Wednesday, July 23, 2014

The First Leg: Home to North Bend State Park, WV


After working half a day, I had intended to try to get right on the road. However, my neighbor, whose pop-up camper we are borrowing, suggested I go ahead and put the new tires I’d purchased for the camper on, and leave the old ones behind, a decision I think will ultimately prove fortuitous. That took a little time, so we didn’t get on the road until about 3:30 p.m. It was a later start than I’d hoped for but worth it to have the peace of mind.       

I’ve driven US Route 50 west from home all the way to MD 219 south of Deep Creek Lake where my folks used to have a house. I’d never been west of that point on that road, and so for me, the adventure would truly start at Red House, MD, where those two roads intersect. Along the way, we stopped and took a couple pictures of the excursion train in Romney, WV, and I told Connor about how the Potomac River starts (the North branch) at a spot just south of Rte 50 and the panhandle of Maryland called Fairfax Stone at the junction of Grant, Tucker and Preston counties in WV.


The drive up there this time was a bit more adventurous, though, pulling a camper up and down some very steep hills, with sharp cutbacks on a two-lane road. As you ascend Keyser's Ridge, you are presented with a long line of giant wind turbines atop the ridge that extends quite a ways. It's both impressive and a bit sad as a beautiful skyline is interrupted by man's quest for more energy, as if West Virginia's mountains haven't already had to suffer the scarring of coal mining.

I had done much of my growing up during summers at Deep Creek Lake. Our house there was next to the Markgrafs, of Pittsburgh. I and my sisters were about the same age as Sue and David Markgraf, and I consider them as close as friends can be though I’ve rarely had the opportunity to see them. This trip afforded me a chance to see them again as they both now live in Oakland, Maryland, just north of 50 on MD 219. I arranged to meet them for dinner at a restaurant Sue suggested in Aurora, WV, called Melanie’s Family Restaurant. Sue (now Hillen) and her husband, Mike, and adorable daughter, Nina, collected David and managed to pull in there just about the same time Connor and I did.


 Melanie Fisher actually hails from Arlington, VA, but had spent many years at Deep Creek Lake, in fact meeting and becoming friends with Sue when they both worked at the Honi Honi Bar there. Having worked at several restaurants in the area, Melanie decided to open her own, and found a place right on Rte. 50 in Aurora she could afford. As Deep Creek Lake has grown (overgrown as Melanie, Sue, David and I all agree), she has found she enjoys the peace and solitude Aurora affords over the busy tourism of the Lake.

Melanie Fisher, proprietor of Melanie's Family Restaurant, with Connor and I
She’s brought some of her Chesapeake watershed heritage with her as she serves genuine crab cakes that rival those we can find in and around DC. She still does cooking herself and she only came out to join us in the dining area when her work in the kitchen was done. While I thought Connor and I were so unique, proudly explaining to Melanie that we were crossing the country on this one blue highway, Melanie quickly brought me to earth. “Oh, we see them all. There was the guy crossing the country carrying the cross, the rollerbladers, bicyclists, even a woman on horseback.” I hesitatingly noted we were just pulling a camper.
David Markgraf, Connor, Michael, Sue Hillen, Nina Hillen and Mike Hillen

In addition to seeing cherished old friends and introducing my son, reliving some great old memories, I feel like we’d already begun making new friends on the road. When you’re in the panhandle of Maryland, perhaps visiting Deep Creek Lake, yourself, take the pleasant drive out to Aurora, WV and try Melanie’s crab cakes or incredible hot roast beef sandwich.

A light rain had begun falling as we made our way up to Aurora, and it was still misting as we got back in the truck to continue on our way to our first camp ground. While we missed out on some beautiful vistas, I’m sure, as we made our way through the WV mountains, the misty clouds, hung in the trees along the road, making for some beautiful scenes nonetheless.

We made it into North Bend State Park, in Cairo, WV, well after dark, and after check-in. I’d made a reservation so we knew the slot to look for. We set up the camper in the dark rain, aching to get to bed. We would wake early the next morning to the same rain. That rain would stay with us for the next two days. That wouldn't stop us from making our first brief foray off Rte 50, to visit my namesake town, Clendenin, WV.

Monday, July 21, 2014

Setting the stage(coach)...starting a traveblog.


So let’s set the stage. My father took me on a two-week trip when I was about Connor’s age, touring in a small RV around Colorado, Arizona and Utah. It was an amazing experience that is still with me today. The trip made real what books in school had taught me about America’s geography, topography, culture and history.

We rolled south from Colorado Springs through Canon City and Royal Gorge, Black Canyon of the Gunnison, Mesa Verde, Four Corners, the wide flat desert Indian Reservations of Northern Arizona, Grand Canyon, Bryce Canyon, Canyonlands, and Arches National Park in Utah, and up back through the Rocky Mountains to Allenspark, CO. 

We hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon along the Bright Angel Trail across the South Kaibab desert in the 120 degree heat of August. We slept under the falling stars and full moon listening to the rush of the Colorado River. We hiked out under that full moon starting at 3 in the morning, arriving back at the South Rim before noon. 

We took what my father now describes as a cheesy, touristy ten-minute helicopter ride over Canyonlands, or maybe Arches National Park, that was monumental to me at that time, and still is in memory.

We fished in the Rocky Mountains above Allenspark, CO in the clearest lake I’ve ever seen – so clear, the fish stared at you wondering why you thought you were so clever with your rod and lure.

It was amazing. And I vowed I would grant my son a similar experience. As he neared 16, began to think I’d better make it happen now before he was not interested in doing anything at all with Dad, and before he was off to college. But I worried about imposing on him my own interest and expectations. So I told him we would take a two week trip, just the two of us, father and son, to anyplace he wished to visit. He responded to me as a teenaged boy – “uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

So I told him I would throw and idea out there and he could veto it. We live about a quarter mile away from US Route 50, the last road in America on which you can drive non-stop coast to coast, starting in Ocean City, MD all the way clear to California. Some time ago, the last stretch from Sacramento to San Francisco was merged with an interstate and renamed I-80. It was my idea to pick up 50 near our home and drive across the country with him, intentionally staying on 50 all the way. By staying off the interstate, it might take longer but we would see America. Small town America. Real America, not Interstate Tourist America. We would eat at roadside stands and get local flavor.

Once across, if we timed it right, we could then drive south to San Diego for ComicCon. I’m a sucker for the super hero movies and the studios like to make major announcements about upcoming films there. Connor is a sucker for all things Star Wars. We’re both a little embarrassingly intrigued by the whole cosplay thing.

Then we could drive back east any way the wind blew. Perhaps I could take my son on the same hike down into the Grand Canyon, though he has not had the backpacking experience I’d already had by the time I went with my dad.

I told him that was my idea. He could opt for something different, maybe a theatre-focused trip to New York City.

I am so thankful he did not veto the cross-country drive, and instead, maybe somewhat surprisingly to me, took to the idea. I think maybe to begin with the idea of doing ComicCon was what grabbed him. I could hope the journey itself, rather than the destination, would sneak in there as the actual lasting memory for him as it did for me.

And so we began to plan. Plot the route. 6,000 miles there and back. And this blog will serve as a travel log for us and for you.  A traveblog, perhaps.

Come along.

Monday, July 14, 2014

Resurrected

I have been away.
I have been living life.
Some good. Some bad.
It's time to start writing again.

I'll start with by describing America. The America my son, Connor, and I discover on our journey that begins this Friday. We'll be driving across the country and back. We'll taking US Route 50 west from Northern Virginia all the way to Sacramento, California. We'll head south, hopefully to catch ComicCon in San Diego...or not. And we'll head back east across the southernmost states starting, hopefully, with a hike into and out of the Grand Canyon. Along the way, we'll tell you what we see, who we meet, what we eat. You'll learn about the America we see as we travel purposefully off the interstates.  I hope you enjoy the trip as much as we will.

Come along...

m

Thursday, January 1, 2009

Happy New Year...and a new year of communications to write about.

My good friend, Professor Les Potter wrote in his blog, More With Les, the following passage from his post titled "2008 in review -- why bother?":

“…Journalism is dead. It killed itself by cutting out its credibility. RIP New York Times, Washington Post, et al. Now what do I tell my highly ethical PR students about media relations, about building relationships with journalists? My PR students are steeped in the ethical and legal aspects of communication/public relations, including fairness and balance. They get it.

“The failing economy heightened the need for communicators/public relations practitioners to understand the relevant topics of finance, economics, and business management, with an emphasis on employee communication. I’ve been preaching this for decades, but I believe that this financial crisis finally drove home the message.

“I have seen a renewed effort by communicators/public relations practitioners to learn how to communicate about economic and financial issues in order to be more effective in representing their organizations with key publics. That makes me very happy indeed….”

I’m not sure how I feel about the first paragraph. Is journalism dead? Or are the editors taking liberties or failing to stop their writers from taking liberties with the facts and stories? Has it changed or has it actually always been this way to one degree or another? Look at the Walter Isaacson’s “Benjamin Franklin” and read about how slanted journalism was in the days of our country’s birth. Similarly, read in Doris Kearns Goodwin’s “Team of Rivals” about the journalism of Abraham Lincoln’s days.

On the other hand, like Les, I’ve had it. I’m fed up. As much as I enjoy politics and political discussions, and like to keep up with the news, here and abroad, I’ve cancelled my subscription to the Washington Post. The straw was an issue with their customer relations (no surprise) in a delivery problem, but the real root of it goes back to the column by their own ombudsman admitting a significant bias in the supposedly objective news reporting of the election. Printed, of course, after the election was over, deal done.

I will say this regarding the question about what to tell his students -- Les, give them the biggest assignment they'll ever get as they graduate...Change things. Keep the vision of the ideal of objective journalism, and strive for it in any way they have at their disposal. True, these graduates will be on the PR side of things, as opposed to the journalistic side, but we all can have an impact in various ways. If more, like me, drop subscriptions, informing these so-called paragons of objective journalism of our discontent with their failure to live up to the moniker they give themselves, perhaps they'll make a business decision to steer back.

Affecting the downturn of journalism, too, is the effect of the internet and citizen journalists and bloggers, also not known for objectivity or credentialing. But I believe Shel Holtz is right, that new media does not kill old media, but rather forces it to adjust. It'll be interesting to see how mainstream media deals with the threat of new media and the dissatisfaction of subscribers hungry for unbiased reporting.

Finally, I agree wholeheartedly with Les that I see communicators becoming more intellectual, business- and bottom line-oriented, learning more about finance and business strategy and therefore representing themselves and the industry of communications better to corporate America. I am also heartened by that as well.

So Happy New Year! Let's make it a better one than the last one!

Monday, December 1, 2008

The Journal

The Journal

I am sitting in my rocking chair on the porch and at peace for the moment. The grass is new and green, the flowers are waking up and stretching from their winter slumber. The sun is out and warming the world. Squirrels and birds animate my yard. It is a new yard in front of my new home.

Now and then, I feel the need to take stock and see where I am. I am newly married, establishing my own household, and in a job I like and look forward to attacking. I have my beautiful newborn daughter napping in the crook of my arm as I write. Life is so cool right now.


You know, through school and internships and adolescence, I always thought in the present. I was on my way, I thought. And yet, every new station brought a revelation. Everything up until that point had been nothing but preparation for the real journey. To get to the beginning of the road. I believe I am there now. I have achieved at least the minimum of what I expected out of myself. Wife, career, home and family. With that accomplished, I can start down this great road before me, providing for my daughter’s own trek and my wife’s and my eventual comfort in retirement.

I look at this little miracle in my arms and realize that this is what it is all for. To produce this life and care for it, provide security for it and set it out into the world. God, this little being is so delicate, so frail, and the task is so immense. It is intimidating sometimes but also completely invigorating. I have never had so much purpose. And love. I have never had so much unconditional, unselfish love for anyone or anything in my life. Not even for my wife whom I cherish. But this, this little creation, part me, part my wife and completely her own being.

There is no choice anymore as to whether to travel the road or not. I have struck out on the road already and there is no turning back. It’s like when I first learned how to drive. I thought for a while that it was too complicated, too many things to bear in mind, I was never going to make it and might even kill myself or someone else in the process. But still I went ahead prodding myself like the Wizard of Oz addressing the Scarecrow, Tin Man and the Lion, with assurances that hundreds, thousands of other with no more brains, heart or courage then myself had learned to drive a stick shift, and so would I. And so I did.


But this is so much bigger. What if I screw up? I would be eventually pushing a little bird out of the nest who had not learned to fly. I will not let that happen. I will give her every opportunity I had and more to know the world and be prepared for it. I will build a fortress around her and let no potential harm near her. She will grow up happy and never in want or need, this one.

When she looks up at me from the sandbox with those big blue eyes and smiles out of simple recognition of her Da-Da, I melt right away. I become one of those new fathers I used to laugh at, prattling in blubberese “Who’s dat I see? My wittle pwincess? Is she the most beautiful pwincess in all the world?” Yep, that’s me all right. I used to joke that the child is objectively monitoring that behavior like a concerned psychiatrist, “This one’s a gonner.”


But I look into her big blue eyes and see nothing but unconditional love for me, just as I have for her. Incredible that we can share this with each other simply with the innate understanding that I am “Dad” and she is “Daughter.”

She depends on me instinctively. How can she know I won’t let her down? I’ll tell you it puts your work in a whole new light. Ambition for ambition’s sake went right out the window. Now there is “the family” to feed and clothe. Now there is the “college fund” to consider.


That’s nuts, by the way. To have to start putting money away during the second trimester so that with compounding interest you can reasonably expect to afford to give her decent schooling – that’s nuts.

But you know what? I’ll do it. My wife would say I’ll complain all the way, but I’ll do it. And I know that because already my work has a new inspiration behind it. And it’s not all financial. I want my little one to be proud of her papa one day.


She’s definitely got a lot of me in her. Look at how quickly she’s learning. I mean already up on her toes while other kids her age at the day care are just beginning to discover they have toes. And all they want to do is suck on ‘em.

Nah, this one has my genes all over. She’ll be a killer attorney with the gift of gab; you can tell the way she’s so quickly picking up words and even phrases. Even if she can’t say ‘em, she understands ‘em. I mean, you see her mind working and figuring things out. Maybe she’ll be a great doctor, analyzing the symptoms, identifying the associations and producing the responses.
With a smile I swear she already knows how and when to use, she could sell anything if business becomes her bag.


Big things ahead for her, and I want to set the example. Just today I got the biggest account in the office. I tell you I am soaring, bursting with pride and feeling invincible. Of course, it’s gonna mean a lot of work and overtime, but that’s what it takes, right?

All these goals I’ve set for myself with regards to my baby and her future depend on me achieving other goals at work. To remain a success in business, you’ve got to continue to shoot for new and higher peaks to climb. Don’t, and you slide backwards, a course very difficult to correct.


So without her even knowing it she is helping me succeed, providing the necessary inspiration while I’m at work, and in many smaller ways. Through her eyes I am gaining a new perspective on life and values. The world is so much more simple. The way it ought to be. Whose idea was it to make life so complicated. Not a father, I can guarantee you.

I see life now in the crayon colors and heavy black outlines of the drawing books my daughter has left here at my side before her mother put her to bed. She wants desperately for me to see the wonderful universe in which she lives, drawn inside the boundaries of the hedgerow and fencing. What I have created for her, she has re-created for me on paper with a Disney imagination. And I see that I’m doing okay for now as a father, to raise such an artist.


Those drawings make me try all the harder to keep the house and yard in shape, improving it where I can. I want her world to stay as perfect as she has depicted it. I gave her a pet dog to love and protect her when I’m away. I erected a swing set on which she imagines herself to be a trapeze artist or a bird in flight. I built a little house of her own out back to match the big one, and inside she constructs her own family world with her dolls. She pedals around the driveway and sidewalk on her tricycle like a speed demon.

I bring those visions with me to work and apply it liberally. I do my best and have faith that my cause is just. I keep her world colorful and bright. I keep the money coming in in increasing amounts for now there are school clothes and supplies to acquire, and bigger and better toys she demands because Tommy or Suzy has one. I keep the picture of my wife, my daughter and I on my desk to help me through busy days that seem to get busier with each accomplished task.

I read her day in the letter I find on the floor when I get home. She colored some more, she played dolly, she had friends over who left their toys behind or so I assume. I never gave her half the things I find cluttering the rec room downstairs. I guess toys are still a communal thing at this stage; whatever is in sight is available for general use. Unless these are the result of some trading…; is it possible that she’s got possessiveness to her now? Why not, I guess, with all the material things my wife and I seem to place importance in. She’s sure to pick it up.

I learn from her world of toys. What happened to the simplistic G.I. Joes and Barbie Dolls that at least left something of the game to the imagination? Now they are all microprocessed and programmed to act out what the toy manufacturers believe is a child’s wishes. And my child is
taught to be delighted. Such is the power of suggestion and marketing: tell the world it wants what you have and soon you have the world knocking on your door. Has she already learned this and how to apply it to get what she wants, horse-trading the toys she’s done with for that which she covets in her friends’ toy box?


How can the world I gave to her be so alien to me? I don’t know were her tastes in clothes and food and games come from. I can’t keep up with her advance, much less lead her. Did I miss a year or two? I just got her to try a two-wheeler with the training wheels on and I’m already taking them off. They’ll join the trike and the stroller in the corner of the basement collecting cobwebs. I remember buying all these things; I just don’t remember enjoying seeing her wear them out.

I see glimpses of her life through others who are with her during my longer and longer work days, and frequent business trips. The teachers, on Parent-Teacher Night, tell me she is very good in English and science, though struggling a little in math. I can forgiver her that because I hate math. I never have understood what was wrong with the Old Math that required developing a New Math. Did 2+2 somehow stop equaling 4, until we did some recalibrating of the equation? And we want our kids to understand that? I make sure now to set aside the bills and papers I am working on to help her with homework.


That is, I would if those events happened at the same time. By the time I get home, she’s done and almost ready for bed. I have to remember on the weekends to sit with her and have her show me what she’s doing in school. Of course, teaching Dad about school is the last thing on her mind on the weekend. She wants to play with her friends.

My daughter is not outside kicking a ball or playing hide-and-seek, but in the family room fighting with her two best girlfriends about who gets to play the video game next and which game is more realistic. The three of them, I might add, are dressed entirely too grown up with tube tops and cut off jeans. Who taught them that?

My wife tells me she is popular with the other kids in the neighborhood though she can be a bit greedy with the spotlight. I think she may get that from my dinner table recounting of workday battles for recognition in the job. I find myself increasingly “playing the game” as a matter of survival, not out of enjoyment as I did in my single days. There are really two enemies out there. Your competition in business and your competition in the office. Promotions and raises are doled out meagerly. I give up more time at home in order to keep my place in line in the office. To stay in the spotlight.


So when I finally drag myself across the threshold of my castle, I want my queen and princess to know how hard I am fighting for them, for us. I want some confirmation that I am succeeding in keeping them happy and, yes, I want them to pour appreciative and congratulatory praises on me for becoming Senior Vice President. Some immediate reward for my sacrifice and effort. I know, beginning to sound a bit selfish. But I think it’s only human and excusable to want approval from those dearest to you.

Most times, I just have to take it for granted. My princess has been spirited away this evening by some would-be courtesan and my queen has engagements with the other queens of the realm. So I have this endeavor to busy me. And, of course, castle up-keep.

My rest days are so full of chores and household projects I scarce find time anymore for simply sitting and enjoying the day and my family. But I can find pride in a house that is solid and comfortable. This is my accepted role when at home. The Fixer-of-All-Things-Broke. The
Acquirer-of-All-Things-Needed. And my family is there to guide me in that role.


I do procrastinate terribly sometimes in these duties. However, I cannot imagine how I got to be so late with the desk set for my daughter. I spent an entire weekend when the girls were away visiting Gramma and Granddad, building it into her bedroom wall, complete with surrounding shelves and nooks. That was a year ago it seems and she’s packed up now and heading for dormitory life. It’d be tough to compete with a university library on that score.

How did that happen? Well, there’s still time to be Dad yet. I’ll make sure next time she’s back to set some time aside for just the two of us. Maybe take her somewhere for the weekend, like the
amusement park, or camping. My wife thinks those ideas would have been fine a few years ago. But I can’t reach back a few years ago to enjoy them with my daughter. That time is already gone. Already gone.


I have earned the right to adjust my schedule to include less career and more time at home with the family, but the “family” is already gone. Just me and my wife in the home I built to enjoy with more than two. Now the chores don’t even take up my free time and my daughter isn’t here for me to lavish it on her. I missed my opportunity somehow.

And it is with that thought in mind, as I sit on my front porch, with the grass new and green again, and the flowers and trees awakening from their winter slumber, with the squirrels and birds animating my front yard, and with this infant girl napping in the crook of my arm as I write, that I promise not to miss it again. There is still time to be Grandpa yet. And in doing that maybe I can show my daughter what kind of love I had for her all along had I had the time to give it to her.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Thoughts on judging the Silver Inkwell Awards

So this summer, I had the honor and privilege of organizing the judging for the Silver Inkwell Awards of the DC chapter of the International Association of Business Communicators. I'd judged them once previously and enjoyed the experience immensely. I volunteered again this year and found myself as lead judge.

I've had an inauspicious start in the role -- I have no doubt I'll do the job again next year -- as this is the first time, at least in recent memory, that the chapter has not given out a top prize. In the end, I and the Blue Ribbon panel, my colleague who was heading up the Silver Inkwell program itself and the president of the chapter, all made a tough but important decision. The award is intended to hold local IABC-member communicators, and by role model, the local communications industry, up to a high, albeit subjective, standard. To hand out what in effect would have been "The Best of What We Got" instead of the "Best of the Best" would have devalued all past and future winners of the honor. In the end we handed out a good number of awards of merit and awards of excellence for each of the categories, but no "Best of the Best."

But my feeling is that by way of compromise, it is incumbent upon me to pass along the common critiques and common praises of the judges to help those who might be working on next year's projects and potential submissions. And so, gleaned from the judging sheets, here is a quick run-down:

The key to winning is a great, thorough and detailed -- but concise -- workplan, with the work samples showing the successful execution of that workplan. Take the submission requirements and use it at the start of your project planning to help as a guide to the project itself. Nice benefit is that when the project is done, your submission's already basically done! Even if you never submit, that submission form will have helped you keep focus on some fundamentals of communications success.

Pay particular attention to the audiences (because there's always more than one, isn't there?). Tell the judges who the audiences are, giving demographics, but more to the point, tell the judges something about the needs and interests of those audiences that led you to the approach you ultimately used. Tell the pertinent points here. You can attach supporting documentation (survey/research results).

In objectives, make sure they are time-bound and measurable (there is always something to measure, quantifiable or anecdotal), and at least one should map back to the overall goals of your organization -- if your company sells widgets, one objective should have something to do with having a measurable impact on widget sales.

In approach, make sure to explain why you chose the approach you chose and it should have reference to some supporting research (remember your audiences' needs and interests?). Mention budget and deadlines, but don't forget to mention then where you came in against that budget and those deadlines! If it's a tight budget, explain why you think it's a tight budget. Telling the judges your budget was $30,000 doesn't mean much without some context.

And in results and evaluation, make sure you reference results against your stated objectives. If you didn't have the time or budget to measure results adequately, tell the judges what you will do next time or would have done with a bigger budget and/or more time. Show them you have the right mindset, even if you don't have the appropriate resources. I know I would give you a lot of credit for that. If you don't have quantifiable results -- and even if you do -- make sure you have anecdotal feedback from both audience and your supervisors/boss/president.

Some complain that they can't do all the above in the two pages you're limited to. I tell you that you can. Some of the best audience descriptions I read in the nearly 100 submissions I've judged were done in a few sentences and bullets. And they still had room for an additional paragraph or two of background (yep, you can do that too, even though it's not required!).

Make it easy for the judges to score you high. Don't make them work to find the answers.

Now good luck with the projects and get them submitted for next year's competition!

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Someone So Alive

Someone So Alive


Jolie Barrows found herself staring. In the middle of delivering a eulogy in honor of her grandmother, she found herself staring at the subject of the eulogy, dressed in black, behind a black veil, at the back of the congregation at Faith United Methodist Church, and very much alive.

The heavy silence that had hung in the air awaiting the remainder of her memories instead began to host murmurs of the perplexed mourners. She could not bring herself to tell them her words were of a sudden premature, but she did not dare to open her mouth either for fear of blurting out the revelation of her grandmother’s apparent resurrection.

Jolie blinked and looked hard at the familiar figure. The shape was Grandma Josephine, the white coiffed hair under the veiled hat was her color and style. The palsy of the hand as it brought a handkerchief up to dab at tearful eyes was as familiar to Jolie as her own habit, borrowed from Grandma Josephine, of folding anything in hand that lent itself to folding. This woman was either mocking her or was her dead grandmother compulsively folding and unfolding the handkerchief between dabs.

No, you’re seeing things, Jolie admonished herself. You’re mourning her death and you want to see that she’s still alive, so you’re mistaking someone similar for her. That’s just one of her
friends. Now get on with the eulogy.

Jolie met the inquisitive minister’s look from the side of the pulpit with a nod as if to say everything was okay, that she’d pulled herself together. He calmly nodded back and stepped away again.

As she turned to face the congregation again, Jolie strained to concentrate on the words and to forget about the woman at the back of the congregation. “Grandma Josephine and I had a special kind of understanding between us that was born the day I was, she used to tell me. She’d
say that I would have lots of friends, best friends even, that would come and go through life, but that she would always be there.”

Jolie stopped again at these unexpectedly prophetic words. And the black hat at the back of the congregation was nodding in sure agreement, as if it were just the two of them in conversation without pews of people between them. And Jolie recognized this, too, as one of her own traits that went with her into college, where she would distract professors and speakers with her own emphatic approvals and disagreements with various presentations. She'd learned this unabashed expression of connection from Grandma Josephine. The gestures would come unabated from her grandmother at church, or in front of the television, or any public gathering being addressed, at any moment the message reflected her own thoughts or deviated acutely
from her beliefs. Grandma Josephine was a woman with opinions she was proud to broadcast.


"Grandma Josephine was right, she was always there, and as I grew out of adolescence and youth, and into adulthood I realized who the real best friend had always been and just what I owed her. She taught me what loyalty in friendship meant. She taught me pride and forgiveness. She taught me to believe in myself and to do for myself.” And the black hat nodded again with emphasis, as her hand went up under the veil, dabbed the folded handkerchief, and
dropped again.


Jolie snapped her eyes back to her own hands and the little cue cards she’d prepared with the eulogy, but they were no help in taking her mind off the ghost in the church. Grandma Josephine had taken time when Jolie’s parents were too busy to help her with her show-and-tell. “Organization,” she continued,” was her creed in dealing with life, and it is how I thought I could deal with her death. But I’m finding that a little difficult right now.” She’d written those words last night. They barked at her now from the palm of her shaking hand like someone else’s prophecy proved true. She felt reality shifting, now here in the church, now back in time at the mall Christmas shopping with Grandma Josephine.

“Nothing prepares you for the loss of someone you loved so much that your life is identified by your relationship with that person. A spouse, a mother, a father, a brother, a sister – for me, my grandmother. That is not a detraction to those other important people in my life. It is a testament to the woman she was.” Jolie cut the word short realizing as she spoke, that she was using the wrong tense. Or no, wait, the right tense. Just keep going, she urged herself. The
next card.

“What can help you to go forward from such a loss is to be mindful of what you have gained from your association with her, what you take of her with you. The good memories and experiences, the lessons learned from her, the comfort you received from her, and the privilege you had to have known her.”

The black hat at the back bobbed, the handkerchief slipped behind the veil once more. Jolie’s vision was wrenched from her cards to watch the apparition cajole her onward. But it was not an apparition. She was here brushing elbows with the man next to her, who seemed to excuse
himself to her and move lightly to give her more room to proclaim the righteousness of the speech. But the man, who looked to be the husband of one of Jolie’s mother’s friends, did not show any recognition of the lady.

Of course not, why would he? Jolie tried to reason. He probably had never met her and even if he did, that woman is not your grandmother. Grandma Josephine died. Next card, Jolie. Get a grip.

“Grandma Josephine lives.” Jolie’s world went to miniature and the sound of a thousand bees entered and overwhelmed her mind. But the figure of Grandma Josephine would not leave her sight. “Grandma Josephine is here, in this church,” she felt she was crying this, but it came out a whisper, “-- to the extent -- that we -- hold her spirit -- close to our hearts. She will go home -- with each of us -- to the extent that -- we remember what she gave uuusssssss….”

Jolie swayed at the podium, and the minister stepped up to take her elbow and lead her to the first pew. Her legs gave way as she reached the seat. Have to keep my wits, she chanted to herself, have to keep my wits. That was not Josephine, that was not Josephine.

At the end of the service, when Jolie felt she could stand again, she searched for the woman at the back of the congregation but could not see her. Later, at the cemetery, the woman in black did not appear. And a shaken, speechless Jolie was taken home in the limousine.

Jolie spent the night and the next day trying desperately to bring some logical conclusion to the apparition. She asked her mother and her aunts who the veiled woman in black in the back of the church had been. She tried to describe her without sounding craxy, leaving out until nothing else rang a bell her resemblance to the deceased Josephine. No one had seen her and they could not ease her mind, repeating her own rationalization that she was “seeing” Josepine in a
nother person because she missed her or because she subconsciously expected to see her at ll family gatherings.

In the following days, Jolie could not let the picture of her grandmother attending her own funeral fade. She had not imagined it, and she was not crazy. It was determined that Josephine had died in her sleep at her apartment of an apparent heart attack. This was not surprising for
Josephine was known to have had a long history of smoke and drink. Neither a chain smoker nor an alcoholic, she was however one to enjoy life, to hell with the consequences. Jolie decided for no discernible reason that she wanted to pay a visit to the last person to see Grandma Josephine alive.

She was found by a friend and neighbor of hers, a widow named Mary Martin. Mary also lived alone in the apartment next to Josephine’s. She and her late husband had never had children, so Josephine became the closest thing she had to family. She, like Jolie, eagerly awaited Josephine’s return from travel, and envied Josephine’s capacity for life. She seemed extremely distraught over the loss of her friend and had retreated to her apartment and did not attend the
funeral or wake and did not communicate with Josephine’s family.

On her way to Grandma Josephine’s apartment, Jolie remembered her grandmother’s stubborn resistance to settling down. Josephine had been an outrageous personality, and one who children and grandchildren alike found increasingly difficult to control. As she aged, while her peers were becoming more and more housebound, Josephine was determined to become more and more the independent traveler. She had told Jolie once that when Jolie’s grandfather, God rest his soul, had died twenty years before of his own heart attack, brought on doubtless by his often agitating and bullheaded wife, she felt that the time had come for her to live her life. Not the life her late husband had expected of her. Not the life her children expected of her. But her life. She was going to travel and try new things and new foods, as much as her body would
allow.

Josephine’s four daughters and their husbands fought with Josephine on her annual itineraries which involved safaris to Africa, climbing in the Low Alps, sailing in the Caribbean, and reveling at Carnival in Rio. They said she was doing too much, that she was putting herself in
danger,especially by traveling alone. The idea of a woman in her sixties, and then her seventies, tackling outdoor adventures like a twenty-year-old was preposterous.

They told her she was being selfish, not thinking of the family and the grandchildren who wanted to see their grandmother. Josephine always countered with the same argument. She’d given all her years up to then to the family; she had only what was left for herself and she was going to make the most of it. The money from her late husband’s estate was more than enough to afford this lifestyle and a leave an inheritance for the family when she passed on.

Jolie never argued with her. She admired her grandmother’s spunk and tenacity. She wished her well and made her promise to send postcards from faraway places. Josephine often invited Jolie to come along, but Jolie’s own life, her education, her career, always prevented her from tagging along on all but the smallest trips. She’d taken a long weekend to go shopping in New York with Josephine in December, skating in Rockefeller Square and watching the Rockettes.
She’d seen the fall foliage in Vermont and New Hampshire on another road trip. She would miss those slices of life.

Jolie always knew to send her letters to Josephine’s small apartment if she was expected home soon, to the postmaster general in international locations to which Josephine indicated she’s be traveling. And Josephine always knew to look for them and always responded promptly.

Jolie had learned her appreciation for the world around her and the myriad of cultures that Josephine described to her. Josephine chided those her age who vacationed on cruise ships and never left the ship, and who lived in assisted living complexes. “You’ve got to get off the boat and see life first-hand in order to stay alive. That other route leads steadily, boringly, to the grave.”

When Josephine was at home, never for more than a month or so at a time, she made the
rounds of the nursing homes and extended care facilities that housed “her people,” as she called them. It was funny to Jolie that Josephine seemed to have such disdain for what she saw as their acceptance of their fate and yet referred to them as “her people.”

On her way now to Josephine’s apartment complex, Jolie stopped by her mother’s house to retrieve the key to the apartment to let herself in. She figured she’s stop in after meeting Mrs. Martin to look around for some small token to keep of Josephine’s, perhaps a souvenir
trinket form her many travels. She hoped she might find a few photographs of her in Africa or Thailand. Or perhaps the one Josephine had kept on her mirror of Jolie and her when Jolie was
eight years old. Jolie had dressed up in some of the clothes Josephine was packing for one of the first of many trips, this one to Hawaii. Jolie wore an oversized silk flower dress, a garish matching hat with a big pink flower stuck in the hatband. The two faced the camera standing side by side, decked out in leis, next to a bulging suitcase, as if the odd-looking couple were about to board a steamer to the South Seas.

Jolie found herself crying remembering the image and the time it was captured. She wanted so to go with her Grandma, to live the rest of her life seeing the world and all its wonders in the company of someone so alive. The picture couldn’t capture the color Jolie remembered about her grandmother. Life was vibrant and gay, like a cartoon, with Josephine around, and the days when she was away as grey and dismal as a city in winter rain.

She locked her car, entered the building and found “M. Martin #336” on the board. She buzzed on the lobby phone and waited. There was no answer. She remembered Grandma Josephine telling her that her friend Mary was a quiet woman, who despite her admiration for Josephine’s
travels, kept to her room and did not venture out. She deemed herself too frail and even paid the local grocer to deliver her needs. Jolie thought it odd that she would not answer her phone, but perhaps she was napping, or was still so distraught that she was refusing visitors. Jolie thought that she might just knock on Mrs. Martin's door anyway, if only to check in on her and to thank her for her friendship to Josephine.


Jolie boarded the elevator and pushed the button to bring her to the third floor, Josephine's floor. She knew the way to Josephine's door without looking having spent so many hours visting there, and when the elevator door pened she walked still lost in reverie. She did not pay attention to the sound coming from around the corner ahead on one door closing and another being opened. As she rounded the turn she saw what would be Mrs. Martin's door closing shut. Jolie resisted the urge to call out to her.



Simultaneously, a scent so familiar to her filled her conciousness. Sweet roses wafted in the drafty hall as she stood facing her granmother's apartment. She felt again the eager anticipation of small gifts and exotic tales. It was not Josephines's only perfume but certainly her favorite and the one Jolie always remembered her wearing. She wore it more and more heavily each year, but Jolie never minded. It was always a welcome and pleasant fragranc e in Joli's experience. One that now brought her memories of Joeshine casacading around her. She steeled herself, pushed the key in the lock and turned the handle, prepared to be overwhlemed by the nostalgia.

But as the door swung wide and the room was revealed, a sudden shock took Jolie. She had opened the wrong door somehow, for this room was flooded with light from undressed windows, the floor lay bare of the Oriental carpets that had adorned Josephine's flat. Much of the antique wooden furniture was missing though not all. Recognition of a few of the remaining pieces brought her to the conculsion that this was Josephine's apartment, but that it had been pilfered of it's most prized ornaments.

Jolie stepped inside and let the door bang shut behind her, producing a hollow echo from the nearly empty room. Her mouth hung agape as she ticked off all the missing items, the camelback sofa with the shallow uncomfortable seat, the wingback chair opposite, the small rolltop desk that sat next to the door, the old mahogany coffee table. All that was left was a small table on which sat a telephone, two folding chairs by the sliding glass balcony door, and an empty cardboard box.

Jolie steeped to the kitchen and there found things midway to being packed, as if someone had stopped in the middle of the job and gone out for lunch. She realized then her mistake. Her aunts had been here and were removing all of Josephine's things. The apartment would have to be cleared for new tenants, of course. She stepped quickly around to the bedroom and found it similarly half packed. She had been lucky to get there when she did, before it was all carted up.

Jolie turned and faced where the mirror had hung, where it now sat on the floor leaning against the wall. The picture she had come to claim was no longer tucked into the frame where it had been for so many years. Instead she found it among many other photographs in a shoe box beside the bed. Jolie decided to take the entire shoe box with her and she replaced the lid and scooped it up.

As she looked at the bare walls, she couldn't help feeling as if she were robbing tomb. At the same time there was a pervading feeling of growing emptiness which justified her grabbing what she could. Even the air lacked the ambiance it had held when she previously visited. Only a hint of the rose aroma remained, what little the walls had left to release, she guessed. Something about this disturbed her and she suddenly had a desire to leave, before the mmeory of Josephine was tapped from her by this void.

She went quickly through the sitting room by the folding chairs and the empty cardboard vox, and as she opened the door to leave, she turned for one las look and shuddered. It was as if the room itself had died, and that was so contrary to tthe life she had experienced here in the past. She stepped into the hall and let the door close ehind her.

As Jolie took a step back towards the elevator, she became aware of the scent of roses again, stronger than a moment ago in her grandmother's apartment. This didn't make sense. It couldn't be stronger outside the apartment than inside. Then she remembered Mrs. Martin, and her intention to check on her. She had just gone inside her own apartment when Jolie had rounded the turn. If she had been in the hall newar Josephine's apartment, perhaps she was wearing the same scent and it had trailed off f her.

Jolie stepped up to her door, pondering whether to knowck or not. They had never actually met but she remembered Josephine pointing her out one day, an unremarkable old lady with straight white hair and simple clothes. She didnt' strike Jolie as someone who would choose such a garish scent. If she were not revieing visitors, she would have no needto apply perfume anyway, so Jolie decided to knock and simply explain she she was.

Jolie tucked the shor box under her arm and wnet to Mrs. Martin's door. She hesitated, then knocked, lightly at first, then with some authority to make sure Mrs. Martin could hear it. She could hear soem movement, footsteps across a flooor, a murmr, then a tentative voice "Yes, who is it?"

Jolie spoke loudly through the door, "Mrs. Martin, it's Jolie Barrows, Josephine Winstead's granddaughter." There was silence from behind the door.

"Mrs. Martin?" Jolie repeated.

"Yes, yes. Um, what can I do for you? I'm afraid I don't ahave a key to her apartment."

Jolie frowned. It was more than Mrs. Martin's failre to even open the door a crack. She supposed courtesy suffered when you were an old lady alone with a stranger outside your door. But there was soemthing contrived about ht ewavering and distracted voice. "No, I've just come from there. I borrowed my mother's key. I just wanted to pay you a visit. Thank you for all you've done for my grandmother."

Silence again. Then "Oh, well, you're welcome."

"Mrs. Martin, are you okay?" Jolie tried. She felt sure now that Mrs. Martin was determined not to let her in, nor even to show her face. But she felt likewise that there was something guilty about her behavior, and that revelation brought another image to her mind. That of Mrs. Martin's hasty retreat into the now locked. Papartment. Certianly she had heard Jolie's stride down the hall. The sound of the door closing had to have been her granmother's door as it was the only other apartmnt on thsi short stretch of hallway. Had Mrs. Martin just been in Josephine's apartment? Was that why Jolie smelled Josephine's perfume in the hall? Was Mrs. Martin helping herslf to Josephine's toiletries...or more? "Mrs. Martin, you were just there, weren't you?"

"No, no, dear. Uh, I'm afraid now isn't a good time, dear." Jolie could hear Mrs. Martin begin to sniffle and hear her voice falter even more, taking on a deeper quality. This convinced Jolie her suspicions were valid, that Mrs. Martin was ginding something with a false, timid voice.

"Mrs. Martin, what is going on? Why were you just in my grandmother's apartment. Please open up so we can discuss this."

Openly crying now, Mrs. Martin replied, "No. Please go away. I'm -- too upset."

"Mrs. Martin, you were just in my grandmother's apartment, things are missing and I smell her perfume on you. If you don't open up, I'll bring the building manager into this, and the police if I have to." Jolie was steaming now, ready to begin pounding on the door if she didn't relent. She knew in her bones something was wrong with this. At the same time, she felt it wasn't quite what she suspected either; she couldn't put her finger on it, she only knew Mrs. Martin had been in the apartment and was evading her now. She felt desperate to resolve this. She knocked hard again. "Mrs. Martin."

"Jolie, please go away."

She stood stunned, fist posed in the air ready to begin an assault on the door. That was another voice altoghert. Muffled still through the door, this voice was tstill one she had not really heard before, and yet it reached to her soul and spoke to the child in her. It was wracked with sorrow, and yet somehow touched a part of Jolie's memory of sweetness and innnocence. It affected her like the strongest of pleasant dreams being broken by morning and wakefulness into reality. It wrapped her in the warm scent of roses.

"Josephine," she whispered.

Then softly from the other side of the door, as if spoken while lying her face flush to it, Jolie hear her grandmother's declaration, "You will have lots of friends, best friends even, who will come and go through life, but i will always be there."

Jolie stared at the door, through the door to the source of her grandmother's voice. "But we buried --"

"Mary," the voice cut in. "Mary always told me she wished she could share mylife. She said it was too late for her though, and perhaps that was true. She was not hardy sould to begin with and you can't learn that at her age." There was a long, mournful sigh, almost a whimper. "I can't unlearn it. So I promised to share it as well as I could. She is the reason I kept returning. And you."

After another pause, Mrs. Martin's door spoke again. "I find it amazing how closely she resembled me. me in death anyway. Fix the hair up, dress her up in my thick flannel night clothes. Change her makeup and give her my rings. They were so ready to hear I'd died. They never noticed I hadn't."

"Josephine --" Jolie started, but she didn't know what to say. She couldn't believe she was there, that this was happening.

"Mary gets to go traveling now," the voice continued, weeping. "I left some money in Paris and in Stockholm. I couldn't leave here without some small piece of before. But first your aunts, and the I heard you coming." There was another long pause. "Jolie, I need you to leave. Perhaps you could write what you have to say -- to Mary -- and she could find it with the postmaster general in Paris. If you did -- I'm certain she would write back."

Jolie looked at the box. She opened the lid and took out the photograph of the odd traveling pair headed for the South Pacific. She kissed the image of her gandmother, and slid the photo under the door. "Goodbye, Josephine. I will always love you," she whispered. There was no response. She closed the box again and left.

Jolie Barrows realized that her grandmother had already said her goodby the day of the funeral. Jolie had told her that day that she had learned just what she owed her granmother. Josephine had suffered the loss of a good friend in May and had made a promise to Mary. Jolie would let her keep it.