Gentleman Caller

Funny how important things can be forgotten. Just today I remembered we made a pact, he and I -- a pact that he cannot take me. I must give myself to him or he cannot have me.

We have sat together many times, he and me -- we -- balancing the soul between us like the ballast we were. He tugged the soul toward him to see if it was ready to go; I pulled it back to center, refusing to let it feel rushed or pressed for time. These decisions must not be made in haste.

He sat with me countless times, nodding with respect, rocking in his chair (he brings one with him everywhere he goes -- he hates to stand on ceremony but is willing to wait forever) with his bony hand outstretched in invitation lest I feel rejected.

I think he feels lonely at times. Many fear him, cower in fear at his face. When he gets a spare moment, he always stops to pay his respects (he deeply respects me), and we talk.

He ritually invites me to leave with him just before he fades into the shadow in the corner. So far, I've declined but thanked him for his kindness.

And today, I remembered the bargain we struck, quid pro quo. He may not compel me go with him. In return, I entertain Death whenever he stops by.

One could have worse company. ~~ Ginger Hamilton

Loss

My dear friend's son unexpectedly passed away August 5th, 2015. I have no clever comforting words to write; Eric's death is a loss too great. I am aggrieved that my friend must bear this burden.

His age in Earth years is 34, but I choose to remember him as the precious little boy I knew, the one who stole a sip from my Diet Dr Pepper and spilled it all over the carpet. Rest in peace, Eric.

Have a Physicist Speak at Your Funeral

You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got.

And at one point you'd hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her eyes, that those photons created within her constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever.

And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives.

And you'll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they'll be comforted to know your energy's still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you're just less orderly. Amen.

-Aaron Freeman.

Read This at My Funeral, Please

I found this essay today, and am blown away. I want the entire text printed in my funeral/wake program. I want it read to my loved ones. This expresses just how I feel. Such beauty and truth, comforting in its simplicity.

You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got.

And at one point you'd hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her eyes, that those photons created within her constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever.

And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives.

And you'll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they'll be comforted to know your energy's still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you're just less orderly. Amen.

-Aaron Freeman.

To the best of my belief, this is the same Aaron Freeman: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aaron_Freeman

On the Other Side

On the Other Side

Imagine a beautiful vine

Climbing a high stone wall.

The vine finds a sunny space

and towards the light, gives its all.

After passing through the crevice,

Its bloom it seems to hide.

But in reality it's thriving

There on the other side.

And when I think of loved ones

Who have left this mortal plane,

I remember the vine on the stone wall

And know that they're the same.

~~Ginger Hamilton

[Tomorrow:  Terribly Real]

For Carol and MLH

A friend of mine has lost her companion of fifteen years. This spoke to me, and although it is far too soon, I wish her the comfort that will eventually be found in treasuring those mem'ries which remain. ~~GH

What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind...

~~William Wordsworth, "Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood"
[Tomorrow: A Mother’s Prayer for Her Child]

Child

The music itself is fine, but the video is what makes this special. ~~GH

[Tomorrow: Becoming Real]

Death, Sex, and the Muse

Thursday, I ordered "Denial of Death", a book that among other things suggests mental illness may be result of getting bogged down in the failure of your own hero's journey. Friday, Amazon sent me links to romance novels. 

(I have never in my life bought a romance novel or even perused them online or in person). I think Amazon's algorithm is drunk. That, or they decided based on the last bunch of books I ordered that I need to lighten up. :) Or get laid. 

They may be right.

In other personal news, the Muse delivered a story to my feet early Friday morning. Like 5 a.m., per usual. The Muse is an insomniac, or else functions on European time zones. I figure where the Muse is from, Time doesn't matter because she darned sure acts that way when she interacts with me! 

I was literally walking from the bathroom to my bedroom when Persephone started telling me the story. Nearly unconscious, I had just enough brain function remaining to remember I have a voice recorder on my phone. So instead of staggering downstairs and writing, I dictated the skeleton of the story. 

Then I went to sleep. Score for modern technology! So a new short story will be forthcoming. Warning: It is dark, post-apocalyptic, not warm and fuzzy. Shades of T.S. Eliot, even.
            ~~GH

Chapter Two: Prophesy Fulfilled

You know how it is when a love relationship is new and the two sit and dream of a future together. They map out what it is they aspire to share, the places they will go, things they will do, children they will raise. I had a second chance when I was 35 and met my ex. We had big dreams – he had big dreams, and his dreams became my dreams -- I dared not dream my own.

We were going to go to the Deep South and open hearts, expand minds, spread the love of racial harmonics across Mississippi. We would teach the people who, he assured me, were truly good-hearted well-meaning but brainwashed. We would show them their brown-skinned brothers were the same as they. I had long fought this battle in West Virginia; I jumped on the bandwagon wholeheartedly, happily, joyfully in fact.

One night I had a vision. Crystal clear. A middle-aged heavy set bearded white man in work clothes raised a rifle to his shoulder and aimed it at my ex (who at the time was a handsome, dark-haired thirty-year-old). The man was livid, shaking with anger. He spat hateful words as he lifted the weapon and prepared to fire. I stepped forward between my ex and the angry man just as the gun discharged. There was no tender death scene, no sobbing lover cradling me in his arms, no deathbed confession of eternal devotion. I simply took a bullet for him, and I died.

I felt this premonition on a gut level. I knew without a doubt this was prophesy. 

We never moved to Mississippi. We did our share of community service. I did take a bullet for him, just not a literal piece of metal to the heart. Still, I died that he might live. I stepped between the angry man and the good man, and let the angry man take his wrath out on me to preserve the good man’s life. Although I meant well, it didn’t accomplish what I’d hoped it would. The good man lost me; the angry man simply reloaded and fired again; and I died to both myself and the good man I sought to save.

They say three works the charm. I am resurrected. I have my own dreams now. Although I still have a massive capacity to give and receive love, I’ve taken my last bullet. Of course, there’s more to this story than what is here – there always is. 

Stay tuned for the next exciting chapter, and perhaps the backstory as well. ~~GH

Happy Easter. 
~~in loving memory of David Oso, who would be 13 now, and is, in my heart. 

Flash Fiction: Autumn

Autumn

We hope to maintain life’s vibrant verdant greens

and rich reds, but death prevails. Beaten, we suck 

bitter amber liquid from glass bottles in honor of 

fallen comrades -- road dust on our worn-out boots, 

tanned arms and faces hard as leather, our dried 

corncob pipes cradle russet tobacco.

~~Ginger Hamilton Caudill

A Leaf Falls

A Leaf Falls

The whirs and beeps of life-sustaining machines no longer intrude on my consciousness; they have become as natural as my breath. Nurses rustling past my door are ghosts from a distant memory. Warmth arrives as my daughter gently tucks in my blanket, protecting me from an omnipresent flow of cool air. Sounds are distant, mostly irrelevant now.

At last my family recognizes and responds to infinitesimal signals – the upward curve of my mouth, a tiny wrinkle appearing in my forehead, an escaping sigh. A lifetime of hurt where words never sufficed has passed. 

Harsh feelings and miscommunications were the patterns in the days when I longed to be understood. Now -- when I yearn to take my journey alone -- people focus on every gesture and sound, and hold me here. 

I'm a dried leaf clinging to a dead branch, assaulted by a chilled wind. Release, I need release.

My parents and grandparents attend me without words. They know I will come to them when I can – when the living allow me to leave. Smiling, my ancestors wait for me in the blazing sunlit corner of the room. Untiring arms reach out, extending an invitation to join them.

The wind nudges me again. This time I open my hand and let go. I glide away from the tree as the wind lifts me up. We dance, the wind and I, for a precious moment. If I plummet to the ground and am no more, this brief instant of freedom is worth it all. 

He sets me down gently beside family and friends. I am warm.

Guest Poet: Irene McKinney

Irene McKinney was West Virginia's Poet Laureate from January 1994 until her death in February 2012. I am only discovering her work. 

You have Irene McKinney (and my stubbornness) largely to thank for the absence of more of my personal poetry. My intentions were to write poetry, not prose. I wrote to her once, years ago, in the manner of a new writer seeking validation from an experienced one. 

I shall seek my answers within her poetry.

DARKNESS POEM Have you had enough darkness yet? No, I haven't had enough darkness. Have you had enough fire? Maybe. Enough wind and rain? Enough black ink? Ask me again, later. Have you had enough sugar? Definitely. Enough salt? No. I haven't had enough salt. Are you finished with wringing your hands? Definitely. Finished with spiders and silks And creatures of glamour? Probably not. Winsome looks? Completely. Pity? Never. I feel pity right now For everyone who got broken, Including me. Pity feels Like a sore and swollen heart Leaking blood and tears So hot they sting. Imagine that. Stay there. Have you had enough wind? No. Enough earth? No. Enough water? No, not nearly enough. Enough dirt to walk on? No. Never, never.

Bring Out Your Dead

As expected, eight-year-old Kelly wailed when she learned her pet hamster Henry died. She asked me if she could hold him. Hold him she did, for half an hour. She made a little bed of sorts with a paper towel carefully folded under his body and a sweet little top sheet made from a Husson's Pizza napkin. If Henry so chooses, from the afterlife he can order the largest pizza in town.

In our family we use humor as a yardstick to gauge where we stand emotionally. Later in the evening I pointedly caught and held my daughter's eye and asked, "What do you think about making a raft out of popsicle sticks and giving him a Viking funeral once the rain picks up? I think the flow in the gutter would support his weight."

Kelly tried to look unhappy but the twinkle in her eyes gave her away.

"That would be awesome. Can I help you make the raft?"

The rain didn't pick up and we didn't make a raft – never intended to, of course. Later in the evening I came up with another idea, since no one had offered to take on the task of burying our little hamster. In our family, it's customary for someone to volunteer to bury a pet. Otherwise, Daddy does it by default.

"Hey, Kelly, maybe you could just take Henry to school tomorrow for show and tell," I teased. My husband glared at me. Apparently, he'll be the one to volunteer for burial duty.

"That would be fun, Mama," Kelly said.

James chimed in. "Yeah, you could say he was alive when you left home, and then see how panicked your new teacher gets."

I knew Kelly would be fine when she added, "I'll take him in a Ziploc bag and when we `discover' that he's dead I'll say, `Wow, guess these Ziploc bags don't keep things as fresh as you'd think.'"

Doc began putting on his shoes. "Somebody bring me the damned shovel."

Keeping On

Alma slid the timecard into the slot with a gentleness that belied the strength in her gnarled brown fingers. For years, her hands wrung the last stubborn drip from a thousand soggy bath towels, but Alma had the misery now. Oh, if she had to do it, she still could. Thank merciful heaven she didn't do washin' no more.


These days the only washin' she did was when the old folks didn't make it to the potty chair in time. She'd clean their bottoms, pat `em dry, and then powder `em so they didn't get a rash.

The patients loved her stories about the old days. Alma boasted how her deft hands sent yard birds to heaven before they could squawk in protest. She spoke of shucking corn and snapping beans, putting up dozens of jars of apple butter she'd cooked all day long in an old copper kettle. 

Alma figured she'd shucked a silo of corn and snapped a trainload of beans in her time. She'd changed enough diapers to cover every rear end in Potts County – man, woman, and child. She reckoned she'd burped four generations of babies -- black, white, and every shade between.

Her hands had lifted her man Leroy right over the edge of ecstasy and set him smack-dab in the middle, breathless and grateful. She'd plaited his hair, her nimble fingers a chocolate blur as she worked. When he'd had his heart attack, Alma kept things running smooth, selling her canned vegetables, fruits and jams to the tourists who came to town that spring. She'd even pocketed a little pin money nobody knew about but her and God. 

Leroy'd been dead three years now, she reckoned. He was a good man. He worked hard and turned his money over to her every Saturday morning when he got paid. He didn't have much to say but he loved her with a fierce passion and didn't trot around on her none. A woman couldn't ask for much more.

Her co-worker Nancy's soft voice transported Alma's thoughts back to the time clock nook. Alma blinked and looked at the timecard. "What you gonna do this weekend, Miz Alma?"

She flashed a broad smile at the younger woman. "Oh, lawd, child, I reckon I'm a-gonna keep on doin' what I always done." Alma patted Nancy's shoulder. "See you first thing Monday morning."

The Ineffable Essay

Here is the paper I composed last semester based on the answers to my questionnaire (Click to read post). Let me just observe that some of the statements I made regarding my marriage are exquisitely painful to read now, but Irony is what it is. Hey, when you write Truth, you write what you know to be true at the time. Truth is not set in stone, despite what you might believe.~~GHC

Why Choose to Keep Living When Life Is So Damned Hard?

I have always been fascinated with death. I worked as a terminal care nurse in the 1970s and 1980s. During those years as part of my job and also a result of my personal curiosity, I interviewed and counseled thousands of people about their feelings about death and dying.

I attended hundreds of deaths. I can attest that the process of dying is, in and of itself, painless. I do not fear the process of dying, and due to my belief in reincarnation and eternal life, I do not fear death (what comes after one dies).

Now I am a middle-aged woman who chooses to keep living despite a handful of illnesses. I see countless people struggle to keep living under the worst of circumstances. Popular media bombards us with negativity and hopelessness. Depression is rampant. Suicide is a very real component of society. Suicide rates by state ranged from 5.5 to 23.37 per 100,000 population in 2004 (Care). My fascination has shifted from death to what makes people want to stay alive. What is the underlying drive to stay alive?

It is a common misperception that human beings possess an innate desire to keep the species alive. This is referred to as the biological imperative. While most scientists do agree that single-celled organisms possess a true biological imperative, two-time finalist for the Pulitzer Prize and Johnstone Family Professor in the Department of Psychology at Harvard University Dr. Steven Pinker contends the true biological imperative in humans is sex drive, and not reproduction or a need to keep the species alive (Pinker). His research proves his point. In short, if humans possessed a true need to propagate, men would line up at sperm banks instead of strip clubs.

Many Christians believe they are charged by God to multiply and replenish the Earth. Yet Christian scripture references only two instances of “multiply and replenish” – once when mankind began in the Garden of Eden, and again after the world population was decimated following Noah’s flood. Thus the so-called “biological imperative” does not exist in either our innate biology or our souls (according to Christianity’s teachings).

So perhaps our motivation is less a desire to stay alive and more a fear of death? Human beliefs about death fall into three broad spectrums: resurrection, reincarnation, and ceasing to exist (Death). Individual beliefs exercise great influence on how people view life and death. Some religions teach there is a literal Hell. Some religions as well as many atheists believe that once we die, we cease to exist. Religions that teach resurrection promise life everlasting. And spiritualities that teach reincarnation tend to look forward to the next progression in life’s cycle.

It is understandable that people would fear death if it means spending an eternity of torment in a blazing river of fire. Although mainstream Christians tend to believe in the existence of a literal Hell, the promise of forgiveness of sins eliminates the need to spend eternity in Hell and should relieve believers of that reason to fear death. Those who believe in reincarnation after death rarely fear death and tend to look forward to the next progression.

That would seem to suggest that only those who believe existence ends at the moment of death have reason to avoid it. We know from popular culture that is far from reality; people of all beliefs hang onto life and fight to live every day. Rationally or not, people fear dying and death, the great underlying leveler of mankind – the process each of us must undergo at some point despite our station in life.

    Fears include concerns for survivors; the aspect of not knowing what happens after we die; the loss of control; as well as pain, illness, or loss of dignity (Fritscher). The natural process of dying is painless; when coupled with disease or injury, it can be complicated by pain and a resultant fear of loss of dignity occurs.

            Still, I feel compelled to frame the question in the positive: Why do we choose to keep living? Does an entire species fight to stay alive solely out of fear of death? Life is hard. The world is in a mess. Sometimes people just want the pain to stop. The illusion is that giving up would be easier than struggling toward the pinnacle of that Matterhorn of Existence, pickaxe in hand, “uphill both ways in the snow.”

              I surveyed 75 people to gain some external insights about hopelessness and methods of coping with hopelessness. The respondents are primarily female (85.5%), under 30 (82.6%), and 67.6% feel they are better able to cope now than when they were younger. One-third of respondents (25) admitted to one or more chronic medical conditions and all but one found Life harder because of it, Those same 24 who find Life more difficult also perceive themselves better able to cope with hopelessness as they grow older.

The inevitability of death can contribute to both the fear of or lack of fear of death. My survey results revealed two motivations which demonstrate resignation to the unavoidability of death (negative – “I’m helpless; death is unavoidable,” “Nothing I can do will change it”) and (positive – “It is what it is so I may as well live as long as possible”).

            I keep on living for several reasons. Love: I genuinely love and adore my family and friends and want to spend more time with them. Expected Reward: I’ve invested so much into my marriage, I intend to reap those benefits. I did the hard stuff when I was younger and now I want to enjoy watching my children and grandchildren continue to develop. I’ve spent a lifetime learning to write and I want to enjoy the fruits of my labor. Altruism: Also, I have so much to give back to the community now. I consider myself a golden resource. I also believe in reincarnation and in the concept that I still have lessons to learn in this dispensation.

            Respondents’ positive motivations for choosing to continue living involve hope, optimism, and altruism, as well as a sense of incompletion. Survey results include “I believe things are going to get better,” “I can help others./have a positive influence on others,” “I’m not finished here yet,” “I am curious about the future,” and “I want to watch my children/ grandchildren grow up.” Concern for others is another motivation to continue living (“I don’t want my family to have to deal with the fallout from my suicide”).

The last question in my survey asked subjects to list at least one joy they look forward to in life. My purpose for asking this was twofold: I wanted to end a potentially depressing questionnaire on a hopeful, positive note. I also wanted to know what sorts of things motivate people to keep living. In no particular order, people most often chose: physical contact with others (lovers, family members, babies); sensual Nature experiences (sights, smells, touch, and sounds); smells, sights, and tastes of food; the sensation/perception of being loved by and loving another; health or regaining health; sleep or feeling rested. (Individuals)

My conclusion is that while there is an underlying concern, however irrational, with the process of dying, the mysteries of Death, and the uncertainties of the right- or wrongfulness of ending their own lives, most people choose to keep living despite feelings of hopelessness because they expect or anticipate that their situation will improve, they aren’t ready to relinquish physical sensation, and they want to connect or reconnect with others.

There’s something to be said for curling up with someone you love in front of a crackling fireplace, toasting marshmallows while feeling their breath on your hair, and sharing an ice cream cone, that just makes you believe Life will get better. There is something to be said for being in the present. There is something to be said for Love.

Works Cited

Care, Mental Health America and Thomson Health. "Ranking America's Mental Health: An Analysis of Depression Across the States." 2012. Mental Health America.net. Web site. 2012.

Death. n.d. Web site. 24 March 2012. .

Fritscher, Lisa. Thanatophobias. 30 April 2011. Web site. 24 March 2012. .

Individuals, Survey of 75. Interview. Ginger Hamilton Caudill. March 2012. Internet Survey Tool.

Pinker, Steven A. "Genetic Mandate or Social Impulse?" n.d. American Radio Works. Web site. 24 March 2012. .

The Ineffable Essay: Questionnaire

Cheating again. Here is the questionnaire for the survey I created to provide data for my research paper for last semester's 300-level expository writing class. I've never had any formal research training, so it is what it is.

The Ineffable Essay: Why We Keep On Living When Life Gets Hard

1.      What is your gender: Please specify male/female/transgender/choose not to reply

2.      What age group do you fall into: Type age or general decade you fall into (examples: 24 or 20s):

3.      As detailed (or simply) as you want, please describe what you believe happens after you die. Take as much or as little space as you want.

4.      Does this belief differ substantially from what you were taught as a child?

5.      Many people use self-talk to rejuvenate and reinforce positive mental attitude. If you are a person who uses self-talk, what self-talk do you use to urge yourself to "keep on" when times are hard? (Examples to get you started include "Things will get better." "This too shall pass." "Tomorrow will be a better day.") Please list as many as you wish. If you don't "self-talk," do you consider it an effective or helpful tool?

6.      What other coping mechanisms do you utilize to encourage yourself and inspire you to "keep on"? Include talking with friends, loved ones, chatting online, prayer, exercise, comforting activities such as eating, sleeping, intimacy with a partner or self, hobbies or creative activities, mind-altering substance use, anything that helps you. Please list as many as you wish.

7.      Think of a time when you felt hopeless (if you have experienced such a time). Were you most inspired to "keep on" because of: (a) Someone else (child, loved one, parent, etc.) (b) Potential that things would improve (c) I felt had no choice (d) that's just what you do, you keep going (e) I didn't "keep on," I passively survived and things improved (f) I knew I had my whole life in front of me (g) I involved myself in helping others or other-centered activity (h) someone encouraged me (i) please describe as many reasons as you wish. Take as much space as you want.

8.      Do you live with a chronic illness, mental, physical, emotional, any combination? If so, how do you think living with a chronic illness affects the way you "keep on"?

9.      Do you feel you have become more or less resilient (able to deal with hopelessness) as you've gotten older?

10.   And finally, list at least one joy in Life you look forward to experiencing again. Some examples include: a brilliant bouquet of balloons, melted butter dripping on a piping hot biscuit, the rich scent of a beautiful blossom, the sound of a baby's laughter, the exquisite smoothness of a lover's secret places, the sensation of a warm gentle wind rustling your hair, the taste and texture of a favorite food on your tongue.

Approval Rating

Loved ones who have passed on return to visit us in our dreams, as long as we need them to. It is their gift. My dad went a little farther. He had a few more wrinkles than the average father to iron out in order to redeem himself for eternity. 

Approval Rating © 2004 Ginger Hamilton Caudill

Dad doesn't talk when he comes to visit. He doesn't call beforehand; he lets himself in with the key I didn't give him. The only evidence he's been here is the scent of his pipe smoke floating through the rooms and halls.

"Hi, Dad, I missed you at Thanksgiving. You should've seen the turkey I made. Phill said it was the prettiest one he's ever laid eyes on. Everyone loved it too. I fixed it with pure maple syrup,the kind you always liked, and bacon. Sounds weird, doesn't it? I got the recipe from Redbook. It was splendid.

"Made my first apple pie this year too. I even did a latticework crust. It came out perfect, all golden and just right – not burnt or raw like so many apple pies. I didn't make my pecan pie this year. Every time I think about pecan pies, I see Joe throwing that chair across the dining room. Maybe next year. I did make a pumpkin custard though, and homemade whipped cream. You would've loved it.

"We missed Mena at Thanksgiving again this year. She's still out at BYU, you know. I worry about her, wonder how she survives, how she's handling her diabetes, if she has enough money for everything she needs. She is hoping to get in for Christmas though, and I'm very excited about that. Keep your fingers crossed.

"I've had several pieces accepted for publication since you were here last. Most of them don't pay but a few do. It's a start. Used to be folks framed their first dollar. Guess I'm gonna have to frame the Paypal printout for my first payment, huh? I'm due a nice check from a print publication but it won't come till they actually print the issue, and that's not due to come out till sometime in December. "

Dad remains silent. I wonder what he thinks, why he came. Does he enjoy me blathering on about my life? Or does he still judge and find me unworthy? The aroma of pipe smoke fades as he wanders into the kitchen. My cat Sam follows happily behind him. Frosty seems oblivious to Dad but Sam always shows interest. I don't know why. It's not as if Dad ever pets Sam or feeds her or even acknowledges her existence. Sam seeks his approval as I do.

"I could fix you something to eat if you're hungry." His face is expressionless, dead flat. He shakes his head slowly, scornful. My cheeks burn with shame. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking."

Dad moves through the hallway to the back door and leaves without a word, a lingering trail of pipe smoke the only substantiation he was here. I draw the scent deep into my lungs. It's the only physical connection we maintain. The pipe smoke is my Dad and my Dad has become the pipe smoke. In life he seethed and smoldered. Anger and disappointment with me were his dominant sentiments. In death, the fumes hang in the air long after his departure.

I forget his anger and concentrate on the sweet scent of the smoke,and smile.~~GHC

Easter Eve

I used to love Easter. From the concept of eternal freedom and life to redemption and forgiveness of sins to endless Love, from minutely detailed painted eggs to dyed chicks and bunnies (like they used to do to baby animals when I was a girl), from chocolate and malted milk birds eggs to peeps and yes, even jelly beans which I never really liked because they made my teeth hurt -- I loved Easter. But in 1998, on this day, Easter Eve, I lost my last child David Oso at 21 weeks of pregnancy. I too nearly died, almost bled to death. I never got to see his face or hold him, to nurse him, to change him, to watch him play, hear him laugh, smell his hair.

The following year, chemotherapy and consequences from cancer treatments removed any possibility of my bearing another child.

And for those reasons and so many, many more, today I cry. Forgive me if I can't get into Easter celebrations. I am thankful He and he are risen. But the mother in me selfishly mourns and refuses to rejoice.~~GHC