Confronting "Powerlessness"...Lessons From Ophelia

As I've so often heard in the most entertaining meetings, my mind is like a dangerous neighborhood and I shouldn't go there alone." Tonight I heard another great one - this young man was relating how his sponsor had told him, early on in his recovery, that if he felt he had come up with a great idea, to PLEASE call him (the sponsor) first - i.e., it's probably not a brilliant idea at all and may well be a dangerous one. You get the picture and again, I digress...

Very early on the morning of Wednesday, September 14th, about 25, 000 of us fortunate enough to call Wilmington home, were confronted with a state of powerlessness. No, it wasn't some huge Port City AA convention where we're encouraged to admit early and often, our powerlessness over alcohol or other addictive substance. Hurricane Ophelia took us all back to a time when there was no such thing as electricity.

The first few hours of being electricity-deprived can be kind of fun, after you get over the realization that coffee-makers don't operate on batteries, even though I think that should be a standard feature. The house becomes very quiet, the windows are opened as much as they can be without inviting the horizontally sheets of rain that threaten with each tropical force wind gust. Radios are enlisted and tuned to stations one would never listen to under normal circumstances. Propane becomes much appreciated as a source for heating up water, soup or grilling whatever meat seems most vulnerable. Having a bathroom without a window means that a shower is taken by candlelight and even that is kind of fun in a primitive sort of way - until the electric hot water tank is drained of its resources and warm water becomes chilly.

It's a good time to read, dust off a guitar or play a board game that brings a family together because there's pretty much nothing else left to do. Conversations spring up and take more interesting twists and turns as philosophies are shared and even a few confessions are made, in the name of avoiding boredom at all costs.

Things I learned courtesy of a brush with Ophelia...

Electricity is a very fine thing indeed and the sound of silence can be maddening after four hours or so.

Riding out a storm is much easier when all of the people you love most in this world are under your roof, even if they sleep most of the day away.

Coffee can be made by slowly pouring boiled water (courtesy of the burner on the outdoor grill) by emulating the function of an electrically powered drip coffee system.

Cell phone batteries don't last forever and should be used with great deliberation.

Surfing the Internet requires an active connection AND electricity to power up the computer! (Propane can't fix everything!).

Taking a nap is a perfectly lovely way to spend an afternoon.

Hanging around the kitchen table, illuminated by the soft glowing ambiance of a cheap hurricane lamp, in the company of an 18 year old male and 22 year old female, who also happen to be our kids, listening in as they free-associate on a vast range of topics, is a golden opportunity to learn more about what makes them tick. The discussion can pendulate from poignant to playful in a matter of minutes. This may be the most precious side effect of a minimal hurricane, boredom and too much caffeine.

An unexpected day off in the middle of the week is a fine thing. An unexpected day off in the middle of the week with pay, is even better.

With four cats, one dog and about 20 finch aviary residents, silence seldom takes residence in this house. Watching furry and feathered family members behave and react to wild weather is nearly as entertaining, and far more interactive, than "Animal Planet" or "The Discovery Channel".

Having an excuse not to be engaged in vacuuming, laundry or running the dishwasher is almost as good as an E-Ticket at Disney World.

Listening to messages left on voice mail from faraway friends just checking in to see if we're holding up, is a reminder of how sweet it is to love, and to be loved, by folks who have crossed our paths in past years. It elicits warmth and is a fine reason to compile a gratitude list.

It doesn't matter how many fresh batteries you might have bought in preparation for a major weather event, if you don't have a few spare radios to place them in. Most people forget to buy the batteries. We forgot to buy the radios. DUH! However, even this faux pas had the nice effect of collecting us all in the same room to listen to what was going on in the world outside of the street where we live.

Gathering the family to take turns reading essays from ANY David Sedaris book is guaranteed to produce giggles. (Great idea, Katie! But I bet you knew I was going to say that...of course you did.)

It's incredible just how much of our lives are dependent on an electrical current for smooth operation. It's even more astonishing how the best parts of our lives, our relationships and the things that touch us most, the things that fuel our hearts and souls, are powered by a current that makes electricity pale in comparison.

An unknown quantity of uninterrupted time is perfect for reading a great book. There is something primitively delicious about reading by candlelight.

Being surrounded by neighbors who are also in a state of electrical powerlessness is somehow buoying and invites a calm sense of camaraderie. Seeing homes "lit up and running" from a still "amp challenged" home, doesn't bring out the best in us and invites very ugly comments and thoughts toward the "haves" from the "have nots".

I learned that it's exasperating to listen to the radio as morons call in to describe how "amazing!" it is to have only experienced a few moments of an interruption of power, yet complain bitterly that they are being forced with the hardship of having to deal with no cable or Internet connection; a reminder that there are idiots among us and many of us nurse an unattractive, but undeniable, wish for hardship to visit such "I want it all!" people.

After about 8 hours, the novelty of a blackout wears off. Playing "Little House on the Prairie" gets mighty old as the desire for hot, fresh coffee, Pizza Hut Delivery and warm water with which to take a shower overrides the over-rated simple pleasures.

Fellow family members become easier to be around when they are sound asleep.

It's amazing how many things you can think to cook that would never cross your mind under normal circumstances, when the kitchen is fully functioning.

Air conditioning is a mood enhancer that could rival any SSRI, and a beautiful thing.

Listening to someone repeat how "bored" they are after about the twentieth time, makes you want to slap them silly and can trip off a string of rarely employed expletives.

I find it curious how miraculously writer's block disappears when the computer is inoperable. It's even more crazy how much you want to strike someone who points out that you can always use a simple pen and paper, after all, isn't that how they used to do it? Grrrrrr...

About 12 hours of no power makes such tasks as cleaning the bathroom or straightening out the garage look like fun times. For that matter, why is it that all the things you would, under normal circumstances, go out of your way to avoid doing, suddenly look halfway inviting? I HATE loading the dishwasher, folding and putting away clothes and painting baseboards 99% of the time, yet when it is impossible to do these things, I almost find myself pining for them. Good thing those crazy thoughts disappear about five minutes after the power is restored. That could seriously mess with your head, not to mention alter your procrastination quotient!

Getting by without ice might be de rigueur in Paris, but on a humid, oppressive, dark afternoon in North Carolina, it's absolutely no fun and void of any charm. It's just plain wrong. We are a nation that needs a lot of ice and a lot of tea to pour on it.

So my family and I have just experienced and easily survived our first hurricane together. Ophelia was, in cyclonic terms, a minor storm being classified as a Category One. However, the trees around our house bent to the point that a few of them looked as if they were on the verge of snapping like toothpicks, during some of the more high velocity wind gusts. There were times when the rain truly did sting as it made contact with exposed skin. When all was said and done, we were left with several broken branches, scattered leaves, a pool that overflowed its boundaries. For a person that grew up among mountains (which I hate) in a state that shamelessly boasts of containing way too many of them, if you ask me, a Category One hurricane is fairly formidable...and understand, a few years ago a tornado blew the roof off of my Amarillo home, so I've weathered some weather.

Even during the gustiest of the gusts, what we felt yesterday didn't come close to what Katrina dealt to the Gulf Coast. I can't imagine going through such a storm and yesterday only made me even more in awe that anyone survived that behemoth of a storm. Every person and animal who did, is nothing less than a miracle. If anything, Ophelia made me consider both the fragility and sturdiness of life; Fragile in the sense that we are all so exposed to all manner of elements that could do us in at any time. Sturdy in that though we do get knocked around, we somehow manage to pull ourselves up and get right back in the game.

Surviving Miss Ophelia didn't require any special stores of strength or deep well of reserves. It demanded little of us and merely inconvenienced us by forcing us to go without cool air, ice cubes and Internet Access. Surviving Katrina, well, that must have been something else all together. All I know is the who have lived to tell the tale that was Hurricane Katrina, must be made of amazing stock. After yesterday's little breeze, my empathy and admiration for their determination and fortitude has grown exponentially - way off the Saffir-Simpson Scale.

CaringBridge.org - julianna

CaringBridge.org - julianna

It's worth your time reading the latest post on Julianna Banana's website. If you do yourself a favor and read the post dated Wednesday, August 3, 2005, what's a couple extra seconds - go on and sign the guest book.

Life isn't always a bunch of daisies. There are so many people struggling and sometimes the hardest struggles of all, fall to the smallest, most innocent among us. Of course, I mean pediatric oncology patients.

There are something like a million questions that I have for God someday when it's time for me to take my leave, but one of the first questions on my list will be why any of these kids have to endure this stuff. Why do some little ones recover and some fight with everything that they have within them, are teased with the prospect of recovery, only to slip away?

I am a Christian, some days I'm better at it than others, but I'm also a human and as a card carrying member of the human race, I just can't for the life of me wrap my mind around what good comes from any of this. I also recognize that I am in the forest and the trees surrounding me are very tall and sometimes quite foreboding, especially at dusk when the fading light plays tricks and turn harmless shapes into menacing shadows. Because I am in the middle of the forest, i.e., life, I realize that from my vantage point among the trees that I can't see the whole picture, what the forest looks like from a distance and most probably if I could, I wouldn't have to ask some of the questions that bombard my thoughts when I read about The Banana Family, the Duckworths, and little boys like Joshua and so many more kids on a list that is obscenely long and growing.

Maybe my being a mere mortal makes it impossible for me to understand much at all, on this side of the curtain and again, I'm not doubting that there is more to all of this than I can intellectually grasp, but still, it stymies me.

I'm certain given the import of the question, that the answer is just bound to make sense, and that is because I have Faith. I have to, otherwise why bother getting up in the morning? Faith is fuel. Hope truly isn't optional - it is essential.

The last lines of Julianna's Wednesday post declares with more eloquence than I could ever pen...

"If a child is able to climb their way above cancer, undoubtedly their ladder is made from the rungs of the support and prayers of others.

There's never been a better day to be a rung."

Everyday is a good day to be a rung. It's a long, tough climb up that ladder, so if you are going to sign on to be a rung, practice your promise and say your prayers. Be a rung that those little ones climbing up can step up to and know that it will hold them safe.

"From the moment I first saw you. The second that you were born..."

Susie and Justin
Originally uploaded by susiewrites.

When this little guy was about eight years old, we used to sing "You're The Love Of My Life", by Carly Simon. Sometimes, we'd even hold hands while we were doing it. The lyrics were so perfectly apropos, particularly the lines, "You can drive me crazy. You can drive me anywhere. Here are the keys, just do as you please, it may not always be easy..."

And it hasn't always been easy. I must say it's always been interesting and, to be honest, it's almost always been fun. I wouldn't trade a second of it. I just wish the seconds hadn't passed by so fast. It seems as if they start out fairly slow but somewhere along the way, they gain this powerful momentum and before you blink, your son is bursting into your office and asking you to put more A&D Ointment on his latest tattoo.

"Ouch!" No, that was me saying that, not him. He was grinning from ear to ear and looking rather proud of himself. In fact, it was in such a spot that he couldn't really see it with a mirror looking into a mirror, so I had to take my camera phone and take a photo of it so he could admire it in all of its glorious detail.

My precious son got his 2nd tattoo yesterday and what could I say? Well, nothing I can write here, but that's beside the point. It's not like I could ground him and besides, he didn't need my permission. He's 18 and for some strange reason when you're 18 and you've earned your own money and you take it into your head that you want permanent ink "art" (and I use that word loosely) installed somewhere on your person, you don't require your Mother's permission. Who made this rule up, I have no idea, but that's just the way it is. I am positive it wasn't a Mother who made that rule up. This much I know.

And to think of the argument he used to give me when I told him he was going to get a simple flu shot. You would have thought I was taking him to have a finger removed.

I remember how many times I rubbed oil and lotion and carefully examined his back for bumps, bruises or bug bites, and now there is this tattoo at the base of his neck. It's not particularly horrid looking. I guess as tattoos go, it's not a bad one. I just liked it better when it was just, well, plain skin. But of course, I'm just a Mom so what do I know anyway? There are 26 years and about a million or so memories between us.

So what did I do? Easy. I got some cotton and carefully blotted the "design" as he asked me to do.

I suppose I could have had a cow or something, but that wouldn't have made it magically disappear, and he worked hard for the $80 dollar price tag (I think they should have paid him!), and of course, I listened several times to how much it hurt and I don't doubt that it did. If he was looking for sympathy, I'm afraid he burst through the wrong room. But he is my son and I adore him, tattoo-tainted or not.

I have this hunch that plastic surgery is going to be a very lucrative business in about 10 or 20 years (or less), when all of these kids walking around are a little older and wiser and wondering what in the world they were thinking when they had some permanent symbol etched in their skin, and decide they'd rather it be removed. I don't know how they remove such a thing, and I'm sure that in the next few years the technique will be refined, but I would guess it will still be prohibitively expensive. Given how many kids I see sporting them, it's either going to be a long-term trend or there's going to be a lot of expensive superficial surgery going on.

I could be wrong. It may become THE thing to have at least three tattoos by the time you're the age I was when I brought Justin into the world. I have no idea and fortunately, it's not a pressing problem at this time. Right now, he's in "acquisition" mode and I can just imagine that when his sister, Katie, returns from NYC this weekend, she will examine it thoroughly, make a few remarks, and then probably make an appointment for her second one so that her brother won't be ahead of her.

Whatever happened to non-conformity? :-)

I think all of these non-conforming kids are doing exactly what everyone does at their age in the quest to be different and unique; they're doing the very same thing, just different designs. I used to think you practically had to be in the military to have a tattoo because the only ones I saw were on the arms of men who had been in the service, and they were almost always some sort of military-related object. I bet their Moms weren't so impressed when they came home sporting one, either. But I would imagine they didn't dwell on the displeasure they may have felt with seeing some picture on their kid's arm, because they were just so darn thankful to have their child, even if he was 22, back on terra firma. Safe and sound.

The way I look at it, I would have much preferred he use the $80 more constructively, like deposit it in his savings account, but he chose not to and even though he didn't ask for, nor does he require, that I respect his choice, I still do. That $80 could have gone for something that made far more sense to me, but likewise it could have gone for something much, much worse and more dangerous. When I think about all of the really scary stuff in this world he could have used that money for, his small tattoo doesn't look nearly as unattractive.

Besides, I know for sure I've done a thing or three that has made him shake his head in confusion. If I'm to get honest with myself, and believe me, this evening I'm going to take the Fifth and get REAL honest with myself, there are bigger fish to fry.

As far as Justin is concerned, I still think he's just about the most handsome 18 year old I have ever met, but then again, I am biased and I'm allowed to be. That's my boy...and he, along with his sister, without question are...two of the most amazing "love(s) of my life".

Single...With Children: Publication Date: 22 June 2005

Single with Children: When their buttons are pushed, parents must recall who's in charge By Susie Parker Opinion Publication Date: 06/22/05 It's every parents worst nightmare. A phone call at 2 a.m. Of course, I was still up, as I usually am at the reasonable hour of 2 a.m. It's when I usually find my best writing groove. But even though I wasn't jarred out of a deep REM sleep, it's still never a good time for a phone call. It usually means T-R-O-U-B-L-E. "Ms. Parker?" a male voice inquired. "Yes, can I help you?" realizing it wasn't a prank call, because pranksters don't usually address the object of their antics with such courtesy. The downside to this was the wave of panic as I instantly considered all of the possible reasons for a 2 a.m. phone call. "This is Officer ... . I'm here with Justin." If you're a parent, I don't need to tell you how adept we are at painting the most horrific scenarios in the span of what canít be more than a few seconds. I'm sure I stumbled through an answer ... but whatever it was, a little part of me was dying inside. "Justin is fine ... "I know that creating hysteria is never anyone's primary purpose, but this is a great way to BEGIN any phone call to the parent of a teenager. It may even prevent a few panic attacks. "He's parked at the Dairy Queen, and it seems he's run out of gas and he said you would be happy to bring him enough to make it home." What followed was the exact location of which Dairy Queen, along with the welcome calm that follows a heart attack in the making. "Of course, Officer. Tell Justin we'll be right there." Nothing more than the miscalculation of a gas gauge. Thank you, God. Only then, after you are completely assured that your child is safe and well, do you launch into, "What was he thinking? Why did he cut it so close? Does he have ANY idea how scared I was to get an early morning phone call from a policeman?" On some level, I'm sure he does, but I have to extend him the benefit of the doubt. He's never had kids - but maybe someday he will recall how the same situations occurred and scared the wits out of me as he deals with his own, clueless teenagers. If he doesn't have the gift of recollection, I do hope that I am around to jog his memory. When we arrived, Justin was mildly embarrassed but certainly grateful to be in receipt of a gas can. Of course, I quizzed him on what coursed through my mind when I received the phone call. "Well, if I still had my cell phone, a policeman wouldnít have had to call you. But remember? You took that away a few months ago." For a few seconds, I bought into his line of reasoning but I instantly shook it off. I lobbed my response right back and reminded him why I was forced to remove his cell phone, along with the privileges that went along with it. Rare were the times it was used to give me updates and pertinent information. I could see he regretted bringing the topic up, and he returned to his almost humble demeanor with a hint of gratitude that his fuel had been delivered with such speed. I will be the first to admit I am a slow-study when it comes to remembering I have far more power than I have historically tried to exercise in creating boundaries, limits and eliciting acceptable behavior. It is a process I still struggle with. Sometimes I just have to be reminded who is still in charge. Readers can e-mail Susie Parker at SusieWrites@ec.rr.com, write to her c/o Amarillo Globe-News, Features Dept., P.O. Box 2091, Amarillo, TX 79166 or visit her diary at www.susiewrites.blogspot.com. Click here to return to story: http://www.amarillo.com/stories/062205/fri_susieparkerfn.shtml © The Amarillo Globe-News Online

Katie on the train to Manhattan.

ChaundraKatieTrain2
Originally uploaded by La Petite Mort.

See that steely-eyed determination in my daughter's eye? That's the look of someone who is taking life by storm, creating memories that will hopefully last a lifetime and serve her well, a reminder that she didn't simply exist, or always play it safe, but that she truly lived.

I only wish I was 21 again, and half as brave and full of spirit as my daughter. Katie, you rock!

I am very proud of you.

"She'll Take Manhattan, And I'll Have The Root Canal, Please - Hold The Epinephrine!"

I waited...and I waited.

No phone calls. Traffic was miserable, according to every NYC Traffic-cam I could find on the web. Of course, when I would go to one of those traffic sites (auto-traffic, not web traffic), I would look through "eyes half open", because NYC can be a scary place, in terms of transportation and all of the things that can go wrong when 8 million people decide to call the same, relatively small piece of real estate home.

I paced. I drank another coke. I pretended to have my mind on other things, but I was absolutely unable to "dupe" myself. I'd jump on the rare instances that my cell phone rang yesterday afternoon, and slink back into my chair when caller ID revealed it was not my daughter ringing in. On the off chance she might be calling me from an ID mysteriously labeled "Unavailable", I even answered the calls that I normally never answer. Of course, it wasn't her.

I called my friend/confidant, who told me she was certain that everything was just fine. That Katie was probably out having fun, exploring, and was so overwhelmed with the sights, that she had slipped her mind that I might be mildly curious as to if she arrived safely and in one piece.

I scoffed at that notion. Katie often does a lot of really blond things, particularly with her hair recently re-enlightened, however the one thing she has always been consistently dependable about, is letting me know she was where she was scheduled to be, when she was scheduled to be there. She may not have always liked doing it, and I certainly haven't always liked where she might be calling me from, but she could be counted on to keep me posted, just the same.

No, I was absolutely certain something was amiss. Perhaps they had run out of gas on the George Washington Bridge? The Jersey Turnpike? The Holland Tunnel? My mind, however, by around 5:00 PM EST, went into full-blown, "this is so terrible I probably can't even imagine what has happened to my baby", panic mode. The clock was not my friend yesterday afternoon.

By 6:30, I was ready to call out the National Guard, the Marines at Camp Lejeune, NORAD, Interpol and anyone I knew with a Northern accent who might help me figure out where to start looking for my little, blond needle in a haystack.

In the middle of one phone conversation, I got a call waiting beep, and blessedly it was from Katie's cell phone and I heard her voice... for all of five seconds. "Mom, we're here in..." and then it cut off. Where, I wondered was "..."? At least I knew she was alive. That information alone was enough to return my heart to the lower triple digits. I went back into the line

It turns out she was in some town near Dover, New Jersey. They were staying at Chaundra's friend's home, the actress who also owns the Manhattan Property, in New Jersey and that plans had been a bit modified. The actress was flying to Italy tomorrow (today) with her fiancee, and so Katie and Chaundra were staying at the Jersey Home and would be relocating to the Manhattan residence on Thursday. Oh yes, and the reason that I hadn't heard from her before 6:30, was that this lovely actress, and I now know which one she is, and her fiancee had taken Katie and Chaundra out for a wonderful meal at some Indian restaurant. She called only after getting a few hours rest and returning from dinner, just in case I might be wondering where they were.

So let me get this straight; I am going out of my mind here in Wilmington, North Carolina, making a new trail in my relatively new carpet by pacing, wearing out my heart due to it's stress-induced accelerated racing, and she's out enjoying Indian cuisine with some celebrity? I went from wanting to hug her to wanting to strangle her in less than 60 seconds. What do you MEAN "in case I was wondering" where you girls were?

So I'm thinking - tell me you can't be that insane! What else would I be doing, imagining two young 21 year olds driving into Manhattan traffic - where it's ALWAYS rush hour and where road rage is a cabbies normal state of mind and business as usual. Please tell me you had a sudden case of unexpected episodic amnesia, or that all of the cell phone towers in Jersey were mysteriously inoperable for several hours, or even that you ran out of gas in the middle of some tiny town with really nice New Jersey folks who were more than happy to help you out, but couldn't provide you with a land line on which to call and let me know you were safe and sound, but do NOT tell me, don't even go there, that it never crossed your mind that I was home losing mine, because you hadn't called to let me know you were safe and well and not in some ditch or swimming with the fishes in the Hudson River.

I was grateful that she was safe and well-fed and hanging out with the rich and famous, but I was beyond irritated that she didn't consider that I might feel better knowing she was fine.

Oh please, throw me a freaking bone, why don't you?

What could I say? What I did say was that I would have appreciated knowing what I now knew, earlier. I was glad the Indian food was so tasty. I was happy the actress and her fiancee were so hospitable. I was more than relieved to learn they would be taking the train from Dover into Manhattan on Thursday, rather than attempting to drive. And of course, I thanked her for calling me and told her at least three times that I loved her and hoped she would have a great time.

My anger at being kept out of the loop wasn't nearly as potent as my angst when considering all of the things that could have gone wrong, but thanks be to God, didn't. All I wanted was to know she was OK. Even if it was a few hours later than I had hoped, I was still way beyond grateful.

It's so amazing how wonderful everything looks, feels and smells after the worry has waned. I ordered a spinach salad, sweet iced tea and was, as Shawn Colvin sings, "living in color, laughing out loud", from a song appropriately titled, "Round of Blues". But I noticed that my upper left molar, the one with the crown that I broke a year and a half ago; the same one the dentist put a temporary repair on because I had to leave town the next day, started feeling...strange. Not so much painful, as swollen.

By the end of dinner, the roof of my mouth on that same side felt much larger than the other side and that's how I usually know that I am about to enter dental distress. I was looking at either a sinus infection or a seriously infected tooth that would, no doubt, require a root canal. Though I would welcome neither prospect, I could afford the sinus infection because I have a stash of antibiotics that I was supposed to take for my mid-spring episode of bronchitis. If I'm not living right and it turns out to be the infected tooth/root canal waiting to happen, I will be looking at a minimum of $600 and probably more like $900, because I don't usually do anything halfway, and without at least a few complications.

So there I sat with a cracked dental crown that wants a new tiara. I don't have the funds set aside for a dental debacle. I can't afford to repair it and I can't afford not to. I hate it when I don't like what's behind door number ONE and door number TWO, and there's NEVER a door number THREE - the one that holds the winning lotto ticket, or attorney telling you that you were named in the will of some distant, recently deceased, richer than God relative that you didn't even know you had, but knew who you were and left you about $50,000. No, make it $20,000. I don't want to appear greedy.

And yet, given that I could still be waiting for a phone call from my wanderlust daughter, I'll take this tooth tragedy and smile doing it. I hate root canals. I'd almost rather give birth than experience another root canal, because frankly, my oral surgeon, though technically competent, has the personality of a potted plant, but not quite as engaging. He divided my last root canal up into two parts - shot me full of novacaine laced with epinephrine, unannounced, which sent my heart rate and BP toward epic heights, and made the understated remark that I seemed to be "a little more sensitive than normal" to stimulants.

Gee, you think? Could that be why I broke out in hives and nearly came out of my chair? How many weeks were you in dental school Dr. Darko and I had NO IDEA that Devry Institute now offered courses in endodontics.

I just don't have time for pulp fiction.

I'm generally pleasant, particularly to people wielding sharp, shiny instruments about my mouth, but I came up out of that chair and told him in no uncertain terms that he was NEVER to even entertain the thought of infusing me with anything epinephrine-related. Ever. He made no further remark, shrugged his shoulders and gave me a prescription for two Halcion to be taken one hour before my next visit the following week. That was probably the kindest cut of all.

Conscious sedation. It was a win/win situation.

If it does turn out to be a root canal in the making, I may very well have the great misfortune of being under his "care", and I use that term loosely because he basically behaved as if he couldn't possibly care less, but maybe Wilmington has added new skilled sadists, in the time that has passed since June 2002, and there may possibly be an endodontist in possession of that rare trifecta: skill, kindness and compassion. I'm afraid I'll be finding out in the next few days.

What a time for Uncle Sam's (AKA my ever so undependable, incommunicado ex-husband) five months late check to turn into rubber.

When it rains, it simply gets more humid. There's a heat advisory issued for today, with heat indices hitting around the 109 degree mark. I think I'm going to find something funny to read while I wait for this Advil and benadryl to take effect.

The days are just packed...and with any bad luck at all, my mouth will probably be packed as well...with cotton and all manner of pain-inducing paraphenalia.

I dearly hope that no one reminds me to "have a great day!", today in some faux, perky, Katie Couric, over-caffeinated delivery . I just can't handle perky today.

Tonight, after the sun calms down, I need:

A walk on Wrightsville Beach.
A meeting on Wrightsville Beach.
A large iced tea with lemon.
Coffee, definitely some coffee.
Oh yeah, and I need a BREAK!

Not necessarily in that particular order.

Peace out.

"Somewhere Between Wilmington and NYC Is A Little Place I Like To Call INSANITY!"

Setting: My office, Wilmington, NC
Time: 2:15 PM EST

(Phone rings in ringtone assigned to my daughter)

"Where are you??", I demand, dispensing with the time-wasting but courteous and customary, "hello?"

"I'm in New Jersey.", she says, sounding like someone who has been awake all night, probably because she's been awake all night.

"You were in New Jersey when you called me this morning at 7:30 AM. You're still in New Jersey?", I ask, recalling my grasp of geography and noting that, geographically speaking, New Jersey isn't all that big.

"I KNOW Mother. We stopped off to take a nap around 10:30. The cell phone is dying and I have to go. I'll call you when we get there.", sounding even more annoyed.

"When do you think you'll be there?", I ask, realizing I might as well asked if she knew the square root of 724.

"Soon Mother. I'll call you. I have to GO now. Great, my bag just broke."

"But where are you exactly? What part of New Jersey?"

"Northern New Jersey."

"Are you at someone's house?"

"Yes. I have to go now. I'll call you later. Cell phone is going now."

End of conversation.

We zoom in on me sitting back in my office chair, rubbing my temples, head down, trying to calculate just how many hours this little joy ride to NYC is taking off my life, in terms of time spent worrying - over something I have absolutely no control over.

My daughter Katie, and her best friend, Chaundra, left Wilmington last night, after work, to drive to Manhattan. Chaundra is house-sitting for a friend in Manhattan for 7 days, and she invited Katie to join her. Apparently this house belongs to the actress who played the youngest daughter in the film, "Mrs. Doubtfire", and she is flying off to Italy to get married.

Of course, my daughter, though she's been to Paris, London, Manchester, several cities in Ireland, having lived there as an au pair a couple of years ago, has never been to New York City. You know, New York City, the place where they make wannabe picante sauce that makes the folks at Pace, in Paris, (the one in Texas) see red. Jalapeno, red.

Katie jumped at the chance to see the Big Apple. She's always wanted to see NYC. She already loves it and she's never even been there. I wonder if she will really love it as much after she actually sees, smells, feels, hears and touches it in person? I'm not so sure. Katie hates crowds. She hates heights. She's not fond of loud, or constant, noise. Katie despises traffic..."with the fire of a thousand suns!".

It's about the traffic. At least for me it is. That what is causing me the most angst at this moment.

I've only been to NYC once, and my visit wasn't even 48 hours long. I was supposed to fly into La Guardia, but the plane got diverted to that garden spot of the garden state, Newark. I stayed in the Hilton near Times Square, walked a few blocks, had a picnic and rode the merry-go-round in Central Park, visited a few shops, bought the t-shirt from a street vendor, bought my dad a pipe at some huge tobacco shop, visited the top of the Empire State Building, didn't find Tom Hanks and flew back to Raleigh two nights later. I didn't love it, but I didn't hate it, either.

I expected to feel claustrophobic because of the tall buildings and swarms of people, but I didn't feel that way at all. I can't say people were friendly, at least not by my southern definition of friendly, but they certainly weren't rude, either. I didn't encounter anyone being inordinately offensive. The cab drivers were scary and I didn't understand much of anything they said, which worked out fine since they didn't talk much, unless you count the obscenities, at least the ones I recognized, hurled at other drivers.

Why won't my cell phone ring? I wish I could simply WILL it to ring. All I want is one 30 second phone call, "Mom, we're here, Everything is fine. Yes, the doors are locked. Talk to you soon. Love you."

I must tell you, that the thought of Katie and Chaundra driving into, and around, midtown Manhattan, is enough to send my stomach into bigger flips than I execute in the pool. I am way past butterflies. There are pelicans careening about in my stomach and inching up toward my chest.

The good news is that Chaundra is a New England Native/Yankee, and I say this with affection and maybe even a sense of admiration - that people survive the weather, population and chaos. So I am certain that since Chaundra, who moved to Wilmington last October from Boston, is accustomed to the driving practices of folks north of the Mason-Dixon line, she knows how to handle herself, the traffic and her car. I remind myself of that fact about every 4 minutes, and it quiets down the pelicans for about 20 - 30 seconds. Do you know how wide the wingspan of a pelican is? (90 inches, I just looked it up). No wonder it feels huge.

Since I woke up this morning at around 7:00 AM, I have consumed a pot of coffee, two iced teas and now I am working on my second coke, something I never drink except in times of serious stress. I don't even care that much for coke, unless it's with popcorn and a Jimmy Stewart movie. But for some reason, I turn to it when I can't make sense of my world and, right now, the only thing I know for sure, is that my daughter is in Northern New Jersey, about to descend on Manhattan, and I dearly hope and pray, repeatedly and with every fiber of my being, every cell in my marrow and every string in my heart, that when those two girls begin driving into the city, God will direct their car and protect them from those aggressive cab drivers and trucks and buses and who knows what else?

I am scared. I am nervous. I can usually hold it together pretty well, but right now, I am wanting so much for my cell phone to ring again and to hear that they are safely where they are supposed to be, the car is parked, they are in the apartment, brownstone, condo, whatever, and the doors are locked, several times over, as are the windows. I want to know they are fine. I want to know they are fine. I want to shoo these pelicans out of my stomach and turn my attention to other stressors because nothing is as stressful as knowing your children are far from home, regardless of their age, and wanting nothing more in this world than for them to be safe.

I know, I know, they, "...want to be a part of it, New York, New York...if they can make it there...", I will be one thankful, grateful, blessed and ever so relieved...mother.

Until then, I am not letting this cell phone out of my sight. Between staring at it, praying, checking NYC traffic and weather conditions, and clicking on NY Local news, I'm staying pretty busy. While Katie and Chaundra are driving into New York City, I am driving myself completely insane. I don't even need a map for that. I've made that trip more times than I care to count. It seems to be getting shorter every time I make it.

Single...With Children: Publication Date: 8 June 2005

Susie Parker

Single with Children: Life's bumps taken for granted by some, craved by others

By Susie Parker
Opinion
Publication Date: 06/08/05

I'll never forget the look of disbelief and joy on my son's face when he took the keys to his shiny, black Mustang a couple of years ago.

With a generous contribution from his grandparents, we arranged to have it in our driveway, cleaned up, detailed and sporting a HUGE red ribbon. Justin was about to become the proud owner of a car he had his sights set on from the time he was even aware that cars existed.

Switch into another gear two years later. Teenage boys grow up, and though he will probably always sport a Mustang heart, his goals have changed. With graduation, the taste of independence is beckoning, and two weeks ago he secured a full-time job to meet his growing expenses. Dreams of sharing an apartment with a couple of best friends requires money, and as he was told way back when he was 16, things like car insurance, gas and maintenance would be transferred, along with the title of his dream car.

Justin heard the sound of opportunity knocking, but it was holding hands with responsibility and some hard choices had to be made. While he was fortunate in securing a job that pays slightly more than minimum wage, he's learning paychecks don't always cover expenses.

Clearly, the price of driving a Mustang would preclude any plans of moving out and finding his own place. No matter what we're led to believe, there are times you simply can't have it all.

With a heavy heart, he sold the shiny, ultra-accessorized Mustang and now finds himself behind the wheel of a much more humbling conveyance with many years and even more mileage.

It's hardly a car that would turn anyone's head and the only statement it makes when it arrives is: "Wow, that beat-up thing actually made the trip."

The good news is the taxes and insurance are well below the stratospheric amounts that came with owning and maintaining a car that did turn heads and render anyone within earshot temporarily deaf.

I expected at least a few days of mourning - of bemoaning the cruel fate of approaching adulthood and the unfairness of life in general. Sometimes it's a fine thing to be proven completely wrong.

Justin burst into the house a couple of days ago holding the leather cover of a checkbook, the stub from his first paycheck and the wide grin of accomplishment.

He had stopped by the bank, opened a checking and a savings account and divided his earnings into both. He was beaming as he told me how much he was saving by downsizing.

What a huge life lesson: this business of sacrifice and independence. It follows us every step of the way until we run out of breath.

Every day I visit the special Web site of a young lady who possesses that grit and who knows more than any young lady should have to about steely resolve.

Her goal is a little more imposing than gaining post-high school independence.

Her focus involves the day when she won't have to be tethered to an IV with plastic bags of controlled poison that will hopefully help her reach the age where she has to make a few "tough" choices. It's not so much a question of what she wants to be when she grows up - she just wants the chance to grow up.

There are moments when it's the parent who needs a lesson in perspective.

Some moms and dads pray for the chance to see their kids grow up and experience the ups, downs and garden-variety harried moments that inspire gray hair and worry wrinkles - some of that "normal" brand of angst the rest of us take for granted.

John Wooden once said, "Don't let what you cannot do interfere with what you can do."

Many families dealing with kids in the grips of a catastrophic illness live that sentiment on a day-to-day basis.

If you're interested in learning more about a young lady from Winnipeg, Manitoba, who already has a cult following in many parts of Texas, take a look at the site of one Miss Julianna Banana: http://www2.caringbridge.org/canada/julianna/.

If you have the time, sign her guest book and check out the Pink Wish Bracelet Hall of Fame.

It would be nice to see some Amarillo names on her Web site "wall of fame" and to give the town of Pflugerville a little friendly Texas competition.

I'd love nothing more than for her parents, Mary and Terry, to have to deal with a few late nights pacing the floor as Julianna sneaks in 15 minutes past her curfew.

Readers can e-mail Susie Parker at SusieWrites@ec.rr.com, write to her c/o Amarillo Globe-News, Features Dept., P.O. Box 2091, Amarillo, TX 79166 or visit her diary at www.susiewrites.blogspot.com.


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The Days Are Flying By...

"...Isn't it mysterious how so many wonderful things in life come to us seemingly without our planning? We start traveling down one street, and we find ourselves interested in something we never expected on a side street; and as we explore it, the side street becomes the main road for us."

"...Who we are in the present includes who we were in the past." ~ Fred Rogers

"L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux." ~ From "The Little Prince" by Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Wow, THREE QUOTES! I'm feeling very sentimental. I sometimes foolishly swear that I am not at all sentimental, but the friends who know me best, the ones who see past my silly pronouncement and who have peeked beneath the surface, know that I am more given to sentimentality than I might be comfortable "owning". Most of the time they allow me to pretend the facade and for that I am grateful.

It's always struck me that there's something vulnerable in being sentimental about things. I guess, in my strange perspective, that to admit such a thing is to lay open one's heart and, for me at least, that has felt like risky business. I think going through my divorce back in 1997 had a great deal to do with that. Maybe I was sentimental before I was divorced. I know for sure that I was the poster girl for naivete!

In a weird kind of way, given that it has been EIGHT YEARS since the official dissolution of my first, and only, marriage, I tend to divide my life into "pre-" and "post-" divorce periods of time, but the truth is that I can't really remember what it was like being married; Let me rephrase that - I can't remember what it's like to be in a happy, functioning marriage. I don't honestly feel like I've ever truly been married, not in the positive, rich sense of the word and that's not to say that my almost 17 years of wedded...well, of being married, was a negative or horrible experience. Good things happened during the period between November 26, 1980 and October 25, 1997. Two wonderful things to come from that relationship go by the name of Katie and Justin. I can't imagine not having had that experience and I wouldn't trade being their Mom for all the tea in China, even though now and again they love to test my resolve and limits! I'm told that's their job and if it is, they're impressively successful.

I don't remember so much about "pre-" divorce, other than the fact that we moved a lot and that was fun because it was always great living and exploring different parts of the US, always making new friends and keeping up with the old ones. We traveled quite a bit. The kids grew up and my ex-husband and I grew apart. Things just didn't end well, which probably explains the divorce part.

I proceeded to spend the next 7 years making up for all of the dating I never really did before I was married at the much too tender age of 20, and I have always talked a lot of hoping to find the right person to finally feel safe enough to feel married to, but I never honestly got close. I didn't avoid getting engaged though. In fact, I seemed to do that very well. It was the following through part that I had trouble with. It is pure Providence that I never followed through.

The past 18 months of my life have been an amazing period filled with pain, acceptance, growth, excitement, fear, apprehension, warmth, more acceptance (Page 417 - BB 4th Edition), peace, laughter and, as it turns out, unbelievable surprises. Each one of those experiences have been necessary components to bring me to this place I find myself today. At the time I was feeling my way through some of those difficult twists, turns and hurdles, I couldn't imagine how anything good might be on the other side. It can never be overstated that pain is a marvelous motivator. It definitely catches our attention like nothing else. That's a good thing, but that's the last thing you want to hear when you're right in the middle of it, gritting your teeth and ready to scream.

There have been moments when things felt pretty hopeless, fearing that I would be relegated to living the rest of my life hidden under some suffocating cloak of stoicism. I never wanted to be stoic. I think I'd rather be miserable than stoic. Stoic kind of hints that, while things probably won't get any worse, it doesn't appear as if they will get any better. When you're only 43, that could mean you have quite a bit of time remaining to live in some kind of self-imposed torpor.

Fred Rogers was so on target in that first quote. The side street, after a lot of fun exploration, became the main road. I couldn't have planned that if I tried. It kind of reminds me of Paris. I always thought the real charm of that incredible city was the small, narrow streets, much more so than the Champes-Ellyses. The treasures in life really do hide in the most unexpected places.

Susie Parker
Wilmington, NC

Saying Goodbye To An Uncle...And Remembering A Sister

"Transitions are almost always signs of growth, but they can bring feelings of loss. To get somewhere new, we may have to leave somewhere else behind..." ~ Fred Rogers

I just found out a few minutes ago that my Uncle passed away. This wasn't entirely a surprise. Of the three brothers, my father being the youngest and my Uncle Otis being the oldest, the one that wound up with the diagnosis of lung cancer, happened to be the only one who never smoked. How ironic.

Otis lived a very sensible, orderly, predictable life. My uncle owned a car dealership, Cook Motor Sales, in Oceana, West Virginia, and along with selling cars, something he was very successful at, he spent the rest of his time attending Toneda Baptist Church on Clear Fork. He enjoyed good health for most of his 84 years, and even when something health related would pop up from time to time, he wasn't one to go on about it.

When I was a little girl, I remember the many times he and his wife Lucille would drive from their home in Oceana to our home in a suburb of Charleston, WV, on Sunday Afternoons for a visit. They would leave following church, usually arrive around 2:00, drink coffee, whatever dessert my mother would have ready "just in case" company might pop in, and even though I never stuck around in the same room for the entire length of their visit, I remember how comfortably familiar it felt.

I knew my parents enjoyed having them over, and I would hear laughter wafting from the living room, the smell of perked coffee and always bits and pieces of stories from when my father and uncle were small children and adolescent boys. There was the time my Uncle Dick and Uncle Otis had been charged with leading the family cow from one pasture to the next, when the family moved. I think they got lost on the way and everyone was very worried when they didn't show up as expected. I guess things can get a bit disorienting when leading a cow through the fields of Southern West Virginia.

There is a photo of my father and his two brothers,

Dick, Otis and Barbe - September 1938 FFA Project
Originally uploaded by susiewrites.

strapping young trio that they were, looking appropriately serious, as people were wont to do in photographs taken in the 1930's. My Uncle Otis was holding a chicken that had been an FFA (Future Farmers of America) Project. I remember how strange it seemed to see my Dad as a young man of around 13, staring very seriously at a white chicken. I used to laugh at that photograph and wonder, "How could they not be smiling or, at the very least, feeling a little goofy having their picture snapped while thoughtfully regarding a live chicken? Did it drop a mess on one of their shirts and, if it did, wouldn't that alone be enough to elicit at least the hint of a smile?", but no, they looked like that chicken was serious business, and maybe it was. That chicken probably wound up on their table for Sunday Dinner. If anything should have been looking unusually serious and unsettled, I'd say it was the chicken.

I always thought of my uncle as a combination of one part serious and one part silly. He'd tell the same simple jokes, every single time he'd see me, and it would always make me laugh - the first 50 times because I thought any joke with the word "pee" (Why did the Indian who drank thirty cups of tea drown? He died in his own tepee.) in it was nearly illicit and tediously on the verge of "low brow"; Years later, I'd laugh because it was so funny he'd still tell the same jokes. It was a good kind of predictability. The kind you subconsciously retain in your memory bank, and find yourself calling on when you become aware that the last time you heard that joke really was, as it turns out, the last time you will ever hear it.

Though my uncle could, and often did, tell silly jokes, he was a pretty formal guy. He was the tallest of his five siblings, standing around 6' and he was, like his two sisters, a red head. I rather doubt there were too many times the church doors of Toneda Baptist Church were open that my uncle wasn't in there, including Sunday Nights and Wednesdays. He was a very dedicated Christian and from what I can remember of my visits to his home and his car dealership, he was pretty well-liked. I know he loved to drink coffee and work crossword puzzles, two things that I obviously inherited because I am pretty serious about both pursuits.

Otis did very well in the car business, at least from what I could tell, but one thing I remember is that nothing ever changed in his house. In fact, I can only remember visiting him in the same house which was a nice, albeit modest, split-level brick home on a hill over looking a very busy road in Wyoming County, not more than 3 miles from his car dealership and his church and that's significant in that he seldom roamed much further away than that 3 mile radius, save for car auctions in Charlotte, visiting sick family and church members at one of the three hospitals in Beckley, and of course, visiting my family in Madison, Welch, DuPont City, Belle, Point Pleasant, and DuPont City again, which is where I lived until I was married in 1980. If we accomplished anything, it was showcasing other cities in West Virginia to the family. We were famous for it. I'm pretty sure they thought we were not quite right, all that moving around, but every time we marked about 18 months in the same location, usually just after my Mom or Dad would say, "You know, I bet we wind up staying here a good long time.", it was as if a silent invitation was whispered for the telephone to ring and another job offer was extended to my Dad, who was an accountant for various coal mining companies around the state. No sooner would I begin the second year in the same school, would I come home one day to discover that a moving company would be arriving in a few days to take us to some new town. I must have loved the adventure of it, because I have followed the same pattern most of my adult life. I've always loved moving around and it's been fun collecting friends and memories in so many parts of the country.

Later on, when my family's gypsy leanings took us beyond the borders of West Virginia, 1600 miles West to Amarillo, Texas, Sunday Afternoon visits with my Uncle Otis and Aunt Lucille became a thing of the past, even with a standing invitation. I guess he never heard the same call of the wild that kept luring us West to Texas, North to Cleveland (a call we should have hung up on!) and South to Miami, and I suppose it was a little inconvenient to drive so far for a couple of hours and a piece of cake, even if my Mom is an outstanding cook.

My family had a cabin on eight acres that bordered Carnifax Ferry State Park near Summersville Lake in Nicholas County. We spent quite a few weekends up there during my junior high and high school years. My Dad enjoyed clearing out the area around the cabin and my Mom just enjoyed being in the mountains. Me? I was on high alert for anything remotely resembling a slithery copperhead snake. I was terrified that one would have invaded our cabin during the periods we were away and that it would somehow find it's way into my bed at some point during a visit. This absolutely used to keep me awake at night!

Some weekends, particularly in the Summer and Fall, my father's siblings and their families would join us and drive up to spend a Saturday Night. My Dad loved to go on hikes around the property and, given that there were about 32 acres of which we owned 8, there were lots of places to explore, even hiking down the mountain to the shore of the twisty Gauley River, close to what is a now a huge white water rafting mecca, as is the nearby New River Gorge and Bridge. Of course, my Dad would usually wear some worn out shirt and shorts that wouldn't cause my Mother any angst should they get snagged or torn by branches and trees that seemed to spring up just about everywhere. I rarely ventured out on these pre- or post-dinner "hikes" because I was sure that since there wasn't a copperhead lurking in my bed, it must be hiding in some innocent looking bush ready to strike me as I walked along some weed obscured path. No thank you. But my Daddy really seemed to enjoy his walks in the woods, much as I enjoy walks on the beach.

One Sunday, after I had gotten my license, I was driving along a path and saw my Dad and my Uncle Otis walking along, hoe in my Dad's hand just in case a snake made the mistake of crossing his path, and the only thing truly remarkable about that scene is that my Uncle Otis would be wearing dress pants, a dress shirt, dress shoes and a tie. A TIE! It wasn't even a tie with a wilderness scene on it. It was a dress tie. I have tried and tried and I can't for the life of me ever remember my uncle without a tie. Even on a hike! I always found that, well, kind of different, but also endearing. He looked as if he could walk right out of the woods and onto his car lot without missing a beat. To this day, I have never seen anyone hiking in a tie. I am told by reliable family sources that he also wore a tie on one of his few trips to the beach. Come to think of it, I'd be surprised if he didn't. I don't think my Uncle Otis owned any "kick back" clothes. I guess his tie was the equivalent to Mister Rogers and his sweater. They just seemed to go together.

Of course, this man, this uncle of mine was the oldest brother in a family of five kids and one half sister and, given that lofty position, I have heard a few stories of where he stepped into the "older brother" role and behaved as older brothers usually do - a bit on the bossy side. However, he couldn't have been too difficult to grow up with, because I never heard my parents ever utter the first negative word against him or, for that matter, any of our relatives. You have to remember though, I live with a couple of people who I am certain must be up for sainthood, even if they are Protestant. I say that in jest, but it's actually true. My parents have never been given to gossip or unkind words, either in front of or behind anyone's back. Probably just another reason a lot of people question my DNA and wonder if I truly am their biological child. Oh well...sometimes the apple DOES fall far from the tree. Sometimes, if the wind is right, that apple can blow that apple to a whole other orchard, even across several state lines - which probably explains me. :-)

Even if you know someone you love is terminally ill and death is imminent, the pain, the actual shock when the news is announced, is never easy to handle. There's no real way to prepare yourself for the loss. The mind may grasp and even process the information, but the heart simply refuses to get on board. And that is why it stings and aches, as if the realization that the person you love has passed away was completely out of the blue. Even when you've been warned, it still rocks your world, and let's face it, when someone we know quite well is suddenly gone, it's a keen reminder of our own mortality.

It is a very hard thing to lose a close relative and, unfortunately, I have some firsthand experience in this area because my own sister died at the age of 23, when I was 13. In a few days, on May 25, my sister will have been dead 32 years and I was thinking about that the other night and just couldn't believe it could possibly be that long ago, but it is. I did the math twice.

Since ten years separated us, I was raised mostly as an only child because of the vast difference in our ages, but after she passed away, my "only child" status became official. I always envy people who have brothers and sisters and I often wonder what it would have been like if I still had my sister. What would our relationship would be like? Would we visit often? Would she have turned into a gypsy like me or would she have had a more conventional life? How often would we have talked on the phone and what would we have talked about? Whenever I'm in the greeting card section of a store, usually in the "belated" area, when my eyes run across the cards wishing a sister happy birthday, happy anniversary, happy whatever...I am reminded that I do have a sister. I just can't buy a card for her.

My sister was very much a girly girl. She played with dolls, willingly, even excitedly wore dresses with lace and I've never seen a photograph of her with the first hint of dirt or mud. Me? I grew up playing with dolls too, it's just that I enjoyed taking them apart, particularly if they did something fancy like take in water, let out water, have movable parts such as mouths, arms and legs and I would become especially excited if they contained a voice mechanism that allowed them to talk. I dissected more than a few pretty expensive dolls. I was much more interested in how they worked, rather than the fact that they did. I knew it wasn't magic - it was more the mechanics that fascinated me.

My sister would ask for sensible, predictable things for Christmas like typewriters, clothes (yuck) and matching luggage ensembles. When I was four years old, my mother took me to see Santa. Of course, when he asked the big question, "And what do you want for Christmas?", I was happy to inform him that I wanted a hammer, nails and some wood to build... something. Or maybe a dog. And for the love of everything holy, PLEASE don't bring me any clothes. What a waste of a present! Besides, I don't think the GAP was around then. If it doesn't come from the GAP, I have very little interest in it.

It's interesting to imagine how life might have been different with the addition or subtraction of various components, people, places and things, but other than recreational pondering, there's not much you can do but simply imagine. You can never really know. The tiniest incremental inclusion or exclusion can change a whole life and the direction it takes, which is a good argument for giving most actions a lot of thought. Which is an even better reason to remember that when you tell someone that you love them or toss out a casual goodbye, even if they're just leaving to take care of an errand, it's a good idea to give that some thought as well. You just never really know when the last time may turn out to be - the last time.

My Uncle, the one who passed away this morning, had a son and daughter. It was his daughter, Peggy, who called to inform my parents this morning. She has always been close, as so many people are, to my parents. Her call to them was one of the first she made to deliver the sad news. It's a very reciprocal feeling because Peggy, along with her older brother Donnie, swooped in and took charge when my sister died all those many years ago. They pulled up in our driveway in an RV and they took care of so many details, many we will never know about, and they took care of me. What a horrendously confusing five day period that was.

My sister passed away on a Friday, May 25th, 1973 and, being Memorial Day Weekend, you weren't permitted to bury anyone during a holiday, so that meant that my sister's wake went on for two days at the funeral home and she was buried the Tuesday, May 29th, after Memorial Day. It may not sound like much, one extra day, but believe me, even with my fuzzy memory of those events, it seemed to go on forever. Our house was overflowing during most of that time with relatives, old friends, new friends, church members, friends of my parents, friends of my sister, parents of my friends...I remember feeling like I was lost in a sea of people for most of that weekend and nothing made any sense at all.

I'd experienced the death of dogs, fish, even tadpoles, but never had I seriously understood the concept, the finality, that comes attached with death. Processing that information didn't end with the funeral, not by a long shot. Even today, 32 years later, though there's so much I don't really remember about my sister, I still find myself going back to that time in my life. It wasn't simply the loss of my sister that proved so impossibly confounding, which wasn't simple at all, but the whole change in the dynamics of our family. It also kicked off a robust case of panic disorder in me which, way back in 1973, didn't even have a name yet, but until I finally found treatment nineteen years later, was a most unwelcome fallout from that tumultuous period of my life.

It's funny the small details that your mind seems to cling to for years, decades really, following a huge event in your life and I do remember a few things that stand out so vividly. I remember my cousin Peggy making me laugh when she could sense things getting overwhelmingly serious and shaky for me, in the days following my sister's death. I remember her brushing my long hair and taking care that my clothes matched and I looked presentable. I remember her soft, soothing voice as she talked to me about heaven and all of the cool things that Becky must be seeing, hearing and feeling and how, even if she could, even though she loved all of us so much, she wouldn't want to come back because heaven was just that amazing. And I remember taking comfort in knowing she wouldn't want to come back home, because to not want to return home meant that you must absolutely love where you were. It also made me feel better to know, extrapolating from what Peggy told me, that Becky couldn't possibly see all of the sadness and grieving going on at our house and in the funeral home, because if heaven was all that it was purported to be, seeing that mess wouldn't be a very happy thing at all, and from the way she patiently explained it to me, heaven was only about the good stuff. Therefore, it seemed to make sense that the painful parts must be censored out and I liked believing she wasn't looking down on all of our sad faces and wishing she could come back and make everything OK, even if we wished that she could.

My cousin Peggy has a very irreverent, intelligent and sardonic wit and she can cut through channels of staid decorum and easily point her finger at the absurd, a trait I genuinely admire in anyone. She slices through the BS and has no problem tossing aside the fluff. I come from a very genteel family in many respects, but there was always something just a little edgy, in a very good way, about Peggy and the way she approached life. I guess you could call it "pluck". Whatever it is, it will stand her in very good stead in these difficult days to come.

She has been a very hands-on, conscientious, loving, ever-present daughter to her father during his illness, taking on a lot of hard, mind and break-backing tasks for a woman that can't weigh more than 100 lbs. soaking wet. She's not had an easy time of it in her own right, but later on as she looks back at this whole period leading up to her Dad's death, I hope that she realizes that there's no way she could have handled it any more perfectly than she did. At some point, long after the wake, the funeral and as the attention wanes, I hope those memories of her performance and attentiveness to his every need, will bring her comfort and a lot of peace. She most certainly merits both.

Peggy asked my Dad to read a real life tale of getting his first car and what transpired, and her father's unique involvement in it. I love this story, all the more because it really happened. When I spoke to my Dad earlier this morning, after he had just learned that his brother had passed away, he told me that Peggy had requested he read what he wrote of his memory of this "first new car experience", but he declined, saying he would never be able to get through it. He did tell her that if she wanted anyone else to read it, that would be just fine with him.

I'm going to include this story. I love it that Peggy wanted it as part of her father's service because I love humor and what better time to have a dose of it than at a funeral? Laughing is an essential part of life, and I think it's brilliant to grab any chance you can to insert it into a something that doesn't lend itself easily to anything funny. To smile or even laugh out loud at the memory of something that the deceased did doesn't in any way disrespect or disregard the pain of the loss, if anything, I think it's a wonderful way to acknowledge the positive and delightful manner with which they lived their life. As far as I'm concerned, you should never pass up any chance to laugh, maybe most of all at a time when you think it impossible.

I believe that quote at the beginning of this entry, the one by the very wise Fred Roger,s fits so perfectly to the transition from life to death. If you happen to be a Christian, as my uncle most certainly was, then his death is a transition, but one that does bring feelings of loss and, from every thing I've read, you have to leave here to get to heaven.

Godspeed Uncle Otis. Thank you for all of the smiles. Maybe my sister Becky will be assigned to show you the ropes and get you all settled. I hope, though you will most certainly be missed, that even if you were given the choice, it's so amazing and wonderful up there that you wouldn't want to return here either.

Here is the story of my Daddy's first new car, but before I share that - here's a 1998 photograph of those same three boys - minus the chicken.

Otis, Dick & Barbe - just a few 60 years later - April 1998
Originally uploaded by susiewrites.

Boys to Men! A mere 60 years later and those Cook boys were still looking good. April 1998.

MY FIRST NEW CAR

It was on a Tuesday morning, June 24, 1958, our family left our home in Madison, West Virginia to drive to Crab Orchard, WV (near Beckley) to attend the funeral services of my wife’s Uncle Gus F. Bane. We had a 1953 model FORD Ranch Wagon, modern day terminology would call it a station wagon. Back then to get from Madison to Beckley one had to drive to Logan, then to Man, WV and up Huff Creek, across Huff Mountain to Oceana, then to Glen Rogers, across Bolt Mountain to Glen Daniel and then Route 3 to Beckley – then Route 16 to Crab Orchard. The present road from Madison up Pond Fork and across Kopperston Mountain to Oceana was still just a politician’s “dream” talk – a project which politicians espoused just before each election….But lets get back to the subject.

This 1953 FORD Ranch Wagon was a little six cylinder, two door wagon with simulated wood grain panels on each side and across the back lift gate – it was a nice one, good gasoline mileage but that wasn’t a great concern back then, when gasoline was only 24 cents per gallon. We did not buy it NEW, couldn’t afford a new car, but we had it long enough that all the payments had been made and it was OURS. The year before, July 1957, we had driven to Florida in it – plenty of room for our family of three. Storing luggage and bags of purchased Florida oranges to bring back to West Virginia was no problem. No, it wasn’t air conditioned as at that time only a very few, very expensive cars, or motels, had AIR CONDITIONERS. Sure we almost burned up but everyone else on the highway was in the same boat. It was a Good Car and it was OURS.

Since my OLDEST brother OTIS had a Ford Agency in Oceana, I decided to leave OUR 1953 FORD RANCH WAGON there for some minor brake repairs. He commented on how nice OUR RANCH WAGON looked (I’d just had it washed and shined up – no one wants to drive a dirty, dusty car to a funeral). His comments were a “WARNING SIGNAL” I failed to notice. He readily agreed to do the repair work and loaned us a car so we could proceed on to Crab Orchard to attend the 2 PM funeral of my wife’s uncle – no problem. So we proceeded on our way – (this “loaner” didn’t have air conditioning either).

That evening about 6 o’clock when we returned to COOK FORD SALES in Oceana, I noticed several garage employees standing around with grins on their faces – (and I didn’t say what kind of grins either), so we unloaded – started looking for OTIS so we could get OUR RANCH WAGON and head for Madison, 75 miles away. Finally located OTIS and inquired as to whether they had fixed my vehicle – “YES they had.” Was it a serious problem? “Nope, very minor brake problem”. Ok, where are my keys? That’s when he said “He had a problem and needed my help”. Well, I figured anybody in the “CAR BUSINESS” always had problems. “How in the heck could I help him?” That's when he laid it on me – HE HAD SOLD MY 1953 FORD RANCH WAGON. I thought he was kidding – that accounted for the people standing around with grins on their faces. He wasn’t kidding! Some guy had come in that afternoon – saw my RANCH WAGON (all cleaned up) and thought it was for sale – just what he was looking for. This brought “Dollar Signs” to my brother’s eyeballs and soon our RANCH WAGON was being driven away by some guy I’d never heard of, and to this day I have no idea who he was. How about the paper work? - No problem, just as soon as he got the TITLE from his brother (ME) he would take care of all the paper work – just drive on these temporary tags for a few days.

MY BROTHER had SOLD my car – you can’t do that, it is illegal, but he did!! He had sold our little 1953 FORD RANCH WAGON. Now what were we going to do? I was “half-mad” and “half glad”. I had traded cars with him many times – but always on his terms. NOW it was going to be on MY TERMS, which had never happened before, or since (and I have traded cars with him many times since then). Now the “SALES PITCH” – He had a NEW 1958 Green Ford, 6 cylinders, straight drive (not too many automatic transmissions then) and he would let me have it for just $200 over his cost. BIG DEAL! First he had sold our RANCH WAGON (Without our approval); and second, I couldn’t afford a NEW CAR, I’d never had a brand spanking NEW Car before. NO WAY!! He began to squirm – the employees were really grinning now. (I was too, but he didn’t know it). How about $100 over his cost? He would show me the INVOICE. I walked around the NEW GREEN FORD, opened and shut the doors, could smell that “new car smell”. Sorry OTIS, I just can’t afford a NEW CAR, my five year old RANCH WAGON was paid for, no more car payments for me. Do you think you could talk that fellow into returning my RANCH WAGON? He went back to the “drawing board” (the office) to do some more figuring – this had never happened to him before (me either). Finally, he came back where I was waiting and with a pained expression on his face asked would I be satisfied if he would let me have this NEW CAR at “his cost”? With a “long face” (in his presence), I reluctantly agreed to this deal. Now leaving Brother OTIS with a “long face” we loaded up in this BRAND NEW 1958 GREEN FORD CAR and headed for Madison, W. Va., seventy-five miles away. As we pulled out of the lot, I couldn’t help but notice the grins on the garage employees had turned into outright LAUGHTER. As we drove up Huff Mountain on our way to Madison we wondered why OTIS didn’t invite us up to his house upon Kopperston Road to eat supper with him and Lucille. Surely they would have had something they could have fixed in a hurry for supper. They had always invited us to stop and eat with them when we drove over from Madison.

That is how we acquired our FIRST NEW CAR – but it taught me a “LESSON” – the next time I took my car to the garage, owned by Brother OTIS, I would stay with it and watch, and keep the keys in my pocket until repairs were made. I kept that 1958 Green Ford Car until it too was paid for and traded it for a new 1963 Chevrolet Impala, with air conditioning, in November 1962. This is a TRUE STORY, if you don’t believe it I can prove it by my Brother OTIS.

W. Barbe Cook,

January 24^th, 1992 – (My 67^th Birthday)

"Out Wit, Out Play, Out Last - Out-Smarted By An Owl Finch"

Right now, I don't have time to remember or search for some quote that will elegantly illustrate my current situation. I don't think there is one. I was cleaning the aviary a few minutes ago and an Owl Finch staged an escape. I can't say for sure if this was just spur of the moment on his/her part (Owl Finches are beguiling), or something s/he had been plotting for some time in a sneaky, pre-meditated sort of way, but I am presently in my office with the door closed, the ceiling fan off and the window shut and an Owl Finch "cawing" and flitting past me. I think it's taunting me, laughing under it's chirp, probably saying, "Catch me if you can...sucker.".

I haven't even had my coffee for gosh sakes!

I first chased this ornery Owl Finch into my bedroom, but Princess, my big fluffy gray cat was also hot on it's trail, so that was no good. At one point, it landed on the floor and I just cringed, knowing I couldn't get to where it was and just waiting for the inevitable flurry of feathers and fur. Blessedly, it shot up to the window sill and I managed to chase it across the loft to my office. The cats were on high alert. Cassie was salivating. My office isn't that large - probably only 10' x 12", but with a Bowflex, bookshelves, a closet and bamboo shades, there are several perches and, at 5'5", I'm not all that tall, so we played "cat and mouse", pardon the pun, for about 15 minutes and then finally, I said...you win...for a few moments anyway. I was becoming more exasperated and forming a huge resentment toward a creature that probably weighs in at 6 ounces, dripping wet.

Most of the older, smarter, seasoned birds in our aviary, when they make the mistake of flying out of bounds, make a huge U-turn and fly right back in or at least have the good sense to land on top of the aviary. But not our Owl Finches. I always thought Owls were supposed to be so wise and smart. I guess that maybe that doesn't apply to Owls of the Finch variety. However, glimpsing toward my left, this tiny teaser is now in a fern, chewing on something in the dirt and peeking at me - daring me to get up and play Stumble-Upon - and I don't mean the website - as it flits back and forth.

I really hope when I finally catch this thing, and I will, that the other birds give it the cold shoulder, or whatever birds do when they are displeased with the behavior of one of their own, because when this coup was enacted, I was in the middle of replacing the seed, millet and yes, those tasty, slimy meal worms that they all love so much. But no, I had to drop my dish and put the lid on the worms in order to play tag with this Owl Finch.

I walked outside a few minutes ago to see the meticulous masterpiece that is my backyard, thanks to my Dad's weedeating and lawn care techniques. The lush green grass framing the crystal blue water in the pool, not to mention the 86 degree temperature it currently is outside, made coming back inside to outwit, outplay, outsmart an Owl Finch, not too inviting of a proposition, but I have a responsibility to save this bird...from itself, four cats, a big dog, quite a few ceiling fans and a few open windows. I'd rather be out by the pool. I'd rather be IN the pool. I'd rather be doing just about anything, save for a root canal, than cooped up in this room with a whining tiny bird that has runaway from home. Geez...

My break is over. I better grab my bamboo stick and see if I can entice this thing to get onboard and get back in the fold....err, flock. I am growing tired of this game and I'm hoping this Owl finch is getting bored and hungry.

Hopefully I'll have a good outcome to report, or a tale of a cat who enjoyed an exotic, albeit expensive, appetizer.

Wish me luck.