Walking along the pathways this week on a fresh, sunny, late winter afternoon I was reminded again of our tiny place in the vast, potentially infinite universe. Blue sky, light breeze, warmth of the sun on my back. It must somehow matter.
Facebook provides so many information inputs. We don’t even have to ask for them. Some algorithms somewhere pay attention to the ads we click, the videos we watch, the people and sites we follow, and offer up text, pictures and video. Meta hopes we stay engaged so that their sponsors will continue to advertise with them.
One such information input for me is on the subject of the makeup of the universe. How far are other celestial bodies; a light minute, light hour, light day, light month, light year, or even thousands and thousands of light years away. Billions of galaxies, each with a trillion stars. As I have mentioned before, this makes me feel very small and insignificant. Our bodies exist for such a short time, measured only in minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years. So what does it matter that we exist at all?
It matters because we are sentient beings. If we weren’t aware it wouldn’t matter. It matters because we are aware of ourselves and each other. We care about our own lives and the lives of others. Maybe even our awareness is of little consequence in the vast scheme of the universe. But then again, maybe not.
We know from science that our energy lives on either in free form or as other matter. We are transformed into life, and again when our lives end. We impact our environment which impacts the blue marble we live on. Surely we must have an impact on other regions of the universe in infinite time and space.
It matters because we care for ourselves, our families, our neighbors, communities, species, and the rest of the world around us. It doesn’t really matter how much we affect the universe. It matters that we matter to ourselves and each other.
Here’s why It matters to me; because Pam smiled with so much compassion and love.
Smiling and Holding Hands – 2019
It matters because I love her deeply, more than I understood until I was threatened with her absence. Then she was gone. Recently I realized that as much as I love her, she loved me more. That persistent thought both hurts and comforts me. It helps me understand my place in the universe. Her love was pure. And even at that, she loved her daughters even more!
Kara and Kelley, I hope you don’t mind that I make public this declaration of your Mother’s love for you. Making you. Making It matter that you are part of the universe.
As Pam would say, “Don’t forget.” You matter! We matter!
After writing the longest post in Wut Javia’s history last week, this may be one of the shortest. I don’t have anything deep or sensational to write about. So I’ll write about that.
It’s been a “normal” week. Patterns of my existence, once emerged, now are familiar routines of daily life. Sleep, wake, eat; all so ordinary. Morning meditations remain; peering at Pam’s picture, having a word or two about her smile, my love for her, how much I miss her.
Last week I considered four grieving goals, the last of which was reconstructing a faith significantly altered by loss. I said my faith was in disarray before Pam’s illness and passing, and it was. I’ve begun reading the book of Psalms. I’m told it considers the entire human condition in relationship with an almighty God. Since I feel like I’m experiencing all of those conditions, I thought it a reasonable place to start. Another attempt at establishing life after Pam.
Exercise, guitar practice, binge watching series’ on Netflix and Prime, make up much of my free time, after shopping, cleaning, accounting, etc. Really, nothing to write home about. I’m trying to wrap my mind around this new normal, consider where grief and loss fit in. Still conflicting thoughts and emotions. New normal.
How strange to have nothing to write home about. The last 10 months, in fact the last four years, have been filled with abnormality, at least for me. I know I am one of a myriad of others who suffer, and I know we all have to embrace abnormality as part of normality. But for me, it is consoling to see myself as having nothing to write home about; nothing out of the ordinary to write about. I still look forward to writing and singing about better subjects. Better times; mine, and yours.
I wish for you a normal week in which there is nothing to write home about – unless, of course, it’s great news you just have to share!
Bits of paper next to places where I sit around the house. Not to mention e-notes pasted in various applications on my computer or online (I guess I just mentioned them. Why do we say such things?).
Here’s one I wrote completely backwards, from right to left with the letters facing backwards also. Here are the words:
How did we ever Get to where we ask ‘What am I, chopped liver?” On a cracker, or with a spoon Has a taste, can make you swoon So if you don’t like the words I say What am I, chopped liver?
There may be the makings of a song here. The context is a familial prodding joke that arose from an old question basically asking why am I being left out, or am I less important than your or someone else – someone who can be ignored. But my siblings and I use it now very tongue-in-cheek when we discuss things we are doing or sharing family memories, with fondness and love. These are the kind of interactions that strengthen attachments, deepen relationships.
Another note contains grieving goals from a book called All Our Losses All Our Griefs, Resources for Pastoral Care by Kenneth R. Mitchell and Herbert Anderson, given by a good friend to help me on my journey. This book provides a different perspective on grieving from the point of view of professionals who work with, and laypeople who want to compassionately respond to, those who grieve.
Grieving Goals: – Admitting the reality of the loss – Creating a charitable memory – Beginning to make new investments and attachments – Reconstructing a faith significantly altered by loss
After 9-1/2 months of my grieving journey, I look at these goals and am encouraged – though even that is hard to believe. It took about four months just to come to terms with the fact that Pam is gone. Though sometimes still cathartic to talk to her, it is otherwise and empty exercise, as she cannot, and will not respond – at least in any way that I recognize or understand. But it is difficult to achieve any other goals without first admitting the loss.
I’ve had no problem creating a charitable memory. I so adored Pam and saw in her so many loving and caring attributes that I wish I could emulate. I sometimes still picture the moment of her death. I don’t like the image. But it reminds me that, in that moment, Pam’s suffering was over. And that’s a good thing. More and more I smile back at her when I look at pictures of her smiling. I am in touch with my love for her and realize the depth of her love for me and others. I am still sad for her loss, and my loss of her.
Progress on the last two goals is certainly ongoing. My body has been “telling” me that I need to take care of myself and catch up on the neglect I forced on it for the past few years as my attention was on caring for Pam. Should I just live out what is left of my life, though shorter due to neglect? Or will I find out what I need to and be wise about taking care of myself, expect to live longer, with better quality of life? Give myself the opportunity to nurture existing, and establish new attachments. I chose the latter. Now I am investing psychologically, emotionally, and monetarily in my physical wellbeing.
Reconstructing my faith is a much more challenging goal. My faith journey was in the weeds and tall grasses before Pam’s diagnosis and illness (I’ve got songs about this also). Losing her only exacerbated an already complicated and painful inner struggle. However, I am aware that my journey is more difficult by not being able to rely on faith in God to help me through my grieving process. Not that I don’t keep Him in the mix. I told the hospice chaplain that I still want to cover my bases. So the jury is still out on this goal. I hope those of you with strong faith will respect my circumstance and not attempt to “fix” or “save” me as I work through, toward some end. I promise you, it would not be helpful. On the other hand, thoughts and prayers are appreciated (covering bases). Thanks.
Three comparisons (opposites) on a piece of paper. I don’t remember what I read that prompted me writing this note, but I look at it from time to time and it continues to give me perspective:
Three reminders of decisions we can make on a daily basis. As I learn to live for myself, no longer for Pam or for the two of us, these simple comparisons are a kind of mirror for me to “see” what kind of person this person wants to be. Though I need to live for myself, I don’t want to be selfish. I try to view others with empathy and compassion. And I must be willing to be open to new knowledge that when applied, helps me achieve the first two goals of generosity and compassion. I hope you, my readers, can relate, and feel the same as I.
As I sat in my chair and reached for my paper pad to write down the name of a song, I noticed these notes, bits and pieces of things I thought worth returning to at some point in time. I had no idea that they would merge into a blog post such as this (the longest one yet, I believe). Yet here it is, and I hope, worth the reading.
The song is Time Was by Wishbone Ash. As I listened I heard feelings from my grief journey. Though not all of the lyrics reflect my feelings, in general, I can really relate. Great music too :
I’ve got to rearrange my life I’ve got to rearrange my world I miss you, I need you I’ve got to keep my memories aside I’ve got to try to live again
Time was when there were things around to be afraid of I’ve got cause, I’ve even changed my mind to turn the tables
Time was, when there was no need to stop and rearrange it Now I’ve got a memory and I don’t want to change it
And there’s a time for waking up and feeling down It’s when you have to pick your feet up from the ground
Time was when I had you around, I was a strong man I need you to help me make the change and be a new man
It takes more than a day and a night for giving It’s not so easy just to change your way of living
Time was when there were things around to bother me The crime was, I couldn’t start to change my history
Bits and pieces. Musings of a wandering mind. I created this website near the beginning of COVID, as Pam’s disease crept further into her being; as my commitment and responsibilities increased. It’s been nearly three years since its debut (March 14, 2020). So much has changed for so many! Now, let’s get on with – life. Bits and pieces at a time.
“Hopes and dreams may vanish. Are they based in man-made lies?”
The leading quote to this post is from Heart of Logic, a song I wrote several years ago after watching the movie, A Beautiful Mind. Though the context is completely different from what I feel as I write, somehow the sentiment is similar, if not the same.
I don’t remember having hopes and dreams when I was young. I had no goals, no plans. As I grew, I hoped for love, but didn’t necessarily dream of wife and kids. Those were different times of supposedly “free love” and “peace” and “be here now.”
But marriage and children did come, though I had no concept of the responsibility or challenges associated with them. I love my children – all of them. Children instill hopes and dreams in parents. I hope they have grown up to have hopes and dreams of their own, and can find and follow them.
Pam and I got together when our children were young adults. We mostly hoped for time. Our dream was of growing old together. As we pondered marriage I joked with her that we would have a 30-year contract and we (she) could renegotiate at that time. That would put us in our 70’s, and at that time it seemed so far away. But those hopes and dreams were dashed by disease and we only made it through 25.
Now I hope for a new life. I dream of meeting people and enriching their lives through interaction with mine. I hope for happiness, not in the same way that Pam and I were happy, or I happy just being with her, but some new kind of happiness that I have yet to perceive or even know how to recognize right now.
One of my dreams has been to play (and continue to write) my music for others. I hope that I can meet interesting people, have new social experiences, and affect people’s lives in a positive way in so doing. New music and new songs are emerging, a gift Pam left me with the raw emotions of losing her and in feeling lost.
I hope that writing these posts adds value to your days and to you lives. I realized recently how much I enjoy the writing. Yes, it is cathartic, but I also hope that I am somehow making a difference. You, the readers, appear to be saying my hopes are being realized and hopefully, my dreams. If so, I invite you to share my Musing of a Wandering Mind with others – and share your hopes and dreams with them as well.
May your hopes and dreams be vibrant and uplifting, and my they all come true for you!
“I can’t believe you like to do this”, she said, sitting back enjoying the rolling hills of the Iowa countryside. “I’m so glad you enjoy it. I love going for these rides. It’s nice to be able to share with someone who enjoys them!”, said I.
Seems like that conversation never got old as Pam and I wandered across eastern Iowa in search of some quaint café, country store, or winery. We had so much fun for several years before, and even after, her PD diagnosis.
I was looking through pictures for the last post when I stumbled upon a selfie we took at a restaurant out in the middle of nowhere east of Anamosa and Amber, Iowa called Teddy’s Barn and Grill. We noticed a sign along the highway as we traveled north toward Monticello. Sadly, it appears to be closed now. But it was a very cool place. The main seating area was in the very large loft. It also had adjacent second floor patio seating. The food was great, as was the décor and ambiance.
Waiting for food at Teddy’s Barn and Grill
I don’t really remember why we chose Anamosa for our little getaway in May of 2014. It’s only about an hour away. But I booked a room at the AmericInn on the north side of town (101 Harley Ave!). It didn’t take long to recognize the motorcycle motif of the entire property, beginning in the lobby and continuing in our room. After having asked about it, we left to explore and I noticed that the parking lot was shared with J&P Cycles. Not too surprising. And here’s why…
We also found out that the National Motorcycle Museum is in Anamosa. We drove by, but didn’t go in. Honestly, neither of us were interested in motorcycles. But it was neat just knowing it was there.
There is an Iowa State Penitentiary in Anamosa. It’s worth driving across town (not a big town) just to see the impressive 150+ year-old structure built by prisoners with stone cut at Stone City. Another day trip for another post. Don’t ever want to see the inside of this place – even as a visitor!
Grant Wood was born in Anamosa, Iowa in 1891. Arguably he is most famous for American Gothic, painted in 1931. If you know his work, you will already understand. If you don’t, I highly encourage you to visit the web site to see and learn more.
We visited the American Gothic House on another one of our outings. But it’s worth a shout out here. After all, it’s famous! It is located on the east edge of Eldon, Iowa, SE of Ottumwa.
American Gothic
It was our experience driving on the back roads around Anamosa, through surrounding towns and to restaurants along gravel roads, that Grant Wood’s paintings came to life – literally! Traveling the rolling hills along barns and farms, crop rows and trees, it was easy to “picture” where Grant got his inspiration. He surely could have set up an easel to paint, along any of the roads were traveled.
Young Corn
Our visit to Monticello was also interesting, it’s main attraction being the downtown area. So if you are – in the area – park the car. Take a look around. You might see something you have to have, or a tasty treat you simply must try.
This is what our retirement was supposed to be. Traveling around, staying in interesting places, sampling unique restaurants and attractions. We took several one or two day trips around, mostly eastern, Iowa. Stories for other travel posts. We had books and maps to help guide our way. I would highlight our route for Pam to follow (I used GPS). After several years, it was difficult to find a state or county road that was not highlighted in yellow.
We began these road trips on days off and weekends before our retirement. They did continue for a while until Pam was no longer comfortable in the car. The moral of the story – don’t wait, thinking you will have the chance to enjoy life once you retire. You never know.
I continue to take the back roads, looking for new experiences. Nowadays I also keep an eye out for performing venues like cafés and bars (or barns as the case may be). I do it for me, for some bucket list in my mind for many years. I do it for, but without, Pam, knowing she would simply and happily say, “I can’t believe you like to do this!”
He stood leaning forward, both hands on the bathroom vanity trying to accomplish his morning routine. Clearly, something was wrong. I wonder if he knew his time had come. He may have cursed to himself. Or maybe he thought, “finally!” He called to her. “Rae?”
She entered through the bedroom door. Did she have a clue? They shared a brief glance as he collapsed into an empty pile of flesh and bones. Rae knew at that moment that he had died. She called 911, then a friend who lived down the street. Then she called me.
Last picture of Dad taken just three weeks before he died
The paramedics came and began trying to resuscitate him. Mom knew it would be to no avail. She knew the moment he dropped to the floor. Their efforts continued as they took him away, and still at the hospital, until the pronouncement over an hour later. He would not be revived.
That scene played out over six years ago. Yet whenever we talk about Dad, tell stories, share memories, Mom’s first contribution is, “I can still see him collapsing to the floor.”
I was telling Mom’s story to a dear friend who lost her husband of 48 years to Parkinson’s, after his lengthy struggle with the disease. The last year or so was particularly painful as Linda watched Dave slip away into his dementia. They decided to place him in a temporary respite facility (which was within the Hospice facility), waiting for placement in long-term care, as Linda was not able to provide the level of care he needed.
Unfortunately, this was at the height of the COVID outbreak in December of 2020. They knew that when she left him there she would not be able to visit him. They could only hope that respite would take good care of him, that COVID would ebb, and that they would be together again.
But it was not to be. It was only days before Dave succumbed to the ravages of disease. After two days in respite, he went into “Terminal Restlessness.” (I had to look up the term and found it on hospice sites, but not the specific term on medical sites. Read on in the article for similar conditions, “Terminal Agitation” and “Exited Delirium.”) Quickly I realized that Pam suffered with this condition over the last several days (if not weeks) of her life.
Giving permission to change his treatment to calm him, Linda was able to talk with Dave at that time by phone. He fell unconscious two days later. She and their children were allowed to see him, but Dave died a day later while they were getting something to eat. Linda’s lasting memories of Dave are of a final conversation, and the love of her life unconscious in a respite bed.
Past blog posts reference how, when I look at Pam’s picture, I get a glimpse of Pam in our bed, just after her death. I could almost say it haunts me, but that’s not really it. It’s just a lasting image burned into my mind.
Different circumstances. Different stories. Similar haunting memories. As with everything related to losing a close loved one, these memories bear both positive and negative forces. The images confirm what we find so hard to accept; that our loves are missing from our lives. Images that induce self-questions and doubts. Did we do all we could? Did they know we love(d) them? Are we forgiven for our shortcomings?
So much takes place in that split second of remembrance, whenever and whatever triggers it. A dose of reality. A ponderance of self. Wonder about the future. Will there be a time when the memories in our mind’s eye reflect only the happiness and comfort of loving and being loved?
I’ll have to get back to you on that. So far, I am comforted in that, when I see that haunting glimpse, I begin to accept the reality and, most of the time can let it go. I take comfort in knowing that Pam’s suffering is over. In that way I can begin to appreciate again, the smiling woman in the photographs. The person who loved me and with whom I am still in love.
Post Script: Our losses seem to pale in comparison to the thousands upon thousands who are mourning the loss of thousands upon thousand of their loved ones who lost their lives in the devastating earth quakes in Turkey and Syria. Though our losses and grief are real and cannot be discounted, I am again aware of how small we are in the vastness of our world and our universe. May all who grieve and mourn somehow be comforted!
I recorded the song Chameleonfor my first (and so far only) CD several years ago. It is posted on my Songs page and is directly referenced above. I’ve been practicing it, along with many other original works, in preparation for live performances this year, and also to record the new ones to post on this site.
An American Anole and an African Chameleon were among the several exotic animals I had when I was younger. Others included a Ferret, two Cockateels, and a 3-foot long Iguana, who’s abbreviated name was Zeke. I used to take him for walks/runs on a leash. Too much fun!
The American Anole flourishes in the SE part of the states. I once found a dead Anole behind a broken window blind in my parents house. They are typically easy to spot. They move fast, and have limited ability to change colors to match their environment. Anoles are fun to see in the wild, but are not much fun as pets.
American Anole
It should not surprise you that African Chameleons are native to – Africa. There are several species. The pictures below resemble the one I had. Unlike the Anole, Chameleons are slow-moving and methodical in their presence. They have amazing turret eyes that move independently and, when food is spotted, they train both eyes forward before unleashing their 6″ to 8″, sticky tongue to capture their prey. Chameleons display a variety of colors and patterns and, consequently, are much more entertaining as pets.
It is this animal that was my muse for Chameleon, a song written about me. I’ve always felt that changing colors to suit the environment I am in reflects my personality. I suspect, however, that we all have a bit of the chameleon in us, changing colors to fit social situations.
African Chameleon
Seems like I often contemplate deeper meanings while looking in the mirror. This week, while gazing at my image and humming the song, I realized that, spending so much time by myself, I have no reason to adjust my colors. Who am I changing them for? I have to recognize who I am – my true colors. I cannot change my innate personality. But self-reflection is not only valuable, these days it’s unavoidable. The song lyrics are as relevant today as they were when I wrote them. But I cannot fool myself. Recognizing and being okay with who I am is the only way I’ll survive this journey of grief, and of life.
A wonderful song came to mind as I was preparing for this post. I’m sure you thought of it too. True Colors, sung by Cyndi Lauper (Songwriters: Billy Steinberg / Tom Kelly), explores different contexts for external and internal human colors. It is an anthem of sorts. Its meaning worth exploring and paying attention to.
Our inside colors, rather than those we project, are real, and the ones that count! Our feelings about ourselves are a different matter. They also count. I still relate to changing colors – kind of like Chameleons.
NOTE TO READERS: I’m out on a limb writing this one. It’s even more personal than most I’ve written. I apologize in advance to my children who may be reading. Sometimes it’s TMI to read about the lives of parents. But so be it. I hope something here is uplifting and, maybe makes you laugh.
Sometime Tuesday morning I had a dream. As with many dreams, it was a mix of realism and fantasy. This was very different from the insomnia I experienced last Saturday night, which I categorize as one of the five worst nights since Pam died. That wasn’t even a nightmare. I was awake. And the floodgates of remembrance and deep sorrow forbade me slumber for most of the night.
In my dream we were sitting together working on Pam’s laptop computer. We were clearly in our younger years. She was having trouble with whatever she was doing. I could tell that the battery was low so I went upstairs to plug it in. I found her in a bed (didn’t look like ours) with covers on, but she still looked cold so I added another. Pam was always cold. I just had to slip under the covers beside her – to help keep her warm ;-). She was wearing just an oversized T-shirt as was her way. As I cozied up next to her, Pam said, “Tell me anything but no.“
She got up to go to the bathroom, but didn’t return quickly so I got up too. We passed each other along the way. I went to the bathroom and had to navigate through a clutter of children’s nursery toys and various pieces of geriatric equipment (the bathroom wasn’t familiar either). Very frustrating. I have no idea what that was about. All I wanted was to get back to Pam.
Then I woke.
Do I want to be close to Pam? Yes! Do I want to kiss her? Yes! Do I want to hold her tight to help her feel safe, secure, and loved? Yes! Do I want to lay close to her? Yes!
Did I want Pam to go? – NO!
But that’s the selfish me talking. I could say YES. It was time for her suffering to end. YES. It was/is time for me to let go. YES. You were wonderful and we all miss you terribly.
YES. I will love you until I die!
Contrary to how I felt after insomnia Saturday, I stood taller last Tuesday morning. Somehow refreshed. Somehow lightened by the memory of Pam before her illness, when our love wasn’t tainted by age or disease.
As I looked at her picture that morning, I cried – as usual. But then I laughed. I laughed at the consistency with which I look at her picture and cry. I laughed because, though I caught a glimpse of her dying – as usual, it was fleeting and was replaced by the image of “Yes.”
Oh how I wish grieving was linear. I’d know that I was nearing the end of a dark forest, a break in the clouds leading to sunshine. But as with the weather, and as one who travels across ever changing landscapes, I know there will be clouds and wind, pathless dark forests, mountains and valleys, as I continue to grieve.
YES! Pam and I were – YES – not no.
Healing From Loss marked Tuesday morning with a simple message: Laughter is as much a healer as crying. I laughed at that too.
Quiet is not the same as silent. Without looking up the words and giving grammar lessons this week, silence is the absence of sound. Whereas, being quiet allows one to hear the sounds all around. I talk to myself. I am aware that sometimes I even answer. Scary, from what I’ve been told. But even without answering, I realize that I talk a lot, even though I know no one is here to listen.
Last Monday I woke to the sound of my own voice cajoling me to get up and get going. Having accomplished that, I began my morning routine; coffee, gazing at pictures of Pam, reading the daily passage of Healing from Loss, breakfast, etc. All the time talking. Usually I’m okay with talking to Pam even though I know she isn’t around to hear (let’s not get metaphysical here). But I also talk to myself – a lot!
I decided that rather than continue thus, I should try keeping quiet and listen to the various sounds; appliances, cars, sirens, ringing in my ears, clicking bones, chirping birds, rain, wind. Yes. it is worthwhile to shut up and listen even if I’m only listening to sounds and not anyone’s words.
So I’m trying to be quieter, trying not to think out loud. Not that I can stop thinking. Sometimes I wish I could. Trying not to talk to myself. I certainly don’t want to be unaware. Rather, I am probably more aware just by keeping quiet. It takes a conscious effort to stop talking. Having not lived alone for many years it is a change of habit for sure. Maybe quiet will provide for a better experience when I am not – quiet. How might it affect my music, communicating with friends and family, listening to strangers? Who knows? Maybe being quiet will provide for other topics I may not have been listening to.
jinx: – noun: one that brings bad luck also : the state or spell of bad luck brought on by a jinx – verb: to foredoom to failure or misfortune : bring bad luck to
There I go with the words again! 🙂
I want to write a happy post – but I don’t want to jinx it.
I want to write about changes I see in myself and my grieving process – but I don’t want to jinx it.
I want to write about progress in my recording studio – but I don’t want to jinx it.
So I’ll write a short and, hopefully sweet message, also hoping that I don’t jinx – anything, and save these other topics for the future. Just in case the progress is fleeting, as has often been the case in my recent past.
I am home from my third trip to visit my sisters, Mom, and brother-in-law in the Atlanta area. It was the longest I’ve been away from home since I worked on site in my “glory” days. All three visits were different; the first was very difficult, coming just weeks after Pam’s passing. The second visit was in September. Though still filled with intense emotional turmoil, I was able to at least enjoy the company of my family.
This last visit was different. I woke up the morning of my leaving, not wanting to go. I realized I was afraid. It wasn’t about leaving Pam here in the house. I was actually afraid to leave the familiarity of my surroundings; my comfort zone. I felt very alone. But it only took about 1/2 hour to settle into my road psyche and begin to enjoy the scenery.
The drive to Atlanta was somewhat stressful as I took interstate highways most of the way. I was able to avoid some of my large nemesis cities like St. Louis and Nashville, but Chattanooga got the better of me. But all’s well that end’s well in that regard and I made it within an hour of my ETA.
Committed to keeping my message short, I will say that most of the visit was relaxed and enjoyable. I had time to play music, read, EAT!, and contemplate. All were good therapy for me – except for gaining four pounds. Well, maybe that was therapy too. Now I am home and want to carry the good things forward (except for the pounds that I hope to lose again soon).
I found a route home that completely avoided interstate highways and took me on many winding, hilly, scenic, roads through Alabama, Tennessee, Kentucky, Missouri, and, of course, Iowa. Though it took longer than the more direct interstate route, I enjoyed the driving, the scenery, and the interesting little towns along the byways. Pam would have enjoyed it immensely, except for the length of the drive.
I hope I won’t jinx things by suggesting that soon I can write about happy things; changes in me and my grieving for Pam; progress with my music. Something else to look forward to – no jinx intended!
