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Leap of Faith

At first I look only at my toes as I position my bare feet close together on the rocks at the edge of the quarry cliff. Poised, I stare down for a brief unblinking moment at the flat face of the water far below. I am seventeen, trim, tan, immortal, and surrounded a crowd of college friends. Quickly I lift straight slim arms over my head, cross my thumbs and make my hands into the point of an arrow. Bending at the waist I push off, head first, eyes open, stretching my body long and taunt to become the arrow shaft, my feet the feathers. I fly straight and weightless though air that is hot as exploding firecrackers, always falling down toward the cold soundless black surface of the water.  As it rises rapidly to meet me I fill my lungs with air and shut my eyes against the expected blow. The dive is clean, but the water more shockingly cold than I anticipated. My reflexes slow slightly, but as a colder thermal layer overtakes me I bend the arrow's tip upward, arch my back to slow my descent, and begin my resurrection. A third bitter cold thermal skims briefly over my torso before I start to rise. My arms reach up now, cupping water in my hand and pushing it forcefully behind me.  My mind reviews the whispered rumors of sunken horror in the unknown depths below me, making seconds seem to hang like hour as I point my body to the murky light of the surface. Suddenly my head smacks square into the warm sunlight and I suck the hot air in big gulping breaths. I arch my neck and see my friends far above. I smile, wave, and pretend indifference as I try to estimate the extent of my idiocy. Is the cliff thirty feet, twenty five? I am not good at guessing and the passing years have only magnified it in my mind.

I swim to the shore where the less reckless are gathered and shimmy up onto the rocks exhilarated. Still shivering, I find my feet and walk past them to scale the cliff and jump again. Once is never enough when death is being cheated.

Time Zone Shift

I have slept on this futon in my firstborn's living room for four nights now, and only this morning became cognizant of the clock that ticks somewhat laboriously right over my head. It has the distinctive mechanical sound of a swinging pendulum, something I can't help but believe is a calculated contrivance. Perhaps the pulse of it has been soothing me at night, the heart steady beat taking me back to a time and place of primitive comfort. After three busy days and four restless nights neither my brain or my body have adjusted to the rhythm of the northwest coast. I don't think I can blame it on the wonderful coffee, for although my consumption of it has increased while here, I lie me down and sleep peacefully with enough caffeine roaring through my system to lift the airplane that carried me from the east. Since I have ignored the clock until today's 3AM awakening I think we can discard that as a possible cause of my unrest. I feel it might have more to do with recent revolutions and revelations in my own life and those of my children. I am filled with secrets, possibilities, and impossibilities in equal measure.

My grandson's birthday was held on a cold rainy Monday and all the cool kids were there. We dressed everyone up in homemade cardboard robot costumes and paraded down the street like so many happy fools. Seattle did not even blink at our absurdity. The next day my eldest son took me for a wonderful walk through Elliott Park which is sandwiched artfully between the towers of downtown and the proliferation of ships in the harbor. The hillside is wild and tame in turn and dotted with sculptures. Every man made object along the path seems to have a grace and style that says “look at me again”. For some reason my lasting memory was a lone creosote log, balanced on an angle down the rocky coast line, and bobbing up and down precariously with the tidal echo.

With so much of the day still left my son drove us over to Ballard to watch the ships go through the locks and have lunch at an old converted Firehouse. The words between us were of a private nature that required us being face to face and heart to heart. He tells me his secrets between sips of a light crisp local Pilsner that tastes like a fleeting summer day. He does not have to ask for my blessing or my acceptance, because for these few hours we are the intertwined souls that held each other fast in days gone by. As we leave the restaurant I take his hand like I did when he was a little boy and tell him how proud I am of his integrity and decency. Over at the locks the ships slip by us one by one while all the words that can be said are said. He judges not that he be not judged and I do the same. I come home filled with joy and hope and love beyond my understanding.

Wednesday night I had a less serious interaction with my middle child over dinner in a fu-fu Asian fusion joint that worked a bit too hard at being exclusive. We arrived unfashionably early and the large minimalist room had only two patrons. “Do you have reservations,” the maître d’ queries, in a tone that suggested she had recently been sitting on a tack. I tell her they were for 6:30 but we took a chance and came at 6. She looks around the empty restaurant as if she is trying to figure out where she can squeeze us in. My son and I are both amused, but play along by following her eyes around the room. She seats us in what seems like as desirable location as any other, along the wall toward the back. After a perusal of the menu we order and dine sparingly on excellent but exorbitantly priced seafood. I leave too large a tip, just to prove I am cosmopolitan and accustomed to such practices. The web of pretense I weave around my humble origins surprises me at times. I try to hold my center as I move through places and people unfamiliar to me, but my success with this attempt is sketchy. The young man across from me, the shy bright peacekeeper of the family, seems to have a firmer grasp on the concept of self. “In Richmond,” he says, “I was a bleeding heart liberal. Here I am almost conservative.” I compliment my steadfast child and he shrugs it off like water, for after all, it is his nature.

No matter where I land, my chameleon character cannot hold its color for long. My voice, my step, and what is left of my religion begins a slow shift, attempting to make myself indistinguishable from those around me. When I was in England I shared my colorful history with my daughter's family by marriage. In trying to explain my roots I related a story from my childhood of the night when our Redbone coon hound gave birth to puppies under our tiny one bedroom house. My father had to crawl into the spidery darkness to remove the babies, whose whimpering woke all of the occupants above. Of course I then had to elaborate on the practice of coon hunting in rural Kentucky and further expounded that the modest house was literally where I was born. There were no hospitals, no convenience stores, no alcohol, no bars in that small town - only churches and gas stations, one grocery store, and steadfast honest people from the heartland. It stands to reason that I could not hold the pattern of my childhood sacrosanct when I left that life behind in such a tiny corner of the world.

Here, far away in the last cool damp days of the brief northwestern summer, I try on the mindset of unfamiliar philosophies and colorful people. Their dress and attitude reflect the landscape, grey and brown and black with unexpected splashes of bright color and print. I feel my colors changing to as I turn through the clothing in the cute shops of the delightful neighborhoods. Still, I am slightly out of step with the street traffic, find no discernible accent to mimic, and realize I am perhaps too old to fit into the crowd I would gravitate toward. It is this advance and retreat that keeps me unsettled here. My elder child and his wife embrace the life on this shore, love the friends they have made, and look forward to rearing their child in an atmosphere that is green and hopeful. My middle son is more stoical and merely says he fits in here as well as anyplace. I see all of them content with a full and rewarding life together.

I peer into the future from this vantage point, but like the rabbit in the Dr. Seuss story, I look around the world and back again only to see the fool on the hill trying to know the unknowable. The only thing I am sure of is that I will get on the airplane Saturday morning and fly back to the comfortable but confining place I have called my home for almost four decades. After all this living, I still have more questions than answers; at a time when I am supposed to be settled and serene, I still yearn for adventure and challenge. The stranger I see in the mirror often lies to me about possibilities and impossibilities, but she always yearns for a perfection she is incapable of achieving. I almost hope she never figures it out.  

A Walk With My Sister

Sunday morning in the tiny town where I was raised, no, make that reared, as my sister would immediately correct me. Although it has been 40 years since she taught English, and that for only two seasons at the local high school, she still considers it her calling. On a day long years ago we sat together at our parent's kitchen table, her brow furrowed with frustration, determined to teach me spelling by having me memorize Latin root words. She was in college at the time and I was worshipfully delighted to have her attention, even for such an onerous task. It was one of the more useless hours we ever spent. Bright and eager, but with the wiring for spelling missing from my brain, my blotched and scribbled handwriting was full of skipped words and reversed letters. To her eternal frustration I rarely misspelled large complicated words. She gave up in exasperation when her tutelage made no improvement and yet I usually surpassed her in grades and tests.  

For my part, I not so secretly envied my sister's naturally curly black hair, such a contrast to my ordinary stick straight gold brown. Mother loved putting my sister's crowning glory into the big spirals she called “banana curls”. She would stand back and look admiringly at her creation and then it was my turn. I would approach with dread, knowing there would be a lot of pulling and angry hissing noises as she struggled to french braid my uncooperative locks into the less appetizingly named “pig tails”. When we both reached our full height my sister took pride in pointing out that I was only 5'6 and one half inches to her 5'7” and I fumed at this taunt regardless of the fact that our height made both of us taller than over half the boys in our class.  She is still every inch my big sister on a rare visit to Beaver Dam and a morning walk along the quiet depressed streets of my hometown. 

The coal companies came and went from this once clean comfortable farm village, leaving behind many unemployed immigrants, now too poor or too old to try to make a new start elsewhere. The flat sidewalks, poured fresh in my youth, are now puzzle pieces of cement shattered by tree roots that have lifted and tossed them in slow motion. The trees, exhausted from that effort, seem to wither and twist into unnatural shapes, a match for the odd scraggly foliage in overgrown yards. For me the houses have blank scarred faces, but for my sister they are mini history lessons. The shadows of occupants flit across my brain and for a second as she speaks and I almost remember a few of the people she mentions. Most of her sentences start with “You didn't know them but...” and then she narrates Greek tragedies in her best Spoon River anthology style. Her voice pitches down to a stage whisper to tell me about the child molester that once lived in this one. “He's in prison,” she assures me, “but we thought they might shock him out”. I have no idea what the term means, but I have heard her use it often enough that I have a mental picture of a man, hair standing on end, cheap suitcase in hand, walking out from the barbed wire and steel enclosure with no particular destination except to do evil. 

I smile on the Q.T. at that image as we move on past his house to the next, her voice droning on about the child he hurt, a niece, how the family reacted, and all the people they are kin to by blood or marriage. At the same the time I am awkwardly trying to follow her lead on the direction we are headed. She somehow thinks I should know each turning she makes. When I remind her I am now unfamiliar with the small town streets and her routine, she reacts with disapproval. She recites the route for me again, right on Fourth street, left on Magnolia right on Second, left on Render, etc., like I will remember it next year if we happen this way again. I zone out at the useless information and we fall back into the well worn rut of our relationship. I grow quiet and seem to acquiesce but feel the familiar bile of defiance rising in my throat. Twenty five years ago I tried to change the old pattern, but that resulted in three years of unbearable silence between us. Perhaps her astonishment was sincere when I finally apologized and took back my old position, two steps behind her, holding my tongue as she finds new ways to remind me that I will always be third in the three horse race of siblings in our family.

We arrive back at the house, and finally seeing my destination, I make a straight line to her back door. She circumvents my path, adding a few hundred feet to our short walk. 

“I always go this way.” she advises smugly.  

I do not question her choice but I continue steadfast on my direction. Back inside the house her husband waits in the recliner where he spends most of his waking hours attached to an oxygen tank. My sister busies herself fixing his breakfast. When we sit down to eat my brother in law struggles to make conversation by asking me how far it is to Richmond, how the drive went, and what kind of gas milage I got. He is unaware that we had this same conversation last year, and the years before, not to mention last night. A glance around the room and their life fills me with incredible gratitude that I escaped this numbing sameness, this sad winding down of days. The pity in her voice and the guarded look in her eyes when she evaluates my choices make it evident she is equally grateful she stayed in her safe harbor. 

Despite all the differences between us she is generous in spirit, and while I am sure she does not like me or respect me, she loves me as God loved the prodigal son. As a gesture of her good intentions she hands me the newspaper to read before she has even opened it. I again explain that I have no interest and leave it lying. A few minutes later she reads it aloud to me, some headlines, but mostly obituaries and incarcerations, spicing them with side notes about the principal characters and their relatives. Her husband listen attentively and then he asks, “Which way did you walk?” My sister answers him with the same litany of turns she has given me earlier. "Oh," he says, "the usual way then?" Their conversation is ritualistic, a memory of  days long ago when they had actual information to exchange. In those days my parents were living next door to them instead of lying near my mother's ancestors in the the small Baptist Cemetery a few miles away. Then my Mom and sister took their walks together, with my sister right in step by Mother's side. I never took that walk with them, but I find myself wondering if in this, as in all things, my sister still follows my mother's path.

This Morning and the Ones to Follow...

Like the light switch in the bathroom 

I am on when I awake

The soldier I must have been in a past life rises,

Finds her feet in seconds and stands alert, weapon drawn

Ready to do battle, clear eyed and invincible.

The stranger in the mirror startles me

A woman no longer young tries to stare me down.

I pretend indifference, a calm I do not feel.

The echos of many voices come to me saying, 

No, it's only a number.

I would never have guessed your age.

I smile and pat the taunt flesh of their cheek or arm,

Thank them for the compliment, 

but inside I am thinking,

Good, then trade with me, just for today.

Empty chairs at empty tables...

Linda was one of the prettiest girls I ever knew, tall and slim, wavy dark hair, skin that tanned easily in the sun, and a body that made men turn their heads and look again. She grew up in Florida during the late 60's, in a modest home outside of Miami. Right after graduation her high school boyfriend came home from boot camp, all buff and handsome in his uniform and he was soon to be off to war. How could she say no when he asked her to marry him? When he was deployed to Germany she flew for the first time on an airplane, far across the ocean, into a foreign land. Her memories of the picture book city were less fairy tale than nightmare. Shopping with other wives she was taunted and spit on by the locals who did not care for the influx of Americans. The high school hero she married came home most days in a nasty mood and drank his way into a worse one. After a few months she regretted her haste, filed for divorce, and moved a few doors down to live with another wife whose husband had just left for Nam.  That's when she met the boy whose name was Ricky to his siblings and O'mar to his mates, but whom she always called "Blazer". 

He was a poor country boy from one of the many redneck regions of Virginia, the oldest of 7 children his mom bore to her second husband. He had some vague plans for college after he got out of high school, but with no money and no support from his family he quickly fell into the cannon fodder factory of our generation's dirty little war. I don't remember her telling me how they met, only that the two of them were tossed together by circumstance, destiny perhaps, and they clung to each other passionately. In the few months they had together they made a lifetime of plans. She could not stay in Germany once she divorced and he was to be deployed to VietNam. She went home to her family to dream of a Christmas wedding in Hawaii during his R and R.

Linda's divorce from her first husband coincided with mine, and as fate would have it I had taken in Ricky's   older sister who had been living from hand to mouth in a tiny room around the corner from my apartment. Her childhood as the outsider in her family had left her with terrible scars, some visible, some not. Her mother did not seem to even try to protect the child of her first marriage from the mental and physical abuse of a step father whose hatred for her was never disguised.  In the habit I have of collecting lost puppies, my heart went out to her. I was struggling with raising a child, finding work, school, and getting back into the dating scene. I had an extra room so I asked her to move in with me and watch my little one in exchange for rent. My son took to her right away and she came with a wealth of child rearing experience.

Meanwhile Linda sent passionate letters to her Blazer, all filled with stories about tomorrow and forever. He wrote back, telling her loving lies, not dwelling for a second on the horrors around him or his occasional use of the drugs that let him sleep at night.  I've seen the pictures of the wedding, her in a simple blue dress holding a bouquet, him in jeans and a knit shirt, all smiles and hugs. Friends gathered around them and one snaps a picture of her sitting in his lap, arms hooked together, each sipping champagne from the other's glass. She did not tell me the first time she showed me the pictures, but the wedding was not legal. When I knew her better she confessed. Thwarted by the army bureaucracy the vows they made were only in their hearts, but with the agreement that in six months they would do it again in front of the preacher.

Of course they knew he was in the business of death, but no 19 year old imagines it will really be them. Most of the infantry in that jungle hell filled with snakes, spiders, booby traps, heat, humidity, filth, and torrents of rain had no idea what they were up against, or even how to tell friend from foe. Many sought escape in the fog of drugs and so it was for Ricky when he came back from R and R. I would like to say that his passing meant something, changed something, but nothing could be further from the truth. Sometime in the early hours of a steamy hot January morning he asphyxiated on his own vomit after self medicating on drugs and alcohol. There is a cause of death listed graciously on the record. 

His tour began on Jun 29, 1970

Casualty was on Jan 23, 1971

In QUANG TIN, SOUTH VIETNAM

NON-HOSTILE, GROUND CASUALTY

ACCIDENTAL SELF-DESTRUCTION

Body was recovered

The box with his body was interred near his home in the Episcopal Churchyard. When the flag was folded and handed to his mother she held it only for a moment before passing it to the crying girl beside her.

 It was barely spring when I met Linda for the first time. She had turned 19 in February, right around the time of the funeral. She was not yet one year out of high school but had been married, divorced, engaged and symbolically widowed in that short space of time. Since the funeral she had been unable to leave the protection of Ricky's home, the grieving siblings, his parents that she thought would be her own. My housemate had talked her into coming to Richmond, accompanied by Ricky's brother, whose love for his dead brother's girl was palatable to everyone but Linda. We were best friends before the weekend was over and I pulled her aside to ask her what her plans were for the future. I could see by her face that she had none. I told her my lease would be up in a few weeks and I wanted to look for a larger place. I asked if she would like to come to Richmond to live. She leaped at the chance to start a new life. 

 We had two frantic years together before she and I were ready to move beyond our pain. We sometimes cried, but more often we laughed, and lived, and somehow together found healing for our strangely similar wounds. I made her a real wedding dress for her very real wedding in the summer of 73. Before she left she asked me if I would keep the box with Ricky's pictures, a few mementos of his short life, and the flag that had draped his coffin. They sat in my blanket chest for many years until she was secure enough to ask for them back one day. We sat down with a pot of coffee and I let her tell it to me all from the beginning to the end. I somehow felt I knew her Blazer personally after that, and his death never seemed like a statistic to me. That weekend we went to DC and for the first time she traced his name with her fingers on that cold black wall. We read off the names of the others beside him and knew that for each lost soldier there was a story that only the men that lived them would ever know. I pulled up the wall website this week and found that there are words written there by friends that served with him. One of them reads:

He was known to us as O'mar. He was one of my closest friends. When I got on that chopper to go home in Dec. of 1970, He went also to go on R&R to Hawaii. Thats the last time I saw O'mar. When I got home I received a letter from him telling me what a good time he had and how much he enjoyed seeing his family and girlfriend. I went on to my next duty at FT. Hood Texas. I wrote him a letter when I got there. The Army answered my letter to inform that he had he had died.All I have left are all the good times we had,a few photos and the memories of a friend who watched my back while I was watching his. He was a very special friend.

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

I'm not sure why I picked this labor day to wax nostalgic about a life cut short, any more than I understand how I got involved in that particular drama so many years ago. I only know that survivors must tell the stories. Perhaps you have one that needs to be told too...

All the News from Dancing School

No one has every accused me of being set in my ways. In fact I sometimes think that I force my husband deeper into inertia by my proclivity for abrupt changes, like a ship that throws out its anchor to weather a storm. Deep in my silly putty heart however I retain a shape memory of my true self, so no matter how much I stretch, time seems to bring me back to the original mold. A few years ago I appeared to reinvent myself, but in truth I was merely returning to the me that lived inside, the inner child that my rigid upbringing taught me to fear.  I am comfortable with her now and have no intentions of retreating again. In fact you might say that I am almost free and more "me" than I have ever been in my life.  You note I said "almost".

Nothing more clearly illustrates this than my "dancing career". Way back in ninth grade I was introduced to the concept of "modern" dancing by my high school gym teacher. Our first "sock hop" was fast upon us and looking around at the nest of Southern Baptist adolescents, he formed an idea in his head, likely one of the few he ever had. He decided that he should "teach the kids to dance". If you are now have a picture in your mind of a cute made for TV movie called "Rocking High School", think again.  We're talking real life here guys.

The gym looked enormous in the bright morning light as I sat there with all the other thirteen year old girls, a knot the size and weight of a cannon ball in my stomach, gazing across the long wooden floor to the unfathomable faces of the thirteen year old boys on the other side. I had started first grade with most of them, except for one fourteen year olds that got held back somewhere along the way. Although a social pariah, he was really cute and I liked him despite the stigma of failure that hung over him. Just as I was thinking it might not be so bad if he asked me to dance, the teacher began barking instructions in his usual militaristic tone. "Anderson and Allen, front and center." He continued down the alphabet pairing us up by yelling out our last names.  I was frantic as I ran down the gender alphabet trying to figure out if the boy closest to me was also taller than me. Brandon, the intellectually challenged cutie I favored was already standing up with Bailey, K, so no chance there. Dread tuned to doom as he announced "Crume (me) and Dale, right here."

That had to be the longest walk either of us ever took. He came up to my chin, had a serious acne problem, and looked a like an bad version of Buddy Holly with a buzz cut. All of us stood as silent as sinners during a church prayer and likely all were twisting inside as we imagined those sinners would when they got to hell. At the time I could not imagine feelings other than my own as I stood praying for the last thing that I would not get, a short fast dance. From the gym loudspeakers we heard the familiar click of a needle hitting a 45. Our collective sighs of anguish were covered up by Frankie Avalon's pleading, "Venus if you will, please send a little girl for me to thrill.." You youngsters can google it or just take my word that it was a cheek to cheek kind of tune.

I have no idea how I got through that hour, but I do recall trying to put a spin on it around the dinner table that night. "We had dancing instead of gym today. I danced with three boys." I said this thinking to enhance my family's perception of my popularity. In truth we had been forced to change partners after two dances, switching to the next boy on our right. My father stopped his fork in mid air. The table grew very quiet.
"They had you dancing? In school?' This was my father's soft but angry voice, one I rarely heard.  He paused, picked his words, and annunciated them slowly and forcefully. "No good ever came of two people that close together on a dance floor." My father had spoken and that was that.  I am sure my mother intervened later so I was not forbidden to participate in high school dances, but it was very clear that he believed I was on the highway to hell. I imagine mother had to do quite a lot of persuading, but neither of them ever said another word about dancing. It was added to the long list of topics that were taboo in our home.

Most of my dancing after that was in front of American Band Stand, the must see how-to place for a generation of American teens. I watched it secretly of course, but by the time I was in college I thought I had a few moves. Unfortunately for me I started out at "Jesus Tech" so there was not a lot of opportunity to show them off. My first husband danced one time during our marriage when we were chaperones for the majority black university where he taught his first year out of UVA. I think it was the most fun we ever had during our marriage.

Divorced and dating again, my friends and I went to dance clubs for fun and to meet the men who were there to do the same. I danced with a lot of them up close and personal, but it was not until I was dating my husband that I found out I did not know how to follow. I was 26 and we were out for the evening with a married couple.  The husband suggested we exchange partners for a dance. On the floor with him he became immediately annoyed. "You're leading," he says, stating a fact. I realized this was the first man I had ever slow danced with who knew how to dance and was not doing it hoping to get my clothes off. I asked my husband later if that was true. "Sure," he said, "but I'm used to it and I don't mind."

Through trial and error we have improved our fast dancing and actually get compliments at times. Those times would be when Michael and Vanessa are not at the club too. They are the best of the new friends we have made. I like them both personally and they are the most incredible dancers I have seen in real life. Mostly we watch them as Vanessa spins 5 times in a row, dips and twirls effortlessly in Michael's hands. Vanessa confides that it is all Michael, she just follows and makes sure not to wear jewelry that might fly off during the spins. Michael basks in the compliments he gets from all the strangers who come up to speak to him in almost worshipful tones.

Last week, a lady asked to sit at our table, not an unusual occurrence as the place often gets packed on weekends. I welcomed her and we chatted between dances. She complimented me on how great my husband and I looked on the floor and then she made a comment. "I think at some point in your life you decided you were a dancer and your husband went along with you."Funny, I was thinking I was just a tiny bit mysterious but well, I have never been known for my poker face. I do know that Michael sees me all too clearly, but he is more subtle. A natural and diplomatic teacher, he gives my husband instructions on technique. He can see on my face that I want to be a dancer and would be except for the natural lack of grace that, at the tender age of 8, earned me the disgust of Miss Lila Jean, owner and instructor for the Lila Jean School of the Dance. After one particularly bad class I learned that I could not dance and neither could I sink into the floor and disappear when the elegant leotard clad teacher gestured toward me and spoke to my mother, "You are wasting your money on this one."I have always imagined that she said it in a French accent, although that is probably because she was a Yankee and up until that time I had never heard anyone speak who did not sound like the people on the NASCAR circuit.

I do wish Miss Lila Jean was still alive so she could have seen Michael pulled me from my husband's embrace last night and spin me a few turns around the floor while my man danced with Vanessa. I would prefer if she had not observed the deer in the headlights look on my face, but when it was done I behaved like a child who had just performed her first solo recital, the one I missed when I was 8 and my mother decided not to throw good money after bad. I admit I was relieved to be back in my predictable husband's arms for the next dance, for no matter how exhilarating it was the fact remains that I was not born to be a dancer. If I were I would be built a bit more willowy and a little less, uh... womanly. I would seem to float when I walk instead of remaining solidly on the ground and I would be much more compliant and a lot less stubborn. After all this time however I realize my father was wrong about a few things. If I had not been so fearful of his displeasure that day at breakfast I could have pulled the Bible that always sat on the table over in front of me and shown him this:

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.

I've paid my dues on the mourning and weeping. It's time to dance.

For Beanie

I first met her at my sister's wedding in 1968. That's her in the brown dress she selected to fit with the color scheme of the fall wedding, and to compliment her strawberry blond hair. As far as the glasses are concerned let me just say that they were sort of "in style" in the 60's and 70's, which a perusal of any high school year book of the day will show. No one would ever mistake her for a fashion mavin, especially in contrast to my always perfect Mom, standing there in her green dress, whimsy of a hat perched atop her fashionable big hair, and the "oh yes we did wear them" white gloves. Mother poses perfectly for the camera, a practiced smile on the the sweet face I inherited from her, along with her great legs and a youthful appearance. Beanie, whose real name I barely remember as Edwina, pulls her husband Tommy to her and tries to tug her son into the same group hug she would have preferred over the formal picture. 

I remember standing there watching them with the critical eye of youthful arrogance, fueled by my mother's disapproval and disappointment in her elder daughter's choice. Ronnie, my sister's husband now these 42 years, had just returned from VietNam where he had vowed to my sister that if he came back alive she had no choice but to marry him. She was reluctant for reasons totally unrelated to his station in life, but because of their age difference and the fact that she had been his teacher for his senior English in high school, her first year out of college. No one from his family had attended college and neither his parent's dreams or means included higher education for their children. He was a miner's child and literally from the "other side of the tracks' in that small gossipy town where I was reared. 

I listened to all sides, my mother's concern over the what she saw as a dreadful social blunder, the determined pronouncement of love from this poor but honest young man, and my sister's tears as she tried to please everyone. In the end I told her to let nothing stand in the way of love. I am older and more jaded now, but I still  stand by that advice. So my Mother's chosen daughter, the one she could always manipulate and direct, made her first truly independent decision. I have to admit that after meeting the in-laws on the wedding day I too had a few second thoughts. 

My mother opened her home for the reception, a small beautiful venue, all gold and green and warm autumn day perfect. The happy bride and groom came in and cut the cake, we mulled around briefly with my sister's new family, and then the newlyeds, eager to be away from the awkwardness, went to change into their getaway clothes. I came through the dining room with a mission of some sort and found Beanie and her two daughters standing over the reception table stuffing chunks of wedding cake into their mouths with their still white gloved hands. Beanie looked up at me beaming, oblivious to the social gaff. "This sure is great cake," she said, slightly muffled as her mouth was a bit too full to speak.  

The years flew by, some slow, some fast. My sister settled into married life, a baby son arrived to be the joy of their hearts, my sister came to be my matron of honor in my own mother-orchestrated wedding disaster, but never in all those years did my parents embrace the man who made my sister happy. Mention of his family always washed across my mother's face like a shadow, a lingering distaste. When my sister and I spoke however she nearly always had a "Beanie" story to tell. They were hysterically funny, never boring, and a picture began to emerge of a woman who lived life with no apologies, but whose unabashed ignorance was as remarkable as her love for all those around her. One trip to Beaver Dam on the fourth of July we stopped to watch the hometown parade troop down main street. Among the horses and marching bands came a pickup truck with a rocking chair in the back. Sitting in the chair and waving at the crowd sat a little wrinkled lady with a baby on her lap. The hand painted banner on the side of the truck said "Beanie and little Bean". The crowd cheered wildly and when I turned to see the look on my sister's face it was one of love and delight.

On one visit my sister pushed me to "go to visit with Beanie". After my mother died in 1994 and Beanie's husband Tommy had also passed, my sister started going on daily visits to her mother in law. I saw no comfortable way out, so I got in the car for the short trip to her house. It looked exactly as one would imagine, the yard full of little wind spinning birds and flowers purchased at Walmart, a gazing ball, bird bath, concert dogs, cats, chickens and plastic flowers in hanging baskets. Inside sat Beanie on the flowered sofa but she rousted herself up to come hug my sister and me equally. For the hour I spent there she managed to make both of us feel like we were the most important people on earth. It was then I realized the most amazing and wonderful thing about this sweet lady. She saw everyone exactly the same. President or Mexican yard worker, the queen or the postman, we were all her welcomed guest. In sharp contrast to the agonizing chore of seeing my own mother in law, who spends most of our time complaining that I don't come often enough, I found myself reluctant to leave the busy little house. Over the years to follow I always made a trip to Beanies a must do when I went to Kentucky. She loved seeing pictures of my children and grandchildren as if they were her own. I honestly don't think she ever saw a flaw in anyone. She was the very definition of unconditional love.

My sister called me a few weeks ago to give me the news that Beanie was going into hospice care. She had not been doing well for the past month but had continued to reassure everyone that she would be "just fine" and begged them not to worry about her. When told about hospice, she had immediately asked if she could stay in her house, but her daughter insisted she come to stay with her just for a while. Beanie made her promise that when she got better she could go home. I asked my sister if she understood what hospice meant. "Yes," said Eleanor, "but Beanie has a unique ability to hold two opposing ideas in her mind at the same time and believe them both equally." 

Last night she slipped away peacefully in her sleep. Her last words to her children and grandchildren were simple. "Take care of each other and don't worry about me. I'll be fine." She had been concerned about how much trouble she was causing. She told her daughter last week, "Why don't you just take me to that dog place?" Everyone was briefly alarmed until they remembered that the local nursing home was called Dogwood Care Center. There are tears at her passing of course, I've shed more than a few this morning, but Beanie had a way of making even a desperate situation amusing. She also had left behind a legacy of one liners so filled with wisdom and humor that no one will be able to wallow in grief. I could write a book, but I'll leave you with one, my favorite. Several of the the ladies around her were talking about plastic surgery. "Well," says Beanie thoughtfully, "You can have a face lift, but you'll still be old, won't you." I laugh as I imagine her this beautiful Mother's Day morning with her true nature made manifest, smooth smiling face, a white robe, and of course, a shock of soft red hair flowing over her wings. 

I will be back to you very soon but meantime

Here's the reason for my absence...

"Older" Women

I wish you could come with me to one of my favorite places (don't laugh), the toilet line at "our place". You may recall that I had complaints when I used the actual name of the "place" previously, in connection with a small impropriety in the ladies room, so you will just have to call or email me if you're curious or itching to visit. But I digress....So, standing in the line is always an education, especially as the evening becomes drunker. Not me of course, I have found I have more fun with a modest amount of alcohol, enough so I have no hesitation dancing to "Gonna Rock this Town Tonight", but not enough to knock over tables, a thin line I know. The young man who was waiting in the queue with me was actually fairly sober, perhaps not old enough to drink, hard to tell. He is obviously struggling to make conversation and opens with, 
"You dancing out there?" Of course he has seen me dancing so it is a rhetorical question. I consider telling him so, but he does not look like the brainy sort. Instead I guide the conversation carefully, 
"Every time I can get my husband on his feet." A light bulb comes on briefly and he says, in a disappointed voice, 
"Oh, you're married."
"Very" I reply, cutting that dogie off at the pass.
Still hopeful and still stupid he goes on, "I was looking for an older woman..." He didn't finish the sentence because another lady a few years younger than me arrived and moved between us to stand in the ladies queue.
"Is this the line?" I reply in the affirmative while still laughing. Motioning to him with my eyes I say,
"He's looking for a cougar."
Her face lights up, a gale of laughter spills out and she takes a long look at him.  Like the bad gunfighter he is he proceeds to shoot himself squarely in the foot. (think Barney from the Andy Griffith show)

"Oh, not especially a cougar, just any woman."
More laughter ensues at his expense and she says, "So it doesn't matter huh? Any woman from 12 to 80 is okay?"
He tries to recover from this conversational catastrophe, but he is so out of his league. The other lady and I chat about him like he's not there, providing a bit of "dating" advice, and then the ladies room door opens and it's over. She is still there when I come out but he is long gone. We look at each other and laugh again, shaking our heads.


I catch him eyeing me as I leave the dance floor later, still standing alone, still clueless. Since he is in the peach fuzz stage there is still some hope for him, I think, but I doubt he will ever become Mr. Suave. If he was in the same line later in the evening he might have seen the couples coming out of the facilities together and wondered where he went wrong. I can counsel him on that one however. Here is Elaine's advice to the young man looking for a booty call.
- First and foremost, Pick drunker women!
- Secondly, play it close to the vest. If you put your cards on the table from the second you start negotiations you are likely accustomed to working girls. Women who do it for fun would like to hear some compliment about their appearance or personality. Something that says, I picked you out of this crowd because I think you're special.
- Next, women who are with a partner and look like they are having fun are not your best choice. That is like looking for Easter eggs in the spot where the last person found one. Look for the girl who came in with her friends and try to lasso her out of the herd. I know this is intimidating and it may require a bit of conversation. Just do it.
Finally if all of that seems like too much work just go with the first step and Pick Drunker Women!


Now you may have noticed a bit of disdain for the age challenged in my tone, so I want to add a disclaimer. In my youth I dated 17 year olds and also 18, 19, 20 and so forth. As a grown up, after my divorce (and before my subsequent marriage), I occasionally dated very young men, but my preference was for those past the awkward stage, men who needed no education. While I admit I am flattered by the attention of a youngster, I am totally charmed by a man who knows how to flirt, knows where the lines are drawn, and tells me all the lies I love to hear. I find those men usually have a few miles on them, and have known a bit of heartache. The men who attract me are smart, funny, and sexy at any age, like the one I married. So if you're moaning about over some aches and pains, or finding a balding or grey haired stranger in the mirror, do not despair. The secret this smart older woman knows is this--a good man isn't so hard to find after all.  You just have to look with your heart.

Kits, cats, sacks, and wives..

Almost 20 years ago when I was placing French students for visits in American homes one of my friends said, "Well, I'll think about taking one after I find places for all these kittens." She gave me a sidelong look with a question mark in it. I went home with a yellow cat that lived for 17 years and she kept a smelly French student for three weeks. I have never been especially good at barter. My children were happy however as we had flirtations and short term affairs with a number of cats over the years, but at the time we were kitten-less.

I would tell you the name of the yellow tom tabby, but for the life of me I can't recall. The reason being that names for cats do not stick well in our household. My daughter gave them elaborate storybook names and my husband immediately renamed them something he felt fit their personality. I note that no cat ever comes when you call the name they have been assigned. I am most certain they have a name they call themselves, but it is unpronounceable in human language as it requires both sound and smells we cannot duplicate. Over the years I have determined that "here kitty, kitty" accompanied by the rattle of the treat bag or hum of the can opener is sufficient to draw even the most arrogant feline to my feet, so why bother?

Once you open your door to a cat you can be sure it will not be an only child. Cats draw others like furry psychic magnets. I think they have hobo signs they leave on gate posts to alert each other to a soft heart, but once again, it is written in the cat language that even the ancient Egyptians who worshiped them could not translate. The yellow kitten was not settled in well before another friend negotiated a similar cat/student exchange, but this one went for broke. "I have this rental property," she told me, "and I had to evict the tenants. They left this ugly cat and a litter of kittens behind. I have placed all the kittens but one, and of course I have to do something with the mother." You know how this is going to go, right?

The mama was a large tortoise shell queen with half a tail. She had been passed around from hand to hand through her long life and heaven only knows what trials she had endured. She was an excellent mother to the nest of adorable fluffy kittens and one pathetic little one that looked exactly like Mama must have in her youth. I will not say they were ugly cats, but their looks were perhaps an acquired taste. I gathered up the mom and the one ugly duckling and headed for home. I know you want a Disney ending for this one but frankly both the mom and child turned out to be very annoying cats. The mom, Sally, lived to groom any animal that was in range of her tongue, including humans. She taught this to her daughter so effectively that anyone whose lap either graced was doomed to enduring a cat spit bath for as long as they sat there.

I took all the animals to the vet to have them checked and set up times for neutering. The mom got her nip tuck right away, but the vet said the little ones would have to wait a bit. Of course I had French students arriving in waves over the summer and I admit I was negligent. I guess I never thought the two little ones would "play doctor" so soon. The litter of kittens was born on my daughter's 10th birthday, on her bed. They were all four grey tabby toms, but my daughter immediately dubbed them Mootsie, Cutsie, Tootsie and I forget the other, but I always want to say Cottontail for some reason. My husband did not name them as he did not expect them to be around for long. He was correct in his assumption, but before they left us everyone had their day at the vet including the teenage parents who remained with us their entire lives. 

Over the years we spent many small fortunes in vet bills on the cats. The teen mom that my daughter called "Sweetie" and my husband called "Stinky" developed an allergy to her teeth. I swear I am not making this up. The vet pulled them out in stages which cost us around $1200. Before that one of her kittens managed to jump six feet in the air and get his paw hooked on a fishing lure while playing in the garage. That happened very early on a Sunday morning right after we had returned from vacation at midnight on Saturday. We called around for emergency vets and finally ended up carrying a screaming half grown kitten wrapped in a towel 15 miles across town. On the way the cat managed to hook the sleeve of my the expensive wool jacket I had tossed on in my haste, so we arrived at the vet with the cat and I struggling on one hook. The vet took a pair of scissors and cut a quarter size hole out of my jacket to free the cat, adding additional dollars to our expenses. Upon our arrival home, a few hundred dollars in cash later, the cat seemed none the worse for wear, but from that time forth he was dubbed 'Sir Fishhook" by my husband.

Ah, good times, good memories. Not that all our cat experiences have been negative. We now have 4 cats who make their home with us but many more have come and gone over the years. The momma cat with half a tale lived out her life with us, died peacefully in our arms and lies sleeping in our little pet cemetery along with Sir Fishhook, Mr Doodle, DooWha Kitty, and assorted mice we ironically kept in cages to the eternal frustration of them all. The last of that era left us in March of this year. She was almost 20, a frail geriatric cat who had ceased grooming herself and lost all pride concerning her bodily functions. Sadly, it was a relief to us all when she went.

It is most surprising to me that I have owned cats at all. I am decidedly not a cat person. The cats I have most enjoyed have personality traits more like dogs. They are excited to see me when I come home, they are not picky eaters, and they chase things. I find them amusing and appreciate the fact that they require less maintenance than dogs. My daughter now complains when she comes to visit that everything is covered with cat hair and she has to take something for allergies as soon as she walks in the door. I patiently point out to her that they are all her cats and I am only the reluctant caretaker. I also inform her that I used my super vacuum, Scotch Fur fighter and many sticky rollers on the furniture before she arrives. The same conversation has been repeated between us ad naseum. Soon she settles down, takes a Clariton, and snuggles with the cats she rescued from the animal shelter 10 years ago.

 I only rarely mention the kitten she found in the neighbor's barn loft that lives in our garage. As sweet and soft a little thing as you will ever meet, but a consummate barn cat. A great mouser, she has never grasped the concept of the litter box. She has egress to the outdoors from her home by the slightly open window in the garage. A rescue that worked out much better was the cat at the vet's office that sat sadly in a cage and looked at us with soft blue eyes. The receptionist told us she would have to be destroyed in a few days as she had a defect in her hind legs and no one wanted her. We named her Diannah and she immediately attached herself to my middle son. When he moved away she grieved so that I purchased a special cat sack, tucked her into it one early morning and flew with her under my seat all the way to Seattle where she now makes her home with her boy.

My husband remains characteristically silent on the subject of all these cats, but every night Artie (short for Artemis) and Luna, both named for moon deities, snuggle up comfortably with him on the sofa. It is said that cats do not have owners but I will say the cats are intensely loyal to my moon child husband. They all communicate in a deeply intuitive manner, more feeling than logic. I am linear, impatient, and constantly occupied, while my husband and the felines are serpentine, forbearing, and prone to inertia. I know it is not for me that they came here or for me that they stay here. However, even though my world is covered with their hair, even though they hack up things on the oriental rugs, even though the litter box is an endless chore, they do give me a lot of joy and I am glad they decided to live here. Okay, I said it and I wrote it down, but I reserve the right to deniability in the future. Now if you will excuse me I have a (gag) litter box to clean.

Race Day

 I lie alone on my new green percale sheets in a bed that is too big, in a room that is too cold. Dreading the dawn and what is to come, my sleep comes in fits and starts. Finally the clock says it is not too early to rise and make coffee. It's 6 AM  in my kitchen and my daughter is pumping breast milk, something she does at least 6 times everyday. She is giddy with excitement about the race and she has slept the sleep of the righteous while Marc took the night watch with Logan. The baby sort of sleeps through the night now, but not without some semi wakeful periods toward dawn, much like his grandmother this day.

My daughter picked out and paid for my new green shirt which says, "The miracle isn't that I finished. The miracle is that I had the courage to start." She felt that I needed more inspiration, but no matter how much she talks, she just cannot make me into a born again runner like herself. Always I sense her frustration that she cannot make me love what she loves.

The temperature is just above freezing as we walk briskly down the shady side of broad street looking for our wave. Because of me we are much further back, but she insists that we run together. I tell her I will do it even if she goes on, but she does not trust me. The wave surges forward finally, slowly at first, but I soon settle into a pace that suits me. It is not the pace that suits my almost 29 year old daughter who, regardless of giving birth 9 weeks ago, is at the peak of fitness. Once she holds my hand and pulls me forward, but very soon she hears me gasping for breath and lets go. I am sorry to say that I complain. I need to pee, I am thirsty, I did not have enough breakfast, and the one that makes her furious, I tell her that I do not like running, again. She complains too but about me. I am not running fast enough, I do not breath correctly, and when I beg to slow down to a walk for a few minutes, I really do not walk fast enough.

I did run non stop until mile 2, mostly looking for a porta-potty and the volunteers handing out water and power aide. I spy cheerful wavers and move over to the side, desperate for liquid. So help me God they are handing out purple chrysanthemums!  The f-word comes to my lips but I do not verbalize it. Obviously this group has never done a run and has not a clue what runners need. You cannot eat or drink a flower and trying to hand one to a thirsty runner is tantamount to throwing rocks. Next block is the "Sinners Repent" sign. The dowdy overweight woman hoisting it stands grim faced and determined, just the sort of person Jesus is looking for to advertise the joys of heaven. I almost smile, but the girl is turning back to look at me again, gesturing me forward.

We approach the mid race marker and I sprint with her to trip the bar. We turn the corner on Monument, me taking the inside with all the lazy people, her flying by on the outer edge. I wonder how she stays on her feet while constantly looking behind her for me? She runs in place waiting for me to catch up and starts on her pep talk again. "Think of all the reasons why you are doing this?" My immediate and forceful answer is,
"There is only one reason. Because I love you and you want me to." She argues,
"No, you want to stay fit, lose weight, feel better."
Of course she is naming her reasons, not mine.

At mile 4 she has had enough of me, or perhaps she knows that I now have to finish because she has the keys to the car which is waiting at the end. She is cold, both of us having long ago tossed our ratty old hoodies that we had selected with discard-ability in mind. I am warm as toast and need to slow down again. She charges off and is lost in the crowd in seconds. I am relieved and slow for a bit, grab more power aide and stop at another porti potty. This one has a man inside with the door unlocked. He makes no apology for not taking the time to slide the bar to occupied. As he rushes out he advises me not to go in there because it is disgusting. I tell him not as much as wetting my pants and proceed. I am fairly sure the disgusting part he meant was him peeing all over the seat when I opened the door unexpectedly. I hover, use the hand sanitizer, and leave. After that I begin to run my race.

My first real smile of the day comes when I see the Buddhist doing yoga poses in beautiful gold and red costumes, one with a dragon head. They are standing like statues and chanting. I feel the peace like a warm wind blowing across me. I run and I keep on running. It is not as fast as the girl goes, but it is steady for the rest of the race. I pass again by the hell fire and damnation prophet, only this time I laugh out loud. She might have gotten my attention if she had said hell was a marathon that did not end. They never think of the real motivators. The flower children are out of stock but they all walk around cheering sporting pink fairy wings. A person passes me wearing a can costume. I cannot see his face and wonder how he is navigating. A chicken goes by with a "why do I cross the road" sign. Suddenly I realize that I am actually having a bit of fun even though my knee hurts and my right foot is beginning to feel numb.

I can see the finish line. Like the rest of them I push for it, knowing after that I can stop. My foot hits the orange line with determination. It's over. I am not a convert to Buddhism, Christianity, or Running, but a little part of me feels some pride that I did it. The kids have waited for me in the park and we mill about with no plan for a bit. Suddenly I spy them, Girl Scouts--with cookies! I rush forward.
"Thin Mints!" I declare. A sweet little blond in uniform says to me,
"Well, we're out of thin mints, but we have all the other kinds. Why not try these? They are as good as thin mints." Her smile and the obvious lie is almost enough to make me relent, but no. It's thin mints or nothing, so nothing it is. I have been saved from the cookie trap. The walk to the car was another two miles and when I finally sat down I was wishing I had gone for the empty calories.
"Well," says I, as we pull off, "You know, I just realized. I don't have to go to the gym today."
"But tomorrow you do," says the girl, "Because we have to start training for that Mother's Day race."
Sigh.  I don't even bother to whimper, not even a little.

It's Complicated

  "Mom, you're just weird!" The hostile sound of her voice pulled me out of my shopping induced coma. If it had been delivered by my child it would have included a couple of giggle at the end, one for each of us. The little drama that played out between the racks of clothing and the dressing room was painful to watch. As is my habit, I try to find someone in the story line with whom I can identify. This time it was both of them.

 "Oh," says mom helpfully, holding up a pair of white pants, "here they are in a size 6."

"What are you implying?" comes the sharp retort.

"Well, you don't want it too tight," Mom looks around at anything but her daughter when she speaks.

"I wear a 4 Mom." Mom stops for a minute. She can see the land mind, but she's not sure how to move her mouth without tripping the wire. Perhaps her choice of silence was the best.

"How about this color?" Mom holds up a fushia tank top.

"Where would I ever wear that Mom?"

"I would be nice under a black shirt or..." her daughter interrupts her.

"Why would I wear it under something?"

"You couldn't wear it by itself," Mom defends, "It's winter."

I head to the checkout with my own purchases and leave them there in their anger and misery. I want to tell the Mom that she has the strength to let go now, to trust that her job is mostly done. I want to tell the beautiful young lady that she has the power to be the bigger person. I don't of course, because I long ago learned the folly of unsolicited advice. I cannot help but think of my relationship with my own Mom. Out shopping trips together were our bonding time and our bond was made of barbed wire. I knew better than to speak to her in the tone used by the size 4 daughter, but our conversations although more diplomatic, were just as deadly.

I'm certainly not saying my daughter and I didn't go through some loving wars during her growing up years. I often tell people that her first sentence was, "Mom, you're not going to wear that are you?" I will say that I have never felt more proud than when she introduced me to her future mother in law as "my Mom and my best friend".

I'm carefully saving my best child rearing advice on the off chance that someone, either related or unrelated, will turn toward me someday with a question. Just in case that day never arrives I don't want to die with it in me, so here goes. Child rearing is simple compared to knowing when you're done. When our children are small we attempt to anticipate every danger and race ahead with pillows ready. Like loaded freight trains it takes us a very long time for us to come to a stop. Sometimes we just don't see the red light and just keep running full throttle right on through the warning gate of adulthood. You will hear the sound of the impending disaster in your adult child's voice if you listen. Woe be to the parent who ignores it more than once.

Forgive me this one last look back...

When my oldest son broke up with his first girlfriend, the one he dated for three years from age 11 to 14, I wanted to console him, distract him, but when all failed I tried reason. "Son," I said softly, "you didn't plan to marry her or anything, now did you?" One look in his blue eyes told me his answer. Yes, in his sweet young innocence he saw her as the woman he would be with forever. I still think of her with great fondness and I know he does too. While his destiny was not tied with hers, she took him from childhood to awakening manhood in a way that makes me forever grateful to her. Today they both have happy productive lives with their own separate spouses and children. While I think that they might have been happy together at one time, they now have totally different world views and ambitions. Seeing her life and his it is hard to imagine how that might have turned out had they grown together instead of apart.

We all have special people that come into our lives at times when we need them most and then slip away when their job is done. For me they have been few and far between, perhaps because I appear so self sufficient from a distance, the distance I generally hold people for fear of getting hurt. But four years ago when I started this blog there was a man who saw through me like I was made of glass, immediately recognizing a kindred spirit. He found the soliloquy I spoke in that painfully honest way people have when they do not know they are being observed. When I saw his comment I felt like I had been discovered naked in church.  We burst into conversation like children being let out of school for summer, joyous, shouting, skipping, children. For that brief space I let myself believe that all things were still possible, all roads still open. He took my hand and pulled me out into the sunlight. He held up a mirror to my soul and made me look without turning away. I thought summer would last forever.

Our letters to each other flew across the distance between us like northern lights pulsing in the sky. I shared every secret of my heart and it felt like he did the same. When he started backing away I understood, because I knew him like I knew my own mind. I came very close to begging him to stay  even when I knew he had to go.  He maintained a presence on the internet for a long time. Not much was posted, but I could still go there and stand where he once stood, tracking the sentences with my fingers and remembering what he had given me. A few weeks ago I went and saw the words: The blog you were looking for was not found, like someone just turned off a light switch. I knew it was coming, but I still struggled in the dark for a bit.

My parents often told a story about me learning to walk.  I would grab for an adult hand to steady me, but rather than bend down to hold my hand, they would extend a rolled newspaper that I could grasp for support. One day the adult holding the lifeline let go, but unaware, I continued to keep my arm up in the air clutching the paper. For weeks I walked independently, but clinging to the imaginary support of the newspaper with my baby hand over my head. My parents found this hysterical and retold it at every opportunity. Although I remember nothing about it I think it sounds just like me. Years later when learning to swim I insisted that the teacher hold his hands inches below me in case I sunk under the water. I closed my eyes and floated happily until he called out to me from the other side of the pool. Like the man who walked across the water with his eyes on Jesus, in the second I stopped believing I sank.

Of course I did learn to walk on my own, to swim on my own, and honestly, I know I will continue to keep my eyes open, all on my own. I just want to say this to him on the chance that he might be listening still. The words are slightly paraphrased from an ancient anonymous poem that has always touched my heart.

"I did but see him passing by, but I shall love him 'til I die."