It's Been a Year

Pin It When I awoke this morning, I laid in bed for a while. Today was important - for some reason or other. Only I couldn’t recall what it was. I lay there; consulting with and rejecting varied ideas in my head as I drew up blank after blank.

It wasn’t until I saw the balloons that I remembered.

I wondered just how I could have forgotten.

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Echoes

Pin It It is night.

Everyone is asleep, save me.

I gaze around my parents’ house, the familiar dimmed lamps burn through the darkness.

I sit; I look on.

As I do, I remember words penned many years ago by author Mary Downing-Hahn in her book, “Time for Andrew:”

The fire hissed and popped and sent a shower of sparks flying up the chimney. I leaned closer to my aunt. “Do you ever wonder about the people who used to live in this house?”

“What do you mean, Drew?”

“Well, so many of their belongings are here—things they touched, things they made. It just seems strange…” While I spoke I looked around the room, finding faded photographs on the mantel, a pair of china dolls sharing a child-sized rocking chair, shelves of old books. My voice trailed off. I wasn’t sure what I was trying to say.

Aunt Blythe ran one finger over the row of stitches she’d just finished. “Things last longer than people,” she said softly.

That was true, but that wasn’t what I meant. “The people, our ancestors—do you think they’re still here somehow?”

“Are we talking about ghosts?”

“Do you believe in them?”

Unlike some adults, Aunt Blythe took my question seriously. Leaning her head back, she stared into the fire and thought about her answer. “In an old house, the past is all around you,” she said slowly. “You hear sounds sometimes, even smell things. Superstitious people might call it the work of ghosts, but I think of them as echoes, little traces of the folks who once called this house home…”

It is quiet.

I listen to the echoes.

Messages to heaven

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The chirp of magic markers sent up a chorus of sound in the otherwise silent family room—like an orchestra of crickets—as we each penned our individual messages of gratitude, of appreciation, and of love.

The minutes passed and still everyone wrote.

Some drew.

We had no idea what the others were writing.

When everyone had finished, we took our helium-filled balloons to the front yard, the yard she loved, filled with flowers and the aroma of the night breeze off of Lake Pend Oreille.

As one we sent our messages skyward, a rainbow of color against a blue canvas of sky.


We stood and watched, arms around each other as the nine balloons floated away to the east; one for each of us present—and one for Mom. We stood there watching until they had completely vanished on the distant eastern skyline—still huddled together in a small group.

Like a family.

Just like us.

Tributary

Pin It My dad invited a family member to compose an obituary for Mom; it arrived yesterday midmorning via email. Upon reading the short paragraph which was sent, my dad asked me to add to it—a revision if you will.

I sat down and let the words spill onto the screen.

As rain poured in torrents outside the large picture window, the words—the obituary—materialized into something a bit more; no longer was it simply a death notice.

It had become a tribute.

A blog post.

I share it with you here.


* Consequently, the two errors in the obituary are not mine, they were made afterward by the paper...I mean really, who would hyphenate 'California' for heaven's sake?

I just wanted to be sure...

Pin It The pale green curtain was pulled across the doorway for some semblance of privacy in the chapel of Moon Funeral Parlor this afternoon. My dad had left to discuss the varied details of the memorial service with the director while I rubbed down the coffin with furniture polish.

The lemony-pine scent wafted over the pews of the silent chapel, and the wood radiated with a golden sheen in the incandescent lights from the ceiling.

The silence of that chapel was brazen—almost ominous.

I gazed wordlessly for a few moments at the box constructed of pine lath before me, and found myself having a conversation with Mom. I was wondering if she would be comfortable when she would be placed in it tomorrow morning—two days before the funeral was to take place.

I slid the lid open

The interior was carefully lined with a patterned, white blanket; velvety to the touch. A cushion had been placed at the underside of the casket; I felt along the base, relishing the softness.

I removed my shoes and—very carefully—climbed inside.

I eased my head back against the pillow and gazed at the ceiling. The lining was cozy, comfortable, and it felt warm and secure. It would have been a bit hard on the rear after a prolonged period I decided, but overall it was—nice.

I closed my eyes.

A moment later I heard the curtain being whipped back. I jerked my head up to see the junior director standing in the doorway.

The look of dumfounded stupor on his face said it all, for he was devoid of speech.

I arose slightly and rested my arms on the sides of the casket. “Just checking,” I said in an offhanded tone.

“Checking?” He asked.

“To make sure it’s comfortable,” I said, regarding him in return. “This must look a little odd…”

The man shook his head, “Well, I’ve never seen it before—or heard of it either,” he gave an uncertain chuckle. “But to each his own.”

“I just wanted to be sure,” I said. “I’ll be done in just a minute.”

The man nodded. “Well, I just wanted to let you know that your dad is meeting with the director now…that is, if you wanted to join them.”

He stood in the doorway for another silent beat, and then the curtain was sharply drawn back where it had been.

I eased back into place.

Yes, the coffin was comfortable.

Mom would have approved.

I climbed out of the casket and slipped my shoes back on, gathering up the wood polishing supplies as I did so.

On my way out I saw the junior director sitting in a side room with a fellow employee.

They both looked up as I passed, and smiled.

The long fall

Pin It July 6, 10:47 P.M.

It was a heinous night, one more so than usual; I just had to be not here.

I slipped from the house and soon I found myself walking along the railroad tracks down at Lake Pend Oreille.

The rails stretched across the shadowy waters, glinting in the moonlight and vanishing into the pine trees nearly a mile off on the distant shoreline.

I began to walk the ties of the bridge, the smell of creosote filling my nostrils along with the thick sultriness of humidity in the air.

The angry lake crashed and splayed below me, as the choppy wind buffeted me from time to time.

My head was a flurry of thought, much like that wind as it carried me along with it.

Questions.

There were so many questions.

Overhead the orange harvest moon moved slowly from behind the clouds; we gazed at each other across that vast space which separated us.

The distance seemed like a million miles; maybe more.

To be honest, I’d been feeling that same distance with God, too. He and I seemed to be worlds apart, neither one of us seeming to understand the other.

As I walked, I thought longingly of my headphones back at my car, I wished that I had them; had them to drown out the turbulent sounds which continued to moil through me like that tempestuous blast.

I wanted to play what had unofficially become the soundtrack of my life as of late, their lyrics tumbling about my head even as I traversed footfall after footfall.

“…the long fall back to earth is the hardest part...”

At the quarter mark of the bridge I stopped. Here was a spot to stand and look over the lake. I found myself sitting against the handrail as the waves lapped hungrily at the trestle supports some thirty feet below. Out across the water I watched the distant headlights of cars on the long bridge as they came and went in a flurry of tail lights—each headed to destinations unknown.

In the moment I petitioned the heavens, like I had so many times before.

Questions.

There were so many questions.

The trestle started to vibrate slightly; in looking back at the direction of the city, I saw one bright light hastening toward me.

It was a train.

There was nowhere to go. There was nowhere to run.

Was I afraid?

I was terrified.

I sat at my perch above the water, four feet from the tracks as the thundering locomotive drew nearer. Moments later it was upon me, screaming as it passed in a flurry of whatever heavy cargo it carried. The sound was deafening. The wind buffeted me. I stood, letting the fear consume—let it fill me to overflowing—terror bristling through every tendon and nerve.

Let it be gone.

As suddenly as the fear had overtaken me, it ebbed away.

For several minutes the boxcars kept coming, sparking and groaning on their silver wheels until there was nothing.

The train had passed, the shaking of the long bridge ceased, and the night took on its usual stillness...the last sounds of the locomotive vanishing into distant obscurity.

The wind blew, the waves lapped, I stood.

The moon was swallowed behind a cloud.

I walked back the way I had come, my head still a storm of questions.

I had no answers.

But I wasn’t afraid.

Lessons from an empty room

Pin It An artist paints with colors. A photographer captures images with light. A writer portrays thoughts to form with words which he feels and sees.

I sit.

I sit alone in Mom’s room.

I keep waiting for the feeling; waiting to feel her ghost—her spirit.

As I look into the vacant space where her bed used to lay, I feel the emptiness which has taken its place. It is this same void which fills me, this type of nullity which has been left behind that nobody else can understand—at least so it would strike as being.

My dad and I canvassed the room earlier today for mom’s framed pieces, tucked away in shadowed corners, several of which she created—cross-stitchings which she fashioned long ago during cozy nights with the aroma of scented candles burning in mixtures of amber and vanilla. As I gazed at these works wrought at her hands I felt that a piece of her yet remained, though her essence had gone; fled away to some far-away and distant place where the rest of us could not follow.

The sunlight dances on the other side of the window as my eyes fall on one of the stitcheries Mom made years before; its words burn themselves into my retina like an after-image of staring at the sun:

As I read over this quote I think of Mom’s crimson nails, filed and painted to perfection—a simple yet sublime act of love.

I remember sitting at the table.

It was a difficult time yet again; Mom’s breathing came in belabored gasps and haphazard moments of coherentness. My two younger sisters and brother-in-law had come to help; we were all taking shifts with sitting with Mom. This was good as it was keeping anyone from getting completely burned out.

I remember being slumped at the dining room table, resting my head on one arm when my dad made the pronouncement; he was going to have Mom’s manicurist come out to the house.

He fumbled with his phone and dialed the number. He spoke with the woman on the other end and set up the paltry details. He wanted the works—and price was no option.

Only the best.

I remember at first wondering what he was doing. Just why was he going to do this? Mom was in such a sick and weakened condition, what difference would this really make?

I had no idea.

The manicurist arrived. When Mom was told she was to have her nails done, her frail fingers outstretched—it was a sight to bring tears to one’s eyes. The job—no small one to be sure—took in the zone of 4 ½ hours to complete.

My dad had arranged this out of pure, simple love.

Mom knew. It completely exhausted her. She couldn’t speak, but she knew.

For the next several days, every time I saw Mom’s fingers or her carefully-painted toes, I found myself smiling. This was not merely a manicure and pedicure; this was an act of adoration of a man for the woman he treasured—the woman he knew delighted in this—the woman who was slowly ebbing away. He was giving her something which she couldn’t do for herself, something she loved; something which made her feel beautiful and appreciated.

Affection.

The sunlight shifts and I find myself back in my Mom’s empty room. Though I find tears aplenty as I sit here alone, I discover that the room is no longer empty; it is filled with lessons, lessons of the heart and memories of love.

It is true…time truly cannot erase the memories which are created by love.

Hide and Seek

Pin It I had a dream last night.

I was playing hide-and-seek; odd that I’d dream about childhood games, isn’t it?

I was playing with a large group of people from various periods and places in my life—we all dashed and hid when it came time for the game to be set into motion. Sometimes there were those of us who chose to hide together—sometimes apart.

As I looked at the other players, I realized that there were all ages represented; I even spotted a student who was to be in my class this next school year. As the game went on, new players joined in from time to time, and the activity just got better and better.

It wasn’t long before I noticed players leaving the game—not to return. These players were called away by parents because of the lateness of the hour. These players had varied reactions to being taken from the activity; some of them would laugh and run to greet their parents to be taken home, while others would be upset that it was time to go and beg for a few more minutes.

However, when the remaining players were accounted for, the game would continue on as if there had been no interruption.

I awoke from my dream sometime this morning, not certain if I’d really been dreaming or not. It had all been so vivid, so real. I lay there silently as the early morning light danced on the other side of my eyelids, tempted to remain in the moment but then arose from my bed.

For some of us, the game goes on.

100 years

Pin It I’ve had moments where it seems I’ve not been awake—my life of these past days has had many moments where it seems more I’m watching a movie about it instead of living. I watch the scenes play out before me—more or less reruns of the same part—time and again. The music rises and falls, plays its melancholy strains intertwined into the flickering images.

It never changes.

I got a phone call from my mom in Washington, Kathy. She told me about the Summit Valley School Centennial. It was Summit Valley was where I’d attended first through sixth grades a score of years ago; they were celebrating the building’s 100 years of existence. I found myself reluctant; I said I probably wouldn’t be in attendance. It was too short of notice, plus the fact that I was needed here made it all the more difficult to allow myself to go.

I hung up the phone.

The next morning I awoke to morning sunlight dancing in patterns through my window as well as to the welcoming aroma of sausages and eggs. I stumbled from my makeshift room to find my dad making breakfast, the role I’d been fulfilling many of the days I’d been here. I sat at the kitchen table to a plate of steaming fare, my dad and I ate. As we did, I told him about the phone call from the night before, and the celebration in Summit Valley—which had actually begun about an hour previous to our breakfasting.

Dad laid his fork aside and looked intently at me across the kitchen table. “Go,” he insisted. “The school only has a centennial celebration once every 100 years. You’re not going to be around for the next one.”

“It’ll probably be lame,” I protested, smearing my toast around my plate to gather up the remnants of egg yolk.

Dad was adamant. “So, it’ll be lame around here, too. At least it’ll be a change of scenery—go. In fact, I don’t want you around here today.”

With this aphoristic ‘kicking out’ I found myself driving the distance through the pined Selkirk Mountains. As I drove, a sparklingly fresh wind seemed to catch in my lungs and remind me of a passage from the book, “The Watsons go to Birmingham—1963,” by Christopher Paul Curtis; In the story, Kenny’s father talks about the freshness in the air that the family is unaccustomed to, and talks about how they’ve become ‘tangled up in God’s beard.’

As the road wound up higher and higher, the air became more brisk and bracing, drenched with the aroma of pine. I thought a lot about that passage and wriggled my fingers through the crispness.

It.was.wondrous; Like breathing the air of heaven itself.

Soon I reached the pinnacle of the ridges and mountains, and spilled over them, taking that long fall down the other side; down into a land and a time far distant. Miles passed before me like vacant mailboxes on the roadside of life.

All too soon the rooftops of a little town I’d once known came into view over the trees. I found myself slipping back into another existence, a different place, another person I’d long-since left behind…decades ago where the ghosts of my past came back to haunt me –or rather, I’d come to let them. I could only blame myself.

I drove these strangely-familiar streets I’d once strolled with middle-school friends in a car registered in another state—a whole other life; it felt peculiar.

I picked up my mom and we moved along the memory roads I’d passed over so long ago—and still knew all too well. The familiar curves of the highways, the well-known landmarks, the homes of friends long-since gone.

As we came closer to the school where I’d spent my formative years, I felt a twinge of ‘homesickness’ for lack of a better word. I would not want to return to those days, but a visit for a few hours to a simpler time would have been a welcome reprieve.

I suddenly didn’t want to be here, yet wanted to at the same time. It felt strange.

There were more people there than I thought would be, and most of them I did not recognize.

But a few I did.

There were a few I had not seen since third or fourth grade; but they all still remembered my name.

I looked through the dog-eared photos; listening to the reminiscences of the veteran homesteaders, gathered in small bunches here and there—talking about the ‘good old days’ and times which were long before those which were mine.

As I wandered amongst the strangers gathered—all sharing a common bonding experience—the school, I felt somewhat at home.

It was at this point I noticed that nobody was taking pictures. Well, haphazard shots taken with disposable cameras and point and shoots taking place in random forms.

This would not do.

I remember something my grandfather had said many years ago, something he subscribed to…a motto of sorts. He had the firm belief that if you had a nice camera and walked around a place—just about any place—acting like you owned it and acting as if you were supposed to be there, nobody would challenge you.

He was right.

I took out my camera and let the shutter fly in a burst of rapid-succession clicks. People found this intimidating and moved aside, putting down their cameras when I would do so.

It made me smile.

I took photos of the room I’d spent 3 years of my childhood in; I took photos of complete strangers, listening as my childhood friend’s father was honored by having the new ball field named after him for his commitment to sports, and helping so many youth to achieve throughout the years. I took photos of childhood friends now grown.

Quite simply—I captured moments.

Nobody stopped me.

Nobody questioned.

I gave the photos—all of them—to the technology guru at the school so as to have them shared with whoever would like them.



The pinnacle event was the ringing voices of those present singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to the old schoolhouse, and then the balloons being launched to the heavens; the resounding voices of those present floated on the winds and carried through the valley, rising and with just as much buoyancy as the colorful helium orbs to the clouds.

However, the moment which was most moving of all to me was when they rang the old schoolbell, the bell that had called me in for recess—the one which had hung in the belfry year after year. I remembered ringing that bell myself, too; the force of the backswing able to yank some of the kids off the ground as they clutched to the well-worn rope.

It.was.magical.

Words cannot describe what it felt like. A whole lifetime of memories rushed into me. Secret rendezvous with friends, early-morning snowball fights, knapweed forts and games of childhood all rushed into me like a gust of fresh air after being submerged.

I reconnected with a few old friends, I was…home.


My mom and I drove the familiar road to the Columbia River to Cloverleaf Beach where we had traveled to so many times and swam summer after summer. As I drove, I fumbled with my iPod, and soon the sounds of Kenny Loggins flooded through the speakers and out the open windows, just like he had so many years ago. The road had not changed, only I had. I was a little bit older, that was all.

I stood at the water’s edge and listened. The years seemed to compress and stretch until this moment and the moment I’d been here as a child seemed to meld together. Echoes seemed to play in the recesses of my mind—laughter which was faded and worn like a much-loved pair of shoes.

We drove to the ferry and rode across to Inchelium, passing through the Indian graveyard there and riding the long stretches of highway where the crystalline blue waters sparkled iridescently in the sunlight.

It.was.breathtaking.

We stopped and had a late lunch at Barney’s Junction up near Kettle Falls, and saw the small performing theatre where I’d starred in a number of smalltown plays a lifetime ago. Ice creams were in order, so we stopped off at Sandy’s where I immediately noted a few spelling mistakes on the menu sign—my class would most certainly have fun finding the errors in that come this August.


As we drove nearer to Colville, a marquee rose up on the right hand side of the road I’d long since forgotten about—the old drive-in theatre. At this point, I turned the car around. I had to see the place again. I remember going here with my family and seeing movies. I’d gone here with my friends.

It was just as old and nasty as I remembered.

It.was.awesome.

The ground was littered with gopher holes and the screen was peeled and dilapidated—in pitiable need of repair.

I had to get out and walk around.

It wasn’t much to look at, but nestled amongst the rolling hills of the Great Northwest, it was more than enough.


As we drove into Colville, we passed the fabric store—oh, an entire blog post could be written on this hellacious place of child torture—and one day will; therefore, I will forbear at this time to write anything further of it. Just know…

It.was.awful.

However, next door the business had burned down. I don’t remember what used to be there. This remains unimportant. Nevertheless, the building was gone.

An alley had been created with its absence, and there was a cracked mural on one of the brick walls.

It.was.amazing.

However, without a model—something to draw your eye—it wasn’t nearly as impressive as it could be for a photograph. Nevertheless, while taking a few shots, I noticed a local Hispanic boy from the Mexican restaurant next door; he was milling about and soon approached me, wanting to know what I was doing. Why was I taking pictures of a wall?

I explained that I was a photographer and I asked if he’d like to be in a few photos. I’d then be willing to give these photos to his parents—for free. He readily agreed and the following images were born.




Mom and I had a wonderful conversation throughout our little adventure of which I’ll not expound as this post as already reached epic proportions. In fact, while typing this I see that I have now reached page 5 in Microsoft Word. This tells me that it is time to close.

With the sun beginning to dip beyond the distant westerly hills it was time for me to be returning to Sandpoint. I began the ascending climb back to the home of my dad and my ‘other mother’ for the remainder of the day; I made my way yet again through God’s beard. This time, when I reached the breath of heaven summit, the Great Northwest smiled at me—and I smiled back.

Diving in

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12:57 a.m.

It was a hardish day.

I use the term ‘ish’ rather loosely because there have been others that have been far worse over the past week or two; today was not the chart-topper, but would most certainly rate amongst the top ten.

Have you ever felt like you could literally eat your way through the walls which surround you? Have you ever before felt that terrible sensation...a kind of horribleness which seems to grow, spreading like the tendrils of a noxious, wild plant—threatening to strangle you? Have you ever been in a store and wanted to start grabbing objects off of the shelves and start hurtling them across the room?

That’s exactly how I was starting to feel today. It was relentless and eating away at my insides, like that scene in “Alien” when the creature is lodged in the man’s chest and rips its way out…

I know. Gross.

Mom and I sat alone in the deafening silence of the hushed-up house for a couple of hours today. After a while, I finally had to have some type of background noise—it was far too silent: a movie, music, something.

I’d been very selective with my dad lately when it came to movies, and knew I had to be careful.

“Put in a movie,” he’d say. As I’d thumb through the collection I’d brought, I’d discard options immediately.

Mr. Deeds…No, cancer references.

Sleepless in Seattle…No, death.

Moulin Rouge?…No, death.

Pay it Forward?...No, death.

The Bucket List? Most definitely not.

So instead of a movie playing in the background, I opted for some music; instrumental strains to lift and fill. I adjusted my iPod to Jon Schmidt and then began the arduous task of being.

I was fine, until this song began to play.

I won’t go into detail of what I felt as the music played, but I felt it; I could have switched it off…I probably should have, but I didn’t. I allowed it to overpower me, to consume me, to envelop me in a vesicle of anguish.

It.was.horrible.

It was later that my dad arrived back home and around 8:00 this evening I found myself down on the elevated railroad tracks which traverse over Lake Pend Oreille. I stared at the swirling rivulets of water—trillions of droplets combined together creating this massive lake.

I sat there for a long time as the sun set over the mountains, and eventually sat down on the rocks at the water’s edge, staring.

I felt the urge to jump.

But no, I’d brought no swimming trunks, and wasn’t prepared to swim.

Suddenly, I didn’t care. Giving way to impulse, I stripped away my shoes and leapt into the placid waters. I soared through the air for a moment and then was enveloped in a saturated deluge. As the water closed over me, I felt something come away, like a layer of gloom

It was like I’d been revitalized, refilled, reanimated yet again. A smile came to my face as I felt the coolness of the water flowing about me and I clambered onto the shoreline rocks.

The summer wind blew my hair as the water dripped from my clothes.

I jumped in again.

Yes, I had finally found the great and powerful Wizard of Oz, I’d found what I’d been looking for all along.

At least for today.

Let it Be

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The June wind stirred the chimes out on the front porch, its six notes sounding randomly in that sorrowful soundtrack life seems to have been writing this past week. For some of us, this is not the fairy-tale story or that one with the happy ending.

I stumbled into the bathroom this morning and saw the image of a young old man staring back at me from the mirror hanging above the sink. The few grey hairs I’d been noticing lately seem to have multiplied tenfold, and the lines which previously had been weakly etched across my face now seemed to line it like that of a well-used roadmap.

Life was a highway—I was a municipality.

My mother lie in bed, her breaths coming in labored gasps. She took hold of my hand and gazed at me through her one good eye. Every breath she took I was sure was to be her last.

“Bummer,” she croaked from somewhere deep in her throat, attempting a smile in one of her lucid moments—which were rapidly becoming more and more infrequent.

“That’s an understatement,” I replied.

Really, it was.

The grip of her hand tightened around mine. How many hours had I sat here? I’d lost count. The only way I’ve been able to even track the days was by reminding her every time she woke what day it was, what time it is, where she was. She doesn’t ask, but I tell her all the same. If it were me, I’d want to know.

The worst part is that emotion—that dreadful little feeling of helplessness, that deep understanding that there is nothing I can do—I can only be. Doing is the easy part; it’s the being that is the hard thing.

It’s so much easier to run someplace, to buy something, to go on an errand; but to simply be there…that is the hard part. To be there when her eyes open, to see her when she smiles or grimaces, murmurs disembodied thought, and falls back asleep; and through it all, to not have the ability to stay the inevitable.

She asked today, “Am I going to die?”

“We all are,” I responded a few moments later, choking on my sullen reply. “All of us will one day die.”

There have been days now, days when the bitter fount of tears has been emptied and dried. Tears become no longer an option; they become something more of a luxury, like a well run dry in summer’s oppressive heat.

In the quiet of the back room I held her hand, the hot tears stinging my cheeks yet again from sources unknown. She continually faded in and then out of consciousness, her requests slogged and pieced together in a mismatch of jumbled words.

I simply held on to her hand; I could only be…there was no to do.

I found myself becoming angry at God in watching this suffering go on without recourse; I found myself questioning that which I knew—that which I’d always believed. If God really were merciful, he should either heal her, or let her die.

God—I unpremeditatedly decided—was cataclysmically cruel.

I felt a nettling anger surge within me, bitterness directed at heaven itself, at the God who allowed such suffering.

“What is your faith made from?”

I was taken aback at the thought which pervaded my mind—a whispered rivulet.

What? I thought in return.

“This is but a moment of time; if you remember, My son suffered for a moment, too.”

But that’s different, I countered. You’re God.

“Not while he was on the cross…she has you, but My son was left alone—if you remember. Now you have the smallest idea of what it was like for Me when he was helpless, and I could only watch when he was crying out in anguish.”

Then let it be finished. I thought. Let it be finished.

“When it’s time.”

The oxygen machine continued to drone in its rhythmic pattern as I held onto Mom’s hand.

For now, I can only be.

Laughter

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Mom made me laugh, which is a good thing, considering the circumstances and the things I really want to write…perhaps in a day or two I shall.

I moved close to hug her today. I just wanted to be near her. The well of tears has been precariously short in supply as of late. I held on for a little while and asked her if there were anything she needed. Her weakened voice was arduous to formulate, she murmured: “Yes.”

“What do you need?” I asked, drawing back.

“Air.”

“Are you trying to be funny?” I asked her.

The weakest flicker of a smile echoed across her face as she whispered, “Yes.”

And so she was.

Come what May

Pin It I have not responded to your individual comments; I don’t know as how to respond to be completely honest; just know that I am thankful for them.

I am also grateful for the phone calls which I have not answered, the emails which I have not replied to. For the Facebook messages which I have not ignored and for the text messages which you know that I usually never read. For each of these, I offer up a hearty “Thank you…I’m so glad that I can count you as friends.”

To save time I will reply to the one incessant question which has been universal through most of these forms of correspondence: “Teachinfourth, what happened?”

Please be patient and indulge me just a bit as I answer as I can. I find myself doing what writers do when they are faced with a dilemma…they write about it. It is with this in mind that I put tremulous hand to page—

The steady beat of the windshield wipers scraped away the waves of water as the miles of highway fell away beneath the tires of my Honda CR-V. I hadn’t made this trip in years. The clouds overhead were gray and ominous; they were a good mirror for my thoughts—reflecting back the mood of what I had been feeling.

Wait, let me go back.

It was Saturday. I’d been in St. George when the phone call came

No, I need to go still farther.

18 years.

My parents got divorced.

Yes, that was hard. But that is a whole story in itself which could fill volumes. The life that I’d once known had become fractured into two. I at times wonder about the life that would be now had that dreadful event not come to pass, however I’ll never be privy to that information; what I do know is the life which ensued because it did.

That’s the one I am currently living.

To surmise: both my parents eventually remarried.

My dad married a woman named Arlene. To sum up nearly two decades in just a few sentences: she helped my dad and me to finally have a positive relationship. She always made it a point to make sure that we were all included as family. She cared about my father’s children just as much as if she had given birth to each and every one of them herself.

Is it any surprise that we call her, ‘Mother’?

I have two Moms. Two women I credit with varied parts of my life.

Fast forward sixteen years into the future—July 2007; Arlene was diagnosed with cancer. She was given between one and eight weeks to live.

This was the time I received a ticket for the emotional rollercoaster known as life, which would offer up its myriad of twists and turns over the next several months. I ended up flying home in October, thinking that one of my Moms was going to die.

She surprised everyone.

She began to get better.

She began to respond to treatments.

The cancer spread.

Saturday, June 20, 2009—1:34 P.M: The call came from Sandpoint, Idaho. My dad phoned to let me know that Arlene’s condition had rapidly deteriorated and it was not looking good. She had been admitted to the hospital just a few days before because of various complications which inevitably led back to the cancer. She had requested to come home—she told my dad that this is where she wanted to die.

There were to be no miracles this time; no saving graces where she would baffle the doctors and glean extra years to her lifespan as she had done so many times before.

This time, it was for real.

I was on my way. I bid farewell to the friends I’d been visiting and began the arduous trek to the panhandle of northern Idaho—a seventeen hour drive from my current location.

I ran the gambit of emotion as I drove in the rain nearly the entire distance to Tremonton, arriving at 9:00 P.M. and staying with an old friend so as to get an early start out the next day.

I was up before the sun, fumbling with contact lenses and car keys—slipping out into the early morning light, inking over the distant hills like warm butter. I drove along in silence. My jumbled thoughts were mismatched as town after tiny town nestled securely in and amongst the bosom of rolling hills passed in my wake, their inhabitants still aslumber.

As I drove, I passed from sunny skies to those of rainstorm. I traveled through storm after storm. Like the tempests in my own life, I traveled through he sun, rain and back again as the miles still fell away. From time to time I was in the sunlight, but I could see the dark clouds out on the horizon, and I was moving right toward them.

Bring it on.

Was this to be a metaphor of the events coming to pass in my own life? Leaving blue skies behind and trading them for heavens of ashen gray?

Makeshift crosses on the roadside served as sordid reminders of what was to inevitably come to pass. I winced every time I saw one, and quickly averted my eyes, as if having seen something repulsive.

I drove into the downpour.

Down it came, harder…threatening to dislodge my little vehicle from the road, but still I drove, unimpeded.

On the other side of the storm was a sky which was bluer than the one I’d left behind. It made the storm feel worth it, just to see what lay on the other side.

Joni Mitchell once talked about having seen clouds from both sides. I think I understood—finally—what she was trying to say….a road trip of this nature was the best thing for me at this time. It was just me—me and an iPod full of music and a head jammed full of thoughts and a heart full of emotions needing to be worked through. Like the trash strewn along the highways of my life, someone needed to pick it all up and sort through it.

Me.

So I kept traveling the road, with new sights waiting to be seen with the billboards of my life spelling back their messages in the broad moments of quietness.

This second day’s drive took 11 ½ hours, it was nearly 5:00 P.M. when I pulled into my parent’s suburban neighborhood. As I climbed out of my car I realized that had I flown, so many things would have been missed.

It was with a heavy heart that I cut across the evenly cut grass of the lawn and entered through the back door, silent as a wisp of smoke. The problems of the world were still gathering around me, pushing and shoving; they were mine to be conquered, mine to be vanquished.

But for now, let come what may; after all, there is nothing I can do to stop them.

The game we play

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When I was a kid, I used to go over my friend’s, Jess Corcoran’s, house.

We’d play all sorts of things outside; however, on rainy days we’d let our imaginations run wild, and tear untamed through the house utilizing the ‘hidden’ trapdoor in his closet floor, which led to his dad’s workshop in the basement. We explored the attic with all of its familiar nooks and crannies, and eventually—at his mother’s insistence—played board games: Checkers, Candyland, Chutes and Ladders, Sorry, or Monopoly.

Monopoly was one of our favorites; once the pieces had come out of the box, I’d snatch up the iron or the car—those being my favorites.

We’d play for hours; dreading landing on Boardwalk or Park Place when they were owned by the other person—especially if there were houses or hotels situated on the property. Before long you could find yourself doling out hundreds—or even thousands—of dollars. Jess and I would play for hours. We’d laugh, we’d fret, and sometimes we’d even steal money from the bank when the other person wasn’t looking.

However, after a few hours, the game would end. The money, board, hotels, houses, and all of the other playing pieces would go back into the box. In the end it wouldn’t matter how many properties I’d owned, how many houses I’d bought, or even how much money I’d manage to accumulate during the course of the game.

When the game was over, it was over.

We walked away from the experience with nothing more than the memories of playing.

The money couldn’t be spent anywhere else.

The hotels were useless.

The property was nonexistent.

The board was just a board.

It was—after all—just a game.

Absence

Pin It A family emergency has arisen and I will be absent from the blogging scene for an indefinite period of time as I am driving up to Washington. I'll see you all again upon a return to a steady wireless connection or moment of nonchaosness.

Until then.