JR Has Left The Building

An unexpected phone call at work last Monday from my brother Eoin told me that my Dad had a heart attack.  The paramedics were on their way. 

'I think it's too late', he said. 

I hang up and feel like vomiting.  My work colleagues try to reassure me that he could pull through.  I know that this is it too late, Dad has had too many chances.  Another phone call a few minutes later confirms that my Dad, John Russell is dead.  I compose myself to call my brother Derek in England for the second time.  The call that no one wants to get when they are far from home.  I'm glad that his wife is with him when I break the news.  I am instantly comforted knowing that my father died at home, surrounded by family.  Not many get that privilege.

I go into auto pilot and share a list of 'to-do's' with my work colleagues and refuse their kind offers to drive me home. 

I want to disappear. 

The busy streets of Newbridge, or the village in Athgarvan do not know that my father is dead.  They continue on regardless.  I drive home slowly and carefully.  I automatically turn on the car radio and immediately feel disrespectful when chart music blares out of the speakers. 

I go home and the house feels different.  I've been at work all weekend and the place is a mess.  I pack bags of clothes for myself and the children.  Lots of options for the day of the funeral and not much else.  Supplies of food and drinks for the two hour car journey.  No pit stops today.  It feels like I am a spectator, watching myself pack.  I look over my shoulder and half expect to see myself standing there. 

Then a warm feeling comes over me, that I can only describe as a feeling of euphoria.  I last experienced this feeling eight years ago, just after my children were born and I was out of my head on what ever drugs I had been given during the C-section.  Now, I had a strong feeling that my Dad was going to help me, more than he was able to do when he was alive.  Warm, fat tears rolled down my face and it feels lovely.  I can taste their saltiness.

I drive to the school and inform the school bus driver that my father has died.  I stand and wait at the school entrance, avoiding eye contact where I can.  The children rush out and my two are surprised to see me.

'What are you doing here Mam ?'

'Get in the car'.  Please don't let me crack.  Not here. 

'No Mam, why ?'  They persist. 

We make it back to the car.  The relief.  I break the news and the children are very quiet.  Some questions break the silence.  'What will happen Grandad's jeep ? Can Nana get married again ?'  I laugh at my boys ever-practical questions.  They would have made my father laugh too. 

Although she is standing feet away from my car, I can't face the conversation and instead, text the children's teacher, informing her why they will be out of school for the next few days.  The text message beeps as it sends and a feeling of horror comes over me.

'What if he ISN'T DEAD AFTER ALL ?  Oh God, Oh God, I am going to sound crazy'.

I quickly check my phone and see the call records to my brothers and remind myself that THIS is REAL.  I feel oddly relieved that my father is actually dead and laugh at the absurdity of it all.

I notice that I have no nail varnish on my nails and consider stopping to buy some.  'How bloody RIDICULOUS and vain', I tell myself, 'My father is dead.  For fuck's sake'.  I note my gratuitous cursing and consider it as an homage to my father. 

The children fight in the back of the car and I beg them to stop.  Instead of my usual threat to leave them on the side of the road, I shout 'Please be quiet because Grandad is dead' and it sound so final.
I burst into tears and the children, concerned for me now, ask, 'Are you STILL sad ?'.  A fair question, I suppose. Grandad has been dead for hours now after all.

Driving through Navan, Wilkinstown, Nobber.   Closer now.  And finally the Glen.  It looks so beautiful today, with the picnic area neatly strimmed and the autumnal leaves turning.  But mostly, the Glen seems more pretty today because my father is dead.

Finally, finally, I drive in the back gate.  I see his work boots in the hallway.  They look fairly new.  Lots more wear left in them.  My heart.

And so it begins ...

A Good Irish Funeral

It's four o'clock in the afternoon, I've just arrived Home and already there's fresh sandwiches, homemade scones and cakes aplenty - my diet for the next two days.  Cousins from the-other-side-of-the-family have taken over the back hall, making a temporary tea station.  I can't remember greeting my Mam, my brothers or the rest of my family when I got home, but there must have been emotional hugs.

 

The sitting room has been cleared of the recently purchased furniture, to make way for my father's coffin.  I'm glad that there aren't too many people here yet and that I can be in the room by myself before Dad arrives back home from the undertakers.  I'm pleased too that he didn't need a post mortem - one less intrusion.  Overall, his exit from this life was swift and uneventful.  Good for a man who had little patience.

 

My aunt has dressed the sitting room with table clothes and flowers.  Extra photos of my father have been unearthed.  He was a divil for not looking at the camera, or disappearing altogether, in family shots.  'At this rate, we'll have no photos for your memorial cards', we'd say, half joking, but deadly serious.  There is a lovely photo of him on the fireplace.  He is smiling, standing in front of a castle on a forestry 'go-see' trip to Croatia that I've never seen before.  I wonder who took the photo ?  Another photo of him, taken at my brother's wedding last year, a close up of him, cropped from a family photo.  He looks healthy and well.

 

Soon, the hearse arrives and Dad returns to Milltown for one last time.  I can't remember who, or how his coffin was carried into the house, although I was standing watching.  All I can remember is that the undertakers is wearing black leather gloves, which made it all seem both very serious and final and I feel a sense of dread.

My father is laid out in the navy suit that he bought for the wedding last year.  It looks crisp and fresh.  His face has lost many of it's wrinkles now.  No jokes about his craggy face resembling his fellow chain-smoker Keith Richards' from the Rolling Stones today.  I don't like the waxy coldness of my father's skin and prefer to touch his chest.  His hair feels lovely and soft though, but it's unfamiliar.  The last time I touched his hair must have been when I cut his hair years ago.  He looks like he is smiling, is about to answer back. 

I instantly hate the custom white satin frill around the coffin and want to take it off, but I'm a bit spooked about what it's covering, so I leave it there.  I let it be known to my brothers that I want a wicker coffin, no frill and no rosary beads.
 

My father's death notice was on LMFM radio.  The only time that we all stand in silence and listen to it.  I can't help but smile and think of Dad's obsession with 'the deaths'.  Our long running joke that you'd get an awful fright if you heard your own name called out.  It was John Russell's day today. 
 

I can't sleep the night after my father died and I get up at 4am to sit with him, along with my aunt, relieving my brother.  The room is cold, but there would be no warming us from the tiredness anyway.  I don't think to fetch duvets from the hot press, finding some jackets instead.  We chat mostly about my fathers sisters, Olive, Bridie and Imelda who died before him.  The time moves swiftly by.

None of us can settle into the whole funeral thing until my brother and his wife arrive from Bristol the following morning.  They had trouble getting flights, as Monday flights from England had been booked up by returning Irish rugby fans.  An early morning flight on Tuesday to Belfast allows them to arrive before the crowds descend.  I'm so pleased that the they have time to breathe.  My mother is relieved that we are all here now, her flock around her.

The visitors come in their droves.  So many of the extended Russell family.  So many country men.  Men whose names that I've heard over the years, but never met in person.  I categorise them into 'cattle', 'sheep', 'playing cards', 'silage', 'The 'Wood', 'the town', 'Fine Gael', 'school friend', 'neighbour'.  Warm handshakes.  Their big, padded hands feel rough from physical work.  Just like my Dad's.  'I'm John's daughter', I say, over and over.

I stood on the marble surround of the fireplace beside my fathers coffin for most of the wake.  It was the easiest place to greet people.  I have a pain in my back from standing there, but that little sting felt good all the same.  So many people.  

My father was a complex man, opinionated and argumentative at times.  Before he died, I wouldn't have been able to tell you what people thought of him.  Over the two days of his wake, so many express genuine upset and shock that he has died.  I can hear that fondness in the way people speak about him.  Some are too upset to talk to me.  We talk about the 'character' that he was.  'Ah, he was an awful man altogether', they laugh and I know what they mean.  We joke that they had come to the wake to have the last word, where he couldn't answer back.  They admire this fine looking man in the coffin.  His hair.  Some remark that he had never put on weight.  'That was down to his slimming tablets', I say, mimicking him puffing on a cigarette.  They nod, knowingly.  Feck you Dad, there was no talking to you.

Coincidentally, a neighbour has also died and there are a few comical instances of people turning up at the wrong funeral.  In one case, a lady sheepishly asks if she can take back the cake that she brought, as it was intended for the other funeral.  Just as well it hadn't been cut up.  Others swiftly turn in the driveway when they realise that no one looked familiar, including the corpse. 

I meet two neighbours who have recently their lost young adult children tragically.  We talk about their boys, but there is no consoling here.  No philosophical discussion about a long life lived.  I see the pain in their faces and I know that their grief is different to mine.

I've barely seen my children in two days.  The house is uncomfortably crowded and they are happier to run around outside with their cousins, the weather, thankfully mild.  They eat far too any biscuits, delighted that no one is monitoring their consumption.  My boy pays for it that night when he gets sick all over the bed.

Before my fathers removal to the church, the sitting room is cleared to allow the immediate family say our final goodbyes before the coffin was closed.  The collective sobs and sniffs of us all is an extraordinary sound.  There is something very primal about this, The Sound of Grief.

 

I dread the shaking of hands in the church at the removal that evening, but my mother had requested that we didn't do this.  I'm relieved.  Instead, mourners file past my father's coffin silently, touching it as they pass.  It is really moving to watch.  Respectful.  So, so many people. 

 

I assumed that we would have a quiet house after the removal that night, but the house is full again until 11pm.  I get a quiet corner to decide on the readings, Prayers of the Faithful, gifts.  I had intended writing a eulogy to read at the funeral mass, but I can't find the head space to write it.

A 10am start for the funeral mass the following day means that there is no hanging around.  The mass is lovely.  Three priests concelebrate the mass, led by Fr. Mark.  He speaks very directly to my mother and to the rest of the family and offers words of comfort that will stay with my mother particularly.  He jokes about JR and his modest version of South Fork, alongside his mother, my granny, Miss Ellie. 

I hold it together until the choir sang 'Hallelujah'.  I should have known that when we picked it the day before.  I often wondered why my father never joined a choir, because he had a good voice (that he didn't pass on to me).  I remember his singing in the tractor.  'The Fields of Athenry'.  I should have encouraged him more.

My father would have been so proud of his grandchildren trotting down the church to collect the offertory gifts and doing the readings from the altar.  Over the years, his competitive streak came out when comparing who had most grand children amongst his siblings.  A count of eight, including the extra bonus points for twins, were a decent number to talk about. 

I took a notion during the mass that I would write a eulogy about my father after all.  After my father-in-law's funeral years ago, Dad said to me, feeling slightly sorry for himself, 'you will hardly say anything nice about me when I die'.  This was my one and only chance.  I scribble some notes during the funeral mass.

In the graveyard, Fr. Mark calls me over to him, before I spoke, so that I was close to the microphone.  One of my cousins came over to me, saying 'you are standing here all alone', not realising that I was waiting on the microphone.  But I don't feel alone.  I feel surrounded by so many people that cared. 

We can't avoid the shaking of hands after the burial, but it is a cathartic process.  My mother, my three brothers, my fathers brothers and sisters and I all line up.  I look around twice and I cannot see the end of the queue of people waiting to sympathise.  My back aches.  I laugh to myself as someone my father only ever described as 'that fucker' sympathises with me.  If only he knew. 

The kindness.  So many people who travelled to be there.  People who couldn't be there in person, but were in spirit.  The donations to the MS Society.  The cards, messages, shared stories, anyone who spared a thought for this North Meath farmer. 
 

So much went over my head at the funeral at the time, including the two Guards of Honour, by the IFA and Kilmainhamwood GAA.  Things that mean so much to me now. 

I've experienced the loss of a number of aunts and uncles over recent years, and I thought that I had experienced grief then, but the loss of a parent is grief on a whole other level.  I know that I'm only walking with baby steps through the process now, but it has been a profound and uplifting experience.  John would have loved it.

Remembering my Dad, John Russell

When my father-in-law died eleven years ago, one of his sons delivered a thoughtful reflection at his funeral. My father attended the funeral and said to me afterwards - 'You'll hardly say something as nice about me when I die'. 

So here we are, at my Dad's funeral and I'd like to take him on about what he said then.
I had a privileged childhood. From an outsiders perspective, it didn't appear privileged as most of it was spend picking stones from newly ploughed fields. This may not sound like the most attractive of activities, but not alone did it involve myself and my brothers, but also a clatter of cousins and cousins cousins and indeed townies from Kingscourt, who came along voluntarily. Perhaps the allure of the post-stone-picking al fresco dining on cream crackers and Miwadi was the attraction.

Dad was known for picking ups strays and often brought someone home who he had met at the (cattle) Sales in Kingscourt, or who he had helped fix a puncture for along the road. Mam would have to do a 'loaves and fishes' on whatever food there was, but there was always plenty. That expectation of hospitality and welcome is something that has been passed on to us, his four children.
Of course, there is no such thing as a free cup of tea and the unsuspecting stray were often asked to 'come here for a minute', returning two hours later, mucky and bloody, having helped Dad to calve a cow down the yard.

His love of sport was infectious. Days at Croke Park with Dad watching Meath play were some of the best childhood memories that I had. I can still feel the atmosphere standing there beside him on Hill 16, me going along with the banter of the men, cursing the ref, even though I knew little of the rules.
More recently, many of you will know that you were not to phone or call in to Dad when a match is on TV. If you were the Pope, he wouldn't entertain you, (although you might have had some chance if you were a Fine Gael Cllr). He loved football, soccer and rugby and proudly supported Kilmainhamwood, Meath, Ireland. He had a terrible habit though, of watching matches on the TV, while simultaneously blaring a different commentary on the radio.

We knew not to interrupt Dad when the Lotto results, or the death notices were being announced on LMFM radio. 'Would yiz whisht ?' It was poignant that for once, we all stood quietly by the radio on Tuesday to listen to his own death notice, even though we knew the details already.

Dad loved a good funeral and he would have enjoyed this one. We are so grateful to you all, so many people who came along over the last few days to pay your respects to our Dad. He would have been chuffed to see you all.

Dad could be described as a 'typical Russell', strong willed, opinionated and determined. When I was younger, I thought that these were negative characteristics, but having inherited those characteristics from him (my brothers too), we can see that they are good things that have held us in good stead.

He had strong political views that he would share with anyone who would listen, even if they didn't want to listen. He often told us how to vote, expecting us to vote his way. Regardless of whether we did or not, he gave us all a strong sense of democracy and the importance of using your vote.  He was critical of government administration and often spoke of the overpaid staff with nothing to do. At the same time, he told me off for working too hard, forgetting that I was one of those aforementioned administrators. Like us all, Dad was a man of contradiction.

I would like to thank my Dad for passing on his fine head of hair to me. It was a running joke as to what John (a man not known for his attention to grooming) put in his hair to cover the grey hairs.
He had a strong work ethic, at times probably too strong. I sometimes described him as a beat up diesel Volkswagen Jetta that you kept patching up and just kept motoring along.

Dad had a strong sense of home and a sense of place. Over the past few days, many people remarked in the beauty of Milltown Glen where we lived. I always love that drive up the Glen, feeling that you were almost there, almost home. Living on the Meath-Cavan-Monaghan-Louth borders, our address caused some confusion. If you wanted to really wanted to insult my Dad (and indeed us, his children) all you had to do was mistake him for a Cavan Man. He liked nothing better than to slag real live Cavan men for their perceived meanness, eating their dinner out of drawers (so they could shut the drawer if a visitor came, incase they'd have to share).

There is one thing though I cannot forgive my father for - childhood sheep shearing. In fact, anything at all to do with sheep. It was one of those things that a child should never be subjected to. I'll say no more.

To my Dad, John, Grandad John, JR, thank you for making us who we are.
May you Rest in Peace.
..................................
Thanks to everyone who helped celebrate Dad's life over the last few days which was energising and lovely.

Thanks also for the donations to the MS Society.  We will add that to Mya and Leon's MSReadathon collection.  https://give.everydayhero.com/ie/mya-leon-s-ms-readathon

The Patrún of Dromin

As a child, the start of autumn was marked by my two younger brothers birthdays, then my mother’s birthday and then, the Pattern (Patrún)of Dromin.  Dromin is in Co Louth, too small a place to even call a village, having only a church and a pub.  The Pattern is a day of religious celebration with mass, blessing of the graves and devotions.  My mother’s parents and other family members are buried there in an old graveyard.  There was always a fascination with the falling-down headstones, trying to decipher the engraved names, noting the ages at which people died, particularly the children.    

We always went to Benediction in the church at 4pm.  It was a real novelty to climb the hollow sounding wooden staircase and sit up on the gallery, where you could peer down on the congregation underneath, stare at the people on the other balcony facing you and get a bird’s eye view of the ornate silver chandelier.   If you were lucky enough, you got to sit on the benches closest to the front, getting the best view, but also the added danger of maybe falling over the edge. 

The benches had an odd varnished finish, a squiggly comb effect to make it look like wood grain, even though it was wood.  We always sniggered at the priest chanting hymns without any music accompaniment.  The scent of the burnt incense was intense and it filled the church as the priest rocked the thurible back and forth, making a rhythmic tinny noise.

My mother’s Auntie Biddy lived immediately across the road from the church.  To me as a child, she seemed like the oldest person in the world.  She was like a tiny bird, with fine white hair, always in a bun, the most beautiful bone structure and deep brown eyes.  Sharp as anything, she held court in the sitting room, sharing local news and historical facts.   She also had one of the thickest Louth accents that I had ever heard, one that sounded a roll on the tonsils.     

The only food that I remember on offer was ham sandwiches, the ham with the yellow crumb edge.  All of the sandwiches were spread with mustard, making little allowance for the gang of children there.  I always said that I hated them, but I ate them anyway, the strong tang on my tongue, the white bread soft and fresh.

The apple tree in the back garden, laden with apples, had a swing.  There was always a polite queue for a go, only polite because we didn’t know some of the older second cousins that well.  Auntie Biddy’s granddaughters were teenagers.  Darene, dark and gothic, Sally, blonde and cheery.  Both equally fascinating to me.  From the back garden, we could smell the alcohol wafting from the pub, the muffled laughs and cheers that sounded simultaneously, exciting and scary. 

Next, off to 'Dermot and Rose’s' house to play with their three girls.  Rose was Mam’s friend since Mam lived and worked in the Post Office in Dunleer for her Auntie Ceil.  The Post Office was a gathering place at the time for young singletons.  Rose visited Mam there so often that some people thought that she worked there too.  I remember looking at Rose’s elegant slim legs in her high-heeled, slip-on shoes.  I wondered when my legs would be as long as hers.  When my feet would touch the ground when I sat on a sofa.  Her soft Roscommon accent.  Eating hand cut chips.   Catching my fingers in the kitchen door - I can still feel the seering pain.  Her gleaming Waterford Crystal.

I went to Dromin yesterday with my children for Patrún Sunday mass at 11am.  In our hurried walk to the church, I pointed out Auntie Biddy’s house, which was sold after her death.  Now renovated, it is a fine big house, but I was sad that I could not see the apple tree in the back garden. 

We climbed the hollow wooden stairs to the same gallery seats and joined my mother and cousin Nicola, who were saving seats for us.  The wood benches still have the same squiggly pattern and were as uncomfortable as I remembered.  As this was not time for Benediction, there was no incense.  I longed for the priest to give it a go, for old times’ sake.

A van selling tea and coffee is parked outside, which seems odd and somehow disrespectful, but the people standing outside looks appreciative.  The old graveyard is as lovely as ever, most graves dressed lovingly with fresh flowers for the occasion.  My grandparents grave takes on new significance now that my aunt Aine is buried there.  Meeting my Mam’s cousins and friends.  Could it be a whole year since we seen each other last ?  People that Mam knew from the Post Office.  She still remembers their four-digit phone number.  ‘Drogheda 3-2-6-7’, she says. 

A bald headed man calls to my Mam - ‘Young Bellew, is it you ?’ and we all laugh.  For today, I am ‘Kay Bellew’s daughter’ again.

The ‘new’ graveyard is more poignant now.   Rose is buried there.  Soon after I started in my job in Kildare, I got a distressed phone call from my Mam, telling me that she had been killed in a car crash.   Lovely, lovely Rose.  When I got the call, I was standing in front of a man, who I had just met.  I suddenly felt homesick.  I’m not sure what I said to him, but I’m sure that I told him about Rose’s handcut chips. 

POST SCRIPT

My cousin Nicola has recently started a new tradition, inviting the relations to her home after the Patrún.  The new generation of cousins and cousins cousins.   My lucky children, but they don’t even know it.  Not yet anyway.

Wallpaper

After a summer of decluttering and moving stuff around, the children now have their own bedrooms.  To give their rooms a bit of personality and warmth, I let them choose wallpaper.  Giving children free rein with anything can be dangerous.  They took so long in deciding, that I could almost here the staff saying 'are you right there folks' and the lights dim as we left.

Thankfully both of their rooms are compact and bijou and we were only papering ‘accent walls’ because they both picked the most expensive wallpaper in the shop.  I am a textiley, texture kinda gal, who gets excited about beautiful things, so I was happy enough to invest.

I couldn’t wait to get home to start wallpapering.  I remembered how much I enjoyed wallpapering when I did it for my Mam, or for my aunt Aine in my teens and pre babies.  I took great pleasure in finding solutions to their old, uneven walls.  When I wallpapered for Mam or Aine, they told me that I was a great young one, supplied tea and fed me, but generally buggered off and left me to it.  Just me, my cuppa and the radio. 

The nostalgia didn’t last long.  Wallpapering a la Poppy Cottage was the exact opposite.  In fact, it was something of a spectator sport. 

In fairness, seeing how wallpaper paste thickens is kind of cool, so of course the two children needed to have a good old stir.  It’s just that they didn’t know when to stop.  At least if they are over enthusiastic with soup-stirring, the dog will lick up the spillages.  He doesn’t fancy paste so much.  I know because he tried it.  The kids tried it too, to see ‘if it tastes disgusting’.  It does, apparently.  We mixed way too much and are thinking of setting up a wallpaper paste shop very soon.

I started on Mya’s room first, which is about the size of a large hen house.  Big enough for bunk beds and not a lot else.  I won't say that you couldn’t swing a cat in there, in case my children read this and try to see if it’s really possible. 

I told the children that, while I wallpapered, that they could watch whatever they wanted on TV, as loud as they wanted, or have unlimited access to their tablets, or both.  

Any other time, they would rub their hands with glee.  This time ?  They just wanted to hang with their Mamma.  Literally.  Because we live in a Hobbit House, I pasted the paper in the dining room and carried each soggy piece into the bedroom.  It was a mine field of a journey, across a newly erected farm set.   Earlier, I had banished my big-bummed half dog/half horse dog outdoors, but he somehow made his way back inside.  Mya took the opportunity to scoot on her scooter all around the Hobbit House 'It's faster this way Mam', with mutt faithfully following. 

It’s unlikely that I will ever remove this wallpaper in my lifetime.  In the future, if an archaeologist asks what that ‘stuff’ is on the back of the wallpaper, will you tell her/him that it’s dog hair, mixed with little girl hair/skin and the imprint is scooter handle bars ? Thanks.

They both wanted to help to cut the wallpaper, but that was a big ‘no’ from me.  It was just too expensive for little scissor hands.  Instead, I relented and let them help smooth down the wallpaper on the wall, hoping that they wouldn’t rip it.  They didn’t.  It just took FOR-EV-ER.

Such was the excitement, that the children called in the cavalry and invited the neighbours.  The three lovely girls from across the road.  They are always welcome in our house. EXCEPT, when Yours Truly is wallpapering.  At one stage, I was standing on a high stool, trying to figure out a tricky bit behind the curtain pole.  My audience was five children, one of them on a scooter and a large dog, with a pastey looking bum.   They were an appreciative audience all the same and ooh’d and aaah’d at my work.

I was reminded of Julia Donaldson’s gorgeous children’s book ‘A Squash and a Squeeze’, where an old woman thinks her house is too small.  A Wise Old Man tells her to bring half a farm yard of animals into her house to demonstrate that her house wasn’t too small for her after all.   When the five children and pastey dog left me, I had a moment and thought ‘Wise Old Man’, you knew what you were talking about.

Although I gave the children open access to the biscuit tin for the day, they both developed a hunger that could only be satisfied by proper cooked mammy food.  Food that requires standing over a cooker for ages. So long that the notion to do wallpapering in the first place might have worn off you.  We compromised with pancakes.  Thankfully, they didn’t offer to help make them.  There was enough stirring for one day.

In my slightly biased opinion, Mya’s completed bedroom looks flipping great.  The wallpaper, a textured collage of scenes from Paris in pinks, purple, orange and black, with a sprinkle of glitter, is set off with a black lace curtain on the window.  I’ve gone in there quite a few times to admire it.  In fact, I think that I’ve admired it more than Mya. 

I have been working and travelling most weekends since, and I’ve been putting off wallpapering Leon’s bedroom.  It’s a more fiddly job, with more furniture to move, within the confines of the Hobbit House.  The poor child is getting impatient.  I’ve left all of the materials out, in my way, to remind me to get to it.  I’ll take a notion and do it some day soon, ideally without my army of adoring fans.