Sassistas! Our dish on the social soup.

In Spite of Everything

Today is the National Day of Remembrance.  The Sassistas! are marking the occasion by posting these few quotes from Anne Frank's diary:

“Writing in a diary is a really strange experience for someone like me. Not only because I’ve never written anything before, but also because it seems to me that later on neither I nor anyone else will be interested in the musings of a thirteen-year old school girl. Oh well, it doesn’t matter. I feel like writing.” 

“Paper has more patience than people” 

“Why are millions spent on the war each day, while not a penny is available for ... artists or the poor? Why do people have to starve when mountians of food are rotting away in other parts of the world? Oh, why are people so crazy?” 

“In spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart. I simply can’t build up my hopes on a foundation consisting of confusion, misery, and death. I see the world gradually being turned into a wilderness, I hear the ever approaching thunder, which will destroy us too, I can feel the sufferings of millions and yet, if I look up into the heavens, I think that it will all come right, that this cruelty too will end, and that peace and tranquility will return again.”

 

Silence is Silver

 

If you said "Nice day," he would look up
at the three clouds riding overhead,
nod at each, and go back to doing what-
ever he was doing or not doing.
If you asked for a smoke or a light,
he'd hand you whatever he found
in his pockets: a jackknife, a hankie --
usually unsoiled -- a dollar bill,
a subway token. Once he gave me
half the sandwich he was eating
at the little outdoor restaurant
on La Guardia Place. I remember
a single sparrow was perched on the back
of his chair, and when he held out
a piece of bread on his open palm,
the bird snatched it up and went back to
its place without even a thank you,
one hard eye staring at my bad eye
as though I were next. That was in May
of '97, spring had come late,
but the sun warmed both of us for hours
while silence prevailed, if you can call
the blaring of taxi horns and the trucks
fighting for parking and the kids on skates
streaming past silence. My friend Frankie
was such a comfort to me that year,
the year of the crisis. He would turn
up his great dark head just going gray
until his eyes met mine, and that was all
I needed to go on talking nonsense
as he sat patiently waiting me out,
the bird staring over his shoulder.
"Silence is silver," my Zaydee had said,
getting it wrong and right, just as he said
"Water is thicker than blood," thinking
this made him a real American.
Frankie was already American,
being half German, half Indian.
Fact is, silence is the perfect water:
unlike rain it falls from no clouds
to wash our minds, to ease our tired eyes,
to give heart to the thin blades of grass
fighting through the concrete for even air
dirtied by our endless stream of words.

-- "He Would Never Use One Word When None Would Do" by Philip Levine

Flannista's friend, Anne, recited the last six lines of this poem in her eulogy to her 21-year-old son at his memorial service yesterday afternoon. Christopher often brought home homeless people to spend the night at her home. Said Anne, "only silence will heal us now."

 

 

Starr Saphir

Sad news, beloveds.

Starr Saphir, the bird-watching guide in New York City's Central Park for nearly four decades died a week ago today from complications of breast cancer.  

The Sassistas! first encountered Starr at last year's SilverDOCS Film Festival when she was featured in the documentary, "Birders: The Central Park Effect".  She did not hide that she was struggling with breast cancer, and there was something about her quiet spunk that made anyone who encountered her believe that she would be guiding birders for at least two more decades. Her New York Times obituary revealed that Starr:

. . . identified her first bird 67 years ago and began leading the tours in the 1970s. She became an institution among birders because of her avian acuity and eagerness to share observations and knowledge. But she was the first to acknowledge that the star of the show was not her, despite the nickname Starr, which she acquired as a girl and kept from an earlier career as an actress. (Her given name was Muriel.) The real star, she said, was Central Park.

Major flyways converge over the city, making the 843 acres of the park an oasis for migrating birds eager for a green place to rest and feed. More than 280 bird species have been identified in the park. Birders mention it along with places like the Everglades and Yosemite National Park as a birding mecca . . . .

Ms. Saphir, who left 80 notebooks of her daily sightings, identified 259 species in the park.

Click here to read the complete obituary.

In her lifetime, Starr counted 2,582 different species of birds.  What a beautiful way to make life count.

 

Expressions of Grief

Flannista returned home to several cards expressing sorry for Momista's passing.  So did her beloved Matissta. Jem (above) is casting a shadow above a card from PEACEsista and Momista's memorial card. The two small yellow stuffed feet in the top center belong to a stuffed duck Matissta gave Flann more than eight years ago when we were courting. 

All are on my desk at this moment, reminding me of who I love.  Who loves me.

Love to all.

 

Evening Has Come

Matissta's beloved Momista

December 4, 1927 - January 24, 2013

 

Say a Prayer

The opening paragraphs of "Who Would Do This to Our Poor Little Babies?" in today's New York Times:

Gradually, the group of frantic parents shrank and was gently ushered to wait in a back room in the old brick firehouse around the corner from Sandy Hook Elementary School.

The sounds of cartoons playing for restless children wafted incongruously through the air, but the adults were hushed.  A police officer entered and put the parents’ worst fears into words: their children were gone. The wails that followed could be heard from outside, sounding the end of a horrifying shooting that took the lives of 20 children and 6 adults in the school.

And the closing paragraphs of the same article:

Bonnie Fredericks, the owner of Sandy Hook Hair Company, said that many of the town’s children had gathered recently for the lighting of the village Christmas tree, down the street from her shop.

Twenty were gone now. “We’ll know all of them,” she said.

Beside her shop, a sandwich board outside a liquor store relayed a simple message, pasted over a sign advertising a beer special: “Say a prayer.”

To read the entire article, click here.

 

Your Brother Andy

Dear Dad,

When the Prelude ended at the beginning of your closest sibling's "Service of Death and Resurrection" last Saturday at the United Methodist Church in Perry, Ohio, I glanced up at the end of the second pew on the left and pictured you checking out the congregation like you always did from that pew when we attended church as kids.

You weren't there.

You would have been proud. The sanctuary was packed. The ushers even ran out of funeral bulletins. A traditional service, it featured standard funeral hymns such as, "How Great Thou Art," "In the Garden" and "Amazing Grace"; as well as standard funeral scripture: Psalm 23 ("The Lord is my shepherd") and John 11:17-27 ("I am the resurrection and the life"). The pastor, while seemingly genuinely touched by your brother's death, could not resist ending the service with an altar call because "Right before he died, Andy expressed the wish that everyone be at peace by asking Jesus to be their Lord and Savior." I have to confess that I am still a bit skeptical that your brother ever made such a wish, and I was miffed that the pastor may have used his death as an occasion to gather more sheep into the fold. But in the spirit of Uncle Andy, who always wanted everyone to feel welcome and never seemed to hold a grudge, I let it go. Besides, the pastor's words were overshadowed by a grandson's touching eulogy as well as a few comments from his friends in the congregation.  "I'll miss watching the sun set over Lake Erie with him every night," said an American Legion friend, his voice breaking. I shared that I would always remember how Uncle Andy effortlessly lifted his wife from the passenger car seat into her wheelchair. "That was my uncle's gift," I said. "He lifted all of us. Lifted our spirits, lifted our lives. And now he's been lifted into heaven. Rest in peace and thank you for lifting us." 

The graveside service was moving in its simplicity. Members of the local American Legion attended, bidding farewell with a 21-gun salute. A very old Navy veteran -- he looked to be in his late eighties or early nineties -- shuffled up to your brother's flag-covered casket and flawlessly sang the Navy hymn and then saluted. It was the day's moment of redemption.

Afterwards, members of the church prepared a sit-down luncheon as they had (I learned) for your brother's wife when she died. There were no empty seats in the church hall. Your brother's son, Jamie, and his wife and their three sons graciously moved from table to table, thanking folks for attending.  I lost count of how many times I heard, "It means so much to me that you attended. Thank you."

When I called you from the car after the funeral and reception, the first thing you said was: "Was the casket open? What did he look like?" To spare your feelings and undoubtedly also mine, I told you that he "looked good, at peace." The fact of the matter is that he looked emaciated. Only one word came to mind when I saw your brother: Auschwitz. His son and your sister later shared with me that his end "had been terrible."

You weren't there.

Dad, I know that I will never actually send you this letter, but I need to write it. Your brother and his wife always showed up for others, including me, and you didn't show up for him, using the excuse you've been using for at least 30-40 years: "I've got to take care of mom." In fact, when we talked Sunday night and I shared with you how much your sister wanted you to attend an Honor Flight to the World War II Memorial just as your brother Andy had, and was willing to cover all the expenses, you said, "I've got to take care of mom."

About five years ago, you sent me several photographs of you as a very young boy. A couple were of you and your closest sibling, my Uncle Andy. You included no letter; just a piece of paper that said, "Guess Who". At the time, I looked at those photos and guessed that you liked to play outside. I guessed that were a very sweet and good-looking kid. I guessed that you looked out for your little brother. What happened? Did I guess wrong? Are you really the husband who can't break free, the brother who wasn't there, and the father who doesn't show up? 

I'm sad and weary. I don't want to guess anymore.

Love, Flannista

 

Grandpa Cow

 

Last Saturday afternoon, the oldest grandson of Flannista's Uncle Andy

delivered the following eulogy in honor of his grandfather. 

 

No matter how many times I go over this in my head, or change it on paper, the following words will never be worthy of the man they describe, and for that I apologize. 

For some unknown reason, they don’t make men like my grandfather anymore.  That may seem cynical and biased, but I feel there is some truth to it.  Whether you knew him as James, Jim, Leroy, Andy, Mr. Anderson, Senior, or as my brothers and I affectionately called him, Grandpa Cow, we all knew the same amazing man.  He was a man that, if you didn’t know him when he first walked into a room, you sure did before he left.  And if you already had the pleasure of knowing him, his arrival put a smile on your face.  He was a son, a brother, a cousin, a husband, a father, an uncle, a grandfather, and a friend to all.  He wore all those hats with special blend of pride and humility. 

As a grandfather, which my brothers and I knew him as, he taught us many lessons over the years.  But those lessons usually weren’t through words.  He taught us by example, through his actions.  There are individuals who will tell you how you should act, but not heed their own advice.  It takes a wise and honorable man to show you how you should act.  And through his actions, he taught my brothers and me how to help and respect others.  That if you are a hard-working, honest person, good things will happen to you, and people will respect you.  And that even when life deals you a bad hand, that love, more than anything else will keep you in the game. 

Grandpa, I know that you understood you were loved by so many, but you will never truly know how much we all loved you.  In a world which is sometimes greedy, you were more than selfless.  In a world which is sometimes corrupt, you were more than honorable.  And in a world which is sometimes hurtful, you were more than loving.  As hurtful as it is to lose you, I would take twice the pain to see you and grandma one more time.  And I guess that continuing on in life without the two of you is the pain that will lead to our joyous reunion. 

Grandpa: Dad, Mom, Jared, Chris and I miss you so much, but we are comforted by the fact that grandma ran to the gates of heaven to greet you.  Please don’t worry about us, just enjoy the peace and happiness that you earned, and so deserve.  

 

The photo in this post is of Flann's Uncle Andy holding his oldest grandson.

Flann's oldest sister is on the right. Flann is peeking around from behind.

 

 

 

Uncle Andy

My dear Uncle Andy

August 18, 1927 - November 27, 2012

 

How my Uncle Andy loved to bring people together!  It didn't matter who you were or where you lived, when it was Happy Hour, his Night Owl Club -- the bar in what had once been his garage -- was open for drinks and laughs. "What can I get ya, honey?" he would ask me while mixing another highball for his beloved wife, Ruth. The drinks weren't as important as the laughs, though, and he poured those on with the same finesse and generosity.

Uncle Andy -- my favorite relative -- died yesterday morning from stomach and pancreatic cancer just six months after diagnosis. He died in the home he built nearly 60 years earlier for Ruth and their son, Jamie; the home our family visited at least once a year when we were growing up. Picture five small girls and one small boy whooping it up in that garage and surrounding yard. Uncle Andy loved it.

Perhaps his love for bringing people together came from long bouts as a merchant marine on the Great Lakes. His wife was the daughter of one of the tanker captain's he served. Married on Valentine's Day the year I was born, my uncle and aunt always seemed smitten with each other; this, despite my aunt's polio which kept her confined to a wheelchair. Pregnant when the polio vaccine was first issued, Ruth refused to take it for fear of harming her unborn child. She spent an entire year in an iron lung. My uncle never seemed to tire of lifting her from her wheelchair to the passenger car seat and back again.

This memory in particular clings to my heart because my aunt and uncle, unlike my parents, were willing to drive long distances to visit me no matter where I was living. Washington, D.C., the Boston area, Grand Rapids, Michigan -- they showed up to visit always insisting on staying in a hotel, but only after they bought me a fine dinner that included drinks.  My uncle even gave away my youngest sister when she was married in 1980 and more than once that day, apologized for my father. Echoing the sentiments of his father and my grandfather who also attended, he said, "Your dad should have been here. I'm glad I was."

I'm glad he was, too, because he always made me happy. Pictured at the top of this post is Uncle Andy with me and my oldest sister on his 54th birthday.  The other photo in this post was taken on my 31st birthday. I remember his call to me a couple of days earlier. "Hey, this is your Uncle Andy and Aunt Ruth. It's your birthday in a couple of days. Whaddya say you drive to Ohio so we can celebrate?"

I drove to Ohio like I will this weekend to bid a final farewell. Two weekends ago, my father called me to let me know that his closest silbing was close to death and asked me to attend his brother's funeral saying, "I can't.  I've got to take care of mom," his voice breaking. "That's okay, dad," I replied. "I'll stand up for you."

Uncle Andy always showed up for me, and I honored now to show up one last time for him. My dad should be there. I'm glad I will be.

 

Yet Another Flannery

How many Flannerys can one love in a lifetime?

First it was Flannista's matron saint, Flannery O'Connor. Then it was Flann's first beloved feline -- Flannery -- named after my matron saint. And now Susan Flannery (pictured above), the actress who plays Stephanie Douglas Forrester, the manipulative matriarch on the popular CBS soap opera (and one of my guilty pleasures), "The Bold and the Beautiful."

Yesterday, I had to say goodbye to the woman I've loved and hated for nearly two decades. After 25 years on the soap, Susan Flannery, now 73 years old, decided to leave the show. The brain cancer her character was first diagnosed with two years ago returned, and she died in the arms of Brooke, her daughter-in-law whom she frequently referred to as "the slut from the Valley".  What millions saw yesterday, however, was a kinder, gentler Stephanie who had made her peace with Brooke. In fact, Stephanie's last words were to Brooke: "I'm so tired. I'm so tired. Sing me to sleep, baby girl."  

Of course I cried, just like I did two years ago when Stephanie's cancer was first diagnosed. Following her diagnosis, Stephanie fled reality and her family and ended up on Skid Row. This led to several "Bold and Beautiful" episodes that featured real homeless people telling their stories. I was so touched that I actually made a donation to the featured homeless shelter. Daytime television has never been so poignant.

Or real it seems. In real life, Susan Flannery is a colon cancer survivor and a lesbian. I had no idea until I googled her name last week to see if Susan was truly exiting B&B. 

I've shared in the sassosphere that I first started to watch football when I was a kid to be close to my dad who watched back-to-back games every Sunday afternoon. I first started to watch soap operas with my mother who never missed, "Love of Life" and then "The Young and the Restless" when we were growing up. "The Bold and the Beautiful" is a spin-off of Y&R, and is only 30 minutes long, compared to Y&R's 60-minute running time. When I'm home, I try to catch about 10-15 minutes of B&B, but truth be told, I'm holding onto my mom. Yesterday as I heard Stephanie's last words, I wondered if this baby girl might sing her mom to sleep one day.

Daytime television has never been so poignant.