I’m not certain today, if Gracie is still Earth bound. I do know that she has been straddling the line between here and gone. It’s been hard, as it has always been hard, for me to wrap my mind around death. Death has shown up as several characters in the play of my life. The first of significance was our family dog, Sheba. After that, I remember little of the human or animal departures, aside from flashes in my mind. Until 1990. My friend Ed.

 Death seems to come so fast and furious now. Chalk it up to my aging human form. My Godfather died last month. Len and Rod were partners for almost as long as I’ve been aboard planet Earth. Now he’s gone. Death kills the living, I believe. It kills a piece of me every time.

Gracie, though. I fancied her invincible. She kicked my ass, knocked me down and broke into my soul. I’m not sure if I hate her for that. I’m not sure about love at all, really. I can’t decide why love makes sense. I hate this suffocating, choking state I’m in. Would I trade the loving for the hurting? I can’t answer that just yet.

All I know is that I can’t save Gracie, or her Mom. And this reality angers me into shutting it all down…

…What does; “patriotism” mean, Mama?

 “I’m not sure, darling. Perhaps it means an inherent love of country too deep to explain its devotion…”

So here’s another secret about me; One of my most favorite things about having season tickets to the Jacksonville Jaguar games is this; the National Anthem. Yes, it’s true. Even though I have to admit that I don’t fully understand the lyrics. (I had to Google, “rampart,” y’all). I absolutely LOVE watching us all stand, remove our hats, and place our hand over our hearts. Ok, so I forget that part sometimes. But geez! I spent most of my youth saving the damn Queen and… “standing on guard for thee…” Canada style.

But here’s where cool comes in with a vibrating boom…there’s always a fly-over from U.S. jets after the anthem du jour. This last game vs. the Buffalo Chips- oops, I meant to say, Bills, I was seriously concerned that our pilots had gone haywire. The National Anthem had ended and yet I was staring into the sun with the sinking heart of a child when she finds out that Santa just isn’t able to stop by this year. “Maybe they’re coming at half-time,” said I. But no, the zoomy-boomy-looming planes were merely lining up for the right formation. To see and hear them approach y’all? It is an amazing feeling. I hate war. I hate that our jets go to war. I hate that our countrymen have to fight anywhere and anything.  But dammit! I sure LOVE to watch our Air Force fly so close to me that I can feel them, so close that I feel safety because of them. I love this land o’ the free. I don’t give a shit what you think about the politics of our country-as long as you think about the women and men who are in it, flying it, facing it, living and dying it. I don’t salute Mr. Bush. But I WILL stand up, remove my hat and place my right (right, not left, Dee!), hand over my heart. Because I have one. I have a heart and that’s what makes me grateful this day, to be free. WAHOOOO AMERICA! Did you hear me shouting for you at the top of my lungs? Did you hear me?

Wow. If only God woulda let me have a kid…

But he let me mentor some amazing young folks instead.

I get lost for words at times like this (no really, I do).

There was a random boy applicant one day back in 2006…

He came in for an interview on September the something….  He fidgeted and looked down at imaginary things. He complained about shopping carts and missed expectations. He managed to get through despite self deprecation. I doubted a bit, though I felt something stir…I hired him then and the days since are a blur…

I’ve been in the;  “biznezz”,  for a few 24 hours now. But geez. No single employee has EVER asked; “The question.”

Until Benji.

I love this kid. I’ve written it before. But now, well…God, I love this kid. How can I explain?

He asked me the question. You know-the one. The one that I, Dee Fortin, asked Mr. CEO back in 2001. Las Vegas, it was. My very first encounter with all things corporate-ish.

I was terribly green back then. Nervous to meet our CEO. Did I belong? Did I have any skills at all to succeed in a world I couldn’t even comprehend? I could only muster two questions; “What do I need to learn?”  And…”Do you have any advice for me?”

Mr. CEO replied;  “Participate. Ask questions. Give answers.”
I don’t remember if I even heeded that advice. All I know is that
I tried to tow the line and listen to the folks who were smarter than me (it paid many dividends years later, not simply monetary ones, either).

Allow me to tell you that in my tenure here at the “company”, not one employee has been so forthright, so genuine as this kid. No person has been so much like me. No one as curious and as eager to figure the shit out, recognizes opportunity and grabs all he can…

He gets it. He gets me; my vision for our shop. He gets the “we” of this company.

Alas…here’s the news: He’s gonna leave. As well it should be, I reluctantly admit.

College doth steal our dependent finest. He’ll add and subtract and plus and minus. 

He’s wants to be a Gator. We joke and jest, make fun of the “haters.” 

Benji’s a great kid, I wish you could know. You probably will, stick around for the show…(he may be your attorney, your counsel when heeded. He might be your doctor, when life-saving is needed. He might just be #28’s agent, directing the Jag’s and all of their wages. Whatever he chooses, it will impact this space. It will take away shadows and lighten the place.)

He told me this the other day, in a grown-up, direct and factual way. He said; “You know Dee, I was just another aimless teenager until I started working here. I have learned so much in my two years, I have a plan for my life now. I go to college on time and I come to work and I do the right thing…”

I look up to him now, in more ways than one. (I must be shrinking back down to the earth, no way he could be growing so tall, so fast).

I listen to him now, not just hear him, (smarter than me already? No friggin’ way!)

“What can I improve upon, Dee?”

Your improvement is obvious, this is a fact.

You are all the ways and means that I lacked.

P.S. Whitney, my demon child, graduated and is going to college in the fall. What a ride this life gives us, eh?

You.

Yeah, you. You’re reading me, no?

Reading my insides and outsides and my here’s and there’s and so much more.
My why’s and who’s and me’s and them’s and rantings galore…

Thank you for your interest and curiosity. Your comments and animosity. It all is a matter to me. It all does matter to me. Matters, ARE me.

{Uh-oh. I feel a lame-assed ice hockey analogy approaching. You know, Canada’s game? The game from where Gretzgy defected to the You Ess Eh?}

I skate sometimes, on the thin side of the ice. I skate sometimes, too close to your margins. Yeah, I do.

Icing means this; The puck crosses your opponents’ blue line without you touching it with your stick.
I’m a blue line crosser all the way.

I don’t mean to offend. Stiill, it’s my stick that I wield.
Curved and angled. Just like my field.

I can easily shoot my puck at what’s wrong with you. The inner/outer of you, the beginning and end of you.
The where I start and where you finish.
The bundle up, you musn’t be chilled, you.

Where’s me? Get a grip. I’m here.

I’m here. You can see me, you do feel me. I know you are in me.

I’m eternally burdened it seems, with our places in this Stanley Cup race.

I WANT that silver glory. Don’t you?

I LIVE for raising that goblet overhead.

I NEED to be recognized. You too?

I can’t hurt you to get mine, though. I can’t. Despite the fact that hip checking is an integral part of ice hockey. So keep telling me when I’m icing your puck, ok?

I can’t love my life without you, the lives that love me.

You’re what I need.
You’re the words that free.
You slam the puck into the crease that’s Dee.

Love IS icing, crossing the blue line, enticing.
Stay with me now.

I’m faking a Gordie Howe.

I shoulda bought my ticket by now.
Should have that itinerary in hand.
But I don’t.
Why?

Well, there are the reasons you can touch and the reasons you can’t.
The touchable ones are so easy.

I’m freaking busy. I’ve been called up to duty by the company that has led me all along to this place.

Go here, Dee. Go there, Dee. Go up and down and all around, Dee. If you don’t, Dee, we’ll scowl, Dee. We’ll howl and yowl and furrow our brow, Dee.

Oh, but then there are those intangibles. The no-see-ums. The: “Holy shit, I’m scared-ums.”
The ones that jet set my mind and body on an adventure backward. Back to 1994-95.
Shit. Crap. Fuck, man. There she is. Blocked by a dog whose paws are infiltrating my Mustang.
Geez. What do I do? I feel so much, but am so afraid…

Certain friends say that I have a good instinct for humans. To trust my apprehension.
My instinct? Well it’s not firing on all pistons these days. It can’t be.

I wanna see her. I wanna see her life now. I wanna see her life now that went on so gloriously without me. I wanna congratulate her. I wanna be proud of her. But man, these jitters fuck my head up.
What if I feel something again? I can’t have that. I can’t. Won’t.

And now she’s upset with me. Subtle, but pissed.
I can tell. I can feel it.

She’s hurt because she doesn’t want to be let down again. If anyone is owed a debt to them by me, it is surely her.
But it stings, this slap in the face, to be up against grown-up duties.
I can’t go steal her when I’m 60 if I’m not compliant at 40.
The irony remains. She doesn’t need me at all.

Still…

I wanna finally provide something that has always failed me. A safety net. A landing pad and a glance away from the monetary woes. Needed or not. Given freely. Altruistically.

But yeah, there’s that element of fear, foreboding. I’m afraid to see her again.
More paws, more pause.
It is oh so easy to just toss my dollars into the arena in lieu of my heart.

I’m afraid to feel this again. Karma or not.
She’s always sent me spinning, swirling, whirling and twirling around in the atmosphere.
I gotta keep my feet planted. It’s all I know now. It’s what I’m best at.

I know she loves me.
I love her, too.

But daisies are daisies and they’re doomed to die someday.
It sucks.
But it is.
Love them, love them not.
It doesn’t matter, they do what they do.

I’m gonna try like Hell to get to her this year or next.

But here’s the thing:
We’ll never be more than a round globe apart.
This comforts me beyond belief.
Because somewhere in me is that flicker of light that still believes in silly childhood dreams.

I’ll get there, woman.
You just gotta trust me.
For once, it’ll be ok. You’re my friend.
I take it seriously. I can even be good at it nowadays.

But you…

…you have always been the one who saved the daisies, kept the petals and spared their feelings.

There’s a gift in you.

Keep ’em for me, those packets of light, won’t you?

There was a book, when I was a child, that was my favorite. Its title, I’ve kept in my mental rolodex for decades.
It was always there, like a white, puffy cloud, waiting for my conscious acknowledgement.
I haven’t been reading much. In the past year or so, I’ve not set my eyes upon a mixture of words beyond magazines and local news rags. That’s not me. I love to read. I love to be swept up in a story. Curled up with a binding and font. I have a friend who recommended a book to me awhile ago. Another friend picked it up for me and thus set in motion my gears of reading again. To be sure, the book is a good one. She didn’t exaggerate its lyrical charm. I’m loving it. But it called to mind the book from my childhood. That jarring of memory that set me on a quest. A quest to find the book from long ago.

It’s called: “The Golden Goblet.” Written by a woman named Eloise McGraw. It’s about a boy in ancient Egypt who suffers unspeakable human abuse and the ending is a happy one. My favorite kind.
It’s been out of print for who knows how long. I went to trusty Amazon and searched. I didn’t want a paperback version. I wanted the hardcover that I’d held in my 13 year old hands. It took awhile, but I found it. A woman in New Jersey just happened to have the hardback in almost pristine condition. I snapped it up.
This morning, amidst the bills and ads of grown-up mail, it was there. In brown paper. Like a Julie Andrews sap-fest. I was elated. I walked to the dumpster with my adult face on to toss the unnecessary pizza discounts. But when I rounded the steps for home, I squealed. How delightful! I savored it a bit before ripping off the brown wrap. But there, underneath, was my reunion with youth. I studied it and turned it over in my hands. Flipped the pages near my face and smelled that wonderful old book smell. It looks smaller than I remembered. I remembered it to be colossal. A mammoth book. Everything, it seems, looks bigger to a child. It’s only 248 pages. But I can’t wait to savor each one. I remember the story. I remember most of the characters. But most of all, I remember the hope it gave to a kid, who was even then, lost. Perhaps I shall gain some new hope. Hope for the still occasionally lost kid. I hope so. I will let you know. Still, I love those brown paper packages.

I am an inappropriately ungrateful woman. Meaning that I am ever more concerned with myself than others. Especially those that I care about. This has been pointed out to me before. No, not last year, but decades ago. Selfish and mean are two words that found their way to my ears from more than one reliable source. Of course, those people didn’t themselves have those traits. Take Barb, for example.
I have, in my posession, a letter dated 1985. A four-pager, written in tiny hand. Explaining lovingly how and why she thought I was an ass. I keep it for posterity. And for days when I feel entitled or find myself slipping back…
…back to the Dee of old.
The Dee of old. No, no. I’m still the Dee that was. Selfish to the nth degree. But I occasionally get a reprieve. Sometimes the chunks of time are long and measured. Other times not.
An exerpt; “You can be so thoughtless and mean, Dee. Sometimes I feel that you love me with everything you have in you. Then other times you are so cruel. To be on the receiving end of that is the worst thing I’ve ever felt.”
’85, folks. 21 years ago. Fortunately, that person has agreed to let me communicate with her again. I did not deserve the generosity. I’m not trying to be a martyr or seek pity here. Not that at all. Perhaps I just need to remember that I have spent most of my life expecting things from people who loved me. People who owed me nothing. And I gave little in return.
But it’s today. I have new friends, new formations of family. A re-establishment of sisterhood. I was blessed. I’ve been given a gift that I did not earn. The meaning of grace, isn’t it? Something we get in spite of ourselves?
Take this past week for an example:
I had horrific, stifling car problems. I was rescued yet again, by Lu and Vern. Then a family whom owes me no loyalty. A family, a vision of unity and love that strikes me with awe every time I’m near. Eh-net and Charlene and Aubs and Gabs and…the boy.
Ask Barb, ask Lu, ask my staff. I’m probably the last name on a will-call list for favors that might inconvenience me. I don’t want to be that person, that assclown, any more.
I adore my friends and family. New and old. You guys stick around, despite my selfishness.
Thank you. You help me every day to distance myself from the Dee that was. It’s a battle. It’s a journey.
But I need you to know how grateful I am that you’re right here with me.
I love you.

Ha ha. Say THAT 5 times fast.
I can have a friend now. Really, no joke.
I’m not “IN” love with her anymore, I say.
“How do you know, Dee?”, they query. How do I know?
Let me tell you the story…

“IN” love, I’ve been.
None of that smirking from the peanut gallery whom assumes I’m an island…you know who you are, too!
In the 80’s. She rode her motorcycle in a purple dress. I spent insane amounts of time trying this way and that to convince her that she should be with me. Only me. Forever. Let your hands be like glue, I pleaded. She eventually complied on the very same night that I passed out in her shrine. Don’t bother to tell me that God is without humor. Laughing His ass off that night… Waited a teenaged eternity for that moment…
Jingly-jangly-what-nots hanging from every angle. She smelled nice. Like…uh…patchouli.
Dead things hung from her ears. Ha ha. A private joke. If she reads this ever, she’ll chuckle.
What is the word that you want to use that describes the most beautiful creature that you have ever seen? I was 18 then.

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