Double Red and Laura’s Legacy

Almost fifteen years ago this summer is the time that I found out that I was a match to my youngest sister Laura.  She had found out earlier in the year that she had Myelodysplastic syndrome.  Her body was turning on her.  She would die without treatment.  Then our whole family was still alive.

Mom and Dad still lived in their home in Madisonville.  My elder brother lived in Florida near Orlando with his wife.  My younger sister Joyce lived with her spouse in Portland Oregon.  Laura and her husband lived in south eastern Indiana and Cheryl and I lived in southwest Ohio in Cincinnati.  Now only Joyce and I are still alive.

I think of these things when I donate blood four times each year.   I ponder how long I can donate blood.  The only answer I get when I search for that information is, as long as you are healthy,  you can donate.

This started with Laura but I had donated blood before, just not on a regular basis. When I was in school at the University of Cincinnati in the last millennium an instructor whom many of us liked let slip some personal information about his family.  His son had been in an accident and needed blood donations.  Several of us went to Hoxworth to donate.  I was too young so permission had to be obtained from my parent. Looking back this detail seems odd. I was eighteen at the time.

With Laura’s diagnosis and need for blood stem cells all of us siblings were tested to see if any of us were a match. Only I was a match. I found this out from the nurse who called me as was driving back towards Boston from Cape Cod. We had gone there for a little vacation and to visit with friends. This was convenient for Laura and me as neither of us had to travel far to do this but I had to get home first.

The summer of 2007 was a long one for Laura and me. I cannot speak for Laura because she did not make it out the other side of the treatment process. I am changed forever.

The process takes several days. For me it involved a very thorough physical and several meetings with the medical folks at the end of which I was deemed healthy enough physically and mentally to go through the process. During one meeting with a nurse who also had background as a sociologist, I was made aware of the fact that there was a chance that during the implantation process my stem cells could take over her bone marrow and give rise to my immune system within her body and reject her. Not simply that it might not take and we would have a do over. My immune system would reject her. Seems like a bad thing to happen, to be rejected by your own immune system.

Blood stem cells are removed from the donor in two ways either directly from your hip or by apheresis . In Laura’s case they used apheresis to remove blood stem cells from me and gave them to her after killing off her bone marrow’s ability to produce blood cells. Over a period of several days – my memory tells me four – I was given an injection of some growth hormone that told my body to make way too many blasts (precursors of various blood cells). These leak out into the peripheral circulatory system and can be retrieved by an apheresis machine. It was a miserable four days. Not so much at first but they can give you the injection anywhere and I opted for my arm. I am pretty sure that this started on a Monday so we were ready to do the apheresis on Friday. The had to get the blasts out of me before my body reabsorbed them.

The apheresis process takes a bit of time also. I do not remember talking about the actual process at the beginning. I suspect that if the donors are given all the gruesome details at the start, some will back out. The process was generally described as similar to donating blood except that the stem cells would be removed and the rest of my blood would be given back to me.

An innocuous drawing

In this sketch you can see the general set up. Blood is removed from one arm and the returned processed blood is put into the other arm. Pick your nose, pee and fart before you get started because there is no moving around once the machine is running.

I asked the nurse technician who was monitoring the machine approximately how long it might take and she responded with eight to nine hours for the first session. She said sometimes they do not get enough the first time so they have to do it again to get more stem cells. I intermediately got up to find the men’s room and empty everything out and began to worry about how long my bladder would hold out. In the end it was not a concern. I suspect my kidneys did not understand what was happening so they elected to take a break for a few hours. I helped by not drinking anything of course but there was a bag of saline as a part of the process and some blood thinners to keep my blood from gumming up the pumps. Nine hours is a long time to sit.

Making conversation I asked how many cells they were trying to harvest. Ten to eleven million came the reply. I remember thinking that seems like a lot but I did not have any idea what they might need to do this. I was curious how they would figure out how many they had and she told me they would count them. It is amusing when you think about it. how else would you figure it out. Isolate a certain quantity of serum and under a microscope count the stem cells. Well, huh. Even an engineer can do that.

With all the needles and tubes in the correct position we started. I think the first session was about seven hours or so. There was a clock, one of those battery jobs, hanging on the wall opposite where I was sitting. What a poor place for an ineffective time keeper to hang. After five hours I was certain that it had slowed down. After six hours I was certain it had started running backwards ever so slowly. At the seven hour mark the stem cell bag which I estimated could easily hold a liter had a tiny amount of yellowish life saving liquid in it. The nurse pronounced it good and Cheryl took me home.

Oddly I was incredibly tired. I had not felt this exhausted before. I had not moved all day. But my blood did. It had been in and out of my body about ten times during the day. It was wore out. As I rested in my chair hovering between resting and sleep we got a call from the hospital, I needed to come back again for a second session. How many cells I asked. About four million was the answer. A disappointingly low number, I was certain that they would need two more times. I may have said shit out loud.

On the second day the procedure the was much faster. I spent approximately four hours in the chair with the stopped clock view. Often the donor’s body wakes up and puts more cells out there where the apheresis machine can find them. But that is not really why I am telling this story. There were several times during the next couple of weeks when I was called to go directly to Hoxworth to donate other bloods products to Laura. Platelets mostly as I recall. On a couple occasions I gave Laura platelets. I may have given her red blood cells also but I am unsure of that. She was busy staying alive and I was trying to help. All of these experiences got me used to the activity of donating blood.

I started doing this at the main Hoxworth Blood center near UC Hospital in Clifton and then later discovered that I could do this at another collection center in Blue Ash, Ohio. Once when I was there donating, the nurse technician asked me if I had ever considered giving a double red. After a discussion of what was entailed and other questions, I tried it.

This is Laura’s legacy. Her brother became so comfortable with donating he continues to do it fifteen years later.


I often think about Laura when I am sitting in the chair listening to the apheresis machine do its thing. There is no stupid clock to stare at. I know now how long it takes. It takes thirty to forty minutes. Sometimes it takes longer because the technician is often monitoring other donors. Most often I read a book on my tablet reader. Occasionally I listen to the patter of conversation around me.

Hoxworth is actively soliciting folks who have had SARS CoV2 disease because their blood contains substances that can help those who are recovering from that disease. These folks sit across from where I am donating.

Over the weekend the reward for donating was a free T-shirt. Free t-shirts were the give away today, Easter Monday also. I selected a St. Patrick’s Day themed shirt. It is in the picture.


Laura’s recovery was long and arduous and fraught with disaster. She spent about six weeks in a coma as doctors tried to discover the source of her liver inflammation. Veno-Occlusive disease was the suspected culprit.

Hepatic Veno-Occlusive Disease (VOD) AKA: Sinusoidal Obstruction Syndrome is a well recognized complication and leading cause of mortality in hematopoietic stem cell transplant resulting from severe hepatocellular necrosis and hepatic vascular congestion. — This is from a medical teaching website. Laura and I both read about it in a big white binder that she had gotten at the beginning of her process. I remember her looking at me that first afternoon with her yellowish face telling me that there was about a 3% recovery rate. Pretty crappy odds she said. She was a CPA and the controller of a small successful beverage distributor. She knew about numbers analysis and crappy odds.

It was not that. Eventually the doctors discovered that Laura was having a bad reaction to the antibiotics given to her as a prophylactic to infection while my stem cells were taking over. She did recover but six weeks asleep devastated her body. During a visit at the holidays she told me that my stem cells had populated her bone marrow and was doing fine. A few weeks later she succumbed to pneumonia that could not be treated in the conventional way because of her problems with antibiotics.

Laura died with a part of me in her. Part of me died when she passed out of existence in early 2008. Watching someone whom you worked so hard to save take their last breath is a profoundly life altering experience. I hope to never participate in an experience like that again.

I Love a Good Game of Name That Acronym

A friend of mine put this on Facebook. I am certain that he put it there as bait and I bit. COVID is of course short for CO(rona) VI(rus) D(isease). The nineteen typically tacked on to the end is to demark 2019 as the year when the virus was first noted in Wuhan, China. The individual who first started the game apparently is displeased with the poor initial discussion of masks, personal hygiene, and vaccines.

This posting on Facebook is intended to rile folks up. I feel the pain myself. Having finished with my second booster shot of the Pfizer vaccine a week ago, I am elated. The previous leader of the free world could have celebrated his and his wife’s vaccination before they left the White House. He did not. The event was so low key that it was only reported after he flew to Miralago to resume the life of the rich and famous guy that he is.

I used to play this game when I was still working full time and some one would use an acronym with out first explaining what the term stood for. The implication being that if you did not understand the term you were not on the inside. I always made me laugh. If it showed up in an email I might ask an innocent question using my made up acronym. My favorite is SMART (Simply Magnificent And Recognizable Talent) goals. I think timely is a cop out. What does timely mean?

Think about it. Try UNSMART. (Uninformed New Sheep Mainly Are Really Trumpublicans) (political division)

Uniformly Nascent Solipsistic Males Actually Remember Transportation (random division)

Let your mind run wild. It is okay to use small articles and the verb to be in any answer. Be mean or generous, politically correct or not so, kind or not. There are no rules.

Cost Obfuscation Violates Individual Destinations (travel division)

Catholic Orthodoxy (has) Victimized Individual Dreams (religious division)

Curmudgeonly Orwellians Voraciously Imbibe Dragon-meat (Game of Thrones division)

Crash Objects Vanquish Indecisive Drivers (automotive division)

Over time some acronyms have become actual words (laser) and some words have become acronyms (smart). Language is fascinating.

Parkinson’s disease sucks but then a friend will send you down a rabbit hole with diversion of some sort for several hours of mental gymnastics. Thanks, friend.

Peace be with you

I want to make Mac and Cheese

It is a Friday in Lent. A favorite throughout our married life, all fifty of them, has been Macaroni and Cheese. Often through the years this recipe was trucked out on Fridays in Lent but it is an enjoyable dish, pretty basic, so we eat it at other times also. The Betty Crocker – Dinner for Two cookbook – has been beat to death over the years so about three years ago it was taken apart and slipped into page protectors and a brand new binder. Hopefully some grand child will appreciate the effort their grandmother spent saving this classic cookbook from the 1970’s.

Over time I have taken over most of the cooking duties. Some of that is driving the car to the restaurant or diner but many times I have selected some favorite of ours that I hope will not give her indigestion. My experimentation with Hello Fresh was all about getting new ideas. The Parkinson’s medications have made her stomach sensitive to some foods and spices. We have discovered some of those as we experiment. She lost her sense of smell long ago. Simply old age has made my stomach sensitive to some things and I suspect Parkinson’s disease has merely complicated matters for her.

In this Lenten season the whole covid thing has stifled the church fish fries somewhat. One can still drive through but it is not the same as going and hanging out with friends in the school cafeteria and socializing for a bit. This year our pizza Tuesdays have morphed into Frisch’s fish sandwiches with mac and cheese. The last couple Fridays I have made the mac and cheese.

This afternoon when I got back from school, she said, I want to make the macaroni and cheese. Okay, I said.

I am staying near to help if need be but I suspect I can be smotheringly helpful. So, I am backing away a bit to see how she does. Carpe the Diem, baby!

She is sewing on the never ending chair arm cover project and working on mac and cheese. I am doing laundry, drinking Miller Lite beer, listening to Flo-Rida (Oh, my lord, the light’s going down and the weekend’s here…) and writing this unimportant blog.

Carpe Diem I suppose also can mean do the laundry and back away from the mac and cheese.

The Second Dose…

I got my second dose today

hurrah, hurrah

We are ready to make hay

we are seriously gay

what else can I say

Pfizer was the brand on the bottle

or so they told me

How do I feel

I feel real

ready for the world to open again.

Life is short. I want to enjoy it

before it is over

One more time to smell the clover

And walk in the park

And shop in the mall

I want a do over

on life

Pandemonium is like ammonium

stinks

Blows like plutonium

boom

Booyah Baby – we’re outta here.

Don’t be a chicken squat, get your shot. — Dolly Parton

What do you do to Pick Yourself UP?

I often find a song or melody that intrigues me at that moment. Kroger has been playing “Low” in some of their commercial advertisements lately here in Cincinnati.

Before that ad I had not heard the song before. It is a rap song. I have very few rap songs in my list of songs that I like. I do not have the same experience that many rap artists have, so, many of the popular songs with spontaneous rhyme and rhythmic lyrics do not connect with my old brain. “Low” does for some reason.

I told Alexa to play rap music. It selected a Hip Hop station that “you might like”. Perhaps I will listen later longer. Rap lyrics remind me of beat poetry. Recently Lawrence Ferlinghetti died. For some reason, in my younger years, his style of poetry interested me. I had his book of poetry – “A Coney Island of the Mind”. I have not seen it for years.

I vaguely recall that I had lent it to someone long in the past. Today I scrambled around to find a copy of a book of poetry that has probably been out of print for maybe sixty years. Amazon is a wonderful thing no matter what Donald Trump thinks.

I switched Alexa from Hip Hop to disco. “Staying Alive” is playing right now.

What do I do to pick myself up? Usually several things at once. Music certainly helps pick me up.

Music is very personal. Long ago I worked for a private company. One of the partners read a book somewhere that convinced him that music played over the PA system would lighten the mood and make everyone happy in their jobs. What a load of crap that book was. The music selected was what ever the office was using as hold music. MUZAK was a special broadcast on a side band of one of the local FM stations. It was perpetual elevator music. It was excruciating to rock fans like me. Christmas holidays brought a five hour loop tape of Christmas carols and other crap over the office PA system. On the second rendition of Mitch Miller’s jingle bells it was time to go home. Some were up-sot!

“Toes” is playing now. I told Alexa to play — life is good today. I need to get my toes in the water and my ass in the sand as soon as I can, pandemonium or not.

Find your music and play it!

Things just jump into your Head

We were driving to get Cheryl’s second dose of the Pfizer Covid-19 vaccine so that we could, half of us anyway, become part of the herd immunity process to tamp down the CoVSARS pandemic pandemonium. I had stopped at a traffic light and looked to the side of the road to notice a road sign post with only the sign at the top. Someone had removed the Ohio Route 561 sign from the post immediately below the JCT sign. It was a naked looking post and my dad’s words. “vandals had removed the sign” jumped into my head. I could actually hear his voice.

Weird, I thought.

When I was first driving, some friends and I were tooling around Fairfax, Ohio heading to the Frisch’s on U. S. route 52 that ran through the sort of village center. We were still traveling on the residential streets. I was still learning that although you may have the right-of-way it is a prudent driver who looks to see if the other driver believes that to also be the case. On this particular day a teaching moment happened.

Another teenage driver, female but that fact is of no consequence, suddenly appeared in front of me in an intersection with which I was familiar and which I knew to be the main street. She had a stop sign which she had ignored. Boom, bam, bang, tinkle tinkle. I hit her hard enough that the car she was driving raised up off the ground, slid a little and slammed back down on the pavement. I was driving Dad’s 1960 Chevrolet Impala. She was driving some littler beige car. Her door was dented. Dad’s bumper was dinged a little and the fender had a scratch in the white paint. I was impressed with how little damage there was to Dad’s car and how poopy her car looked. But cars had bumpers then and frames to mount them onto. I had slammed on the brakes so the car had nosed down and lifted hers up. No one was injured.

Police were called by some neighbors. The policeman gave the girl a ticket. She complained that there was no stop sign for her. He pointed at the post and said it really did not matter for even though vandals had stolen the stop sign, I had the right-of-way.

When Dad helped me to right the accident report to the insurance company and file my version of the event with the State of Ohio, he said I should write that she did not stop because, “vandals had removed the sign.”

Today that jumped into my head. I had not heard Dad’s voice for awhile.

I did today.

Carpe diem and Dessert

An old recipe that she really likes.

A simple batter cake dessert will perk up any parkie’s day. The last few times that I have made dinner I have taken the time to make a dessert. If that is a cake or anything other than ice cream and cookies, I start it first. Today I suggested another pound cake. Last time I bought any pound cake box mixes I bought four of them. I probably bought them at Walmart or on line from Amazon. I do not remember but this time when I suggested that and was holding a can of cherries thinking about how to jazz up the dessert, she says – I could make the cobbler recipe.

In our early days of marriage I was a student at Miami University. Neither Cheryl nor I was much of a cook so the Betty Crocker Dinner for Two cookbook was a bible to her. At the time I was less interested in cooking but more interested in eating. (and beer if someone else was paying for it.) College life as a married student was great. In addition to Betty Crocker we gathered recipes from friends and other sources. Some were disasters.

There was a spaghetti and hot dog recipe out of a church recipe book which was particularly offensive. Made more so by the fact that it made a lot of stuff so we kept trying to dress it up and make it more palatable when we reheated it as left overs. It is a fond remembrance of a disaster. We were young and poor. We did not throw food out unless it fell in the dirt and was unrecoverable.

The easy cobbler recipe came from the wife of a fellow married student. There were few of us on campus. Looking back it is remarkable that we found each other. But we did and they invited us to dinner one evening. They had a house in a nearby town. Janet made this recipe for dessert and Cheryl liked it and asked for the recipe. That was fifty years ago and she has made it many times since. Over the years she typed it into some word processor and printed it out. The original hand written recipe is stapled to the back. It works with any canned pie filling but we usually make it with cherries – Cheryl’s favorite. (Except if our grandson Gavin is coming for dinner. See grandma’s note above.)

I am unenthusiastic about this particular dessert. I do not know why. It is not bad it merely does not excite me as it does Cheryl. But it is simple to execute. I should have taken a picture of it before it went into the oven but I did not. Find your favorite mixing bowl and put in all the dry ingredients. I used a whisk to mix the dry ingredients first. I then made a depression in the middle and added the melted butter (or margarine.) I poured a bit of the milk in and mixed it with a handheld mixer and added the rest of the milk as I went along to make a medium runny batter that poured easily into the greased (Crisco or lard) 8″ x 8″ aluminum cake pan. The pan in the picture is of the same vintage as the recipe. (smiley face here)

We are having this dessert with spaghetti and meatballs, except I substituted pasta shells for spaghetti. As you can see below right, some of us like whipped cream on our dessert. I can personally attest to the great improvement by the addition of whipped cream. Vanilla ice cream, however, is even better.

It is February in Ohio and the birds are really attacking the feeder. We are safe and warm inside with comfort food and her favorite dessert. What could be better?

Parkinson’s may suck but there is always dessert.

Hurrah Hurrah – We’ve got her Day!

We have a scheduled appointment to be vaccinated! But only for Cheryl.

Alas I am her caregiver but I am not a UC Health patient, so she has an appointment to get a Covid-19 vaccination shot. I do not. Yet.

Oh poo!

Oh crap!

Oh horror of horrors!

The silver lining — Parkinson’s sucks but she is in the system ahead of me and I was able to schedule her first vaccine dose easily.

Greeting cards

Cheryl keeps old cards as did her mother. We have had a long standing tradition of keeping old greeting cards in our home. Cheryl has kept cards for years. In the past couple of decades it became fashionable to send Christmas card – favorite family photo combination cards. These are especially precious.

Reading old Christmas cards

Reconnecting by reading old cards

Parkinson’s slowly robs many of those afflicted of the ability to make new memories. Not all who have Parkinson’s disease (PD)(parkies) loose their short term memory but Cheryl is in that group. This seems to be related to her organisational function as well. For her it is comforting to read old cards and think about those people and their families. If there is an annual letter she will read it to me and reminisce.

Cheryl brought the cards from her mother’s apartment after she died. When Elaine passed away from this life a couple years ago these cards along with other mementos and photographs entered our condo. Throughout the past couple years Cheryl has organised, reminisced and rearranged these. They are a comfort. Thinking about others and remembrance is her favorite pastime.

I am simply happy that it gives her pleasure and peace. The deterioration of her mental abilities is frustrating to her. Bit by bit she is robbed of her independence and the cruelty of the disease is the fact that she is aware of the deterioration.

It has been said before – Parkinson’s sucks. In this case it sucks greatly.

A Tribute to Bob Torbeck

Today is Bob Torbeck’s birthday – my deceased father-in-law. As Cheryl remarked that today is Dad’s birthday I thought about posting “Happy Birthday, Bob!” on Facebook to see how many of the family might respond with thoughts and remembrances. When I woke up Facebook I found this from Ken my brother-in-law at the top of my “news feed”. It is a good remembrance.

Robert O. Torbeck

Memory Lane is open and BUSY this weekend. Christmas is often a reflective time for me. The images from my childhood have filled my heart all weekend.

Today is my Dad’s 98th birthday. It’s the 43rd time that we’ve celebrated/ acknowledged it without him. Dad and Christmas memories are synonymous in many ways (for me). As a young(est) child our Santa came on Christmas Eve. I am quite certain that I was totally geeked out waiting for Dad to close up the gas station, come home, eat dinner, have a cigarette, more coffee, another cigarette, tease about what’s for dessert……finally slipping behind the heavy drapery that entombed our living room (seemed like for months), to THANK Santa for being so generous to us Torbeck’s. Once Santa noisily took off from our roof the wrapping paper was flying. And I remember Dad seated in the corner grinning ear to ear with tears in his eyes? Were they joyful tears bc we kids were SO happy? Tears of pride bc he worked crazy hours to beable to create such joy for our family of 8? Or was Dad sad that he couldn’t do more? Some combination? As a dad I have memories of crying for each of those reasons over the years.

Another Dad and Christmas memory is the Open House / Lunch at the gas station on Christmas Eve (afternoon). A huge spread of deli meats, cheeses and all the fixings from Ron and Angela Stafford ‘s grocery store. Pkgs of cookies and candies from Dad and Daniel Torbeck ‘s customers. All washed down with Seagram’s 7, Canadian Club and or Hudepol beer. Friends, neighbors and customers typically all in one! As I mentioned Dad and Christmas memories are often the same thing.

A trip to Oldenburg for lunch yesterday opened this flash flood of images and memories. As we drove through the town I wanted Jill Semple Torbeck to drive, in reverse to achieve the FULL rear facing, 3rd row seat, smooshed against the window experience of a trip to visit Cheryl Paul J Weisgerber at school 😎. (Pre I 74).
Anyways HAPPY BIRTHDAY Dad! Merry Christmas Dad, Mom and Janice Torbeck Farmer ! Thanks for the memories! I miss you all. Hopefully you and Mom are getting caught up on your Jitterbuging.

From Nancy:

Wow! Beautifully said!! Thanks for sharing your memories…. I only remember a few of the ones that you mentioned 🙄
I am always GRATEFUL to hear my family’s memories (my sibling’s and my children’s) bc I have so few 🙄
Love YOU and LOVE that you are so tender hearted, like our Dad was 😘❤️💚 I THINK that we had to sing too before the blanket came down 🤔☺️

From Dan:

Yes WOW is correct !!! Thanks for sharing those memories and reminding all of your siblings what a great life we experienced when that was all we knew. We did not realize how hard Dad worked until we were responsible for our own Families. I miss him every day that I go to work continuing the traditions that he taught me so many years ago. Thanks for sharing your Heart and Soul with all of us. Well Said Youngist Sibling. Merry Christmas to All and to All a Good Night !!! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

From Debbie:

Oh My Goodness! Thank you for sharing your heart felt childhood memories. You expressed them perfectly! I’m feeling all of the same thoughts and emotions! So grateful for all of our families many blessings! ❤️💝

From me:

Happy Birthday to you, Bob. Thanks for letting me drive the wagon. Thanks for not staying mad about no bumper guards on the VW. Thanks for the opportunity to clean the men’s room. Thanks for letting me earn a few bucks on the weekend. But most importantly thanks for bringing Cheryl into the world.
Many times through life I have often wondered what was the purpose of it all and more importantly what was my purpose.
The answer to that question recently has been made very clear to me. Thanks to you and Elaine for producing Cheryl as a product of your love. She consumes all of my love and life purpose now as you know, so, thanks Bob.
As Ken said, I hope you are able to jitterbug into eternity and Happy Birthday to you!

From Cheryl:

Every time members of our family gets together, we have lots of fun. We don’t need board games or card games.  We remember lots of events, and those memories breed  more memories. Most of the time, the memories are triggered by a long-lost photo that we find when getting out the Christmas decorations. For instance, there is a memory I have that I have told many times over the years– it’s a good memory.  I was probably 4 years old and Jan was probably 2 years old, and she had curly blond hair.  I had straight brown hair.  Mom wanted me to have curly hair.  It was Christmas eve.  Jan and I were supposed to take a nap. Mom used some metal curlers to curl my hair for the occasion. Then she put Jan and me to bed  in Mom and Dad’s bed. At the time, their bedroom was separated from the living room by a set of  sliding pocket doors. So Jan and I were told to go to sleep. Jan went to sleep almost right away, while I tossed and turned…wide awake!  In the pocket doors there were a couple of key holes that were just high enough in the doors for me to look through.  So, of course I peeked in, and there, across from the door, was a  doll-size table and chairs, with a baby doll sitting on each chair! I just stood there staring at my new toys. Then suddenly Mom opened the door   right in front of me.  Then Mom gently scolded me, and told me to get back in bed. She said that Santa was in the kitchen, and he wouldn’t be happy if he saw that I was awake. I went right back to bed
and kept quiet until it was time for supper. This is one of my fondest Christmas memories.

All of our memories are precious. We preserve people we love by remembering them. Sometimes the memories are so powerful they cloud reality. When I look at Cheryl I see a younger version of her.

Thanks Ken for your remembrance of your dad. Thanks for reminding me of those trips to Oldenburg. I am at peace today with everything.