Even level headed gals like me can be irrational. There are perfectly good places I will never visit, perfectly good people I will shun, simply because I equate them with some unpleasantness in my life. Guilt by association. The Wisconsin Dells, for instance -- out. I equate that place with the untimely and rather tragic death of my first dog. James Taylor, live in concert -- also out. I equate him with one of the assorted acts of betrayal that resulted in the demise of my marriage. (Okay, the Dells, let's face it, bad example. There is really nothing good there to taint. As for Sweet Baby James, I cheat; I've kept a few CD's, and I am not above tossing a song or two onto an occasional playlist.)
Oddly, sometimes the irrationality works mysteriously in the other direction. An unpleasant event -- a catastrophe even -- can somehow take on a rosy glow simply because of the places or people it brings into your life. Like a death that brings you back to the place from which you came, or a funeral in a chapel filled with warmth and laughter to moderate the sadness. Like, for example, the death of my dear old friend's mom, which brought me back home, or her funeral, attended by folks I used to know and by folks I had never met, all now occupying big chunks of my heart.
Admittedly, I anticipated my exceedingly long day trip to New York for Etti's funeral with a mix of dread and overwhelming sadness. I slept for about seven minutes the night before I left, and some time during those seven minutes I had a disturbing dream. There was a dead person, and a person about my age who had not seen me in quite some time and looked me up and down as if I had aged beyond recognition, and, to make matters worse, I was about to risk doing something absolutely terrifying in front of a room full of people. Crazy shit. There was, indeed, going to be a dead person (though not Michael Jackson, as my dream had suggested). There was, indeed, going to be at least one person (again, not Hugh Laurie) who had not seen me in quite some time and who might look me up and down as if I had aged beyond recognition. And, I was, indeed, about to do something terrifying. Granted, I was not going to have to belt out tunes in an American Idol sort of contest, but I had agreed to speak on my friend's behalf, to deliver a eulogy.
There is nothing good about seeing a coffin that contains someone you have known and loved and admired forever. It defies reality, gives you an odd and frustrating sensation that the person is actually there, available for conversation. You want to turn to her and tell her one more thing; the urge continues, even after you participate in the heart wrenching Jewish tradition of shoveling dirt into the grave -- tucking her in, as the rabbi suggested.
Similarly, there is nothing good about judging eyes, people staring at you as if you are a ghost, the walking dead. I may not have stood up to Hugh (be still my heart) Laurie in my dream, but there was none of that when I arrived at the funeral, not even from my mother, who most certainly thought my dress was too short, my hair too unkempt. There were friends I had not seen in more than thirty years, all utterly recognizable, even more beautiful with a smattering of laugh lines and traces of wisdom on their faces. There were friends of my old friend, people I had never met, people who have been by her side for longer than I ever was, filling in her life while I have made my own way in other circles. We took to each other like (for lack of a better analogy at the moment) flies to shit. We are all part of a bigger circle now, having spent the better part of an otherwise lousy day together, laughing, crying, getting to know each other, finding common ground.
And, similarly, there is nothing good about preparing to do something terrifying, unless you think shaking like a leaf and being constantly on the verge of throwing up is a good thing. And, truth be told, my singing would have been disastrous, both for my own sense of pride and for the eardrums of everyone forced to listen. But, thankfully, all I had to do was speak. Speak from the heart, reading from pages I had written from the heart. Just as a couple of Etti's friends did before it was my turn. Unlike them, I did not have the perspective of a close friend and confidant, my life had not been affected the way theirs had been, with the abrupt taking away of an essential member of their daily world. I could speak only as a representative of the children, the middle aged children, those of us who grew up -- some together, some not -- at a different time, in a different world. Those of us who were raised and nurtured and influenced by Etti or people just like Etti, remarkable people who seem to be leaving us by the truckload. My shaking stopped as soon as I reached the podium. My fears and insecurities melted, and I felt, almost immediately, as if a hundred voices were speaking at once through me, as if I was holding a hundred hands.
Even after a few years have cushioned the blow of betrayal, I still shy away from James Taylor concerts. The bad taste in my mouth lingers, and there is no good reason to stir up the old indigestion. And, after even more years, I have never set foot again anywhere near the Wisconsin Dells. The grief of that long ago weekend has abated, but an aversion to bad taste in general keeps me away. Nothing against Wisconsin, mind you. I have powerful and fond memories of people and places there that trump any unpleasantness, and the state continues to lure me back. Even though I can easily get a Culver's butter burger in the United States now. I mean Illinois.
I left New York the other day, armed with email addresses of friends old and new, having made more than a few sincere promises to keep in touch via Facebook, that modern era super glue that might just provide the necessary dab of extra adhesive to make our newly discovered connections stick. T'aint perfect, put t'is pretty darn good.
Etti's funeral was overwhelmingly sad. But, oddly enough, I will always cherish the day, and, in that, I am fairly certain I am not alone.
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