My dinner with Will

Will is the unlikeliest of friends, at least for me. He's a Vietnam vet, a former Marine. That's not the whole of it. Will is a loudmouth conservative. he's also a friend.
I accuse him of being a "bastid" (the Massachusetts pronounciation of bastard), among other things, and he refers to me as a commie.
But aside from all our differences politically, Will is one of the best people I know. If I needed anything, I could call Will and if he could provide it, he would --no questions asked.
Will and Tony Kiss, the local newspaper's Beer Guy, have been friends for many years and have tales of adventures that I'm not really sure ever happened, but they're great stories.
Add Will's girlfriend and 23-year-old food and arts reporter, Carol Motsinger, and you have an evening of fun.
"You order the wine," Will says. "Get what's good."
Being unemployed, I want to go cheap, and Will is surprised I refer to my job status as unemployed.
"You have your nonprofit," he says.
"Yeah, but I don't get paid for that."
"It's still important work," he says. "You're doing important work."
Rob doesn't get how Will and I can be friends, but friendship is about more than political agreement; it's about who you can call when you need something and about who can make you laugh.
When we got to the restaurant, Will said, "I'll get us a table. I'll say I'm the mayor."
That's fine except she's an African-American woman and he's a white man. The hostess wasn't fooled, but she was charmed and we got a table.
The bartender wanted to hang out with us because we were having so much fun.
It's true Will's a bastid, but he is a lot of fun, and I love it when he's in town.

Birthday bash with the women

OK, so I'm not the partyer I used to be. That's probably for the best. But Juiceman organized a little party for me at Mela Indian Resturant.
She announced at Eat at Mike's that anyone who wanted to come to my surprise party was welcome, but it was me, Liz, Annie and kathleen -- Val was sick and didn't want to infect us, bless her.
We ordered a bottle of wine and then our food, but before the food even got there, Kathleen had toppled a glass, which splashed on Liz's white blouse. The waitress brought over a glass of seltzer, which really does work well to get out wine stains, and Annie pulled on Liz's sleeve to dip it in the glass.
I'm sure people thought we were totally smashed, but we weren't. Not even when Kathleen dumped a second glass.
I can't remember the last time I laughed so hard. The waitress was incredibly gracious.
Next time we all get together, Kathleen gets a sippee cup.

The only thing wrong ...

I baked seven-grain bread this afternoon. It's one of the two breads I make regularly. As I sliced it, I remembered the first time I made it, about three years ago.
Mike was here, just waiting for the bread to cool enough to slice. I wasn't confident in the bread, fearing it would be too dry. It was the first time I'd made up my own bread recipe, so I was ready for failure.
But as I was looking at that first slice daring myself to taste it, Mike had already cut himself a piece and had slathered butter on it.
I looked at him as he bit into it -- my brutally honest taster was about to render his verdict.
"Oh man," he said with his mouth still full. "The only thing wrong with this bread is that it isn't at my house."

Razzing my son

Is it wrong to tell a former Marine you're going to get him the new Tinkerbell movie for his 37th birthday?
It's been a long time since Danny and I have just been silly together. His problems in his life and Mike's death have kept us pretty serious.
But the other night, I just messaged him on Facebook and told him that's what I'm going to do.
He called immediately and asked where that came from. I told him I was watching one of my socialist TV shows and there was a commercial on for the new movie, which is coming out om DVD the day before his birthday.
It was good to just laugh with him like we did in 2004, when I put a Red Sox screensaver on his computer after my team won the World Series (he's a Yankees fan). He told me he had put a Bush/Cheney bumper sticker on my car and I told him I would put a Kerry/Edwards bumper sticker on his truck if that was true.
"You don't have one," he said, and then started chanting "Mom's votin' for Bu-ush."
I pulled a bumper sticker out of my briefcase and we just laughed.
He took Mike's death hard -- we all did. But he's finally coming out of his grief and starting to find some peace.
I am getting him that movie, though.

Root for the Yankees? Me?

Well, maybe. I'm a die-hard Red Sox fan, but Rob is thinking about finally getting a new TV (ours is 16 years old) if the Yanks make the World Series.
Now, I hate the Yankees with the heat of a thousand white-hot suns. I'm a Red Sox fan.
But our TV is so old I can't have cable AND the DVD player hooked up at the same time and it's a royal pain to unhook and rehook, so I only am able to watch Star Trek on my computer, and that's just a 19-inch screen, which I can't see from the couch.
So it's not really about the Yankees; it's about Star Trek.
OK, I'm rationalizing. But the World Series only lasts a few days and then I'll be free to watch Captain Kirk and all my outer-space heroes.
It's not like I'm selling my soul to the devil, is it?

Busier than ever

That's me, speaking at a rally in Washington, DC, last Sunday. Between the bus ride up, the rally and the ride back, I was awake for 44 hours straight. I made it, though, and I got to tell Mike's story again.
I'm a big believer in the power of stories.
I thought I could relax this week but I've hardly had time to sit still. Life o' Mike is having a fundraiser on Nov. 1 and I have to pull it all together. Then Rob and I will go away to celebrate our 26th wedding annivarsary.
My house is cleaner than it's been in a long time, though. Since I'm working from home, I can't stand the mess around me, so I've picked up, vacuumed and done a lot more cooking.

A reward for a lot of hard work

I've spent the last week organizing a health care rally. The NC Justice Center's Health Access Coalition asked me to organize a small rally and I agreed, even though it was pretty short notice and I never imagines we'd get a big crowd, but we had 300 people and a lot of moving stories.
I came home afterward and took a three-hour nap.

Leisure time? I don't think so

I thought I'd have more time to go for hikes and ride my bike, but I'm busting my butt trying to get some grants written. It's going to be worth it when the grant money starts coming in, but the it's always hard to get that first one.
Meanwhile, I've done a little work on the patio and am setting up Life o' Mike's first Story Circle, an event where people can tell their health care stories and not be yelled at or called names.
Oh, and today is Robbo's birthday. Happy birthday!

A little sore, but it was worth it

Seven of us hiked up Mt. LeConte in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park on Sunday, stayed at the lodge and hiked back down Sunday morning. It's a 5.7-mile hike and parts of it are pretty steep and rocky. Val and I didn't train beforehand, so we were the last ones to arrive at the lodge. We did it, though, and we loved the views. We stoped to take pictures several times. It's a good excuse to catch your breath.
Most of us didn't know each other at the start of the trip, but it was a great group. We fit together well.
I would recommend the trip to anyone, although I would warn light sleepers to bring earplugs for sleeping. The cabins are tiny and sound carries right through them.
The food isn't gourmet, but it is decent, and the views are spectacular.
I loved that it was 24 hours away from cell phones and the Internet. No news, no cares. It's deeply satisfying to sit on the porch and rock, even if fog rolls in and obscures the view. It softens everything nearby and cradles the cabin. It was as comforting as a hug.
But it does make the rocks slippery, so going down was a little scary, but Val and Leah and I stayed close together on the rocks and watched out for each other.
My goin' down muscles are much more sore than the goin' up muscles. Next year, Val and I will take some walks along the Shut In Trail to get in better shape.

Life after journalism: Day 1

I slept until 9:30 and then made peach butter using the recipe from the Dillard House (an amazing Southern cooking place just over the border in Dillard, Ga.), went shopping for a few things (socks, trail mix) I'll need for tomorrow's hike up Mt. LeConte and I found a last year's model Nikon Cool Pix that I picked up for a song. I can't haul the SLR and lenses, etc. up the mountain, so I'll rely on this little point-and-shoot. 10 megapixels and $100 cheaper than this year's 12 megapixel models. And it fits in my pocket and uses AA batteries. I'm so excited.
Rob's making trout and grits for dinner and I'm relaxing with a beer (Highland Gaelic).
Danny thinks I've been railroaded out of a job, and I'm trying to make him understand this is a decision I made.
I was not thrown under the bus. No one has done me wrong. The people at the Citizen-Times were amazingly strong, kind and supportive of me after Mike died. They helped me hold myself together, comforted me when I didn't think that was possible and made me laugh when I didn't know I could. Sometimes, people cried with me at the injustice of Mike's death and the emptiness I'm left with.
My colleagues bought T-shirts and car magnets from me and let me know they were by my side no matter what.
I consider Randy Hammer and Phil Fernandez to be friends, along with the rest of the staff of the paper. In fact, I can't think of anyone there I don't like. No one there has done me wrong.

Last day

This feels a little strange and a LOT exciting.
Today is my last day with the Asheville Citizen-Times. After more than a quarter century in the news business, I'm moving on to do health care advocacy and education with my nonprofit, Life o' Mike.
It has just reached a point where I need to devote more time to what's important to me, and that is working for access to quality health care for all Americans.
Leaving journalism frees me to speak out on the issues and dispel some of the misinformation that's being put out there.
For example: Seniors aren't going to be killed. The provision they're misrepresenting is one allowing doctors to spend time with patients to ask whether they have a living will, whether they've thought about end-of-life issues. Mike had one and so do I. We all need to think about it, especially as we age.
Another example: It appears some people on Medicare don't realize it's a government program. It's also a single-payer system. So, if you don't want the government in health care, prepare to give yours up if you're getting Medicare, and good luck finding something on the so-called free market because you likely have a pre-existing condition and will be denied coverage.
I'll be writing grants to get some volunteer programs off the ground and working with other nonprofits to improve the lives of people with chronic illnesses and/or disabilities.
Life just got really interesting.

Mountain climbing

I'm getting ready to climb Mt. LeConte in the Great Smoky Mountain National Park with a group of people Sunday. It's about a 5.5-mile hike -- all uphill. My friend Val and I decided we can do this -- slowly. I haven't done any really strenuous hiking in awhile, but I'm really looking forward to this. My backpack is ready to go and so am I.
Once we're at the top, we'll stay in a rustic lodge overnight, then we'll hike back down on Monday. Frankly, I'm more worried about getting hurt on the way down than climbing up.

Here I am

Well, I'm here at my new blog site with all the old posts from my previous host page -- the story of my son's death from a lack of health insurance and how my family, friends and I are struggling to make something good come from it.

Tough week

Things here have been pretty bleak. We had layoffs yesterday. Rob and I escaped, but we had friends who worked here a long time who got cut. I feel like I'm watching the demise of an entire industry.
But it's more than just an industry, and being a reporter is more than just a job. We felt like we had a higher calling: to be watchdogs of government and big business, to dig out the truth and to inform the public. We have been the children of the First Amendment.
Now most papers have too few people in the newsroom to do any investigative reporting. We can report on government meetings, but we can't dig any deeper. We can write about the new office building being put up, but not on the dealings that helped it get permits in spite of height restrictions or zoning laws.
In the end, government and big business will be able to do what they want, unfettered by the press looking over them. Actually, they pretty much do already.

A good day for health care in Asheville

WNC for Change had a health care rally in Asheville this morning and 300 people came out. That's almost twice as many as came out last fall. People are getting worried that this won't get fixed after all, and they want to tell Congress that's not acceptable.
I was the keynote speaker, telling Mike's story and noting that he was one of about 30,000 who died last year.
Rep. Heath Shuler met with about 50 of us this afternoon and assured us he wants to fix it too, but the law says it has to be defecit neutral. I can think of a few ways to raise the money, but none of them will happen because corporations are more important than people in America.
I'm not sure how we'll take it back, but I'm working on it.

Talking in the rain

I was walking back from an assignment this afternoon and chatting with an older man when it started to rain. I said something about being drip-dry and he laughed and said he's lived life drip-dry all spring.
Turns out he's homeless and his camp was ransacked recently. He doesn't know who did it, but whoever did won't be punished, even if he or she is discovered, so he shrugged it off.
I wished him luck as I crossed the street and he called after me.
"Nobody's wished me luck and meant it before," he said. "Thanks."
I had been at Homeward Bound, a nonprofit that works to find homes for people and get them the services they need to maintain stable lives. The agency is working on a community performance that will tell the stories of people "across the spectrum," as its playwright Jules Corriere said. They're gathering stories now and Jules will turn these true stories into a play that will premiere Feb. 11, 2010.
It all sounds very cool to me. If you think so too, you can volunteer to help. Just call828-768-2456.

Courage in Iran

I've been marveling at the courage of the people in Iran, protesting in the streets a million at a time.

Unfortunately, the presence of a million people in the streets hasn't changed the Supreme Leader's mind about the recent election.

Things could turn very ugly there. All of the protesters are risking arrest or worse.

The cool thing is how nonviolent the protests have been so far. People are resolute but not threatening.

This was the very basis of protests during the Civil Rights movement of the 1950s and 60s. It was the way many protested the war in Vietnam.

Watching innocent African-Americans and their supporters being clubbed, hosed and kicked on the nightly news was what turned the tide in the American Civil Rights movement.

When somebody clubs a peaceful, nonthreatening person, it arouses a lot of sympathy for the cause. It's how Ghandi won India back from British colonialism.

It takes a lot of courage to be nonviolent in the face of errant leaders and their armies.

Scary storms

We had some pretty serious thunder storms this afternoon. The trees downtown were bent over, and limbs were down all over West Asheville.

I'm not scared of many things, but I will not go out in a thunderstorm.

The worst thing was that it canceled the baseball game, so my friend Liz and I didn't get to take in a game.

And I didn't get to work on the patio. If it doesn't stop raining every evening I'm never going to get it done.

Mmmmmmmmmmmm Cupcakes Mmmmmmmmm

Tomorrow is my friend, Nanci's birthday, so I made cupcakes. Chocolate with buttercream frosting. I licked the bowl, which is something I didn't get to do when the kids were little. Last time I made cupcakes, Trey was here, so he and I licked the bowl together.

I've always loved to bake -- I made my first cake when I was 9. My father joked he was going to use it as an anchor on his little fishing boat. I wasn't offended, though, because he ate a lot of it.

When the kids were growing up, I baked a couple of times a week. I made cakes, cookies, pies, and the kids devoured it all, even though Danny thought it was "poor people's food." If we weren't poor, he argued, we'd be able to afford Twinkies.

He's 36 now, and every time he visits, he wants me to bake some poor people's food.

I love it when he realizes I was right all along.

Women like us

Women like us."

That's how Anna Quindlen, Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, described women of a certain age at a luncheon I attended today.

"We all shop at the same places and we all wear black pants," she said.

She always feels certain that if she forgets her glasses -- and she forgets a lot these days -- that someone else will have a pair she can borrow.

When she and I were growing up, girls weren't supposed to be athletic, so there were few chances for us to play team sports of any kind.

We had no role models in government (except Sen. Margaret Chase Smith), no women on the Supreme Court, and very, very few in corporate board rooms or as partners in law firms. Women were nurses, not doctors.

We went out to work, the women of my generation, and we struggled to overcome the perception that we couldn't do the same work men did. We didn't have flex time or options to work a day or two each week from home.

Now, our daughters and granddaughters assume they can choose whatever career they wish. It isn't even a part of their reality that women couldn't do that.

I got to meet Anna before the lunch, and we talked about being 56-year-old newspaper reporters. She has gone on to write novels and nonfiction books, but I love her New York Times opinion columns best.

Recently, she announced she would stop writing news and opinion to allow room for younger people to move up.

We talked about that, which got us to talking about the low pay that we newspaper reporters get and the obsession most of us have with our work.

"You have to marry somebody in the business," I said. "They understand."

"No," she said. "You have to marry a news junkie who has a decent income."

We recalled the newsrooms of the 1970s -- smoke-filled, obscenity-laced and much less politically correct that today. And we talked about whether those really were the good old days.

"Go back and read papers from 30, 40 years ago," she said. "They weren't better."

112 letters for ehalth care

I'm pretty exhausted after a long weekend. We had a board meeting for Life o' Mike Saturday, so I had a house full. Then I baked four dozen cupcakes for the letter-writing party at the church yesterday.

We had more than 40 people stop by to write letters and most of them wrote three -- one to Rep. Health Shuler, one to Sen. Kay Hagen and one to Sen. Richard Burr -- to ask them to do the right thing with health care reform.

We got 112 letters, and more are promised.

Now I want to throw more letter-writing parties!

I illustrated the importance of raising our voices during our church service, when I reminded everyone of the letter-writing party.

I stood alone and explained that I'm doing this in memory of my son, who died because he couldn't get health care. Now I'm calling for health care for all.

Then I asked the people wearing Life o' Mike T-shirts to stand up and say it with me. It was louder, although there were only seven people wearing the shirts.

Then I asked the entire congregation to stand up and say it with me. It was deafening. 250 voices calling for health care for all.

That's what we're going to need to be heard above the huge health care corporations who don't want anything to change. Well, maybe one thing -- they would love a health insurance mandate that would drive even more customers to them.

If we want things to change, we all have to raise our voices. We can't just sit quietly and hope things will work out because that won't happen by itself.

Write to your federal legislators. Then write to your state lawmakers and tell them not to slash human services budgets. I know we're in a recession, but letting people go without the help they need is immoral, and no one will hear our voices unless we raise them.

The hate machine

Evangelical Christian Frank Schaeffer has apologized for his part in the hate-mongering of the far right. He rightfully acknowledged that demonizing people like Dr. George Tiller leads to violence.

I'm no fan of abortion -- I refused to have one in 1974 when I contracted a virus that could cause birth defects. I've never regretted that decision. But it was my decision to make. My son Mike's life was a blessing to me from the moment I knew I was pregnant until he died.

Dr. Tiller was performing a legal service, as repulsive as it was to many. Women who went to him included women whose babies had died in utero and they had not gone into labor, children as young as 10 who were pregnant because of rape or incest, women who had been diagnosed with terminal cancer, women whose babies wouldn't survive after birth because of severe birth defects.

I know people who are against abortion believe a fetus is a living human being at conception, but not everyone shares that view, and the law says abortion is legal. Working to change the law is OK -- violence is not.

But the media circus calling him a Nazi and a murderer led people like Scott Roeder to believe the only way to end the "murder" is to commit murder.

I understand the rhetoric and how it's intended to work. I grew up in a very fundamentalist church that preached we were "doing God's work in Vietnam, killing all those Godless (racial epithet)s."

It was OK to lie, steal, cheat, even kill, for Jesus. We had to turn the country around, even if it was by force.

I rejected that when I was 17 and stayed away from church for many years because of it. If you read Jesus' words, his message is about love and acceptance, not hatred and murder.

The Sixth Commandment (Thou shalt not kill.) has a period at the end of it. It doesn't say, "Thou shalt not kill unless you disagree."

Whether the hard right wants to take responsibility for its violent rhetoric or not, it is, in part, responsible for the murder of Dr. Tiller.

Frank Schaeffer has the courage to admit he was part of the hate machine and to apologize for it.

Loving the bile

I'm up to about eight miles on the bike now, determined to get back into shape. I'm actually enjoying it. The course I've been riding has some hills, but nothing huge. I do go off the trail at one or two places to go uphill, and my goal is to make it up to the Blue Ridge Parkway from Bent Creek. It's about two miles uphill. It's not going to happen in the next week or two, but I'm up to over a quarter mile and working on it. It's much harder on a bike than it is on foot.

In fact, I've discovered hills I didn't know were there. They're easy enough to walk because they're gradual, but I feel them on the bike.

I got talked into the Chamber Challenge 5K next week. I walked it last year in 90-degree weather. I'll walk it again, but I hope it isn't 90 degrees again. That about did me in. I walked with John Boyle, and we finished and we weren't in last place. That's good enough for me.

Our team is the Inkblobs, and the other three are walkers. Looks like John Boyle and I will walk together again.

Wading in cold water

I went along mountains streams yesterday, searching for rocks to build a fireplace. I didn't get a whole lot of rocks, but I did get to wade in the cold water.

This was the time of year that drove my mother nuts when we were kids because we loved to go wading in the brook behind our house, and we didn't necessarily take off our sneakers.

So we'd report home with our shoes making a schlooook schloook noise, and my mother would lose it.

"What did I tell you?!?" she would demand.

"She made me do it," we each said, pointing to another sister.

"She pushed me," was another favorite excuse.

So, I waded in the icy cold water yesterday with my rubber sandals on and wished they had been invented 50 years ago.

Star Trek

I have to say, I love the new movie.

Now, anyonewho knows me knows I love Star Trek. I loved it when it first came out in 1966, and William Shatner is still my hero.

I wasn't sure because the movie got good reviews from almost everyone (The snobs at The New Yorker didn't think it was highbrow enough, I guess). It's Star Trek for non-Trekkies. Robbo and I were wary.

I didn't go on opening night because Mike and I went to all the Star Trek movies on opening day, and I didn't want to go and think about how much I missed him.

So I went on Day Four with my friend Bruce.

He was a little put off by the time-line thing, but I loved it. Robbo and I agree that we could see 10 more movies with this cast.

I went again with Rob and my friend, Angie, the next weekend, and they both liked it a lot. Angie's not even a Star Trek fan.

What attracted me to Star Trek in the first place was the diversity on the bridge, the fact that people got along. It was an optimistic look at the future, and as sci-fi writer Robert Heinlein once said, science fiction fans tend to be optimists, to believe in a future.

For 1967, it was really forward-looking. Women were officers. Africans, Asians, whites and Vulcans all worked together and got along.

It was pretty cool for a peacenik-hippie.

And it's cool to love Star Trek again. How fun is that??

My coworker, Clarke Morrison, and I were talking the intracacies of Star Trek today -- deeper than who's the best captain, and another colleague called us geeks.

Geeks.

Dork.

I'm taking Trey this weekend. He loves Star Trek, thanks to Gramma. We've watched a lot of the old episodes together, and I know he wants to see it.

So, I'll see it a third time.

Biking Bent Creek

I chose it because it's mostly flat, but there are a couple of small hills.

I got on a bike for the first time in eight years (except for the mile or so I rode the first day I had the bike). The weather was good for the first day in almost a week, so I threw the bike in the back of the car and went out to Bent Creek. I rode down the first hill hoping I'd have the strength to get back up, did a couple miles to the parking lot at the Arboretum, rode a little ways uphill and turned around and came back. I think the way out was an ever-so-slight downhill most of the way because it seemed like a slight uphill a lot of the way back, but I made it up that final hill, surprising myself just a little. I did about five miles and will do it again tomorrow if there's no rain after work.

I need to take off some weight, and Laurey has inspired me. If she can ride cross-country, I can do a few miles at the Arboretum and Bent Creek. In a few months, I see myself riding up to the Blue Ridge Parkway (about two miles uphill, I think), and around some of the fire roads.

My first goal is to make it around the 3.3-mile loop I usually hike at the Arboretum. The first mile is uphill, the second mile downill and the rest is flat. Or, if I go the other way around, the uphill seems to be a little more gradual. No matter, I just want to do it without having a heart attack.

Laurey inspired me

My friend Laurey Masterton finished her cross-country bike trip today. She set out to raise awareness of an money for ovarian cancer. She's a longtime survivor and it seemed important to her to do something meaningful during her "golden" year (she was born in 1954 and she turned 54 last year).

She has done more than raise awareness -- she has inspired all who have followed her on the trip (search laurey bikes for the Web site).

I have followed her all the way on Facebook, all the while realizing I'm only two years older. As she crossed mountains and hot, hot flatlands, I knew she would make it, but to share her journey through her bogs and e-mails was extraordinary.

I kept looking at my old 12-speed Trek out by the garage, where it has been for the last seven years, knowing it had declined beyond my ability to fix it.

So this morning I brought it to Hearn's and traded it in on another used bike -- a Schwin hybrid, meaning I can take it on trails or roads. I plan to take it mostly on the gravel roads in the national forest for now. My biking muscles aren't very strong, so I'll have to work up to the big hills. But I am inspired. I hope I can keep myself worked up for the goal -- pedaling all the way from Bent Creek to the Blue Ridge Parkway. Then maybe I'll get into pedaling along the Parkway, and who knows how far I'll go?

I'll be Denny Crane

My friend Laura has a new office downtown and it has a balcony with a spectacular view of downtown and the mountains. What a great place to relax.

We're planning to spend some evenings out there like William Shatner and James Spader did at the end of every episode of "Boston Legal." I get to be Denny Crane (the Shatner character) because I'm older and fatter and I'm a Boston Red Sox fan.

I've been reconnecting with friends lately, and Laura is one I haven't seen in awhile. I sort of retreated into my own space after Mike died.

I hung out with my friend Peggy last night. She's the one who did the most to hold me together while Mike was dying and afterwards -- she and the other members of the Piecemakers, also known as Stitch 'n' Bitch.

I haven't been out to Peggy's farm in forever, and it's such a beautiful sanctuary. They have a few head of cattle, and the bull, Ferdie, is one of my favorite animals. I love the way he lowers his massive head for a scratch behind the ears, and he gratefully accepts a kiss between the eyes. He was hand-raised, so he's used to people and enjoys their company -- much like Peggy and Michael.

Peggy is one of those wise Southern women who knows how to listen and when to hug and when it's appropriate to cuss and carry on.

I was feeling angst-ridden when we met and much less so when we parted.

Girlfriends are really, really important.

How scary is it really?

Swine flu isn't like the flu we see every winter. It's a different strain, and it can be deadly. So, yes, we should be concerned. But this post on the Consumer Reports blog has some good advice.

http://blogs.consumerreports.org/health/swine-flu/

It's not time to panic, but it is a good idea to wash hands thoroughly and often. According to public health experts, that's the most effective tool we have, and it works.

Down a peg or two

Our health care rally in Raleigh was really strange.

Apparently, the state mixed up my permit somehow, but since all my papers were in order, they didn't throw me off the Capitol Building grounds. They did, however, allow the other group they permitted to go ahead too.

So, a little while into our rally, cops started showing up, followed by trucks with lots of orange cones and barricades.

The other group, it turns out, was the gay-hating folks from Westboro Baptist Church in Kansas. The minions of Fred Phelps.

What little crowd we had disappeared. People walking by stopped to listen to us for a few minutes and then kept walking.

We broke down 45 minutes early because they were arriving and setting up.

They were so angry and hate-filled they didn't even make sense.

Mike would have thought it was very funny, so we laughed too.

It's like working two jobs

I'm using the hour before I go into work in the morning to try and get publicity for our Health Care for All Rally in Raleigh next Sunday (2-4 p.m. on the grounds of the NC Capitol Building). Much of my evenings are spent sending out e-mails with press releases and photos of Mike.

In my fantasy world, 10,000 people show up. In reality, I'm told the 125 we had in Asheville was a good turnout. I want more than that. I want people to take to the streets and demand that our broken health care system stop being held hostage to politics.

Fix it, already!

So, I'm working hard to make it happen.

Life o' Mike is officially incorporated now, and our next task is to start looking for funding and go for our nonprofit status so contributions can be tax deductible.

It's whatcha call the birth of a nonprofit. I think Mike would have liked it. He loved being the center of attention.

I don't know where he got that.

Meanwhile, my poor youngest sister is dealing with boatloads of crap. She went away for two days for work and while she was away, my stepfather fell and broke his nose. My mother's reaction was to briefly lose touch with reality.

At the same time, we suspect my mother has developed diabetes and she's not happy about the low-carb diet she has to be on at least until she sees the doctor early next week.

It's amazing how our parents become more like our children as we age. My mother doesn't want an outsider to come in and help, but everyone in the house works during the day and she shouldn't be alone that whole time.

So, it's probably time for my sister to put her foot down and say someone will come in to help for a couple hours a day.

It reminds me of dealing with my kids when they were too young to be left home alone but they thought they were too big to have a babysitter.

You can't treat your parents as though they were your children, can you?

The answer is, sometimes you have to.

Among the wild blueberries

We scattered Mike's ashes Wednesday in a ceremony both moving and silly, which is just what he would have wanted.

He said before he died that he wanted us to toss his ashes at passers-by while chanting, "Body o' Mike, body o' Mike ..." We let him know then we weren't going to do that.

It took me a year to be able to scatter his ashes. I thought about scattering them on Mount Pisgah but somehow it didn't seem exactly right. It wasn't until the morning we were scheduled to scatter his ashes that I thought of the wild blueberries along the Black Balsam Ridge. He loved the mountains, and he really loved blueberries. He'd eat them with heavy cream and maybe a sprinkle of sugar.

So I asked the group -- Janet, Danny, Shannon and my friends Annie and Val if they'd mind driving a little farther. It wasn't a problem for anyone, so we drove along the Blue Ridge Parkway to Black Balsam, hiked in a ways and scattered his ashes among the wild blueberry bushes.

We all wore plaid flannel pajama pants and Life o' Mike T-shirts (except Rob, who wore one of Mike's heavy metal shirts). I wore his leather jacket and Janet wore his Slayer hat.

Then we each ate a Cadbury Creme Egg in his memory. We left the last one nestled at the base of a blueberry bush.

I saved a little bit for me and a little bit for James, who couldn't make the ceremony. I just couldn't let go of all of him.

Not my best week ever

We got back from Gary's funeral late last night. It was a lovely service, filled with laughter along with the tears because that's who Gary was.

There were outrageous stories of Gary's pranks and plottings and lots of stories about his loyalty and generosity.

I took today off work because I just couldn't face the office today.

We're scattering Mike's ashes tomorrow. Danny arrived this morning and Shannon and Janet both got here tonight. Danny's not so sure he wants to wear the plaid flannel pants, but everyone else is. Rob's fighting it, but he'll wear the pants. It's not like anyone they know will see them on a rainy Wednesday morning on a mountain trail. I mean, really.

I bought a mini-urn so I can save a little bit o' Mike. It's just so hard to let go. I still can hear his voice and his crazy laugh.

I thought a lot over the weekend about what an influence Gary was on Mike's life. Here everyone was telling this ADHD kid that he had to focus or he's never get a good job or be a success, and all he had to do was look at Gary to know success isn't necessarily about the high-power job or the big paycheck.

Gary was surrounded by friends and he was happy. Life was about being with people he loved, laughing and playing. The rest was just stuff you had to do to get to the fun part.

I hope they're together now, planning a big party -- maybe a pig roast with all the trimmings.

Rob's best friend

Mike and Gary at my 40th birthday party.

We learned tonight that Rob's best friend since third grade, Gary Govelitz, has died of a massive stroke.

Gary and Rob were pretty much opposites. Rob was the brainy, quiet kid and Gary was the outrageous clown. Rob tells a story of a teacher tying Gary to a chair once. I can only imagine what he did.

Rob and all the rest of the New Jersey gang grew up; Gary really never did. It was always worth our while to foot the bill for Gary just to have him along.

He married his high school sweetheart, who didn't seem to mind that she was living with an over-age adolescent. She found it charming and fun most of the time.

We all have tons of Gary stories -- like when he decided to build a man cave and knocked down a wall in his house without first checking to see whether it was a load-bearing wall. Fortunately for him, it wasn't

He was a spur-of-the-moment kind of guy who would start a project and then get bored with it. Classic ADHD, really. Smart but never quite focused.

Gary loved to think big. He planned the softball team picnic every year, and he always wanted to roast a suckling pig. He planned "manly weekends" when the Jersey Boys went to baseball games or spent the weekend partying in the vacation house where his brother was part-owner. There was always some kind of minor disaster, but no one was ever seriously injured.

He once planned a weekend canoe trip and showed up with a cooler full of lasagne, which he planned to heat over the campfire, I think. The canoe capsized and it was a miracle no one was hurt.

Gary loved good food and he loved to cook. It wasn't always successful, but the effort was fun.

During our annual vacations at the Jersey Shore, Gary orchestrated gigantic dinners. Homemade pasta, a variety of sauces , bread, wine ... He never bought the ingredients -- we all did. And he got all of us to work on it with him. It was an all-day affair with breaks for beach volleyball and gin and tonics. When it was all over, Gary usually collapsed, exhausted, onto the couch while we all cleaned up.

Gary also loved things that went boom. In New Jersey, fireworks are illegal, but that didn't always stop Gary and the guys.

I have a photo of Gary sitting at a table at a beach house, emptying the powder out of 200 tiny firecrackers into a paper bag, which he called a bomb. It wasn't all he dreamed of, but it did make a big noise when it went up on the beach late at night.

Gary was in charge of the Halloween party for about 25 years. His horror houses were great. He thought of the theme and Fran McKeown helped him build. She swore every year she would never do it again because it was just too much work. But then the result was amazing every year.

Gary once said he wanted all of us to throw a party when he died, and we should have T-shirts made up that say, "I survived Gary's funeral."

I'll look into that in the morning.

Starting the garden

Robbo will be here later today. We had big plans to do things outside, but it's going to rain the whole time she's here, so we'll have to modify our plans.

We don't get to see each other enough, so just being together to nibble on chocolate and watch Star Trek is good. Better still if you throw in a trip to the big discount shoe store on Brevard Road, meals at Mela and 12 Bones and a quick stop at the Chocolate Fetish for a truffle or two.

In the seven-plus years I've lived here, Robbo's visits have come to be more scheduled as she finds things she wants to do and places she wants to eat. Jaffrey, NH, does not have any good ribs joints, Indian restaurants or Creole food. Nor does it have a huge discount shoe store, or downtown hippies, drum circles or bluegrass street performers.

Anyway, I'm up for a long weekend of fun.

Robbo is on her way

Robbo will be here later today. We had big plans to do things outside, but it's going to rain the whole time she's here, so we'll have to modify our plans.

We don't get to see each other enough, so just being together to nibble on chocolate and watch Star Trek is good. Better still if you throw in a trip to the big discount shoe store on Brevard Road, meals at Mela and 12 Bones and a quick stop at the Chocolate Fetish for a truffle or two.

In the seven-plus years I've lived here, Robbo's visits have come to be more scheduled as she finds things she wants to do and places she wants to eat. Jaffrey, NH, does not have any good ribs joints, Indian restaurants or Creole food. Nor does it have a huge discount shoe store, or downtown hippies, drum circles or bluegrass street performers.

Anyway, I'm up for a long weekend of fun.

Cadbury Creme Eggs and Andes Mints

I was at the pharmacy tonight picking up some antibiotics for this dreadful, snotty thing I have going on and there was a huge box of Cadbury Creme Eggs. They were always Mike's favorites, so I picked up a couple.

Last year at this time, they were among the few things Mike could keep down, so James bought dozens of them. James overbought anything Mike could eat in hopes that it would put a couple pounds on him, give the chemo time to work. I showed up at the apartment with my puny three-pack, which was dwarfed by the carton in the kitchen.

Mike made a dent in them, but by the time he came out here, two weeks before he died, he had eaten his fill. So, when James and Janet arrived the next day and began to offer the to him he made excuses at first. But word had gotten out and other people started bringing them.

Finally, he had to admit that he'd had enough.

He started to say, "Maybe next year," and realized he'd be gone long before the supply of creme eggs. Then he shrugged and a devious smile came across his face.

"Give 'em to the kids so that can have a really hyper afternoon on me."

Later, when we were alone, he asked whether the tons of boxes of Andes Mints he'd bought me had ever turned me against the candy.

I told him I probably had some deep in the boxes in the basement. I liked them at first, but it got old after 12 consecutive birthdays, 12 consecutive Christmasses, 12 consecutive Valentine's Days and12 consecutive Easters.

So tonight, I eat a Creme Egg in memory of Mike. Yummy.

Anniversary syndrome

Memories, photos and sand gnat bites.

Two days ago I was in 80-degree weather on the beach in Georgia and tonight it's supposed to be 13 degrees with wind chills below zero, or Ga-zero, as Robbo would say.

But I have sand gnat bites all over legs, arms and head. You never see the little boogers -- the bites start to itch a few hours later and that's how you know they got you.

I have dozens of bites.

It was still worth it, though. I had a great time.

All that's left of the weekend ...

Memories, photos and sand gnat bites.

Two days ago I was in 80-degree weather on the beach in Georgia and tonight it's supposed to be 13 degrees with wind chills below zero, or Ga-zero, as Robbo would say.

But I have sand gnat bites all over legs, arms and head. You never see the little boogers -- the bites start to itch a few hours later and that's how you know they got you.

I have dozens of bites.

It was still worth it, though. I had a great time.

A little worried about the snow

Coming from strong New England stock as I do, I usually don't worry about the snow. But I'm in Brunswick, Ga., tonight, five and a half hours from home and I have to get up the mountains in the snow to get there tomorrow. It's pretty much worth it, though. I've been with Danny and Jennifer and the kids and Shannon and her kids. Janet was supposed to come but she got held up with work until late last night, heard about the snow and decided to stay put in Raleigh.

I did get to spend Thursday evening and Friday morning with her, though, and James stopped by to talk about setting up the lifeomike.org Web site for video of our health care rallies.

We have one coming up in Raleigh in April and someone near here -- on St. Simons Island -- who wants to put on a rally.

But today was just for fun. We went to Willie's Weenie Wagon for lunch:



Then we went to St. Simons Island, where the kids played on the playground:



And then to Jeckyll Island, where the dogs played in the surf:



And the kids looked for shells:



Then we went to the pier, where Danny taught Shannon's son, Liam, to spit in the ocean:



It was pretty much a perfect day -- one I hope the kids will remember. I know I will.

We talked a lot about Mike and how he would have reacted to different things. We told Mike stories and laughed and just enjoyed being family together. I love days like this one.

Busy enough to keep out of trouble

We're coming up on the anniversaries now -- a year since the doctors discovered fluid in Mike's abdomen, a year since the test results came back positive, a year since we tried chemo again, a year since it failed and Mike came home with me to spend his final days.

A year since he died.

Sometimes I can still hear his voice or sense his presence.

I stay busy to stay sane.

Life o' Mike is keeping me hopping. In the coming week I'll meet with our congressman, Heath Shuler about health care and his view on how we expand it to include all Americans. I'll try to convince him we can afford it -- in fact, we can't afford not to.

Then, next Saturday, we have the benefit rock concert at the Rocket Club in West Asheville (8 p.m., and the Rocket Club is at 401 Haywood Road and tickets are $10 at the door).

I ordered our first 100 T-shirts today. Black with white print.They'll sell for $15.




When April 1 rolls around, a few friends and family members and I will dress in plaid flannel pajama bottoms and Life o' Mike T-shirts and scatter his ashes. Then we'll visit a bit and remember Mike, and maybe cook a stupendous dinner that would be good enough for the food snob himself.

Then it's back to fighting for health care for all Americans.

Conversations with Danny

I was on the phone for over an hour with Danny tonight. For some reason, we both had a sad day, thinking about Mike and missing him. I had to leave choir practice for a couple minutes tonight.

So, when Danny called, it didn't take us too long to get weepy. But then we started talking about some of the funny stuff and the times mike pissed us off because he was such a food critic, I have to say, he knew his stuff, but when Danny took him on vacation a year and a half before he died, Mike the gourmet had something to say about every meal.

Danny regrets not spending more time with Mike as much as I wish I had spent more time with Ellen. But we don't get do-overs. We have to learn to be satisfied with the way things are now. We can remember Mike and his sense of humor, and we can appreciate that. We can find Mike in the beauty of nature or music or really great food.

His spirit is still with is. We're allowed to miss him and to cry because it hurts to much not to.

But we honor Mike in any number of ways, His life didn't pass unnoticed. He is with us still in his incredible spirit, I know he'll always be with me; I just wish I could hug him or hear his crazy laugh again.

Mallen

I came back from an interview and saw the e-mail from John Mallen. I couldn't believe it was the same Mallen, but it was.

"I had a hell of a time tracking you down," the e-mail said.

I first met Mallen as a kid. He was my father's young protege -- a young, eager reporter who also loved to fish and play practical jokes. He was a member of the family, and Robbo and I both had adolescent crushes on him.

He moved on and I moved away. I heard he had moved to New York City, and I intended to look him up, since I lived in the suburbs, less than 30 miles away.

When my father died in January of 1990, I finally looked him up. He was the only John Mallen in the Manhattan phone book. I felt guilty for not finding him before then because I know he would have wanted to see Daddy before he died.

But I invited him to dinner and we drank too much wine and cried together. When he read some of my writing, he cried even harder.

"You are your father," he said.

It was one of the finest compliments I've ever been paid.

We stayed in touch for awhile, and then I moved to North Carolina seven years ago. He said he started thinking about me a couple weeks ago and finally tracked me down (it doesn't take much detective work to do that).

We talked for about a half hour. He's one of those friends that it doesn't matter how long you've been apart, you settle right back into that comfortable relationship. He was deeply saddened by Mike's death. He remembered Mike as a goofy teenager who loved nothing better than to hang around with his cousin, Shannon and be silly. Mallen always had an appreciation of silly.

"Hey, remember Doc Levinson?" he asked.

Of course I do. He was another of my father's favorite partners in crime. He was a Congregationalist minister who had a profound, if not delayed, effect on my faith. He was terrified of snakes, and when I tried to show him a baby snake I had found, he ran, screaming, from the house. I believe he retired to Conecticut, but I haven't found him.

"Yeah, did you ever see the way he fed that dog of his?"

I didn't recall, so Mallen described it.

"He took slices of pepperoni and put them between his toes and let the dog take them from there," Mallen said. "It was disgusting."

"C'mon Mallen, you had your own disgusting habits didn't you?"

"Not like that. Not like letting a dog lick my feet and eat something that's been between my toes." Mallen always remembers the good stuff. I'll bet he could track down his and Daddy's former colleague, Doug Allen so we could call him Tinkerbell again.

So we promised to stay in touch this time. I think his wife sees me as one of the guys and she is suspicious of the guys. Mallen pretty much manages to stay out of trouble. But I think he and I could raise a little hell on a Saturday night. I'm sure the thought of that makes Rob a little nervous too.

But it's fun to have someone who remembers the good old days with me. And a wild night out on the town is a lot less rambunctious than it used to be.

Still, I really do hope he does come to visit. In addition to his own value as an old friend, I get the benefit of someone who looked up to my father as much as I did. It's nice to have people who agree with you.

Advocating for health care

We're on the way to getting Life o' Mike incorporated and certified as a 501(c)(3) nonprofit as an advocacy and education organization. That way, we can ask for money and it will be tax deductible. We can write grants to get the cash we need to stage health care rallies and talk to legislators.

I love that my bosses are supporting me in this. I'm not sure most employers would. But then, I don't let it take time from my job. I just don't sleep much so I can fit everything in.

It's pretty exciting. Since I know so many people in the nonprofit world, I'm getting all kinds of advice on where to look for grants, even in this economy.

On the other hand, we're approaching the anniversary of when we learned Mike's cancer was back and he didn't have long to live. I'm reliving those final weeks again and again in my head.

As I put together a board for my little nonprofit, I wish over and over that I didn't need to do this.

***
I went to a conversation on cancer last week and it was pretty good, but it was visioning, and I'm really not into visioning. I want to do something, as did the women in the group I was visioning with.

Talking is fine, as long as it leads to decisions that lead to action. So, the six of us agreed to meet again tonight, and we decided we want to volunteer our time to support cancer patients and their families. We "vision" a larger group of volunteers who can help people based on their own experiences.

I've never had cancer, as all the other women in this group have, but I can support family members. People don't think of them very much. When my ex-husband had colon cancer, everyone was concerned about him, but no one asked his wife how she was doing until I happened to see her at a birthday party for one of the grandkids and asked. She talked to me for an hour about how scared she was and how hard it was to see him so sick.

So, this is something I want to be involved in.

***
Oh, and Robbo wanted me to mention that she still has electricity, and once the ice melts off the solar collector, she'll have adequate hot water again.

New Hampshire is having a miserable winter. It's only risen about freezing once or twice in the last few weeks. She looks at the weather report for Asheville every day and wishes she could have her perfect little house in the woods here instead of in New Hampshire.

Snow day

Working for a newspaper, I don't get a lot of snow days. Storms are news and I have to be there.

When the kids were young, Rob and I used to try to be the first one out the door on a snowy day because the one who wasn't working was home with two constantly battling kids, and often friends whose parents said, "Why don't you go and see your friend?" before I did.

When we had snow days (and there had to be a foot or more of snow), my sisters and I would bake cookies. Batches and batches of cookies. And of course, we fought. We went outside and played for a half hour or so until someone hit someone else in the face with a snowball. That hit usually was answered with snow down the back, which was followed up with a bunch of snow rubbed into the offender's face. Then all of us went into the house crying.

My father missed most of this because he was a newspaper reporter and snow was news.

So, when my kids were young, we had to call in and ask whether they needed a reporter or an editor more because one of us had to be home with the kids.

It is kind of fun to watch kids play in the snow. I loved watching my grandkids play in 10 inches of snow last month in Massachusetts. They had never seen that much snow before.

It all lasted about 45 minutes until someone hit someone else in the face with a snowball ....

I'm getting a snow day tomorrow. Since all of us at Gannett have to take five furlough (unpaid) days in the first quarter, I decided to take one tomorrow, and it's snowing tonight. So, I'll bake some bread -- actually some bagels. I've never tried that before. But they're in the refrigerator rising overnight and I'll boil and then bake them tomorrow.

I'm loving this new bread cookbook Rob got me for Christmas. If I could afford it I would stay home and bake bread and crochet and cook and garden, go hiking, read, take pictures ... all the time. I would never be bored. Never.

Still, if I have to work for a living, I couldn't ask for a better job than the one I have.

I'm a crochet fool

Everybody's having babies, which is fine with me as long as I'm not among them. I've done my Mommy time. Now it's time to enjoy other people's babies.

But I feel compelled to make blankets -- either quilted or crocheted -- for every friend who's having a baby. I haveto finish three of them in the next couple of months.

I've crocheted a lot since Mike died. It's therapeutic to sit there and crochet. We were talking about prayer with the high school Sunday school class this week and someone suggested my crochet is a form of prayer as I worked on one of the baby blankets.

Maybe it is. Maybe each stitch is a prayer for comfort and acceptance of things the way they are. I like the thought of that. It's better than saying I'm obsessive.

Me, a target?

So, we learn that the Bush Administration's illegal wiretapping was targeted at journalists. I think it's a hoot that they might have been listening to me. I hope they enjoyed my conversations with my grandkids and my 83-year-old mother, who really, really dislikes George Bush.

If they were listening for key words -- Arabic-sounding words, for example -- they might have tagged my conversations with my Republican son or my Libertarian daughter-in-law about our government's handling of foreign policy in the Middle East.

Maybe they got a chuckle out of my long talks with Mike before he died or with Robbo. She and I talked a lot about how unAmerican the policies of the Bush Administration were. We e-mailed each other, "Have I mentioned recently how much I hate what this administration is doing?"

It reminds me of the time a friend of mine learned there was a file on him at the FBI because he went to an anti-war demonstration on his college campus during the Nixon Administration.

Really, my life is pretty boring, even though I do write a lot about the government's failures on social issues like health care, low wages and homelessness.

I attended an anti-war demonstration before the illegal war in Iraq was started (Bush called the millions who protested, "irrelevant") and I wrote about it in an opinion piece.

I go to work, do my job, teach Sunday school, hold health care rallies and then go home and crochet, read, garden, cook ...

It's all so subversive. I guess I deserved being spied on.

What a trip!

It was a typical winter Northeast Tour except Rob came along. We spent two days with our friends, Bruce and Fran, in central New Jersey. On Thursday we watched "The Producers," Mel Brooks' first movie. Their daughter, Katie, now 21, grew up watching it at least once a year. Mike loved it too, and used to join us reciting the lines. It was good to watch it again.

We had 17 people at the January Jersey Gang dinner, and we were as rowdy as ever, ate too much as we do every year, and had a ball. We may be getting older, but we can still have a good time -- with less liquor and an earlier bedtime. We made it to 1:30 a.m. this time, though.

We made it to Massachusetts late Saturday afternoon and Danny and Jennifer and the kids arrived at the hotel just a few minutes after we did. We went to see my mother and got to see video of my nephew's wedding in Las Vegas on Dec. 30. No, they didn't elope -- her parents live there.

But the upshot is, if they don't move away before they start a family, my mother will get to be close to at least one of her great-grandchildren. And I don't see Paul and Kim moving far away. They're close to her and to my sister.

We got to see the dogs, all of whom loved Trey. He got on the floor and let them kiss his face, then he tossed tennis balls for them. He never gets tired of it.

Then on Sunday it snowed. And it snowed. We got about 10 inches, and the four kids, who've never seen that much snow, loved it. Fortunately, my sister-in-law had a ton of gloves, snow pants and waterproof jackets. So, after a half hour of getting them dressed for snow, they went out, made snow angels, started a snowball fight and then came in crying because somebody hit somebody else in the face with a snowball. So, all the wet stuff went into the dryer nd the kids watched football.

Today was hell, though. We started home and planned to make it into Virginia, but an hour into Pennsylvania, it started to snow again, and then traffic stopped. Two hours later, we learned there was a 22-car pile-up two miles ahead and it would be at least four hours more before it was cleared up. After three hours there, people started turning around and heading back toward the previous exit in the breakdown lane. We made it the three miles in less than an hour, but we had to take a seondary road south and it was hilly, curvy and icy. Then we ran into freezing fog and then the windshield washer fluid ran out.

We finally made it to a motel, but it was he most harrowing drive I've ever made and I've spent entire winters in Maine and Wisconsin, not to mention learning to drive in Massachusetts in winter.

Oh, and I somehow pulled a muscle in my lower back and it hurts. Can you hear me whine??

Family gatherings

I love gatherings of the Phipps part of my family. Because I wasn't born a Phipps, I can be a less attached observer.

I love all of them because they're so full of life -- so wonderfully brassy and bawdy and Irish. It's why I fit in so well. It eases the loss a little to sit and talk about Scott with them because the stories are so vivid it almost seems as though he's with us -- and perhaps he is, like Mike still is.

Burton and Tommy are so much alike that they get on each other's nerves. Burt says Tommy is insensitive to his feelings; Tom says Burt is self-centered because he can't see his pain Both are devastated by Scott's death. Tom wanted to open the urn and touch Scott's ashes, as though that would bring him closer to Scott again.

"Why is life so unfair?" he asked at the cemetery.

"It just is," I told him. "Marc died in 1980, Mike and Scott died this year and there seems to be no reason for any of it. We can hold them in our hearts."

Most of us go through our lives not thinking much about the unfairness of life until some like this happens.

Scott lives on in his kids. Nathan, his youngest, is a junior at the Rhode Island School of Design. Scott was the only architect I know of to have gotten his license without having a college degree. He was brilliant and incredibly talented.

On the back of a handout about Scott was one of his most recent home designs -- a huge house -- and the Biblical quote, "In my father's house there are many rooms..."

My stepmother had a hard day, but after the service was over and she was with family, she was OK. Burt will stay with her for awhile. He takes good care of her.

Burt is legally blind and because he can't drive anymore, my stepmother loves to take him places. The problem is, once he's in her car, he's trapped into whatever adventure she wants to have that day. My father always loved that. They wound up on Cape Cod or in Naragansett, southern New Hampshire or at one of the beaches in South County, RI. Sometimes she took him out to drive along the Mohawk Trail in western Massachusetts. He never felt like he was homebound because she got him out of the house almost every day, even though it took hours to get him out of bed and ready.

Barbara's kids got their love of life and their sense of humor from her. She's loud and funny and her granddaughter, Laurie, says her younger daughter has that same loud voice and crazy disposition.

Kenny, the oldest, is the rock of the family. He's a good, solid, dependable and pretty funny person. He and Linda married shortly after they got out of high school and are still enjoying being together. When he drives, she rides shotgun and navigates for him. I had to ask how Ken gets to work on his own without her there because it seems she really does keep him on the right track.

Sally, the only daughter and the youngest, always adored my father. She married a wonderful man, a kind and devoted husband who never gave up while she was in a coma from encephylitis for weeks. It was an incredubly slow recovery and there are still residual effects that leave her unable to work, although she's capable of taking care of her two sons now. But Kevin has been womderful. Even when her doctors thought she wouldn't recover, Barbara, Kevin, Kenny and Scott believed she would be OK. They sat vigil by her bedside, talked to her, prayed with her. She heard them and came back.

I feel very lucky to be a part of this family. It has been a great gift in my life. And I will miss dear, sweet, silly, fatithful Scott.

Another blow

My stepbrother, Scott Phipps was killed in a single-car wreck last night. I still can't believe it's real.

He had just turned 53 and he was full of life. He had a wonderful, silly sense of humor, and he was the one who always made everyone laugh with his dreadful puns.

During Mike's illness and after he died, Scott sent me beautiful, simple prayers via e-mail. He was eloquent.

He was deeply spiritual -- the last time I was at his house, he, his wife, Rosalie, and I sang old Baptist hymns in three-part harmony. His daughter is my namesake.

Scott was one of seven kids -- six boys and a girl -- that my stepmother brought to the marriage. My father brought four daughters and a son. The Christmas parties were pretty much pandamonium with all of us, our spouses and kids crammed into the house. My stepmother loved it, and so did I.

Then my stepbrother, Mark, died in an accident in 1980, and my father died 10 years later, and the parties kind of fell apart.

But we all kept in touch. I love them all, and I just don't know what to do with my emotions here.

I'm still in shock.

I thought I was OK

I took the day off today so I could get some last-minute things done -- bake bread, take the bag of gifts for a foster child over to the mall, wrap gifts ...

Instead I feel a bit paralyzed. Something's not right and I can't seem to proceed as though all were well.

I'm missing Christmas as it used to be. As it draws closer, I miss Mike more and more. By this time, he would have been hounding me with "What'd you get me?" phone calls and loud complaints about the crowds and traffic and how rude and nasty some Christmas shoppers could be.

That's why he loved Thanksgiving so much -- it wasn't about buying.
He never did have much money to buy things, especially once he got sick.
Three years ago, he made the January trip with me, to visit friends that Rob grew up with who had become extended family and for the annual post-Christmas party at my sister's. It would be her last Chrtistmas, and she was the Christmas person in our family.
Ellen celebrated extravagantly, with Father Christmas figures in every room, a Dickens Village that took up a quarter of the dining room and a tree that took up half the living room. She cooked for weeks in advance of Christmas, and often fed 20 or more people on Christmas Day, the day before her birthday.
You couldn't hate Christmas at Ellen's house, and she never took down her decorations until after the family party. It was the one Christmas thing Mike looked forward to.
Eventually, the kids grew up, married and started bringing their own children, making the same treasured memories they carried.
I have photos and memories of Mike holding his brothers' and his cousins' kids, wrestling with his cousins, stuffing himself, sitting on Santa's lap, cuddling with Ellen's dog, a boxer named Dottie.
I miss him and Ellen terribly this Christmas.
I'm not OK.

Still in the dark in NH

Robbo's being told now that her power will be out at least another week. She's lucky, though. She heats her house with wood and cooks with propane. Some people have tried cooking indoors with charcoal grills, which is downright dangerous. A lot of peopple have no heat, and New Hampshire isn't known for its warm winters.

They got another snowstorm today, a real blizzard, according to Robbo.

So, she and a few thousand other people will be in the dark for Christmas. It shows just how fragile our national power grid is. We haven't invested in keeping it strong. In fact, we've ignored it like we've ignored all of our infrastructure. People are dying in New England because we can't get the power back up.

I grew up in Massachusetts and lived in Maine and Wisconsin. I've lived through some enormous snow and ice storms and I've never seen power out this long -- well, except for Katrina on the Gulf Coast.

One would think we could do better than this.

***

I hadn't been in a big toy store for awhile, but I found myself in a big box toy store today. I was looking for toys for a 3-year-old boy and I was amazed at how few things were not connected to a cartoon, a Disney character or a children's TV show. Even trucks and balls had corporate entertainment crap all over them.

Mike came by his dislike of commercialism and greed honestly. I wanted to stop people in the narrow aisles and shake them. My grandkids always got craft and art supplies and books, and they loved them. They get a big kick out of my anti-commercialism, especially when Mike chimed in to complain with me.

It took me over an hour to find a half dozen gifts that didn't connect to TV or the movies. I got a Nerf football, Crayons, a plain old truck (Tonka) and Legos. I wound up getting a Hulk figure because the kid is crazy about the Hulk.

A rainbow!

I was walking my friend Kathryn out to her car this afternoon and there was this gorgeous rainbow, just for us. Of course, I dashed back upstairs for my camera.

Robbo is still without power.

The seemingly never-ending saga

Still no power at Robbo's house. She called the governor's office this morning to complain that the hardest-hit region is the last to get attention. Right now it looks like it will be sometime next week before the power is back on.

Hauling water from a stream is a way of life in some parts of the world, but we Americans aren't too used to it, and it's no fun in subfreezing temperatures.

They put up the Christmas tree, and she says it's lovely even without the lights. But she wants the lights and might leave them up until March to make up for not having them now.

It has been a week since the ice storm and the forecast is for freezing rain tomorrow and snow the next couple of days.

I'm so glad we moved to Asheville.

Live long and prosper

Robbo and Tim still don't have power, and aren't likely to have it restored before the weekend. The romance of the matching headlamps is wearing off as they have to trudge to the stream for buckets of water and there's no TV, no Internet. They're showering at the Y and recharging cell phones at work, although they live so far out in the woods that their cell phones don't work at home.

All this is fun for a day or two because they have heat and they can cook, but not for a week or more.

*****

I decorated the Christmas tree last night. Six strands of 150 lights and two strands of 200. Putting the ornaments on was a little hard. I put the three that Michael made near the top of the tree, plus the memorial ornament I got from CarePartners Hospice in his name. Then I put the memorial ornament to my sister nearby and the fishing creel ornament that Mike and I bought together after my father died in 1990. The ones for Daddy and Ellen weren't so hard this year, but Mike's made me sad.

Then there was the Star Trek ornament. We found it in a Hallmark store in the 1980s -- probably 1988. I don't even know what we were doing in a Hallmark store since he hated chain stores even then. It might have been the ornament that drew us in.

It's a shuttlecraft, and it plugs into a socket on the light strand. When you push the button, Leonard Nimoy's voice says, "Shuttlecraft to Enterprise, shuttlecraft to Enterprise. Spock here. Happy holidays. Live long and prosper."

Well, we were both totally enchanted. But it was $24. For one ornament. But it was Star Trek and it was Spock. But it was $24. It could be argued that the thing was a collectible, but we weren't in it for the investment.

We stood and looked at it and pressed the button again and again. I'm sure we annoyed the poor store clerk, who had probably heard it many too many times.

Finally, Michael said, "I'll pay half if you leave it to me in your will."

So, I took the $12 from him.

I never expected I'd have to worry about who gets it.

But I smiled when I pushed the button. And I pushed it again for Michael. And again for me. And again for Michael.

Happy holidays. Live long and prosper.

*****

One of the reasons Michael wasn't overly enthusiastic about Christmas was that he managed an Auntie Ann's Pretzel store at a mall in Albany, NY. Just before Thanksgiving, mall management put three animatronic bears right outside the store and they sang "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" all day long.

Again and again and again in a never-ending, hellish loop.

People would stop at the pretzel counter, rude and nasty as they rushed to shop and buy unnecessary crap, and the bears kept singing the same song again and again and again.

He was never the same after that Christmas.

The ice storm

My sister and her husband are in the middle of that epic ice storm that hit the Northeast. I wasn't sure I'd be able to get through when I called tonight, but Tim picked up.

They heat the house with a woodstove, so they're warm They have a propane stove, so they can cook, and the porch is cold enough for all the food in the refrigerator. In fact, they were cooking dinner when I called.

And -- this is so romantic I can hardly stand it -- they have matching headlamps. How sweet is that? Robbo and Tim are such a romantic couple.

They had a couple of oil lamps going, so they weren't completely in the dark

There are two things that are a bit inconvenient, though: the well pump is electric, so they're trudging to a nearby stream for water. It takes a bucket to flush the toilet.

"I wish I'd thought to fill the bathtub before we went to sleep last night" Robo said.

The worst, though, is that there's no TV. There's nothing to replace the TV except reading and conversation, which is OK for a day or two, but power could be out for several days.

For a couple of days, it's an adventure; for any longer than that it's a royal pain in the butt.

BFF

I talked to Glo last night. We were best friends in high school, and even though she moved to Michigan right after high school, we've kept in touch over the years. Sometimes it's been a year or more between conversations, which it was this time. But the instant we hear each other's voices, we're back in high school.

Glo didn't know Mike died. I got her Christmas card and I realized it's been since last Christmas.

We were on the phone for an hour, laughing and crying about Mike, about the twins she lost more than 30 years ago before care for premature babies consisted of more than cross-your-fingers.

Glo is an oncology nurse. She has sat with many, many people as they've slipped away.

She asked me how old Mike was and I told her. 33.

"Somebody told me right after he died he was the same age as Jesus," I said.

She burst out laughing at the thought of one of my kids being compared to Jesus.

We laughed about the "cancer card" and the "dead kid card"

"Hey, you gotta use what you got," she said.

We talked about airline security being more lax for us as we get older.

"They let me take my crochet hook on the plane," she said. "I think it's the gray hair. They don't see me attacking the pilot with it. It's a kind of profiling I can live with."

She still remembers the story of how my crocheting was confiscated once by an overzealous guard at a courthouse.

I remember the year she came to visit over Thanksgiving. We hadn't seen each other in 12 years and the kids were sure we wouldn't know each other. Of course, we did, and we cried as we hugged.

"If you're so happy, why are you crying?" Michael asked.

"Sometimes you're too happy to laugh," she answered.

"How did you know each other?" Danny asked.

"If you're really lucky, you'll have a best friend you won't forget, no matter what," she said. "And as soon as you're together again, it's like you were never apart."

Still working at it

I'm trying really hard, and there's nothing like a trashy Christmas tree to warm the heart to Christmas. I stopped at Rite Aid on the way into work and got this 4-foot fiberoptic tree and two $2 boxes of ornaments.

Topping this wonderful tackiness is the hideous clown my mother bought me for Christmas several years ago. It's an Annalee doll, which supposedly is a collector's thing. I don't collect them. In fact, I don't like clowns (or mascots), and this one is particularly awful.

But I needed a tree topper and the plastic star I bought was too heavy. So there was Freako, and up he went.

My editor, Bruce, said the tree needs more lights, but you don't want to overwhelm the fiberoptics. One has to be careful not to overdo.

My real tree is entirely different -- just white lights, no blinking, mostly hand-made (by me) ornaments and no tinsel. We'll put that up this weekend.

But dressing up the office has made me feel a little better -- a little sillier. I needed that.

Can't you just hear Christmas bells ringing?

Trying to catch the spirit

I'm not spending my days crying; I'm not even particularly depressed, but I am apathetic about the holidays.

I always finished my shopping before Thanksgiving because I don't like crowds and I'm not really into the commercialism of the holidays. I always addressed my Christmas cards by Dec. 1 and had them in the mail by the 7th.

Not this year.

I've procrastinated and now I'm getting caught up in the worst part of Christmas. I hate to feel rushed, but here I am, forcing myself to address a few cards a day and stopping in at Target on my way home from work. I absolutely refuse to go to the mall between Thanksgiving and New Year's.

I've scaled way back this year. I'm not using any credit cards because I won't go into debt buying things people don't need -- or even want.

I've made a ton of hats and scarves, little purses that are the perfect size for makeup ot jewelry, potholders and dishcloths, jewelry and jams and jellies. Most people will get these things. Crocheting, quilting and making jewelry are therapeutic for me these days. It's hard to just sit.

Maybe next year will be easier.

Today was Mike's favorite holiday because it was all about tradition and food, and it wasn't all about being a consumer.

Janet and I talked about that this morning. I'm working the late cops shift here at the paper, but Janet wanted to spend at least part of Thanksgiving with us. So she arrived last night and we talked late into the night, as we usually do when we get together. Mike used to leave us to our gabbing and go to bed.

Mike was always all about the food, and he loved traditional Thanksgiving food. What he really loved was my traditional Thanksgiving food. It had to be bread stuffing. And there had to be both apple and chocolate cream pies for dessert. There had to be a ton of gravy because he just poured it on until the entire plate was swimming in it. I had to make my cranberry bread so he could slather my apple butter onto it. I couldn't deviate from the norm because Thanksgiving was a day for tradition, whether I cooked on Thursday or Friday.

We always went around the table and talked about what we were thankful for, and there was always laughter.

I didn't know last year that it would be my last Thanksgiving with Mike, although if I had been honest with myself I would have seen it. He was weak, thin and in pain, even though none of the tests the doctors performed came back positive for cancer.

But he was thankful for friends and family and for every day he was alive. I was thankful for his life, too. I still am. I'm thankful for Janet and her devotion to our advocacy and education efforts on lifeomike.org. I'm thankful for Danny and what a good man he has become, and for Jennifer and the kids -- for all my family and friends, really.

Walking downtown today, I was wished a happy Thanksgiving by a group of homeless men. I smiled back and wished them the same, then said a prayer that they will be fed, warm and safe tonight.

We can choose to think about all the negatives on Thanksgiving or we can count the blessings we do have. I have a home, a job, my health and people who care about me. You can't ask for more than that.

Gifts from Mike's spirit

I can't explain why, but I ached to touch Mike again yesterday. I just wanted to touch his hand or stroke his hair, and it wouldn't go away.

Then last night, I dreamed we were at a family party, grownups on the couch, kids on the floor, and Mike was sitting in front of me. I reached out and stroked his hair, and then I tousled it, and he turned around and said, "Mom!" I smiled and moved his hair back into place. It was what my sister, Robin, calls a gift from Mike's spirit.

I was telling Danny about it today and he told me he saw a beautiful bird the other day and it was just watching him. He said he thought it was Mike, just checking in. He realized it was entirely illogical, but he sensed it was Mike. I believe it was.

I do believe that if we're open to these opportunities to connect with the spirits of people we love, we can, in brief, fleeting moments, be with them. I have felt my sister with me and I have felt Mike, and I know it was them connecting, just for a moment.

Thanksgiving will be hard, because Ellen and I always called each other the night before to talk about what we were cooking and how many we were cooking for . She always won that competition.

Mike always stole as much stuffing as he could before it even got to the table, then ate half of it during the meal. It was his favorite thing. He could eat it hot or cold. I stuffed the bird and then cooked an extra pan of it because he ate so much we needed the extra for the rest of us.

Danny told me today he's thinking about trying to cook turducken for Christmas. That was MIke's most triumphant holiday meal. And that same day, Janet made one of the most decadent chocolate cakes I've ever tasted. Danny and Jennifer and the kids were here. It was the last holiday we would all spend together, except for Easter this year, which was a week or so before he died.

What I saw today

I was walking back from getting coffee with John Boyle and Nanci Bompey -- a 2:30 p.m. daily ritual for us -- and a street person walked by us and crossed the street. He was wearing one of the hats I made.

How cool is that??

I crochet as therapy. If I'm sitting down, I usually have my crocheting in my lap. After my sister died two years ago, her spouse gave me a couple of large plastic bags filled with yarn. It sat around for awhile until I decided the skeins of yarn were enough for hats and scarves, but not enough of any one color or type to make a sweater or afghan, so I started making hats and scarves for people who are homeless. I called the project My Sister's Yarn and asked other people to make things too.

Last year we donated dozens of hats and scarves, new socks, used jackets, sweaters and other warm things to A-HOPE, a day program for homeless people, and Zachaeus House, a church, clothing closet and food pantry for homeless people.

But today was the first time I've seen one of the hats I made on someone. It was made with some of my sister's yarn, and I think she'd like that. She'd crack a joke about me still being a bleeding-heart hippie, but she'd like it.

Thinking about gatitude

I've been thinking a lot about Thanksgiving this week. We in the newspaper business usually work ahead. I've been reading religion briefs and calendar for this week, and there it is. I've ordered the turkey and will start baking and freezing things this weekend.

Some days I feel like I'm just going through the motions. This is my first holiday season without Mike. This is the first year he won't stand there eating stuffing before it hits the table, the first time he won't be there to imitate Danny's adolescent "I have nothing to be thankful for!" rant.

Still, when I go a little deeper, I have much to be thankful for. I got to be his mom for 33 years. I got to be the butt of his practical jokes. He loved me even when I wasn't lovable and I returned the favor.

I got to spend his last days with him, in community with his friends and the rest of the family.

In these hard times, I still have plenty to be thankful for: a roof over my head, a job that pays the bills, food, and most of all, my family and friends. It's hard to sink into a hole and feel sorry for myself when so many things about my life are still good.

Mike's death has been devastating to me -- to all of us who loved him -- but it has led to our advocacy work, and that could help a lot of people not lose somebody they love.

A clergyperson asked me today whether I'm angry with God about Mike's death.

The answer is no. I'm angry about the public policy that allwed him to die -- that allows 30,000 people to die every year. That's not God's fault. God gave humans free will and this is what we've done with it -- allowed greed to become public policy.

In 1984, the theme for Ronald Reagan's second presidential campaign was "Are you better off than you were four years ago?"

My question is: Are we as a nation better off when each of us only thinks about ourselves?

I think we might be coming out of that pre-kindergarten I-got-mine-get-your-own phase as a society.

Now, there's something to be thankful for.

We just came for the food

Rob and I have been in Cape May, NJ, this week to celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary. This is where we came on our honeymoon, and we love it here in November. It's not terribly crowded and our favorite restaurants are open.

Rob and I are foodies. We love good food, well prepared and presented. We don't indulge on a lot of things, but we do love food. Mike was the same way. I loved to take him to good restaurants because he appreciated the food.

Danny loves tasty food, but he's not as picky about all that goes with it. He used to tease Mike about how critical he was of almost every restaurant they went to. He tells me, "You sound like Mike," when I say the tuna should be rare or the risotto is sticky. I guess you could say he has more of an appreciation for what's put in front of him most of the time. With four kids, you don't get to the four-star restaurants very often unless you're the recipient of a government bailout.

This is also the 25th anniversary of the time Rob's mother made meatloaf for the boys. It was dreadful -- mushy, almost gelatinous in the middle from too many eggs and not enough cooking time, and with no spices. Really awful. But when she asked who wanted meatloaf for supper, both Danny and Mike agreed enthusiastically. They loved my meatloaf. How were they to know?

Mike took a couple of bites and decided it would be better to go hungry. He said he had developed a stomach ache and wanted to go to bed. Danny, not wanting to hurt her feelings, took a second helping.

After that, he saw to it that there was never any ground beef in the house when she came to visit. Once, when she was looking after them for a weekend, she sent him to the store to get some and he came back and said the store was out.

And while he's not one to complain about food in a restaurant most of the time, he does get enthusiastic about good food prepared well. His favorite restaurant in Asheville is Early Girl Eatery, which uses fresh local ingredients. One time we were there he ordered three breakfasts because he couldn't decide and he wanted to try them all.

That was one place MIke never complained about either. But my grandkids aren't into imaginative food preparations, so they'd rather go somewhere else.

That's the thing about kids. You can expose them to fine foods, but they're just not ready for it. My parents understood that and had dinner by themselves on Saturday nights sometimes. I think my grandkids will gain an appreciation for good food, as soon as they make enough money to be able to afford it.

Anyway, Rob and I have had a half dozen incredible meals this week, and a couple of overpriced disappointments. A couple of favorite things: The chocolate and bananna bread pudding at the Black Duck, the creme brulee at the Blue Pig Tavern, the tuna at Freda's, the scallops at the Ebbitt Room ...

We walked an average of four miles a day to be able to eat like this. It's worth the effort.

So you want a dog

The Omabas are looking for a dog.

Let me be the next in a long line of people offering advice.

Get a rescue.

That doesn't mean the dog would have to be a mixed breed. You can get a poodle, a Labrador retriever, just about any kind of dog. I once had a beautiful purebred cocker spaniel that was a rescue dog. She just happened to be in the shelter the day I went looking.

And my co-worker, John Boyle, found a purebred Bassett hound.

Most shelters will take a request if you really want a specific breed, especially if you have a specific need like a child with allergies, as the Obamas do.

We got our dog, Beasley, from Animal Compassion Network, a local rescue organization. He's 7 now and a spoiled, adored member of our faamily. We describe him as mostly Lab. We don't have any idea what else is in him, just that he's a mutt.

It sends a good message to people -- that you care about saving an animal somebody else didn't want, that you're willing to take responsibility when somebody else couldn't or wouldn't.

And I think rescue dogs know how lucky they are, and they're grateful.

Smacked by Christmas

I always like to get a jump on Christmas. I buy my cards just after Election Day write them out and address them before Dec. 1.

So, I went shopping for cards tonight, and I began to get an uneasy feeling as I looked through the boxes. Did I want a card that said, "Peace," like I usually get? Did I want something warm and fuzzy, religious, amusing?

I usually love this task, but the uneasiness kept growing until I realized what it was. What I want is Mike. This is my first holiday season without him. When I sit down to write the Christmas letter, I'l have to start it with the fact that I lost my precious son this year.

I'll have to take out the Christmas ornaments and when I come to the funny little bell be made in metal shop and the ceramic angel he made in art class, I'm not sure what I'll do.

It isn't even Thanksgiving yet. How am I going to do this? From Nov. 3 until mid-January, when my family gathers for our winter party, it's going to be so empty. It was ba enough without my sister, Ellen. Now I have to face it without Mike.

I thought I was cruising when I made it through the birthday, but that was just the beginning. As I stood looking at Christmas cards -- sparkling, happy, proclaiming the joy of the season -- I realized it won't be the same this year. Mike won't be fumbling with a Christmas tree that's too big for his living room. He won't be shaking presents to try and figure out what they are. He won't be making a gourmet meal.

I'm not sure how I'll cope with this season. This is going to take some thought and planning.