Days Like This...



  Mama said there'd be days like this, there'd be days like this my mama said -- except she didn't. The name of this blog is sub-headed, Things My Mother Never Told Me. Maybe there are so many things she never told me, maybe because she didn't live long. She died when she was fifty-five. In any event, she didn't tell me about this day. This day that began so routinely. I stumbled downstairs as I always do, punted the pups out the back door for their daily constitutional; that required extra urging this morning because it was raining and they don't do rain. It required extra of me as well because I don't do morning until I've had two cups of coffee and a walk.

  So I went about my usual, got ready for work, went to work, solved work problems and so on. I didn't know it then but my life changed at 9:17 A.M. My life and the lives of many of my friends.

  At 9:17 you slipped away from us. How like you -- no muss or fuss of long leave takings or agonizing goodbyes. You were here, then you weren't. Just like that.

  "I'm a slobbering mess," Emily said.  I'm a slobbering mess too, but I saved it for the lawn mowing this evening. As I pushed the mower up and down I thought about how you wanted to hear about my Nashville trip and my musician kids. You always wanted to hear "what those girls were up to." You left me with tear smears on my glasses as I blubbered along, the engine noise masking my distress.

  You prepared so many of us so thoroughly. You helped us develop the hides of rhinos for the rejection letters, but you also prepared us for when the answer was finally, "Yes, we want to publish your story, essay, poem, book."

 And of course you never took any credit. That wasn't (I almost wrote isn't-this is tough changing tenses) your way. You never took any of the credit and you so richly deserved. But Melissa got you good -- you are in the acknowledgements in her book, large as life, never to be deleted. There you go. See, we can have the last word even if you were too modest to accept it.

  You gave us the encouragement to keep writing, to keep going, even if all we did was stare at a blank sheet of paper. Sooner or later something will appear, you said. And you were right.

  All of us drank from the deep well of your constant encouragement, your suggestions, your warmth, and your undying friendship.

  I think I can say for the group that we wouldn't be the writers we are today without you. You have left a legacy you know, and we aren't going to let you forget it. There is the scholarship, and for the next however many years that we can keep raising money, some kid is going to continue benefiting from your life's work. That's something. Not a bad legacy.

  We miss you so much already. I hear the plan is you're going  to New Mexico. Okay, well, don't think for a minute we won't find you there. No park could be so remote. And prepare for more acknowledgements because we are going to keep on writing, and publishing, and it's all because of you.
  So take all our love, gratitude, and good wishes on your way. Not sure how you felt about the God thing, but wherever you are now, they are lucky to have you. I think if I close my eyes, I will be right there with you.

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