Today is the anniversary of my Dad’s death. I was 5, so sadly I don’t remember much about him as a person. I have a few mental “snapshots” of him. A memory of him buffing his shoes before he left for work. The time I sat on his lap and played with the chest hair that peeked out from his shirt. A sad memory of him slapping me across the face for sucking my thumb (DAD!!!). But the best memory I have is the time I was with him as he was finishing the interior of a playhouse he built for us kids, and it began to thunder and lightning and pour rain; rather than run in the house, we stayed in the playhouse, with him bending over me protectively (he was 6’ tall) until the rain stopped — to this day, the smell of fresh lumber in the rain takes me right back to that feeling of being with Dad, safe and protected. My father was a good man, taken way too soon from this life, and his passing altered our lives in ways no one could have foreseen. I know he’s with my Mom and they’re both at peace now.

How do I even attempt to put into words what John has meant to me. Since we were small he’s been right there when I needed him.

As we got older and my mother’s alcoholism spiraled out of control, he and I were hard at work every night, in the mistaken belief that if we could find all the wine bottles and throw them away, we would solve Mom’s drinking problem. Ha. Then as she got well and we grew up, we remained close through the years.

And we stayed that way, up until the time in late 2022 when he could no longer focus on his daily emails to me.

John was kind, loving, generous, and a shrewd businessman, who built and managed his VW-Audi dealership with hard work and integrity. To those who were lucky enough to connect with him, either in his business or through his love of Matchless motorcycles, I say “lucky you.” To those of us who loved him, we are devastated, but while our days are darker now, we will always hold him close in our hearts. Rest in peace, dearest and best brother of mine. I will always love you.

Today, December 5, marks my twins’ 54^th birthday, and today also marks the 55^th anniversary of the death of their older brother Charlie. Baby Charlie lived only five days before dying of birth trauma, and a year later, on that same day of the month, our son and daughter were born. Good times, right?

Tomorrow, December 6, marks the anniversary of my mother’s death 42 years ago. Early December is surely a mixed bag for me, but I would dearly love to sit down with my Mom and talk to her adult to adult. Or rather octogenarian to septuagenarian—she didn’t make it to her 80’s, but she was the last of her immediate family, with both her sisters gone and no other close relatives but her three kids.

I want to say to her, “Mom, how did you deal with the loneliness of being ‘the last one’? Or what did you do when you felt the discomfort of angina, like I have now? Did it frighten you? Or did you just take it in stride and pop some nitroglycerin? How did you deal with the depression of living with your son and his two kids, one of whom disliked you and wasn’t shy about letting you know? How did you do it? How did you survive for as long as you did?”

Of course, I can’t do that, I can’t talk with Mom again. But I often wonder if she’s watching over me from wherever she is right now. Sometimes I feel her presence, and it’s comforting to think that it might be possible. Miss you, Mom. Miss you too, Charlie. You were loved.

I couldn't believe my eyes when I opened this week's edition of the Valencia County News-Bulletin. But there it was, an article about Sometimes I Cry. The reporter, Julia Dendinger, did a wonderful job after only a brief phone interview. I am beyond thrilled!!!

Click here to read the article.

I'm so saddened to report that my beloved brother John is ill and is receiving hospice care. As kids, John and I were "team-find-and-destroy-all-the-wine-bottles" when my Mom's alcoholism was at its worst, and to lose him will be losing a huge piece of who I am. I love him dearly, and am devastated by what's happening.

Well, I didn't win the top prize, but I was flabbergasted to be listed as a finalist in the NM Book Co-op's 2022 NM-AZ Awards!!! I know the competition was stiff--there are a lot of great memoirists out there--but I was pleased beyond belief that the reviews recognized Sometimes I Cry.

http://nmbookcoop.com/BookAwards/styled/index.html

I'm sorting through things and cleaning out/throwing out things I no longer need, and came across a bunch of old photos, including this one of my grandmother and me. It must have been Easter Sunday when I was 10 or 11 years old. She was "Grandmother" in the book, but she looks pretty benevolent here. I know she was only trying to help but we kids didn't experience it that way. Poor Grandmother. Poor (already fat) Jeannie.

I’ve been asked about my relationship with my mother after that tumultuous childhood, and if I hated her for the childhood I'd had. No. Just no! My mother was one of the warmest kindest people I know.  Her alcoholism was, as we now recognize, a sickness and not a character flaw.  Sadly, she never saw that.  Her own upbringing (think Grandmother in my book) left her with a feeling of being unloved, and she was sure that her bout with alcoholism was an act of evil.  She would never talk about it, and that makes me so sad, even today, even after all the years that she’s been gone.  I loved her then, and I love her now, and am so grateful I got the chance to know her as a kind loving adult with a killer sense of humor.  Miss you to this day, Mom!

When Molly was about five, somebody threw a little dirty ratty puppy over the fence at the stable where I boarded my horse.  Not unusual — people dump unwanted dogs all the time.  This puppy was a sweetie, but one of her front legs was injured and she had raging diarrhea.  I helped get her cleaned up and assured the owners, that no, I did NOT want to take her home.  

Fast forward to several weeks later when the owners arrived home from showing their prize quarter horses only to discover the puppy had eaten the whole side off their brand new leather recliner.  In the interests of saving that puppy’s life, I took her home.  I was not greeted warmly by either Dan or by Molly, although my kids were instantly in love.  That puppy became known as Muffin.

Muffin became a huge and supportive part of my children’s lives as they grew, and they loved her unconditionally.  Not so much Molly, who didn’t appreciate being tromped on or charged over by two rambunctious kids — and the feeling was mutual.  Muffin lived to be 14, and died of congestive heart failure during the time when Dan and I were separated.  Unlike Molly’s death, we were all there to be with Muffin in her final moments. 

Somebody asked me for a little background on Molly. I actually got her by accident when I went to a pet store to “look at books about dogs.” Right. The store had a couple of mixed-breed puppies that someone had brought in to sell. One was a small yapping poodle puppy, and the other was a beagle-basset cross. I picked up the beagle-basset puppy and walked around the store, just looking, you understand. The puppy licked my hand — and that sealed the deal. I brought her home. I don't think everyone at home was as thrilled as I was.