grief

Third Anniversary

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All day long I’ve tried to write a gentle, loving note to honor this horrible third anniversary of Ken’s passing but the only thing in my head is an anguished cry of grief for my best friend. “Why are you gone?” are the words bouncing around in my otherwise empty head. 

Why are you gone?

I can’t laugh about how irritated Ken would have been by our isolation. He — the man who never went out without first strategizing all the reasons why we could stay in — would have chafed at the restrictions, not because they aren’t necessary but because anything, once denied, is that one thing that we long for most. If he had lived, he would be one of the most at risk and we would have been far too protective of his health, which would have irritated him even more. 

Why are you gone?

Tarriona “Tank” Ball, of Tank And The Bangas, once said, “There’s some areas of New Orleans where the storm has never passed.” I think about that a lot, and not just in reference to New Orleans. Recovery, resilience, isn’t a solo activity. It requires support; for me, it requires support from the one person who can no longer give it. Ken would have loved the eclectic poetry of Tank And The Bangas’ music. He would have been the person to say, “I have a new artist for you to hear.” He would have known about them before they were famous and would have celebrated their success as though he himself had discovered them. He would have been impatient with my grief, would have hated that I’m crying as I type this.

Why are you gone?

Today, a red-headed woodpecker sat on a tree branch outside my window. He climbed the trunk like a squirrel and pecked for a bit. Sometimes it was so loud, cartoonish, like the Woody that many of my generation grew up watching. Sometimes, it was a quiet tap, as soft but insistent as the tree branch against the glass when the wind blows: tap, tap. I feel his presence in everything and nothing. Sometimes, like that woodpecker, he seems to shout in my head but when I most need him, the only shouting is my own. “Why are you gone?” 

Dear god, why are you gone?

Third Anniversary

Chicken Tender Sammies and Other Kindnesses

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If you came here for an uplifting “we’ll get through this together” post, I recommend that you leave now. We can all pretend that leaving a blog unread is like opening the conference room door, realizing that you’ve accidentally joined the wrong meeting and scuttling out, embarrassed but, at the same time, grateful that you didn’t sit down. If, on the other hand, you aren’t sure why you’re here, welcome; I’m not sure why I’m here either but we’ll be here together. Some days, that’s all we can ask for. 

Over the course of my life, I’ve spent a lot more time in hospitals than the average healthy non-healthcare-employed person does. There’s a quiet rhythm to the experience. You figure out how long you’re allowed to be with the patient. You pick up on the hospital routines. You learn how things like food, testing, room temperature, and parking work. After a while, if you are there long enough, you get to know the hospital workers and sometimes they get to know you. 

One time, in the midst of Ken’s illness, the lady working the register in the cafeteria looked at me and said, “You’ve been here a lot. Lunch is on us.” Since lunch was usually 2 or 3 hard-boiled eggs and an iced tea, it didn’t cost the hospital anything, really; but I remember the experience and the way it made me feel — a small “I see you” kindness. I made a similar connection this past week. In the hospital cafeteria, very late in the day, I asked the grill cook if I could have a bun to make a chicken tender sandwich. He looked at me and said, “Shh. I am making you a ‘burger’.” And then he proceeded to make me a chicken tender sammie with melted cheese, fresh lettuce, and tomato slices. Honest to dog, I nearly cried. I was so tired and so sad and there he was being gently kind. I told him how much it meant to me and he just smiled and said, “good.” 

I readily admit that I am flailing blindly through my life, no self-burn intended. If life is a series of plans fulfilled, my life has been a series of, sometimes intricate but more often simple, plans made and then discarded because of … everything else. 

More than half of March has been just that. First, I was knocked askew by some sort of non-COVID-19 respiratory illness. As I’ve mentioned before, I have moderate-to-severe asthma. I can go weeks without needing my emergency inhaler but a respiratory illness usually means a daily puff or two for me. With this recent illness, I used more than 50 doses in four days. It was as bad, if not worse, than epiglottitis. At least with that, my throat just closed entirely and I didn’t have to ask myself if I needed hospital care. (Okay, so, actually, even that time, I didn’t go to the hospital; I went to the urgent care facility. They panicked and called an ambulance … but that’s a whole ‘nother story of me being stupid.) The point is that, if I get COVID-19, I’ll be one of those people who takes up a hospital bed.   

Shortly after I was back on my feet, someone very dear to me was hospitalized for a completely unrelated reason. I spent the next 11 days living by the hospital rhythm, dozing through the night on ridiculously uncomfortable chairs or curled, knees tucked, on “sofas” clearly designed for very short people. While all this was happening, the world was shutting down. New protocols were being implemented every day at the hospital. They limited visitors to one person at a time and I started to worry about being banned altogether.

Because I was spending so much time at the hospital, I didn’t do the usual shopping and had a bit of a list when I finally had the opportunity to visit my local Costco. The things we needed were readily available (please don’t tell my dogs that there were only 4 bags of dog food left at the store!) but I’ll confess to being surprised to see people pushing two carts, one with six or eight cases of water and the other with stacks of other shelf-stable things like bleach, vinegar, 25 pound bags of flour and rice, sugar, pasta. I knew about the pandemic but I did not expect the hoarding. 

Over the years, we’ve had students from Nepal, Sri Lanka, The Maldives, and Bolivia stay with us and all of them have asked to see the glorious abundance of our grocery stores, something they’ve heard about but never experienced in their own countries. Yet, here we are: hoarding toilet paper and bottled water. I don’t understand hoarding generally but I’m especially puzzled by the bottled water. Are people expecting a complete breakdown of our infrastructure? Or are they panicking because they lack basic information about what to expect? I fear that it is the latter.

Since we’re distancing, we’ve started cooking more elaborate meals, with my daughter usually taking the chef role. Over the last several days, we’ve made meatballs and sauce, chicken pot pie, pork stew (heavy on the veggies), cottage pie, and pizza, homemade crust included. In addition, we were treated to a delicious roast, a gift from a friend. 

We’re liking the family meals in the midst of all the crazy. We’ve always been close but as we hear people “joking” about how much they dislike their families, we feel so unable to relate. Tonight, during dinner, we played (and cheated) at cards with alacrity and a great deal of laughter. Earlier today, we gardened and played outside. I am so grateful for the opportunity to be home with them. 

My son starts distance learning tomorrow. I think it will be a challenge to keep him engaged while I continue to work at my own job but I am reminded of my husband’s advice when our kids were little. He said that our role, as parents, is to create a love of learning. If we engage with our kids about the things that interest them, and we encourage them to explore those things, we create a world in which exploration is their reward. So, we’ll follow the distance learning requirements as best we can and then when we need a break, we’ll go outside and break geodes, dig in the dirt, watch bugs, and maybe take a walk or two. 

And if you start to despair, jump on Twitter (who would have guessed I’d ever say that!) and visit Sam Neill (yes, the actor) for poetry, BroadwayWorld for living room concerts, Earyn McGee for “Find the Lizard,” the Urban Birder for bird trivia and pictures, Steve Martin (yes that Steve Martin) for Banjo balm, and so many more. The more you physically isolate, the more opportunity there is for social connections, even for introverts like me.  

Stay safe. Stay home. Listen to the birds sing.

Chicken Tender Sammies and Other Kindnesses

Banal Banter And Other Glory

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An agent — we’ll call him Agent A — wants significant revisions to one of my manuscripts. He actually probably wants a different story than the one I offered him. Now I’m terribly conflicted: do I change Jooney’s story (she’s my main character) or do I write him the story that he’s looking for? I love Jooney and I’ve invested a lot of emotional energy into her character arc BUT if I don’t make the changes, perhaps her story will never make it to print. 

Regardless of my decision, I feel the need to offer some applause for his choice insults. Many years ago, as I think I’ve written about here, I was part of a project team that received some glorious feedback. If you’re going to insult my efforts, I want you to go all in. Don’t tell me that I suck. That’s uninspired. Say, instead, “Your website sucks sea water through a rusty scupper.” Now, that is an insult! I’d like to meet that person and tell them how much I still admire that phrasing 20 years after it was offered. 

Agent A does not think Jooney’s story sucks and his comments did not reach these glorious heights. He did, however, provide some input using a charming amount of alliteration. And for that, he definitely gets points. 

The writing process is so painfully personal that it can be hard to separate oneself from criticism. This is not the career path for the sensitive. I, however, am delightfully insensitive, and I’m having a great time! One agent even called me a meanderer. Since I AM actually a meanderer, I felt very SEEN. That’s an agent who gets me.

I missed a writing day this week to attend a funeral. It was in another city so I spent 4 hours in the car for a 30 minute service. However, in exchange for that, I did get to spend about 5 hours with a dear, quite elderly, family friend. The family asked me to be her chauffeur. Because of their own grief journey, they didn’t want the task (she walks very slowly and is starting to have memory problems) but I found it lovely.

We didn’t attend the graveside service because it was a torrential downpour (with no shelter!). Instead, while we waited for the wake to start, we chatted and drove around the city, visiting places she hasn’t seen recently. The day was an unexpected gift in the midst of their loss and sorrow. I’ll have to make up the time (I do have deadlines, people!), but I’d do it again in a heartbeat. None of us know how much time we have left. 

Speaking of loss and grief, have you taken the time to watch The Farewell? It’s a movie about a Chinese woman who doesn’t know that she is dying of cancer. Her family throws a fake party so they can all see her before she dies. The movie includes a lovely exploration of the Qingming Festival, which I’m coincidentally also reading about in a Grace Lin story called Dumpling Days. 

Writers are supposed to read a lot. It can be tough, not because I don’t enjoy it, but because the days are already very long. By the time I pick up a book, I’m often so exhausted that I only get through a chapter or two before I’m dozing over the pages. That doesn’t stop me from juggling books though! In addition to Dumpling Days, I’m currently reading Stay Sweet (by a local writer and I had high hopes but I am sad to say that I’m really not enjoying it), Beloved, Maybe You Should Talk to Someone (almost finished!), and a free online economics textbook called Economy, Society and Public Policy, a book club read about how all of these things actually work together. (It’s a lot more enjoyable than the title makes it sound. If you have an interest, speak up and I’ll share the link.) 

Back to work: while I ponder Jooney’s future, I’m working on a time travel novel. It’s full of danger and sand and deprivation, which seems to be a continual theme for me. I’ve been playing with this story for several months and have about 8,000 words down. It’s a middle grade novel so it will be around 30,000-40,000 words. The really dark novel that I’ve also been writing is at about 12,000 words right now but I have a lot more to do on that one. It’s probably going to top out at about 80,000-100,000 words. There was a time when I couldn’t really envision finishing a story but here I am, writing three at a time. 

Much love.

 

Banal Banter And Other Glory

To Tradition

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When I was a little girl, my mom made a cake that we called fasnachtkuche (in case you aren’t familiar, it’s pronounced faa – s – naht – kook – a). It was a staple in our house, not just a food to be eaten before Lent. I have no idea where the recipe came from but it is not even a yeast-dough so it’s nowhere near authentic. Perhaps next time I’m in my grandmother’s recipe box I’ll find an earlier version that someone modified for convenience and speed. 

Imagine my surprise to see that Merriam-Webster published an article this morning on Lent and the origins of fasnacht, which is a shortened version of our beloved Pennsylvania German (at one time more commonly called Pennsylvania Dutch) fasnachtkuche. One of the rare arguments Ken and I had was over this word. I insisted on calling Mom’s cake fasnachtkuche and he insisted that it wasn’t German and that it wasn’t even a word. Turns out we were both right. It’s not German but it IS a word. 

My eldest was planning to come over on Friday to make my mom’s peanut butter cookie recipe for a party he was going to on Saturday. We made these cookies recently (and turned them into chocolate-ganache-filled sandwich cookies) as a gift for a friend. They were such a hit that he was asked to do it again.  Unfortunately, a big coding assignment interfered with our culinary plans. 

Growing up, I probably made those peanut butter cookies at least once a month. They were large — the size of a saucer — and crisp on the outside, rolled in sugar before they were baked so they’d darken to a rich, golden brown. They were sturdy enough for an ice cream sandwich, great with coffee (so my mom used to tell me), and a hot seller at every marching band and literary club bake sale.

So, anyway, on Saturday morning, I made them. My son stopped by with his friends on their way to the party and picked up the 8 dozen or so cookies (less 6 that I kept for us to nibble). It felt like we were carrying on a tradition and my mom would have been thrilled beyond words to know that she was a part of it.   

I don’t mean to sound like a cooking blog (!) but I will confess to feeling a strong connection to my family when I open Mom’s old cookbook and trace her writing on the food-stained pages or pull out her or her mom’s recipe box, looking for a specific handwritten card and maybe, too, a bit of memory. 

A few years ago, one of my cousins asked if I had the recipe for lasagne that our Italian Aunt Emilia brought to our very Irish family when she married our uncle. The garlic! The oregano! This may shock you but I didn’t learn to cook with garlic until I married my Italian husband. I have no memory of a garlic clove ever entering our house when I was growing up. For sure, we had garlic salt (sprinkled on the toasted, buttered Italian bread we ate with our Ragu-covered spaghetti) but I KNOW you aren’t going to try to argue that garlic salt is anywhere equivalent to cooking with fresh garlic. 

Unfortunately, I did not have Emilia’s recipe. My cousin thought she’d written it down for my grandmother but if Emilia was anything like my lovely Italian mother-in-law, the recipe was more like “a little bit of this, a pinch of that” than an actual recipe. My grandmother may very well have taken one look at Emilia’s recipe and given up. When my MIL lived with us, she explained her sauce recipe as I wrote. It didn’t fit on a recipe card but my husband made it many times, freezing the sauce in bags for later use. He was never quite satisfied with the recipe, though. I know, I know; partly he was trying to recapture a taste memory, which is difficult to do, but I think there’s more to it. 

The one thing that can’t be captured on a recipe card is the experience that comes with tasting and refining your recipe over generations. Margaret knew what to add if the sauce was slightly more acidic than usual or the onions weren’t quite as flavorful. It’s not on the recipe card because she probably wasn’t even aware of the little tweaks she made as she cooked.

Even if it’s not quite right, we still use that recipe. I just gave my son the last bag of sauce we had in the freezer. On Saturday, the house will smell again of spicy onions,  slightly sweetened tomatoes, oregano … and garlic, lots of garlic.

I don’t participate in Lent; but if you do, I hope you’ve had some fasnachtkuche today — authentic or not — and that your fasting brings you closer, in empathy, to Christ.

Much love. 

To Tradition

FIRED

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I got fired from my volunteer job today. 

After Ken died, I was so scared of everything — of dying, of losing our house, of losing my job, of losing my children to their own grief and loss — so scared. Sometimes, at night, I’d lie awake worrying about someone breaking in. I’d get up at 2AM and check the doors and windows. I’d re-lock the car after I got home, expecting that I’d go outside one day to an empty parking place. 

Two years ago, a year ago, in this situation, I might have shrugged and kept silent, constrained by my fear of more loss, especially after 23 years working in various capacities for the same program.

And after all these years, I was not simply a parent volunteer. I was — for the past eight years — the chair of the single biggest fundraising event at the school — the book fair. I had a lot invested emotionally and personally in the event, and now that I’m thinking of it, in the school as well. 

It’s early days for book fair planning but someone approached me with a rumor. I was surprised not to have been included but contacted the librarian to get the details and offer to help. 

Unfortunately, when we met and I learned the details, I realized that the librarian had decided to do something that I can’t support. So, yesterday I sent him a polite email, acknowledging my position of privilege as the chair and asking him to hear me out. He gave me a metaphorical head pat, told me that he was better informed than me, and warned me to back down. Instead, I made the choice to stand up politely for the kids. I told him, in writing, why I think what he is planning to do is detrimental to them. 

He fired me, via email.

When I saw my son this afternoon, I said, “I got fired.” He looked at me and said, “You got fired from the book fair. Good for you.” 

In your lives, I wish nothing more for you than that each of you has THAT kind of loving support.

Much love.

FIRED

Bedtime

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The house is quiet
Tired dogs kennel themselves
A reminder that sleep
Should be welcome.
Legs slip slowly into a
Heated-blanket-warmed bed
Otherwise empty of
Arms and legs.
Two pillows,
Only one needs to be fluffed,
Are propped at the head.
The desultory late evening
‘I don’t want to sleep
Until we talk about
One last thing’ chatter
Is absent from the room,
Missing from the house.
The once small space, the tiny bed,
Are a million times their original size
And I am cut in half.

Happy Valentine’s Day, my friends.

Bedtime

Something Wicked This Way Came

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Something happened last week. I can’t talk about the specifics and I’m not sure I would even if I could. My thirteen-year-old saw something, he said something, and he saved someone. He responded exactly as we all hope our children will and I’m utterly amazed at his courage, his kindness, his maturity. 

My boy did the right thing, perturbed that it might violate a trust, that it would be embarrassing, that it might alienate him from his friend-group, that he might not be believed (he had receipts just in case), that it would require action in a bystander world. He doesn’t want praise or attention; in fact, he told me that he’d like to pretend it never happened. I have to agree. What I really want is for my already traumatized child not to be more traumatized. If I could erase last week, I’d have to think deeply to find reasons not to do exactly that. 

I’m so angry and sad about the whole big mess. Absolutely everyone we needed was there. Everyone responded wonderfully. Everyone helped us. So, as my daughter would say, “What’s the T?” 

What IS the T? If you’ve ever read a management book (god help you), you know that some people seem to thrive on chaos. I always hope I’m not one of those people but it seems like I live in the midst of it. A good amount of my adulthood has been teetering on the brink of catastrophe. Why should my kids’ lives be any different? We are the ball in the pinball machine, pinging from obstacle to obstacle, lights flashing, bells ringing, until we’re hit by a paddle and thrown back into the chaos.

I wonder, sometimes, if trauma begets trauma, if some individuals — unknowingly, certainly unwillingly — are drawn, like magnets, to new and different tragedies … on repeat. If you believe in a god, you’ve undoubtedly heard that old saw:  God only gives you the burdens you are strong enough to carry. Boom. Not strong enough? No worries; prayer is the answer. You can just ask god to carry those burdens for you. Boom (again). For those of us who are less confident in the weight-bearing power of prayer, the solution is far murkier. And for both groups, the outcome is the same (with apologies to all of you who believe in the power of prayer).

My mom was a terrible Catholic (according to her) but she believed very, very strongly in the Blessed Mother. I saw a sign over the weekend that condemned “Mary worshippers” to Hell (the sign listed everyone who is condemned — it was a long sign and the sign-bearer was, of course, the only one not on the list). The Mary-worshipper label was a solid fit for Mom. Her favorite prayer was the Memorare. She used to talk to me about the meaning, about it being a sort of chastisement. It’s my humble and untested opinion that Mom was expressing what many women continue to express today — that longing for a voice — and that brings me to this past weekend.

I have absolutely no interest in football, though I did stand on the field during pre-game warm-ups once. That was an experience for sure but it hasn’t made me a fan. I can’t abide the lack of representation in leadership positions. Why are there so few owners or head coaches of color? I might not have known it was Super Bowl weekend, but as a Pittsburgher, I absolutely know who Coach Tomlin is. But if you cite him as your example, I’m just going to come back at you with the total number of coaches of color — single digits, folks. Single digits! You can’t explain that without using racist tropes because there is no explanation that doesn’t include racism. Period.

Anyway, my nephew teasingly called me un-American this weekend when he had to remind me that it was Super Bowl Sunday. I didn’t watch. I didn’t even know which teams were playing and I only know who won because of that tweet (don’t pretend you don’t know what tweet I mean). If you try to tell me it didn’t happen, I’m going to throw a certain George Orwell quote at you.

After I saw that there was a controversy brewing over the half-time show, I watched it on youtube. What I saw was two powerful women performing on national television, using their voices (yes, I chose that word deliberately) to highlight issues important to them. Okay … never mind. Nothing says manufactured outrage over “sexualized” dancing and “televised porn” like being publicly called out for ignorance and racism and basic inhumanity. 

My favorite our-educational-system-has-failed-us moment is when people began speculating that JLo was wearing the Texas flag. I LOVE teachers but I am appalled by our national lack of critical thinking skills and, frankly, by our ignorant, foolish, entitled Secretary of Education. Even with a research device in each of our hands, we eagerly retweet, post, share, and like garbage because it makes us feel (better, teary, powerful, righteous, smart — you choose). No, JLo (you know, from the Bronx?) is not strutting that national Venus-shaped stage in a Texas flag. This isn’t Texas shade, BTW, which you will also understand if you are using your critical thinking skills. 

Well, clearly, I’m still angry about the trauma my boy endured. I can hear it in the words I’m typing. The problem is, of course, that I can’t unleash my mom-rage on … anyone. I want to use my not-inconsiderable verbal skills to destroy the responsible party in defense of my baby but that won’t happen. There is no person responsible for this week’s near catastrophe. 

Researchers say that we look for someone to blame because placing blame provides “resolution” and “closure.” It’s tempting to look for somewhere to place blame and I’ve veered onto that dangerous road a couple times throughout this experience. It’s wrong, though, and I’m going to fight my baser self. As with Ken’s death, there’s no closure. It was unfair and it shouldn’t have happened. Period. 

On a good note: I’m working on another book. That’s two underway in addition to the one I just finished (in case you are counting). Neil Gaiman recommends juggling about 5 projects at a time and since I’d like to be as successful as Neil Gaiman (cough), I’m modeling my writing behaviors after him (cough, cough). It’s a teen/adult book which is a nice contrast to the middle grade stories I’ve been focused on. I’m not going to talk about the plot but I will say that it’s … weird. Honestly, there’s nothing more satisfying than giving my severe weirdness an outlet. 

Next up … a short story about Pennsylvania’s favorite Phil. 

Much love.

Something Wicked This Way Came

Mom Was [Sort Of] An Angel Investor

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Before bed last night, my son and I talked about several dads who lost their lives yesterday in a terribly public and tragic way. We talked about grieving for multiple family members lost in one terrible moment. We talked about what the friends and families are facing now: their confusion, their sorrow, their regrets. And we talked about their grief continuing long after everyone else has moved on. 

When I was 7, my family moved into a new housing development. My sister and I spent hours playing in the new construction sites: climbing through unfinished walls, scavenging nails and bits of discarded wood, and generally endangering our safety on the regular. We also spent many unsupervised hours playing in a nearby stream (until the housing development closed off access to the stream to our bitter disappointment).   

Eventually, the first round of houses was finished and sold, mostly to families with young children. My mom, always looking for ways to get us out of her hair AND keep us out of trouble, enrolled us in a babysitting safety class at our local Y. We learned CPR and basic wound care, how to change diapers and carry babies safely, strategies to manage young children, etc. 

I was 11 years old when we graduated and started a babysitting business. Our very creative mom helped us make flyers advertising our services ($0.75/hour!). Then, my sister and I went around the whole neighborhood, knocking on doors, introducing ourselves to the adults there and leaving copies of our flyers. We even talked to the families without children, reasoning that some of them might occasionally have visitors and need a sitter. 

Over time, we developed a robust client list — Jimmy (aka James, as I discovered when I presented an interviewing skills program to his high school classroom years later), Brian, Stevie, Ryan, Ricky, Betsy, Sally, and many others. I remember years of Saturday nights on a sofa until 2AM waiting for parents to return home and pulling wagon-loads of kids around the neighborhood while they giggled and helping two-year olds brush their teeth before bed and making pasta (with butter because Stevie didn’t like sauce) or pb&j sammies. I remember Ricky P and his broken left arm — it was already broken when I got there but the parents had a party to go to. I remember tickle sessions with Ryan. I remember comforting Betsy who thought her dad didn’t love her. I remember driving Stevie and his brothers to egg hunts near Easter and listening to Stevie trying to read every word on every sign we passed along the way.  

In my memory, those 40+ year olds are still wee children who loved popsicles and bike races. And my mom is still sitting quietly in our family room waiting for the headlights to shine through the front window and for the sound of my key inserted in the front door lock. All bundled in her robe and slippers, she’d meet me in the hallway to praise the wad of cash in my hand and listen to whatever story I had to tell.  

When I was in grad school, Doug, one of my “kids,” was killed in a car accident, along with two or three of his friends. When he was little, folks in the neighborhood used to joke — a macabre foreshadowing — that he wouldn’t survive to adulthood. He was constantly getting into near-catastrophes — falling off ladders, electrocuting himself, getting lost, pretty much a field guide of ways to nearly die in your youth. 

Among them, I can remember two with particular clarity. First, when he was 4, Dougie pedaled his Big Wheel into the street directly in front of an oncoming paneled station wagon whose quick-thinking driver swerved into the neighbor’s tree, while Dougie continued, completely unaware of his near-death experience, cluelessly pedaling down the road. I saw the whole thing in slow-motion horror from our front yard and my stomach still clenches when I think of it. 

The second incident occurred when he was a young teenager. He was riding his 10-speed (that’s how OLD I am!) and, having learned NOTHING about safety in the intervening years, turned across the road in front of a car. My sister and I were, surprisingly, both home at the time. We heard the squealing tires and ran outside to see what had happened. I can remember, like a snapshot, that I was in my white dress shirt and black pants, about to leave for work at the local country club where I was a server. 

My sister, who was a nursing student, ran to Dougie’s aid while I directed traffic. The worst part, for me, is the memory of his mom’s car coming down the road. She knew, before she could know in that pre-cell phone era, that it was him. I remember her abandoning her car in the middle of the road and running toward me. “He’s okay, Mrs Dougie,” I said (or words to that effect). “His leg is broken but he’s alive.” She started crying and grabbed my arm for a moment, then ran to him as the ambulance pulled up. To this day, I can’t remember what happened with her car, idling there on the street in front of our house. Did she drive it to the hospital or ride in the ambulance? Did I move it for her? I have absolutely no idea.

I only know about Dougie’s death because his family still lived next door when he was killed. I don’t think I’ll ever Google my other kids. It’s much better to remember them as imps in the sun.

Telling you to hug your family today is cliched. Hug your family — however you define that — every chance you get, people. You don’t really need a loss to remind you that the people who love you are precious and few.

Wishing you a February that is much less disappointing than this hideous January has been.

Mom Was [Sort Of] An Angel Investor