If This Old Dough Board Could Talk

My Granny Ott's dough board and my Aunt Ethel's rolling pin.

It's holiday time and for me that includes a lot of baking.  This morning I grabbed cookie dough out of the fridge, my dough board, and rolling pin and got down to business.  As as I rolled out the dough I began to think of the stories that this old dough board could tell.  You see, this is my Granny Ott's dough board.   She was born in 1888 and married in 1906 so this dough board is more than likely over 100 years old.  I thought about all the pie crusts, dumplings, bread, and cookies that have been rolled out on this board.  I remember a story that Granny used to tell about a boy that lived near them.  He was always dirty and his hands were especially filthy.  One day my aunts had made a batch of cookies and the neighbor boy came to visit. He would pick up a cookie and rub his hands all over it and say, "These cookies sure do look good.  He would lay that cookie down and then pick up another."  My aunts stood by horrified and finally one of them said, "Why don't you just take those cookies home with you." 

I recently took a DNA test and when I got my results back I was contacted by a young woman who said that I showed up as her closest DNA relative.  We have been messaging back and forth.  It turns out that her grandpa was my Granny Ott's brother.  Sadly, she didn't even know her grandparents' names until I told her.  She has no knowledge of her dad's paternal side of the family.  My mom and I are putting together a packet of information for her. It made me so sad to think that she didn't realize that she had this huge extended family that she has never gotten to know.  Here I have the old dough board that her grandpa and dad probably enjoyed foods rolled out on and she doesn't even have a picture or copy of a marriage license.  I am making it my Christmas act of kindness to give her the family history.

I didn't need to take a DNA test.  Our family history is well documented but I just wanted to see if there was ancestry that I hadn't known...and there was.  I had no idea that I had descended from Iberians, Balkans, and Ashenazi Jews.  That is exciting and interesting but I didn't need to know that to feel that I know who I am. I grew up in an area what there are a lot of large families and most families passed their stories and heirlooms down to successive generations (like the dough board). 

I hope that if you don't know your family history you will take a DNA test and see who pops up on your connections.  It can be a wonderful experience and you make get acquainted, as I did, with a relative that you can share information and stories with.

This Country Needs More Picnics

Mom standing in front of her beloved Buffalo River

   My sister and I have October birthdays and a few years ago we started going on what we refer to as a "big birthday adventure."  We pick a place that we haven't been to or visit a place that holds significance to us and spend the day just having fun.  Last year we added my husband, our mom, our brother and sister-in-law to the adventure.  Last year we drove to a neighboring county, located a cemetery and the grave of our paternal great-great grandfather.  We packed a picnic lunch and had dinner "on the ground." We decided that we would continue this tradition and we came to the conclusion that this country needs to slow down, spend more time with family and have more picnics.
   This year we chose to go to a place that is special to our mom and it also holds a lot of childhood

Mom, my brother, Bruce, my sister, Judith, and me

memories for us kids.  My mom grew up on the lower end of Buffalo River, now the National Buffalo River.  Like many of the families from this area during that time they lived in different houses up and down a stretch of the river from Rush to Cedar Creek.  Mom said that sometimes the river would get in the houses and people would have to move or sometimes the houses were just not inhabitable and the family would have to move.  She told of a family that lived in the area whose house had a dirt floor.  Mom lived with her grandparents, Jim and Molly Brantley.  When she was very young they lived at what is called Cedar Creek.  That is where she went to her first year of school.  The old one room school house is no longer there but a portion of the rock fence still stands.  They lived for a time across the river and to get to school she rode in a boat.  Her teacher, who was boarding with a family who lived across the river, would bring Mom and another child across in a boat.  Mom didn't go the entire term because of the difficulty of getting to school. 
   Years later after Mom and Dad married, they only lived a few miles from Cedar Creek. When we were kids they would take us to the river on Sunday afternoons to swim, play, and have a picnic dinner.  See my blog "Back in the Hills" for more about that
   Today was a very emotional trip for Mom.  The landscape has changed due to flooding and time and she couldn't recognize some of the places.  She gets emotional just talking about life on the river.  I think anyone who grew up on the Buffalo has a deep sentiment for the river and the river way of life.

We used to camp on the gravel bar on the far side of the river.

   We looked around for what was familiar, shared our memories, and took a lot of pictures.  We had our picnic of typical southern fare; fried chicken, pimento cheese sandwiches, potato salad, baked beans and apple spice cake.  Mom was busy filling her plate when a bird flew over and pooped on her head and her plate!  My sister and I got hysterical laughing about it.  There's never a dull moment when we get together.
   I hope we can keep this tradition going in the years to come. During the entire time that we were on our "big birthday adventure" there were no worries and no talk of problems.  We were just a family spending a Sunday afternoon together.
   I think we can all agree that this country needs more picnics.

Victimized By A Stalker

   This is a story that I have never shared.  There are only a handful of people that know it.  I don't know why but I have been embarrassed about it - I felt that I had caused it to happen.  That's a typical victim statement and I know better.  I have been the victim of a stalker.   The reason that I am talking about this now, 30 years later, is because I was recently stalked again - this time on social media.

   I had never set my Instagram to private.  I only share food and knitting pics so it never occurred to me to do so.   A lot of people follow me and most have shared interests. Earlier this week I noticed an excessive amount of likes and that a man had begun following me that seemingly had no shared interests.  He went back years hitting like on my pics.  That sent up a red flag THEN I got a private message from him.  Nothing threatening but it said "Good evening."  Why would he do that?  I panicked and texted my daughter, who advised me on how to set my profile to private and block this person.  I did this but it brought back memories of a stalker from back in the 80's that I had tried to put out of my thoughts.

   It all began with a phone call at my work.  This breathy male voice told me that he had never done anything like this before but he couldn't help himself.  He told me that he had seen me at the ball park and was attracted to me.  He said that he hadn't known my name or anything about me but he said that he had asked around and gotten my name and information about where I worked.  Back then we all had landlines and unless you had an unlisted phone number anyone could call you.  This was also before the days of caller ID. 

   This began a two year harrowing ordeal.  He would call my work and my home.  He never threatened but would tell me that he was obsessed with me and eventually told me that he loved me.  I know that he watched me because he would tell me where he had seen me, what I was wearing, describe who I was with.  It was terrifying.  One of the scariest moments was when he told me about seeing my kids and me in a grocery store in a town 15 miles away.  This prompted me to go to our local sheriff's office to see what could be done.  Since he hadn't made threats of any sort they just deemed it as harassment and basically told me he would eventually quit.  They said it was probably someone I knew playing pranks.  It continued for months.  I missed work one day due to illness.  My phone rang and it was him.  He said, "Why are you not at work today?"  I asked him how he knew that, thinking he had called my work.  He said, "I just drove by your house and your car is under the carport."  As sick as I was that day I called the sheriff's office and ask them to send an officer to my house.  At this point they took me seriously.  They ordered the phone company to put a "tracer" on my line.  They told me that I would have to keep him on the line for several minutes.  It took a few more phone calls but they finally were able to trace the number.  It went to an auto mechanic garage in a neighboring town.  A deputy made a visit to the garage but there were several employees and none admitted to the phone call.  But...this ended the calls.  I still lived in fear that something would happen and shortly afterwards I sold my house and moved away. 

I got these stats from Safe Horizon:  

 Nationally, 7.5 million people are stalked every year.

Approximately 1 in 6 women and 1 in 19 men have experienced stalking at some point in their lifetime.

   Stalking can happen to anyone.  I encourage anyone who is a victim of stalking to reach out for help.  Don't allow anyone to tell you that it's just a prank or it's not serious.  There is no "typical" victim and you did nothing to provoke it.  If I could go back to that time I would have pressed harder and told more people.  Maybe it would not have gone on for two years.  
 

I got his information from End Stalking In America, Inc.

The following list of the most common mistakes that stalking victims make has been taken from Understanding and Surviving America's Stalking Epidemic, a ground breaking special report by Linden Gross that teaches you how to avoid those life-threatening errors that too many other victims have made.

Not listening to your intuition.

You need to keep your internal radar tuned to pick up signals that something might be wrong.

Letting someone down easy, instead of saying a defintive NO if you're not interested in the relationship.

Trying to be nice can lead a potentially obsessive suitor to hear what he or she wants instead of the message that you're not interested.

Ignoring the early warning signs

that annoying attention might escalate into dangerous harassment and pursuit.

Responding to a stalker in any way, shape, or form.

This means not acceding to your stalkers demands even once he or she has introduced threats.

Trying to reason or bargain with a stalker.

Stalking is like a long rape.  Your natural reactions almost automatically put you at a disadvantage.

Seeking a restraining or protective order.

All too often, this one act propels stalkers to act violently.   Still tempted to get that piece of paper?

Expecting police to solve your problem and make it go away.

Even the Los Angeles Police Department's Threat Management Unit says that victims have to take 100% responsibility for their dealing with the situation.

Taking inadequate privacy and safety precautions.

Neglecting to enlist the support of family, friends, neighbors, co-workers, therapists and other victims.

It may be tough to admit that you're being stalked, but it's not your fault.

Ignoring emotional needs during and after a stalking.

Please take it seriously.  Your life could depend on it.

"Write it down in a notebook and we will talk about it in the car"

 

One of Ryan's notebooks that he kept in college.

  I grew up in a family of writers - not professional writers - just a family that valued putting pen to paper.  My mom kept a journal of every vacation that she and my dad took.  In later years she has written and co-written four books about growing up in Rush, AR and has a fifth book in the works.  My paternal grandmother, Granny Ott, wrote down everything and I mean everything.  We kids were encouraged to write.  We were given diaries and journals as gifts and while many of my first diaries were childish,  I loved to write down my thoughts.

   One thing I have learned from journaling is this; it will keep you from shooting your mouth off when you should keep it closed.  I have written about my anger, my fears, and worries or even just small misunderstandings.  I get it out of my system.  Later I go back and reread it. Sometimes it seems that whatever has upset me is so silly and I am glad that I never talked to anyone about it.  Other times the feelings are still there and I might feel compelled to talk to the person about it.  I haven't always adhered to my own advice to write things down before acting but lately I am trying to do so.

   When my kids were growing up I kept two small spiral notebooks in my purse.  If we were in a public  setting and they wanted to talk about something or someone I would hand them their notebook and a pen and say, "Write it in your notebook and we will talk about it in the car."  It seems like this most often happened at church.  They would scribble away in their notebooks and on the drive home and during our lunch I would listen to what was on their minds.  It has always been a running joke with us if we are out in public and see something "strange."  We will laugh and say, "Write it down in your notebook and we will talk about it in the car."

   My kids grew up to journal. I don't know if it was due to the spiral notebooks or just genetic.  Misty writes beautiful, poignant, and also humorous blogs.  Ryan journaled on his laptop.  After he passed away it was both comforting and troubling to read his thoughts. While it seemed like an invasion of his privacy it was heartwarming to find his thoughts on his love for his family.  Ryan was a songwriter and he kept notes about ideas and thoughts.  I still have a few of the kids spiral notebooks and they are important to me.  I encourage everyone to journal.  You never know when those journals will become something invaluable to you.

   Several years ago I felt compelled to blog.  I enjoyed sharing random thoughts with others.  It didn't become personal until we lost Ryan.  For a year or more I poured my grief out publicly.  I had to have an outlet.  Many grieving families found me through my blogs and we shared our grief and gave support to each other.  I lost "friends" over my grief blogs; "too depressing,"  "go to counseling."  But this I know - it's easy to be critical behind the safety of the internet.  In a face to face situation it's not so easy and there are some who should have "written their thoughts down in a notebook." 

   I am trying to return to more light hearted blogs. I have had a sudden interest in some of my older blogs about rural life and growing up country.  I think we are living in a time of fear and uncertainty.  Reading blogs about the "good ol' days" takes us back to a time when life wasn't so worrisome.

   A few of my friends have begun their own blogs.  I encourage them to write and I am anxious to read their stories.  I think it would be fun to pick a neighborhood - any neighborhood - and go door to door and ask them to tell you their favorite story.  What wonderful blogs or even a small book that would make.

   I leave you with this.  Don't be afraid to write.  Once the words start they will flow easily.

  

Back in the Hills

   I grew up in the country - really far out in the country.  It was a running joke among our school friends that our address was 40th and Pumb meaning 40 miles from nowhere and plumb out in the sticks.  Another joke was being asked if we had to have sunshine piped in to our house.  We took it all in good fun.  We loved our home and were secure in who we were - country kids.  My sister, brother, and I are the children of good, decent, hardworking people who wanted us to grow up to be good, decent, hardworking people.
   While growing up I didn't appreciate nature's beauty that surrounded me daily.  It was simply "home."  Our farm was surrounded by other farms and those farm families were friends of our parents and their kids were our friends and playmates.  Our families socialized often.  Most Saturday nights there was a card game at someone's house.  We kids would play outside until darkness drove us in.  There was always popcorn, koolaid, and chocolate cake.  Sometimes we had homemade ice cream or watermelon.
   We were never wanting for playmates and we had an entire country side in which to explore and play.  Rough dirt roads were our bike paths, stands of hickory and oak were our jungle gyms, and lazy flowing creeks were our swimming pools.  After a long day of playing it was time to head to someone's house for a snack.  It might be our house or someone else's house and the snacks were usually peanut butter, crackers and a glass of water but it tasted good to us.  Sometimes we found our own snacks - pears from our pear tree, blackberries, plums and huckleberries.
   As much fun as we had playing on our farms we had an even bigger playground at our disposal.  I grew up very near the Buffalo River.  It was not yet a national river so we had free rein to the joys of playing in the river.  This is where we learned to swim.  Our dads would hold us up as we learned to float and keep a close eye on us as we advanced from dog-paddling to swimming.  We laid on our bellies and drank cold water from an artesian well which we referred to as "the boiling spring."  We climbed on the bluffs and rocks and played king of the mountain and we watched for snakes - cottonmouths and water moccasins could be lurking about.
   My home was also in close proximity to the White River.  Its cold, fast flowing water wasn't meant for swimming but we could fish for the trout that were plentiful there.  Our dads would put corn on our hooks and help us land the fish.
   On many Sunday afternoons we would meet up with a couple of other neighbor families and head for what we called "back in the hills."  What this refers to is the rough, rugged, picturesque area that lies between the mouth of the Buffalo River and where it flows into the White River.  This is the land of my ancestors.  The road that led to the river was nothing more than an old wagon road.  We would load up a truck or two with all the kids in the bed of the truck - and yes we all survived to adulthood.  The trip took quite awhile because the road was so rough and we would be bounced and thrown around in the truck bed - but we loved it.  We would spot big lizards sunning on flat rocks. We might see snakes, ground hogs, squirrels and all sorts of animals.
   Once we got to our designated area - it could be Cedar Creek, Cabin Creek, or some other spot - we would spend the afternoon swimming, fishing and playing.  Our moms would unpack the picnic lunch they had brought and we would eat what we thought was the best tasting food ever.  As evening approached we would head back home.  Many times we were sunburned (who knew what sunscreen was), loaded down with ticks, chiggers, and poison ivy.  All this would be dealt with at home by being put in the tub with a little Purex thrown in.  Riding home we would point out constellations and the milky white spiral arm of the Milky Way.  We didn't know how fortunate we were.
   The time of our youth went by quickly and most of us left home to pursue our dreams. While I visited my parents' farm often I never returned to "back in the hills" until recently.  Forty three years had passed and I began to feel a pull to return.  The Buffalo River is now a national river and the National Park Service owns much of our old playground.  I wasn't even sure where it was allowable to drive or even walk but I was feeling a strong pull to return to the place of my ancestors.  My husband, who had never been there, and I set out one Sunday afternoon.  We began on the familiar road near my parents' farm but soon it all changed.  When had this road been smoothed and covered with crushed rock?  Who do all these homes belong to?  It was all changed and I found myself using Google Maps rather than my memory to navigate.  The vistas are still breathtaking, some of the big flat rocks are still visible but not much else looked the same.  I had wanted to point out landmarks to my husband but where was the Bonnie Blue Gap?  Where was Hathaway?  The old rock fence?  I felt robbed!  I went home so deflated.
   I felt sorry for myself for a while and then I had an idea. Why not make this trip again with my Mom. Her memory is sharp and she will be able to point out all the landmarks.  My brother has stayed in the area and been a part of the transformation of this area.  He will know where all the old childhood places are.  So now we have made plans and in a few weeks we will be making the trip back "in the hills."  I am eagerly planning my contribution to the picnic.  I will video my mom as we travel so that we will always have a record of the trip.  I hope someday to be able to bring my grand-kids and show them the places of my childhood - "back in the hills."

  

Traveling the Boudin Trail

   "Traveling the Boudin Trail," sounds like an old west movie doesn't it?  This had been on my bucket list for a few years but I just kept putting it off.  I recently retired and when my husband, JC, asked me what I wanted as a gift I immediately responded; "I want to travel the Boudin Trail." JC didn't "bat an eye."  He has been married to me long enough to know that what may seem strange to others is typical "Shelley."  He has traveled six hours away with me to Hermann, MO to eat and buy German sausage so driving 10 hours to eat Cajun sausage didn't seem odd to him. 

   For those not familiar with boudin, it is Cajun sausage. There is Boudin blanc, crawfish boudin, shrimp boudin, alligator boudin, hot, mild and smoked boudin.  Every town or area has their own recipe for flavoring and preparation method.  It can be made into links like hot dogs, horseshoes, or balls.  It is most commonly made from ground pork with rice as a filler. Some is stuffed into casings and can be grilled, fried or steamed.  The boudin balls are typically coated and deep fried - my favorite. 

    I first learned about boudin a few years ago.  I was attending a science conference in New Orleans and picked up a Lousiana travel brochure.  I realized that I had never been to Southwest Louisana and as I was perusing the travel info on that area the Boudin Trail caught my eye.  I had never heard of boudin and had no idea what it tasted like but I'm a sausage lover (not Vienna - that stuff should be illegal) so I decided it must be good.  Now that I had become familiar with the term I began to notice it in the sausage section at my local grocery stores.  Upon looking at the packaging most wasn't made in Lousiana so I didn't buy any.  My first boudin experience was when dining at a Cajun restaurant in McKinney, TX while visiting family.  I saw "Dirty Balls" on the appetizer menu. As I read the description I saw that it was deep fried boudin!  It tasted just as heavenly as I thought it would so now my desire to travel the Boudin Trail became an obsession.

   I am, by nature, a planner.  I like orderly, well laid out plans in all areas of my life.  Before any trip I will thoroughly research the area; hotels, attractions, restaurants, etc.  Many times, upon arriving, I will feel as if I have already been there.  This idiosyncrasy drives my family nuts.  They encourage me (sometimes not too nicely) to just "fly by the seat of my pants" and look for those serendipitous moments.  I am trying hard to work on that so when JC asked me not to pre-plan this trip, I agreed (though I did tuck the Boudin Trail map in my purse when he wasn't looking).  And away we went!

   We had no particular route - just watch the compass and head southwest.  We could have driven to Lake Charles, LA in one day. It was only a 9 1/2 hour drive but we wanted to sight see and decided to drive until dinner time and stop for the night.  We had been to Shreveport and Bossier City several times so we decided to head south out of Magnolia, AR and cross into LA.  Once in LA we noticed that on both sides of the road there was nothing but pine trees - miles and miles of pine trees.  No stately homes or farms (which I had envisioned) to be seen.  Now - if I had done my research we would have known that the Kistachie National Forest is 604,000 acres, encompassing 7 LA parishes.

   We decided to stop for the night in Minden, LA.  Once again, had I researched we would NOT have stayed here.  Our accommodations were horrible and the recommended BBQ diner was not to my liking. JC said it was "OK" and finished off my food.  The next morning we happily left Minden behind and headed toward Natchitoches, where we stopped for breakfast.  As the old saying goes "hindsight is better than foresight."  Shoulda' driven the extra hour the night before and stayed in Natchitoches.  Following that we headed south once again with only trees, trees, and more trees as scenery.

   Upon arriving in Lake Charles, I pulled the Boudin Trail map out of my purse and we began to look for a restaurant.  Listed as the #2 favorite boudin eatery in Lake Charles was Billedeaux's Cajun Kitchen.  We easily found it and the smell of smoked meat made our mouths water!  We ordered a plain boudin ball and a spicy one along with a smoked meat sandwich.  Our waitress assured us that it was the best sandwich in town (and it was very good).  The boudin was as good as I had imagined it would be. 

Next up we found a nice hotel and headed out to explore Lake Charles.  My first stop is always the visitor's center.  After the prior night's disappointment in Minden, JC didn't utter a word about my "planning."  The visitor's center was helpful in suggesting things to see and do in the area.  (you can only eat so much) We viewed amazing artwork there, checked out the gator pond, and took a long walk around the lake. 

One of the center's suggestions was visiting one of the two local breweries. Rikenjak's was located just down the street so we chose it.  I am not much of a drinker but am open to trying new things. I told the bartender that I wanted to try a drink that was a local favorite. I don't remember the name of it but it was a tasty drink made with 3 types of rum.  JC had a pale ale that he liked.

We checked out more of the town and soon it was dinner time.  We had been told that you must eat at Steamboat Bill's when visiting Lake Charles.  I was a little miffed because JC wanted seafood and I wanted to check out another boudin place - Steamboat Bill's was not on my list!  I gave in, hoping that there would be boudin on the menu and fortunately it was.  JC was in heaven eating jumbo gulf shrimp and I was in heaven with my boudin ball and red beans and rice.

As much as I hate to admit it, the boudin at Steamboat Bill's was my favorite of the trip.  It was spicy and crispy fried and the dipping sauce they brought was wonderful. While dining at Steamboat Bill's we noticed a very elderly lady sitting alone in the corner. She ordered a family sized portion of crawfish.  As she peeled them she would use another plate to create a wreath.  It was so cool.  I wanted to take her picture but I was afraid to ask. Our waitress told us that she comes in often, wears an apron and plastic gloves, orders the crawfish and creates the wreath. What a human interest story!

   We dragged our overly stuffed bodies back to our hotel and fell into a deep sleep (me dreaming of more boudin).  The next day we headed southwest to Cameron Parish.  It is the southern most parish and is home to many shrimping boats and fishing companies.  My much prized Boudin Trail map said to try the boudin at Brown's market.  Shoulda' planned again.  We couldn't locate Brown's and we just kept driving.  We came upon a ferry. If you have followed my blogs you know I love ferries.  It is my dream to ride every inland ferry in the US and write a book about them.  I was so excited to ride the ferry even though the ferryboat captain was cranky and the ride was short.  Upon reaching the other side we saw a sign for Holly Beach and headed there.  I learned that it is called the Cajun Riviera and while not pretty like Alabama and Florida beaches, it was nice.  It reminded me of Galveston. 

We left there and headed north toward Sulphur.  This was my favorite part of the trip.  The wetlands are beautiful.  There are wildlife drives open to the public, bird viewing areas, and in many of the bayous there are platforms for fishing.  Oh, and we did find Brown's market.  Not being familiar with some of the LA terms I had confused the town of Cameron with Cameron Parish.  We had already decided to eat lunch in Sulphur so we didn't stop and sample the boudin at Brown's.   Upon arriving in Sulphur we checked my map and it recommended Hollier's Cajun Diner.  When entering the restaurant there were freezers filled with all kinds of boudin to purchase and take home.  I decided to try some before buying.  (Good move).  This was my least favorite boudin.  I ordered a deep fried cheese and jalapeno stuffed boudin ball.  I don't know how to explain the taste other than to say it was "wet."  I was not impressed and ordered some jumbo shrimp.  (Shoulda' stopped at Brown's) 

We were both miserable after the jumbo shrimp and headed back to Lake Charles.  We checked out some gift shops and stores.  By dinner time we were still too full to eat again so we took in a movie and got a good night's rest before the trip home.

    For the trip home we chose to go through Alexandria, Rustin, El Dorado, AR and on up through central Arkansas.  The trip was beautiful.  Rustin is a picturesque old town and I would love to have spent more time there.

   My final thoughts on the Boudin Trail, and this is coming from Shelley the planner.  If I were to make this trip again I would drive straight through to Holly Beach, LA in one day (about 11 hours), rent a beach house there for a week.   All the Boudin eateries listed (there were at least 50) are within driving distance from the beach and you need at least a week to try just a few of them.  You could take advantage of the beach activities in between meals.  There are swamp tours, birding tours, fishing, boat excursions, playing in the water and just relaxing on the beach.  It would be a fun vacation.  Spontaneity is great but sometimes a little advance planning needs to be done to have the "joie de vivre" attitude.

"Laissez les bons temps rouler!"

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly; My Life as a Bereaved Mother

Today, May 7, 2017, is International Bereaved Mother’s Day. It’s certainly not a day of celebration but more a day of remembrance.  I wish no mother had to even be aware that this day existed.

This blog is based on only my experiences and feelings.  I cannot speak for any other bereaved mother.  All our situations are different.

 My journey as a bereaved mother began two years, 7 months and 2 days ago.  My life has not been nor will it ever be the same again.  Here are the good, the bad, and the ugly of my life as a grieving mother. 

Prior to Sept. 5, 2014, I had the world by the tail.  I had a job that I loved, a loving family, two successful and talented children, a wonderful life.  The year, 2014, started out great.  I had been chosen to be a presenter at the National Science Teacher’s Convention in Boston.  What an honor!  Seeing my name on the program with the likes of Bill Nye, Neil DeGrasse Tyson, and Mayim Bialik was a dream come true.  The school year went well and when the school term was over we went on vacation to the Texas Gulf Coast. It was a fun filled trip spent with family. Following vacation, I attended Honeywell’s Green Boot Camp for teachers in San Diego.  I was one of 70 teachers worldwide chosen to attend this prestigious camp.  I was on top of the world.  I am glad that I couldn’t see what was looming just a few short weeks in the future.  Ryan and my cousin, Wayne, came down to San Diego from Los Angeles to visit me while I was attending the camp.  This trip was the last time that I spent with Ryan and the last picture of us together was taken.  Looking back, I can see how ill Ryan looked.  He was gaunt and his color was bad.  I have beaten myself up so much for not insisting that he get some tests run right away.  But I didn’t and I can’t change the outcome.  In grief counseling the question typically comes up; “Do you feel guilty?” or “Would you have changed something?”  Yes to both.  I have to live with that.

When you lose a child you lose part of yourself physically, mentally, and emotionally.  Physically; I have read that part of a child’s DNA remains in the mother after she gives birth.  This is an explanation for why there is so much physical pain involved in child loss.  I’m not sure about the DNA research on this, but I do know that it physically ages you – and fast.  I no longer recognize the face in the mirror.

Mentally; I don’t even know where to start here.  Unless you have been through it, it’s hard to put into words.  You can’t think, you say the wrong things…you think you are losing your mind.

Emotionally; you can laugh but maybe a second later you cry.  You live with panic attacks.  Waking up every morning and realizing that your child is gone is a feeling of sheer terror.  Imagine the feeling that you get when you have a near miss car accident – that’s how losing a child feels – twenty-four seven.

 Even though grief is exhausting, there is no rest for me. I am always tired but sleep doesn’t come.  I wander around the house in the middle of the night.  I move from the bed to the couch to the computer desk and back again.  My body is programmed to wake at 3:48 A.M.  That is the time that I received the call that Ryan was critically ill and that I must come to Los Angeles right away.  From that instant on my life changed.  I dislike Fridays and I dislike the 5^th of each month. 

For the longest time, I could not bear to listen to music. Ryan was a musician and our life was always filled with music.  It was months before I could stand to hear music.  Ryan was a big fan of Sam Cook and many of The Voice contestants choose Sam Cook songs.  I can hit mute on a remote in a split second.  I have always been a fitness enthusiast – every day since my youth I have worked out. After Ryan passed away I just stopped and let myself go.  I just didn’t have the motivation to do it.  As time went by something inside me pushed me to put the workout videos back in but I muted the sound or I ran without listening to music.  I can listen to music now, but not in large doses.

I get angry at people.  I have no tolerance for people who complain about things that seem inconsequential.  I just want to shake them.  So, what if your (insert whatever you want here) isn’t working or going well.  My child is dead and I don’t have the patience to listen to your whining.  

I get frustrated at people thinking that I need to stay busy and giving me tasks and responsibilities.  I am getting good at saying no.  I have said no a few times that have gotten me into trouble at school.  At one time, I would have apologized profusely and completed the assigned task.  Now I don’t even care.  Because of I this I realized that the time has come for me to retire.  I can no longer feel excitement about fun lesson plans, field trips, dances, activities.  My work is not up to par and I know it. 

Then there is the constant worry.  I live in fear that something will happen to Misty and the grandkids.  How could I go on?  I don’t think I could.

I have endured the rumors and nosiness.  I can only speak for myself but I don’t like to be asked about Ryan’s death or cause of.  That is so personal and I am shocked when asked about it.  I understand that some are concerned but there are those who Misty refers to as the Lookie-Loos. They seem to thrive on other’s pain.  I try to steer clear of them but some find a way to corner you.

Then there are the platitudes.  Again, this is only my view point.  I don’t want to hear; “God needed another angel,” or “He’s in a better place now.”  I want my child here – where I can see him, touch him, smell him, hear his voice…those rainbows, clouds, feathers or cardinals are nice and make me temporarily feel better, but they are not him.

I have been through grief counseling and grief support – both faith based and non-faith based.  Everyone has their own idea about what follows death.  Counseling and support have saved me from insanity and I would encourage anyone, no matter how long it’s been since your loss to find and attend a support group.

I have given you the bad and the ugly.  “Where’s the good?” you ask.  In the months following Ryan’s death I have met so many kind moms that have lost children.  We are a battered and bruised group but we lean on each other and when one of us can’t walk the other moms carry us.  I have never met most of these moms face to face but thanks to social media we interact daily.  Just knowing they are there makes a big difference in my life. 

Ryan’s friends have reached out to Misty and me and allowed us into their lives.  They could have easily turned away but instead they have pulled us closer.  We’ve renewed old friendships from Ryan’s high school and college days and gotten to know Ryan’s friends from Los Angeles.  They treat us like family and we appreciate that.

I want to leave you with this; there is something that, I believe, most bereaved parents want – that their child is never forgotten.  You can talk to us about them, say their name, share a memory, or show us a picture of our child that we’ve never seen (or even if we have we will love seeing it again).  Please don’t not talk about them because you think it will upset us. It upsets us more if you don’t.  One of Ryan’s friends, Alxis, totally gets this.  She has done little things that mean so much to Misty and me.  She wore a Magic Trash (the name of her husband and Ryan’s band) pin to the Grammys to honor Ryan.  There on her beautiful dress was this tiny pin that maybe only Misty and I noticed but it was HUGE for us.  She and her husband traveled to Africa on their honeymoon and they took one of Ryan’s harmonicas to give to a young boy there.  I cried buckets of tears just knowing that the boy would make beautiful music with that harmonica.  These are the good things.