It dawned on me as I described someone as “yes, Burt loved him” that I had said that or something like about alot of the people we met or knew.
Burt found many friends over the years, especially as he slipped into dementia. He liked people and this came back in a kind of karmic circle.
My raingear did not stand up to the rain this afternoon. Coming home, I was soaked through.
Burt would have ordered me to take a warm shower as soon as I walked in the door. Good advice.
Noodling around my video cache, I found a 6 minute video in which Burton is speaking.
We are snacking at the rehab. It’s dated April 2023. He is sweet and really enjoying his sweets.
Among the dialog is his request I bring one cappucino instead of the latte. I say “But you like latte.” Burt gesturing as he speaks: “There’s two people involved here.”
Tears of happiness at finding this short treasure. I am thrilled.
May I suggest to those of you still caring that you take some videos when you can. It’s a little past two months since Burt passed and this is a treasure and a huge gift. Hearing his conversation for that 6 minutes was such a balm.
Burt’s journey has ended. My journey continues without him. Or perhaps by dint of remembrance, with him, just kind of looking out for me.
Like he always did.
Part of my portmanteau now is recording what was. Both the orts and the epic.
I know my friends expected me to tell tales of Burt at the party of celebration on the 3rd. I could have but I am not great at the extemporé story. Fortunately, there are frequent triggers.
At Saturday’s celebration, I was privileged to have my memory shaken by hearing some of the remembrances of others; by a tribute to Burt from one of my besties whose help when things were muddiest is always at top of mind; by the presence of new friends and old, of neighbors.
For instance, I had forgotten how often Burt came to pick me up from the gym until our friend MS said she met him in the lobby so often that she was sure he had a membership.
Another friend came home with me from the party; she got to hear that May 3rd, 1992 was as warm a Saturday as the one this year.
She also got to hear about the little horse, a Saratoga souvenir Burt bought for me. And on the day of the Kentucky Derby!
Hey, a horserace is a horserace.
Speaking of horse racing or riding, SW told me a story I had not heard.
She said she was decked out in a new outfit, featuring a pair of rhinestoned boots and feeling all fashion-plate. Burt, who, make no mistake, adored her, blurted “Are you going horseback riding?”
I have to admit that the lack of filter didn’t just come with dementia. Burt aligned blurting with honesty. His form of transparent affection, perhaps?
Burt’s friends in the room at our party knew him at different stages in his story. I think they were able to share how, where and when they met him. And as my friend L said retell some of Burt’s “pearls of wisdom;” she had appreciated.
The party for Burt on our 35th anniversary was a treat. There was so much loving energy in that room that we all knew he was there.
It was unnecessary but I had prepared a little ice breaker based on the Burt approach.
He made friends in our building both before Lewy and after Lewy. Many of them were there for this celebration.
Before, [probably before], he would ask you if he met you in the hall: “Do you live here? What do you do?”
After Lewy, he would invite new neighbors over to my surprise and dismay. The dismay, mind you, not over having company in but over my being unprepared to hostess.
We’re going to try his approach to get to know each other now, I announced. Ask and Invite is the getting to know you game I asked our friends to play in Burt’s memory.
By the time I introduced this plan to the beautiful crowd gathered for him, it was clear everyone was already practiced in it. The room buzzed with conversation.
Just the kind of party made for Burt: people and food. I want to thank all the people who joined us on this special day. [And to those who were, like Burt, there in spirit.]
The food, prepared by the folks at the pizza parlor ristorante was excellent. And abundant. I chose the spot for its convenience [to me]; it’s up the block. Dress and walk over.
Italian Village also comes with this memory: Thrilled by his 84th surprise birthday party [2023], which was at home, Burt wanted to treat me for lunch the next day.
He used to go to Italian Village with his aides a few years back so Italian Village was where he was taking me. Close as it is, those 2 long avenues were a punishingly hard walk for him with his walker.
We sat in this back room where we now held a remembrance for him. He ordered scrambled eggs and french fries and ate only a little of whatever came.
Over the years, we had shared many meals at restaurants throughout the city. We didn’t go out often once he was ill, maybe just three times in all. Always at Burt’s urging. And it was here at Italian Village that we shared our last restaurant meal.
Well, not quite last, if we acknowledge as we do that Burt was there and we had a hell of a party. In his honor.
What gives you direction in life?
My life changed the day I met him, and his love and care for me and the opportunity to care for him gave me direction these 35 years.
It has been a lovely journey, bumps and all.
Several children were delighted by my wearing my Bluey t-shirt today. There was also one father, a friend who had a picture of his tyke with the characters on his phone, who was pleased by my choice of attire. We agreed that Bluey was the best father.
When I first discovered the iconic cartoon I decided it was perfect fare for Burt and me. Nice color, quiet talk, a gentle vibe made it attractive.
I persisted with it even as Burt was likely beginning to bore. It was an example of my pushing the agenda. Just a little.
Years ago, I told a diner next to me, I was a member at Cooper – Hewitt. I dragged my husband to the parties they threw here on the grounds.
He nodded and said “Janet drags me.” We agreed that he liked it. I said I dragged the poor fellow to the Merchant’s House on E. 4th Street, too. There was food, so he was alright. I was remembering what a good time Burt and I had at both events. The garden party at the Cooper-Hewitt was some 30 years ago.
The night was warm and we had a lovely evening. The well-kept lawn was green, as it was this afternoon. There were beautiful decorations in red and blue.
Today, on this afternoon, the crowd was there sampling foods prepared from produce grown at an indigenous farm. In some way, I had dragged Burt here with me as well.
The Museum produced Making Home, a program dedicated to looking at the meaning of home.
The Tohono O’odham Nation’s Alexander Pancho Farm in Sells, Arizona contributed a display of a desert building; they offered to enlight and educate us on the role of agriculture in their heritage. The desert construction is displayed in a gallery upstairs. The uses of seasonal plants as food were the contents of a party in the garden.
I was there to learn about Native food traditions and history from farmer Noland Johnson, Amy Juan, and Mary Paganelli Votto.
Michael [Mikey] Enis of the Tohono O’odham Nation sang an invocation.
Displays of flour crushed from the flowers of mesquite trees and syrups extracted from the cactus drew lots of questions. They were expertly answered.
We were served delicious foods made from recipes using the traditional ingredients from the farm.
There was a rich bean soup with oxtail and a salad from grains, dessert sweetened with saguaro cactus.
It was warm and the light rain did not daunt. This was a lovely day. One of the presenters honored me by taking a selfie with me; “I like your personality,” he told me.
this is our life