Remembering: A View From the Platform

This year I had a tiny glimpse into what goes into putting together a Remembrance Day service - I had been asked to play the piano for O Canada and God Save the Queen at the Royal Canadian Legion Hanna Branch #25. I made my way to the front of the room and was greeted by the Legion member in charge of the service; I was introduced to him, but not he to me so I never learnt his name. But I did learn that I was to sit on the platform on a chair tucked right up to the piano and try to keep myself out of the way when I was not playing.

As I waited and observed people filing in before the service, I got to renew my acquaintance with Sean McCormick, the force behind Radio Hanna. Someone who would much rather be behind the scenes than perched on a chair on the stage, for this occasion he stepped out of his comfort zone "because it's important for us to keep what this day represents in our consciousness."

An RCMP officer came onto the stage with the officer who would command the Colour Party. They were going through the logistics of safely delivering flags on full-size poles through the low-set doorway, across the modest stage and into position. All had to be done without any person crossing the path of the flags from the point they were marched onstage to the time they were marched off again. "Protocol."

I was hooked. For the rest of the service I kept one eye open to see if that was even doable. I am gratified to report that not one person, even those entering and exiting the stage, crossed the path of the flags!

I took a second look at the two men: The RCMP officer was none other than Jim, kind, patient Jim who comes to my rescue repeatedly at the Hanna UFA store when I don't know what it is I am looking for. He caught my eye and nodded. "Hello," he said with a twinkle.

After Sean left to perform any last-minute tweaks of the technology before he launched his live broadcast, I sat quietly waiting until I became aware of someone waving to me from the front row. Sergeant Charlie Fielding, a spry 99-year-old, tapped his watch at me.

It was 10:48.

We were supposed to start at 10:45.

Fortunately the familiar wheeze of the pipes could be heard moments later and the Colour Party started up the aisle following the opening remarks. At its helm was piper Stuart Somerville, a neighbour from Endiang. He performed his part in perfect tune and with the aplomb befitting the occasion. As the Colour Party approached the stage, the pipes went left and the flags, right.

Every flag was carefully delivered through the door and the party executed their march, halt and turn in perfect synchronicity.

From my vantage, I realized that this feat is much harder than it appeared when I have observed from a distance ...

Caught up in the moment, I almost forgot why I was on that stage. I quickly moved to the piano and struck up the introduction for O Canada.

As the last notes faded away, the officiant flipped on a recording of the trumpet's somber Last Post. The lfinaltrembling note led us into two minutes of silence, broken only by a tiny child's sweet voice asking a question of her daddy. And it reminded me of why we were here, why these men and women on the front row now stood, propped up on walkers and weighted down with medals.

They served to ensure that our "home and native land" remained "strong and free" despite the attacks from those who would have taken that freedom from us in both the World Wars. That little voice asking a question was as fitting as the silence.

Then the Reveille, signifying the breaking of the dawn, and the powerful voice crisply commanding the flag bearers to Deposit Colours.

Two young girls read In Flanders Fields. (The link will take you to Leonard Cohen's poignant recitation.)

And then the part for which Hanna's service is renowned: Debbie Corry's labour of love, the slide presentation "Veterans of Hanna and Beyond." As music plays in the background, the screen gives an image and Ms Corry reads each name aloud.

I had previously attended this service upstairs and so had never seen the video. Earlier I had congratulated myself on being asked to play the piano, thereby ensuring I had a seat on the main floor. However, remember the little directive to stay seated and out of the way? That included during the presentation! I saw the back of the screen ...

Charlie Fielding ...

Dick Bruner ...

And the other names followed.

Somewhere in the middle of the roll call came the six names I brace myself for:

Ivor Greenslade

Charlie  Greenslade


Hugh       Greenslade



Lloyd          Greenslade




Roy               Greenslade




Tom                  Greenslade

As the last name is read, I find my throat closing with emotion. My friend Julie, whose uncle is Lloyd, assured me that all with the exception of William Roy Greenslade returned home.

But can you imagine the mothers, the sisters, the wives as man after man in that family announced that it was his turn to sign up?

When the last name was proclaimed, and the screen creaked to its closed position, I looked up from my tiny corner to see this beautiful sight:

And then it was the Legion Chaplain's turn. Paul Warnock, who I am privileged to call my pastor, entitled his remarks "Personal Responsibility". He made four observations:

1. Personal responsibility requires maturity
2. Personal responsibility requires a willingness to make commitments
3. Personal responsibility requires more than talk
4. Personal responsibility will require sacrifice

He quoted Winston Churchill, Neville Chamberlain, Mahatma Gandhi and Elie Weisel, to name a few. He talked about his father, a stretcher bearer in the Medical Corps who landed on Juno Beach and worked right behind the front lines.

As he was closing, he said this:

As we take time today to remember those who gave so much, and at such great cost, let us not devalue their sacrifice by failing to shoulder those responsibilities which come to each of us as members of our community and our nation. Rather, let us, with that maturity which only comes as we make and keep our commitments, keep faith with those we honour here today. And likewise, let us, like those whom we now honour, be willing to give a service to others which, even if it is costly, makes this land in which we live a better and more blessed place.

(Sean McCormick extracted Chaplain Paul's remarks from the full broadcast; if you would like to listen to them in their entirety, click HERE.)

After a hymn, the Ode of Remembrance:

And then the laying of wreaths.

The first wreath of all was placed by Charlie Fielding. A Royal Air Force Cadet marched up bearing the wreath and stopped next to Charlie's seat. 

With the weight of 99 years and a World War on him, our hero pushed himself to the front, saying quietly to the cadet, "Now, don't you worry about me. The important thing is that we lay the wreath properly." And with a few more words of murmured encouragement, the job was done.

The pause of respect; I wondered what memory crossed his mind? And then he was seated. And our other hero, Dick Bruner, rose to lay the second wreath, followed by the mayor and various other dignitaries.

After announcements, God Save the Queen, and then the Colour Party retired:

 And we were all free to go.

But somehow we were slow to leave this building that we all recognized was, in this moment, sacred ground. 

What an honour to play a small part in the service! Thank you to the Legion members who pulled together a wonderful Remembrance Day morning. 

What a privilege to live in Canada!

God, keep our land glorious and free.

O Canada, We stand on guard for thee.

O Canada! We stand on guard for thee.

(If you would like to view the entire service, Sean's broadcast can be accessed HERE.)

 

Cornucopia

On a dusty cloudless day at the end of May, Hank showed up with his corn planter to sow what we hoped would be a good portion of the winter feed for the herd.

Gulls circled greedily, swooping for the hard kernels, screeching invitations to the party at each other.

We thanked Hank for his efficient, cheerful service; we thanked God for Hank's fitting us in at the last minute; we prayed for rain to nourish our field, and to grow grass throughout the neighbourhood; and we sat back to watch what would happen.






On June 11, the Good Rancher texted me that he had something to show me. I met him at the gate and was greeted by this promising sight:

Our fledgling crop had started to push its way up through the dry, hard soil, defying the odds - we had received no rain as of yet.

The days turned into anxious weeks and then months. We sustained the swather-ignited fire. The whole area reported fire after fire; the clouds loomed and swirled menacingly; the rain did not fall.

The weather was a barometer of the whole summer at the Ranch, it seemed:  funnel clouds of irritation and anger arising from nowhere around our heads; dust puddles of doubt swirling at our feet. The house was shrouded in darkness, blinds perpetually pulled down against the sun's insistent attempts at entry through the windows.

And the temperatures continued to rise.

Water was pumped twice a day for the livestock. We moved cattle to fields where there were a few remaining green shoots pushing bravely up through the cracking soil.

Finally, we were forced to start feeding.

Every day, morning and night, I heard the Good Rancher implore God to let it rain. He was, of course, not alone: the cry was heard all around us, neighbours being pushed closer to despair, payments on equipment looming large in the imminent future, insects threatening to finish off what the sun could not fully decapitate.

People left who said they were in for the long term. People came back who said they were gone for good. Everything was at sixes and sevens.

Every day he checked his corn crop, watching it start to shrivel on the dwarfed stalks. Finally, one day he came back to the house, shoulders bent with weariness and care. "God can cause things to grow without rain," he said, almost to himself. "He can grow the corn. Or not. I have to leave it with Him."

A couple of weeks later, a truck stopped by. A crew was in the neighbourhood and they had half a morning free at the end of the week: did we want them to take the corn crop off?

What was there to lose? The Good Rancher assented rather grimly.

And two days before the crew were due to arrive, the heavens opened a crack and released enough rain to turn the direction of the corn.

It wasn't much, by any means - the clouds roared louder than the rain's patter. But it was enough for the job at hand.

The next Saturday morning the crew from 3G Custom Silaging Ltd. showed up as early as they had promised, and set to work right away.

The Good Rancher texted me to come over and see the sight. The corn seemed to have grown in the last 48 hours - enough for a significant portion of our feed needs to be met!

After they managed to leave one enormous stalk standing, I went over and tried to measure it:

Then I zipped back to the silage pit to watch the trucks unloading and the G.R. tractoring around in all that unexpected green ...

My three closest companions and I quietly went back to the field that now contained not much more than stones, husks and a few little cobs that had escaped the ravenous machine; the field that also contained our hopes for locally sourced feed and healthy cattle.

I started to gather some of the pretty rocks exposed by the machinery, and piled them up in order to collect them all at the end, as is my wont. 

But this pile started to take on a shape and a purpose of its own. I thought of the priest Samuel in the early pages of the Bible who placed a large rock on a significant spot of land and named the land Ebenezer, which translates to "Hitherto has the Lord helped us."

I added a couple of ears of corn and two horns I found in the dust and made this little place my prayer of thanksgiving. Even if the temperatures are unseasonably high; even if there is no rain; even if people come and go; God is still with us and helping us. Proof in the past and a promise for the future.

And that itself is cause for thanksgiving!

That itself is enough.

Happy Thanksgiving

Eighty-five Years Ago Today

Eighty-five years ago today, a woman gave birth to her third child - her third child born early due to the punishing schedule she set herself as she and her young husband toiled to defeat the dust and the dry, blistering land they were establishing as their farm.

This baby, however, was very premature, especially for back in 1932. There was something wrong with his heart; and his skin - oh, his skin was non-existent. It appeared that he was covered with fish-like scales.

The nurses in the delivery room wouldn't bring the baby to his mother. She was told that she wouldn't want to see "it"; that it was going to die anyway and so there was no point in getting more upset.

The young mother demanded: "Bring me my baby!"

And finally, reluctantly, after the doctor was consulted, the nurses did.

He was wrapped in cotton batting because his flesh was so fragile. And when she saw him, she loved him with all her heart.

"God," she prayed, "If You will spare my baby's life, I will give him back to You to serve You."

God heard the prayer of that anguished mother, and my Dad lived.

He was not allowed to cry for the first weeks of his life - something to do with too much strain on his weak heart.

He was always small, but he loved to work. He was his Dad's shadow. He could ride a horse almost from when he could walk, and he and his brother Clark could drive a team at about the age of nine.

He started school early. He was younger than everyone else, and he was so little anyway, and he didn't want the teacher to forget about him; so each morning when the class stood for the singing of the National Anthem and the reciting of the Lord's Prayer, he would stick his stomach out as far as he could, hoping he would occupy more space that way, hoping his teacher would remember how much he loved school.

And at home, his Mom would be waiting to hear the events of the day. More children were being added to the crew, however, and her time was at a premium.

With her eldest son, Gordon,

on the steps of The Farm.

Feisty until the end!

No electricity.

No running water.

Wood stove for heating and cooking.

Outhouse across the yard.

Eight children.

She worked alongside her husband until the elder kids were able to take over a bit. She cooked, cleaned, gardened, canned, baked, sewed, washed clothes, hung them to dry, ironed, scrimped and saved, disciplined, loved.

On days that her boys had to work extra hard and as a result were more famished than ever, she was somehow "just not hungry." One of her younger daughters reckons that there was many a day Mom was actually starving; but she would not deprive her children.

Allan, her third child, developed a passion for boxing. She went along with it. She got up earlier than ever to ensure he had a good breakfast after chores and before he went out to train. His heart healed because of all that training. In his last visits to his pulmonologist's office, they were always amazed at how strong his heart was. It was his heart that carried him for the extra time we had with him.

Then came the day he decided that what God was calling him to was Bible college in Calgary.

She helped him get ready.

Now he wasn't home in the summers; he worked the oil patch to make money for school. One day he received time off and so decided he would hitch a ride back to The Farm to surprise his folks. He told no one he was coming. He just started walking, sticking out his thumb when a vehicle approached.

Not one stopped.

He walked all that afternoon and into the night. He had on his new work boots, which rubbed his feet raw.

He finally arrived at The Farm after 2:30 in the morning. Everything was dark. Even the dog didn't stir.

He clutched the railing and dragged himself up the steps to the house, easing the door open as quietly as he could. He knew what a precious commodity a good night's sleep was.

From the dark came a voice: "Is that you, Allan?"

She got up, stoked the embers in the stove and boiled some water for tea. She knelt in front of him and eased those boots off, carefully removed the socks and tenderly bathed those burning, bleeding feet.

Then came the day when he announced he was being led by God to go to India. India! His Dad had something to say about that!

His Mom ... squared her shoulders and helped him pack: books, clothes, whatever she thought he might need in this strange unknown land, into metal barrels to be shipped to Bombay.

When he left she kissed him goodbye and went back into the house. He caught a train from Calgary heading south to Port Arthur, Texas, from where he would sail. He wouldn't see her again for ten years.

And at home? The rest of the story was told to Dad and me by his second youngest sibling, Mabel, the very last time she visited him on this earth, just weeks before he passed away.

Mabel and her younger sister were attending school in Castor. Mom told them that this was a regular school day and they had to go. They dragged their mournful little selves off and somehow got through the day.

When they got home that frigid January evening, something was off. The house was in darkness. No Mom to greet them and ask about their day. They crept into the house and bumped into their Dad. He was carrying a china cup and saucer filled with steaming, aromatic tea.

Their Dad was never home while there was work to be done.

Their Dad never made tea.

"Your Mom's had a rough day," he commented briefly as he disappeared into their bedroom and closed the door softly behind him.

The two little girls sat there at a loss, not knowing what to do. Mom never had rough days! She was Mom - she made rough days better!

About half an hour later she emerged from her room, pale, face streaked with tears. She stopped when she saw her two little daughters sitting in the gloom. Then she squared her shoulders and her jaw. "It's been a difficult day," she said. And she set to mopping the floor.

Tears ran down the creases of my Dad's cheeks as Mabel concluded the story. "She never let on," he whispered.

"She never wanted to hold you back," Mabel replied gently.

And then Mabel passed on advice that her mother gave her when Mabel had her first child. When things seem to be tough and your heart is breaking and your tears are flowing, wash the floor. Your tears will mingle with the soapy water and you will feel better and the floor will be clean.

"It works," said Mabel.

Every year our Nana would send us a Christmas parcel: a can of Spam, a tin of Roger's Golden Syrup, a cake mix, some Jello, the large block of Velveeta cheese. Christmas candies would fill the corners. There would be a letter and a card. That was the best part of all. She prayed for her boy every day. She never stopped caring; she had to give her worries to God or she would have gone crazy.

So many years later, our Dad surprised her once more by suddenly appearing in the doorway of the hospital room where his frail mother lay. She thought she was seeing things, and covered her face with her blanket ... They spent hours together talking, laughing, catching up.

It was during this visit that she told him about the circumstances surrounding his birth, about how she had dedicated him to serve God if God would give his life to her.

No wonder she was his first love!

He spoke at her funeral.

And I recall that every time he was ever asked to pray for someone on their birthday, he would always thank God for that person's mother, for the one who gave life and love to her child. Even when the circumstances were bleak, he would say, "Your mother did the best she knew how at the time for you."

On his own birthday, he always had a special prayer of thanksgiving for his Mom.

Today, they are together celebrating. Do you think they have pie in heaven? Uncle Clark said Mom always gave Allan the largest piece of lemon meringue pie. I wonder if the three of them are checking out the size of the pieces ...

Today he's not here to thank God for his Mom, my Nana, and so I do in his stead:

Thank You, gracious God, for this brave, stalwart, godly woman. Thank You for her quiet courage. Thank You that she kept her word to You given back on September 4, 1932. Thank You for the impact her decision has made on countless lives carrying on even today.

Thank You for truly great mothers.

Amen.

Rain On The 855!

I've discovered a use for potholes!

We had prayed.
We had compared notes, to the tune of 10ths of an inch.
We had scanned the sky, with and without sunglasses, to see which way looked more hopeful.

We had not - entirely! - given up hope.

On Friday we were rewarded and teased a little bit:

The heavens opened and a deluge thundered down for a few holding-your-breath minutes. The smell around a light summer rain is indescribable.

I had to head out from the house, south on the 855. The Good Rancher's place is about one mile north of where the Special Areas road care ends and the County of Stettler road care begins. On our little stretch of 855, the County of Stettler road care also continues north past the G.R.'s driveway for about 8 kilometres.

I use the term "care" rather lightly, I know.

Complaining about the atrocity of that road is a topic that ranks up there with weather, cattle prices, canola, and the NDP government.

I am learning to deke and swerve and brace myself to dodge the worst of all potholes and pitfalls associated with any or all of the above.

On Friday, avoiding one of them was easier. The potholes were filled with precious rain, glimmering in the glow of the watery sun. Our own hyperbolic rain gauges!

Panoramic shot of a straight stretch of road. However, it feels like we're negotiating

a steep curve while navigating the potholes!

 As chance would have it, I was wearing my Muck Boots ...

Wouldn't you have done the same?!

Admittedly, my inherited vehicle has upwards of 400,000 kms so this road owes it nothing. That Yukon can shake, rattle and roll over any terrain! My fractured tailbone - if I brace myself just right, it's not affected too much either by the jarring, boneshaking hits if I happen to land in one of these road traps.

And honestly, all I have to do is remind myself of how bad the roads used to be in India on the drive from Coonoor to Bangalore. They have upgraded them since my childhood; but if I hearken back to those days where there were two parents, six kids and a black cocker spaniel in a 1957 Vanguard, this 855 road seems almost acceptable!

But this is about rain. We prayed for it and wished for it. And this morning the outside seems like a kinder, gentler place.

So this Sunday morning I remind myself that "This is the day that the Lord has made. We will rejoice and be glad in it!"

I'll be going now, heading to church, down that old 855 which is becoming as familiar to me as the lines in my palm, and almost as dear.

Letter To My

Dear You,

Today was the first day of your new job. From the bottom of my heart I wish you great success and happiness. I am so proud of you for having the courage to take this gigantic step of faith and hope.

But I miss you already.

Today the house was eerily not itself. I found myself listening for your truck first thing in the morning, wondering if this was a coffee day or not. The dogs were all tentative, all subdued.

The baby calves - Amy, Hannah, Judah, Jeremiah, Red and Redder, Harry the Hereford and Stormin' Norman, and even Milk Cow Calf and Roaney - each one of them came over to me for a scratch on their backs and a kind word before they drifted off aimlessly to chew on something green. Not like their normal turbo-charged selves at all ...

Today even the hard-hearted sky managed to shed a few tears. It was difficult to spot from the impressions on the scorched ground, but the gutter spout bore clattering witness to the drops that were captured while sliding off the roof.

 Baling could not be done today; it was too wet. There was a trace of suspicious moisture in the operator's eyes a time or two as well.

When I married the Good Rancher three years ago, you were actually in college in Montana. You flew up for the wedding but had to get back in time for classes first thing Monday morning.

Based on that brief time, I was fairly optimistic that we had a good shot at making this unconventional housing situation work when you returned.

Who was I fooling?

That first long year we barely talked. You never initiated a conversation; and I, too eager, too unsettled in this frightening new life, regularly put my foot wrong. You would occasionally reply to a question; more often than not you would keep your eyes averted or look right past me.

The first time you spoke to me unsolicited was when your beautiful dog, Remington, was gouged open and bleeding profusely. The G.R. was unavailable. You asked me if I thought she needed stitches.

"This is the time you look to me for advice?" I thought frantically, as I gulped and tried to keep from getting lightheaded at the sight of the blood on the floor and the shock in her eyes.

"Yes, I believe she needs to get in as fast as possible," I managed in a fairly level voice, my hands shaking as I parted her hair for a better look.

"OK. Thanks," you murmured, and I found I had been holding my breath waiting for your response.

The Good Rancher finally emerged and I said we were going into Hanna. I was heading in anyway, to return the courtesy car and pick up the Yukon from the service bay. "I'll grab a blanket so her blood doesn't get on their seat," I offered and hurried back to the hall closet.

I chose the softest wool one I could find, a little faded and torn in a couple of spots.

"Here's an old one we can use! It will wash well and ..."

The looks on both your faces dried the words on my tongue. The Good Rancher silently reached for the blanket in my suddenly icy hand and headed toward the hall closet. He returned with a bright, anonymous quilt.

"That was Debbie's favourite blanket," he said softly. You would not look at me. How could you, at that moment?

And that in a nutshell was the crux of the matter. You have a mother, and her sad, untimely passing from this world will never change that. No one could take her place; the two of you had such a profound bond that even a pale attempt would be ludicrous.

When they talked together after they knew nothing more could be done, she encouraged your father to marry again - he was too young to remain single for the rest of his life, she pointed out. She had only one criterion: that the new wife love her son.

That I did. But I had no way of expressing it, except by keeping an eye and ear out for items you might need or want that would make your life more tolerable; by running occasional interference between two men who, let's face it, were grieving in their own ways; by trying harder and harder to force a square peg into a round hole until I could, if not blend into the situation, at least not stick out like a sore thumb.

To be honest, it's very rare that I succeed in any of those attempts.

So we continued until Christmas, the three of us edging warily around each other's circumferences, occasionally intersecting in awkward contact but then retreating as quickly as possible.

Christmas eve was when I finally dared to put up a tree, a new pencil-thin prelit artificial tree. There had been talk of getting a fresh one, "like always"; but it wasn't "like always" anymore, was it?

I had picked up a few new ornaments - didn't want to cause undue pain if avoidable! - and had carefully placed them on the tree at about 2 in the morning.

A few sleepless hours later we gathered in the front room to watch you open your presents. Suddenly you reached down beside the couch, lifted a wrapped parcel up and handed it to your Dad.

I was so busy watching him - the surprise, delight, love, fragment of loss that flickered for a moment over his dear face - that I initially missed your shaking hand holding out a tiny wrapped gift. "This is for you," you said in a thin voice. 

Unwrapping revealed a sterling silver bell pendant. Not just any bell, though: this one had a treble clef and the stave woven around it. Its clapper was a musical note.

This remains one of my greatest treasures, not just the delicate beauty of the piece but the realization that you were observing, you were paying attention to what I loved, to what was important to me personally.

Of course, that was Christmas. The next year went by pretty blurrily until the following Christmas. During the preceding year I had adopted two canine babies. Jenny was my heart's delight. Musket was her brother and mainly brought along to keep her company, until one day I realized I was crazy about him too. 

That Christmas morning, Jenny got run over by a tractor.

My grief was immediate and incredulous. I sat on the stairs leading from the back door to the basement. Behind me I heard the door quietly open and just as softly shut. And there was Remington, who crept over to me. She placed her head on my heart, one paw on my shoulder and softly sighed.

She stayed with me thus for an hour while I wept.

And ever since that day, any time I have suffered a big loss, you have brought Remington to me. She is unequivocally my greatest tangible source of comfort for the past three years.

This kindness notwithstanding, we have had our share of warmth and chill, of misunderstandings and comity. You have matured and stretched in ways that any mom would appreciate and applaud.

For example, after one three-way conversation that grew a little heated, you and I found ourselves together in the room and you quoted me something I had never heard before. I looked it up later ... you had summed up the situation precisely.

Even this last week, before you were due to move on out to prepare for your new job and life, the Little Fire on the Prairie happened. It was you who was there from the acrid start to the relief-inducing finish, you who kept plunging into the flames and beating back the edges of the conflagration with a damp sack.

All those who were there that day said that without you, we would have been in severe trouble and possibly sustained terrible losses. You were exhausted by the end of it, but you kept on fighting.

And so we come to this past weekend, when time it was for you to sweep the floor of your beautiful new home, spread your wings and fly away.

Here's something else I appreciate about your mother and those strong Cage women:

• When as a teenager she needed to get out of the city, where her father's work had taken them, and back to her roots and the horses she loved so dearly, her sister took her in.
• Some years later, she and your Dad took in two of her nieces for a considerable period of time.
• This past weekend, one of those same nieces came and helped you pack up and clean your home. The place was left gleaming.

You come from stock who care for their own. It is a legacy to be treasured.

But where does that leave me? You see, you have a mother; I have never had a child. As fate would have it, you will be the closest thing to that dream I will ever know. You introduced me to The Duke. You quietly explain reasons behind certain dictates that made no sense to me. You give me left-and-right directions when north-and-south are beyond my comprehension. You came with me to nurse sick, sick baby calves. You helped me name them and were kind to both them and me. My Dad loved you. He loved visiting with you.

In trying to analyse the relationship we have developed over the past 3 1/2 years, I would say that it is a painstakingly built - and growing - mutual understanding resulting in a unique measure of affection. I have worked with many teenagers and young adults; I have a handful of nephews, nieces married in, and quite a few friends about your age. Simply stated, in my heart you - you - are the fairest of them all.

And that is why, on this quiet evening, whether I have the right to or not, I feel these strange pangs of missing you. Yet I would never want to hold you back even if I could.

In the words of one of my musical heroes:

by Carole King, performed by James Taylor

You are one of the greatest gifts God has brought into my life. I am rooting for you. I am praying for you. I love you.

I am your friend. Always.