Edit:

Well Shit. Thank you to everyone who jumped on to hang out with me. That was wild, completely unexpected, and I loved every damn minute. Thanks also to everyone who watches this show that I do. And of course big thanks again to Joe B. cuz this thing literally would not even be possible without the work that he does. You really outdid yourself man. You never know when the Lazy J is coming but I’ll see you guys again when Season 3 drops.

EDIT: Unfortunate tech diffs for the video on the back half of the episode. At least the audio is set.

What’s really neat and special about this is the subtext. Breath of the Wild was a really transformative gaming experience, and Link, as the evergreen silent protagonist, has always been a perfect candidate when it comes to immersing yourself in a role. It’s easy to swap yourself into his shoes and play the game from that perspective as the main character. If you’ve played BotW, (or TotK), then you should be able to pick up on the subtext here that this birthday message featuring Zelda and the 4 champions was specifically designed from the POV of the main character, Link, which is in this case, me, the birthday boy. Very thoughtful design and lovely composition by some detail-oriented staff at the Big N.

Today, I’m happy to be 37. Happy to have spent almost 11 years married to my soulmate. Happy to have friends who are happy and willing to give my flowers now. Despite all of the uncertainty and insanity in the US and the world at large, today—right now—everything feels wonderful. I want to hang on to this feeling for as long as I can.

This is the final post in a set of 3 that I planned to write around Mother’s Day this year. I didn’t know what this one would be about until around this time last night. It’s been an interesting journey of spontaneity and healing. Thanks for reading it.

This has truly been a surreal series of events. It has rained both days we’ve been here so far. It was supposed to rain today—78% chance. It held off until just now (11:32 PM CT at time of writing). I got up, went with my dad to sit in on a financial class he’s been teaching at his local church once a week for a few weeks now. I shook hands with a few strangers and hugged a bunch more extended family members. My spirit remembered the fellowship protocols of the elderly, Baptist, Black community here in Birmingham—a far cry from the comparatively self-centered, dysfunctional, and estranged social vibes of South Florida. People here remember you by who your family is/was, so I have been “Otis’ boy” for the past two days. Might sound bad to the uninitiated, so you’ll have to take my word for it that there’s a measure of honor in it.

I promise I’ll tie this back together by the end, but for now, we’re going to take a seemingly bizarre sidebar. I need to tell you about the time my mom and I engineered the perfect peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

I was in elementary school at the time, and every morning, my mom would pack my lunch. Circa 1997—just before seemingly every child in America began developing peanut allergies. Sadly, I don’t remember what kind of lunchbox I had. I do remember that my mom would always send me to school with a PB&J and other snacks for lunch. It was quick, easy, and healthy enough on wheat bread. More importantly, I loved them. To this day, probably because she made them for me all those years, it remains my favorite little comfort sandwich.

Anyone who’s been an elementary school kid at some point in their life knows that lunch is a pretty big deal. It’s one of the many ways kids (see also: small degenerates) see how they stack up against each other. One innocent yet scathing question: “What’d your mom pack you for lunch?” Coded classism on full display. We would all do our show and tell of our hauls and proceed to carry out trade negotiations where possible, if there was mutual interest from multiple parties. My Clementine for your Dunkaroos? Fat chance, Bueller. I didn’t much bother with the lunch table day traders, usually opting instead to eat whatever my mom had put in the box. But eventually, I would encounter a huge problem with my favorite sandwich.

My mom would make my PB&J like most anyone else. Two slices of bread, peanut butter on one side, jelly on the other, pressed together, and packed in a plastic sandwich bag. Traditional. Simple. Efficient. This presented one glaring issue that I would discover over time, perpetuated by two key factors. First, the amount of time that would pass between the sandwich being packed and the time I was able to eat it at school was about 3 hours. Second, since I was, you know, a literal 6-10-year-old child, I would sling that lunchbox around like a helicopter rotor anytime I went anywhere with it. Centripetal force would wreak havoc on my poor sandwich, not to mention anything else in the lunchbox with it. That, combined with the 3-hour sweat fest in a wooden classroom cubby, meant that when it came time for lunch, the jelly side of the sandwich would have jelly pressed and soaked through the bread, sometimes all the way through to the inside of the plastic bag. You can imagine the looks the lunch table traders would give someone when they pulled out what looked like a murder mystery sandwich, complete with jelly blood.

So one day, I told my mom about this social crisis, and together, we came up with a scientifically proven* method to create the perfect PB&J, which I have been using for nearly 3 decades now.

If you’ve gotten this far and you appreciate a good PB&J from time to time, you will no doubt want to know our secret. Rest assured, I have included it below, but before that, let me tie this sidebar back in.

I came here to Alabama to go to my mother’s gravesite and visit with her for the first time since she passed. That’s not to say I haven’t been to the gravesite at all since she passed, but this is the first time I’ve specifically come to visit. What do I mean by that? Have you ever been to a cemetery and just looked around at the other people there? You can see their emotions radiating off their bodies like heat distortion on a hot day.

Some people radiate duty. They are there to clean, maintain, take the old flowers out, put the new flowers in, and go on about their day.

Others radiate pain. You can see it in their shoulders. How slow and heavy their movements are. They are often alone or accompanied by one other person close to them in age. They’ve come to grieve—to try and dump some of that weight they’ve been carrying.

And there are some people who radiate joy and celebration. They’ve brought the whole family, grandbabies included. These people have brought decorations. Some have set up a picnic. They are smiling, taking photos, laughing, even.

I observed them all at the cemetery today and I could see their feelings clear as day.

I’ve been to this cemetery for duty before. I’ve been there to help my father. Lord knows I’ve been there to grieve. But today, for this impromptu trip, I went there to eat a PB&J with my mom on Mother’s Day.

My dad and my wife, Desinia, were there with me at the cemetery today and I want to thank them both for being there. Desinia immediately agreed to the idea of taking the trip in the first place and she also took the photo of me above. It was also great to just spend some improvised time with my dad, who was more than happy to host us. He and I had spoken about this the day before, but he asked me to share again in the moment, as I stood there eating my sandwich, why I wanted to do this now at this point. So I thought about how to put the words together again, and I told him:

I lost my momma.

I mourned my mother.

And now, I can just hang out with my mom again.

When we lose people we love in this world, it’s so hard because for all of that time, we’ve known and loved them physically. Tangibly. We can see them. Touch them. We can recognize their voice. We can pick up their scent when they walk by. That’s how we’ve come to know them—how we’ve come to understand our connection to them.

When people die, their soul leaves their body. Whether you believe that or not, that’s how it’s described, right? They go somewhere. And in most cases, we’re left here, trying to come to grips with the fact that that same body that we’ve been knowing and seeing and smiling at and loving all our lives is gone, just like that. It doesn’t smile at us anymore. It doesn’t pick up the phone anymore. It doesn’t hug us back anymore. It’s gone. 6 feet deep, cremated, lost to the world, or worse. How are we supposed to handle that? We don’t know what to do with that. How could we? Our world is physical. If we can’t see it or feel it, what are we supposed to do? That’s how we’ve done things since the day we were born.

When someone passes, and the physical connection to them is severed, is it possible to take those threads and convert them into a new connection to that person? A soul connection. A connection that isn’t felt or seen but remembered. Recognized. Effortless and eternal, like gravity and the cosmos. I like to think so.

My mom never stopped being my universe just because she left this world.

Happy Mother’s Day.

The Secret Formula to the Perfect PB&J

It’s here that I have to make the obligatory callout to Smuckers Uncrustables. My mom and I did it before you, I don’t care what anyone says.

You, too, can follow this simple recipe and never buy an overpriced sealed sandwich again:

Ingredients:

• 2 slices of honey wheat bread

• Organic Peanut Butter (or sub in your preferred nut butter)

• Grape Jelly or Jam (or sub in your preferred fruit jelly or jam)

Directions:

1. Spread a thin layer of peanut butter on both pieces of bread. Be sure to spread the peanut butter all the way to the edge of the bread.

2. Spread the jelly on top of the peanut butter on one side of the bread, starting in the center and spreading outward. Leave about a half-inch border from the edge of the bread to the edge of the jelly.

3. Carefully put the two pieces of bread together to form a sandwich.

4. Press the edges of the sandwich to create a seal. (This is what that half-inch border from step 2 is for)

5. Serve with a glass of milk (or your preferred milk alternative).

6. Thank my mom 😊

The Notes app on my iPhone tells me that it was a Wednesday in December in 2017. It’s been three years now since she passed, and this time there’s no special occasion or important date to serve as a catalyst. This was just the ebb and flow that is grief, taking its turn as one or the other. Looking back at it now, it’s interesting to me how these two pieces serve as retrospectives for my grief process over time. I’m at a very different place now, as my post later today will reveal, but revisiting these pieces has certainly been intriguing, to say the least. And intriguing is much better than painful.

What’s particularly special about this one is that my wife absolutely loves it as a story. She has been working to get it produced as a covert children’s book on the subject of grief. Her bigger dream is to have it turned into an animated short film. I’m not so sure about that, but if after you read it, you think it has legs as either, consider becoming a paid subscriber to this Substack to help it along.

Subscribe now

(Recommended listening: this particular rendition of Debussy’s Clair de Lune, as performed by Michael Charles Clark—a piece I’ve claimed as my mother’s song, as I can hear her in it)

December 13th, 2017

“Let me tell you a story about my mother…”

There once was a boy, born of the sea. Her crowned jewel, the sea loved the boy. She clothed him with her waves and adorned him with her crest. She sent him into the world and proclaimed to the land, "Look before you to my pride and joy. This is my son, with whom my love travels."

Wherever the boy traveled, springs formed in his footsteps. Pastures grew green and flowers bloomed full and colorful. The sea breeze followed in the boy's wake, carrying seeds in its folds, spreading life to and fro. The very ground itself revered the boy, for it knew he would bring fruitfulness and prosperity. The love of the sea flowed through him, and the boy and sea were happy.

Each season, after he had traveled the land giving life to everything he could, the boy would return to the sea to tell her what he had done. The sea would listen to the boy speak of his journeys throughout the land and marvel at his accomplishments. The boy honored the sea with his deeds, and the sea swelled with pride at every word the boy spoke. When it came time for the boy to start his journey anew, the sea would hug him close and say, "My love will travel with you."

For many seasons, the boy would travel the land and return to the sea, each journey longer and more fruitful than the last. One season, the boy set out to travel the land for far longer than he ever had before, but the sun was very hot that season. The sun bore down on the boy, making his journey harsh, but the land had come to love the boy. Trees sprouted up from the ground and gave him shade. The rocks hollowed themselves and gave him shelter. The sun was unrelenting, but the land helped the boy, and he pressed on. Despite the heat, the boy was still very fruitful that season, and he couldn't wait to tell the sea of his adventure.

But when the boy returned, the sea was nowhere to be found. He searched and searched, but it did him no good. The boy lifted his hand to block the sun—then he realized with horror what had happened. It was the sun. The sun, and its unrelenting gaze, had evaporated the sea. The boy fell to his knees and cried out, "How could this have happened!? The sea is gone forever. How am I to spread joy and life when I have lost mine?" The boy cried and cried as he walked back to the shore.

A terrible drought came upon the world. The boy could not travel anymore, and the land, as much as it tried, could not help him. No clouds came. No rain fell. The boy longed for the sea and was sad. He had no more tears left to shed. Without the help of the boy, the green pastures began to brown, and the springs dried up. The world itself seemed to be at its end.

One night, the boy lay in a field near the shore, fast asleep. He dreamed of his past journeys and his time with the sea. He dreamed of her breeze and how it followed him wherever he went. He dreamed of her reassuring caress and her unyielding joy. He dreamed of the sun and how it stole the sea from him, and the boy became terribly sad. But then the boy dreamed something else. He dreamed of himself, one born of the sea. He dreamed of being clothed in her waves and adorned with her crest. He dreamed of the things the sea spoke to the land when she sent him forth. He dreamed of the sea's love for him and what his purpose was: to give life to others as the sea had given life to him.

When the boy awoke, the area around him was green and vibrant. He could smell the perfume of flowers and a freshness in the air. He looked for her, but the sea was not there. The boy lay back down, saddened by the painful sight of the parched ground, when suddenly he heard a voice in his ear, very faint but clear and familiar.

"My love will travel with you."

The boy closed his eyes and smiled. It was the dew.

Mother’s Day hits different when you don’t have one anymore.

My Mother passed away on Oct 7th, 2014. It will have been 11 years since then this year.

Some folks don’t share the seem sentiments when it comes to mothers, so I want to clarify that mine was/is Mt. Rushmore level mother. Absolutely wonderful from beginning to end.

This year, I rather spontaneously decided I would travel to her gravesite in Birmingham, Alabama, on Mother’s Day to just visit with her. This thought has never occurred to me before, but it entered my brain like a whisper during a flight from Tennessee to Florida. I had just won a tournament for the Killer Queen game that I play. I guess I thought of her because of that. Look at me mom. Did you see what I did? She would have said, “That’s my boy, Joe!”

I wrote what you’ll find below—in it’s original, unedited form, save some formatting by Substack—on May 8th, 2016, on one of the many precusors to Substack, Tumblr. I wrote it while sitting in a coffee shop in Durham, North Carolina, called Bean Traders, 2 years after she passed. I was working remotely at the time. I remember I ordered a “Carmella,” their signature caramel latte. Hot with whole milk, like the good Lord intended.

I don’t remember how it started. I do remember it being a rather painful write, but now, I find it to be a peculiarly soothing read. So I wanted to [re]share it, with you all and with myself as Mother’s Day 2025 approaches this weekend.

Tomorrow, I may share an “inspired by true events” fictional piece that I wrote about my mom in 2017.

Maybe I’ll write something new for Mother’s Day this year.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy.

May 8th, 2016

Image credit: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Over-the-Edge-422036726

#nowplaying: Rey’s Theme - Star Wars: The Force Awakens (Extended)

#currentmood: Lost

I don’t generally write on Tumblr but today I thought I’d try. It’s Mother’s Day. It’s no longer a good day for me. Hasn’t been for 2 years now and unlike most things, it doesn’t seem to get better with time.

Today I aspired to set out, alone, to a local coffee shop I frequent. The plan was to be productive; to plunge head first into the deep end of side projects I’ve created for myself and tread for as long as I could. It was a sound plan. It was a focused plan.

Armed with my usual hot, medium Carmella with whipped cream I sat down, put on my over-the-ear headphones, queued up some Star Wars music—space music generally inspires me just enough to do the trick—and what I hope you are now listening to came on. Incidentally, this is my favorite motif from Stars Wars Episode VII due to it’s depth and layers which are incredibly effective at pulling you in to the emotionally charged bits of the movie. Ebb and flow like the ocean tide, but today it betrayed me.

A good song ends usually where it begins, so music can have a funny way of looping your heart and your mind into a stalemate of negotiation about your soul. Music speaks. Listen to the song and see what it tells you.

For me, it tells me about my life. Conflict and hope from the flutes right from the beginning. I almost died when I was born. My mother’s youngest and last child of three boys. Her pride and joy. They named me Joseph with purpose. Then to 2nd grade. Art class. Crude, felt cutouts of dolphins and habitat dioramas held together by Elmer’s glue that my mother would keep in her sentimental box of things never to be thrown away; a box of things which has somehow made its way back to me as an adult.

Then the music begins to swell and takes me to high school. We moved after I completed 10th grade. It was a very difficult time, but my mother got me through it. “Mom and Joe.” It was our Hakuna Matata of sorts. [Ah yes, tears. Not sure if I should be happy or sad that I still have some left…]

It was the french horns.

This wasn’t part of the plan but it’s all I seem to be able to do at the moment, rather unwillingly, even now.

The music continues with a glorious montage, fast and sweeping with a change of key.

College. Full scholarship. Awards. Excellence. I represented my family well. I didn’t forget what they taught me at home. She was proud.

Graduation. We took so many photos together, each one brighter than the last. The last son. A graduate with honors. She was proud.

Wedding Day. We danced. “I’ll Always Love My Momma” was the song. I’ve never seen my mother smile at me brighter than she did that day. My wife reminds me of her so much. That’s part of the reason I believe in God. Only He would have the foresight to save me someone like that.

Orlando. The last time our entire family would be together. Happiness. Everything I could have ever hoped for. It was paradise. A mother’s pride is her family, and no one loved or valued family like my mother.

Cancer.

“Get here.”

The violins started it this time, but no one knew it was the end until the trumpets entered. The violins sounded so triumphant at first, didn’t they…

She was young. It was too soon. It wasn’t fair. She was the strongest of us all. Now she’s gone. I tried. I didn’t make it there in time. She didn’t want me to see. I’ve never cried like that before. I never want to cry like that again.

Then I’m back in the coffee shop with the flutes again. Lost.

The music isn’t so cruel as to leave me without any hope at all, but what little it gives at the end is just that: Little. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe it’s just this day. The flutes take me back to the beginning of the song and I try again. Maybe this time I’ll be stronger.

So I listen.

And I listen.

And I listen.

And I Listen.

And I Listen.

And I Listen.

And I LISTEN.

And I LISTEN!

AND I LISTEN!

AND I LISTEN!

AND I LISTEN!

AND I LISTEN! UNTIL I AM.

Because somewhere within its many layers, I can begin to hear the music telling me loud and clear. “Even now, you are you’re mother’s son, and she is prouder of you today than she has ever been. And she will be prouder of you tomorrow than she has ever been. So you will continue to grow stronger. You will continue to shine. You will continue to add.

And the world will know who she was because of who you are.”

Now I understand why I chose the image that I did for this post.

Two comets. One chasing the other through the cosmos. One of them is me.

#mothersday
May 8th 2016

Hey everyone, MasterJoe here. All episodes from The Lazy J Season 1 are now uploaded here on Substack (and also on YouTube, Apple Podcasts, and Spotify)! Seasons 2-4 are still making their way over, but how about this for a nostalgic start down memory lane? And for anyone who hasn’t seen these episodes yet, I hope you enjoy them, despite the fact that they are all nearly 5 years old.