7 A.M.

Sitting, listening, tears streaming.

I received a lovely box in the mail yesterday from my Brooklyn boys. Among the gift items was a CD/DVD of Simon & Garfunkel (one of my very favorites!). I decided to let it keep Milton and me company this morning.

It takes me back to Easter Sunday, March 29, 1970.  I'm three months pregnant and staying with my parents on the farm. My husband of 10 months is in basic training outside of Chicago. I work at the hospital in a small city, about 10 miles away. There are no cell phones and we only get three TV stations - a few radio stations. I'm off work and enjoying my holiday with family. A call goes out in the night for all hospital staff to come help. I'm unaware and can't respond. The next morning, we learn that there was a terrible fire in town and five volunteer firemen are dead, 27 people injured with 12 admitted to the small hospital. Even in New York, Chicago, L.A., Paris, or any huge city you can think of, this would be front page news. Imagine a population of 8,000. Everyone in the town and surrounding area is either friend or relative, relative of a friend, friend of a relative, works with, goes to church with, or had their life/home saved by one of these killed.

Within the next few days, the fallen were to be eulogized, farewells given and put to rest. Several of the injured remained in the hospital. It was planned to have the audio broadcast on the public address system at the hospital. My mom was working that day and I came in for the 3-11 shift. I was able to ignore the service in the guise of busyness (Didn't want to cry at work!) Until the song. S & G in their pure, melodic harmonies singing, "Bridge Over Troubled Water".

I expounded a bit about the power of music to vividly refresh a moment in time in my post 'The Song Remembering When'. Thus the tears streaming at 7 A.M. I'm back there, back then, trying not to cry, not succeeding, feeling the anguish, feeling the sorrow of the above mentioned people, feeling my own sadness at the loss of so many, so young, so dedicated, from all walks of life, brought together in death by their mutual commitment to life.

I'll never forget. No one should.

*David Lee Rotten Note: Check out the amazing Simon & Garfunkel - Bridge Over Troubled Water performance that I was lucky to see LIVE at the 25th ANNIVERSARY ROCK AND ROLL HALL OF FAME CONCERT- Madison Square Garden, NYC - October 29&30, 2009

I love to see the jet streams high over my home. Sometimes I can count 6 or 7 at once. I don't think about the people inside or where they're going or why. I just enjoy the beauty of the white streams against the sky blue and the glinting silver of the plane in the sunshine.

When I was thirteen, our family reunion was held near an airstrip and dad's cousin had a small plane. I flew for the first time. So exciting; I loved it, though slightly motion sick. (my lifelong problem)

1970 was my first commercial flight; Pittsburgh to Key West. I've taken many flights since. Pennsylvania to California, California to Pennsylvania, Ohio to New Mexico; Alaska; Florida many times; Hawaii; Aruba; Tennessee; New York City. I so enjoy the destinations, but not the flight. Always vaguely sick, slightly nervous, cramped, uncomfortable and happy to land! It's the means to an end, necessary evil, time saver.

So, I fly when I need to see beautiful beaches, majestic mountains, desert landscapes, tropical islands, snowscapes, 'other worlds'.

Guess I'll keep looking up, admiring the sight, and be grateful for the ride.

My paternal grandfather died in his early 50's when I was three month old. We never talked about death, but somehow I always knew my dad thought he would die young as well. When I was a kid, 50 seemed very old, so it never worried me.

When I married and had children, I vaguely thought I might die young; leave my kids without a mom. I tried not to think about it-made me sad for them. The children grew up, I didn't die and leave them without a mom, and my dad lived to be 91.

I've made the statement that I always thought I'd die young, but it's too late for that now. However, as I get older, I realize young isn't so cut and dried. Doesn't have to be 20's, 30's or 40's.

I recently found out that a childhood friend and classmate has terminal cancer. She was always so fun and full of life, friendly and kind. She's too young. She should have more time.

I've only seen her a few times over the years, but I like knowing she's in the world. I won't be happy when she's not.

I just got off the phone from wishing my son (David Lee Rotten) a happy birthday-and many mooooooooore. We talked about the "day you were born". I've always done that with all three of my children.

I loved being pregnant. Of course there were aches and pains and morning (afternoon and night) sickness to contend with. But the specialness of knowing that growing, living being was inside made the problems a minor inconvenience. The first butterfly kick I thought I could detect that would become karate strength that anyone could feel! I remember lying on my back in bed with their dad, watching them roll around and make peaks and valleys on the terrain of my belly.

I have often felt sorry for men's lack of ability to experience the beauty of carrying and even of bearing their children.

Dave was my third child following 2 lovely daughters. Of course, that was before we had the choice of knowing what color clothing to buy and before we knew color didn't matter anyway! We'd been waiting ten days past the projected birthday to meet this baby; girl or boy. I went to the doctor that morning for a routine checkup and he "helped things along" a bit. Yay! Labor started a couple hours later. Since it was my third, I'd better meet dad at the base ASAP. (Last birth only took 4 hours start to finish) I had good Navy neighbors who kept the girls and transported me to the hospital. Disappointment! They told us to go back home-not progressed enough to be admitted. It was over 40 minutes each way, so we began to walk in Balboa Park. Beautiful, that park. I loved being there-watching the frisbee players, squirrels, joggers, picnickers, children playing, colorful flora, couples holding hands; so much peace and life going on. We walked and walked and finally decided to go back home. At the edge of the park, I had to sit down on a bench-contractions so strong, I couldn't move. Hell no-we won't go! We'll huff and we'll puff (lamaze breathing) and we'll break those doors down!

Finally got admitted and had David Lee Rotten (aka Davy at the time) on the stretcher! Will never forget the feel of his newborn cheek against my face. Almost sodden with moisture and so, so soft. He stopped crying immediately and the nurse said, "He likes you." I liked him, too. Always have, always will.    

I love my home.
I love my privacy and my freedom. To clean and rearrange all day or to do nothing all day.
To listen to CDs , radio, or be silent.
To watch what I want or not watch at all.
To play games on the computer.
To eat what I want and when I want and where.
Alex, Pat, Vanna and I have shared many a meal together.

I occasionally get restless but never lonely. Never wish for constant companionship. Never wish for live-in love. I can't imagine that kind of existence again. I'm glad I turned down that offer! Even though it was a deal-breaker and I miss him, seems like I would've been miserable. Better some heartache and tears than an untenable living situation in my own home.

I look around and see the table my mom bought for $2.00; round, oak, claw foot. The cupboard my dad made over 60 years ago. My step-mom's hutch, the books, pictures, yard-sale finds, tchotchkes collecting dust. The backsplash my whole family helped install. My little laundry nook under the stairs that my sisters and nephew painted blue. (lovely surprise of color)

All the trappings of my life.

I look around and I'm happy-always happy!

When nearing the end of my recent visit to New York, my grandson from Ohio flew to La Guardia to spend a few days and accompany me on the drive home. It was his first independent flight and he loved it! 

One of the things he particularly wanted to do was visit "Lady Liberty" and Ellis Island. With very detailed instructions and directions, he and I managed to get from Brooklyn to Battery Park where the boat boarded. Fortunately we decided to leave "at the crack of dawn" almost. The boats were full but not the huge crush I've experienced before. The trip over was uneventful except for my motion sickness. As soon as we reached land, it dissipated.

The Statue is wonderful and amazing! But Ellis Island inspires awe. Imagining the millions of immigrants who braved the long, arduous trip in the bowels of a ship, filthy conditions, perhaps people dying around you. The smells, the fear and anxiety mixed with excitement and trepidation at the thought of a new land and loss of the old. And the sea-sickness. Particularly heinous to one who has experienced this illness on every kind of transportation and recreational apparatus!

Coming to a new world. Maybe with a plan-indentured servant, family or friends awaiting your arrival, a profession or occupation to insure your survival in this strange land.You arrive-the huge figure of the lady in the distance, landing on Ellis Island. Hardly able to walk on your sea legs. So many "coming to America."

You're with child and happy and excited to welcome this first generation American into your family. As you cling to your husband to avoid separation, you are abruptly pulled through a gate. Your man starts to follow and is denied entrance. Panic, sheer terror. You plead with guards, cry and reach out for him. Finally, a harried man's face softens and says,"you must stay at the hospital until the child arrives." You gaze blankly at him-you don't speak English.

When I learned that pregnant women had to stay on the island until they gave birth, I couldn't stop thinking about it. On one site, they spoke of around 350 babies being born at the hospital. I was surprised there weren't more.

When I think of the settled lives most of us live, I can't even imagine the determination and bravery so many millions have demonstrated.

We didn't have time to see everything-I may have to do it again someday.

Getting better everyday.
It's over.

Yearning never stops.
It's over.

Missing his touch.
Over.

Try to ignore and just go on. Tell myself I'm lucky.
Dodging that bullet!

But once in awhile, just once in awhile.
I'm there in my head.

I breathe him in, my mouth on him, his mouth on me.
So close behind him, so close behind me.
Moving against him, flush from our dance.
He's kneeling over me-stretching my limb, mouth warm and wet.
On my toes, foot, leg.
More sensual, more moving,
Than anything I've known.

Never will be another him for me.

How could thirteen years have passed since 9/11? We all remember where we were, what we were doing, how we found out. We were unable to stop watching. We saw the second plane hitting the tower. We knew then that it couldn't have been an accident.

Most of us didn't know any of the victims, had never been to New York or D.C. or the field in Pennsylvania. But we cried and sobbed and mourned and grieved. They were people; men, women, children, unborn babies. Our people from our towns, our cities, our land, our world.

All humanity joined in sorrow. Unable to grasp the depth of hatred, the mindset of those whose joy and salvation is murder. Who serve a god rewarding the slaughter of 'innocents' and self.

I was able to visit the 9/11 memorial site several times during my N.Y. city visit. Even with the crowds present, it feels peaceful and solemn. Voices hushed, the soothing sounds and sight of rushing water. The beauty and simplicity of the names cut into the bronze plates. Eleven with the added phrase; "and her unborn child".

So much thought and care has gone into arranging the 2,983 names. Originally, they were to be randomly placed. Somehow developing the concept of "meaningful adjacencies", they paired co-workers, companies, organization affiliates, friends, relatives and recovery proximity. Over 1200 family requests were received and addressed.

As we stood by the south tower site, we noticed kids touching the water, feeling it's coolness. Our first thought-disapproval. Then my daughter suggested putting our hands in so "our skin cells will be part of the ever-flowing water and it will be part of us." With fingers immersed; we experienced immediate tears and emotional connection.  Nothing magical or mystical, just honoring and mourning the dead, and empathizing with families and friends who ever struggle with their loss.

In great or small ways we all do.