Help

I have been under a lot of stress lately, between work and a family illness. It seems the pain never goes away. And it only serves to remind me that my brother is not there anymore for me to call. He certainly would have had a solution to my problems or issues. He would have cared about my father-in-law.

I learned from Fred's passing that all three of us kids don’t like to ask for help. I think we just don’t want to seem helpless, as we grew up in a home where many felt for whatever reason, having lost our head of household and father, that we needed help. So we might have instead chosen to be stoic so as not to appear helpless.

My son has some of that in him. I have a better chance of seeing the unemployment rate suddenly drop than to get him to open up. He won't ask for help; he instead will act out in a fit of anger or frustration.

Like me.

So I walked into and out of Elmhust Hospital Center on July 3 and 4, 2010, two of last year’s hottest days. It is difficult to imagine that weather now that it is endlessly snowy and cold.

July 4, the day my new puppy Gracie was born, was the last time I saw my brother (sort of) alive. I talked with him for the last time, only this time, the extreme conversationlist did not respond. I told him about getting back in touch with Greg, and my other friends, and work. I prayed. And I scurried down the hall into my husband’s arms, crying uncontrollably.

Because it’s an intelligent person who knows to ask for help. I know that now.

Pioneer Dreams

I remember finding out Fred used to play drums when he hung out with his friends at the Bedford Street Club in the sixties and seventies. I picked up drums in 1999 and performed for a while, including at my own wedding.

Music was his friend. Fred loved the Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, the Doors, and later, Steely Dan and even Frank Sinatra. I learned about music and even how to speak from early Beatles songs. I still know the words to most of the songs he played. He told me to “listen to the words”, which inspired me to love music and write lyrics. I love those very same artists.

Unbelievably, another thing we had in common is that we both constantly dreamt about Pioneer Supermarket, which has been a Banana Republic since 1985. We spent many a day in Pioneer as youngsters. I dream about the oil section, the cold cuts, dairy, produce, and the unique Italian products including that bitter liqueur-like flavoring whose name I cannot recall. I remember where everything was in that store. Where we received our nutrition, love, as Freud might say, in our formidable years. I dream of crossing the street near there, going back home. I remember when I couldn’t wait to shop for groceries independently, a chore I now disdain.

We both dreamt about Pioneer. I would visit it again, as a Banana Republic. But I cannot fathom sweaters in the place where the canned tomatoes that made Mamma’s wonderful spaghetti sauce used to live.