The Challenger Seven

HIGH FLIGHT Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth, And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings. Sunward, I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there, I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air. Up, up the long delirious, burning blue, I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace, Where never lark, or even eagle flew - And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod The high untresspassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.   Written by Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee                  No. 412 Squadron, RCAF                 Killed, 11 December, 1941

                The Crew of the Space Shuttle Challenger/January 1986

http://youtu.be/qZxLXuFfPvM [Moonlighting/Al Jarreau]

 There are certain days in history, that no matter how many years have past, you remember them, with the crystal clarity of the moment in which you first experienced it. For those of you who are my age, older and, perhaps, a decade younger, if I mention the tragedy that occurred on January 28, 1986, the space shuttle Challenger should come to mind. While momentous an event in and of itself, that particular flight was historical because, for the first time in the history of space exploration, a civilian was to be aboard that flight, teaching her students from outer space.
For months, prior to that ill-fated morning, we listened as the news informed us of the progression of Christa McAuliffe’s flight training as well as her plan to conduct her lessons for her New Hampshire class from aboard the shuttle. Her experience was an eye-opener to everyone who was not an astronaut; who didn’t know all that was involved in preparing for one of these launches; and, for everything that our astronauts endure themselves before and during these endeavors. It was exciting. It was informative, and we appreciated them all the more for their role in the advancement of something that three decades prior had been only a dream.
I went to bed on January 27^th not knowing if the shuttle would depart as planned. The night brought freezing temperatures - cold, even for Florida, which is where I lived at the time. The launch had already been delayed a few times because of the weather. When I awoke the next morning, the news anchors were still talking about delays of the Challenger’s launch, because NASA wanted to make certain that the shuttle was de-iced and the craft completely defrosted before take off. I’m not a rocket scientist, but listening to the news, and the bit they spoke about the situation– how cold it was and ice could effect the rocket and its proper functioning, I didn’t think it was a great idea to try for it that day.
I said as much to my friend, Susan, who called me that morning to see if I wanted to join them for supper that night after my afternoon classes at The University of Florida.
"Well," she said, no more a rocket scientist than me. "It’d probably cost them a ton of money to scrap it at that point." But, she did agree that it didn’t sound like a good idea to try and launch it that morning.
We talked a little more, I thanked her for the dinner invitation and told her I’d see them all later. I hung up the phone thinking about her comments. I supposed they made sense relating to business, but I’ve never been one who put money or the expense of anything above people.
That’s just me though.
I threw a load of laundry in the wash, before I went to take a shower. It was Tuesday. I didn’t have classes until late afternoon on Tuesdays and Thursdays. [2-5 pm] My laundry room was outside in a closet at the end of my porch off the bedroom of my apartment. It WAS cold that day. Brrr kind of cold. I remember pulling my robe’s belt tighter, as I unlocked the door of my outside storage area and tossed the clothes into the machine.
After I took my shower, I made me a cup of coffee and went into my living room to watch the shuttle take off, before I did a little studying prior to class. I placed my book and notebook on the sofa as I sipped my coffee and turned my attention to the tv. Television stations had interrupted regular programming to show the launch of the Challenger.
I watched as the crew walked one-by-one out of the building, beaming smiles and hand-waves as they went to board the shuttle. They were finally, after many delays, ready to fulfill their mission - space exploration. Little did they know that the universe, on that day, would not cooperate with their intended expedition.
I sat glued to the television as the commentators talked about space exploration, notable flights of recent years and gave biographical details of the seven-person crew who would be taking to flight in a matter of minutes. It truly was something to behold – watching that rocket fire up, hear the count-down and see it lift off from the ground, preparing to soar into flight. The tv screen split, showing the rocket’s lift upward as well as the crowd’s reaction. I saw students from Christa McAuliffe’s school standing in front of her parents. Happy chatter filled the background as the rocket rose higher and higher into the air. I remember the smile of pride on the faces of Christa McAuliffe’s parents, while they looked up and watched the Challenger, with their daughter on board, propel itself upward in a blaze of glory.
It was a WOW moment. That "wow" sentiment keep the momentum except that the joyful energy within the emotion of that feeling radically shifted 73 seconds in, just after the words, "Challenger, go with throttle up!" were spoken, because the rocket combusted in a massive explosion.
The image of glory that had filled the screen just seconds before instantly erupted into burning balls of red-orange bursts of fire, coupled with the emergence of somber hues of black, grey and white trails of smoke and ash in its aftermath.
The happy, incredulous "oh wows" heard just seconds before the horrific blast blew everything apart, quickly turned into disbelieving cries of "oh wow", as eyes remained transfixed upward at the chaotic sky. It was that feeling that happens when you witness a horrible car accident. You want to turn away, but your eyes are glued to the mayhem in a horribly, surreal fascination. We knew we all saw something, but weren’t completely certain if what we saw was a normal part of the process?... No one wanted to hasten a thought beyond the chaos that was unfolding or what it all exactly meant, because somewhere, in the deepest part of everyone who witnessed it, we knew that what was happening in the sky wasn’t good.
Quickly following on the vibrations of the words "oh wow!" was the overwhelming, emotional realization that the "not good" thoughts were becoming real. Mutters of "Oh, God!" and "No!" crept into the mix of the disbelieving vernacular of the moment. For one collective point in time, all eyes that had been watching this event unfold, went into an immediate and joint shock. Even those officially manning the situation didn’t appear to understand, like the rest of us, what to think; what to do; or, what to say?
Then, as plumes and trails of billowing smoke continued to weave down and across the sky in erratic, zig-zag patterns, all ears heard those two dreaded words: "major malfunction."
"What?"... "Huh?"......... and those two questions seemed to fill time and space for what seemed like eternity.
It was nothing but helpless feelings in the minutes just after the catastrophe in the sky. I don’t know at what point my mouth fell open, I just know that it did, and it stayed that way. Gaping astonishment was the only emotion that seemed appropriate at that moment. The newscasters looked equally uncertain of how to proceed as they struggled to keep their emotions under control. Suddenly, the air in my apartment felt too tight around me, like it was choking me. Claustrophobia took hold, and I needed to get out.
I remember running outside in my bare-feet. I didn’t know where I was going, I just remember that I needed to be anywhere but in my living room, where the reality of the situation was impossible to escape. The chill of the air went straight through my sweat pants, tank top and jacket, and I felt the distinct shiver that comes from cold, fear, and shock run down my spine then back up again, making me shiver yet again. The steely cold of the winter-air brought me back to reality.
I looked up at the sky. I wasn’t certain what I thought I’d find there, other than a wishful glimmer of hope that perhaps, just perhaps, the orbiter carrying the Challenger Seven had somehow managed to impel beyond what anyone had been able to see with cameras and monitors, and was safely floating somewhere out in the Atlantic Ocean waiting to be rescued. I said a prayer as I stared up at the sky–verbalizing that thought. I’ve always been a firm believer in the power of the spoken word. I prayed that it would be so. Just as I finished my "Please God..." appeal, I heard my name called, and looked over to find Susan running toward me.
"Oh, my God!" she cried. "What was that?"
We hugged as I shook my head that I didn’t know what that was.
The blank look that I gave her followed up with an, "I don’t know," and my continued stare upward let her know that I didn’t think it could possibly be good.
"Let’s go inside," she said, her arm wrapped around me, pulling me toward my open front door. "It’s freezing out here."
I followed, but couldn’t take my eyes off the sky.
"Maybe they know something more by now," she said, trying to sound hopeful–cheerful.
I closed the door of my apartment as we both took seats in front of the t.v., which was replaying the scene, while trying to get to the bottom of the question: "what just happened?"
More than anything, and to this day, the image I remember most about that day-that moment-that event, was not seeing the Challenger explode in the air and break apart, raining down chunks of useless pieces of steel, shattered shards of glass and other materials that were now irreparably ruined and destroyed, although that is certainly an image that is forever seared into my mind. What I remember most in that moment of gaping horror was the look on Grace Corrigan’s face–the fear and disbelief in her eyes as she watched the rocket that carried her daughter, Christa McAuliffe, dissipate in violent puffs of smoke and fire, leaving nothing but a macabre vision of hell right before her eyes. I remember her looking at her husband for a comforting reassurance that all was well and that what had just been witnessed was exactly how rockets were suppose to break the barrier between earth and space. When she didn’t get that reassuring, confident support from him, I remember watching her head rest against his shoulder as she tried to find her mother’s courage to steel herself from the terrible conclusion that the rest of us were realizing: that whatever had happened up there in the sky, it was more probable than not that there could not have been any survivors. You could see that thought dawn upon her face, and when it did, it was a painful thing to see: the slumped shoulders, top lip biting down into the lower lip to stifle the cries that one could see were forming. Her teary eyes could no longer look up at the dread of what remained, because she knew what it meant to her and her family. We saw that pain take root within her. Everything that I was feeling was vivid on her face. A controlled panic ensued when her psyche finally let the thought of the worst case scenario take hold. There was a clear instant when her expression revealed what everyone feared: doom.
That’s what I remember most. It wasn’t until I saw those things register on Mrs. Corrigan’s face and in her eyes that I broke down and cried. It was a reaction that I could neither contain nor control at that point. It was a sobbing cry, and my tumble into grief caused Susan to let go and cry too.
Still, within that release of sorrow, Susan looked at me and repeated something that we’d been hearing over and over for minutes from the newscasters, "maybe the Orbiter was able to separate, and they’re just waiting to be rescued."
I looked blankly at the tv-screen, then at Susan.
Flatly, I said. "It exploded, Susan! How could they possibly survive that?"
She shook her head sadly and said. "I don’t know..."
We sat for hours, glued to my television set, as the tragedy played out and was replayed over and over with different thoughts and sporadic updated news. It all came in tidbits. Slow tidbits of dribs and drabs. Our minds became as numb as our bodies felt.
The coverage was continual all afternoon and into the early evening. Yet, it seemed like a non-stop newsfeed of the same information simply being repeated over and over again. Neither of us, however, could turn it off. If ever a moment felt like something out of the Twilight Zone, it was that afternoon.
Information scrolled across the bottom of the tv screen that UF afternoon and evening classes had been suspended, and there would be a vigil held at 7 pm in the auditorium in memory of the Challenger Seven.
It was late afternoon when Susan decided to go back home. Her children would be arriving home from school shortly. She had routines that couldn’t be put on hold.
"Do you want to come for supper?" she asked before leaving.
I shook my head. I wasn’t hungry. I just felt sad.
"I’ll just make me some soup or something," I told her, thanking her for the offer.
"Come on down if you change your mind," she told me.
I nodded and closed the door, leaning my head against it. It was only then that I realized the tremendous headache that was forming.
In between, plays and replays of the day’s earlier events, I managed to get my clothes in the dryer, and also spoke with my parents.
It’s odd, when something like that happens, it’s important and necessary that we reach out to make certain that everything else is as it should be-is in its place, so that we can keep moving forward. I got that reassurance. The families of the Challenger Seven got no such reprieve that night, and my thoughts the rest of the day, evening and following days were with them.
That night, I curled up on my sofa with my two cats, Gypsy and Mac. President Reagan was suppose to give the State of the Union address that evening, but I honestly don’t remember if he followed through with that? I do remember him coming on tv to address the nation and our grief. I also remember that the constant daily coverage stopped at 8 p.m.; in doing so, the news anchors said they’d be back at 11 with a wrap up on the day’s events. It’s as if they understood that we needed a break from the continual replaying of those 73 seconds, and the horror that came in its wake.
Aside from the light over my stove, and the light of the tv screen, my apartment was dark that night, as I pulled the quilt tighter around me and snuggled with my cats.
Moonlighting came on. It was a welcome reprieve, but it didn’t chase the gloom away, as it could so often do on a bad day. I felt tears come as I listened to Al Jarreau sing the opening theme that I’d heard a hundred times before. It took on a different meaning for me in that moment. It’s odd how lyrics develop a different life than originally intended when tragedy befalls. Something unexplainable opened up and a new definition formed as I listened to the words:

Some walk by night,
Some fly by day,
Nothing could change you,
Set and sure of the way.

There is the sun and moon,
They sing their own sweet tune,
Watch them when dawn is due,
Sharing one space.

We'll walk by night,
We'll fly by day,
Moonlighting strangers
Who just met on the way...who just met on the way...

That song became a different context for me on January 28, 1986, as I thought about the day’s events. The Challenger explosion and tragedy of it–the deaths of the seven who were on board all melded together. In that moment, they had been connected by the sharing of one space. Now, they would forever-after be connected because of that one, shared space.
In the days and weeks that followed, there was a lot of discussion about what caused the Challenger’s explosion. Theories and hypotheses abounded about the rocket boosters, the Orbiter itself, O-rings, field joints, aluminum stag, jet streams and how frozen temperatures effected and weakened those things and caused them to malfunction.
In the years since that terrible winter day, I’ve watched documentaries on the Challenger. I know there were a few people who took a stand at the time against NASA launching the Challenger on that ill-fated day. There are mixed emotions that are felt resulting from all the information that has since been brought forward regarding the realistic feasibility of carrying on with the launch on that particular January morning. It should have been grounded until temperatures permitted an unquestionably safe flight. That being said, it doesn’t change the fact that we lost something glorious and irreplaceable that day: seven glorious somethings- seven irreplaceable someones. Children lost parents; parents lost children; partners lost spouses; people lost friends; and, the world lost them. They did not live to realize their full potentials. It remains a staggering set of thoughts.
Still, we remember them as they each walked confidently, as Thoreau said, in the direction of their dreams – as they strode cheerfully out into that cold January morning to fulfill their individual destinies and tried to live out that which they had imagined. Neither time, nor space will ever diminish that one glorious moment + those 13 additional seconds before they "slipped the surly bonds of earth, stepped into one magnificently shared space and touched the face of God..."

In Memoriam to The Challenger Seven:

Francis "Dick" Scobee, Michael Smith, Judith Resnik, Ronald McNair, Ellison Onizuka, Gregory Jarvis, & Christa McAuliffe

Grace Corrigan

January 28, 1986

http://youtu.be/pUALwYsXSm8 [The Challenger Disaster/January 28, 1986]http://youtu.be/LZ_SCCsGiho [Go Rest High On That Mountain/V. Gill, A. Krause, R. Skaggs]

My Sister

If you don't understand how a woman could both love her sister dearly and want to wring her neck at the same time, then you were probably an only child. ~ Linda Sunshine

Sisters annoy, interfere, criticize, indulge in monumental sulks, in huffs, in snide remarks. Borrow. Break. Monopolize the bathroom. Are always underfoot. But if catastrophe should strike, sisters are there. Defending you against all comers. ~Pam Brown

http://youtu.be/5hy2OeaYfbA [You Are My Sister/Antony & the Johnsons]

Today is my sister’s birthday. She turned 51. I’ve been thinking about her a LOT the last few days, trying to sift through the 48 ½ years of memories. To be fair, my earliest memory was when I was about three, so let’s just say that I’ve been pondering the last 45 years, trying to narrow down what I wanted to say about her today, and what I wanted you to know about her. Let’s see: you already know that she’s a better colorer than I am, and she beat me out as Mary in "The Friendly Beasts" play at church. She was the one who was called out of her 5^th grade class to come and talk to me [get me to stop crying] each morning after my mother was transferred across town to be the Admin. Asst. in a new school. I believe I’ve alluded to the fact that she mastered "Easy Bake Oven" baking before I did.
Here are some things you don’t know: she’s neater than I am. What can I say? Play seemed more important to me than a clean bedroom. I saw nothing wrong with pushing all my toys under my bed versus putting them away, like my sister did. My bed was made. My side of the room looked orderly and neat, even if it was hiding secrets underneath my bed. We still laugh about that, and my mother was having none of it! We still laugh about that too.
Pam can play the piano, which is something I’m not ashamed to say I’ve always envied. She could tell a mean Mary Constable ghost story too – so scary that it gave young boys pause before they’d go into an empty old farmhouse in the middle of the afternoon to go to the bathroom.
I use to love playing Barbies with her. She’s the one who painted my fingernails for the first time: Tinkerbell Blush Pink. That’s what we called it anyway. She taught me to crochet, and trust me when I tell you, it was no easy feat.
I remember when we were kids, I wanted to do everything she did. She was my big sister, after all. I thought, as much as we argued and disagreed as young sisters often do, that she was the most beautiful girl in the world. I wanted to be just like her – I longed to have long brown hair and the chocolate eyes that she had just like my mother and grandmother – if only for a day, I longed be just like her.
The first lesson I truly remember learning about life was with Pam – because of her. It was about sharing. When we were little girls, we shared a room until I was about nine. It taught me about boundaries and respecting another’s space. I loved our room. It was a pale lilac color and our bedspreads had tiny purple flowers on them. The closet was divided in half: one side for her things, one side for mine. The large steamer trunk in our room used the same formula - one side for her toys, the other for mine. Our twin beds were separated with a small chest placed between them where we kept our books. I didn’t mess with her stuff, and she didn’t mess with mine. Well....most of the time.
I was in the fourth grade when we moved to the house in Grove Park – the house that my father built for us, namely for my mother. We each got our own bedroom as a result. I loved having my own room, but I admit that I missed going to bed at night and having my sister in the twin bed across from me. There was something oddly familiar and comforting about having her there, especially on nights after we’d watched Creature Feature.
In the house on Jamaica Court [Grove Park], her bedroom was all the way at the end of the hall, while mine was next to our parents’ bedroom. It truly wasn’t that far away, but to a young kid, it seemed like miles separated us, and there was something sad about no longer having her bed next to mine. The first night we slept in that house, after we’d said goodnight to our parents and gone to our individual rooms, I remember tossing and turning then huffing a heavy sigh. Sleep didn’t come easy that first night: new place, new room, no sister.
Just like something out of the Waltons, I called down the hall to her. "Goodnight, Pam!"
It was quiet for a second, then she called back. "Night, Jhill!"
Back to when we shared a room. There were also the fun nights when we’d talk and giggle until we literally wore ourselves out and finally fell to sleep, especially after we’d seen fun movies: anything with Elvis Presley in it; the annual, Wizard of Oz showing; and all the Christmas classics we loved to watch every year. Speaking of Christmas, it was fun each year to challenge the other to see who could stay awake the longest to "catch" Santa Clause - and see which one of us could hear first, any sound of him anywhere in the vicinity of our house. We thought we had a good jump on that game-plan because of getting home from midnight church service so late. Surely, he wouldn’t come much later than 1:30 a.m.? However, neither one of us could ever stay up much beyond that point in our attempt to catch him in the act. We both managed to drop off before he arrived at our house. I think I was the first one up, though, she might take exception to that!
We especially loved Easter because, not only did Peter Rabbit come and leave us a basket teeming with all kinds of sweet treats, but we got a new dress to boot to wear for Easter Sunday church service. We also got brand new shoes - white patent leather ones with frilly little socks to go along with that fancier dress than what we normally wore to church, because it was a special Sunday.
One year in particular, Pam and I got matching dresses in different colors. It was the coolest dress! We looked mighty fine in them, if I do say so myself, and were both proud to wear them. Pam’s was pink and mine was purple. Here was the cool thing about those dresses: the colored part of our dress was the solid color in a sateen sort of fabric and the overlay on the dress was a lace material with an elegant burn-out design so that the solid color shown through. If that wasn’t beautiful enough, the sleeves of the dresses were a sheer, long see-through material [in pink and purple hue] that was ruffled at our wrists. If we held our arms up, the material fanned out just like the angel-wings kids would make after a hearty snow. My mother fixed our hair - pulling it back then topped it with a ribbon on each of us. I think we both felt like a beautifully wrapped gift. We certainly looked like one. We were both the hit of our Sunday school classes because our dresses were unusually gorgeous. I remember a lot of comments and compliments on mine, and I’m sure Pam received no less. My mother has a photo somewhere of us in those dresses, but I can see us perfectly in them in my mind’s eye.
I’ve previously mentioned that my sister can play the piano. Sometimes, we’d perform a "special number" during church service with Pam accompanying me while I sang. We always knew where Mother and Dad were, because the pew where they sat showed the two largest grins in the place.
My father was especially proud of Pam’s ability to play the piano which is not to say that my mother wasn’t. It’s just that I remember he was vocally proud about it. I can still hear my father saying, whenever guests visited our house, "Pam, play the piano for them." She had a small repertoire that she fell back on in those moments when called upon out of the blue to play: Bridge Over Troubled Water, You’ll Never Walk Alone and a zippy little number called Boogie Woogie. She practiced a lot in the late afternoon. I can’t tell you how many songs she could play from the hymnal, but many times, I’d sing along while she played and my mother would join in on the chorus from the kitchen as she made our supper. Good times~great memories.
One year, for my father’s birthday, [it was in early December], Pam played his favorite hymn: How Great Thou Art. She had practiced that piece diligently for weeks before he got home from work so that it would be flawless, when she finally played it on his birthday. I sat on the sofa, listening, as she played–as her fingers moved gracefully over those black and white keys. I marveled that she could make such a beautiful sound come from a wooden box with a couple of pedals and a long strand of keys. I glanced over at my father when she first began playing that song for him. He had the genuine smile of pride on his face. I glanced back over when she was finishing the hymn, and his eyes were closed with that same smile in place, but he had an air of peace about him. I’ve never forgotten that look. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to realize that it’s the greatest gift you can give a person: a momentary feeling of peace and well-being. It’s far greater than a tie or a bottle of cologne. That night, my sister gave my father the gift of a peaceful, easy, happy feeling. I’m not sure that she’s ever been aware of that, because her back was to him, but I saw it and have never forgotten it.
I use to watch her in wonder as she played. Sometimes, her fingers would lightly touch the keys while other times, they’d come down hard then roll along the pathway of them and work her thumb til it was the only thing pulling back down against them, and her fingers would be off again, dancing over those keys. If she knew a song by heart, I use to watch her eyes close as she went to someplace in her head that enabled her to produce those joyous sounds.
I use to wish that I could catch hold of her arm and have her take me with her to that secret place that had the power to understand dots of ink in various form: some had straight back lines attached to them, others had bottom lip smiles attached to the straight back lines, still others had no straight back lines but had a straight line through it like that of an arrow with no arrowhead attached. Some dots were shaded, others were half-shaded and then there were ones that were empty circles. It’s a language I have never been able to grasp or understand. I tried once, but my brain simply couldn’t get the rhythm or timing associated with those notes. I do much better with consonants and vowels.
Not everything has been a perfectly colored picture or a flawlessly played hymn. Things haven’t always been smooth sailing for us or for her. We’ve butted heads a time or two. We’ve had our share of disagreements over the years. We’ve kept a healthy distance from the other when it appeared that such recourse was in the best interest of both of our well-beings. We’re sisters! I think it is the nature of that particular relationship.
Still, when all is said and done, she is my family–my blood, and I’m hers. True to our childhood form, just like when she was head cheerleader, and I was captain of the pep squad, we root for the other; we cheer each other on; and, are always willing and ready when the other needs a pep talk.
She is the one who stood beside me when I gave and received the most important vow of my life. She is the one who came over on weekends and stayed late into the night when I was trying to unpack and arrange the first home I ever had. She is the one who, along with my mother and my husband, held me together as we sat in my doctor’s office the day after I learned that I’d miscarried my first baby – waiting to be re-examined [just to make sure], before I scheduled a DNC the following morning that would remove every indication that I had carried life inside my body. Her pep-talk before that life-changer is one that, to this day, I remember with crystal clarity.
Sisterhood is just like the sentiment that I’ve expressed before regarding an essay I wrote about our sisterhood in a book about sisters that I gave her for her birthday many years ago. For those of you who don’t recall it or did not read that particular entry, it is this: you can tell your sister off in a dozen languages, but if you need to borrow a quarter, she’ll lend you a quarter.
Today is my sister’s birthday: 51. I hope it will be a good number for her, and that the year will be kind to her. I didn’t make a wish for her today. That’s for her to do. But, I did say a prayer. I took all the songs that I’ve listed here that have special significance between us, and strung them together, adding a few words here and there of my own. It’s my homemade birthday card to her. Happy Birthday, Pammy!
You are my sister, and I love you. You are my sister, know that I care. I wish for you a happy life filled with goodness and rich blessings. May all of your dreams come true....all of them....I want that for you. When darkness comes, just remember I’m on your side. You sail on silver girl! Your time has come to shine. ALL your dreams are on their way! I hope you can see how they shine – just like sunshine, they shine bright for you. If I had a wish, that I could wish for you, I’d make a wish for sunshine all the while... Today’s your birthday. I wish I could see you blow your candles out. But, I’m there with you, if only in spirit, and I’ll always be there for you. When you walk through life’s storms, hold your head up high. Don’t ever be afraid of the dark. At the end of each storm there’s a golden sky with the sweet, silver song of a lark...keep walking– moving on– going forward, and if you should find your dreams tossed and blown, keep hope in your heart, because you never walk alone. You have never walked alone...
You are my sister, and I love you. Happy Birthday!

http://youtu.be/H_a46WJ1viA [Bridge Over Troubled Water/Simon & Garfunkel]
https://youtu.be/A3yt2aH42JE [Sunshine/John Denver]
http://youtu.be/mh8MIp2FOhc [I’ll Be There for You/Bon Jovi]
http://youtu.be/MGXHyp08mcE [You’ll Never Walk Alone/K. D. Lang]

A Brand New Year

Happy New Year, Dear climbers of my beanstalk! If you’ve been wondering where the heck I’ve been of late, I took a nasty fall Christmas night. It happens lately more often than not, and I did a number on myself. The only time I’m thankful for the extra "padding" I’ve got is when I take these tumbles. I wasn’t hurt too terribly, unless you count a dented spot in said padding and an incredibly bruised ego! It reminds me of a tongue-in-cheek conversation between me and a colleague several years back. One day, I walked into work in an ankle cast and sporting a cane.
"Walk much?" Darwin asked, taking a sip of coffee, looking over the worse-for-wear me.
"Yeah," I sighed. "But, apparently I don’t have it down pat yet, because I don’t seem to do it very well!"
Who knew it would turn out to be so prophetic? Tumbling Jhill. That’s me...just like the nursery rhyme states. My crown, however, is still in tact! [One point goes in the score column for me!]
At this point, I imagine some of you are thinking "Stay off the sauce, Girl!" I wish that was the answer–that I could blame it on too much sauce. Aside from the occasional cup of coffee, and a bottled water here and there, my drink of choice is the house wine of the south: iced tea with lemon. In other words, I don’t drink. Well, except for Evan Williams Southern Eggnog at Christmas, but that’s a story for another day.
Back to my point, the fall. I’m on medication, I’ve felt like crap for three weeks and not in the mood to sit on my injury and reflect about anything other than how much it hurts to sit on my injury. Between the physical therapy and the pain meds, mainly the pain meds, [my brother suggested that I stay off the "stalk" for awhile] I’ve not been in much shape or mind-set to write. Think loopy mind and nonsensical thoughts. Does that paint a clear picture? If not, plain and simple: Cat in the Hat books for me right now would be akin to reading Anna Karenina. Let me just say, before I go any further, both are enjoyable and brilliant in its own right, but you have to be on your toes to understand and appreciate those qualities about them, and I’m not. Half of my toes are connected to one of my legs that feeds into half of my trunk that was recently dented. So, being on my toes doesn’t work for me right now.
I can hear my brother, in my head, telling me to stop now because I’ve boarded a train that doesn’t appear to be going anywhere. That’s a valid point. Here’s another: who cares about the destination? Sometimes, it’s all about the ride. Train rides are good in and of themselves. I hope you’ll find this one/ride will measure up to that standard, if nothing else.
So, a New Year is upon us! Goodness. 13 days in already. Is it just me or does time seem to pass at the speed of light the older you get? I swear, it seems like just yesterday that the dawning of 2011 was being celebrated. Yet, here we are: 13 days into a brand new year!  FRIDAY, January the 13^th, mind you.
I know there are some people out there for whom this is a troubling day. They don’t like Fridays that are attached to a 13. They don’t venture out; they throw salt over their shoulder and steer clear of black cats on this day. Not me. Friday the 13^th days make me giddy. It’s a lucky day for me. [I hear you jokesters out there thinking: as long as you don’t walk around! HA! Stop it! ;-) ] Geez, suddenly images of Rodney Dangerfield are in my mind, hearing his lamentation of getting no respect. Hm. I get that. My own mother concludes our conversations lately by saying, "Stay off the floor!" My husband is threatening to order me a bubble, AND I think a dear friend of mine is actually preparing to send me one.
For those of you, at this point, who are thinking my brother was right and want me to stop this train so that you can get off, too late. We’ve already left the station. Anchor yourself to the chair and hang on. It won’t be much longer, and I promise there’s a point to be made here, even if we’re taking the scenic view or the long way around, depending on whether you’re a glass half full or half empty person.
Okay. Let me get my bearings breath ....New Year-13 days in. Got it. Wow! I’ve missed SO much that I wanted to write-talk about. Stories, I suppose, for another day, and trust me when I tell you that I’ll get to each and every one. I’m bummed that I missed what I’d planned to write for New Year’s day or the entry I was thinking about on what would have been Elvis’ 77^th birthday. Warning: Train’s going around a curve, i.e. Sidebar: What’s your favorite Elvis movie? How about song?
Two true stories involving Elvis. Back in the 70's they use to have a movie of the week. It came on Tuesday night/ABC. Most of the time, I think they were "Made for TV movies" but one night, they showed an Elvis movie. My sister and I were in heaven, until the network interrupted regular broadcasting for some breaking news story. Can you imagine? It may have been important news, I don’t recall. In my upset frame of mind, I highly doubted it. [Sometimes, with some of the things they interrupt tv with, and how long they drag it out, then discuss it over and over ad nauseam, it makes you wonder if it was REALLY necessary to break in versus waiting for the evening news...] Still, nothing was more important to my sister or me that evening than seeing Roustabout. It didn’t matter that we’d seen it a half a dozen times. It was Elvis Presley and Barbara Stanwyck. WHAT could be more important than that? We were in such a state of upset uproar that my mother promised we could stay up past our bedtime to watch it, so long as we didn’t grumpily protest when the alarm went off the next morning. So, it worked out in the end and all was well.
The other Elvis story didn’t end so well. It was the summer of 1977, and we were driving up to Virginia from Florida to see our grandparents. August to be exact. My birthday was on the 13^th and my grandmother’s was on the 16^th. We were going to visit and to celebrate.
So, we’re driving up I-95, and we pass a billboard that had a date listed in late August in South Carolina. The picture on the billboard was of Elvis Presley, and the happening was a concert. Just as we drove by that billboard, the radio announcer came on to inform the listening audience of the tragic death of a race car driver who’d hit the wall at the racetrack and had been taken to the hospital only to be pronounced DOA. Out of the blue, my brother made an off-the-cuff comment.
"Man, the world will freak out when Elvis dies."
"Jeff!" we all chimed in, horrified by that thought.
"What?" he shot back in typical guy, non-horrified form. "I’m just saying...."
Yeah. He said it alright.
I will never forget sitting at the table in my grandparents kitchen, having just finished a delicious piece of my grandmother’s birthday cake, when the news announcer broke into regular programming to announce that the King of Rock and Roll had died earlier that day. A dozen eyes shot wide open as if we couldn’t have possibly heard correctly. My sister and I went flying into the den with my mother, brother and grandparents close on our heels as we stood there and listened to that awful, awful truth being relayed. Mouths were agape and tears were shed. How in the world could that be true? I remember shaking my head rapidly against the words that I was hearing. It couldn’t be true! It couldn’t be true! It couldn’t be true! Yet, it was.
I remember giving a pouty-mad look in the direction of my brother, as if HE was the reason for what we were hearing.
"Man...." he said in a drawn-out, disbelieving tone.
Man was right. Man oh man!
It was the news for days and weeks that followed. It was a weird feeling, on the drive home, to pass by that billboard in South Carolina that boasted of an event that would never happen.
Which brings me to my point for today’s post: [You thought I’d lost it, didn’t you?]
A new year is upon us. It’s a chance to do those things that we let slip by in the previous year. It’s an opportunity to try and reach a goal that we set for ourselves that somehow never materialized. It’s a clean slat and a new beginning. It only happens once in the year, when the world collectively says that we all have a new day, month and year to try and do better and be better than we did and were the previous year.  Every minute we are given is a blessing.  We never know when our time on this earth is scheduled to run out.  So, live your life every day you are given to the fullest you are able, but challenge yourself to stretch one armlength beyond that which you are living toward another dawn that is better and brighter than the one you're presently in.  In other words, every moment of your life, strive to be a little better than you were, because when you're speaking about life, seconds matter-split seconds.  It's one of a few instances when they truly do.
That’s good food for thought. It’s a good resolution to make, if you make them.
I’ve stopped making specific resolutions, because I find that they’re nothing more than a set-up for feeling bad about ourselves if we break them or don’t meet them. I no longer say "fail at them", because I’ve lived long enough to know, after careful thought and consideration, that there is really no such thing as failure. More to the point, as Susan B. Anthony once said, "Failure is impossible!"
Think about that for a second...
I remember the first time I read that statement, that’s exactly what I did: I thought about it – a lot. I considered all the angles of such a grand statement and came to the conclusion that she was exactly right. Failure IS impossible, because here’s the thing: if you fail at something, it means that you tried. You never learn anything unless you try. Being unsuccessful when we try at something doesn’t mean we failed. It simply means that we didn’t make it to where we wanted to go the first time we dared to step out and reach for something beyond ourselves and our safety zones. That’s not failure. That’s learning. When you learn, you know, and when you know, you grow. When you grow, then you become something more amazing than what you already are.
So, as we embark on a new year, my message to you today is to seize whatever it is you want for yourself! Carpe Diem! Seize the day! Don’t be afraid of it! Dare to live it and have fun in the "trying" to achieve what your heart desires. It you don’t make it the first time, brush yourself off and try again. If you carry it over into the new year, just keep plugging away at it. You’ll get there...eventually. Have faith and be patient. The point to all of this – this thing called life is to enjoy the ride so that, [as a cartoon I once read said] when you reach the end of your life, hopefully with a Hershey bar in one hand and a chocolate milkshake in the other, you can smile at God when you reach those pearly gates and say "YAHOO!!! What a ride!"
I wish you your BEST year to date, filled with good health, extreme laughter, great prosperity and love that knows no bounds!
Happy New Year everybody, and God Bless Us everyone!
Upward and onward...

http://youtu.be/m9saX9cF248 [American Trilogy/MY favorite Elvis song]
My favorite Elvis movie [in case you’re curious] is Blue Hawaii