{"id":9774,"date":"2016-12-07T13:59:54","date_gmt":"2016-12-07T18:59:54","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/orangette.net\/?p=9774"},"modified":"2016-12-07T14:27:07","modified_gmt":"2016-12-07T19:27:07","slug":"december-7","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/orangette.net\/2016\/12\/december-7\/","title":{"rendered":"December 7"},"content":{"rendered":"
Today it’s been 14 years since my dad died, and in most ways, it seems\u00a0like longer than that. I’ve done a lot of living – maybe too much?\u00a0– in those 14 years. But I can still hear his voice in my head, and I can still feel the hug he gave me in our driveway before I left to drive to Seattle for graduate school, in September of 2002. Burg would be 87 now, and I’m sort of glad I never had to see him diminished by old age – or, at least, not more than he was diminished in his last weeks, as cancer had its way with him. He would be glad\u00a0to know that Mom and I now live a block apart, within sight of Puget Sound, and that one night in August, when things felt hard and I needed comfort, I pulled out an old t-shirt of his that I’d kept all this time but never worn, a royal blue\u00a0Classen Grill<\/a>\u00a0t-shirt with the logo on the back and the words “peaches and cream” written in four languages on the front. It still smelled like him, and I put it on and slept in it, and I felt better. Wherever he is, I hope he’s doing it up right, as he was in this photo (he’s on the left, with family friend Ed Fretwell on the right), drinking something boozy out of a plastic coupe in a swimming pool, eating well, and grinning about it.<\/p>\n (By the way, as a kid, I was terrified of that pool cleaning device you see in the background, which propelled itself slowly and menacingly around, dragging its\u00a0long tube of a tail. I half-expected to hear the Jaws theme song<\/a> every time I got into the Fretwells’ pool. Burg and Ed clearly did not share my fear.)<\/p>\n Speaking of\u00a0fear: I should have known, knowing this community, that I had no reason to be afraid when I wrote the previous post. I don’t understand it, but you have always been so good to me, and this post was no exception. I’ve read every single comment, most of them more than once, and I want to thank you, a million times over, for your understanding and kindness.\u00a0What I’ve experienced is something that even\u00a0I\u00a0<\/em>struggle to understand, and\u00a0your compassion\u00a0felt like a lot to ask or even hope for. But you offered it to me anyway. I am honored and astounded by what this site has become, and that has as much to do with you as it does with\u00a0me.<\/p>\n A reader named Rosemary – hi, Rosemary! – left a link in the comments to the\u00a0poem “Failing and Flying,” by Jack Gilbert<\/a>.\u00a0I’d not seen before, and if you’ve not seen it either, I recommend you go take a look. It’s so good and so wise. Thank you, Rosemary.<\/p>\n A couple of other good things: the writer Zadie Smith<\/a>\u00a0on Fresh Air, and longtime LGBTQ activist Cleve Jones<\/a>, too. When I was a kid and my family was doing volunteer work for the AIDS Memorial Quilt<\/a>, which Jones founded, his name came up often.\u00a0Cleve Jones was a hero and a celebrity in our household, and\u00a0I’m glad he’s still out there, fighting the good fight.<\/p>\n I want to eat this<\/a>. (Thanks for the nudge, Gemma<\/a>.)<\/p>\n This hilarity<\/a>, via illustrator-writer Hallie Bateman<\/a>. Sign me up for cocooning and sardining.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n