59 Concerts and Counting: Why I Won’t Stop Taking My Mom to See Pearl Jam

 

Ready to see Pearl Jam with my mom in Montreal.

 

We are alive in a sea of voices and light.

Just four years after the pandemic replaced live music with isolation, my mom and I joined 14,000 euphoric fans for a concert. Not just any concert. A Pearl Jam show — my 59th, with my mom’s tally not far behind.

Spotlights drench us in red and purple and green. The music swells, curling and crashing inside our chests. Eddie Vedder’s baritone floods the arena as he sings the words to Daughter:

“She will … rise above!”

 

My mom and I sing, grab each other’s hands, and hoist them up, as all around us, people reach for the sky.

 

Our hearts are bursting.

 

-------------------------------------

Ready to see Pearl Jam with my mom in Calgary, Alberta, Canada.

 

Pearl Jam? From the 1990s? Yes. That’s when this started. I was 12 and in love. With the lyrics, so painfully poetic. The blistering guitar parts. The booming drums. Eddie Vedder’s voice and storytelling hit a raw nerve in me. The characters in his songs battled abuse, mental health, homelessness, grief, gun violence, and heartbreak. It made me want to experience the world — and make it better.

 

But I was just a kid. So I let Pearl Jam lead me to charitable causes, books, and new friends. Still, I couldn’t get close enough — to the music, the band, or my enormous longing.

 

And then, the band announced a benefit concert in Washington, DC. That’s when Pearl Jam, ever the do-gooders, were battling TicketMaster’s monopoly and circumvented the system by selling concert tickets via raffle, then donating the proceeds. There was a postcard drawing to see the band, live and in the flesh — 5 hours and 230 miles from my home.

 

My mom looked amused as I handwrote stacks of entries, cashing in my baby-sitting money for postcards and stamps and rewriting my contact info until my hand ached.

The turnaround was quick. Entries were due. The band’s team would call and notify the winners to get to DC that very weekend.

 

The day the winners were to be contacted, I guarded my parents’ phone, forbidding them to pick it up lest Pearl Jam call and get a busy signal. I was stunned when bedtime came, but my call hadn’t.

 

Then suddenly, me in my pajamas, the phone rang. I ran to my mom’s side as she picked it up. Her eyes were wide. She looked at me. We got the call. We were going to see Pearl Jam — in two days.

 

It was 1995 and I was 14 years old. I couldn’t drive, let alone book a trip. Expedia wasn’t a thing. But my heart was set. I packed my flannel while my mom … went to AAA? I’m not sure. I just got in the car and she drove us to DC to see Pearl Jam’s explosive, heart-wrenching performance.

 

I was hooked. And after that, so was she. 

 

Mom ready to see Pearl Jam in Philadephia.

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Today, I like to say that since my mom took me to my first Pearl Jam concert, I’ll take her to any show she wants.

 

But my mom doesn’t need me to take her anywhere. Not even when we followed Eddie Vedder (for one of his solo shows, of which we’ve seen 11, on top of that Pearl Jam total) to Chicago, and she was on crutches. My tough-as-nails mom hobbled around the city on one good leg, hitting every single one of our favorite spots. We foodies ate cupcakes on the swings at Molly’s Cupcakes, dined on coconut rice and watermelon sashimi (called “fruishi”) at Orange, and feasted at our favorite French restaurant, Mon Ami Gabi. After the concert, we waited, breathless, outside Eddie’s bus, waving as he slipped into the night.

 

Mom, with crutches, outside Eddie Vedder's tour bus in Chicago.

But we would see him again soon — like in Montreal, where I discovered my mom’s knack for figuring out cryptic public rail and transportation systems. Mom consulted the signs and had us zipping around on the Metro, despite not knowing a word of French.

 

Mom and I caught the better part of the 2011 Canadian Pearl Jam tour, driving a rental car from city to city. Along the way, we used detective skills to track down an old friend with no online presence. I knew him best as the man who drove my mom to the hospital when she went into labor with me 30 years earlier. Against all odds, we found him and met up with him in Edmonton — still psyched and sweaty from that night’s Pearl Jam’s show.

 

Music — and this enormous, shared love – became the impetus for us to go on adventures together. Each new Pearl Jam tour brings the surprise of where we’re going next. To a benefit rally in Little Rock, Arkansas. The desert. The ocean. We trust that no matter what, we’ll have the time of our lives, because we’ll get to see Pearl Jam, and we’ll get to be together.

 

Wherever Pearl Jam goes, we find new foods and new favorite things. Not every trip goes without a hitch. In 2013, lightning delayed a show at Wrigley Field for hours. The band made it up to us by performing into the middle of the night. My mom and I stood bleary-eyed in the stands, then bussed, exhausted, back to the hotel just in time to collect our bags for our early flight home. 

 

 

Exhausted after the 2013 rain delay at Wrigley Field.

 

After so many years, some of the shows blend together. I don’t remember the setlists. But I remember being with my mom. Chatting and laughing for hours in lines outside the arenas, nearly bored but mostly excited for our chance to be up front. I remember Mother’s Day 2010 in Cleveland, when my mom and I danced extra hard to make up for the lackluster crowd around us. Eddie Vedder spotted us, crouched low to point us out, and grinned his approval. Mom and I beamed.

 

When the last few years took concerts away, I thought we might never get our Pearl Jam tours back. It seemed impossible that we’d ever packed ourselves in with so many strangers. But since then, my mom and I have hopped on the 2023 and 2024 tours, returning to some of our favorite spots.

 

Those concerts, like all the ones before, came with morning coffee runs, afternoons spent exploring, nights spent singing, and tired, happy trips home, where Mom and I filled a journal with every trip highlight we could recall. I still have every one of these journals, detailing all our meals, jokes, and memories.

 

And many blank pages yet to fill. 

 

 

In line for General Admission in Philadelphia.

 

Mark Arm, Mike McCready, and Eddie Vedder, dazzling us in Edmonton.

Eddie Vedder in Phoenix.

Ready to bask with Eddie Vedder solo in Chicago.

With Mom and Serena at Wrigley Field!

Feeling Wider Than Awake: Review of Eddie Vedder's Earthling

Eddie Vedder has got to be tired of talking about death. Still, it seems like interviewers want to talk to him about little else. From his father’s passing to the tragic deaths and suicides of so many of his peers, most writers appear over-eager to ask why Eddie Vedder, is, remarkably, still alive.

 

So what does Eddie have to say?

A lot. And it’s hard not to take the opening track of his new solo album, Earthling, as an answer.

 

It’s a song that builds, in a playful, rhythmic, skin-prickling way, before swirling, rocketing into space, Eddie’s rich voice soaring in a hopeful refrain. We are, he tells us, Invincible … When we love.   

 

Eddie has the answer to the sometimes-trudging weight of life, and he’s here to share it with all of us. “Invincible” is a song about how love makes life not just possible, but breathtakingly beautiful.

 

Life can be unbearable, the song acknowledges. But then, here comes a wave, a joyous crescendo of music and metaphors, of oceans and cosmos. And just when it seems like the music might burst into resplendent beams of light, Eddie reminds you,

 

Who could ask for more?

 

And so begins Earthling, a sometimes-dark, sometimes-funny, gorgeous and powerful album that explores themes of lightness, love, longing, grief, and utter contentment.

 

Obviously, Eddie Vedder is no longer the aching, angry, angst-ridden rocker he was in the 90s. And yet, if you’ve kept up with him over the years, this transformation has been neither surprising nor sudden. This is the musician who’s kept tens of thousands of us rapt, night after night, at sold-out concerts in cities around the world. He’s sung about abuse, heartache, homelessness, suicide, and serial killers. But from the beginning, even his darkest lyrics have centered on themes of dignity, empathy, and compassion. His delivery is different now, but the messages are familiar.

 

Eddie is a master storyteller, and as usual, he seems to have sympathy for the characters in Earthling — even the troubled man in “Power of Right,” whom he describes as Scared / Living in fear / An itchy trigger finger / a clown in his ear. But his empathy remains ever-rooted with the underdog. That includes a fallen elephant in the jarring, angry “Good and Evil,” in which Eddie hopes a hunter gets what she deserves.

 

Earthling’s A-List collaborators have been written about elsewhere — Ringo Starr, Stevie Wonder, and Elton John, to name a few. Then there’s “Long Way,” a song that sounds so uncannily like Tom Petty, you may believe there was one more collaborator — dialing in from the heavens.

 

All in all, Earthling is an incredible album to rock out with, to take a deep dive with, to decipher its many puzzles and pieces. More than 30 years after the release of Pearl Jam’s first alum, Eddie Vedder is still delivering bellowing baritones, poetic lyrics, and absolutely outstanding music.

 

I take the line from “The Haves” to heart, when he promises:

 

I know we got / A lot of life, life to live yet.

 

I’ll trust you on that one, Eddie, and I’ll savor what’s yet to be. Thank you.

 

 

 

 

The Weirdest Things I've Ordered Online During the Pandemic

I wait for it every day. I keep a spreadsheet of delivery dates. As the daily sameness of the pandemic stretches on, I get more and more excited about ... my mail.

With nowhere to go, refunded concert tickets and vacations back in my bank account, and fewer daily expenses, online shopping has become my main form of entertainment. I get giddy when I realize we need something. I'm more susceptible to ads than ever before.

And as I try to make sense of these strange times, I find myself following epidemiologists, government teachers, and historians on social media — and realizing that I'm not immune to influencer culture. (More on that, and how I tried to smell like my favorite vaccine researcher, below!)

From a search for comfort to coping with outright boredom, here are some of my weirdest pandemic purchases.

(Note: I realize the pandemic has brought devastating financial ruin to so many people. I've previously written about that topic, and hope my nonprofit work and my donations have helped someone less fortunate than me. This post is not about that. It is about how I am doing my small part to keep the economy going with such nonsense shopping as ... )

 

Post-its, of course.

 

A Bunch of Crap That Definitely Did Not Need to Be Personalized

So ... Shutterfly sends me coupon codes for "free" personalized stuff — you just pay shipping and handling. I see that their products must cost them pennies to produce, with their profits buried in the "handling." Fine, whatever. All I know is, I am powerless to resist almost-free magnets featuring my dog's face and this future garbage you see here.

The almost-free coffee mugs could only be ordered with weird templates. After rejecting LIVE LAUGH LOVE and #blessed designs, I ended up with this Coffee First mug with my Bitmoji face. What do you think?

Things I Like, Randomly Re-imagined as Comfy Clothes

These days, I don't want to wear anything I can't also do my favorite pandemic activities in: yoga, walking the dog, and sleeping.

I now own a drawer full of leggings — like this lapis-lazuli crystal-inspired pair below — and lots and lots of cozy shirts that scream, "Teenage angst has paid off well." (R.I.P. Kurt.)

This is basically the second picture in a "how it started/how it's going" meme

 

Me on me.

Oh Yeah, and This Shirt With My Name on It

With the recent resurgence of Dolly Parton's popularity, I guess I wanted to assert the fact that I've been all about Dolly since the day I was born. (WWDD?)

The Grownup Version of Kid's Candy Store Raid

Things I've legit had delivered to my house in the past year:

- Multiple cases of overpriced ice cream, with flavors like "Sweet Cream With Biscuits and Peach"

- Dozens of coffee flavors, ranging from Electric Unicorn (fruit cereal) to French Toast.

- And The day I opened a box containing every flavor of M&Ms that Target carries, so I could make M&M salad, I knew I had a problem. 

Perfume That Was Supposed to Smell Like a Waffle Cone

While I'm quick to claim that I don't get influencer culture, damn it if I didn't run and buy Waffle Cone perfume just because my favorite epidemiologist mentioned it. 

It turns out, it smells more like "antique store" to me, so I won't be smelling like a celebrity vaccine researcher after all. Let's just say, I could have never imagined writing any of these sentences in the normal world of 2019.

Colored Sunglasses

This one, I can't really explain. They're supposed to be mood-enhancing. Look, I don't know.

And other random things like ...

A garlic press. Elizabeth Warren fangirl gear. Boxes and boxes of dog toys. Pee-Wee Herman Valentines. And these socks that were supposed to make my toes feel good ... which, maybe they do? Look, I told you I can't explain!

And I didn't even tell you about my Ashwaganda mood-enhancing gummy snacks! So tell me, what's the most random thing you've bought during the pandemic? (Please tell me I'm not alone here.) Let me know!

How Fate Brought Me My Ralph

According to surveys of pet owners, people who buy pets from breeders tend to say they chose their pet based on research and specific criteria. They credit their own careful decision-making. People who rescue, however, tend to say that their pet chose them. They often credit fate for putting them together, or feel that their connection was simply "meant to be."

I know which category I fall into. I wasn't looking for a cat when a stray kitten moved into my life. She chose me, so I loved her for the rest of her life. And when my Beagle Porter showed up, catatonic and traumatized from abuse, I knew I had to take him in. He needed me. I would soon find out that I needed him, too.

When he so sadly passed away, I didn't surf the web for a new pet. I waited for a couple months, then put out the word that I needed a dog. In the great cityscape of life, I turned my taxi cab's light on: I was available. 

After a few days, I got a Facebook message about a Beagle who'd bounced from shelter to shelter, named Abigail. I said I'd come get her. And that was how I found my shadow, my 19-pound soulmate. Though my time with Porter had been cut tragically short, his untimely passing suddenly seemed to make some sense. If I hadn't lost him, then I wouldn't have met Abigail, the fiercely loving little girl who adored me at first sight, and who seemed destined to be mine.

Abigail was my best friend and constant companion. Losing her four years later was devastating. Once again, I needed a dog. But as I surfed PetFinder.com, crying harder with every click, I felt paralyzed. I wanted all of the dogs, and my husband wanted none of them. How was I supposed to know which of them was my dog?

I was stuck in traffic one night when I mindlessly picked up my phone. I thumbed through Facebook for a second and landed on a brown dog. His family couldn't keep him anymore, so one of my friends was trying to find him a home.

"Okay, fine," I thought. I'd been hoping for another Beagle, but really, I just wanted a dog. Any dog. And that dog needed someone to love him. Who was I to get in the way? By the time the light turned green, I'd decided he could come live with me.

My husband gave in, and a few days later, the dog's owner dropped him off at our house. I accepted the leash and felt my heart sink. Abigail had been my babydoll, happy to be dressed in tiny pajamas and tucked into bed beside me. This dog was big, rough, and seemed to be made of solid muscle. He nearly pulled my arm out of its socket when I walked him, and he scaled our couch in a single bound. This wasn't my kind of dog at all. He slinked around our house, anxious and confused as a caged zoo animal, while I wept for my Abigail.

But we named him Ralphie, and we doted on him. Because that's how it works. 

That was 10 months ago. Today, Ralphie is my dog.

He wakes up happy, usually sprawled across my husband and me in bed. Ralphie loves his morning walk as much as I do, so we shake off our sleep and head into the morning light. He's so strong and so eager to gallop, I sometimes feel like I could just hold on to his leash, pick up my feet, and sail through the air behind him. But instead, he pulls me breathlessly along the sidewalk, exploring our neighborhood, meeting dogs, and enjoying being outside together.

As the pandemic keeps me close to home, Ralphie has become my sweet shadow. He knows my routine, napping beside me till lunch, then sweetly interrupting me for his noon walk. He brings me toys, he body slams me when he can't decide whether he wants to play or snuggle, and he lives to please me. He makes up new ways to communicate with me every day. And he'll parade around my bedroom with a toy in his mouth for no other purpose than to make me laugh.

There's a famous quote: "Everyone thinks they have the best dog in the world. And none of them are wrong." I knew I'd fall in love with any dog I picked.

But I'm sure glad I ended up with my Ralph.

This Unprecedented Blah Blah: Working in Marketing During the Pandemic

Wet hair, don't care: Work from home style.

If you donate to charity, you may have received an email that I wrote. It would have opened with grave concern ... something like, "We hope you and your loved ones are well" ... and then went on to acknowledge "these uncertain times."

For a day or two, I actually thought I might be the first copywriter to put those particular words together. Then came the onslaught of marketing in everybody's inbox.

For every "We're here for you" email that you've received, there's a copywriter behind it who's (trust me!) just as sick of the sentiment. But still, I have clients who send my copy back to me with the same request: "Can you add more language about these unprecedented times?" 

And I do.

Because I am grateful ... and frustrated ... and overwhelmed ... and worried ... and grateful again ... to be working as a writer during the pandemic.

----

The coronavirus didn't seem real to me until Sunday, March 15. I had friends who were already staying home and social distancing, but that day, my husband and I had just come home from the mall.

That's when I got an email telling me not to go to the office the next day. We'd been planning an office-wide work-from-home trial run to start soon, but our company President had decided that we should all start working from home immediately, for an indefinite period of time.

I was glad, but suddenly nervous. Just like that, the world outside my house seemed weirdly treacherous. We were all just being cautious, right? Two weeks later, the governor would issue a statewide stay-at-home order.

That first week at home was a blur of video conferences, urgent deadlines, and frantic re-writes. I write fundraising copy for a number of charities across the US, and suddenly, nothing was relevant anymore. I'd already written campaigns for April, May, and June, but they all referenced things that had become obsolete overnight: kids in school, summer vacations, communal gatherings.

And my clients were scared. As more people got sick and others lost wages, charities were challenged to serve many more people — without volunteer labor, while sanitizing spaces, without putting their staff or the people they serve at risk.

I wrote about hungry families. I wrote about little kids with cancer who could no longer have their mom and dad with them in the hospital. I wrote about people who were already battling a life-threatening illness, only to find themselves crushed by a new health and financial crisis.

Sometimes, my heart would break for them so much, I'd start to cry at my desk. Or I'd walk downstairs and tell my husband how horrible everything was. I'd go on and on about how our world was coming apart. After a while, he'd want me to stop, but I couldn't. Every day, for more than eight hours straight, I'd write emotional appeals about human suffering, and how my clients could barely keep up.

For a few days, I thought I was sick with coronavirus. I finally realized that I wasn't shivering from a fever, but rather, trembling from anxiety. It was all-consuming. I'd work until I couldn't any longer, then drink wine and fall asleep on the couch.

It might sound ridiculous, and yes, I felt ridiculous. I knew I wasn't on the front lines. I wasn't saving lives. And I felt guilty. The pandemic put countless people out of work. So many people were desperate to earn a paycheck and I was jealous of the people who suddenly had free time on their hands. I wanted to be like everyone else and clean out my closets. I wanted to bake banana bread!

----

Aside from dog walks and a few curbside pickups, I have now been home for 53 days.

It turns out that the stay-at-home life suits me. I'm getting more sleep, more exercise, and I'm more productive. I love being home with my husband and dog. And as unemployment climbs, I'm endlessly grateful that I'm able to take care of my little family by writing. But I'm worried for my clients, not just because they do good work, but also because I need them to keep paying me.

I did clean out my closet, AND make banana bread.

My summer fundraising campaigns have all been re-written, some with alternate versions waiting on the sidelines, because we don't know what our world will look like next month. We really have no idea.

Almost everything I write now acknowledges our "new normal," and "these uncertain times." Sometimes, my clients ask me to lean harder on the COVID-19 messaging, and I feel like I'm forced to dip into a well of overused phrases. "This is an unprecedented situation," I add. "Together, we will get through this."

Because we will.
I hope.

Fierce and Loving: My Abigail

 We had an empty dog bed and a hole in our hearts. We offered them both to her.

Abigail was a Beagle who needed a home. That was all we knew about her when we agreed to take her in. We drove to the shelter to pick her up and brought her home to our apartment, which was a mess of cardboard boxes. Everything was in a state of change. We were newly married, mid-move, and I was crying, constantly, over the sudden death of our previous dog. I was in pieces.

Abigail, the skinny little stray who'd bounced from one shelter to another, took it in stride. Within minutes of moving in, she crept up beside me, studied my face, and pressed her body against mine. I cried, again. She cuddled in closer.

* * * *

It's funny to think about that day now. What happened to that Beagle, so demure and compliant?

Billy, Abigail, and I moved into a new home together. Before we knew it, Abigail was running the household. She asserted her preferences and we learned her routines. She ruled with an iron paw — conveying her demands with impatient sighs, defiant yips, breathless and happy hops, frustrated barks, stern glares, or a loving and contented gaze.

Abigail had an intellect that was humanlike. She always knew when we were talking about her, even if we tried to do it in secret. She'd lift her head from her pillow and fix us with a narrow-eyed stare, letting us know that she hadn't been sleeping, but rather, listening in the entire time.

Her grasp of vocabulary would put the brightest toddler to shame. Abigail even knew what day of the week and what time it was, as she let us know every Wednesday (her least favorite day of our week) and every night at dinnertime, sharp.

We never bothered to teach her commands, as we understood that pet tricks were beneath her. We were lucky to have a roommate who chose to behave so well most of the time, and she knew it. Abigail respected us and expected the same consideration.

In return, Abigail gave us her whole heart. 

She was my loyal shadow, and insisted that we touch at all times. Wherever I sat, she stayed pressed against me, and permitted herself to doze only lightly so she could get up and follow me to the kitchen or bathroom and back. She slept curled in my arms like a teddy bear at night and woke only when I did.

While any human relationship cools and normalizes over time, Abigail's adoration never faded. She'd wait, desperate and frantic, for my return each day. Then she'd throw herself at my feet, surrendering herself to our joyful reunion. Every single time.

Abigail hated cheap cheeses, bright lights, and women with ponytails and yoga mats. She loved kisses, sleeping in together on Sundays, and she was always proud to wear clothes. She refused to participate in a SnapChat, but was surprisingly fine with wearing a wig.

She was only 19 pounds, but her presence was enormous. She was part of every conversation we had. I spent my days holding her, petting her, doting on her, and basking in the joy it gave her to simply be loved. She would suffer for love — even enduring blinding sun on a hot deck rather than let me suntan without her.

When we passed another dog (or even a big truck) on the street, Abigail had to be restrained from defending us with her life. She would have died for me.

* * * *

I wish you could negotiate with death, for even one day. I would give anything to spend one more afternoon with her.

I miss her so much.

We only got to love Abigail for four years before her bad back lead to a fatal injury. Billy was out of town when I realized I had to let her go. Abigail, as brave and fierce with her love as ever, tried not to leave me. She fought the pain until her final breath. It was devastating to watch. But that was who she was.

I've finally stopped crying every day. But out of nowhere, I'll start missing her, and it will hit me all over again that she's never coming home. And it seems unfathomable. I wish I could have one more afternoon to lay with her. To smell her warm Beagle belly. To give her the one thing she lived for: loyal and unyielding love.

The Days Were Just Packed

When women gush about how much they love Fall, deep down, it feels like they must be lying. I just don't get it.

...

It was a lovely summer at our house. Well, we spent any extra vacation money getting our chimneys repointed (ugh!), replacing a crapped-out air conditioner (ugh!!), and continuing to pay off three floors of new windows (!!!) so we spent a lot of time just relaxing at home.

staycation

But it really was lovely, especially after a stressful year in 2018. This year, a pair of song sparrows made a nest by our front door, and I was lucky to discover the nest the moment their first baby hatched from an egg and stretched his little neck towards the sky. I got to watch its siblings grow from helpess pink newborns to fuzzy-headed babies to fully-feathered birds, who blinked at me for a few days before flying off. I cried when they left.

day 1 - day 12

Our butterfly garden attacted monarch butterflies, friendly tigertails, iridescent red spotted purples, and — jackpot — hungry little hummingbirds.

My husband Billy taught me the joys of sitting on our deck. Previously, I couldn't understand why anyone would choose to sit where it's hot, but this summer, I soaked up our sun. I discovered how time slows down with a good book in the sunshine, and how lightly toasted skin feels loved and luxurious even hours later. Also, the smell of suntan lotion makes me instanty happy.

I walked our dog Abigail, slipping into sandals and heading out, free from the burdens of boots and bulky coats. I ran into neighbors who were happy to be outside and happy to share the latest news. I befriended a neigborhood kitten, and a guinea pig who gets to go for evening strolls. (The guinea pig belongs to Joan, a woman who's lived here long enough to tell me the history of my house.)

The sunshine greeted me with my alarm at 6am. It shone brightly through my 6pm commute, then stretched daytime well past dinner and into perfectly pink-and-purple evenings. On the fourth of July, Billy and I realized we could sit on the steps on the side of our house and watch fireworks light up the sky. No traffic, no crowds, just Billy, me, and the fireflies.

I bobbed in the wave pool, decorated the inside of my house with flowers from my yard, and made jugs of sun tea. I made one batch on my birthday, and imagined that the tea was my personal elixer of pure birthday joy.

My potted jasmine, which threatens to die every winter, rejoiced outside, filling the evening air with its perfume.

It rained sometimes, and I discovered that our deck is perfecly perched on top of the best hill for seeing rainbows.

But now summer is ending, and with it, the music festivals and fun events, escaping from work while it's still light out, and roaming the world free from socks and layers.

But I guess some people like dark mornings, wet dead leaves, and sweating inside a coat in line at the pharmacy. As much as cloyingly sweet lattes and back-to-school traffic and empty pools, dismal and drained for the season.
Sure.

I love summer, and I miss it already!

New Mantra: I Can't Believe I Get To Do This

I had a daily ritual that wasn't serving me very well. So I changed it.

... 

Every night, I would touch the box the holds Porter's ashes. I would picture him in my mind and tell him that I loved him.

My intention was to keep him close, and to keep his face sharp in my memory. I was so scared it would fade.

But too often when I pictured him, my brain would reach into the shadows and return the scene of Porter's death.

I meant to keep a happy ritual, but instead, it kept me locked in grief. It kept me tethered to death.

Every single night.

...

One day, I realized this was happening. And I realized that my ritual wasn't serving me well. So I don't say goodnight to his ashes anymore. Instead, I hung a picture next to my desk, and I look at it.

This picture.

This is Porter, enjoying his walk, at the very moment he realized that I was taking him to his favorite place: Frick Park. His eyes are brimming with excitement. I can just imagine that he's thinking, "I can't believe I get to do this!"

That's how Porter, who survived a lifetime of violent abuse, seemed to approach our life together: "I can't believe I get to do this."

He couldn't believe he got to sleep on such a comfy couch, or enjoy so many delicious foods. As my little rescue dog grew plumper and happier, he seemed to be grateful and eager for every moment.

That's the feeling that I want to keep close to me. So I don't say goodnight to ashes anymore. Now, I make myself say,

"I can't believe I get to do this!"

And I really can't. I can't believe I get to come home to the man of my dreams, and the delicious salad he prepared for me tonight. I can't believe we get to sleep in on weekends, and take naps if we want, and stay up late watching old TV shows together with our devoted dog. I can't believe we have as much as we do.

I can't believe my family survived so much, and loves me so steadfastly.

I can't believe this summer is so sweet.

I'm grateful and eager for every moment.

❤️

Thank You, Dad, For My Love Affair With Coffee

It’s no surprise to me that caffeine addiction may be hereditary.

Just check out this text conversation I had with my mom this morning: 

I know where I got my coffee addiction: from my dad. I also start longing for my morning coffee the night before.

My earliest coffee memory dates back to when I was 10. My dad got an espresso machine for Christmas and spent the rest of the day perfecting his espresso shots and frothy cappuccinos. The kit came with something I had never tasted before — hazelnut syrup. I loved the nutty new taste and stayed glued to my dad’s side as we giddily bounced our way from lattes to frappes.  

I just remember being really, really excited.

The next thing I remember is watching the sun come up. I couldn’t sleep a wink and didn’t understand why.

“It was the caffeine!” my mom realized when she found me bleary-eyed in bed the next morning. I think she felt really bad. (I didn't.)

It would be a few years before I’d succumb to full caffeine addiction. When I was a junior in college, I transferred to the University of Pittsburgh. I was fresh off a trip to Italy and convinced myself that I really wanted to take a Renaissance Art class, even though it took place at 8am on Saturday mornings.

8am! Saturday mornings!

Worse even, I didn’t live on campus. I took the bus from the suburbs to school, and on Saturdays, I had to get up extra early to account for the weekend’s limited bus routes. That’s when I discovered Starbucks.

I remember marveling at my first rich, bittersweet mocha. The way its fragrant steam seemed to soothe the puffy bags under my eyes. Back then, when I was young and new to the coffee game, I thought to myself, “Why, this is a perfectly good substitute for sleep!” I was hooked.

That was a long time ago. Now I need several coffees just to achieve a state of “mostly awake.”

But getting there, by drinking my daily coffee? It’s pure joy. Every time.

Thanks, Dad!

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Grieving & Healing By Transforming a Room in My House

I found my cat Firefly when we were both just kittens kids: she a tiny, fuzzy stray and me a teenager in college. From that day on, she was my constant companion.

She moved everywhere with me, outlasting apartments, boyfriends, and jobs. She wasn't an aloof cat who kept to herself. This girl liked to be talked to, sung to, and cuddled all the time. She liked to be included.

By the time my husband and I bought our house, my little kitten was 16 and battling kidney disease and high blood pressure. She was slowing down. I let her have the run of the house, but I also set up a bedroom just for her. From the litterbox area in her closet, to the placemat with food and water in the opposite corner, to the comfy furniture and window access, I dedicated the room to her and her needs.

Over the next four years, Firefly left her room less and less. So I made sure to dedicate more and more time to visiting her there. I could tell that she loved Thursdays, the day I work from home and could give her at least eight hours to nap in my lap.

Then one day, with little warning, my Firefly's kidneys failed. I had to say goodbye. I spent her final nights sleeping with her in her room. Her vet came to our house. We sat on the floor of her bedroom, and my loyal friend passed away in my arms.

And suddenly, I had a cat room with no cat. Just walking past it and seeing her chair, empty, broke my heart. I sent my friend Madge a tearful video and a plea: help me transform this cat hospice into something new.

So that's what we did. We threw ourselves into designing a brand new office for me — in Firefly's honor.

First, I painted the walls the pale butterscotch color of her fur. As I moved furniture and climbed ladders, I thought about her and how lucky I was to have loved her. It was physically taxing and emotionally cathartic.

Meanwhile, Madge found a new rug that represented all the colors of Firefly's fur, plus her tiny pink nose and paw pads. (The pattern also makes me think of fangs or claws, which suits my feisty girl very well!)

Madge also encouraged me to declutter and organize, suggesting that I get rid of at least 50% of the stuff that was filling the small room. I scrubbed and painted the litterbox area and turned it into a space for books and storage, and grouped my crystal collection by color.

Then I added some special touches to remind me of Firefly, like a firefly-esque lamp, a furry pillow for her lounge chair, and a photo tribute wall.

Most importantly, I gave myself new views. I moved the lounge that Firefly and I spent hours and hours (not to mention her final nights) snuggling in. Now, it faces a completely different corner. I moved the desk we worked at together and bought a chair that feels brand new and doesn't remind me that my lap is conspicuously empty.

I still need a big piece of art on this empty wall — something that reminds me of the way my loyal companion made me feel. I'll know it when I see it. Until then, I'll keep working on filling this room with love.

This project turned out to be excellent medicine for grief. I got to spend time with Madge, sweat as I painted and rearranged, busy myself with shopping and planning and treat myself to something special and new.

Today, the room my cat died in is gone. But her spirit — so familiar and sweet — is alive in every detail.

Firefly portrait by Alternate Histories!

Exercise: What is Your "Money Memory?"

I just started listening to a new (to me) book: The 9 Steps to Financial Freedom by Suze Orman. I'm already learning a lot.

The book starts with an exercise. She asks you to think back to your earliest memory about money. She says that everyone has an early memory that holds clues to what shaped your relationship to money as an adult.

For example, she writes aboout a woman who, as a child, had to move every time her dad got a promotion. Every time she started to get comfortable somewhere, she was uprooted again. To this day, the woman associates gaining money with chaos. Other people associate money with shame or early traumas of not having enough.

I thought and thought about it, and couldn't think of a single defining money memory.

I realized, right away, how lucky that makes me. How fortunate I am to have grown up not thinking much about money. I felt secure, and I am endlessly grateful for that.

In fact, I had no idea how much money my parents had or didn't have at any given time ... until we went to the Outer Banks each summer.

As it turns out, my parents worked hard and made smart financial decisions. But nothing about our lives really changed with my parents' income. For much of my childhood, I wore my neighbors' hand-me-down clothes and my parents shared one car.

But when we went to the beach, our accomodations over time went from a hotel room ... to a cabin ... to a beach house ... to an oceanfront property with an inground pool.

The annual vacation splurge was one of the only things that ever changed. For 51 weeks in between, we kept a lean budget.

So I guess my "money memories" are about my family living, day-to-day, below their means. Those are the habits that define the way I try to live today.

It taught me to appreciate things. It was exciting when my mom let me pick out a new school supply, or bought me a new outfit (always at TJ Maxx) that didn't smell like someone else. But it's why I feel so confused (and often defeated) when I see friends living so much more extravagantly than I do. Maybe they make more money. Or maybe they just worry about it less. (Maybe both.)

I still have a lot to learn about money, and this book is teaching me that. It's also inspiring me to dig out the 501k rollover paperwork I have shamefully ignored for 5 years (!!!).

But right now, at this moment, I'm thinking about my smart parents and the habits they instilled in me.

Thanks, mom and dad.

That Time Michael Dukakis Wrote Me a Letter

Fun fact, if you're into nerdy 8-year-olds: 

In 1989, I wrote Massachusetts governor and 1988 Democratic Presidential candidate Michael Dukakis a letter.

I remember that I worked on it for a long time, starting over several times. I told him that I'd gone to see him give a speech at Market Square in Pittsburgh, and that he'd done a very good job. Once I was satisfied,  I added a portrait of him in crayon on the back. 

This was before the Internet, so when I asked my mom for Michael Dukakis's address, she didn't know. Somehow, she figured out that we could just address my letter to the Massachusetts State House, but that still left us without a zip code. So, she took me to the post office and we asked the clerk for help. A very nice man took me perfectly seriously. He brought out an enormous book, and together, we found the zip and shipped my letter off to Boston 02133.

A few weeks went by, and nothing happened. I wasn't expecting a reply, but I'd hoped for one anyway, and as time passed, I deeply regretted sending him that crayon portrait. I realized that it must have made my letter look so childlike. I filled with shame!

But then, one day, Michael Dukakis wrote me back. 

He wrote,

"Dear Jolene:

Thank you for writing. I'm glad to know I have such a good friend in Pittsburgh. Judging from the mail I've been receiving from all over the country, if we could have lowered the voting age to 8 we would have had a landslide victory!

I did enjoy the campaign. There were some good days and some not so good days, but I will never forget the beauty of this great country or the kindness, hospitality and decency of its people.

I remember the speech in Market Square, and I'm glad you were able to attend. I hope you will always remain interested in public affairs and that you will consider a career in public service. It is very important for our citizens to be informed and involved; you're off to an excellent start!

Thank you for taking the time to write to me.

Sincerely,
MICHAEL S. DUKAKIS
Governor"

He hadn't just sent me a form letter. He'd noted my age, my hometown, and the speech in market square. I was over the moon.

This weekend, two decades later, I dug through important papers and this letter surfaced. I wasn't sure what to do with it, but it seemed too important to throw away. So now, among a stash of treasured Valentines, concert tickets, political bumper stickers, birthday cards and condolences is my letter from Michael Dukakis.

I'm really sad today.

 

My brain: Your cat lived for 20 years. She suffered only briefly. You were blessed to love her for so long.

My heart: It's not fair that such a sweet, loving creature would get kidney failure and die. It's not fair that you're hurting. This pain is too much to bear. One of the sweetest blessings in your life was wrenched away from you. Why do you put yourself through this over and over? No matter what you tell youself, she's gone, and you'll never see her again because she's dead. Where there used to be life and and endless supply of love is just emptiness now. This hurts.