Kinko's Copy Queen

My ex-husband worked at FedEx Kinko's in 2004, so when he told me I wasn't allowed to work at the restaurant anymore because he thought my boss had a crush on me, naturally I applied to Kinko's. He was hired on at a full twenty cents an hour more than I was, but I didn't complain because I had a job. I would start out part time, completely open availability, and work my way into full time. I couldn't work in the same store as my husband, so they put me in another near by location run by the same manager. I never told my ex that he had been hired at a higher rate of pay than I had been. He had a temper. I never liked seeing that side of him.

Humberto was my first friend. We went through training at the same time and both worked really hard. He was a few years younger than I was and incredibly funny. People couldn't help but like Humberto.

Humberto and I both worked out in the "Self Serve" area, where our biggest challenge was trying to calm people down when they didn't understand that the paper was supposed to go face up on the copier. Their copies would pile up, hundreds of sheets of blank paper spitting out in a neat pile, nothing but the speck of dust on the glass screen copied onto their surfaces.

"Well why don't you have a sign that says that?" They would ask in a snotty, pretentious, snide, sarcastic and down right rude manner.

"We do," I would say at first, while pointing to the little picture. "I guess it's not as clear as it could be, but this shows that all the writing is one the front side, meaning to put the paper face up."

"It's not clear. I'm not paying for these." I got so tired of that. Eventually I just retorted with a simple line.

"It's there for people who look." I always said it as sweet as sugar though. Humberto would laugh at me every time.

Gavin was another of my favorite people, though he worked with my ex-husband rather than me. He was sweet and kind. He was highly religious, but he never pushed his religion on others. I always respected that about him. Nearly 100% Irish, he was a devout Catholic kid, extremely handsome and loved by all who met him. He never got tired of explaining the copier to the customers. He would gladly help them print their photos out on glossy paper if the customer didn't know how. He would practically bend over backwards to do whatever someone asked of him - and he wasn't on the self-serve side. He was on what we called the "production" side, where the Kinko's employees did the entire project for the customer behind the counter. Often that's what the "Self Serve" side started to feel like.

"I can't"
"I don't know how."
"I don't get it."

It's like teaching algebra to a bunch of first graders. Once in a great blue moon, one might actually pick up on some part of it, but don't hold your breath. Gavin never lost his temper with anyone, and he was always helping out even when he didn't need to.

Robert worked in the Shipping Department. He was funny, genuine and constantly chasing the skirts. He never had a girlfriend when I knew him, but he really was a charming guy. I just adored him, as he reminded me of my older brother. I imagine the two of them would have gotten along famously. The shipping department was rather close to the Self Serve department, and when Humberto was promoted to the "Production" side of the store, I started to talk to Robert a lot more. He became a pretty good friend to me that I could talk to about almost anything in the world. I would hug him before leaving at the end of the day if I left first, and he did the same with me. If we left at the same time, often we would stand in the parking lot and talk for an hour.

Courtney came to work with me out in the Self Serve area after Humberto switched sides. She was amazing. She was just like Gavin, she never lost her temper with the customers. Sure, we would laugh behind their backs about some of the stupid things they would say or do, but we never did it in front of them. That would just be rude.

Finally we found another manager for our store, and my ex husband's boss was no longer our boss too. Her name was Kathy and everyone liked her right off the bat. She was full of dreams and goals. Unfortunately it wasn't the only thing she was full of. I learned that one first hand.

She was nice, sure. Her biggest problem was that she didn't follow through. She would tell me about some promotion opportunity that was going to open up and she wanted me to apply for. She was going to make sure I got it, and then she would sit down and explain to me later why the MAN that was hired was far more qualified for the job than I was. That happened a total of three times in as many months. I became disenchanted with her and lost interest.

Courtney had announced she found another job. Humberto no longer talked with me because he wasn't allowed to. Kathy had rules against people on the production side talking with people on the self-service side. Robert and I had such a wedge built between us because of Kathy that work was no longer a fun place to be. Gavin; poor Gavin. Without warning one day we were all invited to his funeral. None of us could understand what had happened. There were rumors going around about him being found with a gun shot wound to the head. We were all completely distraught. We couldn't figure out who in the world would have broken into Gavin's home and shot him. He was such a kind person. Everyone loved Gavin. He was always in church if he wasn't at work or in school. He had friends everywhere. Quite literally thousands of people showed up to his funeral. With Celtic roots, none of us were surprised when Amazing Grace was played on the bagpipes. Most of us in attendance wept. By the end of the song, there wasn't a dry eye among those thousands.

Gavin wasn't murdered. It wasn't a robbery gone wrong. It wasn't even a gun cleaning accident. Poor Gavin; sweet, gentle and kind Gavin - he saw no way out of the stress, anger and depression. Gavin had killed himself. We didn't know for weeks after the funeral. It started to sink in when we realized there was nothing in the newspaper about a murder or robbery gone wrong. There was no autopsy. There was no investigation. There was only a funeral - a sad, quiet, lonely and crowded funeral.



Towards the end of my time at Kinko's, I started to loose complete interest in my job. The people got onto my nerves more. I was tired of explaining the difference between face up and face down. Life was too short, Gavin had succeeded in showing us all that simple fact. Finally, one day I snapped.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Montezuma's Revenge

Through a Google Search, I've discovered that Montezuma's Revenge is either Travelers Diarrhea or an Indiana Jones video game. Well, my story of Montezuma's Revenge is neither, but could possibly be the inspiration for both. It's also listed as a Bluegrass music group, a 24 hour ultra-endurance mountain bike wilderness race, and Wikipedia states that the term comes from...

Moctezuma (c. 1466 – June 1520), also known by a number of variant spellings including Montezuma, Moteuczoma, Motecuhzoma and referred to in full by early Nahuatl texts as Motecuhzoma Xocoyotzin and similar, was the ninth tlatoani or ruler of Tenochtitlan, reigning from 1502 to 1520. It was during Moctezuma's reign that the episode known as the Spanish conquest of the Aztec Empire began.

Well wherever the term came from, it's Hell on wheels.

Knotts Berry Farm was the first place in the world I ever tried Chili Cheese Fries, now a staple in my weekly diet it seems. Mom had never heard of them before we moved to California, so we decided to try them out when we saw them on the menu. They were wonderful!! We ate every last bite. Shortly afterward, any fond memories I may have had of Knotts Berry Farm were quickly wiped out with the simple motions of one very nasty roller coaster and the harness that failed to do its job.

We all hear the horror stories around the world about something going wrong on a roller coaster. Some kid falls out of a Ferris wheel because he's screwing around, another teen gets his arm ripped off because he didn't listen when they said to keep hands and arms inside the car at all times. It happens. That's a fact. But we never think it will happen to someone we know, or to someone we're riding with, or even worse, to us.

Montezuma's Revenge, or at least the one I'm talking about, is a roller coaster at Knott's Berry Farm. We went there back when I was about 8 or 9 years old, so it was in the late 80's, about the time we first moved to California. Mom liked the looks of it, and I was still young enough to not be afraid of anything but Lima Beans, which I still don't like. She wanted to go on the ride, and she wanted me to go with her. Instantly I agreed.

It looked simple enough. It had a loop in the middle and two dead ends on either side. We watched as the roller coaster would back up one of the dead ends, then get a fast start at the loop. It would go up and over the loop, all the way to the other dead end, and then stop. It would then go backwards through the loop, all the way back to the first dead end, then coast back to its starting position. It even paused a little in the center of the loop. It looked like a lot of fun to us. We got in line and couldn't wait to get on board.

We climbed on and took our seats. Clearly I remember my mother being to my left. We were both so excited. The harnesses came down over us and locked in place. The coaster started to back up. My heart was racing. I was thrilled to be going on such an adventure ride with my own mother. There was a lot of room in my harness, but I didn't think much of it. I was always a really skinny kid. I met the height requirements, so they let me on. That was all that mattered.

The coaster backed up to the dead end and we hung there in silence waiting for it to release. I grabbed the handles on the outside of my harness, waiting for that weightless, silent release of the coaster surging forward. I looked at Mom by poking my head out of my harness and looking around at her. She grinned ear to ear. Suddenly the world began to move forward in slow motion.

The coaster released and I hung in mid-air for a moment, weightless and excited. It raced past the platform of waiting riders and reached for the sky. It flipped over and slowed down just at the top of the loop. All of this happened in seconds, but it felt like an eternity to me. Suddenly I started to slide in my seat. I looked up and saw the ground below us from my upside down position. I slid further, grabbing at my harness with every ounce of strength I could, screaming out for my mother to help me as I felt my shoulders slide right between the shoulder pieces of the harness. There was nothing holding me in but my weak childhood forearms. I remember screaming bloody murder for my Mom to help. She turned and looked at me. She knew from my voice instantly that something was wrong. She reached over for me and pulled with all her might. She's a terribly strong woman when angry or filled with adrenaline.

My body slid back between the shoulder harness pieces, though my butt was still far from the seat of the coaster. I brought my arms back inside the harness and pushed up on the shoulder pieces with every ounce of strength I had, though I still could feel myself sliding. The coaster moved forward again and I slammed forward into the harness on the way down. It screamed past the platform on its way to the other dead end, my mother screaming as loudly as we could for them to stop the ride. They didn't hear us.

We flew upward toward the other dead end, my mother openly praying to God to save her only daughter. I don't know if she remembers doing that. I remember her crying out and holding on to me, screaming as loud as she could "God, please save my child," as I clutched her with all my might. She never loosened her grip on me for even a second. In vain, she screamed out to stop the ride again and again. Tears streamed down both of our faces as I sat there in horror, knowing what was coming. As that weightless feeling came over us again, there were no smiles between us this time. There was nothing but pure horror written over both of our faces as we plunged backwards towards what could have easily been my death.

I've never had much upper body strength, even when I was in the best shape of my life. I've never been able to do a pull up, and to this day I don't know where my strength came from. I braced my knees under the bottom of the harness as we plummeted back towards the Earth. By the time we screamed bloody murder to stop the ride past the waiting crowds, I had braced my arms inside the harness, pushing hard on the shoulder catch to hold my body to the seat. I hunched over and gripped the heels of my feet under the tiny lip of the seat I was on. Mom grabbed my shoulder as much as she could and pushed down with every bit of strength she could manage.

We screamed backward up into the loop, slowing just as before near the top. Then the coaster came to a complete stop once more. Silence filled the air around us. My back began to slide down the seat.

My ankles throbbed from gripping the seat under me so tightly on the very small lip I could hook them to. Mom couldn't get a good grip on me and had to let go. She grabbed my shirt instead and pulled towards her with all her might. She screamed at me to hold on. My arms didn't have the strength they needed to keep me inside the harness. My legs slipped and my knees were no longer braced against the bottom of the harness. I began to slide more. My shoulders reached the harness and started to slip through. I bent at the waist, dangling my legs in front of me over the shoulder harness. I hung like a rag doll upside down in a roller coaster I was supposed to be tall enough to ride. My body swung, a pendulum in the breeze, any second capable of finding death.

"HANG ON, MANDA!" My mothers words echoed in my ears every time I saw a roller coaster for years after that. I hung on for dear life.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the coaster started to move again. My body slammed to the back of the seat and slid slowly down the hard plastic surface. My feet let gravity take them to the floor once again. Mom didn't loosen her grip on my shirt, but I was OK with that.

We reached the dead end behind us at long last, and Montezuma's Revenge coasted to the bottom. I was weak from fear and could barely stand up to get out, while my mother was so pumped up with adrenaline that she practically dragged me out of the coaster and towards the ride operator. She screamed and yelled in his face, though I have no idea what she said. That could have been the relief in me blocking out whatever she was saying, but something tells me he really didn't understand her words either. She was completely hysterical, screaming and crying.

She told me later on that the second I shouted out to her, she got an instant migraine. It was instinctive for her to grab on to me, knowing something was wrong. She and I both thought I was going to die that day. As far as we know, nothing was done with the harnesses on that ride for several years, until a teen in the 90's slipped through the harness and died.

For years I was terrified of roller coasters. Then it became coasters that went upside down. Eventually I got over that and have only been afraid of slow moving heights, like a Glass Elevator, or the slow incline of a roller coaster in the beginning. Now that I remember the story of Montezuma's Revenge clearly, I believe this is and always has been the source of my Glass Elevator fear.

First Amendment

There has been an uprising here in the United States. One student of religion threatens to kill a Taxi driver in New York because the Sikh wore a turban. Outrage has been heard the world over because a Mosque is being planned in the shadow of the Twin Towers. A Pastor in Florida is planning on holding a Koran burning on September 11th, only two days from now.


I've never been a fan of organized religion. I find churches of all denominations to be full of hypocrites. This Florida pastor only seems to reinforce that idea in my mind.

However - this nation was founded on the idea of "Freedom of Religion" and is listed as the first amendment right in the United States constitution. So while I may not agree with organized religions, what they stand for or who is the leader of each group, I will defend to the DEATH anyone else's right to practice their own religion and family backgrounds until my last breath.

"In the summer of 1787, fifty-five delegates gathered in Philadelphia to draft the original Constitution of the United States. The original Constitution itself has only one provision that addresses religion and that is a provision that draws a sharp boundary ...In the summer of 1787, fifty-five delegates gathered in Philadelphia to draft the original Constitution of the United States. The original Constitution itself has only one provision that addresses religion and that is a provision that draws a sharp boundary between church and state,"


NOT Church and Church, not religion and religion, not Book of Mormon and the Koran, not ground zero and Muslim faith - but CHURCH AND STATE. What our forefathers meant by this was just this:

"In Article VI, Clause 3, the Founders prohibited all religious tests for public office. (“no religious test shall ever be required as a Qualification to any Office or public trust"...) and didn't even involve our schools, as we have been forced to do so in the past decade.

When we begin to loose the ideals and beliefs that this country was founded on, what more could be left of us to destroy? Have we lost our roots? Have the bricks to our foundation crumbled away into non-existence? Have our hearts burst into flames? Were our spirits crushed under the Twin Towers of New York City?


The great nation of these United States was founded by people who openly, and at great cost to themselves and their families, rejected the divine right of a King to rule them in favor of a Republic, free of any particular spiritual expression.

"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances. "


Do we forget that, in the first amendment within the Constitution that this nation was founded on, the freedom of religion was mentioned first? This is hardly an afterthought when displayed so prominently.

President Obama is quoted as having said just recently when asked about the Florida Pastor that "part of this country's history is people doing destructive or offensive or harmful things. And yet, we still have to make sure that we're following the laws.” (Mark my words, this will likely be the only thing I will ever quote from this man.) He's right.

When the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor that marked our entry in World War II, we went over and bombed Hell out of Japan. They're still reeling from the effects some 70 years later. During our seasons of war, though - we placed the Japanese Americans in our own concentration camps hidden all over, right here in the grand old United States. A dear friend of mine was born in one located in Colorado.

When the Germans decided Jewish people were bad, well, we all know what happened to them. It was a massive genocide, killing more than 6 million people based on their religion.

The Mormon's have been chased from Nation to Nation and State to State before they finally found their home in Utah. Religious persecution even here in the United States of America AFTER the constitution was written and the amendments on religion were added forced them to move again and again, never wanted, never needed, always searching for a home. When finally they settled in Salt Lake City, it wasn't their first choice. It was more like their 500th choice, and they chose it mainly because it was empty - nobody was around to chase them away.

There are so many examples of what Religious persecution in other parts of the world has done, like the many African nations where people are killed daily because they won't conform to the new leaders religion. Like Israel and Palestine. Like the Crusades that lasted 200 years.

We should be PROUD of where we come from and what our nation was founded on. We weren't always the closed minded shallow hate filled fanatics we seem to be now. While I agree that we should protect our people and our nation, I strongly disagree in the action some have taken against others Nation wide based on their skin color, religions or clothing preference.

We come from a proud breed of people, all of us. No matter what our background is, no matter where our ancestors are, each nation out there has a proud and strong people. We have much to be proud of and much to be thankful for. We shouldn't hate others because we fear them, or because they're different (though in too many cases we hate them because we fear them), but embrace the differences, learn from others, and hold fast to our own rich heritage.

THIS is where I come from. THIS is my heritage. THIS is my background. What about yours? Do you know where you stand? Do you know where you come from? Take a stand, be proud, show your true colors. DARE to do what's right.

They did.

" We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union,
establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence,
promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves
and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this
Constitution for the United States of America."

God Bless our Free Nation.

C-L-A-S-S

Something I've learned in all of my travels is that everyone has a story. From the little girl down the way that got exited over finding a penny on the floor in the milk aisle to the homeless man sitting on the bench outside. Sometimes all they need is a chance to be heard.

Colton sits outside every day of his life. He brings his wheelchair everywhere he goes. Every possession he owns often sits in the seat of that wheelchair when he isn't in it himself. His thick red beard shines in the sun over his rawhide, leathery skin. I don't think Colton owns shoes. Instead he dons dark blue corduroy slippers every time I see him. His smile is filled with rotting shards of teeth, but he lights up everything around him when he does smile. His blue green eyes are full of pain and misery, but also life, joy and adventures past.

"You wanna know the definition of class," he asked me today as I shared my standard greeting with him. His eyes instantly turned bloodshot and began to water. Fearful of what he would tell me, I couldn't help but be curious about his story. I've long been a believer that everyone had a story. Being a story teller myself, I was curious about his.

"Sure," I responded, almost reluctantly. The conversation we had before this was about suicide 1-800 callers. It had been a rather serious talk. Was the definition of class actually a touch of sarcasm?

"I'll tell you about class," he said, and smiled weakly. "If I can keep myself from crying." He wiped at his eyes as they were beginning to trickle down his face a bit like dew streaming from tall blades of grass. As they mingled with his beard, the color of the hair darkened to resemble that of a western sunset.

"My wife was an amazing woman," he said, as he wiped his eyes again. "I came home from work one day to find her waiting for me. She told me to get changed because we were going out. Let me tell you, Honey. Don't ever tell a man that you're going out and not tell him where you're going. It'll drive a man crazy. If you want to drive a man crazy, just do that to him, it works every time." He smiled, the shattered picket fence teeth glowing the color of a ripe papaya. I smiled back.

"Anyway, I told her that I needed to know where we were goin' because I didn't know what to wear. She told me to dress nice 'cause she was takin' me some place nice. I got dressed and we left. She still wouldn't tell me where we were goin'.

"She took me to a really nice restaurant. From our table we could see the cliffs and the ocean and the waves crashing. It was really nice. I'll never forget it. We both ordered Strawberry Margaritas. We sat there for a long time just talkin'. God, I loved her. She was so beautiful.

"You know how Margaritas separate when they've been sitting for a while? The ice starts to float at the top and the liquid all goes to the bottom? Everyone stirs their Margarita with the straws, right? So I started to stir my Margarita. I heard something in the glass go 'clink' and I asked what the Hell it was. She looked just as surprised as I did.

"I cussed a bit under my breath and told her to flag down the waiter if she could. I tried to fish out the piece of glass from my drink by working at it with the straw I had. I thought it must be a piece of a beer bottle, because whatever it was, it was a darker color and I couldn't see much of it. The Margarita was really thick.

"Do you know what it was," he paused, looking up at me. His eyes glistened with fresh tears. My heart could only guess, but I allowed him to tell me.

"What was it," I asked.

"A wedding ring." His face crinkled into a painful grimace. "It was a damned wedding ring." He sobbed once. "That's class for you. C-L-A-S-S." He spelled the individual letters out, his voice breaking on the second S. My heart went out to him. Against my better judgement, I asked the question I was dying to know.

"What happened to her, Colton?"

"She killed herself."

It's the first time in many years I was so moved by the story of a homeless man that I did something for him. When I went inside to purchase my case of bottled water, I bought him some soup and gave him one of the bottles from my case. As I walked back outside and handed him the gifts, he smiled at me once more. His eyes were dry, his heart had healed and he was the same Colton I had known from before.

"You're a sweetheart," he said to me, his picket fence teeth showing broadly. "Thanks, Honey." I said goodbye and walked back to my car. As I drove away, I waved to Colton. He shouted after me, "I love you Honey," and laughed.

Everyone out there has a story to tell.... all we need to do is listen. Sometimes it can change the whole world for someone else.

Burbank Dreams

I was staying at a friends house a few years ago, and the electric energy from the old home really got to me. I had visions all night long of that area coming alive and progressing from about 1845 to modern day. There was a peace treaty signed between the Calvary and the Native Americans to start out with in my dreams. Then it went on through history and I saw the town around there begin to develop. I witnessed an old fashioned Spanish wedding out in a field not far from the home I was in around 1890.

A cemetary was formed near there between 1915 and 1920, but before that the large field was used for filming a couple of silent movies.

Life progressed, the river changed course, the children grew up, and then there was a hanging around 1920 in a large oak tree out in the middle of the field next to the new cemetary. The children I watched grow up had kids of their own and they in turn grew up. More people moved to the area and the buildings began to pop up all around, including the house I was staying in. The oak tree where I witnessed the hanging was struck by lightening and through several years the stump stood jagged on the hill side before someone started to take pieces of it appart for firewood. Kids would go and play on that stump.

Finally around 1960 a bull dozer came by and pulled it out to make way for an area they would be turning into an addition to the nearby cemetary.

The cars would change every time I blinked, and the lines of traffic would fade in and out of the daylight as the days passed in seconds. Finally the time began to slow, and I could clearly see my own car sitting outside, the dawn creeping up over the horizon. In what had to be only an hour or so, I had lived for more than a century.

There was something that stuck with me through that dream, though... something I have promised to go back and investigate. There was one family in particular that never left the area. Someone that I watched from 1890 all the way through modern day had relatives that always stayed at the same plot of land. The house has changed since then, but the land and it's occupants have always remained within the family.

Was it just a dream?
Is there any way I could have been right about this?

The Wreck

"... and here we are, going round in circles, wondering if the lie will be discovered. I’ve told some big ones, but never really on this grand of a scale. And to what end? Actually, strangely enough, it covers her tail end in several different directions. She’s a crazy one. Perhaps someday she’ll let more people in on the secret, but for now it’s only me. For now she won’t even tell her own family. For now, nobody knows. Nobody but herself, me, and the driver of the small pick up truck that crashed into us..."

Exerpt from my book three days before Heathers death.

Little Love

Late last night I had a dream
That you were laying next to me
And in that dream I touched your face
While you curled up in my embrace.

You touched your lips upon my brow
And made me feel ok somehow.
You always have been there for me,
Even in my dreams, I see.

You loved me with no boundaries
Always uncondtionally.
Never have I loved so much
And now my Love, I miss your touch.

I miss your tongue and furry face
Your perky ears and prancing pace.
Your loving heart and listening ear,
I'll always love you, my little Dear.

The Day I Died

I was a whole 20 years old, naive and innocent, married and just had given birth to a beautiful, healthy child just hours before. I didn't know what to expect. I was scared out of my mind, feeling incredible pain and just wanted it all to go away. I think a part of me prayed to die as I laid there shivering under 8 heated blankets. I remember reaching for a nurse and whispering "help me" so low she couldn't hear me. The bed was being wheeled down a long hallway and through the typical swinging doors of the surgery room.

A mask was placed over my face and I panicked. I felt the blood flowing from my body. I knew I wasn't long for the world as I lay there bleeding to death. Fear tore at every inch of my soul. I scratched and clawed at the mask, feeling more and more faint. My eyes grew blurry, and I remember no less than 5 masked faces leaning over my head and telling me I needed to keep the mask on. I screamed and it came out more of a whimper. I was so weak I couldn't lift my arms anymore. They collapsed to my side and my eye lids closed. I couldn't keep fighting. My lips moved, but nothing came out. I remember crying out in my head, "God, please just let me die. I can't take it anymore. I can't do this. Let me die."

I got my prayer - and it was answered in an unusual sort of way. My Grandfather answered me.

I wasn't staring up at hospital lights anymore. The pain was gone. My hair was clean and hanging around my shoulders. I was standing in the middle of a grassy field with a split rail fence all around me. Daisies were speckled through the grass, and a cool blue stream eased its way past with only the faintest sound of a bubbling brook emitting from it. My feet were bare I noticed as I looked down. My skin was clean. I didn't have hoses and needles poking out of my arms, and the medical bracelet around my wrist wasn't there anymore. I was wearing a pale blue sun dress with little white and yellow flowers on it. A breeze lifted my hair and tossed it, but it was warm out and the sun felt heavenly. The breeze felt like a loving breath caressing my forehead.

I saw a man walking towards me in the distance. He was spry but elderly, I'd say around 70 or so. He wore a dark brown worn out old hat shading his eyes from the bright sun and a shirt that buttoned down in the front. His collar was starched and his cuffs were buttoned. His brown, dirty and worn slacks were held up by rainbow colored suspenders and his boots looked like they had walked many miles in their time. He had a rope over his shoulder and other than the Fedora not being a Stetson, he looked like a real, live cowboy. He sauntered up to me in the big field, a slight swagger in his bow legged stance. With one bony finger, he tipped the brim of his hat up and let the sun filter down onto his face. It was my Grandfather, Leland Vance.

It seemed like an eternity passed where he and I sat by the brook and talked like old friends. We walked in the woods and had lengthy conversations about life and love. He reminded me of certain things in life that I would miss. At the same time, we never left that field. I never moved my feet. I never took a single step.

I saw my father balancing me on his feet when I was just a little girl. I remembered my brother cleaning up my room as I watched from my cradle. I saw Lou and Laurie in the hall outside of our apartment door in Germany holding a casserole dish with tin foil over it. I felt my tiny little wooden shoes being slid onto my wiggling and kicking feet when I was a baby, barely a year old. I felt snow falling on my face for the first time. My mom held me tight and read a book to me as we rocked in her chair, the multi-colored knit afghan around us. I fell asleep on the couch while Dad was watching the news at around 4 years old and my father carried me to bed. I remembered my first kiss in the 6th grade, my first boyfriend named Victor, my Kindergarten teacher and her tape "X" on the floor, Cranky Cronk from the 2nd grade, Shandi Dillon from the 5th grade and all the friends, enemies and teachers I had over the years. I saw the school dances, the High School boyfriends, the disappointments and achievements, the triumphs and failures. I saw them all in that instant as we sat on the shores of the creek and wandered through the woods, and yet simultaneously we still stood in that grassy field.

It's so hard to explain all of this and even now I'm at a loss for words. When I stood there and sat reviewing my life, it skipped all over the place much like my blogs skip through the spans of time. I was a child, then a baby and then a teenager. I was married, and yet I was a toddler. I was an infant, child, girl, woman and lady all at once. The images swirled inside my head like stars in a blender.

Our walk in the woods and rest by the creek was over and we stood there in the peaceful meadow. I wanted to hug him and tell him thank you, but I couldn't seem to reach out for him. He tipped his hat back with one finger just a little more. He smiled at me with a broad smile filled with yellowed teeth.

"Well, Kiddo? Ya ready to go?"

He seemed to emit light in that moment, like the paintings from the Renaissance depicting angels. He began to have a faint glow all around him, outlining him as though the sun were setting behind him. He embodied a presence I could feel, powerful and loving. I wanted to go with him, but I didn't know where we were headed. More than ready to follow wherever he went, I replied.

"Go where, Grandpa?" Eagerly I awaited his response. The light behind him grew stronger and I could feel the force within him pulling me closer. He looked at me a long moment. His eyes pierced through to my soul and he read everything inside me. I could feel it as easily as if he were turning pages in my mind. He smirked at me before breaking into a wide smile. He reached up with his bony hand and touched my shoulder gently. He moved to stand beside me and wrapped an arm around my shoulder. I tried to look straight into the light now - but it was gone.

He thumped me on the back with his bony hand and I could feel the pride in his touch.

"Naw," he said to me after a long moment. "You aren't ready." He hugged me close to his side with that one arm and I felt a sense of dismay. I knew what would happen from here. He released his grip on my shoulder and took his place in front of me again. With the brim of his hat, he nodded his head toward whatever lay behind me in the distance. The light behind him brightened and he took a single step backward. "Go home, Kid."

The light grew brighter and he began to fade from sight. I wanted to cry out to him not to leave me, but my voice was tight. I couldn't speak. The light enveloped everything and he was gone. The last thing to fade from view was the tip of his old shoe.

I woke up from surgery then and looked into the faces of my mother and father. They stood over me, both bleary eyed and trying to cover their tears. They wiped feverishly at their faces, my Dad trying to conceal himself behind my mother.

"Hey Kid," my mother said to me smiling. She patted me on the back of my hand. She had no idea I had just been with her father. I didn't have the heart or the strength to tell her. Mom reached in and kissed me on the cheek.

"Hey, Kiddo," my father said to me. His voice sounded oddly familiar, like my Grandfathers.

I had begged to die and yet I lived. I had died three times during that brief dream and the doctors weren't sure I would actually pull through. All I remember was that all of the pain I had felt was at long last gone. I no longer feared anything, including death. My grandpa was there to take care of me. When I woke up, he was gone - and yet I knew he was still around.

I gained a new lease on life. I remembered all the things he had reminded me of in the woods and by the creek. There was a lot of good in the world and I had a lot of love all around me. I had reasons to live and things to do before I was ready to move on. He had known that. That's why he sent me back.

I know now that I wasn't ready to go then. I just hope he's there when I'm finally ready.

Angel on my Shoulder

I didn't know my Mom's father very well. Every memory I have of him I can count on one hand - and yet he left a powerful impression on me.

My earliest memory of him was a time he babysat his grandchildren, including my brother, my cousin Michael, his sister Shawna, and myself. Gremlins was playing on the TV and we were at my crazy Uncle Mike's house. The adults had all gone out together and we were told to stay inside... that's about all I remember, other than his bony fingers jabbing me as he patted me on my back. He clearly loved his grandchildren and we loved him in return.

Fast forward a few years... Dad had a year remote tour in Alaska and we couldn't go with him, so Mom moved us kids to Arkansas so she could be near her family. Looking back on that time now, I realize what a basket case she was then. I imagine I would be too if I had two children around me all the time and no spouse to help me take care of them at my age now. She was right about 30 years old then. I'm sure we drove her crazy.

We often spent afternoons and evenings at her parents house. By then my grandfather had already begun to forget many things. His mind was beginning to slip and occasionally he didn't know who he was anymore.

"Excuse me, Ma'am," he said one day while we were visiting my ill grandmother. Mom sat on the side of the bed taking care of her, feeding her soup. Grandpa had been sitting in the living room quietly watching TV for a while when suddenly he got a lost look in his face and stood up. He wandered into my grandmothers room. "I don't know where I am or how I got here," he paused and swallowed, "but if you let me stay the night, I promise I'll be gone by mornin'."

It was a very sad moment for my mother. I remember her crying over that day. He didn't know who he was or who the woman was he married and spent more than 35 years with. It was a devastating day for us all, and we knew then that his mind had really gone.

Over the years he had occasional moments of clarity, but they were so far and few between that I never really got the chance to know him. We only lived in Arkansas for that one year in my youth, and even though we went over there often, that's the only clear memory I have of him. That, I feel, is an absolute pitty.

The last memory I have of him while he was still alive was during my mothers 20 year High School reunion. My cousin Michael and I had stayed home with Grandpa because someone needed to be there with him. Otherwise he was prone to strip naked and wander down the street, wondering where he was. I wish it were something I could giggle about, but it got quite serious.

Michael and I were sitting on the couch. Grandpa was beside me and had been quiet for hours. It was fine with me, he didn't know who I was anyway. He hadn't known my name since I was around 5 years old. I was a complete stranger to him at 15 years. Suddenly, he spoke up.

"Who are those two little boys over there?" Since he often mumbled to himself, I took that moment to be that exact thing, his ramblings to himself. I didn't respond.

"Who are those two boys," he asked again after a long moment.

"Grandpa," I said, looking over towards the kitchen table where he pointed, "there aren't any little boys over there."

A few more minutes of silence followed before he spoke again. He mainly mumbled, but after a few minutes he grew loud enough to understand.

"Who are those two little boys over there," he asked me again, this time jabbing me in the ribs with his elbow.

"Grandpa, there's nobody over there," I said again, slightly annoyed.

"Yes there are," he said. "There's two little boys."

"Grandpa, there isn't anyone over there."

"Yes there are!" He was starting to get upset and I contemplated going along with it just to make him feel better. Just about the time I was going to say something, he continued. "Manda," he said, shocking me beyond belief, "there are two little boys over there, and they BOTH have wings!"

My jaw fell open and chills ran down my spine. I fell silent, put an arm around his tiny shoulders and held him tight for a long time. He patted me on the back.

"You're a good kid," he said. "I'm proud of you." The clarity in his eyes faded, and I knew once more that he was gone.

When Mom came back that night after her reunion, I had waited up to tell her what had happened. She fussed at first because I was still awake, but when I told her what happened, her eyes teared up and she stared at me in silence.

"It won't be long then," she said to me. She hugged me tightly and walked away. She couldn't look at me for a little while.

That year on my 16th birthday, he finally passed away of natural causes. Though I didn't know him, for some reason I feel like there was some kind of a connection between us. My 16th birthday should have been an amazing day. Some of my friends brought me cards and gifts that I loved, but I couldn't shake the melancholy feeling I was getting. It got stronger as the day went on. By the time my parents brought lunch to my school from Wendy's I knew deep inside that something was wrong. I couldn't explain it - I just knew.

When I got home, they came clean. They didn't want to ruin my birthday so they wouldn't tell me, but when I saw Mom watching old home movies looking for clips of Grandpa and talking on the phone to an airline rep, I knew what was going on. Dad told me and I cried, but suddenly the whole day made sense. I understood then. I didn't cry for too long - I settled. I've never before or since excepted a death that easily.

The story doesn't end there though... I never expected it to happen, but I saw him once more.

In the year 2000, on September 1st, my life took a dramatic halt - and I do mean halt. I died three times. Three times I was brought back by the doctors in an emergency surgery. Yet only once did my brain register any of this. It was one simple dream through all of it for me, as they fought for hours to save my life.

Far off in the distance, I saw him walking towards me. He looked exactly how he did when I was so little, when he was elderly but healthy. He walked with purpose and a slight swagger. He smiled that broad smile he had, and the right eye squinted a bit. There was no mistaking it, that was my grandfather under that brown fedora.

"Well Kiddo," he said to me when he got close, "ya ready to go?" I was puzzled.

"Go where, Grandpa?"

He looked me up and down a long moment. He smirked, smiled, and patted me on the back with his bony hand once more. I felt the knotted knuckles thump my flesh on my shoulder. It was painfully wonderful.

"Naw," he said in that familiar southern accent he had, "you aren't ready." He smiled at me once more and nodded his head towards whatever lay behind me. "Go home, Kid."

I woke up in the hospital at that moment and looked up into the red and crying eyes of my Mother and Father.

"Hi, Mom," I said. "Hi Dad." That was about all I remember. I passed out then and woke up two days later with both of them close to the bed. They never left my side.

I never had the heart to tell my Mom about that dream. I've never forgotten about it, and I know I'll remember it for as long as humanly possible, but I'll always believe that he chose me for a reason. He loved me for who I was.

And he sent me back for a reason.

Honeybee

I worked another 12 hour shift on Saturday and was swarmed by around 1600 honeybees while there. At first, I was anything but scared. I grabbed the camera and wanted a picture of the huge swarming mass of them. I walked right up to the ball of bees in the bush with them buzzing all around my head and ears, landing on my arms and shoulders, clinging to my pants and boots. I took several photos and backed away slowly, all the bees taking off as I did. I wasn't worried about being stung, though I probably should have been worried. It would have meant hospital time for me. It was discovered a few years ago that I'm highly allergic to bees now.

My employees have learned a new respect for me though... They saw me stare fear and death in the face only to walk away without a scratch or sting.

"What are you DOING" they asked me.

"I need pictures for the incident report," I replied.

"We can do that," they said. "We wont get killed for trying."

I smiled, walked towards them, and told them I already had the pictures, it was too late. Then a bee landed on one Officer's arm and he started swinging his arms wildly. The other Officer's eyes grew wide and he backed up quickly. I knew I couldn't get these guys to get the pictures I had wanted. Besides, I often tell them I'll never ask of them anything I wouldn't do myself. They finally saw that first hand.

When the proper people sprayed the chemicals on the bees, they started dropping out of the air like little missiles. The first one that landed on my shoulder didn't effect me, but when a dozen dropped on me at once and got hung up in my hair, that was when the panic set in. I called my guys to handle the closure while I guided people around the area in a great sweeping arc. I hid under an umbrella as the shower of bees continued to rain down on the mall for a full hour afterward.

I spent the rest of the night gagging, having a hard time breathing. At first I was worried I might have been stung, but once I looked closely I discovered that I was fine. While breathing was labored due to the chemicals, had I been stung I wouldn't have been able to breathe at all.

I've had a few run-ins with Bees over the past few years. The earliest I can remember was stepping on one. Mom and Dad told me not to go outside without my shoes on, and me being about 3 years old, learned that lesson the hard way. I went crying and screaming into the house where my parents scolded me for not doing as I was told. Then my mother mixed some meat tenderizer with water into a paste and put that on my sting. She pulled out the stinger with tweezers. I'm not sure who it was, but I remember having a visitor over right then. I think it was our neighbor, who told my mom how she got rid of the pain for her children when they were stung by bees. I laid there and milked the sympathy for all it was worth.

Another time we were visiting my Dad's sister, though I fail to remember if it was Aunt Denise or Aunt Lisa. I remember the house was a large A frame house with an upstairs, and it was out in the woods, so that leads me to believe that it's more likely to be Aunt Denise, since Lisa lives in Arizona where the woods are sparse and consist of mainly shrub brush and saguaro instead of live oak and cedar. Lightening Bugs zapped through the air sporadically at the early evening hours. I would spend an hour catching as many as I could and putting them into an empty, cleaned mayonnaise jar. The jar would glow with the phosphorescence of the lovely bugs for hours after I would go to bed. We would cook marshmallows over an open fire in the back yard and make s'mores. We would play in the tree house close by. My cousins would fight over who got to play with me or my brother. Yes, now that my memory has been sparked, it was my Aunt Denise and her boys, Chad, Shawn and Jason.

I remember when we first got to the A frame house. I wanted to see every inch of it. I ran from this room to that room, looking here, going there, seeing everything I could see. When I got to the french doors upstairs that led out onto the balcony, I asked if I could go outside. As soon as I got the yes, I swung the doors open and jumped up on the chair to get a better look at everything around me.

The doors swung open and knocked down a hornets nest directly behind me. Within seconds, they were swarming everywhere, going inside the house through the open doors and climbing all over my legs and arms. They stung and bit me almost immediately and I screamed in pain. My father ran out onto the patio and started brushing them off of me in droves. They fell as he swatted this way and that. I'm sure he got stung and bitten too, but he didn't care. He picked me up and rushed me down stairs to the couch. He laid me down and picked off the remaining hornets that had continued to sting and bite any flesh they could make contact with. My memory goes fuzzy from here and I have to wonder if I didn't pass out at that point.

When my memory comes back into focus, my Aunt had made another paste with dark colored meat tenderizer and was applying it to my body in every place that had begun to swell into golf ball sized lumps. I shivered from cold and nerves, not knowing exactly what was going on.

I'm not sure if that was the moment my body got an overdose of bee stings, but many years later when I was stung by a honeybee in 2006 outside of my office at work, I was rushed to the hospital. My throat had closed up and my face was turning purple. I couldn't breathe or swallow, and my skin had started to tingle slightly like it was going to sleep. My entire arm swelled and puffed up like a bright red balloon. It was announced later on that I was very allergic to bees and that I should avoid them at all cost from then on.

There have been a few times when I would bail out of my car and leave it abandoned on the side of the road because a bee had flown in through the open roof or a rolled down window. I've left my home for hours on end because one had gotten through a small hole in the window screen. And yet, here I was on Saturday, walking straight into the Lion's Den just to snap a few pictures.

Sometimes I can't help but feel that I do these things in order to prove a point. I want to make sure that I can still be a dare devil the way I was as a kid, riding a jet ski for the first time at top speeds or breaking into an old wooden shack in order to look tough for someone else. My arm was covered in bees on Saturday and I didn't stop approaching the swarming, squirming mass that had accumulated in the bushes and trees near by.

Then again, sometimes I know I don't do these things to impress anyone but myself. It was perhaps a stupid move, but I did it to prove to myself that I could. I'm not the bravest person in the world, and sometimes I fear stupid things - like glass elevators - but I make up for it in my own way.

Brave or stupid - that's me. Sometimes there's a fine line between the two. Sometimes I tread on that line like a child not knowing when fire is dangerous.

I've recently acquired the nickname Honeybee by someone - and to date it's my most favorite nickname I've ever been given. I smile each time I read it or hear it spoken. I remember the times in my life I've been stung and how much it hurt. Bees have their purpose though, just as everything else in the Circle of Life does. They can hurt us if we scare them or approach them in the wrong way, and yet they can provide us with such wonderful things as pollinated flowers and sweet honey. Maybe that's why I like the nickname. I can hurt those around me as a self defence mechanism when needed, but most of the time I go about my life as merrily as a little bee, trying my best to get things done and leave something positive behind once I'm gone.

I live up to my nickname, Honeybee. At least, I'd like to think so.

The Valley of Death

Sometimes the only thing that pulls me through a rough patch is my writing. I have so many stories to tell and so much to say to the world. My life on this planet can't be over with until I've managed to share my stories. It keeps me going and focused. If I ever run out of stories to share, perhaps then I would be ok with no longer being on this Earth. Until then, I have a lot of work to do.

It sounds a little light hearted, and maybe even a bit determined - but it needs to sound that way for my own sake.

I've had a long, hard road over the past 15 years of my life. I've had struggles since the begining, far longer than the past 15 years, but the past 10 years in particular have seemed like I'm loosing the battle on an uphill climb. Each time I think I may come to the crest of the mountain and finally accomplish something worth while, some stone under my foot that I was depending on to keep me up comes tumbling down the mountain and I along with it.

I've thought a few times about just tossing myself off the mountainside when my footing gave way near a rather trecherous cliff. Sometimes I would reach for a tuft of grass and regained my footing stronger than before, making the climb with a new feeling of determination and drive. A few times people have wandered by and pulled me up a few feet before sending me on my own once more. A few cruel souls have offered a hand and when I reached for it, withdrew.

Other times I've stood there on the brink of the cliff, looking down the slopes at what could easily have been my fate. I stand there and wonder why I didn't continue to slide, right over the edge and to the valley of death below.

Tonight I stand on the cliff side, looking down into the great chasm that could claim my life if I allowed it to. I know there is a reason I am still standing here on my feet, but for the life of me at times I don't know what that reason is. Now is one of those times.

Why am I here? What have I accomplished in my life? What is there left for me to do that is so important that I must endure so much pain along the way? They say that which does not kill us only serves to make us stronger. God, I can't be much stronger than I have been in the past, and I'm loosing strength now. I have friends that are offering me a hand to step away from the brink of disaster, but this time is different. I'm numb. I can't feel their hands reaching for me. I hurt. My legs don't want to continue standing on their own. I'm blinded by tears that have been just under the surface for so long.

As I stand here looking down, I wonder to myself how I would ever explain the thoughts going through my head, the pain I'm feeling, the hopelessness I've fought against time and time again only to be faced with it again. I'm standing between a cliff and a brick wall - and for once I can't break through it.


I long to feel loved. No, it's more than that - I NEED to feel loved. I need to feel arms around me that care and love me no matter what it is I've done or what I'm going through. I can't break down this brick wall in front of me on my own anymore, I don't have the strength for it this time. I need help. I need someone to tell me it's all going to be ok while I cry on their shoulder.

In a conversation just yesterday someone told me that they worried about me because I am the kind of person to take care of everyone else first. It's as if I'm always last in my own book because I don't need it as much as everyone else does. Here I have a sick friend who needs me and I am AFRAID of going to them because I'm AFRAID I couldn't handle any more bad news. One more piece of bad news could be the rock under my foot holding me to my ground at the moment. If that gave way, there would be nowhere to go but down - and it's a long way to the bottom.

I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of straining and struggling. I'm tired of taking care of everyone I love and care about, only to be forgotten.

I'm still here! I'm on the other side of this brick wall! I can't get through - it's separating me from the rest of the world. I fear the bottomless pit beside me, but what if that's all there is left for me?

So I cry.
So I scream out in agony and pain.

Where are you? Scotland, I'm so sorry...

Please, just someone, anyone, REMEMBER ME.
Please ... just, don't forget about me ... when I'm gone.

Friends and Heros Have Birthdays Too

When I got the text message, it took a few minutes for my mind to make sense of it. I had been working long, hard hours lately and things weren't clicking into place like they should have.

"Hi Manda Lynn. Today is my Birthday. I am with my mother at my apartment. Doesn't have to [be] today [or] even next week.. But I am very ill. I was close to death..."

His text message cut off there. My mind reeled, my heart raced, and I grabbed for my keys before remembering I knew the town but not the address for where my friend lived. Immediately I sent a text back.

"What is your address. I will come over RIGHT NOW."

His text continued just then.

"... not long ago. But if you were so kind... a Black and White movie night even if at my own [place] in my bedroom with a chaperon would be nice. I miss you."

It took a few minutes to get any other response. I called a mutual friend of ours to let him know what was going on. Instinctively I knew that he would be worried, but for him to do exactly what I had planned on doing myself meant a lot to me AND to my old friend. He told me "get his address, I'll meet you there."

His next text was his address and I made a mad dash for my car. As a bit of an after thought, I tossed my uniform into the passenger seat. Unfolded and thrown violently, it ended in a spread mess from the back of the seat to the floor, dangling like a loose thread from a jacket. I squealed tires out of there.

On my way I made a few calls. I managed to get the night off work through a little effort, and I haphazardly laughed at the condition of my uniform. It didn't matter anyway. I cried my eyes out and swerved through traffic before realizing I was almost out of gas. I had to fill up or I wouldn't make it there!

Still making calls to get the shifts covered at work, I stood outside of his apartment for a few minutes gaining my composure. Our mutual friend arrived with his wife, and the three of us went up.

Here was my dear old friend, laying face down on the couch. His cheek bones protruded, his temples were sunken, his eyes were hollowed out, but he still had those beautiful blue eyes. He looked up at me weakly and smiled. Me being me, I ran to his side and held him for a long time, kneeling on the floor beside him. I kissed his cheek and held him close, telling him that I was glad to see him. He was thin, but he was still very dignified and wise.

At first his concentration was almost gone. He couldn't pay attention to one thought for very long. He had been very ill. Friends and family gathered around, and yet all he could do was talk to his most recently arrived guests. Struggling at first, he sat up tall.

It didn't take long and my dear friend was talking as he normally would. His family noticed a slight change already. He had a spark back to his eyes they hadn't seen in a while.

"I nearly asked her to marry me," he said to our mutual friends about me. He patted me on the knee, kissed my cheek, and smiled a genuine, heart felt, loving smile. I knew in my heart he was joking. Everyone smiled. "She was always so bouncy and fun, she brightened up my day each time I saw her. She made things better," he said, smiling a little more. I wrapped my arms around him and kissed his cheek back.

When I first met this man, he was my boss. He was what my old company called the Post Commander for the Security Operation where I worked. It was my first day and he seemed almost frightened of me. Still, right off the bat we got along.

I worked with a crew of all guys back then. I knew that I wanted to be treated like one of the Guys, I didn't want special treatment from anyone just because I had hips. In order to make a good impression, I did something I hadn't done since childhood...

In the corner of the office in a small glass case sat a very large, very hairy red spider. It was a tarantula to be exact, a Chilean Fire Spider. Instantly I knew how to win Kudo's points with all the guys I was going to be working with. I didn't want them to think me prissy or girly.

"Oooh! Can I hold it?!"

My boss looked up from his paperwork and laughed. "Really?" He sat there, stunned. "Most of the guys scream like little girls and run from the room when she comes out of her terrarium." He laughed to himself.

We had many things in common, this friend and I. We often spent hours after work just talking about old movies and fine cigars. We had moments over the next few months where he and I were able to help one another. We had philosophical and religious conversations and debates. He was the one who made me open my eyes to the thought of being married to my ex for the rest of my life. He made me rethink my decisions and future. He was right. He was and remains a wise man.

He taught me almost everything I know about Security, about being a boss, a leader and a friend all at the same time. He trained me to do the job I'm doing now without my ever knowing it. He told me as we sat there that I had been his greatest success.

"You know," he addressed our friend as he put an arm on my cheek, "I wanted to marry her if she would have me."

Thinking he was either joking or feeling his illness, I chuckled. Our friends smiled. We all moved on.

Evenutally our friends left and I stayed there. I ate with the family, I helped sing Happy Birthday to him, and I cheered him as best I could. Hours later, he repeated those words that rang so clearly in my head, when I told myself he had been joking
around with me.

"Mom, do you remember about a year ago when I told you there was a girl I wanted to ask to marry me?"

"Yes, Honey" she said to him, smiling at me.

"This is her."

Suddenly it dawned on me. I meant so much to this man that he had wanted to marry me. He knew that he wouldn't be around forever and that there really wasn't anything we could do about it, but he wanted to spend what remaining days he had in my company. I cried again, unabashedly, on his shoulder.

He's a fighter. He's not done yet. He even says himself that he's not fulfilled his destiny and he has so much left to do in this world. I'll do everything I can to help him accomplish those goals. I would risk life and limb for this man, as I know he would do for me.

There are certain people in our lives we call friends. Others we call family. There are even some friends that are as close to us as family. This one person, this friend, is so much more than any of those categories. I have loved and cared for this man since the day I met him. He is a true kindred spirit. He would never judge me or "disagree" with how I live my life. I can't imagine this world or this life without him in it.

He is my Friend.
He's been my guide.
He'll always be my hero.




.

Death of a Chieftan

On April 1st of 2004 I recieved a phone call from my Mother. Since we rarely talked, I assumed that she had revived her ambition to pull a great practical joke, as she did about every 5 years or so. I didn't pay much attention to the tone in her voice, thinking she was going to do something to pull my proverbial chain.

"Amanda" she said, sounding rather morose, "Your Grandfather just died." Thinking back to when my Grandmother died just 6 weeks before, I didn't think this was a very funny April Fools Joke, but I laughed anyway.

In the year 2007 my grandfather had been given 2 weeks to live. He had been diagnosed with conjestive heart failure, emphazema, lung cancer, skin cancer, and numerous other ailments. At my Grandmothers funeral in February of 2004, I learned something about those two weeks I may not have ever known.

"Bob," my Grandfather said, speaking to my father, "don't expect me to stick around." I could tell even from the other room that my father didn't know how to respond. He had been standing beside my Grandfathers wheelchair in the living room at the time. I turned and watched from the dining room, worried. My father knelt down beside his father and took his hand.

"I know, Dad. I know."

Had my Grandfather been a little younger or my Dad been a little older, they could havve passed for brothers. My Dad just looked like a younger version of Grandpa. Even the sadness in their eyes mirrored one another at that moment. I'd never seen my father cry in my life, but as I stood there watching from a distance, I watched him wipe his face. My Grandfather put his free hand on my Dad's head and I saw his shoulders heave in a heavy, silent sob. My heart broke watching that powerful man I knew as "Dad" begin to cry.

"Bobby," my Grandfather began, "all those years ago when the doctors said I wouldn't survive, the only reason I did was because of her." He took a breath here. He was easily winded and relied on an oxygen machine, as he had done since 1997. "While I was sitting there in the damned hospital, she came in to visit me." Another breath. "I thought I was going to die at any second." He coughed, out of breath.

"Dad," my father said, "take it easy. We can talk later."

"I know - but I need to tell you." He managed to curl the corners of his mouth up a little. It was the most of a smile I had seen on him in a long time. "I was happy to see her. I always loved Irene, Bobby."

"I know you did, Dad."

"Well, she yelled at me that day and it broke my heart," he said. My father looked appauled. Before he could ask why she would have done something like that to him, my Grandfather continued. "She told me right then and there, 'Sherm, don't you die on me. I can't live without you, so don't you die.' I figured I had something worth living for."

My father choked back a sob. I knew why. That was exactly how he and my mother felt about one another.

"Well, Bobby," my Grandfather continued, "my reason is gone now." He must have seen the look in my fathers' face, or noticed that he had started crying harder, because he continued after a minute. "Son, it doesn't mean I don't love you any less. It's just," he paused, "Well," he took a breath, "you don't need me. Not like she did." He smiled, patted my Dad's arm, and said finally, "I don't want to live without her."

I sat at the table for many hours that night, hoping and praying to someday find a love like that. As they prepared his suit for the funeral on the following day, they pulled out several items from the pockets; old tissues, an embroidered handkerchief, a brass colored pill box. The last of these items somehow found it's way into my hands as I sat there.

I ran my fingers over and over the wooden four-leaf clover hand carved on its surface. I thought about that conversation between my father and my grandfather for hours. Without paying any attention, I absent mindedly felt one of my tears trickle down my cheek and drop from my chin, landing squarely in the center of that four leaf clover. I wiped it off and set the tiny box back on the table. I sat looking at it for a long time that night, remembering childhood Christmases with my Grandmother and Grandfather. I remembered random visits, though there weren't as many as I would have liked. Somehow I remembered this box from my childhood. He once held it in his hand when I was just a kid. It was a distant memory, and try as I might I couldn't recal the details, but I knew he had held it in his hand. I reached to take his hand as we walked and my hand had touched the wooden and metal surfaces of the object. I remember thinking it was pretty, and then he tucked it away in his pocket. Until that night, I never saw it again.

"Manda?" My mother asked from the other end of the phone. "Are you still there?" Tears had begun streaming down my face. I realized that it wasn't a joke. I sat down hard.

"Yeah, Mom, I'm still here."

"Manda, I'm at the house now and people are going to start dividing things up tomorrow to begin cleaning stuff up. Was there anything of your Grandfathers that you wanted?" Disgusted, I couldn't answer. How could they start dividing his things up so soon, wanting to each have their own piece? No, there wasn't anything of his I wanted but the memories he had given to me as a child. I paused. I thought.

"Mom?"

"Yeah, Honey?"

"There was a pill box with a four-leaf clover. If you can find it, that's all I want."

My mother found that pill box, and through a stroke of luck it ended up in my hotel room the night my uhaul was stolen in July of 2009 and I still have it. It's kept with my most precious posessions and the only thing to be found inside is a diamond necklace pendant - the only diamonds I own. Somehow it reminds me of him - a diamond on the inside.





April 1st, 2004


April fools day, only this isn't quite a day for jokes.

I've made several attempts to write everything I remember in my live that have stuck with me, be it exciting, interesting or funny. This attempt, though still to early to tell if it's a success, was prompted by a family tragedy.

Six weeks ago, my grandmother passed away and I flew from Los Angeles to New York for the funeral immediately. As much of a tragedy as that was, the true tragedy was in the passing of my grandfather this morning. Both of them were fascinating people with many wonderful stories of their pasts who never got a chance to tell them to the world, or more importantly, to their two great grandchildren. It struck me that these two would never hear the stories of Grandpa's trips around the world during the Korean War, stories of the cabinet making he did all over the state of New York, or the embarrassing stories of my fathers childhood.

I don't want the stories I have to tell to die with me. I have too much to say not to write this journal. My only son deserves to at least know that I tried. I have a lot to tell him. Honestly, I have a lot to tell anyone who will listen to what I have to say.

I've made a lot of mistakes, told a lot of lies, and done some very stupid things. In writing this, I hope that perhaps my son can learn from my own mistakes. This isn't a told-you-so storybook. There's nothing fictional I will ever write into it's pages. It's not something I'm writing to try and clear my own conscience. This is the truth; the untold stories I once swore to myself that no one else would ever know. I wasn't always a good person, and I'm far from being proud of it, but I'm not so proud as to hide my past from those I love any longer.

I suppose my grandfather was a huge inspiration to me, as well as my son. Still, along with the two of them, my inspiration has come from my mother and father, my grandmother, and everyone in my life I've ever loved and adored.

Or hated.


.