Milady Muse
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Author Archives: Lenora Good
Your Death, Rehearsed, Close Only Counts in Certain Areas, and Manspeak.
Two poems and a very short flash fiction.
Didja notice I’m late today? Not by Design
Yesterday, Sunday, I drove half-way to one of Thomas’s nieces, to deliver his flute (carved wood), flute bag (handmade and beautifully beaded), and a painting of a sea turtle. Turns out it was her mom who did the beading (took her a year) and the painting. She told me many delightful stories of her Uncle Thomas.
Well, you know where my mind, what there is of it, went. A few tears on the way home, made it just in time for my 4pm Poetry Apocalypse zoom gathering, and any thoughts of a blog entry were gone. Poof! Which is really too bad because I had something fun to write about. Besides me.
I am, however, binging on Ted Lasso, 3 episodes a night. Thomas and Sheryl watched a lot of tv—movies and series—it was one way for Thomas to get his mind off his situation. I have a few months’ worth of same to review and get posted, Our two favorites were The Great on Hulu and Ted Lasso on Disney. The Great is an “occasionally true story” of Catherine the Great. One of the best series I’ve ever seen, however, they are serious when they say it’s for mature audiences. It’s is full of the f-bomb and c-word, but they fit, they are not gratuitous. We finished that series before Thomas died. The other series they watched was Ted Lasso. I came in at the beginning of S3, saw most of it (Disney didn’t dump the whole series, but parsed it out weekly, and I only saw up to the S3, E4 or 5). So, I came home, took my 3 months of Free Disney, and have started at S1, E1. I’m now into S2, E6. Surprise, surprise, that one has a few f-bombs, too. Why am I surprised? It’s a Disney show. Again, they work, and are not gratuitous. Ted Lasso is an American Football Coach who goes to England to coach European Football (soccer). He was brought on to run the team into the ground as payback from the ex-wife who got the team in the divorce and wants to hurt her ex. She forgot to tell him that, and he takes it in the other direction. Well worth the fun, like The Great, it’s a 3-season show.
My desk is a pile and a half of papers, etc. My housemate is threatening a bonfire (not really, he understands), and, the best news of all—my sewing “room” is almost put together. Need to get the sewing room finished today, then tackle my part of the office.
So, for now, your old Auntie Lenora is signing off. The normal schedule will be back soon. I hope.
Here’s a photo from yesterday, note the number of adult geese and juveniles? The will put several families together and the adults watch over them, herd them in the right directions, and protect them. Ducks aren’t that smart. Ducks do NOT like the offspring of any other duck, and if a little duckling gets lost or separated, and tries to join another group, the hen will attack it with the idea of running it off, or killing it, whichever comes first. They are not interested in protecting or helping any other flock. Also, I think the ganders help in the parenting, the drakes don’t.
Funny thing, this thing called grief
Weather in the Tries. Gonna be more hot than not. But the nights will cool some. Mostly in the mid-high 80s with a couple forays into the 90s. The nights will be, mostly, mid 50s with a couple forays into the 60s. I think it’s summer, yes?
Funny thing, this thing called grief. It’s been almost two weeks since Thomas died. I’ve lost people I’ve loved before him—parents, friends. I’m a reader, ya know? Except for reading War Dances, by Sherman Alexie, to Thomas I haven’t read a book in weeks, probably months. I can’t concentrate long enough to hold the plot in my wee tiny brain. I watch the news. I don’t have to pay attention, it’s just there.
I’ll try to get a review written and posted about War Dances, but in the meantime, get thee to a bookstore and get a copy. It’s a collection of very well written stories (fiction) and poetry. Highly recommend the book.
Housemate Dan woke me the other morning at the ungodly hour of 6am to inform me he’d called 9-1-1 to take him to the hospital. I brought him home after about 3 days. I don’t hurt, but I don’t not hurt. Does that make sense?
For years, I ended every night with a text to Thomas. Every morning was an email and as he lost the ability to easily read them, texts, and then texts to both Thomas and Sheryl so she could read them to him. Of course, when I was there, I didn’t do either. But I’m home now, and it feels very, very odd not to be able to text/email him. It’s hard trying to sleep when my routine is upset. I would read a bit, then send him a text. Now I’m not reading, nor sending him a text.
I think I’m mostly through with the crying, but I find myself sitting and staring at nothing. It turns out the meds I’m on for my neuropathy is also known as Elavil—an anti-depressant. Which explains why I put on wait since starting them. Today, I’ll start looking for a support group for hospice caregivers.
I learned a long time ago that when something happens and you grieve, GRIEVE. If you put it off, for whatever reason, Grief will wait in the back room of your brain/heart for a while. And when you think you got away without grieving, it strikes, at the most inopportune time. So I’m grieving. But it’s different than any I’ve gone through before. I’m not crying so much, but I’m sitting and staring. At something. Sammy must remind me to feed him and to take him for a walk. But he’s great at snuggling and letting me know I may be a bit absent minded, but I’m still his Person of Choice 😉
I did find one thing to read, that was pretty interesting. The full 49-page Indictment of the OP. I won’t ‘fess up to the amount of time it took to read it, how often I started over, etc. IF you haven’t read it, I strongly urge you to read it. It’s written in English instead of Legalese, and is pretty interesting, no matter which side of the aisle you prefer.
As grieving as I am, I’m still laughing. It’s weird, really. So feel free to send me jokes and funny things.
I took this shot of Thomas last August.
And this is wy I don’t dust. It could be Thomas. Or Tashiko. Or Mom or Daddy. Or…
Having yourself a great week, and I’ll see you next Monday, same Bat Time, same Bat Channel.
This was scheduled to go out a tad after midnight, and this morning my computer tells me the schedule was missed. Probably a good thing. I had a typo in the paragraph above that I missed in the proof cycle. I wished everyone a “…great wee,..” and though I wish you all that, too, I really am wishing you a great week. sigh.
I’m Back!
In Memoriam
Thomas Leo “Walks Easy” Hubbard
15 June 1938 — 30 May 2023
Aho!
I came home Thursday after having the great honor to be with my EBOC (elder brother of choice) the last weeks and months of his life. We had a lot in common, we are both part Native American, though neither of us is registered with our Tribe. We both have Native names, Thomas Walks Easy and Lenora Rain Dancing Feet—we both took our names, they hold great meaning for both of us, but no Tribe bestowed them. We are both writers, he was a musician and I’m a listener. We are both artistic—he sketched people, made cartoons, was a silver-smith—I love silver jewelry, I quilt, I sometimes paint, I take way too many photos. He was very generous with his help, advice, his being.
Thomas was diagnosed with ALS about the time we met each other, five or so years ago. It takes a lot of energy to die, and we decided to become siblings of choice rather than enter into a romantic relationship. That’s not to say we didn’t love each other, but it was a sibling sort of love. And it was an honor to be with him, and his partner, Sheryl.
And, of course, because he’s my brother, I agreed to be his Literary Executrix. When I’m through crying, I’ll get to work. He’s got lots of stuff to print, sort, submit, etc.
I’m of the idea that the more we love, the more we hurt. There are a lot of people out there hurting now, who truly loved that man.
If you, or someone you know and love is facing the end of life, I heartily recommend your local Hospice. They were so good not just to Thomas, but to his caregivers, too. He was able to stay in his home until the end, and did not have to go into a new and different space, with new and strange people.
He spent the last several months wearing either nightshirts or tee’s with the back sliced up to the neckband so he was comfortable, but we were able to get him dressed for his last day, and we turned his bed so he could see the back yard without having to turn his head. His caregiver, Mikeshia, got him dressed in his favorite “pineapple” shirt and a pair of slacks.
This is Sheryl, sharing something humorous with Thomas. Probably many of the comments from his last Facebook post that morning. By bedtime Tuesday, I believe Sheryl told me there were over 70 comments in response.
These are “Bonus Sons,”–Sheryl’s two boys, who brought a very good bottle of Rye for us to toast the successful downing of the pre-meds (anti-nausea and tranquilizer). We told stories, shared many laughs, for the intervening hour before the final meds. Sheryl is sitting the chair, and Keshia is standing in the background.
And here he is sporting his pineapple shirt and drinking his toast of rye. He couldn’t lift his hands to hold a drink, so he had to drink everything through a straw–coffee, water, juice, beer, wine, soda, Rye.
I put my phone on the pillow next to his head, and this is the view he had. The bouquet of wildflowers on the right was from one of his great friends, Anna, and the roses from one of his caregivers, Kini. On the table is the bottle of Rye, and a few of his coffeehouse napkin drawings.
Keshia, his primary caregiver. He had three, not counting Sheryl and me–Keshia, Kini, and Abike. They were all super, and so caring and patient (and not just with Thomas, but also with me!) and loving.
These are more of his napkin art. The bottle of Rye on the left, and a quilt I made and gave Thomas shortly after we met. And I just received this from one of his friends:
“Half the sketches Thomas drew in his later years were studies of himself. In moods of mild pleasure, curiosity, anger, bafflement. He wasn’t a moody sort, and didn’t use a mirror, or catch his reflection in the coffee shop window, didn’t need either one. The inner reflection of the felt life got to be plenty by then.” –Paul Hunter
Sheryl took this picture of Thomas, with me in the corner. I held his left hand after he took the final meds, and stroked his arm until the end. They say that people in a coma can hear others speak, so I thought maybe he would feel the human warmth of touch as he walked that final path, and know he was not alone for the whole journey.
After he died, we all went out and cut a flower from Sheryl’s Garden to place on him. When the guys from the Funeral home came, they left the blanket, but took the flowers, and instead of putting him in a black body bag for our last goodbye, they covered him in a soft blue and white quilt.
And here I am surrounded by Keshia and Sheryl. They helped me pack up Big Red, and I came home.
Thomas said he wanted to die when he finished the first draft of his memoir. And that’s what he did. As Frank Sinatra sang, he did it his way. He gave away all his belongings, his woulda’s, coulda’s, shoulda’s, art, everything at 2:55 Tuesday afternoon. He gave away all the pains and hurts and frustrations at 2:55 Tuesday afternoon. He gave away his memoir, to me, to finish with Sheryl’s help.
I am especially thankful that we have Death with Dignity in our state. I know not everyone wants to take advantage of it, and they don’t need to do so, but Thomas was so tired of the constant pain, of being totally dependent on someone else—ear itch? call someone to scratch it. Nose itch? back itch? Want a sip of coffee? Call someone to hold it for you. Eat? Yeah. His legs were useless, his arms were useless, the muscles of his core were gone, so were his back and neck muscles (do you have any idea how much a head weighs when it’s full of skull, brain, words, etc.?) If he needed to type, he had to dictate, and his facial muscles were beginning to go, and the computer didn’t always understand him, and then he’d get frustrated. It’s good the computer didn’t understand what he was saying as he yelled at it.
MedPage Today has an interesting article—Dying With Dignity: A Look at the Advantages of the Medicare Hospice Benefit—the program is both cost-effective and compassionate. I strongly suggest you read it if you have any questions about Death With Dignity.
Thank you for your patience with your Old Auntie, while she was gone. It’s good to be home, though there is more than a little pain involved. One of the super nice, wonderful things, is some time ago, my Ol’ Same gifted me with some very nice soap and a travel tin. I used them both on this trip. Thank you, Ol’ Same. You and your gift brought many smiles.
Somehow, one of Thomas’s tee shirts ended up in my suitcase. It’s bright red, short sleeved, and has a pocket. I’m told he loved this shirt and liked to wear it on Tuesdays (the day he died). No one has confessed they put it in my suitcase, but I’ve worn it all day for a couple of days. Like having a Thomas Hug all day long. Maybe his ghost put it there?
Walk Easy,
my brother.
Sing and dance
live and laugh,
run and play
now that you can,
with our Ancestors.
Walk Easy,
my beloved elder brother.
Holiday Hiatus
Dear Virtual Nieces, Nephews, Families of Blood, and Families of Choice
Auntie Lenora taking a hiatus from Coffee Break Escapes for a short, but undetermined, time. Things are going on in Auntie Lenora’s life that she needs to attend to. She is well, so no worries, okay?
The Brave Dog is also fine. However, now that he has his own “column” and a newly found voice, he will sulk. But Spring is coming and soon the alligators and the giraffes will come out of their hibernation, and he will probably be too busy herding them to the island and keeping the hippos out of the parking slots. Life’s hard when you have short legs, a fear of anything taller than your shadow at high noon, and you have to do all that work. But he does such great job, the management is very pleased. Just wish they’d lower the rent. Or pay for his dog food.
All is well here, but your old Auntie needs a vacation. She’s heading over to the Dark Side of the Cascades for a bit to give someone in more need a staycation for a week or two. Stay tuned, she will return. Oh, yes, there will be weather in her absence, of that, she is sure.
Photo of the week:
Letter to an Advice Columnist
A Letter….Flash fiction. Who’s Your Daddy? Part I.
Why Mothers are Angry
Why Mothers Are Angry and four other poems.
Do You Remember Billie Holiday?
Weather in the Tries:
It appears we head now to warmer temperatures. The nights are still cool at or slightly below freezing but the days are scheduled to be almost bikini time ranging from 45-50F. Winds (Sammy hates wind) some sun, clouds and maybe a bit of rain (Sammy hates rain). But I have this feeling that Spring is coming, ready or not!
Do you remember Billie Holiday?
For the last Monday in February, I thought I’d highlight a black singer singing a song written by a Jewish school teacher. Actually, I was just going to feature the singer, but the rest of the story is too interesting, at least to me.
So, I asked myself the question, do I remember Billie Holiday? I was thirteen when she died. And listened to rock n roll. I don’t think I listened to R&B unless one of the DJs put it on for some reason, so no, I don’t think I remember her from my actual life memories, but I’ve heard/seen her on YouTube. And I remember her song, Strange Fruit but I’m sure I remember it as an adult, not a kidlet. If I heard it as a kidlet, it wouldn’t have made much sense to me, as I didn’t understand, probably didn’t know, that lynchings were still going on. And I had zero knowledge of metaphors.
It was while looking up some stuff on Ms. Holiday I came across the story of Abel Meeropol, the Jewish teacher, poet, and songwriter who published under the pen name of Lewis Allan, the names of his two boys who were stillborn.
I was a kid when Julius and Ethel Rosenberg were arrested, tried, convicted, and murdered for espionage. I remembered being quite concerned about their two boys, Robert and Michael and if their mother was killed, who would raise them, love them, kiss their oweeees, be their mommy. At that time, I had no concept of what espionage was. My grandmother tried to assure me the boys would be taken care of, but I never really quite believed her. Well, they were adopted and took the last name of their adoptive parents—Meeropol. The very same Abel Meeropol who was struck by a photo of a lynched man and wrote the poem, Strange Fruit, that Billie Holiday recorded and then sang often, as hard as it was for her. Her father (or at least the man she identified as such) was denied medical treatment because of the color of his skin and died from a treatable condition.
As the Rosenbergs awaited their date with destiny, I remember hearing that she sang in Yiddish, songs of encouragement to her husband, Julius who she perceived at the weaker one. They were in the same prison, out of sight from each other, but close enough he could hear and respond. I was seven when they were arrested, ten when they were killed.
Talk about degrees of closeness—Rosenbergs to Meeropols to Billie Holiday to thee and me.
Just for grins, I searched for Robert and Michael Meeropol to see what they are up to now, very interesting. This would be, I think, what Paul Harvey would call “The rest of the news!”
The rabbit holes one can find in a computer! And, time is different when one is traversing rabbit holes in one’s computer! It’s three in the afternoon when I start down the hole, and a few minutes later, when I come out it’s seven already yet.
Photos of the Week:
Entertainment:
Books: Remember if I finish a book, I review it (eventually) at https://lenoragood.blogspot.com
I am lax in posting a couple of books, it’s been a weird week or two. Your patience is appreciated.
Movies/Tv:
Haven’t seen anything but news.
Sammy Says:
My human is right when she says I don’t like water falling on me, or wind. The water is cold and it hurts. I don’t have the fat other dogs have, and I don’t have a lot of fur. And the wind throws dirt in my eyes, and sends the zombie leaves to attack me, and everybody knows that zombie leaves love to eat puppy brains and I don’t have enough brain to spare.
Sammy Needs a Job
This is a public Service Announcement:
I will be one of the three featured readers this coming Thursday at Fixed & Free Feb 23 features Don Krieger, Catherine Strisik, Lenora Good. If you are up for a night of poetry, and even a chance to read one of yours, contact Billy at Welbert53@aol.com get your free ticket to join us. Should be a night of fun and frivolity. Bring money and buy books!
Weather in the Tries:
We have high wind warnings until Tuesday. We also have fairly warm days in the mid 50s, and on Wednesday, it travels downhill in a handbasket with our lows going into the teens and our highs barely above freezing. Friday is scheduled for a sunny day and Saturday starts warming up again. And it’s going to be cloudy. Hey! This is a desert—I don’t mind the cold, but dahyamn! the clouds belong on the other side of the Cascades! Those folk over there are called Mossbacks for a reason!
Sammy Needs a Job;
This is a good news bad news story. A bit of background to explain how it all happened. Housemate Dan and I share the larger bedroom as a joint office. So we each wear ear pieces/headphones when we are watching something on our computers so we don’t disturb the other person. I have a pair of Beats ear pods. I really like them, and I take out my hearing aids so I can use them. The aids have a special place on my desk—a place that is seldom messy.
The other day I received a ring light for Zoom/Skype meetings and moved my computer and extra monitor a bit to get it set up. I noticed one of my aides had fallen off its usual place. I did a cursory looksee, didn’t find it and decided to wait until morning. Big mistrake. Somehow, the one aide was knocked off and onto the floor and, being a dog who is always looking for snacks, Sammy grabbed it and proceeded to chew.
Yummm, this tastes like my human. Crunch. Crunch. I’m so glad she threw it away.
Yes indeed, he crunched it. Thank goodness he didn’t swallow the battery or break the casing! As you can see in the photo below, he did badly dent it. I took the pieces to the nice man at Costco and made an appointment for 31 Mar to get re-tested and order new aides.
Remember, I said this story is a good/bad news one. Well, you now have the bad. The good is the replacement aides are considerably better than the chewed one, and cost almost half of what I paid for the last ones! A friend has suggested I see if I can get into the VA system for aids, but I don’t hold much hope. They declined me for medical because I have too good of insurance, but I did write Sen. Patty Murray about it and we’ll see what her response is. So much for the promises to our Vets! /snark/ The upshot is, Sammy needs a job to pay me for eating my right ear aide. Admittedly, his resume is a bit thin, but I list it here in case you know anyone looking for some help. He is excellent at keeping the Humpfolumpuses off furniture, and Hippopotamuses out of parking slots. And since he started patrolling the apartment complex we have had no alligator or giraffe sightings. He is also very good at disposing of snacks and cuddling for naps. Any help you can offer is appreciated
As it is still Black History Month, but you maybe aren’t reading like you’d like to, may I suggest some music and or poetry by Avotcja (pronounced Avatcha). She’s a fascinating person, check her out. YouTube has a few hours of her and others on this page. Chances are it’s been a while since you’ve listened to Johnny Mathis too, well, fix it!
Photos of the Week:
–famous quote by Kirkland Tree Mouse
Entertainment:
Books Read: If I finish it, I review it: https://lenoragood.blogspot.com
Slim pickin’s—haven’t finished a single book or movie or even an episode of Bab5. Colds affect me that way.
Sammy Says:
I don’t know why my human is so upset because I chewed her ear toy. It tasted really neat. Just like her. If she didn’t want me to chew it, why did she toss it down for me? Now she wants me to get a job to help pay for her new one. Oh, well. I’ll snuggle up to her, batt my eyes at her, and she’ll forget. Won’t she? She doesn’t understand, I work for treats, and she doesn’t like my treats. But if treats will help her get a new ear toy…Humans are so hard to understand.