My Cousin Johnny

 

 I have only done this once before: written what I guess is a eulogy. That was for Mommy. (I still miss her!) This time around, I am compelled to memorialize my cousin Johnny who played a bigger part in my childhood than anyone will ever know.

Johnny was two years older than me which- when we were kids- afforded him a sense of wisdom and gravitas. He got me to do and believe all sorts of pretty crazy stuff because of this age advantage. Like the time he paid me a dollar (in pennies) if I would eat an entire raw onion. (I did it.) 

We lived in New Haven while our parents built their house on property contiguous to my grandmother (Gramma) and my aunts and uncles. Every weekend, we would drive to Durham so that Mommy and Daddy could work on the house. I would immediately run across the field to see Johnny. We spent most of our time roving the woods, building forts and bridges and somehow not injuring ourselves too badly. Our toys consisted mainly of tools: saws and hatchets and other sharp implements stolen from our parents tool boxes: real child-safe approved stuff.(*1) Also frequently starring in our escapades was Johnny's bee bee gun. (Oh boy did I want one!) We shot at all sorts of things, most often missing but sometimes hitting one another. I still recall the day I limped home with several round holes in my knee, trusting that Mommy wouldn't ask too closely what had happened.

Johnny and I founded The Kongatowa Club. (*2)It was named for a large stream flowing through the property that abutted our family's woods; I don't know that it had an "official" name but we christened it The Kongatowa River. It afforded passage to vast tracts of swamp and forest, which in turn led to a dirt road that approached The Pig Man's Farm. We often dared each other to climb the rise that hid the (literal) Pig Farm from view. The smell was frequently overwhelming but it was thrilling to catch a glimpse of the hidden farm or even get chased away by the farmer. We in The Kongatowa Club lived dangerously.

After these exhilarating and exhausting excursions (*3), we'd repair to Gramma's house- nicknamed The Tea House- for a cup of milky tea, graciously provided by Gramma. The mismatched teacups themselves provided entertainment: who would get the cup adorned by a pheasant (referred to as the "Fozzent" cup), or The Daniel Boone mug? There were also Gramma's mysterious Cabinet of Rocks to admire and a strange wooden dachshund painted green... all sorts of oddities. Johnny, Cathy and I spent hours visiting Gramma, who enjoyed our company until we resorted to one of our favorite pass times. This consisted of spitting (often some of that milky tea) into the large furnace grate that covered part of her living room floor. A satisfying sizzling noise arose from the unseen depths of the basement and satisfying words of surprise and anger erupted from Gramma. (*4) 

These are the things I remember about Johnny and our childhood escapades. I didn't see Johnny, or his wonderful wife Chris, much in adulthood, but I know he was happy making music and traveling to Block Island and Jamestown and working on his house, which I recall having been transformed into a playful space with nooks and crannies and cats. The last time I saw Johnny was at Mommy's funeral and gathering. He seemed well and it was nice to catch up. The last time I talked to Johnny was last year. In COVID time, he had been admitted to the hospital with a recurrence of cancer. (*5) When he returned home, I called him, hoping he'd sound okay. He was weak and tired and realistic about what was happening.

Johnny died this last week. I think his death caused me to reflect on the fragility of our lives and on how much time has passed since our childhoods. I hope that Johnny has crossed The Kongatowa River and is enjoying a milky cup of tea with Gramma at The Tea House.

(*1) I am not sure whether our parents ever knew exactly where all these tools had vanished to. Mommy and Daddy probably blamed each other for having carelessly misplaced them. It is possible they thought we were angels who would never do dangerous stuff like steal and lie.. hahahahaaha!!

(*2) My younger sister Cathy was a sometimes/partial member of this organization. She was occasionally allowed to accompany us on our adventures into the outback, but I am sorry to confess that one of the reasons for The Kongatowa Club was to keep it exclusive. Johnny and I therefore spent time and effort thinking up impossible tasks for Cathy to perform in order to achieve full membership. (Nice, huh?) More than once, we left Cathy to chop through a fallen tree with an extremely dull saw. We'd go off on exciting excursions and return an hour later to find my poor sister diligently hewing away. Kids are so cruel! I cringe now to consider this but at the time it felt great!

(*3) How's that for alliteration?!? 

(*4) Let's face it: half the fun of being a kid is irritating adults and pushing limits!

(*5) Do I need to say it? Fuck cancer.

Mommy 1920-2017

Alas! Veronica West Valley Bogel aka Mommy has died. We have known for a long time that she was fading but it's still shocking when it happens.  I know I'm still processing this information, and truly haven't had time to feel much of anything yet; except, perhaps, a profound sense of relief as Mommy's last few years were anything but rewarding or beautiful.(The picture above is from quite a long time ago, as Mommy had her dog Molly with her and she's driving what appears to be the silver Toyota that she handed down to me like twenty years ago! But it all seems like yesterday.)
So Mommy finally died on June 17th, her 97th birthday. It does have a nice feeling of her coming full circle. I'll never forget how Mommy turned to me once- when she was a comparative spring chicken of an old person (like in her vigorous eighties) and said, "You know if I died now, I'd be happy". I exclaimed, "Do you know something that I don't know?" and she replied that she wasn't sick with something mysterious or anything, she just felt contented and at peace and happy that we, her three daughters seemed happy. Obviously, she went on to live for quite a while longer!
I am happy that she bequeathed to me a love of dogs and most animals- except snakes, of which she was deathly afraid. It is really ironic that Mommy moved to East Haddam and lived in a town that was reportedly a "Herpetologist's Dream". One of my chores when visiting my mother was to go down in the basement and check for snakes. I would inevitably do so... and find one.We never told her that East Haddam was known as the "Snake Capital" of Connecticut. And while she loved flowers and gardens, her fear of snakes kept her from planting much of a garden at home. When she'd come to visit, she was famous for standing in the driveway and refusing to venture further into the grass (where she KNEW snakes were lurking) and waving here arm generally at the garden and saying, "That's okay! I can see the garden from here!"
Mommy was unfailingly generous. She gave Beatrice and Cathy and me a piece of land that we were able to sell. The proceeds from my portion of that transaction allowed Bob and I to purchase The BauHaus Chicken Coop. Thank you Mommy!
The only thing that drove me crazy about my mother was her insecurity about her intelligence. She never seemed to understand that there are many ways to be smart. I think she had been told early on by someone (a family member (who as we all know are not always helpful) or a teacher) that she was a "dummy" (that was the word she used about herself) and I think that was tragic! She was a good cook, a good listener, liked to read and taught me to sew. (We all know where that led!)
So I will say this: Mommy was never judgemental and didn't question my life choices. She never turned to me and said, "Why are you an artist? Why can't you just become a secretary or something?' She knew that being an artist was a different kind of commitment. When she was younger, she did a number of paintings and I had encouraged her to take up painting again later in life, but she was busy doing other things.
And a last note: Mommy loved strawberry shortcake. It was an ongoing ritual for her birthday and if you asked her what she wanted for her birthday, she's invariably say she didn't care what she got, as long as there was strawberry shortcake. (And it had to be REAL shortcake, not that spongey stuff!) I had thought about making one on her birthday just to fulfill that annual wish but then she passed.
So I guess I'll say how terribly we will miss Mommy. I will miss talking with her about silly things my current dog was doing, or telling her about what I was working on in my studio, or what Bob and I were up to (she loved Bob). Goodbye Mommy!

A Eulogy for Jules 2010-2016

What can I say about Jules the Dog now that he's gone? I loved him; we loved him. He was a wonderful dog. It is too terrible contemplating our present lives, without Jules. He was our constant companion and a vital force of nature. The house is too quiet and very empty.
Jules loved snow and tennis balls and chasing squirrels and carrying large sticks. He was silly and funny and smart and tolerant of my off-key singing of atrocious songs in his praise. (I know he secretly loved hearing my nonsense tunes, extolling his virtues, even though he rolled his eyes and acted embarrassed.) He was a truly handsome dog. He wasn't even six...
He has been gone almost a week. I have left a bowl of water for him in case some spirit incarnation of his is thirsty and needs a drink. His tennis balls are here, buried under the snow. I haven't been able to go for a walk yet without him. I have cleaned up all his silky black dust kittens (and he did know how to shed constantly!) but I would gladly have fur-encrusted stairs if it meant that Jules was here. Fuck a clean house!
As is apparent to anyone who follows this blog or was fortunate enough to have met him, Jules was a star.