In Recognition of Jacqueline Sanders.

In Recognition of Jacqueline Sanders.

     Mother’s day has come and gone and while driving to work I realized that I hadn’t written anything about my Mother, Step-Mother, wife or any other special Mother who is in my life. But since everyone usually writes some sort of tribute to their Mother, I thought I would write about someone who isn’t a Mother yet and how one little act of kindness made an impact on my life. That person is Jacqueline Sanders.

     This saga begins way back in the fall of 1984. Without much fanfare, my family sent me off to college after I graduated High School. My father and step mother footed the bill and my mother had high hopes for me although she was unable to contribute because she was a social worker and didn’t have much money (My father and Step-mother hadn’t hit it big yet so paying for my school was a hardship that they lovingly endured).

     So I head off to college with everything paid for (car, dorm room, meal-plan, books and spending money: Every serious student’s dream) and promptly failed every class I took with the exception of a D in freshman comp. My father and step-mother were disappointed but my mother was broken hearted. She had always valued education and it was a dream of hers that both of her children graduate college. My older sister had graduated the University of Oklahoma the year before. Note: My Mother received her Bachelor’s degree in her 20’s and her Masters of Information Science in her 50’s.

     My father took a hard stance and sent me packing to the working world and let me flounder there for a couple of years before sending me off to trade school. Trade school was the best option for me as I was not focused enough for university studies. Fast forward 12 years and I found myself reasonably successful as an industrial electrician but down inside; I still felt like I had disappointed my family (my Mother in particular).

     At 35 years old, I still couldn’t shake this feeling of disappointment I had imagined from my family so I decided to take matters in my own hands. I enrolled in Community college and began the arduous task of getting a degree. It took me almost 5 years to complete the 2 year requirements for an associate’s degree (I know 5 years seems a long time but I was working full time and trying to support a family). My family was supportive and my mother was always interested in my classes and insisted I send her my school papers for her to read.

     So now I was ready for the university. I didn’t’ put much thought into a major; I simply asked myself what classes did I do the best in and what did I enjoy the most. The answer was English (that answer was pivotal as it put me in trajectory with the heroine of our story). I was just a few months shy of 40 when I enrolled at the University of Houston-Downtown. It was summer 2006 and I had just started my classes when I received word that my Mother had been diagnosed with colon cancer. I knew I couldn’t draw this out for 5 more years so I increased my course load. I was in a race against time. I could never live with myself if my Mother died before I graduated.

     As my coursework progressed so did the cancer that was killing my Mother. I had managed to complete my coursework by the 2^nd summer session 2008 with the exception of one more class: Dr. Joe’s Contemporary Literature class. I was home free. I knew my Mother could make it another 6 weeks but I wasn’t sure about much more past that.

     So here I go. I showed up at school the first day of class and took the elevator to the 4^th floor and marched down the hallway with an air of confidence knowing that my quest would soon be over and that soon, I will have regained my families honor and fulfilled my Mothers dying wishes. Imagine my disappointment, when I opened the door to the class, to find there were only 4 students including myself. I asked Dr. Joe if the class was going to make and he told me that it needed at least 5 students for the University to keep it open. I was in full panic mode. I didn’t know what to do. (Enter Jackie Sanders) I called my friend Jackie and told her I needed a favor and asked her to take the class. Jackie had already finished her graduation requirements in the first summer session and had, in effect; already graduated (I did not tell Jackie why this class was so critical to me as I usually can’t tolerate hard-luck or sympathy stories). So what did Jackie do? She signed up for the class (And on at least one occasion, she brought sardines to class and her rat a couple of times after that). The class made and I completed my graduation requirements on August, 7 2008 at 9:45 A.M. (I remember this because I wrote it down). I got to my car after class and called my Mom. She was overjoyed and we both ended up bawling together over the phone.

     My Mother died 10 months later and was able to come to my graduation. One could argue that if the class didn’t make I could have simply taken one in the fall and that everything would be alright. But it’s not that simple and, given the uncertainty that cancer deals, nobody knew. So with that I extend my undying gratitude to Jackie Sanders. I Love You Jackie…Happy Mother’s Day. 

    

                                          Mom before the cancer.

                                          Uncle Gary and Aunt Francie.

                                         Mom in her last months. (In pain but still a sport)

                                         Step-Daughter and Nieces.

                                             Dad and Step-Mom.

                                          Wife and Sister-in-Law.

                                         Sister and Brother-in-Law.

                                         Mother and father-in-Law.

                                         Cousin Sam.

                                         Libby and Claire.

Cousin Nancy and Husband Chris.

                 Freda Duckworth-Hunsaker-Christopher 1942-2009

The Bright Flash

The Bright Flash.

     I rose from my desk and went out the door without saying a word to my co-workers and left them to their stupor. We were all in a stupor as were everyone else trapped in the, hand knitted, gill net of not figuring a way out of this. I went to the elevator and went to the ground floor and walked the grounds. Since the layoffs, the grounds were empty and I was alone. Layoffs are lonely for those of us who make it—if you want to call it that. What was once a sense of pride at being selected to stay has since become a source of shame. Meaning, did they keep me because I was needed and necessary or is it because they knew I would roll over without much of a fight.

     Walking the grounds didn’t offer much solace as did strolling through what was left of the once magnificent gardens. This place was once known for its gardens. Now, only the hardiest of plants survive and the more delicate and fragrant plants are allowed to die in place then dug up and thrown away without ceremony. Sort of like when my Yellow Tang died when we went away on vacation. We came home and he wasn’t there—the poor Tang absorbed into the ecosystem leaving only the hardy fish though none of them were as graceful as the Tang. 

     I left the gardens and went back to the elevator and went to the roof on the 6^th floor. I looked west over the city then east toward the refineries. There was nothing. Other than the automobiles on the freeway or the occasional airplane, there were no signs of life. And even though the cars and planes were in motion, there was nothing to suggest that they were occupied—just moving hunks of metal that were going where they were told to go by an invisible hand orchestrating where and when things are suppose to be.

     So looking over the desolate and moving city, I had this sensation that somewhere, some faction or individual was going to detonate a nuclear bomb somewhere in the city. This left me with a dilemma: should I stare into the flash and be instantly blinded (rationalizing that a literal blinding light would be spectacular) or should I try to shield my eyes from the initial blast then watch the city become engulfed in the shockwave (rationalizing that watching a city be obliterated would be a spectacular sight). Realizing that both options would result in me being vaporized; I wondered should I go into the basement where I would survive the initial blast yet die of some hideous cancer: one of those that quickly attacks sensitive and painful areas but leaves critical organs intact as to prolong the agony. So now I have three options: witness a spectacular bright flash(and die), watch a city be decimated(and die), or get some hideous cancer (and still die). I thought the latter would be more desirable because with that extra time I was sure I could construct some special prayer that would ensure me a spot in heaven and further; would being on a morphine drip be really that bad. I mean, a lucid and dreamlike state would be better than being de-animate. Then I thought, what if I couldn’t find morphine and what if this special prayer I were to construct would somehow backfire and, rather than grant me passage to heaven, it would conjure some sort of wood spirit that would torment me relentlessly. 

     After about thirty minutes, I realized that there wasn’t going to be a detonation—or at least one that I would be aware of or could prepare for. So I grew tired of the roof and went to the elevator. I rode the elevator down to my workstation wondering to myself why I always had this sense of doom though nothing terrible had ever happened to me. And I also thought about these ridiculous fears I have like being struck by lightning, sucked up into a tornado, or being in an airplane crash and of the precautions I take to avoid them. Like I simply don’t fly to avoid the plane crash and I wear a rubber slicker suit and refuse to be around metallic umbrellas during lightning storms. Then sometimes when I think there’s going to be a tornado, I’ll go to a large sturdy building full of innocent people—the kind of innocent people that God would not strike down just to take me out. But even with this, I wonder why I don’t seem to have a problem with hurricanes or smoking or excessive alcohol use and germs: it seems I rarely, if ever, get sick.

     So I made it back to my desk and one of my my co-worker was complaining about the stock market, homosexuals and other things that made him unhappy. After a few minutes of this, I rose from my desk and walked over to the window and searched, desperately, for the spectacular bright flash.