Echoes of Grief

August 27, 2012 — Pat Bertram

Today marks twenty-nine months since the death of my life mate/soul mate/best friend. I’ve come a very long way from that shattered woman who screamed her pain to the winds, who cried for hours when she accidentally broke his mug.

I still miss him, still want one more word from him, one more smile, one more day. I still have an upsurge of sorrow when I remember he is gone. And although I know — I feel — how very gone he is from my life, I still am prone to the foolish fantasy that when I am finished looking after my father and leave here to start a new life, my mate and I will be starting it together. But . . .

I barely remember our life together. It seems so very long ago and as if it happened to someone else. (Which is true — it did. Because of what I have endured these past two years and five months, because of embracing the challenges of the present and opening myself to hopes for the future, I am not the same as I was then.) I’ve turned enough corners now that even my grief seems unreal, as if that, too, happened to a different person. And yet . . .

Our shared life is very much a part of me still. Almost everything I do is accompanied by an echo from our past, almost everything I use originates from that time. I’ve bought a few new things — bits of clothing, mugs with my book covers on them (a totally indulgent purchase since I seldom use mugs), but I don’t really need anything. Most of our possessions are in storage, and I both dread and look forward to the day when I unpack them. I’m not sure whether I will find comfort in having our things around me, or if I will find more pain, but that puzzle is for another day, and perhaps another person. I am changing rapidly and will continue to change as my life changes, so the person who will need to deal with those possessions is not the me of today.

In a strange sort of way, I have been getting messages from him. Not messages from wherever he is now, but from where he was when he still inhabited this earth.

He used to tape movies — movies that we both liked, and movies that spoke specially to him. I am going through his movie collection, watching in backward order (from the ones he taped last to the ones he taped first), and I catch glimpses of what concerned him toward the end of his life. Death, of course, and me, perhaps. So many of the movies he taped that last year were about people (mostly women) whose spouse had died, forcing them to create new lives for themselves.

We watched these movies together when he first taped them, and I thought I knew then why he liked them — he was always fascinated with second chances, new beginnings, characters who came out of catastrophes to find renewal. But now, seeing the movies from this side of his death, they have a whole new meaning for me. Over and over again is the message: take care of yourself, accept the challenge and the change and the freedom that death brings, and most of all, find happiness again.

Sheesh. I made myself cry. But dang it — this new life would be so much more happier if he were here to share it.

Posted in being me, grief, life. Tags: , , , , , . 1 Comment »

I Don’t Call Myself An American

August 22, 2012 — Pat Bertram

I just saw a photo on Facebook: I’m not a Democrat. I’m not a Republican. I’m an American and I want my country back.

I was going to keep my mouth shut, but this American thing has been griping me for a long time. The following diatribe is not a political commentary but a semantical one. (I don’t want arguments, but I’m already getting one — I’m writing this on MSWord, and MS says there is no such word as semantical and there definitely is such a word.)

I have no politics, but I am a word lover, and I believe in using proper terms.

Everyone from the top of Canada to the tip of South America is an American. We who live in the United States are OF America. We are not America, nor are we the only Americans, though somewhere along the way, the term was usurped by people in this country for their sole use, perhaps because Unitedstatesian is awkward.

We were never supposed to be Unitedstatesians, anyway — we were supposed to be Coloradans and Minnesotans and Oregonians. Each state was to be a strong political entity, a sovereign territory loosely united under a weak central government. That is not how things have ended up and that is not the issue here (though anyone who has read my books knows how I feel about strong central governments). The point is that we in the United States are not Americans. Or rather, the United States is not “America.” We don’t even have our own continent. We share the North American Continent with Mexico, Canada, and Central America. In fact, in Europe (or so I’ve read), North America is not even considered a continent in its own right — it’s a subcontinent of America. So most Americans are not even “American.” Although the United States is the most populous of the American countries by far, most Americans are actually Peruvians and Canadians, Brazilians and Panamanians, Mexicans and Columbians.

I don’t call myself an American. The term is too general to have any meaning, and it is too ethnocentric. Despite what my fellow Unitedstatesians believe, The United States of America is not the center of the world, though geographically, it might be in the center of the American continent. But still, that is no reason to act as if we are the only Americans.

You say you’re an American and you want your country back? What country is that?

Posted in culture, life, writing. Tags: , , , , , , . 22 Comments »

A Kinder, Gentler Grief

August 19, 2012 — Pat Bertram

A few days ago, I posted an article on this blog saying that a story begins when the world becomes unbalanced. If this is also true in real life, then my story began when my life mate/soul mate died. Nothing else I have ever experienced unbalanced my world the way his death did. It rocked me to my very core, and I am just now recovering a sense of equilibrium.

In a story, as the character strives to restore the balance, matters get worse. That usually happens in the case of grief, too (though generally not because of anything the bereft did — it’s simply the way life is). In some cases, the bereft had to move soon after the funeral, sending them further into grief. In other cases, more losses followed, leaving the bereft feeling as if they were drowning in death. Sometimes nothing happened, which at times is even worse, since it leaves the bereft alone in a limbo of sorrow.

I am on my way to finding a new balance, but I am not there yet. I still have upsurges of grief, though for the most part the surges are gentler and easier to handle. A few nostalgic tears, a brief indulgence of remembering, an acknowledgement that I miss him and want to go home to him, then I continue on with my life.

My most recent upsurge began on Saturday, always a sad day, and culminated in a walk in the desert. I haven’t called out to him in a long time, though I still talk to him, but today, I desperately needed to feel some sort of connection, so I yelled, “Can you hear me?” He didn’t answer, at least not in any way I understood.

I’m not sure how one finds a new balance after such a devastating imbalance as losing a life mate. Perhaps it’s a matter of making additional changes, the way small controlled fires can help put out major fires. Maybe it’s a matter of continuing to take one step at a time and waiting until the world rights itself. Or it could be a matter of being present, of being in one’s body, of simply being.

I’ve had to make changes, of course — I had to leave our shared home so I could look after my father — and I will be making other changes when this part of my life comes to an end. Meanwhile, I am trying to take life one step at a time, to capture each moment as it comes, to be present in my life, to be. In a story, of course, such passive actions don’t create a compelling plot, but in real life, sometimes “being” is the best we can expect at any given moment.

And anyway, my story hasn’t ended yet. In some respects, it feels as if this new story hasn’t even begun, as if I’m still in the first chapter, sorting out the imbalance.

Posted in culture, grief, life, writing. Tags: , , , , . 12 Comments »

Don’t Get in a Lather

August 18, 2012 — Pat Bertram

I got an email from my brother yesterday with “My Pride and Joy” in the subject line. I wondered if perhaps he finally got the dog he wanted, or even a new car, but this is what he sent:

He sent the same photo to a friend in London, and his friend paid him back with this photo of Bolt near the finish:

A fab idea dawned on me — I could play the game, too, and send him a photo to pledge good cheer. The thrill wasn’t there, though, and it would gain me nothing at all. The idea didn’t seem bold enough or have the right tone, and anyway, it might cause a cascade of suds as a payback. Still, someday or some era I might. Perhaps when the tide comes in.

Posted in culture, life. Tags: , , , . 8 Comments »

My Knights in Denim

August 16, 2012 — Pat Bertram

I had rather an interesting experience yesterday. The accelerator cable broke just as I drove out of a parking lot with a car full of groceries. Within minutes, two young men who did know each other simultaneously stopped to help. They pushed my car into a parking space (the car did not want to go in straight, but went in at an angle, which turned out to be the optimal placement for the tow truck). One of the men watched my car while the other took me and my groceries home and then brought me back to wait for the tow truck. Both of them left to finish their errands, then returned later to see make sure I was okay. Such chivalry! My knights in denim.

What could have been a disaster turned out to be a rather fun and entertaining day. (It was the first time I ever used my cell phone for an emergency. It was also the first time I ever used my insurance company’s new roadside service, which actually turned out to be easy and effective. Amazing.) And I enjoyed talking to the two fellows, neither of whom I would ever have met in the normal course of my life.

I’m not sure what if anything I learned from the experience except to relearn what I already knew — it’s nice when things work out, but if they don’t, it’s an adventure. Of course, even considering the broken cable, everything did work out. The breakdown could just as easily have become a real horror, but except for the groceries, I wasn’t worried. (And even the groceries weren’t much of a problem. I could have returned them and walked home.) I have no real reason to be one place other than another, and after dealing with death of my life mate/soul mate and the ensuing grief, I really do believe I can deal with anything.

This bodes well for my future travel plans. If things go as I intend, the trips will be nice, but if things go wrong, well . . . adventure awaits.

(This experience might turn into a story someday. My chauffeur looked a bit like one of my brothers and sounded exactly like him. Even had the same laugh. Sounds to me like a great jumping off place for a “what if.”)

Posted in life. Tags: , , , . 2 Comments »

The Denizens of Route 66

August 14, 2012 — Pat Bertram

In previous posts, I talked about the Route 66 festival I attended this past weekend, but I didn’t really talk about the people I saw except for a brief mention of the beauty pageant entrants.  And I saw a wide variety of folks.

Some came alone and acted very strange, as if they were alien residents from another planet, but that is typical of the high desert, or so I’ve been told.

Others came in groups, such as the red hat ladies. I wonder what Jenny Joseph thinks of that society. She is the author of the poem “Warning” (When I am an old woman I shall wear purple/With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me) which inspired the group. A society of women who all dress alike seems the antithesis of the spirit of the poem, which extols the virtue of shucking convention and striving for personal eccentricity. But then, I’ve never been a joiner and don’t much see the point of dressing like everyone else. (I’ve never owned a pair of jeans, so that tells you more about me than you would ever wish to know.) Still, it was interesting seeing a whole slew of purple-pant-suited women in red hats. Added a bit of color to the otherwise drab room.

I met a few writers, though that is nothing new — writers seem to be everywhere, especially writers who are looking for a publisher though they have not written a single word. It’s a good thing not many people showed up, otherwise you’d probably have heard my screams resounding around the word if I had to listen to one more stale and trite plot. (This is the real reason would-be writers are cautioned to read. If they’d been readers, they would know how typical their “brilliant” idea is.)

I sound a bit caustic, don’t I? Being around people does that to me. I did meet a few intriguing people — a couple of artists and a woman who reads Agatha Christie in Chinese for the fun and challenge of it. (I hope she doesn’t get upset with my revealing that, but she was such a fascinating woman, I’d hate to leave off any mention of her.)

One artist (Pete Morris) and I had a delightful conversation about truth in art and writing. He believes that if there is no truth, you have a pretty picture, but not art. The truth may be in the eye of the beholder, the truth might be the artist’s personal truth, or the truth might be a different perspective on a common theme, but there needs to be truth. It’s this lack of truth that bothers me so much about books today. Writers insist they write to entertain, which is fine, but I don’t read to be entertained. I read for truth — the writer’s truth, a different perspective on my truth, or some other facet of truth. I used to find truth even in genre fiction, though now I don’t see much even in literary fiction. (But maybe that’s more because of the vast numbers of books I’ve read than an actual dearth of truth in novels.)

A friend came to keep me company on Saturday, which made the day go by fast, and Pete painted a picture of us. I don’t know what’s the truth of the painting, but the artist did it to preserve a good memory. (Later, he kindly offered the picture to me, but I am not one to have pictures of myself hanging on the wall, so I asked if I could take a photo instead. That way we were both happy.)

Here is the painting Pete did of me. I was so oblivious, I didn’t even know he did it until he showed it to me. If you’d like to see more of Pete Morris’s work, you can see a whole gallery of paintings on his website. (Click here and use the gallery controller to the left of the images to see his pictures.)

Posted in culture, life, writing. Tags: , , , , , . 1 Comment »

Beauty Pageants, Route 66, Old Cars . . . and Me

August 12, 2012 — Pat Bertram

I went to a Route 66 festival this weekend, and though it had its disappointments — relatively few people showed up and I sold only a few books — it also had a few highpoints — I met some old friends, I made some new ones, and . . . I sold a few books!

The beauty pageant that took place in the center of the artists’ and authors’ pavilion was too surreal to be a lowpoint and too bizarre to be a highpoint. The first pageant event seemed more of a bitty pageant then a beauty pageant since it featured babies barely able to walk (one needed her mother to hold her upright). I couldn’t help wonder how that crown would affect the rest of the winner’s life. Will it be the highpoint of her life even though she’ll never remember winning it? Or will it be the first of many wins, giving her an inflated sense of her worth?

It seemed to me that the older girls and women who entered did have an inflated sense of worth. (The preschoolers and girls in the early grades just seemed sad with their make-up, mincing walks, practiced smiles, and regal waves. And the 11-year-old winner looked terrified as if the responsibility of being a queen weighed heavy on her skinny little shoulders.) During the speech portion of the event, one of the older girls (a young women, actually), vowed that if she were to win, she’d uphold the integrity of Route 66. Typical budding politician, she never explained how she would achieve this grandiose and absurd goal. For cripes sake, most of the road no longer exists. (The longest parts of the road still extant are in San Bernardino County, probably because that section of Route 66 meanders through undeveloped desert.)

I guess I don’t get the mystique of any of it — beauty pageants, route 66, old cars (some of which are remade beyond any semblance of authenticity) — but I seem to be in a minority. The economic impact of Route 66 is huge — according to a recent study by The National Parks Service, Route 66 generates over $132 million per year in the communities through which it passes. The economic impact of beauty pageants is astronomical — over $5 billion!!!

By selling a few books at the festival, I added to that gross revenue, even if my income from those books was in the low two digits. Don’t know whether to be proud of that or not.

Posted in culture, life, writing. Tags: , , , , , . 7 Comments »

More California Dreaming on Route 66

August 11, 2012 — Pat Bertram

One of the oddest places I visited on Route 66 was the bottle farm outside of Victorville. All the sculptures were created from bottles and other artifacts found in the Mojave Desert.

I wish you could have visited this fascinating place with me, but maybe we’ll meet on Route 66 some other time when we are dreaming of the Mother Road and days gone by.

Posted in culture, life, photography. Tags: , , , , . 5 Comments »

California Dreaming on Route 66

August 10, 2012 — Pat Bertram

I am in Victorville. California at the San Bernardino County Fairgrounds, signing books at the Route 66 International Festival. Route 66 enthusiasts from all over the world are here to celebrate the Mother Road and a world gone by.

Ruins along Route 66 in California near Bagdad

The road that fueled dreams of a better life is mostly absorbed into the modern world of interstate travel, but there are still some remembrances of those nostalgic times.

Bagdad Cafe from the movie of the same name

The original Bagdad Cafe is long gone. This structure was the Sidewinder Cafe, renamed for use in the movie, and is located 50 miles west of where Bagdad once stood. Odd to see the screen come to life in this dusty, out of the way place.

Roy’s Motel and Cafe in Amboy on Route 66

Roy’s Hotel and Cafe in Amboy, California, is being restored to it’s former glory (if such an elemental structure can be considered glorious.) The route beer I got at the small store at the gas station was glorious, or perhaps I was simply thirsty. I’m sure you’ve seen similar photos before, but I took this one. Well, I took all of them.

Route Beer. What writer could resist such a pun?

Posted in culture, life, photography. Tags: , , , , , , . 4 Comments »

Getting My Kicks on Route 66

August 9, 2012 — Pat Bertram

Each year,  the California Historic Route 66 Association selects one of the eight states through which Route 66 runs to host the Route 66 International Festival. This year, the festival will be held from August 9-12, 2012 at the San Bernardino County Fairgrounds in Victorville, CA. Making it an even more historic event, the fairgrounds are on old Route 66!  With the theme “California Dreamin’ on Route 66”, the Route 66 International Festival 2012 will attract thousands of Route 66 enthusiasts, historians, fans and custodians of the “Mother Road” from across the country; including international visitors from 17 different countries, as well as local residents. And me.

I’ve been accepted as a participant in the festival, and I’ll be there signing my books on August 10th and 11th. Except for Daughter Am I, the story of a road trip from Colorado to Chicago, my books don’t have anything to do with Route 66, but I’ve had little luck with writer’s conferences and library presentations, so I’m going to try something completely different. It should be interesting. I’ll have to stay for the two days rather than do what I normally do at festivals — walk around for a few minutes then leave. (I never did know how to have fun. At least not what other people consider fun.)

So, if you’re going to be in Victorville on August 10 and 11th, be sure to stop by the fairgrounds and look me up. I’m at the Alaska Pavilion, table 10. I’ll be waiting for you.

Posted in books, culture, life, writing. Tags: , , , , . 8 Comments »
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