When I was asked to write a eulogy I knew I had to try and be brief, but I also wanted to let those same people glimpse the woman I felt I knew better than anyone. I didn’t re-write history, but I think I sent a message, nontheless.  What I did write didn’t say it all by any means.  It didn’t tell her whole story and wasn’t intended to do so.  I am currently working on another draft to do just that.

The following is what I wrote and what I stood up and read for her:

 
Our mother was a simple yet complicated woman. She was full of contradictions. She was strong and tough, yet, vulnerable and soft. Focused and driven, yet sometimes restless and confused. No matter what, she had a lust for life and was passionate and full of emotion. She loved bright colored clothes, convertible cars, music, sewing, animals, flowers, thunderstorms, Elvis and had an appreciation for anyone she thought was a handsome man.

 
Mom was a vibrant and, sometimes strikingly, beautiful woman. She always tried to look her best and each of us have fond memories of watching her work hard at it, whether it was playing with different hairstyles, or “putting on her face” to cover her freckles. She had a great smile that will never be forgotten. It could light up a room during a blackout. It made our day if we could make her laugh or just share a laugh with her. She loved to laugh and had a warm, yet sometimes wicked, sense of humor.

Her most outstanding feature, though, was her sparkling eyes. She could convey so much emotion with her eyes. As kids, we always knew how mom felt by looking at, or into, them. With her eyes and the movement of one eyebrow or the other you could read her mood and tell if she was happy, sad, tired, frightened or mad. She didn’t have to say a word, and even if she did, her eyes always told the truth. They were beautiful, but more important, especially over these last years when the sparkle was gone and she couldn’t communicate verbally, or move her body, her eyes were definitely still the windows to her soul.

Like any mother she was proud of her children. She thought of us as her “intelligent dreamer”, her “mischievous, handsome, pretty boy” and her “little princess”. We all grew up thinking that one of the others was her favorite, which had to be difficult for her to achieve. It’s every parent’s dream for their children to have a better life than they’ve had. She told me once, on a visit to Chicago, that all her children had made her proud and had turned out to be better than even she could have ever hoped and she marveled at how we accomplished all that we had. She didn’t realize that she had taught us to be independent, individual personalities who could survive and, even thrive on, any adversity.

 
Mom loved her pets; in fact, Mom had a soft spot for almost any animal, proven by the fact that she claimed to have even had a “pet” chicken when she was a little girl. She just didn’t feel like she truly had a home unless she had a dog, and anyone would have loved to have been one of her pets. Several times she wanted to try and make a living by breeding dogs, and tried, but I honestly think she found it too emotionally exhausting to have to part with the puppies after 8 weeks with them.

 
In her later years, she had her grandchildren. She danced with little James at Susie’s wedding and truly regretted and missed being able to see him grow up. She played with her Melanie Rosie and her Michael, and called me at least every hour as I drove from Chicago with updates on the labor and delivery of Maria. Macy only got to visit and know her in the nursing home, but knowing Macy as I do, I know she, too, lit up Mom’s life just as much her three siblings, and has the added bonus of looking a lot like her.

 Whether they do it intentionally, or not, our parents teach us by example. From our mother we learned to be accepting, tolerant, and passionate. Passionate about all that we do and all that we believe, sometimes to the point of being stubborn. She taught us to be strong and independent and to stand up for ourselves. And, there are some things we can only learn from a loving parent. Mom taught me about forgiveness. I learned from her that giving it, AND asking for it has many healing qualities. And it takes courage, I guess, either way. It is the salve for many wounds and can set so many people free.

Last week, as I sat holding her hand and reminisced and talked to her caregivers about her life I realized, again, how colorful her life was and how it colored all of ours, too. These stories are rich with emotion both, hers and ours. Years from now we will still be able to laugh, or sadly smile, and reminisce about some of these stories together and that is another good thing she left with us …memories to share…memories that certainly have added some color to our lives.

 
And we loved her, each of us in our own way, and in a way that only we can understand.

 
Rest in Peace, Mom.

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Originally, I didn’t come here to stay.  I came here to work and planned to leave.  Chicago would just be another city who had tried to cure my wanderlust… but…I kept coming back.  I didn’t think it would last because it never did, but I finally decided to move here because it just felt right.  This was over 20 years ago, and while I’ve moved within the city a few times, I still get a sense of wonder and warmth when I wander through this city, no matter what neighborhood.  I don’t want to analyze why.  There is probably some dark personal reason that would, somehow, mar the positive feelings I have.

However…It appears that there is one thing that may be starting to break through my love of this city.  Crime…more to the point, unnecessary, pointless, juvenile, mostly gang-related, crime.  Shootings, mostly… Shootings that have taken countless lives of young children whose only mistake were to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

Two little girls playing jump rope shot in the head…surely, not the intended victims, but victims, nonetheless.  Two five year old twin brothers playing in the house…one shoots the other in the stomach with a gun found in the house.  The child is DOA at the hospital moments later.  The gun was rumored to belong to a 17 year old cousin who may, or may not have, lived in the home…the question remains…what would a 17 year old need with a gun? 

Every time I read a report about these types of murders the last stock sentence says:  “No suspect has been arrested.  Area police are investigating.” I’ve been reading these news reports every.single.day…

I have a friend who is a police captain in Calumet City which is a south suburb of Chicago.  Even though I don’t live there, I did a bit of writing and created a website for her political campaign when she ran for mayor of that town, twice, and lost.  Why?  Well, she ran for office because she grew up in the city and she remembers a time when, as a child, she could play jump rope in her suburban street without fear of gangs and getting shot.  Two previous mayors are in jail for graft and corruption, and the latest, who was trained by the previous mayor, could only keep her from getting elected by having her name removed from the ballot by creating a new city law preventing law officers from running for office while still serving. 

About 10 years ago, for a brief time, my friend was the Chief of Police.  During that time, she helped put in an after school program, and city bike patrols.  It helped and she had planned to do more.  When the current mayor took over, my friend was removed from the post, and all her changes were dismantled…and Calumet City continues to deteriorate.  Oh, and the current mayor claims crime has dropped and continues to lay off city workers, including police.  Last week an 88 year old Cal City man was found beaten to death in his garage.

One really big thing bothers me…the apathy.  I think we all know if this kind of behavior were happening in one of the other, more affluent, areas of Chicago police officers would be piling out of cars like clowns from a VW.  You know why?  Because more money is spent on these areas, therefore, there is more money to lose…and votes.  Votes from voters who have more power.  Votes from voters who have money. 

Money makes the world go ‘round, and if you don’t have it, you’re not included in the rotation.  Are you a tax-paying citizen?  So what, if you don’t make much money or have much else to be taxed…and even if you’re not paying taxes (yes, you know who you are), are you contributing anything to politics?  Who cares if you have to eat …so do political pockets.  Go to any school in Chicago’s northern areas, then go to a school on the south side…you will see a tremendous difference.  Differences in every way…

I have a friend who lives on the south side of Chicago…rather, her father, a retired Chicago firefighter, lived there.  She lives in a trailer park on the far south side, which, believe it or not is a step-up from her father’s neighborhood.  Her father had a terminal illness and she wanted me to meet him, so when she scored some club tickets to see a White Sox game a few years ago I was invited to meet him.  We picked him up for dinner and I was saddened by the fact that this man, who had served his city and neighborhood, now had to live behind bars. 

Yes…you read that correctly.  In order to enter his home, a gate with steel bars had to first be opened in order to open the front door.  All the windows were closed and also had steel bars over them.  On the inside, the windows were covered leaving his home dark and dreary looking. Why?  He had been robbed and beaten several times in the past, and because he refused to move from the neighborhood for financial reasons, mostly, he sits in an old easy chair, like Martin Crane, except for the gun in his lap, watching local television stations and waiting to die.

We left his house and walked about a half block up the street to a tavern that apparently had a great fish dinner…all you can eat.  We walked in through the front doors, through the bar area, where everyone at the bar waved or nodded to him, and into a small dining area in the back room.  He was right.  The food was great and Jack, my friend’s father was in his element.  You could tell that he’d been around this place a lot over the years, but more importantly, you could tell that he felt as if time stood still here.  He was not the ailing shut-in here and was treated with the respect and civility we all deserve…especially in our last days.  I could almost imagine him sitting on a stool next to Studs Terkel trading stories about the old Chicago.

It was a fun-filled evening…the dinner was as good as they said it would be…the White Sox won…and I watched as my friend and her dad enjoyed bantering back and forth, as if they didn’t.  As we pulled up in front of his home, he started getting more and more quiet and by the time we left him in his easy chair he was a different person than the one I’d gotten to know a little better earlier in the evening. 

I don’t think he ever had to use the gun before he died.  It seems the steel bars worked.  And who knows what happened to it.  Could it have been used to shoot an innocent child in the same neighborhood years later?  I still drive past his house, and the tavern occasionally…the tavern is now closed and boarded up, as are many of the houses in the neighborhood.

The area needs change, but change will not come until people start to speak up and be witness to what is happening, at the very least.  Right now they are terrified.  They are being terrorized in their own neighborhoods and are afraid if they say anything, they will be next. 

Last month, the police reported that in one day, when they did pile out of a VW like the clowns, there were no significant crimes committed due to their presence in the south side neighborhoods.  This act (and, yes it was an act) got a lot of air play on the local news channels…and then it was forgotten.  The general public (except for those in the same neighborhoods) was satisfied that the police were doing their jobs.  The truth is…it was pouring rain the whole time.  Even I don’t go out in the pouring rain, if I don’t have to do so.  I’ll go without until it stops.  Criminals are no different.

So, now another little 8 year old girl is dead.  That little girl might have been in the 3^rd grade.  She might have even liked school.  She may have met a teacher, or read a book that would inspire her to fight her way out of the neighborhood, eventually.  She may have become a teacher, a writer, a business executive, or maybe a wonderful mother, herself.  All we really know is that if she weren’t gone, she would have had a chance to experience all the joy and sorrow that life allows.  Everyone deserves that chance even if there are ignorant people in this world who don’t appreciate that.

One more thing…off topic…

Dear Dr. Laura,

You apparently grew up in a non-loving, dysfunctional family.  Until you deal with that, and all the mayhem you’ve created for yourself as a result of NOT dealing with it, you are no longer allowed to dispense “advice”, opinion or commentary and be taken seriously.  Anyone who calls you or asks for your advice, opinion or commentary is an idiot.  You are non-news, and non-sense.  I will continue to get my outlook from Ann Rice.

Thanks,

Chidiana

It made me think back to when I was diagnosed with breast cancer and how my own friends kept looking for success stories for me to be inspired.  I don’t think we found any.  At the time, Jill Ireland had breast cancer and I read about it in People, and Gilda Radner released a statement the same day I got my diagnosis that, she too, was battling cancer.  Ovarian cancer.

Someone bought me “First You Cry”, by Betty Rollins, which I read.  Someone else found “We the Victors” which was pretty inspiring.  Still, none of the books suggested or read, and none of the “well-knowns” who had decided to announce their own battles were quite what I was looking for.  I wanted to read a success story about someone who had Stage 3-4 breast cancer that had metastasized.  I could find none.  Did they all die?  Was it really hopeless?  The answer, so far, is…well, no.  At least it hasn’t taken me, yet, and I’ve made the most of the last 24 years…just in case.

So…I will write my story.  I have never done this…for many reasons.  I will write it, and I suspect this is going to pour out of me…bleed from my soul.  I don’t plan to have my editor read this before I post it.  (My apologies, Reen…) She can read it later with all the other pages I’m behind in getting done, lately… and I am only going to re-read it once, myself,  to make sure I haven’t left out meaningful articles or have sentences that have no meaning.  This is the raw…me.  Run on sentences, dangling participles, and all…

I was in my early 30’s and shouldn’t have cancer.  None of the doctors thought it was cancer, yet, none of them could tell me it truly was not.  Instead, they made me go for mammograms (tissue too dense to tell), ultrasounds ( “see here…how the waves are bouncing off the mass…”?), needle biopsies (“I’ve already had a needle biopsy by the doctor that referred me to you…don’t you guys communicate at all!?”) No one could explain why my underarm also had a lump that was sore. 

I was awake on the operating table when my doctor first cut me open.  It was to remove some of the unexplained mass of tissue for a frozen section biopsy.  Because of my high tolerance for drugs and high level of anxiety, I did not flow calmly into slumber like they said I might.  I was fully awake when I told the doctor I could still feel an uncomfortable pull of the scalpel.  They were finally cutting open the underside of my right breast to see this lump that had mysteriously appeared after I had bumped it while trying to carry and drag a new 20” TV into my apartment by myself.  I had thought it was just a bruise and would go away.  When it wasn’t gone 3 days later, and had, in fact, gotten worse and appeared to be growing and was even more sore, I went to the first doctor.

Now the surgeon was standing behind my head and cutting me open.  I heard him say, “This doesn’t look good…”  I opened my eyes and waited.  Finally, I said to him, “Excuse me?  Did you say this does, or does NOT look good?”

Long pause…..

“This does NOT look good.”

Tears started to roll down the sides of my face.  I heard him tell one of his nurses to go find my father in the waiting room.  (My father had taken off work and driven close to 150 miles to be with me at the hospital that day.)  The tissue was placed in a little sample cup and given to someone to deliver to a pathologist.  They wheeled me somewhere and I laid there as they showed my father into the room.

They must have told him because his face was red and wet.  Without saying anything he gently took my hand and at my first “out loud” cry he let go my hand and put his arms around me and hugged me, saying over and over, “I’m so sorry, honey…I’m so sorry.”  My father has always been a man of few words and since I had not lived with him during many of my formative years, at times, we don’t know what to say to one another.  This would be one of those times.  This would also be one of those times when he would try to be there for me, if I let him.  If it were that easy, I would have…

Many surgeons are pompous…they have no bedside manner.  Mine was one of them.  I hated him.  Many years later, I still hate his bedside manner, but have been told by other doctors that he performed a miracle surgery the following Monday.  After the surgery, he had to fly to Florida to be in a golf tournament, so he sent his scrub nurse to talk to me about what he found.  I was barely awake, yet.

The tumor was 6 centimeters and had probably been hiding in a duct.  He didn’t know if it was attached to, or laying on, the chest wall.  Since he wasn’t sure if it had actually been attached, he had scraped the breast bone.  They also removed a score of lymph nodes under my arm.  I later found out that the procedure was to keep removing them until they started finding nodes which were not cancerous.  Right now they were calling it Stage 3 cancer.  It had spread, however, and because of the size, etc.  it could be Stage 4.  I would need to see him in a week or so to remove the staples/stitches.  After telling me how successful the surgery had been, she left.

Alone in my room, I was in great pain.  I couldn’t move my arm.  They had placed a weird type of “breast cast” over my chest that seemed to be held in place with tape to which I was allergic.  Not only was it making me itch, it was also starting to cause my skin to bubble.  I had a tube in my side with 3 small bottles attached to it.  These were collecting liquid that was draining from my body from the surgery. They were hanging off the side of the bed and pulling which was also causing an uncomfortable pain.

My father went home for work after the biopsy the previous week.  I had sent him there.  He would be coming back with his wife during visiting hours this day of surgery having driven the 150 miles with her the night before.  They were staying at my apartment.  I felt all alone and it was my own fault.  I couldn’t remember when I had developed this attitude that I didn’t need anyone.  Was it after Grandma had died?

While I was feeling so humbled, and trying to come to terms with this life-defying disease, my door opened and it was my friend, Nancy.  I will write more about Nancy some day, but let it suffice for this story, her care, sense of humor, and encouragement helped me get through this, and many other experiences. 

I had adopted Nancy, her problems, and her family when I had found myself in her state and managing the office next to the one where she worked.  She was good company, up for almost anything, and had the best sense of humor.  Her sense of humor was one of the reasons we became friends.  She liked my dry wit, and we could sit over a drink and talk and before long we’d be laughing so hard our eyes would be tearing.  She like to write, as did I, and we had talked about writing a book together of our experiences in the dating world.  Instead, I eventually moved to another country, and she became an R.N.  The rest of this story may shed some light on why she needed to become an R.N.

She looked at me and immediately knew that I was not “alright, and resting comfortably”, as she had been told.  She had been so worried that she had left her own office without telling her boss and had come straight to the hospital.

She ran to my bed from her first glance at the doorway, and said, “What do you need?  What can I do to make you feel better?” 

I told her about the tape on the cast.  She opened up my gown, looked, and as she was looking, a nurse walked in.  I had never seen Nancy take charge before, but she motioned for the nurse to look, pointing at the “lesions” that were growing out from under the tape.  “THIS…needs to come off.  I’m taking it off unless you can tell me why I can’t.  Otherwise, maybe you can help?”  The nurse looked, and then became an ally.  From either side they both took a part of it and ripped the cast upward, gently pulling, but still taking skin that had bubbled with it.  I should have felt pain, but I felt more relief than pain. 

After that, the nurse gave me another shot, and through my twilight pain I asked her to remove the IV that was sticking in, or out, of me.  (In/out…whichever is the most painful and negative…?)  For that I had to eat, yet they had given me no food.  Once again, Nancy took charge.  The next thing I knew she had a tray of food and when I couldn’t raise my right arm to hold anything, she lifted my back with one arm and fed me with her other. She made me drink a whole 4 ounces of grape juice.  I couldn’t eat much, but she went out in the hallway and I could hear her talking loudly and then, yet, another nurse came in and removed the IV.

My phone rang.  It was another of my pretend “mothers” calling from North Carolina.  I was holding the phone with my left hand, and slurring my words trying to explain why I hadn’t called her to let her know what was going on…and I must have dozed off…the meds, you know.  I woke just slightly when Nancy took the phone and I heard her talking…”No, there’s nothing you can do…she’ll call you when she’s not in so much pain…maybe when she gets home…no, I think I’ll let her tell you…”zzzzzzzz Nancy knew some of my history and knew what to say to some of these people…hell, she probably felt like she knew some of them, even if she hadn’t met them.

The next time I woke up my father and his wife were there.  We talked for a bit.  Nancy left to get me something to drink and Barb, my foster mom, and now stepmother, hesitated and then she said, “Diana, I just wanted to tell you if I ever mistreated you or even treated you differently than my own kids…or made you feel like an outsider, or made you feel like you were “different”….well, I’m sorry.  I never meant to do anything like that.”  

Shit!  She read my journal…they were staying at my apartment.  I knew I should’ve put them up in a motel, or something…shit!  I was not going to deal with this right now.  Okay, I looked at her long enough to let her know that I knew…then simply said, “Okay.”  I looked at my dad, who was clueless, maybe, and squeezed his hand back.

A new nurse came in to see if I needed anything.  Before I could speak, Nancy asked her to look at the sores left from the tape that had been removed as I was still itching and some of them were raw and bleeding.  Maybe she could find some salve to put on them?  My father stepped out while she opened my gown to look.  I noticed Barb’s widened and curious eyes and looked down to see my bruised, black, halved right breast.  The bruising had also spread over to my “good” left breast.  Barb looked at the mess curiously and said, “Isn’t that something…both sides are bruised…just like a punch in the nose causes both eyes to blacken!!  Both sides are black!  Humph…ain’t that something?”

After my dad came back in, Barb said, “You know, Di, your dad and I were talking and we want you to come home with us when you get out of here.  That way we could take care of you every day and wouldn’t have to come so far.  Wouldn’t that be nice?”  She was talking to me in a voice as if I were still a 10 year old.  I told her I’d think about it, but I didn’t really think I would.  The rest of the conversation consisted of her trying to convince me to just give up and agree to go “home” with them. 

The nurse came back in…time for another shot of Demerol.  This was in the mid 80’s before they had pumps for these.  Otherwise, I would have used the hell out of a pump just to get through the visits and phone calls.  Barb, my father, and Nancy had stepped out in the hallway again, and I could hear Nancy’s quiet, calming voice talking but couldn’t make out what she was saying.

A few minutes later, Barb and Dad came back in, but it was just to say good bye.  They were going back to Ohio so they could both get back to work, but would call me and come up the next weekend, if I needed them…Huh?  If I needed them?

After they left, Nancy stayed with me past visiting hours.  We watched TV, other people visited and left, I dozed in and out.  Before she left, I asked her what she had been saying to Barb and Dad outside the room, earlier.  She took a deep breath, looked me in the eye and told me, in what I now refer to as her cowgirl voice,  “Welp, I told them I knew you better than they did, and I knew you didn’t want to go home with them, and you’re home is here.  I told them you were facing the fight of your life and you needed to stay focused on yourself and I would help you with that. “She then said, “Your dad is really concerned and when he asked me what they could do, I told him to just be here for you when you called.  Then, I told him, and I hope you don’t mind that I did this, but I told him his daughter is a warrior and fights best when she’s left alone…then I told him I thought it was really good he had taught you to be this way.  Then I winked at your dad…”  She smiled broadly, and then as she picked up her purse and stretched, she said, “I have a feeling your dad’s wife pretty much doesn’t like me at all.”

“That’s okay,” I told her.  “I like you a lot, right now.  Thank you for everything you did for me today…for being here.  Will you be able to make it tomorrow?”

To be continued………………..

Next:  The Real Battle Begins or How to Take Charge of the Needles and the Assholes

It was on Oak Street…where Rain Man bought his underwear.

Not having other kids to play with, and a lack of supervision, I thought up a lot of things to do on my own…

I earned money by knocking on all the doors of the apartment and offering to go to the corner store for the residents.  I charged a penny an item.  All of the young “singles” who lived in the building came to know me and, at the very least, were amused by me…some of them became truly interested in my well being… 

When I found an old golf club sticking out of a trash can on the street, one of the guys, an advertising executive named Barry, taught me how to hold and swing it properly.  Gillian, an English nurse who lived alone in one of the apartments found out I liked to read.  When she found out I’d never read any of the “classics” she left a package of 3 books in front of our door before she left for an extended trip home to England.  There were two stewardesses who shared an apartment…and, yes, that is what they were called then…

There were many characters and someday I will probably write about all of them…

Left on my own a lot, I also explored.  Each time I set out to find the bread factory I found new friends…

About a half block from where I lived I met a girl about my age named Sarah.  She lived in a big white house on the corner.  Her father was a local, professional magician and her parents were trying to get Sarah on local television.  She danced.  She seemed rich to me…not because she had a lot of toys, but because she had a housekeeper/nanny. 

Loretta was her name and she turned out to be awesome… (I sometimes over use the word “awesome” these days, but Loretta truly was.)  To this day, the smell of freshly baked bread makes me think of Loretta…

Even if Sarah was out on an audition, Loretta would invite me into the kitchen and fix me a sandwich and a glass of milk.  She didn’t talk much, which was okay with me…mainly, she asked questions when she did talk…and gave me lots of time to answer.  If I didn’t know how to answer one of her questions there would be a long period of silence until the next one but we both seemed to understand the rhythm.

One day Sarah informed me Loretta was going to take her to the movies when she finished working…did I want to go?  Ummm, yeah!! 

I hadn’t seen a real movie in a long time…we didn’t even have a television.   Sarah told me to go home and ask my mom and come back after dinner.  I ran home.  No one was there.  I ate some baloney, tried to comb my hair, put on clean shorts and ran back out. 

When I got to Sarah’s she was sitting on the step to the kitchen door, all dressed up and waiting for Loretta.  When Loretta finally opened the door and looked out, I almost didn’t recognize her.  I had never noticed she wore the same dress every day until now, but she sure looked different in her dressy movie clothes…I felt sorely underdressed.  This wasn’t missed by Loretta, either.  She told Sarah to go to her room and bring some of her clothes downstairs…something that might fit “this little one”.  In the meantime, Loretta took me to the sink in the kitchen and wiped my face and arms with warm water.  When Sarah came back she had a pair of capris which fit me like baggy slacks and a pretty white blouse.  After I changed, Loretta turned and looked at us standing together in front of her…she eyed us with the “look” I had gotten to know in a short time and then smiled.  Loretta didn’t smile very often…in fact, most of my memories of Loretta are of her frowning, or expressionless, and not ever looking at us directly.  I always sensed she was listening, though.  This memory of her smiling stays with me because it was only a slight smile that fit in with the overall difference in her appearance…she was even wearing bright red lipstick.

We got to the theater and the lights were already out.  There was enough light from the screen for us to find three seats on the end and Loretta had us each sit on either side of her.  Looking back, her choice of movie to take us to was a bit odd… a Joan Crawford drama that takes place in a mental hospital. 

Long before the end of the movie, Sarah had fallen asleep.  I stayed awake, but I don’t think I really got the gist of the movie…I was disappointed when it ended, though, because that meant this special night was ending.  As the lights came up, Loretta picked Sarah up and was carrying her as we walked up the aisle. 

What happened next I remember pretty vividly…

As we walked up the aisle, a man, rather large, holding his hat in his hand was standing in front of his seat waiting to step into the aisle to leave.  He watched the crowd as they passed, waiting for a break in the steady stream of people, then he looked down and saw us…he looked right at Loretta, held his hand up to signal her to stop, stepped in front of us with his back turned and made us wait while he motioned for his entire row to exit in front of us. 

How rude!  I couldn’t’ understand why this guy was being such a jerk and had singled us out for no reason…

And…I couldn’t believe she let him get away with it. When I looked up at Loretta to see if she was going to say something I didn’t recognize the look…at all…very much like stone. 

Well, if she wasn’t going to do anything…

I walked in front of her and started skipping up the aisle…like any innocent kid might do…I got 3 good “accidental” kicks to the back of his ankle before I felt the back of my collar being pulled and the front of Sarah’s borrowed blouse choking me, slightly.  Uh, oh… Loretta had recognized my passive-aggressive moves and simply said, “Stop it!”  The man looked back at her and made eye contact while he put on his hat but continued to move on.

I couldn’t believe  Sarah was still sleeping…it was too early for me.  We got into Loretta’ car and with Sarah safely in the back seat asleep Loretta turned to me and said quietly, “You don’t never do somethin’ like that again if you out with me, hear?  I know what you was up to and we don’t need none of it, understand?” 

“But he was being a punk!”, I protested, just as Loretta’s finger came up to shush me.

I was very ashamed, but wasn’t sure why.  I know now, but didn’t then… “I’m sorry, Loretta.”  I stuttered this to the floorboard of her car.

The ride home was quiet.  I didn’t know if it was just our rhythm again, or if she hadn’t accepted my apology.  When she stopped her car in front of my apartment and walked me to my door she leaned down and gave me a hug and kissed my cheek and told me to stop by tomorrow morning with Sarah’s clothes and she might have some cinnamon toast for me. 

She wasn’t mad at me!!  I ran up the stairs with a smile on my face…

Later that summer I was disappointed to learn  Sarah had been sent to a special school and would be away for awhile.  Loretta still let me stop by occasionally to visit with her in the kitchen, but I no longer had an excuse and it just wasn’t the same.

I continued my little enterprise of shopping for the neighbors and also decided to look for the bread factory again…this time walking past Sarah’s house and going farther south.  One early morning I was walking and exploring and had, apparently, crossed some imaginary neighborhood line because the houses on this street were not as well kept as the houses on Sarah’s street…in fact, they were far from it. 

As I looked ahead, I saw several children in one of the yards playing and as soon as they saw me two of them came running towards me.  They were black children and seemed to range in age and size.  I was a little suspicious of their enthusiasm, at first, but they were so excited and seemingly happy to see me.  The two girls had run up to me and started asking me questions, one right after the other, in rapid succession and were pulling on my arm to come play with them.  What was my name…where did I live…did I want to play “jump” with them. 

I really didn’t plan on spending time with anyone that day and felt like I might be getting close to the bread factory, but there was something about how friendly these girls were.  They had smiles on their faces that just wouldn’t go away… and so away I went with them up into their yard. 

There were no toys in the yard as there always were at Sarah’s.  There were 3 brothers “sword fighting” with sticks from the yard, and I learned what the girls had meant by “jump”…

They were playing what I knew to be “jump rope” with a long dog chain…they needed me to hold one end and turn it…ouch!  Playing with them was kind of rough, but I really ended up having a good time in spite of all my little cuts and bruises.

After I left, I had to walk past Sarah’s on the way home and stopped to tell Loretta about my new friend’s.  She saw my bruises and scrapes and took me into her kitchen and washed them.  While she was putting a band aid on one of my fingers, I told her about playing “Jump” and how it was just like “Jump Rope” only with a dog chain.  She asked me if I was hungry and gave me a glass of milk and a banana to take with me when I left.

The next afternoon, I was on my way to play with my new friends, Brenda and Blake…it was trash day and I always kept my eyes open to see if anybody was throwing anything good away…this was, after all, the way I had gotten my golf club and learned how to swing it properly…

As I passed Sarah’s house I noticed Sarah’s old jump rope with its wooden handles coiled next to the trashcan on the curb in front of her house.  As I bent to pick it up I looked at the kitchen window of the house and thought I saw Loretta looking out…

A few minutes later, I was teaching Brenda and Blake how to play a gentler version of “Jump”.

To this day, I smile at the memory…

Yes, you read that correctly…worrier, NOT warrior…although, on second thought, I have been accused of being the latter also at times…but I won’t digress, yet.

My grandmother used to call me a “worrywart”.  When pressed for a definition she only said that it was “a little critter that worries about everything so much they’re afraid to enjoy themselves because something about doing that worries them, too.”  She was right because by the time I was 6 years old I had started worrying all the time about many things…where I would be going to school, would my tonsils grow back, where would my next “stable” home be, would Shari Lewis come back on Saturday morning tv….

I still carry that burden…always worrying about what could happen so that I’m not caught off my guard or blindsided without preparation for all the different possibilities and scenarios that might play out.  I have learned to enjoy myself, but cautiously.  I guard my privacy and independence…and, although I’ve learned that I do deserve to be happy, I still feel the need to protect myself which is sometimes counterproductive.  I have even learned that sometimes things happen and no amount of preparation truly gets you ready for it…

So, how or why did I decide to take up skydiving, you might ask?  I haven’t a clue, really…I’m only glad I did. 

I didn’t have a death wish or anything.  I think I just wanted to let go my worries, for a short time and let the gods be in charge.  I had always wanted to do it.  I remember watching a show on television when I was a little girl called “The Paratroopers” and thought how neat it must be to just jump out of a plane and simply float to the ground… I think it was also at a time in my life when I realized that my caution was allowing other people who had less courage than me have way more fun than me…

I started skydiving back in the early ‘80’s…before amateurs were doing the tandem jumps they do today.  I had to do at least 7 jumps connected to a static line that would automatically pull my ripcord.  After those jumps I would be able to do free falls without the static line.  No, I wasn’t planning on doing more than one…but, it was good to know…

I was supposed to meet a friend of mine who had already completed one jump but she didn’t show up…this could’ve been my out. I am very stubborn, though, and when I make up my mind it’s very difficult for me to back down…no one has to challenge me.  I throw my own gloves down…

I got there at 6 am and sat through a 5 hour class on basic aerodynamics, how to handle our parachutes, and practice falls from platforms that weren’t very high…the premise was to learn how to hit the ground properly.  Hmmm…there’s a proper way?  I better pay attention…

I was almost done with the class and would have to be suiting up for the plane when I saw my first foster mom (now stepmom), Barb, approaching.  She wanted to watch, had a camera, and, I suspected, had been asked to be there by my father.  She was more excited than I was…

After putting on my jumpsuit, boots and helmet, the jumpmaster helped me with my parachute which was heavy.  The parachutes we were using were the old-time ones…just like I used to see on TV.  These were used by the military and were referred to as “old dogs” because they are so reliable.  There was also a small “reserve” chute strapped to my abdomen and an altimeter.  I had already learned about the malfunctions that could possibly happen when the chute opened (or not) and how little time I might have to manually throw this reserve chute out and hope that it would catch the wind properly.  There were even names given to the malfunctions…my favorite is the “Dolly Parton”…just use your imagination…

All set…on to the plane. 

It was a small plane that had been gutted inside with only tightly strung cables to hang onto.  There were 5 of us, counting the jumpmaster, and since I was the smallest I had to get in first and scoot to the the smallest part of the fuselage in the rear…the plane was so small we were packed inside like sardines and when we finally took off it was as noisy, yet exhilarating, as I had thought it would be.  Each time someone left the plane it rocked from side to side and then you could hear the end of their used static line banging against the side of the plane until the jumpmaster pulled it back in again. 

When it was finally my turn the jumpmaster fastened one end of the static line into the floor of the plane and the other one to my ripcord. At the time, I only weighed about 100 lbs….my parachute weighed about 50 lbs…it was very difficult to hold the upper half of my body upright without the balance of my legs so he was helping me by guiding my shoulders.  I thought I was okay when I finally sat in front of the door and hung my legs out.  I was wrong.  When he gave me the signal to jump by tapping my helmet with the palm of his hand and let go the weight on my back made me fall backward into the plane…geez…I was supposed to fall out, not in…

The jumpmaster asked me, yelling over the roar of the plane’s engine, if I was sure I wanted to go through with this.  I uncharacteristically nodded and told him the next time he would have to push instead of just letting go…a jumpstart, as it were.  This also proved to be helpful because I couldn’t hold onto the wing strut AND reach the footpad that was on the wheel strut in order to push myself out and jump like everyone else did.  His push would allow me to grab the wing strut and pull myself out in a standing position, almost, and shove off this way…and I did…in about 2 seconds…head first.

I quickly spread my legs and arms and arched the way I had been taught so that…one… I was hitting the wind symmetrically and was in the right position…two…right hand reaches for the ripcord…three…fake pulling of the ripcord as the static line does it for me…four…look up to make sure the ‘chute has opened without a malfunction…Lord, please don’t let me see a “Dolly Parton” firsthand.  Four seconds and I was drifting in the air.

It worked!!  We had started at 4,000 feet and here I was floating down in the sky, chilled by the sweat quickly evaporating from my body into the air.

And…it was serenely quiet.  I looked down and it was beautiful.  I had picked a really bright day with a beautiful blue sky and I could see for miles.  Looking past my feet I could see a gaggle of geese flying below.  I could also see that I was slightly off-target and played with the ‘chute to try and steer a little closer.  I was so taken in by the beauty of the experience I didn’t see the jumpmaster flying around me to check and make sure that I was okay.

As I got closer to the ground I realized I needed to let up on the pulls to slow down and as I did I relaxed my knees and kept my eyes on the horizon.  This gives you perspective on how close you are to the ground.  I hit the ground a little hard but did exactly what I was taught which minimized the impact.  I quickly gathered my ‘chute and hopped into the waiting pickup to drive back to the drop center and meet with my jumpmaster.

He would “grade” me in my jump log and give me any advice for my next jump…NEXT JUMP??? Mmmm…well, maybe…

He was a pretty nice guy.  He told me he had been worried about whether I was going to be able to pull myself out of the nosedive I had to take but I had demonstrated a real ability to improvise and get myself out of trouble, and  he’d be willing to be my jumpmaster again…well, duh.  He also told me to use what I learned and to make sure I let the next jumpmaster know I needed help…double duh.

He marked my log with “Slow start, good arch”, which I guessed was some kind of code to other jumpmasters to determine if they wanted to jump with me.

When I found Barb she was talking to an old-timer who was showing her a scar on his leg from a bad jump he’d had many years ago.  He was trying to talk her into jumping…not a good way to go about it.  When she saw me her eyes lit up. 

Barb is a bargain hunter…she was excited because she had found out that if I wanted to jump again that day I would only have to pay half the going rate…such a deal…how could I pass THAT up…

Okay…So, I did it again…this time it was easier…in fact, each time it got easier.  I made it to freefalling and then some.

For instance, someone recently told me, “I like you better with your hair longer.”

Really??

Does this mean they don’t like me as much because I cut my hair? I’m the same person. I didn’t harm anyone by having my hair cut…they actually like me less?

Really?

I mean, I could understand if someone said, “I like you better when you’re not falling down drunk.” Or, “I like you better when you’re not pointing that gun at me.”

So, back to the hair… when my hair grows longer it takes more time to get ready…thus, with shorter hair I can shower, take 15 minutes to blow it dry and it looks good. Stylish, even…

Longer, it hangs in my eyes and makes my neck sweat, not to mention the fact that it makes me look like I have NO neck…at 4’10” I can’t afford the illusion of losing my neck. (Although, then I would have an answer to those people who always ask, “Why are you so short?” …”Oh, you didn’t notice? I have no neck…”)

Also, when I was younger I could afford the time to take care of long hair. In fact, I used to have hair that fell to my waist…and plenty of time to spend on it.

Now that I’m older…not so much.

I’d rather spend the time doing something else like trimming my nose hair or getting my chin plucked…you’ll understand this when you’re older. (Trust me; no one would like me as much if those things were longer.)

Now, that I’m older, it’s all about prioritizing time…and comfort…but mostly time…I don’t have as much of it left.

So, maybe what people mean to say is, “I think you look better with long hair.” I could understand that. It’s an opinion…it doesn’t mean they like me any less because I cut my hair…and if they did, I wouldn’t “like” them at all.

Then I’d be free to cut my hair, get falling down drunk and point a gun at them…because I wouldn’t care.

First of all, I live in a deprived neighborhood with no Starbuck’s… I know… hard to imagine.  I work out of my home office most of the time and I’m a coffee-addict.  I love coffee.  Some people like vodka, or fine wine.  I’d rather have a good, strong, bold cup of coffee.  I force myself to drink green tea after a certain time of the day…  just so I am not grinding coffee all afternoon.  It scares the cat.

I had my first, very own cup of coffee when I was 7 years old.  It was also the first time my father had to get me up and ready for school and he had no idea what he needed to do.  I had picked my own wrinkled, white blouse to wear and sat at the kitchen table with my tomboy hair lying every which way.   When I asked him what he was giving me for breakfast, he looked confused for a minute, then quickly turned, got a cup out of the cabinet and poured me a nice, hot cup o’ Joe.  I added half a bowl of sugar and some milk, and as soon as he put a couple of pieces of suspiciously dark toast in front of me I was good to go.  I was the most active kid on the playground at morning recess.

School pictures were taken that same day…  I was the only 7 year old with visible coffee stains on her blouse in our second grade photos.  I’ve been drinking coffee ever since.  I’ve tempered my intake for health reasons making it even more special to me.

Now, back to the battle… I generally make my own coffee.  I have a French Press and an espresso machine and usually forego coffee boutiques.  I buy and grind my own beans and can afford the time in the morning…usually, but not always.  One morning, headed to a meeting, I think, I decided, on my way out, to just drive through the local Dunkin’ Donuts.  I was surprised to see they had cappuccino…ha!  Was it good?  I thought I’d give it a try and, sure enough, I liked it. 

This would be the last time they would get my order correct…the beginning of a never-ending shell game…

The next time I drove through I ordered just like the first time.  I always try to be careful when ordering on a speaker.  It must be hard to discern people’s voices sometimes, so I try to speak as clearly, and loudly as I can:

Speaker:  “Can I take your order?”

Me:  “Yes, I’d like a large, HOT, cappuccino, no whipped cream.”

Speaker:  “Do you want it hot or cold?”

Me: “HOT, please.”

Speaker:  “You want whipped cream with that?”

Me:  “NO! No whipped cream.”

Speaker:  “What size?”

Me:  “Large?”

Speaker:  “Drive around…”

I drove around and, after a couple of minutes, I was handed a cup with an iced cappuccino and a straw sticking out of the whipped cream.  I only accepted this once.  I’m a nice person.

At first, I thought it might just be the person, but it has happened with other servers, as well… and with each new person that serves me I am charged a different price.  It’s like the Latte Lotto… 

I’ve gotten SMALL when I ordered LARGE; LARGE when I ordered SMALL.  One time I got all the way home before I realized they’d given me a large cup simply filled with milk and hot water… hey, it had a lid on it, okay?

When they advertised new management and underwent a remodel of the store, therefore, replacing the old speaker system… I had hope…but that was when I got the second iced cappuccino….sigh…

There is really no end to this story… the latest incident was last Friday afternoon.  I actually got nasty with the woman…it was the first time she had served me.  She sounded surprisingly cheerful.  Her voice reminded me of Charo… remember her?  Very upbeat and energetic, I could hear her smile when she responded.  When I got to the window, she even reminded me of a younger version of Charo and cheerfully charged me the latest price which was less than I had paid the last time.  About 15 seconds later someone came up behind her and handed her my order… another large, iced cappuccino with whipped cream.  It must be fun to make those, or something.  I refused and waited the extra time it would take to make what I had really ordered.

I used to think of Dunkin’ Donuts as a place to buy donuts… a happy, yet sometimes guilty-feeling place.  I loathe the day I first drove through for a simple, hot cup of coffee because now I just think of it as a challenge… Where’s my dad when I need him?!

Although I wouldn’t fully realize it until I got older, Grandma was a very small woman.  She seemed frail and thin, but that was deceitful.  As a child I would hug her so hard I would get scared I had hugged her too hard and, reluctantly let go.  She would pretend I had hurt her… then all of a sudden she would put her arms around me, squeeze her eyes shut,  and hug me back even more hard… all the while smiling and giggling.  She was only 4’9”, but when asked, she would claim to be 4’11”.  Maybe at one time she was because I can’t believe that Grandma would ever lie about anything…at least not without her unique, telltale giggle that let you know it was a fib, or white lie, as she liked to say.  

This is one of the things she taught me as a little girl.  It is a sin to lie, but you can tell a white lie if it’s little and inconsequential in the bigger scheme of things. The choice is up to you but it is also a responsibility that you own.

She had an odd sense of humor sometimes…  Once, she very quietly, and seriously, told me it was a sin to pass gas… or rather… it wasn’t a sin to DO it;  you just had to be quiet about it, or take it elsewhere… and never let anyone know you had done it. 

When she told me this, I exhausted any questions I had about the intricacies of this “religious” rule… she answered them all…I was well into my early teens before I questioned this rule again, in my own mind, and finally realized it  wasn’t really a sin!  Until then I harbored a belief that I would probably burn in hell. 

I wasn’t a naive child … but Grandma said it was so…and so it was…  And, you can bet during my childhood years I never once embarrassed her in church on Sunday, which very well may have been the point… Plus, I think she knew I would always think about it and laugh at the memory.

Grandma was the big person in my life, short or small as she was.  When I was a little girl just saying her name made me feel better…Grandma…  Her attention, when no one else seemed to care, inspired me to be a better person then… and it still does.  She was the major adult influence in my life… my teacher, my guardian, my protector.  We spent as much time together as we could. 

 When I was about 6 years old she had me remember her phone number, by heart, and I still remember … Juniper 6-5476. I chanted it like a mantra so I wouldn’t forget.  I was so excited to use it the first time.  We talked every day… it became a habit.  We were still calling each other like this until she passed.

I loved staying with her.  She would read to me.  She would try to play with me.  She let me plunk on the piano in her living room while she did her daily housework…or she would give me bologna to bait the hook of my bamboo fishing rod…I could fish in the large pond in the front of the home my grandfather had built just for her. 

I was allowed to draw, build things with the woodpile in the garage or watch “telebision”…and she participated in it all, if I asked.

She taught me to respect everyone and every living thing.  One morning I wanted to go outside but she told me I couldn’t which was odd.  Knowing I was afraid of snakes she didn’t want to scare me, but finally, over my protests, she had to tell me…there was a long, black snake on the front porch.  When I asked her to get rid of it she just smiled and told me, “Oh, he’s just sunnin’ himself gettin’ warm.  Leave him be and he’ll go away when he’s done.”

She had a large painting that hung over the piano…a young boy and girl playing the violin and piano together.  I used to stare at that painting for hours while Grandma did her housework.  I thought the young girl in the “picture” was my mom for some reason and Grandma had to finally explain to me one day that it wasn’t.  Her explanation helped me to discover that I could “make drawings and paintings”…This painting hangs in my study today because it reminds me of my grandmother.  I asked her for it and she gave it to me. 

She cooked special dishes of food… just for me… all the things I loved to eat.  All I had to say was, “Grandma, I’m hungry…” and food would be cooked and MY special plate would be full… this is where I learned table manners…and conquered anemia…

My favorite meal was boiled cabbage,  ham and potatoes.  When she knew I was coming for a long visit she would cook up a big batch ahead of time.  I could eat it every day… for lunch and dinner if I wanted…on MY special plate.  Looking back, this may have been another reason she taught me about…the sin… 

On Sundays we went to church, then to the local hospital cafeteria where she could get pork chops and fried potatoes…her favorite meal.   At home she had to cook bland foods for my grandfather who was riddled with stomach ulcers.  In later years, when my grandfather’s ulcers were in check, she added this to the menu she cooked…but only on Sundays.

She also taught me how to pick blackberries from the bushes in her yard.  She would make wonderful things with them, including blackberry cobbler.  I was always puzzled by the name “cobbler”, and it was one thing that Grandma was never able to explain to me…  I still just think of it as a messy pie.  I loved watching her cook and bake.

I was baffled by preserves…”…why does there have to be wax on top”, I wanted to know?  When she explained that it was called paraffin, I didn’t understand and for a long time tried to figure out why she was calling wax a “pair of fins”. I still didn’t know why it went on top of the preserves, either.

One of the most important things that she taught me was “The Golden Rule”.  “Do unto others…” 

She taught me to say the whole line… she explained it… and she repeated it so often to me it still pops into my mind regularly.  Probably not often enough, but it’s in my heart because of her. 

I learned so many things from her…basic things to me now…things that helped me be independent when I needed to be and cleared room for me to be open to bigger challenges in my life. 

Grandma was fearless. In her last years, living alone in a bad neighborhood she heard someone rattle the doorknob on the front door of her house late in the evening.  She crept into the dark living room and rapped her knuckles on the front door, from the inside.  There was a pause, and then she heard heavy feet turn and walk away, rapidly, down her front steps.  When I asked her if she called the police, she told me no.  She had waited a few more minutes, flipped on the front lights and had a glass of warm milk before going to bed.

She was my best friend.  She gave me the ability to imagine if I wanted something badly enough and was willing to work hard and commit myself, it might be mine…and even if I didn’t achieve the ultimate goal, I would be so much farther ahead than when I started.  She was proud of my stubbornness…unless she was on the other side of it, which wasn’t often.

When she became ill and hospitalized I made sure I was at her bedside when they wheeled her in from surgery.  She was still under the anesthetic, but as soon as I saw her blink her eyes I had to anxiously tell her, “Grandma?…Grandma, it’s me…I love you…”  I could tell she was struggling, but then I heard..and can still hear…faintly, “I love you, too, Diana”.  She was still so far under she could barely close her lips…and then, still faintly, “I reckon I’ve loved you since the day you was born…”  With that, I let her rest.  Today, when I think of this moment I can feel her arms hugging me tightly again…filling my senses.

I would have her in my life another 6 years before she was finished teaching me.  

Her birthday is November 5^th, and every year around this time I always make pork chops, and fried potatoes and feast to celebrate my good fortune to have had her presence in my life for as long as I did.

Oh… and if you don’t like dot, dot, dot in your readings, you may not like the way I write… it’s a personal thing… it’s what I do… it’s how I think… and I like to write how and what I think…  I used to be a stutterer… this helped. (Figure that out…)

In the last couple of months, starting the first week of August, until now I have lost 4 people in my life.  Two of them were to sudden heart attacks… the first and the last.  I was very affected by the first one because he was my mentor.  A quiet man who shied from the limelight and had finally succeeded in keeping it from following him.  His encouragement was what made me want to write for anyone other than myself, and although I’ve succeeded, to a degree, I think that he always wanted me to do more with my writing… and he was right.  I realize that now.  He loved my poetry and short stories… they always made him laugh.  He said they were like scenes from a movie… what a compliment coming from him. 

His death was so unexpected and sad… I hadn’t talked with him in a while so I needed closure.  I called my friend Charlie who had introduced us over 20 years ago and we drove to Wisconsin to be with some of the family.  While there, I developed pneumonia and had to come home, but not before we were able to cry and laugh, share stories, and cry some more.

It took quite awhile to conquer my illness and the week after Labor Day, still feeling a little weak I started back to work.  I had a contract to negotiate and that was my focus… that and my book, which I was determined to finish, inspired by my mentor, John’s, passing.

There are a group of us that get together about once a month for “Ladies Night Out”.  We meet at a local restaurant or other establishment and just have a good time.  I had been thinking that I really needed  an evening like this and wondered when our next get-together would be.   The very next day, Thursday,  I got an email inviting me to the next “Ladies Night Out” and tried to call my friend, Jen, who I knew would be there.  I had a business question to ask of her, but also just wanted to say that I was looking forward to seeing her on Thursday night.  I didn’t reach her that afternoon and I wish I had tried again, but I reasoned that I would see her in a week.  Jen always cheered me up… without trying… just by being herself.  I can be a pretty grumpy, sarcastic, quiet  individual so that, in itself, says a lot about Jen… but Jen seemed to bring out the best in people…  I was only a little bit of these things around her.  She even coaxed me into dancing last Christmas… surprised everyone, including Jen, when they found out I used to dance… I remember at the end of the night Jen saying, “It always takes Diana to show everyone how it’s done…”, and she meant it… she always made you feel good about yourself… (by the way, I was in pain and laid up for about a week later, but it was worth it…)

Jen was one of those special people in the lives of everyone who knew her.  She had a fantastic voice and when she sang a popular song you could close your eyes and hear the actual artist singing it.  She had starred in many musicals in community theater and I often wondered why she didn’t try to pursue a career in that direction.  I later learned that her younger sister, Kristen, was even more prolific in community theater.  After all, Jen and Kristen, with 3 years difference in their ages, looked like twins and were best friends.  Even though Kristen had just gotten married, they still spent a lot of time together.  When Kristen’s new firefighter husband was away on duty, Kristen would spend that time with her sister, or parents and joined us in our gatherings quite a few times.  They were the only two children in their family and the four of them had so much love for one another.  The girls were not just daughters, they were friends with their parents, and vice-versa.  Their father had just fought a long, hard battle with cancer and the girls had thrown a large benefit to help defray the hospital/doctor bills that had mounted.  When I met Jen’s parents, I realized how the saying “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree” must have originated. 

On Saturday morning I got a phone call from someone who told me that he was sorry… he kept saying that he was sorry, and then he told me that Jen and Kristen had been murdered sometime early Friday morning………………….

I couldn’t believe it… no one could.  Our whole group of mutual friends were in shock.  We are still in shock as the details have emerged… details that I won’t go into right now… details that have made me wonder how “true crime” writers do it.  Ahhh, but they don’t know the victims personally, I guess.

I was asked to write something about Jen for her parents… something that could be read that might comfort them.  I had only met them once… now twice.  This is what I wrote:

They say angels walk among us…

Often we like to try to remember the good things about someone who has left us and we talk about those things, selectively. In this instance, and about this person, I can honestly say I have not one bad memory to overlook.  That is how good of a person Jen was and how I will always remember her.  Listening to others talk about her has only reinforced this feeling.

I believe that our souls are here to learn and also to teach.  In the last couple of days I’ve looked back at my memories of Jen and I’m sure that her soul was here to teach.  Even though she was only 28 years old, I look around at all the lives she touched in such a positive way, including mine, and I know that is true.  Everyone who met Jen learned a lesson in being positive.  Jen always seemed to be smiling, or at least had one ready to go, no matter what.  I described her to a friend, recently, as the light of the group.  One thing I, personally, noticed was that when I looked into Jen’s eyes while talking to her, besides the smile and twinkle in her eyes, I could tell that not only was she truly listening to what I was saying, but that her eyes seemed to be looking for and seeing the “positive” or good things about me.  Yes, she had charisma, but this was not that.  This was more important and deeper than that and I don’t think it was cultivated.  It just was… it was just Jen.

I developed a bond with Jen during the beginning of her father’s illness. I had always liked Jen, but I remembered thinking then, that if I had had a daughter I would have wanted her to be just like Jen. I still feel that way. Wise beyond her years about many things, responsible, independent but still a loving daughter. I also wondered what her parents must be like to have raised someone so competent and well-rounded in this day and age.  She was the essence of what we strive for, and hope for when we raise our children.

Everyone that knew her has positive memories of Jen…her laughter, her smile, her twinkling eyes, and, oh yes, her beautiful singing voice, but I was surprised to get a phone call from a friend who saw Jen and Kristin’s photo in the newspaper and realized that these were the sisters who used to wait on them when they frequented the restaurant where they worked together several years ago.  My friend said that at first they couldn’t believe how fast this waitress traveled around.  They were amazed… until they realized that there were actually two of them! When asked if they were twins, of course, they said no, but explained that they were sisters and a good laugh ensued.  My friend said that they always enjoyed going to the restaurant after that and always left a big tip because they enjoyed the two so much and received such good and cheerful service from either of them. So many years later, the impression that they made apparently remains and is probably an unconscious measurement leveled against servers all around the area.

I have always comforted my friends and myself when someone has left us by knowing that I have good memories and lessons learned from the person who has passed. I am comforted by the fact that I will carry those lessons in my heart and use them when I can so that a part of that person still lives on through me.  With all the people who crossed paths with Jen will attest, she will live in our hearts and outward in a broad and far-reaching way and I hope that her parents and family can be comforted in some small way knowing how much her spirit will live on in this way. She made a difference and will continue to do so.

I will carry with me many happy memories of Jen and only wish that I’d gotten to know Kristin, as well.  I knew that Jen had talent and had starred and sang in “Oklahoma”, but was surprised to learn that Kristin had similar talents with many more credits and shows in her repertoire, as well.  Angels can sing, too.  We should have known.

I had just finished attending the wake and the funeral for my dear friend and her sister when I got another phone call… today, in fact.  Another good friend, this time an older one, had died of a sudden heart attack.  I met Sue about 10 years ago… an avid Cubs fan, I rarely saw her without a Cubs hat or t-shirt.  She was always talking about the Cubs.  I didn’t see Sue often, anymore…. about once a year when a large group of us would pile in a bus and go to Wrigley Field or Comiskey Park to watch the interleague ballgames… (it’s now known as Cellular Field, but a select few of us have taken to calling it “Comiskullar”…Sue was one of those few)…

Sue retired early a couple of years ago… she had always had a good job, so I suspect she had a fairly nice pension and just wanted to enjoy her life, quietly…  not unlike myself… She was so excited, earlier this year, to have applied and been accepted at her beloved Wrigley Field as an usher for all the Cubs home games.  She could watch all the games for free and roam the stands for a better view… didn’t get any better than that!

Earlier this week, Sue went to her doctor for a checkup and was told that she was in good health… she’d had a heart problem in the past, but the doctor said she was now in good health and that he would contact her insurance company and tell them just that.  The next day, Sue jumped on the El to go to Wrigley to work… to watch the game… and suffered a sudden and fatal heart attack.  By the time she got to the hospital she was gone……

It’s been a very sad month… not just for me or any of our friends…  John’s family, Jen and Kristen’s mother and father, and the thousands who waited in line for 2 hours to say good by, and Sue’s only son, Eric… we’re all sad and life seems to go on all around us, including our own lives…. and all of us will be spreading the good memories and inspiration of those we have lost.  I plan on writing more creatively and maybe keeping in better touch with some of the people John introduced me to that he thought might appreciate my creative work… why not?  I know a few people who will sing better and more often, and Eric will at the very least attend a few Cubs games where his mom wanted her ashes spread.

Now to move forward, and just take a deep breath… Insightful people will continue to write, angels will still sing and walk among us, and, Sue…. Wrigley knew you were on your way….