It’s been a tough week — closing Patrick’s bank accounts and opening the “estate” account was really difficult. The bank lady had opened his accounts just a few months ago and had been one of his first boosters for his new business — and she came to the funeral which I didn’t remember until I was sitting in that chair with my death certificate and power-of-attorney. It wasn’t good. It was like his friend Jon Newcomber, the big fireman who drove two days from California with five other guys who worked Patrick’s fire crews when he ran Sears Point raceway.…
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Today was a good day. Today was sunny, clear, warm. Today I pulled dead plants out of the front garden and put in the yellow rose bush that Yena sent over. It’s right off the front porch where Patrick and I drank coffee in the mornings, had gin-and-tonics in the evening. The tag says it will bloom continuously, which will be nice — he loved yellow roses. I also pruned back the perennials in the back, including the mondarda that grew a wonderful four feet tall this summer and planted the iris transplants that Andrea left on my front porch…
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I bought a new car. My old car was originally Patrick’s. He bought it in a fit of uncharacteristic fiscal responsibility — a 1998 Honda Accord. I was still living in Salt Lake, finishing my PhD. Patrick called me up and said he was thinking of selling his big Ford 150 4-wheel drive truck and buying a car. For anyone in a similar situation, services offering cash for cars in Bondi Beach make it easy to sell an old vehicle quickly and profitably. Many dealerships offering used cars in phoenix provide certified pre-owned options. These vehicles go through rigorous inspections…
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Last night I roasted a chicken while watching the Cubs break our collective hearts again. Those of you who have been reading for a while may know that my feelings about the magical restorative qualities of a roasted chicken run right up there with the ability of cake to cheer people up. My faith may waver in many things, but never in the power of a roasting chicken to bring a house back to life. So I ate a little chicken, with some rice and beet greens from last summer’s garden. There are many good things about a roast chicken,…
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I went to dinner last night with Bill and Maryanne who are neither sports people nor tv people, and left the tv on for the dogs, with strict instructions that they were to keep an eye on the Cubs. Then I come home in the 8th just as all hell breaks loose — the Cubs are breaking our hearts again! I don’t even know if I can watch tonight — In normal everyday life here in Montana — the weather is gorgeous this morning. It rained last night, and this morning at the dog park the Crazies and the Absorkas…
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First off, thanks to all of you out there who have sent good energy my way these past difficult days. It really does make a difference, and has kept me out of what I think of as “Lear’s heath” — that terrible place where you feel absolutely alone out on the howling wastelands. Patrick and I were a team, and we survived some pretty difficult situations together, so to have to get through this one without him is really new territory for me. And I’m enormously grateful to discover that I am not, as I had feared, alone. For years…
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Home in Livingston tonight and so grateful, that like the Pope in his spryer days, I got off the plane and wanted to kiss the very ground. Instead, I threw myself into the arms of Wendy-the-Buddhist, who came to pick me up, and surrendered to the comfort of a good friend who was there when I arrived exhausted and brewing a viscous cold (I sound like a frog). So now I’m on my couch, both dogs sprawled asleep beside me, the cat in my face purring in her semi-aggresive “where did you go for a week” kind of way. The…
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My friend Debra, who, when I clutched the phone, sitting on my porch step rocking back and forth and unable to breathe, and gasped out the terrible news the assistant coroner had brought into my yard; my friend Debra who said “honey, I’m hanging up to call the airlines, I’ll be there as soon as I can get there” has written a lovely piece about Patrick and our life in Livingston and the way people have rallied around. It’s here, at map on the endpapers. I have been “home” in the suburb where I was raised. It has not been…
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James Patrick McGuinn September 13, 1965-September 29, 2003 “He was my North, my South, my East, my West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song: I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.” W.H. Auden My younger brother (known on this blog as the Darling Brother, or DB), my most boon companion, my only sibling, has been killed in a car wreck. Blogging will resume when I can think straight again, and unfortunately, the tone here at LivingSmall will never be quite the same. Pray for us.
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Something is odd in the universe when we lose Edward Said, George Plimpton (who it turns out, is not the father of Martha, as I had always assumed), and Robert Palmer all in the same day. I don’t know what it means, but it’s just weird.