The Silver Chalice

The black hands on the clock were motionless; its timekeeping mechanism was silent. The clock had stopped keeping time at 6:10 – I wondered what year its batteries had finally lost their charge. An old bulletin remained on the table in the narthex.  Before plumbing was added in 1978, a black-rimmed, white porcelain bucket filled with fresh water, accompanied by a slightly dented aluminum ladle, would have been at home on that table.  The stack of aged hymnals was covered in dust.  Cobwebs were draped from pew to pew, creating a barricade from the front row to the back row. A sun-faded church banner, hanging on the wall between the two lancet-shaped windows facing the road, bore my mother’s familiar handiwork. The altar was barren, its contents relocated to a temporary home for the service in the dining hall.

The drab, gray sky of this October day echoed its somber ambiance into the hall.  The Rite of Disposition of the church in Modena felt like a funeral.  It was, indeed, final. Today – after about one hundred forty-four years of worship – would be the last time St. Paul’s Lutheran Church would be St. Paul’s Lutheran Church. 

I noticed my cousin, Jeremy, sitting in the back of the room, and as I gazed across the small group that had gathered, I realized that most of us in attendance were descendants of the very community members who started the church back in 1870.  My dad was baptized and confirmed at St. Paul’s.  My grandparents' funerals were in the church.  My great-grandfather and great-great-grandfather were members.  Great-great-grandfather Adolf was one of the first Pfunds to set foot in the original one-story log structure built in 1872 before it was moved to the present location.  Great-grandfather Rudolph and Grandpa Eugene were council members.  For a time, my dad was an Elder and Trustee.

After the short worship service concluded the Rite of Disposition began.

“Lord, we give thanks to You for Your presence in this place,” Pastor Pfaffe prayed.

As we neared the final act in the Rite of Disposition, several of the worshipers were asked to carry out the vessels and articles of the church as Pastor Pfaffe named them and gave a blessing for each:  the brass candelabra, with dribbles of wax that had once been a molten stream;  the silver chalice, which was once used as a common cup for communion;  the brass offering plates, dull from age; the brass cross from the altar, still erect and strong; the Gospel stand, which for so many years had held the Word of God; and the pastor’s stoles, untouched for over seven years.

With reverence, I held the silver chalice in both of my hands. In a solemn procession, we left the dining hall and moved toward the narthex to the door, which for many years had been the main entrance to the church, but now was partially hidden by an overgrowth of rogue tree saplings. Once outside, our cavalcade continued down the set of seven concrete steps.  I looked at the black iron railing.  I couldn’t help but remember how many times I’d slid down that railing as a young child, waiting for my dad to pick me up from Sunday School, laughing and playing with my friends.

Pastor Pfaffe inserted the key into the lock on the door.  With the twist of his wrist and a final prayer, the door was locked. With finality in his voice, he said, “Let us go forth in peace.”

Like a dying man exhaling for the last time, the church was no longer a church.  

My cousin, Jeremy, and I were the last of our Pfund family to walk down the steps at St. Paul’s Lutheran Church in Modena, and those who gathered with us were the last of their family members to do the same. 

Without warning, a tear trickled down my face. Its saltiness touched my lips and I grabbed a tissue out of my pocket.  The sorrow I felt was not for the building, but for the sudden recollection I’d had about all the people in my life that I’d known and loved that were no longer with me.  My parents and grandparents, as well as the great and great-great-grandparents whom I’d never met, but who existed in the words I’ve read and stories that have been told about them. My aunts and uncles, along with those greats.  My Sunday School and Bible School teachers.  The church family I had while I was a member at St. Paul’s Lutheran.

With a longing to hold my memories close, I paused for a moment to reflect, to ingrain them forever in my mind.

Every church has a seating chart.  Not by design or requirement, but by habit.  I remember where our family sat in church.  I’d often sit next to my grandparents because Grandpa always had a lifesaver in his jacket pocket.  He’d slip a lifesaver into my hand and when the time was just right, I’d sneak it into my mouth.

There were summer Bible School days, filled with memory verses, freshly baked cookies, and chocolate milk. Our Christmas Programs were complete with each child reciting a passage from the Nativity, the singing of Silent Night, and other carols, followed by treat bags filled with salted-in-the-shell peanuts, chocolate angel food candy, and colorful ribbon candy. The Easter service celebrated our joy of Jesus’ resurrection as well as the fellowship that goes hand in hand with warm and fluffy pancakes, savory sausages, and sweet maple syrup.  

The Tabitha Ladies Aid members served lunch in the parish hall after my grandfather’s funeral and another lunch twenty-eight years later – after my cousins and I carried our grandmother’s casket out of the church and into the hearse for the short trip over the hill to the cemetery to join Grandpa.

Eventually, my life took me away from Modena, until the last time I had been to St. Paul’s before the Disposition – at my mother’s funeral in August of 2011. With just a handful of members left, St. Paul’s was already feeling the decline of its membership roll. Pastor Pfaffe noted at the Disposition that the last worship service was held in 2014. 

In 2016, a few years after St. Paul’s had discontinued their worship services and I’d had my own share of life-changing events, my dad asked me what I thought about helping him find a new church. I slowly inhaled, then exhaled, and without hesitation, suggested he consider Zion in Mondovi – and I offered to go with him. 

Dad and I attended Zion that summer and it wasn’t long before I asked him if he wanted to join. “I’ll join with you,” I offered. I had already been in contact with the pastor at Zion and after a pleasant conversation, he had welcomed both of us with open arms. 

With my dad sitting next to me in the church pew and kneeling beside me at the Communion rail at Zion, I felt true peace. I felt like I’d come back home to my roots. I felt as if the turmoil in my life had been extinguished and with my dad at my side, I’d come full circle, once again worshiping with him in God’s house. 

Recently, as I ambled up and down the grassy green hill in the cemetery past the gravestones, I paused to look around myself in every direction. Fluttering in the breeze I caught a glimpse of red roses and white daisies, placed with love at several of the stones, as well as a multitude of familiar names. I could see the names of most of the people from my church family at St. Paul’s Lutheran and the names of relatives that I knew, along with some I’d never met, but in my heart, loved them all just the same. My feelings were manifested in the realization that almost all of these people were a part of my life in one way or another.

St. Paul’s Lutheran Church in Modena was formally disposed on October 24, 2021. As I held the silver chalice in my hand and walked down the steps in the solemn procession, I also carried with me all the warm and loving memories of my childhood there in Modena, and I was sure that everyone who was there with me that day must have done the same.

The testament of our ancestors to the Lord our God was not solely in the church building, but in their very being, and this testament was passed down from one generation to the next. That door of faith they opened for us can never be closed.

Pastor Pfaffe’s words resonated with me, and now I can proclaim the same.

"Lord, I give thanks to You for Your presence in that place and I thank you for the ministry of your Word carried out there, which was a strong pillar of my religious education and will abide in my heart forever."

A Collage of Memories

 Artisanship in the making. 

I’ve been working on this project for almost a year.  It started when I went rubble pile diving for some of the old wallpaper I remember from Grandpa and Grandma’s farmhouse.  Amongst the plaster dust and lathe, I managed to retrieve these few pieces.

The blue paisley revives my memories of Grandpa Eugene.  He would have me sit at the antique secretary desk next to the chimney in this room and write out the monthly bills for him.  He’d sign the checks and I’d put them in the envelopes to be mailed.  Grandpa’s birthday was in September.  He had a birthstone ring with a blue sapphire in it.  

When I look at the pretty purple floral, my memory of Grandma Ollie comes alive in my mind.  She had a beautiful four-poster bed with a handmade quilt in the room that harmonized perfectly with this wallpaper.  Her bedroom vanity drawer had a light green Youth Dew powder puff in it, along with several packs of Doublemint gum. Her favorite color was purple.

My vision started out as a collage, tearing bits and pieces into odd shapes and gluing them onto a board.  When I realized that the wallpaper didn’t tear very nicely, I succumbed to the ruler and Exacto knife.  Working with a copycat patchwork design I found online, eventually, the pieces of wallpaper were formed into the geometric pattern that you see here.   A strip of the old border from the ceiling edge was cut apart and became the binding lines between the different paper designs.  Mod podge is wonderful to work with.  After 4 coats over the paper onto the artist’s canvas, the panels took on the matte sheen I was looking for.  

I am not a frame-maker.  I also don’t generally purchase expensive framing from an art store.  Since the panels were 10 x 20, I didn’t anticipate finding anything at a thrift store, not to mention two of them.  Finally, after weeks of web surfing, I came upon a discount frame store in New York where I found an antique-looking off-white pattern for a wooden frame.  At their prices, I could get two frames for less than it would cost to have one framed at a local art store.  Since I didn’t need a mat or glass, I felt pretty confident in doing this special order online, knowing well that I would not be able to return the frames if they didn’t fit.

This seemed too good to be true!  And it was.  Three weeks after my credit card was charged, I received an email that the frames were on backorder and was asked if I wanted to cancel.  No!  I would wait!  Two weeks later, I received an email saying the frame I had chosen was discontinued.  Drat!  Back to the online search with this company.  

Next, I found a black wooden frame with carvings on it, similar to the white rustic one I’d ordered.  I asked the company to replace my order with this design. The frames arrived two weeks later - apparently further delayed because the company moved to a larger factory in Connecticut.  

Yay!  The panels fit perfectly!  But it seems like I can never totally put my paintbrushes

away.

After a coat of off-white paint, followed by a wiping of nutmeg brown paint in the carvings, and nearly a year’s time in the making, my Pfund Farmhouse prints are finished!  The memories that are propagated through these prints are finally sealed in time.

Grandpa

E. R. Pfund.  Grandpa’s driver’s license slipped out of the manila envelope onto the kitchen table.  I’d been rummaging through some old papers in a tote from the farmhouse that contained so many interesting things that had been saved. 

It was a driver’s license that expired on September 12, 1973.  Signed by E. R. Pfund. Grandpa never made it to that day - he passed away on March 9 of 1973, at the age of 76.  I was in 8th grade.

As the school bus pulled into the driveway of our little pickle chip green colored house on highway 37 on that day so many, many years ago, I quickly noticed both of my aunt’s cars parked in our driveway.  My stomach knotted up into a tight wad of fear.  I knew that Grandpa had been in the hospital.  

Once inside the house, my fear became reality.  Grandpa was gone.

I tilted my head down to look at the now ancient driver’s license as a tear puddled in the corner of my eye.  When I was younger, Grandpa had told me that one day I could be his chauffeur.  I could drive him around wherever he needed to go.  

That childhood dream never happened.

E. R. Pfund. I miss my grandpa. Let the tears puddle.

The Yellow Rose Wallpaper

I tiptoed delicately around the ridges of snow and ice that the tire tracks had left behind, not wanting to fill my shoes with the wet, freezing mixture.  As I neared the pile of rubble below the balcony door, I prayed that I would find a shred of the wallpaper. The rubble had been haphazardly pushed into a pile, intertwining the plaster and lathe with shreds of paneling and wallpaper - all mixed in with a light dusting of snow from earlier in the day. I picked up a piece of the lathe to dig with.  Wedged underneath a section of the wall, I saw the yellow rose and gingham check pattern I’d been hoping to find. By now, the snow had packed into the sides of the shoes I was wearing.  Cold feet and all, I tugged at a large piece of the wallpaper, but it was still glued to a piece of plaster.  I grabbed a piece next to it that was loose. It’s yellow roses and gingham checks still intact, I’d found the wallpaper from my bedroom at our farmhouse.

As a thirteen-year-old, I begrudgingly moved to the farmhouse with my family after my grandpa died.  I dug my heels into all the plans that Mom and Dad had made.  They tried everything.  “You’ll have your own bedroom.  You can pick out the carpet.  You can pick out what you want on the walls.  You can have wallpaper if you want.”  I was determined to hate it there. Not because it was a less than desirable place to live - the farmhouse was a huge home with seven rooms upstairs and six downstairs.  But because I didn’t want things to change.  I wanted my grandpa to be alive and I wanted life to stay as it had been forever and ever.

With careful hands, I loosely rolled the yellow rose and gingham check patterned wallpaper and grasped it with my gloved hand, and headed toward the farmhouse door.  The door opened almost effortlessly, just as it had ever since I could remember.  I stepped inside and immediately was overcome by the boundless expanse of the empty farmhouse. The plaster and lathe were gone - all that remained were the wooden studs that had once defined the rooms that our lives revolved around.  I peered up through the ceiling where the staircase once was to see my bedroom, and I carefully climbed up the makeshift ladder to the second floor.

Dad and I had wallpapered my bedroom one Saturday.  It took us all day - or maybe longer.  Dad's mathematical skills came in handy as we cut and pasted each piece, plumb, and level onto the seventy-five-year-old sandy plaster walls.  “We don’t want this to fall down,” Dad said.  I didn’t want it to fall down either.  I’d finally resolved to the fact that we were indeed moving into the farmhouse.  The loss of Grandpa was still in my mind, but my grandpa had grown up in the farmhouse, and just maybe Grandpa wanted me to be happy within its walls, just like he had been.

The snow pile outside glistened as the late afternoon sun sank in the sky.  Standing in my bedroom, I stared at the vastness of the second story. I could see from one end of the farmhouse to the other.  East to west. North to south. My bedroom.  My sister’s room.  My brother’s room.  The sewing room, where Mom and I had stitched many hours away.  We lost my dad in the fall and the farmhouse had passed to another generation.  In the coming months, new life would once again be breathed into the farmhouse.  My bedroom would become my granddaughter’s bedroom.  

The color was a grayish purple.  I balanced myself guardedly on the stepladder, hanging tightly onto the top step as I meticulously brushed the soothing color on the top edge of the one-hundred-year-old wall.  I was ever-so-careful not to get a speck on the freshly painted white ceiling. “We want this to be a perfectly straight line,” I told my granddaughter, as she doused her paint roller in the tray on the floor. I was overjoyed that there would be another family in the farmhouse. The loss of my dad was still fresh in my mind, but I knew that I wanted my granddaughter to be as happy within the walls of the second story bedroom as I had been.

Except for the piece I salvaged that day, the yellow rose gingham checked wallpaper is gone.  I imagine my dad would say, “it’s just wallpaper.”  

I imagine I would politely argue with my dad just a bit.  “It’s yellow rose gingham checked wallpaper.  Permeated with memories.”

December 9th, ‘31

My phone chimed, its tone too soft for a text message.  The calendar reminder popped up on the screen.  December 9 - Dad’s birthday.  I didn’t need a reminder.  I’d been thinking about it for a week.  That last time he was in the hospital.  How every nurse or doctor who stepped in the room asked him, “what’s your date of birth?”.  After a few days, when anyone sporting a stethoscope came in the room, before they could ask, Dad blurted out, “December 9th, ‘31”.  

Dad was a generous man. He made so many things possible for others.  

The best birthday ever was the one before the last one.  Just Dad and us kids, sitting around the farmhouse kitchen table.  Seven of us.  Low key.  Chili and crackers, birthday cake, and ice cream.  A little food and a lot of conversation. Reminiscing.  Sharing.  Storytelling.  Not to mention, gut-wrenching belly laughs.    

Dad was a thinker.  A list maker. Maybe even a hell-raiser once in a while.  

When someone says to one of us, “oh my gosh, you sound just like your dad!”, we grin, ear to ear.  Quite a compliment.  No matter what we were caught doing.  And lately, I catch myself asking, “hmmm...what would Dad do?”

Near the end, as Dad sat at the farmhouse kitchen table his head was propped up on two elbows.  Glancing at us, his dark and tired eyes sagging under the weight of the past eighty-seven years, he asked, “how do people who don’t have kids get through this?”

We didn’t have an answer for him.  Because we never, ever, considered it any other way.

Helping Dad was never a chore.  It was a privilege.  

Dad was a farmer. He was a businessman.  A statistician.  Dad was a husband.  He was a father. A friend.

I looked down at my phone.  I pressed delete on the calendar reminder.  December 9 - Dad’s birthday.  I didn’t need a reminder.  I would never forget.

Excerpts from The Forever Journey, by Diane Lisowski

March is Brain Injury Awareness Month.  Recovery from traumatic brain injury is a long and winding road.  Citing statistics is definitely eye-opening.   An excerpt from my unpublished book, The Forever Journey, divulges how TBI affects more than just the survivor.

Two Weeks Post-Accident

We’d like to try and sit Jonathan up,” Mary Beth, the speech therapist announced as she pulled the privacy curtain that hung around Jonathan’s bed shut.  Her long dark hair, streaked with a touch of gray was piled behind her head in a bun.  No white coat or stethoscope around her neck – just a gray turtleneck sweater which held her hospital badge – distinguishing her from a hospital visitor.  Randy, the physical therapist who escorted us from the ER to the Neurosciences wing two weeks before, stood by her side. 

“I don’t want to watch,” Dennis mumbled to me as he sidestepped back into the family room, leaving me to fly solo.  I let him play chicken, even though I was as afraid as he was.

“Sit him up?  Really?”  I couldn't believe my ears.  My knees quivered at the thought of Jonathan sitting up. He was barely awake.  How could he even hold himself up?

 “Can I stay and watch?” The words tumbled out of my mouth without my permission.

“Of course.”

“I’ll just stay back here.”  I stepped away from the bed, slithering back through the slit in the curtain.

I took a deep breath.  What if he couldn't sit?  Then what?  What if he didn't have any muscle control?  I still didn't want to watch.  In spite of my fear, I pulled back the curtain and peeked inside.

“Jonathan,” Mary Beth’s calm voice caressed the room as she gently shook his shoulder to wake him.  “Jonathan, its Mary Beth.  Randy and I are here to try and sit you up today.”

            Randy stood by her side, ready to help.  Even though he wasn't any taller than Mary Beth, he wore the muscles in this pair of therapists.

            I could tell they were a veteran team.  Randy turned Jonathan onto his side.   Mary Beth pulled his feet over the edge of the bed.  Then Randy wrapped his right arm behind Jonathan’s back.  Mary Beth brought her left arm behind Jonathan’s head and neck.  With their free arms, they slowly lifted Jonathan, while never letting go of the support they had on him.

“Okay, let’s get him into a semi-sitting position,” Mary Beth directed.

The clock on the wall ticked away, thirty, then forty-five horribly long seconds.  The slow-motion moment in my life was taking forever.  Jonathan didn't even look awake to me.   

And then they stopped. 

I guess that was what they called sitting up. 

Jonathan’s eyes were dark and blank, stuck in time.  With brain injury drunkenness, his head hung down as he stared at his knees.  I fought back the tears that began to percolate.   With the clock ticking on, the terror was boiling over and ready to spill out of my mouth.  I whipped the curtain shut and ran back to the family room. 

My aunt had arrived for a visit - she stood in the doorway talking to Dennis.  I grabbed her and wrapped my arms around her.

“Oh my God, they just sat him up.  He can’t even hold up his head,” I said between sobs, my head buried in her sleeve. 

Aunt Jean pulled me close to her and hugged me with both arms.  We sank down into the chairs. 

“I can’t see him in there.”  I ground my foot into the carpet.  “I can’t see anything in his eyes.”  The tears rolled down my face.  “Oh God, I’m looking at him but he’s not looking back at me.  He’s not in there.”  I cradled my head in my hand, my face dripping wet.  “I could see right through him.”

            I looked up at Aunt Jean, barely able to make out the outline of her face through my tears, “What if this is all I ever have?  What if he never comes back to me?”

            Mary Beth returned to the family waiting room. 

“Mary Beth, I couldn't watch any more.  It was horrible seeing him like that.  I guess we just don’t know what to expect.”

 “Hasn't anyone talked to you about this yet?” Mary Beth asked, with a look of surprise written all over her face.

“No.  And I've been reading the pamphlet you gave me about brain injury, and now I’m more confused than ever.”

“I’ll get Jonathan’s file.  I’ll meet you in the conference room next to the therapy area,” she said.

“Okay.”

Dennis and I each took a wheeled gray padded desk chair and rolled up to the dark brown Formica conference table.  The hospital smoke stacks were peeking up over the window sill, billowing out white puffs of steam on the cold winter day.  An aroma of fresh-brewed coffee wafted across the small coffee maker stand toward my nose.  As the rest of the world went about their daily routines, Dennis and I were still moving at a snail’s pace, all but stuck in time. 

Mary Beth plopped Jonathan’s three-inch thick, week-and-a-half old hospital chart onto the table and pulled up a chair next to me.  Flipping through the pages like only a veteran therapist who has read many medical files could, her finger quickly slid across and down the typed pages as her eyes scanned back and forth for various notes and test results.

“I can’t believe no one has talked to you about this yet,” she sheepishly admitted. 

I shrugged my shoulders.  We’d had so much information thrown at us that first week, but no one really took the time to actually talk to us about it.  The pamphlets had piled up alongside the card box in the family room, glanced at, but unread.

“Brain injury is more than just a bleed in the brain.  It’s brain damage.  Inside Jonathan’s head are damaged neurons.  Some might be stretched.  They’ll probably repair themselves. Some might be torn.  Those won’t come back.”

My heart hammered my ribs.  My stomach writhed and churned as the fear of the unknown waved itself in front of my eyes.  Oh God, I didn't want Jonathan to have a damaged brain.  I didn’t want him to never be able to finish college, or get a job.  I didn't want him to be in a wheelchair or dependent on us for the rest of his life.  I closed my eyes as tight as I could to try and blink away the horrible thoughts that were filling my head.

 “Other neurons in the brain compensate for the damaged ones.  The pathways in the brain will be re-routed,” Mary Beth explained.  “Think of traveling down the highway in your car.  Ahead there is a bridge that is out.  What do you have to do to get to your destination?  You have to find another route.”

I imagined the impulses in Jonathan’s brain struggling to find their way, with little red warning lights flashing inside his head as the neurons collided with each other.  The reality of Mary Beth’s words sunk deep into my heart.  I didn't want to hear any more.  But she went on.

“This is what happens in your brain.  The message can’t get through on the neuron highway so it has to find an alternate route.  This detour takes extra time, making the brain slower at processing information.  This may improve after time, as the connections re-wire themselves – but it’s too soon to tell how much Jonathan will improve.”

I swallowed, forcing Mary Beth’s words down my throat as I looked at her with my glassy, somber eyes.   Before that, I hadn't really even allowed myself to think that Jonathan might not fully recover - eventually.

“Now, the one thing we are concerned about is the fact that Jonathan is coming out of his coma but still not speaking,” Mary Beth pointed out. 

“He doesn't speak very much even without a brain injury,” I defended.  “He’s very shy.  When he was in preschool, he couldn't even get up enough courage to tell the teacher he had to use the bathroom,” I offered, hoping this tidbit of information would seal her concerns away forever.

Her soft-spoken voice suddenly felt reassuring.

“Tell me more about Jonathan before his brain injury.”

“He’s in college – his junior year,” I began.

“Is he a good student?”

“Yes, very good.  He’s a smart kid.”  The gloom was lifting.

“That’s great to hear.  Studies have shown that TBI survivors who did well in school often recover more fully,” Mary Beth pointed out positively.  “How about your family?  You've been here for almost two weeks by his side.  It seems to me that Jonathan has a good family support system.”

To her it was a support system – to Dennis and I, it was just what you did without question.

“All of these factors can greatly influence the level of recovery a brain injured patient attains.  Like I said, we don’t know yet which areas in his brain have permanent damage and which areas will repair them self.”

“When will we know?” I glanced at Mary Ann, and then Dennis.  Our eyes met as fear welded our gaze together.

“I’ll tell you this. You will hear some doctors say at six months – or a year – where you’re at then is what you get.   But that’s pretty grim.  Doctors are usually too pessimistic.  You won’t find this written in a medical book, but I can tell you that I've seen recovery even after ten or more years.”

Dennis and I were left alone in the conference room after Mary Beth had gone.  As I leaned back into the chair it suddenly felt hard and bitter against my back.  The aroma of coffee was abruptly stagnant. 

“I just hate this,” I said.

“Me too,” Dennis replied. 

“Every night when I go to sleep I pray and pray that the next day will be better.  That Jonathan will heal.  That we can get through this.  And in the morning when I wake up, for a split second I forget that we’re here and that Jonathan is here.  But then I remember.”

“You just have to deal with it,” Dennis said.  “There’s nothing you can do about it.”

Dennis’ words stung.  But he was right.

But How Does It Work?

“No!  Don’t touch that!”  

I screamed at my sixteen-year-old daughter as she reached for the long, skinny black arm on the record player that was stationed as a display at the mall department store.

“What?  Why?” Her hands flung backward as if they had touched a red glowing stove burner.

“There’s a needle in there.  It’ll scratch the record!”

“A needle?  I don’t get it.  How does it work?"

“The needle is what plays the music.  If you grab it, it’ll slide across the vinyl and put a big scratch in it.”

Michelle was born in the nineties.  When my cassettes were stacked on the bookshelf in the living room, right next to the cassette player deck that was hooked up to two bookshelf speakers.  Music arrived monthly in my mailbox via the RCA Music Club.  I vacuumed and dusted to the Beach Boys and Chicago.  Planted on the floor in front of the stereo, I did sit-ups to Jane Fonda’s 30-Minute Workout tape.

In the nineties, my shoulder-length permed hair didn’t require L’Oreal Dark Brown 4N.  It wasn’t spoiled by gray.  Michelle’s brothers played catch with a baseball in our backyard.    And went to Cub Scouts.  I drove a blue Chevrolet Impala.  A far cry from the bright orange Trans Am – complete with the eagle on the hood.

“But, how does the music get on the record?” Michelle asked. 

“I don’t know.  Google it.” I said. 

The 1976 Trans Am was orange.  It was a four-speed – fast and loud.  Sandwiched between the round black volume and tuning buttons on the radio and the cigarette lighter was an 8-track player, factory installed.  My Neil Diamond tape blasted out “I’m A Believer” as I cruised up over the hills and Simon & Garfunkel’s “Bridge Over Troubled Water” carried me down into the nooks and crannies of Gilman Valley to the house we moved to after my Grandpa passed away. 

“I mean – I can understand how music gets put on a CD,” Michelle said.  “I just don’t get the record thing.”

“Figures you would understand that,” I said.  Truth was – I didn’t know how the music got on the vinyl either.

 I didn’t care that the small round, black 45 singles with the big hole in the middle cost ninety-seven cents.  I just wanted to play them all in one big stack.  Nights in White Satin, Twist and Shout, and Good Vibrations.

“Grandpa, could I borrow some money?” I asked.  “I’ll mow your lawn for you all summer and pay you back.”

 Grandpa Eugene tugged on his wallet.  

“What for?” he asked.

“There’s a record player at the Farmer’s Store.  It’s only twenty-three dollars."  At five dollars per mowing in the late 60s, I could pay him back in a month.  I added, “You don’t have to tell Mom.

“Just accept the fact that music can be recorded on vinyl,” I told Michelle. 

“I can’t!” she replied.  “I have to know.”

The 33s were in the closet.  Mom didn't know we were messing with them.  I gawked at the brightly colored jackets that held the pieces of vinyl, revealing Brenda Lee’s dark red lipstick and teased hair, plus Herb Alpert’s Tijuana Brass of the 50s.  Mom wiggled her toes and bounced her head to the music as she sat in her wheelchair.  Not to Brenda Lee – but to my absolute favorite - The Chipmunks. 

"Maybe your Grandpa will know," I said.  "You can ask him."

Upstairs at Grandpa and Grandma's, the old Victrola stood in the corner of the spare bedroom in a walnut cabinet.  I pulled out a thick, black disc. The 78 was a lot heavier than the modern 33s.  I blew off the dust and opened the cover on the Victrola to see a shiny silver metal arm, shaped like a goose neck – with a sharp needle on the end.

“Mom!  I hollered down the staircase.  She wheeled over to the doorway.“How does this old record player work?”

“Put the needle down on the record and crank it."

"No - I mean - how does it work?”

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh.

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. No, it wasn’t the ancient oil furnace in the dirt floor basement firing itself up. Although, it sure sounded like it. My pursed lips tried to hold back the snicker that was on the verge of bursting through my mouth. I had to compose myself. Getting a case of the giggles at a funeral was a no-no. Getting a case of the giggles at a funeral when you were over forty-nine was really forbidden.

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. I glanced at my sister Kathy. Our eyes met for just a second. Mistake. The giggles were instant. And explosive. I slammed my hand onto my mouth. Maybe no one noticed as my shoulders rocked up and down. I looked down at the wood floor. Years of varnish had collected in the spaces between the maple boards. The white baseboard along the wall was draped with cobwebs. Kathy once sat in this same pew, her short legs swinging back and forth in anticipation as she waited her turn to file up in front of the pulpit to say her part of the Christmas story. She did a good job. And as soon as the program was finished, she vomited. Stage fright? Or too much Christmas candy?

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. I couldn’t look at Kathy again. I grasped my forearm with my two fingers, digging my fingernails into my flesh hard enough to leave a mark. Would that stop the laughing? I winced, and for a second – the uncontrollable laughter bubbling inside me subsided. The picture of Jesus still hung on the wall between the two arched windows in the same place it was forty years ago. Except now the windows were trimmed in peeling white paint. I glanced at the second pew from the back. That was our spot. My cousin Jane and I sat between Grandpa and Grandma that Sunday. Grandpa handed me a cherry lifesaver. “Hold it in the palm of your hand like this,” he whispered. “Then slide it into your mouth.” I did what Grandpa said and coasted the piece of sweet candy between my lips.

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. Compassion for my brother, as he fought the invasion of the post-cold coughing fit, enveloped me. At the same time the giggling reiterated itself. I put my finger in my ear and pressed it tightly. It was Easter Sunday. We’d just filled our tummies with pancakes and sausages in the church hall next door. My brother David was fiddling with the blue egg-shaped container of Silly Putty that the Easter bunny had left in his basket. He rolled it into a ball and squished it onto his hand, leaving a replica of his fingerprints in the putty. And then he rolled it into a ball again. Kathy tried to grab it. David resisted. The Silly Putty dropped to the floor. And bounced. And then rolled. All six of our eyes peered up over the heads of the congregation as we watched the little ball make its trek toward the pulpit. It stopped next to Oscar, the usher – and then rolled into the corner.

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. I bit the inside of my lip until my cheek twinged in distress, focusing my eyes on what extended beyond the window. The teeter-totter was long gone, as well as the summer Bible school kids that took turns going up and down on it. The chocolate chip cookies and the milk for dunking them in hadn’t been around for ages.

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. Water. I wished I could get my brother a drink. But the square oak table in the corner of the entrance was empty. The white enamel, blue rimmed water pail and tin ladle that we took our drinks from had succumbed to days gone by – long ago replaced by a modern kitchen in the church hall. The tiny little church that I grew up in all those years ago is still tiny. The hustle and bustle of the congregation has since moved on.

As a lone tear escapes the confines of my eyelid and slides down my cheek, I foster the fond memories that are still alive in the tiny church.

And no disrespect was meant as I uncontrollably giggled through the solemn funeral service.

In fact, in an odd sort of way – thank you God, for helping me remember a very special time in my life.

The Smokestack

“Wanna drive by yourself?” Dad asked back in ’68.

“No, I can’t!” I cried.

“Sure you can.”

My legs were jelly. My hands were flopping. “No, no, I can’t.”

But Dad let go of the wheel despite my begging him not to.

My heart was in my throat and my toes were nervously dancing in my tennies. I had no choice but to steer the monstrous piece of equipment. Thus, I learned to drive the tractor at about age eight, standing in front of my Dad as he was seated on the black naugahyde seat in the big red tractor with the cab on it – the IH 806.

Two years later, my friend Zoe and I sat pretzel-legged in the brown loose dirt next to the tractor pulling track at the county fair. My tummy was full of cotton candy and caramel apples, and my bare feet wore the brunt of the day’s grime. At almost midnight – way past my bedtime - the finals had turned into a pull-off between Dad’s red 806 and the enemies – Dux & his brother. Dad told the sled crew, “load ‘er down!” The sled was weighted down with tons of bagged lime. The bugs swarmed around the street light shining down on the sled’s hitch as Dad backed the 806 up to hook.

The engine revved in second gear as Dad thrust the throttle wide open – torque back. The back wheels were weighted down with a thousand pounds of solid cast iron and the lugs quickly dug in. The RPMs wound out and the tires squatted as the straight-off-the-farm tractor went heaving down the track. As Dad passed each mark, two more men jumped on the back of the skid, increasing the load he was pulling by whatever those guys happened to weigh. At the 17 foot mark, in the black of the night, the red 806 bit its tires into the dirt, thrusting the tractor ahead its final inch.

“Whrrr…whrrr,” went the whistle. The official holding the red flag batted it up and down. A rope and tape measure revealed the results.

Dad took home the trophy that night, beating Dux and his brother by less than two inches. The trophy was a maple block of wood with a shiny gold tractor perched on the top and a gold plate engraved with “Buffalo County Fair 1970.” The trophy stood about five inches tall – pretty small.

But it was huge. The trophy was the carrot dangling in front of my dad’s nose.

It wasn’t long before Dad’s Farmall 560 graduated from the cultivator to the pulling circuit with me in the driver’s seat.

On a Saturday afternoon in Downsville, circa 1976ish, I was concentrating so hard on the sequence: listen for the gear to softly grind into third, slip the clutch until the tires started squatting, quickly move the throttle half way and then as it began moving, full throttle. As the tractor pulled out of the gate, I reached down for the governor wire. I tugged on the wire until my knuckles turned white, squeezing out every single horse from under the hood to dig those wheels into the track.

As the tractor lugged down the clay track, its monster roar reverberated inside my rib cage. Almost in slow motion, it seemed to be taking forever. I saw my brother and one of his friends standing on the sidelines. Dad didn’t say a word about the fact that I had the tractor in first gear instead of third gear – he just smiled, knowing I wouldn’t make that mistake again. My dad stood at the end of the track, inside the fence, grinning.

In the 1980s my brother David caught the tractor pulling virus and was handed down the reins to the 560. The pulling circuit became more sophisticated. David and my dad tinkered and toyed with the red tractor. The block was bored, three carbs stood in line under the hood, and a secret weapon - nitrous oxide, shot itself into the air intake. Down the track David went. My dad stood at the end of the track, inside the fence, grinning.

The trophies came in droves. Some towering over two feet tall, they lined and overflowed the shelves in Dad’s office.

My brother quickly graduated from farm puller to NTPA puller as the innate desire for more dirt flinging sprouted within him. The speed necessary to generate that dirt took on the form of the Acme Wildcat, a 1066 International diesel, rightly named. After a few wild, hair-raising rides, things settled into place with Mr. Ed, “the horse with a name” a 766 IH. With plenty of horses sending a black column of diesel smoke towering above the crowd, Mr. Ed brought my brother numerous honors.

Despite the fact that David roared from state sanctioned tractor pull to tractor pull, the 560 gathered no dust.

My son, Nathan, then seventeen, sat in the driver’s seat. Nathan was a natural tractor puller – wearing the genes of the third generation of family to drive the notorious tractor. Local fairs, county fairs and tractor pulls nearby all welcomed this familiar tractor into their gates.

Countless hours of tweaking the 560’s well-worn parts went deep into the afternoon. Its pistons, frequently charred from the high heat generated by the nitrous were replaced time and time again. The tires grew in width, creating more bite into the clay track. Its wheels revolved at warp speed, compared to the early days of the tractor that came straight off the cultivator.

In 1998, as I stood watching my little girl ride the merry-go-round at the local fair, I could hear Nathan revving up the tractor. Its distinctive roar was ingrained in my head. Other tractors tried to mimic Dad’s 560, but came up short.

Michelle and I quickly scooted from the carnival rides to the tractor pulling track and took a spot by the wooden snow fence that lined the track on both sides. The old fashioned lime-weighted sled was replaced by a modern, mechanical version for safety. As Michelle pressed her face between the slats of the fence, I stood beside her, my heart pounding inside my chest. “We’re just in time,” I said. “Here he comes!”

Nathan listened for the gear to softly grind into third and slipped the clutch until the tires started squatting. He quickly moved the throttle half way and then as it began moving, full throttle. As the tractor pulled out of the gate, he flipped the nitrous switch. He squeezed out every single horse from under the hood to dig those wheels into the track.

The familiar monster roar still reverberated inside my rib cage. A quiet sort of pride burst from within. My toes danced in my shoes as I shouted silently to myself “that’s my son – and that’s my dad’s 560!”

My dad stood at the end of the track, inside the fence, grinning.

In 2007, as I stood watching my teenage girl ride the tilt-a-whirl at the local fair the pulling track was silent to me. For the first time in over thirty years, I didn’t hear the distinctive roar that was forever ingrained in my head. For the first time in over thirty years, the smokestack on Dad’s 560 was silent. The red tractor took its position of valor in the shed, while cobwebs draped themselves from the smokestack to the steering wheel. The dust was thickly piled on top of the greasy hood. The red paint was faded to a pinkish-gray and the white 560 painted on the side of the tractor was barely visible.

For a second I was crushed. It was the end of an era – the end of a most exciting time in our lives. The 560 snuck onto the pulling track straight out of the cornfield and surprised ‘em all. Likewise, the legendary tractor disappeared without notice, to put its weary pistons to rest after one heck of a thirty year run.

But I grinned as I remembered the five inch maple trophy that still remained on Dad’s desk. Tractors will come and go – but the monster roar of the red 560 will remain in my head forever.

'68 Firebird

“Look at his drawing, Mom. Isn’t it good? He loves old cars.”

The car drawn in pencil came to life on the paper. Perfect shading defined where the hood of the car met the fender. Each headlight popped out in front of the car, encased by the trademark grill design made famous by Pontiac. The grill that I waited to see coming around the corner of my parents’ driveway on a Saturday night.

Yes, the drawing was good. It was very good.

“Go show your dad,” I told Mickey.

She grabbed his arm and pulled him over to the display that hung on the wall in back of the high school gym.

“Look at this one, Dad,” she said.

He looked, and with a gleam in his eye replied, “I used to have a car just like that. It’s a ’68 Firebird. Mine was green.”

He went on with more details.

“Yeah, I put a 428 in it.”

I remembered that it went pretty fast.

“And a 3 deuce carb.”

I remembered that it was really loud.

“Had a 3-speed on the floor.”

I remembered him shifting the car effortlessly as we cruised down the highway, while the two of us smiled and laughed.

“I put on quite a few miles with that car,” he finished.

I remembered all the fun times. And shenanigans. And things I probably don’t want to tell Mickey just yet.

Her friend’s drawing took her parents back in time. To a time that doesn’t seem so long ago. A time separated only by the years of raising children, working hard and surviving what life has thrown our way.

The drawing was good. In more ways than one.

Someday I’ll tell Mickey the rest of the story.

A Lie From Day One

“Ma’am, excuse me but I don’t think you filled this out correctly,” the black-haired gentleman with glasses of the same color called out to me as I sauntered away from the counter.

Crap. Now what? My faced turned habanera pepper red.

I slung my purse back up over my shoulder and took two steps backwards.

I hadn’t renewed my driver’s license for ages. Not since they changed the renewal period to eight years. Eight years is a long time to hang on to a piece of plastic. And eight years is a long time to look at a less-than-desirable mug shot. After all, my hair was flat that day. And I never knew that my smile was crooked. Yes, literally, crooked.

Hmmm … I thought I had filled out the renewal form correctly.

Eyes – hazel. Check.

Hair – black. Well, L’Oreal black #4D, but they didn’t need to know that. Check.

Address – yup, that’s still the same. Check.

Weight – well, hello – that’s been a lie since day one, but nobody cares, right?

Oh, my gosh! I’m busted. My face quickly turned from red to white. My mug shot would be plastered in every post office in the tri-state area. I quickly looked for the exit door – so I could bolt out and disappear. Mr. Black-rimmed glasses was going to call me on my weight.

He peered at me through the Coke-bottle lenses. I looked at him, the word GUILTY plastered across my forehead, bracing myself for the condemnation.

“Ma’am, you didn’t write your social in this box.”

“Oops, I didn’t even see that box,” I replied very nonchalantly while my insides jumped up and down shouting 'whew'!

I quickly scribbled the nine digits inside the allotted space and hopped on over to the camera. This was the moment that I’d prepped all morning for – blow drying, straightening, painting on my face. After all, I would have to look at this picture for the next eight years.

A gray-haired lady stood behind the camera. Dressed in a blue flowered dress that was regurgitated from the seventies, she looked as old as my grandma. After all in driver’s license years, I was only about 7. All she had to do was push the button on the digital camera. I guess it couldn’t be any harder than it was for me to use my cell phone for texting.

“Stand on the blue box,” she barked. I looked up, licked my lips to give them a quick shine and faced the camera.

Click. Flash. Done.

My new driver’s license would be good for the next eight years. My hair was black – L’Oreal Black #4d. My eyes were still hazel. My smile was still crooked.

And my weight hadn’t changed at all. A lie from day one.

“Enjoy your birthday,” Mr. Black-rimmed glasses said.

I smiled, shoving my new license into my wallet. “Thanks, I will.”

The Dishes Will Wait

From time to time a downpour of rain falls from the sky, spattering itself over the edge of the roof, down the porch post and onto the ground below. The rain is a blessing from heaven – providing much-needed nourishment for the spring flowers and a mandatory rest period for the farmers who have been working long hours to get the crops in.

Everyone gets a break.

Except those of us who have been working inside.

(Me, for example.)

I’ve been spending the past fourteen weeks taking an on-line writing class. It’s been a big help with my ongoing project – my book. This endeavor began in 2007. And continues today. No, it’s not that long of a book – it’s just taking me that long.

Because I have to live my life alongside the writing.

My next class begins on May 9th – and goes for twelve weeks.

So my blog posts will continue to be sacrificed. My apologies to those of you who have begged for something new to read.

In the meantime, please click on a couple of the other blog links I have posted right below the picture of the little red tree.

Those who know me well know how important I feel about educating everyone about traumatic brain injury. Visit the blog “My TBI Life” and read about a woman who suffered a TBI after she was kicked in the head by a horse. Her remarkable recovery is inspirational.

Click on “The Dust Will Wait” and meet Pamela, who is a great writer and also a great photographer. The stories about her family will entertain you and touch your heart.

And for those who are interested in parenting, please visit “Pass the Torch” (it's author is the woman who got me started writing) and “My Cup 2 Yours”. Their stories of raising children, homeschooling adventures and empowering youth will enlighten you.

Dig into their archives for some awesome reading.

Until I’m done with my book….the dishes will wait.

Two Minutes of Tears ... Every Two Days

He would be the first to say he hates living here. After all, he’s an adult. And out of work. And squished into the bedroom in the basement. Most of his stuff is packed in storage. He has had to share the kitchen with us. And the sofa. And our car. For the last six months.

The shower isn’t his either – it’s filled with girl stuff – fruity shampoo and conditioner and perfumed body wash. He stands outside the bathroom door, patiently waiting for his sister to come out. The pink razor pushes his soap off the shelf in the tub, and it slides down the river of bubbles towards the drain.

I would be the first to say I hate having him here. After all, he’s an adult. And out of work. And his stuff is all over the basement. And the kitchen. And the sofa. And the car. For the last six months.

But I don’t hate having him here. I just hate the fact that he had to be here.

And now I hate the fact that he’s leaving.

And most of the time I can take it.

Most of the time.

Except for that time where I cry two minutes of tears … every two days.

Because he’s leaving. And because he’s been through so much. And because I wonder when it will end. And when the door will be opened for him.

The door to success and happiness.

My dear aunt once told me, “Let go and let God”. What comforting wisdom. You have to assume that you’ve given all the advice you can give, you’ve given all the tools for living. You have to let go and let God.

And yes, there are occasional tears as you think of the distance. That time when you cry two minutes of tears … every two days.

The Wreath

The satin ribbon, months earlier faded from the summer sun beating down upon it, blew haphazardly in the November wind. A dull gold bead, once a glittery spot in a nest of greenery, plopped down onto the floor, rolled into the crevice between the boards and disappeared under the porch. And the ragged pine needles, though artificial, looked weathered and worn from hanging there since the Christmas before.

Although I’d turned my head and glanced at the wreath every time I left the driveway, something inside me could not bear to take it down. Not yet.

The wreath was just one of a few Christmas decorations that never made it back into the box that January.

The January that my life stopped in its tracks.

And because of that, I couldn’t take the wreath down. I just couldn’t.

The wreath was a part of what defined my life before, before my life changed that cold and bitter day. Looking at the wreath reminded me of what I had lost and the pain that I still felt. Taking it down would somehow signify that life was normal again - except it wasn’t. And I didn't want to pretend that it was.

As the winter snow melted, exposing the fresh new sprouts of grass, the wreath hung there. Dandelions speckled the spring lawn like yellow bursts of star light in a dark green sky.   The wreath hung there. Through the hot summer days, the wreath was dry and parched, only to be dampened by the humid clouds that created a hazy backdrop. The seasons came and passed, and still as the cold autumn winds of November rustled through the brown corn tops in the field, the wreath hung there.

Almost a year had passed, and I was still not able to take it down.

I prayed for a Divine intervention.

A week later,  returning home from a day at work, I walked up the sidewalk to the kitchen door.  As I swung the door open, there on the kitchen table, I saw a new green wreath, embellished with a red and silver satin ribbon, sparkling burgundy poinsettias, walnut colored pinecones, and shiny red cranberries.

The boys bought it for you, my husband explained.

Heaviness was lifted from my heart that afternoon, as I took the lifeless wreath down from its hanger on the front door. The wreath had served its purpose. A symbol of pain and suffering no longer, I tossed it into the trash, held the match close enough for the flame to set it afire and watched it disappear.

As I hung the new Christmas wreath on the front door, I stood back and marveled at its beauty. Its freshness indeed signified a fresh start, a new beginning.

A perfect circle- of unending love.
.

True Meaning

The old man sat on the edge of the bed. I watched him with utmost preciseness tear off exactly the right amount of tape. He knew the routine well. Five pieces of tape, criss-crossed over each other in the shape of an asterisk would cover her incision perfectly.

His eyes were filled with love. Love for this woman he met over fifty years ago. A woman he had spent most of his life with.

Fifty years ago, vows were said.

At that time, he probably wasn’t paying much attention to the words. He repeated the words “to love and to cherish”. He repeated the words “in sickness and in health”. And he repeated the words “‘til death do us part”. Fifty years ago they were likely just words.

It would take a lifetime to bring true meaning to them.

A lifetime learning to truly care about this other person.

Caring through sharing life’s experiences – the happy times, the sad times, and even the angry times.

As he placed the last piece of tape over the incision she muttered something he couldn’t understand. To satisfy her inquisitiveness, he calmly agreed with her.

Fifty years ago, vows were said. Today they have true meaning.

The Owner's Manual

The wiper blades scrambled back and forth, trying to keep up with the raindrops that were pelting the windshield. The outdoor thermometer in the Tahoe read 43 degrees, but even so, the drops kept getting larger and thicker – like tiny snowballs splattering on the glass.

Yes, it was a wet and chilly October morning and Mickey and I were on the way to the orthodontist for her monthly braces adjustment. Mickey sat entranced by the rhythm of the wipers, while I was just plain annoyed that I had to have them on at full speed. A summer as dry as can be, and now – when we don’t need the rain – here it is, and has been for the last couple days.

Rain, rain, go away – come again some other … hey, what is that little red light on my Tahoe’s instrument panel? I’d never seen that one before. Usually the amber colored light indicates whether the vehicle is in 4-wheel drive or 2-wheel drive. It looks like the letter “N”. And it’s red. I press the button for 2-wheel drive. No response. I press the other button for 4-wheel drive. No response.

“Well, I’m going to pull over and stop,” before Mickey could ask me what in the world I was doing.

Just like my computer, I’ll bet this one just needs to be rebooted. So I pull over on the side of the road, put the ignition in Park, and shut off the engine. One, two, three … I count to ten and start the engine again and pull out onto the highway.

Darn, the red light is still on.

“Grab my cell phone out of my purse…I think it’s in there,” I say to Mickey – jolting her out of her trance.

“Call Dad – press 2 – I’ve got him on speed dial,” I add, keeping my eyes on the road – and the red light.

Amazingly, he actually answered his phone!

“Yeah, I’ve got this red light with a little “N” by it on the panel where it should say 2-wheel drive. What’s that all about? It wasn’t there when I left. I’ve never even seen it before.”

“I dunno. Must be in Neutral or something,” is his reply.

“Well, is that dangerous, I mean will it stop moving while I’m driving or something?"

“If it was in Neutral it shouldn’t be moving at all,” he states matter-of-factly.

“Should I stop somewhere and have it looked at?”

“I dunno.”

I could see this conversation was going nowhere. So I said goodbye and shut my phone.

Mickey grabbed the Tahoe owner’s manual out of the glove compartment. She said, “I can look it up.” I thought, why not? So I told her to search the Table of Contents for 4-Wheel Drive, as I continued down the highway.

Oh, she found it right away.

“SHIFT THE VEHICLE’S TRANSFER CASE TO NEUTRAL ONLY WHEN YOU ARE TOWING THE VEHICLE”, read the warning letters in bold and caps.

Well, we were obviously not towing the vehicle, we were bounding down the highway at about 56 miles an hour and all I could think of is CRAP. Now what?

Mickey turns the page. “Oh, here it says what to do!” she exclaims – and begins to read more. “Set the parking brake and apply the regular brake pedal. Shift the transmission to Neutral and turn the ignition to Run with the engine off."

“Wait, I’ve got to pull over,” I beg, “then read it to me again, step by step.”

I quickly exit to the side of the road again and she continues reading – as I follow her directions.

“Press the button for the desired transfer case shift position. After the transfer case has shifted out of Neutral the Neutral light will go out.”

GUESS WHAT - IT DID!

“Now, Mom – release the parking brake. Start the engine and shift the transmission to the desired position.”

All was well except for the red brake light which followed simultaneously. By now, Mickey is flipping through the owner’s manual at an expert’s pace. I know that when I released the parking brake it must not have released fully. But she doesn’t. And so I pull over – again – to fiddle with the parking brake as she is reading me the instructions on how to get rid of the red brake light.

When that was gone, and we were back on the road again, I wasn’t annoyed by the hyperactive wipers anymore. I was just happy as can be that we only wasted ten minutes of our time this morning.

Mickey turns to me and bursts out excitedly, “See Mom, we don’t even need men. We fixed this all by ourselves!”

“Yup, we did a good job, didn’t we?” I agreed, thinking most men don’t usually get the owner’s manual out.

We pulled into the parking lot at the orthodontist right on time – and I added, “See Mickey, that’s why we always leave a tad early – just in case … we have to fix our car or something along the way.”

Maybe Tomorrow

I’ve driven past the spot many times. No, I will never forget what happened there. Each and every time, my mind pauses for a second as I remember.

But tonight I’m all alone. It’s dark. As I crest the hill, like a skipping record, the scene plays over and over just as it has a hundred times before in my mind. His car was on the wrong side of the road right here. And in a split second, quicker than I can inhale a breath of air, I’m over the hill.

A tear escapes the confines of my body and gently rolls down my cheek. It had to have happened that quickly.

The event had one common thread – it changed the lives of six families forever. Some lost their lives and some lost life as they knew it.

But everyone lost something that night.

Something that they will never get back.

Whether we’re struggling to recapture a piece of ourselves that we lost that night, or struggling to hold on to the memories we have – I’m sure we’re all still struggling.

Because life changed forever that cold January night.

Tonight as my car drives past the spot, I can’t believe I’m still stuck in this whirlwind of life – trying desperately to find something tangible to cling to - something to help define who we are now – anything at all to comfort me and reassure me about the doubts I have for our future.

No, it never goes away.

I wipe away the tear with the back of my hand.

Maybe tomorrow will be the day I will find it.

Mmmm...

I shoved the half-eaten Ghirardelli caramel square in my purse, quickly folding over the opened end of the wrapper. I didn’t want my daughter to see me eating candy, after all, we had just eaten lunch and I wasn’t even hungry. And she is so health-conscious.

Me – not quite so. I mean yes, I am concerned about my health, but for some unbeknownst reason I frequently (every day) feel the urge to finalize my noon lunch with something sweet. Just a bite.

Why? BECAUSE I'M PART NORWEGIAN, THAT'S WHY!

After all, my Grandma Ollie always had to have just a bite of something sweet after lunch. Or with her coffee.

To further validate my theory – the next day at work we somehow got on the subject of those who salt their tomato slices versus those who sugar them. “Norwegians sugar everything,” Jay, a co-worker of mine stated matter-of-factly, as if there were to be no debate on the matter.

Which brings me back to the Ghirardelli square.

I tossed my purse into the back seat, and temporarily forgot about the candy bar until the next day at school.

Bounding into my office between classes, Mickey asked “Do you have any gum in your purse?”

“Yup, here – grab it,” I replied.

Mickey unzips my purse, sticks her fingers into my purse to grab the gum, when she all of a sudden spouts, “Ewwww….what’s this?” Her hand comes out of the purse with a long string of caramel attached to a couple of her fingers.

“Oh, just some candy. I forgot it was in there,” I said, trying to act like I hadn’t snuck it the other day without her knowledge.

She licked her fingers and took a piece of gum. “Mmmm,” she said, turning around and scooting out, just as quickly as she had come in.

When I got home from work I emptied the contents of my purse out onto the kitchen table and proceeded to wash the caramel off EVERYTHING.

Why do I get these urges? Because I’m part Norwegian – yes, I’m convinced.

Today when I grabbed my appointment book out of my purse I struggled to get the October calendar page open.

Because it was stuck to September. And November. And December. And the subsequent three months in 2010.

So I got the scissors out of my desk drawer and cut the caramel off the corner of each page that was infected with this gooey, sweet mess.

Mmmm…