Happy 250th- The Thread that Holds Us Together

 Some of my earliest memories are sitting with my grandparents, listening to stories about the generations that came before us. They weren't stories about famous people or great fortunes. They were stories about ordinary Americans who endured hardship, served their communities, buried loved ones, and kept moving forward because they believed tomorrow could be better than today.

Those stories shaped how I see this country.

I love our country. Let me say it again, I love our country. I will never apologize for being grateful to have been born in the United States.

My ancestors struggled. They fought, they sacrificed, they buried loved ones, and they endured hardships that most of us can scarcely imagine. Yet through every generation, they never lost faith in the promise of this nation. They understood that America was not perfect, but they believed in its ideals and in its remarkable ability to grow, improve, and become a better version of itself.

We were never wealthy in terms of money, but we were rich in the things that matter most: family, resilience, faith, service, and opportunity.   I know this because I grew up listening to the stories passed down by my grandparents from their grandparents, and so on.

The greatest inheritance they gave us was freedom: the freedom to choose our own path, to build a life through hard work, to take risks, to succeed or to fail, and then to get back up and try again. Success was never guaranteed, but the opportunity to pursue it through our own effort and determination was a gift they never took for granted.

My ancestors picked each other up and kept moving forward. Like a battle, life insists the only way to win, no matter the obstacle, one must push ahead and believe in the promise of tomorrow.

The values of resilience and self-reliance that have shaped my family for generations can be traced back to seven sisters living on the Virginia frontier in 1763.

Their father, John, died unexpectedly, leaving behind his wife, Mary, and their seven daughters. The oldest girl was only eighteen; the youngest was just two years old. In the wilderness of what is now Augusta County, Virginia, they were suddenly faced with a future filled with uncertainty.

Our family has passed down a story from that time.

Before John's burial, Mary quietly cut a quilt into seven pieces and tucked them into John’s coat. Then she handed each of her daughters a simple spool of thread. 

She told them, "Your father now carries the pieces of the quilt with him. What matters isn't the fabric, it is the thread. As long as you have the thread, you can always sew another quilt. The pieces may be gone, but the thread is what holds everything together. It’s what will hold us together."

The following year brought even more hardships. Under British dower law, Mary was entitled to only one-third of her husband's estate. Unable to provide for all seven daughters on her own, some of the younger girls were placed under the guardianship of other families.

It must have felt as though their family quilt had been torn apart.

But Mary reminded her daughters that no one could take away what truly mattered. "The thread is stronger than any piece of cloth," she told them. "With time, patience, and faith, you will sew an even more beautiful quilt."

Family tradition tells us that one of the older daughters asked whether they should return to England, where relatives might help them start over.

Mary's answer became part of our family's history: "No. This is where our dreams will grow. Today the ground may be dry and barren, but one day it will be abundant."

Mary's lesson did not end with her daughters.

The oldest, Margaret, my sixth great-grandmother carried that thread into the next generation. When she married, she became the guardian of her two youngest sisters. Another sister later took in two more. Rather than allowing hardship to scatter the family, the sisters stitched it back together, one home at a time.

After the American Revolution, they carried that same spirit west, moving their family from Virginia to Kentucky in search of new opportunities and a better future. They were not simply preserving a family; they were continuing to sew the quilt.

For more than 260 years, that thread has never been broken. It has been passed from one generation to the next, not as fabric or possessions, but as faith, perseverance, family, and the belief that tomorrow can always be better than today.

Mary’s lesson has echoed through every generation of my family.  This place we call home may, at times, seem barren and unforgiving. It may be worn, imperfect, and stitched together by seasons of hardship. But it has always remained a land of opportunity because every generation has picked up the thread and continued the work.

Like my family's quilt, America has never been flawless. It has been torn, repaired, patched, and strengthened over time. Each generation has added another stitch, not erasing the old patches, but building upon them. That is the beauty of our country. We are not bound by perfection. We are bound by the enduring threads of freedom, opportunity, and the belief that tomorrow can be better than today.

Loving your country does not require believing it has always been perfect. It requires believing it is worth the effort to keep stitching together. Every generation inherits a quilt with worn patches and torn seams. Our responsibility is not to discard it because of its flaws, but to mend it, strengthen it, and leave it in better condition than we found it. That is what my ancestors believed. That is what they taught their children.  

And that is why I love this country: we all hold the threads that continue to build the quilt we call the United States of America.

Happy 250^th! 
God Bless America. 

I know

I know the taste of tears, after twenty seven years the salt of my pain too familiar. Most days I am happy, but there are some when my heart sighs and a hushed memory escapes and releases the genesis of my sorrow. For a time, because of others, I cloaked my heartache and restricted them to private pages. The last time we spoke, you made me promise to never hide what I was feeling, to always be honest, no matter how afraid I might be.  In honor of you, I share.

I know regret. Time wasted, the past that can never be changed. 1:11 a.m., the sweetest gift, an unexpected hello. Words hung in the air, left unspoken. A borrowed record, Billy Joel's She's Got a Way quietly played in the background, a promise when you returned I would hear the words I longed for. You wanted to hold me, look in my eyes; the first time they are said should always be special. You reminded me of the feeling, the kismet of the first time we gazed into each other's eyes. Until your reassurance, I was afraid of the depth of what I felt. We were young, we shared dreams, and we had forever. The fourth Monday in March 1987, my innocence ended, the future shattered. A helicopter crash on a riverbank in the Philippines is where you left this earth, left me.

I know one phone call can change the world, change my life. Your voice, shared laughter, a plan and a promise for the future made my heart sing. A few weeks later, your name and two words, Bobby's dead, dropped me to my knees. The pain swallowed me as my life rushed out.

I know how it feels to inhale but not be able to breathe. My first panic attack, the moment my denial ended and the reality you were never coming home dropped like a guillotine on my soul.  Fear flooded my body, suffocated my heart, the loneliness in the room spun me until I collapsed broken on my bed. It is a desolation I will never be able to describe.

I know the torment of a restless night.  The unanswered why that haunts me, denies me sleep. The solitude of the darkness magnifies the void you left. The emptiness next to me, a reminder of what might have been, should have been.

I know the sheaths of the seasons. In the fall the leaves gently cascade from the trees, dance where you rest, before they settle in the recesses between the grass and the bronze. Winter arrives, its storms blanket you in snow. The rains of spring wash away the coldness and give root to the soft green covers of summer. Your seasonal quilt is not the same as the one you wrapped around us in Pensacola. It does not matter, I will always lie next to you. It is the closest I can get until I hold you again in Heaven.

I know the sensation of forty one characters. My fingers run along your inscription while my heart retraces the memory of you. Remembrances of your touch awaken my soul. Pools of my heartache fall on your rank, embrace your name.

I know how fickle the weather can be on your birthday. The March sun can be warm or the winds can blow hard and cold. The ground can be covered in snow, soft and muddy from rain or covered in fresh grass. The climate will not stop me, I will always visit. The silence of the solemn garden broken as I sing Happy Birthday, make a wish, blow out your candle and then share a cupcake. This past year, the hardest of anniversaries; you have been gone longer than you were here.

I know what it is like to love another. I did as you would want, over time I let go. My heart was conflicted over the wonder and the guilt the first time I shared my bed. After, I cried in the shower, tears of admission, acceptance that your arms would never hold me again.

I know what it is to fear time. Seasons fade my memory. I can hear your voice in my heart, but some days I can no longer remember what it sounds like. I close my eyes and some nights you are vivid, wonderfully alive as we dance. Others, only fragments of you appear in my dreams. I am afraid age will steal the clarity, the wonder of you. Scared, memories will be eclipsed by the darkness of time.

I know the cost of freedom. My heart knows it all too well.

Happy Birthday John Steinbeck

"In utter loneliness, a writer ties to explain the inexplicable." - John Steinbeck

Great books are not meant to be read then discarded like bad memories to collect dust on the shelves of Good Will. They are essays of life. They cannot be graded, for an A would do them injustice. They are simply, immortality on paper.

A good writer leaves traces of himself within each word, between each paragraph and engraved on each page.  Steinbeck was a master at evoking empathy for people and places unknown. His life experiences, beliefs, and love live on between the covers of his masterpieces. His soul is a part of the American conscience.

"I wonder how many people I've looked at all my life and never seen." - The Winter of Our Discontent

His characters were honest, authentic; portraying them not as the images people believed they knew or saw every day but as they were. He gave his characters interactions and dialogue so raw many critics would claim his works were obscene, rather than admit they were the truth of the time.

He understood the three evils; isolation, loneliness and weakness. They destroy the soul and kill the American dream. People need, not only to be loved, but, a place to be. A home; whatever definition it holds within one's heart.

"There is more beauty in truth, even when its dreadful beauty." - East of Eden

Steinbeck often exposed what he believed to be America's shame and inequality. The naked, unabashed endeavor for much of America to survive. He documented the constant struggle between good and evil, the moral and amoral, the strong and weak, the weak and the weakest. He illustrated the clocked humanity verses the acknowledged society that was 'seen'. The consequence; many of his greatest works were burned then banned. Even today many still  challenge his writings in attempt to keep them from being read.

"To finish is a sadness to a writer - a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done." - John Steinbeck

The power and imagery of Steinbeck's words are boundless. My first realization of his influence, the endurance of his characters, places and times was in 1988 while I strolled along Cannery Row.

The eighties Ocean Avenue, the version I saw,  a scenic peaceful post card. The personification of a California tourist attraction, nothing like the riotous, rowdy, dismal Depression era Steinbeck depicted. The voices of his characters and the by gone places came to life as I walked along the now charming little piece of Monterey.

The shops, restaurants, aquarium, a tribute to Steinbeck's underlying message, there is beauty in all things ugly. With time, the elegance will be exposed be it a place or a person's soul.

The dreams, the tin, the stink, the desperation, the flop house, the honky tonks, the grocery store, the nostalgia, the saints, the sinners, the doc, the boys, the artist and the whore were all vivid and alive. Their ghostly vignettes dotted the row as I spent my afternoon by the water.

The sea lions frantic honks echoed from the bay, through Cannery Row to the parking lot. They caused me to turn and look after I buckled my daughter into her car seat. I smiled.  The sun was lowering in the afternoon sky, the hints of the evening shades were beginning to paint the horizon. In the hues of orange and red I could hear Doc's opera, hear his voice recite the Sanskirt poem to his guests in the final chapter of Cannery Row.
"Even now
I know that I have savored the hot taste of life
Lifting green cups and gold at the great feast.
Just for a small and forgotten time
I have had full in my eyes from off my girl
The whitest pouring of eternal light- "  - Cannery Row

My life was vastly different than Steinbeck's characters. Yet that afternoon, as the sun shone on my face I was reminded even in our inequalities, I shared a lot with them. I too was sad and broken. I was a lost soul, resigned to my recent fate of loneliness.

Not many writers can bring a place so dead back to life so vibrantly, connect the souls of one era to another. Steinbeck had that gift.  He truly was/is one of the greatest American writers.

Happy Birthday Mr. Steinbeck!

Photographs; A Collage of Memories

Fragments of time, they cover my walls, adorn my dresser, sit next to me as I write. Snapshots that cause me to remember, laugh, smile and at times cry.  A collection of moments, scattered vignettes, glimpses of where I came from, reminders of the love that transformed me, made me who I am. Portraits spanning over a hundred years; sepia tones, black and white, and vibrate Kodachrome encompass me. Beautiful reflections captured, framed, treasured and loved; everlasting memories that will survive long after I have left this earth.

A photo floats in a glass frame. In the background, a small wave is rushing in from the Atlantic, small shells dot the wet sand, bits of sea grass pierce through the white foam as it recedes back into the ocean. Sitting center stage, against summer's backdrop, my daughter, Kathryn, and grandson, Cole. The loves of my life.

My daughter's hair is pulled back, a few loose strands silhouette her sun kissed cheeks, accentuating her sad eyes and playful frown. My little girl's whimsical pout cannot mask the truth, she is all grown up. A brightly colored shark hat shades my grandson's face, casting a shadow across his tears. At a year old, the ocean is too big, too loud and too scary, even in his mom's arms.  The moment captured for eternity, Cole's reaction to the Ocean greeting his toes for the first time.

A series of white framed 8 x 10s displayed against a vibrant purple background are testament to my daughter's patience and perseverance. Cole running along the beach, exploring the sand searching for seashells, watching dogs play in the surf. Proof love and time can conquer all fears.

Cherished photos of people I have never met stare back at me. Their journey, their love is a part of my soul.

In the midst of ambers, beiges and browns is a photograph of a chubby baby in a long white dress. He sits on the lap of a large woman. Her hair is pulled into a tight bun. Her tailored white shirt and long dark skirt are hints at her stern German upbringing. Behind them a beautiful young girl with a short bob. The only thing bigger than the bow in her hair is the collar on her blouson checkered dress. I smile at her Mary Janes, remembering how much I loved mine. On the other side of the woman, stands a young boy. His bow tie barely visible, he looks uncomfortable in his knickers and dark stockings. The occasion for the family portrait, my grandfather's christening. A joyous celebration yet all they expressions are sullen. The portrait taken at a time when smiles were not acceptable on celluloid. "People of good character did not grin, smirk, or, smile."

Directly underneath hangs a faded color Poloroid from Guadalcanal, 1944. My grandfather left for war when my mother was one, returned when she was five. A year later, in 1946, my grandfather died at the age of 36 while stationed at Camp Lee, Virginia. My mother was too young at the time and  has no memories of him.

I should know my grandfather's voice, recognize his laughter but I don't. His embrace should have been a part of my childhood but it wasn't. He is a stranger to me, yet as I stare at him he is not. Standing in line with the other officers of the Quartermaster Corps on the beach of Guadalcanal I see my nephew's stance. My mom and sister have his blue eyes. My daughter shares the same rosiness in her cheeks when she smiles. His photograph reminds me there is a part of my grandfather in all of us, and so, in a way I know him well.

When people remark I don't look my age I am reminded of a simple black frame that holds a stoic portrait of my great grandparents, Jacob and Amanda Jane. Jacob's bushy mustache, pronounced ears, and slicked back hair make him look more like Wyatt Earp than a turn of the century Iowa farmer. The bump on his nose is the giveaway to his roots; it is a definite male Robinson trait. The image of my great grandmother stunning, my Aunt Jane, her namesake, is an almost identical reflection of her beauty.

Most amazing, the photograph was taken when my great grandparents were in their late fifties. Jacob farmed all his life and Amanda Jane had given birth to eleven children.  Together they raised their family in a small Iowa farm house, not an easy life, yet nary a winkle on either face. Proof the way we age is a product of genetics not cosmetics. Or, could it be, love is the best anti-ager?

One of my favorite photographs I was not part of the moment and have no memory of the time or place it was taken. I love it because it gives me a glimpse into the life of the man I love (and lost) while we were apart.

Inside the bamboo frame sits a photograph of Bobby, taken while he was on cruise, during a Navy tradition called steel beach. Aviator sunglasses, bare-chested, black jams with bright flowers, holding a microphone and singing with a band on the flight deck. He was most definitely 'Officer and a Gentleman' handsome. Even now he takes my breath away.

Most days I smile when I gaze at him. I confess there are days, usually in March, when his image brings tears to my eyes. The photograph, the moment, I was not a part of, reminds me of one I was; the first time Bobby sang to me. Thirty years have passed yet the night seems like a blink ago. The memory so alive, I can still feel traces of his heartbeat, see reflections of us in the mirror as we danced. Carefree, doors cast open, the ocean breeze swirling around us as we turned, the moon casting our shadows across the room as he serenaded me with Springsteen. Life was large and beautiful.

I often reach out and touch his picture. What I wouldn't give to hear his voice again, share one more dance, have one more photograph to place on my wall. There is no sorrow, I am truly lucky to have the memories I do.

My healing photograph is displayed in a brown frame with an off white mat insert. The trees in the outdoor chapel created a lush green backdrop for the portrait of my father cradling my daughter at her baptism. Dad's crew cut showing the first hints of gray. Kathryn's short flowing white dress pops against Dad's favorite tan Guayabera shirt.  Kathryn's feet in their lace trimmed socks kicking at his little belly bulge. Dad is healthy and strong.

After his death I clung to the photo, looked at it often, trying to erase the memory of his cancer ridden body. For five years I watched cancer whittle away his 6'3", 210 pound frame down to 135 pounds. My mind was haunted by the helpless feeling cancer gave me. I needed to remember Dad before cancer, when he was most alive, when he was with his buddy, Kathryn.

When Kathryn was younger, she would run and jump into Dad's arms. He carried her on his shoulders, in his arms, on his back, upside down, right side up, every way imaginable. Her giggles, his cadence as he walked. Kathryn was Grandpa's little girl, and she was the light of his life. I often joked Dad was the oldest kid on the block. To survive, I needed to remember him strong and playful. The photographs on my wall, exorcised the cancer from my memory.

As I type I look around me and I see my daughter, grandson, birthdays, graduations, weddings, regattas, football games, cheerleading teams, dances, Christmas, Easter, cousins, nephews, my sister, parents, family reunions; so many imagines creating a halo of love. Reminders of the many blessings God has given me. Memories I have clung to during the hard days.

I treasure my collections of 3x5, 5x7 and 8x10s, the patchwork of browns, blacks, pewter, and whites that decorate my apartment. My prayer, as I grow older my collage of memories expands and continue to give me inspiration and guidance as I commit memories to paper.

Writer's Block- Accepting What Was

Since the beginning of November I have been suffering from writer’s block and bouts of insomnia. Each night I would spend hours writing, only to discard the pages before heading to bed. My brain would agonize over the repeated failed attempts to start writing this particular chapter. 

My mind refusing to shut off, would sort through the interactions of the past year(s), grasping for anything that would allow me to do what I have been trying to do since I first began my book; merge what I thought I meant to one person, how I viewed him, to how it actually was and how it all led to my purgatory in January 1984.

The impossible tasks I gave myself, not only to abrogate the sin I have carried for so long, but record what I have refused to speak of or acknowledge. Somehow compose the wonderful, the ugly, the happy, and the transgression into sentences, paragraphs, and pages; a well written completed chapter.

Trying to define two characters, particularly one, was proving more difficult than I imagined. My problem, how do I keep him likable when he allowed the unthinkable to happen? Will my words be enough for the reader to understand both were good men, taught to live by the same code but only one was truly a man of honor? Perhaps the reason I can’t properly bring his character to life is because I have not fully absolved him for what happened? In order to forgive, I must acknowledge it, own it, am I ready to do that?  

One might ask, why is it so hard? Everything that was and wasn’t between Bobby and I was set in January 1984. Our fates with each other were sealed by the acts of others. It was what bound Bobby and I; my confession. It was the secret he took to his grave, the reason he swore no matter what he would always be here. It is why I always wondered, was it his sense of duty and obligation that kept him coming back, the knowledge he had or were we always meant to be together? Was it, as he said, something he always knew? The root, the complexities of it all, begin in this chapter. The one I am afraid to author.

When I first began my book, the stress of trying to portray everyone fairly, reliving every moment was too daunting, so I skipped the chapter and proceeded to the next. Now I must find the words that have eluded me and finish my book.  My frustration growing with every failed attempt.

Last night was the same, hours spent struggling to camouflage enough of the truth so certain people would not be seen as who/how they really were. After deleting seventeen or so pages I lay in bed staring at the wall, then the ceiling, next the door and finally reaching for the photo tucked behind my iPod on my nightstand. Praying his photo will ease my confusion. As I shifted from one position to the next, my brain shuffled through question after question until they seemed to swirl above my bed and haunt me.  Why was it so hard writing what was?

A hint of light was beginning to peek through the transom when I gave up the notion of sleep. Hoping my confusion and weariness would somehow filter out in a coherent form I turned on my computer. I was wrong. Frustration came quickly. Type a few letters then hit backspace, backspace, backspace. Join a few words, finish a sentence then highlight and delete; the maddening cycle was repeating. His character and mine, our relationship still not melding, the truth lost beneath the sugar coated illusion I was trying to create. One I had clung to for many years.

I closed word, pulled out a few pieces of his mail from when he was at the Academy and in flight school. I signed onto Facebook and Gmail to read the last couple years of correspondence. As the sun rose an epiphany occurred. I stared at his letters, remembering all that happened between us. The boldness of the truth screaming between the lines, his words were hollow. As empty as the love he gave me. I loved him but in 1983/84 I was never sure if he really loved me. Every I love you he wrote was followed by a but; real love never has a qualifier.  Why was I afraid to show the lopsidedness of our relationship? Thirty years later, was it my pride stopping me from conceding the truth?

He may have said he loved me countless times, written it a hundred more yet his actions proved otherwise. Reality, he was the only person who could have stopped what happened and he didn’t. As much as I want to cling to the idea I meant everything to him, he treated me well, I can’t. He may be a good man now but in 1984 he was a confused self-centered jackass and I was an immature fool who believed my love would change him. We were both young, naïve and stupid. I had no trouble portraying myself as such, why couldn't I do the same with him? 

Reading his letters I understood, I couldn’t connect with his character because I was writing how I wanted everyone to perceive him, our relationship, not how it actually was. My blindness, my stupidity, put in place the circumstances that gave a truly wonderful man guilt he did not deserve. Regret that should have been carried by him, Bobby borne willingly. Did he do so because they were friends or because Bobby and I would become lovers? The questions ricocheted in my mind while my writing was gridlocked.

The sun was halfway through the morning sky when I read a passage in my journal from 30 January 1984, “Why didn’t you look for me? Do you care? You turned your back on my tears. Did you ever love me? I will always love you but more than anything I wish I’d never met you.”

My journal from thirty years ago reminding me of the damage he had done, how badly he hurt me. Peace would only come with the truth. My twenty year old self demanding I show him how he truly was, not the illusion developed over the years. In 1984 I loved and hated him at the same time.  I finally comprehended It was okay to show the side I hated, the part of him that was conflicted. I was trying to characterize him, us as perfect, when none of us were. 

If we had been perfect, I would have never been damaged so deeply and Bobby wouldn't have had to put me back together. The difference I needed to show between the two. Bobby never said or wrote he loved me, but he proved it through perseverance. Something he never did. 

In 1987 I let the truth be buried with Bobby. One of the reasons I decided to write, to let everything finally be told.  I owe him that much. I owe him more, I owe him my life.

Now that I have accepted it all for what it was, the words are flowing once again.

For Steve

October 3, 2013 the national news was broadcasting day three of the government shutdown. For the Arundel community the news we awoke to, our old friend Steve Casto had died the night before in Los Banos, California. Newscasters were questioning why the World War II memorial was closed to visiting veterans. The questions that swirled through my mind and many of our friends were the how, the where and the why? It was several days before I was able to process what happened, let it sink in, accept his death and be able to write about the boy I knew, the man he became, the person I loved so dearly growing up.

Steve was a fierce competitor in athletics but inside was a gentle soul. His smile and good looks melted many hearts, but it was his character, who he was on the inside, that we all fell in love with. Steve wore many ‘hats’ in high school. He was an artist, an athlete, a flirt, a teammate, classmate, mischief maker and brother but to me he was simply my friend.

I know many who are reading this will have different memories of Steve, these are mine and I hope you will share yours in return. Steve would love the memories, smiles, laughter and conversation.

I first met Steve in Girl Scouts. Yes, crazy but true. I was in 7^th grade, Steve was in 8^th.   Our Cadet Girl Scout leader was Mrs. Cislo, her son Jeff was a good friend of Steve’s. The two on occasion would crash a few meetings. Much to my father’s dismay, Steve and Jeff even accompanied our troop on a few camping trips.  They amused themselves by scaring us through various tactics while we slept in our tents. My Dad. as a chaperon, spent most of the night chasing them while trying to keep calm and order at the campsite. After finally cornering them, he threatened to send them to Leavenworth if they didn’t go to bed and let him sleep.  

What I remember most about Girl Scouts and Steve. The ‘ruckus’ they would cause hanging outside, waiting for the girls to exit. I was never one of the cute girls Steve and Jeff hoped to talk to as they left Girl Scouts, they barely noticed me.

It wasn’t until late summer 1975 that Steve and I became friends. It of course happened after a Girl Scout meeting. My sister (who they both had a crush on) left with a friend. Steve noticed I was heading home alone. Even though I did not live that far away he was not letting me walk by myself. He rode his bike in big circles around me, back and forth, the entire way from the church to my house. Instead of taking off after I was home safe, he stayed. We sat on the sidewalk, eating ice cream and talked until well after the moon rose. With the stars as our witness, Steve appointed himself my protector that night.

My family lived on Rita Drive, the same street the Cislo’s resided. On his way to see Jeff Steve would often stop by to say hello, see what I was doing. We were definitely an odd couple. I was a scrawny teenage girl, with long hair and glasses. Steve was a well-built heartthrob, great athlete and artist. Somehow this ugly duckling formed a bond, a beautiful friendship with the handsome Prince Charming.

His hugs! I loved them. I remember them so well. They were far from the standard embrace, nothing romantic about them. Steve would stand beside me, wrap his arm around my neck, pull me in close, squeeze and give me a nuggy on the top of my head. Many times his singular goal for the afternoon was to somehow make me scream and/or run. If I did both it was a bonus day. He had succeeded. 

I have so many wonderful memories of Steve floating through my mind right now.  I remember the bounce in his step as he carried me home piggyback style from school. I had tripped wearing platform shoes and turned my ankle. I was sitting on the sidewalk, removing my shoes when he came to my rescue.

I remember the first 'Casto artwork' he ever drew me. He stole my Government book as I walked by him on the way to class. I yelled at him to bring it back. He held it up high and said later as he quickly walked away.  He returned it three periods later. On the book cover, a hand drawn bouquet of flowers with the words, ‘Good Luck’ arching around them.  (I was trying out for Poms that afternoon)

So many vivid memories from Steve’s wrestling days; the trash bag suits he and all the guys wore to lose water weight.  The meets, I remember how he looked standing in the circle ready for the whistle, bouncing back and forth, shaking his arms loose. His exhausted but happy look as his hand was being raised in victory. How he would almost collapse on the sideline after a long hard match. His protective head gear dropped at his feet, half sitting up, half slouched in the folding chair, as he squirted water in his mouth from the bottle. I remember how he and his teammates would sometimes get on all fours, lean in close to the mat cheering on a teammate as they wrestled.

Steve had a mischievous side. After congratulating him on an Arundel football win, I made the mistake of teasing him. I held my nose as I told him he stunk. He laughed, said “really” then proceeded to give me the biggest, longest hug. I probably looked like a rag doll as he spun me around in his tight embrace. Like a big bear he shook me a few times, rubbing his jersey against my uniform, before finally putting me back on the ground. I can still see his grin as he laughed and walked toward the locker room.

There was the time when school let out early due to snow. I hid behind a car in the high school parking lot and waited patiently for him to exit, commence my surprise attack. After I hit him with two rapid fire snowballs, I ran. I made it to the edge of the baseball field before he pinned me and jammed snow down my coat.  After I called Uncle three times and promised never to bean him again he let me up. I broke that promise the next snowfall with the exact same result.

In tenth grade when the guy I had a crush sent me a note breaking my heart, Steve made me smile. On my way to lunch as he passed me in the hall he handed me a folded piece of paper. Inside were only three words, “He’s a turd!”  His note made me laugh and reminded me I had a friend who cared. 

Steve knew how much I hated being called Debbie’s little sister and at times he had fun teasing me with the fact.  If I was sitting outside on the steps when he ran by he would turn, run sideways and ask, “You’re Debbie’s little sister right? Is she home?” 

My playful answer, “Yeah, Yeah, Keep moving!”

The one memory/story that best illustrates the relationship Steve and I shared happened right after my 14^th birthday. July 1977.    

It was one of those hazy, hot and humid summer afternoons. My sister was at her boyfriend's, I was home laying out in the backyard. I was half asleep listening to the radio when I was startled by a sudden spray of water. I quickly tied the back of my bikini top, grabbed my glasses, looked up and saw Steve. His face had a huge smile on it as he continued to drench me. With not much success I tried to take the hose away. He locked his arm around my waist and held me tight as he held the nozzle over my head, soaking both of us in the process. 

As we were drying off Steve confessed he came over because Jeff wasn't home and he was bored. He asked if I wanted get a Slurpee. Well actually he said I had two options, walk with him or continue to get drenched. Naturally I said let's go walking.  I threw on a pair of shorts and off we went.

After leaving 7-11 instead of heading home we decided to take the paths through the woods and head to the Little Patuxent.  We hung out on the small bank in the middle of the river. I laid out on my stomach, while Steve reclined on his back. We soaked in the rays and talked, every once in a while Steve would walk in the water and splash, trying to convince me to join him. He finally got me to move when he placed a frog on my back. I screamed, jumped up and ran into the water so quickly I knocked Steve on his butt.

We headed home when the sun started to drop below the tree line. The two of us laughed and playfully bumped each other as we headed home. We were about a half a mile from the river when a snake dropped out a tree and landed in front of us blocking our passageway. I was so afraid nothing came out as I tried to scream. Instinctively I hid behind Steve. I stood with my head buried in his back, begging him to make the snake go away.

At first he laughed, asked me what I was afraid of. He went on to say there were hundreds of snakes in the woods and we had probably walked by dozens on the way there without even knowing. I told him it didn’t matter how many hundreds of snakes were in the woods, I couldn’t see them. This one I could. Further explaining, in my mind when the snake dropped from the tree it was attacking. A few minutes later, probably tired or our banter, the snake slithered off the walkway and curled up in the woody brush.

With the path clear, Steve started to walk forward but I stayed frozen. When he realized I was not following, he turned around and asked what was wrong. My eyes were starting to water as I explained to him I was afraid the snake would come back, wrap around my leg and bite me as I walked by. I didn't want to die. He tried to convince me it was a harmless snake, it was more afraid of me than I was of it.

At first frustrated he reminded me only way to get home was in that direction. He promised me the path was clear. I didn’t care until I was sure the snake was far, far away and could no longer get me I wasn’t moving.  

I am sure my babbling was ridiculous but Steve didn’t laugh, or leave me.  Instead, he scooped me up and cradled me in his arms. Told me close my eyes, turn my head into his chest so I would not see the snake.  As he carried me through the woods, he held me tight and said, “You’re safe. I got ya!”

That was Steve, if you were hurt, scared or you couldn’t make it any further, he simply ‘carried’ you, he was that kind of friend. 

Steve graduated Arundel in 1980 and we no longer passed each other in the hall. We didn't see each other as often as before. On occasion through out my senior year and then during college I would come home to find Steve sitting on my steps. He always greeted me by playfully teasing, “Are you Debbie’s little sister?”

 

Steve joined the Air Force in 1984 and the distance between us grew even further.  Through the years I would discover a post card, Christmas card or letter from Steve in my mailbox. He would tell me about his exploits in the Air Force and ask how I was doing. His correspondence stopped 1988/1989.

Sadly, back then life had a way of distracting me from my old friends that went missing. Steve was one of them. I thought of him often but never followed up to find out where he had traveled or what had happened to him.

It wasn’t until he found me on Facebook that I discovered why the sudden end to his postcards and letters.  In 1988/89 Steve was in a car accident that left him a quadriplegic. 

The first time I saw a photo of Steve in a wheelchair I cried.  The man who carried me in his arms, who ran up behind me and yelled boo, pinned me, lifted me, threw me, squeezed my neck with his arms, could no longer move, walk, or feel anything from his neck/chest down. His hands that once penned beautiful drawings lie silent by his side. I believe Steve sensed my sorrow for him. He assured me life was good.

Corresponding with Steve I discovered he was the same man, actually a better man, more alive, more loving than when we last saw each other. Steve was happy, in love and had the family he always dreamed of.

Life had not taken the path he had imagined or dreamed of when we were in high school but he was blessed by God and lucky to be where he was. He was thankful every day he was alive! 

The last correspondence I received from Steve ended with the words, “I do enjoy your writing my friend. Keep yo' chin up.”

I hope Steve likes what I have written. All the memories we shared keep me smiling when I feel a bout of sadness coming over me.

I miss Steve but in my heart I know he is no longer bound to his chair, he is standing, walking and dancing in Heaven. That gives me solace. 

Rest in peace Steve, I miss you!! 

Survival

After Monday’s bombing in Boston, the anniversary of Virginia Tech and Oklahoma City, it is easy to understand the conversations I have overheard, the tweets and Facebook posts I have read. Friends lamenting over the future, worried about their children and grandchildren; pondering what has become of society? Pregnant moms standing in line at the local grocery store wondering what kind of world they are bringing their child into.  I am surprised by the tone of surrender and the doubt in their questions and words. My response to those who question, who seem to be conceding to the wicked, look around, breathe, the world we live in, is beautiful; full of hopes, dreams, promises and love.

Boston, Newtown, Virginia Tech, Columbine, the World Trade Centers, Oklahoma City, Pan Am flight 103 (Lockerbie), the 1972 Olympics, Saigon bombings, the 1920 Wall Street bombing, are but a small compilation of heinous acts.  The list is long and horrific. Terrorist attacks are nothing unique; they were not contrived in modern times, history abounds with atrocities.  Boston sadly is another footnote in the history of barbarity.

Since man was first born on this earth, depravity has always walked in the shadow of good. The two have been a part of humanity since Cain killed his brother Abel. There is no defining evil. There will never be an acceptable why to hate.  No matter what we do or say the damnable will always be lurking in the darkness, waiting for a chance to strike, hoping to instill fear and hate in the marrow of love, honor and integrity.

Yet no matter how much damage they inflict, how many times they knock us down or attempt to destroy us, they cannot.  Evil and hate never have and never will win.  For every evil act there are a million plus generous acts.  Hearts and souls thought to be silent, sing, shout and act when faced with the malignancy of mankind. Love's harmony will always drown the noise of malice. 

We have endured Nero, Attila the Hun, Ivan the Terrible, Julius Caesar, Napoleon, Mussolini, Hitler, Mengele, Mao Zedong, Stalin, Pol Pot, Hideki Tajot, Chang Hsien-Chung, Saddam Hussein, and Osama Bin Laden; monsters that have walked this earth, laid their destruction, spread their hate but we have persevered.  Man will always survive inhuman barbarians. My heart knows this to be true. I have no doubt because I have faith in the goodness of man.

How? The truth is demonstrated by the men and women who throughout time have run into danger to save those in peril, evident by those who serve in uniform (military, police and fire), affirmed by the men and women who throughout history have stood up to injustice.  My belief strengthen by the people who leave home, travel to poverty stricken areas, places of disaster to help at their own expense, giving freely their time, love, and devotion. It is exemplified by men and women who volunteer on a daily basis to make the lives of our children and society better, Scout Leaders, Boys and Girls club volunteers, Big Brothers and Sisters, Coaches, Advocates, food banks, shelters.  Don’t let the images of one evil act diminish the panorama of good.

Love’s ember is stronger than hate’s firestorm.

We are a people, born not to hate but to love and give freely of ourselves. Evil is an abnormality that will always be outnumbered by the compassion of humankind. Strength must acknowledge its weakness, love’s is hate, faith’s is doubt, hope’s is fear and virtue’s is blindness. In the past, these failings have allowed evil to rise and these are what we must temper now. It is important to continue to be who we are, a society of free and equal people, unafraid to own our lives.

Fear should not give way to blind submission. Legislation should not be allowed to pass that lessen our freedoms. Laws cannot prevent hate and evil; only determine the consequence it must face when it arises and causes harm.  Only fools believe there is a solution, a happy harmony that can be won.  History has taught us evil will always be present. When it attempts to emerge we must be unafraid to confront it and move forward like we have always done.

Most importantly we must continue to pray, live and love.

God bless us all! 

Part 1 Permission to Grieve

The anniversary of Bobby’s death is less than twenty four hours away.  The restless nights have begun. The memories profuse, my dreams vivid and alive.  This year I decided to write on a subject some people find uncomfortable, grief.  For a few, the most aggravating, my sorrow over losing Bobby. 

Never wanting to burden anyone with my problems, before now, only a few people knew of my plight. The ability to write about the intense sorrow, making my way through what I have dubbed my ‘just shy of crazy days’, is only possible because I survived. After twenty three years, I finally allowed myself to drown in my loss and with the help of some amazing friends, was able to surface and once again breathe. 

Along the way some people recognized my pain for what it was; grief, delayed mourning. They patiently answered my questions, allowed me to cry without thought and helped me find closure.  Because of them I was able to let go and heal. 

Others whispered, questioned my tears and mocked my pain. A few friends even stopped talking to me. My silent tears, what I had written upset them. When asked why, they never answered.  Intentional or not, their words and actions added to my sorrow. They will never comprehend the hurt they inflicted during some of my darkest days.  It is because of their blindness and lack of compassion I decided to acknowledge and write about what I went through. 

Bearing my soul, stupidity or courageous, that is for the reader to decide. My prayer, that the emotional journey I traveled will help people recognize grief. Understand if not addressed properly at the time of a loved one’s sudden passing, can reoccur and continue years later. My hope, we will all learn to reach out when confronted with another’s pain instead of dismiss or mock what we cannot comprehend.  

Let me begin with part one.

What was true in my past is still true today; sharing what I feel is a rarity. Writing has allowed me to express what I fear to express verbally. Avoidance is a subject mastered. Only one person has ever broken through my emotional barricade. There was no denying the instant connection we shared. 

A year after his death, one sunny April afternoon I lie next to his grave, with my hand resting on his headstone, I confessed my love and said goodbye.  Believing that was enough to end my pain, I left Restland and tried to move forward with my life. Years later I learned accepting his death and letting him go would take longer than I ever realized. 

“To understand what was and accept what will never be is a journey wrought with tears.”

Unresolved Grief:  Denial of a loss. The pain is present, but the brain suppresses it, refusing to accept the death. Major factors, guilt over unresolved issues, words not spoken and the death is sudden.  Unresolved grief is compounded when no support system is in place; others consider the person’s loss insignificant and do not understand the magnitude of a person’s pain.  Unresolved Grief usually transforms and combines with Delayed Grief.

Delayed Grief:  When a person is not ready or prepared to deal with the loss of a loved one. Grief is avoided and/or stopped due to the unbearable intensity of feelings towards the person and the manner of loss.  It is postponed for many years rather than felt, experienced, understood and properly expressed at the time of the loss.  Ties and reminders to the person and loss are severed. Avoidance allows the person to hide their sorrow. Over time grief/pain may surface but is pushed back/denied with self-scolding until an unforeseen trigger happens.  When the grief is finally allowed to surface, the pain and sorrow is magnified from years of denial.

Permission to Grieve

21 November 2010

It was the twenty third night I spent curled in a chair next to my Father’s bed.  As I had done every night before I spent the long midnight hours reflecting, remembering, writing and watching over Dad. I looked at the clock it was a little past 2 a.m. It was time to stretch my legs and clear my brain. During my midnight strolls the whispers of the hospice house could be heard; sounds of muffled televisions, soft music and nurses quietly talking.  The usual hush was present but there was an ineffable silence as well.

Walking down the hall I found myself peering into each room as I passed.  Sadness filled me. Every patient slept alone; there was no one there to watch over them during the tenebrous hours.  The soft glow from their night light illuminated their faces as they slept.  Death awaited them yet their expressions were peaceful, welcoming.

At the end of the hall I stopped next to the last room and was still. Looking up, I searched desperately hoping to catch a glimpse of an Angel. I needed to know at least one was there waiting to take everyone home at their appointed hour. Praying for reassurance we are never truly alone. Physically and emotionally exhausted I headed back.

From the hall I could hear Frank Sinatra softly playing in Dad’s room.  Leaning against the door frame I continued to pray as I watched my father sleep.  Cancer had silenced him; he hadn’t spoken in over a day. No more words of comfort or reassurance would leave his lips. My solitude was broken as his nurse brushed by me and announced her arrival.  Snuggling into my blanket, hugging myself with its warmth, I settled back into the recliner.  

The nurse checked Dad’s tubes, administered his medications and began a conversation about her oldest daughter.  After years of dating the wrong men, her daughter had finally found love with a good man, a midshipman.  One of the day nurses had mentioned I was married to an Academy graduate. She was curious what life was like married to a man in the military. Smiling I informed her she had the wrong daughter; it was my sister who had married a Navy man. Life was good for them, they had been married for twenty eight years.  Her expression saddened when I told her I never married.

On the way out the room, she paused next to my chair, patted my hand and said, “As beautiful and loving as you are. I’m sure you had a bunch of midshipmen chasing you. I bet there is a man out there who regrets letting you go.” Then she concluded, “Such a shame you never fell in love and married.”  The fortress built long ago to protect me from similar sentiments began collapsing. To hide the tears that were forming I looked out the window.

Wanting comfort I reached for Dad’s hand.  Tired, sick, happy, angry, sleeping; no matter what state my father was in, he always squeezed my hand when he felt it inside his. There was no response; the warmth was leaving his fingers. The reality could no longer be denied, he was going to be leaving me soon.

The somber atmosphere from the hall entered the room. The strange absence, emptiness, encompassing me was present yet wasn’t.  The last of the Frank Sinatra songs played and my iPod turned dark and grew silent.  Rising from my chair I stopped when I witnessed the screen come back on and watched as my iPod shuffled. 

The opening flutes, with a gentle orchestra background gracefully danced from the speakers and diffused the room with its longing melody. I closed my eyes and held my heart as I listened to Elton John's combination of "Someone to Watch Over Me" and "Our Love is Here to Stay."  The Gershwin song I dreamed of dancing to at my wedding brought tears to my eyes. Others may think differently but in my heart I know who that dance has always belonged to. The arduous what ifs began to circulate in my heart. The nurses remark, the music, and the sensation I felt caused me to reflect on a conversation I had with my father when he was in the hospital. 

Dad had read my blog and needed to clear his conscious before he died. He told me of a handsome very excited, newly winged Naval Aviator that stopped by the house the beginning of June 1985.  When told I was not home, undaunted, he asked if he could leave a note.  Dad handed him a pad of paper, stood at the door and watched as he sat on our front porch writing. 

Dad had witnessed my countless tears over the previous two years. Believing this man would be like all the others in my past, hurt and leave me, he never gave me his letter. Instead, he tucked it away in his dresser.  Two years later, my nightly sobs tore at my father’s heart. His fears were confirmed when he unfolded the piece of paper and saw the signature. He realized my sorrow was over the man he had sent away. Afraid I would not forgive him if I learned of Bobby’s letter; he returned it to his dresser.   

Dad’s confession hung in my mind as a slide show of forgotten memories started to play on fast forward in my brain. The room spun and I could no longer breathe. Love, regret, passion, sorrow, panic, loneliness, a mixture of emotions overwhelmed me as my past rushed to the forefront of my mind.

Remembering was causing a claustrophobia of sorrow; it began to suffocate me. Insanity was but a moment away. Hoping to escape the memories, get away from the song that triggered my new affliction, I rushed out of the room. Walking to the kitchen I wiped my tears and prayed for a reprieve. 

Bracing myself, leaning over the sink, I repeated out loud, “Breathe Robinson, just breathe.”  Words were failing me, my brain was letting go and my heart was crumbling.  Hot tea would surely calm and comfort me. The cups and tea were above me, the microwave to my left.

The water flowed over the top of the cup and washed over my hand.  Staring at the scene, I was trapped in the moment. My disorientation compounded by the sound of a shock trauma helicopter flying overhead. The lonely rhythmic vibration of the blade chopping through the air, something I had heard often in my life, was now a haunting reminder of what should have been.  With each rotation, I could feel a piece of my heart vacate.

Reality was escaping me. Frozen, unable to regain control, in slow motion, I watched my cup drop and shatter at the bottom of the sink. My legs gave way as I fell to the floor in a crumpled mass of tears. The exclamation I cried shocked me, “Oh God, Bobby where are you?”   

The sound of shattering glass, my anguished cries brought my Dad’s nurse to my side. No words would form; I couldn't think, the pain so fresh it crippled me. She held me, urged me to let it all out.  Refusing to relinquish control, I fought the desperation trying to engulf me.

With mastery I had gained since Bobby’s death I quelched my tears and pulled free of her embrace.  She handed me a tissue and asked if I wanted to talk.  I shook my head, how could I? My father lie dying in the next room yet the tears I shed were for a man who had died twenty three years earlier. There was no reasoning away this betrayal against my father. How would anyone understand what I could not explain?

My tears were halted but my body was still trembling. The last thing I wanted was a witness to my meltdown. If she left, I could let whatever this was pass and pretend it never happened. My voice quivered, I thanked her for her concern, told her I would be fine but wanted to be alone. She refused. She insisted talking was necessary to heal. Expecting her to confirm my treachery and bolt in disgust, I confessed my cries were not for my father. Her reaction astonishing: she hugged me, had faith my father would understand and assured me I had committed no sin. Her reasoning; grief adheres to its own timetable. 

A few hours later, half asleep I was awakened by a knock on the door. Through the haze, I rubbed my eyes; a woman introduced herself as a grief counselor and invited me for coffee. Cordially I declined; afraid she would confirm the ‘whispers’ made by friends after I had written about Bobby, I was crazy. No was unacceptable to her. One cup of coffee and after I could decide whether or not to keep talking.

Relief and answers were sought over Folgers and deli sandwiches. Sharing a bagel, I acknowledged my defenses first weakened in May 2010. The actual beginning was Facebook  I had reconnected with lost friends. People I had purposely avoided in the past were now constant reminders of what could have, should have been. Through Facebook an invitation was sent and accepted.

Almost twenty years had passed since I had attended a Navy function.  My reintroduction to my old life was a retirement ceremony for one of Bobby’s lacrosse teammates. The empty chair next to me a stark reminder he was gone and how much I missed him. Looking at his old friends, in my mind I could hear myself tell him, "Bobby you should be here." I questioned God why he wasn't. The speeches were lost to the memory of a conversation Bobby and I shared; at least one of his boys would play for Navy and they would win the lacrosse championship that had eluded him in 1983. In the audience were several teenagers, none his. Bobby died before his dream of children could be realized. 

A few days later I began writing the series of blogs on Bobby. Believing if I let go of some of my memories, it would be enough to stop the tears that were beginning to surface after a long absence. With the conclusion of the series, after the last word was written, I thought Bobby was once again safely laid to rest in my heart. Dreams began to confuse me; not sure if I was remembering in my sleep or wishing.

The answers I knew could be found in my journals but I refused to seek them; terrified I would discover the dreams were real and not fiction. Not understanding how can you love someone yet lose so much of what happened? Bury so many beautiful memories?

The counselor's conclusions were reassuring; I was not crazy. To survive my brain hid what I was not prepared to handle in 1987. The mind has a way of protecting the heart. I needed to read my journals to find the truth. My peace could only come if I allowed myself to finish grieving. To complete it, I had to acknowledge who Bobby was to me and no longer hide what I felt.

Over the next few months whenever I felt overwhelmed we shared coffee. With her help I came to an important realization; in life and in death I have always been consistent with Bobby.  In life for a time I ran from him, convinced I was not good enough for him, afraid of the secret he kept, scared I had no control over my feelings and terrified of the intensity of it all. 

Since 23 March 1987 I had been running from Bobby, specifically his death; hiding from the overwhelming sorrow. Through the years I ran to protect myself from the immense guilt and regret that haunted me. To cope, I hid what I felt, denied my tears, buried memories. Slowly I cut off all ties to everyone and everything that reminded me of Bobby.      

Reality is often hard to acknowledge. To understand everything, my assignment, I had to take a very painful examination of whom I was and who Bobby was to me. Relinquish my sorrow and give myself permission to grieve. 

End of part one
next a look back 

The Mist of a Boo

My phone rings, I answer to hear,  "Happy New Year Coach!" 

"Happy New Year!" I respond. 

I apologized for not recognizing her voice, explained unavailable showed on my phone screen, so I didn't even know where the call was coming from and I asked who it was. I heard her laugh, "It's been a long while, I am not sure if you will remember me but its Boom, your mist of a boo!"

It took me a second to make the connection, place a face with the nickname. because I had never technically coached her. The two of us laughed as we walked down memory lane, filling in each other's memory gaps.
.

She was this little bitty thing, cheering on a younger team. She would stay after her football game to watch my older kids cheer.  I dubbed her Boo because she always tried to sneak up behind me, make me jump.  She was one of the kids who constantly told me she couldn’t wait to get older, cheer on my team and be one of my girls.

   

I remember the many conversations between the cheerleading commissioner and myself. Her coach was frustrated with her team, especially the young girl I called Boo. She was too small to base and because she had been dropped to the ground the year before she was afraid to fly, she constantly gave up on builds and bailed. Kim our of frustration joked, the team was a stunting nightmare and asked if I could go help with the younger team, “work my magic”.   Never one to say no, or turn down a stunting challenge, I agreed.

Boo showed up at our next game and I asked my kids a favor. I asked a few of my more experienced bases to put her up so I could see what she was like in the air. I was hoping with the help of my girls, the ones she looked up to and admired, together we could start chipping away at her fear of being dropped. Give her the confidence to go back in the air and fly. The first time the girls tried to put her up, she bent her leg, crumpled and came right back down.  I saw the panic in her eyes as they took her up, much faster than she was used to. I told them to try again. 

   

As she stood in her load in position, her head was down, shoulders dropped; I had seen that look before, that was the position of giving up. I knew it didn’t matter who was under her, she did not trust herself or them, she was afraid. I told Boo to look me in the eyes. I ran through the basics, always keep her head and eyes up, shoulders and hips squared, elbows up so she could push off, then prep, and stand up and lock the leg out. It was a piece of cake she just had to want to do it.  I lifted her chin, smiled and assured her, she could do it. I would never let her get hurt; she had my girls underneath her, she would not hit the ground as long as I was around.  She could do it, I had enough faith in her for the both of us. I reminded her, a single leg lib is a simple build. Next I asked my girls to take her up slow and keep her up there until I said bring her back down.

    

This time she stood up, my girls had her fully extended but once she was up, she kept bending her knee, trying to bail, force my girls to bring her down. My girls even more stubborn than I am, followed my instructions and refused to sweep her. Every time she bent her knee, waved her arms, one of my taller kids extra spotting would push her butt back up, forcing her to stand up. I stood in front, instructing her, keep your head up, lock your leg, don’t swing your arms, you are up there, you can do this, you are not coming down until you lock it out and stand.  Elizabeth who was basing her, yelled, “You are light. We can stay here all night so just lock your leg out.”  Boo finally steadied herself and stood in perfect lib. I gave her a thumbs up, yelled "That’s it you are doing it!"  As promised once she hit and held the lib I gave my bases the 1,2 to cradle (bring her down, catch her).  I saw a huge smile when they caught her, and that confirmed her heart loved to fly but her brain was afraid of falling.   

As long as the heart is in the game, you can eventually get the brain to get with the program.  I told my girls, load up do it again, reminded her to lock out, show everyone watching she was a flyer.  I reminded her if she wanted to be one of my kids one day,  number one rule, don’t give up, fight for every build.  We went through the drill several times, load in, up, hold, cradle.  The more she hit the happier she became, I still remember her yelling at her Dad to take her picture. She was proud; so was I.

The following week I showed up at her practice to help their coach work on team stunting.  I watched as my Boo loaded up, bend her leg and fall before she ever got close to standing up. Each time I would correct her bases, correct her form and say let’s do this again. It was obvious, she was scared and her bases were scared. Her entire group was defeated they had no faith in themselves or each other. They were giving up before they even started.

I pulled Boo aside to give her a personal pep talk. I reminded her she could fly, she had flown with my girls; she was beautiful in the air. If she could fly with my girls, there was no reason why she could fly with her team. She was always in control, it was up to her if she hit or she fell. She tried to give me the excuse, it was her bases they always give up first. I explained, her bases were afraid because she was afraid. How would she like to be a base, and be under a girl who constantly gave up?  Fear was contagious and so was fearless.  She controlled which one her group would be infected by. Instead of giving up she needed to fight, she needed lead, to show everyone underneath her she was not afraid, they could do it together. I could tell by her expressions she was still not convinced. Again, she gave me the excuse her bases moved, it was hard to stand, she was afraid they were going to drop her, she would hit the floor again. 

As a coach, my kids will tell you I use some really ‘different’ analogies for my motivational talks. I use what pops in my brain at the time, which at times can be a bit interesting. 

  

It was raining outside so I asked her if she was afraid of Thunderstorms, she rolled her eyes and said not since she was a little kid.  I explained she could always be a mist of a boo, the flyer who comes down in a simple drizzle or she could become a BOOM, the flyer who goes up and stays up even in a heavy thunderstorm.  She needed to think of her bases as the wind, the wind doesn’t stand still, it always moves and shifts. No matter how much her bases shifted, she had to be fearless, lock her leg out and stand up.  Thunder never stopped or gave up because the wind was moving. I always believed the stronger the wind the louder the boom. As a flyer, the more her bases moved the stronger she had to be. No matter what was going on underneath her, she had to be fearless, squeeze everything and lock out. If she did that, her bases could get her up and keep her up. I added personally I thought she was more of a Boom than a Boo. In fact after watching her fly with my girls I knew she was a Boom, she just needed to see it to. Have faith.

I patted her on her back and sent her back to her build group. They loaded up and down she came.  I told them it was okay, made a few corrections and adjustments, then before I said 1,2 I heard her small voice say, “We can do this.”  Once again she came down. Not allowing the frustration to build, I told them it was okay, that is what practice is for, to learn, falling was a part of learning. I lifted Boo's chin, smiled at her and instead of hanging her head back down, this time she said a little louder, “We can do this.”   By the end of the night, her constant, we can do it, her determination caught on and her stunt group was hitting and staying up. More importantly they were smiling and starting to gain confidence they were missing before. They even learned to twist in a half.  When I left, I gave my boo and her group each a high five and I told her to keep booming away. 

I would go back to her practice several more times, helping them learn and master new stunts. I will never forget at counties; watching my little bitty flyer who weeks before was terrified of stunting, hit all her builds. She ran off the floor with a huge smile, gave me a high five, a hug and proudly announced "I am officially a Boom."
    

My little boom never cheered for me, her father was in the Army and they were reassigned/moved the following year.

After reminiscing, I asked her after all these years why she called? I was happy she called but technically I was never her coach so her call truly surprised me.
She explained, she was home on leave before being deployed. She was helping her mom go through some old boxes, organize her things, when she came across some of her old cheerleading photographs and papers.  My cell phone number was on the bottom of one of the GORC contact sheets.  She was happy I still had the same number. I confessed that is why I always kept it, so my kids could always find me no matter how long it had been.

She was excited to learn I was still coaching. She envied my girls; she had always wanted to cheer on my squad.  She told me she cheered in high school, was a flyer and I would be proud she never bailed, she always fought to stay up. It didn't matter how many times she was dropped, she stayed fearless and got back up.  She always remembered to lead with confidence not fall with fear.

She called because she wanted to let me know when she was in OCS (officer candidate school) there were times she was tired, hurt, sore, ready to give up, for some reason she reflected back to her days at GORC and my crazy faith in her.  She reminded herself, she was always a Boom she never again wanted to be the mist of a boo that gave up. 

She wanted me to know how much it meant to her that I took time to talk to her, encourage and work with her. In her eyes I was the cool coach, I taught the older girls. She would watch the interaction I had with my cheerleaders at football games, the fun we shared and she wanted to be one of my girls. In a way I was her idol, she looked up to me, my girls and I paid attention to her, made her feel special and taught her she could do anything. Before she deployed she wanted to make sure I understood how much it helped her grow. 

Sometimes we never realize, it’s the moments, the conversations, the practices we forget. They are inconsequential at the time. We never recognize its the small tidbits of our life that can have the biggest impact on another’s.  

For most of my adult life I have coached either gymnastics or cheerleading.  I have worked with hundreds of children. I teach them for a few years and as in all things in life, they move on, they leave me. As a coach, I hope, I pray I have had a positive influence on them; I have been able to help them grow, reach their full potential.

Without a doubt, my kids have helped me to become a better me, a better coach and I pray I have done the same for them.  I hope they always look back with laughter and smiles at the times we worked, played, and accomplished many goals together, as a team.

I confess there are days when I leave practice and I am never quite sure if I used the right words, if I am really reaching them, are they listening, and I wonder all things a coach wonders.

…then the phone rings and a voice from my past is there reminding me exactly why I coach. Confirmation, crazy analogies and all I am not doing such a bad job.
Today's phone call also reminded me how neglectful I have been.

When I coach, instruct,encourage, give my crazy speeches and pep talks, it's not just me; the words, the methods are all formed from the influences of my past coaches, friends and teachers. I think it's about time I let those wonderfully special people know how much they have meant in my life. How much of what they taught me, I have absorbed and passed on to my kids. It really is a wonderful legacy we coaches share. 

So maybe a great resolution for 2013, is to reach back, remind all the people in our past how much they have meant to us.  How much they have influenced us all. 

Happy New Year everyone!! Be safe and God Bless.