Systole

I have my own boat today – because of you.

I remember 30 or more years ago, sitting on the deck of the sailboat SYSTOLE deftly crossing the Sound.  The wind was trapped fast in the canvas and her bow cut through dark waves. I could hear the foam stirring on the surface.  It was night, and the lights of shore grew more dim with each mile we put between us and the Mystic mooring field.  A glowing phosphoresence swirled in the inky black water at the transom and every star known to history spilled across the sky.

Those same twinkling beacons trusted by ancient explorers watched us venture out into the night.

It never left me.

Never.

It wasn’t easy to become a fledgling captain. My course to this moment has been horrible and beautiful; rather like a storm perched on the horizon painting the sunrise in every color, but always hinting at disaster.

My story doesn’t matter right now, only my gratitude.

I was always haunted by that night sail, and 25 years later, when I found myself a widow-captain, facing a cluster of gauges at the helm, and the idea that I would lose not only my husband but also our life on the water, I made the choice to learn our boat.  I had no idea how to run a boat.

None.

Today, I sit writing to you on my own boat, belonging only to me; a solo widow-captain surrounded by friends and a boat-family on a muddy, tidal upstate river. My life is rich, busy, and anchored soundly by the knowledge that I survived major loss and earned respect from my peers on the Hudson. They supported my journey from first mate to captain one hair-raising lesson at a time.

Thank you.

You were just taking a kid out for a ride on your boat – but the ripples of those trips have now landed three decades and two generations away.  I am teaching my teenage daughter to handle the boat now. There are very few young girls who can say they run a 44-foot cruiser with their mother.  It gives her a little spark of self-esteem that lives separate from any outside approval or affirmation, and I hope it insulates her against the pressures of our world today.

Thank you. It was just a ride on a boat, but it kind of changed my life.

Laura White-Rivers

Free

Its not the hair that falls gently past her shoulders
or her eyes that search your soul.
The beauty haunting your thoughts
is the freedom she wears
without hesitation
or apology.
Let her go, and she will love you always in return.


Terrazzo

I lean against the wall looking down a hallway I have walked at least a thousand times. The walls have changed. They are modern acoustical panels, painted in warm colors with wood grain accents, but the floor is the same cold, white terrazzo tile I remember as a little girl. Today, the hall is full of people, bustling and talking. Patients are wheeled by orderlies. Contractors carry pails and toolbelts. I am unnoticed by doctors discussing procedures and protocol as they rush to the next assignment. Students walk in larger groups. They are all looking down at the cell phones in their hands.

I look down. My memory sees it all perfectly again. This is the exact same floor I walked trying to keep up with my father every day. At 6’7” he towered over everyone in this hallway, and he would naturally clear a path for us as we made our way out to the sunlit parking lot, and eventually the bus stop. My mother worked nights and would bring me to the Respiratory office on the seventh floor. There, she would hand me off to my father who had finished his shift and was going home. I would make a game out of skipping over the joints and cracks in that floor, and I would peer curiously into the space between the elevator car and the floor as we would enter. I always wondered how the elevator worked, and why I could see lights on the wall down the shaft. I imagined gremlins and creatures that lived in the greasy shadows, or Dwarves that pulled a rope over a pully to make the car go up. The stainless-steel dumbwaiters were fascinating, and I wanted so much to open the doors and peer in after the day my father told me I could ride in one someday. My mother would sharply scold me to hurry up because I was always stuck in some thought process that required me to linger and observe the world for just a second longer. She was on the way to work and couldn’t be late. An intercom in the background cuts into the crowd. “Doctor Blair, 9117. Doctor Blair, 9117”. The voice bounces sharply off the mosaic tile walls and silences.

Leaving the hospital with my father was more casual. He was taking the bus, and there was no sense of urgency. After all, there was always another one coming in ten minutes. I would follow him watching my sandals, counting the cracks in the sidewalk, and tripping along. There was a billboard in front of Lombardo’s gas station. It was a bear and moose standing in a rocky Alaskan stream. It was painted, and so much different from every other billboard. I studied the picture every single time we walked by. He didn’t scold me for lingering, he just slowed his pace. When it was time to cross the road, I would reach my little arm all the way up over my head to hold his hand. At the Madison Ave. bus stop across from Ralph’s we would wait.

Today, I wait for my father in that same hallway we walked together decades ago. However, for a few more minutes, I am stuck in the old Hospital. It is 1979 or 1980. Everything in the world is brown and green and orange and smells like cigarettes. I am in the nursing school on Myrtle Avenue sitting on a green vinyl couch and I am watching Wonder Woman on a tiny, grainy, color TV. My pants are corduroy and I watch the toes of my Converse sneakers as I kick my legs and swing my feet. I am so bored. My parents have changed their hours, and I am babysat every day by a rotation of young nursing students. It’s only for about an hour or two until my mother can get me. The nurses go outside to smoke and ask me if I want chocolate from the vending machines. They are like movie stars. They are glamorous, with Farrah Faucett hair, Jordache jeans and stylish clogs on their feet.

I look down at my feet and study my steel-toe work boots against the Terrazo tiles, and for one illogical moment, I wonder if this place remembers me in the same way. Then, I look to the hallway again. He is coming now, smoothly wheeled along in a chair as the discharge orders require.

Before you realize how long it’s been, life just seems to pass us by. We move along, putting distance between ourselves and childhood, only to come full circle as adults and parents. And then it hits you. Suddenly, everything is completely different, and yet, shards of your story remain miraculously, utterly unchanged.

When you glimpse these pieces, you are returned to that moment and time stands still, even as life walks briskly around you, never slowing its pace.

Today

My mother was an alcoholic.
Not the “ruin-Thanksgiving-and-Christmas-with-a-shit-show” kind of alcoholic, but the “raging-and-suffering-at-home-behind-a-façade-of-accomplishment-and-responsibility” kind of alcoholic.

From the earliest memories I have until the night before she went to rehab, I only remember one night that she was not drunk at home. One. Each night after school, there were only about two hours that she was sober. When she would drink at dinner, I would do my best to hide in my room and be invisible. She went to work every day and was on top of her game. Her responsibilities at work were heavy, and despite carrying such a monster in her mind, she managed to excel professionally. Nights at home, however, were the worst.

The chaos was at it’s peak when my father told me we were going to set up an intervention. I think I was 12. The day before, our entire family met to go over what would happen. I was told that if my mother refused treatment, we kids would be taken to live away from her. I was also told that I had to deliver that news to my mother.

I had to tell her – me.

Clearly, they didn’t understand what a force she was when she was angry. Her rage could move mountains and burn cities. It was an impossible request. I was terrified.

Somehow, the next day, I found the words to address her across a circle of family and counsellors. The room was quiet when I finished speaking. Everyone was waiting for her reaction. The line in the sand between us rolled out for miles as we waited. She looked down and quietly agreed to go. It was a victory, but it hardly felt like one.

Later, when the alcohol metabolized away, and talking replaced the screaming, she admitted to the family that she was struggling so much in the grip of addiction that she had considered suicide and would not have made it to Christmas that year. As it would play out, she spent that first sober Christmas facing her demons in the safety of the facility. I think she was 36.

It always seemed like so many years were wasted because of her drinking. Who she was as a person was diluted; her intelligence, wit and fantastic sense of humor was just ruined as it sloshed around in the addiction. I made up that she was killing the pain of her father’s accident. I gave her addiction a more noble meaning, a human side- an understandable reason. She was my daughters’ age when her father was killed in a tractor accident on the farm. It was the early sixties, and people didn’t discuss death. It wasn’t normalized, life wasn’t celebrated, and there weren’t support groups. The family just carried on in a small town with the stigma of the accident and loss following along. My mother was close to her father, she was his “right hand man on the farm”, as he called her. His death wounded her deeply.

If her drinking was to mask the pain of loss, she must have been in her late 20s when the addiction became larger than the pain she was trying to smother. I always wondered if she saw the affect she was having on us. I don’t think she could. I’m not sure it’s possible to see from that perspective. I think when you become tangled up in addiction you plan your life around it and rationalize the rest away. You still love people and want the best for them, but a portion of your mind is always planning the time when you can meet with your vices again. She was able to take the power back when she realized that she would lose everything because of it. The universe left us a few sober years before she died. Today, I am wise enough to be grateful for what we were given.

I love so many people today who struggle with addiction. I keep a safe distance. My memories of how I grew up won’t let me get too close, but I see your struggle and I acknowledge your pain. I know what this monster can do. It is big, but not impossible. There is no shame in taking your life back, only triumph. I want you to understand that even when it feels like it has gone so far out of control you can only hang on, you can still take it back. I have seen that moment weigh heavy on my mothers shoulders, and when she let it all go and accepted the next step, her power returned. It’s almost counter-intuitive, but, I promise, it is true.

If you opened your eyes today to the sunrise, you still have a chance to live life on your own terms. Take it.

Let today be the beginning.

What defines me?

What defines you?

That truck was perfect for him.  It was bright, red, and stood at least ten inches higher than all of it’s siblings at the dealership.  It demanded your attention- whether you wanted to look or not.  It always seemed to say “I have arrived.”  She carried within her the second year of an engine design intended to bridge between the debacle of the 6.0 and Ford’s hopeful correction, the 6.7.  He had to have it, he would move Heaven and Earth- it didn’t matter what it took.

As it would turn out, it took trading in three other trucks over two days and a foolish pile of money.  Maya will always remember buying that truck with her father.  It was the day after his birthday and it was his present to himself.  I imagine the salesman won’t soon forget as well, since he was faced with impossible acrobatics of paperwork and financing to make the deal work.  I drove it more than Shawn did in those first early days.  I would run to his jobsite during his lunch and park on the hill, where he could see it shining in the distance.  Then, I would text him about how nice his new truck was so he could enjoy it too while he was at work.  It’s my charm.

Later, after the accident, I pulled at the strings of Heaven and Earth again to keep it in our fractured family.  I allowed other vehicles to be returned to the bank, and I bought her fair and square from his estate.  It was mine….but it would always be his, and that was okay too- because it was a hot truck. HOT. Oh, I could run it, because I can drive the shit out of a bright red, eight foot tall Powerstroke on 37s. I would pull up to a light looking down into the cab of every other redneck diesel on the road and tear off in a burst of soot. I had it tuned and the emissions “corrected”- you can’t run a truck like that stock.  If you do, you’re a communist (might as well have voted Green Party).

What defines me?

Because of who I am, I taught myself about the truck. I can’t own something like that and not know anything about it.  A little at a time I discovered the complaints about her engine.  It can be a work horse for 170,000 miles, or it can blow up on a Tuesday afternoon after lunch and total the truck depending on what breaks.  I quickly realized the clock was ticking.

What defines me – my life?

She was aging, and I guess, so am I.  One thing I have always known about myself- I can sense when it is time to bow out.  I have never let go of my Lill Red Express.  It was the first truck I ever bought.  When I first saw it I was 19 and I knew I was going to ruin relationships and burn bridges to have it  if that was what it took.  Luckly, I only had to convince my father to co-sign a loan for it. (That, I would add, was almost as difficult as pillaging villages)

Even when times were tough, even when I was with boyfriends who demanded I get rid of it, even when I started wondering if it was a clone,  I hung on to the Little Red Express. This year I ran it through the Little Red Express registry that John Roberts runs.  The numbers came back and It’s actually two separate Expresses that were used to build one after an accident!  It is arguably worth what I paid for it-still, 20 years later- unrestored.

What defines me – how I react to my life?

I have always been sensible – to a fault. Sadly, my willpower has always slipped (like a 700R4) when it comes to certain trucks.  I moved Heaven and Earth to get Lill Red, and I did the same for Big Red.  But I am older now.  I have survived a challenging adolescence, loosing my mother young, years in construction, owning a business, being a mother, taking professional risks, watching my husband’s last moments and wondering how I will survive after.  I have gracelessly scraped together all my mistakes, fears and my strengths and I have crawled over what life has thrown at me.

What defines me? What truck embodies me?

Is it a wild, little one-of-a-kind hot rod with stacks and a snotty motor? Am I still young and fast, running from the cops on the highway? (Yes that happened on I-88). Am I still flicking cigarette butts and broken hearts out the window as I matt the pedal and recklessly tear off?

Is it a tall, rude truck with two months pay tied up in wheels and tires alone? This — not even counting the gamble I take on an aging Power Stroke of that particular vintage. Do I still need to prove I can keep up in man-land after all these years, no matter the risk, no matter the cost?  After everything that has happened to me, who do I need to prove myself to?  No. It is time to bow out of that narrative.

For some of us, vehicles are more than transportation to work.  They are the expression of your freedom, hours of restoration efforts and creativity, or the way you make your money.  They are the growl of the right engine, asphalt laid out ahead and that one song on the radio.

I still remember the first Power Wagon I ever saw.  It was waaaay back when I was sixteen.  I was tearing around in a blue 1988 S-10 and (you guessed it) a slipping 700R4. It was pitifully underpowered by a 60 degree 2.8 Liter V6.  When I sped by, the old, orange Dodge always left an impression on me.  She was a 1976,  badged as a Sno-Commander with a rusty, once-yellow Myers Plow.  Every time I would head up the hill to Berne she would be there, sitting quietly in her lot on the side of 85. She was just waiting for the storm to come.  Whatever came her way, it was going to be handled.

It seems so long ago. Have I changed that much?

I truly don’t need to prove anything anymore. Understatement is more my style these days.  I have come to a point in this life where I value reliability, tenacity and mobility. Out of the box my new truck could crawl through some very brutal terrain, picking her path carefully and relying on her spotter.

The Power Wagon sits darkly, metal flake flashing in the sun, well-equipped, confident, and unafraid. 

Today – I own my life.

I will define myself.

 

Steps

Today was my first true success since the accident.
You have no idea what it’s like trying to study, to focus and all I see is you on the racetrack, you on the hospital table.
If you were here you would have sent me a text telling me I could do it, that I could pass the tests.
If you were here you also would have yelled at me for parking the truck on the septic tank and crushing it. It was not exactly near where you said it was….so I’m not completely to blame.

But Frank and Cindy and Chris are bailing me out there. Mitch has made sure we are warm. Debbie, Tonya, Nadine, Julianne and your mother help with the girls when I’m in a pinch. Elanor took them christmas shopping. Glen took me shooting. I always know I have Corkey, Kevin, Tommy and Jason for one thing or another.  You left a mess, but you left me with some very good friends to help me along the way.

Today was a victory, because I pushed through the images that haunt my mind every day. It took exhaustive effort. I need to get through these ghosts and own my mind again.  Today, I will celebrate the little victories.

Lies

Happiness is early morning on the dock watching the mist curl up from still deep water, a bright, bold sunrise reaching up above the treeline.  Happiness is sails unfurled, plump with wind and promise.
Happiness is starting up after the first tap of the key, black asphalt reaching to the setting sun; nothing but time and fuel.
Night falls.  I ponder the thick stars and sleep welcomes me without memories that still haunt behind closed eyes.
Small arms curl tight around my neck and tiny kisses are planted on my face. A surge of pride and fear as I return the hug, hoping I feel strong to them, rooted and unafraid.

Do not fear my little ones, I will hold this entire world together so you can grow tall in the sun.

Stretched thin between these moments, is life as I live it.
Quiet, brooding, broken and alone.
A strong, bright, smiling lie.

“I’m fine”.

scavenge

I am tired of having to understand the motivations of others who rarely stop to consider anything else.

All in line waiting to scrape away the pieces of my life.

Things mean more than people and the bonds between us are destroyed.

I’m so sorry about the destruction of your life and family, what are you doing to do with the equipment,  trucks,  guns, saws, tools? He was a great guy – can I borrow the trailer? 

I am not a store.

shadows

It was a towering cloud that curled up from a single event

became larger than I could ever have imagined

and collapsed upon itself

scouring everything to dust

as I became a shadow

trying to pull the pieces back around us.

Now

The depth of this darkness is startling.
       Your voice is in every memory now
        And I can still see the blood dripping on the white sheet, smeared on my hand after I touched your face and kissed your closed eyes goodbye.

I think your face will be ever in my nights.
I will always see them crowded around you, white lighting creating dark shadows in the dirt.
I can sleep sometimes now. I’ve traded nights for the sunlight, but you sleep there too,  a lifeless expectancy.

There is no poetry tonight
      nothing to make others understand the depth of this silence, and my impatience with pity has made me impossible.

I hold our daughters often as they cry for you, my soulless eyes belie my tender voice.

I have less to say than I thought, less to feel than I should.

A dangerous silence has now settled in the vacuum,  coating the pain with a hardened loneliness that I cannot scratch. Nothing will touch it, nothing will fit but you.
And you are gone forever.

Reality

I think nights are the worst.
    

Remembrances

When I watched Shawn’s accident unfold before us, I knew instantly nothing was ever going to be the same for the girls and I again.  I cannot describe how awful it feels knowing thousands of people witnessed my husband’s death live, it was cycled on the news and internet in a frenzy, the very moment of his death replayed on You Tube and discussed at length on social media. News crews combed the area searching for statements from anyone wanting to be on television and some channels even knocked at my door the next day! The next day my husbands body still lay at the hospital for an autopsy and they are looking for a statement from me! This accident has changed our anonymous little family’s life forever. Simply walking into a local restaurant or store has become a stressful event for me. My WordPress page with Shawn’s true obituary has been read no less than 3,767 times and in ten different countries as of this post, and it increases still a little more every day! What I couldn’t have predicted, however, was the outpouring of goodwill from our extended family, friends, business associates and kind strangers.

The Castleton Boat Club membership worked tirelessly to be sure that the memorial picnic and family reunion/pig roast went smoothly. They coordinated with family members, donated personal money and their free time to see it done right.  I know that the picnic they put on was exactly what Shawn had envisioned as his last party, right down to having a pig roast. Billy Walsh and the Operating Engineers presented me with envelopes from the job sites around upstate, some Shawn worked on recently. Over the years Shawn and I have donated and organized job-site fund raising for people in similar situations, I never envisioned myself as a recipient!  Laborers and Iron workers, Slovak Trucking and all guests who attended Saturday’s memorial and dropped a bill in the tip jar or a card with a thoughtful gift have seen to it that the girls and I stay afloat in the storm while we readjust to a world without Shawn as our primary provider.  Northeast Stock Car Old Timers (NESCOT) and the greater racing community in the Upstate Track Circuit (driven and promoted in part by Scott Morris, Heather Steele Thompson, Nancy Bidel and Kim Lavoy – [my apologies if I have missed anyone, most of you know I have stayed off Facebook since the accident]), have been so generous to the children’s account at Key Bank.  Frank and Cindy of Schodack Septic have personally kept track of me as friends and neighbors, bringing breakfast in the morning to be sure I ate in the early days after the accident and checking in at night so I wasn’t so alone.  Stilsing Electric has offered support I am ever grateful for. I appreciated the presence of Lebanon Valley Speedway and Rensselaer Scrap at Saturday’s picnic and in the days after the accident.  Del’s Dawgs donated food, local farmers sent corn and bread. Grand Premier Tire shined Shawn’s truck so when his children drove it to the cemetery Friday night, it was the proudest it has ever looked. Mitch Neary, Dave Sanchez and Wayne Hurley all donated original stickers to use as fundraisers. Kenny Morris and Sons, Inc. have remembered the family. The Advertiser has gifted a forum to share my gratitude publically with the local community.  The residents of Castleton suffered stoically through numerous memorial burn outs on Main Street Saturday, kindly waiting to call the police only much later in the day.  Shawn tore up Main Street with that old blue Ford back in his younger days and drove everyone crazy then – it was fitting you all laid rubber there one last time. (for their sakes, however, let us all run quietly down there now). You can all call Freddy at Grand Premier for tires, since I’m guessing you’ll need some soon.  I have attempted to keep a list of donations and gifts, however I know that I will miss some, please understand- the last two weeks were simply overwhelming for us. If I have not mentioned you here, it is not at all intentional.

To everyone who has helped or given to our family in any way small or large; beautiful sympathy cards, bouquets of flowers, trees to plant, photo albums, memory books for the girls, donations of food or funds, a kind hug or a thoughtful text, or just stopping by to mow my lawn, you must understand that we are all forever grateful to you. Our lives will never be the same without Shawn, but your generosity and kindness reinforce my calm trust that things will be okay, thus giving my daughters faith in our future security and through the pain of his loss. They can sense my confidence and that is because of everyone’s support.

The morning after his accident I shuffled out of the house after only an hour’s sleep, a pain collecting in my chest that has barely just started to lessen.  I was surprised to find someone anonymously left two beautiful, freshly cut star-gazer lilies on my windshield. Thank you whoever you were- I will always imagine it as Shawn, leaving me one final token of his love and affection.

With my most sincere and heart-felt gratitude,

Laura

Epilogue

When I first met Shawn Rivers, I found him to be an obnoxious, insufferable jerk.  He was like the kid in grade school who secretly liked you, so he pulled your ponytail and knocked your ice cream cone onto the ground.  He always said he wore me down over ten years and that was why I picked him; because he wore down my standards. I married him partly because I saw the ingenuity and mechanical creativity he possessed. He truly was unafraid of any challenge or machine he faced. Whether he was responsible for innumerable pieces of equipment on a project, or running equipment with sometimes surgical aptitude, he was always confident with his ability to think around a problem.  …and as all ladies know, ability and confidence is sexy in a man.  Shawn had it in spades as far as I was concerned.  But… he was also fun.

We never slipped into the middle class coma of work, sleep, eat, save for retirement in Florida.  There were motorcycles and snowmobiles, demolition derbies and truck pulls, quads and hot rods.  There were boats, pick-up trucks and drag races and endless, endless dump trucks.  Shawn was never going to grow old like everyone else. He knew it and so did I.  As a society we weigh the value or success of a life by how much someone accumulates along the way, whether their profession is esteemed or well compensated or how by long they live, not always by how genuine it is.  Shawn’s personality was polarizing.  He was either loved or hated, and he really didn’t care either way; it was a complete non-issue to him.  Of all the people I have ever known in my life, he was absolutely the most true to himself. He did not present himself to the world as something more than he really was. He was simply on a track to challenge his abilities and his senses, think around problems and stand back from his work with satisfaction.

Things were going pretty good in Shawn Rivers’ life leading up to Tuesday night. He was finally on a good job; a visible job, he was successfully building his reputation as a mechanic and operator and he’d earned his Class A Unrestricted crane license.  Our little house was a project that was coming together well and we had plans to move on to Florida after a few more years of work here. He had finally gotten that big jacked-up red Ford truck that so perfectly embodied his personality. His membership at the boat club was forging new friendships that we really enjoyed. He was getting older- sure.  If you knew him, you would have heard him complain about a myriad of aches and pains earned from a lifetime of daring stunts, but he was on the track anyway that night. I could tell from watching him in the pits, he was in his element and feeling like he was twenty-five again.

I will always imagine him that night in the driver’s seat with track lighting flooding through a dirty windshield, foot to the floor and cranking the wheel with that same devilish look of focus I remember as he brought a field car around the track at home.  When I saw the wreck, I knew instantly this was the moment he was tempting his entire life. The distance to the wreck was impossibly far and I was planning my run through the pits when Danny pulled up to the track gate in the tow truck looking for me.

We run the line somewhere between recklessness and responsibility when we live this life; bikes on the open road, snowmobiles on the trail, dirt tracks and burn outs – it’s who we are.  The exhilarating feeling of speed or the challenge of building and handling a car is something we embrace with vigor. It can’t be explained, only understood.  I will never understand what serendipity brought Danny to the gate just as I was trying to get through security, but I will be eternally indebted to him for bringing me to Shawn one last time.

I knew. Riding in the back of Eleanor’s car to the hospital and heading away from where my husband was fading off, I gradually calmed my spinning mind and refocused.  As I was racing west, I knew he was rolling the throttle back on a Victory Jackpot and riding north up into Daytona once more. The sun would rise again over the water come morning and I think, we both knew, that in spite of everything –  it was all going to be okay.

young

I was beautiful

when you loved me.

I was happy

for a little while.

You loved me too soon

and I wandered off looking for the smile I had lost

taking yours with me.

Viruses

Dr. Jack Wolfson has been quoted by a number of media organizations about his views on vaccines. His quotation: “We do not need to inject chemicals into ourselves and into our children in order to boost our immune system,” Wolfson told Arizona Central in January. “We should be getting measles, mumps, rubella, chicken pox, these are the rights of our children to get it.

My thoughts after reading that:

In a natural system the pressures of infection and disease will drive the population ultimately toward adaptation, extinction or some razor’s edge in between. It is a dance of thrust and parry on a microbial and cellular scale that is won only by an organism reproducing its RNA / DNA first. That precious copy made before death is the finish line of the moment.

Life was not always so precious. In fact, much like George Carlin has pontificated – It’s not really precious at all.  Any Biologist with a bachelor’s degree will tell you that extinction is, quite frankly the RULE, not the exception.  Many animals demonstrate evolutionary coping mechanisms and behaviors in response to the ever looming death all around us; whether that manifests in laying thousands of eggs or a terrifying mother bear driving away danger from her cubs. It is difficult to say that animals find life to be precious and many of these familial bonding behaviors dry up when juveniles reach their own reproductive maturity (check for examples with your local biologist).

No matter though, because life became precious to us at some point in our species’ development many tens of thousands or hundred thousand years ago (you’ll need to check with your local Anthropologist for times and locations since this is a status update – not a research paper). There are known examples of medical treatment in ancient Neanderthal graves thus demonstrating an effort to preserve the body and it’s life within.  Offerings of flowers to the deceased in the grave have been recorded indicating an acknowledgement of death and the loss of an individual to the societal group.  Yes, they probably had feelings. But they also, very probably got measles, mumps, rubella, ecoli, pneumonia, prion related diseases and every other horrible tiny bit of bad news in a lipid bilayer, protein sheath or just a maliciously folded protein with the touch of death.  They got it all and then when they survived the dangerous business of being a child they were run through by bison while trying to get a burger, or carried off by saber tooth cats or just died in child bed, trying to make it to the precious finish line.

Society changed our views on the value of life.  But I’m wagering it was later than we all think. And to be fair, my desk is located in a Western country.  Check the news right now and you will find that life means very, very little half a planet or less away.  Here in this western country, I have an internet full of kittens, medical information, religious insanity, beheadings, sandwiches and porn, a phone book full of doctor’s names ( who has a phone book really?), and the expectation that I can check the internet to find out where my Doctor was educated and what their current “health grades” are.  I can use that internet to research anything that I want, without the very irritating requirement of using primary sources or peer reviewed documents.  I don’t really need an education to form an opinion – which is nothing new to the human animal in society. But what is new is the opportunity to spew your opinion to people who otherwise would never hear you, provided you have a keyboard and a good signal (please see above paragraphs for a shining example of such spittle).

Enter the anti-vaxxers only a short hundred years after modern medical miracles replaced all the old fashioned kind.  Remaining available miracles include understanding the synthesis and composition of DNA and Jesus emerging in burnt toast. BTW You can buy that toaster on line and make your own kitchen miracles. No waiting!

Among the Anti vaxxers ranks are celebrities, rogue doctors, ethnic groups who (understandably) don’t identify with the current establishment, and of course white upper and middle American parents who are trying very hard to do everything right according to their diligent (internet) research. This effort made partly because the lives of our individual children actually are precious. We only have one or two children anymore.  It is the odd couple that stops at five or six, and rare are the real women who can make ten or more like the old days.  Those miracles of estrogen are lost to another age or geography.  The anti vaxxers reject medicine to various degrees but I always laugh when they are taking supplements that are less well regulated than the prescription medication or immunizations that they reject.

Now to be fair to their argument, Big Pharma (whatever that means) makes mistakes.  Thalidimade is a quick example from a few decades ago (you can find others on an anti vaxxer website in your own time).  The method of science tests a hypothesis incrementally to substantiate or prove an outcome within a range (that is kind of abridged and naieve but works here) one test does not really prove much, actually. You need to build on a body of experiments’ outcomes, and have the ability to interpret many sets of results over time- sometimes decades and centuries all the while adjusting for the actual methods used in that era. Also the scientist or team member’s personalities will affect how things are published or when.  Medical science must have many more grey zones that other disciplines because you are dealing with the systems of a living organism, which in my shortsighted estimation is a muddier business than chemistry, physics or clean math.  The human body is amazing, the systems are breathtaking, interdependent and not at all guaranteed.  Ever. Not for thirty days, not for ninety days, not for a year, not at all.

At some point we forgot that there were no guarantees. We, in western society, started to believe that we could cheat the scythe with enough medicine, healthy eating and research. Understandable, considering that today Hp brand 3-D printers can use a cartridge of prepared cardiac cells to print portions of the heart for possible implantation. That’s amazing!!! Better yet, you can eat like shit all your life and just get some arteries replaced later on and still live to complain about Medicare.  Our ancestors understood, somehow, that their time was limited. Probably in the same way that the impoverished in other countries know such things.  Because death is all around them.

So, for argument, let’s say the antivaxxers win. All the Pharmaceutical companies become community gardens and every child is born under water with a midwife holding a videocamera (or an Iphone) and needles are used only for embroidering the precious name and weight in the memoirs.  Measles and Mumps will rapidly infiltrate our populations with every other little bit of tiny horrible that evolved long before we had an idea there was air to breathe above the water.  After a few generations people will broken heartedly cry out in their status updates “but we have to DO something!!!”  “All the children, they are sick and dying – just like the pictures of Sudan or Kenya or Appalachia (that’s in Australia, right?)”  “But we are not a third world country (read as “developing” if you harbor inner guilt for being American), we have Starbucks, and our gay people can marry, we have automatic transmissions and toy stores and clean water (do we?). We have GPS in our cars and watches, we have phones that can access all of the world’s internet (except of course North Korea).  We put tiny chips in our dogs and cats, we whiten our teeth and take supplements and go to the gym, we cleanse our COLONS for God sake!!.  Why is everyone getting sick and dying?

It’s because you fucks – you failed to tell the body what it needs to know in the language it understands.  We are made of CHEMICALS!! We are made of elements that have agreed to communicate chemically and become molecules, cells, tissues and systems. We have forced the growth of Medicine to such a degree trying to avoid death, that we have plucked a few apples off the tree. Vaccinations are one such reward.

Here is where I shit on everything I just wrote.

I announce all this safely wrapped up in the benefits of Western society, where we value the life of the individual and we care for children and the elderly.  Biologically, we emerged from the waters and the steppes where the strongest, smartest and sexiest lived long enough to reproduce. Keeping these diseases in check is just like a keeping lifer in prison with nothing to do but work out. Evolution drives development of bacteria and viruses (not technically alive, remember, but still pretty troublesome) just as it has us.  Evolution frames the dynamic change in a living system. RNA and DNA will find a way to replicate.  When we develop medicine and rely on it so heavily– we weaken the species.  If you are inflamed by the word weak, well, pick your own word than. One that means susceptible to disease, genetically compromised and possibly mentally unsuitable for life on this planet. Unsuitable for life in the Paleo environment. You know, where that Paleo Diet came from.

So what to do, what to do?

How about you just vaccinate your germy little kids and stop getting all your information from the internet and people whose medical credentials are too creative to be trusted. Understand that you probably don’t really belong here and in a natural system like the one you talk about on Sunday infomercials you would have been dead before nine of some horrendous disease. In the meantime one of your seventeen siblings would have given the world a copy of your “Y’ chromosome or mDna on your behalf. THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN ENOUGH, because everyone else was dead by about thirty five or forty even as they ate pure – original Paleo diets and enjoyed “chemical free” living, without cleaners and additives and food coloring.  They were always exercising, because they were running from lions and hunting with spears, walking to get a drink – Paleo style.  No cancer or high blood pressure (not true BTW), cause everything was natural, like hemp, and peyote, datura, nicotine. Probably EVERY malady was treated with something like them. Dentists? Not a chance, thank you. Abscessed tooth getting infected? Find a grave digger and roll a blunt.

The unfortunate side effect to living in a society where you are not running from lions is that some people have too much time to think and an audience to spew their opinion to. Very much in the same spirit you found this essay; without much research, available on the internet and easily copied or transmitted.  Rather like a virus.

Revisions

It is not the quiet that haunts me now.

The memories that mold my history are mine alone.

I thought you were all there too.

but the revisions have been rewritten in another’s words.

Slowly I have been edited away from my own story.

I realized today that I have played a much smaller part in my own life than I thought.

Beauty

You are beautiful
not because your eyes are blue
and your hair is long
but because you are sincere
honest
and thoughtful.

Needles

I think of you every morning

I think of your pain – the struggle for breath and dignity you have been forced to.

You see, I promised myself I would not let you become the disease with me.

I see the morning sun and I think of your heart.

It is bright like gold and copper

I drive by the tattoo parlor and I think of your charm.

I become the blue bird on my ribs for just an instant as I remember how your beaming proud smile filled three rooms-

proud of me – bright as day.

Periwinkle you picked.  I let you pick the color.  It was your bird.

The needle in my rib did not hurt near as much as the memory does tonight.

But I knew the road would lead here.

Even as I drew down the pain – I knew

you are beautiful

and soon to be free as a feather – the bright blue bird I carry with me.

Aside

Thank you

I’m not ready to say good bye
     To long talks and Apple crisp
Though it’s been many years since we shared either one.

The dark eyed juncos will hurt in the winters to come.
And I will remember the cold mornings in the rocking chair with you, counting the birds on Christmas day when I enjoyed being the only grand child of the family.

You knew these days were coming
    So did I.
So we talked, you talked
     And wisely
             I listened
                   For many years. 

You told me about summer kitchens
     And kerosene lanterns,
Crossing the frozen Hudson river on foot.

You told me about garment factories
      And war time Rosies.

About Great grandma’s dalliahs and the Jack in the pulpit in the rock garden.

You would always say “it was a different time then”
       it softened the decades, and brought the sounds of a busy farm back from memory.

I listened with genuine interest
     For it is where I come from too.

Winter is coming again.
     I show the girls the birds, like you taught me.
     The little dark eyed juncos will be here soon. 

I’m not ready for this
     Though I can see you are
           ever graceful, thoughtful prepared.

I am thankful for your time, your stories, giving me the birds
     The rock garden, lunches in the gap way on the sandy flat,
         counting the wild flowers on the walk there.

I have passed on the color of such things to your great granddaughters.
      They watch the birds too.
             they know the little dark eyed junco that hops in the snow.

We watch for snow drops in spring, and listen for the spring peepers
     Just as you did with me.

I’m not ready to say goodbye
   So
   Thank you will have to do
for now.

    

    

We are moving

     always busy accomplishing

     everything.

Time spins as we race through it, swirling, spinning in the wake

    of focus and drive.

Then we are stopped

    by fate, happenstance

    by chance and poor planning

    by promises broken or dreams dashed.

 

 

Aside

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