First—I adore Beth Ann Fennelly's work. I first discovered her through "Heating & Cooling–52 Micro Memoirs," is is the first time I'd heard that term. I just got "The Irish Goodbye" last week at The Book Catapult, my neighborhood indie bookstore. I didn't read all of it in one sitting, but easily could have. As for posing nude--yes, in Barcelona a decade ago. I was among 7000 others who posed nude on the street there for Spencer Tunick for one of his large scale photographs of thousands of nude humans at iconic places all over the world. In Barcelona, we posed on Avinguda de la Reina Maria Christina, the wide avenue that leads from Placa Espana up to the grand Palau Nacional. After a feeling of vulnerability passed, I became less self-conscious and understood I was just one among many--a body, human species, female.
No mention of a phrase common in U.K. obituaries - ‘After a short illness. . .’ It is the way I hope to go. Having the chance to say a few goodbyes. The annual Pulmonary Fibrosis exercise sessions I go to always include talks at the end and one, understandably, is about death, in particular, our own. Those I miss have followed me around every day of my life. I hope I can do same come the time, for a little while at least🐰
your writing about your brother's final Irish goodbye moved me, as my sister died suddenly in an accident when we were in our 20s and I've thought about the things I've wanted to tell her most every day since. that being said, I have learned over the years to do the Irish goodbye, as I tend to be a bit of an introvert and this allows me comfort in going places I might not otherwise go, knowing I can slip in and out when I'm ready. perhaps that is what happens in life and when it is our time to go one last time but it may not be our choice on this final day
The conversation never really ends, does it? I do appreciate very much how slipping out easily has given you the comfort in going places that might not otherwise go. And there are worse things than slipping out of life quickly for the person whose time has come. I think it’s only those of us who have so much more to say that struggle sometimes.
I think the short and quick slipping away deaths are the hardest. My mom suddenly died while I was on the way to say good-bye to her. I spoke to her on the phone and she knew I was on the way, but I still hate that I didn't see her in person. My dad's day was much different since we were with him from the time he went into hospice until he died.
In 1967, as a novice reporter for the Gloucester, MA, Daily Times,I posed nude for a life drawing class in neighboring Rockport. I sat sideways on a chair while seven or eight student artists, all women, mostly in their 60’s or 70’s, worked diligently at creating likenesses of my form. They did (it seemed to me) surprisingly well. I wrote mostly about them and their work, not much about the fact that as the hour went on I became progressively more chilly and less embarrassed. I regret to report that the experience did not change my life.
I did it at the college I attended before UNH -- for fellow students and one photographer. Didn't change my life either but I felt good about it at the time. And yes, I do remember getting chilly!
Your reflection on Peter and the “Irish goodbye” carries a quiet ache that feels very true to life. The image of him slipping out of rooms, leaving only the fading blink of taillights, stayed with me. Some people seem to move through the world that way lightly, without ceremony yet the space they leave behind somehow grows larger with time.
The line that lingered most for me was that his absence has taken on the bulk of presence. That feels exactly right. The people we lose don’t really leave the conversation. They take up residence in the quiet corners of our days in a memory that surfaces unexpectedly, in a laugh we wish we could share, in the reflex to turn and say something to them before remembering we can’t.
Your post felt like one of those small lanterns literature sometimes gives us a way of illuminating something tender that many people carry but struggle to name. The book may have opened the door, but it was Peter who filled the room.
I don't know how to answer the question about the goodbyes, but I guess I think the short ones are better than the long ones in the long run. Yes, I've posed naked, and have been filmed naked, and I think those experiences allowed me to appreciate my body more.
I, too, am stumped at times. I've been involved in the long kind and there are so many moments that I treasure. Being able to accompany a loved one as far as possible can deepen or add a new dimension to a relationship that never really goes away. For myself - I'd love the chance to hug everyone goodbye and slip out. But that assumes there will be "everyone" to hug.
As for posing, I've done it too but I was very young and, as it turns out, pregnant at the time although I didn't know that. I do remember looking at the photographs and drawings that resulted and seeing something new about my body.
The title story, first in the collection: Liberation Day. I will finish it but the image of the figures hanging on the wall just … perhaps it was when I chose to read it. The pandemic barely over and the darkness I generally felt all the time was still present.
Wish I'd seen you! I have started Vigil. I know already that I'm not going to love it the way I did Lincoln in the Bardo but, as always, I'm curious about what there is to learn from it and it has already made me laugh. Like many, I loved Tenth of December and the earlier collections. I still have not finished Liberation Day, though. One story unnerved me to the degree that I still struggle with the images it left in my head. I haven't been able go back to it yet.
My mom had a stroke in 2011, just the day after Christmas when we'd all been together laughing and celebrating as a family. We were lucky enough that a friend found her on the floor of her bedroom, because she didn't answer her phone.
We had her for 8 more years, through her recovery and healing and then her descent into dementia, before losing her in 2019. I'm incredibly grateful for those long, difficult, but sometimes joyful caretaking years.
As I just mentioned to Sandra, yes, those years offer so much more than burden to people who love the person. I can understand why you would be grateful. I'm glad you had those years with your Mom.
I meant to reply about posing nude for photos which I did with my artist husband when we were on our honeymoon in Baja. I felt great at the time, but when I saw the photographs later, I thought the artsy rocky setting was cool but I mostly remember criticizing my body (in my head). What I'd give to see those photos now!
I like Saunders’ observation about the difference between writing to make a point and writing to discover. Most polemical writing bores me because the writer bangs away and discovers nothing. I don’t need to agree with what I’m reading. But if I’m not surprised, I will bail.
I hear you. I don't necessarily need to be surprised but I love it when I am. I will always be happy if a writer has found a way to express something we all know in a startling or beautiful way. Doesn't matter if it is fiction or nonfiction. When I come across this in another writer's work, it makes me more willing to open myself to risk in my own.
First—I adore Beth Ann Fennelly's work. I first discovered her through "Heating & Cooling–52 Micro Memoirs," is is the first time I'd heard that term. I just got "The Irish Goodbye" last week at The Book Catapult, my neighborhood indie bookstore. I didn't read all of it in one sitting, but easily could have. As for posing nude--yes, in Barcelona a decade ago. I was among 7000 others who posed nude on the street there for Spencer Tunick for one of his large scale photographs of thousands of nude humans at iconic places all over the world. In Barcelona, we posed on Avinguda de la Reina Maria Christina, the wide avenue that leads from Placa Espana up to the grand Palau Nacional. After a feeling of vulnerability passed, I became less self-conscious and understood I was just one among many--a body, human species, female.
No mention of a phrase common in U.K. obituaries - ‘After a short illness. . .’ It is the way I hope to go. Having the chance to say a few goodbyes. The annual Pulmonary Fibrosis exercise sessions I go to always include talks at the end and one, understandably, is about death, in particular, our own. Those I miss have followed me around every day of my life. I hope I can do same come the time, for a little while at least🐰
your writing about your brother's final Irish goodbye moved me, as my sister died suddenly in an accident when we were in our 20s and I've thought about the things I've wanted to tell her most every day since. that being said, I have learned over the years to do the Irish goodbye, as I tend to be a bit of an introvert and this allows me comfort in going places I might not otherwise go, knowing I can slip in and out when I'm ready. perhaps that is what happens in life and when it is our time to go one last time but it may not be our choice on this final day
The conversation never really ends, does it? I do appreciate very much how slipping out easily has given you the comfort in going places that might not otherwise go. And there are worse things than slipping out of life quickly for the person whose time has come. I think it’s only those of us who have so much more to say that struggle sometimes.
I think the short and quick slipping away deaths are the hardest. My mom suddenly died while I was on the way to say good-bye to her. I spoke to her on the phone and she knew I was on the way, but I still hate that I didn't see her in person. My dad's day was much different since we were with him from the time he went into hospice until he died.
In 1967, as a novice reporter for the Gloucester, MA, Daily Times,I posed nude for a life drawing class in neighboring Rockport. I sat sideways on a chair while seven or eight student artists, all women, mostly in their 60’s or 70’s, worked diligently at creating likenesses of my form. They did (it seemed to me) surprisingly well. I wrote mostly about them and their work, not much about the fact that as the hour went on I became progressively more chilly and less embarrassed. I regret to report that the experience did not change my life.
I did it at the college I attended before UNH -- for fellow students and one photographer. Didn't change my life either but I felt good about it at the time. And yes, I do remember getting chilly!
Betsy,
Your reflection on Peter and the “Irish goodbye” carries a quiet ache that feels very true to life. The image of him slipping out of rooms, leaving only the fading blink of taillights, stayed with me. Some people seem to move through the world that way lightly, without ceremony yet the space they leave behind somehow grows larger with time.
The line that lingered most for me was that his absence has taken on the bulk of presence. That feels exactly right. The people we lose don’t really leave the conversation. They take up residence in the quiet corners of our days in a memory that surfaces unexpectedly, in a laugh we wish we could share, in the reflex to turn and say something to them before remembering we can’t.
Your post felt like one of those small lanterns literature sometimes gives us a way of illuminating something tender that many people carry but struggle to name. The book may have opened the door, but it was Peter who filled the room.
Thank you for letting us meet him that way.
Tom
Thank you, Tom.
Tom, a great last paragraph and sentence at the end🐰
I don't know how to answer the question about the goodbyes, but I guess I think the short ones are better than the long ones in the long run. Yes, I've posed naked, and have been filmed naked, and I think those experiences allowed me to appreciate my body more.
I, too, am stumped at times. I've been involved in the long kind and there are so many moments that I treasure. Being able to accompany a loved one as far as possible can deepen or add a new dimension to a relationship that never really goes away. For myself - I'd love the chance to hug everyone goodbye and slip out. But that assumes there will be "everyone" to hug.
As for posing, I've done it too but I was very young and, as it turns out, pregnant at the time although I didn't know that. I do remember looking at the photographs and drawings that resulted and seeing something new about my body.
"His absence has taken on the bulk of presence." is one of the best sentences about grief I've ever read, Betsy.
You are always so kind, PJ. Thank you.
I was at Saunders’ event too! He’s one of my favorites although I’m curious if you’ve read his most recent novel Vigil and what you thought of it.
Which story unnerved you?
The title story, first in the collection: Liberation Day. I will finish it but the image of the figures hanging on the wall just … perhaps it was when I chose to read it. The pandemic barely over and the darkness I generally felt all the time was still present.
Wish I'd seen you! I have started Vigil. I know already that I'm not going to love it the way I did Lincoln in the Bardo but, as always, I'm curious about what there is to learn from it and it has already made me laugh. Like many, I loved Tenth of December and the earlier collections. I still have not finished Liberation Day, though. One story unnerved me to the degree that I still struggle with the images it left in my head. I haven't been able go back to it yet.
My mom had a stroke in 2011, just the day after Christmas when we'd all been together laughing and celebrating as a family. We were lucky enough that a friend found her on the floor of her bedroom, because she didn't answer her phone.
We had her for 8 more years, through her recovery and healing and then her descent into dementia, before losing her in 2019. I'm incredibly grateful for those long, difficult, but sometimes joyful caretaking years.
As I just mentioned to Sandra, yes, those years offer so much more than burden to people who love the person. I can understand why you would be grateful. I'm glad you had those years with your Mom.
I meant to reply about posing nude for photos which I did with my artist husband when we were on our honeymoon in Baja. I felt great at the time, but when I saw the photographs later, I thought the artsy rocky setting was cool but I mostly remember criticizing my body (in my head). What I'd give to see those photos now!
I like Saunders’ observation about the difference between writing to make a point and writing to discover. Most polemical writing bores me because the writer bangs away and discovers nothing. I don’t need to agree with what I’m reading. But if I’m not surprised, I will bail.
I hear you. I don't necessarily need to be surprised but I love it when I am. I will always be happy if a writer has found a way to express something we all know in a startling or beautiful way. Doesn't matter if it is fiction or nonfiction. When I come across this in another writer's work, it makes me more willing to open myself to risk in my own.