Skunks and Junk

Re-entering the real world after three weeks in Hawaii has been hard, particularly the last few days. I know you're thinking, "Oh poor you." I know. People died in Oklahoma yesterday; many others lost everything they own. I do have some sense of perspective. But this is my blog and I get to use it to whine a little, now and then. This is one of those times.

I wrote earlier about how I was having trouble getting back on my my normal sleep schedule. That has improved a lot, but I'm still find the idea of sleeping until 10:00am appealing. I finally got all the suitcases unpacked and stored away and the dirty laundry sorted into piles -- bleach, lights, reds, darks, dry cleaning -- even though I haven't eliminated all the piles yet. I'm still sorting and editing photos, thinking about how I can share them with you.

My head didn't want to work at all yesterday. I sat down several times to try to write a post but it just wasn't coming together. I had really bad news the night before and I just couldn't get my mind off my friend, Judy. I received an email from her last week, thanking me for the mother's day ecard I sent her and telling me she was out in California to take care of her son Scott, who was going to have minor back surgery. The really bad news we got this week was that Scott died at home, two days after the surgery. Judy was with him and, as you can imagine, she is devastated. They are trying to determine the cause but don't know yet. 

My head and heart are filled with painful memories and, in talking to mutual friends, dread the fact that I know what's ahead for Judy. Judy realizes that too, and told one of our friends to, "Ask Annette. She knows how I'm doing." All I can do is make myself available to her whenever she gets back. The days and nights will be long. 

I tried all day yesterday to shake the feelings. Then about 3:00, the news about Oklahoma starting coming in, particularly focusing on the children in the eradicated elementary school. My heart sank even further until I just had to turn off the television, not able to absorb any more. 

My usual comfort system, playing with the dogs, wasn't working because the dogs weren't here. They were at the groomer. Something else that happened in the last few days was that Ruffles got skunked late Wednesday night. I bathed her once in peppermint shampoo, all I could find in a panic. That helped some. The next day I made the concoction recommended on the internet -- baking soda, hydrogen peroxide and liquid soap. That helped even more. By the time she got home yesterday there was just a trace of odor left and when she came in the door, both she and I started feeling better. Lucy, too. 

Dog therapy, laundry and busy work got me through today and although still sad, I'm coping much better. Enough to go through some Hawaii photos to find a memory that really made me smile the day it happened. We were at Bellows Beach on Oahu for the day. Next to our "setup" was a woman with two little girls. All three spent most of the day digging a big hole in the sand and were having the most marvelous time. I watched them with glee, laughing out loud at times, particularly when the little baby girl would shove sand in her mouth, then turn and laugh at me. 

 
It made me smile today. I hope the same for you. Thanks for stopping by.   

Challenge - Day 16: "Something You Bought"

I've been working on the railroad

All the live long day.

I've been working on the railroad

Just to pass the time away.

Two years old, blonde hair, huge blue/gray eyes. A little boy singing his favorite song over and over again as he walked and jumped back and forth on the sectional sofa in the living room. All this caught on videotape by the mom who couldn't bear to scold him for jumping on the furniture because it was just so cute. A videotape watched repeatedly by the boy and his mom as he grew because they loved to laugh at the hard evidence of (1) him being so cute and (2) him breaking the rule about the furniture. Caught red-handed. It became one of their favorite private jokes. 

A few years later the mom found a clock for sale at Christmas time. One shaped like an old-fashioned pocket watch with a train embossed on the front. It was larger than a watch and opened to reveal a clock surrounded by a miniature train on a track. When the clock was wound, the train moved around the circle playing "I've Been Working on the Railroad." 

"How perfect," thought the mom. "I'll buy this a put it away for a few years, save it for a time when he is older. Some special occasion like high school graduation. Some day when he'll smile and enjoy the memory of the video. The video of him singing his favorite train song and breaking the rules. It will be a special moment for the two of us again."

I took the clock out of the box for the first time today, took these photos and put it back. It will probably return to the cabinet where it has been sitting for years, waiting for me to figure out what to do with it. I don't want to leave it out where I can see it; this memory still hurts too much to be reminded of it every day. Even writing this has been much harder than I thought it would be. So much so that I don't think I can write much more.

Thanks for stopping by today. I'll see you tomorrow. 

  

Challenge - Day 5: "Makes You Smile"

Par-a-dox; noun; (1) a tenet contrary to received opinion; (2) a statement that is seemingly contradictory or opposed to common sense and yet is perhaps true; a self-contradictory statement that at first seems true; an argument that apparently derives self-contradictory conclusions by valid deductions from acceptable premises.

Statement I made to myself during mid-January: "I have the time and really should get back to writing. I know I waste time every day that could be spent working on my blog or novel."

Statement written on blog February 5: This is the first time I have had today to sit down and write (7:13pm.) But I am here and will complete today's task. (I did miss yesterday, though; I had a stomach bug of some sort and no will to write.)

I am looking at a framed photo that makes me smile every day. The frame makes me smile. I saw it in a local store while shopping with a friend and it ended up a surprise under my Christmas tree. The surface is mosaic, made up of small red glass tiles. It sparkles in the sunlight on the table next to my reading chair. Red and sparkly -- what more could I ask? 

The photo in the frame makes me smile. Just a snapshot, taken on a picnic during a family outing on the Texas State Railroad. The little boy is wearing blue and white striped overalls with train appliques on the bib and pockets. He is two years old and loves trains so this day is one he won't forget. His smile is big; wrinkling his bright blue eyes and producing dimples on his cheeks. Just a quick snapshot. Who knew it would become so poignant? 

   

Poignant; adjective; (1) painfully affecting the feelings: piercing; (2) deeply affecting; touching; designed to make an impression.

I look at the photo every day and smile. Then I feel the stab in my heart and inhale sharply. Some days I hold the breath and let it go slowly, nod my head. Other days I cry. 

Thanks for stopping by today; I'll try to do better tomorrow. 

The Time Has Come

"The time has come," the Walrus said, 

"To talk of many things."

"Of shoes -- and ships -- and sealing wax --

of cabbages and kings.

And why the sea is boiling hot --

and whether pigs have wings."

Excerpt - The Walrus and The Carpenter

Lewis Carroll

from "Through the Looking Glass"

July 3, 2005, our youngest son, James Stephen Brown, was killed in an auto accident; he was 12 years old. In many ways, my life stopped that day and I've spent the years since trying to pull together the parts of me that are left and move forward. I've never written about J.S. or my feelings of grief and loss and it has become clear to me that at some point, I must. So friends, the time has come.

I have faced grief before, having lost both of my parents. But the loss of your child is different. It's against the natural order of things and nothing prepares you deal with it. No one 's last look at their child should be of him in a body bag, partially unzipped for your private farewell. Some images never leave you.


Other memories of the early days surrounding his death span a broad spectrum. Some are muddled, fuzzy or completely lost, while others are as clear and sharp as if they just happened. Especially the ones that are particularly painful. Pain charges memories with energy and keeps them bright and vivid in your mind, hard to escape, impossible to let go. 


I remember the look on the faces of the mothers of J.S.'s friends. Amid the expressions of sympathy and platitudes that came from everyone around me, it was clear that they, these mothers, were the only ones who understood. Our eyes locked in something akin to panic. No words were exchanged or necessary; every beat of their hearts screamed, "Please don't let this happen to me."


All our friends and family members scrambled to find some way to be with us through the crisis. Food and help appeared from everywhere, people struggling to know what to do. Little things made a big difference. My sister stayed at our house, answering the phone so that we would not have to, dutifully noting each caller and message. I learned that nothing anyone says brings relief or comfort. "I am sorry for your loss," is about the best one can do. "He's in a better place," or "God works in mysterious ways," were enough to make me want to shoot the messenger. If I thought this were anything other than a tragic accident, if somehow some god said, "Kill this boy," I would have lost my sanity. If this is ever what you want to say to a grieving mother, keep your mouth shut.


The rest of 2005, 2006 and 2007 are still mostly a blur. I continued to work, bolstered by my co-workers at The University of Texas, who looked after me, covered my mistakes and led me around when I was pretty much a zombie. I remember that Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans in 2005 but I can't tell you much about anything else that happened in the world during those years. In 2007 we sold our family home, our dream house on the hill of our 120 acre ranch that we had designed and built when the boys were young. There was just too much pain there. My world had shrunk to our bedroom, the kitchen and my office at work. I think my husband was afraid I would finally slip too far away to come back. Ben had graduated from high school by then and was away at college, so Scott and our good friend, Ardis, searched for a home they thought I would like that would not remind me of the one I was leaving. We have a lovely home now, but that is its main attraction -- the fact that it is so different than the ranch. 


At some point, somewhere in 2009, I decided that I needed to rejoin my life. It was a struggle, but I think that what finally "did me in" was exhaustion. Up to then, with the help of anti-depressant, anti-anxiety, sleeping and help for digestion medications, I kept working at an accelerated pace. After leaving UT,  I became president of our local Chamber of Commerce and found myself involved in everything in town. I worked or volunteered constantly, knowing that if I just stayed really busy, I wouldn't have time to think about James Stephen. But he was always there. It took complete exhaustion and a four month illness for me to stop frantically avoiding him. 


So this is where I sit now. The last six months of 2011 were pretty hard. In May his classmates graduated from high school. All around me, there they were - sacking at the grocery store, waitressing at the cafe - saving money for their college accounts, full of energy and anticipation for the next stage of their lives. But he's not here. November 23 was his birthday, Thanksgiving time (ha!) He would have been 19, but he's not here. His brother got married, Christmas rolled around, life goes on. But he's not here. Most days I am alright, but some I'm not. I know that I'll never be whole again and that my life will forever be divided into "before" and "after" his death.


I made a conscious choice to rejoin the living and get involved in my life again. I quit my job and most of my volunteer work. I now do only the things that make me feel like I'm contributing something good to the world. I started this blog and the writing really helps. When I finish my infamous novel, that will help, too. I guess that is the biggest goal looming ahead of me. One of the main characters is a woman who lost both her husband and her son in an accident, so the writing of those sections is very cathartic for me. This month I will finally be off my prescriptions for anti-depression and sleeping. I had to go through a slow, weaning-off process, but it is time. 


You may hear more from me than you have in the last few months. Needing to write this column has kept me from writing anything else; every time I tried a lighter subject it just seemed trivial and mocking. But now that I've taken the leap I feel better. You may read something funny about the dogs again soon. 


Thanks for stopping by. It really helps to know you're out there.

Memories

I have a dear friend whose year ninety-one old father recently died. He and her mother had been married over sixty years when she died two years ago. Since then he pretty much lost his will to live and slowly let go of life. My friend is handling his death well because, after watching him deteriorate, the end was somewhat of a relief. But still she is grieving; not so much for the loss of her father, but for the end of her life "at home."

She and her sisters are selling their parents' home in Pennsylvania, where they moved when my friend was ten. I spoke with her this morning and she told me that, as much as she wants to come home to Texas, she cannot bring herself to make the actual travel arrangements to return. The problem is that when she leaves, she will be leaving the house for the last time, never to return. "I didn't think it would be so hard leaving this old, empty house for the last time after fifty-three years of it being home." She is sleeping in the old home each night rather than going to one of her sisters' houses. "It's as if Mom, Dad and I are alone in the house and I am absorbing memories. I relive events with every item I pack in every box."

My friend is a strong woman and will be able to take those memories and weave them into something beautiful for her children and grandchildren. As difficult as it may be, I believe she is experiencing a wonderful opportunity that not all of us get to have. Too often when our parents die, the "old home" has already been sold or other arrangements have been made for a quick transition. We don't get to say "goodbye" to the house and firmly plant its memories in our minds. But even absent that experience, those childhood home memories can be exceptionally strong.

Sometimes when my head is full and my thoughts will not turn off so I can sleep, I push them all away by staging a walk-through of my childhood home. I go through the house, room by room, recalling every detail that I can: the pattern of the kitchen flooring, the fabric on the furniture, the paintings and pictures on the walls. Much of our house was wall-papered, so I try to recall not only prints, but stains and tears on the well-worn coverings. I go through all the rooms downstairs and then venture up, stepping on each stair, knowing which ones creaked. My bedroom was there, just at the top of the stairs on the right and I see it decorated in my "hippy phase" when I was in the ninth grade -- beaded curtains, fuzzy "hang ten" foot-shaped rugs in hot pink and purple. Further down the hall I see my sisters' rooms and the bathroom we shared. I see the linen cabinet that we had to make sure was always closed because our little brother had a peep hole in the back, accessed from the closet in the adjoining room. It never worked just to plug the hole, he always found a way to open it again. This exercise works surprisingly well and soon I am asleep, usually before I make it all the way through the house.

Several years ago my oldest sister and I went on a fall foliage tour in Door County, Wisconsin. Door county is a beautiful penninsula that juts out into Lake Michigan whose rocky coastline and scenery is very much like New England. In a gallery one day, I came across the works of a watercolor artist named Charles L. Peterson. He had a series of paintings named "Memories." They featured colorful scenes of old homes, churches, schools, train stations, etc. with translucent images of the people who once lived and worked in them. It is as if they are ghosts of the past, bidding us to remember. Here is a scan of one of his works, entitled "Family Reunion." I hope you can see the "ghosts" of the children playing in the yard and the adults sitting on the porch or going in and out of the house.

"Family Reunion" by Charles L. Peterson, copyright 1997

So this is how I see my friend, taking in all those familiar and compelling images that are whispering to her. Listen and remember and, when you are ready, come back home. We miss you.

She Keeps Me Going

My great-niece is seven years old. She is a precocious child, sometimes seeming like an adult in a child's body. She has an uncanny sense for when an adult is just feeding her the "party line" when it comes to things like Santa Claus, where you go when you die and other tough questions. You cannot lie to her; she will bust you every time. And she is my girl.

 Here's my girl on the left...




and her mom in 1977, about the same age, on the right.


It's a little scary, isn't it? Let me tell you, sometimes it really messes with my head. I have conversations with my girl that turn into conversations with her mother. All the time. I'm not sure which one I'm talking to.


Her mother was born when I was in the seventh grade so she and I grew up together. She seemed in many ways like my little sister, particularly when it came to arguing. I taught her to drive and, in most situations, we think and act the same. That similarity has carried on with my girl, and that, too, can mess with your head. Recently my girl treated us all to a "concert" with her child-size electric guitar simulator. The "song" plays and the child can make very real sounding guitar effects in the process. My girl's solo was complete with hair tossing, tongue flicking and dance moves she has seen on some video. Almost whole time, her mother and I were locked in eye contact, wordlessly communicating with each other this message, "How strange does it feel to watch yourself reborn in her?" It is very strange.


She isn't a carbon copy of either of us, except in the remarkable resemblance to her mother. She is definitely her own person and special in her own right. Her world is full of potential that I joyfully and hopefully watch her achieve every day. I can't wait to see what she becomes. I have a friend in his 70's who tells me he hopes he lives long enough to see her grow up, just because he knows she will be something special. I share that dream. 


My girl was born about a year before Scott and I lost our youngest boy, at age 12, in a car accident. In the dark days and years following, sometimes my girl brought the only moments of joy I could find. She kept me going then and keeps me going now. I have other nieces and nephews who I love dearly, too, but this one is my treasure. 


We had a discussion yesterday when the photo in this post was taken. Her mother had put the wash-out pink streaks in her hair to match her new outfit and I told her what a cute little girl she was. She took exception to the classification "little girl," telling me she wasn't little anymore. I told her that in my eyes she was still my "baby girl," so it was a compromise that I even upgraded her to "little." She thought about it and said, "OK, I'll accept that compromise." That's my girl.