Thanksgiving 2015 in Prague

Prague, Czech Republic
November 26, 2015
Latitude 50º 4' N

Thanksgiving morning from my fabulous apartment in the Žižkov district of Prague was grey and foggy. Another typical November day in Central Europe, I thought. I'd arrived the day before from Amsterdam, spent that day in, and still didn't want to leave the apartment on day two. I'd landed a delicious place to stay—a sixth floor, totally modernized, two story apartment with wood floors, fabulous kitchen and even a jacuzzi. Some pre-Christmas homing instinct made me want to run out, buy a tree, shop for ornaments and spend the long weekend decorating the place. I'd satisfy this urge later on with the purchase of 4” $3.00 poinsettia.

But I finally separated myself from the apartment, bundled up against the cold and tackled the metro. My first stop was Prague Castle, where I spent the better part of the day until about 3:00 pm. The views from some of the towers was astonishing—a city of spires, gables and turrets. The city lay out below me. It had taken a long time to get to this fabled city, undamaged during World War II.

I wandered off the castle grounds, meandered through the Mala Strana neighborhood, through the twisty streets below and ultimately to the Charles Bridge, which I'd heard about and for good reason. It was packed with tourists—mostly Japanese—and it made me wonder what this city was like in season. By the time I'd gotten to the other side I was in a lot of pain. I saw that an organ concert was going to be held at the St. Salvator Church in the Klementinum district so I paid my 500 Crowns, took a seat and just sat for an hour.

The church was cold and even my leather jacket and wool mittens weren't enough to keep me warm. But the music was wonderful—a series of Baroque classics for almost an hour. At the very end a mezzo-soprano sang Ave Maria. I was momentarily overwhelmed. It was my mother's favorite hymn, sung at her wedding and again at her funeral.

I was alone this Thanksgiving. And it was the first holiday when I was truly alone My parents were dead and my estranged brother had been dead for six months. I was the sole survivor ofmy immediate family. Except for an aunt and uncle, and a bunch of cousins, there's no other immediate blood family. When I heard Schubert's music I could feel the ghosts of Thanksgivings past surround me—my family, my aunts and uncles and cousins who came for dinner, Elaine Cranston, her daughter Diane and Elaine's mother, Mrs. Dumas. What was a holiday growing up without those dear people?

I wrapped around me all the adult years of my parents and Steve, of putting the lights on the outdoor Blue Spruce on the afternoon of Thanksgiving Day, of snow storms and blizzards that blew in on that day.

I wrapped around me more recent years when it was just Mom, then Ed and Rita, and how Thanksgiving moved from one home to another.

I wrapped around me all the traditions that emerged over the years--gathering of the greens on Thanksgiving morning, a walk at Point au Roche, illuminating outdoor trees, decorating the house the day after the holiday and always, the first day of skiing that weekend.

It wasn't a sad reminiscence, just a healthy remembering of those people I loved who are no longer with me and events that are just on hold this year.

When the concert finished I walked out into the early dark of late November's night in Prague. The temperature had dropped and a very light snow was falling--flurries, really, but snow nonetheless. Nothing could have been more perfect. I walked across the Charles Bridge, this time in the dark. heading to the metro. The lights of Prague illuminated the Vltava River. Tourist boats plied the waters and Japanese tourists were in abundance. I felt as I were in night setting of a Moravian fairy tale, but it was the real thing.

But my evening wasn't quite over. Half way back to the train, I heard the strains of Dixie Land. New Orleans jazz on Thanksgiving night on the left bank of the river. Well...what with the snow and the music, it was the perfect cap to the day!

I finally did wander home, overcooked some chicken, Skyped with home, with my family of choice, fielded thoughtful emails and texts from home and collapsed into bed about midnight.

My Czech Thanksgiving. While it wasn't a day set aside here in Prague, it was in my heart.

And that is all that counted.

In Flanders Field: Ieper/Ypres and World War 1 Cemeteries

Ieper, Belgium

November 17, 2015

Latitude 52º 49' N

Ieper, or Ypres, six days after the 98^th observance of the Armistice that ended World War 1. The timing was perfect for a visit to this area that saw far too much activity between 1915 and 1918.

We arrived Monday after a six hour drive from Hillegon, The Netherlands. By 4:30, after driving in a steady rain, we arrived at our destination, 55A Kriekstraat, Ieper, Belgium. It would be Lomme and me for three days before Ina and Steven would join us later.

It was a moving and somber day as we visited a string of allied cemeteries in the area known simply as Ypres Salient or, as it is better known, Flanders Field.

There was a solid uniformity about the stones—simple white marble tablets each bearing the name of the soldier, his death date, his age and, often, a representation of his regiment's insignia. In death, all these soldiers were equal. The day was intermittently sunny and wonderfully quiet. Few people were out and about on this mid November day which allowed us to wander amongst the perfectly manicured cemeteries.

We stopped as several memorials, but held off until the end to visit Tyne Cot, where over 10,000 men were buried. These were, of course, men, but as we traveled among the stones, their ages were disconcerting... 19, 21, 23... These were just children—older children, but children none the less. And they were children far from home.

Private

J. Black

8^th Bn. Canadian Inf.

10^th November 1917 Age 19

Corporal

A. K. Pearce

Bn. Australian Inf.

21^st September 1917 Age 22

Private

J. Condon

Royal Irish Regiment

24^th May 1915 Age 14

Private J. A. Bull

Royal Warwickshire Regt.

27^th August 1917 Age 19

But most stones listed no name. The vast majority of bodies buried in these cemeteries were never identified. Imagine sending a son/brother/grandson/friend/husband/nephew off and never knowing what happened to them? For the unnamed bodies that were found, there was no one at home to contact to offer a sentiment to be added at the bottom of the tombstone.

                                                              A New Zealand Soldier

of the Great War

Known Unto God

And reading the stones made me think of the subtitle to Kurt Vonnegut's book Slaughterhouse Five: the Children's Crusade. The “men” buried here were boys, at least from the point of view of my 66 years. Boys far from home—the UK, Canada, New Zealand and Australia—dominated these plots. Because this was 100 years ago, and because it didn't affect me in any way, directly or indirectly, there was an emotional disconnect. Unlike the Vietnam Memorial in Washington where the names of my peers are listed, this was from a different time and place.

Still, it was difficult not to be affected.

It were the inscriptions that moved me the most. Simple one and two line sentences that families far away were permitted to put on the stone:

Rest Well Brave Heart

A devoted son and brother

Thy will be done

We shall meet

to part no more

Mother

He died

amidst the short and shell

our son, brave and true

In loving memory

of my only son

by his sorrowing mother

Sleep on beloved

until the day breaks

and shadows flee away

My dear friend Lomme and I spent a wonderful day sharing this moving experience. It was a lovely day and the bucolic Belgian countryside spread out before us. Small villages with brick homes and terra-cotta colored slate roofs, were punctuated by a single Catholic church. Cows and sheep filled fields and crops were still being harvested—sugar beets, cabbages, carrots, brussels sprout and dried brown rows of corn. Every now and then we'd pass a muddy field and tried to imagine the hundreds of thousands of men who had to endure mud, rain, snow, cold, life in trenches and the constant threat of death.

 A hundred years ago, however, this was a landscape of utter desolation where thousands upon thousands of allied and German soldiers died. Everything had been destroyed.  Everything we were looking at was "new."  Even now, bodies surface each spring. On this soft mid-November day, it was hard to imagine the horror the men who lived through this experienced each day.

At day's end we attended “the Last Post” at the Menin Gate in Ieper. It was hard not to have an emotional reaction to this ceremony. Even I, fortunate to have lived my entire life in peace,  was moved by the simplicity of the bugles and the simplicity of every day people laying poppy wreaths in this great memorial to the 54,9976 Commonwealth soldiers engraved on the walls who had no know grave in this area.

This could have been me had I been born in another place time, and the expression “There go I but by the grace of God,” crossed my mind more than once. Those young men were no different than I. They had dreams, and hopes for the future. They were loved and loved in return.

When the last bugle had blown, and after we toured the memorial and pondered the thousands of names, we slipped back to our comfortable home we'd rented for the week. We would sleep warm and secure.

A hundred years ago it was a very different story.

But the story didn't end there. A week later, as we were returning to The Netherlands, we stopped in Middleburg for lunch. By chance we landed in a restaurant operated by a hotel management school. The dining room was filled with young people. I couldn't avoid looking at them and thinking that these boys were no different from the names on the tombstones in Flanders. I could not imagine a world so demonic that 11,000,000 military would die. It was a sobering lunch.

I gave silent thanks—for them and for me—that we lived in a time of relative peace. American Thankgiving was coming later in the week. I had a lot to be thankful for.

In Flanders Field

John Mc Crae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow

Loved and were loved

In Flanders Field.

Take up our quarrel with foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be your to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

Hillegom, Amsterdam and the Arrival of Saint Nicholas

Hillegom, The Netherlands

November 15, 2015

Latitude 52º 17 N

First things first... one doesn't travel to Central Europe in the middle of November for the weather. While it wasn't exactly “a dark and stormy night” sort of scenario, it was far from “gloriously warm and sunny.” And all of this was just fine with me. I'd come to Europe to experince the start of the Christmas Season and I was quite happy have what I've always called “St. Nicholas weather”--cold days, gray skies, rain and the hope of snow.

I'd arrived at Schipol Airport fifteen hours after I'd arrived at the airport in Montreal. I'd gotten there early the day before only to find that the flight to Amsterdam would be four ours late. Oh, to have checked KLM's webpage earlier.

I was a zombie the first day I arrived, Friday, but far better by Saturday when Lomme and I walked Hillegom's main canal to watch the arrival of Saint Nicholas. I could barely contain myself, having waited a very long time to see this. It was cloudy and light drizzle fell much of the day. The sky was spectral gray, but all of these things hardly dampened my mood. I was as excited as the little kids who'd come with their parents. Unlike them, though, I'd come to watch this purely as a cultural observation. While St. Nicholas has nothing to do with Christmas, Christmas, on the other hand, has a whole lot to do with the good Saint.

We arrived at the Ringvaart Canal just in time to see two small boats trolling down the canal. These boats were filled with loads of Black Peter's, St. Nicholas' helper, who were throwing small bags of candy to kids on land. I was content just to watch. Following the small boats was a much larger boat carrying The Saint himself in the front, with another entourage of Black Pete's and a band playing a combination of traditional St. Nicholas Day tunes and Dixie Land jazz, including “When the Saint's Go Marching In,” which made me chuckle. As an American, you're never far from your own culture.

Once these boats passed us, we walked the half kilometer to Hillegom's town square. There were hundreds of people waiting in front of the Rathuis, where the mayor would personally meet St. Nicholas. Well, I wasn't disappointed. I pushed my way forward and had a front row seat, as it were, to see a local school's cadet corps and marching band escort the Saint, who was riding in a vintage early 1930's Ford. He was dressed all in a red robe, wore a red mitre and carried a large shepard's hook He looked nothing like Santa Claus, but our image of Santa Claus is historically liked to his image. He was very much the bishop he was supposed to be.

The kids were agog, just as I was. Hey, for the first time I got a chance to see the real thing, and I was excited. But this poor Saint Nicholas—he looked so unhappy, so dour. Where was his joy, his joie-de-vivre? He must have left it in Spain where he and Black Pete allegedly spend the rest of the year.

And that was is for Hillegom. The next day Lomme, Ina and I made our way to the train station in Haarlem where we met their daughter, Marlijn and their new grandson, Koen A quick train ride to Amsterdam and a longer walk to the Shipper's Canal where we were just in time to see a literal parade of boats filled with myriads of Black Pete's and people out for a good time. More than one of the these smaller boats had jazz bands and small combos on them. At the end, the boat carrying St. Nicholas was much larger than Hillegom's and carried far more people. And in front, waving happily, was a much more cheerful St. Nick! This was the real thing!

We lingered a bit, met Joris, Marlijn's husband, who was one of the Black Pete's on roller blades who helped maintain control, not that any control was needed.

Joris, as were all Black Petes, was dressed in medieval garb and had his face painted black. Pete's origins date to the mid 19^th Century when he first appeared in a children's book as Nicholas' attendant. The author depicted him as black and dressed in Moorish clothing of the Renaissance. The tradition has continued.

And that was that! Unlike a Santa Claus parade Thanksgiving weekend, St. Nicholas would not park himself in a Mall for the next few weeks 'til St. Nicholas Day. He'd make visits to schools and nursing homes, but he really wouldn't return until his feast day, December 6^th when he'd leave goodies in childrens' shoes. Pete, on the other hand, would leave switches to children who weren't all that good.

After lunch, it was Lomme and me. Our goal: now that St. Nicholas had arrived in the harbor, he'd now enter the city via his horse. The parade reminded me of a classic weekend-after-Thanksgiving Santa Claus parade sponsored by local businesses. Different stores had different floats, but none were Christmas related. Instead, there were heaps of Black Petes (Lomme said more than 5,000 had volunteered) who handed out candy and small gingerbread cookies.

By parade's end the Saint had appeared, and unlike is Hillegom counterpart, this one was clearly enjoying his role. He rode his white horse slowly and retraced his steps on both of side of the street, so all could get a good, long glimpse of him.

No sooner was he there, then we was gone. Like the Santa Claus he would become, he was just as illusive.

But what a great two days. I'd wanted to see this for a very long time and I finally did. This was just the beginning, though. Once Advent begins, I will switch gears to Christmas markets.

The fun was just beginning.

Here We Go: Holland, Belgium, the Czech Republic, Austria and Hungary

Plattsburgh, NY
November 12, 2015
Latitude 44º 42' N

I don't care how often I travel, it's still hard"getting out of Dodge."  And this time is no different.

But off I am for this "Christmas Market" tour of Central Europe, a trip that will bring me first to The Netherlands and onwards a few days later to Flanders where my friends Lomme and Ina and I have rented a home in Ypres, Belgium for a week to tour southern Belgium.  The day before Thanksgiving I'll fly to Prague where I'll spend a week before heading to Vienna and, hopefully, Budapest, for another week.  I'll fly home December 8th, in time for Christmas at home.

This is a trip I've wanted to do for a very long time, an opportunity to visit Christmas markets in several European capitals.  I don't imagine it will be the last!

A Memorial for My Brother, Richard Ladue

A memorial service for my brother, Richard/Dick/Joe Ladue was held Thursday, August 6, 2015 at the family plot in Redford, NY.  In attendance were four of us....Steve Graf, Vicki Maggy, Catherine Van Nortwick and myself.  I am so grateful for their witness to this remembrance.

This was not a funeral.  It was a means of burying my anger at how things were done surrounding his death, at his great act of betrayal at the end of his life, his wife's co-dependent hostility and at a life time of alcoholic and drug abuse that affected his family in very deep ways.

Now, when all these hurts come up, I can say...they are in the small tin box that was buried above the graves of our grandparents and between the graves of his parents.

At this point, I can sincerely say ... Rest in Peace.

He's a Long Way from Home

He rarely called.

He rarely came.

I waited.
I held out hope for some sort of amends,
A reconciliation.
Gathering my strength I purposely detached.
I was carried
Off into a new and better place.
Far away from his presence
Cold and bitterness hardened him.
I saw time flicker away.
I lived years without him
Alone then and now.
I pitied him.
As I traveled far from him
He did not know how really close we were.
I often peered from my tiny window
Praying that he would sense my longing.
I knocked ever so softly just testing
To see if he would open up to me.
If he could have somehow found his way back
I would have gladly received him
But he was blind
And his days were in denial.
I would have flown by his side
And I would have rescued him.
If only...
If only he knew.
He rarely called.
He rarely came.
I waited.

Freely adapted from a poem by Paula Nico from Healing Poems for Broken Hearts

--------------------

An Abbreviated Life

In the early days of Campus School,

of Little League, of neighborhood

games of tag, of innocence, you shone.

Your friends flocked to be with you,

girls swooned, hoping for a chance

to set eyes on you at the Y dances on Friday nights.

A football hero, a wrestler, a charismatic golden boy,

you discovered that you were good with your hands.

A mason who abandoned the North Country

to work on the Alaskan pipeline in the 80's.

You grew a beard, made friends that none of us knew,

married a woman we never met, returned home

for our 30^th high school reunion, a foreigner.

You lost your sunshine, your innocence,

your reasons to connect to your earlier life.

Your brother became good friends with anger,

disappointment and grief He tried to built bridges,

shorten the geographic distance between you.

In the end the emotional distance was too great.

By then, you were gone, leaving us wanting answers.

Michaela Armstrong                                                                                                          May 2015                                                                                                                                                 --------------------

The Uses of Sorrow

Someone I loved once gave me
a box full of darkness.

It took me years to understand
that this, too, was a gift.

Mary Oliver, from Thirst, by Beacon Press, Boston, 2006                                                    --------------------

Oh Lord, I circle Dick with your love. Keep him with you at all times and guide him to where you wish, Help me not to be judgmental and help me change my thoughts towards him. Thank you for your love and all that you have given me. Amen.

Prayed by our mother, Rita Ladue, daily.

Obituary for Richard J. Ladue

Richard "Dick" Ladue, 62, most recently of Tucson, Arizona, died May 25, 2015.   

He was born June 16, 1952 in Plattsburgh, the son of Howard and Rita Ladue.

Dick graduated from Plattsburgh High School in 1970, attended Paul Smiths College then relocated to Colorado where he honed his skills as a stone mason. In the early 1980's he moved to Anchorage, Alaska where these skills served him well throughout his career as a mason and chimney specialist.

While in Alaska he assumed his middle name, Joe. Any Alaskan would have known his great ancestor, Joe Ladue, who founded Dawson City, Yukon.

Locally, he is survived by his brother, Dan, of Plattsburgh, his sister, Patricia Irwin of Potstam, his aunt, Gloria Boyer of Newark, NY, as well as two nieces and many cousins.

There were no services in Arizona, although a small graveside memorial occurred recently at the family plot in Redford, NY. 

Mary Boule: A Eulogy

Good afternoon. On behalf on myself and the Boulé family…thank you for coming today to celebrate Mary’s life.

May and I go back a few years. During the many days we visited these past two months, neither of us could figure out if we met in first grade or in second grade. What I DO remember, though, was the particular circumstance that is my earliest memory of Mary Boulé.

It was story our and Mary brought it a copy of Daniel the Cocker Spaniel. I was mortified, embarrassed. Years late, well after college, when I brought up the event, Mary remembered it well. “I brought it in,” she said, “because I liked you, and I thought you’d like the story, too.”

Even seven years old can misinterpret well-meaning intentions.

Well, that incident didn’t end our friendship. From then on the years melded one to another. Grade school, high school, and even college. We both studied English in Western New York, 40 miles apart, and many weekends Mary would be in Fredonia and I’d be in Buffalo. Her Aunt Margaret became my Aunt Margaret.

We graduated, moved back to Plattsburgh, spent countless hours together. I’ve thought a lot lately of summer days spent at the Boulé camp at Valcour, camping trips on the island and rides into the Adirondacks. I’ve thought of all the hours sitting around camp fires ‘til late at night, and I know in summer that I’ll miss Mary the most.

How does one evaluate a life? One, far more famous, is also being remembered today in this town. [Ron Stafford] Do we judge a person’s life by all his great and mighty deeds, or are deeds plain, quiet and simply sufficient?

Mary led a quiet life, and I really think that life on the corner of Lafayette and Ash, surrounded by Steffan and his friends, was enough. It’s through these kids that many of us have come to realize her greatest legacy.

I’d take occasional days off to sit with her on 5R. We’d reminisce about the old days---summers on the lake, high school and college, our first years back in Plattsburgh, young adults, futures spread out before us. We’d be interrupted by frequent visits from young people—some I knew, but most were strangers to me. There was awkwardness on their part, young as they were, unfamiliar with critical illness. Yet there was a need within them to stand presence with Mary at this time in her life.

“How ya doing’? Steffan (or Parker or Aaron or Sarah or David or Kelly, or, or, or…someone) told us you were in the hospital. Here, we brought you some candy.” Or they’d leave a flower or a plant.

Others told me the same thing. Whenever they’d spend with Mary, young people would flow in. And then the stories…of how Mary opened her non-judgmental heart, let kids tell her their deepest concerns. We learned that kids would go to Mary when they couldn’t talk to their own parents. “Let’s go talk to Mary,” Sarah Remillard told me. “She’ll know what to do.” She was the Mom everyone went to when theirs weren’t home or they just needed a shoulder to cry on. We learned that Mary always knew when to listen and when give to advice—the adult these kids looked to who’d not judge their hair, or their life style, or the decisions they were making. They’d be accepted simply for who they were.

When it came time for Mary to leave—at the end of a gorgeous, early summer’s day—I don’t think it was mere coincidence that four young people were with her at the time. They were there to support Steffan, of course, but they were there,, too, because a huge part of themselves—their second mother—was leaving them.

Steffan…you have to listen to me.

It’s going to take you a life time how much your mother loved you. How joyous she was for you to go to Florida…a week after she’d been given a diagnosis. No holding you back for something so mundane as pancreatic cancer. No. You were always first in her heart and she was always happiest to see your dreams fulfilled. Hold on to this, buddy. Your mother taught you to be a kind and non-judgmental human being. That is her greatest gift to you.

And Aaron…Parker..Kelly…Sarah…David…of you young people who knew Mary as your second Mom…you’ve got to listen to me. Hold on to each other, take here lessons and work them into the deepest fabric of your life. Be the kind, non-judgmental, accepting person she modeled for you. This way she’ll live on, down through the years, in each and every one of you.

How do we judge a life? Not all of us hold office; not all of us bring forth Olympic games or have Middle schools named after us. But we all, each of us, leave a legacy—even the quietest among us.

Mary. Poetess. Songwriter. Balladeer.

Mary. Organic gardener, wild flowers in her hair, feet dangling off the dock at Valcour. Mother. Friend. Peace maker. Secret-sharer of dreams.

Mary. Maker of the world’s best macaroni and cheese, indomitable Scrabble player, a “shoot for the stars” cheerleader of one.

And facing her final battle…a journey she chose share with some of us…eloquent, graceful, dignified. Always smiling, thankful for every kind act. Life lessons to the very end.

Mary loved plants. She’d much prefer a garden plant to a bouquet of store bought flowers. Over the weeks she was in the hospital, I’d bring in single pots of summer annuals—a marigold, a geranium, and this…an impatiens. Even when cancer spread to her brain, she’d be able to tell me, “Impatients: the most beautiful flower…but only in pink.” Her hospital garden brought her great joy and comfort through this difficult spring.

And now this has become my metaphor of Mary. Of all the summer flower, impatiens are the first to die, wilting under the slightest hint of frost. I’ll always see Mary in an impatiens because, like this plant, Mary’s life was cut short by her own too-early frost.

Mary. Kool Aid Mom to neighborhood kids. Everyone’s biggest cheerleader.

What a legacy. A legacy that will live down the years in all the young people who transected her life.

What a great way to be remembered.

June 26, 2005

A Rememberance of my Friend Mary Boule

My oldest friend, Mary Boule, died ten years ago today. We'd known each other since we were seven years old—almost fifty years. She was my oldest friend and was very much loved.

I still miss her.

In April of 2005, during Easter break, I had a call from her sister, Carrie. Mary had not been well all winter. She'd complained of stomach pains but her doctor could find nothing wrong. But by spring, the pain had gotten worse. She'd just come from the emergency room where a doctor suspected pancreatic cancer. A few days later, tests in Burlington confirmed the worst. Carrie thought I'd want to know.

And of course I did.

Growing up, I never had a sister, but Mary had been my friend for years and was the closest thing to a sister I had. We'd been friends for almost 50 years and had been through a great deal in our life.

I was devastated. Who wouldn't be. I knew how fast this cancer progresses. I just didn't know how much time we had.

I do not know how she approached this diagnosis with the dignity she displayed. She could have complained, but she never did—to me at least. She could have withdrawn into a depression, but she never did. Whenever I visited, which was just about every day, she was grateful and happy to see me.

Mostly we'd chat about “old times”--high school and “the gang.” We talked a lot about our college years when she was in Buffalo and I was in Fredonia, 40 miles away. We went back and forth often. We reminisced about the thousands of hours we spent together after college, camping trips to Valcour, late, late nights drinking white wine with yellow raisins at the bottom of the glass, campfires at the Boule camp on Lake Champlain and about our young years as neighbors at 134 Brinkerhoff Street. There was no end to what we talked about.

I told my principal that Mary was dying and that I would be taking a day off every two weeks to spend with her. He was a kind and compassionate man who didn't balk at the idea as some administrators would. He understood.

Despite all the chatter, there were long gaps of silence. I'd just sit with her while she dozed, woke up, dozed again. Visitors would come and go and despite the pain she was in, she'd welcome them and be happy for the time they took out of their lives to be with her. But what mattered the most on those precious days was that we were together.

But each week as springtime progressed, I could see that we were losing her. It was hard to watch.

One Friday, in mid-June, I'd come in after school. We had a normal conversation. I told her I wouldn't see her until Monday as I had something going on all weekend.

Seventy two hours later, however, I'd lost her. In that short time, the cancer had gone to her brain. The smart, witty, fun friend I'd known had slipped away. From then on the decline was far more noticeable.

She lived a few more days. All of us who'd been with her through her sickness were with her at the end. Had she been cognizant, she would have loved to see so many of her friends gathered. We played her favorite music, gathered round her. There was nothing more we could do.

Mary died at the end of a perfect early summer's day, a day like many others we'd shared in our lifetime together.--a day full of sunshine, a day where field daisies were in full bloom, a day that had Mary's name written all over it. Sometime after 9:00 pm she died. The funny, smart, talented friend I'd known since second grade was gone.

The hole her death made has yet to be filled. How do you fill a hole from a friendship that lasted fifty years, a friendship built on trust, non judgment and love? What do you do when your oldest friend, the person you've shared the same journey with for so many years, is gone? It's mighty hard not to miss that person and it's almost impossible to fill those shoes.

Three days later I delivered the eulogy at her funeral. My other friend Mary had to accompany me to the podium; it was the hardest public speaking gig I'd ever done in my life.

After the funeral, when almost everyone had left the church, I saw Steve and started to cry. I wept and wept into his arms until there were no tears left. I have no idea how long this went on, but when I came out of it I saw a circle around me—friends--who stood by me in this time of deep grief.

I will never forget that circle of love!

I still miss Mary, miss the bottles of white wine we'd drink, miss the long talks late into the night, miss the rides we'd take into the countryside.

She's been gone ten years today! Ten years. It hardly seems possible.

A month ago I planted an inpatients and have lit a candle next to it that will burn through the day and night. At 9 pm, the hour of her death, I will be at Valcour Dock, where her ashes were strewn on her birthday, two months after her death. I'll devise some type of “boat” that will carry off a candle. I'll throw field flowers into the lake. I'll sit and remember. It will be more bittersweet than sad. I'm selfish enough to still want my friend with me. I lost her too young!

You're still loved, Mary, and still missed. We'll see each other sooner than later, and it will be a joyous reunion.

Five Years Without Mom

Five Years Without Mom

I woke early this morning

I'd been edgy for days

Remembering five years ago

I slipped on some shorts,

Went to the mercado

Bought flowers—roses—your favorite

The old church nearby

Was open for early mass

Images of the Virgin are abundant here in Latin America

I placed the flowers in front

Of the Virgin of Guadalupe

Sat in a pew and thought of you

What more can we do

Place flowers in front of statues

Tend your grave

Honor your memory

Wherever you are

I know you're fine

How many times have I felt your presence

There are times

I wish I could walk into

The house on Grace Avenue

Both of you still alive, young

Baked chicken in the oven,

Your sweet salad dressing you made by hand on the table

One last Christmas

Where the whole white month of December

leapt with the joy of your enthusiasm

Another August day

when you'd spend hours

huddled over blueberries—happily picking away

But these are not to be

Your profound deafness, then blindness--

The loss of will to live

These I remember

It was OK for you to die; it was OK to let you go

I saw how you suffered

and knew you wanted to be whole again

Today I choose to remember

All your life lessons

Love, forgive

Remember those less fortunate

Embrace with joy that which you love

Always turn to God

Those lessons have served me well

Traveling Route 66: My Snake Eyes Birthday

Mexico City, Mexico

April 1, 2015

Double 6's! Snake eyes! 66!

This is the only birthday I've ever viewed with trepidation.

In January 1978 when my father turned 66, he said to me, “I'm now the age my father was when he died.” This was on his birthday—January 2nd—and I remember well him telling me this.

That was 37 years ago. My father lived another 16 years. He'd only barely retired when he reminded me of his father's early death.

I never knew my grandfather, never knew what habits led him to a sudden death by heart attack at 66.

And so while I could have approached this day with real dread, I decided to turn it around and view it as positively as possible.

This is the year I'm traveling Route 66! This is the year for a new adventure.

This is the year that rolling double sixes will bring me good fortune.

And so I started it off the day before with a bus ride to Acapulco. It was the first Sunday of Holy Week in Mexico and I knew it was still early in the week that the city wouldn't be totally overrun with tourists.

I spent all Sunday afternoon on the beach, and on my birthday, which started off cloudy and cool—a bit unusual for the Pacific Coast at this time year, I stayed on the beach until sunset.

For years I've wanted to paraglide and each time I've come to this resort town I've found a reason not to do it. I've always chickened-out. Last year I used the excuse of my “new knee” thinking that the impact of landing would damage it,.

This year I just said DO IT!

And do it I did.

I waited until late in the afternoon when the wind kicked up and I knew that there'd be an easy lift off the beach. I slapped down 250 pesos, put my trust in the guys who strapped the parachute behind me and in the powerful motor on the boat that would whisk me off the beach and out and above Acapulco Bay.

I was not disappointed!

It was only a five minute ride, but it was down as a memorable five minutes. Not quite as exhilarating as a real parachute ride, but fun nonetheless. This is definitely something neither my father nor my grandfather did when they turned 66.

I do not like being 66! I would much prefer being 26, but that it not the way life works. I am so grateful that I got this far and am so grateful the abundance that is in my life.

Recently, I met a family whose 35+ daughter was developmentally delayed. I was told by her sister that during her birth enough oxygen was cut off that it affected her neurologically for the rest of her life.

My mother reminded me many times that when I was born I was a “blue baby.” I do not know if that term is used anymore, but it's the same thing that happened to this young woman. All through my life my mother marveled at what I had accomplished, because my birth foretold another possibility.

I'd never really thought of it much, but meeting this young woman has put this birthday into perspective. As my father used to say, “I'm just grateful to turn another year older...and a year older where I'm well and healthy.

Thank God for all this! Thank God for this birthday. Thank God for another year.

Colombia: Photos

                                                                 
                                                              Bogota, Colombia

                                                                   
                                                               Raquira, Colombia

                                                               
                                                    Villa de Leyva, Colombia