Saddest day of my life

January 24, 1995. I get to work at Figlio about 7:45, always early so I can get some coffee before starting, maybe slam out a crossword. My brother Sean (Sean is 23 and my sisters and I probably changed more of his diapers than mom, he was OUR first baby) the steward starts at 7 sharp and on this particular morning I am told by other staff that Sean hasn't shown up for work and they can't get an answer at his house. I know my brother Sean and know something serious has had to have happened. I call his house and eventually  his roommate, who sleeps in the basement, answers and says he'll get up and look. He looks into Sean's room and says only Mary, Sean's gf is sleeping in the bed. He tells me he will call me back. I start my shift very worried. His roommate calls back at 8:30 and says he looked in the garage  and found Sean's car and it had been smashed many times with a baseball bat, but no sign of Sean. He calls back soon again to tell me Sean has been found and he had fallen behind to the floor at his drum set after shooting himself with a rifle through the mouth, the police are on their way.  I go into a numbing shock and barely remember leaving and walking home, knowing I have to call everyone. This was probably the hardest thing I will probably ever have to tell my dad. He worried how mom was going to handle and got off the phone to find her at her hospital job. I called my sister in Cloquet, later she told me when she picked Sara up at school, Sara immediately thought her dad had died, he was older. When Meg got to Mpls she picked my son up after I had been in touch with them and Matt thought something had happend to me. I called Paul local who had just lost Sean as a roommate recently. Then Mark and family in Virginia state and Luke and family in Georgia. Jacque and family in North Carolina, her husband Abdul had just flew out for an army mission to Europe, as soon as he landed the Red Cross had him off one plane and onto another to meet Jacque and kids  at NYC airport to fly here. At the time I lived in a very compact one bedroom but because all calls to relatives had been called from there, it was ground zero. My fridge had just died and not replaced, my daycare lady had just lent me mini fridge, we had toddlers with milk bottles, etc. I took over most everything to allow mom and dad not to have to think too much. We made the funeral arrangements, a wake at Washburn McReavy uptown, Basilica because my aunt Jean was a member. The night before the wake some of our family and some of my Figlio friends go to Sean's to get all his stuff. A few days later Sean's girlfriend tells us many things are missing, that his roommates ripped his stuff off, we are too weary to deal with this and it doesn't bring Sean back anyway. A roommate hands me Sean's mail, a letter from the police saying Sean is guilty of hit and run. Call police, tell the what has happened, they tell me woman not hurt, it happened two blocks from job, Sean had been almost to work and then went home. Paper goes to my house as I will be executor, the rest to Paul's and we will sort later. At the wake we set up a cassette to play Tears by Rush off 2112, because it was appropriate and because it was Sean's favorite band. Sean was a gifted drummer and got 6th place at the Knut Koupee/Cabooze drum contest at the age of 18. Anyway, the cassette kept acting up and flipping to the other side, but eventually did what we wanted. When we got home from the wake, we siblings immediately checked out what song Sean had obviously wanted us to hear. Also, everytime the priest spoke about Sean at the wake, the lights behind him would flicker. I was the one that spoke for the family at the funeral, I read Death by Kahlil Gibran, my friend had given me the book at the wake. The priest had had a suicide in his family and he warned us in private counsel that after a couple days we would have a blowout with lots of finger pointing. Two days after the funeral my dad takes me to Lunds early morning. He says lets buy whatever. We spend over $300 on food, treats, yummies and everyone heads to my brother Paul's house. We eat and then the blowout. Abdul grabs the kids and they go to Minnehaha Falls a few blocks away. Abdul was a blessing, always dealing with the kids and the kids reminded us that we needed to eat. We survived the day and everyone seemed to reach a new, sad, calm, numb state. Exhausted. The next night we went to Curran's who gave us a private room and everyone left town the next day. I am granted one week more off from work, work is therapeutic because Sean's writing is everywhere as the steward. Everyone at work is a bit numb but very supportive. I am allowed to leave the line whenever I need to smoke and cry. I find what I need and call his bank, his car loan, cancel magazines, etc. I call the police to get rid of his rifles. I deal with a paralegal and transfer his account for a scholarship fund, which still gets awarded every year to someone in music or computers. I start sorting through Sean's stuff getting more and more sad. Repeated writings about suicide and death from various ages since he was little. This is a story Sean wrote when he was 5 yrs.old:

The Bird that Couldn't Sing

"Once there was a bird which never sang. He was so sad when he saw the other birds sing. He couldn't sing because his mom and dad and brothers and sisters thought if they taught him to sing, they thought he would ruin the singing."

"Then one day he decided to fly somewhere else to stay for awhile ..."

By Sean Sarazine   1976

MY Nightmare Before Christmas

T'was the week before Christmas and all through the malls,
The shoppers were freaking and bouncing off walls.
Their Visa and Mastercards flashed in their hands,
Hoping their limits would match their demands.

The children were whining and grabbing at toys,
Not on the list of "good girls and boys".
And Matt in his hi-tops, and I with a map,
Decided that we were just sick of this crap.

When in front of Cinnabonn there arose such a clatter,
I turned my head quickly and saw the gifts scatter.
Into the pile a brat jumped like a flash,
Tore open the wrapping that cost lots of cash.

The Christmas lights flashing like some Vegas show
Gave a psychotic twist to the insanity below
When, what to my disbelieving ears do I hear,
But "mommy wishes you'd stop right this minute, my dear".

The kid was a brat, a damn little shit,
I knew the parents were rich yuppie twits.
Throwing money at their kids without any shame;
Screwed up value system, but who is to blame?

Now Dammitt! Now Shithead! Now Stupid! Now Putz!
Take responsibility for your kids; you're driving me nuts.
To the parking ramp entrance, to the doors of the mall,
Now run away, run away, run away all!!!

As a few little snowflakes turn into a storm,
When disconnected parents collars start to get warm,
So up, higher than high, their blood pressure flew
As they grabbed at their gifts, and their screaming brat, too.

And then, in a roar, I heard the mom scream,
"Stop staring, you'll ruin my kid's self-esteem"!
As I let out a laugh, and I laughed really loud,
Down the tile floor, the little brat ran into the crowd.

He was dressed all in Gap, from his head to his feet.
And his face was all slopped up with chocolate and sweets.
An mp3 player hung from his coat
And he looked like he knew his way with a remote.

His eyes--how lackluster; his pimples--so many!
His cheeks were all bloated, his patience--not any!!
His pouty, big mouth was something obscene,
And the drool on his chin had a glistening sheen.

The sticky candy-cane that he had in his hand
Had surely stickied up items that never were scanned.
He had a fat face and a pretty big butt,
That shook, when he ran through the mall like a nut.

His chubby little legs gave out on himself
And I laughed as he fell into some vendor's shelf.
His eye got all puffy, and he twisted his knee.
And in front of everyone he took a pee.

His mom was all quiet, ran up to some clerk
And borrowed a cart, as I watched with a smirk.
And grabbing her kid, and holding her nose,
She ran to the door in her sheer pantyhose.

She beeped toward her car and it started up fast.
She threw in the gifts and the kid with a blast.
But I think I heard her yell, as she raced out the ramp,
"Next summer, you're spending 3 months at band camp!!!"

some really old poems, etc.

Cat’s Pajamas

My mother always said, “Watch out for the quiet ones”

It means they’ve got time to think

And when they speak, they’ve got something to say

When I sit and ruminate upon your words I start to think, too

I think I’m not good enough ….for you

I think I’ll never measure up…..to you

I think I’m falling…..for you

You’re the cat’s pajamas

I Want

I want to reach out

I want to reach out and wrap my arms around you

I find comfort in being near you

Knowing I am breathing the same air as you

We rarely speak to each other

Yet, I feel I know you so well

I wish I could break this invisible barrier

This wall that keeps me from…

Touching you

Holding you

Dare to dream…….

Kissing you

I am not sure how much longer I can endure just being a small part of your life

I want to be your life

Eviction Notice

Please get out of my head

Right now!

You are driving me mad

You are so selfish and inconsiderate

Why must every waking moment include thoughts of you

Why can’t you just leave me alone

And give me some peace

My life made sense before you entered it

At least, I thought it did

Wisconsin Death Trip (based on a true story) a very, very old story

Once upon a time, actually last night, my sisters and I jump into the younger one's Kia and book over to Superior, Wisconsin for an evening out at the legendary, fancy-shmancy Keyport, king among strip-mall cocktail lounges. The girls are in the mood for karaoke and the trailerdiva is in the mood to shock the small towners a bit. A few alcoholic refreshments are imbibed and the trailerdiva is ready to sign up for her first song. About this time Rex meekly walks in as if he is being led to the slaughter. He joins the girls and nervously orders a beer. He smiles and I can see the genuine fear in his eyes. Damn right, he should be afraid!! If my reputation hasn't preceded me even to this god forsaken hole in the wall, I'm not doing my job. So trailerdiva decides to start things up with some Benatar and fills out her little karaoke slip and hands it to the karaoke hostess with the most enviable tanning booth brown on. Anyway, faster than diarrhea in a White Castle toilet, trailerdiva's name is called. Our friendly karaoke hostess stands on the stage smiling at trailerdiva as she approaches the stage. She is probably thinking "Great, another fat chick that thinks she's Pat Benatar; well, here's hoping she isn't tone deaf, at least." The music starts and trailerdiva begins singing her words, waiting for a reaction. The trailerdiva is shocked and pleased to hear the drunken fools laughing as she sings "You Sleep in the Wet Spot" and thinks maybe this evening will turn out better than she thought. Trailerdiva throws caution to the wind and signs up for another song. More alcohol drinking ensues. Rex is visibly shaking in his seat by this point. Various 'singers', and I am using the word loosely, murder various top forty hits of the past that deserve murdering. Soon the hostess with the mostest is calling trailerdiva back to the stage. Hostess looks at trailerdiva in anticipation as trailerdiva begins singing "Open Sores", her Journey cover. Once agaiin, the crowd actually gets the joke and laughs enthusiastically. About this time random weirdo walks into the bar. She has met trailerdiva on previous occasions and, although she is good at masking her fear, random weirdo is obviously looking for a quick buzz to put a cushion around what she believes is going to turn into a "bumpy ride of an evening out". Trailerdiva, by this time, is stealing drinks from other tables and is ready to go for broke. She works her way through the karaoke catalog and finds no Boston or Black Sabbath, and finally settles on the Knack. Only to be totally deflated by the hostess telling her she can't find the disk. Trailerdiva is almost at a loss at this point. She is too drunk to have to think this hard. She throws caution to the wind and signs up for Cheap Trick before thinking it through clearly, which would have been impossible at this point anyway. Rex, by this point, is shaking so hard that you'd think he worked on a jackhammer eight hours a day instead of that job he has sleeping at the heat plant. Trailerdiva begins "I Want You To Fuck Me' and is so intoxicated she does not notice all the activity her words are causing in the bar. Suddenly the hostess is yanking the microphone out of trailerdiva's hand and hitting her over the head with it. Unfortunately, it is far too late for the hostess to act as if she disapproves of the trailerdiva and the bartender fires her overtanned ass.
She hastily gives trailerdiva her phone number because she has suddenly decided she's a lesbian and wants trailerdiva to be her sugar mama now she's lost her highly lucrative karaoke hostess job. Meanwhile, the entire bar is booing trailerdiva because while it is apparently acceptable to have a guy onstage singing about stroking, a fat chick cannot tell the bar she wants them to fuck her.
Trailerdiva and party hastily race out to their vehicles. Rex burns rubber in the parking lot before he even closes his door all the way. Trailerdiva flips him off and laughs menacingly. She knows he'll be reliving this evening in his nightmares tonight. Random weirdo foolishly asks for a ride to her brothers, not realizing the true power of trailerdiva's memory.

Restaurant Autographs (written March 2016)

During a good chunk of the 80’s and onward for eighteen years I was a line cook in an open kitchen at a trendy California-Italian restaurant in Minneapolis. Over the years we fed many local and national celebrities and power people. Management did not forbid us from collecting autographs but cautioned us about when it was acceptable and when it was definitely not. You did not bother Janet Jackson when she came in repeatedly during her recording period at Flyte Tyme Studios while she was making Rhythm Nation. (FYI, she loved our wings and artichoke hearts) No one bothered Sinead eating at a sidewalk table, not fooling us in her wig. It was okay to acknowledge Mel Brooks and Carl Reiner with a head nod but you left them alone out of respect and awe.

Some celebrities walked in the door with a happy expectation that they would encounter fan interaction. Joan Jett and entourage sat right in front of the line and joked with the cooks; I cherish that autograph “Keep on rockin’ Joan Jett”. Malcolm McDowell’s party also sat near the line. He was thrilled when the line almost immediately joined in voice for a few lines of “Singing In The Rain”, saying he wasn’t sure if people would recognize him anymore. Many members of the Minnesota Twins line-up were in during the World Series, both 1987 and 1991, but it was always crazy busy during those times. I did have an opportunity to get Kirby Puckett’s autograph for my son on a later date when he was dining with our owners over an ad campaign discussion. He wrote to my 6 year old son “Stay in School, Be Cool, Kirby Puckett”. RIP Kirby. Minnesotan Gretchen Carlson came in soon after her Miss America reign and I asked and received her autograph. You may know her as a national news anchor.

When Elvis Costello came in repeatedly for about a week, he adopted an interesting practice. He was in town discussing a possible music collaboration with some local musicians and they would all meet at the restaurant in the afternoon. After the first day Elvis would just have the waitron bring a stack of the restaurant’s signature coasters and he would autograph each one, ensuring everyone that sought his autograph, whether it be customer or worker, could have one.

Sometimes you stepped outside the lines; sometimes you listen to the beat of a different accordion. Fred Willard and a half dozen others came in for lunch one day and I took a leap. Having ascertained from the waitron that the sandwich I was making was definitely for Mr. Willard, himself, I manufactured a special presentation. I wrote in beautiful script a special message for Mr. Willard, ran a frill pick through the paper and stuck in the top of his sandwich. The message read “Laced with arsenic for your dining pleasure”. When he was served I saw him read it, laugh, and later the waitron gave me a little note thanking me for the physical evidence his lawyer would need in case of a lawsuit and an autograph from Mr. Willard.

Of course there are the autographs I should have gotten, also. Tony Papenfuss was actually friends with some of the staff, I should have got his autograph. You may know him as First Darryl from Newhart, the tv series. I should have gotten Patrick Stewart’s autograph. I deeply regret not asking Chris Farley; I even walked by his table after I punched out to gauge whether I should bother him or not. He was having a great time with his group and I decided I should leave him alone. He was dead within the year.

Whose autograph do I cherish the most? Cloris Leachman. She was in town playing Grandma Moses and had been making a habit of coming to the restaurant each night after her performance. I finally dared to ask on what turned out to be her last visit. “To Berni, all my love, Cloris Leachman.”

My name is Berni and I am a Recovering ex-Catholic

When I was seven years old I had my first communion at our local church. This was soon after the mass was no longer in Latin. Before mass started they gave each of us "inductees" a sheet of paper that had a "promise" we were to read out loud in unison later in the mass. I quickly perused it ahead of time and was horrified even at my tender age at what I was literally being forced to recite. The piece went on and on about how great Catholics were with one of the points being made that only Catholics would go to heaven. Really?? Reciting this later made me feel sick to my stomach and I promised myself that I would never allow anyone to force me to say something again. But, of course, I am sure I did. Plenty of times. Parents and relatives put the pressure on. Do what you are told. We know better than you. Fall in line.

It really shouldn't have surprised my mother nine years later when I told her I had been repeatedly molested by the local priest when I was nine or ten. I didn't tell because I thought I was supposed to accept it. He was a HOLY MAN. I was just some stupid little kid.  Do what you are told. We know better than you. Fall in line.

Every Friday there was an hour when the Baptist kids would cross the highway to one building, the Lutherans kids would go to another and we Catholic kids would go to the house behind the elementary school. Religious instruction. This house belonged to a retired school bus driver and his wife, their children grown and gone. Father K would always try to get me to stay behind the others when it was time to leave. He would reach  from my back side as he talked and stick his hand into my crotch and rub and rub. It made me want to sink into the floor and die. I would try so hard to get ahead of the other kids each week and usually fail. He would call me back and do it to me again and again for months. One time I saw that the lady of the house actually saw what was happening. I pleaded to her with my eyes but she turned her vision somewhere else and never said a thing. Do what you are told. We know better than you. Fall in line.

The only reason it ended was because we suddenly got a new priest. Years later I figured that the church probably moved him because there had been another victim that actually spoke up to someone. I was relieved beyond belief, nonetheless. The new priest was old, crabby and distancing. No more worries. As I went through my teen years it became more and more apparent how old-fashioned and restricting this priest was. We were finally allowed to have a special teen mass but weren't even allowed to sing Day by Day from Godspell. Too secular. No Star Trek. A communion wafer fell to the floor when I was receiving communion and everyone stared at me like I had "666" engraved on my forehead. They even had to have a special ceremony after mass to pick it up off the floor. Egads. I was become more and more of a disenchanted Catholic as I became my own person. I laugh now when I think about the fact that I once wrote to the nun in our family. I told her I had decided to become a nun. She wrote back that I should be open to other possibilities. I like to think now that she was saying run, run, live your life. Do what you are told? We know better than you? Fall in line?

No more.

Blueberry Hill

Blueberry Hill. Somewhere in northern Minnesota, beyond the gravel trail, sits Blueberry Hill. Because of an overabundance of blueberry plants, the land inherits its name. This is where I grew up. This is where my mother would send the older kids on sunlit summer days. "You can come home when you have enough blueberries", she would say, and send us along with empty cottage cheese containers and a jug of kool-aid.

A trip to Blueberry Hill was always an invitation to play. The gravel trail through the woods would spur our imaginations, and each journey would turn into one adventure or another. And, suddenly, the woods would open up revealing the beauty of Blueberry Hill. We would pick and we would play. We would sing and we would fight. Since I was the oldest, it was my responsibility to rally the troops, eventually, and get mother her blueberries. We would march home, triumphant and thirsty ( the jug empty for some time ). "Here we are, mother dear, and here are your blueberries", we would cry. "We worked so hard in this summer heat". Mother would reward us with more kool-aid and something sweet to eat.

There were seven of us kids. The youngest, Sean, was too little for blueberry-picking before I left home. I never shared forest adventures with him. Years passed and young adults moved out and on. I don't know if Sean ever had berry-picking adventures.

On a cold, numbing January day in 1995, Sean took his life. Winter's chill was a fitting backdrop to my very existence. With the new birth of spring, my spirit began to thaw. Once again, we gathered together and walked the gravel trail through the woods. A curtain of sunlight invited us to our destination. We laid Sean's ashes among the blueberry bushes.

In my dreams, Sean is having forest adventures with the rest of us. In my dreams, Sean is there with us. On Blueberry Hill.