A letter to you, "post"marked today

I have written so many thank you notes this past month, letters on cards or decorative paper. It has been an important part of my healing process. If you can't escape your emotions, shower them on other people, I say! Of course, if I could I would line everyone up in a room, friend, family, stranger, and pass down the line shaking hands, embracing, clapping people on the back and handing them chocolate pumpkins or turkeys (I don't believe in hearts) for their extreme kindness after the automobile accident. Thank you notes are the next best thing, certainly, and last somewhat longer than candy.

During my convalescence I have also been reading a book my friend Holly gave me for a b-day gift, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. It is a charming and thought-provoking book full of fictional letters between characters whose lives were altered by the circumstances of WWII. If you are feeling slightly ill-used by life, it will remind you of the horror that others have had to muster through. It will also make you laugh. Inspired as I am by it, I'm writing you a digital letter in this strange new era when the USPS is going bankrupt. Humor me in honor of a bygone era of more meaningful communication.

NPPKS Reader
WWW Street
Anywhere in the world (though most likely in the US, Russia, UK or Ukraine)

Dear Kind Reader,

I am finally stabilizing emotionally. Whew! When I came home from the hospital and was blindsided by my emotions, I wondered why I felt so turbulent when other people go through much worse. Now, however, as I knock on wood to remain steady, I reflect that a month is not so long to be emotionally out of whack after a traumatic event - not that I wish to go back to those strange feelings! I have spoken to people lately about everything and have not broken down in sobs. My friends have said I seem my old self, and I feel it. You can't imagine how relieved I am! I couldn't see the end of that tunnel, what with my eyes being all swollen from weeping.

Nevertheless, I am sadder now. I find it hard to contend with the fact that I was involved in an accident where someone died. I wanted that man to have a wake-up call, a second chance. I think everyone has wondered at those emotions. The man made his decision and could have hurt my children when he ran that red light on a suspended license. I am supremely thankful I hesitated on the green so that he hit just where he did. I'm also grateful that I forgave him quickly in the hospital before I knew he had died. It gave me peace. A friend told me not to be surprised if the anger comes later, but I sincerely hope it doesn't. Heaven knows I don't need the force of anger behind my confusion, sadness and new fears.

And guilt.

I have some guilt that I didn't do more for my children in those first several minutes after the collision, guilt that I didn't try to reach them despite my collapsed lung and broken ribs.That is what my recent nightmares are about, though thankfully I haven't had one in a few nights. In them I fail my youngest children in some serious way. That's why they terrify me. When the collision happened I was stunned and in pain, and I could hear Danny and Ella, hear what was behind their strong cries (or so I comfort myself). If they had been silent, I would have forced that lung to expand and called for them to tell me they were okay. Instead, they were calling for me to tell them that I was, and I tried to tell them...

The what-ifs are like a handicap in my driving now. I see a big truck, and I think, What if that had hit us? It wouldn't have been just me. I've had people tell me, "The What-ifs didn't happen. Let it go. Don't even think about it." But I think the real danger of what-ifs isn't, What if that had happened? but, What if that does happen? That is why you can't entertain them. The world has to be faced and bravely, with faith.

At any rate, the lack of anger or resentment - toward man or God - has been one blessing. I don't ask why it happened. Stuff happens; time and chance find us. I felt I lived a sort of charmed life before this, but I also felt my metal had never been tested - that I had not been challenged as others have been. As strange as it may sound, I felt my time had come for a little misery. I will be more empathetic now and stronger, I hope. And good will come from this. Many have told me this, and I believe it. God and I will work together to bring the good.

Danny and Ella do talk about the crash, about safety glass, about red lights, but I think I should stop talking about it in front of them. Danny thinks a "soccer ball" hit mama. Matthew tried to tell him differently at first, but I want to let him think that. If I keep going over it with other people he'll catch on, and I don't want him to be afraid in the car. They have both done so well processing it, and it's really in large part due to the firemen, their papa, and our friends. I'll tell you more about the amazing kindness of our friends another time.

I'm back to feeling more like a writer. Discouragement is the death of all ambition, so I hope it doesn't find me again anytime soon.

I hope all is well with you. Don't forget to write back soon! Thank you for letting me get this out.

In friendship,

Hillary


PS  Danny will not allow me to drive with the windows down in the van. Maybe it's because Papa told him about safety glass after the accident, or maybe it's because after the collision his window and my own were gone.

I don't feel much like a writer this week. I'm sorry about that, loyal readers.

But I'm trying to remain consistent despite my restless spirit, so I will share a dream I had last night (those of you who know me are groaning at those simple words). As I have not hoisted my dreams on anyone in a while, I feel it might be therapeutic. Though...not really.

In this nightmare a community of vampires, led by the Dracula himself, convinced developers to build housing in a valley on their decidedly eerie and remote ancestral/communal land. On the evening of the day the unsuspecting, fresh residents moved into their cute family units, the bloodsuckers swooped in for a feast from the outlying misty hills, flying and descending like the Death eaters in the Harry Potter films. It was revolting.

Somehow, afterwards, it was decided that if my two older sisters and I just went to this inn run by Dracula, and scavenged for a letter Mr. ultimate fiend had written to some of his followers, we could provide his downfall. So we went, and the inn was like a Halloween decoration - tall and narrow structure, gable roof, wrap-around plank porch and too many windows. There was a crowd of dissipated young people hanging about its lawn and porch, but we were game. We went in, and my oldest sister conducted a brazen search of a promising desk.

Then the dream took a turn that truly frightened me, and it had nothing to do with the undead.

I won't tell you what the development was. I don't want to write about it. I'll say only that I made myself wake up. And there was no way I would or could return to sleep.

What troubles me is that I have been having dreams like this for the past few weeks, and I really feel that the accident is to blame. I woke up hyperventilating from one. I make myself wake up each time, early in the morning, because I will not allow the dream to continue its course. Thank God I have that control. I have that control.

They are just dreams. But I'll be glad to be rid of them, and I hope I am very soon.

The Longest Week of My Life

Since I am still recuperating and could literally burst into hysterical tears at any moment, my dad, author of the Kelven's Riddle fantasy series, agreed to share this story with my readers. It is about the year I was born, and he told it to me the other day to bring me out of my depression. It worked, because I suddenly realized there are worse trials than my broken ribs.

 

 

Dad way, way above the earth...on a power line pole

In 1979, after a prolonged fiduciary illness, the economy of my home state of Idaho finally died, and in its dying throes it thrashed my own means of making a living completely out of existence.  At the time, my wife Karen and I had three small children, and she was expecting our fourth.

We lost our house in the spring and our fairly new Chevy pick-up by summer.  By fall, Karen and the kids were staying with her parents and I was bunking with my older brother in Boise, where both of us were trying to scrounge what work we could.

Do you know what desperation feels like?  It feels like this: you know yourself to be utterly useless, for you have no way to house and feed your young family - and if you could, you would just shoot yourself, but that would only make things worse for those you love.  So, you're stuck.  Miserable and without hope, you stumble on.

Karen gave birth to our youngest on October 4.  By then, opportunities for work had disappeared entirely, and I was back with my wife and children, living in a three-room house provided for us - to my shame - by my very kind father-in-law.

I couldn't afford a daily paper, so I took to walking across the street every morning to an elderly friend's house.  John would make a pot of coffee, pour me a cup, and then go about his business of being discreet while allowing me to peruse his paper for job listings.

And one morning, there it was: a construction company needed people.

In Nebraska.

Nebraska!  Hundreds of miles away, across the continental divide - which by this time was piling up snow in prodigious amounts.  Nonetheless, after but a moment's hesitation, I called.  Was I experienced in EHV power line construction? the voice on the other end of the line asked of me.  Yes, I am, I lied.  Well then, could I be in Ogallala, Nebraska by the following Monday?  (This was Tuesday)  Certainly, I stated, hoping I wasn't telling yet another whopper.  Alright then, the voice said; come on - and when you get here, come to the office, ask for Richard.

Now, understand this: had there been a ray of hope coming from any quarter of the local map, I would never have considered trying to move my family across four states in winter.  But I was desperate; my attempt at husband-hood and fatherhood was on the verge of abject failure.  The horizon of our future was bleak and black.

We had no car, no money.

Karen suggested we sell everything we had that was sellable, which of course was nearly nothing. We managed to raise about thirty dollars.  My older brother gave me a 1958 dodge which, he declared, would run if we could find a battery.  My Dad found a battery, and lo!, the car did in fact, run.  He also gave us another ten dollars, and my father-in-law, after failing to persuade Karen to remain behind while I went on alone, pitched in another twenty.  So, we had sixty dollars.

I know that doesn't sound like much, but gas was much cheaper then, as was everything else. Relatives parted with what non-perishable and easily consumed foods they could spare, and we filled bottles with water.  On a cold, blustery day, we loaded our three children, aged 1, 3, and 5, and our new baby into the ancient car and headed east.  As a parting gift, my retired friend, John, bought us a tank of gas.

We slept that first night in a rest area south of Kemmerer, Wyoming.  In the morning, after bathroom duties and a cold breakfast, we went on toward the continental divide as the sky lowered and snow began to fall.  Just beyond Laramie, a flashing sign said: Interstate Closed.  I went on anyway.  Two miles further on, there was a gate across the road and a state trooper who informed me in tones that brooked no argument that I had to return to Laramie.

There, I parted with twenty precious dollars to buy a room to house my family for the night.  The next day dawn cold and overcast, but without snowfall.  The road opened mid-morning and I drove like a bat released from the nether regions to get across the mountain before the sky changed its mind.

Three days after leaving Idaho, we drove into Ogallala, Nebraska late in the afternoon.  I checked my wallet.  I had exactly fifteen dollars.  We found a motel with efficiency kitchenettes and I went in to talk to the proprietor.  "Twenty-five dollars a week," she said.

I drew a deep breath.  "Do you know about the company building a power line here-abouts?"

"Yes, some of the workers stay with us."

"I have a job with them," I said.  "I start in the morning - is there any way -?"

She cut me off rather sharply.  "Is that your family in the car?"

"Yes."

She grabbed a coat and headed out the door.  "I'll talk with your wife."

I blinked.  "Yes, ma'am."

When she returned, her attitude had softened.  "You can stay two weeks," she informed me.  "If you have a job, you can catch me up from your first payday.  If not, at the end of two weeks, you'll have to go."

"Thank you - God bless you!"

She watched me for a moment and then smiled slightly.  "God bless you, too."

The next morning, I headed for the company's HQ on the outskirts of town.  Upon entering the office, I found a slim, blond-haired man putting personal effects into a cardboard box.  "I need to see Richard," I said.

"I'm Richard."

"Oh, good.  I'm Dan Hylton from Idaho - you hired me last week."

He shrugged.  "Well, I just got fired, so I'm sorry, but I can't help you."

I stared.  Then, without realizing what I was doing, I crossed the room and grabbed him by his collar. "I just drove my family through a snowstorm to get here.  You have to give me a job!"

He twisted loose.  "Look - go out to the show-up, ask for Nevin, see if he's got a spot open.  That's all I can do."

He gave me directions and I drove to the show-up yard. There were clumps of men standing around loading tools and equipment into trucks, getting ready to start their day.  One man nearby had a dark braid hanging down his back.  "Where can I find Nevin?"  I asked.

He glanced around and then pointed.  "That red truck over there."

Nevin turned out to be a small, weaselly-eyed man with thinning hair.

"Excuse me, sir, but I need a job."

He turned and examined me.  I must have been a sight.  Corduroy pants, simple, worn-out boots, shivering in my flannel shirt and light jacket.  "Go to hell," he said.

My eyes widened.  "What?"

He didn't answer, just closed the door and drove away, leaving me gaping after him.  (Later, I became his boss, and he was forced to become accustomed to dealing with difficult assignments.  I don't know if he remembered that first meeting, but I did.)

I stood there, my heart and mind as cold and numb as my fingers and toes.  Desperation rose up out of the frozen earth and swallowed me whole.  All this way to fail again!   I was utterly hopeless. How could I face Karen?

There was a tap on my shoulder.  "Hey, Buddy."

I turned.  It was the slim man with the dark braid.  He looked as tough as the icy ground we stood upon but his eyes were kind.  "Need a job?"

I nodded.  "Oh, yes."

He pointed.  "See that blue truck over there.  Go talk to that guy - his name is Chris."

With my heart in my boots, I stumbled over to the blue truck.  Inside, talking on his radio, was the largest man I have ever seen or met.  Seriously, were I a grizzly bear, I would avoid this guy's section of woods.  He finished his conversation and turned to study me, looking me up and down.

"What are you?"   He asked in a gruff voice that matched his behemoth-like looks.

I decided to answer in the same vein.  "I'm an unemployed father of four - and I really need a job. Please.  I'll do anything."

He grinned at my ragged appearance and the desperate tone in my voice.  "You certainly look unemployed," he said.  Then he pointed with a sausage-like finger.  "See that guy with the braid?  Go and tell him that you're on his crew.  I'll come around later to do the paperwork."

"Thank you, sir!"

His grin faded.  "Don't snivel - just get to work."

"Yes, sir."

The days were long and bitterly cold, but I took to the work as if I did indeed have experience.  My first paycheck only covered a few days, but it was enough to bring the rent current, fill the cupboards with groceries, and buy me some serviceable work clothes.  One week later, I cashed my second check and Karen and I just sat and stared at $440 spread out on the table.  It was almost equal to what I had earned in a whole month at my last job.

I looked up and met my wife's lovely brown eyes.  "Thank God," I said.

She smiled.  "Yes, thank God."

A few years later, I was making a thousand dollars a week as a project engineer for that same company, and times were as good - financially - as they could be.

But I still can't think of that week, or indeed of the whole of 1979, without a cold shiver working its way up the length of my spine.  Removed from the dark desperation of those times, I simply cannot imagine taking the risks that I took with my young wife and small children.

Thank God, indeed.  It's true what my grandfather once told me about the Good Lord - He does, in fact, look after fools.

Clingy and Depressed...and Moving On

How changeable we humans are!

I have gone from counting my blessings to feeling glum about almost everything since the wreck. Yesterday was the second day I felt utterly exhausted, and I can only guess that my body is sucking up calories, growing new bone to repair my rib fractures.

My follow-up appointment to see my ED/trauma docs was yesterday morning, and I was sad that I wouldn't see them again, that they were cutting me loose to face the world. These skilled people made me feel safe when my sense of safety had been severely compromised. I want to invite them to Thanksgiving dinner or Christmas brunch  - something - but they are near strangers who doubtless wish me the best but have other people, other traumas to heal.

I feel similarly about the nurses, the firefighters, the police, the EMTs. I am one more face in the crowd of traumatic human experiences, but they are more to me. They preserved my health. They took care of my children. They deserve a parade. Or a banquet.


In those first hours at the hospital post-accident, the nurses showered my kids with attention, toys and treats - a new football, a toy car, a Betty Boop doll, popsicles, chocolate milk and crackers. Oh, and a small teddy bear with a red bow that I happen to be sleeping with at the moment. I found him when I came home and christened him Michael. At night when I'm lying in the recliner (the one place where I can sleep comfortably with these ribs), he is tucked under my left arm providing cushion to the sensitive ribs. He helps me not to feel so alone when all my family is down the hall in their beds. I would like to say that this is unusual behavior for me, clinging to a teddy bear, but I have never lost touch with the child within, probably because I'm the youngest of four children.

And maybe this is why I miss our van, our poor totaled van that I used to say had a terrible engine, mediocre brakes and an awful turn radius. Still, I don't believe it deserved what happened to it at all, poor thing. I remember lolling my head side to side in the middle of the intersection, marveling at how horrible it looked with its shattered glass, exposed wires and displaced air vents. I told my husband in the hospital that I didn't want to see it ever again, even if the insurance said it wasn't a total loss. I didn't want the reminder of an unfortunate day.

But now that the insurance has declared it a total loss, I wish I had it back. It was mine, and it was reliable. And I do verily believe there is nothing more depressing than shopping for a new vehicle, nothing to make you feel so desperately mired in commercialism as dealing with salespeople. All our hopes for a good family vehicle seem to be deflated at every turn. There is so much consumer information to struggle through.

But, anyhow, I don't want to drive again as soon as I must. We were out a couple evenings ago looking at minivans and picking up supper, and I was nervous; I despised the traffic. I could not wait to run inside my home when we pulled in our driveway. But starting on Monday, I must drive again come hell or high water. I must attempt not to think about what can happen at any moment, things absolutely beyond my control. I must stop telling my husband repeatedly, "Drive safe! Please be safe. Watch out, I mean it," when he leaves me.

Well, well. I am a normal, changeable human being. The more I drive the less jumpy I'll be. The more time that passes the less clingy I'll be to this teddy bear or to the people who guarded our family's well-being at a crucial time.

Perhaps by writing the dozen and more thank you notes I need to write to family, friends, firemen, police, doctors, nurses, I will learn to let go and move on.

But tell me: what are your best ideas to say thank you to near strangers whose efforts mean so much? I would bake them each a pile of cookies, but I don't know if that's acceptable. Let me have your opinion, please.

Time and Chance...and Gratitude

I had a healing conversation with my parents recently, one in which they let me cry abundantly until my cellphone and ear both felt permanently moistened.

 

It's been almost two weeks since the accident, the first five of those spent in the hospital. I thought I was a trooper while in that cozy, safe hospital bed. I knew my blessings quickly, and I had no anger (unless you count yelling at the officer who told me I actually needed to talk instead of nodding, and I replied, "I...don't...want...to!", or when I scolded the ED nurses and docs for leaving me on a backboard and in a neck brace for what felt like 20 stiff hours). Nevertheless, my rattled emotions have blindsided me since I've come home. Yesterday, I heard a neighbor's motorcycle while my kids and I were in the front yard, and it upset me badly. My children crying, especially my youngest two, has the power to discombobulate me completely.

Ella, my youngest daughter, and Danny Sam, my littlest boy, were with me when a black motorcycle, entering my left line of vision like a torpedo, blew a red light and T-boned our van where the driver's side door hinges September 28th. Suddenly I was looking through a splintered windshield and an emptiness where my driver's side window had been. My sideview mirror was gone, wires dangling like mangled limbs, and my door was bent into my intimate space. Blood warmly dripped down my arm and hand.

The horror of knowing you are where you are in that moment and that there will be consequences to that fabled time and chance that happens to us all is indescribable.

And it was nearly unbearable. I was in physical pain immediately from a collapsed, bruised lung and broken ribs, and I selfishly closed in on myself those first several minutes. But the pain of hearing my children scream and wail for me until the first responders came was more terrible and haunting. I couldn't reassure them; I could barely speak, though I tried to wave my right hand in a calming signal and eventually tried to lift my voice above the cacophony of noise to breath, "I'm okay..."

I knew by their strong voices, their undulating cries, and their confused questions that they were okay and had no idea what had just happened. They were both sitting on the same side of the van as myself, but I don't believe they glimpsed the same black hulk I did before the crash.

They were not hurt, praise God. That would have been unbearable. They were not hurt at all, except for a tiny scrape on my son's thigh that I think he got as the fireman accidentally knocked glass from the window.

There is a part in the book The Walking Flame where the main character Aram must face horrendous environmental conditions. Beings called Astra wrap their enormous wings and strange bodies around him, shield him. I really don't care how it sounds: that is the image that sprang to my mind in the hospital regarding how my kids were protected from harm. Their guardian angels enveloped them.

I suppose people could ask: Well, what about you? You were seriously hurt.

You must have faith to understand. God never left me. He never left us.

He was present in the two kind, sober-faced men who stopped to ask if I was okay, who when I shook my head, responded, "Hang in there. We're going to get someone to help you."

He was present in the firemen who finally comforted and calmed my children, who were cheerful in speaking to them, who gave me a great, extraordinary gift when they got my children to speak back to them, who told my babies their mama was going to be okay, who asked about the teddy bear and doll buckled into the seats of our van. My respect for what those men and women do in traumatic situations is multiplied tremendously. They were sooo calm, so miraculously cheerful, that it comforted me and let me wholeheartedly trust them with my children when I was unable to take care of them myself.

God was present in the policemen who kept me lucid and engaged and speaking, who bent my driver's side door all the way back, so I could be placed on the stretcher. He was present in the EMTs who tended me all the way to the hospital, who were kind despite my extreme grumpiness, who told the ambulance driver to step on it already and put on the lights.

And He was present in my husband who rushed to be with us after I weakly told him on the cellphone that we'd been in an accident - to just come. My Man dashed like Flash Gordon across a long field to get to the scene, was stopped by a female officer, and had to wait in agony for the "all clear" to come see us. He barely got to me in time to grasp my hand and say, "Baby, I'm here...I'm here," before the ambulance took me away. But because he was there so quickly, he was able to take Ella and Daniel into his arms and familiar papa care. They weren't removed from the scene by strangers from Social Services, and I am so glad.

Good things come. I understand now what Job meant when he said of God to his misguided friends, If He kills me, I still trust him.

I've now witnessed the light of God shining brightly through people. And I know what it is, the Peace of Christ, to forgive someone when they have injured you badly and could have hurt your beloved children.

Renewal Work

Today I took a shower for the first time in a week. What an amazing, liberating feeling - to be released from your Wicked Witch of the Bayou hair, soon to become shaved-it-cause-couldn't-take-it-scalp, and to be freed from your blood-soaked bandages.

Alright, I'll give it to you; they weren't exactly blood-soaked. Still, the little rectangle of gauze over my chest tube incision was moist and red and icky. The hospital did not think I needed stitches or sutures.

Of course, it is precisely due to that indecent incision that I was unable to bathe properly. Since two Fridays ago when I was involved in a serious automobile accident, I have had to wash my body while in a chair each day, and my hair could only be dampened and rubbed with a no-rinse shampoo. I think this is why the nurses who checked on me my last morning in the Surgical Care Unit were appalled by my Natural Woman scent and said as much to each other when not quite out of my earshot. My feelings were hurt, and, anyhow, there was little I could do about my circumstances which were made dramatically worse by the nurses pumping me full of stool softeners and milk-of-epic-discomfort-magnesia.

It just stinks that all the doctors and nurses smelled like strong-and-fruity-female scents, the males included. I was never sure why they smelled so damned sweet. They would wake me up early, early in the morning to put a board behind my back for X-rays or to level my pain with oxy-codine, and their perfume would waft around me, practically sending me into hallucinations of the Sugar Plum Fairy. Were they trying to stick it to those of us who could not cleanse and moisturize? Or were they trying to carry around with them their own odor to block out that of the malodorous, unshowered patients?

Yet, despite the unguarded words of those nurses, most of the surgical staff were understanding and nonjudgmental, and my ED doc was uniformly kind no matter my state. He always had a smile for me and always encouraged me and didn't even act offended at my 4am lung check-up when I was all sweaty from the bedclothes and the Circulation-Straight-Jackets they put on my legs to prevent blood clots. Kindness goes a long way toward making people feel better about things.

And today I am finally a new woman, albeit with some painful memories. I have shed the greasy, stringy hair and the tacky bandage borders left on my skin where the chest tube was glued in place until this last Wednesday. For three days after its removal, I was not allowed to shower. Today is the day. I am clean, sweet-smelling and feeling better than I have felt for over a week.

And last night I dislodged the last piece of glass from my person. It was stuck in my ear canal. I thought it was an unseemly glob of ear wax for a whole week as I tried to carefully extract it. It caused me some discomfort, but not for one minute did I imagine it could be a splinter of my driver's side window that got blown into my ear and stuck there.

All things must pass - the scrapes fade, flake and heal, the bruises turn pale green and sickly yellow, the lung grows stronger, the ribs slowly, surely mend, and the last of the fractured glass is shed as evidence. Yet I am still a work in progress. My mind is still sensitive to all recollections of the trauma.

My Girl, Hoodoo

My daughter, Hillary Ibarra, whose blog this is, was involved in a very bad automobile accident on Friday last, and is in the hospital.  Though her injuries are severe, the prognosis for recovery is good.  Your prayers would be greatly appreciated.

I must tell you, as a father, that it is pure hell to be so far away when your child is hurt.  My one consolation in all this is that she is married to an exceptionally good man.  Matthew is strong, intelligent, kind, and extremely capable; she is in the best of hands at this difficult time.

Her mother and I will go to be with her, of course, as soon as is possible.  In the meantime, I wanted to inform all of you as to her circumstances, and relate a little of my relationship with my girl, "Hoodoo Bear".

She is our baby, and was always the best of children.  God blessed Karen and me with four children, now grown into fine people all.  And though I did not believe in "sparing the rod" as a father, I must confess that in fact I used it sparingly indeed, and with Hillary, not at all.

My favorite trick when my children were in need of discipline was to line them up, send their mother in search of a belt, and then lecture them as to the evils of whatever it was they'd done.  Eventually, of course, they would plead with me to forgo the torture of the seemingly endless lecture and just go ahead and beat them.  I didn't - my lectures were the greatest deterrent to bad behavior I could employ.

Not once did I use the paddle with Hillary.  I did raise my voice to her once, when she was three or four, and she immediately dissolved into tears.  I've regretted the incident ever since, for I soon discerned that her tears were not for "getting caught" but rather a result of her comprehending that she'd been "bad".  Hillary, you see, is one of those rare people who are just naturally good.  Any thought of being selfish, petty, or mean is simply alien to her.

Now, since she cannot be here, it falls to me to proudly announce that she is being published this day on the site "Aiming Low".  If you will, go there and read her work, and you will discover yet another reason for my pride in her.  Here's the link: Alright, I'm old enough to be entering the borders of Geezerdom, and I don't know how to create a link.  Hillary, poor girl, could do it - I'm lost.  But hey; how hard can it be?  You just go to aiminglow.com, and there is her post, on the front page, Keeping them Safe with Paranoia and Fear.  Please, go.  Enjoy.  And, please, pray for my sweet girl's recovery.  Thanks, Daniel Hylton