Chelsea Bear ... December 12, 1993 to April 8, 2008

GOODBYE

Today I said goodbye to my best friend.  I cradled her in my arms, with her head on my shoulder, snuggled just below my chin … just in the fashion I had carried her to bed so many times over so many years.

The doctor, who had taken care of her for so long, with compassion and love, helped her to a peaceful rest.  I can’t help but feel, that in my arms, she felt safe and secure; just as she had felt throughout her days with me. At least I hope she did, Oh, I hope she did.

It all happened very quickly.  The vet tech took her away from me for oxygen, and I told them not to let her be alone, so about a  minute later they came and got me. She had this little oxygen mask over her mouth and nose, but those big brown eyes saw me immediately when I came into the room. I told her “mommy’s here, you’re safe.”  She seemed to relax immediately.  I held the oxygen for her until they got the IV in her leg, then they gave her a little sodium pentothal, and while she was dosing off I kept kissing her face, ears, head, nose, and telling her I loved her.  I told her Grandma was waiting for her and would be so glad to see her.  I told her to give Grandma a big wet sloppy kiss, and also asked her to save a place for me.  As she got sleepier, I told her to lay her little head down, and she basically laid her little head in the palms of my hands.  Then in less than a minute I was told  she was gone.  It was all very peaceful and she was most aware that I was with her.   I tried to stay calm so she wouldn’t feed off of me and be scared.  I promised her when she was 8 weeks old that I would take care of her, and now 14 ½ years later, I refused to let her down in this moment of need.  I stayed with her, after her death, for about 30 minutes, just the two of us, as we had been for so many years. 

I went home,  and I prepared her resting place … what was to be beneath her favorite tree, where she would stand, look up, and implore the squirrels, “please come down and play with me!”  But after careful contemplation, I chose cremation and I brought her home, placed her in my hand-built pottery urn, placed carefully on the night stand, where I could tell her goodnight every night, and give her a tender and longing love pat.

A bit later in the week I needed to go to the bank.   It was all I could do to go through the drive-through that she and I always went through together.  She loved to go to the bank!  On her first trip with me as a puppy, the teller sent her a cookie, and she never forgot.  On every subsequent trip, she would stand with her paws on the console and stare at the bank tube, waiting for her treat.  I usually took an extra cookie with me, just in case the teller didn’t send her one.  You see, I would put mine in the bank tube so she wouldn’t be disappointed.  It would break my heart if she ever looked sad.  I swear on my first trip to the bank, alone, without her, I could feel her little nose so close to my right cheek as she stared at the bank tube, waiting for her cookie.  No cookie came for her.  I guess the teller couldn’t feel her presence … but I could.

In my sadness, I set out for a walk.  I followed the path we had taken so many times. I know I saw the grass bend, and the wild flowers sway, just about the same time I felt the brush of her happily wagging tail across my leg.  I stopped for a moment, listened, and walked on. With tears in my eyes, I returned home, and I realized then that she had followed me home, just as she had done so many years before.

It was then that I realized my sadness was intensified by my trying to say goodbye.  I had placed her in her earthly resting place, but I had tenderly, so tenderly placed her in her eternal resting place … my heart. 

Instead of saying goodbye, I only needed to utter the words, “see you.”  I see her all the time, and I feel her constantly. God gives us these precious gifts for such a short time, but He enables their spirit to live in our hearts forever.  This may be our biggest blessing.

“See you my dear, dear friend.”

This was written three years ago after the death of my beloved Bichon, Chelsea Bear.  I post it today in loving tribute to her.

Boiled Peanuts, and Ewwww! Jelly Fish ...

Every summer my Mother, Daddy, big sister, and I would pack into the car and head south for our summer vacation.  First to Savannah, Georgia to visit my Grandparents, and then on to Ormond Beach, Florida for beach time!

This, of course, was before there was air conditioning in cars.  So down the road we would go with all the windows down, no seat belts, and a few snacks packed in the car with us.  The interstate wasn't complete at that time either, so most of the driving was on a two-lane, sometime four-lane highway.  The first hurdle for us was the trip across Monteagle in Tennessee.  Since my sister and I both got car sick going around a lot of curves, all four of us would be crammed in the front seat together for at least the 30 to 45 minutes it took us to cross Monteagle.  At the top of Monteagle was a gas station that we always stopped at to re-fuel and take a potty break.  I remember buying a tomahawk once in the attached gift shop, and when showing it to my sister I said, "Look!  A real Indian made it."  Her reply was, "Oh sure, I bet he's sitting right out back of the gas station making those up right now."  Daddy's reply, "It was, too, made by a real Indian."  I still have that tomahawk hanging on a hook in my computer room.  And, you know, I believe Daddy was right. I do think it was made by a real Indian.

Once we arrived at my Grandparents home, it was time for some real "spoiling" time.  Our favorite part of this portion of the trip was going to Tybee Beach.  Daddy would always buy us a bag of boiled peanuts, we would rent an "ocean" canvas float, and we would ride the waves all afternoon.  On one occasion, Daddy had just gone up on the beach when he heard me screaming bloody murder. The look on his face I will never forget.  He charged back into the ocean, scooped me up, and carried me to shore.  I had had the unfortunate happening of swimming through a school of jelly fish.  Up to the lifeguard stand I was taken, and my legs and arms were washed down with an antiseptic soap and water combination.  I don't think I have been more than knee deep in the ocean since that time. 

My Grandmother was a true southern belle.  I can remember to this day, her sitting on the beach, in her dress, pearls, and high heel shoes holding per parasol.   That is a vision that I am sure would not happen today.  Grandpa would be sitting right next to her in his tan slacks, plaid shirt, hair blowing in the wind, with a smile on his face as we all played in the sand and surf. 

We usually set up our beach digs just down from the pier.  Oh, how we wanted to walk out on that pier, and Mother would never let us.  She was so afraid that the pier would fall, for some unknown reason, and we would fall into the ocean. She was so deathly afraid of water.  That old pier actually did fall one season after we had left.  A hurricane hit that area and the pier was washed out.   There is a new pier in its place now, and just this past December I visited Tybee Beach for the first time since I was a teenager.  I walked out on that new pier, thought of my Mother's fears, and when I looked down the beach where we all used to sit, I could almost see my Grandmother sitting there with her parasol.  My sister was home in Indiana, and my parents and Grandparents are all gone now.  I had an intense sense of loneliness, as I realized I was the only one there out of our group.  But, then I also had a sense of such warmth and connection, when I realized I could visualize and feel it all.

After leaving Savannah on these trips, we would head further south to Ormond Beach, Florida.  This was time devoted to just my Mother, Daddy, sister, and me.  The little cottages where we stayed, Coral Sands, are still standing today.  They are nestled a few steps from the beach, with a gorgeous view down the beach and the incoming waves of the ocean.  There was also a swimming pool where we could swim and play when we grew tired of the salt and sand. 

The one constant to these wonderful beach trips was the Coppertone Suntan Lotion.  Mother would slather us two red-headed girls from head to toe in Coppertone.  Our fair skin burnt so easily.  To this day I still use Coppertone sun products.  Over the years I have used the oil, the 4 sunscreen lotion, the 15 sunscreen lotion, the 30 sunscreen lotion, and now in this time of my life the 45 sunscreen lotion. I think I have finally realized that I will NEVER have a tan.  I love the product and that is one of the reasons I use it, but I think the true reason I use it, to this day, is the memory that the scent of Coppertone washes over me.  I smell that wonderful smell, and I am transported to my youth, my family vacations, and the loving arms of my Grandmother and Grandpa.   I'm hungry for some boiled peanuts just thinking about it ... but let's leave the jelly fish behind!!

This is written in answer to the  challenge from The Red Dress writing club.  We were to write about a memory associated with a smell.

A Special Bond

Have you ever wondered what forms the bond? 

These creatures, these souls with fluff,

cold noses, twitching ears,

staring eyes … they come to us by different means,

but all end up residing in the same spot … our hearts.

We owe them love, nurturing, and good care.

We owe them a time for exercise,

be it a walk in the park,

a ball tossed in the house, or just a good game

of tug-of-war with their favorite rag.

We owe them a home; free of danger,

and the comfort of knowing

they are safe and secure in our care.

You may ask, what is our reward? 

It’s the gift that these magnificent creatures alone possess …

the pricking of the ears, the twitching of the nose,

the loving stare, and the untiring wag of the tail.

All of this emotion is shared when we walk into a room

after an absence of as little as five minutes,

or as long as a week’s vacation. 

You see, time means nothing in their hearts.

They only know they love us unconditionally,

and the best part of their day is the time

spent with their beloved friends.

They have a keen sense of awareness

during times of stress or illness in our lives. 

Haven’t we all experienced the comfort

of a chin propped in our lap,

or a paw placed in our hand?   

Who hasn’t been rendered a tattered

and torn favorite toy, as if to say,

“This is one of my favorite things.

It will make you feel better.” 

We must have taken notice

that when the lights are finally

turned off at night, that it is our

beloved companion that makes

one more sweep of the room or home,

and when all is deemed secure and safe,

with a sigh of contentment their soul rests.  

And, we wonder what forms the bond …

One Person In Line

He was talking as he stood in line.  He pushed his tray along the ledge with hands that were coated in dirt and trembled ... the right worse than the left.  He was given his sandwich, some vegetables, two cookies.  When he reached for his soup, his trembling right hand made it hard for him to steady the bowl and some of his savory grace spilt onto the tray.  The person serving his needs saw the bowl had tipped and graciously topped his soup off so he would get his fair share.  He shuffled to a table, sat down, lowered his head, spoke some more.  He rarely joined in conversation with the others seated near him, except to make comments that really had nothing to do with any person or conversation near him.  Several times he talked animatedly, laughing, frustration, but these words to no one other than to himself.  At one point he did ask one of the servers if he could get a new belt.  He showed her that his had broken in half and was duct taped together.  It also would have fit a man at least three times his size.  He was asked to follow her to another area, where together they dug through a box.  He seemed happy that he had several belts from which he could choose.  He put the "new" one on, tipped his head, muttered some more words, and took his leave.

He proceeded around the corner and up the stairs to the magnificent Cathedral.  He continued to talk as he entered the church and took his place on the right hand side, about four rows  from the back of the church.  He lowered his head and remained quiet.  No longer talking to the unknown.  He remained seated during the first part of the Mass, making no noise, looking at no one, but occasionally lifting his head to look at the stars on the ceiling of the Cathedral.    He reached into the pocket of the coat that was literally hanging off of his frail body and pulled out a plastic container that resembled a toothbrush holder.  The filth of the holder was overwhelming. Surely this couldn't really be his toothbrush.  What was revealed within seconds took my breath away.  He opened one end and poured something into the palm of his hand.  It was coins.  Several coins.  Some were pennies, a few nickles, and maybe a couple of quarters.  He pushed them around in his palm, took two or three of them into his other hand, and put the rest away and placed the holder back in his pocket.  When the collection basket came down his row of chairs, he took his meager coins and dropped them into the basket.   His gift.  He remained seated, talking with no one throughout the rest of the Mass.  He did join in the Body of Christ during Communion.  When Mass was over, he tipped his head and walked out the main entrance of the Cathedral.  As he slowly shuffled down the sidewalk, he once again began carrying on his conversation. 

I found myself praying that the voices he heard and the conversations taking place were with his friends.  I couldn't bare the thought of him being alone in the coldness of the coming night.

She Sees With Her Heart

She sees more with her heart than most of us see with our eyes.  When she was but 10 months old, we made a visit to the veterinarian ophthalmologist to have her lower lashes evaluated.  They were said to "turn in a bit."  Maybe, just maybe the lashes were spoken of for about two minutes of that visit.  Instead, we received the very unexpected news that she would go blind.  "How could that be?  She is only 10 months old," I said.  I was told her retinas were detaching, and though the vet could not tell me when it would happen, it was thought that she would definitely go blind.

I put my precious Gracie, a sweet little bichon frise, in the car with me and started for home.  After tears by me, tail wagging for her, I told her that I was going to show her everything I could in this world.  From that day forward, we always took the same route when we walked, so it would be familiar in the future.  I took her to the lake, showed her the geese, and let her hear them honk.   When she heard that sound in the future, I wanted her to know it was a goose.  When I threw her toy to play fetch, I always said, "Are you ready? Here it goes."  Then I would throw it in the same direction.

I also took her to two other ophthalmologists for second and third opinions, being told each time, that it was a "fluke thing" that had happened, possibly an inflammation inutero with her mother, or with her as a small puppy.  I remember no such inflammation.  However, it  had attacked her eyes, and yes, there was nothing to be done. 

During this time of anguish for me, Gracie continued to wag her tail and find absolutely nothing buy joy in her life.  And slowly but surely my precious girl did lose her eyesight.  Now at the age of three, I really don't think she sees much at all. Possibly shadows, but since she can't read an eye chart to us, we don't know how much she sees and how much she has compensated vision. When we take a walk, regardless of the route, she leads me, ever fearless of what lies ahead.  When a goose honks on the lake, she immediately runs to the dining room window and looks out on the lake. And yes, I know she sees those geese.  To this day, she fetches her toys down the same hallway, always following the "Are you ready? Here it goes" statement by me.  If I have told her once, I have told her a thousand times, "You can do it."   And she has proven, over and over and over again that she indeed can!

My Gracie humbles me everyday.  When she meets a new friend, she doesn't see the color of skin, Gracie only sees the person.  She doesn't see the outward appearance of the person, she only sees the beauty of that person, and feels the gentle touch she is given.  On her first excursion to the dog park, I reluctantly took her leash off and let her loose.  I stood and watched as she started to sniff the parameters of the acre of fenced land.   Then she picked up her pace and trotted to the center of the area.  When we had arrived at the park, there were only two other dogs there. By the time we left, there were seventeen dogs who had joined in the fun.  Gracie had greeted each dog and each human at the gate, as if it were her party and they were her invited guests.  And she played with all of them.

I have forgiven the "fluky thing" that caused this blindness.  I have forgiven the medical world for not being able to  fix it.  To not do so, would be a dishonor to the heart of my Gracie.  I will forever remember that first day in the dog park. and the tears in my eyes. when she came running across an acre of land toward me with her ears blowing back in the wind and the sun on her face. She was free!    And, I could oh so see that she sees with her heart.  If only the entire world did so!


This writing is in answer to my writing club, The Red Dress Club.  We were asked to write about forgivness.

What's the fuzz? Tell Me What's Happening ...

When I first started watching the process, I wasn't tall enough to see the counter top.  I just knew it all looked interesting and that I absolutely loved the outcome.  I could see flour being shaken, a white substance being scooped from a large can, and water being added slowly, and of course a little salt.   Then I would see the juicy fruit being added, the oven door being opened, and then a buzzer sounding about an hour later.  Then, it was mine.

As I got older I continued to watch the process, and then finally decided that I would learn the process ...

My mother gathered me at the kitchen counter, spread out her waxed paper, and it all began.  Some flour, of course, she didn't measure.  So, I decided before she added any other ingredients, I would scoop the flour she had sprinkled out into a measuring cup, so I would know the right proportion.  Then she scooped the Crisco from the large can. Again no measuring, so I was left with the scooping method again to get the accurate measurement.  Then came the iced water.  Yes, a glass filled with water and a few ice cubes.  I couldn't measure this, since there was no chance for scooping, so I had to use the "eyeball" method.  Then a sprinkling of salt.  I would ask, "how do you know it is all the right texture?"  To which she would add, "you just need to make sure it is short enough."  By this, I think she meant the Crisco.  Because trust me, this recipe stood taller than any I've had since. 

Then in her round glass casserole bowl, she would add peaches, a little sugar, and a touch more flour. Stirring ever so gently.  Then she would take the heavy, round, wooden rolling pin, flour another piece of waxed paper, and roll the dough mixture out into a flat and perfectly thickened round disc.   She would then place this over the peach mixture, crimping it along the top edge of the casserole dish. Each crimp was the perfect indentation of her index finger on top, and her thumb on the bottom.   But she wasn't finished quite yet with this undertaking.  You see, there was always a bit of the dough mixture left over ... by design.  She would then take this dough mixture, roll it out once again, and then she would take cinnamon and sugar, sprinkle it on top, and then roll it up "jelly roll" style. 

Both of these prepared dishes would now go in the oven at 350 degrees for about an hour.  Then I would begin to smell the process after just a few minutes.   About an hour later, music to my ears!! The timer for the oven would sound its musical pleasure.  Both of the master pieces were taken from the oven and then set on the wooden chopping board which had been placed on the counter top.  The chopping board had been turned upside down, because it had been hand painted by my sister in the first grade, and nothing was allowed to sit on the painted side.   Then I was told,  "we need to let it cool for just a bit."  While the cooling process was taking place, out would come a small box and the table would be set.   The master pieces would then be transferred to the center of the table, the small box opened, and the candles placed lovingly in the center of the casserole piece of art.  Then the familiar song would be sung, clapping would follow, and then my family was blessed with the best peach cobbler on the earth!! 

Yes, my February birthday dessert was always my Mother's homemade peach cobbler.  I had this for practically every birthday from the time I can remember, until my 52nd birthday.   Then shortly after my 52nd birthday my Mother passed on the second to last day of March.   I haven't had a peach cobbler of that caliber since then. Even though I spent that painstaking time of "measuring" all her ingredients, as she worked her magic, I've never tried to make her famous crust to top my peach cobbler.  I don't know if the reason for not trying is a fear of not being able to do it, or probably more truthfully, that it is a sacred memory that I refuse to give up or compromise.  Sure, I can make the peach concoction, but the crust and even the "jelly roll" style cinnamon roll-up is better left to the memory.  It's more than a memory of the actual decadence of the dessert.  It's the love it was made of.   I just choose to hold it in my heart.


The above was written as a challenge from my writing group, The Red Dress Club.  We were asked to write about a fruit.  My love of peaches far exceeds their flavor.  It remains a piece of my Mother's special touch.

How Can I Help ...

How Can I Help …

March 30, 2005

When a person has lost a loved one friends immediately want to know “How can I help?”  I was certainly no exception to this rule.  My friends rallied around me from the minute my Mother died, and some even during her final 2 hours of life, and “kicked into gear.”  One of my friends even stated that my friends from work should start a Bereavement Committee; they were so on top of things.  I think friends want to help because in their way they are grieving with you.  Even if they didn’t know your loved one, they love you, and in this sense they grieve right along with you.  The morning of my Mother’s death, before I left to go to the hospital and certainly before I knew this would be the day it would happen, I walked into my kitchen to a sink full of dishes and a counter top that  if you didn’t know there was a counter top there, you wouldn’t have known.  I stood, surveyed the mess, thought about cleaning it up quickly, but then readily decided I was going on to the hospital because no one would be in my house that day!  Little did I know that by the end of that day over 30 people would be in my house.  By the grace of God, my friends came to my house within an hour of my Mother’s death, brought food, brought paper products, brought soft drinks, and while I left to go to the funeral home and church to make arrangements, they cleaned my house!   I'm sure crying along the way for me, as well.  This was one of the biggest blessings they could have done for me.  In addition to cleaning my house, one of my friends and his wife even sent a cleaning crew to my Mother’s house and thoroughly cleaned her house, even shampooing her carpets.  Unbeknown to me, Mother had been so ill the night before that her house and carpet were very soiled.  I don’t know what I would have done if the cleaning crew hadn’t come.  You see, my sister, her husband, and my niece were arriving at 11:00 p.m. that evening from New York, and their plans were to stay at Mother’s house.  Everyone’s help continued for several days and even weeks after my Mother’s death.  In a sense, I know their help will be life long because simply their presence in my life is a source of strength to me.  How blessed can one person be?

Reflection … Loving father you have given me so many blessings during my life, and I’ve always said one of my biggest blessings is the gift of my circle of friends.  I acknowledged my thanks to them during my  Mother’s eulogy, in your presence, and the celebration of life Mass for my Mother.  I ask that you continue to bless my friends with  peace, happiness, and health.  They are special souls, as you well know, but I feel the need to thank you again for this gift of kindred spirits and friendship.

This writing is an assignment for The Red Dress Club.  It is an answer to a challenge to describe myself without using adjectives.  My life is defined by my beautiful circle of friends.  This is but just one example of how important friends are in my life.  As you can see by the date of this writing, it has been six years since my Mother passed.  My same circle of friends love me today, and I return their love in full force.  I have, over these six years, helped them say goodbye to their parents.  I've sat with them during their sadness, cooked the food, but mostly have loved them and given them a shoulder to cry on, or an embrace to strengthen them.  Friendship is not just important to me, it is the heart of my core.