Memory Day

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It’s Memorial Day. A day to remember service men and women who lost their lives in the line of duty. As the daughter and granddaughter of servicemen, this day has a lot of meaning. I get it.  It’s a day of counting blessings, saying a special prayer for loved ones, and remembering that we live in this society because of those sacrifices.

But today, this day, is something else. It is my brother Matt’s 43rd birthday. I don’t know if he’s alive. He’s a heroin addict. I know that a few months ago he missed a court date in Portland, because they called my ex-husband’s house and left a message looking for him. My ex wasn’t going to tell me. One of my sons heard the message and let me know. Unfortunately they didn’t catch if it was state, county or city court. I was unable to figure it out (easily–I confess to not doing more than making a couple of phone calls). So he must have been alive at least recently enough to have committed some infraction.

I still remember him as the impulsive little kid he was before puberty hit his brain chemistry and everything went to hell. Before his ADD and Reactive Attachment Disorder and general “follower” style personality got him in trouble with the law, before his first prison stint at 18, and before he took his first hit of heroin.

I used to be the link between Matt and the rest of the family. He had my phone number. And address. I would get letters from him when he was in prison, and therefore clean. I visited him if he was within a few hour drive. If you have never visited someone in prison, you have no idea how awful it is. But then, when I was at  a really low and vulnerable place, right after I had left my marital home of 20 years, I let him detox with me. Twice. It did not go well. That’s an understatement. It was hellish. After I put him on a train, I ducked his calls. For a week or so, he was angry and called my phone every 15 minutes for several days straight. I knew he was using again. I turned off my phone.  I still do not feel strong enough to see him. Even when he isn’t actively using, the life he has had to live because of his choices have made him manipulative and I cannot be around that.

But today, I remember the happy little boy. I hope and pray that sweet soul still lives. And I wish him happy birthday.

 

This is Funny. But it also isn’t.

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Here is a video that has shown up in my various social media feeds a few times over the past couple of years. It’s funny. No, really, it is. Even though I am the ex-wife of a gay man, one who was fooled for 20 years, I can definitely see the humor in this. It is also making a point I fully believe in–it really doesn’t matter what your religious beliefs are–even if they are that marriage should be between a man and a woman. By denying homosexuals the right to marry, you are guaranteeing that unwitting straight men and women will be in false marriages. Also, my personal opinion, even if it is “against God” that is between God and the individuals in question–not for you and not for me to say.

I debated linking this on the Facebook page of the Straight Spouse Network, but didn’t because I realized that some followers there are at different stages of their journey with this particular issue and it might be hurtful. It wouldn’t be difficult for me to allow this to move me to irritation and hurt–but I am actually beyond that and to allow it would be a step backwards.

If you have stumbled upon this blog post in a search for information about gay spouses, please check out the Straight Spouse Network. At the very least you will realize you are not alone.

If you are seeing this and are vehemently opposed to gay marriage–please; stop and think about the ramifications of what you are saying. There are so many more people involved. Continuing to (in my opinion wrongly) discriminate against gay marriage is incredibly harmful.

And if you just think this video short is funny–well, you’re right. It is.

 

My Clan; Scattered

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Tribe. Clan. Words people use to describe those with whom they are sympatico… the group of people who share an interest, and an easy getting along. All my life I have stood on the outskirts of these groups, never quite belonging. Don’t misunderstand; I have friends in all kinds of different tribes. But I myself am not in the core of any group. This always kind of bothered me. I mean, where did I fit? I often became flippant about it, I didn’t fit, that was cool–I was far too unique to be in a clique. But it really wasn’t ok. I wanted to know where I belonged. In my darkest moments I figured I belonged nowhere. (thanks depression brain chemistry).

Jock. Nerd. Popular. Techie. Rocker. Artsy. Fashionista. Writer. Pundit. Intellectual. None of these labels fit. I can flirt with the edges, dabble and play, hold my own. But the fabric stretches, the seams awkward. These aren’t my clothes.

And then….I was explaining this to my therapist (yes, I have one, she’s awesome) and she casually says “that’s because your tribe isn’t colocated–you are all scattered, experiencing life.”  What a revelation. I’ve been pondering the rightness of this for a couple of weeks now. During that time, I went on a spur-of-the-moment road trip and sent a picture of myself to my best friends. One of them said “I love this picture of you in your element.” And I realized it was my element. Not the location, but being somewhere new and different and stopping in a weird place and the day not being the same. This. This is my tribe. My clan. The Wanderers. The Explorers. In another day and time I might have been a wandering minstrel (assuming I had different vocal chords–ahem).  I recognize those in my clan–we connect instantly. I just hadn’t realized how we were related. Now that I do, I am likely to recognize more. We’re out there, mingling and instilling awesomeness wherever we might be.

Some of you who know me best will probably shake your heads and say “no kidding, how did you not realize this about yourself?” But I didn’t. For far too long I let doubt and other negative demons hold sway in my head. They are now mostly banished. Or at least I can see them when they are coming so I can head them off. For me, though, figuring out I do belong when for all of my years I couldn’t find that place is almost a relief. I couldn’t find a place because there isn’t a physical place–it’s a state of being.  It isn’t a job or a function, it’s a freed spirit, an insatiable appetite to see all the things and all the places.  So excuse me. I need to renew my passport. I need to get out there and represent my clan.

Lola

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The first time I met Lola my dog Barney had just died. I was angry, angry with my parents for not saving Barney and angry with Barney for getting old. I loved Barney. Barney slept on my bed even though it wasn’t allowed. And now what? No dog on my bed. I had been as horrible as my 7 year old self knew how to be. I had shouted at my mom and called her stupid. I had stomped all the way to the front door and slammed it behind me. And then, I ran. As fast as my feet could take me, I ran for blocks and then veered off to the park. I was absolutely not allowed to go as far as the park all by myself. I was literally on forbidden ground and I should have been exhilarated with my daring, but instead I could not stop the tears from falling. It was the worst. A seven (and a half!) year old boy was not supposed to cry.

I climbed up the slide and sat, legs dangling over the side. I threw my head back and looked at the upside-down tree tops against the sky. It didn’t help. I was still really sad about Barney. I kept my head back until I felt kind of dizzy, then I sat up and slid down the slide. At the bottom I looked around to choose what to play on next. I couldn’t teeter-totter by myself. Merry-go-rounds were boring with one person. I ran to the swings and took the best one–right in the middle. I was pumping my legs as hard as I could when a girl came into view. I ignored her even though she was walking right at me.

“Hi, my name is Lola” she said and plopped herself on the swing next to me. “What’s your name?”

Couldn’t she see I didn’t want to talk? “Jordy.” Rudely. More pumping.

“I love to swing. Do you Jordy?”

I didn’t answer.

“It looks like you are sad.”

“I’M NOT!” If I yelled it, I would sound tough, not like a crybaby. I looked sideways at Lola. She didn’t look mad. She was just kind of looking at me. It was kind of weird. I drew my eyebrows together and looked forward. Not at Lola.

“Oh. I know what it’s like to be sad. It’s ok to be sad you know. ‘Specially if something really sad happened.”

Lola was right. It was really sad. Anyone would be sad.

“My dog Barney died.” The words barely came out.I wasn’t even sure I had said them out loud. But Lola heard them.

“That’s really REALLY sad. Dogs are the best. I bet your dog was your best friend.” Lola was swinging and not really looking at me anymore. That made me feel better. If I had to look at her, I might get more upset.

“Barney was my best friend and I’m really sad and mad that he died. And I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.”

“Oh” Lola said. “OK.”

For a little bit we both pumped our legs and were quiet. I was thinking about Barney and about how empty it was going to feel in my room. I started pumping my legs as hard as I could, making the swing go as far and as fast as I could make it go.

“Wanna see who can jump the farthest Jordy?” I looked over at Lola; she was pumping her legs hard too, her head flung back eyes wide open, dark hair streaming behind her. She had a hole in the left knee of her Toughskins jeans. She grinned at me, eyes bright and full of mischief.

“Come on Jordy–it’ll be so fun! It’ll be like flying. Let’s just jump. I bet I can go as far as that bush there” Lola nodded at a plant almost to the merry-go-round.

“No way.” Interest was creeping into my voice, even though I didn’t want it to.

“No way you won’t jump or no way I can go that far?” Lola’s expression taunted me.

I snorted. “No way you can jump that far.”

“Watch this!” Lola shouted as she flung herself out of the swing as it reached it’s apex. Her arms stretched as wide as she could make them, legs gyrating wildly as if she could pedal the air. She landed in a heap. Not quite to the bush, but she went really far. Triumphant, she turned, hands on her hips, chin raised and smile enormous.

“Now you go Jordy!”

I was still pumping my  legs hard, but the anger had gone from my muscles. Still, I wanted to fly. And, I wanted to fly farther than Lola had. I dug deep in my swinging and counted backwards “3!!….. 2!… 1!” and on the one I let go, expecting to launch myself into space, and fly, ever so briefly.

But it didn’t happen. I had forgotten that I had wrapped my other arm in the chain and instead of flying, I crashed. Hard. Did I scream? I don’t know. I remember mom being there looking scared. I remember dad driving really fast to the hospital. And I remember hearing mom telling the doctors I was really sad about Barney which I didn’t think was any of their business.

My arm broke in three places. I had ripped most of the skin off of my knees, nose and chin. I had a really bad headache. I don’t remember much about the next few days, but the scars on my hands, knees and face remain. After a few weeks at home, I remembered Lola and asked if she had been there. My mom and dad didn’t remember seeing her. I guess she had run off.

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When I was twelve, my lack of athletic ability made me a target for the jocks. My lack of trying academically kept me out of the limited protection of the nerds. I was the invisible boy, unless a jock needed to make his entourage laugh. Then I wore a neon target. Apparently. It had been a neon target kind of day. My shirt was torn and my head bruised from a ‘noogy’ gone awry. When Mr. Jansen, a history teacher, had come out to see what the noise was in the hallway, all the jocks had vanished. I replied with a sullen “Nothing.” when Mr. Jansen asked me what was going on. It wasn’t worth the effort to try to explain. Nobody would take on the popular kids, and it would just get worse for me if I did.

Somehow I made it through the day. I wouldn’t go back to my locker because the dumb guys might be waiting for me. So instead I got zeroes in three classes for not bringing my books to class. It was  worth it. I didn’t really care about zeroes. Or class.

Walking home that day, I kept my head down. There was no gaze I needed to meet. That’s how I collided with Lola at the corner of Third and Young.

“Oh!” she exclaimed as her bag fell amidst my books.

“I’m sorry” I stammered, failing miserably in my attempt to neatly gather everything up. She knelt beside me stuffing her belongings into her bag and then paused, looking at me. “Hey. Do I know you?” She was studying me far too closely for my comfort.
“Doubt it.” I stole a glance at her. She was familiar too. Unbidden, my brain racked through female faces and landed on “Lola?”

She tilted her head, questioning, and then recognition lit her eyes. “Jordy! From the playground!” She stood, her bag reassembled. I stood also, my books in an untidy pile. Lola laughed and smiled, insisted on walking with me–she grabbed my hand and pulled me along, chattering nonstop about her friends, her classes and how she still liked to jump off swings. I listened, not wanting to like her, but I did. She was easy to listen to, and even cared what I had to say. We got to my house and Lola wanted to come in. I wasn’t sure how my parents would take to me suddenly bringing over a smart, pretty girl. In all honesty, I didn’t want to have to explain Lola. So I said no. Lola shrugged and waved merrily as she half-skipped down the street.

The next day, though, Lola knocked on my door after I was home from school. I was alone, and I let her in. I even let her come up to my bedroom and we talked and listened to the radio. She looked at my books and had even read a lot of them. She snuck out when I was called to dinner, understanding that I didn’t want to explain her presence.

Lola came over every day after school for several months. It was like having a best friend. She went through my clothes, picking out the ones she thought were good colors for me. I showed her my collection of knives, terrified she would think I was a freak for liking them. But she didn’t! She thought they were cool–even came outside to throw them at the tree like I did. I also showed her the scar on my arm from the playground jump. She wasn’t really concerned about that; called it a ‘battle scar’ and said it was a sign of being a man. She made me feel good about myself and like I actually mattered in the world. She was always there. But then one day, she didn’t knock on my door. Not the next day either. Nor the one after that. I thought I should be more sad about not talking to her, but weirdly I just wasn’t. And soon, I exiled her to memory.

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I didn’t see Lola again until my last year of college. Walking across campus, late as usual, I noticed a woman–a pretty woman–watching me from a bench. She had no books or backpack, a quizzical look on her face as she tracked me across the quad. I recognized her, but couldn’t place where I knew her from–I figured it was one of my classes.

I was mistaken.

Several days later, after midterms, I went to a local cheesy dive bar to mull over how I thought I had done on my exams and papers–not well. The pretty woman was there. I noticed her right away, but women like that don’t pay attention to guys like me. Still, she seemed kind of familiar, and this tugged at my brain as I pulled up a bar stool and ordered a drink.

I thought I was being subtle, watching her in the mirror behind the bar. She knew it though,  she knew I was watching every move she made, from the casual flip of her sleek, black hair, down the length of the lustrous onyx dress that hugged her curves in a most dangerous manner along her stockingless, muscular leg, to her shapely foot, upon which dangled a black stiletto pump. She knew. The slight upward curve of her lips let me know she was aware of my gaze and it amused her.

She pointed her toes and snapped the shoe back into place, slid off her stool and walked over. No. Walking is not the right word. She…sashayed. Her eyes were fixed on mine as if I were her prey. And I was. Willingly. I stared. Her lips were moving. I frowned slightly. I couldn’t hear what she said.

“Jordy?” Her voice rang clearly now. How did she know my name? My befuddlement must have been plain on my face. “It’s me, Lola!”

As recognition dawned on my face, a smile lit up hers. She laughed, a warm, musical sound that echoed across the years, bringing back memories of afternoons in my room, and that one afternoon on the playground. She sat on the stool next to me. I asked if she wanted a drink, but she only wanted ice water. We sat there for about an hour, just catching up. Mostly me talking, answering her questions. She was still a really great listener. And I still really loved having her listen.

When we left the bar, Lola walked next to me, as naturally as if she had done so for years. She tucked her hand into the crook of my elbow. It was like we were a real couple! I wanted to walk her home, but when we got to my apartment she asked if she could come up. I shuffled my feet and tried to think of what to say. I did not have guests and I certainly did not have beautiful women over. I tried to view my place through the eyes of a stranger. I couldn’t figure out how to tell her no without sounding like a hateful troll. Lola squeezed my arm and said “I swear, I don’t care what your place is like. I’m just glad we found each other again.”

I relaxed. Well, as much as I relax. I had to admit it was amazing having Lola around again. She made me feel as if all my crazy thoughts were normal. She didn’t judge. We sat up for hours talking, and when I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore, we crawled into bed together as if it were perfectly normal. She wrapped her arms around me and I succumbed to her hug. The tears began-I was ashamed for a moment, but Lola just gently stroked my forehead and whispered “It’s okay” over and over. Then I gave myself over to her, I allowed her to see my deepest self, the person I hid from the world, embarrassed by my own existence. She was not repulsed. She was not shocked. She simply held me closer. When I let Lola have control, I no longer felt awkward and stupid. I felt as if all were right in my world. My self-contained and secret world.

Staying in Lola’s embrace, I reached over to my nightstand and slid the drawer open. I reached in and pulled out my protection. Lola gasped and smiled, she knew I would do whatever she asked. She took my hand and together, we prepared. Her touch was firm, yet gentle. I was fully loaded.

“Give yourself to me” she whispered and pressed her lips to my temple.

“Lola” I breathed as I put my 9 mm under my jaw, angled back towards my brain. I pulled the trigger.

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The chapel was empty save a woman in her forties sobbing. Despite her grief, she remained in control. The priest approached her from behind, hesitating slightly before placing a hand on her shoulder in comfort. The woman half-turned her head.

“Thank you Father” the woman spoke, vestiges of tears in her voice. “Jordy was always so troubled, you know? When he was just a boy, remember when our dog died? He threw himself off the swingset–I saw him. It was a miracle he didn’t break his neck. And then later, when he stayed in his room and refused to leave for two months? I thought when he made it through high school his depression was behind him. I was wrong.”

The priest nodded as the woman spoke. “Depression is a terrible thing. I don’t think any of us who loved Jordy knew he had a gun. Or that he was fretting so much over his grades.  Did you ever find this Lola he wrote about?”

The woman shook her head. “No. Perhaps we never will.” She collapsed into tears, the priest held her, whispering prayers.

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Author’s note: Depression affects some 15 million adult Americans, according to the Anxiety and Depression Association of America. If you or a loved one suspects you have depression, please contact a doctor or mental health provider for help.

This is a story inspired by the songs “The Wolf is At Your Door” and “The Girl With Golden Eyes” by Sixx A.M. “Wolf” can be found on “Prayers For The Blessed” and “Girl” on “The Heroin Diaries”. I was taken with the line “I met my assassin, I even held her hand” in ‘Wolf’ and merged that idea with the anthropomorphization of heroin in ‘Girl’. I did the same thing here, anthropomorphizing depression as the character Lola. (Lola means ‘lady of sorrow’).

 

Living With a Brain Injury

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It was a beautiful sunny day in early May 2006. My friend and business partner and I were working on a house we were flipping. One of the tasks we had set for the day was to get up on the roof and sweep out the gutters–after a blustery winter there were a lot of pine needles. It was a one level ranch house with a low incline roof. Neither of us was worried about getting up there. We had a good, steady ladder we had already used inside to get up to sweep out cobwebs from the cathedral ceiling in the living room.

I climbed up the ladder a few steps and tossed the broom ahead of me so I could give climbing my full attention. As I began to transition from ladder to roof, everything went awry. The ladder began to fall, but I did not have full grasp on the roof. At this point, my memory becomes spotty at best. I remember trying to corral the ladder with my legs. I remember thinking that what I needed to do was  roll out of the fall. And I distinctly remember a peaceful voice in my head advising “relax relax relax and drop”.

I fell. My right leg was tangled in the ladder which upended me. I landed face first on the concrete. Caught in the ladder, the Achilles tendon in my right ankle tore completely apart. I did not lose consciousness. I looked down on the pavement and saw a lot of blood and my teeth. I remember being in the ambulance. I remember a brief moment in the emergency room when a nurse commented on my pedicure. Then I don’t remember anything until I was home.

I never really had any treatment for my brain–I think because I didn’t lose consciousness and I was always able to answer the questions the doctors asked. The ankle injury took months to heal–I was not allowed to put any weight on it at all for four months so I had lots of time just sitting–and during that time, I was advised to do crossword puzzles for my brain. At first, I couldn’t even complete the ones for brand new readers (first grade level). It took too much concentration. I couldn’t read a book, or a magazine–too much focus. I couldn’t even watch TV–I lost track of the story after about 10 minutes. I had a lot of healing to do. Ultimately, it was two years before my mouth had healed enough to put in implants. I had no nose the day I fell–it was reassembled. The plastic surgeon I had was amazing–today few can see any of my facial scars unless I point them out. I see them– there are dozens of tiny scars. I did sit and rub vitamin E oil all over my face for days on end which probably helped a lot.

Slowly, my attention and focus increased. At some point I realized I had no sense of smell. For several years I assumed this was because of nose damage. Finally I realized it was brain damage. Although the fall happened right before my 40th birthday–or right when things like memory are going to change–I ascribe memory issues most often to the fall. Memory issues can be anything from walking into a room and forgetting why I walked in (not uncommon in people ‘my age’) to having no memory at all of things, even when several people tell me I was there (people I trust). These issues are most pronounced if I am tired–brain tired, not physically tired. If I have been concentrating at work, or reading all day, or writing–there is a definite falling off point. It’s not gradual–all of a sudden I can’t continue. I can’t focus long enough to do one more problem, one more sentence, one more invoice. This is the legacy of my fall– loss of a sense and loss of some memory.

I often make light of my injury–I’ll laugh at an error and say “oops, brain damage!” I once had a co-worker roll her eyes and say “You know, you can’t use that forever.” and I replied “Actually, yes, yes I can. That’s exactly what a brain injury means–forever I have brain damage.”

I’m actually pretty lucky. Losing my sense of smell and getting brain tired  aren’t really that much of a permanent loss. There are many many more TBI patients who deal with far more profound losses every day. I don’t “look” like I have a brain injury, whatever that means. But if I can in any way make it so others with more profound injuries than I can be better accepted, I will do it.

This is Brain Injury Awareness month. Many people with brain injuries don’t want to talk about it because they are afraid of a stigma. My hope is that by talking about it, the stigma can be erased. Get educated, get informed. You probably know somebody with a brain injury. Like me.

Human Resistance

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I am a huge fan of the music of Sixx AM–and I am thoroughly enamored with their most recent release Prayers for the Blessed Vol. 2. A line in the song “Wolf at Your Door”–a song about depression–caught my attention and I spent numerous commutes thinking about different ways that line could play out. I decided to challenge myself to write three completely different stories based on that line. This is the first. –Laura Ducolon

“I’ve Seen My Assassin, I’ve Even Held Her Hand”–Sixx AM 

I almost missed the emergency signal, so subtle were the two quick taps on my left shoulder followed by a squeeze on my right elbow. By the time my brain registered the message, I could not tell who had delivered it.

Per protocol, I stepped back from my position on the production line. My supervisor, Daciana, approached, her gray neck fur bristling slightly at my unexpected action. I kept my eyes downcast and respectfully requested emergency leave permission. I was a good worker, never late or absent, so it shouldn’t be a problem, but I was also a harassment target because of my family’s legacy in the resistance. But, after a moment, sniffing no fear or deception, Daciana growled her consent. I expressed my gratitude and, per protocol, covered my head with the hood on my red jacket. The red signified my status as an undomesticated human.

i went to the nearest Elimination Station, entered the cubby, locked the door and sat on the pot. Inside the roll of cleansing paper I found the coded message and deciphered it in my head. “Thumbs up for family.” All of our messages were at a minimum triple encoded. The thumb alone meant human, and thumbs up meant the opposite. So the whole message was “Human Family in danger”. Nonni. My Nonni was in danger.

Exiting the Elimination Station, I looked around to get my bearings and see if i was being observed. Foot traffic on this street was neither heavy nor light. I joined the pedestrians, eyes downcast as my rank-status required. I walked for two blocks, then turned down a side street and headed to a park. This park was open to all, so my red jacket was not out of place. I strolled on the path, eyes down when appropriate, but otherwise appearing to admire nature should anyone be watching. I rounded a bend in the path and approached a stand of firs. I knelt and feigned adjusting the buckles on my boots, glancing around to be sure I was alone. Seeing nothing alarming, I slipped the red jacket off and reversed it to black, then stepped off the path and into the trees. The hush and scent both soothed and exhilarated my senses. I consciously slowed my breathing and heart rate and began a deliberate count to thirty as i had been taught. This would ensure I had not been seen, and if I had been, allowed sufficient time to be confronted for my forbidden steps off the path.

Confident I was unobserved, I strode to the largest tree in the stand. At it’s base sat an imposing boulder. This boulder concealed an entry to The Labyrinth. A last look around and I activated the boulder’s hydraulics. As the boulder slid aside to reveal a staircase, I felt an urge to look around one last time. A quick scan revealed nothing, but then I glanced up. A crow. Known spy. I ducked into the staircase and pressed the closure handle. I knew the crow had seen and would report. The entrance was blown. I searched and found the crevice for the emergency klaxon. Fumbling, I pulled the lever sounding the alarm. I should have stayed to assist with walling up and sealing the entrance, but I couldn’t. I ran. Nonni was in danger.

Thoughts raced through my head as my feet raced through the Labyrinth. I didn’t know how the wolves had learned of me and at this point it didn’t matter. I ran through the underground corridors, eyes flicking to the walls and the path marked with a red hand, the sigil of my people. I didn’t really need to check–The Labyrinth was home to me, I had played for hours down here as a child, holding hands and skipping through the corridors and hidey-holes with my best friend, Karinah. Countless times I had followed the route to my Nonni’s house. As a leader of the Human Resistance, Nonni had an entrance to The Labyrinth secreted behind a cupboard in her kitchen. I loved entering the secret world with friends, oblivious to the importance of the subterranean world. We played hide and seek among the crates of food, water, blasters, candles. I was always sad when a playmate stopped coming, but did not understand that meant they had either died or been domesticated.

As a teenager, the system of tunnels provided lots of places to make out with boyfriends, or sit and talk for hours with Karinah, about who we would be mated with, as if we had a choice. Human Resistance was no longer resistance, but a preservation movement. Humans were now an endangered species. My parents had been killed during the Lupine Wars when I was an infant. My Nonni would be making the decision as to who would be my mate, and Nonni wanted the best. She favored Pavel, a strong, intelligent boy–a leader in the youth movement. Pavel was okay, but I liked Jem. Jem wasn’t as smart or as strong as Pavel, but he was kind and gentle and those were qualities I admired.

None of this mattered now. I needed to get to Nonni. My boots thudded in time with my heartbeat as I swiftly maneuvered corridors. I ticked off landmarks as I passed–hall to the planning room, the blanket storage, the dead end that used to have an entrance to a bank before the bank was rubbleized. I reached the corridor that hid Nonni’s entrance and froze. What if there were intruders in Nonni’s house and I blew her entrance? What if I didn’t use it and wasted precious time? My brain raced through scenarios, my feet refusing to move. I decided that one blown entrance was enough damage for the day, and raced to the next nearest portal outside. This entrance had a viewer, and I scoured the area high and low but saw no watchers of any species. I emerged and stood, shadowed, in an alley near a dump. I needed to get to Nonni’s. I also needed to not be noticed. Again, I put on the jacket, red side out, and put the hood up. I walked swiftly on the sidewalk, just a law-abiding worker hurrying home before curfew. As I neared Nonni’s house, I slowed my pace and paid attention to all around me. None of Nonni’s neighbors knew her true identity. To them, she was the sweet lady who sold flowers at the market. Fortunately, other dwellings on the street seemed quiet. I noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Nonni’s front yard was neat. Her porch light was on, welcoming visitors. Normal.  Heart pounding in my chest, I clambered up the steps, and opened the front door. Unlocked. Not normal.

Inside, I slipped out of my boots and closed the front door noiselessly. I crossed the empty living room in my socks. I peeked into the kitchen–a loaf of bread, plate, stick of butter and jar of jam sat on the counter. No sign of Nonni. I slunk down the hallway towards the bedroom. The bedroom door stood ajar–I inched forward, craning for a view without being seen. Ducking my head in awkward positions, I realized I was able to see the mirror on Nonni’s dresser. I moved my head around trying to see all corners of the room, and nearly gasped aloud. Nonni was in her bed, pillows propped up behind her back, blankets tucked in around her. Her features were carefully arranged in a calm expression–Nonni never wore a calm expression. And over near the window, I could see wolf paws. Nonni was indeed in grave danger.

I slid back towards the kitchen, mind racing. I had to assume the wolf had intelligence from the network of crows that I had been alerted and was on the move. Judging from Nonni’s expression, I was expected shortly. I may have been seen entering the house. I had to think quickly. Entering the kitchen I stifled a shriek as a form appeared–but breathed calmly as I recognized Karinah. She opened her mouth, but I stopped her with a finger to my lips. She nodded her understanding and clamped her lips closed. I went to Nonni’s drawer and pulled out a notepad and pencil she kept on hand for creating recipes. I wrote “wolf” on the pad and Karinah’s eyes widened. She took the pencil and wrote “youth know… on their way.” This should have comforted me, but it did not. I was concerned that wolven backup was on it’s way.

I decided that I needed to be in Nonni’s bedroom to protect her. Although she was a legendary revolutionary, she was also elderly. And, a high value target. I was in no mood to lose my Nonni. I grabbed her shopping basket, and lined it with a kitchen towel. Grabbing food items, I filled the basket with bread, apples, jam, some cheese, and bottle of juice. I put my shoes back on and opened the front door, then slammed it shut.

“Nonni??” I shouted, hoping to disarm the wolven interloper with my brazenness.

“Scarletta?” Nonni answered!! My heart lept with joy. “Scarletta, darling, I am unwell. In my bed.”

I walked back to her bedroom, thrusting the basket of her own food towards her. “Nonni… I bring you food. You should eat!” I plopped the basket on her bed, pretending to completely not see the paws behind the curtains. Nonni cut her eyes towards the window and I gave a slight nod to let her know I knew. I pulled out the bread and ripped off a chunk. “Some good bread, Nonni, will return your health. Let me put some jam on for you–your appetite is important.”

“Hi Scarletta,” Karinah spoke from the doorway. I turned and gave her a puzzled glare. “Karinah! How nice to see you… what brings you to Nonni’s house?” I tried to send Karinah a message with my eyes, but she was oblivious.

“Oh, I always love coming to Nonni’s” Karinah said as she took Nonni’s hand. Nonni did not look happy with this development. I thought it was because she now had two human youth in danger. I was wrong.

At that point, everything began to happen at once, and I remember it in frozen frames of real memory.  The wolf sprang out from behind the curtain–no normal she-wolf, this was Ula, head of the Security Forces and responsible for co-opting all domesticated dogs to the Wolves side during the Lupine War and for developing the plan for domesticating humans. Nonni screamed, and rolled off the bed at the sight of the blasters Ula wielded. Simultaneously, I registered a tremendous clatter in the kitchen. My brain could not sort out the sounds. I struggled to stay focused on Nonni. Karinah was behind me. Ula snarled and rushed towards me; I threw the only thing I had available–the jar of jam. It smacked into her forehead, then fell and shattered on the floor, splattering sticky goodness into her leg fur, but also causing her to freeze in place, fearful of stepping on broken glass.

“Nonni! Let’s go!” I whirled to run out of the bedroom as Nonni rolled towards me, but Karinah blocked my path. She stood firm; I turned questioning eyes to Nonni who was pulling herself to standing.

“That’s what I was trying to tell you, Scarletta…. can you not see Karinah has been turned? She is… domesticated.” Nonni’s voice was weary, exhausted with years of rebellion.

“Karinah?” I almost whimpered the sense of betrayal was so great. My best friend. Domesticated. An informant.

Karinah smiled, a smile I had never seen before. She stepped into Nonni’s bedroom. The next thing I remember is Karinah tumbling to the ground, felled like a tree, a blaster flashing green and Ula crumbling into ashes, and Jem appearing in the doorway, blaster smoking, eyes focused with an intensity I had not known he possessed.

I collapsed into Jem, overwhelmed with all that had occurred in the last three minutes. Karinah rose from where she had fallen and ran. Jem started after her, but stopped when I tugged on his hand. Nonni pulled her nightgown off over her head revealing her camoflauge t-shirt and pants tucked into boots. Elderly she might be, but she was still a revolutionary. She took control. “Scarletta, Jem. Let’s go.” We all trooped into the kitchen, where the source of the previous noise became apparent as the entrance to The Labyrinth stood open, dishes from the cupboards smashed onto the floor.

“Well, this entrance is blown.” Nonni’s tone was matter-of-fact, but I knew she had taken pride in how long this entrance had been viable. We all entered the Labyrinth. Nonni located the closing lever and pulled it. She nodded to me, and I sounded the emergency klaxon. This time, we all stayed to wall up and seal the entrance. Nearby humans who heard the klaxon came to assist, somber realization that one of the oldest and most longstanding safe houses was no longer.

After, Nonni, Jem and I walked through the corridors as I told of how I had been alerted, the crow, and my run through the Labyrinth. Nonni decided that we should wall up and seal the other entrance I had utilized. Jem nodded his agreement. We were unsure of the depth of deception Karinah had managed–her turning was the most damaging in at least a decade. She had long resided in The Labyrinth and was familiar with many entrances.

Nonni gathered supplies and settled into her underground quarters. She hadn’t used them for more than long weekends of meetings in quite some time. I helped her store some goods and make up a cot. I looked around questioningly as to where I should set up my own cot. Nonni took my hand and smiled. “I think you and Jem should get your own quarters. It’s time. He’s proven his worth. He was first to come running when he heard you were in danger.” Jem looked down at me and I looked into his eyes. It was time. Time for us to stand by each other. Time to refocus and revitalize the Human Resistance.

Jem had quarters, the rest of his family long deceased. We made our way there, silent with the heaviness of the day. I was unprepared to move forward in the Resistance. Too long I had stayed in Nonni’s shadow and I now realized and understood that my reluctance caused danger to others. I needed to rectify my lack of seriousness.

Entering the spare but homey quarters, Jem’s shoulders relaxed. Safe. I stood in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do next. Jem smiled and asked if I was hungry. I hadn’t thought about it, but I was. He went over to his cupboard of provisions to make a selection. A movement from the back room caught the corner of my eye, and I turned. Karinah came out from the bedroom, a blaster in her hand. Jem froze.

“Do you know there is a price on your head Scarletta?” Karinah nearly slavered with greed. “It has been so difficult to pretend to remain your friend.” The blaster was leveled at my eyes.  Jem remained frozen in my peripheral vision. As far as I knew, he had no options.

In a fluid motion, Jem slammed the cupboard door and hurled a tin of rations at Karinah. Her lupine reflexes were too fast–she fired the blaster and ducked. I saw the blaster flash…

Remembering Jim Jack–5 Years On

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I started seeing the photos a couple of days ago–it’s February and the anniversary of Jim’s untimely death is approaching. I looked up the news article–to my shock it’s been five years. Five. Years. How can that be?

I reread what I wrote at the time and it is all still valid today. I am a little surprised at how often I think of Jim and his outsize personality. I think that the answer to the question “What Would Jim Jack Do?” is Live. Live Large. Live Joyously. Live without restriction. Be kind to everyone, and Live. That is what I am doing!

Below is my post from 2012…. I welcome other’s memories of Jim.

Remembering Jim Jack

I logged onto Facebook to see what was up in the world and there it was–the smiling face of Jim Jack with the words “RIP JJ–we will miss you” in my newsfeed.  I felt like I had been suckerpunched.  I quickly ran a search and discovered that he had been killed in an avalanche up at Stevens Pass.  And the tears began.

I graduated from high school with Jim.  Lakes High School, class of ’84.  My maiden name is Jackson, so we were always next to each other in the yearbook.  I was, to put it bluntly, not popular and Jim was.  Some from high school may see this and wonder why in the world I would cry at the loss of Jim Jack–I wasn’t best buds with him or even in the same Social Status. But he didn’t care about all that superficial stuff–unusual for a high school aged guy, but true.  Jim didn’t judge people (ironic that he grew up to be a judge–he would appreciate that), he just took people as they were, smiled, laughed and went on with life.  We had English together one semester, and we were in a drama club and a couple of plays together–in fact, one shining memory of him is as the silent but hilarious King Sextimus in “Once Upon A Mattress.”  His antics on and off stage kept us all laughing until we cried.  Or snorted.   A story that I tell often involved Jim–sophomore year we were picking up our report cards, and the teacher that had the “J”s was often drunk.  I didn’t realize it at the time–naive thing that I was, but it was true and as an adult I can see it clearly.  Anyways…she handed Jim Jack my report card in error.  That report card was the one and ONLY time in high school that I had straight As.  I will never forget Jim’s shocked face when he saw the 4.0 and then the sheepish grin when he realized it was my report card.  That became ‘our joke’–he teased me about straight As the rest of high school. And then, at our ten year reunion, he came up and gave me a big hug and said “Laura Jackson, how the heck are you?  What are you up to?”  At the time, I was working at CIA, and I told him so.  He paused, took a swig of his beer, nodded and grinned and said “That’s because you got straight As.”  He then proceeded to tell me about being a ‘professional ski bum’ and firefighter.  He was so happy and content–it all seemed to be a perfect fit for him.

With the advent of Facebook, like so many others, I have been able to keep in touch with scattered friends from long ago.  I don’t accept every friend request–I have to actually know you.  And remember you fondly.  Despite having only seen him at reunions since high school, I happily accepted Jim’s friend request.  It has been fascinating to me to have this window into his world, so vastly different from mine–his posts almost in another language to a non-skier “fresh pow today” meaning little to this suburban mom.  It was clear, however, that he loved his life and was filled with joy.  It seems wildly appropriate to me that his job was in the outdoors–no walls could contain that spirit and that larger than life personality.

Reunions will not be the same without him.  He will be remembered and toasted at all of them in the future, I can guarantee that.  I think of him now in Heaven, which for him will be sunny skies, clean crisp air, a killer run with “fresh pow” with a cold beer, warm fire and good friends at the end.  Cheers to you Jim–we will all miss your face.