That's a first

I went for a run today as part of my training. I only ran 1.6 miles as run/walk intervals, but what was pretty amazing for me was not feeling like I was going to die when I finished. I was hot and out of breath, yes, but I actually felt good. My left calf and shin were cramping like crazy, but I recovered pretty quick. In all my 36 years, that's the first time that's happened. Consider my mind blown.

Today, I ran 2 miles

The alarm went off at 7am this morning. I'm not sure who thought I was crazier, me or the dog. I don't get up that early to go to work. I was so out of it I couldn't get my contacts in. I'm still horrible at this layering thing, too. I am in dire need of a trip to the running store.

This whole running thing started because my friend Mark died of non-Hodgkins lymphoma back in February. The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society has a fantastic program called Team In Training that helps even the most out of shape losers like me run half marathons. :)

Cancer has had a profound impact on my life this year. Three weeks after Mark died, my father-in-law lost his battle with cancer, too. A different type, but cancer nonetheless. I took care of him the last eight hours of his life. Giving him is medicines every hour on the hour through the night.

One of my mom's oldest friends I'd known most of my life, another extended family member, a man from back home I knew. All gone. Others I knew were still fighting. My friend Renee's family had just been through hell with her nephew fighting a rare disease, only to find out that her dad has cancer. He had surgery not long ago to remove the cancer and is having followup radiation now. Our friend Nate from college kept fighting even though the traditional treatments weren't working. He lost the fight last week.

Not everyone I know has/had the same kind of cancer. LLS is the only organization with the great training program, and more people die of blood cancers than the next four cancers combined. Some of the drugs developed for blood cancers have become treatment options for other cancers. So that's how I found myself getting up at 7am to go run 2 miles this morning.

While I was running, Joe was waking up in Nashville. Today is Nate's funeral. He was 34. Thirty-freaking-four! He left a beautiful wife and two adorable kids. This isn't the first young friend I've lost. I've gone through this three times before. Mark was only 37. Mark started all this, but today isn't about Mark. Today is about Nate.

Nate was a good guy, and he didn't deserve this. His wife doesn't deserve to have to raise their kids alone. His kids don't deserve to grow up without their dad. I can make a donation to the kids' trust fund, but the bigger thing I can do is be an active participant in the fight against cancer. I can raise money to help cure the disease and make life better for those with it. I can run two miles and train for a half marathon.

These two are for you, Nate. Safe home.

"Have you lost your damn mind?"

As posted on my fundraising page for Team in Training.

Sub-Deb Halloween Hayride 1991

Mark King was my high school sweetheart, but long after that, he continued to be my very dear friend. We shared a love of books, a mile-wide stubborn streak and ferocius loyalty to those we love. Regardless of how often, or not, we talked, there was never a doubt in my mind that Mark would be with me if I needed him. If I could have moved a mountain to make Mark well, that's exactly what I would have done.

Even now, I have trouble imaging that Mark isn't still alive and smiling. He'd found his place and his home in Florida, and knowing he was happy, gave me faith that I would be happy, too. My life is better for having had Mark in my life, and the world is a little darker without him in it.

Mark would think it's hilarious that I'm going to run a half marathon for him. Specifically he'd ask, "Have you lost your damn mind?" May be, Mark. The thing is that no flowers or donation seem to be enough to honor what Mark meant to me. I need to feel like I gave everything I could to show the place in my heart that will always be his.

So here I am. There is a team training with me in DC as a part of Team in Training, and other team members who will join me at the race as a part of Team Mark. Together we're raising money and pushing ourselves not just to honor Mark, but to help vanquish the disease that took him from us.

To learn more about Team Mark and others you can support, check out the Team Mark blog.

$3,000 seems like a lot of money, but in the race to beat cancer, it's a drop in the bucket. On social media alone, I'm connected to more than 1,000 people. If just 300 of them donated $10, I'd meet my goal. I would love to have that many people donate a small amount to show their support for me and solidarity against cancer.

I hope you'll join me.

The perfect goodbye

It was lacrosse weekend. I called you from the field during the alumni game, and you came down. It was chilly, but you had those nasty Adidas sandals on with your toes hanging off the edge and a white undershirt on. You called my name and I ran to give you a hug ... "Mitchy!" I remember that hug like it happened five minutes ago. Those long, skinny arms of yours could wrap all the way around my waist twice. The players threw a party at the lacrosse house. You didn't want to go, but I came by to nudge you along. I put on my makeup in the mirror by the door while you got ready. During one trip from the bathroom to your bedroom you stopped and told me I'd be so hot if I weren't "such a mom." Ha!

While you were getting dressed you told me about spending time with your dad. I was glad to hear you were establishing a relationship with him. You were also going to take a class in the spring to get back on track with school. You were looking at the future and making plans. It was so nice to see. I told you how happy I was and how proud. I know what a rough road you'd traveled. I'd been on some of the same ones. I was always glad to be your touchstone or sounding board when you needed me. We finally made our way to the party. People couldn't believe I got you out of the house.

You may have gone because I made you, but you had a ball at the party. The house and yard were packed. Students were running around in costumes that were interesting to say the least. The pregnant teenager costume complete with "Baby Daddy" fueled your snark all night. It was the first lacrosse party Joe and I attended as a couple officially, so there were questions and comments constantly. You kept telling everyone that you knew it would happen all along. You also walked up while I was talking to different people all night to tell them that I tried to have you killed the first time you met me. You'd then walk away to leave me to explain. You were in full effect that night.

Claiming you were an old man, you left the party a bit earlier than the rest of us. You said I couldn't bitch because if it had been anyone else you'd have never left your apartment that night. You'd follow me anywhere. I gave you a big hug, lingering to tell you how proud of you I was and I love you. You were grinning as you walked up the hill, threw up your hand to say goodbye and walked into the night. What I didn't know is you were also walking out of my life. Just like that.

We never know when the last time we'll see somebody. I'd never have guessed that would be the last time I'd see you, and once the confusion, pain and shock settled, I could not have asked for a more perfect goodbye. There was no sadness. I was going to see you the next day. We'd had such a great conversation getting ready for the party. You were more positive than I'd seen you in years, and you said you were really feeling better, like things were turning around. You had so much fun at that party -- laughing, smiling, flirting, snarking -- you at your most Mitch. I can look back at that night and smile because I remember the happy, hopeful Mitch. I can smile because the last thing I ever said to you was "I love you."

Nothing has been the same since that night. The next 24 hours were like a living nightmare. I had to call your best friend to tell him you were gone. He still freaks out when I call him, even about nothing. My voice brought one of his greatest losses into his life. I called every person anyone could think of that needed to know you were gone. The last person I told was Lindsay, and when I got off the phone, I went into the living room and cried because I was finished with the list and I didn't want to make anyone else cry.

We drove to Ohio for your funeral. Your mom and grandparents were so sweet. It wasn't very "Mitch," so we celebrated your life a bit more appropriately at a casino in Wheeling, WV, on the way home. As Ethan sat with an entire row of machines lit up and maxed out, I stared in disbelief. He just looked and pointed up and yelled, "Thanks, Skeet!"

I called my mom to make sure she knew what my final wishes would be. I know your parents were so confused and shocked. Losing you made all of us realize that we are very mortal and being young means nothing in the grand scheme of things.

We went back to Knoxville to really say goodbye. Ethan still had a key to your old apartment, so it wasn't technically breaking and entering. We met some of your neighbors who'd heard stories about us. I got your ice skates from one of them and sent them to Thomas. You'd have wanted him to have them. At the end of the night, Joe and Ethan climbed onto your roof and placed a forty and a can of dip where the three of you hung off the back side hiding from the cops. I kissed my hand and placed it on your door.

American Movie

Some things don't change. Ethan still watches movies that would have both of us bored to tears while he laughs his ass off. Joe still has the famed spaghetti pot. You'd still think I'm hot and "such a mom." I thought about you on my wedding day. I looked in the mirror all made up, wearing my red dress, and I swear I could hear you, "Damn, you're hot." I just whispered, "Thanks." I saw someone who could pass for your twin at a Nationals game once, and before I could catch myself, my heart leapt and I thought, "Mitchy!!" Then, my heart broke. Every Halloween, I remember that perfect goodbye. Every November 1st, I send Ethan a message telling him I love him. Nothing more. Joe always finds a suiting tribute. Today, both of our Facebook profile pics are of Skeeter.

I can't believe it's been eight years. I had to write this to tell you I remember. I remember it all, and I still love you, Mitchy. Forever.

File this under you get what you pay for

I've always had a love/hate relationship with my bra. Well, mostly hate. First of all, I had to start wearing a bra when I was in the 4th grade. Not many girls at age nine require a bra, but lucky me, I got started early. Can you imagine the bra strap popping? By the time I was in high school, I had the unfortunate nickname "TQ" (Titty Queen). Now, imagine 20 fraternity pledges chanting, "TQ, TQ, TQ!" in the student section during homecoming. (Quite thankfully, one of the seniors made those pledges do pushups until they couldn't move their arms.) In the past few months, my current bras have become unbearable. My back hurts; my rib cage is sore.

I gave up on Victoria's Secret years ago. The 12 year olds working there know nothing. Their products fall apart, and a girl in a B cup just doesn't understand the woes of one in a D cup. So I went to buy new ones at Macy's, and came closer to assault than a purchase. Joe found me sweating, cursing and slightly bleeding. (I fell into a metal rack!)

While trying lure me out of the over-packed department store, he told me he'd seen a store down the mall that claimed to be the bra fitting experts -- Intimacy. The store was going to be way more expensive than what I normally spent on bras. We went in, and they were booked, but a woman checking out told me to make an appointment to come back the next day that the experience would change my life. I took that under advisement and took note that all the women working in the store were, well, let's just say they could relate to my problem. I went back the next day.

Before I go any further, let me tell you that I'm not in any way (other than my current undergarments) connect to Intimacy, nor have I or will I receive any compensation for what I'm about to say.

I've been fitted for bras before, and as a conscientious adult woman, I'm long past feeling awkward about someone inspecting my breasts, much less my bra. Even if I weren't, this lovely young woman named Alison was incredibly knowledgeable and made the fitting fun. Turns out my bra was the wrong size to start. Next, I wasn't wearing it right. Who knew after 25 years of wearing one!?

I now know I'm not a 36D -- I'm an 34F. I know how they're supposed to fit, and that when they do fit, my back doesn't hurt! I felt a difference before I even left the store. I also now know that the money I'd tried to save buying cheap bras, cost me a lot more.

Honored

There are days in your life that far exceed your expectations, experiences that pay dividends beyond your dreams, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

When I was a kid, I loved my Scooby Doo and GI Joe, but I also was fascinated with World War II. I might have been the only 10 year old who had seen and enjoyed the very long movie D-Day. My dad was in the Army and died when I was two years old. My grandfather was in the Army and at Utah Beach in Normandy. They both were my heroes, and John Wayne reminded me of them. I don't think there is a single war movie with John Wayne in it that I haven't seen. I read Ann Frank's Diary several times and history books about WWII. It bordered on obsession really.

A few years ago, we went to Paris, and we took a day trip to Normandy to see the beaches. It was astounding. I said then that if there was a place this side of heaven more peaceful or beautiful I couldn't imagine it. We walked from the beach up to the first Nazi pill box. It was a clear day. I was not carrying a 60lb. pack or a gun. I wasn't running or being shot at. There weren't dead bodies every where. Surviving that hill in those conditions isn't something I can imagine either.

The soldiers from WWII, overseas and stateside, and the families left behind that carried on sacrificed in a way few of us can imagine. As a generation, they are so unassuming and humble. They just say they did what they had to do. They didn't ask for recognition and they didn't make a fuss that they didn't have a monument to their war. The memorial finally built in DC is an amazing tribute to them, and last year, I found out about the Honor Flight Network, which provides the opportunity for WWII veterans to come to DC to see their memorial. In early May, a group from Nashville was coming in, and I took the day off to volunteer with the Honor Flight group at Reagan National Airport.

We met 101 veterans and about 30 guardians (volunteer caretakers for the day) at the airport. We stood outside security -- I'd made a sign welcoming them -- and shook their hands and cheered. I was planning to take my own car to the monument to help out there, too, but they had an extra seat on one of the buses, so I went with them for the day.

In early October, I took another day off to help with a slightly larger flight from Knoxville. Their flight was delayed three hours, but they were still able to see the Korean War and WWII Memorials and the changing of the guard at Arlington. I got to ride on the bus again to help out.

On both days, I took my camera, thinking I could share the shots I took with everyone later. Helping them on and off the buses and giving them a few pictures seemed like a small contribution to make. I wanted to give them something to say thank you, to honor them. I had no idea what I'd be getting in return. The men I helped thanked me repeatedly for pushing their wheelchair or just hanging out. I told them again and again they were more than welcome. And I really meant it.

To hear their stories first hand and watch them throughout the day gave me new perspective on the most monumental global event in modern time and forever burned into my memory the faces of courage and sacrifice. It was my honor to make their trip easier, more comfortable, more memorable. I hope I'm able to do it many more times.

Lessons from Mr. Brown's 8th grade history class, Part 2

Of all the stories my 8th grade history teacher, Mr. Brown, told, there is one that has stuck with me like no other. I don't remember the exact details from the story, names, dates, etc., but those aren't the important details anyway.

I believe it was in the late 60's that the hunger crisis in India was so bad that the U.S. decided to send over someone to help the Indian government look for solutions. The U.S. representative got off the plane in India and the first thing he saw was cows everywhere. Immediately he thought he knew the solution to the hunger crisis and started preparations to slaughter the cows to feed the people of India. Of course when this grand plan was shared with the Indian government, they put the representative right back on a plane to the U.S. with a thanks for his troubles.

The man from the U.S. didn't even try to understand the root of the Indian hunger crisis. He didn't talk to the people there about what they'd tried to do, nor did he ask why all the cows hadn't been considered as a food source. A simple conversation could have averted a huge embarrassment.

How often do we fail to ask enough questions and listen? No one knows when they walk into a new situation, whether it's a new job or a new social group, what sacred cows others have. Some people can't seem to help themselves. Open mouth, insert foot. It's happened to everyone at some point. I've had some colossal instances myself.

The thing is we're supposed to learn as we get older that our ears serve us better than our mouths. It's not just a matter of social conduct, but of survival at the basest level. Watch hunters or soldiers. It's not the guy gabbing his way through the woods or the soldier broadcasting his prowess on the battlefield who catches his game or survives. It's the guy who is listening and recording all the details of his environment before he moves that has the greatest success.

If the best soldiers and hunters listen, why isn't this same principle applied more liberally in the business world? The answer, in my humble opinion, is ego. It's ego that makes people fear being wrong, assume they are beyond failure or need to hear one's own voice. It's ego that keeps a mouth open and ears closed.

To someone who is all talk, few things are as intimidating as someone who listens. 

I don't claim for a moment to have my ego mastered, but I'm mindful of it. I work incredibly hard at putting it to practice every day. (Some days I'm better than others.) I speak with confidence, not because I'm always right, but because I listen. That confidence gets mistaken for ego, when it couldn't be further from reality. It's a lack of ego (or one that is in check) that makes me all the more confident because I'm not afraid of being wrong.

When I was young I was so shy I felt like fainting in the spotlight, but no one would have ever guessed it. I defied my insecurities by doing the exact opposite of my nature. The process was painful and wasn't always pretty. It took years for me to overcome my shyness and get comfortable in my own skin. I understood listening, but I had to get comfortable using my voice. That's when the real fun starts.

Life would be easier if we only had to master ourselves, but once you start using your voice -- participating in the conversation of life, new conflicts arise. If solving the hunger crises in India had been a simple question of finding new food sources, our friend from the story wouldn't have made such a big misstep. You are hungry; here is food. It's the circumstances, the other people involved, their sacred cows, that create the curve balls.

Unfortunately, life's lessons take longer than a middle school history class. I didn't learn to hit a curve ball for a long while, and no one can bat a .1000 in this game. But Mr. Brown showed me what a curve ball looked like.

What he said

9/30-10/2 issue of USA WEEKEND

The current turmoil in American politics has had my head spinning with so many thoughts and responses to what's happening around me that I can't really even write about it. But I just read an article in USA WEEKEND where celebrated documentary film-maker Ken Burns has found the words for me, and framed the thoughts with an unexpected comparison. I am fascinated, as I hope you will be, too. Please take a moment to read and reflect: Is it the end of civility (again)?

To find a hard copy of the article, check your local newspaper.

Lessons from Mr. Brown's 8th grade history class, Part 1

Mr. Brown, a few years later

My eighth grade American history teacher, Mr. Brown, told many stories as he fooled us into learning history. He only ever asked us to remember one date, and a lot of years later, I still remember it -- November 11, 1918 at 11am. (That's when World War I ended. WWI started when Archduke Ferdinand of Austria was assassinated.) Mr. Brown's stories would have us laughing or crying on any given day. He pulled us into history in a way no other teacher has ever repeated in my academic career. It was a class we looked forward to every day, even book report day.

Mr. Brown required everyone to read one non-fiction book every six weeks and give an oral book report. For those of us who weren't ready, we always begged Chris H. to go first because he could spin a yarn about his book for at least half the class time. You didn't dare try to fake your way through the book report. It was better to tell Mr. Brown you lacked 100 pages than get caught lying about finishing. Rich learned that one the hard way when Mr. Brown backed him into a corner about why the Nazis only surrounded Dunkirk on three sides during the battle there. The tongue lashing that followed was brutal, but fair, and no one ever attempted that again. By the way, the Nazis couldn't surround Dunkirk on the fourth side "because the Nazis couldn't walk on water!" Turns out Dunkirk was a river town, which Rich would have realized if he'd read the book.

None of us really wanted to read non-fiction, and I didn't want to read anything. I was always a slow reader, so the idea of finishing anything more than a short story terrified me. I explained this to Mr. Brown, and he gave me a book he knew I'd love that was several hundred pages long. He had me read 200 pages per six weeks until I finished it. Subsequently, I lost my fear of pages and found my love of reading.

The late eighties were rife with movies about Vietnam. At least once a decade the sixties come back in style, and we were all intrigued. (That's pretty excited for teenagers.) Mr. Brown wouldn't be teaching us about Vietnam era American history. Since in 1988 was less than 20 years from the end of the war, he said it wasn't history yet. We did talk a bit about that era though, and Mr. Brown introduced us all to Jimi Hendrix. He brought in a record of Star Spangled Banner from Woodstock, and we were mesmerized. We'd never heard anything like it before. I was in love -- again, thanks to Mr. Brown.

We often did experiments in class. They'd be the product of some tangent we'd start. Once he wanted to show that personal space is relative to gender, as well as the individual and the relationship between the two people in each others' space. He started with the boys by taking two guys who were good friends, then he repeated the set up with myself and my best friend. We got progressively closer to each other side to side, back to back, then face to face. The girls had very little personal space and were not uncomfortable being in close proximity to each other. The guys were a little more distant. It was interesting.

Sometimes, our experiments were to make a point. For instance, Mr. Brown once had several of us take turns doing this endurance test. Your back is against the wall with your hips and knees bent at 90 degree angles like you're sitting very straight in a chair. It's only the strength of your legs that keeps you in that position. Then he had us put our arms straight out in front of us, palms up supporting our history book. This is not a comfortable position. He had some random people in class see how long they could go, and then, asked us who we thought could hold out the longest. One of the captains of the football team was in our class, and of course, we all picked him. Then, he asked which girl we thought could hold out the longest, and they picked me. I ended up holding on longer than the captain of the football team. It was only about three and a half minutes, but it was the longest three and a half minutes of my life, thus far. His point? You'll find the greatest strength in the places you don't expect, and endurance is as much mental as it is muscle. How does that relate to history? The projection of strength is often enough to keep others at bay, and never underestimate the little guy with something to fight for.

We were each asked to write an essay on which side we'd have taken in the Revolutionary War. Mr. Brown had been assigning this to students for years, and students were usually split 50/50 on their choices. I was the first person to ever declare themselves Switzerland though. I could see both sides and was convinced there had to be a more diplomatic way to solve the problem. In the end, Mr. Brown explained that by not choosing a side I was the enemy to both sides. It was my first lesson in "if you're not with us, you're against us." Sometimes, you have to pick a side.

I was lucky to have had a number of fantastic teachers who positively impacted my life. Mr. Brown has remained one of my favorites, and the lessons he taught have remained relevant even in my adult life.

Women, read this!

At her invitation, I've stolen @WhyMommy's post. The more women who see this the better. Please check out her blog as well.

Inflammatory breast cancer

We hear a lot about breast cancer these days. One in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetimes, and there are millions living with it in the U.S. today alone. But did you know that there is more than one type of breast cancer?

I didn’t. I thought that breast cancer was all the same. I figured that if I did my monthly breast self-exams, and found no lump, I’d be fine.

Oops. It turns out that you don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer. Six weeks ago, I went to my OB/GYN because my breast felt funny. It was red, hot, inflamed, and the skin looked…funny. But there was no lump, so I wasn’t worried. I should have been. After a round of antibiotics didn’t clear up the inflammation, my doctor sent me to a breast specialist and did a skin punch biopsy. That test showed that I have inflammatory breast cancer, a very aggressive cancer that can be deadly.

Inflammatory breast cancer is often misdiagnosed as mastitis because many doctors have never seen it before and consider it rare. “Rare” or not, there are over 100,000 women in the U.S. with this cancer right now; only half will survive five years. Please call your OB/GYN if you experience several of the following symptoms in your breast, or any unusual changes: redness, rapid increase in size of one breast, persistent itching of breast or nipple, thickening of breast tissue, stabbing pain, soreness, swelling under the arm, dimpling or ridging (for example, when you take your bra off, the bra marks stay – for a while), flattening or retracting of the nipple, or a texture that looks or feels like an orange (called peau d’orange). Ask if your GYN is familiar with inflammatory breast cancer, and tell her that you’re concerned and want to come in to rule it out.

There is more than one kind of breast cancer. Inflammatory breast cancer is the most aggressive form of breast cancer out there, and early detection is critical. It’s not usually detected by mammogram. It does not usually present with a lump. It may be overlooked with all of the changes that our breasts undergo during the years when we’re pregnant and/or nursing our little ones. It’s important not to miss this one.

Inflammatory breast cancer is detected by women and their doctors who notice a change in one of their breasts. If you notice a change, call your doctor today. Tell her about it. Tell her that you have a friend with this disease, and it’s trying to kill her. Now you know what I wish I had known before six weeks ago.
You don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer.


P.S. Feel free to steal this post too.  I’d be happy for anyone in the blogosphere to take it and put it on their site, no questions asked.  Dress it up, dress it down, let it run around the place barefoot. I don’t care.  But I want the word to get out.  I don’t want another young mom — or old man — or anyone in between — to have to stare at this thing on their chest and wonder, is it mastitis?  Is it a rash?  Am I overreacting?  This cancer moves FAST, and early detection and treatment is critical for survival.

Thank you.

His name was Herschel

Growing up, I spent a lot of time in Ball Hollow with my MaMau and Granddaddy. My aunt Kathy and uncle Roy lived "next door" -- a half mile down the road. My playmates were my sister, Lyndsey, and cousins. Our playgrounds were rolling hillsides and hay fields and pastures and barns. Being outside from sun up to sun down was our goal, and the dirtier we were when we came home, the more fun we'd had.

Granddaddy got up before dawn every morning, and MaMau made breakfast. During the week, he worked as a supervisor at the rock crusher. In the evenings he tended to his cows and on weekends he worked on the farm. My older cousins, both boys, worked with Grandddaddy on the weekends. Lyndsey and I, nor my younger cousin Brad, had to work, but we stayed busy. Probably a bit busier than anyone would have preferred. Other than my cousins and uncle, there was one other man who helped Granddaddy. His name was Herschel.

Herschel didn't drive, so Granddaddy would go get him right after breakfast. I remember at the time thinking Herschel must have been ancient, but then again, I thought my grandfather was ancient, too. Herschel was probably only a bit older than my grandfather, but his years had been harder than Granddaddy's. Granddaddy may have had to leave school after the 8th grade, fight in WWII in Germany and do manual labor his whole life, but Herschel was a black man born and raised in the South. More specifically, he lived in Pulaski, TN, the birthplace of the Ku Klux Klan.

I don't know the details of Herschel's personal struggle. I was too young really to grasp what life must have been like for him, but here's what I remember about Herschel. I don't remember the chronology of these stories, but they were all when we were in grade school. I was two years older than Lyndsey and Brad, and I couldn't have been more than eight years old.

Herschel was a hard worker. He could dig post holes so deep, so fast, and he could toss bales of hay into the back of a truck as if they weighed nothing. He was always quiet, but he'd hum while he worked. He's also the only person to ever live who is more afraid of snakes than me. We thought Herschel hung the moon, and he's light up, smiling whenever we came running, yelling his name.

For my grandfather, everything had a place and was supposed to be just so. He kept the barn cleaner than some keep their house, and his garden never had any weeds -- although he couldn't plant in a straight row to save his life. His cows were well taken care of. But what I remember most when it comes to Granddaddy were his fences. He couldn't stand to have a fence sagging or in the case of the front yard, fading. Their house was halfway up a hill, and the front yard was the size of a football field. A three-plank fence went all the way around, and once a year, it got painted, always a brick red color.

Granddaddy would have his truck in the yard, and as they checked all the cross pieces and then painted them, they'd move the truck down the fence with them with all the tools, paint and cold drinking water. Now, Granddaddy didn't want us kids painting. He figured, probably correctly, that we'd have more paint on ourselves than the fence. But that didn't mean we weren't right there and into everything. We climbed all over the truck, inside and out, and finally, we wanted to see what the underside of it looked like -- while it was moving.

We knew to be careful, so as not to get run over, so we laid down in the very middle of the wheel base and stayed very still the next time Granddaddy got ready to move the truck. I can still remember what it looked like as the truck very slowly inched down the next section of fence, parts moving, mud everywhere. When our feet started to come out the back end, Herschel saw us, and yelled so loud that Granddaddy stalled out the truck. "Mr. Dude, them kids!!!" MaMau had been watching out the kitchen window, and ran out to the front yard just as Granddaddy and Herschel were pulling us feet first out from under the truck. They were shaking, and when we realized how much trouble we were in, we started shaking, too.

Granddaddy never laid a finger on us in our whole lives, and the maddest any of us ever saw him was when we'd worried or scared him. MaMau on the other hand was not above blistering our backsides, and here she was coming. Granddaddy was yelling half at us, half at God about how we could have been killed. Herschel just sat down shaking his head. Needless to say, that was the last we were allowed around them while they painted, and the last time any of us sat comfortably for the rest of the day. MaMau wouldn't let us out of her sight.

I remember another occasion when we were playing around the truck while they were digging post holes on the hill behind the house. It was a hot summer day, and Granddaddy was always telling us to be careful and watch where we played. Some nasty creatures come out in Tennessee hollows in summer. Out of no where, Herschel grabbed all three of us in his arms and tossed us tumbling into the back of the truck on top of tools and anything else that happened to be back there. We thought Herschel had lost his mind. Granddaddy heard us screaming, and turned as we all came up looking out of the truck bed to see Herschel grab a snake out of the grass and snap it like a whip, killing it with his bare hands.

Granddaddy made sure we were OK and then made Herschel sit down in the truck. He later told MaMau it was the whitest he'd ever seen a black man. Every bit of color drained out of Herschel's face and he nearly fainted when he realized he'd just grabbed a snake. We were so worried about Herschel and kept trying to check on him. Granddaddy took us all back to the house, and MaMau made us go inside. They looked at the snake and found it was a copperhead -- an incredibly poisonous and aggressive snake. It would have bitten us without provocation. We'd been playing three feet from it when Herschel grabbed us.

It wasn't until later that Granddaddy told us Herschel was fine and he'd only been scared to death because he was so afraid of snakes. If we'd thought Herschel was cool before he was something close to a god after that. We thanked him over and over, as did my grandparents. For Herschel's part, he just nodded and said he'd never let anything happened to them kids. He also wanted to go home. He'd had enough for one day.

Every afternoon when Granddaddy and the "men" came in for lunch, MaMau would fix Herschel a plate and take it to him on the back porch. She managed the cafeteria at one of the local schools, so she'd brought trays home for Herschel's lunch. Of course, we thought Herschel hung the moon, so we wanted to eat with him, so MaMau brought trays home for us, too. We'd sit on the back porch and eat, and when we were done, Herschel would pull out a pack of gum -- Wrigley's Spearmint -- and give us each a piece. It never failed; Herschel always had gum.

When it was cold out, Herschel would take the steps from the carport and go eat in the basement to stay warm. My grandparents' house had a wood furnace, and sitting next to it was so warm and had this lovely smell of burning wood. Occasionally, MaMau would run us out of the basement to give Herschel some peace and quiet. He never complained or scolded any of us, but thinking back, I have to think he appreciated MaMau's intervention some times.

When we got further along into grade school, I started questioning why Herschel never came in the house. I thought it was Granddaddy who wouldn't let him come in. Lord knows I'd grown up around enough people who freely used the "N" word or were otherwise racist in their speech or actions. Hell, the Klan still marched around the square in Pulaski every year when I was a kid -- a day none of us were allowed to go to town. I couldn't imagine why else Herschel wouldn't come in. I got really mad at Granddaddy one day and told him he should be ashamed of Herschel eating outside. Granddaddy didn't say a thing and walked out of the house.

Later Momma and MaMau sat us down and explained.

It wasn't Granddaddy that kept Herschel out of the house. To the contrary, Herschel wouldn't come inside. He said his Momma would "roll over in her grave if he ever caught him in a white man's house." Granddaddy loved Herschel and welcomed him any time into his home. Turns out he enclosed the back porch and put fans out there, so Herschel would have a cool place to have his lunch in the summer. And it had only been MaMau's begging that talked him into taking the back steps into the basement in winter. He'd have never given in to Granddaddy, but he couldn't tell Mrs. Willa Mae "no" for long.

We couldn't even begin to wrap our minds around what they were telling us. Why wouldn't Herschel's momma let him in Granddaddy's house? Why did it matter if he was white? Keep in mind, this was the 80's and we had no real perspective on race. We were in our own little world, and our only real interaction with black people was with Herschel. My sister and I went to a K-12 school that only had one black boy in the whole school. What the hell did we know? Looking back, it may have been the first time I became aware of race at all.

My dad died when I was two years old, but we still had a strong male figure in our lives in Granddaddy. He was like John Wayne to me. When I was a senior in high school, Granddaddy had a series of strokes and ended up in a nursing home for several months before he died. By then, I was a freshman at the University of Tennessee. I went home for Granddaddy's funeral, and the outpouring of sympathy for my family and respect for my grandfather was immense. It was cold and rainy at the cemetery, and Mom pointed out someone peeking out from behind a truck parked on the road by the cemetery. It was Herschel.

Whispers flew between us, and MaMau asked for us to bring Herschel over. I hopped up and ran over to him feeling like I was 8 years old again. I gave him a hug with my sister and Brad right behind me. Of course, Herschel pulled out a pack of gum. We told him to come sit with us, but Herschel demurred and said he would stay where he was in the back. We told him MaMau wanted to see him, so he came over. My mom hugged him and told him Granddaddy had loved him. MaMau made everyone scoot down, and Herschel sat beside her, with her holding his hand, while they buried Granddaddy. He was as much a part of our family as anyone else, and he belonged with us under that tent.

That was the last time I saw Herschel. A few Christmases ago, I heard my older cousins talking about "that old N*****, Herschel," asking to borrow $5 or $20 every once in a while. They of course obliged and were convinced he never really needed it or spent it. He always insisted on paying them back exactly when he said he would and never missed. As pleased as I was that they'd helped Herschel, I was appalled at their use of that word, especially in reference to Herschel. This was a man Granddaddy had loved and respected, a man who was kind to our family and dear. I berated them both for their use of that word, saying if they were too ignorant to know better than to use that word they should at least know better than to say it in reference to Herschel. My Granddaddy rolled over in his grave that night.

I'm more educated than most of my family. I've seen more things and have a broader world view than most of them as well. I say none of these things as a knock on them or to pat myself of the back. I say them to show the difference in our perspectives. I do not suggest it's an excuse for their ignorance in the use of that word. In fact, it only underlines for me the long distances we have to go in this country when it comes to race. All of us having known Herschel most of our lives, my cousins used an ugly, racist, ignorant term to describe him based solely on the color of his skin, knowing him to be a good and honorable man. How does that still happen?

It's never excusable, but people often use derogatory words to describe someone of low morals or bad character, someone who's wronged them, but none of these things applied to Herschel. They had no reason in the world to use any derogatory term to describe him, much less that one. How then was is so acceptable in their minds that it rolled off their tongues as if they'd called him blond or funny? How are there places that still breed such hate? Why does it still shock me?

I asked my cousins why they thought Herschel asked to borrow money he didn't really need, and he said Herschel once gave him back the same exact $20 bill he'd given him two days earlier. He thought maybe it made him feel good that he could borrow the money if he needed. Maybe it made him feel trusted or respected. Who knows really. Part of me thinks he wanted a connection to the family again. After Granddaddy died, MaMau moved into town, and Herschel couldn't drive, so we didn't see him often. Maybe he missed my grandfather, a man who treated him as an equal as much as Herschel would let him.

For my part, I choose to learn compassion, respect and kindness from my Granddaddy. I choose to remember Herschel for his hard work, courage and packs of gum. And I will always remember a lesson neither may have realized he taught: No matter how scared you are or how different you are, there are somethings that matter more than fear or differences. Like three little kids who played too close to a snake or two men who worked together with mutual respect and love.

Dear, God, please kill all the mosquitoes.

After reading a recent article, I wrote this as a comment and thought I'd post it here as well. Someone should get something out of my suffering. Here is the original article.

I am a mosquito magnet. If I'm standing next to you, you can bet you will not get bitten. Since cloning isn't available, here are a few pearls of wisdom I've accumulated as I've waged war on the little blood suckers:

1.Do not spray yourself with anything that doesn't say it's "safe" to do so. Whoever was spraying down with RAID, might want to check that one out. Be careful what you spray on your pets, too. Some dogs are more prone to being bitten, but spraying the dog with something they will inevitably lick can make them sick. READ LABELS!

2. Skin So Soft works unless you're me. Pretty sure the mosquitoes just thought they'd found the spicy flavor of me that day. I put in the same category as this using a dryer sheet. My mother and Nana swear by both. Putting a dryer sheet in your pant waist, sock or wherever you can get it distracts the buggers. Again, neither of these work for me.

3. Citronella oil works if you get those big tiki torches and leave a big chunk of the wick out. I'm not sure how much of the repellent is the oil and how much is the smoke, but the combo works.

4. I love the OFF! lanterns. They work like a charm. Lighting the candle is a bit of a hassle, and you have to keep tabs on the pad to refill before it wears off. The effectiveness and reduced risk of burning down your house make the hassle worth it.

5. Yard sprays that attach to your hose (we've used the Cutter version for a couple of summers) have to be reapplied, especially if you get a rash of rain. They seemed to have some effect on reducing the mosquitoes in our yard, which normally has literal clouds of the vile little creatures. It did not eliminate them completely though. I've used the granules that you spring in standing water to prevent the eggs from hatching, and the combination worked better.

6.Speaking of standing water, don't forget down spouts, window wells, drainage channels, storm drains and check your surrounds neighbors' yards, too. We're convinced a neighbor behind us is breeding half the mosquitoes in northern Virginia because they have bad drainage and don't see to care.

7. A word of warning about bat and marlin houses. I was all for this, and in a big way, but I was advised by our vet that the bats and birds are going to defecate after the mosquito feast and their poop is poisonous to pets. I have enough trouble keeping my dog from eating his own poop, so the idea died there.

8.The clip on fans (the ones I tried were OFF!) are worthless. If there's any breeze or if you're walking, the scent can't build up enough to be effective. I was even wearing 2 of them, and I have a dozen bites to show for it. Went back inside and sprayed on old faithful ...

9. If cancer doesn't get me, malaria or west nile will, so I use Deep Woods OFF! I'm very brand loyal there because it's the only one I've used and not gotten a single bite.

We're hardscaping our backyard (it's small) in hopes we can better control the environment and reduce bugs that way. I'm researching plants that naturally repel the beasts and will be testing a few other lantern-type options, too.

Tada!

OK, so sometimes I start something and it takes me a while to finish. I get around to it eventually. Anyway, last summer I started trying to knit a stuffed caterpillar. It was not easy seeing as I knitted the whole thing on 3.5" needles -- four of them. I wrote about it back then because I was having such a hard time before I got my "toothpicks" as hubby calls them.

I played with the pattern of course, or at least the colors. Then, here and there I would come back to my little project. I Think it turned out pretty good. It looks like a caterpillar, antenna and all. I won't be making two of these, but I've got a pattern for a little zebra and a lion that I'll hopefully finish before all the kids I know graduate from high school.

 

The pattern I used is in the background. I used whatever yarn I wanted and made up my own colors, too. I didn't know how to do what the instructions rather unclearly tried to direct, so I made that up. Where there's a will, there's a way.

 

Frog leg, anyone?

9.11.01. You know where you were. My youngest sister was only nine, and she remembers. In the days that followed, we grieved and looked for someone to blame, somewhere to direct out fear and anger. When we found out who was responsible, all of our energies were focused, and we rallied together with a common enemy.

In the months that followed, we wrapped ourselves in the flag, distracted ourselves with a war, gave up our civil rights and miraculously let the guy who declared war on us get pushed to the back burner. Calm didn't return. Instead we let numbness seep into our lives and adjusted to a new level of stress in our lives.

Let me ask you something. Ten years later are you less afraid? Think back to ten years ago, and ask yourself if you'd have so willingly walked into a body scanner before your flights. Would it bother you that someone rifled through your suitcase and looked in your purse?

The saying goes that if you put a frog in boiling water, it will jump right out. But if you put a frog in room temperature water and slowly turn up the heat, it will sit there and cook. Well, stick in a fork in us, we're done.

In the 2006 midterm elections, tides started to turn. 2008 brought change and hope. Back and forth, tension building, our country is more divided than ever. Every issue is made political; the extremes pushing the boundaries. We've been at war almost half of my youngest sister's life. Normal has been redefined over and over for not just the American people, but the world.

5.1.11. Barack Obama, having re-focused the war on terror back to Bin Laden, makes a late night announcement that at last he's been found -- and killed. Personally, I cried when I heard the words. I didn't know what else to do.

Was I happy, relieved or just jarred by the sudden change in my reality? Maybe I realized that for the first time since 9.11 I can't put a face to my fear and anger. I can't point a finger and know the name of the enemy. Oh, there are groups and generic labels, but I'm human. I want a face, a symbol, a name to put on my fear.

Further complicating my reaction to the news is ten years of wondering how in the ever-loving hell a 6'5" Arab on dialysis* could wander around, across borders nonetheless, making home videos and talking on a satellite phone without being found. The man had better reception than some AT&T customers and practically had his own YouTube channel. Really!?!

Americans do not take losing well, and in this extremely long game of hide and seek, we were getting our arses kicked. Of all the terrorists we'd managed to catch or kill, #1 kept eluding us.

Every human emotion built up over ten years came to a crescendo and then flooding out. When I saw the crowds gathering at the White House, I knew I had to go. I wasn't so much going to celebrate as to witness. I wanted to be there on this momentous occasion. What I saw was a group of jubilant revelers basking in their national pride, but I saw no malice. It was not a celebration of one man's death. It was more like a losing team finding their way back in the game.

It seems like adults who were actually adults on 9.11 -- at least those who weren't drunk from the Caps game -- were more there to witness a historical event. Perhaps we were still absorbing the news. Our collective nightmare of ten years wasn't necessarily over, but a chapter closed. Only on the edges of our mind were we allowing thoughts of the next chapter to percolate.

The younger crowd was doing the majority of the dancing and chanting. I was a bit shocked by their patriotism actually. This younger generation has been largely apathetic toward national interests, but they had flags aplenty. (Judging by the fancy golden eagle finials, they were stolen from university lecture halls around DC.) They danced and sang and chanted. But what were they celebrating?

Kids in college now are my youngest sister's age. Sure they're old enough to remember 9.11, but did they really understand? The majority of their lives has been under rainbow-colored threat alerts and in long security lines. Then again, maybe it isn't so much 9.11 as the ensuing war on terror and Iraq War that gives them reason to take joy in one battle's victory. It's their older siblings and their friends being killed overseas. Yeah, that's worth a little revelry.

To varying degrees, humans can process myriad emotions and bear great stress physically and mentally. The thing is there is always a breaking point. We've experienced the tech bubble, the housing bubble, and like anything else that's stretched to its limit, our national psyche snapped in another bubble. I won't give it a trite name, but it popped either way. It all resulted in a night of joy and, dare I say it, togetherness.

For the briefest window of time, and I do mean brief, we were Americans. One collective worry was gone. We were united again for the first time in a very long time. I honestly do not believe the majority of us were happy because a man died.

I know personally I can't rejoice in any death. (OK, except maybe a snake's, but I really hate snakes.) I don't think many people really can. But we can rejoice in justice, even if it's delivered in a more unfortunate form. I saw an almost innocent exhibit of relief at a chapter closing and a seized moment of unity in the name of justice. That's what I choose to take away from this.

Underneath all the postured sophistication and tough talk, we all still need to feel like a part of something bigger. We need unity. We need those moments to heave a collective sigh and put worry aside. Even if we only show it for a few hours in the middle of the night.

*It is still undetermined whether or not Bin Laden suffered from a disease that required dialysis. (Snopes.com)

Henry Wagsworth Longfellow

 

Hubby and I spent the day at Great Falls National Park (Virginia side). Took the dog and my camera. In case anyone doubted I have the cutest dog ever, here's my proof.

Seriously?!

Dear Always, Carefree, Kotex, et al,

I spent 15 minutes on the feminine hygiene aisle at CVS this evening, most of the time thinking WTF!

Is it not bad enough that I have to deal with mood swings, hormone headaches -- and the feminine hygiene aisle? Now, I have to search through every package on said aisle to find a plain, de-winged, unscented panty liner.

For the record, I do not need my panty liners to fly, be powder fresh, smell like a spring breeze or be three feet long. I do however need them to be easy to find!

Love,
Me

Bullets

I've had my fair share of those galvanizing experiences that are scripted into all of our lives by the fates. Soul-crushing losses and heartbreaking struggles test our faith, stoke our courage and develop our strength.

Whoever said, "If I doesn't kill you, it makes you stronger," was on to something, it would seem.

Some of these bullets come at us straight on, firing squad style. We prepare the best we can, brace for impact -- sidestep if we can -- and above all survive. Others are sneakier, coming out of a blind spot. After a few of these hits, one can become paranoid, overly guarded -- gun shy. The best of us get back up ready to hit back. Some of us don't.

I have never been afraid to be the one who got sick or hurt or put in harm's way. On any number of occasions, I've watched bad things happening to good people and thought -- in earnest -- that I wish I could take it away, even to the point of taking their place. Whatever I have to give is on the table.

Lately, I've watched the firing squad line up those I love and take their shots while I sit idly by without a way to help or even ease the hurt.

The first week of February, cancer took my high school sweetheart who was one of my oldest friends. I couldn't help help, and now, his friends and family are in pain I cannot abate. I can stand my own pain, and I would take theirs, too. Alas, I cannot.

My mother's first friend in the town where I grew up died from complications from cancer a week later. My mother is sad, as am I from his loss, but again, there is nothing I can do.

When we found out my father-in-law's cancer was back just over a year ago, I researched treatments, doctors, hospitals. We put him in the best position to sidestep the firing squad. Hubby and I went to every doctor appointment we could. When it came time to stop the treatments, we started alternating weekends in Tennessee to help Lynda (hubby's stepmom) take care of Glen (my father-in-law), disregarding scheduling, expense and all other responsibilities.

Last weekend, I was going to Jackson to help, and before my plane landed, hubby had a flight for the next morning. Glen had taken another turn for the worse, and we were coming to the end. That Saturday night, we talked Lynda into splitting the night into shifts, and we gave her the first two off, so she could get some much needed sleep. I let hubby fall asleep, too, and stayed awake all night giving Glen his medicine every hour, making sure he was comfortable and monitoring any changes. To say it was brutal doesn't even begin to describe it.

Maybe I was hallucinating from the lack of sleep, but I swear I could feel death sitting in the room with me. I could hear it with every rattling breath he took. I sat by his bed, petting his arm and humming Coldplay's "Til Kingdom Come" until just before 4am when Lynda got up to take over. My head was spinning, and my body hurt. I'd made it through the night though.

Just as we were all stirring, Glen seemed to be choking, and I started suctioning his mouth and throat as much as I could. When it was obvious what was happening Lynda grabbed Glen's Bible. Joe held one hand, Lynda held the other, and I read the 23 Psalm. Glen took his last breath.

Glen's pain ended where ours came to a crescendo. I made half a dozen phone calls at 4am, and by 4:30am, the house was full -- friends, family, the pastor, hospice. I watched as snipers took their sneaky shots. It's a funny thing about death that you can prepare for it, but you're never actually ready when it comes. While we'd all be lined up waiting for the firing squad to take their aim, the snipers took their shots from the shadows.

The month of February was not kind to those I love. I guess it wasn't kind to me either, but I wasn't worried about me. I was frustrated that I had to stand on the sidelines watching bad things happen to good people without any way of making it stop. I have a friend who calls me her "super hero," and at one point, I thought of the Wonder Twins from the old JLA cartoons: "Wonder Twin powers activate!" Make me a sponge, so I can soak up their pain.

Life doesn't work that way. We each have our own pain to bear, and no one can take it away. I can't take the bullets for them or stop them from coming. The best I can do is hurt with them and hope it's enough.

A piece of me.

I love books. I love the feel of them, their consistency, the characters coming to life. I have hundreds of books of different sizes, shapes, genres, authors. Each one has a special place in my life and my heart. You see, my books are my friends.

I'm not crazy. I know books are objects that can't relate to me, can't understand me. I project those things on the books as a function of the fact that I find comfort and happiness from them.

Because of my general make up, I am a caretaker. Whether I should or not, I feel responsible for more people than not. I don't resent that. It does however make it hard for me to connect to people.

I'm a "heavy" person by nature. Small talk doesn't work for me. It's not that I don't care how your day went or how your mother is doing, I'm just generally thinking on another plane. I'm more likely to discuss the interpersonal dynamics of your office that create the environment that led to your good or bad day. My sister says I take things too seriously -- OK, a lot of people say that. It's not that I am or want to be a stick in the mud; it's just the way I'm wired.

I'd love to be able to relax around people and just kick back, but with few exceptions, I find myself distant and awkward. Even in a room full of people, I can feel so separate.

TV shows like Bones and NCIS center around groups of people who in many ways are like me. They're not quite like everyone else and think a little differently, but they've found a place where they belong just as they are. As with my books, I find comfort in watching these characters and their relationships. I'm projecting again.

My ability to empathize with others is acute. It's part of the reason I can be so intense. It's also part of the reason I love to read so much. The characters become so real and the story so personal. I have no real relationship with these things, but the connection feels quite real.

But like any other dream, consciousness comes and the connection fades. The sad thing is I can't seem to recreate the experience in real life, and some times, my soul starves for it. I feel lost.

I am lonely.

What is love?

Sometimes, I hear about companies that I've loved and supported doing things or supporting causes that break my heart. This is one of them.

As often as I've lamented not being able to get my favorite breakfast on Sunday morning, I've always respected Chick-fil-a's commitment to making Sunday a day of rest and worship for their employees. (I do find it strange that they sponsor sporting events on Sundays which most likely require their employees to work them, but that's another story.) Well, no more.

When asked by a group if Chick-fil-a's charitable arm WinShape would accept GLBT guests at their retreat center, this was the response:

"WinShape Retreat defines marriage from the Biblical standard as being between one man and one woman. Groups/Individuals are welcome who offer wholesome, educational conferences and programs that are compatible with Biblical values and WinShape's purpose."

You can get the full details at the link below, as well as all the gory details of the support Chick-fil-a lends to anti-gay groups. Part of the story includes the video below being removed from "Reel Love Video Challenge."

This video is fantastic. After you watch it, read the article at the link below. I hope after that you will join me in signing the petition to support a group of students in Indiana trying to do something about the injustice. I also won't be eating at a Chick-fil-a until they change their tune. If one of us is oppressed, we are all oppressed.

In the meantime, I will leave you with this obscure quote from a little book you may have at least heard of in all the debate about gay rights and gay marriage. It was probably written by some nut though.

1 Corinthians 13:1-13
If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but do not have love, I have become a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.

And if I have the gift of prophecy, and know all mysteries and all knowledge; and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing.

And if I give all my possessions to feed the poor, and if I deliver my body to be burned, but do not have love, it profits me nothing.

Love is patient, love is kind, and is not jealous; love does not brag and is not arrogant, does not act unbecomingly; it does not seek its own, is not provoked, does not take into account a wrong suffered, does not rejoice in unrighteousness, but rejoices with the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

Love never fails; but if there are gifts of prophecy, they will be done away; if there are tongues, they will cease; if there is knowledge, it will be done away.

For we know in part, and we prophesy in part; but when the perfect comes, the partial will be done away.

When I was a child, I used to speak as a child, think as a child, reason as a child; when I became a man, I did away with childish things.

For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face; now I know in part, but then I shall know fully just as I also have been fully known.

But now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.

Now, click this link and do something about it!

After all these years

Today marks the 33rd anniversary of my father's death. I am 35.

It's so strange to miss someone and hurt so much after so long when you never really knew them.

I have a few memories that are more like still images. I don't remember what he looked like moving. Until I saw some old home movies, I felt like I'd never seen him move. He was almost a figment of my imagination, no more real to me than my stuffed rabbit. I don't remember what it felt like to touch him or how my name sounded when he spoke it. I don't know how he smelled.

It was so long ago, and the longer it is, the further away, less real, he seems. I can remember going to his grave when I was little before the grass had completely grown back. It makes me angry that I wasn't more cognitive back then to try and remember and hold on to those memories. I was so much closer then and had no idea.

Now, I struggle to remember what it was like to have been that close in time to when he really existed. I can't miss him really. It's more a longing to be connected, an overwhelming desire to have memories of my own, to have known my father.

I'm told I'm much like him. I look like him, though less so as I get older. I've had many people come back into my life that knew me when my daddy was alive. They tell us stories, share pictures, and we even got a video of him playing football in high school. Maybe one day a recording of his voice will surface. I can hope.

I didn't cry on this day when I was younger, but I do now. Joe is sweet and holds me. Henry licks away my tears. Tomorrow will come as it always does, and I'll keep on surviving. Breathe in, breathe out. Try to remember.