The email subject line said simply, "Congratulations."

I figured it was a cc to me along with some newspaper friends we know or something so I would be "in the know."

Instead, when I opened it up, it was addressed just to me, but was empty except for his and the Lifestyles Editor’s work addresses and such and an attachment to a Word document.  I opened it up.  It said:   "WRITING CONTEST WINNERS, 2008."

I quickly scanned down to the category I entered in the Picayune Writer’s Group contest back in May.  (Remember?)  Here’s what my category (those 60 or older) list said (I’ve added links back to the specific stories so you can read them):

Senior
Non-fiction, First Place, Acquisition, July 4, 1995 by Dee Ann
Andrews; Second Place, Lost in the Shuffle by Lee J. Barras; Third Place
(tie), A Perfect Day by Dee Ann
Andrews and It Wasn’t My Fault by Ida
Mae Burnor.

Y’all . . . I WON!!!

And, Tom definitely wanted me to be "in the know" because I hadn’t heard a word from anyone about anything connected with the contest and the "news" won’t be coming out until this Sunday’s newspaper.

I’m tellin’ ya – sometimes it pays to have friends in high places (and husbands who are newspaper publishers).  I’m so excited.  Those were my two favorite stories out of the four y’all helped me choose from and the two best out of the three I entered.  In fact, "Acquisition, July 4, 1995" was my favorite of those two, but I love "A Perfect Day," too, because it’s about the last day I spent with my dad on earth.  I guess the judges agreed with what I (and you all) thought, which is neat.

What do I win, you ask.  Well, I get a free copy of the Anthology 2008 they will be publishing in October and a Certificate of Merit.  But, the best part will be your accolades because y’all helped me chose the ones to enter and are my best friends.

I immediately called Tom, of course, as soon as I read the winners and he is full of congratulations.  We’re going to have to celebrate somehow.  I was already really happy this morning because I saw my endocrinologist yesterday for a three month check-up and my blood work was all the best it’s ever been in the 38 years I’ve been diabetic.  Plus, I’d lost seven more pounds since last time.

I hope you will all celebrate with me because when I submitted my stories and as the time has gone on I’ve continually prayed that God would be glorified by my work and that I might be able to reach out to someone new by it.

Cheers & Blessings to you all today!  Dee

Tom has already picked out his three favorites and I agree with him, but am wondering what y'all think, too, so let me know.  THANKS!  Dee] 

 A PERFECT DAY

  For most people, September 15 has no special meaning.  It comes a week before fall officially blows in; one of the last “dog days” of summer.  To the IRS it means money – the day third quarter estimated taxes come due.  It held no meaning for me  – until September 15, 1996.  

    Although I had often since thought of that day – the last with my dad – I didn’t fully appreciate it’s impact until I visited my mom one recent spring.  It was my second visit in a month, and not feeling well when I started, I almost stayed home.  But my older son and his family from Virginia were visiting Grandma and I wanted to see them; so I drove on – 700 miles from New Orleans to Abilene, Texas.  

    The week that had begun poorly, got worse.  I developed a horrendous head cold and  hacking cough, resulting in little sleep and abject daily misery.  By midweek I was struggling to keep going.  

    My mood suddenly shifted, however, when my mom walked into my room  and placed a single, perfect, apricot-hued rose in a small crystal vase on the table by my bed.  At the sight of the rose, memories flooded my mind, spilling over in an unbidden river of tears, yet joy, that swept me back through time to the September day in 1996 spent in this very room, and a similar bedside rose from the same bush outside the window.  

    The significance of that faraway day was wrought in the minute details, beginning with a late blooming, unattended, unnoticed-until-that-day, brilliant rose growing outside next to the alley – within a window’s peek of finding.  But no one looked out that window.  I had seen it early that morning while running an errand for my ailing dad.  Surprised at the find, I decided to cut it when I came back in, but got busy and soon forgot.  Mom’s trip to the bank jogged my memory, and I rushed out to cut it.    

     I dug out a small crystal vase to place the rose in, added water and set it down gently near Dad’s bed, where he could see.  The bright rose matched his bright spirits, and he smiled every time he opened his intense blue eyes.  He was happy I was near to keep him company.  He was the reason I was there.  He was ill and needed me.

    The time with dad was especially significant for me, as only in recent years had we come to have a close and loving relationship.  He had seemed distant and forbidding to me since the earliest, innocent days of childhood, when he was a young, loving father to a happy little girl.  All that had changed somehow; a darkness had swept over our lives when I was about ten, stealing upon us without mercy or reason.  Forces beyond my understanding separated what was once a loving, carefree bond, propelling us an eternity apart, walls of silence between.  

    My younger brother died, my family fractured, my father figuratively disappeared.  He grieved my brother’s loss and his own parents’ futilities at dealing with mental illness and unspeakable tragic flaws by disappearing into himself, into a world of right and wrong, black and white – where life was never gay, or warm, or free.  And I became afraid.

    After that time, I had never once opened myself up to my dad until a critical juncture occurring in my 43rd year.  Following a bitter divorce that ended a 24 year marriage, I had fallen deeply and completely in love with the man who is now my husband and had just introduced him to my dad, still a formidable foe to suitors, to say the least.  Those who had known my dad knew him to be a man of stern countenance, strong conviction and few words.  When he spoke, others listened.  I quaked.  But, my new found love compelled me to act despite my fear, to try to reveal to dad, for the first time since early childhood, what was in my heart.  

    At first, he refused to listen or to even acknowledge, that I might have a valid point of view apart from his, falling naturally into well-worn patterns of myth and memory, which had long ago permanently etched the terms of our relationship.  Such patterns are hard to erase.  

    For the first time ever, I stood my ground and spoke my mind; I poured out my heart and expressed my fear – especially of Dad.  He had no idea; was shocked by all I said.  Then, slowly, surely, he stretched beyond the barriers of long lost years and a lifetime of silent sentiment to listen to my heart and to share with me his own.  All obstructions disappeared, replaced once more by a father’s tender concern.  The first crucial steps toward a real and lasting relationship were begun.  We became whole again.

    Eight short years later, it was coming to an end.  As the rose stood watch with me that sunny September morning, I lovingly tended my dad.  Few words were spoken; there was no need.  To sit and watch and hold his hand became my only tender task.  Every detail of the room captured my wandering eye – the rose, the sun streaming in on dusty diamonds of light.

     The sight of his thick, unworn glasses lying next to the rose ripped at my heart.  Glasses were never missed or mentioned, or even once remembered in some swiftly passing thought, by one so nearsighted as to be blind without them.  Never mentioned.  Never missed.  Never requested.  But, never needed in order to see what really mattered that glorious, sunny day.  I finally felt compelled to put them away until needed again.  They never were, and my heart tears even now at the remembering.

    Did I mention the breeze?  The cool breeze drifting through the north windows I opened to capture the autumn wind?  I suppose, technically, it was a late summer cool spell.  But to me it held the earthy smell of fall and my mind’s eye clearly saw ripening, bursting bolls of cotton down the road.  I could almost smell the burrs burning at the gin – a favorite childhood memory.  Where I grew up, there were no bright-colored leaves of fall; only golden grains and chalk-white cotton, and that glorious earthy smell of burrs burning at the gin.  Smoke saturated not only the air for miles around with a pungent acrid smell, but indelibly infused my mind.  At the gin, where cotton was separated from seed and burr, baled and weighed, burrs burned constantly in a glowing blaze that lit the sky for miles.  

    My dad had once farmed; his engineer mind striving to impose order on the land; his long, square fingers tooled more to work an engineer’s square than a farmer’s tools.  His love for the farm never left, although he did, forced away by the times.  His farmer’s life, long since gone, swept me toward thoughts of him now; still strong in mind, now sweet in spirit, happy in heart, capable of facing death as he faced life – never wavering in faith and hope.  All he had been had worn away – only the essence remained, including his love for me.  His life was complete.

     “You’ve lived life well,” I softly told him.  His radiant blue eyes opened and beamed with joy; he wept.

    The cool-warm breezes blew in – drifting along the sheer edges of the curtains, lifting them ever so slowly and gently patting them down again.  Strains of music filled the wind-warmed air on unseen waves of sound that lifted hearts and gently smoothed them out again.  Dad’s selection; Chet Atkins’ gentle guitar.  All except for the last, clear song of the hour, when Atkins sang words to two hearts beating so closely in tune as to be one strong beat.&nbs
p; My dad’s heart and mine.

    The song was one that neither of us expected and for which neither was prepared.  From a boy child, son, grown-older man about his long-missed dad.  “I still can’t say good-bye,” Atkins crooned, and our hearts sang the words, as well, and nearly burst from the pathos pulsing through the tune.  Our hearts knew the song, and cried for the boy child, son, grown-older man who so long ago had lost his dad and still could not bring himself to say goodbye.  

    Now this girl child, daughter, grown-older woman sat with her dad still here, in this bed next to the table top vase holding perfect rose, and grieved for the singer of the song.  She denied her own coming loss – unable to even think goodbye after such a short time, much less endure the coming pain.  Enough to grieve the song’s sad son.

    A while afterward came a nearly futile chase to find the perfect lunch to compliment the perfect day so swiftly sliding by.  Nothing pleased.  Nothing satisfied. No notion could capture the imagination to stir the soul, or stomach, to ingest even a bite of food.  Until I suddenly knew the perfect food:  knowledge captured from memories of being ill and wanting nothing more than clear broth to soothe the wearied body.  I suggested tortilla soup from an eatery a few miles away.  

    The near-futility of the trip had to do with local laws prohibiting the “carrying out” of any kind of insulated container which could contain a “most vile” alcoholic remedy, rather than chicken broth.  Such strong remedy was not required this day and would have been too much for such a perfect noon.  There was a delay.  But a slow-rising crescendo of wounded words about the “perfectness” of the day touched a heart, captured a prayer, and resulted in the savory concoction being “carried out” despite the dire predictions of being waylaid by “the law.”

    It was a successful lunch.  Only one in attendance at the table, and one to attend.  Not much was actually eaten after all the fuss about the cup, but lunch was graciously received. Several days later I remembered the soup and finished it off in good spirits, savoring the cilantro-sour, onion-sharp green flecks floating in the deliciously warm and soothing broth.  Satisfying, still.

    As the afternoon idly drifted by, we sat in silence, side by side, in breezy, blowing air, still filling the sun-warmed room with bursting curtain balloons, falling back in sheer collapse.  Hearts played songs from long lost tunes; anthems with age-old themes.  The single, perfect rose drew toward the light and brightened even more in the setting sun’s glowing rays.  I secretly prayed the day would never end.  

    Death-dark shadows momentarily blocked the sun, but were denied by the quicksilver brightness of the present day; the breeze, the rose, the lovely peace and graceful songs.  This wonderful, perfect last day of summer, first day of fall, life full of memories and memories-full-of-life kind of day.  The kind of day to be remembered in minutia for a lifetime, to honor a lifetime’s last breathtaking, glorious day.

    I’ve often thought since it is the kind of day I would like to have as the last day of my life, as it was his.  To tiptoe toward death quietly, at home and full of years; a single perfect rose, freedom from bottle-thick glasses, music borne on a perfect breeze, and clear, soothing soup.  A quiet reverie spent between dad and daughter – and God – who, that day, gave us both a small glimpse of infinite truth and vision of all a day can be.

    As my dad and I had so aptly begun to learn eight years before, when one embraces love – including its pain – life is composed of singular, crystal-pure, delicately crafted days, each flawless in its own way.  Each moment must be grasped and appreciated for what it individually is and all it holds, stretching out through time to become the lifetime allotted to each, as we ever search for that next great dawn which lingers so near, just past the last, peaceful night.

    Sometime early the next morn before I could see the dawn, my dad’s bright soul took heavenly flight to eagerly await and see, before I could know, the glow of a new perfect day where he lingers still.  He waits for me; to come sit in the breeze next to a perfect rose, to smell the burning burrs and to sing a happy song.

    Mom’s voice brought me back to the present.  I tearfully thanked her for the thought, and the rose; then we talked easily and joyfully and lovingly about my dad – and even about that September day.  The rest of the week went so much better.  I savored each minute of each passing day and every time I looked at the rose, I thought of Dad.  I wanted to photograph the rose; to keep it’s image with me forever.  But there was no need.  I remember.

    When I left to go home, my car was filled to overflowing with a new quilt, gifts; even food for the trip.  You know how mothers can be.  I was already moving in the car, having said at least a dozen goodbyes, when suddenly I stopped.  I ran back through the house to that special room, grabbed the rose, vase and all, raced back to the car and carefully placed it in the cup holder between the front seats.  I looked at the rose often as I drove the entire 700 miles home, my heart filled with a happy tune.  When I arrived, the rose graced the dresser by my bed, where it stayed fresh for another week – at least, in my mind.  

    I now often think of how my heart sought courage to challenge my dad’s, how his bravely accepted and embraced the challenge and how we redeemed a connection  with one another.  I think of how valiant Dad was to give up his lifelong’s certitude and to open his heart to mine.  Most of all, I think of that brilliant apricot rose from that perfect September day and find other such days come along now more and more.  I appreciate each for what it is and quietly observe the exquisite, infinite details, as I did that day long ago.

     I remember Dad, too.  And, I still can’t say goodbye.

I've been working on them with Tom, who has made a few suggestions and edits, and he has picked out which three he likes the best out of "Acquisition - July 4, 1995," that I posted several days ago, "Search for Profoundness Leads Back Home," which is the post just before this one, "Home," which I'm posting today, and "A Perfect Day," which will be the next and last story for y'all to choose from, too. 

So, read this one and comment about it - what it makes you think about and how "readable" it is, etc. - and then you can read the next one in a few days, which is another one about me and my dad.  I've had lots of comments on "Acquisition" and how much y'all liked that story about me and my dad, so with "A Perfect Day" you'll get another one. 

Hope you're liking them and that you'll comment on this one for me.  Tom does and thinks I'll do well in the contest.  I hope so!  Dee]

HOME

Certain forces in our lives, particularly in childhood, profoundly influence and shape the way we perceive the world forever afterward.  Such forces worked in me, indelibly imprinting, far below the surface of conscious thought, certain foundations for rational thought, and perhaps, irrational notions, of how the world should be.

    One of the most powerful of those forces was the wind.  At the time I was unaware, except innately, and perhaps emotionally, that the wind  – a constant presence in the vast West Texas landscape – was etching my heart in such an fundamental way.  It left its intrinsic mark on everything it touched, nothing could escape its power.  It could be a frightful fiend, as well a friend.   But how could I escape?  The wind always blew; no relief existed.

     It whipped the air, sand stinging the skin and irritating the eyes.  Sculpted dunes born of wind and soil sent tumbleweeds rolling across the land.  Wind sang a chorus of whistles and moans, sometimes in a cacophony of noise, sometimes sighs and whispers; but always, it sang.  Wind echoed, as well, in windmills’ creaks and groans as together the mills and wind brought necessary water to the surface to sooth the parched, dry land.  Without wind to provide water’s power, the land could provide no crops or bring relief to weary farmers.

    My truest visions of life were sculpted, as well, by that long remembered, never forgotten wind, those vast, open plains, and the small community of people who surrounded me, giving me not only the capability to follow the wind where it would lead; but also to return – at least in my dreams – to home.  

    In my mind, the ideal world, and especially  home,  is a solitary place in an ocean of azure skies and green and brown checkered fields, with a broad, unending horizon sprouting towns and grain elevators and cotton gins on mirage-mirrored mornings.  One can step outside the door and see the world for as far as one’s eyes can see.

    Growing up in such a world provided a strong continuity of community.  While life often  seemed stifling and confining at the time, it was a place where everyone knew not only everyone else, but everyone else’s family.  They knew mothers and dads, grandmothers and granddads, aunts, uncles and cousins, by marriage or by blood, by kith or by kin; the entire history of the community was known collectively.  

    Thus, collectively the community attained the level of family and participated as a whole in the raising of children by providing the network for life’s learning and safety net for childhood’s failings.  I never felt far from home, despite the vastness of space around me.  Someone I knew or who knew me was always near by.  No strangers lived in such a world – only neighbors and friends.   

    I lived there for only eight short years of my childhood life, and yet in dreams and in my heart, it is the place that is home.  For me, home will forever be on the plains of West Texas.  That strikes me as odd, somehow, yet true.  I often wonder what it is that evokes such strong memories, so as to etch forever in my subconscious mind the plains as my home?  

    It seems especially odd because I do not remember that period of my life as being particularly happy.  Quite the opposite is true.  In fact, most of my childhood memories are vividly unhappy ones.  Although, to be fair, such memories are not particularly tied to the place in which they were experienced, but more to my own circumstances, and the fact that these were primarily my adolescent years – not good years for most people, no matter where they live.

    Thus, at the time, future dreams of the plains as home would have struck me as incongruous; not only because I had not lived much of my life there, but because I was in such a hurry to leave it.  The bigger surprise came upon leaving when I found I immediately longed to go back, to find comfort somehow, and the security of “home,” if not to stay and live.

   I suppose the biggest surprise of all has been that even now, some forty something years later, the precise place – an old community typical of the South Plains, Abernathy, Texas – with its 3,000 souls remaining (more or less), is the place I tell everyone I’m from.  It’s the community I think of as home.  It is the place I want to be from; the place I feel describes best what I am all about, where my roots are, what has shaped me most, and made me the person that I am.

    I believe my feelings and experience of what constitutes the essence of “home” are not uncommon.  While individual experiences, personalities and inclinations may be strikingly different, colored by singular perceptions and sentiments, we collectively carry with us core characteristics that have value and worth in the world.  Or we should – once we did.

    For those of us who were born in such a place, moved to such a place to live, live in such a place now, or who left such a place, but still return – as many do, I believe there are important lessons we learned there, that we should recall and pass along wherever we presently live; lessons derived from what such a place is all about.  Good and true lessons such places taught about the world  – things like the wind, wide open spaces and, most of all, what community means in a world where “community” has become precious commodity. 

   We all seek direction in our lives, though we may often lose our way.  Sometimes it takes many years to find the right track, or we lose our compasses along the way, or lose the wind which blows us on, or forget that we even need to move from where we are.  Always, I think, we must seek within and without, to search our own compass, steer our own course and set our own bearings by the beacons that light our way. 

    We must constantly return to the sources from which we draw our strength.  We must listen to the messages of the wind and plains and “home,” and continue to feel the shaping of our lives by their power.  We must remember in our maturity the goodness of the family and community of our youth,  discarding distant, dusty memories of all we thought was wrong with our live
s at the time, propel ourselves forward on winds of hope and promise, and, most of all, love.  For it is in the remembering and loving of the place called home that we derive meaning as we go out into the rest of the world around us.    

There are several categories, but at least two of mine will be in the non-fiction category.  The third piece will either be non-fiction or a poem.  I haven't decided for sure yet, but think that it will be another non-fiction piece because, while I like my poetry a lot, I think I have a better chance in non-fiction, which is more my forte.

All of my pieces are on the "short" side in looking at the qualifications of the contest, which says pieces are to be less than 5,000 words.  Mine are in the range of 1,200 to 1,800 words or so.  Do you think that will make any difference?  It's just the way I write.  When I've "completed" my thoughts on a story, that's it.  I stop.

As I told y'all the other day, next week I'm going to publish two more pieces and let y'all have a say in which one you like best and/or think would do best in the contest.  So comment a lot here, and stay tuned.  I'm going to leave this one up several days to try to give everyone a chance to chime in.  

In the meantime, I'm feeling fairly good and plan to have a quiet weekend.  Hope y'all have a great weekend!  Dee]

Search For Profoundness Leads Back Home

    Melancholy abides in November’s short days.  My thoughts often turn inward; search for the serious, the profound.  At least, those were my thoughts in 1981′s November.  

    I’d spent months doing fun things – working as the local Community Editor, with friends.  I explored every opportunity, expanding my life into one, long joyous adventure, as if to erase even a moment’s contemplation of the more mundane.  I exulted in the freedom to write, to excel, while being paid for doing what, by nature, I did, whether paid for it or not.  Difficulties within my marriage worsened exponentially in relation to my newfound freedom without.  I could not change the one, so I chose to engage in the other.  

    But, I pondered, the search could not be one continuous joyride.  Numerous other, more serious, considerations needed contemplating.  Three considerations were my children.  Although all three had been sharing in my fun flings, so it wasn’t as if I had neglected them.  They were very much in my mind, always.  But my 17 year old son was at Annapolis and, at 15 and 12, his younger siblings had lives of their own to occupy their time.  So, by November my mind had time to dwell.

     I decided it was time to settle down and get with the program.  There must be some profound thought hiding somewhere inside my mind I could pull out to share with my readers.  Enough frivolity had occurred thus far to last the rest of this life and fill several others.  I couldn’t spend my whole life on a lark.  I concluded there must be a deeper, more serious meaning around somewhere that had escaped my attention while I was off on an adventurous good time.

    I decided to take a three and one-half day sabbatical in search of some measure of meaning to my existence.  I know, most people take a year, but I didn’t have time, so had to crowd mine into three days.  If you don’t think that was hard.  Figuring it might be easier to find meaning in a different place, I left town.  You know how it is, the grass always looks greener . . ..  (That’s not the profound thought I found.  Somebody already had that one.)

    Also, thinking that roots might be important, I decided to visit my parents in Tucson, Arizona.  Age brings wisdom and experience, I surmised, and parents never lack for advice to give.  Perfect place to provide perception.

    Due to the shortness of available time, expensiveness of plane tickets and the reasoning that not much profoundness could be found with kids around, I went alone.  Besides, the kids were in school.  And, they visited their grandparents every summer, while I hadn’t seen my parents in over two years.  (You know how grandparents are – forget mom and dad, just send the kids.)

    The four hour plane trip seemed a good place to start the serious thinking, so I bought a Newsweek to read to get in the mood.  World events and the state of the economy (it was 1981) nearly always put one in a serious mood.  Not much frivolity there.

    Instead, from New Orleans to Houston I ended up talking to a flight attendant about photography (he had a camera identical to mine).  Then, from Houston to Phoenix (my sister, who lived there, was going to drive me the 90 miles to Tucson), I talked the whole time with a Californian who made money in Texas real estate and owned a new 40 foot yacht (I only discovered the significant details, you see).  Not much meditating got done, but I still had three days left (half of the first day being gone).  I figured I could make up for lost time when I arrived (see, the time changed and it was an hour earlier).  I know, that’s not very profound.

    I killed the rest of day one riding in the car from Phoenix to Tucson, taking a long nap and eating a lot of Mexican food for supper.  It’s hard to think profound thoughts when you’re sleepy and have a stomach full of nachoes.  That was my only profound thought for that day.  But two and a half days were left.

    The next day, Sunday, we went to church.  It should have been my best meditating day, but wasn’t.  The morning started off well, but by the time we finished the big Sunday dinner, with roast and homemade rolls, another nap crept up on me.  Afterward, my mom, sister Laura and I went for a neighborhood stroll.  I took pictures of cactus and rock lawns and mountain skylines and breathed in sun-warmed pines, dusty, rocky earth and prickly, stringent cactus.  Laura touched a small green cactus with red, fuzzy-looking puffs on it that turned out to be needles as sharp as they were fine.  We spent several blocks removing tiny, stickery needles from her classical pianist hands.

    Another surfeit of Mexican food for supper ruined any eleventh hour effort at serious thinking for Sunday.  But, there were practically two days left (I was being generous to myself).

    Monday we three girls hiked in the mountains.  We rode an open-sided shuttle up to Sabino Canyon, hiked a ways up the canyon, clambered down to the creek and consumed sandwiches under a leafy, green umbrella of a tree.  Sunlight filtered through holes in our tree canopy and water gurgled under rocks nearby.  We sat on cool, smooth rocks, savoring our time all together for the first time in many years.  The peace of the spot – wind and water and sun – stilled any need to speak.  We were one in silence, watching butterflies and hearing birds cry out far overhead.  

     We lost the trail back down the canyon and I said, “Let’s climb up here to the road.”  Halfway up the steep, slippery slope I asked myself, “What on earth am I doing, leading this 60-year-old woman and high heeled girl up this cliff?  I must be crazy.”  Then I wondered who else would have come with me, and decided no one but my sister and  mom.  The miracle was, we not only made it, we rejoiced in the victory.

    It looked rather “iffy” about three feet from the top, but we clung to each other and lunged over the guardrail by the road, lugging our picn
ic basket, camera and all.  Hearts rapidly pumping convinced us we were still alive, if rather winded.  We laughed breathlessly at what we had done.

    We tramped another mile down the road and rested, waiting for the shuttle’s return.  Talk came easy and rested with us.  I was too tired again to find profound.

    Tuesday I had to go.  I got up at 5:45 a.m. to tell my dad good-bye before he went to work.  He wanted me to stay “till the snow flies,” he said, in 80 degree November sun.

    Mom, Laura and I drove back to Phoenix.  We spent the day doing daily things like talking and eating and shopping.  I thought, tomorrow I’ll be doing these same things in Mississippi, but it won’t be the same.  We watched the sun set together, shared our last small talk and I left at 8 p.m.  With fog and other delays, I didn’t arrived home until 3 a.m.  Numbness was all that remained.  

    Once home, I looked up “profound’s” meaning in the dictionary.  Profound means “to plunge, to penetrate, to explore the depths, to experience.  It is characterized by intensity, as of feeling or quality.  It encompasses.  It is filled full.”  

    Where did I get the idea it meant serious or stuffy or some pompous saying?  Why did I think I had to search somewhere for it?

    The most profound thing I discovered was that I already had it and didn’t know it.  It went with me wherever I went.  From then on, I decided to be profound, which could include being frivolous or adventurous or just plain having fun.  Forget serious, I thought.  Serious will take care of itself.  I want profound.

In the meanwhile, it’s been 10 days since I got out of the hospital and I’m still checking my blood pressures five or six times a day or more.  I have to do two sets of orthostatic BPS, which means that I have to check them lying down, then sitting and standing.  I do these at 8 a.m. and again at 3 p.m.

I’m having some good days and then not so good days.  This is a real challenge, y’all, and I’m very concerned about it.  Checking my blood pressures is like rolling the dice on a roulette wheel because they are so unpredictable and unstable, both high and low.

But, I see my cardiologist tomorrow afternoon, so hope he will be able to help me a bit more in trying to sort all of this stuff out.  I doubt it, but maybe.  I mean, this, so far, is much worse than dealing with my blood sugars has ever been.  Or maybe I’m just used to dealing with blood sugars, because my blood sugars have never been very stable, either.  And, we’re talking about 38 years woth!

Even with taking 5 mg of the medication every morning at 8 a.m. (twice what I take at noon and 5 p.m.), my blood pressures tend to run on the low side all morning, to very low.  But then by 3 p.m., after I’ve had two doses of meds, while my sitting and standing blood pressures are in the normal range where I want and need them, my lying down blood pressures are way too high most afternoons.  

A few days ago at 3 p.m., my lying down blood pressure was 211/107, which is so high it can damage one’s kidneys.  I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to take an afternoon nap, again, y’all!  However, yesterday, my 3 p.m. lying down BP was 160/75, which is liveable, although certainly not ideal.

I’m hoping against hope that I can get this all "regulated" in some order or fashion so that I can make plans once again to go out to Abilene and see my mom in a month or so for about two weeks.  I’m really homesick for my mom and want to go visit.  Have a little "relief" from my troubles with mom’s good cooking.

I don’t know what this latest health problem means for my life expectancy or quality of like, but I do know that my life is in God’s hands and that whatever may come or however long it may last, it will seem as nothing in the resurrection.  That is my greatest hope.

Cheers & Blessings to you all today!  Dee

In the meantime, I want to share with you today one of my "Wind Vane" stories that means a whole lot to me.  It tells about how I came to have my wind vane, that is the subject of this blog.  I hope you enjoy it and will leave me comments, please, because it is one of my highly edited non-fiction pieces of work that I plan to enter into a local writing contest that the Picayune Writers' Group is sponsoring.  I want to get y'all's unbiased opinion of the value of the work and to know whether or not you think I should enter it into the contest and how you think I'll do.

Thanks!  And much love,  Dee.]

Acquisition – July 4, 1995 

 It seemed an odd way to celebrate the Fourth of July.  But then, again, maybe not.

   My dad and I spent it working on a project following a serendipitous discovery a few days before, springing from meandering conversations I cannot now recall. The ceaseless, infernal West Texas wind blasted a fiery furnace of dry air across the yard, so we sought relief in his open garage, facing south against the wind, to begin our work.   

   At first sight, the wind vane held little promise, although my frail, worn dad had been excited to have finally found it.   Here it is,  he had called out, rummaging beneath countless stacks of stuff stored in a steaming metal shed.  He cradled it tenderly; to him, it was the best of the trove of treasures he had obviously stored a long time.  To me, it looked like a piece of junk, but I said nothing.  Not after all the effort he had gone to retrieving it.  I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. 

   I knew it was here, somewhere,  his raspy, husky voice said excitedly, as he handed me the dusty, dirty-white, paint-gobbed pieces of an ancient vane.  The vague, grimy silhouette of a bearded man driving a buggy behind an even grubbier horse emerged, all mounted on a large, stylized arrow. I recognized a square mount piece with the pole in the center, but it was hard to see how the N-S piece, E-W piece fitted together, or with the rest, to make a complete wind vane – much less one I might want.  It had long since ceased serving its purpose tracking the endless Texas wind.  Dad had saved it for who knows what.  Now, it seemed that it must have been just for me that he’d saved it.  I felt that, anyway, when I saw how happy he was for me to have it.

  I had long wanted a wind vane, but hadn’t envisioned this.  I had no idea what I would do with it, either.  My desire to have one had been more whimsical than anything, without me ever stopping to think why.  Where I lived in lowland Louisiana, there was barely a breeze, much less decent wind.  Now, though, I felt my whim to possess a vane had propelled me directly toward this moment, so this kindly, gracious man would be so happy to find me his – even if it was such a mess.  That proved to be the first of innumerable reasons the vane proved valuable; reasons taking as long to discover as it had taken him to uncover the vane in the first place.  But those reasons were as nebulous to me then as the true shape and form of the vane in my hands.

  The next day, Dad let me drive his old car as we took his “shortcut”down the alley behind his house to the hardware store two blocks away.  If you counted time wasted going over speed bumps in the apartment complex alley in the next block, it wasn’t much of a time saver.  And apparently, he had picked up several nails in the past, flattening more than one tire.  But he was proud to share his secret trail, so I expressed the proper response at his sharing.  After all, he had found the wind vane, hadn’t he?

At the store, he read every line of fine print on every label on every can of paint stripping gunk before making his selection; then followed the same routine for the necessary tools and equipment.  He managed to save a few cents off a sum not much to begin with and was pleased once again.  He was more pleased that we were working together, as was I.

 The slow process continued, once more.  Now, to set up and create the “proper” conditions for work in the garage; necessary conditions, according to Dad’s endlessly active engineer’s mind, for any actual restoration to begin.  He sought the right table, chairs, fans, scrapers, screwdrivers, flat chisels, fat and fine wire brushes and WD40.  The list of essentials seemed endless to me, who becomes antsy at any project taking more than an hour or two from start to finish.  We had been working on this one now for three days!  Nor could I yet tell whether this shoddy vane was going to clean up at all, much less be worth the effort.  But I turned my attention to Dad and shoved squirming impatience into the far back corner of my mind, disciplined for the moment, until another time.  It was the least I could do after all of his trouble.

Besides, we had not worked on such projects for a long time.  I had not even seen him for over a year.  And never like this – so thin and drawn and fragile.  He was the same, but not.  Not the father I remembered from long ago, or as recent as the year before.  My heart felt swollen up to my eyes, which ached so from the pressure, I felt they could not keep from spilling tears.  But, I could not cry or let him see anything other than my happy, smiling face and laughing ways he looked for.  He loved for me to laugh and fuss over him whenever I could.  So I did.

By noon, he finally had everything in its place for beginning the real work on the vane.  Well, nearly everything.  There were still some tools he just had to have which he could not yet find, and for which he would continue hunting off and on the rest of the day.  He was tired from the morning’s exertion.  His heart, though strong in spirit, failed him physically and he needed to rest.  So we ate lunch, he rested; then began the task in earnest.  
 The stripping gunk worked amazingly fast to sluff off the gobby white paint, revealing black paint beneath, leading to even more amazing finds.  The vane was beautifully detailed cast aluminum with shiny bright copper wire strung through tiny holes in the horse’s bridle running to the man’s hands, where the wire twisted and hung down.  The wheel spokes were well defined; the man’s face and beard revealed the face of a proper gentleman.  The aluminum’s matte finish, now softly marked with steel brush marks, gleamed in the garage’s cool light.  The vane was stunning in its simplicity, in its original form.  Why on earth had anyone ever painted the vane to begin with, I wondered.  

We worked the afternoon away; me sanding, and Dad using ever increasingly smaller wire brushes to carefully reach every nook and crevice of each metal piece to exhume whatever tiny specks of paint remained.  Much fine sanding was required to loosen the last stubborn vestiges.  He began the process of unscrewing the frozen screws holding the top to the arrow and cleaned some more.  Finally, he was ready to begin putting it all together, which included finding just the right grease, in just the right amount, to fill the bottom of the top’s hollow shaft which fit over the smaller pole sticking up from the mount below.  

He carefully oiled the screws, screwed the horse and carriage on top of the wide, flat arrow, tightened the screw anchoring the N-S, E-W pieces to the pole below, and placed the whole apparatus on the square mount at
the bottom.  Now he was ready to try it all out – to see if it would turn in the wind.  We went out back into the late afternoon’s westerly sun, into the perennial blowing westerly wind, and carefully set the base of the wind vane on the back yard fence post, letting the arrow turn freely.  To me, it appeared to turn without resistance.  However, the engineer in Dad once again surfaced and he wasn’t satisfied until he had made another thirty minutes or so of adjustments to the greasy pole, with adjustments so fine I could not see them.  

Dad could, though, and that was all that mattered.  It was still his vane, in his mind, until he could present it to me as a perfect gift.  The perfect vane he knew it could be; as only, perhaps, he could see, but there.  A wind vane encompassing all he thought I might have envisioned in my whimsical musings before.  

And, so it was.  The vane was not only much more than I had seen in those pieces of old junk, it was much more than I had imagined, or expected to find.  Especially because his gift to me, in all its splendor, was crafted from all his hard work and effort and offered with love.

In return, in the evening I grilled hibachi steaks on the back patio, also facing south away from the wind – although not completely.  The wind swiftly ignited the coals, blowing sparks in my face, so that I was twice burned – once from the setting sun, then from the fiery coals.  The steaks were a little singed, too, but still good.

He didn’t eat much, of course, but all he wanted.  What he wanted most was for me to stay and visit for a longer time.  But, I had to go.  A day or so later, he packed up the vane for me to take home, in his usual overdone way, using layers and layers of paper, and even more layers of tape and knots and string.  Enough so that it would take impatient me way too long to unwrap when I got home.  He even included a small plastic container with more thick axle grease, bottle carefully labeled with masking tape and marker, so I would have just the right thing to keep the vane turning smoothly on its pedestal.  Although I’ve never used it, I keep it still. 

   As I looked at the vane when home, tears finally flowed because I loved the gift so much  and him even more.  In my heart, I knew that his days ebbed slowly away from some unseen force I could not fathom and could not comprehend.  I resolved to spend as many of those days in his presence as I could, leaving tears of grief behind; bringing only joy to the place he inhabited, for as long as he should live.  That would be my gift to him.  After all, he was my dad.

That is another story, saved for another day.  This day, I spend marveling at how wonderful my wind vane looks and how well it functions; even though it stands sentinel at its post in my den, far from any wind.  It has long since become, in my mind’s eye, the most fitting metaphor for my ongoing search for direction in my life.  It reminds me that what has become heavily encrusted with age and excess, misuse and abuse, to the point that it appears to be useless to most who pass it by, can become once more, through the inner vision of one who takes the time to see and care, and through the application of a patient, tender, remedial touch, a beautiful object to be greatly admired for its grace and form, which so easily marks, as well it should, the paths of the winds it follows.

I often wonder if I would have recognized the wind vane’s value, or would have taken the time and patience to restore it to its proper place.  I’m not sure I would have seen the  possibilities there, or would have so disciplined myself to spend the time and energy necessary to make it whole.  I often think that those were the better gifts I received – how to better see, and more patiently apply the talents that I’ve been given, to everything I do.

The vane may be far from any wind, but it resides in the only place it “properly” belongs – a place where I can gaze upon its splendor every day – to think about how I came to have these  wonderful gifts, and how I spent the most odd, yet splendid, Fourth of July I’ve ever had.

After all – this is a full service blog, you know.

Speaking of fractures – the only way to know for sure if you fractured your foot is to seek medical help.  You have to have an X-ray of your foot to know for sure if any bones are broken.

If you have any doubts – go to the doctor and find out for such because you could end up with permanent damage to your foot if you don’t.  As for me – when I fractured my foot, I wasn’t sure, but it swelled up really big and I knew something was wrong.

In my case, being diabetic for so long, I couldn’t really feel anything, but I couldn’t take any chances so went immediately (the same day) to the doctor.  It’s a good thing I did because there was a break in the top of my foot going out to the second toe on my left foot.  It was severed entirely in half at an angle.

I went into a cast and had to go on crutches and not put any weight at all on it while it healed.   After a week, I got a scooter and stayed on it eight months!!  Stuck at home off my feet and unable to walk at all!! 

Thank goodness I was blogging and had something to do to occupy my time, because I spent all of my time here at my desk in front of my computer.  It was an ordeal, but I survived and have been very careful walking ever since, let me tell you, because I still have no idea how I broke my foot in the first place.

So, go to the doctor!  It’s important.

As for wind vanes – a lot of people are looking for the direction of the wind where they live, wanting to know how a wind vane works or looking for pictures of them.  A few want to know how to build one and one person inquired what "west" means on a wind vane!  Duh!

To me all of the above seems simple, except maybe for trying to build a wind vane.   Wind vanes turn with the wind and point toward the direction the wind is blowing, whether toward the north, south, east or west.

I would think they would be rather easy to build, but don’t know where you would find instructions to do so and don’t have enough interest in it to look it up myself.  As far as I’m concerned, Google can keep sending searchers over here and I can try to make my blog interesting enough that I’ll pick up new readers, right?!?

As for pictures of wind vanes, I had kind of a hard time finding one for my blog here.  Tom took some pictures of my wind vane that my dad gave me and lovingly restored while I was out in Abilene with him (I’ll have to re-post that story for you, because it is one of my favorite "Wind Vane" stories), but they didn’t turn out exactly like what I wanted.

I Googled wind vanes using Google Images and found a good many, but most were in advertisements for companies selling them and, again, not suitable for this prestigious blog. 

The one I finally found and settled on is here on my blog and is the wind vane on the cupola of Mt. Vernon, George Washington’s home in Virginia, south of Washington, D. C.  I thought it was perfect and really like it here.  What do you think?

I’ll tell you what, though.  Why don’t y’all do me (and the inquiring public) a big favor and see if you can find any wind vane pictures, either online or maybe somewhere in your vast collection of photographs, and email them to me at "dee_andrews@bellsouth.net"?!  Okay? 

I’ll post some here on my blog so that when people start searching for pictures of them, they can find them here.  In fact, I’ll start by posting below some of the pictures of wind vanes that I found when I was searching for a suitable one for Finding Direction, including a bigger photo of the Mt. Vernon wind vane.  I can’t find at the moment any of the pictures Tom took of my wind vane, Harvey (another "Wind Vane" story).  But, here goes:

This was as large as I could get the picture without pixeling it, so I decided not to use it.

The next one would fit in with my home state of Texas, but didn’t look good with my banner across the top here, so I didn’t use it, either.  I needed something more "classy" looking:

As you can see, the picture is rather blurry, too!

Here’s a larger Mt. Vernon wind vane, the one I chose:

Okay – now that you’ve seen the ones I found, see if you can find some and send them to me so I can post them here for passers-by.  In the meantime, while you’re hunting wind vane pictures to send me . . .

Have a great and blessed weekend!  Much love, Dee

P. S.  I’m feeling good so far today, so let’s pray that continues.  This weekend (Sunday, March 2) happens to be my birthday and 17th wedding anniversary!  So, we’re having a "birthday/anniversary" weekend.  I have it marked on my calendar here on my desk.  I’m going to get my hair done in the morning and Tom’s taking me out for dinner at a really nice place tomorrow night.  Saturday evening we’re getting together with friends on the Mississippi gulf coast for a birthday celebration, because three people among the five couples are having birthdays in the next few days.  Then, Sunday, Tom is taking me out for a champagne brunch at a really nice place.  We decided to do this instead of going somewhere for the weekend.  We like being at home in our new house here out in the woods.

It is about why I so love the wind.  About home.  I hope you enjoy it.  I happen to love this post because it is about my own home growing up.  Dee]

 Certain forces in our lives, particularly in childhood, profoundly influence and shape the way we perceive the world forever afterward. Such forces worked in me, indelibly imprinting, far below the surface of conscious thought – at the core, where lasting impressions and innermost feelings dwell – certain foundations for rational thought, and perhaps, irrational notions, of how the world should be.

One of the most powerful of those forces was the wind. At the time I was unaware, except innately, and perhaps emotionally, that the wind – a constant presence in the vast West Texas landscape – was etching my heart in such an fundamental way. It left its intrinsic mark on everything it touched, nothing could escape its power. It could be a frightful fiend, as well a friend. But how could I escape?

The wind always blew; no relief existed.

It whipped the air, sand stinging the skin and irritating the eyes. Sculpted dunes born of wind and soil sent tumbleweeds rolling across the land. Wind sang a chorus of whistles and moans, sometimes in cacophony of noise, sometimes sighs and whispers, but always, it sang. Wind echoed, as well, in windmills’ creaks and groans as together the mills and wind brought necessary water to the surface to sooth the parched, dry land.

Without wind to provide water’s power, the land could provide no crops or bring relief to weary farmers.

My truest visions of life are sculpted not only by the long remembered, never forgotten wind that was always blowing, but by the vast open plains and the small community of people who surrounded me, giving me not only the capability to follow the wind where it would lead; but also to return – at least in my dreams and innate self – to home.

In my mind, the ideal world, and especially "home," is a solitary place in an ocean of azure skies and green and brown checkered fields, with a broad, unending horizon sprouting towns and grain elevators and cotton gins on mirage-mirrored mornings. One can step outside the door and see the world for as far as one’s eyes can see.

Growing up in such a world provided a strong continuity of community.

While life often seemed stifling and confining at the time, it was a place where everyone knew not only everyone else, but everyone else’s family. They knew mothers and dads, grandmothers and granddads, aunts, uncles and cousins, by marriage or by blood, by kith or by kin; the entire history of the community was known collectively.

Thus, collectively the community attained the level of family and participated as a whole in the raising of children by providing the network for life’s learning and safety net for childhood’s failings. I never felt far from home, despite the vastness of space around me. Someone I knew or who knew me was always near by.

No strangers lived in such a world, only neighbors and friends.

I lived there for only eight short years of my childhood life, and yet in dreams and in my heart, it is the place that is home. For me, home will forever be on the plains of West Texas. That strikes me as odd, somehow, yet true. I often wonder what it is that evokes such strong memories, so as to etch forever in my subconscious mind the vast plains as my home?

It seems especially odd because I do not remember that period of my life as being particularly happy.

In fact, some of my childhood memories are unhappy ones, although, to be fair, such memories are not particularly tied to the place in which they were experienced, but more to my own circumstances and the fact that these were primarily my adolescent years – not good years for some people, no matter where they live.

Thus, at the time, future dreams of the plains as home would have struck me as incongruous, not only because I had not lived much of my life there, but because I was in such a hurry to leave it. The bigger surprise came upon leaving when I found I immediately longed to go back, to find comfort somehow, and the security of "home," if not to stay and live.

I suppose the biggest surprise of all has been that even now, some forty something years later, the precise place – an old community typical of the South Plains, Abernathy, Texas – with its 3,000 souls remaining (more or less), is the place I tell everyone I’m from. It’s the community I think of as home. It is the place I want to be from, the place I feel describes best what I am all about, where my roots are, what has shaped me most, and made me the person that I am.

I believe my feelings and experience of what constitutes the essence of "home" are not uncommon. While individual experiences, personalities and inclinations may be strikingly different, colored by singular perceptions and sentiments, we collectively carry with us core characteristics that have value and worth in the world.

Or we should – once we did.

For those of us who were born in such a place, moved to such a place to live, live in such a place now, or who left such a place, but still return – as many do – I believe there are important lessons we learned there, that we should recall and pass along wherever we presently live; lessons derived from what such a place is all about. Good and true lessons such places taught about the world – things like the eternal wind, wide, open spaces and, most of all, what community means in a world where "community" has become precious commodity.

We all seek direction in our lives, though we may often lose our way. Sometimes it takes many years to find the right track, or we lose our compasses along the way, or lose the wind which blows us on, or forget that we even need to move from where we are. Always, I think, we must seek within and without, to search our own compass, steer our own course and set our own bearings by the beacons that light our way.

We must constantly return to the sources from which we draw our strength. We must listen to the messages of the wind, the plains and "home," and continue to feel the shaping of our lives by their power.

We must remember in our maturity the goodness of the family and community of our youth, discarding distant, dusty memories of all we thought was wrong with our lives at the time, and propel ourselves forward on winds of hope and promise, and, most of all, love. For it is in the remembering and loving of the place called home that we derive meaning as we go out into the rest of the world around us.

But we’ve had a great holiday weekend anyway.  I think I’ll live.  Our friends from Texas said when they got here and found out I had a cold, "You should have called us and told us not to come.  You should have let us know because we told you if you got sick to let us know!"

To which I replied, "What you said was ‘if either of you has to go to an ER or into ICU let us know and we won’t come’," giving me a hard time about my recent hospitalization while on vacation.  Well, neither one of us had to do that, so I didn’t call.  Besides – I wanted them to come!!

I’ve been managing with lots of kleenexes.  (Brand name there and I’m sure I should capitalize the word and show the trademark symbol, but won’t.)  And we had a great time.  Although they spoiled the party by leaving too soon this morning.  Going to stop on the way home to visit another old friend.

Well . . . our traditional Thanksgiving dinner of Tom’s award winning baby back ribs rubbed liberally with his dry rub and slathered and servied with the secret award winning BBQ sauce, baked beans, corn on the cob and homemade coleslaw was a huge success.  Marty graciously made the coleslaw dressing from memory and it  was a big success. as well.  Bill thought the ribs were by far the meatiest, tenderest best smoked ribs he’s ever eaten.  Five stars from he and Marty, the two judges, for the meal so I’d say we scored.

Y’all just plain ol’ missed out, I’m tellin’ ya.  Boy it was good.  Even with my somewhat diminished sense of smell and taste it was still finger lickin’ good.

After that mouth watering lunch we drove over to the Mississippi gulf coast to show them the Katrina devastation.  As often as we go over there it is always still really chilling to see.  The mind continues to be incapable of comprehending the loss.   

We spent the rest of the evening visiting, catching up on old classmates, watching football and watching a movie on our new big HDTV.  Tom finally has his movie theater at home, I think, after literally growing up living in the back of a movie theater (and drive in, too.  See "Living At The Movies").  All we need now are the red velvet curtains on the windows and walls, the luxury recliner seats and the pop corn machine.  Of course we did eat gourmet pop corn.  That was our dessert a few hours after our meal.  First class with us all the way, I’m tellin’ ya.

Yesterday we spent most of the day in New Orleans.  First we ate seafood at River Shack on the Mississippi River road and the rest of the afternoon we walked around the French Quarter going into little shops of all kinds, but mainly art galleries.  Bill is a professional artist so we learned a lot from him about paintings and different kinds of art.  It was perfect sight seeing weather – about 70 degrees, warm in the sun, cool in the shade.  We drank daiquiris and laughed a lot.  It was a perfect day.

We came home to rest a bit and then headed out again to Mandeville to the famed (around here, anyway) Ruby’s Roadhouse to listen to fantastic Louisiana Blues by Tab Benoit (Ben-wah) and his band.  He is an extraordinarily gifted young man on the guitar from Houma, Louisiana down in the bayous below New Orleans.  He burned and blazed through his show on his guitar that looks as if it is a pair of well worn shoes.  He’s worn the finish off of it yet plays it still.  It’s his constant companion.

In between having fun looking at art and enjoying art in the form of fantastic blues music talk came easy.  We enjoyed each other’s company and the presence of each other after so many years of knowing each other. 

I met both Bill & Marty when I was 10 years old when we moved back to Texas and I entered 4th grade there in the middle of the fall semester.  Llife was simple back then, black and white, honed in the steely determination of the cotton farmers who farmed the verdant land of the lower panhandle of Texas.  It was a good life.

Marty lived in town, but Bill and I were out on farms and rode the same trusty old school bus together from 10 years on.  We were bus companions and class companions as well.  We wore our friendship as comfortably as an aged handkerchief folded lovingly in our pocket.  Friendship was born and grew out of the shared life experiences in childhood.  We were molded and modeled by our parents, our town, our very existence on the South Plains of the panhandle of Texas.

Life was good.  We didn’t know it at the time, but it was as good as it can get.  Friendships were forged in fields of crops grown by our parents and harvested to give us sustenance for daily living.   Life on and from the land. 

Those are days gone by for most people in this country and it is a shame.  We must go back to the land to fully recognize our place in this universe.  God is greater than man.  The land’s bounty is won by months of daily toil and God’s providence in the rain and sun.  When harvest comes it is truly a time of thanksgiving.

Thus I think of those days these Thanksgiving holiday as I’ve spent them with long ago friends who share a common experience and view of life.  Our lives since have been molded by the children we were then.  And we are thankful, still.

This has been a week of memories.  Memories of 9/11 last Monday for us all;  for us personally, memories much more compelling.  Thursday was the fourth sad annual reminder of Tom’s beloved daughter Kim’s death.  I will not write of her now, but refer you to what I wrote last September 14, and I hope you will read it.  See her picture with Tom and her little daughter, Hayley – In Memoriam – Kimberly Andrews Oldham.

I also remember my dad’s death 10 years ago this date.  Here I offer you a special Wind Vane story from last September 30th, which tells his story and mine on his last complete, "perfect" day on earth.  Take the time to read about "A Perfect Day – September 15, 1996" and comment either there or here, your choice.

I wrote the other day in response to Mike Cope’s Wednesday post he called "The Last Minute Phone Call," about how I view death these days and why I always say "I love you" to Tom, my kids, my family, whenever we must say good-bye, even if for a short time.

I’ve come to think of death as sailing off on our brightly colored
Hobie catamaran toward the setting of the sun where the lighthouse on
the not too distant shore gleams brightly ahead shining its glowing
light across the water showing us the path to home. Across the waves I
hear all the echoes of the many loving words shared and left between us
and they, too, help guide the way.

I close with a poem I wrote many years ago as a very young woman long before I ever had the chance to sail.  It was not written as such, but could today serve as my epitaph or eulogy complete.  I leave it with you to remember me by when – not if – my final earth day shall come when I set sail to eternal shores.

  THE LIGHTHOUSE 

Across the blue calm sea
I see a safe place for me.
Light, flashing bright
On wings of gulls
Reflects the silver
Of the waves
That beat a shining path
To the shore.

The door is there
Below the stair
That upward leads
To the lighthouse
Of my soul.

           Dee Ann Andrews
              circa 1973