On the death of a friend

Funny how you know--and you don't know.

Last week I saw John in the Health Center, and he had a cold. He was on oxygen, and about 15 minutes into our visit, a technician came in to give him a breathing treatment.

"I'll see you later," I promised.

Well, other life events have been pressing, I told myself. I didn't get back until yesterday. To find a hospice chaplain there. John, 99, was asleep, almost waxy. The chaplain left and I sat awhile, but I didn't talk. I wish I had! But I sat with him awhile. I left a note, as I always do when he is asleep, so he will know I came,and a piece of dark chocolate, his favorite.

Yesterday was beautiful. High in the 70's, pear and wild plum blooming, fluffy clouds in a blue sky, japonica and daffodils blooming. Often, when I come, I insist on opening the blinds to let him see a beautiful day. I didn't yesterday. It seemed useless.

It was.

Today, I went over in the morning and walked to his room. I noticed yesterday he had a cross on his door, decoated by a school child and signed with her name. I looked at the decal on the center and read, "Hallelujah! He is risen!" and I knew. It was there yesterday,and he was there, but I knew. I looked around and saw another on another room. So only on the hospice rooms. And I knew.

I opened the door, and there was a pristine bed, with no personal artifacts. His clothes were still in the closet. Nothing else. An empty bed.

I went back down to the nurses' station, and two were there. They aren't there often, they are usually with the patients. They give not only professional care, but human caring. But they were there.

"John?" I asked. "he's gone?"

And knowing the answer, I began to cry.

Four o'clock this morning, they said.

I wanted to say, "But I didn't say goodbye!"

And that hurts.

When we met, July 3, 2008, I knew it would be a fairly short friendship, and if MY life was good, this day would come. And it has. I know his family is sad. His son came every day, and other family members frequently. He had only a few friends left. He outlived most of them. He had a remarkable life.

We laughed, and joked, and argued and discussed about three hours a week. Until recently, he had hubris, and vitality. He impacted my life.

I will miss him more than I thought I would. Today, I mourn. I cry. And who wants to die without one friend weeping? I am that friend.

Someday, I hope I am good enough that some friend weeps for me.

I've been thinking a lot lately about bases. Where do you go for the camaraderie and comfort of a home base? Most of us have several. Bases are a way of identifying ourselves. They are also a way of belonging to a "we", not just an "I". And humans mostly need that, at least a little bit.

This week my son and I attended the funeral of his great-aunt, a dear, sweet woman who slipped quietly away at 94. It was a happy funeral, a celebration. It's a large family. Several couldn't get there, and still, about 25 or 30 were together for lunch after. It was a time to touch base, to remember that, no matter how scattered, all these folks have others they are related to. It is a pleasant reminder, particularly since this is a warm, caring family.

So. A base.

When you do work you like and/or believe in, that is another base. It becomes stronger if you manage to work there several years, an increasingly difficult feat. I am definitely defined by all three of the professional careers I have had. I still keep up with people from all three. For two of the professions, in particular, I don't know any other people I have so much in common with. It's not just memories we share. It is ideas and ways of examining the world around us. They are real bases. I get so hungry to talk to people with keen curiosity, wide-ranging interests, depth of knowledge.

The third is churches. I've finally found a liberal Christian church that encourages questioning, harmony, and diversity. I'm loving it. The kids are great. They have attentive, caring parents. I suspect the parents enjoy getting together to talk and having others of us in the church take over for an hour or two. The older people are wise and open. I realized recently that yes, this is truly a major base. A family in our church has started bringing an adolescent boy they know with them to just everything for his age level. He has a rough home life. As he spends weeks and months coming, participating, and yes, lots of eating, I am watching him slowly smooth out a bit. His home is not a base, but the church is becoming one. I see it happening. I think this is a good thing. He belongs somewhere.

Schools and colleges can be bases for many. I have two degrees from two universities. I have never attended a reunion at either school. I keep up with some of the friends I made, but not the schools. I do read my alumni magazines. But a home base? Not so much. Both of the schools are fairly name brand, so it's not the prestige factor. I'm proud of the degrees. I just don't need to go back there. (I always meant to frame the diplomas, but I never got around to it.)

And of course, the neighborhood bar. I have several friends who have spent every Friday or Saturday night at the same bar for years. They all know each other. They dance. They laugh. They celebrate each others' birthdays. They bring food over when a family member dies.

THAT is a base.

Maybe I am old-fashioned, because all of these require actual physical contact. I am not sure that a chat room can be a base. I love blogging and reading others, but for me it is a fun social activity, not a base.

Still, one of my personal bases is writing, and this blog gives me a chance to touch that. For that, I am thankful.

Seminal Oregon

Huh. When I wrote for a newspaper, I had 150,000 readers. Now I am concerned by the expectations of 15 or so per day.

And that is good. Maybe I need to focus more on the fewer rather than the more.

I haven't written about Oregon. I wrote about my expectations. I suppose one would suppose that since I haven't written about it, the experience failed my expectations. Far from it.

It was seminal, and yes, I just looked up the word to make sure I was using it accurately. It changed my world view in a major way.

As beautiful as the west part of Oregon is, that was only a part. As wonderful as the friends I stayed with are, they are only a part. But maybe a bigger part. They gave me so much. So much. And I think, before in my life, I couldn't have accepted it. But now I could. And it was so wonderful.

It was so wonderful spending 10 hours with the childhood friend I hadn't seen in 49 years. We just picked up where we left off, because we were always in tune. We have been through a lot we still haven't shared fully--but the music still plays. And I love the tune.

I couldn't do some of the things I wanted to do because of my RA. And for about two minutes, I wept. Then I focused on the positive, and what I had and was experiencing and doing. And it was OK. Better than that. Blake made biscuits from scratch and omelets with wild mushrooms, and then we set out. It was great, whatever I was able to get to. Oregon has so much, even us impaired, hobbling folks can partake.

In 11 days, I can truthfully say I had NO negative experiences. No one person rude. No one person it wasn't pleasant to talk to. No view that wasn't beautiful, and worth going 2,000 miles to see.

See why it's so hard to write about?

But I will, for me if not for the readers. I need to see the words and in some ways, grow from it. It was the vacation of a lifetime.

And I hope there will be more.

Goin' On a Jetplane

"Goin' on a jetplane....weeooohee, goin' on a jetplane......"

I'm heading out for the Northwest Monday. Less than 4 hours to get there. Window seat so I can see the mountains and stuff we pass over. Meeting good friends in Portland. For 11 days. Yeow!!!

I've never been there. Always wanted to. Visiting good folks I've loved for 35 years. Get there about noon: sightseeing begins immediately.

So much to see and do. They have set up trips to cover Oregon. Three days on the beach at a time when tides are low and we can inspect the tidepools. Forests. Mountains. Seafood. Falls and rivers and falls. Their family. A visit with my best friend from second grade whom I haven't seen since we were 17. Relaxing in their hot tub in the evenings when we are tired and sore after a day of sightseeing and feasting on grilled fresh tuna right off the boat. Oh. And visiting a winery or two in the Willamette Valley.

Got a good sales price on a Nikon digital camera with a 1,000-pic memory card. Should be enough....

Purchasing a last-minute pair of dressy bermuda shorts (thought that was an oxymoron) earlier this week, my jaw dropped when the saleswoman offered me coupons good from Aug. 9-20. I refused politely, saying I would be out of town.

"We're national," she replied. "You could use them where you are going."

"Going SHOPPING?" I protested. "On VACATION?"

Well, maybe. I do intend to stimulate the souvenir Tshirt economy some.

And I definitely won't be blogging till I get back in a couple weeks.

I'm going on a jetplane. And my spirits are higher than the plane's altitude will be.

When you can't be there in person

Don't you hate it when you call a friend who is going through physical pain, or emotional pain, or maybe both, and they say, "hey, I'm in the middle of something, can I call you back later tonight?"

And you say, "sure."

And you carry your phone around, because you don't know when they will call or if they will call, but you want to Be There if they do.

They hurt, and you wishyoucouldhelpit, but you can't.

Maybe they need answers, and youwishyoucouldhelpit, but you can't.

But you can listen. You can say, "Hey, I'm here."

It may be all you can do. It seems like so little.

But you hold the phone and wait for the call.

Because that's what friends do.

Farewell to a Well-Loved Friend

Eugenia Faye Foote weighed two pounds when she was born July 7, 1912. Miraculously, she survived to go home from the hospital with her mother, but she wasn't expected to survive. Her mother made a bed for her baby in a shoebox she kept in her bed to keep her warm. She fed her with a medicine dropper. And Faye survived.

They were a hard-working, poor Texas family, and the big vegetable garden provided a lot of their food. Faye's mother was ill most of Faye's childhood and taught her young daughter how to can and cook from the bed. Faye would get up at 4:30 a.m. to iron and do chores before going to school. She was a good student. She loved to learn something new all her life.

Although they didn't have much, they had more than some of their neighbors, and Faye's mother sometimes gave away the supper Faye had already cooked to needful neighbors who had nothing. And Faye would go back to the kitchen to see what else they had she could fix for supper. And, she said, there was always something.

A new-fangled operation in the late 1920s or early 1930s gave new health to her mother. Back on her feet, she asked her teen-age daughter what she would like to do. Faye said she would like to be a nurse but there was no money for school. Her mother said not to worry. They'd find it. And they did.

So she became an nurse. She said proudly that the doctors used to assign her some of their highest risk patients because she had a reputation for fighting for them so fiercely. She prayed for them, too. That former two-pound baby knew all about fighting for life.

The vivacious, tiny (5'1") nurse caught the eye of a young Texan named LeRoy Foote who was at least a foot taller than she, and he gently courted her. They fell in love and she agreed to marry him. He was very kind to his mother, she said. That was a good indicator he would continue to be so sweet to her. And he was.

I've heard two stories about the wedding, but the one I like best is that the young couple had no money to waste on embellishments beyond her wedding dress --I believe her mother, a talented seamstress, made it-- and Leroy's good suit. There was no money for flowers. But when they came into the church, they found the front of the church covered with vases and jars the neighbors and townspeople had gathered from their gardens to provide flowers for the wedding. She said it was very pretty.

So they married, and World War II came along. He enlisted, and they wrote, and then his letters stopped and she and his mother learned he had been injured. They hung to their hope and prayers. After months, a letter came. Censors were so strict, he couldn't tell her the extent of his injuries. But he wrote that he walked to the window--he could walk, his legs were all right--and leaned on his arms on the windowsill--he still had both arms--as his eyes viewed the sunny day--he could see. He was home before they learned how close he had come to dying, and he carried shrapnel in his body the rest of his life.

She stayed home with their two sons until both were in school, then returned to nursing, this time as a school nurse. Long before there were government programs to help the impoverished, she had persuaded (read, bullied) the local stores into providing school clothes and shoes for needy children and collected gently worn jackets and coats from every member of the church. She knew who needed medicine and knew how to get it if the family couldn't pay. People knew she would ask politely and sweetly for her kids, but if you said no, she'd be back, and then she'd be back again. It was easier to give in and do the right thing the first time. (I think she also used this technique in raising their sons.)

She and Leroy bought an RV they enjoyed for a number of years in their travels around the country. After their retirement, they decided to see more of the world and led tours to China, New Zealand, Australia, Europe--was Egypt in there? I think so. Their older son was living with his wife and son in South America and they made several trips to visit there.

They were active in their church and community, of course. LeRoy was active in Boy Scouts, and also a mean cook. (She hated to admit it, but his pancakes were even lighter than hers.) She loved to "gussy up" and go dancing with LeRoy, and despite their disparate heights, they danced very well together. And she loved to gamble once in awhile (with the money carefully budgeted).

When LeRoy finally died sometime after their fiftieth wedding anniversary, she told me later she was glad she lived alone because the first couple of weeks after the funeral, she sometimes would roam the house, howling like a banshee. Of course, she soldiered on and got on with life, and one day, she looked around and realized there were a lot of grieving survivors, so she started a grief group in her 80's. It is still going, too.

Faye and LeRoy were friends of my parents, and their oldest son and I were really good high school friends (we did our geometry homework every night together on the phone.) When my dad died when I was 19, it was LeRoy's arms I ran to when I got home from college. And when I put Mother in a nursing home when I was 23 for Alzheimer's, Faye and LeRoy quietly stepped up as extended family. When I could get out to Alamogordo, N. M., with my sons, Faye and LeRoy provided the only grandparenting available after their dad's and my parents had died.

I remember one glorious summer day when they took us up to a friend's cherry orchards in LaLuz Canyon, in the lower foothills. Mint grew between the rows of trees, our feet crushing the fragrant plants as we walked under trees sweetly smelling of sun-warmed ripe cherries, the breeze down the canyon bringing the additonal scents of pine and cedar....we laughed and talked and picked and ate that day. There was a snake on the road on our way back, and LeRoy and Matt leaped out of the car to see what kind it was. On another occasion, we joined Faye, her son Bill, and daughter-in-law Cheryl at the High Rolls cherry festival. There was the scent of Indian fry bread with honey, and New Mexico -grown pistachios soaked in green chile sauce (mmm). Two perfect days to remember.

When my uncle needed help and I came out for a week to help him close up his house and move into a nursing home, Faye insisted I stay with her. Each evening, we would sit on the porch, not facing the sunset, but the eastern Sacramento Mountains, listening to the tinkle of the windchimes she had collected from all over the world and watching the colors and light change on our beloved mountains as the sun set. And we talked. Many of the tales I've recorded here--and so many more--I heard then, but most she also had told me over the years.

When my uncle died six years later and I came for his funeral, Faye told me then she had been diagnosed with what the doctors thought was Alzheimer's (it was dementia, which has different symptoms). It was a double hit.

Bill and Cheryl moved her to a fine place in Albuquerque that caters specifically to memory care, and near their home. After a few months of fuming over the move from Alamogordo, she adjusted beautifully . As usual, she became a darling of the staff. As long as possible, she attended church on Sundays with her son and his wife, but she became unable to go. In October, a year ago, she became unable to visit any more with me on the phone. She was already in hospice care. She sank and rallied, sank and rallied. The hospice nurses said they had never seen such a fighter. Three weeks ago, while she was on a morphine drip and lying in bed with her eyes closed, her nurse told her it was okay to let go and go with God. She said Faye opened her eyes, raised her hand and shook her finger under the nose of the nurse.

Yes, that was Faye. And her suffering those last months has been so hard on her family, but she just couldn't give up. My fantasy is that LeRoy finally came to get her, held out his hand, and they walzed off into eternity. She died in her sleep early Sunday morning, Aug. 31, 2008.

She is not related to me by blood or marriage. But she is the last of my chosen extended family. I had prayed for this day, the end of her suffering and her family's, but it hurts a surprising amount--selfish grief, I know. And reality. She's been lost to me for awhile, but she is really, really gone.

She was 97. Not a bad record for a puny, two-pound baby girl. She left a legion of friends, a plethora of family, and an incredible number of known and unknown kindnesses throughout her life.
She wasn't particularly sweet, but she was joyful, and she loved life hugely.She was bossy, but she didn't ALWAYS insist on having her own way. And she loved with her whole heart, and I was fortunate to be one of the people she loved.

This is my memorium to a woman who will always make me smile when I remember her. As will many others.

The Magnificent Cake

I've always loved the song, "MacArthur's Park", especially the first version. Haven't heard it in awhile, but when I do, I like to be in the car, where I can amp it up to awesome volume. And I've always gotten a little lump at the almost silly lyrics:

"Someone left the cake out in the rain,
I don't know if I can take it,
'Cause it took so long to bake it,
And I'll never have that recipe again--
Ohhh nooo, ohhh nooooo."

Well, I didn't make it, and it wasn't rain, but here's the story.

For about two years now, I spend one day a week playing Yahzee with three friends. To make it weekly, we have to be firm about any other possible activities. We adjust the day to fit things like doctor's visits, or babysitting grandchildren, etc. But we play each week, and the game gives us ample opportunity to laugh and joke and discuss topics ranging from important life events and problems to the mundane-- like tv shows worth watching, or actors through the decades who were either handsome or sexy and usually not both. We are, I think, good friends.

Carmen is a friend of more than 40 years now, and Nana I had visited off and on through the years. Sharon was someone I had met but did not really know before. All three are strong, good women, with a well-developed ability to empathize with others. I cherish them. Each week we meet at a different home, and it turned out mine was the place we met the day before Sharon's birthday. The hostess fixes a morning snack and the noon meal. I planned to make a layer birthday cake.

I was talking to Matt G. about my plans, and he checked with my daughter-in-law, who has been taking a series of cake decorating classes. They offered to have her make the cake and decorate it. I accepted the offer with pleasure. She is a talented artist and simply has extended her art to cake decorating. She also is a magnificent cook. Wow.

So this week, she came home from work, baked the cake one night and iced it the next evening. Again, after work. I took some supper over and was amazed to see a four-layer cake, iced with a mauve pink frosting. Awesome. I watched for more than two hours while she hand made frosting roses about two inches in circumferance in shades varying from mauve to light pink, which she then wreathed around the top of the cake. She decorated the sides, which were almost five inches high. She mixed some slightly darker icing to pipe on "Happy Birthday Sharon" in cursive. It was the most beautiful birthday cake I have ever personally witnessed. I had wanted to celebrate my friend, and did this ever. My DIL didn't even take a photo for her file. She has made much more creative cakes.

She and Matt G. snapped the cake into the cake carrier and Matt seatbelted it into the back seat. I tried so hard to accelerate and decelerate gently, but I don't know.

When I carried it into my apartment I thought, "Something's wrong. No, it can't be wrong. It's just my imagination." But when I lifted the lid, it was tragic. Half the cake was in chunks, the crumbled side of the cake wedged against the wall of the carrier, roses smashed. I got a knife and attempted to resassemble. Useless.
By now it was after 10 p.m. There was enough intact to show Sharon and to slice for lunch, and I knew it would taste delicious--sour cream with almond flavoring and cherry cake filling. MMM. But still.

Some of you with kids, grandkids, have watched the cartoon, "Arthur." There is an episode where he buys his mom a ceramic bird for Christmas, and despite all his efforts, it is smashed on Christmas Eve. And he is crushed, too. Yes, HE wanted to give his mother something special, but more than that, he wanted to see her smile, to recognize that he was saying, "I love you." This was like that. And both of us being grownups, I knew Sharon would get the message, and it would really be okay. But just for then, the cake and I were both crumbled.

So I did the adult, mature thing. I called Matt G. and mournfully told him what had happened. "All her work," I mourned. (Or more accurately, probably moaned.)

"Believe me, Mom, she had fun doing it. Don't worry."

So I got a tissue, and my cigarettes, and went outside to smoke. And finally, to cry a little bit.

I had just finished soaking my tissue when a skunk popped up from around the corner, about 10 feet away. I started punching in security on my cell phone and told the officer on duty, "skunk alert." As I talked to him, the skunk wandered across the yard and then disappeared around the other building. A couple of minutes later, I saw a smaller skunk scamper across the lawn right...under...my...car. I started to snicker. My so-called tragic evening was turning into a farce. I giggled.

And I went into the apartment to call Matt G. again and tell him the funny aftermath to my evening. He asked when my ladies arrived and when we ate lunch. And then I realized I heard the whir of a mixer in the background.

"No! No!" I said.

"Too late, Mom, I've already cracked the eggs," Matt chuckled and hung up.

Well, he minimized what they had done, but he stayed up baking another cake--two-layer this time, and my DIL got up an hour early to ice the new one. Pale green, with white piping and three magnificent live-looking daffodil blooms she had made earlier. And again, "Happy Birthday Sharon" on top. And he and my oldest granddaughter delivered it a little after 9 a.m. He suggested it be the presentation cake, but that we eat the original, which DIL had made from a new recipe.

We ate the original like pigs. We saved the green one and Sharon took it home to freeze for her turn in two weeks, when we will celebrate Nana's and my birthdays. We suggested she either eat "Sharon" off the top or take some chocolate syrup and draw a neat line through her name.

And when I called later in the day to thank them again, Matt was taking a nap. So much for his saying, "I got plenty of sleep." My DIL sure didn't.

It was only a cake. It was perishable and was going to be eaten anyway. It was only a cake. And so much more.

What I Want May Change, but Give It To Me And I'm Happy

For the last couple of days, I had been feeling snarly. I wasn't too interested in what you had to say, and I wasn't too interested in what I had to say, either. I basically wanted to curl up with a good mystery where I couldn't figure out the killer until the last 30 pages or less, is that too much to ask? Often, it is. I had the radio on, and the pillows plumped nicely on the bed for reading (don't have a couch any more). Food didn't sound interesting, and although I wanted to drink water, the lake has turned. I am unaccustomed to buying bottled, so I had a choice of Diet Dr. Pepper or dirt-flavored water. I wandered over to the computer a time or two, said, "nah", and went back to my book. Better for the universe and me both, I figured.

But yesterday afternoon, I had Something to Do, and I actually perked up a bit.
My oldest granddaughter and her mom were finally going to see "Harry Potter." Youngest granddaughter and I were going to see "Underdog", decidedly not two thumbs up, but what the hey, it's wholesome and she's five, and we would be going together. And she was pretty revved, herself. So they left, and then we did, and we got matinee tickets and then....movie food. I had neglected to buy and stuff candy in my purse, which is so small that's about all from outside I can bring in that will fit. I've decided I need a bigger purse again. I'm not sure about what that says about my respect for movie rules or if I'm breaking any laws or what. I usually don't eat or drink at movies, which is a good thing. Youngest granddaughter got one SMALL bag of popcorn. one SMALL soft drink, and a package of fruit chewies. Total was $8.75. I boggled and paid. No wonder they can afford the lower matinee prices.

We got seated, and the previews began, then snagged. Time sped by. She and I were seated comfortably, she had started on her chewies, the air conditioning was on, and we were having a good time talking with each other. It took something like 20 minutes, I think, and then they started the movie. Which she thought was very funny and I found funny enough to be pleasant. We should have been out of the theater first, but with our delay, we got out after mom and big sister, and they were waiting for us. As we left the theater, a nice man in a suit pushed two tickets in my hand. "What's this?" I asked in surprise. "Two complementary tickets as an apology for the earlier glitch."

I laughed. "Didn't bother us, but thank you" I said. I mean, how many of us have wickedly crowded schedules after a Disney movie? But hey, I have two more tickets now. Free.

Sisters compared notes. Both felt they were the winners. The oldest got to see Harry Potter. I mean, we're talking Harry Potter. The youngest got candy as well as popcorn and a drink. We're talking sugar. Both were well pleased. So were mom and grandma.

A front passing through had dropped a little rain, and the recent high temperatures were subdued to a low 90 with a light breeze, very pleasant. My snarly mood just evaporated.

This morning I got up fairly early for a Sunday to meet a friend from Midland, 41/2 hours away, who was in town briefly. We met at a little cafe about a half mile from my home where they serve nothing but breakfast on weekends. Really good breakfasts. Really fast, efficient friendly service. And they have huge mugs for hot tea and coffee. As usual, one of the fire station crews had shown up enmasse (they have some incredible three egg omelets stuffed with meats, cheeses and or vegetables), really good hashbrowns, huge biscuits you can get with a side of sausage gravy....and more, of course. They have much smaller breakfasts, too, or I would never go. You have a choice of about six kinds of toast. You can order sliced tomatoes or fresh fruit instead of the hashbrowns. You have Choices. I love that in a restaurant.

I love breakfast outings like this. Genelle and I had not seen each other in at least six months or longer, and spent a couple hours catching up. It was such a nice way to start the day.

So I am socialized again. Smiling at strangers. Interested in what others have to say. And I still have about a fourth of a pretty good mystery to finish. And everything I thought of to write about would take more effort than I felt like putting in this afternoon, to tell the truth. So I, too, am journaling a bit.
I try not to do it often because my life,though satisfying to me, is pretty mundane.
I resolve never to be reduced to telling you I washed clothes and then the dishes. I test out about 50-50 on introvert-extrovert, so my reading regimen might have gotten me to the same emotional place just about as soon as two visits with people I care about.
Seeing the family and my friend, I suspect, left my smile bank with more deposits.

Giving and endings

Last night, I celebrated the birthdays of two good friends at a local restaurant. In 10 days, they are moving to Oregon, and I didn't want to give them anything more to pack. We visited and laughed as we always do, and at the end, they took turns taking pictures of me with each of them and sent me copies today. Somehow, no matter how I try, they always give back more than I gave. I will miss them so much. I have e-mail addresses, a home address, and cell phones. And they promise they have a bedroom waiting for me to visit. And I am so happy for them.

I am developing new friendships, but how do you replace 35 years? I think about the wagon trains of years past, when families said goodbye to everyone they knew, every THING they knew, and went on. How did they do it? They did. They did. Wow.

Last week, I had my last mentoring session with my two girls. I worked with families--i.e. kids-- for 13 years, without the wrench very often I felt Thursday.. My fourth grader becomes a fifth grader, so I can continue to work with her. My fifth grader goes on to middle school, so fifth grade is a kind of graduation. I worked weekly with these girls, one hour with one, two hours with the other, and yes, son, they are MY GIRLS. I am invested in them. Funny so little time can make such a difference. The principal says their academic scores in the school overwide are coming up. Some of it is our schoolwork with them, but I am convinced some of it is the fact they know more people are cheering them on to succeed. I gave my fourth grader a silver charm of a turtle to remind her that next year we won't hurry to catch up but work steadily to keep up, because, I said, "I want you to win." She lookd at me and said, "That makes me want to cry, but I won't." And she did love the charm.

One of the dangers of any volunteer work is the guilt we feel at what we get back for volunteering. No matter how much you give, to friends or the community, you always get more back than you gave. I understand that now. But it still is not always comfortable.