On being a weirdo

This essay was originally published on my Patreon and is slightly modified here. Most of my blogging happens there now, so if you want to read more of what I write, please check it out.

I have a very clear memory from maybe second grade. Even at that tender age my father was talking to me about suicide, death, and nothingness. It was a dour diet for someone so small, but I loved my father and so did my best to understand. There was no one my age I could talk with about these things, even though they occupied my mind. At that age I was yet to have losses I understood as such. Some great aunts had died, our small dog, but death wasn't yet conceivable, it was merely absence and my father's ruminations.

That second grade morning my class walked around the outside of the school, from the back to the front. I don't know why we did so, but I remember the chill in the air, the bright sunlight, the texture of the brick. My father and I had been talking about death last night, so I was thinking about our conversation when I turned to some kid walking next to me and asked, "What do you think happens after we die?"

I was the weird kid in class (shocking) too interested in reading and writing and imagining and nature, not enough in television or pop culture. This didn't help.

She looked at me like I was crazy. I remember two distinct answers, but only one could be what happened. In one universe she said, "We go to heaven. I will. You're a weirdo," and went to walk near someone else. In the other she just called me weird and walked briskly away. In either case, the conversation didn't go well and it only increased my reputation as a weirdo. Had that happened in the last decade (and the teacher overheard) I'm sure I would have been sent to counseling and a letter sent home to parents, but as it was in the early 1970s, the only result was the other kids thought I was even stranger.

Not long after that another kid told me I was weird (I think it was because my favorite tv show was Nova, not Happy Days which was all the rage) and I replied, "I like being weird."

That was a formative moment. From then on my defense against being different was to embrace it, or at least to try to.

In Jr. High (again dating myself) I met E and finally found someone who was also weird. It was a powerful and important event, seeing that I wasn't the only one who wasn't like everyone else. Together we embraced our weirdness, and since then my path has always been individual, though sometimes lonely. In high school I found a few more familiar weirdos, and again in college, but for most of my life I've had to chose between embracing the weird or toning down.

When I found the storytelling community, I found a kind of home. I could tell strange stories, old folktales, vulnerable personal moments, and no one ran. I'm still weird (my material isn't festival fodder, that's for sure) but at least here I find relatable weirdos. I am certain it has saved my sense of self over and over again. I am still an outlier, telling stranger stories than most, but at least here it's not a reason to hide.

None of us should have to hide our weirdness. As long as it is ours, and doesn't hurt anyone else (which most weirdness does now), let your freak flag fly.

I hope you feel accepted for the weirdo that you are, but if you feel like an outlier and it's hard, please get in touch. You're not alone. We need you. Know that I like you just the way you are.

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(c)2021 Laura S. Packer

Cooking and grief, revisited

Some of you may remember that I forgot how to cook when Kevin died. It took me about a year to be able to make anything that required any thought, and longer still to become at all interested in cooking. It remained a pretty spotty proposition for a long time. I had no interest in cooking anything that required much thought for years. Once I was involved with Charley, I had a little more interest but no drive to cook anything beyond simple dishes. When I tried something other than the very tired and true. I was liable to make mistakes. Charley, in his loving and kind way, never complained and said that everything tasted fine, but I knew.

I still don't cook the way I used to and I may never do so again, but this morning I realized I am interested in cooking again. I am interested in trying new recipes that take some time and thought. I am interested in planning meals and seeing what might happen. I miss being an enthusiastic and skilled cook, but I'm no longer indifferent or easily worn out by the tasks associated with cooking.

This is a big deal. Kevin had a gastric cancer so his ability to eat was quickly impacted by his illness. My cooking changed from focusing on delicious to figuring out how I could pack more calories into a broth. He couldn't taste well, thus flavor had little to do with it. Once he died, the trauma of his illness remained in my ability to cook. Initially I wasn't interested, and then I found trying anything new felt like a violation of his memory. Even once I was involved with Charley, I needed to cook simply because trying much new brought back so many memories of cooking for Kevin. If I made something Kevin never ate, it had a bitterness to it because I wanted to share it with him, even as I delighted in sharing it with Charley. I also lost my touch, and my seasonings were off, especially salt. I couldn't taste it clearly anymore.

It's been almost eight years now, and I cook almost every day. This morning I realized I have regained some of my relish (get it?) for new recipes, new techniques, and deliciousness. I cans eason things well again, and only rarely mess up the salt. It hit me like a pie in the face, a combination of sweetness and pain.

That's how it is with loss and love these many years later. I still carry the grief and pain. The good memories are finally almost as strong as the hard ones, but there are ways that those hard emotions feel like the most tangible connection to the man I loved who died. When I hit an emotional milestone, like realizing I enjoy cooking again almost the way I used to, it feels bittersweet. It is a sign I am healing and it is also a reminder that he has been gone for a long time. 

I don't have a good conclusion to this writing, other than the reminder that grief is the price of love. I am blessed that I loved and was loved by Kevin so well. I am grateful for the grief that reminds me of the love. And I am just as blessed, just as lucky, to love and be loved by Charley. How lucky I am that when I cook, I am cooking for living, the dead, and myself. How lucky I am that I finally remembered how.

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An open letter to Kevin, seven years on

Dear Kevin,

The days and weeks leading up to today have been very odd. It's such a hard time–the pandemic still rages, I haven't traveled in over a year, the country is still a mess post-Trump (though there may be blessings in disguise by revealing our wounds)–and I expected the days leading up to today to be awful. 

They weren't.

I've been mostly okay, which is pretty uncomfortable. I'm afraid it means I've betrayed you somehow and that I've relegated you to what was, though I know you would laugh at the thought. You still are. You are in my heart and the hearts of many others. And yet, here I was, occasionally sniffly and mostly okay. It felt very strange.

I decided I needed to be alone today, so I went for a drive to a park on the Vermillion River, near the Mississippi. That's another weird thing. I don't know if you ever set foot in Minnesota, yet here I am. Anyway, I went for a walk. I looked at the water. I talked to you. I didn't cry. In years past I've gone to a movie because you so loved movies and would then sob in the parking lot, but this year with COVID, that wasn't a wise idea. And the tears didn't come.

When I was done with my walk I got back in the car and thought about you. The sweet memories come so much more easily now, though today has its share of flashbacks. I remembered when we went to the Paul McCartney concert at Fenway, and put on The Beatles so we could sing together as I drove back home, to another man, in a house you would love but didn't know existed, with a dog you would adore. 

It didn't take long to start. Crying and singing and driving home, you were with me.

Do you remember?

In 2009, when we were still in Boston, Paul McCartney announced he was touring and coming to Fenway Park. I staunchly said I didn't want to go, but you kept asking. Of course I wanted to go even if I didn't want to admit it, so I bought tickets. You suggested I ask one of my old friends to go with me, but I was clear that we should go together. 

Our seats were directly across from the stage, but far back. McCartney was a tiny figure, far smaller than life, flanked by two huge screens where he was larger than life. It was a great concert. He knew why everyone was there and played only a few songs from the newest album, then song after song from The Beatles, with a few from Wings thrown in for good measure. 

You had never seen me like that. At one point when I was lost in the music, in my past, I was playing air guitar, utterly unconcerned that there were 34,999 people around me. I saw you smiling at me and froze, suddenly aware of what I was doing. You told me to go ahead and began to air drum. You accepted me as I was in that moment, as you so often did, and joined me there without hesitation.

You sang along with all of us, and wiped tears away at Let It Be. It was, hands down, the best big concert I've ever been to, for all that it was huge, loud, and McCartney is an overwhelming ham.

When I was driving home today I remembered us there, together, and so much more. I pulled over and sobbed. It felt good to finally cry, to feel the feelings that I suspected were there. It also felt good that I didn't need to cry for hours. That I could talk to you and feel comfort. That I was, even if sad, mostly okay.

When you died I sought solace in some online grief groups. When I or someone else would ask if it was this bad forever, someone would say that it changes. It's not that you don't miss them or grieve them, but it eases. In time you find a new balance and remember the sweet as much as the pain. I think I'm getting to that point, uncomfortable though it may be, it is as it should be. 

I'm wrung out now, as you might expect. I still love you, and always will. There is room for more love than I ever imagined. I'm missing you terribly and full of cognitive dissonance about the life I now have and the one that might have been. And I am mostly okay. 

Love always,

Laura

P.S.

It's not the year we were there but it's similar enough. You can hear thousands of people singing along. I like to think I can hear your voice. I love you.

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(c)2021 Laura S. Packer

Vows taken eight years ago today

Today is our wedding anniversary. 

Those of you who knew Kevin well, know he had complicated feelings about marriage. We had been together for 14 years when we finally married, after many long and arduous conversations. I had wanted to marry for some time, but he was resistant. Because we were moving to Missouri, a former slave state and one with active KKK etc, it seemed wise to give our relationship legal protection. While this wasn't the only reason for our marriage (it wouldn't have happened at all without the love and commitment) it was what pushed him over the edge to be able to say yes.

We didn't tell many people we were getting married, but instead had a pop-up wedding at our going away party, hosted by Tony Toledo. I remember walking to the venue to set up for the party and looking at each other. I don't know which one of us asked, Are you ready and who replied As ready as I'll ever be, but we went in and the party began. After awhile we got up to "say a few parting words" then Kevin dropped down to one knee and asked me to marry him (I wasn't expecting that part). I said yes, and lo and behold, there just happened to be a minister, a huppa, and a marriage license ready to go.

It was fun, watching all of the surprised faces, and it was lovely publicly stating our connection and love for each other. It was wonderful stating our vows, including til death do you part.

By our first anniversary he was very sick, though yet undiagnosed. I remember he apologized for not doing anything special, but he was so ill we couldn't. We'd been seeing doctors who stuck by gastritis and back issues, but I knew it was something more. Anyway, on our first and only anniversary celebrated together we had something inconsequential for dinner, sat on the couch and reread our vows to each other. It was loving and sweet. 

Each year since I've reread our vows myself. 

Today is, of course, bittersweet. On anniversaries like this one I have taken to thinking about how different my life is now from what I expected. It is no less sweet, but it is not what I thought I would have. I live in a house Kevin would love, with a dog he would adore, with a man he would really like (and with whom he would enjoy discussing the awesomeness of Captain Sisko), doing the work he helped me grow into. He would love this life and yet he is not here with me in any physical form.

While my life has changed the love has not. I remain so grateful for his time in my life. Kevin was and is the love of my life (so is Charley - love doesn't have to be a scarce resource). I am grateful for what we had and that now, almost seven years past his death, the sweet memories outweigh the painful ones.

I've written many times that if you are lucky you will grieve deeply because it means you love and were loved deeply. I am so very, very lucky. 

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(c)2021 Laura S. Packer