The Earrings

I am standing at the jewelry counter at Saks Fifth Avenue, visiting a pair of earrings. This is my third trip to Saks. These earrings are haunting me. 

There is a tall, fit, distinguished looking man standing just beyond my reach. He wants to surprise his girlfriend with a necklace, or maybe a bracelet and matching earrings.

“Is this a special occasion?” asks the sales associate.

Maybe she’s dying, I think.

He wants to surprise her with a gift when he takes her on vacation next week.

 “Where are you going?” asks the sales associate.

“Don’t say Paris,” I whisper. 

“Paris,” he says.

I consider slamming my head against the counter—instead, I text a friend.

“He’s perfect,” I tell her. 

“I’m about to get a mammogram,” she replies. 

In solidarity, I lean forward and press my foobs against the sterile, glass countertop.

I leave them long enough to create two symmetrical, 425 cc oval shaped imprints.

“Is there a price limit?” asks the sales associate.

“Nooooo,” his voice echoes.

Swiftly, I shift left, straddling the view of my favorite Italian designers newest collection.

The sales associate shifts right, and with eyes fixated on mine, dips below the counter, unlocks the casement door that is directly in line with my crotch, and removes a tray of gracefully displayed precious stones set in luscious, hand engraved gold.

I cannot bare witness to what unfolds next. In defeat, I retreat to the sanctity and solitude of my home. 

It is Thursday, the day Dora cleans my house. I open the door and reflect on how fortunate I am to have someone clean for me. In addition to the standard service, every so often, when the mood strikes her, she changes and IRONS my bed sheets. Today is that day and this feels extra sweet.

I go to my closet and there, in my hamper of dirty clothes, on top of my dirty sheets, is a pair of men’s cotton briefs. 

It’s been six months and seventeen days since I’ve shared my hamper with a man.

It’s been six months and seventeen days since I’ve gained 50% more closet space.

It’s been six months and seventeen days since he left me behind.

From the beginning

I knew meeting could only

End in parting, yet

I ignored the coming dawn

And I gave myself to you.

                                                                             Japanese poet —Fujiwara no Teika

I live in a river of change. I no longer resist change.

It was a crisp, early autumn evening when I accompanied George to Lincoln Center for a searing performance of New York City Ballet’s ‘Balanchine Black and White.’ 

There is newness to his touch, a freshness to his kiss. I awaken to the warmth of his body next to mine. But our hearts are not aligned.

I will buy my own jewelry.

I will vacation solo.

A woman who has never been wounded can never heal.

Now that I am broken, I can blossom.

xo, MonkeyME

More About the Blindfold

A continuation of  Me as Mrs. Robinson

"I have scars," she said.
"Me too," he said.

And then he showed her his scar. A tiny, sliver of a scar just above his right eye.

"Dangerous spot," she said.
"I know," he said.

And then she showed him her scars--massive battle wounds across both breasts and her stomach, a chemo port scar, and numerous skin cancer scars across her forehead, neck, arms, and legs.

But before she showed him her scars, she blindfolded him. And then, just in case he peaked, she lowered the lights.

She placed a bottle of well-chilled, California chardonnay on her lips and sucked hard. And then she poured some down his throat. And then she turned up the funk.

Now... she was ready.

He was attentive. He was eager. And when she finally turned off her brain, she was present.

It was invigorating and it was powerful. But best of all, it was casual.

I am learning how to live on my own for the first time in my life.

I am learning how to have casual relationships with men, and sustainable relationships with women.

I kept his socks--black, ironman, crew length socks. I wear them sometimes when I'm feeling frisky. I like feeling frisky.

I only reached out to him once since our adventure and I was sober when I did it.

"Incase you're feeling weird about me being older, you should know I am the same age as Madonna," she said.

When I confessed this to my daughter she said he probably didn't feel weird about it until I brought it up. In hindsight, I'm certain she is right.

He showed me a picture of his post Burning Man haircut. Gone was his man bun. Gone were those wild, rockstar, playa dust, fussed dreads.

Gone was my wolf cub crush.

I am putting dating on hold while I focus on pleasing me. This is challenging for a women who craves male attention.

I still see George Clooney from time to time when he's not off doing whatever it is famous people do. He is attentive, and patient, and fun. He is casual.

A friend of mine is dying. After a 12 year battle with breast cancer, she is in the final days of her life. Her husband is by her side. She is letting go and he is clinging to her every breath. It is heartbreaking to witness and yet, I can't help but marvel at their love. It is a love that is complete, and pure, and so good. It is a love that will last beyond her death.

When I'm done with casual, I want that kind of love.

xo, MonkeyME

Me as Mrs. Robinson

The Graduate (1967)

Benjamin: Wood?
Mrs. Robinson: What?
Benjamin: Wood or wire? They have both.
[Offering Mrs. Robinson a coat hanger]

Burning Man (2015)

Wolf: Wood? 

Monkey: What? 

Wolf: Wooden or fur paddle? We have both.

[Offering Monkey Me a spanking]

Life is unpredictable. Never in my wildest dreams could I have envisioned a "Mrs. Robinson" scenario on what would be my 12th year at Burning Man, and my first burn as a single woman.

The cards played out just right. After a week of flirtation, I returned to camp and found him waiting for me. The moon was full. We had all just witnessed the ritualistic burning of the Man - a sixty foot wooden statue that is the heart, fuel, and focus of the event. And with it went my long list of insecurities, fears, and regrets (all involving men) that I literally nailed to the base of the man, directly aligned with his crotch.  

There were so many reasons why I shouldn't have. For starters, the obvious; I was older than his mother and he was younger than my daughter. 

But there were even more reasons why I should have. Most enticing... that swagger. That hip, cool, Mick Jagger swagger. And those tone, taunt abs. 

[ummm, ummm, ummm...] 

There were undeniable signs from the universe. First, his name - Wolf. My very first boyfriend's name was Wolf - Peter Wolf. And then there was his date of birth - August 17th - my wedding anniversary and coincidentally, the date of my divorce.  

My campmates, all acting as my voice of reason, were in complete agreement; age is irrelevant. 

Because I am an adult, I set rules.  And because he is barely an adult, he agreed.

Monkey: I'm going to play funk. I'm going to blindfold you. And I'm going to write about it.

He set one of his own.

Wolf: I'm keeping your socks.

And then there was my unsolicited advice.

Monkey: Stop with the tattoos. Thirty years from now, your idea of what's 'hip and cool' will change. 

Even more prolific Monkey advice...

Monkey: Thirty years from now, the only thing you'll still love is music and blow jobs. You might not even love fucking because your back might ache or your knees might be shot. But you're always going to love blow jobs. So make certain the woman of your dreams worships your cock.

Memories of that delicious evening will arouse me way beyond menopause.

I am certain I rocked his world.

It felt like a reward for enduring years of rejection from a man who was focused on women other than me. Fantasies mostly. Fantasies about younger women, surgically-enhanced, voluptuous...

It felt like a reward for the rejection I was force-fed in the aftershock of my fifty-something-and-single-again-life. 

Forty-something guy: "We can be lovers, but there can be no love, you are too old."

Fifty-something guy: "I found someone better, someone younger."

And then there was George Clooney: "How old do you want to be today?" 

And he would say 23, or 22, or 21. And I would be one year his junior.  It felt like our imagination manifested itself. To me, Wolf was the reincarnation of my twenty-something George Clooney.

I returned home with a sense of empowerment that I have never felt before. I now blow right by the dismissive, fifty-something, hedge-fund puppet masters without giving a second glance. Too old, too stuffy, too ...

It was, hands down, my best Burn EVER. I love my campmates. I love how the event continues to challenge me and enrich my life. I love how Burning Man gives you exactly what you need, even if that includes a delicious, twenty-something, playa playmate.

xo, MonkeyME

at Polo, post Burning Man Wolf infusion

[I choose wood]

For The Birds

Every year, around Mother's day, orioles appear. They are magnificient. If I'm lucky, they will nest in an old birch tree that is rooted just beyond my deck. 

May is a difficult month and the birds comfort me. May is all about Mother's Day and Memorial Day. Memorial Day is the holiday that coincided with the death of my son in 2002.

This Memorial Day, I received a call from David. David is Tinder date number #3. David and I had been canoodling since February of this year. David and I did fun things together. David liked electronic dance music, bar food, and New Orleans. David introduced me to his family, friends and coworkers. I liked David's family, friends, and coworkers. David was well respected by his peers and appeared to be a kind, nurturing father to his three daughters.

David, despite his uncanny resemblance to a toucan, was the perfect Mr. Right Now.

Until he dumped me, on Memorial Day, for "someone better."

David did this knowing it was the anniversary of my son's death. In David's well rehearsed break-up speech, he insisted on telling me how wonderful she made him feel.

And I couldn't help but wonder... how long have I been attracted to selfish men? 

Two weeks before Memorial Day, my soon-to-be-X-husband agreed to stay at my home and watch our dogs while I went to Newport with Toucan David. I came home to find his idiot brother, perched in a lawn chair in the driveway, eating pizza and drinking beer. There was no sign of my soon-to-be-X-husband and the house was trashed.

When I told my idiot, soon-to-be-X-brother-in-law, to leave and he refused, I picked up the garden hose that he had just used to wash his Porsche, and hosed him down. When he yelled in protest, I aimed for his mouth. It was like one of those carnival games, where you aim your water pistol at the clowns mouth.

When I offered to wash the inside of his Porsche, he agreed to leave. The next day, I changed my locks and had an alarm system installed.

On Memorial Day, I set out for a walk and spotted a dead barn sparrow stuck in a glue trap along the neighboring carport rafters where they nest.

I first noticed the traps a few weeks back, but thought they were cardboard cut-outs set to discourage the sparrows from nesting. What a horrific death that must have been (I will not post that picture).

Earlier in May, I was told that the swallows swooped one of the building owners who is handicapped and uses a motorized scooter to get from his car to the building.

I have to assume he approved, if not initiated the trapping, and I find it ironic that a physically disabled person would subject an animal to such barbaric restraints.

On Memorial Day, I called PETA and learned that barn swallows are protected under the "Migratory Bird Act of 1918" and that it is illegal to intentionally kill, injure, or destroy them, their nest, or their eggs.

On Memorial Day, I watched the on-call building maintenance man remove the glue traps.

On Memorial Day, I waited for a call, text, or email from my soon-to-be-X-husband. Thinking surely he would reach out knowing how difficult this day is for me - how difficult this day was for US.

The call never came. But the awakening did.

On Memorial Day, I realized that I have been attracted to selfish men for a very long time.

I have always admired the barn swallows. They are loyal. They are fearless. They are resilient.

And so am I.

xo, Monkey Me 

WHAT I SEE

I am alone, blissfully alone. My home is filled with fresh cut flowers - gifts to myself. I write from an empty, oversized bed. It is plush, and cozy, and lovely here.

My bedroom is my favorite room in the house. It is spacious, and whimsical, and oh so inspiring. Tall ceilings and a spiral staircase lead to an open loft accentuated in skylights. This is my creative space. My sewing machine is here and mounds and mounds of faux fur. And fabric that stretches and bounces and sparkles. And paintbrushes and paints, and books on painting, and sketching, and etching. And beads! Tiny, grains of honed, semi-precious stones. And baubles that only make sense to me.

In front of me is a deck dotted in pansies, and tulips, and ivy, and all things spring. I have a new, turquoise blue, patio umbrella. My old one was brown. Now, no matter what the forecast, I am guaranteed a brilliant, blue sky.

Just beyond my deck is a willowy old riverbed and thanks to April showers, it is fed, at full force, by a magnificent waterfall - a steady source of relaxation and rejuvenation.

For the first time in my life I am without a man - without my father, without my son, and without a husband.

I am untethered.

I am fueled by three little words... I am done. 

From the moment I released those words, nothing else mattered. Not what he did or didn't do, not the pain, or the disappointment, or the rage, or the regrets.

I am no longer the victim. I am the victor.

There are a few things missing. Things that had nothing to do with me. Things that were gently used - golf clubs, tennis rackets, guitars, mounds of baseball caps and unscuffed sneakers.

Weird stuff is missing too. Gone are all the secrets, those dirty little secrets.

I gave away my television and the desktop computer that was the catalyst for much of our demise. My noise of choice is now music. Today it's a funky, jazz, techno beat that syncs with the sizzle of a gentle rain.

I am focused on me - on me being healthy and happy.

I like pulp in fresh squeezed orange juice.
I like lime green vases bursting with white hydrangeas.
I like wearing bedroom slippers.
I like who I choose to spend time with.
I like where I live.
I like what I do.
I really like my new, turquoise blue umbrella.

I like me.

xo, MonkeyME

Clown Down

"There is nothing special about dying. We all do it. It's how we live that counts."

Caught in a Hope Floats moment, what I told my Tinder date after delivering the crib note version of my cancer crusade and witnessing his pathetic, clown down face.

The End

I am dating again. Which means that my on again, off again, marriage has reached it's final chapter.

It took me a long time to get to this point but in the end, I made the choice to let it go and it is a relief. I no longer feel hurt, disappointed, or angry. I don't blame anyone, especially not myself. We are now at the beginning of a civil separation which I am certain will lead to a happy divorce.

And because I am impatient, I leaped back into the dating pool. Date number one made me cry. Date number two got a black eye.

Intrigued?

From the get go Radish (not his real name) was cocky, overbearing, and dismissive - ego based qualities that I typically loath, but in my raw, newly single state, found appealing.

Physically, he is mildly attractive with a big bear stance, HUGE paws, and warm eyes.

In his mind he is successful, strong, sexy... a player and a great catch.

In my mind, he is highly amusing, uncouth, and ambitious.

I was surprised when he asked me to dinner because of our significant age difference (he is 10 years my junior). When I questioned him about it he said, with a broken Central European accent,"This not problem for me. This problem for you?"

Typically, my choice of men would be one that is totally smitten by me. A man that I could control and manipulate. This cantankerous, cocky man, would be a challenge.


We had numerous arguments (via text) and two breakups in the days leading up to our date.

The first came when he sent me a scandalous selfie taken in a public locker-room and the second when I engaged my PI side and searched public court documents to determine if his wife was aware of his pending divorce (she is).

Determined to let him lead, when he chose a sushi restaurant that I had dined at the night before with my daughter, I said nothing.

Uber escorted, I arrived fashionably late and visibly nervous in new, black stretch straight-legged jeans, an elegant cashmere sweater, and kick-ass Tory Burch boots. Not knowing what his idea of dress-to-impress might be, and half expecting a sea of gold chains across an over-exposed, bushy chest,  I was pleasantly surprised by his classic, conservative attire.

He immediately took charge, ordering a boat load of sushi (an actual three foot long boat full of food) and I passively drank what he ordered (a blood orange margarita).

Avoiding the squid and focused on the tuna, I ate not out of hunger but to steady my nerves and tequila infused sea legs.

On the advice of my daughter, I avoided conversations involving my three failed marriages or my three rounds of cancer and instead let him expose his underbelly.

And so he talked and I listened. But mostly we laughed. We laughed about the simplicities of everyday life. We laughed about ourselves and the comical situations we had wiggled our way into. We laughed until we were the only patrons in the restaurant and the staff grew impatient. We laughed until he leaned over our corner table for four, looked me straight in the eyes and said, "We can be lovers but there can be no love. You are too old."

This is when the laughter stopped. This is when I broke into tears. Not just a few, well-timed teardrops, but I openly sobbed. Because my white cloth table napkin was not absorbent, it took me two trips to the ladies room to compose myself enough to leave the restaurant.

Our effort to salvage the evening with "dance" failed when JHouse, the local "disco," was empty. Instead he drove erratically to the harsh, repetitive beat of Polish house music while I rambled on, and on, and on, about my cancer.

By the time he dropped off me at my front door, we agreed never to see each other again.

This is why people take a self-imposed, time-out between relationships. This is why women give up on men all together. This is painful.

Because you can't keep a good clown down, I got home and immediate reactivated my Tinder account. Determined to find a man who did not think I was "too old," I skimmed through countless profiles while my eyes were still swollen from tears.

Silly Shannon...

After tweaking my five, put-your-best-face-forward photo's, I was convinced that this Shannon was not "too old" for anyone between the ages of 46 to 60.

Like fishing in a well-stocked trout pond, my late night Tinder trolling sparked several bites. The first was Johnny Manicotti (not his real name), a fit, stable (by his own definition), 52 year old, newly divorced bachelor currently residing in North Carolina but visiting family less than a mile away.

PERFECT - no strings and no time for tears.

His best-face-forward picture was of a trim, well-toned, topless man, lounging on a sun-drenched beach chair, so I suggested our first date be a walk at the beach.

After juggling the complexities of our desperately single schedules, we agreed to meet the next day at 10:00 am.

I armed myself with a double layer of down, sensible, waterproof boots, shades to conceal my still swollen eyes, faux fur hat, gloves, and my 95 pound Bernese Mountain dog.

He, avoiding the advice of his mother, arrived underdressed in pearl white sneakers, a light-weight wool baseball jacket, bare head and hands.

I offered him my hat, a desperate attempt to avoid the glare of his newly dyed (scalp still stained), pitch black, deeply receding clown hair, but he declined my offer.

So, with the wind at our faces, we set out for an uncomfortable stroll on the beach.

Winter weekends at the beach are all about the dog. Dogs off leash. Dogs of all sizes. So if you say, "you like dogs," you'd better mean it.

After a quick recount of my failed marriages and my cancer crusade, we coincidentally bumped into Boris (not his real name) - my faithful, freakishly tall friend.

"Look, there are the other two dogs from my Tinder photo, and LOOK, there is my friend Boris!" I jubilantly announced.

Johnny, who is no fool, was cordial but not amused.

It became apparent that Johnny's idea of "likes dogs" was from a distance, when he found himself surrounded by a menagerie of furry's that included a cluster of Bernese Mountain dogs who insisted on sitting on his feet and burrowing themselves between his legs (typical Berner behavior), and he was visibly shaken.

And then, as if the date wasn't awkward enough, corralled in a cluster of canines who, like a school of sharks, sensed his fear, Johnny tripped on a ripple of wet sand and fell forward.

Boris, reacting with the instinct of a prize fighter, extending both arms in an attempt to steady Johnny but instead, Boris's left hand connected with Johnny's right eye.

Later at Starbucks, it wasn't until his second trip to the mens room (nerves or enlarged prostate?) that he noticed his visible bruise.

Later that day I received a text from Johnny stating, "Mom thinks you abused me, LOL."

This time, I didn't bite. Besides, Mom was right.

xo, Monkey ME

Christmas Kitten

I am not a happy holiday shopper. My list is short and if it's not available on Amazon Smile, it's not happening.

My husband and I exchange the same thing every year... socks. Socks are stress free. Socks are one size fits all and you can never have too many.

Last year I used the excuse that I was going through chemo and bought NOTHING. Last year was not a good Christmas.

Two years ago, on Christmas Eve, I willingly drove down Greenwich Avenue—a quarter mile grid of upscale shops in the center of town—with the intention of  buying ONE gift. It didn't matter what the gift was as long as the store was directly in front of an open parking space.

I was halfway down the avenue before I found a spot. It was in front of St. Mary's Parish. There, on the front lawn, beside a life-sized mangier, stood an elderly, elf-sized nun.

Convinced that this was a sign from above, I got out of my car and wished her a Merry Christmas.

"Want to see what I found?" she asked, "It's inside."

Refusing a nun on Christmas Eve seemed wrong, so into the rectory I went.

I was led to a dark corner of the kitchen, where a warped cardboard box housed a single kitten.

"Someone left three kittens on our doorstep," she told me.
"Where are the other two?" I asked.
"I can't remember," she confessed.

She lifted the unsuspecting kitten, squeezing him a bit too tightly, and handed him to me.

With two dogs and a cat at home, and condo rules that state only one pet per household, the last thing I needed was a kitten, but the odds of him surviving were grim if I left him behind.

I was halfway out the door, kitten cradled in my arms, when I remembered I was babysitting Mylo, my grandson's rambunctious rat terrier, who was anxiously waiting for me in the car.

Convinced the kitten was for his enjoyment, Mylo opened his mouth and lunged at the kitten the moment I opened the door.

The terrified kitten scurried out of my arms, up my chest, and onto my shoulder—imbedding his nails into the fur collar of my coat.

With my left arm on the wheel, my right hand on Mylo, and a kitten on my shoulder, I slowly worked my way down the avenue to my final stop before returning home—a seafood shop called The Lobster Bin.

My initial thought was to leave the kitten in the car and tie Mylo outside the store, but I couldn't get the kitten to release his grip so into the store we went.

The Lobster Bin was packed with frazzled shoppers. Immediately John, the owner, leaned over the counter and asked why I had a kitten on my shoulder. Everyone listened as told the story of the abandoned kitten.

"How much you want for him?" John asked.

"How about a donation to the church. You decide how much," I answered.

"Deal!" said John, "But I can't bring him home. My wife is allergic. He will have to live here."

"That's one lucky kitten," said a women to my left.

Overhearing this, John smiled wide and reached for his new kitten.

"Come to Papa, Lucky," said John.

The kitten, governed by his keen sense of smell, jumped off my shoulder and into John's arms.

My quest for a single gift turned out to be for me. I was given the gift of a story—the true story of how I flipped a kitten, in less than fifteen minutes, one magical Christmas Eve.

xo, Monkey Me

Living

Four months of NOTHING from an otherwise outspoken monkey. Where have I been?

I am here.

I am guilty of enjoying a stoma free, cancer free life.

I am living it up in all the right places, most of it fueled by music and my love of the dance.

I am enjoying my choice of work. I am helpful instead of helpless. This is wonderful medicine.

I am relishing the relationships that cushioned me from the isolation of a merciless illness.

I am revamping the ones that cause me to question every aspect of myself.

And I am releasing the ones that no longer wish me well.

I continue to explore my souls true purpose and strive for a life lived beyond fear.

After a visit to the Omega Institute, where I basked in the healing energy of John of God, I discovered that I have not forgiven myself for my son's death. The guilt is there, buried beneath my bravado and unshakable resilience. Guilt festers and feeds my dis-ease.

It is always my fault, especially when it isn't. If you sit across the table from me and spill your drink, I will blame myself for off-balancing the table. This is my way of punishing myself.

I am learning how to forgive myself, how to find peace within myself. It is an ongoing process and for me, a difficult one.

I am learning how to love myself, celebrate the goodness that governs most of what I do (when I am good) and accept my shortcomings.

When I am high, I make plans. I expect wellness. I fix my gaze on radiant abundance and I rejoice in the magnificence of the moment.

When I am low, I go to the colorectal cancer boards and count the ones who have advanced to stage 4, or worse, are dead. I recap their decline and envision their suffering. I have yet to find someone who died without pain. I fear the pain.

I am quick to correct people when they declare that I have "beaten cancer" when in fact, the best that I can tell you is that my body shows "no evidence of disease."

I am one of the lucky ones. I have been granted the luxury of clear scans and "within normal range" tumor markers. I can now stop fighting and adjust to the permanent side effects of chemotherapy, radiation, and surgery.

Instead of following my doctors directive of scans every three months, I opted to have scans every six months. It's been six months. Now I'm thinking I'll wait until November.

In celebration of Halloween, I am headed to New Orleans with my beautiful daughter and several wonderful friends. We will be joining other wonderful friends. There will be an abundance of merriment coupled with sassy silliness and tales so scandalous your heads will spin. Because this is what I do when I release the fear and focus on the joy. There is so much joy.

Burning Man 2014. 

Vamp Camp's staged (fully functional) bidet.
Again and again, the playa provides.

xo, MonkeyME

Miss You Much

I am a writer. I owe this, among many things, to my father.

Happy Birthday Dad.

L. Roger Kennedy 

6/19/24 to 1/29/2012

Play Date For Dad

The screech of my father’s velcro-fastened sneakers, scuffling across a well-waxed gymnasium floor, catches the attention of everyone in line.

It is Election Day, and the local elementary school is overflowing with civic-minded seniors.

Because Parkinson’s disease transformed his once commanding stride into an unsteady, rigid gate, I insist he use a cane. But he hates his cane more than he hates peas, and so, like a belligerent child, he drags it behind him.

“Address please,” spouts a poll worker.

“Proof of residency,” requests another.

“Name please,” demands a third.

“Hi Roger,” murmurs a fourth.

He doesn’t mind the inefficiency or the formality. It’s a beautiful, crisp fall day, and we are “out and about.”

“That's a sharp hat, Joe,” says Dad to a man sporting a New York Yankees cap.

“Smart purple outfit, Dottie,” he says to a stout woman with waves of freshly set, snow-white hair.

“It’s velour. Want to feel it, Roger?” flirts Dottie.

“Maybe later,” winks Dad.

Dad despises the Yankees and has always considered purple a gauche color, but he knows how to make people smile - most of all, me.

Dottie hands Dad a ballot, hooks her arm in his, and escorts us to a small, makeshift voting booth.

“Fill in the circle next to the candidate of your choice,” instructs Dottie as she hands him a #2 pencil.

 “I can’t see. You do it, Shannon,” whispers Dad.

One by one, I pronounce each candidate’s name and party affiliation. When he hears the one he wants he lifts his hand and declares, “that one!”

With voting now complete, we move to the ballot box at the far corner of the gym.

“Put it in there,” points Dottie.

“I know where it goes,” insists Dad.

“Good for you,” says Dottie.

“You take it, Shannon,” whispers Dad.

As we exit, Dottie says, “You know Roger, Bill doesn’t leave the house anymore.”

“Why not?” asks Dad.

“Parkinson’s,” whispers Dottie.

During their glory days, Bill and Dad were fierce rivals on the high school football team and were often featured on the front page of the local paper. 

“You should stop and see him,” suggests Dottie.

“Can’t…too busy,” insists Dad.

Dad built his company, a security/investigation/detective agency, from the ground up. His work ethic was as ferocious as his athleticism.

“It’s not the right way, or the wrong way, but Roger Kennedy’s way!” he would bellow.

Two blocks away from our office is the Senior Center - a town funded facility that offers numerous social activities including exercise classes, lectures, and well-balanced meals.

“I don’t have time for that place,” insists Dad. “I have work to do.”

Dad comes to the office every day, sits at his desk, reads the paper, and takes a nap.

I know he enjoys watching the mayhem that plays out during a typical workday, and now with me at the helm, there is an undeniable sense of pride in his tone.

“You accomplished a lot today,” he’ll tell me.

“Don’t let it get you down,” he’ll say when things don’t go my way.

I know how fortunate we both are to have this time together, but he lacks the companionship of people his age.

Later that week, I tell him about my plan.

“I’m taking you to Bill’s house,” I tell him. “It’s a beautiful day, come on let’s go.”

“I can’t today. I’m too busy,” insists Dad. “Besides, it’s too far. I can’t walk there.”

“I’ll drive you,” I tell him.

It takes Dad longer to get into the car than it does to get to Bill’s house.

“There it is,” shouts Dad when he spots Bill's modest home. “It’s across from the cemetery, just past the old hospital.” (Torn down in 1951.)

I park in Bill's driveway, walk to the passenger side of the car and open the door.

“Can’t get out,” says Dad.

“Why not?” I ask.

“Too many leaves,” insists Dad.

I kick a dusting of freshly fallen autumn leaves to the side and, with two hands, urge Dad out of the car.

Bill is waiting on the front porch. Joan, his wife of 52 years, peeks out from inside the front door. Just four steady steps separate these former rivals.

“Take your time, Roger,” says Bill.

“I got it. Don’t you worry,” asserts Dad.

“Hold onto the rail,” instructs Bill.

 “Help me, Shannon,” whispers Dad.

Not much has changed since Bill and his wife settled into their home in the mid 1950’s. Pale blue, low pile acrylic carpeting covers the living room floor. Tattered, gold-striped curtains mask cloudy windows. A collection of knick-knacks and family portraits rest on doilies that dot dusty tabletops.

Bill insists Dad sit in his favorite chair - a velvet tufted recliner.

“Go ahead Roger, have a seat,” instructs Bill.

“I don’t need to sit,” says Dad.

“You don’t need to sit, or you don’t want to sit?” asks Bill.

“I don’t need to sit,” counters Dad.

“Ohhh you’d better sit,” urges Bill.

“You need to sit, Dad,” I whisper, as I coax him into the chair.

Getting Dad in a chair can be a challenge, especially if the seat is too low to the ground. It is more like a well-aimed plop than a steady squat.

Once situated, Dad surveys the living room layout, spots a matching love-seat across the room and asks, “Where are YOU going to sit Bill?”

“I prefer to stand,“ says Bill. “Don’t you worry about me, Roger.”

“You don’t need to sit, or you don’t want to sit?” asks Dad.

It’s as though I’m watching a game of chess, each attempting to outmaneuver the other.

Joan waits in the hallway, smiling. “Want a cup of tea?” she asks me.

I can feel Dad’s eyes pleading for me to stay close, but clearly these two need one-on-one time.

I listen as Joan talks about her ailments but mostly she talks about Bill. She tells me about Bill’s debilitating condition. She tells me about his time in the hospital and later in the nursing home.

“Terrible place,” she moans.

Dad also did some time in a nursing home, but I keep this information to myself.

From the other room I can hear Dad brag about all the things we do together. About our trips to the beach, rides to the cemetery and watching sports. My father paints a pretty good picture. Truth is, we don’t get “out and about” as often as we should.

“We go to the UCONN Huskies women’s basketball games,” he tells Bill.

We've been to two games total.

“We go on the Island Beach boat a lot,” he insists, although we missed all of last summer.

“I like a glass of wine when I’m at Shannon's house,” he boasts. “She's a really good cook."

I have never been known for my culinary skills.

“How old are you, Roger?” asks Bill.

“What?” asks Dad.

“I said, how old are you,” repeats Bill.

“I didn't catch that,” says Dad.

“ROGER, I can’t remember how old you are!” shouts Bill.

“I’m 84,” says Dad. He is 85.

Bill waits for my father to ask him how old he is. My father knows that Bill is younger, so he sits in stoic silence.

“I’m going to be 83 in two weeks and they’re throwing me a big party!” says Bill.

“Let’s go, Shannon!” shouts Dad.

And off we go.

The total time at spent at Bills is just short of 30 minutes.

“Boy, he looked old,” says Dad.

“I thought he looked great,” I tell him.

“Did he brag about his daughter?” I ask.

“Of course he did,” says Dad.

And then Dad surprises me.

“Next time, let’s bring Bill to my place,” says Dad.

“Sounds great!” I tell him.

And so, I set another date. Another play date for Dad.

Roger and Bill

Dad, chasing his man down on Havemeyer Field, where, at his request, I spread his ashes. 

With Love and Sustainable Memories, 

MonkeyME