How incredibly sad

Bedford revisited

Thank you, Susan.

The Dash

I read of a man who stood to speak
at the funeral of a friend.  He referred to the dates on her tombstone from the beginning...to the end.

He noted that first came the date of her birth and spoke of the following date with tears,
but he said what mattered most of all was the dash between those years.

For that dash represents all the time
that she spent alive on earth...
and now only those who loved her
know what that little line is worth.
For it matters not, how much we own;
the cars....the house...the cash.
What matters is how we live and love
and how we spend our dash. 

So think about this long and hard...
are there things you'd like to change?
For you never know how much time is left.
(You could be at "dash midrange.")

If we could just slow down enough
to consider what's true and real,
and always try to understand
the way other people feel.

And be less quick to anger,
and show appreciation more
and love the people in our lives
like we've never loved before.

If we treat each other with respect,
and more often wear a smile...
remembering that this special dash
might only last a little while.

So, when your eulogy's being read
with your life's actions to rehash...
would you be proud of the things they
say about how you spend your dash?

                                     Linda Ellis

Who wants to be dead?

 Not me.  And I don't want any of my friends and/or family members to Meet Their Maker or Turn to Dust.  Or Whatever Happens Next.  Dave thinks that we have to make room for the next generation.  I'm thinking that I don't take up that much space.  I'm sticking around.

After she died, I took my mother's ashes back to Bedford in a box with her picture on it/my boys didn't like the fact that I had The Box, aka My Mom, sitting at the table with us for dinner one night before the trip.  A final farewell of sorts.  I was not about to risk sending Gwenn through the mail, so I stowed her in the overhead storage compartment on the airplane. And we were off for one last trip together.

That's my mom, Gwenn, on the far right.  Dad, on the far left.  I'm the one with the spiffy pink slippers.  The rest, neighbors/a really fun-loving lot.  Not. 

It was a bit of a surprise/to say the least/when, upon arriving at the cemetery, I opened the box and found that Gwenn was not in the state I was anticipating.  Excuse me, who tells you these things?  I was thinking ashes such as those regularly removed from fireplaces.  My mom was bits of bone.  Relatively large pieces when you're thinking "ashes to ashes/dust to dust."  She wanted us "to spread her ashes/not her bones/over my father's grave/if that really was my dad under there/that's definitely another day’s writing.  It was Not Pleasant having to scuff her into the ground.  Did she really imagine all the Stomping/Stamping/Trudging About that would be required to carry out her wish?  I think not.  Then again, she did have a good sense of humor.  She was the one who showed up at my school one day with a goat in the car as though he was a regular carpool member.

So here’s what I’ve recently learned.  I ABSOLUTELY KNOW that there's life after death.  Not necessarily the winged version that I saw illustrated in the books my parents read to me.  Something else. Something bigger.  Something better.  How do I know this to be true?  George.  He is definitely here.  And he died approximately eight years ago.  He was, among many other wonderful things, an electrician.  And he continues to turn on and off lights when his wife/my friend, Betty, is with me.  Most recently when we were in Hawaii together.

The lights were operating on their usual fixed evening electronic schedule the nights before Betty arrived and then once here, they continued to turn off in rooms where she or we were talking or working.  There was absolutely no consistency/no pattern. 

After she left for home, the lights went back to their normal, programmed settings.  It was remarkable.  And wonderful.  And so fitting for George who, incidentally, fixed Kathi’s dining room lighting.  More complicated than anticipated, George said that the job would require additional time.  He promised to return later.  And he did.  After he died.  The journey continues.  But not in the way any of us imagined it. 

I have days of stories to share about George and Betty.  Better, I think, that you hear directly from Betty: Traveling With George: An Out-of-This-World Experience.  It's a recounting of the days after George passed/a remarkable story about two kindred spirits.  One here.  One there. 

Oh, one last thing.  While Betty was in Hawaii a few weeks ago with several friends and me, we ate lunch at a local restaurant where guests set out little leftover jam containers for the geckos. 

Once home, we took a closer look at my photos.  There was a "G" on all my images.  Now even I had trouble with this, so Dave and I subsequently went back to the restaurant to check it out.  Nope, no etched/imprinted "G's" nor any logical reflective possibilities.  Gotta love that guy, George, who joked about wanting to be buried in a volcano.

Here’s to you, George.  Thanks for staying in touch and for reminding us that life does, in fact, go on.  And that we are far more than a box of bones.