After a Long Absence...

Heather:

Grief, for me, is a black hole.  It sucks all that is good into its center and leaves me feeling hollow and cold.  After Dad died, I avoided life.  I threw myself into work, but I wasn't living.  I wasn't enjoying anything.  I braced myself for the pain of holidays only to have days like my birthday and random Wednesdays take my breath away.  

I was angry.  

At the world. 

All of the time. 

I made some decisions that were...well, stupid and reckless.  I didn't tell anyone, but I was also a little afraid of myself.  

During the whole time Dad was in the hospital, people would ask me if I needed anything and I would tell them that I needed a drink the size of my head.  After, it was almost a year before I allowed myself to have a drink.  I had been afraid that I would start and just not stop. Eventually, the anger and recklessness subsided and I began to feel guilt.  I felt guilty for things like laughing or enjoying a sunset.  

I'm not sure when the guilt began to lift, but one day I noticed that I just felt lighter.  

Then Gran fell and never recovered.  My heart broke and I was afraid that I would, once again, be sucked into the black hole of grief.  My sister stopped me.  I don't think she knows how grateful I am because I don't think I've been able to communicate just what she did for me.  The last time I was called home, Court met me in the front yard.  She hugged me--tight--and handed me tissues.  She whispered something that was lost in the rush of my fear.  If it hadn't been for her...I don't like to think about what would have happened to me.

A few weeks after we scattered Gran's ashes, I was at my apartment--lying on the couch reading and silently debating whether or not I should change and go to the gym--when Mom called.  I could tell something was wrong by the feel of the pause between my hello and her first word.

Airplane accident.  Amy.  James.  Lucas.  No survivors.

I had just seen Amy's post on Facebook--a smiling mother and son at play with mountains in the background.  I had envisioned a smiling father holding the camera to capture the moment.

Gone.

I remember dancing with Lucas at our cousin's wedding reception.  He had been all smiles and giggles.  I can't remember now what came first--the dance or the diagnosis.  (Lucas had been diagnosed with Ataxia-telangiectasia or A-T.  A-T "is a rare genetic disease that attacks children, causing progressive loss of muscle control, immune system problems, and a high rate of cancer."  For more information, please visit http://www.atcp.org.) Though he faced such difficulties, he was always smiling.  Amy's mission after the diagnosis was to raise awareness and to make each day the very best for little Lucas.  Their little family had taken on each day with such energy.  Lucas even became a Junior Member of the Ohio Highway State Patrol.  I remember watching the video of the ceremony.  His smile and genuine happiness had brought me to tears.

At Dad's funeral, my sister said one of the wisest things I have ever heard and I will attempt to recreate it here.  She said that Dad had a certain energy and that energy cannot be destroyed.  Dad, then, was still with us. 

He would never leave us.  

As I drove to my Nan's house, I thought of what Courtney had said and I thought about Amy and Lucas' energy.  

A week later, as I drove to Marysville, Ohio, for the first of two services, I wondered what I might say to my aunt, uncle, and cousins.  I remembered how I had felt standing in the line beside Dad's casket hearing people tell me how sorry they are or how God has a plan.  I know people say these things because they feel like they have to say something, but I seriously wanted to punch people.  And then Amy had come through the line.  (I'm close in age to Amy's younger sister, Leslie, so I had spent a good deal of time at their house.  I remember arguing with her over toys and television channels.  I also remember Amy telling Leslie and I that we could be in the same room with her when we brought her a glass of ice water with the ice at the bottom of the glass.  If you've never tried it, trust me when I say it's a rather difficult task.  We made it happen, though.  We put some ice in the bottom of a glass, dribbled some water over the ice, and then put the whole thing in the freezer.  It may have been cheating, but we should get some points for creativity!)  She pulled me in for a hug and whispered in my ear about how she remembered my Dad being so excited when Mom got pregnant and how he always had been so proud of me.  All I had been able to say in reply was a feeble thank you.

When I hugged my aunt, uncle, and cousins, all I could say was, "I love you. So much."  Nothing else had seemed appropriate.  I sat while they stood, but we all kept vigil.

We are better--I am better--because we knew them.

I stopped writing.   I wondered if I would ever write again.  Something that had become second nature to me felt clumsy and wrong.

Then, I started writing letters.  The first letters were to a friend of mine.  I told him everything I was thinking and feeling.  Nothing was held back.

I never mailed the letters.

After a while, I started writing letters to Leslie.  I wrote about the scene outside of my office at work.  I wrote about my students.  I wrote about grocery shopping.

I mailed the letters every week.

A couple of weeks ago, I filled a page in a journal that had been long neglected.  The next day, I added a little more. 

I am better because I knew them.

I carry my grief every day.  There's at least one thing that happens that I would like to report to my Dad.  I can't watch Jeopardy! or Wheel of Fortune without missing Gran and Pap.  As I do my hair in the mornings, I think about Aunt Winsome and how she always looked so put together while I look one moment away from being a mess.  I dance around my house (usually while cleaning) and I think about the little boy and his parents who taught me about what it means to really live. 

Marginalia

Sample of commentary on Rick Springfield's Magnificent Vibration.

Heather:

I'm going to do something that will make my English colleagues shudder--begin with a definition...

Marginalia, according to The Oxford English Dictionary: Online (oed.com), refers to, "notes, commentary, and similar material written or printed in the margin of a book or manuscript."

I met Jesse two years ago in the middle of the parking lot just outside of my office.  An early summer thunderstorm had knocked out the power to campus and the surrounding area.  Well, I guess that wasn't our initial meeting--we had been introduced to one another previously.  It was, however, our first conversation.  I remember this so well because we talked about books.  He recommended I Am Asher Lev by Chaim Potok and I gave him the names of a few books I had recently enjoyed.   "We're going to be friends," I thought to myself, "he's a reader!"

We did, indeed, develop a friendship that included many discussions about books, super hero movies, student-athletes, food, drive-in movies, and core beliefs.  He even came to Gran's for Thanksgiving dinner in 2012, but that is a story for another time.  

It seems like we have talked about Silver Linings Playbook by Matthew Quick for much of the time we have known one another.  We've discussed the movie and he has been trying to steal my marked up copy to read for a while now.  I had planned on giving him a copy for his graduation, so I was purposefully holding out.  We were out one evening, however, when I discovered another book by Matthew Quick, The Good Luck of Right Now, and purchased it.  I hadn't even read the inside flap.  (This is quite the impulse buy for me. I am known for going to the book store to visit books before I later purchase them.  Yeah, I know how that makes me sound and I'm okay with it.)

I spent the next month or so reading the book and marking it up.  That's right.  I bought the book as a gift and not only did I read it, I wrote things in it.  I commented on things that were happening in the book and I copied down some poetry and I asked questions.  We were in my office late one evening before graduation--he was working on finishing a final paper and I was trying to finish up my own graduate work--when I presented him with the book.  (I'm rather terrible at keeping secrets about gifts, so I gave it to him early.)  "You read it?" he asked.  "And marked it in?"  He seemed a little confused, but it was late and I had interrupted his work.  Later, though, he said how much he had enjoyed both the book and my comments along the way. He even replied to some of them!  I'm rather excited to read the book again (yep, I'll read the whole thing) so I can add his comments to the layers of meaning I found in those pages.

We decided to try it again.  I went to my local book store and asked a clerk I have come to know and trust for a recommendation.  I was handed Magnificent Vibration by Rick Springfield.  I didn't read the flap--I bought the book and headed home to wrap it up.  This time Jesse would get to read the book first and then I would read it with his comments.  I finished the book over the weekend and while it wasn't my cup of tea, I still enjoyed the experience of reading it because I looked forward to reading the marginalia.

Jesse's time in my neck of the woods is drawing to a close.  (Don't tell him, but I'm going to miss the big lug.)  He promises we'll keep in touch through phone calls and text messages, but I look forward to our continued conversations via margins and writing utensils.

My Heart is Broken

Heather:

Back story:  I grew upon a dirt road in rural Southeastern Ohio.  My paternal great-grandmother, Nanny, and her friend, Pauline, lived next door (maybe 100 yards away).  My paternal grandparents, Gran and Pap, lived next door to her.  There weren't many kids my age in the area and Courtney wasn't born until I was seven years old. My playmates were my family and our playground was the 70 acre farm on which the three homes were situated.  Gran and I were great pals from the beginning, or that's the way she told it.  I can tell you that there aren't many memories that don't include her in some way.

The Present:  Gran passed away in the very early hours of May 12.  She was at home and surrounded by her family.  She died as she had lived: on her own terms.

Gran was born on June 6, 1930.  The stories she told were populated by colorful characters that I would have thought fictional if her account of them had not been verified by outside sources.  She taught me how to make lye soap (much to Mom's dismay), how to make a pie crust, and how to love.  Yes, we fought.  We disagreed over politics and how to best wash a car.  She thought I stayed up too late and slept in too late.  In my defense, she went to bed around 8 p.m. (usually after a rousing game of Jeopardy!) and got up somewhere around 5 a.m.  A habit formed in the early years of raising a family and running a farm.

Gran married Pap when she was 16 years old.  She had three children by the time she was 22.  She didn't get her driver's license until she was 29.  Perhaps that is why she was loath to admit that driving had become something she could no longer do.  She told me many times that she wanted her epitaph to be, "She did while she could.  When she couldn't, she died."  It seems fitting that that was the last line of her obituary.

This is the first I've written since her death.  I've tried.  There are so many things I want to write down before they become blurry footnotes of memory, but it has felt wrong.  I try to tell my story to the best of my ability--it seems wrong right now to try to tell her story.  One day I will.  Until then, I will get up every morning and try to attack my day like Gran did--a list of chores sprinkled with breaks to sit on the porch and take in the scene before me.

Paying It Forward

Heather:

I've Googled many things in my time, but this week found me searching, "why does my gasoline engine sounds like a diesel?"  As you can probably imagine, nothing good comes from a search like that.  All of the posts mentioned oil being the issue, but my oil light hadn't come on and it hadn't been that long since I had the oil changed...

Picture it: I'm in the parking lot of a local big box store attempting to play mechanic when I hear, "Hey, HT! I thought that was you.  Need some help?"  I look up and see one of my students headed toward me.  I could have cried.  He helped me to decipher the lingo on the various bottles and managed to make me feel a little better about the whole situation.  Whoever said that chivalry is dead has not met this guy.

(I feel I should add that Dad made me learn how to check my oil and change a tire before I was allowed to get my permit.  I'm all about being independent, but I also know when I'm in over my head.  One thing I have learned is that when you are in distress, take help when offered.)

My gasoline powered car sounds less like a diesel powered vehicle now and I have a call in to a mechanic to get it checked.

I should have been worried on the ride home.  What if the oil leaked again and I was left stranded on a back road with no cell phone service?  What if the engine seized?  What if, even after checking and double checking, I had added the wrong oil? (That's just how my mind works.)

I wasn't worried, though.
          I was happy.

The student could have kept on going.  I hadn't seen him and even if I had, there was nothing mandating that he help me.  He stopped and offered help with no promise of anything in return.  I offered to pay him, but he refused.  "Just glad I could help," he said.

Instead of forcing him to take money, I decided to pay his kindness forward.  It felt great.  I know the person I helped can't pay me back any more than I can pay back the young man who helped me.  That's not the point.  The point is to help when you can.  You won't always get a glamorous thank you--sometimes there is no thanks at all.  You will, however, feel better knowing that you have helped to make someone's day a little easier.  That's what I've found, anyway.

Assignment: One random act of kindness. Be as creative as you want, but go out and do something for someone else.  Imagine what the world would be like if everyone did one thing every day for someone else...

Lessons in Being Kind

Heather:

The spring is always a hectic time here at my small college nestled in the hills of West Virginia.  The last few weeks have been, for me, a blur of senior projects and campus events.  Our seniors begin taking their Comprehensive Exams on Monday and final exams commence the following week.  Baccalaureate and Commencement will quickly follow and then my students will scatter to the winds for internships, summer jobs, and first jobs. If I were an accountant, this would be my tax season.  I’ve had more cups of coffee today than I had hours of sleep last night and I’m not the only one.  My colleagues and I often compare this time of year to running a marathon at a sprint pace. 

I’m not complaining. 

Really, I’m not.  I love what I do.  I get to watch students make the journey from awkward first-year student to confident graduate.  They recommend music to me and I lend books to them.  They come to me with problems and I recommend solutions.  We laugh together, we sometimes cry together, and when the “plague” is running rampant on campus, we sneeze and cough together.  I consider myself lucky to be doing what I do.  There are times, however, when I don’t feel up to the task.  There are days when I don’t think I have my own life together enough to be able to offer life advice to anyone else.  For example, I’ve missed trash collection for the last three weeks.  Granted, I haven’t been home that much as I have been traveling a great deal to see Gran while she recovers, but three weeks? 

Someone take my adult card.

It’s in moments like this that I need to remember to be nicer to myself. 

This week I am going to start taking better care of myself.  I’m going to go to bed earlier, drink less coffee, and eat more veggies.  I might even take a field trip to a book store to wander up and down the aisles.  I’m going to remember that I can’t make it to every event and I’m not going to beat myself up when I miss one.

I’ll check back in a week and let you know how it’s going.  In the meantime, make good decisions and enjoy at least one sunset.

Sunset in Piedmont.

The Best Accessory

Courtney:

          Sorry for the absence.  I do believe that the ever lovely Ms. H. Taylor made reason as to why in her last post.  Gran is doing better, but there are some fears that can never be stifled.  I know that eventually we all pass on, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.  I feel worry and grief more deeply since my Papa Bear passed away.  It can be an inconvenience; however, it also makes me a little more understanding about the world and the people in my life. 

        

One of my very close friends lost her father suddenly last year.  He passed away a week or so before her wedding, so it made the heartbreak that much greater.  I had worked with him and considered him a friend as well.  Watching her go through the same motions I had a couple years before began to wear on me. I think I cried just as much for him as I did my own dad. 

        

The main problem for me was that I knew exactly how she was feeling. I didn’t want her to feel empty and gray.  I kept wishing that I could put her hurt into a cup and carry it for her.  I knew, though, that doing so was impossible.  And so, instead of carrying it for her, I shared in her grief.  Sometimes we talked or I talked while she wept.  The most powerful moments came when we said nothing at all.  We would just sit silently next to one another.  We could endure, together.  

        As destructive as grief can be there are things that cast light into the shadows.  A smile for instance.  A customer told me once that every time he came into the store and saw my smile it gave him hope.  I, of course, flashed him another smile, thanked him, and then went on about my shift.  It wasn’t until much later that I realized how high a compliment he had paid me, or how relevant his words would be to my life.

        I pay close attention to smiles now.  They are one of my favorite things.  There are polite smiles.  They are the ones we deal out when we don’t really want to smile or when we meet new people.  Then there is the unguarded greatness of a real smile.  I love how delicious the curve of the mouth is as the smile reaches up and kisses the eyes making them crinkle in the corners.  Like watching a flame, the soul, wake up and shine out of one’s eyes.  We are each other’s lantern through life in a way.

        “Don’t worry about the future; or worry but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum.”  Oh Baz, thank you for the advice.  I am trying harder to not spoil the now with too much worry.  So, I smile.  I smile for the warm spring day here in the Heart of it All.  I smile for my friend.  You, always, I smile for you.  Sometimes, when I am by myself, I even smile for myself.  

The Little Things

Heather:

Recent weeks have found me in four different states, three different homes, and two different hotels.  I've logged hundreds of miles in my car and hundreds more in a friend's car.  I've brewed many, many pots of coffee and steeped several cups of tea.

I have not done a single load of laundry.

Just over a week ago, Gran fell and broke both her left hip and her left shoulder.  Life came to a halt, as I frantically headed to the emergency room. Thus began a week of fracturing speed limit laws almost every time I got into the car.  A week ago yesterday, Gran had hip replacement surgery.  She's had a bout with pneumonia, but is doing much better.  How do I know?  She was mocking me last night for buying more books and we were able to play the entire game of Jeopardy. (It's my understanding that some people merely watch the show.  Gran and I have played along--keeping score--for about as long as I can remember.)  After a stint in rehab, she should be as good as new.

There were a few moments during all of this that I thought I might go crazy.  I was worried about Gran, trying to stay on top of things at work, and dealing with graduate school assignments.  My to-do list was daunting.  I felt myself sinking.

I didn't sink, though.

Why?  Because a neighbor called to see how Gran was getting along.  Because my boss's husband made trays of snacks and delivered them to me.  Because my students could tell I was having a hard time and they stepped up to help out.  Because Mom is the most selfless person I know.  Because a friend reminded me to see the beauty in ordinary things.  Because another friend drove 5 hours, one way, to have lunch with me.

I might get buried under the mountain of dirty laundry at my apartment, but I have learned that I can handle what life throws my way because I have good people around me.  I don't know why it's easier to focus on the negative things that happen, but we should all be spending more time on the positive things in our lives.  How have I practiced that this week?  Well, I started by trying to let go of some of my anger.  It's not something that will happen over night, but it's a start.  I've also sent cards.  You know--those things you write by hand, put a stamp on, and take to the post office.  Some have been cards of thanks, some cards to just say hello, and other cards to remind people that they rock.  A handwritten message has a way of brightening a day, but I also felt pretty good after posting them.  I also stopped to look at the daffodils that blanket sections of campus.  Something about the sunny flower always makes me smile.

It's been a bit of a battle--this focusing on the good and not snapping at people out of frustration and lack of sleep.  I think it's one worth fighting, though.

Here's your assignment.  Yeah, you read that correctly. I'm giving you an assignment.  Go outside today and see what nature has to offer you.  Maybe you'll spot a daffodil.  Maybe you'll hear birds chirping.  Maybe you'll find something that makes you smile.  Whatever you find, I bet it makes your day.

Show a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Courtney

          In my place of employment I have to wear a uniform.  It is pretty generic black pants and a white button down smock.  I work in the bakery department of a grocery store, and I like what I do. I mean how many people can say they make roses bloom with the flick of the wrist and a pastry bag filled with icing.  As a cake decorator I can color the world as I see fit.  We still cut donuts by hand.  That is how a good donut should be made, patiently and by hand. 

          I know this may seem like quit the jump, but I promise my craziness will make some sense in the end. 

          I did a very short stint at a well-recognized college in my area.  As I worked on a clay project one day, a professor went on about how daring it was that I was attending such a college since three years had passed between then and high school graduation.  I sat silently as she went on to say that my co-workers, my friends, were uneducated.  What? 

            I wanted to argue against her statement, but I gathered my things and left the clay lab.  I finished the semester, but I did not return after the holiday break.  I didn’t want to learn from someone who thought she was of more importance than the people who helped build me.  My education was mine to seek out, and so I chose to find it in the bakery.

           I may not have a college degree or certificates hanging on my walls, but I have so many other things. Things I can’t hang on a wall, but are much more valuable.  I have an appreciation for the little things like the way a waitress/waiter remembers what I order regularly.  I love that the man working at the full service gas station genuinely asks about my family and me and how the courtesy clerk at the grocery store knows that I prefer paper over plastic bags.  I appreciate kindness, even if it comes in the smallest of doses. 

            As for being uneducated, there is no such thing.  One should not be judged simply because they are educated differently from someone else.  I have a good job, skilled hands, an amazing Crew, and a give ‘em hell attitude.  How much more education does one need?  So, tip well.  Make eye contact.  Be kind.  Respect one another.  Help somebody if you can.  Now, before I put my hair net back on, I would like to propose a toast.  Here is to the ladies and gents in the uniforms.  To the ones running the world with their names on their shirt.  When it comes down to it, we’re all just trying to dance as elegantly through life as we can.    

 Heather

           I love to learn.  I always have.  I don’t remember learning to read, but I do remember being read to and then reading on my own.  It seems—at least to my memory—to have been a seamless transition.  I would read anything from the backs (and sides) of cereal boxes to the many copies of Hot Rod Magazine Dad had lying around the house.  I devoured history texts and relished book reports.  When I got to college, I took classes in non-Western history and art not because they were required for my major, but because I was interested in what I could learn there.  Some of the things I made in ceramics class are still kicking around my apartment.

            Mom and Dad always talked about college as if it were an absolute.  “When you go to college…” was a phrase I heard from my first day of kindergarten on through high school.  There was no if.  I was going.  And I went.

            I had just decided to transfer schools and change my major when Dad asked me if I thought I was smarter than him.  There was no hesitation—I told him that I was a different kind of smart.  He could tear apart an engine and put it together again without any kind of manual.  He could design and build all sorts of things with his torch and steel.  I could barely change a car tire, but I could talk about history and tear apart a poem. 

           A piece of paper in a fancy frame doesn’t denote education.  It indicates attendance at an institution and the fulfillment of minimum requirements, but it does not tell the story of what you actually know.  Education comes from experience and happens all around us—not just in ivy covered brick buildings.  I learned about the Battle of Hastings and Beowulf in a classroom, but I learned about hard work while working as a courtesy clerk and then cashier at a local grocery store.  Have you ever tried to lug two bales of paper bags from the back of a store to the front or moved two carts loaded down with groceries from the check-out area to a customer’s car while dodging other customers and traffic? How about dealing with people yelling at you because the sale doesn’t start on the day they want it to start?  The public.  Always an adventure.

            I learned about taking pride in my work from Dad.  He may have been what some would refer to as “only” a driver, but he made sure that his truck was well taken care of and that his work clothes were free of stains.  I learned about dedication from Mom who rarely calls off even when the weather keeps people who live in town from getting to work. 

            Instead of judging someone by their job, thank them.  Maybe they’re working as a server to pay their way through school or to support themselves while they produce art.  Maybe they’re doing that job because it’s what they love to do and they couldn’t imagine doing anything else. 

            Tip the courtesy clerk who slogs through snow and rain to deliver your groceries to your car, tip the server who brought you your meal, thank the postal workers, the paper carriers, and the waste removal workers.  Thank the people who make your work possible.

           Also, take some time to thank the people who have taught you valuable lessons.  That could mean sending a note to your fourth grade teacher who encouraged your writing or thanking your first boss for giving you a chance. 

Gratitude can make a difference.

 

The fishermen on Piedmont Lake have traded in the shacks of ice fishing for boats and I couldn't be happier.  Spring means a new beginning and hope.

 

Rulers, Pay checks, or Coffee Spoons? How Do You Measure a Year?

Courtney

Paper coffee cups.  Laughter.  The warmth of a child sitting on my lap.  Cell phone games. Friends.  In one swift elevator ride, all of that comfort was replaced with an achy, hollow feeling that settled itself in my chest.  Smeared mascara.  Hoodie sleeve tissues.  My second last kiss.  I was suddenly aware that the hospital smelled like sanitizer, salt, and sickness.  I wanted to leave.  I wanted to run to my car and drive as fast as those four wheels could roll, but I didn’t.  I told my friends to go home and I waited with my family for the funeral director to come for Dad. 

For a while after Papa Bear’s death I carried that hollow feeling with me constantly.  Now, almost four years later, the Beast only rears his ugly head every so often.  I don’t know if that feeling ever really fully heals after losing a parent, and part of me doesn’t want it to.  Every time my heart constricts in that way it is kind of a reminder of the man I carry with me. Because of this I have noticed that I have a bit of a problem. 

They say that the first step is admitting to having a problem.  I am not entirely sure who “they” are, but “they” may be onto something.  Once I admitted that I needed to fix myself, life became so much lighter.  You see I, Courtney Taylor, do not know how to measure.  I am not talking about busting out the ruler here.  I am talking about life.  How am I measuring life? 

One day I looked down at my coffee cup and silently wondered just how many cups I go through a year.  Then, I started thinking about other everyday things that I so very often take for granted.  How many smiles are there in a year?  How many hand written letters?  So for one year I want to chronicle the journey of bettering myself.  I want to stuff the days with too many pictures and not enough sleep.  Let’s go zip lining.  Let’s be kind to one another.  Let’s all take the time to smile more.  Let’s measure life differently this year.  So pack an overnight bag, come on, and bring your jukebox money.

Heather

On a March day, much like this one, my life changed with one phone call.  It was a short call—maybe two minutes in length, but in that time I learned that Dad had been diagnosed with cancer.   The months that followed were filled with doctor’s appointments and treatments.  I began carrying a bag that became known as my hospital readiness bag.  It contained snacks, tissues, bottles of water, books, notebooks, and pens.  Days blurred together as I put in a day at work and then either went home or to the hospital to see Dad.

On July 30, 2010, my life changed again.  I don’t remember the exact time, but it must have been late because I remember it being dark outside and the main lobby was nearly deserted.  My sister and I had been on the sixth floor with family for several days straight and had gone to the lobby to talk to some friends who had come to check on us.  When our brother stepped off the elevator, my heart sank.  The next several hours are a blur to me.  I know that we rushed back to Dad’s room and I know that there were tears.  I know that I couldn’t be in the room or even in the hallway when the funeral director came to take Dad away.  The next thing I remember is sitting at my Nan’s table with a cup of coffee thinking that I couldn’t go home because at home it would all be real.  I wasn’t sure that I could stand waking up in a world that didn’t include Dad.

My sorrow swallowed me and I buried myself in work.  If I stayed busy, I didn’t feel the emptiness.  One summer evening I was driving from my apartment to Mom’s and I passed the truck that Dad used to drive.  I reached for my phone to call him—and then I remembered.  I put the phone down and thought about what he might have said to me if I had been able to call him. 

Dad was a character.  He had a story for every occasion and he talk to everyone—for hours on end.  At the funeral home, people told me stories of their adventures with him.  He had really lived.  There were stories of motorcycle rides, senior pranks, parties, and truck pulls. 

I will always carry my grief for Dad, but, like my sister, I need a lesson in measuring.  Instead of measuring my days with meetings and time spent behind a desk, I need to start measuring it in the things that really matter.  I need to spend more time with friends and family.  I need to spend more time doing the things I always promised I would do later.  There is no more “later.”  There is only now.  My sister once asked me, “We all know life is hard, so why are we so mean to each other?”  My question is this: We all know life is short, so why don’t we make the most out of each and every day we’re given?

See the theme? 

This year, I’m going to really live and I’m going to share my story. 

Are you ready? 

I am.