Anam Cara

As I packed to come home from Anam Cara, a writer’s and artist’s retreat in the Irish countryside, I found myself struggling to put everything back the way it was. My hiking boots, my warm pjs, my umbrella, my neatly folded clothes not so tidy anymore, a book I never had time to read at home, the bookmark now 200 pages in. I had to lean my entire being on that suitcase to get it to shut. That’s when I realized nothing fit how it did before I left.

And if that’s not a metaphor for my time there, I don’t know what is.

My friend and poet, Reagan, told me about Anam Cara last year when we were discussing writing retreats. My initial thought was simple – there are plenty of writing workshops in SoCal, most of them in locations people told me were lovely. But when Reagan mentioned Anam Cara, a place she’d been wanting to go for over a decade, I immediately said yes.  

How could I not? The website featured pictures of lush landscapes, rushing falls, misty mountains, and a large home inviting you to nestle into one of its inspiring nooks. The featured articles and comments from writers in residence all described a peaceful getaway, meant to erase the chaos of everyday life so you can hear the inner voice that’s become buried under ambient noise. And that’s no exaggeration - the name Anam Cara literally means “soul friend.”

But I had no expectations as I packed for the trip the night before. I didn’t get out of work until 11 pm, through an unexpected (but not unusual) situation at the ad agency where I’m a proofreader. With all the same hustle and bustle, it hadn’t hit me that I’d be traveling 10 hours across the ocean to a country I’d never been to. Not only that, it was the first time in a decade I was doing a week-long trip without my boyfriend. I just didn’t have time to process any of it, as I finally collapsed into bed at 2 a.m.

The next day, Reagan and her husband picked me up after my shortened shift at the office, and at the beginning of rush hour we slogged through the usual traffic to LAX. But we reached the terminal with plenty of time to relax, have dinner, and chat before the flight into Dublin. We arrived in their afternoon (being 8 hours ahead), and took a 30 minute taxi ride to the train station to catch our next 2 ½ hour leg of the trip south to Cork. A few miles outside the city is when we caught our first glimpse of the vast countryside, thick bushes splitting the grass into squares of good eatin’ for the farm animals. It was drizzly and cool, enough to need my sweatshirt. That’s when I realized – Ireland was my climate. My New England senses tingled with joy, having left the sweltering September temperatures behind.

By the time we got to Cork, my stomach was ready for dinner. We took a short taxi ride to our AirBnB house, where our most gracious host, Ann, brought us to our room. I was looking forward to ending the 30-plus hours I’d been awake since leaving LA. She drove us to the downtown area near their house with plenty of restaurants, and we chose a cute Italian place (I know, I know, Italian food in Ireland? Hey, we were there for a week – plenty of time). The next morning, Ann had a small spread laid out for breakfast, which was a great way to start our first full day in Ireland. Then she drove us to the Cork Airport to pick up the rental car.

And as we chatted and joked with the guy from Hertz, I realized something else. Ireland was my people: open, helpful, friendly in an honest way, dry or dark sense of humor. And they not only got my sarcasm, they returned it. It was one of the few times where I came across all kinds of strangers and felt I could be myself. I can’t tell you how many times in SoCal I’ve had to say, “I was kidding.” In Ireland it was understood.

Anyway, Reagan and I jammed our bags into the economy-sized Kia Picanto (her one bag took up the trunk and mine took up the backseat) and we were on our way down the left side of the road. Reagan checked that off her bucket list sitting in the driver’s seat, allowing me to take pictures of the ridiculously dazzling scenery. And I say ridiculous because there’s no other word to describe it. Every time we stopped along the side of the road, we would gasp at the stunning landscape and say the same thing: “Wow. Look at this. I don’t know what to do with this. Even my camera doesn’t have the capacity to capture this idyllic nature.” It was crazy.

One of the fun things about driving those narrow country roads was that it brought the two of us back to our respective home states: Reagan from Tennessee and me from Massachusetts. Back east there are plenty of long winding streets with woods on both sides, where you can’t tell what’s coming around the bend. Another huge difference from SoCal, where you can see everything ahead of you. I find it confusing at times. In Ireland, once you were out of the city, there were only a couple ways to go. And the overhang of tree branches created a natural tunnel to lead you where you needed to be.

And that was a good thing, because we didn’t exactly have an address for the retreat. On the website, it said Anam Cara was 4.5 miles from Castletownebere and a half mile from Eyeries. No street address, with directions that said “150 yards west of the cross (intersection) of R571 and R575 on the northern coast of the Beara Peninsula.” Now, again, my Western Mass sense of direction was used to this kind of description – our directions often involved things like gas stations on the corner or big red barns as landmarks. But we couldn’t exactly put that in the GPS. So we put in Eyeries and figured we would ask someone when we got there.

Sure enough, it worked out fine. We found a tavern in Eyeries where we had lunch, and they pointed us to the retreat up the road we had just passed. Going back the way we came, we found the intersection which led us through farmland and next to a small cemetery on a hill. Across from that sat a stone wall with the sign “Anam Cara.” We parked in the small dirt lot in front of tall bushes that led you to the front door, with a sign that prompted us to enter quietly, as working hours were in progress.

Our retreat host, Sue, greeted us, along with Michael, who cooked and helped out on a part-time basis. He brought in our bags and we met the other two women staying there: Jen and Suzanne. Jen was there for the rest of the week, while Suzanne left on Wednesday. But two other women joined the crew that same Wednesday, Cathy and Trudy, who would be there for the rest of our stay.

Anyway, Sue discussed the rules with us which were quite simple: quiet hours started after breakfast, lasted until lunch at 2, and then began again until dinner at 7. We ate all our meals together, which were cooked for us, and we weren’t allowed to help with anything. Sue mentioned that was usually the toughest rule to follow, especially for women who would often (automatically) offer to help. You weren’t to disturb the other writers, and if you wanted to have a conversation, there were places besides your room where you could shut the door. She also gave us the lay of the land, which she had drawn out in packets left in our rooms. And there was so much more than what I mentioned from the website: a meditation garden, a labyrinth, a duck pond, dozens of walking paths with benches, the rocky beach (which they called the Strand), and a stone ruin of a mill. I couldn’t wait to go exploring.

After our chat, Reagan and I parted ways to check out our rooms. Hers was on the other side of the house while mine, called the Seaview Room, was near the front door.  The bed had six pillows of different sizes and a heavy comforter, making it the perfect combination for reading in bed. And there was a bureau, a bookcase, and the writing desk in front of the window. I had a great office view for my new job that week: working on whatever I wanted.

That first day was unpacking and checking out the grounds a bit, while thinking of how I wanted to approach my current project. I’m writing my second novel, a women’s fiction/comedy, but had been struggling with it for a few months before the trip. After my dad’s death last August, it was difficult to get back to writing a funny story. In fact, I found myself thinking about him more and more over the next couple of days, and how much he would’ve loved hearing about my first writing retreat. He was a high school English teacher, and one of my biggest supporters, so all of our conversations turned to writing. We were very much kindred spirits in that way, and I lost a part of myself when he died.

That Monday, after a walk down these stairs that I swear were lifted from the Shire, I hung out at the falls for a while. Listening to the rushing water in the middle of the woods brought me back to my parents’ place, where I fell asleep most nights to the rhythm of the river that ran behind the house. I went down to the falls originally thinking about the last chapter I had written, and did come up with a conversation that solved a problem. But by the time I got back to the house, my dad was all I could think about. With no place to be, no job to get to, and no errands to run, my tears suddenly had no reason to hide. I cried for the rest of the afternoon.

The next day, the Irish rain coated the green palette outside my window (who knew there were so many different hues of green?). Since I had brought a water resistant coat and hiking boots, I decided to do something I hadn’t done in years – go walking in the rain. There just weren’t that many opportunities to do that in SoCal, and I was excited to walk down to Eyeries to mail a postcard done by a local photographer. Having been there for lunch, I was looking forward to checking out the brightly colored homes and businesses.

By the time I got back, I was ready for some hot tea and a nap. And what a glorious nap it was, since I couldn’t remember the last time I had one! Feeling reinvigorated, I sat down and wrote the end to that difficult chapter. And as I sat back, satisfied with what I had done, I looked outside and thought, “God, I miss the rain.” So I began writing a poem with that as its first line. Initially, I was planning on writing something about missing the seasons; but it slowly turned into me having a conversation with my dad on how much I missed him. I was crying again, but this time it grew out of actually processing what I was feeling. It was something I needed to put down on paper – I just didn’t know it until then.

That night, we discussed sharing our writing after dinner. I mentioned the poem I had written and everyone encouraged me to read it. After eating, we gathered in the “nest” (the room under the loft) and settled into the couches and chairs. Sue told us she had one rule pertaining to sharing in her house – the reader was never allowed to denigrate or preemptively apologize for their own work. Not only was it insulting to your own writing, but it was insulting to those who would be listening to it. She offered the example of someone who began their reading by saying, “I know this is terrible, but I want to make you sit and listen to it anyway.” And the retreat was a safe place to explore different styles and ideas, only allowing constructive criticism.

Reagan read three of her poems, and Jen followed with a few lines she had written that day after spending some time in the cemetery. Suzanne read a short story she had been working on, and I ended with the poem for my dad and a chapter from my current novel. All pieces of writing were well received, and Sue offered some editorial comments (having worked as an editor for places such as the Cambridge University Press). I love share sessions, especially when writing a comedy, as you get instant feedback and reactions to the things people find funny. Writing is a solitary and isolating task, which is why I think these kinds of open sessions are so important.

After breakfast the next morning, we greeted the new writers in residence, Cathy and Trudy, who had been friends for many years. I walked down to the Strand with them and explored the area around Anam Cara, and then we all relaxed in a small general store in Eyeries. We walked through the yellow church on the corner (a staple landmark in the directions to the post office) and got back to the retreat in the afternoon. I took another wonderful nap before lunch, and after eating, got straight into editing some of the earlier chapters of my book. Having a renewed sense of energy helped me to look at them through fresh eyes.

And that kind of excitement carried through writing a couple new chapters as well. The feeling of being stuck had completely disappeared, replaced by enthusiasm and a readiness to get back to work. My last three days at Anam Cara were the most productive I had been with my writing in months. It was the first time in almost a decade I didn’t have to figure out how to “fit” writing into my day. In 2008 I took two weeks off from my job to visit my boyfriend, who was working at JPL for the summer, and I was able to start my first book. I had written seven chapters by the time I left, having found the momentum I needed to get through it after I got home. Anam Cara was exactly that for my second one.

But it wasn’t just the location – it was also the people. We held a writer’s workshop in Castletownebere for Culture Night where we met the event coordinator, a songwriter, and a woman who had lived all over the world and just returned to her hometown. Sue introduced us to Irish storyteller Teddy Black, a seanachai (bearer of old lore) who had us in stitches the entire five-minute conversation. Hanging out at MacCarthy’s Pub, having a half pint of Guinness, we talked to two women who had just returned from biking all over Europe. And I loved hanging out with other writers, talking about our struggles, discussing everything from current events to our daily lives. It reminded me of college, sitting in the lounge discussing literature and authors, coming up with poems that started out silly but ended poignant and true. Those were the days I fell in love with being a writer, and everyone at Anam Cara reminded me that was still the case.

And now that I’m back home, I have to find a way to channel that energy. Here, among the full-time job, numerous errands, a calendar full of appointments and events and writing groups, a desire to keep up with the exercise, and spending time with those I care about. I’m back to having to “fit” writing into my life, after seeing that not everyone lives this kind of hectic lifestyle. There is another way – it’s all about figuring out how to achieve it.

It’s ironic. The book I’m writing is about a college graduate having trouble finding a job. At school, she was an ace student with a bright future wide open to her. But once she enters the “real world,” all she gets is one answer: no. So she goes through all the conventional means of looking for a job, thinking that’s the best way to find something. Unfortunately, she only finds the same answer. It was exactly how I felt after college, like the whole world was at my feet, and all I did was trip over it.

But when the reporter for my hometown left the local newspaper, I had just approached the 90-day trial period of my printer service job. I declined continuing the 9-5 lifestyle to take on a position with no real schedule. And sure, I had to sit at a desk to write articles, but for the most part I was out getting the story. It was a great writing job that utilized my degree and fit my aversion to early mornings. So when my protagonist finally tosses up her hands and tries different options, she finds her own unique solution too.

Sue showed me her unconventional way of life, a divorcee originally from Utah running a writer’s and artist’s retreat on the southern tip of Ireland. She is living her dream of helping people, including me, find their creativity. And now it’s time to listen to my own voice that’s been shouting this entire time: “You know who you are. You know what you want. Get to it!” 

Oh, Dad

I miss the rain,

The fog, the showers

That covers the leaves

Before their descent.

I miss the snow,

The ice and the cold,

Low lying branches

Awaiting new warmth.

I miss the blooms,

Bright flowers that sprout

While raising their heads

To the sky’s new light.

I miss the sun

That paints humid lines

And heats evening air

Before fading out.

I miss that peace,

The place without loss,

Where I was myself,

To see all there was.

I miss your voice,

The calls, the laughter,

You always felt close

Though you were afar.

I miss our time,

Chats near the maple

Where hope had followed

Words full of wisdom.

I miss that feel

Of love and concern,

Wanting to know all

No matter the truth.

And I miss that life

Where you were beside

Me, for then the world

Was just as it should be.

'Twas the Night After Christmas

I wrote this poem as a fun exercise for my Pure Fiction League writing group. For our holiday party we are asked to write a short story with a certain theme, and we put them in a pile to be read out loud by someone else. Then we try to guess who wrote it. The theme this year was simply "Christmas." And yes, I realize I cheated a bit by writing a poem. But it does tell a short story of how some people feel once Christmas is over. And the picture attached was done by my good friend and artist, Grant Sarber, who was kind enough to turn some of this silly copy into a great visual aid. Enjoy! 

'Twas the Night After Christmas

'Twas the night after Christmas and all through the home
The adults were hungover, exhausted or stoned.
The stockings were ransacked and totally bare
As the kids had all eaten the candy from there.

By 8 they were crazed, acting like crackheads,
But Grandma and Grandpa were ready for bed.
“All I want now is some time for a nap,”
Said Gramps on the couch with the dog on his lap.

When all of a sudden little Johnny went manic,
Bringing the parents right out in a panic.
The sugar rush caused him to go all “Hulk smash!”
Sending the lamp to the floor with a crash.

“Johnny! Calm down!” was all Dad could bellow
Before the boy ran straight into the fellow.
Mom grabbed his arm yelling, “Stop it! Come here!”
But Johnny broke free to avoid a sore rear.

They couldn’t believe he was just so damn quick.
No one could catch him, not even Cousin Nick.
Running and laughing he finally came
To the tree when everyone shouted his name.

“Wait, Johnny! Stop! You’re in so much trouble!”
“Hey dumbass, quit spazzing!” yelled his older brother.
But Johnny was already climbing the wall
And threatening to tear down the tree, bulbs and all.

But Grandma had done up the tree with such care
That NO ONE could touch it without her right there.
And so she had snuck by the rest of the pack
To make her last stand against Johnny’s attack.

“Boy, settle down.” Grammy waggled her finger
As Johnny looked threatening in his frenzied linger.
He reached for a tree branch but suddenly found
Grammy’s cane in his way as she smacked his arm down.

Oh, it was on as they surveyed each other,
Johnny’s eyes wide, he looked to his smug mother.
She shook her head saying, “You’re on your own.”
As Gramps shouted, “Johnny, give up! You are boned!”

But Johnny was young, naïve and so spry
There was no way Gram’s cane was a match for this guy.
Or so he had thought as he reached out again
And felt the hot sting of the wood on his skin.

Before he could move, Gram sprang into action
Yanking his shoulder while setting her traction.
Johnny fell head first, sprawled out on his belly
As Gramps laughed and shook like a bowlful of jelly!

“I told you,” he said as the boy cried and cried.
But all that was injured was his tiny pride.
The shock of it all brought him back to his senses
As he pondered the “too much sugar” consequences.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his sad eyes lowered,
“I just didn’t want this night to be over.”
Mom picked him up as he started to cough
Hoping he had learned not to piss Grandma off.

The chaos was over and all had retreated

Leaving Johnny to sit next to Gramps, so defeated.
As he leaned his head over, Gramps hugged him real tight.
“Merry Christmas, dear boy. Now get out of my sight!”

Dad

When my father went into the hospital two years ago, just a few months before we moved to California, I remember thinking, “I don’t know what I would do if he died.”

Now, I know.

I was almost out the door for my physical on August 11, when Mom called to tell me I needed to get on a plane and come home. Home is Adams, MA, a six-hour non-stop flight if you can afford it, a half-day traveling the red-eye if you can’t. At that point, Dad had been in the hospital again for a little over a week for breathing problems. They discovered he had bacterial pneumonia, something I think many of us assumed would be treatable. Even though he had been on dialysis for two years for kidney disease, he had just gone on a family vacation at their timeshare on the Cape, and spent the previous weekend at my sister’s for my niece’s birthday party. He appeared to be doing just fine.

But when he woke up my mother at 4 a.m., his last words to her were, “I’m sorry. I waited too long.”

We never found out what he meant by that. The police came and put him on oxygen, but it wasn’t enough. He was taken by ambulance to Berkshire Medical Center Critical Care Unit, and hooked up to various machines. They tried to do his regular dialysis, along with smaller attempts to clear all the fluid that plagued his body. There were times he appeared to be improving and breathing on his own. But it didn’t last long, and the more they tried to do, the more agitated Dad became. They were running out of options. That’s when they told Mom it was time to make some phone calls.

I got into Boston early Friday morning, where my sister, Rachel, and niece picked me up. We went back to her house where I attempted to get some sleep, as my plane ride neighbor from Phoenix to Boston was drunk and high (which he told me right as he sat down) and talked to me for the entire five-and-a-half-hour flight. But throughout the day, Rachel got calls, I got calls, and my mind was too chaotic with thoughts of what might be for any chance of rest. The two of us got on the road after dinner, as Rachel and her husband had a meeting about their mortgage at 5 p.m. It was the first of several reminders that life was going to continue no matter what happened. However, Dad was still alive at that point, so it didn’t register as anything but a regular schedule.

That changed, though, once we got to the hospital. Both my sisters, being local, had seen him and I had not, so Rachel gave me a few minutes alone with him. And that’s when I realized I wasn’t ready.

It wasn’t the first time I’d seen my dad hooked up to machines, looking pale, tired. But it was the first time I almost didn’t recognize him. And it wasn’t just the oxygen mask covering his face. His eyes were glossy, his attention, diverted, and when he did look at me there was no hint of the man who always greeted me with, “Hey, there she is!” He seemed to know who I was, sure - he turned to me at the mention of my name, and squeezed my hand, just a bit, when I sat down next to him. But my father was gone.

And what do you say, then? What do you say in those moments - when it’s just you and someone you’ve loved your entire life - and you’ve no idea how many moments you have left with them? When you know absolutely nothing until you walk in the room, and the blips and beeps and shallow breathing suddenly become your reality. When life goes from something you take for granted, to the most valuable and fragile hope there is. What do you say?

A month later, and I still don’t know. You see it in books and movies all the time, characters getting a chance to unburden themselves by saying things that had been left unsaid for years. Or the patient has some poetic monologue about the fleeting joys of life and how they’ve come to terms with death. And then there’s the classic exchange between the dying and their family where they say just the right thing before the heart monitor flat lines.

There’s none of that in my story. I choked out how sad I was that he wouldn’t see the final draft of my second book. Everything else was lost in tears.

The next day my sisters and I, along with my mom and aunt, met with the doctors to decide the next course of action. They told us Dad had multi-organ dysfunction. His kidneys had already failed, which we knew, but then his lungs took a hit with the pneumonia. After that his heart took a hit when he had a small heart attack. And we had reached a point where his brain was taking a hit with bouts of delirium. During his time in the hospital, he had tried to take out the tube down his throat, along with the tubes in his arms during dialysis. Because of this, the doctors labeled what they were doing as “aggressive care.”

There was one thing they could try to keep Dad alive, which was a tracheostomy. But that meant he would come away with a tube in his throat and another in his stomach. And that’s how he would remain for the rest of his life, most likely having to go into a nursing home where he would be unable to do much else.

My sister, Angie, had a few questions about that option, and voiced our shared concern that the person’s life we were talking about was unable to offer his opinion. Even though he had tried to remove the tubes, his state of mind was such that we felt he didn’t fully understand his options. But when the doctor told us there was no repairing the damage to his organs, that he would only get worse, there seemed to be no choice left. We all agreed to their suggestion of “comfort care.”

He was moved that night to a private room on the floor above the CCU, where anyone could go and visit. Everything was removed from him, except an oxygen tube in his nose, and an IV for pain meds when he wanted them. That Sunday, he had dozens of visitors, and I went in the evening for three hours and sat with him and Mom. The conversation was light with her, and I knew I wanted to do something more for Dad. My conversations with him were never small talk, and I wasn’t about to start now. So I decided I would go back the next day and read to him from his favorite book, “To Kill a Mockingbird.”

I waited until the evening again, when most people had already visited, and it was just Angie and Mom, who suggested going to dinner first. Mom wanted to eat at the hospital, but Angie and I convinced her to go out to a nearby restaurant. When we returned a little over an hour later, Angie decided instead of just dropping us off, she would go up and see Dad one last time before she left to go back to her own home.

That’s when we discovered Dad hardly breathing, color completely drained.

Mom rushed to get the nurse, and the three of us waited in the longest silence I’ve ever felt for her to tell us if there was a heartbeat. She said it was faint, but by the time she knelt down again to double check, there was nothing. He had died.

It’s funny the things that go through your mind at a time like that. I was sitting in a chair next to the table where I had placed the book, and my first thought was, “Damn it! We were going to have this incredibly meaningful night, finally, and now I’ll never have another one with him again.” After the doctor left, I held the book and voiced my disappointment about not being able to read to him. That’s when Angie told me to start, right then, since they say hearing is the last thing to go. So, through plenty of tears and a strained voice, I began to read the first chapter. To avoid interrupting me, she and Mom walked to the other side of the room and started making phone calls.

All of a sudden, I heard the toilet flush, and Angie say, “What the hell?” I could see her out of the corner of my eye standing in the bathroom with the door open, so I knew she wasn’t using the facilities. Another minute later, the toilet flushed again, followed by more exclamations from my sister. That’s when Mom walked over to see what the heck was going on, suggesting she step away from it. A third flush and I finally turned my head to say, “Come on! I’m reading here!”

“I know!” Angie exclaimed. “That’s why I’m trying to make calls in here! But the stupid thing keeps flushing! I’m not even on it!”

So there we were: me in a chair near the bed, Mom at the other end of the room, Angie trying to steer clear of the toilet, and my dad lying there, dead. And that’s when it hit me – Dad would’ve been the first person to appreciate all this ridiculousness. He would’ve been teasing Angie, laughing at me, and smiling at Mom. I started chuckling at the thought, and soon I was in hysterics, in every sense of the word.

And it didn’t stop there. After my aunt, my cousin, and her husband came to say their good-byes, we all took the elevator to the first floor. And for some weird reason, the elevator stopped at every single floor, with no one there. We all mused it was Dad playing one last practical joke on us. Then on the way home, Angie and Mom were in one car listening to the radio when the Paul Simon song, “50 Ways to Leave Your Lover” came on. “Death is one way,” Mom said. And in my lone car ride home, one of my favorite dance songs came on the radio in the middle of my tears. I instinctively turned it up, as I always do, and that sent me into another fit of laughter.

I don’t know the science behind what happens in your brain when you’re grieving, but I now understand how people make it through the first few days after a death. I was terrible when it came to wakes, funerals, and memorials. I hate death, and I never knew what to say to people dealing with death. When my grandparents passed away I was a complete mess, along with every time I went to a service in support of someone else dealing with a family death. So how the hell was I going to deal with the death of someone as close as my Dad?

Apparently I had two speeds: normal and crying. While Angie and I helped Mom with the funeral arrangements, it was like a switch had turned off the emotional center and enhanced the organizational side. You have no choice but to take care of business. We methodically filled out the paperwork and met with the funeral director, and had everything scheduled within an hour or so. Even having the get-together (not a wake, because my dad hated those) on the same day as my parents’ 49^th anniversary was not a deterrent, because Mom wanted to have the funeral on that Saturday. That meant the get-together made the most sense on that Friday.

But it was in the quieter moments that crying mode took over. Looking at all the pictures Angie collected for the get-together, sitting in Dad’s recliner watching a Red Sox game, walking past his cane hanging on the bannister, writing the eulogy. It didn’t take much for the tears to flow. Thankfully, normal mode still allowed for some laughter once in a while.

Like at the get-together, we placed one of his baseball caps on the urn, along with a pair of his suspenders. Next to that we put an old (empty) bottle of Wild Turkey, his drink of choice for special occasions, and a can of Pepsi which he would have as a chaser. Apparently one of the guests thought it was trash and went to move it, and was stopped by someone who had to explain why it was there. And at the end of the Catholic funeral mass, I read the eulogy that began with one of his favorite blonde jokes.

Afterward at the cemetery, my sisters, my mom and I were sitting at his gravesite under a tent with everyone else standing around us. That’s when I felt something crawling on my hand, and looked down to see a caterpillar. “How did you get there?” I wondered as I brushed it off onto the ground. But that thing really wanted to be on me, because a minute later it crawled onto my toes. So I took a tissue and picked it up, but had nowhere to put it. Thankfully Cai was standing near me, so I handed it to him to get rid of it in the woods behind us. But even he had trouble getting the damn thing off, and my first thought was, “Geez, I hope that’s not a reincarnated version of Dad I almost squished.” Not that I believe in that, but if it were a movie, that wouldn’t have been such a strange idea! I still chuckle at the thought.

But weeks later, I now realize what I should’ve been asking, is how will I deal with Dad’s death for the rest of my life? I didn’t think about scheduling a flight back for two weeks, because it hurt every time I thought about leaving Mom behind and alone in the house. I wanted to be around the people who knew him and loved him as much as I did. And it felt like a betrayal to Dad to go back to my life in California, as if life would just continue like nothing happened.

Of course, life does continue, and my two modes of thinking now crash into each other on a regular basis. I get up, I go to work, I hang out with friends, I go out to dinner with Cai, I read in my writing groups, and I work out with my trainer. But suddenly, asking “How are you?” has become the most complicated question you can ask me. Because I’m still trying to figure that out.

Even my views on how I want to live my life are in flux, and I thought I had a good handle on that at age 38. I’m questioning where I am, what I’m doing, and if there’s any point in even asking such things. It’s not like there’s a right or wrong answer to any of it. And I can go from watching a mindless TV show to tears streaming down my face in a few seconds, with no one thing being the cause. I suppose nothing needs to “trigger” that reaction- the despair surrounding Dad’s death is always there. And that’s what my brain is struggling to unravel.

Others who have gone through the same experience have told me this never really goes away, because there’s nothing that will bring Dad back to us. And they, too, have questioned their beliefs on life and death, no matter how old they are or where they are in their lives. But one friend told me that even though the highs may not be as high as they once were, the lows will also never be as low as they are right now. At least that’s something to hope for.

Dad's eulogy

“To travel hopefully is better than to arrive”

So a blonde walks into a small appliance store and finds a bargain. She says to the salesman, “I’d like to buy this TV.” Salesman says, “Sorry, we don’t sell to blondes.” Angry, she drives home and dyes her hair brown. She goes back the next day and says to the salesman, “I’d like to buy this TV.” Again, he says, “Sorry, we don’t sell to blondes.” She has no idea how the salesman recognized her. So she leaves, gets a haircut, changes her outfit, buys big sunglasses, and waits a few days before going back to approach the salesman. “I’d like to buy this TV.” He says, “Sorry, we don’t sell to blondes.” Incredibly frustrated she exclaims, “How do you know I’m blonde?” “Because that’s a microwave,” he says.

This was often how phone conversations began with my dad, with a new joke he had heard from one of his golfing or teaching buddies. You could hear my mom chuckling in the background, since they had the phone on speaker so we could all chat. We’d get into what was going on in our lives: with my sister, Rachel, it was her daughter, Elizabeth, teaching, and her health. With my sister, Angie, it was her daughter, Jenna, real estate, and her health. And with me, it was my job, writing, and my health.

Unfortunately, Dad was more invested in the health of his loved ones than he was his own. And no amount of discussion or argument could change that. But Dad lived his life with little apology, little regrets, and boundless love. He loved teaching for 35 years, especially when his students told him 20 years later they still remembered that an image is TWO things. He loved golfing or playing cards or having breakfast at Dick and Joan’s Corner Lunch with friends. And he loved his family. I know because of the poems he wrote my mother while he was in the Air Force and she was in the Navy. He went to every sporting event, every show, every concert, and every performance we were in, no matter how far. He insisted we call whenever we traveled, no matter the time we arrived. And he ended all our visits and phone calls with two simple words: “Love you!”

But while the sentiment seemingly came to him with ease, it was more than just reflex. He could never hide his concern, nor did he care to. When I was 11 or 12, I was running around a playground with some of my cousins, and ran into a metal pole. The corner of my glasses cut into my forehead and I fell down, completely dazed. A medic from a nearby game came to help. And when he asked if my parents were in the area, I said my dad was going to freak when he saw me. Sure enough, as my parents appeared at the other end of the field, the medic said, “You were right. Your mom is walking a bit calmer than your dad.”

He also wrote about love over the years in various stories, essays, and poems. Earlier this week, my mom brought out an old briefcase of his where he had stashed much of his writing. I came across this poem, which seemed fitting. It’s called “Love Means.”

Love Means

Love means having faith in

Means having trust in

The one you love

You should know that

Love gives all today

And more tomorrow

It's self-perpetuating.

In our darker moments

Deep within our souls;

Love does not abandon

Instead

It helps us find our way

And

Love means you're no longer

An empty chasm

A hollow shell

You should know that

Love gives every moment

Gives every hour

A warm and wondrous meaning.

When you're feeling worthless

And life seems insecure;

Love steps in to tell us

Hang on - you will endure and grow

For

Love means new beginnings

Means new horizons

For brighter days

And you know that

Love gives every sunrise

Gives every sunset

A magic fascination.

When the day has ended

And words fade with the sun;

Feelings so deep and tender

Take hold - now we are one forever.

Love means having faith in

Means having trust in

The one you love

And you know that

Love gives all today

And more tomorrow

It's self-perpetuating - Love.

Besides his love of writing, and reading, there are so many other shared memories of Dad. People often recall him racing to be the first person in line for food at holidays, after trading witty comebacks with everyone there. They joke about his Scrabble games with his sister, my Aunt Therese. They know how much he loved the Cape, and taking family trips complete with mini golf, go karts, and trampolines. They can picture him sitting in his recliner watching all the Boston teams, throwing his arms up when they won and cursing their existence when they lost. They laugh at how he could win money beating people at the 100-yard dash, as long as they never challenged him to anything farther. They requested the only song he would dance to at weddings with my mom, Elvis’ “Jailhouse Rock.” They remember his faith and his presence in church every Sunday. And they share in his love of theatre, reminiscing about the years he taught drama along with English at Hoosac Valley High School.

His all-time favorite play was Thornton Wilder’s Our Town. The play focuses on the residents of Grover’s Corner, especially Emily, who we see fall in love with George. They decide to marry, and nine years later Emily dies giving birth to their second child. At the end of the funeral, Emily is given a chance to relive a day of her life. Other townspeople who have died urge her not to go, but she ignores their warnings and decides to relive her 12^th birthday. But as the memory plays out, it becomes too painful for her.

Emily: “I can’t. I can’t go on. It goes so fast. We don’t have time to look at one another. I didn’t realize. So all this was going on and we never noticed. Take me back - up the hill - to my grave. But first, wait! One more look. Good-bye, good-bye world. Good-bye to Grover’s Corners… Mama and Papa. Good-bye to clocks ticking… and Mama’s sunflowers, and food and coffee. And new-ironed dresses and hot baths… and sleeping and waking up. Oh earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you.”

But Dad saw it, felt it, realized it. He knew what was important to him and he tended to those things with great care. And he would want those he loved to do the same. To stop running and look up from our screens to count the stars, and ponder the meaning behind their beauty. To hold each other tightly, knowing it may be the last time we can do so. And to say all that needs to be said, so that we too, can lead a life of no regrets.

Don’t worry, Dad. Everyone in this room will carry on the morals and traditions you instilled in us. Please know your lessons in school, your lessons in love, your lessons in life, will carry on in the minds and hearts of everyone you touched. That’s why we all say, “love you.”

Auf Wiedersehen Vienna!

Our last day with Marina was Wednesday. She’s a physics teacher with three classes – one at the 12-year-old range, one at the 14-year-old range, and the final at 16 years old. The school where she works is called Gymnasium in the town of Zwettl. For the first two classes, all three of us sat up front and talked about what life was like in America. The 12-year-old group, which had about 20 students, was the most active and talkative. They all understood English pretty well, and were able to answer our questions effectively. The 14-year-old group, about 17 students, wasn’t that enthusiastic, which I thought was a fairly typical teenage response. They didn’t really have any questions for us, so we asked them what they liked to do, the kind of music they liked, if they played video games, etc. They didn’t say much, and I tried to remember what it was like back in junior high. Most of the time we just wanted to sit there, pass notes, and not have to participate.

For the third class, though, Marina put Cai to work. He gave a beginning lecture on quantum physics and the kind of research he does. There were 24 students in that class, and they seemed pretty focused on what Cai was saying. They didn’t ask any questions at the end, though, so Marina and I asked a couple instead. It was fun watching Cai teach, as he did that at WPI for a few years. Marina videotaped the lecture so we might be able to get a copy for anyone interested in learning about quantum physics. J

The school was pretty big in comparison to my single-floor high school, and we got a tour of the library from one of the English language teachers. They had a number of classics, like To Kill a Mockingbird and The Great Gatsby, plenty of Shakespeare of course, and a spattering of Hemingway, Steinbeck, and Twain. And of course, we noticed more religious icons - each classroom had a crucifix hanging on the wall. To be fair, they also had a picture of the Austrian president, Heinz Fischer.

For lunch we decided to hit McDonald’s, as Marina was curious as to how similar the food there was to the American version. Cai and I each got the Big Mac meal, and it really was just like back home. It figures the one burger I actually liked came from a fast food joint! 

Once school was done we drove to Gmünd where there was a nature trail that had all kinds of cool rock formations. We came across a huge picnic table, that was even a bit too big for Cai, and then a tiny picnic table that he could have crushed under his shoes. 

It looked like it might rain, so we decided to go for lunch. Once the clouds dissipated a bit we wandered around the quaint downtown. There was one church we entered that was originally built in the 1200s (that was a popular time period for Austria it seems!). The architecture was stunning, and I felt like we were back in the Middle Ages.

We said good-bye to Marina and caught the train back to Vienna to complete our public transportation cycle. The ride through the Austrian countryside was beautiful, and reminded me of some of the lush green landscapes in New England. We had dinner at the Asia House down the street from our hotel, and then crashed for the night. On Thursday, Cai had an all-day meeting with some of the physicists from the conference, so I was on my own. I went inside St. Stephen’s where there was a film crew shooting what looked like a documentary piece on the church. Then outside in the pedestrian zone I bought a few souvenirs for myself and my family.

After that I went in search of a Jesuit Church that Cai had been to with other people before I arrived. I had bought a decent street map of the city before we left, and the church was only one Metro stop away from Stephensplatz. But coming out of the station, I couldn’t tell which way to walk first. Many of the roads in Vienna veer off in jagged directions, and you can’t always see the street signs at first. So what should’ve been a five-minute walk took me over half an hour. There were also several churches within one block, and I had to check out every one to see if the sign said anything about a Jesuit church. But I finally found it and went inside.

Cai was right – it was one of the most beautiful churches I’ve ever seen. St. Stephen’s was impressive, but it was fairly dark and gloomy. The Jesuit Church was blinding, and had a number of stunning paintings on the ceiling. One was a picture of a dome that I didn’t realize at first was a painting. There was an orchestra practicing in front of the altar, so I sat there for a bit, listened to the music, and admired my surroundings. It was lovely.

Back at the hotel, I met up with Cai and we walked to a kebab place (they were everywhere in Vienna) for dinner. That night I was taking a red-eye flight back home, so I packed up my stuff and we watched shows on my laptop until I had to leave. The funny thing is, I gave myself two hours before my flight and only needed maybe 15 minutes. When I walked into the airport at 10:30 p.m. it was literally empty. I found an information sign that told me what number desk to go to for Aeroflot, and there were just two women sitting at the check-in counter. It was REALLY eerie! I don’t think I’ve ever been to an airport, no matter what time of day, that was as much of a ghost town as this one was. Although I did come across this nice picture of Charlie Hunnam, which was very comforting. :)

I found my gate right away just to make sure I knew where it was, and saw that there was no line for security either. That’s when I discovered there was nothing beyond the gate except a bathroom and a vending machine. Not far from the gate was also this set of booths where people could smoke inside the airport, which I thought looked like an exhibit or something (hey kids, check out a time when people smoked!). 

So I sat in the only open eatery there (the Johann Café) and waited until 20 minutes before my flight took off to go through security. I would guess there were about 30-40 people on the flight, so I got to lie down in my row and sleep for most of the 2 ½ hour flight to Moscow. There I had an eight-hour layover.

But the airport was old news by now, and I was an expert navigator through the International Terminal. There was a long hallway where people were sleeping on blankets and yoga mats, and a few of the closed restaurants had booths outside of them where people had set up camp. I discovered later on there was a hotel attached to the terminal where, for 50 euros, you could book six hours to hang out in a comfortable room. But I was fine catching a few ZZZs in the Burger King, which was one of the few places open where I could eat and charge my phone at the same time. As it got closer to my flight time, I found a spot on the floor next to outlets, plugged in my laptop, and worked on my book for three hours.

I was so engrossed in my book I almost didn’t notice they were announcing the boarding for my flight. I gathered up my things and rushed to the gate, only to be led to a bus on the tarmac to drive to the plane five minutes away. We all stood on the bus and waited for them to do, well, I have no idea what they were doing to the plane. We ended up leaving 20 minutes late whatever it was. And after finding my seat, I slowly realized I was surrounded by high school students. Several of them were wearing sweatshirts that said “Pilibos Class 2016.” I looked up the school when I got home and discovered it’s an Armenian school in Los Angeles.

The kids slept most of the time, but when they first got on the plane it was kind of chaotic, as they tried to sit next to their friends and negotiate deals with other students. Then as we descended, one student thought we were over Arizona and kept talking about things from that state. The other girls around her assured her we were over California, and I was privy to an enlightening half hour conversation of the differences between the two states.

Overall it was your average 12-hour flight, and it took three hours from the time I landed at LAX to go through customs, get my bag, take a shuttle to our car in long-term parking, and make it home. Cai was supposed to come in a couple hours after me, but he missed his connecting flight in Frankfurt and had to stay in Germany for the night. Thankfully the same-time flight came in on Saturday, and I picked him up from the airport with no problems. We’re still not back to our regular late-night sleep schedule, but it might be a good thing to be awake for more daytime hours. All in all, it was a wonderful trip in an amazing country.