Happies and Crappies

Each night we gathered as a small group to talk about our day. It was a chance to process, which is what I do later when I blog. The immediacy was nice. It was also great hearing about each others' days. We don't take enough time as a culture to do that.

Part of the time we went around an shared "happies and crappies." I just love that way of succinctly thinking about the day. Any day.

Rather than risking breaking any confidences, I'll share my "happy and crappy" from yesterday. 

I'll start with crappy: nearly running out of gas and being struck with indecision on how to fix it.

Happy: there were several, but one tied to the crappy. I made it to my usual gas station where I had a conversation with the gas station attendant. He saw my Got French bumper magnet and asked if I spoke French. I said un petit peu, the last time I admitted to speaking French to an ebony-skinned man he spoke to me in Haitian,  which is akin to speaking American English and listening to someone from Scotland. This man is from Ghana. I had a lovely conversation with him about how, after 34 years in the United States, he is soon returning to Ghana. 

People in the other 49 states where they have to pump their own gas can't appreciate the magic that comes from connecting with someone in that simple moment. 

We are the last state where it is illegal to pump your own gas. 

I hope that never changes.  

What Do I Need?

What do you need? Is both the most loving and overwhelming comment to make to someone as they are mourning. 

I get that now in ways that I did not understand before Dad passed away.

The friends reaching out the most are the ones who have gone through it. They understand. They feel helpless. It brings back memories for them of how awful, how numbing the first few days are. Helping me is their way of giving back for all those who helped them through those days. I probably helped some of them. Or at least I hope I was helpful.

On the calendar it has already been five days. In my reality it is a giant blur.

What do I need?

If you look at my practical to do list, I need to clean three bathrooms, vacuum, change sheets, clean spaces so family can sleep over,  wash more sheets, empty the trash, pull weeds so I feel the house looks nicer, vacuum, RSVP to the jury duty notice I received, pay my VISA bill, gather paperwork for my REAL ID appointment, fill out forms for new doctor, talk to the caterer, reach out to my uncle to explain how to get from the airplane to the train (or offer to pick him up), etc.

If you look at my fun to do list, I want to blog, make pesto, dig on Wednesday, make a photo album about the first half of the year, read a book, research what to do when we go to Lisbon next week, start packing for vacation, etc.

Digging deeper, I need someone to make small decisions for me so I can make bigger ones. 

Last night I was driving around trying to figure out where to get gas because my tank was on empty. Do you see the irony in that statement? Do I pull into the small station that is full with a half dozen motorcycles and no space for me to pull in that's on the left side of the road? Do I get gas in Pennsylvania where I have to pump or do I have enough gas to return to New Jersey? In the end I drove back to New Jersey, went to my usual station, and had a lovely conversation with an ebony-colored man from Ghana who has lived in the United States for 34 years, has ten grandchildren in the States, and is returning home to Ghana to live out the rest of his life. 

It was nice talking to someone who does not know about dad. That's something I could use, conversation about anything else. 

I want someone to take my phone away (ideally while walking away so it thinks I got a lot of steps in) and not let me get distracted by it for an hour, or half an hour, or ten minutes, or five, or even one. 

I want someone to put food in front of me and tell me to eat it. Not ask what I want to eat, just take care of it and wash up afterwards.

I want someone to rotate laundry because they see it needs doing. Not ask first. Just fold, and rotate. 

I want someone who can anticipate my needs before I do. Not someone who makes me choose a time to get together, or a place, or a what to do, just show up here and I'll take care of it. Or notice the weeds are growing and take care of them without asking for tools. That's probably what I could use the most.

I want someone to plan out the Lisbon leg of the trip and hand it to me in a way I can just jump in and follow the itinerary. I already have a hotel, transportation, and a show planned. I just need the what to see in three days version of it all.

The right friend would come over an pull weeds with or for me. Who is that?

The right friend would just show up with a hug and some ice cream. Or not because then I'd have to decide to open the door.

While writing might feel like procrastination, I've learned it is the way I process. It helps me to move to the next item on the to do list.

It Was Time

About 15 months ago Don decided to grow a beard. I subconsciously told myself I wasn't going to cut my hair until he got rid of his beard. I also decided I was tired of paying a lot of money every six weeks to maintain the color and shape. As I'm not working, I have no one to impress.

It ended up getting out of control. He shaved his beard in March and I forgot to cut my hair in celebration.

I liked the length, but it was getting knotty (and a little bit naughty), and the ends were splitting. It was time.

Rather than going to Christine my long time hairdresser whom I ghosted in March 2025, I headed to the Great Clips where Don goes. Seeing absolutely no line I walked in and asked for a haircut. Luce had me in a chair with a drape around my neck before I had a chance to second-guess the decision. Fortunately I love it.

I'm getting a new drivers license photo taken in a week and wanted to look a little better.

Color and Light Festival in Asbury Park, Year 2

Sixteen months ago Asbury Park hosted the Color and Light Festival. It was March. We lucked out with the weather, but it was still an odd time of year for a beach town to host this type of festival. We loved it so much we went to Binghamton, NY that September for their annual festival.

When I learned the festival was returning this July I was interested. I was also busy with the church mission trip, and Don had plans to go to a music festival in Pittsburgh. To squeeze in a quick trip to Asbury Park that weekend seemed unlikely.

Then dad passed away. I came home early. Don cancelled his getaway. Ashley wanted to bond with us. 

We loved the 20-minute show. Like last year, it is a compilation of several artists who created images that perfectly fit the side of Asbury Park's convention center.

The big change this year is that due to construction, the west wall is under scaffolding. They moved it to the north wall, which meant we were spilling over from the boardwalk onto the beach. We were crammed into a much smaller space, watching on a much small screen.  

I wonder at what point the artist learned the space was different from last year?

There seemed to be many more volunteers this year who guided us to the viewing area. The crowd seemed more prepared. Some had folding chairs with them. Lots of people stretched their arms up high to use their cell phones to film the show. I'm guilty of doing the same to take pictures.

After each iteration, the crowd thinned and we moved closer to the front. By our third viewing (second all the way through), we were sitting in the front.

We got lucky with the weather. Friday night was a perfect night at the Jersey Shore. Saturday, though, was anticipating some violent weather. I wonder how they made out.

Afterwards we figured Day's Ice Cream
was already closed. We got lucky and saw that Coney's Waffles and Ice Cream on the boardwalk in Asbury Park stayed open late. We all opted for Jersey Devil ice cream, which made me wonder how much a fun name impacts sales? I'm sure someone has studied that.

The show is inspiring me to think about returning to Binghamton for this year's festival. After all, it is only a three hour drive away.

From inside the Convention Center

Channeling Dad During the Mission Project

I didn't really know what to expect, but I felt a voice whispering in my ear that I should go on a mission trip. The voice has gotten louder over the years until it became too loud to ignore this year.

Here I am, Lord.

Is it I, Lord?

I have heard you calling in the night.

I will go, Lord.

If you lead me.

I will hold your people in my heart.

And so goes the hymn. 

Thirty-three of us traveled from New Jersey and Pennsylvania to Farmington, Maine to work with MATE (Mission At The Eastward) as an intergenerational mission team.

Another voice I heard in my head was my dad's. Before anyone worries, he is still alive. His voice was crystal clear as we waited an hour until we were given our orders for the day. In my head he said it's the hurry up and wait game. 

Yup, dad, hurry up and wait. We had to rouse at 6:30 am to have breakfast at 7:15 am to meet in the lobby at 8:45 am to be at the church at 9 am. We thought we were driving someplace, only to find out our half of the group was to stay put and pull weeds and scrape paint. The other half drove to a different site to do carpentry and install cabinets. I.e., non-skilled vs. skilled labor groups.

The next time he reached out to me was as I was on the scraping paint part of the project. I was reminded that each summer, growing up in Paramus dad scraped the paint on the wood siding. The house that saw the most sun was painted annually. The other three sides were painted on a rotating basis. Or so I remember.

I don't remember him ever inviting us to join him to scrape the house -- a skill at that moment I wished he had imparted. We live in a house with aluminum siding that has never needed to be scraped. 

On the other side of the property we also pulled weeds -- a task I procrastinate for as long as possible at home. Another task dad used to do. I could hear him say: make sure you get the roots.

Thought of him as we scraped paint off the 1920's house. Tomorrow some of us will paint the house. Not sure what my group will do, but we know it will be useful.

Before I even left he said don't forget your poncho. I commented there was no rain in the forecast. He said it will rain. Wouldn't you know it, it rained and the poncho was back in the room! 

I wonder what advice he'll stick into my head next.

~~~

I wrote this on Monday night. Tuesday he was rushed in for emergency surgery. He was stable on Tuesday night. He was stable when my mom checked in at 6 am on Wednesday. A half an hour later he coded, was revived. I was told at 6:53 am to drive home. As I was driving home Don called to tell me dad passed away surrounded by family.

More dad-isms bounced around my head:

On a long highway drive, get behind a truck and let him lead the pace.

Always bring a book, because you don't know how long mom will be (or how long you'll have to wait).

The funeral will be Friday, July 24 at Allentown Presbyterian Church followed by internment in Paramus. We will be hosting two informal gatherings to honor dad that weekend. The first will be at our house on Saturday from 3 to 6, the second on Sunday at my mom's house also from 3 to 6. The obituary. Reach out if you want our addresses.

Driving Home from Maine

The past couple of days have been a whirlwind and I want to type out some thoughts on the internet before they fully float into the ethernet.

Last Friday I stopped by the rehab center to visit Dad before I left for a mission trip to Maine. There was no real reason to stop by. He and mom had spent the day traveling from Hamilton, NJ to the UPenn hospital for a meeting with his surgeon. He was given a clean bill of health. Told to keep working on his rehab to gain strength to be able to go home soon.

Still, this little voice told me to stop by before embarking on the 10 hour drive. Forgetting about his appointment in Philadelphia, I stopped by in the morning. I told mom I had popped in, and to let me know when they come back. I knew he'd be tired, but that itty bitty voice said go anyway.

He was tired, which was to be expected. I stayed about an hour, but still had to pack and get my head in the mode of driving the next day. The checklist was long ... pick up rental car, pack clothes for painting, pack clean clothes, pack tools, pack bedding for the dorm, finish a couple of things around the house so I could leave with a clear head, etc. etc. I started to leave, but turned back to give him a hug. I'd like to think I said "I love you," but maybe I only thought it. He knew.

When I heard on Wednesday morning the end was imminent I reminded my mom I made my peace a few days earlier. I left knowing it could be the last time and left anyway.

Before I left Maine, the church group wanted to "pray me out." Honestly, I was so torn. On the one hand my head was racing. Pack up room, shove stuff in car, make a sandwich for the road, grab the sandwich I packed the night before for the work site, fill a thermos with hot tea, put ice cubes in tea so I don't burn my tongue, don't lock myself out of my room (again), hand in the key, go to the bathroom one last time before heading to the car, etc. etc.

On the other hand, I knew it was right to pause. The group needed to feel like they were doing something. I needed their prayers for a safe drive home. We all needed the peace.

I let some students load the car, and allowed an adult to make me a sandwich and fill my thermos. Tasks I could have done, but part of the process is letting others do for you. After all, it was a mission trip. I didn't fully appreciate the car loading until I came home and had to unpack it myself. The sandwich I appreciated as I ate it while I drove. I thought of the love both tasks were put into those simple tasks.

I felt the peace they prayed into me as I drove. 

I drove through rural Maine, through towns that reminded me of dad talking about spending summers at the farm in rural New Jersey.

I drove past flags at half mast. How did they know? Of course, it was for the passing of a US Senator and not dad, but it felt appropriate. 

I didn't have a single hurdle until I hit New Jersey at rush hour. After stopping at the first bathroom break on the Garden State Parkway the GPS asked if I wanted to take a faster route with tolls. Umm, I was already on the Parkway which has tolls, but sure.  

It asked a second time, right after I paid a toll.

Curious, I said, sure.

Rather than letting me stay on the Parkway to the New Jersey Turnpike (or to I-95), it routed me to Route 17 in Paramus, down some back roads, to Route 4, to Route 80, to the Turnpike.

It was the John Koetting This is Your Life Tour.

As I drove to the last house he lived in (Robbinsville), the path took me near the home where he raised us (Paramus), past Teterboro Airport where he worked for four decades, and near Hasbrouck Heights where he grew up, and near Little Ferry where he and mom lived when they were first married. On the drive I saw a train (albeit Amtrack and not a freight train) and had airplanes fly overhead as I passed Newark Airport. 

What a tribute!

How did the GPS know I needed the (slightly slower) route past these sights?

I cried most of the drive home. I heard bits and pieces about his last day. He didn't wake up on Tuesday. Sent to the hospital Tuesday night for emergency surgery. If he survived, he would be on a ventilator while he healed. I didn't like the word if, but I was told to wait until the morning to hear the update. No one wanted me driving 10 hours in the dark. After surgery he was stable. At 6 am on Wednesday he was stable. At 6:30 he was not. 

Mom, Don, Ashley, Melissa, Chris, Hayden, and Aimee gathered around his bed to say good-bye. Rebecca and Danny arrived a few moments later and said their good-byes. I continued to drive. And cry.

People at home were worried about my driving so long. Honestly, I didn't have any issues. Those prayers really worked.    

Not sure how to weave this in, but I stopped at the halfway point to visit with NCB (New Cousin Barbara). Her grandmother was raised by my great-grandparents (or maybe even great-great grandparents) on my dad's side. I refer to her as my ancestry.com relative. She enveloped me in a hug and gave me the break I needed, as well as some ice cubes because I didn't put enough in my thermos after all.

Small Town Americana

Spending a few days in rural Maine for the church mission trip was like spending time in another country. I live in a bubble in the Northeast Corridor of the United States. The stretch of land from Boston to Washington, DC is not just densely populated, it is also has the densest population of ivy league school, it is ethnically diverse, religiously diverse, and even has some political density. 

In other words, it is densely filled with people. 

All sorts of people.

I didn't really think of this as I drove to Farmington, Maine. I noted that the 7.5 hour estimated drive would likely take me closer to ten hours due to traffic and bathroom breaks. When you live someplace as dense as I do, you anticipate extra traffic. Always.

Through New Jersey and New York I had slowdowns due to construction, downpour, and even a funeral procession, but once I crossed into New Hampshire the traffic magically disappeared. The ETA went down instead of up.

I met up with my cousin Rebecca in Yarmouth. Rebecca grew up in rural New Jersey, and worked at our alma mater. We actually met in college, lost touch, and reconnected through Facebook. 

She loves Yarmouth, and wanted me to fall in love with it, too. 

After dinner at one of the few places open past 6 pm on a Saturday night in the summer, we walked around downtown.

Yarmouth was setting up for the annual Clamfest, an event my cousin works hard on each year. I'm so pleased she could spare a few hours for a visit during a week she was busy baking pies to sell at the clambake. 

Rebecca pointed out their Carnegie Library (it was too late to go inside), her church, the eight banks for a population of 8,000 people, and noted they have two police officers. I wonder how many Lawrenceville has for our 32,000? I feel like it is more than eight.

What stood out were the chairs set up along the parade route. She said they started to set them up two weeks earlier, or about three weeks before the actual parade -- including a fabric, stuffed, recliner that was not at all weather-proof. The chairs sit there, claiming prime parade spots. Most are taken home afterwards, but not all. I asked my cousin to scout out the street for that recliner. Did it get picked up by the owner? Did it end up in a trash heap? I suspect I'll never know.

Yarmouth is suffering a crisis of affordable housing. Like many places, the cheaper places are no longer so cheap. They have been bought up by the local school to offer housing, and by entrepreneurs renting them on VRBO and AirBNB sites. Lack of affordable housing trickles down to lack of people able to afford to work minimum wage in places like restaurants and shops, which means the places either close down or have very limited hours.

I spent the next day in downtown Farmington, where we were staying in a dorm room. While the group went tubing, I explored the not-so-bustling not-so-metropolis.

I popped into a coffee shop in the hopes of getting an omelet for breakfast. Evan, the guy behind the counter, was apologetic. He suggested the diner (or "din" if the sign had not yet been fixed) about two miles away because the coffee shop only had liquid eggs. I thanked him and continued my stroll. He then flagged me down and suggested the pizza place, somewhere else he works. I hesitantly walked into the pizza parlor and explained "Evan said..." before their faces lit up. They were excited to make something other than a pizza. What did I want on it? What kind of cheese? What other ingredients? They made it for me, and charged very little. We were all happy.

Continuing my stroll I met Ashley Webb, a local who is running for the newly opened Maine US Senate seat. Her sign was all taped up, covering a name, so I asked about it. Until recently Ashley identified as James and ran for a different office then. I think she needs new signs. She has to collect 500 signatures from eight out of the 16 counties. It is not a shoe-in that she'll be running. I wish I had taken a picture of the sign.

I loved the history markers throughout town. I was pleased when later that week I had a chance to stop into the 1901 stone library. I wanted to see what was inside the rounded part -- it was a three store room, the top floor has a glass floor. I felt as if I was in a time machine as I drooled over the tall wooden shelves accessible by a ladder that I could picture Belle swinging from. It was silent inside as people were engrossed in their work, adding to the feel of stepping back in time. As I left I asked if it was a Carnegie Library (it had that feel), but was told no, but yes it was from that era.

Thunderstorms started before I had a chance to see the Cannery, but I did walk to the North Church, the old train depot, the WWI War Memorial, and Memorial Park.

The downtown is much more vibrant than the one in my town. It also has a better variety of businesses, including a three-story general store and a gemology shop. Of course it has a couple of banks.