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It's important that someone celebrate our existence... People are the
only mirror we have to see ourselves in. The domain of all meaning.
All virtue, all evil, are contained only in people.
Lois McMaster
Bujold, "Mirror Dance", 1994
US science fiction author


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Jul. 12th, 2005 @ 12:55 pm My Favorite Person - Craig Downing
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Remember Who I Am
Craig Downing wore his pants backwards.

He was a skateboarder in a community where skateboarding wasn't cool.

He had floppy hair and dingy clothes.

And yet, he was insanely popular.

He was THE nice guy. Didn't date much, always had a hand out to whomever needed it and his attitude that, "this is who I am, I don't expect you to be anything other than you are, don't expect less of me", endeared people to him in an amazingly uncanny way. President of the student council, he was active in everything.

Craig was a senior when I was a junior at Hahn. His father was a Colonel on base, but you wouldn't know it by Craig's attitude or look. He was just Craig. We had tons of classes together: AP Physics, AP Lit, Government, AP Calc I, the list could go on.

Some of my best memories?

Our Physics teacher would routinely leave on trips without requesting a SUB for our class, so we would be left unsupervised in a multi million dollar brand new lab, decked out with all sorts of toys. On more than one occasion, we dragged the lasers and mirrors out and had great fun reflecting them all over the building, including up and down the stairs. Then of course, we had to dash through the halls, erasers in hand, distributing dust all about in order to see said laser beams. We eventually would end up on the floor, laughing our asses off when one of the other teachers would peak out of their classroom, see it was us, and then shake their heads and return to their rooms.

Every Friday, in the same physics class, we would take turns bringing in "snacks". It soon became a battle to see who could come up with the best and most unique snack. When Craig finally had his turn, he built up his treat for 3 weeks. It was top secret; a family recipe; we were going to love it! He showed up that day with a cooler. He proudly lifted the lid to reveal a green creamy drink of sorts and announced to the class, "zuchinni julius!" We were disgusted. It took him the whole 45 minute period to convince any of us to try it. We finally all poured a shot glass worth for each of us and bravely downed them simultaneously. Not bad. Very good actually. Seems asswipe made regular orange julius and just colored it green. Very funny craig. :) I still make his recipe actually... ;)

Craig spent a lot of time at my house that year. Mainly studying; we had so many advanced classes together and always ended up sharing projects. Mostly, we'd study for 30 minutes, then end up discussing some far off principle like time travel because we could never stay on topic. I would move to the kitchen to bake something because that was what I did when I was bored or my hands were idle. He'd move to the kitchen floor, because that was where he laid when I was cooking/baking. Yes. I said laid. Flat out, sprawled on his back, taking up most of the floor. He said he was comfortable. It got to the point that my mom would come home and just step over him to get to the fridge. "Hi Craig" she'd say, without missing a beat. "Hi Mrs. Black". And so the night would progress.

It was one such night he named my most famous dish, "Rhino Butt Brownies". Very famous, but by that name only. Some might call them simple rocky road brownies, but they truly don't taste the same without his immortal words matched to them.

I didn't tell Craig any of my secrets. I didn't ask him to be a bridesmaid or plan on how we'd raise our kids together. I thought that meant that he wasn't a REAL friend. But older now, I see that friendship is something more than those girly ideals. It's about acceptance, comfort, challenge and individual commonality. Craig was all of those things and still serves as a good example to me today of what truly defines friendship.

He accepted me as I was. He was comfortable lying on my kitchen floor. He challenged me to be more than I could, but to enjoy who I was. And he was always able to have so much in common but always be exactly and only himself.

I miss you Craig Downing.
Jun. 1st, 2005 @ 01:58 pm The Bulldog - Chris Donahoe
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Chris has been Jon's best friend since 4th grade.

For a long time, he was merely a voice on the other end of the phone to me. Jon kept his first set of dogtags, his first E1 pin and the dreaded "I'm going off to war" letter, unopened in his nightstand. I was allowed to touch none of these items and he rarely did without tears in his eyes. Chris has been stationed at Ft. Hood as a base since I came into Jon's life, interspersed with occasional trips oversees. Kuwait; Iraq; and in two months, Korea for a year.

Donahoe has never done anything easy. You can look at him and see that. Standard military crew cut. Beady blue eyes (yes, again, standard military issue). Tall and lean, very very mean; at least that's what he wants you to see. Permanent underbite and when his hands aren't wrapped around a beer, they're probably in tight fists, banging against his knees. Always wears combat boots, desert issue. His stories are peppered with fights and drunken forgetfulness. Cuss words abound, coupled with necessary Sirs and Ma'ams. He grew up fighting with his father; fighting with the schools; fighting with the military. He's been a medic most of his military career, but several times has gotten knocked down due to his innability to control the occasional sexual innuendo.

Currently, he's married to a hard nosed girl he met while stationed in Kuwait. She too wears combat boots and can dish it out as readily as he does. They've had their problems but I'm glad to see they've weathered them all. They have a son Colin's age and a daughter who just turned 3. He's only an E5 after 11 years, but he works hard and provides for his family. He aims higher than he can achieve and that is to be commended.

I can count the number of times on we've actually seen each other in person. The weekend of my wedding and a few visits after that. We usually only speak on the phone once or twice a year when he calls me in a drunken stooper. But he still feels like a brother to me. Maybe it's the comfort and familiarity of the military history. Maybe it's the way he gives me that deep hug that says, "I missed you". Maybe it's the way he kicks Jon in the butt about how little he appreciates me.

Donahoe was home this weekend with Michelle and the kids. They came over Sunday night for a barbeque along with some of the old gang. It was really nice. Before hand, Jon let me read "the letter". I guess somewhere along the line, his curiosity got the better of him.


Chris had written it one night when they were tying one on before he shipped out for his first tour in Kuwait. He was 19. It talked about all the things that 19 year olds talk about... good times/good friends/good beer. But more importantly, it talked about what he really found important. Friends. He recognized that he was hard to love sometimes, as hard assed as he was. He said that he wasn't going to apologize for anything he'd ever said and done, because if he did, he wouldn't be him. But that if he died, he wanted everyone to know that he felt loved in their acceptance of him and all his bullshit and with every foul mouth outburst or action, he was just exercising the freedom they allowed him to be him. And he was grateful for it.

Friendship for my brother. What a lesson from a 19 year old.
May. 19th, 2005 @ 12:10 pm Elton
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He was gangly. Too skinny and too tall. His long hair was always dirty and hung around his shoulders in a strangled pattern of gray, black and white against blue flannel. His clothes were ratty and baggy against his emanciated frame.

He was missing about half of his teeth and the other half were mostly blackened. His gums were spotted from years of chewing tobacco. He always smiled ear to ear in a surefire way to show off every last one of his not-very-pearly whites.

Elton went to church with us at a Pentacostal Church that met in an old car dealership in Copperus Cove, Texas. If I remember correctly, he had been a drug addict; so sick for so long. He had received miraculous healing (from what, I don't remember) at the church and was the loudest supporter of Christ I have ever met.

Elton was one of the souls that my parents took under their wing. He hung out with us sometimes and he even watched me on occasion when Dad was gone and Mom needed to get something done. The Christmas we were there, he found pennies in his shoestring budget to buy me a gift. It was one of those little porcelain figurines that played music and turned in time. A ball room dancing couple, the woman's shiny skirt caught in a moment of sweeping motion. I don't remember the song, but I recall winding it up over and over again to listen to the notes.

Elton was so proud of that gift. So proud.

Now older, I wonder if that was the only gift he gave that year. I wonder if my 6 year old wonder and amazement were the only gift he received that year.


I don't understand why, but Elton pops into my head several times a week. I don't have lots of memories of him; really just this one; but for some reason, it is constantly reappearing to me.
May. 9th, 2005 @ 10:47 pm Fellow Tears - A Mother
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Sunday, we were walking out to the van after our Mother's Day lunch. A burgundy sedan pulled into the space right next to the one we were parked in and I waited for its occupants to get out before I climbed in to make the trek home.

The rear passenger door opened shakely as I saw her shriveled hand looking for something to steady herself. Instinctively, I reached out to give her any assistance I could. Her tan orthapeadic shoe attempted three times unsuccessfully to navigate the distance between the floor and the ground. On the fourth try, it finally reached it's destination. With one hand gripping strongly mine, she grabbed the door with her other and gave the grand effort to escape from the tiny car.

"At 89, one's body just doesn't cooperate like it used to sometimes."

She began to turn around to close the door, switching hands, yet still gripping mine, she stopped. The Nazarene church across the street had begun playing "The Old Rugged Cross" on it's chimes.

For a moment, I was lost in the song. The notes, so beautiful seemed to loft through the air like bubbles from a wand. I adore chimes and on this day, the melody seemed to be an adornment to the beauty around us. Sound perfection, mingled with the sights and fragrances of springtime.

Eventually, the chimes stopped and I was abruptly brought back to reality. The wind blew across my face and I could feel the unknown tears burning into my cheeks. I looked down at her and was surprised to find the same tears in her wise old eyes.

"Happy Mother's Day dear", she said as she patted my hand and then walked away. It took me several seconds to choke out my own response.

"Happy Mother's Day to you to."

Watching her walk away, I wanted to run to her. "What can you tell me? What story is yours in those tears? How do you get through this life with such grace? How do you remember to stop to hear the chimes?"

But I did not. I smiled to myself, turned around and got in my van to go home.
May. 4th, 2005 @ 02:30 pm My History is....
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So, I've been taken back to the start of it all it seems in the last three days. Memory after memory comes rushing back of those first two years in College. All the relationships. Or non-relationships as they might be. I am overwhelmed to see the amazing people that God consistently brought into my life that I failed to acknowledge for the gifts that they were. Why in the world they ever fell for me; why in the world they ever felt I was worthy of their love; why in the world God saw fit to grace me with their touch...

To all of them, I make the dedication:

( Baby Don't Get Hooked On Me, Rascal Flatts )
May. 2nd, 2005 @ 09:18 am The Cajun - "Bud"
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My Grandma's boyfriend of several years became a dear old man to me. His name is "Bud". An old man from Louisiana, he represents all things cajun.

He's missing most of his teeth and when he talks, his drawl is so severe that you only actually understand every fifth word. His intent is to be humorous almost all the time and you end up laughing, not because his jokes are funny, but because you just can't help it. Between the accent, the funny lingo, the goofy toothless smile or the sureness that whatever he's saying is ridiculous, you just can't help but smile. All these years, he could have been talking about fossil studies and we'd have never known, just kept on laughing.

His skin is wrinkled with age and years of outdoor work. Some sort of plaid, usually two conflicting patterns usually adorn his body, over top of a ratty old wife beater tshirt and baggy khaki pants with elastic bands. Sometimes, he just has on an old pair of sweat pants that you are sure are going to fall down at any moment to reveal an equally tattered pair of not so tighty whiteys.

Amazing though about the cajun... as hilarious as they are, always the best cooks in the world. The last time he visited with my Grandma, he brought homemade sausage gumbo and crawfish etouffe. Cooked for three days, shipped for two in a cooler in the car. Full of bacteria I'm sure, but damn was it ever good. A little fluffy white rice and some fried pickles and you could swear you were on Bourbon Street.

Three years ago they visited at Christmas. It was the last time I got to see either one. My mom and bud had this game of buying stupid gifts for one another. The year before, Bud had gotten my mom this blow fish ornament thing. (what ever do you do with a stuffed blow fish?) This particular Christmas, she had gotten him one of those stupid singing fish. (He was an avid fisherman)

I have never saw a grown man laugh with such a genuine nature in my entire life. Complete joy derived from a silly little singing fish. He would press the button and wait for it to begin. His great toothless jowls with drop open and this amazing belly laugh would escape. The fish would eventually stop singing and he would fall silent, the disappointment evident in every muscle of his being. Then he would press the little red button with his gigantic thumb again. Eventually, someone new would come into the room and he would call you over in his boisterous manner to laugh equally hard at the silly fish. Secretly, we weren't laughing at the fish. We were laughing with him. He warmed our hearts and made us WANT to laugh.

My Grandmother died last year. I don't think I'll ever see Bud again. But I often wonder where he is? What he's doing? Whatever was he really saying?

And today, what is making him laugh?
Apr. 29th, 2005 @ 10:01 am Dirty Hands - Grandpa Carney
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His hands are big. Bigger than any other person I've ever met. They always smell strangely of grease and Lava hand soap. They were the hands of a working man. They could open any jar, dig anything out of the ground and lift whole engines out of any car in his garage.

My earliest memories of Grandpa were fond, as they are yet today.

I would spend hours in his barn, watching him fix cars, talking to all of his township buddies about those "damn democrats" and the "rice-burners" taking over the American economy. The "krauts" all needed to go to hell and the "commies" could ride along too... thank God Reagan was going to send them.

Often, he would invite me into the cab of his huge work truck and take me on a trip to "Terre Haute Shoppin' Mall". It was a tiny mom and pop store that offered just about anything a person could need. We would walk in, say "yello" to Jenny behind the counter and I would get to buy a Big Red soda and pick out my own bag of penny candy. Grandpa would buy a bag of chew (later, after he stopped chewing, it would be a pack of shredded bubble gum - what was that stuff called?) and we would head out to make our rounds of the township.

We would return home to hear mom scold him again for feeding me candy and pop for lunch. I, upset for being in trouble, would cower around the corner while she got upset and Grandpa would always lean around the corner, give me that old bear wink of the eye and ask, "you ok pickle puss?" The smile would always return to my face and I would look forward to the next time Grandpa would take me to Terre Haute Shoppin' Mall with him.

He's a static old man. In my whole life, he hasn't changed one bit. He's still gruff. Still hates the krauts, and commies and the only rice burner he ever worked on belonged to me. For breakfast he eats a piece of pie, covered in raisan bran, a ton of sugar, 6 oreos crumbled up and the whole mess drenched in milk. He still mows his mother's lawn, even if his son now lives there. Before he goes to bed he has a bowl of ice cream from a 5 gallon container. He still uses Lava soap. His pants are still too big. He drives the snowplow for the township and still visits the Terre Haute Shoppin mall at least twice a week.

No matter what I did; no matter how "disappointed" everyone else in my life was in me; no matter how long it had been, Grandpa always treated me the same. I walk into the room, his eyes sparkle, he exclaims, "pickle puss!" and wraps his arms around me in the greatest bear hug ever. He doesn't say much and he doesn't have to. Any lesson he has to teach is in his hands. Strong, gentle, comforting, dirty but always clean enough. And no matter what, no matter "who" I was, they always had love to show me. They always welcomed me into his home and his heart.

Funny thing is, he's not even my "real" grandpa. He's my stepmother's father. But he's always loved me like it didn't matter and in the end, he is the greatest example of unconditional love that I know.

Today, I had to check my front license plate to make sure it was still attached correctly. I kneeled down in the grass and as I reach to check the bolts, I got a strong wiff of that engine smell. Dirt and oil all mixed in with gasoline. Instantly, I was 7 again, sitting on an old grease bucket turned upside down, watching my Grandfather work on his tractor.