Category: Emotions

Home

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

Adoption-Home-StudyI’ve spent most of the summer away from home. I was a nanny-godmother to my godson and his brother in Boston, provided my granddaughter with a place to crash during her film camp in Austin, took a five thousand mile round trip to San Diego and back, and served as a dog sitter in San Antonio. From May until today I have only slept in my own bed for a little under three of the last nine weeks. My travels have been great fun but I almost feel like a stranger in my own house. It is amazing how many changes have occurred in the neighborhood in my absence. I have grown unaccustomed to the lights and the sounds that must surely have been there all along but which now feel so different. It seems that I will have to reacquaint myself with my surroundings before I wander off again in September. 

My father and his father were filled with wanderlust. They both moved around so much that it was often difficult to keep track of where they were. My grandfather boasted that he had lived and worked in all but a few of the contiguous states. I suspect that this explains why he doesn’t show up in a single census until he is almost fifty years old. My father had taken us on a cross country adventure just before he died. We were slated to settle down for a time but the evidence indicated that our sojourn would in all likelihood have been brief. In the eleven years that he and my mother were married they had lived in nine different houses and had traveled to dozens and dozens of states. They were on the verge of choosing home number ten when he died. Life with my daddy was definitely a moveable feast.

My mother was more settled. Her father built a home and stayed there for the totality of his adult life in this country. She selected a modest place for us after she became a widow and stayed there until we were all grown. She only moved once more when the neighborhood became a venue for rampant crime. After numerous robberies at her home she agreed that it was time to find a safer location in which to reside. She stayed in the next house long enough to pay for it in full just as her father had done with his homestead.

I am a mixture of my mom and dad. Part of me hears the siren call of adventure and the other worries that moving around too much leads to a dangerous instability, even if it is only the temporary movement of a trip. I cling to security but desire excitement. I have the urge to toss caution to the wind and follow the open road but then a sense of responsibility always pulls me back. Mostly though I think of how fortunate I am to have a home base and the means to travel when the urge overtakes me. In my journeys I have seen firsthand so many individuals without a home or a means of conveyance. They are modern day hunter gatherers moving along the streets and highways attempting to find scraps of existence from day to day and place to place. I have taught the children of such people whose situations were so dire that my heart nearly bursts even as I think of them today.

During the early years of teaching I encountered children in disturbing circumstances. One beautiful little girl lived with her family in a car. Her bed at night was the trunk. She was a pleasant child who smiled almost beatifically when expressing her gratitude that she was able to attend school each day and that she was not forced to sleep on the ground. She marveled at her parents’ ingenuity in caring for the family and boasted of the generosity of the owners of a funeral home who allowed them to park behind the business. She brought me lovely bouquets of flowers every single day from the dumpster refuse that she carefully culled. She enjoyed the free breakfast and lunch provided by the school but was still so reed thin that I suspected that her dinners were quite lacking. I often wonder what ultimately became of her. I hope that she is doing well and that she finally has a home to call her own.

Later I taught a little boy who was a handful. His behavior was akin to a wild child who had been raised by wolves. I struggled to keep his attention and wondered what made him so difficult. He eventually revealed that he and his mother were living in the garage of friends. They each had a twin mattress set on the concrete floor in between the lawn mowers and hardware that usually resides in such a place. They used a tiny propane stove to prepare meals and their hosts were kind enough to allow them to enter their home to bathe and relieve themselves. Unlike the optimistic child who had so inspired me with her homeless tale, this young man was angry at the world. At the age of nine he was already cynical and filled with hate. He wanted to find his father and beat him to a pulp for leaving them. He was embarrassed by his mother who seemed incapable of finding a job and earning the money needed to get a real place. He brought his rage into the classroom and once I realized what was fueling it I began to feel his pain. Eventually he and I achieved a separate peace as we spoke of the losses that we had both experienced. We somehow understood and respected one another. I convinced him that education would provide him with a way out of his horror. I hope that he made it and knows how much I cared.

We tend to take our homes for granted whether they be mansions in River Oaks or double wide trailers on Griggs Road, owned or rented. We have roofs over our heads at night and places to cook our food. We don’t often think about the people living under freeway overpasses or crouching behind dumpsters. We barely notice them during the day and they become almost invisible at night. Many of them are alcoholics, drug addicts or mentally ill. Some of them are simply experiencing temporary periods of bad luck.

Here in my hometown of Houston thousands of people have lost their jobs in the oil industry. Many have been searching for work for over a year. Those who have support systems to go along with their unemployment checks have hung on but their feelings of desperation intensify with each passing week. Those who have alternate skills have found part time jobs to make ends meet but just barely. Some have hit a wall and have nowhere to turn. They are one bad experience from being evicted with no place to go and no one on whom to rely. They are terrified of the future. This is how homelessness sometimes begins.

After my father died my mother reminded us every single day of how fortunate we were to have a decent and secure place to live. When the rain pounded on our roof she smiled knowing that we would be dry. Our house was small and often riddled with problems that needed repair. It was hot in the summer because there was no air conditioning but it was ours and there was little chance that we would somehow lose it.

Today I live in a comfortable suburban neighborhood in a house filled with memories of friendship and love. It is where I return again and again. It has been a source of comfort in difficult times and a retreat from the stresses of work. I don’t often appreciate it as much as I should. I sometimes forget that it is one of the great blessings of my good fortune. I must remember to be thankful when the winds are blowing and I am safe and warm. Because of the grace of God I am home.

Bad Moms

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

bad-moms-trailer-tease-03-160503_354f27e1f5010db26fc76e6faefdda9c.today-inline-largeI have many women friends who are highly accomplished professionals. They are lawyers, doctors, engineers, educators. They have risen through the ranks in their respective careers. They have made important decisions as part of their duties, sometimes involving life and death situations. They are unafraid of hard work and challenging problems. They stride through life with confidence. It is only when they have accepted the role of mother that they falter just a bit. To a woman they each admit that parenting is the hardest job that they have ever held.

The demands of being a mom begin with the first signs of pregnancy. A woman’s body begins to change to accommodate the life growing within. For me the first sign that something was happening was the most extreme heartburn that I have ever experienced. Not long after those first symptoms I was afflicted with morning sickness, a general feeling that I was going to puke my guts out. The sight of certain foods made me even more ill. My high level of energy seemed to become diminished with each passing week. I never strayed far from bathrooms because my bladder seemed to be continually full. Different body parts became sore and I slowly but surely grew to feel like a beached whale. My fingers and ankles swelled to three times their normal size and I developed a limp with my left leg because the baby was lying on a nerve. In spite of all of the aches in my body I was always delighted whenever I felt the flutters and kicks that told me that I was carrying a life inside my body.

I had my children when I was in my twenties. I was thin and wiry back then, a healthy woman who had no problems either carrying my babies or birthing them. So many women are not nearly as fortunate. They have to spend weeks immobilized by bed rest. They require the surgery of a Caesarian section rather than a more natural delivery. By the time that their children are born they themselves are in need of recovery time but instead they are thrown into the whirlwind of routines required to care for an infant. They must awaken for feedings even in the middle of the night. There is little rest. Even with help the tasks of mothering are often daunting in the first weeks and months of a newborn’s life. So many things can and sometimes do go wrong. The mother experiences a roller coaster of emotions, often caused by hormonal imbalances that render her unable to maintain control. It is the best of times and the worst of times.

Those early days when mother and child bond are forever etched in a mom’s memory. No matter how many years pass she always recalls the unmitigated happiness of holding her tiny baby. Those sleep deprived nights become beautiful moments. The chores that were at first exhausting evolve into a routine, her way of life. She begins to react to the demands of her children with love. It is what a mother does. She learns how to snatch a bit of rest here and there in between the caring and the teaching and the loving. She juggles hundreds of tasks in a single day but still worries that she may not be doing enough. Her children become the driving force of her life and even as they become more able to fend for themselves she thinks of them constantly and always will.

The years go by at breakneck speed. The first day of school comes all too soon. The child begins to slowly but surely push away to gain independence. All moms want this for their children but still feel twinges of regret that their roles and relationships are ever changing. They lie awake at night wondering if their actions are building strong and healthy children who will be able to navigate the world. They chastise themselves for the wrongs that they believe they have inflicted. They are their own worst critics.

It is little wonder that the summer comedy hit Bad Moms is resonating so well with mothers across the country. Entire theaters are filled with women laughing hysterically and relating to so many of the over the top jokes. I went to see the film last week with a group of twenty ladies of all different ages and each of us found moments in the movie that spoke to us. The truth is that we are often judged the most in our roles as moms. Society in all eras has inflicted its mores and customs on mothers, often resulting in making them feel inadequate to the task. The truth is that human beings cannot be perfect all of the time. None of us have the fortitude to be without flaws and somehow when we exhibit them in our parenting they are magnified.

Bad Moms points to our tendencies to compare ourselves to others and to standards that may actually make us feel uncomfortable. It also draws back the curtain on the realities that each of us struggles to overcome. Our children are not automatons. They are individuals just as are we. As mothers we have to understand when it is right to curb our ambitions both for them and for ourselves. We have to know when it is okay to pamper ourselves and when we must be available for our children. Raising children is a continual balancing act that requires wisdom and sacrifice but not a total surrender of ourselves.

When I was a young mother life was admittedly a bit simpler. I thought nothing of allowing my children to enjoy free range time around the neighborhood. Nobody was going to judge me for telling them to play outside on a hot summer day. I did not feel any pressure to entertain them or to enroll them in a never ending schedule of activities. I gave them swim lessons and took them to the park. They learned how to roller skate and ride bicycles. When they expressed an interest in dance I found a teacher for them. I purchased art materials and let them experiment. They ran around in their bare feet and often had dirt on their faces. If anyone was thinking ill of me for being lax they never mentioned it. My biggest concern was always that I might be spending too much time on my teaching job. I worried that my girls might think that I cared more for my students. All in all I felt comfortable that I was doing my best but it involved far less than the requirements that I see being placed on today’s young mothers. Bad Moms addressed the pressures that are now overwhelming so many women who are striving to give their children the best possible environment. Sometimes today’s mothers are losing themselves in the process.

Parenting is admittedly difficult. Those of us who agree to accept such a responsibility would do well to support one another rather than constantly critique. We all want our children to do well and that means that we should suspend our judgements and competitive spirits so that we might work together. We don’t all have to rise before dawn to run around the neighborhood track so that we might remain thin. Sometimes that extra hour of sleep does way more for our well being. Our meals don’t have to be ready for the Food Network. Sometimes microwaving some chicken nuggets gives us more time to sit and talk with our kids. If the house is strewn with toys and laundry we can make a game of quickly placing everything into neater piles. Our children do not need to have the latest phone or the most stylish shoes but they do need us. Moms have enough to worry about without including the insignificant in the agenda.

I am more proud of being a mother than anything else that I have ever done. I know without anyone telling me that I was as imperfect in that role as anyone who has come before or after me. I woke up each morning and did my very best. I had to learn how to forgive myself for all of the mistakes. My girls are now in their forties and I am still their mom. These days I have to remind myself that my new job is to support them as they raise their own children rather than to tell them how to do things. They are incredible mothers so I guess I did something right although I’m not sure that I should take full credit. The reality is that all of us are the product of our mothers, our fathers, our extended family members, our teachers, our churches, our entire histories. We are all in the game of life together. Bad Moms reminds us to focus on the things that truly make our families strong.

Empathy

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

comfortOne of my former students recently lamented what she saw as a lack of empathy in the world today. I have to admit that I have been fortunate to have encountered empathetic individuals over and over again. They have taught me how to forget myself and surrender to a state of pure understanding.

Just what is true empathy? The dictionary describes it as an awareness and acceptance of another’s feelings and emotions. In a sense it is the capacity to put oneself into another’s heart. Roman Krznaric, a founding member of The School of Life in London, has described some of the components of empathetic behavior in his book, Six Habits of Highly Empathetic People.

Dr. Krznaric notes that empathetic individuals are usually highly curious about strangers. They are genuinely interested in learning about other people, especially those who seem different from themselves. On my most recent vacation I continually found myself wondering about the men and women that I met along the way, particularly those who lived in tiny towns that appeared to have been forgotten by society. So many rural areas have little or nothing to offer their citizens. Life is a dreary prospect when the local economy is blighted. I saw so many abandoned businesses and factories that may have once provided hope but were now simply ghostly reminders of work that is now more and more difficult to find.

The people who lived in such places looked as though they were somehow trapped in a never ending cycle of want. They sat in front of broken down trailers or homes with littered yards, seemingly having nothing to do even in the middle of a work day. I imagined the dreariness of their lives. I felt that I understood why they might be attracted to the craven promises of politicians promising a way out of their situations. I also saw that they were proud people who would not want my pity. They held their heads high and stared straight at me in defiance.

They reminded me of a family to whom my grandmother had introduced me long ago, a group from the hills of Arkansas who lived in the most primitive conditions that I have ever seen. My grandmother cautioned me to suspend my judgement of them for they were hard working and kind according to her measure. I have never forgotten the way my grandma honored their humble hospitality and the treatment of respect that she insisted that we give them. I suspect that my first experience of empathy came at that moment.

Another empathetic habit is challenging prejudices and finding commonalities. I suspect that this is sometimes difficult for most of us because we rarely leave our own comfort zones. I grew up rather isolated from people who were different from myself. My mom taught at the local Catholic school so that my brothers and I might attend without paying tuition. Most of my classmates were middle class and many had well educated parents. While my family satisfied the government definition of poverty, my mom was adept at hiding that fact from us and the outside world. We fit in not realizing that we were imposters.

As a young woman in my twenties I began to encounter individuals who had experienced life in ways far different from my own. Their parents were classic blue collar types. They cleaned buildings for a living and drove dilapidated old cars. They often lived on the economic edge and had little interest in education. At first I felt as though I had landed on the moon when I met them but eventually I learned a great deal from them. They were not book smart but they had a common sense that made them quite intelligent in the ways of the streets. They were good people who showed me how to relax and enjoy the smaller victories in life. They were the kind of individuals who would not have thought twice about running into a burning building to rescue a puppy. I liked them very much and grew to respect them enormously. I found that in many ways I had more in common with them than with my college educated friends.

Empathy often comes from trying another person’s life. When I was in high school one of my teachers called that walking in someone’s shoes. He urged us to consider others’ circumstances before making judgements. Over time I have been in so many different situations and some of them have been quite dire. There were times when my mother was very ill that I felt abandoned by all of society. I understand what it is like to be responsible for someone and to have every door shut in my face. Along the way I always managed to find kind souls in the most unexpected places, people who held out their hands to help me when I was the most desperate. I learned to share my story and admit to my weaknesses. I realized that none of us are ever able to be all alone. We must sometimes be willing to accept the kindnesses of strangers.

Learning to be empathetic is not that difficult as long as we are ready to just listen. Often all a suffering individual needs is a friendly ear. At those times we don’t even have to actively find solutions to their problems. They only wish us to understand. When action is demanded we should be ready to go the extra mile for them like my long time neighbor and friend, Betty, has always done. It was well known on our little street that her door was open 24/7. Sometimes we didn’t even have to knock if we had a problem. She would see us heading for her door and meet us there, inviting us inside for a cool drink, a bit of dessert and a whole lot of loving wisdom. I suspect that over time Betty has helped countless people with her folksy intuition. I can’t remember a single time that I left her presence without feeling as though I had just conferred with an oracle of Delphi. To this day she is willing to drop everything to make a weary soul feel whole again. She has mastered the art of empathy just by being totally there for whomever seeks an audience.

When we focus on the lives of others rather than our own we are well on our way to becoming empathetic. I have been fortunate to meet many such people and my hope is that my former student will be lucky enough to enjoy such encounters. It is an amazing experience to realize that somebody has looked into your heart and truly understands and loves everything that they see. Each of us has the capacity to be that kind of person. We just have to begin the process by taking one step at a time and risking a suspension of judgement. It is not really that difficult to be empathetic once you get the hang of it and the rewards for being so are immeasurable.

A Heavenly City

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

Torrey-Pines-State-Natural-Reserve-California-community-of-La-Jolla-San-Diego-California-1024x682My youngest grandson William sometimes gets lost in the raucous crowd of his fellow grandchildren. There are seven of them in toto, ranging from a second year college student all the way down to a rising fifth grader. They are a good bunch of kids who are all quite polite, bright and hard working. Mike and I decided some years back to give each of them a special vacation with us. Our journeys across America began with a trip to Boston and over time took us to San Francisco, Washington D.C., New York City, Seattle, Canada and a host of national parks, museums and art galleries. At long last it was William’s turn to choose a destination.

After briefly considering a drive along the Atlantic coast or a Florida excursion featuring Miami, he quite surprisingly settled on going to southern California, specifically to San Diego, and he wanted his sister Abby to accompany us. His determination overcame my own misgivings. In all of my years I had never thought of trekking to that city. I’d heard about it from my mom whose descriptions of the place came from a time when our country was embroiled in a world war. I thought of it mainly as a military town that just happens to be on the border of Mexico as well. I found little reason to desire seeing it and my only connection with it was a brief stop over on the tarmac of its airport which allowed me to view the harbor as we landed. I felt that my glimpse of the city was all that I needed and thought no more about this little jewel that is so often forgotten in the shadow of its California siblings like Los Angeles and San Francisco. When William insisted that this was his ultimate destination I concurred but wondered why it had been his choice.

We decided to take our travel trailer on the trip which necessitated a more extended time together than usual. It also allowed us to see the amazing sights along the way to San Diego. We enjoyed so many incredible places and activities as we slowly made our way west that I generally believed that our ultimate goal would be a letdown. I learned soon enough just how wrong I was.

San Diego is a beautiful city with a temperate climate even in the dog days of summer. Almost as soon as we had entered its boundaries we had left behind the soaring heat that had stalked us for days. Instead we were cooled by a constant breeze from the bay. The waters of the Pacific Ocean were an inviting, glimmering blue that shone in the sunlight like a blue topaz. The streets were clean and filled with smiling people who appeared to be participants in a permanent celebration of life. A huge gay pride festival gave way to Comic-Con while we were there. The skies were filled with colorful kites and laughter. The beaches were family friendly with little of the superficial sights of Malibu and enough warmth in the water for a day long love affair with the waves. I felt as though I had found a little paradise.

There are so many things to do in San Diego but William chose the leisurely route. He wanted to tour the U.S.S. Midway and took hours experiencing its many features. Afterwards his only desire was to enjoy a picnic at one of the city’s many parks and to drive along its scenic highways. Along the way we caught a glimpse of the downtown area and smiled at the fans making their way to a Padres game. We cooled our heels in the evening at our campground on Santee Lake, a lovely spot where we felt quite relaxed and happy.

Our premiere enjoyment came from a day at the beach. We had hope to go to La Jolla but our efforts were thwarted by the huge crowds and lack of parking spaces. Instead we discovered Torrey Pines State Park where we rented boogie boards and prepared for the sun with gallons of sunscreen. Mike built an enclosure with a tarp and we spent the rest of that glorious time dancing in the water, walking along the shoreline and watching the birds and the people who had joined us. Somehow our food tasted magically more delicious than usual and our smiles seemed permanently tattooed to our faces. We only grudgingly left when the sun grew dim. We wondered how the hours had ticked by so quickly. We laughed and excitedly talked over one another as we made our way back to our trailer. I knew that the beach had been a hit with William when he struggled to decide whether he had most enjoyed his romp in the ocean or his time in the land of Harry Potter at Universal City.

We decided to forgo a visit to the famous San Diego Zoo when we learned that over a third of the famous landmark is presently under construction and that the entrance fee would be about fifty dollars each. Commentaries from people who had been there warned us that the crowds were brutal and many of the animals spent most of their time sleeping, sometimes in hidden areas. The complaints were so frequent that William declared that he wanted to spend more of his remaining time outside in the invigorating ocean that so inspired and energized us.

We drove to the island of Coronado and explored its beaches and streets filled with quaint homes. We rode a boat into the harbor and marveled at the ships and the San Diego skyline as helicopters and planes flew overhead. We purchased a kite that featured a many colored parrot whose wings flew high above us in the gentle wind. Somehow we all knew that we would always remember that simple moment with the kite soaring aloft under William’s able guidance. Everything around us was perfection. The sky was a brilliant blue devoid of the pollution that had enveloped us in Los Angeles. The air caressed our skin unlike the harsh heat that had seemed to follow us all the way from Texas. The city and the ocean provided a gorgeous backdrop to the fluttering object that seemed as heaven bound as our own spirits. Nothing might have been more perfect and I found myself feeling especially grateful to William for having the foresight to choose San Diego for our once in a lifetime vacation together.

It was with great reluctance that we left San Diego. We all agreed that if we were ever to move to California we would want to live in that wonderful city. All of my preconceived notions about the place were laid to rest. It might possibly be the best of all the wondrous cities in this picturesque state and I plan to return again one day and maybe even bring William with me when I do.

I Did It!

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

IMG_1282A few years back I went on a family vacation to Colorado. My son-in-law Scott had devised a plan for all of us to go backpacking in Rocky Mountain National Park. He assured us that it would be a rather leisurely stroll up a minor peak where a lovely lake awaited us. The plan was to bring our tents and backpacks so that we might spend the night in the secluded spot. It sounded like a doable challenge, especially since Scott had done a great deal of research ahead of time. We would be taking some rather young children on our adventure and my husband Mike and I were well into our sixties and admittedly not in the best of shape, so Scott had done his homework in choosing a destination rated moderate in difficulty.

I was quite excited because it had been years since Mike and I had backpacked into the mountains. We had once attempted to reach the summit of Long’s Peak but had to turn back when one of our daughters was overcome with mountain sickness. Luckily we had camped along the trail at a lower elevation so she was able to rest for a time and recover. By then it was far too late in the day to try our ascent again so we gave up and decided to return another time. We got busy with living and didn’t come back until we knew that we were no longer as hardy as we had once been. A short trek up an easier trail would have to do.

Mike and I spent a great deal of time at REI accumulating the proper equipment. Our old backpacks were sadly worn and out of date so we invested in new ones that were better built. We decided to purchase lightweight sleeping bags and a two person backpacking tent. We already had a single burner stove for cooking and lots of containers to carry the water that we would need. We carefully weighed our loads and spent time walking around the neighborhood to increase our stamina. We thought that after our more difficult adventures this one would be a walk in the park.

We headquartered at my brothers‘ cabin on Storm Mountain. I began to worry just a bit when a walk along the road near their house left me feeling breathless. I told myself that I just needed to acclimate to the elevation. After all, I was coming from only a few miles above sea level to an area that nature had pushed up to great heights. I suspected that after a couple of days my lungs would be okay in the less oxygenated environment.

We ate pasta the night before our journey hoping that the carbs would provide us with extra energy. I hardly slept in anticipation of our trip. We were all set to venture out when one of my grandsons fell on the gravel driveway and got a huge bloody gash in his knee. Fearing that he might need stitches we detoured to a local clinic. The doctor saw him right away, cleaned the wound and declared him ready to go. We were off and running albeit a few hours later than we had planned.

We were grinning from ear to ear as we embarked on our hike. Scott reckoned that it would take us three or four hours to reach our destination. That would give us plenty of time to explore the area before retiring for the night. We were all smiles as we took our first steps down the trail. It didn’t seem to be difficult at all. We began to believe that we would hardly break a sweat achieving our goal.

Before long the asphalt pavement gave way to a more rugged pathway filled with sharp edged rocks and boulders that required us to increase our strides. The gentle slopes became steep and before long I found myself huffing and puffing. I could feel the pounding of my heart inside my ears and I suddenly wondered if I was up to this challenge. Unwilling to admit my concerns to anyone I just kept moving forward one step at a time.

Eventually the trail became so rugged that I had to play mind games to keep moving forward. I would see a log or a rock up ahead and tell myself that I had to proceed until I reached that small goal and only then would I be able to rest for a time. Over and over again I maintained my motivation by starting and stopping, pretending to need a swig of water or a bite of one of my granola bars. The hours ticked by and I feared that I was no closer to my goal. My children and grandchildren had grown weary of lagging behind and were long gone. Only Mike was walking steadily behind me to reassure me that I was not going to pass out alone on the mountain.

Along the way I encountered other hikers who were in worse condition than I was. I pretended to be strong as I sauntered past them and smiled when I heard them note that I appeared to be a very experienced backpacker. I only collapsed when I was out of view, usually pretending to be so taken by the lovely scenery that I had to linger for a time. The truth was that I was running out of steam and saw no end in sight. I didn’t want to disappoint my family or myself. I decided that I had to muster my determination even if it killed me and that was indeed a possibility.

Just when I thought that I was unable to take another step my two eldest grandsons appeared. They had already reached the end of the trail and had set up camp. They encouraged me by insisting that I was almost there. One of them went to help Mike carry some of the load and the other took my backpack and hoisted it over his shoulders. I felt that angels from heaven had descended to aid me in my hour of need.

We walked along talking about a variety of topics most of which were rather deep. I suppose that mountainous environs are cause for reflection and we certainly had time to discuss the state of the world. The good company and conversation made the time and the effort seem less brutal and before I knew it we were rounding a switchback that led into our campsite for the night. I wanted to kiss the ground but I maintained my composure as though I had only completed a little walk that hardly caused me to strain.

It was lovely up there, more so because I was at the top of the world with all of my children and grandchildren. We had brought a whole lot of love and laughter to that place. I was proud that I had made it. I was happy to realize just how wonderful my life really was. I celebrated and rejoiced and slept like a baby even though the rangers had warned us that there were bears in the area.

The next day as I descended I passed people coming up the trail who marveled when they learned that I had spent a night on the mountain. They complained that the trail was far more difficult to navigate than they had been led to believe. I proudly insisted that if I could make it so could they. I was admittedly quite full of myself at that moment. Going down was far easier that coming up had been. I fairly flew to the parking lot where our cars waited to take us back to the luxury of our cabin.

I knew then that my rugged camping days were over. I had grown soft and old. I no longer had the desire or need to prove my mettle. I would leave that to the youngsters. Still I am so glad that I made that kind of trip one last time. I did it!