Four Years…



Some things you never really get over. I think my life can be summed up into two phases: my life before January 26, 2006, and my life after January 26, 2006. I suppose it is an obvious fact of life that your parents will one day leave this world before you, but I was not prepared to lose her. I knew her time was limited, but I was not ready to let go.

I remember that after her first surgery, the doctors gave her 15 years. While not happy with the hard dose of mortality, I reasoned with myself that 15 years was a long time. I would be able to pretend like nothing was wrong for quite awhile before having to deal with Cancer. Less than two and a half years later, I was saying goodbye.

I am not using this as a lesson not to put things off. I was never going to be ready to say goodbye.

I just got off the phone with Dad who said that Mom wouldn't want us all mourning still. I told him that I do not cry for her constantly, but this is just my day…my day to miss her. It's my day to be depressed and feel alone. It's my day to remember the bleakness of that day four years ago when I wanted to be relieved of this world too. This living out your life bit—not for the faint of heart, I tell you.

So, I will spend the rest of the night remembering lighter times and blowing my nose in an unladylike fashion. Then I will go to bed and sleep well, knowing that tomorrow will not be this day.

As a kid, I remember the stack of plastic shapes that looked like bloated cassettes. Dad called them "8-tracks". They all had a picture of the same four boys with funny hair cuts. The favorite movie rentals from the local video store were their documentaries. Dad remembered seeing that famous Ed Sullivan show the day after his ninth birthday. I don't know if I have a strong memory from the ninth year of my life, but I am sure that I had had the chance to experience the Beatles that year, I would have remembered it too. I suppose that my interest was sparked merely because it was music that my father loved, and I loved my father—idolized him. I wanted to be just like Dad.

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Regardless of how it began, my interest in the band of all bands has only grown throughout the years. Back before there was a computer with an internet connection in every home, I connected with other Beatles fans my age through email, and we would write line after line of Beatlemania-ish dribble about their humor, their temperament, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, Yoko Ono, and the end. Unlike many other Beatles fans the world over, I've never wasted time hoping for a reunion. There were never four of them alive during my lifetime.

Yesterday marked the 29th anniversary of the day that John Lennon was murdered. Listening to the lyrics of his songs, one cannot help but wonder what other truths he would have uncovered through his music. I was living the dorms when George Harrison lost his battle with cancer back in 2001. The news hit me a lot harder than I expected. I am not the type to lose control of my emotions when famous people die. True, I've never been an MJ fan (my 1980s music experience was more "London Bridges" and the "ABC" song than they were modern pop). I have spent my life under the influence of the Beatles...losing George was like losing a friend. I think I listened to "My Sweet Lord", "Something", "While My Guitar Gently Weeps", and "Here Comes the Sun" about 50 times combined that weekend.

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I go in streaks with the level of my obsession. An eighth grade music appreciation course covered the Beatles in a unit that lasted an entire quarter. An extra credit question at the end of the test gave a point for every three Beatles songs we could name. I remember asking for a second sheet of paper to keep writing. I had at that time, spent my life studying for that test! It was around that time that I ensnared my cousin, Michelle, into the strange retro-world of the Beatles. I suppose I jabbered on so much about them that she was forced to read up on them just to figure out what the heck I was saying.

We would argue endlessly which half of their career was better (She preferred the former, I preferred the latter). Neither of her parents cared for the Beatles the way that my father did, so she had never been decently exposed to possibly the best music ever. It really didn't take much before she was scouring stores for posters to hang on her bedroom walls. She proclaimed one day that George was her favorite. At the time, I remember teasing her because the other three had much more obvious personality (Sorry George). As I have gotten older, I realize that while it isn't as flashy, there is something spectacular about the quiet, gentle type.

Her name is Michelle, and while she knew that her name was based on a combination of her parents' names (Michael and Ellen), she got it in her head that she was really named after the Beatles' song "Michelle". I told her that maybe her personality was chosen after the song "Fool on the Hill".

It was great having someone so close to my age interested in the Beatles. Dad and I watched and recorded on VHS The Beatles Anthology when it aired on television in 1995. I was excited to share the series with her, and she helped feed my natural obsession.

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I won the anthology book, and was gifted the DVD series later. When "Free as a Bird" came on the radio a few weeks ago, I sighed with a happy smile, "I remember when this was released!" Nick looked at me, confused. "YOU WEREN'T ALIVE WHEN THE BEATLES MADE MUSIC." Oh, but I was. Apparently everyone does not know that "Free as a Bird" was a demo recorded by Lennon in the 70's that Paul, George, and Ringo added their voices to and released in 1995.

Nick likes to irritate me. He tolerates the Beatles, but is not a fan. I know, that should be a deal-breaker right there, but I still have hopes that I can break him. It's harder when you don't get them young enough to mold. On road trips, I have my iPod playing. I probably have a couple hundred Beatles songs loaded (plus the hundreds of McCartney, Lennon, and Harrison solo songs that he groups into the same category), so they pop up often in the rotation which makes him fussy. He likes to say asinine things such as, "Who is John Lennon?" at which point I tell him that he is dead to me and find a song where John sings the lead to blast through the speakers.


When we were in the Keys a few years ago, there was a really great guitarist at Mallory Square. His voice was really folksy like Harry Chapin, and beside doing an awesome version of "Cat's in the Cradle", he played "Norwegian Wood". I typically don't like Beatles covers, but that guy did it justice. I looked over at Nick who said it sounded like Scandinavian pornography. Again, should be a deal-breaker. He up and dissed both the Beatles and Norwegians.

I feel the need to remind him of my merciless viking ancestry.

Naturally, the availability of remastered albums has caused my frenzy to return. I know it's silly to want to buy them since I have just all about all of the CDs, but I love this band. It's like having new music again.

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I was out walking at lunch time the other day at work, and my friend Sue asked what I listened to while I walk. I told her that lately I've been listening to the fab four. Sue is…well, she's older than my father, we'll put it that way. She said she never really liked the Beatles, but heard they are getting back together again. I told her that it really didn't seem likely since half of them are dead, but she made a point to search online for reunion information. She didn't find much because SHE SPELLED BEATLES WITH TWO E'S! I told her that I wouldn't be able to look at her for the rest of the day.

I guess I've been watching Beatles documentaries and anthologies for almost three decades, and have memorized the voice of John Lennon telling reporters, "I had a vision that a man came unto us on a flaming pie, and he said, 'You are Beatles with an A.' And so we were." That John, funny guy. Spell the band with an "A", please, or you will offend me.

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As for my father, he likes the early stuff, just like Michelle. They're all short, catchy, and have to do with love and happiness. I like the drawn out, moodier, introspective ones. I wonder if our tastes in music represent our personalities? Let's not think of that, shall we? I talk to him now and then about the Beatles, and I don't think that he has a clue how much his childhood favorite influenced my own music tastes. He worked a 4:00 AM to 12:00 PM shift when we were young, so me and my brother would only have to spend mornings with a babysitter, and I don't think he realizes that my love of music from the 60's and 70's is directly tied to those days in the cab of his pickup truck, listening to the Oldies while running errands and just hanging out with my Dad.

We adopted Sophie when she was six month old, long enough for her to have been trained as a feral cat. It was several months before she trusted us as humans, but she has never shaken the "I have to eat as much as I can because I don't know when I'll get my next meal" instinct. She has had her share of medical issues since we got her, and she will be on prescription cat food for the rest of her life (read: $$$) which has a higher fat content than most. After gaining three pounds at her 2009 exam, the vet hinted that maybe she needs a little help on the diet front.

The vet suggested that we hide little piles of food throughout the house to simulate her natural urge to hunt. Okay, first of all, who has the time? Secondly, besides the fact that she's still a scavenger, Sophie is totally down with the domesticated lifestyle. Seriously, have I mentioned that she rare expends the energy to eat sitting up?



We ignored the issue for awhile, but then I saw a news story about a cat that was taken away from its home because it had grown to 30 pounds and this was seen as a sign of neglect. (More like over-loving, if you ask me.) Sophie is no where near 30 pounds…yet. Instead of hiding food around the house, I started rationing how much dry food she got in the morning, and then I give her a second round of dry food after work, with a partial can of wet food. She is less than happy with me, and usually has her food dish cleaned out within 15 minutes.

She breaks into the squirrels' peanuts when she can get the cover loose, and will even get the top off of her food canister when she finds that it isn't sealed securely. While we eat, her eyes follow the path of the fork from our plates to our mouths. Sophie has not learned moderation in all the months that she's been dieting. Even though she's still very active, she always looks hungry, and I didn't rescue a cat just so she could feel deprived.

Yet, she ISN'T. This cat does not want for anything other than gluttony. Nick was awarded a gift certificate at work, and he has decided to use the money to buy an electric cat feeder. You fill five compartments with food and then set the timer to reveal a new compartment at specific interval. Man, and I thought that dieting for myself was difficult! I didn't have to deal with a pair of limpid eyes speaking ala Oliver Twist, "More, please?"



The night of and morning after my surgery, all I could hear was a cat puking. If you've ever owned a cat, you know the sound. Being in the post anesthesia gloom that always consumes me, I kept thinking, "Great. Now I'm sterile and my cat is dying." Typically, Sophie never has tummy issues, so we are thinking that she found something to eat that she shouldn't have. Was it the orchid that she literally deflowered, or the cinnamon-scented pine cones on the table? Was it a piece of rubber from a shoe or something she dragged out of a garage basket? Hard to say with this cat, eating will be her demise.

I really love something about this picture. Our hotel room overlooked lake Minocqua, and I viewed morning from above. Trees look so big and sturdy from the ground, but I like the silhouette of the delicate leaves and berries captured in this shot.

As the old adage goes, "Pink sky at morning, sailor take warning." A few hours later, storms rolled through. The moments before the end, when you know the end is coming, always seem to be the most beautiful. Maybe it's just that I appreciate them more knowing my time is limited, I don't know. Spending the weekend in a place where I have so many family memories was bittersweet for me in 2007. Two years later, the memories were only sweet.

Coming to the realization Saturday morning, irony set in as one of my mother's friends approached me at Belle Isle later that day. What are the odds that two non-local parties should meet in a little city on the same weekend, at the same sports bar? I did not recognize her at first because I was not expecting to see anyone that I know, but I can only believe that it meant something more.

Simply, my mother was absolutely likeable. I remember being nervous that her visitation would not be long enough for everyone to pay their respects in that little church. She touched a lot of lives, and to this day, sneaking up on four years since she passed a way, people that she knew still come up to me to say hi. I guess nice begets nice, and just thinking about all of them makes me smile.

She's left her mark. Even now, looking at this picture of the sunrise, I hear her saying (as she always did), "God paints us some pretty pictures!" Thanks, Mom.