Anniversary

Today is the anniversary of the Coach's death.

It's also the anniversary of one of TRQ's finest moments ever.  Here's the story.

After we realized that Dad had passed away, TRQ asked me to call the mortuary and make arrangements.

"Who should I call?"

"You know.  Olpin over there on 8th North in Orem."

So I looked up Olpin's number and called.  They arrived promptly and could not have been kinder or more professional.

Meanwhile, Ken Cannon began making arrangements for the the Texans to come home for the funeral.  The airlines needed information.  Where was the body?  I told Ken Cannon, "You know.  Olin over there on 8th North in Orem."

There was a pause.  And then this:  "Olpin isn't on 8th North in Orem."

Another pause.  Me this time.  "Yes.  Yes it is."

Less of a pause.  "No.  No it isn't.  Look it up."

So I did and right there online it said "State Street," which is not exactly the same thing as "8th North."  So I called.

ME:  Hello.  Just checking up here.  Is Coach Edwards' body there?"

Polite pause.

ME AGAIN:  It's okay.  I'm his daughter.

THEM:  Yes.  He's here.

ME:  Okay.  Where are you located?

THEM:  In Orem.  On State Street.

ME:  Are you sure you're not on 8th North?

THEM:  Yes.

ME (desperation growing):  WERE YOU EVER ON 8TH NORTH?!

(AUTHOR'S NOTE:  I like all the magical thinking going on here.  If I can just get them to say the words 8th North, then everything will be okay.)

THEM:  No.

The woman I spoke with could not have been kinder or more patient.  It's possible that grieving family members call with crazy questions all the time.  All I know is that when I hung up, I was sick at heart.  How was I going to tell TRQ what I'd done?  For the record, there are very few feelings worse in this life than the one caused when you realize you've sent your father's body to the wrong mortuary.

 Ask anybody who's done this.  They'll tell you I'm right.

Anyway, I screwed up my courage and called TRQ on her cellphone because she was out riding around with my brother in his car.  "Mom," I said.  "I have some bad news."  And then I told her what had happened.

There was another long pause.  It was a day of many long pauses.  Finally she said, "Oh, Honey.  It's a shame to lose your father twice in one day, isn't it?"

I laughed.  I cried.  I laughed.  She laughed.  She cried.  She laughed.  I called her this morning and we laughed again.

TRQ is the best, people.  The best.  And the people at Olpin could not have arranged things better.  In fact, it turned out that the mortician Kelly Sandberg's father played football with my father in high school.  I cannot tell you how sweet this detail seemed to me.  Dad was in good hands--at the place he was certainly meant to be.

Today

. . . is my grandmother's birthday, so I'm wearing her amethyst ring--the one my granddad and TRQ (i.e. the Young Nine-Year-Old Jewelry Queen) bought her one Christmas--to celebrate her life.

Yesterday at work Margaret asked me if I ever hear my dad's voice.  And I said no.  But I do feel my grandmother's presence at unexpected times.  Once, right before Christmas, I felt like she was sitting next to me as I wrote.  I was surprised because the feeling was so visceral and also why?  What was she doing there?

That Christmas my son and his wife revealed that they were having a baby.  My first grandchild.

My grandma and I.  Grandmothers together.

A Mental Health Agenda, Part Four

Here's what you do for Part 4.

You go to Kansas City, Mo with Ken Cannon and discover that it is your SPIRIT CITY because you eat bbq like a fiend.  You also go to a Royals game and a Chiefs game where you lose your mind cheering like you have been a Chiefs fan your whole life, even though you've actually only been a Chiefs fan since Andy Reid went there in 2013.

What else?

You go to the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum and listen to stories about how baseball helped initiate the Civil Rights Movement.

And you also listen to a full night of blues on the radio while you're driving around, feeling surprised that Kansas City, Mo is your Spirit City, because really?

Who knew.

A Mental Health Agenda, Part Three

I stepped away from watching/or listening to the news.  I read it instead.  When I see something, my reaction is more visceral, so there you are.

In fact, I've stepped away from TV in general except for games--mostly baseball, some football.
The thing about baseball is that it's leisurely and steady with occasional bursts of excitement.  That's why a lot of people think it's boring.  I, on the other hand, find it soothing.

Ken Cannon is a huge baseball fan, but he's not particularly interested in a game unless the Cubs are playing.  I, on the other hand, have the MLB channel on all day long.  I call it my Baseball Muzak channel.  Following what happens isn't really even the point for me.  I just like the soundtrack of summer in my house.

A Mental Health Agenda, Part Two

Here's another part of the plan.  I'm trying to sit under my lamp in the morning.  I've told this story before, but when I mentioned to my friend Becky many years ago that I was sitting under the lamp in the morning to trick my brain into thinking the days were longer and lighter, she responded, "If that works, then the brain must be a very stupid organ."

The older I get, the more I think she's right.  The brain can be a very stupid organ, indeed.

Meanwhile I call this activity "going to Arizona" where I knit or read for twenty minutes as dawn breaks.

A Mental Health Agenda, Part One

Because fall can be a bad time for me--and because this fall seems fraught with the potential for slipping down the rabbit hole--I made up a mental health agenda for me to follow.

So one of the things I've decided to do is to periodically visit the yoga studio where my former teacher runs an hour long meditation session.  I went last night and it did occur to me as we were doing the walking meditation that we all looked like extras on the set of "The Walking Dead."

But.

I did feel peaceful when I walked out of the door and into the evening where I was alive to the sounds of everything.

Only One Thought

Here it is:  I wish our president was a grownup.