The Haasienda on Shroyer…

In 1983, I was at Ball State University on my first time away from home on my birthday and Mother started a tradition of calling me at the time I was born, 6:03 PM.

Sometimes, she’d call as I was in the middle of something, but I would immediately call her back so she could officially kick off my next year.  Most of the time, when my anticipated birthday-call fell on a weekday, I would explain to whomever, the tradition and that at 6:03 PM, I would be taking a call.  Private students began looking forward to this call.

I absolutely loved this call.  It was that one connection that only she and I had originally share from my beginning, and our beginning as Mother and son.

These telephone calls continued, without fail, until last year, September 25, 2018.

This morning, I was clearing out items on my phone and discovered I still had the last recorded birthday message Mother was ever to deliver.

For the past sixteen years, my neighbor, Kay Moore, has been my Ohio mom and I’ve always called her “Mama Kay.”  Even her daughter and son refer to me as their brother.

Tonight, Mama Kay extended the Mother-Son tradition; she came over to give me a birthday kiss and hug at 6:03 PM.

Even when there’s a change in cast, the show must go on…

Thank you, Mother, for everything.  Know you are loved…

Dr. Robert P. Ulrey

Wednesday morning, September 23, 1964, Dr. Ulrey examined my mother who had begun labor pains a few hours before.

“I don’t think the baby is ready to arrive within the next few hours, or even today, but I’m hoping it will arrive tomorrow so we can share the same birthday.”

Robert Ulrey, born in Seymour, Indiana in 1920, would turn 44 years old on that Thursday in September 1964.

After World War II where he served in England, France, and Germany, he returned to the states where he graduated from Indiana University Medical School.  Dr. Ulrey moved his family to Elwood, Indiana, in 1956, where he would serve as a general practitioner until 1968.

My mother, Diana Barmes, became a secretary/receptionist for Dr. Ulrey in June 1963. Mother and her family, Leroy and Donna Barmes, adored Robert and Jean Ulrey, as did many of our friends and family from the communities of Elwood, Hobbs, Tipton, and Alexandria.

September 23, 1963: Mother with her mother and grandparents.

Wednesday, September 23, 1964, was a bit muggy by the afternoon.  While my grandmother, Donna Barmes, was with Mother, timing the contractions, she received a telephone call that her ten-year-old son, Tommy, had cut his head open at baseball practice.  Mother rode with Grandma Donna and Tom as they to Dr. Ulrey’s office.  While Tom was receiving stitches, Grandma Donna held Tom’s hand while looking out the window to time Mother’s contractions.  Several times, Dr. Ulrey looked out the window to give Mother a thumb’s up.

By nightfall, both grandmothers were at our house on the huge hill at the corner of Ninth and Main Streets.  They were urging Mother to reconsider going to the hospital earlier than Mother’s intended midnight departure.  Mother kept insisting that she felt fine and knew it was not time.  While Mother took a bath, taking her time, she would call to Grandma Donna in the kitchen who was still timing the contractions.

Finally, shortly before midnight, Mother was dressed and announced she was ready to go to the hospital.  One of my grandmothers went to wake my napping father, all of the twenty-two year old father.  Danny Jolliff was ever barely coherent upon awakening from any kind of sleep and that night he lived up to comic proportions as he searched for his keys (in his pants’ pocket), trying to find his light-weight jacket (it was hanging on the back of a dining room chair which he passed a number of times during the search), and when he heard Mother groan from a contraction, he dashed outside and drove his white Chevy Corveire through the backyard and right up to the porch.

“Danny, I feel as though I could walk to the hospital,” Mother laughed.  To this day, it would not have surprised me if she had walked to the hospital, five blocks away.

Mother said that around 2:00 AM, Dr. Ulrey, now the “birthday boy,” arrived to check on Mother.  I was not ready to make my appearance.

“We still have twenty-two hours for the baby to make my birthday party.”

The warm September sun rose and Mother was still not dilated enough, despite the fact that I was head-down in the birth canal.

Morning. Afternoon. Evening.

No baby Jolliff.

Mrs. Jean Ulrey had driven to the hospital, several times, to check on Mother so she could report back to her husband who was busy at his office.

Dr. Ulrey came to check on Mother before heading out to celebrate his birthday and also, after dinner.

Midnight.

It was now Friday, September 25th.

The next morning, Mother, greatly fatigued, was told that when the time came he was going to give her anesthesia because he didn’t wish for her to risk her own strength, possibly health.  Mother was disappointed but understood his concern.

The day languished on for Mother.

The moment arrived and Mother was wheeled back to the delivery room where the anesthesia was applied.

6:03 PM, Dr. Robert Ulrey welcomed me into the world.  Since Mother was sedated, I always smile on the fact that this beloved doctor not only delivered me but was my sole welcoming committee.

The Ulreys moved to Evansville, Indiana in 1968.  Dr. Ulrey became an anesthesiologist, retiring in 1985.

I was never to meet my Delivery Man, again, but since childhood, knowing my birth story, I’ve never forgotten to remember the good doctor on September 24th.

As our family began welcoming guests to Mother’s visitation this past August 2019, we deeply appreciated Dr. Ulrey’s son, Steve, driving from Bloomington to pay his respects.

For me, personally, it reconnected me to the day his dad was my Delivery Man.

God bless you, Dr. Robert Ulrey, as you continue your eternal rest.

Front Street Buildings; Dayton Ohio

I’m waiting at the downtown Dayton bus terminal and the evening is absolutely splendid with the nice breeze flowing through the buildings and open arcade.

Midweek hit like a drunk bat out of hell when we discovered a leak in my kitchen that soaked the carpet and, fortunately, drained through the floor down to the drain and surrounding cement floor. The plumber arrives tomorrow morning.

I taught at school this morning and afternoon and only had one student due to the others having unscheduled rehearsals, illness, and homecoming events.

I left the house for downtown Dayton, completed three errands, and grabbed the No. 1 bus to Taqueria Mexican Restaurant on east Third Street. My chicken fajita was delicious and the service most excellent.

I strolled back to the center of town, grabbing tons of photos already posted on Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

I’d classify this day as damned bully!

New Normal definition: What replaces the expected, usual, typical state after an event occurs. The new normal encourages one to deal with current situations rather than …

It’s now been one month since Mother’s funeral and this new normal is slugging along.

The grief is one thing.

I get it.

The new normal, however, is a category completely separate and oft times puzzling and frustrating. Grief often has familiar patterns; a new normal has no patterns and some days feels as though I’m walking blindfolded on a tightrope carrying two 5-gallon buckets filled with wet peat rocks, and holding a bowling ball beneath my chin.

As Mother entered her final journey, I wrote about my experience watching a parent transition. I wrote these entries to keep our family and friends informed, and to address my participation in her journey.

in mid July, I began receiving messages from individuals who expressed their appreciation for me being able to express my emotions and thoughts as it assisted them in either their future journeys with their own parents, or shed some light on what they experienced. As of this week, the count is now over one hundred messages.

I was fortunate to spend 55 years with Mother. The end of September, I will begin my 56th journey around the sun. This new normal will commence with the procession of important dates and holidays that we shared.

I still find myself searching for Mother’s “likes” and comments on my posts. There are things my dogs will do and I think, “Oh, I need to tell Mother what Erma did with…” This is quite normal for those who have lost loved ones.

Now, it’s my new normal.

So be it.

This is all a part of life’s process. I will gradually embrace it, pieces at a time. I will figure out how to proceed with life, knowing that Mother is still near. I’ve always believed our loved ones never truly leave us.

I am tremendously grateful for my students who keep me laughing, keep me focused, and keep me seeing the pieces of this new chapter falling into place. Bless you!

I was raised to “make it a great day.” And so I shall.

Onward.

I’m sitting on my front steps waiting for my DoorDash delivery from Frisch’s and the traffic on Shroyer Road is non-stop.

It’s one of the biggest nights in Kettering: the much anticipated Kettering vs Alter football game. The community goes all out for this first seasonal game that sparks much anticipated rivalry.

I can easily hear the stadium announcer and Fairmont’s marching band from my front porch.

Earlier, three students from Alter stopped by before heading to the game. They asked if they could park in my drive since all the high school lots and surrounding neighborhood are completely packed with cars.

This was another fantastic week of teaching and I’m proud of all the effort from students.

Alter’s play, 26 PEBBLES, is filled with a number of my students. Centerville HS’s cast lists for CACTUS FLOWER and FIRST DATE will be posted tomorrow; all my students made callbacks and are chomping at the bit. My sophomore from Beavercreek was cast as a lead in an original play.

The studio is off to another great season.

Tomorrow will include yard work for the holiday weekend and the start of our Holiday at Home festivities.

I love the energy of school resuming, especially with marching band; however, this is my least favorite time of year: the end of summer.

While we officially still have several more weeks of summer, this weekend reins in the season. It’s Holiday At Home Festival time, here in Kettering, and the last hurrah for barbecues, swimming pools, and other familiar seasonal past-times.

This has been a non-summer for me. I’ve not been in a summery mood since Mother’s illness began unfolding rapidly in June. It feels as though I slept all day and missed out on an entire day of beautiful weather and opportunities for exploring. It feels like the emptiness on a Sunday evening.

Still, I’m in no way regretful I’ve missed summer as I spent it the best way I could, being with Mother as much as possible the last few months. I would never think of trading those moments for anything else.

I’m sitting on my front porch waiting for my pizza delivery at 10:45 PM. The night is cool and the air fragrant with a sweet scent I cannot identify.

Weeds have taken command, and the haggard plant appearance that oft accompanies summer’s end is ruling my front yard.

It’s almost time to post a video of “September Song,” a favorite of Mr. Logan’s, and an annual tradition for his granddaughter, Kate Harrigan and me.

Here’s to the end of August.

My personalized thank you cards will arrive next week.

In the mean time, I wanted to be certain each and every individual who contributed something to my life, these past several weeks, understands how much your thoughtfulness meant.

From “hearts” or praying hand icons on social media, the loving tributes to Mother on social media, the numerous cards, emails, text messages, thoughtful gestures and gifts, friends driving several hours for the visitation and funeral, all the family and friends who visited Mother at Pleasant View Lodge, those who participated in the Life Celebration, Pleasant View Lodge, the Dunnichay Funeral Hone family, Linda Kane and the Pizza King crew, and the countless hugs… oh, I treasure each of the hugs these past several weeks.

My sister, Dena, was the perfect power of attorney, making so many strenuous decisions and advocating so beautifully on Mother’s behalf. Sis was the consummate juggler of Mother’s affairs, running her home and family, and starting a new business throughout Mother’s illness and passing, and I am so grateful for each and every effort on her part. She was magnificent.

Words cannot express my heart’s ever deepening affection and gratitude for the countless kindnesses shown me during the weeks of Mother’s illness and her eventual passing.

Know you are loved…

It’s mid August, and this is my first visit to Riverscape where I’ve climbed into my favorite swing over looking the Great Miami River.

I spent some time near the river scape pavilion, listening to the swing band and watching some of the couples dancing.

I’ve missed my familiar perch above the river, the gorgeous sunsets, and the breeze blowing off the water’s surface. Tonight could not have been a more perfect night.

One of the reasons for grabbing this swing, the past two years, was to write Mother who was in her first nursing home. I wrote her about the weather, the colors of the sunsets, and about my day.

I don’t feel sad.

Just tired on all levels of mind, body and emotions.

Having this week free from teaching has allowed me to rest, enjoy reading through the many generous comments about Mother on social media, and continually recognizing how blessed I was for 54 years.

And, what is more… I still am.

And it was a pretty pink sunset, tonight… a shade of pink Mother would have loved.

Know you are loved…

The first major sign defining Mother’s passing is not seeing her daily Facebook “likes” for my posts, a commentary on a post, and always followed by “I love you” or “Love you.”

It’s almost surreal realizing she’s no longer here. I’ve found myself, these past several days, thinking, “I should tell Mother this…” or “Mother would love this story about… [one of the dogs or students she was always asking about].

The page was turned and now I seem to be staring at a blank page. I know the blankness is temporary and it’s only requiring me to lift my pen, but the weight of the pen, for now, is extraordinarily heavy.

I returned from Indiana, late Friday evening, and spent the large part of Saturday in bed, only rising to tend to the dogs, eat or use the bathroom. Sunday, I taught six lessons and a few on Monday. It was a haze.

The alone-time, since greeting so many on Friday, is rewarding. Even speaking with a waitress was exhausting, yesterday.

Fortunately, I had already scheduled Tuesday through Saturday to not teach. While the timing of this break was perfect, I’ve not achieved any sort of accomplishments.

The one good thing is that I’ve finally achieved “deck time.” It’s been either too hot or raining. My dog sitters have used it far more times than I have.

The sun is setting on this Wednesday. It’s 8:04 PM and I’m exhausted from exhaustion.

This, too, shall pass.

It’s still Monday.

I’m passing through the Oregon District where the mass shooting occurred early Sunday morning.

Television news crews line a section of the street across from where the shootings occurred.

A gathering of folks surround a makeshift memorial for those who died. Tears are still freely flowing.

I’m heading to my regular Chinese buffet haunt just a few hundred feet from the Oregon District, where I will eat and work on Mother’s funeral service.

It’s still Monday, August 5, 2019. Just over 24 hours ago nine people lay dead and 25+ others injured. It’s so damned surreal.

Dayton is now a familiar name in the national news and headlines.

It’s still Monday, August 5, 2019. Just about 16 hours ago, Mother slipped away from this world. It feels like it’s already been days ago.

I have brain fatigue. Emotions are rather dried up for the moment.

It’s still Monday.

MIAGD: Make it a great day

“Make it a great day!”

I am more than certain Mother would not want it any other way.

There is still a day to be lived. This is a new day that requires not only work at my career, but another opportunity to make a difference.

I’m glad to have spent the last 3 1/2 hours of my Mother’s life, sitting by her bedside. Those 3 1/2 hours were very calm, even uneventful. My sister and I simply watched her inhalations until they ceased at 1:05 AM, just one hour in to August 5, 2019.

When my grandmother died in 1992, I was holding her hand and heard my cousin, Debbie, say, “she’s gone.”

I turned to look at all the faces gathered around my grandmother’s bed and noticed Mother standing at the foot of the bed, looking upon my grandmother’s face. Mother had replaced her anguish and tears with a content, weary smile.

Tonight, my sister sat at the head of the bed, holding Mother’s hand. Like my mother at her mother’s death, I positioned myself at the foot of the bed.

By 12:30 AM, the rhythm of Mother’s breathing was no longer consistent and even, but sporadic and labored.

At 1:05 AM, she took a break. As we had done for the past several hours, we searched for, even expecting another breath to follow.

There were no more breaths to come.

I looked upon my mother’s face. The strained, anguished features of illness were completely gone, magically transformed within minutes. Mother’s body was finally at peace.

After making several calls and sending texts, Dena and I busied ourselves, packing up Mother’s room. As our natures, we promptly transitioned into shared laughter. It was lightheartedness as we packed things, often glancing over to the tiny figure lying in repose, thanks to the nurses who prepared her for removal.

By 2:15 AM, Jordan Cannon from Dunnichay’s Funeral, Elwood, pulled into the parking lot. Moments later, Dena and I saw the gurney bearing Mother’s body moving down the dimly lit hallway.

We finished packing up the room, bid farewell to the night staff, and said our good byes and “I love yous” in the parking lot.

Exactly at 4:00 AM, just two hours and fifty-five minutes since Mother’s passing, I was headed eastward to Kettering, arriving at 5:30 AM.

My quartet of dogs did not bark nor demonstrate their noisy, physical exuberance upon my entering the house. Tails wagged but the full burst of enthusiasm was amazingly subdued.

The week will be committed to teaching, prepping for a new school year, adding final touches to the funeral, and finally, making the trip back to Elwood for the funeral.

I’m at peace.

She taught me how to live, how to laugh, and how to love.

Mission accomplished, Mother. You raised three children who followed your instructions and examples, individually creating our own fascinating worlds of living, laughing, and loving. You should be proud of this accomplishment, alone.

Know you are loved, Mother…

The helplessness of watching someone in the final stages of dying…

The frustration of watching someone in the final stages of dying…

The heartbreak of watching someone in the final stages of dying…

I’ve often read the phrase, “cancer sucks.”

Yes, indeed. It sucks, big time.

Aunt Joyce and Mother

Mother cannot get comfortable in her sleep. She grabs at the blanket, writhes and moans in pain from her Kennedy ulcer, her back, the cancer, and her tiny body shutting down. Her face is now distorted, masking her lovely, familiar features.

Nurses have been in to visit Mother, crying and sharing stories of how much she touched their lives. Mother made certain the nurses, front desk personnel, cleaning and kitchen staff were personally greeted each day, and told they are loved.

My sister, Dena, has been a saint in all she has done to assist Mother’s needs and communicating with the staff and hospice nurses. She’s done such an admirable job balancing her children at home, heading up the role of Mother’s medical executor, and all while starting a new business. Sis’s tireless caring and attention has been a blessing throughout this transition.

Mother’s room is filled with laughter as my sister and I share stories and joke with one another. The night-shift nurses often stop in to join in the merriment.

My sister went to the restroom and I’m alone with Mother. I gaze upon the face I’ve known for nearly fifty-five years and barely recognize but a few features.

I will especially miss her sparking smile that made her eyes seem to dance. Her fifth grade teacher (also mine, twenty years later) at Washington Elementary School, Garnetta Brugger, always told Mother she had “smiling eyes.”

All the recognizable features are blurred and her voice and laughter are now in the past.

Since there are no monitors to alert us, we rely on studied glances to observe movement in her chest cavity or listen for the labored breathing.

It’s now 5:00 AM, the third day of August.

It’s been exactly six months since our brother Destin’s suicide. We’ve wondered if she might have selected this date for departure.

The watch continues…

By the time this post appears on social media, I shall be on my way back to my mother’s side as the curtain lowers on this final act.

Mother’s spoken lines are now hushed, her movement stilled.  The breathing is much slower and a bit labored.  Soon the stage will be cleared and the Ghostlight in place.

Several times, these past few weeks, I believed I was bidding Mother a final farewell before those departures.  However, the dear woman put in a few more curtain calls.  As the hospice nurse indicated, this afternoon, there probably will be no further curtain calls.

The grand dame will shortly take her final bow.

My sister and I are waiting in the wings, holding Mother’s hands, waiting for the final curtain so she can quietly slip out the stage door.

It’s surreal knowing my mother will soon depart, but I am at peace.

I am so proud of all her quiet accomplishments and her deserved victories.

I will always know how blessed I am to have been her eldest son.

“A bell is no bell til you ring it, A song is no song til you sing it,

And love in your heart wasn’t put there to stay; love isn’t love til you give it away.”

                                       Oscar Hammerstein II, 1959

Thank you, Mother… you were amazing.

Know you are loved, eternally…

At 2:05 AM, just about 15 minutes ago, my sister called after receiving word from the nursing home that Mother’s condition has greatly deteriorated.

For the past three weeks it has been touch and go.

We wait.

We’ve known there is no hope for a full recovery; the cancer has ravaged her body. We’ve only desired Mother be comfortable and without pain.

Mother orchestrated this “eleventh hour” transition as smoothly as some of my favorite theatre composers would, building up to the final moment before the curtain lowers on the finest musical.

We knew, from early on in life, that this moment would someday arrive. As our great-grandparents and grandparents died, moving our Mother, and us, closer to the curtain’s fall, it still seemed this moment would remain suspended for a long while.

However, as with any great musical production, we move quickly through each scene and act, seldom checking the time.

Perhaps we ignore the time because we don’t want the show to end.

My sister just texted that Mother’s BP is 77/44 and there are ten respirations per minute.

While Mother’s pulse winds down, ours accelerate.

As the curtain lowers on Mother’s grand production, my sister and I each step into our own second acts.

This is life.

One scene moves into the other for each act. Eventually, the curtain will lower.

But the music… the music will never truly end.

This past Friday, while my sister and I had some alone time with Mother, we discussed her funeral and burial wishes.

Mother was very matter of fact about what she wants. I was commissioned by Her Admiralty to write her obituary and to plan the service as I had done for my grandparents.

While it was not a topic we would have preferred to discuss with Mother, as our family’s legendary custom, nothing is too dark to prohibit an ounce of humor.

Over the past several days, my sister, Dena, and I have talked and texted back and forth over a number of topics, but the impending funeral has been a principal topic.

This afternoon, much has been accomplished with the planning and we spiced it up with some humor.

I reminisced about our Grandma Donna during a visit to our family cemetery just northeast of our hometown, Elwood, Indiana.

In 1978, Grandma Donna was diagnosed with chronic lymphocytic leukemia. I was thirteen, and while I had known several children my age who had suffered with leukemia, this was my much beloved grandmother and I immediately assumed she would die just like those kids my age.

Several times, Grandma responded to my uncertainty, reminding me she wasn’t planning on going any time soon.

One summer day, Grandma, Mother, Grandma’s father (my great grandfather), my siblings and I visited the family cemetery to tend to the individual graves. My grandparents had already installed their gravestone with all the information save the years of their deaths. Their plot was directly behind Grandpa Garrett and Grandma Belle’s plot (Grandma Belle passed in 1969).

“Do you think I’ll fit?” my grandmother shouted.

We all turned to see my grandmother stretched out in the ground behind her stone.

We all laughed except my great-grandfather who shook his head and said, “that’s not funny, Donnie.”

“You best behave, Old Man, because I’m in just the right spot to kick you on the top of your bald head when we’re all here.”

The laughter rose even higher into the country air of Forrestville Cemetery with Grandpa Garrett joining in.

When the horrible moment arrived in 1992, we laughed right through the tears as we celebrated Grandma Donna.

I will always be grateful our family has continually ingrained a sense of humor and the love of laughter in our lives.

However, I suspect humor and laughter are solidly built into our genes.

Grandma Donna (1924-1992)

Grandpa Garrett (1898-1998)

JOSEPH & THE AMAZING TECHNICOLOR DREAM COAT.

This young man, wearing a dream coat, did a fantastic job as Joseph. I am so proud of Hunter Dale in this role.

This is the first time I have had a private student perform this role who was not in a production I directed.

I got to do this role 29 times, and in three national tours. I’ve also directed JOSEPH 14 times.

Here’s some irony for the day…

31 years ago, today, my beloved mentor for theater directing, Joshua Logan, died on July 12, 1988. I was on tour as Joseph that Tuesday evening and was told after that night’s show ended. The next evening, I quietly and personally dedicated my performance to Mr. Logan.

For me, the closing number, “Any Dream Will Do,” was beautiful, powerful, and always quite personal to me. As I stepped forward into the spotlight to begin the song, a strange knot in my stomach and chest began throbbing and I felt this peculiar haze settle within. I felt as though I had stepped off the edge of the stage and was falling into some kind of abyss.

I got to the verse, “may I return to the beginning, the light is dimming, and the dream is, too,” the tears began flowing. As I steadily felt the emotion strangle my control, my words became more pronounced and the song’s dreamy quality suddenly became a powerful testament.

That night, at twenty-three, I had one of the best performances of my life.

Tonight, as the show began, it occurred to me that I was seeing JOSEPH on the anniversary of Mr. Logan’s death and one of my students was slipping into my old dream coat.

This is what I love so dearly about my work in the performing arts. There’s a certain kind of magic that allows us to live and explore so many things beyond… perhaps, in the east where the dawn is breaking.

This was just the perfect night.

Thank you, Mr. Logan and thank you, Hunter.

I pulled into my driveway around 6:45 AM, this morning.

I carried in a doggie bag containing half of a huge slice of lemon cake from Shapiro’s Deli on Meridian Street, downtown Indianapolis.  In my refrigerator was a pizza from Marion’s Pizza, a sweet gift from my neighbor, Mama Kay.

Marion’s pizza is the closest thing, here in Dayton, to my beloved Pizza King from Indiana.  I’ve always said that the minute Mother weened me from being breastfed, I was immediately started on Pizza King.

I solidly slept from 8:30 AM – 12:20 PM and The Quartet obliged my rest without interruption.

My lunch feast is complete!

Independence Day, July 4th, 2019.

Three legendary musical pieces are always at the top of my favorites:

I first heard the Wilhousky arrangement of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” at The Elwood High School Variety Shows in the late 1960s, and eventually performed and conducted this lush, haunting score numerous times.

Happy Independence Day!

Mr. Lincoln walks alone…

Stacey Goecke captured my good friend, Bob Koogler, who has portrayed President Lincoln for nearly thirty years.

When I first moved to Dayton, Ohio, Sarah Koogler was the very first person I met. In 1996, I began working as director of music at Normandy United Methodist Church and much to my surprise, there was Sarah, and her husband, Bob. They were terrifically active in the performing arts of the church and so many other prominent areas.

Last year at the Centerville Americana Parade, I ran into Bob and Sarah who, as usual, were representing Mr. & Mrs. Lincoln. Sarah didn’t recognize me and some friends shared with me that she was battling Alzheimers. I got to see Sarah several times at Grieve Hardware where Bob works, just down the street from me. Sarah wandered the aisles, counting her fold tissues, over and over. I was simply a friendly face. Nothing more after 28 years of friendship.

Thank you, Stacey, for capturing this perfect photo of my favorite non-president President Lincoln.

Once again, my neighbor lady introduced me to another mind-blowing movie, far from the concert halls of Pavarotti and into the rounded farming ranges near Los Angeles.

Watch the video, first…

Wow!  The film is incredible.

And, this interview is fantastic…

My neighbor lady, Kay, asked if I’d like to go to The Neon Movies to see PAVAROTTI and I cannot think of a better way to spend a summer weekday afternoon while I am not teaching this week.

I knew Pavarotti’s work and read numerous articles over the years, even watched his funeral; however, I had absolutely no idea just how kind hearted, philanthropic, and a big loving teddy bear with a tremendous sense of humor Pavarotti was.

I highly recommend this film, produced and directed by Ron Howard.

At 11:00 PM, the canine quartet and I crawled up the stairs to prepare for slumber.

I turned my laptop on and on Hulu 1952 motion picture, THE QUIET MAN, had just started.

Ugh. Sleep will wait.

When I was growing up in Elwood, Indiana, I often spent weekends with my grandparents who lived thirteen miles south of town in the country.

Most often, late any Saturday night would find my grandmother and I watching late night movies. I was probably in junior high when I first saw THE QUIET MAN starring John Wayne, Maureen O’Hara, Barry Fitzgerald, Victor MacLagen, Mildred Natwick, and Ward Bond.

Grandma Donna loved Maureen O’Hara and was always excited when she’d find any Maureen O’Hara movie in TV Guide.

It was the music that attracted me, most. Motion picture composer, Victor Young’s score was filled with lush, haunting Irish melodies. The one melody that gripped me most was “The Isle of Innessfree.”

From 1990, I’ve watched THE QUIET MAN each Saint Patrick’s Day. I’ve purchased the DVD and have also purchased the streaming.

It’s always a joy to return to this movie each year, fondly remembering my grandmother’s enthusiasm for sharing with me her love of old movies, enjoying the film’s score, and celebrating my Irish heritage of the Clarys, the Daughertys, The Greenlees, and the Barnetts.

Many of us have or have had nicknames.

I’ve often been called, “DJ,” or “Deej.”

I always thought my one nickname was, “Destin,” as Mother has consistently called each of us by the other’s name.

As a little fellow, Grandma Donna often took me out to Elwood’s T-way parking lot (where Dairy Queen is located) to watch the high school marching band practice for The Indiana State Fair.

One evening, after watching practice, my grandparents were on their porch swing and I began marching around the porch, playing an “air trumpet,” and singing out like a trumpet or horn.

Grandpa Leroy asked, “Are you honkin’?”

In all seriousness, I turned and said, “No, I’m Darin.”

Since I was a towhead for many years, I seemed to have gotten a running start to the heavy duty blonde years.

A few days later, someone asked my name and I replied, “Honkin. Darin Honkin Jolliff.”

Thus was born my first nickname. Honkin or Honk.

Grandpa Leroy was pretty much the only one who called me, Honkin, and maybe a few others, but it was not far reaching.

May 11, 2004, I heard my familiar nickname for the last time as I bid my grandfather, “goodbye,” upon leaving his hospital room.

Another nickname has also faded into the annals of my life’s chapters.

My baby brother, Destin, as he learned to speak, called me, “Da.” In hindsight, being the smartass he was, he was probably saying, “Duh,” to get a jump on the many years of teasing.

As his speech developed I became, “Bubby,” which later shortened to just “Bub.”

“Bub” was just not Destin’s for me. It my nickname for him. Cards, emails, or text messages were signed off with “Love, Bub,” or his condensed, “L. Bub.”

A few weeks ago, I received what was to be the last text message from Destin, telling me about his eldest son, Parker, 13, spending more time watching historical documentaries than playing with Christmas toys.

The text was completed with, “L Bub.”

Honkin and Bub are now nicknames of my past. Perhaps there will be one or two more to come, but at 54, it seems unlikely.

Now, the nicknames are much like keepsakes that are placed in a drawer to be remembered when scrounging through the drawer to find something.