Today Doris Day died at the age of 97, and I am sad.
I don’t have a direct connection to her, but she touched my heart with her song “Que Sera Sera”, in the film “The Man Who Knew Too Much” with Jimmy Stewart. Searching for her kidnapped son, I could FEEL her anguish as she sang the words that would eventually free him.
A few years ago, I was on a blissful, happy road trip and we stopped in Carmel. Although we didn’t stay at Cypress Inn, Doris Day’s hotel, we spent the evening there listening to an amazing singer belt out the old songs, those good ones from the big band years. It was a joyful and lovely experience. My heart was full that day.
Doris Day was an animal activist long before it became trendy; even before the internet could help promote good people with their wonderful intentions to rescue and adopt dogs and cats.
Que sera, Doris. Whatever will be, will be…That song always makes me cry and I lose it every single time I watch that final scene where her son runs into her arms.
This was originally posted on October 12, 2016. Exactly one year ago today. I have a hard time believing it was only a coincidence that I thought about this extraordinary man TODAY of all days. However, while I was painting a wall in Casa de Enchanted Seashells this morning, I was thinking about what attributes and qualities make up a “good” man. Once again, here’s my tribute of sorts to a fine human.
Before I was Princess Rosebud and Rowdy Rosie, I was a little girl who loved to dance in pink tutus and satin toe shoes.
A sweet and innocent little girl who was very gentle and sorta clueless about life.
Who loved animals (especially wolves and coyotes and foxes and mountain lions and bobcats) but all animals really.
Who never had to face life’s seriously sucky tribulations, cos life was pretty good most of the time.
Especially when there were seashells to pick off a sandy beach. Or someone thought about me and brought home a handful of seashells from one of their vacations.
Seashells make me happy. Butterflies make me happy, too, but that’s a different story.
This is about death. DEATH. Not a metamorphosis.
D.E.A.T.H.
Death is pretty final in a lot of ways. I mean in this plane, on this Earth, when someone dies, stops breathing, heart stops beating…well, that’s pretty final.
Why do some deaths hit us harder than others?
Randomly searching for something on the internet, I discovered that a friend and business associate I hadn’t seen in a long time had died of cancer five months ago, right around my birthday.
I didn’t know. No one told me. How did this happen, that I didn’t know?
The death and the not knowing shocked me, rocked me to my core. I was sobbing. Not him, I thought. Not him. Good men like that should live to be one-hundred-years at least.
(I could tell you how it happened that I didn’t know, I could elucidate, fill you in on all the deets, but then the story would be all about me and not a way, however small, to honor this fine, fine man.)
I heard him say this one thing a thousand times, “Hey guys, here’s just another rusty brain idea I’d like to run by you.”
He was one of those true-blue, honorable, faithful, simply noble, ethical, principled, reliable, honest, trustworthy, dependable, SALT OF THE EARTH men.
They don’t make them like that any more. Trust me on that. It’s really so simple, when you think about it. Not a difficult way to live one’s life if you know what’s really important.
All men (and women) should aspire to conduct their lives to that standard. A decent man with character and a deep commitment to his wife and family.
A never-give-up kind of man. The very definition of what a man should be.
If you needed anything, Steve was there. Especially if there was food involved. Oh yes, Steve loved to eat, that’s for sure.
I sent his wife a letter expressing my sorrow for her loss and apologized for not knowing and not attending his memorial service.
She wrote back almost immediately.
True to form, he never told anyone of his battle with cancer. Thinking back, I remember he was always showing up with bandages all over his face and head from skin cancer surgeries, but he brushed aside all questions about his health. The cancer spread and though it was quite painful, he never complained.
One day he collapsed and died in his wife’s arms, the only place that was ever really home to him.
I honor you, Steve, and I will miss you forever. More than you could know. This is a big loss, a big death, and my heart goes out to your lovely family.
A Generation Fabulous Blog Hop: The Best Thing I Learned From My Mother and posted on Huffington Post http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/05/08/best-lessons-from-mom_n_3225877.html?slideshow=true#gallery/295835/0
Me: “Hey, Mom, guess what?”
Mom: “You’re pregnant.”
Me: “How did you know that’s what I was gonna say?”
Mom: “A mom knows these things.”
That’s my mom. She was born in 1915 and died in 1989 from pancreatic cancer. She lived with us until the end. I cared for her with the help of a wonderful hospice team.
I was a mid-life baby –born in 1954. She was afraid that I was going to be affected with Downs Syndrome, although they didn’t call it that. At that time, it was referred to as Mongoloidism, which is no longer in technical use as its considered offensive. They didn’t have genetic testing back then and it scared her that I was such a good baby, always happy and never cried.
The doctor told her I would make up for it by causing her heartache when I was a teenager, and I did — but that story is for another time…
My mom became a registered nurse at a time when abortions were illegal. She often told me that the horrible things that she saw in the hospital — the aftereffects of a botched backroom abortion — were the reasons she was one thousand percent pro-choice right from the beginning.
“A woman has the right to choose whether or not she wants to have a child.”
That’s something I learned from my mom.
“No man has the right to tell a woman what to do with her body.”
I learned that from my mom, too.
These forward thinking ideas were even more remarkable when you consider that her father — my grandfather — was a Rabbi. My mom was one of seven children. They moved from town to town as my grandfather moved from synagogue to synagogue — a nomadic life. Although she was born in Minnesota, my mom spoke with a slight southern drawl because the family spent many years in the south.
They eventually ended up in Detroit. I loved hearing my mom tell the story of climbing onto a city bus and walking to the back along with an African-American girl who had been told to “get to the back of the bus”. The bus driver kicked my mom off for being a troublemaker.
Obviously, that’s where I got my big mouth. I learned to speak up for those less fortunate — to fight for those that have no voice. I learned to speak up when I see child abuse or animal cruelty. As proud as I was of her, I know she’d be equally as proud of me.
My mom taught me what it meant to be a mother. She abhorred daycare and nannies and was disdainful of mothers who worked. She told me that people shouldn’t have children if they don’t want them and if they can’t take proper care of them.
No stranger would raise HER grandchild.
“A child deserves to have a mom who will selflessly dedicate her life to her child with unconditional love.”
I always knew I would be a stay-at-home-mom — my mom showed me how.
And also thanks to my mom, I wear perfume every day — Chance by Chanel. It’s my signature, even if I’m just going to the gym. I learned that from my mom, too.
“Don’t save perfume for special occasions.” Fragrance can turn rancid and sour smelling. This is what she said when she presented me with my very first bottle of real parfum — Joy by Jean Patou.
“Wear it every day. Wear it for yourself.”
Along with a love for cleaning the house with bleach, collecting seashells and blue glass, my mom passed on the shopping gene.
My passion for the finer things in life are directly related to that first mother-daughter dress, my first pink satin ballet shoes, my first silk blouse, and my first treasured cashmere sweater.
When we enjoyed a bit of retail therapy, Mommy (yes, I called her Mommy) liked to buy me things because she said it made her happy.
Before I was Princess Rosebud and Rowdy Rosie, I was a little girl who loved to dance in pink tutus and satin toe shoes.
A sweet and innocent little girl who was very gentle and sorta clueless about life.
Who loved animals (especially wolves and coyotes and foxes and mountain lions and bobcats) but all animals really.
Who never had to face life’s seriously sucky tribulations, cos life was pretty good most of the time.
Especially when there were seashells to pick off a sandy beach. Or someone thought about me and brought home a handful of seashells from one of their vacations.
Seashells make me happy. Butterflies make me happy, too, but that’s a different story.
This is about death. DEATH. Not a metamorphosis.
D.E.A.T.H.
Death is pretty final in a lot of ways. I mean in this plane, on this Earth, when someone dies, stops breathing, heart stops beating…well, that’s pretty final.
Why do some deaths hit us harder than others?
Randomly searching for something on the internet, I discovered that a friend and business associate I hadn’t seen in a long time had died of cancer a few months ago.
I didn’t know. No one told me. How did this happen, that I didn’t know?
The death and the not knowing shocked me, rocked me to my core. I was sobbing. Not him, I thought. Not him. Good men like that should live to be one-hundred-years at least.
(I could tell you how it happened that I didn’t know, I could elucidate, fill you in on all the deets, but then the story would be all about me and not a way, however small, to honor this fine, fine man.)
I heard him say this one thing a thousand times, “Hey guys, here’s just another rusty brain idea I’d like to run by you.”
He was one of those true-blue, honorable, faithful, simply noble, ethical, principled, reliable, honest, trustworthy, dependable, SALT OF THE EARTH men.
They don’t make them like that any more. Trust me on that. It’s really so simple, when you think about it. Not a difficult way to live one’s life if you know what’s really important.
All men (and women) should aspire to conduct their lives to that standard. A decent man with character and a deep commitment to his wife and family.
A never-give-up kind of man. The very definition of what a man should be.
If you needed anything, Steve was there. Especially if there was food involved. Oh yes, Steve loved to eat, that’s for sure.
I sent his wife a letter expressing my sorrow for her loss and apologized for not knowing and not attending his memorial service.
She wrote back almost immediately.
True to form, he never told anyone of his battle with cancer. Thinking back, I remember he was always showing up with bandages all over his face and head from skin cancer surgeries, but he brushed aside all questions about his health. The cancer spread and though it was quite painful, he never complained.
One day he collapsed and died in his wife’s arms, the only place that was ever really home to him.
I honor you, Steve, and I will miss you forever. More than you could know. This is a big loss, a big death, and my heart goes out to your lovely family.
I am so sick of WordPress and its messed up problems. I’ve written this 3 times and it still won’t format correctly, so please excuse the obvious issues and blame WP, not me.
Shhh…
Sometimes you never know why some music resonates with you deep inside, why it’s a song you can listen to a million times and it evokes the same feeling every single time, but this one always has since the first time I heard it in 1983. Loved you so hard, David Bowie. Your spirit will be missed forever.
China Girl
I could escape this feeling, with my China Girl I feel a wreck without my, little China Girl I hear her heart beating, loud as thunder Saw they stars crashing I’m a mess without my, little China Girl Wake up mornings where’s my, little China Girl I hear hearts beating, loud as thunder Saw they stars crashing down I feel a-tragic like I’m Marlon Brando When I look at my China Girl I could pretend that nothing really meant too much When I look at my China Girl I stumble into town just like a sacred cow Visions of swastikas in my head Plans for everyone It’s in the whites of my eyes My little China Girl You shouldn’t mess with me I’ll ruin everything you are I’ll give you television I’ll give you eyes of blue I’ll give you men who want to rule the world And when I get excited My little China Girl says Oh baby just you shut your mouth She says… sh-sh-shhh
It’s been a year since my son’s boyhood friend tragically died in Hawaii from a surfing accident. His body was never recovered. I wanted to take a moment to remember this bright shiny boy and the joy he brought to everyone he met.
From Kirk’s Facebook page
The loss of a child cannot be fathomed.
Who could ever be prepared for their child to die before them? There must be endless tears and sorrow and sadness and a forever and unrelenting pain.
For me, it’s a pure and simple matter.
If I never heard my son’s voice again or was never able to wrap my arms around him, I don’t know if I could take another breath.
…On Wednesday, November 13, 2013, Kirk Passmore, 32, a passionate big-wave surfing veteran and Hawaii resident, is presumed to have drowned and as of today his body has not been found.
Although extensive searches have been conducted in the area, he’s been missing since the day of the accident and is presumed drowned.
It was all caught on video. This is the video of his last wave. Somehow he never made it out alive.
His dad wanted the his final ride shared with as many people as possible.
Maybe you heard about this. Maybe you were watching the news on television and you paid scant attention to the story while you were on the computer or eating dinner.
Maybe you read it on the internet and saw the pictures or the video.
You probably thought to yourself or even said out loud, ” Wow, that’s really sad.”
Kirk Passmore.
Why am I writing about him?
Yes, it’s true that he was someone’s child, brother, friend.
But he was also one of my son’s friends.
They went to school together.
He’s the first (and so far, only) of my son’s friends to die.
Kirk had the biggest smile and the reddest hair. Everyone called him “Fanta” or “Red”.
He was one of the many boys I’d chauffeur around, packed like sardines in the back seat, all gangly legs and arms, endlessly stuffing their mouths — bottomless pits of growing boy bodies– with the cookies and smoothies and other snacks cheerfully provided to everyone who came over.
A carful of boys talking about school, skateboarding; laughing, always smiling, always a thank you for the ride as he slammed the car door.
“See ya, Jason.”
A flash of bright red hair lit the way as he ran up the walkway to his house.
But no more.
I bet for most of these boys – and I still call these thirty-somethings BOYS because to me they will always and forever be “the boys” or “the guys” — my son’s friends from Kelly Elementary, Valley Junior High, and Carlsbad High School — this is their first experience with death and subsequent thoughts of their own mortality.
I feel so badly for his family and his friends who are mourning him with candlelight vigils, surf paddle-outs, tributes, and memorials.
To honor Kirk, they’re handling their pain with grace and beauty.
One of them, artist Bryan Snyder, created a memorial wall in our town. If you’re ever in Carlsbad, check it out.
Bryan Snyder
Our deepest sympathies go out to Kirk’s family. Our hearts are heavy and we are so very, very sorry for their loss.
The Passmore family released the following statement:
Kirk was born February 11, 1981 in Orem, Utah. He grew up in Carlsbad, California and graduated from Carlsbad High School in 1999 where he was a member of the school’s surf team for four years. As a youth, he was active in pop warner football, little league baseball, and basketball but his love was in surfing.
He started coming to Hawaii when he was 14 and was an experienced and expert surfer. He was not new to big wave surfing, having surfed most of the well-known big wave locations, including Waimea Bay, Sunset Beach, Pipeline and outer reefs on the north shores of Hawaii. He was a familiar face at Todos Santos off Baja California. He also surfed Maverick’s in northern California and Puerto Escondido in Mainland Mexico. He spent 3 years in the southern coast of France. He moved to the north shore of Hawaii full-time in the spring of 2012.
Kirk was a part owner of Third Stone Surfboards in Waialua, Hawaii and a Manager at Bonzai Sushi in Haleiwa, Hawaii.
He is survived by his mother, Diane Passmore (Orem, Utah), father and step-mother, David and Karey Passmore (Sunset Beach, Hawaii), siblings, Alyson Adams (Highland, Utah); Merrily Roberts (Encinitas, California) and Matthew Passmore (serving an LDS mission in New York, New York).
The family wishes to thank the Coast Guard, the City and County of Honolulu lifeguards and Fire Department who continue the search.
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