I HATE FALL !

Here we are again, summer sunlight slowly fading into cooler fall days and taking with it that positive summer energy. Summer is not yet over, but it is clearly fading fast as the days get shorter and the nights cooler. The calendar flips to September tomorrow and those who have not yet will return to school early next week. Not far off are the familiar sights and sounds of fall, changing colors of the trees, apples and cider, pumpkins, and football games. I hate the fall!

“Why?” you ask. It is a valid question many before you have pondered, and it probably does deserve an answer. That will come later.

I don’t know what it is about the changing of seasons from summer to fall that triggers it, but every year without fail I find myself here. My mind drifts off to days gone by, remembering school days, friends, and social events of my youth. Some of the memories are pleasant, not all of my childhood is a bad memory, but in general I am reminded of how happy I am that those days are now behind me! There isn’t much coincidence that it was September when I began to write a novel that has many parallels to my past experiences and that of many friends when they were in high school. And there isn’t much coincidence that it was September when I finally got my courage up to face the demons I left locked in the closet when I walked out of LC and never looked back. There probably isn’t much coincidence that it was in the fall two years ago now that I finally faced the remaining demons head on and laid to rest all of that unfinished business. All of it was triggered by memories from my youth, and of time spent with friends whom I still miss today. These events have become some of the more positive outcomes of fall for me, but it is still one of my least favorite seasons!

For me, fall signals the end of many things. It is of course the end of sunshine and warm days, of bike rides and days at the beach. It is the end of freedom as children return to classrooms and staff to their jobs. The end of camping trips, vacations, and lazy walks under the star lit sky. But it’s more than that for me. It seems to be true in my family that with the fall weather, arrives another kind of end. From as far back as I can recall there are incidents, many of them life ending, that happened or at least began in the fall. From the death of a friend in a house fire decades ago to the news or progression of a terminal diagnosis far too recent to write about here, there is a definite pattern of things ending along with the summer season. Maybe they have all been unlucky coincidences occurring in the days between the end of August and the beginning of January. Maybe it is nature’s way of reminding us what fall really is, the beginning of the end for many things. Let’s face it, things die in the fall. The trees lose their leaves and look dead for months on end. The grass turns first yellow and eventually brown as it dies off. The flowers that once thrived in the summer sun wilt away, many never to return. Fall is death. So maybe it is not the time of year I dislike but rather the constant reminder that to everything, including our own human lives, there is a season. One day each of us will face the fall season of our loved ones lives, and of our own. Maybe that is the only reason why I HATE FALL!

And so … I vote we skip fall this year and move directly to Winter! Anyone else with me?

In reality, it will be a few more months yet before the snow arrives for me to play in and while I wait for it I will have to suffer with the wet cool days and nights known as fall. Spring is my least favorite season because of allergies and the inevitable slow melting of snow resulting in a muddy wet world. Fall isn’t much better. Rather than the melting of snow to create the mud, we now just get rain, and more rain, and quite often, even more rain. Dark grey clouds replace the sunny summer skies, the sun begins to hide itself from us, and it is not uncommon to have days where you never really see it at all. I will spend the next few weeks riding the motorcycle as much as is possible before it has to be parked for the winter, and we’ll try to get all those outdoor projects completed that we talked about doing back in May and June. We won’t succeed, we never do!

Meanwhile, I wait for the arrival of truly cold temperatures, those cold enough to turn the rain into snow and dump feet rather than inches to coat my world white. The snowboards are at the ready, the rack takes only minutes to attach to the car top, and our gear can easily be found and loaded for that first winter adventure. I am not yet ready for the snow, but give me two more weeks of these grey skies and chilly nights and I will soon be there!

The heck with it, skip Fall and just BRING ON WINTER! … I’m over all the reminders of death already!

Why I stopped Writing ...

I’ve heard it said
That people come into our lives for a reason
Bringing with them something we must learn
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return.

Well I don’t know if I believe that’s true
But I know I’m who I am today
Because I knew you!

Some time back in 2009 I lost my drive to write, or more accurately my passion for writing. It happened gradually over time, first with the slowing of written posts on this blog, then eventually with the abrupt lack of any posting of any kind here. I used the excuse that I was working on a new writing project at first. Then that I was posting things on Facebook instead of keeping in contact via this blog. In reality, though I was working on a new writing project and I was posting on Facebook more and more, they were just excuses both to you and to me. So what really happened?

I finished Unconditional during the winter of 2009, all but the final formatting revisions and minor tweaks had been completed and turned over to the one person who I needed to “approve” of the changes. I was biding my time by beginning a new project, still unfinished to date, and searching for a new direction to take that project in. I’m not certain when exactly, but shortly after getting the approval to publish my changes to Unconditional my writing began to taper off significantly. First this blog suffered, then the project I was working on, and eventually even those posts on Facebook became fewer and farther between. My drive was fading fast and by the fall of 2010, it was gone all together.

As most of you know, in September of 2009 my family got word of a late stage cancer diagnosis. In light of that news, and because the project I was working on involves “The Big C”, I stopped working on it completely. With that, I stopped writing. I haven’t written much of anything since then, not even those lengthy e-mails I have become famous for among my friends and family. Sure there have been a few of them over the last year or so, but very few. It would seem that when I needed an outlet for my emotions the most, I stopped writing completely, something I have always used for that much needed release.

I’ll be honest, I never really understood why I stopped writing, just figured I wasn’t interested and would eventually find the time and pick it up again. I was wrong. Something else happened that fall, something far more significant to my mental state and previous need to use writing as a means of emotional release. Part of my writing Unconditional and the conversations it sparked between me and my friends and family were based solely on my need to work through some baggage I have carried with me since high school. Who knew that writing could become the best form of therapy for me?

The rekindling of a friendship with Jack, the common ground that was found with my own family and that of my spouses, the loss of my maternal grandfather, and the news that my mother-in-law has terminal breast cancer all slammed into my world in just two short years. It created a world wind of emotions to deal with and, for the first time in as long as I can remember, those emotions were dealt with in a positive way that did not result in me retreating from my long held beliefs and simply hiding from the world. Instead, I faced them head on, with some help of course, and worked through what needed to be worked through. The stuff that didn’t matter as much was forgotten and moved past and I learned more about myself and my friendships in a few short months than I did in the previous 20 some years combined. And I did it all without writing! No blogs, no long winded e-mails venting to a friend, not even a significant journal entry. Yes I do still keep a hand written journal. I know, how archaic of me.

Instead, I took a new outlook on life, the freedom from baggage that I didn’t even know had been weighing me down for more than a decade, and used it to help form the support system my family needed. I stood strong to anchor them during the loss of my grandfather, and in the wake of the cancer diagnosis. I held tight to my firm belief that everything in life, the good, the bad, and the seemingly insignificant all happens for a distinct reason. I am not one who believes that every little detail of life has been pre-planned by some almighty deity, but there are some elements to that theory I believe hold water. It is far too coincidental that certain people seem to come into my life at just the right moments or that I cross paths with someone for only a moment and feel like I have known them my entire life. My faith in what many call a “higher power” does not follow the rules of any single organized religion, in fact I am in general opposed to most if not all organized religions because of their great propensity to promote nothing but hypocrisy. However, I have learned over time that certain events and people I have met along my path thus far have in fact been for a reason far greater than my immediate understanding at the time. It is my job to discover what their reasons may be so that I can learn from each what I need to know and integrate it into the remainder of my journey.

This outlook has made it easier to deal with the ups and downs of life, especially over the last three years in my immediate and extended families. It has allowed me to see that much can be learned and good can come from tragedies. Had I not lost people in my life previously, or gone through the pain of separation from close friends and family I would not be where I am physically today, nor would I be there mentally. Even through the pain of watching a loved one slowly fade away to a disease that cannot be cured and barely controlled most days, there are lessons to be learned for all. The strength it takes me to rise from bed each day is miniscule compared to that of a person who takes great effort simply in lifting their tired bones from the bed each morning. To them, seeing another day, no matter how filled with discomfort or lack of energy is a gift not a burden. They willingly rise each morning eager to take in every experience that life has left to offer them, and crawl back into bed each night wanting to repeat the process again the next day. We can all learn a bit from those who view each day, no matter what may happen to them along the way, as a gift. And I, having now witnessed this first hand through my mother-in-law’s struggle with cancer have been given a gift that no money could buy. She inspires me to wake each day and learn something new. To experience life until there is nothing left to experience. To roll with the punches and all that will be thrown my way. And to always remember that in life, everything both good and bad happens to us for a reason!

So how does this relate to my passion for writing and why I have not done much of it in the last three years? I lost my passion when I rid myself of the baggage I was carrying in my relationship with Jack. My drive to write in the past was tied to those emotions left raw and hidden from view. When I finally managed to stand up and face them, to admit that I was wrong about some things and clear up some misunderstandings between us, I no longer felt the need to express myself with written words, verbal was suddenly an option for me. It is fair to say that Unconditional was the first and last book I wrote because I needed to. I needed to write back in 2007 and what became of it was Unconditional. After finishing it I began a new project, the one dealing with “The Big C” that still remains unfinished and very much untouched since mid-year 2010. I will one day resume work on that project, but for now it has been shelved in favor of a new story, one that is being written not because I NEED to write it, but more because I WANT to.

I have once again found my passion for writing, my inspiration if you will, and it is still very much linked to my relationship with Jack. However, I now realize it is because he inspires me to do many things in life and his encouragement of my writing is just one of those.

The Race

It was inevitable
This test, this result
Another battle has begun
In a race that won't be won
Another reminder of how little they really know
Of how fragile life has grown
And how far we have yet to go
In this race against time

This is the point where some give in
Let time win
And simply wait for it to end
But lucky for us, that's just not your style
Instead, you'll get up again
Brush the dust from your smile
And head down the path laid out before you
Ready to fight your way to the end

Though we can’t win this race for you
Or even join in on the fight
We’ll never be far from your side
Ready to catch you when you fall
To help you get up again

With friends and family near
Your support system all in place
This is a battle you just might win
Another chance to prolong the race

Legacy

Legacy

We buried him today
Laid to rest with those who have passed before him
Not far from where he once called home
He’s now reached that final goal
And our healing process begins

Life goes on without him there
To wipe our tears
To quiet our fears
To offer up a big ole hug in hopes of easing our pain

We know he is with us
In the giggles and laughter of his grand children
Some yet to be heard
In the smiles of his children
Those related by choice and by blood
And in the legacy he left behind
With each and every life he touched

We know he is watching over us
Making certain we listen
As he whispers words of wisdom most will never hear
Like echoes on the wind
They’ll brush past our ears
Sink slowly into our heads
And become second nature in our times of need

A piece of all of us was buried today
A piece we can never reclaim of ourselves
But in its place we each carry a piece of him
A parting gift to cherish forever
Knowing his legacy will live on through us

In rememberance ...

I don’t remember the first time I met Tom Brenner, other than it was sometime in the fall of 1995, but I distinctly remember that uneasy first impression I got when he walked in. Tom had a presence when he entered the room, a rough exterior coating that teddy bear underneath, enhanced by what was probably a long day at work. I remember being growled at when my wife introduced us the first time. It was not a mean growl, just that low muttered sound of “hello” as a courtesy to the unknown person he most likely viewed as a threat to someone he was protective of. I don’t recall ever being afraid of him, but I suspect that is exactly what he was going for on our first meeting.

I’m not certain how many of us actually knew the real Tom, but I believe we all got a glimpse of him once in a while over the years and a few of us were lucky enough to get a good look at what he was really all about. My opportunity for that was this past Memorial Day weekend when my wife and I were in Tennessee to visit the Brenner clan. For a few hours Friday night, I saw a side of Tom I hadn’t in years past. It was the Wise Old Man and Father Figure who spent the evening talking about various subjects and offering his advice on how to handle situations we were facing. He let his guard down, assisted by the wine I’m sure, but I got a chance to see the real Tom and how he viewed the world, even if only for a few short hours.

He was a man who put family above all else and whose definition of family was quite broad. Not everyone he knew or considered a friend was also family, but those he knew well, and their families, were certainly included. It was that night I learned that I too was his family! By this point I had known Tom for almost 15 years, and had always viewed him as just Justin, Jenny, Drew, and Cassie’s dad. He was almost always pleasant toward me, sans those few bad days we all seem to have, but I had never really sat down to get to know him any deeper than that. My loss!

I’ve always known that Tom was the kind of guy who would tell you like it was, like it or not. He would give you the shirt off his back in an instant and then find a way to buy you 5 more if he thought you needed the help, all without ever asking. He put his family first and considered all his close friends and their family’s part of his own. He lead with his head, always conscious of where he was going and what needed to be done when he got there, but his heart made the decisions. Tom was a good listener and a strong shoulder to lean on for anyone who needed it, and that is probably what most of us will miss about him.

In those few short hours last May, what I learned most about Tom in our conversation was that he was a simple man, with only one goal in life yet to complete. He had seen all of his children graduate from high school, something he was very proud of, and had instilled his work ethic and values into them as best he could. Now he was looking forward to his next goal, to make his way back to the place he loved to be most, back here to Michigan, the place he still called home. While I’m sure this was not the way he had it planned, Tom has reached that last goal, he’s coming home.

A man wise beyond his years, willing to share of himself and all that he had, Tom Brenner will certainly be missed by those who knew him best, those who called him family, and those who benefited from his generous ways. I enjoyed what little time we had together over the past few years and was looking forward to our next encounter, whenever that may have been. It is with a heavy heart that I allow the news to sink in and realize our next encounter will, God willing, be many years from now. I know he won’t be far, and his presence will certainly be felt many times over the coming years as he checks in on us, but he will be missed!

Thank you for allowing me to be part of your extended family, I listened, I learned, I grew, and you will be missed Tom!

in progress

Was doing a little blog re-organization and ran across this draft I never published ... It was originally penned back in 2008, somewhere between May and September. It is by no means a complete work, but I'll share it anyway.

Can't concentrate, can't think
Thoughts keep drifting back in time
Memories of our last encounters
Things he said, looks he gave
Advice he offered so effortlessly

Months have passed between us
Always too busy to make the time
Life goes on day by day
Each one slipping quietly into the past
Time stacking up against us
Knowing one day will be our last

Was that it, the last I will see of him
That chilly day in May
When my thoughts were somewhere else
Off in my own little world
Listening intently as he spoke
Gave of himself, sat patiently for my answers
Telling me "I'll Wait" when I would pause between them
All the while knowing
I was somewhere else

It was his birthday, but I forgot
It was the beginning, and the end
A day filled with tears, and hope
Of mixed emotions, weakness, and strength
The last day I heard my grandfather's voice
The last day I believed I was a misfit
The first day my eyes were truely open wide
The first day I could see the reason it all changed

In the emotional falout of that day
I learned, I grew, I changed
I asked the hard questions
And gave answers to them more freely
When they were asked of me
Yet some things remain the same

Our lives are forever intertwined
The distance between us
A double edged sword
A new balance i know I must find

Another reminder of how quickly it can all be taken away

As if I had forgotten in the last three weeks since the last reminder of how quickly life can be turned upside down or snatched from your grasp, along comes this one. A name I haven’t heard in years attached to a face I haven’t seen in even longer and hardly recognize any more arrived in my inbox. It was a news article from the local news station back in my home town, or more accurately the larger city near my home town, about a man my age who was killed in a car accident. I was intrigued by both the title and the fact that my mother had taken the time to send it my way, so I began to carefully skim the paragraphs for a name I might or might not know. There it was, jumping off my computer screen about halfway through paragraph two. Thomas Janik was the driver and apparently the only person involved in the accident.

I think the first time I met Tom was probably longer ago that I can remember. His parents owned The Spot, a local roller skating rink that on occasion my parents, and at least once my paternal grandfather took me to growing up. Tom and I are the same age, within a few months of each other anyway and from what I have heard from those who were old enough to remember back that far, we hit it off immediately and would play at the rink whenever I was fortunate enough to go.

The first time I definitely remember Tom, I was in the third grade and moving to a new school through no choice of my own. My older sister had attended St. Ann’s in Cadillac for her third grade year and Mom and Dad were so happy with how it went for her that I was moved there the following year. Changing schools is rough, being moved from public to private school is rougher, and going from a class of about 60 kids to a small school like St Ann’s where there were only about 25 third graders who all knew each other was awful for me. I was the outsider in every way imaginable when I walked in on the first day of class. I was the new kid, the girl who didn’t live in the same town, or go to the same church, heck I wasn’t even catholic!

By some stroke of luck, genius, miracle, or whatever you want to call it, there were three kids sitting in that classroom I knew. Two of them, both girls, I had spent at least one summer with at Girl Scout camp and they were both friends of mine by then. The other friendly face was Tom. Between the three people I already knew I was slowly introduced to the rest of the class and a few kids from other classes at lunch and recess, but as the outsider I never really did fit in well with most of them.

I spent two years attending St. Ann’s, third and fourth grade to be exact, before moving back to public school in my home town. For both of those years, Tom was one of my few friends in school. Tom wasn’t the tallest kid in the class, in fact I think he may have been the shortest, but he made up for that small stature with a big heart and a willingness to do what he thought was right, no matter the cost. We would spend hours at recess and lunch building entire cities out of sand to play with our Matchbox cars in and once in a while, when we were bored with the collection each of us had brought from home, we would trade. Tom even traded me his favorite car of all, a Red ‘86 Corvette Stingray with a hood that actually lifted up because he knew how much I liked it. It was his birthday present for me in third grade!

As the outsider in a new school setting, I was picked on a lot by the other kids, it’s what kids do, and there were many times when it was Tom who came to my rescue. Rarely did the picking ever turn physical, it was mostly just words they were fighting with, but I could always count on Tom to back me up. On more than one occasion he put himself on the line, risked being the subject of their ridicule, and told the other kids to back off. Tom was a champion for the little guy even back in third and fourth grade and, from what little I know of his experiences since high school, it looks like this trait followed him throughout the rest of his life.

I lost touch with those few friends I managed to make while at St. Ann’s when I went back to public school, but I always knew where to find Tom. Every once in a while I would manage to convince my parents to take me over to The Spot and, up until his parents sold the place while we were in high school, Tom was always there. Some of my best memories of Tom include those recesses spent building cities of sand for our cars and chasing him around the rink at The Spot for hours on end. He glided around that rink like he was born on skates and, when he wasn’t acting as a floor guard, he was always the guy to aim for in the Speed Skate and Shoot the Duck games. Without fail, Tom was almost always the last man standing and would surrender his prize to who ever came in second place.

I will always remember “Little Tommy Janik” as the little guy with the big heart, a friend to those who otherwise might not have any, and the most graceful person I’ve ever seen on a pair of skates. When I can locate the box, I’ll dig out that Red ‘86 Vet he traded me for my duplicate 4x4 truck and place it on a shelf where I can smile and remember the good ole days when it catches my attention. And, the next time I find myself at a skating rink with my nephews, I just might take another shot at the Speed Skate or Shoot the Duck in his memory. I bet if I close my eyes tight enough I’ll even see his ghost two or three strides in front of me, always just out of my reach.

The death of a Timbers icon

This has taken about a week to both write and post, sorry for the delay and for the lack of postings over the last week but as tends to be the case when things like this happen in my life, the writings have not been things I wish to post in the public domain. So last week as some of you loyal readers may know, a friend, an acquaintance, someone I use to know passed away after a lengthy battle with cancer. She was the director of Camp Timbers in Traverse City, MI when I was a camper there back in junior high and high school and not someone I ever knew well, or thought much about over the years that have passed since becoming an adult. When I learned of her passing, I spent a little time reflecting on some of those memories from camp and have realized a few things I never noticed back then.

I suppose it is typical that we overlook those who manage to stand in the background and oversee events in our lives. SAK was management, in charge of making sure we campers, and the staff she hired to care for us, followed every rule. She was an authority figure in my life and at that age it placed her squarely on the side of the enemy a lot of the time. Now that I am a little older and a lot wiser, when I think back over my years as a camper at The Timbers, SAK was always there. She was the first face I saw every summer at check in. She always greeted me with a smile, knew my name, what program I would be in without looking at her clipboard, and was genuinely happy to see me arrive each session. While I was at camp there were moments I spent alone in quiet conversation with her, not many in the first two years but certainly more than once in my final two. I had forgotten about those. I had forgotten how concerned she was the year I was removed from my GTST trip due to injury, and eventually sent home Friday morning for another much darker reason. I had forgotten that she called my house the day after I went home that year to find out both how my hand was doing and how my “other” appointment went. I had forgotten that she called the house to speak to me the following spring when my camper registration came across her desk for the Isle Royal trip. She wanted to see how I was doing and make sure that it wasn’t a mistake in registration since I had always been a sailor. And, that year when I arrived at camp for my session, it was SAK who took time out of her day for another quiet talk and asked my permission to share some info with my counselors, one of which had been a staff member the previous year and remembered me as Shane The Klutz.

As director of The Timbers, it was also SAK who had the final say in what staff would be hired each summer, what groups they would be assigned to each session, and as a result of that, what staff I would get the opportunity to spend two weeks with. Those decisions, while seemingly insignificant, impacted the direction my life would take form the first moment I set foot at The Timbers. My first year there SAK hired a short and spunky college girl who went by the camp name of Kool-Aid to be the waterfront director. It took a few days at camp, and one evening of Frisbee football, for me to warm up to her but that relationship is one that never went away even with a large age difference and hundreds of miles separating us. Most of you would know of her as Stacey, her name appears here on occasion. The following year I did two sessions of camp and found myself in a Windjammers group with Tigger as a counselor. There is a much longer story behind my connection to Tigg but suffice it to say, she too has remained a part of my life since. The Timbers, under the direction of SAK was a safe place for me during a rough time in my life. Each summer I loved every moment I spent there and the remainder of the year, I looked back upon my summer with fond memories and forward to what the next summer would bring. There were times when the hope of returning to The Timbers to reunite with friends from previous summers was all that kept me going and it was with a heavy heart that I walked out of camp on the last day my final year. I knew an era of my life had just ended and I would be leaving behind my carefree camper days in search of something to fill that void the next summer. And, with one exception I have not been back to The Timbers since.

So much of my memories of sun drenched days on sailboats and hiking across Isle Royal have faded over the years. It is a sad fact of getting older and creating new memories to fill those creases of my brain. But one thing remains even after all these years, the friendships I made over those years, the songs we sang each night after dinner and on our trips around the campfire, the sense of belonging someplace in a world I never felt a part of most of the time, and the people who made all of that possible. Joann downing, SAK, was a big part of that both in her management and her personality. She has forever left an imprint on my life and in many ways has succeeded in sending me in the right directions, one of her goals for all of those she worked with over her lifetime.

Below is the obit from the flint journal, an entry I made to her Virtual Guest book, and a photo i "borrowed" from someone who uploaded it to that guest book.

Joann Arlowyn Downing
She was preceded in death by her mother, Arlowyn (Terry); aunts, Joann Owen, Jeanne Carlson; uncle, Don Carlson; cousin, Byron Owen. The family would like to thank all of her extended family and friends and the staff at McLaren CCU unit for DOWNING, Joann Arlowyn - Age 53, of Flint, died January 7, 2009 after a 13 year long courageous battle fighting breast cancer. Funeral Service will be held 3 PM Sunday, January 11, 2009 at the Hill Funeral Home, 11723 S. Saginaw St., Grand Blanc, MI. Visitation will be Saturday 3 to 8 PM. Joann was born November 7, 1955 in Detroit, daughter of Kenneth D. and Arlowyn (Terry). Joann graduated from Grand Blanc High School in 1973, and earned a Bachelor of Science degree with honors from MSU in 1978. She resided in the Flint and Ann Arbor areas for most of her life. She worked for the Greater Flint Arts Council as Development Director. Worked for Big Brother, Big Sister as Marketing & Fund Director, the Girl Scouts Fair Winds Council as Properties & Outdoor Program Director, YWCA of Metropolitan Detroit as Program Director. She was a City of Flint Human Relations Commissioner, and was involved in Rotary, Kiwanis, and the Gender Equality Committee of Genesee County. She is survived by her father, Kenneth; sister, Karen (Earl) Downing, Michelle (Rick) Wright, Suzanne McVey; brother, Kenneth II; nieces, Zana Downing Cook, Nicole (Dave) Read, Andrea Wright, Rachel Downing; nephews, Rich Wright, Seath (Nicole) McVey, Shane McVey, Seamus (Kelly) McVey, and Joshua Downing; great-nieces, Haley Wright, Jillian McVey and Erin McVey. their care and compassion. In lieu of flowers donations may be may be made to the American Cancer Society or the Greater Flint Arts Council.

The guest book entry ...
When I sat down to write this I was at a loss for words. Joann Downing is a name I haven't heard much over the last 13 years and have only run into once or twice in that time. It's safe to say I didn't know her all that well, yet the news of her passing has struck a chord deep in my soul.

I am a Timbers Kid and had the blessing of growing up a Timbers Kid while Joann, SAK as I knew her then, was the director. Every summer I was greeted at check-in with a warm smile, a friendly hug, and an enthusiastic "Hey Shane great to see you again!” As a camper I knew her from a distance much of the time, though there were a few quiet camper-to-staff chats over the years that allowed me a glimpse into who she really was and, I always knew that she had the best interest of those she worked with at heart and cared deeply about each and every one of us. However, it wasn't until I got older that I realized how much being a Timbers Kid, particularly one under the direction of SAK, actually affected my life and just how many lessons I took away from those experiences. Though I didn't spend much time with Joann directly, she was influential in my life in other ways. It was her choices of what staff to hire that had the most direct impact on my day to day life and allowed me to befriend some who are, after 17 years, still a part of my life. Her rules may not have been appreciated by all, particularly by some of the staff who had to abide by them against their better judgment, but they were a necessary part of the job. It's the staff and campers I spent my time with during my camp years that I remember most, but Joann was always there in the background making things run and allowing kids like me a special place to go for two weeks each summer where we could be ourselves.

In the few times I have run into Joann since my last year as a Timbers camper, she always recognized me and greeted me with that same warm smile and a "Hey Shane great to see you again!" Her legacy will live on for generations to come by those of us who know she touched our lives in some way and, in far more cases, by those who have no idea who she was or how hard she worked to make programs and places like the Timbers run smoothly. It was her life's work to touch the lives of others, and for thousands more just like me, she did exactly that.

How is it that the shortest day of the year, the Winter solstice, can seem like the longest day of your life?

December 21 1987 was the first time I remember wishing Christmas wouldn't come at all that year, and I was 10. I was in the fifth grade and my maternal grandmother had been in a bad car accident earlier that year. In 1987 seat belts were not the law, and air bags were yet to be invented, so it was primarily the dash board that broke the impact when she was thrown forward in the accident, and why her body sustained so much damage. I remember visiting her in the hospital and asking to sign her cast, she had signed the many casts I had on various limbs up to that point in my life. I also remember her coming home from the hospital to heal and having to be quiet in the house when we went to visit her on weekends. She was getting better, her bruises slowly fading from deep black and purples to yellow and green. It was eleven years ago now, and yet I remember clearly where I was sitting in the house when Dad told us why Mom was crying after she dropped the phone on the floor in the kitchen.

After weeks of slowly healing from the injuries she sustained in that car accident, my grandmother died of a blood clot that made its way into her lungs. December 21, 1987. To avoid dragging things out through the holidays because of the way things landed in the calendar that year, my family opted to have the funeral before Christmas rather than after. I remember spending time on December 22 and 23 at the funeral home, but oddly enough remember none of the actual service. Instead, I remember attending Christmas Eve service at my grandparents’ church and then going back to their house to open gifts. My grandmother was a shopper who loved to buy gifts for her grand children and, prior to her accident, had done much of her holiday shopping already. With some help from my mother and aunt, she managed to not only finish her gift buying that year, but also get them wrapped and waiting for us under her Christmas tree. She loved Christmas, the decorations, the carols, the gift buying and wrapping, and that magical spark that can only be found in the eyes of a child as they open their gifts on Christmas each year. She could be seen watching from across the room as each neatly wrapped bag or box was torn into and the eventual smile crept across the face of which ever child was opening their gift to find exactly what they had asked for, and often things they didn’t even know they had. That year, the Christmas of 1987, I remember opening my gifts filled with mixed emotions. I was not sure if I should be so happy to have them and on the verge of tears as I looked around the room for the smile on my grandmother’s face as she watched me open her presents. My tears came when I eventually realized that she was not there to see how happy I was to open her Christmas treasures. On the faces that were there that night, I saw smiles masking the tears and I wondered if Christmas would ever be the same.

Partly because I was 10 at the time, and partly because of the way children’s minds manage to forgive and forget things so easily, it only took another year or two before I managed to find my Christmas spirit once again. For Mom, it was not so easy and to this day, she still has a bit of trouble getting into the holiday spirit every year. I don’t recall another year spent wishing Christmas would just somehow not come since 1987, until this year. And, this year it is not me who has lost someone they love. I am just playing a supporting role in this series of events, yet it pains me to see someone I love have to deal with a Christmas spent opening gifts from someone who will not be there to thank with a hug the way we normally do.

We found out on Thanksgiving that Jen's maternal grandmother had advanced stage cancer. She was in the hospital for about a week, and in good spirits when she left for home hoping to enjoy whatever time she may have left. She was looking forward to spending time with her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren for one more Christmas and possibly attending the wedding of one of her eldest grandchildren in the spring of 2009. Toward the end of last week, we got the news that she had taken a turn for the worse and upon visiting her this weekend, it was clear that she likely would not see the end of 2008. Jen and I spent time there this weekend with various members of the family on what can only be described as a death watch. Her house was filled with an eerie sense of calm mixed with laughter and tears as some managed to make peace with the inevitable loss of their mother/grandmother/great grandmother. Thankfully, Jen was among those who found her way to the realization that sooner was far better than later and, though no one can every truly be ready for the loss of a loved one, she was as close to that point as one can get when the call came last night.

December 21, 2008 at approximately 6:30 pm Virginia M Smith died of cancer in her home surrounded by her family. It may not have been the way she wanted to leave this world, but her journey to the inevitable was relatively quick and peaceful. In the end, we all know it was for the best and most are thankful that the end came so quickly. As for this Christmas, plans will not be changed. The family will be gathering at her house on Christmas Day as planned, life moves onward, it is what she would have wanted.

Today, just a question

With my head still a little cloudy from the drugs and sinus pressure, writing has been put on the back burner, along with going to work today. After 14 hours of sleep, a heavy dose of Advil, and some time spent upright so my head can drain, I have managed to accomplish something on my Java homework and come up with an idea for this post. It is mostly just a question ... one that Jen and I are currently being forced to answer in our own heads though we may both deny it if you were to ask.

If you were given 3-6 months left on Earth, what would you do? Would you make the most of it or let it slip away while you denied the inevitable? Would you go out in style, living each moment to it's fullest, or would you wallow in self pity and wonder when the end will arrive?

It's time. I've healed enough to post this

Back in April my grandfather passed away. I got the phone call that he was nearing the end on Monday night and that it could be days or weeks but I should plan to be attending a funeral soon. I live about three hours from him, and he had part of my family there with him already, so I didn't drop everything and run up to see him. I also knew that my grandfather wouldn't want me to put my life on hold just to sit back and watch him die. By Wednesday afternoon I was beginning to wonder if I had made the right choice in not going up right away and began to wrestle with that demon inside my head. I was torn between honoring the wishes of my Grandfather by going up to see him once more before he passed and doing what I thought he would want me to do. After a long conversation with Jen, I finally picked up the journal and began to write. By the end of the entry from 5/14/08, I had made my decision and also wound up with a neat tribute to my grandfather that I read at his funeral service.

It was my intent to post this months ago but every time I began to type the tears began to flow and I knew I just wasn't ready. Tonight I picked up my journal, something I haven't written much in lately, to flip back through the journey of finding Jack again in the hopes of resolving what I truly need to say to him next weekend. Rather than finding that answer, I found this and it just felt like the right time to type it up and post it.

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It’s Wednesday, almost Thursday, and I’m still torn about what to do. I’m okay with not seeing him again before he finally quits life…but I get the feeling he’s waiting for me. If I stick to the original plan to head up Friday after work, I may be too late. Again, I’m okay with that BUT if it’s true that he’s waiting for me I don’t want to wonder if I waited too long and he decided that I wasn’t coming.

I keep hearing his voice in my head, the loving yet comical way he would always say “Well hello there Shanny” and “Goom-bye”. Those make me smile. It’s the faint, almost haunting, repeating of my name and “Ga-Bye” that invokes tears for me and leaves me wondering if he is somehow calling for me. I’m not certain I believe that is even possible but I can’t explain it any other way. Each time they fade away and my thoughts become silent, I wonder if that’s the end. It makes me a little nervous that I may have just somehow heard his last words/thoughts. This all sounds so crazy yet when I told Jen she wasn’t freaked out at all by it. I’m freaked out by it, why isn’t she?

So if this is real, not just some wishful thinking or strange memory from my past…is he really holding on for me? Will he finally be able to stop clinging to life and slip peacefully from all the pain just by knowing I’m there? Is it fair of me to put my life, whatever meager plans and obligations I have over the next two days before the final wishes of my Grandfather? Don’t I owe him more than that?

(this is the piece I read at his service)
To the man who taught me to fish, who never missed an opportunity to take me fishing though we rarely if ever caught anything. The one adult who would spend hours on end listening to me talk and ask questions, who called me his little “Motor Mouth” and “Ratchet Jaw”. The one who bandaged my barely scratched finger after a goose tried to eat it. Who didn’t get mad at me, at least he never let me see it, when I bumped the motor home out of park while pretending to drive one night. And who always managed to pull over every time I had “hot feet”. The one who always made funny noises just to get a rise out of small children, and who never met a cat he liked ‘till mine curled up on his lap.

I’ll miss the smile, the way you always called me “Shanny” because I hated it so much. I’ll miss the stories and occasional nuggets of wisdom you passed along often without knowing it. And, I’ll miss the look of pride in your eyes when I would tell you all about my latest accomplishment, no matter how small.

I hear your voice in my head and can’t explain why. I’m sure it will fade in time, grow softer as each day passes by; but your memory will be with me always. I’m sure there will be moments, both happy and sad, spent watching the waves roll ashore on some beach remembering our time together. I know you loved the water, the calmness of floating along trolling for fish and the peace of simply staring out into the waves and letting your thoughts run free. And for me…That’s where I’ll go to remember, and to forget. For me the water is where your spirit will always be.

It's Over

On my way north this morning to give my grandfather the closure he requested ... my head went silent. It happened about 9AM and I was halfway between Houghton Lake and Lake City. I continued with my morning plan of stopping by to see a friend and then headed to Mom and Dad's to wait for Heather. When my cell rang about 10AM I already knew what I was about to be told. I hadn't heard his voice in my head for over an hour ... the longest pause since Tuesday evening. I already knew he had passed, and I can probably pin it down to the minute without ever asking anyone who may have been there.

I'm sad, it's a normal reaction I know, but I also know that it is for the best. And I know that he went peacefully, I felt him slip away. In my head I had been replying to his calls by telling him I would be there, or that I was on my way. When I hit Houghton Lake and got off the express way that reply changed to "I'm here". I did my best to keep my mind busy the rest of the drive, preparing myself to keep the tears from flowing while I talked to Jack. I was just about to Lake City when I heard his voice in my head for the last time today. He called my name once again and then said "good bye, be good." That's what he would always tell me when I left.

Sometimes this "gift" of crawling into someone else's head is a burden ... today it gave me a chance to be there for him in his final moments and hear him tell me good bye. Today it is a blessing and will help me to mourn his passing quickly and move on with life. that's what my grandfather would want me to do anyway.

I'll miss you and I'll do my best to be the rock they need to support them for a while. That's just what I do in times like this.

Taking a break

Way too much of what is happening in my life right now needs to remain out of the public domain. I am okay, this does not mean any of you should be concerned, but I won't be posting here for a while. Time to spend a little more time writing from the heart which requires the old pen-to-paper method.


"with hands held high into a sky so blue the Ocean opens up to swallow you" - Linkin Park Hands Held High