Personal story – Page 5 – Tell Me Your Story

The Cat That Followed Me Home

(unedited)

Some people say that either you love cats or hate them. I have always loved cats, but it was the cat who followed me home that solidified my desire to have cats in my life. Cats, I learned, can be fiercely independent. Yet a cat will give love and affection when you require it most and ask for it in return.

Growing up, we always had dogs. For a short while, my family had a cat. Her name was Kitty Cat. I was a baby when we got our cat. Kitty Cat was part of our family. When we moved to Alaska, for the better part of a year, she and our dog came with us.

I don’t recall much about her, with the exception that I used to play with her on the stairs when we lived in Winnipeg, Manitoba. One day, when I was in kindergarten, I invited a friend (Stacey) over for the afternoon. I had grand plans to spend the afternoon with Stacey, both of us playing with Kitty Cat. When we came home, I couldn’t find our cat anywhere. I asked my mom and she said she didn’t know where Kitty Cat was.

That evening, my parents called my sister, brother and I to the basement, where we had a playroom. They had the three of us sit down. My father said “we have some really sad news…”. He then told us that Kitty Cat had been hit by a car and killed. Apparently, a neighbor had found our Kitty and put her in the trash can, in the back alley. That evening, when my parents had people in for dinner, my sister (two years older than me) and I walked hand in hand to the garbage can in the back alley, to say goodbye. That was my first experience with death and my last time having a cat as a pet for about two decades.

When I graduated from college, I went to Western Washington as part of a volunteer program. The first year that I was out west, I lived in a house with four other volunteers. One day my housemate, Charlie, brought home a cat. We named him Gooley, as that was the name of the house we lived in. His stay was not long. The addition of a pet was not unanimous. I think at least one of my housemates was allergic to cats. Also, we were on a budget, only being paid for our living expenses and a small stipend. I don’t remember what happened to Gooley, but I think Charlie found him a home.

When my year as a volunteer ended, another former volunteer and I moved into a two bedroom apartment, on the bottom floor of a house. My apartment-mate, Lisa, also loved cats and soon brought one home. The cat was part Manx and had not yet been spayed. She went into heat within days of taking up residence in our apartment and was constantly yowling to get out because of her estrus. I said to Lisa, “she should be name Ecstasy”. The beautiful Manx was named Tessy, short for ecstasy.

Lisa went went home to visit her family while Tessy was in heat. Not having had a cat of my own in many years, I didn’t realize quite how agile they are. The first night Lisa was gone, I left a high window open. When I awoke, I found the apartment empty. Tessy was nowhere to be found! Not knowing what else to do, I placed food and water outside the front door. A few days later, before my apartment-mate came back, Tessy found her way home. Knowing that the cat could be pregnant, I had to tell Lisa what had happened. Fortunately, there were no kittens on the way!

Less than a year after I moved in with Lisa, my time living in Seattle came to an end. I had been accepted to graduate school in Massachusetts. When looking for an apartment, I made sure it was one that would allow me to have a cat if I wanted one.

During graduate school, I walked to and from most of my classes. I felt a little lost and sad the fall of my first year, for various reasons. One evening, in late autumn, as I was walking home from class, I saw a cat and stopped to pet her. The cat must have sensed a kindred spirit in me because she followed me home. I stayed in the courtyard of my apartment building, petting and talking to the cat. Eventually, I went up to my apartment. Walking up the stairs, I told myself that if the cat was still in the courtyard upon my return, I would bring her in. When fifteen minutes had passed, I went down the four flights of stairs and outside. The pretty gray cat was waiting for me. I brought her inside and she lived with me for just a little while. It was obvious to me that this cat was not a stray. I contacted shelters to see if anyone was missing a cat. Finally, one of the shelters called me. They had heard from the owner who had moved away from the neighborhood several weeks before. The cat had escaped her new home and had wandered back to her old neighborhood. I was sad to see my new friend go, but was happy she found her family.

That Christmas, “Santa” gave me the promise of a cat. When I went back to Massachusetts after Christmas break, I put my name into various shelters specifying that I was looking for “blue” kittens. Early in the spring, I was told that someone was fostering a litter of the type of cat I was looking for, however there was a catch: I couldn’t adopt a single kitten, it had to be a pair. That is how I came home with two cats instead of one. The kittens were called Chloe and Blue and were brother and sister. The male cat, Blue, was all gray. Chloe, the female cat, was gray and white.

As the kittens grew into adulthood, Blue became big and lovable. He craved attention, however he was not the smartest. For an indoor cat he ran into all sorts of trouble that could have caused him great harm, but he was a cat with nine lives.

Chloe was the cat with the brains and more independent. She chose when to give you her attention and love. This soft, beautiful cat would have been the one to survive if she had been in the wild on her own. When I lived in a house in the country, there was a day she came up from the basement and deposited a gift at my feet. I let out a little scream as I realized that the “present” was a small live snake.

Chloe and Blue were my babies before I ever had kids of my own. If I went on a road trip, to visit friends or go to my cottage in Canada, they came with me. These sibling cats went through some of the greatest joys and sorrows that happened in my life: the beginning and ending of relationships; my first marriage and divorce; the birth of my eldest child when I was alone; my second marriage and the arrival of my middle and youngest children….

Sadly, when he was in his teens, Blue was diagnosed with diabetes. Having a kindergartner, a toddler, and a baby on the way, I made the choice not to treat the illness. I knew that there would be no consistency in his care. We kept him as comfortable as possible. One day, when he was 14, Blue couldn’t stand up. I knew it was time for him to leave me. I took Blue to the vet and sat with him until he fell into the eternal sleep, as I wept.

Chloe lived to a ripe old age of 18. When my father took his life in the fall of 2010, I think she kept living to see me through the grief. On my birthday, in the spring of 2011, I knew it was time to say good bye. With a heavy heart and tears running down my cheeks, I sat with my faithful companion as she was put to rest.

In the summer of 2011, having just arrived home from Canada, we had a phone call waiting for us on the answering machine; it was from our cat vet. She had a client who had taken in a pregnant stray. The man was putting the kittens up for adoption, and my vet knew that we no longer had any cats, so she called us. I wasn’t ready to bring a new feline into our family, but when my eldest heard the message on the answering machine, she said “we have to call about the kittens right away”. Of my three children, my oldest was the one who had been hit the hardest by her grandfather’s death and then the passing of Chloe. Even though I wasn’t ready, I thought it was important to see the kittens for my children’s sake; my husband, who claims he only tolerates cats, agreed.

One afternoon, when the kittens were almost old enough to be weaned from their mother, the man who was fostering the cats brought them over. I immediately fell in love with a tiny, affectionate kitten, who may have been the runt of the litter; it was obvious that she would love everybody. My husband picked a second kitten, who was larger, because he thought she had beautiful markings. Eventually these two kittens became ours. The larger of the two cats was named Snicker and the smaller one we called Doodle.

When we first got the kitties my husband said we should call them “Stinkers” and “Doo Doo” for short…remember he only “tolerates’ cats. The nicknames somewhat stuck, but more often than not Snicker was called Blue, and Doodle was called Chloe. Even I sometimes made the mistake and called them by the wrong names.

Doodle proved to be every bit as affectionate as she was on the day we met her. She, like Blue, craved love and attention, but was not very smart. The tiny kitty tried to get our dog (Murphy) to like her, but for the most part he didn’t pay attention to her.

Snicker, on the other hand, has always been intelligent, yet anxious. She took a long while to warm up to everyone. First Snicker only wanted my attention. Sometimes she was like a little dog and would wait for me at the bottom of the stairs. Eventually, she warmed up to my middle child and slowly to everyone else but Murphy.

Last Summer, while my youngest and I were away, my middle child took care of the cats. After a few weeks of us being away, it became obvious that Doodle was ill. My child and husband got our little kitty to the vet as soon as possible, but by then it was too late. Cats are apparently notorious for hiding their illnesses; that is what Doodle did. She had lymphoma. Although I know how hard it was on them, I was thankful my child and husband were with Doodle when she passed.

Upon arriving home from our summer away, I realized how skinny Snicker had become. I took her to the vet and then a specialist that our vet recommended. Originally, Snicker was diagnosed with hyperthyroidism. However the tests came back showing that the more immediate thing to treat was lymphoma. She has been on chemotherapy for a few months now and seems to be doing well.

For the better part of three decades, I have had cats as members of my family. Would my life and love for cats have turned out differently if I hadn’t been followed home by that empathetic feline? Maybe. However, it was the cat who followed me home that showed me how two lost souls could take care of each other, in spite of being different species.

Authors note: perhaps because Doodle and Blue were not the brightest of cats you might wonder why we Doodle was often called Chloe and Snicker (while Doodle was alive) was sometimes given Blue’s name.; this was because of the size comparison, not the intelligence.

Those That Remain

Last Thursday night, I laughed so hard I cried. Less than 24 hours later my tears were caused by sadness…

As a Christmas present for my husband, I had purchased tickets to a comedy show, along with an overnight in a nice hotel and some activities the following day; this event took place last Thursday and Friday. We left our 17 year old to watch our two remaining pets: Snicker (our aging cat with cancer) and Murphy (our elderly dog); this is something she has done before. However, Murphy had been acting odd since the beginning of the week.

I can’t remember the last time I laughed as hard as I did Thursday night at the show. The next morning I texted my 19 year old (who lives nearby) and asked her to go by the house to let our dog out, before she headed to work. Mid-morning, we received a text saying that Murphy was stumbling a lot. My husband and I made the decision to cut our day short and head home. As we drove, I began to wonder if that day would be Murphy’s last. Surely this beautiful spring day wouldn’t take away our beloved family member. With my heart heavy, the tears came to my eyes and I thought “I am not ready to grieve him yet.” In the last year and a half, three of our pets have died: one of our two cats (of the same cancer her sister, Snicker, now has) and my youngest daughter’s two Guinea pigs. Luckily, we do not yet have to mourn the loss of another animal. Murphy is OK for now. In fact, today, our 14 year old mutt appeared even spry as he lunged at an unsuspecting car on our morning walk.

Grief is a hard thing to experience. The mourning process is not only about the death of someone you loved, but it could also be the extreme sadness you feel at the ending of something: a relationship, a job, the person you were before something bad changed who you are now; these are just a small handful of things that can be mourned. People often suggest that the death of a pet helps children understand what it means to die. The problem is that it is almost impossible to teach someone how to grieve. Everyone’s mourning process is different. You can explain to someone the “stages of grieving” which are “denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance”, however everyone experiences these phases differently.

You might ask “Can the loss of a pet be as traumatic as the loss of someone you love?”. In my unprofessional opinion, the answer is, yes. Grief is mourning the loss of something or someone you love. The intensity and the process might be different, however the sadness is still there. Society treats the way we mourn our animal companions differently than the way we grieve our human loved ones:

“Although grief over the loss of a cherished pet may be as intense and even as lengthy as when a significant person in our life dies, our process of mourning is quite different. Many of the societal mechanisms of social and community support are absent when a pet dies. Few of us ask our employers for time off to grieve a beloved cat or dog because we fear doing so would paint us as overly sentimental, lacking in maturity or emotionally weak. Studies have found that social support is a crucial ingredient in recovering from grief of all kinds. Thus, we are not only robbed of invaluable support systems when our pet dies, but our own perceptions of our emotional responses are likely to add an extra layer of distress…”

https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/why-we-need-to-take-pet-loss-seriously/

Grief does lessen with time, but never fully goes away. Life is different because you have experienced a loss. For some people grief stays and doesn’t fade into the background of their life:

“For about 7 percent of those who are bereaved, however, grief sticks around in a deeply painful manner, preventing them from moving forward and healing. Prolonged grief—also referred to as complicated grief—traps these individuals in a loop of despair from which they can’t escape.”

https://hms.harvard.edu/magazine/aging/profound-sadness-prolonged-grief

I think of grief as being like a giant wave: Picture yourself standing on the sand in the shallow water. All of the sudden something happens in your life that is like a giant wave knocking you down. The swell of grief makes you feel like you are drowning. Rising back to the surface might take a long time, and you might feel as if you are lost in the ocean. Eventually, you will move forward with tentative strokes and head toward solid ground; this may take a long time. The sea of grief can be rough and may pull you under again. At some point, perhaps sooner than later, you begin to swim. When you are finished swimming in your grief you will reach land. The landscape will feel different because something important was lost. You have survived and it is your job to treasure the good memories of whatever it is you have grieved.

Having mourned many losses…people, pets, relationships, ideas…I should be an expert by now. Every single “death” has been different. I have learned more about appropriate ways to grieve as I have aged. When I was a child, I would face my mourning mostly alone, retreating behind closed doors. As a young adult, I handled my grief inappropriately and drank too much. Then, as I grew older I would run until I couldn’t breathe and the tears would come; running helped me through my grief. Sadly I had to stop running, because my knees gave out. After over 30 years of running, this was another kind of loss. “Since I can’t run, where will that leave me the next time I have to mourn?”, I asked myself in the car last Friday afternoon, then I remembered laughter. My husband helped me get through my father’s death by making sure we had a comedy to watch….There were so many movies and re-runs of Two And A Half Men. Again, when we were in that extremely difficult period of our lives, and felt as if the world was crumbling around us, we turned to funny, light, entertainment. I am sure, if I remember how I survived the hard times before, I will get though another loss. I know that grief never fully goes away, but will dull with time.

For now, we play in the shallow water, with the waves lapping at the shore. We hold up those who remain, with whatever support we can. My best advice is to live your life to the fullest. When you are knocked down by that giant wave, maybe you can find the laughter through the tears. Eventually, remember playing on the beach of life and think fondly of that which you have lost.

A Box Of Chocolates

My husband and I got to know each other shortly after 9/11. When we met, I had been officially divorced for about 4 months. My first husband had asked for a separation, late in 1999, when I was very early into the pregnancy with my eldest child. In the fall of 2001, I had been “single” for about one and a half years and was ready to play the dating game again…

I didn’t know many people in the county where I was living, with the exception of my neighbors and the few people I met through them. Having moved to the area in the spring of 1997, my job was a good 45 minute commute; there was no time for me to really meet anyone outside of work. When I decided to dip my toe back into the dating world again, online dating was the best way for me to meet someone. After exploring the few free sites there were at the time, I realized most of the men were just creepy and not looking for anything lasting. My friends said, “Sarah, if you pay for a dating site the men who are on there are also interested in a relationship”.

I joined match.com or “Match”, as it is now called. When stating the type of man I was looking for, I said “you must love children and cats” (as I had both). A man responded “I love children and will tolerate cats”; I appreciated this man’s honesty. Over a short period of months I communicated with four different men and went on dates with three of them. Greg, the man who “tolerated” cats, was the man that I was most interested in: we were close in age and both transplants to the area. His honest words touched me, as I felt there had been a lot of secrets in my first marriage.

My neighbor, who had become a good friend, helped me figure out what to wear on my first date with Greg: something understated as I knew he was fairly conservative. My friend and I made a plan as to how I could break off the date if it wasn’t going well; I can’t remember what it was. Most likely she was going to call me and give me an excuse to leave if I wasn’t enjoying myself.

Greg and I met at a bar which had an adjoining restaurant. I was five minutes late. He was five minutes early. We had a drink and good conversation, then decided to extend our date to dinner. At the end of dinner, Greg pulled out a box and handed it to me; it was a small box of chocolates.

By December of 2001, a few months after we met, Greg took the time to help me pick out a Christmas tree and put it up. I was in love with this kind, considerate, gentle man. He accepted me for who I was and all that came with me. We married in January of 2003.

We have both grown and changed over the years. Life’s path can be beautiful, fun, heartbreaking and hard, but we have taken those roads together. Greg has continued to be the man I fell in love with. Over the years, I have learned that he is the one with the romantic heart and giving nature. This year, for Valentine’s Day, Greg (knowing I love written words) tried his hand at poetry. He had a little help, but this didn’t matter to me; the gift melted my somewhat cold heart.

The Valentine’s Day poem Greg wrote me this year

My husband, with his heart on his sleeve, gave me this unexpected gift…and a box of chocolates.

The Keeper Of Stories

(Unedited)

Today I was reminded of a story I wrote almost 1 year ago for my “Professional Facebook Page”. For those of you who only follow my blog, you may not know I have a “professional page”; these words are in quotes because I am not a professional, nor do I make money from my blog. Tell Me Your Story was started because I like to write, tell my own stories (which my husband and kids were getting sick of hearing) and I am genuinely interested in what others have to say about their own lives. I wanted to make a space for people share something about themself- some have taken me up on this idea.

***The story I wrote for my “Professional Facebook Page“ almost a year ago.***

Yesterday, while I was swimming, the pool was crowded. There was a young lady waiting for a lane, so I offered to share my lane with her. Today, again swimming, I was in the lane beside this same young woman We introduced ourselves and started chatting. I asked a few questions and she started talking, then stopped and said “I don’t know why I am telling you my story”. In response I said “I have have a blog called Tell Me Your Story, I like hearing about other people. She talks for another minute or two and she stops again and says “Wait, what? Do you really have a blog”. I just laughed and said ‘yes’…. today I was reminded of my Facebook post from almost one year ago. Remember you are invited to share your story with me and, if you choose, with those who read this blog.

On Thin Ice

Part 2 of An Unexpected Journey

Imagine life is like a frozen lake. You decide to walk out on the ice because you think it is solid. Unfortunately, you hear a cracking sound and feel the ice breaking. The ice is not as solid as it seemed.

We felt those cracks the summer of 2018.

Bay, (our 14 year old) wrote us a five page letter entitled “I Am Still Here”, but in reading an email I wrote to a friend the actual title was “I Am Alive”. In that letter our child told us about his past year and how he was suicidal, depressed and had made plans to kill himself. We were fortunate; Bay took pen to paper, that summer night of 2018, and wrote us the letter rather than taking his life. I was at our family cottage with my husband, eldest daughter, son, and my mother. The morning we read the letter we were in a state of shock and sadness, not knowing how to proceed. A friend of my mother’s telephoned my mom while we were trying to process this. My mom was crying when she answered the call. Our neighbor took it upon herself to come right down to find out what happened. She did not come because she was a gossip and busy body; she was the opposite of that. She showed concern. When she found out what Bay told us, she said: “Take him to the emergency room”. An answer that was staring us in the face, but I never considered a mental condition would be looked at in the ER.

We went to the ER, and they were a great help, but it was determined that Bay was no longer in danger of killing himself and he could go home. We saw a social worker every week, for four weeks, while were at the cottage.

The ice held steady.

When we got home from our time in Canada, it took us a long time to actually find somebody who had any availability to see Bay. He started seeing a therapist in October. Bay seemed OK. However, he hid what he was thinking and feeling from his therapist and from us.

Bay’s friend group changed that fall. A few more cracks formed.

By December of 2018 Bay looked like he was closing in on himself. He would come home from school and go to bed. On the weekends, he barely got out of bed except to do routine things ( eat, shower, etc.). I guess the fact he still had a semblance of routine was good, right? He would eat very little and then had junk food late at night. At the dinner table Bay would make himself as small as he could. I was the only person in the house he would have a conversation with.

More cracks in the ice, with open water ahead.

One afternoon, I took him out after school and told him I could see how much he was struggling. I let him know we were trying to find a psychiatrist because therapy alone was not working. Bay agreed that he needed medicine.

I called around to find a psychiatrist that would take our insurance. In December of 2018, just before Christmas, I made an appointment to see a psychiatrist in April. There was no availability to see this psychiatrist for four months! Meanwhile, his therapist knew nothing of what was going on. WE only knew what we saw.

The ice continued to break. But I had not fallen through.

In early January we found Bay’s journal. We discovered many things that might be contributing to his extreme depression and suicidal ideation. He had been depressed for almost two years. Until then, we really didn’t understand how dark things were for him.

You might ask why we didn’t take Bay to the hospital. I wish I could put myself back in that time to answer this question. Why didn’t we? All I can remember is that we were in crises and “walking on eggshells”. Bay wasn’t truthful about how he was feeling and we didn’t want him to know we had been looking in his room for answers. I do know we wouldn’t have been able to get Bay in the car, unless he agreed. To be admitted to a hospital for mental health reasons the person has to be able to say they are in danger of hurting themself; at least that is what we understood at the time.

I ran, I swam, I practiced yoga….This allowed me to sleep at night. Every morning I held my breath not knowing if my child had made it through the night; when I heard him move in his bed I would let out a sigh of relief.

At this point, I felt like I was on a thick piece of ice floating in the middle of an open lake.

I found a little support group of sorts with some women I met in yoga, along with someone I had known for 19 years. One of these women was going through something similar, one was a psychiatric nurse, and the others had been touched by severe depression in one way or another. I also had made another friend, a single mom and pastor, who was easy to talk to.

By late February/early March, my husband found Bay’s journal again and told him so. Everything was out in the open…

With the way our son was treating us, our home had become increasingly unhappy. He would yell at his father, tell us he hated us and to “fuck off”. I knew Bay said these things because he was hurting; no matter what was said, we loved him unconditionally.

My youngest daughter, who has the biggest heart, was beginning to suffer. I was sad all the time and my husband was hurting too. Luckily my eldest child was in her second semester of college and away from home.

In early February we went to our lawyer to change our will and prepare for what the future might hold. Tears came to my eyes and I started crying because I didn’t know if my middle child had a life ahead of him. Our lawyer gave us the name of a fantastic psychologist who had saved her daughter. I called the psychologist and left a message using our lawyer’s name. I discovered, at the time, it is all about who you know to get anywhere. A week later I had heard nothing back. Then a friend, who was (and still is) a school counselor gave me the name of the same psychologist. I called, using the names of both the women who recommended us to this psychologist and was called back right away. Unfortunately, we had to wait at least a month for an appointment.

I continued to float on my piece of ice.

In February and March we told Bay’s therapist (the one he started with in October) all the things we had found out, they finally started to make some headway. Really, it was too little too late. The last time they met, she finally suggested medication.

The first day we saw the new psychologist, she suggested we take Bay to an inpatient clinic right away. She didn’t know how he was still alive. Bay would have been admitted to the clinic, however there were no beds. We went to the ER. In an emergency room, if it’s determined a person is a danger to themself, they have an obligation to find that person a bed. After 9 hours between the inpatient clinic and then the ER, Bay came home with us.

My heart was heavy, I was constantly afraid of what I might wake to. I was still floating, but my piece of ice was shrinking.

The following week (mid April), we saw the psychiatrist that we had been waiting months to see, only to be told: “Did you know March, April and May are the highest months for suicide? I fully believe that Bay will need medication, but it may take several appointments to reach that point”. We were looking at the end of May before our son MIGHT be given medication. When Bay told his new psychologist this (on his third visit) she was appalled and suggested we pay out of pocket for a private psychiatrist. She gave us two names. I called both of them. Simultaneously, she gave them the heads up that I would be calling. We were seen within a week.

We saw the psychiatrist and Bay was put on Zoloft; a medication that starts on a low dose and takes some time to take effect.

Not quite a week later, My eldest called us in the middle of the night and said she was really worried about Bay. She had been sent pictures of her brother’s side of a Snapchat conversation. What Bay had said was extremely ominous. My eldest thought her brother might take his life that night. After I hung up the phone, I went into see my son. He said the crisis had passed for the night. My eldest sent the pictures to me. I, in turn, sent them to both of his doctors.

In real life, the area of Muskoka, where our cottage is, was flooding and destroying property at this time. I was worrying about that along with what was happening here. My little piece of ice felt like it was being tossed in the flood.

We had an emergency visit with Bay’s psychiatrist the afternoon following the phone call from my eldest and an emergency visit with the psychologist the day after. When I say an “emergency visit”, it’s because there are certain times that are saved for a patient in crisis; he was in crisis. The psychiatrist put him on lithium, a medication that helps reduce the risk of suicide.

The lithium seemed to be working. However, there was still a long road ahead of us.

The ice started to freeze over again; I felt safer.

A few cracks were heard along the way:

I was called about a finding on my mammogram; I went in for further testing and was fine. Then my mother fell and broke three ribs. She probably would have died if her significant other hadn’t been with her.

During this emotional turmoil I ran so I could breathe; went to yoga so I could focus; swam to allow the water to hold me up; and went to therapy so I didn’t drown if I fell through frozen water. Sometimes you don’t realize the how fragile life can be. Four years ago we were a family standing on thin ice, every day thinking it might break. Even now that life is fairly solid, I hear distant echoes of the ice cracking.

Author’s notes:

In May of 2019 I wrote an email to a friend to explain what I had been going through since the summer of 2018. This story is taken from the “letter” I wrote, hoping to paint a picture of why my year had been so incredibly hard. For those of you who have not read The Beginning- An Unexpected Journey, this story summarized some of it. The name of my child has been changed.

If you or someone you know is experiencing a mental health related crises, please call 988 or chat with somebody at https://988lifeline.org/ . Suicide is a leading cause of death in the United States; if you are reading this story from another country and have a help line to add, please share it in the comment section.

Cedar Springs- Joy, Sadness and Death in Dallas

By Alexander Troup

The greatest tragedy in the state of Texas, was the shooting of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, on the streets of Dallas. He was shot on the corner of Elm and Houston Streets, early one afternoon, just before Thanksgiving.

I was in Dallas at a private school called Saint Monica. The day JFK came was to fly into Dallas, we were told to go to the school’s lunchroom. We assembled in groups, by class, to see the Catholic president step off the plane. We were watching the news clip on a small TV set. As the flight began to land at Love Field, most of the kids in the lunch room then started to chant “crash, crash, crash!”. This is a true story.

That morning the Kennedy motorcade drove into town to an area where my folks ran a fine art print studio and frame shop. As part of a crowd, my parents stood near the intersection of Fairmount and Cedar Springs, where they saw the president, his wife (Jackie), and the governor drive-by. With this procession of motor vehicles was a large group of security people: Secret Service and motorcycle police from Dallas. However, the president took time to stop and shake hands with the spectators.

As the motorcade moved along Cedar Springs, it passed by C.F. Newtons Miramar Museum; it was a folk art kind of political statement with a neon sign that was to go against conservatives. Having been run out of Highland Park (an affluent area that is surrounded by the city of Dallas) in the late 1950s, the Newtons were exiled to this location. In 1964 the Newtons changed their sign to the John F. Kennedy Shrine and Museum. For years it remained with this sign, until the couple passed away in the mid 1970s.

Later that the day, in school, we were told the president had been shot! Hundreds of kids were crying, regretting what they had said earlier when the flight was landing at love Field.

That evening the capture of Lee Harvey Oswald in Oak Cliff was released to the public. He was apprehended at the Texas theater, and this was the beginning of the mystery that has become the 1963 Kennedy assassination.

Over the years there have been many JFK Memorials. Some museums that opened up were large and others were small, but most have disappeared. In 1968 six places memorializing JFK were open, now few locations exist. Today’s memorials are more for tourists than, for reflection and respect. The big question: Why did this happen?

Almost a decade after John F Kennedy took his drive on Cedar Springs, where the crowd shook hands with the popular president, a terribly sad event occurred….In July 1973, there was a shooting of a 14-year-old boy Mexican boy from the nearby barrio of little Mexico. The sad fate of the boy took place at Bookout and Cedar Springs, across the street from Mac’s Fina gas station, by the side of the Parisian strip club. The shooting was by the two Dallas policeman, who had arrested the youths, for the supposed break-in to a Dr. Pepper machine at the gas station.

When the boys were arrested, my folks and I were in the fine art gallery making picture frames for a bank commission. We missed the noise of the events that took place. When we left the gallery, we didn’t see the flashing lights that were up the street. Here is what happened:

The boys were placed in the backseat of the police car at the time of the arrest. The officers then began to play Russian roulette, with their pistols, on one of the boys, to get him to confess the crime. A round went off by accident in the backseat of the police car, killing the youth and blinding his brother forever. My folks and I heard about the death of the youth (Santos) the next day. I had met Santos once, at the gas station, while getting the flat tire for my bike fixed. A truly traumatic event took place that day, one block from the John F Kennedy shrine museum.

Later in the summer, I recall the city courts in Dallas dismissed the charges; the two officers were only suspended, as it was considered an accident. Riots ensued. Bricks were thrown into the large plate glass windows of our fine art print studio. My folks were advised to move the business. The fine art print studio and frame shop, once on Cedar Springs Road, was moved; sadly the gallery never recovered and my folks lost the business.

Cedar Springs: a road in Dallas where John F. Kennedy shook hands with those along the route of his motorcade. A segment of the route that took the young President to his untimely death. Then, almost a decade later, Cedar Springs was the scene of a terrible tragedy….the memory and excitement of a bright day in 1963, in contrast to the dark event in 1973, but both ending in sadness and death…..why Dallas, Texas?

Beyond The Darkest Day:

How I survived the grief after Pan Am Flight 103

Recently, a New York Times headline read: Libyan Operative Charged In 1988 Bombing is in F.B.I. Custody. A friend messaged me the article, saying “this must stir some emotions”. My response was, “…This time of year, every year since 1988, I feel it.” There is something in the cold, damp air, that comes in December that makes my body remember that time 34 years ago. You know the saying: I feel it in my bones….that is what it is like for me, but instead of a premonition, it is a remembrance of the past.

A day later, another friend sent me a text: “Thinking of you today as Pam Am bomber is in the news.” I am grateful that I have people who understand how that terrible incident still lingers somewhere inside me. Thinking back from the time that I first heard the news and the days following, the question comes to me: Did I share my pain and sorrow with the good friends who I spent the holidays with, or during the time we traveled together? The answer is most likely no, I tried to keep my emotions hidden back then. Some people called me stoic.

Shortly after I was told of the explosion of Pan Am Flight 103, I left my friend Deirdre (who I had been traveling with) and went to the airport in Brussels to fly back to London for the holidays. It was December 22, 1988, less than 24 hours after the fire in the sky. Getting close to my boarding gate, I went to a pay phone and called home; it was important to let my family know I was alive and well….both my mother and I were in tears as we spoke.

Still weeping, I bought a newspaper to try and understand everything that I had learned just a few hours before; that is when my uncontrollable crying started. A young woman came to me and asked me in heavily accented English what was wrong. I pointed to the paper, unable to talk. She said “Don’t worry, that won’t happen to us.” There was no way for me to explain, nor did I have the energy to try…

When I arrived in London, I must have gone to the house where my friends, Mike and John, and I were staying for Christmas. My memory fails me. We were staying in a house that my cousin, who was studying at the London School of Economics, and some others were renting for the year. Had everyone who lived there left the house for the holidays, or was my cousin still in town? I can’t imagine that I went to an empty house, in a strange part of London, and stayed all alone….

What I do recall about the days and weeks following are fragments of memory:

Mike and I planning Christmas dinner:
Going into the shops asking strangers how to cook a turkey Neither of us, at age 20, had cooked a holiday feast before. That was a good day

Spending Christmas Eve at my local pub: The Ashes. Talking all night to Kevin, the Scottish man I had a crush on, about Lockerbie. He understood the heaviness I felt. His family home was near the town where the plane came down

Leaving London and traveling with the Christmas group: Mike, John, Meredith (John’s girlfriend), and Amy (Meredith’s) friend.

Arriving in the wee hours of the morning to Strasbourg, most of us falling asleep on our backpacks, while we waited for dawn in the train station.
Mike staying up while we slept to make sure the stranger near us didn’t steal anything .

New Year’s Eve near Munich: firecrackers going off in the crowd. Me feeling scared and upset…. all I could see was what the plane might have looked like in that darkest night in the sky

Saying goodbye to Meredith and Amy.

Venice in the winter with Mike and John
The three of us off to Padua to see Grazia, a friend from high school. My Italian friend telling me not to go to Milan- it was dangerous for a young woman traveling alone.

Leaving Mike and John as they headed south and I west

Arriving in Milan to find the youth hostel closed. Getting back on the train, arriving in Zurich after dark, not knowing where to go. Thankful for once for “Loud Americans” as I tried to figure out what to do. A group of young women, all students abroad, took me to the private hostel where they were staying

Checking into the International Youth Hostel the following day bumping into Deirdre while she was brushing her teeth. Catching up on the last few weeks

Heading different directions over the next few days.

Solace in Interlaken, as I hiked by myself on the land between two lakes

A train to Innsbruck, Walking down the corridor, passing compartments to find a seat.
I heard someone behind me: Sarah?!”, a voice called Looking over my shoulder, there was my friend, and roommate, once again

We traveled together the last days of our semester break. Munich: our last night on the European Continent. Running into a friend of Deirdre’s, The three of us spending the evening in the Hofbrau House. Late at night we boarded a train to take us to the ferry to England…. A 5:30 stop at a station, just long enough to purchase the best bratwurst ever!

Arriving back in London, without a place to live we headed to a hostel we knew A block away from the hostel, I stepped off the curb, twisted my ankle, and the full weight of my backpack came tumbling down…. My friend, laughing hard, asked if I was okay. No, not okay, I could barely walk Stumbling along beside Deirdre, as she carried both our packs to the hostel…

Had I gone home for Christmas 34 years ago, one of the students on Pan Am flight 103 might have been me. The young men and women on that plane, from Syracuse program in London, were the students on my flight to England earlier that year. Perhaps I would have been on the other plane that transported my fellow classmates home. I will never know; a different choice was made.

All these years later, the realization hits me with two scenarios of what could have happened if I went home for the holidays in 1988: I might no longer walk this earth or I would have sunk into a deep depression that would have been hard to climb out of. By deciding to stay in Europe, I lived. Traveling with old and new friends, helped me to focus most of my energy on something else. The trauma of that event lingers within me, however every Christmas Season I think of my friends and how they helped me make it through those awful days after Lockerbie.

C.W. Heppner’s Pecan Tree

By Alexander Troup

Preface: In an old part of Dallas there is a historic pecan tree; it was acknowledged in 2021 because of a story that Alexander Troup wrote 20 years ago. The original piece of writing was about a man named C.W. Heppner. Although the owner of the land died many years ago, the tree (which possibly dates back to 1824) still stands. Here is Alex’s story about a tree with colorful history:

In 1845 Judge Hord came to Dallas, Texas looking for some land to live on. Folks in the village of Dallas told him to go to the other side of the river. He took their advice and bought 200 acres, where he built a cabin. By the river, friendly Indians were hunting and camping. He got along with these natives and became a judge in Dallas County. Then, in the late 1880’s, a man by the name of Marsalis came and bought Hord’s Ridge, which the Judge was selling. He renamed the land Oak Cliff. Hord moved to Flander’s Height (over by the Fort Worth Pike in West Dallas) another hilltop scenic visual delight, around 1890.

One of Judge Hord’s neighbors was a retired German cavalry officer, an immigrant to Dallas, by the name of C.W. Heppner. He sold junk, fixed cabinets, and raised pigs. His property was close to the river bottom in West Dallas, facing east, where the Trinity River would flow; when the spring rains came, it would flood. Heppner, as he was called, became the Texas hero of the 1908 flood. He saved people, horses, and hogs as they swam down the Trinity in a current that was extremely wild and very deep. While this flooding took place, Colonel Heppner tied up his boats to an old pecan tree. This tree stood as it had since 1824, as the tree historians now say, measuring 16 feet around. It may have been planted by Indians as a marker…

By the early 1930’s on the front lawn of this old junk house, Heppner sold used tires to Bonnie and Clyde. Old C.W. lived there until around 1933 when the entrance of the present bridge was put on his lot. He was bought out and labeled an activist troublemaker, wanting to get the river tamed for 20 years. City officials were pretty vindictive back then and they hated this old German for showing up, with his fisherman boots and cap, to City Hall to gripe about when they were going to tame the river. He loved the junk house and hated leaving it. His house was torn down and Heppner was put in a nursing home where he died. Meanwhile, that old pecan tree is still there today, marred and scarred by trucks, cars and bicycle tires that ran into the tree at night.

Back in 1951 a reporter found out there were stories about how kids would fall out of these types of trees, dating back to the 1880s. The newspaper would also tell of accidental deaths, broken arms and legs, as pecans were by the bundle during pecan harvest season. Boys would make good summer money as this was an adventure. They would climb onto the branches to get that nice green and brown pile of pecans, and occasionally go too far out on a limb as it would snap, fall and crash…sometimes 30 feet down!

The pecan tree had been an eyesore to the new people who work for the city of Dallas, Dallas County, and the river authority of today. As it was a big, old, ugly monstrosity in their books, they wanted to chop it down and use it for firewood. I informed the agency, working through the city and tree historians, about the history that went with the pecan tree: C.W. Heppner was Noah’s Ark of the Trinity because he saved so many lives. There were also tales mentioned about kids who hid their bicycles up in the branches, at night, when they were stolen…Many stories of this old tree came up. I can recall driving by it the 1970s with my pick up truck and seeing many other old Ford pickups parked underneath selling peaches, apples, pears, and pecan seeds. In 2022 the agency I’m working for got a plaque stating it as a historic tree…they cannot chainsaw the tree in this decade.

So much for barbecue, old pecan limbs, and branches that ole C.W. would cut down from his Trinity River pecan tree!

Dedicated to Katherine Homan

The Summer of 2022…When The Sun Became A Tyrant

By Alexander M. Troup

Dallas, Texas is truly the beginning of an outback country; it is where South and the West come together. The city of Dallas was a dream location once, from the1950s to 1980s; now it’s out of date. Gone are the days when it was a good photo stock image, a place where some sort of wealth was suppose to make you better than the guy next door. A location I had moved to and from over the past 40 years, only to arrive back and call home.

Dallas is strange place, located on a grid that was laid out by John Neely Bryan in 1842. The winds that come and go blow with a warmth of good feeling or bad omens; there are really no forests or Mountains, valleys or great hills. Even back when Dallas was founded, these landmarks didn’t exist. Today’s landmarks are huge sky scrapers and new valleys for roads which hold thousands of cars. The residential communities are caught up in a large frying pan of concrete and neon lighting. A cowboy is not really the boots and hats figure as he once was, but has evolved into another image: all suited up as sort of football space worker, with an oxygen tank in this kind of heat.

The sun became blistered with sunspots around late June of 2022; that’s when the heat wave began. Sun spot cycles were realized around 1610 by an Astronomer in London by the name of Thomas Harriot. He began to study the phase in which the sun would send out rays, during that era, with his thin glass lens telescope. Around 1843, another astronomer made good observations to say the motion of the sun, every so many years, has such effects which would add to earths warming. This summer the heat was not tapering off here in Dallas and in the rest of Texas as it had in previous sun spot drought years. For 67 days in the summer of 2022, the masses were held prisoners by a tremendous heat wave. The intensity of heat from 105 to 109 degrees, kept many in suspense as too when rain would arrive.

I am a retiring historian who, most summers, would dig up old bottles from the 19th century. The task is amazing. The rain has been my friend in years past, as it washed away the dirt and dust when a site was exposed. I had to cancel any expectations of digging up old bottles this summer because 2022 had something else in mind. Unfortunately, due to the heat, I decided it was best sit it out.

Last March I moved to an old two story home built in 1912, on Live Oak Street. One night this summer my AC unit went out and the temperature in my room rose to around 100 degrees. I have two cats, which I call “kats”, Blackie and Frankie who were hiding under the bed. Their cat box began to smell very pungent. The smell began effecting the building; things got worse when the breaker box in the back went out.

Two days later a letter came in the mail from the landlord saying I needed to pay a fine for $1000 as a pet deposit fee and get a better solution that will absorb the kat waste and urine smell, which I did; the right kind of clump for their litter box was found. This house on Live Oak Street was difficult since the size of the room was smaller than the last place we lived. I gave Blackie and Frankie fresh water each day and a can of tuna at night. Having to find more dream like places in the small room for them, I made spaces with boxes and drawers, so they could hold up in and sleep, or jump and claw. As the 67 days of intense heat was cooking the location, they did adapt quite well. The kats lost some weight but managed to avoid that end of the day flaming heat as the sun set in the west, facing the building, with its burning rays each evening. The problem of the stinky litter was solved, but the relentless heat continued. I would get up early, ride my bike to the store and get back by noon like a vampire. Later, I bought two fans and would wait until 7pm when the sun went down.

By August we had no rain and the pavement was hot for days several. People cooked eggs on their sidewalk. My kats would sleep all day and play at night, while I lay there hoping it would rain.

About late August the summer finally cools, and reports were in that Burning Man, in Nevada, was a very successful outdoor event despite the heat and dry winds. We were seeing rain in our area…finally!

Rain: lots of it, then flooding,…… both kats , Blackie and Frankie, were hiding under the bed waiting for the thunder to stop. I wasn’t sure what to do.

Around August 22, the Trinity river flooded after a massive rain, like it had in the1908 flood. Waters just touched the old Pecan tree, now a historical landmark. The tree that I helped save, has been there since the river was wild and free, before that legendary flood 114 years ago. A place where I wonder what is next, as the sun’s rays hit this location each year with much more intensity than it has in previous years. Like the Burning Man event out in the desert, we are here as some sort of statement about holding up and making the most of such hot weather.

The summers here are really getting out of hand. As there is no updated modern news on how we should adjust for this kind of futuristic transition, I am now back to what was realized in the beginning of my story: The sun has become a tyrant…

About the author: Alexander M. Troup is retired art and history researcher and preservationist on Texas History. Since 1992 he has worked as a researcher for self publishing authors, local newspapers and libraries . He may have read as many as 600,000-700,000 documents which he figured out one night, with 47 archive boxes, as some of that work. At 67, Mr. Troup feels like he is in his 50’s because of the adventures he has lived…I hope more stories are told by him, over time.

The Trip Of A Life Time- The Summer That Could Have Been Idyllic

The summer of 2018 dawned bright with the beginning of a beautiful summer. I had just turned 50. My eldest daughter graduated salutatorian from high school in May and was about to turn 18. As a gift for these momentous occasions, my mother offered to take my family on the trip of a life time. Four years ago, in late June, off we went: a trip that seemed like the beginning of an idyllic summer. Travel with me to the great Northwest, as I traveled 4 summers ago:

Vancouver, British Columbia

In late June my family joined my mother and her partner in Vancouver; there were seven of us in all. We spent a few days seeing some of the city, before embarking on a cruise to Alaska.

Gastown: Vancouver’s oldest neighborhood and original settlement

Stanley Park

On Board The Star Princess: the beginning of our Alaska cruise and land tour

Traveling to The Land of the Midnight Sun

Ketchikan, our first stop, was founded as a salmon cannery site. Of the three ports of call, the time in this city was the shortest. Our time ashore was spent walking around the city, visiting the Totem Heritage Center and seeing the Ketchikan Salmon Ladder and waterfall.

Juneau was the second port of call. We passed the morning hours walking around the capital city of Alaska….Someone, perhaps in the visitors center, told us to go to a waterfront park where there was a sculpture of a whale in an infinity pool; for me that was the pinnacle of our morning.

The afternoon was spent on a Whale Watching and Mendenhall Glacier tour:

Skagway, our third and final port of call, is known as a town of the gold rush era because it is a gateway to the Klondike gold fields.

An amazing tour was taken from Skagway, by bus and railway. We had a fabulous tour guide named Bruce Schindler; he came to Skagway one summer, from Washington State, to be a guide on a tour bus and basically stayed. I mention Bruce, not only because he was such a great tour guide, but also because guiding tours was rare for him at the time. We were lucky to have him give us our tour. He had become an artist, creating sculptures and carvings out of mammoth tusks, as well as using the ivory and Yukon gold to make jewelry. Look him up.

Rail and Bus Tour

The bus took us to salmon bake buffet for lunch at Liarsville Gold Rush Trail Camp and ended at The Red Onion Saloon. I have no pictures of these.

The City of Skagway

After Skagway, we had one last big adventure aboard the ship:

Cruising Glacier Bay National Park and Glacier Fjord

The Cruise ended in Whittier, where we disembarked. The fascinating thing about Whittier is that it was built as a secret facility during World War II to support the war effort and provide a reliable trade route to the Alaskan Rail Road; the water here is ice-free all year making it an ideal area for a military base.

The Alaskan Land Tour Begins

On The Train

From Whittier, we boarded a train to Denali National Park. The trip on the train took about 10 hours, but we saw beautiful scenery along the way:

Denali National Park and Preserve

Moss and lichen grow in abundance in Denali National Forest. Among other things, lichens provide a good food source for many animals and moss helps control soil erosion.

Some Of The Flora and Fauna in Denali National Forest

The official land tour ended in Anchorage, where an unofficial tour began

We spent a few days in Anchorage after our excursion with Princess Tours. Like most tourists in a city, we went to a museum, walked around, and ate at extremely good restaurants.

Unlike many visitors, we scattered my father’s ashes in an area south of the city called Girdwood. My father had been an anthropologist, whose work focused on the people and the land above Arctic circle. We couldn’t make it up as far as the town called Kivalina that was so close to his heart. A former colleague of my dad’s suggested scattering the ashes in Glacier Creek: we wouldn’t have to walk on mudflats that could be dangerous, but the water would eventually be taken out to the Pacific Ocean by way of the Gulf of Alaska. I had arranged for the remaining half of my fathers ashes to be sent to one of two Anchorage hotels where we stayed. The other portion of my father’s ashes had been scattered seven summers before on a lake in Ontario; the thought was to spread what remained of my father in the water of the two areas he loved most: Muskoka, Ontario and Alaska.

At 10:00 in the morning, on July 4, 2108 we toasted to my dad. My three children, husband, mother and I sipped bourbon (his favorite drink) out of tiny bottles, while my mother’s partner looked on.

After the ashes were scattered, and we said our goodbyes, there were two more stops on that little road trip: Alaska Wildlife Conservation Center and Alyeska Resort.

Alaska Wildlife Conservation Center

The Views from above Alyeska Resort

Our Final Day In Alaska

On our last day in Anchorage we had one final destination: Potter Marsh Bird Sanctuary.

My mother took us on the trip of a life time! Truly this was the beginning of an ideal and beautiful summer. Unfortunately beauty can be fleeting. When we arrived in our summer home in Muskoka, about a week after our trip, our lives took us on a different kind of journey; one nobody could have expected…