Christmas 2011

Feeding time at The Alligator Farm in St. Augustine, Florida had just ended. We had watched in awe as Scott, the trainer, with dead rats hanging out of his pockets, walked amongst 9 and 10-foot alligators weighing hundreds of pounds each, patting them on their heads and leading them around with the promise of a snack. When all of the tasty morsels had been chucked into the gaping grins of the Farm’s residents, Scott stood in the pen with them to take questions from the audience.

He explained to us that really, alligators weren’t aggressive unless they were hungry or felt threatened. However, he asked us to let him know if, while he was busy answering someone’s question, we noticed an alligator eyeing him in a not-so-friendly way. “I don’t want to end up on someone’s You Tube video,” he joked.

So as he stood there talking, we noticed the alligator named Bob slowly making his way towards Scott. Scott looked over and saw Bob getting closer but remained where he was, continuing to answer questions. Bob kept coming. Scott glanced his way but didn’t move. Bob came closer still.

Now, I’m not that familiar with alligator behavior, but I have to say that if I was in a pen with several dozen alligators, and one of them was making his way my way, I’d be moving along. However, Scott just stood there talking, with Bob less than two feet away. “Well, Bob’s obviously not a threat,” we thought, “Otherwise Scott would move.” We knew Scott had seen Bob coming, but Scott was the trainer, and we were the tourists. Who were we to shout, “There’s an alligator about to bite your leg!” when we’d seen Scott see Bob and not move. So we didn’t say a word. We just watched.

SNAP! Suddenly Bob had a hold of Scott’s shorts. Bob nipped Scott’s leg, and blood started running down into his sock. Finally the shorts ripped free of Bob’s teeth, and Scott backed away from Bob’s powerful jaws. He spent the next 5 minutes pushing Bob around and letting Bob know who was boss. He blamed himself for forgetting that he still had dog treats in his pocket. Still, he was in a pit with alligators, walking around with dead rats and dog treats. You’d think he’d realize that something might happen one of these days! He should not have been surprised even though he was.

That’s kind of how it was when we lost Dad this summer. He’d been dancing around in the “Parkinson’s Pit” for several years now, dead rats in one pocket, dog treats in the other. We should not have been surprised when the Parkinson’s came and snatched him away, but we were. Nobody hollered, “Look out for the alligator!” I guess it was just as obvious to them as it was to us when Bob started heading after Scott. He knew Bob could bite, but he didn’t really think it would happen. Whether it was ignorance or denial or a little of both, we just weren’t ready for the snap and the ripped shorts and the bleeding leg. It still came as a shock when Dad died.

I’ve heard that you never truly feel like a grown up until both of your parents are gone. That is true. But on the flip side, you never feel more like a child as when both of your parents are gone. You still wait for someone to mend your shorts and bandage your leg, and then when nobody does, you finally realize it’s now all up to you.

2011 was a really tough year for us, as you know. But what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, right? So we will take what we’ve learned and hold on to each other a little tighter, wipe the blood off our legs, and move forward.

My best grown-up advice is this: Take care in 2012. Treasure your loved ones. There are alligators out there. And sometimes they DO bite.

Peace,
Sharron, Kirk, Kyle, Claire, and Emily

My First Thanksgiving as a Real Grown-Up

I survived my first holiday without my parents. It was my first Thanksgiving as a real grown up, where my sisters and I were the oldest generation at the table, and nobody was there to tell us what we needed to do. Although it started with a clogged drain at midnight last night and ended with a movie marathon, it was just like every other Thanksgiving before, only Mom and Dad weren't here. I think that familiarity is the reason behind traditions. Through the repetition of the past, we provide ourselves with continuity for the future.

I was thinking as I was shopping for the ingredients for our usual corn pudding and my mom's apple pie, that this could be the year we could have taco bar instead of turkey. We could have spaghetti and meatballs instead of sweet potato casserole. Pineapple upside down cake instead of pumpkin pie. Heck, throw it all out the window and just go out to eat. It'd save everyone a lot of work and pump money into the local economy besides.

But then where would we be in 50 years when I'm gone and my kids are taking over? Who would know what to do? My mom and dad taught us well, and my sisters and I knew just how to make it our traditional Thanksgiving. Jennifer baked the turkey and made Mom's sausage stuffing. Colleen made the cranberries, sweet potato casserole, and green beans. I made Mom's corn pudding and mashed potatoes. We had Mom's apple pie, pumpkin pie, and chocolate pie for dessert. Same menu as always for as long as I can remember. It brought us comfort and continuity and made Mom and Dad seem almost here.

Jennifer and her kids came down and spent the night. When she and I were cooking yesterday, my girls would ask, "Is this Grandma's recipe?" whenever I was getting a dish together. "Yes," I'd say. "We have this every Thanksgiving." I want them to know that we are the keepers of our traditions, and someday, it will fall to them, as the women of the family, to carry on. I want them to be as well-prepared as I was. I want their children to eat sweet potato casserole and sausage stuffing and corn pudding and ask, "Was this Grandma's recipe?" and they will respond, "No, it was your great-grandma's!" And someday, when Kirk and I are no longer on this earth, I want my kids to take comfort in the fact that they know what to do. Even though they will miss us like crazy, they can still feel us with them in the food on the table and the traditions surrounding it.

I miss you, Mom and Dad!

What do you say?

On Wednesday, Kyle got a text from Felix Lukose, Finoy's brother, asking if he could call Kyle later.

The visit on Saturday was exhausting but good. The family arrived about 4:30 and stayed close to an hour. It was the oldest brother, Felix, his cousin, Jince, and the cousin's wife, and Finoy's mom and dad, Dottie and Phillip. We had snacks and drinks, but they had already eaten, so they only wanted water, so after we got that, we settled into the living room to talk.

Kirk and I waited for them to start the conversation because they were the ones wanting to see us, but we were just kind of sitting there, and nobody was talking. Finally I asked how the drive was. Fine. I asked if they had already been to Glenmary Farm, and they said yes, so I led in with, "That must have been very hard..." Thankfully that gave them the permission I guess they needed to start the conversation about it.

I think it was healing for all of us. I heard Kyle tell details that I had not heard before, and his explanation of things helped make peace for the parents and for us. They wanted to know how Kyle met Finoy, what kind of things they did the last couple of days, the details about some tent the boys were trying to build. Dottie wanted to know if they had gone to mass during the first couple of days. The dad wanted to know the kinds of things they talked about.

Kyle shared how he has been inspired by Finoy's life to do more service, how he volunteers burying the indigent and with the service club at school. goes to Friday mass...just tries to be a better person because that's how Finoy was.

They said that they saw at the farm earlier in the day how Glenmary is letting the grass grow over the path and has increased the security around the access road. The volunteers are no longer able to go swim in the creek. They wanted to know about the conditions in the creek the day of the incident and how high the water was both on Sunday and Monday and then on Tuesday.

Then the dad asked if Finoy struggled a long time or just went right under (went under quickly) and if he yelled for help (no). Jince said, "Well how could anyone know he was in trouble if he didn't yell for help?"

Jince said he had gone to the farm the day after Finoy drowned and commented on how brown and dirty the water was. He asked Kyle if it was that way all week. Kyle said yes. Jince said that there was no way anyone could see anything in the water and asked if the rescuers were just feeling for Finoy. Kyle again said yes. He replied, "Maybe if the water had been clear, things would have been different because we could have seen him..."

Kyle shared how he himself had gotten sucked under earlier in the week at a different location but was able to push off the bottom and come up because it wasn't that deep (made ME sick to think of.) He said that is what he thought Finoy would too, do but he didn't realized the spot was 20 feet deep. (We saw Adam Brewer at church last night, and he said the same thing happened to him. We are very lucky that one of our boys didn't drown.)

Felix called later when he got home and said that piece of information really gave them some peace because if Kyle, who is a 6', 180 pound athlete, could get sucked under, how much easier would it have been for the much smaller Finoy to go down.

Felix told Kyle that they all wanted to thank him for what he did to try and help Finoy. He said, "Even though the outcome was not what we all would have wanted, that does not make what you did any less heroic. By going after Finoy, you put yourself at risk, and we want you to know that we are eternally grateful for that."

Then Phillip gave Kyle some of the holy cards from the funeral with Finoy's picture and bible verse on them. He also gave Kyle a newspaper from St. Ignatius that had been dedicated to Finoy and had his friends' reflections in it. Felix gave Kyle a wrist band with "RIP Finoy "Thomman" Lukose" on the outside and "For the greater glory of God" (Finoy's favorite quote) on the inside. We hugged and cried again, and they left about 5:45 or so.

It was a very, very exhausting but powerful experience. I hope it has brought everyone some healing. I think it did. Kyle said he feels better after talking to them. He knows that they know that he tried.

I was so tired after they left that I just didn't talk for about an hour and a half. Now, I can't quit talking about it.

God Moments

I had a God Moment today.

My neighbor, Theresa, came over while I was out raking leaves to see how things were going with the sale of Dad's house. Things are not going well. I have had so much anxiety with these buyers and the closing and dividing things up that I have been unable to sleep. I can't remember people's names. I can't sleep. I worry, worry, worry. While I was sharing that with Theresa, one of our new neighbors was out for a walk. We waved, and he continued on.

I went back to raking leaves, and the neighbor, Jameel, was on his way back down the street. I spoke to him, and he walked over. Jameel is an elderly man from Pakistan. He is visiting his son and daughter-in-law, who live in Louisville. They are Muslim.

I asked if they enjoyed Halloween. He said they had candy to give out to the children and that they had a similar celebration in his village in Pakistan when people get married. Then he asked me why I put a graveyard on my lawn and what RIP meant. I struggled as to how to explain just why we decorated the way we did. The best explanation I could come up with was that it was our way of mocking death. To say something like, "We are not afraid of you..." type of thing. I was hoping I wasn't sounding like a crazy, sacrilegious American.

Jameel said that in his religion, they are not afraid of death. He said that he believes that his body is made of water, clay, and spirit. The water and clay come from the earth and will return to the earth when he dies. The spirit comes from God and will return to God when he dies. "We use the earth to nourish our bodies, and we worship God to nourish our spirits."

I remarked that our faiths were much the same because I believe the same things. We talked about his belief in the Bible and that Jesus was a prophet, and in Mohammad.

I told him that I enjoyed talking to him and that I thought the world would be a better place if people of different faiths and cultures would talk to one another and learn from each other. I said, "We'd see that we all want the same things...Peace, happy families, healthy children..."

He said, "Do you know how to have peace?" He looked me in the eyes, and I felt right then that I was talking to a holy person. His essence exuded a type of wisdom and calm that I have rarely seen. All I could think was, 'This is a very holy man."

He smiled, "To have peace, you cannot worry. Why do we need to worry? God will provide." He went on to tell me that he had had 3 cars stolen from him in Pakistan. He said, "Did I worry about it? No! I believed that God had a plan for me. I looked down and said to myself, 'I have two legs. I can walk.' So I did. Do you know that I got all 3 cars back?"

I remarked that he must be a man of great faith. He looked at me again and said,

"I think to myself, God was providing for me before I was even conceived. In my mother's womb, He made a place for me with blood, and after I was conceived, it nourished me as I grew. When I was born, He had made that my mother would nourish me with her milk. Did she do that? No! It was God's plan! If God has taken that much time to provide for me before I was even born, how much more will he provide for me now that I am a man? My friends say, 'Jameel, why are you so happy? Why are you always smiling?' I say to them, 'What do I have to worry about? God will provide.'"

I asked that he stop by when he's walking if he ever sees me out. He said he is going back to Pakistan next week. I asked him to stop by whenever he is in Kentucky. He replied he'd be back next summer, "God willing." Then he said, "I have taken too much of your time tonight. I should let you get on with your work."

I looked at him and said, "I believe God sends people into our lives to tell us things we need to hear. I needed to hear what you said today. Thank you!"

He replied, "You are welcome. Peace be upon you."

"And peace to you," I answered.

He turned to continue his walk home, and I resumed raking my leaves with tears running down my cheeks. I knew that I had just received a message from God via an elderly Muslim neighbor from Pakistan. God sure works in weird and wonderful ways.

Peace.

Alone in a Crowd

Today was Bellarmine University's annual accounting luncheon. Each year, students and alums gather to celebrate their fascination with numbers, recognize those who have accomplished much in the field, and distribute scholarships to those who have been so awarded.

Uncle Bob created an endowment a few years ago to benefit a worthy student of accounting. It's called the Robert J. Fitzpatrick Endowed Accounting Scholarship. After Uncle Bob died, Dad would go to the luncheon as an alum and brother of Bob to present the scholarship award to the student. When Dad died, we requested that expressions of sympathy be in the form of donations to the scholarship. This year, the accounting department contacted me to see if I would be interested in representing the Fitzpatricks and present the award. I was honored.

So today, I drove to Bellarmine and walked into Frazier Hall. I was surrounded by many eager young students, their faces barely free of acne, dressed up in suits and ties, trying to be grown-ups. At the other end of the spectrum, were men my dad's age, long out of college, laughing and talking with friends from their younger days. I stood there alone in the crowd. I wondered who knew Uncle Bob. Who knew Dad. Who knew that I had once belonged to them. I wanted to take off my name tag, which simply had my first and last name, and write, "I AM A FITZPATRICK!" in big, bold letters. I wanted to belong again.

It was time to sit, and as I approached my table, I spied the scholarship recipients. Michael was a handsome boy who will someday be a handsome man. Lisa was a pretty, quiet girl with dark hair and eyes. I introduced myself with smile, saying, "Hello! I'm Robert Fitzpatrick's niece. Congratulations on your scholarship!" I wanted them to know Uncle Bob, this kind and gentle man who had been such a huge part of my life. I wanted him to be more than just a name on a page. More than just some dead guy who has a scholarship in his name. So I said,

"I want you to know about my Uncle Bob. I know you know he was an accounting professor here, but did you know that he left the corporate world because he wanted to teach? He helped to establish the accounting department here at Bellarmine and make it what it is today.

"But before that, when he was a younger man, not much older than you, he took off on a bicycle and rode around the state, with a tent and a few clothes on the back of the bike, taking pictures of the people and places he went. He took a train and went to Mexico and climbed the Temple of the Sun and Popocatepetl. He took pictures there too, and I am lucky enough to be their keeper at this time.

"When WW2 started, he tried to join the army, but he couldn't pass the eye test. So he memorized the chart and made it. He was a soldier for 3 days before they caught on to the fact that he couldn't see and sent him home.

"He wanted to serve his country, so he joined the Foreign Service and was stationed in Caracas, Venezuela right about the same time that civil war broke out down there. At one point, the street fighting got so close that he and his wife took the mattress off the bed and laid in the bathtub until things died down.

He returned to Kentucky not long after that and started at Bellarmine. He loved to laugh. He always had a story. He always had a camera. He joined a hiking club and played tennis. He was in a couple of bands and played the saxophone, the accordion, the clarinet, and the piano. I always loved it when he played "Alley Cat." He was always learning and exploring. He was one of the kindest men I knew. I was blessed to call him my uncle."

With that, I stopped. I said, "I hope that you will use the money you've been awarded to further your education and then do something fun. Learn. Explore. Travel. Leave the world a better place. I know that would make Uncle Bob very happy."

A month from hell

My dad died on July 27. It was a blessing in a way, but it just really sucks not to have any parents. I won't get a card to "daughter" this year :(.

We are doing okay. I'm pretty much numb. If you have a minute, I will tell you what happened in my life since we got back from vacation on July 3...

While we were in Florida, my sisters called and said Dad was in the hospital with congestive heart failure. He was stable, so they told me to stay, so we did. When I got home, I began the near-daily trip to the hospital and then rehab center to keep tabs on what was going on, pick up and do Dad's laundry, bring him stuff from home, etc. It was getting to be a drag, to be honest. I had spent all of last summer moving him, getting the houses ready to buy/sell, and redoing our basement in the process, and I really wanted to have fun with the kids this summer.

We also could see that Dad was not getting well enough to go home alone. My sisters and I were trying to figure out what to do to keep him safe. After 19 days in rehab, he was headed home, and we finally got him to agree to go to a skilled nursing facility nearby (like 2 minutes from my house and 5 min from my sister's) so that he could get even stronger before heading home.

Meanwhile...

Kyle had volunteered to go to a mission in Appalachia for the week of July 17. We got him packed up and sent off with the teacher and some other kids from St. Xavier where he goes to school. There were about 6 schools from around the country going. When they got there, the kids were mixed into groups, and each day, they would work in the community to visit the elderly, work on a Habitat House, work on the farm, etc.

On Tuesday, it was Kyle's group's turn to cook for the kids on the mission. After fixing breakfast, lunch, and chopping wood for the evening's bonfire, they headed down to the creek/swimming hole for some relaxation during their free time. Kyle and another boy, Andrew, swam across the creek, about 40 yards wide. Two girls joined them. A fifth boy, named Finoy, was coming across as well and about half way across, he seemed to be having some trouble. Kyle and Andrew's first inclination was to go help him, but the girls went to school with Finoy, and told the boys that he was always joking around like that and that he wasn't having trouble. So they watched.

After about 30 seconds, Finoy went under and didn't come back up. Kyle and Andrew realized it wasn't a joke and dove in to grab him, but they couldn't find him. They dove under about 3 or 4 times and then called to the bank for someone to call 911. It took the EMS about 20 minutes to get there, and the whole time, Kyle, Andrew, and some of the other kids and adults at the creek kept swimming down under water looking for Finoy. Kyle said after about 4 minutes, he knew it was too late, but all he kept thinking was that "Somebody has to call his mom and dad. I had to find him, Mom!"

Once the EMS got there, the kids were sent to the mission house and had a prayer service and then mass. We got the call about 7 p.m. that there had been a drowning and that the boys were coming home and would be in about midnight. The teacher told me that a couple of the boys from St. X had seen the drowning, but he didn't know who. I prayed all evening that it wasn't Kyle, but not only had he seen it, he had been intimately involved with it.

We found out later that Finoy's body had been found in the spot where he went down, in a sink hole that was 20 feet deep, caught in a whirlpool that was hidden beneath the calm water on the surface. It had rained upstream, and the currents were strong. He got caught in a recirculating hole, and there would have been no way Kyle or Andrew could have saved him. The water rescue guy I spoke with said if anyone had tried to save Finoy without some type of rescue device, he would have gone down with him. I can't get that image out of my mind. If I lost Kyle, I would die.

So, Kyle got home about 12 a.m., and we drove home. He talked and talked about what happened. Once we got home, he told Kirk about it, and this time, he broke down and sobbed, saying, "All I can think is that a boy was drowning, and I stood there and watched! I should have gone in to help!" He talked and cried until about 2 a.m. and finally fell asleep exhausted.

The next day, I took him to the school counselor and he talked and talked. We were there for over an hour.

A prayer service was planned for the St. X boys who went to the mission. The day of the prayer service, Thursday, we had moved Dad to the nursing home. I got him set up after Colleen dropped him off. He told me he wasn't feeling well and that he had thrown up that morning before leaving rehab. He ordered just soup for lunch but didn't eat it. I left him about 2 and went home to get ready for the trip to Chicago and go to the prayer service..

At the service, we found out one boys' parents were driving their son to Chicago for Finoy's funeral and were offering to drive anyone who wanted to go with them. Kyle REALLY wanted to go, but I wasn't okay with him going without a parent along, so I volunteered to go as well. We were supposed to drive up on Friday afternoon, spend the night, and then attend the funeral the next morning, then drive home.

Kirk was in the midst of planning the first ever USO Homefront concert for that following Tuesday. Mrs. Biden was supposed to be there in person. There was to be a live address from Mrs. Obama. Montgomery Gentry was playing, and 18,000 free tickets had been given out as well as broadcasting the show on the Pentagon Channel. Troops from Afghanistan and Iraq were going to be able to watch it and some of them were giving shout outs to family members in the audience. It was a huge deal, and I told Kirk that I would take care of Kyle and for him to do whatever it was he had to do. You know how that is.

So Friday morning I called Dad to see how he was. He said he wasn't feeling better and had thrown up again. He got sick while talking to me on the phone. I told him to call his nurse and that I would call the desk and make sure someone went down to check on him. We thought it was a virus or something minor. I called Colleen, and she went to see him. She called me back and said that the nursing home had done an xray and found an intestinal blockage and they were going to send Dad to the ER if an enema didn't get him some relief. About 1, she called back and said they were on their way to the hospital but that Kyle needed me more, and I should go to Chicago. She didn't think this was life-threatening at this point.

So I took my girls to Colleen's house so they could watch each other (Colleen's boys are 12 and 9) until her husband got home, but the next thing you know, she was calling me to tell me that Dad was really bad and she wasn't sure I should go. Then at 3, her husband, John, called and said that Dad was horrible and he didn't think he would make it and that I should get to the hospital right now.

The boys, the couple, and the teacher who had been on the trip were all meeting at my house at 4 to caravan to Chicago. I didn't see how Dad could be that bad so fast, and I REALLY wanted to go to Chicago, but all the adults said I should stay home, and that they would take care of Kyle. He hugged me and said, "Mom, you stay with Poppy. I will be okay." So I let him go and I headed to the hospital.

Dad was in bad shape when I got there. He was in severe respiratory distress, and we either had to medicate him to make him relax or intubate him, which in his Living Will he expressly said he didn't want. We got him oxygen through a CPAP machine and morphine to help him relax and by late that evening, his O2 levels were so low that he developed brain damage from lack of oxygen and went into a coma. He never woke up.

Kyle got home late Saturday night wanted to see Poppy, so Kirk brought him up. My sisters and I were with Dad 24/7 for the 5 days he was in the hospital. Kirk was popping in and out to check on us and bring us things. Our kids were farmed out hither and yon. On Tuesday, I got a call from Kyle that let me know he needed me, so I went home to be with him. I thought he needed me more than my dad at this point. I knew I had done all that I could do for Dad when it mattered and there was nothing I could do any more.

Kyle and I went to breakfast with my aunt and uncle and then I took Kyle to see one of the other counselors I know who deals in post traumatic stress. Kirk met us there, and we all talked about things and how to deal with the sadness and the guilt. It was good. After that Kyle and I went to a music store, and I bought him an acoustic guitar that he'd been wanting. He came home and played, and I went back to the hospital.

We moved Dad to Hospice the next morning.

On Wednesday, Kyle was supposed to start another camp, this one through the McConnell Center at the University of Louisville. It was called Young Leaders' Academy, and he had applied in June for it, and only 25 kids from the state of Kentucky were accepted. It was 4 days and nights at UofL in the dorm, with all expenses paid, interaction with McConnell Scholars, professors, etc. They were discussing historical leaders, and what makes a leader a hero or a villain. The one topic that got his attention was the question of whether Harry Truman was a hero or a villain because of his use of the atomic bomb.

He went on and went with the understanding that we would let him know if something happened to Dad. Kirk dropped him off that morning, and I let the director know what had been going on in Kyle's life. That evening after Dad died, I drove down to UofL because I didn't want Kyle to find out what had happened via text from a friend. He was coming out of the elevator on his way to swim with his new friends. When he saw me he looked at me like, "What are you doing here?" and then a second later, it was like, "Oh."

I told him Poppy had died and said he could come home if he wanted, but that the visitation and funeral weren't until Sunday and Monday after the camp had ended. I said Poppy had been so proud of him that he would want Kyle to stay. Kyle asked if I was okay with that, and I said absolutely, so he gave me a hug and a kiss and headed to the pool.

Kyle was a pall bearer for my dad at the funeral. He looked so grown up. You would not have known him. We've had him talk to the counselor again, and he seems to be doing okay. Me...not so much. I fixate on Finoy and the dynamics of recirculating holes and drownings and how Kyle could be dead right now. I listen to the messages Dad left on my phone over and over. I walk around his house roaming the rooms and can't believe he's gone. It's like he's still in rehab.

So, that's what I've been through in a month. My kids go back to school on Wednesday (girls) and Thursday (Kyle). I will collapse once they are gone. I got a gift certificate for a day at the spa for my birthday. I am going to use it!

Burying a Child of God

They began arriving one or two at a time, sitting in their cars, not sure of what to do. It was hot, and nobody wanted to get out first, so they waited in their suits with the windows rolled up and the air conditioning on until the hearse arrived. It was unlike any hearse any of them had seen before...a minivan with the funeral home's name on the back. The funeral director got out of the van and motioned for everyone to gather round. One by one, car doors opened and the young men made their way across the gravel road toward the pavilion.

They fiddled with their ties and buttoned their jackets, respectful and awkward at the same time. The funeral director asked for pall bearers, and all the guys stepped forward. Only six were needed, so the rest of the young men gathered around and volunteered to read the prayers and readings during the service. They divided things up so that every one of the 12 or 13 of them had something to do. The funeral director checked his watch and said, "Let us begin."

The pall bearers approached the back of the van and gently lifted the casket out. The wooden handles dug into their flesh, but none of them flinched, and they carried the cloth-covered particle board casket to the pavilion and placed it carefully on the pedestal and waited.

One of them began to read, but it was hard to hear him over the drone of the cars passing on the interstate nearby and the roar of the lawn mower in the distance. Someone reminded the boys to read loudly, so when his turn came, each one fairly shouted in order to be heard. They were reminded that God has prepared a place for everyone of his children and that there is no death, only life in Christ.

When time came for someone to speak about the deceased, silence descended upon the group, and the young men, heads bowed, began to look uncomfortably out of the corners of their eyes, waiting for someone to say something. Finally, the teacher spoke. She said, "While we don't know much about Mr. Smith, we do know that he was created in God's image. We also know that he was God's son, and that makes him our brother. And as with anyone who has died, we mourn their passing and celebrate that he is with God in Heaven. I ask that as you go about your day today, you remember Mr. Smith. Remember him during the school year. Say a prayer for him when you do, and he will not be forgotten."

They prayed for Eternal Rest and Perpetual Light, and then the pall bearers lifted the casket and made their way over to the grave site. It was a hole in the ground. Nothing more. No fake grass to cover the dirt that had been dug away. No fancy stands to hold the casket or draped lowering devices to ease it down. Not even a vault in which to place the remains. Just a hole. Nothing more.

Prayers were said as a man watched from the seat of the backhoe. Two guys in tee shirts waited with their arms slung across the fence and a chain lift at their feet. Cars zoomed by. Someone honked. The boys made the sign of the cross and headed back to their cars. The funeral director thanked them for their service to a stranger.

The teacher asked me which boy was mine. I pointed him out in his dark suit and tie, looking much older than his 15 years. She asked what was his motivation for coming today. I told her that he had been a pall bearer for his aunt who had died when he was in the 7th grade. For his confirmation, he had chosen St. Joseph of Arimathea because he felt like it was an honor to escort the dead to their place of rest. When he saw that school had a St. Joseph of Arimathea Society, which presides over the funerals of the homeless and poor, he wanted to join. He had experienced death lately, a friend who had 1000 mourners and his grandfather who had a loving family. How sad, he thought, if those people had had no one to mourn for them. No one to see them to their rest. So he came. She wanted to know if he was doing the service at 1:30. I said I didn't know, but I would ask.

We returned to our car and followed the rest of the young men down the gravel drive and onto the blacktop. We sat in silence for a minute or two, and I said, "That was nice. I'm proud of you for doing that."

"Yeah. It was WAY different that Grandpa's," he replied. "I felt sad for the guy that there was nobody there but us, but at least we were there for him."

"Do you want to help with the next funeral?" I asked.

"Of course," my son replied. "Yes. Of course."

We shared lunch then, the two of us, and talked about the summer and the life experiences we'd had, so, so hard for both of us. I looked across the table at my boy, and thought, "I am so very lucky to have you for my son, and so very, very proud of the man you are becoming."

He must have read my mind because at that minute, he looked up from his plate of food and smiled at me, a big grin, and said, "Thanks for bringing me, Mom. It means a lot."

We finished eating and headed back to the Potter's Field. We waited once again as the cars drove up, one by one, and the young men got out and began walking to the pavilion where they gathered around to bury the next child of God.

on the patio

My cousin, Jim, just left a bit ago. He was the last guest from out of town to go home. The new normal is upon me. I'm sitting on my patio listening to Enya. Probably not a good idea, but it's the mood I'm in. The sky is pink and the cicadas are loud. If I close my eyes, I am back on Whitehall Court, and my mom will be in the chaise lounge next to me reading a book. I will be 17 again with everybody still alive and no experience with pain save a broken romance or two.

I miss my mom and dad. Both of Jim's parents are dead too, so he knows how it is. When he left tonight, I told him he could always stay at our house if he wanted to come to Louisville. I told my Aunt Nanette that I was afraid they wouldn't come see me again. I can't bear the thought of losing my extended family along with my parents. Kirk says I'm the matriarch now. How is it I'm the matriarch at 43? Shouldn't that title go to someone older?

I just want to go to bed and sleep for a week. I want my dad. I want my mom. Now that everyone is gone, I can finally let myself feel sad, but I just don't know if I can handle it.

My Dad

A true gentleman is rare these days. A gentle man even more so. How lucky we were that our dad was both.

It didn’t matter if we were headed to Communion at mass or going into the Pizza Hut for dinner, Dad always, always let his girls go first. Even when he was having such a hard time getting around these past few months, sometimes even using his walker, he’d reach over to hold the door so we could go through before him. We’d say, “We’ve got it, Dad. You go on.” But he’d reply, “After you.” I know anyone who saw us out must have thought he had some terrible daughters. What they should have thought was that those girls had one exceptional dad.

We knew Dad loved us because he told us every day. One of the last things he said in the hospital was, “I love you. I love all of you.” He was never harsh with us or yelled. If we were getting out of line, all he had to do was say, “Hey,” and we knew he meant business.

Our dad was kind to everyone from old people to little children. He loved babies and could soothe one in a matter of seconds. He just had the touch, and babies knew it was okay when they were in my dad’s arms. Same with the elderly. He would offer his arm and slow to meet their pace and talk and smile as they got wherever they needed to go.

He was a man of principle. He would not do anything that was questionable or wrong. He was one of the men at church who actually counted the collection in the basement after mass and then drove it to the bank to deposit it in the drop box. He spoke up for what was right and held fast to his beliefs: Go to mass every Sunday, even on vacation. Take care of the poor. Don’t judge others. Always tell the truth. Buy American. Vote the Democratic ticket. He was never rude or pushy or forced us to follow him blindly, but we knew where he stood. The first time Kirk and I bought something other than a Chevy, I felt badly, but after we bought a Toyota, I went down and apologized!

He was always asking what he could do for us. He drove us everywhere when we were kids. We knew we could count on him to take us to the skating rink on Friday night and pick up five friends along the way. He would take us aside and ask if we needed any money and then slip us a couple of dollars to spend that night. My Uncle Jim remembered Dad always asking, “Can I get you anything?” If he had it to give, it was yours. No questions asked.

He came to every ball game, every play, every parent teacher conference. Whether he was watching Colleen or me sit on the bench or watching Jennifer catch fly balls in left field, we knew Dad was there, cheering us on.

His blue eyes had a twinkle that let you know he was up to something. He loved to joke and kid around and make people laugh. It was only after Mom died that that twinkle began to fade. I’d catch a glimpse of it every now and again when he was with his grandchildren, and I’d be whisked back to my childhood and the stories he’d tell that might start with something like, “And there I was, 30,000 feet above the ground and no parachute! What was I gonna do?”

The gentle man that Dad was began to become apparent to me one Christmas when I was about 10. That year, on his own, he contacted the parish and asked if there was a family who might need some groceries. He went to Kroger by himself and came home with bags and bags of food for this family. Canned ham. Tuna. Peanut butter. Crackers. Coffee. Spaghetti and sauce. Eggs. Bacon. All the food they needed was in these bags. What impressed me most, though, was he also filled the bags with food they didn’t need like Oreos and Captain Crunch and Pop Tarts and potato chips. Things that they would surely want but probably couldn’t afford. He did this every year, eventually taking us with him to help pick out the goodies, making this a tradition for us. My family has tried to do the same, but I am just not as faithful as my dad was.

And speaking of faithful, his devotion to our mother was beyond compare. I never realized how deeply he loved her until she got so sick after her final surgery. I can still picture him walking to her room in the hospital, the newspaper tucked under his arm, as he made his daily trip downtown to sit with her for hours and hours. I never heard him complain or get frustrated that he had to go to the hospital one more time. He was there, every single day, to be with my mom.

And then when she finally went home with Hospice, I watched in amazement as this man, who rarely changed a diaper, learned to crush Mom’s medication and mix it with her TPN and feed her through a tube in her stomach. He learned how to fill syringes with saline and flush her IV lines and deliver medicine that way too. He cleaned up after her when she threw up and emptied her catheter bag and helped her brush her teeth. Whatever she needed, if he could get it for her, he did.

This past September, Colleen and I joined Dad in St. Louis for his 60th high school reunion. He had gone to boarding school in Wisconsin, and we were anxious to get the scoop on what our Dad was like when he was a teenager. To find out what kind of trouble he’d gotten in. How much mischief he’d made in high school. We were sorely disappointed. Every man we talked with told us something you already know. One of Dad’s best friends in high schools said it best when he answered, “John was just one of the nicest guys I ever met.”

When I emailed Dad’s high school friends about his passing, they all commented on what a wonderful guy he had been. One of his friends called Dad “One of "God's Noblemen”.”

Another sent this response,

“By some intuition, from long, long ago, Fitz knew how to live.... by loving all people of God's creation...not in any overt showy, or superficial way, but from within, quietly, reverently, gratefully.
Through all of God's creation and creatures we get a glimpse of God. From some, we get a better glimpse, and from some of God's special friends we get quite a wonderful view that leaves us in awe. So, the adjective "awesome" is what I sense in reflecting God's gift to us in his gentle son, John.”

And six years later, we have a bloom!

When Kyle was in 3rd grade, he had Mrs. Lenahan for science. They were studying seeds and plants, and she had the seed of an amaryllis that she told the class was very, very beautiful but only bloomed after five years and then died. You have to harvest the seeds and plant them for the next go around.

Kyle brought me a tiny, flat seed in a baggie one day with a big smile on his face and the explanation that he knew how much I loved flowers and that this would be the most beautiful flower I'd ever seen. All I had to do was plant it and wait. Mrs. Lenahan told him that he would probably be in 8th grade when it finally bloomed.

I was dubious, but I didn't want to disappoint him. I put the seed in a pot, and it has remained there for 6 years. It would shoot up a couple of leaves every so often that would grow about 18 inches high, yellow, and die. A month or two later, new leaves would push their way out of the dirt and grow, yellow, and die. More than a few times, I was on the verge of throwing the whole thing out, but since it hadn't been five years, I waited.

Good thing I did.

After almost 3 months of nothing, the leaves began to grow again. They yellowed and died as usual, but then, a different sort of shoot began to pop up out of the dirt. Lo and behold, it was a flower stalk and there was a bud on it waiting to bloom! We watched the stalk get as tall as the middle of my kitchen window. It seemed to grow inches overnight. This morning, after six years, the little seed that the teacher gave Kyle when he was 9 years old opened its flower at my kitchen window. It is an electric shade of pink, hard to photograph because the photo looks so enhanced. I promise, the flower on this page is exactly this shade.

Kyle was right. It's one of the most beautiful flowers I've ever seen, made even more beautiful by the wait.

Missing My People

I am missing my people today. I have been dusting the family room and my shelves hold photographs of special people in my life, some of whom have died. Carefully, I brush the dust off of each frame and stare into the eyes of these faces, captured in an instant in time, forever young, forever laughing, forever sipping coffee on the patio on a summer evening. Their eyes lock on mine as if to say, "I know. I know."

My granny and grandpa stare at me from the Great Depression, young and unknowing that in a few years, he would be gone, and she would be a widow with 7 children. Their smiles are of two people who know hard times, but believe with all their hearts that they will make it work. Granny was no fool. She raised those 7 kids by herself, living alone for the rest of her life. She knew hardship and loneliness, but she loved her family, and she loved me, and she taught me to pray to St. Anthony and how to make potato soup and piece quilts and grow African violets. I always felt like her only grandchild even thought I was one of almost 20. I know she made the others feel the same way.

My other grandma, Mimi, sits on a rock in Central Park. It's 1912, and she's 20 and just arrived in America. I didn't know her well, but I wish I did, and I miss that about her. I think of her strong French accent, which at the time, I didn't hear or notice, and I wish I would have asked her when she could have answered, what it was like to leave everything she knew for nothing familiar and make a new life in a new country.

There is my sweet sister-in-law, Kris, gone after only 39 years. She crammed her life to overflowing even before she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Starting to paint her kitchen the day before we were to arrive for a visit because she was confident she could get it done in a day. Stopping at the outlet mall on the way somewhere because she had 15 minutes to spare, and she knew she could find what she needed in 15 minutes. Going to the Mall of America the week after her double mastectomy because we were in town, and she wanted the girls to go to Libby Lou's for a "makeover." Riding Expedition Everest at Animal Kingdom even though the sign said people with medical conditions should avoid the ride because if she was going to die anyway, she'd rather do it on a roller coaster.

She stares out at me from the weekend at the cabin. The summer she found out her cancer was back, we were in Sanibel Island, Florida. We finished our trip, came home for a week, and then trekked up to northern Minnesota to spend a few days at their lake house. Kris slept a lot that weekend, but when she was awake, she was all-in. She got me on the jet ski and took me around the lake, eventually talking me into driving it, at high speed, across the water, spray stinging our faces and wind drying our hair straight up and down. Her hair had finally grown back out and it was short and curly. She wore a white baseball cap because her medicine made her sensitive to the sun, but her face has a summer glow, and her eyes sparkle from under the bill of the cap. The look on her face says, "Come get me, cancer. I dare you."

In the picture of my dad and his brothers and sister, everyone is smiling at the camera except my Uncle Bob. He is looking off at something across the room and laughing. He laughed a lot, my Uncle Bob. He told stories like no one else I knew, sometimes over and again, but we laughed every time because he laughed every time, like it was the first time he'd recounted the story. The man loved a party, and he rarely turned down a chance to be with family or friends. He had a camera permanently attached to his body until he was well into his 80s, always capturing the moment for posterity. In fact, one of my favorite pictures of my wedding is one he took. It's of me looking over my shoulder and smiling at him. It's a bit fuzzy, but the sun is shining behind me, and it's almost ethereal, a perfect summation of the day.

Uncle Bob was the consummate gentleman. He was differential to everyone, always letting me go first even though he was 87, and I was fifty plus years younger. Never disagreeing, just suggesting that maybe there was another way of looking at things. He remembered every birthday, and sent us fudge from Gesthemani Farms, and saved stamps from his friends around the world for my son's collection. He was the first relative other than my parents and my sister to see Claire when she was born, and I remember him holding her with such tenderness, my 80 year old uncle with my day old daughter. It was precious.

And then there is my mom. We are captured on Fathers' Day 2004, the summer before she got sick. We're sitting on the patio swing, drinking coffee. My mom. Until I had children of my own, I never had any idea how much she must have loved me and how much it must have broken her heart when I moved away. I wish she was here to talk to about the weather or the kids or what to do about Dad.

In one of my favorite pictures of Mom, she is holding Claire, who has just turned one. We were at Kyle's tee ball game. The wind is blowing Mom's hair, and it is a mess. Claire has a lolly in her hand. They're both looking at the camera and smiling the most natural smiles. I used to get so mad at Mom for giving the kids everything they asked for...another toy, another piece of gum, a fifth popsicle. I think now, she must have known she wasn't going to be around to give to them forever, so she was trying to give when she could. She looks so natural and relaxed, filling the role for which she was so wonderfully made---that of a woman to love her family.

I'm missing my people. I hate that life is a series of farewells and letting go. It just seems so very cruel.

47 degrees

It's 47 degrees outside right now,
but somehow it seems warmer.
The light hangs differently in the sky,
and the sun shines a little longer.
I can still see my breath,
but the daffodils
are a couple of inches high
out of the ground,
and the birds are singing
a bit more loudly
than they were last week.
The sky is bright,
and the air is crisp.
The earth is yawning awake.
Spring draws near
even though it's still
only 47 degrees.

On Dirty Dishes, Clean Kitchens, and the Campfire Girls

My dishwasher is broken again. Third time in two months. As frustrating as that is, it got me to thinking about washing dishes as I stood there unloading dirty glasses from the top rack.

We did it...a lot...when I was a kid. My parents had a dishwasher most of the time, but there was a period of what seems like a couple of years, though I'm sure it wasn't that long, when the dishwasher was broken and for whatever reason, it wasn't fixed or replaced. Those seemed like years of misery and pickled fingers and long hours in front of the night-darkend kitchen window, up to our elbows in bubbles.

Even in the good years, when the dishwasher worked, we always had a boatload of dishes to finish by hand. My mom never fixed less than a meat, a starch, a couple of vegetables, and a salad. There were at least three or four pans on the stove each night to scrape and scrub. And God forbid we serve from those pans. Oh no. Mom rarely, if ever, served off the stove. Every night, the food was spooned out into Corning Ware bowls to place on the table to be passed around. So not only did we have the three or four pots, we had the three or four serving bowls that held the food that was once in those pots. Meanwhile, those nearly empty pots sat on the still-warm burners while the food clinging to their insides dried hard to bottoms. We must have had stock in the Brillo company.

So after supper, my sisters and I would begin the transfer of the leftovers to yet another dish to put in the refrigerator where it would sit for 4 or 5 days before we'd finally throw it in the garbage. (I don't think Mom had it in her to throw away perfectly good food, but that's another story!) We'd scrape the sides and tap the spoon and put the dirty porcelain on the counter next to the sink to be rinsed and loaded. What didn't fit in the dishwasher had to be washed by hand. That was my favorite job.

There was a science to washing dishes, and I had it down. First, I'd put a little soap in the sink, and then run some hot water about 1/4 of the way full. Then I'd put any silverware in the bottom of the sink to soak. Next I'd wash any glasses or mugs that didn't fit in the top rack. Wash the silverware. Drain the water. And start again with the serving bowls and pots. I was always in a secret race to keep up with whoever was drying, trying to keep a dish or two up on them so that they never had to wait for me to finish washing something.

Often as my sisters and I would help in the kitchen, we would break into song. Camp songs mostly. "Sipping Cider" and "Moonlight Bay" and "There Once Was a Farmer." We did it so frequently that one of my sister's boyfriends started calling us the Campfire Girls. It drove him a little bit crazy in a nice kind of way. We'd start, and he'd roll his eyes and say, "Here come the Campfire Girls!" and then go join my dad in the family room. Sometimes we'd sing even after the dishes were washed and put away, standing in the kitchen together while it rained outside or snowed, singing the songs of our childhood.

Mom never went to bed without the dishes washed, the floor swept, and the counters wiped down. She hated to wake up to a messy kitchen. It drove me crazy, and I often tried to skate around one of those chores. I usually got caught and had to do it anyway. I'll say that I'm not as adverse to a messy kitchen as she was, and I often go to bed hoping for the Dish Fairy to come at night (sometimes he does!), but I'll admit, a clean kitchen is much nicer to wake up to.

There is something unique to washing dishes and cleaning the proverbial heart of the home. I used to dread it on holidays when there would be so many dishes that you couldn't see the counter. I'd make myself scarce with my cousins while Mom and her sisters washed and cleaned and the men sat in front of the tv and dozed. As I got older, however, I HAD to help. It started with clearing the tables and then moved up to actual washing and drying. I often got stuck with the putting away, which I hated, but because it was my house, I knew where things went. We'd sweep the floor and shake the tablecloths and wipe down the counters. My aunts never left our kitchen a mess. Never. It just wasn't done no matter how much Mom would protest. Even the centerpiece would be back on the table at the end of the night. Job well done.

One day, I was surprised to find myself looking forward to this time in the kitchen with my mom and my aunts and my older girl cousins. It was kind of like moving to the grown-up table. I got to hear the gossip and stories and memories of my family. I heard recipes and kitchen tips and learned how to make gravy without lumps. I knew I had made it when I was allowed to wash the good china, and the crystal glasses, and Great-Grandma's cake stand.

The last time I washed dishes like this with my mom was the Easter before she died. She had been in decline for several months, and didn't feel like having a big dinner for everyone, but she did it anyway. After dinner, Mom started to help clean up, but I remember sending her to the family room while my sisters and aunts and cousins washed and dried and put away. It was odd without her in there directing us all, but she didn't feel well, and we all knew what to do.

Had I known it was going to be her last big dish washing, kitchen cleaning evening, I would have insisted she remain with us and just sit at the kitchen table if nothing else. But I didn't and she didn't and so it goes.

Today, I wouldn't trade my dishwasher for anything, but I wouldn't trade my memories of washing dishes either. As I stood there today, up to my elbows in bubbles, I sang "Moonlight Bay" to myself, all the while praying that Thursday's repairman would hurry up and get here.

The Christmas Poodle and the Rocking Horse

I love my Christmas tree. I took it down today, a ritual that I usually do by myself with relish. I know. I know. That's a weird thing to enjoy doing, but I love it. See, when we put the tree up, it's all about the kids. They are so excited to find "their" ornaments and get them on the tree first, that I just kind of step back and let them do their thing. Taking it down, though, is another story. Nobody wants to help, but that's okay. I get to hold each and every ornament and savor the memory that it evokes.

First, I take off the glass ball ornaments. Red, green, gold, blue...They don't have any sentimental value, really, except for the memory of my mom saying every year that we needed more gold balls on the tree. I take them off and put them in the plastic tote and move on.

Next come the homemade ornaments. They are the ones the kids made each year in early elementary school...Kyle in a wreath covered with glitter glue. Claire as an angel under the words "Feliz Navidad." Claire's thumbprint turned into a reindeer. Emily in a mitten, high blonde ponytails on her head. The Norwegian paper candy holder Claire made in 4th grade for Christmas around the world. The Santa Kyle spray painted at a party when he was 9. The wooden ornaments Emily decorated for presents for Kyle and Claire when she was about 3...They are all there, and as I hold them, I think of the children that my children were, and I miss them.

Then I remove the non-Hallmark ornaments. There is the giant seashell we found on a day trip during our vacation on Sanibel Island in 2006. It had a hole in the top, and one of the kids thought it would be neat to hang on the tree. So it does. It also reminds me of Kris, for it was at Sanibel that we learned her cancer had metastasized...There's the poor starfish-turned-Santa that my mom got for Kyle when we went to Destin with my folks when Kyle was 3 and Claire was a baby. Nothing would do him but to have that Starfish Santa, and Mom, being Mom, got it for him. There's the metal crawfish from my trip to New Orleans the Mardi Gras before Katrina. The hula girl I made at a family support group meeting in Hawaii, and God love her, the hula frog one one of our neighbors gave me for Christmas that year. There's a kukui nut shell I got off our tree in Hawaii and an old time glitter car that I loved, loved, loved as a kid.

There's the ceramic cat I painted in 1979 in Jenny Snellen's garage. Her mom fired it for me. A reindeer Kyle made in about 3rd grade from an ornament, pipe cleaners, googlie eyes, and pompoms. A glass tear drop painted with bluebonnets that I got in La Vallita in San Antonio the first time Kirk and I went down there and an ostrich egg painted with a desert scene from an art fair in Ft. Huachuca, Arizona. There is a construction paper Santa I made when I was in kindergarten. Cotton balls still cling to each corner of the star as fur trim. There is also a picture of the Blessed Virgin cut out of a Christmas card and taped into two plastic Folgers can tops and hung with some really long thread. I remember making this in CCD one Sunday, although why I was at CCD, I don't know since I went to Catholic school.

Two of my favorite ornaments are the poodle head and the ceramic rocking horse. I love them for their story. The poodle head was my grandma's. It hung on her tree every year despite (or in spite of) the fact that it is hideous. Every year, my uncle would make fun of this ornament and tease her about it being on the tree, and she hung it every year anyway. It's a big, white satin ball with 3 inch pompom ears and a 3 inch pompom poof on the top if its head. It has little bows on each ear and googlie eyes. I always thought the whole thing was hilarious, and when she died, of course nobody wanted the poodle head but me, so I took it.

When Kirk and I got married, the poodle head went on our tree. He was like, "That is the ugliest ornament I've ever seen! You can't be serious about putting that up!" I was just as determined as my granny. Later that week, he came home proud as a peacock with a horrible green, white, and red ceramic rocking horse that he got free with a fill-up from the 7-11. I said, "That is the ugliest ornament I've ever seen! You can't be serious about putting that up!" But he was just as determined as my granny. He said, "If you're putting up the poodle head, I'm putting up the rocking horse." And they grace our tree every single year, and I smile each time I see them. It would not be our tree without them.

Then we have the regular old Hallmark ornaments. The Mickeys and Minnies and ballerinas and barbies and Buzz Light Year...As the years pass, you can see the interests of the kids change. There is a Batman and a fairy princess, a cleat kicking a football and a High School Musical locker, a cell phone "texting" and a fancy dress shoe...

We have an ornament that we got at the millennium. Inside was a small scroll of paper where we could write our accomplishments for the year past and our dreams down for the year to come. I read it every year, carefully unrolling it from its case. I get a smile out of some of my hopes. I resolved in 2000 to "maybe have a new baby" and move to a new house in a "kid-filled neighborhood with a big yard." I wanted peace in the world and health for my parents and good family relationships. Three out of five ain't bad.

Finally, the angel comes down. Kirk has to do that. It's a straw angel that we got at Walmart the first year we were married. He had been to the National Training Center in California until just right before Christmas, and by the time we realized we didn't have a topper for the tree, they were all sold out. We got this straw angel somewhere, maybe Walmart, and put glitter on her wings and poked a hole in the bottom and stuck it on the top of our tree. The glitter has mostly fallen off, and the bottom of it is covered in sap from years of trees, but she still graces the top every year.

I love my tree. It's not fancy, but neither am I. Our history hangs upon it for the world to see.

Until next year...