FIRE!!!

When my Dad was a young teenager he lay in bed in his room in the attic of his parents old wooden farm house.  There was an unusual stillness in the cold air he thought as he plumped the pillow and wrapped himself tighter in the homemade quilt trying to fall asleep in the old metal framed bed.

A horrendous BOOM and a ragged flash of lightening, the brilliance and whiteness like he’d never seen before, tore through the ceiling and struck the floor at the foot of his bed.  A nano-second later the room was engulfed in flames. He grabbed blindly for his shoes and made his way to the door and down the wooden stairs.  His young sister was screaming, his father was yelling for him to help get things out of the house, his mother in her long white nightgown was already wrapping things into a blanket to be dragged outside. The young boy rose to manhood as he thrust his shoes out the door and piled sacred belongings onto the rug and pulled them out onto the porch and into the yard away from danger. Again and again he ran in to the burning inferno to save what he could.  Finally his father yelled, “That is enough, it will have to do”.  And the family stood with smoke in their lungs and soot on their hands and faces and watched their beloved home burn to the ground. The rain drops were useless against the fierceness of the flames.

Standing there he finally realized that his feet were sore and cold and so he looked for his shoes.  What he found was one shoe and his old childhood wooden pull toy dog.  About the size of his shoe he scoffed as he remembered grabbing what he thought was a pair of shoes.  So these were his only personal belongings now; the pajamas he was wearing, one shoe and an old wooden toy.

Several years later, this boy who had become a man now but not yet twenty years old was a soldier fighting hand to hand combat on the battlefields of Okinawa.

I quote here from the November 2012 issue of the Marine Corp Gazette: 

Okinawa: The Final Great Battle of World War II

An American triumph through bloodshed

Volume 96, Issue 11

Author:  SSgt Rudy R. Frame, Jr.

The Battle of Okinawa started on 23 March 1945 with all major combat operations ending on 23 June 1945. The island of Okinawa is located approximately 350 miles south of mainland Japan. It is the largest island in the Ryukyu Island chain, the southernmost prefecture of the then-Japanese Empire. The strategic importance of this island cannot be overemphasized. In a time when an invasion of mainland Japan was necessary to end the war, Okinawa was an essential preparation ground and jumping-off point for the impending invasion. The island’s airfields were indispensable to the launching of bombers and long-range escorts for the preparatory bombing for the land invasion of mainland Japan. This battle involved the Japanese Army, minimal Japanese naval efforts (due to a lacking naval power), and the last of its airpower concentrated in mass kamikaze formations. The allied power consisted of a combined force that was largely American with some British naval support, along with the Joint Services of the U.S. Army, Marine Corps, and Navy.

At this point in the war both the Americans and the Japanese had developed their command, control, and communications in ground warfare to the best level of efficiency they could. The Japanese were far more rudimentary with a simple, straightforward concept—to kill every single American fighter possible and hold the defensive line until it was utterly broken.

This concept of defending, delaying, and withdrawing to another defensive line was a change in tactics for the Japanese. Typically the Japanese Army mounted a Banzai run once the defensive line could no longer hold, always resulting in large numbers of Japanese soldiers being torn apart by American machineguns, mortars, rifles, and an assortment of small arms. This tactical change was the brainchild of GEN Ushijima whose intent was to have his men live and hold out as long as possible in an effort to slow the American advance toward Japan. The decision as to when to withdraw to the next defensive line was made ultimately by GEN Ushijima, who received reports from his many officers along whichever one of the three defensive lines was being held at the time. GEN Ushijima held each line until its fate was sealed but there was still opportunity to tactically withdraw, set up in the defense, and start the process all over again.

The elaborate communications network under the Shuri Castle where GEN Ushijima’s headquarters was located allowed him to make informed decisions as the castle was a highly defensible position at the center point of the middle Shuri defensive line. The naval contributions of the Japanese, which were almost nonexistent, were best exemplified by the Japanese Navy’s own suicide run from their final massive 70,000 ton battleship Yamato being destroyed when it was spotted on its way to Okinawa. The Yamato was loaded up with just enough fuel to get to the American fleet and ordered to fight to the death; its strategy was to beach itself near the Shuri line and decimate American troops already pinned down by the 100,000-strong defenders of the Shuri line while also taking advantage of any opportunity to sink American ships. Japanese air power was no longer intent on defeating the Americans in head-to-head battle but was instead depending upon its kamikazes. At this battle the first mass formations of kamikazes were utilized against the 5th Fleet.

The American command, control, and communications were as efficient as they could be by 1945 after nearly 4 years of battling in the Pacific. The advancement of communications processes and independence within small units created a new level of efficiency on the battlefield. There were still command-level issues in appropriate decision making but the majority of them were eliminated as all the commanders were already battle hardened; in addition, the small unit leaders largely made up for command and control failures by improvising and adapting to every obstacle. Units had developed a cohesive esprit de corps throughout all of the units in the American Services.

On 21 June the final contact for the Battle of Okinawa began. Instead of staying on the defensive, GEN Ushijima conducted one final offensive that, if successful, would have extended the battle further. Like most of the Japanese offensives on Okinawa, it was an utter failure. Though Ushijima made his troops aware of his respect for the honor they had given the Emperor by delaying the Americans for nearly 3 months, it was not enough. Ushijima wrote the following in a letter before committing ritual suicide on the 22 June:

To my great regret we are no longer able to continue the fight. For this failure I tender deepest apologies to the Emperor and the people of the homeland. We will make one final charge to kill as many of the enemy as possible. I pray for the souls of men killed in battle and for the prosperity of the Imperial Family.

On 23 June all major combat operations ended on the island of Okinawa. Over the 3 month battle more than 8 million artillery and mortar rounds were fired, the equivalent of more than 1 round per second. For some, the silence after the battle was over was almost deafening. In total, more than 12,000 American service members were killed and more than 38,000 wounded (many from combat fatigue) or missing. The Japanese military lost more than 110,000, but the greatest loss of life by the Okinawan people. Anywhere from 40,000 to 150,000 of the Okinawans perished during the battle. Even with all the carnage, it was at Okinawa that the largest number of Japanese soldiers were taken prisoner (more than 7,000—an unprecedented number).

My Dad was there day and night through the thick of it, a Top Sargent leading his squad of brave soldiers.

And then…it was over and the “silence was almost deafening.”

He was assigned to peace keeping duties in Tokyo. He initiated the plan and then directed the building of a small movie theatre and helped teach the young Japanese boys how to play baseball and served with the Military Police. 

Walking back to the barracks after dinner one evening he heard the unmistakable cry of “FIRE!”  He ran around the corner to see the large barrack building consumed in flames. Oh boy, he’d seen this before, another home being burned to the ground.  Without a moment’s hesitation he ran inside to grab his most precious possession, the photo in a small brass frame of his young and  beautiful wife, the one that he had carried through the entire battle. The one that gave him the courage to fight and to survive at all costs. The photo of the love of his life who would bare his children into a world that was now safe for them. There was no time to grab anything else.

How his life changed in these horrible times.  How brave he was! I was born a bit over 7 years later.  He was a loving father who taught us to be patriotic as he removed his hat and put it over his heart as a tear would fall from his eye when the uniformed color guard would march by with the flag in our small town’s big parades. The reverence and honor for the flag remained the same through his life, whether at 4^th of July celebrations or baseball games, always a tear, always his hat held over his heart.

I awoke early this morning thinking that I needed to write and think about these experiences of my Dad. Perhaps it was because the last thing I read last night was a quote by Gordon B. Hinckley:

“It is good to look to the past to gain appreciation for the present and perspective for the future.  It is good to look upon the virtues of those who have gone before, to gain strength for whatever lies ahead.”

The day Dale died was like a lightning bolt had ripped through my life and then the silence became deafening. Emotions and loss so powerful that I will never, ever be the same. My life changed.  So many of the precious things are gone. And I’m left to deal with the charred remains of my heart. I fill my days with things that I deem important or valuable and muster on but the fact remains that rebuilding from the fire that raged through me (and flares up still) will keep taking time. But it is a powerful realization I've had today that my father went through terrible ordeals, survived and mentored me with his stories and the privilege to observe him overcome  those devastating experiences to become a successful husband, father, religious leader and human being that many years later gives me the strength for whatever lies ahead.

Thank you Dad.  I love you.

Pride and Predicament

My mother was the youngest of five daughters born to a tall, handsome farmer and his charming and always elegant wife.  The girls were beautiful.  Each with their own distinct personality and talents. Each a favorite among the school girls and longingly admired from a distance by the boys. There was no greater love though than the love that these sisters had for each other.  Such little women as these could conquer the world and be very well dressed doing it.  They were well read and they were trained in the art of decorum and they could all set a pretty table. Their father was happily surrounded by these 5 young ladies who adored him; took after their petite and classy mother, blessed his life with laughter and drama and gave him so very much to worry about.  A primary concern of his being that they were to avoid pride at all costs.

How often the girls fretted about it. To have pride must be something far worse than anything else. I’m sure they never actually made a plan of action but when my mother, the youngest, came of age it was a well establish procedure.  Compliments were deflected rather than enjoyed. (The accepting of compliments that is - not the giving of them. Giving them to one another was done freely and honestly, and filled with love) But a response to, “What a pretty dress!” would often be answered by something like, “Oh dear, it just makes me look so fat!” or “I know that color is all wrong for me!” or “It would look so much better on…” well enter the name of another sister here!  And if they showed accomplishment in any number of their many talents, the response to praise was the same…a humble denial that it was not anything at all to be sung about. This way they could do well but not appear to be egotistical or proud.

This procedure was never actually explained to the next generation of girls, the daughters of these sisters, we were always just reminded of how Grandpa warned that his girls (and now we were included) should not be found having pride. It seems that through our childhood observations what we girl cousins unconsciously adopted instead was;

1) the strong sense that we could do whatever we wanted to do in life and

2) an innate ability to over indulge in the art of self-criticism

 A state (I’m reluctant to acknowledge) of Pride and Predicament.  The predicament being that ironically this attempt at humility through self-criticism actually forces you to think about yourself more than you would otherwise. 

So let’s think about this:

 C.S.Lewis said that:

 “Humility is not thinking less of yourself, it’s thinking of yourself less.”

But then there’s Einstein who said:

So let’s don’t throw the whole self-criticism out. Perhaps we could call it self-analysis. Would that put a more positive spin on it?  Self-analysis requires comparison though right? And as luck would have it…

And Theodore Roosevelt warned that:

I suppose that’s because comparison could lead to jealousy…..

Ok. That can’t be good because….

So….instead of making a comparison why not take the advice of Ralph Waldo Emerson who said:

“Our best thoughts come from others”

And start saying:

And perhaps if we look at those successful people who are doing things that we truly want to do (or to do better) as mentors rather than someone who makes us feel poorly about ourselves then we are opening the whole world up to possibilities.

 

Remembering of course that we can still be successful if we follow our own abilities and talents and don’t think we have to do what everyone else is doing! Einstein warns:

And it’s good to remember too that:

And so now…..

And say…..

And then we can say!!!

And then, AND THEN!!!

Bye-Bye Pride and Predicament and hello Peace and Progression!

Break Through or Break Down?

It’s raining today and suddenly, out of nowhere it's 40 degrees!  The snow mounds that have been piled too high to be able to see around are melting and creating riverlets of slush.  Just walking to the mailbox was an adventure.

Too warm for a coat?

Do I need galoshes for heaven’s sake?

 

Will I float away down the street if I slip? 

I tip toed cautiously in the snowy areas alongside the flowing stream of ice cubes to retrieve what turned out to be nothing but ads in the mailbox and then made my way back inside deflecting the silly urge to look for something to launch down the little icy river running down the driveway. 

It isn’t winter anymore I concede but neither is it spring.  It’s hovering somewhere in between. Even the Canadian Geese floating on the real river look a little frustrated dodging the chunks of ice passing by. I’m sure I heard one squawk “Oh Come On! Let’s get to spring already”

I sigh as I grasp the fact that the day is a bit like me. Working on an art project today (over and over and over again..the old Draw, Paint, Rip and Repeat cycle) and feeling it just wasn’t right at all I wondered if I was on the verge of a break through or a break down!

And when helping someone the other day with ideas of things to do in Paris, something Dale and I did so many times I looked at the little sign that reads “Paris is always a good idea” and for one brief moment I hovered between the delight of that thought and the darker feeling of reaching for my felt tip pen and updating it in a graffiti sort of way to say “Paris isn’t always a good idea!”  Well it is for everyone else but it was such an “us” place that the very idea of going back without Dale is …well it isn’t a good idea at all.

Later that day I sat reading a good book, reached the end, sighed and once again felt the old recognition of living my life alone and for the first time I hovered between I’m not okay and feeling something new, something like...I’m okay! Not just the academy award winning performance of “I’m OK” but actually experiencing it.

So maybe spring will really arrive, maybe I will have that artistic breakthrough and although I’ll never go to Paris again perhaps, just perhaps I’ll want to.

Quilting Bee

As a child my doll Betsy and I spent great gobs of time lying on our backs looking up at the large quilt being made over our heads to the sound of the cackles and chatter of my grandmother’s quilting bee friends. Betsy and I were surrounded by dozens of feet, clad in orthopedic type shoes, supporting dozens of legs, covered in beige colored hose rolled and tied in knots just below the dozens of knees that were covered in a variety of the floral print fabrics of homespun dresses. These womanly limbs served as if pickets in the fence that enclosed my little encampment.

Because of the light on the ceiling, my view of the bottom side of the quilt allowed me to see dozens of hands working, working, working up on top. The teeny tiny stitches of each needle eventually blended together to form an intricate pattern of blossoms and leaves and curly ques.  I loved these times. I was always alone in the crowd, being the only child there since my sister was at school and my Mother had dutifully dropped me off on her way to work.  But oh how I delighted in the story being told with those needles.

Curiosity would eventually get the better of me and I would find an escape route, come to the top side of the quilt to run my fingers along the stitching that followed the expertly pieced design and take in the whole masterpiece.

Another treasure would soon be ready to be bound and folded and stacked with the others at the church bazaar where it would be sold allowing the women to hand a nice cash donation to the bishop for the good things that were needed for those who had less.

I’ve been sick this week, spending much more time than usual lying on my back in bed looking up at the ceiling.  This time, it is my mind not the nimble fingers of the quilting bee ladies that is stitching together the story. Remembering things that have been, imagining things that will come. An intricate pattern is developing.   It was Robert Frost who said: “In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: It goes on.”  Dale dying did not stop the progression of my story.

There is still so much to learn and to do and to accomplish before my life quilt is ready to be bound and folded and handed to Heavenly Father as a Thank You for this beautiful gift of life. It won’t be as intricate or beautiful or varied or even as colorful as other life quilts but I’m determined to have it be a one-of-a-kind-me life quilt. A pattern being woven with my life experiences lived the best that I am able.

I need to remember to stop every once in a while (like today) and take a look as if from the top looking down to make sure things are going right, even if the seam ripper must be used from time to time or a flaw mended or patched or a new direction required because amazingly...life goes on.

Year 3 - Alone

As Valentine's Day starts to make its approach for the year I'm seeing a lot of emails and texts with a heart made this way... <3 

It's really sweet but to me it looks like a broken heart with the number 3.  And for 3 years now my heart has been broken.

When I purchased my new 2017 calendar I flipped open the cover to reveal January and all I saw was the big bold black 27.  There it was, that date that says remember me? I'm the date that Dale died. Three times now I will have seen that date come and go.  Three times I will have ached.  Three times I will have tried to celebrate his life on that day rather than concentrate on being left alone and to some degree I have been successful at doing that.

Yesterday I listened to a song written and performed by a young man who had lost his wife to an illness. I immediately knew that he lives what I live. Solitary, prayerful and not ever wanting to say goodbye, moments of gratefulness and joy for having had such a loved one but at the same time wanting to shake your fist at the sky and feel anger. A "contrariety of emotions" I think Jane Austen would call it.

But the song, instead of making me feel better, began pulling me into the dreaded abyss of sadness that grabs onto your heart making it ache for the things that could have been and then it just breaks again. "STOP" I said right out loud!  "JUST STOP!" Going there serves no purpose. Things just don't always go as planned!

And with that thought I start to recall how many times in my life things haven't gone according to my plans. Many things have but many simply have not! The biggest of course being Dale getting so sick and leaving me alone long before we were able to do all of the things we had planned for this life.

And then the reminiscing of this new subject begins, uninvited but interestingly not unwelcomed, so I let it roll. Back through time, back through the memories of things in my life that didn't go as planned.  Through the decades I hop scotch and go back to one of the earliest...

There were a couple of clothing stores on Main Street of the small town where I spent my first 10 years of life.. “The Classic Shoppe” where I never entered although a cousin-in-law (she was married to my much older cousin) prepared the fancy window displays - we thought her to be very cosmopolitan. There was also the “Deb N Heir” a upscale children’s clothing store that I only went to on one very memorable day when I was just 7 years old.

There was a girl in my school class named Shelley. 

I never liked Shelley.  

She came to school donned in frilly clothes, with layers of ruffled petticoats. She would sit at her desk and preen her skirt over the petticoats till every fold was just so and then she would lace her pretty fingers, ceremoniously place her hands on the desk, cross her dangling ankles and wait for everyone to look at and admire her. She always wore pretty white socks that folded down just right with lace around her ankles and shiny black Patten leather shoes. Her black hair was always in perfect little ringlets and was adorned with satin ribbons that were always color coordinated to her ensemble. Her nose and chin were always pointed up, for to allow anyone to be given a smidgen of her royal attention was too much beneath her. 

I really didn’t like Shelley. 

I received an elegant invitation to her 7^th birthday party.  I didn’t want to go but Mother was quite excited and nervous about it. Shelley’s father had been a high school boyfriend of Mother’s, now a successful, well to do citizen of the town.  

The ill-fated day of the party came. Mother dressed me up in my best outfit and we went down for our first visit to “Deb N Heir”. The saleslady was very helpful. She and Mother determined that a new hat would be the perfect gift for Shelley. I knew that it was expensive and much nicer than anything that I ever dreamed of having. The lady was delighted with Mother’s selection and wrapped it up in flowery paper and tied it with an angelic little bow. She went to the card display and said, “Such a pretty gift should have just the right card” and her choice really was gorgeous.  Flowers, flowers everywhere, inside and out! The decision was obvious and a pen was placed in my hand to sign my name. 

Mother was also dressed in her Sunday best and we drove to the perfect large house and walked up the perfect sidewalk through the perfect petunia bordered yard to the perfect front door and rang the bell which chimed perfectly - like the bells of Westminster.  Mrs. Perfect came to the door. She looked down on us and flashed an arrogant smile. “The party was yesterday.” She announced “But do come in…Shelley, dear,” she called over her shoulder, “You have a little friend with a gift for you.”  

We were ushered into the French provincial living room and sat on the white sofa. The woman was obviously delighted with our little mishap. I said nothing…the conversation between the two women was painfully polite. We waited and waited for Shelley to make her entrance. At last she wafted into the room, grabbed the present, ripped off the card and read it aloud, “Get Well Soon!” She read. The woman tittered, mother gasped. The girl tore the pretty paper and unceremoniously pulled out the costly hat. Silence. And then she said, “Mother can I go now?” and she was gone. The hat lay in the tattered box on the floor. 

I never liked Shelley.

Defeated, Mother and I drove silently home. That certainly didn't go according to plan.

But I survived. And so did Mother.

And you know what? I survived ALL of the other things through the years that didn't go according to my plans as well.  So even with the biggest of these, I'm putting on my brave...making more plans - fully aware that some might not work out exactly how I think they will but I realize that working at them is what keeps life moving forward. And I somehow know that Dale is there supporting my planning and patiently waiting to see what I find.


So, tomorrow is the 27th marking 3 years.  And I am suddenly feeling like I shouldn't keep saying that he left me alone.  Because he has been with me.

My dear sweet sister proclaimed via a text (in her compassionate and loving way) that we are getting together tomorrow for a day of shopping and lunch and "whatever else I want to do".  It will be a good day, just the kind of day Dale would want me to have.

The Little Match Girl

Photo Saved from

surlalunefairytales.blogspot.com

I awoke last night in the earliest hours of the morning as I often do. It is so very silent at that time. So still. A time that sets the conditions for a memory to start as a tiny little light and then floods my mind and enters my heart.

I sat up on the edge of the bed and reached for my robe and put on my slippers to ward off the chill in the air. It was unnecessary to turn on the light as the neighborhood street lamps gave a soft glow calling me to the window. I looked out at the winter scene. The lights illuminated the snow covered roofs and yards and trees and the parked cars and empty roads.  The temperature was still plummeting and I thought how dangerous it would be to be out there instead of warm and cozy inside. The very thought made me pull the robe more tightly around me.

And then in a twinkling I was drawn into the memory of the story of Hans Christian Andersen’s “Little Match Girl”.  It was my very favorite childhood story. I had it read and reread to me by Mother or Dad or any grown up that would take the time until I could finally read it myself.

It was on a night like tonight that the wee little girl dressed in rags and barefoot (because she lost her mother’s shoes that were too large for her tiny feet, while running across a busy snowy street) huddled in a corner between buildings trying to stay warm.  As she looked up toward the heavens a shooting star sparkled across the dark night sky and she whispered as she always had since her dear grandmother had explained, “Oh, a shooting star, that means another happy soul has gone to heaven.”

She had been trying and trying to sell her little bundles of matches so that she could take money back to her family who were freezing and hungry inside their tiny home without food or a fire in the hearth to keep them warm. The people on the street had been uncaring and even rude to her, not giving her the time let alone the small amount she requested for matches as they scurried along to their warm homes that were waiting with a roaring fire in their fireplaces and tables set with luscious smelling food.

She was so very cold and although she didn’t want to waste the matches she finally decided to light just one to see if it would warm her fingers. As she struck the match she saw through the flame a beautiful fireplace that seemed to warm her inside and out, it was so very pleasant and comforting but it disappeared when the match burned out.  She quickly struck another match and this time as the flame illuminated the wall it was as if she could see inside and there was a table set with white linen and silver plates and crystal goblets and such wonderful food!  But again it disappeared when the flame fizzled down and puffed out. Again she lit a match from a bundle and a beautiful Christmas tree appeared within the match’s glow covered in candles to warm her heart and delight her soul but that too faded as the match burned out. Another match sparked into a flame and her cherished departed Grandmother appeared. Oh how warm her hug was to the little girl. But in an instant she too was gone. Wanting nothing more than to see her grandmother again the little girl struck all of the remaining matches and there she was, the beloved old lady. With all of the love and warmth that the little girl could imagine, the grandmother took her by the hand and led her to heaven.  The next morning the people on the street found the little girl with a smile on her face and the burnt matches in her hand. They felt terrible that they hadn’t shown her any compassion.

It occurred to me as I remembered each detail of the story I had loved so many many years ago that these little memories of Dale that awaken me at night or pop into my mind at lonely times are like little matches springing into a warm light that bring me comfort and happiness if only for a minute.  For a moment in time I am walking hand in hand with Dale visiting a castle in Ireland, or walking barefoot in the sand on a Hawaiian beach or watching our sons play baseball, or the magic moment of our first meeting.  Precious little snippets of happiness that keep me warm until the time arrives that he comes for me in answer to my own shooting star.

And in the meantime, I have a dear family that shows me compassion and love and keeps me safe and warm.

I am blessed.

Dreams See Us Through to Forever & Writing Assignment #39

Two years into our marriage we moved into the sweetest little apartment, brand new and I loved it! We couldn't believe our good fortune in securing it as we had just placed on names on what we were told was a long waiting list. The move was a requirement as we were faced with vacating our adults only apartment when we happily discovered we would be a family. We settled into domestic bliss with me setting up a cute nursery and Dale tip toeing around pregnancy hormone moments.  As summer came on in full Southern California fashion, the new landlord assured us that the extreme heat would be taken care of with the powerful air- conditioners in each unit.  He failed to mention that the motors of said powerful air-conditioners were all located on the roof of OUR apartment.  As each apartment turned on their AC we were suddenly living inside an ever beating drum! We quickly understood how we got the apartment so speedily.

To protect our sanity we had to try to find another place. Coming home from work one day Dale found and quickly signed his name on the bottom line of a lease for an apartment without my input…pretty much the last time he ever did anything like that!  It was an old place on Roscoe Blvd. with a large sign in front that proclaimed The Roscoe Arms - Lowest Prices Around emblazoned on a coat of arms. Alas, my vanity surfaced I’m afraid but the price was good (as was so blatantly advertised for the world to see) and we did have a child and the accompanying expenses on the way so I decided to grin and bear it without too much of a fuss. The old brown carpeting was so deplorable that we had it ripped up and replaced with some beige carpeting that was being torn out of a home in Dale’s folk’s neighborhood but in much better shape than what we had. We scrubbed and wallpapered and did our best to make it livable.

It was hot, and getting hotter. The outdated AC window unit was woefully lacking in it's intended purpose, hardly able to produce even the slightest breeze of cool air. I was so very pregnant (over due in fact) but we turned on the radio one sweltering evening and listened to the incredible performance of Neil Diamond’s "Hot August Night" concert playing live at the Hollywood Bowl. We spread a quilt on the floor, as if we were there picnicking with the crowd and sipped on tall glasses of cold lemonade and munched on corn dogs, the only thing I craved at that stage! Well, actually, Dale wouldn’t eat them, he was content with the potato salad, but corn dogs with mustard and catsup swirled together was ambrosia to my taste buds! OK, it’s hard to even type that without a wince now but hey like I said…I was so very pregnant!

With Neil Diamond wailing Pack up the babies and Grab the old ladies -Everyone goes -Everyone knows -Brother Love's show - Halle Halle Halle  I unconsciously dabbed at yet another drop of perspiration on my forehead with my napkin thinking that I was somehow very happy and as I glanced over I saw Dale with a look that registered love and a touch of compassionate sadness. He quickly looked away when he caught my eye.

The very next day he came home with a large, ornate gold frame. His eye had zeroed in on it while passing by a garage sale. And what a frame it was - the likes of which would fit nicely into a hall at Versailles.  He had a mirror cut to fit and it took up the better part of the living room wall in that tiny apartment. It was a gift representing a dream for the future. He promised that one day he would give me a home to match the frame.

A promise that he fulfilled, actually several times over as the elaborate mirror followed us for the next 40 years, being carefully packed and unpacked and strategically placed on bigger and better walls with each move.

Sadly, he and our dream frame are gone now but I find that I'm not willing to say goodbye to many of our remaining dreams.

I have experienced so many little miracles since he died that tell me he is close by and it just feels like our dreams didn't die with him - but are very much alive.  Dreams that I'd like to carry through, not alone but with his help.  As I volley that notion back and forth as to the possibility of it all - a song is suddenly filling my mind and heart. He so often speaks to me through the poetry of songs given unexpectedly at just the precise time that I need them! I start humming the music that effortlessly materializes in my head but I have to go to my computer to do a search for the words, I actually only knew a few.  I listen with my heart as I hear him telling me:

Don't lose your way
With each passing day
You've come so far
Don't throw it away
Live believing
Dreams are for weaving
Wonders are waiting to start

Live your story
Faith, hope and glory
Hold to the truth in your heart

If we hold on together
I know our dreams will never die
Dreams see us through to forever
Where clouds roll by
For you and I

Souls in the wind
Must learn how to bend
Seek out a star
Hold on to the end

Valley, mountain
There is a fountain
Washes our tears all away

Words are swaying
Someone is praying
Please let us come home to stay

If we hold on together
I know our dreams will never die
Dreams see us through to forever
Where clouds roll by
For you and I

I realize more and more that it is a blessing to be alive and with his help I can still accomplish many of our dreams if we hold on together. And interestingly for his benefit as well as mine. When I started this new journey of life without Dale I wasn’t sure how it would play out but as I’m looking at the anniversary of his death getting closer and closer indicating that it’s been three years, it’s clear now that we don’t ever have to say goodbye or stop dreaming. I’m glad to know that now. And I feel him saying that whatever I do or wherever I go he will be here for me, we'll hold on together.

Hear Diana Ross sing the song here if you'd like: 

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ASSIGNMENT #39 – A Decade of Living

 Writers…Are you ready to pick back up with the work on your autobiography? I just came upon this precious little poem in the history of my great-great Grandmother as a tribute to her.  It didn’t indicate the author so I can’t give credit but the history was written half a century ago…

No Matter What Else

No matter what else you are doing, from the cradle days to the end

You’re writing your life’s secret story; each night sees another page penned.

Each month ends a thirty day chapter, each year the end of a part

And never an act is misstated, nor even a wish of the heart.

Each morning when you wake the book opens, revealing a page clean and white

What thoughts and what words and what doings, will cover its surface by night?

God leaves that to you, you’re the writer, and never one word will grow dim,

Until someday you’ll write the word “finished”, and give your life’s book back to Him.

Let’s go back a decade from today.  Go back to January 2007 and work your way giving the highlights -with those ever important details, including all of the people, places, things, triumphs, failures, and the general roller coaster ride of life from then until now! 

By now you will have developed your own style of writing, your own voice telling about your own life.  So enjoy sharing what you did and even more importantly, what you learned over the last 10 years of your life. (If children or grandchildren were born or marriages performed – give the names!!! Don’t leave anyone in your family out!)