What was happening over there?

I juggled the baby boy on my hip watching my toddler as she sat on the floor, a small array of toys within reach. Jenny’s house was across the street. I could see the three steps up to her small front storm door, the one lane driveway that somehow defied gravity, concrete rounded over a small hill. Steve’s car was parked next to hers. His was the only one that had left in the last few days. When I called, he told me she wasn’t well. That she would try and call me later. Sometimes it just went to voicemail and I heard her cheerful voice, like a bird singing it’s song. An upbeat hopeful one of confidence, love, an overflowing life.

When I brought my baby boy home the year before, she was there. Balloons in her hand, a mid afternoon sun crinkling her big blue eyes. I tried gracefully to lift myself out of the car. I was sore and it showed. Jenny held the hands of her two littles, a boy and a girl that she homeschooled…

“Welcome Home!” they cried…

“Jenny, Jenny you didn’t have to…” words dying in my throat when I saw a welcome home banner taped to my bedroom door. I felt the tears in my eyes begin to burn. She hugged me hard and I struggled to find words to thank her. Younger, I had a full time career working for a Congressman, somehow we evened out, because of our experiences. She had her degree and was almost always talking about pursuing her Master’s again, off and on, though homeschooling kids, taking on the coordination of their church’s Fall festival, plus there was Steve’s new project and subsequent work schedule. One day she would wistfully say. There was little time left for her dreams in that jam packed schedule. I too had left the pursuit of my degree to get my M.R.S. as I liked to joke with her. We had become fast friends when she noticed me pushing my daughter’s baby carriage around the block, wearing my husbands white T-shirts over loose maternity skirts. I was happy to talk to someone during those long days of adjusting to breastfeeding, motherhood and homeownership. I was only twenty-two years old although to my credit, I did present as a thirty something.

I would watch the show at night and wish for a tight knit circle like the one shown on ABC. I tried to make friends with other women on our block, but then Jenny & Steve moved in. He came over asking for help from my husband and Steve said he would send Jenny over while the guys “fixed” something. We clicked and compared our notes. She was a naturalist, an earthy mama like me although being a member of the La Leche League was a little too progressive for her, I countered with “we need our sisters during this time of isolation.” Jenny had lots to do all the time although I could tell she did indeed need a sisterhood.

Once I went back to the office, we kept up as much as possible. Several summer cookouts, lots of walking across the street and catching up, we both wished for more, promised that we would get together soon; but there was always the matter of our babies and hubbies. And my work. My husband was beginning to feel invisible as he struggled to take root. Not only did I make the mortgage, I made the babies. There was trouble in Paradise.

When I had a moment and hadn’t heard from Jenny or seen much of her, I called and asked to come over. She told me she was pregnant and not feeling well. I noticed how thin she seemed, but Jenny was tall and lanky. That was her normal. She was struggling to keep it all together, the new capital campaign for their church, homeschooling her children, Steve was spending more time at the factory. She was in a busy season but assured me she was okay.

A cold winter came and my husband and I were beginning to unravel. I withdrew into a form of denial, the house couldn’t keep us warm, but my love would. I wasn’t ready to quit, so I kept going. I didn’t know what was happening across the street to my friend. I peeked out the venetian blinds at will, there was no movement across the street. I knew the baby was due soon. I called and left messages.

What was happening over there?

When Steve finally answered my call, I knew there was a reason. He was beat. He had figured out that I wouldn’t stop calling. I asked to speak to Jenny and he said she had finally gone to sleep. The baby had colic. She was exhausted.

“The baby…its here?”

“Yes, Jenny had a tough delivery. She is not feeling her best.” I was shocked that I didn’t get to do the same for Jenny, to make a banner and buy balloons, but Steve assured me that she would call me when she felt better. I hung up the phone but I felt left out and worried for her.

I would peek and dial for several more weeks before the story emerged. When my phone rang late at night, I was half asleep but quickly I pulled my red robe around my cold shoulders. Sitting in the chair next to the small table in the hallway, I picked up.

“Hello?”

“Becca, it’s me Jenny.” Her voice sounded so thin, like a gossamer thread floating away in front of my eyes. Her whisper had a whisper and my heart pounded in my chest. This was not Jenny, not the Jenny I knew. I held the phone near my ear and heard the struggle in her words.

“There is a voice that keeps telling me to go into the kitchen.” I could hear her breath in the receiver. She was trying to be as quiet as she could.

“I can’t talk long, the voice might hear me.”

“Jenny. What is going on?” I could hear the fear through the phone.

“It’s telling me to get a knife.” She said and I shivered from across the street.

“Jenny, what is the voice telling you to do with the knife?” I stood and stretched the phone cord…their porch light was off. I could not believe what I had just heard.

“To kill my baby and Steve. To put the knife in my heart after I do it.” My heart sunk into my stomach as she hung up the phone. I picked up the phone and dialed their number over and over again. I had just put on my shoes when Steve finally answered. I told him what Jenny had said. He replied that she had just told him the same thing. I could tell he wasn’t sure if what I had heard and what he had heard was true. But he was calling her OB/GYN.

A month later there was a knock at my door and Steve told me Jenny was at a “28 day facility.” She was doing ok.

“It’s been more than 28 days Steve.”

“Yes, they say she needs to stay longer. Jenny asked to see you. Her doctor thinks it might be good for her.”

He held a small piece of paper with a phone number on it. I looked at the tall fragile father with too much to handle and I wanted to say,

“Why, why, how did this happen?” But I didn’t, because I knew why.

I drove my silver Buick Sky Hawk to the address given to me by the receptionist and parked in the hot summer sun under an oak tree. Crunchy acorns were scattered everywhere and I felt an immense wave of sadness wash over me as they crunched beneath my feet. Killing baby trees, killing babies, Jenny was told to kill her new born baby and husband, then herself. I didn’t know what to think or how to feel but she was my friend and so here I was walking into a small non descript building that blended into the suburban landscape. I was led into a large darkly paneled room that was obviously the activity/day room and told that Jenny would be there in a minute.

When she walked in, she looked like Jenny but was a hologram of her former self. She held something in her hand, as she sat across from me.

“I made this for you.” Her smile sweet but shy, she was unsure of herself and I wanted to put her at ease. She placed the small ceramic bunny rabbit near my hand. I picked it up and admired the details.

“It’s beautiful Jenny.” She was happy to hear my words but she replied

“I didn’t make it, I only painted it.” I looked into her eyes,

“But you did it so well.” I cleared my throat.

“When do you get to come home?” She sat with her hands in her lap, searching to find the right words.

“I don’t know yet. I maybe here a for another few months. Maybe more.”

“How did this happen to you?” Attempting to curb my temper but I wanted answers and I wanted her to see that it wasn’t her fault. She had done the right thing by calling me. I was angry at her husband, angry at my own, angry that this could happen to the nicest person I had ever known.

“My doctor said that I have postpartum psychosis. I didn’t have enough hormones to make breast milk but when I kept trying to nurse the baby, I just depleted myself. Then all my hormones got out of whack, plus I wasn’t sleeping and not eating enough, and the homeschooling.” She looked down and then back up at me.

“And the capital campaign, the fall carnival and Steve being gone at work all the time. No wonder this happened. You were exhausted. You were doing too much Jenny!” My words sharp and sudden as the silence between us grew. She nodded but only slightly.

“I didn’t want to let anyone down.”

“You let yourself fall down.” I could see that I had hurt her feelings so I stopped and the rest of the visit we laughed and made small talk about our babies. I hugged her and thanked her for my gift. She whispered in my ear. “You remind me of a bunny, that’s why I wanted to paint one for you.”

As I drove up Belgrade Avenue to my house, I noticed a for sale sign planted in the dry brown grass. Steve was going to move back home to Indiana so that he could have help with the kids.

I never saw Jenny again. I left message after message but I never heard a word.

Every Easter I place Jenny’s bunny at different locations around my home, but it usually ends up near my bedside table. I will always think of her and wonder what became of my friend…

We drove down to pick daisies. I wanted a flower corona to wear when we took the canoe out. To scatter Charley on Superior. The lake looked perfect for his last ride. The skies had cleared and the wind had died. I wore my new red sun dress and placed the flower crown on my head. My husband nodded.

“Very Nice, I’ll go get the canoe ready.” The screen door slammed in the silence, a Sunday in July at the edge of the world. Charley was ready, and finally at last, so was I.

So, I grabbed the green jar with the remains of his body, pieces of bone somehow still intact, the orange index card with the words I would say and walked down the sandy path to our beach.

Earlier in the day I struggled with writing important words. When I remembered the book, I was now revising, I knew I had said everything I needed to. There was nothing left to do but get into our canoe and paddle towards the endless horizon.

Charley almost fell overboard when my man stepped in and I held on tight to his jar. He was a little damp as I had left him out in a thunderstorm. Marc rowed while I sprinkled him out on the starboard and port sides, saying the words through a few gentle, farewell tears.

When it was done, we turned the canoe around and much to my surprise, our two girl dogs, Whiskey & Dixie were swimming like sentries accompanying Charley, witnesses honoring his ritual, their wakes shimmering back to the shore. My mother’s dog stood in proxy on the sand.

Five and half years later, I have the peace I needed to find. Postponement was the medicine, lingering, letting him go in pieces and parts, was the punctuation, the period at the end of his long, slow goodbye. Even as I know there will always be another layer of loss, the longer I live, I see this, Life is a gift and everyday a present.

Until we meet again, Charley, I will grow old for the both of us.

Welcome to my Sub Stack - it’s great to connect with a fellow writer and a skilled one at that! Thanks for taking the time to answer a few questions. Let’s dive right in.

Q1) Tell me how you came up with the moniker, Sierra Echo Charlie and what it stands for.

…those are the aviation call-letters for my initials. I don’t fly anything but I liked the way it sounds, lol. It also gives me a layer of anonymity should someone decide that my opinions deserve tracking me down and … yeah.

Q2) You have a wonderful sense of humor…

Well, thank you for noticing and saying so, I appreciate it! I do try to inject some humor in things because there’s so much strife and difficult stuff to read in the world these days that I like to take a lighter touch – it’s the Irish blarney in me I guess.

My most recent piece however, “The Endless Infomercial” was a detour (or I tried) from my normal approach, and I even questioned whether to put that on Sub Stack. I didn’t really want to be sarcastic or snarky in that piece as I was trying to explain/detail my own decades of takeaways, lessons learned, etc., from my long encounter and subsequent retreat from Christianity (+ all religion).

Rather, I wanted to strike a sincere and rational tone. (There’s still a little bit of snark in there that I couldn’t fully shake out, but I really tried to keep it to a minimum.) It’s part of a larger set of essays that I hope to publish under the title of Letter to a Young Christian.

…bordering on blasphemy when you write essays on religion. I LOVE IT...

Awesome! We aim to please.

…where do you get that courage from?

Well, it doesn’t take any courage at all. I’m simply expressing my honest thoughts… and even if, which I do not at all believe, that there IS some spiritual creature out in space (currently hiding in another dimension, perhaps?) after I die and barring my way to something (TBD), I can look him/her/it/they-them right in the eye and say at least I wasn’t a hypocrite. (And I would add “why did you conceal yourself from me (and billions of others) though I did earnestly knock/seek/ask… and bone cancer in children – what’s up with that?)

Further, I don’t consider blasphemy a “thing” in the first place. Rather, there is simply what is true and what is not true. Moral and immoral. Real and unreal. Helpful and unhelpful.

What I write certainly would have taken courage had I been alive in an earlier age of Christianity, or in many vast Muslim countries around the world today. Death is the penalty for nonbelief (and esp. abandoning the faith) in both Christianity and Islam which they got from the Jews, courtesy of the Book of Deuteronomy. The punishment in England for non-belief, up until 1677, was to be tried in Ecclesiastical court, stripped, led through the street behind a cart, whipped by people on the street, and burned alive, chained to a stake.

Islamic Law (the Hadith) commands, “Whoever changes his religion, kill him.” Many live under this sentence today. To speak out in this kind religious craziness, that takes true courage --- even drawing a cartoon of the Prophet Muhammad puts a death sentence on your head. You may recall the Charlie Hebdo massacre in Paris a few years back. And many others since. All thanks to father Abraham.

I do however, want to compliment you on your courage --for the willingness to entertain the thoughts of somebody who rejects all religion/magical thinking, despite that (as I have picked up from your writing, and correct me if I’m wrong) that you grew up in a religious setting, Catholic, maybe? I think that most people tend to shut down when confronted by things that challenge their thoughts, beliefs and identity markers. It’s safer to go with the comfort zone of confirmation bias. It takes a strong person to actually step outside their own box, even for a minute. I try my best to do that, and I see that you have that kind of strength. I respect that.

Q3) Thank you. I also write about faith and belief in God….Yes, I am a Catholic and sometimes I refer to myself as a cafeteria Catholic…Like many I do question the hierarchy of organized religion and it’s fallacies but ultimately I use it as a guidepost, a structural framework to live as a better human.

I have noticed that, yes, and (it seems to me that) even when you’re not talking directly about it, it infuses and animates the spirit of your writing –of which, as you know, I am a fan.

a) Do you still have a belief in the Divine, the Creator? b) Or has organized religion taken that from you?

Well, I would never phrase it like the church “took” that from me, like I was robbed or something, passively. I actively walked into church, on my own, banking on its promises, with no childhood inculcation. After a decade or so, I actively walked away, when I found for myself (independent research) that nothing they say is supportable – even ignoring that fact their historical track record is abysmal. I concluded that the Bible, church doctrine, liturgies, etc. –it’s all just made-up stuff, duct-tapped together over many centuries, based on a confusion of fever-dreams passed out the ancient world.

As to your question, no, I see no sign of a divine creator. But IF I’m wrong and there is some out there…fine, but it’s an entity that has no interest in human (or animal) suffering. So, in that case, what difference would it make? Might as well not exist at all to see the same results.

If there is some kind of “Heavenly Father”, he’s an absentee father. One who just watches our species like a pay-per-view binge voyeur

Q4) What kind of writers have shaped your style and voice?

Gosh, I never thought about it. I have always read a lot of nonfiction (history, nature/science, etc.), but more recently I’ve been trying to catch up on all the classics I missed, including things like: 100 Years of Solitude, Canterbury Tales, Tolkein, Brave New World, 1984, two or three Shakespeare plays, Moby Dick, and the stunning writing of Virginia Woolf (Mrs. Dalloway and To The Lighthouse.)

Currently on my night stand to-be-read are: Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray, Sentimental Education by Flaubert, the Hunchback of Notre Dame (Hugo) and the Three Musketeers (Dumas) because I’m going to be going to France later this year.

Please share your reading as well. I’m interested!

Q5) Love your choices! I have read all of those, but so long ago, I may need to re read. LOL. Since I am on my third and final pass of my literary memoir, I read books on the craft of writing such as “Save the Cat” by Blake Snyder and I am well into Louise Penney’s “The Black Wolf” a fictional series based in Montreal Canada, I’m madly in love with her protagonist Chief Inspector Armand Gamache. And lots of memoirs. Joan Didion’s “The Year of Magical Thinking”, “Educated” by Tara Westover favored by President Barack Obama. But honestly my reading tastes are all over the map. I have even read the Congressional Record for pleasure and once consumed all Britannica volumes. LOL. But Shakespeare is the OG and I was absolutely gutted by the movie Hamnet! I recently found an old box of books from when I left my mother’s house and I was pleasantly shocked to see I still had my paper back copy of the “Handmaid’s Tale” by Margaret Atwood and some weird one off books I can’t remember why I have them!

Sierra, you are also a musician. I listened to your songs, and loved Breakup Weather. So lyrical. How is song writing different for you? I assume it’s a little like poetry of which I crank out a lot. My cheap form of therapy.

Well, I try. And thanks. For me it’s all about the vibe and the emotional feel of whatever is going on. The “feel” of music is the deepest communication between humans, I think. Generally, I come up with a musical idea and then retrofit lyrics. And yes, it is a bit like poetry, I would call it Poetry Adjacent. But the main value of the words is singability – the rhythm, meter, and the flow of the words themselves. And using a lot of the same tools as the poet and the writer to tell stories using associative imagery, etc., and at the end of the day …it’s about communicating some kind of emotional content.

Thanks for listening to this stuff and I’m always working on more –lol.

You are welcome. Thanks again for your time and it was fun learning more about you. I always enjoy your work and I am providing a link to your Sub Stack account.

Sierra Echo Charlie

THE ENDLESS INFOMERCIAL

I wondered. Is God really working in us? As advertised…

Read more

3 months ago · 2 likes · 8 comments · sierra echo charlie

July 18th came and went. And I wasn’t ready. Emotionally, maybe but physically no. The Canadian Wildfires made it impossible.

There was already too much ash in the atmosphere. Charley would have to wait. There was a soulful symmetry about it though. The AQI (Air Quality Index) was well over a thousand in the Upper Peninsula, unhealthy for everyone and thanks to multiple bouts of COVD, my lungs are compromised. Weather and waves permitting, we could plan for Sunday, the 19th.

Sunday. God’s day of rest. Charley could finally rest in pieces.

I originally thought I would scatter the small ceramic jar with his remains last year, on the lake near my home. The one he loved to walk my dogs around. His fifth anniversary into the ether. And have a cook out afterwards. But emotionally I wasn’t prepared. I wanted to hold onto what was left of him in the green jar my mother had given me. I had thought long and hard over it, even considering hiring a photographer to capture the moment. It could be a great photo on the back of my book jacket. The memoir I had written about him and shipped out to my first beta readers two years to the day.

July 18, 2024.

As I went through the list of my editor’s final suggestions on Friday, July seventeenth, taking my time to read through carefully, I would check the AQI at the top of each hour. As I wrapped up the edits and closed my laptop, I suggested to my husband that we leave the cabin and head to Sault St. Marie where it was dropping. The AQI stops counting at 500 and that was our current reading. Wearing an old N-95 mask, I ran to the camper, our two girls Whiskey and Dixie were already inside and my husband carried my mom’s overweight Pomeranian and off we went. The air was thick with smoke. I wondered if this was what our entire summer would be, stuck in our little cabin in the woods unable to walk the beach. Normally I would be as nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof, but I was abnormally at ease. The phrase “All is as it should be” kept returning to me as we drove east on the Curley Highway. I had finished another pass on my book and all was well.

We gambled at the casino after securing our provisions at the Meijer. My favorite super store in the Midwest. As we rolled by the long green fields on the way, through the tapestry of trees, I realized why I was at peace, I had survived the grief after all. It had not killed me, although my husband would come to my writing area when he heard my tears and ask when I would be finished.

All weekend I allowed myself the space to hold him one more time before the ritual of releasing his remains. I searched the cavity where I had kept his memory, I checked the songs in my heart, excavating my mind’s eye where he was always an invitation away.

Nothing. Only peace and a quiet kind of embrace. What was left of his body, what was stored in that green container was no longer important, I had written a book about the love and the time we shared, the spaces and places we occupied, a permanent record of us.

There was nothing left to say or do, but wait for the skies to clear.

I write about love, loss, and longing for more. As Stephen King says “Write what you know.” If it isn’t your thing, don’t worry I will pepper in some fun stuff and interviews with fellow creatives as well. Laughter is good medicine, it helps the hurt.

Sometimes it’s okay to just enjoy your life. Most of the time I do, but there are seasons that try your living patience and you hit the “Fuck it Wall.” Usually when I do, I will whisper, “I’m sorry God, please forgive my ungrateful ass.”

I am starring in one of those series now, dramatic, profound and painful. My stay on planet Earth has been difficult, one of intensity. I would soften the hard edges if I could, blur them out just a bit.

She liked to say “Life is Pain” I grew up chewing on those words as a child. Sitting at her small white oval kitchen table, staring out the venetian blinds, I would turn them over in my young mind while swallowing all my peas.

“Life is not Fair.” She’d announce whenever I would ask “Why”

The woman had a cliché for every situation.

I’m in that midlife hamburger of hurt, watching my once vibrant parents begin the descent into decrepitude, of old age, diminished by the hard knocks of their existence. I also have a blue eyed, blond haired boy who turns one years old on Saturday. My favorite holiday is the Fourth of July because who doesn’t love a good firework show and freedom? I have my own personal firecracker. The Universe pays attention.

Trust me when I say I have crowdsourced this stage, the sand which era as it’s known. I have had three hour long conversations with multiple people who have checked this off their to do list. I have cried on a lot of shoulders and gotten on my knees to pray for leniency. Burying my parents. I am just not equipped. I am not good at goodbyes. I know it.

I am a Hello kind of girl. I love a party and never meet a stranger.

Writing a book about my brother’s addiction and death taught me a lot about the grief process. I love the title. It’s what came up when I wrote his eulogy six October’s ago. It’s almost ready. And just in time, after I have replaced that pain with some pleasurable days, when I feel like I am on solid ground again, the Universe reminds me why being a human is to hurt.

To survive, we have to balance out that emotional ledger. Like the character Leticia in “Monster’s Ball” played brilliantly by the beautiful Halle Berry, her loss is almost unbearable to watch. They are sitting on her dingy couch in a tired part of town. She is laughing and crying, as she tells Hank (Billy Bob Thornton) her son was overweight, she would find his stash of candy bar wrappers hidden all over his room. He had been walking to the store when he was run over and killed. “He sure loved his candy bars.” Hank is uncomfortable in the moment. Saying “I don’t know how to help you.” She reaches for him and says “I want to feel good. Make me feel good again.”

I know pain. I also know pleasure and how it is a remedy. Its the other side of the coin.

As my mother liked to say. “You can’t have light without the darkness.”

I write about love, loss, and longing for more. As Stephen King says “Write what you know.” If it isn’t your thing, don’t worry I will pepper in some fun stuff as well. Laughter is good medicine, it helps the hurt.

Happy Father’s Day.

There isn’t a day to acknowledge all the failed fathers. Because that is every day. For too many children. These fathers won’t get the funny farter cards, the grill tools, the gratitude, a fine bottle of bourbon. We celebrate the ones who put in the work, who withstood and did the right thing. They are as varied as their individual situations. Lets take a look at them.

• Men who stayed with their wives and kept their family ‘s lives together. BRAVO! You deserve a top award, but your trophy maybe an intact legacy. Your family tree has a better chance of having some strong branches and good roots.

• Those fathers who didn’t disappear after a breakup or divorce, honoring visitation schedule and child support orders. WELL DONE! It’s a hard knock life. Your children will have therapy later, but hey at least you are still in the game!

• Stepfathers who stepped up when another man did not or could not! YOU ARE THE BEST! This is tricky territory. Lots of unspoken rules and reg’s you have to navigate. In many cases you are flying blind. But you knew that, didn’t you? Yet you still signed up for the gig.

• Mentors. These men are a special breed. There is no woman, no marriage, nothing to gain, just a helpful heart who see a child in need. Think Big Brother’s Big Sisters, The Boys & Girls Clubs of America, Boy Scouts. Sometimes these men show up in churches, neighborhoods, schools etc. Many times they are uncles or other male family members.

And for all those men who tried and still didn’t measure up. There is something to say for at least giving a shit and showing up even it’s not picture perfect. It’s your day too.

For me, it’s complicated. I have a father who I speak with regularly. He loves me and I know it, but we did not share our lives together. Despite and maybe because of that I love him even more dearly. He is precious to me, and yet, there will always be that gap of growing up without a man in the home. Watching a man shave still moves me. I love hearing my husband’s shave tools. It’s a comforting sound.

As the first born, a lot of the man’s work fell to me. Starting the car on frigid morning at 6:00 am so that it would be warm enough for mom to drive us to daycare. Waking the boys up, putting their coats on…later picking my sister up from her after school job. I waited in the parking lot till ten pm on a school night, my pajamas and pink sponge rollers on. And later still taking the youngest to soccer practice and both of my brothers to their first Monster truck show.

I had to assist my mother in raising her children, so I appreciate men and fathers. And I had to raise a boy on my own for the first nine years of his life.

But of my own father, we made our peace years ago. When his father, my grandfather died and the only reason I knew was because my beloved aunt read the obits…I was livid. Out for blood as they say. The only man I had as a child was the WWII veteran with the perpetual cough and the smiling crinkling eyes who always had time for me. To my surprise, my father listened to my anger and agreed with me. He had not been present in my life and for that he was sorry. Satisfied, I decided to take what he could offer and we began our relationship. I was a 19 year old young woman who had managed to make something of herself, somehow. We had two wonderful years together until I married.

And then, it was as if he knew. He asked me lunch. We sat down, he wanted me to order fish soup. I was beginning to grow even thinner than normal. Patiently he waited. When he asked me how I was doing, all I could do was shake my head. Then I sobbed and sobbed….Not for me, but for my own two babies.

He asked me a few questions, then took out his checkbook and signed his name, leaving it blank. “I don’t care how much it costs.” We lingered and I tried to sip the fish soup, but I had what I needed. What he had given me was more than sustenance, it was security. My father had my back. Whenever I have needed him most, he answered the call.

So I cling to his voice over the phone. I know his inflection points, recognize the pregnant pause when he is about to say something he doesn’t really want to. I send him pictures of my life. He loves me and I know it. We tell each often during our conversations. We share our hearts and thoughts with each other, even if the words can be painful. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to share my life with you.” “I should have come and gotten you.” “I’m sorry that I moved on without you.”

When my father met my husband for the first time, he ran his hand over my man’s shoulders. I could see the unease in my fiance’s face. “Your built like an ox, son. I would hate to meet you in a dark alley.” They shook hands and I sensed relief in my father.

Father’s come in many forms of packaging, don many different types of hats, but I think the one thing all the great ones do is offer support. Emotional, physical, financial, however they can support the raising of children not just enjoy the making of them.

Happy Father’s Day to all the dudes trying to raise the kids, in whatever ways you consistently do. You deserve more than one day.

But in two days time I will celebrate the second of several anniversaries. My two years here on Sub Stack. Saturday’s are a grab bag of whatever is happening in my my life at the moment. I try not to make God laugh at all my perfectionist plans, because I know better. So we mark it today!

I wanted to pop in and say thank you to all the humans who donate their time to my writing. I hope I make you feel something because you are not a Bot. Make you laugh, make you think, make you mad. (Not at me at the systems- of course) I know I can make you cry. Most of my stuff is sad, because I suffered and still do. But guess what, I am grateful for most of it, because that well will never run dry. I will always have a story to tell…

If we are being honest, haven’t we all suffered?

But not today.

I will walk my grandsons down to the lake and watch them wade in it. I will curse the humidity and wish my right knee wasn’t so stiff. I will smile, I will laugh, maybe warn them to be careful knowing that lake like I do. Where once upon time, many moons ago a young brown girl stood on the shore, stared down at the dark green water and wondered…what was underneath it’s surface.

Aslan says to the children…

“Create conversation. Around the dangerous topics. Speak truth or else you will perish like a coward hiding in an alleyway hoping not to be found. Lights from a car driving slowly searching. It is loaded with gangsters, stops, swerving and sees you huddled in the corner as you cry,

Like a Lion stalking over a savannah I feel the pull of power, of expression, of authority. Like a lioness I roar, courage crowns my tattered mane. I take up the pen and write the terrible words, topics so true, they seem incongruent with reality.

Roar, I must.

Teeth sharp and ready to rip into the underbelly of the beast.

The silence is slowly surrounding the Serengeti. Animals seek shelter, small afraid, cowering as the Lioness smells their fear. Night is coming. The heat from the day still hovers above the land, darkness will offer some refuge. Hiding is key. To survive from the predators, shrink shamelessly, dig in, keep watch until daylight returns. The Lioness has no fear. Right has Might. Benevolence will not be served tonight.

The Lioness grows wings flying high into a darkening sky.

Welcome to Substack. Can you tell us a little bit about your new single and what it means to you to have launched it out into the world.

ABW: “Long Fall” is about the sobering feeling of reality. We cope with distractions and disillusioned self serving thoughts daily. Buying the version of truth to who your deceiver is selling is often swallowing the real truth. Whether it’s being deceived by a partner, authoritative figure, business, government, or a loved one. We tend to go with the less painful storyline out of comfort and fear of change.

How long have you been playing guitar?

ABW: When I was 17, I was put on probation and my mother had bought me an acoustic guitar and it was my only source of freedom without a car.

When did you write your first song?

ABW: I was 18 and I wrote a song called “Walking Away.”

I like the vocals on Long Fall a lot but as a writer lyrics are important to me. I relate to the imagery of your words…this line grabbed my attention, “Long Fall from Way up High” what does that mean to you?

ABW: It’s about the withdrawal of something comfortable. Slowly waking up from the fog you were trapped in out of comfort and fear.

The guitar is interesting to me, it’s driving the song but like you used it as foundational layer and the lyrics float on top of it…giving equal parts edge and space, the result is futuristic and a sound that seems other worldly.

ABW: Thank you, that’s what I’m looking to do with this project. Capture the feeling of being in between two worlds or realities.

I’m a longtime guitar girl who grew up loving all the dudes who could play lead, bass or even a “picker” who are some of your favorites?

ABW: Jimmy Page, Hendrix, Stevie Ray, Ted Nugent, Santana, and John Mayer. Although I would say John Lennon has had the most impact on me as a guitar player and song writer.

It was a pleasure, thank you and tell the fans how they can find you:

ABW: Same thank you so much for your interest and kind words. Spotify, Apple Music, YouTube, and Instagram.

If you’d like more information on the artist you can find him on FB and IG, or click the link to hear his newly released single.

https://www.facebook.com/share/18CEUxq5Cn/?mibextid=wwXIfr

https://www.instagram.com/absent_minded_wolf?igsh=MTF6cGdvMzYza2hsdQ==

I speak to him as if he’s still here sometimes. I like saying his name out loud.

Share

A few weeks ago, in his room, going through the books he collected wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. Looking around what was left of his possessions did not wreck me. Walking into the room he died in, I expected to feel sadness. Instead, I smiled remembering the brother I loved, the one I lost. He had a great smile, we resemble each other the most out of mom’s four children. Dead at 50 in the midst of a global pandemic, Charley was lucky in many ways. Unlucky in love, but boy did that man enjoy carnal lust. He told me things I did not want to hear or know about. Sometimes his words will come to mind, and I laugh. He squeezed the juice out of those fifty years, that’s for sure.

He rolled the dice one too many times. His luck ran out. The man played poker with God, the ultimate dealer. Charley stayed a little too long at the table, a game of Texas Holdem going well into the evening, the Grim Reaper watching, waiting, sipping three knuckles of whiskey.

Addiction promised him, whispered in his ear, courage in a can of beer gave my brother the illusion of omnipotence. He had gambled away his family, his home, prized vehicles, his money then his health, still he sat at the poker table betting against the hand of God.

A pair of deuces against God’s three Kings. The Grim Reaper smiled threw back his glass and grabbed his sickle. Time to go.

But God looked over and shook his head. “Hold your horses, not just yet. Let’s give him one more try.” The Reaper grimaced but backed down. He knew who was The Boss. God poured two knuckles of Anejo Tequila one for himself and his hard working employee. The Reaper handed God a lime.

“Good luck son.” God merciful and just, dealt another hand. Charley reached for the cards, his hand outstretched, shaking, but steady. He looked at the cards on the table.

He had nothing.

His last hand. No royalty or wild cards but Charley knew how to bluff.

I prayed for a miracle that mid afternoon in October. I held my rosary in my right hand, it was a Tuesday, the Sorrowful Mysteries, my favorite. I finished and needed to pee. I was in his bathroom washing my hands when I heard him “A little help please.” I ran down the hall and his eyes were open. He was sitting up.

“Come on, let’s go.”

“Where are we going, Charley?”

“To your house, to pray.” And then he fell back in his bed.

Suddenly Charley was back in the poker room with the Almighty. God asked him, “Charles David, I will raise you twenty grand, will you see that amount or do you fold?” Charley looked at his maker, nervous but still playing the odds. He figured that God might also be bluffing, so he shook his head and slid his final stack of chips over to the middle of the table. He put his life on the line.

God looked long and hard at the man across from him, a favored son of his. He had created that face through generations of molecular strands, 23 pearls times two, in his image yet somehow unique. God smiled, spread his cards. Four Aces.

“Charley, show me your cards.” He hesitated for a moment, stalling, finally he turned them face down. God grimaced “You do realize I knew you were bluffing the whole time?”

The gate began to open, the light bright.

Charles eyes widened. “Is it time?” God nodded, the Reaper leapt to his feet. Charley screamed at the sight of the sickle. On the other side of the veil, I only heard a whimper.

Charley sat up, hand outstretched, reaching, staring into a world I could not see.

“Is it time to go now?”

Death hovered in the room. I could see the shadow on the wall. I felt the hackles on my neck stand up. I stood by his bed waiting. Breathless.

“Nah, hard pass.” I watched as he crumpled back into the pillows. I listened to his breath and stared at his chest.

Alive, he was still alive.

The Reaper looked over at God, who shrugged. “It’s your call, he played it too close, but he played that last hand with commitment. I really admire these kids of mine, they have balls.” God squeezed the lime on his eternal tongue. The Reaper paused, he watched the woman as she prayed and pleaded.

“What about her?” He recognized God’s Rosary necklace in her hand.

“Again, your call.” God was cleaning the table and racking all the chips. The Grim Reaper helped him put everything into it’s case. He sighed as they left the poker room.

“I need a nap, this day drinking makes me tired.”

God nodded “Me too. Let’s give Rebecca some time. The others have been there for the death watch and are done. They are ready, but she is still processing.”

The Grim Reaper stopped at his parking spot.

“What about the father?”

The afternoon sun was bright, so he drew his hood tighter, he noticed God had taken his tunic off, tanning his torso.

“He’s not going to see him. Too much water under the bridge, too much heartache.”

God shook his head knowingly, climbed into the convertible. “Sometimes death is just too much for some of my children. I get it. It was hard on my heart when Jesus was crucified. I’m headed down to the planet to meet up with him. JC and I are gonna do some sunset yoga on Hermosa beach.” He started the engine and adjusted the volume on his stereo. His favorite high frequency music floated out into the parking lot.

“Good work today Reaper. And don’t go off book. You know I don’t like murder and mayhem.” He roared out of the parking and left the Reaper in a cloud of smoke. God’s vintage vehicle needed a tune up.

We can only play the hand we are dealt. We can raise, we can hold, we can call, all the while bluffing. Until we have to fold.

Some stay at the table too long, those intrepid souls, the serious gamblers who play a hand with God himself and if he loses, the Grim Reaper is waiting in the the wings. There to collect another soul.

Subscribe now

An abbreviated version was originally published in Jamie Snyder-Nielson’s amazingly uplifting Sub Stack: https://substack.com/@jamienielsen1?utm_source=about-page

At the 11th hour, and in a world of hurt I texted Jamie. “Did you publish yet? I have been dying to write about Del the Dog Groomer, he saved my mom’s dog.” Obviously, there is much more to this story: as it so often happens to be, but the call was for stories of kindness to strangers and I had one to tell.

Here it is:

My brother had sent us the photos via group text. I looked at his eyes first—they held my attention. I turned my face so my husband wouldn’t see my tears as we drove through the beautiful valley basin away from Taos, the scrub and chamisa as far as the eye could see, down past the gorge and towards the next stop on the long road home. I tried to call my brother but we kept getting disconnected, no signal, so I texted:

Can you please go check on him? Feed him? I will pick him up on Monday morning.

It wasn’t sinking in that my mom was in the hospital. On the phone she had said “I’m worried about Goose and my cats.” Goose the Pomeranian and her stray cats.

“Mom,” I promised her, “I will get Goose as soon as I get back.”

That night, after 12 hours on the road, a hotel stay at a Hilton in Amarillo, we made it back home. I began searching for a dog groomer. I looked at the pictures my brother had sent me. Goose looked scary. I read review after review and circled D’Top Dog Professional Pet Services. His hours listed opening at 8:00am. I went to bed with a plan.

I called D’Top and no answer. I called the hospital next, but almost as soon as it began to ring another call came through. I recognized the digits.

“Hi, it’s Del from D’Top Dog Groomers. I’m sorry I just missed your call,” he said. My voice started to tremble as I began to explain my momma’s situation with her health and how Goose was suffering. I started to full on cry.

“Now, calm down,” he said. “Tell me about Goose. We got you. Don’t worry.”

His confidence and strength put me at ease. I didn’t know what awaited me at the hospital, but at least my mother’s dog would be in good hands. I cried tears of gratitude as we ended the call.

Del said I could drop Goose off between 10:30 and 11:00 a.m. But no later. He had to drive to meet his newborn at a hospital an hour away. I drank my coffee, applied my sunscreen, red lipstick, an old black T-shirt and tennis shoes I had once ran a seven minute mile in. Well used, falling apart and perfect for Mission Extract Goose. I held my husband a little longer in our driveway, tears threatening me again. During an hour drive, the image of a video came to mind. The one my son had asked me to watch with him at our vacation rental in Angel Fire a few days before. Before….this.

The threads that bind us together.

In the video, two stick figures against a white screen made of golden yarn. The mother in the hospital begins to unravel, as the daughter hurriedly tries to put her mother’s yarn back. The mother refuses allowing herself to unravel faster as the daughter’s yarn pile grows. A baby begins to form as the golden yarn takes shape, the mother lays back in her bed, tired, ready and satisfied.

I thought Cory was showing that video to me, about us, him, me and his 8 month old son Levi.

I was at 635 and I35 now where traffic hits the fan, the tears began to form and to fall, as I passed the familiar sights, I inhaled deeply, in awe at the symmetry as beautiful as a pair of Monarch wings.

Angel Fire.

Golden Yarn

Generational Goals.

When I finally arrived at my mom’s house, Goose was waiting in the foyer. Shiny eyes, long dirty fur, matted, dingleberries hung from his bottom. He didn’t even bark when I approached the door. I wrapped him in an old towel, picked him up, and drove to Del’s place a few blocks from my mom’s house. Goose began to whine and shiver.

Somehow I got lost in a town I had spent thirteen years in. Looking at the familiar street signs, petting Goose, I whispered. To him, but mostly to me.

It’s gonna be okay, Goose. It’s ok….we are gonna get you fixed up. I will take care of you.

Momma, it’s ok, we are gonna get you fixed up. We are gonna take care of you.

Del was finishing up with a finicky spaniel, his text said. He would be downstairs as soon as he was finished to help me carry Goose up the stairs. Goose sat in the grass, at ease, inhaling the breeze and watching the cars along Pioneer Rd. I watched his nose sniff and twitch. It was just he and I waiting for the next step. We had been through a lot and a similar situation two years before. A Mothers Day gift was a gift of grooming from me to my mom. A different groomer, a different day when Goose the Pomeranian had his spa day.

This was so much different.

In my feelings, in my head, I didn’t hear Del. I turned and met his eyes. A moment passed. His once-over glance of Goose spoke a thousand words, acknowledgment and understanding of my situation with Goose and my mother.

“We got you.”

P.S. There are times when you meet a human who sees you exactly where you are and meets you at that juncture, with no judgement and that was Del. The kindness given me that day, provided a feeling of peace despite the difficulty of the days ahead. Del helped me do something to help my mother. Not only did he check on Goose for several days, he inquired about “Mom” as well. To support him and his family, click on this link.

https://maps.app.goo.gl/UEAjqAC5LUNTPLiD8?g_st=ig

Or if you are in Southeast Dallas County in Texas and need pet services please contact Del at (214) 447-8280.

Picodillo was the dish she made when she missed her mother the most. My favorite homemade dinner by a woman who was not the house wife or homemaker type.

Regina was ambitious, hardworking and a Divorcee’. Working those hot pants, fishnets and white Go-Go boots. Leaving her three young children at daycare in the pre dawn light so she could punch in before 7:00 a.m. at the defense contractor plant. Three steps you are out. I would ask, “Mommy what’s a step?”

“If you don’t punch in 5 minutes early, that is the beginning of a step.”

“What happens if you get a lot of them?”

“You get fired.”

I was afraid of the “steps” So in the morning I tried real hard to do what she asked. I would help her with my younger sister and little brother. Their coats in the winter, their breakfast on the table. Later Anti Freeze in her white Mustang II.

I don’t think she even remembers how our difficult our mornings were in those first few years after we moved away from the only family we had.

Picodillo, she sometimes said is considered poor man’s food. I have a longtime Latina friend who never wants to eat it again as they had it in various reiterations on a daily basis. She grew up in the City of Angels and loves to visit but never wants to go back for good. I just love that place.

That dish is special for me, representing so many things. Mexico, my Momma, a story of a time in the past. The past we never knew. My love affair with food began early. It was tangible and made me feel full. A young child who yearned for a complete picture, who wondered what was in the room, what shadows lurked behind a door, what pieces of her puzzle were missing. Where her mind had taken her this time. She was always in her head.

So many questions remain to this day.

But there was Picodillo. It is comfort food to me and I have told my man to watch out when I am making it. It might mean a sentimental day, I may cry as I press and peel the garlic, I could laugh at the eyes on the potatoes or curse the lack of cilantro in my refrigerator. My first born told me one day, “Mom, food is one of your love languages.” I chewed on that and realized she was right. She is a smart cookie and sees many aspects of me. But like my own mother, there is much inside of me that she doesn’t know and quite frankly never will. And that’s okay.

I used to wonder why. Why my mother was different from other moms, but Picodillo told me the things she couldn’t or wouldn’t.

The words not spoken but the message was there. In the smell of onions and garlic cooking in oil, the beef browning. I would stare at her back in the small galley kitchen, gold and brown, the white linoleum, a small oval kitchen table underneath the window that looked out into the backyard. Her castle. She cared on the days she made picodillo, there was an encoded message for me in the mysterious mixture of flavors.

My father has said it so many times I believe it. “Mija, you are all heart.” “But, Dad I am also a thinker.” “Yes mija you are smart like your mother, but you are all heart!”

I think I am both.

As a seven year old, I would sit at that table watching her back while she chopped, sliced and stirred listening to the sizzle and smelling all the smells and wondering.

What was she thinking, what was she feeling right now. Was she here or there? Was she remembering the day she lost her parents and two little brothers, an older cousin on the side of a highway south of Dallas?

Picodillo was the last meal I made for my brother Charley. I spooned the mixture of our childhood, her country of origin and the last bit of love and care I could give. I fed him as he lay in bed. He managed two good bites. He motioned towards the Johnny Cake on the plate. It’s what I call my cornbread. After the settlers who set out with coffee beans, dried apples, several Johnny cakes to sustain them as they crossed the prairie. He wanted to taste some of that. We followed it with a few sips of water from his hospital cup to wash it down, those long swivel straws a miracle of ingenuity.

Charley sighed. His eyes drooped and I knew he was tired. I looked at the plate and placed it on the bureau near his gurney. I pulled up a chair and sat down, knowing that his days on earth were dwindling, unsure of what to say or do, so I just sat with him and listened to his breath, rise and fall.

Subscribe now

Share

Yesterday was Friday the 13th and a portal of pain for some people I know and care about. I attended a funeral and a wake and today it is raining here in my little piece of the planet. It’s soft and puddles in the bird bath, I hear the blue jay squawk in the background. Airplanes overhead every 2-3 minutes, a finch chirps and the doves coo.

I slept really long and hard in the darkness of my bedroom, my sweet husband finally woke me up to have lunch. In my late morning dreams, my best friend from the block and I were cleaning my mother’s home. The night before I dreamt of finding my husband the perfect blue suit. David loved the color blue, turned 60 in July and succumbed to Colon Cancer the last day of January. He was a pet parent to his 3 dogs, loved his church, wife and family. In that dream the night before his funeral Mass, my husband wore a brown suit and crisp white shirt and he was the age when I first fell in love with him 28 years ago. So handsome.

We both wore baby blue yesterday.

I woke up today to presents and petals, chocolates, and a new charm for my bracelet that reads wife and love on it. A watch that will track my health or lack thereof. My man showing me some mad love and my heart expands with this knowledge.

I am loved.

Alice was 72 and her wake was an explosion of color and life. The funeral even had party favors and today a horse drawn carriage carried her home to Calvary Hill. She was a beautiful woman whose widower was plainly madly in love, her photo montage above her white casket showed a wonderful life. Her family, some in tears, some solemn are the pieces of her life that will live on, until they don’t.

Alice had four children and so many grandchildren I couldn’t keep count. David did not have any of his own and neither did his widow, but he had adopted a boy from his first marriage. Their children were their pets. They attended the same church every Sunday until cancer prevented him from leaving his home five weeks ago.

Faith and Family. A cornerstone for them both. They will be missed terribly by those of us left behind, to pick up the pieces of life without them will be harder for their spouses.

Their very first St. Valentine’s Day without their lover.

I have a small shelf where I keep my poetry books and I chose Edna St. Vincent Millay and cracked open the small volume. The rain has subsided and I read the yellowed dog eared pages and smiled at that young heart so full of passion and pride. It occurred to me to read through several of my own works to see if any of them would suffice, to share my sentiments of this day. To represent the many phases of romantic love. But there is one written by St. Vincent Millay that grabbed me by the collar. I am sharing only the first four lines. They are so perfect.

“Not only love plus awful grief,

The ardent and consuming pain

Of all who loved and who remain

To tend alone the buried brief”

It’s all of what these two lovers must feel and what I hope I don’t have too. Is it selfish to want to go first? To avoid the ardent and all consuming pain? Here is my poem written on April 4, 2013. A lifetime ago. For me anyway. I like the ambiguity of it.

“A sonnet might delight,

to talk about some things outright.

Love, love…ahhhh…Love.

Is it ever right?

Right.

Love, Love…A spell cast,

Feelings pass…a love that lasts.

Does it ever make you wonder?”

Emily Dickinson’s words about love and longing are well known. But I think the sharpness of Edna St. Vincent Millay’s pen takes my breath away. If you ever loved and lost, she is your girl.

I hope that today and every day you love and receive love.

Happy St. Valentine’s Day.

North Texans hunkered down, the days before it hit, we were in preparation mode. The shelves at the grocery stores grew bare, finding firewood was a chore, a low hum of panic permeated a state prone to pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps.

Apparently toilet paper flew off the shelves as fast as it did during the Pandemic.

I’m a native Texan, three generations deep so I can talk a little shit about our situation with the weather. I see it as a DNA marker. Texas has a long history of ranchers, farmers, hunter gatherers and with 268, 591 square miles to cover, we need to know the weather. It is the primary topic of a lot of our conversations. Our polite, conservative society prefers “the weather”, as other topics can be a no no. Living in a culture, whose societal norm is not to discuss religion or politics, I of course gravitate towards both.

But back to the weather…

Winter in Texas typically coincides with the Fort Worth Stock Show, so it’s right on time. But a historical 100 year storm that took many of us by surprise, Snowmageddon leaves many with bad memories. The pretty snow that fell on St. Valentine’s Day 2021 turned into the Texas Tundra, as our entire state froze over. That’s 268, 591 miles, four distinct climate regions, the biggest continental state, second only to Alaska, a state so big we break it down into five areas, North Texas, East Texas, Central Texas, South Texas and West Texas. The whole shebang froze, so the great folks in Texas have a right to be on high alert.

The Power Grid did indeed fail us five years ago. 250 souls lost their lives in that storm, billions in property damage and still we have so many Americans and plenty of Texans sailing down the river Denial. Call it how you want, but humankind is affecting our planet in an adverse way. Climate Change Denial is a serious affliction, much more deadly than Trump Derangement Syndrome.

And IMO, Amazon is not ready to take control of the US Postal Service, our grocery delivery was delayed three times, and then finally canceled via email. I sent my husband to the grocery store. He witnessed the frenzy. Saw it firsthand. I thought the news people were exaggerating.

On Friday ahead of the storm I went out and about, hoping ICE wouldn’t pull me over and detain me. Denton County, the deep red county I live in passed a 287(g) agreement with the Immigration & Customs Enforcement so our Sheriff’s Department can detain a person and investigate their legal status during routine traffic stops. I am a brown Hispanic woman, legally born in Dallas, but I am still cautious. After several hours of running errands and shopping, I made it home in time to bake bread, chocolate chip cookies, put a roast in the crockpot and read Gulliver’s Travels.

Don’t go out unless you have too.

It’s smart advice. I remember another snow storm in 2011, reading late at night about a young Hispanic girl who thought she could make it to work. Her parents told her it was too dangerous but she she didn’t want to get in trouble so off she went. She skidded off the north bound side of the Lake Lewisville bridge, her car plunging into the water. It took the Fire Department and Game wardens to fish her body out of the water. And then there was the multi car pile up in Fort Worth in mid February 2021. Six people died, 133 injured, many of them health care professionals on their way to work, black ice, the darkness before dawn contributing towards terrible road conditions. A harbinger of what was to come. I know that stretch of highway and it truly is a cluster cuss even without ice.

Better to be safe than sorry.

But it’s not just us, many parts of the United States got some serious Winter Weather. Meanwhile the great people in Minneapolis were out in the frigid temps, protesting and patrolling their neighborhoods, keeping watch for each other and taking turns driving scared people of color to their appointments.

Juxtaposed to those of us fighting over toilet paper, bread, milk and eggs.

But maybe the silver lining in the proverbial cloud of winter weather is that we were forced to stay home. Glued to our television sets and cell phones we witnessed the killing of another American on the streets of Minneapolis. We saw it with our own two eyes. But we were told by Bovino, Miller and Noem that Alex Pretti was a domestic terrorist, an assassin who planned to massacre ICE agents. An ICU nurse who came to the defense of a woman being shoved to the ground by ICE agents who was then pushed to his knees, pummeled repeatedly, and finally shot nine times, three in his back.

Deadly Force? Hmmm. Lethal force is justified in the United States only under extreme circumstances and when all other means have failed and there are no other alternatives.

Alex Pretti did not pose any threat, except to their egos. Instead of using restraint, they ramped themselves up, even clapping after they took Pretti’s life. Like a pack of wild dogs, they descended on their target, a man who was trying to protect the weaker sex from their violent tendencies, their aim to inflict dominance and deadly force on American citizens exercising their First Amendment rights.

Believe your eyes, not their lies.

Commandant Bovino in his long coat reminiscent of the SS, will be shipped out of Minneapolis tomorrow. He will retire….hmmm….

Bovino mistook the good folks of Minnesota, and Americans. Thank goodness, there seems to be a shift towards sanity. But this experiment was orchestrated make no mistake, it just didn’t play well to the basic decency of this country. And we cannot allow it to happen again. Ever.

Instead of arresting bad hombres, the worst of the worst, ICE killed a mother of three, took into custody a six year old kindergartener, and murdered an ICU nurse. The three bad amigos, Bovino, Miller, and Noem the epitome of liars, make Texas Senator Ted Cruz look like a boy scout. Even though he likes to get the heck out of Dodge when bad weather hits Texas, at least he’s not telling us to believe the BS coming from the White House.

And now Governor Abbot of Texas has chimed in, advising the President to recalibrate. A nice way of saying, you need to stop it. Now.

My Catholic upbringing sees the sign, the mark of the beast. This is typically the day of the Epiphany, but some years it falls on January 6th. Another day, the realists and rationally minded know was complete insurrection by a rag tag bunch of conspiracy theorists, deep state dummies, and a lot of lonely middle aged white males whose wives most likely left them years before. All those J6’ers pardoned. What a pity.

This January 7th was already a solemn day to begin with, a one year anniversary of the wildfires of Altadena and the Palisades, thirty one humans taken, the loss of property staggering, suffering still ongoing, many residents have yet to rebuild, I prepared myself for the day of remembrance. And a night out. For my birthday.

But when my writing call was over, of course I turned on the news, shocked into silence. I watched the news coverage of an ICE shooting near Minneapolis Minnesota which happened to a woman named Renee Good, killed by three gunshots to her face while in her vehicle. I listened to the expletives yelled in anger and horror by neighbors and by ICE agents replayed over and over.

January 7th, 2026 did not belong to me now and my simple desires; a mani/pedi, some stretching outside in the sunshine, sipping wine on a patio with my husband and two pet children. Compounded by pain, the day haunting like the ghost of 911. Smaller, scale than last January 7th where 31 people lost their lives, way smaller than 911, but somehow connected. By numbers. January 6, 2020 where the devil walked down the streets in D.C. as plain as day.

1/7. I have always liked numbers and see them as useful as words, less creative, more finite, but still capable of communicating, sending messages nevertheless. My brain that loves to see patterns scrambled to connect the dots. I scrolled through the algebra, the physics, the statistics in high school and university and remembered the theory of randomness. Chaos theory. Hidden variables. Both of those words are loaded with meaning. Many are saying we are in unprecedented times. Not really. In our American government, yes. But remember mankind’s history is drenched in blood. Genghis Khan, a storied Mongolian conqueror, the Battleship Potemkin and the Odessa Steps in Russia, the systemic stealing of Native American lands in this country by white settlers, the Holocaust, Sunday Bloody Sunday in Ireland. The list goes on…these are just the top of a long list that pop into my mind. There is so much more.

History tells the truth about us. I trust that truth written down by historians and I also put faith in Science and their pursuit to question, test, and understand what remains largely misunderstood.

Here is where Faith can fit into the picture frame of humanity’s problems.

Rulers of darkness, hosts of wickedness. Principalities and Powers. These words were written long ago, so long ago we can’t be perfectly certain, but ask yourself why our human ancestors took so much care to write down words such as these. Why the Word was protected by legions of people? Even if you aren’t a believer, the Word of God can be used as a guidebook. A study guide on how to live. And not live.

Breaking it down, we are not against our fellow humans with flesh and blood. We don’t need to fight each other. Period.

We fight the Power of Darkness, the Principality of Wickedness that threaten the heavenly world in which we live in.

Renee Good was a woman, writer, a poet and a mother. I am all of those. Jonathon Ross is a man with a gun in his hand. I am neither. But both Good and Ross are white Americans. The battle of the badge now has two new players on the field, so this time it is different. A new version of an age old story.

And Minnesotan Nice is not playing any longer. That polar bear is awake, it’s jaws open, claws ready to tear it all down.

The people are awake, make no mistake.

How could this be happening to him now?

We were bookends, dead brothers a part of a portfolio of pain that we shared. I looked at their end date numbers in awe. Charley 10/15/2020, Marty 9/6/21. Eleven months and nine days apart. I had not even scratched the surface of my grief. Now this. I felt selfish and shame that I had to press pause on my feelings. So I could be strong for my husband. He looked like he was in that special place.

The Numb.

Or the wide river we float on.

Denial.

But as we drove through the canopy of tall trees, the windshield wipers keeping time, I found a few pieces of paper and taking my pen, I wrote for Marty, for my husband, for the family and friends that Marty would no longer know. It tumbled out of me in one fell swoop. I read it to Marc and I saw the beautiful blue green eyes I love so much, blink. A tear fell from his face.

It was all I had to offer him, my words working inside of me to capture, to create and evoke the place that Marty loved more than any other. Marc said it was perfect.

When I read it in a small Baptist Church on a warm Sunday afternoon, it was two days after my brothers one year anniversary. I stood at the preachers pulpit next to my husband, my voice trembled but through my tears, I could see my father in law and sister in law nod their heads. Smiling, as I took them back to a time and space when Life was Good, Innocent and Whole. When they were an intact family, where loss had not really found them.

M119 - Through the Tunnel of Trees

“Rushing now, you gather speed, turning left at the Devil’s Elbow.

Up ahead Big Rock awaits your return. Pausing for a moment to

check in at the Good Hart store. All is well as you fly faster still…

They are waiting and you must not be late. Down the Road you don’t hesitate,

but wait. It feels different. Just breathe you say out loud.

And then you are there at the bottom, the grass is green and soft beneath your feet.

Smoke arises from the chimney and you hear waves on a familiar beach.

Smiling you know you have made it back, one last time.

The door suddenly swings open and you step across the threshold.

They are waiting and you are just in time. “

When Marty went home, he was ready and wanted to be with his mama. She too passed away on a September day. I can see them walking the shores of Lake Michigan together arm in arm, his beloved grandparents trailing right behind.

And I will know exactly where to look for my man in the after life, he too will travel down the Tunnel of Trees, towards a cabin on a Great Lake.

Memories are moving targets, you can see the back of one, maybe if you squint your eyes just right, you can see the whole image, hear the voices drift down a long tunnel, faint but there.

If your lucky there is a photo to prove that it really happened.

Faded, dusty or the light and bright ones, born out of some strong emotion, a memory is like a pearl, precious. Worth holding onto. Some are ones we wish we could forget. Like the time you peed your pants in first grade, waiting after school, new and nervous, grateful when the nuns saw you standing alone under a tree. School let out early on some Friday’s and we didn’t know the schedule yet. I marveled at all the Coors Light cases stacked in their refrigerator and how nice they were. Normal despite the long black habits. Handing you a banana to eat while you waited for your mother to get off work and pick you up.

I made a significant memory this year. For the first time in a long time, I decorated the tree solo. Usually I host a tree trimming party the first Saturday of December or we decorate at Thanksgiving depending on my family’s schedule. This year it didn’t work out for either. We kept my son’s boys over night that first Saturday in December and unloaded all the boxes from the attic. We made cookies and we decorated the kids room. Fun times but not the same. As I slowly unpacked the kids ornament boxes and hung them on the tree, I found myself wandering down Memory Lane.

I am alone. It’s Christmas Eve. Mom sits on the couch, cocktail glass in hand. The little girl who is me is almost seven years old. She has a sister who is four and a new baby brother, they are sleeping. It’s dark out in the quiet suburb, there are empty lots on both sides. She played in the black dirt next door before it was time to come in. The house is theirs, brand new, gold and brown colored shag carpet that smells clean, the walls bare and painted a bright white. The little girl wonders about a Christmas tree. Her mother looks tired, but happy with herself and her new home. The plant is closed for the holidays.

“Mommy, can we get a Christmas tree?” She is staring into a space and place I can’t see or comprehend. “It’s too late Rebecca, it’s Christmas Eve.”

“But Mommy how will Santa know where to put our presents?” She laughs, and looks over at me. “You are too old to believe in Santa.” I sit on the carpet and consider her words.

“No, I’m not. Mommy, please can we get a tree? Please, Please!” Voice whining.

“Oh, all right. Don’t get your hopes up, there might not be any left.”

I check on the kids, they are fast asleep. Mom and I get into her yellow Pinto and I sit in the front seat like I always do. We drive the few blocks to a lot lighted with bare white bulbs that hang in loops. I am excited but also not too much because there might not be anything left for us. Mommy said so, I do my best to be a big girl. I can’t see over the dash but she pulls in and parks. Pulling the clutch up tight. Click.

I look out the window and there is one tree left! Yippee.

“We are in luck.” she says as we get out. The stand is abandoned, our breath cold and misty in the air as we walk over to the tree standing alone in the middle of the pine straw. I am jumping for joy. Left foot, right foot. I can’t keep still.

“Mommy there is one left.” She smiles and says,

“Yes. It was meant for us.” She grabs the tree in the middle, its almost as tall as Mommy and she lifts it.

“Help me get it on top of the car.” We maneuver it together using the little bit of yellow rope to tie it to the luggage rack. I watch her, my heart is happy. We have a Christmas Tree! We have a tree. I wonder out loud why we don’t need to pay for it as we slowly drive away. “It was a gift from God, it’s free.”

When we arrive home, I help her get it through the front door and into the house. She disappears into the garage and comes out with a box, handing it to me. “You can decorate it.” I feel happy but slightly worried and take out the tinsel and ornaments. She sits down on the couch after turning the radio on, Christmas music plays in the background.

When I’m done, she helps me put the star on top. Mommy stands back and looks at it. “It looks beautiful, Rebecca.” I feel like such a big girl. I see her newspaper on the coffee table and run into my room, quiet so as not to wake my sister. I take two of my toys and bring them back to the tree where I wrap them in a few pieces, taking some of the left over tinsel and tying it over the news print.

Carefully placing the presents under the tree.

It’s almost time for Santa to come I thought. Time to go to bed. Santa will find us, after all.

Ten years ago at a Christmas party, a woman I admire and worked with asked me what was my favorite Christmas memory. We were all gathered, sitting, after the lovely dinner laid out by our host and without thinking, I told this story. When I finished it was dead silent. People were staring away, uncomfortable and without words. Joan, an artist, a smart, sensitive soul looked into my eyes, hers were shining with moisture.

“That’s a wonderful story. Thank you sharing.” Everyone agreed, the ice broken and we connected over our memories and shared favorite stories. It ended up being a great evening.

As a memoirist, I mine for gold in the hills of my memories, hoping to find a diamond, a ruby or emerald. Glittering, hidden among all my years of being a human, all the years, months, days, moments I collected oh so carefully.

So as not to forget.

I don’t want to forget, I long to remember, even the memories that smell like vinegar, new carpet, cold, clean air and pine straw. All of the pieces of a puzzle that make me who I am.

Christmas is a time riddled with emotion, energy and excitement. But there is also exhaustion, worry, dread, loneliness. And grief for those who will not be with us as we celebrate the holidays. All of the above and so much more. A season of highs and lows. For children, especially those who have a real need to believe, it’s important to allow them to.

Santa did indeed come. When I woke up the next morning, my little sister and brother were already sitting by the tree. There were boxes wrapped with real wrapping paper. Somehow the magic of the lone Christmas tree in a deserted lot summoned the goodness that is the reason for the season.

I hope you had a Happy Thanksgiving with your family and friends.

I am so grateful for you, taking your precious time, reading my words, somehow relating to me while I write about Loss, Death, Grief and how I deal with it. Thank you! Thank you!

Here it is.

My daughter Raquel will almost always ask me to cook a lasagna, take tamales, if there is a birth or death in the family. Or if a human falls away into Hospice.

Such a formidable word.

Way before on line Meal Trains, she noticed that it was my love language. I have never read that book, but of course I know of it.

When Joe was in the hospital almost ten years ago, the doctors saying it was a matter of time, I went to my kitchen. I rediscovered something about myself. I have the sixth sense. If I cock my ear and listen to the wind, a hunch can become certainty. In the act of cooking on that late Saturday afternoon in January, I stood in front of my stove, preparing meat loaves, Pozole, a large pan of Arroz con Pollo, my senses sharpening. I pondered the potential outcomes. He was unconscious. I had prayed a rosary over him earlier in the week. I knew the outcome we wanted had passed us by. Death was imminent. I could feel it all around, surrounding me with it’s presence.

My husband asked me why I wasn’t at the hospital with the others. I didn’t look up, from my work, answering instead.

“Because they will need to eat when it is over.”

I knew in my bones that it would happen soon and I pushed my stove to hurry up. I prayed as I chopped, measured and assembled, hoping I could get it all done in time.

I could feel him. Over all the miles that separated my cousin and I, the knowing that his soul was preparing to fly was real and as I wrapped the food in foil, I received the call.

The song, “Rocket Man” by Elton John was playing on my Spotify list and I smiled through my tears. Imagining Joe flying down the highway on his motorcycle, weaving in and out, fast and finally free. His sweet and tortured soul racing towards the Other Side, happy to see his mother’s face, hugging the father, his namesake in a long embrace.

Now as the aging process slows me down slightly, I heed the undeniable truth again and again. Every time I turn my stove on, pull out my cutting boards, the measuring cups, Life is still sweet, despite all the Losses of Life, in spite of losing the ones we love.

We have to continue.

To live, to love, to enjoy and savor all that this earthly experience has to offer. For ourselves and for those who will rise up behind us. To be grateful, even joyful for the gift of food and family, to be an example of the forward motion that Life demands, to teach the art of Ritual to those who come after.

Because Time waits for no man and its a short ride on the Ferris wheel.

I asked the hubs if he would run down to the corner store to pick up a 6-pack for Joe’s baby sister and a bottle of wine for his widow, Mary. While I got ready to leave, as I showered, the words of Elton John’s song played in my head and I started to think of the words I would write for his eulogy.

“I think it’s gonna be a long, long time till touch down brings me round again to find…

P.S. In January, 10 years gone, Joe made his heavenly debut. RIP cousin.

Writing is hard. Life is hard. Writing about life - hard.

The old saying…If wishes were horses, we all would ride. Wishing upon a star, blowing on a dandelion puffball, telling our children to “Make a Wish.” as the wind takes the fine gossamer hairs into the air. I whisper one under my breath when I see the angel sign 11:11.

I wish Mr. Whiskey Banks did not die in a torturous way. We were not prepared. The emergency hospital gave us the option of euthanizing him, but we wanted him back at home with us. COVD protocol would not allow us to be in the room with him when they administered it. There was nothing left to do but wait it out. No clear prognosis although his symptoms pointed to Parvo. Puppies can get that by contact. Last year I read that raccoons carry it and if you walk your puppy on a street where the raccoons have left their business, well you get the idea.

It was our daughters birthday and we were convening at her home to celebrate. My husband was shattered and only wanted to stay home with Mr. Banks. I was in a daze, my brain in a haze of stats, and facts, just like the rest of the planet, we were three months into the Corona hell scape and death seemed to be everywhere and always nearby. I left them and drove east on the George Bush.

When I came home I could clearly see what was happening. My poor husband was on the floor in his office holding the puppy in his arms. I tenderly told him, we need to put him back in the crate. I didn’t want Whiskey’s body fluids all over him or his shirt.

Marc allowed me to place him back and that’s when the lock jaw set in. Thankfully the terror was short-lived and he collapsed. It was horrifying to see. I picked up his little lifeless body, wrapped him in his blanket and gave him back to the man who had also collapsed, into his sadness. The grief and the madness of witnessing life leave a being. How do doctors, nurses and hospital personnel ever get used to it?

Dead is dead. Gone. Ash or in a coffin. Over. The finality can take your breath away.

We have Mr. Banks’s ashes in a velvet covered box with his name engraved upon it. Can’t and won’t bring him back. The photos on my phone, five years later, I skip over them. I can’t look just yet.

But it is our ritual to remember the Dead. To honor their memories, keep them deep in our hearts. Never forgetting their names even as we too leave for the upper room, when we leave others behind, wishing they could bring us back. Even for a brief moment. For a hug that never ends. To hear their laugh one more time.

Mourning our People can be complicated, maybe that is why grieving our pets seems so pure. Our loved ones with their free will can be contrary, conniving, human relationships are complicated and yes cursory. Another saying, we can’t divorce our families, but there are those that do.

Our furry family members almost always choose us over their own desires. Dogs, the epitome of devotion, they live to please us. My husband likes to say when he dies, he hopes he comes back as one of Rebecca’s dogs, they are treated so well. Once, when I was in summer school at University, my young kids in California for a long month, I befriended a spider. The spider was medium sized, long legged and would come out when I had to study. Late at night after driving back from the space observatory, I would open my physics book. He would inch up the page and watch me. Sometimes I would talk to the spider who seemed to listen. He did his nightly routine until one evening I found his crumpled body behind the futon where I studied. It looked dehydrated. I guess he couldn’t find enough food in my two bedroom apartment.

I am that person who will not swat or kill an insect. Basic Buddha.

The exception is mosquitoes. Although I know they are needed in the food chain.

In my ideal world, in my nirvana, in my vision of Heaven, I would have a home, resources and property big enough so that I could rescue animals, especially songbirds, baby rabbits, kittens and senior dogs, any & all whom are unwanted, homeless, injured. I did rescue a Mockingbird once, my son named him Chauncey and I kept him alive feeding him from a dropper until I stopped being scared of his beak, then I would hand feed him. I found his forever home out in the country and the woman literally had a house full of dogs, cats, birds, bunnies, reptiles and yes even raptors! A large white snow owl caught my eye as I rounded the corner of the long hallway. She said that room was the designated infirmary and the owl was healing from a run in with a barbed wire fence.

Unfortunately I can’t rescue all the animals, so I have to be picky about who I choose.

When I chose Lana, I was trying to replace what I had lost. Too many in fast succession. My dog Luna, my brother Charles and my son. I felt empty enough that I needed a cause. Lana was a symbol. Lana was me. I felt unwanted at that time in my life. When would I be tossed aside? She was headed for the shelter. I took her in.

In transition,

my nest once full of life had become bare. I had been demoted, what would my new job title be? Where was the “Want Ads” when I needed them? I guess I will be a Cat Lady now…

I think Lana finally took to me, to us when we left her home alone to be at the lake cabin, not because we were the ones who fed her, but because she didn’t like being alone. She figured out that she needed to be near us, not hide herself from us.

Lana was just a cat but ended up becoming so much more. A teacher, a reminder. Independent, indifferent, and enigmatic, she decided to become a cuddle kitty. She still stuck her claws in me every time I held her. I mean every time, and it hurt.

Love hurts.

When I held her in my arms that final time, her last day, falling asleep, my grief too heavy for my eyelids, she was in and out, watching me. That was one of her favorite things to do was watch me while I dozed. I miss her sleeping on the pillow, behind my head. Or on my stomach, waking up to those green yellow eyes gazing at me. She stayed especially close when I had nightmares.

I wonder what she thought of me.

We gave Lana a great ride. Eight and a half years was not enough time, but at least she made it to the Lake Cabin. I showed her the Northern Lights one night towards the end of that last week in the UP, wrapped in a blanket, I held her frame. Where had all the weight of her body gone?

I walked down the sandy path to the point. My husband was asleep, it was after midnight and I was a little nervous about bears, but I needed her to see the night sky and feel the breeze coming off Superior. She sniffed the air and gazed out over the endless open expanse of deep cold water. I wanted to take her down to the beach, but the inky black, deep sandy incline and possible bears held me back. Holding her close to my chest, I felt her purr, faint and far away but still, it was there while we witnessed the green, turquoise and white waves of light playing across the biggest sky I have ever seen.

I am so grateful for that memory and that she waited till we made it back to Texas to pass. And that she didn’t die on my brother Charley’s heavenly anniversary.

One of the songs on my grieving playlist, these words are for you, Lana. Momma misses you, Dixie Chick is sad and Whiskey Girl is still the biggest goofball and makes me smile.

“With arms wide open, I’ll show you everything…

”Now everything has changed…

“If I had just one wish….”

-Creed

It would be that I have a houseful of pets and people who never leave me and we live happily ever after.

Maybe that’s what Heaven look like.

Lana was something else, true to a cat’s nature, she was a little bit haughty, a little bit naughty and a Proud Mary. I miss her. Today is one week since she ran across the rainbow bridge.

Why do we love our pets so? Is it their eyes that seem to stare into our soul, the rush of compassion that sparks to life for an unwanted baby kitten, a stray dog roaming the streets, or a puppy that follows you home from the park?

All that and more for me. I’ve experienced the different ways pets can enter our hearts. Losing a pet can be especially traumatic to children, or those who live alone, their only contact with a sentient being is a pet, or what about Marley, a big white Lab growing up alongside his young family. Strong willed, uncontrollable he experiences life on his terms, loves his family in his way, finally drawing his last breath to the tears of his humans. One of my favorite Jennifer Anniston’s movies. Ever.

Maybe it’s trivial to those folks who aren’t dog people, or cat lovers. But Loss is universal, it is a tie that binds us. A thread, like Birth winding, curling, imprinting itself into our 23 strands of blood and bone. Even non animal lovers understand the loss, maybe not the depth of what it means to us. Animal Lovers.

To be loved by our pets is the ultimate surrender. Their world is defined by us.

We can’t choose our families, but we can choose our pets.

Silver Tabby’s like Lana, or orange ones, yes please! Siamese or Tuxedo Cat? I have had my fair share of Tuxedo’s here at 122. I will write about the perpetually little Papaya cat one day.

And Dogs. So many to choose from and so many to want to adopt! My two are black, both well behaved pretty girls. Dixie Chick is our son’s rescue dog who stayed behind when he moved on. Whiskey Girl is mine, a Shepweiler, her markings symmetrical, half Shephard, half Rottweiler. I love her face so much. She is a COVD puppy and only knows the rhythm of total togetherness. Life for her is Grand Cabaret.

Lana had two homes and a stint in the shelter before she came to live with us. Like Marley the Lab, her choices could be bad. Dixie did not really take to her, ever. They were roughly the same age and there was a little competition between the two, over the top spot in the house. Searching through my photos though, I found a sweet pic of them together, when Lana first came to be our family cat. I am making her album on my phone and when I miss her, I take a peek at her knowing face.

She knew a lot. Abandonment, Loss, starting over again and again. Sitting in her cell at the shelter, Lana developed some serious trust issues. So of course I would adopt a kitty who knew all those things and more.

Dixie the rescue does too. Still. She needs to verify then trust. Even after 12 years with us, she will hesitate when we hand feed her. She follows me to the door when we leave, amber eyes beseeching “Are you coming back?

When we would leave, Lana always assumed the air of indifference until that September in 2023. When she made the decision, she committed. She went all in. And I mean All into loving and living her best life. The proud façade dropped down to reveal the cat desperate for love, devoted to me she allowed her heart to expand to my husband, our children, the grands and finally her furry sisters, Dixie, & Whiskey. Even my daughter’s huge Chesapeake Terrier who has bitten so many, I have lost count, (including myself) who is banned from all boarding establishments, Lana accepted him too. Scooter stayed with us the week before she passed and he licked her head tenderly with his giant slobbering tongue. I think he knew.

Lana removed the mask, opened the door to the closet where she kept her heart, unhooked the chain of mistrust and allowed love back into her life. It only took her six years. I like to think I was patient. Then there was the time when I left the French doors open to the back yard, praying she would run away. I would mumble under my breath.

“Life is too short to have a Lana in your Life.”

But I needed this being in my life. I needed to witness her courage, to change, to commit. A beautiful reminder of what love, patience, acceptance can do to reverse the damage inflicted by a universe obsessed with the easy button. Lana was just a silver tabby cat to many, somehow she managed to encapsulate everything important to me, bundled up in some soft silver fur, black stripes across her body and yellow green eyes that saw, loved and did not want to leave me.

Always lead with your eyes wide open, Love your people passionately, Always take that Adventure.

I love it when I read someone write about their pets or post a picture of their dog or kitty cat. I love the fact that there are people who love their pets so much, that they ARE their family. No human offspring needed. My bonus daughter asked me when we were up north one day,

“Would you be disappointed if I don’t want to have children?”

“No.” I said and I meant it. Caitlin is a Dog Mom and she takes her parenting seriously.

Pet Parents, we are a special breed.

It is heartbreaking to lose our fur babies, feels so wrong to not be able to fix what’s wrong.

Before my Whiskey G, we had Mr. Banks. Mr. Whiskey Banks was my husband’s puppy. He came into our lives during the beginning of COVD in mid April. My sales manager had seen a pregnant dog near her dumpster and rescued it. Days later she had 8 puppies on her hands. Again, the road to Hell is paved with the best intentions. So of course, I said I’d take one.

Our son came by later that afternoon with his wife and sons and suggested the name Mr. Banks. We all had fun trying names on the small pup, the runt as Cristine so aptly put it. She had brought over three of the remaining litter to choose from. Marc loved the puppy who obviously picked him, hovering around his legs, looking up, craning his neck to get a better look at my man. Marc said,

“We’ll take this one.”

Cristine left and we all took turns holding the tiny puppy, obviously the last one at the teat. We added Whiskey and he became Mr. Whiskey Banks. He was a mix, a mutt but he had pretty markings on his dried out fur, resembling our beloved Rottweiler mix, Spike Lee. Not named after the famous film director who sits court side at the Lakers.

Mr. Banks suddenly became very ill. I was scared that he would infect Dixie, but she knew something was up because she kept her distance.…

To be Continued…

P.S. As soon as I finish writing this Trilogy on Pets, I will return to the second issue of The Petticoat. It will be a doozie. Thanks for reading.