Reliving Through Reunions

October has been an unusual nostalgia-filled month for me, primarily because I've attended not just one, but two high school reunions and also reminisced with a childhood friend who shared news of his class reunion which I would have attended if my dad hadn't moved us the summer before my ninth grade. The first reunion, my own, took place in New Smyrna Beach, FL, about 10 miles south of Daytona Beach. I must note here that I did not grow-up in NSB like the majority of my classmates. My family moved there in 1968 when my dad became City Manager of the town, but I quickly assimilated into the social scene of high school life and my memories are most vivid of years lived here. I identify more with NSB than other cities where I lived: So. Charleston, WV - ages birth to 2 years, Lakeland, FL - where I lived from ages 2 to 11, Princeton, WV - ages 11-13, or Bartow, FL - ages 13-14. Oddly enough, when I talk about my growing up years I am usually referring to my years in NSB. Even though on many levels I was an 'outsider', I always felt accepted here and many of the closest friendships I still have today are with friends I made in high school at NSB.

Back to the reunions.

My graduating Class of 1971 hosted three-days of events and invited alumni from other graduating years to join our fun. This brought me in contact with old friends from different graduating classes and expanded the opportunity to share memories.Thursday night of the reunion weekend nearly 20 of us gathered for a small, quiet (ha-ha!) pre-reunion event dinner. We met at a Port Orange restaurant with classmates from the classes of 1970-73 and filled the restaurant with laughter and wild stories of adventure in the lives of teenagers searching for their grown-up identities during a time of global turmoil. We were able to catch-up on the latest news in each of our families, share news about our kids and grandkids, work, retirements or planned retirements. It was one of those wonderful evenings where the only regret was not being able to get around the table fast enough to share more time with each person. It was a great prequel to the rest of the activity-filled weekend.

Friday and Saturday nights were the 'big events' of the reunion weekend. Friday, we were slated to gather for a tailgate party before the NSB vs Mainland football game in Daytona but rain moved the party to a karaoke pub in NSB, which worked great for our crowd. Some sang, all applauded. Catching up with those we hadn't seen the night before was great fun. For me, there was a moment of nostalgia shock because the karaoke pub had formerly been a landmark restaurant in NSB - the Skyline - a favorite of ours when I lived there - a place where you could purchase fresh lobster for $5 each back in the 1960s and earlier. I remember in later years when they raised the price to $15 and you could hear people in the restaurant complaining, 'I can remember when you could get lobster here for just two-dollars each!" demonstrating the changing times and economy over the decades.

Saturday night was another bit of nostalgia shock when our party was hosted at Clancy's Cantina, a Mexican restaurant opened by a

family of former classmates and apparently a town favorite. Clancy's is located in what used to be Hathaway's Grocery on the beachside. When I lived in NSB there were two places in town where you could get great freshly butchered beef. On the mainland we had Tyner's Grocery and on the beachside, it was Hathaway's. Both are now gone and the former Hathaway's butcher counter has been replaced with a bar. Weird. But the restaurant is very nice. I like the fact that this old building has been re-purposed rather than demolished for a parking lot. It fits with the environmental awakening that became popular with my generation.



I graduated with about 250 classmates in 1971 and about 75 of those (plus several spouses) were represented at the reunion. Sadly, we've lost a lot of former classmates - some while we were in high school, many since that time due to illness or other tragedies. We remembered them as we gathered. We shared a lot of laughs and memories of good times. We talked about the Vietnam War, our hippie roots, bell bottom pants, rock 'n roll, high school prom, beach cruising, scaling lifeguard towers at night, bikinis, riding the dunes, Boone's Farm Apple Wine, surfing, water skiing in the Indian River, the best party sites, our young dreams and our current realities, UFOs, singing in chorus, playing in band, the Civil Rights Movement, burning bras, streaking, powder puff football, senior skip day, how we thought others perceived us 40 years ago and lots of other 'remember whens'. It was all very grand despite being a weekend filled with constant rain and high winds. Sunday morning, several of us gathered for breakfast and final goodbyes at another NSB landmark, Toni and Joe's on the beach - the only location of our reunion spots that is still operated by the original family - the Granieris. There was a sense of comfort and familiarity sitting there sipping coffee with old friends, but even good times come to an end at some point and for me, this is where my NSB 40th class reunion good times had to part ways.
Although my husband, Steve, isn't a fellow NSB High School graduate, he's attended each reunion with me over the decades and has assimilated into the Class of '71 quite easily. He's heard so many of the same stories over the years - my version and the repeated versions of friends - that most of the time he knows the ending to the story before the teller can finish. But he waits, patiently allowing each person to reminisce and shares the laughter as though it were the first time he'd heard the story. I like that he fits in easily and doesn't become a wallflower like some spouses at reunions.

This past weekend - just two weeks after our Florida reunion trip - we traveled to West Virginia to participate in his multi-year alumni reunion event. It was a huge contrast from my NSB reunion experience.

Steve's class only had about 50 graduates - rather average for his school in the 1960s and early 1970s. They combined graduating years in an effort to boost attendance but there were still less than 40 people total at the one-event reunion. We met friends from Pineville High School graduating classes 1968 - 1972 for a very nice buffet dinner at Tamarack in Beckley, WV. For those reading this who aren't familiar with Tamarack, it's a landmark visitors center operated by the State of West Virginia that showcases arts, crafts and other products specifically made in West Virginia. They have a cafeteria contracted to The Greenbrier Resort, which means the food is excellent quality and this is who catered the Saturday night dinner.

While there is a sharp contrast between my NSB reunion and Steve's PHS reunion, there are great merits to both events. I wouldn't say either was better than the other. Both were wonderful and memorable in their own right. Old friends came together to share memories, update each other about their current lives and leave having made a new memory. Both events offered food and great door prizes, although, I must confess that I won nothing at my own NSB reunion, but Steve won a calculator at my reunion. I won the big gift basket door prize at Steve's PHS reunion - hooray!

If I had to name any regrets over either of these reunions, I'd have to say I regret that more people weren't present for both. The surprise for me was the high number of former classmates for both reunions who actually live in the local areas but chose to not attend their reunion. We traveled 10 hours to get to my reunion and five hours for Steve's. Both were expensive trips with overnight stays for us, as well as for numerous former classmates but a significant number of local folks chose to stay away. What's with that? It's hard for me to understand why such a disconnect has occurred over the decades, especially from people whom we had such close relationships with during high school and even for many years post-high school. Some of us braved high winds and rains to attend the reunion, traveling far distances, so it's hard for me to understand why someone who lives a mile or two down the road couldn't ramp into gear to show-up to reminisce with old friends. But the truth is, this is a reflection on their character, not mine nor that of those who did attend.

The wonderful reality of both reunions is the amount of maturity we've all gained over the decades. The need to impress one another is non-existent these days which is a major improvement over early reunions. We all seem to have settled into life as it has unfolded before us and that youth-driven need to compete or out-do the other guy faded away as gray hair, extra pounds (in most cases) and wrinkles settled on us. All of the unrecognizable faces I saw returned to their youthful selves once I recalled their names at the reunions. I'm definitely a gray-haired (under the Clairol), fat old broad with glasses these days but I also like to think that the years have brought me wisdom, courage and compassion that I didn't possess as a teenager. I recognize the relationships of these beautiful old friends helped to influence and mold me into who I am today, which is actually not such a terrible thing. I look forward to our next gathering.

Honoring Dads...

Dad's across America are waking up this morning to many good wishes for a wonderful day. If you forgot to mail your dad a Father's Day card it's not too late. Log onto an e-card website and send him something that represents your sentiments. I mailed my dad a card but also sent him an e-card. He particularly likes the unique creations I make for him at www.jibjab.com, so that's where I went to send him good wishes when he logs on this morning.

Like millions of other moms, when I was growing up it was my mom who led us through the Father's Day salutes, reminding us a week or more in advance. Back in the 1950s and 60s when I was growing up (or, "In the Dinosaur Age," as my son Isaac says), remembering to honor you dad on Father's Day and your mom on Mother's Day was fairly easy. There wasn't much competition with other interests and activities like there is today. We weren't distracted by a Wii or other game system - and kids of my generation didn't typically get Sunday afternoon horseback riding lessons, or other extravagant luxuries. We went to church in the morning, had Sunday dinner mid-afternoon, then either played, finished weekend homework, or did a few chores. When I was young most of the stores weren't even open on Sundays, so there were no distractions for shopping needs/wants, either. Occasionally, we would go to a Sunday afternoon movie because it was only 10-cents until about grade eight. Then it went up to a quarter, and I think by high school it cost a whole dollar to go to a movie. A 15-cent box of popcorn would last the entire movie. Today, Steve and I can't go to the movies together for less than $30. Tickets are $7.50 each ($15 for two), and the popcorn/drink combo is another $15. BIG DIFF!

When I was young, my dad was very active. He loved to fish more than any other activity and by his forties he also developed an interest in golf. Growing up in Lakeland, FL from age 2 to sixth grade - an era of stability before dad went into city management and we became a family of gypsies, moving every few years - we lived on Crystal Lake. It was wonderful. The entire neighborhood worked together to create and maintain a beautiful stretch of sandy beach, complete with a floating dock about 100 yards offshore. Dad could be found knee-deep in water with his line cast out waiting for a big bass to bite most evenings after 5pm. On weekends, he would take my two older brothers, Stephen and Mark, out onto the lake in the little fishing boat he bought. Somewhere around fifth grade, dad decided to convert the boat to a sailboat. He was amazing! Nothing dazed him. Did I mention that he also taught us how to make homemade rootbeer and one year he made a darkroom in a box to teach my brothers how to develop film for a Boy Scout project. Once they were finished with their project, he taught me how to turn that same box into an incubator so I could hatch chicken eggs for a science project.

Growing up, I knew my dad was the smartest man on earth, not to mention magical. One night when I was in Kindergarten, we were watching a show about World War II. I knew dad had served in the Navy and I asked him if he ever got shot during the war. He said, "Oh - yes - I was mortally wounded!" Of course, I had no idea what 'mortally' meant, so I asked. He said, "It means I died." As my five year-old brain processed this concept with some skepticism he explained to me with sincerity that he wasn't a real human being now because he was a "...ghost...BOO!"  Which sent me and my younger brother, Jack, running and screaming to mom. Yes, I was a rather gullible child. I wish the story ended there but must confess that I made the mistake of telling my older brothers that our dad was a ghost. The teasing didn't stop for months.

I have learned a great deal from my dad over these past near six decades. He taught me the importance of being honest and holding onto integrity even when others around you do not. From my dad, I learned that respect and trust are earned, not given freely. I also learned the basics of Poker and gained a great love for many board and card games. I also learned how to hold my bladder between gas stations on family trips and how to use a charcoal grill. Dad taught me how to drive, how to do my taxes, how to change a tire, check my oil and radiator water levels, and how to polish shoes. He made sure I achieved a sound work ethic and is responsible for getting me my first job working for Parks and Rec at age 13 and keeping me employed every summer through high school. He convinced his publisher friend to hire me at age 15 to work at a weekly newspaper, then talked another friend into hiring me to flip burgers at the local Burger Chef. When I started college in 1971, he used his influence to get me a job as a photo journalist for a double-daily newspaper and it launched a career for me that lasted nearly three decades. He saw something in me that I didn't even know existed at the time.

When I reflect on my youth and young adult life there are very few moments that don't include some form of credit to my dad. He was there to name me at my birth and continues offering his love and support today. He's an amazing human being who has raised seven kids and been there to help raise grandkids and even great-grandkids today. My siblings and I affectionately refer to dad as a "stubborn old coot," (something we all also inherited from him, like our arthritis, too), but I believe it takes a stubborn quality like my dad's to successfully raise a brood of kids who are self-sufficient, contributing members of society. He could have given up on any one of us long ago, but he didn't. He hasn't been shy in telling us when we make him proud, but it's really us who are proud of him. He's accomplished much in his 90 years, maintaining his integrity throughout, teaching us life's most important lessons by setting a good example.

Today is a special day to honor our dads and I, for one, will always be grateful to my dad for all he's done for me in my life. Thanks, dad. And Happy Father's Day. I love you.

Congratulations or Condolences?

To say I've been on a whirlwind lately is an understatement. About a month ago, I was approached by the acting president for the board of directors at Mental Health America of the Triangle (MHAT) where I've worked as a family advocate on and off since 2000, consistently 'on' since 2007. Our executive director had submitted his resignation and our board asked me to serve as interim executive director while they worked on a permanent plan for leadership. The side note was that in addition to assuming the top role of the organization on an interim basis they also needed me to assume the responsibilities as project director for one of our programs, Reclaiming Futures (RF). I have been intrigued with RF since we were funded for it two years ago because of it's a national initiative to prevent substance abuse in adolescents and to connect families of youth entering the juvenile justice system with treatment services and community resources - an important, ambitious project.

I must confess that I was completely surprised by the offer and also intrigued at the option for a new challenge. By saying 'yes' I quickly learned that my first official week on the job I was going to have to be in Miami for a leadership conference with Reclaiming Futures. I'm not fond of travel - unless it's a cruise ship - so was beginning to worry that I had taken on more than I really wanted in the way of a job. Yep - the dreaded 'second thoughts' hit me like a wave of nausea. I felt the need for quick reinforcement or quick confirmation that I needed to bail, immediately, so did what any other good girl does. I emailed my dad to ask for his opinion.

Dad has always been brutally honest and I knew if there were any facets I wasn't prepared to handle for the position he would quickly point them out to me. I kept second-guessing my decision, asking myself what in the hell have you said 'yes' to and wishing I hadn't responded so quickly to the request. But, it wouldn't be the first time I had reacted impulsively and had regretful worries. Dad was taking his own sweet time replying to my email which added to my paranoia. I was certain he was going to respond with a lineup of reasons why I should renig on the acceptance.

When I finally received his response, instead of chastisement, dad was supportive. He said he felt I was more than competent to handle the responsibilities as an executive director and believed I was going to be a good leader for the organization. He offered me affirmations which was exactly what I needed.

As the announcement of my new position filtered out into the community I heard from many friends and professional acquaintances. One asked me, "Should I offer your congratulations, or condolences?" We laughed together and I said maybe a little of both. But isn't that a universal truth about most everything? There are pros and cons to everything.

Ecclesiastes tells us "To everything there is a season and a purpose under heaven," which helps me accept that I'm here today for a reason and it's my charge to do the best job I'm capable of doing. If I fall short it won't be for lack of trying because I was brought up by two parents who were great role models of integrity and hard work. They molded me into the person I am today and when it comes right down to it, I'm not really afraid of a new challenge. I'm more fearful of not meeting other peoples' expectations or needs but, as my dad pointed out, when I give the job all I've got then there's a high chance I'll get things done effectively.

So, here I am - on a new journey and ready to rise to the challenge. Wish me luck!

The sadness of anniversary dates...

Josh with brothers Jacob & Isaac 1996 (photo by Pat Jarrell Shortt)

By the calendar, tomorrow, September 13th, marks two years since Steve and I were told that our son, Josh, was murdered. By the days of the week, I think of the second Friday of September and remember sitting in our family room after hearing on the news that Matt Johnson - one of the last known people to have seen Josh - had been kidnapped. There were anxious calls with sisters Sue and Marty, as well as friend Lynn, speculating if Josh had also been kidnapped as we searched for answers about his disappearance. I remember sitting here, working up the courage to call Tim Horne at the Orange County Sheriff's Department to see if there was any connection between Matt's kidnapping and Josh and then when I did make the call, was unable to reach him. All of us were on pins and needles trying to get to the bottom of a connection, feeling very emotional and maybe even on a psychic level, knew there had to be a connection but were getting no answers. It had been nearly two months since we last saw Josh. We were consumed with worry. By the time I actually did get Tim on the phone late in the day, he was upset with me for interrupting his interrogations and since he had never met or spoken to me, only to Steve, he insisted on speaking with Steve, which added insult to injury to me. He explained that he was not going to jeopardize an ongoing investigation by giving out unauthorized information to someone he didn't know and promised he would call if and when he had any information for us pertaining to Josh.  Later that evening he called back to apologize for his abruptness. He said he had been up for several days with little to no sleep trying to get a break in the case and he was very sorry for taking out his frustration on us and wanted to assure us he was intensely searching for Josh and felt he'd have some answers for us very soon.

The next morning, Steve and Isaac hit the road for Smith Mountain Lake to go work on the sailboat. I had plans to go to my friend Cely's house to work on making pottery along with a few members of my parent group from work, Georgia, Amy and Rob. I knew it would be a good distraction for me. Just as I was heading out the door around 9:00 a.m., Tim Horne called. He said he wanted to come by because he had a few more questions to ask about Josh. I asked if Steve needed to be here and he said it would be helpful if he were but if he was out of town, Tim still needed to come talk to at least me. He said he'd be over within the next 15 or 20 minutes. I called Steve and told him Tim was on his way over because he had more questions. Steve was near Danville, VA and decided to turn around and come home.

I called Cely to let her know I would be late, put on a pot of coffee, let the dogs out and decided to go sweep the front porch while waiting for Tim. I began sweeping and knocking down cobwebs and had my back to the road when I caught a glimpse of someone's car pulling into the driveway. A minute later, Tim approached the front porch, introducing himself and apologizing, again, for his abruptness the day before. As I reached out to shake his hand, I noticed someone following 20 feet behind him and before glancing up I instantly thought it was a fellow officer. When I actually turned my eyes to see his companion, my smile dropped as my mouth opened. He had brought our pastor, Ray Warren, along with him. My knees buckled as Tim and Ray helped me and I kept saying, "No...no...no...no..." I knew if Ray was with him it was the worst of all imaginable news.

They helped me into the house and Tim began to tell me what he knew. He had been up all night, but it wasn't until much later that we learned why.  Tim said that his investigation took him to a grave near Jordan Lake but the body was too decomposed to make a positive ID. He came to me to get the name of Josh's dentist because they were going to have to confirm identification by dental records. I held onto hope that it was all a mistake and this wasn't Josh they found as I gave him the contact info for Dr. Lenise Clifton. He called her from our house and then left to meet her at the dental office while Ray stayed with me. 

Things tend to get a bit fuzzy for me from this point on. I know I tried to reach Sue, Sherry, Marty and Lynn and nobody answered their phones. I left messages and kept trying. I felt a bit peeved at Marty for not having a cell phone when I desperately needed to reach her. I had no idea how long it would take Steve to get home and I wanted to scream, faint, crawl into a hole or get drunk - any of it - all of it - the whole time hoping for good news but my gut was telling me, "This is very bad."  I vaguely remember finally reaching Sue on her cell and just telling her to get everybody over here as soon as possible.

Somewhere in between, Georgia, Amy and Rob showed up at the house with Cely to check-in on me. Apparently, someone from the church had let them know I had received heartbreaking news. They came to keep me company until family arrived. I can't remember who arrived first, my sisters or Lynn, but I remember everyone being present. I don't remember if Lynn got there with Devin or came alone. Like I said, much of this is blurry to me but they are details that aren't really important.  I think Steve arrived either just before or just after Tim Horne returned and delivered the news that confirmed Josh's dental records. I can't remember.

What I do remember is my family, friends and church rallying to love and support us that day, as well as the following weeks and months that followed. They still do. I have little memory of the week that followed or of Josh's memorial service. I remember Pastor Ray calling friends for us. I remember calling my friend Pearl and not being able to finish the conversation, but she showed up at my door all the way from Florida the next evening with her son, Rick and his wife, Jen. I remember Andy, Carla, Philip and Marla being with us everyday for a long time, holding us up, making sure we had nourishment. I remember Gail and Samantha showing up on Sunday morning with food and hugs, stepping in to take Isaac and provide him entertaining distractions while we laid in bed, exhausted and in tears. I remember wishing my mother was able to be with me and hating the cancer that consumed her body and prevented her from making the trip from Florida to be where I knew she wanted to be and glad that she exerted her influence to send my dad in her place. I appreciated the presence of all our siblings being present, along with several cousins - Debby, Patty and Debbie, as well as aunts Carol and Judy and uncle Ben. Our friends the Fortners, Susan and Andrew Schrank, Carole and Charles Ensign, came from parts around the southeast to be here for the memorial service but I remember very little about spending time with them. And there were my co-worker, Linda, and boss Mark, who checked on us every day, as well as Cindy, Rob, my FAN-PAC, and tons of other friends both far and near, too many to mention here, but whose presence and kindness brought us great comfort. Through all of the sadness the one thing that has been demonstrated to us repeatedly is that we have a network of people who love us and for that, we feel truly blessed. We know you can't heal our pain, but you have done a good job of sharing it with me and Steve. Maybe it's this distribution of the pain to all of you that lifts enough weight from us so we are able to get up each morning and carry on with our lives and taking care of Isaac and Jacob.

Today, on this second anniversary of the date we received the horrifying news, I want to thank each of you for hanging in there with us. We might not be good at always letting you know this, but we love you very much and thank God each day for having you in our lives. You have been our strength and encouragement on days when we felt our weakest and as though we couldn't go on. Thank you for being there. Thank you for not letting Josh's memory die with him. Thank you for feeling that despite his personal demons and struggles, he had goodness and potential. Thank you for feeling as indignant as we feel when idiots in the media focus on the negatives in his life. Thank you for helping us remember that Josh was a likable, fun-loving person who could make us laugh and enjoyed simple things in life, like country music, fishing, riding a bicycle, playing board games, taking walks, sharing time with family, helping neighbors, or eating a bowl of pinto beans with cornbread. Mostly, thank you in advance for standing beside us as we wait for the slow process of justice for Josh. Two years seems like an eternity when you are waiting for trials to begin. Let's hope they begin and end, soon.

Love to all...julie

Memories from a vacation gone right and wrong...

And old high school friend of mine, Al, recently sent me the story about Kulula Airlines, a South African low-fare airline that seems to have a keenly developed sense of humor. On a recent flight, passengers reported hearing the pilot on the PA system say, "Kulula Airlines is pleased to announce that we have some of the best flight attendants in the industry. Unfortunately, none of them are on this flight." The airline doesn't just knockout one-liners over the PA system. They also have painted their aircraft in a lime green color with directional indicators all over the outside of the plane, much like what you might see on a blueprint. I especially like the arrows pointing to "the big cheese (captain, my captain!)" and "black box (which is actually orange)." Of course, the giant imprinted "flying 101" could cause passengers to lose a little confidence.
The airline story caused me to remember an incident Steve and I experienced in 1986 when we made a trip to Cozumel. It was our tenth anniversary and we were in the midst of building our first home together. I worked for an advertising agency and found a really sweet deal through the Hotel and Travel Index (HTI) for under $400 each that included roundtrip airfare, four nights/five days stay in a suite at an oceanfront resort, three meals a day, and two diving trips. Awesome! A few years earlier we both were certified as SCUBA divers and loved the sport, so thought it would make a great diving trip.

Culture shock set-in shortly after we touched down in Cozumel. Of course, it was preceded by extreme fear as the airplane's landing gear touched the tar mac with brakes on. We felt like we were in a mile long skid when we made a rapid, sharp turn at the end of the runway to avoid hitting the thicket of palm scrub. All passengers were thrown into a deep lean to the right as the plane made what felt like a 90-degree turn. There were plenty of cheers when the plane finally came to a halt, safely at the terminal.

Collecting our baggage and moving through Customs was a breeze, but an uneasy feeling began to set-in when we noticed all of the airport security. It was something out of a Hollywood movie set. There were short, native men standing around everywhere, dressed in what appeared to be a navy blue version of our orange prison jump suits, holding automatic weapons while eyeballing the perimeter of  a 10-foot tall barbed wire fence that surrounded the airport. Steve and I gave questioning glances at each other, wondering what we had gotten ourselves into.

Our Cozumel vacation package included what was advertised as "limousine shuttle to and from the airport." We saw our driver waiting near baggage claims holding a sign indicating he was from our resort. We had to wait while other passengers collected their luggage and we all walked to our "limousine" together. It was only us and two college girls from Miami. When we walked out of the terminal with our chauffeur, we passed a stretch limo and walked over to a 20 year-old VW van where he began loading our luggage. The four of us stared questioningly to one another, unable to speak. Our driver escorted us to the open van door and motioned for us to "have a seat." All of the seats inside the van had been removed and replaced with pieces of plywood nailed on top of milk crates secured to the floorboard. Steve helped me in and said, "Well, I guess you get what you pay for."

It was a bumpy ride, in more ways than one. We chatted with the college students who were staying at a resort different from ours. Their package also include "limousine shuttle to and from the airport." The four of us tried to laugh about our predicament and enjoy the scenery along our drive. There was some road construction, which was interesting because there was no heavy equipment being utilized. Workers were clearing the road with pick axes, shovels and rakes. Other construction workers were sawing trees by the roadside and we found it interesting that they were using donkeys to haul away the fallen trees. It was a site to behold and gave us great appreciation for the modern conveniences we have at home and also gave us a visual for what life was probably like in the early days for our own country's settlers.

Our driver took the two students to their resort first. He made a turn off of the narrow pavement onto a dirt road through the palm scrubs and we drove for about a half mile, wondering the entire time if we were being driven to the middle of nowhere to be robbed and abandoned. Stupid us. Anybody could have held a sign with our resort names written on it. We didn't even ask for any I.D. from the guy! All of a sudden the scrub opened up and we were in front of what appeared to be a bombed out building. The front looked more like ruins than a resort. The girls were really scared and we were frightened for them. When we pulled up, another man ran to greet the girls and help with their luggage. We quickly exchanged names and contact info for each resort as a safety measure, just in case the girls found themselves stranded. Then we were off through the scrub down the lonesome road again, heading for our resort - at last. It wasn't very far down the road from the girls' resort, but again we turned down another dirt road through the scrub brush. This time, we came to a guarded gate resembling a border patrol. The attendant was armed with an automatic weapon which he used to wave us through the gate. It was an unsettling feeling as we approached our destination.

Our resort didn't look as shelled as the previous one but it was clearly in serious disrepair. This time, an American met us out front to help with our baggage and check us into the resort. Once we walked through the ruins of the porticoes, the other side of the building was like heaven! The flooring changed to terra cotta tiles and a beautiful garden landscape that opened up to the crystal clear ocean. The beautiful white sandy beach was painted with colorful cabanas and sailboards that we could see across the two swimming pools. Our room was facing a garden and was like an oasis retreat. The service and food were amazing. There was even a domesticated Tucan who begged food from the guests as they dined on the lanai.

The diving trips were phenomenal! When we set out on the converted shrimp boat for our first dive trip we passed the resort where we left the girls. It was even more stunningly beautiful than where we were staying. We never heard from the two girls and imagine they had an incredible vacation, too. Of course, the converted shrimp boat ran extremely slow, which was frustrating for a boat filled with anxious divers. Once we anchored, our dive master grouped us by four's and instructed us to meet him at the anchor. He dove into the crystal blue water and we could see him swim all the way to the anchor. We all began jumping in, one after another. But when I hit the water, I surfaced to locate Steve and that was a mistake. I could see that the deck of the boat was a good 15 feet above the water line and I began to panic that I would never get my fat rear-end back on board. One of my other dive buddies who had already made two dives offered me word of comfort. He said, "Don't worry about it! See that crane and line? They throw that overboard for everybody. You toss your fins and mask into the bucket and they lasso your tanks and hoist you up to the ladder."  Oh, yeah. The ladder that was 10-feet above the water line. Easy. HA! So, I let the air out of my BC vest and began my descent into heaven underwater. I had a few minor problems on the dive with my BC vest. My air tank kept leaking into the vest forcing it to inflate slowly, which caused me to start rising towards the surface, so my entire dive, I had to keep squeezing my arms together to push the air out of the vest. It was quite an adventure.

I've gone a long way around in sharing our vacation adventure to tell you about the airplane. The most frightening and yet, funny experience happened while we were waiting in the airport to depart. Our plane was delayed because the plane scheduled before us was delayed. We flew Mexicana Airlines and were waiting for the AeroMexico plane to leave. The technicians working at the airport kept running out to the plane checking something at the door hatch. This went on for over an hour. Finally, they allowed the departing passengers to board the plane. As they closed the door, two of the technicians took rolls of duct tape out of their back pockets and sealed the door shut. No kidding. When they finished, they walked down the rolling stairwell, pushing it aside so our plane could move up the tar mac for us to board. The technicians were shaking their heads and wiping the sweat off their foreheads and necks, laughing and talking in Spanish, saying what I can only imagine to be words of congratulation about having come up with such an ingenious idea. All of us passengers waiting to board the next plane laughed in disbelief - and fear. I told Steve if our door didn't shut as soon as the last person boarded, we were taking a boat home. Fortunately, that didn't happen.

Sadly, about a month later, AeroMexico flight 498 crashed in its descent to Los Angeles when a second, smaller aircraft collided with it mid-air. There were no survivors. Steve and I couldn't help but think of that AeroMexico plane on the tar mac at Cozumel as we watched a ground crew tape shut the hatch with duct tape. We were glad that it, at least, had made it safely to its destination.

Remembering Colleen and other 4-legged friends

Colleen

Yesterday, my sister Marty had to euthanize her dog, Colleen, who had become increasingly ill over the last six months. Colleen was about 14 years-old, a border collie who Marty rescued from a flea market puppy mill several years back. I remember when Marty first brought her home and what sad shape the dog was in. Colleen had nursed so many puppies in her short lifespan her teats nearly dragged the floor. She looked miserably uncomfortable and was extremely skittish.

Colleen didn't seem to like other people very much in the early days. She cowered at the slightest movement of people around her and noises made her shiver. She snipped at my kids when they couldn't heed Marty's warnings about, "Let her come to you rather than you approaching her because she's not used to people and she might bite you." Marty worked hard to teach her socialization skills and it worked wonders. Colleen grew into the sweetest dog and was a comforting companion for my sister. She eventually learned to tolerate my boys and allowed them to pet and hug on her in a short time. Marty loved the good nature of the breed and eventually adopted another border collie, Frodo. I imagine that Frodo is missing his beloved Colleen today just as much as Marty misses her. It's a sad passing. I hurt for my sister and the grief I know she's experiencing.

All of my siblings seem to have a genuine affection for animals today, but I'm not sure where that comes from since our parents were never keen on pets when we were growing up. Personally, I've always leaned more towards cats ever since childhood but being married to a dog person has helped me to cultivate a passion for canines, too. Some 30 years ago, Steve and I had to leave our long-haired cat, Sydney, with mom and dad for awhile. Dad wasn't very happy about the idea but one day he witnessed a neighbor's Irish Wolfhound preparing to take another dump in his yard and just as the dog was sniffing for a good spot, Sydney jumped out of the bushes and chased the Wolfhound down the road, tail between his legs. From that moment on, dad said that Sydney was always welcome in his house. Maybe that was a turning point for dad in regards to how he viewed family pets. Dog-hating Sydney passed away around age 8 from a brain tumor, but I will never forget him. We currently have two beagles, Judy and Beetle, and one cat, Otis. Past animals in our 34 years of married life have mostly died from old age related illnesses like sweet Colleen. Thunder was our English Springer Spaniel whom we adopted when he was four years-old and laid to rest when he was 17. Wickett was our miniature poodle-maltese mix who was given to us at age five weeks by Steve's sister Debbie. Wickett passed away a few years ago at the age of 18. Our girl kitty, Kiki, died from old age illness when she was 19 and Tipper was 13 when he had to be euthanized after being bit by a rabid bat a few years ago. I still feel grief over the loss of these furry friends whom we always considered to be members of the family.

Before Steve and I adopted our children I remember my mother kept encouraging us to "have children" because she felt we were spending too much money on our animals between vet bills, grooming, treats, obedience lessons, etc. She didn't see the logic in it and felt if we were going to spend this much money, love and attention on something, "...it should be kids!" A few years after we adopted our three children, mother commented, "It might have been cheaper if you had stuck with raising animals!"

I have witnessed a change in my parents attitude about pets over the years. Even though they never chose to adopt pets of their own, they welcomed each of our dogs or cats with warmth and care. They consoled us whenever one of our furry family members passed away. My youngest sister, Mary, lives in the same county as my parents and each time she visited she has carted both dogs with her, without hesitation and without resentment from my folks. When Mary's chocolate lab, Willow, passed away in recent years, both of my parents were sad for Mary's loss and often reflected on what a good dog Willow was and how they missed her. Now that my mom has passed away, Mary still takes Tucker over when she visits with dad a few times a week and perhaps the biggest surprise of all is when she leaves Tucker at his house. Dad says she leaves Tucker for him to "dog-sit," but when I've talked to him on the phone some of those times he is constantly tossing the ball for Tucker to fetch, laughing at what fun the two are having and telling me how smart Tucker is. I'm thinking that Mary leaves Tucker there to dad-sit rather than dad doing the dog-sitting. Either way, they seem to be great company for one another.

At the risk of sounding morbid, I have to share that we still have the cremains of Thunder, Wickett, Kiki and Tipper in our house. It was always our plan to have a family pet cemetery - somewhere. Last year we finally dedicated a Jarrell family cemetery on brother Mark's farm in West Virginia and one of these days I intend to bury my beloved animals right beside my son, Josh. They were his pets, too, and it will give me comfort to know they are all together, resting quietly beside my mother, June, and my brother, Stephen. I don't know if Marty will bring Colleen's cremains or if Mary will bring Willow's to the mountain, but I hope they do. There's something comforting about having these special family members with us forever.

For those of us who elevate our pets to family status, losing them is a crushing blow. After the death of a pet many of us eventually bring home a new furry companion which others mistakenly think is a futile effort to replace what we've lost. While I am one of those people who has brought home a new dog or cat a few months after the death of an old one, I never feel I am trying to replace anything because they are as irreplaceable as a child would be. When I finally bring home a new feline or canine addition to the family after one dies it's simply because I'm ready to open my heart again even though the feelings of grief and loss for the former pet never really leave. I still feel love over the laughter and good times I had with Thunder, Wickett, Kiki, Tipper and the others - and I know Marty will feel that way, too, if she ever chooses to bring home a new family member for herself and Frodo.

I'm sorry for your loss of Colleen, Marty. It makes me cry to think of her being gone and of the grief I know you are feeling. I wish I had a magic wand to make you feel better but all I can give you is hugs. Love you!

P.S. To all of you who have experienced the passing of a family pet, especially my cousin Debbie and friend Pearl who have each lost more than one this year, I offer my heartfelt condolences. I hope you will share some of your own pet stories in the comments section below.

Life in the FB era...

Okay. I am compelled to make a confession. I have a love-hate relationship with Facebook. I've been a member for over two years and there have been periods of time when I go several weeks without signing-in to read posts or play games. Likewise, there are times when I keep the page open in my tabs for days on end, checking and re-checking to see what comments were posted in the past hour.

I say "love-hate relationship" because there are things I really love about FB and things I really hate.

My hate list includes having to scroll through all of the postings from friends who are moving up levels in different games or requesting game assistance (sorry - I know I was once guilty of this myself and while I still play two online games via FB, I now manage to click 'skip' when the prompt suggests that I 'tell friends' about my lame achievement). Other things on FB I dislike include:

• all of the invitations to different causes (events aren't as objectionable but it's too difficult to keep up with everyone's different cause or affiliation)
• all of the automated friend suggestions that come from FB based on friends of my friends - most of whom I either don't know or don't remember
• the constant updates and changes that occur on FB, especially when it comes to privacy implementation
• fear about virus risk from applications that are options via FB but aren't directly affiliated with FB - this includes all of the kisses, hugs, angels, etc., which are nice/thoughtful but my geek gurus inform me that these endanger your hard drive of becoming virus infected (I now do not open them but do appreciate their intended sentiment)
• flaming comments posted by friends and relatives whose philosophies or political views oppose my own, or in some cases, nearly insight me to riot (that's probably top of my list but in recent months I have decided that it really is okay to delete or hide them so I don't have to get the hairs on the back of my neck ruffled. I think this action helps to save relationships.)

What I primarily love about FB is how it has helped me to reconnect with old friends whom I haven't heard from in decades. Some of you reading this might be of the opinion that if you haven't heard from someone in many years then why bother? What could you possibly be missing? That's actually a good case statement and for those who feel this way, I'm not going to argue with you. It's a personal choice, truly. For me, however, it has been a major blessing, even connecting with some old friends whom I might not have been close to in the good old days has been exhilarating for me because it has provided me insight into who I was in my youth and who I have become today. While each of us can claim uniqueness on many levels, we are still the product of many influences during our childhood.  I am a better person today because of the people I knew and friends I had in my past. Thankfully, like most of my old friends, I've matured beyond my high school and college years. Heck - I think it's safe to say that I've matured beyond the person I was even just last year. Maybe it's a natural evolutionary process, genetic encoding, something learned through trial and error or just plain luck. It doesn't really matter. Change is imminent. And, as the Borg say, "Resistance is futile." Sometimes (especially when it involves aging) it's much harder to stop the process than it is to just go with the flow. (Did I really just use the words "mature" and "Borg" in the same paragraph? Whatwhoa!)

Family connections...2007

Reconnecting with old friends and staying connected with family across distances makes putting up with all the other FB frustrations worth the effort. It's also a great way to get information out to a lot of folks all at the same time when you need to convey something quickly. Through reading posted comments I've also been able to witness personal growth among some close friends and family members that I find noteworthy. There is something personally empowering about being able to communicate as easily with others as we can on FB. I particularly like that if/when I post a comment and have second thoughts later, I can click the 'remove' button and all traces are instantly deleted as though they never happened.Wouldn't it be nice if our tongues had a delete button?

In the realm of "If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride," delete buttons for everyday faux pas sure would make that ride more comfortable.

So, how about you? What do you hate or love about FB? Have you ever deleted or hidden a 'friend' whose posts drove you nuts - or deleted something you posted after having second thoughts? Inquiring minds want to know.  :-)