In Memoriam: A Few Words About People You Miss

In My Humble Opinion
1

Michael: A great guy, bodybuilder, vegetarian, Marxist, multi-lingual man who had a huge circle of friends. He was one of the first people I knew who died of AIDS, even before the term AIDS was known. Berlin, Germany

Candy: An amazing woman who looked like Bette Davis and was an actress who died too soon, of breast cancer. She was one of the funniest women I have ever known, and despite her reputation as a fag hag (she loved that), she had a VERY active heterosexual love life. Chicago, Illinois

Ricky: Had a nasty wit and could rip anyone, but never went for the easy shot. He was a major drag queen who was famous in West Hollywood for wearing wedding dresses. He arrived at the local bar during the Rodney King riots and created a wedding dress that had burn holes everywhere. He was very ill, and his cause of death was ruled as an accidental overdose. West Hollywood, CA

Aunt Carole: An alcoholic. She was a true friend to me all her life, and despite her faults, she and I had a bond that went beyond what others knew/thought about her. We laughed so much when we talked we sometimes lost our breath. Of cancer. Ottawa, Illinois

2

My friends in Pittsburgh and Buffalo:-

I do miss you guys. You should all call more. Many of you have moved. I haven’t got your #s. I hate losing touch. I hope you are all well and happy!:smiley:

3

I miss Vicky. She was my bestest friend ever when I was in Junior High School. We were in choir together and toured with a singing group. We did each other’s hair and giggled about the “cooties” that boys had.

She died of aplastic anemia at the young age of 13.

4

I miss my sister, Anne. It’s three months this week that she passed away from breast cancer. I still sometimes hear her voice when I’m sitting quietly, the way she always started a phone conversation in a very quiet, Hi, it’s me.

5

My Dad.

Just passed 7 years without him and I still miss his quiet, dry humor.

We’d be on the phone talking, the conversation would drag, and he’d say “I’m tired of talking to ya, here’s your mom.”

The night before he died, Mom called me to tell me he had taken a turn for the worse. I asked to speak with him, she handed him the phone, and the first thing I said was “I’m tired of talking to ya.”

The weak laugh I got from him was absolutely priceless in that sad moment.

6

PaPa Carl. My grandfather passed away nearly 3 years ago. He was a genius, uneducated, but a genius, who taught me more about this world than any other adult I’ve encountered. He always addressed me “Hey pretty girl,” and taught me that curiosity is a gift. His greatest gift to me, however, was instilling in me the unquestioned knowledge that I was loved, adored, and cared for.

MaMa Rie. PaPa’s wife died just one month ago. She was saucy, and far more “with it” than anyone gave her credit for. She was also tough as nails, spending 2 years in a sanitorium for TB (back in the 30s), then “dying” of a brain aneurysm (in the 50s) before a twitching toe in the morgue proved rumors of her death were exaggerated, then having several small heart attacks and quadruple bypass surgery in the 80s. She survived and thrived after all of these, and like her husband, lived a full life and died at 87.

I’ll always remember her humor and “orneriness” as she called it…and her stories of making squirrel gravy! Yuck, we say, but she’d say, “Them’s not greasy or nothin, them’s just little fellers!” :slight_smile:

What a great thread, DMark. It’s wonderful for us all to pay tribute to the ones we’ve loved, lossed, and miss.

7

C.J. my first love. I couldn’t believe that such a wonderful, popular, nice guy would ever notice me. I was a freshman in high school. You were a senior. You had a rare combination of talents that made you enviable to all, yet rival to none. You played football and performed shakespeare with equal ease and grace. You could make anyone laugh. I shouldn’t have been so nervous. I should have gone with you to dinner and met your mother, your family like you wanted me to. You wanted me to be a part of your life, and I was scared. When you left for Christmas break I was so looking forward to your return so I could give you the present I’d bought – I just knew you’d love it. You were killed on the way to your Aunt’s house while you slept soundly in the backseat of the car. The drunk driver that hit you ran a red light. Your mother survived the crash. There were over 200 people at your funeral, but yet I felt so alone.

Grandaddy, I never knew you but my heart aches for you. You died before I was born, but I feel I know you so well. That gentle laugh, the crinkle in your eye. I know it’s you because I see it in my mother, my brother, myself. I wish I could spend time out in the woods with you like my mother did, bringing home stray animals. Sitting by the fire in the evenings, putting ribbons in your hair and then laughing myself silly. You could teach me to hunt, to carve, to laugh, to live. But then again you already have.

Gramma I love you so. I can only hope that you knew that all along. The last 5 years were the hardest. I was 8 the last time you remembered my name, recognized my face, the last time I remember you smiling. Your daughter is such an amazing woman. I know she gets her strength from you. I wish I visited you more, I wish I could remember the times we did spend together with more clarity. By the time you passed I was a woman, no longer the pig-tailed sprite you remember. I cried at your funeral, for the scent of your hair, the warm safe feeling of curling up in your bed after a good meal, playing dress up with your sunday best. It warms my heart to know that Grandaddy was there to meet you. I’m so glad you are finally safe in his arms.

8

Sue, I feel your pain. I lost both of my sisters within 15 months. Even though it’s been four years now, I still miss them. The pain of the loss does lessen over time, and the memories of them are still strong. May you find peace. My thoughts are with you.

9

Mom, we never really saw eye to eye, probably because we were too much alike. Maybe if you stuck around longer, we’d have worked it out. There are so many things I wish I could tell you, and ask you. We had a lot of fights left in us too, unresolved now forever. I talk to you all the time; I wear your shoes, your jewelry, and sometimes, your personality. I still dream about you.

Thomas, my fat orange cat. The anchor of my soul, you were, you big lunk. Rescuing you was the best decision I ever made. Life here hasn’t been the same without you; you really kept the others in line, and it was anarchy for a couple of years after you left. I never knew how much your presence made my life easier, and better. I hope we meet in our next incarnations.

10

Eva, honey, you had been stewardessing all around the Middle East and the Mediterranean for months, and the only thing any of us had seen of you were your hilarious e-mails telling us how incredibly strange and different things were down there. Suddenly you were back home on our safe, boring little island. I didn’t even get to welcome you back. All I got was one sweet little phone call, and then you were whisked off at the young age of 25.

I run into your brother sometimes, and when he turns his head or twitches a corner of his mouth just so, for a few seconds I can see you in there; peeking out from between his features, eyes twinkling with the laughter that was your hallmark, not a care in the world. It’s a good image.

Sleep well, sweet Eva.

11

Marla, I wish I’d gotten to know you better. You were one of the myriad people I knew, but wasn’t close with. We volunteered together, had classes together, hiked together, worked on the play together, but we weren’t really friends. And I can’t tell you how much I regret that now, because I knew then, and I know now, that you were one of those really good people, who always wanted to help, and was always thinking of others. The world was a better place with you in it, and thinking of you makes me want to be a better person, to do the good things that you will never be able to do now. I think of you whenever I say kadish.

Killed in a terrorist attack in Jerusalem, 2002.

12

This has been on my mind much of late, with my Mom’s illness, and I’ve really been thinking of my Grandmother (Mom’s mother), who passed away 35 years ago on March 3, 1968. I was the first grandchild, so my Grandmammy (yes, that’s what I called her, and it stuck; all the other grandkids called her that) was still fairly young, only 44 when I was born. My parents were struggling those first few years, and I spent a good part of the time at my grandparents. Naturally, my grandmother spoiled me completely! When I was nearly 8, my father had a chance to take the family to England for the summer; however, I did not want to go–I wanted to spend the summer with my grandparents. A battle of wills was engaged, and … well, I ended up spending that summer with my grandparents. I was only 15 when she passed away, and the cancer took her rather suddenly; I never got a chance to see her after she went into the hospital, and she died two weeks later. I have missed her so much over the years, and now I’m afraid I’m going to lose my Mom too, probably from the same cancer.

I miss my other grandparents as well, though I never knew them as well as my mother’s parents. My Granddaddy made it to 80, passing away in 1987 just weeks after my son was born. My father’s parents passed away in 1961 (grandfather) and 1966 (grandmother).

I also think many times of my two cousins, both of whom were born with muscular dystrophy, and both of whom passed away when they were 6-7 years old. The older boy, Jimmy, I always felt close to, even though he was 8 years younger than I. I spent many hours playing cowboys and indians with him! A few weeks before he passed away, my cousins had visited our family at our house, and I had a bad cold. I remember thinking when he died that I may have passed the cold on to him; with MD, at least back in the 60s, a cold would progress rapidly to pneumonia, which is what killed him–he didn’t have the muscles to be able to cough up phlegm. After Jimmy passed away, my Aunt and Uncle decided to have another baby, even though they knew the chances were 1 in 4 that they may have another with MD, and when their youngest son, Eric, was born in 1967, he had it too. I cannot imagine the anguish and pain they went through, to lose two children to MD. God bless Jerry Lewis, because he has done so much to help with funding research into this disease.

thanks for giving me a chance to talk about those closest to me that I miss.

13

Tosh, our gold lab.

You loved the snow. On the first snow of the year, you would bound outside for your morning pee with a look on your face like a four-year-old on Christmas eve.
You played gently with little things. It showed how tender you were. You’d delicately pluck rosehips off of the bushes that grew at the edge of the yard and toss them around all afternoon. You made friends with a kitten once.
You were so dignified. You rarely jumped on people. You never bit anyone. You never barked for no reason.
You were so affectionate. You were obviously completely devoted to us and we miss you terribly. My stepdad’s heart is still broken.
We keep your collar hanging in a West window, where we put it when your kidneys finally failed, so that your soul could find its way into the sunset.
I still can’t talk about you without crying. I especially miss the little smudge of white on your nose.

14

Do I have to be ‘nice’? No? Good.

You are the ultimate stupid bastard Mark, you lousy bloody cop-out merchant. What the hell were you thinking? Did you think nobody would miss you? Did you believe that your demise would somehow help everyone else to get on with their lives? Did you really feel that your kids would just say, “Oh, golly. Dad’s dead. What’s for dinner mum?”.

Even though it’s been nearly five years now, I still miss you, you effing bastard. I miss the way we could argue for hours on end about whether ‘feminism’ should be considered a political exercise. I miss your rants against ‘The System’ and the way you would then take the mickey out of your own rabidity by launching into impersonations of Gough Whitlam and Jackie Imgoodfella. I miss you tucking the kids into bed and telling them stories about dragons that would eat them if they didn’t eat their dinner, and how the fate of ending up like Fatty Skaftouris would befall them if they ate too much. I miss your enthusiasm for strange things. I miss the times when you would lock yourself into the kitchen and emerge hours later with some culinary delight that the kids would then cover with tomato sauce (much to your disgust). Or the times when you would lock yourself into the shed and then WEEKS later a beautifully crafted wooden boat would be presented…(shame you miscalculated the dimensions on the Dory though…now THAT was a funny day when you launched HER.)

The kids miss you, although I think our youngest has forgotten much of what you meant to him. He was only 9 then, and much water has passed under the bridge since. There are times when only a dad will do you know, and photos just don’t cut it after a while. Just last week I was having a deep and meaningful with your eldest son when he broached the subject of ‘inadequate performance’. Shit. What’s a MUM meant to say? I don’t fully understand the psyche and physiology of blokes, and having one’s own kid ask how to cope with ‘Flagging Response’ is a tad difficult for a mum. I did my best though, and he seemed happy with my explanation. But it would have been better coming from you.

The only thing that stops me going to Mordialloc and stomping on your ‘grave’ is the knowledge that you are the one missing out now. It’s a lovely day in Melbourne today, and you’re not here to see it.

We miss you, you bastard.

15

Dad… It’s been a year and a half since you passed away…I’m sorry that you didn’t see the house I bought, or the wedding I will have. It won’t be the same without you…love ya.

16

Andrew. They say you drowned in Mexico. I don’t get it. I still think you’ll answer the phone if I call.

Blanche. I’m sorry that I almost never wrote back to you. You never forgot my birthday. Thanks.

17

I sometimes really miss my mother. She died over 13 years ago. She was the glue that held our family together, since her death everyone has drifted far apart.

Steve, one of my best buds while growing up. Couldn’t get him to try pot back in high school in the early 70’s. He died of an overdose a few years ago. He was the last person I would have thought would get involved in drugs.

And my 2nd cousin Corey. Killed at 6 because some ignorant bastard thought it was his right to leave a loaded hand gun in the house. I don’t care that is was in a night stand and your kid knew better to go in your bedroom. Why are two 6 year olds left alone in a house with a loaded gun? And I really couldn’t give a God damn that your life in ruined because you are now a convicted felon that spent 2 years in jail. You cry about losing your rights, what about Corey’s right to grow up? Ever think about that?

18

Grandpa, what can I say? I miss you. You died 19 years ago. You taught me the art of being gentle. You taught me to play the violin. You showed me how to use hand tools. You showed me how to solder. Through your actions you showed me how to love. I will never forget you.

Not long after you died, I saw the movie “Electric Dreams”- the theme song is our song. We’ll always be together, however far it seems.

19

I miss you, Grumbo. I thought of you tonight when a friend asked me if I’d heard of some rather obscure Classical piece and I knew that you’d have known it, and would probably be able to go right to it in your music collection. I miss talking to you about photography. I wish I could show you how to use the computer, so you could look up information on Classical music on the web. And I know that you’d be saying that no, you’d never buy a digital camera, because they’d never be as good as film emulsion cameras. But you’d secretly be looking that the high-end digital cameras and thinking that maybe, maybe one day you’d get one.

I miss you, David. Dammit, I loved hearing about the latest TV show you were working on. If it was a show I watched, you’d tell me what was coming up next, who was starring, and all that stuff. It was always so fun talking to you about your work. I miss hearing about how things were backstage at the Oscars each year. I miss your weird sense of humor, and your strange jokes and activist escapades. I miss seeing your artwork and pottery. And you were so insightful about everyone else’s artwork too.

20

Grandmother. You died last month. You’d struggled; I don’t blame you for succumbing. I hate that you felt lonely the last few years of your life, that instead of your children visiting you and brightening your days, you had to get comfort from the television. I am glad that my father visited you at least twice a week, and made sure you got the things you needed. You’re right–he is a good man. And I hope that someday I’ll meet you again, and maybe you can teach me the perfect way to make divinity candy.

Aaron. You died a few weeks ago, and your sister (one of my oldest friends) misses you. I’ve known your family since I was 3. Your parents are going nuts without you; your son is 3 and doesn’t quite understand that Daddy isn’t coming back. I can’t even imagine what your wife is going through; your income was the main source of support. I have to confess that I’m a little angry at you; it was known you had a habit of falling asleep on the drive home from work. I wish you’d done something about it before you hit that 18-wheeler head on. I…wish.