Mary Beth Writes

First written 2/18/2017

Yesterday was the funeral of Jack Jude. I met him off and on over the years we lived in Racine.  He was a smart, compassionate, wide-thinking, justice-for-all judge in Racine County. We were not close friends but we knew each other, and talked from time to time when we ran into each other in the Law Enforcement Center. Twice, when I encountered complicated legal snafus in regards to the guys I worked with, I called him. He would listen and then suggest options and strategies.

I know Jack’s unexpected death has rocked many lives.

Today is a funeral in Chicago, of a good friend’s aunt. This aunt was creative, sophisticated, laughed easily and had many adventures in her life. She provided a window to the world for her niece, my friend.

Last night late I received an email from another friend that her dad passed away yesterday. He was an awesome dad from the generation where so many of them were not. He was curious, could-fix-anything, was a loving and faithful family man and orchard farmer.

I woke this morning to a clear azure sky, a blue jay in the neighbor’s tree, a hawk streaking past our window, a squirrel tap dancing over our heads, the promise of a day of warm breezes.

There is something so impossible about death on a sunny day. When the world is gray and bleary, we can kind of take in what’s happening. But not on a day like these days; bursting with light and warmth.

My dad’s funeral was on a September day like today. Sunny, balmy, breezy, jarringly beautiful. After the funeral dozens of people came to our house to eat the food they all brought. Someone had sliced a huge turkey roasting pan of fresh peaches and then sprinkled them with brown sugar. I ate nothing but peaches that afternoon. Bowl after bowl of sweet, probably freshly-picked local peaches.

After a while my brother (who was just 19 that year) said he couldn’t stand to be inside anymore and was going out to work on the tool shed my dad had been building. Did I want to help?

The rest of that day we stayed outside, away from the mourners. Paul hammered and sawed. I sat cowboy style on an empty 50-gallon barrel, rocking from side to side. I was 14 years old, full of peaches, warmed by the sun, and cooled by breezes. It was gorgeous afternoon and I have never understood in words how that luscious memory would become my strongest memory of the day my father was laid to rest.

My theology teacher Paul Hessert once said, “Without silence, one could not have music.  It’s the quiet, empty spaces between the notes that turn sound into music.”

I think a funeral on a sunny day is something like that. An empty space that allows us to rest in the beauty that is around us.

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Nomadland. How people live well enough when there is no way to live well.

Nomadland: Surviving America in the Twenty-First Century - by Jessica Bruder

 

You’ve read these kinds of statistics before.  In the US our incomes are spread like this: The top 1% suck up 81 times MORE annual income than the bottom half of ALL Americans.

Len's Marinated Story Starts

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So. Easter dinner. The kids had given Len a new Weber grill for his birthday – which inspired an Easter menu of kabobs. Some marinated and grilled veggies plus a lot of marinated and grilled meat.

Update on Our Brother

In June I wrote about Our Brother  HERE

Here’s an update:

Our Brother is still working at the same warehouse, full-time, $9/hr.  

Back in June the Child Support dep’t had negotiated 3 purges (purge is the term Child Support uses for the bond one pays in order to get out of or stay out of jail once warrants are listed). His three purges on his three child support cases were $350 and $500 and $500. I invited people to make contributions to his cause.

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These photos are from my phone, Len's phone, and our camera. So I got to play with two on-line albums of photos and then, surprise-surprise, the end product was "too big" - so today I got to run all the photos through Photoshop to make them smaller pixel-wise.  

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What Happens to Personal Finances When One Grows Up Poor and Black in America?

Our Brothers story -   “Black Lives Matter”

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Read this, Friends. "Home" by Warsan Shire

I just read this poem. The small part I can do today is pass it along to you.

https://genius.com/Warsan-shire-home-annotated

Home by Warsan Shire

(Shire was born in Kenya to Somali parents. She migrated with her family, as a child, to Great Britain.)

 

Home

no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark.

you only run for the border
when you see the whole city
running as well.

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