Remembering Jim and Phyllis

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My dad died September 13, peacefully in his home. His last days were amazing, intense, profoundly moving. He approached dying without fear but with incredible curiosity. One morning he opened his eyes: "I think I'm dead." I said, "No. sweetie, not yet. You're dying, but you are still here with us. We're glad you are here but when you are ready to go then that's ok, too." The next morning he came back from that in-between place and looked at me with his beautiful blue-eyed gaze and said: "I'm cultivating a kind of calm. I had such a long and wonderful life, it would be a shame to betray the beauty of that life at the end." He didn’t betray that beauty – he lived it right to the last. When he learned he was dying and went into hospice care, his first reaction was: "Damn! I so much would have liked to be able to vote in this election!" Well, in Oregon, once you cast your ballot it counts even if you die before election day. We we...

Patricia Mees Armstrong is a poet who lives in the Eugene Hotel . She and my dad got to know each other at the monthly Tea and Poetry gatherings. After his death, she wrote this poem. *** A POET'S FAREWELL TO A POET remembering Jim McPherson For his last inevitable months, the old poet moved in to the hotel, ensconced in a fourth-floor warren, while his pale blood flowed hesitantly and his breathing balked. He was much like an older Peter O'Toole if you penciled in an off-white wispy pony tail and presentably even Irish teeth, the latter often grinning impishly. And, oh, the wondrous words he left: poems penned in Parisian cafés, on Soho sidewalks, in paeans to loves and beloveds. Even as he was dying, he was unpacking mental trunks of unfinished lines, legacies intended for his pen and paper, as lost to us as he is now. Farewell, gentle fellow poet. May angels gather often to listen to your brilliant works. (c) 2008 Patricia Me...

I have been reading Grampa Jim's "Straightening Out the Record" and Granny's "Portraits" to my 2-month-old son Ezra. He makes a very serious look while I read as if he senses how important the words are to me. I can't wait for him to age and become curious about his great grandparents and explore all of their mysterious and curious writings in our bookshelf. I can't wait to answer all his questions and tell them how fabulous they were. I can't wait to see him do something one day and see a distinct bit of Gran shinning through. I can't wait for Bob to tell the story over dinner for the 20th time of Grampa Jim making us a divine little meal of spam and potatoes. I especially can't wait for this first holiday season with Ezra and share with him the spirit of my Grandparents who I remember making Christmas so wonderful for me and my brother for so many years. I am so grateful that Jim and Phyllis left so much of themselves to be passed on th...