Sassistas! Our dish on the social soup.

Last Letter Home

Last week, barista sent Flannista the above video. I have watched it now at least a half dozen times and tear up every time.  You will, too.  Here is how barista describes the choral music featured in the video:

Often wars are far off abstractions and the longer they go on, the more distant they can become.  Choral music can help bring the conflicts closer . . . in a good way.

Prepare to have your heart broken as you listen to Cantus' recording of "Last Letter Home" -- a composition by Lee Hoiby based on a letter from PFC Jesse Givens of Springfield, Missouri, to his wife, Melissa.  Givens was killed May 1, 2003 when his tank fell into the Euphrates River after the bank on which he was parked gave way.  The letter was written to be delivered to his family if he died.  To his wife he writes: "I did not want to have to write this letter.  There is so much more I need to say, so much more I need to share.  A lifetime's worth.  I married you for a million lifetimes.  That's how long I will be with you.  Please find it in your heart to forgive me for leaving you alone . . . "

To his stepson, Dakota: "You have a big, beautiful heart.  I will always be there in our park when you dream so we can still play . . ."

To Carson, the son born May 29, 2003: "I never got to see you but I know in my heart you are beautiful."

Thank you, barista, for sharing this beautiful musical memorial with me and now with the sassosphere.  Hallowing -- through art and music -- the life of beloved who has died, can heal not only family members, but also the human family.

What's your response to this video?  In what ways have you hallowed the lives of beloveds you have lost?

Lifting Isaac

The last time I lifted Isaac was one year ago this morning.  Rhya, his veterinarian, had moments earlier administered the shot that would render him unconscious but not stop his heart.  "This will sting," she warned Matissta and me, and sure enough, Isaac darted out of my lap when Rhya jabbed him.  He scampered into the kitchen and then sauntered to one of the legs of the piano bench and methodically sharpened his front claws.  Seconds later he headed toward the Christmas tree that always fascinated him and lost his footing.  I reached down and lifted him up into my arms; into the rocket ship that I had promised would carry him to the place where he would finally get his very own blue shoes.

Two days earlier, unsure of my decision to euthanize Isaac, I had emailed two people: Carolyn and my therapist.  Carolyn responded:

I want to write you more beautiful words, as others have done.  But, I know that my input is sorely needed from a more clinical point of view . . . .

Isaac has chronic renal failure which isn't all that unusual in a cat of his age.  He drinks a lot because it's impossible for his kidneys to process enough fluid to keep his body in a healthy state.  He drinks and the liquid races through him offering little or nothing in the way of hydration.  The constant drinking and subsequent urination causes a drastic reduction in the electrolytes in his blood stream.  His muscles ache.  He feels general discomfort.  Toxins build, and with that comes waves of nausea and occasional vomiting.  Kidney problems, whether it be stones or inflammation or infection are generally extremely painful -- but it's in the feline nature to hide pain until they are very near death.  When Isaac is around you, he can sometimes shake off his malaise enough to make you question your decision to euthanize.  In actuality, he is withering away more each day.

Whenever you say that you want a clear sign that it's time to euthanize Isaac, I understand what you mean.  But, my dear friend, that's not what you want.  This disease sometimes progresses, toward the end, in one sudden swoop -- and the suffering endured in the absolute end stage of chronic renal failure is profound and agonizing, and that you would never be able to forget.  By euthanizing now, you are sparing Isaac that final, horrific stage.

I know that Isaac would know what to do, given the opportunity to comfort you.  And, perhaps that's what he's doing now, with all of the lap time and constant purring and enjoyment of the Christmas tree.  I think that he senses and witnesses your pain and knows that it's connected to his illness.  His love for you has been boundless and unencumbered by all the petty stuff we humans inject.  You've returned that love, always, perhaps now more than ever before, by allowing him to leave you in a humane way.

My therapist wrote:

Isaac has depended on you, these years, for life, love and joy (and for chasing/retrieving aluminum foil balls).  Now he depends on you to let him go from that in the knowledge that you will be OK when he's gone.  He has a strong spirit, even as his body fails, and will take that spirit with him along with all the love the two of you have shared.  Without the energy drain to keep his body going when it wants to less and less, his spirit will soar and he will be free.  He needs you to do this for him so he does not have to wait for every bodily function to slowly drain away.  It is your last gift to him.  He has already gifted you with being the greatest kitty -- little boy -- dog cat to purr through your life.

Be well.  Let others hold you through this sad time.

After lifting Isaac for the last time, I went to the sofa, cradled him on my lap atop his favorite white towel, Matissta on my left and Rhya on my right.  While Isaac was in deep sleep, I read aloud the following prayer:

Ever living, ever loving God, in our beloved Isaac we have seen some of your many faces and heard some of your many voices; most lovingly, a purr that is never ending.  Now in the moment of Isaac's death, receive his spirit on eagle's wings.  Lift the spirit of this sweet creature to the heavens.

Our dear Karen, Kathy, Agnes, Al, Frankie, Sienna, Flannery and Parson Brown -- all witnesses today in the presence of the Lord of the Dance -- may your spirits dance with our dear, sweet boy, Isaac.  Dance, sweet Isaac, dance.  Look at you!  Our handsome boy.  Look at you!  Dancing in the presence of the Lord and all our beloveds.  With thanks to God, we lift you up.

Moments after administering the second shot that stopped Isaac's heart, Rhya whispered, "He's gone."  His body limp, his eyes vacant, Isaac had indeed left this sweet world.

Babysis once told me that we all die the way we have lived. "If you had a miserable life, you'll have a miserable death.  If you've had a good life, you'll have a good death," she said.  A year after making the decision to euthanize Isaac, then celebrating his life for a week here in the sassosphere and finally, on the day before he died, articulating his voice, I am thankful to have given Isaac a death befitting the life he lived. 

Today, on the first anniversary of his death, I am dismantling the altar area I cobbled together to hallow his remains and to celebrate his life.  Once again, I am letting go.  I am lifting Isaac.

Pictured above is a neon sculpture I commissioned to honor Isaac's life.  It continues to light up the darkness.

Writing Rules!

William Safire, a speechwriter for Nixon and a Pulitzer Prize-winning conservative political columnist for the New York Times, died yesterday.  Click here for his New York Times obituary. 

Flannista was a devotee of Safire's weekly, "On Language" column in the New York Times magazine.  In addition, he compiled and published a stellar collection of speeches to which Flann often refers when writing speeches for her clients.  Last, he put together a hilarious and unforgettable list of "Rules for Writing" that Flann uses in her writing workshops for corporate clients:

• Remember to never split an infinitive.
• The passive voice should never be used.
• Do not put statements in the negative form.
• Verbs have to agree with their subjects.
• Proofread carefully to see if you words out.
• If you reread your work, you can find on rereading a great deal of repetition can be avoided by rereading and editing.
• A writer must not shift your point of view.
• And don't start a sentence with a conjunction. (Remember, too, a preposition is a terrible word to end a sentence with.)
• Don't overuse exclamation marks!!!!
• Place pronouns as close as possible, especially in long sentences, as of 10 or more words, to their antecedents.
• Writing carefully, dangling participles must be avoided.
• If any word is improper at the end of a sentence, a linking verb is.
• Take the bull by the hand and avoid mixing metaphors.
• Avoid trendy locutions that sound flaky.
• Everyone should be careful to use a singular pronoun with singular nouns in their writing.
• Always pick on the correct idiom.
• The adverb always follows the verb.
• Last but not least, avoid cliches like the plague; seek viable alternatives.

What Flannista loves about this list of rules is that each rule exemplifies the rule.  (Hmmm . . . that statement seems awkward.  Did Flann break a writing rule?)

There are several very accomplished writers in the sassosphere.  What are your rules for writing?  Do you follow the rules of any particular writing teacher?  Who and why?  Have you established your own writing rules and discipline?  What works and/or doesn't work?  Please share.

Rest in peace, William Safire.

Acceptance

In April 2002, Flannista traveled to Shanksville, Pennsylvania to visit the First Responders featured in a short 9/11 documentary she directed. The following is based on transcribed interviews with them:

"Before 9/11, the biggest thing to ever disrupt us was some kid screeching his tires in the middle of the night racing through town," said Rick King, the assistant fire chief of Shanksville the day Flannista visited.  "It's a sleepy town," he continued.  "I read that somewhere."

I was standing at the center of this sleepy town, where two state highways meet, near the deli run by Rick's family.  On the wall of the deli was a photograph of the crash site.  "You want a sandwich?" asked Rick.

"No, thanks," I said.  "How many churches you got here?"

"Four," said Rick.  "Four for about 200 folks.  We've been gettin' a lot of visitors, though."

"You ever get tired of the visitors?" I asked.

"Nope.  They all come for the same reason," says Rick.  "To say thanks."

Rick was the first person at the crash site on September 11, 2001 when United Flight 93 plowed into the soft earth of an old strip mine field on the outside of town, "about two seconds from hitting the school," Rick says.   When he arrived at the crash scene, he saw "complete devastation.  Nothin' left more than two feet wide.  Part of a running shoe.  Part of a seat.  Not much of a 757."  At that time he was saying this, we were standing near the debris field -- not much larger than Flann's backyard.

"This impact site is so small," I said to Rick.

"She went in nose down," he said.  "Ask the coroner.  See those vents in the middle of the field?  A lot of jet fuel still down in there."

The Somerset County coroner is there that day because the parents of the Buddhist on board have come to pay their respects.  We must wait while they plant a small Japanese flag among American flags, flowers and stuffed animals resting on a small natural hill 20 yards from the debris field.

"No one interrupts the loved ones," says the coroner after the parents leave.

"What's this like for you?" I ask the coroner.

"It's never easy," he replies.  "They want to know which part of the debris field their loved one's tibia -- or part of their tibia, the only thing large enough to identify -- was found.  Was it Section A?  Section B?  C?  D?  E?  I don't have the heart to tell them that it was found in every section."

With the coroner is the Pennsylvania State police trooper in charge of the crime scene.  His tone is professional, officious.  "Within an hour, I was walking the crime scene," he said.  "I came across personal belongings.  Not much.  A white leather Bible open to Psalm 121.  A rattle snake on a rock,  sunning himself, I thought.  But he was in a strike position.  I looked closer.  He was seared into that position.  That snake was last living thing to see this plane."

They are all wearing baseball caps stitched with, "UNITED. Flight 93."  They give one to me. 

"United Airlines made these for us," says the manager of Emergency Services in Somerset County.  "We want you to have one."

"I'll always be honored to wear it," I reply.

The Emergency Services manager continues to talk.  He needs to talk.  "I don't know how else to describe it," he says.  "I get here that day and nothing's there.  Nothing. There's no plane.  There's no 757.  It went straight into the ground and was covered up.  The ground opened up and accepted that plane.  The ground accepted that plane.  Accepted it.  How is that possible?"

Without Him

The Sassistas! woke in the middle of the night to the sad news that Ted Kennedy, one of the most powerful and influential senators in American history, had finally succumbed a few hours earlier to a malignant brain tumor.  A statement released by the family ends this way:

He loved this country and devoted his life to serving it.  He always believed that our best days were still ahead, but it's hard to imagine any of them without him.

To read the New York Times coverage of his life, click here.  For the Washington Post, click here.  A paragraph from the New York Times seemed to best capture the Sassistas! perspective on this lawmaker:

He was a Rabelaisian figure in the Senate and in life, instantly recognizable by his shock of white hair, his florid, oversize face, his booming Boston brogue, his powerful but pained stride. He was a celebrity, sometimes a self-parody, a hearty friend, an implacable foe, a man of large faith and large flaws, a melancholy character who persevered, drank deeply and sang loudly. He was a Kennedy.

Yes, he was a Kennedy, the only son to make it to old age.  Please post your own thoughts about this remarkable, troubled leader.

Confessing Our Confusion

Flannista confesses that she watched the entire memorial tribute to Michael Jackson aired around the world yesterday.  Before you start rolling your eyes, Flann also confesses that she watched specifically so she could dish the sass BIG time today. 

Initially, she wasn't disappointed.  One look at the gleaming, gold casket swept the sass pen into motion.  No wonder everyone was wearing sunglasses. Then the pall-bearing brothers, each wearing one sequined glove on his left hand.  Then the news that both the "405 and 101 freeways were closed" for the funeral procession:  "The first time that's EVER happened," said NBC news anchor, Brian Williams.  Then the revelation that the city of Los Angeles, already $500 million in debt, would have to pony up $3.8 million for the extra police and fire patrols.  The city had set up a special website for donations to cover the cost, "no matter how small."

Man, this memorial tribute was going to be AWFUL.  Flann couldn't wait to witness the overkill.

About 15 minutes into the service, Queen Latifah (pictured above) came to the podium and read a poem Maya Angelou had written for the occasion, entitled, "We Had Him."  Alternately lyrical and sappy, the poem included this phrase, "we confess our confusion."

So do the Sassistas!

How could one memorial tribute move so quickly -- back and forth and back and forth -- between saccharine hyperbole and genuine emotion?  One moment famed Motown founder, Barry Gordy is proclaiming Jackson as, "the greatest entertainer who ever lived."  Another moment we hear a voice over of Jackson himself saying, "I wanted to be a person, not a personality."  Next moment, Jackson's brother, Marlon, declares that his brother's "voice in heaven will be nearest to our Creator."  Then Brooke Shields, a close friend, shares, "Both of us needed to be adults very early, but when we were together, we were little kids.  We never filmed a video together or recorded a song.  What we did do was laugh.  Michael loved to laugh."  She then tearfully recalls that Jackson's favorite song was not one of his own recordings, but "Smile," a tune penned by Charlie Chaplin for the movie, "Modern Times." Then, Jermaine Jackson, an older brother, sang "Smile" from the stage.  Maybe you had to be there, but it was genuinely touching.

When network coverage began, a CBS reporter interviewed a young woman from the Bronx whose family had scrapped together $900 so she could fly to Los Angeles and pay her respects to Jackson and his family.  She had no ticket for the memorial service.  Neither was she close enough to Staples Center to see the service on an outside JumboTron.   When asked what her hope was for the day, she said, "I would die if I saw a limo or a glove."

"A Limo or a Glove" was the original title of this post.  Then we watched the entire service.  Did any of you watch and/or see any portion of it?  Were you confused, too?  Confess.

Magic Fingers

Got some sad news, sistas and mistas.

Last week, the inventor of Magic Fingers died.

Jim Houghtaling (with the unfortunate pronunciation of "huff-tailing) was 92.

After a successful career as a salesman of vitamins and cookware, Houghtaling began working for a manufacturer of vibrating beds in the 1950s.  Finding the beds too expensive and unreliable, Houghtaling set out to make a cheaper and more effective model.

He patented a small, hand-size device that clipped onto a bed frame and produced a vibrating effect.  He traveled to motels throughout the country to demonstrate his invention, which was marketed under the slogan, "It quickly takes you into the land of tingling and relaxation and ease."

It cost 25 cents for 15 minutes (see image above) and the quarters quickly added up.  At the peak of its popularity, Magic Fingers could be found in 250,000 motel rooms and Houghtaling was taking in $2 million a month.  By the 1970s, however, vandals were breaking into Magic Fingers coin boxes, and motel owners found it increasingly costly to keep replacing them.  Today they operate from a magnetic strip on a card -- like a modern debit card.

The Sassistas! want to bring back the coin-operated Magic Fingers and clip them onto other things so we can make some extra income.  For example, we're thinking of clipping Magic Fingers onto the side of a pitcher of margarita ingredients.  Guests can then slip in a quarter, get a perfectly-mixed drink and voila!  In minutes, they are quickly taken into the land of tingling and relaxation and ease.

What other uses can you think of for the coin-operated Magic Fingers?  We're happy to divvy up our earnings.

Six Months Ago

Six months ago today, Isaac -- Flannista's beloved feline -- left this sweet world.  A couple of times since then, babysis has gently cautioned me that the "six-month anniversary will be tough."  It is, babysis -- but so were the anniversaries for months one through five.

Three weeks after his death, I received an email from Gwen, a good friend I seldom see.  She and her partner own 3,000 acres of untamed land (pictured in this post) near Las Vegas, New Mexico . . . land that they are reclaiming for Mother Earth.  Here is our email exchange:

GWEN:  These animals are our true families, love us better than our original parents, and will always be our children. I'm holding your spirit close. You are not alone in your sorrow. F*ck the hair brushing and take a nap.

FLANN: A serious request -- could you do something to honor Isaac out there in that wild land of yours?  Set up a little pile of stones somewhere?  Or whatever Mother Earth tells you to do?

GWEN: I will be honored to. I think I'll make him a stone spirit house by the sweat lodge, as I had a horse vision in there once, and think its the spiritual home of the place. That way, his spirit can have a place to stay, and if he wants, he can go down to the barn to visit the barn cats. How does that sound?

Following is Gwen's account of what she calls, "Isaac's Spirit Housewarming" which took place on the first-month anniversary of his death:

I walked up the low hill up to the sweat lodge, and stood on the stone just to the east of the door, called the spirits of the four directions and closed the circle, grounding the power.

I thanked the deities for letting Isaac walk with us a while. Then I walked over to the south side of Sweat Lodge Hill, the old home side for us women from the South, and made a small three sided stone spirit house for him, opening to the east, so the morning sun can warm Isaac’s soul, the way cats like to be warmed. I put a little stone roof on it to keep the rain out.

I walked back to stand on the prayer stone, and asked Isaac’s spirit to keep  a spiritual home here, to help our barn cats control the mouse population and to be here when Flannista comes to visit, so both their spirits can warm themselves by the fire of the love they share.

I thanked the spirits of the four directions in turn, starting with the north, as that is the direction of the ancestors, then I opened the circle and freed the power. I sang a few verses of, "Oh Grandmother, Great Grandmother, enter the circle and dance with me."

Our dogs came and went during the ceremony but did not seem to disturb the spirit of the cat.

I am grateful to Gwen for her thoughtful and beautiful ceremony for the I-Man.  Sadly, she had a more recent ceremony for one of her dogs.  In our email exchange for this post, she shared:

I don't know if I told you my beloved Gaia, one of the german shepherds, died on May 9th from a rattlesnake bite. She went on a little run and didn't make it home. We looked and looked for her and finally found her body, looked like she was trying to get home. My heart is broken.

However, I had a very strong sense of her spirit following me around for a few days until we contacted her breeder and found out they have a litter of puppies sired by Gaia's brother litter-mate and we decided to get one, and then her spirit left me to zoom down to Albuquerque to come back to us in another puppy.

Six months later, I am grateful to know that Isaac has a spirit companion as he saunters down to the barn to visit the barn cats.  Continue to rest in peace, sweet boy.

Section 60

Section 60 is the section of Arlington National Cemetery where 548 (and counting) men and women from our current wars in Iraq and Afghanistan are buried -- barely more than 10 percent of the nearly 5,000 killed so far.  Flannista learned this yesterday by reading a very moving Washington Post article by Mark Berman who began covering burials two years ago for the Post.  Berman writes:

No matter how many times you watch a young widow trying to balance a folded flag on her lap while holding a squirming baby, it never fails to get to you. The worst, for me, is the children: not the babies, since they have no idea what's going on, but the little ones just old enough to understand death. In their miniature suits or dresses, they stare wide-eyed at all the dark-clad people gazing fixedly at the wooden box.

Flann googled images for "Section 60" and discovered the one above:  Mary McHugh on the grave of her fiance James Regan who was killed by an IED explosion in February 2007.  Here is a little more about Regan:

Regan, an All-American lacrosse player and All-State football scholar at Chaminade High School in Mineola, New York, graduated from Duke University in 2002.  He was deeply affected by the 9/11 terror attacks, which claimed many lives in Manhasset, and turned down a position at financial services firm UBS and deferred a scholarship to Southern Methodist University Law School to join the Army in 2004.  He had earned a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star.

Every marker at Arlington carries stories such as Regan's.  Today, let's take a moment to thank all those currently serving -- or who have served -- in our country's Armed Forces.

Day of Remembrance

Pictured above is the cover image of a book called, I Never Saw Another Butterfly which features children's drawings and poems from the Terezin Concentration Camp, 1942-1944.

Today is Holocaust Remembrance Day, a day established by Congress to remember the victims of the Holocaust.  More than 12,000 children under the age of 15 passed through the Terezin Concentration Camp, with more than 90 percent perishing.  In their poems and pictures, we see the daily misery of these uprooted children, as well as their courage and optimism, their hopes and fears.  Here is the title poem:

THE BUTTERFLY

The last, the very last,

So richly, brightly, dazzlingly yellow,

Perhaps if the sun's tears would sing

against a white stone . . . .

Such, such a yellow

Is carried 'way up high.

It went away I'm sure because it wished to

kiss the world good-bye.

For seven weeks I've lived in here,

Penned up inside this ghetto.

But I have found love here.

The dandelions call to me

And the white chestnut branches in the court.

Only I never saw another butterfly.

That butterfly was the last one.

Butterflies don't live in here,

in the ghetto.

-- 4.6.1942   Pavel Friedmann

Pavel Friedmann was deported from the ghetto to Terezin 20 days after writing this poem, and later to Auschwitz, where he died on September 29, 1944.