Category: Blog

No Fear

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

8550140-3x2-700x467We protect our children. When they are babies we install monitors in their bedrooms and rush to their aid when we hear crying or unusual noises. We buckle them into crash tested car seats when we travel by automobile. We place padding on the brick fireplace hearth. We install gates near stairs and locks on kitchen cabinets. We know how curious toddlers are, so we prevent them from straying into things that may harm them. We are deliberate in choosing who will watch them in our absence.

As our babies grow older we continue our vigilance. We teach them how to ride bicycles but insist that they wear helmets in case of a crash. We provide them with knee and elbow pads when they are learning how to roller skate. We give them a healthy diet and learn as much as we can about their friends. We enroll them in swimming lessons so that they will be safe around water. We talk with them about how to behave. We teach them and model our values for them. We are always ever watchful.

It is difficult for us to allow our teenage children to become more and more independent. We give them driving lessons and warn them again and again of the need for safe habits when behind the wheel of a car. We gauge their moods lest they be in some sort of psychological trouble. We continue to instill high moral character in them, hoping that they have heard our voices and that we have been good enough examples for them. We enforce curfews and insist that they keep us apprised of where they are and who is with them. We continue to look after them. They are our children and it is our duty to provide them with as safe and healthy an environment as possible.

Our children are innocent. They view the world with open arms, at least until they are hurt. They sometimes laugh at our concerns about them. They view our cautions as a sign of age. They long to be free and to experience life unfettered. Theirs is mostly a joyful time of exploration and risk taking. They often learn best in the school of hard knocks even when we have warned them of the possible difficulties that they may encounter. They love being with their friends and sometimes treasure the thinking of their peers more than ours. Their push back frustrates us, but we know that it is part of the natural progression of growth and development. We don’t worry unless we see indications that they are somehow changing for the worse, then we intervene. Always we are watching.

The time comes when our children ask to be part of the culture of their generation. They want to go see one of their favorite performers just as my granddaughter did when she learned that Maroon 5 was coming to the Houston Rodeo. We adults buy them tickets because we see no harm in letting them enjoy the music that is so popular in their circles. We smile at how joyful and excited they are. We give them extra money to purchase a t-shirt to remember the occasion. We understand how they are feeling because we too went to the concerts of our favorite rock stars back in the day. We remember dancing and singing along. It was a very happy time for us. Now it is their turn to experience a live performance. We know it will become one of their best memories.

Nobody expects to have a special evening turn into a tragedy. It is unthinkable that something as innocent as going to hear Ariana Grande sing will somehow become dark and evil, and yet we know that it did at Manchester Arena in Great Britain. A cowardly murderer found a way to kill and maim young children and teenagers, mostly girls. More importantly and sadly, he also managed to introduce terror and fear into their lives. The occasion that should have been so enjoyable will instead always be a source of horror and a moment that stole their innocence. What happened there was as despicable as any form of violence might be, for it not only hurt the young but it also sent a strong message to adults that their children may not be as safe as they had believed. Therein lies the ultimate definition of terror.

We are in a most unfortunate era of history. We find ourselves considering whether or not to visit this place or that, this event or another. We tell ourselves that we do not want to be constrained by fears and yet our imaginations nag us in the recesses of our minds, particularly when we think of our children. We have learned that few places are sanctuaries. People have encountered violence at churches, movie theaters, concerts, sporting events, restaurants, shopping malls, schools. The attacks are random and unpredictable. In the grand scheme of things the probability that something will happen to us or to our children is actually quite small and yet we worry, knowing that we will never forgive ourselves if we become too lax and suddenly find that our loved ones are among the count of victims. We don’t want to be careless even as we understand that there is no way of knowing whether or not someone with a twisted mind is lurking. We refuse to be afraid but must admit that some primal part of our brains is always alert.

We don’t know what to do to stop the madness. We pray for wisdom and miracles. We wonder if we should answer with an eye for an eye or stand on the side of peace and diplomacy. Should we erect barriers or be more inviting? The answers are unclear and each time that a heartless act occurs we begin the endless debates again. We sometimes surrender to the idea that this is simply the new way of the world, something that we must endure as a matter of course. We shudder at the thought that our reality may include telling our children that there is a boogeyman for whom they must be watchful. We worry that we may have to confine and restrict them even more for their own safety. Then we cry that they must be subjected to such fears because we remember the glorious freedoms that we enjoyed when we were young. How can they be carefree when the world is in such a state of chaos?

We have to talk with our children. We must reassure them while being truthful. We need to allow them to express their fears and then it is up to us to help them to understand that we will always do our very best to keep them safe. It is important to emphasize that most people are truly quite good, but then teach them how to best survive when they are in a difficult situations. We have fire drills knowing that most of the time we will never need to use the procedures. So too should we discuss what to do in other emergencies, including terror attacks. Keeping a cool head may mean the difference between safety and harm. It will also provide youngsters with a greater sense of control and well being.

We don’t need to take unnecessary risks but we still need to show our children how to enjoy life. We have always dealt with a certain level of uncertainty. Life throws us curveballs whether or not we encounter a terrorist attack. Every single day someone is in a car accident or receives a worrisome diagnosis. Weather has the power of changing the landscape in an instant. We cannot allow ourselves or our youth to become paralyzed with fear, but we can prepare them to use their heads and react properly in any dangerous situation. Most of the time they will never have to use those skills, but we must give them a sense of power so that they might go forth and explore the wondrous world around them with no fear. 

The Man on the Train

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

cta2061I was seven years old and with my family enjoying a vacation in Chicago. We had spent the day seeing the sights and were riding an elevated train back to our hotel. It was somewhat late at night so we were quite tired. There was only one passenger in the car with us. He was a rather nondescript soul who sat muttering to himself and staring at the floor. We thought nothing of him as we laughed and spoke of the fun that we had enjoyed that day. I suppose that our enthusiasm may have been a bit loud and over the top, but we were children. It’s the way that little ones react.

Without warning our fellow passenger focused his gaze on us and began loudly cursing. When our only response to his outburst was to quietly look at him in astonishment he stood up and began gesturing wildly as he spoke directly to our father. He insisted that Daddy either remove his “brats” from the train or face the consequences. Our dad immediately lost his cool and suggested that the strange man was the one who needed to leave the train which by then was already rumbling down the tracks. The two men stood within striking distance of one another in a contest of wills, and I found myself astounded that my father was capable of becoming as ferocious as he now appeared.

I was suddenly quite terrified and I sensed that our mother was feeling as frightened as I was. She pulled us behind her tense body and quietly watched the proceedings unfold in a posture that told me that she was ready to pounce into protective mode if needed. The man was out of control and noticed my mother’s demeanor. He immediately began to curse at her and call her horrific names that I remember to this day. Daddy turned red and it almost seemed as though smoke was coming from his ears. As he attempted to step forward to answer the man’s taunts with a clenched fist Mama grabbed his belt and pulled him back with all of her might.

This prompted our attacker to hurl even more insulting epithets at both our mother and our father. He boasted of violent things that he was going to do to both of them, and he promised that when he was done he would throw me and my brothers onto the train tracks where we belonged. This outburst so enraged Daddy that he broke away from Mama’s hold spewing threats of his own. Mama in the meantime kept begging both of the men to calm down and move away from one another. Just when it seemed that a bloody battle between the two men was about to ensue the train arrived at the next station and as the doors opened Mama ordered all of us to follow her out of the train while she tugged with all of her might on our father’s hand. Within seconds we were free, and the train sped away with our attacker still cursing and flailing his hands.

I have never forgotten that episode even though it has been six decades since it occurred. I have always believed that had it not been for my mother’s cool thinking there might have been a terrible tragedy on that night. Somehow she understood that the only way to deal with the deranged man was to ignore him and flee as soon as possible. While she never again mentioned our dangerous encounter, she often reminded us to walk away from insulting taunts from out of control individuals. She even used yet another story as an example. It involved a time when our grandfather attempted to aid a young woman who was being verbally harassed by the man accompanying her. Grandpa ended up being badly beaten by both the man and the woman because of his ill timed intervention and felt lucky to get away alive.

I have thought of my own family stories in light of the recent verbal attack of two young Muslim girls in Oregon that resulted in the fatal stabbing of one man and the injuring of another. It seems that the perpetrator of the crime somewhat randomly began insulting the two women drawing the protective ire of two Good Samaritans. Little did they know that he was bearing a knife or that he would even think of using it on them.

I have since seen a number of articles outlining what people should do in such situations, and I can’t help but think of my mother’s quick thinking. I have generally found that the first level of defense is to silently ignore the rants because they are usually indicative of someone whose mental state is out of control. Only when the verbal assaults turn into dangerously violent physical action is there any need to react. Words may hurt but they are nothing compared to the harm from actual fights, and it is very unlikely that anything someone does or says in such a super charged moment will change the assailant’s mind. In other words, the most heroic maneuver is to quietly shield the targets of the rage and then help them to leave the scene as quickly as possible. Any arguments no matter how logical they may seem have the potential to inflame the situation. My advice is to get out and get help.

Years after I had been so traumatized on that train I learned that an acquaintance had been killed as he attempted to help a woman who was being assaulted by her boyfriend in a bar. Just as with my grandfather both members of the couple turned on my friend slamming a metal bar stool into his head in retaliation for his interference. Ironically my friend had just returned from a tour of duty in Vietnam only to be cut down for an heroic act in his own hometown.

We have given a great deal of press to individuals who are coming to the aide of people who are being harassed with racist rants. Ellen even presented a monetary reward to one kind soul who stood up to a contemptuous and vile verbal attacker. While it seems to be the noble thing to do, I would humbly suggest that everyone be careful in assessing the situation before jumping into the fray. Sometimes the very best thing for everyone is to do nothing other than get away from the situation as soon as possible. There are truly crazy and evil people whose actions cannot be predicted. Giving them a wide berth and ignoring their remarks may in fact be the best reaction.

As a teacher and school administrator I often encountered people who lost their control. I’ve had individuals threaten to follow me home and beat me to a pulp. I have been called some vile names. I found over and over again that I had to be the one to maintain my composure by staying calm and refusing to react in such situations. As my mother often advised, I had to consider the source and understand that there was far more happening inside the minds of such individuals than anything that personally affected me.

Our father wanted to protect his family on our train ride from hell, but it was our mother who understood what needed to be done. We should all try to think first before attempting to deal with such insanity, or our original intent may end up leading to even greater problems. Sometimes remaining silent and running away is the most courageous route that we might choose.

The Greatest Show On Earth

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

Home-Slideshow_Tightrope2When I was a little girl my mother took me and my brothers to the circus every November. We never saw the Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey variety. Instead we attended the Shrine Circus. I recall seeing men roaming around in funny looking fezzes and wondering who they were and why they were donning such silly headgear. At the time I still didn’t understand the good works that the Shriners did, so they seemed rather ridiculous to me. When a friend of my daughter’s was badly burned in a freak accident I learned more about the charitable organization that treated her wounds for free in their hospital in Galveston, and I became a very willing donor to their causes.

It was always an exciting treat to go the circus. I wasn’t a particular fan of the elephant acts and it would not be until I was an adult that I began to hear rumblings about cruelty to them. Instead I was fascinated by the high wire and trapeze artists. They seemed so daring as they swung and balanced high above us. I would sometimes attempt some of their tricks on the swings at the park or in my backyard and pretend that I too was a circus diva.

The clowns were mostly a bit too silly for my taste, but I never grew tired of watching a tiny car park inside the main performance arena in order to allow its passengers to exit. It amazed me that an endless stream of brightly dressed folk would keep coming out. I could not imagine how they had all fit inside. It never occurred to me that they were using tricks to fool us. I truly believed that all of those people of every possible size had somehow compacted themselves enough to squeeze inside the mini-automobile. Even when I grew older and understood how things work I found myself laughing hysterically at the age old schtick.

I didn’t care much for the lion tamers. I was not only afraid for the human inside the cage with such wild and dangerous creatures, but I also felt pity for the animals. It seemed wrong to have them so penned up and I hated that the performer kept cracking his whip at them. I really could have done without such acts, but I adored watching the men and women being shot out of cannons. That was something to see!

All in all I enjoyed all of my visits to the circus. I always purchased a fluffy ball of cotton candy to enjoy during the show and our mother usually bought peanuts for all of us to share. I never quite knew exactly where to focus my gaze because the show was truly a three ring circus with acts occurring simultaneously in three different areas of the stage. I worried that I was missing something while staring at one place, but I did my best to rotate my gaze every few minutes to assure that I would get a good view of almost everything. If I happened to have my eyes peeled in the wrong direction either my mother or one of my brothers would alert me with an exclamation to check out something special in another ring.

I was somewhat sad to learn that the Ringling Brothers Circus was coming to a final end. Supposedly they were not able to overcome the negative press about their treatment of elephants even after they decided to drop those acts from the shows. Somehow once there were no more of the big pachyderms on the stage attendance dropped off to unsustainable levels and the long time traveling show had to fold its tent forever.

When I heard the news I thought of all of the performers and wondered what they would now do. I know that many of them had come from generations of circus performers. They had literally grown up under the big top, traveling from city to city with their parents and grandparents and slowly learning the trade. I read of one performer whose circus pedigree went all the way back to his great grandfather. He had risen through the ranks serving first as a clown and ultimately being one of the headline balancing and acrobatic performers. He was planning to work with an Italian circus for the next eight months but after that he was unsure of what his future would hold.

I suppose that the whole idea of a circus became a bit too old fashioned for today’s world. There were worries about the treatment of animals and it became rarer and rarer to hear of a kid threatening to run away with a circus troupe. Cirque du Soleil is far more glamorous with its thematic and carefully choreographed acts. Many of the circus fans abandoned the old school ways for the modern, and the children didn’t have enough exposure to fall in love with the circus the way I did. It was no doubt inevitable that the Ringling Brothers Circus would ultimately fail as I suspect most of the others have as well.

I’ve often wondered if the concern about animal cruelty began to infiltrate the public consciousness in earnest with the Disney film Dumbo. To this day I can’t watch that movie without having an ugly chest heaving cry. It ranks as one of the saddest movies of all time in my mind and I suppose that it made me think about the plight of circus elephants for the very first time. Maybe that’s why I tended to look away when they performed even when I was only a small girl.

I suppose that there is a time and place for everything and the days of whole towns turning out to see the circus are gone. There are more exciting attractions that have superseded them. Still I can’t help but recall such fond memories of our annual ritual of attending the circus when it came to town and seeing my mother as excited as we were. I loved the feeling of imagining myself flying high above the crowd and jumping fearlessly from one trapeze to another even I as held my breath as the performers really did such things. How I loved the feathers and the glitter of the costumes and the booming voice of the ring master.

I’m as guilty as anyone for the demise of the circus for I quit attending performances decades ago. I became too busy with other pursuits and too unwilling to spend my money on something that no longer held the fascination that it once did. Perhaps there were a few too many souls like me to sustain the economic health of the business. It became less and less of the Greatest Show On Earth. Now there is no more Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus and belatedly I feel nostalgically sad, for there was once a time when I thrilled to the grandeur of it all. 

An Unexpected Journey

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

coffee-plantIt was late on a Friday night, just after a Houston Astros baseball game and fireworks display. The crowd was a bit down because the hometown team had lost. Everyone was anxious to get home, and Houston’s congested streets weren’t cooperating. After waiting for what seemed to be forever we turned out of our parking garage needing to navigate instantly across four lanes of wall to wall cars. It became apparent soon enough that such a maneuver wasn’t going to happen. We were stuck and had to go in a direction that was the exact opposite of what we needed. Luckily I knew exactly what to do because the baseball park is located in the eastern end of downtown Houston, an area that I have known for all of my life.

My grandmother once lived only minutes away from where we were in a tiny house just off of Navigation. I had traversed these streets in the backseat of my mother’s car hundreds of times as she regaled me with the stories of her young life and the places that had been so much a part of her history. For most of my childhood this area had been rundown and a bit foreboding. There were often women of the night walking the littered streets or drunken men sipping brew out of bottles hidden in brown paper bags. The old train station was still there back then and Mama often boasted that she had taken a trip all the way to San Diego to visit a friend just after she graduated from high school. That had seemed a rather bold and daring thing to do, and I was proud of my mom’s adventurous spirit. I loved hearing about her youth and the history of east Houston where she had lived with her seven brothers and sisters. It had always been difficult for me to envision what that section of town had actually once been like because it seemed so abandoned and dreary by the time that I was going there.

Today Minute Maid Park, home of the Houston Astros, stands where the train station once dominated the area. In 1912, My grandfather rented a room in a long gone boarding house not far from the stadium before my grandmother arrived from Slovakia. Eventually he purchased a small parcel of land and built a home for his family just to the east of downtown. He had a variety of jobs before settling down at the Houston Packing Company located on Navigation making his commute from home a short one. A service station now stands where there were once pens filled with livestock waiting to be slaughtered.

On the night when we were forced by the traffic to head in the direction of my family’s old homestead I assured my husband that I knew exactly where I was going. Soon enough I was overcome with joy as the aroma of roasting coffee beans filled my nostrils. For the entirety of my childhood I had inhaled that delicious smell on Friday nights when we routinely went to visit my grandmother. It was always so lovely.

The whiff of coffee literally transported me back to a time when I ran and played with my cousins while our parents played penny ante poker as though they were in a Las Vegas competition vying for hundreds of thousands of dollars. In my mind’s eye I could once again see my grandmother padding across the worn wooden floors of her home in her bare feet carrying enameled cups of steaming hot coffee in her hands to offer her guests, including us children. She always smiled beatifically as she offered the brew filled with heaping mounds of sugar and milk. I thought of her saintly face and that sweet smile of satisfaction that she flashed when we sipped on the liquid without complaint. She always kept a big pot of the weak honey colored coffee on her stove, ready for any guests who arrived.

Grandma was ever a loving and generous hostess, and to me she was so beautiful with her blue eyes and her hair arranged in a long black pigtail that trailed down her back. She was not quite five feet tall and as round as Mrs. Santa Claus. She wore faded cotton dresses that she washed by hand and hung out to dry on a clothesline just outside of her back door. The only modern appliances that she owned were her refrigerator, a radio, a record player and a television which she never really watched. The T.V. was there mainly for entertaining two of her sons who still lived with her. She had been born in the nineteenth century and she remained very much a representative of a pre-modern era. Hers was a very simple life. She asked for little and used even less than she was given.

I never got to talk with my grandmother. She did not speak English and I did not speak Slovak. We communicated with facial expressions and hand signals. She called everyone either “pretty boy” or “pretty girl.” It was calming being with her, but I always wondered what she was thinking and what her own history had been. It would have been nice to know how she met my grandfather and what gave her the courage to follow him all the way to a new country, far away from her family and friends. According to one of my aunts she had once spoken enough English to work outside of the home but as her children were born she became more and more tied to her home and lost her ability to speak the words that were foreign to her. Oddly enough most of her children knew only enough Slovak to have the most basic interactions with her. My grandfather had insisted that they speak only English even at home so that they would be fully assimilated into American culture. Perhaps because of his rule not a single one of them had even a slight accent and few would realize that they had grown up with a mother who was unable to speak their tongue.

My husband and I relived my childhood days as we drove through the east Houston streets. I retold my history as we drove along. I gleefully pointed out Eastwood Park where my mother had once danced to the cheers of friends who admired her fancy footwork. I pointed out the building where we had often purchased groceries at Weingarten’s and the spot where we stopped for ice cream on the way home from our Friday night visits. We meandered over to Harrisburg where the new Metro line runs. There I witnessed gentrification efforts inside what had once been little shops where my mother purchased my school shoes and dresses for Sunday church. The Sears store where I first sat on Santa’s lap is gone, replaced by a gaudy strip mall without the elegance of the old department store. We flew past Immaculate Conception Catholic Church and I pointed to a venerable old structure that had at one time been a hospital. So much had changed and yet I felt that I was in familiar territory.

Our journey through my past was a serendipitous little gift for a brief moment in time. It cheered me to return to a place where I had not been for such a long time. My memories of being there will always be so pleasant and filled with so much love and belonging. My grandmother’s house is still is still there, crowded by businesses and industries that make it seem out of place. The new owners have cared for it, preserving its uniqueness. I think they would be quite surprised by the stories they would hear if those walls could talk. I wish that I might share with them how special it always was. Perhaps they already know.

A Memorial Day

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

american-flags.jpgThere was a time when Memorial Day was celebrated on May 31, regardless of when that day fell on the calendar. Thus it was in 1957. I had just completed the third grade after a rather adventurous year of moving from Houston to San Jose to Los Angeles to Corpus Christi and back to Houston. My father had begun working for Tenneco and we were living in a rented house in southeast Houston. My parents were thinking of closing a deal on a home in Braes Heights and we were all excited about meeting up with all of my aunts and uncles and cousins on Memorial Day at the beach.

My mom had spent most of May 30, preparing foods like potato salad and baked beans as well as her famous homemade barbecue sauce that my father would use on the burgers that he planned to grill the next day. We were beside ourselves with the anticipation of launching our summer vacation with our relatives. We knew that it would be a day of playing in the waves, fishing and crabbing on the pier, rollicking on the playground and listening to stories from our hilariously funny family members. It felt so good to be back in Houston after having been so far away for so many months.

My brothers and I went to bed before our father arrived home that evening. Mama explained that he had to complete a project that was due right after the holiday. He was a mechanical engineer and I was so proud of the work he did. I knew that if he failed to come home for dinner what he was doing had to be very important. I twisted and turned for a time but finally fell into a deep slumber with dreams of the fun that lay ahead. I did not awake until the sun peeked through the blinds in my bedroom window.

When I opened my eyes and acclimated myself to the new day I heard my mother talking on the phone in the hallway of our house. She sounded as though she was crying and her voice broke now and again. She seemed to be answering questions about my father and her answers were strange. She used past tense verbs which immediately alarmed me. Somehow without ever asking I had the idea that something dark and terrible had happened. I lay in my bed listening and grew ever more worried.

I finally crept into the kitchen searching for a glass of water because my anxiety had caused my throat to become dry. I was both surprised and alarmed to see my Aunt Valeria puttering about. Now I was convinced that this was not a good sign. I sat down at the kitchen table without saying a word while she nervously began attempting to explain to me that my father had died. It was difficult for her to get out the words and her eyes were filled with grief. I sat motionless and stunned as though I had not understood what she was saying, but truthfully I had figured things out before ever entering the room. I felt for my aunt because she literally did not have any idea what to do and I had no energy to help her. I suppose that we were both in a state of shock.

There have been few days in my life as terrible as that May 31, 1957. It has now been exactly sixty years ago since my life changed so dramatically. I was one person on May 30, and became someone completely different on May 31. I was only eight but I felt eighty, and in many ways forced myself to become an adult so that I might deal with the tragedy that so altered my world. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to lock myself in my room forever. I wanted to run away. I wanted to tell my father one last time how much I loved him. I wanted to scream at him for going away from us. My emotions were a jumble that left me bereft for months. I wanted to know exactly what had happened but never really would. I could only draw inferences and surmise what might have brought his brilliant life to such a crashing end.

Based on conversations with my mother and stories in the newspaper my best guess is that after working late my dad went out with some of his coworkers and had a few celebratory drinks. I suppose that my mother became angry when he finally came home and they had a fight. Perhaps he left in a huff to attempt to calm down. He decided to drive to Galveston. He was on his way back home on a freeway system that was still under construction. Instead of being on the main road he was on the feeder. There was a deep unmarked ditch directly ahead of his path. He was driving as though he was on a highway when he was in reality heading to a death trap. Too late his car slammed into the cavernous depression. The front of the auto was crushed and caused the steering wheel to slam into his chest stopping his beating heart. He died instantly and so did a little bit of everyone who loved him. It seemed such a meaningless end.

Of course I eventually adjusted to the reality of the situation but a profound grief lay under my thin veneer of courage. I was never quite the same after that. I worried more and often found myself avoiding adventures lest I be the source of more pain for my mother. I grew up almost instantly while somehow being in an eternal childhood. A piece of my heart would always be eight years old and every Memorial Day it would hurt again. I would experience a lifetime of questions and what ifs. I learned the importance of empathy because I had needed it so on that day and there were special people who provided it for me when I most wanted it.

I have friends and acquaintances who have also suffered unimaginable losses. I suspect that those who have not had such experiences don’t quite understand how we never really and truly get over the pain. Our wounds heal but now and again something triggers an ache. In my own case I have so much more that I want to know about my father. I would give anything to experience an adult relationship with him. I wonder if the images that I have of him are just a creation of my mind. I want to hear his voice for I can no longer remember it. It would be nice to share stories with him and see his reactions to my accomplishments. I would so like for my children and grandchildren to know him.

I have a friend whose husband died suddenly. She has young sons who are suffering. When I read of their hardships I literally feel their pain and cry for them. They are lucky to have a wonderful mom who allows them to express their feelings, so I believe that like me they will one day have the courage to move on with life. It is what we do even when we think that surely we too will die.

Sixty years is a very long time. I am almost twice the age my father was when he died. My memories of him are all pleasant for he was a very good man. They have sustained me again and again. It doesn’t really matter how or why he died, but only that he set the world afire while he was here. He loved fiercely and squeezed every ounce out of life. He left his mark and I have told stories of him all throughout the years. He still lives in me and my brothers and our children and grandchildren. Sometimes I see him in my brother Pat or my nephew Shawn. His life had great meaning and we continue to keep his spirit alive.