Keeping the Faith

Years ago I discovered Gotham Writers online.  They had a physical presence in New York City but also offered online classes that I could take anytime.   You had homework assignments to write and turn in for critiques and feedback.  At that time in my life I had a little more time so I took a few classes here and there, but those dropped off as I found myself with more responsibilities at work and in my community and a generally busier life.

But I stayed on the mailing list and still receive the periodic newsletter with their events and offerings.  One of which recently was an online workshop, over Zoom like so many things today.  The workshop was one hour and 15 minutes, just a smidge over my lunch hour this past Friday, so I signed up.

The point of the workshop was the leader would give us a word prompt and we would have 15 minutes to write whatever came to mind, and then those who wanted to could share.

Our first prompt was Keeping the Faith.  Some people managed to write entire sections of short stories in that time while I could only manage a few sentences.  Others wrote more "feelings", like I was doing, but got more out of themselves.  I was too busy trying to define which Faith I was trying to "keep" - in myself, in my fellow man, or in my God (which, side note, was never in question, it was just a matter of which path I was going to take for the assignment.)

The ones that shared, not me to Billy's great surprise, talked a lot about the living through the pandemic and really had some beautiful words and alliterations for how their lives had felt in the last few months - looking through windows and comparing the virus to cement that had been dumped on their worlds to keep them in place.

Of course, on last Friday, the virus was still all anyone had to talk about when the thought of keeping the faith was a topic.

It was before the country was set ablaze by rioting and looting.  It was before innocent police officers were killed in the line of duty and hardworking people saw their entire livelihoods get wiped out and destroyed.

It was before.

Some of the thoughts I'm sharing below feel as if they need some kind of "qualifier".  These are only What-Ifs, not what I'm saying is true or trying to detract from what is, just wonderings.

All the rioting these last few days is coming from a tragic event last Monday.   On the evening of Memorial Day, a man was detained after using a counterfeit bill in a store.  From what I have read, the passing of the fake $20 was unintentional and the man was being compliant with the officer to a point, even waiting on the officers to arrive when the store owner confronted him with the fake bill.  He did resist when being placed into the police car and slipped down to the ground.  I have not watched the video of what all happened in the next almost 9 minutes but I do know from what I have seen that the officer detained the man on the ground by using his knee on the man's neck, possibly aggressively at times, but certainly in an unsafe manner, and the man died as a result.  The officer continued to hold him down with his knee even after the man stopped moving and asking him to please let him up.  From the witness accounts, again I have not watched the video myself, the man never tried to be aggressive with the officer or fight him, he was just asking for the officer to move his knee and release the pressure on his neck.  Three other officers were present on the scene but apparently took no actions to stop the officer or assist the man on the ground.

A man died after passing a bad $20 bill from an officer that was too aggressive in his manner of detention.

That sentence alone, as written, should horrify most folks.  It did me.

That is the way the story should have been presented in the media.  But it wasn't.  Notice that nowhere in that retelling did I ever mention the race of the officer or the man.  Ever.  For us to be feel outrage or anger or sympathy or even skepticism, the race of the participants was not important.  The facts alone were enough.

Yet the media immediately put out the story that is was a white racist cop killing a black man.  

Maybe the cop was just a jerk.  Did the media ever even think of that?

You know, one of those bad officers - and there are some just as there are bad priests, bad teachers, bad accountants, bad everything - who gets drunk on the power of his position instead of respecting the badge he wears.   You can be a jerk against another human being without being a racist.

Race didn't have to be brought in to the story to make it a tragedy, it already was.

So the already tenuous pot of race relations in the United States was stirred again.

I have read that, allegedly,  the officer had anywhere from 10 to 18 prior complaints against him for behavioral issues. We know his wife, a Laotian, filed for divorce just a few days after his arrest.  Maybe it was a "last straw" kind of event for her, maybe she'd seen more in their years together and knew he was capable of this kind of act.  Maybe he shouldn't have been out there on the streets anyway?  Were these prior complaints all white persons so it didn't get reported, or was it just because no one died that it wasn't deemed newsworthy?

I will stick my neck out right now and say that incidents occur between black officers and black persons and white officers and white persons, some even ending in death, that we never hear about.  I will go so far as to say that if the officer had been black the man on the ground white with the same result we would have never had heard about it.  The media wouldn't find that "provocative" enough.

No, instead, they threw out the racist tag and what has happened since has been heartbreaking.

The media placed a target on every police officer in this country, most of them good, honest, hardworking, brave men and women who put their lives on the line with every shift for all the rest of us.  They have blood on their hands, too, in all of this.

In the first few days after the incident there were peaceful protests.  People wanted to see justice for George Floyd.  Rightfully so.  The officer was arrested and charged with third degree murder in a matter of days, an act that could have taken weeks or months but with the video evidence only took hours.  The protest might have happened anyway, but I still think a lot of them were the result of the media continually spouting out the phrase "racist cop".  And in the last four or five nights the peaceful protests, while still present, have also given way to rioting and looting across the country.  Big towns and small ones.  Storefronts smashed.  Inventories raided.  I have watched cases of liquor being loaded into cars; big screen televisions being carried off; high end clothing stores being emptied.  The justification is that the businesses all have insurance so let some else pay for it.

Problem is, not all of them do.  Lifetimes of work have been destroyed.  Jobs lost, possibly forever if the businesses don't reopen.  These actions have nothing to do the peaceful protests or the incident itself.  These rioters are just opportunistic criminals trying to grab whatever they can.  They do nothing to honor the man for whom they are supposedly speaking out.

But even worse, I have seen police officers be injured, shot, beat up, killed, and a retired captain died on the street in St. Louis and we could all see it on Facebook.

All because of one jackass.

Well, one jackass and an overzealous media that couldn't wait to create this maelstrom.

I don't know if Officer Chauvin is a racist.  I don't think anyone has actually asked him.  I do know he exhibited very poor judgement in his final act as an officer and he will pay for that lapse for the rest of his life.  I know others have already paid with their lives because of his actions, and I hope he has to live with that knowledge as well.

I pray for the families of the officers killed and injured in the riots.  That should never have happened.

As of now, I don't know where the national story will end.  It may end with military force if the violence on the streets doesn't quell soon.  Or maybe once all the stores are looted and there is nothing else to steal the rioters will all go home and we will only be left with the peaceful protesters.  Only time will tell.

But I do know the pain for the Floyd and Chauvin families will be ongoing.  There will be a funeral, and a trial.  There will be loss for both.   My prayers continue to go out to them as well.

30

You know, when you're a child, anyone with an age of double digits you think of as "old" but, for some reason,  someone who is thirty just seems to be ancient!  It's like that is the highest age your little mind can even comprehend.  Even when you are in your twenties there is something about the thought of turning thirty that just seems to make some dread that birthday and fear it making them feel "old".  Some people feel at thirty that all their best years are behind them.

Thirty is just a number with which you just don't want to associate.

Except today.

Today, I woke up celebrating the fact that I married my best friend 30 years ago.

I met Billy in March 1988.  And while I cannot usually tell you what I had for dinner last night, or will forget a plot point on a show we just watched last week, or even what day it is sometimes without a calendar, I can still remember exactly what I was wearing the day I met him - pink shorts and my favorite sleeveless pullover sweater with pink and baby blue argyles.  I can close my eyes and still see my surroundings of the moment I first saw him leaving the softball field in Conway in his red Camaro.  I can relate to you verbatim our first conversation.  I was sitting on the bleachers at the softball field, waiting on the next game to start.  I had brought my cross-stitching with me as I had actually very little interest in the games and was only really there to be nice to one of the players on the team.  As I was sitting there Billy walked over and used my needlework as his opening line "what are you knitting?"   My response, "it isn't knitting, this is cross-stitch, and it's a sampler, see?" showing him the pattern.  "I do know how to knit, though, but this isn't it."

(Billy gets very frustrated with me because I have a tendency to correct him, a lot in his opinion.  I remind him that I have been doing that, literally, since he met me so it shouldn't be a surprise, but I will promise to try harder not to do it.)

The thing is, when I met Billy I had no idea I was meeting my Forever.  At the point where my life was on that March

day, I had no intention of even looking for a Forever for a long time.  I was newly detached from a long-time relationship, about to graduate from college, and had a job in the audit department of an international accounting firm waiting on me to start July 1.

Rome, Italy - 20 year anniversary

Life was good and I saw no need to make any changes.


But, even though I didn't know I was meeting my Forever, the Diviner of the Master Plan certainly did and He made sure all those details stayed in my brain, whether I knew why they were there or not.

It didn't take long, though, for me to realize what I had.  Billy had known from the start.  He told me before our first official date that he was going to marry me someday.  Again, given where I was in my life at that point my first thought was "stalker" and I tried to point out that he didn't even really know me.  He might not like me so much once he did.

Okay, he was right and I was wrong.  He surreptitiously had me looking at engagement rings in August 1988, engaged on December 21, 1988, and then planning an April wedding.  Busy season in that international accounting firm kyboshed that idea.  I took a calendar and found a date halfway between our birthdays  - August 5 - as the replacement date.

Summer days in Arkansas are generally no picnic, and that August 5 of 1989 was no exception.  It was hot!  Mom went early to the church and them turn down the air conditioning as low at it would go (one of several trips to the church that morning!) but we were still sweating through the whole thing in our full formalwear.  My "something old" was the handkerchief my Naunie carried at her wedding and I used it the whole time to try and help with that.  Billy is not much into the Pomp and Circumstance of events and that day he started asking from the altar if we could leave yet.  Ceremony wasn't even finished but he'd had enough of the fishbowl and was ready to go.  I think he mostly just wanted to change out of that tux into some comfortable clothes.

That still hasn't changed.

That day was full of good memories.  The phone in my apartment rang just as Mom and Dad and I were walking out to head to the church and it was Sears, wanting to know if I wanted to extend the warranty on my washer and dryer.  I stood there listening to the lady on the on end of the line, Mom and Dad looking at me like I was crazy and then I stopped her and asked if she could call back in a week because I was just leaving to go get married!  As we were getting ready at the church Daddy walked into the bride's room and told me Billy had no socks to wear but he thought I would know where some were for him? - they were in my purse.  I had realized when Billy brought his two garbage bags full of all his clothes that he had forgotten to leave some out for the wedding.  We took picture after picture and that chapel length train came in handy because the only way I could really be seen in any of the pictures with Billy in them was to stand one stair up behind him.  They swirled the train in front of me so it wasn't quite as obvious.

Thirty years is a long time.  Over the years we have shared love and supported each other through losses.  We have moved several times - different houses, different states - and endured a major home remodel where we did the bulk of the work ourselves.  We have changed jobs and been self-employed at the same time, working for each other.  We have created our family by bringing in dogs that needed a home and cried together when they left us, but always finding room for just one more.

We have built our Forever, together.

Funny thing, neither of us feel old enough to have been married for thirty years.

Walt Disney World - 5th anniversary

 (Billy used to tell me he didn't even think he'd live to see thirty so imagine his surprise in 1994 when he made it.)  Sometimes we still feel like those young kids that wanted to go to Six Flags over Texas for a weekend vacation, or travel to watch the Razorbacks on away weekends.  Up and able and ready to do anything!  A few years ago, though, we went to a concert in Lafayette, LA on a Thursday night and drove home afterward because I needed to be at work on that Friday and as Billy stood in front of the open fridge, trying to get something to put together for my breakfast, he said "we're too old for this".

We have enjoyed the good times and worked through those that weren't.  We are always striving to balance the seesaw, knowing that sometimes your job is to hold the other one up, and sometimes it is you that needs to be held.

But for all the ups and downs there is no one that I would rather do this Life with.  No one.  He is my rock, my biggest fan and

 cheerleader, my Everything, and I try to do the same for him.  He is the reason I want to wake up every day - just to see what that day might bring to us.

Both sets of my grandparents celebrated over 50 years of marriage.  I see as we get older that reaching 50 years together is as much luck as it is anything else.  The first step is that you have to get old enough to be together 50 years and that is often out of your control, but I'm certainly pushing for it!  I thank the Lord each night for giving us what He has so far, and hoping every day for just one more.

So, here's to another 30, baby!  I love you more than Life!  Thank you for knowing what you wanted all those years ago, and waiting on me to figure it out.

Costa Rica - 25 anniversary

Frankie

One day in mid-January 2004 I was at work and my cell phone rang.  We have a policy of not using our phones at work, particularly out at a client, but since I knew I Billy was returning to Natchez from Arkansas that day I glanced at it anyway, just to make sure he wasn't calling with car trouble or changes to his schedule.    And yes, it was him calling.  I answered it up because he never calls work unless there is something he really needs.

From the time I answered I could hear in his voice he was "shook", to use one of my dad's terms.  He was apologizing and saying he no other choice; he knew it was a bad time of year for me but he just had to do it.

I was getting nervous.

You see, he had picked up a puppy.

As he was coming through Lake Providence, Louisiana, right at the town's edge at the railroad tracks, he saw what looked like a dead animal in the road.  Since we don't hit an animal in the road, living or dead, he pulled the van into the left lane to go around, and then he saw it.

She wasn't dead, but instead dragging herself by her front paws trying to get out of the road.

He pulled over immediately and ran back to help her.  She had been hit by a car, obviously, but there was not car in sight.  The driver hadn't stopped.  He could see a couple of bigger dogs with two or three little pups following them that looked just like her running across a field.  Her family, probably. There was also a store in a little pink building, a fish market maybe?, and he said there were several people standing around in front of it.  Not a one of them had even taken a step in her direction to try and help her.  No one waved a hand at him as he was driving to get his attention to make sure he didn't hit her.

They just stood there.

I can still hear his words in my head.  "I had two choices, honey.  I could either pick her up and bring her to you or I could go over there and beat the BLEEP out of them for just standing there."  I told him he chose wisely and we would do what we could.  And I asked if he thought she could make the still two-plus hour drive to Natchez.  He thought so.  She was bloody but that mostly looked like it was from her paws where she was dragging herself on the asphalt.

I called our local vet and got one of the last appointments that day, finished my work and went home to change out of my work clothes and to see after the two we had at the time, Christy and Midnight, and then waited on Billy to get there.    When he did I headed straight out to the van, not even giving him time to get out.

What I saw was a dog unlike anything I'd ever seen before.  She was gray with black dots on part of her body but her face was kind of white and tan and her tail was bushy but not a ringtail like Christy had.  I didn't know what she was.

Dr. Gregg looked her over, took x-rays, and told us her pelvis was fractured but there didn't appear to be any internal damage to her organs.  He gave us three options.  First, because she was just a stray that we were not invested in (he didn't really know us that well back then - we get invested from the moment we see them) he could euthanize her; second, if we were invested in her he could do surgery to repair the fractures; or three, because she was so young that her bones had not fully hardened yet and we could try to keep her crated and quiet and see if they would heal on their own.  If they didn't heal properly then we could do surgery later.

We voted for option three.  (It is wasn't long after that when I explained our philosophy that going forward he should not offer us any options that he would not want his pediatrician to recommend to him for his children i.e. euthanasia) 

As we talked to Dr. Gregg I asked what she was and he said she looked like a pure Catahoula Cur, also known as a Catahoula Leopard Dog, and the State Dog for Louisiana.  He asked us what we were going to name her since we were obviously going to keep her and I asked for a few suggestions.  He said he knew a lot of Catahoulas named Merle since that is what their coloring is called.  I decided, though, to focus on those beautiful blue eyes of hers and named her Frankie, after one of my favorites, Old Blue Eyes himself, Frank Sinatra.

We had never crated a dog before but I had large one that I had used when Christy and Stormy were in obedience training.  (I had to have a place to keep one while working with the other since their classes were back-to-back.)  I thought it would do so we brought it out and dusted it off and tried to get her settled in her new home.  It wasn't too hard at first.  The crate was a good size and she couldn't move a lot anyway so she got used to being in there to eat and sleep.  Taking her outside, though, was another story.  There is a lot more room in the front and side of our house than in the back so I would carry her out front whenever Billy let the other two at back.  Of course the challenge was how to support her back half so she could do what she needed and that was when I came up with old pantyhose.  I could slide the legs around her and use those to hold her up.  Since they stretched, I didn't have to walk all leaned over.  And it worked well.   She loved her freedom from the crate and would try to cover as much ground as she could on those two front legs!  I remember thinking one morning as I had crazy bed hair and my bathrobe was flying as I tried to keep up with her that the Natchez Garden District was going to wonder who they had allowed to move in downtown and escort us back to the Mississippi River Bridge!  As her bones healed and her mobility increased keeping her in the crate all day got harder and harder.  She could see Christy and Midnight having the run of the house and she got to where she wanted it, too.  Now, at this point Christy was thirteen and a half years old and Midnight was probably eight-ish so there wasn't a lot of running around the house, more like just hanging out all day.

Eventually, we were convinced that she was healed and it didn't take long before the crate was folded back up and stored away.  Even if she wasn't completely healed, we weren't getting her to stay in the crate so she basically forced our hand.  It seemed like every day when I came home from work you could see she had grown from that very morning.  She was healthy and happy and showed no signs she'd ever had a problem with her legs.

One of my fondest memories was not long after we let her of the crate to be one of the Girls.  Our house is a Victorian and from the front door you are looking down the center hallway all the way to the back door - straight shot.  It also has original hardwood floors.  One day I came home from work and Frankie popped her head out of the kitchen at the back of the house when she heard the door and came running at me up that hallway.  She realized too late, though, that she needed to stop and all of the sudden all four feet went out from under her and all four legs were splayed out!  Eyes wide!  And she slid to stop just inches away.  And she jumped up and ran all over, so excited to see me!  I realized in that moment just how much I had missed that.  Of course Christy and Midnight missed me during the day and were happy to see me come home, but Christy was going deaf and sometimes didn't realize I was there until she saw me.  And Midnight was never our most social soul.  She preferred to stay under the stairs or in a closet.  That is where she felt the most comfortable.  Their expressions of "happy you're home, Mom!' were a bit more subdued.

But that pure, unadulterated joy on Frankie's face was something to behold.  She was glad to see me and letting me know it!  She made my heart smile!

Those first few months were trying for our Girls.  Frankie wanted to play and Christy and Midnight did not.  Their days of running and chasing balls and such were behind them.  One Saturday morning I was in the kitchen and the three Girls were out in the backyard.  Frankie came bursting through the door with a smile as wide as all of Montana spread across her face and blood running down one side of it.  We scooped her up and headed straight for Dr. Gregg's office.  He cleaned her up and looked her over and then smiled a bit at us.  "You see that little mark on her ear?  I'd bet you anything that is a little Pomeranian nip."

Yep.  Christy had let her know in no uncertain terms that she didn't care how cute Frankie was or how happy her running around made Mom and Dad feel, she, Christy, was still the Queen Bee and Frankie needed to understand that and get used to it.

Not long after that we had Frankie out on walk, trying to burn through some energy, I'm sure, and when we got back I saw something sticking out from underneath one of Frankie's back paws.  It just looked like a leaf to me so I start tugging on it to get it off and she snatched and foot and started limping to get away.  Once again, it was off to Dr. Gregg's office.  I learned something that day - dogs can slip their pads on their paws, and she had done it.  (Never had a dog before or since that has ever done that, and we have raised, to date, 14.)   So we took her home and Billy carried her up the stairs and placed her on the bed.  She milked that hurt paw for weeks!  Billy would carry her down for breakfast and to go out and then carry her back up again.

October 2004 saw the addition of Patches (about 4 months old) to our family and March 2005 added Maggie (around 7 months old.)  Frankie could not have been happier to have playmates!  So yes, we added three puppies in about a year's time but that was good.  The Three Amigos, as called them, loved each other and played together and, for the most part, ignored Christy and Midnight which was fine with them.

Christy left us in October 2005 and left the leadership reins to Frankie.  Again, Midnight didn't really have much to do with anyone so she was fine with it. 

Frankie saw the additions of Scooter and Sadie in 2007, Riley in 2008, Doozer in 2010, Gabby in 2012, Micky in 2015, and Spencer in 2017.  (Hence the new phrase the Tanksley Thundering Herd) Frankie welcomed them all, and usually let them know very quickly that she was the Queen Bee now and they needed to understand their place.  With her, though, no nipping, only warning barks.  She took great pleasure in letting everyone else finish their meals and then eating hers right in front of them, barking every few bites to tell them to back off, there would be no leftovers.

As much as she loved everyone, sometimes you could just tell she wished she had had the chance to be an only child.

Frankie left us July 13, 2019.  She was reunited with her other Amigos (Patches left in 2015 and Maggie in 2017).    She once again saw Christy and Midnight and Riley and Scooter, whom she had lived with, as well as Stormy and Molly that were part of the Girls before Frankie came along.

She was blessed to just pass of old age.  She had had a couple of fatty tumors that she carried around for over ten years.  She had worked through kidney disease where sometimes she would only eat if Billy or I handfed her. But after almost sixteen years her little body just gave out.

She held court over her "subjects" from the center of our king-sized bed and, later when she could no longer jump up that high, from a couch in our bedroom.

She was Riley's buddy and would stay with him in the bedroom so he wouldn't be alone while everyone else was out running around.  She could de-squeak any dog toy in no time flat and typically never disturbed the stuffing in the process.  Even the toughest line of toys were no match for her.

She was our sweetheart, our Princess.

We both still look for her on her bed in the bedroom every time we walk in.  I keep looking for her Phantom-of-the-Opera masked face to peek around a corner.  We are struggling to stop at five when we take our headcount each night.  Those last few days were all about her.  She had grown very finicky in the last few months and what she would eat one day she wouldn't the next.  We would cook hamburgers, hot dogs, smoked sausages and she might take a bite and then come stare in my eyes like she was starving, begging to be fed,  for a bite of my string cheese.   We would get excited that a hamburger had worked one day and then dejected the next would should wouldn't even sniff one.  We even got to the point where we went the cat food route because I had always heard that the stinkier the better if you're trying to get them to eat.  We bought Ensure and baby food and I fed her with a syringe.  You know in your heart of hearts that you are reaching the end, but I kept wanting to feed her just in case.  Maybe her tummy was just upset and she'd start eating tomorrow?  I woke up once on that last Thursday night and saw Billy sleeping on the floor next to her.  On Friday night, I did the same.  We had tried to get her to go out Friday afternoon, me supporting her back half with a robe belt - similar to how I had all those years ago - but she wasn't walking well at that point.  Saturday morning I stayed on the floor next to her.  We had the room dark and cool.  And we waited. It's a tough thing, waiting on a loved one to pass. I watched her breathe.  I stroked her side and whispered in her ear that it was okay to go.  I promised her that I would take care of her daddy, and he would take care of everyone else.  And we waited.  All of our other Herd members were laying around the room and were totally silent and still. 

At 10:10 that Saturday morning she breathed her last.  I kept thinking that maybe I was feeling a faint heartbeat, but it was only my own pulse from pressing so hard, wanting so desperately to be wrong.

She was gone.

Like the others, she has been cremated.  Billy picked her up this past Friday and brought her home and handed her to me.  Just like he had over 15 years ago.  Only this time instead of being wrapped in towels she was covered with purple paper and tucked into a small treasure chest.  Fitting for one that brought so many riches and such joy into our lives.

We love you, Frankie Girl!  And we miss you.  Fly high and free.

A Book Review

My mom recommended this book to me a year or so ago.  It is unusual for Mom to do this so when she did, I bought the book and put it in my stack of To Reads.



I finished it last night and wanted to bring it to your attention.



Everyone remembers where they were on September 11, 2001.  That is one of my generation's defining moments.   Most of us spent the day in front of televisions or the Internet watching the replays of the Towers and Pentagon being hit and the Towers subsequently falling.  We remember the images of President George W. Bush being interrupted as he was reading to a group of school children in Florida.  You could see his face change as an aide whispered in his ear what was happening, him processing and deciding how to handle this.  We saw survivors making their way down Manhattan streets choked with smoke and ash; first responders trying to lead them to safety as their brothers in arms ran into the burning buildings. 



We cried.



United States airspace was almost immediately closed to all traffic.  All planes in the air had to land at the closest viable airport.  For 38 planes on their way from various European locations Gander, Newfoundland was that spot.



In all honesty, I had never really thought about the planes that were on their way but not yet in US airspace.  But for the folks of Gander, it was a very big deal.



The population of Gander at the time was less than 10,000 and those 38 transatlantic jets brought in 7,000 more folks.  Folks for which there was no room.



This book is small, only about 250 pages, but it is filled with stories of what Gander and a few other surrounding towns did for these "Plane People", as they called them.  Shelters sprung up in churches and lodges and schools.  Locals took people into their homes to allow them to shower or find a quiet, peaceful place to rest a bit.  Volunteers set up phone banks and food banks.  Stores opened their doors to whatever the folks needed (the passengers, when they finally were able to deplane - late that Tuesday night or sometime on Wednesday - could only have whatever luggage they carried on with them, no checked bags.)   Pharmacies began trying to find needed medications and gathering toiletries and such from their stocks.  A vet and vet techs volunteered to care for the animals aboard the planes at no cost to any of the passengers (Canadian regulations prohibited the animals leaving the airport).



As you go through the pages, you see such a glimmer of humanity that is so very hard to find these days.  No, not a glimmer but a shining beacon.  A beacon that I wish we could see more often.



It was 126 hours from the first plane landing until the last plane left on the Sunday after the tragedy and during that time "families" were formed.  Lasting friendships.  Amid such devastation came such caring for strangers.



It isn't the only story I know where homes and businesses were open to those in need.  Billy and I were on vacation when Hurricane Katrina hit the Mississippi Gulf Coast and New Orleans.  As people evacuated, and more so after the storm and there were no longer places for them to live, Natchez, a town of less than 18,000, became a haven much like Gander.  Shelters sprung up in churches and lodges.  Friends and coworkers of mine opened their homes to those needing a place to sleep.  The Red Cross showed up with basic supplies for the displaced.  Radio stations held drives for toiletries to make hygiene bags for those in the shelters.  So, while I wasn't there for the initial influx of folks, I saw the aftermath of good people helping others every single day.



Maybe it is just how small towns react to adversity.



Unlike Gander, many of the people that came to Natchez stayed for a while.  They had lost their homes and businesses and had no real reason to return.  They gave back to the community that had taken them in by opening new retail stores, restaurants, or doctor's offices.  Katrina had given them a fresh start.  Everyone that had been detoured in Gander left, but many of them returned the kindnesses they had been shown.  Some passengers were involved with a charitable foundation and donated grant monies for the school district to purchase new computer equipment and donations to local charities and churches.   The passengers of one plane passed the hat as they were finally able to leave and continue their journey to Atlanta and collected over $15,000.



At a time when the world was facing pure Evil, unsure of the who, what or why, Gander showed that there was a place that Evil had not yet reached. 



Reading it made my heart smile.



(Now, if you look at the Amazon reviews you will see a several that kind of bash on the author a bit.  They could dissuade you from trying the book.  True, I also found typos and questionable uses of grammar but to focus on that is to truly miss the message of the book.  Did the author need a better proofer, absolutely, but that shouldn't factor into the decision to check it out.)

Life Is Like a Lasagna

With all due respect to Forrest Gump's mama, who isn't wrong by the way - sometimes life is like a box of chocolates - it occurred to me not long ago that Life is like a lasagna.

Layered.  Complex.  Simple.  Flavorful.

Satisfying.

Billy and I enjoy a good lasagna.  We tag team the building of it - I get sauce and noodles and he layers on the cheeses.  He has to lift it into the oven due to the sheer heft of it.  We wait until the sauce is bubbly and the cheese browning on top and then dig in with anxious forks; ready to be filled until we are stuffed.

But what makes a "good" lasagna?

First, there are the basic decisions - do you want it layered or a rolled up version? How many layers?  White sauce or red?  Meat or vegetarian?  What kinds of cheeses?  Family sized or single serving?   In other words, what do you want it to look like when you're through?   

Next, how much time do you have to invest in the preparation - do you have time to boil and drain the noodles or is this a time for the oven ready variety?  Jarred sauce or homemade?  Are you a Martha Stewart devotee and want to even make your own noodles and grow your own tomatoes and fresh herbs for the sauce?  (I learned in culinary arts school that there are varying degrees of "homemade".)  What are you willing to do?  You'll only get out of it what you'll put into it.

Then, it needs to be planned out - how many noodles do you have?  How much sauce is ready and available?  Do you have all the various cheeses?  How about one egg to make the ricotta cheese mixture?  There is nothing worse than having a ton of sauce and few noodles, or misjudging the sauce and putting too much on one layer and not having enough to cover the top and the noodles get burnt and crispy, or not being able to spread the ricotta cheese so it ends up in clumps in just a few bites instead of being evenly distributed.  What do you need to do to bring your expectations and vision to fruition?

And do you have time to cook it?  A good lasagna can take 45 minutes-ish just to cook after you get it all together.  Have you started in time?  Some things cannot just be popped into a microwave and done.

Now, I know none of this are earth-shattering and a lasagna might not have been the best example, but if you think about it in terms of your Life Plan you might see the similarities.

First, what do you want out of Life?  A family, a career, both?  Do you want to go to college or the military or straight into the workforce?  Do you have any idea of what you want your life to look like?

You do?  Great!  Then how much are you willing to devote to get there?  If you want to go to college are you making the grades in high school?  Putting school work ahead of fun stuff when needed?  Prioritizing the things that need to be?  Want to specialize?  Are you getting the right foundation?  Are you tailoring your current daily events to get you where you hope to end, no matter how far out that goal?  Are you putting in the time now to get what you want then?

Do you have a plan to achieve your goals?  Is it a family?  Sometimes Mr. or Mrs. Right will show up on your doorstep but more often than not you need to position yourself to meet them - at church, at work, through friends.  Be open and responsive.  If work is your most immediate concern what are you doing to separate yourself from the rest of the world?  Are you doing things to improve your skills, whatever they are?  Are you thinking on your own about what you might need, taking the initiative, instead of waiting for someone to tell you?

Is there time?  Waiting until your senior year of high school to worry about your grades may not get you into college you want.  Showing up for work at 8:05 every morning and leaving at 4:55 for years will most likely get you passed over for the promotion you've had your eye on.  If you want to be a boss someday act like it from your first day at work - not to say you should be an overconfident, overbearing "young whippersnapper know-it-all" but be the person watching and absorbing and learning from those that have been there longer, positioning yourself appropriately to someday fill their shoes and sit at their desks.

But of course, in both cases, sometimes you just have to be flexible.   Assess what you have and adapt as needed.  Life, like prepping a lasagna, can't always be rigid.  Think outside the box sometimes; try something new.  Maybe you have oven-ready noodles but all the time and ingredients for a homemade sauce, or maybe you want to use up that eggplant you found at the Farmer's Market and layering in that in will be perfect, or this may be the time that trying a lasagna without ricotta cheese.  Sometimes you do with what you have.

 True story - growing up I didn't like ricotta cheese.  Or, at least I thought didn't.  I had never tried it and I had a "habit" of immediately declaring I didn't like something just based on what I thought, saw, smelled - rarely ever trying it anyway, just to be sure.  (Side note - I am getting better at this, not great probably, but better.)  When we first married, Billy liked his lasagnas fully loaded, including onions in his sauce which I still dislike, and thick ricotta cheese on each layer, and mine were always noodles, meat sauce, and mozzarella cheese only.  So I always made two, and I made them both myself.  Mine was small and thin compared to his but we were both getting what we wanted.  It wasn't always efficient to make two as work demands grew and, over time, I tried to branch out a bit and discovered ricotta cheese wasn't horrible and we started compromising - I would only make one lasagna and he had to give up the onions cooked in the sauce but I would sauté some in a pan separately and add them to the layers on one end and put just a thinner layer of ricotta cheese on the opposite end for me to eat.  Meeting in the middle, so to speak. 

We did it this way for a long time.

Since, in general, ricotta cheese doesn't fall into our "staples" category - only buying it when we knew for sure we were going to use it before the expiration date - but lasagna falls into the so oft-repeated meal category so that we always had a box of noodles on hand, over time Billy started eating the lasagna "my" way.  Just noodles, meat sauce, and mozzarella cheese.  Lots and lots and lots of mozzarella cheese!   This combination proved to be an easy meal that either of could make at the end of the day, depending on our schedules, and it satisfied us both.

Or, as I said before, a task that we could tackle together and make fun.

Life, and lasagna, are both the products of the choices we make.  What we have versus what we want, and how to get what we want - the necessary ingredients to have our best life.  And, like I said before, either can be complex or simple; flavorful or very basic; rich; satisfying; it all depends on how you make it.  It can start one way and end another, depending on what you discover you like, and don't.  It can be heavy and huge, or just light enough for one.  It is all up to you.

And while I love the rich sauce and gooey cheese and noodles thick enough to hold all of it, no matter what you put in it, sometimes the best part of a lasagna is just who you share it with.  

It's Just a Day

This posts falls into the category of "I had a thought, I wrote, and then I forgot to publish it."  I thought I had though.  A friend on Facebook (and in real life, we just haven't seen each other since high school, probably) expressed a sentiment recently similar to what I had said here, and I knew I had a post about it so I went to find it and do a repeat performance.  Only I found it in the Draft folder and not the Posted folder.  In rereading it, I realized it didn't need much to be finished.  I originally wrote it several years ago so a few of the references are dated, but still valid.

Hope you enjoy it.


Valentine's Day is but once a year, right?

Depends.  Yes, according to the Julian Calendar.  No, according to me.

I started to write this post last year when I heard many of my Facebook friends, and some others that I could actually see and touch, lamenting how terrible it was that their husband/boyfriend/significant other hadn't done anything for them for Valentine's Day.  No flowers, no candy, no cards.  Nothing.

Whenever these conversations start I hesitate to jump in.

I can count on one hand, pretty much, the number of gifts Billy has gone out and purchased for a specific event. 

My engagement ring was a Christmas present, that was 1988.  Christy, my first baby, was my first Christmas present that year we were married (1989).  Christmas 1991 saw a few presents because we had both used all our accrued vacation time to move to Kansas City and couldn't go to Arkansas for the holiday.  I remember he bought me a set of purple glass Corning cookware.  I can't recall one birthday or anniversary gift - ever.  1989 or 1990 was probably the last time I got anything for Valentine's Day either.  I do remember getting flowers and a teddy bear one year when I worked at Ernst in Little Rock, but not sure if was the engaged year or the married year.

Yet, I want for nothing. 

Yesterday, a package came for Billy, that he ordered, and in it were 6 bottles of bubble bath for me, just because he knows I like to take bubble baths. 

Newest iPhone, also coming to me.  All I said was that a friend had one and I thought they were interesting.  He went to AT&T and picked one out and is having it shipped.

Anything I show him in a magazine - cool purple running shoes, new exercise clothes, fun gadgets - his first words are always "get you some!" and if I don't, he will.  He has come back from Arkansas many a time with a bag of goodies for me. 

He just knows me, and what I like.

Who's up every morning, asking what time we're leaving to walk?  Yep.  Have a race to run, he's right there.  Up early, tending to the animals so I can gather my stuff and then waiting at the finish line with a big grin across his face.  (Almost a big as the one across my face).  The only one he's not sure he can attend is when I do a half Ironman distance triathlon, but only because it will take me all day to do it.  We're still working on that one.

So, if someone asks what I got for this occasion or that reason, I don't have the answer they are looking for. 

Nothing, because I didn't need it.
Nothing, because I already have it all.

You see, I married a giver, just not a "gift-giver". 

And that is how I believe it should be.  

It means so much more to me to know that he listens, and cares, and does whatever he can to make my life easier.  His schedule is more flexible so he goes to the grocery store for us; he does laundry and housework. After those morning walks he comes back and fixes my breakfast and coffee to go while I am getting dressed for work.  Lunch is on the table every day, waiting for me.  And dinner is always in the works when I get home.  

These gifts are way sweeter than an box of chocolates and last much longer than a bouquet of roses.  Daily reminders of how he feels about me, unsolicited, and free from the pressure of getting the perfect gift for that one day that the World that says you are supposed to have one.

See, in our house February 14 is just another day on the calendar - same as February 13 and February 15.  Or May 18, August 5, December 25, October 19, and on and on.

Life Without Epilepsy

For almost exactly nine years, we lived with epilepsy.  For just over the last year, we have lived without it.

At first, you go through all the standard stages of grief – denial (Riley cannot really be gone), anger (why did he have to live with epilepsy in the first place, why couldn’t he just be like all the other dogs?), bargaining (bring him back and I’ll do anything; bring him back without epilepsy and I’ll really do anything you want), depression (what will we do without that face) and acceptance (I can’t believe he’s gone, but I know he is).

But then, a different kind of reality sets in, and a type of guilt you’ve not dealt with before.

For almost 283,824,000 seconds our lives revolved around Riley.  Literally, and figuratively.  Trips to the grocery store were planned around his medicine schedule.  Nights out or trips alone were only scheduled when one of our competent sitters was available.  One night, we went to a concert and Riley slept in the car the whole time.  We bought webcams to watch him.  We did nothing – not work, not play, not anything without considering Riley and his needs.

And then Riley was gone.  Just like that.  In literally an instant.  One final breath.  Just one of those 283,824,000 seconds.

It takes a day, or two.  Maybe a few.  And you realize one day that the medicine alarm didn’t go off, and you didn’t even realize it.  Years of having multiple alarms go off multiple times a day and now, none.  You are walking around Walmart and look at your watch and momentarily panic, and then realize it doesn’t matter.  Riley’s 2pm pills aren’t necessary.  You see a advertisement for a local festival and really want to go but it will probably last after 10:30 pm.  And, again, you realize it doesn’t matter.  You’re free to go, if you want,

So you go.  You keep shopping at Walmart.  You book that client meeting for 2 pm.  You register for that triathlon out of town.  You run a little further in the morning before work.

You go to bed at 9:30 at night and sleep straight through until 6:30 in the morning.

And you feel guilty.

This isnt’ right! I can’t do this!  Riley needs me!

But he doesn’t anymore.

He is over the Rainbow Bridge, where no epilepsy monster can touch him.  No seizures, no ataxia from his meds, no blindness.  No issues whatsoever.

Like learning to live with epilepsy, you learn to live without it.  It should be easy since you grew up, went to college, got married and started working all without it.  But learning to live without epilepsy takes almost as much as learning to live with it.

It is a shift, again.

Adding epilepsy to your daily routine makes you feel like you’ve “done something”.  You have altered your life for a precious creature’s greater good.  Eliminating that element from your day makes you just like everyone else – working for a living, taking care of your family, and so on.

 And that is not bad by any stretch of the imagination, it is just a new normal.  You are back to the person you were before epilepsy entered your life.  A wife, husband, mother, father, sibling, employee, employer, neighbor.  You are just you.

And you realize one day that it is okay.  “You” is not such a bad person to be.

But you still feel guilty.

Some days more than others.

They say that to know love you have to have had loss.  I don’t know if I agree with that or not.  I think to know love you only have to look the eyes of dog.  One who’s former family has failed him.  One that has been sick all night and is curled up in a ball next to you.  One who hasn’t had a good meal in a while and can’t stop wagging his tail as you give him food.

One who has slept all night in the first time for a long time, safe under your care.

 We are not the first family to go through this, won’t be the last.  But I want to put it out there that it is okay.  That first morning you sleep all night because you didn’t have to listen for every sound from your warrior, its okay.  That first day you come home from work and realize for the first time you worked all day, its okay.  The first time you just plan something you really want to do, and then do it, its okay.

Our warriors never leave us, not really.  They are still in everything we do, but just not the deciding factor in everything we do.

We can live and love, and learn to do so guilt free.

Life cycles

You are born, you live, you die.

You are a child. You become a parent.  Your parents become childlike.

Your parents loved, nurtured, and protected you in your youth.  You love, nurture, and protect your parents in their age.

Your children grow to become parents.  

And it continues.

Life, cycles. 

The Three Rs

Republican, Racist, Redneck.

I was called all three last week, all because of one very small Twitter post.  Fox & Friends posted the new Nike Just Do It campaign ad, and asked for thoughts.   As you may know, it featured Colin Kaepernick with the slogan “Believe in Something.  Even if it Means Sacrificing Everything”.

 In 140 characters, or less, I managed to set off a string of likes, retweets, and really nasty responses.  All I said was “So glad I switched to New Balance, I would have hated to have to burn all my running shoes.  Bad call @Nike!”

One of my detractors came in with a long bit ending with  the line “stick with prez bonespurs - a true american - DRAFT DODGER!”  Atypically for me, I engaged this person and asked where, anywhere, in my comments did I mention the President, or support for the President, or anything that would link me to the President.  Here, some folks jumped in and quickly devolved whole discussion into a political mess with conversations of the military service of the last four or five presidents.  Really not relevant.  Another one, staying with the Republican theme here, just flat out offended me by saying he doubted that me or most people even knew about Colin Kaepernick before the President made it a political football.  I just responded to him with the link to my blogpost (https://deanne-randomthoughts.blogspot.com/2016/09/when-should-equals-must-but-can-does.html) that was originally published in September 2016 where I discussed this topic.  One month after the initial incident.

Then some others jumped on the bandwagon and that was when the racists comments started.  Again, I asked where in my comments I had ever mentioned Mr. Kaepernick’s race.   I was told I brought race into it when I was offended that Colin Kaepernick kneeled during the anthem but not when Tim Tebow did it, therefore I was a racist.  What did Tim Tebow have to with this?  How does this person labeling me a racist know what I did or did not do with this alleged kneeling by Tim Tebow (who, by the way, kneels in prayer all the time on the sidelines of a game and any picture from the internet can be pulled to “support” this theory that he kneeled in disrespect.). I asked them why it was not possible for me to disagree with Mr. Kaepernick’s message itself, and not the messenger?  Which is what I was doing.  Silence.  And today there was another one that called me a “simp” and told me that if Colin Kaepernick was protesting something like animal abuse, I would be standing right there beside him.  So I thanked him for making my point for me, because he was right.  If Mr. Kaepernick was protesting animal abuse I would be right beside him protesting as well because that was a message I could agree with, so surely this tweeter could see my point – protesting the message and not the messenger himself.  (But I still would never do it by kneeling during the National Anthem, ever.)

Although the tweeter meant it as a slam.

And the third one was this:

Maybe I am misinterpreting it, but I think “redneck” was the message behind the photos.


And several more questioned the sanity of burning your perfectly good, purchased with good money shoes, just for effect.

So, how about a reminder of what started this brouhaha to start with.   The following is quoted from an interview posted on CNN’s website:

"I am not going to stand up to show pride in a flag for a country that oppresses black people and people of color," Kaepernick, then 28, told NFL.com's Steve Wyche, the man who broke the story.
"To me, this is bigger than football, and it would be selfish on my part to look the other way.
"There are bodies in the street and people getting paid leave and getting away with murder."

I have nothing but the utmost respect for law enforcement.  And that is why I have a problem with his statement.  And with him wearing pig socks (cartoon pigs wearing police caps).  His comments were aimed at a profession, not a person.  Are there bad police officers, sure.  There are also bad CPAs, teachers, doctors, clergy, football players, investment bankers, you name a profession and you can find one.  (And, before the haters jump in and tell me “death” is not a result of one of these other professions being bad I respectfully disagree – errors in health can result death, financial ruin has caused people to take their own lives, and so forth.)

His comments came at a time when there were several conflicts with young black men and police officers.  There was rioting in Missouri and in Maryland when the police officers were found to not be guilty of murder but instead justified in their actions.  It became open season on police officers, black and white.  And folks like Mr. Kaepernick weren’t doing anything to help matters.  Again, he had the right to disagree, to protest, to make his voice heard but there is a time and a place and a manner to do so.  He chose none of the right ones.

He became a polarizing figure.

Now, back to the ad.

Believe in something.  Even if means sacrificing everything.

As one of my Facebook friends (thank you, Jean Gay) pointed out, perhaps former Arizona Cardinal Pat Tillman would have been a better choice – giving up a football career to join the military after September 11, 2001, and ultimately dying in Afghanistan.  How about that as a face of believing in something to sacrifice everything?

What, exactly, did Mr. Kaepernick sacrifice?  He was already riding the pine in the NFL.  I know I hadn’t heard of him before all this so he wasn’t a huge shining star in the sport.

I know that Nike executives didn’t lose any sleep over the fact that I won’t buy any more shoes or workout wear from them.  MAC Cosmetics didn’t shutter their door when I emailed them I would no longer buy their products after they chose Miley Cyrus as one of their faces.  They responded they were sorry but there was no way they could have found a representative that would make everyone happy.  Now, for me, giving up MAC cosmetics was a much big problem, but I did it.  I haven’t thrown out what I had, no, but I’ve not bought anything since then either.

I know I’ve asked before but why do these conversations always seem to be reduced to name calling?  I made no references to anyone, and I never responded by calling anyone anything – not a liberal or a Democrat or noted the color of anyone’s skin.  No one knows how I voted in the last election.  No one knows how I feel about the President because I’ve never said it.  Why can I not disagree with someone who happens to be a different gender/race/political affiliation without it making me one, or more in this case, of the Three Rs?

Why can’t we just say our peace and then agree to disagree?

Who Was Weak?

Last week I was stuck in an airport.  Apparently I have a face that says “talk to me!”as I was approached by a woman as I was looking for a plug for my charger so I could start looking for hotel rooms and alternate flights. 

I have a cart full with five suitcases.  I have been at the airport since 3:35AM.  I had maybe five hours of sleep and I have only had one large Dunkin Donuts coffee.  I am tired and frustrated.

All I wanted at that moment was to be left alone.  All she wanted was to talk.

It didn’t take long to surmise she was homeless, but had found a safe place to stay.  She said she was from Egypt, but lived in the US now.  She was at the airport, waiting for her brother.  One brother had been killed by two youth on the West Bank of New Orleans, but this brother was due in any day.  She waited, day after day, for him to arrive.

I couldn’t tell her that she was waiting in the ticketing area; arrivals would be downstairs.

She went on to tell me about all her education and degrees, including sports medicine, anatomy, and biology, and all the places in the world she had studied.  I think she listed off two or three Masters Degrees.

Eventually, she got around to asking about my family, and if Billy and I had children.

I cannot tell you how many times in 29 years I have been asked if we have children.  True, it is a normal, logical, question to ask someone.  Especially someone you are just trying to get to know. (Although it is not a question that I usually ask someone because I know how the other side might feel.)  And that would be fine, if the questions stopped there.

I answer her question, politely, “no”, and then try to move the subject on to me leaving.  I really have to go.

While I have no place to go and all day to get there, I am ready to move on.  And she has completely ignored all the signs I have given that I am ready for the conversation to be over and I am just trying to not be rude at this point.

But she doesn’t stop.  She keeps asking about why we don't have children.  Most people don’t.  They take "no" as the answer and go in another direction.  I have related in these blogs one time that a woman kept asking me about having children, in front of my nephews.  My sweet Clay, only three or four years old at the time, piped up that I didn’t need children because I had them (Hayden, Clay and Brett).  And my heart was so happy at that moment.  Enough said (from the mouths of babes).

Unfortunately, Clay was not here on this day to ride in and save the day.  It was up to me.  And I am just too freaking nice.  I briefly answered her questions, one word answers wherever possible,  all the while pulling my plugs and packing up my phone and making sure all my stuff was in order.  But this lady couldn’t see all that and take the hint.  She just keeps on.

Finally she asked a question that I had never heard before, of course, no one had ever pushed me this far before, either.  Her question was “who was weak?”

Who was weak?

Wow.

In other words, whose fault was it?

Like we'd done something wrong.

To her credit, the lady finally apologized for pushing me, I'm guessing it was the look on my face that finally turned on her lightbulb.  She said it was her background in anatomy that was raising her curiosity, and so on, but that question still got me to a brink I had never reached previously.

Still unable to just walk away and leave her standing, for whatever reason, perhaps for no other reason than I was just so caught off guard that someone would ask that question, in that way especially, I answered her that I was.

I thought it would be the fast answer, and I know my own history with “weaknesses” in this system. As I told her, it has never really worked right.

Truth be told, it could be both of us, either of us, or neither of us.  We never needed to know so we never found out.

And we will never know for sure.

I am a believer in the Divine Plan.  Not all of us are destined to be parents.  Our “talents” lie elsewhere.  Aunts. Uncles.  Animal rescuers.  Community volunteers.  Foster parents.  Caregivers.

We have the love for caring, it is just in other areas.

If we had been meant to be parents, we would have been parents.  I believe that.

Just because we never had two-legged children, only four-legged, doesn’t mean that I never thought about it; never wished I had had a baby of my own to hold as I would pass back a friend or family’s newborn child; never talked about baby names (there would never be a Billy, Jr., Jr. I was told.  And that is a family joke, we know he would have been a III had we gone that route); never wondered what it would be like.

I wasn't devoid of that feeling of wanting one.

I just hid it better, I guess.

And, I guess, because I am a believer in the Divine Plan I was content with living Life que sera sera - what will be, will be.

I didn't obsess over having a child.  I didn't ache to have one.  In the want vs. need discussion, it was a "want" not a "need".  I know for many women that ache is very physical and very real.  For me it was more of "nice if it happens".

I know some people see this situation, and some have even said, you put your career first.  I don't think that's fair, either.  I've never had burning desires to be the corporate CEO/CFO or managing partner of an international firm.  But I do have a pretty darn good work ethic and I have always done what my employers asked of me - travel, long hours, weekends.  Some of that, I am certain, contributed to the lack of children in our home.  These people I worked for were paying me good money to do a job, and I did it, without questioning or complaining (much).  I felt like I owed them my best.  The choice to have a career was made before I had a husband and I have always known that Billy respects my work and the way I work and just accepted that part of my personality.  It has never been an issue.

I hope, though, that I can be viewed as a person who made the very best of the circumstances in which she found herself.  That I can be a role model for other young women for whom motherhood is not a part of their personal puzzle.  To show that it is okay to not be a mom, that we still have much to contribute.  We aren't less than, we are equal to.  And we don't have to be the devil in high heels to be successful in our chosen fields.

We can still love, nurture, care for another creature or human being, just differently.  Wake up on the floor holding your dog that has been seizing all night, or, better yet, wake up to find your husband on the floor holding your dog that has been seizing all night so you could sleep because you had work, and tell me that that act is not "maternal".

I know those of you reading this would never ask questions the way this woman did (side note, she had no children because she had never been married - couldn't find a good man), and I do, deep down, feel like she had some medical curiosity that was fueling this, but sometimes it is just the simple question "do you have children?" that actually starts the ball rolling for the person you are asking.  The anxiety starts up (what else will they want to know), the worry (does this change the way this person will look at me going forward?), the self-doubt (is there something wrong with me?  should I feel differently?).  And once that spiral starts, sometimes it takes a while to pull ourselves up and get back on the path with our heads up and chins out, facing the day again.

For the most part, we can handle it.  Just make sure we are fully rested, fully caffeinated, and not overly grouchy before you ask.

Timing is everything.

Tidal Waves

We were watching an episode of “The Closer” the other day.  No, it’s not my favorite show and I think Kyra Sedgwick’s Georgia accent is more than a little thick, but it’s an easy watch and not too tough to follow.  (Side note, this show totally went downhill when it became “Major Crimes” after Kyra left – totally unwatchable.).  In this particular episode, a young man, befriended by Deputy Chief Brenda Lee Johnson’s niece (who is staying with Brenda and husband FBI agent Fritz Howard for a few weeks) dies of gunshot wounds.  Wrong place, wrong time.

The niece in the show reminds me so much of my own niece, not only in appearance but in actions.  Brett would totally be the young lady sitting next to a new friend, trying to make him feel better.  The victim is drugged up on morphine for his injuries and everyone is waiting for his mother to arrive from Honolulu, even though the doctor has said he will never survive the three hours it will take for her to fly in.  Ultimately, the victim is conscious for just minutes and mistakes Chief Johnson for his mom and, rather than correct him, she tells him she loves him and he was no trouble to raise and all the things he needs to hear to pass peacefully.

And I have huge tears rolling down my face.  I haven’t had enough sleep or coffee, or both, and the tears are starting.

Deputy Chief Johnson steps out of the room after the young man dies and Lieutenant Provenza is standing there, waiting.  He is a member of her team.  As he tells someone he calls, it is 4:14 am, and he is there, dressed - in slacks, a sweater vest and a sports coat.   And as Deputy Chief Johnson is trying to control her emotions he offers her his clean, white handkerchief.  Just in case she needs it.

And I lose it.

Billy looks at me, somewhat quizzically, and says “you know it is only a TV show, right?” (Side note 2 – I have come a long way in this.  My mom and sister used to cry at Kleenex commercials or “Little House on the Prairie” and I would have zero emotion.  Now, I feel.)

Yes, I do.

But what Billy doesn’t know is that my daddy always had a clean, white, handkerchief.  He was always dressed if he was out of the house, even if it was the middle of the night or early in the morning.  He was always there, if you needed him to be.

At that moment, Lieutenant Provenza was my daddy and I was hit with a tidal wave of emotions.

You’d think, after so many years, that you have everything compartmentalized and smothered deep and something as simple as a plain, white, handkerchief would not reduce you to a blubbering mess.

But it does.

 And you can’t stop it.

All you can do is let it wash over you and then carry itself back out into the ocean of memories that you keep at a distance.

Billy has learned that this happens, sometimes.  I can be standing in the kitchen, crying, because the grill bought back a memory or the thought of using BBQ sauce reminded me of his homemade sauce or any number of things that can hit when I least expect it.

But, like surviving in the ocean itself, you can’t fight the wave.  Your best bet is to let it wash over you, and then swim counter to it.  Not against it, that will never work.  But across it.   Let it hit you, but not take you under.

Working to survive it, but not to fight it.

Because in the end, the survival is what makes us what we are.  And my daddy is very proud of who I am.  Losing him changed me, in so many ways.  But they would be good, positive, changes.

So I swim.  Against the wave.  Fighting the crest.  Not allowing myself to go under.  But welcoming the sweet tears on my face that remind me that I loved, I lost, I feel,  I survived, I thrive.

I don’t drown.