And in the End

Different versions of this essay, about how I'd like my memorial service, have appeared in various publications, but I'm repeating it here--only to ensure that that nobody calls me a "wretched soul" (from the hymn "Amazing Grace." I never did like that line). Not that I'm planning on going anywhere soon, so you can ditch the panicked call to 911. Just consider this a proactive measure on my part and listen up pals:

THIS is how I'd like be remembered.

For starters, I want my greyhounds, Elvis and Lucy, at my service. They may be confused and a bit scared, wondering why their human has left them and they're suddenly living with someone else. But they must be at my service. If any one thing were to capture my essence, it would be found in the love I have for these dogs. Elvis and Lucy are as much a part of my family as blood relatives and close friends. They sit. And stay. In the row reserved for family.

I want people to laugh. Really. I hope my friends will muster the courage to stand up and tell funny stories about me because I will have died without tears and regrets. So I never married. Never had kids. Never had the corner office, wrote a best-seller or squeezed into a pair of size two jeans. Know what?

Don't care. Doesn't matter. I was happy. Content. Grateful to wake up each day healthy, in a warm bed, with a roof over my head, a job to sustain me and people who loved me.

Amidst carnations (take note: my favorite flower), I'd like my sister, Jennifer, to talk about that joke she played on me, the one where she convinced me that her house was haunted. Pam, my best friend, should 'fess up about us attending a Donny Osmond concert--uh, in our forties. Richard can share memories from our time at Dublin High ("it's all your fault!"), and Deb can laugh about that time in New Orleans when we feared we were being sold as middle-aged sex slaves.

Shared lives and experiences. In good times and bad, through grimaces and grins, we held each others' hands for strength and support. And laughed. Always, we laughed.

Music must be an integral part of my service. Friends may know me as an Elvis Costello fan(who do you think my dog is named for...that Presley dude?), but there are many songs I hold dear, mainly due to fond childhood memories.

Moon River by Andy Williams. Just about any sixties tune by Johnny Mathis or Herb Alpert. The instrumental Love is Blue by Paul Mauriat. Clair de Lune, because my father would play it on the piano and as a child I thought he had composed it. I remember hearing it on the radio one day and running to him in hysterics, screeching that someone had stolen his song.

I love the poignancy of God Only Knows by The Beach Boys. The optimistic Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head by B.J. Thomas, and the corny Everything is Beautiful by Ray Stevens. Since lyrics should be somewhat relevant, given the circumstances, this probably rules out Always Look at the Bright Side of Life by Monty Python. My friends can make that call.

Oh, but there is one song that must be played. Someone once quoted these lyrics to me, in an email response to an article I wrote about adopting Elvis. It's from the Beatles Abbey Road, incidentally my all-time favorite album. The song is titled, appropriately enough, "The End. " Just 28 words long, the last eight say it all. The same eight words I quoted just last week in my Valentine's Day post:

And in the end...
the love you take,
is equal to the love,
You make.

And with that final song, my service will be over. Held on a day I hope to dodge for many years to come.

Happy Valentine's Day

"And in the end,

the love you take,

is equal to the

love you make."

~Lennon/McCartney

Just Another Typical Day at the Office

Today I got a lick from a cow named Ellie.

And how was your day?

Out of the Closet

This morning I began the arduous task of sorting through and emptying the home that Mom lived in for over 40 years. Eventually my sister will join me in this emotional endeavor, but right now the pain is still too fresh and she's just not ready. We all have our weak spots, those Code Red triggers, and hers is the house.

That's okay. These past few months, Jennifer has carried me when I've been weak, hugged me when I've cried and made me laugh when I never even thought I could smile. I'm more than happy to help my "baby" sister through this rough patch.

Besides, I figure I can handle one closet at a time. Really, I can do this. Ninety minutes, a few boxes and garbage bags and voila. After all, how hard can one closet be?

Let me tell you.

Although this particular closet was in my former bedroom, over the years it had turned into a catch-all. The plentiful pillows, duvets and blankets were easy decisions: the good ones would go to Shepherd's Gate, a shelter for abused women, and the tattered ones would find their way to the local animal shelter. But then I started unearthing more stuff, the kind of stuff you think you'll never forget, but lo and behold, here it is suddenly staring you in the face and turns out you forgot about it after all.

Like my collection of TV Guides from 1970. I don't recall why I was so into TV Guide that year. I'm guessing I was frantically checking to see if the Osmond Brothers were appearing on that week's episode of The Andy Williams Show, but why did I save each issue? Only my juvenile old brain remembers why.

I found my autographed black and white 8x10 glossy of Bob Hope, and a personal letter from the late comedian/actor, Freddie Prinze. I recalled seeing him on The Tonight Show in 1974, thinking he was hysterical, and writing to him asking where and how he garnered his comedy material. Even back then I was interested in writing.

There were my school yearbooks and my sister's birth certificate with the original photo and her teeny I.D. bracelet the circumference of a quarter. I found our familiar kitchen fixture, the brown ceramic Dutch girl cookie jar that was always stocked with Dad's favorite Mother's Cookies , and the red dog collar with tarnished tags that had the faded inscription, "Kernel," our long-deceased Cockapoo.

I found a half-filled tube of my Bonnie Bell Strawberry Lip Smacker lip gloss that I wore endlessly in the 8th Grade, and another iconic symbol from the 70's, my Pet Rock. I also discovered a long-lost love letter addressed to me from somebody named Mark.

Who the heck was Mark?

Throughout all this excavating, I was doing okay. My heart grew heavier with each treasured memento and keepsake revealed, but I kept trudging through like a trouper. That is, until I came across a ball of rolled up material stuffed inside a crinkly plastic shopping bag.

Drapes, maybe? Or perhaps a bedspread or small area carpet? I was about to slam dunk the bag into the "trash" pile until I thought better of it and decided to check out the contents. Good thing I did.

It was our mother's wedding dress.

And with that, I locked up the house and left. How hard could one closet be, I wondered?

Let me tell you.

Birthday Surprise

I have to admit, I approached my birthday this year with some degree of trepidation. Not for the typical anti-aging reasons (Honestly? I don't give a @#!k), but because it would be the first without my mom. My sister and I are still navigating all those precarious "firsts," never knowing how we might respond.

Talk about your roller coaster of emotions.

That's why it was a nice surprise to not just survive the dreaded day on Saturday, but actually enjoy it, despite the glaring absence of my beloved mom. The office greeting emailed to me on Friday (see photo) helped set the tone and put a smile on my face that never quite left the entire weekend.

On "D" day itself, I went to my sister's for our traditional family birthday dinner, followed with a vigorous evening playing Nintendo Wii. On Sunday, my best friend, Pam, treated me to a luxurious "girls day" of pampering at the Carnero Inn spa in Napa. My body was salt-scrubbed in spots that haven't seen the sun since Nixon was in office, and the facial and massage were to die for.

The entire weekend left me with a foreign feeling not felt in recent months: relaxed.

Yes, my birthday could have been difficult. Instead it was bittersweet. After all, this was the very first one of my entire life when I didn't get that traditional pre-dawn call teasing me, "How OLD are you???" The silence that morning was deafening.

But I discovered that Mom was with me just the same; I felt her spirit through the thoughtful, loving gestures of each and every friend who, in spite of the circumstances, helped make this a special day.

Ray of Light on a Rainy Day

So much sadness these days, from personal loss to global tragedies, and I'm tired, so very weary of being sad. It's starting to feel chronic. That's why this email, received on a bleak, rainy day from a former contributor to my SF Chronicle Pet Tales column, was like a tonic for my heart.

Hi Eileen,

I want to share something that just happened, thanks to the article about Stella. One our more prominent philanthropists read it and contacted me about helping. She asked me to ask each class for a wish, which I forwarded to her. She just called to let me know she bought over 100 items for the Janet Pomeroy Center for the Handicapped. These go from small art supplies, to furniture, Karaoke machines, and a scoreboard for the gym.

I am so touched, and on a dreary day, thought you might be too.
~Ricky

What a positive reminder that there is goodness to be found.

Pennies From Heaven

It was a gloomy Saturday morning with a damp, gray fog that was doing a number on my curly hair. My neighbor had just picked me up from the Toyota dealership where I'd left my new car for a tune-up.

The car belonged to my mom; the quintessential vehicle owned by the quintessential "little old lady" who never used it for anything beyond grocery shopping and church. My spirited mom certainly wasn't that "little old lady" -- she just didn't have much need for driving.

That's why, when she passed away four months ago, her 2004 sea foam green Corolla had just 25,000 miles on it. And talk about mint condition. She detailed it religiously. Performed oil changes and tire rotations like clockwork. The exterior shines like a mirror and I'm sure the interior would still boast that new car smell if she hadn't taken her dogs, Lucy and Holden, for rides every morning when she drove to Starbucks. Someone would be extremely lucky to get this prize.

Turns out that someone was me.

Because while I proposed selling the car and splitting the money with my sister, she had other ideas. "YOU take the car," Jennifer insisted. "You're the one with an old car and long commute. I want you in something reliable." She absolutely refused to let me buy her out. That's the kind of person she is.

And so, I accepted her generous offer, albeit reluctantly. Because while I'm grateful to be spared the financial burden of buying a new car, I also can't forget HOW I got this one. The day I went to the DMV to transfer the title to my name, my hands were shaking so badly, I could hardly sign the documents. When the DMV clerk, an older Indian woman, saw that I had checked the "deceased" box, she immediately understood and her abrupt attitude changed. "It's okay," she said in a gentle tone, patting my trembling hands. "It's okay."

On this misty day, while waiting for my car to be ready, I was thinking of Mom. Remembering the last time we went out for dinner at Chevy's, and the last movie we saw together, which we both loved. It was "Up." Missing her. Wondering when this ache might lessen just a bit.

That afternoon, I returned to Toyota to pick up my car. And as I was driving home, I heard a strange rattling sound coming from inside that I'd never heard before. For Pete's sake, had Toyota messed up? As the rattling continued, I traced the sound to the driver's side and ran my left hand inside the empty door pocket. There I found a penny.

Now I've never subscribed to that popular psychic belief that pennies are messages from people who have passed. The explanation is that copper is supposedly easy for a spirit to manipulate, and if you believe in that type of thing, well, whatever. I've figured the most likely explanation was that people in pain were grasping at straws. Desperate for any type of message from their loved one.

Yet I can't deny that after Mom died, and without even thinking about it, I started finding pennies in the oddest of places. Underneath my watch on the dresser. On the exact spot where Holden's paw landed when he jumped down from the car. On the kitchen table, right next to my soy latte. And now, on this day when I was feeling particularly sad, in the door pocket of her former car.

Could the mechanic have dropped it? Possibly. Although I don't think they're in the habit of leaving money behind: usually, they're the ones squeezing every penny out of the customer.

Think what you will. Maybe I'm grasping at straws, too. But as I drove home, accompanied by that rattling sound, I found my spirits lifting along with the rising fog.