I remember those anxious hours, waiting for word from my son, his office just a short walk to the Trade Center. Had he stopped there for coffee? Was he okay? My fear soon grew into panic.

When we think of 9/11, aren’t we all aghast by the senseless madness of evil? And don’t we all mourn the innocent victims, while we salute the heroes who ran into danger?

Shortly after the attack, I visited my son in New York City. He had not yet gone to the site, explaining only that he could not. So, I walked alone through the Lower East Side, silently praying.

The stench of the remains of life confronted me, while the air hung heavily with debris. As I walked I came across a mountain of flowers, in front of a FDNY Ladder Company. Most of its crew had lost their lives, risking everything in the hope that they could save even one. In that moment, I understood why my son could not walk these streets, for I, a stranger, could barely.

Going further, I went into the Grand Central Station. The walls of its long corridor were covered with hundreds upon hundreds of photographs of the missing, as well as letters from loved ones asking for help. Old faces, young faces, white faces, black and brown faces – the faces of innocent victims unrecovered. 

9/11 is a day of remembrance, and who is not hushed by its solemnness? But it is not simply about remembering the victims; it is about remembering who we are.

Behind the man-made atrocities of life, from the war-torn streets of Aleppo to the terror in an Orlando nightclub and the horror of 9/11, there are those who craft a world of hate and clothe it in rhetoric. Why do we humans listen or follow?

If we could remember who we are, I think miracles would abound.

I leave you with this beautiful message of hope:

Dear readers, I invite you to visit my new website and follow. www.gwenmplano I'd love to meet you via its pages. 

Monday I fly to New York City for my youngest son’s wedding. I’ve started packing and now realize how accustomed I’ve become to retired life. My daily wear of t-shirts and jeans betrays me. I hadn't foreseen the challenge of finding a suitable dress.

Along with packing I’m flooded with memories of my son, of piano lessons and football practices, of puppies and gerbils, of skateboards and so much more.

As I think back to these early years, I remember the struggle to balance work with my children’s needs. I never felt I could do enough, though I now marvel at what I achieved. I’d drive my four kids to the mountain lifts in the early morning, so they could ski or snowboard. I’d take them to their practices and games -- baseball, soccer, football and for my daughter, ballet. It was a very busy time in my life, but so, so precious.

I mention the above, because all parents struggle to balance the details of life for their families. They want only the best for their children. Like parents everywhere, nothing makes me happier than seeing my children happy. And, like parents everywhere, nothing saddens me more than my children hurting for one reason or another. This point brings me to today's tragic events. 

Just a short while ago, students in Santa Fe, TX were senselessly killed. My heart breaks for these youngsters and especially for their mothers and fathers who are facing the most crushing of life’s blows. In a bullet’s split second, their worlds were turned upside down. Their hopes of seeing their son or daughter walk down the aisle, lost forever.

I imagine these parents are thinking back through the years of their daughter or son's life. They are remembering the ball games, the dancing classes, the ordinary things of life. And, they are wishing they could have done more. Don't we all wish similarly?

What can any of us do to offer support for a parent knowing such profound grief?

​I have no answers, but I am surrounding these mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers with tenderness. It may be that loving prayer is all that any of us can offer. We cannot replace what has been taken, no words can soften that horror. 

May these young people rest in God's holy peace and may their parents find solace through friends and family. And may we collectively create sacred space - where life is held dear. 

We carry two calendars in our heart. One tracks the tragedies, the other our joys. We usually don’t think about these interior calendars, until someone or something hurts us. It is then that we become aware of the past month, the past year, and our life in general.

We use these inner calendars as a measurement of the worthiness of life. Though not visible markers of time, they hold real events. When our tragedies overlap, we can lose balance and with it, our sense of perspective. It is then that we say things, harsh things, about ourselves or others. Hurt becomes all that we know, and we lash out. We want others to feel our pain.

If laughter fills the months of our other calendar, we live unaware of its shadow. We see but don’t see the suffering around us. We live oblivious to pain and imagine joy is our right. Because of this, we are even more upset when hardship comes our way. We question why me.

My calendar of the last twelve months is very full. Medical challenges and my mom’s passing top the list, but there were other difficulties as well. If it weren’t for my friend Joyce, I might have been overwhelmed.

Joyce is wheelchair-bound. Guillain-Barre changed her life overnight. Her courage and determination help others summon the same. Though I don’t have a fraction of her strength, her example provides a direction for me. She chooses to see beauty rather than brokenness, and irrespective of the difficulty, she sees a gift.
​
We are surrounded by hurting people. The impatient clerk at the grocery store, the rude driver on the freeway, the yelling couple down the street. We are not alone, but alone we stand unless we reach. This song from R.E.M. hit home for me; perhaps it will for you as well. ♥ 

​I grew up in the wild west, on an isolated farm in the California desert.

My dad left the house before daybreak and returned as the sun set. He spent each day in the fields, managing the water, driving the tractors. My siblings and I helped on the farm. I’ve been up to my knees in mud trying to fill a gopher hole, I’ve walked the fields to check on the irrigation, I’ve picked cotton.

Always Dad carried a shotgun in his pickup. And, he made sure each of us knew how to use it. When he took us into the Chocolate Mountains, however, he brought his pistol. We'd climb into his homemade dune buggy and drive through the rugged terrain. On one such trip, we discovered a cave and my sibs and I decided to explore the darkness. The chilling sound of rattles drove us back out. I never liked snakes. Dad didn’t like snakes either. He took his pistol, walked into the cave, and one shot later he emerged holding the rattlesnake by its tail.

I have many stories like this. Gun stories. But, I also have car stories.

By the time I was eleven, I knew how to drive. Dad showed me the gauges and taught me to manually shift gears. This proved invaluable one day as I needed to drive mom to the hospital fifteen miles from our home; I was just twelve at the time.

Dad made sure his kids knew how to handle guns and cars. They were a necessary part of our lives on the farm.

I currently live in the mountains, in a bountiful hunting area. Children are taught how to use a rifle and or a bow. It is part of their lives. There is nothing sinister about this practice.

Over the span of my career in higher education, I’ve been bedside in hospitals dozens of time with college students who drank too much, who drove foolishly, who got in fights, who overdosed on drugs, or did something else foolish. Young people do foolish things, especially when they are not taught consequences.

Guns and cars are dangerous in the hands of those who do not know how to use them appropriately. They are not partisan objects. Democrats and Republicans own guns and cars.

We must to do something about gun violence, rhetoric simply divides and most of us are sick of  it. Why are assault weapons legal, why are high capacity magazines available, why are guns sold to the unstable? The answer, from my vantage point, is that people would rather point a finger than insist on appropriate legislation. Our children are demanding change, and they deserve our thoughtful response through our elected representatives.  

Recently I was asked, "when you wrote your memoir, what section was the most difficult?"   

This was an interesting question for me to consider, because my book is about the journey of life, and as any of us can attest, the journey includes deep sorrows. I cried a lot when I wrote my book, because my heart was free to do so. But, my struggle was not about sorrows. 

The most difficult writing task for me was sharing experiences of angels. My career in education was built on logic and proven facts; my experiences of angels defied such knowledge. To publicly share these encounters meant risking credibility. The angel visitations were like nothing I had ever known, and I felt very vulnerable writing about them. Yet, these ethereal beings were integral to my life story, so in the end, I chose to speak my truth and let readers decide as they may.

This past week I have been with my mom as she gave her final goodbyes. Her strength, courage and faith brought me to tears many times. Perhaps hardest to endure was seeing her suffer. Today she was freed of that suffering, freed of confusion, freed of all binds. With just one slow exhalation, she left us. 

And then we felt it, joy. And many sensed it, angels. And, together, we cried. 

Mom's tiny body had carried nine children and held dozens of grandchildren. In the end, there was little left of her body; but, those fragile remains held a mighty spirit, a spirit that reached through our tears and offered consolation. When visitors stopped by to see mom, many mentioned celestial beings. 

C.S. Lewis wrote, "Miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see." And so I wonder, what would our world look like if we could see these miracles? Would we realize that we are never alone? 

by Gwendolyn M Plano

Throughout this year of turmoil, I have had one recurrent feeling - gratitude. It sneaks up on me when I walk alongside the lake, but it also surprises me when I do the laundry. Whether involved with the extraordinary or the mundane, I am frequently overwhelmed by this sentiment. Like a child on a teeter totter, I move from laughter to tears and from tears to laughter in just seconds. Both erupt from joy. But why?

During an era when trust eludes us, when weather threatens us, when countries terrorize us, and when elected officials leave us gasping, why would any of us feel gratitude?

For the last six weeks, I’ve been dealing with a cerebrospinal fluid leak requiring a lot of bed rest. I know the ceiling of my bedroom very well now. I can tell you exactly where there’s been a bump or a misplaced stroke of a paintbrush. But, I can also tell you, that as I drifted between worlds, material and otherworldly, I saw that consciousness is distinct from the body. As much as our body defines us, it is not who we are.
 
One day when lying flat on my back counting the ceiling tiles, the book John W. Howell and I have co-authored came to mind. The Contract will be published in early summer, and as the title suggests, it involves a contract. In my supine position, I realized that just as the characters had a contract, so did I. And, because of my circumstances, I was provided the opportunity to imagine what my life contract might be.

I walked through the decades looking at what I had learned. Through sorrow came joy, through deprivation came generosity, through fear came hope. I realized the gift of life’s unique challenges, the gift of my CSF leak, for I understood how each hurdle brought me to a place of vulnerability, close to my heart.

We see differently when life brings us to our heart. 

During this season of hope, I am grateful to be alive. There is much yet to see and to experience, and there is so much I still need to do, books to write, grandchildren to hug, friends to embrace. The world needs my loving, your loving, our loving. But, loving requires us to be close to our heart. 

I might be a dreamer, but I can't help but wonder, if we could fast from negativity and re-frame our lives to ones of grateful living, wouldn't hearts soften and wouldn't dreams come alive?
 
I have been on quite a journey this year. I suspect you have as well. It's been one of those years that will claim its mark in history. But, thinking through the months, I've realized that there has been one constant - you. Thank you for accompanying me this year. You are family and from you, I have learned so much.

I have two wishes: that 2018 will surprise us with laughter and each of us will remember or find hopeful maybes. 
​

​​Today is Veterans Day, and to all the veterans, my heartfelt thank you for your service. Though I did not serve, my dad, my husband, my brother, many cousins all served or are currently serving in the military. During WWII, my mom and her twin joined thousands of other young women to work as a Rosie the Riveter. It was the “patriotic thing to do,” my mom explained.

Her comment came alive for me a few days ago, when I read this statement by Dr. Ronald Tiersky, distinguished professor of political science at Amherst College. He wrote:

        Patriotism is fundamental to liberty because pride in one’s nation-state, and a willingness to defend it if necessary, is the basis of national independence. Patriotism is the courage of national self-determination.
     By contrast, nationalism is patriotism transformed into a sentiment of superiority and aggression toward other countries. Nationalism is the poisonous idea that one’s country is superior to somebody else’s. Nationalism is intrinsically a cause of war and imperialism.

This day, this week is always tearful for me. The friends who did not return and the friends who still carry the weight of war, bring me to a place of sorrow and yet profound gratitude. I wish I could repair the hearts of mourners, the minds of the traumatized, the bodies of the broken. But, I can’t. I can only honor their courage and their efforts by how I live.

When our National Anthem is played, my thoughts are always focused on the courageous masses who have offered me the gift of freedom. For them I stand, for them I sing. The hope, the dream is liberty and justice for all – not just me, or you, for all. It is a weighty dream, but collectively, there is the possibility that it can become a reality, don't you agree? 
​
Perhaps our collective hope depends on you and me. The veterans have created a path for us; but, we need to embrace the dream.

If there is to be liberty and justice for all, I suspect you and I must summon the courage of patriotism and do our part to make the dream a reality through the everyday choices we make.   
​

​We all face them – the final goodbyes to loved ones. Almost a year ago, my dad passed away. Now, my mom is preparing for the same journey. Tears come easily these days and with those tears, memories.

I hadn’t expected to travel back to my childhood while watching mom take her leave, but scenes have resurrected drawing me through the years, to exchanges between mom and me. One such scene follows...

I was about 5 or 6 years old and was helping mom with the wash. We had a Maytag wringer washer outside in the shed. She was busy with the fifth baby and asked me to wring the clothes and hang them on the line.

All was fine - until my hair got caught in the rollers.

     “Do you remember that day, Mom?”

     “Oh yes, I remember. I was feeding your brother when you screamed. I laid him on the floor and ran out to see what was the matter.”

     “I was so scared, mom. I couldn’t move; my head was against the washing machine.”

     “I know, your hair was entangled in the rollers. When I got to you, I immediately pulled the plug and unscrewed the roller cover to release the pins. I was scared too, Gwen. It could have been much worse.”

Mom glanced at the floor as a tear rolled from her eye.

     “I did the best I could,” she whispered.

     “Mom, you gave each of us so much. Look at us now, the seven of us, we’re doing well. You taught us how.”

     “Well, I want you to know that I tried. I realize now how much I depended on you, even when you were little.”

     I smiled and said, “I think that’s why I became a school administrator, mom. I didn’t need any training to do that job.”

Mom giggled, and in that instant, I saw her as a little child and me as her mother.

     “Rest now, okay? I love you very much and am so grateful for all that you’ve done for me and everyone else.”

Mom closed her eyes, and I quietly wept.

​Soon, I will be saying my final goodbye.  

by Gwendolyn M Plano

                                                           LIVE OR DIE
                                                       by Harmony Kent
 
     Sometimes, you need to accept help. Sometimes, you need to admit that you need it. Sometimes, you need to take the hand that’s offered. You reached out and took my arm. I let you. I took the assistance I needed. I gripped your hand so that you could pull me to my feet. The last thing I needed was for you to slit my wrists. So much blood. All that carnage. My heart ripped right out of my chest.
     I did my best.
​     Though, what kind of an epitaph is that?
     Do I want that immortalised on my headstone?
     Does that adequately sum up a life?
     What about all the rest?
     At the end of the day, what’s left to show for all that struggle, all that pain?
     Right now, only one thing remains certain, that things can never be the same. That river? Already crossed. That road? Already travelled. That life? Already lived.
     No going back. Not ever.
     Going forward, though? Now, there’s the question.
     For this gal, only one choice remains. Live or die?
 
     Sometimes, you need to accept help. Once bitten, twice shy and all that, though, ya know? Truth be told, I’ve come to the end. Like I said, no going back. The rub is that I can’t go on either. The wind whips my hair into my face and throws cold pellets of rain at me. I shiver and dig deep for the courage. Never did like heights, yet here I stand. To jump or not to jump? That is the question.
     The darkness wraps around me and locks the breath in my lungs and my feet in place—leaves me perched here in a daze. The metal burns cold within my death grip. With pulse racing, I edge my left foot forward a couple of centimetres, and then bring the right one up level. Perforce, I have to let go of the steel girders now. I’ve taken a step too far. Sweat breaks free from every pore and soaks this trembling mass of flesh, muscle, and sinew. With a heart this broken, how does it even continue on?
     ‘Miss? Are you okay? … Miss?’
     At the unexpected voice, I twist and startle. A man reaches for me, indistinct in the arc-sodium lights.
     ‘Miss? Here, take my hand.’
     A sudden gust buffets me from behind, and I stumble forward, a scream frozen in my terrified throat. All of a sudden, it hits me, I don’t want to die. Too late, however, as I’m off balance and too close to the edge. Dimly, as I fall, I see that it’s not about living or dying but about having the choice. It seems the wind has finished your job for you. Limp and spent, I plummet to the waiting river below, which sends up cold plumes of spray and waves like open arms welcoming me in and under to die beneath.
 
     Sometimes, you need to admit that you need it. At the first swallow of brackish water, I swallow my pride, and every molecule of this being cries out for help. I should have grabbed his hand. Should have, but could I have? Would I have if given the chance? More ice-cold water pours into my throat and drowns my lungs. All the philosophising ceases as it becomes a fight for life. The cold pierces and stabs like a knife.
     Tired and afraid, and no longer quite so numb, I kick, searching for the surface. Already, my limbs have gone stiff. The pressure in my chest has grown unbearable, and I have to take a breath, even though I know it will mean certain death. I just can’t do it. Can’t hold it all in anymore. Bubbles erupt when the life-giving air breaks free of my now open lips.
     They show me the way when they float up, up, and up.
     For a second, I hesitate. Do I go for it or not? Here is my chance for total surrender. To not have to fight any further. Do I have the energy? The will? At the end of the day, what’s left to show for all that struggle, all that pain?
     I did my best, but I don’t want that on my epitaph.
     My legs kick and arms stroke, pushing through the murk and trying for air. With this exhaustion and cold, I doubt I’ll get there. By now, the bubbles have long gone, but I’ve come near enough to discern the orange city glow. Not far now. One more kick. One more. That’s it. Just one more.
 
     Sometimes, you need to take the hand that’s offered. I come to, afloat on my back, and the icy waves provide my waterbed. Way up high, atop the bridge, come the blues-and-twos, as the emergency services rush to the scene of my demise. Don’t they realise that I’ve fallen too far from reach? Beyond any assistance or redemption.
     It seems as if hours pass me by while I drift in and out and upon. This time, a deafening roar causes me to rouse. A shadow flies through the sky, trailing a bright beam. The search is on. These arctic temperatures have other ideas—so much so that I’ve begun to feel warm. A bad sign. Sleepy too.
     Impossibly white light hits me and burns my eyes. I raise a hand to cover them and, immediately, lose my buoyancy and sink back into the dark. The search light now glows dimly above the water. Too tired, too cold, too done to even try and fight, I let the river have its way.
     The universe has other ideas, it seems, and once again, I lose the choice. Strong hands grip my armpits and haul me upward. To the artificially lit night and the cold and the air and the despair. Oh, love, what did you do to me? So much blood. All that carnage. All those lies and abuse. What’s the use?
 
     You reached out and took my arm. It all unfolded in a blur and strobe-like snapshots—the winch into the helicopter, the medi-flight, and them getting me here. Trouble is, I think they left my heart there.
     A nurse bustles into the private room and pulls apart the drapes. ‘Time to let in some light,’ she says. Oh, how wrong could she be? The last thing I want to do is see. Right now, only one thing remains certain, that things can never be the same. I want to stay in the dark; hide from my shame.
     ‘You have a visitor.’ Her voice sounds far too bubbly. It hurts. ‘The police officer who tried to help on the bridge.’ A shadow crosses her face. Then she gets busy tidying the bedding and then me. ‘I’ll just go and show him in.’ Once again, I don’t get a choice. No time to find my voice.
     The door opens slowly, and I lay with baited breath. A young man eases in, dark hair and chocolate eyes, with a smile that feels like the most glorious sunrise. ‘May I?’
     His question gives me pause. Never before did anyone ask my permission. Dumbstruck, I give a mere nod. My visitor edges to the bed and takes a seat on the hard plastic chair that the nurse placed there. We sit in silence for a while, and then his eyes find my scars. So many. Clouds snuff out that beautiful dawn and darken his face.
     Now, he’ll make his excuses and take his leave. He’s done his bit. But no. Instead, he takes my hand. Looks into my eyes. Somewhere from the edges, I register that he doesn’t have on his uniform. ‘It’s okay,’ he tells me, fingers rubbing mine. ‘You’re safe now. We’ll make this right.’
     Uninvited, a sob brings the elephant right into the room. ‘No one can,’ I croak.
     ‘It’s okay. He won’t hurt you again.’
     ‘You know who I am?’
     He nods, gives my hand a squeeze. ‘We know everything.’
     All I want to do is shrivel up and crawl within.
     With both hands, he reaches out and takes my arms. I let him. He seems an angel in human form, and I feel safe within his embrace. Into my hair, he whispers, ‘It’s okay. I’ve got you. I got you now.’
     Can I take the leap of faith?
     Now, there’s the question.
     Live or die?

Harmony Kent RWISA Author Page

​                                     THE LEGEND OF TOKYO ROSE
                        
It was the summer of 1941 and for a young California woman named Iva Toguri it was a time filled with promise and endless possibilities.
 
The previous June Iva had graduated from UCLA with a bachelor's degree in zoology, she had a shiny Chrysler, and she was planning on attending graduate school in the fall so she could begin a career as a medical researcher or perhaps even a doctor.  
 
The daughter of hardworking Japanese immigrants, Iva had been brought up to be a confident, optimistic American. And why not? After all, she was born in Los Angeles on the 4th of July--and you can't get more American than that.
 
But in the summer of 1941 the world was not a place that could easily match the hopes and expectations of a 25-year-old UCLA graduate.
 
In Europe, a war was raging and the forces of Adolf Hitler's Third Reich occupied or controlled most of the continent. In Asia, Imperial Japan, under the leadership of a clique of hardcore militarists, was in control of China, the Korean Peninsula, Taiwan and a segment of the South Seas ceded to it after World War I.
 
Conflict and discord were the prevailing truths of the day, and as Iva Toguri stood on the brink of her future an ominous cloud of world war hung in the warm summer air. 
 
Thus it was not without some trepidation that Toguri's ailing mother asked Iva to represent the American side of the Toguri family at the bedside of a dying aunt in Tokyo. It was a bit risky, but someone had to go; and on July 5, 1941, one day after her 25th birthday, Iva was on a slow boat to Japan. She spoke no Japanese, had never been to Japan and had never met her aunt.
 
It would be a fateful journey, one that would alter Iva Toguri's life forever and eventually introduce to the world one of its most enduring and erroneous myths: The Legend of “Tokyo Rose.”
 
Less than five months after arriving in Japan and not long after her sick aunt had recovered, Japanese warplanes swooped down on a place called Pearl Harbor. For Iva Toguri and millions of others, the future went from bright to black in a matter of moments. And the lights would not come back on until August 1945, when Japan surrendered.
 
But for Iva Toguri, the war did not end in 1945 as it did for so many others. Four years later Iva Toguri would stand in a San Francisco courtroom, one of only a few American women ever convicted of treason. In the minds of millions of Americans Iva Toguri was the one and only "Tokyo Rose," the name American GIs in the Pacific had given to several women radio announcers who played scratchy Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman records during propaganda radio shows broadcast in English from Tokyo and elsewhere in Asia.
 
Iva’s conviction on just one of eight counts of treason came despite the testimony of G.I.s who called the Radio Tokyo "Zero Hour" broadcasts she made morale boosters and despite evidence which showed she was just one of 13 English-speaking women announcers broadcasting from Tokyo at the time. Another 14 women had broadcast from cities throughout Asia and the Pacific that were occupied by the Imperial Japanese Army.  Interestingly, not one of them called herself “Tokyo Rose.”  (The only radio alias Iva Toguri ever used during her 15-minute segment of popular music was the name "Orphan Ann" because, as she often said during her broadcasts, she was an announcer who had been orphaned in Tokyo by the war.)
 
Not even the absence of a written record or an electronic recording of the single "treasonous" broadcast she was supposed to have made stopped her conviction. That broadcast came after a crushing U.S. Naval victory in Leyte Gulf of the Philippines in which she allegedly said:
    
"Orphans of the Pacific, you really are orphans now. How will you get home now that all your ships are sunk?"
 
Most Americans listening to that would have seen through the facetious tone of those words, no matter who said them, and understood that it was a broadcast meant more for members of the defeated Imperial Japanese Navy than for the victorious U.S. Navy. Even more important, however, was the fact that Iva never said those words.
 
Nevertheless, in 1949 in a San Francisco Federal courtroom as she, her family and her corps of defense attorneys led by the late Wayne Mortimer Collins looked on, Iva was sentenced to 10 years in prison and a $10,000 fine. She served six years and two months of her sentence in the Alderson Federal Reformatory in West Virginia which would much later house Martha Stewart. But more importantly her conviction sentenced Iva Toguri to a life of disgrace and deep inner pain that only those falsely accused and convicted can ever understand.
 
Some vindication came in a series of exclusive stories I reported and wrote in 1976 while serving as the Chicago Tribune's Tokyo Bureau Chief and Chief Asia Correspondent.
 
Two key prosecution witnesses, after 27 years of silence, wanted to ease their consciences. They admitted to me that they were forced by U.S. Justice Department and FBI officials to lie, tell half-truths and withhold vital information at the trial. It was on the basis of their coerced and false testimony that the jury had found Iva guilty. (Article 3 of the Constitution states that treason shall consist only in levying war against the United States or in giving aid and comfort to its enemies and that conviction may be had only on the testimony of two witnesses to the same overt act or on confession in open court).
 
The two witnesses, Kenkichi Oki and George Mitsushio—both California-born Japanese-Americans—were Iva's superiors on Radio Tokyo's "Zero Hour" radio program. Oki was the show's production manager and Mitsushio was program director. Oki and Mitsushio testified they had heard Iva make the so-called "Orphans of the Pacific" broadcast about Leyte Gulf in October 1944 when in fact she never did.  
 
The "Zero Hour" was produced under coercion by Allied prisoners of war, and while the Imperial Japanese government saw it as a way to broadcast propaganda to American GIs fighting in the Pacific, the POWs and Iva saw it as a way to sabotage the Japanese war effort.
 
That's the way the occupation forces of Gen. Douglas MacArthur saw it too when on April 17, 1946, following 11 months of Iva's incarceration in Tokyo's Sugamo prison along with such Class A Japanese war criminals as former Prime Minister Hideki Tojo, the U.S. Army Legal Section issued the following report:
 
"There is no evidence that Iva Toguri ever broadcast greetings to units by name and location, or predicted military movements or attacks, indicating access to secret military information and plans."
 
Then, in October 1946 a U.S. Justice Department investigation of Iva concluded:
 
"Iva Toguri's activities, particularly in view of the innocuous nature of her broadcasts, are not sufficient to warrant prosecution for treason."
 
It was obvious that the U.S. authorities in Tokyo were willing to let bygones be bygones. And they were willing to accept the reasons for Iva Toguri's voluntary participation in the Zero Hour show: that like most of the 10,000 Japanese-Americans stranded in Tokyo during the war, she had taken the job to sustain herself while she was basically a hostage in a hostile environment.
 
Furthermore, she had been assured by the American and Australian POWs who wrote the scripts she read, that she was doing nothing unpatriotic--and indeed that what they were doing might even help the allied war effort.
 
That was especially important to Iva, because unlike all the other Japanese-Americans who participated in the Zero Hour broadcasts, she had steadfastly refused to give up her American citizenship, despite being threatened and pushed to do so by Imperial Japan's dreaded "kempeitai" secret police. In fact, her pro-American sentiments often got her into arguments with Japanese members of the Zero Hour staff. On several occasions she risked arrest and even death to smuggle food and medical supplies to Allied POW’s in Tokyo.
    
In 1948, Iva petitioned to return to the United States and Chicago, where her family had resettled following the war.
 
When word leaked out that the notorious "Tokyo Rose" was trying to reenter the United States, much of the U.S. press took exception. Radio columnist Walter Winchell unleashed a series of broadcasts attacking then U.S. Atty. Gen. Tom Clark for "laxness" in dealing with "Tokyo Rose." Pressure steadily built on the Truman administration to "make an example" of somebody. That "somebody" was to be Iva Toguri.
 
         It made no difference that Iva Toguri bore no resemblance in appearance or deed to the fictitious and seductive Oriental woman American G.I.s fantasized about while sitting in their jungle foxholes. Nor did the fact that U.S. Occupation forces already had investigated Iva and cleared her of any activity that could be construed as treasonous.
 
It was an election year and the administration of President Harry S Truman could not afford to be seen as being soft on alleged wartime spies and turncoats. Atty. Gen. Clark dispatched investigators to Tokyo to look into the Tokyo Rose case. They found that Iva Toguri was the only person associated with the "Zero Hour" show who was still an American citizen and hence, still subject to U.S. law. So Clark began to build a case against Iva and told justice department attorney Tom de Wolfe to "prosecute it vigorously."
 
In 1945 Iva had married Filipe J. d'Aquino, who was born in Yokohama of a Portuguese father and a Japanese mother. In 1948 the couple's child, who Iva desperately wanted to be born in the United States, died at birth. The two remained together until her conviction and then, following decades of forced separation, they divorced in 1980. After Iva's release from prison, she could not get a U.S. passport to travel and d'Aquino, while in San Francisco for the trial, had been told by the FBI never to return to the United States, "or else."
 
The case against Iva Toguri was flimsy at best. Something had to be done to strengthen it. So FBI agents in Tokyo rounded up all of those involved in the "Zero Hour" broadcasts and applied the kind of pressure that most any Japanese-American at the time could understand.
 
"We had no choice," Oki told me in 1976 after I had convinced him and Mitsushio to meet me in Tokyo. "The FBI and U.S. Occupation police told us we would have to testify against Iva or else they said Uncle Sam might arrange a trial for us too—or worse.  We were flown to San Francisco from Tokyo and along with other government witnesses, we were told what to say and what not to say two hours every morning for a month before the trial started.
 
"Even though I was a government witness against her, I can say today that Iva Toguri was innocent: she never did anything treasonable…she never said the words that got her convicted," Oki said. "It was all a lie. Iva never had a chance. And all I can say now is that I am truly sorry for my part in her conviction. I hope she can find it in her heart to forgive us."
 
My stories containing details of Oki and Mitsushio’s confession of perjury, as well as interviews with her former husband Phil d’Aquino and others who had worked with Iva on the Zero Hour, appeared in March 1976 and were carried around the world.
 
 On January 19, 1977, President Gerald Ford, in his last official act in office, granted Iva Toguri a full and unconditional pardon. While the historic pardon was an attempt to correct the injustice done to Iva Toguri, the individual, it also served to raise awareness of the unfair treatment Japanese-Americans received at the time from the federal and some state governments.
 
The fact Iva Toguri became the first person in American history to be pardoned following a treason conviction, speaks volumes about her own indomitable spirit and the determination of those who supported her crusade for justice, say leaders in the Japanese-American community.
 
Others say the pardon also says something about the deeply-ingrained sense of fair play that permeates American society and which manifests itself, albeit sometimes belatedly, in the media, the courts and, in Toguri's case, the White House.
 
July 4, 2006 marked Iva Toguri’s 90th birthday and for almost 65 of those 90 years she had to live with the myth that she was “Tokyo Rose.”  
 
Some vindication came in January 2006 in a quiet, private ceremony held in a restaurant on Chicago’s north side when Iva received the Edward J. Herlihy Citizenship Award from the World War II Veterans Committee. (Herlihy was a radio broadcaster who was known as the “Voice of WW II” for his narration of Universal Newsreels). It was a twist of irony not lost on those in attendance.
 
I was privileged to be one of those invited to the ceremony, along with members of Iva’s family and a handful of close friends like former CBS news anchor Bill Kurtis, who has known Iva since the late 1960s, and Hollywood producer Barbara Trembley, who is working to produce a major feature film about Iva and her struggles.
 
Iva pushed back tears as she accepted the award.
 
“This is such a great honor,” she said. “For so many years I wanted to be positive about this whole thing. I wanted to honor my father and my family. They believed in me through all the things that happened to me. I thank the World War II Veterans Committee for making this the most memorable day of my life.”
 
In 1991 Iva and I met in the same restaurant. She had invited me to dinner to thank me for the series of stories I had written that resulted in the Presidential pardon. Incredibly, even though Iva and I were linked by the stories I had written we had never met face to face.
 
"You know, if it hadn't been for your stories I never would have received my pardon," Iva told me. "I would still be a criminal. You started the ball rolling. And now, after all this time, I just want to say thank you. It’s long overdue."
 
I hadn't come to dinner in search of any recognition or thanks. I just wanted to meet the woman whose story had fascinated me years before and sent me on a search for the truth. I wanted finally to separate the woman from the myth; to detach Iva Toguri the person from "Tokyo Rose" the World War II caricature. I wanted to meet the woman that fertile G.I. imaginations had turned into some torrid kimono-clad Mata Hari.
 
The woman sitting across from me was certainly no Mata Hari. Here was a woman with kind eyes, a gracious smile and an admirable ability to put things into perspective.
 
"I've put all that behind me now," Iva said, speaking of her ordeals in wartime Tokyo, in San Francisco's federal court, and in prison.
 
"I'm only sorry that my father never lived to see me pardoned. He died in 1972. But he believed in me until the end.
 
"'I'm proud of you Iva,' he used to tell me. You were like a tiger...you never changed your stripes...you stayed American through and through.'”
 
"Am I bitter? No, what good does it do to be bitter?" Iva said. Then she thought for a moment. There were exceptions to that blanket forgiveness.
 
"In your stories Oki and Mitsushio asked for my forgiveness. But how could I ever forgive them for what they did to me?"
 
Both Oki and Mitsushio are dead now, as is Iva, who passed away in 2006 at the age of 90.
 
During one of our many meetings, Iva told me that her biggest wish was to have her story told accurately someday in a film or play. There have been a few books written—most of them unauthorized—about Iva’s ordeal, but they have done little to set the record straight.
 
“People tend to remember a story when it is dramatized and told in a theatrical way,” she said. “As for a book, I would like to tell my story in my own words.”
Iva may finally get her wish. A play about the Legend of Tokyo Rose is currently in the works and I plan to write a book using Iva’s first person narrative based on hundreds of hours of recorded interviews and my personal notes.
 
Finally, after years of disappointment and heartbreak, Iva’s story will be told the way she wanted it told—truthfully and conscientiously.
 
But most important, the Legend of Tokyo Rose will finally be put to rest along with other historical myths and deceptions such as Big Foot, the Piltdown man, and the Loch Ness Monster.
 
My only regret is that Iva will not be here to experience her vindication.

                                       Ronald E. Yates RWISA Author Page

​                                                                  The 136
                                                            by Michelle Abbott
​
I can do this. I can make it. Wet hair plastered to my head, gasping, I propel myself toward my target. The 136 bus. My heel catches on a crack in the pavement. My ankle twists sideways, sending a sharp pain up my leg. Wincing, I hobble towards the stop, just as the bus closes its doors and pulls away.

“Ahhh,” I scream in frustration.

“Here, use my umbrella.”

His voice startles me. I was so focused on catching the bus, I never noticed him until now. I must have had a serious case of tunnel vision, because he stands out a mile with his cornflower blue, spiky hair. He holds a large, black umbrella out to me.

Leaning against the post of the bus stop, to take the pressure off my throbbing ankle, I shake my head.

“Thank you, but you keep it.  I’m already wet, and it would be a shame to ruin your hair.”

He shrugs.  “It’s only hair. My umbrella is big enough for two.”

I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. Is he hitting on me? What’s wrong with the man? He looks twenty-five if he’s a day. I’m twice his age. Old enough to be his mother.

Mother.

I pick tendrils of damp hair from my forehead.

“I know what you must be thinking, but I’m just trying to do a good turn. You have nothing to fear from me, I promise.” He shelters us both with his umbrella. “You look like you’re having a bad day.”

As I listen to the rain split splat, I lean down to rub my sore ankle.

“Please let me help you.” He slips his arm through mine. “We can sit on that bench. We’ll be able to see the bus coming from there.”

With his assistance, I limp across to the empty, wooden bench that faces the road. “I just missed my bus; the next one won’t be along for an hour.” I sit down, past caring whether I get a wet spot on my skirt. “Are you waiting for a bus?”

He looks so calm, and serene.

“Yes, the 136.”

 “Oh no. You didn’t miss it because of me, did you?” I frown.

“I wasn’t running for it.” He gives me a kind smile. “I have all the time in the world.”

A car drives through a puddle, splashing dirty water onto the pavement.

“I’ve got no one to rush home to either.” Maybe it’s his kind smile, maybe I just need to off load. “My husband moved out last week, left me for a woman your age.”

I hope he feels every bit his fifty-four years every second he’s with her.

“I’m sorry.”

What has it come to when I’m sitting in a downpour, telling my sob story to a stranger with blue hair? “She’s all form and no substance. If his head was turned that easily, he’s no loss.” I hold out my hand. If I’m telling the poor man my life story, the least I should do is introduce myself. “My name’s Carol.” I look into his ice blue eyes, surprised by the wisdom I see there.

“Do you have children together, Carol?”

Babies.

I stare at my feet. My heel is scuffed, and my stockings are damp. “Two daughters, they’re both grown-up.”

“Nothing beats a mother’s love for her children.” He reaches into the pocket of his long black coat, and pulls out a pack of mints. “Would you like one?”

We sit in silence, sucking on mints. The sky turns orange as the sun sets. I pull my jacket around me to keep out the chill. Behind us, a shop owner pulls down the metal security shutters of his store.

I’m curious to know more about this man, who claims he has all the time in the world. “It will be late when you get home. Do you have someone, or do you live alone?”

The street lamps come on. I watch the reflection of the light in the puddles.

“I have a loving family.”

Family.

In this moment, I feel so alone. Tears mingle with the raindrops on my cheeks. “I’m pregnant.”

The events of last week replay in my mind. Me, feeling sick every morning. Me, looking at the blue line on the pregnancy test. Me, buying a second test that gave me the same result.

“How does something like this happen to a woman my age? I’m going through the menopause; I haven’t had a period in a year. How can I be pregnant? How? Why? Why did this happen when my husband has left me?”

“What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.” He rests his hand on my shoulder.

“That was my mother’s favourite saying.” I wipe my cheeks. “She passed away five years ago.”

He hands me a tissue. “I’m certain she’s watching over you, and that you make her proud.”

“Pregnant at fifty-one.” I blow into the tissue. “I’m sure she’s delighted.” I let out a hollow laugh.

“How old were you when you had your daughters?”

“I was twenty-two when I had Patricia. Diane came along when I was twenty-five.”

“You learn as you go with your first, don’t you?”

For the first time I smile. “Yes, I was clueless. None of the classes prepare you for being a mother. You hold the life of your child in your hands. It’s so much responsibility.” I turn to face him. “Do you have children?”

He shakes his head. “I’m sure you know more about parenting now, than you did then.”

“Yes I do.”

“It’s hard when you’re young isn’t it? You’re trying to make your way up the career ladder. Struggling to save for a home.”

I nod.

“Those things get easier as you get older, don’t they?”

“Yes they do.” I’m on a good wage. I own a spacious home in a good area.

“You have more time, more understanding, and more patience.”

I nod.

“And you’re wiser. You know what really matters.”

I let out a laugh. “You make being old sound wonderful.” He really does.

He raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t it?”

I recall my childhood, how I hated having to do as I was told. How I would get upset at the smallest things. I remember my angst filled teenage years, being unhappy with my appearance. The heartbreak when the boys I thought I loved dumped me. I have a vivid memory of how stressful early parenthood was.

I study him. “You’re wise for someone so young.”

“Am I?”

The rain has stopped. He collapses his umbrella.

“Nothing is ever as bad as it seems, Carol. A child is a gift. A new start. Someone to love.”

​Someone to love. A new start.

I sit up straighter. He’s right. I can do this. I have a nice home, money, and a heart full of love.

“Oh look, here’s your bus.”

Already? Have we been talking for an hour? I glance at my watch. Only twenty minutes have passed. The brakes of the bus screech as it pulls up.

As I root in my purse for my fare, I hear him say, “I’m glad I could help.”

“Let’s sit together.” I glance behind me. “I want to thank...” The words die in my throat. No one is there. I look left and right, but the street is empty. Goosebumps spread across my skin.

“Are you getting on love?” the driver calls.

          ​Since I was a child, I’ve been haunted by the big questions of life that usually begin with WHY? I couldn’t understand suffering, for example. It seemed to befall friends and family indiscriminately and leave a terrifying wake. I’d cry before crucifixes and look to the heavens for answers. But, mostly, I found only more tears.

Reading Suzanne Burke’s book, Empty Chairs, brought me back to my youthful pleas. And, yes, I cried again – deep, wrenching tears.

I don’t know if any book has touched me as deeply as this book. It isn’t perfectly written, but the story is masterfully told. What do I mean? There are typos, there are misspellings, but the writing is so powerful that it takes the reader into the soul of a little child who is horribly mistreated.

Australian author Suzanne Burke writes about her experience of unspeakable abuse from very early childhood until she finally escapes to the streets at age eleven. From the perspective of a toddler and through years of horror, the reader experiences the pain and the confusion that accompanies unspeakable violation. Terror becomes real.

Why read this book? It is a testimony to the human spirit – to that which can destroy and to that which can defy such debasement and emerge whole and loving.

I am reminded of the words of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross. “The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of those depths.” Empty Chairs is about such a journey, and Suzanne Burke is one of those “beautiful people.” 

​Today's tragic events at a baseball practice in Virginia prompt a reflection on violence - violent words and violent actions. It's a topic most of us would like to ignore, but sadly, we cannot because we are its victims. 

​                                                             ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

           My country, the United States of America, is armed. Not just the South, as Northerners like to imagine. Not just the inner cities, as suburban folks might suggest. The entire country is armed – from New York to Florida, from Chicago to the Gulf States, from Seattle to Arizona. But, why?

Are we all afraid of the drug dealers down the street or the thieves who prey on innocents? Why are we armed? I suspect that the real reason we are armed is because of the precipice at which we stand - the chasm of failed trust.

We’ve suffered through a very contentious election process. If it weren’t battering enough to listen to months of ugliness, we now deal with post-election nastiness - which erupted today in the cowardly shooting of unarmed people. 

As a person who has experienced violence up close and personal, who has known diminishment because of my gender, who has been ridiculed because of what I believe, I know what it is to be considered valueless. But I also know what it takes to face that abyss straight on. 

My heroes, those who accompany me through life, are Harriett Tubman and Martin Luther King, Jr, Nelson Mandela and Bishop Tutu. They walked a path marked by courage, choosing non-violence over hate, as they traveled into the heart of conflict and sorrow. Their path is one I believe we need to embrace.

We see the evidence and surely we must know that a choice for violence in words or deeds is a choice to destroy. The rhetoric defending such actions moves me not. I may be old and foolish, but I believe we each can summon the courage to bridge the divide, to restore trust in humankind. 

You and I ultimately hold the possibility of hope for our country, for our world. Plato's words "Always be kind, for everyone is fighting a hard battle," get to the heart of the problem.  If we find ourselves hating someone or someones, we need to pause, because hate unraveled reveals a hurting heart. 

I care about our country – profoundly. I care about my loved ones – profoundly. I care about our beautiful earth – profoundly. And, I know that all that I love, all that I care about, teeters on your choice and mine. 

If we could summon the courage to attend to our hurting hearts, would we still feel the need to lash out in word or deed to blame another for our misery? ​I wonder, don't you?

In just a week, it will be Valentine’s Day. For Hallmark Cards, online and local flower stores, and all vendors of chocolate, this is the day for trumpeting Love – new love, old love, healed love, remembered love. It is a time when hopes and memories meet at the hearth of life, and emerge either invigorated or scorched.

For Jan Sikes, an award-winning author, screenwriter and songwriter, love is the heart of life. She learned this the hard way, after her fiancé was incarcerated for 15 years for a crime he did not commit. When he was finally released, they married and began the difficult journey of creating a life together. Music was integral to their relationship and livelihood, and remained so until her husband passed away in 2009.

Jan has written a four-book series about her one love, Rick Sikes. In the books, she refers to Rick as "Luke" and herself as "Darlena." It was easier for Jan to write about their love through fictional names.

​The books follow the stages of their relationship. Flowers and Stone is set in raucous Texas honkytonks where Rick sang and played his guitar. The Convict and the Rose chronicles the time behind bars in Leavenworth Penitentiary. Home at Last captures the years after Rick was released from prison, and Till Death Do Us Part brings the reader to Rick’s final goodbye.

Jan is a friend and fellow member of the RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB. Because of Valentine's Day, she is offering a special promotion of Home at Last, during the week of February 12th through February 15th. It will be FREE on Amazon during that time. Having read the book myself, I can confidently say that you will thoroughly enjoy and be inspired by it. The hard-earned lessons, the bits and pieces of wisdom, and the deep and enduring love between the two will pull at your heartstrings. Jan and Rick are wonderful examples of love that has withstood the harshest challenges.

If you are looking for something to read this next week, I invite you to consider a real Texas love story. It will warm your heart and fill your senses. The YouTube trailer below features their music as well as offers a glimpse of the story - enjoy.  

Jan's contact information:
Website: http://www.jansikes.com/  
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/jansmith.sikes  
Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/rijanjks   
Blog: http://www.rijanjks.wordpress.com

     Last week we joined friends for a local performance of It’s a Wonderful Life. I can’t count the number of times I’ve watched this film or seen the play, but this year one particular line struck me.

​Clarence the angel says, “Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole...”

It’s been quite a year, hasn’t it? I suspect all of us have experienced the hole that Clarence refers to. In looking back across the months, to the friends and family members who are no longer with us, it can indeed seem awful.

Collectively, we’ve felt this absence through the leave-taking of several public figures, three of whom I write of today.  

Elie Wiesel (1928-2016) helped us remember, that which we want to forget. In his efforts, he taught us that in remembering, we grow in our humanity. The tenuous balance between good and evil tipped towards greatness through his efforts. We are better because of him.

Gwen Ifill (1955-2016) spoke her truth unflinchingly. Her love of justice and her unquestionable grace put the spotlight on the shadows of life and helped us do the same. Like Wiesel, we are better because of her.  

Leonard Cohen (1934-2016) reached into the closed areas of our soul and sang a Hallelujah that evoked our tears. His songs gave voice to that which swarms our hearts and colors our dreams. Like Wiesel and Ifill, we are better because of him.

There are days when we might wonder why we are here, or if there is anything we can offer. At times like this, think about these three individuals. One lived through the worst of human history and simply asked us to remember; another embraced her role as journalist and shared the importance of speaking our truth; and a third dared to let his heart sing and invited us to do the same. Their gifts are our own. We all can remember, we all can speak our truth, and we all can let our hearts sing.

During this time of miracles, when angels dance across the stages of our schools and theatres, when reindeers fly across the heavens, and Santa comes down the chimney, during this season of hope when the supernatural becomes the natural, I embrace the wonder of you. For I know that someday all too soon, a hole will appear where you once held me - by simply being beautiful you.

      This weekend we received our water bill, which included an interesting graphic. Who knew a bill could tell a story?  If you take a look, you’ll notice a slight rise in water usage in September. My grandchildren stayed with us that month and spent much of their time outside spraying water everywhere.
 
      You’ll also notice that a few months later, in December, we used 35,684 gallons of water. That story is not as joyful. Larry and I had driven to California over Thanksgiving for a family reunion. Other than a flat tire, the trip went smoothly. When we finally arrived home two weeks later, though, we opened the front door to find the house flooded. The culprit - a broken water filter under the kitchen sink.

      Standing water upstairs sent torrents of water downstairs. It was a catastrophe we could not have imagined. We called our insurance company, and within an hour or so of our return, a demolition crew tore up walls, ceilings, and flooring. Furniture was hauled away, books and photographs thrown in a large dumpster. Only two rooms were spared, and they became the storage spaces for the remains of a life we once knew.

      For the next four months, we lived week by week in different rentals. The only clothes we had were the ones we had packed for our cross-country trip.

      All of us are accustomed to convenience, to the simple act of opening a refrigerator and finding butter for toast or cream for coffee. We are comforted by familiarity, of knowing where the toothpaste is or the group photo of our children. We are attached to our “stuff”, the chair we sit in or the pillow that cradles our head. We don’t think about these things; they are the everyday part of our lives that go unnoticed – until they are no more.

      When we are shaken by tragedy, it is the everyday unimportant things of life that suddenly become meaningful. These replaceable, common items capture our focus. It’s easier to be frustrated at a missing comb than the vanity that once held it. It’s easier to complain about the stationary that we can’t find than our desk that was thrown on the mound of broken dreams. Tragedy leaves our hearts barren of perspective; and, we manage through the unimportant details of life.
​
      One way or another, we all emerge from our sorrow transformed. As the pieces of life return with some sense of order, we are surprised by laughter which had abandoned us and tears which we had ignored. And then, we discover that we are in love with life again – the people we meet, the sunrise and sunset, the flowers down the street. Our newly softened heart feels again, and we had doubted it was possible.

     The hospital had grown accustomed to my visits, a mother for the motherless in the middle of the night. As the Dean of Students at a Connecticut university, I was responsible for the well-being of students. Sometimes this role took me to the hospital.

     I hadn’t met Rick before the police called early one Friday morning. Like many students, he had been drinking at a local bar. His buddies returned to campus, but Rick refused to leave and continued drinking until he finally collapsed unresponsive on the floor.

     When I arrived at the hospital, I was told that Rick’s blood alcohol level was higher than any they had ever recorded. The doctor did not expect him to live.  

     I held this once robust nineteen-year-old’s hand for hours that night, listening to his every breath. I told him he had to live; I told him firmly – repeatedly. His parents needed him, I said. His friends needed him. He was too young to die; there were things he needed to do. He had to survive.

     As morning light began to flood the room, his parents arrived. They had driven from Massachusetts, knowing that they might never have a conversation with their son again. We spoke briefly, and I left to get my own sons ready for school.

     Two days later, I received word that Rick had regained consciousness. I went to the hospital to see him and talk with the parents. Rick did not know me and was perplexed when he saw me in the room. But as soon as I said, “Hello Rick, how are you feeling?” he responded. “I know who you are. I know your voice. You are the one who told me I had to live.”

     Because of Rick, I talk with those who cannot speak.  

     I mention this because earlier this month, my dad passed away. As he lay in a coma, I said my final goodbyes while holding his arm – the arm which prior to an accident had had a hand. Dad heard me through the weight of deep sleep and moved this arm. But, it was when I told him that all of his children would take care of mom, that his breathing changed. Slower and slower, it became – until it was no more. I could hear the I love you, as times past and dreams future embraced.

     If you are blessed to be bedside with someone who cannot speak, remember Rick and know that you might have the words that this person needs to be at peace.
​