Jaci Dawn

June 7, 1980 to June 7, 2011.

I had a rough day yesterday. I understand it is simply a process of grieving and I will have more days like yesterday than I care to contemplate.

It was our 31st Wedding Anniversary and I should have had a wonderful day. But I kept remembering the man who walked me down the “aisle” (figuratively speaking as it was an outdoor wedding with no aisle or formal seating). I can still remember the papery touch of the skin on his hands and the frail feel of his stooped shoulders as age wore him down.

It bothered me a lot that I cannot remember the feel of my mother’s skin, but I do remember the feel of my little sister’s as I braided her hair one day after Mom died.

I remember my mom’s eyes under the influence of morphine as she tried to tell us all good-bye and that she loved us (she could no longer speak or hold a pen to write).

Those kinds of thoughts haunted me all day yesterday.

But evening finally came. Don took me out to our favorite little pub, The Highland Stillhouse. Of course, I then sat and thought about how often I dreamed of taking my dad down to the Stillhouse when he next came to visit: he would have loved the pub! And they played a string of Celtic bands: Dad’s favorite music was Celtic (although he leaned more to The Clancy Brothers, Tommy Makkem, and Noel McLoughlin).

I had the Prawns with gruyere cheese and mushrooms. Don had steak (medium rare), glazed carrots and French Fries. Rather, he was supposed to have the fries: the cook made an error and gave him mashed potatoes.

He pointed out the error nicely and within minutes we had a side of fries presented to us by the cook, personally.

We ordered ale but the ale we wanted ran out: they gave us half a pint for free because that was all there was of that ale.

We had a delicious dinner, quiet conversation and superb service (as always). The service is one of the reasons we like the Stillhouse so much: but they also offer live music on Sundays and Thursdays.

After dinner, we settled down for a short “Jesse Stone” movie (Tom Selleck) together.

Sometime during the evening, I quit thinking about the people I’ve lost and moved back into the present with the people I still have and love. That’s the way of grief.

Here’s to many more years of marriage: sláinte!

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The first thing I was struck with when I went home was the sense that Dad was not there. It wasn’t the empty feeling of losing him that I experienced, but the goose-bumpy-ghost-haunting lack of feeling: he was not there. He wasn’t haunting the house. Little shreds of his being were not hiding in the atmosphere. A palpable sense of someone who used to live there did not hang in the air. Dad was gone. Long gone.

We leave behind the memories but even those have no lasting effect on the atmosphere when the living soul is removed. Memories are held in the heart and in the dreams, a long and faulty video tape that runs in our heads when we close our eyes.

I felt only a vague sense of trespassing as we sorted through the contents of dressers, the basement, the two sheds, the garage and more. Sometimes a treasure presented itself (when I get everything home from Reno there will be more to share). Mostly, however, the dry sense that no one was watching, no one could protest and no one lived in those halls settled on us. In short, there was no sense at all except that of our memories.

I feel like I should write something profound. But like the ghost that did not haunt the house, the words that need to form are not there.

I am home. Life goes on. Dad’s birthday is on Saturday and that will be the first hurdle of grief beyond the tangible stuff of things left behind. I need to write my own will, have a yard sale to get rid of my own clutter (and make room for the new clutter coming in), work on genealogy and write thank-you notes, and I really really need to weed out my prayer garden this weekend. I need to have that stupid kidney stone removed.

Harvey and I need to go for a long walk here at home.

What did we leave behind? The memories? Terry and I grew up in a different house: the folks bought the house Dad died in after we left home. The memories were in the little memorabilia, not in the house or the yard.

We left behind walls stained with nicotine and tar. We left ugly wall paper and strange marbled linoleum on the floor in the kitchen. Dust in the crevices of the carpet and black widow spiders hunkered down in dark corners of the basement. We left mud dauber nests in the sheds. Old rocks embedded in the dirt. A set of Time-Life self help books. An old Winchester on the wall over the unused fireplace. Cordwood in the hearth and in the box outside under the picnic table. A moldy coffee pot. Mom’s treasured pyrex cooking set.

We left furniture, drawings, knick-knacks, dishes, tools, trunks. We left behind our nephew’s dead cars and broken bicycles, bags of trash and unrecycled recycles. We left behind a thirty-something nephew and a 13 year old niece. We left all of Chrystal’s inheritance because she thinks she will pack it all up here and move back to Nevada by September. We left behind the old green cinder-block house and the ugly indoor-outdoor carpet in the sun room.

We left behind so very much and yet we took our memories.

(OK, the last photo is real. It’s my dad’s political soap box. My favorite side of the soap box. He ran for Nevada State Senate – and lost. My mom drew her feet on the top of the box. What can I say??)

Until later…

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I love Nevada.

Just a little over two weeks ago I was loading up my car for one of those bitter-sweet trips to my home state that always leave me exhausted and hurting. In 2000, I swore I never wanted to fly to Nevada again because it seemed like every time I got onto an airplane headed to the Silver State, it was to attend a funeral. Of course that was the year I rode in the MD-80, in the tail section with no windows, just a few months after the terrible crash over the Pacific Ocean. I’m not saying that weighed on my thought process: I was too choked up over losing my sister to care what airplane I was flying in or if I had a window seat.

This year I chose to drive to Ely. By myself. Well, maybe not by myself. The thought of making a 13+ hour drive alone was not very comforting. My husband suggested I take Harvey along. My niece/youngest daughter asked if she could come. then she asked if her boyfriend could come. I liked that last suggestion: someone else could pump gas for me. I haven’t pumped gas since 1978 when I worked in a gas station for 2 weeks.

I chose to take the fastest route down: I-84 east out of Portland to Twin Falls and then US Hwy 93 south through Jackpot and Wells to Ely (13 hours 54 minutes). Since I had Harvey with me, I wouldn’t be able to spend the night in LaGrande with family: they all have big dogs of their own and no room for mine, too! I did an online search for pet-friendly motels on Tuesday and came up with several in the Ontario area. Unfortunately – or maybe fortunately – I did not make my reservations then. I made them on Wednesday after I knew that Chrystal’s boyfriend was definitely coming with us. By then my choices had narrowed considerably and I chose one at random: the Ontario Inn.

Thursday morning we loaded up and headed out. We stopped in LaGrande to visit my mother-in-law for an hour. It was hard to leave but I had reservations and a lot of miles to go.

I had some serious reservations when I pulled into the Ontario Inn. It’s one of those old-fashioned brick facade motels in old town Ontario. Maybe 10 rooms? I couldn’t see how it could be dog friendly but… I got out and confirmed my reservation, found out I had magically parked in front of the room we were to be in. The dog yard was “out back”. Harvey cost me an additional $5.

The room was great! Clean, quiet, roomy. The bathroom was huge.

The back yard was even bigger: what a hidden treasure!

Harvey definitely liked that yard!

We met people who stay at the Ontario Inn every year. They told us how they discovered it by accident – like I did – and how the great service has kept them coming back. If you’re ever in need of a pet-friendly motel in Ontario, I think we discovered the hidden gem.

Poor Harvey gets car sick. When we left Ontario the next morning, I decided to try turning his kennel to face the front of the rig instead of the back so he could get air-flow. He still resisted getting into the kennel after potty breaks, but he did somewhat better.

AJ fell asleep almost as soon as the car was in motion. Somehow I think I know what his mom did to get him to sleep as a baby: she put him in a car seat and drove around the block! Sadly, he missed some of the wildlife he wanted to see as we crossed into Idaho and faster speed limits. (I may love Oregon’s full service gas stations but tell me WHY we have to have a speed limit that is ten miles under any adjoining state? As soon as we crossed the Snake River, I pressed on the gas pedal and thought “Thank God: now we can make some real time!!” Oregon has stupid speed limits.)

AJ wanted his mom to know he really made it to Idaho. Sadly, I failed to get the distant blue mountains into this photo from the rest area near Mountain Home. Sorry AJ!

I do not like to drive into Twin Falls. In point of fact, I cannot remember when I last was in Twin Falls. I have this “thing” whereby we have to take the Thousand Springs Scenic Byway whenever we head to Ely. Maybe it is just that I want to get off of the freeway. Maybe it is a memory I have of my dad taking us through the Snake River canyon here. Whatever reason it is, when we reached Bliss we turned off of the freeway to take the scenic byway. And AJ stayed awake for the short drive to Filer.

In Buhl, I pointed out that we purchased Murphy there. Murphy is an Idaho dog. I am an Idaho girl. Chrystal and AJ immediately noticed the resemblance of the country to that of Napoleon Dynamite. I just laughed.

We stopped in Filer to top off my gas tank. It was then that I learned AJ had never pumped gas before. So much for my brilliant idea of bringing him along to pump gas for me! HAHA! After I showed him how to lock the gas pump he did fine. He just didn’t know that one little thing. He happily pumped my gas all through Nevada and California, content in the knowledge that the pump would turn off by itself when the tank was full. He just never did get the knack of rounding it up to an even number and I paid a few bills of $00.01 on my debit card (except for the time in California when I was the one who rounded the price up to an even number. Sorry AJ, but I actually pumped gas for a living once…)

AJ slept off and on while we headed south on 93. That was good: I learned later that he does not like to be in a car passing on a narrow 2-lane highway and I passed a couple semis going south. He woke up somewhere out of Wells and asked: “There aren’t really any wild horses are there?”

Uh. Yeah. So Chrystal and I entertained him with our political views of the BLM and wild horses. (Helps that my high school friend, Arla, has such a great website. Thank you Arla! And sorry we did not have time to come out to Cherry Creek to see you…)

Chrystal assured AJ that jackalopes are real, too. Can you believe that he was skeptical??

The drive from Jackpot to Ely was shorter than I remembered. Maybe it was all the memories: my first beer with my dad at the bar in Currie: I was 18 and home from college for Christmas. Dad met me in Wells and we drove south on 93 home. We stopped in Currie and he asked me what I wanted to drink. I knew he was testing me: did I drink? I was underage but heck – I decided to try ordering a beer. The bartender didn’t even question me and my dad quietly paid for the beer. It was the best Oly ever.

Then we were in Ely.

I left the kids at the house with Chrystal’s older brother, John, and went out to dinner with my brother. He chose the Silver State Restaurant which is currently owned by friends of his. I highly recommend the Silver State and will blog more about it. Besides, an old high school classmate of mine is the owner with his wife. It doesn’t get better than that.

It snowed overnight. Yay for Nevada (snow covered) in May…

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Thursday of last week we finally started to load up the meager treasures we were taking home.  I decided to start here and work backward through what has been the worst two weeks of my life so far.

Sorting through your parents’ estate is morbid, tiring, sad, stressful, and agonizing. Add to that the drama of people who think they are entitled to more and the process becomes even more tiresome. I wasn’t getting enough sleep on top of it all.

We filled two thirds of the trailer with our cumulative “treasures”: memories are more important than the “things”. There were moments when we snapped at each other, but in the long run my brother and I both know we are all we have left of our core family. Yes, there are two more generations in the wings but of the first five, there remains only my brother and myself. We need to lean on each other more than ever now (and I will add this: our Uncle Mike is the last of his generation. How much harder this was on him than it was on us!).

We pulled out of Ely in the early evening.

I put 16 miles on the odometer when everything came to a screeching halt: Terry’s big truck lost all oil pressure! Fortunately, I decided to follow him rather than go on ahead and we were able to turn around and make a late run into Ely for a quart of 15-40 oil. At our 4th stop we found the oil, purchased two quarts and returned to where Terry waited.

The tarp shredded before we reached Eureka. We nearly lost a roll of bubble wrap off the back of the trailer. Some cardboard backing did jump ship. At every stop, Chrystal’s boyfriend jumped out of the car and hurried forward to help Terry out. AJ was a true godsend and a willing pair of hands. So it was that when we stopped just east of Austin Summit in the moonless, cloudless desert night and AJ saw the Milky Way for the first time unobstructed by light pollution that we took time to allow him to stare into the stars through binoculars. The pure joy that young man felt was infectious!

There were several stops as we took breaks for the dogs, adjusted tie-downs, checked dresser drawers and generally made sure we were both still awake enough to drive. We gassed in Fallon. When we pulled out of the gas station and headed to I-80, I realized I was past being able to drive and I resorted to tail-gating the trailer. I simply followed tail lights and hoped I could keep it on the road without over-correcting or dozing off. I made AJ talk about anything that came to mind because his talking kept me awake.

We made Reno by 3:00am. We were in bed by 4. Harvey was the only one of us who was not exhausted beyond thinking and he was just disoriented, car-sick, and frightened of another new place. He finally settled down to sleep but was up by 9.

Terry & I unloaded the trailer in Reno with the help of cousins. We let AJ sleep in (he chastised us for it later). There’s another trip looming in my future: a trip to Reno to pick up all my books.

Saturday morning I was up early. The weather report had snow in the mountain passes by 11am and I wanted to be over the Siskiyous by then. Well, truth be told, I wanted to make an 11 hour drive and be home. No more motels or delays: I wanted to get on down the road.

If you “google” Reno to Portland, the first route that comes up takes you north through Alturas and Klamath Falls and over the Cascades to Cottage Grove. Don’t do it if weather will be dicey or you are in a hurry: the fastest route is slightly longer. I already knew what the roads look like between K Falls and Cottage Grove: two lane with passing lanes, slower speeds and the possibility the pass was still closed. A rule of thumb in the West is to take the roads most traveled, not the fastest or shortest routes. I just toss that in because so many people rely on GPS to get them from here to there without really knowing what or where they are going to be driving.

I took 395 north into Susanville. I hate that drive. It’s great on the Nevada side but California dropped the ball on their side. It’s a 2-lane highway with occasional passing lanes on the California side: not enough passing lanes, heavy traffic and large trucks, dips and curves. I wanted to be up that stretch of highway before Memorial Day traffic became heavy and I was stuck behind some camper.

Gas in California was $0.30 higher than Nevada or Oregon. You have to pump your own and you get no service. I will never vote for self serve as long as California remains higher in price than Oregon. I’m just saying that because it was cheaper in Idaho and about the same in Nevada and I had to pump my own. California takes the cake for gas prices.

We had snow flurries over the Cascades. We took CA44 to CA89 to I-5 around Mount Shasta which we could not see for the low clouds. I kept us at 5 miles over the speed limit which seemed safe enough as CHP was out in force and I saw them pulling over anyone doing 10 miles over. We climbed, we dropped, we wound through some beautiful country. Morel hunters were out in force in the charred remains of last year’s forest fires. We had more snow flurries as we pushed north on I-5 over the Siskiyous, passing big rigs and slow campers.

My heart soared as we crossed the state line.

We bought gas in Medford. I don’t care what anyone else says: when the station attendant offered to 1)pump my gas for me 2) check the oil and 3) wash the windshield, I knew I was home and I was happy. The service at the Chevron Station in Medford is beyond service. Those men working the pumps were cheerful, fast, and sweet. Did I mention I hate self-serve? HAHAHA. The gas was also less than $0.30 a gallon over California’s self-serve. <ahem>

On this last leg of the trip, we decided to let Harvey just ride on the seat. He did get a little car-sick, but he did so much better on the seat than he did in his car kennel. He got in and out of the car without protest.

We hit a wall of water just north of Lebanon that slowed everyone around us down to 60mph. The woman who was passing me at 75 dropped to 60mph so fast that I am certain she hydro-planed. I think the only reason I didn’t was because of the weight in my car. We all moved over to the right-hand lane and let the idiots pass us until we hit dry pavement again: then the other driver jacked it up to 75 again and I sped up to 70. Yes, I could have gone faster but OHP was out in force and I’d already passed several rigs pulled over for speeding. Last thing I needed was a ticket!

Interestingly, the only idiots I saw on the road were in Salem. That was where I got the people trying to pass me on the right and flipping me off because I was going faster than the right-hand lane but slower than the left-hand lane. Welcome to Oregon: home of idiots behind wheels. It was in part because of the increasing traffic as we neared Portland and the jerks behind wheels doing stupid things that I took the Aurora exit. It was also because I knew that I could cut the drive by 8 miles and ten minutes. I was headed HOME.

I dropped the kids off before I came home. No one was here when I arrived and I unloaded by myself. Then I sat in a lawn chair and cried.

I did call Terry to let him know I was home safe, but mostly I just sat in the lawn chair and cried.

Terry better not die on me anytime soon or I will kill him. End of story.

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I will be gone for the next couple weeks. Don will be on his own with Murphy.

I am packed and ready to go. Tomorrow morning, Harvey and I will pick up our two hitch-hikers: Chrystal and her beau, AJ. We will cruise across Oregon to La Grande, where we’ll stop to visit my mother-in-law and father-in-law (briefly) and then on down to Ontario, OR, where we’ll spend the night.

Friday morning, we’ll cross into Idaho where you can drive 75MPH but you have to pump your own gas. We won’t slow down (or have someone else pump gas for us) until we return to Oregon after the Elks have their memorial service on the 21st of May. I don’t mind the higher speed limits but I sure am going to miss having someone else pump gas for me! And trust me: it isn’t any cheaper to purchase gas in those self-serve states next to Oregon.

It will be an adventure for AJ: he’s never been out of the state of Oregon, except for maybe a jaunt into Vancouver, WA. It will be a journey of memories for Chrystal and I.

I’ll tell them of the days when it was a 2-lane highway through Caldwell and Nampa. Of the days when Nampa was a small town and didn’t flow into Boise non-stop. I’ll tell them stories of all those small towns between Ontario and Boise. I’ll take – as is my custom – the cut-off through Thousand Springs: Hagerman, Buhl, Filer – rather than drive into Twin Falls and cut back to US 93 South. I like the drive. Less traffic.

I will tell them how Jackpot used to be a couple mobile homes with hitches still attached and sickly cottonwood trees. Hopefully, we won’t have to stop in Jackpot except to use the rest area south of town. I’ll point out the peaks of the Jarbidge Mountains to the west.

In Wells, Chrystal will tell us about her friend who was a little boy when he was hit by a car and killed. It was the first funeral Chrystal ever went to. That was long before she came to live with me.

We’ll fly past the Ruby Marshes and Secret Pass to our west.

And through Currie. I had my first beer with my father in Currie. I was 18 and under-age in Nevada. I flew into Salt Lake City from college for Christmas vacation and took the bus to Wendover where Dad met me. We drove south on Highway 93 and stopped at the bar in Currie. In Nevada, if there is a wide spot on the road, it’s a bar. We sat at the bar and Dad ordered his drink. I ordered an Oly and waited for the bartender to ask for ID. But he knew Dad and he assumed I was 21. That was the best Oly ever.

There’s the Lages Junction where we’ll make a right-hand turn. The left-hand turn heads to Salt Lake City. I’ve never stopped at Lages (Loggee’s) Junction but in the winter of 1974 when I had the best Oly ever, they had a frozen cascade of water all decorated with lights. I think it was a sprinkler they left on so it would freeze solid in the bitter cold, then they laced the lights through the columns of water.

At some point, I will show the kids the road that leads out to Cherry Creek. Pat Nixon was born at Cherry Creek. I have a photographer friend (Arla Ruggles) who still lives in Cherry Creek. Check out her photos – they are amazing.

Mostly, it is just a long old drive down the Steptoe Valley toward McGill and Ely. Maybe we’ll see antelope or coyotes or even wild horses. That would be nice. My city kids need to see wild animals. I’ll be looking.

It’s an adventure for Harvey, too. I don’t know anything about his first two years of life and he’s just now becoming my dog. He’s developing a personality. He’s most likely never seen a jack rabbit. He has certainly never gone on a road tip like this before. I know he will be ecstatic to have AJ with us.

And then, Ely. Ely and the green cinder-block house on B Street with a view of the Nevada Northern Railway. We’ll all tell AJ how a movie ended there. And maybe we’ll go for a train ride. My dad would like that. He loved the steam train.

Maybe I will blog from Ely. Maybe not. I will promise to take photos. I will promise to drive safely. I will promise to breathe in and breathe out.

I promise to cry.

God, I miss my parents.

Take care and make sure you call your mom and dad today. Promise me.

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Bittersweet.

Memories of my mom swim beneath the tense surface where memories of my father float, more vivid because they are more recent. Mentally, I am planning for the drive to Ely to help put the estate in order and set my nephew up with permanent housing. Emotionally, I am quiet, waiting for the black clouds to roil overhead with their load of rain and hail and sorrow.

I didn’t cry much when my mom died, either. There was an air of sadness around the three of us who were present, but we spent our time trying to make the others laugh. We leaned on each other as we had never done before in our lives.

Mom died June 17, the day before Father’s Day, 1995. I was in Reno because my brother called me and said, “Get down here, now.” My dad said I should wait.

We were not at the hospital when Mom died. Dad couldn’t sit by her bedside and watch her die. He’d been there before, waiting through the death-watch, and he couldn’t do it again. I think my mother understood that of him and they had probably discussed it many times. It was not her first trip to the hospital with the emphysema and complications.

We were there within minutes when the hospital staff alerted my brother. I still remember my dad slamming his fist against a wall and crying out, “No, no no!”

An hour earlier, I leaned over my mom and whispered, “It’s OK. You’re going to do what you want to do. I understand that. I love you.” She was high on morphine but her eyes stopped to look deep into mine. She no longer could talk: the tubes had ruined her vocal cords. She squeezed my hand and I knew I would never see her alive again.

But what is death? A passing from here to there, a momentary exit. Heaven isn’t so far away: it is right next to us, hidden by a veil. The shell that remained was not my mother any more than the shell my dad left behind was him.

I wear the diamond she had in her wedding band. It was a gift to her from my dad’s grandfather: the diamond he gave his bride in 1896. It’s a half-carat diamond with an obvious flaw. I have it set in the wedding band that Don picked out for me.

The night my mom died, my dad and I played Ninja undercover cops. Terry was on call for Washoe County Sheriff’s Department and he got a page that there was a fatal wreck on the road north of Gerlach, NV. Dad said he’d never been to Gerlach in all his years as a Nevadan. Terry said we could come along.

So we fetched the light trailer and the police truck, and off we headed in the dark to Gerlach. We passed through town in the dark. It snowed some. In the heart of the desert, Terry turned on the sirens and lights just for us. When we came to the wreck, Dad and I sat in the truck and waited, our sweatshirt hoods up over our heads because we were ninja undercover cops. We were sad for the truck driver who died.

On Father’s Day we took a drive. Dad wanted to go to a place in California where an old friend of his lived: the old friend being a retired mortician who had once lived in Winnemucca and gone square dancing with my folks. Dad wanted to ask Skip what to do. Despite the fact we dropped in on them, Skip and Edna took care of my dad in his grief and gave him advice on how to proceed. When we left, my dad’s heart was at ease more than it had been.

We stopped at Donner Lake and watched a house go up in flames (a roof fire). There was a water spout on the lake in the blustery winds. Terry looked down and said, “What’s the blue stuff?”

I leaned out of my window looking for the wildflower I knew I could identify.

They both started laughing: the blue stuff was the water of Donner Lake. Nevadans don’t usually see that much water.

I was the butt of several more jokes that day. We laughed so hard. We stopped in Truckee and ate at some pub. Terry took us on a tour of Incline Village. We saw a coyote standing in the middle of the road in the middle of  the day. Even when we honked our horn and yelled at it, it did not run away. My dad predicted it was a coyote inured of humans and therefore very dangerous.

A few months later, a four year old girl in Incline Village was badly mauled by an urban coyote. I think it was the same creature.

Now it is Mother’s Day, 2011. I am mostly packed. I’ll load up some food and water before I head out. I remind myself that I will have to pump my own gasoline. I haven’t pumped gas since 1979. Dang, I hate driving out of state. The oil is changed in my car, I’ve checked the air pressure. I’m trying to remember what it is at the house that I want. I can’t leave until later this week.

Mostly, I am sitting here feeling about as useful as a ninja undercover cop on a midnight drive through Gerlach.

One thing I have on my dad: I have been through Gerlach in the daylight. We didn’t miss anything when we went through in the dark.

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I was looking for something else when I unearthed more old photos.

The only time I remember my dad having hair on his face: he had to grow a goatee for the 1964 Nevada State Centennial. Love the stove-pipe hat! Mom wrote on the back, “What a motley-looking crew! Terry already left for the parade.” She sewed our costumes and I remember thinking she was the Belle of the Ball in that blue dress. She was kind enough to not dress Denny and I exactly alike, even though she used the fame fabric for our dresses.

There’s nothing written on this photo but I am very certain it was of a young Sylvia Cusick before she married into the Wilcox family. It’s a poignant photo.

Gramps (“Fritz”) with his wife (Sylvia) and his mother (Irene Kimmey Wilcox). Mary & Jack in the foreground. Probably 1929.

I love the ornate cardboard frames old professional photos came in. Too bad I had to cut them off of the photos I scanned – otherwise the photos would be miniscule.

This photo is so funny! Mary and Jack Wilcox, circa 1929. Why did the photographer tint the little boy’s clothes pink? Do you suppose my dad was really dressed in pink? There wasn’t any real gender-specific color scheme in the early 1900’s, so it is possible that his outfit was pink. He’s obviously a little boy. And look at those ears! My dad’s big old ears were apparent at a very young age. He was so pudgy.

My favorite. My mom  (1932-1995) and My dad (1928-2011) as a very young couple. Terry has an impish look on his face already.

I will be leaving for Ely sometime this week. It’s a long old drive across Oregon and Idaho and then south on US 93. I’m taking Chrystal with me and Harvey. My dad won’t be at the house in Ely so he can’t say, “No Goddammed Dogs.” My dad actually liked dogs. He liked cats and horses, too. What he didn’t like was the inevitable heartbreak of losing one.

Don & Murphy will be holding down the fort here. I know Don would like to come be my support but sometimes it just isn’t possible. I watched my parents go through this with their parents: my mom rode the bus to Spokane by herself when her dad died. My dad spent two weeks in Idaho by himself when his dad died. the thing is: you know your spouse is there, waiting for you when you get home.

And this weekend, my parents are back together. Mom’s been waiting for Dad for almost 16 years.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom! He’s home!

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