A Time Before Mass Shootings

I was thinking tonight that I remember a time before mass shootings. The first one I remember happened when I was in high school when someone went into a McDonald's in California and killed 22 people, but it was such an anomaly and so far away, that it didn't really register with me.


Then in 1989, a mass shooting happened in my town. The father of a friend was killed by the father of a boy I went to high school with. Seven other people were killed. That woke me up. It was hard to believe that something like this could have happened in my town to people I knew.


Two years later, I had moved to Texas and was teaching seventh grade in the Killeen Independent School District. One afternoon during a staff meeting, the secretary interrupted with the tragic news that a man had driven his truck into the neighborhood Luby's restaurant and killed 24 people. Teachers from the district were killed. Soldiers from Ft. Hood were shot. I worked for the school district. My fiancee was stationed at Ft. Hood. As I drove home, I had to pass the exit where Luby's was located. Traffic was blocked on the highway, and we had to take the access road to pass. There was a helicopter parked on the highway, which was packed with police cars and ambulances. It was a mile from my house.


Mass shootings became more frequent. Maybe it was the ability to get hands on more powerful weapons or maybe it was that cable gave us 24/7 news about them. Maybe it was both. The term "going postal" entered our vernacular. I started to feel less safe.


Then the school shootings started. Westside Middle School. Thurston High School. Columbine. Virginia Tech. Sandy Hook Elementary School. For God's sake, Sandy Hook.


Shootings at malls. Twice again near Killeen at Ft. Hood. In a temple. In a church. At a movie theater. At a Christmas party. A health clinic. A night club. An outdoor concert. The list goes on.


Places we should be safe. Places we should not be afraid. But I am afraid now. I was at an outdoor concert last week. It was crowded with thousands of people. The music was great. Everyone was chill. But my thoughts went to, "What if someone open fires? Where should I run?" When my kids go to Waterfront Wednesday or Forecastle or the Derby, I worry about general safety like drunk drivers or fights, but I really worry about someone opening fire on the crowd. I cannot relax until I know they are home.


I was at the Pegasus Parade last year when someone shot someone right across the street from where I was sitting. I heard, "Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!" and thought it was a weird time to be shooting off firecrackers. Then I saw people fleeing the area. I froze. It was like slow motion. I remember thinking, "Wait...was that gunfire?" and just standing in one spot, packing up my folding chair and trying to wrap my head around what was happening. Then a police officer yelled, "Run!" and I came out of my fog and took off running. I hid behind a car in a used car lot. I had no idea what to do.


And just as my kids do not remember a time when we were not at war, they also do not remember a time when mass shootings were not common. We have had 1,516 mass shootings in 1,735 days. They happen so often that we only hear about the big ones now. Nine people died in a shooting in Plano, TX last month. I barely remember hearing about it. Twenty five people were shot in Little Rock, AK in July. Six people died in Orlando in June. Eight people died in May in Mississippi. Fifteen people shot and two people killed in Cincinnati in March.  These are just a few from 2017, and I don't remember hearing about any of them.

And tonight we have 59 people dead and 527 people wounded. It took one man 10-15 minutes with a gun that fired off 600 rounds a minute to cause this massacre. He had 42 guns in his hotel room and house. What regular person needs that? I go from being overwhelmed and numb to being outraged and angry. We have a huge gun problem in this country, and nobody is willing to even talk about solutions. How many more schools and churches and malls and theaters and concerts have to become killing grounds before we talk? How many more moments of silence and candlelight vigils and "thoughts and prayers" comments do we have to have before people say ENOUGH? This was not how we grew up, and it's not how our children should grow up either.  They deserve so much better than this.

Aunt Jeri's Eulogy

My Aunt Jeri

As I sat at my computer writing Aunt Jeri’s eulogy, trying to condense everything she was into a few short paragraphs, the word HOME kept popping into my head.  Home:  A place where someone is protected, given shelter, loved, and that is what Jeri Clark was for so many people: a safe place, a refuge, home.

Her house wasn’t fancy.  She didn’t have a lot of expensive things.  What she did have was love.  She loved people, and they loved her.  I have never known a person with so many friends.  She never met a stranger.  She saw the good in everybody.  She always said, “I may not be rich, but I’m rich in friends.”  She was a people person, and she drew folks to her like a flower draws bees.

She hadn’t seen the world.  She rarely ventured farther than West Virginia.  She saw    the ocean for the first time in 1998 when she was 70 years old.  She used to say, “I’m not well-traveled, but if I’m in a rut, it’s a good rut because I’m happy where I am.”

And she was.  She loved her home.  Nothing made her happier than to be with her family and friends, and everybody wanted to go to Jeri’s house.  I can remember as a kid, when Mom would take us to visit her, 9 times out of 10, somebody else would already be there.  Aunt Mary and Uncle Jimmy, Uncle Bernard and Aunt Joyce, Uncle Charlie and Aunt Mary Ann, Kay and Mary Margaret…but she always had room for more.  

After I moved away, her house was the first place I’d visit when I came home. And after my mom died, her house became home to me.  I know Colleen, Jennifer, Angie, Kathy, and Laura would agree that after our parents died, she took us under her wing as her own and, as Colleen said, “she was the one person in the world who made me feel like I still belonged to someone, and she always, always told us how much she loved us.”

She was the most generous person I knew, and I never left her house without something to take home.  When I was a kid, she’d look in the cabinet and pull out a Little Debbie’s snack cake or a baggie of pretzels or give me a quarter if she was out of treats.  When I became an adult, she’d go look behind the door in the office where she kept her snacks and send me home with candy for my kids or the leftover pizza from lunch.  If she had it to give, it was yours, and she was glad for you to have it.

There was no better way to pass the day than to sit around Jeri’s dining room table with a cup of coffee and a Krispie Kreme donut and listen to her stories.  She was the best.  So animated and so funny.  Her stories were legendary, and she had a mind like a trap.  She could regale you with tales from her childhood during the Depression when a Mr. Goodbar cost a nickel at Money Penny’s store or life during World War 2, when shoe coupons were rationed, and you’d better not wear your cute cardboard shoes to a movie on 4^th Street in the rain or you might be limping home with them flapping behind you.  Then there was the time a flying squirrel came down the chimney and was eating Hershey Kisses behind the manger on her mantle.  It climbed up the Christmas tree and then onto the drapes to finally hide in the television stand.  Mike had to come over and shoo it out with a broom and a laundry basket.  Another time she went to get new glasses with Betty Jean, and the parking lot was getting repaved.  After the appointment, they went out the back door to avoid the mess out front only to be caught in the middle of more paving.  A very large, very friendly, very sweaty construction worker with a bandana around his head and a shirt with no sleeves, swooped her up in his arms princess-style and carried her to the car.  Ah those stories!

She wrote poetry and could remember poems she had crafted 20, 30, 40 years ago.  She loved Joyce Kilmer’s poem about trees and anything by Helen Steiner Rice.  One of her favorite songs was Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.”

She was a life-long democrat and proud of it.  In 2008, she voted for Hillary Clinton because she wanted to be able to say she voted for the first woman president.  When Hillary lost to Obama in the primaries, she didn’t think she’d get the chance to vote for a woman again, but last November, Colleen and I took her to the polls so she could once again vote for Hillary.  It was her dream to see a woman be president of the United States.

Aunt Jeri was the first person I’d call whenever I had something to share.  If it was a secret, I knew it was safe with her.  I’d say, “Don’t tell anybody this, but…” and she’d say, “You know I won’t!  I have secrets I’ll take to my grave!”  If it was good news about my kids, I knew I could brag to her, and she would rejoice with me.  If I was upset and needed comfort, she would reassure me that it would be okay.  If I needed someone to pray for me, she would in earnest.  In fact, I think she was the most faith-filled person I have ever met.  When she could no longer go to mass, she watched it on TV, sometimes twice on a Sunday.  She had her morning prayer and evening prayer that she said every day. 

She prayed all the time, but she told me, “I don’t say regular prayers; I just talk to God.  He’s my friend.”  She always prayed for God’s will, and I don’t know how she was able to do that.  I’m still asking him for specifics, but she had enough faith to know that God would take care of her needs.  And her faith got her through, especially these last 5 months.  I don’t know how many times I heard her say, “God will help me.  He’s my friend.”

She missed CJ.  They were teenage sweethearts, married for 45 years.  He passed 24 years ago, and she still wore her wedding ring.  

She loved her children.  Donna, Steve, Lisa, Kevin.  You were her world, and I know you know she would have done anything to make you happy.  Chris, Bo, Nick, and Mindy, she was so proud of you and all of your accomplishments.  She talked about you all the time.  And you great-grandkids, you were the joy of her life.  You always made her smile.

Jeri Clark was a lot of things to a lot of people.  Wife. Mother. Sister. Aunt. Cousin. Friend. Confidant. Cheerleader. Therapist. Compass.  Glue.

If you were lucky enough to be loved by Jeri, then you know what it is to be the favorite in the room.  If you were lucky enough to be loved by Jeri, then you know what it is like to always be welcomed with open arms, a smile, and a cup of coffee.  If you were lucky enough to be loved by Jeri, then you know what it is like to be loved unconditionally 

To quote Colleen again, “She always made me feel like the sun was shining, and it was shining on me.”

Sharron Hilbrecht

July 1, 2017

The Morning Prayer

Good Morning God,
You are ushering in anther day
untouched and freshly new.
So here I come to ask you, God,
if you'll renew me too.

Forgive the many errors
that I made yesterday, and
let me try again, dear God,
to walk closer in Thy way.

But, Father, I am well aware
I can't make it on my own,
so take my hand
and hold it tight
for I cannot walk alone.

Amen.

I Believe

January 26, 2017

I believe

God made us all equal
In transparency, honesty, and truth
In generosity, kindness, and civility
In the right of women to have control over our own bodies
Torture is wrong
People should be allowed to marry the person they love
Religion and government should not mix
In science
People have the right to affordable health care
We should do everything possible to protect our environment
In clean water
In clean air
In safe food
We need to take money out of politics
That corporations are not people
We should not register people based on their religion or any other reason
In affordable higher education
We need common sense gun laws
That the arts and arts education are important
That building walls does not solve problems
In the sovereignty of the Native American people
In alternative energy
Black lives matter
Blue lives matter
All lives matter
In doing all that we can to make the world we live in a better place,
    not just for ourselves, but for the less fortunate, the marginalized,
    those without a voice
We have a lot of work to do.

That it's time to stand up for what I believe.

I Should Have Stayed One More Day

I accidentally hurt myself last night.  Doubled over in the hallway, tears streaming down my cheeks, unable to breathe, hurt.  Let me explain.

Kyle got home from 4 months in Germany on Sunday after a long three-days of flight delays and cancellations.  It was so good to see him, to finally have my children safe under one roof for a time.  We had family dinner three nights in a row, played a board game, watched movies, visited my 88-year old aunt...It was every mother's dream.

This semester, he is renting a house with four other guys, and his buddy said he could move in on Wednesday.  Like any other 20-year old, fresh off four months of total independence, he was ready to go.  He began gathering his stuff and asked me if I'd help him move today.  I said of course, with a sinking heart, and tried to make it as painless as possible.  We made a list of things he'd need, gathered up furniture for his room, and started packing.

Later, the five of us were in the family room, no TV on, just hanging out.  The girls were doing their homework, Kirk was planning his week, Kyle was watching something on his phone, and I was just sitting there taking it all in.  I started dozing off and decided to go on to bed.  I kissed the kids goodnight, and when I got to Kyle, he hugged me and said, "I had a good day today, Mom."

I hugged him tighter and replied, "I wish you didn't have to leave already."

He replied,  "I know. I know."

Trying to joke with him, I said, "One day you'll be a dad, and you'll understand.  You'll think, 'I should have stayed one more day.'" And I kissed his bearded cheek again and headed upstairs.

At the bottom of the steps, it smacked me in the face...

I, too, should have stayed one more day.  One more night in my childhood room.  One more dinner at the kitchen table with Mom and Dad.  One more afternoon on the patio.  One more breakfast.  One more cup of coffee.  One more anything.

And I doubled over and sobbed.  Kirk asked, "Are you okay, honey?" and I said, "Yes, I just hurt myself.  I'll be fine."

I stood there with tears streaming down my face, hardly able to control my sobs, and I couldn't go upstairs and leave them all in the family room.  I didn't want this to be over too, so I went in the kitchen and began washing up the few leftover dishes. One more minute, one more second.  I was still crying silently when Kyle came in to get a drink of water.

"You okay, Mom?  What did you hurt?"

I pointed at my heart.  "But it's me, not you.  I'm sad you are leaving already, but that's how it should be.  When I said, 'You'll think, 'I should have stayed one more day,' it made me think of myself and how I wish I would have stayed one more day at Grandma's.  When you are 20, all you want to do is leave, but when you are almost 50, all you want is to go home, and I can't."

Kyle hugged me then, and I pulled myself together.  I tried again to go to bed, but I just couldn't.  I realized I hadn't seen the pictures from his trip, so I went back downstairs and asked him to show me. He did, took his time, explained what they were and what he'd been doing, who the people in the photos were.  He knew I needed that time with him and didn't rush.  It was really nice.

I finally went to bed about 11:30, a jumbled up ball of emotions.  Who knew all of this would be so hard?  Today I will help Kyle move (again), and as it should be, he will start a new chapter in his life.  I'm just happy to be a part of it and really happy he'll only be 20 minutes away this time.

Oh Christmas Tree

Picking out our Christmas tree every year was always a major ordeal. Unbeknownst to us kids, it was Dad's job to take us out tree-shopping so Mom could sort and wrap the Christmas presents.  It was her way of making sure we were out of the house for an extended period of time and that Dad did something towards Christmas preparations.  But that wasn't the part that was the ordeal.

The ordeal came because no matter what, Dad and us girls never, ever picked out a tree that suited Mom.  That is until we came up with the idea for the Christmas tree lunch.

When we were very young, we would go to a nearby fruit and vegetable stand called "Jigg's."  Jigg's sold produce in the summer, pumpkins in the fall, and Christmas trees in the winter.  After Christmas, Jigg's would close up shop until spring.  The stand was on the way to church and school, and I always knew Christmas was coming when those triangle-shaped stands went up right before Thanksgiving.

There were always a couple of dozen trees hanging in the stands as well as a nearby pile to choose from if the ones hanging up didn't work.  We'd walk through the rows, looking at the merits of each tree, turning it to check for bare spots, making sure the trunk wasn't crooked, measuring the height.  It had to be about 7 feet tall and a douglas fir.  Mom liked that kind best because the branches were sturdy enough to hold the lights and spaced far enough apart to showcase the ornaments.

We would look and look, and I always felt bad passing by the ones that didn't measure up, until we finally found the right tree.  The worker would saw the bottom off and rope it to the roof of the car, and we'd head home anxious to show Mom this year's tree.

But every year, there was something...it was too short or there was a bare spot or the trunk was crooked...It didn't matter that once the lights and decorations got on, it would look great.  The imperfections just screamed at her, and that's all she could see.

Finally one year, after an argument because we'd brought home a tree that was so short we had to place it on milk crates covered with a sheet to make it tall enough, Mom suggested that next time we go to the tree stand in the Consolidated parking lot.  "You need to go to more than one place!" she said. "You need to SPEND SOME TIME looking for a tree!"

So the next year, we skipped Jigg's and headed over to Consolidated to see what their trees looked like.  We looked and looked.  Up and down row after row until we couldn't remember where we saw a tree that might have worked.  Finally, we found one that maybe had a bare spot or maybe a crooked trunk, but we didn't care.  We'd been looking for a Christmas tree for a couple of hours.  We were cold and hungry and just wanted to go home.

When we pulled it off the top of the car and showed it to Mom, she still wasn't satisfied even thought we'd gotten the tree from the lot she suggested.  My dad just shook his head and mumbled something under his breath and plunked the tree down in a bucket of water until we could get it inside to decorate.

At some point the next fall, my mom and dad were enjoying an evening with a couple they were friends with, when Mom and the other dad hatched a plan for the dads to take all of us kids over to Indiana to cut down our own tree.  We all thought that was a great idea! Visions of trekking through the snowy woods and finding the ultimate Christmas tree illuminated by a single sunbeam permeated my every thought.

On the appointed Saturday, we loaded into a leisure van my dad had borrowed from one of the Chevrolet dealers he knew, and we drove over to Indiana.  This was not a Christmas tree farm in today's sense of the word.  This was a farm that had an occasional Christmas tree-type of tree on it that we could cut down. We piled out of the car, the dads carrying axes, and headed into the woods to find "the tree," but all we could find were cedar trees, and we knew Mom wouldn't go for that at all.  We hiked and hiked, and it was cold.  I don't think we were even on the tree farm property at this point, but finally we found a tree that we thought would work.  It was nice and full and had a straight trunk and no bare spots, so we claimed it as ours.  Our friends found a tree too, and Dad and Mr. B proceeded to cut them both down.

Did you know that a tree out in the woods looks a lot smaller than it is in real life?

We hauled that tree back to where we parked, but we couldn't get it in the van.  It was too tall.  We got our friends' tree loaded onto their car, but ours wouldn't fit.  And as we tried one way and then another, the back window broke out of that borrowed van when someone tried to close the rear door and hit the trunk of the tree.

Needless to say that Dad was the unhappy one that year.

So, Jigg's was out.  Consolidated didn't work.  Cutting down our own tree, while scoring us a great tree, also incurred a broken van window, so that was a no-go.  It seemed like nothing we did worked.  We'd never find a tree that was the perfect tree.

The next year, with a sense of dread but a determination to make Mom happy, we piled in the car and headed out yet again.

"Where are we going this year?" one of my sisters asked.

"It doesn't matter where we go," I said, "we will never get the perfect tree."

The gravel crunched under our tires, as we pulled into Jigg's for the umpteenth year and tumbled out of the car to look.  And right away, we found a pretty good tree.  Not too tall, not too short, not too many bare spots, fairly straight trunk...So we bought it.

There was just one problem...If we went home already, Mom was sure to find something wrong with the tree, and then she'd tell us that we hadn't shopped in enough lots or spent enough time looking at trees...

So after we tied the tree to the roof of the car, Dad said, "Well, we can't go home yet.  Want to go to lunch?"

And that's how our Christmas tree shopping tradition started.  We'd go to one lot, pick out a tree, and then go to lunch. Sometimes we'd go to McDonalds, but we usually went to Mr. Gatti's so we could each get that personal sized pizza we so loved.  We'd even park in the back in the off-chance that Mom would be driving down Dixie Highway and see our car parked out front and wonder what the heck we were doing at Mr. Gatti's.  When we came home, we'd tell Mom that we looked all over and finally, FINALLY found this tree.  And you know what?  She usually loved them!  We had found the recipe for the perfect tree.  It had nothing to do with bare spots or straight trunks.  It had everything to do with spending the right amount of time looking for the perfect tree that made it so.

We didn't tell Mom for years.  In fact, I think I was well into my late 20s or early 30s before we finally spilled the beans.  She was not amused.  But those days of the Christmas tree lunches are some of my favorite memories, and I wouldn't trade them for the most perfect tree in the world.

Christmas Savings

The bank was in what had once been an old fish and chips restaurant. I remembered eating there and trying to like the food because I loved how the windows looked as if they belonged on the captain's quarters of a pirate ship.  The panes were small, with a yellow cast to them, and I used to pretend like I was on the ocean whenever we ate there.

But now it was a bank, and we stopped in after school once a week for Mom to deposit money in her Christmas savings account.  I hated that.  I was too little to wait in the car, and the inside of the building no longer looked like a pirate mess hall with heavy wooden tables and chairs.  It was just a regular old bank.  Boring except for the windows, but even they weren't the same.

Mom was diligent about putting money in the Christmas savings.  She opened it in the summer and paid on it regularly.  I'm not sure where she got the money because she wasn't working at the time.  Probably it came out of the grocery money or maybe my dad slipped her a $10 bill every week.  Regardless, every week, we'd stop at the bank that used to be a fish and chips restaurant and make a deposit.

Once she started working at OLC, she opened Christmas savings for my sisters and me.  At the end of the payment period, right around Thanksgiving, we'd each get a sweet $25 to use to buy presents for our loved ones.  That seemed like a ton of money to us back in the day.

I would try to budget out how much to spend on each person and found out that $25 didn't go very far once I got down to it.  I figured Mom and Dad deserved the best presents, so I'd allot $5 each for them.  Then there were my sisters at $2.50 each, my grandma and whichever cousin I drew for the gift exchange at Granny's house, and if there was anything left, something for my friends.

My dad was easy.  Every year, all he asked for was "shorts (boxers), shirts (undershirts), and socks (Gold Toe, either blue, brown, or black).  Occasionally, he'd ask for a tie, but Mom would have to go in on that with us, so we usually stuck to the usual, the difference being who had to give Dad underwear that year.  I can remember standing in the Men's Department at Bacon's in Shively agonizing over which pair of socks to get Dad.  The wall was filled with all shades of blues, browns and blacks.  Thin or thick?  What about a pattern this year?  Nothing crazy, just tone on tone, but maybe a dot or a different weave???  No, just the usual.  Gold Toe, blue, brown, or black.  If they were on sale, we could get two or three pair for $5.  It was always a score when that happened.  "Three pair of socks!  Yes!"

The shorts and shirts were standard Hanes or Fruit of the Loom, again whatever was on sale.  And always white, always boxers, always crew necks.  Never plaids or briefs or v-necks.  Same ol', same ol'.  So getting to be the one who got to buy Dad socks was something!  At least you had a choice.  Regardless, we took pride in wrapping everything as nicely as we could, and when he opened each one, Dad would say, "Shorts!  Just what I needed!  Thank you!" like he was thrilled to get new underwear for Christmas.

Mom was harder to buy for.  We always wanted to get her something special, but what can you get special for $5?  I remember going to the Ladies' Department, again at Bacon's, and looking at house slippers, which was something she regularly got.  They would max out my budget and then some, but they were so soft and new, in pinks and powder blues with roses embroidered across the foot...Mom's slippers were always worn and even washing couldn't take the dirt out after awhile.  One of us usually got her a pair of slippers, nothing fancy though.  Just regular Dearfoams.  Terrycloth mostly.  Closed toe.  Anything else was too hot.

I can remember going up to Otto Drugs and buying Mom a bottle of Oil of Olay or a necklace from the jewelry counter.  One year, she had a Home Interiors party, and there was an alabaster owl that was in my budget.  I was determined to get it.  I sidled up to the party rep and whispered what I wanted to do.  She promised to help me and keep it secret from Mom.  I handed over the $4 that the owl cost and waited for what seemed like forever for it to come.  I don't know how she did it.  My guess is that she told Mom of my plan, and Mom played dumb, but I got the owl and hid it under my bed until Christmas morning.  When she finally opened it, Mom was so surprised.  "How did you get this without me knowing?" she asked.  And I'm fairly positive it did not fit with any of her home decor, but that owl sat on the end table in the living room for years.  She even wrote a little story about it, and when we cleaned Dad's house out, I brought it home to mine.

My sisters would get gloves or a jewelry box or some such trinket. My grandma...Rose Silk lotion. My friends would usually get a LifeSavers candy book (tangerine, please) or a giant candy cane.  In a good year, they would score a one-pound Hershey's candy bar.  Again, Otto Drugs was the place to shop.

All of this to say that the whole process of saving the money (although it wasn't mine to start with), planning a budget, and buying presents for family and friends was such a thrill.  It was challenging for me to figure out how to make it work to get something for everyone, and I felt so smart when I was able to do it.

And I know my parents and my grandma could have bought their own underwear, slippers, or lotion, but it didn't matter to them what they got as long as we made the effort to pick it out.  It was the process not the present, and I never, ever felt like Mom or Dad was disappointed in what I had given them for Christmas.

I think that is lost today.  We get so wrapped up in the gift that we forget the giving behind it.  This Christmas, I hope we can all remember the thrill of giving a new pair of Gold Toe socks or a beautiful alabaster owl.

Christmas 2016

Christmas 2016

On the morning of August 31, 2016, my kids gathered in the kitchen before the girls left for school for one more group hug.  They do that a lot, those three, but the hugs usually end up with Kyle tickling the girls and hilarity ensuing. Not so this particular morning.  This time, the hug ended with tears and “I love yous” and “I’ll miss you so much” Kyle was leaving later that day for a semester studying at the University of Luneburg in Germany, and the hug was their goodbye.  He would be gone when they got home from school. 

Kirk and I drove Kyle to the airport, checked his bag, and walked with him to security.  We got our hugs too, along with final words of wisdom…Keep a copy of your passport with you at all time…Don’t leave your things unattended…Pay attention to your surroundings…We stood there while he passed through the gate, got his shoes back on, and headed down the terminal, getting smaller and smaller until he turned the corner and was out of sight.  I cried then.  I felt like that dad in the car commercial handing keys to his daughter who he still sees as a preschooler. 

Kirk headed on to work, but I wanted to stay until Kyle’s plane had taken off in case there was a delay.  I decided to drive over to the cell phone lot and watch from there.  I texted Kyle to see where he was on the plane, and luckily, he was on the side facing me.  I waved.  He said he saw me.  I stood there watching, waiting until the plane pulled away from the terminal and began to taxi down the runway.  Tears streaming down my face, I jumped up and down and waved my arms as it lifted off, hoping Kyle could see me as he began the adventure of a lifetime.  He will miss Christmas for the first time this year (he’s spending it in Ireland, so don’t feel too bad for him!) and gets home on Jan. 4.  We can’t wait to see him!

Kyle is not the only one who we had to let fly this year.  Claire spent 5 weeks at Morehead University this summer participating in the Governor’s Scholar Program.  Then she spent another week doing service work in Kentucky with Y-Corps, so she was gone for much of the summer.  Now she is busy finishing up college applications and scholarship essays.  I can’t believe she’s almost in her final semester of high school. 

Emily and I hung out a lot this summer.  It was nice, but weird, just having one child at home.  For most of  July, we drove back and forth to New Albany as she rehearsed for Hairspray with New Albany RiverStage Theater.  She started Sacred Heart and jumped right in and got a role in 42^nd Street, joined the Y-Club and the choir.  She’s made tons of new friends and loves school.

Kirk celebrates a year at The Jump Agency and is still doing National Guard on the weekends.  I got a very part-time job at…wait for it…Locust Grove!  I’m working on the occasional weekend in the Visitor’s Center doing visitor center things.  I have spent enough time there over the years, might as well get paid for it!

As we wind up 2016, may you find yourself surrounded by the ones you love, embraced in the biggest group hug you could ever ask for, and may it always end in hilarity!

Peace!