Michelle

My sister-in-law Michelle passed away on February, 22, 2022. We went to her memorial service this past Friday. I met Michelle on Thanksgiving Day, 1995. Mike had told me that his sister reminded him of Suzanne Sugarbaker, the Designing Women character played by Delta Burke, so that I would have a point of reference.  Like Suzanne, she was a beauty - like Suzanne she was bold and told you what she thought whether you wanted to hear it or not.  But, like Michelle, she was funny, creative, talented, fiercely loyal to her family, an organizer, a lover of Americana and America. She was a daughter, a wife, a mother, a sister, a sister-in-law, an aunt, a friend.

The memories we have of people we’ve lost in our lives are all different from someone else’s of that person. I will always remember my sister-in-law as someone who treasured her mother as a confidant and friend, one she had her own language and understanding with, who she communicated with in both pronounced and implicit ways.  Michelle and Mike’s mom, Elsie, created the wedding favors and centerpieces for our wedding.  They were fabulous, incorporating our beach theme and the royal blue that was the color of the bridesmaids’ dresses. 

I loved how Michelle’s eyes sparkled when she laughed or shared something she thought was funny.  She had very expressive eyes.  When I was pregnant and overwhelmed with putting together a baby registry, she and my mother-in-law drove down to Hermosa Beach and took me to Toys R Us, drilling down what was a necessity and what was a “nice to have” item. 

She was great at planning her kids’ birthdays.  Her ability to plate food and coordinate colors was nothing short of spectacular. She definitely had an artistic eye which took her in many directions, from creating wood holiday decorations, to making and selling jewelry, to preparing and packaging treats for school events and parties, to painting sets for the plays at Pinecrest School in Moorpark.  I can’t imagine that kind of talent - of owning that attention to detail, of walking into a room with my family all color coordinated and looking like they popped out of a clothing catalog.  

Michelle liked to talk and could tell a good story.  I learned a lot of DeGagne Family history from her stories and the corrections inserted by the rest of the family as they were being told.  She was extremely proud of her children and fun to watch when she teased her husband.  She was strong in her faith and her beliefs about our country.

I don’t know why Michelle’s number was selected in the “rare-cancer lottery.”  It was not easy for any of us to witness the way Erdheim-Chester Disease debilitated her, the woman we knew and loved. It’s easy to go to the rant that life is not fair, but that doesn’t change the course of events. I don’t know why - what I do know is that all of us felt helpless in changing her course, all of us wished she would not lose her light. All of us will miss her, her talents, her strengths in whatever role she was to us: a daughter, a wife, a mother, a sister, a sister-in-law, an aunt, a friend. Even in the darkness of loss, though, I also know that Heaven is a little brighter with the light that is Michelle. 

                                                           

Tell You A Story? Just Watch Me

The idea stemmed from something simple.  Most ideas do.  Last spring, the rug got pulled out from under me like everyone else.  A pandemic.  A pandemic in the 21st century.  Wait...what? How do I manage this unpredictable “fluid” situation as a parent, as a caregiver daughter, in my role as an educator? If it’s true that you can’t control anything except your response to situations, then how do you manage when there are so, so many situations and information to respond to - and not just for yourself, but for the others in your lifeboat with you? And so, as the information gets disseminated, you become innovative and creative with the ever changing and unfolding pandemic landscape.

Sometimes you are lucky and you have a partner who is also innovative, creative and has the uncanny ability to know when to pour you a cup of perspective.  I have one of those. Truly blessed already to have him co-parent with me and to support me in my role as a caregiver, he also came through in a major way in helping me forge through the pandemic sea as an educator.  

Can you say abrupt? Can you say topsy-turvy?  Last April, deemed an essential worker, I returned to my school’s campus.  I tended to my library.  I had a multitude of projects that I could attend to while the students were virtual and until all the library books and textbooks came back to be checked in, inventoried and stored safely over the summer break.  Surely we would be back after the summer break, right? I had a bulletin board to take down, a library to undecorate, a website to complete. I had...no students to look for books, ask me about books, share their weekends with me. One of the best ways I know to grow literacy with students is to share my love of it through the books I read to them.  There were no students to read to, to share my decision process with, to talk to about reading and writing. 

Soon after we went back virtually, a Kindergarten teacher asked if I could read a book to the whole Kindergarten (or however many showed up) via Zoom.  Since none of the computers in the library had a camera, I brought an Elephant and Piggie book home with me and read it to them in the Zoom session.  The lighting wasn’t great, it was a challenge to angle the book so they could see it...to me, it wasn’t an ideal experience.  By this time, first grade had also come to me to share a story.  I conveyed this to my husband and wondered if there was a better way for me to do this.  Maybe a video - maybe I could create a YouTube channel and share a recorded video.  

I recorded reading a book on Zoom and saved it.  Remember that innovative, creative partner I have?  He has over thirty years of experience in video production.  I may be able to write my way out of a paper bag, but he can visually make that bag dance.  He asked me what I wanted to do.  I told him my issues.  I also told him I wanted to read stories, but I wanted the pictures to be more prominent in the telling. I wanted kids to see the words and I hoped to convey why I picked that particular book to read to them.  I hoped that maybe, just maybe, a few of them would want to read that book, too, after they saw the video.  Big dreams, right?

On a Saturday in April, 2020, our living room became a makeshift studio - a Canon camera on a tripod, a roll of green paper behind me, a stack of eight books at my side. Away we go….

Preparing to record

It’s been less than a year since we’ve uploaded the first episode of “Reading With Mrs. DeGagne.”  In that time, we’ve uploaded over 60 videos.  I’ve sent many links to teachers for them to either watch with their classes over Zoom or add to their Google Classrooms. We’ve improved how we record and edit the stories.  The biggest challenge for me is recording the wraparounds, since they are not scripted and I’m reading off the teleprompter inside my brain.  Often, I’ve researched the featured book before going on camera and I want to share some of that quality information with my students.  The second biggest challenge for me is throwing my vanity out the window.  Listening to my voice as we’re editing and seeing my face on the computer screen during that process is quite humbling.  

I never really expected to get subscribers to my channel, but I have.  I never expected huge numbers of views for the videos but one from that first batch, Tell The Truth, B.B. Wolf by Judy Sierra, has gotten more than 1,000 views.  That’s very cool, considering I just wanted to share some stories with my students while we were figuring out this virtual/hybrid schooling situation. It’s been a fun and entertaining process for both my innovative husband and me to volunteer our time and talents to.

I’m looking forward to next fall when I can welcome students back into my library.  The void I have felt in the year they’ve been gone is vast. While creating these videos for them has been rewarding in ways I never imagined, it can’t replace that connection I feel while sitting in my reading chair, interacting with them about the story I’m sharing with them that week. Even after they are back in my library listening to stories and reshelving my books in ways I’ve never anticipated, there may still be an occasional episode of “Reading With Mrs. DeGagne” recorded and uploaded.  Promoting literacy comes in many forms. A simple idea is like a seed.  Once planted, you feed it, you tweak it and you see it grow.  Sometimes it surprises you in how it blossoms. 

Reading With Mrs. DeGagne Tell The Truth B.B. Wolf Mother Bruce

My Reading Journey

I was asked to think about my reading journey for a group that I am a part of that wants to increase literacy.  I realized I have a long one, not because of age per se, but because books have always been part of the fabric of my life.  

It was my father who read to me at bedtime.  We had a thick anthology of nursery rhymes and fairy tales.  We also had little Golden Books.  I think my favorite story for him to read was Cinderella, it was beautifully illustrated. Hans Christian Anderson’s The Red Shoes made me cry and, honestly, a little afraid of dancing.

It was my mother who brought me to our town’s public library and procured my first library card.  It was a small white rectangle, my name neatly typed on its front.  Imagine my delight when I learned I could take out three- no- four-no- sometimes even five books at the same time! Some of my first stacks included The Cat in the Hat and Are You My Mother?  As I progressed in my ability, I moved onto Carolyn Heywood’s books about Betsy, Beezus, Ramona and Henry. While I occasionally read a stand alone story, I drifted toward series and delved into Maud Hart Lovelace’s tales about Betsy, Tacy and Tib and solving mysteries with Encyclopedia Brown.  I explored the land of Oz and discovered The Great Brain books by John D. Fitzgerald.  We were never rushed when we went to the library, we lingered, for my mother had a voracious appetite for books as well. When we relocated from Connecticut to Florida, one of the first places we located was our public library.   It was air conditioned and there was a healthy supply of new books to discover.  It was there that I ventured into the adult section and checked out Gone With the Wind for the first time. 

Reading was a constant - a book was always with us.  Except at breakfast.  In desperation, I read the cereal box, learning how much niacin was included and how many proofs of purchase I needed to send away for a free toy.  My mother found a second hand bookstore in St. Petersburg and we would spend some quality time there, too.  We could turn in books and use the credit earned for new ones.  That was cool.  I traded a lot of comic books there.  I loved the adventures of Archie, Betty and Veronica. 

In my teen years, my sister and I could often be found at the B. Dalton bookstore at Tyrone Square Mall.  At that point, I saved my money to buy certain books rather than check them out of the library.  Books like SE Hinton’s The Outsiders and Judy Blume’s Forever. Authors like Paul Zindel and Paula Danziger commanded my money and my attention.  My books were read and re-read, with worn, wrinkled pulled back covers and dog-eared pages. Books like Go Ask Alice and The Late Great Me freaked me out enough about substance abuse that I walked the straight and narrow line throughout high school.  It was in high school that I got lost in The Thornbirds and Mary Stewart’s Merlin Trilogy.  I was also blessed with the ability to take elective English classes (in addition to my required ones) my junior and senior years in high school, so I was exposed to Brit Lit, Contemporary Lit and Shakespeare (a whole semester- not just one play).  When I wasn’t reading, I was writing, so to have such a base of different styles to examine and learn from was integral to my development as both a reader and a writer.

I also loved reading plays.  Our public library had thick books with the scripts from the best of Broadway for specific years.  So, while I saw little theater in those years, I read lots of it and learned to appreciate the art of writing for the stage. It led me to reading biographies about Alan Jay Lerner and Rex Harrison.  I read Moliere, Wilde, Henrik Ibsen, Lillian Hellman.  I preferred comedy over drama, I appreciated plays on words and verbal banter.  While in college, my favorite classes were the ones that I got to either read interesting novels (like my American Women Writers class) or hone my creative writing skills.  My freshman year I got a job working in the college library.  I really enjoyed interacting with and helping the patrons, and I had the best boss - Trudy.  After working there through my sophomore year, Trudy asked me to consider staying on and working there as a summer job. I had to take a second job to cover my living expenses, but it was worth it.  Trudy sometimes let me leave the circulation desk and taught me how to shelve books. I learned about Melvin Dewey that summer and I got to explore the stacks.  That was the summer I read One Hundred Years of Solitude.

During my twenties I lived in New York and San Francisco -- bookstores were at my beck and call and I spent many a weekend afternoon curled up with a good read.  It was also during that time that I read a nonfiction book that profoundly affected me - Motherless Daughters  by Hope Edelman.  My mom had been swept into the later stages of early onset Alzheimer’s. She no longer knew who I was. I was in my mid-twenties and wasn’t done needing her. My family was 3,000 miles away. The book was a life preserver tossed to me by my sister.  

When I was pregnant with my first-born, What to Expect While You're Expecting was a constant companion.  While my son was in his first year, I read more magazines than books - my attention was constantly diverted by his wants and needs.  Around his first birthday, I started to feel the yearn to read something more, something that wasn’t an article. I was in a book drought.  I didn’t know where to begin. My mother-in-law came to my rescue by giving me a Mary Higgins Clark book.  Mysteries and psychological thrillers were not always on my radar, but some of her titles sucked me in and kept me up late, reading into the night.  

It turned out that other moms of young kids wanted and needed to read - and so a book club was formed with fellow MOMS Club members and my sister who, by now, had moved out to the west coast.  Honestly, I think some people came more for the conversations than the books, but I definitely read varied and interesting choices during that time. When I was pregnant with my second son, my sister introduced me to the Harry Potter series.  I quickly read the first four stories and was forced to wait for the rest of the series like everyone else.  As a child, I read and reread books multiple times,  As an adult, I rarely do, but I have revisited Harry Potter.  I think I enjoy reading it so much because it is written so well - the layers, the characters, the dilemmas.  

While my older son was in his second grade year, I walked into his school library for the first time.  My first day volunteering, I felt like I had come “home.”  I volunteered for several years assisting Mrs. Hucker, the librarian, with managing the volunteers, checking books in and out, barcoding textbooks and shelving books.  At the same time, I read my children’s library books with them as they were navigating their own early reading journeys. I met Jack and Annie from Magic Tree House, laughed at Dav Pilkey’s Dumb Bunnies, attended Dan Gutman’s Weird School, and met Stink and Percy Jackson.  I observed the students’ trends and patterns of both library behaviors and selections.  I learned picture books are fascinating and not just for early learners.  

At one point, at the encouragement of our school librarian, I tested and interviewed with the school district to be added to their elementary library eligibility list.  When our librarian moved onto a middle school position, I took over hers.  I am now in my eighth year of sharing stories with students, encouraging their development as readers. I hope I inspire them sometimes.  I know they inspire me to find the right stories for them, to find books that make them laugh, make them question, make them want to share what they’ve taken away.

One of the thoughts I share with my students when we talk about reading is that I think reading makes you a better writer, a better speaker, a better thinker.  I honestly feel that.  Reading a variety of genres and titles helps us to develop as learners and as emotional learners.  Life has taught me that there is always more that I don’t know than I do - that there is always something new to learn, a new path to explore. Reading is how I make that happen.

Everyone Has A Story

Maybe they had a bad day...maybe you caught them after they had a bad moment...maybe they are having a bad time overall.  Maybe they are incredibly organized, or hopeful, or cautious, or optimistic.  Maybe you shouldn’t judge when you don’t know what happened or is happening in their life. You don’t know their story or, at least, their complete story.  Maybe something that happened years ago still impacts them.  Everyone has a story.  Here is a chapter from mine.

It was April 10, 1976.  A Saturday.  The first weekend of spring vacation and our day at my parents’ liquor store in South Norwalk, Connecticut was almost at a close.  I was sitting at a table that my sister and I had sanded and painted mint green, either reading or drawing - I can’t recall.  Both my parents were behind the counter when a man walked in and asked for a bottle from the refrigerator case behind them.  Instead of taking money out of his pocket to pay for it, he took out a handgun and demanded money from our cash register.

Holding the bottle over his head, my dad yelled, “Get the hell out of here, you SOB!” While coming around the counter, he was shot and went down before he got far, dazed, onto the floor.  My mother, also holding a bottle, came out from behind the counter and began to chase the man from the store.  I moved from my table and stood in front of the refrigerator where the beer was kept.  They passed right in front of me, him moving backward, her facing him.  They both went out the door, my mom hitting him with the bottle before he ran away.  I was still frozen in front of the refrigerator that was filled with Budweiser and Colt 45.  My mom opened the door and came in - she was bleeding, there was a hole in her leg.  She walked to the phone hanging on the wall and called the police.  My dad, still quiet, in shock, holding his leg. I was ten. 

What happened immediately after that is a blur.  The ambulance came, the police came.  My parents were taken away and my sister and I got to ride in a police car - I learned about military time that night.  We were eventually taken to a friend’s house.  We stayed with them until my mom’s Aunt Millie and Aunt Mary came up from the Bronx to look after us.

My mom was in the hospital for a week.  The bullet had passed through her leg and she would physically be fine.  My father’s kneecap was shattered by the bullet - he would be in traction for six weeks, then on crutches, followed by a brace and physical therapy.  He still has the two screws in it.

There are fragments of memories from this time.  My mom visited my dad in the hospital when she could.  At least once she brought a pasta dinner for everyone in his hospital room.  She was still going in to run the store.  I can only imagine some of the conversations that took place.  I was only ten and not privy to many of them.  My mom was legally blind and didn’t drive.  To get back and forth from the store and the hospital, she depended on public transportation, taxis and the kindness of others.

The kindness of others.  Who knows what would have happened in the aftermath if not for the kindness of others?  The McGuirk family looked out for my sister and me until our aunts came.  Mr. McGuirk was a godsend to us.  He helped my mom out a lot at the store. Then, there was Arnie.  We knew Arnie from when we shopped at the Grand Union grocery store before we started shopping at Pathmark.  My parents would talk to him every week. They lost touch for a while, but after the shooting Arnie came to the store.  Most days.  He would help my mom with different tasks, but sometimes he would help just by sitting in a chair, arms crossed. He was a big guy.  Effectively, he became our security.  There were some regular customers who helped out as well.  The community reached out to us.  The police officers in the neighborhood would check in with her.  One of the customers was a contractor and reconfigured the store floor plan so it was less open - creating a fortress of protection.

Eventually, the doctor would tell my dad that the Connecticut winters would be hard on his recovering knee. As far as I know, this statement was the catalyst for action by my parents, but I have to think it was more like a permission slip to cut their losses.  After all, it must have been difficult for my mom to go to the store every day (except Sunday) wondering just how safe this was, would it happen again, would they be as “lucky” the next time? Could they afford to stay?

It all happened quickly (at least from the perspective of a now eleven-year-old girl).  Possessions were sold, plane tickets were bought, some things were stored.  On December 15, 1976, we landed in Florida and stayed with my Aunt Tessie.  Within a week, we had purchased a Plymouth Volare station wagon, loaded it up and drove to St. Petersburg where we began a new chapter of our lives.  While there is something to the attitude of “this happened, it’s over, dust yourself and move on,” there are always feelings you can’t shake, thoughts that stay, questions that linger.  Sometimes in the quiet dark, insidious thoughts invade your subconscious. 

Our lives were different - my dad went back to making a living as an accountant - we hung our wash out to dry and tried to remember to bring it in before the afternoon storms rolled in - the Florida humidity became my hair’s biggest foe.  While my father would sometimes refer to the shootings, my mother rarely did, at least not to me.  Maybe she tucked it away, she was too busy dealing with the here and now.  My parents didn’t have health insurance while they owned the store, and we were sending money to my dad’s doctor for years after we moved away.  Three years later, the state of Connecticut flew both my parents up to testify at the trial.  My dad testified, my mom did not.  Other than remembering the colors of the clothes he wore, she would not be able to identify him with certainty in the courtroom.  I am sorry that they had to revisit the crime. 

My dad said there were numerous charges against the man.  He was sentenced, and as far as my dad knows, he served his time.  My parents never shared his name with me. It’s probably a good thing.  In this age of the internet, I’m sure I would have googled it if I knew it. Occasionally I wonder about him, though.  At some point, I hope he learned from his mistakes.  I hope he found the love of God or the love of a good woman and turned his life around.  I doubt he ever gave us a second thought.  I think he just wanted money.  He was close enough to kill my parents, my sister, me.  I thank God that he aimed down. Maybe he didn’t take our money that night, but he did steal from us. He stole opportunities, time with our extended families, choices. 

As a result of this, there are some “triggers” for me that I won’t waver on - I don’t ever want guns in my home and I never want to own my own business.  I learned many lessons from my parents - among them adapting, forgiving, accepting your hand and dealing with it with the tools you have.  My family was a very tight unit, maybe tighter than we would have been if we had stayed in Connecticut.  Laughter, kindness, doing your best, these were part of our make-up.  While what occurred was tragic, it wasn’t a tragedy because we recovered in ways we didn’t expect and we experienced kindness through our community.  It was a long time ago and I am looking at it with a different perspective.  I’m sure when we were in the thick of it, there might have been flashes of anger, angst, grief.  I’m sure there were days that someone could have judged our behavior, not knowing the backstory. 

Whether they share it with you or not, everyone has a story.  Some chapters are fascinating.  Some, not so much.  Really, though, because of mine, I try to remember this fact and choose kindness.  Because, I don’t know your story -  and it might make a difference.

A Letter to Joey - Age 17

Seventeen years ago? How can that be? And yet, it is, indeed, seventeen years ago that you arrived and we got to marvel at and hold you for the first time. Your pediatrician told me to hold onto the receipt, you know, just in case. What a bargain you were!


You have always been our X Factor son. Curious and questioning, reasoning and resolute. Your Kindergarten teacher called you her little engineer. You loved GeoTrax and trains, Cars Movie and cars - and always a specific within the general - you loved Volkswagens for some reason, Snivy (during your Pokémon phase), and Dale Jr.’s #8 during your first obsession with NASCAR. I remember how you deconstructed Tommy’s Lego Ferrari and rebuilt it correctly when you were four, how we’ve all stepped on the Legos you’ve left in your building wake. You are both passionate and deliberate. I love how you think your positions through before you present them to us. I love your analytical mind mixed with your artistic creativity.

You’ve been through the wringer these last few years - your freshman year alone saw you adapting to high school, adolescence, contacts, braces, the discipline of being part of the track team, and the sudden loss of most of the hearing and clarity in your right ear. Your dad’s and my hearts hurt so much for you, this uncharted territory for all of us, wishing we could take that all away from you. But, you stepped up. While you hope for a medical miracle to help your future, you have been incredibly mature about taking on the additional responsibilities thrown at you by a life curveball. You’ve excelled as both a scholar and an athlete, a brother and a son. Sometimes, I’ve referred to you as “My Hero” because you have been strong when I’ve wanted to collapse, you have been logical when I’ve been emotional. You have shown grace, patience and determination, not letting circumstances determine your path.


We are sorry that you didn’t get a track season this year, thanks to Covid-19. We know you were looking forward to it and we love to watch you run. We hope that your Senior track season is fantastic for you. We hope a lot of things for you, that’s part of the fabric of being a parent. Some of the things we share with you and some we keep tucked in our hearts, watching your life unfold. In the short time we’ve known you, we’ve discovered a baby, a boy and a young man who is smart, who is funny, who is a master at articulating what he is thinking, who is kind and who is a joy. There is “joy” in Joey - so much joy. Give us a hug.


Your story, at seventeen, has barely begun. We can’t wait to see how the plot unfolds, goodness knows the character development has been strong, thoughtful and nuanced. I still have that hospital receipt. We paid a little for you, but what we got that day seventeen years ago today, what we have now, it’s so, so priceless.

We love you,

Mom and Dad

Holy Cow! He's 90!

In September, it will be nineteen years since we moved my dad out here from Florida. I had left home for college at seventeen. He had come back full boar into my life at thirty-four.  We had a seventeen year gap of infrequent interactions.  A lot happens in seventeen years.  I'd done a lot of growing up.  My dad's world got rocked by my mom's development and eventual succumbing to early-onset Alzheimer's.  There was a lot for us to navigate through during those early California years.  I was learning how to be a mom and an adult daughter.  He gave up some freedoms and I took on more responsibilities.  Sometimes, neither one of us did it that gracefully.

Having my dad an eight minute drive away for fourteen of those nineteen years has been a blessing.  He saw a lot of Little League games and both of his grandsons' middle school graduations.  He's celebrated their academic successes; he's been there for each baptism, first communion, altar serving, and for Tommy's confirmation.  We go to church and dinner with him every Saturday.  He knows people all over town - more than we do.  The day he stops flirting with women is the day I know he's not well.  I think he'd rather socialize than eat.

He makes us laugh, both on purpose and by accident.  My sons mimic him with love.  It warms my heart when I see them walk with him and steady him.  My husband is always quick to help him out and to tease him.  His heart is filled with joy, his mind with trivia, a song he "dee-dee-dees" slightly off-key is often on his lips as we drive off somewhere.  He will tell me all about a lady he just met, but forget to mention that he hasn't gotten his television to work for two days.  He is positive, he doesn't complain.  He lights up when he has all three of his grandsons near at Christmastime.

My dad turns 90 years old today.  I can't really fathom how much he's seen change (positive and negative) in society over the years.  I do know he holds those he loves dearly, he's happy to eat chocolate at any time of day, he misses my mom very much. I am grateful and humbled that we get to witness and celebrate this milestone.  Happy 90th birthday, Edward Joseph Christopher Lantos. 

He wears his 90 years well. Born 3/23/1929

Uncle Peter

6/30/18

“Life is a series of hellos and goodbyes...I’m afraid it’s time for goodbye again.”  Billy Joel

I guess death is fair - it takes everyone.  There is no special criteria.  Life is fair, too. Really, it is, overall.  But there are definitely moments - sometimes many moments strung together - when life is decidedly NOT FAIR.

Today I said goodbye to my Uncle Peter, my mother’s brother.  Just 72 years young. Too young.  He had many unfair moments in the last eight months.  Too many bad blast leukemia cells for him and his previously healthy, athletic body to fight.  He did the best he could.  He lived a good life.  He was a good man.  Now we are left with hugging and holding the memory of him - a smart, caring, giving and funny man.

He was the son of Peter and Minnie.  He made his dad (who did not complete his own education) extremely proud when he graduated college and later became a doctor.  He married and divorced young, but co-parented well with his ex-wife who he remained good friends with and whom I still refer to as my Aunt Margaret.  He raised three great kids who are exceptional adults. I wish we were geographically closer.  He had four grandchildren, the oldest one graduated from high school last weekend.

He was a wonderful brother to my mom.  She loved him so much. They had some great conversations, which in and of itself was pretty amazing since neither one of them were necessarily “talkers.”  They laughed a lot.  Both of them had a great faith and belief in God.  Both left this world too soon. 

He was an incredible brother to my Aunt Christine.  Really, if there was ever a brother-sister relationship to emulate, it was theirs.  Always there for each other.  Their personalities were different, but they completed each other like two puzzle pieces, working together to complete a picture.

I have distinct memories of his blue, blue eyes both twinkling and contemplating.  I remember (I was very young) him watching TV on his Sony Watchman.  He loved watching sports.  One Thanksgiving, my mother unplugged the television and told him it was broken.  He figured it out before long.  He drove my mom and me up to my college orientation.  He drove up to Poughkeepsie and celebrated my graduation from college. I helped him out by doing some data entry for his medical practice. He took me out for lunch on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx to thank me  He took me on my first motorcycle ride.  It was scary fun. He flew out to California for our wedding.  He was there for my dad multiple times as my dad tried to make a life without my mom.  He called me, “Kiddo.”  His voice was distinctive to me and it always made me smile when I heard it. 

And so, he had to leave us because death is so fair.  But, at least he is no longer in any pain.  I hope he is running around a lake in Heaven right now.  I hope my grandma has made him a meal of steak and pasta for his after-run meal.  I hope he’s hugged his dad, had a beer, enjoyed some happy, quiet moments with my mom, his other sister.

For us, the ones he’s left behind, our sadness will come in waves and there will be days that are definitely more uphill than down, for life brings with it unfair moments.

Rest in peace, Uncle Peter.