Death

Do Not Open Until Christmas

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A Tale of Two Cities

If you could split your time evenly between two places, and two places only, which would these be?


There are two places that have always captured my imagination , two places I would go to in a heartbeat if there was a way.

I know, I know- if you really want something you have to at least try to get there, you have to take the chance, make the leap or  you will for sure  never make it and the regret you feel will haunt you to your grave.

But in my defense unless Doctor Who like technology shows up in my lifetime ( though it doesn’t matter because technically he could show up after I die or before, time travel is like that)  I won’t get to go to these places.

I want to be there One Minute before the Big Bang happens

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and I want to be there one minute after the Universe dies.

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Crazy right?

Well, there’s a reason for it.

I want to see the calm before the storm, I want to know what it felt like when everything in the Universe was a ‘singularity’ (‘singularity’  I’ve learned,  is a fancy way of saying, we don’t know).

Maybe that is the time when ‘we’ were all one with life and death and God and the Devil.

Personally, I think it hated that situation so  much it blew itself apart because I’m willing to bet those four elements drove each other insane- and that could account for at least one effed up planet.

And as for the minute after- wouldn’t you like to see the sum of creation? It started here and ended up there. What gets left behind?

Does the Universe sigh in relief because its quiet at last? Scream because it’s going to have to go through it all again one day?

What happens at the moment life winks out?

I’ve sat with friends and family and pets at the moment they passed. One minute they’re there and the next they’re gone. And that void that comes right after they’ve left-  it wraps itself around you like a cold pair of arms and you could swear everything around you went dark. In reality I think the darkness is inside of you and it clouds your vision and all of your other senses.

It just looks that way.

And I wonder:

Is that what happens in that minute after the Universe dies?

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I ‘m not 100% sure-  but I’d like to see it for myself.

And who knows a minute before, a minute after- maybe that memory will live forever.

Even if nothing else does.

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Here There Be Tigers

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Home Turf

Name five things in your house that make it a home.

So are these five things that make my house a home material, spiritual are they those  little Anubis Knick Knacks I picked up all over the place when I was learning to be an embalmer?

Are they memoires? Dreams? Hope? Nightmares?

The First thing that makes my house feel like a home is the lack of mirrors.

I would have to learn three other languages just so that I could fully express to you how much I hate mirrors.  I hate their coldness, their lifelessness, I hate they way they hang there and though they don’t judge you, they make it oh so very easy to judge yourself.

Mirrors are demons.

And these demons are  not entertaining  and funny ones that are on shows like Supernatural or The Kardashians

My three black cats and my dog.

Hamish, my dog and Kolchak and Darwin and Micey are my cats.

I’ve always had a dog and cats, when I was living on my own and had no dog and no cats my house was empty and scary and I only showed up there to sleep.

And that was not easy to do for a couple of reasons.

My Grandma told me cats could see and protect you from bad spirits and angry ghosts. I used to suffer from sleep paralysis and it was worse when I didn’t have cats

I have cats, no sleep paralysis.

Problem solved.

As for the dog- well, they’re there to watch over the home. I always felt vulnerable with no dog in the house.

All of my dogs have been sweet and loyal and smart and  they’ve had big freaking teeth.

Just FYI.

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My Herb Garden

I used to have an herb garden.

I tended it everyday with my cat Wolfgang.

He enjoyed walking through the plants, he loved to chew on the cilantro and mint leaves, so he always smelled like a pizza.

It was OUR herb garden and it was an important part of our home.

And then Wolfie died and most of the garden went wild and I don’t have the heart to make it what it once  was, so I let it be what it is and that’s okay.

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The Ghosts

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Call them memories or reflections, but my house is full of ghosts.

I’ve lost a lot of friends and family members to death.

I’m not saying they walk my hallways and hide under the bed or stand in shadow choked corners ( it surprises me more that they do not ) but their presence is there.

I can feel it, sometimes I catch a wiff of perfume or a drink and I know they’re there.

Sometimes my cats and my one year old Lab Hamish refuse to sleep where Domino and Cerbie used to sleep. They’ll start to and then they’ll jump up like somebody just poked them with a pin and they’ll tear out of the room,  on other days they’re fine.

But these ‘ghosts’ are part of my home too and it would be less of a home without them.

So those are the things that make my house a home:

Memories, security, stories, people who have been there and have either moved on and some ( both living and dead apparently) come back sometimes for a visit.

My Home.

It is so much more then lumber, wires and stuff.

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The Pompeii Dog

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When I was about 10 years old I got sent to the library as a punishment ( really my teacher used to do that, she’d send you to the library as a punishment and boy was the Librarian ticked off when that happened).

My offence: I got up and read a Christmas Story I wrote about Santa crashing his sleigh as he was flying over Transylvania and his Reindeer got rabies, turned into zombies and nobody got Christmas. The end.

Oh and on that same day I drew little Christmas Trees all over the wall in the girls bathroom- I guess I was working through writer’s block. I don’t remember.

So my Teacher (years later  it was not a sad day when I heard she was no longer among the living ) who pulled my hair when I wasn’t paying attention and checked my desk for cheat notes because I always got 100% on my spelling tests ALWAYS) not only sent me to the library where I had to listen to the Librarian bitching ( rightfully so ) that she was not a babysitter, she also made me sit in the corner of the library where all of the old history books were.

I mean those books were OLD.

So after the incident where I slaughtered the Reindeer and as my teacher said, ” Ruined Christmas for the Class” I found myself surrounded by old books.

I wasn’t supposed to leave my chair so of course I sat in it scooted it and myself across the floor to the shelf and grabbed three books.

One was about Archeology. One was about Pompeii and the third was a book about War Dogs and War Horses and how they were trained to fight in battles.

I learned about King Tut, and right then and there I decided I was going to be an explorer one day and dig up a Mummy or two myself. Seemed doable from what I read.

The pictures of Tut’s tomb  were black and white and the objects weren’t staged, so you had to really put your nose down and look for things because it was all in a jumble.

It was like going on a treasure hunt. I had a great time looking through that book and reading it.,

The War Dogs and War Horse book bothered me, I had a nagging sense those dogs and horses were never went home- I mean if a dog bit a person they got destroyed right? And here was page after page of War Dogs who probably never got to go home. They were posed with medals and were standing next to their handlers and in one I remember the Soldier staring straight into the camera with this horrible blank look on his face – I know that look now.

It’s called screaming with your eyes.

But by far the book that affected me the most was the one about Pompeii- all of those people who didn’t do the Return To Mother Earth thing- their deaths were captured and forever in those casts and it was there for you to see- their contorted limbs, the way they probably held onto each other until they couldn’t- when they had to let go when they were fighting to breathe. It was awful. They didn’t even have a little comfort in feeling their friends or loved, or just somebody  touch as they died.

I had sat with people as they passed as a child. I know how important that is.

And then I came to the picture of the Pompeii Dog.

He was twisting and turning until the very end. And he was alone. Not understanding what was going on, not knowing where his family was. Maybe he thought they’d be back for him when it was all over. Maybe he wanted to find them, maybe he just wanted to run from the horrible burning world he was now trapped in and wasn’t thinking about them at all.

But he couldn’t

I leaned over that page and cried for a long dead dog.

It didn’t seem fair. That poor dog who died alone and confused. Nothing in the world should ever have to feel that kind of pain or loneliness.

I looked up and when I was sure nobody was looking I tore that page out of the book.

And when I got home I put it in a shoebox and buried it next to one of my cats.

It seemed like the right thing to do.

It was around that time I became a writer – I won contests, awards, I was mentored by teachers and encouraged by my family.

But even when I think about how lucky I am to have the support of my family in this strange hobby ( writing ) of mine- even when I went to work in a Funeral Home and faced with a roomful of the deceased in various stages of Prep I didn’t bat an eye. I knew it was where I was supposed to be and I had that strength to face it because of my family.

But the Pompeii Dog has been with me all of these years too.

I don’t think things would have been the same without him.

Welcome To Hell Anita Marie! So Glad You Could Join Us.

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Years ago my Grandma Ginger’s sister died.

To be honest, I really didn’t spend a lot of time with my Grandma Ginger’s family- my Dad was closer to his Father’s family and my Mom was pretty tight with hers. I don’t think there were any issues between the families it’s just the way it was.

Oh wait there was an issue- a big one.

My Grandpa Bert’s Mother and Grandma Ginger’s Mother hated each other to DEATH because their families were on opposite sides in some clan war in Scotland.

God I wish I were kidding.

Anyway.

When we would see Grandma’s family it was always nice- one of her sisters lived with us for awhile and her oldest sister was driving an RV full of senior citizens after she had joined those ranks herself on some pretty long road trips so I thought she was cool.

Grandma’s  father was also a Magician- which was a gift he passed on to me but to be honest I never pursued it and one of my regrets is that I didn’t.

Back to the death of Grandma’s sister.

Despite not being the closest of relatives we went to her funeral.

It was the respectful thing to do and “Aunt Geri “was always nice when we did see her and I liked her daughters a lot.

I remember there were a lot of beautiful flowers and the Funeral Director was very kind and the Minister was too.

Now, Grandma’s side of the family and my Dad’s aren’t the most religious people in the world. They’re not atheists but Church was not their thing- so the Minister I knew was probably recommended by the Funeral Director.

With that being said, you know you can’t blame the guy for what happened.

Grandma’s sister was named Geraldine and her nickname was Geri.

The Minister goes up to the podium next to her coffin and steps in front of it to lead us in prayer ( which I thought was nice). Then he takes out his notes from this nice black leather folder and starts to give this really nice heartfelt reading of Geri’s life.

The thing of it is, he must have had a type-o in his notes because he kept calling Aunt Geri

Gary.

You read that right… Gary.

G-A-R-Y.

The very nice Minister who I swear to God looked like he had stepped out of a Rockwell painting was talking about GARY and what GARY had meant to the family and … to be honest at some point I thought,

“Gary sounds like a hell of a person, I’ll bet Aunt Geri would have liked him a lot.”

And I almost laughed. I wanted to laugh in the worst way. I can only compare it to go to needing to go the bathroom when the line is a mile long, it’s wanting a glass of something cold on a scorching hot day and there’s nothing to drink and all you can think about are waterfalls and the roaring ocean and rainstorms.

I took a deep breath and wouldn’t let it go.

My eyes started to water, my ears started to ring and then I coughed and my nose ran and every hole in my head just started to leak.

I covered my face with my hands and bit into my palm and I willed myself not to laugh.

So of course the Minister mentions the good works GARY did for the community and I laughed, only I sounded like a cat being strangled and I got up with as much dignity as I could and started to walk down the aisle.

Before I got to the doors, some lovely friend of my Aunt Geri ( Gary ) reached out and touched my arm and said something about “all of us loving her so much”.

I smiled, for fear of going into hysterics I smiled and I thought it was a good chance to crack one because it was appropriate for the moment and then I hustled out the doors, through the lobby around to the back of the funeral home behind the dumpster and I laughed.

I laughed and I knew I was going to go to Hell for this, but I laughed so hard I almost threw up.

When I was done or thought I was, I started to walk back to the doors to the lobby and just as I reached for the door handle I started to laugh again so I ran back to the dumpster ( which smelled like flowers ) and went through it all again.

That was one of the most mortifying experiences of my life.

And then I went to work in a Funeral Home myself and I learned there is nothing truly dignified about death or dieing or how we act and that’s okay because when you are dealing with death you are pretty much receiving the ultimate sucker punch and you gotta do what you have to do to make it through the process.

There’s no right or wrong way to do it.

I learned that from GARY.