What a Ride - Rabbit, Rabbit!!

I See Dead People

Yesterday I went to the Arlington Metaphysical Chapel for a reading with the Rev. F. Reed Brown. I'd heard about the Rev. Brown, a clairvoyant, from friends who'd had readings and made the appointment several months ago when I was grieving the loss of my friend, Chris. Although I'm a skeptic in metaphysical matters, I guess I'd hoped to get a personal message delivered directly from Chris to me via Rev. Brown. When you're sad you seek comfort where you can.

Driving to my reading, I vaguely imagined a house or storefront in a seedy city neighborhood with a flashing "Psychic Readings" sign, so was relieved to discover the chapel was a fairly low-key, church-like building with an unassuming sign in a neighborhood of neatly kept houses.

After parking, I entered the church through the rear door where I saw an older gentleman in the tiny reception area who, with an added beard and costume could easily pass for Santa Claus. He introduced himself as I came in the door and it turned out to be the Reverend F. Reed Brown. I liked him immediately.

I took a quick inventory of my surroundings. The interior resembled a church in miniature: to the left of the reception area, an aging "Olive Oil" was busy moving papers around the desk of her closet-sized office. Directly in front of me, a door lead to a small dark chapel with heavy wooden church pews, and to the right, an empty office with a desk and two chairs: one in front and one in back of the desk.

The Rev. Brown directed me to the empty office. He remained in the reception area while I hunkered over a white index card onto which I wrote (per Rev. Brown's instructions) the names of four people that had "passed" and as many questions as I wanted or that could fit onto the card. Then I was supposed to fold the card several times to conceal what I'd written.

For my dead people, I wrote "Chris Abowd, Ruth Becker, Harry Becker, and Tom Patnode." My questions filled the card completely. In general I asked questions about pressing issues in my life. Being a skeptic, I purposely dashed out the names and questions in barely readable handwriting making it difficult to decipher. When I was done, I squeezed the folded card in my palm as instructed and announced I was ready.

The Rev. Brown came into the office, closed the door, and sat in the chair behind the desk. He put a cassette tape in his recorder to record our session (I later got the tape). He then held my hands (with the folded card tucked between my palm and his), said a prayer, and then released my hands, clutching my card in his right hand. He closed his eyes and moved his left middle finger across his forehead and appeared to be in deep thought. My eyes never left that folded card and I could see a small segment of my scribble on it as he continued to hold it in view for the remainder of the session.

After a moment, he appeared to be chatting with someone over his shoulder and then said, "Ruth – does the name Ruth mean anything to you?" Yes, I said, but offered no other information or facial clues to help him out. Then, to my complete jaw-dropping surprise, he said, "this is not your mother Ruth, because I'm getting that she's still amongst the living, this must be your grandmother Ruth." Now how did he know my mother's name was Ruth? If he'd somehow managed to read my card, and I still don't see how he could, he would have seen my grandmother's name, Ruth; but no where had I mentioned that my mother shared the same name. Without any prodding or input from me, he trailed off on a story about how he'd chosen a nursing home for his mother including how he'd managed to stretch her dwindling dollars to cover her lifetime of care. He then seemed to be catching himself and said, as if he was absolutely baffled, "why am I telling you this?" Curiously, his story offered insight into one of my more pressing questions, which was what to do with my mother.

He had my attention. I watched as he returned to his trance and apparent conversation with someone over his shoulder..."Becker," he announced, then looking at his appointment card for my name and noting it was not "Becker" said he was getting a strong, strong sense of the name "Becker". I'd written that name twice on my index card, once for my grandfather and once for my grandmother. How was he getting this?

As our session moved along, he offered general insight about my life in general: "Don't make any changes in your life right now; you are about to meet someone stable; you will be okay financially; I'm getting a good aura from you; don't start a new business right now, don't sell your business, etc.."

Then finally the reason for my visit. "Chris" he said, "I sense the spirit of Chris with us." Tears sprung to my eyes without warning. I was about to get my long-awaited message. Then, "does the name 'Esther' mean anything to you?" Huh? What about my message? I don't know any Esther's. What does this have to do with Chris? Maybe he misunderstood and meant to say "Ingster," a private nickname Chris and I had for a mutual - and now dead friend, Nola. If he meant "Ingster," maybe Chris really was communicating something to me, since not another person on earth knows that name. I didn't let on this possible connection or say, "do you mean 'Ingster'?" though I longed for him to reveal more about Chris. He just said the name again and again, rolling it on his tongue like he was trying to grasp it's significance. He seemed confused that I didn't know "Esther." He paused to think, or I supposed to chat with Chris, and then said, "When you dream of someone who has passed, write it down. They are communicating with you." Then, "Who are you going to Michigan with?" Was this my message from Chris? If so, I was sadly disappointed or else was not getting the significance.

My session with the Reverend F. Reed Brown lasted about 30 minutes and didn't include any obvious messages from the dead, except from my grandmother who "was with me all the time." This is a fact, by the way. My grandmother's favorite things surround me everyday and by association, so does she. But no messages to ponder or life-changing prophecies to cling to. Nonetheless, my session was interesting, provoking, and somewhat amazing.

How did he do it?

Missing Bill

On October 25th, my neighbor and friend, Bill Eustace disappeared. Though popular and well-known in our close-knit community, Bill managed to walk away between 10 and 2 on a Saturday virtually unnoticed. Only one person reported seeing him earlier in the day walking his dog but not a single sighting afterward.

Our neighborhood is in a state of mourning and shock, each of us trying to make sense of our loss or trying to help in some way.

In the case of a missing person, there is no closure. There is no known destination to reach out for comfort and there exists an ever-present sense of urgency to keep looking in case the person needs help. Whatever facts we know become blankets of comfort and confusion as they spin over and over in our head looking for purchase.

This much I know or think I know: two weeks before Bill disappeared, his mother-in-law died after a long decline. Bill was diabetic and on insulin. He apparently left on foot, leaving behind his wife, car, beloved dog, Rosie, recently rescued and much coddled kittens, accumulated baggage of a life, his wallet, credit cards, driver's license and clothes. He seems to have left behind all his medications, a page-long list without which his doctor said he could not survive a day. And although it was a rainy day, Bill did not take or wear any gear to protect him from the storm. When his wife returned from running errands, she found nothing out of the ordinary (in fact, his T.V. and lights were on) except he hadn't left a note, a seemingly significant omission since he normally does so to communicate his comings and goings. A folded note found in his room, "be back by 5" was discounted by detectives.

What's missing and presumably with Bill is an Address Book. He left $30.00 and his credit cards in his wallet (though was known to carry large sums of cash, but, according to his wife, Bill mentioned he'd not had time to go to the bank in the week before he disappeared). He has not accessed any bank accounts or credit cards since he left.

Curiously, for the past year or so, Bill has been taking weeklong trips to Lancaster, PA where he said he was looking for retirement real estate. His wife says she knows very little about the details of these trips and Bill always paid cash so left no trail of where he stayed or what he did. He had just returned from one of these trips the weekend before his disappearance.

As an aside, Bill's former career was as an actor and assistant director on several notable films and a recent T.V. series, "Homicide" filmed in Baltimore, MD. According to the real-life Homicide detectives assigned to Bill's case, local detectives consulted on the set of Homicide and knowing Bill, he probably talked to them. I wonder - did he learn something that helped him make a plan to disappear? Afterall, disappearing is basically just a magic act, misleading the audience to focus on the wrong clues so what is in plain sight becomes obscured.

The detectives are looking for a body. They dragged the nearby lakes - most disturbingly the one behind my house - and found none. On Monday they will start searching nearby parks and wooded areas using cadaver dogs. A neighbor psychic who knows Bill, and who says she's assisted police in 3 successful searches and is right 95% of the time, says she sees Bill in heaven, that he became confused (presumably from low-blood sugar) and wandered into the woods to rest, later succumbing to hypothermia.

I'm betting on the 5% time she's wrong.

I'm consumed - no obsessed - by his disappearance. What was Bill's intention when he left? Was he planning to commit suicide? Was he simply going to a local destination and as the psychic said, became confused and got lost? Did he have a plan to disappear, knowing his health was deteriorating and wanting to leave while still heathy and able to choose? Was he the victim of random violence? Why didn't he leave a note?

What I want to believe is this: Bill planned his exit for a long time. He did not want to lose control of a future when his health failed beyond his ability to make decisions on his own. His mother-in-law's death was the catalyst for making his move and he made the final preparations during his last trip the week before he left. He walked out, took a bus to the Metro station and then to Union Station where he got on a train to somewhere else. I'm not sure where - Lancaster, PA seems too obvious but somewhere.

In the end the truth remains the same no matter what we theorize: Bill is missing from our lives. He walked out of this life and into another. And no matter what or where that other place is, this neighborhood, my life, won't be the same without him. I miss him, his smile, his musings on life, his dry sense of humor, his walking into my house on open invitation and talking to all my animals by name, his kindness toward my father, his comments on my Blog entries, and just seeing him all the time in my daily doings.

My neighbor (and also friend) Tim's Blog on Bill: http://blog.voytek.timcohn.com/?p=1

November 8th Update: Bill did not have his driver's license with him as previously believed and the witness who said she saw him heading to Lake Anne on Saturday at noon realized she saw him on Friday not Saturday. So no one has come forward with any info of Bill sightings after about 930 on Saturday morning. The neighbor psychic is now believing Bill is alive and living somewhere else - my theory. She says she's feeling blocked and getting mixed signals.

Labor Day Weekend

So far this weekend has been very productive and thoughtful. I actually spent my first vacation day working - so much for a break. Ah, the pleasures of owning one's own business!

Aside from work, I'm focused on tomorrow's practice lake swim for the Reston Triathlon, which is next week (September 7th). I will wake up tomorrow at 5 am , eat, drink coffee, edit this blog post then drive over to Lake Thoreua for the 6:30 registration. Then I'll stand around after squeezing into my wetsuit and nervously chat with the other triathletes - the whole time my stomach churning. Then at 7:45 am, will join the 100's of other swimmers as we plunge into the lake for our mile swim. Usually I feel and hear the splashing near me, get totally unnerved and fear drowning by being pulled under, then notice the lifeguards aren't paying attention and that's it.

I hate the swim part of the triathlon. It's amazing I even make it to the bike leg because no matter how much I practice, no matter how many miles of swimming I do, I almost always end up doing some modified version of the doggie paddle.

This year I'm determined that the swim leg will be my best. Tomorrow will be the test of that so I'm very nervous.

Meanwhile, last night, my old friend Art Older called me. I've actually been looking for him for years and more recently when my - our - friend Chris died because I wanted some connection to that very super-charged time of my life. Art didn't disappoint. Sometimes when you connect with someone from your past it fades into nothing, but not so with Art. I think I could talk with him for days.

Art is from what I guess is my 30's era. Alot was going on in my life then. Anyway, this is way too complicated and tangled to explain in a blog so I'll just say that connecting with Art and the impending Lake Swim made for some very interesting dreams last night.

Now I'm off to bed.

Wednesday's Child

Look at this happy face! Gryff was such a good dog; I could never figure out why his parents couldn't see this. Not willing to let him go, but with no time for him, poor Gryff was relegated to the basement, his only time outside in the fenced backyard.

Except for Wednesdays!

Joy oh Joy for Wednesdays! Gryff's family nanny convinced his family to hire us for at least one day a week. I think Gryff had a calendar and marked off the days till we came. What a happy boy to see us! He loved his walks, loved the structure of us giving him an important job.

I remember my walks with Gryff on the pathways along Sugarland Run. Gryff was so happy to be outside, he'd take in everything like a new puppy. Toward the end of our walk, he'd plop down in Sugarland Run to cool off. I will miss him.

Cicada's In August

I love to listen to the bittersweet sound of Cicada's in August. Their singing resonates endings and beginnings; my 52 year old brain is still programmed to think school will start in a few weeks.

Usually the Cicada's cymbal-like vibrations highlight a hot summer day, but this year August has delivered much cooler weather.

I'm lucky to have a job and life that takes me out in the weather to enjoy each moment.

No More

Spend all your time waiting
for that second chance
for a break that would make it okay
there's always some reason to feel not good enough
and it's hard at the end of the day

I need some distraction
oh beautiful release
memory seeps from my veins
let me be empty and weightless
and maybe I'll find some peace tonight

in the arms of an angel
fly away from here
from this dark cold hotel room
and the endlessness that you fear
you are pulled

from the wreckage
of your silent reverie
you're in the arms of the angel
may you find some comfort there

so tired of the straight line
and everywhere you turn
there's vultures and thieves at your back
and the storm keeps on twisting
you keep on building the lie
that you make

up for all that you lack
it don't make no difference
escaping one last time
it's easier to believe in this sweet madness
oh this glorious sadness
that brings me to my knees

In the arms of an angel
fly away from here
from this dark cold hotel room
and the endlessness that you fear
you are pulled from the wreckage
of your silent reverie
you're in the arms of the angel
may you find some comfort there
you're in the arms of the angel
may you find some
comfort here

Angel Sarah McLaughlin

(Chris - See? I plastered your pics all over my web page. I miss you.)

My Dad Turns 80

My dad turned 80 today. He looks fantastic, almost better than when he turned 60.

On his 60th birthday he flew to San Antonio, Texas to spend a weekend with Greg and me in the motorhome we lived in while we installed/tested an automated warehouse system for the Air Force. We lived there for 8 months. My Dad came down to celebrate his big 6-0 in the town where he was stationed as an Air Force officer in his 20's.

While he visited, we had an interesting tour of the trails of his youth, ending with his calling my mother in complete disbelief as we drove him to the airport in our motorhome - and he on a very early (1988) model of a cell phone - saying "you'll never believe this, but I'm sitting in a living room talking to you on a phone while we're driving down the highway."

He's seen alot in his life. A 2nd generation Washingtonian, his father was an Ear, Nose, and Throat specialist who often saw patients in their living room. Something of that medical intuition rubbed off on my dad and even to this day, he's very conservative about medical care and drugs.
He was a master carpenter most of his life, magically transforming "nothing" into more than most people's imagination could fathom. I've always been in awe of his talent.

He won an award for his expert remodelling/trim work in the State Room at the US State Department. Did I mention my dad is brilliant and skilled?

As an aside, my neighbor is having his house remodelled by a company who has employed a younger version of my dad named Dave. Each day, I stop to admire Dave's handiwork, the fresh smell of newly sawed lumber, and the sturdy work of an talented carpenter.

I miss my dad's help with projects.

In 1999, 9 years ago, my father had a massive stroke that was not discovered until hours after he knocked on the door, floor, walls trying to get help. I thought we'd lost him. Instead I was just beginning to find him. He is locked inside his head with few means to communicate his needs to the world. He has a limited vocabulary (fewer than 50 words) that doesn't come close to what he's trying to say. He can sometimes painstakingly draw what he's trying to explain; he cannot write words that make sense. His right side is paralyzed and he walks with great trouble.

Yet, he manages to communicate all his needs, take care of his self (dresses, washes, eats) without assistance; figured out a way to get a scooter and drives himself to our local shop area to visit with friends, get his haircut, have coffee, and distribute dog biscuits.

On his birthday, we all worried that my mother - one foot in some other world with Alzheimer's would be disruptive and difficult and wondered if she should be included. He insisted she come and smiled as lovingly on her as any other time I can remember.

It was a great day.

Beach Reunion - Two In One

What a week. In the space of a few days, I revisited two very different views of about the same time in my life: one, my LDS side, the other, the small liberal arts school I first and last attended, with a year at Brigham Young University (BYU) in between.

From the LDS side, Jackie and I drove to Rehoboth Beach, DE on June 11th to visit our good friend Lisa from High School (Walt Whitman in Bethesda, MD) and College (BYU in Provo, Utah) who flew in with her husband, daughter, son-in-law, and GRANDdaughter from California to spend the week at her family beach house.

Jackie and I have managed to keep our lives true to our East Coast roots, living within a few miles of our childhood homes or in Jackie's case, IN her childhood home. Lisa on the other hand has become "totally California". I mean, look at her. In this picture, where (as an aside) I look terrible and Lisa and Jackie look fantastic, Lisa is hamming it up while Jackie and I manage to maintain some semblance of our East Coast reserve.

All that aside, Lisa is truly an inspiration and for the first time in 30-some years, I felt completely at ease discussing my feelings and observations about my only formal religion. I can see why she's chosen to take her show on the road, spreading inspirational messages to all. There is also strength that women friends generate together, especially friends that have known each other from a emotionally charged past. We covered ever topic you could imagine, could have probably stayed up all night talking, but Jackie and I had to go.

My next reunion was at the school where I ultimately graduated in a class of about 260 students. I generally don't see but a handful of people from my class and with the campus changing each year with new buildings, I barely recognized my surroundings. Fortunately the Fedders brothers were in attendance - brother Mark being someone I actually dated my freshman year (see photo - I look substantially better in this photo than the one with Lisa and Jackie because I had my hair colored and cut in-between, though an eye-job might make me look more awake). I don't remember much about our time together except that we saw "The Way We Were" the day before I left for BYU.

This is about all the energy I have for this Blog posting.

I want to move on to my Dad's 80th Birthday, which June 17th.

Memorial Day BBQ: No Picnic for Pigs

This weekend being the mother of all BBQ weekends, I seriously pondered the plight of pigs. This is not a good thing, the pig plight - it's the story of horrible abuse. When I think of the lifetime of abuse pigs suffer to land on our plates (or rather your plates - I've been a non-meat eater since the 70's), I just can't see the humor in images of pigs in chefs attire serving up pig-meat or Rock and Rolling Pigs enjoying a BBQ (I'm referring to the Red, Hot, and Blue and Carolina Brothers logos).

Here's what started me on this pig thing. A business associate alerted me to the sport of pig-hunting with dogs. Fortunately, I've been blissfully unaware of this so-called sport all of my life until now. But thanks to the readily available resources on the Internet (don't go to Google and search on Pig hunting or slaughter and definitely don't go to YouTube and do the same), I know way too much.

And as for pigs in general, I've learned alot about them in the last week. First, I learned that pigs are very intelligent and sensitive beings. Imagine this - -they are MORE intelligent than dogs. Second, pigs are amongst the most inhumanely treated of all the animals in the human food chain. No animal should be abused for any reason - but why would the pig be the most abused?
I just don't get it. A terrified dog living in a filthy kennel pulls at our heartstrings, yet a squealing pig living in the same condition is somehow acceptable. Did you know that by nature pigs are clean? The filth they live in is human-induced.

As a side note, have you ever noticed that anything humans determine to be "Pests": pigs, cockroaches, prostitutes, bees, geese, are more seriously abused and it's "OK". As a species, we have no compassion for the "pests" in the world. So it goes for the pig's wild cousin, the Boars, who in the southern US, Australia, and Hawaii (to name a few places) have been classified as pests. The Fish and Wildlife Commission actually invites hunters to "eradicate" the species from certain areas. Eradicate?! If you viewed a dog-driven Boar hunt on YouTube, you'd be disgusted. The real pigs are the hunters who find some sort of thrill in this slaughter. There is no quick kill here - it's horrible and shocking.

But what I'm saying is this: most pigs are abused. One's destined for slaughter are kept in cages so small they can't move. Many go insane from boredom and when finally released for slaughter, can't walk to the slaughter truck because their weak legs won't support their hormone injected weight. In slaughter, they are stunned, have their throat sliced, and while still alive, attached upside down to a moving chain where they are dunked in boiling water. Wild pigs are hunted without regard to size, age, whether they have suckling pigs, or not or what gender they are and often hunted for the trophy, not the meat. Male pigs aren't even editable unless they're castrated days before being killed. Few if any are eaten, and those that are suffer a painful castration at the hands of amateurs. Pigs are commonly used in ceremonial slaughter, usually by amateurs, who bind, cut, rip, tear pigs without regard to the pain and agony these poor creatures endure. How can any compassionate human eat or use pig products?

And what does it say about us as a species that we can endure the cries of another species without helping them?