Category: Death

Love Is Us

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

beatles-abbey-roadOn September 26, 1969, the Beatles released perhaps their quintessential album, Abbey Road. The timing could not have come at a better time for me. My idealism was badly damaged from the events of the previous summer, a collection of weeks that quite literally changed me and my family in the most devastating ways. I was not yet twenty one and I felt like a forty year old. My mother had endured a crushing mental breakdown during July and August and I had reluctantly accepted the responsibility for her care and that of my brothers. I was shoved out of my naive and isolated world into the hellishness of reality as I struggled to keep everyone together and to make decisions that were foreign to my nature. I was a bride of less than a year who was being tested more than I thought I might bear. The Beatles came to my rescue with their innovative music that eased the beasts that were battling inside of me.

There would be many a time when I would listen to the songs that became so comforting to me, not so much because they were happy and lighthearted, which they were not, but because I marveled at the genius of the work that was unlike anything that the world had ever before heard. I was able to escape into the guitar rifts and poetry of the lyrics. Here Comes the Sun became my mantra. It gave me hope that somehow my little family would one day reclaim the happiness that had been so missing in the dark days of Mama’s illness. To this very day I can’t hear the strains of that tune without remembering both the pain that I was feeling and the tranquility that the music afforded me. 

I was still in a honeymoon period with my husband Mike with whom I was madly in love but I had no idea what an incredible man I had married until those trying times. He would rise to the occasion and never leave my side over the decades in which I struggled to keep my mother healthy. He was loving and understanding and the two of us listened to Abbey Road together sensing that its brilliance expressed the feelings that we shared. My story might have been quite different had it not been for Mike. He was my anchor and my strength. I listened to lyrics from the album like “Love is you” and understood totally what that meant with regard to my devoted spouse. We may have been two babies playing house but we had something quite magical happening and somehow the Beatles had captured every emotion that we were experiencing.

I had little idea that in only a few weeks I would learn that I was pregnant with my eldest daughter Maryellen. We had no plan as to how we were going to find the money to raise a child but we could not have been happier. It was like a blessed miracle to learn that something bright and beautiful was going to happen to take our mind away from the fear and anxiety that had been stalking us. When Maryellen was born the following July I often listened to Abbey Road when I fed her in the middle of the night. It was one of the only ways I was able to keep myself awake when I was so sleep deprived. I loved the line “one sweet dream came true today” because that was exactly the way I was feeling. The contentment that I enjoyed with the birth of my little girl filled my heart. It erased the despair that I had known only a year before and replaced it with a feeling that we were all going to be okay.

The years would go by. Mike and I only grew closer as we raised our little girl and then added another girl child named Catherine. My mother would go in and out of emergencies with her mental illness. I never really became accustomed to the sadness that I felt whenever she had a psychotic break. I did my best in getting her the medical help that she needed but I always felt heartbroken that her problems were chronic. I so wanted her to mend and never be sick again but that was not to be.

Abbey Road would forever be an old standby for me, a favorite of which I never grew tired. I heard new words and musical innovation each time that I listened. It somehow came to remind me of the entire span of my life. All that I am is somehow encapsulated in the music.

Imagine how wonderful it was for me to receive a text from my grandson Andrew this week telling me that he had been listening to Abbey Road at college. We traded stories about the songs that we most love and I could tell that somehow the music had reached as deeply into his psyche as it had into mine. I found myself wondering what he might think if he knew that I had rocked his mother in my arms while listening to the same brilliant harmonics back when I was only a year older than he now is. I found it somehow ironically meaningful that his birthday is on September 26, the same date as when the album first became available to the public. I thought about the enormous influence the Beatles have had on so many souls and particularly on me, providing so much solace during the most difficult moments and the happiest ones as well.

The day on which my mother died can only be described as beautiful. We all will eventually leave this earth and she knew that her end had come. She was ready and convinced that she would soon be in her heavenly home. Everyone who had ever loved her was gathered around on that day, including Andrew. Mama asked my Mike to take care of the family, an honor that he humbly agreed to accept. We said our prayers and our goodbyes. When she had breathed her last I once again thought of the Beatles and their prescient words that seemed almost to have been written especially for her and our family, “And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.” We had overcome one problem after another hand in hand only to emerge with an ever stronger bond time and again. Through it all the Beatles have continuously been there as we have traveled down our long and winding road learning with each step that love is us. 

Love Is Still The Answer

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

two-people-holding-hands-connection-love-vulnerability1I was nineteen years old that April when Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. died. I felt as though I myself had been attacked by a bullet when I heard the news of his assassination. I was shocked, devastated. He was and remains my hero, a larger than life figure who made a lasting imprint on my life when I was only tentatively entering adulthood. That was almost fifty years ago and in the years that followed his murder I have lived through a lifetime and become what society views as an old woman. Still the memories that I have of Dr. King are as fresh and vibrant as if they had occurred only yesterday. I cherish the fact that I was old enough to remember the world as it was before he so courageously sought to change it. For it is in knowing the impact of his influence that I am able to understand why he is perhaps the most important figure of the twentieth century.

I am a child of the south who saw the injustice of segregation. I used to ride a bus to downtown Houston with my mother from our home just a block away from what was then called South Park Boulevard. I enjoyed those adventures on public transportation far more than simply jumping into our car and riding to our favorite shopping spots. My mother had grown up taking a bus into town from her childhood house near Navigation. She regularly jumped aboard the carrier that transported her to shopping, movies and her first paid jobs. It felt natural to her to take a bus to get around the city rather than to fight traffic and so we often waited on the corner until the great big conveyance stopped to let us on.

There were not usually many people on the bus when we first stepped aboard but by the time that we reached our downtown destination it was packed. Back then I was only five or six years old and thought little about the seating arrangements that were literally dictated by law. There was an invisible line of demarcation separating those of us with white skin from our fellow Houstonians with darker complexions. They mostly joined us on our journey as we got closer to downtown, usually around Scott Street, obediently moving to the seats in the back, quietly enduring their humiliation.

As a child I was curious to know why such traditions existed but the way in which my mother would silence my inquiries told me that there was something secret and painful about the situation that I was not deemed old enough to understand. I remember sneaking peeks at my fellow travelers and wondering why we needed to be set apart from one another. I was still an obedient child and dared not question my elders but the whole thing seemed rather silly to me.

Our city was filled with shameful rules that prohibited those same folks who sat at the back of the bus from eating in the restaurants where we enjoyed lunch. There were separate water fountains and bathrooms for them as well. I didn’t understand but I complied with the unjust directions while questions began swirling inside my head even back then. I suppose that I have always been a bit of an old soul and my five year old mind felt the wrongness of what was happening even while the adults around me seemed not to even notice.

I came of age in the nineteen sixties, turbulent times defined by war, violence and open protest and questioning. Television had become a commonplace way of viewing world events on a nightly basis. I was educated by nuns and priests from the north whose points of view were often more radical than those of the southerners who were my neighbors and fellow citizens. I had eagerly watched the civil rights movement unfold from the summer when I took my last vacation with my father before he died. I was seven then and those weeks were punctuated by an awakening within my mind. I had overheard discussions between my father and grandfather about integration efforts in schools in Arkansas. I saw African Americans mingling with whites during our trip to Chicago as though there was nothing more natural. Somehow I realized that the way of doing things in my hometown were wrong and I audaciously announced my feelings to my parents who urged me to be cautious in pronouncing such radical ideas to strangers who might not take so kindly to my thinking.

By the time I was a teenager my sense of justice was full blown and I was no longer afraid to speak my mind. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. had become the embodiment of all of the values that I held dear. He was a hero of enormous magnitude in my mind. His was a message of love and tolerance. He was noble and brave and seemed to follow the teachings and example of Jesus Himself. Little did I truly understand the depth of this remarkable man. I worshipped him only superficially without knowing how human he was and how difficult and dangerous it was for him to assume the mantle of leadership in a cause that would ultimately lead him to his death. I would be nearer to the age that he was when he died before I would truly understand his greatness.

I have read many books and stories about Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. He was thrust into a battle for justice that he did not seek. He was given a gift of oratory that was able to put the frustrations of his brothers and sisters into unforgettable words. Time and again he had to pray for the strength to endure the hatred that followed and threatened him wherever he went. He might have turned away from his destiny but somehow he soldiered on again and again. Always he spoke of unity and tolerance and the power of love. The more I learned about him, the larger his influence loomed in my mind. He was undoubtedly one of the the greatest Americans of all time, deserving of a place in history alongside the likes of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln.

Martin Luther King was struck down before his work was finished but he had accomplished so much. Young people today can’t even begin to imagine the horror of segregation that I witnessed and thankfully didn’t have to endure simply because I was born with white skin. We have truly come a long way from those days but there is still divisiveness in many circles. While it should not make the least bit of difference, there are still those who make judgements about their fellow humans based only on the color of skin or texture of hair. A residue of the kind of hatefulness that prompted the assassination of Dr. King remains even almost fifty years later. When, I wonder, will the ugliness be completely eradicated from our thinking and what will it take to get us to a place where there are no more Dylan Roofs who slaughter innocents peacefully going about their lives at church?

I am almost thirty years older than Dr. King was when he died. He never got the opportunity to see the changes that I have seen. He did not live to witness the first African American President of the United States. He never realized the ultimate power of his legacy. He was instead quite weary on the day that he died. His energy and enthusiasm were severely taxed because there was still so much more work to be done. He experienced profound agony in understanding that man’s inhumanity to man is an evil that must be overcome one person and one situation at a time in an almost endless cycle. Still he held fast to a belief in possibilities, reminding us again and again that “love is the only force capable of transforming an enemy into a friend.” He fully believed those words as do I to this very day.

Our world is in a state of tumult once again. Our young in particular are questioning the way we do things just as our children have throughout history. They look at our society with fresh eyes and wonderment. They are searching for answers to the questions that daunt them and redress to the unfairness that they see. I pray that they too will find a hero as magnificent as mine. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was imperfect like those who founded our country but he rose above his fears and his flaws to lead us in a cause that was far bigger than himself. He did so with grace and sacrifice and showed us what we can accomplish if we put love at the forefront of our lives.

A Girl Who Can’t Say “No”

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

stress-2.jpgI’ve always been what people might call a “good girl.” People pleasing is in my DNA. I work hard to make everyone that I encounter feel good. I rarely make waves even when it is apparent that someone is taking advantage of my good nature. I smile and ignore slights and continue to behave the way that I always have. I like the way I am. It feels nice to do for others rather than for myself.

The trouble is that now again I realize all too well that I am being used and abused in certain situations. Not everyone operates from good intentions. Of that I am all too aware and yet I often fall into such devious webs without saying a thing. I quietly fulfill the obligations that I so meekly accepted and then move on, wiser but still unwilling to say that one word that comes so reluctantly to my lips, “No!”

My mother was much like me. I suppose that I am the way I am because of her influence. She was an obedient and giving soul who would not hesitate to give someone in need her last dime. She exhausted her energy and bank account taking care of others. Then she experienced her first mental breakdown. Her symptoms were quite frightening to most people and only those who were exceptional human beings and the inner circle of people who loved her unconditionally were willing to remain steadfastly by her side.

Our home had always been a mecca for individuals who wanted to feel the warm touch of comfort that my mom was so good at providing. Our door was as open as her heart. She always made time for anyone who sought her counsel or a quick loan that would never be repaid. After Mama’s mind was attacked by bipolar disorder most of the hangers on and acquaintances were never to be seen again, even when she generously invited them for a visit. She rarely mentioned the abandonment that was so obvious nor the way people often avoided her, but she knew that it was happening. She felt lonely and hurt now and again and once even insisted that I was spending too much time emulating her old persona which had proved to be ridiculously naive. She suggested that I instead determine who would be my steadfast friends if I were to suddenly become a pariah to society. “Those are the people and causes that deserve your time. Just say no to everyone else” she advised.

Unfortunately I had already been programed to be the first to volunteer. I actually enjoy the feelings that come from sacrificing my own needs. There is a kind of selfish gain in doing for others. Of late, however, my energy is not as ramped up as it has always been. I am in my sixty eighth year of life and I have more and more limits on what I am able to give. I tire more easily and my income is fixed. I understand that I must be more selective in my generosity lest I reach a point when I am no longer able to share my bounty. I think of things that my mother told me in her days of madness and realize that there was often great wisdom in her words. I can’t be all things to all people and so I must choose my causes well.

Learning how to say “no” is a difficult task at my age. I mentioned in a Facebook post that I was going to try to do so and I found out that I am not alone in my quest to bring more balance into my life. I received a barrage of “likes” and confessions of the guilt that often comes with the simple act of refusal. One of the acquaintances that I most admire reminded me that “no” is a complete statement and requires no further explanation. She is one of the most giving people that I know and yet she fully understands that we are under no obligation to respond to every plea that we receive. In fact, if we attempt to do so our efforts will be far less effective or meaningful than if we carefully consider which causes are most important.

My sudden insight into developing a healthier attitude came about the time that my cousin was dying. I was so busy with a number of responsibilities that I had accepted that I never quite found the right moment to visit him. I assumed that there would be plenty of time to do so once my self imposed duties calmed down. Of course the scenario did not play out the way that I hoped it would. He died before I was able to wish him godspeed. It was a heartbreaking and illuminating moment for me.

I had been chasing my tail working for a woman who demanded more and more of my time without showing even a tiny bit of gratitude. When I missed a deadline during the week of my cousin’s funeral she became exasperated with me and insinuated that I had been out having a good time while she was holding down the fort. When I tried to explain the situation to her, she was unmoved. After many sleepless nights during which my anxiety level peaked at the thought of returning to work for her after the holidays, I found the answer. It was as if my mother was speaking from the grave. I knew that I had to stand up for myself and leave the situation that was rewarding in the work that I did but painful in the way I was being treated. I took a deep breath and resigned.

Of course I still feel the pangs of guilt and wonder if I should have set aside my concerns. I am a novice in the game of asserting myself. I keep wondering if I acted in haste and yet I have slept soundly since finding the courage to eliminate a worry that I never needed. I feel as though a gigantic weight has been lifted from my chest. I am quite excited about returning to a tutoring gig at South Houston Intermediate where the students and teachers treat me with dignity and appreciation. I am looking forward to having more time for my grandchildren and godson. I plan to make the calls and visits to shut ins that I have heretofore only spoken of doing. I will now be able to give more quality time to my father-in-law who has expressed more of a desire to see me as he becomes older and less able to get about.

We humans often lose our way by trying to do too much. There are limits for all of us and those become ever more apparent as we age or lose our health. We have a tendency to put ourselves in last place, forgetting that if we wear ourselves down we become less and less useful and happy. Our bodies and our minds constantly send us cues as to what we need. It is in our best interest to listen to the voices in our heads that make us anxious. They are the sentinels designed to warn us when we have taken on more than we can bear. Taking charge of our lives is not a matter of recrimination. It is a must. It’s time that we taught ourselves to stand tall and utter the most powerful word of healing that we possess, “No!”

A Time for Everything

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

maxresdefaultI have experienced sixty eight revolutions around the sun. This week I begin the sixty-ninth. I remember most of the yearlong journeys and what I have learned from them is that change is inevitable and that I should never take anything or anyone for granted.

I have witnessed the birth of inventions that most of us now consider to be commonplace but were once deemed miraculous. I have seen a man walking on the moon and been able to write and publish my thoughts on a daily basis because a computer allows me to type and quickly correct the mistakes that my fingers make. I have a vacuum cleaner that operates without my help and a mechanism that follows my voice commands to turn on lights and play music. The temperature in my home is neither too hot nor too cold with adjustments being made regularly to keep me comfortable. I carry a phone in my purse that allows me to talk with friends who live hundreds of miles away and even see them if I wish. I can order virtually anything from the recliner in my bedroom and it will arrive on my doorstep in only a few days, often without postage being required. I have hundreds of shows, movies and books from which to choose for my entertainment and I need not leave my living room to acquire them. I daily inject a medication that is rebuilding my bones. I have had a surgery performed by a doctor guiding a robot that left only four tiny holes in my body. The marvels that have come into my life abound and I have yet to take any of them for granted because I have witnessed the past when such things were only dreams.

Some who once accompanied me on my twelve month adventures have gone. I still long for them and find myself recalling the wonderful times that we shared. I didn’t always appreciate them as much as I should have. In my youth I felt immortal and did not think that I would be touched by death, not even after my father was taken far too soon. I now realize the importance of expressing feelings of love and appreciation at every opportunity. I understand that we must focus on the beautiful moments as they are playing out in our lives and embrace them fully, for the opportunities to do so may never come again. Life is riddled with uncertainties and even though I know that to be true I am surprised again and again.

I have developed traditions that I follow while I can. At the dawn of each new year I celebrate both the past and the future. I try to approach the coming months with optimism and a sense that I have yet another possibility of improving and focusing on the people and labors that will make a positive difference. I prepare split pea soup for luck. I learned how to do so from my mother-in-law who inherited the recipe from her mother. I have never cared much for black eyed peas, my mother’s preferred lucky charm, but I loved split pea soup from the first time that I tasted it. I go to the Airline Farmer’s Market each December specifically to purchase dried yellow split peas because the green ones are not nearly as tasty. I serve a ham on Christmas Day and use its bone to cook the peas. I place them in a heavy pot along with the bone and an onion, covering the ingredients with water. I cook the concoction slowly, adding more water as the peas become thick. Once they have softened and blended with the water I remove the ham bone and begin adding a bit of milk to make the mixture creamy. After several hours my soups is smooth and has a delicious blend of flavors. I always make it on New Year’s Eve and serve it for lunch on the first day of the year. It seems to have done it’s work in bringing me health, prosperity and happiness for I have had a good life in spite of bumps along the way.

I worry a bit as I grow older, a habit that I inherited from my paternal grandmother that haunts me more than it should. I don’t like losing friends or family members but the numbers of those who have passed before me grows with each year. I find myself wondering who among my circle will be afflicted with difficulties and wish that there were some way that I might forestall their problems. I tell myself that instead of spending fruitless moments in a state of anxiety I should instead reach out to my loved ones to let them know how much I care. I know that it is important to cherish every minute of every day.

I grew healthier last year because I worked at being so. I plan to continue with the improved habits that I developed. I am determined to publish my book no matter how much time and effort it takes to get that done. I want to keep my promises to meet with friends that I have not seen for far too long. I will try to be more relaxed about unimportant matters. I am a perfectionist at heart even though life has taught me that being so is ridiculous. I want to hear nature’s music and find joy in the pleasures that I sometimes ignore because I am so busy doing tasks that matter little. I desire to place more of my trust in the Lord without always asking Him why He does things the way He does. I saw from my late cousin how beautiful great faith can be.

I have come a long way and seen many wonders. I look forward to enjoying as many more as I am allowed, taking the glory of each day as it comes without holding on to hurts or fears. The sun rises and sets, the earth travels around the sun creating the seasons of our lives. In some miraculous way I have been part of sixty eight transitions from one year to the next. I have witnessed history, the best and the worst of the human experience and still I travel on with my fellow man. I have learned that the words of Ecclesiastes are so very wise.

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance, a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing, a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away, a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak, a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace.

Every day is beautiful, even when we are carrying our human burdens. There is nothing better than to be happy and and to do good while we live. That is my ultimate resolution as I set out on another adventurous year.

Open Hearts

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

1ebff25909b8878c31424a09e6757466I was eight years old when my family and I went to the Trail Drive In to see Tammy starring Debbie Reynolds. I truly enjoyed that movie much as today’s young girls like to watch the programs on the Disney Channel. It was a wholesome and uncomplicated film about an innocent seventeen year old who finds love for the first time. I instantly learned the words to the song Tammy that Debbie Reynolds sang so romantically in the film and belted out the simple tune as I rode my bicycle around the neighborhood. Mostly I became an unapologetic fan of Debbie Reynolds after seeing Tammy and never lost my admiration for her even as the years went by and I became a well seasoned woman.

I often caught snatches of the conversations that my mother had with her sisters when I was a child and I knew that they highly approved of Debbie Reynolds. She was an all American princess in their eyes, as uncomplicated and lovely as the character she played in Tammy. One of my aunts often read a magazine called Confidential which was a precursor to The National Enquirer. I remember seeing photos of Debbie Reynolds in the pages of that publication with her husband Eddie Fisher. He was a singer and a heartthrob of sorts but I never particularly cared for him. Because I was still an uninitiated child I thought that Debbie had the most perfect life nonetheless and I wanted to be just like her one day.

Eventually a tremendous Hollywood scandal made the headlines. Debbie Reynolds and Eddie Fisher had been close friends with Elizabeth Taylor and her husband, Mike Todd. They had even named their son Todd. When Mike Todd died suddenly in a plane crash a grieving Elizabeth Taylor found comfort from her good friends, especially Eddie. One thing led to another and the two stars wound up having an affair. Stories about the sordid incident seemed to be everywhere and of course my mom and her sisters were aghast by the turn of events as they whispered comments while they sipped on their coffee. I would have had to have been deaf not to hear them discussing how horrible the whole situation was and how much they felt for Debbie who by then was the mother of two children including a daughter named Carrie.

I loved Debbie Reynolds even more fiercely after that sensational scandal and thought of her as a brave warrior who somehow soldiered on even after enduring public humiliation. It would be decades before I would be able to forgive Elizabeth Taylor for her egregious behavior and I disliked Eddie Fisher forevermore. I was happy when his star power plummeted in the aftermath. He ultimately disappeared from the limelight and his tryst with Elizabeth was short lived, but Debbie continued to perform and remained beloved to me and her fans.

I was grown when I finally discovered the movie that seemed to most accurately depict the duality of sweetness and spunk that seemed to define the real Debbie Reynolds. Singing In the Rain became one of my all time favorite films. The casting was incredible and Debbie more than held her own with giants of the screen like Gene Kelly and Donald O’Conner. There are few scenes from cinema that are as iconic as the one in which she dances with her male co-stars and they all three end up tilting over a sofa. Her star quality shone through and that charisma would never die even after she left the silver screen for a quieter life.

Debbie Reynolds showed up from time to time in Las Vegas and on television programs like Will and Grace where she always seemed to light up the room but it was her daughter Carrie who would eventually become even more of a Hollywood icon than she had been. When Carrie Fisher played the role of Princess Leia in the Star Wars series she immediately became a role model for a new generation of little girls just as her mom had been for me. Carrie was beautiful and intelligent and showed the same spark of independence that her mom had always displayed. Young men across the world fell in love with her more feminist version of the ideal woman. She was an equal to the male characters who fought side by side with her against the dark side of life.

Carrie Fisher had a brilliant mind and went on to display her intellect and her sense of humor in the five books that she eventually wrote. She possessed a sometimes defiant honesty in which she told of her own demons and struggles. For a time she was estranged from her mother because of her willingness to so publicly speak of her life. She suffered from addictions and mental health issues and was never afraid to talk openly about them. She became an outspoken advocate for everyone who deals with the heartache and loss that comes from fighting for their mental well being. She understood that by admitting her own weaknesses she not only freed herself from their grasp but helped others who so often feel abandoned and alone in the battles against their cravings.   

The world was shocked to hear of Carrie Fisher’s death from a heart attack that she suffered while flying home on Christmas Day. Her many fans both young and old recalled the joy that she had brought to them. Her friends and family grieved for the giving and sensitive person that she was. Her mother Debbie was distraught and missed her beloved daughter immediately. Only one day later she too died, possibly from a stroke.

After my father was killed in a car crash at the age of thirty three my grandmother commented that she had lost her parents, many siblings and even a husband but the death of her child was the most difficult thing that she had ever endured. I watched her change from that day forward. She was a fighter who carried on but there was a shadow of sadness that seemed to follow her in spite of her efforts to smile and be optimistic. She spoke often and wistfully of my father and provided me with snatches of her own history as though she was preparing me for her own demise. Eventually she was diagnosed with stage four cancer and she died after a short but painful battle. Somehow I always felt that it was her broken heart that took her and I suspect that the same might be true of Debbie Reynolds. It is just so incredibly shocking and wrong in the grand scheme of things to lose a child.

I feel a profound sadness today as I think of the family of Debbie Reynolds and Carrie Fisher. They will be dealing with a great deal of pain in the coming days and weeks and months. In the end the icons that we so worship as fans are just people like ourselves. They have brothers and daughters and close friends who love them and know them in the most personal ways, “warts and all” as my mother used to say. Behind all of the glitz and glamor of Hollywood are humans who experience the very same feelings that we all have. They give away much of their own privacy to those of us who fantasize about them and make them famous. We share vicariously in their triumphs and their tragedies but we never truly know them. We forget just how human they really are. The death of Debbie Reynolds just one day after her daughter reminds us of what matters the most in life. In the final analysis the most important thing that we do each day is to love and never forget just how fragile the human experience is. We can’t take a single day for granted because we never really know what our final destiny will be. We need to attempt to live with courage and open hearts like Debbie Reynolds and her daughter Carrie Fisher tried so valiantly to do.