Tag Archives: grief

Metallica & Iron Maiden Before You Knew Them

09 Saturday Jul 2022

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Wading into unchartered waters to say a few things. I’ve never seen the hit show “Stranger Things” on Netflix because I do not have an account. The only way I know about the series is what I’ve read, and I really appreciate that they chose the late 80s to tell the story. The articles include clothes, trends, music, movies, etc. and I have mostly good memories of that time. Well done, guys.

Apparently, the last season included Eddie playing a Metallica song to help his friends in a dire situation.
I’ve read about it and now I am lamely talking about it. Forgive my ignorance. I am here to say how much I appreciate Eddie playing Metallica. Metallica responded in real life and so did Iron Maiden, a band from that same time whose mascot is named Eddie, to stand up for the character and appreciate the moment. I want to stand up and appreciate the moment the writers chose Metallica and Iron Maiden in the midst of all the chaos and struggle of their characters. Metallica and Iron Maiden were portrayed in the magazines in their time of being enemies, fighting for dominance in every way, when actually it was just two bands working hard and loving their fans. Warfare sells magazines. Warfare sells everything which is an obvious lyric seen in Metallica and Maiden. The guys felt competition but did not want hate between the fans. Warfare hurts us and what they were trying to say is we must end it.

I come to tell you today about the time I saw Metallica during their Black album tour. I drove up to the Pepsi arena in Albany by myself because that’s just how it was and it was fine. I was so amped for the performance and they did not disappoint. It was everything I hoped it would be. The only problem was… they outlasted me. I was exhausted before it was all done. Song after song after song. I was young, I was healthy! Another song and I felt tired and ready to go, but no. Metallica kept on going. They were amazing. “Searching….. seek and destroy!” They left me exhausted and what was left had to drive home. And that night I had to call my Dad because he asked his 24-year-old daughter to call him to let him know I was ok. I called him from the side of the road that I was okay with a croaking throat from hollering I’m okay and I’m on the way home.

For all the new Metallica fans, Hey. For all the new Iron Maiden fans, Hey. Metal is for all of you. Come on in, there’s room for all. I will never forget calling my Dad. Or seeing Metallica or Iron Maiden many, many, many times, wishing I could see them more. I’m grateful to these bands for so many reasons. And wishing I could call my Dad and tell him I’m okay.



A Letter To Jivey

16 Wednesday Sep 2020

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Dear Jivey,

It’s been three days since you returned to the Hudson river valley.  I’ve been moping since, but today I find the courage to write aloud. 

I love you and miss you both.  You brought me blessings and laughter and happiness and treasure I won’t forget and thank you.

This morning the cicadae are shirring in the pine trees. (Remember the little guy shuffling off his former coil by my front door?)   The temperature is cool and the humidity is gone: you seem to have taken it away with you. I wanted bathtubfulls of rain to fall sideways or maybe a thunderstorm to impress you while you were here, but all we got was drips, sweat, and static electricity high in the clouds. Tomorrow night the rain will come, courtesy of a hurricane remnant. I feel like I owe you wild weather, Ms. Vine, that we could stand outside and ride and shout out the wonderful chaos. And also Krispy Kremes.

I made a grocery store run this morning and everything I wanted was not there: bagels, rye bread, white queso sauce for a nacho treat. There are little teardrops of grease on my turquoise tablecloth, remnants of the New York pizza you brought, and everything feels out of joint. I fall into the writer’s recollection of how food joins us, humans, in happiness and grief. 

Monday I expected Ms. Vine to come in to the room where I write and felt sad when I remembered.  Last night I felt parts of you still in my room. It was a long night with little sleep. 

Horseshoe crabs come to the beach to molt their exoskeletons so they can grow into their new lives as their ancestors have done for a million years.  We collect their skins and wonder at these ancient arthropods, some intact, some in pieces, but we rarely see them as they continue their journey in the waters. You brought one molt in and prepared it with everything that I love about you. I’m glad the Universe put it in your path. Jivey, may your journeys be as successful, contingent on rising with the tide.

Love always,
Mom. 

Foundations

03 Friday Mar 2017

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It’s not often one gets to see a house moved.  The first time I encountered it was in a story Mom used to read to us, “The Little House” by Virginia Lee Burton.  I grew up in a city apartment while mom grew up in farm fields, much like the scenes from the book.  Mom was an expressive reader, and it’s one of my favorite memories of her.  The story stuck with me over the years because it spoke to comfort, fear, generations and change, and of course a happy ending which, if you know me close enough, I need.  “The Little House” and her generations lives on. The End.

Years pass, a life comes and goes, and I recall a house being moved from beside a highway in  Poughkeepsie.  Do you know what it takes to uproot a house and move it, for the sake of history or family? I hadn’t a clue until I looked into it a bit.  Fascinating.

There’s not much that goes on this little spit of land that I don’t notice, so when a flatbed shows up next to a house with a lot of construction stuff, I am curious and wonder where that house is going. (I assumed it was being prepped for a long ride to a new home since its foundation was dug out.)  I drive by that house every time I need groceries or just get out of town for a while and wonder. One day I see the house is up on stacks of cinder blocks, the long flatbed still out on the street, and I think okay, here it comes, that little cottage by the sea is being jacked up from its foundation to be loaded onto the flatbed to be taken away to its new home.   But I am a fool for assuming.  They jacked up the little cottage house, the flatbed steadied it while they worked quickly and tirelessly to make a new foundation.  More cinderblocks, then windows, and it became clear that little one-story cottage old as the Spit wasn’t going anywhere. The flatbed pulled away empty.  Someone chose to lift up their little one-story and make it two.  What was so special about that house, this place, that the owners chose not to leave? I wish I could ask the owner but doubt I ever will.  I mean, that would take effort, geez. So what makes someone stay instead of go, choose to morph instead of stay the same?

It’s a dangerous prospect for a  woman like me to go outside and watch, think, and wonder. It means I will feel and god only knows where that kind of thing will lead.  Someone thought so much of their little house they jacked it up and added on instead of leaving it behind–or condemning it.  A new story on a good foundation.

It’s going to be a long night.

Good Morning, March Three

03 Friday Mar 2017

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Good morning, world.  I see you are right where I left you, in softly-lit mango-colored dark, sliding windows open just a bit. I forgot to remember the phrase that came to me in the middle of the night when I woke to drink, the one I swore I wouldn’t forget.

Good morning, Grandma, I say lovingly to the kitchen witch who turns slowly in the breeze as my naked feet gauge the weather from the tiles.  She is Grandma, wise, patient, turning, toes and nose pointing the way and, believe me, the Way is not an ass in a chair.

Good morning, sun. You’re not where I left you way over there in winter’s cold shoulder: you are a hot globe rising from the sea, rising just for me, and this is where my words crumble and blow away in the breeze.

Good morning, truth. I address you in the mirror as I wipe away last night’s tears with a hot washcloth, hoping my neighbors will never see.  Washcloths cool but truth never does, and that is why I grieve.