Words for Emery

(that I never thought I would write)

01/19/2025

As a writer, I have always found comfort and solace in words, much like other family members find in music and art.  Words have helped me make sense of the world and have given me a portal to express myself, whether I’m sharing my work with others or for my eyes only.  I’ve opened my computer countless times these past two weeks, but words fail me. Instead, when I open my computer, I find myself going through photos of Emery. I linger on the ones of her as a little girl because the more recent memories of my girl as a woman, a wife, and a mother hurt my heart too much now.  Funny stories came to mind, but I wondered if they would be appropriate for Emery’s celebration of life…a time of reverence, respect, and awe.  Then I felt Emery’s nudge…and her telling me, “Celebration, Mom, focus on the celebration part and tell the stories.”    And so I will.

My Flower Girl:

Like many children, Emery never wanted to go to bed, whether at night or during afternoon naps.  When most children her age would be put down for naps in their cribs, Emery would try to persuade me to let her nap on the couch, “mostly to keep me company.” I caved more often than I should have because I loved having her curled up next to me on the couch, pretending to sleep while I pretended to read.  One of my nighttime techniques to help her fall asleep was to sing to her.  I am not a singer, by the way.  I don’t remember how, when, or why, but the song “I Love the Flower Girl” by the Cowsills became my nightly lullaby.  When she was old enough to sing along, it became our duet, with hairbrush microphones in hand.  This hardly ensured Emery’s entrance into slumber, but it was fun, and we loved fun, so it became our routine and “our song.”  

Emery grew up loving flowers, and at an age when most of her friends didn’t know the difference between a daffodil and a daisy, she could name every one of the perennials and shrubs in my very large garden… in Latin because that’s how I taught her.  When she was in kindergarten, she started calling my garden “the garden of love.”  She decided she wanted her kindergarten teacher, Miss Lindner,  to get married there and began to make plans.  She  knew where Miss Lindner would enter the garden, under the rose trellis, of course, and where her husband-to-be would be waiting for her.  She told me we would need to call the newspaper.  I told her Miss Lindner needed a boyfriend.  She dismissed my concerns and said we needed a photographer.  “Could you be the photographer?” She asked.  I told her I’d be honored.  Miss Linder did not get married in our  “garden of love,” but we did attend her wedding two years later.  As we watched Miss Lindner walk down the aisle, we looked at each other, smiled, and nodded.  Our thoughts were on the same thing… our garden of love.  Truly, my flower girl. 

Marley:

Emery’s love of animals ran as deep as her love of plants.  When she was in kindergarten, we adopted our beloved yellow lab, Marley.  On our first visit to the vet, a female doctor came into the exam room, introduced herself, and told us she would be right back.  Emery asked me why the veterinarian was a woman.  She had opened the door to a conversation I loved having with her about how women can do the same jobs as men, but before I could finish my point, she interrupted me and said, “Oh, I know that, Mom. I was just wondering why Marley’s doctor wasn’t a dog because wouldn’t a dog understand our Marley better than a person?  I started to explain to her that a dog wouldn’t be able to tell us what Marley needed but stopped because I wanted to savor how her brain processed life through the lens of love.  Emery and I would be in that room together, curled up on a blanket next to Marley, 12 years later, when we had Marley euthanized.  She asked me why it hurt so much.  I told her because the deeper the love is,  the more painful the goodbyes are.  I told her this when her Gramps, my dad, passed in September.  I’m telling myself this now.

Not long after that, she asked me when the world turned from black and white to color because there were pictures of me and her grandparents in my photo albums that were black and white, and the photos of her and her brothers were in color.  “Was I there when it changed?  Was it amazing to see everything turn to color after it had been black and white? she asked me.  Another question I needed to savor first and explain later.  Emery saturated the colors in life in the way she saw things, and in doing so, she changed the way I looked at life. As alike as we were, I had one trait that she told me she could never understand, and that was my love of a gray day, a sad movie, a melancholy song, or a long string of rainy days. Emery wanted the sun and the saturation of colors that came with it. Emery needed the sun.

There are no words that can carry the depth and weight of the emotions and love I will always carry for Emery.  Nor should there be because feelings this deep cannot be defined by words but rather can only be felt in the depths of our souls. A part of my heart left with her because, as her Mama, I couldn’t let her go alone.

I want to end with words I wrote to Emery in November 2012 as I grappled with my emotions of letting her go to begin a life with Miles the following year.

“Sometimes I look at you, and you are four years old — with chubby arms and legs, wild hair that you refuse to let anyone but you comb, and you don’t, and a twirly skirt that you enjoy keeping airborne while revealing your mom’s lackadaisical dressing style because you have no underwear on.

You are not four years old, and I am not the mama of a four-year-old, yet somehow, in my teaching you how to fly, I forgot to teach myself how to let you go.  I’m watching you fly while I desperately try to remember exactly when your feet left the ground because one day, I was carrying you, and in what seemed to be no longer than a restful pause, you were carrying yourself.  When you were handed to me in the hospital, I felt like I was holding onto a big part of my heart.  I still do.  And just as you told me when you were little and what we still say to each other every day,  I love you with my whole heart.  Really, really, for my whole life.“

Soar through the skies, my beautiful Emery.

Thanksgiving 2024

Life is short.  Make it sweet.  These words were printed on a wooden block that fell off a shelf and landed inches from my feet as I filled my coffee cup at McClain’s Bakery in Kansas City.   I picked up the wooden block just as one of the employees came over with profuse apologies and returned the block to the shelf next to the coffee urns.

I took my coffee to a nearby table and opened my computer to work on some writing, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the falling block and its message.  It felt like a tap on the shoulder that I couldn’t ignore.  Life is short.  Make it sweet. It also felt like something Dad would have noticed, possibly adding that he could have made a better block with letters carved instead of painted. It’s also possible that Dad was trying to bring those words to my attention with a block that was not precariously perched but fell anyway and landed at my feet.  There have been so many incidents since Dad passed, starting with the red-tailed hawk, where his presence was undeniably felt.  I’m counting the falling block as another one.

In the past several months, I’ve experienced the highest of highs and lows that had me crumpling and wondering if I’d ever be upright again. In July, my granddaughter, Frankie, entered the world, exploding my already full heart. The next month, my sister, Robin, was diagnosed with Stage 4 pancreatic cancer, and a month later, my dad died—a timeline of the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. My cousin, sensing the profound grief and sadness I was experiencing, told me to look for the sparkles every day, especially now, as they will become more important than ever. I decided to follow her advice. During Dad’s short stay in hospice,  I sat by his bedside for several hours and let my mind weave its way through countless memories, some bringing tears to my eyes and others a good laugh.  Because the hospice nurse told me even though he might not react, he could hear me, so some of those memories I shared aloud with him. The door to Dad’s room was open, and during a quiet moment, a woman, who I didn’t know, came in, walked over to me, leaned down, and hugged me.  I was surprised, confused, and comforted.  She told me she hoped it was Ok, and I nodded, not knowing what to say; then she added, “I sat with my dad a month ago, and I know the feeling.  I recognized the look on your face when I walked by, and it looked like you needed a hug.”  I thanked her, told her she was right, and then she was gone.  It was all so fast that it took me a minute to absorb what had happened and the gift I had been given from a complete stranger.  Life is short. Make it sweet. I was grateful for my cousin’s reminder, and since then, not a day has gone by that I’ve not seen a sparkle.  The block falling at my feet was an unexpected but very welcomed sparkle.

I’ve been through the lowest of lows these past few months, but it was in those lows that I’ve been reminded of what really matters, even though it was something I knew all along. Thanksgiving is about toasting and giving thanks at a beautiful table filled with platters of food and the cranberries I insist on bringing, even though my daughter tells me nobody likes cranberries.  And just like last year, I will bring home an almost full dish of cranberries that I will eat for a few days and then throw away. Thankfulness is the incredible group of people from around the world who I met while at a writing retreat in Greece last July and who I now call my friends.  Thankfulness is the connection I made during my writing retreat for one on the Oregon Coast, inspired by the scenery and the group of writers and artists I was selected to work with.  Thankfulness was the birth of baby Frankie, who arrived days before I left for Greece and who became my priority when I got home, booking my flight to LA two days later to hold her in my arms. Thankfulness is the moment when I set down the burden of heavy anxiety I had been carrying with an exhale and a sigh of relief because the doctors said Robin’s bloodwork looked good and her cancer was asleep. Thankful is knowing Dad had an easy and peaceful passing, confirmed by the hospice nurse who, in her compassionate delivery, told me he had a perfect death — quick, painless, and peaceful.   

I’m thankful for the love my kids have given me with their emotional and physical support and for showing me through grief and sadness that family and friends are what hold us together in life more than anything else.  Family. Friends. Cousins. My Mom. We’ve all been holding each other up and, in doing so, have found our strength, our resiliency, and, thank goodness, our humor.  A comparison between poorly folded sheets in the linen closet to the flag the two soldiers ceremoniously folded at Dad’s military ceremony was some of that necessary humor.  

I’m thankful for unexpected reminders that life really is short and to make it sweet.  In a time when life has felt so difficult and I wondered what I could find to be thankful for this year, I’ve come up with a list that holds more meaning and depth than most years, which I’m calling my Thanksgiving sparkle.  

Happy Thanksgiving to anyone who reads these pages.  I hope your day is filled with unexpected sparkles with people you love and cranberries that no one likes but someone made because they love you.

Continuing Tradition with 24 Beats

Dad started what would become a tradition when he and Mom moved to their retirement home 15 years ago.  I don’t remember if it was Veterans Day, Memorial Day, or the 4th of July, but on the first patriotic holiday after moving in, Dad went to their patio and played taps.   He told me he didn’t know if anyone else could hear it (adding that most had compromised hearing, so probably not), but even so, he felt it needed to be played to honor and respect the many Veterans who had died.  His playing was noticed, and so it continued and soon became his tradition.

When our family was at Dad’s interment ceremony at the Veteran’s Cemetery in Higginsville, Missouri a few weeks ago, the ceremony began in a small chapel. I transported Dad’s ashes again, although this time in the back seat of my car as Mom was riding shotgun. When we arrived, the urn of ashes were placed on a small table in the front of the chapel with the tricorn folded flag in front of it.  Two uniformed service members unfolded the flag and with ceremonial respect and measured precision, refolded it before handing it to our mom.  A lone bugler, who was positioned outside the chapel,  played taps as the flag was being folded. I was Ok, or as Ok as one is when their father dies, until I heard the sound of taps being played.  I thought about the many patriotic holidays when Dad played taps, whether anyone could hear it or not. Today, with the urn of his ashes on the table while two uniformed servicemen refolded the flag, I realized the significance of an unknown bugler playing for a man they had never met – the same man who never let a patriotic holiday go by without playing taps on his patio for the soldiers he knew and most that he never would.  Someone was playing taps for Dad. With that realization, my tears flowed. Dad would have loved the precision of the military ceremony and the respect paid to him, but most of all, he would have loved the sound of the bugle being played in his honor and having his family present to witness.

Taps is a 24-note melancholy piece of music played by a single instrument, usually a bugle or a trumpet.  It began as a last call before lights out that was played on military bases. It eventually evolved into the familiar solemn farewell that few can hear without being emotionally touched. It is played slowly, respectively, and never with embellishments. 

I miss you, Dad, especially on days that held such deep meaning to you.  It took me hearing taps at your funeral to understand why playing the 24-note piece became not only your honor to those who lost their lives in service, but your personal obligation. Today, on Veteran’s Day, I have no doubt that someone will play it for you, in your honor.

Word & Image

Hoffman Center for the Arts, Manzanita, Oregon

To readers:

This post is confusing. Art responding to art with art, but bear with me. Last spring, I submitted three, 350 word essays for a competition and they were selected to be a part of the Hoffman Arts Center’s Word & Image in Manzanita, Oregon. I was randomly paired with an artist whose three works were also chosen. I responded to one of his drawing with my words and he responded to one of my essays with a drawing. The end result results were two drawings and two written pieces that were shown at a reveal in early October in Manzanita, Oregon. I’ve tried to explain this as simply as I can, but even I was getting confused the night of the reveal. Here’s how it went:

With my son, Thomas, as my plus one, my cheerleader and my support, I attended the Word and Image event a few weeks ago in Manzanita, Oregon.  This was the wrap up to the event that began last spring when my essays were selected to be a part of the project and a few months later, I was paired with an artist.  The artist, Tim Miller, had three of my essays to select one from and respond to with a drawing, and I had three drawings of his to select one to respond to with a 350-word essay.  Got it?

After being paired with Tim last June, we chatted for a bit, getting to know each other, then went our separate ways, me back to Boulder and Tim back to his hometown a few miles away.  We were emailed each other’s work the following day and Tim immediately texted and told me which essay of mine he had chosen, adding that it was selected on one sentence that he was inspired by. I asked him which essay and he told me, “Aunt Ruth.”  I was surprised, but I’m not sure why.  “Aunt Ruth” was a passage taken from a fiction novel I wrote (first draft), with a ten year-old protagonist/narrator. (I’m on my third draft of the book now, likely with a few more drafts ahead, but the “Aunt Ruth” passage has survived all cuts). He made his decision quickly. I pondered for a few weeks before deciding which drawing of his I wanted to respond to.

Fast forward a few months and Tim reached out and told me his drawing was completed and did I want to see it.  No, Tim Miller, I do not want to see it, I told him. I wanted to be surprised at the reveal on October 5th. 

Thomas and I drove to the coast on the 4th, did my favorite hike on the 5th then had an early dinner before the event. I was nervous. I don’t like to speak in front of an audience unless it is a more organic, unplanned situation and I’m given the floor to tell a story in a causal setting. Although I always read my work out loud before sending it out into the world as that’s how I catch mistakes, it’s within the confines of my small office and not in front of an audience. With my plus one son in the audience giving me a nod of “you’ve got this,” I took the mic and read my words while Tim’s drawing was projected on the wall next to me. Once I started reading, I found my confidence and it felt good to be able to read my words, inspired by the artwork projected on the wall.

I’m doing no favor to Tim’s drawings by posting them this way, as they are drawings that beckon the viewer to move closer for the detail. I apologize for the post’s lack of detail.  They truly are beautiful drawings. 

Tim’s drawing, and the drawing I responded to:

Thoughts are Not Facts

Thoughts are Not Facts

My response:

The Precarious Balance of Nature

His name was Ernie Pfaff.  I met him at a fishing lodge in Alaska where I was working.  He’d wander into camp without notice or fanfare and, after a few days, would leave as quietly as he came.  He was always on foot and wore Pac boots, with so many layers of duct tape they looked like tarnished silver boots — fitting footwear for the five-foot tall, elfish man with a twinkle in his eye and a sly grin. Ernie was 81.  I was 26.  He told me he would pitch woo with me if he was younger.  It’s possible I blushed.

I hiked a few times with Ernie, and on those hikes, he taught me about the balance of nature and how we should both fear and respect it.  Don’t let the stinging nettles touch your skin, but drink nettle tea, he told me. He pointed out the nettles on our hike, insisting we crawl around it after it grazed my hands and stung them. I followed him, both on our hands and knees, feeling ridiculous yet protected.

Before he left, he gave me a hiking stick he carved for me and told me when I used it to think of him and his wishes to be a few decades younger.  Before camp closed for the season, I took the stick on a hike up a mountain near camp, appropriately named Pfaff Peak after Ernie.  Halfway down the mountain, I realized I had left the stick behind.  I thought about going back for it but decided it was where it belonged—on top of the peak that held his name, a memorial to a man who hadn’t died, but I knew I’d never see it again.  When I came across the stinging nettle, I felt Ernie’s presence and put my hands in my pockets to avoid being stung. Ernie had called it protecting me.  I called it flirting.

My essay, that Tim chose to respond to (the line specifically that inspired him I’ve put in bold print)

Aunt Ruth

It didn’t look like Aunt Ruth had found her love of children since I last saw her two years ago. She had the kind of face that even if she was happy, she still looked angry. She had brown hair, the same shade as dad’s and mine, that was cut so short that at a glance, you’d probably think she was a man until you saw her clothes. Maybe it was her solution to dealing with the curls that had made a sturdy branch down our family tree. It made her face stick out too much like there was no place to hide. She was the only other person in the house, so I tried to be her friend longer than I would have if it hadn’t just been the two of us. Sometimes, I’d catch her out of the corner of my eye, sitting on the couch just staring into space, like she was trying to find something for her eyes to focus on. Maybe she was trying to dig into the part of her brain where she kept the memories of my dad. I had to keep reminding myself that Dad wasn’t just a dad but also a husband and a brother.  My Aunt Ruth was also sad he died, but she showed her sadness differently than I did.  Her sadness was quiet, and wanted to be alone.  It gave me a feeling that made me want to ask her if I could make her a sandwich or invite her to watch The Carol Burnett Show with me or maybe Bonanza if she didn’t care for laughing. But then she’d catch me watching her, and her eyes would narrow like a cat, and she’d give me a look like she had just caught me doing something bad, and the feeling would go away, and I’d make the sandwich for myself instead.

Tim’s visual response to “Aunt Ruth“

She Kept the Memories of Dad

And finally, the reveal. Tim’s and my work on display at Hoffman Center for the Arts with the broadsides on the right and Tim’s original work on the left.

Responding to art with art, the Greek term ekphrasis, was an interesting and creative experience for me. It was an honor to be a part of an event with ten talented artists and writers and to have my work share space with theirs. As exciting as it was to be recognized as a writer that evening, having Thomas, as my plus-one, was the highlight for me. I couldn’t help but think of the many times I was in the audience, in the bleachers, or on the sidelines, mouthing the same words to him, “You’ve got this.”

Unexpected moments.

Two different versions of pensive…

When I got in the car after carefully placing the cargo in the front seat, I texted my siblings and told them Dad was riding shotgun and I was on my way back to Mom’s.  I hesitated before sending it, wondering if it was inappropriate or possibly disrespectful, but then realized it was exactly what Dad would have said had his dad been riding in the passenger seat in an urn that sat in a box, placed in another box in the front seat.  Because Dad was a veteran and will have his ashes interned at a military cemetery, his ashes were accompanied by a flag given to me at the funeral home, appropriately folded into the symbolic tricorn shape with no red or white stripe showing, only the blue field with stars. Picking up his ashes in a Kansas City suburb at least 30 minutes away without traffic was a task on a list of things that had to be tended to and one I said I would do as I had a free morning.  I’m glad I agreed to what now felt like an honor despite the rush hour traffic I had to go through to get there. When I glanced over to the passenger seat and saw the box with the tightly folded flag sitting on top of it, I knew it would be a moment I would recall later and more than likely write about because it was a new experience for me because it was my Dad, or his remains, as the funeral home now referred to him, who would make this a story and not just something to check off in a long list of things that needed to be tended to.

When we made our initial trip to the funeral home to sign papers and go over details after Dad passed, my brother, Tom, in preparation for being the one to pick up the ashes, asked if the urn had a screw-off lid; we had been seated around a dining room table in a room that looked like it had been decorated to make families feel at home.  Except for the display of jewelry that could be purchased with your loved ones’s fingerprints in the center of the table, it felt like an informal gathering around a dining room table. I don’t recall the woman’s title who we were meeting, possibly the owner, but she took her place at the head of the table after helping Mom into her seat and pouring water for everyone.  Once seated, she smiled at my brother and said he was not the first to ask the question.

“Yes, the urn has a screw top lid, and the ashes are in a bag.  The urn is then placed in a box, and that box is placed in another box. No need to worry about ashes ending up on your front seat.”

I appreciated the break of solemness with the dose of reality.  The subject was difficult, and I was learning the importance of finding the humor and breaking out in laughter as often as possible. At this point, it felt not only good, but necessary for the soul.

It wasn’t my first time transporting ashes.  Several years ago, the container of ashes of our yellow lab, Marley, rode in my lap when our family took them to our farm to scatter.  I remember thinking the container was heavier than I thought it would be, even though Marley’s weight was down considerably when we had him euthanized.  Unlike Marley, Dad’s ashes will not be scattered but will remain in the urn and be interred at a military cemetery.  I couldn’t help but glance over to the box, which didn’t look the least bit out of place as boxes often rode shotgun in my car en route to the post office to return something, but never with a flag on top.  I turned off the music in my car because I wanted to talk to myself or, if I’m being honest, maybe to the box and the spirit that filled my car. I knew the box only contained the ashes of Dad’s body and not his spirit, but it gave me the same feeling as talking to the headstones of my grandparents when I used to go with Mom and Dad on Memorial Day to lay flowers on their graves.  On one such trip, Dad had no blooms available for cutting in his garden, so he stopped at a convenience store and picked up a small bundle of plastic flowers.  When he put them on Grandma and Papa’s graves, he added a note that said, “Sorry about the flowers, Dad, it was the best I could do.”  His dad raised hybrid irises as a hobby, so he knew flowers well, and the apology was appropriate. Conversations graveside on Memorial Day were not solemn for Dad but rather practical.  I followed that lead while conversing down Blue Ridge Boulevard with the box of my dad’s remains riding shotgun and I was smiling for most of the journey. Afterall, I got my humor from my Dad.

I was blessed to have Dad for the entire 69 years of my life, and I’ve seen most of my friends go through this process some decades ago. I had to wonder if they felt the confusion I did right now of grappling with the fact that my physical dad was gone.  Forever.  I will always carry him inside of me — his humor, his smile, his generosity, and the way he viewed life, but never being able to call him on the phone and follow his sometimes indirect storytelling path is hard for me to wrap my head around.   His cell phone has been deleted from his T-Mobile account, and I went through his phone beforehand to make sure he didn’t have any unanswered messages and to check his contact list to make sure everyone had been told about his passing. Still, I can’t take his number out of my phone.  And I’m struggling with using the past tense when speaking of him.  I wonder… do these issues fade in time?  Become more natural?  More comfortable? More familiar?

Dad was 96 and had a very good life for 95 and 3/4 years, and that is what I keep reminding myself.  A few days after Dad passed, my sister, Susan, and I went to our usual coffee spot near our sister Robin’s house in an urban setting of Kansas City.  Exiting the car, we saw a red-tailed hawk perched on a fence post.  As hikers, we both were familiar with the bird of prey, but not in an urban setting.  Susan looked at me, and I looked at her, and we both nodded.  Dad.  After an hour in the coffee shop, we returned to the parking lot, where the hawk was still sitting on the post.  This time, there was no question.  Dad.  I later read that “the sudden appearance of a hawk may indicate a loved one who recently passed is sending signs through this spirit animal about their continued presence.“

We both felt a sense of comfort and reassurance.  A few days later, I felt the same sense of comfort while I looked over to the box that occupied my passenger seat at a stop light and smiled.  You’re still with me, Pops, and I feel your presence. The tightly sealed urn wrapped in bubble wrap in a box that’s in another box with your ashes in it is as close as I’ll ever be to you again physically, but you’ve taught me to be curious and question things that don’t make sense and if you believe something, to trust that belief.  I believe you gave Susan and me a nudge with the red-tailed hawk.

I know that processing Dad being forever gone will come in spurts and not always at the most opportune times.  In the days leading up to Dad’s death and the weeks that followed, the only people I saw were family, nursing staff, hospice care staff, attorneys, bank employees, and the woman who explained the packaging of the ashes at the funeral home.  I’ve been immersed in a place I didn’t anticipate being in on a visit to my hometown to see my sister, Robin, who was recently given the terrible and hard-to-process diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. This process has exhausted me to my core, and I’ve cried more in September than possibly in the entire of my life, yet here I am, still upright, with memories crowding my mind, each one vying for attention.  I worry about Robin while in the throes of mourning my father’s death.

I keep circling back to a letter Dad wrote and tucked into my suitcase when I left for college. He typed his letters as his handwriting was difficult to read, always with the oversized “LOVE, DAD” scrawled across the bottom of the page.  He said, “This could have been considered the 8th wonder because it is not like me to write letters, except possibly to tell some unsuspecting parent that their child wasn’t graduating.” You didn’t know when you typed that letter, Dad, that it would become one of my most cherished letters and give me the idea to do the same with my children.  My kids all got letters that I tucked under their pillows after making their beds in their dorm rooms, something I insisted on doing simply for the letter placement.

“There were times, Laur, when I could have knocked you on your ear, but believe it or not, it was always out of love,” the letter continued.  Several months ago,  Dad had been admitted into the hospital due to issues with his pacemaker and, within 24 hours, was diagnosed with pneumonia complicated by COPD, followed by being intubated, a very dangerous procedure for a 95-year-old.  Two days later, and with much surprise to the doctors, they were able to remove the intubation, and Dad began breathing on his own.  I saw him that day, early morning, and it was just the two of us in the room.  Maybe it was his near brush with death at that time, or maybe I just caught him at the right moment, but we had one of the best conversations we had ever had despite his difficulty in talking.   He told me I was a “real pain in high school, which was a very challenging time…for both of us.” Those words made me smile, and I couldn’t disagree with them because Dad was right.  Then he added that he parented me the same way his dad parented him, which meant ignoring a lot of the behavior and letting me be who I needed to be in the same way his dad had done with him. It was honest.  It was real.  He added that he thought his dad knew he was sneaking out of his bedroom on Saturday nights while in high school and hitchhiking to downtown Kansas City, where he was given playing time with the jazz band The Scamps.  I felt more connected to him in that moment than I ever have—his rebellious spirit clearly having made its way into me, although my stories paled in comparison to his.

The letter ended with, “I’m sure I’ll continue to get upset sometimes with you, but I love you so much and always want the best for you.  And no matter the struggles, you will be OK.” 8/20/73

9/26/2024. Thanks, Dad, for writing those words to me that I read alone in my dorm room, and now, 51 years later, I’m reading again, alone in my living room. I’m holding onto the “you’ll be OK” part with everything I have right now.

Writing Dad’s Obituary

I’ve written things I didn’t want to write, pieces I regret ever seeing the light of day, and countless stories, essays, blog posts, and a few memoirs that may never be finished.  Some pages come easily; others are slogs, but I stay with it if I feel like something’s there.  A few days ago, I was given the difficult task and deep honor of writing my Dad’s obituary.  I  was honored my family gave me the responsibility of writing it, but I also struggled.  Not because I couldn’t find the words or the stories but because I didn’t want to write in past tense.  It was also hard to edit my words to an appropriate-sized piece as I wanted to include far more than would fit into the parameters of an obituary. I called the Kansas City Star to ask them what the average length of an obituary was and was told there was no limit.  She told me they had seen a few at 900 words, which was rare, and if I had a lot to say, 800 words was a good number.  As we spoke, I looked down at my word count.  982.  OK, I told her I’m good.  Inhale, exhale, and start deleting. 

I settled into a table at the back of a cafe with a big cup of coffee and my computer and started typing. I was only a few sentences in when I realized that typing in a public place had not been a good idea, as I was only a few sentences in when I began to sob.  If anyone around me knew what I was typing, I’m sure they would have stopped staring and sent over some tissues. After an hour or so, or about a large cup of coffee later, I finished editing, cutting a few hundred words in the process. The cutting felt painful because who am I to decide what is put in and what is left out when it comes to such a public reckoning of who my Dad was and what he did in his life?  Dad was a storyteller.  He would have also struggled with the assignment.  I felt proud and sad at the same time and made a promise to myself that it wouldn’t be the last time I wrote a piece about my Dad.  I was also sad, because Dad was one of my favorite readers, always with a comment, and this would be one piece he would never read.

Dad was blessed with 96 years, and up until two months ago when he fell, most of those 96 years had been good, with Dad holding onto his attitude of “today is going to be my best day yet,” regardless of what he had on the calendar. 

 I left the cafe with the kind of headache you get after crying, a pain that is felt more emotionally than physically. I got into my car, called my sons who happened to be in town and told them I was on my way to meet them for lunch, then I backed into a truck who was entering the parking lot.  I’m a good driver and can count on one hand how many wrecks I’ve been in with a couple of fingers left over, none of them serious. All I could think of was, seriously?  This is how I’m ending my morning? The couple exited the truck, and the man said, “Oh great, I see you don’t even live here… Colorado?”  “Yes, I do, but I’m here for a while because”… I considered my next sentence as it felt manipulative, but I said it anyway… “My Dad passed last week, and I’ll be in town for a while.”  The woman sighed and told me how sorry she was.  The man went back to his truck in search of paper. Both of our vehicles were damaged, his worse than mine, but both were drivable. We exchanged information, and I got back into my car and cried because I wasn’t sure what else to do, then started laughing because seriously, had I shared with the couple that I had been in the cafe writing his obituary…well, you can’t make this stuff up and it sounded like I just did. 

The events of the morning would have been a great story to share with Dad.  After hearing it,  he would have ensured that I was OK and the person I hit was OK, then would have found the humor in the situation along with the irony.  He was good at that.  Had he been in a similar situation, he would have chatted with the other driver and likely shared a story, ending with a handshake and a laugh. You were the storyteller, Pops, and I was honored to be given the gift to tell yours. 

Bob was often called a Renaissance man, “a fully-rounded person, knowledgeable in many areas, including the sciences, arts, and humanities.”  To that, his family would add that he was the one who got the call when the car wouldn’t start, the disposal was jammed, or help was needed to get an oversized mattress down a narrow flight of stairs. Dad was the first call when a trusted Volkswagen was no longer trusted and needed a tow. He improvised with his equipment more than once by taking his belt out of the loops and using it as the tow rope.  Dad was always available and ready to roll up his sleeves and go to work whenever his family needed him.  This philosophy was also how he spent 28 years working Monday through Friday at Olathe High School, where he was a guidance counselor with an open-door policy to anyone who needed advice, encouragement, counsel, or simply someone to talk to.

Bob was born in Pleasant Hill, Missouri, on August 1, 1928.  He died on September 7, at Foxwood Springs in Raymore, Missouri, where he and his wife Nancy had lived for the past13years.  When Bob graduated from high school, he joined the Army and was stationed in Pisa, Italy.  His musical ability was recognized, and he was asked to form a band with the German prisoners of war.  He didn’t speak German (or Italian), but he shared the language of music with his band, communicating with notes, not words. 

He met his wife, Nancy, at Central Missouri State University in Warrensburg, Missouri. They were married after he graduated, and on August 29th, they celebrated their 71st anniversary.  He had a special evening planned 71 years ago that would end with a marriage proposal, but he couldn’t wait. Bob pulled off the highway under a Miller High Life billboard and popped the question.  Nancy said yes, and on every anniversary after, including this last one, he would tell anyone around that he still couldn’t believe she said yes. 

Bob and Nancy had four children: Robin Blackman of Kansas City, Missouri  (Jim Cumley), Laurie Sunderland of Boulder, Colorado, Susan Ketterman of South Egremont, Massachusetts (John Clarke), and Tom Blackman of Olathe (Renee Barta). They also have five grandchildren: Thomas Sunderland, Grant Sunderland, Emery Golson, Randi Jo Blackman, and Evan Blackman, as well as five great-grandchildren.

Bob was a curious man with many hobbies, most of them worked on in the garage, which never had a car parked inside. Instead, it became the headquarters for Bob’s many creations, which included everything from making furniture to carving intricate designs and figures to building a telescope that he spent countless hours working on in an unheated garage.  His biggest project was building a sailboat. The maiden voyage was at a nearby lake, and before pushing the newly crafted boat into the water, he announced that he had no idea if the boat would float or sink. Thankfully, the boat didn’t sink and became another weekend hobby.  

He taught his children, his students, and anyone who knew him the power of kindness and the beauty of living with a “glass half-full” attitude.  At age 90, he connected with a few musicians at his retirement facility and formed a jazz band where he played the coronet.  Playing music was one of his greatest passions, and even at age 96, he still played with strength and soul, never using sheet music, always by ear.  His last concert was ten days before he died.  His love of jazz began in high school when he would sneak out of his house and hitchhike to jazz clubs in Kansas City, where he was given opportunities to take the stage, eventually playing with the band The Scamps.  Expressing himself through notes played on his horn was one of his greatest joys, and although they wouldn’t let him play his coronet in rehab, his mouthpiece was on the table next to his bed.  One of the nurses said they weren’t crazy about him using the mouthpiece due to breathing issues, but they weren’t about to take it away from him as it gave him so much joy.  Two days before his passing, when he was beginning to fade, a video was shared of him playing a solo during a recent concert.  His eyes were closed, but he had a big smile on his face, and his foot began to mark time under the blankets. When asked if he knew who it was playing, he shook his head and said,  “No, but he sure is good.”  You got that right.  You sure were good.  

His kindness, his smile, and his “today is going to be my best day” attitude will be forever missed.  

Patmos, Greece, July 2024

I wrote my words describing my ten days at a writing retreat on the Greek Island of Patmos, with  teachers, Cheryl Strayed, Rachael DeWoskin, Brian Lindstrom and Zayd Ayers Dohrn on my eleven hour flight home.  I was pleased with my piece and believed I captured the spirit and emotions in my words.  This isn’t that piece.  I wrote the words in my head with Chopin playing through headphones, while I laid in my makeshift airplane bed.  I should have broken the spell with some pen to paper afterwards, but easing into the moment as it presented itself felt like the better option.  So here is my second attempt, without Chopin’s sonatas filling my headphones,  and at Boulder’s 5,318 feet of elevation and not the 30,000 to 40,000 feet above the sea where I found my inspiration that didn’t get written.

Describing the trip as magical, inspiring, breathtakingly beautiful, and soul-grabbing seems too predictable when talking about a Greek Island that is closer to Turkey than Greece and is surrounded by the turquoise waters of the Aegean Sea.  I want to write in specifics, because as beautiful as the backdrop of white buildings set against a deep blue sea are, it is the details that bring an experience to life for me such as the sounds, the smells the tastes and the pit in my stomach I felt while walking into an overly air-conditioned room filled with people I met the evening before at the welcome dinner.  They looked different though, with notebooks, pens, iPads and laptops in front of them, and not glasses of wine or sparkling water — more serious, more literary.   I tried to maintain my confidence as I walked across the room to a table in the front, but felt like I was wearing new shoes on the wrong feet.  Inhale, exhale, I reminded myself.  Once seated, I began to nest, lining up my notebook, pens and water bottle and vowed to sit in a different spot every day because it seemed like a good idea.  It was, but I didn’t.

Patmos is a remote island of Greece that is considered sacred, where St. John was inspired to write the Book of Revelations.  It’s not easy to get to, yet I felt compelled to go.  After getting the notification that I was accepted, I received a list of the other participants along with their bios.  I was part of a group of accomplished writers from all over the world, which increased my anxiety and made me question how I would fit in with a group of teachers with MFA’s, published authors and writers with long lists of impressive accomplishments.  Could I hold my own, or at the very least, lead with my sense of humor to cover up my insecurities?  I didn’t realize it, but I was not alone in my feelings of inadequacy, regardless of what the bios said. On our last day, we each had the opportunity to read for two minutes.  We could choose a prompt we had written during our workshop time or anything else we had written.  One woman in the group read a piece that compared her insecurities to the awkward and anxious feelings of being in the cafeteria in the 7th grade and the ultimate fear of eating alone.  As she read to the group, I observed several nodding heads in my peripheral vision.  I had shared conversations with several regarding the anxiety we were feeling in anticipation of being chosen to read our responses to prompts given and ten minutes to write. Hearing her feelings, so beautifully articulated into words we all could grasp and understand, gave me comfort.  Ten minutes is a blink of an eye when you’re scrambling to come up with an idea to write about, let alone to find the words, yet two minutes to share the piece in front of a roomful of people, is an eternity.  

While on the island of Patmos, I slowed my pace enough to absorb the moment,  while trying my damnedest to let go of expectations and doubts.  Good World Journeys, who hosted the salons and writing workshop, has the tag line of  “seeking a travel experience that rests the body, enriches the mind and feeds the soul.”  They did not disappoint.  I’m still basking in the feelings of a nurtured mind and soul and a rested body (rested at odd times due to serious jet lag, but rested…)

I wrote.  We all wrote.  Some of my responses to the ten-minute prompts I was proud of and others, to quote Anne Lamott, were “shitty first drafts”  that I was relieved to not be called on to read. Maybe it was the expression on my face or my intentional lack of eye contact as the teacher made his or her way around the room to select the handful of readers.  When I finally let go of my ego and dug deep into my soul and became raw and vulnerable, I was chosen to read. My face said yes, call on me because I can make eye contact now and no longer have to hide.

The journey to Patmos is long and maybe that, in part, adds to how special it feels to be there.  It is an eight-hour ferry ride after an eleven hour plane ride to Athens.  I spent eight hours in a cabin the size of a small walk-in closet with a woman I didn’t know and who didn’t speak English.  On the return trip, we boarded the ferry at midnight after a farewell dinner and all I wanted to do was crawl into my bed.  My roommate was asleep and the ladder to climb up to my narrow top bunk, was on a sliding pole, making the entry into my bed awkward.  I tried to keep the ladder at her feet but the swaying of the ferry kept rolling it towards her head, eventually waking her up as I climbed up, inches from her face.  I smiled and shrugged my shoulders in an “I’m sorry” gesture.  She rolled over, unamused.  I recognized her as she was the same woman who I shared a cabin with on the journey to Patmos from Athens, but because it was during the day, I wandered around the ferry instead, ending up in the room of a participant to the salon, where I stayed for the next six hours chatting.

When Chopin’s Nocturnes Op. 9 ended and I had completed my mental writing on the airplane, which of course was far superior to what I’m writing now, I sobbed.  It was unexpected, but not surprising because that’s what digging deep into your soul with a room filled with other people doing the same, does to you.   It’s in the excavation of the soul and feeling the discomfort in the process and the relief that follows that makes me truly feel like a writer.  To the other writers, who I walked with on the narrow streets of Scala, Campos and Hora, spent afternoons at the beach and shared daily Greek salads with, thank you.  To those who were with me on an all day boating excursion with swimming off the boat and lunch on a nearby island, ending with several of us Dramamine dreaming on our journey back, thank you for your stories and the many shared laughs.  You were the invisible hand on my back as I read my work aloud and the studied gaze and nod that told me to keep going because I had a story to tell and you wanted to listen.

When I returned to Boulder, after a month at the Oregon coast, the floor of my car was covered with sand.  I didn’t vacuum it as I wanted a piece of my time in Oregon to stay with me.   I wondered what I could bring home from Greece as a physical memory.  There were the clothes I purchased that had to be strategically mashed into a small and already filled suitcase, but purchased treasures didn’t hold the same poignancy as the sand in my floor mats.  While in the Athens airport, waiting to board my flight home, my phone started dinging with messages to the collective Patmos group and to me individually.  Photos, memories, addresses and wishes for safe journeys were lighting up my phone screen.  I had my answer.  The people in the room, who I shared tiny pieces of my soul with, were coming home with me in the form of friendships forged through writing and experiencing the island of Patmos together.

The view outside my door…

My two weeks on Patmos was one of growth, inspiration, knowledge and making new friends, who no doubt are going through similar withdrawals, while wondering how to replicate an authentic Greek salad, best served with feet in the sand and eyes towards the sea.

Patmos. As much a feeling as a physical place.

Return to Manzanita, this time for more than the views…

Twelve writers and twelve artists were paired to create…

The stars aligned,  serendipity struck, the universe conspired and I found a new, 2024 penny, head’s up, when I left the grocery store.  I was back in Manzanita, Oregon, for the weekend,  where I spent the month of April and where I didn’t think I’d be returning until next spring. 

 When I said my goodbyes a short month ago, — to the sea, the charming town, and the moody coastline, I made a point of slowing down to absorb as much as I could before I left.   I wanted to remember the sounds, the smells, the slow melt of the sun into the horizon, each day more beautiful than the last, and the feeling of soft mist on my face as I walked out of a gentle rain and into sunshine.  Those feelings were still front and center in my memories when I drove into Manzanita a few weekends ago, feeling conspicuous in my rental car — a 2024 Mustang, which was not my first or second choice, but I did choose it over the Camaro.  The guy at the car rental counter in Portland thought he was doing me a favor with the upgrade and I liked his spirit, but didn’t care for the car.

As for the alignment of the stars, they weren’t just aligning, they were in a congo line dancing around me. The timing was that good. There was another labyrinth walk on the beach, by the same artist that created the walk the day before I left, this time the the day after I arrived. The rental house I had in April was available and friends of mine from Boulder happened to be traveling in the area and we were able to connect and swap travel stories on my deck. And the weather just happened to be perfect – sunny and warm in the afternoon and cool in the evening.

I returned because three written pieces I submitted in a competition were selected and I only submitted them after being encouraged, prodded and not so gently pushed by my sisters to go for it, and so I did. Had they not been visiting me during my first week there, I might not have wandered into the arts center that they discovered and doubt I would have written three pieces to submit. Thanks, sisters.  I made my return to be present for the random pairing with a visual artist, who also had three submitted pieces that won.  We will be a part of an ekphrasis, the Greek literary form of art inspiring art, using both visual art and written words.  I will chose one of the artist’s three pieces to use as a visual prompt for an essay and he will chose one of my essays to inspire his art, a drawing in his case.  The reveal of the art with words will be presented at the Hoffman Center for the Arts, that represents the northern Oregon Coast,  in early October.  

I’m thrilled, honored and challenged with this project and have looked deeply into the three drawings I have digital copies of, while searching for my inspiration.  They have become etched into my brain.  I have until July 31st to turn in my words.   Along with feeling honored to be chosen, I also feel vulnerable and exposed when I think about another person going deep into my work, word by word and sentence by sentence, to find inspiration for his drawing and wonder if he is feeling similar emotions as he thinks about doing the same when I studying his drawings.

If I had the actual drawings with me and not just digital copies, I’d probably carry them around with me throughout the day, arranging them on the table next to me while I eat then moving them to the coffee table where I’d  continually glance down at them throughout the evening. Digital copies are not the same as the originals and I wanted to touch them for some reason.  While waiting in line at the airport on my return flight back to Boulder, and any other time I’ve found myself waiting, instead of scrolling like everyone else, I stare at the three drawings, looking for clues, words and my story.  The drawings are beautiful, evocative, well-executed and oddly familiar to me in their content, which confirms that although the pairings were random, the artist I’m working with, is exactly who I am supposed to be with.  

I’m glad I was able to make the trip to Manzanita and was able meet the artist face to face, rather than the zoom option I was told I could use given I don’t live on the Oregon Coast. I felt I owed the artist a face to face meeting, and of course I wasn’t sad to have to return to the house on the beach with the beautiful view.  The co-facilitators each drew a name out of a hat, one designated for the writers and one for the artist to form the pairs.  There were twelve pairings.  My artist happened to be sitting in the chair next to where I had put my jacket down while I socialized with the group before taking my seat.  We were the last two names called.  The first thing he said to me was that he was honored to be working with a good writer.  I told him I appreciated the compliment but given that he hadn’t read my work,  his words seemed a bit premature.  “It’s become more and more competitive every other year when it’s offered.  Your pieces were selected because they were well-written,” he told me. I was humbled by his words, also nervous because it felt like he just raised the bar of expectations considerably.  I only hope my words will stand up to his perceived words of praise.  

I have no idea where I’m going with this, but I’m challenged, intrigued, completely absorbed and scared enough that adrenaline has begun to weave its way into the process.  And that feels productive, even though no words have hit the page… yet…

Mother’s Day 2024

Three under five.

Two under two. Mom wins.

It’s not the gift, because it’s never the gift.  It’s been a Pop-Tart served on a tray,  the corner suspiciously looking like it had been chewed off, but I pretended not to notice.  It’s breakfast in bed, served on a cookie sheet improvising as a tray, because trays make it fancier and you can never be too fancy on Mother’s Day.  And I loved every bite of it like it was eggs Benedict with a croissant on the side. It was my child’s version of my granola recipe in a book with other kindergartner’s recipes that was handed to me with excitement and pride and instructions to bake for six hours at 900 degrees.  The whispered arguments of who gets to carry the tray, with giggles and shushes are the alarm clock for so many moms on Mother’s Day and I’m not sure there is a better way to be awakened.   Of course I was awakened earlier with arguments in the kitchen and hold back my smiles that are bursting to get out as my three young kids would wake me to begin the Mother’s Day celebrations.  

I miss those early Mother’s Day’s that began with breakfast in bed and ended with me cooking dinner because there are no last minute reservations on Mother’s Day.  One Mother’s Day, I confessed in an essay, that more than anything I wanted to go to the movies to celebrate the day…by myself.  I didn’t care what was playing.  I wanted to sit in the dark for two hours and eat popcorn and Milk Duds and maybe doze off.  Several of my mom friends chimed in and agreed, but none of us would ever admit it to our families or chose the movies over a day of breaking up fights over who gets to sit next to mom while watching Full House reruns because it’s Mother’s Day and mom gets to do anything she wants, including watch what the kids suggest.

Moms are the first to say they are no longer hungry when they see one of their kids, who technically is still growing, eyeing the last piece of pizza.  They are willing to sacrifice their coat when one of their kids, who was reminded to bring a jacket, twice, didn’t, and is cold. They will shiver through the soccer game or the afternoon at the park, insisting they are fine because they have to be fine.  They are the ones who sit behind the tall man at the movies and are happy to go last when it comes to unwrapping Christmas gifts, always with the hope that someone remembered to purchase the gift you’re patiently waiting to unwrap.  They will happily change seats from the front to the back (provided they aren’t the driver)  when the back seat child says he or she might be sick, knowing it’s possible they just want a better view.  We cancel plans, delay starts and are the one sweeping in with the pan for the next round of throw up and the towel to clean up the one we missed.  I can’t say we do it without some eye rolls and mumblings to ourselves, but we do it and we do it again and again and again.  As young mothers, we smell like throw up because we often wear throw up, but that’s okay, because we’re the mom and that’s what moms do.  Our hearts are cavernous and our patience limited so things don’t always go as planned, but the side of love is always the side that wins. 

Moms will backbend themselves around to help another mom because we know first hand what exasperation and exhaustion look like, and when we see a mom down, we do whatever we have to get the fallen mom upright again.  This, we often do at the cost of our own sanity.  We are never off the clock, even when our kids aren’t with us.  Case in point, I once told a mom in an elevator who I had just traveled four floors with,  a bold face lie as a gesture of offering help.  I was in Captiva, Florida, with my husband and my two sons under the age of two, and was going to the nearby market to get something we had forgotten or possibly more wine.  Or maybe it was nothing and I just needed a moment of alone time.   The woman on the elevator had twins who looked about six months old, both boys.  I saw the exhaustion and frustration on her face and in the way her body was hunched over the stroller like a question mark.  I looked her straight in the eye and told her I also had twin boys and not to worry as it gets much easier.  In fact, so much easier that the day will come when having twins will be easier than just one because  they will always have a playmate.  She looked up at me with eyes that had possibly crying and told me thank you, from the bottom of her very tired heart.  When I got off the elevator, I turned around and she smiled an ear to ear smile at me and I had the feeling her day may have gotten a tiny bit better.  I do not have twins, but I do have two boys 18 months apart, which meant two cribs, two carseats (at a time when only babies were in car seats), a double stroller, and an undue amount of chaos and crying.  It felt like it was the right lie to tell within the sisterhood of motherhood.  I did not regret it when I walked out of the elevator,  nor do I regret it today.  It was a necessary lie and one that may have put a morsel of hope into that tired mom’s head that she had not yet considered — that it might get easier as the two babies had more months or even years under their belts or onesies as it was.  

Two of my three Pop-Tart preparing kids now have kids of their own and my third has one on the way. Their days of their kids balancing cobbled together breakfasts on makeshift trays with overly filled glasses of juice are coming, although I suspect their kids’ food choices may be better.  I’m seven years overdue in declaring this, and it’s happened organically over the years, but I’ve decided it’s time to give up one more thing as a mom and that’s the holiday of Mother’s Day.  By NO means does that mean the day no longer needs to acknowledged or celebrated in some way, large or small (kids, take note), but I’m moving my position down one chair in the matriarchal line-up to make room for the mothers in my own family whose kids are of the age of carrying breakfast trays to sleeping moms.  This has happened naturally with my kids who live in other states, but I feel like it has to be said in the same way my mom said it to me when I had my first child.  The connection will always be celebrated but it is the active mom who should be the one to relish in the glory of the day, eating a breakfast she may not have chosen and breaking up the fights of whose turn it is to sit next to her or who gets to paint her toenails on her special day.

My cousin’s daughter, six months into her pregnancy, asked me once if I knew how long the umbilical cord was.  I didn’t know, but really, I did, but didn’t want to tell her.  The umbilical cord is as long as it needs to be, and although the physical cord is birthed with the baby, the emotional cord connects you and your child forever and ever.  I feel the tug of that cord  still and it has extended its length to include my grandchildren. The lump in my throat that catches when I see my children comforting their children is that same umbilical cord giving me a tug to remind me of its attachment.  It makes me want to cry and immerse myself in the memories of being awakened with warm whispers of “are you awake?”  inches from my ear.   I want to press those memories to my chest and relive every moment, knowing that the baton has been passed; also knowing it will be another mom who will comfort a child in the middle of the night and clean up the throw up, first off the floor, then off herself.  And that same mom will call her mom the next morning and share with her how hard her night was and how tired she is and my cavernous heart will melt and I’ll suddenly have a craving for Pop-Tarts.

Happy Mother’s Day, to anyone who mothers and to the moms we have or had.  The  umbilical cord continues to tug, even when it’s not Mother’s Day.

Story Telling

I knew I should give them space by the meditative way they were standing; six people, shoulder to shoulder,  on the beach, at the water’s edge, flanked by a dog doing the same. I was close enough, but not too close, to see they weren’t talking, but instead, had their focus on the sea in front of them.  As I got closer, still with respect for their space I kept reminding myself, I could see there weren’t six people, but seven.  A woman, or maybe a teenager? with a yellow raincoat sat on the ground in front of the group.  I was drawn to them — their stillness, their reverence, their focus on something I couldn’t see and the connection they had with each other,  with arms interlaced and hands held. 

 I continued my beach walk, trying to notice other things, but turned around every few minutes to see if they had moved.  They hadn’t.  Twenty minutes passed and they still stood, side by side, facing the sea.  As I got further away, and began to lose sight of them, my focus changed. I noticed that almost everyone I passed had a dog and almost all of those dogs had a couple with them — not a single person, but a couple.   I did a visual 360 on the sparsely populated beach to confirm that yes, it appeared I was the only one that did not have a dog or a partner.  And right then and there, I said to myself, not even in a whisper as there wasn’t anyone around to hear me, “table for one, right here, right now, on the beach.”  I smiled at my observation.  Last night at the restaurant, I asked for a table for one, something I’ve become accustomed to in my solo travels and was mindful to not add the just to the one.   Had I been walking with someone this morning, I doubt I would have found the intrigue with the six people standing at the water’s edge,  shoulder to shoulder, with the yellow rain-coated woman in front of them.   I’m more tuned in when I’m by myself — more curious, more observant and ready to fill in a story that I know absolutely nothing about.

Their stillness reminded me of the man and his dog that I’ve seen just about every evening, standing side by side, while they wait for the sun to drop.  Were these seven people waiting for something or were they just not ready to leave.  I had my own version of the story.    I thought about the person who remains in the pew long after the funeral or is still standing graveside after the ceremony is long over.  They can’t leave because of the finality of leaving. You only get one first goodbye.  The next time, it will be a recollection of memories and a goodbye afterwards, but not the first goodbye.  That only happens once.

My hunches were  confirmed when on my walk back, I passed the group again, and saw the man that was on the end squat down and hand a box to the woman in the yellow raincoat.  She stood to receive the box then held it to her chest and her head dropped.  I was still a respectful distance away, but didn’t feel like I was supposed to be watching, so turned my back and observed  a small flock of sanderlings running back and forth on the beach instead.  When I turned around, the box was back in the man’s hand and the woman with the yellow raincoat was drawing something in the sand with a long stick.  When she was done, she set the stick down and the man returned the box to her.

Of course I’m only speculating on what had been in the box.  It could have been a lunch box with a half eaten sandwich inside and the yellow raincoat girl was hungry and so happy to see it that she held it to her chest.  But I don’t think so.  It was not what her body language was telling me, nor what I saw in the sand after they left, single file, the girl in the yellow raincoat last.  When they were out of sight, I walked over to see what had been drawn and saw a heart and below it the letter “A” carved into the wet sand.  The letter before the “A” had been taken away by the tide and all that was visible was a vertical line, maybe the outside leg of an “M.”  I began to speculate but redirected my thoughts and contemplated the heart instead.  It told the story the letters didn’t.

Maybe it is me being nosey or maybe it’s the storyteller in me trying to find fodder, (I’ll go with the later as it doesn’t sound as creepy), but I’m drawn to groups of people sharing —secrets or moments, with arms entwined and hands held.  I want to move in closer.  I want to hear the words, but know that gestures can sometimes be louder and more articulate than words.

As I watched the seven of them and the dog walk away, I thought of how blessed the person was who they were there to honor and celebrate (as per my made up story).  I was touched by the reverence and presence I witnessed, whether that box contained someone’s lunch or the ashes of a loved one.  I started thinking about my own family, (yes, I went there),  and whether on mountain top with a vista, or at the edge of the sea with the roll of the waves underfoot, (both would be nice, kids…), I hoped they would show the same honor, love and affection I had just witnessed.  Then I shook my head and said to myself, not even in a whisper as I was the only one in ear shot, “Of course they would!”  And my mind began to paint the picture.  Arm in arm, while my family quietly observed the magnificent shows of nature I had become so fond of in my life, the stories would start to unfold; memories shared, each told with an individual slant and exaggeration by the teller.  Then someone would say what everyone was thinking, but no one had yet said, and that would be what a curious snoop I had become in my advanced years.  Because I’m the one writing the story, someone else would add, “Maybe not snoop,  but a story teller, always in search of a story and making one up when one didn’t exist.”  And with that, the real celebration would begin, the sun would start to dip below the mountaintop and the clear sign of a heart carved with a stick would show up in the sand.

The end.   And also, the beginning.