Thanks for visiting, and for sharing your comments, and for allowing me to share my life with you for the past six or so years. "A Sort of Notebook" is retired. Some of my favorite posts are still here, but most of the blog has gone to the Great Big Archive in the Sky.
Blessings to all.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
A "Reprint"
This is a "reprint" of one of my favorite blog posts, written several years ago.
I'm not a poet, but I thought I'd do the "Where I'm From" poetry exercise/meme, which I first saw at Pratie Place. Basically, you use the template found here to write a poem using George Ella Lyons's poem, "Where I'm From," as a model. For some reason, the link to Lyons's poem includes something called "Louisiana Voices," bits and pieces of the poem written by women from Louisiana. Below is my attempt at using my own Louisiana voice in this exercise. It really was fun to write; try it yourself.
Why did I write this? I wrote it to celebrate my adoption "birthday." I was born on February 18, but I wasn't adopted until April 27, thirty-five years ago today.
WHERE I'M FROM, by Waterfall
I am from coffee grounds,
from Fisher-Price little people and bleached clam-shell driveways.
I am from the slant-roofed playroom,
the green carpet and the brown braided rug,
littered with toys and tiny shoes.
I am from the pair of hickories in the back yard,
thick, woody roots intertwining,
killed by blight one summer after we moved on.
I’m from braided bread wrappers and
stewed chicken served on TV trays at Christmas.
I am from Baxley and Gamble,
Didier, Gilbert and Barlow.
I am from the sound of his whistling,
And the sound of her singing Jesus-songs as she rocked me to sleep.
I am from the clean-plate club,
and milkshakes at Burger Chef after the dentist,
and nectar snowballs on steamy summer afternoons.
I am from Bible Discoverers and weekly verses,
sultry summer mornings in line for Bible school,
and baptism in a tennis dress, before a dressed-up congregation,
one bright Sunday morning when I was six.
I am from the river’s edge and flooded streets after rain.
I’m from the grassy green levee,
dotted with fire-ant hills and smelling of fresh cow-pies.
I am from Plaquemine, half-devoured
by the hungry Mississippi,
five buried blocks now scattered beneath her muck.
I am from filé gumbo and jambalaya,
Community coffee and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.
I am from Mardi Gras costumes, with
fallen sequins replaced in a pinch with the hot-glue gun.
I am from black-watch plaid jumpers and navy-blue shoes
bought at Tic-Toc, or Duffy’s, on a Wednesday afternoon.
I am from the tiny attic with wall-posters,
school papers, and construction-paper art—
memories now shipped, some of them, to Carolina,
or stored for safekeeping in the cabinet below the television,
in yellowing albums with pages grown sticky with age.
I'm not a poet, but I thought I'd do the "Where I'm From" poetry exercise/meme, which I first saw at Pratie Place. Basically, you use the template found here to write a poem using George Ella Lyons's poem, "Where I'm From," as a model. For some reason, the link to Lyons's poem includes something called "Louisiana Voices," bits and pieces of the poem written by women from Louisiana. Below is my attempt at using my own Louisiana voice in this exercise. It really was fun to write; try it yourself.
Why did I write this? I wrote it to celebrate my adoption "birthday." I was born on February 18, but I wasn't adopted until April 27, thirty-five years ago today.
WHERE I'M FROM, by Waterfall
I am from coffee grounds,
from Fisher-Price little people and bleached clam-shell driveways.
I am from the slant-roofed playroom,
the green carpet and the brown braided rug,
littered with toys and tiny shoes.
I am from the pair of hickories in the back yard,
thick, woody roots intertwining,
killed by blight one summer after we moved on.
I’m from braided bread wrappers and
stewed chicken served on TV trays at Christmas.
I am from Baxley and Gamble,
Didier, Gilbert and Barlow.
I am from the sound of his whistling,
And the sound of her singing Jesus-songs as she rocked me to sleep.
I am from the clean-plate club,
and milkshakes at Burger Chef after the dentist,
and nectar snowballs on steamy summer afternoons.
I am from Bible Discoverers and weekly verses,
sultry summer mornings in line for Bible school,
and baptism in a tennis dress, before a dressed-up congregation,
one bright Sunday morning when I was six.
I am from the river’s edge and flooded streets after rain.
I’m from the grassy green levee,
dotted with fire-ant hills and smelling of fresh cow-pies.
I am from Plaquemine, half-devoured
by the hungry Mississippi,
five buried blocks now scattered beneath her muck.
I am from filé gumbo and jambalaya,
Community coffee and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.
I am from Mardi Gras costumes, with
fallen sequins replaced in a pinch with the hot-glue gun.
I am from black-watch plaid jumpers and navy-blue shoes
bought at Tic-Toc, or Duffy’s, on a Wednesday afternoon.
I am from the tiny attic with wall-posters,
school papers, and construction-paper art—
memories now shipped, some of them, to Carolina,
or stored for safekeeping in the cabinet below the television,
in yellowing albums with pages grown sticky with age.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Hubster's Friend's Psychic
Hubster has a Facebook friend, actually a friend from high school whom he hasn't be in touch with since high school.
Well, this Facebook friend has a psychic. She went to her psychic for a reading the other day. Here's what the psychic said, out of the blue:
"Who's Dan? He's going to have a baby girl."
(For those who don't know, Hubster's real name is Dan. But I only call him that if I'm really mad at him. Which is such a rare occasion that I'm surprised I even remember his name at all.)
So many people have been guessing what Scout's going to be. Some say they know, without a doubt, that Scout will be a boy. (How can you know that?) Others just know, without a doubt, that Scout will be a girl. There is brazen confidence on both sides.
I ought to set up a betting pool. One where I win, no matter what.
Well, this Facebook friend has a psychic. She went to her psychic for a reading the other day. Here's what the psychic said, out of the blue:
"Who's Dan? He's going to have a baby girl."
(For those who don't know, Hubster's real name is Dan. But I only call him that if I'm really mad at him. Which is such a rare occasion that I'm surprised I even remember his name at all.)
So many people have been guessing what Scout's going to be. Some say they know, without a doubt, that Scout will be a boy. (How can you know that?) Others just know, without a doubt, that Scout will be a girl. There is brazen confidence on both sides.
I ought to set up a betting pool. One where I win, no matter what.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Last Few Hours
Note: It really helped me to write about the last few hours I spent with Mary Monday night. This started as a blog post, so I'm posting it here as intended. However, I do know that some of Mary's family have discovered this blog. This note is to them: If you're uncomfortable reading about your daughter on a "public" blog (though this blog only has about 12 regular readers, most of them my friends), just put a note in the comments, and I'll remove it, no questions asked.
What a week.
What a terrible week.
I worked in a nursing home for about a year and a half when I was in my 20s. I had to quit, and a big reason was this: people kept dying. Of course, you think. It was a nursing home, after all. People are supposed to die there.
But plenty of people work in nursing homes as careers, and they don’t quit because people keep dying. They just keep going. Sure, they grieve for those they became fond of, but … it’s part of the job.
I couldn’t take that part of the job. I loved the residents, every one of them. When they died, a part of me died. The families of the deceased had to comfort me.
Some of us just aren’t cut out for certain types of work, and I wasn’t cut out for long-term care. Praise God for those who are.
I was around death a lot during that time. Most of the residents who died were, of course, up in age. Some of them weren’t. One young man, age thirty or so, had an advanced stage of cancer. A 42-year-old man had something wrong with his lungs … I can’t remember what it was, but it took his life maybe six months after we first met--and grew to love--him.
Mary and I talked about death as we drove to Anderson, SC, that evening of March 30 to the wake for our friend Carla’s brother, Jamie, who had died of cancer. Not the most cheering subject, but … well, we were going to a wake. We had both had grandparents die. She also told me about a friend of hers from high school who had been killed in a car accident, drag-racing, I think. What a shock it had been. We talked about how that kind of death is so much harder to deal with than the death of someone who has lived a good, long life.
When we talked to Carla that night at the wake, Carla told us how she had been able to spend a lot of time with her brother those last couple of weeks of his life. Cancer had ravaged his body and left him paralyzed from the neck down, but they had been able to talk, and they’d been able to say everything that needed to be said. Carla agreed that it was truly a blessing that they’d had that time together. Sure, no one wants to be given a death sentence … but it sure helps you, and those around you, to realize what’s truly important, and to act on that realization.
On the way home, Mary and I talked about that. Tragic as Jamie’s death was, his family was able to spend precious time with him those last few weeks before he died. They were able, on some level, to prepare for his death. They could say their goodbyes. And Carla could have some degree of peace about her brother's death.
How different a situation that was from her high-school friend, she said. She hadn’t been in touch with him for some time when she heard about his death. She went to his funeral. His girlfriend was just standing there next to the casket, crying. Mary said he didn’t look anything like she’d remembered him. It was almost like he was a stranger.
Our driving conversation wasn’t all morbid that evening. We talked about her upcoming wedding (she was getting married on June 20, which had been my start date for my Appalachian Trail thru-hike in 2000; it was a wonderful day for starting new things, I told her). We talked about hiking, about gardening, about books. The usual things. We talked about her brother, Danny; about my niece, Ella. About how no one likes to go to wakes or funerals, but how it’s also important that we do go.
On the way through Georgia, she pointed out a trailhead where she and several co-workers had stopped awhile back. Several people from Drake had gone down to Anderson (yes, Anderson) for the funeral a co-worker's family member, and on the way back, they’d stopped and hiked up to a riverbank, where people could whitewater rafters passing by during the summer.
“I guess we won’t be stopping there on the way back!” I said, since it was going to be well after dark.
“No, probably not tonight!” We laughed, knowing that we would definitely have stopped and hiked under different circumstances.
After the wake was over, but before we left, Carla, Mary, and I joined in a big “group hug.” Then we invited her husband, Wayne, and her son, Thomas, into the hug, and we were all laughing. Later, we met the three of them at a local diner called The Clock. I try to remember what we talked about, but I don’t. I do remember laughing at Thomas’s strange selection of a meal (lasagna with a side of mac ’n cheese) and listening to him tell us about bowling.
We left the restaurant around 9:30 or 10, I guess. I don’t know. The long drive home became even longer when we missed a turn somewhere in South Carolina or Georgia.
“Do you recognize this?” Mary asked as we drove through a seedy-looking little town.
“You know, I was just thinking … no, this doesn’t look familiar.”
Turn on the light. Look at the map. We were headed for Cornelia, Georgia. We could keep going, then go north, or we could turn back and go the original route. It didn’t look like it would matter. Either way seemed equally long. We turned back … and mentally kicked ourselves for missing the turn, which seemed so obvious when we finally got back to it.
We alternated between talking and just sitting as she drove, not turning on music because we would start talking again and have to turn the music off so we could carry on a conversation. She talked a lot about her brother, about the “false alarm” they’d had back in January, when the hospital called and said there was a heart for him—great news for Danny, who had been on the transplant list for five years. But then … it wasn’t right. The hospital called back. False alarm.
“But it gave us hope,” said Mary that night. “After waiting so long and not getting ‘the call,’ it was almost like they’d forgotten about us.”
We were both tired as we rode along the dark roads of north Georgia, then western North Carolina. We cheered aloud when we finally saw the first sign for the Fun Factory, which is in Franklin. Almost to Franklin!
When we finally passed the Fun Factory, though, Mary spoke aloud what I was thinking: “Did it seem like it took a really long time to get here?”
Yup.
“When we get to my house,” I offered, “Do you want to come in for a cup of coffee or something?”
“No, if I drink coffee I won’t be able to sleep once I get home,” she said. “I’ll be fine. I drive home late all the time during development season.”
“More power to you,” I said. “Thanks for driving. I couldn’t have come if I’d had to go by myself. No way would I have been able to stay awake.”
“No problem!” she said, and she meant it.
Earlier that day, we’d made arrangements to go to the visitation for Carla’s brother. Plagued by headaches all weekend, I had gone to the doctor that afternoon. I’d e-mailed Mary:
I’m going to the doctor at 3 and don’t know if I’m going to come back to work afterward—I really want to go lie down. (Don’t we all!) But I’d really like to go tonight for Carla. So let me know what time would work best for you.
She e-mailed me back:
I am free whenever. I have no plans tonight. So really we can go when you feel up to it. How bout this…Lie down and I’ll stay here at work until you call me. Then I’ll drive to your house and pick you up and we will leave?
She sent me her cell phone number, which I quickly programmed into my cell phone that afternoon. I haven’t deleted it yet.
A few minutes before we got into Franklin, she put a CD in.
“Do you like Jewel?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said. “I haven’t heard anything by her in years, though.”
“She just came out with a new CD, not too long ago,” Mary said. She put the music in and we listened until we got to my house.
I asked again if she needed to come in, use the bathroom, fill up her water bottle, whatever. She said no, she’d be fine.
I said, “Bye, see you tomorrow. Drive safe.” Or something like that. The usual pre-programmed farewell chitchat you say—and even mean—without thinking.
I went inside, she drove off. She was gone. I guess the Jewel CD was probably still playing when her car was struck by a drunk driver a half-hour later. Who knows. All I know is that I still can't believe she's gone.
I’ve kicked myself enough for not chatting more before I went inside, for not watching the road better (as a good passenger-seat navigator is supposed to do) when we missed the turn on the way home. For not being more strongly encouraging that she come in for a few minutes. I know it’s not my fault, but it’s hard to block out all the “what if’s” that have been bombarding my mind for the past few days. What if we’d been just a little earlier? Just a little later? What if things had been … just a little different?
One thing I do regret: that I didn’t tell her how excited and happy I was about our friendship. She joined our group at work last spring, and I’d gotten to know her better during that time. We both loved reading and talked often about books. She’d borrowed my deluxe edition of Jon Krakauer’s Into Thin Air and had loved it.
We both loved hiking and the outdoors. She’d just bought her first real backpacking pack, an Osprey Xenon, just a couple weeks before. We both loved the good homemade bread you could buy at Riverblaze Bakery, the little bake shop on Carl Slagle Road that was open on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays.
We planned to do more hiking after tax season. Specifically, we planned to do some backpacking. We even tossed around the idea of a hike while her fiancé, Tony, was on his AT hike from Roanoke to Harpers Ferry. That probably would have been this weekend.
Another memory from that night: When we got to the wake that evening in Anderson, Carla was so glad to see us. She linked her arms in ours and introduced us to her family. We watched several cycles of the slide show that had been prepared showing scenes from her brother’s life. It was time well-spent. Dinner with them afterward was also time well-spent. I don’t regret that we did either, and neither did Mary.
Mary got to spend the last few hours of her life bringing comfort to a friend who needed comfort. How many of us, were we to die suddenly today or tomorrow, could have the same said of us?
Death is a harsh way of making us realize what things in life are important, and what things are not so important. But before we even think about those things, there is the sense that a piece of your heart has been ripped from your body. An aching emptiness, together when a dull, numb, hazy wondering of “What the hell just happened?”
“And why?”
Helen at the coffee shop believes it was God’s will, that God knows our death date before we’re ever born. My sister’s friend, Beth, who just survived a long struggle with cancer, prefers to word it this way:
“I have learned that God’s will is not always what we want, but a better word is God’s purpose, and that it is not her death that necessarily brings purpose, but her life. Her life had God’s purpose and that is what is important to remember.”
I have prayed, but not as much as I probably should. I admit, it is hard to pray in the face of such seemingly random, meaningless, unnecessary death.
Mary’s life definitely had purpose. She brought joy to so many of us with her beautiful smile, her easy, giving spirit, and her genuine kindness. I will always think of her when I am out on the trails.
Rest in peace, Mary Couey.
What a week.
What a terrible week.
I worked in a nursing home for about a year and a half when I was in my 20s. I had to quit, and a big reason was this: people kept dying. Of course, you think. It was a nursing home, after all. People are supposed to die there.
But plenty of people work in nursing homes as careers, and they don’t quit because people keep dying. They just keep going. Sure, they grieve for those they became fond of, but … it’s part of the job.
I couldn’t take that part of the job. I loved the residents, every one of them. When they died, a part of me died. The families of the deceased had to comfort me.
Some of us just aren’t cut out for certain types of work, and I wasn’t cut out for long-term care. Praise God for those who are.
I was around death a lot during that time. Most of the residents who died were, of course, up in age. Some of them weren’t. One young man, age thirty or so, had an advanced stage of cancer. A 42-year-old man had something wrong with his lungs … I can’t remember what it was, but it took his life maybe six months after we first met--and grew to love--him.
Mary and I talked about death as we drove to Anderson, SC, that evening of March 30 to the wake for our friend Carla’s brother, Jamie, who had died of cancer. Not the most cheering subject, but … well, we were going to a wake. We had both had grandparents die. She also told me about a friend of hers from high school who had been killed in a car accident, drag-racing, I think. What a shock it had been. We talked about how that kind of death is so much harder to deal with than the death of someone who has lived a good, long life.
When we talked to Carla that night at the wake, Carla told us how she had been able to spend a lot of time with her brother those last couple of weeks of his life. Cancer had ravaged his body and left him paralyzed from the neck down, but they had been able to talk, and they’d been able to say everything that needed to be said. Carla agreed that it was truly a blessing that they’d had that time together. Sure, no one wants to be given a death sentence … but it sure helps you, and those around you, to realize what’s truly important, and to act on that realization.
On the way home, Mary and I talked about that. Tragic as Jamie’s death was, his family was able to spend precious time with him those last few weeks before he died. They were able, on some level, to prepare for his death. They could say their goodbyes. And Carla could have some degree of peace about her brother's death.
How different a situation that was from her high-school friend, she said. She hadn’t been in touch with him for some time when she heard about his death. She went to his funeral. His girlfriend was just standing there next to the casket, crying. Mary said he didn’t look anything like she’d remembered him. It was almost like he was a stranger.
Our driving conversation wasn’t all morbid that evening. We talked about her upcoming wedding (she was getting married on June 20, which had been my start date for my Appalachian Trail thru-hike in 2000; it was a wonderful day for starting new things, I told her). We talked about hiking, about gardening, about books. The usual things. We talked about her brother, Danny; about my niece, Ella. About how no one likes to go to wakes or funerals, but how it’s also important that we do go.
On the way through Georgia, she pointed out a trailhead where she and several co-workers had stopped awhile back. Several people from Drake had gone down to Anderson (yes, Anderson) for the funeral a co-worker's family member, and on the way back, they’d stopped and hiked up to a riverbank, where people could whitewater rafters passing by during the summer.
“I guess we won’t be stopping there on the way back!” I said, since it was going to be well after dark.
“No, probably not tonight!” We laughed, knowing that we would definitely have stopped and hiked under different circumstances.
After the wake was over, but before we left, Carla, Mary, and I joined in a big “group hug.” Then we invited her husband, Wayne, and her son, Thomas, into the hug, and we were all laughing. Later, we met the three of them at a local diner called The Clock. I try to remember what we talked about, but I don’t. I do remember laughing at Thomas’s strange selection of a meal (lasagna with a side of mac ’n cheese) and listening to him tell us about bowling.
We left the restaurant around 9:30 or 10, I guess. I don’t know. The long drive home became even longer when we missed a turn somewhere in South Carolina or Georgia.
“Do you recognize this?” Mary asked as we drove through a seedy-looking little town.
“You know, I was just thinking … no, this doesn’t look familiar.”
Turn on the light. Look at the map. We were headed for Cornelia, Georgia. We could keep going, then go north, or we could turn back and go the original route. It didn’t look like it would matter. Either way seemed equally long. We turned back … and mentally kicked ourselves for missing the turn, which seemed so obvious when we finally got back to it.
We alternated between talking and just sitting as she drove, not turning on music because we would start talking again and have to turn the music off so we could carry on a conversation. She talked a lot about her brother, about the “false alarm” they’d had back in January, when the hospital called and said there was a heart for him—great news for Danny, who had been on the transplant list for five years. But then … it wasn’t right. The hospital called back. False alarm.
“But it gave us hope,” said Mary that night. “After waiting so long and not getting ‘the call,’ it was almost like they’d forgotten about us.”
We were both tired as we rode along the dark roads of north Georgia, then western North Carolina. We cheered aloud when we finally saw the first sign for the Fun Factory, which is in Franklin. Almost to Franklin!
When we finally passed the Fun Factory, though, Mary spoke aloud what I was thinking: “Did it seem like it took a really long time to get here?”
Yup.
“When we get to my house,” I offered, “Do you want to come in for a cup of coffee or something?”
“No, if I drink coffee I won’t be able to sleep once I get home,” she said. “I’ll be fine. I drive home late all the time during development season.”
“More power to you,” I said. “Thanks for driving. I couldn’t have come if I’d had to go by myself. No way would I have been able to stay awake.”
“No problem!” she said, and she meant it.
Earlier that day, we’d made arrangements to go to the visitation for Carla’s brother. Plagued by headaches all weekend, I had gone to the doctor that afternoon. I’d e-mailed Mary:
I’m going to the doctor at 3 and don’t know if I’m going to come back to work afterward—I really want to go lie down. (Don’t we all!) But I’d really like to go tonight for Carla. So let me know what time would work best for you.
She e-mailed me back:
I am free whenever. I have no plans tonight. So really we can go when you feel up to it. How bout this…Lie down and I’ll stay here at work until you call me. Then I’ll drive to your house and pick you up and we will leave?
She sent me her cell phone number, which I quickly programmed into my cell phone that afternoon. I haven’t deleted it yet.
A few minutes before we got into Franklin, she put a CD in.
“Do you like Jewel?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said. “I haven’t heard anything by her in years, though.”
“She just came out with a new CD, not too long ago,” Mary said. She put the music in and we listened until we got to my house.
I asked again if she needed to come in, use the bathroom, fill up her water bottle, whatever. She said no, she’d be fine.
I said, “Bye, see you tomorrow. Drive safe.” Or something like that. The usual pre-programmed farewell chitchat you say—and even mean—without thinking.
I went inside, she drove off. She was gone. I guess the Jewel CD was probably still playing when her car was struck by a drunk driver a half-hour later. Who knows. All I know is that I still can't believe she's gone.
I’ve kicked myself enough for not chatting more before I went inside, for not watching the road better (as a good passenger-seat navigator is supposed to do) when we missed the turn on the way home. For not being more strongly encouraging that she come in for a few minutes. I know it’s not my fault, but it’s hard to block out all the “what if’s” that have been bombarding my mind for the past few days. What if we’d been just a little earlier? Just a little later? What if things had been … just a little different?
One thing I do regret: that I didn’t tell her how excited and happy I was about our friendship. She joined our group at work last spring, and I’d gotten to know her better during that time. We both loved reading and talked often about books. She’d borrowed my deluxe edition of Jon Krakauer’s Into Thin Air and had loved it.
We both loved hiking and the outdoors. She’d just bought her first real backpacking pack, an Osprey Xenon, just a couple weeks before. We both loved the good homemade bread you could buy at Riverblaze Bakery, the little bake shop on Carl Slagle Road that was open on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays.
We planned to do more hiking after tax season. Specifically, we planned to do some backpacking. We even tossed around the idea of a hike while her fiancé, Tony, was on his AT hike from Roanoke to Harpers Ferry. That probably would have been this weekend.
Another memory from that night: When we got to the wake that evening in Anderson, Carla was so glad to see us. She linked her arms in ours and introduced us to her family. We watched several cycles of the slide show that had been prepared showing scenes from her brother’s life. It was time well-spent. Dinner with them afterward was also time well-spent. I don’t regret that we did either, and neither did Mary.
Mary got to spend the last few hours of her life bringing comfort to a friend who needed comfort. How many of us, were we to die suddenly today or tomorrow, could have the same said of us?
Death is a harsh way of making us realize what things in life are important, and what things are not so important. But before we even think about those things, there is the sense that a piece of your heart has been ripped from your body. An aching emptiness, together when a dull, numb, hazy wondering of “What the hell just happened?”
“And why?”
Helen at the coffee shop believes it was God’s will, that God knows our death date before we’re ever born. My sister’s friend, Beth, who just survived a long struggle with cancer, prefers to word it this way:
“I have learned that God’s will is not always what we want, but a better word is God’s purpose, and that it is not her death that necessarily brings purpose, but her life. Her life had God’s purpose and that is what is important to remember.”
I have prayed, but not as much as I probably should. I admit, it is hard to pray in the face of such seemingly random, meaningless, unnecessary death.
Mary’s life definitely had purpose. She brought joy to so many of us with her beautiful smile, her easy, giving spirit, and her genuine kindness. I will always think of her when I am out on the trails.
Rest in peace, Mary Couey.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
My Friend, Mary
Mary Couey was one of your fellow readers of this blog. She was a co-worker and, more importantly, a friend. She was killed on her way home Monday night, hit by a drunk driver. Please keep Mary's family and her fiance, Tony (they were engaged to be married this summer), in your prayers. With all the grief and shock that we have been going through at work, I can't imagine what Mary's family and fiance are suffering right now.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Some Bad News about a Good Friend
Dear Scout,
I was a little worried about you yesterday. When I got to work that morning, the head of my department come to my desk and asked me to come to the conference room. When I got to the conference room, my boss was sitting there. Her eyes were red from crying.
“Oh, no,” I thought. “They’re having massive layoffs. I’m going to be fired. Poor Scout will grow up in a poorhouse.”
But that wasn’t it. The news they gave me was infinitely worse. My friend Mary, whom I’d just seen the night before, was dead, killed in a car accident on her way home after dropping me off.
What a shock. I have cried more in the last two days than I have in a long time. I worry about you; I don’t want my stress to have a negative effect on you. But at the same time, I cannot help but grieve. Mary was a beautiful person. She was a good friend. I think we were well on our way to becoming very good friends. After tax season …
After tax season, we planned to do some hiking and backpacking trips. I was trying to talk her into hiking the Art Loeb with me and a few other friends over Memorial Day weekend. I was saying I wished she and her fiancé could join your dad and me on the Pinhoti Trail this April. We talked about books—we both loved to read. She was planning to be married in June. We talked about her wedding.
We talked about a lot of things that night as we drove to South Carolina, and then back to Franklin. We had gone to South Carolina to visit a friend whose brother had just died of cancer. I’m sorry to talk of these things, Scout—you know nothing of death, and I pray that you’ll be kept from that knowledge for a good, long time.
It was so late. We had eaten dinner with our friend Carla and her family before driving home, then we’d gone 10 miles off the course and had to turn back, losing a good half-hour. It was nearly midnight when she dropped me off.
About a half-hour later, she would be killed by a drunk driver. She was hit head-on and, they say, died instantly. I hope she felt no pain.
I worried about you when I learned of this tragedy. Stress is not good for a baby Scout. You’ve only been in existence for about three weeks; I didn’t want to give you more than you could handle already. I hope everything is okay in there, that you’re just growing and strengthening and becoming you.
I’m glad you’re here. Mary asked me if your dad and I were going to have kids, and I told her “no, we haven't been planning for kids.” I couldn’t tell her about you just yet. The next morning, before I learned of the wreck, I told your father how Mary and I would laugh someday, after I’d made the announcement about you, at how I’d had to evade her question that evening in the car.
Mary’s life was not in vain. She was a beautiful, giving person. I would be honored if you would someday have her same giving spirit, her easy smile, her obvious love for life.
It was a sad day in my life, Scout. It was a sad day for a lot of us. But a couple of good things happened that day, too, and I’d like to tell you about them.
Your Aunt Megan and Cousin Ella came up from Brevard to spend time with me. I had my first appointment with the baby doctor. Aunt Megan and Cousin Ella took me, and they waited and played in the waiting room while I went in for my appointment.
“Congratulations!” said the midwife when she came in to the examining room. She was talking about you, Scout. She was congratulating me for the happy news that I would be bringing you into the world.
She said you’ll be born in late November or early December. We won’t know for certain until late April, when your dad an I go in to get a sonogram. I’ll be able to see you then! Right now, you’re about the size of a sesame seed. By then, you’ll be closer to a lima bean. From a sesame seed to a lima bean in just a few weeks—you are growing fast!
I’ll end this letter for now. I’m sure I’ll write you many more in the upcoming months. Again, I hope the stress of the last couple of days has not hurt you. I’m doing my best to protect you, as long as I can, from the harshness of the world.
Love,
Mommy
I was a little worried about you yesterday. When I got to work that morning, the head of my department come to my desk and asked me to come to the conference room. When I got to the conference room, my boss was sitting there. Her eyes were red from crying.
“Oh, no,” I thought. “They’re having massive layoffs. I’m going to be fired. Poor Scout will grow up in a poorhouse.”
But that wasn’t it. The news they gave me was infinitely worse. My friend Mary, whom I’d just seen the night before, was dead, killed in a car accident on her way home after dropping me off.
What a shock. I have cried more in the last two days than I have in a long time. I worry about you; I don’t want my stress to have a negative effect on you. But at the same time, I cannot help but grieve. Mary was a beautiful person. She was a good friend. I think we were well on our way to becoming very good friends. After tax season …
After tax season, we planned to do some hiking and backpacking trips. I was trying to talk her into hiking the Art Loeb with me and a few other friends over Memorial Day weekend. I was saying I wished she and her fiancé could join your dad and me on the Pinhoti Trail this April. We talked about books—we both loved to read. She was planning to be married in June. We talked about her wedding.
We talked about a lot of things that night as we drove to South Carolina, and then back to Franklin. We had gone to South Carolina to visit a friend whose brother had just died of cancer. I’m sorry to talk of these things, Scout—you know nothing of death, and I pray that you’ll be kept from that knowledge for a good, long time.
It was so late. We had eaten dinner with our friend Carla and her family before driving home, then we’d gone 10 miles off the course and had to turn back, losing a good half-hour. It was nearly midnight when she dropped me off.
About a half-hour later, she would be killed by a drunk driver. She was hit head-on and, they say, died instantly. I hope she felt no pain.
I worried about you when I learned of this tragedy. Stress is not good for a baby Scout. You’ve only been in existence for about three weeks; I didn’t want to give you more than you could handle already. I hope everything is okay in there, that you’re just growing and strengthening and becoming you.
I’m glad you’re here. Mary asked me if your dad and I were going to have kids, and I told her “no, we haven't been planning for kids.” I couldn’t tell her about you just yet. The next morning, before I learned of the wreck, I told your father how Mary and I would laugh someday, after I’d made the announcement about you, at how I’d had to evade her question that evening in the car.
Mary’s life was not in vain. She was a beautiful, giving person. I would be honored if you would someday have her same giving spirit, her easy smile, her obvious love for life.
It was a sad day in my life, Scout. It was a sad day for a lot of us. But a couple of good things happened that day, too, and I’d like to tell you about them.
Your Aunt Megan and Cousin Ella came up from Brevard to spend time with me. I had my first appointment with the baby doctor. Aunt Megan and Cousin Ella took me, and they waited and played in the waiting room while I went in for my appointment.
“Congratulations!” said the midwife when she came in to the examining room. She was talking about you, Scout. She was congratulating me for the happy news that I would be bringing you into the world.
She said you’ll be born in late November or early December. We won’t know for certain until late April, when your dad an I go in to get a sonogram. I’ll be able to see you then! Right now, you’re about the size of a sesame seed. By then, you’ll be closer to a lima bean. From a sesame seed to a lima bean in just a few weeks—you are growing fast!
I’ll end this letter for now. I’m sure I’ll write you many more in the upcoming months. Again, I hope the stress of the last couple of days has not hurt you. I’m doing my best to protect you, as long as I can, from the harshness of the world.
Love,
Mommy
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Putting Away Childish Things?
Most of our boxes are unpacked. Today I unpacked boxes that I haven't unpacked in years. These are the boxes that got stacked in the back of overstuffed closets, that were among the first to be loaded into storage, that have been taped shut, some of them, for years. These are my journals.
For the first time in my life (I think), I have a place (other than taped-up boxes) to store my journals. These notebooks date back to 1980 (when I was 10), though I didn't actually begin writing every single day until I was 13 or 14. And I haven't stopped.
I know this is probably navel-gazing. But I learned how to use the "macro" feature on Hubster's camera and think it's really cool to look at handwriting up close. Don't you?
As I read these few journal entries, part of me wants to laugh at myself. Some of them are funny. My penchant for hyperbole apparently goes back about a million years.
But this is also making me feel pensive. I've been wanting to sit and journal-write (or blog-write) for a long time, but I've been so busy with work. The thoughts that are coming out here aren't in quite the format I'd planned (not that I'd really planned anything), but here they are. And there will be more to come, I'm sure, the very next time I have a slow, lazy Sunday to myself.
I hope I get another one of these lazy days soon. I have a lot to write about. Notebooks and notebooks and notebooks full.
For the first time in my life (I think), I have a place (other than taped-up boxes) to store my journals. These notebooks date back to 1980 (when I was 10), though I didn't actually begin writing every single day until I was 13 or 14. And I haven't stopped.
I know this is probably navel-gazing. But I learned how to use the "macro" feature on Hubster's camera and think it's really cool to look at handwriting up close. Don't you?
As I read these few journal entries, part of me wants to laugh at myself. Some of them are funny. My penchant for hyperbole apparently goes back about a million years.
But this is also making me feel pensive. I've been wanting to sit and journal-write (or blog-write) for a long time, but I've been so busy with work. The thoughts that are coming out here aren't in quite the format I'd planned (not that I'd really planned anything), but here they are. And there will be more to come, I'm sure, the very next time I have a slow, lazy Sunday to myself.
I hope I get another one of these lazy days soon. I have a lot to write about. Notebooks and notebooks and notebooks full.
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