When Friends Leave

There were always five or six of us in the car as we drove through Michigan's frigid upper peninsula in the depths of winter, astounded by the banks of snow piled high on the side of the road, far taller than our car. We were crammed onto the bench seats of the vehicle, often singing, always laughing, as we passed through tiny villages en route to public schools in towns only slightly larger than the ones we had passed through. (For the younger readers of this blog, there was a time not all that long ago when three adults fit comfortably in the front seat!)

Patty, Andy and Jerry loading the cars on our theatre tour.

We were one car in a group of several, a band of happy actors studying theatre at Michigan State, and on the road, taking two shows to towns in the north starved for live theatre. One was a musical, "Carnival," the other, "The Pied Piper," a delightful musical for children.

A Sale, A Farewell, Two Cute Boys and Some Birds!

Well, things have a way of working out, even if it sometimes takes a stupid mistake to facilitate it! Here you see my yard sale!  It was a success, or success enough for stuff that I didn't want anymore. Most of the rest has already been donated to our local community theatre's rummage sale. I was lucky -- Molly came to help and brought things, too, and Rick chipped in. A team effort.

So, what was that stupid mistake that worked out?

What Would Wally Do?

My friend Wally died last week. You've seen his work -- the beautiful images of Paris that hang above my mantel are by Wally. And my personal collection holds many favorites from this well-loved and respected photographer who focused on European images.

 

And, as you might expect, it takes a chunk out of a person to know there will be no more lunches, photo shoots, good talks about photography or travel with someone you just plain like and have known for a very long time. 

Sometimes We Just Have to Believe

I cry when I watch Judy Garland sing this song in "Meet Me In St. Louis." I cry when John Denver sings it with the Muppets and I'll cry in this James Taylor version, too. (cue the music).

My holidays are pretty merry and bright this year. I had good news with my biopsy, our Baby Grand was christened, I've enjoyed every minute I've spent with Rick and our friends. Shopping is under control. Cards (finally) got out. Baking is nearly done (and better be by the time this posts!)

But I know more than a few people who are experiencing their first holiday without someone they love and some of those losses are very recent ones. Getting down that road can be tough. There are no easy answers but sometimes there are things that can help us get through the tough days, a holiday survival kit for those experiencing loss.

I've been down that road too. The loss of my dad 24 years ago in December was what led me to volunteer a year later at Ele's Place, a family grief center, where I worked with middle school-aged kids for 10 years. While I was there I learned a lot about managing the grief journey. I'm no expert, but I've walked it myself and I've walked with others. I know the first year is very hard, but that doesn't mean the next ones are easy. But believe. Time may not heal everything but it heals a lot.

We helped our kids and their parents learn strategies to acknowledge their losses, to remember their people -- and in doing so, learned a few things that those of us not currently in grief can do to be helpful.

I've written some of these tips in a post here on Modern Creative Life. I hope if you have time, you'll take a look or share it with anyone you think might benefit from it.

If you are one of those experiencing loss this year -- loss of family, friends, your home or your job -- please know that my heart is with you with wishes that in this season, amidst your sadness you will also find bit of joy and happiness.

It may be in the eyes of a child -- or a beloved pet. In an unexpected gift or act of kindness.

Believe. It will one day be better. And remember, we grieve because we loved. Which, when you really think about it, is the greatest gift of all.

Come back tomorrow to celebrate my tenth blogging anniversary with a drawing and giveaway!

I Saw Mike Lewis the Other Night

Some of you may remember reading a post in the Marmelade Gypsy about the death 

of my friend, Mike Lewis, in late January. Mike was one of these people that everyone loved. 

At his memorial, everyone had a story to share -- it was the 

sort of thing that when one left, those who knew him 

less than others did wish they'd known him more.

I've thought of Mike off and on in this interim -- his birthday popped 

upon Facebook and -- because I think we all miss him 

and know how much he loved birthdays -- wrote wonderful things on his wall.

When I posted a photo from an event that I'd put up 

before and that he'd "liked," his name showed up again.

Mike was a large man, his girth matched only by the size of his heart. 

We'd had many discussions over the years about weight. 

He'd tried lots of things without success. I suspect he felt -- as I -- that when one carries the 

extra weight, doing the exercise that so helps is 

all the more difficult, painful even. So, it doesn't happen. 

But there was always his vision -- not to be skinny, but just to be "less" 

and certainly more healthy. It's a dream we shared. When his heart gave out, 

it's more than likely his weight was a factor and it certainly was a wake-up call for me.

The other night I woke up with a start. I had seen Mike Lewis. I don't often remember dreams, 

just bits and pieces that make no sense in the clear light of day. 

But this dream was so intense, so real, I was almost surprised 

to find myself awake and in bed, Lizzie curled up at my feet. 

Mike opened a door and stood in the doorway. He didn't say a word, 

but I looked at him -- surprised that he was there. 

And the thing is, he looked just like he always wanted to look. 

He was trimmed down, casually but nicely dressed. Yes. Just like he always wanted to look.

"How are you?" I asked, delighted to see him.

"I'm. Just. Great." Three words. Deliberately spaced for emphasis. 

And he smiled and slipped out the door.

And I woke up.

I've thought about this a lot in the days since and have shared it with only a 

few people, including my wonderful massage therapist, Sarah. 

She said what I had thought but really hadn't dared to say aloud. 

"He's sending you a message," she said. "That he's all right." 

I think she's right. I'm not the only person who has thought of Mike in recent days. 

Far from it. And as Sarah said, "Don't you think the other people who 

cared about him would like to know that?"

And so I write. And maybe it was just a dream. Maybe it was something funky I had for dinner. 

But I don't think so. 

I needed to know Mike was OK -- and I think now, I do.

Here's to you, Mike. And thanks for stopping by.

A Gentle Giant

It should be profoundly easy for me to write about my friend, Mike Lewis. And yet, with his sudden and unexpected passing on January 30, I find my heart filled with such grief that it is hard to get down a sentence without thinking of Mike and bursting into tears. And there's a life lesson to Mike's story for all of us at the bottom of this post, whether you knew him or not, so if you didn't know Mike and this post gets a little too long for you, please skip to the bottom.

You see, Mike wasn't just my friend. He was everyone's friend. He was a man of such profound decency and kindness that he touched lives and he touched their hearts, too.

I worked with Mike for my 32 years at WKAR and we became good friends early on, especially during pledge periods. They were all live then and we would be at the studio for hours on end with long periods between the televised breaks. Mike ran camera then. During the breaks, the crew and I went to their room -- 108 -- and watch MTV or just hung out. There would be trips to the bar after pledge -- or our TV Auction, which lasted for 30 years. It was the best time of my working life.

Mike was always there.

Mike was always there. When I was sick last spring, he posted a get well video on my Facebook page -- Mike sending his wishes. It meant a lot. But it wasn't the first time I felt his support. He was there when my dad died. When things were choppy with work. Many years before that, I remember him walking with me and my friend Gina, for hours, after midnight, when my heart was broken and I just needed to be with people who cared.

Mike was a big guy. He told me once long ago that when he was young and walking downtown, people approaching would cross the street. He looked intimidating -- and nothing, absolutely nothing, could be further from the truth. He was the gentle giant with the heart of gold, the wonderful sense of humor, the one who spent time to please and delight you.

He was of generous spirit -- for example, his huge (and I do mean huge) video collection rivaled that of a video store.

He would loan his DVDs for $1 -- unlimited return time. Oh, and if you didn't -- or you really liked it -- he'd say "Oh, keep it. I have lots of others." And trust me -- if you were playing Trivia -- you wanted Mike on your team.

From running camera at WKAR, Mike went into video graphics. It was a new world, a new technology, and he loved it. He also loved photography and making videos and posters.

One of his most popular "gifts" was a birthday poster, often based on a book or movie, where he would put you and those who were part of your world into the picture with you. This was for my birthday...

...so was this...(It's hard to see, but Rick is the Mad Hatter, Gypsy is there and so is my dad, among others, along with my art work and good friends.)

...and this.

He celebrated "In-Between" Day (the day between my birthday and best buddy Gina's) with this:

 

And you might remember this one from my retirement (my favorite)...

...and this one...

...and this one, too.

And there were others. Like this one for Tim, 

the ultimate Cubs fan.

 

...for Andy, the dashing young student (who now works for "Parks and Recreation")...

For Mike, one of our producers at the station. (Mike always, always made me look better than I really was!)

For our friend Marge...

And lots of others, like this one for Jim.

It's a tribute to Mike that after his friends heard of his passing, we started posting the birthday posters he made for us on Facebook and a lot of us changed our profile photos to a poster or detail from one. I was amazed at the body of work he churned out for his friends.

But it wasn't just graphics. It was video and video slide shows, too. I was always "Gidget" to Mike. I don't know why -- I was never as cute as Gidget. But I loved it. So, he made this one for me last year, culling from photos on my blog, Facebook and ones he'd taken I had never seen.

He chronicled our trip to Europe with this 11-minute slide show that is a love letter to France (below some of the images are cut off because of my template, but the link gets you full screen).

He remembered Rick's family reunion with this one to the song "For All We Know, We Will Never Meet Again." I can't tell you how many tears I cried when I listened to this one.

In the 1980s when a lot of us were at odd with the world, at least romantically, we formed a group of seven friends, the SPIES (Single People in Emotional Stress). We four women and three men went to movies together, had progressive dinner parties, celebrated Valentine's Day. We might act as all seven, maybe only two or three. We got each other through a lot of tough times. Here's Mike at the Oscar party...

...and at the Progressive Movie Party. One movie per house!

Mike joined us at Christmas more than once -- sometimes for dinner, sometimes after -- just to hang out and have fun. I still look at those days as some of the best times of my life.

Mike had a lot of medical issues which forced his leaving WKAR a number of years ago. It was a sad time for everyone there and the circumstances were unfortunate. But he hung in there, ramping up his videos and posters. For so many of us, his death was unexpected. We all knew he had health issues; we never thought they would take him away from this world so suddenly.

There is the family in which we are born and the family we choose for ourselves, made up of friends. Mike's friends have been sharing stories on their (and his) Facebook page, along with photos that will be put into a slide show for his memorial. I hope he knows how much he was loved. Because oh, he was loved by so many, so much.

More than a Tribute

This post, though, is more than a tribute. There is a message that's important to share. The morning of the day Mike died -- or maybe the day before -- his last Facebook post read: "Someone call me." The replies ranged from the Facebook jokey to "Call you what?" to posting songs like "Call Me" and "Call Me Maybe." And, I might add that's all suitable FB stuff -- we all post things like that and when we offer out humor on a regular basis, we expect to get it back. Mike had a good sense of humor and knew his friends well -- I doubt he was too surprised at the replies, all in good fun. At least, I hope Mike took it all that way.

I saw that post, too. And I thought "I've got to call Mike. We'll go to Oscar movies in the daytime and I have all those photos I want to give him." I'd only seen him once since retirement and that was at a birthday party where the music was great -- but loud. We shouted at each other, even though we were side by side. It was fun. But not really "seeing" someone. In fact, that night at dinner with two of my former SPIES friends, Gina and Carol, we talked about that.

The next morning I heard from a work friend who took the time to call me (rather than discovering it online) that Mike had passed. I can't call him anymore to go to the movies or anything else.

No one can..

 My "word" of the year is Now. I sure goofed up on that one. I just hope Mike understands. Knowing Mike, I've already been forgiven, even if it will take me awhile to forgive myself.

Dreaming of Paris and Remembering Montmartre

I have been listless and more than a little down in the dumps lately.

The visit of my long-time friend Suzanne from London, Ontario, brightened my mood some, as we filled our time together with long talks, movies, shopping and eating at some of her favorite spots (mine, too!) But it has been cold and I have been gloomy and when I am I often think back to Paris. It felt like a good time to participate in Paulita's Dreaming of France party.

Because of the sadness in my heart, I suppose it made some sense to revisit the Montmartre Cemetery in Paris. Rick and I did this with "Peter's Paris" blogger Peter who was a terrific guide to not only the cemetery but to the area in general.

It was a rainy day as we walked by the graves of the famous and the ordinary. The rain made the stones deeper, richer in color. The flowers just "popped." (I believe this was composer Jacques Offenbach's grave.)

I can't hear the guitar music of Fernando Sor (which Rick will play on occasion) without thinking of seeing his resting place.

The sculpture was beautiful and poignant. It cried out with emotion, sorrow and grief.

This is my favorite photo from the trip. As you know, I love cats and there are generally more than a few roaming the cemeteries of Paris. But on this day, it was very rainy (think "April Showers," which capsulized our April in Paris.)

At the time we were in Paris, our Marmelade Gypsy was back home in Michigan, every day closer to his last. (We lost him about two weeks after we returned). I was having a lot of separation issues on that trip, for though I knew he was in safe hands, I also knew his health was very fragile, something that if I'd known when we booked the trip, we may not have gone at that time.

Eager to see one of the "cemetery cats," I was thrilled to find this one hiding on a shelf in an elaborate marker. I didn't dare get too close -- I didn't want to scare him. So I snapped the photo and thought little more about it. But when I saw the pictures later, I was entranced by both the memory and this handsome cat.

I didn't get another cat right after Gypsy died. I couldn't. But then a friend was fostering a mom-cat and her kittens and while the kittens were easy to place, Mom was less so. But I was willing to take her on.

Right now she is purring right beside me and every time I look at her I think of the Montmartre Cat. No, they aren't dead ringers for each other. But perhaps that cat imprinted its pretty black-and-white features on the heart of this soul who loves her orange cats. Maybe. Just maybe.

Postscript: For more on the beautiful statuary at Montmartre's cemetery, visit Peter's great post HERE.