...Let's Roll...

　
"When I despair, I remember that all through history the ways of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants, and murderers, and for a time they can seem invincible, but in the end they always fall. Think of it---always." ~Mahatma Gandhi

http://youtu.be/-2nA08T3TWQ [My video tribute of the memories of September 11, 2001]


My A.B. asked me the other day if I would write a blog entry to commemorate 9-11-01. I told her that I was thinking about it, but it was hard. Those thoughts, feelings, and images from 10 years ago are still so palpably raw, when one stops to consider them. It’s difficult to think about it for too long before the hopeless, helpless feelings of despair, we all felt as a nation, take hold of me again and spiral me right back to that one, unbelievable moment in time. Tragically, we watched the nightmare unfolding before our eyes –another Pearl Harbor–OUR Pearl Harbor – another date which will live in infamy for all who bore witness to the horrifying sights and sounds of, what started out to be a beautiful September day.
"Please a.b., think about it!" Karen said to me. [I’m her a.b. too] "I’d really like to read your reflections of it."
I felt a sigh come after I’d hung up the phone. Thinking about doing something and actually doing it are two very different things, as you all well know. I’ve been in a funk the last month, as the result of a recent fall, and I didn’t know if I wanted to go to that dark place of grief that I would have to go to in order to write an honest perspective on those events from a decade ago. But, I knew that I was going to go there anyway as the day approached, so, I decided to spend a few days gathering my thoughts.
I kept thinking about that day, on and off these last few days, as I tried to find the words to honor those who lost their lives on that day, and how our country, collectively, felt in its aftermath. Anyone who lived through it can probably recall with precise detail, every moment of September 11^th, 2001. As my mind slowly wandered back to that place of shock and horror, I wondered what I should title this entry?
Names are very important! A lot is revealed in a name. After careful consideration, I chose something that I’d heard said on that fateful day so long ago yet not so long ago. It’s funny how time can do that to you - make it feel both long and short in its span...
The comment was amazing, given the implication it carried. I kept hearing the words of Todd Beamer, a passenger on Flight 93, rattle around and hum in my mind. The words persisted in churning. They stayed with me.
"Let’s roll..." he had said before the passengers of United Flight 93 decided to re-take control of the plane from its hijackers no matter what the personal cost to them. Another sigh and fresh tears come as that thought vibrates and resonates deep within me. Thinking about that, and what those words meant and how much courage he, and the others who joined him, had in order to allow that emotion to override the unfathomable fear they must have all been experiencing in those terrifying moments, truly defines the American spirit that President John F. Kennedy’s words 40 years earlier, in his inaugural address, exemplified:
Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe to assure the survival and the success of liberty."
"Let’s roll!" Todd Beamer said, and they did.
There is a resignation, coupled with a purposeful intent, defined in those words as well as courage – a BIG dose of courage! He knew what was going on–what was happening–what was going to happen. Still, he was willing to give his own life along with the other passengers of United Flight 93 to ensure that no other innocent Americans, save those on that doomed flight along with him, would perish. Faced with the choice, I didn’t know if I could do it? I’ve thought about it a lot. Then, I came to the realization, the longer and harder I thought about those words, that more than likely I could; I would. After all, if knowing that my life, which was more than likely going to end when that plane crashed, might help save the lives of countless others, I like to think that I would be as selfless as those passengers were. It’s a "giver philosophy" what Todd Beamer and all the others on that tragically fated flight had. They knew the dismal prospect before them probably wasn’t going to end very well for all of them, but they put those thoughts aside so that the hijackers on that plane would, at least, not successfully strike another one of their intended targets.
Those thoughts made me recall the scripture, John 15:13: "Greater love has no one than this: than to lay down one's life for his friends." On that day, September 11^th, 2001, we all became friends. I would go so far as to say that we became family, if only for that moment in time.
So, I decided to call this entry the words used by Todd Beamer, before the passengers of United Flight 93 purposefully downed that aircraft. I’ve placed ellipsis’ at the front and end of the title for a specific reason. For those who don’t know or recall this from your high school English class, ellipsis [...] when placed at the beginning or end of a sentence, can indicate to the reader that a feeling of melancholy and longing is part of the sentiment. It calls for a slight pause in speech; it lets you know that something came before or after the thought that stands alone.
Here now, I will describe what proceeded and followed after those fateful words were uttered. These are my reflections of Tuesday, September 11, 2001:

The day began as a beautiful one. It was sunny, slightly cool with a hint of the approaching autumn in the air. It was very clear outside. There was not a hint or foreshadowing of what was about to happen later that morning. My husband left me a note by the coffee pot, something he did every morning. He left for work before I rose and always kissed me goodbye. He also always left me morning greetings, wishes for a good day and sentiments of love in a note waiting for me beside the coffee pot.
I think now how precious something like that would be to those loved ones of passengers on any one of those flights, to have been left with no important words left unspoken...
I turned on "Good Morning, America" and took my coffee out onto the balcony. For a brief moment, my morning was grounded in good thoughts and positive feelings. It began to take a turn when I got ready to leave for work. My car keys, which were normally hung on a brass hook in the kitchen, were not there. It was odd. I always put them there before I did anything else when I got home from work or from just being out. I tried to recall what would have made me detract from that routine? I went to my purse, digging through it. Nothing. I looked on the kitchen table, the bedroom dresser and the coffee table. They were no where to be found. I got more and more exasperated as my normal routine was interrupted with the chaos of looking for AWOL keys! I called work to tell them I was going to be late because I’d misplaced my keys. A co-worker told me to take a deep breath and retrace my steps from the previous evening. I thanked her for the advice and did just that. My sweater. I went to the closet and checked the pocket of the sweater I’d worn the previous day. Don’t ask me why, as I don’t recall, but they were there.
Quickly, I grabbed them, locked the bird in his cage, made certain the cat had dry food and water, and that the coffee pot and curlers were both off-unplugged. Just as I got to the television to turn it off, the news broke that the first plane had hit the World Trade Center. It was approximately ten til nine when it was reported that American Airlines Flight 11 had crashed into the North Tower.
I stood there for a moment listening as the thought, "How in the world did that happen?" came to mind. I mean, I’m not an aviator, nor an air traffic controller, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that planes don’t normally fly that close to buildings in New York City. There wasn’t a great deal of news at that point, and I didn’t have time to stand there and listen. I left for work.
It was in the car as I drove down I-270, that the radio station interrupted regular programing to tell its listeners that another plane, United Flight 175, had crashed into the second tower.
I remember thinking, "what the hell is going on?"
One was an accident. Two was something more–it was sinister. Ten minutes later, when I got to work and checked in with my co-workers, I learned that it was a suspected terrorist attack.
America, under attack? Terrorists? It sounded ludicrous!
"What are you talking about?" I remember saying to a colleague. "We’re under attack? Why? Are you sure?"
Her statement was being met with a disbelieving question.
"That’s what the news is reporting," she said.
At the time, I was a Technical Writer for a labor union in Rockville, Maryland. My father was its International Secretary Treasurer. I decided to take a moment, or so I thought, to run down to his office and see if he knew anything more about what was going on. When I got there, about 10 people were there, surrounding the circular table at one end of the room where he had a television. Everyone stood grim faced, watching. The atmosphere was one of concern.
"Good morning," I said, feeling my brow furrow. "What’s going on?"
"The news is saying that our country is under attack," my father told me. "They aren’t saying much more than that. It’s unbelievable!"
I had just heard that comment. It seemed surreal. My mouth opened but nothing came out. I couldn’t wrap my brain around the thought. I stood there with the others watching CNN tell us what they knew as soon as they knew it.
I stared at my father. His arm was folded across his chest with the elbow of the other arm resting on it. His index and third finger were pressed into his cheek, and his thumb cradled his chin. His face was stoic. His thoughts, I knew, were serious and troubled. We had colleagues at The World Trade Center that day for meetings. It was a concern.
By this time, about 9:30 in the morning, we watched in horror as it was reported that American Airlines Flight 77 had just crashed into the Pentagon. My heart skipped a beat. I had a friend who worked at the Pentagon. At twenty minutes before 10:00 a.m. there were reports of an explosion there. I excused myself to the outer office to use the phone. I called my friend and left a message on her voice mail. Then, I called my husband for good measure. He told me they were listening to it on the radio. We were both in a state of utter disbelief. He told me to call him at lunchtime or he’d try and call me. I told him I loved him and heard it returned. It calmed my nerves.
As I walked back into the office where more colleagues were congregating, I remember thinking: how many more are there? How many more planes are going to slam into our government buildings and business offices? It made me shudder. It made me more afraid.
Back in my father’s office, the news was reporting evacuations of the White House and Capitol. Our air space had been shut down, and international flights were re-directed to Mexico and Canada. One by one, those running our country were taking steps to brace itself for more imminent calamities, and getting as many of our leaders out of harm’s way as possible. Our country was defensively shutting down, trying to buttress itself from danger. This was real...no nightmare to wake up from...
We all watched, helpless, as the t.v. reporters cut back and forth between New York and Washington, showing the chaos that was erupting in both places. We saw and heard police and fire engine sirens blaring as they hastily moved toward the places in need of assistance. Buildings were burning in raging spikes of red, yellow and orange fire, as plumes of angry-looking, black, gray and white billowing smoke rose higher and higher into the air.
Throughout all of these happenings, reports continued alluding to the probability that Osama bin Laden was behind all this mayhem.
"He’s been determined to strike America," Most every reporter alleged.
I remember thinking to myself-asking myself, as I watched the destruction that had been wrought on our country that morning taking place before my eyes, how much hate does one person have to have within them in order to carry something like this out? Where does so much hate come from? Why do they choose to live in such a state of ugly, negative energy that does nothing but produce headache, heartache and sorrow with whomever comes into contact with it-with them? It boggled my mind.
I’ve known deep love. I carry that within me, but hate like what we were seeing on the t.v., is a foreign concept to me. I remember gasping as tears fell down my cheeks as we watched the screen show the falling body of someone who had decided that jumping was their only means of escaping the carnage that was raging inside the burning building. It was the only way down. There was no other way out. It was a staggering, horrifying thought.
"Oh, God!" someone cried out. It could have been me. More than likely, it was a couple of us. It was an unbearable sight. Open tears flowed as a few of us hugged one another.
Just before 10 o’clock, the South Tower fell. We all stared at the t.v., not sure or believing what we had just seen. We knew, in any event, it wasn’t good. There was a loud boom, like a deep roar of thunder, and then the building collapsed like it was nothing more than a stack of Dominoes falling to the ground. There was nothing for minutes it seemed but gray and white thick smoke churning and rising up higher into the air. When it dissipated, the space where the tower had stood just a moment before was empty - the building was gone.
"Oh, my God!" I whispered, thinking about all the people who were trapped inside that building; wondering if any could have survived that? - feeling immediate sympathy for their families.
Within minutes, we heard reporters tell us that another rogue plane, Flight 93, was heading towards Washington.
Suddenly, things were getting very, very scary. It was pandemonium! I didn’t realize, until he looked at me, that I had called out to my father.
"What Sug?" he asked, seeing the fear on my face, in my eyes. It didn’t matter that I was 38 years old. In that moment, I was scared. I wanted my father to do something. What? I didn’t know. But, he was my father, and I was afraid. He knew, as fathers do in moments like that, that I needed some kind of comfort and reassurance. He offered the best suggestion he knew to calm me.
"Why don’t you go over to my desk," he motioned his head toward the other end of the room. "And, call your mother."
My mother was in Florida as were my brother and sister.
Yes. I would call my mother. I was with my father. Nothing to worry about there. I’d spoken with my husband and knew that he was okay. I needed to talk to my mother. When I reached her, she indicted that she had been watching it too, in as much disbelief as the rest of us. We spoke for a few minutes - mostly checking on one another and expressing our love. Tearfully, I told her that I’d call her later. She told me to be careful.
When I returned to the table and asked if there had been more news, everyone said in unison that The Sears Tower in Chicago had been evacuated, and continued reports of suspected car bombs posed a large threat in New York City. I reached for my father’s hand. One of them was shaking. I don’t know if it was mine or his – it wouldn’t surprise me if both of our hands had been shaking as we held on to one another, and that’s when we heard that Flight 93 had gone down in Pennsylvania. It was just after 10:15 a.m. or close to. It was being reported that three or four passengers on the flight had not cooperated with the hijackers. Those hijackers decided to down the plane before those passengers stormed the cock pit. Make no mistake, the passengers were the catalyst for the downing of that plane not the hijackers.
It was too much. It was all too much to watch.
My father called upstairs to speak to the President of our union. Many had loved ones who worked in these government buildings which were being evacuated, people had family and friends who worked at the Pentagon, and we had colleagues who were at The World Trade Center. Our union’s President and my father decided to close the building and let employees go home so that we could make the necessary calls to try and locate our family and friends. I hung around for awhile. I didn’t want to go home by myself.
There were a handful of us still in my father’s office around 10:30 a.m., when the North Tower fell. It was another numbing thing to watch. Just like the other tower, one minute it was there, and the next minute it was gone. Poof. No more. That’s what was so astonishing - these buildings weighed tons. They were made of mortar, concrete, steel, glass, and so forth – yet, they toppled like a toy that someone had carelessly tossed to the ground. It was hard to watch it - to believe it! There was a gaping hole now, where just two hours prior, the twin towers had stood.
My head began to pound when it was reported minutes later that The Mall of America was evacuating. I remember glancing over to my father.
"What are they doing?" I asked nervously, trying to work my thoughts out. "Moving across the country taking out symbols of America?"
He sighed. "It sure looks that way," he replied. "I’ve got to get upstairs and speak with the President," he replied. "Why don’t you go on home."
"Are you going to be okay?" I asked him. I didn’t want him to go home alone either.
"I’ll probably be tied up here for a good part of the afternoon trying to find out what’s going on with our members in New York. I’ll call you later."
I gave him a hug and went back upstairs. Once I got there, a few of those who worked in my department were still there standing around a radio and listening.
"Has anything else happened?"
"Massive evacuations have started in parts of New York and D.C.," one of the Analysts said.
"This is a nightmare!" I told him.
He nodded. "Unbelievable!"
"I'm going home," I said.
As I went to gather my purse and other belongings, it was reported that five stories at the Pentagon had collapsed.
I shook my head and sat down at my desk trying to get my bearings.
"God Almighty!" I uttered. "Please help us!" Then, I called Tom and asked him if he could come home? He said they were closing their building at one, and he’d pick up some sandwiches and bring them home. I told him that was good. I couldn’t wait to see him.
I remember spending about 20 minutes on the computer, looking at articles and live news feeds of what continued to unfold in the madness that this day had become. When I saw masses of people running down the streets of New York covered in soot and dust, I shut down my computer, not wanting to see anymore. I’d seen enough carnage to last me a lifetime.
By noon, when I was leaving for home, reports came in that the airports in Los Angeles and San Francisco were closed. I remember praying to myself: "Everyone close! They can’t get at us if no one is there. Everyone go home and be safe. Amen! Amen! Amen!"
I drove quickly home. I didn’t want to be outside. The sky overhead was suddenly not safe. I remember climbing the stairs to our condo, feeling tired and worn, and thinking about the earlier morning, when I’d had coffee on my balcony and thought it was going to be a beautiful day. How far off the mark that thought seemed now, in this moment. I walked inside. Boo [the bird] and Rhiannon, [the cat] both greeted me with surprise.
"I’m as surprised as you are," I said to them both, as I dropped my purse on the table and hung my keys on the hanger in the kitchen.
I poured a Diet Pepsi, took two Advil, then went into the den, curling up on the sofa after turning on the television. The images from the early morning were being re-played, and the talking points repeated over and over and over again. It was almost as bad as watching it happen the first time. I called my mother and told her I was home. We spoke briefly about how horrible it all was. Then, I told her I had some friends I needed to touch base with. My friend at the Pentagon had gotten my message and left me one in return, on my answering machine. I thanked God as I called her back and thanked him again when she answered. She said that it was as unbelievably harrowing an experience as it looked on television. She said it was massive chaos there. She sounded drained; I felt drained. We agreed to touch base later that night. I told her I loved her. She said the same. That’s the one thing that was driven home on this morning: when you’ve got the chance to say it, by gosh, say it! I wasted no opportunities in telling family and friends how much I loved them all.
The rest of the time, before Tom got home was spent contacting friends, - my brother and sister - letting them know that we were alright. We shared our common horror over what had occurred earlier in the day and prayed that it was over. It didn’t feel over, and it felt strange to feel so vulnerable. From watching the news reporters and government officials who spoke to our country that day, you could tell that they were as shaken to the core as the rest of us.
Four planes downed, and we knew what had happened to all of them. Everything else, meaning all other aircraft, it was reported, was accounted for. I paused and prayed that it was true. I closed my eyes. I couldn’t get the images out of my mind. I remember feeling Rhiannon next to me. I could hear her purring. My hand reached to stroke her soft fur. I opened my eyes, and she meowed. She was glad I was home. I was glad I was home. Boo, our parrot, had turned his head and buried it beneath his feathers. His wing covered his face. I remember thinking his idea wasn’t a bad one.
When Tom got home, he and I hugged for a long time. We didn’t say much. We didn’t need to. The hug and its strength said all that needed to be said.
"I got stuff to make breakfast," he said. "Are you hungry?"
"Not really," I told him. "But, that sounds good for later."
He went to make himself a cup of coffee. "Has anything else happened?"
"No, thank God!" I sighed.
"Crazy, huh?"
"It’s crazy alright!" I agreed. "It’s insane!"
We curled up on the sofa for a while and continued to listen to the news. We dozed for a bit, holding onto each other. The exhaustion of the day and mental fatigue had caught up with us, and we didn’t want to see or hear anymore at the moment. It was all so overwhelming. Not long after we woke, about 5 pm, reports confirmed that The Solomon Bros. Building, 7 World Trade Center, had also toppled.
"How many more?" I whispered as I watched. The horror just kept continuing.
Tom got up to make us breakfast for supper. I don’t know why, but breakfast tastes better for supper.  Usually. I remember not being certain that anything would taste good that night. Everything just seemed dismal. My appetite was gone.
The television showed police and firefighters working amidst the rubble of what was once The World Trade Center as well as The Pentagon, looking for any signs of life. If anyone had survived beneath all the debris, it would have been a miracle. I remember thinking how much our country could use a miracle at that moment.
As we ate, we watched as members of Congress took to the steps of the U. S. Capitol and sang God Bless America. Again, I cried. Our spirit was strong. We were down, but we were not out. It was evident. It was comforting. Through the sorrow of the day, came the pride of our resilience. People on opposite sides of the aisle joined hands in a sign of unity. We are Americans first and foremost. We band together in tough times, and the times, at that moment, were among the toughest!
The night was as long as the day had been. We decided to go to bed early that night. We’d seen enough and heard, at that point, all that we needed to hear. There would be nothing new to report until the morning, when daylight returned. It would be the first day of a new day for all of us in America. I prayed that the new day did not bring with it any more tragedy relating to the current day that we were bidding good night to. I called my father and my mother both that night just to say goodnight and tell them once again that I loved them.
With that, what started out as a beautiful September day, ended as a tragic one in regard to the history of our country. Two thousand, nine hundred and seventy seven people died in The 9-11 Attacks as it would come to be known, in addition to the 19 hijackers. I prayed for them all. It wasn’t easy praying for the hijackers, but as a Christian it was what I was raised to do: pray for my enemies as well as for my friends. I told God I wanted a gold star that night for praying for evil men. I thought it was only fair. I don’t know if you’ve ever done it, but it’s a HARD thing to do, trust me on that!
My thoughts focused on two thoughts that had been reinforced over and over that day. I recalled them as I tried to go to sleep:
"No greater love..." as was evidenced by Todd Beamer and the others aboard Flight 93. And, "We will never forget all those who died that day aboard Flights 11, 77, 93 and 175, as well as those who went to work that day at The Pentagon and The World Trade Center, thinking that it was just going to be another ordinary day."
As history now shows, and those of us who lived it can tell, there was nothing ordinary about it! It became the second date for America that will forever live in infamy.
Much has happened in the 10 years since that fateful day in September of 2001. But, one thing that has not changed, that has remained constant, can best be summed up in a passage from Laurence Binyon’s poem, "Ode of Remembrance~For the Fallen" written during another September in the year 1914. There are no words which need to be expressed after this thought. It states it all perfectly:
　



They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them...

　

Grace By Design

No copyright infringement intended with the use of Eric's photograph.

I simply want all to see the man of wonder and grace with the magic

paintbrush.

** I don't know why this is showing the date of 9-7-11 as it's

2:10 am EST on 9-8-11~Eric's Birthday...

"Learn to limit yourself; to content yourself with some definite work; dare to be what you are and learn to resign with good grace all that you are not; and to believe in your own individuality." ~Henri Frederick Amiel

"Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, ambition inspired, and success achieved." ~Helen Keller
　
Every September, [the first two weekends of the month, actually] The Shaker Festival came to Germantown, Maryland. My husband, Tom, and I made it a point to go faithfully each year and see the various crafters selling their wares. It was a fun-filled day, looking and looking and looking some more at every homemade thing that you could imagine. They are the best and most heartfelt gifts, in my opinion.
The Shaker Festival is where I first had Kettle Korn, It was made in a huge black iron vat, [it looked like several people could fit into it] and it was fired up with the sound of a blow-torch as you watched the gentleman in charge of the process, pour in the oil, the salt, sugar, popcorn and whatever other ingredients went in. Then, as the roaring sound of an angry fire beneath the large black vat spewed heat, the man stirred it furiously for a few moments with a wooden paddle. Magically, the corn transformed and rose in fluffiness until the kettle was full, then he’d lift a handle that would dump the bowl into another bowl just as large. The fresh, hot, kettle corn would then be bagged and sold to the anxiously awaiting crowd. The sweet, salty contrast was unlike anything we’d ever tasted before, and it was an annual treat that we thoroughly enjoyed and looked forward to. We bought two large bags - one to eat immediately and a spare to have for later. It was addicting stuff, and the extra flossing required was worth the trouble.
Craftsmen and women came from all over the country to display and sell their masterpieces, and there were many there, let me tell you. We met several vendors who we looked forward to seeing year-after-year, because we liked their product, but more importantly, we liked to just stop by and say hello~see how life had been treating them~tell them how life had been treating us. It also gave me a chance to look at all the things they’d made and brought that year to make me "ooh" and "ah". There were a handful of artisans who looked for us each year too. We went back the first year after we moved away from Maryland just because it was a hard habit to break - not visiting in that forest atmosphere with the booths set-up like a long, winding row of hidden treasures. The smell of the food court, and all the scents one would expect at a festival, wafted all around us, making our mouths water in anticipation of lunch, as we meandered along the various paths. It was a heady experience, and we always went away with a bag-ful of treasures to be enjoyed ourselves or gifted to loved ones.
One special person who I particularly looked forward to seeing each year was a local artist by the name of Eric Mohn. Eric was a lesson in grace, dignity and patience for me. By his example, I knew that the human spirit can survive anything if it wants to, and that out of tragedy can come a goodness so sweet that it makes the tragedy almost seem a blessing. Were it to have been otherwise, the goodness may never have found itself.
You may be thinking to yourself, WHAT are you talking about? It is this: Eric Mohn was an artist who was left a quadriplegic after a 1963 automobile accident. He was 18 at the time. It was the year I was born. I remember thinking, that first year when I’d stumbled upon his art and read the short biography on the back of the print I had purchased, how odd that year suddenly became in retrospect for me. The words of Dickens sprang to mind: "It was the best of times. It was the worst of times..." I was given life that year; Eric’s was forever altered. HE truly was a lemonade maker of the grandest kind, because I can NOT imagine any sweeter lemonade made than what Eric produced from the life-altering lot that life handed him the year I was born.
I believe it was the second time I met him, that I said something similar to the above-mentioned reference, directly to him.
"Your car accident happened the year I was born," there was a sad acknowledgment in my tone when I told him that. I don’t really know why I told him that? I just wanted him to know. I was trying to make a connection. I think I did it badly, but you’d have never known that from his response.
Thoughtfully, he replied in his quiet manner. "There were some good things that happened that year." I took it as a compliment. I didn’t know Eric as a personal friend, but what I knew of him, I liked very much. I also don’t know if he engaged all of his patrons the way he engaged me, and vice versa, but I certainly felt more comfortable speaking my mind to him in very forthright ways. It surprised even me how directly I spoke to him about his circumstance. Usually, I’m more subtle in comments and delicate in approach, but I found something very welcoming about Eric, and I found him fascinating. I didn’t wallflower conversation with him.
The next year, with a half-dozen of his small prints in hand again, I stopped to chat. He had just arrived at the festival for a few hours, and I was lucky to have caught him, so that I could share a moment with him. Aside from telling him what a hit his smaller reproductions were with my friends, I wanted to tell him how much I appreciated his talent. I’ll never forget the conversation. He seemed intrigued by what I told him – that I would have tried to do what I told him:
"I don’t know how you do what you do!" I told him, then qualified. "I got a paintbrush the other day at Michael’s, because I was making something for our company picnic, and I decided to put it in my mouth and see how your method works."
He nodded his head, slightly forward. "Oh, yeah?" he asked, curious. "How did you make out?"
I shook my head and repeated. "I don’t know how you do what you do! I made a line with the brush that did not look anything remotely like a line."
"It takes patience," he said.
"I’ve always considered myself a patient person," I replied.
"It takes a lot of concentration too," he added.
"I’m a writer," I said, not trying to be disagreeable but knowing that wasn’t the secret to his incredible accomplishment. His paintings were amazing without the added knowledge that he painted them with a brush between his teeth. I added to my comment. "Concentration is a requisite trait for a writer."
He made a face. The only way I can describe the message that he conveyed to me in that facial expression is to tell you that it was as if he had moved his shoulders in a pleasant shrug not knowing what else to say.
"It takes time to get the hang of," he said as his final offering on the subject.
"I’m sure it does," I agreed, recalling the discomfort I’d felt in my face and neck as I tried to balance the brush between my teeth, let alone my fruitless attempt to create anything. I remembered the crick in my neck that came after intense moments of trying to make that line resemble anything close to a straight line. It was horrible! The fatigue my head felt in just those couple of moments of rigidly moving it back and forth suddenly came back to me.
I offered him my thoughts, "You’re a gift – plain and simple, Eric! Ironically, your gift flows from a mouth that doesn’t speak its art but paints it. I appreciate that, and I think your work is beautiful, – your strokes masterful. Your art makes me think of grace."
Then, he said something to me that made me glad I’d spoken my mind. He told me that it was his birthday, and that my kind words were a wonderful present. He thanked me for them.
It was Sunday, September 8^th – a gorgeous, breezy, pre-autumn day.
"Well," I said, cheerfully. "Happy Birthday and thank you for your gift," I replied, waving my bag of prints in front of him for good measure. "I’ll see you next year!"
"Thank you," he said. "I’ll be here."
We went the following year, and I stopped by Eric’s booth again to pick out a few more of my favorite prints to give to friends as gifts. True to form, Eric was there, sitting in his wheelchair off to the side of his booth to allow others free access of the tent that housed his treasures. I went and purchased those first, then stopped to chat with Eric.
He smiled as I approached. "What did you get today?" he asked, curiously because my bag was larger.
"I treated myself today," I told him. "I got Shortest Way Home. My husband and I love covered bridges," I continued my explanation. "We hope to go to Iowa someday to see the covered bridges of Madison County."
There was a sparkle in his eyes when he spoke of his work. "Well, that was a good choice you made," he said, then offered something else for me to consider. "There’s no need to go so far. The bridge in that painting is in Lancaster County. They have lots of covered bridges there."
He was speaking of Pennsylvania. He’d told me something I did not know. He also told me that he really liked covered bridges too.
I remember the intake of breath. "My husband and I went to Lancaster County on our honeymoon," I said. "We went through all the Amish shops and antique stores in Bird-in-Hand and Intercourse," I told him. "But, I didn’t see covered bridges."
"Well," he said to my husband and I. "You’ll have to go back to see them. Go on-line and do a search and it should pull them up for you."
I told him we would, then as we turned to leave, I looked back at him and said. "Happy Birthday tomorrow."
He was genuinely surprised. I could tell it.
"We spoke last year on your birthday," I reminded.
"I wouldn’t expect you to remember that though," he noted.
"You’re unforgettable, Eric!"
Tom added. "She remembers EVERYTHING!"
Tom’s comment humored him. I don’t think he knew how to respond to mine.
I held my bag up for one, parting comment. "Thank you for painting this and telling me where to find it."
"You’re welcome."
We saw Eric a couple of more times before we moved in 2006. Even that year, we drove back up to Maryland for the festival. I mainly wanted to see Eric and purchase a few more prints. I was disappointed to learn that he wasn’t feeling well and would not be by that day. I never saw him again.
I was shocked and saddened in 2009 to learn of his passing. I was on-line searching for one of his prints to get as a gift for a friend and came across his obituary along with a guest book, which I promptly signed, after I had a good cry. It was May 24th, when I learned of his death. I remember Tom coming into the room and asking what was wrong.
"Wow," he replied, after I told him the news.
Yeah. It was one of those empty moments when you don’t really know what to say, because the unexpected, sad surprise of something leaves your brain numb, with only the ability to offer a "Wow" sentiment that conveyed in its tone the unexpected surprise you felt at just having been told something regretful.
Sadly, I said. "I guess God needed a painter for something!" thinking of Eric there in paradise making it more beautiful than it already was. "He got the best one I know!" I added. If anyone could add to the beauty of heaven, it was Eric. He worked in watercolors. I told him once that Monet, whose work I love, had nothing on him! He appeared touched by the compliment.
Eric would have been 66 today. I remember him on this day because, as I said, he was unforgettable! And, when something is unforgettable, it should be shared-remembered-celebrated. I cherish the times that I met him, and the bits of conversation that we exchanged.
Also, since becoming disabled a few years back and facing my own daily challenges, I think of him often. I especially think of him this time of year, when Tom and I fondly recall those two weekends every September when the Shaker Festival came to town in Germantown, Maryland. I think of him now because it’s his birthday, and he was such a gift to all who knew him. I think of the example Eric was with regard to grace, perseverance, patience and goodness. When I have bad days physically, and I do have them regularly now, a periodic thought of Eric passes, and I think to myself: You’ve got NOTHING to complain about, girl! I try to muster some of his example as my own. It’s a tall order, and I’m a short gal, but I try. It’s one thing I know Eric would appreciate "just trying"... You’ll never know if you can until you attempt it. Good food for thought!
In remembering him, I’ve come to the conclusion that through his painting, he was not physically disenfranchised in any way, shape or form. He was complete and whole just as he was when he reached heaven – the way he was in 1963 before his car accident, – the year in which I was born; the year his life changed completely. It was the only comforting thought I had in learning of his passing: that he was released from a body which, early on, had confined him to a sedentary life. He was finally free to soar. I imagined him as a magical paintbrush gracefully moving over the canvass of a brilliant sky, painting bluebirds that carried ribbons of good vibrations trailing in its wake. It was a lovely image. I wish I could paint it for him, but, unfortunately, we all know I’m not much of a painter. But, Eric Mohn was. Lord, that man could paint!
One did not look at Eric’s artwork and think first, "Wow! This was created by a man who paints with a brush in between his teeth!" No. You look at Eric’s art, and you feel, before your brain has time to formulate the actual thought: "My God! This man is a masterful artist!"
After you learn about his physical circumstance, then you realize what a wonder he was! I wish I could have shared that thought with him one final time - especially now, given my own circumstance. I’d ask him if he had a piece of advice for me, because I appreciate, so much more, what his daily struggles must have been. For some reason, I can hear the echo of his voice say, "just do the best you can with what you’ve got, and be glad that you can still do the things you can!" I’m pretty sure he lived that line to its fullest. He always had a positive thing to say. I don’t know how he did it? Then, I smile to myself, because I can hear his words: it takes patience* it takes concentration*  it takes time to get the hang of it. Yes, indeed. Indeed it does. However, in meeting him, you would never have suspected that he was anything other than the gracious, gentle, grateful man who had his own stories to tell through his painting, and he did not let anything detract from his doing it. He was a kind soul. He was a masterful artist! That last thought stands alone. It removes any context of disability and puts him on an even playing field with other incredible artists. Yet, I will always maintain that the playing field was never even with Eric Mohn around, because he was quite, simply extraordinary!
I encourage everyone who reads this to take a moment and look through the attached link that houses a gallery of Eric’s work. Currently, there is a Labor Day Special running through September 9^th at the following site, http://www.ericmohn.com/store.php?crn=52&start=1 where you can purchase two of Eric’s prints for the price of one. That’s a gift, my Friends, that keeps on giving! Keep one for yourself and give one to a special someone to continue spreading his good vibrations around. In case you’re wondering, yes. I will be getting myself something. After all, it is that time of year! Some traditions should be maintained. And, birthdays should always be remembered and celebrated!
In my mind’s eye I can see him in that forest, sitting in his wheelchair beside the tent that housed his treasures. This is the conversation I envision:
"What did you get this time?"
"Roddy Bridge," I’d tell him, then add. "You know I have a thing for covered bridges..."
"That one’s in Thurmont, [Maryland]" he'd tell. "But, there are a lot of them up in Lancaster County," he’d say.
"Yes," I’d smile at the reminder. "I’ll get there. I promise, Eric, and I’ll make sure to tell you all about it!"
"Well, I hope you enjoy your choice!" he’d reply in his gentle manner.
"I will, Eric!" I’d say. "Thank you! Thank you for the peaceful, easy feelings your art always inspires within me...and Happy Birthday, my Friend, Best Wishes Always..."

In fond remembrance of Eric George Mohn
September 8, 1945 - November 25, 2008

* If I could play a birthday song for Eric today, I'd choose something else that reminds me of grace.  This one's for him:

http://youtu.be/-LXl4y6D-QI [Clair de Lune/Debussy]

Goodbye, Irene

"Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But, when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by."
~Christina Rossetti~


 A week ago, my husband and I were sitting in the dark, in our house on the outskirts of Richmond, Virginia, where we live. We’d lost power about 1:50 p.m. that Saturday afternoon, and already witnessed the uprooting of a neighbor’s 100 year-old Oak tree. It had been tossed into the street like it was nothing more than a discarded toothpick. The winds were howling and whipping sheets of rain in a line across our house. It was eerie. Buzz saws had already been fired up once to cut a portion of the tree apart so that it could be moved from blocking the road, in case someone had an emergency and needed access out of the neighborhood. It went like that for the better part of 15 hours: howling winds, whipping rain and the sounds of trees taking flight as they crashed onto roads or into houses.
My husband and I sat on our front porch, with our puppies wrapped in our laps, huddled in a corner to stay out of the direct path of anything flying that doesn’t typically fly in the night. We didn’t know how long an ordeal we were facing? As it turns out, we were blessed because our inconvenience only lasted, as I said, for 15 hours. Still, we didn’t know it at the time as we tried to find ways to occupy the long night that stretched ahead. It was hot but, thank God, not ungodly hot. We played games of Parcheesi, and listened to the radio. Yes, we’d loaded up on batteries and candles and bottled water, peanuts and honey and other staples that didn’t need refrigeration.
My husband and I, after all, had both grown up in Florida. We knew a thing or two about hurricane’s and how to ride them out - being prepared. I had an added bonus: Girl Scout training: ALWAYS be prepared. It’s a philosophy that serves one well in life. This particular experience wasn’t new to either of us, by any means, but I find that the older I get, the less I care to find out just how "brave" I can be! I’m brave. I don’t need to prove it to myself or anyone else anymore. It’s a given. I KNOW it; that's all that matters, But, when we were kids, a hurricane on its way to our neck of the woods was an adventure. As adults....not so much!
I remember years ago, in particular, Hurricane David that blew through Jacksonville, Florida on Labor Day Weekend 1979. At the time, my parents were separated, and we lived in a town-home community. We weren’t going to let something like some high winds and heavy rains dampen OUR holiday weekend. We taped our windows with the X going across them; we filled the tub with water and had batteries galore.
We were prepared for him to show up so that we could "kick some @$$" as the guys would say. When you’re young and don’t know better, you can talk big like that. What really happened was that several of the neighbors banded together, and we made a kind of "Him-a-Cane" party out of David’s arrival. We had been warned by Mr. Winterling [George/our weatherman] that the power was going to be out for days so people should make a contingency plan for that. I had a black and white 5" televison with a radio attached and batteries out the ying-yang! It could also be plugged into a running vehicle’s cigarette lighter to charge the batteries or watch the tv....[BE Prepared!] Also, our friends and neighbors, The Whites, had a gas grill. The adults talked and decided that if power was going to be out for several days, we might as well cook the food in the freezer, set it out for people to eat and watch The Jerry Lewis Labor Day MDA Telethon. We made lemonade out of lemons, and it was memorable, and it bonded us to our neighbors in ways we'd not been previously bonded. We had a block party that was more fun than anything we could have planned without the backdrop of the hurricane. I met people whom I’d never known before in the neighborhood but was comfortable with, after the "getting to know you" session brought about because of that storm. If we ever needed anything - any help at all, they told my mother and I, that we could come to them. Our circle of friends had been expanded because of a Hurricane’s wrath.
So, it was with Irene. When a 100 year-old tree was uprooted like a toothpick from our neighbor’s yard and tossed across the street, blocking access, that "old help philosophy" kicked in. Three trucks pulled up in our front yard and neighbors got out without saying a word. They walked over to where the other guys were buzz-sawing the part of the tree that was impeding cars from being about to get in and out of the cul-de-sac. They stood there in yellow slickers as torrential winds and rains pelted them; did what they had to do, then went on back to their homes. It was an amazing thing to witness. Neighborly. That’s what it’s called, and I'm happy to report that it still exists today. That’s probably one of the positives that came from Irene: in this day and age, when everyone is connected through electronic social networking and communication is predominantly done via a text, it’s good to see some old tried and true form of communication still in existence.
It’s also true that the worst situations, from my experience, bring out the best in people. Many in our area, as of a week later, still did not have power. A few days ago, my husband offered to let any of his co-workers drop by the house to take a hot shower - have a cup of coffee if they wanted to. No one took him up on it, but sometimes, it’s just having the offer that matters – it’s knowing you can do it if you really need to, that gives you the strength to keep going. Options. They’re important to have when one is down and out...
Another thing my husband and I talked about as we weathered the night was how spoiled a society we’ve become. We take for granted things that we consider basic necessities which, 100 years ago didn’t exist for many people: indoor plumbing [bathrooms]; air conditioning; fully electrolyzed homes. How on earth did they survive it? Our forefathers and mothers truly were a heartier stock of people. I know this much about myself: I couldn’t do it - not for a sustained period of time. Even when forced to do it, it’s a challenge. I don’t do excessive heat very well. There is a grumpiness that begins to take root. Trust me, it doesn’t take much either to stir the grumpy pot either.
I remember being a little girl and visiting my grandparents' farm. They didn’t have central air in the house. The bedrooms had cross-breeze ventilation and nothing more unless it was a box fan in the window. I remember a window-box ac unit in the family room where the large, black wood stove was as well. That room was closed off from the rest of the house. It was where the tv was and the telephone. Yeah, they had one of each. No more. It wasn’t needed! My grandparents didn’t live in a society of excess. They lived in an era of practicality. You slept in the bedroom; you ate in the kitchen; you bathed and took care of other matters in the bathroom. Period. You gathered in the family room to watch television or accept a phone call. If you needed privacy regarding the phone call, you could walk out in the room that had a freezer and an armoire and sit on the floor, but that was it. There’s something to be said for that.
Likewise, my parents were in their 30's before they had a television in their bedroom, and it was a tiny little colored 19-inch box on a T-stand. We thought they’d hit the lottery. The most elaborate electronic devise any of us kids had in our room was a record player, the ones that use to play 45 and 78 vinyls. Kids of this generation probably wouldn’t have a clue what they were today. I’ve never felt old until the differences between my childhood and the childhood of kids today was compared. Amazing thing is that it wasn’t that long ago. More amazing still, we didn’t miss not having a tv in our bedroom, and computers here, there and everywhere.... It truly is a George Jetson world we are now living in! That’s one of the realizations my husband and I came to as we texted a few friends and family members to let them know that we were okay, as the winds howled and the rains pelted and a stirred-up lady named, Irene, raged all around us. A sci-fi cartoon of our youth had become a reality, and we truly live now in that George Jetson world that seemed SO far-fetched and unreal as a kid.
As we played our third game of Parcheesi amidst the glow of candlelight and the light cast-off from flashlights, we vowed that we were going to take more time as autumn approaches and the weather becomes cooler to sit out on the front porch, turn off the tv, leave the laptops inside and sit in our rocking chairs to talk like we did in days of yore. It truly is becoming a lost art: verbal communication. For some, it’s already a lost art. We’re going to make a cup of coffee or a glass of ice-tea and go sit on the porch to talk about our day before we make supper. There is an intimacy and a connectedness in doing that, which is as relevant today as it was 100 years ago. I wish more people understood that simple truth. It’s one of the lessons we learned from Irene. The ties that bind us as a couple, a family or a community are some of the simpler, more basic methods of communicating that are dying out like the North American mountain lion, the Florida Panther or the Mannatee. It’s sad...
Irene wasn’t the biggest hurricane to blow along the east coast nor was she the baddest! Granted, she left a LOT of destruction in her wake; caused a great deal of stress; for some, she brought sorrow, and for most who encountered her, a headache. But, she also served as a reminder that some of the very things that we were deprived of, i.e. t.v., computer, video games, etc. wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, because it gave us time, in a forced kind of way, which is sometimes what it takes, to actually talk to each other face-to-face instead of via text, email or cell phone. It gave us time to rediscover the fun in playing a board game; it gave us an opportunity to clear our minds from all the outside noise that clutters our thoughts so that we could actually hear our thoughts for a change, share them with another and receive theirs in a verbal- context return. Imagine that? Conversing verbally in the same room. It CAN still be done!
So, while Irene was a BIG pain in the @$$; she was also a blessing of sorts – however mixed it came to us, we found something positive to take away from her visit.
Goodbye, Irene and goodnight.....we’re glad to see you go! You were a major inconvenience, but you did manage to leave an indelible mark on us with regard to the truly important things in life, and therein we found the blessing of you. We’ll be implementing some of the things we did during those 15 hours as part of our daily routine....bring back heart-to-heart talks sitting on the front porch and sharing a beverage; exchanging hearty laughter as we play board games again and feel that healthy, competitive spirit return within us, as we realize how blest we truly are that the company we’re keeping is actually with someone we truly enjoy keeping company with. Try it sometime....you may just be pleasantly surprised.

Written by Jhill Perran
September 3, 2011

A Joyful Sound...

* This is a long post.  I hope you will chose to read it AND, please, listen to the music....joyful sounds one and all...

He didn't tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it. ~Clarence Budington Kelland

                           Leslie Earl Bosher, December 5, 1938-August 4, 2009

                                                      Daddy ~ Circa 2000

  http://youtu.be/8_clO8PBzKM Fanfare for the Common Man~Aaron Coplan

Some memories, though painful and sad, can play over and over in your mind like a beautiful song. That’s what the summer of 2009 was for me: a beautiful song with painful and sad chords running through it. There are a lot of details here, but that’s where the story is, in those details. Each one is a necessary note needed so that you can hear the song that runs through my mind, when I recall the year my father died. So, I begin:
In March of 2009, my husband bought me an early birthday present. [My birthday is in mid-August.] It was something that I’d wanted and longed to do for the better part of 30 years: to see Jackson Browne in concert. He was going to be in Charlottesville, Virginia on, ironically, my husband’s birthday, which is August 4^th. I was so excited, looking forward to my birthday that year and a gift that, until that moment, I thought I would never get – FINALLY seeing Jackson Browne live.
Fast forward to the end of June. We were on vacation in Belfast, Maine [our little slice of heaven here on earth]. As part of our Maine experience, we went to see the Rockland Breakwater Lighthouse in Rockland, Maine. It was made from granite and spanned twenty-feet-wide, with a length that went .9 miles out into Rockland Bay. It’s purpose was to break water brought in by severe storms or rough waves from the ocean into the bay. It was a fascinating structure, but given that it went almost a mile out into the water and the granite walkway was periodically doused with a wave or two, my husband and I thought it best that I examine it from the safety of shore, since walking can prove challenging for me some days. We thought strolling out there with a cane could have proven treacherously difficult for me to maneuver, on that potential slippery slope, and I didn’t particularly want to get a mile out on a strip of granite surrounded by seawater, only to have a mishap. So, Tom went on the adventure, and I happily watched.
It was Thursday, July 2^nd as I sat and watched people walk out onto that granite walkway and, like my husband, disappear into a little pin-point speck the further out they went. They seemed to disappear right into the water. It was an oddly fascinating sight.
After watching that spectacle for about 15 minutes, I decided to call my mother, as I waited for Tom to return. When I reached her, she told me that they had taken my father to the hospital the previous day. My father had been sick for several years, so, that news typically shouldn’t have made something shift inside me, but it did. I heard a voice in my head, as my mother told me not to worry, to stay and finish out our vacation, tell me, instead, that we should get to Florida and SOON! We were planning our annual end-of-July trip to Jacksonville anyway, but Mom assured me that there was no reason to change our plans. That’s what she told me. Still, the thought gnawed at me for two days, and the more time passed, the harder it gnawed.
That Saturday, on July 4^th, after we had been to a celebratory parade in Searsport, we drove around all our favorite places in Belfast, then we went back to our hotel to await the evening fireworks downtown, over Penobscot Bay. I remember my husband asking what I wanted to do to pass the time, and I looked at him and, regretfully, told him I felt we needed to go home. My husband is a good guy! A good sport! He didn’t hesitate in cutting our vacation short because of my strong feeling that we should head to Florida. He slept for about an hour and a half, while I quietly packed up the room. Then, like one of those afternoon storms in Jacksonville – ones that rapidly move in and just as quickly move out, the car was packed up, and we were on the road by 4 p.m.
I recall, as we drove out of Maine, apologizing, teary-eyed, to my husband because we were going to miss the fireworks. I’d really wanted to see them too! He squeezed my hand and told me that it was okay. He assured me that we’d return the next year to re-visit our sanctuary from the hustle and bustle of daily life. I closed my eyes and silently thanked God for putting this wonderful man in my life! Some men truly would not be willing to cut their vacation short - especially after having been told to stay put. It was never a second thought for Tom.
I will also never forget the incredible journey home. Sometimes, when we make a decision that carries some personal disappointment for us, God rewards the sacrifice with something more spectacular than we could have ever imagined! That night, as we drove back to our home in Virginia, in order to re-group before we headed to Florida, we were treated to a fireworks display that will rival anything I will ever see again in my lifetime! From 8:30 until 11:00 p.m., we saw fireworks – brilliant fireworks – as we made our way through Massachuessets, Connecticut, New York, and Pennsylvania. It was amazing! It was spectacular! And, it made the leaving a little easier to take. We laughed. We oohed. We AHed! We marveled at the memory that was being created in that moment. Who else can say that they saw fireworks in FOUR states on the 4^th of July?! By gosh, I’ll bet nobody! Nobody but us, that is! It was an experience so grand that it made us feel like the only two people in the world, when we remember it! Sometimes, miracles come in the smallest of ways in the overall scheme of things. That night seemed like one of those things to us.
But, It was no more a wonderful sight than the surprise and happy sparkle we saw in my father’s eyes when we walked into his hospital room two days later. I knew when I saw him that we had made the right decision. We spent almost a month in Florida. It was one of those surreal occurrences, when it seemed like the days were endless, yet the time passed quickly.
One night, when Tom & I were visiting, the nurse came in to check on Daddy, telling me that he’d not been eating very well. I asked her if she could have a dish of chocolate ice-cream sent up for him. She looked at me, smiled and nodded, seeming to understand that, sometimes, daughters know more in certain instances than medical experts. In all fairness, I did have a slight advantage. I had witnessed my father turn down a grade A, filet mignon steak, for a sweet, decadent dessert. When all else failed, give him something sweet. I come by that trait naturally! So, it was no surprise that he ate every bit of the ice-cream. His nurse made a note on his chart that if he wasn’t eating well, to send a bowl of ice-cream up. In that moment, for that moment, all was well.
Later that night, when the intercom system announced that visiting hours were over, my father looked at both of us and asked us not to leave. He seemed a little uncomfortable – something was weighing on him, and he didn’t want us to leave him, not then anyway. Now, my family can attest to the fact that I’ve never been much of a rule breaker, [my brother has been known to call me the white sheep of the family] but on that night, the rules, I thought, be damned. We stayed for an extra half-hour, until the nurse stepped in and politely told us that visiting hours really were over.
It’s an unexplainable feeling when a child recognizes that the roles between parent and child have shifted. It was the first time in my life that I sensed a hesitancy in my father. In made me think of the times when I was a little girl who did not want to go to bed, because, on that particular night, I was afraid of the dark. Even though I shared a room with my sister, there was something about the darkness that unsettled me at times. That was until my father showed me that there was nothing lurking beneath my bed, there were no hidden monsters in my closet nor any frightful creatures hiding outside my window. The extra time he took to assure me that I was safe and all was sound, allowed me to go to sleep, peacefully, secure in those two facts.
It was my hope that those extra 30 minutes we gave Daddy offered him some of that same reassured solitude that he’d provided for me so many years prior. He seemed to relax when I kissed him goodnight and told him that we’d see him first thing the next morning. I remember the look in his eyes, when I asked before we left: "okay?" Within that "okay", my eyes told him that if it wasn’t, we’d stay until it was, and I’d deal with the nurse. I can still feel the squeeze of his hand in mine when he nodded that it was alright.
The following morning, we were up and out. True to my word, we got there first thing. Our visits were taken in shifts so that everyone could spend time with Dad. It gave each of us time to have quiet moments with him, discuss unresolved things, reminisce about specific shenanigans we had gotten into as children. It was a gift for each of us, for different reasons and in different ways. Nonetheless, those moments were priceless as they came to me and my family. We recognized that not everyone is fortunate to have time to settle things with a loved one before they make their transition onward. It truly was a wondrous gift.
One afternoon, my husband dropped me off, then went to Starbucks so that I could have some one-on-one time with my father. We were watching General Hospital, a soap opera that I had gotten my father hooked on, after he had retired. We watched it everyday together the year that he lived with us in Virginia. During a commercial break, he looked over at me and asked if I’d gotten my puppy yet? My mother had gotten a Chihuahua the previous year, and I had fallen in love with him. I was suppose to get the pick of the litter when my mother bred Slick, but those plans didn’t work out. When my mother told my father in early Spring that she was going to have to have Slick neutered, my father told her that I was going to be devastated. Mom assured him that she was going to buy me a puppy for my birthday, which was a few months down the pike, and Daddy had asked if he could go in with her on it. So, that afternoon, during the commercial break, he wanted to know if we’d taken care of that yet?
I remember chuckling, and telling him that I’d not had time to go find a puppy, because I had wanted to spend my time visiting with him.
He looked me straight in the eye, and we held that glance for a minute before he said, "I want you to get your puppy."
I assured him I would get on it, when I got back to my mother’s house. I told her that he had been insistent upon it. We had previously glanced at ads in the newspaper, but that night we scoured them. The next day, Mother took me to a pet store, to see some puppies. They were cute, but my puppy wasn’t among them. We decided to keep looking, but I sensed something in my father wanting me to take care of it soon, much the way I had sensed something more urgent in getting to Florida, after Mother had told me that he’d been taken to the hospital. So, I allowed myself the freedom to take time away from visiting with my father on a couple of days and enjoy going off in search of my puppy.
My mother and I looked and looked and looked some more. I wasn’t rushing. It had to be the perfect puppy. My mother and I had a ball searching for my Chihuahua. It was like a treasure hunt. I’d not been on one of those since I was a little girl, and it was extra special doing it with my mother. Between that and visiting my father, the days were full.
Within a week, it became more apparent where things were heading with regard to Daddy. My father had been receiving certain treatments that he neither liked nor wanted, but doctors are in the business of saving lives, even when the life they are fighting to save is fighting not to be saved. [There are times when a person knows the deck is stacked against them, and their heart knows, as the song says, that it’s time to fold ‘em.] I think my father knew the score. I don’t fault the doctors for their efforts. It’s what they’re there to do. However, we had a purpose too: to carry out my father’s wishes.
My husband sat with Daddy watching tv and talking about sports, while my mother and I spoke to the doctor in the hallway. As a family, we had decided to move Daddy to Hospice but wanted to make certain we understood my father’s prognosis before we did it. As any good doctor would do, he attempted to sway us from that decision and continue on with their treatments, instead of allowing my father to just be. It was met, on my part, with vocal declaration that our family was moving forward with regard to my father’s expressed wishes regarding cessation of treatment. My brother had been the one, earlier, to talk to Dad at length, for clarification purposes on that point – he didn’t want the treatments he was being given. We were armed with the knowledge of what my father’s wishes were, and we intended to see that they were carried out.
The doctor told me that he had liked me much better when he had spoken to me on the phone, before we’d left Virginia. There was something comical in the comment–the way he’d said it. At least I took it that way. I was raised by a southern couple to be gracious and polite in the ways that I conducted myself as a woman. Sometimes, as I’ve learned from my southern mother, graciousness, politeness and niceties have to take a backseat to the assertive and direct approach that are often required in order to get things done.
It’s like a circus, high-wire act – this lesson my mother taught, in how to balance and navigate the currents of being a gracious, southern woman, who could take care of myself. It’s a training that rivals anything a coach instills into their sports team, I’ll guarantee you! So, with as much gracious decorum as I could muster, I politely told the doctor that I was sorry if my assertiveness seemed abrupt to him. It had not been my intent to offend him in any way, but we were not there to be his friend nor amiable with regard to his feelings. Our purpose was greater than that! We were there solely to be my father’s advocate. We moved him to Hospice.
I cannot say enough good or positive things about Hospice. The environment and atmosphere was all about comfort and peace for the patient as well as making certain that, we, the family, were doing alright as well. It is a wonderful organization. I felt the love in which the staff considered not only my father’s feelings and wishes but ours too. His room felt like a bedroom not an antiseptic, stark white room in a hospital that teemed with the sounds of rolling carts and intercom notifications, and various other noise and clatter. It was night and day in terms of atmosphere. I knew we had made the right choice. Also, with Hospice, they allow the family to come over at night if you want to sit with your loved one. No more nurses to tangle with after the visiting hour bell chimes. That was a big comfort for us children.
After spending the morning with my father, my sister came in and spent Monday afternoon with my him, while my mother, husband and I went off in pursuit of my puppy. It was July 20. It was the day we found Chuey. It was a happy, good day. He was a tiny little sweetheart of a thing, no bigger than a fist, or as Daddy would say, "a minute!". He was fawn colored with a black muzzle and dark chocolate eyes. As soon as the woman put him into my arms, the deal was done-sealed-finito! I had found my puppy. He was perfect and, oh so sweet. I didn’t know a heart could fall in love THAT quickly, but ours had. We laughed as we drove back to the house. My mother oohed and ahhed over him, as if he truly was her grandbaby, and he was! After we got back to Mother’s and settled, I called my father to let him know that I’d gotten my puppy and would be bringing him over the following morning.
"You did?" he sounded happy. My brother was there with him. There was no telling what they’d been up to – the tree and his apple. [I must be careful using that analogy because some say it about me as well]. Anyway, I felt like a little girl telling him all about Chuey, my sweet puppy, as I laughed and giggled and, yes, cried a little, all the while talking to him about how adorable he was. My mother had heard me rambling, ad nauseam, about Chuey’s extreme cuteness. I was certain she was thankful for the respite from the continuation of that conversation – glad my father was on the receiving end of my continued gushing for a while. In any event, I told Daddy we’d see him soon.
"That’s good, Sug!" he replied, sounding pleased. "I’ll look forward to it."
He seemed relaxed – more relaxed than I’d heard him in years. There are times when conversation with my brother and sister can put you in a really good place. Daddy had gotten a double-dose of it that day, I could tell. It was a good thing.
The next morning was a good thing too. Something happens when people see a puppy. Eyes widen – light up, a hand reaches out and some light play ensues. That’s exactly what happened the next day, when I took Chuey over to meet Daddy. My father pulled back when Chuey popped out from beneath the blanket that covered him. Daddy made his "Ugh" kind of laugh. Chuey wasn’t sure what to do or make of everything - new environment, new smells, new things to get into. He scampered up and down the bed, while my father’s eyes darted after him.
Dad giggled.
Now, for those of you who don’t know this, a giggle is very different from a laugh. It’s more playful - mischievous. In some ways, it’s like having a secret. It was a carefree moment – a truly happy moment. I leaned over and kissed his cheek, thanking him for the best birthday present ever!
"Make certain you thank your Mother!" he replied in an instructional tone, as if I was four years old, and he had to tell me something that had already been drummed into my head and solidly instilled, regarding manners. "It was her idea after all! She told me I could go in on it with her, but she’s the one to thank."
I assured him that Mother had already been thanked a dozen times or more the previous day, each and every time I looked at my munchy, little puppy.
"Did you get the one you wanted?" he asked, curiously.
I nodded that I had. I had wanted the one listed with Chuey’s coloring but specified as female. I jokingly told Dad that aside from the people not being able to tell the difference between a male and female puppy, I’d gotten the one I’d wanted. Tom and I were smitten with him. Boo, not so much! [A story for another day]
"Well, that’s good!" he said, laughing about the sex mix-up. "As long as you’re happy!"
I don’t know why I felt tears come in that moment, but they did. I looked down and said softly. "I am, Daddy! Thank you. I am very happy!"
Then, he said the last thing that I would ever hear him say to me: it was a compliment and a blessing, which I know you’ll understand if I choose to keep private. I rested my head against his quilted-covered chest with my arm draped across him and told him one final time, when he was able to say it back to me, that I loved him. It was the last thing we ever said to each other. It was one of the most important moments in my 45 years of life, that I had shared with my father. Aside from the quiet words he’d whispered to me before he walked me down the aisle to marry Tom, or the emotional telephone conversation we shared, and the words of comfort he offered to me, after I suffered my first miscarriage, the last time my father and I said we loved each other will forever be emblazoned in my heart and mind as one of the most special moments of my life.
It was the following day that my father slipped into what I prefer to call the place between the worlds: the one we live in and infinity. He was physically there with us, but he’d stopped communicating with us, except for an occasional hand squeeze here or there, which could have been construed as merely reflex. Who knows for certain? We chose to interpret messages in the way that provides us with comfort. For me, Daddy was communicating with us in those periodic hand squeezes. Again, we were back to taking shifts with him so that he wouldn’t be alone, which was a promise that his children had made to him, during another time in his life when he seemed a little unsettled, and we assured him that he’d never be alone.
My days with my father during that time period were spent reading him the Bible - just opening it up and reading wherever the spirit lead me. There were some incredibly comforting passages that I was lead to. Even Tom made comment one day when he came into the room and heard me reading that it was amazing that my hands had just open to that particular passage. God works in amazing ways...
I continued to watch General Hospital with him – comment about the stories I knew he liked the best, then informed him what the stocks had closed at each day, at 4 p.m.; the idea was to continue with as much of his daily routine as normal, because we believed he could hear us. It wasn’t a difficult groove to fall into. It didn’t seem strange to talk to him and not get a response. I can’t explain it beyond that. There was a purpose in the silence, and I still believed that my father was present in the moment with me. All I can say is that it reminded me of a song I had learned, in church, as a child:

"I believe in the sun, even when it isn’t shining. I believe in love, even when there’s no one there. And, I believe in God. I believe in God, even when he is silent..."

 Just as I believed that, I continued to believe that my father could hear me. So, on we went in this journey to his finish line.
The wonderful thing about Hospice is that they are open to families 24-7. They also allow pets to come in for a visit. If we couldn’t sleep at night, we were more than welcome to go over and sit with Dad. One night, I did just that. I had Chuey wrapped up in the baby blanket that my mother had given him and sat in the recliner that was closest to Dad’s bed, which allowed me to hold his hand. I nestled in with the remote control trying to find something decent at 3 a.m. to watch, when lo and behold, I stumbled upon Jagged Edge. It’s a thriller with Glen Close and Jeff Bridges. We’d seen it together when we lived in Maryland. Still, it’s a movie worth seeing again, if you like thrillers. We did.
"Ooh, Dad!" I said, pulling the blanket and Chuey closer around me. "Jagged Edge is coming on. Let’s watch!"
I think I truly humored one of the night nurses who was tickled by the way that I talked to my father. She happened to pass by as I told him:
"Keep your eyes closed, Dad, the scary part is coming!"
She couldn’t help herself. She had to pop her head in, because she said it sounded like we were having waaaay to much fun. And, in our own way, we were. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t answer me. I knew he was aware of what was going on and enjoying my playful banter with him, because he loved to banter.
That’s how the days and nights went. One of us being there, sitting with him, talking to him, holding his hand, while the others rested until their turn came. It was 10 o’clock on Saturday night, July 25^th, when the night nurse called and suggested that the family gather. We called my brother and sister to let them know that we were being told the time might be at hand. Then, we threw on some sweats and jeans, and headed out thinking-believing that the time was near. It was quite a ride over. We were all lost in our own private thoughts, which is not always a bad thing.
One by one, we arrived, until the five of us were gathered around his bed, kissing his forehead, telling him that we loved him, urging him to let go, assuring him that we’d be alright, and we’d see him again one day. Now, anyone who knows my father, knows that he has always done things on his timetable, when he was ready and not one minute before. This night would prove to be no exception. However, at the time, we didn’t know that he wasn’t quite ready to leave just yet. It was oddly comforting being piled into that room together like a grown-up slumber party was about to commence.
I don’t recall when the last time we’d all been in the same room together was, but I knew this would be the last time, regardless of the outcome. I guess it’s why every moment of that particular night is so acutely etched in my mind, because when you recognize something like that, you tend to pay more attention to the details than you might have otherwise.
We sat in the cool, semi-dark room, illuminated only by the light coming from the cracked, open bathroom door and spoke softly to one another. My mother and brother each took a recliner; my sister was curled up on the window seat with a pillow and a blanket, and my husband and I laid side-by-side on cots that had been brought in. I don’t know what the protocol is for something like that – sit still and not make a sound as we waited for my father to leave us? After all, that is a truly reverent moment. However, we don’t do that very well: sit quietly still, unless, of course, we’re in church. Even then, it’s a test.
My mother can tell you that - having doled out most of her half-moon-nail-patterned reminders for silence, to antsy children struggling to sit still and be quiet in church. In Dad’s room, we spoke in hushed tones about mundane things. It was much easier to pass the night that way – light conversation. Periodically, one of us would get quiet, overcome by the magnitude of the moment. There were many long moments that passed that night, but nothing happened the way we had been told it would happen. Daylight broke, and my father was still with us.
I could hear his laughter in my mind as if to say: "Oh, Sug! I can’t believe you fell for that! Did you really think I was leaving tonight?"
Because, my father, you see, had a wicked sense of humor.
We decided to go for breakfast, because we desperately needed coffee, but my sister wanted to stay behind and join us later. One thing, I learned during this entire process was to let people maneuver through this unfamiliar territory in the space and time that they needed to – to find their own way through it at their own pace. So, we left her with Dad, but not before I whispered into his ear,
"You didn’t fool me for one second, Old Man! I suspected all along that you’ve got one more trick up your sleeve...." It was a comment my father would have appreciated. "Old Man" was a term of endearment that always humored him, when it was used-in the context that it was used! I kissed his cheek, joined the others and left my father in good company with my sister.
The next week went much the same way as the previous ones. With one exception. We were coming into the first week of August. As previously mentioned at the beginning of this post, Tom and I had made some very special plans, months earlier, for my birthday that happened to coincide on my husband’s birthday. Tom and I spoke about the concert but only in the context that we were sorry we didn’t have any way to get the tickets to anyone to use. They were hanging on our refrigerator in Virginia.
My mother overheard our conversation as she passed through the living room. She looked at me intently. "I don’t think you should miss the concert," she told us. "Your father wouldn’t want that."
I shook my head. I couldn’t think of leaving. I told her as much.
She sat down with us. "Jhill," she said in the comforting mother-tone that a child yearns to hear when they are in a quandary. "You’ve done everything here that you can do! All we can do now is wait. You don’t need to stay for that, when you’ve made these plans. You know that Daddy would tell you to go."
I started to cry. "If I leave, I won’t see him again!"
She reached for my hand and squeezed it, then hugged me. We were silent for a minute, then she pulled away to go to her room. "I’m not going to tell you what to do, but I know what your father would want for you to do!"
When she left, I buried my face in my hands and cried some more. It was too much and coming from all directions. I was torn. I didn’t want Tom’s birthday to be ruined. Yet, I didn’t want to leave my father. My father, however, was in a twilight place, and I knew there would be no coming back from it for him. I let go and let reasonableness in.
It was true, what my mother had said. There wasn’t anything left for me to do in Jacksonville, but sit with my father and wait for something that I didn’t really want to wait around for. My mother and I had already made his arrangements together. I’d written his obituary. It truly was a waiting game. There was much I had to do in Virginia, because we had decided that we would bring Daddy’s ashes home and bury him in the family plot. My mind was overwhelmed with all that was left to do there, but it was true that I had done all I could in Florida.
I looked at my husband and nodded. My mother was right. I knew she was right. We decided to go home.
Tom and I stopped by to see Dad on our way out. I remember standing beside his bed just staring at him, for what seemed like hours, trying to memorize every detail that I could - hoping that my mind’s eye would be able to recall, at a later date, the detailed image of my father. I knew I would not be seeing him again in this lifetime. I laid across his chest and placed his arms around my neck. It was the best that I could do for a final hug. I bathed his blankets in tears as I promised that I’d see him on the other side. I scratched his beard, then kissed him there as I re-affirmed a love that had begun between us on a hot summer’s day in 1963, when I came screaming into the world. His exit from it would be more gracious than my entrance, but I think it’s suppose to play out that way. One moment was a joyous celebration. The other was a bittersweet and somber one. Yet, in that moment, as I looked at him one final time, I heard the sounds of Fanfare for an Common Man pound in my head, and I smiled at him one last time, because there was nothing common about my father.
I was happy that he would soon be freed from a body that had betrayed him through the years; that the constant pain he’d lived with for far too many years would no longer plague him; that his worries would soon abate and life’s disappointments would become a distant memory for him. Those were the things to celebrate with his transition onward. That, and that he would soon be walking in fields of gold - joining the rest of our family who had gone on before him. I can see that imagine so clearly in my mind. My grandfathers are walking with him - Granddaddy and Granddaddy Bosher ; my Grandmother has a pitcher of iced tea waiting for them and Nannie Ocie calls to Martha to see if she needs any help setting the table. Then, my Daddy helps his sister, my Aunt Betty, and her son Eric to the table as Aunt Shirley helps round up Tom and my children to sit beside my father, and they all join hands and say grace. That was the happy thought that played out in my mind as my father prepared to join them...
The drive home was long – emotional – draining. Tom and I didn’t speak a great deal. Boo was ticked off with us because of Chuey. And, Chuey...well, he kept me from completely falling apart. He snuggled against my chest, wrapped in the little, blue, baby blanket my mother had given him. Periodically, he’d raise his tiny head and lick my cheek or cuddle close against the space between the front part of my neck and chest – snuggle cuddles as I call them. I use to do it with my mother when I was a little girl, and she held me in the rocking chair. It was a comfort. More of a comfort was when silent tears would rain down on Chuey, and he’d look up at me and begin the task of licking my face and cleaning all the tears gone again. I smiled as I looked into his chocolate brown eyes [the color of his My-Mama’s] and remembered my mother smiling and laughing the day he was placed into my arms. Her face faded into my father’s as he watched my little bit scamper up and down his bed, reaching his hand out to touch him. More tears fell, and Chuey collected every one of them. I held him closer to me as I leaned my head against the headrest and closed my eyes. It went that way for a while: me crying and Chuey licking all the tears gone. It’s amazing how old a 45 year old body can feel. In that moment, the days and weeks had caught up to me, and I felt like I was 80 - a very OLD 80...
It was a different coming home than normal for me - bittersweet. Dad had lived with us for awhile, before he moved to his condo in Jacksonville. When we walked into the house, my eyes went immediately to his chair in the living room. Images of him sitting in it - watching his tv shows filled my mind. I called my mother to tell her we had made it safely home and to see if there had been any change? She told me he was holding his own. I remember hanging up the phone and chuckling over that. My father had always held his own.
Tom and I went to bed, knowing that the following day would be filled full with unpacking, doing laundry and re-packing for an overnight trip to Charlottesville. Immediately, upon waking, I called my mother. It was to be a back-and-forth of touching base all day. That night, my stomach was in knots. I don’t know why, but just as I sensed in Maine that Dad’s situation was dire, so I sensed his impending exit strategy. My husband’s birthday was the following day. I don’t know why, but my gut feared, for some unfathomable reason that Daddy would be leaving us on Tom’s birthday. If that was the case, my heart felt an extra ache. I didn’t know what that would do to Tom if it proved to be true? I called my mother late that Monday night.
"If Daddy passes tomorrow," I hesitated, feeling guilty for wanting to have my husband's birthday drama-free, when SO much was going on in Florida. "Would you wait and tell us on Wednesday? I don’t want Tom to have to think about that on his birthday. It won’t change anything," my voice broke as I made the request.  It was unlike me to think of me first, but I think my mother knew that, at the heart of my request, I was thinking of Tom first.
My mother agreed.
The following morning, Tom and I had a subdued breakfast celebration for his birthday.
"Any news on Dad?" he asked, taking a sip of coffee.
I shook my head.
"Why don’t you call?"
Tears came. "You sure?"
"It’s on our minds," he said. "I think we’ll enjoy the day more if we know what’s going on."
I nodded my agreement and called.
My mother didn’t seem surprised to hear from me. She told me he’d made it through the night and she and my sister were heading over for awhile.
"Tell Pam to give him a kiss for us!"
I remember going into the kitchen as Mom spoke to Tom - telling him to try and have a happy day!
I picked up a napkin and dabbed at my eyes, as I stared out the kitchen window. Please God! Don’t take him today!
I remember that prayer so viscerally. I wiped at my eyes and put on my happy face. It was, after all, my husband’s birthday. He didn’t deserve a gloomy Gus.
Chuey bounced all around the room as Tom opened his presents. Then, he packed the car as I got ready for lunch. The game plan was to leave for Charlottesville after we returned from the restaurant. Get the bird; grab the puppy; hit the road.
At 12:45 p.m., as we were walking into the house to get the bird and grab the puppy before we hit the road, the phone rang. I remember looking at the caller i.d. I wasn’t going to answer it, but I still looked. The room spun briefly as I saw my mother’s phone number on the Caller I.D.; I looked at Tom, grabbed hold of the sofa’s edge and sat down before I answered.
I knew when I heard my mother’s voice say my name that he was gone. I spared her from actually having to say it to me.
"Daddy?" I asked, nervously.
She told me it was Daddy.
"When?"
She told me that she and my sister had left to go have a bite of lunch, and had no more gotten down the road when his nurse called and said that he’d passed.
"I can’t believe we were there with him for two hours," she said. "And, as soon as we walk out of the room, they call and tell us he’s gone."
"It works that way, sometimes, Mom!" was all I could say. It dawned on me that we had been having a Mexican dessert with ice-cream when Daddy passed. Tom was wearing a huge sombrero and the gang at Mexico had sang to him. My father never could stand to miss a party - especially where ice-cream was being served!
Then, I recall breaking down at that point, and feeling Tom next to me. I listened as my mother consoled me then, I handed the phone to Tom as I sobbed. It’s an indescribable feeling when you lose a parent. There’s a moment of panic followed by fear, because it dawns on you that one of your greatest support systems is now gone. Then, the grief settles in and takes hold. There is a true Oh God! moment, when all three emotions converge and you feel lost. It’s a horrible feeling, but, then, I wouldn’t expect any less on the day your father dies.
I did my notifying from the car on our way over to Charlottesville. It seemed odd to be going to a concert on the day that my father died, but it was also my husband’s birthday, and I needed to give him as much of a happy day as I could muster. I don’t think I was a very good musterer, but Tom didn’t fault me for it.
I reached for his hand and told him I was sorry. It needed to be acknowledged that it wasn’t just regretful that my father had died, but that he had done so on my husband’s birthday. The magnitude of it is something that I still haven’t wrapped my brain around, two years later, other than to say what I said to my brother when he called to check on us and give Tom birthday greetings [I know....it sounds like the plot of a badly written play!] My brother and everyone else in the family, however, love how I expressed this loss.
Still, it had become our reality, and we had to find some way to deal with it. The only thing I could come up with and hold onto was this: the two most important men in my life share a birthday! My husband was born into the world on August 4^th, and my father stepped into eternity on that day. My brother thought that it was a nice and fitting way to look at it.
Well, truth be told, my family has had its share of dealt lemons to contend with. I know how to make lemonade. When life hands them to you, you can either try to turn it into something palatable or let it make your disposition bitterly sour. I don’t do sour, though I struggle, at times, with the bitter. Some pills...you know.... are like that and my human-ness makes me struggle. It’s a fine line. That’s the grace moment though: struggling with the bitter, while not becoming sour.
Tom asked me if I wanted to go home.
I remember shaking my head. "No," I told him. "I want to see Jackson Browne, and I want to celebrate your birthday."
He squeezed my hand.
Now, being the sign person that I am, I reached for one in that moment. I remember telling him. "Ya know, Jackson Browne doesn’t sing For a Dancer very often [from what I’d heard] in concert. It’s my favorite song of his, and if he does it tonight, I’ll know Daddy’s gotten safely to where he’s going and is okay."
I think Tom felt a little uneasy by that reasoning. He didn’t want me to be any more disappointed given the disappointment the day had already dealt. It seemed as if I was setting myself up for more of it.
"What’s your second pick?" he urged me to find a backup strategy.
I shook my head. "Nothing," I said, knowing what he was doing. "I don’t really expect him to sing it. It was just a thought..."
"I just don’t want you to be disappointed, Sweetie!" he said softly, his own voice breaking a little.
"We’re seeing Jackson Browne in concert tonight!" I reminded, and there was true excitement in my voice. "There’s nothing that can be disappointing in that!"
He didn’t push it any further. [He knows me too well]
The concert was at a lovely, outdoor venue. Because Charlottesville is surrounded by mountains, the weather isn’t overly hot or humid, even in August. Tom got me situated, then went to buy me a program.
It was a beautiful night. The sky was clear and blue and the weather was pleasantly balmy. I remember thinking how ironic the backdrop was to this day. Tom and I settled in against one another and prepared for a night of incredibly enjoyable music. It was a welcome interlude from the day’s earlier event and the one that was soon to follow.
The one thing that I knew would go as planned with regard to the day was that Jackson Browne would NOT disappoint! He would be as incredible as I always imagined. And, it was true.
His voice was as smooth and mellow as I’d always heard it to be through the speakers of my stereo system. His presence was as grand yet as humbling as he presented himself in interviews. His songs were meaningful and rich with emotion. The only difference was that the delivery was better - so much better, because we were there with him - live and in person.
Sometimes, when sad things happen to us, God sends a hug more spectacular and comforting than anything we could ever have imagined a hug from God could be! God sent me a hug the night he called my father home. This is what the hug was:
The sun was setting, and in a patch of blackish-blue sky off in the distance, a twinkle of starlight appeared. One star was all that was visibly seen in the sky in that moment. Then, in the movement of a light summer breeze, that felt like a kiss against my cheek, I heard a chord played. It’s all I needed to hear to know what was coming. I cried out, "Oh," as I grabbed Tom’s arm. Just as the band began to play the song I had requested on the drive over. It was as if the heaven’s opened up [my hand to God, I’m not exaggerating this] and a bright ray of light from the setting sun, touched down directly over Jackson Browne as he began to sing, For a Dancer. That light stayed spot on him throughout the entire song.
"Oh my God!" I softly cried.
I think I heard Tom echo it back.
It was a most beautiful sight! It was a most joyous sound! It was truly indescribable!
I felt my hand clutch my heart because the odds of him performing that song were so much greater in favor of it not happening. Did I say that it was a most beautiful sight? It was! The way the rays of the sun shone down upon him, and the richness of his voice soothed my troubled, weary and sad soul. I felt the smile of God on me in that moment. Jackson Browne will never know the gift he gave me that night. It was truly a religious experience, and one that I have thought back on many times these last two years, when I’ve needed a moment of comfort regarding my father’s departure from this life. In the moments that it took for him to sing that glorious song, I knew that my father had made it safely home – he was at peace and okay. As I listened to that joyful sound, within the melody of solace in his poignant lyrics, I felt a peace come to me – the one that passes all understanding. It was one of those paradoxical moments when nothing about the day was okay, yet, in that moment, it was all okay...
In the aftermath of that gift, as we prepared for my father’s memorial service, I thought of another verse that also gave me comfort - that I carry with me. It became the final sentiment that I expressed at my father’s memorial service, when it was my turn to speak. My brother spoke first. Then, my husband read a poem. My sister spoke next. And, being the youngest, I spoke last. I couldn’t think of anything better to end with, after I had eulogized my father, than the words of William Wordsworth from Intimations of Immortality. They are this:

"Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
The soul that rises with us, our life’s star,
Hath had its setting elsewhere 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..."

Amen...

There is one last thing, I’ll ask you to indulge me in, if you’d be so kind. I made a video for the first anniversary of my father’s death. I’ve attached it, if you’d like to watch it. [As well as a couple of others] We were in Boston for that milestone. [My father went to Harvard] Daddy and Tom loved to not only to watch baseball together but discuss it. Tom has always wanted to see as many ballpark’s as he can so, true to his word, we went back to Maine the following summer, and on our way back from Maine, I took him to Fenway Park for his birthday. We felt Daddy’s presence all over that place as the commentator called the plays and we listened to the 7^th inning stretch and celebrated the day. It was almost as glorious as Jackson Browne singing For a Dancer the year prior. Almost. Nothing, however, will ever top that moment when Daddy’s circle of life completed and was beautifully wrapped up in the majesty of that joyful sound....

http://youtu.be/uWgY6eVzTNM [Video I made in memory of my father/8-4-10]

http://youtu.be/IU1rZa8Ur_Q [The song Jackson Browne sang to me the night my father died]
　
Written by Jhill Perran
August 4, 2011　

In Loving Remembrance:
Leslie Earl Bosher
December 5, 1938-August 4, 2009 

Tom and I on August 4, 2009~Daddy was heading out when this photo was taken.

Me & Daddy, 4/28/95

I miss his hug...

My favorite picture of me with Mom and Dad, Circa Summer of 1987

Chuey, the last gift I ever received from my father [and mother] for my birthday in August 2009

Me & Chuey ~ 8/13/09 My birthday