Yes, this is another philosophical piece spurred by the death of my father. And it seems appropriate to use his passing as a reason to explore friendship, as the teenager says, because everywhere he went he made a friend.
One of my fellow crazy cat ladies brought me a matcha latte— having seen this social media post:
And several friends and in-laws have offered food or services (letting the dog out, making cookies trays or fried chicken for guests). I even have a sympathy sushi meal later today.
My college roommate, whom my dad called “Curly,” will be arriving from the Baltimore suburbs this afternoon.
Poppop couldn’t go anywhere without making a friend.
The teenager
So it makes me wonder— and remember— how many people gather around me in a crisis, even if I can’t always find someone for the everyday ups and downs.
Maybe the notion of friendship is not about how available someone is all the time, but who reaches out without prodding when you don’t even know how much you need it.
Yesterday left me thinking a lot about the notion of friendship and emotional support. As I continue to navigate the death of my father, the gestures I see from those around me touch my broken heart in ways I never imagined possible.
And recent events, from how Stitch Fix handled the recent shift change to how they handled my father’s death, shows me that successful businesses— even American ones with an international presence and millions of clients— don’t have to be jerks.
The dog and I were sitting on the sunporch yesterday waiting for one of my crazy cat lady friends to stop by. She wanted copies of my novels to give to her sisters for Christmas (and I need more fans) and she once cared for Mars and Minerva while they were on their pet store tour.
While Bean and I were waiting, an older man pulled up in front of my house and starting rooting around in the hatch/cargo area of his SUV. And he gets out a big bouquet of flowers.
Did someone send me flowers? Who do I know who is fancy enough to send flowers?
They came in a big glass vase with white roses and baby’s breath, and these lovely periwinkle filler flowers that I know I should know the name of because I did take high school horticulture.
I struggle to unfold the card. And I discover it’s from Stitch Fix. So I know I have a warehouse job. I know I fold clothes with everybody else. I am considered an unskilled worker, over educated for my position.
But I feel like Stitch Fix is the first company I’ve worked for to treat everyone of us like we are people, and not just interchangeable bodies in a process.
My warehouse job has paid the same amount of money as my last professional job— and removed so much stress and feelings of inadequacy from my life.
Professional positions or even common retail positions have controlled my life— constantly making it clear that “they” feel it is my privilege to work for them.
When my cat Opie had cancer I went into the computer system and requested to use some of my accrued paid time off so I could be at home after he got his leg amputated. I was working for Target at the time, about 36 hours a week so of course I didn’t qualify for medical benefits or anything because I was “part-time.” I had worked for Target for almost a decade.
They didn’t know it, but I had already accepted a professional position at a local non profit, but because of Opie’s surgery and other home circumstances, I had asked to start on the first day of the next month.
Now, after Christmas a few months prior, a guest had called the store and accused me of a racist act the day prior. This person of color had gathered all of the remaining food from the cafe, set it aside for 20 minutes, and not paid for it. She spent the entire time on the phone. I finally asked her if she was ready to pay for it and she left the store angry. Her husband called the next day. She never went to a supervisor, never said anything to me, just went home.
And the investigation determined that because I talk with my hands, I was angry and threatening with her. Despite witnesses saying the contrary. Despite almost ten years with the company.
So I got written up. This means if I did anything else wrong in the next year they could fire me. This meant I couldn’t apply for any promotions (despite the fact that my supervisor had left and I had been running my department during fourth quarter).
This is why I finally had enough and looked for a new job. And my marriage was in trouble and I needed to make more than $12 an hour.
I mention this because one of my Target friends just got fired for a similar incident where a customer was clearly out of line, and Target took their side. Even though this employee had been with the company since 2009. Just boom— fired.
And do you know what happened when I requested off? My manager denied it. I was too important to take time off.
But not important enough to pay a living wage.
But not important enough to defend when a customer was out of line.
But not important enough to provide medical insurance.
I went back to the computer and gave my two weeks notice. Except the store manager begged me not to go. And we agreed I could have the time off and I would work Saturdays to help train my new supervisor. Who turned out to have no interest in our department, ignored our breaks and wouldn’t listen to anyone but herself.
And when I called her out on it, because my peers wouldn’t do it because they needed the job, the same manager that denied my time off tried to fire me.
It didn’t work, but I never worked another day at Target, so they “got their way.”
And don’t even get me started on my experiences in “professional” employment.
If you have a job where you like going to work and your boss is a human, treasure it. It’s getting rarer.
So, yes, even though Stitch Fix is metrics driven and can be physically taxing, I have felt more like a person in their employment than I have in years.
More to come on the definition of “friend” later. So many generous acts have happened since my father’s death.
I intended today’s post to be about my medical appointments, but grief and death have a way of sneaking into everything.
So, let me start this post by saying I’ve been released from physical therapy and let’s hope I do yoga and more weight training to improve more and free myself or even more pain.
I haven’t been to the gym in two weeks because first came the schedule change, then my trainer got sick and then my dad died.
My dad, visiting the teenager at her waitressing job
Today, my college roommate reached out to say she would drive up from Baltimore if I needed her. And I started to weep in the parking lot of physical therapy, because she and I have been extremely sporadic in our contact since we graduated. I never even told her when the teenager’s father and I split up.
I did finally tell her, but only after she sent a Christmas card.
So many people have been kind in the wake of my father’s death, but to have such an act of kindness offered just hit me hard.
And then, as I have often since we met with the funeral home, I checked for his obituary. This time, I found it.
Now it could just be I’m grieving and therefore have a lower IQ than usual— I somehow got the dog’s bowls stuck together— but it is a little tricky to navigate the options on my phone to see the obituary.
And finally, my daughter looked at me this morning and said, “you know how you always say that my generation has an easier time with body acceptance… for me, that wasn’t social media or TikTok or anything, it was Poppop. He never said anything when I started gaining weight, and if I said something, he’d say, ‘Nobody gives a sh*t. Fat, skinny, you’re still my grandkid.’”
And he’d know how to get those damn bowls unstuck.
Nobody gives a sh*t. Fat, skinny, you’re still my grandkid.
Since my father died yesterday… yesterday… (it feels like a lifetime ago and at the same time like maybe it didn’t happen at all), I thought it might be wise to keep today quiet.
I canceled my appointment at the gym, as I feel a little drained and shaky from all the emotion yesterday and I know I didn’t eat right.
I started to get dressed and ended up merely putting on a clean t-shirt with my fuzzy cat-in-the-hat pajama pants.
I read more memories people sent me— so many people knew my father. My mother stopped by. My neighbor stopped.
I started laundry. I did dishes. I got out the broom and swept for a while.
I found the pendant my father gave me, engraved with “my little girl yesterday, my friend today, my daughter always, I love you.” It’s on a silver chain that’s tarnished with age with my Celtic knot charm and my amber.
I mopped the kitchen floor. I answered texts and talked on the phone.
I ordered a case of Parisian Phoenix’s next title— Twists: Gathered Ephemera— a poetry manuscript by Darrell Parry, father of the teenager who has been, as always, very helpful and dependable.
I invited my blind friend Nan over for dinner, as she loves to watch me cook and I figured by feeding her I would, in turn, feed the teenager and I.
She accepted.
So while I waited for the teenager to return from school, I wrapped her Christmas presents. The teenager would also swing by Nan’s apartment building.
It was a ridiculously warm, sunny December day and I opened the windows so the cats could frolick.
And when Eva and Nan arrived, we brought Nan to the kitchen and I cooked pork loin, chicken burgers and pre-seasoned pulled chicken. While I cooked, the teenager opened her Christmas presents.
With the holidays fast approaching, and Yule is one of those holidays, I thought she might need some of the items I gave her. I also thought Nan might enjoy watching her open her presents. The teenager works a lot in coming weeks as people travel to see family. Today seemed calmer.
And I thought we could superimpose some joy onto our sorrow and grief.
I packed up leftovers for Nan to take home. Nan and I had soft tacos.
And after dinner, I poured Nan a County Seat Spirits whiskey and water while I had a Yuengling. And we celebrated with a drink in my dad’s honor.
And Nan always makes the teenager and I laugh.
And the neighbor that visited earlier, little dog’s mom, returned with the fanciest chocolate covered pretzels I ever saw. She made them at work and thought we could enjoy them with family after the viewing on Sunday.
Daddy, I promise to seek laughter and joy when I miss you.
My father has been dealing with illness for the last couple weeks, since Thanksgiving.
He was in the hospital twice over the last week, because a twist of complications from COPD and Covid made it impossible for him to breathe. And he wouldn’t eat or drink.
But a week before that he was here and fine.
And yesterday he was stable.
The hospital had sent him for a brain scan because he was delusional and rather hateful. And they discovered that somewhere between seven and 30 days ago he had a stroke.
Well, despite being stable, he apparently had a bigger stroke last night— and it left his legs paralyzed. And he developed pneumonia.
So… I drove to work this morning having last heard that my father was stable and my stepmom was asking family members if we could help care for him while he recovered.
I saw two deer frolicking on the Bizzy Hizzy lawn as I drove to the Stitch Fix warehouse. They were happy and bouncing around, and I was optimistic, Wednesday, after all, is my Friday.
I clocked in and headed to my assigned table and even nailed those numbers as I QC’ed my first few fixes.
I noticed the warehouse seemed hot and sticky and I suspected I smelled funny.
Then my step mom called. She had bad news. Dad was dying.
I walked up to some random supervisor and explained what was happening. Another person who seemed to be more in charge grabbed my Bizzy box and told me he would clock me out.
I had been folding a lovely jewel tone green sweater.
I called the teenager and told her not to go to school.
I drove home racing into a beautiful sunrise.
There was a drug raid at the house two doors down.
The teenager was burning a candle.
We drove to the hospital with no issue and the guard almost stopped us until I told him my dad was dying.
And then when we arrived in the room, my dad looked tiny and frail. He’s always been tiny but never frail.
And this towel in his room was folded like a swan. It seemed out of place, but serene.
We all sat there— my brother for a while, the teenager, my stepmom, her friends, and I— watching my dad gasp to breathe. They didn’t have his teeth in. My sister arrived around 10. She went to the bathroom. The doctor came into the room.
My sister said, “hi, Pop.”
The doctor hugged my stepmom.
And the teenager and I watched him stop breathing. And his death was that quick. 10:07 a.m.
I snapped this photo because if you look near that wad of cotton on his left arm, he has a tattoo of my name. And I might not ever see it again.
My dad was 73. And smoked almost 2 packs a day for almost 60 years.
I have received hundreds of condolences on Facebook today— so many little remembrances of who he was. A message from a high school peer of mine who used to do tractor pulls with my dad. Another high school peer who bought my dad’s tractor trailer. A Target peer whose mom worked for my dad and stepmom, and my dad used to try and explain the tools to him.
Aunt Sharon’s desk
We told my Aunt Sharon. But she said she already knew in her heart.
And we took Dad’s phone charger from his hospital belongings bag so my sister could charge her phone. His teeth are in that pink case. I also took a toothbrush from the hospital. Not sure why. I just wanted it.
And then we got ready for the funeral director.
And then with the viewing and funeral set, we went for pizza.
The people in the local pizza place gave us the pizza for free. My dad made that kind of impact on people.
We asked my mother-in-law if she could make her fried chicken and potato salad for after the viewing. She volunteered to make “Lee’s Beans,” too.
My stepmom’s sister arrived at 7, so after 12 hours I headed home. The teenager looked at me as we walked to the car.
“This is the first time we ever went to the car without Poppop standing in the garage to wave at us,” she said.
Sunday we arrived at work to learn we couldn’t punch in because engineering was upgrading the time clock system. I managed to ship 374 items in 296 packages as part of the Freestyle department.
And my dad— who has been struggling with Covid— ended up back in the hospital.
But then Monday rolled around and I was back in my home department folding clothes.
I was ready to try and excel as the change in shifts has been hard. The ten hour day is amazingly smooth, but getting up at 5 a.m. is exhausting — even if I go to bed at 9 p.m.
And then we changed software and the computers couldn’t keep up with the new system so everyone was working at 80 percent. Okay, I can’t prove everyone, but there’s a day shift woman who told me she always hits her numbers and yesterday she only did 108 instead of 130.
On top of this I had several fixes that I struggled to put in an extra large box and half way through the day the stats went down.
I am struggling to stay motivated and moving without my average time per fix being tracked, let alone no stats at all.
And then some guy drilled each of our table and attached new brooms and butlers. We used to share one or two brooms per valley, now we have about 20.
Many many brooms.
And around 2:30 p.m., a day shift peer was talking to someone who might have been a processing lead and she started hysterically crying for a good 20 minutes.
So I was very glad when yesterday was over. Not only was my back hurting, but my right leg is acting up again and I have intense pains in one of my right toes.
Then today started. My computer doesn’t have a keyboard or a mouse. Just a keypad. And the computer can’t “see” it. Lost ten minutes looking for a mouse until a lead stole one on my behalf.
One of my favorite second shift QC support people— we’ll call him Flying J in honor of the way he buzzes through the valleys with carts under his arms like wings of an airplane— brought me refixes! You know, the fixes that needed to be fixed and come on top of the cart instead of inside.
AND he told day shift that I liked them.
And one of the day shift support people came to see me and said she would bring me as many as she could. Then she paused.
“I don’t know how to say this without offending you,” she said.
“Honey, you can’t offend me.”
“I see the way you work and I see the way you walk—”
I interrupted her. “I have cerebral palsy,” I said. “And right now, my spine is bent the wrong way. I struggle to get the fixes out of slots 7 & 8.”
I was really moved. I am always touched when people want to help.
And today was our December employee luncheon.
Meanwhile, at home, the teenager did a ritual (at my request) for my father’s recovery.
Me and my dad
After work, we took the dog for ice cream at The Spot.
My first three day Thursday through Saturday weekend is now coming to a close.
I did some laundry. Did some dishes. Meal prepped for my upcoming lunches and cooked the remaining groceries so the teenager has some food if she wants it. We also discussed our upcoming dinners. I plotted my wardrobe, and I hope to finish gathering underwear and socks, that way I can put my clothes in the bathroom where I can dress without disturbing the cockatoo.
I did a whole lot of work for Parisian Phoenix Publishing, including sending Not an Able-Bodied White Man with Money off for copyright.
So, with all of our food planned for the future, the teenager and I visited McDonalds for buy one, get one free Big Macs.
Good evening, readers. Just another reminder that my alter-ego is a book publisher and we have new books coming out this month and next. Please consider supporting our publishing house and our authors.
Parisian Phoenix books can be ordered via traditional online retailers (Amazon, Barnes & Noble, even Target), but if you want to find your local independent bookseller, check out Bookshop.org (where our books are also listed), and if you visit a bookseller, they can order our books from Ingram.
And if you want to skip the middle man, contact us at ParisianPhoenix@gmail.com and for $20 through Venmo, we will mail any author-signed Parisian Phoenix title to your door (within the continental US). $10 for each additional title.
Contact me with questions about our titles. And consider supporting our start-up business.
Periodically during the next week or so, this space will feature updates on various Parisian Phoenix projects.
Yesterday, poet Darrell Parry received a proof of his poetry project TWISTS: GATHERED EPHEMERA that, with a little grit, could be in the printer’s hands in a few days.
Publisher/editor Angel Ackerman performed the initial placements in the non-fiction anthology NOT AN ABLE-BODIED WHITE MAN WITH MONEY, a collection of poetry, prose and artwork produced by authors representing marginalized identities (and with connections to the Lehigh Valley).
The themes of the volume are meant to prompt discussion or at least reflection.
The anthology should be going out for copyright this weekend and hopefully be available for sale by the end of January.
TRAPPED, our contemporary romance by Bethlehem, Pa., author Seneca Blue has had its words organized on the page and is waiting for interior art. This pocket romance with feature the photography…
Today was my third visit to St. Luke’s Physical Therapy at Anderson Campus.
I love them. I love the impact of physical therapy.
I am probably the perfect candidate to be in physical therapy for the rest of my life.
Today, though, my physical therapist introduced some strength building exercises that I would classify as difficult and a little wicked, in the best way possible.
My homework is to keep stretching my back opposite the direction of my retrolisthesis, especially by doing yoga— cobra pose 50 times a day.
Something is definitely working, so we’ll credit PT.
But my session today started on a treadmill which is always a challenge for me. It requires concentration for me. I have to think about each step and try to walk evenly and correctly.
After an eight minute warm-up, we did some Cobra pose/press-ups, some lifts (the kind where my belly is on the table and I bend my knee at a 90 degree angle and lift my leg from the table using the hip area) and today he slapped on ankle weights, some bridges, some one legged bridges, and a bridge where I hold and lift each leg up (one at a time of course) while keeping my hips up, and some hip stretches moving my leg while standing on the cushion.
It was an intense 30 minutes. So I treated myself to a free holiday blend coffee at Dunkin.
Now, I had a chiropractorappointment with Nicole Jensen of Back in Line Chiropractic and Wellness Center next. But I had enough time to run home and use the bathroom.
And feeling spry I hopped to the curb, fell, scraped up my hands and a knee, and apparently flung my phone half way across the neighbor’s yard.
But I arrived at the chiropractor on time and learned that not only is Nicole liking my progress, but she also is on chapter three of my book, Manipulations.
All in all, a good start to the middle of my weekend.
So in mid-November, County Seat Spirits announced they would be launching their collaboration whiskey, distilled from coffee stout from Boser Geist Brewing, on Black Friday.
Both establishments are in Easton’s Silk Mill.
Both create invigorating adult beverages.
My second novel, Courting Apparitions, launched the same day and I thought this particular spirit would be the perfect celebration.
Except when Black Friday came, I didn’t want to leave my house.
Last night, the teenager received a call from her father. He needed to go grocery shopping and with his car out of commission, he required her help as chauffeur.
Now, the way to his apartment goes right by Easton’s Silk Mill. So, I ordered my bottle of the collab and ask her dad to pick it up.
When they finished their shopping, he joined me for a tasting of the libation and it was delightful to see it warm his mood.
I didn’t feel like looking for real serving glasses or retrieving ice, so I poured about an ounce into tea cups. The scent was very strong and biting. A closer examination revealed it was 90 proof so that might explain the explosion in my nose.
The ex said he could taste the flavors as soon as it hit his lips. Potent. Elaborate.
He had purchased some Kalamazoo Stout, which is brewed with licorice. We poured the whiskey over ice and added the stout.
Both on its own and as a power force in the stout, the whiskey and its complexity did not disappoint.
Angel Ackerman 