Letting Go of Light the Night - Part Two

Last night, cool temperatures of Fall had not been present for the Light the Night walk.  I parked my car near the entrance to Sawyer Point, then my phone rang. It was my husband Mark.  He was getting off call. Did I want company?

A loaded question, as I was relishing in the quiet afterhours of the city, after spending the day at my home, with roofers’ heavy footfalls punctuating every word I typed.  Davis had already turned down my invite (see Part One).

But yes, I told him. Come on down. I’m parked at the meters on Eggleston.  Since most LTN walkers were NOT city dwellers, they would park where they would be paying to park for an event they were paying to walk.  I parked at the free meters up the street.

I knew the drill, stand in line for registration.  Negotiate with volunteer for gold balloon, which signified in memory of. They are in short supply, she told me. I think they are for teams. 

They’re in memory of, I reminded her.  I get one every year.  Gold balloons were in short supply for one reason only, many of these walks, the in memory of's don't join. Its too emotional to watch survivors, or co-workers walking for a friend, or family gathering around a child.  If one is attending in memory of, one is constantly reminded of the loved one that didn't survive, and wondering who else will carry that designation later.

The volunteer shrugged, checked off “gold” on my ticket and handed me another ticket to procure a t-shirt. So I sauntered over to the t-shirt booth and received a medium t-shirt, which I would save for Davis. 

I hung around the food long enough, to give up waiting on Mark and starting chomping on a goetta sandwich when he came up from behind.

How did you find me? I asked.  You’re wearing green.  You kind of stand out.  He knew I had an aversion to wearing “colors” of any given “team disease” during these events, whether it be pink, purple (Alzheimer’s walk), or red for LTN.

Actually, I hadn’t planned my wardrobe, just hadn’t wanted to change.

While waiting in the balloon line, we met up with a former neighbor, who still works for the LLS, and talked briefly about his new home. I commented how the food was the best free food offered at this type of event, and confirmed that by downing a Cheryl’s cookie.

Confession: We didn’t wait for the walk to begin. I was ansty.  And I knew, the BEST part of the walk was watching the sun set over the river, then darkness descend.  That is what I had come to love about this particular walk.

So, we set out ahead of the crowd, and spent no actual time in reflection. Mostly, we discussed our day, the roofers, the dog, the furniture at the house that required assembly, our kids in no particular order.

Our only reflection of the night occurred when we stopped on the Purple People Bridge to marvel at the natural resource we take advantage of.   I snapped a photo and sent it to Davis, to let him know what views he was missing out on, and then sadly turned to Mark and said, I feel like Devin was cheated out on the best version of me.  I wish I could have been for him the person I am now.  Mark knew what I meant, but assured me, If that were the case, that would have meant we would have been stagnant all these years.  I married this man for a reason.

As we headed back across the river towards the park, I noticed flames on the deck of the P&G building.  Mark suggested there might be a fire pit on the executive level, but as we closed out our walk, I could see the flames were coming from the new rooftop terrace called The Top, at Phelps Inn.

We have to go, we both agreed, knowing the bar was probably only open ‘til nine o’clock.

Twelve stories up, we took pleasure in the sweeping view of P&G towers, Mt. Adams and the Church of the Immaculata, the darkened river, and the stadiums lit up like Christmas trees.  We wound down from our walk with drinks in hand, I still dressed in my neon green running shoes, feeling conspicuous with my balloon, surrounded by suits and ties, city folk, and a young couple celebrating a birthday. If you didn’t know you were in Cincinnati, based on the energy of the bar, you wouldn’t have known you were in Cincinnati.

As we conversed with the couple, Samantha and Juan, Juan suddenly lurched up and quickly I realized the balloon I had been carrying, in memory of, was now floating upwards, out of my grasp.  All the patrons began pointing up, as the gold balloon now twinkled with the rest of the stars stitched into the nighttime sky.

I had been joking all night about when Davis was little, how many balloons he had popped, or let go of, or the ones he refused to let go, and fell asleep in the car on the drive home, only to wake and ask immediately for his balloon. 

I had also commented I should just let this balloon go too, because while its not environmentally sound, watching a balloon rise, take on the direction of the wind, or blend in the with stars was akin to traveling through space.

It seemed no coincidence - I had willed the balloon from my grasp and encouraged it to join the sky.

We left the bar, I took Mark’s hand, and we marched towards the car, continued on with our talk about living downtown, how on a warm Fall night like this one, we might just walk down to the river, stalk the sunset and turn towards home.  And how lovely a night that will be.

Letting Go of Light the Night - Part One

Sundays in my youth were filled with attending Mass, pancakes at Perkins, and visiting Calvary Cemetery, which we often called cavalry, hoping someone would save us from visiting the ancestors.

Mass was followed by breakfast with strawberry syrup and Reddi Whip cream draping over top a stack of fluffy pancakes, then we marched on to the cemetery.  We might stop at the local floral shop for cut flowers, bring out the plastic daisies if winter was upon us, or reach for the bucket in the back seat that contained zinnias cut from my father’s garden.

Whlie most might consider Mass prayer enough, the time spent at graveside carried more meaning for my parents.  They mourned the passing of their mothers, Stella Rafaella, while my grandfathers remained alive.  Dad would stop at the markers of second cousins we were expected to recall, or he would stoop down and cut grass with his handy shearers, creating a perfect green frame around engraved granite.

At Calvary, the graves of babies were separate from the adults, and that was where my baby brother, David, was buried, having died two days after his birth. Following the obligatory adult grave prayers, we trudged towards the other side of the cemetery.   My mother and father could walk a straight line to David’s plot, while the rest of us were always uncertain which way to turn.  A parent always knows the way to their lost children.

In these moments, the surrounding energy shifted. The snowflakes might turn larger, the breeze take on an extra chill, or the sun begin to feel as if it might scorch the earth.  The air was heavier, and weight of the sadness grew. My mother would begin the family prayer, “Please Little David, watch over us and help us to be a good, kind and loving family.”  To this day, my mother, in her dementia, knows the words and meaning of that prayer.

The cemetery practice continued long after we were grown. Occasionally, when I was visiting, Mass and breakfast were followed by a short drive to the cemetery, and a casual stroll through the ancestral lines.  I understand now, the practice had its roots in our Italian heritage, as well as our Catholicism, but ten-year-olds see only Friday the 13^th in cemeteries until they experience their own loss.

Thus, when my first husband Devin died, and we chose to have his remains scattered across the Pacific Ocean, my mother’s first question was, “Where will (our son) Davis go to be “with” his father?”  I pointed to the vast body of water called the Pacific that lay in front of me.  Devin’s choice was to be a part of water and not land, simply put.

But as my son grew older, I found it challenging to return to Oregon, or the Pacific, for him to be “with” his father. During that time, we had also begun participating in the Leukemia Society’s Light the Night, an annual fundraiser walk, where, with balloons in hand, we strolled through 2.5 miles of downtown, taking in the sights, meditating on the good in our life.

The first few years we were joined by caring neighbors, family and friends.  And then, either we stopped asking, or they stopped attending.  Or both.  The night belonged to us, and to our memory of Devin, and to Davis’ honoring of his father.

We walked Light the Night for twelve years. The very first Light the Night ironically had been held during the night of Devin’s admittance for his bone marrow transplant.  For twelve years following that first LTN and Devin’s death, Davis and I walked.

LTN took the place of our cemetery, and while at a cemetery, focus is on the ground, during LTN, we focused on what was rising, figuratively the balloons, literally life and the lifting up of one another.

The Cincinnati chapter of LLS moved the date for the walk this year to October and Davis found himself in a quandary over participation. He had promised a friend, one who was returning from a concussion, that he would watch her final soccer match as a high school player. Then, I informed him that evening coincided with the LTN.

A day later, he offered that it would be my decision, but he felt his friends had seen him through a few tough times as of late, and he wanted to support them.  (Apparently, he had forgotten about all our tough times, but I’ll remind him of that later!).

I told him, one of the lessons we learn from a loved one’s death is how to “choose life”, and though he is NOT choosing his mother, I honor his choice of “life”.

I contemplated asking friends, relatives, but knew myself well enough to walk this one alone.  Another lesson we take from death is letting go, and this time, it is not about letting Devin go, but letting go of our senior-in-high school son, ironically just electronically accepted into the school of choice, University of Oregon.

Many years after Devin’s death and I still hear my mother’s voice asking, “Where will Davis go to “visit” with his father? I better understand her graveside recitation over Little David’s marker, the visits she made religiously, and the grass my father tended with care.

And I think back to each Sunday, when my parents let Little David go, the life that could have, would have, should have been. The life they didn’t get to raise, and I am grateful God granted me motherhood and that Davis and I have had seventeen aggravatingly beautiful years together. He has most assuredly answered my mother’s question by embarking on his own quest.

What's There to Miss about the Reds?

What’s There to Miss?

As the Red’s season closes with a thud, I reflect on Friday nights spent at Great American Ball Park, as a Red’s fan.  From April to September, I donned hats, gloves, stadium coat, tank top, poncho, red pants, red shoes, Red’s shirt (not all together), snow boots, walking boots, flip flops, Nikes, and just once, a classy pair of sandals.

During the stretch of fourteen games that comprised our season pass, the Reds lost most of those Friday night games, (6-8) apparently too nervous over selecting the playlist for the Friday Night Fireworks show. Confesssion – we only stayed for one.  You’ve seen one firework show, well, you know the rest.

I missed two games, which would make my actual record 6-6, but the losses overwhelmed. I was relieved, after spending fifteen minutes to research this, to learn I was not the unlucky charm.

My favorites moments, in no particular order:

1.     During the second inning of each game, the Reds honored a “Great American Hero” from our armed forces.  And while I admired all the serviceman who stepped forward, seeing World War II veterans standing at their seat when they could not stand on the dugout, as had all the others, was a statement beyond compare.

2.     Sitting with winter coat on, during an early April game, son beside me with just a windbreaker, saying , “I’m fine, Mom.”  And the quiet moments that passed between us, me filled with worry and wonder over this new person seated next to me, he filled with nachos, coneys and bluster.

3.     Missing Opening Day. Not that this was a highlight, but it was memorable.  We spent that Monday in Oregon, on Spring Break, driving towards Eugene, for my son’s visit at the University of Oregon. We broke our streak of 12 consecutive Opening Days for him to follow his dream.  It seemed both telling and rewarding.

4.     My husband’s quaint old baseball phrases, which I knew as well from my softball days as a Jumper and Racker.  “Walks will haunt…means ducks on a pond.”  We are still arguing over “We want a pitcher”.  As he would finish with “Not an underwear stitcher” which hardly works with the meter.  The proper ending is, “Not a belly itcher.”  But this could be a northern vs. southern Ohio thing.

5.     The nachos at the Mission Chips stand. Finally, and it only took four tries, to establish a more healthy eating habit at the ballpark through the Macho Nachos, which I joked with the cashier and asked if I could order the Feminine Nachos. She hardly knew what to do with that question, flustered by the long lines. Needless to say, I went with the chicken, and not the beef.

6.     Talking about Joey, will he shave that day. Watching Joey, as he bends over while keeping a runner at first. Cursing Joey after he takes a walk, with a run positioned on third base. Joey, in general.

7.     Todd Frazier’s Walk up song,  Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars,  an old Frank Sintra favorite, reminding me of my mother each time Frazier sauntered to the plate - Sinatra was her favorite performer - and how she was the sports fanatic in the family.

8.     The aliveness of the city, little girls splashing in the water fountain features or swinging on the giant swings overlooking the river, people overflowing from bars and restaurants into the streets, awakening so many fans to the very fact that Cincinnati has come back.

9.     Two of Mark’s business partners, who once called us crazy for wanting to live downtown, moved into the Banks, and proudly invited us to their view level homes before and after games.  A smug satisfaction crossed our face each time we encountered them, knowing we were once called crazy.

10. My sister, texting me during the losing stretches, while she sat a downtown restaurant or bar, waiting for us to abandon our team on losing nights and come join her.  Perhaps she was prescient about the nights the Reds would lose. I wished she would have informed me before game time.

Baseball. I forgot to mention baseball. Well, what is there to say about baseball, other than there is so much life lived between each ball and strike, that as a writer, I was more taken by those moments than the actual playing of the game - other than watching Brandon Philipps amazing flips and Derek Robinson’s flash.

But mostly, I will miss our long walks from 1419 Race St., our future home, past Washington Park, remarking on the scheduled event for the evening, strolling past students and fans, young and old, black and white.  I will miss the long trek down Race, commenting on each new square of sidewalk poured, or history still hanging. I will miss our pass through Fountain Square where hundreds often gathered to watch the game on the big screen above Macy’s if they weren’t attending the game.  I will miss the water/sunflower seed man, who sat on his cooler waiting for buyers. I will miss coming down Vine or Race or Walnut and seeing the throngs of people coming together, in the city, marveling at the new energy, the new businesses, the new attitudes.

I will miss the stroll back home, encountering an occasional resident asking about the outcome of the game, then stopping at A Tavola for one of Aaron’s cocktails, and a margarita pizza served by our sassy friend Stephen, and the late night comraderie of the patrons.

Then the twenty mile drive back to home, which by then, all the air has been let out of our balloons, and we fall into bed with dreams of “when we live downtown.”

And I will miss the one man who stood by me all season, not Dusty or Billy Hatcher, or Joey, even though he played all 162 games, but my husband, who once swore to me, before our marriage, that he was not a fan of professional sports, a husband who now booes and hisses with the best of them, like a Clevelander I dare say.