Six emails. Over the last two weeks, I’ve received six emails from Hallmark reminding me of Grandparents Day. On SEPTEMBER 12th!!!! Send a card. Don’t forget!!!! Which is all well and good. Grandparents deserve a day.
The problem? Grandparents Day was yesterday. I am fresh out of Grandparents. The day before Halloween, I will have officially lost all of mine in the past eight years. Also? Yesterday was the two year anniversary of my Grandpa’s death.
It’s been two years, but it still sometimes feels like yesterday. Yesterday? All the reminders of what day it was and what I should be celebrating, were hard. Downright hard. I was sad. I still am.
His face smiles at me in my hallway. It’s a great photo, taken the year before the heart surgery when I was seventeen. You can see the twinkle in his eyes. Before all professional photos, right as the person was about to tell them to smile, he’d make an inside joke to my Grandma. It always made for great pictures. They always looked like they’d just been laughing. Because they had. It took me a year to be able to look at that photo without crying. After his death, I almost took it down. It was just too hard. Too painful. I tried not to look at it for the longest time. Each time I forgot and looked, I cried. Now, most days, it makes me smile.
When something good happens, I want to call him. To tell him about it. I want to call him and Grandma and check on them. I wonder what they’d think about everything that has happened this past year. Maybe in some ways, it’s better they are gone. There are some things, I’m glad I don’t have to try and explain. But mostly, I wish I could call and hear their voices.
When I got my iPhone last month, I deleted their number from my phone. It hadn’t been thier number since December of 2008, when Grandma went into Hospice, yet I’d kept it in my phone that entire time.
If I close my eyes, I can picture them. I can see their house. Hear their voices. I remember going to work with Grandpa as a kid. Where he’d pay me to move bricks from one pile to another. I remember trips to Braums for ice cream. Two weeks every summer at their lake house. The way anywhere we went, he knew someone. He always said, oh this is my granddaughter. Yes, my youngest daughters, girl. You’ve met her before right? The pride in his voice when he’d tell people about my mom and her accomplishments. I remember it all. I close my eyes and I see him holding each of my girls as newborns. It makes me so sad to think that he passed two weeks before Harrison was born. That I was never able to take my son to meet him.
It’s hard. Hard to lose the most influential man in your life. It’s weird to say that loosing your grandfather was probably harder than loosing your dad will be one day, but for me, it’s true. Just because you know your grandparents won’t live forever, doesn’t make it any harder to have it become a reality.
From him, I learned to be a hard worker, no matter how much I despise my job. From him, I learned that family is the most important thing. That your friends, can be your family too. That helping people, is it’s own reward. That ice cream is a good idea, no matter the time of day.
I am a better person because I had him in my life. I just wish he was here, so I could send him a Hallmark card and tell him that.
This post is a part of the 2,996 project.
Years ago, I signed up for the 2,996 project. The idea was to write about someone who died in the World Trade Center on September 11th. We were each given a random name of someone we’d likely never even heard of. The idea was to give each of them a face. To help the world see, that these were not nameless strangers who lost their lives that day. They were loved ones, friends, family, people we’d all know. They each could have been our neighbors.
We wrote to honor them. We wrote to remember them.
It worked. At least the remembering part. I hope it honors them as well, but I do know that I remember.
The name I was given was a man named Thomas J. Kennedy. Tom. He was a husband, a father, a son, a brother, uncle and cousin. He was a firefighter. One of a group of guys from Ladder Company 101 in Brooklyn, who all didn’t make it home that night. He died how he lived, a true hero.
This man, he got into my heart. His story, his life, has touched me forever.
Last month, when I was in NYC, my friend Kari and I walked from Battery Park to where the towers once stood. We stood there in awe. It’s shocking to see for the first time. To imagine how in the world two huge towers could have ever been right there. We told each other our stories, where we’d been on that day. How we both were up early and happened to be watching the news, as the second plane hit. Which, might not seem that strange, but the time it was in California when it happened, makes it a chance occurrence. We told each other about the people we knew who should have been there, but managed not to be. Again, more chance. I told her how scary it was for me, 6 months pregnant to wonder what type of world I was bringing my daughter into. As we stood there, I remembered Tom. I stood there, in that spot, looking at the skyline, looking at the construction and the fence with the photo of what will be there next year and I remembered Tom. I thought about him that day. I’m thinking about him today. Each year on this day, I promise to think about him. To wonder about his wife. To hope his boys are growing up to be strong, solid boys that their dad would be proud of.
Today, just like last year and previous years and next year as well, I honor Thomas J. Kennedy.
When I signed up for the 2,996 project, I had no idea which name would be sent to me. I didn’t know if I’d get a man, woman or child. I didn’t know if that person would be young or old. From America or from another country. It didn’t really matter to me. I just wanted to be able to remember someone who was no longer here. I wanted to be a part of something wonderful. I feel that this tribute is wonderful. When we talk about people who are no longer with us, it keeps their memory alive. At least that’s what my mother always told me and I have no reason to doubt this.
What I didn’t know in accepting a name was that the person would get into my world. The name I though I was getting, became a person. A man, with a life and people who loved him. A man, not to much different from my husband, brother or dad. And he got in. I let him in. As I searched the web for him, I found more and more. Just small things here and there, but the pieces came together like a puzzle. As I found more pieces, I grew more attached. How funny to grow emotionally attached to a man you’ve never met. But I did anyway. That’s when I started getting worried about this post. Could I do it right? Could I make you feel the way I do about this man? To care about him, even thought you’d never heard his name? Well, I’ll have to give it a try.
Thomas J. Kennedy (Tom) was born on January 24, 1965 at 12:45pm. He was born in the car right in front of the hospital. His parents, Eileen and Bill had trouble getting there in time because of a bad snowstorm. He had two older brothers, Brian and Bob. He had blond hair and “the bluest eyes in the world” according to his mom. She also has said on his memorial site that he was funny, always cracking jokes and a gentle patient man who everyone loved. His father, Bill said that he loved all babies and kids and they tended to gravitate towards him, because he spoke to them like they were adults. He also loved to ski and be on boats.
Tom was married to a woman named Allison and had two baby boys, Michael and James, who were two and 10 months when their father died. He was a hands on dad who loved to spend time with his boys, bathing them and reading them Goodnight Moon every night. This is the same book, I read to Morgan and Bailey. I read somewhere that he wanted to have five kids, but two was all he was around long enough to have. His eyes lit up every time he told someone about his boys. His aunt said she’d never seen him happier than on the days his sons were born. He loved being a husband and father.
Tom was at the World Trade Center that day because he was a firefighter with the Ladder Company 101 in Brooklyn. His company was one of the first on the scene because their firehouse was just across the east river from downtown Manhattan. There were seven guys “brothers” who went in together. None of them made it out. They all died heroes, having saved many lives that day. Tom when in to try and save more people, when the towers fell. He died doing what he loved, what he lived for. Even before she knew what had happened to her husband, Allison knew that he wasn’t afraid to go into the fire. She said “they were all excited to go into the fire. That’s what they live for.” “They didn’t have fear, that we as civilians would have. They didn’t ever think they wouldn’t come out of a fire, ever.” He had no way of knowing that September 11th, 2001 would be the last day of his life. That it would be the last day he’d ever see his wife and sons. That he’d die a hero. And I can’t say it for certain, but even knowing it, he may have gone in anyway. It is what firefighters do. He was a firefighter, it is their job to protect people. They all know the risk. Everyday when they go to work, they are putting themselves at risk. For us. For people who they don’t know.
Everything I read about Tom was a glowing memory of his life. People he’d saved through the years. People who thought they were going to die, but instead he came to their rescue. Some called him a hero, others an angel. There were stories from family and friends. Stories about fishing with nephews, playing hide and seek with his nieces, skiing with friends, being there for his family. Everyone said how wonderful his boys are, that his wife is doing a wonderful job with them. There are wonderful stories about her too. People say that their son Michael looks like her, but James is the spitting image of him. People tell stories about the boys too, how big they are, smart and sweet and caring and how they are each others best friends. I’m sure Tom would love to know that. In fact, he probably does.
Tom never saw his youngest son walk. Never walked his boys into pre-school or kindergarten. Never taught his boys to ride bikes, read, catch fish. He’ll never get to teach them to drive or how to be nice to girls. He won’t be there when they get married and have babies of their own. Thomas J. Kennedy was a father, husband, son, grandson, uncle, nephew, friend, firefighter and a hero.
Tom did indeed die a hero, but he was a hero in life too.
Nine months later and I still wake up at 5am every dam day. You’d think eventually I’d get used to it. That eventually I’d of stopped waking up each day at that time. But no. No such luck, not yet.
Logan always woke up at 5am. He’d get up, shower, go to the gym and then go to work from there. It was his thing. On days where he did that, I’d barely wake up and roll over and go back to sleep. After years of it, I even woke up at 5am on days he didn’t get up that early. Sometimes it would annoy me, because I’d not be able to fall back asleep for an hour. Sometimes I barely even noticed it. Yet, each day I’d wake up at that time. Without fail.
Nine months. It’s been nine months since he left.
Some things I’ve gotten used too. Nights used to be really hard for me. Falling asleep alone, used to be so hard. For months and months I cried every night. Few months ago, I stopped. I got used to it. Sleeping alone. Or well as alone as one is with a half time cuddly six year old in ones bed.
I got used to the quiet when the kids are with him. Took a long time. But I’m used to it now. On occasion, I even enjoy it. Mostly though, I’m just used to it.
I got used to taking out the trash on the correct day, changing light bulbs, dealing with the dog all the time, buying and making less food, doing all kid duty on my days, alone. I got used to all that. I adapted. Maybe not always well, but I’ve adapted.
Hell, I even say I now, most of the time, instead of we. Progress.
Yet, every morning I wake up at 5am. It’s a sad reminder each day of what’s missing. Every morning, it’s a reminder of what I lost. My 5am reminder. Some days, I roll over and go back to sleep. Sometimes I lay there for a bit. On occasion, on a day like today, I cry. Because I’m still not used to this new life.
It’s my Achilles heel. 5am.
We’d just arrived in Vegas. Literally, I believe we were on a tram to baggage claim, when we over heard the conversation. “Can you believe we saw Brad? Isn’t he fine as shit in person? No one will believe us, you know? I wish I could have watched them film longer. I wonder when the movie comes out. Around Christmas would be my guess. Who knows? What are they calling that flick again? Ocean’s Eleven.”
Kate and Emmy and I looked at each other. We knew right then and there, we had to find them. Our husbands and boyfriends rolled their eyes at us. It was my 21st birthday weekend. Our first trip to Vegas, where all of us were actually legal. Not our first trip mind you, just our first legal trip. We did all the regular things you’d expect on a birthday weekend. Drank 3ft margaritas. Rode roller coasters. Went to clubs. Danced. Danced. Drank. Danced some more. Gambled a bit.
We looked for them everywhere we went. Brad Pitt, Matt Damon, George Clooney. We knew who was going to be in that movie. You don’t live in West Los Angeles and not hear rumors. We never found them. Best memories of my 21st birthday weekend however, are from looking for them. We were convinced we’d find them. It made the weekend more exciting. You never knew what could have happened.
On the cab ride back to the airport, the cabbie says: did you hear about the movie Brad Pitt was filming? Yeah, they finished three days ago. It was pretty exciting. Turns out, they’d left the day we arrived. We spend three days looking for people who’d already left. We laughed our asses off the rest of the way to the airport.
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It was one of those vacations that I didn’t really mind as a kid. My siblings did, but I never minded. Long car days were fun for me. It meant I had a reason to wear headphones, read books and ignore the world. I liked that. It was the way I got along with my dad and step-mom best.
I was twelve that year. We were a day from home, when the car broke down. In Death Valley. In August. It had to of been 112 degrees outside. My dad is a mechanic. Normally he could fix anything. We could tell by the way he was swearing and kicking the car, that he couldn’t fix this.
Like magic, a tow truck driver pulled up. No idea why, but he showed up, just happened to be driving by. We’d only been sitting there for ten minutes. He towed us to his town. Three kids in his front seat, singing They Might Be Giants, Little Birdhouse in Your Soul to him. My parents paid him in beer.
Tonopah, Nevada. That was his town. It’s as exciting, as it sounds. It had one hotel, where we took up residence for nearly a week. Turns out a transmission on an old Suburban has to be ordered. To save time, my dad had it ordered to his shop in LA and had my aunt drive it to us. Yes, this was saving time.
We spent five days there. We roller bladed in the hallways during the day. We swam in the pool in the evenings. We ate three meals a day at the only restaurant. My step-mom didn’t care when we ordered mozzarella sticks for lunch, or pancakes for dinner. The waitress gave us shit for ruining her coffee every single morning. We spent tons of my dads money on video games at the restaurant/casino/game room.
The woman who ran the hotel, took pity on my parents and brought us her VCR and her grand-kids videos, as well as a ton of bored games to play.
In truth, that was the best vacation we’d had with them, in years.
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We were playing in the garage when we found it. One of those old Pepsi tins, stuffed full of money. Folded up fives and tens. Rolled up ones. Crumpled twenties. The thing was completely full.
What do we do, my brother asked me? We show grandpa. It’s his garage, it has to be his money. Maybe he lost it. We went in the house and made him come outside with us. He was a gruff old man. He loved us, you could tell, but he was tired of kids being around by then. We were interrupting his nap time. He was about 85 years old and we were his great-grandchildren. I was probably only seven years old, which would have made my brother barely five.
His eyes got all big when he saw the money. Oh now, what do we have here, he asked? We told him how we’d been playing and the ball had bounced too high and well we climbed up to get it and found this tin.
Did I ever tell you about the pirates? The pirates, oh those pirates. You could see the twinkle in his eye, as he told us this story. I bet this was their money once upon a time. Pirates Grandpa, I asked? In Texas, really? Well why do you suppose this town is called Wichita Falls? Because of the falls at Lucy Park, I said? Oh no, that is just what’s left. Once, there was a great ocean here. The falls were huge. Like that place up north, those Niagara falls. Yeah, like that. That was back when I was a boy, back when pirates roamed freely. You had to be careful around them, because some weren’t all that nice. See this scar here? He lifted up his shirt sleeve. This was from a fight with a pirate. Dirty rotten scoundrel. Thought his chips should be free. I wasn’t scared of that one eyed man. Anyhow, somehow when they left, they just took the ocean with them. It’s been all hot here ever since. Bet this money was theirs, he said. Well it’s ours now.
Truth was, he only used cash. He always had mom and pop type shops. Potato chips, pies, Christmas trees, handyman…he’s done it all and sold it all. They’d have a little shop and when it got to where he and Grandma couldn’t run it themselves, they’d sell it off. He didn’t like to have employees. Too much work, he’d say. He dealt only in cash. He’d forgotten about that tin, I’m sure. He used to have them all over the house and some probably buried in the backyard. Until my uncle made him take it all to the bank.
That day, he gave us each ten dollars as a finders fee.
We weren’t around him much after that and he died about two years later. This memory is my defining memory of him. Pirates in North Texas. Snort.
You can see past memories HERE, if you’d like.
It’s Tuesday, but it feels like a Monday. Holiday weeks are tricky like that. It’s like you know what day it is, but it tries very hard to trip you up. Not that I’m complaining, not in the least. I love holiday weekends. They make me happy. It’s just hard to focus the rest of the week.
This weekend was nice. Weird but nice. I’ll tell you all something funny. This was the first holiday weekend spent without my kids, that I was okay with. Now, I realize Labor Day isn’t much of a holiday. But hey, I’ve gotta start somewhere right? It was their dad’s weekend, as well as his birthday, so he took them camping.
I’m not a fan of camping. I mean to say, I despise it. Ha. I found a major plus of divorce. No more camping. Ever.
I managed to do some clothes shopping for me. My mommy sent me a gift card, so literally the only money I spent all day, was two cupcakes, because a new cupcake place opened up. SCORE!!!! It was strange and a bit wrong to try on sweaters and jeans when it was 97 degrees outside, but I did it anyway. Got some cool stuff actually.
I cleaned out my closet and the girls closets and dressers. I have seven trash bags full of clothes to donate. I bagged up two bags of Harrison’s clothes to pass on to a cousin. Plus another bag of baby toys. The kid turns two later this month. He doesn’t need rattles laying around anymore.
I managed to clean most of my house. It feels nice. Lighter. Cleaner. Something.
There is a huge fire in Boulder which is say 40 miles away from my house. It’s huge and out of control and the air quality is just bad right now. I’m having trouble and Bailey has already had to have one nebulizer treatment so far today. Fun times. I just hope they manage to get it under control soon. So many houses and trees have burned, it’s just sad.
That’s about all I know. How was your weekend?
I am from the city, from the sunshine state. The land of earthquakes and a big giant Mouse. From the same six block radius my entire childhood. From that rental house and that one and hey that one too.
I am from the pacific ocean, from palm trees and the belief of non-stop sun. From Sunday morning farmer’s markets and the land of the tan. From Slurpee’s and Double Doubles. From nights spent at Lakers and Dodger games and summer days at Water World.
I am from Converse all-stars, from flip-flops worn all year and roller blades on the boardwalk. From sand castle building contests and the constant smell of sunblock. I am from the sand wedgie and the rain walks at the park.
I am from summers spent with Grandparents in Texas and crabbing with Dad before dawn; from museum visits on Saturdays with Mom and dinner and movie dates with Grandpa each week.
I am from the opinionated stubborn people, who only remember you exist when you are standing in front of them and people who’d do a thing for you as long as you ask.
From, never play in the aqueducts and stories about the one guy they knew who tried to surf down them. From, every child should know how to swim and surf. From street smarts and please just go out and play already. From bright orange colored water guns and days spent pretending to be a mermaid in the pool.
I am from a lapsed baptist and an atheist Jew. From the religion of bonfires on the beach on Saturday night and brunch out on Sunday. Lox and bagels and chips and guacamole. From Christmas trees, Latkas and chocolate Gelt.
I am from divorce. From arguments over holidays and school events, from don’t forget my blankie at that house and whose rules am I following again? From wishing people would just get along already, to wishing I could just join the circus. I’m from a childhood spend at fields and rinks for sports I didn’t play. From piano recitals where I wished I could disappear and reading books on family road trips. From day long arguments over peach Jolly Ranchers and sitting on the side of the road in Death Valley with a busted transmission.
I’m from California beaches and Texas heat and long ago and a world away, from Poland. I am from sushi, fresh crab and fresh fruit all year. From fried chicken, mashed potatoes and biscuits. From Grandma’s fresh apple cake and mom’s oatmeal cookies.
From the wine cork collection at my uncles house, the year dad set fire to the bushes and the year mom designed clothes for the Disney channel tween show.
I am from a photo on my nightstand of a beautiful woman, the woman they named me after. From the smiling people in my hallway, gone but never forgotten. From farmers around for three hundred years in Texas and a one little old Jew who escaped with his life.
This, is where I’m from.
I sat and read last night. Instead of talking on Twitter. Instead of playing Angry Birds or Bejeweled, or Words With Friends; which is what I normally do after I get the kids in bed.
For an hour, I read Mom 101′s archives. From 2006. I had a blog in 2006. I saw my name on some of the comments in her posts. It was kind of funny actually.
This is what I miss about the fast pace of blogging these days. The feeling like you could just sit and get to know someone from their archives. Everything is so fast these days. It didn’t always used to be like that. Before Twitter and Facebook and readers.
Yes, I read Liz’s blog back then. It was fun to read some of it again though. A few posts I remembered, most I didn’t. It’s been too long.
Today I read that one of my favorite bloggers, Jen at The Trephine is going to take down her archives. Thankfully she gave fair warning, so I can have the chance to read them today before they are gone for good. Today? I will read her archives again. Because she’s a great writer. Because her posts for the last 10 months have helped me, more than I could begin to tell her. Because she’s one of the funniest writers I know. I will read her blog today, while working, when I’d normally be on Twitter or looking at my own reader.
My reader is always full. That will never change. People are always on Twitter. I love that about Twitter. Someone is always there. Facebook statuses get updated faster than I can blink. There’s nothing wrong with it. Most of the time, I love it.
But yesterday, for an hour, it was nice to remember the old blogging world. To sit. To read. To be entertained. Maybe I didn’t get through my reader at all. But hey, it’s not going anywhere.
I am going to try something new this month. I’m only going to use cash. The only exception is gas. I’ll use my debit card for gas. That is just too much trouble. Everything else though is going to be payed for in cash. I’ve seen this idea many times. I know for a fact, I didn’t think of it. In fact, someone else posted about it this week as well. One of my best friends does this too. I’ve just never been brave enough to try it. What I know though? Is I’m getting behind. I’m using my credit cards for stupid things at the end of each month, just because I flat out run out of money.
I’ve thought about this before. I’ve just never been willing to try it. Truth is, in previous years, it wasn’t an issue. You know, pre-getting divorced. Ahem.
To save time and energy, while on vacations, I only use cash. I’ve always done that. Most likely because it gets tiring writing down receipts while on vacation. While in NYC last month, I didn’t use my debit card for anything, except on cab fare on the way back to the airport. I came home with money. If I’d used my card all weekend, I’d of come home to an empty bank account. I know this about myself. If I have cash, I consciously think, is this a need. I actually did that while on vacation in NYC. I saw a purse that I loved. Such a pretty blue purse. Ahem. Yet, I didn’t buy it. Kari probably thought I was nuts. I kept picking it up and putting it down. Ha.
If I can do this on a vacation, I can do this in regular life.
My girls don’t need anymore Silly Bandz, just because they are conveniently located right next to the check out. I don’t need to eat out for lunch each day, when I have perfectly good food right here. I don’t need to go to Target when I’m bored. I can walk the dog instead. My son doesn’t need any more Cars paraphernalia. He has too much of it, as is.
I still live like there are two incomes coming into this house. And there just isn’t.
So yesterday I took the plunge. When my paycheck was deposited, I paid all my bills. I wrote out my checks for my share of daycare/after school care. I then went to the bank and took out cash. Cash for groceries. For Costco. For Target. For the eating out, although I’m attempting to curb that as well. Cash for my therapy. For mine and Bailey’s prescriptions. I will still do certain things. I will still do some fun things with the kids. I got a pedicure last night. This evening, I will go and pay for September dance classes for Morgan. But I’m doing it all with cash.
It’s a bit scary. A bit daunting. I think I can do it though. Any money left over at the end of the month, will go towards paying off credit. My goal? To stop using the dam things.
My great-grandpa only used cash. I remember hearing that my uncle made him get a checking account for all the cash he had hidden in his house, when he was 80 freaking years old. The man paid cash for his home. For his car. If he didn’t have the cash, he just flat out didn’t need it.
I think I’d like that to be my goal. If I don’t have cash for it, I don’t need it. Might take me awhile to get there, but it’s a goal.
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