It’s strange to think that that much time has passed—to the day from that day.
I’ll never forget that ill-fated call that came from my dad, telling me to get home as quickly as I could.
I remember driving that long, arduous journey, and the reflections I had while making the road trip back over a twelve-hour period, the miles stretching away beneath the tires as I pushed northward.
I recalled the next few weeks, and the events that transpired while I was away from home: the laughter, the tears, and the hollow emptiness that was left behind in its torturous wake.
Each and every one of us is limited.
Our days are numbered.
When will play that final coda of the symphony known as life?
Our lives are controlled by the complex workings of the hands of fate, and her infinite wisdom of mortal coil.
Today, I’m going to head to the canyons I love so much—my second home, if you will. I will play the music I seldom listen to because of its incredible power to bring back the events of those days with crystalline clarity. I will stay as long as I want and again feel the moments.
We drove the dusty road that snaked through the boulder-strewn canyons, descending slowly toward the river bottom. The clouds of dust kicked up behind us caught in the sun’s light and billowed like plumes of effervescent smoke as the magenta and amber mesas rolled past us like watchful sentinels.
We stopped at the end of the rocky path and tumbled from our vehicles; as the six o’clock hour drew even nearer, we took our colored orbs and began to write our messages, some of them short, and others a bit longer…each of us clutching the ends of the strings.
As we released the smooth threads, the balloons, which had been struggling to be set free, raced toward the azure skies above. We stood and watched them as they climbed higher and higher, our smallest watchers convinced that they were all racing to reach Heaven first.
It wasn’t long before our rainbow of messages arose amongst the scattered billows and cerulean sky while we – still anchored to the earth – watched until they disappeared.
Did you take a photo in the past seven days that made you smile? Please feel free to include a link to the image in the comments section if you did.
The hard sound of guitar and rough vocals flooded over me again and again as I drove the vast expanse of miles—the mileage that swept beneath my tires, though storms and rain; ominous cloudbursts similar to those of two years ago.
As the miles of road blew past, my mind careened over the past two years of my esoteric life: the alterations, the battles, the good as well as the bad times…all of those infinitesimal moments that have brought me to the here and now.
I slipped in and out the present as the mesas and sandstone cliffs—veiled in grey storm clouds—peeked from the heights above me as the arroyos, now flooded with overflow, ran freely through sand washes and open landscape toward the rising Swell off to the west, rising up like tidal wave of stone from the desert.
And again and again the melody thundered from the speakers, the words were pouring through my mind; it was if I were hearing them for the very first time:
It’s been years since they told her about it, The darkness her body possessed…
It’s a blur since they told me about it, How the darkness had taken its toll, And they cut into my skin and they cut into my body But they will never get a piece of my soul. And now I’m still learning the lesson, To awake when I hear the call, And if you ask me why I am still running, I tell you I run for us all.
I run for hope I run to feel I run for the truth For all that is real I run for your mother, your sister, your wife I run for you, and me, my friend I run for life.
It is now night...two years ago today though.
I moved out to the front porch and sat in the near silence as the night enveloped the neighborhood. A few crickets chirped off in the empty lot as a few stars peered through the clouds overhead. From somewhere up the street a dog barks and reminds me of where I am.
Why, two years later am I still writing about her?
To sort of quote Melissa Etheridge:
I write for hope.
I write to feel.
I write for the truth.
For all that is real.
I write for your mother, your sister, your wife.
I write for you, and me, my friend
I write for life.
In my head, the song still plays; the hard sound of guitar and rough vocals floods over me as I gaze at the heavens. And still, another year of journeying storms and sunny skies await yet in the wings.
Pin It“Teachers never die. They live in your memory forever. They were there when you arrived, they were there when you left. Like fixtures. Once in a while they taught you something, but not that often. And, you never really knew them, any more than they knew you. Still, for a while, you believed in them. And, if you were lucky, maybe there was one who believed in you.”
- Kevin Arnold
The Wonder Years
When I was in high school there was a teacher I absolutely loved; her name was Mrs. Frizzell. She was the type of teacher that every student needs to have during the transitionary period of life when their self-worth is in a precarious place, and they find themselves searching – trying to discover who they really are.
This was me.
Mrs. Frizzell was my Drama and English instructor; she was probably the teacher in high school who made the biggest impact on my life – helping to shape me into the person I am today. In fact, it wasn’t all that long ago that I was thinking about Mrs. Frizzell, and I decided that I needed to contact her. I wanted to let her know the influence she’d had on my life, and tell her how she’d helped me to come out of my proverbial shell and spread my wings while I was a student in her classes…
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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.
It was raining. Have I ever told you that I adore the rain? Of course I have. Probably more times than you wanted to hear. However, hearing the rain this time was different.
Today I was going to a funeral.
Now, before you start to worry, my family is doing well, as am I.
I’ve had a student who’s been absent for a week. You see, his cousin died. My student, I’ll call him Joey, was taking it pretty hard. On Thursday after school I went to visit him.
He told me about the funeral on Saturday. I didn’t want to go. He wanted me to.
I awoke this morning.
The rain was cascading down, and building in the gutters, sweeping over the tops like a waterfall. It gurgled in the downspouts and coated the sidewalks with a glorious infestation of worms – slowly growing mushier. I ventured out into the sullen weather, and gazed up at the melancholy clouds. I couldn’t help thinking how much I didn’t want to attend this funeral.
The clouds began to clear away as I drove up to the funeral home in the next city. A train blocked my path at one point, forcing me to find an alternate route. A detour for roadwork forced me to take another pathway yet again. Traffic on the freeway and in town was so congested that it very nearly made me late.
It was as if all of the obstacles that could have been put before me were; all of the warnings not to go on.
And yet I drove.
I arrived at the funeral home, and for a few moments I just sat in my car. I didn’t want to go in. I thought of my student, and drug myself from the confines of my car, where the sun was now breaking through the ashen gray haze above me.
I went inside.
The familiar smell of funeral home, and the sight people dressed in black – all of which speaking in hushed tones - was a reflection of another funeral. It was like sliding down a cheese grater.
It was reliving it all over again.
When the service ended, I saw my student. I spoke with him briefly. I put my arm around him and gave him a small hug. And then we stood there, saying nothing. After a couple of moments he looked up at me and smiled.
He told me he’d see me on Monday. He rejoined his family.
I drove somewhere not home in a veritable depression. It weighed down upon me, and like an unwelcome visitor, just wouldn’t leave.
I turned on music to match my mood, which probably didn’t help, but it made me feel worse, which in turn started to make me feel better.
Steven Curtis Chapman once wrote:
Last Day on Earth
I pull over the side of the road and I
Watch the cars pass me by
The headlights and the black limousines
Tell me someone is saying goodbye
I bow my head and I whisper a prayer,
"Father, comfort their broken hearts"
And as I drive away there's a thought that I
I cannot escape, no I, I cannot escape this thought
I can't get away
Oh, if this should be my last day on this earth
How then shall I live?
Oh, if this should be the last day that I have
Before I breathe the air of Heaven
Let me live it with abandon
To the only thing that remains
After my last day here on earth
If this should be my last day here on earth
If this should be my last day here on earth
If this should be my last, last day here on earth
And if tomorrow comes to find me
Looking in the face of Jesus
Will I hear Him say the words "well done" ?
If this should be my last day here on earth
If this should be my last, my last day here on earth
'Cause this could be my last, this could be my last
This could be my last day
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If one were frequenting this blog in the hopes to find a post brimming in both light and righteousness, then said person would be well advised to click the ‘back’ button right now, and stop reading—before it’s too late.
It is at this point that I must make a confession to those who’ve decided to keep reading on; that is, before the Harry Potter phenomena had swept the Muggle world, and previous to the latest movie in the saga’s release to theatres, I was the secret-keeper of a hidden tidbit of wisdom, a little-known fact of magic. It is the knowledge of these magical devices whereby a person can take a portion of themselves and secret it away into another.
“Well, you split your soul, you see,” said Slughorn, “and hide part of it in an object outside the body. Then, even if one’s body is attacked or destroyed, one cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged. But, of course, existence in such a form...” Slughorn’s face crumpled, “Few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable.”
So, I can almost hear you wondering. How, teachinfourth, could you possibly be familiar with this type of evil magic? Well, you see…I’ve been making Horcruxes for years.
However, before I go into detail any further, one must really get things straight; namely, to fully understand just what a Horcrux truly is. It’s quite simple, really. In fact, what it is is actually defined in the name itself; the first part of the word, “hor” comes from “hors” meaning “outside.” The definition of the second part of the word—“crux” is, “a puzzling or difficult problem” or “a crucial point.”
So, a “Horcrux” is not necessarily a thing of evil...but merely a point outside of ourselves that causes for us a difficult problem, or a crucial point in our own—or someone else’s—life. In other words, it is a tearing of the heart.
“Yes, sir,” said Riddle. “What I don’t understand, though... Just out of curiosity, I mean, would one Horcrux be much use? Can you only split your soul once? Wouldn’t it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more pieces, I mean, for instance, isn’t seven the most powerfully magical number? Wouldn’t seven…”
You see, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had it all wrong. He sought immortality through means of ripping his soul into seven pieces. Seven being the key number—or so he thought—thinking in the established Hebrew reverence of this particular numeral: seven days in a week, seven colors in the rainbow, seven notes in the customary musical scale, seven deadly sins, and most recently—Windows 7—Microsoft’s newest operating system.
But a 7-part soul is not the guaranteeor of immortality; for you see, a soul torn in the supreme act of evil to create these earthly-bound Horcruxes, will only weaken the person making them.
“Well,” said Slughorn uncomfortably, “You must understand that the soul is supposed to remain intact and whole. Splitting it is an act of violation, it is against nature.”
In other words, a Horcrux made from your soul is a bad idea all around. It—in the end—gets you nowhere but into a place which is far worse than where you are now.
However, a heart Horcrux is the utter and exact opposite; the heart is split through a colossal act of service—an act of love. When the heart is torn, the pieces are hidden in many individuals—making them into living Horcruxes. This in turn makes both of the individuals stronger—not weaker.
The heart grows back with these other ‘pieces’ grafted in, becoming as one yet again. These pieces are intertwined and will always be so.
I was reminded of the Horcruxes I’ve made over the years recently…in my classroom I’d informed the students that I was going to be sending a care package to my dad, and if any of them wished, they could write him a letter to be included.
Several of them set to work and wrote their letters, putting them into a pile so as I might add them to the parcel I’d be sending the next day. One of these letters, as I was putting it into the box, caught my eye and I began to read. I’d like to share “Joey’s” letter with you here:
As I thought of this Horcrux which had been made through months of service, I found myself becoming reminded of the other Horcruxes made in and from my life. With students, with friends, with complete strangers, and the one made with my mom, guaranteeing her immortality in memory—as well as in heart.
I am the secret-keeper of the magical knowledge of Horcruxes, as now are you. Now, go and make some heart Horcruxes of your own.
I thought about Mom today; as I did, I found it strange that someone you care about in this life could suddenly be whisked away. Photographs still remain. Videos might be left behind. Recordings of their voice might still be in existence…yet they are no longer with us.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to write about Mom, about how I’ve felt, about the good and the bad moments over the previous months since that fateful day this past summer. A whole lifetime has passed since those heartrending moments, and yet, it feels like it was only as long ago as a whisper shared amongst friends.
Time keeps going on whether or not we’d like it to.
The house was a melee of smells as family members were preparing the food for our Thanksgiving feast; however, I just felt that I needed to get out for a little while—to be alone—to think.
I decided to take out the trash.
I moved outside into the bitter crisp of November as the Thanksgiving wind buffeted me from all sides. In the distance, the pale light of the sun shone through the horizon’s misty clouds. I wanted that sun to bury its warmth deep into the empty and dark places of my soul. I stood, breathing in with lungs capable of still doing so, feeling the oxygen filling me.
I thought of the meal we were about to eat; the meal that she would not be taking a part in. It just seemed so inequitable, so unfair.
I retreated to my basement office to escape everyone and everything. I decided to organize files—as well as the accumulated slices of decades’ worth of living—to take my mind from the pummel of reflection. I settled down and found boxes rising about me in the minefield of disorganization…
Letters, photographs, various knickknacks and paddywhacks; they surrounded me like a vestibule of yesterday.
As I sifted though these fragments of my own life’s history, I felt myself remembering this particular student, that specific moment of childhood—a fragmented memory which had long-since been forgotten and lain dusty and dormant.
It wasn’t long before my dad came into the room.
Against the wall was a collection of artwork Dad had given to me on that last visit home, nestled amongst them were the sticheries, those which Arlene had done while she was still alive. Dad stared silently at each of these pieces in turn and then asked:
“Did you know that she wrote to you on the back of this one?”
I looked up from the papers I’d been sorting through, and shook my head. I arose from my place and moved slowly to where my dad was standing. The stichery was large, proclaiming “Welcome to the Zimmerman’s” proudly from its frame.
I turned the frame with trembling fingers and looked down at the brown paper backing. There, scrawled in curls I immediately recognized, I saw a message written to me. Mom had written it, she’d written sometime before—before the final days and moments that had taken her inescapably away.
I read over the note she’d written, my mouth dropping open. I was devoid of speech for several moments—I simply gazed at the writing before me.
And, just for a moment, she was there. Whispering those things I so much needed to hear, a message spoken from beyond the blistering confines of this thorny life.
When my dad departed from the room, I remained a few moments longer, gazing at the letter written to me.
I smiled.
Photographs still remain. Videos might be left behind. Recordings of voices might still be in existence…and testaments of love will not be forgotten.
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The flash of light ignited against the other side of my closed eyelids; that’s probably what awoke me from a restful slumber. The low, guttural tones of thunder followed only moments behind it, chased by the rain. The glorious downpour smattered down upon rooftop in cascades of monsoon. It layered the sidewalks in shimmery wet, inviting worms to surface for schoolchildren to step on as they make their way to my classroom later this morning in this watery-shimmered world.
I moved through the house with lights off, attentive to the wondrous orchestra playing all around me—reverberating through the four walls and ceiling—and even permeating through the very earth below me.
Light flashed, bringing to life the images hanging on the walls of my home for a brief moment of time.
Exhilaration.
Windows were thrust open, and the sounds were fully welcomed into my world—or I into theirs. Above, the lights of the city reflected off of the dark, twisting clouds as a train whistle pierced the darkness from someplace off in the distance; a melancholy souvenir of places far away, and stages of summer I loathed, yet hunger to live again.
But for now, the rain continues to fall in its eternal drizzle from the skies above me, and the August rushing of wind hits the trees in my Olympic-sized backyard, adding to the ensemble which continues to acquire its musicians.
Like before, I am prepared to meet with a smile whatever challenge is here to greet me today,
I promised to only repost 15 of my favorite blogs of the first 500; this is the last of these. Strange, in looking over these first posts I found myself faced with the dilemma of choosing only a few.
I narrowed it down to 87.
From then came the arduous task of taking it down even farther to only fifteen of those 87. It was difficult…I found myself vacillating back and forth between posts, wanting to reshare some, and then others.
This is the last of the reposts.
I won’t say that these of the 500 are the only posts which mean something to me, because that simply wouldn’t be true—there are far too many experiences recorded on these pages to narrow it down and call it good.
So my reposting now comes to a grinding halt and the posting of new life will recommence. Ah, the pressures of finding new materials to write about…but perhaps not, “Joey” has been up to his usual antics, and he’ll soon be delighting readers with his usual—and not so usual—exploits. Also, there is much to write about New York as of yet, and a trove of photographs I still have to share.
It’s amazing that I’d all but forgotten about my trip over the past few weeks as school has taken nearly every breathing minute I’ve had; of course, that’s part of why I love teaching…when a job requires so much, there are big payoffs, too…
To explain this final repost though: this posting was one of the most difficult for me because it came at a time right after the passing of Mom. No, not the mother who gave me life, but still one of the women in my life I bestow the name of mother to. I cannot thank her enough for all she’s done for me over the years; for items far too personal to mention on a blog.
Here’s to you, Mom.
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.
Some people might wonder why I would select this as a favorite repost of my first 500; the reason for this I believe is that I wrote it at a time this summer when things were looking their bleakest; I was literally at a place where life had taken a turn for the worst. Things had not turned out the way I’d planned.
I had no idea where I was going this particular evening, or what it was that I was going to do; I just needed to be alone for a little while. I had to be somewhere that wasn’t around the incessant droning of that oxygen machine.
I wrote this post and shortly after publishing it, removed it from my blog. I had a few friends who’d read it in the short life it had online asked why I’d deleted it; the best I could come up with was that it was such a personal experience I didn’t feel like relating it just then. As I was rereading over my posts tonight I realized that this was a pivotal moment just as much as was this one was in my life. I’m not saying it was easy, but it was a moment.
Tonight I put it back online where it originally was; along with a repost here.
I have nothing more to say.
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.
While on this trip to Washington State for my brother's wedding Mom was becoming fairly weak; at this point I did an awful lot of thinking about life...and about my parents. I think this post speaks entirely for itself.
It was quiet in the house this morning.
I wanted to be sure you were okay.
I walked in and watched you sleeping.
I thought of how you used to watch me when I was little.
Time has changed, hasn’t it?
Life is steadily moving onward and the roles will one day reverse.
I will take care of you, as you once took care of me.
Some days it will be hard, others will be easy.
We’ll both be learning to adjust…
Until you’re ready to go to leave my home for your new life.
Pin ItWhen Mom first started getting really sick two years ago, my dad called and told us; I took a leave of absence from work for a week and flew home in order to spend time with her. When I finally came back to my classroom, I was surprised by what awaited me.
When I was growing up I had written a story. It was a story of which I was incredibly proud. I had shared this story with my little brother, Yancy. A few weeks later my little brother was very excited because a short story he had written won a writing contest and would be included in a publication at his elementary school. It wasn’t long before the stapled-together booklet came home with my brother’s short story. As I read the first sentence I found myself my temper beginning to rise within me. The reason I was feeling angry was because the story my brother had written was my story. The one I had written and had told him about.
I immediately wanted justice for this “stealing” of my idea. Had I known what the word plagiarism was back then, I probably would have used that when I was stating my case to my mom who, after listening, responded with something like, “Jason, your little brother copied your idea because he looks up to you. You’re his big brother who wrote a story; he wanted to write a similar story…he did it because you’re his hero.”
I didn’t see how stealing my idea had anything to do with being a hero, and once-again tried to get my mom to see my side of the situation. After listening to me rant on yet again, my mom tried to get me to see what she was trying to say. I just didn’t get it. She ended the conversation with the following words, “Jason, imitation is the highest form of flattery, and one day you’ll understand it.”
Many years have flown since that day when my brother and I were both children, and I have to say that over these days I have finally came to understand what it was my mother meant. When we copy what someone else does, we are in essence saying, “I want to be like you,” or “You are somebody that I look up to.” By imitating them, we are sending a message, a message without any words.
I was recently absent for about a week from the classroom where I teach sixth grade. When I returned to school today, I was greeted with a surprise. You see, four days each week I dress up for school—usually with a white shirt and tie. Today was no exception. However, as I went outside this morning to retrieve my class, I noticed that one of my students, whom I’ll christen as “Chase,” was wearing a white shirt and tie as well.
At first I didn’t say anything to him about this, but instead just gave him a little wink and a smile as he walked into the school with the rest of his classmates. After the first few hours of class I found myself on recess duty, walking the playground with Chase following in my wake. I stopped and began to talk to him, “Chase, you dressed up today. Could I ask you why?”
Chase smiled and said, “Well Mr. Z, you were gone all last week and I knew you were coming back today and, well, I just felt like dressing up.”
As Chase and I walked the playground together talking, I began to remember that time as a boy when my little brother had copied my story. I’ll admit I hadn’t thought about this story for quite some time. As I did I smiled. My mom was right when she’d said that one of the greatest compliments we can give to others is our emulation of them.
I spoke with Chase’s mother this evening. In our conversation she said that Chase had worn his white shirt and tie every one of the days I had been absent from school. She also said that last night he was adamant that his white shirt needed to be laundered; he’d told her that it needed to be clean because today was the day I’d be returning.
“I think he was trying to impress someone,” she said.
Impress someone he had.
When the end of the school day arrived I thanked Chase. I thanked him for the compliment he had given to me. There are no words more powerful this boy could have spoken to his teacher which could have sent a message greater than the one he did by simply coming to school wearing a white shirt and a tie.
Pin ItThis excursion to The Hoot Owl was during a period of time when Mom’s health had first become precarious because of the cancer, and I had left my classroom for a week because the doctors had said she wouldn’t be around very long—in fact, they’d given her between one and eight weeks in which to live. Who would have guessed that she would have outlived their longest estimations by nearly 21 months?
Even as I read over this particular post, it reminds me of the month that I spent up in Sandpoint, and the final days I was able to spend with her before she died.
The morning would bring with it an excitement like Christmas - and yet sadness too, like the last day of school in the spring. This bittersweet feeling came all because of something my dad had whispered to Yancy and me late the night before, “Tomorrow we go to the Hoot Owl.” This small statement, coupled with the fact that my flight took off later that afternoon, had me feeling a mix of emotion.
So, what's The Hoot Owl? To answer that you would need to imagine one of those little restaurants which you can only seem to find in small towns. One of those places which has been run by the same family for years and the menu doesn’t ever seem to change…it’s like stepping back in time to a place that never seems to age, no matter how much you do.
On Saturday morning I was the first awake, and I carefully awoke my brother and dad. I felt like I did back when I was just a kid…trying so hard to be so quiet on Christmas morning, and yet wanting to be loud so we could get things rolling. It didn’t take long before the two of them were wide awake and we slipped off into the early morning mist and the shadows which still covered the sleepy neighborhood on Red Clover Drive.
As we drove to The Hoot Owl the sun slowly broke into life, rising ever so leisurely with its first rays of morning reaching over the mountains to linger on the treetops, orange and yellow. We parked in the dirt lot next door, and made our way to the brightly-lit restaurant which greeted us not only with warmth from the chilly October air, but a bundle of smells which all spelled breakfast.
My dad, my brother, and I sat there and talked over our steaming plates of breakfast. We didn’t necessarily discuss anything which was life-changing, or anything which was incredibly profound…we just talked. Many moments I just listened to what was being said. Amidst spills of water and maple syrup, laughter and deep thought, and friendly greetings from other people my dad and brother knew, we had the opportunity spend a last little while together before I left for Utah…this is something which doesn’t seem to happen near enough with my dad.
As we walked outside once-again into the chilly October morning, we said our goodbyes and went our separate ways. As I climbed into the rental car, fired up the engine, and began the two-hour drive to the SpokaneAirport, I thought of how fortunate I was to have a family who cares about me, and one I care about back. Already in my mind I was anticipating breakfast at some future time again with my dad and brother at The Hoot Owl.
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…”
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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.
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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.
* 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?
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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.
