Below is the remembrance I wrote for grams that I tearfully delivered at her church service.

Martin Luther King I was not but I can only hope my little choked-up homily gave her the justice and limelight she deserves. I think of her frequently now as I fly across the globe and give a big smile whenever it crosses my mind that she and I are together again if only briefly in the skies above: she in heaven and me in my noisy US Airways jet in the clouds. Love you grams!

As I was contemplating what I would say here today about my very best friend, I was presented with quite a challenge: how to tell the story of the ultimate storyteller. How to convey the life and light that was the ball of energy, tour-de-force Mary Alice Gerber. To do this fully, we’d need a feature length film of her life but since we don’t have three hours, I’ll do my best to do her justice in 5 minutes.

As many of you may know, my Grandma had a life-threatening heart attack when I was five years old. I have thought often throughout my life how lucky I am, how lucky we all are, that she survived and we had so many years with her. Grandma became such a strong and persistent influence in my life. Second mom, loving friend, grams, she had an indelible impact in forming who I have become and through the toughest times in my life, her love and belief in me kept me afloat and heading forward in a positive direction. She was the rare person who was never too busy to listen to someone, celebrate their triumphs and with them, laugh away their sorrows. She was a rock, always there for me and for so many other people. Many summer nights upon arrival at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, I would leap out of the car, lie down on the driveway and scream “I’m home!” I meant it. Both Prospect Street and Grandma were emotional homes for me. I will live every day remembering her unconditional love and protection.

I always wanted to spend my spare moments with Grandma whenever time allowed. I remember how she would respond in shock when I said every year in college that I wanted to spend spring break with her and Grandpa in Florida and that oh by the way, I was bringing my friends along too. The truth was there was no one I’d rather be with because she was full of fun, wit and positivity with an unending capacity to love. She listened to my crazy 80’s dance music and kept up on the many characters that came in and out of my life throughout the years. She was so present and engaged and always knew what I needed and gave it to me, even if I didn’t say a word. I felt and I’m sure you felt, special being in a relationship with her. Many people as they age, drift away from their family members but with grandma, we were closer with each passing year and I know as a grandchild of hers, my situation was not unique. I talked to her twice a week for an hour even in her sickest days, recounting hilarious life stories and getting her wise advice. We all know that she wasn’t shy about her opinion (a trait many of us have inherited) She didn’t always tell you what you wanted to hear, but instead what you needed to hear. And I for one, appreciated her bluntness and honesty.

Some of my fondest moments with grandma, were as a little girl when I would lay in bed with her and she would scratch my back while we’d watch TV and talk about life. I missed those times as I grew older. I got a special gift last Christmas when in an energetic burst, we talked for hours and stayed up until 1:30 in the morning in her bedroom, laying together, reliving memories and going through some of her life’s most treasured possessions, complete with narratives from her. As we rifled through grandpa’s old war pictures, the love letters he sent her, the treasured kimono and shoes brought back from Japan and her many book and bibles, it suddenly hit me what an incredibly rich life Grandma had experienced while almost never leaving home. Everything she needed and loved was always right here: family, faith, the man that she loved so deeply, the town she adored and the house that was so perfect for her, she insisted upon dwelling in it until her dying breath. She recognized the simple things that were important in life.

One of my favorite and more poignant stories that Grandma used tell was the special method Grandpa had for wiping her worry away. I think it’s a help for all us here today who are grappling with how to fill the huge void left by her passing and somehow know that it will be OK. As she told the story, many times when Grandma was overcome by grief or stressful thoughts, Grandpa would lovingly lead her out to the backyard and show her the night-time sky. He took her hands and said, “Mary Alice, do you see all these stars in the sky? God made all of them and if he can create all of those and take care of them, he will take care of you and your worries too.”

That’s what we all have to believe right now. That a great and amazing God will watch over us and take care of our worries too. For those who want a simpler and more light-hearted solution to deal with the sadness of her passing, you know what Grandma would say to you…one of her favorite phrases….”Just suck it up and move on!”

The only solace I have in losing Grandma is that Grandpa has gained her once again and I picture them in heaven, walking together hand-in-hand on a beautiful beach, searching for seashells and planning for the swing dance later. I know they are so happy to be reunited and to be sleeping on cushy clouds above instead of those stiff “I Love Lucy” pushed-together twin beds they had for their whole marriage. I am also comforted by knowing now that someday when I get to heaven, Grandma will be there welcoming me lovingly with a hug, the little yolky eggs she always made for me and her beloved “homemade” cinnamon rolls bought from the IGA .

I had the unexpected privilege of speaking to grandma on the phone one final time a few weeks ago. As she closed our very last conversation, she exclaimed, “I love you Tishy. Always have, always will.” Me too Grandma. I love you. Always have, always will.

I’d like to end with the words to a song I would sing to Grandma that always reminded me of her whenever I heard it. As the lyrics go, “Did you ever know that you’re my hero? You’re everything I would like to be. I could fly higher than an eagle. Because you are the wind beneath my wings.” Thank you grandma for everything that you were and everything that you did. Rest in peace.

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In the two years TLRG has been serving enquiring minds on-line, I’ve been careful not to discuss my politics much with you. No regailing of my college summers spent at the Republican National Committee, no tales of my politico pavement pounding. Truth be told, I live and work in the swamp of the DC Beltway, a career for which I’ve received much ribbing from my family who rank “those lawyers in Washington” just above toxic sludge. I’d have to disagree. I’ve worked on both sides of the partisan aisle for more than a decade and can tell you that there are some remarkable legislators out there who spend the time that they could be collecting enormous fees on the speaking circuit or being private consultants decked out in the best Brooks Brothers money can buy to instead work on issues of real consequence to the citizens of our country. And they won’t stop until their vision of improvement is achieved. Is it naive of me to want these stories told? To instead turn on the boob-toob and hear about how the local candidate I elect can make a positive impact on my environment, school or specialty hospital? No more images of slain soldiers, immigrants hustling over the borders or our unspeakable inner cities. We know how we got here but who is going to get us out and how? These are the issues of our times. This is why I go to the polls. I wish Bobby Kennedy were still alive to deliver great oratory and unite us as a nation but unfortunately all we’ll have is the new Emilio Estevez biopic with quasi-moving cameos from every A-List starlet shopping at Kitson.

Bobby when alive emphasized that “few will have the greatness to bend history itself; but each of us can work to change a small portion of events, and in the total; of all those acts will be written the history of this generation.” What will you do?

Signed,
TLRG

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What must he be thinking of events unfolding here? After nine lives of public service that began just after the Summer of Love and continued on through the Milli-Vinilli era and the fall of the wall, our Veep must have quite a schooled perspective on life and death by the political sword. He’s seen many a lamb be sacrificed. Who’s next on the butcher block? This city is not unlike the swamp on which it was built, burying and drowning those not strong enough or lucky enough to avoid the muck. Can he and Scooter don their rubber chaps and trudge their way out?

Like Hugh Hefner, I give the old guy credit for his longevity and continued relevance in the face of the societal change. It’s hard to find and maintain footing in Washington: a town ruled by CBO ten-year budget forecasts and the arcane Roberts Rules of Order, where the size of your rolodex and the campaign you worked on in 1986 is so much more important than the contents of your cerebrum or your ability to play well with others. How do you foster any sense of normalcy here? Marine One routinely flies above on the route to work. Gas mask location appraisals in case of a bioterror attack are routine. And, steel barricades for a World Bank protest, not the standard issue orange traffic cones, block desired shopping routes on lazy, hazy Sunday afternoons.

A relative of mine one told me I was “so inside the Beltway, I didn’t even know it.” They were right. DC is both insulary and a funhouse mirror distorting your image and everyone elses. Be careful and be forwarned. It is not for the faint of heart. All job descriptions should start with: brass balls required for survival. Don’t get me wrong, although I sound like a spurned lover, I relish every dry appetizer and Scotch-soaked minute I spend here chatting up the latest youngling guru or tracking down facts and figures as midnight looms large. There is no more heart-pounding game to play than that of the politico. And not a better profession for an adreline junkie. I would have it no other way. And I’m guessing neither would Dick. Fare thee well.

Signed,
TLRG

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The velvet chair. The vacant look. Skin like ash. Lungs clawing for air. Just like AA before he left us. Machine gives body life, its rhythmic whir ticking as timebomb to funeral dirge. Oxygen tube snaking throughout the house once filled with laughter, life. Dead now, like the silk geraniums sun-faded on her porch. Stationary are her legs, stoic is her spirit, broken is her resolve. Sweet thoughts of afterlife. Joining her soldier once again. How will we live without her, those who bask in her light when flame fades to black? The time draws nigh, we ask, God answers.

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The cause of unheralded distress is the forced exit of one of news journalisms’ seven wonders, the indefatiguable Ted Koppel. I have admired the Spanish inquisition talents of Koppel since I was but a wee lass. (and kept his picture Teen Beat style on the inside of my closet:pigtails:) He and David Brinkley were my miraculous shamans, waving their magic feathers and rattles, showing this Buckeye girl the full color and pallette of politics cum global diplomacy and opening up a whole world of possibility beyond the door of my 1970’s stucco-style girlhood home. It is no tall tale to assert that were it not for Mssrs. Koppel and Broder and the things that make you go hmm pages of the Economist and Insight magazine, I would surely not be sitting today in my K Street manse deftly, quizically jockeying with Congress like Josh Lyman on West Wing, all the accompanying headscratches and adreniline rush included.

ABC programmers cite Koppel’s Nightline as irrelevant in the face of today’s 24/7 news coverage. Has anyone watched MSNBC or CNN as of late? Too much glossy programming, re-enacted B-List actor coverage of the Michael Jackson trial and seal-trained lawyers barking at each other about the au corant in wife murder or serial killer cases IMHO. “Hard news” is about as common in our shared societal lexicon these days as the uttered phrase “Can I have a small fry?”. Koppel stands out as one of journalism’s best, with us each and every night of the Iran hostage crisis and every major event since: patient, deliberative and not afraid to ask the questions we all want to know, not for the sake of sensationalism or ratings but to truly make policymakers and the audience think twice. Who else could round up Botha, Tutu, Warren Buffet and Darwinism thought leaders in one fell swoop? And scoop up 30 Emmys in the process? To replace this, the network is thinking of a comedic show with a nightclub audience? That’s like substituting Thomas Keller’s culinary Yountville mecca French Laundry with Hooters.:evil:

Not one to dwell on my sadness, I close with a hearty thank you and lots of air kisses for Ted, the man who will ALWAYS reign as my King of Late-Night and confess to harboring a secret hope that HBO options him for the news docudrama series of his choice at a cool $70 million a year.:wink: And should you ever want to chronicle the meteoric rise and promise of health information technology around the globe T-riffic, you know where to find me.

Signed in Gratitude,
TLRG:redhead:

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However, there is one mamma drama that I NEVER miss…Fox’s Trading Spouses. Upon first blush, how compelling could a Midwestern muffin-making mom trading families with a screaming New Jersey Carmella Soprano in-the- making be? Turns out, QUITE my pretties.

I was stunned after watching the show for the first time that I was so affected by it, sniffly nose, teary eyes and all. I realized why in the coming weeks as I sat riveted on my sofa. Thoughtful literature ala Gerda Lerner and Ms. Steinem examining women’s roles in contemporary society and family are no longer. Brilliant, golden egg, a-ha essays like “Confessions of a Playboy Bunny” are simply MIA in our new century. In their place, whiny faux feminist tomes in which once upon a time involves women who wear lipstick, are neurotic about roofies and rape and no longer have armpit hair. Bergdorf Blondes ring a bell?

Trading Spouses is the first authentic look I’ve seen in ages at the estro-centric struggle of work and family and the true impact a caring, non-bitching, non-whining mother can have on creating a healthy, loving child…one that that won’t shoot his playmates next door or tattoo everything short of his penis for attention. TV that teaches? You don’t say! Tune in Mondays at 8 for a rare sociological treat!

http://www.fox.com/tradingspouses/

Signed,
TLRG :pigtails:

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Normally there’s nothing I like better than watching a good Sotheby’s auction, heart thumping wildly as twinkling gems and fine art the size of small elephants are sold off at what Paris Hilton would consider to be rock bottom prices. The December 20 Soth auction of Yukos’ largest subsidiary however was quite a different matter; a Malatov cocktail that set off my ulcer-prone stomach as I saw yet another undeniable sign that democracy in Russia is fading away. Message from Putin to the Free Market: He’s just not that into you.

Yukos’ former head, Mikhail Khodorkovsky, has been haplessly sitting in jail for the last 18 months on hopped up charges of tax evasion to the tune of $27.5 billion. Many speculate that his voice was quashed because he a growing political force to be reckoned with in a one-sheriff Putin town. Since his very first day behind bars, I’ve thought that if I could, I’d launch a full-scale “Free Khodorkovsky!” campaign and not just because Khodorkovsky would be great fun to print on a T-Shirt. Rabid lawyer Gloria Allred and Wynona Ryder of course, would help me speak out for the cause.

Unusual though he is, Khodorkovsky is the very epitome of a man wronged. That’s not just my opinion, it’s common sense. Just look at his once shining corporate empire, now mere baby steps away from Kremlin control, giving them control over oil reserves six times that of Exxon Mobil Corporation with 1.5 million barrels pumping out daily.

What kind of a world do we live in where, a majority of Yukos, can be sold to a previously unknown bidder whose small headquarters are run out of the local watering hole “Café London” in the teensy town of Tver, Russia? I’m betting Tver is smaller than Mooseport for God’s sake! Never fear though, the former Yukos company has now come under control of Putin’s deputy chief of staff who through a corporate board seat, now fancies himself an oil baron. Does this sound like the kind of senseless pinch those Apprentice show amateurs would get themselves into, or is it just me? Lucky for them, they see the error of their ways when Carolyn, George and the Donald lecture them at the end of each episode. Not so for Putin and his pals.

While Vlady says of the Yukos debacle “the state was getting its due,” his nemesis Khordovsky asserts it is “selective justice and the most senseless and destructive event in the economic sphere since Putin has taken the helm.” I’d have to agree. Will Stalin’s Second Revolution and it’s collectivist economic ideals come back to Putin’s Russia? Let us hope not. But then, leg warmers have resurged and are again on the shelves here in the Ol’ US of A, so I must conclude that it is possible for most ANYTHING to come back into vogue. While we all say Nyet to the Five-Year Plan revisited, check out our man Khodorkovsky’s latest kernels of wisdom.

http://news.tradingcharts.com/futures/3/9/62383793.html

Long may freedom reign!

Signed in Solidarity to My Yukos Comrades at Arms,
TLRG

P.S. Don’t pass this around to your fellow bloggers and friends. I value my cute, unblemished Strawberry Shortcake face just the way it is, thank you if you catch my not so subtle orange scarf drift.

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Every epic struggle needs a protagonist and one of the most legendary has left our world today, Yasser Arafat. The master PLO’er caught my eye as a teen, not due to his fiery rhetoric but because of his unique headgarb. Common sight in the outdoor Midwestern shopping plazas of the Debbie Gibson era? In a word, no. As my politco fascinations grew, I followed his ups and downs and Phoenix-like resurections for the better part of two decades right on through the Oslo accords.

Cunning, elusive, dangerous and wildly unpredictable, this man had one hell of life. And likely, one hell of an afterlife. Bets on how long it will take for the Ramallah compound to become a musee de liberation and key stop on the pilgramage trail? The contrast between the fates of Arafat and Sharon (master general in the Six Days War) is striking, is it not? Given their similarities in time of war and in deed? I leave you with this to ponder, as well as the interesting riff-raff the Arafat gift shop might carry. Security Wall bracelets, anyone? My sincere wishes for Arafat and the Middle East to finally rest in peace.

Signed,
TLRG, Agent of Global Diplomacy

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But lately, I can’t seem to escape people who are herding themselves like stampeding buffalos to the altar. This despite complex just-in-case fleeing plans to hide out in the tropical aisles and grooms I know having phone sex with someone other than their intended DAYS before the nupituals. I digress.

Airfare to my close friends’ nupituals alone would be enough to buy that plasma TV I know someone REALLY wants. Everywhere I turn, my loved ones are stealth domestic planning: picking out new homes, just the “right” bath fixtures, and yes, yard SOD with their significant other. And alarmingly, most of these suburban gruesome twosomes have known each other for less time than those beloved Queer Eye for the Straight Guys have been on air. The potential brides-to-be obsess about co-habitating with Mr. Newbie and spend their days searching on jewlery websites building the perfect engagement ring. I ask, is the rickety economy and our jitter-filled post 9/11 world driving people to quick companionship at any cost? Has the anti-feminist backlash swung back a bitchslap too far?

Whatever happened to old-fashioned courtship where you went to the drive-in, smooched, and got cute little candy hearts for a few years before talk of getting hitched surfaced? Our world is so go, go, achieve, acheive that people have little room to just take a deep breath and savor the romantic moment they are in without bringing the question of calla lillies versus rose bud bridesmaids bouquets into play. You’d think what with all the matrimonial tafetta-buying and Pottery Barn gift registries being created that there was a war going on and men were tangibly feeling their moratality clock ever-quickening. Oh wait there is and they are.

Don’t get me wrong, if someone I love has found Mr. Right, I say bravo! But I must question, what’s the rush to make it official? If the feeling is so real, have faith that love will flourish and grow richer with the years and your shared experiences. Once the march to the altar is through, you want to be left with something real between you and your beloved; a house of mutual interest not based on wedding invite fonts and placecard paper stock.

I’m not opposed to perhaps one day tying the knot, albeit without crowds or fanfare. Marriage is a serious and sacred covenant between two people and in life I’ve learned that anything is possible and surprises are a given. For now though, I am lucky enough to share a vibrant relationship with someone who I can feverishly debate the issues of the world with over the heart shaped waffles I have cooked up and make fabulous, passionate love after the heated rhetoric froths over. We don’t need a discussion of crab grass, linoleum tile laying or stone cuts to keep our twosome fresh and alive. And that’s just the way I like it.

Signed, That Little Red Headed Girl

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