I didn’t attend my college graduation ceremonies. I was already working in New York (that’s New York City, to non-New Yorkers) and wasn’t able to make it back.
Now, many years later, I am once again at my alma mater and working in an office. Through my department, I met the woman who runs special events on campus. Eventually, I began working for the photography company that shoots the individual photos at commencement ceremonies. I now make sure the grads have filled out their Nomenclator cards and that the Nomenclator (the guy reading the cards) keeps the cards in the proper order.
I’ve been doing this for several years now and love it. There’s something about seeing the students embarking on their futures. It has nothing to do with nostalgia. It has to do with the excitement, the smiles, the proud families.
It’s not routine, even after six or seven years, 3 times a year. A professor come in with a robe that had been skunked. Student marshalls haven’t paid attention and don’t know where they need to be. A student runs in, late, only to find out his commencement is being held across campus in another venue. Occasionally, we have a fainter.
I’m going to do a cross-post here. I don’t have the heart to do two posts.
On July 25, 2007 you wrote a note at home, had a friend drive you downtown, and then jumped off a parking garage. I can’t say that I understand the thought process behind that decision, but let me speak to the last line in your note: “Suicide is painless. M.A.S.H.”
Was it? Was it really? Or was hitting the ground at high velocity a lesser pain than whatever you were going through?
Whose pain are we talking abut? Yours? Maybe it was painless. However, I think the mental anguish leading up to the actual event had to have been pretty painful.
So were you talking about the pain of the people who love you? Then I call bullshit, bro. Nine years later and I feel that pain as intensely as I did the day you took your own life.
So life goes on. After a fashion, maybe. I look at mom. She doesn’t know what day it is and I’m not telling her. Between the dementia and the pain pills for the shingles, I’m lucky if she knows her own name. And hey, she doesn’t even remember that you committed suicide. On the days when she remembers she had a son named Dan, she thinks her daughter is that son. Yeah. Fun times.
Trying this again because something went wrong. This is from “Our Sunday Best”
Hey everybody, Trae here. Today is Sunday and normally that would mean another riveting edition of OurSundyBest. And we had one in the hopper too, almost done, but honestly it just feels….wro…
Source: Moment of OSB Silence
I’ve never seen a mortsafe. I’ve heard about them. I’ve heard about mortsafes in the South and Europe, but not in Pennsylvania. Then I heard about not one, but two in a small cemetery in Catawissa. This type of mortsafe was popular in Scotland, but there is some evidence that these two are the only “caged” graves in the U.S..
Mr . Pye is my beautiful, mouthy, four-year-old mini-panther (black cat). Of my three cats, Pyewacket is usually the one locked into a routine. Any variable in the routine is liable to make him run for cover. Pye is also my one flight risk. Careful when opening the door. There might be a cat trying to run out.
For some reason, he has recently decided that he needs attention in the middle of the night. Starting at about 1:00 AM, we had an endless night of Pye getting up in front of the TV, climbing on kitchen counters and knocking things off, climbing on the nightstand and knocking things off, crying for closed doors to open, revenge-bathing his sisters while they were trying to sleep, and getting on the foot of my bed to vigorously chase his tail.