There are very few things in life that I have dreaded as much as the start of the demises of my three immediate family members—Mother, Dad, and Aunt Louise. Having to cope with the inherent drama, the myriad of details that surround an illness and a death, the unknown grieving process—I just wasn’t sure that I could handle it well, if at all. I am happy to report that, with the passing of Aunt Louise, I now see that, as one ages, death becomes an entirely natural process and is not at all unwelcome. Because we had so much time to prepare for Aunt Louise’s passing (two months of being in critical care), I had the opportunity to work through a lot of my grief. And, thank goodness, I can look back on this trying time and be content with the choices that I made on her behalf. I do enjoy a good session of second guessing myself, but this is one area of life where I am totally at peace.
In planning her funeral, I was on new ground, not having anyone with whom to really consult. Thankfully, Aunt Louise had pre-paid her funeral, but she had also given me a very specific list of directives for her service as well as what she wanted in her obituary. I begged and pleaded with her to put this in writing, but she never would. She loved the control of telling me. For example, she wanted butterflies released at the end of the service; she wanted the local cardiologist’s wife to play the flute; she wanted a luncheon in her memory with sandwiches and iced tea. As Mother said, “even John D. Rockefeller has not discussed his funeral in such detail”. When I started investigating the logistics of her requests, they were going to be such high maintenance requests plus she had never written them down, so I wasn’t sure exactly what she wanted.I just decided to plan the service with input from Mother, the pastor, and a couple of her friends.
I don’t know how much experience you have had with planning a funeral, but I have had basically none. My only real experience was when G’s father died in a tony suburb of Hartford and I had to go with him to plan the service. Mr. W was a real character—about 5’ 4”, read Evelyn Waugh, asked me to play “Massa’s in the Cold, Cold Ground” on the piano every time I visited him, and hit on me constantly. He passed fairly peacefully in his late 80’s. A handsome, if unctuous, funeral director met with G and me to plan the service. He asked very traditional questions to which G responded in a most unusual way--- “What music would your father like to have played?” “None, he objected to all music and felt it was frivolous”. “To what charity would your father like to have memorials sent?” “None, he did not believe in charitable organizations.” “Whom would your father like to have as a speaker?” “No one, he was an atheist and did not want anyone spouting aphorisms at his service”. I was very puzzled because, basically, none of this was true.
Suddenly, G asked the funeral director-“Does my father have to wear pants in the coffin?” The funeral director looked very stricken. Even though Mr. W. was being cremated, there would have to be a coffin because G insisted on an open viewing. “I have never had anyone ask that question before”, the F.D. said, looking imploringly at me. I suddenly lost control and began laughing hysterically a la Mary Richards at Chuckles the Clown’s funeral. I did have the good sense to immediately bow my head and act as if I were crying. “Well,” G said, “my father disliked wearing pants intensely and I had promised that he would not have to wear them to eternity.” Not bothering to point out why an atheist would think there was an eternity, the F.D. said, “I suppose anything is possible” and he agreed to a nude below the waist corpse. I was horrified. I knew that Mr. W had recently flashed the woman delivering Meals on Wheels, but I had never heard this kind of request or the other nonsense from G. When I asked him what was driving his answers, he replied, “I’m not spending that kind of money for some aging queen to play Rock of Ages on the organ or for some elderly hack to read Thoreau. And, I’m damn sure not going to sacrifice a perfectly good pair of pants that I can give to the Goodwill next week. I’m mad enough that I have to pay for the coffin and waste a good shirt and coat.”
So, with that experience hovering at the edge of my memory, I travel to High Point to execute the memorial service. It was a wonderful experience, more poignant and moving than I could have imagined, but with a great deal of warmth and humor. The funeral director in High Point could not have been more helpful or more gracious. I had envisioned a portly man with a bad comb over, but instead Mr. B went out of his way to make sure that all of our requests were handled with respect and grace. Several cousins appeared on the scene and this made for a nice reunion of sorts. These cousins are all in their 70’s and 80’s, so I had never gotten to know them well, but they were lovely and respectful to Mother and Dad. And, the folks at Aunt Louise’s church came together to create a very lovely service with a choir of about ten and a reception of about fifty. There was much laughter, a fact that I don’t think Aunt Louise would have particularly appreciated. I think we had all been under so much stress caring for her that we were joyous that she, along with us, was out of such misery.
I gave a brief eulogy and it was such a moving moment to stand at the pulpit and look out on so many folks who had given so generously of their time and energy to keep Aunt Louise in her apartment for so long. And, to see my parents, 90 and 88, as they observed and listened to everything going on. I mentioned the fact that, just last summer, Aunt Louise had told me that her favorite movie was “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid”, which got a huge laugh, but was also very poignant because, as I said, how many other facts were there about her that we simply did not know. No one would have guessed that was her favorite movie. I mentioned her delight when the church organist played “The Wells Fargo Wagon is A ‘Coming” (from The Music Man) when she led in her Sunday school class as she had directed him to play something appropriate and they had just been to see the musical. I thanked the three women who had been the most consistent caregivers for Aunt Louise and told them that they represented the ideal to which we should all aspire, churchgoers or not. I closed by talking about how, when she came to visit me in New York City, her hotel room was directly across from the street from my apartment window and how we stood in our respective windows before we went to bed, just looking at each other. Even though she could never really tell me how special I was to her, I knew it and those evenings in New York were part of the reason I understood. Her favorite proverb was “I live in a small house, but it looks out onto a big world” and, indeed, Aunt Louise was a fabulous observer of life, much more than a participant.
In the days after the service, I gradually learned to not dread the sound of my cell phone ringing and giving me the latest update on her increasingly serious condition. I lost my voice for a few hours one day and gave myself the gift of just being still and letting others do the talking for me. I savored all of the wonderful things that I so enjoy. And, I realized with a hint of bittersweetness, that I am now prepared for what lies ahead as I face the funerals of my remaining immediate family. I think what was most affirming to me were the many unanticipated acts of kindness from my friends, my colleagues, and folks who just happened to cross my path.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Family of One Says Goodbye to Aunt Louise
As you know, Aunt Louise had been dying for a couple of months. One thing led to another and, for a 93 year old, she just didn't have the stamina to keep fighting. At least, that is how it appeared.
I told her goodbye two weeks ago while she was still alert enough to know that I was there. But, out conversation was definitely one-sided. Before I went in to see her, I sat in the parking lot and wondered what it would be like to literally tell someone goodbye. I can report that it is one of the most powerful things you will ever do. It was just a bit emotional, but more focused and energizing than I could ever have imagined.
Even though Aunt Louise was still around, she didn't say a lot. I ran out of things to say after about 30 minutes. I thought about what else I could say. I have only lost one other person through death who was incredibly dear to me-my beloved Bonnie Biller with whom I worked at Prentice Hall in 1996 and who died from lung cancer three years later. She was one of the most darling, perceptive, and kind people that I have ever known. I still miss her although I can feel her presence from time to time. I asked Weezie (as I called her) if she would look up Bonnie Biller when she got to heaven. In one of the two times that she actually spoke to me, she said, "yes, I will find Bonnie Biller". Her other comment was related when I reviewed, yet again, whom she would see in heaven (this is what the nurses will tell you to do). She rolled her eyes with something akin to scorn. She said, very clearly, "I will also see the people that I never liked". I assured her that since it was heaven, there would only be people she liked. She rolled her eyes again. That was the last time we really spoke to each other.
Aunt Louise's journey over the last six months has been arduous--told that she would have to leave her apartment because the church that owned it was selling it; being rushed to live in a nursing home; being rushed to a hospital; and then living in two facilities after the surgery that she had to have. For a woman who lived at least 20 years in one place at a time, this was a lot of moving around. When the nurse called me today to say that she had passed, I was truly happy that, at last, she could be at peace.
Aunt Louise was not given to warm declarations or yucking it up. She took life pretty seriously. She was an incredible craftswoman who could make a crocheted cover for my iPod or craft shredded coconut crust for a key lime pie like I will never taste again. She was one of my biggest cheerleaders and always reminded me that even though I am a family of one, I have been incredibly blessed with friends who are much better than family.
I felt just a tiny bit alone tonight, but I savored it. The next few days will be spent with my parents and being there for them which is as it should be, but still very taxing. The times that I had always dreaded facing as a family of one are starting. And, thankfully, they are not so bad. Love to each of you.
I told her goodbye two weeks ago while she was still alert enough to know that I was there. But, out conversation was definitely one-sided. Before I went in to see her, I sat in the parking lot and wondered what it would be like to literally tell someone goodbye. I can report that it is one of the most powerful things you will ever do. It was just a bit emotional, but more focused and energizing than I could ever have imagined.
Even though Aunt Louise was still around, she didn't say a lot. I ran out of things to say after about 30 minutes. I thought about what else I could say. I have only lost one other person through death who was incredibly dear to me-my beloved Bonnie Biller with whom I worked at Prentice Hall in 1996 and who died from lung cancer three years later. She was one of the most darling, perceptive, and kind people that I have ever known. I still miss her although I can feel her presence from time to time. I asked Weezie (as I called her) if she would look up Bonnie Biller when she got to heaven. In one of the two times that she actually spoke to me, she said, "yes, I will find Bonnie Biller". Her other comment was related when I reviewed, yet again, whom she would see in heaven (this is what the nurses will tell you to do). She rolled her eyes with something akin to scorn. She said, very clearly, "I will also see the people that I never liked". I assured her that since it was heaven, there would only be people she liked. She rolled her eyes again. That was the last time we really spoke to each other.
Aunt Louise's journey over the last six months has been arduous--told that she would have to leave her apartment because the church that owned it was selling it; being rushed to live in a nursing home; being rushed to a hospital; and then living in two facilities after the surgery that she had to have. For a woman who lived at least 20 years in one place at a time, this was a lot of moving around. When the nurse called me today to say that she had passed, I was truly happy that, at last, she could be at peace.
Aunt Louise was not given to warm declarations or yucking it up. She took life pretty seriously. She was an incredible craftswoman who could make a crocheted cover for my iPod or craft shredded coconut crust for a key lime pie like I will never taste again. She was one of my biggest cheerleaders and always reminded me that even though I am a family of one, I have been incredibly blessed with friends who are much better than family.
I felt just a tiny bit alone tonight, but I savored it. The next few days will be spent with my parents and being there for them which is as it should be, but still very taxing. The times that I had always dreaded facing as a family of one are starting. And, thankfully, they are not so bad. Love to each of you.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Family of One Dines in Paris 2010
At last, I have a chance to finish telling you about the meals that I had in Paris a few weeks back. I consider this trip one of my best because I carefully balanced my rich meals with less robust ones as well as bistros with haute cuisine. Enjoy!
BEST SATURDAY LUNCH—I can think of few greater pleasures than getting off the plane for Paris, driving though a rainy Saturday morning to a charming hotel on the Place des Vosges, and then strolling about a block to a café bustling with relaxed Parisian energy. I was lucky to be pointed in the direction of Le Petit Marche by the hotel concierge. Fabulous lentil soup, salad with goat cheese—that sounds so basic, but it is so delicious when prepared with TLC as only the French can do. Floor to ceiling windows overlooking une rue typique—welcome to Paris! Le Petit Marche, 9, rue de Bearn (just off Place des Vosges)
BEST SUNDAY AFTERNOON—the hotel concierge almost wept when I told him of my plan to stroll over to Bar a L’Huitres for at least a dozen oysters and a half bottle of something white. Indeed, perched in the café overlooking Boulevard Beaumarchais, steps from the Bastille was even more wonderful than I had imagined. The Belons and Claires were superb. The accompanying pork rillette was something for which I would have cheerfully paid. The half bottle of a white Burgundy was fabulous. Almost as wonderful—being surrounded by happy, chattering folks doing the same thing on a brisk, sunny Paris afternoon. Bar a L’Huitres, 33, blvd Beaumarchais.
BEST ENERGY—I stayed away from La Coupole for years because I had the notion that it was overrun by tourists. I found out differently a year ago and I very much enjoyed the energy of a Friday evening on this trip. It was completely mobbed—with locals. I had to sit at the bar for 45 minutes while I waited for a table in this brightly lit, cavernous restaurant. The food is fine—not bad, not stupendous. But, what is wonderful is the incredible energy emanating from everyone—the captains, the waiters, the patrons. The steak tartare and pommes frites are not bad and very affordable. And, who wouldn’t love a place where each person waiting is assigned the name of a composer rather than a number? La Coupole, 102, bd du Montparnasse
WORST MEAL—While I like Au Pied de Cochon as much as the next person—it practically defines French onion soup and the setting is just delightful—I made a crucial error in ordering pig’s trotters. Every time I have ordered this dish, it is always served as the pig’s heel, filled with some sort of scrumptious dressing. But, this time, I received, literally, the pig’s trotter—a mass of bones and tissue that resembled something out of a Tim Burton movie. I was able to extricate exactly two bites—and I mean bites—of meat. Fortunately, there were wonderful pommes des frites which I dipped into the accompanying Béarnaise sauce. I certainly didn’t go hungry. But, next time, I will stick with more oysters (who can ever get enough?) or one of the fish dishes. Au Pied de Cochon, 6, rue Coquilliere
BEST MEAL/EXPERIENCE—I suppose it goes without saying that my best meal would be at Taillevent, long considered the very finest restaurant in Paris and one of the best in the world. As I wrote last year, I made the mistake of ordering the prix fixe lunch which was lovely, but not memorable. This year, I was determined to order a la carte and what a wonderful decision that was. I was given a wonderful table and greeted sincerely, if not effusively, by Jean-Marie Ancher, le directeur, as well as several lovely captains and waiters. I was trying to maintain a sincere, but not effusive air, myself. But, then, Jean-Marie and I connected over our mutual respect for Danny Meyer and his fabulous NYC restaurants and I relaxed into myself and a fabulous dining experience starting with the marvelous gougeres of which I ate about 15. I consulted with my captain over which dishes to order, dallying between a crab tart and roasted winter vegetables. I decided to go with the latter, simply because I had eaten so few vegetables on my trip. I also ordered the scallops in a simple lemon butter sauce. And, a chocolate soufflé.
Much to my surprise, the crab tart was brought out. I could not imagine that I was being given a lagniappe at such a deluxe restaurant, so I asked the server it that was correct. He answered, “oui”, with a hint of a smile. The captain came over and beamed—“ce n’est pas les vegetables”—and we both beamed. The crab tart was luscious: slightly creamy with handfuls of crab and a very light, buttery crust. And, just a hint of shallot. Next, came the roasted vegetables accompanied by the captain with a truffle and a grater in his hand. P’sh, p’sh, p’sh went the grater until the vegetables were covered with a mound of truffles. I almost wept at the generosity and the anticipation of the wonderful taste and the sheer wonderfulness of a fabulous lunch served by people who knew how to make a guest feel truly pampered on a sunny Friday afternoon. This time, Jean Marie strolled over, bent down, and whispered—“ you have a friend in the kitchen”.
For some reason, I had a hard time with those scallops. It took me about thirty minutes to eat about ¾ of them. I chewed and chewed and drank wine to help me swallow, but they just weren’t as tender as the ones that I am used to. Of course, as I am writing this, I am marveling that I was able to even eat two of them, given what I had already consumed.
And, then, the chocolate soufflé which was perfect in its texture, temperature, and flavor.
I was the last person in the restaurant and I apologized profusely to the staff for keeping them there. It had been a dining experience to treasure—the unexpected treats, the wonderful flavors, the stately space, the kindness of the staff—all filled me with such happiness.
I saw Jean-Marie sitting at his computer in his small office off the hall and asked if I might come in. He immediately rose to his feet and we chatted amiably while a cab was called. More than 20 minutes passed and he continued to chat amiably. I told him that I would be fine alone, but he said, “I consider you a friend now and I would never let a friend wait alone”. We began talking about restaurants in Paris and he cautioned me about going to ones that are not only outrageous in price, but not of a high quality. He asked that I consult with him about my next round of restaurants and I cheerfully agreed.
Finally, the cab arrived and I waved au revoir to my new friend and smiled all the way back to my hotel, thinking of such a lovely experience.
Other recommendations-
One of my best meals was at Le Cameleon, a bistro off Blvd de Montparnasse, and featuring lovely dishes—I had a boudin noir, sole meuniere with some of the best pommes pureed of my life, and a delightful apple tart. This sounds pedestrian, but it was all perfectly prepared and the setting was elegantly casual with lots of well-heeled Parisiens in their 50s and 60s crowding the banquettes. Le Cameleon, 6, rue de Chevreuse
La Ferrandaise—located near the Sorbonne and frequented by scholarly types, this neighborhood bistro has a charming, effortless appeal. Wonderful, if a little robust, cuisine. I had a pate, boeuf bourguignon, and a chestnut soufflé and could not eat again that day. La Ferrandaise, 8, rue de Vaugirard
Tan Dinh—when you cannot handle another hearty, rich meal, I suggest this excellent, if stark, Vietnamese restaurant just behind the Musee d’Orsay. Cash only and fairly expensive—at least $60 euros—but well worth it for the change in cuisine. Tan Dinh, 60 rue de Verneuil.
Sensing—called the anti-bistro, this Guy Martin is a real find, especially when you tire of the same décor in the brasseries and bistros. Excellent and not-too-rich cuisine and a wonderful bar in the front. 19, rue Brea (just off Blvd de Montparnasse)
BEST SATURDAY LUNCH—I can think of few greater pleasures than getting off the plane for Paris, driving though a rainy Saturday morning to a charming hotel on the Place des Vosges, and then strolling about a block to a café bustling with relaxed Parisian energy. I was lucky to be pointed in the direction of Le Petit Marche by the hotel concierge. Fabulous lentil soup, salad with goat cheese—that sounds so basic, but it is so delicious when prepared with TLC as only the French can do. Floor to ceiling windows overlooking une rue typique—welcome to Paris! Le Petit Marche, 9, rue de Bearn (just off Place des Vosges)
BEST SUNDAY AFTERNOON—the hotel concierge almost wept when I told him of my plan to stroll over to Bar a L’Huitres for at least a dozen oysters and a half bottle of something white. Indeed, perched in the café overlooking Boulevard Beaumarchais, steps from the Bastille was even more wonderful than I had imagined. The Belons and Claires were superb. The accompanying pork rillette was something for which I would have cheerfully paid. The half bottle of a white Burgundy was fabulous. Almost as wonderful—being surrounded by happy, chattering folks doing the same thing on a brisk, sunny Paris afternoon. Bar a L’Huitres, 33, blvd Beaumarchais.
BEST ENERGY—I stayed away from La Coupole for years because I had the notion that it was overrun by tourists. I found out differently a year ago and I very much enjoyed the energy of a Friday evening on this trip. It was completely mobbed—with locals. I had to sit at the bar for 45 minutes while I waited for a table in this brightly lit, cavernous restaurant. The food is fine—not bad, not stupendous. But, what is wonderful is the incredible energy emanating from everyone—the captains, the waiters, the patrons. The steak tartare and pommes frites are not bad and very affordable. And, who wouldn’t love a place where each person waiting is assigned the name of a composer rather than a number? La Coupole, 102, bd du Montparnasse
WORST MEAL—While I like Au Pied de Cochon as much as the next person—it practically defines French onion soup and the setting is just delightful—I made a crucial error in ordering pig’s trotters. Every time I have ordered this dish, it is always served as the pig’s heel, filled with some sort of scrumptious dressing. But, this time, I received, literally, the pig’s trotter—a mass of bones and tissue that resembled something out of a Tim Burton movie. I was able to extricate exactly two bites—and I mean bites—of meat. Fortunately, there were wonderful pommes des frites which I dipped into the accompanying Béarnaise sauce. I certainly didn’t go hungry. But, next time, I will stick with more oysters (who can ever get enough?) or one of the fish dishes. Au Pied de Cochon, 6, rue Coquilliere
BEST MEAL/EXPERIENCE—I suppose it goes without saying that my best meal would be at Taillevent, long considered the very finest restaurant in Paris and one of the best in the world. As I wrote last year, I made the mistake of ordering the prix fixe lunch which was lovely, but not memorable. This year, I was determined to order a la carte and what a wonderful decision that was. I was given a wonderful table and greeted sincerely, if not effusively, by Jean-Marie Ancher, le directeur, as well as several lovely captains and waiters. I was trying to maintain a sincere, but not effusive air, myself. But, then, Jean-Marie and I connected over our mutual respect for Danny Meyer and his fabulous NYC restaurants and I relaxed into myself and a fabulous dining experience starting with the marvelous gougeres of which I ate about 15. I consulted with my captain over which dishes to order, dallying between a crab tart and roasted winter vegetables. I decided to go with the latter, simply because I had eaten so few vegetables on my trip. I also ordered the scallops in a simple lemon butter sauce. And, a chocolate soufflé.
Much to my surprise, the crab tart was brought out. I could not imagine that I was being given a lagniappe at such a deluxe restaurant, so I asked the server it that was correct. He answered, “oui”, with a hint of a smile. The captain came over and beamed—“ce n’est pas les vegetables”—and we both beamed. The crab tart was luscious: slightly creamy with handfuls of crab and a very light, buttery crust. And, just a hint of shallot. Next, came the roasted vegetables accompanied by the captain with a truffle and a grater in his hand. P’sh, p’sh, p’sh went the grater until the vegetables were covered with a mound of truffles. I almost wept at the generosity and the anticipation of the wonderful taste and the sheer wonderfulness of a fabulous lunch served by people who knew how to make a guest feel truly pampered on a sunny Friday afternoon. This time, Jean Marie strolled over, bent down, and whispered—“ you have a friend in the kitchen”.
For some reason, I had a hard time with those scallops. It took me about thirty minutes to eat about ¾ of them. I chewed and chewed and drank wine to help me swallow, but they just weren’t as tender as the ones that I am used to. Of course, as I am writing this, I am marveling that I was able to even eat two of them, given what I had already consumed.
And, then, the chocolate soufflé which was perfect in its texture, temperature, and flavor.
I was the last person in the restaurant and I apologized profusely to the staff for keeping them there. It had been a dining experience to treasure—the unexpected treats, the wonderful flavors, the stately space, the kindness of the staff—all filled me with such happiness.
I saw Jean-Marie sitting at his computer in his small office off the hall and asked if I might come in. He immediately rose to his feet and we chatted amiably while a cab was called. More than 20 minutes passed and he continued to chat amiably. I told him that I would be fine alone, but he said, “I consider you a friend now and I would never let a friend wait alone”. We began talking about restaurants in Paris and he cautioned me about going to ones that are not only outrageous in price, but not of a high quality. He asked that I consult with him about my next round of restaurants and I cheerfully agreed.
Finally, the cab arrived and I waved au revoir to my new friend and smiled all the way back to my hotel, thinking of such a lovely experience.
Other recommendations-
One of my best meals was at Le Cameleon, a bistro off Blvd de Montparnasse, and featuring lovely dishes—I had a boudin noir, sole meuniere with some of the best pommes pureed of my life, and a delightful apple tart. This sounds pedestrian, but it was all perfectly prepared and the setting was elegantly casual with lots of well-heeled Parisiens in their 50s and 60s crowding the banquettes. Le Cameleon, 6, rue de Chevreuse
La Ferrandaise—located near the Sorbonne and frequented by scholarly types, this neighborhood bistro has a charming, effortless appeal. Wonderful, if a little robust, cuisine. I had a pate, boeuf bourguignon, and a chestnut soufflé and could not eat again that day. La Ferrandaise, 8, rue de Vaugirard
Tan Dinh—when you cannot handle another hearty, rich meal, I suggest this excellent, if stark, Vietnamese restaurant just behind the Musee d’Orsay. Cash only and fairly expensive—at least $60 euros—but well worth it for the change in cuisine. Tan Dinh, 60 rue de Verneuil.
Sensing—called the anti-bistro, this Guy Martin is a real find, especially when you tire of the same décor in the brasseries and bistros. Excellent and not-too-rich cuisine and a wonderful bar in the front. 19, rue Brea (just off Blvd de Montparnasse)
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