The Moment

Ashley, Peggy and Tammy Eisenhart

Christmas 2011

Angels deliver Fate to our doorstep - and anywhere else it’s needed. ~Jessi Lane Adams

http://youtu.be/447yaU_4DF8 [The Moment/Kenny G]

Make yourself familiar with the angels, and behold them frequently in spirit; for, without being seen, they are present with you. ~St Francis of Sales


Have you ever had a moment – one that was so grand and surreal that it made you pause to question what had actually happened? Have you ever had a moment so lovely in the overall context of it all, that it put an entirely different spin on the concept of beautiful? Have you ever had a moment so miraculous that you felt the angels in heaven were surely singing? I had a moment just like that a little over a week ago. It was quite simply spectacular!

For those who know me, and those who have been reading my blog, you know that I’m a sign person. I believe in them! Well, I had a sign on March 22nd, that can only be classified as having been heaven sent. Before I begin, let me just say that I’ve had experiences where my loved ones, those who have gone to heaven, have sent me signs from beyond and visited me with the feeling of their presence close by. I’ve never experienced that feeling with the loved one of a loved one. I can tell you that it’s every bit as powerful an experience.

If you don’t believe in such things, I can respect that. I can also say that I feel sorry that you don’t know the unbridled joy of knowing that someone you love remains connected to you no matter the space and distance that separates. If you do believe in such things, you’re in for a real holy roller moment, as a friend of mine says about joyously divine happenings.

So, strap on and in. Here we go:

Wednesday night, March 21^st, about 11:30 pm, I began having an anxious feeling that I wasn’t going to sleep that night. For any of you who suffer with insomnia, I don’t need to explain what that feeling is. The nights are long and draining when your body is tired, your mind is exhausted and your entire makeup~body, mind, and spirit, longs for and craves a sleep that might not come. A couple of times a month, I have nights where sleep evades me, and I spend those long, sleepless nights, searching the web, watching late-night television, listening to music or writing. I had a sense that I was about to have one of "those" nights.

It was after one a.m. on the 22^nd, when I began to channel surf – hoping to find something that might settle me down a bit so that I could feel Mr. Sandman coming to claim me. I can still feel my mouth drop when I hit a channel in the high 100's. It was ShopNBC. I’m not very familiar with that shopping channel. I’d heard of it, but I’m a QVC gal [been with them since its inception in the late 80's], and I periodically check in with HSN. Being disabled, I have a hard time getting over to the mall anymore, and why bother when the mall can come to you via tv? It’s a GREAT invention! Back to the story at hand. So, I stop on the ShopNBC channel just as the woman is show-casing a Madi Claire leather handbag.

You may be asking, "what’s the big deal?"
HERE is the big deal: the bag was named Tamara.  [That's Tammy's name.]  

I hear some of you saying, still not certain of the awesomeness of that, "I’m still not getting the BIG deal part!?"
Further explanation of "the big deal" is this: In February, my friend, Peggy, un-expectantly suffered the worst nightmare any parent can endure, when her daughter, Tammy, passed away in her sleep. I’ve previously written about the awful moment when I learned of it. Now, in this moment, I was looking at a beautiful red, leather purse with a touch of zebra print named Tamara. I don’t know what happened in my den that night or early morning other than to say that I felt something in the room with me, and I heard a request put upon my heart. This is different than hearing the voice of a loved one whispering something in your ear. I felt a message placed on my heart that was as plain as if the voice had been audible, "please get this for my mom! I want her to have something of me to carry and hold onto at Christmas." Yeah, I know. It was March and Christmas was a full nine months away. Still, that was the message that filled my heart, clear as a bell– so, so clear.

I felt a chill, but not in a bad way, and the hair on my neck slowly rose. 
"Tammy," I whispered out loud. "Are you here?"
I must tell you I felt a little silly asking it, because it didn’t escape me that IF this beautiful young woman was going to come to someone, I believed that it would surely be to her mother, her father, her sisters, her grandparents or her friends. Certainly, I thought, it wouldn’t be to a friend of her mother’s! But, God and angels work in mysterious ways and use whatever vessel-whatever means is available and open to them at the moment, to transmit a special message. I’m open to such things, and Peggy’s Tammy knew that.

The response came to my heart with a louder urging of, "Please get this for my mom!" Yes. I felt the urgent emphasis on the word "please."

I paused.

"Were you wearing red last Christmas, Tammy?" I softly asked, reaching back into my memory to pull forward the beautiful pictures that I had seen of Peggy’s family the previous holiday. I couldn’t recall using my memory. Quickly, my fingers typed Peggy’s name into Facebook so that I could pull up her holiday album. I remembered someone wearing red, but I couldn’t remember if it was Tammy. My mouth dropped again when the picture came up, and I saw my friend, Peggy, flanked on either side by two of her beautiful daughters, one of whom was Tammy. Both were wearing red.

I felt a whoosh of air exhale as tears came to my eyes. I think I whispered, "Oh my God!"

In that moment, I felt a most unusual thing – a feeling of polite impatience as the message filled my heart again, "PLEASE! You can cry in a minute, but PLEASE get this for my mom!" Yes, I felt the distinct emphasis on the words "please".

The feeling made me chuckle in one regard. Having shopped via television channels for many years, I know how it works. The telecast is sent to millions of homes, and things can sell-out quickly. If something sells out, there’s no telling when it will return. There IS a sense of urgency shopping that way if you see something that strikes your fancy! As that feeling came to me, the show host made the statement that it had taken them seven months to get this particular purse back in stock. Without hesitation, I reached for the phone and called ShopNBC. After I ordered that purse, I sighed happily and said, "Alright Tammakins! Done deal! Your Momma is getting a beautiful red purse for Christmas with your name on it – something extra special for her to carry and hold onto at the holiday!" [Don’t ask me why I called her "Tammakins", because I have no clue, and I don’t remember if I even told Peggy that I called her that when we spoke about it.] But I did. And I laughed. This laugh came out of me that I’d never heard before. It was a deliciously giddy and wickedly funny sort of laugh! It was a "we did it", kind of laugh - the kind that comes when you want to surprise someone really good, and you realize you just pulled it off. Then, I laughed. I was truly having a special moment with something beyond myself, and it was magical.

I stared at the picture of the three of them for a minute – those three, beautiful and smiling faces of my friend with two of her daughters in front of their Christmas tree. It was Tammy’s last earthly Christmas. I thought of the magnitude of what had just happened: this child-young woman angel, knowing how difficult a first Christmas holiday without her would be for her mother this year and finding a way to put something soft and beautiful in her mother’s hands that would let Peggy know that Tammy had planned for this, had thought of her, months before that moment came to pass. Once again, at Christmastime, Peggy would have a lovely, red Tammy by her side. It was a wondrous moment to realize that Tammy Eisenhart had blown a kiss to her mother on March 22nd, and it had touched my heart as it bypassed its way on deliverance to Peggy. Oh, what a glorious moment it was to have been pulled into that conspiracy of love! I said, looking at the picture for a few minutes, that no one would believe this, if I told them. [Well, I knew Peggy would, because she believes in signs too.] Yet, it was so grand a pre-arrangement that is was almost unfathomable!

I had one final message to Tammy, which I spoke aloud: "I’m going to note this experience beneath this Christmas picture," I said as I typed my message to Peggy. "So, that after your mother opens this present, she can come back and have concrete proof that it really did happen on this day and at this hour!" [Unbeknownst to me, I wasn’t aware that Facebook notifies people when a message is put on one of their pictures. I would find that out, later in the morning when Peggy sent me a message.]

Once I’d sent that message, I kissed my fingers and touched the screen where Tammy’s face was staring out at me. "Bless you, Angel!" I whispered. "For thinking such beautiful thoughts of your Mom!"

Then, I let my fingers reach over and rub the picture of Peggy’s hand that was holding the family dog. "Oh, Peggy!" I cried. "Your daughter loves you so much....just you wait and see!"

I don’t know if it was God telling me "good job!" or it was Tammy telling me "thank you!" but, in that moment, I feel a peace come over me. It truly was the one that passes all understanding, and all traces of insomnia left me for that night. I left the computer on with the picture of Peggy and her girls up, because I couldn’t bring myself to shut that down, but I turned off the televison and the lights. Then, I went to bed and slept peacefully like a baby for the rest of the night.

The next morning when I woke, I had a brief moment where I wondered if the whole thing had been some kind of incredible dream? I soon learned that it wasn’t, when I walked into the den and saw my computer screen upright, I knew it had really happened. I walked to it and lightly touched it. The black-sleeping screen, sprang back to life with the touch of my hand. There, I saw the Christmas picture of Peggy, Ashley and Tammy with my note attached to the bottom of it. What surprised me is that Peggy had sent me a message at 8:21 am. 
I had a brief second of disbelief!
"Oh no!" I cried. How had she found the message so quickly? I had wanted this to be a Christmas surprise, but I couldn’t very well NOT tell Peggy what had gone down during my mini-slumber party with her daughter the previous night when she called later in the day, as she indicated she would. I’m not into cruel punishment, which is what that would have been if I’d stayed mum about it all at that point! With me, it’s all about love and light. I glanced at the clock and saw it was a quarter to nine. I went to my kitchen and made me a cup of tea, trying to figure out how I was going to tell Peggy about the miracle I’d been a party to eight hours prior? This was suppose to be a Christmas surprise, I remembered clearly the message put on my heart a few hours earlier. I cringed, thinking I might have let Tammy down in some way, given that her mother now knew what we’d been up to. 
I took my cup of tea into the side yard, while I let my puppies out and sat down in the rocker, saying a heart prayer to Tammy that I was sorry if I’d somehow ruined her surprise with that message I felt compelled to leave beneath the Christmas picture. I closed my eyes with that thought when I felt the soft kiss of a cool morning breeze touch my cheek and another heart message.

Don’t feel that way! Be happy when she calls and tell her all about it, if you want to.

I opened my eyes and took a sip of tea and felt a calming peace come to me again.

By lunchtime, when my phone rang, I greeted Peggy with the joy and exuberance I felt by the visit I’d had with her precious angel the previous night. We had the best talk; we spoke of so many things, and shared several laughs, because when I described how everything unfolded that night, Peggy told me with her own tone of credulity that it sounded JUST like Tammy! How awesome is that?

I remember Peggy telling me that she wanted to pay for the purse, and I said simply, directly and firmly, "NO WAY! If your daughter had wanted you to pay for the Christmas present she wanted you to have, she’d have come to you and woken you up last night and directed YOUR fingers to ShopNBC!"

Peggy laughed when I said that. She knew it was a lost cause to insist upon it. It was good to hear her laugh.

I told her I was a little bummed because I’d wanted it to be a grand surprise for her, and she told me that it was grand.

"Oh, Jhill!" she said softly, overwhelmed [like me] by the magnitude of it all. "This is such a whoa moment! My daughter is so awesome!"

Yeah. Awesome was an appropriate word for it.

She assured me that her knowing about it didn’t detract from the grandness of the story. Given that I also believe things happen as they should, I felt that, perhaps, the message of what happened the previous night was a story that Peggy needed to be aware of in THIS moment, as she continued to struggle with and learn to deal with her new normal regarding Tammy. It was enough to know that good things were coming, and Peggy knows that I’ll figure out a way to put the surprise back into the gift~there are lots of little zippered places and compartments for lots of little add-on remembrances. I promised Tammy that morning that I’d figure out a way to put some surprise elements back into the gift. I think she knows I’m more than capable to rise to that challenge!

Peggy, of course, protested that thought I expressed, but I think she soon realized that me being in cahoots with her daughter was going to be something she was outnumbered in regarding the purse and whatever would be contained inside. And, I think she was excited by the prospect. I distinctly heard excitement in her voice. She knows her daughter, and she knows me! I won’t say that’s going to be a double trouble moment~more like double the pleasure and double the fun! Peggy told me that Tammy must have known that I’d be the perfect person to help her get this done. Tammy certainly has me pegged! [Pardon the pun but wasn’t it a delicious one?] I’m very good at helping someone pull off a surprise for someone they love. I was honored to have been chosen. I remember saying to Peggy, "what are the odds of that happening?" 
These are the odds I’m referring to: A red purse named Tamara was put in my path in the wee hours of a chilly March morning, with a message to buy it for my dear friend, Peggy. It was to be a Christmas gift from her daughter, Tammy, who had gone back to heaven little more than a month prior and was wearing red in the last Christmas pictures taken of her!? To say that God and angels aren’t awesome is a gross understatement! To say that a higher power wasn’t at work in the presence of my home that night-morning, would be stating something inaccurate! Some things in life and beyond are too profound to explain in layman’s terms. This was one of those things-times-moments.

I read something a long time ago that said, "Angels can fly directly into the heart of the matter!" That’s Tammy Eisenhart to a T! Had she lived, she would have been a GREAT choreographer, because she certainly has a flair with orchestrating how a gift is put together that creates something magnificent. Odd, it’s a sentiment that some of my loved ones say about me, which is why this was such a perfect merging of hearts and minds.

I remember saying, before we ended our phone call in a tone that was still dumbfounded by the grandeur of it all, "My God, Peggy, think how much your daughter loves you that she’s setting this up now to ensure that your first Christmas without her physically here, will still provide you with a certain something of her that’s tangibly here! She’s making sure that you’ll still have something soft and huggable that’s got her hand-prints – her name all over it?"
Softly, Peggy said. "I know. She’s pretty amazing!"
"Yeah," I agreed. "She’s pretty doggone amazing! Tell her to come visit me anytime!"

It was a moment!  It was ALL such a wonderful moment. The moment, however, did not end there.
Later that day, another unusual thing happened. A beautiful, red cardinal flew onto my deck and walked around until it came to rest on the stoop of our French doors. It sat there, peering in through the bottom window. I looked up from my computer and froze. It’s eyes were looking right at me when I looked at it. I wanted to get up and go to the door, but I was afraid it would fly away, so I stayed perfectly still as our eyes locked on the other and watched the other. Finally, after a minute or two, knowing that it wouldn’t stay there forever, I lifted my hand in a wave goodbye, and that gorgeous bird lifted one wing back at me, before it took off. 
My hand clutched my chest as I got up and went to look out the door’s windows. There in the woods outside my house, perched on a white dogwood that stands in memory of my son, William, was that lovely little cardinal, sitting perched atop a branch full of white blooms. It was a most beautiful sight! I stood at the door for a few minutes just watching it, knowing that it could see me watching it. Then, it flew away. It visited me a few days later – coming to the stoop at the bottom of the French door and peering into the room, just as it had done earlier. I couldn’t help myself. I named it Tammy. The color red has taken on a whole new dimension for me and the meaning I place on it. I associate the color with Peggy’s daughter now, along with cardinals. It wasn’t happenstance that a red cardinal appeared after this miracle. Cardinals have special meanings for people who believe in such things, and I assure you that I do. They are symbolic of the beauty and warmth that is the Christmas holiday, and that’s what this entire experience was about: sending a special gift and message to someone next Christmas. It’s been written that glimpses of that brilliant red bird bring cheer, hope and inspiration. Yeah. That’s what it did alright. One other thing that’s notable about the cardinal is that some religions view this bird as a carrier of the soul to heaven. [It’s also the state bird of Virginia...just saying....]

Immediately, when I saw that little bird again, I thought of the lyrics to a song that Celine Dion and the Bee Gees did together called Immortality. I pulled the song up on Youtube, and sat with my eyes closed, listening to it. It was another " holy-roller moment", as I heard the song in a new light, because of this experience. Consider the lyrics:

So this is who I am,
And, this is all I know...
And, I must choose to live,
For all that I can give -
The spark that makes the power grow.

And, I will stand for my dream if I can,
Symbol of my faith in who I am,
But, you are my only...
And, I must follow on the road that lies ahead,
And, I won't let my heart control my head,
But, you are my only.
We don't say goodbye....
I know what I've got to be....

Immortality,
I make my journey through eternity.
I keep the memory of you and me inside.

Fulfill your destiny!
Is there within the child.
My storm will never end.
My fate is on the wind.
The king of hearts, the joker's wild.....
We don't say goodbye!
I'll make them all remember me....

‘Cause I have found a dream that must come true.
Every ounce of me must see it though,
But you are my only...
I'm sorry, I don't have a role for love to play.
Hand over my heart, I'll find my way.
I will make them give to me...
Immortality,
There is a vision and a fire in me.
I keep the memory of you and me, inside....
And we don't say goodbye!
We don't say goodbye!
With all my love for you,
And what else we may do,
We don't say, goodbye....

Tears came to my eyes as I listened to those words and thought about this blessed experience that I had been privileged to be a part of. It still, more than a week later, feels surreal to me. Yet, I know it happened, and I believe I had a mini-slumber party with Peggy’s angel Tammy in the wee hours of that March morning.

In considering all aspects of that experience, I’m reminded of a directive that Richard Crashaw has posed to his fellow humankind: "There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle." I’ll go for the miracle every time. Thank you, Tammy for giving me one on March 22nd. What a beautiful angel you are....a beautiful red cardinal too! Every ounce of you saw that dream come true, and I’m honored you chose me to be a part of it. Hand over my heart, I’m so grateful for the blessing of this miracle you sent my way! Now, go journey through eternity, Tammakins love, as brilliantly as you did here. And, thank you most of all for proving beyond ANY doubt of reason that though life can separate souls, we’re still VERY much connected, because we don’t say goodbye.....

http://youtu.be/7e940gEtWgQ [Immortality - Celine Dion & The Bee Gees]

The "Tamara" purse a.k.a. "Tammy"

Untitled

*Come back for post.

A Change of Heart, A.K.A. - My Funny Valentine

Love is what makes two people sit in the middle of a bench when there is plenty of room at both ends.

http://youtu.be/Z-9Rg9iJty4 [My Funny Valentine/Sarah Vaughan]

Valentine’s Day. The mere mention of those words conjure up images of red, pink and lace – boxes of chocolate, flowers [preferably roses], cupids, candles, love songs, mushy cards, romance, firelight, jewelry [here’s a two*fer: chocolate diamonds] passion, and I’ll let you finish the remainder of the train of thought.
I never thought, romantic that I am, that I would ever have a change of heart regarding Valentine’s Day. Don’t get me wrong. I love all of the above-mentioned things as much as the next person, and if there are a dozen roses waiting for me in the morning, I will feel a thrill go through me much the way I have all the previous Valentine’s Days when I’ve gotten flowers. I’ll gush. I’ll squeal to myself, and I will, undoubtably, call a few of my friends and sigh, "you won’t believe the beautiful flowers that he left for me this morning...."
However, years change one’s times, and, sometimes, one’s attitude changes as well about old standards and how things should be. There’s nothing wrong with that. My expectation of what constitutes romantic gestures in this moment isn’t what it was 25 years ago. Changing economic times have also made it necessary to put a little practicality where romantic gestures are concerned. Here’s the thing: if you’re creative, it can be more memorable. If you’ve got a good sense of humor, it can be just as good as it always was. Case in point: yesterday, my husband and I were at Barnes and Noble. Have you checked the prices of cards lately? Well, I have. (*!@#%^$ [in other words, put your favorite expletive where the symbols are.]
I said to Tom, "Gives more savings credence to those card-making kits that HSN sells on its craft days!"
He rolled his eyes. "We don’t need any more stuff!" he lamented.
I shrugged my shoulders. "I’m just sayin’!" and continued to look for what I had gone there for in the first place.
He went to get his crossword puzzle book.
I roamed the aisles. Bookstores are like candy stores to me. You know the slogan for that famous town in Pennsylvania, "the BEST place on earth?" Well, that’s how I feel about book stores.
I waited for Tom to come back, and when he did, I called him over. I handed him a card.
He looked at me. "THIS is the card I would give to you on Tuesday, if I was buying a card."
He smiled, and read it.
Then, he looked around for a minute and handed me a card. "For you," he said.
I read it and smiled. "Aw," I replied. "You love me?"
"I love you."
"I love you back," I told him, then we kissed.
I remember thinking, as I put the cards back how that exchange would never have flown five, 10, 15 or 20 years ago. Yet, in this moment, at this place in our lives, I’m good. I got the thought. I saw the pretty card. He picked it out. We saved $3.95 each, and I didn’t have the painful pang I feel when I have to throw something pretty, like a card, into the recycle bin. Score one for the home team!
He handed me the puzzle book he wanted.
As I headed to the register, he asked. "Seriously? We’re good? No card exchange this year?"
"We’re good," I told him. "Go buy yourself a cup of coffee and bagel."
Practical AND thoughtful! Score one for me!
Tom thinks we loose a lot of money when we go to the book store. That little exercise proved to him otherwise.
Later that night, as we were making hotdogs, he said in the middle of preparations, "how about a little hug?"
I’m NEVER one to turn away a hug. I wrapped my arms around him and squeezed him tight.
"I’m going to miss you tomorrow," he said. "I always hate when the weekend is over."
Pitter pat went the beat of my heart.
"I know, Honey!" I said, patting his back. "I’ll miss you too."
"Let’s spend the whole day in bed on Saturday!" he said, excited by the thought.
Now, before you let your thoughts take that turn, let me just say, there’s a television set in the bedroom along with a King size bed. It’s waaaaay more comfortable stretching out in there with two puppies hopping all over us than sitting like tightly packed sardines on the tiny love-seat or all piling into the recliners.
Like you, however, I couldn’t resist.
Not missing a beat, I said. "You animal!"
He looked at me as his train hopped his track over to where my thought had gone. He chuckled. "How bout we spend half the day in bed?" he amended.
I high-fived him. "Sounds good to me!" Practical YET semi-romantic.
I pulled a Joanism. [A ‘Joanism’ is a Joan River’s joke that can apply to one’s every day life] To the front of my mind came the thought: "What the hell, I know in advance, I’ll shave my legs!"
First plan of preparedness: Always go into a situation ready for anything to happen! ;-)
Fifteen years ago, if he’d said that to me, I’d have come back with a little romantic humor: "Do you want me to bring in a picnic basket?"
Now, I offer a serious statement to a moment like this. Something like, "Don’t forget to bring the puppies a chew bone..."
Change of heart.....not always a bad thing. Snuggle-cuddling is a VERY good activity on a late Saturday morning into the early afternoon...
Later that night, we heard some comedienne make a wise-crack about guys taking their wives to Red Lobster for Valentine’s Day....like that wasn’t something special or significant.
My shoulders slumped. "Dammit!" I said. "Don’t tell me we can’t go to Red Lobster for Valentine’s Day!?"
He laughed. I think he thought the question was rhetorical.
When he didn’t answer, I felt the need to offer another suggestion. It was the Golden Corral commercial that had just come on, and it appealed to me. Let me paint the image for you of what I saw: a chocolate fountain of warm, flowing liquid gold.
"Hey, Tom..."
"No," he replied.
"Why not?"
"It’s way down in Richmond," he said. "And, I don’t want to go there for Valentine’s Day."
My lips turned downward in a frown. "That would have been an easy please for you," I told him. "Just push a chair up to that fountain and give me a fondu pick.....I’d have been good to go and you would have known how much I liked that experience!"
"Sorry to disappoint you," he replied.
"Well," I pushed. "What about Red Lobster?"
His brow furrowed. "Why do you want to go to Red Lobster so bad?"
Hello!  Cheddar biscuits....
Instead, I replied. "We have that $50 gift card. I just figured we could have a nice meal and not have to shell out any cash for it." Practical AND a Freebie.
He considered it. I knew that statement was music to his ears – gift card-nice dinner-free. Once upon a time, using a gift card for my Valentine’s Day dinner would have appealed to me as much as exchanging Valentine’s Day cards inside the store two days before the event~NOT!
"We can go to Red Lobster," he finally said.
"Good," I replied, pleased that we had nailed that detail down.
We finished our hotdogs. He came to get my plate and take it to the kitchen. [He’s thoughtful that way].
He had unloaded the dishwasher earlier, and I had a sink full of breakfast, lunch and supper dishes to now fill it up with.
We’ve got those 42" inch kitchen cabinets that look great, but I have a hard time, five foot thing that I am with a bad back to boot, reaching even the bottom shelf to put away the dishes. So, dishwasher unloading it one of Tom’s chores.
He called from the kitchen. "Sweetie, I’ll load the dishwasher for you!"
[With all the cold air of late, my bad back has been hurting a lot more than usual.]
I had followed him into the kitchen to re-fill my tea glass.
"Oh, you sweet man!" I said, as if he’d just given me the Hope Diamond. I followed the comment up by giving him face kisses.
For those of you who are dating or newly married and don’t know this. After you’ve been married for 10, 15, 17 years and so on, these kind of offerings are on par – an equal playing field with unexpected flowers, candy and whatnot. It’s a love gesture. Over time, our preferences change. Our husbands cleaning things, laundering things, picking up things, suggesting going out to dinner in the middle of the week....for us, those things are every bit as romantic and magical as all the things that one typically thinks of as romantic.
He still leaves me a love note by the coffee pot in the morning; and wakes me for a kiss goodbye before he leaves for work. I asked him once why he woke me up instead of just giving me a kiss before he went on his way. He said it was because he wanted to talk to me before he left home to start his day, even if it was just to get a sleepy "Good Morning-love you". [Yeah, I’m lucky....] He also still brings me a candy bar home from the store without my asking for it. It’s all in perspective of what becomes important for us in whatever stage of the journey we’re in. A Twix bar 17 years in gets the same kudos as a small box of Godiva did years ago. Fancy names don’t always mean best. Not to me anyway.
Don’t get me wrong. I have fancy, eclectic taste. It’s just not where food or candy is concerned. My husband appreciates that about me!
Besides, I get tons of wet, slobbery kisses and total body shimmy-shakes whenever I enter the room. That’s one of the benefits of having two puppies. Still, I know how it feels to be adored. My husband’s still got his game. Whenever he does little things, like scrubbing the bottom of the shower stall because I can’t bend down and do that anymore or unloads the dishwasher, or loads the dishwasher for me, or brings me an unexpected Starbucks, or changes the sheets on the bed, or leaves a Twix bar on the kitchen island or any one of a hundred other things he does for me, it re-affirms that passion and love that I know he feels for me. They’re change of heart ways of telling someone you love them, but they’re just as important and they mean just as much now as all the other things from the past.
He calls me every day at lunch to say hello and see how I’m doing.
And, when I hear the garage door open every night, I feel my heart smile and say a silent "Thank you, God, for bringing him home safe and sound to me."
The puppies and I go to the stairwell door inside of the kitchen that leads down to the garage. We open it and turn on the light as we wait for him to appear. The puppies bark and dance around in excited anticipation of seeing him walk through the bottom door. I have that excited anticipation too as I tell them that their Daddy will be coming up any minute. When the door opens and he emerges from the outside world, he looks up at me, our eyes meet and lock for a brief second before he says happily, "Hi, puppies!" which make them bark and dance and go crazy.
As he climbs the stairs, we patiently wait for him to reach us, each loaded with our hugs and kisses. He reaches for me first. I think the puppies know that’s the natural order of this greeting and will never change. We have a smooch and a hug before he turns his full attention to Chuey and Elmer which sends them running around him in giddy, wild abandon because the King of the house is finally back home.
I watch him step into the kitchen and put his briefcase and lunch bag on the island so that he can reach down and rub the boys - giving a caress to the scruff of their necks and down their back coats.
Then, he rises and lets out a happy sigh, looking at me. "It’s good to be home."
I smile, turning off the light in the stairwell and closing the door. "It’s good to have you home, Honey!
It never gets old. That’s our every day valentine.
"What’s for supper?" he asks one particular night.
"You tell me," I say.
"How about breakfast?"
I smile. I knew he was going to say that. "Breakfast is good...."
He nods, making himself a small snack to tide him over.
Then, we walk into the living room together to watch the news. The puppies follow close on our heels.
"You sure breakfast is okay?" he asks, taking his seat and turning on his computer.
"I’m sure," I tell him.
Chuey and Elmer look and me. "You want some bacon and eggs for supper?" I say in the funny voice we use when we talk to our fur babies.
They run around the living room, jumping on each other and growling playfully.
Tom and I watch them and laugh because they are such a delight.
In that moment, my eyes take in my blessings with grateful appreciation. I look at the three guys in my life and can’t help but think: "Yeah. Life is good...."
Then, I hear Sarah Vaughan in my mind sing what my heart realizes in that moment each day is Valentine’s Day....

 http://youtu.be/Fnn9JlqqTE4 [To Make You Feel My Love/Adele]

 Post Script: I wrote this entry last night [the 13^th] to post this morning; I woke up this morning to find a dozen BEE*U*TEE*FUL red roses on the kitchen island and I got the bagel from Panera. He took the coffee. Now, THAT’s a good Valentine’s Day card. I’m just taping the finishing Dove’s chocolate candies on Tom’s Amazon gift card. I’ve got special dog cookies for the puppies and Red Lobster is tonight. Woo*Hoo! It’s a beautiful day in our neighborhood. Happy Valentine’s Day All from our house to yours!
　
　
　
　

Exhale

　
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home...
~from Intimations of Immortality, William Wordsworth

                                                  Tammy on the right with her sister Kayley.

Have you ever noticed that tragedy seems to come in threes? I don’t know why that is? It’s a mystery, but it never seems to fail: when you hear tragic news and then a second bit of sad news comes, there always seems to follow in the wake of it all, a third. Such was the directional course of today.
I should probably go to bed. It’s what I told my mother a couple of hours ago that I wanted to do: put this day to bed. When bad days come, the first inclination is to want for them to end quickly before any more damage can be done. Damage had the upper hand, at least in my opinion, today. Yet, somehow, my brain has gone into shock overload, and I know that sleep will evade me, if I try for it right now. Writing always seems to help me relax my overburdened mind. And, so, tonight....I reflect, and I write. I make no promises of how coherent these thoughts will be, but I need to get them out so that the grief of this day doesn’t swallow me up. Tears have consumed me a dozen times since the early afternoon, and I need relief...release...If only I could give that to the families of those whom I write about tonight...
The day started out positive enough: Saturday. It’s the best day of the week for most people, because it’s the first day of the weekend. It was also reported here the last few days that central Virginia would see our first bit of snow for the year today. Tom and I were excited about that - me, because it’s the first snow of the season, and I love to watch it fall. For Tom, he’s been itching to try out a new snow blower we recently bought for him. We put the snow anticipation on the back burner and went about this day as we normally do: errands, lunch out, grocery store.
We got home in the early afternoon, and sure enough, the sky began to rain snow. It was a glorious sight for the brief time it fell. I pressed my nose against the window pane of our French Door and smiled as it fell, while Tom whoop*whooped, because he would get to try out his blower tomorrow. We’re kids that way - finding a childlike wonder and an anticipated childlike joy from something simple like the falling of snow. It was a great moment. However, just as suddenly as that giddy feeling came, it rapidly dissipated.
News came that a friend of mine’s young daughter had died in her sleep.  I didn't know the particulars, just that bit of information. When you hear something that seems improbable, there is a stillness that comes as your mind begins to decipher the meaning of each word to see if, somehow, someone made a mistake in the re-telling of a fact. When you realize that the statement stands as an unbelievable truth, you blink. Then, you blink again and again. Blinking allows that fact to touch-down in the part of your brain where your understanding lives. Shock can’t settle in until that touch-down occurs.
Shock, when it comes, truly is like running full-speed into a brick wall. That’s what it felt like when I got that news today. I couldn’t wrap my brain around it. The awful disbelief of realizing that a beautiful, young woman had her life interrupted and would not be here to live it out took a horrifying and upsetting hold of me. My thoughts immediately turned to her mother, my friend, Peggy. I know what it is to lose a baby, in my case, two. I don’t know what it is to share 27 years of life and its experiences with your child, then have that child abruptly taken from you. There is no word for it - the abrupt taking away of a beloved someone. Cruel comes to mind and, while close, is still a gross understatement of the true reality of that experience.
The reaction that shock leaves your brain to handle and deal with is one, simple word: no. NO! I don’t want to hear this! NO! I don’t want this to be true! NO! I can’t bear this for my friend! NO! It’s not right! NO! It makes no sense! NO! It’s too awful to contemplate! NO! NO! NO! The unfortunate thing about screaming NO so loudly and with such force is that it’s regrettably irrelevant to the equation. You cannot make something so, simply because you loudly verbalize a negative response to it. All that is left for you to do is to wail against the truth of the matter.
That’s just what I did. I had the ugly cry – the one where not only your face but your entire body contorts with the pain and knowledge of something awful, as it simultaneously tries to digest it.
Peggy is an incredible mother and her girls mean the world to her. I couldn’t imagine this for her. I didn’t want to. The only thing I could do in that moment was weep for her, her husband and their remaining girls. I went to her Face Book page to express my immediate condolences. There, I saw Peggy’s photo albums and looked through them as I tried to regain my composure and collect my thoughts. One photograph was of Tammy with her sister Kayley. I looked at Tammy’s beautiful face - the chocolate eyes she had that are just like her mother’s. I saw echos of her mother’s face as a younger woman staring back at me through Tammy’s countenance, and the sorrow took hold of me yet again with a trail of new tears.
Peggy is a special friend. Even though we live in separate states now, time and distance has not changed that fact. I remember the first time I was in her home - it was 10 years ago this month. It was a good day – a Saturday not unlike today except for the tragic part. A group of friends met for lunch then went over to Peggy’s for coffee, dessert and more fun-filled conversation and laughs. The blue backdrop of that February winter’s day began to change to gray as the day grew late, indicating that night was soon approaching. It’s amazing how quickly friends can lose track of time when laughing and having a great time. When the children began to come home as the dinner hour approached, that’s when we all realized it was time to head home to our own families, after sharing a great afternoon making wonderful memories. Memories are the gift that remains of experiences shared with loved ones. I have great memories of that day.
Months later, Peggy offered a friendly comfort to me at a time in my life when I really needed it. I will never forget that. Nine months after that gathering at her house, a dear childhood friend of mine, died at the age of 38 from cancer. It was a devastating loss. Several of my friends, Peggy included, had been praying for Sheri. A few weeks after Sheri’s death, Peggy called to check on me. She could hear the "down" in my voice and suggested that we meet at The Cracker Barrel for lunch on Saturday. I did. I was so glad I went. We talked and laughed and laughed and talked. We had apple dumplings for lunch. It’s great when you have a friend who has a mind-set like that: Let’s have apple dumplings for lunch! My response to her thought: I’m in! We spent a couple of hours doing nothing but talking and laughing. Then, we roamed around the country store, where I found an ornament that was meant for Sheri’s father. It was so appropriate to something that Sheri and I had shared as kids about our fathers. We called them "marshmallow men". The ornament was a SMORE’s. I laughed when I saw it. It was a marshmallow man standing on a chocolate step on top of a plastic graham cracker base. I think he was wearing a smaller, square hat that looked like a mini graham cracker. I knew it had purposely been put in my path to send to Sheri’s father for Christmas, because I believe in signs like that. I told Peggy the story about it, and I remember her gently patting my back then giving my shoulder a little squeeze. I wish I could gently pat her back right now and do the same for her shoulder. There was a comfort in the gesture, and I know right now she probably could use all the comfort she can get. The best I can do is pray, and that’s what I’ve done on and off all afternoon: pray for her and her family.
No more had I gotten myself under control and managed to stifle those tears, that I saw a flash of news on Twitter that Whitney Houston had died. My brain, which was already numb, stared at that name and wondered, for the briefest second, if there was another Whitney Houston that wasn’t the Whitney Houston that my brain had pulled forward in my mind’s eye? It was a true, "huh" moment. I don’t know if my mouth had been agape since getting the news that Peggy’s daughter, Tammy, had passed or if it had momentarily closed in the re-gathering of my bearings, because that news was horrible enough without this added "Oh my God!" sentiment barreling through on top of it. All I know is that my mouth had dropped down again and was wide open in more harrowed disbelief. I don’t remember if my brain thought the word "no" or I actually said it? I just know that the room spun for a moment, and I felt dizzy.
My fingers began to fly over the keyboard as I typed her name into the search engine. Up came a news report that was three minutes old. Quickly, I opened it and read another devastating story of loss and reports of a death that had come too soon. My hands formed an immediate prayer sign as my lips came to rest against them, and I closed my eyes as more tears came.
Whitney has been a staple in my life since I was in my early 20's. Her songs–her music has been a mainstay among my easy listening preferences. The news took the worst feelings of the day to a whole other dimension.
I’ll never forget in 1987,  [December 2] my mother and I going to see Whitney in concert in Jacksonville, Florida. We had great seats - row 8. It was amazing to listen to her. It was good fortune to be that close to such a gift - that voice–that spirit. At the time, she was in the very beginnings of her career. She sang for a couple of hours, and it was magic – pure magic. It was grace in motion, hearing her voice climb and reach for notes that you didn’t think were humanly possible to hit. Yet, she did it with seeming ease. Not only did she hit them, but she held them–caressed them for long seconds before she offered them back to us. It was pure gold, and I remember thinking that there are certain things that make a person know that there is a God, because that voice could have only come from some higher place where glorious things are created then gifted. Her voice was stunningly beautiful. It was a chill producer. When she hit those high notes and held them in perfect pitch for those endless seconds, it was 24 kt., pure gold. And, if you can believe it, that wasn’t the best part of the experience. The best part was when she let her band take a 20 minute break, and she remained on stage and sang gospel songs a cappella. Think of the best thing that you can possibly imagine, then magnify it to the nth degree. THAT was Whitney Houston singing gospel songs a cappella. My mother and I looked at one another knowing we were in the presence of something truly beyond worldly. It felt like we were at a concert where an angel had been plucked from heaven and placed before us to perform. That’s what that voice is: angelic and heavenly.
I called my mother back to see if she had heard the news about Whitney? She was as stunned as I was. She replied that disbelieving "no"! We talked a little about the concert we’d been fortunate to witness. We spoke of her greatness. Then, I couldn’t talk anymore because the day’s sorrow that had all but taken me to my knees, had caught up to me again, and I felt more ugly cries approaching.
My husband and I watched the new coverage as this tragedy unfolded. I remembered the last time I saw Whitney. It was the interview she did with Oprah. I remember the song that came out of that time: I Look to You. It’s a song that has brought me great comfort the last few years as I’ve battled and struggled with my disability. There is hope in that song, and renewed strength. I took comfort in it–her singing of it. I remember the first time I watched her sing it, I prayed that Whitney was realizing those hopeful declarations that were contained in those lyrics, and I prayed that she was on her way back, bringing that golden voice–that gifted voice back to those of us who yearned to still hear it. Some have said that her voice was no longer the instrument that it had once been. Maybe so, but when I heard it, I still heard the power and the beauty of it. Singers in the current music industry should be so lucky on their BEST day to sound like Whitney Houston did on her worst. She, quite simply, had one of the best voices this world has ever heard. That statement, like her voice will withstand the test of time.
The news reporting tonight has been delicate in discussing Whitney’s troubles of the last 15 years. It’s been appreciated. No one wants to hear negative thoughts or comments when people are grappling with the suddenness and shock that this tragedy has created. Whitney Houston had problems– more than her share of them. We all have troubles; we all carry our own, private demons. The only difference is that Whitney had to live hers out, while the public watched, sometimes joked and often times criticized. I won’t remember Whitney Houston for the demons she struggled to overcome. I’ll remember her for that incredible, God-given instrument that she played like a Stradivarius. It was a sweet, glorious sound, and it shall be missed.
It was a good thought to end the night on, or so I thought. But, no more had that thought come to me, when the phone rang again. It was mother telling me that the daughter of one of her friends had died unexpectedly today too. What are the odds that a mother and daughter would both have a friend who would unexpectedly lose their daughter to an early, untimely death? Again, my mouth fell in that wide-open position of gaping disbelief. Three women gone too soon. Three daughters taken before their time. My knuckles turned white as I griped the phone.
I’d not seen Gay for probably 30 years, but I remember her well. She was between my sister and me in age. My sister is 51 and I’m 48. I asked my mother to express my sympathies to Gay’s mother, Charlene. Beyond that, I couldn’t think of anything more to say? My brain was shutting down. I could feel the "blank" taking hold. I told my mother that I couldn’t talk anymore because I was so close on the cusp of tears yet again. It was too much! I could feel my voice take on a shakiness as the tone fell out of it. When I hung up the phone, I looked upward with arms lifted in surrender and cried "uncle". No game. No fooling. I had reached the end of my rope on this day, and I knew I was about to be standing on my knees before the day was completely done. It would be no easy feat for me either.
I’ve been in physical therapy three times a week since the end of December, as the result of a bad fall I took on Christmas night. Still, as I held my hands up in surrender, I cried, "I give! I surrender! No more! I will get down on my knees right now God, but please, God! Please, God! Please, no more...."
It comes in threes – tragedy. I don’t know why that is? I just know that it does. This night, when I say my prayers, my thoughts and sentiments will be with Peggy and Tammy; Cissy and Whitney; and Charlene and Gay. And, my thoughts will be with Whitney’s daughter and Gay’s children as well. The circle of life sometimes doesn’t circle in the expected way that we anticipate, when we think of the natural order of things. Parents aren’t suppose to bury their children! Young children aren’t suppose to lose their mothers before they have the opportunity to fully understand and appreciate just who the incredible woman was who gave you life. Any way you look at it, and remember it, February 11, 2012 will always be a sad, unexpected day for the world yet it has more personal sorrow for me because of Tammy and Gay’s passing as well. As I sit here, trying to conclude my thoughts for tonight, this lyric popped into my mind:
Sometimes you laugh, sometimes you cry.
Life never tells us the whens or whys
When you’ve got friends to wish you well
you’ll find the point when you will exhale...
Today is surreal, and I am at a loss. Perhaps, in a few days, when the reality of this all settles, I can revisit these thoughts and maybe make better sense of them–maybe not. I don’t know? Tonight, these are the contents of my heart, sad as they are.....Still, I find myself holding on to my breath, afraid to let go of it. It’s odd. I’ve spent the last few minutes just staring ahead of me at nothing, listening to the wind in a low-pitch howl outside my door. The screen is whipping against the door as I think about the news of today and three women who are in blazing mode – trailing clouds of glory as they head back to their eternal home and realizing that we will probably never fully understand the why of how life’s end came for each of them. New normals are like that sometimes: they make no sense. Even when you’re given the pieces of the puzzle to fill in the blank places of the picture, it still makes no sense, and there is nothing that anyone can do about that. It is an exhale moment, and I just did.
Three women’s stars are setting elsewhere tonight. Those who knew and loved them, will never forget them. Beyond that, I don’t know what else to say, because my mind is in that tired and numb place that minds tend to go to when shock and sorrow have unexpectedly given a sucker punch not once but three times in one night.
I have no thoughts right now except these that are all jumbled up in my mind, and I’m typing them as they occur: Bittersweet....Memories are all that is left...Sometimes we cry, as we try to find that point where we can exhale...Learning to love yourself, it is the greatest love of all...If somebody loves you, won’t they always love you?...Winter storms have come and darkened my sun after all that I’ve been through...who on earth can I turn too. I look to you...after all my strength is gone, in you I can be strong. I look to you...I get so emotional, Baby, every time I think of you...Yes. Jesus loves me....Yet, to their family and friends, and in one case, to her millions of fans....we’ll always love them....always...
Godspeed Tammy, Whitney and Gay~Godspeed...and Rest In Peace.
Below, I’ve listed 7 of Whitney’s songs. It is the number of completion. Yet, nothing is ever really finished...

http://youtu.be/H2GbvEML1yE [Where Do Broken Hearts Go/Whitney Houston]
http://youtu.be/ydPXZlwvgNY [The Greatest Love of All/Whitney Houston]
http://youtu.be/7d_ToCL9nSY [Exhale/Whitney Houston]
http://youtu.be/5Pze_mdbOK8 [I Look To You/Whitney Houston]
http://youtu.be/0YjSHbA6HQQ [I Get So Emotional/Whitney Houston]
http://youtu.be/cd-CFI4EhBU [I’ll Always Love You/Whitney Houston]
http://youtu.be/ZNqAHrNNLqA [Jesus Loves Me/Whitney Houston]
　

This picture of Whitney brings me peace; it's the light behind her.  We will all step into the light when our time on earth is done.   I hope it's as beautiful as it appears to be.  In my heart, I know it is...

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