Dance at Le Moulin de la Galette by Auguste Renoir

I have been back home one month today.  Rich Paris memories are still being savored.  London has recovered from a somewhat critical review in comparison to the City of Light…unfair I guess.  My global citizenship has been enriched and the proof is stamped in my passport. 

I have a deepening appreciation for the French culture. Their self-direction and joie de vivre (joy for life) inspires meI think I better understand London’s struggle to hold on to their proper, somewhat stodgy traditions while being inundated with immigrants from places built in sand.

My mind has been expanded, and I like knowing it won’t ever return to its original dimensions. Plus, smack in the middle of being amazed, inspired, renewed, and exalted, I accidentally learned more about myself.

Since my return to reality (something similar to the thud of Dorothy’s spinning house landing on the Wicked Witch of the East), I have longed to share the details and discoveries of this adventure with Mom.  Her absence feels once again like the big, monstrous void.

Mom was my touchstone. She knew where I came from. After all, Cove is a place too small to even be called a hamlet.  But she also understood how far away your dreams can take you, and how brave you have to be to follow them.  I think she would be proud of me.  I know she shared some of my longing to see more of the world.

In 2008, after my first trip to Paris, it was Mom who wanted to hear every detail.  Even though her health struggles were only beginning, I saw them as temporary, and promised her that once she was feeling better, we would go back….together.  I knew that once she saw Paris, she would fall in love as I did.


This trip, standing at the Musee d’Orsay admiring the paintings of Renoir that Mom loved so much (like the one above), I ached for her to be there beside me and I fought back tears for all I know will never be. 

It is too late to share the world with her now.  The stories I saved to tell only her will have to remain tucked away in my heart.  I carry her dreams though and her unfulfilled wanderlust…

I believe that in every new place I find myself, part of Mom is there with me.


The Love Lock and Au Revoir

Pont des Art bridge and the view
People from all over the world come to the Pont des Art bridge to leave their love lock, and symbolically, a little piece of themselves in Paris.  For pedestrians only, the bridge links the Institut de France and the central square of the Louvre.  On one side, you see Notre Dame rising from its own little island on the Seine.  From the other, you see the top of the Eiffel tower…..perfect. 
Locks Everywhere
Ron and I had long planned to bring our own lock here to add to this unique display.  We chose to come here yesterday (our last) and say goodbye to the city we love.  
We sent off weeks ago to order our lock and have it engraved.  My sister April then used her artistic talents to add angel’s wings to each side, making it even more personal.
OUR lock in its new home
To insure our two keys would sink to the bottom of the river, we attached them to a small silk pouch carrying three polished rocks lovingly gathered at the beach during an unforgettable trip to the Oregon coast.  My Dad, Aunt Judy and Uncle Kay will understand why.
After another memorable visit to surely one of the world’s most picturesque and lively cities, we have hopefully become a bit more French.   We learned to slow down to soak in the beauty and history that surrounded us.  
We lingered over drinks and long meals, savoring the wine and food prepared with pride and perfection.  We took in the art at Musee d’Orsay (their logo is just M’O…love that) of Renoir, Van Gogh and Monet.  We walked for miles…to neighborhoods all over the city, and rode the Metro and RER trains like pros.  
Ron on our balcony at the hotel
We spoke French whenever we met someone new, appreciating that the French don’t do anything until proper greetings have been exchanged.  
And we couldn’t have custom-ordered more beautiful spring weather in which to enjoy it all…. cloudless sunny days and sparkling cool nights.

A few months ago, our French teacher George told us that after living in Paris for over 10 years, his children (several who were born there) live in a constant state of homesickness.  When in Paris, they miss America.  When in America, they miss Paris.  
We know how they feel, and will always be a little homesick for the romance we left behind.  It is appropriate then to use the French farewell, as au revoir means literally: au, till the + revoir, seeing again.
This is what Ron and I will long to do.

Note:  To find our love lock, follow the Seine west from Fontaine San Michel.  At the Pont des Arts bridge, walk North to the 3rd lamppost looking east to Notre Dame.  It is locked near the bottom of the 4th vertical pole of the wire fence, an equal distance between the 3rd and 4th lamppost….we encourage you to add your own!

Best of the British

Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been?
I’ve been to London to visit the Queen.
Yesterday morning, Ron and I hopped a high-speed train to London.   Once we arrived, we planned to catch the Original Red Hop-On, Hop Off bus to do a once-around of this new (to us) city.  
We have learned this is the most efficient way to see the high points (Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, Picadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square, the Tower of London, Soho, Carnaby, etc.) as well as the kitschy tourist stuff we will avoid (the London Eye…translation: eyesore, the London Dungeon…tourist trap spook alley) and anywhere else the “sheeple” queue up to follow the herd.  
We then pow-wow (fun, fun) and hand-pick the places we want to return to on our own.

We had some other dreams for our two-day visit; eat English Fish and Chips and go to Abbey Road. I also wondered if I would find the England my Mom had always wanted to see, but never did…
Some things went as planned.  Some did not. And that might be the best part of traveling.

I woke up with a sick stomach (too much wine and French pastry I suspect) and Ron was sporting a blister on his foot the size of a tennis ball.  Down, but not out,  we pressed on. I managed to refrain from ralphing on the train and Ron was very fond of the riding vs. walking plan.
As we were being chauffeured through the city, we listened to a proper Englishwoman narrate the sights and tell us why we should care.  But we draw our own conclusions, sweet cheeks.  So here are some of ours about London:
Good Lord, how do you drive on the opposite sides of the road?  And WHY?

How many RED double-decker buses does it take to create complete traffic gridlock?  London has greedily tripled this number!

London is full of Muslims and other immigrants…we spoke with almost NO London natives.

The women aren’t as pretty as in Paris and most have the same fashion sense as the Queen…None!

The Tube is a work of genius, and makes navigating the city simple….loved it!  Plus no-one pisses or drops their trash/cigarette butts where they stand (get a clue France).

London is clean, stately and rather pedestrian…no skyline really.  Ron says, “It isn’t as exciting as New York, as beautiful as Paris or as classic as Rome.”  Amen

The London Tower bridge is beautiful (see above)….it was our favorite London landmark!

The logo for the 2012 London Summer Olympics is hideous… the mascots are contrived and ridiculous.

Being all proper and even superior while boasting about various charities and giving to the less-privileged in hopes that they will eventually become hard-working, moral Christian citizens makes me appreciate even more why our founding fathers told King George to stick it up his ass! 

It isn’t close to anything and is nestled in a quiet neighborhood way off the beaten path.  But a short walk from St. John’s Wood tube stop will lead you to this iconic street.  People of all ages wait in line to take pictures imitating the crossing strides of the four men who started a music revolution. 
But for both of us, crossing this famous street was a tribute to our generation and those of us who lived through revolutions of our own.  We went to honor our youth and to remember the way we felt when we first heard the Beatles. They wrote the soundtrack to our experience. 

Abbey Studios is an unassuming building at one end of the crossing. But the wall surrounding it is covered with the names of those who have made the pilgrimage, perhaps like us, to acknowledge the music created there.  Come Together, Something, and Here Comes the Sun all came from the Abbey Road album. It was the last the Beatles would record together..
We left our own note of thanks on the wall.

It’s very late as I write this so let me just finish with these thoughts:
We found our fish and chips. We experienced the beauty London had to offer. Sadly, I don’t think London was the England my mother dreamed of visiting.  She wanted to see the English countryside, to walk the moors through the heather and smell the sea.

But I am glad we made the trip.  I am glad to be back in Paris.  And I am glad that in 1782, with the help of the French, we kicked Britain’s ass!

Paris Redux

Loitering at the Louvre
We came back to immerse ourselves once again in this place we love.  Our affair with the City of Light began 3 1/2 years ago, when a too-brief trip only whetted our appetites for all yet to be discovered in this country so far from home.  
The goal of our trip:  to become temporary locals by taking the road less traveled with little agenda.  We wanted to be free to explore; to do whatever we felt moved to do whenever we wanted to do it….this is the Empty Nester’s Nirvana! 
Of course, there are some places that called to us again.  The Louvre is possibly our favorite place in the entire city.  When I.M Pei decided to build three ultra-modern glass pyramids in the courtyard of this mammoth 12th century palace, former home of the Sun King, he elevated this international treasure into an architectural masterpiece.
The stark contrast is breath-taking, and it’s easy to see why people are drawn here.  We went back to see some things we missed the first time….gorgeous marble sculptures and the opulent apartment of Napoleon III. Oh, the soirees that must have been held in those rooms!  I could come back to see the art here again and again…..

The Courtyard at Dusk
Everyone is drawn to the La dame de fer, the iron lady built to welcome the world  to the Exposition Universelle, a World’s Fair marking the centennial celebration of the French Revolution.  Three hundred workers, 18,000 pieces of wrought iron, all held together by two and a half million rivets…it is inspiring to stand under and look up into the perfection of design,
The Eiffel tower feels almost like a holy pilgrimage for us.   Surrounded by acres of grass, water fountains and cannons (we finally saw them fire), Ron says he can’t believe how people flock to see a structure that doesn’t do anything… just stands there.  But it feels like the pulse of Paris lives here, and we could not imagine staying away.

We knoshed like the French do on a hot dog gratine (french baguette, pig, and cheese…OMG) and stayed until dark to gasp with the crowd when the tower turned gold with light.  

Thanks Trevi Tripod!
The Night Show
Ron and 10,000 of his newest friends
Tomorrow, we are off to London on the morning train through the Chunnel.  We are anxious to see the sights of this summer’s Olympic City.  We will be paying homage to our generation by crossing Abbey Road.  Heeding the advice of three Englishmen we met at a pub last night, we will hopefully find some acceptable (to Ron, at least) Fish n Chips…
As our new Brit friend sang,  Oh, the Good Life…”

Doublay de Jour

See the zombies in this picture? The two jet-lagged dorks who are wandering through one of the liveliest sections of Paris?  You won’t find us in this pic, but we were there, hunched  over the BEST hot, French-onion soup ever made, trying to remember who we are and how we really got here.  
Hey, if you have ever stayed awake for 24+ hours, you know what I am talking about…
It all started for us on Wednesday afternoon.  After boarding the 6:00 p.m. non-stop flight to Paris (love this Delta hub city!) Ron and I entered some strange time warp, a portal to the European Traveler’s Twilight Zone!
Night enveloped us at 37,000 feet somewhere over Greenland, The oldest team of flight attendants I have ever seen (how much seniority do they need to be working the Paris non-stop?) controls the lighting and orders everyone to lower their window shade…they tell us it is so they can show the THREE back-to-back movies we have already seen while frenetically serving complimentary beverages, dinner, snacks, water, snacks, more water, breakfast, more water….and I am supposed to sleep????
After hours of repeated seat-shifting, pillow-folding and, uh ZERO sleep, I check my phone to see it is 2:00 a.m….fantastic! All of a sudden, some dumb-ass rebel defies the flight-attendant Nazis and lifts his window shade (gasp)…the blinding sunshine floods in! It’s 9:00 a.m.????  WHAT?  Seven hours gone…..phhhhhhht!  

It’s Thursday.

We arrive at Charles De Gaulle in a fog.  Herded like sheeple (baaaaa) we march with the other scare-haired, unwashed masses through customs and then on to baggage claim.  Now we trek through the longest terminal on earth to the RER train terminal to Paris.  
Can you imagine how worldly and super-cool Ron and I feel when we emerge from the bowels of the dilapidated, puke-smell train station onto one of the busiest streets in Paris schlepping two huge soopcases, a Netbook, two backpacks and a neck pillow?  Hard to look cosmopolitan when  you are this lost, trust me.  Standing in front of a huge map trying to decipher directions in a foreign language is pretty humbling.
Oh God, let’s just get to our well-researched boutique hotel, nestled on that quiet street recommended in all the reviews, and SLEEP!  But Oh Contraire!  The room we sent 50 e-mails arranging? Wrong room, not cleaned yet.  We have two other options on the 2nd or 6th floor, Not clean either….So sorry, je desole….merci fucking beaucoup!  We plop in the lobby and drink red wine as fast as the balding hotel manager can bring it to us.

Finally, we collapse in a room about the size of Andrea’s walk-in closet albeit with the European elegance we have learned to appreciate. Ron snores; I out-snore him.  We awake after a few hours to the dusk of Paris, and want to explore. We drag our muddled minds and asses onto the streets.  
The City of Light is stunning…. and then some.  It has its own smell, and we quickly tap in again to our love for its elegance and excitement.  (The women here are unpretentiously gorgeous and it is a fashion workshop walking among them).  We head for Notre Dame, not far from our hotel.  We breathe in the invigorating cool night air. 
Holding hands, we cross the Seine, walking through alleys filled with pubs, restaurants, souvenir shops, and architecture unlike anywhere else on earth.  We sit in front of one of the world’s most beautiful cathedrals and watch young performers throw fire batons and blow flames high into the air.  People gather to applaud their skill and throw money into a hat.

On our walk back, a waiter beckons us into his cozy cafe and serves tureens of French Onion soup that warm us body and soul.  
We survived our “dooblay-day” and are already excited to see what tomorrow holds…

Messages from Mom

Be still, my soul; thy God doth undertake

To guide the future as He has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence, let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.

Be still, my soul; the waves and winds still know
His voice who ruled them while He dwelt below.

Excerpts from Be Still My Soul

The day my Mom’s church choir sang this beautiful song she had requested for her funeral, I was barely listening. I was numb; trying to keep my composure as I was scheduled to speak after my brother’s eulogy. The words she loved so much were simply lost on me then.

But thanks to a conversation at our last family gathering, and a strong prompting from Mom, I was able to re-discover them and more importantly, share their promise and comfort with someone who really needed it.

As the conduit for her message, I would even receive confirmation. But only during a phone call, did I understand it all.

My brother Darren and I talk about music, and often share song lyrics and links to music videos we love. Especially since Mom’s death, it is the way we communicate where we are emotionally. Anger, regret, melancholy…it is all there in the music.

When he told me about a particular performance of Be Still My Soul by the BYU Men’s choir during a priesthood session several years ago, I saw everything in his eyes. He talked about the profound effect the music had on those fortunate enough to be in the hall that evening. But even though he had made several inquiries and searched the internet after that, he had never been able to find the recording or video.

On Monday morning, nine days after he told me about it, I came to work with this strong feeling that I must search for what had eluded my brother. I was surprised when within just a few minutes, I found this website:

Not only did it include the original recording (the words had been changed to paraphrase  Mormon scripture…2 Nephi: 4 and the name of the song changed to I Love the Lord) but the enthusiastic, grateful responses from people who had also been searching included the performance video from YouTube!  I promptly sent it to Darren. He wrote back to me in just a few minutes and was delighted, moved, and grateful.

Early yesterday morning, I rounded the corner in my subdivision to see a lone mourning dove standing in the road. Almost white in my headlights, it did not move. I slowed down and had almost come to a stop when it took flight toward me; wings fluttering up over the roof of my car.

Driving home last night, I phoned my brother in response to his text… “Had I listened to the song yet?” I knew he wanted to talk about it. With Mom’s quiet reserve, he told me how much he was hurting. He confessed he had spent much of the night before in tears, almost beside himself missing her.

Of her four children, Mom was closest to her only son. She and Darren spoke by phone daily. He came to depend greatly on her counsel and perspective. I have no doubt her unwavering devotion was a constant, empowering force.

Even my own loss seems to pale in comparison when I consider how intertwined the two of them were with each other’s daily lives.

We talked about the beautiful words to the original Be Still My Soul, and how “Mom” they are. He told me that he had been reading Mom’s old e-mails. During a particularly trying time a few years ago, she had sent him the lyrics to comfort and encourage him.

She was doing it again.

Reaching out to send messages of love she knew we would both understand.

Bonnie Rae’s Daughter

When I started this blog almost two years ago, I was driven mostly by grief. Something cataclysmic had happened to me and I needed an outlet for all the new, overwhelming feelings that accompanied my mother’s death. I wrote about things I often couldn’t say out loud. Over the months that followed, I kept writing and created a journal of life’s adventures and realizations.

And for months, I wrote nothing.

Today, on the two-year anniversary of my mother’s death, I want to write again. The memories of that day and the ones that followed are still painful. The burden of Mom’s prolonged struggle and the trauma of watching her take her last breath left me scarred and changed. Losing her altered the way the world feels. It left me with an identity crisis from which I have yet to recover.

I miss being Bonnie Rae’s daughter. I realize now how much I relished this role. The highs and lows of loving her and of being loved by her will never be matched. Being my mother’s oldest daughter with our history and drama is a bigger part of me than I ever acknowledged…so much of who I am. 

After 730 days without her, here are the things I am missing:

• Knowing she is in the world, doing her own thing 100 miles away

• Knowing she is waiting at the end of my excited, rock-and-roll blaring,
   very fast drives to Cache Valley

• Laughing with her and Dad at the kitchen table

• Talking with her for hours, sitting at each end of the comfy couch

• Her thankfulness and gratitude for every gift or kindness

• Her southern grace and reserve

• Her drop-everything-to-listen and be-with-you charm

• Her smell

• Her voice and the way she said my name

Now I am her.

I am the mother. And like her, I have three daughters…it is melancholy mothering déjà vu. Not surprising, I feel Mom’s spirit (and miss her most) when I am with my girls. They crave and seek my acceptance of their individuality. It insures that my relationship with each is unique and evolving…I love that. They energize me with their perspective and opinions. They make me think. They make me laugh. Being with them lifts me up.

I also secretly believe that some of their youthful beauty rubs off on me with every hug.

Like Mom did with me and my sisters, I sometimes can’t separate myself from my daughter’s struggles. I worry and hurt with and for them. And I am humbled by all the times my dramas sent Mom sprawling on her bed in tears.

Being a mother to daughters has helped me see Mom in a more compassionate, empathetic light. Parenting is hard. She never gave up trying to get it right, even though her childhood was filled with poverty, anger and desperation.

She used to tell me, “It is never too late to try again to do better.”

For all the remaining days that I am blessed to be a mother, I will cherish most what I learned from being Bonnie Rae’s daughter.

I miss you Mom….

Rising Above

There are so many conversations I wish I could have had with my Mother. By the time I realized the gravity of what was happening, she was no longer able to be in the present with me. She was already consumed by the battle; alternately fighting to live and struggling to accept a mind and body conspiring to leave us.

I had been trying to show her my love and gratitude for months before; with more visits, more phone calls, with gifts, small luxuries and a dream trip with memories to cherish. I wonder if she knew all that was being said with those gestures…I hope so.

But at the end, I needed her to tell me what to do, how to cope, and how she wanted me to carry on. If she had left behind some departing instructions, full of all her experience and wisdom, I could have reflected on her words, and used them as guideposts for the millions of minutes I have been so very lost without her. But this was not to be…

In my search for others who have found themselves motherless and who might understand the accompanying devastation, I came across a staggeringly beautiful tribute site created by a 23-year old women named Emmy. She lost her mother to ovarian cancer in March of 2009 and since then has posted thoughts, music and pictures dedicated to her “mummy”. Her site is called grieving gracefully (in lowercase like a whisper).  Here’s an excerpt from my favorite post:

“Rise above this, Rise above Emmy”

is what my dear mother stressed to me one afternoon ( hands clenched ever so tightly that I could feel her hand pulsing in mine) in her bedroom.

She talked of what she expected from her daughter. Her last moments of crucial parenting before she left for her new home in heaven.

I sat down with a notepad in hand prepared to write down every word she told me and all i wrote was “rise above”- dated March 4th, 2009.

That one hazy afternoon we talked of life in the future. We were about to be separated worlds apart and she needed to know that I would carry on to the best of my ability. I made a promise in my head that day that I would “rise above”- I wouldn’t be that young woman who lost her mother and it broke her. I would be strong. I would rise above and show other’s that I conquered. Just like her.

We learned to LIVE. to LOVE to a higher degree. to be grateful for every second we are given and to see this LIFE as the greatest gift.

Our eyes opened in the darkest hour.

Death never took her away from us. Death could never separate us from our LOVE.

Choose to “Rise Above”

I am envious. Emmy and her Mom confronted what was happening to them, and talked about the end and beyond. As I read this, I try to imagine what Mom would have said to me and the catharsis I believe would have come from hearing her say the words.

Perhaps Mom was always trying to show me in her Bonnie Rae-unique, wonderful, quiet ways how much she loved me; to prepare me for what she would want me to do in the life left without her.

And hoping I would know.


Sunset in Key West

Secession (derived from the Latin term secessio) is the act of withdrawing from an organization, union, or  political entity.  Secession also can be a strategy for achieving other, more personal goals…

….like Perspective.  

First a little history:

In 1982, the United States Border Patrol set up a roadblock and inspection point on US1, the only road connecting the Florida Keys with the mainland.   Vehicles were routinely stopped and searched for drugs and illegal immigrants. 

The Key West City Council complained repeatedly about the inconvenience for travelers to and from Key West, claiming that it hurt the Keys’ important tourism industry.

Their complaints were ignored by the federal government.  Attempts to win an injunction against the roadblock failed in court.  On April 23,  the Council launched their protest by declaring Key West’s independence and secession from the union.

Protesters believed that since the federal government had set up the equivalent of a border station as if they were a foreign nation, they sure as hell might as well become one. 

As many of the local citizens were referred to as Conchs, the nation took the name of the Conch Republic.

It gets better.  

The Mayor was proclaimed Prime Minister of the Republic, which immediately declared war against the U.S. (symbolically breaking a loaf of stale Cuban bread over the head of a man dressed in a naval uniform).  They surrendered after one minute (to the man in the uniform), and applied for one billion dollars in foreign aid!

The roadblock and inspection station were removed. 

Traveling (seceding) to the Keys is one of the most unique driving experiences in America.  You are part of a vehicle processional along a narrow road,  which includes crossing several bridges with only the turquoise Atlantic on both sides.  It is 122 miles at 50 mph with plenty of time for reflection.  

When you arrive in the Conch Republic, you have entered a place where relaxation reigns. The locals and tourists gather every night at Mallory Square to watch the sunset and celebrate like it might be their last.  

The people bask in their freedom from the trappings of urban bustle and a disregard for the opinions of others.  So many Jimmy Buffet wannabes. Men with ponytails, earrings and Tommy Bahama shirts. People so tan they could be skinned for shoes or purses. Virtually NO children (seriously), giant strollers or parents clamoring to pacify the “precious”. Just Hedonistic Adult Nirvana!

But it is a tourist trap with a proud history. “We are laid back and friendly, but Don’t F**k with Us”  is the undercurrent of this peaceful, easy feeling.  I suspect even the 60+ six-toed cats who roam the famous Hemingway House have more attitude than usual to spare. The bars feature live music all the time and beckon to you that everything will be okay…especially after a few drinks.

Sometimes there is no substitute for Distance.  You may find relaxation at home or somewhere else in your town.  But oh, the epiphanies that await you after a few thousand miles and a margarita!  Looking back at your life lets you see more clearly your options for moving forward.  It is the best gift you can give your psyche.

By the way, you can apply for a passport from the Conch Republic.  I plan to carry mine proudly.  

I might even mark my calendar for April 23, and celebrate the Conch Republic’s Independence Day, inspired by the mission of the local organizing committee.  They call themselves Sovereign State of Mind and “seek only to bring more Humor, Warmth, and Respect to a world in sore need of all three”.

Viva la Conch!

Into the Mystic

Standing: Dorothy, Margaret, Frank, John, Agnes, Wynell, Faye. Seated: Joann, Bonnie Rae (Mom), Carol

The Peacocks are almost gone.  With my Aunt Wynell’s death on Friday night,  just Frank and Carol are left now.  Hearing the news, I am caught off guard by the returning ache of loss.  It feels like losing more of Mom , and I have been made melancholy by the memories flooding back to haunt me.

When my Dad  married my mother the year before I was born, he immediately moved her from her desert home in Arizona to live in the shadow of the everlasting hills (and the snow) of rural Utah.  He may not have anticipated how homesick she would always be.  Isn’t it ironic? We leave home like escapees from prison, only to discover from a new perspective all that we have left behind.  The realization that in some ways we can NEVER go home again makes it even more bittersweet and beautiful as we grow.
In magical summers long gone by, Mom, my younger sister Katy Jo and I would ride the Greyhound bus nearly 700 miles to the Peacock Family Reunion.  We rode all night, stopping in every cow town along the way, only to arrive tired and wilted in the Phoenix heat.  The Peacock gatherings were big in every way.  Big personalities, big laughter and big talking sessions… often into the wee hours of the morning.  Mom’s delight at being home again among her family was palpable and I knew there would be lots of tears when it came time to leave. 
Here is how I will remember each of Mom’s siblings:
Dorothy:  Friendly, welcoming and hospitable…everyone congregated at her home.  Smoked like a train.  Had a laugh that made me laugh.  Came with cute cousins; a bonus.
Margaret:  Elegant and pretty…great clothes.  She wore the most fantastic turquoise jewelry, and was crazy in love with her handsome husband, Johnny.  Smart, reserved and clever.
Frank:  Handsome with a voice that boomed.   He took over the energy of any room he was in.  Severely burned when he crashed his plane while crop-dusting.  Even without ears, he was charming and had an unforgettable swagger.

John:  The quiet, serious brother.  Chose to see himself as an outcast…strong opinions and really thick glasses.
Agnes:  Old-fashioned beautiful; extremely proper.  Spoke slowly with a melodic Alabama drawl.  The quintessential kind, genteel southern woman.  
Wynell:  Outspoken and blunt.  Smoked in public and later in private; lied about it. Way ahead of Madonna with her large pointy bras….we called them “torpedoes”.  Talking to Wynell was similar to the Spanish Inquisition.  She was going to ask the questions and you were going to answer. 
Faye:  Sweet, beautiful Faye suffered from some sort of mental illness that was never spoken about; at least not to us kids.  She would wander, sedated from room to room, and we were kept mostly away.  Her husband, Ernest always wore a coat, even in 100-plus degree heat and was a rock hound.  I met him once and his gentle kindness still lingers.
Joann:  The fashion-model with a smart-ass attitude to match her looks. Charismatic and funny. She came to pick us up from the bus station once in a multicolored pantsuit with horizontal stripes.  She turned heads and  jaws dropped.  She was scandalous and outspoken and loved every minute of it!

Carol:  The quiet, rich sister.  Married to a Montana oil man, she was shy and always seemed to be running from the poverty she had come from.  We saw her the most; but I knew the least about her. She and Mom were kindred spirits, far from home and family.  She is also the last remaining daughter of John and Katie Mae Peacock.

Knowing them all changed me.  These unique, flawed, wonderfully interesting people shaped my attitudes about family and togetherness.  I watched and learned as my mother loved and forgave them.  They were her touchstones for growth and her way to measure how far from the house by the train tracks she had come.  
Today I miss Mom with a renewed, but familiar pain.  I understand more than ever her longing for family and reunions; in this life and in our hope for what comes after.  
These are the spirits who welcomed Mom when she left us.

I like to think of them together now; returned again to their prime, just the way they were those summers so long ago. 

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