Why do people think X year was awful and they are glad it's over, as if the next year is guaranteed to be better? No question some years are pretty bad, but the sentiment I just described is crazy. Having the calendar change does not mean things will be rosy; that's just wishing your life away. I thought it was silly when 2020 ended how many people thought 2021 was going to be great (because of the pandemic being "over"), and then it wasn't at all. 2022 wasn't awesome by any means but I doubt 2023 will be wonderful either. That's just the way life is, it's good and it's bad. Bob says, "none of us are getting out of here alive."

There is only one other time in my life, 61 years, that I can remember not spending Christmas Day with my father.

I had a student this past semester who is a big PIA. He took a class with me a year or two ago and did nothing, resulting in failure. He contacted me toward the end of that semester to see what he could do, and I responded with suggestions and offers to accept late papers, but he vanished and submitted nothing. He badgered me afterwards, once he saw the failing grade, making excuses, demanding special treatment. I was shocked to see his name on my roster this Fall, but figured maybe his past behavior was pandemic-driven, and he'd gotten his act together. The answer is, he hasn't. He's an entitled little a-hole. The ugly truth is that grade inflation is real. This jerk should have gotten no more than B, really barely deserved a C, but I curved his grade to B+ -- because I want no whiny emails. Guess what? He has spent the past several days peppering me with pushy, obnoxious emails, demanding explanations, telling sob stories and lies. Ingrate. I have many wonderful students every semester, but sadly, the ones like this guy take enormous time and often overshadow the bright lights.

I am going to make a few posts before the end of the month because I want to exceed the number of entries I made in 2021 (52). I have nothing much to write, except that I miss my father! I don't share memes on Facebook about it because I don't want to get responses like "he's always with you." People mean well of course but I dislike sappy, trite remarks. I know he's in my heart and memory. I know he's got a spiritual life. But I want him in Samsonville, in his chair watching food programs on television. I want him in his garage soldering something. I want him riding his lawn tractor. I want him sitting on the porch with his dogs. I want him at the dinner table devouring linguini. A meme I especially cannot stand has to do with "no more tomorrows." I don't want to think of him having no more tomorrows. Bob dismisses my attitude about the "no more tomorrows" meme by joking that it's like the ridiculous "thank a soldier" Reader's Digest poem that's always read on Memorial Day. He makes up hilarious lines like "if you didn't get sick, don't thank your mask, thank a soldier." (His are better.)

I am overhearing the news playing downstairs and there is an anchor I detest. Her irritating voice is like nails on a chalkboard. I hope she finds a job somewhere else and moves away. (Like that obnoxious, conceited nut Kari Lake did.)

This is not a very cheery post!

I finished grades today. Yay! 

We put this on my father's grave on Saturday.

The a-hole Florida governor is going to try to get a grand jury to investigate the vaccine? He must have watched that recent "documentary" (Died Suddenly). LOL. I found it on some sketchy app and we watched it. I oppose censorship and don't see a problem with it being easily available on "respectable" platforms. (The best way to fight conspiracy theorist, unsubstantiated, nutjob speech is intelligent speech, not censorship.) What an unethical, conceited moron the FL guy is. I think he would do anything -- like declare he's God (he already did) or sell his kids -- to court the ignorant vote.

 We recently watched a two-part Netflix documentary about the Iran hostage crisis. It was good, almost riveting, although I'm not sure anyone who doesn't remember the crisis (and possibly students of 20th Century history) would find it interesting. I've been unable to figure out why it was made now. There doesn't seem to be any book coming out or anything. The program argues that the crisis and bungled rescue attempt are the reasons Carter was not re-elected to a second term. I disagree. No question the hostage crisis was a big part of the reason, but there were many others: the stupid decision to not go to the Olympics and the horrible economy -- to name just two.

I got a bizarre Facebook note last night -- having to do with Donna, since it would have been her 61st birthday. Freaked me out.

Three subjects today. First, on Saturday night, I had a dream that included my father. It was brief, just a glimpse. I think it happened because I was concerned that my mother would decide not to come to a family event the next day. In the dream, my father attended a gathering (not sure what it was), and she did not. (I'm relieved to report that she did attend the event the next day.)

Second, last night I watched the former president's announcement. I almost never watched him (except during COVID-19 briefings) when he was in office or during either campaign, but I was curious. I'd forgotten what a poor speaker he is, so vague, rambling and imprecise. The idiots who worship him eat it up though. It speaks to their ignorance. Seriously, the quality of our political candidates and elected officials is appalling. The media is not much better. ABC and CBS had a split screen with a pundit blabbing while the speech was going on. Why did they broadcast it at all? (NBC didn't.) They really believe viewers need a commentator to interpret? I had to watch on a local Miami station to be able to listen myself.

Third: This is shameful. I hardly know what else to write. I am embarrassed.

 Last night I had a dream with Howie in it! He died 27 years ago. It's odd I had this dream on the 23rd anniversary of Penny's death (November 2). She wasn't in it, another strange thing since they were inseparable. It was so good to see Howie again. He looked great, adorable as always. He did not seem to be as old as he was when he died, although in the dream, he was having some minor health issue. Mostly he was sleeping next to me -- which is indeed what he always did.

 

This is Esteyvin's latest picture, the boy I sponsor on Unbound. He's now 12. I'm thrilled that he has a dog!

This was posted on a community page in Facebook because she lived in Olivebridge. I'm going to make an assumption she was a weekend resident, or perhaps she became year-round once the pandemic hit and remote work became common. I didn't know her, and I say RIP, but I did see the movie, which I absolutely despised. I love Meryl Streep, and her part was slightly more palatable, but I wouldn't call it her finest role. Otherwise, the story was dreadful, the main character was annoying and not a bit likeable, and I remember wishing I'd stopped watching after ten minutes rather than suffering through it. After I read the linked story, it reminded me of something I hated about the film: the usual fawning glorification of privileged people and their self-indulgent problems by Hollywood and publications such as the NYT and New Yorker, while simultaneously phony hand-wringing over social justice, equity, poverty, etc. Makes me want to puke.

 I had another dream last night that featured my father. We were at the white house -- not "the" White House, the house where we lived for about 10 years of my childhood and teenage years. It was a large whit 1960s Colonial. The family who owns it now has extensively renovated it, hosts an open house around the holidays and my family is invited. I have never attended, and I'm not sure if we were visiting them, but besides my father, many family members were present and it wasn't our house. The fireplace was a focal point, because the suggestion was that the letter "G" painted on it could not be removed. My father was proud of his name and initials, and always branded thing with that "G." (I don't know if it's true that it could not be removed, I suspect muriatic acid would do the trick.) There was a display of items we had left behind. One was some kind of patriotic / military thing. Later, my father was walking alone in the front yard of that house, wearing a formal short-sleeved shirt and bolo tie. His hair was white. He looked thoughtful or perhaps preoccupied, and my distinct impression was that right then, he was sad.

I am tired of non-stop political ads on television. I am pissed that I was gerrymandered into the district of a member of the house of representatives who I can't stand. I filled out my absentee ballot and mailed it yesterday. I am never voting in person again. I will skip voting if I have to go to a polling place. I mourn the old machines and hate coloring in the form while poll watchers spy on me. I will only do it in the privacy of my home.

On Wednesday, I got the COVID-19 Omicron variant specific booster. The pharmacy was screwed up and thought I was getting a flu shot. Every time I have gotten the vaccine, I have had to fill out papers at home, and then the same forms on premises. The incompetence everywhere is astonishing. As I suspected, I reacted to the shot again and felt awful yesterday. It wasn't as bad as shot #2 in the original series, but it was not pleasant.

I have been very focused on getting everything graded so that I can get the omicron variant booster and risk being sick for a day afterwards. I've scheduled it for Wednesday. I have class on Thursday but I have a set up so I can work in the living room that day. I have no plans to be productive, just need to be on Zoom for 90 minutes!

 

My father died nine months ago today. The veteran's plaque I ordered for him came yesterday. I'm pleased they allowed the name he used, rather than the name the army gave him in 1945. It is gorgeous, but hard to contemplate. It seems unbelievable. Sometimes the feeling in my chest makes it hard to breathe. I miss him so much.

I didn't mention it here before this, but last week or so, I had a dream that had Gary and Bob's grandmother in it. It was at some sort of facility, I was instructing Gary about Grandma's needs, and he was taking it all very seriously. His appearance was normal; he was not ill. 

Then, the past two nights were filled with vivid dreams: Thursday night, I had two dreams in a row that were unrelated. The first was about dogs. We had a bunch (many more than three). It wasn't a bad dream, but it was chaotic. LOL. I guess that's life with a bunch of dogs. Maybe mine were barking while I slept, and that's what inspired it. IDK. 

The second was about Mimmie! I don't recall dreaming about her in a long time, even though I think of her often. At first, I knew it was her, but the woman did not look or seem at all like her physically. Then she suddenly changed into actual Mimmie - the way she lives in my memory, house dress and all. I was sitting at a table across from her, and my niece Anna was sitting next to me (as an adult). The setting was Mimmie's kitchen at her trailer, except the trailer was more of a double-wide. The decor was just like the trailer, '70s/'80s. 

Last night, I dreamed of my father again. He looked great, like himself. He was sitting in his living room watching television. I was so pleased, because I knew he'd been sick, had surgery, didn't care about TV any more - and there he was, in good spirits, seeming fine, happily watching it. 

I feel as if I am glimpsing "the other side" with all these dreams featuring animals and people who have passed on. I have always occasionally had dreams like this, but since my father died it has increased, and very recently it is almost nonstop.

 Tuesday is a LONG day. I have both an afternoon class and a night class. I always teach a night class during the spring semester, on Thursday nights, but for several years, it has been a graduate class. This semester, I have an undergraduate class on Tuesday evenings. Fortunately, the quality of the students is pretty high, but the class is new to me and enrollment is pretty large (30). It has been going OK so far, but last night, I was totally fried when it was over. This is the second time that has happened this fall. The content of the class was draining. This used to happen to me sometimes after my night class when I taught on campus, pre-COVID-19, but it has been a long time since I felt this way. It sort of has flowed into today as well. I think I need a break to recharge, but unfortunately, that ain't happening.

Again last night, I had a dream featuring my father. He was younger in this one; his hair was black. Looked good, but not totally like himself (he had glasses with heavy dark frames that he would never wear). I knew he was well and that made me happy, but there was something weird: He couldn't speak at all! He had a laptop with what seemed to be a Tractor Supply ad on the screen, and he was pointing to various pieces of equipment that were pictured (such as lawn tractors) and even kissing the images!

On Sunday, I visited the cemetery for the first time since his service on January 13. I miss him so much and was apprehensive about how I would feel. But it was not as hard as I envisioned. I have worse episodes looking at his picture or just thinking about him. His grave site looks good, the monument company already carved the date in his stone, Bob planted daffodils, and I was glad I went.

 A few nights ago I again saw my father in a dream. He was sitting in a booth at a restaurant, talking with great animation, telling stories. He looked great. There were others I knew around, even sitting with him, but I cannot specifically identify them. It seemed to be some sort of event -- maybe an after-funeral gathering? Perhaps his own! IDK. We, I mean me, the others I cannot now ID and he, seemed to be aware he had died, but were all thrilled he was there.

I read a story this morning from NPR about the creepy FL governor flying migrants from San Antonio to Martha's vineyard. It seems odd to use FL taxpayer's funds for this effort -- but his idiot supporters apparently don't care if he wastes their money on his self-promotion (at least according to my FB feed -- ugh more un-following). That's the reason for it, of course -- he was alarmed by the attention the TX a-hole was getting. I call him an a-hole, but at least his actions are understandable - calling attention to an issue his state actually has to routinely address. The FL idiot is doing it only to be nasty and siphon off some of the TX media attention. MA has a GOP governor. Maybe he's too stupid to know that. Well, I say, send 'em North. Too bad Kevin Spacey crashed and burned as a pedophile during #metoo -- he could have played the FL reptile just perfectly.

I submitted this through "Give Feedback" on Facebook, as requested by the page owner on video. Will it help? IDK. When I reported a violation (animal abuser's fund drive), it worked.

I write regarding Steve Caporizzo Pet Connection. Recently his page has been in Facebook jail. I assume a vindictive, jealous person filed a baseless complaint, but I know some people believe an automatic bot is responsible. Regardless, this is unjust. Steve is a local TV weatherman in Albany, NY. He has been active in the animal rights arena for decades. In 1995, long before social media, I adopted a heaven-sent puppy from the Mohawk Hudson Humane Society who was on Steve's pet connection television segment on the news. A year ago, I adopted an eleven year old cat who was on Steve's Facebook site who needed to be re-homed. He is a wonderful cat and without Steve I would not have him and who knows what would have happened to him. Steve is an outstanding advocate for animals and his page does not promote selling animals. He is saving scores of pets by helping to make forever matches -- good new homes. Please don't put him in Facebook jail again. In my experience, some people on the internet can be nasty toward honorable people for no reason, maybe they think it is funny to make trouble, or occasionally animal abusers lash out at people with a big platform like Steve's to silence kind and influential voices. Thank you.

 First classes yesterday were pretty good, except during my afternoon class (on Zoom), my cell phone rang (which I keep nearby to watch the time) and I turned it off. I noticed quickly that the number was 845 area code and I thought I'd call them back after class. Moments later, my house phone started ringing. A couple months ago, we had to upgrade to Verizon home phone, and now a computer voice says the number (and if it is spam, which is awesome). The voice said "845-657 (rest of number)." In my distracted state, I thought I heard a familiar number that I HAD to answer. 

 I apologized to the students, turned off the mic, answered the phone, and the caller wasn't who I expected. It was someone getting out the vote with a number very similar to a family member's. The caller must have phoned the Samsonville house, gotten my Castleton number and my cell phone number (which are on the message) -- and proceeded to call both! Problem is, I am not registered to vote in Olive, but what irritated me (besides the interruption) was that the person got huffy and argued with me about whose number it was (I have had the Samsonville number for over 20 years) and where I live! When I got back on Zoom, I was not focused. Thankfully class was almost over. 

I shared this on Facebook, and the response was all about robo-calls. I get too many of those too, and it is an outrage. But that wasn't what this was -- this was a persistent very rude real person with a number almost like my brother's. I didn't want to put that on Facebook because I think I know who the woman is and some of my HS friends would know as well.

Two nights ago I had two dreams. The first featured my in-laws. I didn't see my father-in-law, but knew he was there. My mother-in-law was a stronger presence, and she was laughing, which is appropriate, because she always did. They were sitting on a couch somewhere, watching television. Bob was going in and out of the room. The program they were watching was a documentary we'd watched the night before, "My name is Lopez."

The second dream took place outside, with a large field on one side, and on the other, down a small steep hill, an open space surrounded by evergreen trees. My father and some others were there, although I'm not completely sure who the others were; they could have been my brothers, but as with my FIL, it wasn't a strong impression. There was light, patchy snow on the ground, and my father was dressed for winter. The group was looking at a utility truck, something like a delivery truck such as the Kwik Kanteen. My father was talking, loudly, strong voice. He turned and walked up the little hill, and I thought, does he need help? Should I get a cane? But he didn't seem to need it.

 The semester starts Monday. My first class is Tuesday.😢

I am so annoyed by the latest CDC guidance. Obviously they are driven by political motivation. After hearing the confusing information reported on the news, the next day's story walked it back a little. Still, way to go, empowering idiots. I know more people getting COVID than ever before. Granted none have died but who wants to get sick? I am continuing as I was, staying away from people, eating outside, masking. Someone called Bob a weirdo for wearing a mask in a convenience store a few weeks ago. Lovely. Better a weirdo than a cretin. Jerk.

The night before last, I had another dream featuring my father. This dream wasn't very long. I had several get well cards and I was trying to decide which one to give him. He was in bed, in some sort of facility with the same "flavor" as the train or bus station Sophie and I were in last week. When I saw him, he was talking -- loudly, fluently just like before the tumor re-growth. I was amazed and kept asking people why no one told me he'd recovered.

 I've wanted to write here several times since my last post a few weeks ago, but there is never any time. Sometimes I feel sorry for myself because it's almost impossible to get a couple hours off, much less a day off. I think it is more obvious to me now that Bob has retired. I have chosen the academic schedule, I have chosen to teach in the summer, I have chosen the position I have, and unfortunately, it is adjunct. I can hear my father saying, "it's not a bad way to make a living."

One thing I never shared here was his last visit. On July 3 I dreamed that we were standing at the sink in his kitchen. There were two small coffee makers on the counter. One was the Black & Decker Brew and go that he and my mother have been using for a few years; the other was another single cup coffee maker like Gevalia. He was telling me in great detail why he wanted me to return the Gevalia. It was so realistic!

Last week, another letter from hospice came. It upsets me when I receive a letter from them. Not that it reminds me that daddy died. It is the first thing I think of every morning. I miss him so much. On the 10th, it was seven months that he's been gone. As I prepare my syllabi for the looming semester, I tick off the dates, months, semesters, looking forward, looking back, and this upset me. For instance: A year ago he was alive. Three years ago, he was fine. In two months, on October 10, it will be nine months.

A couple of nights ago, I had a long dream about Sophie! I do think of her often, but she died over 10 years ago, so it was a surprise. The former dean from several years ago was in it too, which was odd. It took place in a train station or airport or someplace like that. It was a good dream -- wonderful to see Sophalina, I am left with a clear image of those huge paws - but so strange!

 Increasing numbers with new sub-variant has not led to a return to restrictions and without government mandates, people act like idiots. The governor has no will, and is making a foolish decision because of idiots. Her opponent is running a scam. I think his alleged attack was staged. All of it makes me sick.

I was so irritated by the news last night. First, this is a petty, minor thing, but what is up with the anchor's eyebrows? Did he slip with a razor and now has to pencil them in with a sharpie? Seriously dude, you look like an ahole. Second, there was a story about an unemployment surcharge to business owners because of a loan the state labor department got from the feds due to covid. It was entirely to work up a controversy, because the business owners interviewed didn't notice it until contacted by the reporter. I would love to pose a question, especially since the repetitious stories about unemployment claims taking forever have been a nonstop, annoying whine. Who should pay for the loan, if not the business owners? Didn't they benefit, keeping their employees going during the "pause" so they would have staff when they reopened? Should I pay? Or maybe a minimum wage clerk? Or perhaps an old lady on social security? Oh I know - why doesn't the reporter make a contribution, since he is so eager to pass around a crying towel.

Last night we ate at the Point in Albany, outside of course. We get GrubHub regularly and it has preserved our sanity during the pandemic. We have dined at a restaurant many times a week for 40+ years. That came crashing to a halt when COVID arrived. Since then we have eaten outside in good weather, but not routinely, mostly because places with outside dining aren't numerous enough (better than pre-2020 though), and since restrictions were lifted, many servers and patrons don't wear masks. I never much liked sitting outside, but that had to change. It was a nice evening. After dinner we got soft ice cream. Bob was talking about the hard shell dipped chocolate for cones and asked me if I knew what he meant. I said, "did you forget I was born in a soft ice cream stand?" (Not really, but besides dolls singing "It's a small world" at the World's Fair, it is the setting for my earliest memories, both the construction when I got my first bee sting so my father plunged my hand in the wheel barrow of cement mix, and the business itself; looking up at the ice cream machine lever which was above my head, catching a teenager stealing chips, watching my father make ice cream sandwiches with the day's leftovers.) The place we went to last night has a building just like Dino's Kwik Stop, except that Lickity Split has no indoor area for customers. These are happy memories, but sitting in the car eating my cone, thinking about my father, I felt sad. He's been gone six months this week. How can that be true? I wonder when getting soft ice cream will make me feel happy instead of sad? Something tells me "never" and truthfully, I'm OK with that.

 You'd have to be dead in the USA to not have heard of the recent mass shootings and Supreme Court decision re: Roe v. Wade. I am not a news junkie but the stories are endless. I'm pleased and hopeful about the bipartisan bill re: guns. Even if it is minimal and motivated by self-interest -- it is a good thing. The choice/life issue is the opposite. It so perfectly illustrates the division and closed mindedness of our culture right now that it makes me sick. When I taught toleration I would discuss with students the need for tolerance and how to achieve compromise. Respect is the first step. Language demonstrates this -- the poles on the issue label it anti and pro-abortion, when it should be pro-life and pro-choice, the terms that supporters of each side prefer. The media is a big part of the problem. I've had to un-follow a bunch of Facebook "friends" to spare myself the vitriol. Sharing memes is not advocacy.

 Five months.😭😭😭

On Facebook today, a friend shared a post "Written by the mom of [name deleted by me] one of the Uvalde victims." It didn't pass the sniff test because of this: "Was she practicing writing GIRAFFE the moment he walked in her classroom, barricaded the door and opened fire? She keeps forgetting the silent “e” at the end.  We studied this past weekend, and now she doesn’t need to take the spelling test on Friday." I remember it was reported that Thursday of the week of the Tuesday shooting would have been the last day of school. So either the lengthy copied and pasted post is mis-attributed and has nothing to do with Uvalde, or news reports were wrong, and Thursday was not the last day of school. 

I googled, and I was correct; the post was not written by the mom of one of the Uvalde victims. I did not bother to comment on my friend's post, because I perceive her to be a person who would be pissed at the correction. I suspect this Facebook "friend" is in the "fake but true" camp. She'd think the correction means I'm a gun nut, which I am not. She got 23 thank yous and how powerfuls and hearbreakings and someone should send this to congress comments. That was the intent of the original writer, to go viral, even if it meant taking advantage of victims of tragedy. This type of meme is known as "glurge."

It really irritates me that people don't discern fake posts and resist sharing when it is something seductive that agrees with their POV. That is why elected officials want to regulate social media, or at least it gives them justification to stifle dissent and the voice of the common person.

 Added: Snopes link 

We went out to eat on Monday for the first time since last year. We sat outside at the Hillsdale House. It was a little chilly, but not bad. The food was amazing!

The story of the week, at least as of today, if you ignore the latest celebrity gossip, is another school shooting, this time in Texas again. I'm not numb to it and I do care, but the regular media and social media hand-wringing that this has to stop, we need to do something and snarky remark that thoughts & prayers aren't enough irritate me. What exactly am I able to do? I asked a Facebook friend when she posted the usual meme on the subject: "what makes an 18-year-old so angry?" It was just a rhetorical question, but after a couple responses were about it being a complex issue involving guns and mental health and bullying and COVID and aliens with yellow shirts (being sarcastic) I was sorry I commented. I usually resist. I didn't write "duh," which is what I thought. But I really do wonder why 18-year olds are so angry.

Another wonderful night of sleeping! Temperature was just right for blankets. I again had a dream that featured my father! It was not a long dream, but it was more than a glimpse. It was totally normal. He was walking and talking and instructing Bob and I about buying cat food to deliver to needy old people who had cats. We were scrambling to find premium brands instead of shrink-wrapped four packs of crummy varieties. Somehow we were on a deck and in the store simultaneously?

Just now I spoke to my mother on the phone and she told me she cooked something good and ate it for two nights. It was chicken breast, spices, stewed tomatoes, tomato sauce, macaroni shells and Parmesan cheese. In the past she might have fussed about preferring potatoes and baked beans over pasta and sauce, and she definitely would not have had that for dinner two nights in a row. I thought how much my father would have loved her creation, and he would have insisted on having it for lunch and dinner until it was gone.

Getting grades finished this semester was more challenging than it has been in years. There were three causes. Every weekend in Samsonville is quite difficult. That's been the case for two years, so it's not really "new." Second, the university (not sure who, but "administration" who controls calendar) appears to take pleasure in adding stress to faculty. This has been going on for a couple of years as well, but each semester there is a new wrinkle. This year, it was the absurd deadline of graduation weekend. Finally, it's typical to have a few needy, procrastinating students, but this semester there seemed to be more. I finished at 10 pm last night. That's the closest I've come to missing the deadline since the year I caught five students cheating. That must be almost 20 years ago.

Last night our former neighbor, the man who sold us our house, died from ALS. Another giant in this community is gone. On Friday I didn't take the time away from grading to note that Donna died seven years ago. I could have dashed off a quick Facebook post with a picture, but I didn't. I have stopped remembering her anniversaries and milestones on social media because I don't want condolences, thoughts or prayers. I also don't want to be compelled by such comments to respond, because the sentiment I feel would not be understood by more than a few. "It's complicated" sums it up but that's so trite. So I've decided it is better to write nothing.

A woman I served on the Village board with and have known for nearly 30 years died on April 30. She was 87, and was her family matriarch, a person who was very committed to service. She was smart and funny and the entire community will mourn this big loss. Then today at the end of semester faculty meeting, a professor revealed that he has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Really cast a pall over the meeting, which usually is a blend of apathetic boredom and contentious prickly.

Florida governor + Disney battle: hahahaha. I can't stand DeSantis or Disney so this conflict is quite amusing!!!

 One more class next week and the semester is over. Grades are due May 15.

I had a wonderful night of sleep two nights ago. It was cold and that helped. I had a dream with my father in it again. It was two glimpses, just brief snippets. In the second snippet we were watching some Chevy Chase or Bill Murray comedy -- can't remember which -- also not an actual movie, an imaginary one. He was enjoying it, but after a while he stood up and said "I'm going to bed." I responded "it isn't even up to the good part yet" but it didn't make any difference.

Last night was cold again, and I slept horribly. So much for the temperature theory! My mother got a second stent today and it was on my mind. It went fine and she's already home.

Gary would be 59 tomorrow.

Full disclosure: I have been annoyed about the university's mascot change to a cropped-ear, mean-looking Dane, and as a result I have not donated since the image was revealed. I'm not a sports enthusiast, but I would be outraged by this even if I was a fan AND did not care about animal cruelty. What a weasel response - playing the victim. Ever heard of taking responsibility? I agree with this completely. Bravo. Ever hear of transparency and accountability? Last post I mentioned my trials with a class this semester. Part of the reason is a student associated with this team who has done nothing in class and blew it off presentation day. Student had zero involvement with this scandal AFAIK, but I wonder if it has something to do with the slacker behavior? I don't know because student is MIA. It's certainly no excuse, but regardless, it makes me even more pissed off. /end rant

14 weeks.😢

April 13 would have been my father's 95th birthday. When things were "normal" (whatever that means), we'd have had a gathering to celebrate another milestone year. Instead, my mother was in the hospital from heart issues (she had a stent put in on Thursday). 

My father was a demonstrative person. Today I was remembering that for the past couple years, he would take my hand and put it to his cheek and then kiss it whenever I arrived or left. He did that to anyone who would permit it. It's a very dear memory.

The weather has remained cold and today feels especially "Marchy." That's what Elwyn would write in his diary about days like today. Such a wonderful image, I don't think I need to explain.

I have started to read the second book in Moody's Life After Life trilogy. I think I may have read it before. I am fairly sure I have never read the third book in the trilogy, which I will read next. 

The semester will soon be over and this semester it's my graduate class that is trying my patience. They are all adept at google and searching so I can't share more, but it is very irritating and stressful.

4.5 weeks ago I drastically changed my diet. No sugar (I am an addict), no simple carbs (not too bad except for sweets), and somewhat unintentionally, I cut down on dairy, but didn't eliminate it. I've been 98% compliant, even yesterday on Easter. It wasn't making a difference in how I felt until recently, and I think I do feel somewhat better. I didn't do it for this reason, but I have lost about 10 pounds.

 I had an amazing dream last night. My father was in it. He was old, looked about like he did for the past 10 years or so. He could walk and talk and make things! We were at a house, in a big, roomy, bright kitchen. A one car garage was off the kitchen, and some delivery men were unloading supplies, because the house needed some modifications. I am not sure whether the house was his or mine or someone else's.  My mother was there, as was Bob, for at least part of the dream. We knew my father had died, but he was back. He was sitting at a bar in the kitchen. My mother was taping Christmas cards to the wall near the bar. She already had a lot up, but after my father died, she received a lot more, and now that he was back, she was adding them to the display. A boy came over to work with him on Halloween decorations. They were working on a big cardboard box that was kind of like a coffin. In the dream i didn't specifically identify the boy, but after I woke up I thought it might have been a nice kid who was in the first year of our faith formation class in 2012-13 that another boy in class picked on. A friend of Bob's and mine that we have not seen in a few years was coming over for dinner, and my father finished the decorations and said he had to get dressed. Our friend came, and when he was in the bathroom my father grilled me about what he did for a living, whether he was on drugs and said he thought the friend was strange. LOL! It was such a wonderful, realistic dream.

Twenty-nine years ago, on April 5, 1993, Mimmie died. I think of her often, daily in fact. But since I'm currently reading a book we extensively discussed when it was first published, she is on my mind even more than usual. I remember her telling me that she would think about her employers, the Kearneys, at night when she was in bed. They had died in 1970 from murder/suicide. She would envision their faces in the dark, not their entire bodies, just their heads. For some reason we both found that funny, and we laughed.

It's April. Weather is still fairly cold, but it hardly matters. I knew it would be a cold spring, and it won't be a surprise to me if it is a crummy summer. I am going to have a hard time this month. When the world was "normal" (whatever that means), preparations would be underway for celebrating my father's 95th birthday in two weeks. 

I finished "Hello from Heaven" and learned that they interviewed 2,000 people over seven years. I am now reading "Life After Life," which I first read when it came out in the 1970s. Moody is the best writer of all the authors on this subject that I've read recently.

 One year ago today, sweet little Rosie died :-(

I got a new Kindle and I am happy with it. I can read at night again!

11 weeks :-(

 A couple days ago my Kindle keyboard stopped working. Sniff. I bought it in September 2011 as a gift to myself for my 50th birthday. I looked at new ones and learned that I am going to be disappointed because features I love have been discontinued. Bob said I could have his old one (he has a Fire which he prefers and he is not much of a reader anyway). It isn't a keyboard and won't fit in my case, but otherwise it is the same as my broken Kindle (screen size and buttons to turn pages). I have a Fire and a smart phone -- not to mention several computers -- but the plain Kindle served a different purpose. Last night I tried to get my Hello from Heaven book on Bob's Kindle without success. When he got it, he made an amazon account to set it up, because he was not an online shopper at that time. Since then he shops using my account. I was otherwise occupied today (writing a grant) so did not have time to troubleshoot. It's a minor annoyance but I am pretty upset I can't get a new one.

I'm still reading the book about ADC, and naturally doing much thinking along these lines. I teach a lot of philosophical ideas in my classes, so debates surrounding materialism/realism v. idealism/spiritualism are right up my alley. I also like studying the subject of time: our modern conception of unidirectional progress over time v. cyclical v. chaos. Months ago I re-read (or actually listened to, since I could find an audiobook but not an ebook, and I am not reading paper) The Third Wave and enjoyed his mention of time during the Second Wave.

I'm working on a grant and loving it!

Spring ahead last night -- I hate that!

 Eight weeks. :-(

 I meant to include this in yesterday;s post, but I'll make a new one instead. The hospice nurse who came in the middle of the nigt when my father died had the same name as my uncle - my father's brother-in-law, who was very, very dear to him.

I am currently reading Hello from Heaven: A New Field of Research-After-Death Communication Confirms That Life and Love Are Eternal. It's a qualitative study. The researchers interviewed a large number of people all around the United States about their After Death Communication with friends, relatives and colleagues. I haven't gotten to looking at the precise numbers, but I will if it is in an appendix (not sure yet; one of the few downsides of ebooks). Something the authors mention is the social stigma surrounding ADC. It is not a rare occurrence in our own society, but most people don't talk about it because they feel inhibited by skepticism or they are afraid of being labeled a nut. Even a lot of religious believers aren't accepting of ADC. In many other cultures, ADC is embraced as normal. 

As I have written a few times, when I was a teenager I did a lot of reading on the subject of life after death, and talked to Mimmie about it many times. From the Hello from Heaven book, I learned that having a compact, as we did (I will contact you after I die) is not uncommon. I have also discovered in the book that being contacted during a dream, as I was, is a fairly common ADC method. I wrote several posts ago that based on this, I am hoping to have a similar dream featuring my father.

I have had two glimpses in dreams, but I wasn't sure whether either were true ADC or a figment of my fevered brain. In the Mimmie dream, I woke up convinced it was her ADC promise. It was so vivid and real, and the message so clear, detailed and nuanced. The first glimpse of my father was a very quick, fleeting image. I couldn't see him too well, but I knew it was him. We were dancing. I was wearing a purple outfit that I recognized. I remember how much I loved it. The second glimpse was a little longer, although not by much. I was looking out of the sliding glass door in Samsonville. There were a bunch of people in the yard. My father was standing next to Marty. It was noisy, and he was staring straight ahead, not looking at me. I was yelling "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!" But he couldn't hear me. Suddenly he did! He looked over, our eyes met, and then the dream was over.

The dancing dream was not too long after my father died. A couple of weeks ago, my nephew sent me some links to videos he has converted from VHS to streaming. One is of my MPA graduation party in 1991 at my parents' house. The number of guests who have now passed away is startling. My nephew texted that he hopes the party is what heaven is like. That day I was wearing the purple shorts set I had on in the dream! At one point, I danced with Bob; I remember the winter before, we had taken ballroom dancing lessons. I did not remember or think about any of this before watching the video. Did I pull the party out of the recesses of my mind, and the dream was a coincidence?

I read one chapter per night from the book. Yesterday's was about contact through animals, plants and inanimate objects, sort of the "pennies from heaven" idea (which I've always viewed as a little too Reader's Digest for me). I think about my father almost constantly, and he is the first thing I think of when I awaken. Usually I realize I didn't have an ADC dream. This morning I went downstairs to the bathroom and thought, St. Jude, God, Daddy, send me a sign that all is OK.

I came out of the bathroom and sat down at the table. Usually Bob brings my mail to me while I am in my office, but yesterday he put it on the table. I didn't notice it before I went to bed. There were two pieces, one was a fundraising appeal from MHHS, and the other was a letter from someone whose name I didn't recognize and my address was in handwriting. Unusual. I opened it, and pulled this out:

On the flip side it's a brochure from JW, and there was a hard-to-read handwritten letter combining boilerplate and personal information accompanying the brochure. I am not at all interested in that religion, but I was pleased to get the ADC. Bob says my father would find it funny.

Today is the 20 year anniversary of this blog. It is also four years since Uncle Bud died. And -- yesterday, my father was gone seven weeks. Years ago bloggers would write up reflections about sharing a journal online on the annual "blogaversary," and sometimes I did too. I wasn't consistent, and many years I forgot the milestone. I don't feel much like reflecting today, except to note that blogger has been an extremely stable free platform for keeping this journal.

The last words my father said to me were "shut up." That was as I was leaving on Sunday, January 2 -- a week before he died. He had not been awake much that day, and he had not been able to speak well, but those two words were clear as a bell. 

Shut up is not something I associate with my father or mother, it's not a phrase either barked at me as a kid. Somehow, it always had a tinge of vulgarity about it and they didn't like us saying it. 

On Black Friday 2020, I bought my father an Echo Dot so he could operate lights and play music. Because of his aphasia, it was a struggle to get Echo to consistently understand him. I created routines, after asking him what words he wanted to use. Through trial and error, he settled on "shut up" for turning off the Willie Nelson channel on satellite radio. It was something he could remember, say clearly, and because of articulating those two words every day, often multiple times, they stayed with him until the end. 

He said "shut up" to me on January 2 because I was reminding him to drink whenever the opportunity presented itself. He was dehydrated, and so I told him one more time before I left. He did not say shut up as if annoyed, but instead in his usual half-joking way, so it was funny and I laughed. But I knew he was serious -- he did not want to drink.

I had a few ideas for what I wanted to write about, but instead I wrote the prior post about the tie pin and eighth grade. I wanted to jot down here two things that my friend told me. First, when I initially told her that my father died, she emailed "there are not many words for timeless sadness." Later, in a sympathy card, she wrote, "the sadness will fade 'a little' but will be there. The memories will be there."

This enamel tie pin was in a small metal box with other old trinkets in my father's closet. I made it for him when I was in 8th grade. He was selling cars at the time.He was always meticulous about his appearance (or you could say vain), and had more fashionable tie clips, but I remember he did occasionally wear it. He was proud of our last name and his initials. In fact, if you bought one of our family's houses, it's quite possible you had to sandblast the fireplace to remove the letter "G."

I copied the above from my Facebook post, but a school memory has been triggered. In 8th grade I was "accelerated" in math and art. I'm not sure why those two subjects, and I don't know who decided. I like both, and I was good at math, but English strikes me as my "subject," especially at that time. My math experience was horrible. The teacher was an abomination. Today, he would be arrested, convicted and jailed. He'd be forever disgraced. I had him for both 8th and 9th grades and was assigned to his class again in 10th, but I told my guidance counselor I'd drop math entirely unless I was transferred out of his class. She was mostly inept, but she'd refused my request the year before, and she knew I was serious so she put me in a class with a competent teacher.

Donna was "accelerated" in art. I think that year we took the same two classes, enamel jewelry making and pottery. I don't remember there being any other students in enameling. I think it wasn't the teacher's passion - that was his photography class. Still, with few students, we were able to make a lot of jewelry. 

In pottery, the teacher freaked out after a couple of weeks, and was replaced by a young woman who was rigid. There were a lot of students in the class, because the teacher who freaked out was beloved, and basically allowed students to do, or not do, whatever they wanted. The class was bedlam after the new teacher took over; kids continued to do whatever they wanted, but now there was a teacher looming over the room, yelling constantly. This triggered Donna to act out, by becoming a vandal to the room and the other kids' projects when no one was looking (except me).

When I was a teenager the question of life after death really captured my attention. At that time, I read a lot on the subject: Elisabeth Kubler-Ross books (On Death and Dying), and some popular works, for instance Life After Life and The Evidence for Life After Death. I found a lot of comfort in that reading.

Mimmie and I talked a great deal about the topic. She promised she would let me know someday, as it was likely I would outlive her. The summer after she died, I felt the world was different; somehow less colorful. Oh, the grass was green and the sky was blue, but it wasn't the same shade or brightness or something. Then one night I had a dream. She was sitting there, as always, at the little table in her kitchen, but her mobile home had been transported to a stunning hillside, surrounded by hay and Christmas-tree sized spruce trees. We had tea. She was OK. I felt better afterwards, though I still think of her, and miss her, a lot.

Quite a few years ago, a friend gave me a book called Embraced by the Light. I was impressed by the book at the time, and even shared it with a friend’s father, when he was grieving the loss of his wife. I re-read it recently, and even though I still liked it, I was not as taken with it as I was the first time I read it. I am reading Proof of Heaven: A Neurosurgeon's Journey into the Afterlife and so far, I’m enjoying it. After I bought it, I learned he taught at Harvard and worked at MGH. How about that!

Due to the magic of the Internet archives, I discovered this story, Compost Pile:

So now it has been four weeks since my father died. Today I canceled the insurance on the van we bought him because the receipt for shredding the plates finally came. It made me sad. I remember he cried when he saw it drive in the first time, because he was so touched by what Bob & I did for him. He spent days thinking about getting a sign for it and what it should say, landing on "private ambulance." I teased him about wanting a big "G" for the door. Sometimes thinking about him being gone makes it hard to breathe.

On a totally different subject, the governor decided to pander to cretins, and announced she is lifting the indoor mask mandate tomorrow. She kept schools in place for now, but it is clear by her defensiveness that she will lift it in March. I guess she figures she needs every vote she can get, including the ignorant. Yesterday I was so annoyed by an email I received from my State senator urging me to sign an anti-mask petition that I dashed off a heartfelt note ripping her a new one. Not that it matters. Despite the CDC cautioning that it is too soon to lift restrictions, about eight governors did it anyway.

Tomorrow it will be three weeks since my father died. I often have the sensation when someone dies that I don’t want time to pass; that I don’t want them to move farther back in my life, away from now. Three weeks ago today I sat with him for the last time sometime before 7 p.m., gently rubbing his shoulder. He was asleep, or maybe that should be he was barely conscious. I carried on a conversation with myself, directed at him. He told me in the Summer of 2020 that he didn’t pray or count sheep when he was trying to fall asleep, but instead went through a list of car makes and models, trying to remember as many as he could. On Sunday three weeks ago, I asked him whether he was naming cars, and then I made an effort; Ford, Lincoln, Model T, Pinto, Taurus, Mustang, Toyota, Camry…I laughed and said that I wasn’t a car person and wasn’t as good at it as he was. I also told him that I’d hoped to have a 95^th birthday party for him. I mentioned that I thought it was likely I’d get the promotion I had told him about weeks ago. His face looked like it was smiling somehow. I don’t think it was my imagination.

On Wednesday January 26, the faculty voted unanimously with no abstentions to recommend me for promotion.

Daddy was imaginative. He created two characters, “Speedy” and “Good,” a pair of spiders. He acted out their antics with his hands. It was a moral tale, like most children’s stories. “Speedy” was the mischievous one; “Good” was well-behaved. It sparked me to make a version of Speedy and Good by gluing pipe cleaner legs into walnut half shells and drawing on faces with magic markers.

One of the most beloved memories is of the marionettes. The first two belonged to my sister Janette and brother Michael. Geppetto was hers, Pinocchio was his. I loved them, though, possibly even more than they did, although admittedly, they are dear to us all. As a kid, Pinocchio was my favorite book - the real story by Carlo Collidi, not the Disney version. My father would read a chapter, then work the puppets, acting out the story and other adventures, making up a dialogue between them. He even made a wooden puppet stage and other props for them; memory tells me he borrowed some of the furniture from Janette’s Barbie Dream House. I remember how I protested when they had to go to sleep in their shoebox home at night, to have their strings untangled the following day. Later, they hung from the pole lamp with the colorful hobnail shades, and so needed less untangling.

Over the years those two acquired some peers: a pair of Mexican puppets Michael got in California, and a spaceman complete with green light bulb head that my father made as part of a Halloween costume. The puppet who wanted to be a real boy and his woodcarver father expanded their repertoire and came to America, winning new fans among the grandchildren. In the company of the new marionettes, they adopted names like “Alan Jerkson” and made appearances on a cardboard stage that once was a washing machine box, taking part in a parody of a show on the Nashville Network.