Final grades
Finally, time to blog! I have been on a plane, at a funeral, on a plane, grading papers, and giving finals! And all sorts of stuff inbetween. But really, with all that, there's still not much going on.
Stetson is getting old; we built a kind of wheelchair ramp for him to get into the backyard instead of going down the three steps, but he's petrified of it because he fell and went rolling down it like a bowling ball. So then we disassembled the ramp and put the steps back. But he can't go down the steps anymore, only up them. Tom carries him into the backyard a few times a day and then he comes back in when he wishes.
Poor old buddy is living out his last few weeks, I think. I think that when the Fall semester starts, we'll start it without him. I'm devastated, of course, by the realization that we'll lose him soon, but I wouldn't trade one second with that little doggie to spare myself the pain. I love him too much!
So I went ahead and indulged my fascination with death while at my parents' house. I talked to my mom about how many terrible deaths I've dealt with so far in my 28 years, and she told me something about myself that I never knew and that seems to have shaped my feelings about death ever since.
My best friend Joy lost her father to a heart attack when we were 14. He was a great guy. You may have heard me tell the story of his funeral before--he was a professional clown and had balloon boquets there, etc. Anyway, maybe another day I'll recount that story here.
I always thought that Joy's dad died on his way home from a trip with a friend. My mom says that's not so. He died while Joy was on the phone with me. Joy's house had two phone lines. She called me screaming and crying that her daddy was having a heart attack and that Holly (her sister) was calling the ambulance. We were young, and she was scared, and ran across the room to call me while her sister tended to her dad. My mom was next to me on the couch and she had her ear to the reciever too, trying to calm Joy down. Joy was screaming things like, "They're here! They're working on him! Oh my god, he's dead! HE'S DEAD!"
And I don't remember a word of it. For as long as I can remember, I've thought Joy's dad died in the car on his way home. It is as if that scene with the phone and Joy happened to a different girl, not me. I wonder how long it took me to block it out? Weeks? Days? Moments? I mean, I can recall telling people how Joy's dad died way back when I was a high school sophomore, and I was telling it wrong even then.
It makes me wonder, How much life happens to you that you reject? You would never even know, if it happened to you the way it happened to me. I rejected that experience. I mean, I'm sure it left an indelible mark on my subconscious, but what about my conscious life? It's as if it didn't happen. I wouldn't have believed the story if had been anyone else but my mother telling me. So freaky. A terrible experience for me, at 14 years old. Even more horrible for sweet little Joy. Poor us. Lucky for me I don't remember it.
Finally, time to blog! I have been on a plane, at a funeral, on a plane, grading papers, and giving finals! And all sorts of stuff inbetween. But really, with all that, there's still not much going on.
Stetson is getting old; we built a kind of wheelchair ramp for him to get into the backyard instead of going down the three steps, but he's petrified of it because he fell and went rolling down it like a bowling ball. So then we disassembled the ramp and put the steps back. But he can't go down the steps anymore, only up them. Tom carries him into the backyard a few times a day and then he comes back in when he wishes.
Poor old buddy is living out his last few weeks, I think. I think that when the Fall semester starts, we'll start it without him. I'm devastated, of course, by the realization that we'll lose him soon, but I wouldn't trade one second with that little doggie to spare myself the pain. I love him too much!
So I went ahead and indulged my fascination with death while at my parents' house. I talked to my mom about how many terrible deaths I've dealt with so far in my 28 years, and she told me something about myself that I never knew and that seems to have shaped my feelings about death ever since.
My best friend Joy lost her father to a heart attack when we were 14. He was a great guy. You may have heard me tell the story of his funeral before--he was a professional clown and had balloon boquets there, etc. Anyway, maybe another day I'll recount that story here.
I always thought that Joy's dad died on his way home from a trip with a friend. My mom says that's not so. He died while Joy was on the phone with me. Joy's house had two phone lines. She called me screaming and crying that her daddy was having a heart attack and that Holly (her sister) was calling the ambulance. We were young, and she was scared, and ran across the room to call me while her sister tended to her dad. My mom was next to me on the couch and she had her ear to the reciever too, trying to calm Joy down. Joy was screaming things like, "They're here! They're working on him! Oh my god, he's dead! HE'S DEAD!"
And I don't remember a word of it. For as long as I can remember, I've thought Joy's dad died in the car on his way home. It is as if that scene with the phone and Joy happened to a different girl, not me. I wonder how long it took me to block it out? Weeks? Days? Moments? I mean, I can recall telling people how Joy's dad died way back when I was a high school sophomore, and I was telling it wrong even then.
It makes me wonder, How much life happens to you that you reject? You would never even know, if it happened to you the way it happened to me. I rejected that experience. I mean, I'm sure it left an indelible mark on my subconscious, but what about my conscious life? It's as if it didn't happen. I wouldn't have believed the story if had been anyone else but my mother telling me. So freaky. A terrible experience for me, at 14 years old. Even more horrible for sweet little Joy. Poor us. Lucky for me I don't remember it.
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