Peace and Quiet = Marc

 PEACE AND QUIET

Once upon a time, (which is the way most stories should be started), there was a young

couple who were very much in love. They lived in a small house at the end of a cul de sac, with

a grassy yard and woods beyond. They would spend their time laughing over dinner, reading

quietly together in their yard, and hiking through the woods. And wherever they went, they

were happy to be spending their time with Peace and Quiet. Although they never actually spoke

with Peace and Quiet, it was comforting for them know that Peace and Quiet were always there

with them.

On day, the woman announced that she was pregnant, much to the surprise and

happiness of the man. (Why he should be surprised is beyond me, he was there at the start

after all)! It was not an easy pregnancy. Months of morning sickness were followed a course of

pneumonia, and finally severe back pain. But their love for each other, and for their unborn

child brought them through the difficult times.

Childbirth was difficult, but when she first held her newborn daughter all was forgotten

while she bathed in the moment of bliss. The baby was a challenge, being a poor sleeper and

often suffering from cholic, while frequently crying.

It was then that they noticed for the first time that their friends, Peace and Quiet had

abandoned them. Peace and Quiet were nowhere to be found in their lives.

They years rolled on, through childhood sicknesses, the first school play, middle school

madness, and high school proms. And eventually, they forgot that Peace and Quiet had ever

shared life with them.

The day came when they dropped their daughter off at college. Once home, they missed

her terribly. However, one day, while reading quietly in their yard, they realized that their

friends, Peace and Quiet had returned, after being gone for so long. And they also realized that

when life takes something away, it often also gives something back.

Like so many years earlier, their life had returned to a simpler time, shared with Peace

and Quiet.

Untitled - Marc

 UNTITLED

Standing silently

with hands clasped behind them

Necks stretching to watch

The agile fingers working

Hoping for a miracle

As the frigid wind

Brings them closer

on this desolate street

But the sounds make it clear that

Despite his best, there will be no miracles today

The man shakes his head

And calls the tow truck

Newhalem Baseball Teams - Nez

 Newhalem Baseball Teams

By Nez Nesmith

Lyman is one of the few small towns one would pass through when taking Highway 20 east to

cross the Cascade Mountains. Highway 20 is mostly a two-lane east-west highway that crosses

the whole state of Washington from the Idaho border to the town of Anacortes at the Salish

Sea water’s edge in Skagit County. It’s also called North Cascades Highway, as it is the most

northern highway in Washington that you can go across the Cascade mountains over into

Eastern Washington. And from November through April Highway 20 is closed through the

mountains. Too much snow. Of course, it remains open on both sides of the Cascades, so

there’s just about an 80 mile stretch that’s closed.

When I was a kid in the 1950’s Highway 20 didn’t go all the way across the mountains. It

stopped at Newhalem, about 45 miles east and north of Lyman. Newhalem was the end of the

road, and in the mountains. It was and still is a company town owned by Seattle Light and

Power. The town was built for the workers on the Diablo and Ross Dams projects on the Upper

Skagit River. (It’s still the last place to buy anything if you’re going across the mountains to

Eastern Washington.) Newhalem totaled about 400 people, employees and their families back

then. Much less now.

Newhalem had no schools. A town of 400 people with a lot of kids and no schools. And it’s

actually in Whatcom County, but there is no access from Whatcom County to that mountainous

region. You had then and still have to go through Lyman, Hamilton, Concrete, Rockport and

Marblemount, all in Skagit County. Neither did Rockport or Marblemount. Kids from those

towns and Newhalem were all bussed to the town of Concrete, population 705, in Skagit

County. The Seattle Light and Power Company paid the Concrete Schools for the Newhalem

students and provided their school bus and its driver. It was about an hour and a half each way

from Newhalem to Concrete. Can you imagine? Five days a week. That’s fifteen hours each

week spent on a school bus. I guess you shouldn’t have had any homework left to do by the

time you got home. (I wondered what the bus driver did while the kids were in school.)

Although Newhalem didn’t have schools, it did have a nice park with a baseball diamond and

baseball players. Boy, did they have the ballplayers. They always had really good Little League

and Babe Ruth teams. Whenever our team from Lyman, then coached by Mr. Shirley Allen,

played at Newhalem it was an all-day affair, over two hours each direction on Highway 20.

Newhalemites were very friendly people. They didn’t get many visitors. And there was no

restaurant. So, the townspeople rolled out the red carpet for us and fed us. Picnic tables near

the ballfield were crowded with homemade dishes of food, every kind we could think of. Since

it was such a long drive we usually played a double-header. We ate between games. We were

thrilled to win one game against them. They typically easily won both, even when they made

the trip down river to play in Hamilton or Lyman. Those trips were pretty much all-day for them

too, and usually double-headers. Newhalem teams were always exceptionally good.

But here’s the rub. At Marblemount Highway 20 turns north still following the Skagit River and

as mentioned earlier, that puts the town of Newhalem in Whatcom County, by just a couple of

miles. And because of that two miles Newhalem baseball teams weren’t eligible to compete in

Skagit County for Little League or Babe Ruth championships. They were relegated to Whatcom

County which meant they had to compete with teams from Bellingham, Ferndale, Lynden,

Deming and Sumas, which were in the western part of that county. To play any of those teams

would have meant at least a 200 mile roundtrip drive, and that just wasn’t feasible. Thus, they

never played any Whatcom County teams. The Skagit teams even petitioned the two baseball

commissions, Skagit and Whatcom, on their behalf and were denied. So Newhalem could only

play the upriver Skagit County teams in the regular season without being in the playoffs, which

I’m sure they would have dominated regularly.

Even though they knew they were not eligible to win a championship, they still put their best

players on the field and played their hearts out. Every other team admired and respected them.

Coaches, too, especially Coach Allen. He and another coach initiated the petitions. I always

thought Newhalem got cheated just because they were in Whatcom County. Why wouldn’t the

Little League and Babe Ruth commissions have made some sort of exception/concession for

them? I’m sure there were times when they were good enough to have maybe won a State

Championship and competed for the Little League World Series. The last season I played against

them in Little League their team went undefeated. Never lost a game but there was no trophy

for them. They were the best team in the area by far, yet another team was awarded the

championship trophy.

But, you know, I never really knew how they felt about it.

A Girl and a Map

 [Prompt: Write a story about hope.]

by Susan Hunt

Fila sat on the wide wooden steps of the farmhouse, a tattered and dirt-smudged map of the Southern United States resting, unseen, on her lap. The two mules, Jack and Mike, stood patiently in the dusty yard, hitched to a wagon loaded with the barest of supplies for this move to Texas. Everything else had been sold, and now only what was left -- the mules, the wagon, the heat, the very air itself -- seemed to be waiting for Fila and her mother to abandon their past to a future both unknown and uncertain.

Fila knew she should be studying the map, memorizing the route from her birthplace in Girard, Alabama, to her uncle’s farm in Plano, Texas. But her mind was blind to the paper in her hands. She sat, unmoving, and stared down at lines and faded words. They meant nothing to her, and she grieved the paper they were printed on.

This was her father’s map, a good father’s map, and she wondered if he would have led them west had he lived. A moot question now. Her mother saw no future here in Alabama without a husband and income to manage 40 acres of cotton, not to mention a heavy equipment business that thrived during the War of Northern Aggression, a business doomed after the restless peace of loss descended on them. Her father’s skill at building roads and rail lines for the Confederacy meant an end to the business and its owner.

Now, the land was sold and along with it, equipment, livestock, and the house that had been home to Fila since birth. With her finger, Fila traced the route on the map, wondering where this move would lead beyond the miles a wagon train would travel. What good could possibly come from this uprooting of body and soul? From the brokenness of their hearts? Everything but a grave left behind?

Fila’s mother, although grieving and anxious about the future, had assured Fila that this move was necessary and not entirely without hope. Their uncle in Texas was a good man who had befriended Fila’s family on more than one occasion. “We will trust the goodness of others and Uncle Ned’s promise to help us,” her mother said with conviction.

Fila was not so convinced as she stared at the map, giving it her full attention now. They would start in Girard, meeting up with the wagon train in Columbus, just across the river. From there they would cross Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana, then into east Texas, turning north at Dallas and on to Plano. The wagon boss estimated covering 10 miles a day, God willing and the weather held. How far was it, anyway? 800 miles? 900? 80 days minimum. That’s almost three months in a Conestoga wagon. Dear God, how would she ever survive such an ordeal? Yet, here they were.

Fila folded the map and stood to greet the young man hired to drive the wagon into her future. As she held out her hand to greet him, she said, “I hope you know the way.” Clasping her hand, the young man replied, “Yes, ma’am, I do. Your hope is not misplaced.”

 

The War is Over - Nancy

 The War is Over

Richard

The signs of Christmas are everywhere. The colorful lights on all the houses, Silent Night playing on the radio, people bustling all about to buy gifts. But I lost my spirit of Christmas three years ago when I lost my son to the war. My son didn’t physically die but his soul did. Mathew was deployed to Afghanistan when he was a mere 19-year-old boy. Being 6’ 2” and 200 lbs. he came across to people as much older. Mathew had as big a heart as his body. He was always kind to people and took the time to listen to them. Because of that he always had a lot of friends. Some might have seen his kindness as a weakness and could have bullied him. But his mere size deterred any such notion. He had a natural talent for sports. He could hit a baseball out of the park with ease or throw a football 40 yrds for a winning touchdown. But yet he never took sports or himself very seriously. Mathew  was an old gentle soul who viewed the world with optimism. War changed all that.

It has been 2 years, 4 months and 3 days since I saw Mathew. But each and every of those days I have looked for him. Many times, I thought I caught sight of him only to be disappointed when I saw up close it wasn’t him. When Mathew came home from the war, he was different. The light went out of his eyes. He just couldn’t readjust to a world that didn’t see and experience what he did and not seem to care. So, he walked out of our front door and became a ghost, vanishing in to thin air. I know he is still alive. I check regularly with the police, hospitals and morgue for a Mathew Morgan. I feel certain he is not one of those zombie-like addicts living on the streets trying to find their next fix. Mathew hated drugs and rarely ever drank. No, I think he has gone to find himself, living off the land somewhere. My daily prayer to my Lord is please let me see and hug my son before I die. I call out to him from my broken heart, “Son the War is Over. Please come home”.

So today like everyday I travel the roads and the small towns along the Appalachian Trail to see if I might spot sight of him. I stop at one of the many trail heads that stocks food and supplies for the hikers. They know me by now from my many frequent visits to ask if they have seen my son. The bell on the door jingles as I enter and the warmth of the cabin store fogs up my glasses. I take a minute to wipe them when  I spot the back of a large figure of a man with long hair and an even longer beard opening up the glass refrigerator door to pull out a bottle of juice.  My heart stops. I can’t move. I feel  an immediate connection. For a few seconds I pause not daring to get my hopes up as they have been crushed so many times before. But the pull is so great I can’t help myself. I shout out “Mathew”.

Mathew

I don’t use my voice very much anymore. I’ve been living in the mountains now for over 2 years and don’t have much need to speak and have few encounters with humans. It’s not an easy life. But a life I chose after coming home from the war. War. Why did God make human beings so hateful that they want to kill each other for reasons that make no sense. I was a dutiful soldier doing what was asked of me and doing it well. I’ve never known any other way to be. But seeing the destruction and horror of soldiers who were my bunk mates and family in combat die horrible painful deaths ripped a whole in my heart that I can’t seem to repair. When I came back to the states I saw people living their lives with no cares and not a thought of what was going on in the world thousands of miles away. I wanted to shout at all of them, “Open your eyes people. Men are dying bloody deaths so you can walk around and live self-absorbed lives of indulgence.” I was angry. Angry all the time. My dad tried to understand what I was going through. But no one can understand unless you have experienced the smell of death and rot. So to be fair to everyone, I left. I walked out the door with no destination in mind. The mountains have claimed me. We speak to each other in our own way. They accept me as I am. But I do think about my dad and know my leaving hurt him badly. He probably blames himself. 

Richard Morgan was a good man and a good father. He always made time for me. He came to all my games even though he could have been doing something else. He wasn’t the kind of father that was shy about telling me that he was proud of me and that he loved me. He didn’t want me to join the army but he said I was old enough to make my own decisions and that he would support me. Now that winter approaches, I know Christmas must be near. I picture dad sitting in his favorite chair with the small tree decorated by the window and a fire in the fireplace. I know he must be lonely. Has he given up on me I wonder. Is he angry with me? Is it time for me to go home and find out?

All these thoughts go through my mind in a loop replaying itself over and over. When out of nowhere I hear my name called out. Mathew. I know that voice. I slowly turn to hear where it is coming from. I drop the bottle of juice in my hand as I see my dad standing at the door with tears streaming down his face as he stares at me. He swiftly comes towards me and without hesitation he wraps his arms around me. He tells me he loves me while not letting me go. I lift my arms to embrace him back. The warmth of a human hug even through layers of clothes kindles a fire within me.

Richard

As the large man turns to face me, I know it is Mathew even through the long hair and beard. I can’t help myself I race toward him and hug him with all my strength. He is thinner and he smells of the outdoors. But to me he looks like an angel. Son, my sweet son Mathew, I love you I whisper in his ear. Every day I prayed that I would find you. And now I have. The war is over son. Please oh please come home.

Uncle Frand, A Good Quiet Man - Nez

 Uncle Frank, A Good Quiet Man

By Nez Nesmith

Having recently retired at 65 from Northern State Hospital, Mom’s Uncle Frank, a man of action but few words, who quickly became bored doing nothing decided he needed something to keep himself busy. He didn’t have a wife or kids, or a dog and boredom was driving him crazy. Having had many different jobs throughout his life he had the skills to do just about anything. So, Uncle Frank bought a used car, a three year old 1952 Crosley wagon. (The Crosley was an American made little subcompact vehicle. It was very small. It was so ugly it was almost cute.) Uncle Frank’s Crosley was green and white. The day he bought it he drove it to Lyman to show us. Since we didn’t own a car we didn’t dare make fun of his new one, at least not to his face. 

Asked what he wanted with that little car he said he was going to use it in his new business. What? In that clown car? Being retired he needed something to do, so he was going to be a traveling sharpener, a cutler. A what? He was going to sharpen anything and everything that needed sharpening, scissors, knives, axes, saws, scythes, lawn mowers, any kind of cutting tool. He must be crazy we thought. That’s not a business.

But that’s what he did. He put his business name, Frank’s Sharpening, and phone number on the sides of his Crosley. He had advertising leaflets made and distributed them throughout the county. He put leaflets in taverns, stores, repair shops, tailor shops, mills, union halls, churches, in barbershops and beauty shops. He put them on bulletin boards. Soon he began getting calls and started a route for his appointments. He loaded the necessary equipment and tools for sharpening most anything in the back of that Crosley wagon and hit the road. 

There weren’t many commercial calls however, and it soon became obvious that the majority of his business would be from housewives wanting knives and scissors sharpened. (Apparently most men sharpened their own tools.) But calls for appointments came in so haphazardly it was nearly impossible to establish a route. Uncle Frank was jumping all over the county from one job to the next and wasn’t making any money at his new business. He realized his new enterprise had some issues. Obvious solutions weren’t very plentiful or really helpful to his troubles. One problem was that most days he wasn’t home to answer calls coming in for appointments. He was out on a job. Also, he wasn’t getting the repeat business he thought he would. Oh, he could hire an answering service to take messages, but that was expensive. And he needed referrals because it turned out that once knives and scissors were sharp most didn’t need to be sharpened again for a couple of years. The same went for saws and lawnmower blades. 

He decided to create his route without appointments and went to a different town each day. He made calls at homes and businesses that had not previously used him. This worked much better than working strictly from appointments. Soon he added repairing pots and pans to his little enterprise. Thus, he became both a cutler and a tinker. And there wasn’t another cutler or tinker in the county. Before long his business was doing fairly well, plus his referrals were improving. Uncle Frank made a living at his little enterprise for a several years until he met and fell in love with a widow named Grace. Lovely Grace, it turned out, wanted a good husband, and Frank was her choice, but not if he was a traveling cutler and tinker. He was getting older and in her opinion it wasn’t dignified work. He was too good for that. 

So, Uncle Frank obligingly closed down his sharpening business, sold the Crosley, retired again and happily married Grace in 1963. Unfortunately, Grace just up and died in less than one year leaving Uncle Frank heart-broken. Months later he became stir-crazy again but decided against going back into the sharpening business. So, he went fishing instead. 

Epilogue: Christmas Day 1967. Uncle Frank, this good quiet man who had helped Pershing chase after Pancho Villa, while at the family Christmas dinner table took a few bites, sat back, crossed his arms, quietly sighed and died, without a word. He was 77. 

Nez Nesmith 

December 2023 

Losing My Old Friend - Nez

 Losing My Old Friend

By Nez Nesmith

Have you ever had a friend you grew up with but lost touch with and now he or she won’t even talk with you? I do. Doyle and I grew up as best friends and our houses were less than fifty yards apart. We were always friends and then my family moved to Seattle. Both of us graduated high school at the same time, me from Ballard HS in Seattle, he from Sedro-Woolley HS, my old stomping grounds. 

After graduation I got a job in the Navy shipyards in Bremerton, WA and Doyle was soon drafted into the Army. About eighteen months later I joined the Army and went to Fort Ord, California for basic training, then to school at Fort Devens, Massachusetts for cryptography training, and then to Vint Hill Farms Station in Virginia. By then Doyle was in Germany. So, when I went back home on leave I went to Lyman to see old friends and I saw those that were in the area, but not Doyle. 

After my four years of serving Uncle Sam my wife, Judy, and I took a six-week circuitous route from Virginia to Seattle where I went to school on the GI Bill, and she got a job at the Boeing Everett Plant (she worked on the manufacture of the first twenty-four Boeing 747 jumbo jet’s). With her job and my GI Bill, we still barely made ends meet. We had bills, an apartment, a car and school to pay for, so money was tight. Busy as we were and still newlyweds, we were really still getting to know one another, and having the time of our lives, we weren’t really paying much attention to anyone else. We were totally and literally wrapped up in ourselves, and school and work. 

Later I reached out to old friends from Lyman, and boy had things changed. With one exception all of my old buddies were now married, and some had kids. I hadn’t quite expected that. It had only been six years, but wholly cow. Anyway, we went to see Doyle and Marlene and their kids. We were surprised to see that they lived in a two bedroom single-wide mobile-home in the middle of a field. There wasn’t really a driveway, more of a wagon trail. But they had a home with heat, water, electricity, a septic system, a car and a pickup, two dogs and two wild boys. Doyle, Marlene and we talked and laughed, totally ignoring the wild hyenas. The dogs were fine. We had dinner and reminisced. Then on the way home Judy and I both agreed that when we had kids they would never be allowed to act like that, period. Not quite anyway.  

After school Judy and I moved off to Texas and raised our small family. We traded Christmas cards and Doyle and I talked occasionally. As years rolled by we kept In touch by phone and eventually Facebook. Suddenly our kids were grown, and we were middle-aged, and our parents were old. We didn’t talk as often and Doyle and I drifted further apart. 

One time I called, and Marlene said Doyle wouldn’t talk on the phone anymore, he didn’t hardly talk to people anymore, just the dogs. That was really strange. Talking was Doyle’s thing. He loved to talk and laugh. He was his best self when he was in conversation. She said he’s changed, was mostly sullen and quieter now. She couldn’t figure it out and he wouldn’t talk to anyone about it, least of all her. I called again later, and nothing had changed. I tried emailing and texting, but he didn’t respond. Marlene said she thought he might be going deaf, but he wouldn’t get it checked. I remembered his dad was that way about doctors and his hearing. There was a lot of yelling.

When it became obvious to me that my hearing was going I shared with Marlene that I was getting hearing aids. Marlene said that Doyle was now very hard of hearing and still won’t get it checked out. She said, “I think you’ve lost your old buddy.” I thought, “And, you’ve lost your husband?” before she replied, “I’m afraid I’m losing him too, at least for now.” That was about seven years ago. There’s still no change. 

Last year when hearing aids became widely available OTC I made sure that Marlene was aware. I even suggested she buy a pair, bring them home and have him try them. She did. He wouldn’t and still won’t. But I’m still hopeful. Sort of…

Nez Nesmith

December 2023

Winter Drive - Kathy

Not my best, this piece really doesn't have a purpose or focus, and clearly not a satisfying ending.   It started out as a 10 minute write last session and I tried to twist it into a winter piece.  

Winter Drive 

Snow Shoveling - Kathy

 Show Shoveling

Onomatopoeia  and winter - 10 minute write

Scrape, thud, scrape, thud…”This snow shovel sucks!” Bobby frowned, pausing to rest his arms,  looking up to the gray sky catching flakes in his eyelashes which caused him to blink and look away.  His mother’s silhouette waved a thumbs-up signal behind the living room picture window signaling him to keep going. He smiled back and  nodded pretending to be enthusiastic so as not to disappoint her.  This was going to take forever, and then he’d have to do it all over again if this snow kept up.  

Early December snows rarely fell this far south, but this Oklahoma storm roared in from Colorado dumping over 6 inches overnight and seemed determined to keep at it all day.  If the driveway wasn’t shoveled, their car would become trapped in the garage locking them in for perhaps days.  Oklahoma City was poorly prepared to clear snow packed roads, especially in the suburbs. This snow was heavy, making shoveling necessary and exhausting. 

Scrape, thud, scrape, thud… Bobby began once again the unending work of shoveling. His shovel scraped along the concrete until it could hold no more, and then he’d dump the load on the side leaving a chunky pile along both sides of the drive.  Seventeen steps, scraping, then thud, a new pile added to the growing hills.  

Billy finished the last row and a grin snuck its way to his frozen face.  He wiggled his numb fingers and toes, stretched his back and looked back at the smooth finish in front of him.  

“Billy…Billy!” He heard his mom call from the front door.  “Come in for some hot chocolate and cookies!”

Billy dropped the shovel by the door with a clang, knowing he’d be repeating the job soon and headed in to warm up and enjoy some hot chocolate and his mom’s famous raisin oatmeal cookies. 

Christmas Homecoming - Nancy

It all started one sunny May day when the Bobcats were playing their arch rival the Trojans in

a double header. My tomboy Jessie was playing second base when a hard grounder that took a

bad hop and hit her in the leg. It was unlike her to miss a ball. But this one came fast and

didn’t stay on course. As she went down and I jumped up and shouted “ Jessie, are you

alright? “ She slowly got up and shook it off. But the hit left her with a lump on her leg that

was every shade of black, blue, red and yellow. My Jessie wasn’t one to cry or whine. It wasn’t

like she hadn’t had injuries before, either from falling out of trees, or off her bicycle while

trying to do wheelies. She was a tough little girl, all 12 years of her. But this smack to the leg

didn’t seem to want to heal and kept her limping for weeks.

We had a doctor’s appointment the next week to test her for some allergies and while we

were there the doctor commented on the ugly looking welt on her leg. He said very calmly, I

think we should take a closer look at this little booger. And so he took some blood samples.

The results of those simple little blood samples would change our lives forever.

Jessie had leukemia. That word was like a sharp dagger to my heart that pulsated a deep pain

with every breath. Jessie took the news a lot better than I did. For some reason she remained

in high spirits even though the doctor explained what lied ahead. She’d need chemotherapy.

The kind where she would lose her beautiful long wavy red hair. We’d need to search for a

donor for a bone marrow transplant. My little tough cookie was the one who kept telling me,

“Mom it’s going to be OK, just watch and see” as she tried on every kind of goofy wig, settling

on a curly blonde one who she thought made her look like Taylor Swift”. She made friends

with every nurse and always had a joke for the newest doctor that would treat her.

I tried to be strong for her. But I wasn’t very good at hiding my distress. Jessie was my world.

My sweet angel. My friend. My hope. God’s blessing to me when I didn’t deserve it. God and I

had a lot of late-night talks once Jessie was asleep. I cried to him asking “Why would you do

this to a sweet little girl who believes only goodness in people and the world is beautiful?”

Give her pain to me I would cry out. I am more deserving of it and it would not be a loss. But

she has everything it takes to become something great in life.” God was having none of it.

Jessie’s strong body was withering. When she didn’t have her wig on her tiny little bald head

made her look like she was 6 or 7 not the now pre teen of 13 years old.

It was now fall the following year. All her friends were heading back to school. Jessie was not.

She missed most of last year’s school year because of all the treatments and recovery process.

So many of her friends had moved on to doing what 13 year olds are suppose to do, living

carefree lives. The doctors had told us that nothing more could be done and that the cancer

had progressed. I knew in my heart there was not many more tomorrows. I left my job so I

could sit by her side to listen to her tell me “Mom it’s going to be alright”.

Before that awful rainy day, in November, November 10 th to be exact, Jessie asked me to look

her in the eye because she had something important to tell me. I did as she said and look into

those beautiful, innocent emerald eyes. She spoke to me as someone with authority not the

little dying girl that she was. She said,” Mom I don’t want you to be mad at God. He and I have

been talking.” At that I about fell out of my chair. But I kept my eyes intent on her to hear

what she would tell me about their conversation. She went on, “God has a special job for me

to do. That is why is taking me away from you. But He said he will let me watch over you when

I am gone until you are stronger and able to live without me. So, talk to me when I’m gone

mom and I will hear you.” I couldn’t contain the tears as they rolled down my cheeks and

hugged my sweet baby for the last time.

The snow was falling like it always does in December in Colorado. It was Christmas eve and I

had a fire in the fireplace. Not a Christmas decoration could be found in my house. The house

was blank of anything hopeful, just like my soul. I stood at the sink staring out to nowhere lost

in my thoughts when I heard a persistent ting. I washed out the coffee cup I use every morning

and heard the ting again. Oh no I thought what is it in the house that is making that sound that

is in need of repair I groaned. Now the ting grew louder and faster. Dear Lord what is that I

mumbled. I walked over by the window looking out over the mountains and there was a

female cardinal sitting on the sill outside tapping on the window. Well, hello I said. She tapped

again and looked at me like she was saying hello back. I asked her “are you all alone? Where is

your mate sweet birdie.?” She cocked her head like she was confused. Those little eyes of her

looked at me like they were looking through my soul. I then asked her “Jessie is that you?” She

tapped the window as if she was giving me her reply. I felt in my heart for he first time since

Nov. 10 th that just like Jessie said, I will watch over you mom and everything is going to be

alright.