Voices From The Past

Many times in an investigation, witness testimony is, while important, sometimes

taken with a grain of salt. The adage is “There are three sides to every story: Your

truth, My truth, and the REAL truth. I have heard so many stories about me that

were hand-on-a-bible/swear to God, the gods, or The Great Spirit truth that were

just that – stories. Friends, mostly former friends now, co-workers, bosses, and the

hardest cut of all, family, have fabricated their versions of truth about me.

For the most part, I really do not care. Sticks and stones may break my bones,

but whips and chains excite me. Or something like that. The only time that it

bothers me overmuch is when someone is trying to cause me harm by their

words. I have walked away from all of the above, friends, employment, and

family to protect myself. I will do so again.

The past few days I have been blessed to be able to speak with someone who shares

a lot of history with me. It has been wonderful. It has been cathartic for me, and I hope

for them as well. There has been much laughter, some tears, and a fair amount of anger. 

Comparing our two truths, we have been able to piece together a lot of the “story” that

is closer to the real truth than what others have voiced, much to our collective relief.

There have been many questions answered. There have been many revelations and realizations.

Now, she does not have any shared history with any of my friends, nor my co-workers,

but there is a treasure of shared history with family. Obviously, this was where our focus

has been. We both laughed when we commented that there were a lot of family that

wanted nothing to do with us (often with blatant hostility) and were only “nice” (read

that as courteous or polite) when they wanted or needed something from us. And since

we have both outlived so many of our family members, the ones that are left have no

issue with assigning their hatred and anger with other family members to us. It is almost

as though the ones that have died slighted them once again by not living to be a target

for their feelings.

Blame it on the living, the dead do not care.

As more parts of the cartoon are colored, the picture is more clear. Regarding the laughter,

tears, and anger I mentioned previously, a lot of very ugly truths came to light. The amount

of mental and sexual abuse, along with the neglect and reckless endangerment that

happened of the decades is disgusting. The alcohol and drug abuse that has plagued this

family is abhorrent. The fact that this was all allowed to continue that long is shameful.

Generations have been drawn into all of this. I still have many questions.

She believes she has grown past what happened to her (and so many others) and is

getting stronger every day. She is happy now, and getting happier each day. She also

struggles each day. The trauma, the PTSD, the anger, and the hurt, drag on a person.

She is a better person than she has any right to be. 

I, however, am still not a good person, although I try. I try every day. I still fail every day, but

I try every day. 

I was asked for advice recently regarding raising kids. I was asked how you raise them, how

to be a good parent. My answer was “Teach them kindness and courtesy. Teach them to

think of others and to not be hurtful or mean. Do not bully. Teach them that if you are going to

do something, do it right.” If you teach people these things and they choose to be a lesser

person, at least you taught them what they should be. Anything after that is on them.

And when I Die... 02052024

 

I'm not scared of dying

And I don't really care

If it's peace you find in dying

Well, then let the time be near

• Blood, Sweat, and Tears 1977

Death was never far away as a child. Not like in a “It is the plague, bring out your dead” kind of way, just that it was there. I remember older relatives dying, and then in later years it was just something that happened. I remember feeling kind of ambivalent about it, but I could not have explained it back then. I am still ambivalent, but I now know why.

I have my reasons, but you do not want to hear them. 

Dad died first. He had gone in for a serious, but routine surgery and his body had just had enough. The surgical team tried for hours and nothing they tried could save him. I think mom knew when they went in for the surgery, but did not say anything. I can still remember the look on her face as she talked with him just prior to his funeral services. She expressed so much love and compassion for him. Dad did not care what happened to him after he died, but mom had a fear of being buried alive. They had already discussed things, and she expressed her desire to be cremated. As dad did not have a preference, he was cremated after he died.

We joked with mom that after she was cremated, we would combine their ashes and place them in shaker bottles and give each of us kids one with their ashes so that whenever we were cooking one of their recipes, we could shake a little bit of them in the food in remembrance. It was a little morbid, but mom laughed out loud with the humor of it.

My sister Sam died next. It was a brutal death, a homicide. She did not deserve to die the way she did. She was always so caring and giving, and ultimately that is what brought about her death. Sam died on the anniversary of dad’s death, and I always wondered about the significance of that. I believe he was there for her to help her across. Sam, too, was cremated. I do not know whether she had any great desires for what happened to her after she died. 

My sister Chris died after many, many years of alcohol and drug abuse. The consumption of all that alcohol caught up with her and her body just started shutting down. She had problems with her heart, her liver, and her kidneys. She was another one that really was very creative and caring, as long as she was not under the influence of alcohol. Chris was also cremated, and I wonder whether she was following Sam’s example, or if it was representative of the transient life she had led. 

Mom died in 2009. She was just weeks away from her 81st birthday. Mom had lived with an aortic aneurysm for a long time. And then she died from it. It was a sudden death, as deaths go, but she still fought it in the end. Mom had always been told that if/when the aneurysm ruptured, she would feel a warm rush in her chest and would be dead within minutes. She managed to survive for the ambulance ride to the helipad for the air ambulance which transported her to the hospital. There were attempts at surgery to try and save her, and she still did not die for a few days, but in the end, she succumbed. 

I have other distant family who have passed that I am unaware of what their choices were for their final rest, and still others who are living, but none of them like me enough to share their preferences either. They have closer family ties than me. They do not owe me. Truth be told, I doubt that they ever even think of me.

I guess I might be next here. I am not planning on it any time soon, but then again, none of the rest of my family was either. Between the car crashes and motorcycle accidents and various close calls, I am sometimes surprised that I am still alive. Maybe God has just forgotten about me and left me behind.

I believe I take after dad with my desires in that I do not care what happens to me after I die. I am partly driven by my wallet in that I do not want the expensive and expansive coffin and services. Save your money. I do not even want to be embalmed, but that feeling stems from the years that I have had to put so many chemicals in my body to stay alive. I joke (only partly) that I think I will make my own coffin out of plywood, nicely enough finished, to save the cost of a coffin. I do not care whether, or even if, I am buried. In actuality, I would love nothing more than to be left on a mountain, in my mountains, under a tree, and left to go back to the earth. My body will be empty of me, but the thought of being able to watch mountain sunrises for eternity brings me peace.

The Struggle is (can be) Real

(Reposted for readibility issues)

First, I will be very open that I blame myself.

Mostly.

Partly.

Anyway, I know that I am pretty rough around the edges. I am kind of living proof that, regardless of what Mythbusters said, you cannot polish a turd. I know how to be nice, I have enough of a vocabulary that I can speak well and express myself without resorting to vulgarity. Expressing myself is usually fairly easy. Doing so without resorting to vulgarity is the hard part. I do better while writing than I do while speaking.

Maybe I should get a bark collar to shut me up.

No, I would probably learn to like it.

I have a pretty developed sense of humor and can tell some pretty funny jokes. Again, the hard part is doing so without resorting to vulgarity. I need to work on that.

My phone makes a specific tone when I get certain alerts on it. Usually related to oen of the cameras outside detecting motion. Most likely, it is a car turning around in the cul-de-sac or a neighbor's cat prowling the yard. Either way, the same tone goes off when I come home. The camera first detects the motion of Max (my truck) pulling into the driveway, followed by the garage door opening as I walk up the driveway. Dougall, bless his heart, has learned that the tones mean that someone (hopefully me) is coming in. He hears the tone, then lifts his head and looks toward the door or out the front room window. If I am home when he reacts to the tone, I tell him "Your Uber is here!"

I laugh every time. He does not appear to appreciate my joke.

I can speak and express myself. I consider myself to be fairly intuitive and appear to have the presence of mind to use common sense. I am not a poet, neither a writer, and claim no creative talents. I try to be kind. I pick up litter. I make every attempt to get along with others, although I do not suffer bullies. I defend those who cannot or will not defend themselves. I am not a jealous person, but fully admit that I may be envious of another at times. (Queue the Homer Simpson meme...)

One more thing I can lay claim to is that I am old and getting older. I used to be older than dirt, now I am older than rocks. Getting old/older means that you start to lose a lot of friends. Age, illness, life in general, means that shit happens. About the time of my 20th high school reunion, I did a little investigating and discovered that my graduating class had at that time, more deaths than any three of the years prior to or following. Out of the seven years of graduating classes, the year I graduated had a lot of dead people.

I preach that correlation does not equal causation. Still, that is a very interesting statistic. What was it about that year that was so fatal?

So, I have lost friends and I have lost family. Some due to death, some due to just growing apart, and I surmise that it will keep happening. Distance has a lot to do with it. Many people who once were friends have moved or I have moved away from them. Distance may make the heart grow fonder, but it does not foster a relationship that includes "Hey, want to get some pizza?" Some friends have the appearance of only wanting to be friends as long as I can get them something, as long as I can do something for them. Once that stops happening, they stop calling or texting and stop reaching out.

On the family side of things, I have lost a bunch due to death, a bunch due to distance, and lately the determination has been that I just do not have what they want. Whether it is something tangible, something personal, or maybe they just do not like my jokes, the common denominator is me. Most of my family is separated by distance. Understandably, it is difficult to reach out when you live so far away. Life happens. People get busy. People have their own lives to attend to. I would not think to set their priorities for them. I do recognize that I am not one. I will get over it.

Mom and dad taught me that you do not always have to like everybody, but you should at least be courteous and respectful. Do not bully another person. Do not allow another person to bully you. I know that they both always wanted to have close ties to family. There were reasons, but they did end up relocating to other parts of the state and country, and I suspect that some of the reasoning for that was to just stay out of the proximity of the anger and hatred they received from "family" and it was easier to just go somewhere else. Over the years I watched how they were treated. I understand the choice to just be somewhere else.

I also got to witness firsthand the animosity from other family members as I became the target by default. I will get over it.

There were other words I had written, but I decided that they were words that I need not share. I do not need to stoop to that level. What is in the past, is in the past. I know that there are relationships that will never mend, and that I am the poorer for that. Maybe if I were a better man, I could see that happening. List it as just another of my failures. I will get over it. Besides, nobody reads these notes except myself. I do not promote this blog, and neither do I share it with those I know. They really do not want to read this.

And, as I mentioned, I blame myself.

The Struggle Is (Can Be) Real

First, I will be very open that I blame myself.

Mostly.

Partly.

Anyway, I know that I am pretty rough around the edges. I am kind of living proof that, regardless of what Mythbusters said, you cannot polish a turd. I know how to be nice, I have enough of a vocabulary that I can speak well and express myself without resorting to vulgarity. Expressing myself is usually fairly easy. Doing so without resorting to vulgarity is the hard part. I do better while writing than I do while speaking.

Maybe I should get a bark collar to shut me up.

No, I would probably learn to like it.

I have a pretty developed sense of humor and can tell some pretty funny jokes. Again, the hard part is doing so without resorting to vulgarity. I need to work on that.

My phone makes a specific tone when I get certain alerts on it. Usually related to oen of the cameras outside detecting motion. Most likely, it is a car turning around in the cul-de-sac or a neighbor's cat prowling the yard. Either way, the same tone goes off when I come home. The camera first detects the motion of Max (my truck) pulling into the driveway, followed by the garage door opening as I walk up the driveway. Dougall, bless his heart, has learned that the tones mean that someone (hopefully me) is coming in. He hears the tone, then lifts his head and looks toward the door or out the front room window. If I am home when he reacts to the tone, I tell him "Your Uber is here!"

I laugh every time. He does not appear to appreciate my joke.

I can speak and express myself. I consider myself to be fairly intuitive and appear to have the presence of mind to use common sense. I am not a poet, neither a writer, and claim no creative talents. I try to be kind. I pick up litter. I make every attempt to get along with others, although I do not suffer bullies. I defend those who cannot or will not defend themselves. I am not a jealous person, but fully admit that I may be envious of another at times. (Queue the Homer Simpson meme...)

One more thing I can lay claim to is that I am old and getting older. I used to be older than dirt, now I am older than rocks. Getting old/older means that you start to lose a lot of friends. Age, illness, life in general, means that shit happens. About the time of my 20th high school reunion, I did a little investigating and discovered that my graduating class had at that time, more deaths than any three of the years prior to or following. Out of the seven years of graduating classes, the year I graduated had a lot of dead people.

I preach that correlation does not equal causation. Still, that is a very interesting statistic. What was it about that year that was so fatal?

So, I have lost friends and I have lost family. Some due to death, some due to just growing apart, and I surmise that it will keep happening. Distance has a lot to do with it. Many people who once were friends have moved or I have moved away from them. Distance may make the heart grow fonder, but it does not foster a relationship that includes "Hey, want to get some pizza?" Some friends have the appearance of only wanting to be friends as long as I can get them something, as long as I can do something for them. Once that stops happening, they stop calling or texting and stop reaching out.

On the family side of things, I have lost a bunch due to death, a bunch due to distance, and lately the determination has been that I just do not have what they want. Whether it is something tangible, something personal, or maybe they just do not like my jokes, the common denominator is me. Most of my family is separated by distance. Understandably, it is difficult to reach out when you live so far away. Life happens. People get busy. People have their own lives to attend to. I would not think to set their priorities for them. I do recognize that I am not one. I will get over it.

Mom and dad taught me that you do not always have to like everybody, but you should at least be courteous and respectful. Do not bully another person. Do not allow another person to bully you. I know that they both always wanted to have close ties to family. There were reasons, but they did end up relocating to other parts of the state and country, and I suspect that some of the reasoning for that was to just stay out of the proximity of the anger and hatred they received from "family" and it was easier to just go somewhere else. Over the years I watched how they were treated. I understand the choice to just be somewhere else.

I also got to witness firsthand the animosity from other family members as I became the target by default. I will get over it.

There were other words I had written, but I decided that they were words that I need not share. I do not need to stoop to that level. What is in the past, is in the past. I know that there are relationships that will never mend, and that I am the poorer for that. Maybe if I were a better man, I could see that happening. List it as just another of my failures. I will get over it. Besides, nobody reads these notes except myself. I do not promote this blog, and neither do I share it with those I know. They really do not want to read this.

And, as I mentioned, I blame myself.

Where is my community?

I know that after a certain age (which I am most certainly past at this point) you start to lose a lot of friends. Age, illness, and life in general will take it's toll. I have gotten to the point where I am most certainly in the friend deficit column.

But I also believe that I am the reason that a lot of people, who I once called friend, have been absent in my little corner of the world. I have moved about a dozen times, and each time I dropped the ball when keeping in touch with others. I failed myself, not that they failed me. I do not cast the blame on them.

I was never the "cool" kid. I was never the one that others wanted to befriend, the one that they wanted to hang around with. The friends I had growing up as a child, were ones that I found and tagged along with. They were fine with hanging out with other friends, and would certainly let me be there as well. But they were not the ones to call me to get together or come to my house to be with me.

As a very young child, there were a lot of social differences between my family and others. It was a small community, and while the adults were more or less passive about who they would or would not include in their social groups, their children were brutal. Name calling, bullying, throwing rocks and chasing me and my two sisters, were not out of the norm.We were different. And while I know that the kids were merely repeating thoughts and words of their parents, it did not make it hurt any less.

Junior High (Middle School) and High School were a little more subtle, but the group dynamics were also more clarified. I really just did not fit in with any group. I was not a jock, nor was I a stoner, nor was I one of the chosen few who rode their parents affluency though the years. I was not understood by many of the teachers in my schools, and it was not until later that I found out where my IQ level stood, and what my ACT score was, both of which kind of surprised me. But my school guidance team decided that I did not posses the right stuff to move into that peer group. I was "allowed" to graduate without the credits needed, mainly because they were finished with me and did not want me hanging around anymore. The reasons for my grades (or lack thereof) was boredom in school and lack of challenge, lack of direction. I suspect that part of that had to do with my two sisters, both of whom failed out of high school.

Family is another comedy in this story. I was born five minutes prior to my twin sister. We were early and small enough that we slept together in a dresser drawer for a while because it was easier than a crib. When we were learning to talk, we had our own language that only our older sister could understand. Mom told me stories about having to get her to translate what we were trying to tell mom. We had each other. We did not have a lot of kids our age until we grew up a little, but we were each other's best friend.

That lasted until Chris and Sam started getting closer and suddenly, it was as if a switch were flipped and while it was not open warfare, there was a lot of two-against-one going on. I was odd man out, so to speak. Later, they shared a lot of friends and a lot of habits including alcohol and drugs. Another group I did not join as it just was not my thing. I did not fit in there, either.

More on the family dynamics. There was (still is) a lot of animosity from step-siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles stemming from decisions that mom and dad made. Not bad decisions, just personal decisions that other people, mostly family, did not like. This animosity was mostly underhanded and behind the back, but on occasion would evolve into verbal abuse and once or twice included actual threats. 

Now, let me return to the community or tribe part of this missive. More and more I feel less and less that I have any real community. Friends from my early life connect briefly and infrequently. There are talks about getting together for food or we share jokes online. But the reality of it is that they all have their own lives. They have their own community. They have their village, their tribe.

My tribe is becoming smaller and smaller. Most of my extended family are dead or dispersed to other parts of the world. They belong to each other, but I do not. Any semblance of belonging has dwindled to passive remembrance and never any contact. One cousin went so far as to blame me specifically for all of society's ills as she sees it, and every perceived offense is directly related to me. Alright, so be it.

My immediate tribe has relegated me to contact if needed or convenient. An afterthought. At best, I have been forgotten. at worst, I have been openly insulted and blamed (once again) for their shortcomings.

To be honest, I blame myself as well, so their is that paradox.

Some blame me for who someone else became. Some blame me for who they became. Mostly, I am called if needed. Extraneous. I mean, it is nice to be needed, but it would be nice to be needed for who I am instead of what I can do. It would be nice to be needed because they want to need me. 

I will get over it.

Home Is Where The Heart Is

I heard the phrase “Home is where the heart is” on the way to work this morning, and it made me think for a minute. There have been many times that my actual home was where my heart was, but that has not been the case for a long time. I love where I am living now. I have great neighbors and a quiet neighborhood. I am close to my mountains. And while I have made it very comfortable, I could walk away for a good reason.

Some days I am looking for a good reason more than others.

Where, or what, is your heart? Are you able to find it? Are you able to share it?

Are you willing to share it? Would you want to share it?

Is you heart a place, or a thing, or a person?

Where, I might ask, do you want it to be?

As a child, my whole world was my home and my parents. The extended family was always there (ish) but mom and dad were constants. Later, as we got the opportunities to travel a little, I realized that my parents were my world. I could go anywhere and be happy as long as I was with my parents. I learned years later that one must truly make their own home. You have to place your heart where you want home to be. And sometimes, you have to take your heart and find a new home. But you make it what you want it to be. You fill it with what makes you happy. And, if you are lucky, you find someone that will help you make it happy. Even luckier, you find someone that wants you to help make their home happy too.

One of the things I was taught.

Nobody is ever going to accuse me of being intellectually gifted. I always tried to learn what was being taught. Teachers made comments like "He is so smart, if he would only apply himself." I remember having a pretty inquisitive nature, I still do. I like to figure out how things work, or figure out how I can make it better. I was taught to look at things from different perspectives to see other perspectives. I've tried to remember to think things through before acting.

I play "what if?" in my head a lot.

I was taught to be kind. I'd like to think I succeed. I know that I haven't always been very good at this. Each day I remind myself to try harder. If by some chance I was unkind to any of you, please accept my apologies. I sincerely didn't mean to act so.

Specifically, I remember my mother trying to teach me to turn my back on meanness and hate. Mom taught me that even though the kids I wanted to be friends with were chasing me, throwing rocks at me and calling me names like "bastard" and "heathen" and telling me that I was going to hell, that I would find other friends. I did.

But I remember.

One neighborhood "friend" would start a fight with me every time he came over to play. He'd come to the door and ask if I could play and then as soon as we were outside and out of sight from grown up eyes, he'd start the smack talk and eventually escalate to shoving and pushing. That ended after I was taught how to punch someone in the nose. It wasn't a hard hit, and I don't remember being overly satisfied of the act, but he didn't bully me anymore.

I remember being taught that a particular word was a "bad" word and to not say it. In second grade I overheard one of the other boys in the class use that word. When I said something about it to a teacher, the teacher said they would take care of it. After recess, the teacher stood in front of the class and begun their object lesson by telling the class that someone did something very wrong at recess. Then, this bastion of grown-up authority proceeded to describe the events as they took place except the point they set out to make was that someone was "tattling" that the word wasn't really a bad word at all.

Paula Dean might have something to discuss with you, teacher.

The teacher never mentioned any names. Nobody knew all the players except for me and the teacher. I was taught perspective at that point. I was taught that not everybody shares the same values. I also learned that I could still hold to the values I was taught without compromising myself. I was still friends with the boy, at least for a while. But I learned not to forget what was right.

My father, as I have mentioned in prior blogs, was in a horrible crash one night while working. He and his partner were patrolling for poachers and were parked on the of a road out in the county when the poachers they were seeking came speeding down the road and ran into the side of the truck dad was driving. The driver of the other car was killed and dad's partner got a cut on his chin. Dad fared somewhat worse. The engine of the truck was pushed into the truck cab, rolling the firewall over dad's foot, crushing his ankle and trapping his foot. It also pushed his left femur out through the back of his pelvis. Last, the dashboard crumpled down and smashed dad's right leg just above the knee.

Jim, dad's partner, grabbed the microphone for the two-way radio and screamed to the police dispatch "There's been a crash and Grant's hurt!" The law enforcement community is pretty tight, but not as much as that small valley's contingent was. All of the agencies - Sheriff's office, Police department, Fish and Game, all worked together and knew and supported each other. Lamar Melville, one of the troopers headed out to the scene. Someone else had the foresight to stop by the hospital and grab the ER doctor who had recently returned from a stint in a MASH unit in Viet Nam. Everybody headed out to help.

Once Lamar got on the scene, with Roy Hansen, they used a six-foot pry bar to get the door open enough to get dad extricated, breaking dads ankle in the process. He never held it against them. The fire department and ambulance showed up, Highway Patrol on the scene, patients transported into town. Mom got a phone call, THE phone call, and was told "Grant's been in an accident and you should come to the hospital." Mom told me years later that she had no idea how bad things were.

Mom got to the hospital and was sitting in the waiting area of the ER when she heard sirens approaching. The rig stopped in the driveway and suddenly the doors exploded in as the attendants rushed in with dad on a gurney, the doctor straddling him performing chest compression in an effort to keep his heart beating and screaming "Somebody get an OR going, he's already died seven times and I don't know if I can bring him back again."

Dad survived through the night, and the next day, possibly two days later, they decided to transport him to Salt Lake City to a hospital better equipped to handle this amount of injury. The doctors didn't feel dad was stable enough to fly so they sent him via ground transport in case they needed to stop at another hospital en route. Dad was blessed to have his uncle as one of his doctors in Salt Lake and the teams worked tirelessly to put him back together. He didn't thrive in the hospital in spite of having his injuries on the mend and was sent home basically to die. Mom, family and friends all worked to do everything they could and he finally started to begin the terrible, long road to recovery. He never did fully recover, however, dad did live almost three decades after the crash, in constant pain and discomfort.

And he taught. Dad taught me that a person may have physical limitations and challenges, but there are usually ways to work around things. He also taught me that sometimes, in spite of whether you want to or not, you need to ask for help. Dad was incredibly resourceful during a time that prosthetics were sometimes barbarous and cruel. I remember how heavy his "leg" was and how he struggled at times.

What I don't remember was ever, not once, hearing dad complain about his situation. One more thing he taught me was that complaining didn't help. Fixing the problem did.

One of the local police officer's that was a friend of dad's was kind of obnoxious. He could be a little crude and he had what we used to call "a mouth". I noticed once that whenever he stopped by, mom would make herself scarce. When I asked her about it, she simply stated that he was dad's friend and that not all of dad's friends were her friends too. She didn't try to tell me that I couldn't like him, or that he was a bad person, she just let me make my own mind up about him.

I have a lot of examples of mom letting me learn my own way with gentle guidance. Even when she disagreed with someone, she never looked down on them or talked about them. She was truly one to let people live their own life. And yet she was accosted so many times by others. Neighbors, thankfully only a few, people in the community (mom had surgery on her feet and was in two walking casts while dad was healing and people that were family/friends of the other men involved in dad's accident would run into her feet with shopping carts at the grocery store), and even family. I'm not going to name names or go into details here, but I was lucky enough to comfort mom once in a while as she dealt with the pain from actions or words of family members.

And mom never sad a hurtful or unkind word about any of them. She would quietly rise above that. And she taught me to not judge.

Lately, this last lesson has been on my mind. A lot. For whatever reason I have recently been exposed to comments from people that have touched some nerve inside me. Some from friends, some from family and, thankfully, mostly from "others" such as Facebook or Twitter posts or the media. Quite often, these comments were made solely to hurt someone or to cast them in a light less than bright. Most of the time the comments were made because someone had an audience and could say whatever they wanted without thinking of anybody else. Some of the comments were made from beliefs and lessons learned. Some of the comments were made out of pain. When you speak out in pain, sadly, so many times your intention is to hurt someone else. You hurt and you want to make someone else hurt. They might be dead or just not have a clue that you were speaking of/to them. But you have no problem venting your spleen to alleviate your own pain.

I'm pretty outspoken and I encourage others to be so as well. As long as the conversation isn't just saying things to be mean or argumentative, as long as their is respect and a sharing of ideas, a discussion in the true sense, I'm okay with that. When comments are made just to hurt or insult, your argument is invalid and it is no longer a discussion.

Next, I'd like to ask a question of you, the reader. Have you ever made a decision that you know was wrong? Something major, life-changing. Have you done something that made you totally miserable and unhappy? How did you resolve that? What did you do to fix it? What if what you did to fix it hurt someone else?

Have you ever sacrificed your own happiness, your own contentment, in an effort to not offend someone regardless of how miserable it would make you? Have you ever witnessed someone else in either of these situations? What did you say to them? How did you tell them to resolve the issue?

How did you judge them?

More importantly, why did you judge them?

You'll be in my heart

You'll be in my heart from this day on. Now, and forever more.

I got home form work tonight after a long day. All of them are long anymore. As I walked into the bedroom to change my clothes I saw you out of the corner of my eye and my heart all but stopped. The joy was instantaneous and amazing. I started to reach for you and realized that it wasn't you. That it won't ever be you again in this life.

The last time I held you was when you took your last breath. I felt your body go limp and your life leave as I held you in my arms. I cried out your name.

I couldn't help myself.

You lifted your face and looked at me as if to say "It's alright, everything is alright." Then you were gone.

I knew you were "alright". But my grief was, and is still to this day, a tangible, bitter thing. I loved you with all my heart. No, I love you with all my heart. Tears come easily when I think of you, and life, my life, goes on. But there is a huge hole within me and there is pain.

Pain isn't new to me, and I've been told that it's transient, that you can't really remember how much something hurts. Rather you remember that something hurt. And yet, when I am reminded of you, the pain comes flooding and tearing back. It's amazing how the grief and the pain rip apart any defenses I've managed to build. The memories are as sharp as taking off a fresh layer of skin. Not necessarily enough to bleed, but all the nerves are fresh and quickened, exposed and brilliant with feeling.

Some day we will be together again. You and me and others who have passed too soon. When that time comes, I know that there will be tears. I know that the joy will be as heart-rending as the pain I feel now. What a joyous reunion. And some days it can't come too soon.

For tonight, I will say that I love you as much as ever, that I miss you and will start once again to seek relief from the grief and pain I feel. 

Know this Isabelle, Isa, know that you are, and always will be, in my heart. 

Friends, networking, and helping

Every once in a while, I will I will post on Twitter or Facebook something about "It's all about networking". I have truly been blessed to reach out and find old friends, family and new friends. Some of these people I see weekly, some I haven't seen for years and decades, and others I have never met. I am so grateful for these friends.

Some of the postings are funny, some are sad, some are angry and some are cries for help. The networking is a good thing; you can get and give suggestions for places to eat, services needed, or even make connections to run races together, go shopping or ride motorcycles. We can share pictures and videos, jokes and concerts.

Sometimes the jokes don't make sense, at least not to me, and sometimes an opinion gets shared that you don't agree with, or someone doesn't agree with yours. It's all good - it's LIFE!

Sometimes the mean people or haters come out. Most often the haters are people that have a voice simply because they have a venue to use. They validate their opinions and denigrate yours they same way they would control an in person conversation - they "shout" (all caps) and they repeat their words to overwhelm you with their own logic. The worst ones that I've dealt with are the ones demanding some kind of tolerance for their particular "whatever" but refuse to to allow you your own opinion.

Really? I have to accept and even approve of your ideal but you get to sit there and tell me mine is just wrong?

Every once in a while, I have been lucky to converse with someone who decides to be brave enough to share something personal with me. Sometimes funny, sometimes angry and sometimes pain. A handful of days ago I was blessed to be able to talk with someone about some pain they were holding. I hope I helped. I hope that I was able to provide some sort of relief and comfort.

I know I would like to thank them for trusting me enough to share something personal.

I'm not going to user her name, suffice to say they she falls into the category of "known her for decades, haven't talked for years". I can say that I've got some kindred feelings with her. She'd been hurt by someone in her family previously and was the unfortunate recipient of continued pain from the mistreatment by this person. I went through the same thing, but I've already written about that in another blog. Read it there if you want, I'd prefer that the focus here is on my friend.

She reached out one night with a post on Facebook. I misunderstood what she posted initially, I blame it on being tired, could be I'm a little slow. We posted comments for a few minutes then went private to have a more personal conversation. As she spoke about what was really going on, I offered what small comfort I could, commiserated with her, and was just there for her. Well, electronically there for her.

I'd like to think that she got something more out of it than just typing late one night. And if you're reading this now, know that I still offer an ear, a shoulder, or even just yell at me to vent.

I'd also like to ask anybody that DOES read this to please watch, please be aware that sometimes what people post on Facebook and Twitter is an attempt to say that they are hurting. Maybe they are just lonely, maybe they are just dealing with a moment of stress. Maybe, as with the other night, they are venting to release some pain.

I firmly believe that we are charged with serving one another, helping as we can, and offering what we are able to. We volunteer for things that are important to us. Please, when you find yourself in a position to offer, volunteer to help a friend.

And, to my friend, I care. I hope you are finding a way to heal. I hope I helped.

He was no friend of mine

Part One
Definitions of bully on the Web:

· Strong-arm: be bossy towards; "Her big brother always bullied her when she was young"
· A cruel and brutal fellow
· browbeat: discourage or frighten with threats or a domineering manner; intimidate
· A hired thug
· A person who is habitually cruel or overbearing, especially to smaller or weaker people
· A hired ruffian; a thug
· A person who hurts, persecutes, or intimidates weaker people
· A blustering, quarrelsome, overbearing person who habitually badgers and intimidates smaller or weaker people

Some bullies are looking for attention. They might think bullying is a way to be popular or to get what they want. Most bullies are trying to make themselves feel more important. When they pick on someone else, it can make them feel big and powerful.

Bullies often pick on someone they think they can have power over. They might pick on kids who get upset easily or who have trouble sticking up for themselves. Getting a big reaction out of someone can make bullies feel like they have the power they want. Sometimes bullies pick on someone who is smarter than they are or different from them in some way. Sometimes bullies just pick on a kid for no reason at all.

How to deal with a bully:

Don't give the bully a chance. As much as you can, avoid the bully. You can't go into hiding or skip class, of course. But if you can take a different route and avoid him or her, do so.

Stand tall and be brave. When you're scared of another person, you're probably not feeling your bravest. But sometimes just acting brave is enough to stop a bully. How does a brave person look and act? Stand tall and you'll send the message: "Don't mess with me." It's easier to feel brave when you feel good about yourself. See the next tip!

Ignore the bully. If you can, try your best to ignore the bully's threats. Pretend you don't hear them and walk away quickly to a place of safety. Bullies want a big reaction to their teasing and meanness. Acting as if you don't notice and don't care is like giving no reaction at all, and this just might stop a bully's behavior.

Stand up for yourself. Pretend to feel really brave and confident. Tell the bully "No! Stop it!" in a loud voice. Then walk away, or run if you have to. Kids also can stand up for each other by telling a bully to stop teasing or scaring someone else, and then walk away together. If a bully wants you to do something that you don't want to do — say "no!" and walk away. If you do what a bully says to do, they will likely keep bullying you. Bullies tend to bully kids who don't stick up for themselves.

Don't bully back. Don't hit, kick, or push back to deal with someone bullying you or your friends. Fighting back just satisfies a bully and it's dangerous, too, because someone could get hurt. You're also likely to get in trouble. It's best to stay with others, stay safe, and get help from an adult.

Don't show your feelings. Plan ahead. How can you stop yourself from getting angry or showing you're upset? Try distracting yourself (counting backwards from 100, spelling the word 'turtle' backwards, etc.) to keep your mind occupied until you are out of the situation and somewhere safe where you can show your feelings.

It’s not your fault! As the victim of a bully you must remember that the way you are treated is not your fault. Unless you did something specifically to provoke the bully, you are being targeted for any number of reasons, none of which you have any control over.

Part Two

I dealt with a bully for many, many years. Nothing really physical, nothing really overt, but it was there every single time I saw him. Within minutes of seeing each other he began to throw out taunts and jabs, verbal assaults that were meant to hurt – there was no joking about any of this. The only time that he had any civility in his mouth for me was if he wanted something from me. And even then if it seemed like I was going to deny him what eh wanted the bullying would start. First, the chivying and heavy-handed demands, and then ending with derogatory and demeaning comments when I stood my ground and didn’t just give in to his demands. He was no friend of mine.

As I said, it was nothing really physical, and I’m pretty sure I would have come out on top if it had come to that, especially in the later years. Maybe not so much when I was younger or early teens, but I grew up and was physically more than a match for him had it turned that route. I am glad that it didn’t, however, for many reasons. He was no friend of mine.

Later in life, as the years went by, I learned a lot more about this bully and picked up a lot about what drove him and his actions. Verbally abusive and persuasive as he could be, even he avoided physical conflict. The demons that drove him were mostly his own private demons that he would inflict on others when he felt the pain of their existence. He was no friend of mine.

He wasn’t above being vindictive and I think he went there more so when he was feeling particularly foul. His moods would change like lightning, Affable and grandiose one minute, everybody’s friend – especially yours if he wanted something. A small, bitter man when he didn’t get his way, pouting and hurtful. If he had no direct offense he could draw on, he would create one or make derisive comments about your looks or how you dressed. He would make judgments about your hair, your weight, or whatever he could to make you feel smaller-than and to make him feel larger-than. He was no friend of mine.

Towards the end, in my defense and disgust, I did what I could to simply avoid him. That wasn’t always possible and at times I was merely civil, but I am proud that I never provoked him, neither did I cower and simply accept his derision. I could see when he was around me he had learned that maybe he ought to just leave me alone. He wasn’t getting the pleasure of direct assault, but from the comments he made to other people I deduced that he had decided a behind-the-back attack was the method to choose. As most bullies, when facing confrontation that they can neither control nor win, they go behind you and start with a smear campaign, making comments to others on “his” side, or at least not on your side. I doubt that unless he was fueled by the intoxicant of his choice, he would not have attempted to direct attack. And I suspect that even then, as vile as his comments, he would have held short of a physical assault. He was no friend of mine.

Oddly, in the beginning, I dreamed of being his friend. I really WANTED him to like me, to accept me. I thought well enough about him that I bragged about him to my friends. I admired him and attached myself to at least the image that I thought he was It wasn’t until later that I started to catch on to things he said. By then, I was growing into one of the versions of me that was maybe a little more aware of life. For years I still liked him, and wondered if he really meant what he was saying, more likely convincing myself that it was a joke. All things considered, he was no friend of mine.

He died recently. His life of excesses and the pollutants that he ingested caught up with him. He had years of self-induced health issues and regardless of whatever stories he told, whatever demons he created or fought, the issues he had to deal with were none of my creating. I can say that while I wasn’t his biggest fan, I wished him no ill. He had my pity, but nothing more. He wasn’t a target of mine; he wasn’t someone I hated. He was no friend of mine.

I spoke with his daughter via messaging after he passed and was only somewhat surprised to find that she was deeply offended that I couldn’t offer more than I could at his passing. She promptly lit into me with how he had dealt with things from his childhood that “haunted” him and that “it is no surprise that he had the troubles he had” from what he had to endure. Although she only mentioned one thing specifically, I suspect that he may have created others as well. And it’s amazing that he supposedly carried the grief of that one event through all the years, even when dealing face to face with that person that committed this supposed insult. The event of which I speak happened, quite literally. Years before I was even born! I had nothing to do with it but from our conversation I was given to understand that this catalyst was what drove this bully to bear down on me throughout the years. He was no friend of mine.

I have thought about this conversation for a couple of weeks now and still cannot see the connection wherein the fault lays at my feet. Were I to see this, I’m pretty sure I’d walk up to it, I have a tendency to take blame well and see no reason to hide from what I did, for good or ill. I am also pretty quick to admit that I am far from perfect, but my perfection, or lack thereof, is between God and me. No man gets to judge me least of all a bully. He was no friend of mine.

He was no friend of mine. He was my own brother. My family. For years I loved him. I loved him enough to use his name when I named my own son. And about that time was when I came to see that what I thought saw as humor was hate; what I thought I saw as acceptance was derision. What I thought I saw as love was loathing. He was no friend of mine.

I did not wish him ill, and merely avoided him as he did me in the later years. His daughter was unable to tell me exactly what I did to him to cause this hatred, what I didn’t do to alleviate his pain. She apparently has decided to pick up his torch and treat me with the same disdain he did all those years. Well, I didn’t cause her pain or create her demons either. I don’t judge either one of them but I also won’t purchase that particular piece of emotional baggage that I caused any of their pain.

I’ve created enough of my own, but I will deal with that on my own as well.

"Tech" friends vs. "Real" friends

Technology is an amazing thing. Each new development makes the world smaller. Radio, gave people a means to reach out to others, a way to share ideas. Radio operators on ships and in the armed forces would take the opportunities to "meet" friends and exchange news, play chess and share recipes.

15 years ago email was in its infancy. Computers were nowhere near as available as they are now. Cell phones were called "bricks" and we all clamored for them, we all were reaching out. User groups and forums were starting. The Internet was building momentum and "networking" was becoming vogue.

AOL and other applications were becoming more and more popular. People were, again, reaching out just as they did in every community they ever lived in. From villages and farmsteads, to townships and on up the food chain, people have always looked to their neighbors, looked beyond their boundaries. Technology has given us more and more opportunities to do so more conveniently than ever before.

Through Facebook and other networking sites (AOL, MySpace, Twitter, Linkd) people are finding it possible to connect, reconnect and create relationships with people from all over the world. Through one group I've been able to reunite with friends from the small town where I grew up, friends from school and even family members from all around the country.

With another forum I attend online, I've made friends literally around the world. It's a group of motorcycle riders that has become a virtual family. We reach out through pain and sorrow, through illness and death, and through life, through love and through happiness. This family, most of whom have never met face to face, has come together to help make repairs of homes, computers and bikes; come together when one was in a crash and nearly died, when one lost a spouse to cancer, and when some have lost pets.

One example is that when one of the group had a bike that was his only source of transportation stolen and didn't know what to do, we all came together and chipped in and bought him another bike. Not a new one, but one that was 100%. A motorcycle. A Goldwing motorcycle. Not all friends will do that. Not all family will do that.

The kids I went to high school with? We can't even seem to get together for lunch one day, let alone go out of our way to make a major difference in our lives. I drove from Layton to SLC to pick up a motorcycle part, then delivered it to Pocatello with a "thank you" as my reward. It was enough.

On another side, I have a twin sister and we went for about 16 years without speaking. No cards, no calls, no contact. Not a lot of friendship. I know that my family isn't typical, but neither are my friends.

Then again, with the changes in technology, maybe they are.

Family reunion

This afternoon I went to a family reunion. It was an interesting event - unscheduled and unplanned, I wasn't even expecting to be there. I got to talk with my dad and we were talking about some email we had exchanged. Mom was there but didn't say much, just kind of quiet and smiling. Uncle Ron, mom's brother, was there laughing his huge laugh that I remember so well and holding hands with Aunt Geneil (dad's sister) who was laughing with him.

My sister Sam was around, but again, most of what I remember is her laughter. It's such a good thing that most of my family memories are full of laughter. She chuckled as she walked past, scratching my dog under the chin and teasing me for holding him so close and tight. I was watching my daughter's children as she was playing with them over by the window. Doug and Emma were in some kind of battle which isn't new. DJ was building something.

I can remember the smells of the food - our family events always had laughter and food. I remember wondering where Jeff was because I could hear him somewhere. I always wanted to have Jeff as a brother as I didn't always get along with my two sisters. Jeff and I didn't always get along either, but it we always had fun together.

Javert, my dog, put his head on my shoulder and I remember hearing some kind of beeping or horn and thinking that it sounded odd, like it didn't belong. Then the electronic sound of something like coins dropping into a glass, maybe ice cubes? Then I recognized it as Kerry playing some game on her computer and slowly realization started to slip in.

As wonderful as my reunion was, I began to realize that it was just a dream. Dad died in '89, mom last year. Sam several years ago and Geneil back in the early '80s. I'm not sure what it means that I had both family that has passed away already and family still living with me.

I don't read much into dreams, although I love to have them. I usually dream very vividly, very graphically. I tend to smell scents and odors and can feel and touch in my dreams. And as I rose from the bliss of sleep and dreams, the smells of the food waning and the sounds fading, the laughter slowly growing quiet, I was left with the feeling of peace and warmth as the last of the dream left to me.

I miss them all, each of them. I am thankful for the memories that I have and remorseful of those that I missed. I wish I had been able to spend more time with the family although it seems like this family has a hard time getting together. Everybody wants to, but these plans never seem to come to fruition. I'm as bad as any other.

I am thankful for the opportunity that I have had the past couple of years to re-unite with some of my extended family, and friends as well, and have been blessed with renewing these relations. I can only hope that I provide something in kind back to each of them.

Memories of corn

About a week ago someone left a package on my porch. this being zucchini season, I was just a little bit leery, but it wasn't squash this time, but it was a half-dozen ears of fresh sweet corn.

Guess what dinner was...

Later, as I was shucking the corn, I commented that I hate shucking corn, then stopped to think why I hate shucking corn. Suddenly, with all the clarity and impact of an Alfred Eisenstaedt photograph, I remembered the catalyst for my dread of corn silk and husk. I don't remember how old I was at the time, maybe eight or ten years old, but my mother and her best friend Barbara Cartwright had decided that they were going to can corn to preserve it for later use. That was back in the day when most households preserved fruit and vegetables to save money and add variety to the diet during the winter months.

Mom and Barbara bought a load of corn. In my mind, for years, I would swear that it was a dump-truck load, but I'm sure it was just a pickup truck. The image of that mountain of corn, green and bright and smelling like, well, corn, is burned into my mind's eye.

At any rate, they had the corn delivered to our driveway and then mom and Barbara went to work. They also recruited help, and since they were saving money, they didn't pay the help. What they did was use indentured labor - i.e., their kids. The memories of this time which I hold are of me and my sisters Sam and Chris, mom and Barbara and her boys Steve, Tracy and Perry. All of us together shucking corn, removing the husks and silk, battling the worms and earwigs (how many do YOU think we found in a million ears of corn?) and laughing.

We laughed and we talked, and talked and laughed. There were jokes and people throwing bugs and corn. Lots and LOTS of corn. And if you thought you could get away from the corn by going into the house, then you got drafted to help dad and using the cutters to take the corn off the cobs. The cutter looked like a metal U-shaped wire with what I thought was a bent saw blade rolled into a circle to slide down the cob that was impaled on a board with a nail to hold it in place. Wet, messy and smelling of corn. (I detect a theme.)

Mom is gone, and I haven't seen Barbara for way too long. Tracy I run into once in a while and Steve and Perry are still out there. Sam was taken a few years ago and Chris is another story altogether. I can still hear the laughter. I can still feel the heat of summer in Logan and hear the crickets as we worked way into the night.

I still like to eat corn, I just hate to shuck it. But I love the memories of the friends and families that I miss.