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....said the star of that film, in a work made on a date not late.
Day Two of Month Two stands for things that seem the same as the day that just came to an end- but for me, that was not the case. I did not blog, for the first time in the year. It was most a lack of things to say that would not be the same as the day (and month) that just came to an end. It snowed- a lot. I worked out, cleaned floors, let dogs in and out at all times of the day and night. Just was not worth the ink.
Then the wife came home from a bad day- not a "you're sacked" day or a "you suck" day, but just a "we are a big bear with big hair and can do to you what we want" kind of day. I will leave it to her to fill you in on that.
The home team sucked on the ice. Reed did not make it to the Hall of Fame. There's some game after 6 this eve that the world is all up about. We could care two shits.
We chose to end the day with a view of Fred and his friends called "The Temp." Great fun. Then tried to air a show from the Beeb, which had to do with the use of words with only one sound.
How'd I do?
Feb. 3rd, 2013
The questions answered, the attendant busily buzzing around with monitors and paperwork, but too early to open my tablet and start a book I just downloaded, I checked the Facebook updates, and there was one from a very quiet but important group- from the husband of my oldest friend in the world, who we lost in February of 2010:
This morning, Janie's mom, Betty Osinga went to join her beloved daughter after a long slow dementia. She passed quietly in her sleep leaving her cares behind an only three days shy of the anniversary of of Janie's passing. Mel is sad, but in a strange way relieved. Those of us who have experienced this kind of loss understand. The boys and I will miss you Betty.
Adding to the eeriness of the almost anniversary (and it was three years, to the day, since Doug first had to send us all the news of Jan's imminent passing) was that I was, at that moment, donating blood from the big room in our church used for its Sunday School, with my bed and blood drip next to the attendance list for the kids we now have in the program.
Mrs. Osinga was one of my first Sunday School teachers, close to half a century ago. She was a small woman who took plenty of big from us little kids and gave it right back to us. Along with my mom and the other pillars of that church, she was there as her daughter and I, born under a month apart, became and always remained among the closest of friends. Even though our paths took us to different places, or the same ones at different times (she wound up at Buffalo State College, leaving a year before I arrived), we never lost touch and even had the joy, seen in those smiles, of meeting up out this way just a few months before she died.
Betty and her husband, Jan's father, were not able to make it from their deep southern roots back to New York for her funeral back in February of 2010. In the end, she remembered little of who she'd lost, but I'm sure, from what I remember of my mom's too-soon loss of a daughter, that it must've affected her ganglia as much as it broke her heart. Jan's father soldiers on, and I hope these days bring him closer to that peace which passes all understanding.
It sure as hell isn't within mine right now.
An hour before the blood drive, I read 1st Cornithians 13 to the congregation- almost from memory. It was the scripture used in our wedding service, but I'd memorized it years before that, probably for a class or a service or some other event that Janice and I both participated in. Her love for so much of her world, and the friends and family in it, is what Paul was talking about- and through our memories, and through Doug and her kids, it still lives on- not dimly, but face to face.
This morning, Janie's mom, Betty Osinga went to join her beloved daughter after a long slow dementia. She passed quietly in her sleep leaving her cares behind an only three days shy of the anniversary of of Janie's passing. Mel is sad, but in a strange way relieved. Those of us who have experienced this kind of loss understand. The boys and I will miss you Betty.
Adding to the eeriness of the almost anniversary (and it was three years, to the day, since Doug first had to send us all the news of Jan's imminent passing) was that I was, at that moment, donating blood from the big room in our church used for its Sunday School, with my bed and blood drip next to the attendance list for the kids we now have in the program.
Mrs. Osinga was one of my first Sunday School teachers, close to half a century ago. She was a small woman who took plenty of big from us little kids and gave it right back to us. Along with my mom and the other pillars of that church, she was there as her daughter and I, born under a month apart, became and always remained among the closest of friends. Even though our paths took us to different places, or the same ones at different times (she wound up at Buffalo State College, leaving a year before I arrived), we never lost touch and even had the joy, seen in those smiles, of meeting up out this way just a few months before she died.
Betty and her husband, Jan's father, were not able to make it from their deep southern roots back to New York for her funeral back in February of 2010. In the end, she remembered little of who she'd lost, but I'm sure, from what I remember of my mom's too-soon loss of a daughter, that it must've affected her ganglia as much as it broke her heart. Jan's father soldiers on, and I hope these days bring him closer to that peace which passes all understanding.
It sure as hell isn't within mine right now.
An hour before the blood drive, I read 1st Cornithians 13 to the congregation- almost from memory. It was the scripture used in our wedding service, but I'd memorized it years before that, probably for a class or a service or some other event that Janice and I both participated in. Her love for so much of her world, and the friends and family in it, is what Paul was talking about- and through our memories, and through Doug and her kids, it still lives on- not dimly, but face to face.