For the state of virtue is the restitution of the soul's powers to their former nobility and the convergence of the principal virtues in an activity that accords with nature.
Nikitas Stithatos.
Today is a glorious day. Bright sun, bright blue sky, breezes bending the pines and grasses--all in all a simply bodacious day. So, I put my hat on my head and my stick in my hand and took a short walk toward the end of my dirt road in front of the house. As I approached the place where it disappears down the hill and into the woods, it reminded me of the "road less traveled." It certainly is a "less traveled" road as it winds gently down the hill and disappears into the shade by the creekside. I guess my whole life has been one, long journey down a road less traveled; but I don't mind. I've come this far; I might as well go the distance.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth
Then took the other as just as fair And having perhaps the better claim Because it was grassy and wanted wear Though as for that, the passing there Had worn them really about the same
And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet, knowing how way leads onto way I doubted if I should ever come back
I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence Two roads diverged in a wood And I took the one less traveled by And that has made all the difference
It's been raining here. Today. Yesterday. Day before yesterday. In fact, it's been raining about four days out of every seven here. The ground is sodden. Farmers' plants are drowning and being washed out of their gardens. I can literally sit and watch my grass grow. My yard is boggy in places, and we can't mow in all this water. My thermometer read 54F this afternoon. It's WET and COLD here, and I'm dreaming of dry, sunny, warm days.
So, I've been making use of my shawl to keep my shoulders warm, and trying to learn how to project a video from my computer to our TV set. Hubby really wants to do this. It's been difficult for my old brain to wrap around this, and actually I could not even make a start of it without the patient help of my son, who is an IT Tech specialist. After many hours of frustration, we managed to get the job done. Wires are hanging down all over the place from my shelves, but I guess that can't be helped considering the way things are set up.
Right now I am listening to one of my cats "knead biscuits," and another one snoring on the back of the couch. The sky is that deep, blue/purple of early night, and it's quiet outside. The birds have gone to bed, today's storm is over, and not a creature is about. I'm taking a little time to unwind and just be. Soon I will take up my book, read a few pages, maybe make a cup of hot chocolate, then head to bed. It's been a stressful and frustrating day, and I'm ready for some quiet introspection.
Much has happened since that day. Forgiveness, for one thing; but these are my memories of that day and the few days following.
On May 14, 1988, a Sunday morning, I had stayed home from Church to finish a paper I was writing for my Master's degree. It was a "Lit" paper and it was due in a week; so, I broke a life-time rule and stayed home from Church to finish it. I had taken the phone off the hook so that I wouldn't be distracted. As it turns out, I was distracted, anyway.
Towards mid-morning, two policemen knocked on my door. When I saw them, my blood ran cold, and I thought my husband had been in an accident on the way home from Church and was hurt, or one of my children. So I sat down. I'll never forget the looks on their faces. They were holding their hats in their hands and twisting them around and around, so I knew something bad had happened. Men just don't take their hats off any more when they come into a house or meet a lady. They told me to call my brother. I said, “Which one.” They just looked at each other. They didn't know which one. So I called my younger brother, Michael. He was always the protector; the first to come to your aid and fight for you, even though he was the “baby” of the family and so much younger. He was aptly named. I guessed correctly.
I called Michael while the two policemen stood in my dining area twisting their caps in their hands and alternately looking at me, the floor, and each other. As soon as Mike answered, he said, “Josh is dead.”
A storm entered my brain, and blackness swirled behind my eyes. “Did you say, 'dead'? Who is dead? What do you mean, 'dead'?” I couldn't understand this word. What did it mean?
“Yes, there are 27 bodies burned and melted together so much that they can't tell one body from another.”
“They're all burned and melted together? They can't separate the bodies?” At this point I saw out of the corner of my eye the policemen quietly leave.
I can't describe the mental images going through my mind at that moment. Where was Becky, their mother and my sister? Where was Larry, their father? What happened? Why???
A drunken man was driving the wrong way down an interstate highway and had hit head on the yellow school bus which had become their Church bus. The gas tank exploded into a ball of fire at the front of the bus, blocking the children's and chaperons' exit. Black, acrid smoke from the vinyl seats mixed in the air with the searing flames. Screams and prayers filled the air as everyone fell and climbed over each other in a frantic effort to get out the back emergency door. Once outside, children and adults were burning. One man, his body all aflame like a torch, stood with arms outstretched as he burned, flames leaping from his whole body, and cried, “Lord, I'm coming home!” The children and adults who managed to get outside of the bus lay burning as passers by stopped and rushed to give what aid they could. Those trapped in the bus piled up near the emergency door.
When the injured had been taken to hospital, and chaos reigned, rumors abounded. Mothers and fathers rushing frantically searching for their children. Someone said that Josh had managed to get out of the bus by climbing out of a window, but he had gone back in to rescue his younger brother Aaron. When he got back into the bus, he found Aaron and pushed him out of a window as Aaron burned, then Josh collapsed.
Outside the bus, Aaron's body burned, and he lay on the ground silent while a kind passer by talked with him and did what he could until the paramedics got him to the hospital. Aaron's lungs were completely filled with black soot. He was burned over almost 90% of his body—his tissue had been literally on fire. The doctors said he couldn't live. My sister, ashen faced and moving as if in a dream, stayed at the hospital while her other son was buried. She said, “I must stay with the living.” She lived in that hospital for days and weeks until he could come home. Even then, he had to wear a body suit that covered even his face for a year to prevent the scars from becoming too thick. I don't even know how many plastic surgeries he endured. It is truly a miracle that Aaron survived. He was twelve years old, if I remember correctly.
At Josh's funeral, everybody kept coming up to me, hugging me, crying, and asking how I was. I was perplexed until someone in the family reminded me of how much I look like my sister. I hadn't realized how much until then. Becky did not attend her son's funeral. She was at the hospital tending to the living. It was a closed casket. We didn't know “how much” of Josh was in that black bag hidden in the fancy box, but we hoped it was all him and not mostly him and maybe bits of some of his friends. As the funeral processed to the graveyard, people in their yards along the road stopped and bowed their heads. Cars pulled over and stopped. I really don't remember the graveside service. My memory stops there.
Aaron survived, grew up, married and has children of his own, but he has excluded his mother completely from his life. She has not seen her grandchildren since they were born.
Josh died at fifteen years of age.
My sister Rebecca and her husband Larry divorced a few years after the accident.
Larry Mahoney, the drunk driver, was seriously injured, but recovered. He was convicted and sentenced to seventeen years in prison and served eight of those years. He lives with this every day, and the forgiveness that has been given to him from the victims' families.
It's Springtime here in north central Alabama. Just the past couple of days the privet and honeysuckle have opened their blossoms, and the air is fragrant with their perfume. The blackberries are blooming all over the place, extending this rather cool and long "Blackberry Winter." All of the narcissus and tulips long ago bloomed and died back. Except for one bush, my peonies, after a blaze of glory, have dropped their petals and are now turning their energies to developing fat seed pods.
We have a small asparagus patch up behind the house which we are trying to extend. Every spring we take a small handful of the first sprouts to enjoy with a first, spring salad or meal. Then we leave the rest to grow into a tiny, ferny forest, bloom, and set their fruit. We hope that they will drop their seeds and make our little patch larger. Asparagus in bloom looks rather uninteresting and mundane, even with it's pretty, ferny texture. However, if you get close, you can see the myriad of tiny, pale green bell-shaped flowers covering the plant. They are so delicate and unassuming in their beauty and elegance. If I hadn't stopped and gotten close, I would have missed this.
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