Welcome to Sunday Morning Hot Tea where I write about a little something up top then (will very shortly in the future) answer a legal question for you down below. This week, final moments to remember where we came from, prepping for a SCOTUS roundup, and another worthwhile organization in the spotlight. In this edition:
Where You’re From This week, Paris’s grandmother died. She was 90 years old and had been diagnosed with Stage IV liver cancer just a few weeks ago. I hate to say she “lost the battle” with cancer because that necessarily creates the dichotomy of winners and losers. Is sticking around here a real prize? The true prize is the life she created for herself, her kids, and her grandkids. No matter what takes you out, that’s a win right there. Before we knew she was too sick to travel from her home in rural New Jersey, I told her she should come to Texas, and we would spoil her. “Oh, I don’t need all that,” she told me. “You took care of everyone else these past 90 years,” I told her. “Let us all take care of you.” That was hard for her – to have someone else doing for her. She was the doer. When we visited her just a few weeks ago in June, we got to spend the day with her. At one point, Paris left to run errands, leaving just Grandma and me. She hadn’t gotten the cancer diagnosis yet. She was still waiting on the results of her liver biopsy. “I hear you got a liver biopsy,” I said, sitting at the foot of her bed. “I’ve got cancer,” she told me, her tone matter of fact. She didn’t sound upset. It was more like I tried to offer her an ingredient she had already added to a dish. “I know I’ve got it. They’re just not telling me,” she said. “Otherwise, why would they have made me an appointment with an oncologist?” “Maybe they’re just trying to be thorough,” I said, my voice stupidly cheerful to offset the tone of pessimism. She scrunched up her face and waved her hand. I guess there’s no other tone to take when discussing cancer, really, especially when you’re 90. We changed the subject. She talked about her recent hospital visit. She asked me about work. We talked about the Philadelphia show I just performed and the subject of the episode. When Paris got back, we pulled my laptop on her lap and showed her every single photo from the wedding. “I don’t know why I am crying,” she said drying her eyes. “I feel like I was there.” As we flipped through the photos, I stopped on one picture of our guestbook table. We had guests sign a book of movie posters and surrounded the book on either side with photos of our grandparents. The frames were gold 8-by-10 rectangles and came two per box. I had four frames in total. I used one for our bar menu. I used another for a photograph of Grandma and her late husband, Paris’s grandfather. I used the third for a photo of my Mam-maw and Pap-paw. We planned to put a photo of Paris’s paternal grandparents in the final frame but couldn’t find one the right size. Instead, they got their own side-by-side frame, leaving me with one unused gold 8-by-10. The unused frame wasn’t empty. It held a stock photo of a shack sitting on a snow-covered hill. It didn’t have a barcode or any words on it. Just a quiet, calm shack – possibly an outhouse, I can’t be sure – photographed sitting alone on a hill. I didn’t think much of it. I just shoved it down in the box with the rest of the wedding decorations bound for the venue. With no instructions to the contrary, our event staff set out the frames holding Grandma, Grandpa, Mam-maw, Pap-paw, and Grandma and Grandpa Brown. Beside these treasured images, they also set out the framed photo of the shack. It was front and center alongside our guestbook. I hadn’t seen it on the night of the wedding. I only noticed it in the photos after. Sitting beside her, I told Grandma the story and zoomed in on the framed stock photo. “They must have thought it was an important shack,” she said, laughing. “They probably thought that’s the shack where I came from,” I said. She laughed some more. “I guess it’s part of the family now.” “You can’t get rid of it,” she said, grinning. “We’ll just keep it and never tell our grandchildren what it meant,” I said. “They’ll just see it in the frame and be left to wonder.” It was nice sitting there beside her, laughing with the window cracked, as the rural New Jersey air rolled in. She wanted to take a break from the bed for a while, so we sat with her at her kitchen island. We showed her the short film we directed and told her how it was accepted into a big film festival in Canada. She laughed when she watched it and told Paris how proud she was of him. After some time, she felt too tired to entertain us in the kitchen anymore, but she didn’t want us to leave. “I’d like to invite you to my boudoir,” she said. We all laughed. We didn’t need her to entertain us. It was fine with us just to be there with her. Just to squeeze her hand. Just for her to look at Paris and say, “I love you,” and “I love Heather.” We told her we loved her, too. I thanked her for making such a wonderful family and letting me be part of it. I told her how Paris is the most wonderful person on Earth and how I’m so proud to be his wife. We followed her to her bedroom where she climbed in bed. We sat down on a bench near her feet. “Watch a movie in here,” she said. “Whatever you like. I’m just going to rest.” She turned on her side and shut her eyes. Paris and I chose a film starring Robin Williams, Mila Kunis, and Peter Dinklege called The Angriest Man in Brooklyn. We didn’t know anything about it except for the title and the short synopsis on Hulu: A curmudgeon who is told by his doctor that he has only 90 minutes to live and sets out to make amends with his family and friends. Fitting. We pressed play. Just as Hulu promised, the flick follows Robin Williams as he visits Dr. Mila Kunis who tells him he has 90 minutes to live. The rest of the film is a wacky but heartfelt romp as Williams examines and tries to fix the disaster he has made of his life. Relationships were neglected because of work. Family connections were destroyed because of ego. There are a lot of soap opera-style “If only I had known…” moments, but the film still got us feeling emotional. Ultimately, the message was one I often quote from country singer Tim McGraw – “Live like you’re dying.” It’s good advice, really. We are all dying, after all. Right now. This very minute. The past second is gone. Now the next one is gone, too. The one after that – poof. Tick-tick-ticking away. If we’re talking battles, it’s not us versus cancer. It’s not even us versus time. That’s no contest at all. Time is undefeated in its winning streak against all of humankind. Cancer may not be undefeated, but it’s certainly racked up more W’s than L’s. So if that’s the case – that none of us are making it off this big blue marble alive – what of it? Do we say, “Fuck it,” and lay down and die? When Grandma opened her eyes after the movie was over, we got to talking about Philadelphia and sandwiches. Grandma loved a good corned beef special. She hadn’t had one in a long time, so long ago she couldn’t remember. “We’ll drive into the city and get you one,” we offered. Again, she p’shawed us, told us it was too much of a bother. In that tone that you often have to use on very gracious people, we told her it was only five minutes from our hotel (true) and that we were going there anyway (less true). She relented and gave us her order. The next day, we drove back from Philadelphia through New Jersey gridlocked traffic to get that sandwich back to Grandma. She was too weak to eat more than a few nibbles, but even more important than the corned beef special, we got to see her again. This time, we brought flowers and stood in her bedroom while we talked about the weather. It was sunny that morning, a cloudless sky and 65 degrees. Her window was cracked, and the breeze came in right across her bed. Paris’s mom had come in the night before from Texas to stay for a while. She fixed the flowers into a vase while Grandma asked us about upcoming travel plans and Texas weather. When it came time for us to head to the airport to catch our flight, I thanked her again. I told her I loved her. Though we’d only met the year before, I meant it. I did love her. I still do. I love her humor and her strength. I love that she raised a daughter who raised a son to be my perfect husband. I will love her always because she has given me that lifelong gift of happiness. When we got word that she died this week, I pulled the framed photos from the wedding out of the dining room. I brought her and Grandpa’s photograph – a gorgeous candid of them in their 20’s or 30’s, squeezing one another and grinning ear-to-ear – into the living room where we could see them better. I set it on top of the bar and pulled a candle over beside the photo. Paris took the frame from my hand and started to find a spot on the wall to hang it. “I was going to make a little altar,” I told him. He scrunched up his face and waved his hand. His grandmother’s grandson. “That’s too much,” he said. “You know Grandma would be saying, ‘I don’t need y’all to do all that.’” He was right. Instead, we hung up her and Grandpa’s photo beside the photo of my Mam-maw and Pap-paw, and the one of Grandma and Grandpa Brown. In the dining room, there was an empty space where Grandma and Grandpa’s photo once sat. I found my box of wedding decorations and pulled out the fourth gold frame. Still inside was the stock photo of our little shack. I put that frame in the empty space, to remind us of where we came from. Not from a place, like that little outhouse in the woods, but from people who loved a really good laugh.
**** QUESTION FROM YOU This segment will be back soon! The Sinisterhood summer tour is over, but our travel isn’t finished just yet. Christie acted in a short film written by our good friend Todd Anderton that Paris and I directed. It was selected as a finalist for Just For Laughs in Montreal. The screening is the last week of July, so we’re headed up there to watch the screening and attend the festival. After that, I’ll have more free time to answer your legal questions starting later in August. In the meantime, we’re working on the research for a SCOTUS round-up episode, covering the overturning of Roe v. Wade as well as the Court’s decisions on Miranda rights, claims of actual innocence, prayer on the football field, and more. If you have a question, we’ll try our best to incorporate it in our coverage. You can submit them here. **** COFFEE MONEY DONATION OF THE WEEK: Dallas Eviction Advocacy Center Sunday Morning Hot Tea will always remain free. If you like what you read, you can buy me a cup of coffee. Except please don't because I buy too much for myself already. Instead, you can join me in my coffee money pledge. Every week, I take however much I spent on coffee (setting myself a minimum of $25) and send it to an organization I support. You can donate where I do, or choose your own! If we all send just $1 or $5, that’ll make an impact. This week’s organization is the Dallas Eviction Advocacy Center. Created during the housing crisis caused by the pandemic, the DEAC has become a city leader for those facing homelessness in Dallas. Full disclosure - I used to work with their incredible attorney Stuart Campbell at Legal Aid of NorthWest Texas. Whatever notions anyone may have about the lack of quality of “free” legal services, allow me to correct your misconception. Stuart Campbell is one of the most passionate, brilliant, and tenacious legal minds I’ve ever encountered. Anyone seeking services at DEAC aren’t just getting a lawyer. They are getting THE lawyer. From their website: The Dallas Eviction Advocacy Center is here to assist tenants facing eviction in Dallas County, Texas. Our goal is to ensure the rights of tenants are protected through the provision of passionate and committed lawyers at no cost. We will not accept funding with strings attached that restrict who we can assist based on income or immigration status. Our focus is on one thing, and one thing only – seek housing justice by helping those in need stay in their homes. You can learn more and donate here: https://www.dallaseac.org/donate If you're not local to Dallas and you feel more comfortable donating closer to your home, I get it. Look around your neighborhood and find an organization that helps keep folks in their homes by connecting them with financial resources and maintains equal access to justice for those who need it most. Until next week, that’s the tea, and you’re all lovely.
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Sunday Morning Hot Tea - No. 53
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