Stories about life, family, dogs, anxiety and whatnot.
A Dream of Fields
I have it in my head that I’m going to Heaven, and that at some point, my sister Jennifer, who is my best friend, will be there too. How am I so sure? Because I’m fairly certain we have been there before. Together.
I was about 12, so that would make Jennifer, four years my junior, only eight, when our family embarked on one of our frequent trips to a campground at Ohiopyle State Park in Pennsylvania, where we lived at the time. The tent had been erected, and Mom was puttering around assembling dinner items on the Coleman stove while Dad organized firewood. That left Jennifer and I to investigate our surroundings.
We headed to the dense woods behind the campsite, discovering the longest vine to swing Tarzan-like from until our arms tired. And then, side-by-side, we forged our way deeper into the woods. I’ll admit that it is then that my memory becomes hazy. After swinging from the vine, I’m not sure I can separate what was real from fantasy. But here’s how I think it happened: We traversed a tall hill — one that seemed to magically appear from nowhere — eventually reaching its pinnacle. And when we arrived, we witnessed the most amazing field of seemingly endless, brilliant, blooming sunshine-yellow flowers. The experience was breathtaking. The sky was impossibly fluorescent blue, and there was an overwhelming feeling of quiet and calm. We breathed the freshest of air. We tromped in the softest of grass. The beauty of the experience was not simply the scenery … it was the emotion. I do not recall the trip down the mountain, but I do know we searched for hours for that spot again the next day. We couldn’t find it. Then, or ever. Eerily, it was like it never existed.
Though Jennifer and I talk daily, I never thought she remembered that experience, and I didn’t ask her about it. Perhaps I did not even trust it had happened. But a couple of years ago, she initiated a conversation about it. “Do you think that might have been something like Heaven?” she inquired. Her words made my heart race. It was real! The word I can use to best describe that day on the mountain is haunting – but in the sweetest way. The way that God uses to remind us that He exists. That He chose to tell Jennifer and me – on that same day – that we might be together forever is reassuring.
I began penning this story not too long after Jennifer and I had our talk, but could never finish it. I struggled bringing the essay around to its purpose, the lesson or a clever conclusion. Then my daughter Rene, 17, came home from church tonight and said she had stayed late to talk to her youth minister, Tyler, about a fear of dying. Since these essays are intended to be a legacy of some kind for my children, to share a little of the real me with them, I immediately searched my computer files for this story so I could finally complete it. The ending, it turns out, is so simple. It was just waiting for the right time to be written.
Rene, don’t be afraid to die. There is a Heaven. It is beautiful. I don’t know all the details, but Aunt Jenny and I will be there. And we will be together. Have faith.
Announcing the Winner of the 2014 Boston Marathon
Jen running in high school. She was fast back then, too. And pretty.
My sister, Jennifer, four years my junior, will run the Boston Marathon on Monday. And she’s going to win.
That’s because, like so many others, she has set a personal, crazy-hard goal and is ready and excited to run this race. That she has qualified for Boston – no easy task even for the best of runners – then trained to the point of it being grueling, makes her victorious before she steps foot at the starting line. Jen qualified for the “marathon of all marathons” after tackling her first-ever marathon, and is setting aside any fear about last year’s bombing to run alongside, and probably in front of, the best of the best. She’s fast! And I’m proud of her for many reasons, but chief among them is because it is one of the few times recently I can truly remember Jen putting herself first. Marathon training at her level takes time. Lots and lots of time. She is a crazy busy, stay-at-home mom and a respected artist who makes gorgeous jewelry she sells in boutiques from Charlotte to Key West. With a master’s degree from Clemson University in aquatic toxicology, she’s brilliant, and set aside her “formal” career and now juggles attending Bible study with preparing amazing nightly dinners for her family, carting around two young kids, jumping in to help a friend, supporting her husband and answering her sister’s calls for help or advice almost daily. OK, daily.
Growing up, as her one and only mean older sister, I admit to teasing Jen about having slightly bowed legs. It’s nothing you really notice, but when you have a sister who is gorgeous, smarter than you and frankly, a lot nicer, you have got to find something. In fact, because of her bowed legs, she was advised by some physician or other, and I think believed for a long time, “You will never be a distance runner.” Well they sure didn’t get that diagnosis right. Jen has to do extra stretching and tend to her Iliotibial (IT) band (runners will understand), but she’s put in the extra time to do that. She has combined speed work with hill training and long, long, long runs, and is now set for Monday. When I visited her recently at her home in North Carolina, I secretly watched her on the treadmill one rainy day. She was running one-mile speed repeats. Sweat soaking her T-shirt, she turned leg over leg at an amazing pace. She raced mile after mile while I stood behind her in admiration.
Everyone running Boston will have his or her own story. And I’m going to be proud of all of them, because after last year’s bombing, it’s not only going to be an accomplishment to have qualified and trained, but it also will be undeniably a little scary to just be there, no matter what they say about safety and security. But all of the runners, from the elite to the back-of-the-pack, will symbolize that they are tucking their worries away and putting personal aspirations first. I’ll be watching, and I’m hoping the first female to cross the finish line will be Bostonian Shalene Flanagan. But no matter where Jennifer Anne Walters, #20177, places, she will be the true winner in my heart. She’s in the third heat starting at 11 a.m. She’ll be the gorgeous blonde with the bowed legs. My champion.
On Theft and Love
The reason I started this blog was to share tales of my life so that when I’m gone my kids will have stories to remember me. Accurately. Yesterday, when I was cleaning house, I remembered this one and thought it might be good for the blog.
Once, I stole a dog.
What makes this transgression even worse is that the best job I ever had was as the public relations director for the Toledo Humane Society, a 100-plus-year-old agency that handled animal rescues, animal cruelty cases, adoptions and much more good work. It’s also where I learned that animals, legally, are considered personal property. You can’t just go take a dog from someone’s yard because you believe the animal is being mistreated. It’s the equivalent of, say, stealing a television set.
Fast forward to living in Little Rock 10 years later and driving to pick up my neighbor Lindsey’s son, Jayce, from school, which required traveling through a neighborhood best described as “The Hood.” Sorry, as my dad is popular for saying, “It is what it is.” Crossing the street in front of me was a brindle-colored boxer, and as she wobbled to her front yard, I noticed she wasn’t stable because she was emaciated. Her bony hip bones, bloody from fly bites, were exposed. Her ears, too, were cut, bitten and bloody. I had seen some serious cases of abuse working at the humane society, and this topped the list. I drove to school and pledged to myself that if that dog was still there after I had picked up Jayce, she was going home with us.
She was still there.
So while I explained to Jayce, my 9-year-old accomplice with no idea what the heck was going on, I leapt from the car, scooped the barely 20 pound dog in my arms, gingerly sat her in the back of my Isuzu Rodeo and sped off. Sweating, I drove my dog-stealing self, Jayce and the dog to the only place I could think of: My husband Terry’s office at Alltel in downtown Little Rock.
Here’s where it is important to note that in 21 years of our marriage, there has been one unequivocal truth: I am a rule breaker; Terry follows every rule. His nickname is Mr. Policy. One of my general guidelines, for instance, is that if there is no sign that says “No U-Turn,” I’m free to do one. That includes one on the interstate once. Terry needs a sign. And it needs to say, “Terry Roush, yes, you may do a U-Turn here.” So when I drove the stolen dog to Alltel, then called him and dramatically yelled into the telephone that he, “IMMEDIATELY NEEDED TO COME DOWN TO THE MAIN ENTRANCE OF THE BUILDING!” I fully expected he might tell me to take Jayce home and drive that dog right back to where I found her.
Instead, he suggested I take her to our veterinarian immediately and pay for her to be treated. When he got home, he said, we would figure out our next move. That’s what I did. She needed IVs. She required meds. She was dipped for the thousands of fleas and ticks all over her body. The vet leant us a large crate, and I took her home. When Terry walked in the door, he put her in the bathtub, then spent hours with tweezers, removing every tick and flea from her tired body. We tucked her in to the crate with a soft blanket and she slept, peacefully, for what seemed forever. Terry cooked the prescribed rice and whatever food she needed, and when she was up to it a couple of days later, we walked her.
Sneakily, I mean strategically, we strolled straight to our best friends’ home, Kim and Dan Rankin, who had a neighbor, Stan, whose boxer had died a year prior, and he and his wife still had not felt ready to replace her. By “happenstance,” they met the dog in the Rankin’s front yard and played with her for a few minutes. We told them that we would be calling the boxer rescue organization the following week. (We would have kept her, but our dog Jake started peeing all over everything to mark his territory once the “new” dog joined us.)
It was 6 a.m. the next day when Stan called, asking if they could adopt the boxer. They had been up all night thinking about her and couldn’t wait another minute to call. They came right over, and in our pajamas, we said our goodbyes. They named her Lilly because of her vibrant and beautiful brindle coat that reminded them of the flower. Stan rubbed vitamin E into her scars until they healed, fed her cooked rice and beef daily and treated her like royalty. She grew to be the most beautiful boxer who was taken on daily walks and had a better back yard than mine. (I asked him once if we could trade Jake for Lilly, but he said no.) Stan rode his bike by recently (it had been 10 years since they adopted her), and told us Lilly had passed away after a long, lovely life, and they now have a new boxer.
You might think I just wrote all this so the happy ending would get me off the hook for stealing the dog in the first place, but that’s not it at all. Well, partly it is. The moral of the story is about love and partnerships. This is just one example of hundreds where Terry, gentle and reasonable, has been there to guide me – the impulsive one – in the right direction. It’s one of many illustrations of us working together for the right outcome – where one of us has to go to “the other side.” There have been countless times, too, when Terry has prevented me from disastrous consequences by saying no. There have been occasions (admittedly fewer), where I have provided opportunities and challenges he has enjoyed. (Like the nine-hour adventure race I signed us up for where we came in ninth-place! But that’s another blog post.) As a side note, Terry will tell you the four scariest words that come out of my mouth are, “I have an idea ….”
It has been a decade since I stole Lilly, but if it happened again today, I’d do the exact same thing. And I would drive straight to Terry for help.
A Lesson in Faith
Typically when I look back on a piece of writing, something screams out at me that it could have been better — a lede, a word, a paragraph, a transition. Not so with this column that I wrote in 2008 for the North Little Rock Times after Pople Benedict XVI visited the United States. It might not be perfect, but I wouldn’t change a word.
A Lesson in Faith
Visit to see pope teaches youths ‘that their faith spreads farther than their youth group and their church.’
By Deborah Roush, Special Correspondent
My son Kyle, 13, returned Sunday from a trip with his Immaculate Heart of Mary schoolmates to see Pope Benedict XVI in Washington, and I’m not sure who learned more from the experience, him or me.
Hundreds of thousands of people from around the world converged on Washington to stand outside the places the pope was scheduled to speak, hoping for a glimpse of the religious leader, who brought a message of hope in his first trip to the United States. How Kyle — a non-Catholic from Maumelle — ended up just feet from the pope is a lesson he will carry for the rest of his life, and, frankly, so will I. It’s a story of faith.
A plan in action
It began early in the school year, when Christie Powell, the religion teacher and youth director at Immaculate Heart, a small, tightknit Catholic parish and school in Marche, began her quest to take “her kids” to see their Holy Father. “I was actually trying to get to Sydney, Australia, in July to see him, but I knew it would cost several thousand dollars for each child and only a few would be able to go. I went to Father [Robert] Dienert [Immaculate Heart’s priest] to tell him about it, and he said, ‘Let’s just pray about it.’ ”
Thirty minutes later, Powell was sitting at her desk when the father of one of her students stopped by to tell her he had heard the pope was planning a U.S. visit. “When I ran back to tell Father Dienert the news, he said, ‘Christie, there’s the answer to your prayers.’ ” An Internet search provided the phone number for the archdiocese in Washington, and Powell called immediately to inquire about tickets.
The archbishop himself answered the phone, relaying to Powell that his office had just received the news of the pope’s upcoming visit and would need time to plan. But he did provide a contact for her in the diocese.
Powell e-mailed that contact but was told that the limited number of tickets were earmarked for the Washington diocese. Undaunted, Powell went back to Dienert. “I told him, ‘I still want to go, but I can’t get a ticket,’ ” she said. She decided to rely, she said, on the grace of God, planning the trip anyway. She sent a letter to the youth group and Immaculate Heart students announcing the five-day trip.
“It said if you want a take a chance — to step out in faith — come with us,” she said. There were skeptics, she admitted, though that didn’t bother her. She knew in her soul, she said, she would see her pope. The youths, inspired by Powell’s optimism, began fundraising feverishly — selling lollipops and raffle tickets, hosting a Mardi Gras festival and organizing bingo nights.
Seventh-grader Rianna Bradley said she was on board immediately. “There was no question. Weknew from the beginning we would see him,” she said. Contributions from parishioners started pouring in, along with letters of support. A woman in Virginia — a pen pal of a North Little Rock woman — heard about the trip and sent $25 and a note saying, “I hope you get to see the pope,” Powell said.
She also got an e-mail from “a friend of a friend” in Germany whose grandson had participated in the Flat Stanley reading program. (Flat Stanley is a book character and a paper cutout. People are encouraged to take photos of Flat Stanley in interesting places as an education tool.) “The grandparents had taken Flat Stanley when they had been to see the pope and took a photo for their grandson. They sent it to us because they wanted us to know that if Flat Stanley could see the pope we could too,” she laughed.
Still no tickets
Still, a week before the trip there was no guarantee the group of 74 students and chaperones, who had raised $20,000 for two buses and paid an additional $260 each, would see the pontiff. But they had something better than a ticket. They had Powell’s unquestionable faith that God was in control. So when someone from The Catholic University of America in Washington called Powell — just days before the group set off on its 19-hour journey — to tell her they had enough tickets for the group to be in a private audience of just a few thousand to see him personally, she cried.
See, someone Powell had contacted along the way had told USA Today about the trip her group was taking on faith, and someone there called somebody else — it’s still not clear exactly how it all worked out.
“God blessed us beyond what we asked for,” Powell explained simply.
A sendoff of support
From the outset the Immaculate Heart community supported the group, Powell said. “Everything we needed was provided. I was making gift baskets for auction prizes one day and realized we needed cellophane to wrap them. And then I got an e-mail saying, ‘Do you have any need for this?’ And it was 6,000 sheets of cellophane. It was like that with everything.”
And when the two buses pulled away from the Immaculate Heart parking lot the afternoon of April 16, hundreds of well-wishers were there to send them off. “One lady even brought up a bunch of disposable cameras for the kids,” Powell said. “They thought of everything.”
PHOTO COURTESY OF CINDY HALLORAN Immaculate Heart of Mary eighth-graders Stephen Creasy (from left), Kyle Roush, Tyler Massery, Megan Johnson and Alex Halloran take a break on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington during their trip to see Pope Benedict XVI last week. More than 70 students made the trip.
Cindy Halloran, one of the group’s chaperones, said the bus was loaded with cases of water, soda, cookies and other snacks that parishioners had brought for the journey. When they got to Washington, the kindness continued, Halloran said.
They watched Mass at Nationals Park on a television set up for their group in a church, St. Vincent de Paul, a block away.They were given sandwiches — twice — by people who didn’t even know them.
Then they gathered in the grassy fields at The Catholic University as they waited to see the pope, whom they snapped photos of only feet away. That was the highlight for Catholic High School 10th grader Devin Bradley. “There were all these people and they had instruments, and everyone was excited and dancing.
People climbed in the trees to see him, and they rushed up to the rail when he drove by,” he said.
Halloran said she liked that the youths were able to celebrate their faith with people from around the globe. “They learned that their faith spreads farther than their youth group and their church — that it’s bigger than that,” she said.
Powell said exposing youths from Arkansas to a larger Catholic community was rewarding.“For them to see so many of their peers excited about their faith, the Holy Father and the church, and wearing Catholic T-shirts and medals and praying and going to Mass … was more than I could teach,” she said.
Halloran said there were other learning opportunities, especially seeing history up close and in person. The group shuttled from monument to memorial aboard a double-decker bus; stops included the Smithsonian Institution, the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum and the National Archives.
While the pope was in town, there were demonstrators in the streets, including a group of neo-Nazis protesting immigration, she said. “Our kids got to see that people will march the streets for evil as well as good, and I think they were shocked at that,” she said.
“They learned firsthand that people can march on Washington whatever their ideas.”
Media frenzy
And from the time they left until, well, this article, the progress of the group was charted in newspapers and on television. The story of hope that the pope brought to the United States trickling down to the hope one woman brought to a small town in an even smaller church by planning a trip on faith caught the attention of not only USA Today but the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette and the local TV news stations.
It even earned Powell and a student a spot on the national cable program Fox News; a chauffeured car picked her up to take them to the local Fox affiliate.
For Powell, the best part of being interviewed by Fox was that the spot was seen by a local soldier serving in Iraq, who said he was excited for the group and “couldn’t wait until the pope shook our hand,” she said. In Washington, the group was hunted down by a reporter from The Washington Post who included their experience in the conclusion to his piece covering the pope’s historic visit.
Through it all, Powell won’t take recognition for the successful trip. Instead, she credits a higher power.
“I know I sound like a broken record, but I’ll say it again: He cannot be outdone in generosity, and he has done it again,” she said.
Years from now, Kyle’s memories of the trip may fade: the long bus ride, where the group ate and the details at the many memorials. But he’ll never forget Mrs.Powell. In his final year and in the last weeks at Immaculate Heart, she has taught him — and me — the most valuable lesson yet: When you have faith, you can achieve your dreams.
Whatever they are.
Supreme Acceptance
I got the best compliment the other day from my one of the smartest, most introspective people I know — Kandace. She was telling us that she and some friends had recently had a conversation about the type of pizza they would be – if they were a pizza. She cited the anchovy pizza who could be a little offensive sometimes. There are the plain cheese pizzas – they don’t bring a lot of excitement to the party – and the veggie pizzas, who I guess would be the bike riding, tree-hugger types. Without a moment’s hesitation she asserted that I would be an everything pizza – with jalapenos! I have “a little bit of everything spread around,” she said. And because of the jalapeno, I’m hot. (OK, she didn’t exactly say that, but let’s go with it.) I’ve thought about being an everything pizza several times since Kandace said it. And if there’s any pizza I would want to be, that would be it. I mean, it’s called a supreme for a reason. Still, when you’re an everything, there’s risk involved. When you include olives and onions, for example, some people are just not going to care for it. That’s probably true about me, too. What I need to accept is that’s OK. If you don’t like the toppings, you can always pick them off. Right?
Happy Father’s Day, Dad!
I saw a Facebook post the other day in honor of Father’s Day asking, “What’s the best thing about your dad?” Later, on a long run, I reflected on that. What IS the best thing about my dad? If I could only pick one, it would have to be that he is an amazing teacher. So here, for Father’s Day, Dad, are five of my favorite lessons from you.
How to write a love letter: The value of writing a letter to someone—particularly a love letter—cannot be overstated. Dad, you taught me how to write them by sending them to me. At 10, as we readied for our move from California to Pittsburgh and you left before we did, you mailed me a letter every few days. I still have every one of them, lovingly bundled in my keepsake box. You had bought new, jungle-themed stationary that was colorful and kid-like. And you made me feel special as you detailed stories of your work, described the snowfalls I would soon experience and created excitement for the adventure that would be our cross-county move. Throughout my life, you wrote special messages to me in valentine and birthday cards and penned letters to your parents who lived out of state. Writing love letters is a practice you modeled, and one I have continued. In fact, this very essay is a love letter – from me to you.
How to mow the lawn: I am an excellent lawn mower. I prefer to cut diagonally, and can trim, edge and use the blower to eliminate stray clippings. I learned it as a young girl and from the best—you. Knowing how to mow has come in handy. Terry has received compliments on how amazing his wife is when friends drop him off after a golf game, and I have mowed the yard to perfection. It’s just something that many women don’t do. You also had me take out the trash and taught me how to use a wrench and a screwdriver – giving me the toolbox I still own as a college graduation gift. This was more than a “how-to” on completing standard “male” jobs. You instilled in your girls that we – unquestionably – can do anything boys can do, and more importantly, anything we put our minds to.
It’s OK to sing loud in church: When it came to praising God through song, Dad, you have always done it joyfully and loudly. From the pews, your voice is robust and strong. Though many a choir director tried to recruit you, until just a couple of years ago, you declined, saying someone had to “lead the congregation.” Lead you did. Boldly and beautifully, you belted them out. Now, when I’m in church, though I don’t have the same talent, I sing loud too. And when a familiar hymn plays, I hear your voice – almost like you’re singing alongside me. That reminds me of this: There are important times to stand up. It’s OK to stand out. It’s noble to praise God, even when those around you are quiet.
This too shall pass: Living with anxiety isn’t easy. With my type-A personality has come worry and stress – more than is normal or healthy. There are only a handful of times, thankfully, that the anxiety has been almost more than I could handle, and during those times – though you may not have known just how stressed I was – I have called you, Dad. One time, years ago when we lived in Connecticut, we sat on the back porch and talked about it. During those conversations, calmly, you have told me, “This too shall pass.” There are others who tell me to “relax,” “Don’t worry about it,” or “Just calm down,” but because I respect you, trust you and look up to you so much, when you say, “This too shall pass,” I believe you. And it does.
Sometimes it’s not about the money: Of all of life’s lessons you have instilled in me, and certainly there are many more than the five I’m choosing to write about today, one of the most important is how to manage money. You have always told us to, “Watch your pennies and the dollars will take care of themselves.” We noticed as you diligently logged receipts into your “blue book,” where you carefully budgeted for everything from household expenses to family vacations. We have seen that pay off for you and Mom, who can now travel and enjoy the best things in life. That said, I also remember many a time where we squandered – and there’s really no other word for it – dollar after dollar playing Skee-ball at a beach arcade. Once, we had our eye on a belt buckle we wanted to win for you, and together the four of us laughed and played and competed against the game – ending up victorious! My memory is that you wore that buckle for years, though that may not be accurate. Either way, the memory has lasted, and so has the lesson – sometimes it’s not about the money. It’s about love and family.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I love you!
Deb
“I love people …
See what I mean? Biggest, prettiest laugh ever!
“I love people who make me laugh. I honestly think it’s the thing I like most, to laugh. It cures a multitude of ills. It’s probably the most important thing in a person.”
― Audrey Hepburn
Rene got in trouble at school today, and I think it’s terrific. I picked her up at the end of the day, and she happily hopped in the car and began recounting the Mt. St. Mary happenings. A friend had been disguising her voice in class and saying words in funny accents, and Rene started laughing. She couldn’t stop. “So I got in trouble. I get in trouble a lot for laughing,” she admitted. Rene has the biggest, best laugh, and sometimes when she starts laughing, she just can’t stop. That’s just one small reason I love her so much.
Rene’s Short List
I have a fun activity I share with my children. I enjoy reciting a list of things I love about them – to them. “Do you want to hear 42 things I like about you?” I’ll ask randomly. And then I begin. Sometimes it’s 27 things. Or 99, though that takes some time. I would never list 10 favorite things about them; that would be too ordinary. Earlier this year, however, Rene, our now 15-year-old, did something so outstanding that her list can now be pared to one simple, descriptive adjective. She is tenacious. And by that I mean she is ferocious. Independent. Strong. And here’s the best part – she never gives up when she puts her mind to something, regardless of how long it takes. That Rene is tenacious makes me proud of her beyond any other word that describes her – beautiful, smart or Christian – though she is all of those as well.
What did Rene do that would cause me to condense my list? A back handspring.
Let me rewind a bit because of course, a back handspring, while no easy task, would typically not be enough to top the list. Rene began cheerleading when she was about four. In our small town of Maumelle, Ark., she was on the city’s first competitive cheer squad, the Maumelle Stars Extreme. She learned to tumble, cheer and dance, and even at that young age, she took her sport seriously. We moved gyms when her skill level advanced, and drove her to a neighboring town several times a week where she set personal goals to master jumps and tucks. She was toned and fit while building close friendships at cheer camps, enduring exhausting workouts and traveling long miles for performances.
And then she fell.
She was “going backward” as they call it, and landed oddly on her neck. It wasn’t a major injury, but it scared her, and in the next practice, she couldn’t perform any stunt that required her to go in reverse. She couldn’t do it the next day, the next week or the next year. Yet she kept working hard at practice and in performances. We enrolled her in private practice. She consulted with her old, favorite Maumelle Stars’ coach – Jenn. Nothing helped. Finally, she withdrew from the competitive team, allowing her friends to move on without her.
She tried out for her high school cheer squad as a freshman, and earned a spot on the team, relying on her strength and skills as a backspot. No handsprings were required, but she kept working at it. Soon she was a sophomore, and maintained her mental block. Handsprings were an essential now, but somehow the coaches saw possibilities in her, and she made the team without it.
We were now years past the “accident,” but Rene had never given up working to regain her back handspring. Never. Giving. Up. Then, weeks after she had made the varsity team, I was in the kitchen making dinner and she casually said, “Hey Mom, can you come out in the front yard? I have something to show you.” And she flipped several back handsprings on the grass. She hadn’t told me she had it back, or even that she was close, but that’s Rene’s style – no bragging; no fuss.
Rene will do great things in her life. But none of them will make me feel any more proud of her than I did that evening, standing on the front porch, filming those handsprings on my phone.
Hey Rene, you wanna hear one thing about you I really love? You’re tenacious.
Danny
I created this website to ignite a passion that I have ignored lately — my writing — and as an opportunity to share my history and stories with my children in a permanent way. To that end, it’s important to me to post this so I never forget the most meaningful writing I have ever done … the eulogy I delivered for our dear Danny just two months ago.
It’s an honor to be asked to talk about my family’s dearest friends, the Rankins, and to remember Danny with you tonight. It’s a privilege because while my family has so many amazing memories of Danny, I look out knowing you have equally as many, which is why Danny was so special. Kim reminded me that Danny wouldn’t want us sad tonight, and she’s right. If there was anyone who didn’t like tears – especially his Mom’s – it was him. Boiled down, what Danny liked – what he loved – were two things: Laughter and family. As families, when we were planning a get together, one of the first questions for us Roushes was, “Will Danny be there?” Not because the other three aren’t fantastic, but Danny was always the one who took it to the next level – sometimes even across the line – from a fun standpoint. I’m sure many of you have been in the room when Danny walked in. He greeted everyone with that huge, impossible-to-imitate smile, a bear hug or a firm handshake with his big, football player hands. He had impeccable Southern manners – always calling my dad “sir.” My husband Terry and I often spoke about how we hoped our son Kyle would grow to be like Danny – brilliant, a gentleman, someone who put family first, and someone – when he put his mind to something, always accomplished it.
Like when he told us he was smart enough to be in Mensa – then prepared for it and tested. But in true Danny style not only did he earn a spot in the club for the world’s smartest people – he was in the top percentile of “Mensans” … in a one percent club he was eligible to join … and then of course he popped over with a copy of his test score and stuck it on our refrigerator. He didn’t take himself too seriously, though, and didn’t allow you that luxury either. When Kyle – who Danny called Karl – proudly announced that he was #2 in his high school class – Danny immediately began a movie line campaign from Talledega Nights … Ricky Bobby texts and calls saying, “If you ain’t first, you’re last.”
When I started taking a mixed marshal art self-defense class and showed him my moves at U.S. pizza one night, he told me I looked like a pouncing cat. This led to countless harassing cat communication directed to Halle Berry – cat woman.
He would call with ridiculous jokes – and I would put him on speaker phone so Terry, Kyle and Rene (my daughter he called “Renoir”) could hear … and even if he bombed big time that enormous laugh would have us all giggling.
This past spring Emily and Kyle went to prom – just as friends – and Danny arrived for photos carrying a boom box on his shoulder playing love songs. And speaking of photos, Danny made them hilarious. Our families love a big, group photo with taken with the self-timer. Except after every shot, we would check to see if we got a good one, and inevitably Danny was doing something crazy. We usually had to separate him and try to put him near Dan, but even that didn’t’ really work.
Danny could be funny for hours. He would come over to play video games and Kyle and Danny would commandeer the couch with Danny taking control of a headset that allowed him to talk with others online. Kyle would be the one playing the game … he had a distinct advantage because Danny had the opposition in stitches with his one-liners. Then every once in a while you would hear, “Boys, boys, language …” I would hear this from the kitchen because somehow Danny typically dropped by around dinner time ….
It’s impossible to remember Danny without talking about his family, because with the Rankins, as many of us know, where one of them ends and the other one begins is often unclear, if that makes sense. Their family has strength and a bond like none other I know. Danny had a passionate love for his family – above all Emily. When Danny talked about Emily it was with pure admiration, adoration and respect. Over the last week, with Danny still here with us, I questioned, over and over, God’s plan. And though I’m not sure I completely understand it, I know this: Danny Rankin, in his last days here, did what he has always done. He brought friends and family together, he had us laughing, he shared his love of Jesus and gave some of us – me among them – a relationship with God we had longed for. Then, in his last gift to others, he donated his organs so countless lives could be saved.
Danny’s obituary said that when we lost Danny the earth became a little darker and Heaven brightened. A friend of Danny’s had posted that on Facebook, and it’s truly how it feels. We have great joy and enough memories of Danny to last a lifetime, and we will see him soon … but it’s just not going to be as much fun for us here without him.
Happy Thanksgiving Saturday
I have a personal Thanksgiving tradition that includes taking about an hour to run, bike or hike – doing something outside in the fresh air – that provides me time to reflect on the blessings in my life. In the last few years, most Thanksgivings have been spent in Ohio with my husband Terry’s family, and I’ve taken runs through the suburbs in the cold, seeing my breath and feeling alive. It was on a bike ride through our own neighborhood many Thanksgivings ago when my then young son, Kyle, learned the meaning of the word “tradition.” I had said, “This is so great, Kyle, we should make it a tradition.” What’s that, Mom? he asked – and I explained. And while biking with Kyle hasn’t become something we do year after year, me spending just a few moments in thanks has.
But not this year. Thanksgiving was terrific – surrounded by friends and family and cooking, eating and watching football. But evening came too fast, and by day’s end I was tired, and to be honest, a little grumpy. I spent Friday in much of the same sour mood. But by Saturday, I decided to take a walk at nearby Two Rivers park. I texted my friend Terry Williams en route, and her reply was, “On my way.” We walked four miles, and at the end, in middle of the bridge overlooking Arkansas’ Pinnacle Mountain, we witnessed this colorful, vibrant sunset.
It wasn’t until the drive home that I was overcome with this year’s moment of thankfulness. I was on my way to my healthy family to enjoy dinner and a card game in a home I love. I had a friend who was willing to drop everything for an impromptu walk with me. And I live in a place where a sunset is this beautiful.
I was out of my mood. And it might have been two days late this year, but my tradition continues.
About Me
I’m Deb. I write for a living but not enough for fun, so that’s why I’m here. I want to share my stories and read yours here on Wordpress. Click on one of my recent posts below and let me know what you think. xoxo
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