#cause why momma playing this Christian radio in the car

[romiantic]

as a christian saying this, nobody is more of a bigot than Christians and then wanna cry wolf when they’re attacked

[oneslideatatime-blog-blog]

A Song for Cecilia

When I think of my mom, I think of music.   Sure she loved literature, and art, and poetry, and, as anyone will tell you, politics. But music is the thread that weaves her story together.

Even before I was born, my mom was rocking and rolling. Songs like "Devil with a Blue Dress" and "Run Around Sue" got both my mom and her cousins up and dancing. And no family gathering is complete without a round of

"Cecilia, you’re breaking my heart, you’re shaking my confidence daily. Oh Cecilia, I’m down on my knees, I’m begging you please to come home. Come on home."

Singing and dancing were daily occurrences growing up.  Most young children get woken up with a gentle kiss from their mother each morning. I was always woken up with a song.  

"Good Morning Starshine, the Earth Says Hello, You Twinkle Above Us, You Twinkle Below. Good Morning Starshine, You Lead Us Along, My Love and Me as We singing our early morning singing song."

Parents teaching their teens to drive usually say the first thing their child should do upon entering a car is put on their seat belt. MY mom told me that what I absolutely had to first do was turn on the radio.

There was a LOT of music growing up. The home of Rock in Roll, 93.3 WMMR was always on in the background.  She even used music to convey her love to me and Christian, singing:

"My momma loves me, She Loves me, she gets down on her knees and hugs me ‘cause she loves Me Like a Rock. She loves me like a rock of ages and loves me. She loves me loves me love me loves me."  

She even signed off her cards to us with “Love You Like A Rock”.

Our vacations also had a song. The hands down very best part of my childhood was our trips spent in Westport Ct, Rehoboth Beach and Puerto Rico visiting the Martins.  Uncle Jack and Aunt Paqui were more than just best friends. They were family. So, as it turns out, we would vacation with not one, but two Uncle Jacks – my dad and Jack Martin.   Which is why the song Uncle John’s band (they were both actually named John) still makes me think of waterskiing and sailing with Carolyn, Jeff and John; and especially of my Aunt Paqui and mom ramming their sailboat into Uncle Jack’s speedboat.  But that’s a story for another day.

"Come hear Uncle John’s band playing by the tide. Come on along or go alone, he’s come to take his children home."

Everyone loved my mom.  She had a quick smile and a long conversation for everyone she met, whether it be her dear friends & family, my and Christian’s friends, and even strangers she would befriend on her travels. “I had a great conversation with the guy I sat with on the Amtrak train up to Westfield.” She’d say.  Who talks to strangers on trains and planes? My mom did. She talked to everyone. And somehow she’d always find a Dead Head.  I can’t tell you how many times she’d tell me that one of her Doctors or Nurses or students or even fellow chemo patients were Dead Heads.  And the Grateful Dead sings,

"Strangers stoppin’ strangers just to shake their hand.   Everybody's playing in the heart of gold band, heart of gold band.""

My mom was a true force of nature.  She stayed positive and vibrant despite a life that was not always easy.  She would joke that she must have been a real SOB in a past life, because she certainly didn’t deserve both the physical and financial hardships she faced in this one. But she kept at it, working through her 5 cancer bouts.

 “Good news” she’d say, “The hospital is right down the road from school so I’ll pop in for my radiation treatment and then head right over to teach my class!” She worked literally her entire life, finishing up her last classes at Villanova and St. Joe’s this past spring. She had no choice but to keep going.  And she would sing:

"The wheel is turning and you can’t slow down, you can’t let go and you can’t hold on,  you can’t go back and you can’t stand still, if the thunder don’t get you then the lightening will."

My mom was effusive about her love of family.  She never once hesitated to tell Mike, and Jeri, and Christian and myself how much she loved us. How much we meant to her. She was our biggest fan.  But I am pretty certain the four of us got knocked down just a few pegs when her grandchildren came along.  Gabriel and Sienna, you may not realize how much you are both like Grandmom.  

Gabriel, I see Grandmom in you when you display your quick wit, maturity beyond your years, and your open acceptance of everyone for who they are, regardless of gender, race or sexual orientation.  Sienna, your zest for life, your fiercely feminist perspective, and your flair for the dramatic are definitely signature Cecilia moves.  

Grandmom is so proud of all that you are and all that you will become. And I know you will carry her spirit on inside of you throughout your lives.

"Wake up to find out that you are the eyes of the world… Wake now, discover that you are the song that the morning brings."

Finally, the best way to describe my mom is that she loved life. She always wanted more of it.  She fought hard to hold onto it.  And so, in her passing, I know she wouldn’t want our lives to stop. I know she wants us to not just all live on, but to live well.  To suck out all the marrow of life. So I promise to do that. To not wait to live my life.   Mom, I promise To Let the Sunshine In.  

"Let the sunshine Let the sunshine in The sun shine in."

Let’s all sang together: “Let the sunshine Let the Sunshine The sun shine in”

Thanks for reading. Enjoy my list of Songs for Cecilia below:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5kTuCmw4zNzcPToRW50FHF

[dazzledbybooks]

Two teens meet after tragedy and learn about love, loss, and letting goNaima Rodriguez doesn’t want your patronizing sympathy as she grieves her father, her hero—a fallen Marine. She’ll hate you forever if you ask her to open up and remember him “as he was,” though that’s all her loving family wants her to do in order to manage her complex OCD and GAD. She’d rather everyone back the-eff off while she separates her Lucky Charms marshmallows into six, always six, Ziploc bags, while she avoids friends and people and living the life her father so desperately wanted for her. Dew respectfully requests a little more time to process the sudden loss of his parents. It's causing an avalanche of secret anxieties, so he counts on his trusty voice recorder to convey the things he can’t otherwise say aloud. He could really use a friend to navigate a life swimming with pain and loss and all the lovely moments in between. And then he meets Naima and everything’s changed—just not in the way he, or she, expects. Candace Ganger's Six Goodbyes We Never Said is no love story. If you ask Naima, it’s not even a like story. But it is a story about love and fear and how sometimes you need a little help to be brave enough to say goodbye. Excerpt: Dad cell May 3 at 7:33 PM Transcription Beta “Guess who’s getting ready to come home and take you to Ivy Springs? That’s right, Ima. It’s happening. It’s finally happening. Don’t tell Nell. I want to surprise her.” 0:00 -0:10 Speaker Call Back Delete Email Draft (Unsent) To Subject I’m holding my breath Until you’re standing in front of me Because we’ve danced this song So many times before Promise. And I no longer trust You’ll do what you Just in case, I’ll count the hexagons. NAIMA Nell is a dingy yoga mat; the sweaty barrier between total chill­ status and my shit reality (aka, my annoying stepmom and ru­ iner of all moments) (trust me on this). “JJ and Kam aren’t going to believe how much you’ve grown since the funeral,” she says on our long­ass 794­mile drive from Albany, Georgia, to Ivy Springs, Indiana. She tap tap taps her long, pointed fingernails against the steering wheel to the beat of what­ ever imaginary song she’s playing in her head. Probably some­ thing disco or hair band. The radio is silent, always silent, when we ride together, but the second she speaks with that high­pitched nasally voice I loathe, I regret this necessity. I concentrate harder on the objects we pass so I can properly pinch my toes between them. Tap my nose. Tap my nose. Tap my nose. Tap my nose. Tap my nose. Tap my nose. Click my tongue. Click my tongue. Click my tongue. Click my tongue. Click my tongue. Click my tongue. Flick my thumbnail. Flick my thumbnail. Flick my thumbnail. Flick my thumbnail. Flick my thumbnail. Flick my thumbnail. Flick. Flick. FLICK. I continue with my sequence the length of the drive. Nell hates it, but I hate when she wears fingerless gloves in the summer, so we’re even. Without my boring­ass stepbrother, Christian, to be my talk block—the dull cushion of conversation between Nell and me—(he left two days ago on a death star/plane to see his dad in NYC), the “spacious” SUV feels like I’ve been placed at a dinner table in a vast canyon and right across from me is literally the only woman I don’t want to meet for dinner. Like, why can’t I eat with the Queen of England or Oprah? I’m bound by my father’s love for Nell, or whatever, but now he’s gone, and I’m climbing the hell out of the canyon before she wants to talk about how big my naturally tousled hair is (a perfect mess), period cycles (semi­regular, FYI), sexually transmitted diseases (don’t have a single one, thanks), or worse—my feelings (happily bur­ ied!). Ugh. GTFO. The failing engine’s hum, where the metal scrapes and churns with a whir, competes with Nell’s increased tapping. I’ve missed too many objects, my toes rapidly pinching and releasing, to make up for what’s been lost. But it’s too late. My mind shifts automatically to a neon sign flashing warning! There’s always a consequence to messing up the sequence. Always. Counting is to time what the final voicemail Dad left is to the sound of my heart cracking open; a message I can’t listen to. It’ll become entombed in history, in me. My finger lingers over my phone and quickly retreats, knowing there’s nothing he could’ve said to make this pain less. Nothing can make him less gone. I look out the window to where my dreary­eyed reflection stares blankly back at me; Nell glides over the double yellow lines into oncoming traffic, violently overcorrecting just before we would have been hit by a semi. The sound of his horn echoes through the high­topped Tennessee mountains. Three thousand two hundred eighty­seven people die in car accidents every day. I Googled it. After I Googled it, I looked at pictures. And after I looked at pictures I went through the sequence. Car accident. Fatalities. My legs smashed up to my chest. Nell crushed into the hood. “Sorry,” she says; her voice rattles. “Make sure Ray’s okay back there.” I turn to investigate the vase­shaped metal urn surrounded by layers of sloppily folded sheets (Nell did that) and one per­ fectly situated hexagon quilt (that’s all me). The sun’s gleam hits U.S. Marine Corp just so, and I’m reminded again that he’s gone. Gone. “It’s fine,” I say, refusing to call that pile of ashes “Dad,” or “he.” The urn arrived several days ago in a twenty­four­hour pri­ ority package. Nell saying, “No reason to waste time getting him home,” and I was like, “What’s that?” and she was all “Your dad, silly,” and I was like, “Huh?” and she asked me if I wanted a banana­kale protein shake after she “got him situated.” A big hell no. I immediately dove into a Ziploc ration of Lucky Charms marshmallows to dull the pain of conversing with someone so exhausting. After he was transported in ice from Afghanistan to Dover, after they sorted and processed his things, after he was cre­ mated, after the police and state troopers closed down the streets to honor him as we drove him through, after we had the memorial service, after we were handed the folded flag with a bullet shell casing tucked inside, after they spoke of his medals, and after Christian and I sat in disbelief beneath a weep­ ing willow tree for three hours, Nell finally decided the ashes should go to his hometown in Indiana, after all. I didn’t think she’d cave, but after one talk with my grandma, JJ, she did. If anyone could turn a donkey into a unicorn, it’s JJ (or so she says). And so, it was decided—Dad, I mean It, was going home a unicorn. “Let’s stop for some grub,” Nell says, wide­eyed. “Hungry?” “Grub,” rhymes with “nub,” which she is. “No.” “Let’s at least stretch our legs. Still a few hours to go.” “Fine. But no travel yoga this time.” She pulls off to a rest area a few miles ahead, exiting the car. I crack a window and wait while she hikes a leg to the top of the trunk, bending forward with an “oh, that’s tight.” After, she says, “Going to the potty. BRB.” I flash a thumbs­up and slink deep into the warmth of my seat, hiding from the stare of perverts and families. My foot kicks my bag on the floor mat, knocking my prescription bottle to its side. Dr. Rose, my therapist in Ft. Hood, said sometimes starting over is the only way to stop looking back. But what about when the past is all you have left of someone? My gaze pushes forward to the vending machines. Dad and I stopped at this very place on our way to Indiana without basic Nell. He’d grab a cold can of Coke and toss me a bag of trail mix to sort into piles. If I close my eyes, it almost feels like he’s here—not a pile of ashes buckled tight into the backseat. We’d play a game of Would You Rather to see who could come up with the worst/most messed­up scenarios (I usually won). Would you rather wear Nell’s unwashed yoga pants every day for a month? Or call an urn full of ashes “Dad”? Sometimes, he’d pre­sort the trail mix, Leaving me the best parts (the candy­coated chocolate). I am one­of­a­kind Magic, Dad would say. But he was, too. A unicorn, I think. Definitely not a donkey. The more I think on it, Maybe JJ could turn Nell Into a unicorn, Too, But no magic is that strong. Dad cell June 1 at 9:04 AM Transcription Beta “Open the door.” 0:00 -0:03 Speaker Call Back Delete Sent Email No Subject Naima   Jun 1, 9:07 AM to Dad If I open it, Will you really be there Or just a memory From the last time? Nevermind. The ghost I see you, Outside my window.

http://www.dazzledbybooks.com/2019/09/six-goodbyes-we-never-said-blog-tour.html