Monday, April 25, 2022

Parentals, Redux

I've been feeling the presence and the loss of Dad almost as much as the presence and the loss of Mom these days, and I thought it was a perfect opportunity for a little Look Back . . . a Look Back with Love . . . 

MONDAY, JULY 31, 2017


These two.

Julie flipped through old photo albums this weekend during her fiery swath through Connecticut, and we couldn't help notice a theme developing . . .

These two.

 Mom and Dad.

There were many photos, there were many meals -- oh, the meals -- there were many drinkie-poos, there were home movies and a visit to the Old Homestead but that is a topic for another day . . . and there were many, many photos of our Mom and Dad.

They had a Thing, these two.

A Thing for the Ages.

Irish? And Lebanese?

Bring it on.

The mixture of those ethnicities and their love and strength and warmth and humor and passion and intelligence and joie de vivre just worked. Really well. For decades and decades.

We were less than a full contingent this weekend -- we desperately missed our #s 2 and 6 -- but we were a quorum, and had enough members to study the results of this Irish and Lebanese lovefest our parents built over nearly 60 years . . .

I'd call it a smashing success.

Monday, April 18, 2022


Spring has sprung and yesterday was Easter . . . 

. . . and I can say unequivocally . . .  

. . . Mom would have loved it.

I mean, right?

Mom loved spring, Mom loved warm weather, even though "warm" is a strong word for the weather in April . . . 

. . . but Mom was ready for winter to be over and for this day to come.

It's almost here, Mom. The warm weather is almost here . . . 

. . . we promise.

Even Mermaid is on the lookout. 

Monday, April 11, 2022

Mom Flowers

Oh the lovely flowers.

Lots of lovely peeps sent so many lots of lovely things and we are so grateful.

The prevailing feeling around these parts is . . . still . . . always . . . we are so grateful.

For mom's long life, for her quick death, and for her many myriad friends and family who showed up in droves to share the love.

Oh, the love.

I'm a local so I was able to avail myself of some of Mom's lovely flowers, and I am so grateful for those too . . .  

. . . for those from Nancy and Jonny . . . 

 . . . from our beautiful cousin Liz . . . 

. . . and for a combo of a few bouquets.

For peonies planted all the way out in Brooklyn, by Kelly . . . 

. . . for those from Brian and Rory . . . 

. . . and the bouquet from the Corcillos. 

Jacquie and I were looking at the flowers in the funeral home together, saw the card, and yelled out together, "Jane!"

The three of us worked in that magical place for years. (And the three of us also worked at SoNo Seaport Seafood Restaurant, harumph.
(And ha.)


There were gorgeous flowers everywhere and Mistah and I loved having them in our home. When they met their demise, we said to eachother ...

Let us always have flowers in honor of Mom . . .  

. . . and so we begin.

Monday, April 4, 2022


One million years ago, or possibly 12 years ago, after Dad died, Mom suggested -- nay, demanded -- we all get together for Christmas. 

"But Mom, we don't get together for Christmas; we get together in the summer."

"We're getting together for Christmas."

Mom had spoken.

This was not that Christmas. 
This was Thanksgiving a few years ago. 
As you were.

Jane graciously volunteered to host at her lovely home in Chicagoland, and all the sisters and their wee chitlins made arrangements to get there.

Mistah and I, of course, planned to drive.

And Mom planned to drive too.

So the three of us decided to drive together, in what had been Dad's Lexie but now was Mom's Lexie. Three drivers, 12 or 13 hours, no problemo.

Photos are separate from my tale, as is now I hope eminently obvious.

Bill and I drove down to Mom's the night before and the three of us had ourselves a lovely time -- because of course we did: the three of us always had so much fun together -- and we decided we would leave at 5 am.

We went to bed early, and in the morning I was *trying* to sleep when I heard Mom and Bill yakking in the kitchen. I was like, "Guys! You said five! What are you doing?"

They both said, "We're awake, let's go."

"I'm not awake."

"Come on, let's go."

I got up, we poured coffee for ourselves, it was black as night out there -- well, it was night out there -- we got in the car, and Mom insisted on driving the first leg.

"Mom, why? It's nighttime; let one of us drive."

But once again, Mom had spoken.

Sigh. Mom.

Mom started driving, said, "Oh, let's see what time we're hitting the road . . . "

It was 4:44.

And so it began.

Mom and I have had a thing about 4:44 ever since. It's a magical time of day. It's just before happy hour -- well, for our strictly-5:00-pm-Mom it was just before happy hour; for me, happy hour had already begun. Ha.

Two selfies taken at the Dutch, both blurry. I blame poltergeists.

Fast forward to March 2020. Bill and I spoke to Mom the day covid shut the world down, that afternoon on March 16. When we said goodbye I said, "I'll call you tomorrow." "You don't have to." "I'll call you tomorrow, Mom. I'll call you at 4:44."

And Mom and I spoke at 4:44 every day ever since. 

Our far-apart covid-visit series . . . 

As I said at Mom's funeral -- sigh -- "our conversations weren’t always deep or impactful or profound: we talked about what we were going to have for dinner (of course), what we did that day, all the things. Mom was ready to get off the phone the moment she got on the phone, but I was dogged; I wanted details." 

I still have my phone set for 4:44 every day. And I toast Mom every time. If Mistah is home we hug, I either laugh or cry or keep chopping veggies or keep reading, and keep living life, because that's what we do. Happily and proudly.

We keep living life.

And I'm going to keep that alarm set on my phone for a long long time.

Happy 4:44, Mom.

We miss you, quite literally, every day.