Defender of Mankind or Cletus' Worst Nightmare?

Joan of Arc did it and she is forever ingrained in our minds as the epitome of the martyr; defender of mankind.  Don't we all want to be the Joan of today?  To save the meek of spirit and always be out for the underdog?  We all have had those feelings.  We see someone made fun of or an underprivileged person being shunned by society and want so badly to be their savior; to come to their rescue and defeat the bad guy.  If only we came equipped with the sword and armor that seems to go hand in hand with the Joan of Arc role.

My first real feeling of wanting to save the world one person at a time was in the 5th grade.  Lyle was a boy in my brother Matt's grade; two years older than me.  Lyle was tall and lanky.  He had wire rim glasses and kept to himself.  Being two years younger, I didn't interact with him, but he always seemed a bit shy and with a disposition that struck me as kind.

This was the late 70's in small town Iowa.  Small towns didn't have middle schools.  We had grade schools and we had high schools.  As a 5th grader, we were pooled with the "older kids".  Also, we didn't have back packs.  I am not quite sure when this great invention was introduced.  And frankly, maybe it was at this time, but we sure didn't know this luxury in Remsen.  Needless to say, I carried a stack of books home every day from school which was the "norm" with my classmates as well.

One spring day the mass exodus of school began after the sound of the much anticipated end-of-school bell.  We all scurried like a bunch of mice to escape the hot school (no air conditioning...another injustice that my children can not quite grasp).  There were two steps that extended past the back exit door of the school.  After I ran out the door along with the other 43 fifth graders, I stepped aside next to the building to wait for one of my brothers.  I watched the kids pouring out while I searched for my brother, Matt.  Through the hustle, shoving and positioning of getting out ahead of the rest, someone tripped and fell in the middle of the chaos.  What quickly followed was the sound of kids laughing at this unexpected casualty.

There lay Lyle with books and papers strewn everywhere and his glasses half cocked on this face.  He was dazed and looking around.  Everyone had stopped.  They just stood there and stared with a few pointing and laughing.  I just had this incredible desire to help this poor boy out.  So out jumps the 5th grade girl jostling her way to rescue the 7th grade boy from his current affliction.  I knelt down and helped a very bewildered Lyle gather his books and papers.  I point to his glasses (trying to be indiscreet) and Lyle gives them a quick adjustment.  Without a word being exchanged, Lyle quietly went about his business; getting in line for the bus and everyone else just kept on moving.  I am not quite sure why that is such a strong memory for me other than it was my first real life experience that empowered me to believe that I could make a difference in someone else's life.  It was probably a good thing at the time that I didn't solicit feedback from Lyle on his assessment of the incident.

Fast forward nine years to my junior year in college.  I have now gained some maturity and some real life experiences in helping others; nothing terribly heroic or noteworthy, but experiences none the less.  Scott and I were dating and he held the esteemed position of dorm RA (Resident Assistant).  With this new position came some added responsibility; one of which was driving the "Drunk Bus".  Our college Drunk Bus was the equivalent to today's "Happy Cab"...a free ride on special occasions for those too impaired to drive.  This particular night Scott and I had volunteered to drive the Drunk Bus, shuttling the enthusiastic party-goers to the kegger at the sand pit and then back to campus again.

As many can relate, being the drunk driver is never the most glamorous role.  In fact, it can be taxing.  Drunks can wear on the best of us and frankly, I wasn't a very seasoned party girl at age 20.  My point (foreshadowing) is that I might of been carrying a bit of an edge the night of my perceived heroics.  This particular night was a warm fall night, early in the school year with a keg at the LeMars sand pit, a common place for college parties.

We had probably made three round trips by the time we pulled up to the pit to see a ring of people gathered in the dark.  "What's going on?"  I ask Scott.  "I don't know," he says as he hops out running to the crowd to assess the situation.  I follow in the darkness trying to make out what the mass of people are watching so intently.  As I push through the crowd, I see the focus of their entertainment and curiosity; a fight!  Yep, a true-blue, testosterone-filled, two boy, fist fight.  In horror, I recognize both fighters.

Fighter #1 - Kelly.  Description of Fighter:  College quarterback, FUNNY, life of the party and the biggest heart breaker on campus.  Can't lie...yep, I personally fell in the 50% group of women on campus that had dated Kelly at some point in time.  Though very short lived, dating Kelly was fun.  He was the master entertainer and quite a ham.  Add the athletic ability, good looks, charm and the result was campus stud; everyone's buddy and BMOC.

Fighter # 2 - Cletus.  Description of Fighter:  Overweight, sloven, football bench-warmer who appeared ill-natured to the strangers he encountered.  He never seemed very happy and certainly won no popularity contests.  His clothes weren't the "in" clothes and his friends weren't the "in" friends.  In our college terms, he was a "Mugwump"; basically the jargon for campus nerd.

So Kelly and Cletus were center ring; throwing punches at each other with a group of about thirty people surrounding, watching and cheering.  From my vantage point, Cletus was the victim.  People were cheering for popular, confident Kelly.  Poor Cletus was being PICKED ON <gasp>!!  Somewhere from deep inside, Joan took over Sandy.  With the bravery of a heroine, I pushed everyone out of my way and ran to center ring.  by this time, Cletus was on his back with Kelly delivering a blow.  With strength that I didn't even know I had, I jumped in next to Kelly and shoved him to the ground.  At the top of my lungs I started screaming, "STOP, Kelly!  What are you doing???  Leave him alone.  Leave poor Cletus alone!  What did he do to you?  STOP it NOW!!!"  All the time I am yelling these things, I am shoving Kelly into the ground.  He is looking at me in pure horror.  First he is trying to figure out who I am and then he is trying to make sense out of what I am saying.  You could have heard a pin drop.  The crowd was silent and in shock at what was transpiring in front of them.  The look on their faces read "What the Hell is Sandy doing?".

In one of those moments where it truly feels like time has gone into slow motion, I look around at the crowd.  There were many quizzical looks as to what was happening.  Kelly went from the combative, fighting face to staring at me and then actually asking what everyone else was thinking, "Sandy, what the Hell are you doing?".  I turn to my victim, Cletus.  I was desperately looking for affirmation from the man whom I had so valiantly risked my well being to save from the perils of Kelly.  What I see on his face isn't relief or gratitude, but rather mortification and humiliation.  "What are you doing?"  Cletus yells at me.  I suddenly had the feeling that would equate to realizing you are naked on stage during a performance.  No one in the circle radius had any clue what I was trying to do and why; including Cletus.  Without saying another word, I quietly walked back into the shadows.  It was amazing how my seemingly heroic actions and words were like cold water on the battle at hand.  Cletus simply got up and walked away.  Kelly looked around in puzzlement, then quickly got back on his game and cracked a joke.  The crowd roared and slowly returned to the party.  I crawled into the Drunk Bus.  Scott looked at me with wide eyes and asked the same question, "What the Hell were you doing?".  My answer, "I really have no idea."

So life on campus proceeded as always.  Kelly continued to be the life of the party and Cletus continued his role as campus Mugwump.  There were many times that Cletus and I would run into each other around campus.  He would just look away and didn't acknowledge my existence.  I believe in today's terms it would be called being "dead in someones eyes".  So...note to self; before playing heroine, first ascertain that there truly is a victim involved and more importantly, verify that the purported victim wants your help.  That was the flaw in my decision making.  I assumed.  And when it comes to love, war, and saving the world; never assume.  Lesson learned.

Grandpa Doc

My Grandpa Doc died in July of 2000.  Although it should have been of no surprise (he had been battling cancer for months); we always thought our ailing grandma would go first.  But this was not the case.  A man that always seemed so vibrant and proudly served the role of Grandma's primary caregiver was quickly gone.  Elmer Pick was the town vet for years.  Most people in town called him Doc Pick.  My brothers and I called him Grandpa Doc.  In turn we had given our grandma, Marvel Pick, the name Grandma Doc.  As was typical in life, Grandma was in Grandpa's shadow here too.

Before I tell the story of the Godwink my mom and I share, let me tell you about my grandpa.  Grandpa was the town vet in Remsen, Iowa.  He retired when I was very young and I have no recollection of him practicing veterinary medicine.  I have heard many stories over the years of him traveling to farms across the Iowa countryside and caring for cattle, pigs, and farm animals.  My grandma kept the books, ran the phones, and raised nine kids.  I still run into people who light up when they realize that I am Doc Pick's granddaughter.  Many times they have a heart warming story to share on how my grandpa helped them out many, many years ago.

Although it has been ten years since my Grandpa died, his strong influence is still evident in my daily life.  All those summers on the farm and later visits to their house in town were filled with a grandpa who continuously encouraged me and dotted on my every achievement.  There are many examples of this.  I loved to read as a child.  I would often take a book and sit by a tree far from the noisy farm house.  One day Grandpa surprised me by taking an old cat house (green wooden triangle shelter) and made it into a tree house just for me.  He hoisted the green mini-shed unto my favorite tree.  He then put up a ladder and encouraged me to keep reading in my new thoughtful spot.  I also loved to write and wrote "a book" with a pencil on lined paper.  Complete with a stapled binding, I gave it to Grandpa who served as my editor.  "A best seller! You are one talented girl",  he told me.  He always encouraged me and built me up higher than I am sure I deserved.  I was a very ordinary eleven year old girl with buck teeth and no extraordinary physical characteristics or skills.  But to Grandpa Doc "I was going to be something".  I especially remember how he would talk about me to other people (while I was present).  A common comment was "This is my granddaughter, Sandy.  She is a smart one and she is going placing.  You remember her!"  And I believed him.  My Grandpa, along with my dad and uncles, were very strong male influences in my life.  There is definitely something to be said for these positive influences building the confidence of a young girl.  I am very thankful for the early encouragement.

My Godwink happened the night my grandpa died.  It was a hot summer night in July, a Friday.  Mom was back in Remsen, doing her best to help care for both Grandpa and Grandma.  I was home in Omaha with my young boys.  Scott was working the night shift; patroling the roads that night.  Grant was only a few months old and Zach and Ben, 7 and 4.  Not knowing Grandpa was on his death bed (in my mind, he had a couple of months left on earth), I had no thoughts or conversations on what the status of Grandpa’s health was on that particular day.  Grant was asleep in his crib.  The older two boys were in their beds, sound asleep as well.  All was quiet and I thought all were peacefully asleep.  We were living in our old house where the older two boys shared a room.  The position of their bunk bed was such that I could see them from my bed.  I was sitting up in my bed reading a book and enjoying the solitude.  Out of no where I hear “Mom, we need to say a Hail Mary.”  The voice startles me and I see Zach sitting up in his bed in the dark of night.  Although I thought it was very odd, Zach did attend Catholic school and seven year olds can be very random at times.  “Okay”’ I answer and together we said a Hail Mary.  It warmed my heart as Zach seemed to be saying it with vigor.  After we were done, Zach didn’t say a word.  He simply laid back down and went to bed for the night.  I continued to read my book.  About ten minutes later my phone rang.  It was my mom calling to tell me that my grandpa had passed away.

 As we fast forward to the next part of the story, I need to give you some more background on my grandpa.  Grandpa lost his father at a very young age.  His family survived the Great Depression, but the family farm did not.  Grandpa adored his mother, Mary.  He felt a great deal of admiration for his mother, her faith, and her perseverance through hardship.  With the unexpected death of his father, Grandpa filled some big shoes as the man of the house and grew an immense loyalty to his mother.  My mom, Mary; Grandpa's first born, was named after his mother.  Grandpa came from a devout Catholic family.  He had four sisters who were nuns and two brothers and a nephew who joined the priesthood.  Grandpa prayed the rosary continually and leaned on his faith to get him through his pain and last months on earth.  His favorite prayer was the Hail Mary.  He felt that his mother epitomized The Virgin Mary on earth and felt a great reverence for this prayer.

Grandpa was laid to rest by his wife, nine children and their spouses, grandchildren, great grandchildren and many, many other friends and family members.  As anyone who has had buried a close family member knows, the experience is overwhelming and at times exhausting.  My mom certainly felt like this on our drive from Remsen back to Omaha.  After the services, funeral luncheon, mourner visits, thank-you writing, and cleaning out the many meds and personal belongings of my grandpa; my mom was spent.  Everything was such a whirlwind during this time frame, that mom and I had not had a chance to talk details and for me to find out what actually happened the night Grandpa died.

We were in the back seat of the car and Mom was so tired, she could barely keep her eyes open.  But she was anxious to give me the play-by-play of the fateful night.  The loss of her dad was still surreal to her and she had a need to relive the night with her daughter.  The following account was through my mom's eyes in the 24 hours preceding my grandpa's death.  My apologies to anyone who was there if I have missed details; no doubt that my mom could tell it much better.

The day had started as it had for weeks; with my grandpa in the hospital.  My mom was taking her turn by his side while taking in the daily myriad of information from the various rounding physicians.  A few of her siblings were in and out that day too.  Grandpa had been receiving radiation treatment and it was taking a toll on his frail, elderly body.  Grandpa was actually feeling a bit better that day and asked for a mirror so he could shave.  With some deliberation,  mom found him one.  My grandpa looked at his image in the mirror and in my mom's words "looked like he had seen a ghost".  In a panic, he turned to my mom and said "I need to go home now."  He saw what everyone else had seen for months...a man deteriorating and dying.  It scared him and he knew his time on the earth was almost done.  He wanted to go home...immediately.  He was adamant that he was going home.  No words were specifically spoken, but Grandpa did not want to die in the hospital.  Mom knew what had to be done and summonsed the nurses.  After much communication with hospital staff, doctors, and hospice; a ambulance was brought to the hospital to give Grandpa his wish of dying at home.

So Grandpa was transported for the 40 mile trek from Sioux City to Remsen.  Mom told me that she so worried that he wouldn't survive the trip.  He wanted so badly to be at peace at home and she wanted that so badly for him.  But his will held out and he made it home.  Several of his kids and grand kids were waiting for him and sat by his bedside to comfort him.  It was getting late into the night and they were managing his pain med the best they could to allow him to be alert, yet comfortable.  There was a fine line in maintaining this balance.  They wanted so badly for him to have no pain, but also wanted him to know they were physically there with him.  As the night wore on, Grandpa's kids took turns sitting at his bedside while the others slept.  My mom was taking her turn.  She was holding his hand and comforting him in what she knew in her heart were his final hours.  Knowing his love for his mother and wanting to share his faith journey to the next destination outside of his worldly life, mom started whispering in his ear "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee..."  Grandpa squeezed her hand.  Mom knew he was reciting it with her.  She then whispered in his ear, "It's okay, Dad.  You can go now.  Your mom is waiting for you.  Mary is waiting for you at the end of the light."  Grandpa squeezed her hand again, breathed a labored breath, and then passed away.  Mom immediately awoke her siblings and they all joined hands around Grandpa and prayed.  Mom then called Dad to tell him the news.  Her next call was to me and my brothers.



Grandpa Doc with my sweet baby Grant (April - 2000)



Mom was exasperated after telling me this detailed account in the way my mom always tells stories.  But as she shared this last detail, I was floored.  I couldn't believe what I heard.  The Hail Mary by Zach was suddenly not a strange incident, but with express purpose.  I immediately shared with Mom the timing of Zach sitting up in his bed from a dead sleep and asking to recite the Hail Mary with me.  We revisited time lines and quickly concurred that the Zach instance would have happened at exactly the same time she was whispering the Hail Mary in Grandpa's ear.  There was no doubt in our minds that this was a Godwink.  God wanted us to know with no hesitation that there was a Heaven, that my grandpa was there, and that he was blessed with being reunited with his mother.  God was also telling us through Zach that Grandpa Doc's legacy was living among all of us.  The testament of a good man is left in the character of the children he raised and the legacy that continues on with their children.

Receiving this Godwink has given me great peace in knowing through God's love and mercy, I will see my Grandpa Doc again.  And as I wrote this blog,  I was reminded that I can best live the legacy of my grandpa by offering the same encouragement he gave me to my kids. Building a child's confidence is powerful and will pay dividends in the long-term...a great lesson from a wonderful grandpa.



Coming of Age

This is a coming of age story.  You know…that time period in your life when you are transitioning from the cute kid who hugs and sits on laps to the young adult who is just trying to fit it (but misses being the cute kid).  My coming of age hit at about age twelve.  This story took place in the middle of the summer on my grandparent’s farm in Iowa.  My mom was the oldest of the nine Pick children and my brothers and I were dotted on by our many aunts and uncles.  This was mainly because we were the only grand kids for a time and also by virtue of our age; we weren’t that much younger than many of our aunts and uncles.

At age twelve, as I did in most summers past, I was spending many nights (usually after bean walking) at Grandpa and Grandma’s farm.  My brothers and I really had the best of both worlds as kids; we lived in town, but had the farm at our disposal as a limitless playground.  On the occasions when the “out of town” aunts and uncles came back to the farm to visit, it was an even more special time.  This particular memory was with my Uncle David on one of his famous visits.  David was a college professor on the East Coast and between his schedule and distance; his visits were rare during this period of my life.  Since his last visit, I had grown up from the little girl and felt that our relationship would change with my new found maturity.  It was that awkward time of still being seen as the little girl, but wanting to be noticed as a young woman. 

I remember the moment vividly.  It was a beautiful summer night, probably in the early evening.  The sun was more than an inch and a half from setting.  With night bean walking, the boys and I would always gage how late it was into the evening (i.e. how close it was to being too dark to walk beans) by how many “inches” the sun was from setting.  This particular evening I was sitting on the front steps drinking a sweetened iced tea, reading a Good Housekeeping magazine (as any proper young woman would), and trying to act grown up.  I knew the routine of my uncles and that at any minute; they would come outside for a smoke and a tea.  The front steps were the place to relax after dinner and before dark.

I was very intrigued by my Uncle David who was the cool “hippie” uncle.  He had long hair, pretty girlfriends, and cool cars.  Since I didn’t see him much, there was some mystery about him.  And with the distance, I didn’t grow up in front of him.  The whole adolescent transition thing was new to him.  With my other uncles, this was a natural transition over time.  I felt like I had to assert my new “coolness” and adulthood to Uncle David.  He was SOOOO going to think I was hip.

The first uncle out after dinner was David.  He lit up a cigarette and sat next to me.  I kept reading my Good Housekeeping, pretending like I didn’t notice his presence.  After he smoked in silence for a minute or two, he casually asks, “Well, young lady, what are we reading tonight?”  At that instant, I look down and to my horror see that the magazine is flipped open to a full page tampon ad.  I quickly flip pages pretending I didn’t even notice the tampon page.  As my mind was racing in utter embarrassment; I searched for something cool to say.  I wanted to give him the impression that I wasn’t actually reading the magazine (i.e. horrid ad).  My intent was to tell Uncle David that I was meditating instead (now that is cool!).  But my words got jumbled and instead of saying “I am meditating”, I blurted out “I am menstruating”.  I believe they call that a Freudian Slip.  David looked at me and I looked back at him; both of us speechless.  After this very awkward pause, Uncle David did his best to act as though I never made the statement and went on to make some small talk.  Eventually he smiled and disappeared back into the house.  I was mortified...definitely not the way I wanted to be introduced as an adolescent to my Uncle David.  But indeed, this was my “coming out” statement.  



Big Bird

People are known to have flashbacks on traumatic childhood experiences.  Memories that are in the dark recesses of their mind and triggered back to the present by some trivial incident such as a story told or a picture seen.  They suddenly remember some shocking memory not thought about since the time of the event; a memory is locked in time.  I just had this happen to me.  Fortunately my lost memory didn't entail anyone physical harmed or something incredibly sad.  Don't get me wrong; at the time it was beyond devastating to me.  But I can now chalk it up to one more childhood experience that helped thicken my skin (along with the daily beatings from my sweet brothers) to help prepare me for the world of adulthood.

The flashback came to me just an hour ago at work.  I was sitting at my desk; quietly working.  One of my partners, Scott, walked by my office and commented in passing, "Hey...great sweater.  Love the yellow on you."  Love the yellow...wow...something is triggered.  To give you a clearer picture, please note the picture to the right of me in my new sweater (yes, very yellow).  And just so you know, it can be yours too.  It was purchased last night on a Super Target run along with dish soap, a Valentine's Day card and Lawry's seasoning.  Based on the colors of the various sweaters on display, this is obviously the "in" color for spring.  And since this wasn't a color I already had in my wardrobe, why not?  So here I am adorning my "Sunshine" look when I get a compliment on my yellow from Scott. With this compliment came a rush of memories on a past experience with the color yellow in my wardrobe.


Now let's go back to the lost memory.  The setting is 1977, 5th Grade at Remsen St. Mary's grade school, and a cold winter in Iowa.  My mom's role as wardrober to my family is the focal point of this story.  To give you a little insight to my amazingly talented mom; she made (sewed) virtually all of our clothes as kids.  Every shirt, vest, pant, and dress were made by hand by my mom.  The craftsmanship was impeccable.  I have many memories of spending hours in the fabric stores while Mom carefully picked out the materials and planned the outfits of her wardrobe line for the upcoming season.  As a side note, this talent carried over with me being the lucky recipient of the BEST Barbie Doll clothes.  Ken had real "whitie tightie" underwear with a fly and all (a complete mini duplicate of the real thing) and Barbie had a wardrobe that Paris Hilton would envy.  I will tell you that as a ten year old, I had no clue that every mother did not made all of their children's clothing.  But I was fully aware that my Barbie wardrobe was the best, bar none.  My collection was the envy of the 5th grade girls.


Mom loved a challenge and would take on robes, Sunday dresses and overalls.  No sewing challenge seemed too much for her.  Mom was (and is) so meticulous for detail that no one would know that my clothes were different; just of better quality.  But there were some limitations that led Mom to purchase some of our clothing items.  Winter coats were one of these.  And it was cold in Iowa, so it was equally as difficult to replicate a coat by hand that could handle the bitterly cold winters.  This was one of the rare occasions that Mom would make the trip to LeMars and buy clothing at the Fashionette clothing store.  She would wait until the end of the season and buy on sale.  We knew these store bought clothes were a special treat, hand picked and paid for by Mom. 


Let me give you some more background on my Mom's talents and creative eye.  She is also talented in art, woodworking, and interior decorating.  As a child, I remember her doing side jobs for the local interior design store.  She would upholster furniture, refinish end tables and make curtains.  My mom has impeccable taste and an eye for design.  We lived in Remsen, Iowa (farm town with population 1,500) and we were the only house with a back door painted bright yellow (you see where we are going with this...obviously my mom loved yellow).  Mom thought the door color "added character" to the house.  She stripped our upright piano and stained it baby blue.  Our entire house had bright green carpet.  Mom wouldn't just hang a picture, she would use a ribbon, add a collection of antiques or paint around it.  And somehow, everything always came together and looked amazing.  My mom was trendy and edgy with her fashion and decorating before those words were cliche. 

In the dead of winter in 1977, my mom decided to hit the Fashionette on the prowl for some after-Christmas sales on winter coats.  She came home, obviously pleased, with a large bag and a big smile.  Mom found the perfect coat for me.  Out of the bag she pulls an over sized bright yellow knee-length coat.  It was puffy and hooded with a thin apple green stripe on the waistline.  Other than this green stripe, the entire coat (yes, ENTIRE coat) was bright canary yellow all the way to the fur-look fleece outlining the hood.  My gut reaction was that this wasn’t good.  Mom felt otherwise…a beautiful coat and a great find that will fit me through the next winter too!  More panic…I knew this wasn’t good.  But I couldn’t hurt my mom’s feelings or be ungrateful for this store bought coat purchased just for me, so I hesitantly wore it to school the next day.

I put on my new coat and walked to school.  Through the hustle and bustle of the school hallway, there were no compliments or comments on my coat from my classmates.  But I did get some funny looks.  I was old enough to know that this wasn’t a good sign.  I quickly stuffed the coat (with quite a bit of effort) into my locker.  Lunchtime arrived and it was time to parade in my new coat again.  All lunches were served at our high school, so we would walk five blocks daily to eat lunch (BTW…my kids are horrified of this injustice).  We also ate in waves of two classes at a time.  Our 5^th grade class ate with the 6^th graders.  As we entered the cafeteria, the 6th graders did not feel the need to give me the same break on my flamboyant coat as my classmates.  “Hey, look, it’s Big Bird!!!” one boy yelled.  The circle of kids around him laughed.  I was mortified.  There I stood in my new yellow coat knowing they were right, I looked exactly like Big Bird.

This was the year of the parkas.  Every kid had a parka for a winter coat in navy, black, or maroon.  And there I was a canary among mice with my Big Bird coat.  I ignored them and surrounded myself with friends, trying to blend in and got through lunch.  It was my first experience with pure embarrassment and humiliation.  Daily that same boy taunted me with Big Bird comments to the chagrin of his friends.  But I couldn’t hurt my mom’s feelings nor could I expect her to buy me another coat, so I followed the same routine day after day.  I wore the yellow coat, was heckled at lunch, and ignored my adversaries.  I think they finally tired of no response and my lack of emotion from their teasing.  Eventually I stopped hearing the Big Bird comments.  The blessing in disguise was that the yellow coat showed dirt easily and it was filthy by the end of that winter.  My mom deemed it ruined.  Although this was a sad day for Mom, it was a happy day for me.  Big Bird would not be flying back for the next winter.  And by the way, I was the proud recipient of a hand-me-down parka the next winter.  It was navy blue.      

Not only did I survive this childhood devastation, but I can also say that I now pride myself on going bold on clothing choices and color on occasion.  Life is too short to live it bland and I thank my mom for that lesson in life.  And thanks for the compliment, Scott.  It sure is nice to know that I actually do look good in yellow.

B.L...my memory of a great friend



 I think it is such a true statement that the impact of a person is not set by the number of years they have on this earth, but by the number of people they have touched in their life.  For Bradley Layne Kracl (B.L.) this was a short lifetime. B.L. left this world at the age of 23 on July 29, 1989.  Although his life was way too short, he touched as many people as a man living to retirement.  B.L. had incredible presence, wit, and a high sense of loyalty to his family and those honored to be called his friend.

Just recently I was going through old photo albums and stumbled across a picture of B.L. "hamming it up" in a picture taken of us together.  It is apparent in this picture that I was oblivious to his humor.  It was such a B.L. moment that I had to share it on Facebook.  This prompted an outpouring of comments expressing fondness for our friend, many smiles on happy memories, and sighs for a friend who left us way too soon. As I am sure it did with many others, old memories came flooding back to me. It feels like yesterday that we were all hanging out in the Student Union or jumping on the wrestling van for out of town tournaments.  As I remember this great friend, I wanted to share my favorite story of B.L. and would so love to hear the stories of others.

My story begins at the beginning of the 1986-87 school year.  And it did not begin with B.L. and I as friends.  In fact it was quite the opposite.  B.L. and Scott came to Westmar as new students that fall.  They were high school buddies.  I was starting my sophomore year and very familiar with the "Schuyler crew".  Scott had taken a liking to me and started visiting me at my dorm.  But he didn't come alone.  He would bring B.L. with him.  They came as a team.  Kind of like "group courting".  When B.L. and I met, we instantly didn't like each other.  B.L. was very handsome and cocky.  He knew he was handsome and didn't care that he was cocky.  I thought he was full of himself and I am sure his opinion of me was that I was a snot and full of myself too.  He liked to party.  I liked to study.  And quite frankly, I didn't want him to be a part of the courting process and I am sure he felt the same way.  Needless to say, we did not start off with any mutual affection toward each other.

As Scott continued to visit me in Bonebrake dorm, B.L. continued to be reluctantly at his side.  B.L. never said much to me, but would sure stare me down in an effort to try to make me feel uncomfortable (we ALL know that look).  Of course, I wouldn't let him get the best of me and made it a habit to put my nose in the air to him when possible and would glare back when given the opportunity.  Our relationship moved from dislike to tolerating each other as it became apparent that Scott and I were an item.  I wasn't going anywhere and neither was B.L.  So by virtue of Scott, we were basically stuck with each other.

College life continued that first semester with B.L. and I at many of the same functions, but with interaction only when necessary.  Christmas break came and went.  Second semester brought a new work study position for me; Campus Accounting Tutor.  Second semester also brought a new class in the fold for B.L.; Accounting 101.  B.L. was a business major and found accounting to be very challenging.  He told me later that although he was struggling, he couldn't drum up the courage to show up at the Accounting Lab where I tutored.  One day we (yes, the three of us) were hanging at the Student Union.  Scott got up to pick up his food order.  B.L. blurts out to me, "Okay, I need help with accounting.  Can you help me?"  I was taken aback.  Mainly because he spoke to me and secondly because he was asking for help.  He seemed incredibly uncomfortable and it was obvious that he didn't want to discuss it in front of Scott.  "Sure," I answer.  We soon negotiate the terms and decide against the Accounting Lab office and instead opt for meeting late that night at my Aunt Barbara's house.

I was nannying my cousins for a week while my Aunt Barbara and Uncle Gary were out of town.  B.L. showed up after I put the kids to bed.  I remember staying up until 2 or 3 in the morning studying with B.L.  We started with the basics of accounting just trying to get him up to speed.  He came back the next night and then the next. He was an attentive and thankful student.  In return, I didn't talk down to him.  It ended up feeling like we were a team trying to get him through this class together.  He was failing the class at the time he came to me and after our initial "crash tutoring" and intermittent help throughout the rest of the semester, he ended up with a "B-".  I so remember how excited he was after he finished his final exam and gave me the news.  Later on that night I came back to my room after a night of my own studying at the library.  Outside my door was a carefully placed white teddy bear with a thank-you card.  The card had a hand written note from B.L. thanking me for all of my accounting help and for my friendship.  I was actually shocked, but completely grateful for the sweet gesture.  We really never talked about the gift.  I tried to thank him and he gave me a little grunt and looked away.  I knew then that it wasn't necessary to give a thank-you for a thank-you...just accept it.  That I did.

B.L and I were this very unlikely duo who somehow became friends.  I quickly learned that I had misjudged him and I am sure he felt the same about me.  This confident guy with burly good looks was really a teddy bear himself; sensitive, sweet and not wanting anyone to see that he was human with weaknesses like the rest of us.  I was now one of B.L.'s friends and part of a large group of people who felt the warmth of his personality and kind spirit.  This was the beginning of many, many great memories with B.L.  There were the weekend wrestling trips and Schuyler road trips (I so remember singing "Ring of Fire" with B.L. at Tiny Bubbles)...the "B.L. looks", smack talk and rough housing....good stuff :)  His death still doesn't feel real to me.  I think a big part of this is because of B.L.'s "larger than life" spirit while he was alive.  He was a guy always full of life and energy.  Those who knew him know exactly what I am saying.  You felt it in his presence.

The teddy bear and card went missing between house moves many years ago.  I remember reading the card and deciding to put it in a "safe place", so not to lose it.  After forgetting this act, I later couldn't remember the "safe place" where I placed it.  I haven't seen it since.  Although I think about B.L. often and feel his presence in my life still today, I believe that I will receive a Godwink one day when that card will mysteriously appear.  Someday...but until then I am just thankful that accounting wasn't B.L.'s thing.  I cherish the friendship that didn't seem meant to be.

Godwink

A Godwink...one of those events or signs that is completely unexplainable.  It's message of God's love and reassurance to the people who need it most.  When it happens, you know from the bottom of your heart that the only explanation is that it is a "God thing".  Some people call these instances fate or luck, but I know better.  I have been the recipient on more than one occasion and have been in awe of similar stories from others.

My mom calls me the "master story teller".  Honestly, I think she is sugaring me up so I write more stories for the family history book she is compiling.  But she is right on one thing; I really do like to share my fond memories and real life experiences.  I have a very special Godwink story that involves my Grandpa that I will share in a later blog (Mom can have that one for her book too!).  The Godwink that I feel the urge to write about and memorialize tonight is my meeting Garrett.  Some have heard the whole story.  Others have heard the abbreviated version.  And since the #1 question I am asked is "You're dating a guy from Denver...how did that happen???", I would love to share my story (full version :)). And no matter the story, the reality is that it truly was a Godwink.

So the story begins in Omaha on October 10, 2009.  I had filed for divorce the previous December 2008.  The divorce process was long and painful and I still couldn't see the light at the end of the tunnel.  I woke up that Saturday morning to an early season ice storm.  My parents had been staying with me several months that summer and had left for their home in Arizona a month prior. My house was eerily quiet.  The typical chaos of three boys (16, 13, and 9) was absent as this was their weekend with their dad.  My parents had helped fill that void by staying with me for close to six months total over the ten months since Scott left.  But this weekend there were no parents, no Husker football, no boys...I was home alone.

There was a planned event to occupy the weekend.  I had a flight booked for a quick trip to Denver.  Through work I belong to a national group of health care consultants.  We have bi-annual meetings that I have been a part of for over fifteen years.  Although I hadn't been to many meetings over the prior couple of year (amazing when I look back at the two years leading up to divorce how I avoided interactions like these), I was committed to attend this fall meeting.  But I had cold feet.  Scott accompanied me to many of these meetings over the years.  As a couple we had traveled, dined, and golfed with many of my AHA colleagues.  No one knew I was divorced and quite frankly, I knew they would be shocked as this was unexpected.  I dreaded the thought of people asking where Scott was, looking at my ring finger and wondering, and my explaining what was going on in my life to those bold enough to ask.  I was relieved to be past most of the initial shock of the divorce and the questions and explanations that go with this territory.  To be honest, I just wasn't in the mood for another round of questions and polite "I'm so sorry" comments.  Normalcy was sounding much better.

The weather was a perfect out for me.  We had an ice storm.  I couldn't possibly drive to the airport, let alone fly to Denver.  It looked like I would have to stay home after all.  The flight was scheduled to depart late afternoon.  I went about my routine...gym, pick up the house, check e-mail.  The whole time I was convincing myself that this trip was not meant to be.  But as the day went on, the weather got better.  The ice was melting in Omaha.  Denver...no bad weather there.  Flight...on time, no delay.  Hmmm...what to do.  I sat on my bed and stared at my lap top thinking of every excuse in the world on why not to go.  I came up with tons of great ideas on alternative things to do at home...basement that needed to be cleaned, movies that needed to be watched, wine that needed to be drank.  I pulled up the Southwest website and found the reservation.  I stared at the "cancel reservation" button on the computer.  Something moved me not to push the button.  Instead I silently prayed.  I knew that I needed to go.  So I put on my best dress and favorite boots, packed my bag, and got my butt to the airport with a smile on my face.

After an eventful and long cab drive to the group dinner outside of Denver and several inquiries about whereabouts of Scott, I got through the night seamlessly.  I felt the Godwink in the encouragement to make the trip and I knew I was guided to the right decision.  I needed to live and move on with my solo life surrounded by the people and relationships that have been meaningful to me over all these years.  After dinner I enjoyed few drinks with old friends.  There was lots to catch up on with work and family.  Being divorced didn't feel like such a big deal.  All was well in the world.  As a side note, Garrett was supposed to be at this dinner, but choose not to attend at the last minute.  In reality God did more than wink to get us together.  In the end I think we each got a solid nudge.

Sunday was the AHA business meeting with speaker presentations.  I was sitting next to Lori, a colleague I had known for years through AHA.  There were two presenters; both business owners/consultants in the IT field.  The first speaker was Garrett.  I would be lying if I didn't admit to being instantly attracted to him.  He was good looking and articulate.  I loved what he had to say and felt his approach in business mirrored my own.  I remember wishing he was in Omaha as there was no doubt in my mind that we "spoke the same language" and would work very well together.  I knew my clients would be well served by Garrett. 

As the presentation continued I noticed that Garrett didn't have a wedding ring.  Funny how I never noticed wedding rings or lack there of until I was divorcing.  I wrote a note to Lori while attentively listening to Garrett present.  "Good looking", I jotted down.  "Yes!", she wrote back.  "No wedding ring?"  I wrote.  "Nope" she responded.  "Hmmm..."  I thought.  Needless to say, I had a lot of questions for the speaker during the presentation and waited to introduce myself after everyone else was done.  We walked out together with another AHA colleague, Tim.  The meeting was in a conference room of the hotel.  Tim went on his way while Garrett and I took the escalator down and talked a bit about our kids and their football games that fall day.  I felt a blush of panic as I eyeballed the hotel bar at the bottom of the escalator. I suddenly felt very single.  Here was this single woman talking to a potentially single man, by a bar...panic!  Garrett will tell this story a bit differently.  His memory is of me being engrossed in my Blackberry not paying him the time of day.  Honestly, I think I really didn't know what to do, so I chatted with Garrett, but kept my focus on my phone.  We said good bye and I thanked him for his presentation and that was it.  What I remember most was thinking he had such kind eyes.  Funny how a person's eyes are the doorway to their heart. 

Not to belabor the remainder of my Sunday as this was kind of a downer, but I will summarize the night by saying that as kind and genuine as Garrett felt to me, I had an opposite experience Sunday night.  A group of AHA colleagues went out for a group dinner and then gathered for a drink at the hotel bar (yes, the same one I had a panic attack at earlier).  A married man, a friend that I had known for years, began the night by telling me how life will get better for me.  His first marriage ended and it was difficult, but he met the woman of his dreams and second marriage was bliss.  And then he promptly proceeded to hit on me.  I had phone calls and texts from him to this affect until wee hours of the morning.  A rude awaking to my new life as a single woman (YUCK!).  Lesson learned...beware of married men at hotel bars as much as single men ;)  Sure didn't seem to matter all those years I had a wedding ring on, but man, do the gloves come off once you are a female without the ring.

Monday morning...I am soooo ready to go home after my little experience the night before.  How did I get hoodwinked like that?  I really believed this guy and his seemingly genuine concern for my well being.  I thought I was a good judge of character and after all of these years of friendship, this is what it comes to...really???  I pack up and grab a cab and head to the airport.  As I sat in the cab, I reflected on the weekend.  I suddenly thought about Garrett.  There was a connection there. And for a reason that I have no explanation other than I felt the impulsive need to connect with him, I sent Garrett an e-mail from my infamous Blackberry.  I dug out his presentation from my computer bag and found his e-mail address on the last page of his handout.  Without a second of hesitation I shoot off an e-mail, "Hi, Garrett.  This is Sandy Lane from AHA.  We met after your presentation yesterday.  Do you do business in Nebraska?"  Within a minute I get a response "Yes, I do business in many states.  Do you want to meet for a coffee and discuss opportunities?  How did your son do in his football game?"  My response "I am on my way to the airport back to Omaha.  My son lost his football game."  Garrett, "Send me an e-mail when you get back and we can set up a conference call this week."  Voila...Omaha connects with Denver.  Why did I suddenly feel the urge to send that e-mail and connect?  I will tell you that I just felt compelled to send it.  There wasn't much thought and it came to me out of the blue.  A Godwink.

Much later Garrett tells me how he was a bit confused at the time on receiving the e-mail and the timing of me sending it while on the way to the airport.  He never expected to hear from me again and didn't expect me to follow up on the conference call.  Fast forward to Thursday of the same week.  I am at home with a sick child.  As I was cleaning out my computer bag, I stumble on Garrett's presentation opened up to his e-mail address.  I look at it, remembering our conversation on setting up a conference call.  Again, I feel a strong urge to connect with Garrett.  I hadn't given it much thought since our e-mail exchange on Monday.  But without hesitation, I shot him an e-mail explaining that I was home with sick kids and couldn't have a conference call that day, but was open most of the following Friday.  Within minutes I receive from him an Outlook invite to a Friday afternoon conference call.

I have a crazy day that Friday (direct result from my impending divorce) and ended up at home for most of the day.  I contemplated cancelling the call because frankly, I was spent.  But I pulled it together and kept the scheduled call on the calendar.  Garrett called and we talked for about 45 minutes and although I did grill him a bit (kind of like an interview), it was enjoyable (because he gave me the right answers ;)).  Mostly business, but we got into kids, sports and past times.  I liked him.  I definitely wanted to collaborate with our health care clientele.  We made a plan to share some of our marketing collateral and then reconvene on the next step on working together.  All business, but I sure felt a connection.

Prior to our conference call, I had Googled Garrett.  At the top of my search was his Facebook page.  This was in the back of my mind throughout our conference call as I discovered I really enjoyed his company.  I could definitely hang with this guy.  Toward the end of our call, when we started talking kids and past times, I knew we had a personal connection too.  Facebook...hmmmmm.  I made the decision that I would ask him to be my Facebook friend, but would wait until Sunday night.  I didn't want to come across as too forward.  I had pulled up his Facebook page as we finished our phone call.  I looked at the friend request button and reminded myself of my plan of waiting until Sunday.  So of course...I proceed to click the button.  I don't think I even waited a minute.  I felt the urge to go for it.  Why wait until Sunday?  Sounded silly to me :)  Within less than a minute Garrett accepts my invitation and the rest is history.  We spent the weekend exchanging e-mails on marital status, kids, religion.  The date of that conference call was October 16, 2009.  Since that first personal connection, there hasn't been a day that has gone by that we haven't communicated via phone, e-mail or the most popular connection (but least possible)...being together.  I have learned over this time that the best relationships do start with a friendship, but chemistry sure doesn't hurt either :)

By Sunday night we were on the phone for hours sharing our life stories, our heart break, our struggles, and our faith.  It really was like we knew each other forever.  The similarities in our life situations and our life stories were uncanny.  And we are so cut from the same cloth.  Garrett and I became friends helping each other through our pains of divorce, single parenthood, failure and forging ahead in our new lives that neither one of us expected or wanted and all with 550 miles between us.  A Godwink.  Somehow in God's mercy he saw our pain and blessed us with the gift of each other.  Of course my brain is wired to rationalize everything.  To find an explanation for why God feels that I am deserving of this happiness.  All I can say is that as difficult as it can feel at times to take the high road and try to do the right thing, it does pay off in the end.  God winked at us for reasons we will never fully understand, but for which we are both grateful.  Every day is a blessing.  "When God winks, He is reaffirming that there is absolutely nothing about us that He does not know - our hurt, our every desire.  And that to me is very comforting." ~ Squire Rushnell