One Year Ago

One year ago, it was Thanksgiving. Dan was worried that he wouldn't be able to be with us. Truckers didn't always have a choice on where they were on any given day.

But he was here.

And no one wanted to cook. We had decided weeks before that we would go to a restaurant.

It took a while to find an restaurant open on Thanksgiving. But we did.

We arrived a little ahead of our reservation that day. But we still had to wait about an hour. It was miserable on Mel. Very few chairs and those were of wood. It is tough for a man with severe back problems to sit on an cushioned chair. Especially for a long period of time.

So we stood and wandered and talked. And I got a picture.

Jed, Dan and Melodie on Thanksgiving 2010

Then we sat for a magnificent dinner. I don't remember what we ordered. (there were choices!) But I remember talking and laughing and feeling that the meal was very special.

It is etched in my memory now. Less than 3 weeks later he was gone.

And that meal became so very, very special.

This year is so very different. Jed is in San Francisco. Melodie is in Visalia. So it is just Mel and I.

But we decided that Dan would appreciate our new plan.

Bacon and waffles. At home. Watching football.

Yeah, Dan would have liked that.

Oh, God, I miss him.

Smitty

Smitty called the other night. I didn't write about it then because, well, because I just couldn't.

Smitty was Dan' best friend. He knew Dan when things weren't goin' too good for Dan. And he knew him when Dan got it together. He was there when I wasn't and knows things that I don't.

So talking to him is always a revelation. Plus I love him dearly.

He is coming to California for the Vocal Arts concert on the third of December. He will be in the Mission and he will here the last song that Dan ever heard us sing--Shubert's Ave Maria.

Only this time, my son-in-law will be singing the solo. He was suppose to do that last year because his mom was there. (She hadn't heard him sing in concert for 20 years!) But he had pneumonia and could squeak out a note. He was crushed.

Ten days after that concert last year, Dan was gone. And in April Jed's mother died.

Jed will be singing to them this year. And Smitty will be there.

Even in rehearsal, I fight tears. This is gonna be a tough one.

But Smitty will be there as will a bunch of my friends.

This concert, in my mind, is for Dan.

I think he has a ticket.......

Halloween

Somewhere, in a box, is a very old picture of Bill, Dan and Gael Ann dressed for Halloween. Our grandmother was a seamstress and she made all of our costumes.

Dan was a black cat. It was the most incredible black cat you have ever seen. Footed with a tight head cap and white mask. The tail went on forever.

And Dan as a cat was the epitome of cat.

Long and thin even as a kid, he LOOKED like a cat.

It was always a holiday that I looked forward to. Not because of the candy but because of the outfits. Nana made some outstanding costumes and we took pride in the fact that we were original. Every year.

So Halloween holds lots of memories. And this year they are mostly of Dan.

They make me smile.

Alone

Today I realized (again) how alone I feel without Dan in the world.

I was driving home, it was really hot for San Luis and I am listening to light classical music. It calms me on most days.

But today I felt like I had the weight of the world on my shoulders. And I realized that it was my grief. I haven't cried in a long time. It is like the lake that was my tears has dried up.

I felt like the weight that I carried was a soft blanket of tears. All locked in the fabric that draped over my shoulders.

It felt like my soul had become hard, dried and cracked.

I have been, for so long it seems, acting "normal" when I just feel terribly alone.

Dan isn't here and it hurts.

So I wear my blanket of tears and hope that no one notices.

Not a Day

I am sitting at lunch with my daughter and her friend and I made a rotten pun. I thought it was funny but the friend looked at me like I had a third eye. My daughter had to explain that punning was a necessary form of language for me.

And then she told her friend that being around Dan and I could be harmful to your funny bone. She told about how Dan and I would have whole conversations in pun. It could go on for hours. But usually one of us had to give up.

I don't know how in the middle of a day Dan pops up. But he does.

I sit here tonight and see Zelda sleeping on the floor and Dan's voice echos in my head--"She is taking the pause that refreshes" Zelda is our blonde cocker spaniel. Get it?

He would call and ask me if Zelda was pausing. I would crack up. Yes, I am easily amused.

But with Dan I was happy just having him around. Having him tell me bad puns and competing with him in that arena was something that made me very happy. It was a small thing. But it was part of Dan and I.


I miss him every day.

There is not a day that goes by that he is not in my thoughts.


And then I come home to see Zelda. And I pause and think of him again.

BIcycles

Dan bought a bicycle when he moved into his apartment in Pismo Beach. It made it easy for him to get around the little town. He even road it to our house in Grover Beach once. (He said he would never do that again. There is a hell of a hill to climb between here and there. )

It wasn't anything fancy. A three speed with upright handlebars so he didn't have to bend over. It was a cool lookin' bike.

Except that he looked anything but cool on it. (I can hear him scoffing at me. "What's about cool? I don't have to look cool. **huff, huff**)

Dan was quite tall. The bike was a bit short. So he stuck out.

I mean literally. He was all knees and elbows.

You recognized him from half a mile away.

Flannel shirt, cowboy hat or trucker cap, knees and elbows sticking out everywhere.

It was a glorious sight.

He didn't care what he looked like. He cared about getting around and having fun doing it.

Yesterday I was driving home and, as is usual in San Luis, there were bicyclists riding on the same road. There are bike lanes and everyone shares the road here. So I normally don't notice anything unsual.

But yesterday, yesterday I almost stopped the car.

I was coming up behind him. The flannel shirt was flapping in the breeze. He was thin. His knees and elbows stuck out from a regular sized bike. He wore a straw cowboy hat.

My heart almost stopped.

And my first, my very first thought was, "He came back".

Then reality hit. And I kept going.

I didn't look at the man's face.

I want that man on that bike to be him. And if I don't look, if I don't look, if I don't see that it is not him, then I still have that fleeting moment when, for me, he was back.

The Ave

Last night was our first rehearsal for the Christmas season.

Vocal Arts always starts the particular season sight reading our music. We haven't seen it before and, usually, we don't even know what songs we will be singing.

So the rehearsal is a bit rough. We listen to recordings of the song and then sing it. No separation of parts before hand. No playing of particular notes or clue as to how the song is suppose to go.

It is rough. And my definition of rough includes both 1) difficult and 2) uneven. The sound is not good.

It is the first step in learning difficult music. And our music is difficult.

It is a lot of fun as well. Talking to people you haven't seen all summer. Feeling the joy of singing. Sharing the feeling and sharing the news.

Our last song was one that we have been singing for a couple of years. It is now our signature song. It is Shubert's "Ave Maria"

Last Christmas Jed was to sing the men's part as a solo. His mother was going to be there and she hadn't seen him in concert for over 20 years. Jed was soooo excited.

Dan was at that concert and helped to get Jed's mom get around that night.

But Jed got laryngitis and couldn't sing.

Dan died 10 days later.

Jed's mom never heard him sing again. She passed away.

So last night, at a very rough rehearsal, Jed sang the "Ave Maria". He sang for his mom and he sang for Dan.

Jed was perfect. His beautiful tenor voice filled the room with perfect notes and perfect love.


And I cried.