “So, you here to see Bruce?” 

“Yep! First time! I can’t wait to hear him sing ‘Minneapolis,” I said, testing the waters to get a sense of the man’s politics. 

“Me too!” he said. Jason was here for the music and the message and had brought his teenage daughters along. “It’s important for the next generation to hear this. We need voices like Bruce, leaders speaking out.”

Once my pasta was ready, Jason and I bid each other farewell, and I set off in search of Dave. He’d nabbed seats at a nearby table and was nibbling disconsolately at what looked like a plate of plain tomato wedges. That was indeed the case, and he was not happy. He’d ordered a Greek salad and wondered, “Would a bit of feta? Some lettuce? A few olives be too much to hope for?” My pasta was piping hot, perfectly cooked, and sprinkled with just the right amount of parmigiano. I offered Dave a bite, which he took, and said “not my favorite.” 

Sigh.

Like I said, we didn’t know the drill, and when the crowd thinned out, we should’ve paid heed. That was a message too, but we took our time, finished up, and headed through the bank of doors leading into TD Garden. 

OMG. The line! Or I should say lines… hundreds, nay thousands, of people shuffled along, a surge of souls – who’d had the sense to wrap up dinner promptly - making their way to a distant destination I could not see. Still, like Jason, like the folks I met in the elevator and lobby, this was a community, yes, of Bruce fans, but also – judging from the snatches of conversation about the ballroom, war in Iran, division and detention centers - many were here, as we were, for the message as well.

En masse, we pressed forward, squeezed through doors, climbed stairs, bumping one another, apologizing, smiling, falling into conversation. 

“You’re from Maine? What do you think of Platner?”

“Well, he’s got problems, but Collins is a nightmare.” 

More doors. Should we bring up our tickets on our phones? No, not yet. Security ahead. Hands up, through the scanner. “Open your bag please?”

“Sure, of course.” I open my bag to expose tissues, Chapstick, pens, phone, and enzyme pills.

 “You’re good. Thanks. Enjoy the show.” 

Almost there! But first, a trip to the restroom, and a conversation overheard:

“Is he going to be uncomfortable?” 

“I warned him. This tour is not just about Springsteen’s music. There’s going to be a vibe, a message…” 

“He’s not gonna like it.” 

“Well. I told him…” 

How many in the audience were going to feel like the man in question? At least two more… and they were sitting next to me once we reached our seats in Loge 4, row 6. In the darkness, in the scramble of apologies as we nudged our way to our seats as Bruce spoke onstage (yes, we were late. Of course we were. I was with a Sylvestro, and he thought the show didn’t start for another half hour), I did not notice their dissatisfaction. Plus, I was focused on the man in the spotlight and his words.

“The E Street Band is here tonight in celebration and defense of the American ideals and values that have sustained our country for 250 years…. Our democracy, our Constitution, our rule of law are being challenged right now as never before by a reckless, racist, incompetent, treasonous president and his ship of fools administration. So, we ask all of you to join with us in choosing hope over fear, democracy over authoritarianism, the rule of law over lawlessness, ethics over unbridled corruption, resistance over complacency, truth over lies, unity over division, and peace over war.” 

And then, boom, Bruce and the E Street Band dove into “WAR, Huh. What is it good for?”

On this, all 19,600 of us could agree, “Absolutely NOTHING!” 

Loved the opening, the song, and the message, but to my dismay, this was an “I’m not gonna sit!” kind of concert. Everyone was on their feet, hands in the air, singing along, knowing every word. 

We did not know the words. And I’m not a big hands-in-the-air kind of person, but Bruce and the E Street Band are a force, and their fans love them. As did the two women sitting next to me. They were up and dancing. They knew every word. They were hands-in-the-air kind of people… but. Whenever Bruce slung his guitar over his back and came to the front of the stage to reflect and grieve over government corruption while calling for “honesty, honor, humility, character, truth, compassion, humanity, thoughtfulness, morality, true strength and decency,” the women sat down, arms crossed over chests, stoney-faced, lips pinched in a thin line. Hm. Seemed to me, everyone would find those qualities desirable? No? As soon as the Boss was back to the music, the women were on their feet, arms in the air, and mouths wide with song.

We had sort of a see-saw thing going, me and those women. Sure, I stood, bounced, and swayed when I knew the song or was moved by the lyrics, but I sat a lot too. When the instruments stilled and Bruce walked center stage, the ladies sat and glowered, while Dave and I rose in tribute to the message.   

Thank you, Bruce.

  

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Women Behind Us

The party game was not meant to make me feel stupid or show my ignorance, but so it happened. Dave and I were attending a large gathering in the late ‘90’s for a friend who was moving. The goal of the game - in which guests had a card with a celebrity’s name pinned to their backs – was to spark conversation. While sipping drinks and dipping into passed hors d’oeuvres, we’d ask questions about “our” person in trying to guess his or her identity. 

I’d ascertained that my person was a woman, a famous woman, someone connected with the news. Someone older than me. Someone who lived in the U.S. Someone who lived in D.C. Someone connected with The Post. 

“The Post?” I said. “Um… The Connecticut Post?” Brilliant guess given the previous D.C. hint. I hope I didn’t look as vacant as I felt. 

“No. The Washington Post…?” Whomever was trying to guide me was kind but clearly incredulous that even with that hand-it-to-me hint, I had no idea who was pinned to my back. With a questioning tone as to my extraordinary obliviousness and “Duh” left unsaid but implied, the clue-giver told me the name. 

“Katherine Graham…?” 

Sigh. The name was no help. I had no idea who she was. 

That was long ago, and having just finished Katherine Graham’s autobiography, Personal History, I know her better, and I grieve in imagining what she’d think about today’s threats to the free press and Jeff Bezos’s take-over of her cherished family newspaper. 

Hers is quite a story. A woman from an affluent, activist, highly-connected family who inherited what was a local, but successful, newspaper when her husband – the president and CEO – shot himself in the room next to where she was napping. Beyond the unimaginable cruelty of that event, that scene, was the reality of the “welcome” she received in 1963, when she stepped into a leadership role previously held only by men. 

But for secretaries, she was the lone woman at every board meeting, at every business lunch, at every conference. I don’t think the term “imposter syndrome” had been coined yet, but that’s how she felt. She was shy by nature, cowed by her powerful mother, and accepting of the subordinate role society had decreed for women. No matter how much she learned or accomplished as CEO, when things went wrong, she felt it was her fault, her inadequacy. But for her father and husband, she would never have had this role; she didn’t earn it herself, after all; such was her thinking.  And the men around her, but for a few, reinforced that. 

Nonetheless, she was publisher and president of The Post from 1963-1991, through the  assassinations of JFK, his brother, Bobby, Malcolm X, and Martin Luther King. Through the Civil Rights and Women’s Liberation movements. Through the escalation of the Viet Nam war, release of the Pentagon Papers, Watergate, and Nixon’s downfall. Since my newly-forged bond with Ms. Graham, Dave and I have re-watched “The Post,” “All the President’s Men,” and “Watergate,” diving deep into those tumultuous times, and suffusing our spirits with stories of people who had the courage to do the right thing.

Beyond my membership in Katherine Graham’s fan club, I have also been captivated by Suffs, a show Dave, Casey, and I saw at the Bushnell in Hartford, now streaming on PBS. Ms. Graham was not the only void in my knowledge of women warriors. I was vaguely aware of suffragists Alice Paul, Lucy Burns, Carrie Nation, Ida B. Wells, and Susan B. Anthony, but Inez Milholland Boissevain and Doris Stevens? No. I know and exalt them now, for Shaina Taub, playwright and actor, wrote her musical, Suffs, after reading Jailed for Freedom by suffragist Doris Stevens. I have re-watched the show and endlessly re-played the songs since I learned of it.

Suffragist Inez Milholland Boissevain leading the 1913 Suffragist Parade in Washington, D.C. 

Where in our textbooks were the suffragists struggles and triumph enumerated? I went to all-girls schools from K-12^thgrade; surely women’s history would have been emphasized there? 

Maybe it was. Maybe I just didn’t have the sense to be interested. Until recently, I took my rights for granted, and the limitations women had faced seemed a battle long over and settled. Not so long over, however, for had I married Dave a year earlier, I would have needed his permission and presence to get my own credit card. I churn to imagine it. How did my strong-willed mother tolerate that? Like Katherine Graham, for a time, she accepted the way things were.

Today’s women can thank Emily Card, Bella Abzug, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Stephanie Lipscomb, Jeanne Hubbard, Gloria Steinem, and Ellen Sudow – many whose names are largely forgotten – for their  work in the passage of the Equal Credit Opportunity Act in 1974. 

I was complacent for so long. Fortunate in my parents and the life I was born to. Fortunate in my times, and beholden to the women who fought for the rights I enjoy. The suffragists, civil rights activists, and feminists of the ‘60’s and ‘70’s faced the same arguments broadcast today by those who feel threatened: that granting rights to others diminishes one’s own. 

For me, worry has been a constant since 2015. Clearly, push-back follows progress. As my poster collection expands – No Kings! Melt ICE! Support the Vets! Black Lives Matter! My Body, My Choice! – I wonder what Katherine Graham would make of Donald Trump. She’d find him familiar – the rants, threats to the press, surveillance, and enemies list – but she’d be stunned that we let it happen again. 

 

 

    

Al Jolson Memories

My first gift to Dave, my then-college boyfriend, was an Al Jolson record. Most people under the age of 50 probably haven’t heard of the man, and even then, it was a surprising choice for a 19-year-old. Many decades later, our musical choices tend toward Crosby, Stills, and Nash; Bonnie Raitt; James Taylor, and the Beatles, but this evening, Mr. Jolson is providing our evening serenade. 

Dave is working in the dining room while I’m in the kitchen stirring chopped cabbage into sauteed onions. A pot of water is boiling for the Pennsylvania Dutch medium-wide noodles I’ll add to the dish at the end. Musically, Al has swung into April Showers, “It isn’t raining rain you know, it’s raining violets…” and I smile, sway and stir, imagining Mom, Dad, and Uncle Ding swaying and singing along with me.

At college during the 70’s, the rebellions of the 60’s still reverberated in our ideals, clothing, music, and distance from those of our parents. Or so we thought, but judging by the gift of that Jolson album, the songs of their youth had filtered in and were woven into our childhood soundtracks. Now, Al sings on, and as the chorus rolls around again, Dave and I join in spontaneously, “it isn’t raining rain you know….”

In truth, it doesn’t feel like violets these days, and I’m not talking weather. My sisters recently told me that ICE has leased a facility less than two miles from their homes. I’m scared for them and ready to protest when they call. Environmental regulations and voting rights are being undercut, and the U.S. is at war with Iran. From this perspective, my parents’ era seems safe and enviable, but that’s a “good old days” illusion I have to shake. They grew up during World War II, and Dave’s dad and uncles fought in Italy, Africa, and the Pacific. Many of these same songs played in the background while terrified families awaited word of their sons overseas.  

The Mills Brothers follow Jolson and croon their flawless four-part harmony. I’m amazed when, without thinking, I chime in, the words spooling from who knows what deep corner of memory. 

I call in to Dave, “Where’d you find these songs?”

“Sonos.”

“Yeah, but what did you search for?”

“Al Jolson.” Ah. Al. And on cue, Jolson bursts in with “Me and My Gal.” Dave belts out the words in his best – pretty good – Jolson impression. Oh, my heart is full! I am smiling and teary at once, about the memories and the gift of the present. 

After a big orchestral flourish, Sonos moves on to “Anything Goes” and scandalous glimpses of ankles and stockings. I dance in place while pouring a can of Fresh Catch beer into the cabbage and onion mixture. Then, talk about random mess-with-your-head moments, the next Sonos selection is Jimmy Durante singing “I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places…” which does me in. Dave has requested that the song be played at his funeral, and I always say, “OMG, Dave. You’re killing me. Everyone will cry.” He has backed off and said, “You don’t have to...” 

But I will. I know I will. And the song will be saying exactly what I feel. Maybe I’ll be seeing the blessing of right now: the dining room table scattered with a jumble of papers, a phone, cans of cranberry lime seltzer, and Dave tapping at his computer keyboard.                

An Overnight with Eleanor

Casey and PJ have gone to a show in New Haven to celebrate Casey’s birthday, and Eleanor is spending the night with us. It has been mild lately, and the paths in the yard are spongy and green with moss. For Eleanor, that mossy carpet is both invitation and inspiration. “Let’s build a family home!” she cries as she scurries about, brushing through brambles at the border of the woods searching for materials. 

At her command, Dave and I drag over stumps and sawn logs and arrange them under the magnolia’s sheltering boughs. With these as table and chairs, Eleanor, now our self-proclaimed mother, begins to prepare “hazelnut soup.” 

I am sent off to forage.

Mild as it is, I‘m chilly and don’t want to stay out for long, but to my surprise, I take pleasure in the hunt for potential ingredients. Few plants are growing, but I find textured acorn caps and sprigs of pale onion grass. Winter-dry shrubs and spent plants offer empty seed pods. Brittle leaves crushed between my fingers make a fine powder perfect to season Eleanor’s soup. I’d been deceived by the March-gray nakedness, for there is bounty hidden in the litter of dead leaves.

While I’ve been assigned the role of good daughter out “shopping” for Mom, Dave has proven talented as the bad kid, dubbed  “Williams” a while back by this demanding six-year-old mother. The name, so butler-esque, cracks us up, and we wonder how she thought of it. When Dave acts out, as he always does, Eleanor bellows “WILLIAMS!” her tone imperious and not to be defied. Although, of course, he does.

The first time Dave played Williams, he rolled up his shirt sleeves, his expression surly, eyes slitted, and shoulders slouched. He leaned against a door jamb in the living room and pretended to smoke a cigarette. Eleanor looked to me, confused, and asked, “What is he doing?” I loved her innocence: she had no idea what smoking was. 

Back at our woodland home, Eleanor has grown ambitious. She points to logs as long as I am tall and asks us to haul them to the magnolia to make walls. Not going to happen. And it’s about time to head inside anyway.  

*   

When my kids were little, an outdoors excursion or sojourn at the library was followed by cozy time with a pile of books. The Brambly Hedge series, Karen Gundersheimer’s Happy Winter, and anything by Steven Kellogg would keep Tucker and Casey content to sit and snuggle. If compelled, Eleanor will settle in for one book only, and then she is off to some imaginative play, be it hotel, grocery store, or veterinarian. She takes the lead as receptionist or cashier, efficient and welcoming. I strive to be an enthusiastic patient or pet owner, but given my druthers, would prefer to take a seat with Kellogg’s Island of the Skog.  

Beyond boundless energy, Eleanor holds within her a well of joy, ever ready to spill. While preparing to demonstrate her greatly improved cartwheels – for we are now doing gymnastics in the living room - she dances in place, jumping with excitement and pride. “Are you ready? Watch.”

If her knees are bent or she stumbles in landing, she says, “That wasn’t good. Wait.” She shakes it off. Flips her hair back. Takes a deep breath. “Okay. Now. Watch this one.” She continues practicing until her legs are straight and she can stick the landing. She ends with a flourish of graceful hands and clamors for video documentation so she can review her performance.  

*

Soon, PJ and Casey will arrive for a birthday brunch, and Eleanor is sprawled on the floor making her dad’s place card. She has written “PJ” in bold capital letters and decorated the card with a purple border. 

“You know what?” I say. “We can cut the card out with a flap at the top and bend it over like a tent.”

Her green eyes widen, eyebrows arched high. “So it will stand up!” she exclaims. She sits back on her knees, claps her hands, and bounces with glee. 

Oh! It is a gift to share in the delight she takes in the simplest discovery. Even while brushing her teeth this morning, she eyed the blue toothpaste gel and remarked, “Look! Sparkles in the paste! I love that!” 

We gather up her place cards, now tented, and set the table. I’ve purchased paper napkins, pale green with soft pink accents, and Eleanor carefully tucks one next to every plate. I’ve decided to use my mom’s china which I rarely do because I’m afraid to run it through the dishwasher, but Casey loves it which makes me happy; hopefully she’ll want the set when the time comes. Dave has purchased a pot of daffodils and that serves as the centerpiece. 

When Casey and PJ arrive, Eleanor flies outside to greet them, but has no time for hugs. She simply cannot wait. She grabs her mom’s hand and tugs her into the dining room and stands aside, so proud of it all, so thrilled in anticipating her mom’s happiness. 

Casey scoops her up, wraps her close, and nuzzles her cheek. Eleanor giggles, feigns fighting her off, and then smothers her with kisses.

How it fills my heart to see my little girl, now 42 (!) loving her Eleanor so. 

  

Under the Hyacinth

In the middle of the night, Mom’s eyes flew wide; she had remembered Uncle Ding’s ashes. The tiny parcel allotted to Mom was in a brown plastic box inside a white cardboard box stored in the dining room under the sideboard, amidst the boxes for Dad’s antique toys. The ashes had been there since Uncle Ding’s beloved Sheila brought them to Mom in October, five months ago. Mom had not yet carried out Uncle Ding’s wishes that they be buried with his mother, my grandmother Byeo, in the cemetery of the local church.

Actually, Uncle Ding wanted to be dispersed several places. His first cousin was given a portion to sprinkle on my grandfather’s grave in St. Louis, and my cousins, Ding’s daughters, have kept small packets. In addition, in a shipboard ceremony, Sheila had flung some of the ashes into the seas of the Caribbean and saved a small parcel for herself. That inspired Mom to keep a bit of Dad nearby, and two months after his death, some of his ashes remain in a tin on the end table by his side of the bed. “Sometimes I talk to him,” Mom says.  

 

Anyway, what caused Mom’s alarm that night was a mental image of Uncle Ding’s ashes spilled and set flying by an auction company packer chancing upon Uncle Ding by mistake while searching for just the right box for one of Dad’s toys. 

 

For, day after tomorrow, Dad’s toy collection will be packed up and taken away for auction. While my mother has been astonishing in maintaining her composure in the weeks following my father’s passing, she can’t talk about this step, the loss of Dad’s collection, without tears. “It’ll be like another death,” she says. 

When Dad was alive, his toy room, formerly a den, was his joy. A colorful parade of tin and wrought iron replicas of past modes of transportation filled the shelves above the antique dry sink. Dad used to arrange and re-arrange the cars, trains, paddle boats, steamers, airplanes, zeppelins, and tiny people. He dusted, catalogued, and photographed them. He showed them off to any willing visitor. This was Dad’s room. When he was dying, my daughter Casey and husband Dave fled there to sit in Dad’s red chair to desperately toast his health. When he died, we all gathered there, each of us wearing one of his ties, jackets, or sweaters, trying to sense his presence while taking in his preferred cocktail-hour view of his prized collection. 

 

Once the toys are gone, Mom plans to paint the room a vibrant rose, no, make that blue…wait, perhaps beige? She has changed her mind many times, so the final color will be a surprise. Mom is going to hang posters, display family photos, and arrange the few toys she loves enough to keep. It will look great, but it won’t be Dad’s toy room anymore. Hm. Having said that though, I think it always will be.

 

So. Back to the ashes. First thing the morning after Mom mentally glimpsed the cloud that was her brother billowing in the dining room after an accidental opening, she went down and moved the box to the stairs. Having seen items remain in that spot for days, I said, “Let’s just take care of this, Mom, so you don’t have to worry about it.” 

 

We discussed the possibility of any legal issues that might surround unofficial placement of ashes in a graveyard. We thought there probably were. Technically, we were adding a smidge of the essence of another person to the family plot. What with the other Uncle Ding dispersals around the country, there weren’t many ashes left, but still, what if there was a glitch, and we were caught?

 

At the time, Mom and I were sitting at the kitchen table in the white plastic chairs my mother favors, eating English muffins topped with fried eggs cooked on the 1938 Roper stove that had been in the house when my parents bought it in 1963. Beneath our feet curled the faux red brick linoleum that could not be removed because of an asbestos layer. I love that about my parents’ house, the house where I grew up: things haven’t changed much. Well, they hadn’t until Dad died.

 

I noticed a hyacinth plant on the windowsill, the leaves still green and succulent, the pink blossoms peaked and wilted, but cheery. “I’ve got it, Mom. We can pretend we’re planting bulbs on Byeo’s grave.” Perfect. She liked the idea, and it was decided.  

 

Still, the “what if” of illegality remained which prompted a giddy review of potential headlines. “’Mainline matron’… no, make that ‘Mainline Widow,’” said Mom. “’Mainline Widow Arrested for Illegal Dig in Graveyard.’” We rehearsed our dialogue with any imaginary sextons, reverends, or cops who might happen by. “Oh, we’re just planting hyacinths. They’ll be lovely in the spring. This? Oh. Fertilizer. Just a nice, powdered fertilizer.” We thought we were hysterical. And, for two ardent rule-followers, daring.

 

Mom dressed for the caper, or… ceremony, in a white turtleneck, beige cardigan with gold buttons, camel coat, black trousers and a matching black hairband to hold her silver hair. She looked beautiful. I was in jeans and Mom’s purple parka.  

 

I took the plastic bag of ashes from its box and put it in a plain brown bag; less obvious, I thought. Mom fetched a shovel and trowel from the garage, and of course, we had the hyacinth in its black wire holder and bed of moss.

 

Our outlaw sense of euphoria carried us to the churchyard. The playground swings hung empty by the parish house. One white suburban was parked in the lot. If any souls were near, we couldn’t see them. Might there be a few loved ones about, though? Dad? Byeo? Are you here?   

 

The church is a handsome stone edifice encircled with the kind of cemetery in which anyone would be pleased to dwell for eternity. Granite headstones nestle in the grass yard among the massive trunks of towering oaks, centuries old. Now that Dad has joined his brother Henry and my grandmother there, it is a friendly, welcoming place. 

 

Dad’s and Byeo’s graves are near the driveway, so we parked, gathered our supplies –plus Uncle Ding - and walked the short distance. Dad’s headstone was not ready yet, and in the few months since his funeral, when my nephew lowered the small box of ashes into the ground, all signs of Dad’s moving in had vanished.

 

Mom stood by – and stood watch – holding the hyacinth as I jammed the shovel into the earth. I felt the oddness of the act, the sense of disturbance. Yet I knew Byeo would be thrilled to pieces, as she would have said, to welcome her son.

 

I dug down about eight inches. “Maybe a little deeper?” Mom suggested, so I scooped a few more shovels full. I was nowhere close to tapping the tiny box that held Byeo, still, I was aware of it down there.

 

While untwisting the wire tie, I kept the plastic bag of ashes concealed within the brown bag, then poured the fine gray powder into the hole and sprinkled it with a layer of soil. Mom loosened the hyacinth from its container and placed it in the earth. I shoveled in the remaining dirt, patted it down, and watered. 

 

Mom and I stood back and smiled. We had not been arrested, and Uncle Ding was with his mother. A loving request fulfilled. “Should we sing something?” I asked. We considered some possibilities. I was thinking “Swing Low Sweet Chariot,” but since Uncle Ding was an old Yale Whiffenpoof, Mom opted for the Whiffenpoof song. I don’t know many of the words, so I put my arm around my mother’s shoulder and joined in where I could. “We are poor little lambs who have lost our way. Baa. Baa. Baa.” At the end of the song, we grinned and applauded. We were both teary, but happy, too. 

                     

 

 

 

That Never Used to Happen

“Hello Stranger! Here for your annual visit? ” Ji-ho grinned as he pressed a button  to rotate the racks. After a soft whir and swish of plastic sheeting, shirts, dresses, and slacks came to rest, and Ji-ho plucked off the hangers bearing Dave’s clothes.

“How’re things?" I asked. 

“Surviving,” he said with a sigh as he handed me a slip and said, “Sign here.”

In the past, I would’ve taken his response as being as reflexive as my habitual question but not now, not given current events.

“Surviving? That doesn’t sound good. What’s up?” 

“Since Covid, I’ve lost over half my business. He pressed the button to spin the racks and gestured at an empty stretch. “That never used to happen. The racks were always full.” Together we gazed in discouragement at the span of bare hooks. He continued, “People work from home or go to the office twice a week. They don’t have to dress up anymore, and sweatshirts don’t need dry cleaning.” He smiled ruefully. “And then, there’s people like you. Good customers, but people retire.”

He was right. When Dave and I were working, we’d drop clothes at the dry cleaner every two weeks or so. Ji-ho knew our names, numbers, and addresses; he never had to ask.  We’d walk in for a pick-up, he’d see us, smile, and spin the racks to our order. It was nice to have that familiarity.   

“So much has happened... since Covid, since Trump. The country’s upended," I said. “My sister called last week, and she’s a mess, furious and nervous, because ICE has leased a facility less than two miles from her house. That’s a whole other horrible situation.”

Ji-ho nodded. “Yeah. Things have changed. People look at me differently. I never got looks like these before.” 

“What do you mean ‘looks’?” 

“Recently I was at the deli counter at Stop & Shop to get some ham. At first, the person working there pretended not to see me. When I finally forced his attention and asked for Boar’s Head ham, he said, “What? I can’t understand you.”

“So, I repeated myself, but still he snapped that he had no idea what I was saying. That happened a couple more times.”

Ji-ho is Korean, an American citizen, and has owned his business for 26 years. His accent is barely discernible.  

He continued. “So. I typed ‘Boar’s Head ham’ on my phone and held it up for the guy to see. He shook his head and said, ‘we don’t have any.’ And of course, they did. I could see it in the case. But I just walked away. Didn’t want to deal with him.”

“Oh Ji-ho. I hate hearing this.”

“Yeah. That never used to happen. Now, my wife and I know we have to be careful.”

We looked at each other sadly. “Can I give you a hug?” I asked.

He hung his head, shuffled around the side of the counter, and I hugged him.   

Things have changed. But we can do something about it. 

 

 

    

Yearning to Get it Back

Snow whirled outside shrouding shrubs, steps, stone walls, and cars as I snuggled in before the TV and a cozy fire. In a gentle rise and fall of white, snow smooths over life’s hurry and softens distinctions between Nature’s creations and those of man. This was the winter I’d yearned for, the kind of winter my parents recalled from their youth when Dad skated on ponds frozen for months and Mom rode her sled from her backyard through the woods and into the fields beyond. Given the turmoil of world events, I welcomed the escape of snow and a movie.

Dave had gone to bed, and I was watching “The Adam Project.” Time travel, past and future co-existing, and the deceased lending a hand are not Dave’s thing. They are absolutely mine. 

Onscreen, two versions of Adam, the protagonist, have traveled back in time in search of their father. Twelve-year-old Adam is a scrawny smart-aleck who is bullied at school. He is thrilled to meet his 40-year-old self – Ryan Reynolds - who is muscular, handsome, equipped with futuristic weapons, and still a smart aleck. Their father is a professor and inventor killed two years before– in his sons’ experience - in a car accident. Yet he is the only one who can solve the chaos of the present.

When the boys find him, he is giving a lecture, cracking jokes with his students, his hair disheveled, his sport coat rumpled. His sons are transfixed. There he is. It’s a regular day at work, and the man they have ached for is… so alive.

At that, my throat tightened as I stifled a sob, not because of the scene so much as the pang I felt in imagining the poignancy of seeing Mom and Dad or my grandmother, Byeo, once more. I could feel it; the gift of getting that chance again. To see Mom on her bed, perusing the pages of her beloved Majesty magazine. To have Dad take my hand to show me an addition to his antique toy collection. To see Byeo in her blue robe flipping silver dollar pancakes on the stove. Nothing special… just the extraordinary blessing of ordinary times. 

Years ago, I clipped out and saved a Family Circus comic by Bil Keane. The strip, in full color, depicted the father gesturing to his mother, wife, and daughter to stand closer together for a picture. The caption read something like, “I want a photo of all my girls.” Appearing as white outlines next to “his girls” were the women who’d come before… the flapper, the suffragette, the Victorian, and so on… a sustaining line of women, hand in hand, leading up to Dolly, the little girl of the family. The present can be hard, and the thought, the hope, of ancestral support is comforting. 

How long ago did that cartoon appear? Which of my journals holds it within its pages? I want to find it. There are days when I want to know that my women, the grandmothers and great-grandmothers, are near, outlined in white or in whatever form they might have on the Other Side. It will be a challenge to leaf through 51 journals on that hunt. I know I’ll bog down reading entries that inspire smiles, tears, or gratitude. It could take days to find that clipping while I relive whatever transpired in whatever year, on whatever day. I know my chest will ache with yearning for some of those times. 

And here I am now, at the dining room table in February of 2026, with a snowy woodland vista beyond the window and Dave rustling papers as he prepares our taxes. Some future day, I’ll come across this piece, and yearn, with my heart aching, to get this moment back.