Crazy Rambling Thoughts

Faith

2011-12-28T01:46:00.024-05:00

Faith can be defined as complete trust. Most of us have been taught from a young age that faith is a firm belief in something or someone where there is no proof of its existence. As with love, with faith there is no tangible evidence, nothing to hold or embrace, it simply exists in one’s heart and mind. One can have faith in many things; God, a religion, a friend or in oneself. When you have faith you act without question, timidity or doubt.

Faith is wonderfully extraordinary, ever changing, evolving, and constantly growing. Like a rose turning toward the sun for light, faith is beautiful to witness. It gives one hope when lost. At times one’s faith can be as strong as an ocean current. No matter the distance the current must travel, or the obstacles it might encounter, the current, like faith, never stops until its waves safely reach the shore. When one has faith, one can overcome any hardship, pain or heartache. Faith will always lead you home, where ever that may be.

Having faith does not mean one cannot question, be upset and seek answers. Even people with the most steadfast beliefs, have doubts. No matter how strongly we believe in our convictions it does not mean we have failed when we question our faith, question ourselves, and question God. It simply means we are human. I believe that is the principle purpose of prayer, to ask questions. Prayer helps us when we are lost, feel misunderstood or neglected and we need guidance. At times we all lose faith in our convictions, our friends, sadly ourselves and God. No matter how strong our belief, at one time or another we have all strayed from our faith and become for a time the ‘lost sheep’.

There are times in everyone’s life when we are filled with questions. When we surrender to self-pity, lose hope and stop praying. “How did I get to this point?” “How much more pain and disappointment can I handle?” “Why is everyone else’s life so much better than mine, when I have tried to be good?” “Why am I so poor?” “Why can’t I find a better job?” “Why can’t I find love?” “Why did I lose my son or daughter?” The questions are too numerous to list, but they are echoed a million times throughout the world. If one thinks about it, we are never alone in our questions, our pain and our sadness. We are all bonded through the trials of life. With faith, together, we can navigate through any hardship.

I have a friend who once stated they had never lost faith in God but only themselves. I explained how I believe they are one and the same. When you lose faith in yourself, you have lost faith in God. If you do not believe in yourself, then you have forgotten God has given each one of us everything we need to travel this journey we call life. All we need is who we are. I know this because there were times I lost sight of who I was. I stopped believing in myself. I allowed others to make me doubt my abilities, what I could handle, what I could survive, what I knew to be true. I let them define me instead of showing them who I was. At times, I let the pain in my life overwhelm me. I built a wall between myself and God. I forgot one of the first lessons I learned as a child; God will only give me what I can bear. I had to let go of my doubts and go back to the faith I had as a child. I needed to remind myself not to question so much what I had lost but be thankful for the wonderful gifts I had in my life. I was blessed; I had experienced a pain so immense from losing a love that was so honest. I finally understood not to curse the pain but be thankful for the love. I have to believe I suffered so someone who could not handle the pain would not. There was a purpose to my sorrow, one day I may discover it, or I may never understand why. I have to simply believe in me, in God.

Like a rose, faith must never be neglected; it must be nurtured if it is to grow strong and beautiful. Sadly, if left untended, faith can languish and wither away leaving what can only be described as an ugly scar on the soul. I once carried that wound. When one loses faith in oneself and in God, one can never truly be happy. Without faith it is impossible to let go of the pain and move forward. Faith helps you find the rainbow after a storm, the joy after the sorrow.

How do we help our faith grow? One way to nurture our faith is to surround ourselves with friends who believe in us even when we may not believe in ourselves. Like God, they help us find peace in the middle of the tempest. These friends accept us for who we are, not for who they would like us to be. They view our ‘scars’ as beautiful, part of what makes us unique. They love us as much for our imperfections as our virtues. They steadfastly stand by us, behind us and at times in front of us.

Like an athlete who works out constantly to become stronger, we must ‘practice’ our faith every day so it too will be stronger. With proper attention it will be able to withstand any opponent. We nourish our faith through prayer; by trying to see the good in everything, and giving help to those in need, be it with money, or time, or simple words of encouragement. By openly giving ourselves to another, sharing our faith, it evolves, grows within them and strengthens within us. Our faith becomes stronger when we do not hide from it, we openly celebrate it, when we stand firm in our beliefs. If a friend fails to ‘have your back’; to stand with you when someone questions your character, then are they truly a friend? The same is true with faith. If you are unwilling to stand up for your faith, to speak up for yourself, for God, then do you really have faith at all?

I believe to find faith; one must study your religion’s teachings. One must also look within oneself. I am different than most people; I do not believe one has to attend ‘church’ to be one of the faithful. I have met many people who regularly attend Sunday service, who say they are ‘Christian’ but their actions demonstrate otherwise. Words do not prove our faith, our lives do. Faith can only be measured as true by God not by man.

I began this essay by saying we are taught that faith is intangible; it is a belief in someone or something that is not based upon proof. I have seen otherwise. I witness the proof of faith’s presence every day. I see it in the pain, struggles and hardships I have overcome. I witness it in the beauty and grace of those around me, through the people who have come in and out of my life. I see its affirmation in the love that surrounds me every day. Faith is the foundation of all that is good, of love, of hope for the future, and of the triumph over adversity. Faith is the seed of God’s love and faith is my constant companion.

It all begins with two simple yet beautiful words……I believe!

Jack Daniel's Chocolate Chocolate Chip Cookies with Whiskey Glaze

2011-11-30T22:41:00.006-05:00

If you are my friend on facebook you have probably noticed over the years that I love to bake, especially during the holiday season. Many times after posting photos or status updates about my baking exploits I have received many requests for recipes. I must admit I am horrible at responding and sending out recipes. I have good intentions, I truly plan on responding but the thought of typing then copying and pasting a recipe numerous times is very unappealing so I tend to put off responding indefinitely. This afternoon I received another request for a recipe. When I moved the email into my folder titled recipe requests, I noticed the large number of emails I had banished there and guilt overtook me. I decided to ease my conscious instead of sending out several emails I would simply post some of my most requested recipes on my blog.

First I must confess I am not a professional cook. I have never had any type of formal training. I learned to bake standing by the side of my Grandma and Nana Kay, listening and watching as they created their "magic delights" in the kitchen. As a small child I can remember peeking over the mixing bowl in my Nana Kay's kitchen as she made her wonderful christmas cakes. My mouth watering with the anticipation of licking the beaters. I knew I was getting older when my Grandma finally allowed me to measure, then taught me how to gently add the ingredients to her cookie batter. One of the most important lessons I learned standing by their sides, recipes are simply a guide. You have to know what the batter should look and taste like. The season, weather, humidity and even your oven may call for a "recipe adjustment".
I always bake a few cookies first before removing my beater and mixing bowl. If the cookies spread too much I know to add a touch more flour. It also allows me to adjust the time and temperature as needed.

Most of my original recipes have stories behind them, some short, some long.
The Jack Daniel's Chocolate Chocolate Chip cookie recipe came to be after an evening spent with friends. We were all sitting around a table on a neighbor's deck one summer night enjoying the warm night and conversation. In the middle of the table sat a bowl of chocolate. A few of the men decided to take shots of whiskey and placed their shot glasses down on the table. I stared at the shot glasses next to the chocolate bowl and thought I bet the two would taste great together. I did something very unusual for me, I asked Larry for a shot of whiskey. Yes me who rarely drinks asked for a shot, of whiskey no less. Everyone stared in amazement as he handed my shot to me. Most watching to see if I was actually going to be able to swallow it without coughing or making a funny face. I believe there may have even been a bet placed on the outcome. He handed me the shot, I unwrapped a small Hershey bar, placed it in my mouth and then took a sip of the whiskey. I was right the two combined nicely. To finish the shot I unwrapped another chocolate bar and combined the two once again. Before going to bed that night I wrote on a posted note, Chocolate Chips and Whiskey and stuck it to my cooking binder as a subtle reminder. A few weeks later on a rainy summer night, I came up with the recipe below. I hope you enjoy it.

Jack Daniel’s Chocolate Chocolate Chip Cookies with Chocolate Whiskey Glaze
1 ½ cups semi- sweet chocolate chips; melted **
12 oz. bag white chocolate chips
12 oz. bag semi-sweet chocolate chunk chips
1 cup unsalted butter
1 ½ cup brown sugar (do not pack)
2 eggs
3 tbsp Gentleman Jack Whiskey
1 1/2 tsp baking soda
½ tsp salt
2 ½ (to 3/4) cup all purpose flour
Preheat oven to 350 degrees
Place 1 ½ cups semi-sweet chocolate chips in microwave safe bowl. Microwave at 30 second intervals until chocolate is completely melted. Be sure to stir the chocolate chips for a few seconds after each interval. Allow to melted chocolate to cool slightly.

In large bowl beat at medium speed; butter, brown sugar and whiskey until light and fluffy.
Add eggs one at a time, mixing completely after each.
Turn mixer to low speed and gradually add in the melted chocolate. Scraping the sides of the bowl as necessary. Once chocolate is completely blended in, turn the mixer up to medium speed and beat for approximately one to two minutes. Stop mixing when the batter appears slightly lighter in color and appears softer/fluffy.
Turn mixer to low, add baking soda and salt, blending completely. Add flour.
(Note: I add flour a half a cup at a time. This allows me to make sure the flour is getting thoroughly blended and I can make sure the batter does not become too dry)

Turn mixer to the lowest setting, add chocolate chunk pieces and white chocolate chips.

Drop by med. ice cream scoop unto ungreased cookie sheet. Cook for 12 to 14 minutes until the center of the cookie is set. Remove cookies to wire rack to cool.
Make glaze and drizzle over cooled cookies.

FYI if you really want to amp up the whiskey taste, when the chocolate chip cookies are cooling, brush the tops of the cookies with Jack Daniel's.

Chocolate Whiskey Glaze
(Note: You may want to adjust the chocolate glaze to your taste…the more powdered sugar the less whiskey taste and vice versa.)

16 oz squeeze bottle (available at Walmart and most stores)
½ cup melted chocolate chips**
2 tsp shortening
1/3 cup Jack Daniels Whiskey
¾ to 1 cup Powdered Sugar
1 tsp vanilla
Place Chocolate chips and shortening in microwave safe bowl, microwave at 30 second intervals until melted. Be sure to stir after each time. You may also melt the chocolate and shortening over the stove in a double boiler. Let melted chocolate cool slightly.
In mixer combine whiskey, vanilla and powdered sugar. Scraping the bowl every minute or so to ensure the sugar and whiskey combine.
Turn mixer to medium speed and slowly add the melted chocolate. It is important that the chocolate is cooled slightly if it is too hot it will seize up when it mixes with the whiskey and you will have to start all over.
Mix until smooth. It is important to taste the glaze. If you want more of a whiskey taste then add a tablespoon or two more of Jack Daniel's. If you want to tone down the whiskey taste, then add a tablespoon or two more of the powdered sugar. I always add more whiskey!!

Pour chocolate glaze in squeeze bottle and drizzle over cookies.
Store in an air tight container.

**when stirring melted chocolate do not use a wooden spoon.

Don't Let Today Be Lost to Yesterday

2011-10-12T02:43:00.018-04:00

In the past 11 months I have lost 4 people that I loved. It has been a pretty emotional year. Tonight I should have been home watching television, resting after practice not at a memorial to say goodbye to my dear friend, Gail.

Nothing makes sense, according to my calendar on October 31, 2011 I am supposed to be dropping off my shelves and crafts to Gail at Baldwin Hall. I am still in a bit of shock. I have Gail’s message saved on my cell phone, she asked how Kathryn and Cole were doing, if I am ready for the upcoming craft show and can she borrow my shelves again this year. She ended with she knew I was busy, no rush simply call her back when life slowed down and I had time to talk. I saved her message to remind myself to call her after homecoming and Charlotte’s wedding this weekend. I made the mistake of waiting too long, assuming I had plenty of time to talk and catch up. I believed because I had written a date on my calendar Gail was going to be there. After all she had always been there for the past 27 years, why would this year be different? We had spent the past twenty years in the back room at her craft show as we inventoried crafts in, catching up on the year that had past, laughing, sharing photographs and sometimes even crying over life. This year should have been the same, no one expects their friend to die suddenly. Now sadly the time I had to call Gail is gone. I lost the opportunity to talk to my friend one last time, I allowed today to simply pass away to yesterday. I made the mistake of believing I still had tomorrow to catch up.

Driving home from Gail’s memorial I wondered how many of my friends would make the same mistake I had, believing they still had time with their friends. Tomorrow they would return a phone call, reconnect with an old friend and see how they were doing. They weren’t worried about missing the upcoming reunion because surely everyone would be at the next. How many of my friends believe they still have time to let someone know how important they are, how much they loved them, say thank you. How many will let time pass and never say what should have been said long ago. Then I thought of all my friends who were no longer talking to each other, exes that no longer speak. For one reason or another they cannot allow themselves to forgive. I have often heard, “Eventually I will get over it and forgive them.” When does eventually stop being? I wonder what happens if they wake up tomorrow and the person they refuse to forgive or talk to is no longer there? Their chance to let go and move on is gone? What regrets will they have? There are people who I was excited to reconnect with. I enjoyed our weekly email correspondence when suddenly they stopped writing. When I asked what was wrong I received no response. I tried to discover what mistakes I may have made so I could correct them, apologize. I let them know their silence hurt me, again I received no answer so now I wonder will they carry any regrets when I am gone. The regret I have is never knowing what I did to upset them and never given the opportunity to correct whatever it was.

No matter how much we may want to, we can never get yesterday back. No one is flawless, some relationships end, people make mistakes. We are all wonderfully human, beautifully imperfect. Where a photograph of a person may fit perfectly in a frame of our choosing, friends don’t always conform to the ideas or standards we want them to but that does not make them less worthy of our forgiveness or friendship. In the end why would we ever expect or want anyone to be anything less than fallible? We are who we are, good and/or bad. Perfect people are to say the least boring. Flawed friends are paradisaical, they keep life interesting. We grow as individuals by making mistakes, leaning how to forgive and move forward.

Some times I believe we get so caught up in what has happened or what was said in the past we lose sight of what is truly precious now, time! We allow it to fall through the cracks of life and get away from us. Time we have been blessed with that our friends who have passed would cherish. How many times after a loved one has died have we all wished for one more hug, one more chance to say I love you. What we lose sight of, we no longer have that time with them, they are gone, but we still have it with each other! For now we have time to share together, time to laugh, hug and cry. Most importantly we have time to forgive! We are blessed; we can still feel the sun on face, taste the rain on our lips, feel the wind in our hair and watch the moon rise. Most importantly we have been given the gift of another day with the ones we love. We are the lucky ones, we still have today to enjoy and create memories together with our family and friends; it’s tomorrow that is uncertain. Treasure now don't wait for eventually.

Please remember there are no do overs in life, you can never regain lost time, so make today count, do not allow it to become a yesterday of regret.

---------------------------------------------------------
Less than twelve hours after I posted this piece I learned Kala Marie Austin was killed in a car crash driving to school. She was just 17 years old. I first met Kala when she was 8 years old and cheering with the Bucs. My dear good friend Patty was her coach. I would often attend Patty's practices to help her with stunts and her routine. I was able to watch Kala grow through cheerleading and Patty's kids. What I remember most about Kala, her big soft eyes. When she gave me that look during practice, I coudln't yell at her, I could only smile and laugh. I use to tease her that I was sure that look had Dad wrapped around her finger. She would smile and agree! Kala wanted to grow up to become a teacher, that was her dream. She was interning through Chesapeake High School at Bodkin Elementary School and in the short month and a half she was there, she touched many lives. She had a caring heart and a gentle soul.
It was hard to say good bye at her funeral, looking at her senior pictures, wondering all she could have been, knowing all she had been. The photograph that touched me most, the one of Kala in her cap and gown. Looking at it, reality sunk deep within me, on graduation day, when all her friends will be celebrating, she will not be there to share in the joy.
Please, forgive, laugh and love because none of us know how long we have on this earth. Never forget to tell the ones you love and care about how much they mean to you.
RIP Kala ....you are loved and will be missed!!

Relationships- Lessons Learned

2011-09-16T02:25:00.031-04:00

A few weeks back I was out with a group of friends when the conversation turned to previous relationships. I was surprised at how many of my friends did not like their former partners. They dreaded the thought of running into them. I was perplexed that a vast majority of my friends believed they did nothing wrong, the relationship ended because the other party was one hundred percent at fault. As gently as possible I tried to question, if they had done nothing wrong, if they were the perfect partner wouldn’t they still be in the relationship? I was showered with an instantaneous unanimous answer, “I had nothing to do with its failure.”

Why do people believe if a relationship ends it was a failure? For me it has always been quite simple, it ends because it was never meant to be. For some reason or another, we, me and whomever, were not perfect for each other. A break up is only a failure if you do not learn from it. As with everything in life there are lessons in successes and failures. I also believe when a relationship dissolves the fault lies with both parties. It takes two people to make a relationship work and it takes two people to end it. One may carry more blame than the other but each person must own their share for its closure.

I can hear the chorus now; how can I be responsible if my partner cheated on me? A significant other does not cheat is their partner is perfect. I have had boyfriends cheat on me and it hurt me deeply. I also realized they cheated because I was not listening to them; I was not giving them what they needed. I have friends who would ask how could it possibly be their fault when their ex cheated on all their previous partners. The fault lies in dating a person you know to be a serial cheater. Why would you ever think they would be different for you? I learned a long time ago if you take your part of the responsibility, what you did wrong in the relationship, it is easier to understand their actions. Why they went in search of someone else. It does not make what they did right but it does make it easier to forgive them and move on. Until you forgive, as long as one holds anger, you are in essence still tied to your past, tied to them. It is impossible to move forward until you are free.

Of course I also understand there are people in this world who defy explanation, no ifs, ands or buts; they are jerks, evil, bad. These are the abusive partners. They have the ability to suck all the happiness and joy out of a person. They fool everyone around them, hiding their true ‘personality or character’ until it is too late, a person is already deep into a relationship. The time they steal from a person can never be regained but with God’s grace and with a lot of help from family and friends the person who is sucked into a relationship with an evil person can survive the damage and move on. The lesson is looking back and trying to recognize the hints, the clues they subtly dropped at the beginning of the relationship, understanding why one refused to see them. The only true fault is usually being too nice, too naïve and not leaving sooner.

I have heard friends state they have the divorce or the break up from hell, but why was it hell? I have never been married or had a bad break up so I have no personal experience. From what I have witnessed, nasty endings are because one or both parties are hurting, they feel wronged. The 'injured' party feels they have done nothing wrong, they have every right to impose their wrath. They are still suffering therefore they must cause the other person to feel as much pain as they do. They are not ready to admit or own their fault in the collapse of the relationship. They honestly believe they hate their previous lover, not recognizing it they didn't love them so much, they wouldn't be hurting so badly. My grandmother once told me the difference between love and hate is pain and anguish. The only cure, recognize the difference and forgive.

I look at my previous relationships as building blocks, life’s lessons until I find the man I am meant to spend the rest of my life with. My past boyfriends made me who I am and I am thankful I dated them. I am grateful most are still a part of my life. It always saddens me when I hear people talk about how much they hate their ex. If they saw them they would turn away, leave where ever they were. Maybe I am not the norm, but I know if I saw one of my exes I would walk up and hug them. Catch up over lost time, laugh over old times. I have often wondered why is it so hard for some people to remember the good parts of their relationship, what first attracted them to their ex? Why instead do they choose to dwell on the ending, all the bad parts of the relationship, the character flaws of their ex? We all have our imperfections, just as I had to learn to adjust to their quirks, they had to deal with all my peculiarities. I am not perfect and I have never expected my partner to be as well. Besides perfection is pretty boring!

I have been pretty lucky in the boyfriend department. Most of my relationships have been with some pretty amazing men. I may not have realized it at the time, but looking back I recognize how truly fortunate I was. I would be lying if I did not confess that a few of my exes really hurt me, it took me a while to get over the pain of how the relationship ended. For a time, because of them, I built ‘walls’ to protect myself from feeling too much, never wanting to experience that kind of hurt again. As I matured I recognized and accepted my part in how the relationship deteriorated, why it fell apart. I had to take my responsibility in causing my own pain. The most eye opening moment when I realized in some of my relationships I was more at fault than my ex was. Time has a way of disclosing the truth if you truly search your soul.

For me the only way I have ever been able to liberate myself from the pain of a relationship closing was to openly examine it. Identify what was wonderful, what went wrong, what I would change, what was my fault and what I learned about me. I had to be honest, look deep within myself and admit my faults. It was never important what my ex did, that was for them to accept and own, I had to concentrate on what I could take away from the relationship. I had to ask myself the hard questions. I had to learn how I could grow, forgive and move forward; be ready for the next boyfriend. Sometimes examining my mistakes in a relationship was a difficult lesson but I understood if I did not learn from them I would constantly repeat them and I truly hate repetition of a bad nature!! Who knows maybe my next boyfriend will be 'Mr. Right' and after learning from all my mistakes, my faults hopefully I will be ready for him.

*********************************************************

On a side note, over the next few days I will be posting letters to my exes. I will not be writing letters to all the men I have dated, not like that list would be long, but rather posting letters to the men that had a huge impact on my life, the guys who I owe the most to. They may not feel the same way about me, but I have always felt I was lucky to share a time in my life with them. Good or bad they made me who I am. I will not be using their real names instead I will be using the nicknames I gave them in my diary. There will be no dirt or inside details given, simply an honest letter of what I learned about me from them. My hope is maybe by my being open and honest in my letters, an examination of what I did wrong, it may help another person to look within themselves and learn to accept their fault, forgive, let go and move on. After all isn’t that what life is about, moving forward?

Paul- The Why That Will Never Be Answered

2011-08-30T14:56:00.011-04:00

Before you read, I understand this is a touchy subject, one most people would want to avoid. It is a very uncomfortable subject and I am sure I will upset some people but by writing about it I hope to remove some of the stigma people attach to it. The problem will never go away until we all learn to address the issue head on.

PAUL
August 30, 2011 would have been my friend Paul’s 50th birthday. No matter how much I want to I can’t stop the tears that are beginning to well up in my eyes, his birthday was very hard for me. Writing this post is difficult, I miss him! I miss my friend.

Paul and I first met when he was a midshipman at the United States Naval Academy, 9th company, class of 1983. I don’t remember talking to Paul that much in college. As he liked to tease me later in life, it wasn’t for a lack of him trying, I was always surrounded by groups of people, I talked too much, and I never let anyone get a word in edgewise. The conversations I do remember with Paul all involved sports. I was a diehard O’s and Colts fan, he loved ‘Da Bears” and the Cubs. I had a blast teasing him over my teams' victories and his teams' losses.

As Paul often said after twenty seven years of light and across 3,000 miles we reconnected via Facebook. When we first found each other he was amazed I remembered him. At first we emailed/messaged back and forth. Then labor day Monday he called. At first scolding me for listing my cell phone number on my profile, then we talked all things Jimmy Buffett, finally he confessed he spent the holiday weekend reading my blog. He was upset with me that I never called him or any of the 9th company guys after Bobby died. He told me reading my blog made everything fall into place. It all made sense to him why I seemed to drop off everyone’s radar in 1987/1988. He made me promise since everyone from the old days were finding each other I was never allowed to go through anything alone again. I was not permitted to "fall off the radar." He believed we all needed to rely on each other. Even if I did not graduate from the Academy with him in 1983, he still considered me part of his class of 83 family.

After our first phone call, it never failed, every ten days or so he would call, always greeting me with the same question, “Woman have you forgotten me already?” Between phone calls Paul would arbitrarily text. Some days I wondered if he ever slept. If he saw me on Facebook late at night he would text me “Go to sleep woman”, a few hours later I would be greeted on my phone with a text, “Good morning beautiful.” I would always send back, “Let me sleep you bum.” A texting argument would soon commence over the value of getting up early, not wasting the day verses staying up all night! He swore one day he was going to break me of my night owl habits, I was going to learn to love sunrise!

Slowly as we got reacquainted I was amazed at how much he remembered about me from college; parties, dances I attended (including what I wore), tailgaters, nights at the Flight’s house etc. His memory astonished me. I was touched when he told me about the time he saw me crying on the porch in the arms of Mrs. Flight, heartbroken once again over one of his company mates. He admitted he heard part of the conversation, he apologized he should have walked away, but as he put it, he was a typical male back then. I laughed when he try to explain, he didn’t understand why but he felt the urge and did mutter “jack ass” when he walked by the certain someone’s room.

On numerous occasions Paul would talk of how much he missed the Academy days and his fellow 9th company classmates. I almost dropped the phone the night he announced/promised he was coming back to Annapolis. The man who had not stepped on the Academy grounds for 26 years was coming home for a football game. I was informed I had no choice but to make myself available for whatever weekend he chose. He knew a lot of his old friends lived in the area and he wanted us all to be together; the ‘family’ that hung out at the Flight’s. Paul demanded jokingly, “I want a fun reunion so every one better be in a good mood including you! Be prepared to drink woman!” If you have not figured it out by now with Paul I had no name, I was always addressed as “Woman”.

Paul definitely had a gruff side; he loved to disagree with me, try to correct me. I knew most of the time he was full of it, he simply enjoyed bantering back and forth. I knew I frustrated him more than most of his friends I never gave in during an argument, I would keep pushing my point until he got tired of the subject. I knew I had won the debate when he would yell, “Damn it Woman you confound me! I can’t win if you make no sense.” I would laugh at his confusion, quickly change the subject and the conversation would continue. Numerous times Paul in his very frank not so gentle style pointed out how he thought I needed to change my life. There were certain aspects he believed needed overhauling and certain people needed to be lost. Yes sometimes his truthful words stung more than I wanted to admit.

Paul may have been brusque at times but I was lucky I got to know Paul’s gentle side as well. Last fall when my father was dying from cancer he always checked on me, making sure I had everything I needed. One morning after posting I had spent most of the night silently crying at the hospital, I was gently reprimanded via text from Paul. He reminded me he was in California, three hours behind the east coast. It really didn’t matter what time it was I never had to cry alone he was only a phone call away. From that morning forward Paul called or texted before he went to bed to say goodnight and ask, “You hanging in there?” A simple question, his way of letting me know he cared. Upon receiving the message Dad died, he called immediately. I never said anything, yet he understood the one thing I needed the most he couldn’t give me. He apologized because he wasn’t here to hug me, hold me and give me his arms to cry in. Paul had listened, he remembered the one thing I said I have always wanted yet never seem to find; a set of big strong arms to crawl into and feel safe enough to cry.

The two of us spent many hours on the phone I thought sharing everything that was going on in our lives. We talked about his ‘potential’ (girlfriend), work, motorcycle trips, wine, back pain, migraines, plans we were making for the summer, for the future. I was flattered when he confessed one of the things he loved and admired about me, was the way I could forgive anyone, anything and move forward. The fact that I forgave my daughter’s father and was able to be friends with him again gave Paul hope with his daughter. The topic of many phone conversations were our daughters. He loved his little girl more then he thought possible. He confessed he wasn’t the best father but was trying to improve on their relationship. He hoped one day they would be close, maybe not your typical father daughter relationship close but one that worked best for them. I smiled when I read on my newsfeed that he was friends with his daughter on Facebook, I texted a quick, “Way to go Dad” when I read it.

I thought Paul and I were always open and honest with each other, no subject seemed off limits. I confessed many things, feelings I had never admitted to in the past. Sadly I learned he was not as open. He did not share all he was feeling. He lied to me when he said life was good, he had everything under control. Something was going on inside Paul that he did not share with me or as I have learned with anyone else.

The last time I talked to Paul was May 16, 2011 at 9:24 p.m. I have forever locked his entry into my cell phone log. We talked longer than normal, in fact I had to hang up and call him back from the house phone. He had me rolling on the floor in laughter as he was reliving some of his Academy days. Apparently it is frowned upon at the Academy to move some of the planes on the grounds, and it is also not a good idea to come back to Mother B drunk after a football game. Doing both within a twenty four hour period, not so brilliant. I had never heard about the Black N Star club until that evening. Paul was a proud sweater bearing member. He also informed me after his trip to Hawaii he hated women, we were all bad. I reminded him he was talking to me and I was a woman. I was informed by him I don’t count. I decided it was smarter not to ask if I did not count as a woman or bad. I chuckled as Paul tried to decide if he wanted to live the life of a celibate or a ladies’ man. I suggested the later would be more fun for him. I could live vicariously through his wild ways. Looking back, what should have struck me as odd at the time but didn’t, for the first time before he hung up he said, I miss you, I will always miss you. Then quickly his voice changed from sweet to gruff and he bluntly told me it was my turn to call next, I needed to carry my weight in our relationship. I hung up thinking I was being scolded as always!!

I never got that chance to call Paul back, on May 25, 2011, twenty eight years to the day of his graduation from the United States Naval Academy, my friend Paul took his own life. He committed suicide. It would be a week before I would know he was dead.

I was getting ready to sign off Facebook the early morning hours of May 31/June 1 when I saw a post come across my feed from one of his classmates sending condolences to Paul’s family. In an instant I couldn’t breathe, I stared at my computer in disbelief. I immediately went to Paul’s page hoping to find some information, praying it was a mistake. As wrong as it sounds hoping it was someone in his family that had died, not Paul. His wall was filled with messages to his family, to Paul stating how much he was missed. I scrolled up and down his page trying to find out any information what happen, when, where, there was none. Tears were flooding my face as I emailed an academy friend to see if he knew what happened. Paul had told me he was planning a motorcycle trip over Memorial Day weekend, my initial thought, he was in an accident. I was not prepared for the phone call that I received later in the afternoon informing me the man who looked after me, made sure I was okay, told me he would always be there, killed himself. I wanted to break down but I couldn’t, it was my daughter’s birthday, so I wiped the tears from my eyes, put on my happy face and went out to dinner. No matter how much pain I was in I could not and would not ruin my daughter’s special day.

After dinner when I returned home, I crawled into bed, screamed, cried and cursed him. I was angry at Paul, he told me if I was ever in pain I could call him anytime. Did he not understand that it was the same for him? By the time I finally fell asleep I was no longer angry, my pillow was soaked with tears. I missed my friend and wanted to talk to him one more time, ask him why? Didn’t he know I would always be there for him no matter what it was, how he felt? I was trying to fathom what could be so bad he couldn’t talk about it? I wanted to turn back time so I could remind him he was loved by many including me. I cried harder when I realized I had never told Paul I loved him and his friendship meant so much to me. I had once again left some very important words/feelings unspoken. I assumed he knew. One day I will forgive myself for making that mistake a second time.

I thought his birthday wouldn’t be as hard as it was, randomly throughout the day and night a few tears would roll down my cheeks. I know if Paul were still here he would be surrounded by his friends celebrating this huge milestone in his life. I would have been one of the first people to tease him playfully that he was half a century old. You better believe I would have greeted him with “Happy Birthday old Man!” He had tons of friends who loved him. I pray he never doubted that but his suicide makes me wonder.

If you visit Paul’s Facebook page you will see old friends are still asking what happened, how did Paul die? No response is posted to the question instead they are asked to email someone for the answer. His suicide is the silent demon on the wall, ever present yet no one wants to acknowledge it. I am not sure why. Is it because we all believe we hold some amount of guilt, not knowing or understanding what was going on with Paul? Not seeing his pain? I know I feel that way some days. Or is it shame? Are we all afraid to put suicide on his page worried it is like a scarlet letter to be worn in disgrace? Paul was obviously hurting and there is never any shame in that. We all hurt at times, we all cry. I am upset with Paul for not talking to someone, anyone. He should have sought solace from his friends. He left a lot of us confused and hurting when he killed himself.

I can’t help but to wonder if that is what we are all doing wrong, not talking about his suicide openly. Maybe a frank conversation might stop someone else from taking their own life. Hopefully they would see the pain Paul left behind. I don’t think Paul ever truly comprehended, by killing himself, how much sorrow he would cause those he loved. He did not leave a note, none of us will ever know why he chose to end his life, we can only speculate but there will never be any certainty. To me, not knowing, the guilt I carry for not recognizing his pain makes it harder for me to grieve and let go.

Maybe if we all talk about his suicide, maybe not on his facebook page but acknowledge it directly in conversations and emails we can help each other accept his death. Instead of using words with hidden meanings or indirect statements remove the stigma address the subject head on, suicide. We can help each other understand there will never be an answer to the question why. I understand Paul is the only one who truly holds all the answers. For some reason he did not want to share them but who knows we may discover we each hold a piece of Paul’s puzzle, together we form the why of his suicide. For me what hurts the most is knowing Paul did not feel he could share his pain with me. It means he did not truly trust me the way I trusted him. I will always wonder if there was anything I could have said or done to get him to open up, stop him from making the decision to take his own life. I will always question, what didn’t I give him that he needed?

What haunts me the most, what I can still hear in my brain, the memory of Paul’s voice, his traditional phone greeting, “Woman have you forgotten me already?” The answer is no Paul I have never forgotten you, never will. You were my friend and I love you!

'Channel' Surfing for the Perfect Sleeping Partner

2011-08-06T20:53:00.006-04:00

I feel like I should have to type a disclaimer before this post, a warning label of such. Today once again my brain is a cluttered confusion of fragmented thoughts, feelings, disjointed words and emotions. Planes are taking off in the distance and for a time I watched, wishing I could hop on one heading to destinations unknown. Since I am stranded in Maryland, I sit outside trying to get lost in Springsteen. I see dark clouds rolling in from the distance, rain is definitely on the way. Like the blue sky trying to keep the storms at bay I am doing my best to lock away the erratic mixed up emotions I am feeling so I can put pen to paper and write on the subject I briefly scribbled about last night before heading to bed. Forgive me as I build another wall around ‘crazy’, lock everything away where I no longer feel and allow myself to concentrate on the subject at hand. So if this is not my best piece I apologize…maybe in the future I will re-address the issue.

‘Channel’ Surfing for the Perfect Sleeping Partner

There is this entertaining restaurant and pub called the Irish Channel. My friends helped me discover the wonders and fun of this neighborhood gathering place in Crofton. Every weekend the place is packed with new faces as well as the regulars, together they form an eclectic lively crowd. Televisions overhead play sports programming, bands serenade the dance floor, darts fly and the drinks flow. It is constantly amusing and always fun. I love hanging out at the Channel with my friends, I feel safe, comfortable in my surroundings. I know some people may find this hard to believe but there are nights when I still feel like the ugly duckling trying to fit in a pond of swans. There are times when I believe I don’t ‘fit’ what people expect of me. Where my circle of friends is small and comfortable, my friends are part of a larger group. Through them I am able to meet more people, sit, observe and be a part of the conversations and interactions that encompass me. As I listen I become more at ease with my environment, more importantly I discover more about myself and how similar we all are at the ‘Channel’.

A few weeks back shortly after I posted on Facebook that I was heading to the ‘Channel’ with friends I received a rather odd phone call. An old friend called asking why I was heading there. He had heard that the only reason one goes to the ‘Channel’ was to get drunk and pick up a person of the opposite sex. Somewhat annoyed and angry at him for making that assumption about my friends and me, I defiantly answered, “Not true! Besides why does it matter to you? We are all adults. Sometimes a girl needs to be held, danced with and yes have sex! Which FYI we are there to hang out and have fun, nothing more, period.” After listening to a conversation last night at the ‘Channel’ I wish I could have a do over retort to his declaration of our intent. I would definitely have a much better response to his allegations. A series of exchanges between friends, commentary meant to be funny, spoke volumes of truth if you really understood what was being left unspoken.

What were the assertions that grabbed my attention, registered in my brain as the underlying true motives of the single crowd that heads out to surf for companionship at the ‘Channel’, “I have met plenty of women I could have sex with, not interested. I am still searching for the woman I am willing to let stay for lunch.” Another, “Sex is great but I am searching for a man I want to take a nap with.” Last, “Perfection, really sleeping after sex.” I, the woman who has spent years building walls around my emotions, at times more reinforced than Fort Knox, understood what was being said. I shook my head in agreement.

Yes, I cannot deny, there are some people for one reason or another that are not ready or searching for anything more than sex. However, the overwhelming population ‘hanging out’ are looking for and wanting more. They seek not someone to simply have sex with; they are in a pursuit of someone to ‘sleep’ with. It is easy to go to bed with someone and have sex, it is much harder to wake up next to them and stay. Ultimately we are all searching not for sex but to find the person we are comfortable enough to relax and ‘sleep’ with after the 'fun' is over. Wonderful, is when you reach a point in a relationship when you fall asleep in their arms as you watch television, or read. So at ease with each other you are no longer nervous, you can relax and dream in their embrace.

Let’s face it unless you have set up a video camera to record yourself sleeping no one truly knows the things we do when we sleep or nap. We have all awoken to a drool stain on a pillow a time or two. We have all jolted awake or cried out loud at least once from a bad dream. What woman hasn’t looked in the bathroom mirror and seen the horror of smudged mascara in the morning? We can control nothing when we sleep; not tossing, turning, snoring or drooling. Anything can happen while we slumber. When we fall asleep with someone, we are letting them into our unknown territory. We are trusting them to do us no harm, keep us safe while we are lost to the world around us.

We are all searching for that person, be it a friend, lover for a short time or a lifetime that we can trust enough to fall deeply asleep next to. We seek a person who can make us laugh over the drool stain; tease us about our leg stubble as our bodies are entwined. So at ease, we don’t feel the need to rush to the bathroom to fix our face when we awake, they won’t care. We want to find the person who will brush our hair out of our face, kiss us softly as we dream even when they know we probably can’t feel it, but they simply have the desire to. We long for the person who not only can we get naked in front of, but we can safely bare our souls to while we are in their arms. We can trust them with our secrets, our dreams and even our fears. How do we know when we have found the perfect ‘sleeping’ partner? When they prefer us first thing in the morning, our natural selves, over the illusion they took to bed the night before. When the perfect Sunday or Saturday afternoon is spent dreaming in their arms and we wouldn’t want it any other way.

In a way I guess my friend was correct, we all go to the ‘Channel’ in search of someone to sleep with. Just not the way he thinks.

The Magnificence of Eye Candy

2011-08-05T03:06:00.011-04:00

Eye candy, ah the beauty of someone that makes our heart rate increase, our eyes lust and our minds wander. I am not sure anyone can truly define who is the perfect eye candy? We all have different taste; different desires. What one may consider appealing another may not but we all share one similarity, there is one mutual truth to eye candy. When you find it, when the ‘hot button’ has been tripped, our minds delve into a wonderful world of want and lust; our very own fantasy land of desire, a one way ticket we would love to take to trouble.

Sometimes eye candy is an actor or actress we see on television, other times it is the gorgeous thirty something year old man with amazing eyes we meet at a bar from Ohio. They make us wish we were younger, hotter or could be an actress for one day on our favorite show. (Burn Notice ...Please!!) It doesn’t really matter, either way those moments of eye candy discovery are to be treasured, they awaken us, remind us we are still alive, still young, wanting more, wanting them. Something about the person arouses our sexual being and drives us wonderfully crazy.

For me, his age does not matter; it is all in his eyes. There is nothing sexier than a gorgeous set of eyes that looks deep in my soul and doesn’t release the gaze. It is not the look, it is the feeling they give me when they catch my eyes. Add a casual touch, or a brush of his body against mine, stick a fork in me I am done, done, done! I may be talking to someone else, trying to concentrate on the conversation but my mind is lost in a day dream as I keep looking over at him trying to get a glimpse of his eyes one more time. I have often thought if he could read my mind I would be arrested, smacked or who knows maybe even asked out on a date? Either way I am happy to be lost in my own private Disney World where I am not so goofy and he is most definitely Prince Charming.

I have discovered I am more thankful for eye candy in my forties than I ever was in my twenties. When I was younger I did not appreciate the magnificent tonic for the soul that a gorgeous man can be. I did not understand sometimes it is better not to touch, ruin the illusion our mind has created. Too many times in the past I discovered what I imagined as the perfect, gorgeous, magnificent man was anything but wonderful. Even more tragic, when I realized my new found eye candy was 'Mr. Wonderful' and not interested in me. The sting of rejection, the reality of the situation ruined my fantasy. And yes I would be remiss if I did not disclose there was a time when I let the most delectable eye candy confection in my life, it truly was magical and for a brief period of time he ruled my world. Our memories I will always cherish.

I am at a point in my life where it is rare that I will deem someone as eye candy. Age and experience have made it harder for a man to spark the ignition that lights the “holy shit he is gorgeous” button. My brain has long since been in protection mode, discounting what I am initially attracted to as too young, too quiet, too this, too that. But when for some unexplainable reason the lust alarm in my brain sounds, I happily get lost in desire and my wonderful rated R imagination. After all dreams can be so much more fun than reality!! And with eye candy who really wants to test reality??

Okay maybe I do!

Death, Destiny and God

2011-06-30T01:25:00.012-04:00

There are times when my brain wraps itself around a certain idea, question or memory and won’t let it go. The thoughts churn away in my head, keeping me awake. I lie in bed pondering, remembering, trying to make sense of whatever has captivated my mind. That happened to me while I was on vacation.

Cole was having trouble falling asleep last week. I took him out on the porch of the beach house, sat on the swing and began to sing to him as I had done numerous times before. For some reason a line I sung stayed with me. “You won’t be called home until it’s your time.” I had no explanation why tears began to roll down my cheeks as the chorus continued to reverberate through my mind, my heart.

Long after Cole had been placed in his crib I sat on the porch, looking out over the ocean, reviewing all the things that had happened in my life and things I had seen in the news. Wondering if the statement was true. Were some people always meant to die young? Maybe it is blasphemy what I am about to write but what follows are the questions and thoughts that have been occupying my brain for the past week.

Ecclesiastes 3
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die;

Four things most Christians are taught; we each have our own destiny, we have purpose in life and we have free will under God. We are taught there is a book of life that was written before time began, it includes everyone’s name, the date of our birth and the date of our death.

Exodus 32:31-33
Moses knew of the existence of Jehovah’s book of life, and realized a person’s name could be removed from it.

What if our birth date is etched in stone but our death date is not there or could be changed the same as a person’s name could be removed from the book of life? Could it be free will has the ability to change when some of us die?

Could it be God has chosen a destiny for all of us but through our own time and faults we can possibly change it? Or could it be God’s destiny is the same for all of us, to live a long and happy life? Is it possible through free will we have the ability to change the course of our own providence? Can we alter the providence of another? I know God is always with us. If we listen he will guide us but through free will we always have the ability to make the right as well as the wrong decision. Or is making the wrong decision always been our destiny? Can free will and destiny coincide?

My father once told me “We are put on this earth to take care of each other” Could our purpose be that simple? Do too many of us struggle searching for our purpose, the meaning of life when all God wants and desires of us is to love and help each other?

Genesis 1:28
And God blessed them, and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.

How many times have we heard someone say I married the wrong person, or read about a child or adult who died way too young. I believe in a loving and forgiving God. I can not believe in my heart he would want us to marry the wrong person, be with an abusive or cheating spouse. I believe God’s plan is for all of us to live a long and happy life. To find love, have children and share God’s love with them, with each other. Wasn't that God’s first blessing to us? Life is the most precious gift, God choose to give it to us so doesn’t that mean he would want us to enjoy it, cherish it?

God is always there trying to shepherd us in the right direction, help us find the fruits of his blessings. Sometimes we can look back and clearly see when God put the right person in our life but out of fear, out of confusion, we made the wrong decision, let them walk out of our life, wasted precious time. If we are lucky we can fix our mistakes but other times it is no longer possible and we must search for an alternative, pray God grants us a plan B as it may be. We simply have to listen and wait for God’s guidance when we have made a mistake. Pray God forgives us for not recognizing the gift he was trying to grant us. Try to drown out the guilt we feel, wondering if our mistakes changed another’s destiny. Would they have made that decision if we were a constant in their life? When the guilt, doubts, questions arise is when we need God the most. At times we may feel abandoned, alone and lost but I believe if we are quiet we can hear God. He is the constant in our lives.

Why do I suppose our death date is changeable? Watching the news this morning, I can’t believe God would put such a beautiful child as Caylee Anthony on this earth only to have her murdered. What purpose did that serve? Why would God want anyone murdered? He teaches us forgiveness not hatred and anger. Why would he bless us, give us life and then take it away so young. Why would he inflict so much pain on a child, on those who loved them? He doesn’t, he gives us the strength, love and faith we need to make it through the loss, the heartache, the sorrow. I truly believe we do not die alone, God sends us an Angel to help us on our journey to Heaven, comfort us in our pain, hold us in their arms our last few minutes or seconds on earth. I believe God is loving but the universe can be cruel, there is undoubtedly evil in the world.

I don’t believe God ever intends for someone to be killed by a drunk driver or any other kind of accident. I believe unplanned deaths happen because of free will, someone made the wrong decision, made a mistake. We are all imperfect, human. Accidents can sometimes be just that, an unplanned accident. Our decisions good and bad effect everyone around us. Our mistakes can change someone else’s destiny. Free will is a powerful gift and can effect us both good and bad.

I can’t explain cancer and other diseases that take the lives of so many young people. Maybe through the 2000 plus years of our evolution we have changed our environment so much we are causing cancer. I do know God has given us the intellect and power to find a cure. Miracles, the power of prayer I believe in them but I can’t explain why one person is saved over another. There are so many questions that I can not answer. Questions left in my brain that I can continue to ponder or give them up to God.

Whether I am right or wrong there is one thing I am convinced of, grace. When life does not go as planned, when we make the wrong decision, God grants us grace. Through grace he gives us strength when we are at our weakest. Grace carries us during hard times when we are struggling. Not only does God bestow upon us his grace but we have the ability to share his grace with others. Comfort those in need, help them when they are lost.

For now the questions will continue to swirl in my head. I know I will never have all the answers until I go to heaven. Until then I will try to have the unfaltering faith of a child. Do my best to follow one purpose I am positive of, to love, forgive and take care of my fellow man here on earth.

The People Who Know Me Best

2011-06-06T02:15:00.013-04:00

Saturday night I visited with some old schoolmates at Kaufmann’s. It was great to be able to spend time with some of my friends I have not seen in twenty years. I marveled at how long it had been since we had all last hung out together. Yet time seem to melt away as we all laughed, ate, drank and swamped life stories. There is something extremely comfortable about sitting around a table with the people who shared your awkward years, who witnessed your metamorphosis from scared child to a young adult. I came to the realization during our conversations, my high school friends no matter how much time has passed, how much I thought life had changed me, they are the one group of people who understand and know who I am. They have no wild expectations of me, no preconceived notions of how I should act or feel. They never compare me to or expect me to be anyone but myself. They accept me mistakes, faults, quirks and all.

Some people believe when they lose touch with old friends they no longer share as close of a connection they once had, time had some how diminished their relationship. In fact it is the opposite. It may be unfathomable to some, but I have discovered time does not weaken or erase the bonds we developed in our teen years. There may be a little dust but some connections defy explanation, the bonds are unbreakable. The revelation occurred to me during a conversation over a few drinks with an old friend.

Whenever I am out, at some point during the evening someone will usually bring up the topic of my blog. I don’t mind, I find it flattering that they take time to read what I have written, my crazy ramblings. Last night was no exception. I was asked a couple questions about a few posts then quickly scolded for not posting anything new. I apologized for in essence ignoring my blog, not writing more, then explained why, the debate that was raging in my head. I informed him about some of the private messages I had received since January. The especially hurtful emails and attacks over my last post. They all left me wondering why I expose so much of myself when I write, I questioned should I remain so open? I further explained over the past year I learned because I have been so honest with how I feel or felt I was labeled by some people as emotionally irrational. To them it was not normal to care so much. I understood I should ignore them but it was hard to when their attacks were in essence meant to hurt me, attack who I was. He laughed told me not to let morons who did not understand honesty, compassion, love and loyalty to bother me. He made the correct assumption that the more hurtful comments and emails were coming from people who had never met me, had never taken the time to get to know me. He pointed out they did not understand me, they read what I wrote and made assumptions based on their life not mine. They were trying to understand me through facebook status messages and my blog. He stated I was much more complex than the two sites would ever allow them to see. My words were at times too honest, so open, they allowed the unfamaliar reader to see the depth of my emotion without them understanding that was not abnormal, that is who I have always been, extremely compassionate and loving. They only saw a partial picture of me. They were seeing me through my blog in black and white when I lived in a world full of color, full of emotion. To him “I was a labyrinth of beauty.”

He went on to tell me the reason he loved my blog, it was the honest me, the girl he remembers from junior high and high school. The sweet girl who wanted everyone around her to be happy, the constant peace maker between friends. The girl who kept everything hidden inside. The girl with all heart. The girl who cried at a party because I had hit a squirrel with my car. He chuckled made the statement, I probably still felt guilty over killing it. (By the way, yes I do thanks for reminding me) He laughed at my one blog when I made the statement I was and would never be the woman who turned men’s head. I was wrong in that assumption. It brought back the memory of the first time I showed up at the pool in a bikini, plopped down on a towel next to him and began talking about Orioles baseball game from the night before. He confessed how hard it was for him to concentrate on the conversation while I was applying suntan lotion, then laid down and untied my strings so I would not have tan lines. He confided he had to get up mid conversation so he would not be ‘embarrassed’. He explained at lunch I was surrounded by the guys not because I was one of them or they wanted to steal my food but rather they wanted to be around me. I never seemed to grasp that concept. He could never figure out who I liked, none of them could. I was a constant mystery. To him and many of his friends I was almost unobtainable in high school because they had watched me transform from this shy insecure funny looking little girl in junior high to this amazing, talented, bubbly, beautiful, intelligent free spirit. I had grown from the band geek to the captain of the pom squad, from tom boy to wow. I was naive to my own changes. That was my charm to him, I was real in a world of very fake girls. Added bonus, I knew the starting line-up and stats of the O's.

He loved how I was always extremely innocent and genuine with how I felt, I expected others to be the same way. I was the one person he knew could never lie, I didn’t have it in my soul. He could tell through my writing I was still very honest and passionate with how I felt and thought others should be. He reminded me of the time I walked up to him in the hall and very bluntly told him he was an utter jackass. Not for something he had done to me but to a friend. When I confronted him, he knew he had to be a complete jackass probably worse because I was the one person who hated confrontations, never said anything bad about another person. Then true to “Denise form” two periods later he was passed a note from me apologizing for being so blunt and rude. He loved how I always defended my friends, stood up for them. He was amazed no matter how badly someone had hurt me I always forgave them and it was never mentioned again. I always seem to simply move on, continue to push forward.

As he continued reminiscing about some of my more goofier defining moments, I looked at my high school friends surrounding me. We had shared so much together, the connection was immeasurable. We all experienced those incredible gawky teenage years. The pimples, the bad hair days, the horrible gym uniforms, the first awkward moment in front of the opposite sex, we lived it all together and survived. Our friends made us laugh after we had been ignored by the 'love of our life' at a party. We sat with them during lunch shared the joy of our first “you wouldn’t believe it” kiss by our locker between classes! We passed notes and shared secrets. They rejoiced in our excitement when we were finally asked to a dance and experienced our pain when our hearts were broken. They never left our sides as we pushed our limits, tested our boundaries. They were the ones banging on our window when we were on restriction bringing us McDonald's fries or trying to convince us to sneak out. Our high school friends were our compass to life. Sometimes they pointed us in the correct direction, other times we strayed off the path but no matter what route we took, they were always by our side.

I have close college friends, work friends, neighbors but they will never be as extraordinary as my high school friends. My friends who watched me spread my wings, help define who I am. They kicked me in my butt and kept me in check. They witnessed me as I grew, developed my character, my personality, my uniqueness. They taught me how to be a good friend. They are the foundation I built all my other friendships on. No matter how much time has passed hanging out with my high school friends will always be like coming home. There is no breaking or weakening that undeniable bond.

The connection I shared with my friends was confirmed when we all parted ways, headed home. As my friend hugged me goodbye he let me know if anyone ever caused me pain, questioned who I was, I simply had to give them his number. He would gladly catch my back, explain to them who I was, how much I was loved, how they should be honored that I was allowing them to be part of my life. He always felt that way. He was positive if he put the word out there would be a long line of Arundelites right behind him coming to my rescue, my defense. I did not doubt him, I knew what he said was true because I would do the same for him. I will always be there for my 'buddies'. I will always have my ‘friends back’. My high school friends are my rock, my strength, they will always be a part of me. They know and understand me better than anyone ever will, sometimes better than myself. I love them dearly and they will always be my family!

Lessons From Memorial Hall

2011-05-14T04:32:00.033-04:00

I was eighteen the first time I entered her halls. 1981 was the beginning of my growth. I was struggling between being a teenager and becoming an adult. I had recently graduated from high school, and was in my first semester of college. Many life lessons started that evening, lessons I had not begun to realize. Men who would have a profound effect on me, change who I was, walked the corridors of Bancroft Hall in October of 1981, I had not yet met them.

He was my first real boyfriend, a 3rd class midshipmen in 7th company from outside of Buffalo, New York. I loved the way he spoke, the pronunciation of certain words, beer, car, park, etc. were almost an infatuation to me. For a silly 18 year old girl, his accent, his uniform, everything about him seemed so mature. I loved having a boyfriend and I wanted to keep him around for a while so I worked hard trying to impress him, let him know I liked him.

From the time I first sat in the kitchen splitting green beans with my grandmother I was taught a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I learned how to cook from my grandmother and always followed her advice. My afternoon class was canceled,I decided with my added free time I would make chocolate chip cookies and surprise my mid with my homemade goodies. After the baking was completed, I bagged the cookies, changed and headed to the Naval Academy.

I had never surprised anyone before and I wondered if this was such a brilliant idea as I parked my car. I brushed aside my anxiety and headed across the yard. I climbed the imposing steps to the entrance of Bancroft Hall, nervous yet excited to see him. I marveled at the massive size of the entry hall, the towering dome, and arches that adorned the ceiling. In front of me, beyond the flags, laid another staircase leading to a larger door with some type of strange seal of armour above it. A sign directed me to turn left to the visitor’s reception area. I walked up to the window, informed the midshipmen on duty the company and name of whom I wished to visit. I watched as he dialed the phone, called his company, relayed the message there was a visitor waiting. After he hung up I was informed he would be coming down shortly, to please go down the hall, on the right was a visitors lounge where I could wait.

The lounge was crowded with midshipmen and their girlfriends. The leather couches were taken up by couples mesmerized by each other’s presence. I stood awkwardly in the corner patiently waiting, trying not to stare at the various scenes playing out in front of me. Within a few minutes he entered, noticed immediately how uncomfortable I was and asked if I wanted to take a walk. I quickly agreed.

We exited the lounge and headed toward the entrance of Bancroft Hall. Instead of turning right out the front doors, he paused for a moment, then told me to follow him. We turned left and headed up the staircase I had been confronted by earlier. I ran my hand along the wide banister as we ascended the steps. Looking up to the top of the stairs, the room that laid above me was commanding. The breadth and prominence of the entrance overpowered every force in the building. At the top, on the landing, he laid the bag of cookies I had made gently by the wall. He brushed and straightened his uniform. I saw him begin to check his posture, he seemed to grow an inch or two taller before me. He asked if I had ever been inside Memorial Hall. I answered no. He explained as a plebe it was several weeks before he was allowed to enter the hall. He had to wait for his upper classman to tell him about the hall, all it represented and meant to the midshipmen and alumni of the Academy. He further expounded he had to earn the right to enter her chambers. To him Memorial Hall needed no further explanation. If one listened, her walls, her chambers spoke for themselves. In time they would disclose their meaning to all who sought it.

The large hall at the top of the stairs, located across from the entrance to Bancroft Hall is not just any room, she is like no other. Memorial Hall sits at the heart of Mother B, the nickname affectionately given Bancroft Hall by the midshipmen. Memorial Hall is the quintessence of the Academy. Everything the Academy represents, the values it teaches, they are all embodied within her walls. She holds the lessons of the past that will lead midshipmen forward, teach them to become better men, outstanding leaders.

From the moment I stepped within her walls I was overwhelmed. The massive hall was quiet, peaceful. The sounds of my shoes hitting her floors echoed through her towering architecture. The solemn silence resonated through the air. The mammoth columns seem to be guarding the memories of the Academy’s shipmates. Her walls divulged the stories of the Navy’s heroes, their struggles, their battles, their victories, disclosed through powerful images and magnificent baroque memorials

I walked along her walls with my own personal guide to help me explore all the secrets that she held. He pointed out the heroes that stood out to him, officers he had studied or would study. With my journey completed, I stood in the middle of the main room, stared upward through large skylight, looking to the Heavens where her gallant men were surely residing. I was in awe of the valor and honor that surrounded me. Memorial Hall was beautiful, magnificent in her glory. I felt a pang, sense of sadness come over me as I stood silent but nothing arduous. I was new to the Academy, I had not yet developed ties to her, her midshipmen and graduates. I did not understand the strange sensation she gave me. I would not fully comprehend what I was feeling, the sacrifices that laid within her walls and alcoves until many years later.

I would not enter the walls of Memorial Hall again for twenty some odd years. I was in my forties, no longer the naive teenager I had been at eighteen. I was working in Severna Park and had gotten off early from work. I decided to head to Annapolis Mall to do some Christmas shopping. I came to the end of route 2, instead of exiting on route 50, the sign for the Naval Academy beckoned me. I felt Memorial Hall summon me.

Awhile back I had read a feature about the re-dedication ceremony of Memorial Hall. She had undergone years of renovation. The article noted that her walls now contained panels listing former midshipmen who had been killed while serving in the military. Her alcoves made more hallow by the more than 2500 lost shipmates chronicled upon them. The ghosts, memories of the young men that once lived within the walls of Mother B. were now enshrined for all to see within her chambers.

I convinced the guard at gate three to allow me to park at Preble Hall. I sat for a moment in my car staring at the Academy grounds that I had once roamed as a young girl. I smiled remembering all the friends I had made, the laughter and love I had found within the Academy’s gates. I walked by the Naval Academy Chapel, down the path to Stribling Walk. Beyond Tecumsah laid Bancroft Hall, the cannons along the walls sitting silent vigil, announcing to all who enter Tecumsah’s court you are entering the halls of American’s past, present and future leaders and heroes.

I climbed the stairs of Bancroft, the only facet time seemed to have changed was me. I stood for a moment under the rotunda that is the entrance to Bancroft Hall staring at the steps that once again laid in front me, my passage way to Memorial Hall. I walked forward, began to scale the staircase. As I had done many years before I placed my hand on the banister, feeling every inch of her marble under my fingertips as I ascended the steps. My eyes fixed above me on sweeping letters that spelled, “Don’t Give Up the Ship” inside the hall doors. The memorial was flanked on one side by an American Flag and the other a Naval Academy Flag. The closer I climbed to the top, the more powerful the image became.

I stood outside her entrance debating why I had come. Part of me wanted to see the new memorials within the hall, the majority of me paralyzed with fear by the emotions I knew that awaited me. Two midshipmen exited the hall, nodded their heads, acknowledging me as they passed by. The hall was now empty, it was safe for me to enter. I no longer had to worry about strangers witnessing my reaction when I first looked upon the memorial for the class of 1983.

Like I had done many years before I stood in the middle of the hall and looked up through the beautiful skylight above me, this time saying a prayer asking for strength. I am not sure why I was drawn to the right side of the hall, it was as if my heart knew exactly where he was, the place his name had been inscribed. His home at the Academy for all eternity.

I entered the alcove, walked to the corner. Before me hung a large set of marble panels, four across and eight down. Every two panels designated for an Academy class, the bottom two his class. I stared and read, Class of Nineteen Hundred Eighty-Three. Underneath the wording the class crest. The fourth name down from the top, Lt. Robert T. Bianchi, USN. I reached out to touch him.

The first time I saw his name on the wall, ran my fingers over his inscription, tears began to roll down my cheeks. I was taken back to the day my innocence was lost. The morning my phone rang, my world was forever changed as I heard the words, “Bobby is dead.”

There is something so utterly wrong staring at the name of a man whose arms once held me, whose hands had wiped away my tears, the man I had entrusted my secrets and dreams to. A man I lost when he was twenty six and I was not quite twenty four. At one time our bodies were one, joined as we made love. I still remember the warmth of his skin the first time I felt his heartbeat next to mine. Now the pain of unexplainable separation, the years of want and hurt, were streaming from my heart flowing freely through my tears. It was a current of emotion, a river of crushed dreams that played through my mind as I looked out the window at Bancroft Hall. I closed my eyes tried to imagine Bobby walking through the halls of Mother B, playing lacrosse on the fields of the Academy. I could see him smiling at me from the turf field, his eyes lit up when he first saw me standing next to the gate. I knew in an instant he was happy to see me.

I was lost in his memory when I heard footsteps enter the hall. I quickly turned, rushed down the stairs to take refuge in the bathroom. I sat in the stall wiping my eyes, reminding myself I was no longer twenty three I was now a grown woman. Bobby had been gone almost twenty years, tears were no longer acceptable.

The brain has the ability to reason but the heart will always feel. No amount of scolding was going to stop my tears. For years I had avoided all reminders of Bobby. I had successfully cut ties to everyone and anything that could cause me to remember how much was lost the day he died. I was now in the middle of the institution that made him a man, the Academy he loved so much, the home of his fellow shipmates. I was encompassed by everything I had associated with him. The core of Lt. Robert T. Bianchi was enveloping me. I decided I could fight what I was feeling or I could embrace his memory and all the emotions that accompanied it. I stepped out of the stall, washed the tears from my face. I looked in the mirror, my eyes were soulful, reflecting the sorrow that was still within me. I took a deep breath, headed out the door and back up the steps. There were more men who I needed to pay my respects to.

I realized re-entering the hall, no matter how much I longed to, I could never go back to the first time I stepped within the walls of Memorial Hall. I was no longer innocent, I had long given up the notion that people we love will grow old with us. I was staring at the reality of how cruel life can be. I was gazing upon the sacrifices of the few, for the many.

I started on the left side of the hall, began reading the names of men who had died long before I was born. Many were adults before my grandparents came to be. As I progressed through the panels, comprehending the ranks of the men listed, I became cognizant that the young die in the military. The men of old age retire. I continued through the hall, stopping to pay special tribute to the men who had been awarded the Medal of Honor. I paused for a moment before I re-entered the alcove that contained the most recent classes, once again I looked up through the glass to Heaven and prayed for control. I purposely skipped the first row of memorials, started with the second.

Class of Nineteen Hundred Eighty-Four, the bottom name, Cdr. Peter G. Oswald, USN. I chuckled remembering the first time Pete was introduced to me after a football game. I asked him what position he played, his answer, offensive line. He explained his job was to make sure Nap (McCallum) didn’t get hurt. He opened the holes that Nap ran through. He was a force to be reckon with on the football field and I discovered an honest caring soul outside of the game. I will always cherish the conversation we had at Fran O’Brian’s where he gently explained to me my two biggest character flaws; first, I put distance between me and the men who tried to love me. Second, I refused to see all that was beautiful within me. Until I changed I would never be happy. When he first spoke those words to me I thought he was being a bit callous, now I understand he was giving me much needed guidance.

Next, Class of Nineteen Hundred Eighty-Five, Cdr. Kevin A. Bianchi, USN. Bobby’s brother. Like Pete he had died only a few years before. Kevin always had a huge smile on his face. Every time he greeted me his arms spread wide open for a hug. Usually the long strong embrace was followed by some type of teasing or another. Gentle ribbing, his way of trying to get me to let go of my fears, re-connect with his brother. No matter what someone had done, a mistake that they had been made, hurt they had inflicted, Kevin never uttered a bad word about a single human being. He had an incredible faith in the goodness of people. Kevin and Bobby were cut from the same cloth. The brother’s were honest to their core, had unbelievable character, undeniable faith and courage, they were both born leaders. They changed everyone who crossed their path for the better. The lucky ones were those who had Bobby and Kevin in their life, even if only for a short amount of time.

I continued down the wall, until there were no more class listings. Staring at stones void of any class insignia, barren of any memories, I knew one day they would hold the names of children who had not yet been born. Unknown boys and girls now playing in backyards across this country would one day have their name etched upon these empty monuments. I closed my eyes, said a short prayer to God. I asked the impossible, I prayed the blank stones in front of me forever remain vacant and to please be gentle on the souls that were already enshrined within the chambers of Memorial Hall.

Before I left I went back to memorial that held Bobby’s name. I rested my hand upon the plaque, across his name, my palm centered on his middle initial, almost hoping to feel his heartbeat one more time. I closed my eyes, told Bobby I missed him, it was his turn to shepard the future leaders of the military. The world was crazy, the men and women studying at the Academy needed as much guidance as possible. I opened my eyes, turned my hand over and gently caressed his name. I wiped away my tears, gazed one more time upon his memorial. Like I had done the numerous times before at his grave, I kissed my fingers, then placed them lovingly on his name before leaving.

I descended the stairs into the rotunda of Bancroft Hall. I did not look back, I stepped out the front door, crossed the court yard and headed to my car. As I walked across the yard, I stopped and turned back toward Bancroft Hall. I suddenly realized, I had heard Mother B, I had felt her soul, I understood what Memorial Hall is to me.

Memorial Hall is not simply a place of heroes, the men and women we read about in text books, she holds more than that. She silently teaches the future leaders of the Naval Academy from the experiences of her fallen. She defines the fearless determination, the gallantry, character and courage of the officers that graduate from the halls of Bancroft. She enshrines within her walls the legacy of the every day officers who three hundred sixty five days a year put their safety, well being, their future, their dreams on the line with no questions asked for our freedom. Her fallen shipmates immortalized on her walls did not seek to be heroic, they were simply doing what they had been taught at the Academy, to lead, to protect, to never give up the ship. Families, friends and shipmates will forever grieve the officers whose names adorn the chambers within Memorial Hall. They will always hold dear the pride the fallen carried in their hearts serving our country.

Memorial Hall, she cradles our tears, embraces the fallen’s memories, honors their valor, carries their courage, instills the Academy’s values on all who pass through her chambers. She is a constant reminder the cost of freedom is immeasurable. Memorial Hall holds the past of the Academy as well as her future not yet laid before us. She is simply the heart and soul of every Officer that graduates from the United States Naval Academy.

Brennan Daigle - Army Strong til the End

2011-05-06T00:46:00.023-04:00

Tonight my heart is sad. It seems lately my eyes have cried too many tears. My soul weeps yet again. Cancer has won one more battle. Heaven has opened it’s gates to another young angel. For a little more then 17 months a small boy courageously battled the enemy within him, a rare form of cancer, embryonal rhabdomyosarcoma. Early on the morning of May 5, 2011, as the stars shone brightly, before the sun rose, his war ceased, his life on this earth ended, a boy of undeniable courage earned his eternal wings.

I never met Brennan Daigle but I followed his battle against cancer on facebook and through the news. I learned his favorite bible verse is Philippians 4:13 “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” Few men exhibit the strength and courage Brennan demonstrated as a young child.

Brennan’s fight began on October 5, 2009 when he was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer at the Texas Children’s Hospital. Brennan wrote on his facebook page when he heard the news “I was scared, upset, sad and angery”. He put his fears aside and went about battling this heinous disease. He endured endless bouts of chemotherapy and radiation, yet cancer did not stop Brennan from doing all the things he loved. He played with his friends, he went fishing, hunting, played x-box and loved all things Army. October 12, 2010, a little over a year from his first diagnosis Brennan and his family learned his tumor was still growing and had mutated. Cancer was invading his body, but it would not penetrate his soul. He continued to combat the enemy within him. His faith never wavered. He vowed to spread the word of God, so others could see his grace, witness his faith and be inspired by his courage. As part of his mission Brennan started a facebook page. With over 44,000 fans, facebook allowed a young boy from Westlake, Louisiana to inspire countless others here and abroad. His fans would never meet Brennan but they will also never forget him.

On February 10. 2011, in a small doctor’s office, Brennan and his mom were told his battle was coming to a close, there was nothing more modern medicine could do for him. He was sent home to spend the last few weeks of his life with his family. I cried an unbelievable amount of tears when I read as they were leaving the doctors office Brennan questioned his mom, “I won’t see you everyday?” I know death can be unkind and unjust but no mother should ever have to tell their child they are going to die. No parent should ever have to bury their son or daughter. That was the inevitable future that laid before his mother, Kristy Daigle. Ever true to their faith his mom assured Brennan he would be okay, he would be with his grandmother in Heaven, he would be with Jesus. His family would join him one day. The doctors gave Brennan two weeks to live. Cancer and his doctors did not fully comprehend how strong Brennan truly was.

The strength and faith of a child can not be matched by any pharmaceutical. Brennan would battle on, he would not stay home, wait to die, he would continue to live. He continued to go to school. He wanted to be with his friends, he wanted a normal life for as long as possible. One of Brennan’s wishes was to spend his final days not with a celebrity, not with a sports star but with the men and women of our armed services. The soldiers who fight for our freedom, they were his heros. On February 26, 2011, more than 40 soldiers from the 1st MEB of Fort Polk stood at attention as Brennan arrived at the Chateau du Bon Reve (Castle of Good Dreams) to celebrate his tenth birthday. Every soldier shook his hand as he passed through the formation, each realizing although they had just returned from war, this 10 year old little boy had more courage than any combat veteran. Brennan was inducted as an honorary member of the U.S. Army National Guard. He was awarded a jacket, a coin that represents excellence and merit, and a set of dog tags. One with his name, the other dog tag with the seven values of the U.S. Army; Loyalty, Duty, Respect, Selfless Service, Honor, Integrity and Personal Service. Brennan was also given a key to the city of Sulphur, Louisiana and made an Honorary Mayor for the day. One of the many highlights of his birthday, when Brennan and his best friend Kaleb were given a ride in a real army Humvee. Many said it was a perfect birthday for a ten year old little boy.

For me it wasn’t perfect, perfect would be Brennan’s eleventh birthday, twentieth, fortieth, seventieth birthday. Brennan unfortunately represents a sad fact, cancer is the number one killer of children. Cancer knows no age barrier, it is a disease of the old and sadly the young. In 2007 approximately 10,400 children were diagnosed with cancer, of those more than 1500 died from the disease. The number may seem low to some, but what if your child was one of the 1500? One is too large a number!

We fall in love, we give birth, we raise our families. We grow old watching our children marry and give birth to our grandchildren. Our children repeat the cycle of life, so shall their children. That is the way we are taught life should be, but Brennan Daigle is a reminder that wonderful cycle of life is not a reality for all families. Brennan like the more than 1500 children who will die from cancer this year, lost his battle, lost his future when he succumbed to cancer in the early morning hours of May 5, 2011.

Brennan will never go to high school, he will never have a girl friend, experience the wonderful excitement of his first kiss. There will never be a prom for Brennan. He will never go to college, he will never marry. His parents, Albert and Kristy will never hold his children in their arms. His sister Lauren, will no longer have a baby brother to hug. She can not text message or call Brennan when she needs to talk like brothers and sisters often do. She will have to look to the Heavens to see him, hear him, feel him. Brennan had an unbelievable strength as he battled cancer, now his family must echo his strength and learn to live with out him.

The lesson from Brennan: from time to time we all have bouts of self pity, for one reason or another. When that moment arises, when you think life is way too hard visit Brennan’s facebook page and remember his story. Rummage through his photos. No matter what cancer threw at Brennan he fought back, he never gave up, lost faith. A month after he was told he was going to die you can see the joy in him when a brigade from the Texas Lonestar Chapter of Pink Heals led by a pink camo army truck arrived in front of his house. The restored army truck presented to Brennan as a memorial for his battle against cancer. Even when the tumor in his brain and the medication caused his face to swell and he could no longer smile, he would not give up. Brennan would take his finger and hold a smile in place for the camera. Four days before he died Brennan attended Brayden’s Dream Day to show support for another child battling cancer. This small wonderful ten year old boy, never lost his faith, never lost his compassion, never lost his courage. Brennan fought til the end and never once felt sorry for himself. So on those horrible days when life seems it’s darkest, understand and rejoice in the message Brennan was teaching all of us, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”

Brennan Diagle “At Ease” your battle is over, it is your time to rejoice with the Lord.

Words

2011-04-21T02:08:00.004-04:00

During the course of a lunch time conversation, a friend in her excitement conveyed to me words that had been expressed to her over the previous week. Almost the exact same words had been written to me from the same person a little over a year ago. I sighed inside, thanked God I never let his words lead me astray. My mind began to wonder as I sat and listened to my friend talk of her enthusiasm. I was curious, since he had said the same thing to her as he did to me, did that make his words less valid? Had he been truthful with how he felt or had he simply recited a monologue? What were his true motives? Intentions are but one thing, meaning and feelings are far more valuable. After my mental debate, I realized he was simply reciting words and I was construing them as affection. Since my lunch time conversation I have found myself contemplating the power of words.

Word: a unit of language, the smallest simplest form of expression, a statement of itself.

Words put together form sentences that can tell stories, relay feelings, convey thoughts. Words can bring about tears of joy or cause you to weep tears of sorrow. They can lift you from the darkest depths of depression or push you over the abyss. Lives have been changed, friendships have ended, arguments started over senseless words. What power do words possess? What authority do we give them?

The average dictionary contains two hundred thousand words. The average person uses a few thousand words a week and understands over ten thousand. There are twenty six letters in the English language and it is estimated that there are over nine hundred thousand words. There can be no accurate count on the number of words in the English language because so many words have a double meaning. Can it be said that all words whether intentional or not have two meanings; what is spoken or written and what is actually demonstrated, proved to be true.

When do words stop being a series of letters combined, a concept and become an expression? When are words no longer silent? When do they transform into a life of their own and convey emotion, feelings? How do you know when a word is hollow, meaningless? Can the importance of a word change over time? If a word is used repetitively does it no longer have value? Does it cheapen it’s worth? Do we use certain words so much we no longer comprehend how truly unique they are?

If one Googles "most overused words in the English language" the results will vary. Most sites will list the following words; like, ironically, amazing, nice, whatever. These words may be overused in today’s current dialogue but their crime is not as detrimental as the following words. These are the words at times that are tossed around so freely by so many they no longer have their extraordinary meaning. They are transformed by their emptiness of the intent into daily verbiage. People have forgotten certain words only hold value when they are saved for the ones who mean the most in our life. If you speak, write, utter these words, never let them lose their value. Understand these are the words that have the ability to change a person. Use them only when they carry meaning to you, never let their significance, your intent be questioned.

Friend
Trust
Honesty
Promise
Beautiful
Special
Regret
And most importantly Love!

What if they are wrong?

2011-02-19T03:10:00.014-05:00

For ten years I coached cheerleading. I always joke around that I have one daughter but I have about two hundred kids. I have been lucky as a coach, always blessed with a wonderful group of girls. Most of my kids are in college or graduated. Many are now married and have children of their own. I understood in order to be an effective coach I needed to establish a bond with each one of my kids. They needed to trust me, to understand I would never push them to do something they were not ready for or not capable of performing. My kids knew when I said you can do it, they were ready. I had faith in them. I was telling them the truth! I knew they could! Most importantly my cheerleaders understood I loved them, no matter the time, the place, how many years may go by, I would/will always be there for them. I am in essence to some of my kids their second mom.

Tonight I spent an hour on the phone with one of my girls. (We will call her Leslie for the purposes of the blog) Like she had done many times before in high school, she was asking for my advice. She was trying to decide what to do. She had met a guy in college, he seemed super sweet, very gorgeous, extremely funny. They shared two classes together, they often talked to each other after class. She ran into him all the time in the dining hall, even at a few parties. Each time he was extremely nice to her. Yesterday when he asked her out she was excited. Now she was worried. One of her good friends told Leslie she had heard the guy was a jerk, treated women horribly and was bad news. She thought Leslie should find an excuse back out of the date with him, save herself from getting attached to him. Another friend also confirmed she had heard the same thing, he was a jerk. He went out with a bunch of women and cheated on all of them. So I asked Leslie, who said he was a jerk, who was the source of all the information? Her answer they only said they heard. She had no clue who made the original statement.

I thought for a moment. Then I asked Leslie, “What would you think if I told you someone thought I was not honest? They believe I lied about someone very dear to me?”
Her immediate response, “I would laugh and say they obviously don’t know you. They have never heard your you are only as good as your word lecture. You are my only coach who was ever honest enough to admit when you made a mistake. Tell us it was not our fall that cost us the competition. It was huge to us, when you stood before us and said it was your mistake that cost us first place, you would never let it happen again. Oh my God, you are probably the most honest person I know.”
I explained to Leslie, exactly, understand my point, you know me. The people who are doubting my honesty, never met me. They don't know me, my character. I learned my motives, my character were being questioned because of one statement, one person. They were called, asked a simple question instead of being honest and saying I am not really sure, they made a statement that they thought I lied, exaggerated about something that happened a long time ago. Then two people repeated it, then four etc. The more it was repeated the more it became the truth verses what was real. Now I have no clue how many people, who I do not know, are saying I lied. All these people are repeating what one person said instead of talking to me. When all they have to do is ask me what happened. After all I was the one there, the one in the conversations, not the person who said they didn't think it was true. The people making the assumptions about my honesty don't understand why this one person wouldn't know, why they were kept out of the loop. We had our reasons. Then I further explained recently I have learned apparently some people would rather believe something negative about me rather than get to know/ discover who I am, the core of my being. Leslie was extremely sweet she commented it was their loss. She loved me and so did all my girls.
I went on to tell Leslie, if a person is not involved in the situation, how can they ever really know the truth? I have learned never believe second hand knowledge. Anyone can say we think, we doubt, we believe but unless they were there, then they don’t truly know. In essence, gossip hurts, it can ruin a good person. I continued, I would like to believe people are not purposely lying, they believe what they say, that they are lying for some inane reason; jealousy, hurt feelings, jilted, heart broken, to protect an image? Who knows and who really cares? Only the people involved in a situation hold the truth. So she needed to talk to him tell him what she heard, listen to his response.

My guess to Leslie, the rumors she was hearing about him being a jerk and treating women badly were from an ex or someone he rejected. I asked Leslie what did her gut tell her? When she blocked out all her confusion, what did she feel? Had she ever seen him act like a jerk? Being a jerk is hard to hide! She answered he had always been sweet to her, very polite, she liked him. She was excited when he asked her out. After her friends started to say things, repeat the rumors, she didn’t know how she felt, what she should believe. My advice, she needed to get to know him, go out on a date. Talk honeslty. She owed it to him not listen to what people said but rather get to know him, find out for herself. Isn't that what she would want him to do if the roles were reversed? He had done nothing to earn her distrust. He had always been nice to her. By listening to the rumors she might miss out on an absolutely wonderful man. We talked for a while longer. Before Leslie hung up I asked her a series of questions, “If you start to doubt your decision ask yourself these questions. What if you find out later your friends were wrong? They were lied to. It might be too late to correct your mistake! Then what?”

Her phone call made me wonder, question; why is it people believe what they hear to be the truth instead of discovering the truth themselves?

Dad's Last Day/ The Hardest Phone Call

2011-02-17T00:06:00.013-05:00

For some reason Saturday after watching Restrepo I wandered through the other programs I had on the DVR. There was an episode of Deadliest Catch in the menu. I was puzzled trying to remember why I had decided to record it. Before I prematurely deleted the program I decided I might as well watch a few minutes of the episode, maybe it would jog my memory as to why I had saved it. As it turned out the episode was when Captain Phil died. The opening preview scene was Josh calling his younger brother letting him know their father had passed away. I turned off the DVR, the thirty second clip was enough to open an old wound, rewind my memory back to the early morning hours not too long ago when I had to make one of the hardest phone calls I have ever made.

November 22, 2010 It was exactly a week since Dad had been admitted to the hospice house. He woke up about six in the morning. Looking back I am not sure what it was, but something was different, I had a melancholy feeling I could not shake. Dad seemed different. I had sat by his side all night in the recliner. I spent most of the night writing in my journal serenaded by Frank Sinatra. Dad had not been able to speak for over a week. His voice long silenced by a lack of liquid being swallowed, moisturizing his vocal chords. No matter how many times I swapped his mouth with a moist sponge it never seem to help the irritation and dryness. His body was no longer able to tolerate the feeding tube. He had not received nutrients for almost two weeks. His need for food, his hunger was only being fed, masked by morphine.

Pain is watching someone you love slowly starve to death, watching cancer devour every ounce of them. Nurses, doctors everyone tried to comfort me with the explanation that with all the pain medicine Dad was on, he was feeling nothing. I am not sure if I ever truly believed them. The knowledge that Dad was not in pain was little comfort to what my heart was feeling. The guilt I was carrying.

Usually when Dad woke he would squeeze my hand. I would look at him, smile and tell him good morning. No matter how weak he was Dad always managed to greet me with a smile. My morning greeting was not met with a smile but rather tears. I asked him if he was in pain, he shook his head no. Dad could not speak but he could shake his head yes or no, occasionally he would shrug his shoulders. Our communication the last few days had been limited to questions that could be answered by a simple yes or no. I stood up, wiped Dad’s tears, adjusted his pillow. Asked him if there was anything I could do for him. He shrugged his shoulders. I kissed his forehead, then went to get a nurse so we could shift Dad to make him more comfortable. I knew he had been in the same position for several hours. I was well aware his skin was so thin and frail it would tear if he was not moved and shifted gently. After adjusting Dad, the nurse went to get another dose of morphine. Dad was once again crying and holding both hands up for me to take. It was awkward but by lowering the railing on his bed I was able to hold both his hands. I balanced myself on the edge of the bed trying not to fall off and trying not to lean too far forward and possibly fall on Dad. Twenty minutes after he received his medication he was once again sleeping.

After making coffee, greeting some of the other hospice patients in the dining area I settled back into my recliner. My brain was too tired to write, I tried to nap but was unsuccessful. I didn’t know why but Dad was restless. His arms were lifting and moving while he slept, once again I lowered the railing so I could hold both his hands. I felt his body relax when my fingers entwined with his. His breathing seemed awkward, fast then almost non existent. When Dad was at the hospital I learned he seemed to breath easier when I sang to him. I changed the play list and began to softy serenade Dad. For the next few hours I sat on the edge of Dad’s bed singing along with my iPod. Several times while I was singing to my father I could see out of the corner of my eye a couple of the hospice patients stop in their wheelchairs outside the door and listen. It took all the strength I had not to tear up when I noticed Bill was crying as he listened to my “concert” for my father.

Mom arrived a little after one in the afternoon. I had been up for almost thirty hours, I needed to head home, shower and take a nap. Before I left I told Dad I would be back shortly. The moment I stepped outside I had an uneasy feeling. I ran home, showered but could not sleep so I dressed and headed back to the hospice house. When I arrived Mom informed me since I left Dad had not moved. I looked at the clock 3:30 p.m.. I walked over to Dad’s side, “Afternoon Daddy. I am back like I promised?” He opened his eyes, smiled then closed them again. I sat next to Dad settled in playing sudoko.

Colonel Cuffey arrived from Fort Belvoir later in the afternoon to visit Dad. I learned there were two things that could wake Dad from the deepest of sleep, his great grandson Cole and/or a man or woman in uniform. When the Colonel entered the room I announced him to Dad. His eyes immediately opened and Dad tried to salute him. The Colonel graciously reached down, stopped Dad’s hand and said “No sir it is I who should be saluting you.”
The past two years my father, the old retired CW4 had formed a friendship with the young commanding officer at Fort Belvoir. Any time the Colonel was near Fort Meade he would stop in to visit and chat with my father. They had an unexplainable close bond. Mutual respect and admiration for each other. When Dad was in the hospital the Colonel made several trips to visit him. Now the Colonel drove to the hospice house to visit my father, in essence say good bye. The Colonel reached down and took my father’s hand, stood by his bedside and talked to him for well over an hour. During the course of the conversation he asked mom how she met my father. Mom explained dad was a “fill in” date. My mom had been asked to a dance by a friend of my Dad's. He got sick and asked my Dad to be his substitute so my mom would not be disappointed. Dad agreed, drove to pick up a girl he had never met or talked to and took her to the dance. Half way through the dance he asked mom how attached she was to his friend. When my Mom said not at all she hardly knew him, my dad told her good because he wanted to take her out again. My mom joked around if her original date had not been sick she would have never met my father. As mom was relaying the story of their chance encounter, I closed my eyes and remembered my own chance encounter twenty seven years earlier almost to the day. Colonel Cuffey talked for awhile longer before he said good bye to my father. He and his aide saluted Dad. Then Colonel said to Dad, “You need to rest now sir. You have been a good soldier.”

I looked at Dad and his eyes were tearing up. I immediately took his hand and told him it was okay. I was still with him I wasn’t going anywhere. Before Mom left at nine I went out to the kitchen and made myself a thermos of hot tea, prepare for the night ahead. At ten o’clock I turned on Hawaii Five-O. When I was little Dad and I would watch the original program together. I pulled my chair against Dad’s bed. I dropped the railing, lowered his bed, took his hand and put my feet up on the edge of the bed next to his feet. I laughed out loud when I saw Dad wiggle his toes. I laid my head on the side of his bed, he squeezed my hand. I looked over and he smiled. I could hear Dad’s breathing change as we watched McGarret and Danno catch the bad guys. When the show was over, the nurse came in to give Dad his medication for the night. I adjusted Dad’s pillows. Swabbed his mouth, it was then that he began to try to talk. I leaned in closer putting my ear close to his mouth hoping I could hear what he was saying. Several times I told him I could not understand what he was saying. Tears began to roll down his checks as he tried to talk. I apologized over and over for not being able to understand him. I took his glasses off, wiped his eyes, then said, “Daddy I am so sorry. I can’t understand you. I know you love me and you know I love you that is all that matters.”
He squeezed my hand. Tears continued to flow down his cheeks for a few more minutes. Finally he started to fall asleep so I turned off his light. I whispered in his ear, “I am not going anywhere Daddy I will always be with you.” I moved my recliner to the corner near a lamp. I pulled out my computer and began to write.

I decided I would write about my great great grandparents Henry Wilson and Amanda Jane Dent. As I wrote I softly sang along with the music that was echoing through the room. I was typing the last sentence when I felt this strange strong ripping pain pierce through my heart. For a moment I stood up, stretched my arms out, wondering was I having a heart attack from the lack of sleep and all the stress. I felt it again. Then it registered in my brain, I had felt that pain once before a very long time ago. I knew what had just happened. I took a deep breath afraid of the truth that awaited me. I closed my eyes for a moment then turned, I knew Dad had died and I did not want to look at him. I stared at my Dad for a minute tears streaming down my cheeks, not sure what to do.

Dad was gone, he was no longer with me. I looked around almost dazed, the halls were dark, there was a soft glow on my dad's face from my light. In that instant I have never felt so alone. I was an adult yet I felt like I was five years old and just orphaned. All I wanted to do was to crawl into someone’s arms. I needed someone to hold me tight and tell me I would be fine. But there was no one, I was alone. Not quite sure what to do, I walked down the hall to the nurse's station. I softly interrupted the nurses conversation and asked trying not to cry, “Can you check on my Dad because I think he died and I don’t know what to do.” The nurse looked at me on the verge of tears, smiled and tried to reassure me by saying, "It is okay."

She walked down the hall and into his room. I sat against the wall in the hall across from his door. She came back out after a few minutes and confirmed what I already knew, Dad was gone. I was told she had to call a doctor so he could come in and officially pronounce Dad dead. She told me if I wanted I could go in and sit with Dad until he arrived.

From the hall I could see the light from my computer softly glowing against the glass. I couldn’t go back in the room, Dad was no longer in there, only his body. The last time I had held his hand it was weak, but it was warm, he was still there. I was not alone then, now I was. I pulled my legs into my chest and wrapped my arms around them. I laid my head down on my knees as I waited for the doctor to arrive. The hospice house was quiet I could hear my iPod playing Frank Sinatra. I took a deep breath composed a list of what I needed to do in my head. First on the list call my mom and tell her Dad had passed away. I was trying to compose in my head the proper way to tell my mom the man she had been married to for 51 years, my father, had died. I called her, no answer. Called again, no answer. Called again, no answer. In a way it was a strange blessing when my mom did not answer the phone, I was annoyed. Annoyed was much easier to handle than sorrow. Feeling annoyed stopped me from crying. Finally the fifth or sixth time I called my mom finally answered. After I spoke to my mom, I hung up and called my sister. Then I had to prepare myself for the hardest phone call of all, I needed to call my daughter.

Kathryn was Grandpa’s little girl. Her father walked out on her when she was three and a half years old. I never married, never dated anyone while she was growing up, so Dad was her father figure. Every father daughter function Dad took Kathryn. My sister and I would laugh when Kathryn was younger talking about how our parent's had changed once the grandchildren arrived. We remembered when we were little Mom and Dad never went to any of our games, saw any of our plays, they went to an occasional concert but that was a rarity. With Kathryn, Dad was at almost every game she cheered at, saw every play, every concert. I lost track of the number of times Dad took Kathryn and her friends shopping or to the movies. He even suffered through Barbie on Ice on his birthday because that is what Kathryn wanted to do. If Kathryn needed something and I could not afford it, Dad would buy it for her. She did not want for anything, especially love. On senior night in high school it was Grandpa (Dad) that walked Kathryn across the football field. I would not have it any other way. She hung the moon in Dad's eyes. Kathryn was his pride and joy. He was a constant in her life. Kathryn could have grown up bitter not trusting men but she did not. She was constantly surrounded by love. She knew because of her Grandpa there are good men in the world.

I sat in the hallway, began to dial Kathryn when I realized I was making a huge mistake. I understood, one of the hardest things for Dad about dying was going to be leaving Kathryn behind. I knew I had to do what was right. I stood up, squeezed my fists, told myself I could do it and walked into the room where my Dad laid. I moved my chair back next to my Dad’s bed, lowered the railing, sat down and took his hand. I knew he would want to be with me as I called Kathryn. I had to tell my daughter the man she adored, the man she loved with all her heart, the man who loved her more than any man ever would, was gone. At 2:48 a.m on November 23, 2010 I had to make the hardest phone call of my life. I held back my tears as I told my daughter her grandpa had passed away.

The Beauty of Imperfection

2011-02-10T20:31:00.002-05:00

We all bear scars. Some scars are visible while others are hidden deep within ourselves, sequestered in our soul. Happiness is allowing the camouflage to fall away from our scars allowing someone in. Someone to tell us our wounds are not ugly, they are beautiful. They help us understand our scars are a part of us, they made us who we are. We are all a beauty of imperfection.

High School

2011-02-08T00:45:00.008-05:00

After the Super Bowl I watched Glee for the first time. I wanted to see what all the hype was about. Why everyone seemed to love the program. I have to be honest, admit I kind of liked the show. The songs, the dances were enjoyable, the cheerleading coach was hysterical, the female football coach amusing but mainly I loved the show’s underlying theme, high school is a place where we all struggle to fit in. It is a place where we can either define our self or allow others to define us.

It seems no matter how much time passes, how different the music or fashion may be, how many years the calendar has clicked off, high school is still the same. It does not matter the year, the place, the state, 9th -12th grade are the years where we struggle to discover ourselves. High school is where we as little fish are first tossed into the big pond. Sink or swim, it was our option. Our freshman year, our lives, how we saw ourselves, how we fit in, for a time were ruled by seniors, jocks and the popular crowd. Anyone who says they didn’t care how they were viewed, lies. We all entered high school hoping to be accepted, wanting to become a member of the 'popular' crowd. Some of us were lucky, we had older siblings who gave us a free pass into the ‘in’ clique. Slowly we all found our own crowd, a place where we fit in on our own. A family of friends where we felt secure in our own skin. Some stayed in the same clique all four years of high school, others of us, floated between various groups not really sure where we belonged, where our perfect fit was. We were the people who had no true definition of ourselves. Or maybe we simply did not understand we were the lucky ones, we were accepted by all groups.

Jocks, popular, band geeks, nerds, potheads, rich kids, the cliques were numerous but everyone longed to be in the top two. The cafeteria had the strange designation of determining who fit into what piece of the puzzle. Where you sat at lunch characterized which clique you were part of. Thirty years later I can’t remember which table I sat at, yet some people have never forgotten they were not allowed to sit with us. I never realized the table I sat at was considered the popular table. I saw my friends as popular, but never myself. I always considered myself on the fringe of the group not really caring who I sat with or talked to. I was happy to have some one to hold a conversation with. For the first two years of high school I was labeled Debbie’s little sister. My last two years I was me, I lacked a definition. I took classes with the geeks. I went to the parties with the pretty girls and the jocks. While others had beer at cry baby bridge I drank my big gulp of soda, never feeling the need to conform and drink beer with the rest of them. I laughed and joked with the potheads in line at lunch but never once did they offer me pot, they knew better. I played in the concert band so I was a band geek. I was in the school play so I was a drama nerd. I was captain of the pom squad, took stats for jv football and basketball team so I hung out with the jocks. I fit in everywhere yet at times I felt like I fit in no where. I longed to be accepted yet at times really did not care what anyone thought. That was high school to me, a mixing bowl of clarity and confusion.

I took all types of classes in high school, physics, french, major British writers, pre calculus, 'family life' etc. they gave me the foundation I needed to help me earn my degree in college. To me, the more valuable lessons were learned in the halls and through the “extra curricular” activities. High school is where we all learned how hurtful gossip can be. We saw the first acts of revenge undoubtedly because someone liked someone else’s boyfriend/girlfriend. High school is where we first learn how to forgive, forget and move on. The halls were where we first learned of rejection whether it was from the posting of who made a sports team or being passed by that certain guy who you had a crush on without as much of a smile. In those fleeting moments we learned how to handle life's ups and downs. We learned right from wrong, how words hurt more than a punch. In a strange sad way, it was a time of conformity, trying to fit in, wanting to be liked, wanting to be popular, not understanding why. We all struggled to be mature while still holding on to our youth. It was the beginning of our freedom, the gateway to our adulthood.

High school had a way of separating the leaders from the followers. We all have stories of our many defining moments, some create a small part of our personality, while others illustrated our underlying character. Leaders were the ones who stood up, did what was right, no matter the consequence. Even it if cost them a spot at the “in” lunch table for a while. Eventually the followers realized they had the wrong leader and the ‘in’ table would change. High school was the revolving soap opera of life. A series of moments and events. Some events left us with small scars while others made us stronger. High school helped us to define our character, who we would eventually become. It is the place where we became autonomous.

I have learned time does not change the person we became in high school. Years later, the social queen is still the social queen, the flirt is still the flirt, the gossip still gossips, the jock is still the jock, the leader still leads and the followers still follow. This weekend as many of my high school friends and I gathered at the Irish Channel I found myself laughing and smiling at the realization of how much we had all changed, yet had not changed at all. At first we all mingled, caught up with each other. Then it seemed after the “ice” was broken, we were all back in the cafeteria of Arundel, everyone was sitting with their respective cliques. Thankfully unlike thirty years ago no one cared who was at the “in” table. At least I hope not!

Johnny D Gnomes

2011-02-03T19:27:00.007-05:00

As it often happens, out of no where a day can change, a life is lost. I was at my computer typing on facebook helping a friend collect donations for a get together in honor of an old high school friend who had passed away when my daughter’s text interrupted my thoughts. She informed me that our old next door neighbor John Smith had passed away. For my friends on facebook you have probably seen his funny comments on my page, he is Johnny D Gnomes. I didn’t even know John was sick. I knew he had a heart valve replaced several years back, and had some heart trouble but never once did he mention to me he was not feeling well or was in the hospital. Of course I don’t think he ever would, he never liked anyone worrying over him.

When he lived next door the way John informed me of his major surgery, after I asked him where he had been, I hadn't seen him in a while he responded, “Denise guess what I have a pig’s valve in me.” Then the two of us sat on my front porch and he told me all about his surgery, his valve, his medication. He ended our very serious conversation with “Don’t worry I plan on giving you grief for a very long time.” Last time we talked on facebook we were both excited about being grandparents. Both our girls had beautiful, healthy babies. He commented on how lucky he was, how lucky we both were!

When John, Erin, Kaysea and Bailey moved in next door our neighborhood was never the same. They helped “liven” the place up. The first memory of John. They were moving in he and Erin were on their driveway unloading. I had just pulled into mine. He waved and yelled howdy neighbor we are going to be good friends. He was correct, we all became great friends. Our kids cheered and hung out together. As an only child my daughter was happy to add two more “sisters” to her family and another “mom and dad” to look out for her. I always knew as long as John and Erin were next door I had nothing to worry about.

I know many times during our years as neighbor I amused John with my antics. Many times he would walk out his back door laughing hysterically, always with a funny comment or two but always there to help when I needed it. One morning after my usual run I headed to the backyard by the shed to pick some blackberries for a morning snack. When I reached through the vines I saw a snake, screamed, ran and jumped up on the back steps. John was outside cleaning his bird cages. He heard me and came rushing over. I pointed to the garden and yelled big snake. He had to control his laughter when he saw it was a little garden snake. Being the good soul that he was, he took the snake and carried it to the woods so it would not find it's way back to my yard.

I had the pleasure of coaching both his daughters in cheerleading. After the second practice where I had done some major conditioning with the girls , I was surprised to find John knocking on my door the following morning. When I greeted John, he had this serious look on his face and said “Denise we need to talk about Bailey.” For a second I was worried I pushed her too hard and she wanted to stop. Then he burst out laughing, and asked if it was wrong he laughed at his daughter when she yelled she couldn’t stand up from the toilet. Then we once again sat on the front steps and had a great conversation about how our kids were growing up too fast. John ended our conversation with "Keep torturing my daughter I love it."

The first night Jim came to pick me up for a date, John and Erin both had seen his “redneck” truck parked in the driveway. The next day John came over to ask about the guy that “came a calling”. I still smile remembering John telling me as long as I like Jim and he treats me well, he will like him. If he ever treats me badly the gators love white meat in the everglades he didn’t mind making a road trip for me!! When he found out Jim was eleven and a half years younger than me for a long while he would call me the cradle robber then wink. Erin of course gave me a high five!

I am sitting now in my office listening to Buffett play from my iPod. Buffett and John go hand and hand. The Smith family are the ultimate parrot heads. My daughter’s first Buffett concert experience was with John, Erin, Bailey and Kaysea. Kathryn was so excited to be heading to Nissan Pavilion with them. That night severe thunderstorms suddenly hit Northern Virginia. I sat watching the news alerts interrupt the television programing alerting everyone to the tornadoes dropping all around Northern Virginia, right near where they were. I tried to call their cell phone to make sure everyone was alright but no one answered. I was worried but at the same time I was not. I knew Erin and John would take care of my girl, she was family to them. About one in the morning my phone rang, it was John he told me very solemnly we have a problem. Concerned I asked what was wrong. John laughed, then announced, "Your daughter is hooked on Buffett!" then handed the phone over to Kathryn. My girl had an absolute blast with them. For the next fifteen minutes she told me all about the slip and slides, the “costumes”, the singing, the pouring rain and the best time of her life!! Kathryn has not missed a Buffett concert since!!

Tin Cup Chalice is now echoing through the house and a million John memories are floating through my mind. The numerous times in the morning when I would return from my run he would comment I was not sweating enough he thought I needed to do another lap. Or comment I was slow that morning must be age catching up with me. Washing my car and being hit with a water balloon. Our conversations on lawn darts and other fun childhood toys from our youth that are now banned. Laughing at me trying to get the coals to light on the grill. Finally yelling he couldn’t take it anymore, it was torture watching and coming over starting the grill for me. Rum marinated pineapples! The Renaissance Festival conversations, the beauty of the food and costumes. The arguments over what was the best food booth there!!
Laughing my butt off when he sprayed the guys in the jeep who always sped through the neighborhood with the garden hose as they raced by. He looked at me and said, “Damn the hose does spray that far. That was cool I don’t think we will see them anymore.” I was laughing so hard I fell on the ground. He had a way of delivering a line that caught you off guard.
I have clear memories of him laughing at me trying to slide down the hill after it snowed, reminding me of my age. “You know that is going to hurt later on.”
His love for birds, teaching me how to hold a parrot. Afterwards smiling and saying “Wow that went better than I thought. The last person who held him lost a finger!” Erin yelling at John to stop it.
Remembering his comment that we could probably get a volume discount on chastity belts if we all went in together, as we watched our girls go off to their high school dance. Him betting me ten dollars I couldn’t tumble across the yard. After tumbling, he paid and then laughed, “That hurt like hell didn’t it?” my answer, “Heck yeah but I won”. He followed up, “You should have held out for twenty I would have paid it.”
The numerous times Erin, John and I sat around trying to figure out how we could possibly embarrass our children more. We had a saying, it was our job as responsible parents to embarrass our children and d*mn it we took our job seriously.

John had a fun side but he also had a very caring, serious side. After I was discharged from the hospital in 2003 he was there. He had been on coumadin since his heart surgery. He called to check on me often. The first time I went outside, to test my lungs with a walk, he was there. The two of us again sat on the front porch this time our conversation was serious. He schooled me on the ends and outs of being on a blood thinner. He told me of all his mistakes, he wanted me to avoid them. He reminded me he and Erin were only a door away. Then as he walked away, he added, “I don’t know from first hand experience but I hear you need to be careful when you shave your legs.” He was always caring, always there for me, always saving my butt and always left me smiling.
You are a good soul John. I will miss you!!

A Debt We All Owe

2011-02-01T20:05:00.026-05:00

I saw a photo on facebook of a young man, Sgt. Micheal P. Scusa. He was killed in Kamdesh, Afghanistan on October 3, 2009. His photo was posted by his father in honor of the sacrifice he and seven of his brothers in arms made in service to our country. He was only twenty three years old at the time of his death. His photo, his posting lead me to another site, Freedom Remembered. There I found a story on Micheal, on the side of his page a link to recent causalities, Spc. Omar Soltero, Spc. Joshua R. Campbell, Spc Shawn A. Muhr, Sgt. 1st Class Anthony Venetz, Jr. and Tech Sgt. Leslie D. Wilson. All of them have died in the past month in the line of duty.

The website states over 5500 stories of soldiers, sailors, airmen are listed. You can search the site by branch of service, by state, by month, by country/battle. I decided to search my home state, Maryland. There are forty five soldiers and sailors stories told, listed on the site. I scanned down the page, it was in a way too hard to look. The realization too much. I went back to the main page, over 5500 men and women, 5500!

Another photo, another face, another soldier, too many to count on my own. All with their own tale but every man, every woman similar in several respects. They all died too soon. They all had loved ones left behind to mourn them. Many of the men and women photographs are in uniform, everyone looks ‘ten feet tall’. Their faces, their stance, their bodies, everything about them is emanating with pride. Proud to be serving our country, protecting us, accomplishing the mission set before them. They felt the calling, the obligation to serve our country, fight for freedom. On these pages officers and enlisted are side by side, no longer separated by rank. They have all been equalized by death. They all made the same sacrifice and have been laid to rest on hallowed ground.

They are a son, a daughter who will be forever young. Life will move on with out them. Children will be born and grow. Super Bowls, World Series, Stanley Cups, Belmont Stakes, the Larry O’Brien Trophy all will awarded year after year. Their favorite teams will continue to play, their voices, their cheers, their yells, their laughter, their cries will forever be silent. One less fan will sit on the sidelines, in the stands, watching television or listening by radio. One less parent will be at a child’s game. Holidays, birthdays, graduations and weddings will be celebrated without them. They will be the empty chair at the table on Thanksgiving. They will be the feeling someone is missing when families go on vacation. They will be the hug someone longs for one last time.

They are the photo that sits in a silent vigil on a loved one’s desk, a nightstand, the mantle in the living room. The person whose portrait is never replaced by an updated photograph. They will be the unspoken sorrow in a loved one’s life. They are the sons, daughters, husbands, wives, mothers and fathers with unfinished lives, unfinished dreams. We will never know what more they had to offer, what more they could have become for they gave us their all the day they laid down their life in the name of freedom.

I sadly have seen the cycle many times. At first they will be remembered, spoken of often. There will be birthday parties, get togethers in their honor. They will be the topic of conversation for the first few years after their death. Then slowly as time progresses, they are spoken of less and less. There are no longer toasts in their honor, stories are not told as often. They are not forgotten, they are simply no longer remembered as much. Their graves are no longer visited by friends as often as they once were. Their headstones will become lightly covered with dirt, no longer brushed away by a loving hand of a friend/lover. Flowers are no longer laid upon their graves as frequently as before. They lay in silence under the rising and setting sun day after day, year after year. They lay there alone for all eternity, for service and sacrifice made to all of us.

The price they paid is immeasurable. In return what do we owe them? Whose obligation is it to remember, the forever young? As time goes by who is responsible to remember the long forgotten? Is an inscription on a wall of honor, a monument, a web site, is that payment enough for their sacrifice? Should that really be considered acceptable? Payment in full? We celebrate Memorial day every May but is one day really adequate to honor those who have paid the last full measure of devotion? Or do we all have an obligation to tell their story, visit them, remember them as much as possible? Shouldn’t we at least try to remember them in our prayers at least once a week, or is that asking too much?

Individually we can not remember everyone. There are so many who have given their lives in service to this country it would be an impossible task. The debt we owe is to those we knew. Those who have traveled in our life, shared our memories, made us who we are today. No man or woman dies friendless or without a family. It is our individual responsibility to tell their stories, share the memories of our friends who have died way too young. If we as their friends remember them less and less, if we let a photo, a piece of inscribed granite be the only reminder, remembrance of our friends who have died, then we have not paid our debt. We can not expect a stranger to remember or honor our friends for they do not know them as we do. We are the ones who must carry their hopes, their dreams, their ambitions forward. It is our responsibility to share who are friends were with others. What they meant to us. How amazing and wonderful they were. We are in essence the legacy of our friends. We are the only ones who can adequately pay the debt the country owes. If we do not remember, reflect, tell their story, a nation of strangers will not as well. Our friends will be lost in time. They will become only a name on a headstone. We must shout as loud as we can, as often as we can, we can not let anyone drown us out. We must write, remember and respect our friends who have died. We must tell their stories over and over until their memory becomes a strong echo through the halls of life that can not be silenced. We can not let them be forgotten, for that is the debt we must pay!

My debt, who I owe
Lt. Robert T. Bianchi
23 March 1987 (age 26)
U.S.N.A. Class of 1983

Cdr Peter G. Oswald
27 August 2002 (age 41)
U.S.N.A. Class of 1984

Cdr. Kevin A. Bianchi
16 July 2003 (age 40)

U.S.N.A. Class of 1985

What is it about Love

2011-01-24T03:41:00.010-05:00

It’s 1:58 a.m. I should be in bed, sleeping soundly. Instead I am up at my computer typing away. I can’t shut this brain of mine off. Thoughts, sentences keep racing through my mind begging to be written on paper. Tonight as tried to work on chapter 5 in my book, spring break and the first time I kissed Bobby etc. I found I was too distracted to finish writing the chapter. I was not distracted by Bobby but by questions that have always puzzled me my entire life. What is love and why is it so hard for some people to find, to keep? There have been times when I look at women who are married and wondered, how do they find love/marriage and not me? How is it some people get married two, three and even more times and I can’t find one person who loves me enough to want to marry me?

As my brain ventured through many moments of self pity, I began to question, what exactly is love? Do I expect too much of it? There are so many different types of love how does one define it? Why is it some people fall in love, marry for life while others marry several times? I know love exists, I have experienced the joy of love and the pain of losing it.

I met a woman this summer who was so in love, she was giggly, happy giddy in love with the man she was with at the bar. They hung on each other’s every word and bodies. The week before he asked her to marry him, she said yes. They had been dating a total of four months but they told me they knew instantly when they met they were soul mates. In the course of our conversation I learned this would be the woman's third marriage! She was only thirty four, he was thirty one and has never been married. I should add I learned later in the conversation, she had been engaged two times previously, "between her marriages". I could not fathom how someone could be married three times by the age of thirty four. Let alone engaged a total of five times. I wanted to say to the guy, hey wise up, you might want to rethink this whole marriage thing. If she has been engaged a total of five times and married twice, she obviously does not excel at commitment. But who am I to judge, I have never been married, I do not know her life story. I only have a twenty minute bar conversation to go on. Besides they looked happy or drunk I am not sure which was the better definition of that night so why should I ruin thier happiness with logic? I can honestly say while sitting there talking to the two of them, it was not self pity but rather curiosity that made me question love. I found myself looking at her wondering what was it about her that has made five men propose to her? What did she possess that drove men crazy enough to want to marry her?

Over the next few days I continued to wonder was it possible to be in love five times or was it as I suspected this woman was in love with the idea of being in love? The guy seemed reasonably sane, so why didn’t his inner alarm go off when he found out she had been engaged FIVE times and married twice? I know mine would have said, RUN!! Can you be so in love you look past previous relationship failures hoping you are the happily every after? Maybe since I have never been married I am too jaded to understand love? I no longer trust what I feel or trust I will find love.

I have often wondered, is love something we know in our hearts instantly or is love something that happens over time? Which love lasts longer? Which love is stronger? Is there only one true love for each of us? Or is it possible to be in love with many different people? If love ends was it really love to begin with? If you are in love, the person dies and you find another love who do you spend eternity with in Heaven? Can you love two people differently but with the same intensity?

When it comes to love does anyone have the definitive answer as to why some people fall in love and others don’t? Can anyone ever truly explain the emotions of the human heart/soul? I believe if we define love, how it works, what makes it last, love suddenly loses its' mystic. What my brain finally decided, there is something wonderfully magical about falling in love so why try to explain or understand it? Whether love lasts a hundred days or for all eternity we should all enjoy love when we find it! Hold on to it as long as possible and thank God when it comes into our life!

The Beauty of the Dance

2011-01-21T03:10:00.001-05:00

It’s often the dance we miss the most. The allure of two bodies coupled in harmony, swaying gracefully to the beat. The look in the eyes, the touch of their hand, the sensation of holding each other close. For those few moments feeling inseparable yet filled with the uncertainty of what lies ahead, the beauty of not knowing, the confusion of wanting. Some will share this dance a hundred times. While others only need to experience it once and they know. To distinguish between love and romance we must first master the dance. (dkr 2011)

Searching for Signs

2011-01-13T22:36:00.031-05:00

When I first sat down to write about my search for signs the original piece was twelve pages long. I detailed everything that has happened to me since February 18, 2010. I decided to edit my post down to the last couple of months; one due to the length of first draft, second I truly believe some people might not understand all that has happened to me. They might be uncomfortable with what I had written. Instead of revealing my entire pilgrimage, I have decided to confess the final leg of my journey. Thank you for reading.

Signs, do they exist?

I believe love and life are eternal. With that knowledge, is it possible for those who have passed on to send us signs letting us know they are happy and in heaven?
Can they send us signs to let us know they love us when we have lost hope? Are signs a way for our loved ones to let us know they miss us in heaven as much as we miss them here on earth? Do our loved ones try to guide us on a path we may hesitate to travel? Is it possible for them through signs to give us answers to previously unanswered questions. Are signs a way for them to ease our hearts and minds, let us know they love us? Do we always recognize the signs they send? If we do not see a sign does that mean one does not exist or does it mean we are looking too hard? Is seeing believing or are we simply believing what we see?

Of course the most complicated question of all, what is a sign? Is it something as simple as a rainbow? Can a sign be a song played on the radio from long ago to remind us of a special person? Perhaps a sign is soft breeze on a still day. Can a sign be a strange sensation we suddenly have in our heart, the same one we felt when they were here with us. Many people see a flower that blooms out of season and assume it is a sign. Can watching a television show you normally don’t contain a message, a sign? Is our wonderful world full of signs or are they simply haphazard occurrences that remind us of a loved one we have lost and miss dearly? Individually we must determine if signs exist or if they are coincidences combined with wishful thinking.

The questions above are the center of my internal debate that has had me confused and lost for the past few months. A debate I have been afraid to share, afraid of the reaction I might receive from some. I honestly do not know if what I am seeing and feeling are signs or simply me wanting answers to questions that have none. I find myself looking at stars asking for permission, guidance from a person who is no longer here. Am I crazy asking him to send me a sign? Is he answering me or am I believing, seeing something that isn’t really there? When is something a coincidence or when is a coincidence really a sign?

For the past several months I had questions and doubts running through my mind. At the heart of my doubts should I continue to write my book? The main questions, why was I suddenly feeling so much this past year? Why was I remembering Bobby so clearly? So many memories came rushing back, it was at times overwhelming. I thought after visiting Bobby in August I had my answers. I thought I knew what to do. I was convinced he had given me the answers I needed. I truly believed he had given me signs while I sat and talked to him at his grave. As positive as I was when I left, things changed after labor day weekend. I began to have doubts. His friends who weeks before said they would be sending me stories and photos of Bobby never did. My follow up emails were never answered. I only knew one side of Bobby. I am the first to admit, through my mistakes I lost so much time, time I could have spent with him, learned more about him. In order to paint a better portrait of Bobby I needed his friends help. I needed to see him the way they did so I could write a better character in my book. My doubts and writing were soon interrupted, I was soon distracted.

Dad’s health began to decline rapidly and by the end of October he was in the hospital. To occupy myself when Dad was sleeping I began to write about Dad’s cancer, my feelings of helplessness at the hospital. Every day I would bring my writing bag with me when I stayed with Dad. Inside along with blank writing pads and pens were the completed chapters for Bobby’s book. I would see the notebook that contained the chapters every day when I pulled out my writing pad. A friend of mine, Janice, her father was in the hospital as well, staying few doors down from Dad. Her mom had read my blog on Bobby and asked if she could read the first three chapters I had completed. I didn’t see any harm, so I gave her the notebook to read one night. I thought if she hated it, maybe that would be the sign I needed to convince myself to finally give up on the book and throw it away. The next afternoon while Dad slept I was staring out the window when I felt a gentle squeeze on my hand. I smiled at Dad, he was half asleep, half awake, in a very drugged up stage. Out of the blue he told me I needed to write my story. He continued to explain, the fear I had, that some people doubted me I should forget. He continued once they read my story, felt the love I had for him in my words, they would know it was true. He had faith I had a New York Times best seller waiting to come out of me. He was sorry he wasn’t going to be here to see my book top the charts. He wanted me to know the first time I walked into a book store and saw my book at number one, he was going to be there with me. Then Dad fell back to sleep.

A few nights later (Saturday) I sat in the sixth floor lounge waiting for the techs to take Dad’s vitals and change him. I passed the time by editing the completed chapters, circling typos and sentences I wanted to rephrase. As I read the chapters, I debated if I should finish writing the book or throw it away. I didn’t know what to do. I understood I had to many emotions running through me from Dad’s cancer, they were definitely adding to my confusion. Later I returned to Dad’s room and held his hand until he fell back to sleep. I am not sure why but I found myself sitting in the recliner next to his bed, staring out the windows at the stars and talking to Bobby. I told him I still missed him. Watching Dad die was the hardest thing I had ever done. I wished he was still around to wipe away my tears like he had done many years before. I stared out the window remembering our conversation from long ago when he asked me why I didn’t tell anyone I was pregnant. I told Bobby I thought I had to do it alone, it was my mistake so it wouldn't be right to burden anyone with my problems. I remembered he sounded upset with me when he answered, “You know you never have to be alone, all you have to do is ask and I will be there. No matter what happens (with us) I will always be here for you.” I knew listening to his voice, he meant it. He would always be there for me even if we didn’t work out. He had a huge heart, loyal, he was simply that type of guy. I stared out the window and told Bobby I could use one of his amazing hugs, I was feeling pretty lost and alone. I didn’t know how to say good bye to my Dad. I wasn’t ready yet. Then I apologized to Bobby I hadn’t written in his book for several weeks. I had promised him when I was at his grave that I would write with my heart and do my best to honor his memory. I was lost, I did not know if I should even try to finish the book. I felt like his friends were against the idea. Life would be so much easier if he were here, he could tell me what he wanted me to do. What I wouldn’t give to see him one more time. I told him I really needed a sign, something to let me know if I should finish the book.

Sunday afternoon I went to my parent’s house to retrieve some papers my Dad had asked my sister to get from the bottom drawer of his dresser. Debbie was busy so she asked if I would stop by and pick them up for Dad. While Mom was visiting Dad I drove over to the house, found the papers in the bottom drawer exactly where Dad said they would be. I put everything he had requested in my bag. For some unexplainable reason as I sat on his bed I felt an urge to open the top drawer of Dad’s nightstand. I resisted the temptation, got up, began to walk away when I was overcome with a compulsion to turn around and look inside the drawer. I sat back down on his bed, opened the drawer. There sitting on top of his Bible was the Army Navy Football program from 1983. Army Navy was the trip/game where I first met Bobby. I sat confused, staring at the program trying to understand how it ended up in Dad’s nightstand. The football program should have been in a box along with all my other football programs and ticket stubs from all the Navy games I attended. I wondered why Dad would take this one Army Navy program over all the others and place it in his drawer. I marveled at the perfect condition of the program after twenty seven years. I placed the program in my bag to take back to the hospital with me. I needed something to hold on to that reminded me of Bobby. I was still in shock from finding the Army Navy program when I arrived at the hospital parking garage so I called Janice. I confessed all my crazy thoughts, my questions to Bobby then asked what she thought. She very bluntly stated, “I think Bobby gave you your answer. He’s here with you, now start writing.”

A few days after Dad died I was in the basement searching through boxes for my mom trying to locate the titles to the cars. In the corner next to the bar from Thailand I found the box that contained all my old football programs, ticket stubs and newspaper articles. When I opened the lid sitting on top, my Army Navy program from 1983. Mice had gotten into the box, my Army Navy program had the edges chewed off, along with several other papers, letters and photos. I had to sit down, I knew I had only bought one program in California. my sister did not go to the game, she was in Virginia. My hands began to shake as I held my program. I stared at it for a few minutes trying to make sense of what I had found. If I was holding my program, then whose program was in Dad’s nightstand and how did it get there?

I did not try to write after Dad’s death, I was exhausted both physically and mentally. I copied what I had written in my notebook to my blog. For a while it was hard getting use to not having Dad to talk to, call in the middle of the day. I kept busy catching up with work. The day after Christmas I decided it was time to write, I opened my laptop and began to write about my Nana Kay and our last Christmas together. I thought when I posted the article I had broken my writers block but I was wrong. I sat down Monday night determined to tackle the next chapter in the book. I opened my file marked Bobby. I tried to write, nothing flowed. It seemed my sentences were filled with doubts when I knew my words needed to convey the love and infatuation I felt for Bobby. Frustrated. I deleted everything I had written that night and closed my computer. I realized I was still lost, I still doubted myself, my ability to write his book. I needed to feel Bobby. It was ironic, I was having the same doubts about Bobby now that I had back in 1984-1987. I thought I was getting signs from Bobby yet I was afraid to trust the signs/him, the same way I was afraid to trust Bobby when he said to have faith in what I was feeling, what we both were feeling. Later when I let Raider out I stood on the deck looked at the stars and whispered, “Seems like nothing has changed since we were in our twenties. I am still lost and need your help.” I wasn’t sure what I was asking for but I needed something. I needed a sign. I needed to know he was looking out for me. He was, like he had promised, always going to be here for me.

The next evening, December 28, a bunch of friends and I headed to Carroll’s Creek to visit Beth while she worked. We had been hanging out for awhile when Mary suggested we leave and head to the Irish Channel in Crofton. Karen asked how I was heading to the Channel from Annapolis. I told her I was heading down 97 to 3, the way I always went home when Mary interrupted and said no D go 50 to 424 it’s much faster and easier. Eileen and I hopped in my car. I took Mary’s advice and headed down 50 to 424. Eileen and I were talking away when I looked to my left and saw a number seven outlined in Christmas lights on the firehouse on rt 424. I had never noticed the station number before. I smiled, seven was Bobby’s number when he played lacrosse. I remember telling Eileen I loved the number seven lit up, it was Bobby’s number. I even made a joke, maybe it was a sign from him.

Before heading out on Tuesday my daughter called to tell me she wasn’t feeling well, she was going to call in sick to work the next day. She asked if I would still come and watch Cole for a little while so she could sleep. I told her not a problem I would be there about eight or so. When I babysit Cole I watch Fox News until 1:30 -2:00 then I change the channel to TNT to watch the Closer than Cold Case. That afternoon Kathryn came downstairs after sleeping, commented how we did not have to watch Fox News, we could watch something else. Her subtle hint to change the channel. When I was scrolling through the guide channel Kathryn saw Man vs. Food and asked if we could watch. I believe the show was in Denver. The opening scene of the show; Adam is sitting in a booth talking to the camera about the day’s challenges ahead. The restaurant they were filming in was old. The booth walls were filled with scribble and writings. Above Adam's shoulder in huge white letters the name "Bobby". I chuckled when I saw in the same white writing in smaller print, "Will you marry me?" I watched part of the show before I left Kathryn’s house and headed home.

It was still early when I arrived home so I changed and decided to take a few laps around the neighborhood. I admit I was still chuckling inside and wondering if seeing the name Bobby on Man vs. Food was a sign. If Kathryn hadn’t been home sick I would have never watched the show. I wondered why Kathryn wanted to watch Man vs. Food at that time? She never really watched the show when she lived at home. I had to ask myself was it coincidence or sign. I was trying to convince myself it was only a coincidence when I looked up to see a couple running toward me, both wearing Navy sweatshirts. I have been taking laps for over a year in my neighborhood, the same route and not once have I ever run into this couple. I asked myself how could two people running really be a sign, it was impossible. I found myself walking verses running as I debated everything that I had seen in the past twenty four hours. I turned back onto Jamestown went over two streets and headed to the bottom court to complete my first lap. My iPod shuffled to Bruce Springsteen's, “The Rising”, I found myself picking up the pace to match the beat in the music. As the chorus began to play I looked up and saw not one but two cars with New Jersey plates, both with the same decal in the back window, “Navy Air”, parked in a row. I smiled then wondered why I had never seen the two cars before. I said out loud, "Nah can't be anything" I thought they are only visiting for the holiday, simply a coincidence. I turned the corner headed toward the court when I had to stop and catch my breath there sitting in the middle of the sidewalk directly in my path a lacrosse ball. I stopped with my hands on my knees, catching my breath and staring at the ball. I looked around to see if there were any kids around. There were none. Call me silly but I picked up the ball, tossed it high in the air, as I did I said out loud, “Thanks Bobby!” I caught the ball, looked at it for a minute, smiled, then placed it on the grass next to the sidewalk and headed home. For the next seven days, every time I turned the corner the lacrosse ball was still where I had placed it. Then day eight the ball was gone.

For some reason after those two days filled with signs or coincidences, I have been able to write. I no longer find myself filled with doubts. The words, our story seems to be flowing once again. There are still times I find myself debating whether what I was seeing were signs or simply my wishful thinking. Even as I write this, I wonder are there really signs? The Christmas lights, the cars, the lacrosse ball, etc. all can be considered coincidences, wishful thinking, nothing out of the ordinary. The only ‘sign’ I cannot rationalize, the Army Navy Program I found in Dad's nightstand. I only bought one program when I was at the game, yet for some unexplainable reason I now have two. So who knows, just maybe, I really was sent signs. Maybe signs really do exist in our crazy world.

2011

2011-01-01T23:02:00.017-05:00

I woke up this morning the first day of 2011, looked out the window to see overcast rainy skies. My first thought, yuck, not a great way to start the New Year. I hoped this was not a sign of the year ahead. Then I walked outside, it was warm!! The week before had been cold, I needed a jacket and gloves when I let the dog out. Today I was fine standing outside in only my sweatshirt and jeans. As I stood there waiting for Raider the realization hit me, this was actually the perfect day to start the New Year. The day had a strange harmony of good and bad. Overcast/rainy yet wonderfully warm for January. A happy medium.

Isn’t that the way life should be, a happy medium? If the sun always shined, if there was no rain then life would cease to exist. Nothing would survive. Plants, animals, humans, we all need the amazing cycle of water. The earth needs those wonderfully overcast rainy days to survive. So maybe it is also true for our being. Is it conceivable or just possible that we need the same type of balance for our soul to thrive? As harsh as it may sound, we need both happiness and heartache in order for us to experience life at it’s fullest?

If we never experienced heartbreak then there would be no love. If we never cried tears of sorrow would we ever be able to experience true joy or recognize it? If we never walked the hard road would we recognize God is always with us? Would we seek God or simply deny his existence if we never needed him? If we did not see the ugliness in the world would we no longer see all the beauty that surrounds us? Would we ever realize how lucky we are? Would we no longer appreciate the gift of life, our lives? If everything was easy would we no longer set goals, reach for what we believe is unobtainable? How sweet is it when we reach what we thought was once impossible. If it wasn’t hard getting there would we ever truly appreciate the journey?

In my life I have experienced heartache and the deepest depths of sorrow. At the time I thought I could not survive the emptiness I felt, but I did. Those tears of mourning, the heartbreak, the agony I endured gave me a strange confidence that I could survive anything. Each tear was a lesson, time is precious, life is wonderful, never take for granted today waiting for tomorrow. Most importantly never leave those three magical words unspoken even if you fear your love is unrequited. From my sadness I learned how beautiful life is. I am still experiencing it when so many are not, how lucky am I?

Last week at the Irish Channel a few of us were discussing my running, my daily laps, how some days I ignore my doctor’s advise and run when it is extremely cold. A gentleman there commented that was not smart on my part. I explained to him, I knew me better than my doctor, I knew when my lungs could handle the cold. Every day I woke up was a gift so why not push it, live life to the full extreme. He replied that was a stupid concept. Is it? Shouldn’t we all push our limits both physically and mentally? Walk an uncomfortable moment or two to expand our comfort zone? If not how will we ever know what we can truly handle? If we fear the worse will we ever discover our best?

With that in mind, this being the first day of the New Year I have decided it would be an absurd request asking God for a perfect 2011. What I will ask for tonight when I say my prayers is for life and all it’s wonderful ups and downs. Most importantly I will ask once again for God’s grace to handle everything that comes my way, the good and the bad.
Happy New Year everyone!

Nana Kay's Christmas Secret

2010-12-26T15:40:00.050-05:00

After celebrating my first Christmas without Dad I came home from my sister's house, put on warm pajamas, poured myself a glass of wine and grabbed a box of old photo albums from the basement. I felt the need to reminisce, remember Christmas and times long ago. I laid the box of photos next to me on the floor, wrapped myself in a warm blanket, stretched out on the couch while Raider snuggled at my feet. I smiled as I looked at images of my sister and I when we were younger. I chuckled at the photo of me when I was eight years old in my first pair of glasses, white cat eye glasses. When I finished browsing through the first album, I reached down for the next. It was Grandma's brag book, Nana Kay's photo album. The album contained photos from the summer of 1973 and Christmas 1972. My mind was no longer seeing the photos, it was wondering back to days of ole, Christmas 1972. The time I woke up in the middle of the night and discovered Nana Kay's secret. The night when I first learned no matter how much time passes the heart never forgets, it always longs for the one it loves/loved. The night Nana Kay first taught me it is not the number of years we share with a person, but the depth of the love we shared with them. Thirty eight years later I wonder if Nana Kay would be upset if I finally shared her lovely secret?

Nana Kay lived in a wonderful old duplex on Weidman Street in Lebanon, Pennsylvania. Behind her house was the Bethlehem Steel factory, down the street was a playground, a corner drug store sat two blocks away. The back door lead to a porch that overlooked a beautiful side yard. In the summer the yard was full of blooming flowers and trees. In the winter it seemed to always be covered in peaceful white snow. Her front door had a nice stoop where as a young child I would often sit and talk to the neighbors as they walked by. At Christmas time it seemed like every stoop in the neighborhood had greens and Christmas lights adorning their railings. To me it was the most beautiful sight. Nana Kay lived in what could easily be described as the picture perfect American working class neighborhood. Everyone knew and looked out for each other especially during the holidays.

I loved Christmas at Nana Kay's house, it overflowed with Christmas spirit. Looking back I realize it must have taken days to remove all the nick knacks from her numerous shelves and curio cabinets and replace them with Santa's and Angels. The banister leading to the second floor was always perfectly wrapped in holly and lights. In the living room the nativity sat on top of the television, the main Christmas tree sat in the corner next to the window. Every room had a tree and was decked out in beautiful holiday decorations, even the bathroom. It was pretty marvelous to take a bath in the old claw foot bathtub with a small Christmas tree in the corner. Nana Kay allowed me to turn the lights off so the only light in the room was from the tree and the three candles that warmly glowed in the window. I often thought this must be the way royalty lived as I bathed myself in the wonderful glimmer of the blinking Christmas lights. The phonograph in the parlor always serenaded us with Christmas carols being sung by Dean Martin, Burl Ives or Bing Crosby. Norman Rockwell could not have painted a better portrait of Christmas.

Christmas 1972 I was nine years old. The world to me was perfect. I was oblivious to cancer raging within my Nana Kay. We arrived late Friday night to find Nana Kay still putting up some last minute decorations. No matter what time of year, Nana Kay always had a small gift waiting for my sister and I on the bed in Uncle Bill's room. The room we shared whenever we visited. After a quick hug, Debbie and I darted up the stairs to see what spectacular surprise awaited us. We quickly turned the corner at the top of the stairs nearly wiping ourselves out, my eyes first caught sight of the two feather trees Nana Kay had placed on the nightstands on either side of the bed. I felt grown up, it was the first time she put a tree on my side of the bed! I stopped and stared in amazement at 'my tree' when I spied two wooden boxes laid upon our pillows. I jumped over the foot board and bounced onto the bed next to my respective box. Inside the box was an old fashioned Santa Claus with changing faces. Each face matched a country, some had short beards, others had long. My sister of course put the American, traditional face on her Santa and stood it next to her tree and headed back downstairs. I sat there for several minutes changing each face trying to determine which one I liked best. I was not like my sister, I knew my Santa was breakable but I was not going to leave him standing alone next to the tree, I took him downstairs with me so I could continue to play with him. I sat Santa on the table next to me as my sister and I enjoyed homemade Christmas cookies and hot chocolate. I sat in the kitchen watching Dad help Nana Kay hang the Christmas Bell lights in the front hallway. It was then that I realized for the first time since I could remember Nana Kay did not have the house fully decorated.

The next morning, Mom and Debbie went shopping, Dad and Herm (Nana Kay's friend)hung the last of the Christmas lights and decorations while Nana Kay and I made more Christmas cookies. I remember Nana Kay apologized over and over to Dad for not finishing the decorations before the family arrived. She was feeling more tired than normal and was thankful for his help. She wanted everything perfect for her girls (Debbie and I). Dad called me into the living room and I felt so special when he lifted me up and for the first time I was the one to put the star on top of the Christmas tree. I stood there in awe of my "star", it seemed higher than normal and I had done that! The rest of the afternoon was spent with Nana Kay filling tin canister with homemade cookies to be delivered the next day to neighbors and friends. After a wonderful family dinner, I stayed in the kitchen watching the adults play cards while my sister watched television and read a book in the living room. I always wanted to be part of the 'fun'. At bedtime Nana Kay accompanied my sister and I upstairs and knelt with us as we said our nightly prayers. Dad came up a few minutes later to tuck us in and wish us sweet dreams. My sister was soon fast asleep. I laid in bed staring at my feather tree counting all the shiny red balls on it. I could hear the laughter from the floor below me. I soon climbed out of bed, grabbed the blanket from the rocking chair. I spread it out on the floor next to the coal grate and fell asleep watching and listening to the card game in the kitchen below. A few hours later I was awoken by the shift change whistle of the Bethlehem Steel factory. I rubbed my eyes, noticed the lights were off downstairs, the house was quiet and peaceful. Everyone had gone to bed.

I folded the blanket and when I placed it back on the rocker I noticed Debbie's Santa standing next to her tree. I suddenly realized I had left my Santa downstairs. Not wanting to get in trouble for being irresponsible I quietly opened the door and headed downstairs to retrieve my Santa. I had tip toed halfway up the stairs when I stopped, I heard Christmas music. I stood there for a few seconds trying to determine if the music was coming from the adjoining house or Nana Kay's. I placed my ear against the wall, there was no noise from the neighbor's house. They were all asleep as well. I continued up the stairs, the soft music became a little louder. When I reached the top I saw Nana Kay's bedroom door was slightly ajar, her light was on and Bing Crosby was softly echoing from her room. I walked down the hall and spied into her room. She was unpacking a box and laying it's contents neatly on her bed. After a few moments I heard my Nana Kay say, "Well come in my little Christmas mouse."

Nana Kay's room was her sanctuary, her place where no one was allowed to wander, explore. Since I was the inquisitive grandchild this was stressed to me on more than one occasion. Before that night I only remember being in her room one other time. My eyes were wide open in wonderment as I entered. She continued to unpack her box as I ran my fingers down her dresser. I walked alongside it and admired all the photographs. There were school portraits of me, my sister, my cousin Janet, a picture of mom and dad's wedding, my uncle Bill in his Air Force Uniform and several portraits of my Grandfather. I noticed placed in front of each of my grandfather's photos was a poinsettia bloom with greens. Nana Kay's voice broke into my silent thoughts. She asked me if I could keep a secret? Since I was now older, named after her, she thought now was a good time as any to share her special Christmas tree with me. I smiled, shook my head yes I could keep a secret. I asked her if my sister Debbie knew the secret, I felt even more special when she replied no. What she was about to tell me would be our secret alone. If I was good, kept our secret, it would be our Christmas tradition from then on. I felt so wonderfully adult when I promised not to tell anyone.

I helped Nana Kay as we removed the small lamp and ceramic dogs from her night stand, wrapped them gently in a cloth and placed them in the now empty box. In their place on her nightstand we began to put together a small Christmas tree. I helped insert the branches in the holes on the trunk of the tree. She handed me a small handmade tree skirt to wrap around the base. I can still see the small gold stars sewn on the red felt skirt. As we put the tree together Nana Kay explained to me this was her tree of love. A tree she put next to her bed every Christmas for Marlin, my grandfather. A reminder when she felt lonely at Christmas of how lucky and blessed she was.

For the fist time I can remember my Nana Kay talked about my Grandfather's death, how deeply it hurt her. He had made it safely through the war, it was 1946 and she was no longer worried about his safety. They had a lifetime ahead of them to share their love, have more children. She explained how shocked she was when she received the telegraph that my Grandfather died of a heart attack at the Army base. It was November a short time before Christmas. My Grandfather was not old, he was a young man. Men of thirty six never have heart attacks, yet her Marlin did. The last letter she had received from my grandfather he wrote how excited he was to be coming home from Camp Lee and spending Christmas with her. After the war, after his time spent away in military, he was happy they were finally going to be a family again. After he died, she felt overwhelmed with emotions. She was depressed as Christmas approached. She was filled with doubt, not sure how she was going to raise their children alone, without the love of her life.

I listened intently as she told me the story of how the tree came to be. How one afternoon when she was feeling especially despondent walking to the corner store. She was lost in a moment of self pity when she noticed the number of Gold Stars still hanging in the windows of homes along the walk to the store. Seeing those stars, understanding what they stood for reminded her how lucky she was. Yes her Marlin had died, but so many of these stars represented young men, boys who never married, never had children. Young men who had never experienced the love she had shared with my Grandfather. She reminded herself as she continued to the store of the many wonderful years she had shared with her Marlin. She was walking aimlessly through the store, lost in thought remembering my Grandfather, when she saw a stack of boxes. She looked up and saw a sample of what was in the boxes, a small Christmas tree. Next to the trees were boxes of satin Christmas ball ornaments. It was then she came up with her idea to decorate a tree for her Marlin. She bought a tree, a box of red ornaments, 3 boxes of the white ornaments and 4 boxes of blue ornaments. Nana Kay said she didn't really have the extra money to spend on the tree but "then and there" she needed to buy the tree. She needed a reminder of their love. She needed a tree for her Marlin.

I watched as she gently wrapped a small string of white lights around the tree. First we hung fifteen white satin Christmas balls on the tree, the number of years she had been married to my Grandfather. White because their love was faithful, pure and eternal. I was asked to count out twenty seven blue satin Christmas balls. 1972 was the twenty seventh Christmas she would spend without her Marlin. As we hung the balls together I remember saying to my Nana Kay that it was so sad, there were so many more blue ornaments than white. Nana Kay asked me to count the number of white satin balls that hung on the tree again. When I answered fifteen. She explained to me fifteen was a mighty big number, it was better than fourteen, much more wonderful than one or none at all. She was indeed sad that my Grandfather had missed so many Christmases but she was blessed to have shared so many glorious Christmases with him. So many people spend their lives searching for true love, but she found hers. She would always hold the memories of her Marlin close to her heart. If it wasn't for my Grandfather I would have never been born. Their love together gave my Nana Kay two wonderful gifts, my Uncle Bill and my mom. If my mom had never been born, neither would I or my sister. She continued, she knew if God had given my Grandfather a choice, he would have to die or my Nana Kay. He would have said without hesitation to God, take me. He loved Nana Kay so much he would never want to take the joy of watching their children grow up from her. She knew my Grandfather was upset he missed watching his kids grow to become adults, meeting us. She was positive he wished he could be here with us but God called him home, he was with Jesus. One day we would all meet in Heaven.

Together we placed seven red balls on the tree, one for each of the joys in her life. My Uncle Bill, his wife, my mom, my dad and her grandchildren. Next I was handed seven gold stars, the number of years my grandfather proudly served full time in the Army. In his short life he had accomplished his goals. He graduated college, thanks to ROTC he had escaped the future of the coal mines. He found his home in the Quartermaster Corps, he was an officer in the United States Army. I was surprised when my Nana Kay handed me the small Angel to place on top of the tree. She put her hands on my waist and balanced me as I stood on her bed and placed the Angel on top of Marlin's Christmas tree.

She explained to me as she helped me off her bed, on top of the tree in the living room was a star, a reminder of the star that lead the wise men and shepherds to Jesus. On top of Marlin's tree was an Angel to remind her my Grandfather was in heaven with the Angels watching over all of us. She had faith, she knew her Marlin was always with her. If I was still I would be able to feel my Grandfather as well. Nana Kay was happy knowing he was making a place for her, for all of us in heaven.

After we finished decorating the tree, we packed up the left over satin balls, placed them in the box. I sat on the bed for a few moments staring at the beauty of our secret tree while Nana Kay carried the box up the stairs to the attic. I remember walking over to the dresser, staring at the photograph of the man I never met, the love of my Grandmother's life, my Grandfather, Marlin Robert Kopp. I picked up his photograph carried it back to the bed and began to talk to him. I thanked him for loving my Nana Kay, for my Uncle Bill and mom, for watching over us. I promised him I would try to be still so I could hear him but if not it was okay I knew he was there. Nana Kay walked in, I looked up afraid she would scold me for removing his photograph from her dresser, but she didn't. She smiled at my last remark, then took his framed picture from my hands, patted me on my head, then remarked how handsome my Grandfather was as she placed his photograph back where it belonged. She walked over to the switch and turned out the lights. She told me the first year she decorated Marlin's tree it only had fifteen white ornaments, two red ones and a single blue ornament on it. Then remarked at all the life and love the tree had on it now. Then asked what I thought of my Grandfather's tree, our secret tree. The white lights warmly filled the room as I smiled proudly and told Nana Kay there was definitely a lot of love on my Grandfather's tree. I fell asleep that night laying in bed staring at my Grandfather's tree curled up in the arms of my Nana Kay.

Sadly my Nana Kay died the following August from cancer. Christmas 1972 was the last Christmas I shared with her. It was the last time my Nana Kay would decorate her secret tree for my Grandfather and I was blessed to have shared that night with her. It is a night, a memory I will cherish forever.

Henry J. Wilson and Amanda Jane Dent, Soul Mates

2010-12-06T03:13:00.012-05:00

Written on the night of November 22, 2010

Why today of all days am I trying to sort how I feel about soul mates, about fate? Are the two interchangeable? I have spent several hours pondering the question does everyone marry their soul mate? Or do most people only marry someone they love? Is there a difference? Are we all destined to meet our soul mate?

Though out time people have written about searching for their soul mate, finding true eternal undying love. In Hebrew a soul mate is called a Bashert; your one predestined mate. The person who is determined by God to be your destiny, your fate. When you meet it is kismet. It is believed when soul mates meet they share a love so deep it spans all time. They are forever bound in life and in death. Soul mates complete each other what one lacks the other excels at. They are in a way two opposites that come together to form one soul, one perfect love. When a soul mate dies, the other has a pain so deep they feel lost, empty without the other.

With the common knowledge of what or rather who a soul mate is, I wonder does everyone have a soul mate? Will we know instantly when we find them or do we realize it over time? What happens if we never find our soul mate? Why are some people lucky and live happily ever after, while others are destined to live their life always longing for a person they have lost or searching for the love they never had?

These are questions that have been fueling my thoughts all day. Maybe it is because tomorrow is an anniversary of sorts for me. Most people would think since I am 47 and have never married I do not believe in soul mates, true love. It is quite the opposite, I believe in love, soul mates. There are days like today when I have a hard time believing in the "happily ever after". I wonder if soul mates have a love so deep that it will eventually lead to unbearable sorrow.

One love story that has always captivated my heart is the story of my great great grandparents, Henry J. Wilson and Amanda Jane Dent. Theirs is a story of love and heartache. A love so strong that neither family, poverty not even death could separate the two. They were I believe, soul mates.

Henry John Wilson was born in Ireland and immigrated to Philadelphia in 1850 at the age of thirty. He worked successfully in Philadelphia for several years before he moved to Iowa. There is no explanation why Henry left a good paying job in Philadelphia and moved to Iowa. From the stories I have been told, I learned Henry felt the need to head west. He felt something calling him, later he would say he felt someone calling his heart. Henry settled in Troy Township next to the home of Samuel and Anna Dent. It was there that Henry first saw Amanda Jane Dent, Samuel's daughter. Henry was a poor Irish emigrant and Amanda was a descendant of one of Maryland’s founding families. He had grown up in poverty and starvation in Ireland. She had been born to moderate wealth in Indiana and later moved with her family to Iowa. In Iowa she lived on a large farm. Life for Amanda was easy compared to most women her age. She was educated, Henry was not. She was a vibrant young woman, he was twenty years older than her. According to family lore, it was love at first sight for both Henry and Amanda. When he first saw Amanda talking to her brother he could not take his eyes off her. When she turned and smiled at him, according to each, they had both found their soul mates. She knew when she looked into his eyes she had found her home.

Afraid of what her family would say, Amanda hid her relationship with Henry, her father's new farmhand. When Henry gathered the courage to ask for Amanda’s hand in marriage he was immediately fired, shown the door and told to stay away from Amanda by her father Samuel. Even though she was heartbroken, Amanda obeyed her father and agreed to court other men. No matter how many men came calling she could not stop thinking about Henry. Their love was too strong. She felt lost without him by her side. Once she was of age, Amanda disobeyed her father and began to see Henry again. On March 24, 1864 Henry and Amanda were married. They were two opposites deeply in love joined in the bonds of holy matrimony. Together they were complete, happy.

Amanda’s family did not understand her attraction, her love for Henry. She was a beautiful woman who could have married any young man in the county. Several young men made it clear they wanted to marry Amanda but once she met Henry her heart was taken. No man could compare to Henry, he was the love of her life. She believed he was her destiny from the start. The day after Amanda married Henry, a letter was delivered to their house announcing she had been disowned by her family. To her father she had married beneath her status, he was after all poor and Irish. Her marriage was a dishonor/shame on the family. It did not matter that she was in love, only that she had disobeyed her father.

Amanda cried for days when her family disowned her but she would not give in to their demands to leave him. Even in poverty she proudly stood by Henry's side. She wrote to her father, tried to convince him she was where she belonged. Her heart told her she was meant to be with Henry, he made her whole, he completed her. She wrote without Henry she would not be able to breathe, he was her world, her life. If her father truly loved her he would understand such love and want his daughter to be happy.

When Amanda married Henry she gave up a large comfortable farm house with plenty of land to farm, plenty of food to eat and moved to a small house that she shared with Henry, his sister and his sister’s children. Amanda never looked back or regretted her decision. Henry devoted himself to Amanda; she loved him with all her heart. They were happy, in love and soon were expecting a child.

While she was pregnant Amanda knitted a baby blanket. On two opposite corners of the blanket Amanda embroidered her and Henry’s initials, on the other two hearts. It was a symbol of two soul mates coming together to form a child, their child. Sadly, Amanda Jane died giving birth to my great grandmother Amanda Jane Wilson. She would never see her child swaddled in the blanket she had made with love.

The story of Amanda's death was recorded in a neighbors diary and has been passed down through the generations. Amanda had been in heavy labor and struggling for several days when she finally gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. Henry sat on the bed with his arms around Amanda as she held their daughter. As Amanda held her baby in her arms she began to hemorrhage. She died a few minutes later still holding her child. In his grief, Henry picked up both Amanda and their new born daughter carried them to the rocking chair he had built for them. For hours he would not let anyone come near them. He held them both, rocking back and forth, kissing Amanda on the forehead begging her to come back to him. His cries of pain could be heard through the silence of the Iowa night. It was written even the animals cried when they heard the anguish in his tears. He held his two “girls” until the sun came up, praying for a miracle. Finally a little after sun rise his sister convinced Henry he had to let Amanda go, she was in heaven. He needed to take care of his daughter. His little girl needed him. He had to be strong for her. Henry would name their daughter after the love of his life, Amanda Jane.

Amanda was buried in Selection Cemetery in Iowa. Her father agreed to pay for her funeral but refused to come or see his granddaughter. Samuel made it clear he blamed Henry and their child for his daughter’s death. He would never forgive Henry for taking Amanda away from him.

In the 1800s when a spouse died it was common place for the surviving spouse to remarry. It was expected. Henry was devastated by Amanda’s death. He wrote to his brother he felt lost without her. He could never imagine sharing his bed, his life with another woman. No matter how deeply he loved his daughter, Henry still felt empty and incomplete without Amanda. He had lost half his soul. Henry would never re-marry; he would live the rest of his life alone.

After Amanda Jane’s death, Henry came onto hard times. It was almost impossible for an Irishman to get a good paying job in the late 1800s. Plus, no one wanted to hire the farmhand that the Dent family had fired. He worked odd jobs the best he could to keep food on the table. Henry’s family was near starvation when he found a chicken roaming the street and took it home to feed his family. In Ireland before coming to America Henry had watched most of his family die of starvation, he was not going to watch his daughter starve to death in Iowa. A few days later Henry was accused of being a thief, stealing the chicken. He was considered even more of outcast in Monroe County. The summer of 1867 he wrote his brother he was planning on heading back to Philadelphia to find a better job, a place he could properly care for his daughter. Since Amanda had died there was nothing in Iowa for him. He felt empty without Amanda by his side. He had lost faith, he had lost hope. Everyone saw him as a thief not as a man trying to care for his family. When he had given up all hope, when he was preparing to head to Philadelphia fate stepped in and stopped him. Jeptha Robinson heard about Henry's plight and offered him a job as a farm hand. Jeptha did not need a farm hand he had enough brothers to handle all the work on the farm. For some reason he could not explain, Jeptha felt in his heart he needed to help Henry. He needed to keep Henry and his daughter Amanda in Iowa. Amanda and Henry would spend the rest of their lives in Monroe County, Iowa.

Amanda was even more beautiful than her mother. During school, several young men would try to court Amanda but her heart was set on Jeptha’s oldest son Jacob. She said since she was a little girl she knew she would marry Jacob. It was love at first sight. In 1885 Amanda and Jacob were married in the living room of his parent's house. Jacob had a Celtic knot wedding ring made for Amanda. Their love was eternal, a love with no bonds, no end. Jacob toasted his father on his wedding day thanking him for keeping Amanda and her father Henry in Iowa. For without that one kind gesture he would never have met the love of his life, Amanda Jane.

After they married, Jacob built Amanda a small house on the family farm. Jacob moved Henry into their home. Henry would spend his nights rocking on the porch, talking to the stars, talking to his soul mate, Amanda. He would tell her of his day, how much he still missed her. When Henry died in 1900 the Dents would not allow him to be buried next to his wife, his soul mate, Amanda Jane. Henry was buried in the Robinson Arnold family cemetery in Urbana, Iowa. On either side of him lie strangers. When his daughter Amanda Jane died in 1921 she was buried two rows away from her father. Several years later her husband Jacob would be buried by her side. Henry's body lies alone for all eternity.

When I first heard the story of Amanda Jane and Henry I was left feeling sad, my heart was broken for them. Henry was married to Amanda for a little more than a year before she died. After her death he was never able to find happiness again. This seemed so sad to me. Then I realized Henry and Amanda Jane were lucky, they found each other. They shared a passionate deep undying love for each other that few people ever experience. I would rather have one year of passionate eternal love followed by a lifetime of sorrow than never to have experienced such love at all.

I know in my heart Amanda and Henry have finally found eternal happiness together in Heaven. They are sharing peace and happiness they could not find here on earth.

Anywhere But Here

2010-11-26T03:40:00.013-05:00

Once again another day blurs into night as I sit here staring out the window of room 640 at Baltimore Washington Medical Center. To the right of me Dad is sleeping in his bed, to the left an orange glow of sunset is settling over Baltimore. For a moment I have to think what day it is, what month. Time is moving outside my window, but here on the 6th floor it feels like it is standing still. Life is on hold waiting for Dad to get better.

Halloween has come and gone, the clock is beginning to tick away at November. The orange of sunset is now being replaced by darkness expanding over the horizon. The landing lights are now visible and I can see the planes as they line up for the final approach at BWI airport. One, two, three, four, five, six planes I count waiting for their turn to land. They form a straight line of bright dots. I wonder where the flights are coming from? I try to imagine an exotic location warm and beautiful. Where the nights are filled with gentle ocean breezes. I try to envision a hamlet full of laughter and life. A place where I can escape the sounds and smells of the hospital. For right now I long to be at any locale, any city, any abode, anywhere but here.

Looking out the window I am lost in a day dream, a place unknown when the cries of pain from my father transport me back to reality. I call for the nurse, ask for more pain medication. Feelings of helplessness envelop me as I take his hand. I understand there is no physical comfort I can give him. I can only wait with him until his medication takes effect.

I hold his hand and look out the window at the traffic on route 100. I look away so my Dad will not see the tears forming in my eyes. His moans of agony break my heart, tear at my soul. I squeeze his hand, try to comfort him with words. I remind him I love him, everything will be okay. I hear his breathing begin to slow, his moans begin to fade, the medication is slowly taking effect. His grip begins to loosen on my hand, I know he is now asleep. I continue to peer out the window and begin to have selfish thoughts. I look at the highway below and wish I was on it. I long to drop the top on my Mini, crank my iPod and feel the wind on my face, through my hair. I am surrounded by sickness and I hunger to feel alive. I yearn to drive to distances unknown, somewhere fun. I wish I was anywhere but here.

I am lost in a memory of spring break when I am awaken by the red and white flashing lights of an ambulance as it arrives at the emergency bay below. Several times a night I see the lights reflect off the windows in the distant darkness. Every time I see the lights, even though I do not know the passenger I still say a prayer. I pray that whatever injury or illness brought them to the E.R. can be fixed and they can return home. I pray their family never has to stay here. I pray they have the choice to drive anywhere but here.

3:27 a.m. a cry breaks the quiet of the night, I hear the nurses call to each other. I lean forward, I can see the family crying. I can’t remember their names, only where they are from, how they like their coffee. I learned the day before their mother had stage four lung cancer. I witness them consoling each other. I realize their mom has passed. I squeeze my Dad’s hand tighter. I feel tears begin to pour down my cheeks. 4:00 a.m. the ding of the elevator reverberates through the hall. I look out and see the gurney with the unwanted empty burgundy bag turn the corner. A few minutes later the gurney returns, the bag no longer empty. It carries what was once a mother, grandmother, the love of someone’s life. The sight is more than I can endure. I let go of my Dad’s hand and rush to the bathroom to regain my strength, my composure.

I lock the bathroom door, I need to be alone. I feel everything closing in around me. I am afraid I am not strong enough to handle another day, another night. I am scared I am moments away from losing my sanity. I wash my face, stare at myself in the mirror. The reflection I see is not me. My face is so tired, my eyes appear sad. I look like I have aged a hundred years since Dad first arrived on the sixth floor. I hate this place. This floor is taking everything out of me, I am losing hope. I fear the optimist in me is slowly dying. I lean against the wall, catch my breath and ask God why can’t I be anywhere but here?

After a few moments of self pity I remind myself I need to have faith in God, in myself. No matter what the outcome it will be God's will. He will not give me anymore than I can bear. I grab a paper towel and remove all remnants of tears from my face, take a deep breath and head back to Dad’s room. I grab another pillow and sit in my chair between Dad’s bed and the window. I change the play list on my iPod, try to get as comfortable as possible. Once again I take Dad’s hand, stare out the window hoping to find a star to make a wish on. I slowly drift off to sleep, dreaming of happier times when life was the way it was suppose to be. I am almost off in peaceful slumber when the tech wakes me, she has to take Dad’s vitals. I need to move my chair. I stand and continue to gaze out the window. Light is beginning to penetrate the darkness. Another day has arrived. I feel a gentle squeeze on my hand. Dad is awake. He smiles at me. As the warm glow of the sun enters his room I realize here is the only place I want to be.

Simply a Song

2010-11-20T01:11:00.008-05:00

The past nineteen days I have spent with my Dad in the hospital I have been serenaded by what I have dubbed the song of cancer. The beeping of the monitors, the whirling of his feeding tube machine, the gurgling/bubbling of the oxygen tubes, the alarms on the iv machine, the sounds of the suction machine clearing his airway, the ding of the elevators outside of dad's room. They are Dad’s constant melody, the easy sounds to hear. Strange as it may seem, I have come to appreciate this song. For I know as long as I hear these notes Dad is holding his own, he is still here. No matter how much I hate the tune, I know it is much better than the song of silence that awaits me. So for now I cherish his lullaby.

The harshest refrain, the toughest chorus, are the echoes that seem to resonate loudly throughout the halls at night. They breach the silence of sleep. Some nights the chorus of urgency is so loud, so constant it causes me to stop whatever I am doing to pray. I hear the cries of patients in pain, the nurses rushing to the bells/alarms alerting them to a patient in need, the code blues that ring throughout the night.

There are sad ditties as well, the melancholy psalm of despair that tears at my soul and causes me to weep for the unknown person I hear. The sobs of a patient a few doors down. He cries from loneliness every night. I have learned he longs for his youngest son to visit. His chorus is the same every night, please.

I have learned there is a certain rhythm to tears. Everyone seems to cry in beat as they stand in the hallway trying to gather the strength and courage to call family members and let them know the diagnosis is cancer. I can hear the uncertainty in their voice as they try to be positive, when I know from experience all they are feeling is confusion and desperation. They are at the beginning of the song, the first stanza of cancer. They look around and they are surrounded by those who are in the final verses, the final chorus.

The opera that rages deep and cuts like no other, the anguish cries of the final goodbye. The last verse is written. When the final aria is sung, there is a silence in the ward for a moment. It is a sound everyone recognizes and fears. The cry is a note like no other. The final lyric is the heartache that we all must face. It is life’s ending hymn that none of us are ever prepared to sing. We understand once the final note is sung, there is no encore, the ballad, the battle, are finally over.

Holding Dad's Hand

2010-11-16T15:14:00.011-05:00

Usually when one thinks about two people holding hands they envision lovers, boyfriend/girlfriend walking together. The first realization that a guy is interested in you is when he first takes your hand. The first contact between a boy and a girl. The first sensation of their touch, their skin against yours. Holding hands is the beginning of a relationship. Sometimes it is a relationship that only lasts a short time, other times it signifies the beginning of a lifetime together.

The first time we "hold hands", our first lifelong relationship, is with our parents.
The inaugural touch outside our mother's womb happens usually moments after birth. It is our parents caressing our arms, hands, placing their finger inside our hands, the first time someone holds our hand. As a small child our parents hold our hand to keep us safe, keep us from running off, keep us near. Holding our hand is in essence a safety net between us and the outside world. As we grow older, as we feel safer, we reach for our parent's hands less often. They too relax their "grip" on us. With continued independence we no longer seek the contentment, the safety of our parent's hands, we seek the comfort of a companion's hand.

Over the past eighteen days I have lost track over the number of times I have held my father's hand. Late at night when Dad has trouble breathing he reaches out for my hand. Anytime he is in pain or scared I reassure him everything is okay by simply taking his hand, caressing his fingers gently as they wrap around mine. The simple gesture of holding his hand let's him know I am not going to leave him. I will always be with him.

Thursday night as he was sleeping I sat in the chair next to his bed staring at our hands entwined together. I could tell when my Dad was in pain, I could feel him squeeze my hand in his sleep. I noticed how frail, how thin his skin had become. I began to wonder when did I stop holding my Dad's hand? When was the last time I remembered reaching out for him? I searched my brain, trying to locate the answer to my question.

Over the past five years as Dad has battled his cancer, I have caught him when he has fainted. I have put my arm around his waist helping him in and out of his wheelchair. He has leaned on my shoulder when he needed help walking. I have placed my hand on the small of his back, balancing him, shadowing him as he walked up the stairs, walked down the hall. I was there ready to catch him if he fell. I have sat with Dad stroking his arm while he was waiting for a doctor, while he was getting chemo. Until he was admitted to the hospital my Dad never reached for my hand, I never reached for his. The last time I remember holding my Dad's hand was in 1985. I had just given birth to my daughter. I was excited to be a mom, Kathryn was beautiful. As I laid in the recovery room after having a c-section the realization hit me I was going to be a single mom. I was going to be raising my child on my own. I suddently felt alone and scared. When I saw my Dad come into the recovery room I reached up for his hand. I needed him, holding his hand was my safety net. When he took my hand, when I felt his fingers around mine, I knew everything was going to be okay. I was not alone.

I continued to stare at our hands. I was amazed at the difference time had done. Our hands had drastically changed over the past twenty five years. My Dad's hands went from being strong and tan to frail and covered in bruises from all the injections and IVs. I thought to myself, twenty five years later our roles were reversed. Before his hand was the reassuring grip, now it was mine. In the past it was the gentle squeeze of his hand that let me know I would be okay, he would always be there for me. Now it seemed, it was me letting my Dad know I was going to be with him, I would help him through every final step he faced. He would not be alone, I would always be with him.

In my mind I was trying to recall when did this transformation take place. When did I become the parental/sheltering figure. The longer I laid with my head against the back of the chair staring at our hands, the more tears began to form in my eyes. I began to comprehend the truth, our roles had not reversed. Dad may have reached for my hand in comfort but he was giving me more. When he was squeezing my hand he was letting me know he was okay. I began to understand, as long as I could hold his hand, no matter how weak his grip was, I felt safe. As long as I could hold his hand, I could still hear his voice. Over the years, hearing my Dad's voice always made any bad day better. Dad had a way of making me feel like everything would be fine. I could handle it.

Ever since I was a little girl, Dad was my umbrella protecting me from all the frightening storms that lay ahead of me. He was always there when I needed him. I slowly began to comprehend looking at his frail fingers wrapped around mine soon I would no longer have his hand to hold. I would no longer hear his voice ask how my day went, how I was doing. We would no longer share our talks on Thursdays. My lifeline, my safety net was slowly leaving me. The man who in my eyes could make any and everything better, help me solve any problem was no longer going to be here with me. I was going to miss him more than I could ever adequately describe in words.

While I sat next to his hospital bed, holding his hand, Dad's grip tightened around my fingers as if he understood what I was thinking. What I was trying to accept. I smiled, told Dad everything would be alright, I would be alright. I promised him once again I would be right next to him holding his hand. The rest of the night while I sat with my father, I longed to have those twenty five years back. I wish I could regain all the times I neglected to reach for and hold the most wonderful hands I have ever known, my Dad's.

Remembering Our September 11th Luminary Memorial Lighting Ceremony

2010-09-26T03:48:00.016-04:00

This afternoon I went over to my parents house to install a new printer for my mom. I had been meaning for several weeks to search for several boxes of mine that I had left behind when I moved out. I decided while I was waiting for the printer to initialize, when the LCD screen read it would be 12 minutes until the next step I decided now was as good of a time as any to search out my boxes. As I waited I opened the closet in what use to be my bed room to see if any of my stuff was still there. Most of it had long since been moved to the basement or shed. I was surprised to see in the top corner of my closet, next to a bunch of my Dad’s stuff an old box. I pulled it down off the shelf and began to search through it. There was a myriad of long lost treasures in the box. A photo box containing some photos and a bunch of my old postcards sent to me by family and friends. Several of my old diaries from my twenties. My coach's notebooks from when I coached cheerleading at GORC. At the very bottom of the box was a copy of the West County News dated November 1, 2001.

At first I wondered why I had kept the newspaper, the lead story was “Party finds cats and dogs getting along” Then I flipped the paper over, where it had been folded in half and recognized the bold story line that read, “Letters, Luminaries Show Patriotism.” The smaller section headline read, “GORC lights up field” Immediately my mind began to remember October 26, 2001. The day a group of coaches, cheerleaders and parents lit 1,000 luminaries on the GORC football field to remember the lives lost on September 11, 2001.

Every year in conjunction with the AAYCA County Cheerleading Championships each cheerleading organization is asked to raise money for a charity. We had debated for several weeks which charity the GORC cheerleaders should raise money for. After 9/11there was no doubt, no question we were going to raise money for the Pentagon Relief Fund. Normally the way we would raise money was to pass a can around at football games. I was insistent passing a can around was not going to be enough. We needed to raise more money and we needed to make a statement. Not quite understanding how much work was going to be needed I suggested we sell luminaries, light our football field up to remember those lost on September 11. Everyone was in agreement, we all went about making this the most successfull fundraiser ever.

Over the next several weeks the cheerleaders and coaches canvassed their neighborhoods, football games, schools any where they could selling luminaries. Our original goal was to sell 500 luminaries. The cheerleaders smashed that goal and sold 998. I remember the morning of the 26th the truck driver who was delivering the sand to the field, when he learned we had sold 998 luminaries, he asked if we had two more. When I told him yes the bags came in packages of 10. He said good and bought the last two. He smiled and said, “1,000 is a much better number than 998.”.

Putting together and setting out 1,000 luminaries is anything but fun. We started with four of us at 8:00 a.m. filling the bags with sand. By lunch time we were beginning to wonder if we were going to have enough time to fill every bag, place a candle in them and then place them all on the field by the time the ceremony was scheduled to begin 7:30 p.m. As the afternoon wore on, more adults showed up to help. By three p.m we were all exhausted. From all the shoveling, bending and carrying the luminaries, our backs felt like we were all in our sixties. Luckily the kids after school headed to the field to volunteer. It is amazing how much energy and how much faster bags get moved onto a field by 13 and 14 year olds than by thirty something year olds!! To them it was a contest, they had to beat the clock, make the deadline. Everything was going perfectly, we had placed the last luminary on the field just before six. Then a few minutes later the wind began to kick up, we began to worry, wind and fire are never a good combination.

Slowly the guests started to arrive at the field. The police from the western district, the volunteer fire fighters from Odenton, the chief from the Waugh Chapel firehouse. The kids were excited to see the marines bring a hummer to the field. The air force, army, navy, every branch of the military sent several representatives to the ceremony to honor those lost on September 11th. We watched in amazement as families from the neighborhood began walking over the hill to the field. We were worried no one would show, but that night the top of the field, and surrouding areas were filled with people. WMZQ made a compilation of mixes and patriotic songs for the DJ to play during the ceremony.

One of the clearest memories I have from that night… we began to light the candles in each luminary at 6:45 p.m. Each person was assigned a row to light. Unfortunately the wind began to kick up even more as we began walking down the rows. As each person progressed down their row lighting the candles, some of the candles behind them were being blown out by the wind. Kim Johnson kept pushing us on. Don't worry, don't look back keep lighting. I looked at my watch, it was 7:20 p.m.. We had ten minutes before the ceremony was to begin. As I looked out over the field I estimated over a quarter of the luminaries had been blown out. I remember feeling extremely distressed. I thought it would not be right, kind of sad, if all of the luminaries were not shining bright during the ceremony. I was looking at the field in despair when an army soldier in uniform took his lighter and begin to light one of the luminaries that had gone out in front of him. By his small gesture, lighting the luminary in front of him, it started a small wave, a chain reaction. Part of the crowd that had gathered around the top of the field waiting for the ceremony to begin, walked unto the field and began to light the candles that had blown out. I looked in amazement at probably forty to fifty people circling the field making sure every candle was burning bright. Some were using lighters, some matches. I laughed at the marines who picked up some broken branches. Broke off smaller pieces, lit the ends and used them to light the candles.

The Star Spangled Banner began to echo through out the night. The wind just as suddenly as it had started stopped. My eyes filled with tears as I looked out over the field and saw every luminary shining bright. I stood there with my hand over my heart, proud to be born in the greatest country on earth. As the minister said a prayer, I felt several of my cheerleaders put their arms around my waist and take my hands. I was so proud of my girls, they worked so hard. They understood how important this night was, how important it was to remember. As the 1st Sgt. was giving his speech, thanking everyone for their donations, asking them to please remember the families of those who died in their prayers one of my cheerleaders tapped me on the shoulder. At first I said shhh, but Danielle was always persistent. So I leaned over to hear what was so important. “Miss Denise don’t worry you taught me well. I promise I will never forget.” My other girls who overheard her comment chimed in “Me too” until I heard a small whispered echo from each one of my cheerleaders.

I understood that night listening to my cheerleaders promise to always remember September 11th, the future of that day, the future of our country was more in their hands than mine. At 13 and 14 they would carry the memory longer than anyone of us. Anyone younger would probably not clearly remember September 11th when they were older. People my age would pass on long before they did. So the history, the lessons learned were in their hands. They would carry on the memory the longest. We had to do our best as adults to keep reminding them, reinforcing how important it is to always remember, honor and hold dear those that lost their lives that day. And those who have sacrificed their lives since then. If we were lucky, if we were blessed, they would remember what we taught them.

As part of the ceremony the director of cheerleading, asked since I had come up with the idea to light up the football field, if I would make a speech. Any one who knows me, understands I do not give speeches, I do not like being recognized, especially publically. I do my best to avoid getting in front of any kind of video camera. There was no way I was making a speech. Every week leading up to the ceremony she would ask, “Denise will you please make a speech.” Every time my answer was the same, thank you but no thank you. Finally I came up with a happy compromise I told her I would write a speech, but I would not deliver it. I asked a good friend of mine Michelle Bogovich to give it. She agreed. Tonight as I was looking through my 2001 coach's notebook, I found placed in the inside pocket the speech I had written for that night. I know it is a few weeks after the anniversary of September 11th but I thought I would share my speech with everyone. Please understand, I will never be hired as a speech writer, it’s not the most eloquent speech but below are my thoughts, my feelings from the fall of 2001 a few short weeks after the attack on September 11th.

The speech from 26 October 2001
The other night as I was driving home I was wondering what I could possibly say tonight at this ceremony. It was a beautiful evening, the sky was clear, the air warm, the kids were out playing basketball, laughing enjoying the weather. People were out walking enjoying each other's company. American flags were flying from any and every surface that they could possibly be hung from. I marveled at how life goes on. I have always known it, but at that moment I realized I was truly blessed and lucky. My life goes on but for thousands, life stopped/paused on September 11. They are still waiting for their life to return to normal, to go on.

For the rest of my life, like you, I will always remember September 11, 2001. Where I was, what I was doing when I first heard of the terrorist attacks. The images of the planes hitting the World Trade Center, the Pentagon and the crash in Western Pennsylvania will forever haunt me. It is a ghost I will never forget. The emotions I felt that day terror, fear, anger, frustration, loneliness and uncertainty, I shared with millions across this nation. That day has changed me, in ways I am sure I still have not yet fully acknowledged, realized. We have all changed. Our nation has changed.

These images may haunt me, but what I choose to remember, to remind myself of that day are the images of the people. The faces of the firemen, policemen, military personnel, every day citizens reaching out to help those in need. Those who did not think about their own welfare instead choose to risk their life for another. I choose to remember the images of the people lined up for blocks to donate blood. I choose not to remember the destruction of that day, but the good that grew from the root of the destruction (evil). I choose to remember the hope that arouse from the ashes on September 11, 2001.

When I close my eyes I can still see the faces of the missing. Families/loved ones holding their photos for the television cameras, asking if anyone had seen them. I see the woman sitting outside the pentagon, her silent vigil, waiting for her husband to come home. All of them wanting the same thing, a miracle, praying that their loved ones would some how survive, come home. Thousands did not come home September 11th. Many fathers and mothers will not see their children again, never have the joy of watching them grow up. Thousands of children will never again have a kiss goodnight from their mom or dad. Never have a hug of reassurance after they fall. Babies will be born never knowing the touch, the love of their fathers.

When I think of all the children whose lives are forever transformed by that day I cry. Children should never be touched by such tragedy but life sometimes is not always gentle. And yes there is evil in this world. Now is our time to do something about it. Now is our time to make a stand.

Now is the time to decide. We can choose to hide, run scared, close our hearts and do nothing, after all, our life goes on. Or like tonight we can choose to do something, make a difference. No matter how small the act, no matter how small the gift it can and will always make a difference. When you give of yourself the world changes. Those around you change.

We may not be able to change what happened September 11th but we can make a difference what happens after September 11th. We can as a community take responsibility, stand together, let our voices be heard and make that difference. We can thank God that we are here tonight to remember those who are not. We must teach our children that like this country, through out our lives we will get knocked down, people will try to hurt us but that doesn’t mean we have to stay down. What matters is how you get up. What you do after you get up. What matters now, is what we choose to do after September 11th.

These luminaries we light tonight are here to represent the lives that were lost on September 11th. Tragically, we would need five football fields to place a luminary for each life that was lost but for tonight we only have one.

When I was younger I was told that each person has an effect, no matter how small or large on someone else’s life. As I look out on this football field I wonder whose life will never be touched, will not be changed because of the lives that were lost on September 11th.

I am going to tell you what I believe the victims of the September 11th attack would be saying tonight if they were here.

To the adults present: call your brothers, sisters, your parents. Visit your relatives. Plan that long over due family reunion. Forgive what you thought was unforgiveable. Lend a hand to a stranger. Most importantly, hug your children, tell them you love them, you are proud of them. Never take the words I love you for granted. You may never get a second chance to say them.

To the children here: go home tonight, hug your mom and dad. Tell them you love them. Never give up, you can do anything you set your mind to. Write your dreams down on paper then do everything you can to attain your dreams. Never set your goals to low, always aim high. If you fail, try again. Nothing is impossible if you truly want it.

To everyone here: Take care of the families left behind, their future is in your hands. Please, take care of our country, it's future is in all of our hands.

Thank you and God Bless.

The Inner Debate Begins: My Thoughts on Deja Vu and Parallel Lives/Universes

2010-09-13T19:58:00.016-04:00

Last week I was talking to an old friend on face book when the conversation turned to karma. He was worried that karma was, in a way, biting him in the butt for mistakes he had made in his past. I explained to him while I may love the idea of karma roaring it’s angry head, serving justice to a few folks who I consider not the nicest of people. I can’t accept karma or believe in it. After ending our conversation my brain kept churning away at the philosophy/idea of karma. Maybe I had too much coffee that day or watched one too many episodes of LOST. My brain not only began thinking about karma, it began to debate within itself the concepts of déjà vu, the butterfly effect, parallel lives/universe and reincarnation. To me, they all seem to be, some how connected.

Who hasn’t had a déjà vu moment or had a dream that contained people we knew from our past who were suddenly in our present or future? Waking up, feeling a bit lost and confused? Even though I hold strong in my beliefs, I must confess there are times when I find myself wondering, well…what if? So I thought over the next week I would post my wonderings, informal debate within myself on these subjects. Today I thought I would begin the debate with my thoughts, questions on déjà vu and parallel lives/universe.

Déjà vu means already seen. It is the feeling that one has previously met a person, been to a place or done an act when in reality it is the first time it has happened to them. Most people have had a moment where they have felt like they are reliving an experience. Have you ever met someone for the first time, the conversation flowed easily, it feels like you have known each other your entire lives? Some experts believe this is another aspect of déjà vu. Yes I found it hard to believe there are actually experts in déjà vu. Their profession is to study déjà vu. Most experts believe we will continue to live our lives over and over until we make all the right choices, meet the correct people and live what has been determined to be our correct path. In their realm, when one experiences déjà vu, it is a lesson or person that was previously missed. When you experience déjà vu it is important to pay attention to the feeling, follow your instincts so the same mistake is not made and the experience/moment never needs to be relived. The more correct decisions one makes allows them to become one step closer to fulfilling their destiny and finally moving on to heaven.

There are scientists who believe déjà vu is easy to explain. It happens when a person's brain is out of sync. One side of the brain sees the imagine, experiences the moment before the other. The brain sees the imagine twice creating the déjà vu feeling. I can only recall two déjà vu moments in my life. One I will not share because of it’s extremely personal nature and happened very recently. The other occurred in January 1999 when I was vacationing in Oahu for the first time. As soon as I landed in Hawaii I felt very at ease, very similar to the feeling one has when one returns home. The next day my daughter and I headed to Waikiki beach, as I sat there looking out over the pacific, it felt like I had been there before with someone else. Something about the air, the beach, the sunlight, everything about that moment was very familiar and at the same time different and strange. So now I wonder, was it really déjà vu or was my brain tapping into the me in my parallel life?

In 1954, Hugh Everett III came up with a theory that there are parallel universes. These universes are just like ours with the same people but with different lives. Call it our life with an alternate ending. Everett called his theory the many worlds interpretation in quantum physics or his relative state formulation. At the time he developed his theory he was ridiculed by his peers. They concluded what he believed was nothing more than science fiction, the ramblings of a crazy man. The rejection of his peers drove him to leave the field of physics and no longer speak on his theory. Many years later, leading physicists believe that yes indeed there are many parallel universes. Some physicists believe our parallel universes are populated not with people but with extinct species and plants. While others believe that we are living duel, even triple lives all at the same time just millimeters in front of us, yet we can’t see or have knowledge of our parallel self. In this theory, in one life you may be sitting at home watching television, the you in the next universe over may have a different spouse and children and out shopping. Another parallel universe theory, when a person comes to a cross road in their life, when they have to decide which direction to take in their life, they create another universe. If they go right, another parallel universe is created where they go left. No matter what theory a physicists may believe, they all agree, the laws of physics keep us locked in our current universe unable to travel to our parallel life. Many physicists believe that when we dream, when we see ourselves with a different spouse, job, child, we are actually “in tune” with our parallel self. We are not dreaming how we wished our life had gone but rather we are seeing what our other self is doing/living in our parallel life. Our bodies might not be able to cross the laws of physics but our brain can. Our brain and our soul are always in sync with our other self if we allow them to be.

So if this theory is true, do we have to be asleep to see our parallel self? While on vacation this past summer, Cole was having trouble falling asleep. I turned on music and began to slowly dance with him, hoping to rock him to sleep. As I held him next to me, I closed my eyes. When I did I saw me when I was younger, in a room I had never been before. "Watching myself" I knew I was holding a baby boy, my son. A son I never had in this life. As I danced with him, I saw a familiar man standing in the doorway watching the two of us. He was smiling with pride as I held our son. I could see his eyes light up when we made eye contact. I heard my daughter Kathryn yell “Daddy’s home” as she jumped into his arms. He caught her, as he held her close he asked how her day at kindergarten had been? I knew what I was seeing was not possible but for those few moments, while my eyes were closed, what I was watching felt real. Was what I saw/felt simply a day dream or was I able for those few moments to somehow connect with my parallel life where I had taken a different path in my life.

Fans of LOST spent the last two seasons tracking the parallel lives of Jack, Kate, Sawyer, Hugo and the rest of the survivors of Oceanic flight 815. They traveled between life on the island after the plane crash and the life they had if/when the plane safely landed in California. Many of us watched week after week, anxiously waiting for the two worlds to collide, for the final resolution. Watching the show I am sure countless fans wondered if we all have some sort of parallel life? The show made me wonder, what if we do have a parallel life, but not as the leading physicists think. What if our parallel life is actually spiritual? As I interpret the show LOST, the writers I believe suggest, we are all in fact living parallel lives, one here on earth, another in purgatory, eventually one in heaven or hell, depending on the choices we make. The character of Desmond was able to tap into his parallel life and take action in this universe to change the outcome of his other universe enabling him to make his final journey to heaven. The two characters who portrayed my thoughts on realizing heaven are Sun and Jin. They die in a sub off the island while their parallel selves continue to live in the other universe. Many episodes later, as Sun is having a sonogram, the two are 'awakened' to their dual lives. They are suddenly aware they have already had their child, they have a daughter. They have seen the “light”, they know in the other life they went on to heaven together. They are no longer worried about life and it's eventual outcome. They are at peace. Sun and Jin understand and are prepared to move to the next phase of their life together, heaven, eternity. Sun and Jin make me wonder if the creators of LOST believe when we are awakened to our dual lives, the other part of us, we are ready to relinquish our self, merge together and move on to the next phase of life, heaven?

Is it possible when people say they see their life flash before their eyes before they die, they are actually seeing their parallel lives merge? The calm peaceful feeling they experience is the acceptance of our split selves finally joining? Is it really possible that there are multiple universes. multiple us? Or are people just using crazy ideas to justify insane dreams and wishful thinking?

I must ask is déjà vu real? Have you ever experienced it? Do you believe in a parallel life/universe? Any LOST fans out there? Did you read the writers theories/beliefs differently?

Our Crazy Girl Scout "Camping" Trip

2010-08-23T02:01:00.008-04:00

When one spends nine hours in a car, you have a lot of time to think, contemplate and remember. Driving back from Ocean Isle, North Carolina, as Kathryn and Cole were sleeping I had time to myself, to reflect and remember the many times in the past when I had visited the ocean with family and friends. As I was driving down interstate 40 I couldn’t help but to recall one of my favorite trips. The year I took 16 girl scouts on a “camping” trip to Ocean Isle. We shared a fantastic week at the beach, but I believe most of the fun for me was gearing up and preparing for our beach week.

I still remember the phone call, summer of 1995. My daughter's old Girl Scout leader had retired, they needed someone new to take over the troop. Margaret was convinced I was the perfect candidate, the kids loved me, I had a great imagination and was extremely responsible. I was flattered by her invitation but I reminded her that I don’t camp. Over the years if she had recalled, I had volunteered at bake sales, dances, slumber parties everything but the yearly camping trip. I had done my camping duty when I was younger, now I preferred my accommodations to have running water and electricity. Margaret informed me the yearly camping trip didn’t have to be a “roughing” it through the wilderness trip. As long as the kids and their parents agreed, the Girl Scout Counsel approved the trip, I could take the girls camping anywhere. That was definitely a challenge I could not pass by. I told Margaret I needed to talk it over with my daughter, make sure she was fine with me being the leader of her troop. That evening after dinner I sat Kathryn down and asked her how she felt about me possibly becoming her Girl Scout leader. She was definitely my child, she had no problem with the idea as long as I didn’t embarrass her. Then after a long pause she added, “I guess there will be no camping trip this year?” I assured her there would be some kind of “camping” trip. I was going to work on something special. Something they would always remember.

The next week I went to meet with Margaret to pick up my leader handbook. Learn all the ins and outs, dos and don’ts for a Girl Scout leader. I went home that night and with my highlighter marked all the important regulations that I was going to need to address for the “camping” trip I had in mind. I also went through my daughter’s handbook and marked the badges I wanted to work on during the year. I had three weeks to prepare for our first juniors meeting. I had a plan, I needed to show the parents we were going to address major badges during the year, and as a reward for such great service and hard work at the end of the year we would take a trip they would remember fondly for the rest of their life. Hopefully the girls would chose a one week stay at the beach. I looked through rental books, found two perfect houses, one was ocean front, the other across the street. I came up with a week itinerary complete with jeep tours, day at Myrtle Beach including a lunch at the Hard Rock, water park, “sea shell” hunting and other goodies. I estimated a budget and cost. It was then that I decided I needed the perfect Assistant leader, a person who thought like I did. So I called a good friend of mine Cindy Pulls. I filled her in on my agenda/thoughts and she agreed to help. She like me realized that if we did a good job, this would be a year the kids would never forget. She was also like me, she did not like to "rough it" either.

The day finally arrived for our first troop meeting, the room in the basement of St. Joseph’s Church was filled with excited parents and girls. I outlined our theme for the year, democracy/government and how to become a more responsible citizen/person. I reviewed the badges we would be working on, guest speakers, volunteer work and goals for the year. I was a bit nervous when I approached the last item on my agenda for the meeting, the yearly camping trip. Before I brought up my idea I asked my parents keeping it in the context of a democracy, the kids had two choices for their annual camping trip. I had already agreed with myself that I would honor the kids wishes which ever trip they choose. I asked the parents if they could do the same, they all agreed. I then presented my two “camping” trip ideas. The first, we could go to Rocky Gap State Park in Western Maryland, we would stay at the youth campgrounds complete with outhouses and group showers. Hopefully the weather would be beautiful, it wouldn’t rain or be too cold. OR we could rent two beach houses down at Ocean Isle, North Carolina. We could enjoy a week of fun, sun and sand. If it rained there was plenty of other options, Hard Rock Café, shopping, movies. I put the two choices up for a vote. Not surprisingly, the vote was unanimous, all the girls wanted to go to the beach. I then handed out my budget, how much it would cost each girl to spend a week at the beach. The parents were surprised to discover the cost for the week was only $231.00 per girl, or $33.00 a day. This did not include any souvenirs the girls might want to purchase. We recommended that each girl have at least seventy five dollars spending money, just in case. I reminded all the parents at that price, it was a bargain vacation!! The one problem I had not counted on, how many parents wanted to volunteer to go on this “camping” trip.

Before I continue with the rest of my beach story, the continued comedy that can only be described as “only Denise” I should point out the other projects, lecturers we hosted during the year. I had a police officer talk to the girls about safety. How to protect themselves. How making smart choices can save your life, safety in numbers, what to do if they saw someone being abducted, what to do if they were abducted. We had a small class on self defense. At Christmas the troop went Christmas Caroling in the senior citizens development. A few girls and I went to a retirement home to visit with cookies and cards.. When the Girl Scouts had a food drive, our troop collected the most donations. In the spring I had a Holocaust survivor speak to the girls. The next several meetings were discussions on how to stand up for what is right, how people out of fear allowed the holocaust to happen. Cindy and I tried to stress the importance of personal responsibility, how it is our duty to not allow anything like that to happen again. A Vietnam veteran came and spoke to the girls about patriotism and the sacrifices the military makes everyday for our freedom. Throughout the year, I tried hard to find a good balance for the girls, a true learning experience in perfect symmetry with fun projects. No one quit so I must have done something correct?

I had eight months to organize our trip to the ocean. I made my way through all the rules and regulations, the forms I needed to complete, to have the trip sanctioned by the Girl Scouts of America. I was very well aware that the troop needed the sanctioning to allow us to hold fundraisers through out the year to cover the cost, more importantly to have their insurance cover our trip. I submitted my proposal, cost and safety plan. Ten days later I received tentative approval, one hurdle down several more to go.

Over the course of the next few months, I can honestly say I don’t think the Girl Scouts of America were quite prepared for me and all my “gray” area exceptions. I knew I had to have everything sanctioned or our trip would not be covered by their insurance or the girls would not enjoy it as much. I started first with their requirement that whenever the troop traveled together on an excursion they must all be wearing the same “identifiable” girl scout t-shirt. When you are at the beach, shopping center, just about anywhere in public, between the ages of 11-13 the last thing you want to be seen in is a girl scout t-shirt. I petitioned the counsel to allow me to have the girls where matching bright color easily identifiable t-shirts. I reasoned, the standard girl scout t-shirts were white and grey, two colors that would easily blend into a crowd. Since we would be traveling in well populated sights I needed something I could find quickly and easily. Bright colors were a much safer option. Three weeks later I received a letter stating that an exception was granted. A personal note was written on the paper by the local administrator, she simply wrote, “That was brilliant. Have fun.” With my exception in hand I went online to Hot Potatoes and purchased fun beach stamps and bright color fabric paint. A week later the girls were told to bring a white t-shirt to the next meeting. The girls had a blast creating their own beach themed t-shirts with stamps. No two shirts looked alike, but when they all had them on, you could tell we were a group! They fit the Girl Scout standard, they were "easily identifiable."

Next up on the exception list, bathing caps. According to girl scout regulations when swimming each girl must wear a color coded bathing cap. The color of the bathing cap would correspond to their swimming ability. In 1996, no one wore bathing caps anymore, especially at the beach! The Girl Scout reasoning for the swim caps, the leaders and chaperones would be able to tell who should be allowed to swim in the deep end and who should only be allowed to swim in the shallow end of the pool. The Girl Scouts mistake, not defining how many levels of swimmers are allowed. Once again I submitted my request for an exception, this time my argument was that we had 4 levels of swimmers in our troop. I searched in vain, but I was only able to locate two different colors of bathing caps. For safety reasons I was not comfortable combining moderate swimmers with novice swimmers. I requested that we be allowed to make brightly colored hair scunchies for the kids to wear when they swam. The colors would allow us to find them easily in the water or on the beach, at the same time the colors would help us keep them in “swimming groups”. I also pointed out at the beach there is not shallow or deep end. No one would be allowed to go in water deeper than their waist. A deep end was defined by the Girl Scouts as five feet and over. Additionally we would be with them at all times. I included a sample scunchie. A little over two weeks later I received permission to use scunchies instead of bathing caps. This time the local administrator wrote on the approval sheet, “You are good, next”. On a side note, all the girls in my troop could swim, very well in fact. Each girl had to do a test to see how long they could tread water. (the average was five minutes twenty seconds) As a group, the bottom girl was within a minute of top girl. Since the girl scouts did not define how to break up the levels of swimming it was up to me.

The last hurdle with the girl scouts was their policy on swimming. Understandable they had a rule that did not allow the girls to swim in any areas where there was not a life guard present. Ocean Isle Beach has no life guards. I had planned a swimming day at North Myrtle Beach, where the city supplied life guards. I understood the rule, but at the same time I wanted the girls to be able to enjoy the beach where we were staying. We had planned another swimming day, a trip to the water park. Keeping in mine that there were no lifeguards in Ocean Isle, I wrote a letter asking the counsel to please define swimming. Would seashell hunting be qualified as swimming or an outdoor activity? I stated that as part of a “learning” experience I had planned an afternoon of seashell hunting where the girls would collect seashells and learn about the ocean. The best area on the island for shell hunting did not have lifeguards available. A few days later I received a letter stating that swimming and sea shell hunting were two different activities. Only if the girls were swimming/diving would there be a requirement for a life guard. I took due note of swimming and diving. The local administrator once again left me a hand written message, this time it read, "Can I go on your trip?"

I need to add, I don’t want anyone to get the wrong impression. I was not trying to “break” the rules, put the girls in any kind of danger. Every chaperone, including myself could swim and would be willing to die trying to save one of our girls if need be. Their safety was my number one concern. At the same time I did not want any rigid unreasonable rules to stop them from having a fun time or make them embarrassed to be on a girl scout trip. I wanted my girls to have a trip that when they looked back on when they were older, they smiled.

As the trip got closer Cindy and I prepared the rules and regulations for each girl and her parents to sign. My rules of conduct were strict and no exceptions would be made. If a child broke a rule, their parents would be required to meet me at the Virginia/North Carolina border to pick them up. I informed my kids, break my rules and fifteen minutes later you will find yourself in my car heading home, the time of day or night does not matter. I remember as I said this Christina, who was I believe 12 at the time, added, “She means it folks” from the back of the room.

The last problem to overcome was the rental policy in Ocean Isle Beach. Before I placed a deposit on the houses I called the realtor, told her I noticed their no group policy. I asked, since I was coming down with my daughter, a friend of mine and her daughter was it allowed for the girls to bring “friends” with them. Her answer, of course it was, friends are always allowed. I asked her name, wrote it down, said thank you very much and hung up. Yes we were a Girl Scout troop but I was Kathryn’s mother and the girls were all her friends. So technically we were not breaking any rules.

The day finally arrived, all the paperwork, exceptions, everything had been handled in the appropriate manner. We arrived in Ocean Isle a little after 4. I went into the realtor's office to pick up the keys. As I was signing all the paper work, Mindy came running in the door and asked to use the bathroom. Mindy’s parents, as well as herself, were all born in Guam. While she was in the bathroom, the realtor very sweetly said to me, “You are aware that we do not rent to groups” Without hesitation I answered, “ Do you have a problem with my daughter? Do you not believe in inter-racial marriages?” I could tell she was embarrassed, she didn't say another word. I did not lie to her, I never said Mindy was my daughter, I just asked if she had a problem with my daughter. She just assumed by the nature of my questions that Mindy was my child and her father was my husband. You know what they say about assumptions.

We arrived at our houses. We sat the girls down, reminded everyone of the rules. Gave each girl a job to do to get the houses in order. We also went over the schedule for the next day. We were to set everything up (kitchen, bathrooms, bedrooms) tonight, order pizza , watch a movie, go to bed. Sunday’s alarm would be set for 8:00 a.m., we would all have breakfast then head to the grocery store. At one am that night my house was still wide awake and giggling. I walked across the street to Cindy’s house and discovered the girls in their house were also wide awake. So I made the executive decision, Food Lion was open 24 hours, we would go grocery shopping now. We told everyone to get dressed and we headed out to the grocery store. When we arrived at the store I looked at my watch it was a little after two. We divided the girls into 4 groups, each group was given a grocery list. They were instructed to find the best value. At that time of night, only one door was open at the store, Kim stayed at the front to make sure no one tried to leave. There was one poor cashier working at the time, 16 giggling girls tend to liven a very dead store up very quickly. Instead of reading the signs at the end of the aisles to find out where certain foods were, many of the girls would run up to the cashier and ask her where the items on their list could be found. I think we may have given the cashier a headache. The kids were having fun, she was being paid, so no harm in my book. I was standing in the back of the grocery store next to the bacon/ lunch meat area when this older woman was being escorted by 4 of my girls to me. As they approached I heard them say, "That is Miss Denise, our leader." My first thought was oh no I am going to be driving some kids home tonight. It was just the opposite. The woman thought it was just great I was taking them grocery shopping in the middle of the night. The girls were having a blast and she wanted to shake my hand. I learned a valuable lesson, in the middle of the night, teenage girls can find the best bargains. They actually divided price, weight and numbers to see what item had the best value for the dollar. I had estimated our groceries would total a little over three hundred dollars. With coupons, their best bargain shopping, the total was less than two hundred dollars.

The next afternoon as low tide was coming in, my Uncle Chuck arrived to take the girls sea shell hunting. Uncle Chuck had retired to live on Ocean Isle full time several years prior. He knew all the prime locations to find the most seashells. More importantly Uncle Chuck knew all the sandbars, drop off points, crevices and gullies in the ocean. All the girls were lined up, instructed to not stray away from the group, follow Uncle Chuck’s lead. All the chaperones were evenly spaced between the girls. Since I had been on the island and knew the sandbars as well, I brought up the rear. I reminded everyone we were not swimming, we were sea shell hunting so no diving in the water or chasing waves. As we were wading through thigh high water Natasha asked me, “Miss Denise what is the difference between seashell hunting and swimming. They are both done in the ocean.” I smiled and said, “It’s simple Tasha, as long as you can walk and there is no diving or swimming, then we are seashell hunting. And that my dear we are allowed to do without a lifeguard” She smiled then answered, ”Okay that makes sense.” After several successful hours of seashell hunting, as the tide started to change, everyone headed back to shore with their many treasures in tow. They had bags full of sand dollars, whelk shells, scallops, olives, moon snails, a couple conch shells and Mindy even found a starfish. (after everyone took a look, the starfish was gently put back on the bottom of the ocean.) When we arrived back at the beach in front of our house, all the girls bid Uncle Chuck goodbye. In unison they very loudly said, “Thank you Uncle Chuck”. As he was heading down the beach to his house a woman stopped him and asked, “Are they all really your nieces?” Uncle Chuck replied, “Yes they are! Wait until next week when my nephews arrive!” The wit and humor is definitely a family trait.

The rest of the week was filled with much adventure and fun. The girls toured a haunted grave yard, took an alligator jeep tour, spent the day at a water park, invaded Broadway at the Beach and Hard Rock Café. The kids had a blast swimming in the water at North Myrtle Beach. (They all wore their color coded scunchies.) Took a couple midnight walks on the beach with flashlights. Celebrated mid week with a BBQ. A BBQ which I am proud to say, I did not burn anything or catch anything on fire. (I am not grill savvy) On Friday we even invaded Crackel Barrel with the left over money the girls saved from shopping. The girls bought me a hot fudge sundae and sang Happy Birthday to me. To this day it is still one of my favorite birthday memories. I am happy to say we only had two small "incidents" while at the beach. Molly our fair skin redhead, forgot her sunscreen and did not bother to tell anyone. Within an hour on the first day her skin matched her hair color. Luckily we noticed before she was too burned. Heavy duty sunscreen and a long sleeve t-shirt solved all future problems. Christina our one child with braces had a wire break. That is when I discovered how hard it is to find a working orthodontist in a resort town at night. Through all the side trips, tours and detours we never lost a child. (my biggest fear). Nor did I ever wish to lose one. The girls were complimented on their brightly stamped wild t-shirts and their polite nature. I was extremely proud of them. The main goal was accomplished, everyone had a safe and fun trip.

Saturday morning, as we were packing up the vans to head home, Michelle, Mindy and several of the girls came up to me and said, “Miss Denise we want to let you know, we like your camping trips best. Can we do this again next year?”

My Nicknames

2010-08-05T17:55:00.026-04:00

The wonderful world of nicknames. When you are born your parents bestow on you a proper/given name, your full name. Most likely the only time our full name is ever used, other than graduation and other formal settings, is in a moment of anger by a parent to a child. When we hear our full name, we know instantly we are in trouble. At one point or another in our lifetime if we are lucky, we will all be given a nickname. The origins of some nicknames are easy to determine, the shortened version of the first name or perhaps a play off the last name. While other nicknames upon first hearing them it is hard to determine their correlation to the person. These nicknames, the ones that leave no clue to their inception, are usually the ones with the best stories behind them. They give you a glimpse into the persons life, their friends and most likely the crazy antics of a person’s youth. Well loved nicknames will accompany us from our youth into our old age. Many people have multiple nicknames, each corresponding to a time or group of persons in their life. I would be one of them.

Nisey Kay
My given name is Denise Kay Robinson. My middle name came from my grandmother, Nana Kay. I feel very honored to be named after such a remarkable woman. When my daughter was born I passed on the honor, I gave her Nana Kay’s proper name, Kathryn. Growing up my parents, cousins, sister and friends called me Denise. My Dad’s sisters, my aunts, called me by another name, Nisey Kay. When I was younger I hoped in time I would out grow Nisey Kay. I believed the name sounded young, immature, a name you would call a baby. I never outgrew the nickname, even at the age of 47, at family gatherings, beach week reunions, my aunts still call me Nisey Kay.I wouldn’t have it any other way. With time I have come to embrace my nickname. With age, came the understanding Nisey Kay was given to me out of love. It is my aunts' term of endearment towards me. My family nickname continues and has been 'passed down'. I look forward to the day when the newest member of our family will lovingly call me Nisey!!

When I was younger, other than Nisey Kay, I was never given any nickname that stuck. In high school, when I lost my voice Alex Militich dubbed me Mr. Ed. He called me that his entire senior year, when he left for college he would address his letters to me Mr. Ed Robinson. Thankfully the name never caught on with our friends. It would be during my college years that three nicknames would be bequeathed upon me. Each has it’s own crazy history. The first nickname was given to me by my gymnastics team, the second by a group of friends I hung out with at Navy Football games, the last was given to me one crazy night while walking through the yard at the Naval Academy. These nicknames have managed to survive the past twenty five plus years.

Waddles
When I first enrolled at U.M.B.C. I had no idea they had a competitive gymnastics team. Every freshman was required to take a gym class. Wanting at least one class where I could guarantee myself an easy A, I registered for gymnastics. The first day of class, I changed and arrived at the gym early. That would be one of the few times I was ever early for a class. As I entered the gym I noticed the floor mat was set. To me it was inviting me to ‘play’. There was only one other person in the gym, a small blonde woman dressed in warm-ups sitting against the bleachers. She looked very young, I assumed she was another student waiting for class. I stretched for a few minutes, then began to tumble from one corner of the mat to the other. I wanted to unwind, have a little fun before class.

Back in the old days, when a gymnast tumbled we did a three step run with a power hurdle. The run allowed a gymnast to get the most power out of a short run, maximize the length of the mat. A few passes later, when I ended in the corner of the mat closest to the blonde she smiled and asked, “I am just curious why do you turn your feet out before your hurdle?” I told her I never realized I did. She laughed, said I reminded her of a duck running. Then she added I should never change my run, it worked well for me. When the class began a few minutes later, I was shocked when the small blonde stood up, introduced herself as Kathy. She would be our class instructor, she was also the gymnastics coach at the college. After class I was invited to join the gymnastics team, I was informed the next practice was that afternoon at three she hoped I would come.

I was nervous as I walked into my first college practice. The girls had been conditioning together all summer, I was a freshman, a newbie, I was afraid I would not fit in. As the team began to stretch Kathy called me over, I stood next to her as she introduced me to the team, announced she had seen me tumble earlier, they were going to love the height I got on my tumbling passes. After the introduction we were all told to line up in the corner of the mat to start floor drills. Slowly standing tumbling progressed into running tumbling. As I took my turn I could hear a couple of the girls confirm, yes she does turn her feet out. Apparently the coach had already told several of the senior members of the team about my unusual tumbling hurdle. At the end of drills, before the team broke off to practice on individual apparatus, we were allowed to let loose, show off a bit. Each girl after completing their fun pass, would return to line and receive high fives from the rest of the team. As I returned to the line after one of my passes, Teresa a senior on the team, gave me a high five then very loudly congratulated me with, “Way to go Waddles!” From that moment on, at every practice, every meet, every road trip I was no longer Denise, I was Waddles.

Dinker
Dinker would be the one nickname that has stuck with me through the years. I have come to love the name, Dinker. The name was given to me by a group of friends who I hold dear. They are truly the nicest bunch of people I have ever met and known. For those of you who do not know me personally, I graduated from Arundel Senior High School in 1981. Growing up a good friend of my sister and I was Gary McCarthy. Gary grew up a few streets over from us. After Gary graduated from Arundel he attended the United States Naval Academy. He became a member of the class of 1983, 7th Company. Some of my fondest memories are the tailgaters in the parking lot of St. Paul's church just off of Farrragut Road with the guys from 7th company. I cannot recall the exact date it happened, or the football game when it first occurred. I am positive I recorded the occasion in one of my old diaries but for now all I remember is one afternoon after a football game I was standing in the parking lot enjoying the food and company when several of the guys from the class of 83 instead of saying hi Denise as they walked by, they greeted me with “Hey Dinker”. Every time someone would call me Dinker I was puzzled but I also laughed. I was positive beer had something to do with the guys strange behavior, that or a bet. After my high school friends began to address me as Dinker or Dinker Doodle at the tailgater I confronted the first person who called me Dinker, Jeff Armstrong. Puzzled I asked him why all of a sudden everyone was calling me Dinker? He informed me the guys had determined I had been hanging out with them long enough, I needed a nickname. They voted, it was Dinker.

As time passed more and more people began to call me Dinker. I soon found I was no longer introduced as Denise, only Dinker. The more the name stuck, the more I wondered why that nickname? Many times I would ask the guys how they came up with Dinker? Each time I would be met with smiles and laughter but no one would give me an answer except it fit me perfectly. The beginning of 1983, I convinced Jeff he was not allowed to graduate from the Academy without telling me why Dinker, what did it mean? Finally a few weeks before he graduated, after 2 years of being called Dinker I was told the origins of my nickname. As the story or reasoning behind my nickname was revealed I was not sure if I should be embarrassed or laugh. I determined it was better to laugh. Some women might have been offended by their reasoning, how the guys of 7th company derived Dinker, I was/am actually flattered. Jeff revealed to me the guys admired the fact I was a gymnast, more specifically they loved my gymnast butt. It was, as he described it, perfectly dinky, not too big, not too small. 'It' sat upright, looked great in jeans. Hence the girl with the great dinky butt was dubbed Dinker. I never asked exactly when and where they came up with the name, or how the subject even came up, some things are better left unknown. I enjoyed the compliment from some very dear friends. With age I no longer have the small perfect dinky butt, but the nickname Dinker has stayed with me and I wouldn't have it any other way!!

White Works
For some reason during my college years, I could flip, turn and leap on a 4 inch wide piece of wood, the balance beam, and rarely fall. On that piece of gymnastic apparatus I was graceful. Take me out of the gym, in normal life, I was a klutz. Hand me a drink minus a lid, ask me to walk further than a few feet some how or another I ended wearing it. Either I would spill it on myself or someone would bump into me. I seemed to be a magnet for flying liquids. I won’t complain, my being a klutz led me to meet one of the nicest men, who gave me a crazy nickname and an even funnier story.

Throughout my college years, I spent many weekends with my best friends, Valerie and Mary at the home of Captain and Mrs. Flight. The Flights lived on ‘Captain’s Row” on the grounds of the United States Naval Academy. Weekends at their home consisted of good food, the ‘beverage of your choice’, great conversation, Trivial Pursuit, pool, all kinds of fun and hanging out with friends.

Normally when something was spilled I was able to move, avoid the drink that was heading in my direction. Only a drop or two would end up on my clothing. This particular Friday night in the fall of 1982 I was not so lucky. I was sitting against the wall, between two people when I reached across the table and knocked a glass over. I was unable to move out of the way of the cascading liquid. I was drenched from the waist down. Thankfully the glass was filled with water and not beer. Mrs. Flight offered me her son Fred's white works pants to wear while my skirt was in the dryer. It was going to be a while before the skirt was dry and I would be able to head downtown. To pass time while we waited, for some unknown reason the three of us decided to walk across the Academy to the sailing center to see if the rumors we had heard from other girls were true.

There sits on the deck of the sailing center several pairs of huge binoculars. They were installed so tourists could look at the sailboats on the Chesapeake Bay. The previous summer one of our friends discovered by ‘accident’ the binoculars had another useful purpose and passed the information on. If you turn the binoculars inward, you get a great view of Bancroft Hall. I can't remember whose room we were trying to find, but we were all enjoying the search! I laughed hysterically at the commentary as my friends scanned the rooms of 'Mother B'. After a successful mission, the room located, the message taped to the window read, the three of us headed back across the yard towards the Flight's house.

As we were walking through the yard, next to Bancroft hall, we heard a loud voice with a deep southern accent yell, "Hey White Works!” I froze, I knew the statement was directed at me. We all looked up trying to see who was yelling at me. It was nighttime, the light from his room was behind him, we could not make out who was yelling, or what he looked like. As I stared up at the darkened figure in the window he pleaded, “Hey White Works, talk to me! Tell me your name!” I laughed in embarrassment when he asked me to go out with him. When I didn’t answer, he began to plead his case for a date. He told me numerous times "I was the best looking thing he had ever seen in white works." He asked again what my name was. Not knowing who he was, or what he looked like, I didn't give him my name. I simply told him thank you for the compliment but no thanks. The four of us yelled back and forth for a few minutes as he tried to persuade me and/or my friends to at least give him my name. Give him a chance and some hope to find me again. It was a simple request, he was harmless. That was the least we could do for him. If not he was going to have to go through his life only knowing the woman of his dreams as white works the woman who refused to tell him her name. I still remember the sound of his sexy southern accent call out as we walked away, "White Works come back I just want to know your name!" Later at Fran’s the three of us laughed over drinks at our adventure through the yard, the unknown mid calling me white works. We didn’t know who he was or what he looked like but we all agreed we loved his southern accent.

A week later, Mary, Val and I found ourselves once again hanging out with friends at Fran’s. Along the far wall of Fran’s is a row of tall bar tables. As I made my way through the crowd along the tables, searching for a friend, I noticed a guy was staring at my butt as I walked by. A minute later I heard a very loud southern accent exclaim, "Hey White Works!” Just as I had done the week before, I stopped when I heard him yell. Apparently I do not have a good poker face. I tried to act innocent, like I didn't know what he was talking about. I was unsuccessful, Bo busted me. When I froze, the look on my face, he knew I was the girl he had seen in the yard the week before. He jumped from his bar stool, grabbed my hand and announced I was not leaving this time until I gave him my name. He kept laughing out loud repeating over and over he knew I was white works when I walked by, he recognized my butt. There was no way he could ever forget what my butt looked like in “them white works.”

After I promised I would not walk away if he let go of my hand, he introduced himself as Bo Stephens, 16th company. He added he was the best looking, most charming man I was ever going to meet. Then asked what my name was, I smiled and introduced myself. Even though I had finally told him my name was Denise, he preceded to introduce me to all his friends at Fran's as White Works. With each introduction he would tell his buddies my butt was the best damn thing he had ever seen in “them pants”. As the drinks flowed, the night became later, I was even introduced several times as White Works the future Mrs. Bo Stephens.

I met his brother Billy Bob a few weeks later at UMBC. I learned at the party where Bo got his wild outspoken nature, it seemed to run in the family. Billy Bob was not shy and just as outspoken and forthright as his brother, Bo. I learned in the course of our conversation, somehow I had been the topic of discussion between brothers a few times. When I turned to walk away, go get another drink, Billy Bob said loudly, “Yep Bo is right you do have a great ass!”

I would run into Bo and his friends numerous times before he graduated from the Academy. Each time he would greet me with the familiar call, "Hey White Works!” Bo made me laugh, he made me smile but I would never go out with the handsome man with the sexy accent from Ozark, Alabama. He found a much better match for himself the summer of 1983. Later he would marry his beautiful nurse!!

Fifteen years later at the USNA class of 1984 reunion tailgater I ran into Bo. He was still handsome, still had the same sexy accent. I laughed when he introduced me to his wife as, “This is White Works! The best damn thing I have ever seen in them pants!”

George Steinbrenner and Other Fun Encounters

2010-07-15T19:08:00.012-04:00

George Steinbrenner's death on Tuesday caused me to stop reflect back on the lively conversation we had many years ago at a retraining session. That in turned caused me to reminisce about other encounters with some well known people I have met over the past 20 plus years. Meeting 'celebrities', talking to them was at time an art form for me. Below are a few of the crazy meetings I have enjoyed in the past

I have always had the gift of gab. The ability to talk to just about anyone on any subject. There are some exceptions but I won't get into those now. It doesn't matter what the occupation, the fame, the sex, the age, I have met and talked to authors, politicians, actors, singers, directors, heads of national law enforcement agencies, sports stars, business owners and tycoons. Some people I met through work, others by chance but the encounters that were the most fun, the ones I met through opportune times combined with crazy planning. My friends have laughed and marveled over some of my encounters, my 'success stories'. Most of my good fortune has come not from the initial meeting but rather being able to carry on a conversation. The trick is being able to draw them into a conversation.

I was once asked what was my secret to meeting people? My answer was simple, know who you are talking to, that and good genes. I am lucky I have been blessed with intelligence and a pretty smile. Another important factor if you wish to have a conversation with a 'celebrity, have the ability to separate the person from the job. Celebrities are simply people who have jobs that make them famous. That doesn't mean they are better or worse than the rest of us. They are the same as you and I. If your goal is to meet someone famous, it is important to remember you will be talking to the person not the occupation. In a way I have always felt sympathy for famous people. When they meet new people, try to make new friends, they have to wonder does this person want to know them, be their friend or do they want to hang out with someone famous. I have always imagined celebrities must live in a constant state of paranoia, wondering if their are being used. Not exactly how I would want to live my life. That aside, what I have found most fascinating about meeting 'famous' people is discovering the person behind the fame, discovering who they really are. Meeting celebrities can be difficult, the path can be filled with obstacles but every obstacle can be overcome. Success is in the approach, it all depends on your first sentence, your initial greeting.

George Steinbrenner
George Steinbrenner was a guest speaker at a law enforcement retraining session. I had gone down to the delegates breakfast room to snag some danishes and coffee for myself. I had been attending the retraining sessions for years with my dad. I knew many of the officers attending, so no one ever said anything when I crashed the delegates room. A smile, good morning, how are you doing is all I needed to get into most rooms. I grew up loving baseball, George Steinbrenner the owner of the Yankees was easily recognizable to me. I saw him standing in the back of the room having coffee surrounded by several men. I walked over to the group. smiled, said hello. Being female has it's privileges. I smiled at Mr. Steinbrenner, told him I have always had one question I wanted to ask him. Curious he said go ahead. I wanted to know how a man from Ohio, where football reigns ended up buying a baseball team? I could tell he was surprised at my question, amused. He motioned me to come closer, I was in essence invited into his inner circle. I told him I read he was from Cleveland, my brother-in-law was from Massillon outside of Cleveland. As I relayed my surprise when I first discovered the collection of records my brother-in-law had of Massillon Tiger football games, who buys records of football games? That was when I discovered how HUGE football was in Ohio. So how did he end up in baseball? I knew we would have a great conversation when I noticed him shaking his head yes and smiling when I mentioned the records. We had 'connected'. We spent the next 30 minutes talking about Ohio, football, baseball, Maryland, and my daughter. At one point in our conversation some kids had snuck into the room, they approached Mr. Steinbrenner to ask for his autograph. I could tell he was a bit uncomfortable with the request. So I interrupted, told the kids Mr. Steinbrenner was tired, how about if I give them my autograph instead. One boy looked at me and asked, who I was. I just smiled, announced with a surprised voice, "Apparently I need a better publicist."
The older girl in the group not wanting to insult me chimed in, "Oh my gosh, that's you. Please can I have your autograph."
I could honestly answer yes, it was me. I watched Mr. Steinbrenner laugh as I autographed their papers, say thank you and leave happy. I looked at him and explained, when you can't give someone something they want, you offer an alternative, hope they will accept and leave happy. He loved my "business" sense. I was good looking, intelligent, witty and could think on my feet, to him I was a deadly combination. I was the woman who could talk anyone into anything if I really wanted. Before he left, he took out his business card, asked for a pen, wrote his assistants phone number on the back, handed me the card, told me if I ever wanted a job in New York, give him a call. He liked me.

Cal Ripken, Jr.
October 1983, the Orioles had just won the World Series.That fall, Peggy was my partner in crime in my sports photography class. We were the only two girls in a class of testosterone. Two tomboys holding our own. The two of us decided to hook class and take photographs of the World Series parade in downtown Baltimore. After the parade I went back developed and printed all my photographs. Two times a week I taught aerobics for Parks and Recreation. That night I took my photographs to share with everyone. As the ladies were looking at my photographs they remarked how many of my photographs were of Cal Ripken Jr. I smiled, responded, single, amazing blue eyes and great short stop who wouldn't take his photograph. One of the women announced she worked with his next door neighbor. Ding, ding, ding...my brain began to calculate the possibilities. A week later they announced Cal Ripken, Jr. was awarded MVP of the American league. Before my next aerobics class I made a batch of homemade cookies and bought a bottle of champagne. When I went to class, I asked the woman if she could have her co-worker give Cal the cookies and champagne, tell him congratulations. She made no promises but said she would try. The following Tuesday I thought it was strange when I arrived everyone was sitting down waiting for me. My mat had been pulled out and placed in front of the class, sitting on my mat a brown envelope. I heard a couple people say open it, open it. As I opened the envelope I began to smile when I pulled out an autographed photo of Cal with a message on it.
"Thanks for the Champagne, when can we drink it?"

I was so excited and at the same time I had a huge dilemma, I had a boyfriend. What was a girl to do? I was told Cal knew who I was, he was told I was cute, adorable and had a killer figure. (their words not mine) There was a catch, if I wanted to meet Cal I had to catch him, I had to find him. A challenge had been issued. Since I had a boyfriend, I put Cal's photograph away in my drawer.

I returned from Pensacola in January, newly single. Peggy and I once again had photography class together. She mentioned a good distraction from my heart ache might be to try to find Cal. She said if I didn't want him she would take him. The end of February I read in the Evening Capital, the Oriole's basketball team would be playing teachers at local high school for a fundraiser. Cal was listed as one of the players that would be playing. Peggy, Tony and I drove through freezing rain to attend the game. Cal was not there, he had sprained his ankle. This was another occasion where it paid to be cute...after the game I was able to talk my way into meeting Eddie Murray. It was well known in Baltimore that Cal and Eddie were best friends. As I was talking to Eddie, Rick Dempsey came over. I told them about the champagne, the photo, the challenge. Rick Dempsey asked Eddie, "Why don't any good looking women send me champagne?"
Eddie responded because he was old and married. The two of them told me unfortunately everyone was heading down to spring training. Eddie asked for my phone number he would deliver it. As a back up, they told me to be at the Pep Rally before opening game, they would take care of me there. As the two of them walked away I could hear them say "Damn how does he get so lucky?"

April's fools day 1984, Tony, Peggy and I drove to the Inner Harbor for the pep rally before the first season opener at Memorial Park. I made my way to the front, standing next to the rope and DJ booth/table. While I was waiting for the bus to arrive with all the players I started a conversation with the DJ, I told him about the cookies, champagne and the challenge issued. I also told him my friends with me didn’t think I would be able to meet Cal that day. I hated losing a bet, could he help me. The dj asked me to write my name and a short note on a piece of paper and he would do his best to give it to Cal. It all depended on if he could get to him on the stage without anyone noticing. I wrote a simple question on the paper, "Do you still have the champagne? Denise"

I watched the bus pull up, all the players unloaded from the bus and walked to the platform. I watched as Cal stood at the back of the stage next to Eddie Murray. I was excited as I saw the DJ walk up to Cal, tap him on the back, talk to him for a few minutes, then had him the paper. Cal read the note, handed it to Eddie and the two began to look around. Eddie Murray saw me, pointed me out to Cal, then pushed him off the stage in my direction. I was pretty surprised when I he started to head toward me, I didn't think Cal would leave the stage while the pep rally was going on. My first thought, I sure hope they don't call him up to the mike while we are talking. Cal walked right up to me, his first words, "I still have the champagne, I have been waiting to meet you.” He then put his hand out to shake mine, told me it was finally nice to meet the woman he had heard so much about.

It was pretty crazy, as Cal and I were talking across the rope people were handing him baseballs, cards, paper, anything and everything to sign. There were so many people coming toward him I was slowly being pushed into the rope. squished. Cal noticed and asked people to please back up give us room. After a short conversation Cal asked for my phone number. Eddie was still holding the piece of paper so Cal had to write my number on his hand. That night Cal called asked if I was attending opening game. I informed him I was a poor broke college student who did not have any tickets. He informed me he could solve that problem easily. He would leave 4 tickets for me at the Will Call box office. After the game come down to the hallway outside the locker room, he would meet me there. That was the beginning of my summer of baseball.

Tom Selleck
Summer of 1988 I was working at Macy’s. There was a new group of OJTs at our store. For some crazy reason our store manager put me in charge of the bunch. All the OJTs were fresh out of college, they were to spend three weeks training with us before being assigned to various Macy stores in the New Jersey Chain. While they were training they were staying at the Tremont Plaza in Baltimore. One day at lunch I learned that none of them had ever experienced Maryland Steamed crabs. I had to rectify the situation. After lunch Cheryl and I went to the our store manager, Bill and asked him if we could have a “meeting” the next night, purchase a few bushels of crabs on the company tab, give the OJTs a Maryland style welcome. To our surprise he said yes. I called the Tremont Plaza, asked if we could use one of their conference rooms for a meeting. At first I was told no, but when I explained to the gentleman we wanted to have a crab feast and he was welcome to attend, we were allowed to ‘unofficially’ use one of their rooms.

The next afternoon I dropped Kathryn off at the sitters, headed to Kaufmann’s picked up 3 bushels of crabs, corn on the cob and headed to Baltimore. I parked the car out front, grabbed one of the luggage carts and loaded the crabs on it.

Everyone in Baltimore was aware that Tom Selleck was in town filming the movie “Her Alibi”. From the OJTs I also knew some of the actors, stage hands etc were staying at the Tremont Plaza. As I loaded my cart on the elevator I heard a voice yell hold the elevator please. I turned around to see a man who looked a lot like Tom Selleck and another gentlemen board the elevator with me.

I hate elevators they are too quiet. You are forced to stand there stare at a door in complete silence while someone is standing next to you, in your ‘personal space’. Always the rule breaker, ignoring the proper etiquette, I talk to people in elevators a lot. As I looked at the man standing next to me I said, “By your looks I am guessing you are Tom Selleck’s double if not you are in the wrong profession.”

He laughed and said, yes he was and introduced himself. John Nordlum. He introduced the man standing next to him, Steve Hunter. He was Tom Selleck’s driver. We talked on the ride up in the elevator. I invited them both to our crab feast. John was heading upstairs to watch the dailies but would try to make it later. I bid them good bye, said I hope to see them later, as I got off on my floor. I dropped the crabs off in the conference room, then headed back downstairs to return the cart and move my car from the front of the hotel.

Returning to the hotel lobby, waiting for the elevator once again I met Whoopi Goldberg. She was dating a cameraman working on the film. She was so funny in the elevator. I can’t repeat what she said when I invited her to join us for crabs, it was a very adult comment, but extremely funny. She surprised me when she accepted the offer and said she would join us in a bit.

A smart person would have warned the Cheryl and the OJTs who all I had invited to the crab feast. Allow them to gather thier wits. I wasn’t really sure if anyone would actually come, besides I wanted to see the reactions on everyone’s face when and if they walked through the door. The first to arrive was Whoopi Goldberg. I still remember as she entered, one of the OJTs jumped up, screamed, “Oh my God it’s Whoopi Goldberg I have to go call my mom”
She ran out the room right by Whoopi. Not missing a beat, as she ran by Whoopi said, “Please tell me she does not work customer service? I don’t think she can handle stress or surprises”

Whoopi stayed for awhile, sat next to me and we had great laughs together. Just as I had seen with my summer of baseball, I once again saw how awkward it can be for someone of fame. As we sat and talked, it was very noticeable that everyone was staring at her, the room was too quiet. After a few crabs she asked if I minded if she pack some crabs up, take them back to her room to share. She gave me hug and thanked me for the invite. I would run into Whoopi numerous times over the next two weeks. At one point she even met my daughter Kathryn. Held her as she tried to teach her to say Whoopi, all Kathryn could manage was “oopi”.

About twenty minutes after Whoopi left there was a knock on the door. Standing there was John Nordlum, Steve Hunter and Tom Lupo. (he was doing stunts or directing stunts I can’t remember) The guys hung out for awhile, then asked if they could pack up some crabs and take them upstairs to the people still watching the dailies. I said of course, take what they would like.

After everyone had their fill of Maryland crabs, we cleaned up the conference room and I headed back home. As the elevator door opened on my floor I smiled when I saw Paulina Porizkova, Rick Ocasek and Tom Selleck. That night I realized how much I love elevators. They can at times be better, more fun than the prize doors on the ‘"Price is Right." As I entered the elevator I smiled, apologized for not being able to properly introduce myself but I had been shelling Maryland Crabs for the past several hours. As soon as I said Maryland crabs, they all smiled, said thank you, I must have been the one who sent the crabs upstairs. The conversation began from there!! Paulina Porizkova, is wow gorgeous and even more importantly, so extremely gracious and sweet. Rick, he was just as nice. Tom Selleck, could not have been kinder. As I talked to him the voice in my brain was screaming, “Tom Selleck, Magnum PI…so freaking cool!!” Later I would meet Tom’s wife, she was pregnant with their first child. She was just as sweet as everyone else I met that summer.

A few days later I would meet, William Daniels. He was the complete opposite of all the characters he has played. He was extremely witty, very sweet. He gave me a hard time for bringing crabs on a night he was not around. If I wanted to continue to be in his favor he better be included next time. Later he laughed when he found out my favorite role of his, John Adams in “1776”

My favorite memory of Tom Lupo, a week or two later, I brought more crabs to the hotel, this time for the guys working behind the scenes in the movie. Tom and Steve were taking some of the steamed crabs, propelling them by various means out the window trying to predict their distance and route of projection. So wrong yet at the same time it was actually pretty funny. As they were doing this Tom was telling me some of his crazy stuntman stories!

Over the next couple of weeks whenever I ran into any of my 'elevator acquaintances, they always stopped, talked, hung out for a few minutes. John Nordlum, Steve Hunter, Tom Lupo and I would hang out quite a bit. I even took John and Steve on sight seeing tour of Washington DC. I laughed as we posed John next to the cardboard stand up of Tom Selleck. Traffic slowed as people looked, debated whether that was Tom Selleck or not.

Funniest Tom Selleck memory, while they were filming “Her Alibi” the local radio stations were having Tom Selleck sighting call ins. I heard one morning driving to work they were going to have a Tom Selleck look alike contest at a local bar. I tried to convince him that he needed to enter the contest. It would be great no one would actually think it was him, the perfect hiding place, in plain sight. I laughed when he asked, “What if I lose?”
My answer, “Then you really don’t have to worry about people bothering you.”

The most amazing part of the summer, July 11, 1988, Tom Selleck, John, Steve and Tom bought me a drink for my twenty fifth birthday at the bar in the Tremont plaza.

John Cusack
One of the nicest and at the same times strangest person I have met is John Cusack. 1990 I was the assistant manager at the Lowe’s Annapolis hotel in charge of guest services and VIP guests. They were filming “True Colors” in Richmond but needed to film a few scenes in Annapolis. Some of the actors and crew were staying at our hotel.

One of my jobs was to great VIP guests as they checked in, find out if they needed any special accommodations etc and make what ever they needed happen. All of the actors (Mandy Patinkin, William Daniels, Imogene Stubbs), director (Herbert something) had checked in to the hotel. At 11:00 p.m. I was still waiting for John Cusack to arrive. A little before midnight our automatic doors open and in walks John Cusack with his girlfriend. She had a dog collar around her neck and he was holding the leash. I later learned she was one of Prince’s back up singers. He looked just like the character out of “Say Anything”. As soon as he realized I had been awaiting his arrival he apologized profusely. Then asked if the bar was still open, I said of course. He invited me to come have a drink with him, his way of apologizing. I told him I would be happy to join him for a drink, it would be my treat, one of the perks at working at the hotel. I was surprised when 15 minutes later he arrived at the bar without his girlfriend. John Cusack is by far the one of the easiest persons to talk to. He is so genuine and real. He asked so many questions, immediately I realized he wanted to know the person he was talking to. He was interested in me, not just small talk. It was very flattering.

Over the course of the next few days while they were filming whenever I saw him, John would give me a huge hug and apologize for having to run, not being able to talk. He would catch me later at the bar. His nightly ritual after filming was to have a nightcap before heading to bed. He was a true gentleman. One night when I was working late, the temperature had dropped quiet a bit and I was cold. He saw my goose bumps in the bar and took his sweater off, handed it to me, told me to put it on to stay warm. There was no way I was saying no to that offer!! When I was heading out the door, I went to give him back his sweater, he said keep it, I looked good in it. Now I know since I was the assistant manager I should have given the sweater back, that would have been proper, but it was John Cusack…so that baby went home with me. To those of you still wondering, the answer would be yes, that green/gray sweater is still hanging in the closet at my parent's house.

That was an extremely hectic but fun week for me. I stayed late to make sure everything was fine with John and arise early to make sure things were going perfectly for Mandy Patinkin and Imogene Stubbs.

What I remember most about Mandy Patinkin, he has the most beautiful singing voice. I made sure the concierge lounge was set up earlier than normal so the people working on the film could grab a quick breakfast before heading out to film. Every morning Mandy would walk into the lounge singing vocal exercises. One morning he actually serenaded me, he said beautiful women deserve to hear a beautiful song every morning. I melted.

Imogene Stubbs, loved her English accent. To me it was somewhat amusing that she had a coach to help her with her American accent. She was extremely beautiful, very talkative so we got along great.

What I remember most about the filming of “True Colors”, the afternoon after check out. All the stars, cast had left. My pager went off right I as I was getting ready to head home. It was housekeeping they needed me to come to John Cusack's suite. The days while John was filming he had requested no maid service. When I walked into the room I understood why. John Cusack is the nicest guy, but his room habits have a lot to be desired. On the floor were bottle caps from the drinks he opened while in the room. Fruit peelings everywhere, it was as if he ate and where ever trash fell, it fell. Apparently he and his girlfriend played hangman every night, on our sheets. I will admit I was a little disappointed in their word selection, not very difficult choices. On the walls they played tic tac toe. X won more games than O. He left his script in the bathroom next to the toilet. Next to the script, a banana peel. All of his belongings were still scattered across the room along with about 15 boxes of Godiva Chocolates. That is when I discovered apparently everyone and their brother at the hotel had been sending him chocolates, all with my card attached so they wouldn’t have to pay for it. On the back of each card, various hotel employee names and short notes. I collected all the cards so I could deal with them later.

I called the Richmond filming office asked them what they wanted us to do with all of John's belongings. The woman was pretty upset, she apologized, she had told John he would have to pack his own luggage. He apparently didn’t listen. She asked if someone at the hotel would pack up his belongings, she would send a driver from Richmond to get them. I told her not a problem I would take care of it and wait for the driver. I also informed her we were going to have to damage out a lot of items in the room, the wall paper might need to be replaced. It wasn’t a problem, she was use to it.

As I packed his belongings I couldn’t resist, he was a really nice guy. I stuck a short note on top of his suitcase. I wrote him it was a pleasure meeting him, thanks again for the sweater. He was really too sweet. Have fun in Richmond. A few days later I received a fax from the filming office in Richmond, a note from John. It was his pleasure, he hoped to get back to Annapolis one day to film again, it is a wonderful town. Please if I was ever in Chicago look him up. On the bottom was a phone number, I assumed it was his managers.

If only I had never seen John's room I might have taken him up on his Chicago offer.

There are so many other people I have met over the years, President George H.W. Bush, Ross Perot, Ted Kennedy, John D Rockefeller IV (Jay), Jim Palmer, William Hurt. The most amazing men I have ever met, Dick Stratton, Jim Stockdale, John McCain etc. All POWs from the infamous Hanoi Hilton in Vietnam. I sat in awe, listened as they all sat around the dining room table and talked. I will save those stories for a later post.

Bobby Part 8- Epilogue: Cycle of Pain, Tears, Anger, Regrets and Bobby.

2010-07-09T03:34:00.035-04:00

GETTING STUCK, TRYING TO MOVE ON
After Bobby died, for a long while, I shut up and shut down, trying to move from one day to the next. I no longer shared what I was feeling, how much I missed Bobby. If I didn't understand why I hurt so badly, how would anyone else?

Every hope, every dream I had held on to for the past three years ended when Bobby died. I felt lost, like I had no direction. Common sense told me no one would understand the sense of loss I felt. I knew if you added all the time Bobby and I shared, the crazy chance encounters, spring break, the times we talked, Fran O'Brien's, it would total no more than a few days. The equivalent of a wonderful weekend spread out over the course of 3 years. How was it possible for such a short amount of time to have such a huge impact on someone’s life, my life? How could a normal person comprehend what I was feeling when what I was feeling was not normal? I learned to play the game of life is fine, when really it wasn't. Good and bad, I kept every thing inside. I may not have talked about Bobby but he was very much with me every day.

For several months Bobby's letter was my nightly ritual. After saying my prayers, before turning off my light, I would read his letter, gently lay it on the bed next to me. I would fall asleep with my hand resting on it. His p.s. meant the most. I would run my finger over it time and time again. That one sentence was the most wonderful gift he gave me. From the moment I had made the decision to have and keep my daughter I worried that I had ruined any and all chances I might have with him one day. In that wonderful short sentence, Bobby let me know it was okay, I made the right choice. He did not care who the father was, only me. Like his brother Kevin, he could look past my mistakes. Every night when I read his letter, as tears streamed down my cheeks, I was aware I was in essence torturing myself, yet I could not stop. As long as I read his letter, as long as it laid next to me every night, he was still present in my life. I was not ready to let him go, live with out him. I needed a small part of him, even if it was only a letter.

When Bobby died, for months I was so angry with God. I had asked God to always be with Bobby, watch over him. I was convinced God had not heard my prayers. I believed he took Bobby from me. I blamed God for his death. It would take months for me to let go of my anger, listen to God, forgive myself for doubting him, my faith.

One August morning while I was pushing my daughter on a swing, I heard the familiar sounds of approaching army helicopters. During the summer it was common place to see the helicopters fly overhead on their training missions to and from Fort Meade. The sight and sounds of the helicopters brought tears to my eyes. They were a constant reminder of Bobby’s crash, his death. That morning I watched them as they headed back toward Fort Meade, tears once again began to fill my eyes. It was a typical August day, hazy, hot and humid. Stifling heat, nothing was moving, not the air, not the birds, everything was stagnant. As I watched the sun reflect off the helicopter rotors, a random summer breeze blew threw my hair out of no where. The breeze felt the same as it did that night in Pensacola. I closed my eyes to enjoy it’s coolness, as I did I saw Bobby, saw his smile. I could feel him in that breeze. For that one moment I was in heaven, I was with him. I did not want to open my eyes, let him go. For months I convinced myself if God had been with Bobby he would have never crashed, he would still be alive. As I closed my eyes, stood still, felt him, saw his face, his eyes, I understood. I heard God. When Bobby crashed, that was when he needed God to be with him the most. God didn't cause Bobby to crash, he held him when he died. God did answer my prayers, it was not the way I envisioned they would be answered. As the helicopters began to fade away in the distance I asked God to forgive me, to please be with Bobby's family, give them the strength I never had. After that day whenever the helicopters flew overhead, my eyes still had tears in them, but they were accompanied by a smile. I finally realized instead of being angry with God, I needed to thank him. Bobby was able to do what few other men could, he got to fly. If only for a short while, Bobby lived his dream. He earned his wings of gold. Bobby was a naval aviator. He was happy. For that I thanked God.

After Bobby's death, I concluded maybe some people aren't meant to be happy, they aren't meant to be in relationships, they are meant to live alone. Maybe I was that person. I convinced myself I needed to be happy with what I had, not want more. Wanting only lead to hurt, pain. The men I cared for, the men I loved, did two things, they hurt me (Martin) and they left me (Bobby). Two years later when my daughter's father called, announcing he was getting married but he had a "slight" problem. His future wife gave him an ultimatum, if he wanted to marry her, he had to abandon, have nothing to do with our child, his child. That afternoon, over the phone, he walked away from his daughter, his blood. I tried to convince him if he left it would be a mistake he would regret. He had already made up his mind. A bond that is suppose to be stronger than any, that of a parent to a child, he had no trouble breaking. The father of my child walked out of her life. His actions would “seal the deal” with my relationship/trust with men for many years. The third strike was added to the previous two, men cheat/lie, they leave me (die) and that afternoon I learned they abandon their children. Men caused nothing but pain in my life. I had been lost and tired for too long. Men to me were an affliction I did not have the strength to deal with. I decided it was better to go it alone, forget about men, I did not need them.

I had long since surrendered to my constant loneliness when a few years into my hiatus from men an old friend, a high school crush came to visit. It felt good to be in some one's arms I could trust. We had known each other since I was fourteen. I needed to be held, to be wanted. I needed to trust someone I felt safe with. We began to kiss, to undress each other. Then before anything could happen, as suddenly as he started, he stopped. He left me confused and hurt. After years of being alone, the first man I trusted, stopped, he sent me away. When I asked him why he stopped, why he was sending me home? What he said and what I heard were completely opposite. What he said, something felt wrong. What I heard, something was wrong with me. Now I realize he was right, something was wrong. I was using him trying to fill my void of loneliness. I hoped being with him would help me forget the past, if only for a little while. He understood, what I could not comprehend, if we had gone any further we would have lost the wonderful friendship we had developed through the years. A close friendship we still share to this day. I drove home in tears, I was convinced more than ever, men were only meant to hurt me. They were never going to make me happy. The fourth and final nail was now in my coffin of relationships with men.

Over the next eleven and a half years I would be; Mom, daughter, aunt, friend, retail manager, assistant hotel manager, decorative painter, girl scout leader, cheerleading coach, gymnastics instructor. I would wear many titles except date, girlfriend, lover. I devoted my life to my daughter, my family, my work. I took care of everyone except myself. I had numerous male friends, they were all safe. They were either married or lived far away. There was no chance of temptation, no chance of getting close, no chance of added torment, no chance of tears or heart ache. After a while I no longer realized what I was doing, it was normal to be only mom. While other women my age would go out and have fun, I stayed home, watched television. I had dismissed from my memory what it was like to have fun, to be with a man, to be wanted. I shut that part of myself off.

It would be Martin who would wake me up, bring me back to reality. Help me see what I was missing. August 1998 after 13 years Martin called. He was going to be in the area on business, asked if I would like to meet him for drinks to catch up. I was surprised by his phone call, I was even more surprised when I said yes. I searched my closet in vain to find an outfit suitable to meet him again after so many years. My closet was filled with drab, boring, don’t look at me mommy outfits. Luckily I was able to borrow an outfit from a friend. I had not been alone with a man in eleven years. Martin and I at one time were great friends, but that still did not combat the anxiety I felt. I had not spoken to him in over 13 years, what would I say? What did he want? I was terrified to meet him alone. I was afraid what I might feel, afraid I would say or do something stupid. I bribed my neighbor to accompany me on my date with Martin. I made her promise not to leave my side. Luckily she agreed.

Martin was as handsome as I remembered, even more so. Age had done him well, he looked better in his 30s then he ever did in his 20s. As I looked at him I became very aware how much I had neglected myself. I went from being a very beautiful young girl to a middle aged, overweight not so attractive woman. Martin was very open, he talked about his son, his divorce, his job. He asked me if I had ever married. I answered no. I could tell by his face he was surprised. I explained I never met the right man. I went on to explain I actually meet no men. I had not been on a date in years. Puzzled Martin asked the obvious question, why not? Why wasn't I meeting men? What was stopping me? When I answered, “I was busy being a mom”. Martin stated very matter of fact, that was an excuse not an answer. You can be a mom and date. Martin was correct, I had to accept it. For years I had been making excuses, trying to rationalize why I didn't need men. As Martin and I continued our conversation, I learned he was going to be back in October for the USNA Class of 1983 fifteen year reunion. When I heard he was coming back, in my mind, I made a pledge to be a different person by October. A better person, the old me.

Martin’s visit changed me. Seeing him made me realize I wanted my former self back. The witty, fun, good looking, flirtatious me. I began to take care of myself. Every morning after sending my daughter off to school I would run laps around the neighborhood, at first I only ran a mile, eventually I worked up to four miles a day. At night after coaching cheerleading, I would walk two miles. When I went shopping instead of buying boring cover all of me mom clothes I bought trendy more current styles. Instead of hiding my body, I found clothes that flattered my figure. By October, when the reunion rolled around, I had lost 25 pounds. Unlike the time in August, I had no trouble finding a great outfit, my closet had plenty to chose from. After the Navy football game, when I saw Martin, met his new fiancé, I didn't care. Martin woke me up, he made me realize I was hiding from the old me, the real me. For the first time in eleven years I flirted with men and they flirted back, it felt great! It would be several months before I would go out on a date and even longer until I trusted my heart to someone. But that August night in 1998, Martin saved my life without ever realizing it.

HEALING THE EVER EVOLVING CYCLE OF PAIN.
I use to believe the saying, time has a way of healing all wounds. I now know that statement to be untrue. The wounds never heal, the pain, the loss never leaves completely. For a lack of a better way to describe it, over time the 'wounds' develop scabs. For a time the scab holds, life goes on, seemingly normal. Then without reason, something rips the scab open, once again exposing the wound. Sometimes the wound exposes pain, other times anger. The common thread, the underlying root of the pain or anger, missing someone you love dearly. When you lose someone you love, there is no cure, there is no healing, there is only surviving, doing your best to move forward.

For me, when the 'wound' opened back up, on a good bad day, my eyes would only begin to tear. I would thank God I was able to quickly control my emotions, hold everything in. I was able to thwart a crying meltdown. On truly bad days, there was no stopping the tears, the pain. Nothing I could do would stop the tears from gushing down my cheeks. No matter how much I tried, the feeling of loss was too overwhelming. There was no controlling the emptiness I suddenly felt. When that happened I would retreat to somewhere private where no one could see my tears, witness my pain.

There were other times when for some unknown reason I felt anger. Unexplained rage would come rushing out of me. The anger was a fury that had been growing inside of me, a hurricane of emotions that has been building strength slowly over the warm waters of the ocean inside me. I had no clue why I was angry, I just was. I was angry at Bobby for dying. I was furious at myself for still missing him. I was angry at life for leaving me alone. I was angry I had no answers for the many questions that filled my head. Dreams never realized left me pained. I learned quickly anger was always followed by tears. The anger only masked the pain that was still left in my heart. Anger was simply another symptom of sorrow.

My hope, my only salvation, was learning how to recognize and deal with the cycle of pain, recovery, healing then normal life. Learning, understanding the cycle was all part of life. My constant prayer after every meltdown, that normal life would return and stay longer. I prayed for a so called remission from the cycle I found myself trapped in. I would pray the duration between meltdowns, would last longer. I eventually learned, the more time passes, the longer remission lasts. The longer life seems to return to normal. Over time my tears were eventually replaced by smiles of remembrance. In time I no longer cried over losing Bobby. I thanked God for what little time I had with him. Now I smile and laugh when I remember Bobby.

TEARS AND ANGER
Sometimes I knew what would cause my pain, my tears. It maybe hard to understand but there were days when I needed to cry. I needed to release all my emotions. I needed for a time to become numb in order to feel normal again. July 11, 1987, my twenty fourth birthday, I sent flowers to Bobby, Gerber daisies. The same flowers he had sent me for my twenty first birthday, I sent to his grave. I tried to celebrate my birthday, I was unsuccessful. I missed him too much. Losing Bobby was still too fresh. I cried myself to sleep reading the card he had sent me three years before. I spent the night wishing I was twenty one again, wishing I had one more chance to fix all my mistakes. Wishing, hoping, begging, praying to see Bobby one more time, tell him I was sorry, I missed him.

A few years after Bobby died, I was driving when I first heard the Garth Brooks song, "The Dance". As the music flowed through my speakers, the lyrics said everything I had been feeling, "I would have loved to miss the pain, but I'd of had to miss the dance." As I heard those words I began to cry. I could see, feel our "dance" in Pensacola. I needed to hear the song again. On the way home, I took a detour to the store, bought the album. That night and many nights through out the years I would listen to "The Dance" over and over until I could no longer cry. Drifting off to sleep dreaming of our “dance”. Even after 23 years I never know how I will react when I hear "The Dance". There are times without explanation , without reason, the song brings tears to my eyes. Other times as I listen to the familiar lyrics I smile remembering what a wonderful ‘dance’ Bobby and I shared.

Life would be easy if I could predict when reminders, the triggers of tears would happen. If life is only one thing, it is unpredictable. Random times, arbitrary places, unforeseen reminders all with the same common denominator, Bobby, would reduce me to tears. There was never a definition to explain why, it just was.

Fall of 1987, after much begging and pleading by my friends, I ventured out to a local dance club, Margarita Maggie's. True to form, I spent most of the night sitting at the bar drinking ginger ale. Last call was announced, I was waiting for my friends to finish dancing so I could say good night and head home. The DJ announced he was slowing the music down for the final two songs, the guy sitting next to me asked me to dance. I had turned him down several times previously. He said to me, "If I did not dance with him, it would bruise his already fragile ego."
Feeling guilty I agreed to dance with him. As the first slow song played I learned he was from Pennsylvania, had graduated from the Naval Academy in May. He was working temporary duty at the Naval Academy waiting for his slot in Pensacola. As he told me his life story, I could hear Bobby's voice saying, “Don't be falling for any of those Navy guys still hanging around Annapolis.”
The final chords of the first song ended, my heart stopped when I heard the familiar chords of the next song begin, "Waiting for a Girl Like You". I closed my eyes trying to compose myself, take a deep breath. When I closed my eyes, I saw Bobby's hand as he put it out for me take when he asked me to dance for the first time in Pensacola. For a moment I felt extremely lost. I became very aware tears were streaming down my cheeks. I apologized to the guy, I explained I could not dance with anyone to that song. I left one very confused Ensign on the dance floor. I grabbed my purse, without saying good bye I ran to my car. I cried as I fell asleep later. Even now, when I hear, “Waiting for a Girl Like You” if I close my eyes I can still see Bobby as we dance. Some days tears will flow from my eyes as I hear the song. Other days I smile remembering our first dance. Mostly I close my eyes so I can see him once again, remember his eyes as they looked into mine before our first kiss. I know I will never be able to dance with anyone to that song. To me, "Waiting for a Girl Like You" is our song.

A year later it would be a newscast that would cause me to fall to the floor in a wave of emotion, a flood of tears. I treasured the photograph Bobby gave me. I placed it in a beautiful burnt silver frame next to my bed on my nightstand. I was sitting in bed, watching the Sunday night late local news. During the extended sports section, they began to show footage from the Army-Navy lacrosse game. Navy had come from behind to win. As I watched the highlights of the game, a rage, anger overcame me. Without explanation, I picked up Bobby’s photo, hurled it across the room screaming, "Damn you Bobby, you were suppose to come home. Why the hell did you fly so low? Damn you!" I heard the glass break as it hit the wall next to my closet. I pulled my knees to my chest and began pounding my bed with my fists on each side of my body next to my feet. With every blow to the mattress I yelled, “Damn you! Damn you! Damn You!”
With every pounding, with every damn you, all the anger towards Bobby I had built up over the year came exploding out. I was furious with him for flying low, for crashing. I was even angrier at myself for caring so deeply, missing him too much. After several minutes of yelling and pounding, I took a deep breath, calmed myself down. I grabbed my trash can and headed over to pick up the broken pieces of the frame. The sight of Bobby, his photo, laying amidst the broken glass dropped me to my knees in grief. I began to cry as I picked up the broken pieces of glass. With each piece of glass I asked Bobby why? All I wanted to know was why? Why did he die? Why was he flying so low? Why did he take a different path back to the base? All I have ever wanted to know is why?

It is amazing how even after years of peace, an extended 'remission', Bobby will surface and once again without explanation I will cry. Sometimes I cry for only a few seconds, other times much longer.

I was driving home one night when I heard an old Bruce Springsteen song play on the radio,"Cover Me". As I listened to the song I smiled thinking of Bobby. It was hard for me to believe Bobby had been gone over 10 years. While waiting at a red light I closed my eyes to ‘see’ Bobby, as I listened to 'The Boss', but he wasn't there. I lost him, I felt him, but my mind forgot what he looked like. I panicked, I had promised Bobby I would never forget him, yet at that stop light I couldn't remember his face, I couldn’t see him at all. I felt like I had betrayed him. My eyes began to water. I had to pull over to the side of the road to compose myself.

After dinner, I went to my room, closed the door, grabbed my Foreigner cd. I turned off the lights, pushed play, then laid in bed. As the familiar cords began to play of ‘our song’, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes. At first I could only see his hand as he placed it out for me to take. Then as the chorus began to echo in my room, I could feel him, then slowly I saw his smile, I saw his eyes, I saw his face. I cried tears of joy and thanked God for letting me see Bobby once again. I thanked him for helping me keep my promise to Bobby to always remember him.

September 11th, I was watching live when the second plane hit the tower. I witnessed as the towers collaspe to the ground. Like everyone else in America, around the world, I watched the coverage non-stop. That night and randomly for the next several weeks following the attack, I began having nightmares. Nightmares I had never had before. As I slept I would see Bobby's helicopter crash. I would be standing on the bank of the Bucao River and see the wire. I would try to tell Bobby to stop, pull up. Over and over I would yell at him to stop, he never hears me. I watch in horror as his helicopter hits the wire, he crashes into the river bank. I would wake up sweating, my heart pounding, out of breath and in tears. The panic I felt was real, it left me paralyzed with fear. I would stay awake the rest of the night, afraid the nightmare would return if I fell back to sleep. As soon as the nightmares began they ended.

A month ago a friend recommended the movie, "Taking Chance". I thought it would be the perfect movie to watch on Memorial day. I was not ready for how the movie would make me feel. I cried as I watched the scenes where they depicted Chance being prepared to fly home from Iraq. They showed how the vacuum sucks the air out of the body bag. You see them place his body bag in a metal coffin, then pack it with ice, surrounding his body. You watch as the coffin is sealed, then draped in an American Flag. As they portrayed his casket being loaded on the plane I had to turn the movie off, I couldn’t watch anymore. It was too real.

Before watching the opening scenes of "Taking Chance", I never thought about how Bobby came home. Until then, Bobby died, he came home, there was a funeral. I never thought about what happened to him from the time he was killed, until 10 days later when he was buried. "Taking Chance" was a stark reality of what happened to Bobby. As I watched the movie my brain began to comprehend that was how Bobby was brought home. It was no longer Chance in the movie, it was Bobby. The realization that Bobby didn't fly home first class, no one was there to give him a hug, say welcome home. Bobby came home, zipped in a body bag surrounded by ice. He was placed in the back of a plane with an American flag draped over his coffin. He flew a long lonely flight home. He was flown into Dover Air Force Base. The last time Bobby would wear his uniform, it would not be his hands buttoning his jacket, putting on his socks, tying his shoes. A complete stranger dressed him. A stranger placed his hands across his chest. A chest that no longer had a heartbeat. A heartbeat I missed and long to feel one more time. When I turned the movie off, I went outside, sat down, looked up at the stars. Through my tears I told Bobby I was so sorry. I told him I still missed him. I was outside talking to Bobby for awhile before the tears stopped and I could come back inside, resume watching the movie.

Long ago I made a promise to myself, no more tears when I remembered Bobby, only smiles, only laughter. I could spend my life crying over what might have been or spend my life smiling, laughing over what had been. Watching, “Taking Chance” when I was reduced to tears, I was angry at myself for breaking my own promise. After scolding myself for several minutes, I reminded myself I was fortunate, I was blessed, for a short amount of time I knew Bobby. He could have picked any girl he wanted that night at the club, he chose me. Our two bodies came together for one amazing night over spring break. I was lucky enough to feel his touch, to know his kiss, have him hold me in his arms. That incredible night I discovered every inch of him as he uncovered ever inch of me. He taught me to let go, to trust again. I was able to hold his hand as the sunlight appeared over the gulf. I found a man who left me speechless, gave me goose bumps and took my breath away time and time again. For a brief moment in time, life was perfect. I discovered a side of Bobby very few people saw, knew. I did not know the son, the brother, the midshipmen, the lacrosse player, or the pilot. I knew the compassionate Bobby. The man with the gentle touch, the sweetest kiss. The man who wiped away my tears. The man who tried to let me know there was nothing to be afraid of. The man who kept his promises. I knew the man who wrapped his arms and legs around me trying to comfort me when I was hurting. He cared when I cried, tried to ease my pain. He could have walked away at any time, many men would have, yet he stayed, making sure I was okay. He had a kind huge heart. Those memories, those blessings deserve only smiles, no tears.

Promise or not, I admit I have cried quite a number of tears writing this blog. As much as I tried, it was impossible to hold back the tide of emotions as I remembered our time together. Writing about the day I learned Bobby died was the hardest. I discovered the pain is as fresh, powerful today as it was twenty three years ago. I was reminded once again how strong my feelings were for Bobby. How lost I felt when he died. I realized how much even today I still miss Bobby. I was reminded how much his family and friends have lost. When I feared I was going to be lost in tears, I tried to remind myself how lucky I was to know him. Sometimes that sentiment was enough to stop the tears, others times it was never enough to fill the void. I would have to walk away from my computer, let the tears run their course, then resume writing.

Regrets
Regrets are exhausting, they can torture a soul. They can drive a sane person crazy searching for the what ifs to all the unanswered questions. Regrets or not, nothing will ever be able to answer the possibility of what might have been. After reading our story most people would assume I am filled with regrets. How does one wish to change the past with the knowledge if any one aspect was changed you would not be where you are today? There is not a moment or a day that passes when I do not wish Bobby was still here. There are things I wish I could change and others I would not.

March 25, 1987, when I sat on the dock in Annapolis crying over losing Bobby, praying for a miracle, asking God to turn back time so I could open my eyes, be back in 1984. Redo the night at Frans. I pleaded, I begged, tried to bargain so I could spend one more night with Bobby. In my grief I would have done anything to be given the chance to correct my mistake. Tell my fears, my insecurities, my friends, tell all of them to go away, let me be with Bobby. Trust him, let go, spend the night with him, discover where “it” might have lead. Now I understand if anything had been different, if I had left with Bobby that night I would have never had my daughter. She is the greatest gift I have been given. She is the one thing I have done right. She is my pride, my joy, the love of my life. I would not change her, change anything that put me on the road to having her. I never regret having her, keeping her. There are other things I wish I could change, regrets I do have.

I regret I didn't pay more attention at the Navy Maryland lacrosse game in 1983. I wish I had watched Bobby play instead of socializing with friends. Bobby loved lacrosse, loved his teammates. From what I have learned from everyone who knew him, who played with him, he was an amazing player. I never had the chance to really enjoy watching him play. There have been times I have found myself searching You Tube hoping someone uploaded some old Navy lacrosse footage. Praying I could see him play. Watch him play in the game he loved, even if it is only for a few minutes. In Pensacola as we sat on the deck talking, I could see the pride in his eyes as he told me about his senior year in high school he set some kind of scoring record in New Jersey. I often wonder if his record still stands. Bobby loved playing lacrosse with his brothers. Knowing how happy he was to have the ball passed to him from his brother, heaven would be to see him play with them. Passing the ball between the Bianchis. Lacrosse was such a huge part of him, I would give anything to see Bobby play the game he loved so much.

The fall of 1985 when I found myself at Kevin’s party instead of avoiding Kevin out of fear of what he must have thought of me, I wish I had the strength to walk up to Kevin and ask him about Bobby. When Kevin said he was going to tell Bobby I still looked hot, I regret not asking him to tell Bobby I was sorry for being stupid, to please have him call me. I ran into Kevin several times that fall, each time he greeted me with a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. He was always so sweet, yet I was never strong enough to admit to Kevin how much I really missed his brother, how much I often thought of Bobby. I kept everything inside, afraid to share. Fearful Kevin would think I was crazy for still being so hung up on his brother. To the outside world, to Kevin, I looked as if I was getting on with my life, moving forward. When I was still very much head over heels crazy in love with the man whose mere presence drove me crazy. His brother Bobby.

After throwing Bobby’s photo, smashing it against the wall I hate myself for not replacing the glass. I picked up the broken pieces, placed his photo back on my nightstand where it had been. Several years later when my munchkin and her friends were having a Friday night slumber party in my room, his photo was ruined. In the course of the girls fun, jumping on my bed, they spilled their sodas sitting on my nightstand. Knocking over Bobby's photo over in the process. Not wanting to get in trouble for being overly goofy, afraid of being sent home, they attempted to clean up the spill. They stood his photo back up, still drenched in orange and grape soda hoping it would dry overnight. The next afternoon when I discovered what had happened it was too late, Bobby’s photo was ruined. The only remaining image I have left of Bobby is in my head. I fear with age one day that too will be lost.

February 1987, Short Hills, New Jersey, when I had the feeling someone was staring at me, I regret not turning around to see who it was. I was so close to Maplewood, Bobby’s hometown. I have often wondered if it might have been him. My brain realizes Bobby was thousands of miles away in Guam, but my heart wishes I would have turned around to find him standing there, smiling at me. I would have run up to Bobby, given him a huge hug. I would have told him I missed him. I lost track of the number of times I have longed for one more hug. To have his arms around me one more time, to feel his heartbeat next to mine if only for a minute, I can’t describe how happy that would have made me. I have often wondered if one more hug would have made a difference? If it would have been enough. Would one more hug made it easier to lose him? Bobby gave great hugs. When he held me near, when his arms were wrapped around me, everything around me was lost. All I felt and heard was Bobby. The world was still, quiet.

My biggest regret was telling Bobby I had to go when he called. If I had known it was going to be the last time I would talk to him, the last time I would hear his voice I would have never hung up. I would have talked till dawn. Experience the sunrise with him one more time. I never really got to know Bobby. I would have asked him a million silly questions, the answers that one learns about another over time. What was his favorite color? Did he have pets growing up? I would have asked what the stupidest thing he ever did? How did he get the nickname B-foul? I knew he hurt his knee in football, but what game, how? I would have given him more grief quoting Bruce Springsteen to a Maryland girl! I would have asked what his parents were like? How did his mom handle four boys? Was it strange having his youngest brother going to Rutgers (I believe) and not the Academy? He said he played football, I would have asked what position? What was he like in high school? What was his shoe size? Who broke his heart the first time? Did he always wear the number 7 jersey when he played lacrosse? If I had known it was the last time we were going to talk I would have told him thank you for the best night of my life. I would have let him know, till the day I die I will never forget or regret our night together. Bobby knew he gave me goose bumps. In Pensacola as we made love he noticed I was covered in goose bumps and asked if I was cold. I told him no, he gave them to me all the time. I remember how he paused, looked in my eyes trying to read if what I had said was true. After a few moments, he kissed me passionately, then whispered in my ear, “me too”. I wish as I was talking to him on the phone I had the courage to tell him how I felt. If given the chance all over, I would have told Bobby, call me crazy but I think from the first time I saw you I fell in love with you. It may have caused him to run in fear but at least he would have known. I regret not telling Bobby how amazing he was.

A regret I have for Bobby. I wish he had children. I am so sad there are no little Bobby Bianchis running around. No trace of him is left. His blood, his genes ended when he died. He would have been a great dad. He was so laid back, had such a huge heart, nothing would have frustrated him. He would be the Dad surrounded by all the kids wanting to play. He would have had the perfect balance of discipline and freedom. He would be the Dad instead of saying talk to you mother, he would wipe the tears from his daughter's eyes when a guy broke her heart. He would have told her it would be okay. She would know it was true because her Dad told her. He would never let his kids down. He would teach them the value of keeping a promise. He would have been a great coach to his kids. When I walk around Annapolis, see the midshipmen wearing name tags that read class of 2012 etc. I find myself thinking if Bobby had a child, they would be here by now. There would be another Bianchi playing Academy lacrosse.

Bobby
I suspect Bobby meant more to me, than I did to him but I am not sure. I never had the courage to ask him how he felt. Not many girls, if any, said no to Bobby, I did. That made me a novelty. From the start Bobby made it clear he wanted to know where "we" would end up. He wanted another night, another chance to be with me. Another opportunity to see if it was our chemistry or the magic of spring break. I know in my heart he was interested in me, why else would he write, call? When he looked in my eyes I could tell he liked me, I could feel it. When I talked to him the last time, I also felt he was conflicted. I am not sure why. Was he worried what the guys would think? Was he worried he would hurt me? Was he worried what his family would think? After all I had a child. I will never have the answers. I only wish when I sensed something was troubling him, I would have asked what was wrong. Maybe I would have been able to help him find the answers.

From the first time I saw Bobby, my heart told me there was something there that was unexplainable. A feeling that made me frantic, happy, anxious, and scared. The times we were together in person or on the phone, when I relaxed, when it was only the two of us, I felt complete. He had a reputation as a ladies man, a charmer, a womanizer. Bobby may have been, but with me he was not. He had so many opportunities to walk away, forget me, yet he didn't. When I was hurt, when I cried, he stayed, he wiped away my tears, held me until the tears stopped. He wanted to make sure I was okay. Bobby was an amazing, genuine, sweet man. He was talented, athletic and extremely handsome. He was the perfect catch or as he wrote, the much better catch than any other man out there. Some people may laugh, doubt me, think I am crazy, but I understand now, in Coronado when I first met Bobby, for me, it was love at first sight. Extremely scary when you are supposedly in love and dating another man. Bobby turned my world upside down and at the time I did not understand it. I believe Bobby knew and understood why I was scared, why I was confused. Time and time again he would ask what I was afraid of, tell me to relax. He tried to assure me I would be fine, we would be fine. He understood, time held all the answers. I needed to trust him, trust what I was feeling instead of being afraid. Now I understand what I was feeling, how he was trying to help. He said on more than one occasion, "he knew". Now I understand what he knew, what I felt.

Bobby is still with me, he always will be. He is not as constant as he once was when he first died. Bobby sleeps silently in my heart, laying dormant for a while. At times he will come back to life, stay with me for a while. There are days and nights when I swear I can sense him. I can still feel him pull on my heart. I feel Bobby most when I am at the beach. At night when I am alone, when everyone is fast asleep, I sit on the deck gazing at the stars, the moon. I sit waiting for the sunlight to slowly appear over the ocean. I prop my feet up on the railing, close my eyes, feel the ocean breeze wrap around me. In the still of the night I swear I can feel him sitting next to me, smiling at me with his crazy grin and gorgeous eyes. At times it feels like Bobby is still here, like he has never left. I know he is not really with me, it is wishful thinking. There is no explaining what I feel, how strong it can be at times. Delusion or not, when it feels like Bobby is with me, I am happy. Whatever it is, always makes me smile.

My biggest fear since Bobby had no children in time he will be forgotten. He will become a name only, no longer real. No longer the amazing man he was. People will lose sight of the wonderful person he was. I hope by writing this blog, everyone will come to know Bobby, to see him as I did.

Bobby, Robert T. Bianchi, was a wonderful, good man with a gentile caring soul. He may have passed on but his character, his essence will live on as long as people remember him. He gave so much to me, I hope this blog in some small way is a gift to him. That others who knew him, are inspired to write, tell their/his story.

Maybe these blogs will become a kind of legacy where Bobby will always be remembered and loved.

Laughter, smile, tears, pain, heart ache, I would do it all over again, in a heartbeat, without a second thought. Bobby was worth every tear, every heart ache.

Lt. Robert Thomas Bianchi...Bobby, you are larger than life, you are the perfect catch. You are one hell of a man. I am the luckiest woman on earth having known you.

I miss you dearly!!

Bobby Part 7- The blended haze

2010-06-24T03:49:00.024-04:00

Even after all these years, I can’t explain exactly why I felt the way I did after hanging up with Bobby. I was happy, I was calm, I was no longer anxious, worried or confused. I finally understood, accepted, what I had been feeling for the past three years. When I first heard Bobby's voice I was once again covered in goose bumps. I would feel them several times during our conversation. Just as he had done in the past, several times what he said made me lose my breath. I was no longer scared of him hurting me or afraid of the way he made me feel. I was finally ready to embrace the crazy intense array of emotions I felt when I was with him.

I accepted for now, Bobby had his path to take, I had mine. Even on our different paths, after our phone call I knew in my heart eventually we would be together once again. Time would tell if it would be for a week or a lifetime. I was going to relax and trust what I was feeling. After the phone call, every day when I saw his postcard taped to my mirror I smiled. No more questions, pleadings to God. No more wondering where he was, what he was doing or what he was feeling? His phone call let me know there was still hope. He said he wanted to see me again. He thought about me, he called me. Now I had to keep my promise, let him have his fun, relax and follow his lead. When he was ready he would let me know. He would tell me what he wanted from me. Until then, I had work, I had my friends and I had my munchkin. Life was good once again. I was looking forward to our future whatever it would be.

The next day at work, I grabbed my message pad and wrote Bobby called last night, pinned the message to Cheryl’s bulletin board. A few hours later when Cheryl arrived at work, I saw her head into our office/stockroom. I don’t think she even had to time to hang up her coat, before she came running out to find me. She was ecstatic and upset. I should have called her immediately after Bobby called. According to Cheryl this was epic, the phone call was huge. This was great, she announced we had to go card shopping to pick out his next card. I told Cheryl no, we wait, I wait. I could tell she was confused. As I helped Cheryl put her stock out that afternoon I apprised her on our phone call. As I relayed all the details, I was happy. I was smiling non-stop. She questioned very loudly, "What?" when I informed her I told Bobby to go have fun, if he still wanted me I would be here waiting.
"Are you nuts. You don't tell a gorgeous guy to go have fun with other women" She reminded me I told him that once before and I didn't hear from him for months. I tried to explain, it was the only thing that made sense. He was thousands of miles away, I was here. Honestly I hardly knew him. If you added it up all the time we have spent together or talked it would only total two maybe three days! If I asked him to wait for me, he would think I was crazy. I would think I was nuts. For once in my life I was doing the right thing, I wasn’t worried. I went on to explain, I kept thinking about what my Grandpa had told me when I was younger. When he first saw my Grandma he knew she was the one for him. It was love at first sight, his heart told him. It took him awhile to convince Grandma he was the one for her. Grandpa told me sometimes you have to be patient when it comes to love. If it is meant to be, it will eventually be. I was going to patient, I was going to wait for eventually. While I waited I was going to have fun. I was going to grow up, work on my insecurities. I was going to work on becoming a better person, a stronger person.

That afternoon when ever Cheryl had the chance, she nagged me, “Don’t be foolish, write him, send him a photo.” My answer was always the same, “NO, I promised I would follow his lead”. Occasionally I would insert, "He is busy, he made flight commander. He is loving life, flying high, I am waiting. Give it up, PLEASE!"

When I fell asleep that night, I was back in Pensacola. Bobby and I were sitting on the deck, our feet propped up on the railing. We were waiting for the sun light to appear over the gulf. Bobby was telling me about his days playing high school and Navy lacrosse. I could tell how much he loved the game. He was excited to be in flight school yet part of him still missed those days. After he finished one story, I looked over at him, trying to be amusing, I asked him, “So are you one of those larger than life, not many players better than you are guys?” Without hesitation, a devilish grin came over his face as he answered, “You could say that.”
"Oh I could?" I asked very sarcastically.
He looked at me amazed I was questioning him, "Yes definitely"
“So what was your number?”
“Seven”
“Seven, of course it is. That's my lucky number”
He smiled and gave me this amazing look, “Yes, you definitely got lucky tonight”
As he spoke, all I could think was damn he is so freaking handsome. I leaned over smacked him across his arm, I scolded, “Yes I did, and so did you mister!!”

That was part of my attraction to him. Bobby was so self assured, he knew what he wanted and was not afraid to go after it. No was not the end, it was simply an obstacle he had to overcome. He played hard, he played to win. I don’t think anything or anyone intimidated him. He seemed to keep moving forward with no fear. Some people might call him arrogant, I understood he knew who he was, and was not afraid to show it. He loved life and was going to take everything it had to offer, head on with no regrets.

I never understood why Bobby was attracted to me, I was his complete opposite. Yes there was the crazy physical attraction we shared. Deep inside I had a feeling there was more there, another attraction. He knew exactly who he was, what he wanted to do with his life. I was lost. I had no clue which direction to turn, where my life was heading. I was still trying to discover who I was. I was so insecure in my looks, in my personality. I had been in the shadows of so many for so long I was afraid to come out and shine on my own. At times I was definitely afraid to take life head on. I believe Bobby recognized that, he tried to understand my fears. He tried to get me let go of them, to open up and talk about them. That night in Frans when he lowered his head so his eyes could meet mine, he asked me what I was afraid of? He reassured me everything was going to be fine. I needed to relax and trust him. In his own way, he was trying to get me to see there is nothing to be afraid in life, enjoy what you have, who you are with. At Fran's, I couldn’t let go of my fears, trust what I was feeling. I wasn’t ready to make that leap of faith. Now three years later, I was finally able to “hear” him, I understood. I was ready to relax and stop being afraid of him. I was no longer going to be afraid to feel. I was finally ready for where Bobby might take me.

I didn’t tell Cheryl but a few days later I sent Bobby a birthday card. I kept it short and simple. I wrote "I am sorry I almost forgot your birthday. I promise I will make it up to you later."

I admit when I did not hear from him right away, I started to worry. I debated whether or not I should write. My brother-in-law also graduated from the Naval Academy. I knew from his cruise days, as his sister-in-law I was lucky if I got a letter from him once a month. I was low on his totem pole. I knew with Bobby, there were people higher on the list of letter requirements than I. He was busy, I had to avoid the temptation, I did not want to become the frantic crazy chick in Maryland.

Saturday, March 21st, a bunch of us who had worked closing at Macy’s headed to Ruby Tuesdays to have a drink before heading home. When Roger made a toast to the first day of spring, a group debate started. Was the first day of spring the 20th or the 21st of March? I found myself sitting at the bar, lost in the distance, not sure what I was thinking. I had this strange/bad sensation come over me. I feeling of apprehension, like something bad was looming. Cheryl noticed me staring at nothing and asked what was wrong. I told her I have no clue, I had a bad feeling. She asked me how so, I couldn't explain it. I tried to shake it off and join in on the banter but I couldn't. As I sat there I began to worry something might be wrong with my munchkin. I snuck out of the bar to call home. Mom assured me she was fine, fast asleep, she was heading to bed soon. She told me to have fun she would see me later.

When I returned to work on Monday Cheryl asked how I was doing. I told her it was weird I still had that feeling, I couldn't sleep. The feeling wouldn't leave me. I thought I was paranoid. To change the subject, I informed her she would be happy to know when I woke up in the middle of the night and could not fall back asleep I began writing a letter to Bobby. I was going to finish the letter later. She could even help me select the photo I would insert in the letter before mailing it to Bobby. Cheryl was excited, walking out of our office she yelled back at me, "It's about damn time!"

What I am about to write, some parts are vivid like it just happened yesterday, other memories are trapped in a haze. Both blend together creating one very long painful memory.

Wednesday my phone rang it was Cathleen. She asked if there was anyone with me. I told her no, I had taken the Munchkin to the babysitters earlier. Mom was picking her up after work. I was getting ready for work. I could tell by her voice something was wrong. I asked if she was okay? Was Mark (her husband) okay?
Through her tears she said, “Dinker I am so sorry I wanted to tell you before you heard it from someone else or read it in the newspaper. Bobby is dead.”

It took a second for my brain to register what she had just said to me. As the words sunk in, I felt tears begin to roll down my cheeks, something sucked all the air out of me, all the life out of me. I could not breathe. I dropped to the floor, landed sitting Indian style with my back against my bed. My hands began to tremble as I held the phone. I took a deep breath, trying to be calm, I pleaded,
“NO, don’t tell me that. It’s not true. Please no, it can’t be true. Not Bobby.”
“I’m sorry D. Everyone is torn up down here. Mark heard after they told Kevin. Kevin is a mess. I’m so sorry D."
All I could say through my tears, "No not Bobby, please"
Cathleen was crying as well, "Are you going to be okay? Do you need me to come home?”
“I don't know. What happened?”
“I’m not sure, all I know is his helicopter crashed Monday. Everyone on board was killed.”
I couldn’t speak, I didn’t know what to say. my brain was trying to comprehend everything while my heart was trying to reject it all. It couldn't be true. She had to be wrong.

For a few minutes no one spoke. Cathleen broke the silence, “Are you going to be okay?”
“I don’t know. I got to go. I just got to go. Call me later, please.” I begged.
“I will. I love you D”

I couldn’t say good bye, answer I love you too. I could not process what I was suppose to say when someone says goodbye. I hung up the phone. I sat there staring at the floor for a few minutes.

I not sure why, I got up starting walking, pacing circles around the house not sure which direction to go, what to do. I looked at the clock calculated what time it was in Guam. I couldn’t call Leigh it was too late. I tried to convince myself Cathleen was wrong, Bobby was just hurt. I whispered to myself over and over, "He's coming home, he promised me." I was the one who broke promises, he never did.

I sat down for a second on the kitchen floor to catch my breath, wipe the tears from my eyes. I needed to think. I stood up, announced to the empty house, "I got to go to work. I got to work. We have a sale on Saturday. I have to get ready."
Over and over I repeated to myself I had to go to work.

I don’t remember getting dressed, I don’t recall the drive. After standing up in the kitchen, the next thing I remember is entering Macy's through security. As I walked into my department Cheryl looked at me and asked if I was okay. I put my hand up like I had done three years before to Bobby in Pensacola. I didn't answer. I shook my head no then yes and walked back to our office. I sat down for a moment, gathering strength to go on. I noticed the racks of clothing waiting to be put on the floor. Very methodically, mechanically I began to place the new merchandise on the floor. All the managers had received their list of markdowns for the weekend. Everyone was busy shifting their displays and racks preparing for the pre-sale. I stood in my department with my list of mark downs in my hands. I stared at it, my brain was not comprehending the codes, nothing was making sense. Everything seemed to spin in confusion. I stood there staring, concentrating on breathing. It was all I could think about. I just had to breathe that's it.

A woman interrupted my blankness, asked if I could put some clothes in the dressing room for her. I said of course. As she handed me her items she asked if everything was okay. I had no color. She had never seen anyone as pale. I gave a fake smile and told her I was simply tired. As I walked to the dressing room, my eyes caught a glimpse of a girl wearing a Naval Academy sweat shirt. All I could do was stare at her, at the sweatshirt. She was smiling, she was happy. Why was she so happy?

Akin to when a damn bursts, the water rushes to the valley below drowning everything in it’s path. The water leaves nothing standing. When I saw the girl in the sweatshirt, suddenly without explanation I couldn’t breathe. I was drowning in loss, drowning in pain, suffocating in emptiness. The damn in my heart that had been trying to hold every feeling of despair, broke and every emotion came rushing out. As I entered the dressing room I handed the woman’s items to one of the women from the dress department. I asked her to please handle this and I ran to the back corner, the back stall of the dressing room. I shut the door and crumpled to the floor. My body was shaking as I pulled my knees to my chest. I put both hands over my mouth so I wouldn’t scream. Tears came flooding down my face as I began to rock back and forth, saying over and over, “No please no. Oh God Bobby no.” I couldn’t breathe, I thought I was going to pass out. I needed, I wanted to breathe. I tried to stop crying but I couldn't. All I could do was rock back and forth, keep saying "no". I couldn’t think, I couldn't control anything. Everything was rushing out of me and I could not stop it.

A few minutes later Cheryl came rushing into the dressing room. The woman from the dress department went searching for her. When she opened the door to the dressing room, I couldn't say anything. I could only look at her, shaking as I rocked back and forth. She immediately sat down, put her arms around me, pulled me in close and asked what was wrong. It took me a few minutes before I could barely utter the words, “Bobby's dead!”
Hearing my own voice say those words, combine the two, Bobby and dead, hurt more than I can describe. It cut me deeply. Cheryl began to cry with me, she repeated several times, she was so sorry. I tried to speak but my thoughts were jumbled, nothing made sense. I didn’t know what to do.

Bobby couldn't be dead, this was not the future I envisioned when I dreamed of him. I dreamed of nights at the beach, watching him play lacrosse, falling asleep looking at his face. I dreamed of waking up next to him one day. This was not right, this was not what I felt. This all had to be wrong.

I began to calm down, through my tears I cried to Cheryl, “ You were right, I should have written him. He didn’t write. Why didn't he write? He was suppose to lead that was the plan. I don’t know what to do now.”

Cheryl tried to console me, she acknowledged that yes maybe he didn’t write but Bobby did call, that had to mean something. I was lucky I got to talk to him one more time. He said he wanted to see me again, I had to always remember that. At least I knew he wanted to see me again.

I am not sure how long we sat back in the dressing room. For the longest time I leaned against the wall not saying a word, with tears streaming down my face. Like a true friend, Cheryl stayed with me the entire time. I finally broke the silence and told Cheryl I had to get up or I would never be able to move again. I had cried so much, for a moment I thought I was going to pass out as I stood up. I was overcome with the realization that once again, I felt lost, I felt empty. This time the hurt was so deep I felt like I was standing in a void.

When I walked out of the dressing room I discovered that Kristen and Roger were flipping my department getting it ready for the pre-sale. I smiled and said thank you. I went back to my office, while Cheryl went to get something for me to eat. I crossed my arms on my desk, laid my head down. With tear stained eyes, I fell asleep. For a while I was back at the condo in Pensacola, I was in the shower kissing Bobby as the water washed over both of us. His smile was so clear as he moved my wet hair away from my face. I could hear us both laughing. His hands were so gentle as he washed my hair. In my dream life was the way it was suppose to be. The way I has always imagined it would be in the future.

I woke up to find a large coke and a slice of cold pizza sitting next to me on my desk. For a minute as I looked at my dinner, I was confused, I was caught in a haze between reality and a dream. Unfortunately reality has a way of ruining the most wonderful of memories, the best dreams. I felt so drained. I reached for the coke, took a sip, then tried to eat the pizza. I was only able to take a few bites before I began to get sick. As I continued to throw up, once again I felt like I was suffocating. The tidal wave of emotions were coming full force again. If I didn't get out of there, I would drown once again. I didn’t know where I wanted to go, I had to leave. I needed fresh air. I needed to move, if I didn’t I thought I would cease to exist. I grabbed my coat, as I was leaving I asked Cheryl if she could cover for me, I was sorry but I had to go. She replied yes then yelled after me if I needed anything to call her anytime.

I sat in my car for several minutes, drying my eyes, trying to clear my brain, so I could drive. It was misty out, for a second I couldn’t remember where my wiper switch was. The last thing I probably should have been doing that night was driving. I didn't understand that, I thought all I needed was to get out. If I kept moving I would not remember, I would not feel. I left the mall parking lot, turned onto route 2. I found myself driving past my exit and heading toward Annapolis. While I was driving, my brain was trying to process everything. As I drove down the hill on route 2 approaching the Old Severn River Bridge I saw the Naval Academy across the water. The lights from Bancroft Hall were shining like at beacon in the darkness calling. I pulled off to the side of the road, staring at the lights, wondering what wing 24th company was in? What halls did Bobby walk over and over while he was at the Academy? I had officers stickers on my car which allowed me to drive through the gate, onto the Academy grounds. I parked my car behind the Ricket's Hall. I sat for a few minutes staring at the field surrounded by the fence. The turf field where Bobby wore his number lucky number seven jersey.

It was misting/drizzling out, when I stepped out of my car. At first I didn't feel it, I didn't notice. I began walking towards downtown. I wanted to go to the last place I had seen Bobby. The last place I felt his heartbeat, felt his arms around me. I crossed over Dock Street, through the parking lot and stood on the docks staring at Fran O'Brien's. I could hear his voice asking what I was afraid of. I closed my eyes, put my hand over my mouth, with tears streaming down my cheeks once again I tried to remember his eyes looking into mine as spoke to me three years before.

I sat on a bench, began rocking back and forth as I continued to cry. I closed my eyes pleading with God to let me open them and be back in 1984. I pleaded with God to please let me try again. I promised I would do it right. If given a second chance, I would not be afraid. I begged, pleaded, bargained, it didn't matter every time I opened my eyes it was still 1987, Bobby was still dead. I begged God, to let me hold Bobby one more time. All I needed was one more time.

I learned the kindness of strangers that night. As I sat there rocking back and forth with tears streaming down my face an older couple walked by. The gentleman handed me his handkerchief. Trying to comfort me he told me not to worry. I was a pretty girl if he was a smart man he would come back. I only needed to give him time. All men eventually come to their senses. I looked up at him through my tears, in desperation I softly said, “He can’t come back. I wish he could. I really wish he could.”
I heard his wife gasp, "Oh no."
I looked over, his wife began to cry. She recognized my pain. She knew why I was crying, he knew as well. He gently put his hand on my shoulder, told me he was sorry, then they walked away. A few minutes later he was back with a small blanket. He wrapped the blanket around my shoulders. He promised he would say a prayer for me. He asked what his name was? I answered softly, "Bobby Bianchi."
He would say a prayer for Bobby as well. Before he left, he told me to keep the blanket on, it was cold and wet, I didn’t need to get sick. He asked if there was anyone I wanted him to call. I nodded no, then tried to force a smile when I told him thank you.

I sat there for several hours, silently crying, no longer pleading with God. I was now asking Bobby to forgive me. As I slowly rocked back and forth, all I could say over and over, "I am so sorry Bobby. I didn't know. I should have said yes. I didn't know." As I cried I kept wishing I could reverse time, change what happened. I questioned myself, why didn’t I leave with Bobby that night in Annapolis? Why was I so insecure?

After a while, I turned myself sideways, so I could curl my knees to my chest, lean my head against the back and stare at Fran’s. I closed my eyes trying to remember that night. I wanted to remember his touch, his smell, the dance, his kiss. When I had no more tears, no more energy, when I was finally numb, I got up. I am not sure why but I folded the blanket, placed it neatly on the bench. I headed back toward the Academy. As I crossed over dock street I turned around one more time, hoping like that night 3 years ago, I could see Bobby turn around, look back at me. I wiped the last of the tears from my cheeks and headed home.

Everyone was sleeping when I arrived home. I looked at the clock it was a little past three. The last time I had been awake that late was the phone call a few weeks back with Bobby. I went into my Munchkin's room, scooped her up and carried her to my room. I laid her down on the bed next to me. I didn’t want to be alone. I had no energy to change. I pulled off my boots, climbed into bed in the clothes I had worn that day.I drifted off to sleep silently crying, holding my daughter.

Thursdays were my days off at Macy’s. I awoke the next morning with a new emotion, one that would accompany me for a while, sorrow. It was an emptiness I had never felt before. In the past I thought my heart had been broken, after Bobby died I realized how much more a heart could ache. I discovered what pain really was, how it truly felt. I laid in bed staring at the ceiling. I didn’t want to move. I wanted to go back to sleep, dream of happier times. I wasn't sure I could handle another day knowing Bobby was never going to be a part of my future. I would have to live without him. I felt my daughter curled up next to me. I rolled over on my side. I laid there for a few minutes brushing her hair away from her face wishing for a moment she was his, so I could have something of Bobby to hold on to.

Children, they make you go on. No matter how much you hurt, how deep the pain, they depend on you. There is no choice, you keep moving, keep doing. I had to get up. I had to take a shower, I had get my daughter up, dressed and fed. I could neglect me, but not my munchkin. As I headed to the bathroom, I glanced in the mirror, gasped at how awful I looked. At least my looks matched the way I felt. My eyelids were puffy, I had huge dark circles under my eye. I looked like I had been in a fight with Rocky and lost. I turned the water on, undressed and stepped into the shower. As soon as the water hit me, I am not sure what over came me, but I stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around me, went into my room, opened the drawer, grabbed the soap on a rope. I popped off the plastic covering, held it for a moment, staring at it. I stepped back into the shower once again felt the warm water rush over me. I closed my eyes as I ran the soap down my arms, around my neck, across my chest. I tried to imagine it was Bobby's hands holding the soap, washing me. More than anything I wanted Bobby with me one more time. I had promised Bobby I was saving the soap on a rope for him. After so many broken promises, I wanted to keep that one silly promise to him. Tears overtook me, I closed my eyes and remembered our shower in Pensacola.
I sat on the floor of the tub crying. I looked up so the water would hit my face, wash away my tears. For a moment I thought I felt his hands once again wipe away my tears. When the water turned cold, I gathered what little strength I had to stand. I wiped my eyes, wrapped myself in a towel and headed to my room.

When I returned, I was amazed my Munchkin was still sleeping. After I dressed, I woke her up, changed her diaper, made her breakfast then dressed her. I put her favorite movie, 101 Dalmatians on the VCR in my room. She sat on my bed watching the movie as I searched for Leigh’s phone number. I found her number tucked away in my night stand. I took a deep breath then made my first phone call to Guam. Before that day, I was convinced the first time I would be calling overseas, would be to talk to Bobby. I wiped the tears from my eyes as the phone began to ring, Leigh answered. I tried my best to control my tears as I explained Cathleen had called me, I heard about Bobby. I needed to know what happened. “Oh D, I’m so sorry! Are you sure?”

I told Leigh I needed to know. I could tell she was upset, but she explained Bobby was flying a training mission in the Philippines. She heard he was flying too low, too fast. His helicopter hit a wire and crashed. Everyone at the base was upset. Her husband who played lacrosse with Bobby was extremely upset. Bobby was such a great guy, it was such a waste. I can't recall the rest of the conversation. I was no longer listening. My brain kept hearing the words over and over, Bobby flew too low, too fast, he hit a wire, then crashed. Those words would twist in my brain, churning for long while before they would become a cyclone of anger and grief. Eventually exploding into a fit of rage almost a year later.

I hung up the phone, sat down on my bed with my back against the headboard, pulled my daughter on my lap and tried to watch the rest of the movie with her without shedding tears. At one point, my duaghter noticed I was crying, tried to comfort me. “No Mommy not sad. Puppies fine!”
Her voice was so sweet, her statement so innocent. I wiped my tears, smiled, “Yes darling, the puppies will be fine”.

The shower and night time were my best friends, they were my mourning buddies. The two places where I could openly cry without any questions or interruptions. They were places I could be alone with my grief, alone with my pain. Where tears would never be questioned because they were never seen. They were my best friends, sleep was my devoted friend. In my dreams, Bobby was with me, life was perfect. I hated mornings. When I awoke, I was lost and alone once again. I began to question everything, what I felt, what I believed, my faith. My instincts had lied to me. They told me to relax, Bobby and I had time. I did not understand why I would feel so much for one person only to have him leave me, die. I didn't understand why God would hurt me this way. If God didn't want me to be with Bobby why did he have him call me? Why was I so drawn to Bobby? Every night when I said my prayers, I asked God to protect Bobby, to always be with him. Did God not hear my prayers? If God was with Bobby, how did he allow him to crash? I was wrong to question God, yet I had to, he was the only one who had all the answers.

I was grateful I wore contacts. Whenever my eyes would begin to tear, I would start to cry at work or where ever I might be. If questioned, I simply responded, “I am fine. I have something in my contacts." The answer seemed to suffice the curious. I was rarely hungry. When I did eat, nothing tasted right, everything made me nauseous. In a week I had lost ten pounds. Cathleen called over the weekend to check on me, make sure I was holding up okay. She informed me Bobby’s funeral was Thursday April second. Monday I called AAA to get a trip track and maps of the area. I knew how to get to Maplewood. I had seen the sign many times on my trips through New Jersey but I did not know how to get to the church. How to find the cemetery.

As the day of Bobby’s funeral approached I began to feel as if I was coming apart. I had never met his parents, I knew his brother Kevin, met his older brother once but never met his youngest. What would I say if his parents asked how I knew Bobby? The truth was insane. What would I say, “Hello, I am the girl who the first two times I met your son I was naked in a robe. By the way, from the moment I first saw him, I fell instantly head over heels in love with Bobby. I slept with your son over spring break. It was the most amazing night of my life I have ever had. Bobby was wonderful, he was sweet to me, he was the nicest guy. He even sent me flowers on my birthday. Yet because of my insecurities, my immaturity, despite what I felt, I sent him away like a lunatic. I kept telling your perfect son no. It's very nice to meet you!” I could see myself being escorted away to the nearest asylum with that insane answer.

Once again I doubted myself. I didn't believe I was strong enough to go to his funeral alone. I told myself I could not drive three and a half hours up there and back. I would be fine driving to Maplewood but coming home after his funeral, I would be a mess. I would cause an accident. I convinced myself I was not attending Bobby's funeral because I would be alone during the drive. I knew the real reason, my true fear. The thought of seeing Bobby's casket, knowing he was in there, was more than I thought I could endure. I wanted to remember Bobby's amazing eyes, his smile. He was so full of life. I was afraid after his funeral when I closed my eyes all I would see was his flag drapped casket. He was too alive in my memory. I loved his eyes when he looked into mine. I loved the way he held me when we danced, when we kissed. I never wanted to lose that memory. I never wanted to lose him. I was avoiding saying good bye. My heart was not ready to let go of Bobby.

The morning of the second arrived, it was overcast and drizzling. As I rose out of bed I looked out my window and thought, a perfect sad day, even the angels are crying. I dressed my daughter, took her to the sitters, drove home and crawled back into bed. I laid there staring at the clock watching the time slip slowly by. 10:00 a.m. his funeral was beginning. I began to cry uncontrollably asking God how was this fair? Why did I hurt so bad? I was tired of pain. I cried for awhile longer. I was regretting not going, not saying good bye. I owed him that much. I got changed and did something I had not done since college. I went outside and ran. I didn’t know why, I needed to forget, needed to clear my brain. When we ran laps as conditioning for gymnastics I loved when my brain hit the zone, I felt nothing. I needed to hit the zone. I could not lay there watching the clock wondering when he was being laid to rest. When he was going to be covered with dirt. I needed to stop feeling so much pain, so much guilt.

As I headed out the door I looked at the clock, noon. I wondered if his body was at the cemetery. I wiped the tears from my eyes and headed out the door. I ran to my old high school, when I got there I sat on the curb next to the baseball field between the parked cars. I could see the kids inside. Life was still normal for them. I longed for normal. Instead of heading home when I passed the middle school, I turned left and headed toward Chapelgate. I paused at the top of the big hill debating whether I should run down it. Halfway down the hill I tripped on the uneven surface of the grass and fell face first. I pounded the ground once with both my fists, I screamed as loud as I could, "Damn it!" I rolled over, brushed the dirt and grass off me, sat up and stared down the hill. I had no more energy. I did not feel like moving. I wanted to sit there and be numb. I preferred numb, it was better than a constant ache. It was better than feeling I was being swallowed by sorrow. After a few minutes I forced myself to get up, I had to pick up my daughter. I walked down the hill, cut through the woods to take the short cut home.

That night at dinner, my dad asked if everything was alright. I was spending a lot of time alone. My parents work, they come home, watch television then sleep. I love my parents, I know they love me. They have always given my sister and I everything we have ever needed. Growing up they never asked about boys, how I felt. They never asked that much about my friends. They set a curfew, I had rules to follow. To them that was what a parent did. If asked today, my parents would probably not be able to name two of my boyfriends. We never spoke of things like that. When my heart was broken I turned to my friends. Over dinner when asked, I told my Dad a good friend of mine died, he was buried today. He asked what had happened, I told him a helicopter crash. He said that was too bad, he was sorry. He would say a prayer for his family. That was the only conversation I ever had with my parents about Bobby.

It was impossible to sleep that night, I was regretting not attending Bobby's funeral. I should have paid my respects to his parents, his brothers. I laid awake in bed staring at the ceiling repeating, "I am so sorry Bobby. I let you down again." I rolled over looked at the clock. Triple ones. I stared at the clock willing the phone to ring one more time. 1:12 a.m. once again my wishful thinking could not turn back the hands of time. I turned on my light, opened my drawer and grabbed my pad of paper. When I opened the pad I stared at the letter I had written to Bobby. My eyes began to flood with tears. I knew then what I did not know Sunday night, early Monday morning. When I awoke anxious, sweaty and scared, filled with uneasy emotions and felt the need to write Bobby. Telling him how I felt, how I missed him. He was flying his final mission down the Bucao River. I was writing Bobby when his helicopter crashed, when he died. My brain did not know anything was wrong, but my soul felt it that night as I wrote him. Reflecting back I am convinced I felt my heart tear in half when he died. I grabbed the pad, wiped the tears from my eyes, then I tore Bobby's letter off and neatly stuffed it in my drawer next to his Christmas card. I took the pen from my nightstand. I opened my closet, pushed my clothes to the side. Like I had done when I was younger, when I was afraid or wanted to be alone I headed to the sanctity of my closet.

I pushed my shoes aside, sat with my back to the corner of my closet. I began to write a letter to Bobby's mom. I cried as I wrote how I was feeling, how wonderful her son was. How much I missed Bobby. I can't remember everything I wrote I was crying too hard. I simply filled the pages with my emotions. I tried my best to keep my handwriting legible. When I was done I had several pages. I did not proof read the letter. I was afraid if I did I would never mail it. I was amazed I remembered his address from a conversation in Pensacola. I placed the letter inside the envelope sealed it, placed a stamp on it. Placed it on my nightstand leaning against my telephone. As I turned off my light I looked at the clock. triple threes.

A short time later I received a card and letter from Bobby's mom. As I read her words, I understood where Bobby got his gentle side, his compassion. She had taught him to wipe away my tears, my pain. She had lost her son, yet she was consoling me. She was telling me to have faith, trust in God. She had been blessed, he was a wonderful son. She could tell from my words I loved her son. She was happy Bobby had someone who cared and loved him. Through my tears I read her letter several times before placing it in my on top of Bobby's postcards and letter I had written him.

My daughter would be the force that would keep me going. She would be my life line. The only reason I had the strength to get out of bed some days was the love I had for her. As the days passed, waking up and moving became a little easier. Some days I would find my eyes tearing up for no reason. Other days it would be a song that would cause me to cry. I never knew when I would feel the pain. Good days were when I could make it with out feeling the dull ache, the constand sorrow and emptiness. When as mean as it sounds, I was not reminded of Bobby.

At my parents' house, books, papers and mail end up stacked on top of each other. Clutter would collect quickly. When I lived there I did my best to keep it organized. After Bobby died I didn't have the extra energy to clean after my parents. I was tired from working , taking care of my munchkin and tired from grieving. Even when I had the energy to clean I understood, Dad’s end table next to his chair, was a no intrusion zone. It was stacked with his books, his mail.

It was the end of May. I had developed an unstable truce with my feelings. I was doing my best to come to terms with Bobby's death. It was my day off. My daughter and I were playing “I am going to get you” as I tried to catch her, wrangle her to her bedroom to get her dressed. She loved running around Grandpa’s chair. She would grab the afghan hanging off the back causing the chair to circle with her. It always made her giggle. As she ran around the chair holding the afghan the chair hit Grandpa’s end table knocking all his books and mail to the floor. We both stopped, laughed and exclaimed, “Uh Oh!”
I grabbed her, scurried her to her room, then dressed her so we could head to the playground.

Before heading out, I began to pick up the books and mail, stack them back on Dad’s table. I gathered the mail that had been knocked on the floor, my heart stopped. I recognized the handwriting on one of the envelopes that was addressed to me. There laying on the floor, in the middle of the scattered mail was a letter from Bobby. I grabbed it, then searched through the rest of the mail hoping to find another. There were no others. I stared at the letter for a moment. I called my neighbor and asked if my daughter could come play with her's for awhile. She said of course. I carried my daughter across the street, as I left her I promised to take her to the playground after lunch. Mommy had to do something very important, alone.

I rushed back home. I picked up my letter and headed back to my room. I laid it on my bed, ran my fingers across it as I stared at my name, my address in his handwriting. I wanted to open the letter but at the same time I was afraid. Like a well loved novel, for the next several months I would read Bobby's letter each night before falling to sleep.

I opened the letter, I discovered tucked inside the folded page was a photo of Bobby in his flight suit standing by the front of his helicopter. Staring at his image, I began to cry. Even his photograph took my breath away. Bobby was so gorgeous, extremely handsome. I smiled at his grin, the one I remembered so well. The smile that melted my heart time and time again.

I took a deep breath and began to read,

Denise,
It was wonderful talking to you. I only wish I could have seen you. (all of you) The next month will be pretty hectic. I wanted to send you a photograph of me so when the Navy boys start knocking on your door you have a photo to remind you I am a much better catch!
Looking forward to the soap on a rope one day.
Bob
PS It doesn’t matter who the father is, only the mother.

He promised he would write, true to his word, he kept his promise. I laughed and I cried when I read his letter. He was such a smart ass. He was so confident. Yes, he was the best catch. If only I could have caught him, if only I had another chance to try.

Bobby Part 6- Holding out hope

2010-06-23T03:36:00.021-04:00

Like a little kid before their birthday I found myself rushing home every day to check the mail hoping to find a card, a letter, anything from Bobby. In my brain I had calculated how long it should take to hear from Bobby, five days for the letter to arrive, three days for him to answer, five days for his response to be delivered, a total of thirteen days. Looking back I am not exactly sure how or why I decided it would take three days for Bobby to respond. Maybe it was because his birthday was on the 13th? Sometimes there is no explaining how my brain reasons.

Two weeks passed, still no response. I was silly enough back then to believe in signs. The guy in the navy lacrosse t-shirt had to be a sign, he knew Bobby, he was able to get me his address. Wasn’t that a sign? I was not gong to lose faith, the card had to work. It was going to work, I knew it. I felt it.

A month passed with no answer. If the address was incorrect, the card would have been returned by now. In my mind I had selected the perfect card. I was confused. Why didn't it work? I was losing faith. I kept wondering maybe there are no signs. Was I crazy, obsessed? Did I need to forget, move on?

As a single mom my life consisted of two things, work and taking care of my munchkin. Life was busy, life was good but it was also incomplete. I am not sure why I carried such strong feelings for Bobby. I am not even sure I can describe what was going on inside of me. I felt like there was a constant pull on my heart when I thought of him. A feeling I was not where I was suppose to be. I felt like I had made a major mistake that left me lost, alone and there was no correcting it.

I loved watching my little girl grow. Every day there was something new she would discover. She was always smiling, always giggling. She made me happy yet every once in a while no matter how much I loved her, I would feel empty. There is the happiness a child gives you and there is the happiness that another person gives you. The two fill your heart. My heart was half full, it was missing the other half. I was longing for someone I could not reach, could not find. My heart longed for the impossible.

I began to question myself the way I had questioned Bobby so long ago. Did I truly want Bobby? Was I missing him so much because he had not answered my card? He was in essence saying no to me? Was I upset I was now losing the 'game'? Or was I missing him because I still wanted to be with him? Since I had first met Bobby, there was something in me that was uncontrollably attracted to him. I did not understand it, but I felt it. Was this the reason? Was I not letting go because he was no longer interested? Two years earlier, Bobby was not able to answer those questions. Now I was having the same problem. Once I discovered the answers. I would understand the crazy attraction, I would know what to do.

A few weeks later, I had dressed my little girl, carried her into my room so I could finish getting ready for church. Always the active child, she kept running around and climbing on my bed making it impossible for me to concentrate, get ready on time. To avoid the inevitable crash, the five minute meltdown that would follow, I picked her up and sat her on my dresser. To occupy her as I finished applying my make-up I handed her a bracelet from my jewelry box.

My little one, she loved jewelry more than anything, especially mommy's “sparkly” jewelry. When she was little, I loved watching her play, holding up each piece of jewelry to the light as if she was determining it’s value. That morning instead of amusing herself, she threw my bracelet on the floor. As I scolded her, she stood up on my dresser, began staring at herself in the mirror. I laughed, I watched her pat her hands on her own reflection. She began to talk to herself, smiling into the mirror when Bobby’s postcard from Pensacola caught her attention. She began to chant "Momma, Momma, Momma" then she reached over to try to grab the postcard off the mirror. I quickly scooped her up, whisked her off my dresser, away from the postcard. Determined not to give up, she stood on the floor pointing at the postcard, then began opening and closing her hand, her universal sign for give me that please. After a few minutes of grunting and pointing she finally asked in her sweet innocent voice, “Please?”
I laughed at her persistence then told her, “Sorry darling, you want the postcard, I want him. Neither one of us are going to get what we want. Looks like we are both out of luck. You need to give up.”

As I said those words, "You need to give it up", I thought to myself, maybe I need too as well. I scooped her up, put her coat on, before leaving the room to head out to church, I reached up and touched the postcard as I had done many times before in the past. Only this time I said, "I just don't know anymore."

After this long, when Bobby had not answered my card, there was no other explanation, I failed. I missed my opportunity. I had done my best the past few weeks to place Bobby in the back of my brain, remove him from my thoughts, forget him. When the words “I want him” came rolling off my tongue with no effort, no thought, I knew driving to church he was still very much present in my life. Sunday morning was another example of the numerous times without reason or explanation Bobby would invade my thoughts. When I first met Bobby what I felt for him scared me. Now the hold he had on me terrified me even more. I was confused. I was angry at myself for allowing what I felt for him to have so much control over me.

I sat in church waiting for the service to start. I wondered if now was the time to really let him go. Start to move on, not totally forget Bobby, but try not to remember, want him as much. I questioned, was it time to take down the postcard, the subtle daily reminder of Bobby from my mirror. Pack up his soap on a rope, his postcards, the napkin and his Christmas card, place them out of sight? Pack them away from the temptation to hold and read them?

When the organ started, when the service began I prayed to God to let me find peace. Help me learn what was going on in this crazy heart of mine, guide me to what was best for myself and my child. To please help me see what I needed to do. When I finished my prayer, I said a prayer for Bobby. I asked God where ever Bobby was, whenever he flew, please watch over him, always be with him. I told God if he only could answer one prayer of mine that day, please always be with Bobby. That would be enough. I walked out of the service that morning, I felt the sunlight hit my face, a calm came over me and I realized I knew. I had always known what I was feeling. I had always known what I should do.

After spending the night with Bobby in Pensacola, I was scared, terrified of what I was feeling. How strong those feelings were. I used Martin as an excuse to send Bobby away. Suddenly I realized, I sent him away because I was afraid of the hurt that would come if he left me like every man had done before. I was so afraid of the relationship ending, I didn't allow for the possibility we might have worked. By sending me flowers, silly gifts, postcards and cards, Bobby was saying, relax and see what happens. He wanted me to trust what I was feeling, not run away. He simply wanted me to give him a chance. I finally understood his persistence. We had one amazing night together. We both wanted more, he sensed it, yet I said no, I ran. Who walks away after an incredible night like that? Who does not want to see where it might lead? He scared me and I made no sense to him. Yet for a time, he did not give up on me.

I finally understood why he could not answer the questions I had posed to him that night in Annapolis. I at last comprehended how stupid those questions must have seemed. I no longer needed to be the girl he wanted to be with. I accepted, I was yes to both questions. Yes, he didn’t like losing, chasing me was a game. Bobby definitely did not like no for an answer, so he persevered trying to win. He wanted to change no to yes. I was the prize for winning the game. Once I understood the game, there was no denying the other reason he kept coming back. Why he kept trying for as long as he did. Part of him wanted to be with me again. For Bobby, at that time, the two questions were hand in hand, there was no separating them. He understood something I did not, only time would tell him which I would become, the game or the girlfriend. He was, I believe, willing to find out. I wanted to jump immediately to girlfriend not understanding, no matter what you feel, how much you are attracted to someone, you have to play the game first. I understood why he might not be willing to write back. If he wrote back, he had to wondered if I would assume it meant something more than what it was to him? With that awareness, I realized I wouldn’t respond to a flirtatious card like that, so why did I expect Bobby would? Instead of flirting, being funny I needed to apologize, write a normal letter. Allow him to get to know the real me.

I learned from Bobby if you want something bad enough, you have to play the game. It was now my turn to play the game. I accepted what I had felt for Bobby. I was still afraid but I was no longer going to run away from what I was feeling. I was ready to take the risk, good ending or bad. I needed to relax, have patience, have faith in myself, in Bobby and play out the game.

Bobby tried over and over to get me to give him a chance, get me to respond to him, acknowledge him. He wanted one more night to see if that would lead to another. If it did, great. If not at least we tried. He waited a long time before finally giving up on me. I owed him the same. I understood there was a very good chance after this long, he had found someone else. Bobby at times was intense, he loved life, lived hard and fast. If there was not a special someone, he was definitely dancing in the local bars, drinking at the officer's club, meeting women and having fun. All that did not matter. I knew what I felt made anything possible. The only obstacle I was afraid of, the only one that I might not be able to overcome he no longer wanted to see me. I dreaded the game we played before left him tired of me. He felt I was too insecure, too confusing, too exhausting. I feared Bobby had determined in his mind I was only going to be the fling from his past nothing more.

Bobby was in Guam. Instead of being afraid of the distance between us, I embraced it. I realized it was the perfect opportunity to do what I should have done long ago. If I was lucky, if Bobby allowed me, I was going to get to know him. I was going to be his friend. No longer afraid of what I was feeling, I was going to trust my instincts. Trust where I believed the friendship would lead us. I knew he needed to live, needed to have fun, before anything could happen between us. I needed to mature, learn to believe in myself. I had no doubt all we needed was time before we would both be ready for each other.

After tucking my daughter into bed, after saying our prayers, I headed back to my room, grabbed a pad of paper from my drawer. I smiled when I saw the soap on a rope and the post card from Whiting Field neatly stacked next to it. I repeated to myself what Sister Mary Rose had told me, "Have faith. I can make this work." I must have torn up a dozen pieces of paper that night trying to write the perfect opening. After two hours, I finally finished my letter to Bobby. I did not write much, yet I said everything that needed to be said. I told him about my job at Macy's. I joked around that I was learning his home state of New Jersey traveling to training sessions and meetings at the various Macy's. I told him, if you give me a Macy’s, I could tell him what exit number it was on the turnpike. I finally understood why in Pensacola he spoke with such passion about growing up in New Jersey. From everything I saw, the people I met, it was a great place to live. Although someone definitely had to explain Newark to me. I could not find anything positive about Newark. I wrote him about my daughter, her crazy stubborn personality she obviously got from her mom. I loved how each day she seemed to change. I apologized for being stupid after Pensacola. I thanked him for the flowers, for the postcards etc. For now I wanted to see if we could be friends, see where that might lead. I closed the letter, repeating what he had said to me many times in the past, “When you are ready I will be here, Denise”

Monday morning on my way to work, I placed the letter in the mail. Unlike in the past, after mailing the letter I did not rush home to check my mailbox everyday. I did not set any silly time lines on when I should receive a response. I was for the most part patient. From time to time, I would still look at his postcard on my mirror and wonder what he was doing. Bobby was flying, at least I knew he was happy.

It took me a while but I understood what Sister Mary Rose tried to explain to me after my daughter’s birth. I had to have faith in what I felt, and I had to have faith in Bobby. Not in what Bobby did or did not feel but faith enough to trust him that he would always do what was best for me. He had always looked out for me in the past, he was a good man. I finally knew I could trust him with my heart He would be true to his word, he would not hurt me. I was no longer rushed for instant answers, I believed I had time. I was learning to let go of the fear and trust in faith.

Weeks passed, still no card, no letter from Bobby. I didn't panic, I didn't lose hope. On occasion I would find myself dreaming of the morning we first met or of our night in Pensacola. The longing was still there, it never left me. I tried to ignore the feelings, put them on the back burner, concentrate on work, on being a mom. After I mailed the first letter, I decided I did not want to appear to be desperate. I would wait for a response from Bobby before I would write another. Christmas was almost here, his birthday was in March. If I did not hear from him before then, I would send him a card for each. After all it is no big deal with a friend sends a simple card.

The Macy's where I worked was the newest store in the chain. My department carried all the high end designer clothes. An order for my department to survive in our area I was in charge of developing and keeping a client base. I worked hand in hand with the personal shoppers at our store. To help reach my sales goals, at least once a month I was sent to an older more established store so I could see how they displayed the clothing, arranged their department. Learn how they established/built their client base. Take what I learned and translate it to success in my department. With the passage of time, I learned to change my longing for Bobby, turn all my misplaced energy into drive. I worked hard and did my best to excel at our store, in the company. Every month, my department sales rose. At night if I felt the urge, the need to write Bobby, I would pull out my weekly reports, work on projections. Look at sales from around our division, see what store I could trade merchandise with. Rid my department of what wasn’t selling and bring more merchandise in that was. Several times a year all managers from the various stores were sent to Newark or New York to meet with the buyers. Get a sneak peak at the clothing lines being delivered for the upcoming season. The first 3 months I worked at Macy's I traveled to Monmouth, Paramus, Cherry Hill and Newark. Every time I entered New Jersey I was reminded of Bobby. I was reminded of the longing that never left me no matter how hard I tried ignore what I was feeling.

A week before Thanksgiving Cheryl and I spent our lunch hour in the hallmark store picking out various Christmas cards to send to our friends and family. The insanity of holiday shopping was fast approaching. In retail, once black Friday arrives, an hour long lunch would be impossible. Twelve hour days, short lunches and short dinners would be normal. I sifted through the cards, after a few minutes I found the perfect Christmas card for Bobby. On the outside of the card a radio announcer speaking with his “eyewitness news helicopter" asking about his eye in the sky reporter about Santa On the inside was a drawing of a helicopter with Santa spinning in it's blades above. It was stupid funny, it was very much a me card. Worried I would be too exhausted in the coming weeks to write a coherent sentence. Later that night I wrote a quick note on the inside of Bobby's card, signed it then placed it in my drawer. I did the same with all the cards I had purchased. I determined I would mail my cards on the way to work Black Friday. My cards would get to their destinations on time but not too early. I of course placed Bobby's card on top of the soap on a rope. It seemed like the perfect place to store it.

Right before Thanksgiving Leigh and Cathleen's roommate from college came to visit the munchkin and I. We use to joke around in college that Janice was sleeping her way through the Naval Academy. Most of the guys I was friends with she had slept with or had tried to sleep with. Because of this fact, I knew more of Janice’s “sleeping” habits than I ever wanted to know. She had even slept with friends of friends. There was nothing wrong with Janice, she was a very sweet girl, she was easy. She was a free spirit. To her, the way to catch a man was to sleep with him and hoped he stayed after. The sad reality, every one was aware of her torrid history, the number of men she had slept with. Even with all that baggage, with her history, she had come to tell me she was in love and was pretty sure he was going to ask her to marry him. They had talked about marriage several times. She was hoping for Christmas he would give her a ring.

I was happy for her and amazed at the same time. As we sat in the living room, Janice told me all about the man she was convinced was going to marry her. I was not at all surprised to learn he was not a Naval Academy graduate. A man might be strong enough to live his life with the knowledge his wife slept with one of his friends, but no man is strong enough to marry a women who had slept with most of his friends, or all of them. At one point as we talked, the munchkin came running by and that oh so familiar odor came wafting after her. It was time for a diaper change. I told Janice if she was brave enough, she could follow me into my room, we could continue to talk as I changed my child’s diaper. As we continued our conversation, Janice noticed the postcard on my mirror, the large lettering White Sands of Pensacola caught her eye. She asked who it was from? I responded Bobby Bianchi. Once again one of my friends unknowingly reinforced my insecurities about Bobby. Janice smiled in amazement, then said, "Damn he's hot. I can't believe he sent you a postcard. Nothing personal but he is so out of your league." Then she added, “I tried to pick him up once, he blew me off. So damn how did you do it? How did you get him?”
I had the option to laugh or cry at her statement. I chose to laugh, responded, "I have no clue."
Then almost as a second thought Janice added, "I heard he was in love, getting married or something" Trying to stay calm, I asked who told her? Was she sure it was Bobby? She answered she was pretty sure. She heard it from on of the guys she knew at a bar. If I wanted to be sure, I should call Leigh. The irony, the one person I believed I could not ask about Bobby was Leigh or her husband. Maybe that explained why he never answered my card, my letter, he was in love with someone else and did not want to hurt me, lead me on.

I should be apologetic, ashamed, I had sworn months earlier, I would never let myself drown in self pity again. Yet there I was having a pity party before going to bed. In my prayers I asked God, what was so wrong with me? Leigh was married and living in Guam. Cathleen was married and living in Pensacola. Janice was happy and in love. I learned Bobby was in love. I wasn’t perfect but honestly Janice finding love before me? I reasoned with God, I pleaded my case, I tried to be good, so why didn't I deserve to find someone who loved me? Why did God allow me to have these crazy longings, feelings for Bobby, when he was in love with someone else? How was that fair? That night I fell asleep with questions saturating my brain and tears filling my eyes.

The next morning I awoke with a new attitude, not a good one but a new one. Hell with love, hell with men, I didn’t need either. I had my job, I had a beautiful daughter that was enough. The morning after Thanksgiving on my way in to work as I had planned, I mailed all my Christmas cards, all except for Bobby’s. I debated sending the card for a moment before I threw it back in my drawer next to the soap on rope. I had lost faith in myself, what I felt, what I knew to be true in my heart.

In retail, every season the managers are sent to the buyers office. In the heat of the summer, managers preview the upcoming winter fashions. When the leaves are falling, the cruise and spring lines are highlighted. It was freezing, it was cold, meant only one thing, time to preview the upcoming summer lines. February 1987 Cheryl, Kristen and I loaded up in Cheryl’s car and headed to Newark to meet with our department buyers, get a first look at the summer lines. We left Marley Station earlier than normal, we were stopping in Short Hills to pick up Lisa. She was the Attitudes manager in Paramus. Lisa and her husband lived in Short Hills. We had decided when planning our trip, after our buyer's meetings we were going to have dinner at a local restaurant Lisa loved.

The beauty of my department, it was not carried in every store, so my buyer’s meetings were always short, on time. Not as many managers equals not as many questions, in and out quickly. Lisa and I sat in the employees lounge drinking coffee, waiting for Cheryl and Kristen to finish. Soon Kristen joined us, an hour plus later Cheryl joined us. Lisa and Cheryl wanted to check out the Newark store, see what clothing they had that our stores did not carry before we left. Four women talking and shopping, the afternoon floated by without anyone really noticing. It was a little after six when we finally started back to Short Hills. Lisa took shotgun so she could direct Cheryl where to go, how to avoid traffic on the way back. Sitting in the backseat I felt my heart drop when I saw the sign for Maplewood, Bobby’s hometown. As we drove by, I wondered how far were we from the house Bobby grew up in? I looked in the distance, wondered where Columbia High School was? Where was the field he played lacrosse on? I looked out the window, wanting to see him, wanting to hold him, if only for one more time.

We were all exhausted when we arrived in the parking lot where we had met Lisa that morning. We decided we were all too tired for dinner. As I got out of the car to move to the front seat I remembered I had Lisa’s papers and notebook in my briefcase. I had placed them in there when we were shopping. I asked Kristen to hand me my bag. Lisa and I stood under the lights with my briefcase resting on the hood of the car. As we talked and I searched for her papers, they had some how intermixed with mine. While I was standing there a weird sensation came over me. I felt as if someone was staring at me. I am not sure if I was too tired or too scared to look, either way I ignored my gut, the feeling and kept talking to Lisa. Cheryl got out of the car to stretch her legs, say goodbye. We talked for a minute longer. I hugged Lisa goodbye, threw my briefcase in the back, then hopped in the front seat of the car.

I buckled my seatbelt, then Kristen announced, “Wow Denise there was a really hot guy staring at you for awhile. I kept trying to get your attention so you would look. I even banged on the window, but you ignored me.”
I asked her where was the guy. She pointed to the right of us. As Cheryl pulled out of the parking space, I rolled down my window to try to see this "really hot" man. As I looked, all I could see was the back of his head, as he turned around heading to join a small group in front of him. As Cheryl pulled out of the parking lot I found myself questioning out loud, “Bobby?”
With that one word, saying his name outloud, Cheryl slammed on her brakes. The sudden stop startled me, I told Cheryl no, it was just my wishful thinking. Bobby was in Guam. I looked back again. one more time trying to see if I could get one last glance, see who it was. As we drove off Kristen stated, “Bobby or not, he was gorgeous and he was taking you all in. We should go back and have dinner. Maybe he will come over to our table, we can find out who he is. Find you a man!”
I answered annoyed, “Just what I need another guy from Jersey breaking my heart. Let's please go home!"

When I arrived home, my munchkin was sound asleep. I brushed her hair away from her face, dropped the side of her crib, lifted her sleeping body out, sat down with her in the rocker. As I began to rock, she awoke for a second, put her arms around my neck, then nuzzled against me and fell quickly back to sleep. I sang to her as I rocked back and forth. After a few minutes, I closed my eyes, when I did, I was back in Pensacola, sitting on the deck, seeing Bobby's smile once again. I surprised myself, I didn’t cry, there were no tears. I continued to sing to my daughter, and enjoyed the memory of that night in Pensacola.

A few nights later, my phone rang. As I rolled over to answer it, I looked at the time 1:11 a.m. Triple ones. Expecting it to be Cheryl or another one of my friends who couldn’t wait to tell me about their hot date, I answered the phone, “This better be good”
I heard, “What if I told you I saw a girl that reminded me of you?”
“Oh my God, Bobby?”
“You know one day you might try saying hello when I call”
“So does this mean there is a possibility you might call me again?”
Bobby paused for a moment, then answered very matter of fact, “Yes, it's possible.”

At that moment, when I heard his answer, when it registered in my brain, my heart exploded, I was happy. I did not want to blow this. I knew I had to control myself from saying something stupid, ruining this second or third chance I had been given.

I asked him if he received the card and the letter I mailed. Without hesitation, very matter of fact, he replied yes he had. Maybe it was nerves, I am not sure why but I began to chuckle. He asked what was so funny. I questioned, “You didn’t answer me because you threw my letters away? Did you at least read them first? It’s okay, I don’t blame you. I get it, I would have done the same thing.”
Before I let him answer, I asked one more question, something more important to me, “If you didn’t answer my letters, why are you calling me now? I am just curious.”

He was honest, I can't fault him, he always had been in the past. He admitted he thought after everything, he didn't want to see me. Then when he saw someone that reminded him of me, he realized he was wrong. For some unexplainable reason he wanted to see me, at least talk to me. Then he paid me one of the nicest compliments a man has ever given me,
“I tried hard to forget you. But you are one impossible woman to forget." Then he added, "I have a feeling you might ruin my reputation one day”
I smiled, then I admitted, I was having the same problem. I didn’t understand it, but I couldn’t forget him either. I joked around it must be that damn shower we took! Which started us both laughing. I knew he was smiling when he said, “Yeah we definitely need to do that again.”
I couldn't believe how easily, “Yes we do!" came out of my mouth in response.

I apologized for my stupidity in the past, I would do my best not to let that happen again. Bobby surprised me when he asked about my daughter, her father. I was honest, maybe not totally honest. I told him about the pros and cons list, how that night I realized I did not want her father. I could not see myself marrying him. I did not tell Bobby it was him I realized I wanted that night. I asked Bobby a question, a question I was afraid to hear his answer. I asked if it mattered that I had a child? Did it matter who her father was? He was painfully honest, he answered he didn’t know. He really had not thought about it.

He then asked about the letter I sent. He was confused about what I wanted, what did I mean by let's try to be friends? To him, that statement is what you say when you don’t want to see someone, you are simply trying to be nice.

I explained to him before I gave birth to my daughter I had screwed up everything in my life, especially relationships. I confessed I was immature, I had a lot of growing up still left to do. Once I became a mom, screwing up was no longer an option. I had to do things right, my daughter depended on me. Sometimes doing the right thing means taking two steps backward before moving forward. I hoped I was right, but it seemed now was the perfect time to get to know each other. Then if he wanted we could move forward from there. I told him I knew he had a lot more “womanizing” to do. He had a lot of fun to discover before he was going to be ready for me. Ready for anything more than friendship. He needed to get it all out. I needed to grow up. If what I was feeling was right, I would be here waiting for him. He asked me why now, what changed? How was I so sure? I replied to him, “Army Navy you said and I quote, ‘you think, I know” Well now it is my turn to say, you think I know."
“You know?”
“Yep I do. I definitely know."
"Should I ask what you know?"
"Nope!"

He changed the subject and asked me, “I am positive I know the answer but thought I would ask anyway. Hear the answer from you. Do you still want me? Do you ever think about just doing it again? What it would be like now?”
I took a deep breath, gathered my courage and answered, “Yes, always have. And more nights than I would like to admit”
Then I added, “Why else would I keep your soap on a rope?”
I heard him laughing. He couldn’t believe I kept the “cheap” soap. I exclaimed. “Cheap I know. You left the price tag on it. Nice to know I am only worth four dollars!”
He interrupted, “Plus postage.”
I continued, “oh, yeah, sorry six dollars. By the way, the paper towel wrapping, smooth, very smooth.”
I added it was a good thing he was gorgeous, it was the only reason I let the paper towel wrapping slide. Normally that would have been the end. He would have been crossed off the list!!

He told me he instantly thought of me when he saw it hanging in the drug store. He couldn't resist, he had to buy it. He added, he was only trying to be helpful. After all I kept dropping the soap in the shower. That is when I interrupted, pointed out he did not seem to mind I kept dropping it. He kind of enjoyed it, I enjoyed it. I reminded him he even asked me to drop the soap one more time. He interrupted, pointed out I did not grant his request, I did not follow instructions very well. I wasn’t going to win this dispute. How do you argue with someone when you are blushing from head to toe, remembering the best night of your life? It is impossible to win an argument with someone who leaves you speechless. I cried Uncle.

As Bobby spoke I soaked in the sound of his voice. I wanted to hold on to him as long as possible before he had to hang up. I wanted to be able to remember everything about the conversation. His tone changed when he asked how work was going, what was my schedule like that week. I told him crazy, there was a cycle to the madness of retail management. We prepare for sales, have a sale. Never fails after the one day sales, we have to stay late to prepare for a store visit from some big wig or another. When we are not doing all of the above, we prepare for buyers meetings. Projections, sell through, weeks supply all part of my new vocabulary. I liked my job, who I worked with, but this was not going to be my career. I went on to tell Bobby I had to work the next 9 days straight. The majority of days irons, twelve hour shifts. The bonus, at least I was earning comp time, by the end of August I would have a week of vacation, as of now fourteen plus days of comp time to go with it. I would have a year to use it all. I could use the comp time and vacation separately or I could combine them and use them all at once.

I joked around, yet at the same time I was serious. In August, if he still wanted to see me, my vacation time was all his. I would beg my parents to babysit. I would pack the soap on a rope, name the time, the place, I would be there. He was quiet for a moment. I could tell he was debating what to say, then I heard him say, “ That might work. We'll see. Promise?”
“Promise”

Then he made a joke, asked me a question that haunts me to this day. “While you are handing out promises. Promise me you are not going to let me die an old man not knowing what it’s like to be with you again?”
I was grinning ear to ear when I answered, “I promise, scouts honor”
“Are you sure?"
“Yes Mr. Bianchi, I am sure. Very sure.”
“Just checking, we do have a past history to worry about. Promising then walking away”
Then I asked him how long I was going to be given grief about my prior stupidity. His answer was forthright, direct, and very funny, “Until I decide to stop.”
Honest once again.

Then I heard Bobby take a strange pause, like he was taking a deep breath, debating what was going on in the conversation, if he and I were both saying too much. I asked him what was wrong. He explained, he knew when this got out, he was going to be given shit for years. I tried to lighten the moment by joking, "I think I am worth it. At least I hope I am." Then added, “ If it helps I think your brother might like me”
“Kevin, yes he does. He has reminded me on several occasions you are gorgeous.”
“Seriously? Gorgeous?”
“Yes, gorgeous" Almost annoyed he questioned, "You really have no clue how desirable you are?”
“No, all I have been told over and over, by everyone who knows both of us, you are out of my league. Way out of my league”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t sleep with ugly women.”
I couldn't help it, I jokingly asked, “Even when you’re drunk?" I paused, then adding, "Just kidding. Thank you I get the compliment, understood.”
"Accepted?"
"Accepted!"

I rolled over in bed, looked at the clock, it was a little past 3 in the morning. I told Bobby we needed to hang up, the phone bill was going to kill his paycheck. He laughed, said, no it wouldn’t he was using his brother Kevin’s calling card. I wasn't sure if he was serious or joking. Either way I couldn’t stop myself from laughing out loud. I asked exactly how was he going to explain the bill to his brother. He wasn’t, he hoped Kevin wouldn't notice or blame Jimmy, it would better that way. He explained, if Kevin knew, he would try to get even with Bobby. He could see his brother picking me and the munchkin up on his way home to Jersey from Pensacola. It would be show and tell time at the Bianchi household. Kevin would proudly announce, “Hey Mom look what I found” By the time he was done the entire neighborhood would be over at the house, wine would be flowing, photos would be all over the local paper. I had to admit, it was funny. I could definitely see his brother doing something crazy. I told Bobby don’t worry his secret was safe with me, I knew nothing. If anyone asked we never talked.

I sighed as I explained to Bobby the last thing I wanted to do was hang up, but I needed to get some sleep. My natural alarm clock was going to be waking up in a few hours, plus I imagined he had happy hour and wild women waiting for him. At the time it never registered with me when he said it was a little too early for happy hour.

Before I hung up I told Bobby go have fun, be wild, in time, if he still wanted to 'take a shower' with me, I would be here. I added for once, I would relax, wait to follow his lead.
He made a joke, an off handed comment, asking me to try not to fall for any of the Navy guys still hanging around in Annapolis. I assured him from past experiences he had nothing to worry about. He asked what I meant. I explained, I tended to fall in love with you Navy boys, you all never fall in love with me. I can still hear his voice when he responded, “I wouldn't be so sure.”

I hated to end the phone call but I knew if I didn’t we would talk until daybreak. I apologized to him, I really needed to sleep. Then I asked a favor of him I made him promise me he would be safe. I told him to have fun, but be sure to bring his gorgeous ass back home. I was looking forward to one day using the soap on a rope with him. He promised me he would. He was also looking forward to putting the soap to good use. He added try to behave while he was gone.
I responded, “Not a problem remember I am a boring mom now”
“There is nothing boring about you” was his reply.
“Thanks for calling. Night Bobby, be safe”
“Night Denise, I will”

I was happy, I was tired, I was excited. I opened my dresser drawer, picked up the soap on a rope, held it for a few minutes before putting it back, closing the drawer and falling fast asleep.