It’s a busy week; I have a bridesmaid lunch, an orthopedic surgeon’s appointment, a wedding rehearsal dinner, my best friend’s wedding, fondue with Q and my mother, getting a new tattoo on my calf (and Q is getting a new one on her forearm), having dinner and lunches with lots of friends, speaking at the LGBT Center’s Womyn’s circle, holding two employee for Fascinations, teaching a class at SKALES,  visiting all 5 Denver area stores, holding a free workshop on full spectrum sexuality at the Arvada store on Thursday night, meeting with an event director at a hotel to talk about possible wedding plans, and then, a whole weekend at Thunder in the Mountains before heading back to the heat of Arizona.

Looking forward to being home for so long, because Denver still remains home to me in my heart, and Q’s as well. We’ve both been feeling pretty home sick lately. I’ll miss our kitties of course; that’s always the hardest part.

I’ll have internet on and off, but if I’m slow in replying to comments, emails, tweets, etc, please excuse my delay. And if you’re local in Denver, I’d love to see you at one of my classes/workshops/seminars, really!

-Essin’ Em

Lots of people don’t have fathers; they have lost them physically (due to death, as in the case of my father), or emotionally. They have been estranged, have distanced themselves, have been kicked out due to their identity or relationships, or perhaps they were raised not by mother and father, but just by mother. Or grandparents. Or aunt and uncle. Or uncles.

So if you have a father, one still alive, and in your live, who care about you, and whom you care about, go forth, and wish him a happy father’s day.

But for everyone else, who doesn’t have (or maybe never had) a father, please take a moment to think about someone in your life, someone with masculine energy, who has been a mentor to you, who has been a role model to you, who has been there for you. Perhaps you’re blood related, perhaps not. Who knows when you even spoke to them last. It doesn’t matter. Think about that person (or hopefully, those people) who has cared for and supported you in similar ways to a father, who as been there for you.

Please take a moment to celebrate with them. Maybe that is just a quick email, a handwritten note, or a phone call. Maybe it’s walking into the other room, or maybe it’s placing a long distance call internationally. Maybe it’s a present, maybe it’s dinner, maybe it’s just sitting in some rocking chairs on a front porch. Whatever it is, let them know you recognize them, and thank them for their care, their support, their guidance.

We don’t all have fathers, but every single one of us has had a mentor, a role model, or at the very least, someone older than us (by a day or by 70 years) who has taken us under their wing, and given us care. I want to take that day to recognize and thank these people.

That’s all.

-Essin’ Em

That’s me on the right, at an ice show rehearsal circa 1995?

Today, April 23, 2010, is the 11th anniversary of the death of my father, the greatest man I will ever know. He was one of the most amusing, inspiring, intelligent, wonderful people to ever grace the face of this earth, and that’s not just my biased view. You didn’t see the number of people at his funeral, the number of people who came out of the woodwork to tell him goodbye and to tell us how much he had meant to them, the kind words written about him online by people all over the world, and so on. He was a great man.

When I was younger, I remember visiting him in the hospital in my Care Bear outfit (yes, I’ve been a nerd since a very young age). He had cancer (non-hodgkin’s lymphoma) and was occasionally hospitalized for pneumonia, or other infections. He went into remission in the early 90’s. Then, summer 1998, when we were in Europe, he started feeling off again. He was re-diagnosed at the end of the summer. My family didn’t tell me until Feb 1999, because they didn’t want to throw off my skating competition (WHAT THE FUCK — I still resent this immensely) or worry my sister and I.

Now I know why he cried at that competition when I put my first place medals around his neck and told him it was all his fault that I’d won. It’s a good thing they told us when they did – my dad ended up in the hospital the next week. It was a hard time – mydad was constantly in chemo, and was in and out of the hospital. I stopped doing my math homework; who cares about algebra and equations when your father was sick and his life hung in the balance? I spent every night after school either at rehearsal for my play, or with my dad at good old St. Joe’s, getting him ice chips, and joking around about the disgusting food, and taking the crosses off the wall.

At the end of March was my last show at the Logan School for Creative Learning (my elementary and middle school). I had a starring role in “The Madwoman of Chillot,” but didn’t think my father in his weak state could go – 3 flights of stairs, and sitting in a folding chair for 3 hours just wasn’t going to happen. My school loved my dad though, and banded together. They were able to help him up the stairs, and put him in the tech director’s special high backed rolling arm chair so that he could keep his neck upright (carried up those 3 flights). At the end of the show, they unrolled a banner signed by every single member of the cast and crew that said “We love you Sol!” and dedicated the show to him. By this point, he was bald (I called him Daddy Warbucks), and had lost more than 50 pounds. He was sunken in his chair, but had tears streaming down his face at this show of love by the people in his life. It was an amazing night, and the best performance of my life, bar none.

He started getting better, and was put on a list for a stem cell transplant. Every night before he went to bed, I told him how much I loved him…that’s just how we were. Until the morning of Friday, April 23, 1999, when I was woken up by my mother at 10am, which was odd, since it was a school day. She took me into my sister’s room, and told us that he had died in the night. She had woken up when he made a noise, and called 911, and tried to give him CPR, but it hadn’t worked. She was terrified that we would wake up with the ambulance’s sirens, and paramedics running through the house. We didn’t.

That day, I missed school, but they held an all school assembly in memory of my dad. I stayed home, cleaning up the house for the after funeral party. It snowed that day, a lot, given that it was April. I answered the door for the people coming by, took the flowers and arranged them. That night, I went to rehearsal for the ice show, because that’s what my father would have wanted, and I didn’t see any reason to not go.

Saturday, I went to the funeral home with my mother (Jews don’t believe in embalming, so funerals happen fast), and she was a wreck. I helped to plan my father’s funeral, to pick out his casket, to figure out how many police on motorcycles we needed. I was 13, and making choices as to how my father would be buried. Try telling me that hasn’t affected me every day for the rest of my life.

We asked for the small, 75 person chapel at my temple. When we arrived on Sunday morning, they had already had to move it to a large chapel, because too many people had already shown up (which was unexpected – we didn’t even publish an obituary with a funeral time). By the time the service started, it was standing room only. I wore a black dress with one of my father’s Hawaii shirts over it. He wore a Hawaiian shirt every day – to work, to skating, to school, etc. So I wore one. I read a poem, and after the service, my mother, sister and I opened the casket, alone. He was wrapped in a traditional Jewish Shroud, but underneath, he was in his $6 goodwill tuxedo he had bought for the father daughter skate, a Hawaiian shirt, and his rainbow suspenders. I left a little pig scupture in there with him.

We underestimated how many cops we would need to get to the cemetery. It was ridiculous – we figured just a few friends would come along. Everyone did. It snowed a little as he was buried. I remember the vase of flowers we left on his grave; we had too many at home already.

A few weeks later, his doctor called, and told us that his last tests had shown the cancer had spread all over his body – nothing could have stopped it, and nothing could have prevented him dying. Funny you know, because non-hodgkin’s lymphoma is considered a generally non-fatal type of cancer. A week or two after that, we got a message from the hospital – my dad was now at the top of the list for a stem cell transplant, and could he come in the following day? That was hard. As were all the calls from solicitors…especially the one when I said “No, I’m sorry, he’s deceased” and he said “when would be a good time to call back?” I asked him if he believed in reincarnation. What can you do?

My dad was a wonderful man. He was born in Sweden, moved to the US at age 1, and learned to speak Yiddish. English was his second language. He was kicked out of several schools for making mischief after he finished his school work before everyone else. He was in the air force for 3 years, stationed in Germany. He came back and got his bachelor’s in 2.5 years by working the hell out of the system. Then he got a Master’s in geology. After years with the government (BLM) as a geologist, he went back and got another degree as a computer scientist and stayed with the BLM. And did a lot of fancy computer programming stuff that I really don’t get, but he’s been called a pioneer in the field of meta-data analysis, and there is an award out there in his name.

He was a field trip parent for my classes – he had a giant suburban with a CB radio, and would show up for almost every trip. He came in to read stories to my class. Every year, we made latkes for everyone. At our roller skating parties, he’d be out there teaching every kid how to skate. Around Channukah, he’d dress up completely like a traditional Eastern European Jew, and re-enact (with my help of course) “Herschel and the Channukah Goblins.” Everyone knew and loved my dad.

When I took up figure skating, he did too, so that he could stay a little ahead of me, and help me learn things. After a while, I by-passed him in skills, but he kept skating. He even got a few jumps (he took this up at 44 or 45!), and quite a few bruises to prove it (never skate with a pocket knife in your pocket). One year, my sister and I skated to “the Sorcerer’s Apprentice” in an ice show – she was Mickey, and I was the Sorceress. Well, my dad put all on brown, tied some grass skirts around his knees, grabbed some buckets, and he became the brooms. I’m so not kidding. It was hilarious. In the father daughter skates in the ice shows, he had found a $6 tuxedo at goodwill, and wore it with a giant sequin bow tied and matching cummerbund, every year. And every year he’d try to throw some of his cool moves in (a little bunny hop here, some backwards skating there), and every year he’d get yelled at by the ice show director.

We used to see the circus every year, and one time, it was like our personal family at the circus day. My sister and I got picked from the audience to fly in a toy plane from the top of the coliseum, and then my father was picked for a clown skit. It involved “lay-people” tossing plates at each other, that broke when caught, and the audience people were supposed to just look confused and upset. Well, my dad started juggling them, throwing them under his leg, clapping them together, etc. He even followed the main clown around, mocking him (to the amusement of the crowd)…he told us later the clown told him in a heavy Russian accent to “cut it out! This is my show!” Later on, everyone was asking him if he was a plant, because he was that funny.

In 4th grade, I was farther ahead than everyone in my Hebrew class except for one girl. He volunteered to teach, and came in every weekend to teach special lessons to the two of us. Didn’t get paid, and got a lot of crap from me, but he did it, Sunday after Sunday.

When my girl scout troop was without a leader, he stepped up, becoming the only male leader in the Denver area. We learned knot tying, macramé, fire starting, archery, etc. I used to go to the “parent-daughter” girl scout camp weekends, and he’d go with me – usually one of only 4 or 5 dads (so we’d get the nice cabins with plumbing!).

On our own, he taught me to use a bow and arrow, how to play catch, how to carve words into sticks and trees. He made his own fireworks with steel wool. He took me with him to work all the time, not just on the official day. We had matching beanie propeller hats, except his had a little pig, and mine had a frog. He drove me religiously to dance and horseback riding lessons, and we’d listen to NPR on the way. We used to go thrift store and garage sale-ing every weekend spring-fall, and in the winter, we’d go to the lumber store sometimes. He built a two story play house for my sister and I in our back yard…that never got finished because of his death. It’s still there.

When I wanted my hair French braided, he went to a hair styling for kids class with me at Kazoo and Co. He was the only male there, but volunteered to practice for the demos, etc. We used to build hyped up remote control cars together for the critter crunch – trying to demolish our opponent’s cars. When I ever wanted a “new” computer, we’d build it together from spare parts, just the way I wanted it, even if that meant 3 floppy drives (totally pointless by the way). He got me games for DOS from all over the world. In NM, he used to take me shooting with my uncle, and was so proud of me when I turned out to be good at it. Once, we made our own wine…from a jury-rigged distillery we made in our kitchen. He taught me how car engines run, how to use a power drill, and how to waltz and summersault. Even our cats liked him best – always following him around, sleeping with him in his arm chair, leaving mice under his chair.

My father was my everything. He taught me so much, even when I didn’t want to learn (like the one summer he made me fill in a blank multiplication table every day, or the next year, when I had a daily long division problem). His crazy shirts, bolo ties, and tucan hats (as well as the rest of his antics) made me realize how important it is to live life to the fullest every day, because you never know what might happen. I even wrote my college essay on him. I got into my first choice because of him.

He never got to see me do my bat mitzvah, even though I wore his toucan hat during it (which miraculously survived the house fire we had a month after his death). He didn’t get to see me go to high school, to see me win any awards, to see me graduate high school, college or grad school. He never got to see me direct my first play, or sing in a musical. He would have been astonished that I was the President of the Jewish group at CC. He never got to threaten my partners with his .22 like he always promised. He would have LOVED Kinsey and Athena and Kali and Jasper, and would have played with them more than I do.

That day, not only did I lose a wonderful father, a great friend, a teacher, but the world lost a great man. It’s only in the last few years that I realize not only how much he influenced me, and how much he brightened my life, but that he did the same for hundreds of other people. It’s hard now – none of my current close friends, or my partner Q have ever met my dad, so they don’t know what exactly I’m missing, what piece of me is gone…I reacted differently to his death than most people react when they lose a loved one. We had never left anything unsaid, and I had nothing to feel guilty about. But the farther away I get from him, the more sad I am. I don’t remember anymore exactly what his voice sounds like. I don’t always remember his wry smile. I don’t believe in heaven or hell – I believe that when you die, your body is done, and your spirit goes into those whom you loved. I feel that as life trucks on and on, there is less and less of him in me, and that’s so hard.

Q often reminds me of him. Not all the time, but just here and there. Don’t they always say that girls go after guys that are like their daddies? I guess I found one like my dad in Q.

People ask me how long it took to move on. I tell them you never move on, you only work on healing.  How can you ever move on from someone who created who you are?

Here we are making potato latkes in my middle school

If you feel so inclined, wear a Hawaiian or brightly colored shirt today, in honor of him and his vibrant life. Or please donate to the American Cancer Society.

Thanks for reading that huge diatribe.

-Essin’ Em

And I’m off, once again, to New York to visit with Q’s family.

Family is such a hard concept for me.  I have such a small family; a grandfather and aunt (and her partner) in FL, my mother and sister in CO, and an aunt/uncle/3 cousins in Israel. That’s it. The whole thing.  I’ve met all of the Israelis I think 3 times (when I was little, my bat mitzvah and my sister’s bat mitzvah), and I see the FL troupe maybe once a year, my mother and sister MAYBE twice. They certainly have no plans to visit me in AZ.

But Q is so much closer with her family. She talks to them a lot, supports them through their problems, celebrates their triumphs. They are all so excited about her coming for a few days, and I just feel so out of place, like there is something wrong with me that I don’t have a large and/or loving and connected family.

It’s been over a decade (11 years next month) since my father died.  I’ve gotten over, for the most part, people asking my about my “parents” and “so, what is it that your father does?”  It’s just so hard for me to interact with family in the way that Q does. I want her family to like me so much, and I almost try too hard, and then wind up failing at my mission anyways. Le sigh.

But, we’re meeting with PhinLi bookings on Friday night, and I’m hoping to stop by Re/Dress (the plus size vintage/thrift store) to get some cute clothes and maybe a bathing suit, so I’m getting to check some “important” stuff off my list as well.

I leave you with this picture from Q and my last trip together, on the plane (in a shirt her mother gave me for the holidays), and I’ll see you on the flip side!

-Essin’ Em

I’m Jewish. Christmas has never been a big deal to my family. Perhaps brunch at a nice hotel, or going to see an opening day movie. But then again, holidays have never really been a big deal period.  Latkes for channukah with me, my sister, my mother, and when he was alive, my father.  When I had my bat mitzvah, my uncle, aunt and two of my three cousins attended from Israel, as well as my grandfather and aunt from Florida. My sister’s bat mitvah was the same deal, although a different two cousins.  Right now, my entire family in the world is ten people; my grandfather in FL, my aunt and her partner in Fl, my uncle, aunt and three cousins in Israel, and my mother and sister in CO.  That’s it.

So coming home with Q was…interesting…to say the least. On her father’s side alone, there are 12 or 13 cousins.  Three aunts, three uncles. Grandparents. Great aunts. Grandmother in laws (what?). Dogs. Birds. Etc. We flew in and went straight to her dad’s side’s Christmas Eve dinner. There were at least 25 people at this dinner. Overwhelming to say the least…at to that they are an incredibly enmeshed Italian family on Long Island, and yeah.  A bit crazy.

Christmas day was on her mother’s side.  It was just us two, her sister, her mother, and her two aunts. Plus a visit to Nana after. Much more manageable, but still hard.  Q and two of her cousins are the only three people FROM EITHER SIDE who do not live in New York, or New Jersey. The only ones. Everyone knows everyone’s business (her great aunt on her dad’s side told me she “knew” who I was, because she’d seen me on Q’s facebook!), everyone is giving guilt trips, and mentioning events and people for which I’m completely out of the loop, and poor Q feels overwhelmed, and guilty for not coming home more often, and I feel just…so out of place. People I’ve never met are kissing me on the cheek, I’m making up back stories for what my degree is in, and we’re playing the “do they REALLY understand what it means that we’re partners” game.  Oh yes, add to all this the fact I’m a strict vegetarian (as in no chicken broth in my mashed potatoes, none the less eating little shrimps), and they had less than 24 hours of notice that I was coming.

I’m typing this on the plane on the way home (I actually was supposed to fly out Saturday night. It’s now Monday afternoon).  Everyone has been offering me Zanax (xanax?) all weekend. For anxiety, for family issues, for the high pain problems I’ve been having. Perhaps I should have taken them up on the offer. I am so glad I came – her family IS very nice (some of them actually gave me presents!) and I am in love with her Nana. What a wonderful woman.  It was good to meet all of her family, and I have a better understanding of some of her quirks now.

But I couldn’t do this on any regular basis. I’m exhausted. Q broke down in tears this morning (very rare) because she felt like she was disappointing them by not being home more often, and because she was having Catholic (oh yes, I forgot to mention that part) guilt thrown at her by all sides. I’m so glad they didn’t hate me, or so I think…but I can’t imagine doing this all the time. Q’s sister  lives 20 minutes from everyone, and I see the poor thing being pulled in so many directions, trying to please everyone. It breaks my heart.

I look forward to seeing them again in March, and Christmas next year.  But for once in my life, I’m glad to have a small family that doesn’t put a ton of importance on the holidays.  I’ve been able to get through life so far without popping Xanax and I attribute my distance from and the small size of my family for this.

Give me a day or two, and I’m sure I’ll bounce right back. Let me just say that I have a new level of respect for people in huge families, especially when they live close by.

-Essin’ Em

-EE

And I do mean happy holidays.  Regardless of your religion, or spiritual beliefs, or your hate/love of consumerism, I wish you happy holidays.

I am alone in Phoenix. Q is visiting her family in NY. Tickets were over $500, which I can’t afford (and think it’s kind of silly to spend that much money now, when we are planning to visit New York at the end of March for a lot less using Buddy Passes). I’d rather save the extra towards the new car I’m going to need to buy this spring before it gets hot, or towards paying off our massive debt. And I’m going to Denver without her in January (using my Frontier points, so it’s free) without her, so I understand the need to visit your roots. AND I’m not Christian, so it’s not like I’m alone on my holiday.

But I don’t know really anyone here. I have no one to eat Chinese food with and go see Sherlock Holmes with me on Christmas Day (you know, traditional Jew celebration). I don’t have other things to distract me.

So I’m going to make some of my own traditions. Perhaps cooking something special. Cuddling with the kitties while I watch bad shark movies and re-watch Season 1 of Dexter. Who knows? But I shall make my own holidays, and not be limited by Chinese food and movies in the theatres.

Happy Holidays, however your celebrate (or don’t) to one and all!

-Essin’ Em

I don’t hate “breeders” in that I don’t hate straight people.  If you’re unfamiliar with the term breeders, it refers to straight people, hetero people, people having flesh penis in vagina intercourse.

I hate the TERM breeders.  It’s used mostly (although not exclusively) by LGBTQ people to refer to the “straighties” if you will.  

Don’t get it?  See, it comes from the concept that all straight people want babies. Henceforce, they’re breeders. And clearly, lesbian/gay/queer/etc couples can’t make babies, cause you know it’s impossible, so they don’t breed.

Ugh.  Let’s talk about sterotypes. All straight people want to make teh babies. Riiiight. Which is why contraception and birth control and tube tying is so popular.  Hello! Lots of straight/hetero couples are childless by choice.  They don’t little munchkins.  Yet, they still fall under the “breeders” tag.  On the other hand, lots of queer couples are having kiddos, whether via IVF (in-vitro fertilization) or adoption or using a friend of the couple for sperm or eggs. But noooo, they’re not breeders, not even when they are, in fact, breeding.

Basically, it’s a ridiculously stereotyping term, but it’s somehow “ok” because a minority is using it on the majority (think people of color calling white people “crackers”). Why? Broad generalizing terms that are not claimed by the people you’re using them on (if someone WANTS to identify as a breeder, obviously, I completely respect that) is just not a Samuel Adams. 

And that, my dear readers, is why I hate Breeders.

-Essin’ Em

Ergo, it’s now time to write some non-sex/kink centric things I’d like to do.

*Take a Mediterranean cruise

*Visit Alaska

*Visit Italy

*Go to an NHL hockey game

*Have a fun weekend getaway with Q

*See Spamalot

*See a show on Broadway

*Live in another country for a least a year

*Get committed under a Chupah

*Own a house with Q.  3+ bedroom

*Get my PhD

*Teach at a college as a professor

*Open my own toy store/book store (and sell cupcakes and maybe Boba tea)

*Find a job that pays well (ish), has insurance, and I enjoy working

*Have a hysterectomy

*Have my next four knee surgeries, so I can walk up stairs, properly

*Go on a Birth Right Israel trip

*Visit Q’s favorite place in Mexico

*Visit Q’s family in NY

*Start hosting a queer play party in Phoenix

*Learn to cook more vegan food for my vegan friends

*Get back to the weight where I feel most comfortable

*Make money doing what I love

*Have a better relationship (if possible) with my mother

*Dye my hair bright red again

*Get a new (or new used) working car…preferably an HHR or Caliber. In silver or white.

*Learn to read music

*Get a huge kitchen with an island!

It’s my half birthday!  I’m offically 23.5! Hurray!

I know people think it’s silly to celebrate half birthdays.  But see, my birthday usually falls right during the middle of Channukah.  So when I was younger, my family decided to start celebrating my half birthday (and my sister’s, whose birthday is in January) in the summer, so that we wouldn’t feel as left out during the holiday season (when it sucks being the ten year old who hears the “this is your birthday slash channukah present” year after year), and would get to celebrate a little in the summer too.

Also, I have so many negative things having happened on/around my real birthday (ending up on crutches, being in the hospital, having my back pack stolen with my meds, glasses, and final paper, a car accident, losing Athena the day after my party last year, etc).  Sometimes, my mother has even forgotten my “real” birthday, because it’s in the middle of finals and the holiday season and all of that.

So it’s stuck. I like to celebrate my half birthday with friends and sometimes my family.  So happy half birthday to me!  I raise my glass and tip it towards all of you.

-Essin’ Em

(If you’re in a healthy place financially, and are feeling generous, my wishlists are posted in the right column. I never *expect* presents, but they’re always incredibly appreciated!)

I’m on the right :)

Today, April 23, 2009, is the 10th anniversary of the death of my father. He was one of the most amusing, inspiring, intelligent, wonderful people to ever grace the face of this earth, and that’s not just my biased view. You didn’t see the number of people at his funeral, the number of people who came out of the wood work to tell him goodbye and to tell us how much he had meant to them, the kind words written about him online by people all over the world, and so on. He was a great man.

When I was younger, I remember visiting him in the hospital in my Care Bear outfit (yes, I’ve been a nerd since a very young age). He had cancer (non-hodgkin’s lymphoma) and was occasionally hospitalized for pneumonia, or other infections. He went into remission in the early 90’s. Then, summer 1998, when we were in Europe, he started feeling off again. He was re-diagnosed at the end of the summer. My family didn’t tell me until Feb 1999, because they didn’t want to throw off my skating competition (WHAT THE FUCK) or worry my sister and I. But now I know why he cried at that competition when I put my first place medals around his neck and told him it was all his fault that I’d won. It’s a good thing they told us when they did – my dad ended up in the hospital the next week. It was a hard time – by dad was constantly in chemo, and was in and out of the hospital. I stopped doing my math homework; who carea about algebra when your father was sick? I spent every night after school either at rehearsal for my play, or with my dad at St. Joe’s, getting him ice chips, and joking around about the disgusting food.

At the end of March was my last show at Logan (my middle school). I had a starring role in “The Madwoman of Chillot,” but didn’t think my father in his weak state could go – 3 flights of stairs, and sitting in a folding chair for 3 hours just wasn’t going to happen. My school loved my dad though, and banded together. They were able to help him up the stairs, and put him in the tech directors special high backed rolling arm chair so that he could keep his neck upright (carried up those 3 flights). At the end of the show, they unrolled a banner signed by every single member of the cast and crew that said “We love you Sol!” and dedicated the show to him. By this point, he was bald (I called him Daddy Warbucks), and had lost more than 50 pounds. He was sunken in his chair, but had tears streaming down his face at this show of love. It was an amazing night, and the best performance of my life.

He started getting better, and was put on a list for a stem cell transplant. Every night before he went to bed, I told him how much I loved him…that’s just how we were. Until the morning of Friday, April 23, 1999, when I was woken up by my mother at 10am, which was odd, since it was a school day. She took me into my sister’s room, and told us that he had died in the night. She had woken up when he made a noise, and called 911, and tried to give him CPR, but it hadn’t worked. She was terrified that we would wake up with the ambulance’s sirens, and paramedics running through the house. We didn’t.

That day, I missed school, but they held an all school assembly in memory of my dad. I stayed home, cleaning up the house for the after funeral party. It snowed that day, a lot, given that it was April. I answered the door for the people coming by, took the flowers and arranged them. That night, I went to rehearsal for the ice show, because that’s what my father would have wanted, and I didn’t see any reason to not go.

Saturday, I went to the funeral home with my mother (Jews don’t believe in embalming, so funerals happen fast), and she was a wreck. I helped to plan my father’s funeral, to pick out his casket, to figure out how many police on motorcycles we needed.

We asked for the small, 75 person chapel at my temple. When we arrived on Sunday morning, they had already had to move it, because too many people had already shown up (which was unexpected – we didn’t even publish an obituary with a funeral time). By the time the service started, it was standing room only. I wore a black dress with one of my father’s Hawaii shirts over it. He wore a Hawaiian shirt every day – to work, to skating, to school, etc. So I wore one. I read a poem, and after the service, my mother, sister and I opened the casket, alone. He was wrapped in a traditional Jewish Shroud, but underneath, he was in his $6 goodwill tuxedo he had bought for the father daughter skate, a Hawaiian shirt, and his rainbow suspenders. I left a pig in there with him.

We underestimated how many cops we would need to get to the cemetery. It was ridiculous – we figured just a few friends would come along. Everyone did. It snowed a little as he was buried.

A few weeks later, his doctor called, and told us that his last tests had shown the cancer had spread all over his body – nothing could have stopped it, and nothing could have prevented him dying. Funny you know, because non-hodgkin’s lymphoma is considered a generally non-fatal type of cancer. A week or two after that, we got a message from the hospital – my dad was now at the top of the list for a stem cell transplant, and could he come in the following day? That was hard. As were all the calls from solicitors…especially the one when I said “No, I’m sorry, he’s deceased” and he said “when would be a good time to call back?” I asked him if he believed in reincarnation. What can you do.

My dad was a wonderful man. He was born in Sweden, moved to the US at age 1, and learned to speak Yiddish. English was his second language. He was kicked out of several schools for making mischief after he finished his school work before everyone else. He was in the air force for 3 years, stationed in Germany. He came back and got his bachelor’s in 2.5 years by working the hell out of the system. Then he got a Master’s in geology. After years with the government (BLM) as a geologist, he went back and got another degree as a computer scientist and stayed with the BLM. And did a lot of fancy computer programming stuff that I really don’t get, but he’s been called a pioneer in the field of meta-data analysis, and there is an award out there in his name.

He was a field trip parent for my classes – he had a giant suburban with a CB radio, and would show up for almost every trip. He came in to read stories to my class. Every year, we made latkes for everyone. At our roller skating parties, he’d be out there teaching every kid how to skate. Around Channukah, he’d dress up completely like an Eastern European Jew, and re-enact (with my help of course) “Herschel and the Channukah Goblins.” Everyone knew and loved my dad.

When I took up figure skating, he did too, so that he could stay a little ahead of me, and help me learn things. After a while, I by-passed him in skills, but he kept skating. He even got a few jumps (he took this up at 44 or 45!), and quite a few bruises to prove it (never skate with a pocket knife in your pocket). One year, my sister and I skated to “the Sorcerer’s Apprentice” in an ice show – she was Mickey, and I was the Sorceress. Well, my dad put all on brown, tied some grass skirts around his knees, grabbed some buckets, and he became the brooms. I’m so not kidding. It was hilarious. In the father daughter skates in the ice shows, he had found a $6 tuxedo at goodwill, and wore it with a giant sequin bow tied and matching cummerbund, every year. And every year he’d try to throw some of his cool moves in (a little bunny hop here, some backwards skating there), and every year he’d get yelled at by the ice show director.

We used to see the circus every year, and one time, it was like our personal family at the circus day. My sister and I got picked from the audience to fly in a toy plane from the top of the coliseum, and then my father was picked for a clown skit. It involved “lay-people” tossing plates at each other, that broke when caught, and the audience people were supposed to just look confused and upset. Well, my dad started juggling them, throwing them under his leg, clapping them together, etc. He even followed the main clown around, mocking him (to the amusement of the crowd)…he told us later the clown told him in a heavy Russian accent to “cut it out! This is my show!” Later on, everyone was asking him if he was a plant, because he was that funny.

In 4th grade, I was farther ahead than everyone in my Hebrew class except for one girl. He volunteered to teach, and came in every weekend to teach special lessons to the two of us. Didn’t get paid, and got a lot of crap from me, but he did it, Sunday after Sunday.

When my girl scout troop was without a leader, he stepped up, becoming the only male leader in the Denver area. We learned knot tying, macramé, fire starting, archery, etc. I used to go to the “parent-daughter” girl scout camp weekends, and he’d go with me – usually one of only 4 or 5 dads (so we’d get the nice cabins with plumbing!).

On our own, he taught me to use a bow and arrow, how to play catch, how to carve words into sticks and trees. He made his own fireworks with steel wool. He took me with him to work all the time, not just on the official day. We had matching beanie propeller hats, except his had a little pig, and mine had a frog. He drove me religiously to dance and horseback riding lessons, and we’d listen to NPR on the way. We used to go thrift store and garage sale-ing every weekend spring-fall, and in the winter, we’d go to the lumber store sometimes. He built a two story play house for my sister and I in our back yard…that never got finished because of his death. It’s still there.

When I wanted my hair French braided, he went to a hair styling for kids class with me at Kazoo and Co. He was the only male there, but volunteered to practice for the demos, etc. We used to build hyped up remote control cars together for the critter crunch – trying to demolish our opponent’s cars. When I ever wanted a “new” computer, we’d build it together from spare parts, just the way I wanted it, even if that meant 3 floppy drives (totally pointless by the way). He got me games for DOS from all over the world. In NM, he used to take me shooting with my uncle, and was so proud of me when I turned out to be good at it. Once, we made our own wine…from a jury-rigged distillery we made in our kitchen. He taught me how car engines run, how to use a power drill, and how to waltz and summersault. Even our cats liked him best – always following him around, sleeping with him in his arm chair, leaving mice under his chair.

My father was my everything. He taught me so much, even when I didn’t want to learn (like the one summer he made me fill in a blank multiplication table every day, or the next, when I had a daily long division problem). His crazy shirts, bolo ties, and tucan hats (as well as the rest of his antics) made me realize how important it is to live life to the fullest every day, because you never know what might happen. I even wrote my college essay on him.

He never got to see me do my bat mitzvah, even though I wore his toucan hat during it (which miraculously survived the house fire we had a month after his death). He didn’t get to see me go to high school, to see me win any awards, to see me graduate high school, college or grad school. He never got to see me direct my first play, or sing in a musical. He would have been astonished that I was the President of the Jewish group at CC. He never got to threaten my partners with his .22 like he always promised. He would have LOVED Kinsey and Athena and Kali, and would have played with them more than I do.

That day, not only did I lose a wonderful father, a great friend, a teacher, but the world lost a great man. It’s only now that I realize not only how much he influenced me, and how much he brightened my life, but that he did the same for hundreds of other people. It’s hard now – none of my current close friends ever met my dad, so they don’t know what exactly I’m missing, what piece of me is gone…I reacted differently to his death than most people react when they lose a loved one. We had never left anything unsaid, and I had nothing to feel guilty about. But the farther away I get from him, the more sad I am. I don’t remember anymore exactly what his voice sounds like. I don’t always remember his wry smile. I don’t believe in heaven or hell – I believe that when you die, your body is done, and your spirit goes into those whom you loved. I feel that as life trucks on and on, there is less and less of him in me, and that’s so hard.

Here we are making potato latkes in my middle school

If you feel so inclined, wear a Hawaiian or brightly colored shirt today, in honor of him and his vibrant life. Or please donate to the American Cancer Society.

Thanks…

Essin’ Em