When my aunt died, I wrote a short obiruary of sorts. I'm pretty sure that's all that got published. But at least she's getting a funeral, and hopefully a marker for her grave. I didn't write much of anything when my grandpa died. The situation was different--he wasn't young and full of vigor. He had suffered enough, and it was time, if not a little past, for the Angel of Death to collect.

His wife had stopped letting him run his own business and maintain his property. The golddigging bitch finally got to spend all his cash as his mental faculties slipped. I met him when he was in his mid-70s, and again when he was about to turn 80. He wasn't sharp as a tack, but pretty damn close. When she took away his project, his focus, Grandpa slipped away, too.

When she got tired of taking care of him at home, and failing in her efforts to "take care of him" once and for all, Grandpa's wife put him in a home for Alzheimer's patients. That cost far to much, and his alzheimer's medicine wasn't helping the bankroll, either. She had him moved around after that, and the medicine taken away as more and more of his memory went away. We visited him when he was in what we're told was his favorite home. They had a dog that reminded him of one he once had in the '50s. He only remembered some of his kids, and mixed up my dad with my uncle a few tiimes, but he remembered my mom some. He did a good enough job of at least acting like he remembered me. He told the same tired old stories that he always told when we'd go visit him. He ate a lot of cookies.

He seemed genuinely bothered by the fact that he couldn't tell who we were some of the time. He'd get lost in the middle of a story and ask us to remind him where he'd left off. He asked my dad to draw him a diagram showing who his kids were, who they married, and where they lived. That way, when someone called, he said, he'd be able to tell who it was and "talk to them properly." We visited his room at this home. It had pictures from the glory days in drawers, and a large photo of the whole clan, every single damn one of us, up on the wall.

That was a few years ago.

When we saw him this July, he had been moved around to different homes a few times. He was back in Manitou, at a hospice on Lois Lane. He looked an awful lot like I expected, but a terrible sort worse. I'd only known him as an old man, and now he looked even older, but that wasn't the issue. He was stiff, and facing the wall. There were no decorations or posters. No photos. The room had a closet, where all sorts of clothes that he seemed to enjoy had been brought out of closets all over the country and given to him by relatives. Most of his old friends are dead. His lawyer's headstone can be seen from the plot that's still technically reserved for him. Although he wasn't dead yet, when I saw Grandpa's body last, he had this most pathetic, God-awful look on his face. It was one of pain, in spite of morphine that would kill you or I. His jaw was open wider than anything I would have thought possible. We looked. We talked. We said goodbye.

Two days before, his son in law and daughter had come to visit. He hadn't seen his son in law in a long time, but he walked right up, called him by name, and used every ounce of strength he could muster to try and crush his hand, just like he always did. They talked. They left. They got a call two days later that Grandpa's wife had visited, and he'd slipped into a coma. They called us. We hauled ass back home from the Western Slope.

I may live in Denver, but as far as I'm concerned, "home" is about 90 miles south.

His daughter was with him when he died. She talked about each of his children, where they were, and said that they forgive him if there was anything outstanding still on the record between them. That they said he could rest now. He could be seen to calm down, to relax, and he died peacefully. She didn't mention that his youngest daughter was dead.

There was no money for a funeral. He had wanted to donate his body to science, and that was one wish his wife was eager to grant. The coroner had other ideas. Foul play was ruled out, but I doubt that it was a very thorough investigation. Eventually, someone found a university that would take his autopsied body.

His kids got together and wrote an obituary. Originally, it was going to be printed in the city paper in each town one of his kids lived in, but when it proved to be over $200 for just one paper, they settled for his hometown of 50 years. It was run with a photograph of Grandpa with all the trophies he won for customizing his Honda Goldwing.

Alfred H Dwyer
January 17, 1920-July 22, 2008

We would like to honor our father's life by sharing what many already know of him.

For over 40 years people respected the caliber of the work that Dad completed in the Pikes Peak Region. As owner of Dwyer Construction, he had the privilege to work with/on properties such as the Broadmoor Hotel, Alamo Hotel, and the Cliff House. We know that many of his projects were completed 'on a handshake' because of his professional integrity and quality. His tremendous engineering skill was demonstrated when he and our mother, Jean, bought and renovated the Manitou Spa during the 1960's.

His life's example taught us that hard work, commitment and respect for people of all backgrounds were the foundation of a person. He taught us to never give up learning and that “there is always more than one way to solve a problem”.

We will miss you very much!

David A Dwyer, Las Vegas, NV
Daniel B Dwyer, Denver, CO
James H Dwyer, Buena Vista, CO
Susan H Ayler, Colorado Springs, CO
Mary E Dwyer, living in our memories

Hopefully the last in a series of posts about this sort of thing

Isn't it interesting that the times you want drugs or alcohol the most are the times you need them least?

That unless you stay stone-cold sober, you'll never get out of whatever hole you've stepped into?
It's not how a man takes the good times that counts, not in the end. It's how he takes the bad times. Does he crawl into a bottle and drink the mortgage payment, or does he cut back on his own indulgence first, so the people he loves don't have to? Does he face the challenge, or does he ignore it, run away to the next one?

No matter how dark times get, they can always get darker. Things don't get better on their own. You have to make them get better. Whether it's unfair wages or a dead-end relationship, it's up to you to fix it. Sometimes that means getting out of the situation. Other times that means fixing the situation. Most of the time you just need to fix your own perspective. But it always means doing something.

Not everything you can do helps. You can grab a shovel and help your own gravediggers twice as easy as you can pull yourself up out of that grave. But you can't change anyone but you. That's all you really need, really. Nobody can make you think or feel or believe anything if you don't let them. If you aren't content with "almost" or "could have," if you are willing to try that much harder instead of just complaining, you can overcome anything. Even if the objective hazard is too great and death is certain, there is a certain dignity in facing your own death with integrity.

They talk about the spaces between the words
Like the pain only hides there.
The last thing she said,
Nobody heard.

We talk without end,
So the silence doesn't get us.
We talk of trifles and outrage and God,
But never what we need to say.

Then it seems like we can't talk
For fear we'll say the wrong thing.
That we'll ruin something we only imagine we had.

Fact is, we can.
We will.
Someone has to speak their mind
Before they lose it.

Throw it away really,
For you can't accidentally let go of your mind.
You leave it because you want to,
Just as people throw away relics that don't suit them.
If I'm the only one not scared
To say what has to be said,
So be it.

And I'd do it again.

I'd admit it eats me up.
That I nearly tore myself apart.
I'd cry when no-one was looking
And come up with a smile.

I'd raise a toast to the day before it's gone
And laugh at Misery himself.
He can take what he wants,
But he'll never get my soul.

The trick is to be glib,
To be wry and rude and uncanny.
You have to be yourself
Especially in those times it seems like you can't,
Because nobody else will.

Goodbye England's Rose

I have tremendous respect for this man. As a musician. As a humanitarian. As a public figure. This was a great tribute to Princess Di. The special lyrics fit her and the song just as well, if not better, than the album version fit Marilyn Monroe. I'm not sure I would have been able to play that whole song without shedding a tear. I have no more words for this video.

Forever in our hearts

This is probably the closest to an obituary that my aunt Mary will get, outside of the Sacramento newspaper. I've had some time to get a grip on myself, and to get some perspective, and I feel I owe it to her to say a few words.

My aunt Mary was an adventurous, artistic woman, with a love for life. She had a healthy portion of her father's stubbornness, plus a little more. But even more than that, she had an infectious smile, the kind of smile that would put you at ease even before you jumped out of an airplane.

In fact, she did that once. To hear her tell it, it was a damn good thing that the chute would automatically deploy, because the first time she jumped alone, she wasted no time in passing out. I hear it was fun anyway.

We visited thrice, but I only really got to meet her once. Once I was too young to remember anything, and once I was saying my goodbyes, fresh off a last-minute flight, days from the end. The third time was when we really got to meet. I was 12, maybe 13, and all the kids were in Colorado Springs to sell an old settler's cabin we owned in Cascade. I say "we," but I should say "they." I'm one of the grandkids, and had no stake in the deed to the land. I got to be involved anyway, though, for which I am grateful. The cabin may have been a financial drain, an eyesore piled with junk, and a health hazard to occupy, but dammit, it was ours. The man who bought it was a good man, and appreciated it as it was. He didn't want to bulldoze and build a townhome. He wanted to evict the mice, drink from a well, live in a cabin, shit in an outhouse, and restore and maintain the building in a way the kids never could, after Grandpa shut down his construction company. He had the money. Asked how much we wanted, tacked on five grand, and signed the check. In the time that everyone was in town to coordinate, we didn't get to swap many stories, but we did get to swap impressions of one another, to get a snapshot of their personalities and outlooks. I'm glad I got that chance.

Seeing as my parents and I never kept in close touch with my dad's family, I don't know much about my aunt's life as it was for thirty some years, as we all agree we would prefer to remember her. I know it is an awful, evil feeling to remember someone you knew and cared about in pain, wasting away, suffering; not vibrant, joyful, very much alive. Funerals are too somber in our society, and they remember the wrong part of life: the end of it. It is no coincidence that Mary's memorial was likely closer to an Irish wake than your average American funeral. I'm still sure that there was not a dry eye, though. I wasn't there, not for the California one, which was held this past Saturday. Come hell or high water, though, I will attend the Colorado memorial, and do my best to remember this woman's life, not her death. If you don't know what it's like to have to do that as you watch a casket or an urn be lowered into the ground, and with it a part of you, be thankful. Be thankful that you haven't yet held the hand of a loved one as they looked into your eyes and mustered the energy to thank you being there, just being there, and seen all the things, the regrets, the joys, the melancholy in their eyes that they just can't find the words for.

Be glad that you haven't ever heard someone whisper "I wanted to tell you..." into their brother's ear, but too weak to finish the thought.

But I hope, I hope and pray, that you will get the chance to do all of that. That you will get the chance to say goodbye, no matter how much it will hurt, because trust me, if you have the chance and waste it, it will hurt even more. And if you don't get the chance, I hope you do get the chance to say goodbye, even if it's just to a set of words carved into Pikes Peak granite.

Mary was a talented artist, working in many mediums, including charcoal, pen & ink, paint, and sculpture. She saw beauty in her surroundings everywhere she went. She and her partner of many years, Debbie, traveled every chance they got. If I said she lived even a mildly dull life, I'd be a liar. Even as she knew she was dying, Mary insisted upon going to see Zion and Bryce Canyon. It was a tremendous effort, but they managed it. I can only imagine how much better it must have been to be able to see the desert southwest during a time when most people would only be watching the other wall at home. If you've never seen the rock formations of Utah and you ever get the chance, take it. Just take it, because you might not get another. They are breathtakingly beautiful, and have an almost spiritual air to them.

It tears me apart to know that even her last wish was cut short, that aunt Mary never got to see Bryce. But I know that almost everyone Mary cared about was there for her before the end. I saw the pure love with which Debbie looked upon my aunt, and even though she was a pillar of strength in front of everyone, I'm sure she cried the most of all of us. But I'm just as sure that she never let Mary hear her do it.

The last time I saw her alive, if that state of limbo can truly be called life, was on June 3, 2008. I'm not all that religious, but the fact that I met a minister on the plane back home is no coincidence in my mind. I didn't tell him why I had been in Sacramento, and he didn't ask. I didn't cry on the plane, but he could tell that something was bothering me, and had just the right thing to say. Mary Dwyer passed away at approximately 7:00 in the morning, June 6, 2008, with Debbie by her side. May she rest in peace, and join her mother in heaven.

She was not a sinner, and I'll thrash anyone who says otherwise.

There is a flickr page of photos of my aunt Mary, enjoying vacations, birthday paries, and the company of old friends. Email me if you'd like the link.

Crown of Creation

Ever since I was young, and I mean really young, I've been fascinated by nuclear war, mutual assured destruction, fallout, nuclear winter, radiation, missile silos, and all the paraphernalia of the one technology that mankind has to effect his own, complete destruction. I'm the only person I know who thought the last few minutes of WarGames was freakin' hilarious. With all our modern technology, social justice (and injustice), evolution, ability and enlightenment, that we would destroy ourselves in an accident of arrogance, all I could think to do was to laugh. Subsequent times that I watched the movie, the sheer hilarity and tragedy of the situation faded, as I knew that the good guys would win, but the idea that a few big horn sheep butting heads over what their economic systems look like could blow up an entire nonconsenting planet was actually kind of comforting. No matter what problems we have, if we can't solve them, they can just be wiped off the face of the universe. We could take the coward's way out as a species. So no matter how bad you think things are, they could be worse. You won't even have time to hide under your desk. We could turn ourselves into dust in the vacuum of space with just the push of a button, and it would be obvious that all our petty problems were nothing in the scheme of things. As the Merry Minuet says, they're rioting in Africa/They're starving in Spain/There's hurricanes in Florida/and Texas needs rain./The whole world is festering with unhappy souls/the French hate the Germans/the Germans hate the Poles/Italians hate Yugoslavs/South Africans hate the Dutch/and I don't like anybody very much./But we can be tranquil and thankful and proud/for man is endowed with the mushroom shaped cloud/and we know for certain that some lucky day/someone will set the spark off/and we will all be blown away.

There's a second verse, but you get the point. "What nature doesn't do to us will be done by our fellow man."

Nevil Shute's novel, On the Beach, is an incredibly touching tale of the entire population of the Southern Hemisphere having to come to terms with their imminent deaths. For them, there would be no quick vaporization. Instead they get the curse (or perhaps grace) of having to wait for the radiation to arrive, knowing that they will die a slow, painful death, down to the last man. I'll spare you the details, but I can name off the effects of various doses of radiation like Jeopardy contestants can name obscure inventors. And I'm okay with that. It makes me feel good.

Nuclear war is one of the most all-reaching, imminent, and evil ways of having your life cut short, before you thought you'd go. It's most evil because it was another person that decided to do it, and they're doing it to everyone. It's not a force of nature, a natural part of life. It's murder. All the things that we don't do because we will have the time to do them later, those are the things that we will regret when the doctor tells us we have two weeks to live, or when they drop the Bomb. The more time you have once your stone has been carved before you will have to lie under it, the harder it will be, unless you have enough time to get ready. As Tim McGraw sang, "I hope someday you have the chance to live like you were dying." It's in the middleground where the heartache and sorrow lies. When you have enough time to regret, but not enough time or energy to address those regrets. Or when you have enough time to get ready to face the firing squad, so to speak, and then you are given some more time. Enough time to build up some more regrets, before your time on this rock is finally revoked. That's where the evil lies. My late aunt had to deal with the first case. The people in Shute's book have to deal with the second. I don't know which is worse.

Don't read this book if you're having a good day. It will ruin your week. But if you're a little down, or more than a little, by all means, enjoy the fact that it could be worse. You could be in Falmouth a year after World War Three.

"And they can't do anything about it?"

"Not a thing. It's just too big a matter for mankind to tackle. We've just got to take it."

"I won't take it," she said vehemently."It's not fair. No one in the Southern Hemisphere ever dropped a bomb, a hydrogen bomb or a cobalt bomb or any other sort of bomb. We had nothing to do with it. Why should we have to die because other countries nine or ten thousand miles away from us wanted to have a war? It's so bloody unfair."

"It's that, all right," he said. "But that's the way it is."

There was a pause, and then she said angrily, "It's not that I'm afraid of dying, Dwight. We've all got to do that sometime. It's all the things I'm going to have to miss...." She turned to him in the starlight. "I'm never going to get outside Australia. All my life I've wanted to see the Rue de Rivoli. I suppose it's the romantic name. It's silly, because I suppose it's just a street like any other street. But that's what I've wanted, and I'm never going to see it. Because there isn't any Paris now, or London, or New York."

Feel better? I do.