The Reverend Will the Thrill Presents the Album of the Week!

This week's "sermon" is terribly hard for me to write.  If there are any typos, that's because I likely didn't see them through the tears.  I apologize in advance, and I'll correct them later.

I was exchanging dad jokes with my (actual biological) sister via text the other day.  As I said to her, I tell dad jokes even though I don't have any children--I'm a faux pa. (Insert rim shot here.)  I recounted the time I was at the memorial service of a dear friend who recently passed.  A gentleman asked me if he could say a word.  I encouraged him to go ahead.  He stepped to the front of the room and said, "Plethora."  Then he sat back down.  I said, "Thanks.  That means a lot."  (Thank you, I'll be here all week.  Try the veal.  Don't forget to tip your servers!  Good night, everybody!)

In all seriousness, though...  in hindsight, if I could think of one word to describe Victoria, it would be "plethora," because she means a lot.  I don't remember if I ever told her that--I know I certainly didn't do it in those words.  And even though I'm sure she was intelligent and perceptive enough to figure that out on her own, that's no excuse.  I should have told her.

"The words that are spoken at a funeral are spoken too late for the man who is dead.  What a wonderful thing it would be to visit your own funeral.  To sit at the front and hear what was said--maybe to say a few things yourself."

--Ian Bannen as Jackie O'Shea in the film Waking Ned Devine, 1998

I found out the other day that Victoria passed away last weekend.  I first responded to the Facebook post in which I found out by saying that I was "utterly devastated."  Even as I write this, those are still the only words that I can think of to describe how I'm feeling in the moment.  It's fascinating to me how detrimental a personal tragedy can be to one's vocabulary.

I first met Victoria one night at Barnes & Noble after hours.  As I was straightening up one area of the store, I saw a woman seated in one of our "comfy chairs" reading.  I tried to explain to her that the store was closed for the night and she would have to leave.  She explained to me that her husband, Hugh, was the assistant manager and she was waiting on him to finish up closing procedures.  We became friendly and I began to think of her as one of the B&N gang.  Occasionally, if a bunch of us were closing, we might get together afterward for a drink at the Irish restaurant/pub in downtown Bloomington and she would even join us.

We became close after I returned from my year in Cleveland.  She would pop into my music department from time to time to check up on an order she was trying to procure.  (I spent six months trying to order a book for her--O Sisters Ain't You Happy by Suzanne Ruth Thurman.  No one was more grateful than I was when it finally arrived.)  We would start chatting about this and that.  At one point, she said I reminded her a little bit of her younger brother.  I realized I had begun to think of her as an older sister--something I didn't have.  We somehow "adopted" each other as siblings.  Since about 2003, I've thought of her and referred to her as my "big sister."

She was my biggest champion.  If she happened to be around when a customer was being a jerk to me, she would let that customer know in no uncertain terms that I was extremely helpful and knowledgable about what I was doing and that I was a really great guy.  One customer in particular stood out to me.  She was giving me grief about something.  Victoria walked up and started extolling my virtues to this woman, subtly implying that she should back off.  I said to her, "Yeah, she knows.  Victoria, this is my mom, Rosie.  Mom, this is Victoria."

We would write letters--something I consider a lost art--and send postcards to keep each other updated on what we were doing.  I frequently used her as a sounding board to see what she thought about my concerns and ideas.  I hope she knew she could have done the same to me.  I actually sent her a postcard just a couple weeks ago.  In what is a haunting parallel with my mother's passing, apparently it arrived, but whether or not she saw or read it is uncertain.

Our fathers died fairly close together in 2016.  Two years later, our mothers did the same.  I always said we were exploring life as middle aged orphans together.  I took a lot of comfort in that.  When I inevitably would work on Mother's Day, I knew I could text her when it was slow to complain about how much I missed Mom.

I only just realized in the last few days that she seemed to get me in ways that most people don't--or, at the very least, she faked it beautifully.  I'm dazed and devastated because I no longer have my big sister.  I've got no one to write letters to, or make mix CDs for (I must be the only person who still does that).

I bought this week's album a year or so after it was released.  When I discovered a special deluxe edition of it, I bought that and wanted to give the original a good home.  Knowing Victoria's fondness for female musicians and singers and songwriters, I sent it her way.  She seemed just as entranced with it as I was and we bonded over the artist's music for the next decade.  Her new album comes out on Hallowe'en.  I pre-ordered special editions of both the vinyl and the CD a couple of months ago.  I feel like a little kid waiting on Christmas.  But that excitement is tempered by the fact that I won't be able to gush about it to my big sister.

So, in honour of Victoria, this week, I wanted to share that album that I gave to her all those years ago.  Please enjoy Florence + The Machine with their sophomore effort from 2011, Ceremonials.

Until next week, stay safe, be good to your neighbours, and please remember that if at first you don't succeed, then skydiving definitely isn't for you.

Yours in peace, kove, and rock 'n' roll!

The Reverend Will the Thrill

 

 

Commemorating our fathers over lunch at Jockamo Upper Crust Pizza, September, 2016