Solstice Stories, Recalling Virginia, End of Classes, as the Snow Poured

 

Virginia Bower and Suzan Valenstein, writes Virginia,

"Sue recently died she was a mentor to me in the study of Chinese ceramics

a great scholar

and generous and good woman."

Monday morning, I found myself corresponding with Irwin,

who wrote:

"I realize Ben that asking you whether I am losing my mind is like asking Ezra Pound to recommend a good therapist," wrote Irwin on Monday morning, corresponding as we often do, discussing a strange encounter he had recently had. “People are a mystery to embrace,” I wrote. “I'd rather be on the curious side of things.”

All weekend, I’d been thinking about our family friend, Virginia, who was Mom’s roommate for a few years there after she was diagnosed with cancer, living in stage four for far longer than anyone would have expected to survive. They ate breakfast together for years, commiererating as life got hard,  laughing as much as they could.

I got a text about her departure after leaving Mom on Saturday, 

Pneumonia grasped too hard. 

“Life is one god damned thing after another,” said Virginia, paraphrasing the attage, typically attributed to Mark Twain. Virginia was the one who smiled and asked questions, who cared about Mom and always showed up, looking after Mom. Every holiday, every meal, she was around. Mom met her on an art history trip and they became fast friends. She was at Princeton in the same years as Dad, staying in touch through the decades. She inquired about the kids and took snap shots, sending old pictures, new pictures, even when she was sick. She watched Chinatown with us, traversing the story, and traveled to Mohonk Mountain House with us on Thanksgiving. She made Mom smile and kept her company, a companion through years and years and years. Christmas and Thanksgiving, even when few else were around, navigating illness with aplomb. 

She laughed and kept it light whenever she could. 

“Virginia L. Bower is an independent scholar specializing in Asian art,” says the bio for the Harvard Art Museums. She never completed that PhD at Princeton. Instead, she taught around the Northeast, organizing tours, exploring ideas; catalog after catalog bear her name, a testament to a scholarly life:

“From Court to Caravan: Chinese Tomb Sculptures from the Collection of Anthony M. Solomon”

“Spirit and ritual : the Morse collection of ancient Chinese art / text by Robert L. Thorp and Virginia Bower”

“Decorative Arts, Part II: Far Eastern Ceramics and Paintings; Persian and Indian Rugs and Carpets””

Have a lovely Thanksgiving, she said over and over again, sending kind regards. 

My last email to Virginia in the hospital never went through, 

“Big love back to you Virginia. 

Godspeed.”

We thought we’d get to see her over the holidays. 

But that wasn’t to be. 

She was the last, perhaps the closest of Mom’s friends in town. 

And so it continued, a season of goodbyes.  Aunt Ann earlier in the week, the public losses, the mass shooting at a Hanukkah celebration on Bondi Beach, Sydney, 

at Brown, Rob Reiner, killed by his kid,  on and on. 

December 13

With the Winter Solstice approaching, the snow on its way, we walked out for some Chinese food, thinking of Virginia, who passed the night before, out for Chinese food, to Village Works, getting Alley and Damian, looking at the stacks, out Ray's with Ray, thinking about oblivion, what happens with age, with living, with leaving, to MoRUS, on 155 Ave C, greeting Frank and Bill C and Jerry, old friends, conversations, still here, out to Grand Street, out to La Piscine, a dip into forever, dancing with madness.

The night before, Mom talked about knowing Aunt Anne her whole life, grade school in Columbus, Ga. All those years, marriages, Uncle Kirk, her mother, and Columbus, a lifetime of memories. RiP Aunt Anne.

Later we sat watching stories of the American revolution, Thomas Paine, the  Battle of Trenton, Washington's Christmas flight, the Battle of Princeton (Jan 3, 1777), that Dad reenacted with us during the bicentennial, turning points, the 1777 Siege of Fort Ticonderoga, the old fort that we visited all those years ago. And read CS Lewis early in the morning, tracing the stories of the kids in the wardrobe, who she first read with us years and years ago.

December 14

Snow like fog, gushing into the morning, reading, watching the snow through our window, the cold, biking into the bright day, along with the other cyclists, navigating the ice, the first snow, book club, secret stories of novels and novelists, latkes and poems, heartbreak and history, late night meetings in the Bowery with old friends and new. 

“Special g and gossip,” said Prageeta.

Extraction as the word of the day, as we discuss friendship breakups and poetry. 

“Dont forget to love me…”

“Text me when you get home,” as we ride back. 

Winters day of the longest shadow, back through the cold. A friend sends me the Blind Owl, by Hedayat:

"In life there are wounds that, like leprosy, silently scrape at and consume the soul, in solitude….Will there be a day when someone discovers the secrets of these

supernatural events, that reflection of the shadow of the soul that manifests itself

between awakening and sleep, in a state of purgatory and unconsciousness?"

I’m not sure anyone has the secret. We’re all in awe of it. 

December 12

My feed is full of memories of the COP21in Paris ten years ago, running around with Andrew and Greg and the Lisa and Mark. And I recalled the Butterfly demos in Praha six years ago to rid the Czech Republic of Babis. And now he’s back. Wow, history is strange. Anything but linear. Progress? An angel of history looking back at the wreckage, says Benjamin. Sigh. 

In between it meetings at Barbes, 

buddies in motion. 

Greg

Emily

Meaghan

Rebekah, 

Music and chit chat as far as the eye can see on Tuesday. 

A Thursday union meetings, 

Sneaking out to catch 

Baby C’s photography students, shots of the sky. 

Out to the city, the snow sifting through the air, the Bucks and Falcons retro uniforms, Andrew has a new book out, telling me stories at the Library, 

A karaoke band plays on First Ave, 

Pink Floyd covers, the banter with JC about rats and theater, the bread and puppet shows over the weekend, the air of December, I swear I remember...

December 11

The term winding down, feelings of gratitude, for our students, for the stories, during our trauma informed practice class. Maybe the word is overused. But everyone has pain, traumas that repeat, some resolved, others cycling forever through time, through revolutions and reverberations, passed down, cycles of history, existing as memories. Yet how do we understand them, what do we do about them? Students presented their trauma research in what turned out to be one of those this is your life teaching moments. One after another, they shared their stories, of why they picked the topics they picked, how they would work with someone going through what, quite often what they went through, what they felt looking at the world, looking at Gaza from the eyes of a poet, a prison wall from the eyes of a child in solitary confinement, at a kid who was neglected from the eyes of a student who was neglected, being incarcerated and the isolation of it and how that is how he relates to aging adults. One talked about the lack of colors in prison. Everything is tan, black, and grey. Each student storytelling, that one detail is such a poetic line that grounds the story, another student's language around how she deals with her depression from her neglect - she said how when she is in a dark place she "silences the world around me." I felt it. "It's not your fault," we tell another student feeling overwhelmed, recalling her experiences. Another recalled being diagnosed as bipolar, the medications she took, the numbing, and the ways she found herself in school, in reading, in finding something in others. Another recounted coming back from jail, re-entering, listening to the stories of older people. 'One day we are all going to be there, hopefully," he said. So he listens to their stories. Another talked about a character in a graphic novel that inspired him to try to understand the ways we lose our minds.  Another recommended a support group for someone coming back into this world. 

The following week, one student talk on the homeless kids after the Haitian Earthquake. Several from Haiti and the DR, we discuss the dynamics of history, slave revolts and struggles for self determination. Liberty, egality, and fraternity was supposed to be for everyone, they thought hearing about events of Paris 1791. 

Another student presented on an uncle who was not interested in medical care. 

Another student talked about her work in the hospital in the peak covid year. 

Another asked what we do in the face of assault.

Tears. 

 Story after story about ways people take care of each other, about history, about stigma, and models of repair. A lot of difficulty out there, a lot of neglect, yet a lot of people care. A lot of the students care. 

World aids days, the stories hang in the air, the memories of the dead, those looking after the living... 

Ran into a few friends down the street after class, several from the college, and we laughed about it all, another day in the lives.

By Sunday, Allen joined us in lighting the menorah, bringing some much needed light into the world.

Vintage Hollywood posted,

"Rob Reiner in the CBS / TELEVISION CITY parking lot in 1973. I have always loved this Candid snapshot and have posted it many times over the years. Rob Reiner was an American original. A giant storyteller and a believer in humanity. A life devoted to storytelling and service leaves a legacy far beyond the screen. His body of work shaped so many of us, and the grace with which he carved his own legacy speaks volumes about his talent and character. This is a shocking and Devastating loss, accompanied by seemingly unthinkable, horrible event. Rob and Michelle deserved so much better than this. May their souls rest in perfect peace..."

Sarah Shepard Merritt writes:

Anne Elizabeth Dismukes Shepard

September 25, 1940 - December 7, 2025

We are heartbroken to announce the passing of Anne Elizabeth Dismukes Shepard on Sunday December 7, 2025. Anne leaves behind two daughters, Sarah Bowles Shepard Merritt (Columbus, GA, husband Stan) and Morrie Killian (Portsmouth, NH, husband Glen), and her two grandchildren, Logan and Bradley Killian.

Anne was the daughter of the late Arthur Forman Dismukes and Florence Henrietta Barber Dismukes (“Flo”). She grew up with two brothers, Paul Fitzgerald Dismukes and the late Arthur Forman Dismukes, Jr, affectionately known as “Tuffy.” Anne’s father, Forman, doted on her, calling her “Penny” because she was his “shiny penny.” Throughout his life they shared an extraordinary bond.

As a child, Anne was a student at St. Elmo Elementary School in Columbus. Later, she attended and graduated from Columbus High School. After high school, she set off for university, first attending Sweet Briar College, then George Washington University, and later, Auburn University.

After earning her BA in history from Auburn, Anne moved to Atlanta where she worked for Eastern Airlines as a gate agent. While in Atlanta, she was introduced to the late Kirk Shepard Jr. They were married and went on to have two daughters, Sarah and Morrie, and the family ultimately settled in Jacksonville, Florida.

After Anne and Kirk divorced in the late 1970’s, Anne and her daughters moved to Atlanta where she worked as a travel agent. After a few years, she moved back to Columbus with Sarah and Morrie. While in Columbus, Anne earned an MBA from Columbus College (now Columbus State University) where she graduated at the top of her class.

After her daughters finished high school in Columbus, Anne moved to St. Simons Island, Georgia to be closer to her parents, who had relocated to the “Island” in the mid-1970s. In St. Simons, Anne made many good friends and enjoyed a thriving social life – something that, until then, she had not known. It was in St Simons that Anne met the late Anne Bozovich (known as AnnieB by close friends), with whom she went on to develop a lifelong friendship.

Anne and AnnieB became best friends and shared many adventures together, including several trips to Las Vegas where they enjoyed the slots as well as seeing artists perform—including their favorite, Celine Dion. AnnieB was always looking out for Anne—as well as for Anne’s Mother, “Flo,” and the family is deeply indebted to her for the support that she gave.

Anne was an extremely warm and loving person. She raised her daughters with love and dedication. She could always be counted on to share her contagious smile and unrelenting positivity.

Anne was incredibly brave and strong. She faced myriad difficulties and challenges in life, including a 55-year battle with Type I diabetes, which sent her to the ER and ICU many times. Despite the difficulties that she endured, both in life itself and with her health, Anne loved life, was always up for an adventure, and never lost her faith. All who knew her adored her. She was an undeniably beautiful person, both inside and out. She is and will continue to be sorely missed by those who loved her, and she will live in our hearts for eternity.

Anne is survived by her daughters, grandchildren, and her brother Paul.

A graveside service will be held at 11:00AM on Friday December 19, 2025 at Christ Church Frederica in St. Simons Island, Georgia.

In lieu of flowers, the family suggests a gift to the American Diabetes Association or the American Alzheimers Association.