Requiem aeternam -- Amy Alford.

Sometimes life just smacks you in the face and says, stop being so self-centered. Yeah, that's today. Checking in on Facebook I find out that beautiful Amy Alford died today. Lovely wife, mother of two, daughter, sister, friend to many.



I knew Amy from our days at Carmichael Lynch. She worked in the Mac Studio coordinating and managing jobs -- a thankless task that she joyfully tackled every day. Later, she made the switch to Project Management and as the low gal on the totem pole she had to work on Northwest Airlines. OK. I can say it now: NWA was one of the worst clients ever. Maybe in the whole world. Amy kicked their ass every day and did it with a huge smile. That amazing smile that could knock your socks off.

After Amy had baby #1, she decided to give up the glamour and excitement of cranking out NWA sale ads week after week. Column A: adorable baby. Column B: cranky client. That's what you call a no brainer decision.

The last time I saw her was at Rachel and Karen's wedding. She was glowing, happy and laughing -- from the fun of seeing old friends, and maybe gas from being preggers again.

Oh, Amy, we will miss your off-kilter sense of humor and sheer love of life.

Réquiem ætérnam dona ei Dómine; et lux perpétua lúceat ei. Requiéscat in pace. Amen.

Don't mind me. . .

I'm really late. I'm just sneaking in the back door long after curfew. Hoping that no one notices. Creeping quietly up the steps so I don't wake anyone up. But, who cares?
Don't pay me no nevermind.
Just carry on.
As you were.
Smoke 'em if you've got 'em.

Q: Where did you go?
A: Out.
Q: What did you do?
A: Nothing.










I worked on a big pile of stuff. The pile eventually got thrown away. And now, we're doing it all over again. Sounds like the myth of
Sisyphus.









Tommy and LeAnn got married.






I saw the capitalist system at work at an abandoned building along Lake Superior.







We celebrated the Feast of the Assumption of the BVM at this church in Tofori, Italy with Doris and Doug. BVM = Blessed Virgin Mary, for all you pagans out there.








I visited Nora in Brooklyn.








I rode the light rail and didn't get stabbed.







I saw Foghorn Leghorn at the Minnesota State Fair and considered becoming an animal liberation activist.








How do you spell Tucson? Tuscon. Saw it. Sweated.




Saw the Eiffel Tower. It's true. The French don't believe in deodorant.






Had a birthday party for our mama. She's only 90.




And not in that order.
Just the usual for the past 12 months or so. Went places. Irritated some people. Made things. Read some books. The years fly by. It's the days and nights that seem long.

Listening to: iTunes Party Shuffle playing the Buena Vista Social Club. Goes nicely with the vanilla ice cream with pecans and chocolate sauce.

What have you been up to?

What I missed V. 2 or proof The Husband exists.

Note: once upon a time. I wrote this. Saved it. forgot to post it. . . get in the Way Back Machine. and hopefully enjoy the trip.


During that time when Blogging wasn't happening -- When I was busy cataloging my Donna Summer record collection -- things happened.

Here's one.

Paddy finished his military commitment and came home in December. Surprise! I wasn't expecting you, so, sorry, you missed Christmas out West and got to stay home and house sit. {Thanks for emptying the litter box and watering the plants.}

You didn't miss much because The Denver Blizzard of '06 spoiled things for everyone.

Always trying to make up for lost time -- how about a trip West in January to visit The Husband a.k.a. Your Pappy. He may never show up at social events, but there is indeed a Mr. Madge. To put all the doubters out there to rest, he does exist and here he is in all his curmudgeonly glory.

My Addiction.

Bachman's.
Uncommon Garden.
Tangletown Gardens.
Even K-Mart has a garden center. I simply can't resist. Gotta have it every weekend. Dirt. Muck. Moving plants from one corner of the yard to another, striving for the perfect balance of color and texture. And rarely achieving it.

Seed catalogs in February are required reading.

A dimestore shrink told me it's because my kids are grown and I need something to focus on. Possibly. I'd rather think it's because plants don't talk back.

It could be genetics though.









Here's my mother in her commmunity garden plot. She's always had a garden growing. Even our Pillsbury Avenue backyard {long, long ago} had a few flowers that survived the wretched children.











Let's go back another generation. Here's my grampa, E.T. Farley in his backyard on Clinton Avenue. A retired teacher, he hung out at home while gramma {a.k.a. The Madam} went to work at Power's Department store. See that cane? He'd usually be sitting in that metal chair and would point at spots we missed with the pushmower. For weeds, he'd bust out the "Killer Kane". A strange device -- a tube filled with water plus a wafer of poison -- that dispensed a shot of herbicide on dandelions. Deadly! And we loved it.

But wait, let's go back even further.



















The Madam didn't have the gardening bug, but her mother {my great gramma} did. And here's great gramma with The Madam's sister Ada, in her California garden.

So, when I obsess on turning this . . .









into this. . .




it's because I can't help myself. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a gardenn to tend.

Slowly catching up on the events in MadgeWorld while listening to: Living on a thin Line by The Kinks from The Sopranos soundtrack.

What We Missed. V.1

What's a mother to do? So many interesting moments and not enough time to comment. It's been so long since we visited MadgeWorld that we forgot our password. We shall attempt to play catch up.

You may know how much we loath fake holidays.
Like Grandparent's Day.
Sweetheart's Day.
Office Administration Helper Day.
However, we bow to convention and acknowledge that Mother's day has passed. If we were in the mood to comment, this is what we'd say.














How the hell did this group of benignly neglected children. . .















. . . grow up without being incarcarated, or appearing on a "missing" poster?

Perhaps on Mother's Day we should celebrate the offspring's successful arrival into adulthood in spite of our parenting style. One might describe it as laissez faire crossed with a little Machiavelli. Let us take this opportunity, weeks after Mother's Day, to publicly apologize:
- Austin: Sorry about putting BenGay on your broken leg and telling you it would feel better in the morning. We thought you were faking. No wonder you don't trust us.
- Nora: Sorry about being chronically late to pick you up. Especially that time in the winter when you had to wait outside with wet hair after swimming practice. That may explain your neurosis about being on time. It doesn't explain the swearing.
- Chronic nagging about homework. Paddy, we were desperate. Forgive. But what's up with the tattoos?
- Meggie: For the low-rent orthodontist. The wires that came undone and skewered your tongue. Ouch. We admit fault. Additional piercings optional.

What's a mother to do? Being careful not to smack of cheap sentimentality-- you all make me proud to be your mama. Now, stand up straight, get a job and get your life in order.

Listening to: Music from La Dolce Vita by Nino Rota

Poetry in Motion

Exhibit A.










How the hell did I miss out on National Poetry month? Of course, it is April so every hack journalist can quote “The Wasteland” and feel smart about things sprouting out of muck. I’ve done it myself. Only two more days of April and it’s all over and not once did I put pen to paper, digits to keypad or mind to rhyme. Sad.
Poetry should be part of everyday reading. Just like the newspaper. Nothing more lovely than a well-written poem – that can smack you in the head with how perfect it is.

I’ve quoted this before, by William Carlos Williams, but who cares:
“It is difficult
to get the news from poems
yet men die miserably every day
for lack
of what is found there.“

What’s found there? In a poem? Whatever it is you happen to need, I say. Whether it’s simplicity, humor, beauty, truth – all that college stuff and more.

How about this everyday Haiku (unearthed from MadgeWorld archives)by one Paddy McInerny, circa 1997.

The angry cat died.
No one liked it anyway.
Wrap it in burlap.

Way to cut to the chase, Paddy. I needed that.

On other springtime fronts: the calla lily bulbs -- stored under the laundry tubs in an old bucket -- started to sprout. So I threw them into some pots on the windowsill and left them to their own devices. The little buggers did a T.S. Elliot on me and actually bloomed.

Exhibit B.



I give you Exhibit B: my calla lilies with store bought tulips. Poetic results -- dare I say.

Shout Hallelujah!

Or just say it. We don't really shout hallelujah here in Minnesota. We are far too polite. In fact, we'd rather say alleluia. But, let's not argue semantics.

We won't say where we've been for the past three months -- that is a tale to be told sometime soon. Let's just revel in some heavy nostalgia for Easters Past -- when Easter was a religious holiday not just an occasion for Brunch with some schmutz dressed up like the Easter Bunny.




Here's our Mother. Looking pretty in a soft, slightly fuzzy coat that she made herself. Can't see the hat very well, but she made that, too. And the dress. Maybe even her underware. Everything homemade but the white gloves. But given enough time, she probably could have made those, too. Yes, that's when a mom was not just a mom, but a seamstress, milliner, cook, nursemaid, gardener, and round the clock ego-bolsterer. Hallelujah, how the heck did she do it without massive amounts of alcohol and cigs? I'd be institutionalized or incarcerated.



Here's our Father. And four of the nine siblings. Backyard at the family manor in south Minneapolis just one block from Incarnation Church--known as the Cradle of Catholicism. (OK. I went to Mass there tonight.) Yeah, we're styling in outfits that our Mother made. There's Joe, the pathetic little guy with glasses. Dig those highwater pants and little brown boots. Rita and I have matching dresses. John in the rear goofing around. Probably looking at Dennis or the "baby" (cause there was always a baby around).

The drill was: First go to Mass. Then find the Easter Basket. Then breakfast--dad cooked and he set the table the night before. There was always a centerpiece of dyed eggs in cellophane grass along with Fanny Farmer Foil Wrapped Easter Eggs. Joy of Joys. Good chocolate. Dad's special treat. Cause some things can't be delegated to the Easter Bunny.

Deo Gratias.

Listening to: Jazz Image with Leigh Hammond.
Enjoying: Fanny Farmer Foil Wrapped Easter Eggs and a chilled Pino Grigot.

Nora's Big Adventure -- Christmas '06

A Christmas holiday where we willingly split up the family was bound to go wrong somewhere. One daughter and son left behind in Minneapolis while the other half of The Offspring head west to Palm Springs. . . Yes, the Gods of Tradition looked down. Saw that it was bad. Chaos ensued.

The Gods of Tradition prefer White Christmas, Bing Crosby, and Ella Fitzgerald singing Christmas in Vermont, Johnny Mathis singing We need a Little Christmas. Hell, they even prefer John Lee Hooker singing Blues for Christmas. Even though the Baby Jesus was born in a desert, it doesn't mean that you abandon your Midwest traditions and head to California.

Christmas 2006 -- aka: (No) Trains, Planes and Automobiles. Substitute crack smoking moms on a greyhound bus for John Candy's accordian-playing polka band in the back of a van and you've got an idea of Nora's journey west.

Unfortunatly, this happened to Nora (and 3,000 other people).
The rest of the journey was designed by Rube Goldberg.

Here's the Reader's Digest version:
Wednesday, Dec. 20.
- Nora leaves Laguardia airport for Palm Springs via Denver.
- Flight cancelled. Airport eventually closed. For 5 days.
- Nora sleeps in the airport.
Thursday, Dec. 21.
- Colleague who works in Denver branch office rescues her for 1 night.
Friday, Dec. 22.
- Spends day in Greyhound Bus Depot waiting to elbow her way onto a bus from Denver to Vegas.
- Spends night on bus. Let's not discuss the fact she was making out with her seat mate, a science nerd grad student. OK. Mom's don't need to know that.
Saturday, Dec. 23
- Arrives in Vegas in the morning. Cab to airport. Flight to Phoenix.
- Misses early connection in Phoenix to Palm Springs.
- Gets 6:30 flight. Arrives in Palm Springs at 8 pm.
Sunday, Dec. 24
- Spend the day on the phone w/ United Airlines tracking baggage. (Swear to never, never, ever in a million years fly on United Airlines. Ever again. Never.)
Monday, Dec. 25
- Drive to Ontario, CA airport to fetch her baggage. 97 miles each way. This is quality, family time with Nora, Austin and Lorelei.
AND we discover that the dinosaur park from Pee Wee's Big Adventure is a real place. On Interstate 10, Cabazon, California.

Strangely, there are a lot of people out on the highways on Christmas Day and a fair number stop to visit the Dinosaurs. The gift shop INSIDE the dino is open. I purchase 2 postcards for .38 and think about having a white Christmas. Next year.