A Story in the Trunk

Open the trunk of your car and you'll see a story. The one in Cathy's car stopped me cold yesterday. Curious how the words arranged themselves without an author. A short story of tragedy, hope, and sadness. I took a picture to keep the memory.

Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. April 26. Cathy and I received the passes to join Brad Bella and his family in his daughter Courtney's hospital room. Courtney, was on life support. Her Mother, Jen died at the scene. Her unborn sister died with Jen. Courtney was kept alive by technology. Jen is our friend. Brad is our friend. Courtney is a Godchild. Her big brother Zach survived the crash and he receives our daily prayers.

The passes were to be returned at the time we left the hospital, but Courtney died that afternoon and we walke out without thinking about the final procedure. Eventually the passes ended up in the trunk. Somehow they edited their way next to a bumper sticker for K-E-Y-E-S. Keep Everyone You know Safe, a charity started by Bonnie Stamm and friends to help people think about driving unimpaired. A simple key with a flourescent green cap designed to be one last thought provoking symbol. Stop. Don't insert your key into the ignition if you are impaired. Bonnie's daughter was killed by an impaired driver. Bonnie gave me the sticker. I'll give it Brad and Zach one day. I wonder if the time is right today.

I remember Courtney laughing and talking. Walking with me. Accepting a present from Cathy. Smiling. The images of Courtney in the hospital are final. They should never exist. Courtney was going home. She was with her Mom, her brother, and a friend. It was a Friday. A sleepover was underway. A cake for her Mom's birthday was to be baked. And then the impaired driver roared down on them.

The PICU passes worked their way through the trunk and found their place on the page next to the KEYS sticker.

Cathy's Gardens..an artist with a spade

Scrape the paint off of a the works of Michaelangelo, erase the ink and lead from the pages of Shakespeare and Mozart, you'll have canvass and paper. Clean and clear, it is the artist who makes the slate say art. Art will inspire emotions for as long as we can hold the image or idea in our brain. Cathy writes and paints with a spade, Wolf tools, and her hands. She makes the hard, dry, almost sunless yard say, Peace and tranquility.

There is no house, building, or bridge designed and constructed by man which ads one bit of perfection to earth. Every man made object seperates man from man and God. Every garden uses God's grace to invite man closer to God and others. Cathy does God's work by mixing his colors and life into pictures, stories, and songs. The stories Cathy tells about where the plants came from, who's life they touched and who touched them, where they came from, how she got there, how the plants came to be here, and what the plants need to surivive, are mysteries, novels, romance, and tragedy. The music is from the birds who live in the paintings and stories. Cathy knows their names, their habits, their voices.

Through the summer of 2005 Cathy watched her gardens suffer with her. The pain of her broken heart was felt by her friends in the gardens. They cried with her. They cried for her. The gardens cared for themselves and waited. Cathy watered her gardens with tears that summer. Maybe 2006 was worse. The shock had worn off, and the reality cut deep. Painting a garden takes strength. The garden gives back in energy but the first action is picking up the tool. When the work appeared to great, Cathy collected herself and started over by lending a hand to Patrick as he took over for me on the pond garden I started in '05. I'm an earth mover, Patrick is a fine tuner, Cathy is the artist. She has the heart and compassion to give life and encourage mercy.

Spring of '07 brought Cathy back to her art. She started over by cleaning the weeds and debris. On her knees, by hand, in the dirt, she sorted through the good and evil. Devil mosquitoes where waiting for her. Tiny swords and knives, summer heat, humidity drained her. But, Cathy did not quit. Little by little she did what she could. The gardens responded with gratitude. They gave energy to Cathy. Vibrant lives of God's creation have power. Plants listen. They never give advice or condemnation. Flowers only smile and give hugs.

What once was dull,broken, sad and gray is now bright red, yellow, deep purple, brilliant green, sun burnt orange, perfectly formed by God. All in the image of God...The art and the artist.

Observations on Turmoil

Turmoil leaves nothing worth saying.

Finding fault everywhere. Peace sits out the storm.

Criticism is never constructive... unless you're doing the construction.

Expectations are the source of my disappointments.

Turmoil depletes creativity.

Ego burns the waste of expectations unfulfilled.

Books Choose You--Music Speaks

John Edwards, the Medium, not the politician, was a favorite of Aaron's. More than a few times Cathy would find Aaron sitting in the dark watching a show with John Edwards telling people what their loved ones on the other side were communicating. In the last weeks of his life, Aaron was tuned in to Edwards. He believed in Mediums. Cathy had an agreement with Aaron: who ever died first promises to send a message to the other. We have reminded Cathy that Aaron didn't promise to appear and draw a picture for her. I think she's being stubborn accepting nothing less than a full blown appearance, where she can then snatch him back.

Regardless of my opinion of Mediums, Mr. Edwards said something that I've felt to be true. He said, you don't pick a book, books choose you. I say I felt that because my experience in January and February was exactly that, a feeling. I wanted a new book after Christmas. I needed a new book, something to fill the hollow of the holidays Nothing felt right to me. I tried every book store and the 1/2 price stores. Nothing. Until the day The Power of Now and The New Earth found Cathy and me. My head was ready for what Mr. Tolle had to say. The message of the author evaporated into me. I've re-read both. I was so interested in what Mr. Tolle wrote, almost nothing got in my way of reading. I was sitting on a Doctor's table waiting for the results of an eco cardiogram on March 5th and I pulled The New Earth out of my coat pocket. I was out of surgery for just a few hours when I picked up the book again. The message was as clear as ringing a bell to me. It's not what we do that matters it's what we be, and there is no future to be in. What I think is good or bad is because I make it so. What I call good and bad are just illusions.

These two books are favorites. They fit perfectly with all of the other books that have chosen me on this three plus year journey. Merton, Emerson, Thoreau, the research books on life and death, Chopra, Mathew, Mark, Luke, John, Paul...all of the messages are the same: life is a paradox. Life situations are experiences which give us choices. The choice is always simply, What am I going to do about me? The experience is not for the good of me because God's plan is not for me to have or not have, but for me to improve life for another. My dysfunction is when my ego gets in the way and confuses God's will for me to share with my will for God to share more than my share with me.

I lived through days of too much good credit and sufficient money. Nothing I acquired brought happiness more than fleeting. No place I visited did much more for me than give me something else to resent about life. In my best days, I would never have agreed to live life as if I am capable of choosing what I bring to life. Oh no, life was responsible for making me happy and life had better keep trying, because I'm hard to please and I won't accept life quitting on me.

The mysterious paradox in my life is coming clear to me. I love this observation: and I cling to the thought that in God's hands the dark past is the greatest possession (you) I have--the key to life and happiness for others. With it (you)I can avert death and misery for them. That's paraphrased from the book Alcoholics Annonymous p. 124. How about that, no promise of life and happiness for me. The gift I receive is for somebody else. Imagine that.

Today I committed to writing a book. There is something in these last five years that is meant for somebody. Jackie Bradley, a writer is taking on the project with me. The time is right. The messages are clear. Meeting with the writer in Starbucks today, the messages from the other side came through in the music playing. First the song Allelujah came over the system. "Oh, I love that song. That's my favorite song." A few minutes later, the Beetles' Blackbird played. "That's Aaron's song." At MBA they did an exercise where Aaron and the other students would have to figure out their work from signals the counselors gave them. Aaron would use the line that he often heard--"You know your work. You know what you have to do." Today Aaron said to me "Allelujah!! You got it!! You know the work you have to do."

Aaron Gets a House

Aaron found a house for himself last night. Kind of a big place. He chose to set up his living space in the basement. Complete with a fireplace and all of the previous tenant's junk, Aaron was as happy as could be. One man's junk was Aaron's treasure--broken toys in one area, old orange couch in front of two TV sets, broken tools piled on a work bench, a battery operated lantern. Instead of removing the junk, Aaron organized it. Goodtimes.

Cathy and I had dinner with some of Aaron's childhood friends this past week. As parents we all knew this was a special group of kids from the earliest days. Almost brothers and sisters, they stayed close through typical good times and shockingly bad days. Beginning their fourth year in college and world travelers their adolescent personalities have matured but not vanished. Maybe that's why my dream last night saw Aaron excited and happy with rummaged stuff in his own house--you can take the boy to heaven, but you can't take the boy out of the angel.

In my dream Cathy and Patrick had loaded PT's car with firewood for Aaron---first indication this was not reality would be PT letting anyone put a dirty log in his ride. I'm as practical asleep as awake--"You don't even know the fireplace works and you're giving him all of my wood???" I go to the house with them to check the fireplace and then pretend I know what I'm looking for--that would be real. Aaron shows us all of his cool stuff that "came with the house". Lucky guy, owner of new junk.

Now that he has his own place, Aaron is ready to take up deer hunting--he's asking for a deer hunting rifle. I told him Uncle Todd has a huge selection. "When could I pick one up?" Anytime Air Bear. Anytime.

With my back to the dream I slowly rise to awareness. The image of Aaron in my dream fades and I'm standing alone sorting out what is from what is not. The pieces fall into place as my brain reorganizes dates and days and tragedy. Dreams are framed and placed on the shelves with the photographs--the only proof that yesterday happened.

The past closely resembles a dream. We remember what can of yesterday. We can tell about it, write about it, but we can't go there. We say the past is real but it is only real to the extent that we remember, and we remember only some of the past. Maybe dreams are real. Maybe the true self of people who have passed can visit our true self in a higher level of consciousness we call dreams. Cameras are a tool to record the past. Maybe one day Kodak will snap images of dreams. Aaron will be smiling.

Good Friends

John Steinbeck is my current favorite author. You remember reading Of Mice and Men and the Grapes of Wrath or the Cliff Notes of those works. Maybe you saw the movie version of Cannery Row--Nick Nolte and was it Debra Winger?? In June a friend suggested Travels With Charley. Fun book. Next I picked up America and Americans. Steinbeck observed that a book becomes a good friend to the reader. I relate to that. We say "I like this book. This is a good book. I can't put this book down." Same as our friends--we like them. They're good--we wouldn't put them down.

Reading has become my hobby more than any other activity. Books are my friends. So is the author--although they don't know it. Some do. With the internet you can find just about any living author. I once tracked down--not stalked, and wrote to Jacqueline Mitchard, although not to compliment her. I didn't like what she wrote in her syndicated column--so I told her. She wrote back. We are not friends and I am even more adamant Ms. Mitchard--- JFK Jr is not to be admired for flying blindly into the night and killing two innocent people along with himself. I don't care how nice he was on Martha's Vinyard--playing reckless with the lives of people who trust you is criminal. Don't get me started again. That was years ago. I should put that load down finally. I wrote complimentary things to other authors and got nice replies. We all felt better for being nice.

Cathy's gardens are her friends. She has an arboretum of gardens. Amazing what she can make grow in the shaded yard with hard soil. Cathy can make the ground say flowers. Doc makes the ground say muck and he eats some of her plants. Just a little kid at heart, Doc likes to lounge in the dirt and walk through the plants. Cathy loves her gardens and they respond with affection. The poison ivy doesn't love Cathy... It's her Jacqueline Mitchard.

Patrick is a Honda Civic gear head. I mean that in the most endearing way. Cars are his friends. His friends are friends of cars. Patrick and his friends more than tinker with cars. It's good to see my son doing something useful with his hands. I played with basketballs and footballs. Lot of good that does me today. My Dad, PT's Grandpa would be proud. He'd finally have the boy in the family who shares his enjoyment of motors. And Hondas too!

Last week I started in on something over my head: converting a 1978 Evinrude outboard motor from a long shaft to a short shaft. I knew nothing about this process when I started. The internet proved it's worth. I found a great diagram and step by step instructions for just what I wanted to do. A few emails to a mechanic from my Dad's long departed Sport Marine, and I had the expert advice I needed--as long as I read all of the directions and listened to what I was told. When I was a little guy I spent my time in the Sport Marine polishing the Hondas and Evinrudes, not tinkering with them. Should have been tinkering.

The more I worked on this motor, the more it became my friend. The more I tinkered, the more I found myself reading the directions. Eventually the tinkering and directions merged into understanding. Patrick stepped in last night to give me the hand I needed. We almost got the motor together and working last night. I needed one more night of pondering. Fascinating what can be accomplished pondering in the night. Apparently all day clutter is put to rest and the subject at hand gets full brain power.

Tonight we picked up where we left off and click click, snap and everything slid into place. The drive shaft slid into place and engaged. The shifter moved down to forward, back to neutral and back to reverse. When we connected the gas line, water muffs, and started the engine water went in where it was supposed to and emerged where it should. I'm a gear head.

I like that motor. It's a good motor. It's my friend...because Patrick and I made it go together.

Post Lake Snapping Turtles

Snapping turtles are the angry cousin to painted turtles. Forty years ago I learned the difference between the two. Frogs, snakes, and turtles, along with the ocassional chipmunk, were to be caught, held, carried, boxed, jarred,or coffee canned, and then released when I was nine. How they were released didn't matter. Throwing a frog or turtle from shore to the lake was standard practice. Frogs don't claw at the air, they spread their wingless legs and tumble a bit. Turtles flip when launched overhand by the average garden variety 9 year old, the hand is too small to get a good grip.

The big fish I caught as a skinny little kid turned into an armored alien when he got to the boat. At nine, I had handled a fair number of turtles. For a city kid I did just fine catching turtles and frogs out of sewers. We had smart contraption. A semi-flattened coffee can on a string could be lowered through a grate. A long stick was extended to nudge the frog or turtle toward the can. Once inside, a quick yank and pull got the can up to the grate with a hopping mad frog, or a an upside down turtle. Turtles in the city never had horns or spiked shells. They were colorful and smooth.

This monster I landed was neither colorful or smooth. If the turtle wasn't disturbed by his lunch skiing him across Lily pads, out of the water and into a boat, he was opposed to being launched by a grubby kid.

For a nine year old sitting in a boat,(Don't stand in the boat!") wearing an orange life jacket, to toss a pound and a half turtle there is no graceful motion... especially when the thrower is only marginally more heavy than the throwee. I pulled my arm back so my turtle filled hand was even with my right ear. He spoke violence and stretched his neck for my ear. I know he did because I heard two sounds.

"Tommy, don't..."
"Haahhhhhhh"

Now I don't remember if the creature got a nip of my ear. That's surely a memory that could have been suppressed. But, I know when the snapping turtle left my hand, I never touched another. Gosh, I wonder why they're so pissed off. The painted turtle lolly gags around and appears to care less if you pick him up and cart him around in your bike basket for a day. The snapper gets vicious if you try to nudge him off the road with a long stick. God forbid you try to pick him up. He's spin around on you in an instant and take your finger off at a nuckle. He'd apparently rather get crushed by a Firestone than get a nudge.

I was in the boat that day with Bob Teipner. Bob is a friend of my Dad. His family owned the cottage. Bob was twice my age, but I liked him and he didn't mind taking me fishing. I didn't mind fishing ever. In fact, I think I only stopped fishing to go in for lunch, use a bathroom, learn math, english, and spelling, play a game or two, get married, have a couple of boys, and occasionally make a buck or two. Seems to me once you start fishing, you don't stop but for major life events.

Bob is selling his cottage now. In the photos the house looks as perfect as it was in '68. I hope the cottage stays a cottage.

As Bob wrote to me the other day, life goes on.