Bertha, Eddie and My Brother

Today my iPod was cued to ‘random’ when Los Lobos’ version of Bertha caught my ears by surprise. It was from that moment and song that this recollection showed up.

My brother and his friend Eddie loved the Grateful Dead and in the early 80’s when the Dead where playing a run of shows at Brenden Byrne Arena in the Meadowlands they had tickets. Each night the preshow parking lot was filled with Dead Heads, gypsies, fans and over night entrepreneurs from East Rutherford cashing in on the influx of The Following, making grill cheese and flipping veggie burgers. Both Eddie and my brother had been celebrating for hours, not that these two needed a parking lot full of helium balloons, pot brownies, grill cheese makers or the make shift vendor village to celebrate. They grew up in the suburbs at a time when kids roamed after and created fun. It was real life social networking and they never lacked in finding or providing it themselves. It flowed naturally within the geography of the Meadowlands infiltrating the surrounding towns and had far reaching effects on character building. And these two were characters. On a recent camping trip, they had spent all day canoeing and exploring the Delaware and all night with another famous and historic liquid, beer, which they consumed until they were toasted by the campfire. My brother was the only camper who did not sleep in a tent preferring a hammock under the stars. Around 3 am when the sky opened up and the monsoon arrived, he twisted out of the hammock, stumbled to the canoe, found his life jacket, put it on and went back to sleep in the hammock. Eddie had watched this peering out from his tent and would explain to Michael the next morning when he wondered aloud why he woke with his life jacket on. On the night of the Dead show however, once inside the arena, Eddie and my brother found their seats, way up in the balcony. So now these two, who were quite high are way up in the balcony. I felt the need to point out the obvious there. At some point after the music started they separated and soon after the Dead began to jam on Bertha. It was during the jam that Eddie heard his name being called over the microphone. Alone and believing he was being paged; he began a long spiral descent through dancing and twirling dead head women, concert folk and security from the balcony toward the lower levels of the arena. He was stopped by security but managed to keep going toward the stage insisting that his name was being called and his friend was missing.

He reached the seats on the floor of the arena just when the song was ending. It was at that moment he stopped hearing his name being called and he found my brother who had earlier meandered down into the crowd. He also found out that the lyric Jerry was singing was actually, “Bertha don’t you come around here, any more”. My brother had to explain to Eddie Moore that he wasn’t being paged he was just hearing the song as…...Bertha don’t you come around here, Eddie Moore…….

I’m sure those two shared more stories that I’ll never know. They shared friendship, the love of camping and canoeing; countless beers and ultimately they shared pancreatic cancer. When my brother was too sick to be left alone, his wife had to work and my Dad on occasion couldn’t come by, Eddie would keep him company not knowing that he too had the same disease that would be diagnosed three months after my brothers death. That’s a long sentence but it’s not my fault. The universe made it that way, not me. Within four months of each other they each left beautiful daughters who were just shy of their teenage years in this parallel universe filed with stories, forget-me–nots, Love and tears. Happy Birthday Michael. This picture is from the first time I ever saw you, when Mommy brought you home.

I’m sending Love and Light to you and Eddie and I’m going to play the Dead’s version of Bertha and dance like angels are with me ;) and all that because I may very well be a character too………

Fractured Fairy Tail

On Mother’s Day I was asked to write a tale. It was a spontaneous question following a joke about my sister’s bilingual dog and the subsequent comment that the dog is living the American Dream. So here, for Kathleen, I will document the true story of how she came to acquire the dog. This tail, oops I mean tale, may even be serendipitous. It is not tall but true and so here I begin.

Once upon a time my son Richie kept company with friends that live in a nearby neighboring town called Hawthorne. It was mid autumn and the nights were getting cold and frosty, not unlike one of the beers that he no doubt downed during his visit. It was a gathering of old friends and new and ‘twas here that he met Brandy, a girl with long blonde dreadlocks who traveled the country working at various Ren Faires. The ‘Ren’ of course is for Renaissance. In her migration from Faire to Faire her brat accompanied her and was friendly to all. Brat, of course is for Boston Rat Terrier. On this night she sought lodging at the home of her friends parents. They would not allow the dog inside for reasons unknown. I am told that as the wind howled through the Hawthorne trees and the late night half moon dimly lit the sky, my son, outside having a smoke, noticed a dog in a nearby car. And so it was that they became acquainted - my oldest brat and the brat, who had been named Beans by his Ren Faire family.

And it came to pass at some point during the visit, possibly due to alcohol intake, instant karma or by sorcery that Richie decided it would be in the best interest of the dog to be brought to our home. We have a blonde golden retriever named Jade and another animal is not an option, yet I awoke from a pleasant dream one morning to find that Beans had been brought home and hidden in the basement. It was supposed to be for one night while the traveler visited friends but lo and behold by dinner it was decreed that she could no longer take Beans with her from Faire to Faire. I was informed of this change of plans and asked if I knew of anyone who wanted a well-behaved puppy. I immediately replied, “Ask Aunt Kathy, last weekend she mentioned she was thinking about getting a dog.” And indeed, just a week earlier she had told me that she was thinking it would be nice to have a dog, almost as if she let the universe know.

Richie called my sister and then the two brats disappeared quickly out the front door just as my husband arrived home through the back door. Later that evening Richie arrived home without Beans letting me know that Aunt Kathy had taken to the dog and he would stay there a night or two on a trial basis.

Beans was extremely well behaved in his new home during the first week. My sister was pleased and all appeared well in the realm of Midwood Avenue in Glen Rock, outside of the fact that Beans was not particularly fond of her husband. Beans was now taking center stage in Kathy’s world with fancy dog beds, dishes and toys appearing as if by wizardry in each room. Soon however it became evident that Beans may have had a stomach problem. He would occasionally get sick and throw up. At first it was thought that he was getting acclimated to new surroundings however it persisted. Some days it was here, there and everywhere. When he threw up on Kathy’s bed pillow in the middle of the night Beans was promptly brought to the vet who declared him to be approximately 8 years old. In trying to obtain the records from his previous owner it was discovered that she adopted him from Petco. He had been abandoned as a puppy and found with a pack of wild dogs roaming the streets of Detroit. Brandy, the Ren Faire previous owner, told my now frantic sister over the phone, that he had received shots but all his records were in a storage unit in Kansas or Wisconsin, she couldn’t remember which. The vet diagnosed him with Pancreatitus or a sensitive stomach which is about as distant a diagnosis as Kansas is to Wisconsin. He then charged my sister $3000 for testing and treatment. My sister promptly looked into health insurance and enrolled the dog.

Beans is very sweet, good-natured and a bit underweight. He now roams the streets of Glen Rock on a expensive leash, sleeps in a king size bed, dines on boiled chicken and rice that my sister cooks specially for him. Or should I say arroz con pollo. My sister’s friend has been speaking to him in Spanish and he appears to understand even though it’s spoken with an East Rutherford accent. Maybe he picked up the Spanish traveling the streets of Detroit or maybe during his days with the migratory Ren Faire gypsies. All I know is if this dog could talk he would have some story to tell only I wonder if he’d be speaking in Spanish or English? Either way I’m sure he’s found his Happily ever after in my sister, the Queen of his castle in the Glen.

Altared View~A Kaleidoscope of Spirit

At high noon today I went to Mass at Saint Paul’s Church in Ramsey. The architecture of St. Paul’s differs from most Roman Catholic Churches because it is not traditional. Instead of a building shaped as a cross where most of the congregation looks straight ahead to the altar, it is crescent moon shaped, almost circular with the altar in the center. Because of this unique form, in any chosen seat, much of the church, the parishioners and the stained glass windows are visible and people face each other as they look toward the altar. It is always the stained glass that calls my attention as the colors filter the sun and soften the room radiating the richness of faith. I noticed that the windows high above the altar, though smaller, today were truly different. The wind blowing outside must have been catching the treetops making the leaves move, which played with the light, shading the colors and creating constant change. I began to think that all over the world there are churches with stained glass windows. I wondered if God looked in on us at moments when people were in prayer. All over earth, each one of these Houses of the Holy filled with Spirit in various incarnations, colorful, changing, an intricate design held in his hand while looking in through the window…God’s own Kaleidoscope of Spirit, a constantly changing pattern. It made me smile and wish for a kaleidoscope of my own.

The image above is from the Union Church of Pocantico Hills. It is the largest of the nine stained glass windows by Marc Chagall commissioned by the Rockefeller Family and shares the space with a Rose Window created by Henri Matisse. Higher callings inspire the creation of such works of art but higher knowledge may be in that they elevate Spirit having far reaching effects on people and prayer. Stepping into that sacred space may be like creating a battery-powered kaleidoscope with ones energy……And again I smile remembering my Summer visit to the Church in Pocantico Hills and wishing to return.

Postcards from the Future

My brother planted sunflowers

Evergreen, daises, forget-me-nots too

He shared the seeds, igniting the world

With vibrant, subtle, changing hues

In the backyard garden of home

And a tree farm far away

The same breeze that whispers love

Arrives but not to stay

Fueled with the same mischief

That dances in the stars

My brother planted sunflowers

In a meadow forever blue

Like an evergreen he was rooted

With courage to grow and go

His star sight reached beyond the field

Where all the flowers grow

So in the Spring reminders bloom

Of love so strong and true

Sunflowers, evergreens, daises

And always forget-me-nots too

I wrote this last November while I was cooking dinner. The words just came to me rhythmically; reminiscent of a chant you’d jump rope to some long ago summer. A bouquet of sunflowers on the counter nearby, a flower my brother loved, may have been the catalyst for the poetry. I never dreamed I’d be invited nine months later to visit the farm Michael worked on in his early twenties. Through the kindness of two childhood friends who I connected with on face book, I was invited to see the farm and creek on a recent trip to Cooperstown. Evergreens are abundantly growing in the adjacent field and on the walk down to the creek. It was Ann Maries comment that my brother planted them that reminded and enlightened me. I was so in awe being in a place that was legendary to my family that I forgot the most obvious, he was there to plant trees. In the background of Steven’s smile is a row of White Pines, the tree the Iroquois Nation called the Tree of Peace. Planted by my brother as little seedlings, they now towered over us, majestic in the sun filled landscape, bringing peace to my heart. Thank You Ann Marie, Tim and Bonnie for your thoughtfulness and good medicine. It meant more to me than I can convey in words…

Another postscript is one I find typical of my brother and my interactions. Michael called me up one day to come by and take home some flowers he had for me. When I arrived, in my new car, I was really annoyed to find 4 huge muddy flats of what looked like weeds for me to bring home and plant. I brought them home and it took me all week to plant them, still angry at what appeared to be an endless pack of weeds. He called several times during the week to ask if I’d finished which made me feel obligated to plant them all. I ran out of sunspace so put a lot in the wooded way back of the back yard just to get them in the ground. The following Spring he was gone and the flowers forgotten until two years later when I walked in the way back early one May morning to see what needed to be gardened and instead found a virtual field of forget-me-nots that had reseeded and now grew everywhere.

I believe his insistence on giving me the flowers and my poetic scribbling was nothing more than postcards from the future, postmarked with Serendipity.

LONDON CALLING

My phone rang repeatedly while I was in the shower. It rang again soon after I got out and I answered to a familiar voice saying Hello. It was the Band Director calling from London. It was the day before my son Eric was to return from a weeklong trip with the High School Marching and Jazz Band. Two conversations immediately began. One dialogue was internal and one was external, requiring control. I knew something was very wrong. As he spoke the Mommy alarm began to go off in my head while my mind was running rampant through an inner list of things. What went wrong was not on the list though. I thought illness, accident, drinking, smoking, partying…….The Director was saying missing. My son was missing. He had turned the corner with a group of ten and then he was gone. I immediately recognized that missing meant “can’t find him” companion phrase of, “don’t know what happened.” It was different from Lost. I wanted Lost. Lost belongs with Found. There are Lost and Founds all over the world in schools, workplaces, libraries, etc……Lost includes the hope that sooner or later the partner Found will arrive and Reclaim can take place. It’s a Holy Trinity of universal energy. My son was missing and it happened in a flash. The Director wanted me to know should Eric call home I could reach back to the group, from Ramsey, with Eric’s location. I hung up shaking like a leaf on an oak tree when the November wind blows and the leaf is frightened about where she will land. Just like the leaf must wonder what happened to the warm summer sun, I wondered what happened to my son. Shaking and feeling helpless as well I heard my husband come home and I went down to the kitchen to tell him. He too was so upset that I had to leave the room. It was my own need for damage control. Confusion and fear had filled up the kitchen and it was a recipe of unknown outcome. I needed to walk away, light a candle and say a prayer. Saint Anthony is invoked for all things missing, lost or in need. I lit the candle with a match that sparked all over my bedroom. I begged him to see the light in my darkness and answer my call to find my son, my sun…..an incomprehensible hour went by and the phone rang again to let me know he had walked into a hotel in London and that they were going to pick him up. He had been lost and was now found…. I could only thank his guardian angel, St Anthony and the Band Director for this happy ending. The echo though, from London Calling, has left me to carry a tiny teardrop of the understanding of the nightmare when someone becomes missing, not lost. Even now I still reel from the clash.