Grandma Cora

I meditate frequently. I find it peaceful and soothing and it takes me out of my crazy, chaotic, Christina brain to places that are much more adventurous, much more exciting, and, sometimes, much more safe.

One of the meditations I learned begins with choosing a place—any safe place. The idea behind the deep breathing and thinking about this “place” is to find comfort--to go to that one place, or those places that we have often found soothing. A quiet forest, a tranquil stream, an open meadow filled with wildflowers and a soft breeze.

My safe place has always been and will always be Grandma Cora’s. Grandma’s house seems forever etched in my memory. And when I close my eyes and wait patiently, Grandma Cora comes to me.

She sits in her recliner, partially-crocheted mittens in her lap (always a mint green yarn), her Carlton cigarette burns in the ashtray next to her. It is always winter in my mind—the snow deep and dangerous and the wind fiercely swirling atop the mountain where she resides. The windows in the kitchen are partially covered in a thin layer of ice but Grandma and I are warm. The wood stove blazing hot, I am physically, spiritually, mentally and emotionally warm. Grandma’s house is like that. It warms me to my core. My breathing slows and I forget that I am sad.

My meditative mind wanders around the house. Faded yellow counters, a refrigerator full of outdated salad dressings (she will NEVER throw out), a variegated blue/green carpet, and Grandpa’s coffee Nips on the end table next to his rocker remind me that nothing changes at Grandma Cora’s. Here is where I can always find unconditional love, sour cream cookies, and a scolding when need be. I inhale deeply and no longer am I here in “this world.”

Grandma never wears shoes in the house—only open-toed, pastel slippers—blue or pink with rubber-soled bottoms which she isn’t afraid to use on your rear end when called for. Her soft brown curls amaze me—no gray—never any gray—I like that Grandma doesn’t have gray. I like so many things about Grandma. I like that she speaks her mind. I like that she is nosey—I get that from her. I like that she knows everybody and all the sordid and wonderful details of their past. I have come to find comfort in our conversations. My eyes closed I talk to Grandma. I don’t realize the chaos has left me.

We watch her soap operas together. I see her hands—olive skin, wrinkled with years of determination, and long fingernails I always wished I had inherited. I smell her roast cooking and potatoes boiling. I hear the tinkling of Grandma and Grandpa’s spoons in their coffee cups early in the morning when they think I am still asleep on the sofa. I taste her Spanish rice—always served in the Red Poppy bowl she left me. And I touch her. Grandma is here with me. She is always here with me. It’s as if she never left.

I miss you Grandma Cora.

Baby Got Vac

Seriously. You ever have one of those days?

So, my daughter was kind enough to give me a used sofa. She delivered it, my Mom stored it in her garage, and I figured maybe I’d give it a good steam cleaning before the actual venture to our home in Liberty and up to the narrow hallwayed-second floor-apartment. And thus, dear con-artist reader-my saga begins.

I find mom’s steam cleaner, fill it with hot, hot water and ammonia and take it out to the garage. Try to turn on the lights in the garage, but they aren’t working. Hmmm. Check the cords, everything plugged in properly, follow the extension cord that supplies the garage with electricity to the back of Ma’s house—all plugged in. Damn it. Call mom at work, ask the receptionist for “Laundry”—no answer. Decide to wait a bit—maybe she’s on break. While waiting, realize the attachment hose isn’t on the steam vac. Go back into house and find it in Ma’s “Junk room” closet. Take it out and attempt to figure out how to hook it up. Seriously confused. Oh well, I’ll ask Ma when I call her. Decide to remove the cushion covers and wash them in the washer. Crap, there are two zippered compartments—not just one—and I know when I go to put them back on its going to be a helluva fight. OK, anyway, I remove all the sponge innards, set them aside, fill the washer with hot water, use some extra shout on each cushion and get the wash started. After about 20 minutes, I call the nursing home where Ma works and ask for Sandee Hall. Ma says maybe the reset button on the outlet needs to be hit again and when I ask about the hose attachment she gets a little scattered trying to explain. At that point I hear someone in the background say something—must be a smart ass comment because Ma yells “shut up!” Ma says to plug the one end into the little cubby and the other end goes in the part that you take out for dirty water. OK, I say, I’ll figure it out.

I take out the water tank and dirty water receptacle, get the one end plugged into the cubby OK, but can’t for the life of me figure out the other end. Sighing, I decide to just look it up on the internet. Go BACK into the house, check the internet—crap—forget to look at the name of the vac. Go back to garage and find name “Hoover Steamvac Spinscrub” got it. I recite the name all the way back into the house, find the Hoover website, type in Hoover Steamvac Spinscrub and am linked to a place where I can find and download (of course) the entire instruction manual. OK, I type in Steamvac Spinscrub—again—but am advised I need a model number. Out to the garage find the model number—recite it all the way back in, but forget it as soon as I go to type it in. Go to kitchen get a pen and paper, go back out, and find model number. Back into the house—the dog is now looking at me like I seriously need meds—and type in the model number—TO WHICH THE WEBSITE EXPLAINS THEY ARE SORRY BUT NO LONGER HAVE THAT MANUAL!!! Slight twitch. Big Sigh. I type in various things hoping to find other results. Lots of questions like mine, but the answers are vague and complicated. 3 more times I go back to the garage and attempt to follow some of the written directions, but to no avail. Bigger twitch. Bigger sigh. Swear. Find a website with video instructions and click on that. Careful not to get ahead of myself I watch the entire video to make sure I know what I’m doing. OK, I got it. Go back to garage—struggle for about a minute but get it hooked up. Start to steam clean the couch—although now the water is pissy warm-- and immediately discover that it really isn’t the tool I need to clean the sofa after all. What I need is a bucket, a scrub brush, and some elbow grease. Complete facial distortion, kick the steamvac, swear at everything and the dog, sit down, count to ten and compose myself. Go BACK into the house, grab a bucket. Turn on the hot water faucet---to find THERE’S NO HOT WATER because I used it all cleaning the goddamn sofa cushions in the washer.

Sit down, say a prayer and meditate for 5. Consider all my options. I really need this sofa. It really is in good condition. I love the color. It has to be cleaned, though, cause Katie’s little guys are rough and spill a lot. I think about my life. I give myself credit for raising a good daughter, making it through a difficult divorce, working my recovery and more, and make what I feel is the right decision—Fuck it—I’m going to take a nap.

I Bet Cary Grant Didn't Have Skid Marks

I sat watching a Cary Grant film the other day. And, as is true with most Cary Grant films, he portrayed the epitome of an eligible bachelor. He wore dark, well-tailored suits—always with a jaunty tie, drank martinis—always after work, had the most modern furniture (although a blonde coffee table and console TV might not seem modern today, by Cary Grant’s standards they were right on the money). Cary also employed an elderly, slightly curmudgeoned maid with just enough wit to keep him in line, wore two piece pajamas to bed at night, and smoked a pipe with such sex appeal that I actually got moist. Man, he had it going on, y’know? So, what I want to know is where these bachelors are now?

I’ve been dating pretty much since 2007. And although this is in no way intended to sluttify myself, I’ve dated all shapes and sizes of bachelors. I say this only to qualify myself in the matters of bachelors and their lifestyles. I’ve dated fat men, skinny men, tall men, and short men, men with college degrees and men with GED’s. I’ve dated men who played soccer nationally and men who—well—just played. I’ve dated men I’ve liked, lusted, and—currently—love. But I ain’t ever dated a bachelor who didn’t live like they were not only members but Presidents of Phi Delta Disgusting.
Unlike Cary, these bachelors dress haphazardly—preferring to choose dirty clothes from the hamper rather than a suit and tie from a hanger. They have a strange habit of sporting the newest athletic shoes—Adidas, Nike, Converse—always name brands-- and paring them with the free t-shirt they scored last week at the radio-thon that reads “WFRT—we blow the others away.” Today’s bachelor dresses based on a simple olfactory examination—if it doesn’t burn their nose hair when they sniff it, they think they can wear it. And can anyone tell me why shoe-tying is suddenly optional?
The bachelor’s I’ve dated have never drunk or even ordered a martini. They like Red Bull, coffee, or old coca-cola they’ve found under the front seat of the car. They serve ketchup in tiny packets, drink from jelly glasses, and possess a plethora of steak knives they’ve stolen from various steak houses. They don’t cook at home—as a rule—unless it’s like canned—and they own more take-out menus than underwear. Mis-matched plates, cups, 2 forks and 1 frying pan have always been considered the standard.

Today’s bachelor has furniture—if you call one lazy boy recliner and a blue tote for an end table a living room set. They sleep in apartments that look like frat houses, bedrooms that look like Oscar Madison threw up, and beds that look eerily like they’ve seen more action than Arnold, Sly, and Bruce Willis combined. They never possess salt and pepper shakers, vacuum cleaners, or, it seems, the common sense to desire these items. There is no hired maid—and I’m pretty sure they simply rely on the girl current relationship to serve in that capacity—killing two birds with one stone and all. They control the TV if you please, and even if you don’t, and always while they play Double Down on the computer. They believe we love to see them naked—anywhere and anytime—their penises flopping lazily from side-to-side while they explain the virtues of Chip Coffey and Paranormal Activities to you, and aren’t opposed to facing the world skivvy-less and in flip flops. They burp a lot; gag a lot—seemingly having a never-ending supply of hair balls caught in their throat—and fart.

Ah yes, the bachelor fart. Tell me why? Why? Why does a man need to be married or in a relationship and harassed into withholding intentional farts? I simply do not get it. And what’s with the smile that seems to accompany all of them? It’s not funny….it’s not funny at all. They lift their legs to fart, point their asses at you to fart, bend slightly at the waist and push to fart, and regale you with stories of farts. So very unCary Grant like, don’t you think?

I want to go back…if only for a day. I want the Cary Grant sort of bachelor to swoon over me and dance with me and have no intentions of sleeping with me at the end of the night. Which inevitably leads me to believe, perhaps those bachelors were gay??

Sweet Dream Little Man

Sometimes stories rattle around in my head as if my brain were a crazy, lit-up, bell-ringing pinball machine. Ideas, thoughts, memories, stories, like tiny pinball , shoot and scatter about the corners of my mind, pinging and ricocheting—sometimes getting lost into chasm of the unknown never to pop back out, and sometimes, like now, sticking around, always finding some way of continuing to dart around and gain momentum. Just when I think I’m going to lose the last pinball—that’s it—game over—something magical happens and the ball explodes back to life. Such is the same with this story. I can’t seem to stop the pinball and the game points, at this point, have accumulated astronomically. Therefore, I will write.
This is the story of Dylan. Born February 8 , 1990, Dylan Michael Polomcean was to be the first born boy of my younger sister Shelley and her husband Jon—except we never call him Jon, we call him Bub—or Bubby. Which, if anyone cares to ponder, I’ve come to believe is strictly a crazy Delaware County ritual. Kennedy is Tee, Wayne is Spike, Dustin is Duddy, hell, even my father-in-law—God rest his soul—Paul, was called Bill. Some things aren’t explainable (take my marriage). I just see it as one of our charming quirk. At any rate, Dylan’s birt--or so the pinging pinballs have reminded me lately--was fast. Shelley went into labor, was uncomfortable for approximately 90 minutes, and the next thing we knew the most precious tow-haired, indigo blue-eyed baby boy was handed to her, changing her life, and, by extension, all of our lives.
I guess Dylan’s first 5 years are what I recall most. I don’t know why that is and I guess it doesn’t really matter. I like to believe, however it is because it takes my mind back further away from June 25, 2007. And the further back my mind can go from that date, the safer my memories and Dylan are. He was such a blondie. The first thing that comes to mind when I think of him this fine, delicate, deliciously light-blonde hair. So soft, so light, so feathery it was almost angelic. I always wanted to touch his head first, as if some mystical innocence would pass from him to me. He was average height and average size—just right—like baby bear in the story of the Three Bears. He was perfect. The next thing you knew, however, his little 2 year old head looked up at you and you were mesmerized by the most intense, azure, mischievous blue eyes you have ever encountered. Dylan’s eyes said it all. “I know I shouldn’t, and you know I shouldn’t, but I’m going to anyway” is what they said time and time again. It’s also what they did time and time again. His mischief got him into a lot of trouble over the years, it was also one of the things I loved about him best.
He was an only child for about 1 year and 10 months, only to be greeted with what would soon be coined as his “partner in crime”—Dalton Matthew. Dylan and Dalton. I remember fondly thinking it sounded like the makings of an old western gang hailing from Tombstone. Scary part is, by the time they were 5 and 6 they probably would have fit right in with a gang. Dylan and Dalton. Mischief and Mayhem. Fric and Frac. It didn’t matter what you called them, you just knew that where there was one, the other would follow. Like a tiny shadow, Dalton was stuck to his brother. Captivated by his antics they often times seemed more like twins. Except they weren’t. Dylan was the older and you always knew he would fiercely protect his brother from any harm.
And if you thought he was a big brother to Dalton, you wouldn’t have believed his protective nature when the youngest—a girl—FINALLY—came along. Kennedy Sue. Except, as mentioned previously, we called her Tee—a name that stuck when her cousin Kiley couldn’t pronounce Kennedy—only Tee. Dylan was now the epitome of a protector. Loving, loyal, and kind, I believe Tee lived and still lives her life without any fear. After all, what was there to fear? She had Dylan.
As I sit here in my long t-shirt, bare legs tucked underneath me, one strand of curls over my left eye, the pinball memories start shooting faster, as does the beat of my heart. Fleeting memories yes, but forever embedded in my mind. Chicken chasing, Elvis Presley CD’s, summer school, his giggles at his Uncle Rob’s neverending antics, 4-wheelers, Forrest, Gary, hunting, fishing, just being young, just being alive. These years are such a blur now. I close my eyes before I write, searching for words to describe the love I feel but the marbles in the game are moving faster, bouncing off flippers, shooting out of hidden holes, whizzing, zinging. The more I try to focus and get them to slow down, the faster they shoot by. Maybe there are no words.
Dylan is now 17. Just completing his junior year of high school, he is a typical teen age boy. Adventurous, young, free, happy, and in love. It is now that the memories and pinball start to move in slow motion. Now that I don’t want them to each frame of memory is painfully slow and crystal clear. The tears fall freely now. I wasn’t there when Dylan died. Sometimes I think that’s worse. The images our imagination conjures up are sometimes far worse than reality.
We lost Dylan on June 25, 2007. Tragically, horrendously, unfairly, our little blonde haired baby boy passed away the same way he came into the world—too quickly. He left behind a mother and father who are forever changed. A brother and a sister who ache for his guidance and protection. Friends and family who, as time goes by hurt less, but still hurt and are left to wonder why. And he leaves behind an aunt. Me. Whose memories are not happy until they are words on paper. I miss you Dylan. I only hope that those last moments were filled with the same images I have—happy, free, alive.

There Is One For Me

There is one for me.

There is one man out there for me. He’s quietly waiting, working, playing, sleeping, and unaware of me and the love that is to be, but he’s there, nonetheless.

He’s the one who I can share it all with--the hopes, the dreams, and the craziness.

He’s the one who will listen without judgment to all my secrets and, turn, be willing to tell me his.

He is the one who is not afraid to shed a tear when our family pet tragically passes and equally unafraid to chase me to the bedroom and toss me on the bed when he feels playful.

He is the one who hears the thoughts I never speak. He senses my pain, my happiness, and my love for him simply because he can.

He looks at me and sees a lost girl who needs her hand to be held when others see a needy, opinionated bitch. He knows about my past yet asks of me only the present and our future.

He believes I make him whole. He believes in my stories. He believes in me.

He is a happy, fun-loving, loving, giving human being who wakes each day striving to be happier, more fun-loving, and increasingly loving and giving because of me.

He adores his family and takes mine in as his own. He shares those things that are sacred to him and makes me unafraid to share mine as well.

He dances with me in the moonlight in the kitchen in the middle of the night when we can’t sleep and simply smiles when I ask for the one hundredth time if he took the trash out.

When my heart whispers “I need you,” he hears it as a scream from across a crowded room and makes his way to me.

I am, along with his family, a priority. He may not be able to, but will always at least desire to be with me before work.

He will look at me in the morning, hair a mess, bare-faced, wrinkled pajamas and terrible morning breath and see beauty only.
He will notice others—prettier, more successful, younger—but will only smile as he now understands that prettier, more successful and younger is not me—and what he wants most is me.

There is one for me.

Daddy

You’ve heard me talk about so many members of my family. I’ve written stories on my daughter, my grandsons, my current (and unfortunately former) loves, my siblings, and my Mom. You’ve seen me experiment with words in ways that are unique to only me in order to describe nature, love, lows, and…well….life. What you haven’t heard me talk about is my Dad.

My dad is my idol. My dad is my hero. My dad has loved me unconditionally for 45 years and now I want him to understand what that means to me.

I’ve always thought it incredible that we share a birthday, Dad. So much inside of you is reflected inside of me. Your compassion for people--we always tend to worry about others over ourselves. Your sense of humor—the absolute best. Your pride and stubbornness—that of a Taurus. And your never-ending love for music.

When I stop to write this and close my eyes, the memories of you seem so real and as if they only happened yesterday. I still picture you young, blonde-haired, mischievous blue eyes, with that incredible laugh. You live in my mind as a 25 year old behind Grandpa Lew’s guitar. I like you there. I know you are home behind that guitar. I see the way you sit, the way you close your eyes when you sing “This time you gave me a Mountain” and I see your hands. When I close my eyes, Dad I see the hands of a musician, but more so, of a father. Soft, loving, and always ready to hold me when I need you.

We’re not overly verbal about our love are we Daddy? Sure, we say “I love you” and “be careful” and all those loving things, but the deep stuff we don’t really discuss. But, you know what, Dad? I’ve been thinking about it, and I think we do. I think we always have. Just not in the same way as others. I think your love for me is in your lyrics. You have spent a lifetime comforting me with hugs of harmonies, kisses in keys and chords, and songs of sweetness. You and I have always talked Daddy. And I want you to know, Dad, that I’ve heard every word.

You’ve told me I will always be your baby girl every time you sing “Daddy’s Little Girl.” You’ve explained the hurt over losing Mom every time your sweet voice sings “This Time You Gave Me a Mountain.” You’ve showed me how much fun you are and I should always be when you change the words to songs (“The Keys Are in the Shithouse comes to mind!). You’ve shown me you believe in me by allowing me to help you write a song. Every strum of your guitar, every beautiful note on the steel pedal guitar, every word was heard Daddy. And I hope you’ve heard mine. I love you.

Online Dating

Ok. Ok. I admit it. I have tried online dating. And please, do not start spouting all of the dangers of internet dating—I watch 48 Hours on the ID channel almost every day—so I KNOW! I was weak, forgive me. Here’s the thing though. Are some of these people truly serious about finding a date??? Because if they are, maybe they wouldn’t mind a little advice from an experienced online dater…
1. Screen names. Seriously? Do you seriously believe you are going to find a great relationship with screen names like “2atatime”, “King Trojan”, and “Ladiesi8?” Because I’m here to tell you these are NOT going to bag you anything classy. Then again, maybe you aren’t looking for something classy. Just so you are aware, we are not attracted to men who list their screen name as anything that begins with “dirty” (as in werm, dog, Jimmy, etc.), or ends in “licious” (as in Ralph-a, Bob-a, or Doug-a). Any name with the number 69 is out.
2. Photos. We know you are proud of your martial arts paraphernalia, your Dungeons and Dragons role-playing skills, and your ass tattoo that has an “M” on one cheek and an “M” on the other (yes, for” MOM”—or, if he’s standing on his head “Wow”). I once clicked on a potential date and saw a guy sitting on his couch, with one of those plastic blue totes for a coffee table and a game paddle sitting atop it. Needless to say, I clicked out immediately. Having said this, gentlemen, please trust me when I say we ARE NOT READY for these details of your life. Show us photos of you and your dog, you and your Mom, or you in a suit. Save the jpg files of you in High School Rifle Club for a later date—preferably much later. The worst of the worst? No picture at all. You may as well post a skull and cross bones image for your profile pic.
3. Reading between the lines. We are not stupid. We realize that “likes to cuddle” translates into “I’m too lazy to get off the couch.” We are experienced enough to know that when you answer “I’ll tell you later” when answering the “Marital Status” question, then most likely you are not yet divorced, playing head games with your soon-to-be ex-wife, and on the verge of realizing that your stalking techniques are not as good as you thought they were. “Some college” means you lack the ability to finish projects, “Self-employed” means unemployed, and “Heavyset” means you’ll be buried in a piano case. And, gentlemen? Asking us to pull your finger does not constitute a “good sense of humor.” P.S. Any profile that states, “I’d like a woman who understands that my salvage business comes first” is a definite “NO!” As a rule, always remember, “loves the outdoors” could also mean “homeless, and living under a bridge.”
OK, so these are a few of my suggestions. To be fair, here is my picture and profile…

Screen Name: Effoff
I am looking for a single, non-gay, better than average looking democrat who still contends Hillary Clinton should have been President and Elvis is still alive. Must love potato chips, be completely “pussy-whipped” and love TLC’s “Toddler’s and Tiara’s.” I am hoping to find an honest man close to my age (but looks more like 30) who doesn’t mind dating a graying, curvy alcoholic. I am not interested in sex, cats, or the unemployed—although I am unemployed myself. My perfect date would be to lie on the couch while you make supper, clean up after supper, and follow-up by saying “You are absolutely right” to everything I say. Serious inquiries only.

Grease III

My idea for the next great musical…

The show opens at a 50’s style drive-in restaurant with a quartet of Doo-Wop singers snapping together in unison and singing the aria from Act One of Wagner’s “Flying Dutchman.” The stage is set with black-and-white-checked linoleum, girls clad in poodle skirts, and young men with slick-backed duck tails. Couples order chocolate malts and double orders of fries while the music switches to an accordion playing in a minor key suggesting they will soon all contract swine flu, rendering their vocal chords and the 4th phalanges on their left feet useless.

Off to the side, we see a young blonde girl, named Katherine, who is crying and distraught because her father has recently relocated to Detroit to remarry a large polish woman named Bogna. Watching her closely is Zack, a handsome young boy in a letterman’s sweater who, although too shy to speak to her directly, leaves uncooked semolina pasta on her doorstep each night. Katherine—or Maude as she is called in the musical, is deeply moved by the gift and tries unsuccessfully to meet him each night, especially since she cannot stand elbow macaroni, but prefers cellantani instead.

Maude and Zack finally meet when, unexpectedly, a ’57 Buick Roadmaster with a bad exhaust mistakenly drives in the drive-in. Cautiously, Zack drags Katherine by her hair to an empty booth where they commence dancing the Charleston, after which Zack tries to make an impression on Maude by clinching his butt cheeks to the tune of Elvis’ “Suspicious Minds”, until he is overcome by exhaustion. Feeling badly about the scene that just occurred—especially the hip-gyration of the elderly waitress with the bouffant hairdo—Zack tries a different approach and suggests they attend the local school sock-hop later that evening. A suggestion that leaves Maude with no doubt that Zack is suffering from early dementia.

The sock hop, however, is a huge success and one of the band members—a little person dressed in faded Levi’s and a silk, fuchsia halter top falls in love with Katherine. Katherine is immediately smitten and when the little person suggests they procreate under the bleachers, she realizes they are meant to be together forever. Despite the fact that she has just procreated under the bleachers and is sweating like a stuck pig, Katherine says yes and her imagination races to the future where we are treated to a glimpse of their life together—a cottage together in the woods with 7 small children and an annoying bitchy elderly neighbor who incessantly offers Katherine apples.

Distraught and suicidal, Zack is found precariously swaying drunkenly from high atop the aforementioned ’57 Buick. After loudly declaring undying love for Katherine, Zack drinks the last of the Fiji mineral water and leaps, leaving the crowd gasping. Of course, Zack does not die, but is later found smiling happily with a beautiful brunette named Greta and a new titanium hip.

October 25

October 25.October 25. Just another day on the calendar. Sounds innocent enough, right? Maybe. Maybe not.

I remember when David presented me the engagement ring. It was Christmas 1985. My sister-in-law Vinnie laughed so hard because only a month before I had declared I would NEVER marry. Yet there I stood wearing the world’s smallest diamond and a biggest smile. I felt so much love that day. So much hope. I saw a life full of adventure.

I don’t recall why we chose October 25th as the day to marry. In hindsight, I suppose it was just a convenient day. When I look back now, I can’t help but wonder, though. Why? Why that day?

I was married on October 25, 1986.

Fast forward 20 some years. It is October 25th, 2006. We are in an emergency room watching my brother-in-law Ryan fight for his life. The events of that night play in my mind in slow-motion and the memory haunts me to this day. The doctors fervently work to save his life—nurses rush, Rae sobs uncontrollably, Danny and David shout Billy’s name. With each frightening shock of the paddles, his body convulses and we see slight movement in hands and feet. Optimistic by what we perceive as Billy’s desperate desire to continue to live, we yell at him to hold on---encouraging him to fight. He simply cannot. He is tired. I’d like to believe there are better things waiting for him elsewhere.
My brother-in-law died on October 25, 2006.
.
Ryan “Billy” Hodges’ death set of a chain of events that changed my life forever. I cannot help but believe that there is significance in his death being shared with my anniversary. I struggled with October 25 since then. Each year was filled with tears and aching and pain. I would hide—alone—in the darkness the entire day and replay my life. My marriage, my daughter, my Brother Billy’s death—what I would consider my failure. I hated that day. It brought my mind and soul to deep, dark depths that people should not have to endure.

It was October 24th, 2010.

One day. Twenty-four hours. In the rise and fall of the sun I would, once again, retreat into what was left of myself and ache. I would go through the motions of the day—laundry, dishes, dinner with seemingly no problem, but deep down inside I would want to crawl into bed, curl up, and let regret drown me and self-blame burn me. I braced myself for the inevitable.

And then, as if by divine intervention, something happened that would forever change not only October 25th, but me as well. At 11:30 am that day, a 7 pound 15 ounce beautiful baby boy was delivered to my daughter, Katherine and, in turn, to me. My grandson--Linkin David Robert Backus—came into my world—I believe—as a reminder of love, of family, and of my future. As I held him and looked into his daddy-like face, tears filled my eyes and joy filled my soul. Could I be so fortunate? Did God truly believe me worthy enough to send a perfect little soul into my world on THIS day? I believe he did. Linkin is my new life. When I hold him I see what is to come. I see first days of school, wrecked pickup trucks, and wresting tournaments for him. I see love, hope and a life full of adventure for me.

Welcome Linkin—and thank you.

Love YaYa