Hey Mom

Hey Mom. 

You are blowing up on Instagram. I think you must know. I mean, fuck the algorithm and fancy reels. You’re good.

I took that same old handful of photos I have of you and put them into some kind of auto program and added a really sad song, and boom, I woke up to 10k views and weeks later we are crossing the half million mark. Social media likes you, Mom. They really like you. Bet you are combing through all the “she is so beautiful, what a beauty, she looks like a movie star comments. I have read all 11 thousand of them. It reminds me of the way the boys from school used to talk about you. It was never very PC, but they bandied about “hot mom”.  This was long before MILF existed. Thank goodness, because knowing that Bob Gildersleeve and those kids wanted you that way would just be gross.

If you were here, I imagine you checking in with all the grandkids and asking them how many “likes” this song or that post received. It would be against all that we have taught them about social media, but it would be very you. 

“Hi, Grandma Ellen, did you see the pasta I posted from school?, uinny would ask. “Bucatini with blistered tomatoes and a vegan tempeh Bolognese.” 

You would have high fived her decision to go her own way on the college route. You would also be cheering for Ryan in grad school. Columbia you’d Kvell.  Emma writing her one woman show with the grant money. I think you would be way on board with the girlfriend too. The eldest, the eldest -- I know, so industrious and creative.  And Marc, the only boy – a senior at Penn State. Already employed for next year. Kvell. Kvell. Brag, Brag. Do you do that on the grocery line in heaven?  

You would be so happy we are all back on the East Coast. I wonder if you would have still been a realtor at 80? My guess, is a resounding yes. 

So anyway Mom, there is this new trend on Tik Tok. That other social media app you might stay up all night and scroll.  Danna does. We are both horrible sleepers. No idea if it is a family trait or menopausal side effect, because at 50 you had the fan by your bedside and then were gone. Forever 50. That seems also, so very you. 

Ok, Tik Tok. Folks are making videos to answer the questions that they think their Mom’s would want to know since they died.  I want to make one too, but I am not crafty like that with editing, so let’s play here.

 1/ Are you still married to Eddie?

Nope. it ended up being a mess, cheating and barely co-parenting, but made me stay in Chicago. Yep, prisoner of the state of Illinois. You would have been so pissed. Eddie, who we measured all that was good and right with the world ended up being “Best Actor in a Drama”. But, I could write him a thank you note on my finest, newly monogrammed BLG stationary. Mrs. Grant. Like Cary Grant with a B. I met Alex on J-date. An on-line dating site. I only went out with him because he was seven years younger, had a sexy shaved head and well written bio. His ethics and midwestern-y ways remind me of Daddy, but with an edge. He loves Dad. Dad with and without Dementia. You know Dad has Dementia, right?

 2/ Did you have kids?

Sisters. Two girls. I know you know them. I think you ordered them up for me. 

 Girls.

Sisters.

Two.

Please, you tell God. She knows I deserve them.  The girls tell me they feel like they know you too. We tell so many Grandma Ellen stories.  Do you like being called Grandma? I know you might like to be called something more non-traditional, like Grandy or Sweetie or Sweetheart. or Bae. The kids use that moniker to mean Babe. I remember we talked “grandma alternatives at some point” -- but this was easier for the girls to understand and connect with.

3/Is your life happy?

that is not a quick and easy yes. I tried for so long for the death of you, not to define me, but of course it did – it has. I think about what life would look like with you in it.  Somedays I think that would be swell and magical, and others the true pain in the neck that a Mom can be when she wrangles her way into your choices and ideals.

Damn, I miss you.

I have come to be content. If ever so slightly, bittersweet. I am lucky. I have a life that feels lucky. Despite losing you. And Bob. A divorce. And all those miscarriages. Maybe it was God’s way of giving me Quinn. And then Alex. Maybe you know up there. Are they lessons you sent me?  

Just think about the day that me and you and Danna will all be back together. The three Musketeers.

Each time someone dies, I imagine they are joining you. Well, just the good ones. And in your finest real estate-ease, you help them settle in and give them the name of all of the best souls and shortcuts you’ve soused out and the place you can get the best close up of your family as they continue to do great things here on earth.

I do hope you are hanging out with Jackie Kennedy and Joan Didion. I imagine you are all having salad and fries at the Bergdorf’s in the sky and I do hope and imagine they are really good at scrabble too. 

And that, that makes my life happy.

Ps click the photo to meet mom

Living With Loss: Live at The Loft

Writing to you from my new desk in NY. I am looking out at the yellow leaves turning over in the wind on this Halloween Day. This year I went in with “full size over fun size” for the new neighbors.  For some, Halloween can bring up some grief (people decorating with tombstones and ghosts), memories of childhood with your folks, or your children. For others Dia de los Meurtos can be a lovely time of remembrance and reverence. The notion that loved ones can “never really die” if they are remembered, brings me peace.

Have you listened to the Anderson Cooper podcast, “All There Is” yet? It is one of the best I have ever heard.  

It is a seven-episode series that started with him recording him rifling through his Mom (Gloria Vanderbilt’s) belongings after she died at 95.  He also experienced the loss of his father as a young boy, his brother as a teen and his beloved Nanny who helped him make sense of the world without his father and a busy and grieving mother. This article in The New Yorker shares all about it, along with reflections of the writer who is widowed with a one year old. They talk about how difficult the self-help books can be – to be honest I rarely recommend them to clients or friends. They are often filled with platitudes or some sense of right or wrong that just makes the process more grief-y if you ask me!

I am thrilled to be settled back into my East coast roots. Moving back “home” made the leaving of friends and memories and a home that I adored, a little easier. I am proud to have settled into a new community in Bedford, NY.  When I approached The Yoga Loft about a workshop called Living with Loss at The Loft, they invited me in warmly and with curiosity. If you are in my neck of the woods, I would love to see you there. Just an hour outside the city, on Saturday, November 19, 2-4pm.  You can register here.

If you wish to work with me 1:1, here is a link to my schedule

Loving What’s Left : Making Meaning When Memories Fall Away

My Dad was one of the original Mad Men. He worked at Sudler & Hennessey , a pioneering pharmaceutical advertising agency for almost three decades. There, he spearheaded creative teams, collaborated with the world’s top doctors, and brought breakthrough drugs to the market that would change lives and create legacies.

We would have dinner table downloads and brainstorms about the latest on his docket. What did we think about the first gel toothpaste? Samples of gooey green Aim were shared. What about deodorant marketed to teen girls called Tickle? Four collectible scents packaged in groovy dome topped and polka dotted clear casing.  Sure, those appealed to us, but his work with Ethel Kennedy to support one of the first drugs on the market for breast cancer, is and was his proudest advertising moment--and now ours. Breast Cancer Awareness Week was conceived by Dad and his team with Mrs. Kennedy.

His kind Mid-Western demeaner, crafty way with words and Dad humor went far with clients. He was a beloved boss too. We longed to go to his office and cartwheel down the giant corridors and play with the 100’s of markers displayed on racks in the art department. We learned the cold hard truth about how some ads make things look bright and shiny and maybe better than they were in real life. We also learned advertising made some brands of shampoo and make up we fawned over expensive.

Our “Ad Dad” retired early in a downsizing of the agency and moved to Westchester to be closer to his first granddaughter. He soon became “Grampsy” and ordered up vanity plates for his signature silver Beetle--both instant town favorites.

Small hints at memory loss showed up in forgetting how to use or misplacing his cellphone. A “Beautiful Mind” style collection of lists upon lists displayed all of the names of kids and grandkids filled his Filofax, napkins and post-Its. “I don’t remember” became a frequent answer to our queries.

A neurological evaluation confirmed that Dad was suffering from Mild Cognitive Impairment. As we knew from the death of his mom, Grandma Marge, this could be the beginning stages of dementia.

It stole Dad as we knew him, slowly and without warning. He was good at creating round about ways of deflecting some of our awareness. He made our calls shorter, easy generalizations about the weather and the day, and quick hang ups with his signature “love you more.” He began to buy and consume sweets in epic proportion. A dementia signal we would later come to learn. We had to contact the local deli and let them know that four donuts were no longer allowed to accompany his New York Post. One day he told us he was not much of a coffee drinker. Dad had a pot brewing, or cup in hand all day long for most of our lives.

When he could no longer remember the day or date with two newspapers on his desk to tickle his recall, and got lost heading to familiar spots, we knew it was time to remove the car. This day he remembers. The freedom of zipping his Grampsy-mobile around town and frequent airport picks ups were no longer.

The neurologist prompted rapid-fire requests to recite the alphabet backwards, name the Vice President and his kids names and ages. This left him frustrated and sullen and left us with the sad realization that he needed help.

We put a care team in place. “The ladies” as he called them, gave him meds and meals, company on walks and parttime companionship. He walked out his front door into the night and onto the main road in town to a stranger’s front door. He wore a bracelet with his name and emergency contact we bought him and with its help, we were alerted that he’d be taken to the local hospital for observation.

From 24-hour care to our final decision to move him from his home to an assisted living facility that also housed an “age in place” option for memory care. Content. Comfortable. Kind. Easy. This is how they describe him at “The Club”. He asks the woman who cleans his room if he can help. His spacious and private apartment soon transitioned to a twin bed and open-door policy in memory care when he took an unexpected fall.

All four of us have expressed the deep mourning of the man that is before us. There is something magical and comforting in his still knowing we are “family” even if he can’t always place our names. The signature almond shaped “Leiner eyes” that disappear when he smiles and twinkle when he laughs are alive with knowing.

One of the greatest of lessons we have learned in this living grief, is to love what is left. We no longer ask, “do you remember,” but take opportunities to tell him stories of the Neil we know and knew and love more than the whole wide world. (He has marked his notes to us ILYMTTWWW for our entire lives.)

Last month, on the way to get a Covid vaccine, I tell him that his client was Pfizer, that he worked with them, and they created the shot he was getting. “I did not work there; they were my client,” he corrects me. The nurse asks if his name is correct on the card she has before she administers the dose and he giggles, “if it says handsome, then yes, that’s me.” He rises from his seat in the waiting area for others who are “old” he tells me.

I regale him with compliments from the staff telling us he always remembers to say “thank you” and how kind he is to all of them. “That sure sounds like me,” he agrees. I mention that it is 9/11 and before he moved, he used to place flowers on a memorial bench in town that we donated for a friend we lost. He used to take their son to soccer games when the mom needed to be with her daughter and could not be in two places at once. “That sounds like something I would do,” he reflects.

When I meet someone who has a parent with memory loss, I share our story telling idea. The director at The Club reminds staff that they work with former lawyers, teachers, politicians and yes, award winning ad execs. He encourages them to ask about their jobs and their past. My Dad can still recall advertising pitches with ease and great detail.

Meals at The Club are ordered from a menu he can choose from daily. He forgets some favorites and knows others well. Bacon and brisket recently stirred his spirit along with Dr. Brown’s Diet Crème soda. “I really don’t know,” is a new and response. This day he sits at lunch and greets his tablemates. “Hey, how is everyone today.” They know his name and 100 meals later he does not recall theirs. He lifts his glass of watered-down cranberry juice and rings out, “Cheers.” They all lift theirs to clink and celebrate like lunch is a veritable New Year’s Eve bash. The nurse tells me his table “love their cheers.” This reminds me that each day is in fact a celebration.

There is a memoir I refer to clients these days by Steve Leder called, “The Beauty of What Remains.” Love the living. Enjoy the little things. It won’t be this way forever, but for now, we love what is before us. Best of all when we part ways, we get a kiss and a “love you more.” This is only doled out to family, and that is how we know, he still knows “his people”. His sense of humor and quick wit are intact too. Extra belly laughs come for his jokes and they are more meaningful than ever.

On a recent new home purchase I made, I long to call and ask his advice. I also marvel at the adoration of his new grandson. Archer Owen, just five months old, who will proudly keep the Leiner legacy alive, and Dad’s paternal spirit. When the baby is placed in his arms all of the songs he sang to us four come right back to him. “I was visiting with my Grandson” he tells his tablemates later that week.

This disease is a crafty robber. It is a thief of time and a future none of us planned. On many days I honor my grief and the loss of the Dad I knew and needed in ways no longer accessible.  On most days, I love what is left. The man before me.  I take in the lessons he teaches us in the wonder and beauty of small pleasures and living in the now. These are lessons he no longer realizes he can impart, but they are imprinted on my heart for always.

100 words for 100 days

I just completed day 25, of a creative challenge brought to my attention by the brilliant writer Suleika Joaud. I have been writing 100 words a day and will continue to do so for 100 days. The page can be so wildly blank and daunting when we HAVE to write, but when we look to it as a moment and space for anything goes, it seems to touch a more playful and freeing note.

I urge you to set a fun and fruitful 100 day goal. Something that will make you feel delightedly accomplished at the end of your project. Perhaps it is a doodle a day, a few moments for bird watching, adding cool new music to a playlist, learning a piece you have wished to master - anything at all. Just keep at it.

I made a playlist for my Living With Loss: Group Grief Coaching, so that I can open each week with some grounding music, I love imagining the words and melody rolling over the skin and into the soul of each participant . I choose from the whole wide world of songs. Not too bittersweet, nothing religious, inspired but never prescriptive. This one by Allen Stone invites presence and grounding begging the listener to just “love where you’re at” — and for today, that is my mantra. I have it on repeat in my office today0000.

So many amazing things are springing, budding and blooming over here at The Memory Circle. My Remember & Reflect deck of cards is due to land any day now. It is a card deck comprised of 50 cards ( one for each year my beloved Mom Ellen was here on earth!) emblazoned with prompts to help you or someone you love process and metabolize loss in a variety of incarnations. It makes a lovely gift to yourself or someone who has experience a recent loss.

I am also embarking on a new certification with Claire Bidwell Smith. She is a NY Times best selling author and therapist who has created her first ever course and co-hort to teach and explore GRIEF & LOSS to an intimate group. It is mostly made up of social workers and therapists, and as a coach, I am honored to have been accepted. This is the continuing education I seek. so that I may have the right tools at my fingertips to support others.

The Memory Circle on the all audio Clubhouse app hit 5k members. There are five thousand grievers that clicked a button to be a member of a club that supports their grief. I work with Lisa Kendall each Thursday to offer a free workshop where we offer therapeutic art and writing prompts as well as rooms featuring authors and community chats. It is truly beautiful to be connected with a world of contributors.

Keep in touch and do let me know if you embark on a 100 day adventure.

say my name

I have just completed my grief educator course with David Kessler. It was his first ever training, and taken on the heels of acquiring my Certified Grief Coach credential. I am working with clients 1:1 and in circle and strive for my toolkit to be packed with good learnings. I had been so impressed at how David showed up for those who were experiencing loss during the pandemic. Each day a new guest and conversation around grief on his Facebook page.

There were so very many who showed up to take his course. (Surprisingly hundreds!) Many so fresh in their own grief, it hurt my heart. this reminded me, that sometimes grief has no place to go. we wish we had a place to lay it down. lay it bare. and yet, we don’t wish to burden friends who may have long been by our side through our sadness and stories. perhaps family members who have experienced the same loss and are processing differently are not the ideal audience. the course was made up of folks who wished to be educators, therapists who wanted to add a grief speciality and work over state lines and current limitations and grievers who wished to educate themselves. I also guess, to be in a community of like-minded individuals.

the course was filled with well conceived and prepared information, vast resources and highlighted the amazing work Kessler has done with the Kubler Ross foundation. Elizabeth Kubler Ross is famous for concieving the stages of grief for the terminally ill, which have long been adopted and adapted to the grieving. With their permission, he added a stage to grief— making meaning. I am certain this is how many found their way to the educator course too. grief is like that in its pay-it-forward realness. I would consider myself a magnet for stories and a professional listener—long before gaining any credentials.

without the science behind my intention, I have always felt that I needed to make meaning of my mother’s death. I tried for so very many years for this loss not to define me. but as a friend so aptly graced me with permission to step in with both feet and admit that it indeed has and will. “of course it does”, he said. and while I believed my mother would have been disappointed had I been “the sad girl in the room”, she would marvel at what meaning has been made for me of this great loss, and now others.

I created the memory circle to make that place to bring it. to put it. to rest it. to tell it like it is. to sit shoulder to shoulder with those who grieve. lay bare our truth of loss and how we are living with it. one of the “rules” of TMC, is to share the name of your loved one. speak it into the circle. I used to say, I lost my mother in 1993. I would quickly blurt it out, so as not to call attention or sadness or that cocked head that so often follows such a proclaimation. now I say, my mother’s name is Ellen, she died in 1993 at 50. quite suddenly. This honors her memory. Makes her a person who lives on in my life and memory.

today I invite you to say their name. share their story. make meaning and memories. reframe days on the calendar that feel hard or heavy. be with grief. not the grief that takes us down and out. the one that companions us forward. I wish this for you.

grief in the workplace

There are over 600,000 deaths in the US attributed to Covid, as well as many other uncounted instances of loss and separation due to the pandemic. The result is that—despite a rapidly recovering economy and talk of entering a new ‘roaring 20s’—many Americans are carrying with them a significant burden of grief.

For thoughts on how this presents itself in the workplace and what we can do proactively about it, we spoke with Barri Leiner Grant, a grief coach who works with companies on issues related to bereavement. Below are excerpts of our conversation, edited for space and clarity:
 

How would you characterize the state of the workforce today in terms of the level of ambient grief and unresolved loss?

For the workforce in general, because we've had such a loss of connection from not being in offices, whether you've lost someone to Covid or you've just been away from the office, it's a loss of normalcy. I've named it all grief. A lot of people don't realize that what they're going through is grief. It shows up in a lot of other ways, but I would say on top of the Covid pandemic, we are now in what I would call the grief pandemic.
 

If I'm a colleague or an employer, what should I be doing?

First of all, you should have a very clear bereavement leave policy. If you don't have one, it would be a good thing to do in light of Covid. People are in fear of losing their job when they have lost a loved one; they are taking time off or they are not in the headspace to meet the requirements of work. Sixty-nine percent of employers grant three days, that's an average. And if you think about what needs to be done to not only process grief, but to make arrangements for a funeral. Or if it's a loss of a parent, what do we do with the children?

About nine people are affected with the loss of each person. If you think about that in the workplace, it's pretty significant. You'd be surprised—if you asked companies, ’What's your bereavement policy,’ many make you take paid leave. So you have to use vacation days, which I think is highly unacceptable. The best practices really are to have a bereavement leave policy firstly, and to figure out with input from employees what feels right. Maybe there are people who have experienced loss in the company already and they would have some input. Putting together some kind of a committee would be really amazing because there will be some people in the company that have lost a loved one that you may not even know have experienced that.

It's not something that we talk about. That's part of the reason that having these bereavement leave policies in place just offers the bereaved permission. And that's really what we need: permission to be able to take the time that we need to grieve. Some are fortunate where they work for a company that sees this as a compassionate thing to do to give your employees as much time as they need to put the pieces back together of a life that's forever changed. And other companies just don't have anything in place at all.

By Kevin Delaney

the why

My sister asks why I only write about the good times. They were mostly. Our mother could be your toughest critic, highest bar and also front-line cheerleader with glittery pom poms shaking for you fiercely at each finish line. Doing your best in our home was unspoken and expected. We were latchkey kids, being instilled with independence. We were often met with after school “love notes” found on the kitchen counter in her distinct script-print hybrid that would read, “Start the Stove Top Stuffing.  Move the laundry to the dryer and fold while it is still warm.  Clean your fucking room, it is a pigsty.  x, Mommy.” She asked for little, but expected a lot.   

She had uncertain moods on days and moments that would shock you into pleasing mode.  She was fun and free spirited, and then could suddenly yell, shrill loud claps; in disgust, frustration at something seemingly small (like ignoring the pile at the bottom of the stairs) or in utter disappointment while you were trying your damndest. Disappointing our mother was your own worst punishment. You never needed to be grounded, for you had already beat yourself up black eyed and bruised. Pleasing her was winning the top shelf prize at a boardwalk game.  You can barely carry that kind of pride, but its weight and enormity became the scale and measure for everything we ever did or would do. She was beautifully hard to please. 

Our stepfather, Peter, summons my sister and I for a lunch in Manhattan. I recall it taking place somewhere in the 70s, East side and a stunningly unremarkable choice. It is Christmas-ish as the decorations hang in my memory above our table. He probably has something financial to share. My stepfather is very maps and coordinates and mom was the fun cruise director of their lives.  He always seems stern and serious in his lawyerly ways, even when I try to see his love for her.  For us. His baritone, stunning height, and slow delivery, make conversations unfold like rehearsed opening arguments for a case he is presenting. I imagine he may be selling our house on Hubbard or settling her will. He told us she had a small life insurance policy, a box accidentally checked on an AARP/real estate application, that just covers funeral costs.

This is six months after our healthy, vivacious, fifty-year-old mother has dropped dead. She was taken from us on a fine beach day in July by the lightning stroke of a brain aneurysm. Suddenly and unexpectedly in a wave of uncertainty and promise of a future we imagined—she is swept clean from us. There on Sandy Hook National Park and gone with zero good-byes.

I have been pacing through dense fog, arms swimming in molasses. I am stuck, boulders on my back, but moving them from here to there. Work to home. This may be grief, but it is too fresh to know. I am two years post wedding and this was to be a beginning of my new life and not an end. Nobody helped us in the death department, or talked to us about healing. Bereavement unspoken, revealed only in notes of condolences. We are strong like her. Daughters who will always be ok, like her. Over it and onward seem to be the expected walk forward.  Try to be proud without her, my inner heartbeat.

I keep flipping one thing over and over in my mind, as sense digs its nails in. Where is God? Where was he or she or whomever is in charge up there? All of those Hebrew school years and “be a good girl” and Mom and her amazingly big heart and transformative fundraising efforts at The Women’s House and Count Basie Theater. The time I put the stolen stuffed animal back in The Royal Box gift shop. Momentous life changing efforts folks had continuously relayed that she brought to them. Mom was good. So, where was God? Our mother’s death is the stuff of the evening news.  This time the unthinkable lead story is us. Silly, selfish me of past tragedies.  We were now amazingly, the “other people” who have this bad luck.  And where is God in all of it?  

I used to believe there was one great being, pulling strings and making merry for the well-mannered and benevolent. Peter tells us, “only the good die young.”  I am less about a good Billy Joel reference in wrapping up my whys (thanks very much) and I know this cannot be his logic talking.  My insides are coursing with this obsessive questioning. I am awake with it, like a drug in my veins. The Leiner girls have been knocked off their sweet and steady balance beam of a life. I am reeling in the deep end, drunk and drowning in what ifs.  I say this out loud to exactly nobody.

I have also batted about a vision of being a contestant on Jeopardy.  Mom always dreamed of winning on a game show. Wishes unrealized. She could fill in the puzzle on Wheel of Fortune before any letters appeared. She was magic with words and let us watch a tiny portable tv in the kitchen with dinner some nights. My answer to the daily double, “The worst thing that ever happened to Barri Leiner for the win Alex”. “What is, my mother died?” Alex Trebek will bestow all the prizes upon me, it is the least anyone can do.  

“I struggled with whether or not to tell you girls” Peter starts, over lunch. Mommy had wanted her organs donated and we were part of the final decision on this.  All but her eyes were ok with us—Danna and I agree. I have no idea what sister and I thought she may need to see where she was going. Her Real Estate listings in heaven? Us, down here?  They are her most “her” body part. We make crazy fucked up decisions in this state. Like not speaking at the funeral. We also decide she does not require hose or heels for being buried, but insist that all of her own make-up be used by the mortician and delivery clothes and her floral zip top beauty essentials to them. We have this conversation over her body writhing up and down in a hospital bed, chest cavity rising and falling, falsely alive like a patient in a coma, but dead with the beeping aid of a life support machine. Tubes and air. The medicinal odor floats about us.  “The hospital called to tell me, they found early stage liver cancer and had to donate her organs to research,” he finishes. 

The why. There is an answer to my why. This is what he almost did not tell us and it was not his story to keep. Why I walk in circles of wonder. Mom would have suffered from liver cancer; a hideous disease that would have broken a spirit so grand. I contemplate the long farewell of this insidious illness and know that it would have made her an awful, angry and reclusive patient. Losing her hair. Giving in to a daily fight that would leave her self-conscious and vein. This ending has her going out as an awful wretch. It is an end I do not wish to trade for the one we got, even for a few more years. He almost did not share this colossal piece of our puzzle and death making detail. It hangs the picture in an entirely new light. This reframes six months of why. He has no right to have kept this from us, for even a day. I don’t recall any of us eating or how we parted ways that day. But God was there. 

I recall the OB asking me at the twelve-week check in, if I wanted to know the sex of my baby to be. My first. This was less than two years after Mom had died and we moved from home in NY to Chicago.  I am certain I said yes to this escape plan to wiggle out from under having to deal with the hulking burden of missing her. My husband has a new job, and I will have a baby. Mom would have hated my leaving. It was my first deception in her absence and a middle finger at death. My inner discomfort was a tight pair of support top hose. It hurt. Sucked me in. And would not let me breathe easily. I was surprised as the words fall out loud, “If there is a God, then this is a girl.” I now believe my mother may be pulling strings or trading favors of reduced commissions in the sky. I so desperately wanted the mother daughter relationship I had lost. The tiny heart beating taps into focus on the grey screen as Dr. Levin rolls freezing goo over my belly with the push of the sonogram machine in her hand. Numbers and lines stretching and measuring on the computer screen. I don’t need her to tell me. I know.   

back out into the new normal

I have never considered myself a loner or even someone who is really a homebody. not surrounded by a gaggle of friends, but social none the less. living away from my “home” on the east coast, I have become proficient at being the “away” girl, after months and months of being inside, I got used to it. so used to it, I began to enjoy it. more and more. I took solace in my bedroom and in my bed — even as a place and space to write, read, relax and devour entire seasons of programs. I know we are told to make the bedroom a sacred space for sleep (and intimacy). I was not eager for the world to reopen. I could relate to being a recluse. I had heard the word tossed around in a Hollywood way — knowing famed actresses from the past that decided they were done with stage and screen and just never came out again. I imagine it. what would I miss? we had grown so wary of being in a crowd even with a mask. I am tenuous outside. Louder noises. Traffic. Strangers pass and I wonder if they too have had the vaccine. To hug or not to hug. Shaking hands seems worse. So here I sit, contemplating my re-emergence. It can feel light to be in the company of those we care about. It can also feel safe to just stay inside. It is all very confusing to me. I thought I would be so excited for a return to normalcy. But I would rather just stay home. Alas, the reclusive of Oakdale Ave.

chief grief officer

I recall a friend asking me about The Memory Circle. I shared that I was the founder. I joked, the Chief Grief Officer. I started to use the name in my social media bios and one day a photographer pal shared how clever he thought it was, and that I should consider a trademark.

Fast forward to applying on line myself, until I hit a small snag and needed to call on a lawyer. All so very expensive. I sat on it for a while, debating the cost as an investment. I had already paid a great deal in registration fees, and the lawyers who I reached out to had huge estimates. Perhaps it was a clever turn of a phrase I could and would continue to use personally?

One day in a room on Clubhouse, I heard a lawyer speak about trademarks and intellectual property. Since he had his Twitter handle linked to his bio, I reached out. I asked if he wanted to make some Clubhouse history? I sent along my query, and we negotiated a flat fee that worked for us both. He filed all of the appropriate paperwork, and we waited. All was in order, and then we had to be sure nobody contested it. We waited a little longer.

This all took place during the long stay-at-home days of the pandemic. I had decided during this time to also gain my certification as a Grief Coach. I began the course, and to take on pro-bono clients as part of the training. Just a few weeks in, I received the great news that Chief Grief Officer® had become official, by the United States Patent and Trademark office.

As I had anticipated, my social media circle needed the services of my lawyer too-a lovely win-win. I was able to share my official and self-proclaimed moniker with my fellow coaches this week. It makes me feel very “on purpose” and a step closer to standing in my truth. I tried for so very long for my grief not to define me since the death of my mother in 1993, and have come to realize, it has, for life. Sharing not only what I have learned along my journey, but helping folks process and metabolize their own loss, is truly a gift. It makes meaning of my own, even all of these years later. I often think, while there are no stages of grief, or that they are certainly not linear — one of the last, for certain, is giving back.

I have continuously met the person in room, on line at a shop, in a writing retreat, beside me on a yoga mat — almost everywhere, who has experienced a loss of some sort. From miscarriage and infertility to divorce and the sudden death of my mother Ellen, I am no stranger to loss—or to share an ear where and when one has been needed.

I am glad and proud, to be working with clients who trust that I can help them on their own path. Together we are making it a language that is evermore comfortable to speak about, live with and move through. If you know someone who could use support, I hope you will think of me.

a little is a lot

I saw Dad today.  It was a simple visit. The idea now, is just to show up and be with whatever comes. Or remains. I have come to delight in telling him stories. This week, a childhood friend Eric reached out.  He lost his Dad years ago. I have been in touch from time to time with his Mom. We called one another’s folks – Aunt and Uncle. His mom Aunt Rita, and my Dad, Uncle Neil to Eric.  At their Sedar, Aunt Rita told Eric that my Dad was suffering dementia. He was saddened by the news, and reached out. He told me that of all of the “parent group” folks, my Dad remained a favorite in his memory. He mentioned his smile, and warm kindness. He recalled my Dad coming to their home to help delivery their puppies in the middle of the night.” Dr. Neil”, I joked. Dad worked in pharmaceutical advertising and his medical knowledge always had him a smidge away from Dr. in our hearts and minds. He asked that I shared with Dad that Eric was asking for him, sending love, and to give him a hug. His eyes lit at the story. Sure, he remembered Aunt Rita and Uncle Mark.  He recalled delivering the puppies as well.  

We walked to Lange’s Deli, where everyone knows Dad like they know you at Cheers. They still ask after his dog Max, and told him he should get another.  The man adds up our tab on the back of the brown paper bag. Two sandwiches, two diet creme Dr. Brown’s (I remind him it is a favorite—mine too), some new fangled pretzels that are hollow for a crisp and airy bite, and I get some vinegar and salt chips. They pack up our sack, and the deli man tells Dad, “ya know you should get a pony.”  They giggle and Dad wishes them a great rest of the day. He guides me across the street as if I am still a kid. “Watch that car, they are turning in”.  He’s still got my back. 

I leave him at the corner as I dash to mail a letter. He waits.  I sneak his photo. We finish up the short walk to his condo, and I steal some video of him walking. His gait is signature. He walks a bit on his toes, and the strides look peppy. At 83, with his new haircut and his Levi’s he is so seemingly young in spirit. I try so hard to look for the good in all of the loss we are experiencing as his memory fades. 

He points out the flowers newly planted on the condo grounds. Pansies, mostly yellow and some with purple centers. The daffodils and forsythia too. He has always admired a good manicured lawn and shares how it is cared for each time we talk on the phone, or walk by  and take in the fresh change of a season. 

I sort through his clothes. We have two baskets outside the closet, because they need to be out for him to remember where they are and to change. We swap out some new favorites into the rotation. We add these new boxer-type Depends. He tries them with no kerfuffle. Just askes me which is the back. He has a hernia which makes going to the bathroom a bit tricky these days. So this is for this just in case.

His easy-going Midwestern nature is so baked into his soul. This is Dad. I still see him. His wise counsel is missing, and gosh I miss that. But the heart of who is remains. 

I was fortunate to read a book recently called “The Beauty of What Remains” and meet the author, Rabbi Steve Leder when I hosted a chat with him on Clubhouse. His dad died after a ten-year bout of dementia. I see my dad through a Rabbi Leder’s lens this visit. 

I cream Dad’s hands. We watch a TNT show on foot surgery. Gross, but engaging. We wince and giggle. I tell Dad he has great feet and how lucky we are to have inherited them. He tells me about his recent trip to the barber, where only women work. He thinks the last trim is a bit short.  I say it is cool and modern. I call my Uber and as it pulls up, Dad takes his position on the porch. We hug and kiss and I tell him, “I love you Dad.” And as he always says, “I love you more.”  He adds, “thanks for everything Bub”. 

A little is a lot.  You are so right Rabbi Leder.  A little is a lot. 

bereavement leave

for the past few years, I have shared circle after circle in community. there are some who have recently experienced a loss and others who have been on the long journey for decades. after all, grief never ends—it simply transforms as we ebb, flow and grow into our discovery. during the pandemic, many of us have also experienced what I have called “re-grief”. this is a revisit to the pieces and past of our loss that we may not have metabolized, acknowledged or are suddenly spurred to re-acknowledge as we witness the very unusual world around us. the universal sense of grief we have all experienced is not only due to the 500,000+ deaths witnessed in the us alone, but the loss of jobs, normalcy, scarcity of money, food - and being separated or isolated from friends, family and classmates.

these feelings have stirred an awakening to loss the world over, and at nearly the one year mark of the start of Covid stay-at-home orders, we have not yet begun to grieve. it has been my mission to not only change the vernacular around grief, but to bring it out of the shadows and into our day to day exchanges so that we normalize its place in all of our lives and conversations. I believe this call to action is having its time. it needs to, if we are to heal humanity and be compassionate neighbors.

currently there are no federal laws that require employers to provide employees either paid or unpaid leave. I have been consulting high level executives, business leaders and human resource departments to prioritize and in most cases, craft and institute their bereavement leave policies. what would it look like if we entertained mandated bereavement leave in the US today? the only state to have bereavement leave legislation in the country is Oregon (jan, 1, 2014). the other 49 states, plus the District of Columbia, do not require employers to provide employees either paid or unpaid bereavement leave. New York most recently, tried and failed.

bereavement leave today, is typically unpaid and unsupported—employees will have to use paid time off or unpaid personal leave for time needed. stop and think about what life would look like for you, if you had to navigate your grief with the added worry over a return to work or job loss. there is no statutory right to paid time off to organize or attend a funeral. some employers will have a compassionate leave policy that provides for paid and/or unpaid time off to organize or attend a funeral.

bereavement leave can be defined as leave taken by an employee for the death of another individual, usually a close relative. The time is usually taken by an employee to grieve the loss of a close family member, prepare for and attend a funeral and or attend to any other immediate post-death matters. some corporations allow regular, full-time employees to take on average up to three days of paid leave following the death of an immediate family member. This is meant for employees to attend and plan a funeral for a deceased loved one. we know that this is not nearly enough time to process loss. it can take weeks alone to obtain the death certificates necessary to sort finances and close simple accounts. there is so little support nationwide for the mental anguish and process of death. we have witnessed this up close during the loss of life due to Covid.

if your company would like to discuss and formulate best practices and awareness around leave and loss, I look forward to connecting. please spread this post far and wide.

clubhouse public service announcement

hello my sweet circle -

just a little scoop from me to you. there is a new audio only social media app called clubhouse, that is in its invite only beta stage. to me, it is like an interactive podcast of sorts. I wanted to share some of my initial reflections, reactions and insights and how you may use it to connect with others worldwide.

first I would like to share, that you need an ios device (not on android yet). you can use your iPhone or iPad to use the platform, that supports ios13. if your interest is peaked in what is new and what is next, I would download the app and reserve your user name. secretly, I have found that this creates a “go around” and if you are in the contacts of a member who is in, they may get pinged and open the “digital door” to welcome you. each member gets an invite and can extend it to invite in a user/friend. and then you invite a friend…and so on and so on, to grow the community organically.

this all seemed very esoteric to me, until I hopped in and listened. and to me, listening is a lost art. while we all need to be seen and heard - the intimacy of voice has reminded me how deep a connection is created through voice.

ok, so come on in. imagine if you will, a phone call with leaders of industry. in some rooms a power-filled council on stage. you are represented with a tiny icon that includes the photo of your choice (and can be easily changed), your handle emblazoned below and a mic. in rooms from grief and loss, to try outs for musicals, discussions on current events, help with marketing from pros and influencers-it is all inside. you just have to find your tribe. so many are talks we would likely pay to attend, and perhaps not ever have access to. you can raise your hand and have your questions answered, or hang back and listen.

you can pop around from room to room and find a space that works for you (rooms are shared in what has been coined “the hallway”). the more folks you follow, the more your hallway will reflect your interests. each member has a bio, accessed by a click on their icon, which allows you to get a glimpse of their background and link to their twitter, instagram and in turn direct access to their direct messages.

I have been inspired to start The Memory Circle on Clubhouse and share everything from chats, to writing classes, discussions about The Artist’s Way and Morning Pages, open to share grief stories and made a lot of meaningful connections that I took off-line.

best practices:

choose a photo that captures attention in a crowd, one that is memorable , stands out

the first three lines of your bio are optimized (the most searchable!) so use those words

wisely and economically — so people can find you for what you’re known for.

raise your hand in a room where you can share value to the room and support the moderator.

be inclusive, kind and open — and try on your vulnerability.

be sure to link your social - twitter and instagram so far, optimize that as it is the only way to message right now.

be sure your social media “house” is tidy before you invite guests.

hop into rooms where you find your tribe and feel their vibe

listen more than you speak. speak with integrity and discernment.

start rooms and open discussions that matter and make a difference

show up as your most authentic self. say what you mean, not what you think others want to hear.

the more people you follow, the more your hallway populates the magic

be creative. hook up your music, live outside events…think how it can work best for you

just a friendly share

x, @barri

twenty twenty

I sat down today to write a reflection of the year. A year of great loss and surprising regrief for so many of us. It was a time for deep change, going inward, staying a new course and hunkering down. It became a time of great resilience for those who had to move to online school, work, and in most cases—far away family. Isolation. We wore masks to keep ourselves and each other safe. Most of us. Some of us. That too was shocking.

We watched as the world became sick with the senseless loss of Black lives. Most at the hands of law enforcement. A reckoning upon a reckoning. Fires burned in hearts and in forests afar. Mother Nature cried for us to listen. I think the virus was here for us to slow way the hell down and see, really see what was going on in the world. We took to the streets. Speaking out. Crying out for change. Change that was and is long overdue.

I am forever grateful for the Black authors who shared their words and worlds. I was totally unaware and cracked open to learning and leaning into what my white privilege meant. I was especially moved by, “I’m Still Here” by Austin Channing Brown. Classes with Milagros Phillips. Learning about needs in my backyard My Block, My Hood, My City and the work of Jamal Cole. iGrow Chicago and their work in Engelwood. Their numbers in community donations from PPE to food security and computers and homework help for the kids are truly astounding. Watching a slew of movies, taking accountability and being with the discomfort of these new learnings was and remains a huge part of a transformation that was and is much needed in my life.

I wrote a lot this year. A lot. About topics I have never broached. I shared darkness, and memories and hope. Tickled my way around memoir and morning pages amidst The Artists Way. Trying to learn and hear my own voice. In doing so, storytelling became a salve and salvation. I wrote about an old abusive love. College days came flooding back. When Facebook reared, I had looked him up and he was like a ghost. After writing about him and reading the piece to my group, I woke the next day and Googled. I learned he had died. Just months prior. He had been jailed for sexual assault, and I imagine the same drug problems that took over his life, and in turn my own, remained.

Gathering with The Memory Circle during Covid, was nothing short of a miracle. Being able to gather in community via zoom. Our very own circle in the square. Each one of you, bravely speaking the name of the person you are missing into the evening’s quiet. Loss of life, of freedom, of normalcy, of togetherness, of drinking, of drugs, of unborn babies. I took great heed in the small delights of Ross Gay and shared. You showed up for one another, for yourself, and those who came before you. Holding that space has been the greatest honor. Thank you for trusting me.

Being away from my family has been hard. My dad with dementia. My eldest Emma away from us since Summer. My sister, home alone with children off to college. Our extended family missing our once-a-year Thanksgiving slash Hanukkah get together. A long distance Bar Mitzvah for a dear cousin. Another cousin lost to Covid, one to complications of heart surgery.

I am grateful to we three. My daughter Quinn, husband Alex and Rocco (ok, 3.5). We have found the dance of alone together under one roof. So proud of both. School, work, and the new us it created. Tomorrow marks a new year and also our 11th anniversary.

I have hope in Biden/Harris, in a vaccine, in an awaking I pray remains. I wish you all health, happiness and thank you for your support and guidance. Bless you all.

today you would be seventy eight

Dear Mom -

Happy Birthday. It has been way too many years since we celebrated together. Consider this a card of sorts. I have been sharing so much of your story with my new memoir group. I think you would love to be in our writing group. It is filled with so many amazing women and with stories that we rarely get to tell one another. Tracy is the teacher, we met in yoga. You would admire her as I do.

After attending my share of Shaman, and mediums, I now feel sure that you are holding the girls. I feel safe knowing this, and have come to count on it when I am often lost in parenting. There is a lot of What Would Ellen Do, as I walk through my days. But, truth be told, nobody did anything quite like you.

I remember all of Danna’s cute guy friends, Bob included, rounding that custom table you designed in the kitchen at 52 Hubbard. They loved to be around you. When you would feign recalling what their precious nickname was for you, to be able to hear it once more… “What was that name again,” you would say?

Hot Mom. HM. I mean, who would not revel in that reflection?

My group, was a gaggle of girls. A mix of neighborhood friends like Irene, and Lisa and Diana, Kim and Kim and Barbara. Sometimes you would let them smoke at the table. Smoke. Imagining that these days makes me laugh. Of course I could not, and should not and would never in front of you. But we all did back then. I used to sneak one from your pack of Marlboro reds, and share it at the bus stop. It was gross, and also felt so grown up. Smoke rings and all.

You would regale the girls with your Thoroughly Modern Millie way in the world. Encouraging us all to be our own women. Have our own checkbooks, and bank accounts when and if we were to marry. Or remarry. You told us all about therapy. Once you told Danna and I that you were afraid of the kind of women we would have grown to be had you not left your first marriage. You even divorced Dad in a way that was your own, remaining friends. This was fodder and fierce knowing from your time in therapy. You always believed it was not to be a crutch, but a place to arrive and work out your issues and move along with what you earned and learned.

You suggested college and career paths to a few friends who did not have parents that were as knowing as you, or had explored different paths. You helped craft and edit a few one of a kind essays for them. What a beacon.

I recalled recently, your work with the woman’s shelter in Red Bank and The Arc. I remember the day you said, how can we sell million dollar homes when some people don’t have a place to safely put their heads down at night. You raised so much money for them through concerts at The Count Basie Theater that they were ripely funded. I recall making baggies of lady needs so that they would have those too when they escaped harm. It was hard for me to understand then, but as always you were a leader and a teacher.

Remember when the family moved in down the block and we got a yellow sign on the street “Deaf Child Area”. When Danna asked what that meant, you told her a young boy moved in who could not hear. If cars knew, and saw him in the street they would realize that beeping would not clear the block. She went on in 4th grade to go to Brookdale Community College to learn sign language (two levels!) and to be his babysitter. We had a crazy block in River Plaza. So many friends share their reflections of their time with you. Sharing you always felt like a treat.

You made a trip to Carvel an adventure. You made language come to life. You made being your daughter prideful no matter where we went. People adored you and complimented you always. You let us take off days of school to see a show, or shop. The School of Mom was always the greatest teaching. I too am always on “E” in the car, and it makes me think of you. Now the cars tell you how many miles you have left till you run out. I still think of your battle cry, no time to stop while we were getting it all done — “Lean forward girls, we are running on luck.”

Gosh how I wish you had been a “Grandy” as you asked to be called. Your four grandkids are a collective marvel. I think you would likely be more impressed with the Mom Danna has become over me. Imagine her being the one of us who is more strict? Of course she is still the one of us who is more kind — even when she is cross is soft. It is her way. She is my home. You gave me the greatest gift in her.

I thought recently about all of our homes. Wallace Road with the crazy candy lady up the block. Those silver dollar gummies and Bazooka pieces for a penny. It was creepy in retrospect and you probably should not have let us go there alone. The Mylar wallpaper in the kitchen and cool domed light that swagged. The fire engine red Formica table in Danna’s room you designed that fit in the corner and tucked in twin beds just so to create day beds. My Campaign furniture.

I clocked a lot of time sitting on the top of the toilet seat watching you layer shades of Borghese eye shadows on from the annual Christmas collection. A gift that was always on your list. You were really so good at make up. I don’t know that you ever realized your true beauty.

I recalled today how you taught us to shimmy and do the twist and share some of your hustle moves from dance lessons with Peter.

Remember when you came up to Wico and spoke at campfire. Danna and I visited and sat at the Old Pine and so much was new, but also the same. Being a camper there and an alumnus was the gift of a lifetime. We still talk to so many camp friends.

It feels so nice to write to you. It also feels filled with longing. It has been way to many days without you. I will buy something discount in your honor today. And long for a sign. I love you like no girl ever loved her mother. This much I know for sure.

If you have any pull where you are, which I am certain you do, can you please deliver us Joe and Kamala? Please.

Love you Mom.

Happy Birthday to the one and only.

x, B.

The Regrief

I go to see a therapist after I welcome my girl to the world, my impeccable daughter Emma Jayne, who we name after Mom.  Her Dad’s last name is a long one, so I imagine one day she will drop that and use the first two as a label or company of some sort. I tell Leslie story after story about my dead mother. I was at such a loss for having a baby without her maternal advice and support and I am besotted with regrief. Or first grief.  Maybe I never properly gave it the time of day at all at 27.  My Houdini-like break from home to Chicago is more run-away than remarkable trick of avoidance. It can not hide.

I regale Leslie week in and week out, for an hour about Mom. A paid audience. I feel like it is a form of stand up as I regale her about the main character of my life. The only personal thing I know about Leslie is that she too has lost her mother, (imperative to me in my choosing a therapist) and she wears cashmere cardigans draped over her shoulders, blouses and sensible flat front pants. 

I have left Emma with LouLou for these outings, our beloved babysitter LouLou who teaches me all I now know of new mothering. She lovingly dotes on Emma and calls her “my baby”. This makes my skin crawl some days, though I know it is with great affection, it makes my head hurt.  I tell Leslie, that as time moves on, I wonder if my Mom was even real. Was she more like pixie dust in a rearview mirror? The fly in and fly out and sprinkle the miracles and then poof, variety? Here and gone at 50. I turned around and Leslie has a tear streaming down her cheek this day. I cannot save Leslie from my sad. I can barely mother the tears of the child I have or the inner child hurting deep in me. 

Months pass and I have fallen for Leslie and her vanilla walled office, and time that is solely set aside for me. I tell Leslie that I imagine Mom swoops in, like some of the Grandma’s I meet at Sing and Dance class. She would come for the weekend, and give Emma’s Dad and me a date night out or a few hours away from home. I relay all of this to Leslie.   She is silent for a bit and says, “From what you have shared with me about Ellen, I think she would tell you to buck up.” Dear Lord, she is spot on. I know as Dorothy does in the Wizard of Oz, I have all I need inside, I just need to believe that the lessons are in my blood and mother’s knowing, and maybe I need to treat myself to a pair of sparkly shoes.  I need to drop the façade that she is diving in for the save. Ellen would be a very busy and bossy Grandy, as she once said she might like to be called. She would be up to here with work and her husband Peter, enjoying her later years.

What I do with grief, or this sudden regrief, is memorialize my loss offering grace and revisionist history to those who have left us in their stead. I recall what I wish.  I wish for what I no longer have or maybe never would. I have a hole I can never fill.  Well, I have one I will have to fill myself. 

 I sprinkle the memories and keep walking.  

Mother Trucker

I was thinking about my Grandma this morning. She had many a moniker. Grandma Basch, if you were talking about her and needed someone to know it was Mom’s mom. Mona, if friends were talking about her. Bashka, if her sisters were showing affection. She had an employment agency, and was a total “Thoroughly Modern Millie”, before her time.  She called it The Mona Conrad Agency. This was a stage name she used from acting days, and Grandpa preferred it, so that the guys at the trucking company didn’t think she “had” to work.  She was a spitfire, a spectacular beauty and took no bullshit. When my Papa Gene passed away, Grandma took over at the trucking company and I recall the brown paper pad on her desk with big block letters emblazoned, Mother Trucker. 

For years she lived in Clifton, New Jersey. It was off of the Garden State Parkway, about 50 minutes from our home. My sister and I would often go to Grandma’s for the weekend. She lived in a cool high rise on a golf course. Papa called the 5am golfers, Schmeckles, which I always thought meant golfer in Yiddish until I was a teen. The groovy 60s building had a country meets city vibe, and seemed to me, like something out of a fancy storybook.

The building had this giant circle drive, with a giant swooped white covering, where we would drop the packages or larger bags before pulling into her garage spot. The best and friendliest doorman was Dom. Hello, Mrs. Deutsch he would say with a smile. You could tell they favorited Grandma. 

The lobby itself was so extreme, it had this giant fish pond with turtles and plants and the Zen like din of its fountain feature. Visiting the turtles was a favorite adventure of mine. Sitting on the edge and putting my fingers in the water.  I also liked to bring change down to the lobby candy machine to get a pack of Chuckles, and chat with Dom. It felt so very grown up to go downstairs alone. I remember riding the elevators up and down, and doing cartwheels with Danna in nightgowns down long carpeted hallways on corridors where we didn’t know a soul. 

Grandma’s apartment was full of souvenirs from her travels, and trips to antiques markets, and big houses she had in the past.  The favorites remained.  Standouts include sofas that were covered in hand embroidered fabrics, gold threads on crème satin that looked like evening dresses. There was an enormous black plate she called “Willy”, a relief of William Shakespeare. I never knew who he was till years later, but I knew Willy was important.  If you should jump on the sofa, you should be very careful not to bump him or the blue and white plates on the walls from Copenhagen. 

She had a candy dish that was always freshly filled with M&Ms, minty sucking candies, Werther’s and a chocolate or few.  If you went along with her to the beauty parlour where she got her hair done, you could be sure one of these candies was in her pockabook  waiting for you to enjoy while you whiled the time on the round tufted settee in the center of the shop. This and the “toy chair” are total standouts in my memory. When you would arrive, Grandma would have placed a few treats for you on the chair.  There was usually a crafty kind of thing, like fresh pointy crayons and an interesting word search or coloring book. It could be something to play with at the pool. She was so good at picking out these delights.  She also stocked up on special cheese bread from Stop & Shop to toast up, and had this colored sugar that you would likely use to top cookies, but she allowed us to sprinkle over Rice Krispies or Special K for breakfast. 

When you went to the pool with Grandma, she always had these lovely monogrammed towels that had elastic at the edges that fit the chaise lounge just right.  Each yellow swath emblazoned Mona, in navy cursive. She was very fancy, in a kind of not so fancy way.  I loved the way she sat criss-cross apple sauce on the chair and told you stories and adventures mostly of her two sisters Petie and Zibby, or something funny or naughty about Mom. She taught us lots of old timey songs too.  

One of my all-time favorite traditions of being with Grandma, was to sit just this way on her bedspread, her jewelry box opened like a treasure chest, and her charm bracelet out for admiring.  “This one, this is a high heel I won for being in a dance contest.”  When charm holders were all the rage in the 80s, she bestowed a few of her classics on me, that shoe included. She also had fabric covered bolsters to match the spread, and it fascinated me the way her bed pillows squished up in these tubes, disappearing into the décor scheme.  Another big day, was going for school supplies annually.  She leaned on the card as we slowly rolled along the rows picking out and reviewing all the options in new pencils and notebooks and loads of things you didn’t even need for school, but she wanted you to have, like a pack of colored paper—to this day my love for these trips, pencil cases and fresh notebooks lives on.

Two particular memories came to me recently. One is the knowing that Grandma placed my Dad in his first ever advertising job. He graduated with a degree in pharmacy, but Grandma seemed keen to combine his creative spark and Midwestern charm and sent him off to meet with an agency specializing in doctor direct work. His background in medicine was the perfect fit, and wouldn’t you know, it became his lifelong and quite legendary career.  

The second, and one that to this day is deliciously scandalous, is the day we pulled into her usual garage spot, and once again the neighbor car had pulled in so tight – it was tricky to get out. 

Grandma had reported this hideous violation to Dom numerous times, and this day she took matters into her own red nail polished and Nivea smooth hands. 

I saw her reach into her bag, take out her signature red Lauder lipstick from its golden container and begin to write on this gent’s front window.  Sister and I watched wide-eyed. In her finest loopy penmanship she wrote, “You are parked too fucking close to my car.“  She looked at us and smirked. Not sure if she knew we could read her manifesto or was just proud of her handiwork, but it was epic and lives on in my “best of days” book. 

When Grandma was in her mid-60s, she moved to a very pretty retirement community to be closer to us. I could bike there it was so close.  One day after she had moved in, I did just that.  She shared story after story as she found a place for her treasures in her new space.  She got ill and had complications from her emphysema and never came back to that house. She never came home at all.  I remember all the sadness of that time. She left an unfillable void and remarkable life behind. Not to mention a few badass women. 

I am not sure what made me think of her today. There are vivid memories as the eldest grandchild that just sit so firmly and strongly in my heart and memory. They tap along in my mind’s eye like her long, strong nails tip tapping on the piano keys.  Taking them out today, like she did her jewelry box, fancy dresses and evening robes, sometimes feels just right. 

PS. I just learned from my Aunt Trudy that this piece has been written on what would be their wedding anniversary. 

Roller Coaster

I am not seeing the end.

It is a roller coaster. With all of its twisted lessons.

My aching frame. My knots. Around again. 

Grabbing my heart with both hands and ripping it from its soft, beating home.

I am not seeing the end.

I won’t go as she did. That almost happened once. Too soon. 

What am I saved for? 

Our simple easy lives touched by the unthinkable. Us.

I am not seeing the end. 

Will she walk down the aisle by her side? By my side.

Will she have a baby? Wouldn’t that be grand!

Eating away at forever. Just deserts. 

I am not seeing the end.

Matinees each Wednesday. Champagne just because.

Finally our day. Our time. Sisters. The longest running show on Broadway.

I am not seeing the end.

Living in limbo. Bending under the stick till we get to the other side.

It has been this dance for so long. I am limber with defeat. 

It is a happy time and a hard life. Both have sidled up to one

another and ring their truth. His memory is my memory. Clattering about. 

Deftly serving up my best motherly impression. Hoping against hope.

I am not seeing the end. 

I am not seeing the end.

The end.

my memorial

The sand that was in her beach bag lives in a Ziplock baggie from 1993. A 27 year old bag of sand. It is forlorn, worn. It remains curled up in her yellow polka dotted jewelry roll. I take it out from time to time to visit. I have never opened it. I roll my hands over it. Smooth it from the outside between my fingers. It is not her. But it kind of is, you know?  

Smooth. Sacred. Holy. 

Not sure how I had the wear with all to scoop it from the bottom of the bag that day. It was in her Adrienne Vitadini black patent leather bag. Stripes alternating with mesh.  I am sure that is how the sand got in. Mixed with a receipt for Santa Rosa plums and a trashy novel from the A&P. 

I have thought about encapsulating it in a charm. I could take it with me to explore more beaches for her. 

In so many ways she is every grain of sand inside. And she is all the beaches I see. Small bits of her last day remain in my keep.  Tucked inside my own makeshift memorial. 

love affair

I saw a therapist after she died. The first question I asked the Dr., was if she too had lost someone. She had. After all, how could someone understand the magnitude of loss without an experience that came close, even after years of medical schooling. This is the first shrink I have ever seen. She tells me to call her Bonnie. She has Mom/Grandma energy and a cozy cardigan. Her husband works in the office next door. He was recommended too, but I prefer a woman. She looks sensible with cropped hair and tiny round frames, but surprises with her brand of cool knowing. She also looks like Leslie, my book publisher, and I realize I am drawn to these warm mother types. 

Love and loss appear to ride so close to one another. Like race cars that may collide in smoke and danger at each high speed curve. They are also polar opposites in a tug of war I can’t make sense of. The more you have it seems, the more you lose. You surely can not experience the depths of grief for another if it does not match the oceans of love you had. That is the secret of such buried treasure. But until it needs unearthing, it is tucked safely in the deep soft sand waiting to be found and unearthed. And mourned. 

When I began to recount the stories of my Mom to Bonnie, even to me it sounded unreal. I felt her listening. A life filled with car rides down the Garden State Parkway, windows down en route to Grandma’s in Clifton or the Seabright beach club after school or a new Broadway play in New York City on a weekday matinee. The school of Mom she called those days off. I could tell by Bonnie’s nod, she approved of this behavior. I swear I could feel her falling for Mom. 

Me and my sister and Mom belting Camp Wicosuta songs at top volume taught to us from years there. Her two little legacies in the back seat. Sometimes it was some a.m. pop, a Carpenters croon or You Light up my Life. Or an oldie of hers that made us giggle. Ba, Ba, Ba, Barbara Anne, or Barry Manilow at the Copa. Beats and claps amidst the waves of smoke from Mom’s trusty Marlboro. 

I regaled the Dr., appointment after appointment of our history. I reflected on the late nights at the mall or craft store, getting what you needed for a project. Mom was a realtor with hours set by busy buyers and sellers that were hard to say no to when you are on commission. We thought it was an adventure, my sister and I. Soaking up life to closing time with a hand in hers. It was mom, squeezing it all in. Finding balance. But we saw magic. Last ones there. Like a game show, running and gathering the goods before lights out. 

You could find us late night dinner at Buxton’s after gymnastics practice, it made you feel grown so grown up. A few bucks in our pocket for whatever we wanted. Those silver dollar fries in the tiny coffee cup saucer. Endless packs of ketchup on top. A scoop of rocky road. A hot cocoa with extra whipped cream. We would see her lights pulling into the parking lot and dash out, paying at the register, and sorting a tip from the change. This was a dabble at independence. Learning to be alone in the world. And likely a lack of someone for a divorced mom to call on for support. 

I tell Bonnie about the way she dressed. Discount, but just right. Anne Klein from the outlets and how heads turned. She was vibrant. Vivacious. Made everyone laugh and look. A favorite customer at the tailor and dry cleaner. We were always watching and wondering how she was really ours. I gather Bonnie is in on it too. 

I told the Dr. one day, that while all of her lessons had been bestowed upon us (never go to bed without washing your face, be kind to strangers, always do your best and I will be proud, give back) in her 50 short years, she seemed more like a fairy of sorts. in the darkish monochromatic office, Bonnie seems to step into my light. Leaning in like I am a kindergarten teacher finishing story time. 

Drifting in, sprinkling magic and memories and family trips to New Orleans and cousin fests in St. Thomas. Our family Thanksgiving, a be there or beware reunion of legendary traditions. Bonnie was coming along. 

Was she real? Was her time here a slip of life like A Wrinkle in Time? Was this another plane? I turned to find my account of this magical creature had turned my therapist into a pool of tears. I felt the need to take her shoulders, but did not. How could she cry when she was supposed to help me back together? 

Bonnie and I have proselytized the truth of Mom at this age. I have made her to be Uber Gram In my mind Bonnie cleverly agrees she would likely tell me to “buck up”. She would not swoop in to save the day. She would be soaking up life. And somehow I know this is right. She taught me to fend for myself.

I realized in all of these appointments, that alongside processing and wondering how in hell I could even be a Mom without her here, it was a love story like no other. I had it deep in my being. Just like that Wico spirit. In my bones and grit, anemic blood and DNA. And while she could not be here, she had planted those seeds. With a knowing. A love for the ages. 

We ate the Carvel ice cream cone for dinner, with sprinkles. Passed the test with her acronyms and secret study tips. Ate steamers at Docks and late night powdery beignets. Midnight breakfast buffet at your Bat Mitzvah made more time for dancing. All a vivid dream of a life while we were indeed awake for. Holding her hand while walking the sidewalks of any adventure. Pumping her three signature squeezes into your palm. I. Love. You. This was her shorthand. 

God was she real? I still wonder.

Jennifer Vallez

memory making

I recently celebrated the ten year anniversary of our wedding with my husband Alex. since the loss of my mother in 1993, I have had a heightened sense of awareness around making moments with meaning. it wasn’t because I felt like our marriage needed a renewal for something we had forgotten on that New Years eve evening a decade ago, but rather to just reaffirm, honor, and remind us all that today is a day to celebrate.

Our children were present, and a friend who is ordained oversaw the ceremony. my daughter Quinn made some amazing food (the cook cooks) and eldest Emma wrote an original song (the singer sings). I liked the idea of stopping the pace of our busy lives to take pause and recognize before our family, what that commitment and recommitment looks like.

a smidge of our vows read: i ask that you each continue to cherish each other as special and unique individuals and that you respect the thoughts and ideas of one another. And most of all, be able to forgive each other, and not hold grudges. Live each day in love with each other, always being there to give love, comfort, and refuge, in good times and bad. Barri and Alex, today you have renewed the vows you made to each other on your wedding day, in New York at City Hall. You have symbolized the renewal of your union by the joining of hands, the taking of vows, and by the wearing of your rings. we each shared something we wrote to one another. it was small, and intimate and special. even the dog was rapt, watching us stand before the fireplace with one another. I am forever grateful for making the space to make a memory of the day, and hope that you and yours will look for opportunities to do the same.