How Halloween Got Ruined

In  October 1994 my daughters were 3 (about to turn 4 in December) and 16 months old.  I worked at a childcare center in Traveler's Rest and took them with me every day.  They took up all the space in my heart and mind and life.  I remember thinking that everything I did was in some way, for them or about them or because of them.  There's nothing quite like those years of your youth, when you find complete satisfaction in all that Mom entails. 

I never minded waking up in the middle of the night.  I enjoyed spending mornings playing with my baby, and watching Hannah come up with new and fascinating imaginary friends complete with the most fantastical stories ever told by an almost 4 year old.  Watching them grow became my greatest joy in life.  I could not imagine my world without them.

Members, at that time, of a Fundamentalist Baptist church, Halloween around the corner, my mind and emotions were fraught with anxiety about right and wrong.  Our pastor and his wife sternly denounced all things Halloween.  Their vehement protest to trick-or-treating left me wondering if something I enjoyed so much as a child could really be as evil as they portrayed it.  My childhood memories, even as a child raised in a Fundamentalist family, conjured happy images of Halloweens, tromping through our neighborhood passing other kids on sidewalks dressed in Star Wars costumes, Wonder Woman costumes, and your standard Hobos and Ghosts of course, whose parents didn't think of Halloween until the last minute.  Some houses in the neighborhood went out of their way to make creepy box tunnels for us to crawl through to find candy at the end.  One house always had a guy in a coffin who jumped up at you when you walked past.  Warm October or chilly October, we set out on foot, going house to house until our buckets filled to the brim.  We never imagined we were taking part in some Satanic ritual that glorified Satan and blasphemed God.  We did trick-or-treat, then went to church the next Sunday and told our church friends about our costumes.  Halloween for us, was nothing more than an innocent time of childhood fun.  I can't remember anything quite like the thrill of putting on that plastic mask that smelled all weird and had tiny nose holes to breath out of.  The year I was Wonder Woman stands out in my mind as one of the best Halloweens ever!  

I recall though, that in 1994, a kind of pall fell over everything locally.  Two little boys--kidnapped in a carjacking in Union SC were headlining the daily news everywhere.  All across the state people drove a little slower, watching out for a maroon colored Mazda that apparently was stolen with two little boys inside, roughly the same ages as my two girls.  For weeks we watched Susan Smith on our screens, fake crying and pleading with no one really, to bring her boys home.  We all wanted to believe her story, but deep down everyone felt a sinking sense of despair that Susan might be hiding something.  

At church one Wednesday night during the height of this incident, my pastor's wife and I sat off to the side together after service.  She went on and on about the people at her job, her relatives even, who seemed so caught up in the spirit of Halloween.  It bothered her, she confided, that these people would involve their children in such wickedness.  The conversation moved to the Smith boys' disappearance and the speculation that something horrible happened to them.  I'm not sure if Susan Smith was suspected yet at this point, but what my pastor's wife said to me that night stuck with me and I think of it nearly every Halloween.

"The way everybody is getting so carried away with Halloween, it makes me kind of wish some Satan worshiper took those kids and has done something horrible to them.  I want these people celebrating Halloween to get the message that they are dabbling in things that are evil.  I know it sounds horrible of me to say that, but I just really wish something bad happened to them related to Halloween so people will stop all this Halloween stuff!"

Dumbfounded, I don't recall how I responded.  I probably kind of shook my head and didn't verbally respond at all.  What do you say to something like that?

A few days later in the evening as I prepared to leave work, the parent of one of my preschoolers came in to pick up her son.  She looked sad--tired.  I asked if she was okay. 

"Yeah," she said with a sigh. "I just heard about those poor babies."

Having been at work all afternoon, I didn't know the latest news.

"What happened to them?" I asked, with a lump in my throat.

"She did away with them." The other mom said.  "She drove them into the lake and drowned them."

My heart sunk.  I wanted to run down those stairs and find my two babies and hold them tight.  On the way home I thought about how horrified those children had to be when they saw their mommy jump out of a moving car and allow them to plunge, still strapped into their car seats, into a cold lake.  I couldn't stop myself from imagining their horror as the car filled with water, as it covered their little faces, them struggling to breath, to escape their fate.  What betrayal and abandonment must have filled their poor little fearful hearts in those final moments.

I thought briefly that my pastor's wife had gotten her wish.  Then I remembered that the decision Susan Smith made had nothing to do with Halloween, nothing to do with Satanism, nothing to do with denouncing Christianity.  In fact, Susan claimed to be a Christian.  I bet if her boys had lived another 5 days, they would have been door to door in adorable costumes, trick-or-treating for their favorite treats.  Instead, because their mother wanted a man more than she wanted them, they were a casualty of her agenda to get the man she wanted.

When we arrived home I held my girls, played with them, even cried at the thought of something happening to them.  I couldn't grasp the pure selfishness and lack of parental love that would lead a mother to do such a thing; but I knew Halloween didn't cause it.

My girls never went trick or treating until after I divorced their father.  Before then we went to "fall festivals" at church where the dressed up in costumes, went on hayrides and got candy.  Often, they also got a huge dose of "why Halloween is evil" and a walk through the Gospel instead.  No ghosts, goblins, witches or other scary spooks allowed.  Nothing scary or "demonic" could be brought into these Church festivals.  They were fun, in their own way, but the first year after the divorce all I wanted to do was take my girls to experience the joy of Trick-or Treat!  We went to a local neighborhood and spent about an hour going house to house.  They LOVED it!  They couldn't understand why, all those years, their dad and I never let them do it.

The only answer I could give was fear.  Fear of doing something wrong, fear of being judged by our pastor or other church members, fear that something horrible might be wished upon us by some other Christian because we took part in Halloween festivities and didn't refer to them as "fall festivals."

Things changed drastically in the Fundamentalist churches around upstate SC during the 80's and 90's.  Things that or church thought nothing of when I was a small child became enormously egregious sins.  Going to the movies--huge sin.  Wearing pants if you were a woman--inexcusable sin.  Swimming with your brother while wearing a swimsuit--bordering on falling into sexual sin and possibly teetering on the edge of Hell itself.  Halloween though, became a menacing threat to all Christians held dear.  It was the antithesis of Christmas, Satan's day to be glorified and exalted, and we, as Christians, were committing sins of defiant disregard for what God wanted us to do on Halloween.

Every year at this time I remember my pastor's wife's comment about Susan Smith's children.  I wonder if she ever felt bad about saying that sometimes, then I realize, she wouldn't feel bad about that because she believed it would serve a higher purpose: To stop all those awful human beings from subjecting their children to costumes and Candy in the name of Satan.  In her mind, those two boys' deaths served a purpose to teach parents not to    succumb to society's pressure to celebrate Halloween.

After I got out of the Fundamentalist bubble, my world began to open up to me in ways I never dreamed.  Halloween became one of my family's favorite nights of the year, shuffling through our neighborhood checking out all the other kids' costumes, getting candy from neighbors, and then crashing back at home by 8:00 to dump all our candy out on the floor and see what treats we'd found.  Once in a while after we were home, we got to meet and greet and give candy to other kids too.  

Late at night, I tucked them into bed, the excitement over Halloween still in their voices as I left the room to let them drift off to sleep.

Religious or not, every kid deserves a chance to bask in the pure innocence that is Halloween for most every one.  

And as for those self-righteous judges who harbor ill wishes in their hearts towards children of parents who don't deprive them of fun, amazing memory building childhood experiences; I hope they feel the full weight of their ill wishes on others.  I hope they come to understand that their wishing aloud even, for something horrible to have happened to those little Smith boys, made them much more evil than any parent who dresses up their kddo as a cowboy and sends him knocking on doors asking strangers to fill his hat with chocolate.  

The darkness of Smith's deed hangs over me every Halloween.  I think of her boys, now they' be in college, perhaps married and/or with children of their own.  She took that away from them, not because of a holiday, but because her short-term goals in life were more important to her than the lives of her children. 

We do a disservice to ourselves, our families and our friends when we assume that things like Halloween are what invite evil into our worlds.  We invite it daily, when people put on their proverbial disguises as they leave home.  We invite it daily when we don't speak up for someone who is being mistreated. 

We keep quiet about all the real evil that happens where Halloween is not a factor.  We find excuses to believe that the welts on a girls legs are from a "spanking" rather than physical abuse.  We find ourselves defending all things labeled "christian" whether or not they actually hold true to Christianity.  And children drowned in the back seat of cars?  A lesson to everyone who doesn't shun Halloween as a Satanic ritual designed to steal the very souls of our kids.

This was Fundamentalist life for me.  A life filled with worry and anxiety over seeing, hearing or doing something sinful.  I had a life that made me miss out on some of the most fun, innocent, joyful times of my girl's lives. 

 Every year since I left my husband, Halloween has been one of our favorite family times together.  So far no one has gotten a poisoned apple or bitten into razor blade candy.

I'm grateful I made my escape from Fundamentalism and all the life-experiences it denied me and my kids.  This is my life now, and I know God is with me even as I take my kid from house to house, dressed as an Empty Child from Dr. Who and my granddaughter charms candy givers with her sweet "Trick or Traeeaat!" We are building something special here, and in the end, Satan will not have any power over me because of it.

Halloween got ruined for much of my girls' childhoods, because of Fundamentalist insistence that we could not be truly Christian and participate in Halloween.  I'm here to tell you now, it's not true.

Now...to find that candy bucket...

Tripped Switch

This morning I got to work almost an hour early after dropping my boy off at school and then meeting the husband of a member with Alzheimer's who cannot wait at home by herself for the Senior Action van to pick her up.  Bev and I drove to Wal-Mart at 7:45 to grab supplies for our Halloween party, then hurried back to the center to set everything up.

If you've never tried to make a quick run into the store with a person who has Alzheimer's, you might not understand why our Wal-Mart trip didn't exactly go as fast as I'd planned.  Our pleasant, slow paced conversation on the way there gave way to minor frustration on my part when my pal Bev wanted to stop and peruse all the Halloween costumes at the front of the store.  You know all those displays that are set up to grab your attention and distract you from your original purpose?  Well we got stopped by most of them.  I find it difficult to stay bothered with her for long.  She's so funny, witty even; but as time ticked away and nothing I needed made itself easy for me to find, I attempted to kick things into gear--snap her back into MY reality for a few minutes.

We finally made it out the door and to the center before 9:00.  Of course the first thing I did when I walked in the door was flip the light switch.  Nothing happened.  Then I remembered a text I got over the weekend from Zack.  He said the lights in the foyer were making a strange noise so he flipped off the breaker switch until they could be checked out.  Thinking nothing more of it, I went on into our room, then to my office where again, I flipped the light switch and nothing happened.  Oh well, no bother.  I don't use my office much anyway.  We got a few decorations up and I realized I still wasn't in my costume.   I excused myself to the ladies' room to finish getting ready.  I opened the door, flipped the switch: Nothing.  Now, I can deal with no lights in the foyer, there are windows there.  I can deal with no lights in my office, there's a light just outside my door. However, in the ladies' room, not a window or ambient glow from anywhere.

I went in search of that breaker box.

Through one door, then another door, and finally there it was.  Three switches were turned off and not knowing which one to flip, I flipped all 3 until I saw light.  Day, saved.

At least, it was saved until I picked up my boy from school.  He had a horrible, frustrating day.  He got confused and overwhelmed with his classwork and  at some point, a switch got flipped.

Just like those outlets in your bathroom that pop and turn off if you plug in too many things at once, his brain got overloaded, he started to melt down inside.  The only thing left to do?  Turn off the energy supply.

Just like the lights in our foyer, my boy sat, darkened and resigned not to shine.  Unfortunately no one seemed to have the wherewithal to go looking for his breaker box.  After all, there is a way to switch him back on when he gets discouraged, but first someone has to find the motivation to look for the switch.

As a mom it is so frustrating to watch his frustration.  It is hard to not judge the teacher who has 20-something other kids who are tripping switches all day long.  She probably needs an electrician just to get through the day, so I imagine she's flipped plenty of switches off and on over the years. How then, could she not see what was happening to my kid right before her eyes?

I wrote her an email tonight, gently trying to explain what happened today because I know my boy can't put it all into words for her.  I hope that somehow as a team, his school and I can find our way to that well-hidden breaker box and find a way to keep those switches in the ON position more than in the OFF one.

He is still, for the most part, in a state of melt-down tonight. Nothing is going his way.  I am hoping a good night's sleep will reset him and that tomorrow will be better but who knows?  He might need a stealthy teacher to find a flashlight and to searching through the depths of his mind for that switch.

I just hope she will understand it's there and if she just takes the time to go looking for it, she can find it.

We all can.

Can I Speak to The Manager

"I do not manage my  life very well," I said to myself in the mirror.  

Standing before myself, I examined my too-long hair that needs a trim.  "I can't even manage to go get my hair cut."  I thought.  

Then a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach hit me as I thought about a dozen other things I need to manage in an adult-like fashion, but continue to procrastinate over instead.  All of this washed over me in the span of a few seconds while Charlie struggled with homework in the living room and I tried to decide whether to wear makeup to my support group meeting tonight.

"I'm such a rotten parent!  Why did I take his word for it when Charlie expressed his confidence in acing his latest math test?  I know better, or should by now, but I honestly trusted his sheer self-assurance.  That left me sitting on my sofa this afternoon staring at a too-low test grade on a test my  son was positive he would ace.  Onto the English test:  Another too-low score.  He didn't understand the directions at all.  When I read the directions aloud to him he answered every single question correctly.

I find myself frustrated with his school and in the processes we must go through in order to get help for him.  It seems like a never-ending trail of checklists and forms to fill out, meeting after meeting, note after note flowing out and back from his teacher and me.  Still, no tangible help makes its way to my kid and I sit with these tests on my lap, feeling helpless and inadequate as a mom.

"If I managed my life better, " I thought, "I could home school my boy."  Then I remember that clothes still sit in my dryer from Sunday afternoon, unfolded, not put away.  I remember the full hamper in my room, I remember that car I need to sell, the bills I can't pay, the calendar for work that I still need to finish for November.  None of it sounds all that difficult to accomplish, but I swear sometimes I wish I had a personal assistant to help me manage my life.

On a whim I reorganized my closets last Thursday night.  I put all the winter clothes on the right and the summer clothes on the left.  This morning, in the nippy autumn air, I flung open the door to my winter clothes and found lots of pants, leggings and boots--only 3 or 4 tops.  So I spent the day in a sloppy green shirt and a pair of  what I consider "house pants".  I made myself go to the Goodwill in search of clothes for the top-half of my body, but only found a few things.  In fact, I bought two short sleeved T-Shirts I didn't even need; one because it says "Marvel" on the front and I thought my boy would like it and the other because it said something inspirational, I don't remember now exactly what.  This is how I manage my life--in randomness, procrastination and carefully supervised neglect.

Making big decisions is not my strength.  I worry too much about making the wrong decision, so often I put off making a decision at all.  For instance, I still cannot decide whether to buy this house I'm living in now.  I make a list of pros and cons and it always turns out even.  I figure maybe it doesn't matter one way or the other, as long as there's a roof over my head, but realistically I know that if my landlord decides to sell and I don't buy, I'll be looking at a move.  The concept overwhelms me to the point that I am frozen. I hate to fall back on idiom, but I'm like a deer in headlights lately.

I know what I want.  I want to help my child find learning easier and more fun.  I want to see him succeed and find confidence in his ability not only to learn but to demonstrate his knowledge in the classroom.  I want to be his teacher, his cheerleader, his strength.  I fear I merely stand in the way of progress too often.  I want to own a home again.  Maybe not this home, although I enjoy fixing it up in my mind.   Problem is, it's free to fix it up in my mind.  In real life, it costs money, and for all I want to do, big money.

I am not a big money kind of gal.

Probably I am not a big money gal because I suck and managing my life.   I always knew as a kid that someday I would make my own choices in life; but I never understood how much pressure is involved when you're the boss--or to be more accurate, when you are your own boss.

Sometimes I think "how nice would it be to have a housekeeper, or a laundry lady, or a special tutor to help my kid with homework."  Sometimes I wish someone else would make the tough choices for me so I can get off the hook for a change.  That's not how it works though.

When I get mad at the manager, she gets an earful.  It's usually while I'm standing in the mirror putting makeup on, thinking about all the adult things I need to accomplish.  I shame myself for being so lax; I kind of hate myself for not keeping up with all those pieces of paper from Medicare and Baxter and DaVita.  I wish I were better at being a "good patient."  

As I said before, I went to a support group meeting this evening.  I facilitate this group, spent over an hour listening to caregivers talk about the tremendous burden and drain of caring for a loved on with dementia.  My heart went out to them as they looked to me for tips and tricks to help manage the behaviors of their loved ones.  I relayed what little I know on the subject and then carried on.  My heart went out to them but I'm afraid I was not much help.

After the meeting I went to dinner with a good friend.  We talked about Charlie's grades and she, being a retired teacher, talked with him a little about how he can approach tests and writing essays a different way.  I am grateful for her help. When we got home Charlie finished his essay by bed time and got tucked in just at 9:30.  The problem is, the essay was supposed to have been done in class.  Instead of doing it, he sat staring into space for 30 minutes.  

Life at home with him is not much easier.  I repeat myself numerous times per day--not because he doesn't listen, but because he often only catches the tail end of whatever I say.  I sometimes grow frustrated with him, then I remember that I'm the one failing here, not him. Am I  the one who is clueless about what goes wrong every time he takes a test.  I don't think his teacher could possibly see otherwise, but maybe I'm just insane.

It's on days like today when chaos reigns supreme that I really, really want to call the manager up and tell her that she needs to get her crap together--teach her staff some people skills,   Problem is when you are the management, there's no one else to call.  You just have to suck it up and do your job--like it or not.

So I'm over here, just trying my best to do my job--not checking out on life in general, just putting a whole lot of things off until...who knows when.

Maybe what I really need is a personal manager to keep my life on track.  Or maybe I just need to simplify the life I already have.  

Most Alone

Often in conversations with friends I assert that I rarely feel lonely.  Most of them insist my lack of loneliness is directly correlated with the fact that my son lives with me.  It's true, I am rarely alone in the literal sense of the word.  My eleven year old is usually here with me, playing in his room, doing homework in the kitchen or wandering in and out of the living room to ask me questions or tell me long stories about video games or other things I barely understand.

It seems that the concept of aloneness gets swallowed up in the idea of loneliness.  The two are not mutually exclusive.

My son is a constant presence in my life and for that I am grateful.  He gives me purpose and joy in ways nothing else really could; however, my eleven year old child is not a companion.  In conversations about dating, marriage, companionship, I find that so many people assume my relationship with my child must fill the void of an, intimate relationship.  Usually this assumption is made by people who either do not have children or who have never lived and "uncoupled" life for any length of time.

People insist that I MUST be lonely without a romantic partner, but honestly I'm not.  When I tell them I don't feel lonely, they circle back to--"Well, you have a kid."

I do know what lonely is.  I know what being truly alone is.  At one time in my life I spent a few years in that space of aloneness.  I learned during that time, what true friends are and that sometimes even true friends cannot muster up enough empathy to truly stand by you during the toughest times.

Lately I think back on those years a lot.  I remember myself as a completely unhinged person.  I made bad decisions, lived in a constant state of depression and discouragement.  There were times I really wanted to die.  I had a 4 year old child at home to care for and  I'm not ashamed to admit,  I was barely making it--barely functioning as a mother, barely functioning as an adult.

Guilt overtakes me often when I think back on those couple of years.  "Why was I so stupid?"  I wonder.  It wasn't until a few days ago that something dawned on me.  During that time literally no one called to check on me.  No one stopped in to see if I needed help, someone to talk to, a shoulder to cry on.  No one offered to help me with my kid, offered to even try to understand what I was experiencing.  No one showed me that they cared.

I considered myself a person with amazing friends.  It never occurred to me that they didn't know how badly I struggled just to get out of bed every day.  I never imagined that they'd want to hear all the hurt and confusion and sheer terror I felt at the aspect of just living my life post-trauma.  I don't think that I even knew how badly I was traumatized.  I felt as though I wore them out with my constant "drama" and I felt judged by them.  I created distance and they allowed me to drift away.  It became a dynamic that left me more alone than I'd ever been in my life, forced to feel my way through a kind of darkness that covered my entire world.  I was just fumbling my way through life, stepping in holes, running into walls, crashing into bed at night hoping I wouldn't wake up the next day.

A lot of things led me to that place.

The year was 2008-2009.  In September 2008 I split up with Charlie's dad.  Over the last year of our relationship he had become increasingly unstable.  He could not keep a job, spent an inordinate amount of time online looking at porn and gambling away my paychecks.  He was verbally abusive to my daughters when I was not around and frequently used emotional blackmail to keep me from ending the relationship.  I lived in fear that he would harm himself or one of my children if I disrupted the status quo.   He was fired from 2 jobs for not actually working while he was supposed to be working.  I helped him get a job at a hospice and his reputation there was quickly souring because he would not shower or wear clean clothes to work.  After 2 years of begging him to get help and listening to hundreds of excuses why he didn't need help (after all he said, I was the one who had a "problem.") I started to prepare to end the relationship.  I set up a separate bank account, contacted his family and friends to see if they'd let him stay with them, and was attempting to make a calculated, calm, wise separation with little conflict.

Unfortunately my plans came to naught on a Saturday morning when he lost his crap and followed my youngest daughter up the stairs shouting obscenities at her, calling her a "retard" and threatening physical violence against both my daughters.  The police were called.  He was removed from the house and never allowed to come back.  He didn't take the breakup well.

For months and months--over a year and a half to be exact, he stalked and harassed me.  He followed me around, harassed my friends and coworkers.  He sent nasty letters to my parents, my boss, my closest friends.  He threatened a man that I briefly dated, broke into my house when I wasn't home, went through my garbage, watched me through the back windows in my house.  He sent harassing emails, texts, left notes.  He drove by my work numerous times per day, accused me of all kinds of inappropriate behaviors, threatened to kidnap Charlie. He employed his new girlfriends to call, email, show up at my front door.  He tried to hire an "actress" to come to my door and say that the man I was dating was her fiancee.   I honestly got tired of the drama, so I couldn't blame my friends for not wanting to hear about it anymore.  I needed support--I needed to tell someone what was happening to me.  The unpredictable nature of it all--of finding policemen in my house with flashlights at night because he reported me "missing" one Saturday, was so stressful.  I never knew what to expect from one day to the next.  Until he was finally arrested for stalking and harassing me, I had no peace and my friends, well, they didn't really want to associate with me much.  I didn't blame them.  I felt like a pariah.  Even after his arrest the behaviors continued, culminating in a charge against me by the family court, of contempt.  In August of 2010 I sat in a courtroom defending myself against his outlandish accusations.  Fortunately, the whole thing backfired on him and he ended up losing all his court ordered custody and visitation rights.  In order to restore them he would need to agree to allow a guardian ad litem to review his mental health history.  He walked away from court that day, defeated, and out of Charlie's life.  He makes no effort to establish or maintain a relationship with his son.

By 2009 I was dating someone that I really liked.  We got along well, but both knew our relationship wouldn't ever get serious.  He became friends with my friend Joey and the three of us, along with family and on double dates, spent lots of time together.  One year we were all together for Thanksgiving dinner, the very next year they were both gone, one dead from suicide and one moved to another state.  In fact, the man I was dating left for his new job/home 2000 miles away on the same day as my friend's funeral.  My daughter graduated high school two months prior and moved out on her own.  My youngest daughter decided to go spend a year with her dad.  I was alone in my big house with just my 3 year old boy.  The quiet was deafening, the grief overwhelming, and people who seemed to care, understand, empathize with my situation?  Nonexistent.

I admit that their absence wasn't all their faults.  I tend to isolate myself when I am down and in my isolation, I spent a lot of time breaking down. Depression and grief gripped me so tightly that at times I could barely breathe.  My kidneys were failing quickly, I had no insurance. My employer fired me because they found out I was seeking a kidney transplant in lieu of starting dialysis.  With none of my medications and no way to pay for them, I knew my fate and deep down, hoped I would just go ahead and die.

I know depression.  I know what Alone feels like.  I know the difference between alone and lonely.

I made plenty of horrible mistakes during that time period of my life.  I felt worthless, like a failure, a person that no one should or would ever love.  I was convinced no one could understand the brokenness inside me, and even if they did, they wouldn't care.  I pushed people away, ashamed of my struggle, ashamed of who I was.

Somehow I made it out of that deep, dark hole.  When I look back I'm not even sure how.  There were plenty of nights that I held enough sleeping pills in my hand to put an end to it all, but for some reason I didn't.  I wasn't sure if things would ever get better, but I hoped.

Even on the darkest days I had that tiny sliver of hope.  That's all that kept me alive.

If you've never felt like the only person in the world fighting a battle that no one else knew about or even remotely understood, you don't know what feeling alone is.  I thought of myself as a freak of nature--someone destined for failure, death, at the very least condemnation.  I believed I brought all these misfortunes on myself and that my friends abandoned me because they saw how foolish and irresponsible I was.  Why should they feel sympathy for someone who screwed her life up so badly?  Shame overtook me and separated me from the people who loved me.

I am still prone to that shame if I dwell on thoughts of that time.  I am prone to bitterness too, when I think of driving to my friend's funeral alone with just my daughters in the car. I felt abandoned by everyone in my life except my toddler.  Can anyone who never experienced such loss really understand how it feels?

I suppose not.  I do though.  I understand how it feels now and maybe if nothing else, that experience taught me how to love other people better.  Maybe it taught me to reserve judgment, to extend empathy and kindness and to offer a helping hand when I see someone else struggling.

Things got better for a while, things got worse for a while.  I made poor decisions that cost me so much--time I'll never get back.  I grappled with the idea of being a "sick" person, of spending the rest of my life alone because I thought no one would want to be with someone as damaged as me--my health problems, my past relationship struggles, three kids...I saw myself as  liability, not an asset.  I wondered if I could ever feel at peace imagining my life as a single person.

My life took some very curvy, twisty, dizzying turns over the last 10 years.  I never dreamed I could end up where I am now--not just here in Traveler's Rest or working in Marietta.  Not just living in this cute little cottage on a hillside, but satisfied.  I am not lonely. I do not miss being in a relationship one bit.  I never thought I could be this satisfied without a partner but I have learned, finally, to be my own best friend.

There is no substitution for good friends--their love, support, inspiration.  They love me, this I know.  I know I am valued and that if I need them, all I must do is call.  However, I rarely need to anymore.  I am finally learning to treat myself with kindness, to give myself the kind of understanding I extend to other people.

I write all of this to you who struggle.  For you who feel alone, lonely, afraid, ashamed.  There is always a glimmer of hope, even if it's as tiny as a speck of glitter.  Cling to it.  Give yourself time, give those who love you an opportunity to show you their love.  Don't convince yourself that your own shame means your friends judge you harshly.   True friends consider all your trials; they give you a pass for some bad decisions.  They support your every effort to just make it from one day to the next.

Never convince yourself that you are your circumstances.  Never allow yourself to wallow in shame over things that didn't go your way.  Learn from your mistakes, carry on.  Let people love you and help you.

Someday you will come through this.  You will find the other side of the darkness where light and joy and love unspeakable wraps you in hope and strength every step of the way.

Reach out to those who love you.  Stop judging yourself so harshly.  Treasure even the worst days because they are opportunities for growth.

Never, ever, ever give up.

Twas the day before Christmas,
And the house was a wreck.
If Santa came in,
He'd say,"What the heck?"

The stockings are hung on the wall with care,
But Santa can't get to them
 because of the rocking chair.

And here I sit alone on my ass,
Wishing Christmas would hurry and pass.

My boy is quietly playing upstairs
in nothing but his underwears.

The dishes are soaking in the sink,
And I'm wishing I had a good stiff Drink.

The dog is sleeping on the floor,
While I listen for the door.

The packages I've ordered have yet to get here,
What if they don't make it?
That's my biggest fear.

We're watch Christmas Movies and nibble on sweets,
Filling our bellies with too many treats.

The tree in the corner is getting dry and brown,
Every time we walk by, an ornament tumbles down.

Pine needles are strewn beneath our feet,
The house may never again be neat.

The smell of cinnamon fills the air,
but in the kitchen the cupboards are bare.

The money's been spent on Christmas presents,
So now we eat junk and live like peasants.

Am really afraid we will all be sick,
If Christmas doesn't hurry and get here quick.

So come onSanta, come right away,
'cause we are  all ready for Christmas day.

Wade In The River

A year ago tonight I drove to my sister's house in the dark to see my father for the last time.  He lay quietly on his deathbed, his chin resting on his chest as his lungs heaved, sucking in the last dregs of life, his eyes closed to this world. His hands that for so many years never sat idle, rested by his sides.

I studied him lying there, tried to commit to memory every freckle and age spot, every scar from surgeries or yard work or factory mishaps.  I touched his skin, rough, leathery from sun exposure and calloused from too many days of hard work.  I stroked his hair, so thin but still the slightest bit red, I
touched his rough bearded cheek and remembered how when I was a little girl he would chase me down to rub his stubble against my cheek.  He called it giving me a bearding.  I hated it and I loved it.

A year ago I knew I why I stood there beside him as he drifted away from us.  All my life my father kept my feet planted on the ground.  Oh, my head stayed in the clouds plenty, but if not for him I might have long-ago lost my footing.

He took me fishing on the Broad River one weekend.  A girl of fifteen I thought myself a fine connoisseur of life.  I kept my journals and read poetry.  I only listened to the deepest lyrics, strove to impress my peers.  I remember riding in his truck, windows down, canoe strapped to the top, listening to a staticky  Paul Harvey on A.M. radio.  My hair slapped my face hard until I finally found a string on the floor at my feet and tied it back out of my way. We hummed tunes together, our arms getting sunburned as we hung them out the windows.

We fished all day standing on slippery river rocks, our canoe tied to Daddy's belt loop, our string of catfish tied to the canoe.  At some point when neither of us were paying attention our string of catfish somehow came loose and before we could even react, they were floating away with the swift current of the river.

"Damn it!" He said.  "There goes our supper!"

"And your blue cat" I reminded him.

"Gooooood Night!" He said,  in anguish over the loss.

We were tired and hungry and had brought nothing with us to eat besides tartar sauce and eggs for the next morning.

"Well, you better catch some more fish, Hester, if you want to eat supper tonight!" He laughed that jolly laugh only he could conjure at such a moment, his whole face and neck turning bright red.  He always called me Hester when he was messing around with me.

My legs were tired.  My feet were cramping from staying tensed on the slick rocks all day, but we kept fishing until we had another stringer-full of supper.

Back ashore, I waded along the riverbank while he cleaned fish.  He tossed me a swim bladder from one of the catfish. "Here's you a balloon to play with." He teased.

I picked it up, fascinated.  "What is it?" I asked.

"That's an air pocket." he explained.  "It lets the fish know how deep he can go in the water.  Helps him swim."

Hmmm, I never knew fish had those.

We smelled of river mud and fish guts as Daddy fired up the camp stove and dredged our catfish in flour and cornmeal, then dropped them into the hot oil bubbling in the cast iron skillet.  I don't even know how many fish we ate that night, but to this day I believe it was the best meal I ever had in my whole life.  Maybe it tasted so good because I was so hungry, or maybe it tasted good because Daddy cooked it.  Either way, I don't think it'll ever be beat.

We slept under the clear night sky on plastic lounge chairs that clicked into place.  Cool air from the river blew over us.  The stars were so bright I thought at one moment I could reach out and touch them.  I heard my daddy snoring as I rolled up in my blanket, still feeling the rush of the river against my legs and drifted off to sleep.

Of all the things he gave me, that weekend at the river stuck so near me all these years, it seems as if it happened just yesterday.

But time marched on, those sweet moments as irretrievable as that stringer full of catfish that the river swept away.  I often wish to hold those moments close again, long for another truck ride with the windows down, another day of rowing against the current, another day of slipping across those rocks to find the perfect spot to cast my line. I yearn to look over my shoulder and see if he's watching me, if he's proud of me for casting so well.

That whole weekend rushed through my mind as I stood by his bed that night, my hand over his hand, feeling his warmth, his life connect with mine.  He was me, and I was him and in so many ways I hope I still am.

My sister left the room.  Tired and emotionally wrung out, she needed a moment to herself and I was grateful for a moment alone with my father.  I leaned close to his ear, touched his hair, smelled his skin.

"My sweet daddy." I said in his ear.  "I'm so glad you are mine.  I'm so thankful God gave me to you."

I didn't know if he could hear me.  I hoped he could.  "I love you. Goodnight, Daddy."

I kissed his cheek and rested my forehead against his, put my hand on his chest and felt the rise and fall of his breathing, the still steady thump of his heart.  I wanted to stay there beside him but I had to go.  My boy was too small, too worried and confused by it all and I knew my daddy would want me to comfort him.

I left that room knowing that was the last time I would say goodnight to my daddy.

Two years before, I left my mom lying on her own death bed.  I kissed her forehead and said, "Ill see you later, Mama.  I love you."  I didn't know for sure I'd see her again and I didn't.  I wish so often that I had stayed with her a little longer that day.

You live your entire life knowing someday you'll say goodbye to your parents.  With so much time to prepare, you expect to handle it well.  I cannot express how hard it is to grow so distant from them with every year that passes.  The places they occupied in my life will remain vacant for the rest of my days, with only the memories we made holding the space inside me where they dwell.

Live well.  Wade in the rivers of life with the ones you love.  Teach them tenacity and strength; enlighten them on things they might otherwise never learn.  Let the ones you love know you love them, tell them, show them, work hard for them.

Someday, after the last goodnight is said, they will hold your place in this world.  They will pass you on to the next generations, they will live a life that is full and complete because you gave yourself so freely.

I will never stop missing my folks.  I will forever revel in the memories we made together--both the good and the bad, for it is a fine blending of the two that make life the bitter sweet journey it is meant to be.

A year ago I drove home in the dark, tears streaking my face.  My boy sat silently beside me, sad, worried, not ready to lose his Papa.  We shared those moments of grief along the dark back roads of Pickens county; roads I traveled with my daddy for as long as I could recall.

The roads remain, for the most part, the same; but I, I am forever changed.

Essential?

Last week I experienced an acute attack of Tinnitus.  Tinnitus is a fancy way of saying "ringing in the ears" only mine was "ringing in ONE ear" and it was a fluctuating tone that went from a low hum to a high pitched squeal over and over, like radio stuck between stations.  It became so loud and one point that I could even hear it over music and the TV.  I was desperate for a cure and in this generation of information at your fingertips, I consulted Dr. Google.

I found out I probably suffered from a tumor inside my ear and started to panic (which made the ringing louder).  As I kept reading I also saw that high blood pressure, certain medications (three of which I take daily) neurological damage and/or damage to my inner ear (the hairs of the inner ear to be exact) could be the culprit.  Last of all of course I read that there's basically no cure for it.  Some website actually suggested that I go see a therapist and get some Cognitive Behavioral Therapy so I could learn to accept the ringing in my ear without "judging" it and then it wouldn't bother me anymore.  Are you kidding me????  How would  a person NOT be bothered by an invisible imp blowing a freaking whistle in her ear all day long every day, even while she tries to sleep at night??  You want to know what you can do with your CBT, Web MD?  You can shove it in your ear.

Still desperate for a good night's sleep and a few moments of much needed silence, I decided to go the modern-day route by which some of my friends swear: Essential oils and natural remedies.

So after work on Thursday Charlie and I drove over to Garner's in Greenville.  I perused the store feeling awkwardly out of place, looking for something called "Lipoflavinoid".  They didn't have it, but they did have something called "Ring Stop".  It was 28 bucks for a 30 day supply (or so I thought) but I was desperate so I grabbed it off the shelf.  Then as I was looking around I found a tiny glass bottle with a dropper that said, "Deep Sleep".  It was also quite pricey at 30.00 for about an ounce.  Standing there in the overwhelming smell of sandlewood and hemp, it just seemed like a good idea to buy that little vial of magic liquid and give it a try.

Now I have friends who swear that for every ailment there is an oil.  Got Athlete's foot?  Try some essential oils.  Is your nose bleeding? Essential oils.  Is your mother in law coming to visit?  Tolerate her better by dabbing yourself with some lavender or refreshing peppermint oil.  Ears ringing and not able to sleep, try this: Deep sleep drops.  I read the label.  With a list of California poppies, Fresh Valerian, Lemon Balm and Milky Sage, I imagined it would smell delightful and that a couple of drops on my tongue at bedtime would at the very least give me a brief moment of bliss.  I put the bottle on the counter with the box of "Ring Stop" and plopped down over 50 bucks for the two products.

Long story short, the "Ring Stop" was absolutely worthless.  I came home, looked it up online and found an overwhelming number of negative reviews and people warning me not to waste my money on that product.  Too late.  It's sitting in my kitchen cabinet now, mocking me as my ear still reverberates with that same whistle that fades in and out inconsistently.

Finally that evening at bedtime I decided to try my "Deep Sleep" drops.  Opening the container nearly required a dose of Xanax, but since I'm onto these natural alternatives, I took some deep breaths and meditated my way through it.  I read the directions:  "Mix 30 drops with water and drink on hour before bed, then at bedtime mix 30 more drops with water and drink." Hmmm...It seemed odd but, Okay, I decided to give it a try.

With the adult-defying plastic safety cover removed from the cap, I unscrewed the lid slowly.  Expecting a sweet, refreshing smell, I took a long, deep breath through my nose as I twisted the cap.  Boy, was that a bad idea.  My nostrils were filled with the stench of 10 day old dirty socks.  I turned and looked to see if Charlie was standing behind me with his dirty sneakers.  I was alone.  The horrendous smell was coming from my tiny bottle of "Deep Sleep".  "How the heck am I going to drink something that smells like dirty sock juice?" I wondered.

Screwing up my courage, I got out a glass, filled it half-way with water and added 30 drops of the liquid.  It was very diluted, so I figured, eh, why not?  I drank it down fast and then chased it with another glass of water.   Thirty minutes later I had to pee.  An hour later, I took the second dose, lay in bed and waited.  Nothing.

I tried again the next night and other than a bout of nausea after tasting the sock juice, again, no sleep.

Back to the internet I went.  I looked up essential oils for ear ringing and essential oils for sleep.  I found the suggestion that Ginko Biloba might help the ear ringing, but it might not.  Found that Valerian and Melatonin and something called GABA might help me sleep (but it might not).  Then I read message boards where suburban housewives swapped stories about which brands of essential oils are the purest, and how if I got one that didn't work, it must have gluten or pesticides or other chemicals in it that cancel out its effectiveness.  "You need to buy THIS brand" one woman says.  And another chimes in and says, "No, that one actually contains GMO's, so you should steer away from that, go with THIS brand instead."

Back to the health store I went.  Having learned my lesson, I asked to smell things before I bought them.  I smelled Lemon Balm, Lavender, different kinds  of sage, plant extracts of which I've never even heard all tickled my olfactory glands until I couldn't tell one scent from another after a while. I was getting ready to give up and go home, resigned to my fate of forever hearing what resembled the sound of the Star Trek transporter in my left hear when something occurred to me.

"Do you have any CBD oil?" I asked the sales lady.

"No we do not carry CBD oil.  We only carry the highest quality essential oils and natural remedies here.

"Online I read that a lot of people have success using CBD oil for tinnitus." I told her.  She looked a little dumbfounded.    "You know that CBD is legal now, right?" I asked her.

"Yeah, I know, but we don't carry it because we fear it will attract clientele that we'd rather not have to deal with."

I thought to myself, Hmm....Then I put all the stinky, non effective super expensive bottles of "essential oils" down on the counter and said, "I apologize for wasting your time, but I think I am going to go home and shop online."

I had no idea what she was trying to sell me, but I knew that something which smells like my fathers socks used to smell after a full 12 hour shift a the factory couldn't possibly be the best thing to be putting in my body to help me sleep at night.

We all know that person, don't we?  The gal who swears that tincture of asshole cures psoriasis or that the oil of a north-facing lily growing on the far hill of a sheep pasture in Sweden is the best remedy for a stove-up back, and then rakes you over the coals for taking Tylenol or better yet, actual prescription pain medication that, what?  Takes away your pain!  Are you kidding me?  "It is ruining your liver and kidneys and it's going to cause you to die from all wreckage it does to your system." They say.  I say, we all gotta die someday.  Why should I suffer while I wait?

Okay...I think it's time I just say that I'm really okay with taking a chemical laden drug that eliminates my pain and if there were a drug out there that would stop the ringing in my ear, I'd be taking it by the spoonful right now.

Now if you are one of those gals who has found that oil of essence of muskrat asshole cures what ails you, I'm happy for ya.  Hang in there and use all the stinky natural preparations of oils and creams an dietary supplements you can find!  I though, am choosing to stick to my pain medications that are tried and true and do not leave the aftertaste of foot fungus lingering in my mouth for days.

As far as my online shopping experience, I ended up quite satisfied.  I bought a one ounce bottle of CBD tincture which contains all the CBD strains as well as Terpenes and for some reason Turmeric.  It has significantly reduced the amount of ringing in my left ear and seems to actually boost the effectiveness of my "conventional" medications.  My blood pressure is the lowest it has been in years, I am sleeping like a baby, and I have gotten through an incredibly stressful week with only one minor breakdown that lasted 20 seconds.  Let's see your Lemon Balm essential oil do all that!

Right now in my kitchen cabinet a 25.00 dollar bottle of "Ring Stop" sits mocking me every time I open the cabinet door.  Ginko my ass.  It does NOT stop your ears from ringing.  If anything it made mine worse.  The bottle of "Deep Sleep" is beside my bed.  I figure the day might come when I'm desperate enough for a good night's sleep to give it a try again--but I can't imagine being THAT desperate.

I just want to know, what's so essential about essential oils?  All this time I've been imagining a world filled with unique but wonderful scents, tiny bottles of miracle elixirs that gently chase away all the bad stuff with by overtaking your olfactory experience and rewiring the brain.  Now I find out that many of these delicious sounding concoctions are nothing more than stinky, smelly snake oil that doesn't even DO anything other than make you THINK you found a miracle cure.

Now I love the smell of lavender at bedtime.  The aroma of Shea and Hemp relax me and make me wan to drift into dreamland.  Lemon Balm is yummy crushed up in a Mojito.  That doesn't mean I'm going to trust any of those things to cure Tinnitus or athlete's foot or contact dermatitis.  If you've never had tinnitus, you cannot understand the insanity it can cause--it made me crazy enough to drink 'Au De Gym Socks" three nights in a row before finally giving up and deciding to start writing a goodbye note to my family.

Thank goodness for the internet though, where riff-raff like me can go find other "natural" alternatives (perfectly legal and effective ones too) that actually DO help.

Ya'll have fun dabbin' on all those gluten and GMO free Dragon fruit and papaya oils.  Hopefully you wont have bees swarming around you all day--maybe you should get some of those bee pollen capsules too (to build immunity from the bees).  I'm gonna stick with my pain medications and my little bit of CBD tincture for now.

I'll let you know though, if I start to notice foot fungus---Maybe we can take scrapings and use some chemical process to turn my foot fungus into a new kid of essential oil.  If "Deep Sleep" did it, why cant I?

Reaching

I remember being five years old, maybe younger, sitting on a church pew between my parents, my shiny Sunday shoes dangling in mid air while my legs fell asleep because my feet couldn't touch the floor.  I tried to sit with my legs crossed like my mama, but that didn't quite work either.  My legs were too short.  I wanted so badly for my feet to touch the floor.  I wanted to wear high heels like my big sisters, to sing in the choir like my daddy.  It seems as though from the moment I became aware of myself, I started yearning for things that waited outside my reach.

I witnessed that same reaching as I watched my own daughters grow.  When Hannah was three she reached my makeup bag that I thought I tucked safely away on the back of the bathroom sink.  By the time I found her, she was quietly and contentedly painting her entire face red with lipstick but she didn't stop there.  She smeared it on the sink in long broad strokes, painted the wall beside the sink in a spatter of little fingerprints.  I stood speechless as I stared down at her, wanting to feel angry (I just told her five minutes before not to touch my makeup bag) but unable to find anything more than deep admiration and amusement welling up inside me.  Always a creator, Hannah reached beyond herself from the moment she took her first breath.

It never ends--the reaching.  Something always lies just past the length of our arms.  Life gives us brief moments when we get to feel as though we have it all.  Inevitably though, something in the distance gets our attention and we stand caught up in our gaze at what lies out there awaiting discovery.

For four years I worked with new mothers.  I visited them in the hospital sometimes just moments after they gave birth, their new little bundles of life held close to their skin, their joy and pain and exhaustion shone through; the pride and incomparable love they felt needed not a word of description.  Underneath it all, the fear and self doubt nagged at them as well.  After a while I always knew which ones were first timers and which ones had already gone through the experience of caring for a newborn.  Watching them bond, it always struck me that even babies fresh from the womb are reaching.  A kiss on his cheek will send a little one rooting towards your face, seeking sustenance that only his mother can give.  No one teaches him how to find his mother's breast, he is born knowing.  Reaching for more than we already have is more than greed, more than ungratefulness for what we already possess.  It is survival.

The name of this blog is The Quest.  It seems abstract, random at times, but it symbolizes my own process.  These blogs are my testament to the ever-extending arm of survival.  It is the journey of one soul, constantly dreaming, falling, rising, stretching, shrinking, finding the courage to hope and believe and try again after every setback, every failure.  Oh, so many setbacks and failures plague my life from one year to the next; yet I sit now, this computer on my lap, heavy eyed and restless wondering which way to extend my arm this time.

Nothing lasts forever.  Life, relationships, jobs, friendships; all of it is temporary.  We do ourselves a favor when we remember this simple truth.  For in the knowing that all things come to an end, we find  courage to keep plodding forward, chin up, eyes to the sky, ready to embrace what life brings us next.

This day brought me through a trial of resilience.  It tested my ability to deliver the truth in love without holding back anything for the sake of saving myself from the suspicion of my character that was inevitable.  I found myself stripped to the bare bones emotionally, sharing my heart and a painful truth at the same time, all the while, resisting the urge to vie for approval or acceptance.  This day was not meant for my own desperate claw at redemption.  This day served me well though, as a reminder that although it is okay to always hold hope close, there are also times when my own needs pale in comparison to the needs of those I love.

All across Northern Greenville County elders whose presence sits close to my heart are watching TVs in dark living rooms, reading novels by lamp light, nodding off while they finish the day's crosswords.  Even they might never realize that the yearning for more never ceases, not even in our last hours on Earth.  I remember a year ago as my father lay dying, the tears that welled up in his eyes when we spoke of happy memories because as he said, "We can't go back and do it all over again."  Life gets lived up in a blur, the good times all muddled in with the bad until we find ourselves near the end, looking back at what we left behind and instead of reaching ahead, we find ourselves turning back, wishing we could grasp for one last moment, the sunny days on the lake or the family dinners on Sundays or even the long nights when we sat up with sick children, watching them breathe, cradling their little hands in ours.  Life is filled with yearning for more; more of the future, more of the past.

We yearn to keep the status quo; to never grow older or more infirm.  We deny our weaknesses until someone is forced to point them out to us in painstakingly honest yet tender ways and still we find ourselves wounded by the truth.  We give up one liberty after another, let go of a little dignity here and there until we find ourselves a shadow of what we once were.  It might come all too easily, that feeling of useless redundancy, especially if we dwell on what we've lost more than on what we experience, learn and grow from.  The reaching can become weary when the quest suddenly changes from finding joy in this life to reaching for another place altogether, where we believe those things we've lost await us.  Arms to greet us, somewhere beyond this reality begin to feel more real, more enticing than any Earthly delight.

In the days before his death my father held a photo of him and my mother on our last family vacation together.  He stared down at it, sometimes joking about how handsome he was, other times, seemingly lost in the gaze at my mother's face, as if he was trying to remember her every nuance, trying to make sure he would recognize her when he stepped across the threshold from this life to the next.  He told me once that as many people as he loved here on Earth, there were even more in that beyond; they were the seeds of a new kind of yearning for him to reach beyond Earthly experiences and the family that still surrounded him.  He sat in peace, listening to music about Heaven and the great reunion in which he so believed and though his heart ached at leaving us behind, he couldn't hide the joy he felt at the thought of greeting his mother and father again.  There was almost an excitement in his eyes as he talked about the Heavenly choir and seeing my mother again.

And so it is, we reach and reach until weary of never finding all we desire, we finally learn we had it all already.  Then we reach for what lies beyond what our eyes behold, into the unknown that for most of our lives seems so mysterious and frightening, but in the end, is our only true comfort.

Perhaps this is the Quest then, succinctly wrapped up in a lifetime of longing for more--no matter what we already hold in our hearts and hands.   We grapple for now, to hang onto whatever we've gotten for ourselves but before we find satisfaction, we find some other want.  Then, as life starts to draw the shades of tomorrow closer together and we see our immortality through clearer eyes, we yearn to go back, to move far beyond, to never live as we are here in this moment in time.

Life, wasted on thoughts of who we think we aught to be, what we think we aught to have, where we think we aught to go.  Isn't it a shame?

Really, all we have is now.  This moment.  This is life, with all its struggles and heartaches and tough choices.  The quest is now.  It is in every moment of every day, striking a fine balance between appreciating the present, honoring the past and maintaining our hope for the future.  Life is rolling with the punches, learning to accept change gracefully, meeting every day with an attitude and wonder of a child.  For every day has something new to teach us, and every night when we lie down, we take up our beds with hopeful hearts for what tomorrow will bring.

The lyrics to a song pop into my head right now:

We are reaching for the future,
We are reaching for the past.
And no matter what we have we reach for more.
We are desperate to discover
What is just beyond our grasp.
Maybe that's what Heaven is for.
--Carolyn Arends

The Quest continues, perhaps forevermore.