Updated: Feb 4, 2019
6/3/63 My Birthdate
6/3/80 My Dad's Deathdate
6/3/17 My Husband's Deathdate
I was 54. Numerologists have a field day with all this. “The nines! 6 + 3 = 9; 9 + 9 = 18; 1 + 8 = 9; 9’s are completion! Wonderful! 5 + 4 . . . “. Da da da da da whatever. June 3rd will never be wonderful for me and my family. (I know. I should never say never. Whatever.)
Norm was working in Brooklyn. My rough goofy burly bald simple complicated man was a millwright by trade but his bossy nature helped him rise through the ranks and run steel and conveyor jobs all over the states. He wrote like a 3rd grade boy but could run and troubleshoot a $5 million construction job efficiently. Robots, turbans (?), scales--he built big things mostly in the auto plants. He worked long and hard and expected everyone under him to work long and hard. That’s why he didn’t spend my 54th birthday at home in Michigan with me.
The previous weekend the Brooklyn workers (mice) did not work long and hard while he (cat) was home for Sam’s high school graduation and a Memorial weekend trip up north. We met in 87 and had spent every birthday together. He loved giving extravagant gifts especially to me. But, a previous experience he had after expressing disappointment in some NYC union guys resulted in a blown out tire on the Verrazano Bridge. He learned the hard way that if he wanted any work to get done on a weekend he’d have to be there and also not talk like a dick. He felt bad about missing my birthday so the evening of June 2nd we spent planning arrangements to fly me out the following weekend. He was so excited to show me his Brooklyn and the artist’s studio airbnb he had rented with the wine bar on the roof. Our last conversation was me sitting in my car in Kohl’s parking lot--him in the Brooklyn studio in front of his laptop. I was impatiently waiting to go in and buy my nephew’s birthday present while he was giving me the flight info. --Seriously, woodpecker is back on the feeder chirping this time. “Happy Norm? OK, ok, I’ll keep going. Just gotta get some damn tissue. Yes. I’ll blow out the candles and turn the night light off in the bathroom that will catch fire someday blah blah blah.” Tap tap tap. Anyways my 40-50 jeweled damselflies are out dancing right outside the window in the trees so happy I am writing. (It’ll make sense later-or not.)