Stranger Things

Not the Netflix series, although I do love that one. But tonight I have a tale of my own. This literally just happened half an hour ago. 

I have spent a large part of my weekend studying up on spiritual and philosophical tools to help give me a boost up out of this depressive state. I'm sitting at my laptop in the garage, as I do, and I'm reading tips on the laws of attraction.

Now let me pause here for a moment to give you a visual aid. These are unedited pics. The tin in the window that says Black Hawk plays a very important part in this story. (The pieces of wood weren't there when it happened, just for reference.)

Okay, I'm reading along and I'm at this little excerpt that really speaks to me, because I've often used the “ripples in water” metaphor myself. Here's what it said:

You can become someone who purposefully creates ripples in the universe. Did you know, everything you do energetically ripples out and affects others? And the ripples then come back to you. This process is fast. Don’t underestimate how possible it is for you to be a true catalyst for change. You can be a magnet for all the positive ripples floating around out there. Like a radio station, you can tune into the good stuff. Starting right now.

STARTING RIGHT NOW

Just as those words hit my brain I heard a crash. When I saw what had happened, I froze. It took several seconds for me to get brave enough to slowly pick up my phone and document it.

The tin had fallen out of the window. I'm sure a gust of wind caused the shade to poof out and knock it out of the window. But the rest of this shit? Ah, I can't explain that. Just how, exactly, is that thing so precariously balanced on the very precipice of the table after having been launched from the window? I mean, note that it landed with the top facing back toward the window. It seems to me that if it had fallen from the window to the table, then the Black Hawk Chief would be face down.

But no. It's face up. Which means it didn't just fall. It flipped a fucking 180 in the air, landed balanced on the very edge of the table, AND none of the contents landed on the floor even though you can clearly see that the lid popped off. Olympic gymnasts couldn't have done that. The odds must be astronomical. And to give a little more perspective, not only is it hanging half off the table, but it's not even touching the table with 3 of its four corners. Look closely. 

 

The edge of the tin is higher up than the lighter. And just to show that it's not an optical illusion, here's another perspective. 

From the bottom side of the can it's easy to see just how close it is to plunging to the floor. And another perspective, just to show that it wasn't resting on the lighter: 

Or the lid of the can:

The very next paragraph from the book:

You start to control the energy in any situation. You can choose excitement, love, peace, fun. You’re able to change the energy in a room just by being there and by being the authentic you. It’s like magic.

Let's just say... I'm floored. Unlike the tin.

I've been seeing signs for weeks. This was like the exclamation point at the end of the sentence.

And Then There Were Two

Of the people who lived with me in "The House on Dewey Street," three are now gone. Dad suffered a sudden cardiac arrest early in the morning on Thursday, January 15th, my youngest niece's birthday. He was looking at me when his heart stopped. He slumped over in his chair and Cheryl ran to keep him from falling. EMTs arrived and rushed him to the hospital where they got his heart pumping again, but he was no longer there. We had life support removed on the 18th and he died a few hours later, at 3:30 in the afternoon, the same time of day Mom died. 

My heart is absolutely shattered. In under five years I've lost a sister and both my parents. Cheryl has lost the same, but also her biological father, between Mom's passing and Dad's. So much loss in such a short time. Yet, we still go on. We will still laugh. We will still love. We are seriously injured but not broken. We will recover. We won't be the same as we were before, but we will incorporate these losses into our lives and go on to find our "new normal." It will happen. I just hate the process. 

Dad's funeral was held yesterday, Friday the 23rd. I delivered a eulogy for Kenna and for Mom, so I knew I had to for Dad as well. I just couldn't find the words I needed. It was so sudden and unexpected that I hadn't given it a thought prior to when we began planning his funeral. The night before, I was up until after 3:00 finding my words and putting them together in the right order. Our printer chose this exact time to mess up so I wrote a rudimentary outline on notebook paper and spoke without reading for the most part. When we returned from the services, we found that the printer had spit out the papers nice and neat while we were gone. I think Dad would have gotten a laugh from that. So this isn't exactly what I said, word for word, but this is the copy I wrote the previous night:

Yesterday I sat on my dad’s stool in front of his work bench in the garage listening to Willie Nelson and agonizing over what to say today. It wasn’t long ago when I stood here and spoke at my mother’s funeral, and just three years before that, at my sister Kenna’s funeral. The words came easier when they were about Mom and Kenna, but I couldn’t understand why. Late last night it occurred to me that the words were missing because my dad wasn’t a man of words.

Don’t get me wrong. He loved to talk. Anyone who has walked through our garage in the past several years knows this. If he was in the mood and the topic was of interest to him, he could talk your ear off. But if he felt he had nothing to contribute to the conversation, he was okay with not saying anything. He didn’t always need words.

In the past week, I’ve had numerous people tell me that they learned a lot from my dad. Over and over again, I heard that same sentiment. Some even said they weren’t done learning from him. So I began to think about what Dad taught me, and more importantly, how.

See, Mom gave me her gift of words. She taught me with words. She read me books and told me stories and sang songs to me. When we had problems, we talked about them. When I moved away we would have lengthy conversations on the phone or email one another.

I didn’t have that kind of relationship with my dad, because like I said before, he didn’t always need words. But he taught me by example. He was a hardworking man with a strong work ethic. I can’t remember one single time during my childhood when he called in sick to work. He got up before the sun every morning, went to work, and brought home a paycheck to support his family. We may not have had everything we wanted, but we always had everything we needed. He felt that his role in life was to take care of his family, and he did just that, literally until the day he died.

He taught me as much about the importance of family as my mom did, he just did it in a different way. His way wasn’t as easily recognized and maybe wasn’t as widely acknowledged. But the lessons were there, strong and silent, in the background, just like Dad.

My son was the first male born into the family since my dad, and because I have been a single mom for the majority of my son’s life, my dad played an important role in teaching him “guy things” that I knew very little or nothing about, namely hunting and fishing. One day when Nick was about eight years old, he disappeared. We looked and looked and couldn’t find him anywhere. Just about the time we were starting to panic, the phone rang. Nick was on the other end telling me that he caught a fish but it swallowed the hook and he didn’t know what to do. I told him there weren’t any fish in that nearly dried up, smelly old creek at 6^th and Ferguson, but he insisted. He was a boy prone to telling stories so I blew it off as another tall tale and told him he’d better get back to grandma’s house NOW. When he arrived at the house he tried telling us again about his fish but we were so angry at him for taking off and not telling us where he was that we again blew off the fish story.

Finally he decided to go tell his grandpa, who without hesitation said, “Let’s go get your fish, pal.” They hopped in the truck and drove to the tiny little creek just a few blocks from here and sure enough, there was a bullhead catfish no bigger than my hand, that apparently had an affinity for the ham and cheese lunch meat that Nick had used for bait. Dad removed the hook and the two guys brought that fish home. They skinned it and they cleaned it and they filleted it, and while they were eating tiny little pieces of catfish for lunch, we women had to eat crow! Dad knew Nick wasn’t telling a fish tale, and he saved the day for that little boy. (Not so much for the little fish!)

One more thing I want to share with you about my dad is the laughter I remember from my childhood. When Dad found something funny, he would laugh with his entire body and literally slap his knee. When he would tell a joke, the smile would start to sparkle in his eyes before he even reached the punchline. When I was angry or pouting, he would make funny faces at me, and he would laugh even harder when I would get mad at him for making me laugh when I wanted to pout. But it’s one quick-witted, silly response that stands out. I was ten years old and I asked Mom, “What does ‘debate’ mean?” Before she could answer, Dad turned to me with that sparkle of laughter in his eyes and said, “De bait is what you put on de hook to catch de fish with.”

As you leave here today, I hope you think of the things you learned from my dad and the times you laughed with him. Those memories are the best for me, and I hope they are for you as well.

Why I Hate Valentine's Day

I know, Valentine's Day is over so this post is a day (or two) late and probably irrelevant now. But every year when 2/14 rolls around, I remember why I hate Valentine's Day, and believe it or not it has nothing to do with the fact that I'm single and have not had a romantic significant other for a decade. No, this story goes back much further than that. It was 1987 and I was 13 years old, far removed from the elementary school years when everyone in the class gets a card from everyone else to ensure that no one feels left out.

It was Friday, February 13th. I woke up that morning and started getting ready for school, but halfway through the process I stopped and went into the living room where Mom was watching the morning news.

"Mom, can I please stay home from school today?"
"Are you feeling sick?"
"No. It's just... Everyone is going to be getting stuff for Valentine's Day except me. I never get anything. I don't want to be the only girl walking around school empty handed. Everyone will think I'm a loser."

Mom gave me a hug and a kiss to try and comfort me. I'm sure she offered words of love and encouragement while explaining that sometimes we have to do things we don't really want to do, and being anti-Valentine's Day is not an acceptable reason to stay home from school. I don't remember the exact conversation, but it was determined that I would have to attend classes that day. I'm also sure that I wasn't the only girl who didn't get flowers or balloons or candy delivered to her on Valentine's Day, but to my 13 year old mind, it sure felt that way at the time. So off to school I went.

The day began just as I expected it to. Office assistants were in and out of the classrooms all morning delivering flowers for this girl, a balloon bouquet for that girl, and I just buried myself in my studies as I always had. But then things took a strange turn. Someone came in with a balloon bouquet and the teacher called me to her desk and handed them to me. I must have turned seven shades of red. I knew without looking at the card who had sent them, but I didn't care. I had something in my possession that announced to everyone else that someone loved me, and that's all that mattered.

I was elated when I left that class to go to the next one. In the sea of pinks and reds that floated through the corridors, I no longer stood alone. I carried those balloons proudly to my next class where, much to my surprise, I got another gift, and in the next class another. Some of the cards were signed from Mom and Dad, or from my sisters, but some of them were signed, "Your Secret Admirer." Of course the handwriting on the "secret admirer" cards was Mom's handwriting, but I understood the message she was sending. I felt loved. I felt normal. I felt included.

By the end of the day I had amassed quite a loot: balloons, candy, and even jewelry. In the last class of the day, I was once again called to the teacher's desk to retrieve a bouquet of red roses that had been delivered for me. As I went back to my desk and put the flowers next to my other gifts, everything changed.

"Wow Paula, who sent you those?" asked a girl in my class.
"I don't know," I replied.
"What do you mean you don't know? What does the card say?"
"It says 'From your secret admirer.'"
Then from somewhere behind me another voice said softly, although quite loud enough for me and several other people to hear, "They're probably from her mother."
Half a dozen girls snickered and giggled, and just like that, I hated Valentine's Day again. I had been put right back in my place as Loser (with a capital "L") because the only person who loved me enough to send me gifts on Valentine's Day was my mother. And when you're 13 years old, that's like the kiss of death to your social status.

Of course as an adult looking back, I appreciate those gifts from my family. It taught me that when I am sad or lonely or even when I feel like everyone else has abandoned me, my family will always, without fail, be there for me. They are the most important people in my life, and I am so lucky to have that kind of relationship with them. Some people don't have that, and I am thankful every day that I do.

But I still hate Valentine's Day. I see Facebook pictures of flowers and candy and jewelry, accompanied by romantic sentiments of how much they are loved, and I feel lonely and rejected. I know when a floral shop van pulls into the parking lot at work, those flowers are not for me. I know that I have no plans that night. No one will be taking me to dinner at a fancy restaurant or making me a meal to be eaten by candlelight at home, and no one will be professing their undying love for me. And while I am an admittedly jaded, dyed-in-the-wool independent single woman, that damaged part of my psyche rears its ugly head every February 14th, and for that day, I am a 13 year old Loser again.

I am sincerely happy for my friends who are in loving, committed relationships, and I don't feel the need to run out and find a boyfriend just so I can receive gifts. I just wish Valentine's Day didn't exist.

From one of my all-time favorite movies, "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind."
Random thoughts for Valentine's Day, 2004: Today is a holiday invented by greeting card companies to make people feel like crap. 
Yep. That about sums it up.

I'm Dreaming

I saw Mom again. It seems to happen most often on weekends when I wake up early and go back to sleep for a bit. I guess because I don't have an alarm clock to interrupt me.

In this dream Cheryl and I were trying to round up a puppy that had escaped. It ran into Mom's bedroom and I followed it, hoping it would be cornered and we could put it back in it's pen. (Mom hasn't had a dog since the 1980s and I don't have one, so I don't know where that came from.) Anyway, I went into her room and she was there, in bed. In her regular bed, not the hospital bed, and she was healthy. I climbed into bed next to her and she put her arm up behind her head so I could get close to her.

Me: How did you come back?
Mom: I don't know.
Me: I'm dreaming, aren't I?
Mom: Yes, honey.
Me: When I wake up you're going to be gone again.

Mom nodded and I started crying. I kissed her arm over and over again and kept repeating, "I love you Mom. I love you. Please don't go away." She hugged me closer and I said, "Mom I need to ask you something. Can you hear us? Can you see us? Please tell me."

Everything went quiet. I closed my eyes and waited for an answer. I remember thinking to myself that I needed to make sure the answer was hers and not something I was making up in the dream.

When I opened my eyes again, I was soaring over what I can only describe as a massive courtyard. It was concrete and stone, two levels, with columns holding up a partial cover, and a concrete barrier at the edge of the second level. There were words painted all over the surfaces. The first word I saw was "NO" but then I immediately saw "YES" painted near it. I flew across the courtyard and landed on the second level where I could read most of what was written.

No
Yes
You and I talked about this a long time ago
I know
You need your space
I love you

Suddenly it occurred to me that these words were all the words Mom had ever said to me; all the words of advice, all the words of wisdom, all the words of love, painted all over the courtyard in huge fancy blue and black lettering over the background of the sky with stars and suns and moons and clouds. I was overwhelmed by this realization and I began to sob out loud and call out "Mom!" repeatedly. Everything she ever did for me, all the love, the discipline, the jokes and the laughter, it was all there, and I could feel it in every fiber of my being.

I sobbed so hard in my dream that I started actually crying and woke myself up.

And this makes your heart stronger...

So... THIS dream.

I walked into a room. I'm pretty sure it was a bingo hall, because where else would Mom be right now? There were lots of other people, but I only saw the four sitting at the table in front of me. Mom was on the end and next to her was Dad. Across from them were Cheryl and Kenna. I looked at Mom and I could see her features in detail. She watched me as I approached the table and I saw her face light up. She was wearing the shirt she had on in her Facebook profile picture, which was taken in 2006 or 2007, whichever year it was that we gave her the surprise birthday party.

Me: How did you do that?
Mom: How did I do what?
Me: You know what.
Mom: When people die you don't lose them. They don't go away.

The scene changed and I was sitting on a bed next to Mom. She was explaining some kind of machine to me as I was trying it on. It consisted of an oxygen tube with some kind of box that rested on my chest.

Mom: And this makes your heart stronger.

Then she was gone and I was talking to a man who was a medical professional. I don't think he was a doctor. I got the impression that he was either a physical therapist or a respiratory therapist.

Me: So that's what happened when she died?

And then I woke up.

When people die you don't lose them. They don't go away. And this makes your heart stronger.

Firsts

I had one of those moments today, the first of many to come. The firsts are always the hardest after a loss; the first holiday, the first birthday for each family member, the first year anniversary. Then there are those firsts that are unique to your relationship. I think those are the most difficult.

We are a family of weather-watchers. Once I overcame my fear of the sound of tornado sirens (I had a fear of loud noises that still exists in a more minor capacity to this day) I found that I preferred chasing tornadoes with my sisters over hiding from them. (As a side note, after the tornadoes that tore through my state this past spring, I think that tendency is gone.) Oftentimes I can see footage from a tornado and tell you where and when it happened because I’ve seen the video so many times. Weather-watching was sort of a strange fascination for us; whether it was severe spring storms or winter blizzards, we were usually gathered at Mom’s house switching between stations to get updates. There was a sense of security in being together as a family. If something horrible happened, at least we weren’t alone or wondering about the safety of our other family members.

Once I moved away, it was routine for Mom to call me when severe weather was moving into my area. “Are you watching the weather?” she would ask. I always knew that if I didn’t have the television on, Mom would warn me in plenty of time. If I was already aware, sometimes I’d call her before she’d call me. “Just wanted to let you know I’m keeping an eye on it!” We also had an understanding that I would call her after it had passed to let her know I was okay so she wouldn’t worry. Sometimes I would call several times in the middle of it to keep her updated on my whereabouts or to explain where the worst part of the storm was relative to my location. It was routine, it was expected, and it was comforting.

I was sick much of the night last night (fever-induced nightmares are so not fun) so I was in bed for much of the day today. I finally got up and around late in the afternoon, and right around the time I was considering a shower I started to hear thunder in the distance. I remember Mom always telling me not to shower during a thunderstorm because lightning can travel through water and electrocute you. That was a good excuse to get me out of doing dishes during stormy weather when I was a kid! (By the way, this isn't an "old wives tale" as some may think; my meteorology professor last year confirmed the validity of it.) 

Anyway, today's storm wasn't overly severe, but it was one of those storms where the thunder is distant for what seems like forever and then out of nowhere it's extremely loud and right on top of you. With that first BOOM, which shook the house and made the power flicker, my initial thought was, "I need to call Mom to tell her I'm watching the weather and that I'm okay..."

And just like that, I wasn’t okay anymore.

Dawn

This poem is one that Mom wrote several years ago. She won a writing contest with this piece and I now have this poem on a plaque in my bedroom. When Kenna died, we had this poem printed on the back of her memorial booklet, and it was on the inside of Mom's memorial booklet. The pastor read it at her funeral, but I can't remember if he read it before I read mine or after. I think it perfectly sums up who my mom was: a deeply spiritual woman who appreciated the little joys in life.

"Dawn"

I walk at dawn through meadows gray,
to see the sunrise on the hill.
This is my favorite time of day,
when all is quiet; all is still.
And at first light in the eastern sky,
I hear a rustling in the trees.
I hear a brook go chuckling by,
and whispered prayers upon the breeze.
And as I feel the first warm ray,
A bird sings out from winged flight.
He's singing to announce the day,
and bid farewell to fading night.
The sounds of dawn bid me, "rejoice!"
They're echoes of the Master's voice.

- Shirley Love

As a side note, I have always heard Mom's name not as "Shirley Love," but as "surely, love."  She had so much love and she shared it abundantly.

I saw her this morning just as I was waking up. In my dream I was at the municipal swimming pool, talking to some people I knew from junior high and high school. I looked up and there she was at the other end of the pool. She was younger, probably in her late 40s or early 50s. Her hair was in the curly perm she always wore back then and she was wearing her glasses. She was looking away, possibly reading something, and her entire being was out of proportion from the scene; she was ten times bigger than the rest of us. Larger than life. I said, "Oh my god, that's my mother!" And just as I was about to run through the water to join her, I woke up.

How apropos that Mom visited me at "Dawn."

The Best Laid Plans Often Go Astray

Mom died on the Saturday before Labor Day. Kenna died on the Friday before Memorial Day. I don't know what it is with my family members and holiday weekends, but sadness now hovers over all of my summer holidays.

It had been nearly two months since I'd last seen Mom. I took an extra day after the July 4th holiday so I could have a long weekend with my family. Independence Day had always been a favorite holiday for Kenna and me, and I found myself rather depressed this year. I stayed at Mom's a little longer than I had intended and I was late getting to the park to watch fireworks. I don't know what kept me at Mom's, but I didn't want to leave, and I cried on my way out. Maybe I knew our time together was almost gone. I can't remember a single thing we talked about that night, but I remember turning off her lamp, kissing and hugging her, and telling her I'd see her again the following day. I did, but she was so exhausted that she could barely stay awake long enough to visit. That was the last time I saw her before her heart attack.

The last time I talked to her on the phone, she was in the skilled nursing unit. It was late in the afternoon, a time when her mind seemed to fog over somewhat, probably due to exhaustion from all the activities of the day. Her room didn't have a phone, so I talked to her on Cheryl's cell phone. That was always frustrating for both of us because she could barely hear me and I could barely understand her. We tried, but there were a lot of "What"s and "I can't hear you"s. I told her I would come visit soon, and she said, "I love you very much. Please don't forget me."

That's it. The last thing my mother said to me in a coherent state of mind was, "Please don't forget me." It will haunt me forever to think that she even considered that a possibility.

I had plans that Labor Day weekend. Cheryl had been telling me how she would go see Mom at the skilled nursing unit during lunch time. She would walk in the door and see Mom in the dining hall with her friends. When Mom would see Cheryl, her face would just light up with happiness and she would smile. My plan for that weekend was to spend as much time as I could Friday evening and Saturday doing homework so I would have plenty of free time for the rest of the weekend. I was going to drive in late Saturday or early Sunday so I could walk in with Cheryl during Mom's lunch. I was so excited. It had been a long time since I'd seen Mom anywhere besides her bed and I couldn't wait to see her face light up.

Instead, I watched her die.

The Truth About Death

I came home yesterday, one week after my mother died, three days after her funeral, and what seemed like a lifetime to my cats. I say home, but it really isn't. This is the house where I have lived for nine years, in the city where I've resided for thirteen years, but home will always be Mom's house. Not the house on Dewey Street, but the house we moved into when I was ten years old. The house on 8th Street. The house my grandpa built. The house where my mom spent the later years of her childhood, in the room that decades later would become my own. The house where my grandma died as my mother held her hand. The house where we spent Thanksgivings and Christmases and birthdays and holidays and just plain, ordinary days. The house on 8th Street is where the real stuff happened. The house on Dewey Street is where my mind travels when I need to escape to somewhere safe. It's where my life was secure, unchanging, and normal.

But what is normal, really? Death is normal. Everyone dies. Everyone who lives long enough has to cope with losing a loved one to death. Death is a welcome escape from suffering into whatever comes next, and an unwanted, life-altering event for those left behind in the world. Before Kenna died, I imagined myself at her bedside, holding her hand and having an emotionally moving, deep conversation before she peacefully slipped away. In reality I got something painful and ugly that I can't even bear to recount here, and I wasn't present when she died. I didn't get my Hollywood ending. I don't think anyone does.

Someone Important

Today was the day we laid my mother to rest and said goodbye to her for the final time. I have a plethora of emotions that I cannot possibly articulate right this minute, but I wanted to share something with you. I wrote this and read it at her funeral this morning.

There's someone important I want you to meet...
This is my best friend, we like to play
I want to be with her every day
We play with dolls and pretend to be grown
With her as my friend I'm never alone
Friend, this is my Mommy.

There's someone important I want you to meet...
This is a guy I know from school
Don't say too much to him, that wouldn't be cool
When I talk to him my legs feel like butter
And inside my chest my heart starts to flutter
We're going out now on our very first date
Goodbye Mom, I won't be too late
Sweetie, this is my Mom.

There's someone important I want you to meet...
This is my newborn, your new grandchild
Look! Did you see that? I think he just smiled!
Never in my life have I been filled with such joy
As I am when I look at this precious little boy
Being a mother takes so much hard work
There are times when I feel I'm going berserk
But if there's one thing I know to be true
I'll go a long way with what I've learned from you
Son, this is your Grandma.

There's someone important I want you to meet...
This woman is one of the world's greatest treasures
My love for her could never be measured
She taught me so much about life and love
And her inspiration always came from above
So as she leaves me now to walk with You
There's just one thing I'll ask You to do
Put her in the most special place
Reward her daily with Your love and grace
And although You care for so many others
There's no one as special to me as my Mother.

I'm Going Back to the Start

Sometimes our senses have a better memory than our brains do. My maternal grandmother passed away when I was just five years old, but I can still remember what her face powder smelled like. Spearmint gum smells like my paternal grandmother, who has been gone since 1991, and coffee smells like home. Not my house, because I rarely drink coffee, but home, where I grew up; where my parents were, where my friends were, where my bike and my toys and my pets were. Where my security is. A place where my family was young. Healthy. Alive.

I remember so many things about The House on Dewey Street...

Sisters – From Scourge to Sentinel

If my story can save just one life...

My previous entries have already established that my older sisters were two of the biggest tormentors of my childhood years and often the bane of my existence. Had you told me when I was seven (and Mom quite likely did) that my sisters would become two of my best friends, I would have scoffed for days. How could these two people, who then caused me so much sibling suffering, ever be my willing confidantes? But of course that’s exactly what happened. 

Oh, I saw signs of it even back then. When an older boy pushed me into a busy street (busy by small town standards, which means not really that busy at all) I cried to Cheryl, who then traveled to his house, knocked on his door and promptly punched him in the nose. When she followed up with “That’s for my baby sister!” he protested, “But I don’t even know your sister!” It turned out the pushing perpetrator was actually his brother, who still lived at home with their parents. 

Oops!

On another occasion that I sometimes think of as Slapocalypse ‘79 (although I’m kind of muddy on the dates now) I was involved in a verbal altercation with a neighborhood friend who was about two years older than I. Her closing argument came in the form of a slap to my face, and Kenna immediately and instinctively returned the infraction. This earned Kenna a slap in the face from the girl’s older sister (who was Kenna’s age and one of her closest friends.) It was a retaliatory wallop-fest of epic proportion.

Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf? Me!

The stuff of my childhood nightmares!

I’ve already touched upon how Cheryl used to scare Kenna and me with music. But that was far from the only thing that frightened me as a child. I daresay was the biggest scaredy-cat the world has ever known, and it wasn’t just normal kid stuff that scared me. Oh I was afraid of those things, don’t get me wrong. Spiders, bugs, snakes, the dark, the boogeyman, monsters under the bed or in the closet – they were all horrifying. But my childhood list of “Things That Make Me Jump, Scream, Cry, or Give Me Nightmares” included some not-so-common fears as well.

For instance, I was afraid of railroad tracks. It wasn’t just trains, although if a train was passing by I could be found cowering in the back seat with my hands clamped over my ears and my eyes squeezed shut. If that sucker was going to jump the track and land on our car, I didn’t want to see it happen. But even if there was no train in sight, the tracks themselves sent me into a tizzy. If I was crossing them in a car I was fine, and most of the time I could even ride my bicycle over them if I was going fast enough. But walking across railroad tracks was a different story. I would stand at the side of the tracks, look both ways, take a deep breath, chicken out, and start all over. I couldn’t explain why the trainless tracks scared me so much. Mom had a theory that I watched too many cartoons but I didn’t buy that.

The Music of a Year

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes. How do you measure, measure a year?

Twelve months. Fifty-two weeks. Three hundred sixty-five days. That’s how long it’s been since my sister took her last breath. When I placed my cell phone next to me that night, I knew it was going to ring before my alarm sounded the following morning.

Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world. She took the midnight train going anywhere.

It was 3:34 AM. I knew without looking who was calling and the tears started to fall before I said hello. I fervently wished I had changed my ring tone to something other than “Don’t Stop Believing” because I knew in that moment I had to stop believing that somehow a miracle would come through and my sister would live.

The Early Years: A.K.A. I'm Telling Mom!

To say I had a traumatic childhood would be a bit of a stretch. I was never abused, never witnessed a disturbing event, never disfigured in an accident--unless you count the barely visible scar on my right thumb from slamming it in my dad’s truck door. As childhoods go, I would say I got pretty lucky.

But I was the youngest of three sisters who, for a brief time which I barely remember, all shared the same bedroom. As anyone who has ever lived with more than one female can attest, the opportunity for disaster was rich.