Au revoir, ma tante

As some of you may have already learned, my aunt Judy was murdered by some crazy dickhead by repeated stabbings. He was a tenant in the building she managed and would probably assert that she was controlling his thoughts with electricity. (I’m not making this up.)

I have little sympathy for crazies. I feel that if you kill people we don’t need you on this planet. And when you have already had one chance that makes me even less sympathetic (he already stabbed a previous landlady).

I feel exceptionally fortunate that upon my return from France my father and his two sisters were very adamant about seeing me and hearing about my adventures. On the Saturday that I went to the apartment of my Aunt Judy to pick up my father I ended up spending a few hours eating Judy’s cooking and talking with her and Dixie and my dad as well as my cousin Simion who I have not seen since he was an infant (and who is now an adult).

Two days later we all gathered at my cousin Rachel’s house and I once again regaled the relatives with tales of my adventures through the South of France and the friends I met there.

Six days later Judy was stabbed to death on the landing of her apartment by the aforementioned crazy dickhead.

Imagine my good fortune to have spent two days with her, laughing and eating like children in the garden, before she was taken from this world.

We have little time, and the people around us are precious commodities. Remember this above all else.

Here is a photograph taken at that last day I spent with my aunt Judy. See how she tosses her head back?

My Aunt, Judy Garcia
My Aunt, Judy Garcia

On that Saturday in her apartment she and I talked of many things, but one thing in particular haunts me. She was offering me her prescription for living, and I explained to her the Latin phrase carpe diem. My description was a bit graphic: grab hold of life with your talons, tear it open, and drink down all the blood inside. We agreed that this was exactly correct.

I will post articles in the comments which relate to her. But really, you’ve just read the important bits.

In memorium, I played David Gilmour’s Murder (a song written to the man who murdered John Lennon).

Chin up, little campers. The end is no cure for boredom.


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