Monday, October 25, 2010

What is, is.

I've been overusing the word bittersweet in my mind this past week. It's mostly because I'm not talking to too many people and because I also don't want to sound like a douche bag (spoiler alert: I have adopted a sailor's vocabulary so I apologize now). In any case, life is bittersweet in so many ways. On the "eve" of the bird's debut, I lost a piece of my heart. I was expecting an explosion of happiness and instead just got the explosion. I was waiting to meet true love and rather have been reminded what a bastard heartbreak can be.

Needless to say, it's been rough to face the reality of my dad's death and the timing of the bird's birth (which now seems to be put on hold indefinitely perhaps). I can't get past the feeling that, in some ways, I have to let go of one to welcome the other.

Rather, I want to just sit and post photos of him and find pieces of memories to tie down his spirit. I want to memorialize how it felt to hold his hand at different ages: as a young kid with just room in my palm for his pointer finger all the way to being a bride arm and arm with a friend who was so excited for me. I want it all back. I want to go on the ride again. I want to write about how beautiful it is to remember a man who gave me so much. I want to write about how comforting it is to have my sister's to share the "knowing" of what luck we had in this father and what pain we feel in the wake of his absence. In the same breath, I want to keep it all for myself like some treasure I am too stingy to share for fear it will be stolen away. Nothing will be enough: no tribute, no words, no photos will ever encompass the time we had together. It will all be fragmented from this point forward.

In any case, even a new entry feels too soon. And in many ways, I know this is what needs to be done. There is no sense to be made from this: it was just a beautiful thing that now feels so bittersweet.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Silver Thunderbird

Marc Cohn


Richard A. Cornish, 76, of St. Augustine inspired family and friends to enjoy life through his smile, his quick wit, and his creativity. He died at his home last week.


Born in the Bronx, NY to the lighthearted family of George and Rita Cornish, he was an older brother to his good friends George, Jerry, and Ginger.




He is survived by his siblings...


...as well as his first wife, Pat, and their daughters:
Debbie, Chris, Jenny, Tricia, Nancy, and Amy. 


He was an affectionate father who proudly raised six daughters with patience and unending support. He is also grandfather to seven beautiful children.


In life, he fondly remembered his second wife, Helen.


Dick was an artist, a veteran of the Korean War, an engineer and mathematician, and a lifelong learner.



He was a thoughtful, wise man with a calming ability to listen and a long view of events.


His warmth and intelligence drove his enjoyment for the simple things in life: healthy discussions, keen intellect, and good stories.


He found interest in the lives of others; smart and kind people were his kin.


He was also a funny man who had a silly side and liked to laugh…even at bad jokes.


He will be greatly missed.

Monday, October 4, 2010

Enter October

This month brings a finish line of sorts. Friday morning I flipped the calendar in our mudroom. By the next flip, I will be a mom; and as a good friend said repeatedly the other day, not pregnant. It's like I'm in the town limits and can almost see the train station.

Funny how it goes: things somehow seem perfectly timed in line with silly dates. I know life is never that punctual but Friday was a conglomeration of happy events that made me feel like it's all coming together. I stayed home to receive the furniture we ordered back in August. By noon, our naked guest bedroom started to look like a nursery. I began the laundry that has been piled in a bin for a few weeks. As I awkwardly folded some things on the belly-shelf I've acquired, I thought about how I was folding a REAL person's clothes. I went and placed them in the dresser drawers and let the bird know every time we were in the room. Admittedly I also lounged in the new glider I debated so hard against D about buying (I must admit, it's a pretty smooth and lush little ride). 

Later I went for my (now) weekly visit to the doctor. I came home to find a box sitting pretty by our front door. In it was a kick arse CD of Lullaby Renditions of The Smashing Pumpkins. It was so suiting as I literally was driving home from the doctor listening to Today (randomly playing on the radio) and thinking how great the Pumpkins will always be in my memories. Underneath the CD, sat the most lovely little quilt my friend AF made me. It was wrapped in a lime green ribbon with a tag addressed, "To: A new friend. From: An old friend." I pulled apart the ribbon in one of those long, smooth strokes you imagine from any good moment in life. 


I explored the awesome retro patterns and colors up close...


...and unfolded it more...

 

...and stood up holding it out, flipping it back and forth,
wrapping it over my belly
(there might have been some giggly gasps involved).


Later I would come to find out it's the first quilt she has created and it's been in the works for some time now. She had the help of Cheryl at Barn Red Quiltworks to machine stitch the star pattern (which you know stole my heart). Can you believe this fantastic piece of art?

(I outlined the pattern so you can see it on film)

I promptly draped it over the newly structured crib and waited for Mr. Maillet to come home. When he finally did, we looked at the furniture in the room - how it all fit together - and I said, "and did you see what else came today?" He began to look under the crib when I just laughed and said, "No the quilt!" Admittedly, it's not a race BUT the quilt kicked the furniture's arse!


This is just one little nugget from the treasure friends have bestowed on us. I can't wait to get the nursery done and do a proper photo shoot with everything in it's perfectly folded, organized place (you know before it gets chaotic around these parts and never looks like that again).