Le Monde de Fromage de Kate

In the middle of December I received a holiday dispatch from dear friends of mine, The Andersons. Amber wrote the letter (with the support of her “posse”):

Emmry Kate, Morgan, Kendyl & Amber

Here’s the excerpt from the letter that delighted me the most:

In March the daughter of a former smoker, still known as Glen, encountered the scare of a child’s lifetime: the big C. Lung cancer not only brought us together, but it strengthened us all in individual ways. Though my dad can now be referred to as “one-lung Houdy”, he is also proudly known as a lung cancer survivor. I now formally believe in miracles. Who knew that my mother who became a teacher because she couldn’t be a nurse (couldn’t stand the sight of blood) could be the best nurse in the world through two surgeries and three months of chemo? They are my heroes.

This was, truly, unbelievable news. The prognosis for Amber’s Father had been extremely grim; this was a thrilling, unforeseen miracle.

Then, a little more than a month ago I received an email from Amber that said, in part:

My dad’s recovery from lung cancer was joyous the past 3 months, but suddenly there was a problem, and the cancer spread to his brain. The doctors say he has a week to months to live.

So devastating. Today I received the news that Amber’s Father, Glen Houdersheldt, had succumbed to his disease a little more than a week ago. I write this entry in his memory.
Glen F. Houdersheldt

December 10, 1937 – February 16, 2007

Here’s a link to his obituary with a guestbook you can sign, which will be available, I believe until March 20, 2007.

My deepest sympathies and all my love go out to his family and his friends. I feel deeply honoured to have been acquainted with such a wonderful man – always so full of life and humour; I am truly lucky to know such an incredible family. I believe that it must have been a great blessing that Glen had the comfort of his loving family around him when he died. And as difficult as it was (I cannot conceive of how hard it must have been), I can only imagine that they felt privileged to have been there.

I love you, Amber and Morgan!

I have “mourned” over the last couple of years the fact that I have been living away from what had for so many years become “my city” – Salt Lake City. But in light of what happened last night at Trolley Square it would be utterly ridiculous – the worst possible narcissism for me to use the term “mourn” merely because I miss the life I once had in “my city.”

Last night, in a matter of minutes, six people died at Trolley Square* and others were critically wounded. Grief and mourning belongs to those who lost their loved ones who were innocently shopping for Valentine’s Day, having birthday dinners, or just spending a night at the mall.

True mourning also belongs to a Bosnian family, having come to this country to escape the horrors of being Muslims in the wrong place and time, and having lived a ravaged, horrific existence. They now are forced to struggle not only with the death of their child and brother, eighteen-year-old Sulejman Talovic, but must grapple with the inexplicable, incomprehensible concept that this “good boy” had become a mass murderer. And no one will ever know why.

I suppose one could be relieved that this didn’t take place less than a month ago, during the Sundance Film Festival. I’ve been to Festival premieres at the theatre directly across the street from Trolley Square. I don’t know if the Festival uses those theatres any more, but if they do and that had been the timing, the Trolley Square area would have been filled with thousands of people rather than hundreds. Also, had this massacre been today and not yesterday, I’m sure that there would have been hundreds of additional last-minute Valentine’s Day shoppers on the scene.

And I cannot help but think of all the myriad times I went to Trolley Square. I have fond recollections of almost every restaurant and store in the place. Those memories will never seem quite the same. Nevertheless, like the perspective I now have that makes my use of the word “mourning” in terms of my own “loss” seem flippant, I acknowledge that I cannot begin to comprehend what the employees and children and families and individuals who were THERE experienced. Those memories burned an indelible mark in each participant’s psyche, I’m certain.

But it’s important to acknowledge that there were champions – heroes – there last night amidst the horror and turmoil. I am proud of the quick and appropriate response of the Salt Lake City Police. I am proud of the off-duty Ogden Police Officer who was having an early Valentine’s date with his pregnant wife, who, having assessed the situation, sent her to call 911 and tell others to “lock down” and then engaged and distracted the gunman and doubtless saved many lives. I am proud of store owners and employees who warned people – some risking their own lives in the process – to stay away from the shooter and those who sheltered frightened patrons in their storage rooms, bathrooms and even a freezer. I am proud of the first shooting victim, seriously wounded from being hit multiple times as he was leaving the mall, who ran back TOWARDS the shopping center in order to warn others not to come outside. If I am not mistaken, his selfless actions also prompted the first 911 call. These individuals claim that they did “what anyone else would have done in the same situation.” Even if that is the case, they are still heroes.

Now I mourn for “my city” – not for myself, but for this senseless tragedy. I grieve, too, that it is a reality in LIFE that senseless tragedy can happen at any time and any place, bringing out the very worst in humanity but also the very best, as though Janus incarnate.

My thoughts and no doubt the good wishes of people around the World go out the seriously wounded:

Alan “AJ” Walker, who lost his Father
Carolyn Tuft, who lost her Daughter
Stacy Hanson
Shawn Munns, who ran towards danger, not away from it

And in honoured memory of:

Jeffery Walker, Father of sixteen-year-old Alan “AJ” Walker
Kirsten Hinckley, fifteen-year-old Daughter of Carolyn Tuft
Vanessa Quinn
Brad Frantz
Teresa Ellis

I cannot presume to imagine how much they will be missed.

*Read more about the shootings in any major paper. The largest Utah newspapers are The Salt Lake Tribune and the Deseret News.

I hope everyone lived strong on LIVESTRONG Day! I, myself, completed the day by seeing Mission: Impossible III, in which everyone lives VERY strong with weapons or without them, with bombs in their heads or without them, using Easy Cheese to dissolve the side of a van (or not). AND sometimes they even compute the fulcrum. That’s why, when I was young, all science seemed interesting to me EXCEPT physics – it was because of the fulcrum. When they gave you the picture with the teeter-totter with the supporting triangle in different places and said, “Where is the fulcrum?” or “What is the right fulcrum if the wee tiny kid and the really LARGE kid want to teeter-totter together?” I was always thinking “WHAT IN THE HELL IS A FULCRUM?”

Where was I? Ah yes, Blog against Cancer. In case you’ve forgotten (because of the FULCRUM), that’s number four on the list of suggestions from the Lance Armstrong Foundation.

I said a lot of what I might say now (had I not written it already) in “I Have Learned What it Means to Wear Yellow.” But, as things change for the better and for the worse, I have things to add. So let me talk about why I STILL Wear Yellow and probably always will.

I Wear Yellow in continuing memory of Laurie Walker, Helen Pawlowski, Joan Koralewski, Simon Craig Vodosek, and, yes, Mister Rogers. I Wear Yellow in honour of their families and loved ones who miss them, and to pay homage to their amazing legacies.

I wish you’d met this incredible child, Laurie.
Your daughter is such a beautiful Mother.

I Wear Yellow now, too, in memory of Glen Orrin Richardson and Grettir‘s Aunt Marge (who by all accounts was the embodiment of “salt of the Earth”).

I Wear Yellow in abiding optimism for Dr. Lisa Cannon-Albright. I Wear Yellow because of her personal fight with cancer, and in admiration and respect for the work that she and her colleagues do every day so that perhaps some day the losses and battles caused by cancer will be diminished – vanquished!

I Wear Yellow, too, in support and hope for Glen H., Barbara K., Ann E. and in their ongoing battles with cancer. My thoughts are with you and with your families.

I Wear Yellow in celebration for my beautiful niece, Sarah, who has had a “complete response” to her Hodgkin’s Lymphoma treatment.

Prom, April 22, 2006

I Wear Yellow in profound gratitude to Primary Children’s Medical Center and all the wonderful doctors there, especially Dr. Zeinab Afify, LDS Hospital and the wonderful Radiology Oncologist whose name escapes me, Cottonwood Hospital, all the home health nurses and workers, and the remarkable physicians at Johns Hopkins who worked so hard to figure out was wrong in the first place.

I Wear Yellow in thankfulness for all the Monkey Cats who provide an INSANE but diverting respite for Sarah from the unending (though natural) concern of her family. You have all been just FANTASTIC (and, as we all know, it takes VERY special people to be Sarah’s friends, as she is VERY special). And Rob – what can I say – you really are one in a million. You take such good care of our girl and treat her with respect, tenderness and patience beyond your years. Sarah didn’t tell us, but your Mom spilled the beans to MY Mom that you even offered to shave your head in support of our G.I. Jane. And in characteristic Sarah fashion she said, “No, SOMEONE should have hair!” Nevertheless, the mere fact that you offered is a testament to your character. Thank you for helping let Sarah live a full and very teenage life despite her chemo and radiation and whatnot. Thank you for wearing a mask and using anti-bacterial gel when she was immunocompromised (without anyone even having to ask) and for helping remind HER to be careful when it was necessary. Bless you.

I Wear Yellow because Sarah has shown me what an incredible young women she’s grown into. She has faced adversity, uncertainty and pain with a truly unique approach. And through it all, she has shown with VERY few exceptions, only patience and optimism. I am so proud of you, Sarah!

I Wear Yellow for Shirleen and for my Mother who take care of everyone else first. They work so hard and take essentially NO credit for all that they do. I am in awe of both of them.

I Wear Yellow to remind myself to have faith that a day will come when “cancer-free” will mean “cancer-free.” Glen Richardson and my Father showed me we are not there yet. My heartfelt desire is that Sarah (and everyone who is living or has lived through cancer treatment) will someday know truly what it is to be “cancer free.” I Wear Yellow because I believe there are cures for cancer in the future. And if now or in the future a cure is not enough, I Wear Yellow because I trust that some day end-of-life care and palliative care will be what they should be. And I thank, sincerely, The Division of Medical Ethics for the knowledge they gave me about such important issues.

And lastly, or perhaps foremost, I Wear Yellow for my Dad. Please know that despite whatever ridiculously stubborn guff I throw your way, I love you so much! I know you are hurting, and you still work so hard. And yes, I think most of us wish you knew how NOT to work so hard, but I’m still very proud of you.

I think this is what you do the very best. You were born to be “Grandpa.”

First, please attend the second annual Simon’s Birthday Lemonade Stand. Here’s the information, provided by his lovely Mother, Mary:

Classmates, friends and family of Simon Vodosek (who died of cancer in 2004 at the age of 7) will celebrate his life with the second annual Simon’s Birthday Lemonade Stand for Pediatric Cancer Research on what would have been Simon’s 9th birthday. The lemonade stand was inspired by Alex Scott, another child diagnosed with neuroblastoma, who took matters into her own hands and decided to fight the disease one glass at a time.
10% of all purchases at Liberty Heights Fresh on May 17 go directly to the Alex’s Lemonade Stand Foundation, along with all proceeds from the freshly squeezed organic lemonade, donated by Liberty Heights Fresh. Store hours are 8:30 am to 8:00 pm.
Simon’s favorite clown, Marcus, Funny Man Who Does Tricks, and of course, birthday cake will add to the fun:
4:00 pm

I have mentioned the life and death of Simon Craig Vodosek numerous times on this site (take a look at my In Memory Category). I just received word that Brighton Ski Resort is going to name a ski run, the “easiest,” after Simon. Let me quote Simon’s Mother, Mary:

We are thrilled about this meaningful tribute to Simon. In 2004, Simon skied on this same hill during his brief one-season career as a skier. The little run, rated “Easiest,” will be accessible to all levels of skiers–a fitting tribute to our son, who was six when he first skied and seven when he died of neuroblastoma, an aggressive childhood cancer.

On this Friday, April 14, 2006, Simon’s Way will be dedicated at 2:00 p.m. Here’s a prototype of the sign:

Please visit Simon’s Place to see pictures of Simon sking. More importantly, on this page you can find out how to purchase an all-day pass from Simon’s Family that will benefit the Children’s Neuroblastoma Cancer Foundation.

One last word from Mary:

If you can’t join us, please think of us as we make this happy step in our mourning of Simon’s death and our celebration his life. For years to come, we will all be able to ski past the sign and know that we are traveling “Simon’s Way,” remembering a little boy who lived a joyous life.

Earlier tonight I received the belated news that I’d lost a friend – too soon, too young (how many times have I said that in the past year and a half).
Eric Joseph Tierney

May 18, 1979 – January 23, 2006

Eric loved irony, so the title of this entry is a line that Eric said in a play he opened, performed four times, and wasn’t able to close because of sudden liver failure, Love! Valour! Compassion!. His dear friend and the play’s director said:

…I believe he [Eric] loved us enough to hold on until the show closed…so we could hold on…before he slipped away.

There is peace in knowing that the last thing Eric did was something he loved. There is peace in knowing that someone as full of life as Eric is out there, somewhere, armed with wit and heart.

Oh, how I wish I were not so out of touch with everyone and everything; I could have seen him one last time. Ah – something else I’ve said too many times in the last year and a half, “I could have seen him/her one last time.” Ironically, I did see him one last time – I can’t remember how long ago (I know it was at a calmer time in MY life, so it must could have been at least three years) – and I was delighted to see him and he was pleased to see me; we caught up a little, and I put his number in my mobile – yet another phone number I will not be able to erase right now. But you rarely have the privilege of KNOWING that it is the last time you’ll see a person; just as you seldom know when it is the last conversation, the last phone call – or, in regards to another sort of bereavement – the last kiss, the last vacation, the last time you’ll spoon together in a bed that belongs to both of you. I suppose I am learning a great deal about loss at this point in life. I only wish it had NOTHING to do with unalterable death. Too young, too soon…

You see, Eric was and always will be “Little Eric” to me. I first me him when we were both in a production of A Little Night Music at the Babcock Theatre at the University of Utah. I had already graduated with my vocal performance degree (on the ten or eleven year plan – with a myriad of unofficial minors, including theatre and anthropology). Eric was a freshman – a BABY of eighteen or nineteen. When we realized that I was almost EXACTLY ten years his senior (I was born in early 1970, he was born in mid-1979), it only strengthened my initial feeling – he was Little Eric. But Little Eric always had a surprise up his sleeve. He had a rich baritone voice – and he was still essentially a TEENAGER. Furthermore, he was well-read, could discuss at heated length – very articulately – which requiems he admired and which were garbage (if I remember correctly, though we disagreed on some counts, he had the excellent taste to esteem the Fauré Requiem) – his knowledge of music in general was extensive and impressive (and I was the snot with the B.Mus. – assuming in the first place that just couldn’t be the case with a Freshman in the Actor’s Training Program). And then I found out he was from Butte, Montana. It is true, as his obituary says, that “he would tell anyone who would listen all about his hometown.” And he was an exceptionally good sport about the ENDLESS amount of amusement I derived from discussing (okay, sometimes mocking) Butte. Years earlier, I had been, I believe, one of the few people who actually STAYED OVERNIGHT in Butte. At that time they was a big fundraising effort to light the ninety-foot statue, Our Lady of the Rockies, that stands on the Continental divide “overlooking Butte, Montana at the Interstate Hub of I-90/I-15.” He was pleased to convey to me that the dream of lighting up “Our Lady” had been realized so that now it is visible at night. And I don’t think the comedy inherent in the fact that a ninety-foot statue of the Virgin Mary looms over a wee mining town was at all lost on him. I doubt ANY comedy was lost on Eric.

I will never forget that, one night, during the run of A Little Night Music, Eric showed up at Village Inn where a few of us were grabbing a bite (the evening’s party having been shut down by the police just as we arrived). He was several (maybe even five or six) sheets to the wind, and was lavishing affectionate kisses and hugs on all friends he chanced to encounter. “I LOVE you, Kate!” “I LOVE you, Dan!” And on and on. “I just LOVE you guys!” he said, looking absolutely thrilled with each individual. Then he said, with a somewhat vain attempt at a more serious tone, “I KNOW you think I am saying these things just because I am drunk. But it’s BECAUSE I am drunk that I feel more free to share them.” I believe that’s true. In my opinion, he was never the sort of person – and here I’ll add “pardon my French,” because I think he’d really like that – “blow sunshine up your ass.” No matter his blood alcohol level, I think his expressions of love and friendship were genuine and sincere.

An hour or so after I heard about Eric’s sudden death, I just HAD to find pictures from A Little Night Music. This was no small feat (as those who know me and my current situation can confirm) as my belongings are scattered from here to France (that, too, is for you, Eric) in boxes and piles and blown to the wind. But I found those pictures because I HAD to. Here is the very first I found:

There you are, Little Eric, holding my hand. Yes, I am the “blue one” (Mrs. Anderssen). For you, Eric, I flout a personal “rule” – one which I’ve managed to keep unbroken for going on four years (I swore I’d never include a photo of me on this blog taken during, say, the last couple of decades in which you could clearly see my face and/or body). Someone wise recently told me that I should break some of my own rules, especially those that must MIGHT be arbitary in order to see how I really feel about them. He said it could be very freeing. He was right. Granted, I might still prefer a picture SANS my image, but it captures a moment I never want to forget, and I WAS there. We’re posed in our approximate ending positions for the song Remember. Ironically, I DON’T “remember” exactly which of the song’s lyrics were ours, though I know for certain that we had a tête – à – tête in that number (the distribution of lyrics was confusing with added Liebeslieders). I DO remember dancing with you. You waltzed beautifully (and as a mere infant TEENAGER). You were so poised and graceful, despite the fact that (perhaps because of the Babcock’s lights or because of the show’s costumes) you were sweating profusely.

Thank you for that memory and A Little Night Music. I have always adored that show, and from now on I will not think of it without thinking of you. Thank you for our EVERY encounter, no matter how brief. I am deeply honoured to have known you.

And I am certainly in good company. I hope you’d be gratified by how much material about you a simple internet search produced. Here is just a sampling:

• Eric’s Obituary from The Montana Standard
• An article about Eric from The Salt Lake Tribune
• An article about Eric from Salt Lake Metro
• An article about Eric from KUTV.com
• A memorial notice from the University of Utah Alumni Association
• A personal tribute to Eric by his friend, Sarah Stoeckl
• And, as an enduring testament to his skill and perception, an article by Eric entitled Tori’s Sacred Journey

Later today, February 10, 2006, there will be a memorial service for Eric at 4:00 p.m. at the Jeanne Wagner Theatre at the Rose Wagner
Performing Arts Center (138 West 300 South, Salt Lake City).

I don’t know if you’ll see this or not, but I wanted to tell you how much I love you. You know you are one of my oldest and dearest friends. My thoughts are with you and your family so strongly, deeply at this moment. I respect utterly that you need time before you receive calls and visitors, and I hope that this entry does not violate your need for privacy (if it does, I will remove this IMMEDIATELY).

My intent, born out of a feeling of helplessness at my inability to do ANYTHING to soothe the unimaginable grief you must be suffering, is to somehow honor you as a friend and a mother, and to somehow honor James as your child.

Joanne Cacciatore, MSW, founded the M.I.S.S. Foundation in 1996 after the death of her daughter, Cheyenne. She often tells others that she has “five children: four who walk and ‘one who soars.'” I think that’s a lovely image. She also said:

There is no greater tragedy, no more devastating human experience, than the death of a beloved child.

That’s certainly not something I’m telling you, but quoting as a reminder for others. There’s a ton of information on her website, but one of the things that resonated with me was the following flyer – about changing the way our Culture mourns, which I think everyone should read.

I still cannot find the sense to know whether or not it is crass and presumptuous of me to post such a personal missive, especially since I don’t know how to give you much-needed solace or could ever be so bold as to guess how you are feeling. Just know this: Tomorrow (later today, I should say) I will light a candle, sit down at my beloved piano and sing one of the songs I cherish the most – Angel by Sarah McLachlan – for you, your family, and for James. An unusual lullaby, perhaps, but I hope it means something. (“You’re in the arms of the angel, may you find some comfort there.”)

And I must reiterate a sentiment I know is shared by so many – anything you need, ANY TIME – please ask.

All My Love,

Kate
“Sleep in Heavenly Peace,” James Glenn Kubricky

December 6, 2005

Happy Birthday, Syd.
Sydney Ann Samuelson Riggs

December 7, 1944 – June 18, 2005

You are missed so much.

So many anniversaries today. Sixty years ago today the Enola Gay dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima. One year ago today, young Simon died (see “Perspective,” “Goodnight Sweet Prince,” and “I Have Learned What It Means to Wear Yellow“). I have been sitting and looking at the sunlight filtering through the leaves of the huge English walnut trees in the front yard and thinking about Simon. I’ve also been thinking about illness and death and those who I love so much. Some are going through Hell. We need to learn to go through Hell and still laugh, I guess.

Simon at his “Celebration of Life Party” on July 1, 2004.
He and his family are laughing at
“Marcus, The Funny Man Who Does Tricks.”

This sunny day is for you, Simon. I hope Japan is also sun-drenched today. Finally, this light is for you, Bean. Thank you for the many luminous days you gave to me. Wow – it has been four “official” years and we had an entire decade together (more even – three “legally sanctioned” and seven, shall we say, “creatively endorsed” and four or so years before that during which I was privileged to know you. This year…who knows where to put that one – I could come up with some suggestions but they would, no doubt, be unthinkably ribald). See? I’m learning to still laugh even if I cannot have eleven or perpetuity. Happy Anniversary.

Glen Orrin Richardson

November 5, 1957 – July 29, 2005

Glen battled with cancer many years ago and was required, because of life’s always ironic and sometimes cruel humor, to face it again (starting three years or so ago – one month after he was remarried). Exactly twenty days before he died Glen signed off an email to me with, “Love and peace to you, too, Glen.” I can’t envisage a better elegy for him, so:

Love and Peace to You, Glen.

I’ll miss you, you towering Basso Profundo (furthermore, such a “profound” bass in myriad ways). I am so gratified that you left this life with the love, peace and support you most richly deserved.

Here are Glen’s Obituary and his last words.