The Very Best Friend You'll Ever Have

My heart is heavy tonight for a friend who lost a part of her family.  You see, someone hit and killed her dog.  And that someone didn't even have the decency to stop to see if he could help, or to tell them what he'd done.  That breaks my heart even more because it means that someone could not appreciate how much that dog might mean to someone's life.  How much a dog can be a part of a family.  So sad to know that there are people who have never felt the love of a pet.  If you've never had a dog put his head in your lap and comfort you through sickness, or sadness, or loss, then you cannot understand.  Let me paint you a picture. 

When I was just a baby, my uncle gave us a cat.  He was a beautiful grey Persian named Percy, and he grew up with me.  Even though Percy was an outside cat (See previous posts on country life; Daddy was having none of that "indoor cat" nonsense), he would never-the-less sneak in the house whenever the back door swung open.  To warm his toes, to grab some table scraps, and to visit me.  Percy was MY cat.  He knew it, and I guess I knew it from pretty early too.  If I was outside, Percy was close by. He waited with me for the bus most mornings, keeping an eye on me.  If I was inside, Percy would come to find me.  I can remember being sick and having Percy come in to check on me.  He would crawl up on the couch, lay on top of me, and peer at me, as if he knew just what was wrong.  And he'd curl up and watch over me as long as Mom would allow him to stay inside.  He was my first best friend.  He stuck by me.  When I cried.  When I was mad.  When I wanted to be alone.  He was there.  That cat stayed with me through my youth.  And then one day, he got old.  I know people think I'm crazy when I say this, but I know he knew I couldn't bear to see him die.  So one day, Percy just wandered away, and he never came back.  My best friend gave me the last thing he could - the gift of not having to see him die.

I suppose I inherited my love of animals from my Dad.  Although he was never as sentimental as I, I know he had a soft spot for four-legged creatures of all kinds.  He had a habit of bringing them home with him.  And he seldom ran them off when they wandered up to our house.  He didn't make a fuss about them, but they always knew they could trust him.  I can remember dogs who'd have nothing to do with anyone else, but came and lay at his feet, knowing he'd take care of them.  He took his evening walk with each of them following faithfully by his side.  He didn't make over them, but he always looked for them, always made sure they were accounted for, taken care off.  And when the worst happened, and they died, he always made sure they were buried with love and dignity, not cast aside.  For they had meaning in our world.

Daddy's last great friendship was with Trouble.  He found him at a flea market, the runt of the litter.  He brought him home, and we all lost our hearts to him.  He was a little dog with big feet, and a bigger heart.  He bounded through life with reckless enthusiasm.  He loved everyone he met.  He greeted you on two feet, the other two usually resting somewhere between your knees and your shoulders, depending on your height.  I can still see him as a little puppy, this little roll of red fur with big loving eyes.  I don't think I'd ever seen such a cute little mutt.  I was already grown, had moved out of the house.  But I did love that little dog.  He just seemed to have a heart big enough for us all.

As much as we all loved him, though, he was Daddy's dog.  When Dad retired, he spent alot of time walking back and forth to our farm, for exercise, and for the love of the walk.  And Trouble made that walk with him every day.  You could stand in the back yard and watch them, side by side, heading off for their walk.  Sometimes, he'd run ahead, but mostly, he walked in tandem with Dad, as if he, too, was glad for the silence and the friendship.  They were a pair, each growing older and set in their ways.  One day, I went to visit, and I realized that Trouble, somewhere along the way, had grown old.  His eyes were rimmed with grey, his gait slower, more pained.  But that loving gaze was the same.  He was always so happy to see his family.  He never missed an opportunity to show love.  He never made us feel guilty for not visiting often enough.  He was happy with what came his way.  When Mom and Dad moved to the city, Trouble stayed on the farm.  He was old, set in his ways, and not able to make the move.  But Daddy made the trip every day to visit him and feed him.  When the snow or sleet made the trip impossible for him, he sent my brother instead - Trouble would worry if no one came to visit.    As long as I live, I will never forget the sadness in my father's eyes the day he told me that Trouble had died.  It was the look of a man who had lost his best friend.  And in some ways, I think he had.

As I've grown up, I've made other friends along the way.  I've had cats and dogs throughout my life, and each have taught me something.  Each day, my cats and dogs bring me joy and love.  They are part of my family.  I am reminded of an email I got once -Everything I Need To Know I Learned From My Dog.  In some ways, that essay is true.  Never under-estimate an animal's ability to teach.  They have more soul, more depth, than most people I know.  I have been disappointed many times by people, but never by an animal.  We could all learn from a pet.  Be loyal.  Never pretend to be something you're not.  Curl up and care for the ones you love.  Delight in the simple joy of a long walk with a good friend.

Animals are these wonderful friends who come into our lives and make us a better version of ourselves.  They love us unconditionally, and ask for little in return.  It would be wrong not to give that back to them.  They are a part of our lives, a part of our hearts.  For those of us who let them, they make our world better.  And I feel a special sadness for those who have not been blessed with that bond.  My heart breaks tonight for Jammie - for her husband and little boy - and the love of a dog.

Everybody Dies Famous In a Small Town.

I cannot count the times I've complained - "You can't sling a dead cat around here without hitting someone who knows your business."  In the town where I come from, everyone moves in the same circles.  And believe me, they are small circles.  So no way did you keep a secret.  In fact, it would generally beat you home...like a stray cat that just wouldn't ever leave.  I hated it.  No secrets, no way to avoid the friend who hurt your feelings, the boy who broke your heart, or the cousin you didn't invite to the wedding.  Nope, not in our town.

When I was a kid, I could not walk more than half a mile in any direction without hitting a relative.  Or a concerned neighbor.  Or someone who went to church with us.  In most cases, it was a combination of those choices.  Needless to say, that neighborhood made it tough to do anything Momma and Daddy wouldn't find out about.  Want to sneak off to meet someone?  Oh, I don't think so.  Aunt Edna's right there.  Going to sneak down to the creek without permission?  Not likely, with the Jordan's driving by all the time.  Heck, I couldn 't have run away from home without at least a dozen neighbors reporting my progress (and probably what I was wearing) before I hit the Figsboro General Store.  Honestly, it just wasn't worth the trouble. 

And school was no better.  There were those who thought being the youngest by alot of years provided me some annonymity in school.  No brothers or sisters to tattle.  Yeah right.  My third grade teacher went to school with my sister.  My fourth grade teacher lived in the neighborhood.  Our art teacher, yep, went to school with my brother.  And the bus driver?  A distant cousin by marriage, of course.  If I had acted out, misbehaved or messed up in any way, I'd have had to make up my excuses in advance; the news would beat me home.  High school was no better.  People from church were there.  And of course, again, my brothers and sisters had preceded me.  I had a cousin who was a teacher there, too.  There was no escape.  I longed for escape.  I graduated.  And went to community college.  Oh, yeah, that helped.  Now I had escaped family ties - I met up with school ties.  You never shake your school life...somehow, someone from your past will follow you forever.  They'll remember the boys you dated, and never got the chance to.  They'll remind you of your successes and your failures.  There are no do overs at home.  No mulligans from your past.  I must have had to grind my teeth a million times when someone said "Didn't you go to Laurel Park?  My best friend in school was...remember her?"  Or, "Didn't you go to Spring Street Baptist Church?  My aunt is..." And the worst was, "Hey, your last name is Draper?  Are you related to? "  Guilty, every time.  All I could think was "When I get out of this town, I swear, I will be so happy.  No one to say "I know your (Insert family member here)." Or to stand by you in a bar and say "Oh hey, there's What's-His-Name!  Didn't you used to date him before he met (Insert Equally Annoying Female Name Here)." 

By thirty, I felt like I was either related to, went to church with, or went to school with every human being in my home town.  (I am still relatively sure that while it was not 100% of the town, it is an alarmingly high percentage.)  There was no escape.  Go out to dinner, there's the girl in high school who beat you out for the lead in the school play.  Hit the town festival, oops, there's that boy who pulled your hair in elementary school.  And for heaven's sake - don't go to Walmart - it's like a family reunion in there!!!  They were like zombies - crawling out from everywhere. And for those of you taking notes - divorce does not help.  Now, there were his friends and my friends and our friends - and every variation of that theme.  Who to talk to that wouldn't run back and tell him everything?  Who was talking to you just to get the dirt.  The corners of that small town were curling up at the corners and closing in fast.  I was amazed by the constant whirlwind of the town gossip.  Who was he dating?  Who was I dating?  Why did we split up?  What would we do now?  Was it my fault? Was it his?  That dead cat just kept slamming into someone who knew me, who knew him, who knew just enough to be a link in the chain.  And it was frustrating and painful and everyday, I wished I could be from somewhere bigger.  From somewhere that didn't know me so well.  That didn't know my whole family.  That didn't know my whole life.  Somewhere that wasn't such a small town.

Enter the next phase of my life.  I moved.  I moved - got married - shook up the snow globe.  All of a sudden, there I was, in a town that didn't know a thing about me.  No relatives next door.  No school mates at work.  No ex husband's friends working at the bank, at the dry cleaner, at the registrar's office.  Annonymity.   I went to work - no one knew a thing about me.  We went to dinner - not a soul to run into that we knew from...anywhere.  Just what I wanted, right?  Right.  I can go to the liquor store without running into Cousin whomever.  No girls I went to school with at the hair salon to see how bad I look before she covers the grey.  Not a single interrupting on my weekly Target visits.  Life is good.  Right? 

Until you need them.  You see, when your life is sailing along, and you have clear seas and smooth sailing, you might notice the waves lapping at the boat and say "Wow - that's loud"  But when you're a hundred miles out - and the waves stop - wait, what?  Who's gonna carry me to shore?  Small towns are gossipy and everyone knows everyone and it's impossible to blend in.  OK - now, the other interpretation?  Small towns welcome you and want to know about you as a person and care what happens to you.  Relatives and friends take the time to know what's good and bad in your world and they care.  They remind you of your successes when you might forget.  They mention your failures so you know you got through them, and you will again.  They pick you up, dust you off.  They defend you when you need it.  They are a soft place to fall.  You will never lose your true friends in a small town.  You will still shop together.  You'll have time for lunch now and then.  You'll get to watch their kids grow up.  And they will be there for you.  Small towns HAVE town festivals, where every one takes part - where your school friends still perform live, where you know the girls selling beer tickets, and usually, you brought a cake for the sale.  You'll probably run into your third grade teacher there, and yes, she'll remember your name, and tell whomever you're with how wonderful you were.  And that trip to Walmart?  If you drop your gloves in the parking lot, Cousin Whoever will pick them up and yell across the rows to you so you get them back.  Small towns have their very own charm like a comfortable pair of shoes, or your favorite pair of worn out jeans - memories of good times and bad, mingled with the softness of time. 

And small towns will guide you through the hard times.  They will be there for your marriage - your baby shower - your divorce.  They will hold fast with you when you bury a family pet, a relationship, a family member.  They still cook food for you when someone is born or someone dies.  They stop by to check on you when you're sick.  They will call a friend of a friend to put in a good word if you lose your job.  They don't mind checking on your Mama if you can't.  They are there.  They are community - they are a close knit family.  Maybe they gossip - maybe they know too much.  But on that day, when you ride in the family car, you'll see they still burn their headlights and pull to the side of the road for a funeral procession.  And you'll be thankful, and a little homesick, for a small town.

Paw Prints In the Snow

Where I come from, pets were not inside animals.  In the country, when I was growing up, only the most spoiled, daintiest of animals stayed in the house.  At our home, there was no such animals.  We had pets – dogs and cats galore throughout my youth.  From Percy, my Persian cat and very closest confidant when I was young, all the way to Trouble, Dad’s last dog.  They were no less loved, no less adored because they lived outside.  And truly, those animals loved the freedom of roaming where they wanted on the farm.  They came and went, played and stalked, lounged and snoozed.  They were there underfoot for petting, for feeding, for love, and then they were off for their own fun.  They lived outside –slept under the boxwoods in the summertime, lounged on the side porch, and for the cats, clamored by the back door in hopes to scoot past Greg or Daddy’s foot and sneak into the house for table scraps.  But in the winter, when the snow came, they had other plans.  They headed for the barn, the garage, the tractor shed, to bed down for the cold wet nights.  They had their own hidey holes, places where they’d snuggle up and stay warm and dry.  Sometimes, they’d even curl up together, dogs and cats snoozing on a warm bed of hay.

When morning came, though, I’d gaze out the window at a yard filled with new fallen snow, and see a comforting sight.  All around, there would be paw prints in the soft powder.  Just deep enough to leave a mark, fresh enough to make out.  Prints that sang “We made it through the night, and now it’s time to explore.”  Those paw prints were a welcome sight to me, a sign that all was well, that Jack and Jill, Percy and Snowball had made it through the cold and were out and about.  I loved the beauty of a fresh snow, but I loved the paw prints most of all.  They were a calling card of a close friend.  They always made me smile, always made me feel better, always made my heart sing.  Even if I couldn’t go out and enjoy the snow myself, they were there, tip-toeing through the cold, frolicking in the snow like kids.  And when I could, I went out and followed the paw prints, played with the pets, and enjoyed my time with them, leaving my own footprints along side theirs.

These last few days, in the wake of Daddy’s death, I’ve been blessed with a different sort of calling card, just as sweet a reminder.  Friends and family have strolled through my life, leaving what solace they could in a time where solace is hard to find.  They have done what they could, and though my head was filled with pain and sorrow, my heart was filled with warmth at the gestures.  Some brought food so that my mother would have dinner without having to think about it.  Some came and sat, holding hands and patting shoulders through the pain and the tears.  Some called, expressing their love, promising to be there for the hard days and months ahead.  And as we walked through the days, the little gestures were so big.  A voicemail from a friend, giving strength when I couldn’t find my own, that I will keep on my phone.  A card with just the right words, that made me cry but made me think too, and made me remember better days.  Familiar faces to hold me up during the long and painful hours at the funeral home, whispered love and understanding that kept my legs beneath me just a little longer.   Gazing at the understanding face of a friend before walking with the family into chapel, feeling blessed through the sadness.  They have held my hand and sometimes, touched my heart.  They reached out and held me up when I needed it, and they sat back and let me cry when it was time to cry.  Through the sorrow, they found some little spark of humor, and brought a smile to my face.  Or they just sat beside me, and let the moment be.  They left their paw prints, one and all.

Before Daddy died, I don’t think I ever imagined how much those people and those moments would matter.  I know I have often wondered if my own small gestures during times of sorrow for others, were worthwhile, were useful.  I have cooked food, gone for short visits, walked through the line at the funeral home.  But I have often thought I may be more in the way than helpful.  I was so wrong.  Not a person who called or visited, sent a card or even sent a kind message through social networking, can ever imagine what a blessing they were.  Visits took my mind off my own sorrow, and let me enjoy a moment with an old friend.  Calls interrupted a painful silence, and kept my mind from wandering back to what I’ve lost.  Beautiful flowers gave me a place to rest my sight other than on that solemn casket.  Cards, to this moment, touch my heart and feel like a distant hug.  They matter, they all matter.  In my heart, there is ache that I know will never totally go away, but there is a comfort that so many people are there to help me get through the hardest parts.   So many people have shared their love and understanding and grace.  So many friends have touched my heart from across the years and across the miles.  I cannot put in words how they made me feel, except that they were like those paw prints in the snow, and to this moment, they make me smile.

I only hope, I can leave my own set of paw prints for each of you, when you need it.

Holding On and Letting Go

My hero died on Thursday, January 5th.  Not on a battlefield.  Not at home.  In a nursing home.  He did not go gentle into that good night.  I cannot say it was peaceful either.  It was a long, painful battle with Alzheimers and age, and time.  He did not die alone, though.  My other hero sat beside him and watched him go.  For weeks, she held his hand.  She talked to him while he was awake - she held his hand while he slept.  She wouldn't let him be alone if he needed her. My parents were a team until the end.

Not everyone gets lucky and has two parents who stay together, who love each other, and who are committed to raising a family together.  I didn't really know that growing up.  I was blissfully unaware of divorce, single parents, and the sadness of parents who have children but don't really want children.  My parents surrounded us with other strong family units.  Inour extended family, in our neighborhood, in our church.  We saw loving, two parent homes.  It really wasn't until I started drifting outside the safe boundaries that my parents set for me that I realized not everyone was as lucky as I was.  Well, maybe at the time, I didn't think I was so lucky.  Maybe at the time I thought they were over-protective, old fashioned, even silly, to set their rules and expectations so high.  Maybe I thought I should have more freedom than I did.  But I did know my family was different that most other people outside our coccoon.  I sometimes wished Daddy wasn't so strict.  I often wondered why my mother only wanted to be a homemaker.  I thought Daddy was suspicious and overbearing.  And that my Mom didn't have a clue.  Little did I know. 

But as I got older, I started to realize that my parents had worked really hard to protect me from things that could make my life harder.  That people with more freedom had more problems, more pain, more difficult decisions to make.  And I started to be thankful.  I started wishing I could have stayed inside that safe world they worked so hard to create for me.  And I started to realize what work they had done to give us that life.  I am sure my father would have liked to not work so hard every day.  I am sure there were Sundays he was tired and would have liked to have slept a little longer and not gone to church.  But there were bills to pay.  And he was a faithful follower of the Lord, and he wanted to make sure he set the right example for us as well.  My mother would probably have liked to spend a little more time reading books and a little less time keeping an eye on us.  And when she shuffled me back and forth to after school programs rather than letting me catch a ride with just anyone, it probably wasn't her favorite thing to do.  But she knew that I would be safer with her than with a classmate.  So she made that sacrifice.  Each decision they made was not just for them.  They spent their life being dedicated to God, to family, and to community.  I cannot think of a single time my father acted selfishly and just did something for himself.  I wish he would have.  I wish that just now and then, he would have said "Today is going to be just for me" but he didn't.  And in that same way, when he got sick, my mother continued to sacrifice.  Because it would have been easier to put him in a nursing home earlier, to visit him less, to worry about herself, but she didn't.  She took care of him as long as she was able, and when she wasn't able, and he had to go to a nursing home, she went to see him every day.  She stayed with him to the end.

As I thought about that over the past few days, I marvelled at that dedication, that love, and that commitment.  They spent sixty years together, raised five children, and loved them all unconditionally.  They worked hard as long as they could, and then carried on their life in a simple, sensible way, setting an example for us all.  They treasured their families, helped out their friends and neighbors, and walked with their eyes on God.  They spoiled and loved on every grandchild, and greatgrandchild, whenever the opportunity arose. They raised children who understand love and respect, responsibility and faith.  And when my father died last week, a part of my Mom died as well.  Because their lives were truly entwined.  And that is a remarkable thing.  Most people today cannot remain commited to anything for very long.  When life gets hard, or decisions get tough, people like to walk away.  Couples break up.  Marriages disintegrate.  Families drift apart.  It is a sad reality.  I was blessed to have the life I had growing up.  My parents created for me a world that few people today will ever have.  They set a standard that few can manage.  They held fast - stood together - walked a single path. They raised a family on faith, love and support. 

And so my hero died on Thursday.  Our family is grieving.  We all know, without speaking it, that the cornerstone of our world is gone.  My brothers and sisters have lost a father who was larger than life.  Our children have lost a grandfather who showed them his world, a world they might never have known otherwise.  And our mother has lost her other half.  We all sat together and exchanged words without speaking.  How will she live without him?  How will she cope with his absence?  How will we hold her up through the pain?  But the answer is in our heritage - in the way he lived and the way he raised us.  Because he gave us those tools.  He taught us by example - to look to God for our strength - to treasure our family - to lift each other up - to carry one another when we have to.  My father lived his whole life preparing us for this moment.  So that we could carry on when he wasn't here to do it for us.  "I won't always be here" he sometimes said.  I never wanted to believe him.  I never wanted to think about that time.  But I hope we can make him proud. 

Occupy Life

Maybe it's my stellar mood.  Maybe it's that I've watched Fox and Friends for too many hours today.  Maybe, I've just got a little of that Draper streak in me.  But so help me, if I hear just one more idiot "Occupier" talk about how the rich should give them something, my brain might explode tonight.  And just to protect myself, CLICK, off goes the TV.

Let me share my frustration in a way that makes me seem a little less ranting.  Yesterday, my mother was sitting by Daddy's hospital bed, and she was talking about all the years he worked at Hooker Furniture.  She said that all her kids must have a little of Daddy in them, because none of them are afraid of a hard day's work.  You see, my Dad worked in the maintenance department at Hooker Furniture for 47 years.  If you have never darkened the door of a furniture factory, then you can consider yourself lucky.  Let me paint the briefest of pictures with this summary -- dirty, hot, and frustrating.  Daddy was also in charge of blowing the whistle.  Yep, the whistle.  The whistle that said "Time to go to work".  Or "Time for Lunch".  Or "Time to Go Home".  So he went in to work at 6AM every morning.  And he worked until 6PM every night.  Except on Saturdays.  That was his short day - he got off at Noon.  So, the math on that is that my Daddy worked 66 hours every week for as long as I can remember, and until the day he retired at 67 years old.  And that was just his day job.  That doesn't count coming home at night and going to the farm to feed the cows in the winter, or mow hay in the summer.  Or the weekends when he spent the rest of his Saturday baling hay, planting corn, hoeing weeds from the garden, or working on whatever piece of equipment wasn't working. He took one day off each week.  Sunday.  The rest of the week, he worked for everything we needed, and everything he ever got.  He worked callouses on his fingers, baked his skin in the summer sun, and worked until he fell asleep on the couch each night.  He worked.  He never once expected anyone to give him anything.  He had a grade school education, and no money to start with.  He went out and earned every penny he ever got.  He would have been embarrassed to ask for something from someone just because they had it to give.

I grew up in that house.  I watched how hard he worked.  I finished school.  I went to college.  I never wanted to have to work as hard as he did.  But I still never expected anyone to give me anything.  I have two brothers and two sisters.  They grew up the same way.  We watched our father go to work every day and give all he had so that we had the things we needed.  He may not have been rich, but he owned everything he had around him, and we had enough.  We all grew up and got jobs, and we've done okay for ourselves.  But I know this - all my brothers and sisters have worked for everything they have.  They grew up that way - they know no other way.  I grew up that way.  I don't want to be any other way.  I have nieces and nephews all around.  They grew up that way, too.  We all had good role models, and have come to realize the importance of a work ethic.  I want to have the same peace of mind and sense of satisfaction I know my Dad had - a pride in what he had done.  The knowledge that he could take care of his family - the clear conscience he had when he closed his eyes at night, knowing he had earned all he had in life.  That's what I want.  I want to set an example.  I want my family to learn from me - that you can be proud of the job you do - that nothing is out of your reach if you work for it.  That everything you want in life is at the end of putting forth 100% and working for it.  I have received some wonderful gifts in life - birthday gifts, Christmas gifts, no-reason-for-it gifts.  But usually, I am most happy with those things that I work hard and save my money to acquire.  My husband built our house with his two hands.  I am most proud of his accomplishment and our commitment to having a nice home for our family.  I work hard to maintain that home.  I am proud of that.  I want to be remembered for that.

I have never once, in my 42 years on this earth, sat back and wondered "Why should I work so hard?  Bill Gates has so much money - he should just give me some of his."  Nope - doesn't even sound sane when I say it out loud.  Nor have I thought that the bank, since they make so much money - should just give me some of it.  I'm pretty sure most of that money is promised to the people who put it there, and to the people willing to risk what they have on those investments.  Maybe, if I risked more, I'd have more.  But I'm not that much of a risk taker - makes it tougher for me to sleep at night. I'll leave that to the boys on Wall Street - and if they make money, then they've earned it.  If they lose money - then they have to worry about how they sleep at night.  I want no part of it.  You see, I didn't pay attention 100% of the time in school, but I am pretty sure I remember a history class where we discussed that this nation was founded by people who just wanted an opportunity.  An opportunity - not a hand out.  In fact, I seem to recall somewhere in the Declaration, that there are some unalienable rights, and I think they were life, liberty, and the PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS.  Now, I don't recall anywhere in that document there being an addendum that included "other people's wealth" as an additional unalienable right.  But maybe I'm taking that document a little too literally....  I've heard that mentioned a few times, too.  Apparently, our founding fathers "didn't mean" a lot of things the way they said them.  But I digress.

Here's the thing.  I work really hard to take care of my family.  I make a very nice salary, and I am able to, with my husband's salary, provide for our family and enjoy some nice things.  I am very proud of that.  I will do all I can to protect those things.  I will do all I can to make sure my family has what they need.  I owe them that security.  And I have no problem giving money and assisting those who cannot provide for themselves - the disabled, the elderly, the sick and needy.  I do not, however, owe some kid straight out of college, who believes in this 99% bullshit, anything.  I will more than happily interview them for a job.  I will be happy to buy them a newpaper and point out the classifieds.  But I do not believe in the "redistribution of wealth" so that those who have a work ethic can support those who do not.  They should consider the option to "Occupy the Employment Commission" instead.  But, if the Land of Opportunity does not appeal to you, take that tent, and your less than stellar "Occupy" signage, to a socialist country, where the government can take care of you.  You're currently occupying space that could be taken by an immigrant who actually longs for the opportunity to work in the US and earn something for themselves.  Feel free.  Go seek out a better government who will equalize wealth.  Trust me.  You'll be back.

Memory Lane

I find myself at holidays sometimes consumed by memories.  I suppose everyone is guilty of thinking back to their favorite Christmas, or some wonderful holiday celebration from the past.  And we all compare this holiday to the last, to the special one, to the one when we were a child.  We look back and think of what was before.   I am a scrapbooker at heart - seeking ways to remember special moments, to preserve feelings and seconds of time. It’s our nature, I suppose, to remember and compare.  Why else, of course, would we be able to remember?  Why would we take pictures or save mementos, but to savor the memory of something lovely that we don’t want to let go.

But this Christmas, I was wallowing in my memories for different reasons.  This Christmas I have been unable to shake the words that hover, inside my brain.  That this will be the last Christmas.  Daddy's last Christmas.  I have my Daddy on my mind all the time, his illness is eating at me.  I know so little about Alzheimer’s disease, and I don’t have a lot of faith in the medical community on this one either.  So many things go on inside the human mind that I don’t think people can trace and monitor and interpret.  I suppose part of me wants to believe what the reports say, because it will give me some comfort and make my life easier.  But there’s still that corner of my own mind, where I wonder what really goes on in the mind suffocated by the disease.  What does my daddy remember?  What memories are there for him?  I know he has memories, because all too often, when he talks, it’s about things from his past, people he knew, and things he did.  But what are the memories that remain?  And what makes them linger while others disappear like smoke in the wind.  How does that damn disease pick and choose what to take and what to leave behind?

Daddy doesn’t really remember me most days.  He has called me Sandy.  And Phyllis.  Most days, he simply shakes his head that he doesn’t know me.   Sometimes, my Mom can tell him I’m there, and he is aware I’m someone he should know. Now and again, I can see a flicker of recognition.   But mostly I can tell by the confusion in his eyes that he doesn’t know.  I worry that he doesn’t remember me anymore because I wasn’t around enough.  Because I was last.  Because I was a pain growing up.  Because I let him down.  Because...  Because why?  What about me makes my memories fade in his mind while others are fresh and vibrant and seem so real that they block out the reality of his day to day?  I am at least relieved that for now, he always knows my mom.  They were married for sixty one years in May.  He has been with her his whole life.  It makes me happy that, for now, she is still lving in his mind and still a part of his world.  I cannot imagine a world more dark than one where the person who you knew best and loved most just disappeared.  I need to believe that hasn’t happened for Daddy.  That it won’t happen for Daddy.  That he will, until whatever end there is, know that she is there with him and for him.  That she sits by his bedside – holds his hand.  That when she gets there each day, she makes sure his hair is combed, and she files his fingernails.  That just as surely as she fixed his breakfast every morning for 61 years, she is still there with him now.   I hope those images live in his mind, too, knowing that she is still the one he can count on.

On days like today, though, I torture myself with questions about what is on his mind and in his memories.  When he sleeps, he seems so fitful, as if something is bothering him, nagging him.  And I wonder, are his memories good ones?  Or are they, like all of our memories, a mix of good and bad, with happy moments sprinkled like sugar, over deep scars of pain and sorrow.  For me, as much as I want to remember every detail of the happy moments in my life, I find I have much deeper memories of the sad ones.  I can remember snippets of the day Mike and I got married, but I remember almost every tearful minute of my Uncle Ronnie’s funeral.  It’s that reality that bothers me.  That if the human mind is more prone to remember sorrow, if those are the memories that are stronger and more vivid, then are those the ones left for my Daddy?  Does he recall those snapshots I have of him laughing in the front yard with his nephews when he was younger?  Or instead, is he haunted by the night his sister died in a car accident? Does he remember the day we visited his friend whose dog begged for ice cubes, making him laugh out loud?  Or is he watching his grandson slide out the passenger door of the truck while he drives?  What makes a memory stay or leave?  I need to know.  I need to have someone tell me that he isn’t re-living all the heart-breaking days of his life, as images flutter away, a day at a time.  That somewhere, still burning in his mind, are family Sunday afternoons, under the mulberry tree in the back yard, taking a nap in the cool breeze between Sunday morning service and Sunday night service.  That when he awakens, he can still smell the musty odor of a barn full of freshly baled hay, not just the antiseptic smells of the nursing home where he stays.  I want to believe he’s reliving the joyous moments of his life – taking walks with Trouble to the farm, watching all his grandsons crawl up on the tractor and long to drive it like Grandpa Draper.  Evening supper on Wednesday night, when Mom would make cornbread and pinto beans for him.  And visits to Aunt Mary on Sunday afternoon, where she would tell stories and make him laugh.

 I cannot stand to think that he’s somewhere else in his mind, plagued by memories of people who made him angry, and moments that left him sad.  Forced to relive days like the one when he had to help a man who’d lost his foot in a machine at work – Daddy found him.  He had to call the ambulance and wait with the man.  I remember that night at home, how pale Daddy was when he talked about it.  Or when Aunt Mary died, and Daddy was so heartbroken and angry.  Or that day, not so long ago, when he told me his dog Trouble had died, tears in his eyes.  And if I remember those things so vividly, and they are not my memories, how bright then must they burn in Daddy’s mind?  If I cannot forget them, can he?  When I pray at night, the first thing I pray is that those memories are the ones that have fled.  That if there is one blessing in this awful disease, it is that it eats away the painful memories that take root in the mind, that it erases them first.  So things like broken promises, and broken hearts, will disappear from his life.  And then, I pray, that the ones that remain are the sweet ones, the ones I know he would love to live over again.  Those are the moments I hope he has tucked away, as the last ones to go.  Memories of his mother, of my mother, his grandchildren and great grandchildren.  The farm.  His dog.  Years with his brothers and sisters surrounding him.  That big horse he had when he was young.  That night at the fair, when he had his picture taken ( I still love to look at that picture), as he was laughing.  Let him remember the moments he spent laughing.  And then I pray that God will let me remember them too. 

Welcome Home

Sometimes little moments take root in your mind, for a reason or by accident.  Sometimes, maybe, it's both,  All the talk of troops coming home has brought a smile to my face, and a memory to mind.  A memory that I like to think is being echoed through hundreds of airports throughout the states. 

Not very long ago, on a business trip home from Ohio, I had the privilege of being reminded what our US Servicemen and women sacrifice for us every day. 

As I sat in the Atlanta airport, passing time people watching, I noticed a small gathering of folks around a nearby gate.  There was a young woman, with a “Welcome Home” poster, and her two small children, dressed in appropriate army attire, probably 2 & 4 years old, as well as an older couple, parents, I supposed, with a flag and another poster.  And they were obviously waiting for the flight to unload.  When people began to pour into the terminal, the young kids began to dance nervously, small legs providing less than perfect view of the adults swarming out of the gate.  And when the first glimpse of camouflage came into view, there came the tentative “Daddy?” from the little girl.  But no, the man who came out first was not who the family waited for.  And it occurred to me that they were so young to not see their dad every day – that perhaps they didn’t really remember what he looked like at all.  And that thought, what it would feel like to come home and find that your children couldn’t quite remember your face, would be enough to keep a father awake at night.  Still, the stream of passengers from the plane continued. 

The first commotion had obviously caused more of the audience in the terminal to take note of the scene, so now I was just one of many viewers, anxiously awaiting the arrival of this family’s hero.  But the flight that day had several servicemen, one after another; and as they poured off the plane that day, a really wonderful thing happened.  Suddenly, busy travelers, usually only intent on getting to their destination, stopped and noticed.  The clapping began, cautious at first and then wholeheartedly, for these men and women coming home, whether for a day or for good.  As each travelling soldier stepped into the airport, the area erupted with clapping; people really took the time to see beyond their own itinerary, to see the faces of young men and women, home from a place where they are not wanted, from doing a job no one else would have, but doing it with great pride and conviction.  And finally, with the very last passenger, the long awaited moment arrived, and two small children rushed forward, screaming for the father they hadn’t seen in so long.  He grabbed them both in his arms, sweeping them off the floor as they squealed in delight, and suddenly everyone around was on their feet, clapping their hands and yelling.  I watched the scene, and tears came to my eyes, brought on by the touching moment, by the realization that this was what real joy was made of.  When the children were returned to the floor, the young man’s wife ran forward, jumped in his arms, and wrapped her legs around his waist, holding him as if she would never let go.  And the clapping grew louder, onlookers overcome with the raw emotion in the room. 

What intense relief to be once again united with family, to feel love and comfort, a part of your own world again, after being so far away for so long?  How many of us really know what these men and women give up every day?  The simple comforts we take for granted, a kiss goodbye in the morning, dinner conversation, bedtime stories, are but a fond memory for these brave soldiers for months at a time.  They leave behind their home, their family, and all the things they know, to serve this country.  Some of these men and women are so young, they’ve never even lived away from their parents when they head for whatever battle zone requires their help. And not just the soldiers feel the pain and loneliness from their departure.  As I watched that young woman, hugging her husband so tightly, I was reminded of how many nights I have awakened from a dream, only to snuggle closer to my husband and return to sleep.  There is no such comfort for a serviceman’s wife, no hand to grab, no shoulder to lean on.  We hear sometimes that “They signed on for that life,” but what does that really mean?  You fall in love with someone and get married, make a plan to spend the rest of your life with a person, and what career they choose is rarely a piece of the equation.  Knowing that your partner is a serviceman does nothing to make you miss them any less, to make the pain disappear, when they are deployed for 6 months.  And who signed on for the heart-stopping fear every time the news begins a story with “Eleven servicemen killed?” 

Knowing your husband is serving his country is little comfort when there are two small children at home, still needing your attention, and no one to share the load.  There are no second set of eyes to keep track of roaming children at the store.  There is no one to hand off a crying baby to.  There is no one else when a virus hits and all you want to do is sleep for just one hour, but the kids still have to be fed, dressed, and sent to school.  And who explains service and dedication to small children?  Who will make up for the missed kissed boo-boos, the missing dad at Daddy’s day at school, the birthday’s he can’t be there for?  Who is there for the first word, first steps, first day of school, first school play?  I think of all the little moments we cherish with our family, that seem so simple, so day to day, that so many other people will have to miss in the name of the United States of America.  Serving this country take so much from our men and women of uniform, so many hours, so many events, and so many moments they’ll never get back.  Beyond the fear that they will never come home, is the fear of how long it will be until they come home, and what they will have missed while they were gone.  It is easy for the public to criticize a war we cannot win, a government supporting the cause; but we should be careful to realize that our criticism echoes back to these men and women giving all they have, every day, in the name of honor and service.  They give not just a career, but their life and livelihood.  They give more every day than most of us will ever be called to bear.  We complain about our jobs because the benefits are bad, or the parking is lousy.  We find little things about the person in the booth next to us, or our boss, that makes our job just horrible.  But most of us get to go home every night.  Most of us will never have to wrap our arms and legs around our husband to convince ourselves that he is finally in our arms.  Most of us will never have to really know sacrifice in the name of our country. 

Welcome home.  Thank you.  May life give you back a beautiful piece of what you were willing to give.