Castro

Revolution is a fetching ideal for those who can afford it. But as uncomfortable as DJ Trump makes me, I am still probably a little too cozy to-- you know-- 'take up arms' or whatever you guys call it. Not as so in Cuba in the late 1950s.

Whether 50 years of Castronomics elevated the high of the average Cuban is, incredibly, still unclear on the Monday after his death was cheered in Miami and solemnly mourned in Havana. As confounding a figure as has ever pounded a podium, Castro made a career out of thumbing his great nose at the omnipresent hovering United States, brushing off assassination attempts like dandruff. He in turn treated his lesser adversaries to much more effective brands of merciless retribution. It was Fidel's way or the highway-- a highway often stocked with hammerhead sharks or lined with firing squads.

My mother's future husband Arthur Bender was a 20-year-old sophomore at Rutgers during the holiday break of 1959, and with a few more days to kill before returning to the books, he and 3 buddies piled into a car and drove down the eastern seaboard to some stockcar race in Sebring, Florida. Back then you could just do shit like that on a whim. One thing similarly led to another and before the boys knew it they'd taken a dare flight from Key West to Havana where they stood amongst the cheering throngs as Castro's freedom fighters rolled west into Havana atop the very tanks that had vanquished the forces of the previous badass dictator, Fulgencio Batista.

But even revolutionaries like a good photo gag, and a few of them paused to yuck it up with the young Americans on their way to the Havana Hilton. Stick em up, Yankee...

Americans can say what they want about Fidel Castro, but it is worth noting that we just elected Donald Trump to be our president. It's unlikely he will be 'in power' for 50 weeks let alone 50 years, but with comparable morals and only a pale fraction of the conviction, intelligence and personality of Fidel Castro, he could really leave a lasting mark.

Bob Simmons

The civilization lost an MVP this week. Bob Simmons has been my hero since the day I met him, and I know he's cast a similar spell on many of us. The man did everything well, but perhaps nothing was as lasting as when he'd clap you on the shoulder, look you deep in the eye and say "Gee, it's good to see ya." You always knew he meant it, because Bob weren't no bullshitter.

He was of my parents' generation, but he never seemed old to me. He had the curiosity of a child and the enthusiasm of a teenager; the knowledge of a grownup and the wisdom of an elder. I learned of his death on Father's Day-- ironic, as I felt a stronger connection to him than to any man in my blood family, my own son excepted.

It was an honor to serve as his & Dee's Realtor. Not because being someone's Realtor is so great, but because I got to spend so much time with them! For eight years we looked at houses in Bellingham. Sometimes not for six months at a time while Dee was trouncing cancer. Other times we'd see three houses a week. For eight years! The distinct & exclusive pleasure of driving the streets of Bellingham with Bob & Dee was mine. "We'd better see it, Jeffer," Bob would say. And we would...

The first one hundred + houses weren't right. But somewhere in the first third of that second hundred homes peeked the bashful but very earnest home on Toledo Hill where Bob left his things before going to the hospital and ultimately to hospice to die on the 62nd anniversary of the marriage to his very beloved Dee. His grandson was married bedside with Bob's only son officiating. You just can't draw it up any better than that...

As if Bob, Dee & I weren't spending enough time together in 2013, they graciously sat for a series of interviews to inform a two-part blog entry spotlighting them as my favorite clients of all times and nominating them for greatest love story of all times. DISCLAIMER: this first entry has more real estate detail in it. If you hate real estate, kindly skip to the second entry which is more about Bob & Dee. I re-post this only to demonstrate my affection for this grand couple and for Bob Simmons in the wake of his passing.

I'm sure he'll get some good sun in that great pea patch in the sky...

Mick

Hello family and very close friends. Some grim news from BraimesWorld. We wanted you to know without having to tell the whole internet that we've lost our stoney cat Mick Mars.

He'd been missing a few days and Patti I walked with some fliers only for a block in two directions Monday night. A neighbor from across the alley phoned yesterday to say he'd discovered the remains of a black cat in his yard on Friday morning.

There've been coyote sightings in the neighborhood and there are always racoons. We gave Mick as proper a burial as possible in the backyard. I think if you'd given Mick the choice between his freedom and his safety, he'd have taken the freedom.

Mick was preceded in death by his mother Scout and is survived by his sister Razzle of the family home in the 2600 block of Ellis Street, Sunnyland. He was one of the famed Sunnyland Cats-- a yawner and an ear-scratcher and if he'd worn socks (he didn't) he'd have worn them high because he didn't much give a damn about anything. He will be missed...

Razzle

Just a limited audience note to say that Patti and I had to let go of Razzle today. She lived a charmed life and realized a death to match-- with a sudden diagnosis, brief struggle and dignified passing in the arms of her deepest admirers.

All pets are special, but Razzle had a certain verve that made her a favorite of friends and strangers alike. Pedestrian commuters would veer many blocks out of their routes in order to drop by and pay their Razzle tax on summer days when she would lay lazily in-wait at the end of the concrete walk. Indeed, it seemed at times there was a waiting list to pet Razzle. She had a wide network of acquaintances that Patti and I knew nothing of-- a secret life!

She loved family, fire, and laps-- and would sit in one until the metaphoric cows came home. She never met a real cow (as far as we know!) but didn't seem to mind the deer. She did not have patience for mammals her own size, namely dogs and other cats-- with the exception of her late brother Mick. In her youth she would hunt and kill all manner of neighborhood rodents, birds and snakes. She ate them, too, sucking out the eyes and brains of her victims and bringing the tiny trophy skulls home for us to fuss over. She also enjoyed the occasional scrap of mild cheddar cheese.

Razzle was always an indoor/outdoor cat, and though she did not have free range these past 5 years (once the raccoons figured out how to use the cat door), she lounged and toileted outside until the very end. We were comforted that she wanted to be outside as much as she did these past 5 days, despite the foul weather. It seemed she was trying everything she could think of to sooth the aching in her kidneys. But in the end there was nothing she or we could do. That's just how it goes with pets sometimes. Eventually...

She was one rad cat. She is missed already