18 years

18 years. That's the time it takes to raise a child from infancy and send them out on their own into the big blue yonder. That's how long Sam Johnson was in my life. We met in 1991, with him being part, if not the ringleader, of the Underground Savannah posse that included my soon-to-be husband, Jeff. They, and Bobby Ruggiero and Andy Pena, had a friendship that was a brotherhood. It was tight. Even when they disagreed with something one of them did or said, it just didn't matter. They were a team, with an irreverent television show, the radio world, the Savannah nightlife and culture. I could tell these guys were in it for the duration, no one was getting out alive, I tell ya!

And so, now one of them has gotten out of this band of brothers from other mothers. Sam's big ol' heart, after enduring five years of dialysis, just gave out on him on Sunday. He'd had a great weekend, including zany fortune cookie messages. That's right, plural. His original fortune cookie told him: A nice cake is waiting for you. Of course, he led into the reading of it the usual way, slowly releasing the message, looking it over and announcing "Boom goes the dynamite!" "Yeah, right, what does it really say?" And with a puzzled look, he says "A nice cake is waiting for you." I laughed my self silly, even reading it myself and then laughing more. Whoever heard of such a thing??? He was so taken aback by the seemingly non-fortune that he requested a new cookie... and was graciously granted one after he told his tale. This second cookie told him "You have infinite wisdom and power." "Hey, man, that makes you a superhero!" That made him feel right as rain. I dropped him off at Steed's, then went home for the night.

Saturday, after almost seven hours in Beaufort with my terminally-ill daddy and his family, I came back to town and caught a nap before heading off to a retirement party for a colleague. Then, off I went to Steed's for some karaoke. Sam had called to say he took a cab there, but I had told him I would make sure he got home so he could hold on to his money. I had gone there that night intending to sing, but I just never did. I even had a list of songs in my car that I had planned to do.. but I didn't. I just absorbed the show. There was a birthday party going on for a husband of the Cumulus crowd, and they were a lively bunch. There were several of the regular Saturday night singers. Even Bob and his mom, also known to Sam as "Mom", were there for a rare visit from Midway. And Sam was on top of his game, handling all with his usual mix of aplomb and bravado. I totally enjoyed myself, even though I was just part of the audience this time around. I even snapped a fairly decent photograph (on my cellphone) of Sam with Bob and Mom when they were leaving. Apropos of absolutely nothing, I took the picture. I remember thinking, who knows when they'll all see each other again?

Finally, the end of the shift has arrived. Last call for alcohol, for songs, for hanging out at Steed's. Gina is about to fall over, her feet hurt so badly. She reminds Sam she had set aside a plate for him from the cookout earlier. She even saved him some cake. Pineapple upside-down cake. One of his favorites, one he had been thinking about lately. Nice cake. Using his phone, I took a shot of him with his "Nice cake", us grinning like fools about the in-joke. I even said to him, on the ride to his place in Garden City, that he should play those numbers on the back of that fortune. After all, how many fortune cookie messages are found to be true?? Yeah, that would be cool. So, at 2:30am, I drop him off at his place, with our "Love ya, girl" "Love you too, Sam" hanging in the air. I stay a moment, making sure he gets inside safely before I take my tired self home. And that was the last I saw of him. He tried at some point to forward the "Nice cake" picture from his cell to mine, but it didn't take. I figured I would have him resend it the next time we talked.

And now, he's to be buried on Saturday. 42 years old, gone already. So many future plans, all on hold now. He was very much looking forward to a family reunion in Orlando in December. He was even going to do the odious task of going through the big box of family photos his sister had and putting them in albums for the reunion. He was going to Dragon*Con again with myself and the Delongs. He was going to go through his blogs for the past five years and publish a book of the best of them, at the urging of his college professor, Dr. H. He was going to finish his paralegal degree from South University. He was going to do all these time-consuming projects and more... but time stopped for him.

I still don't believe he's really gone. I guess I'll have to accept it at Steed's when his hand isn't on the microphone, his voice isn't ringing through the speakers, his presence isn't all over the room.

breathing again

Breathing is something we do with that reptilian part of our brain, a reflex action coerced by the need of our cells for oxygen for their many metabolic manipulations of materials we have ingested. Thank God we don't have to consciously command our lungs to inhale! Fill with fresh air, allow the hemoglobin to trap the oxygen and carry it away in the bloodstream! Then exhale! Blow out the carbon dioxide waste created by the cells, empty the lungs before the issuing of another command to inhale! How on earth would we have time for the many thoughts we think if we had to consciously take care of breathing and the beating of the heart and the working of the liver and kidneys and ... you get the picture.

Concentrating on the act of breathing is something I do to calm myself when I'm agitated, whether due to nervousness or anger or excitement or some other intense feeling. I usually close my eyes and allow only those words directly connected to respiration to visually enter my mind. Inhale. Hold it - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Exhale. I can even use that mantra to get to sleep on those occasions when my brain won't shut up and let me rest. If all other thoughts are banished and only those few are at the forefront, what else is there to do but sleep? N'est-ce pas?

But there is an antiquated meaning of respiration that has nothing to do with the physiological exchange of gases between the lungs and the atmosphere. "Relief from toil or suffering" is the phrase which best describes the obsolute definition; "taking a breather" is another and the one I think of when I need a break from life as I know it. Setting aside - completely - all work-related issues, all worries, all overbearing, nigh impossible loads so as to simply enjoy being alive in the present moment. That's why every so often I "run away" from home, most often to a sandy, salty shoreline to breathe, to arise from sleep unencumbered by the cares of the workday. Even if I am granted but a single morning away from the responsibilities of my life, that will suffice to make me feel calmer, more at peace with the world and all in it.

Breathe.

almost...

I am SO very ready for a little vacation at one of my favorite beaches. Daytona is calling me and I leave tomorrow morning for my home away from home. But first, I await my Charleston man, as I have invited him to come with me. The reservation I made in the middle of February was for a two-bedroom, just in case I wanted company, thinking I might invite a niece or so. You know, flexibility, in case I felt sociable, which is the resolution I'm working on this year. That was about the same time I test-drove eharmony and found it interesting and a fun concept.

Well, a couple of weeks ago, I decided to ask my singing bird if he would like to check out Daytona with me. He didn't respond right away, then I told him, hey, no pressure, it's two-bedroom. He agreed then, remarking that he had never been to that particular beach. A new beach for him, a second home for me. My turf, so to speak. Cool.

I am so looking forward to breathing again.

birthday

Today is Daddy's 73rd birthday. In November, he was in such very bad health, we didn't know if he would make it through the end of the year, so I didn't wait to give him a Christmas present. I wanted to do something different, something that would live on for a long time. At the beginning of December, I went to the National Arbor Day Foundation and ordered something special for him, something that would live on and help sustain new life as well. In "honor of Harvey Goodwin Smith" and his "72 years of life on this planet!", his "one-and-only, ever-lovin' daughter" had seventy-two young trees planted in a national forest (in Michigan), trees needed for nesting by endangered birds. (You, too, can honor a loved one by visiting the site http://arborday.org/join/tictim/index.cfm .) I received the certificate within a week, framed it, and made a special trip to deliver the gift to him. And I've been making special trips to Beaufort almost every week since.

Where was I? Oh, yes. Today is my father's 73rd birthday. I went to Beaufort to have dinner with him and the family, in honor of the occasion, sans birthday card. So later, as we're about to have cake and he is opening the cards from his sister and his youngest son, I said "I'm sorry, Daddy, but I don't have a birthday card for you." He raised his yellowed face so he could look right at me and said, "Baby, every day that you're alive is a birthday card for me."

I'll never forget those words.

invisible trees, still

You would think, after lo these many years, that I'd know to stay out of the path of invisible trees. 'Fraid not. I should certainly be more alert, especially when traipsing along the same paths, especially aware of their hidden nature and frightful effect on my Psyche. It's not even like these particular trees are new or even unique. And yet...
There I was, gaily skipping in a rosy world, a song in my heart and my head, then WHAM! A monstrous limb pops me up 'side my head, from nowhere, leaving me stunned in my tracks. What the fresh hell was THAT, my girl? Lemme tell you what it was. Ugliness, sheer unadulterated ugliness from the fourth dimension which had risen like a mountain before me, rearing its fearsome head and blocking all sensible thoughts, all sanity. Sigh.
That episode is now done, but I know other invisible trees of my own making lurk around the corners, waiting for me to wander from the path just a little so they can tromp all over me again, if I only let them. Because my inner pathways are most assuredly my choice, I do have control over that, if nothing else. Then again, the ease with which the bugaboos spring forth would seem to indicate that I don't have as much control as I would prefer to believe. So, if not control, then I certainly can choose. I choose to not allow my dear Psyche to be mauled by those invisible trees, to only allow glancing blows, near misses. I choose to try gallantly to pare down those mountainous limbs overhanging my logical right-of-way to mere wisps, nothing more. I choose.