Category: Deaths & Obits

You have to wonder how long they had his obit prepped

Eli Wallach, justly famed actor, has passed away at the age of 98.

Further to my “how screwed up are things employment wise” post yesterday. Boss makes worker carry him so he doesn’t get his shoes wet.  At least in China bosses get fired for pulling shit like that.

Derek Corrigan, Burnaby’sMayorForLifeâ„¢, was ticketed for driving while texting, may God clip his ear. He’s actually not a bad mayor all things considered but he’s a right gendered slur about homeless people.

If you don’t feel like going to Oak St to donate blood, there are clinics in Burnaby (finally).

Possibilities

I may be heading to Ontario in July; that’s the current plan but I have some appointments to get through first.

There is ice cream!

Across Canada people are wearing red to commemorate the Mounties who were killed in Moncton.  It was horrible that it happened, and I really wish the Mounties gave better firearms training to their staff.

Today, laundry, writing and practicing.  I’ve already done my applying for jobs for the day.

Unremarkable remarks

I went to the memorial service of Shirley, the caretaker for SOAP hall, yesterday, and it was a remarkable service in many ways.

I have never been to a memorial service where someone’s contributions to society as a worker have been made so much of.  Yet there was no mention made of class.  I have never been to a memorial service which completely left Jebus out of it, and yet yielded to sentimental comments about meeting again in heaven. Bagpipes attended, with Amazing Grace.  Local dignitaries attended her funeral – the acting Mayor of New Westminster, among others.  The Hall she lived in and worked at for almost 20 years hosted and fed her mourners for free; I learned that Steve Shearer wrote a song inspired by the hall and a conversation with Shirley called “The Old Folks Memorial Hall”, which I won’t comment on because of a certain little animated bunny.

I thank Sue, who is among the best and most adroit of women, for giving me a lift.

I am sorry Shirley has left this world.  Her friends and family are a good bunch of folks.

Now to see about heading back to the hall for church this morning after – I hope – the chance to get Jeff out for breakfast.

and now for some out and about

Paddy’s wake was conducted in a hobbit hole (the basement suite of her daughter Steph’s house in East Van, memorialized so many times on this blog in happier times) and it snowed food and rained drink, in keeping with the theme.

I sang The Housewife’s Lament very creditably although I did just about lose it halfway through when I thought of how John used to sing it along with me.  Paul still can but it’s not the same.  There was a ukelele jam, led by a woman who would AND THIS PART I TOOK OUT, BECAUSE, HEY, INAPPROPRIATE  but I knew that sooner or later the non musical people would wish to turn the floor over to the anecdotes. And so it was.  There was no weeping; there was love and mutual support.  Kindly fate, grant that my rellies have something similar when I go.

She was much loved, she will be much missed, and if I can bring more of her love for children and social justice into my weary life, I will be a better woman.  It was glorious to see Steph, even under these trying circumstances. Mike took some of Paddy’s ashes; he will dispense them by kite over Buntzen Lake, and a more appropriate farewell I can’t imagine.  Mike is very saddened by her going.

I am off to New West to spend money on mundanities like batteries for the smoke detectors.  I may just have myself a lamb lunch.

Jeff and I are experiencing some of the benefits of clean living; our rent has not gone up for the second year in a row.  We are getting A STEAL and good landlords to boot.

 

Sorrow

Paddy’s dead; she died last night holding her daughter Steph’s hand.  I was supposed to go visit her but working full time and not having a car – I said – prevented me.  Now I feel very stupid.  Visiting the sick is something you do without feeling sorry for yourself.  I will give some money to an organization that assists young genderqueer people in her honour, and ask for some peace on the subject.

Paddy was my buddy Mike’s former mom in law.

Sad news from Detroit

A man left a loaded rifle under his bed, and his four year old granddaughter found it and shot and killed a four year old boy, her cousin.

I’m sorry for all the close relatives and that little child most of all.

Leaving a loaded gun on the floor with children present is criminal negligence and the man responsible will have to live with being personally responsible for the death of his kin for the rest of his life. Having a loaded gun in a neighborhood with 1 – 2 hour police response times is not criminal negligence. Poor people don’t often get to choose where they live.

If the NRA was running kickstarters to buy gun safety equipment for poor people I’d believe their responsible gun ownership bs. As it is they have a constituency – the gun manufacturers – whom they serve with every bit of suction they can muster.

A blessing upon learning a grandmother has died.

May her faults be a lesson, her virtues an inspiration and her love ever part of your blood and bones.

 

 

 

I hope Polly rests easy; she worked with great energy up until her 80’s, and treated retirement as an invasion of her dignity.  I never had the privilege of meeting her, except through the reminiscences and travel diaries of her descendants.

Eddie has crossed the Rainbow Bridge

Jeff is as you can imagine, (“Both my boys are gone,” he said last night), and I’m sad too but with nothing like the sadness of someone who lived with a cat from his hyperactive kittenhood into maturity as a sober minded and dignified cat.  Who rescued the kitten on at least two occasions.  I guess Margot isn’t the kitten anymore, unless we decide we want to break our hearts again and adopt a senior cat.  We watched Pacific all day yesterday as it was the only show dark enough to match our mood when we took him to the hospital.

I feel lucky to have known him.  He was a very handsome creature.  I knew he was dying when he no longer left the room when I sang and played… he always hated the sound of either instrument or voice, and disliked loud tv.  The bloodwork we learned of yesterday confirmed it.  He had days at best, his mouth sores were making eating impossible and drinking painful.  He had a good run, but dammit, too short; a year ago he was so sleek and energetic we had reasonable hopes he’d make twenty.

And now, we must site and dig a grave.  He’ll be buried in the towel I set under him to keep him warm and comfortable in his last days, somewhere close to Zeek! and Gizmo, his adoptive brother, and Kira, and Bounce, who has rested here these last fifteen years or so, up against the south fence, shaded by a dogwood, close to the deck where he spent many hours in feline contemplation, lazing in the sun, waiting for Jeff to come home so he could run up and greet him.

 

 

another, another no show, and Peter O’Toole’s dead.

I am feeling rather wretched about that, but it is what it is.  Two other simply lovely things (okay, interesting and fun things) happened today.

The first was the Christmas pageant, which was stupendous (I Augustus Caesar will tax you because I want all the money / we will now take the morning offering) and hilarious (the Christ Child was BLACK suck it haters!) and exceedingly participatory.

The second was me and Keith and Katie and Rob going to the shooting range and blowing holes in shit until we all felt better.  It was expensive and noisy and worth every penny.  Watching Katie fire a gun for the first time was AWESOMES, since one awesome isn’t enough.  And thank you pOp for subsidizing it!  I have pictures, which I will share privately.

I tried firing the 9mm but my shoulder said many many rude swearz so I stuck with firing about 3 mags worth of .22.  I was not unhappy with my accuracy.  My accuracy with the .38 sucked, so I have to assume that heavier firearms aren’t going to cut it until my arm is a lot stronger.  I call that motivation.

Peter O’Toole died in London today.

Jeff and I are both crabby, but I still cooked him pork stroganoff for dinner, and he still liked it, so we aren’t being crabby with each other.

 

 

Andrew Brechin remains among us, less corporeally, alas

He was ten years younger than me, a rotund Silenus who didn’t drink but a glass of mead once in a while, a champion of liberated lives, kink, glitter, poop, music, security, awesome food, Cthulhu, physics, cheesy sf, art, dancing for fun, wish fairies, lantern festivals, paganism, and above and around and in his shelter, his family, woven fine. I didn’t know him well, just well enough, god help me, to have a proper understanding of the devastation and resolve that has risen in the faces of those who loved him well. Tillie King, I salute you and your team for the simple, lovely, fun celebration of his life you all so carefully and lovingly breathed into being.

Any memorial service that has a zombie pirate belly dance in it is going to be, well, memorable.  As was he.