Change Is Hard

…but change is certain.


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Change at the DOT and the FMCSA?

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It’s hard to know where to start talking about the Truck Safety Coalition’s meetings with the Department of Transportation and the Federal Motor Carrier Safety Administration over the last two days.  First of all it’s important to understand that the past relationship between us and these agencies hasn’t always been close.  OK.  Let’s be honest, there just hasn’t been any workable relationship with them at all in the past.  I attended a meeting in 2005 where I and members of other grieving families told our stories and asked for help enforcing existing safety rules.  The DOT staff sat stone faced, finger pointing at each other and other agencies and nothing ever came from any of our meetings. So it was with great hope that we accepted the invitation from newly confirmed Administrator Ann Ferro (we lost our vigorous battle to have her denied confirmation as head of the FMCSA) and the Secretary of Transportation Raymond LaHood to meet and talk about our (hopefully mutual) goals.

In a strange sort of way perhaps we are lucky that Ann Ferro, a member of the trucking industry lobby, was nominated by President Obama.  Because she was, and because we made such a ruckus about her, we got noticed.  Our squeaky wheel got attention.  And so it was that I found myself sitting in a big leather chair around a giant conference table in the DOT; sitting with a couple of other families, several attorneys, and other safety advocates including Ralph Nader.  I was sitting right next to Secretary LaHood, with a series of pictures of Dad and his smashed car resting on the table in front of the two of us.  As he did the introduction remarks, sweeping his glance around the table he had to keep looking at those pictures.

On behalf of grieving families everywhere we at Truck Coalition presented Mr. Secretary with two collage panels that showed over 120 pictures of the faces of crash victims.  Sadly, that’s just a fraction of the 5,000 people that are killed each year in crashes, or the 100,000 that are severely injured each year.  Dad’s photo was among those on the collage.  We told the Secretary that we appreciated his well known and often voiced commitment to safety.  But that we’d heard it before and we were skeptical.  Eventually our skepticism irritated him, but I don’t think he’ll forget us.  We asked that the Hours of Service Rules (the number of hours a truck driver can drive in a row, and the hours of required rest) be totally revamped.  The agency has tried twice before to get new rules passed, each time we took them to court because their “new” rule was no better, and sometimes worse for others on the road as well as the drivers themselves.  We don’t want the “new” administration to just tweak what had already been attempted.  We want a totally new overhaul, and one that makes sense.  And we want teeth in the rules so that they are enforceable, which in our view, requires the mandated installation of Electronic On Board Recorders (EOBRs) that will record when a truck is moving and when it is at rest so that the log books can no longer be fudged in order to get more work out of tired drivers.

We were repeatedly assured that “this is not your grandmother’s DOT.”  Well.  We’ll see.

This morning we had a followup meeting with Administrator Ann Ferro and her team alone.  We presented collages to her as well, and I told her that when she looks into the faces of those people I hoped she would remember that all the decisions she makes need to be made on the side of safety.  That changes have to be made in order to save lives, and of the people in the room, only she has the power to save lives.  We talked more specifically about the research behind our requests, some of which we don’t think she is aware.  We were again assured that it’s a new day at the DOT.  She seems personable and interested.  And we have to say we haven’t been this welcomed ever in the past.  But her staff are the same people that have been there for years and years.  We aren’t sure that she will be able to make such significant changes in an agency (the FMCSA) that is so dominated and controlled by the American Trucking Association (ATA) who has no interest in making themselves any more accountable than they already are.  Which is negligible at best.

So here I am in my hotel tonight.  Exhausted.  Hopeful.  I want so much to believe them.  And truly, I can understand their frustration at our skepticism.  They don’t know how to make it more clear to us that things will change, they just reiterate their mantra that “Safety is their number one concern.”  But we need actions, not words.  I so hope that they mean what they say and that they can find a way to work through the distractions thrown at them by the ATA and others who have for years blasted us as “anti-trucking.”  We know the economics of the issue.  We know that the nation’s economic well being rests on the back of truckers.  We all want to be able to go to our local stores and buy the latest and the best for reasonable prices.  But we can’t do it at the cost of innocent lives, both in cars and in the cabs of the trucks hauling that stuff across our country.

Dad worked in manufacturing his whole life.  He focused on safety at his plants and mandated any safety issues get fixed now.  I told that to Secretary LaHood.  As I spoke he turned his chair and we looked into each others eyes.  I told him that when Dad saw something that was unsafe in his work environment he made sure it got fixed now.  There was no long debate spanning years or argument over definitions.  He’d bust butt to make sure his people were safe.  If it was broken it got fixed.  Immediately.  I could not ask for anything less from the DOT.  Mr. Secretary nodded.  I hope he heard, I think he did.

Today as I was sitting in the FMCSA’s conference room across the table from Ms. Ferro I would periodically glance at the picture of Dad which lay on the table in front of me.  “Hey Dad!” I’d think, “Are you listening?  Do you hear this?  Can you believe it?  Ann Ferro, the new head of the Federal Motor Carrier Safety Association knows your name!   Transportation Secretary LaHood has heard your story!  You’re making a difference Dad!  Can you even believe we’re sitting here?”  When I was ten years old I never would have dreamed that I’d be sitting at a table with Ralph Nader and a Cabinet Secretary.  That I’d have dinner with Mr. Nader after and discuss safety issues.  It goes to show that you just never know.  Before 2004 I never knew.  Sometimes I wish I still didn’t know.  But I can’t discount the personal growth all of this has given me.

Tonight I cry easily, the result of the stress being released.  I slept for four hours after I got back to the hotel.  In the middle of the day.  This is so important, we are so close to having impact.  We have made a tiny chink in the DOT armor…they know we’re out there and they know we aren’t going away.  But the personal cost to us is beyond measure, both in the loss of our family member and to ourselves personally.  Reliving the details of that terrible day, the details of the way we each lost someone we loved takes it’s toll.  As one woman who has been working on this for over twenty years said, “it feels like we’re going through the funeral every time we do this.”  It would feel so good to be able to put this all behind us, to move on with our own lives, hold those we love close in a more personal, less public way.

But we can’t.  Because those 120 faces looking out of that collage are asking for help to save lives.  And no one is going to do it but us.  The price we paid has to have been worth something.  I can’t express how much I hope it was.

After today’s meeting I toured the Library of Congress.  On a wall there I read “They are never alone that are accompanied with noble thoughts.”  I have heard over and over again from victims’ families how alone they felt before they found our group.  I hope our noble thoughts comfort us all as we work through these difficult issues.

Love you Dad.

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Mama's a mockingbird and Daddy's on the front porch

Years ago, shortly after Dad was killed, I was in Alabama, sitting in a car talking to our attorney about developments in our case when a mockingbird flew down and sat on the passenger side rear view mirror, just outside my window.  It sat there for the longest time, just cocking its head and staring at me.  I ignored it for quite awhile, then told my attorney that if there was life after death then this bird was surely my mother!  Just the way it was looking at me, as if it were listening to my conversation and egging me on to make sure I did a good job getting justice for Dad.  A few months later a friend of mine painted a mockingbird on a rock for me.  The rock sits by my front door here at home, and I look at it every day and say a silent hello to my Mom.

This past week I was wandering around Auburn University’s campus, taking pictures of pretty flowers, trees and buildings.  I didn’t know for sure where the building was that Mom used to work in, but just before I headed back to the car I turned a corner and there it was.  I took a quick picture and as I was turning to leave a mockingbird flew down and sat on a post near the front door of the place where Mom worked for ten years.  I stopped to watch it for a moment.  It watched me back.  I figured it was probably Mom again, just saying hello.  So I said hello and we eyed each other for a bit.  Then I turned to walk away, smiling at the encounter.  A few feet further and I looked back over my shoulder.  The bird was gone, but I know the truth.

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Earlier in the week  my brother and I were driving through Auburn looking for the new art museum.  We were a bit turned around when suddenly I noticed that we were driving right past some homes that Dad had owned as rentals.  I quickly turned my head to look and saw a man, standing on the front porch of one of them, back to us, hands in his pockets, baseball cap sitting on top of grey hair.  A short man, he looked just like Dad.  “Hey!” I said to my brother as the houses slipped out of sight.  “That looked just like Dad!”  He agreed, and we didn’t say anything more.  It was such a comforting thing to see Dad standing there; no more needed to be said.

I know that when you lose someone you love you look for signs that they’re alright.  And I know we’ve all been doing that now for five years.  The really cool thing is that these days when we see something that we can interpret as that positive sign we can smile rather than cry.  And find comfort instead of that familiar stab of pain.  Progress.

So I guess my mama’s a mocking bird and daddy’s standing out on the porch somewhere.  All’s right with the world.

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Happy Thanksgiving

Katie and I want to wish all of you a Very Happy Thanksgiving! We have much to be thankful for and your friendship is high on our list, right behind family and health!  We hope each of you has a special holiday with those you love.  I’m going south to visit family and won’t be home for over a week.  Don’t worry though, Katie is going to party it up with her Dad!

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Baking with the past

Last night I made cookies.  A new recipe, something I noticed in a magazine the last time I was at the library, all ginger and dark chocolate.  Before I began  blending the butter and dark brown sugar I automatically reached for my “cookie spoon.”  Because I can’t make cookies without the special spoon that has been passed down to me from my mother, and her mother before.

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It doesn’t always happen, but on this evening as I pulled the spoon out of the drawer I thought about my grandmother.   She made the best spice cookies I’ve ever eaten, out of the crumbs of other deserts, probably with this very spoon.  She was born in 1888 and lived to be 94 years old.  She had a hard but  good life, just like most people, and during her lifetime the world changed.  She lived through the depression, feeding her family from the farm, drove a wagon pulled by horses, and learned to drive a car as an adult out in the cornfield.  I’m not sure that she ever truly believed we sent men to the moon.

I guess her life wasn’t anything extraordinary, a woman raising her family through changing times.  It happens everywhere – it’s happening now.  But when I think of the things she witnessed and learned to accept as normal, from cars to telephones to planes I am in awe.  Anyway, the warmest memories I have are of all of us sitting around her big table in the old farmhouse, eating something wonderful that she cooked for us.  And sneaking her  cookies when we thought she wasn’t looking.

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My cookies were great.  But not quite as good as the ones she made from leftover crumbs.  I hope she and my mother are pleased that I still use their spoon.  I think they are.


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Favorite

Several evenings this past week were filled with special events.  It’s unusual to have so many scheduled in one week, but there you go, it’s the life of the unemployed; I’m unhindered with work and able to accept all invitations!

Last Sunday my husband and I went to a tiny, intimate theater in downtown Detroit to watch Rita McKenzie’s “Ethel Merman’s Broadway.”  I didn’t know much about Merman prior to this show, which told her life story in the first person.  Rita McKenzie dressed and sang like Merman as she talked about her life.  It was a lot of fun.

Thursday I attended the University of Michigan’s version of “The Marriage of Figaro” with my aunt.  It was so professionally done and we had great seats which allowed me to watch the pit orchestra as well as the stage.  I’m not an opera fan, but this one was very funny, with modern translations of the words being sung.  I enjoyed it and didn’t realize till after it was finished that it had gone on for over three and a half hours!

Last night found us back in Ann Arbor with my aunt, attending the Ann Arbor Symphony.  They did three pieces.   After hearing the first, Overture on Hebrew Themes by Sergey Prokofiev (who did the ballet scores for Cinderella, Romeo and Juliet and Peter and the Wolf,) I thought to myself, “Well that’s probably going to be my favorite this evening” because it was so fun, flirty and light with bits of humor and history thrown in.

After the second piece, Symphony No 1 in C Major by Georges Bizet, written when he was 17 years old in 1858 as a homework assignment...I thought to myself, “That last movement is my favorite tonight…the violins were crazy busy, off to the races, and it ended about 3 times, almost as if the composer was saying ‘See teacher?  Here’s some MORE..and some MORE and MORE!’ ”  I couldn’t believe he wrote it at seventeen. And that it wasn’t played for 80 years because he didn’t feel it was worthy, and that it languished in the basement of his school until it was discovered by someone doing his biography.

Then the crowning glory of the evening, a piece by Johannes Brahms,  the Concerto No 2 for Piano and Orchestra.  The guest pianist was Anton Nel, originally from South Africa, once a piano professor at UM, now teaching in Austin TX.  He was phenomenal.  I thought to myself  “Well…I guess in the end the last movement of the Brahms is my favorite for the evening…it’s racy tunes, the strings driving toward the finale…a wonderful end to a wonderful evening.”   Everyone in the audience was on their feet as soon as the last note began to die away.

While we were clapping I wished that everyone in the world could sit where I sat; that surely if they could then we could end wars and crime and all injustice.   Because how could anyone that received such a beautiful gift, that let such beauty inside themselves, anyone who sat next to strangers and felt their hearts expand..how could these people not be positively effected?  I know, I know. Totally unrealistic.  But still.

There were four curtain calls.

And then a grateful gasp rose from the hall as Dr. Nel, exhausted from the 50 minute concerto he had just finished, sat back down at the piano.  Just one man, one piano.   And then the sound.. the most beautiful, most soulful, indescribable sound.  He played something from Franz Liszt, I don’t know which piece.  It was so very beautiful that tears ran down my face.  And I said to myself…”This is my favorite.”

I don’t think I was alone.


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Visiting Curwood

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Yesterday my husband and I went on a one day excursion to visit Curwood Castle.  Haven’t heard of it you say?  Not surprised – either had we and we’ve lived in Michigan all our lives!  About an hour away sits a beautiful little castle on the banks of the Shiawasee river.  It was the writing studio of James Oliver Curwood who wrote many wildlife adventure stories in the 1920’s.  Several of his books were made into movies including Kazan,  The Grizzly King, and Nomads of the North.

As soon as I entered the castle I thought it would make a wonderful home, with views along the river and big high ceilings with dark wood beams, and a stone fireplace at one end.  Up in the turret, the clean white walls and windows over the river made me want to stay and…well…write!  What a wonderful place it must have been for him.  Curwood Castle - Owosso MI September 2009 013

Sadly, Curwood died young at 49 from a blood disease brought on by a spider bite incurred during a fishing trip in Florida.  I’m going to check whether or not our library has any of his books.  After being in his space it would be interesting to read one or two.

Hope you are all having a lovely Labor Day weekend..without working too hard!

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Back to the future

Earlier this week I had a day off and I didn’t have any other appointments or commitments.  A whole day to myself!  It was rainy and cold, but still, a whole day off to myself.  I have a number of “things to do” on a list I keep in the back of my mind for just such a day.  Most of them would be more fun on a sunny warm day, but you take what you can get.  So I headed off to Hidden Lake Gardens, about two hours south of me and just north of a town I lived in when I was a little girl.  My folks used to take all four of us there on occasion; I can remember a narrow road and big willow trees near a pond which held the best thing of all:  swans.

Back then there was no such thing as the internet, heck we still had rotary phones, but today I can share the gardens with you by providing this link:

http://hiddenlakegardens.msu.edu/

And these pictures I took on my dark and dreary cold rainy afternoon trip.  Which was, by the way, a blast from the past. (You can click on the first picture to make it bigger, and then move through them by clicking on the “next.”)

Sadly there were no swans at the small pond, but the willow trees were there.  And the winding drive through the woods was really fun.  I could just image Dad maneuvering our big station wagon full of kids around the hairpin curves, the rear view mirrors just fitting between the trees.

At the rare conifer garden it began to rain in earnest, so I packed it in and drove the rest of the way to the town I lived in until I was ten.  Nothing much looked familiar as I drove into town.  But I just stopped thinking and let my heart drive the car and low and behold, with only one missed corner, there I was in front of the house we all lived in way back in the 60’s!

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I sat in front of the house long enough that someone finally came and looked out the window.  I moved along then, not wanting to appear to be a stalker!  When we lived there the house was gray with either white or black shutters.  I say black, my Mom always said they were white.  She was probably right.  The house next to the one I lived in is for sale.  I went online later to see what the values are on that street and was amused to see they are just a little over 10 times what my parents paid for the house back in 1961.

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Driving around the neighborhood memories popped into my head, along with the names of  friends who had lived in some of the houses I passed.  I even found the first little house we lived in initially when we  moved to town; the house my two brothers were brought home to from the hospital when they were born, almost 50 years ago.

Hidden Lake Gardens and Adrian Aug 2009 081 The only way I could find my elementary school was to drive along the route I walked way back when I was five.  I remembered my Mom saying I had to cross two “big” streets, so again I just let my brain follow my heart, and there was the school.  Funny how much you can remember when you stop trying.

On my way out of town I stopped at the public library where I first discovered my love of reading.  It looks like a castle, doesn’t it?  It’s a museum now, but when I was a little girl we came to this building once a week;  we were all allowed to pick out books for Dad and Mom to read to us, and later, for us to read aloud to them.

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In front of the library is a sculpture of a little boy in glasses, reading a book, sitting on top of the world.  That wasn’t there when I was a kid, but it sure is cute!

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I stopped at a diner for some supper before leaving town, read the local paper and remembered.  Everything here was the same but not.  Since I had been so young when we left, I didn’t have clear memories of much of the town, so changes didn’t feel like changes to me.  The main buildings of my youth— my homes, my school and my library were still there, still largely unchanged,  a time capsule waiting for my discovery.

This place was the beginning of who I am today. The preamble to the now.  It’s nice to know that it’s still out there.

On the way home, listening to a country station I realized through the haze of my musings that someone was singing the chorus to a song:  “There’s too many memories for one heart to hold.”   True.

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Reconstruction

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You know when you watch people on the news after a tornado or a hurricane has ripped their lives and homes to shreds,  how they look around with tears in their eyes, in shock at all the damage, but still grateful that they’re alive?  And how they always say that no matter how bad things are, regardless of their terrible loss, that they’re going to rebuild?   Well, I always wonder how they’re doing after the news trucks and reporters have gone on to other stories.  How they are months later when the really hard work of rebuilding is happening and no one is there to notice.

In a smaller, more personal and more human way I’ve witnessed something similar; the destruction of a lifestyle, of a commitment, of certainty.  The confusing disbelief, the crazy anger, the debilitating sadness;  the hopelessness, the exhaustion, the constant and wearing questions and lists.  And as time went on  I’ve also seen the hope shining through the tears, the growth of a human spirit, the strength  growing, and the rebuilding beginning.  Out of disaster, disorder and deconstruction, through heartache and hard work, comes a new life.  Here’s proof that reconstruction is possible; that’s it necessary and difficult, but satisfactory and joyous all at the same time.  Even when no one is watching.

Congratulations little sister on your reconstruction of a deconstructed life.  You’re on your way, no time to look back, the future is yours now.  Go with it.  I’m proud of you.

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Yesterdays

It completely slipped my mind Saturday, when I was so busy with my list of things to do, that it was the fifth anniversary of the day Mom unexpectedly died.  I knew earlier in the week that Saturday was the anniversary, and I remembered again on Sunday while watching a special about the life of Walter Cronkite.  When they talked about his wife of 65 years I thought of Mom and Dad, married 52 years when she died.  If they had lived another 13 years they’d have been 88 and married 65 years.  I was doing the math when I realized that I had missed the anniversary.

I don’t think that not noticing the anniversary of Mom’s death, on the day itself, means I love her less, or mourn her loss less.  I choose to think that some healing has occurred, a bit of the overwhelming sting has lessened, gotten a bit more fuzzy around the edges.  Loosened it’s grip on me.  This is such an interesting experiment, this walk through grief, if it weren’t that I had to lose two of the most important people in the world.  It used to scare me when people whose parents had died many years ago told me they still missed their parents every day.  I was depressed to imagine living with such an intense pain every single day.  So it has been good to come to know that yes, you miss them every day, but it is a manageable pain, livable.

So today, as I’m baking bread I think of my Mom, and the last time she was in my kitchen.  I don’t have that loud wailing going on inside of me anymore.   It used to shriek “Moooooommmmmm!” constantly, interfering with thought and logic and every day tasks.  That’s subsided and in it’s place is just a warm, slightly sad, quiet place.  I can still conjure up the wailing, if I think about it too much and sometimes I do it just to prove to myself that I can, that she’s still right there so to speak.  But it’s not interfering so much, and the pain is a little softer, and I can say for sure now to other people who are just at the beginning of their loss that someday, in their own time, it will get better.

Another lesson I’ve learned from my mother.  It will get better.

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Cramming a lifetime of memories into one long weekend

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Spending the July 4th holiday weekend with family in the south was a treat.  Part of the weekend was spent at my brother’s home on a big lake, part of the weekend was spent at my parent’s home on another large lake.  Both places played host to all four of us; siblings together again for a few days, goofing off like we did when we were kids.  Of course not having Mom and Dad there to share it all with us lent a low grade melancholic feeling that persisted beneath the laughs, good food, great boat trips and crazy conversations.

Along the way were a few things that stood out:

  • Watching 4th of July fireworks from a boat, just like we used to do as kids.  There were at least a thousand boats anchored at one end of the big lake, private fireworks going off along the shore, the official fireworks at the dam competing with the almost full moon, and Dad’s big dipper hanging high in the sky.
  • Photographing scores of patriotically decked out wave runners as they sped by our boat in a watery version of the traditional  holiday parade.
  • Listening to a celebratory concert at “two tree island” while floating next to the boat, my toes turned up to the evening sky in a salute to Mom’s swimming style.
  • Eating a sweet ripe peach, the juice running down my chin, then eating another just because I could.
  • Running my fingers over small wooden figurines on Dad’s bedroom dresser that years ago had resided on our kitchen windowsill, bringing back memories of teenage years in another place and time.
  • Stopping for a moment during a boat ride in the warm summer air  beside the mountain where we had spread their ashes to pay our respects.
  • Watching a storm come in across the lake, listening to the wind beat the roof and windows, the rain going sideways across the yard, being glad we were there so the house wasn’t facing the storm alone.
  • Playing Mom’s piano.  It took both my sister and me to haltingly make it through some of the music left behind.  Our four hands couldn’t play what her two hands had played so beautifully such a short time ago.
  • Looking around the cabin as we left, saying a silent goodbye to them.  Telling them I loved them.  Hurrying away before the pain overwhelmed.  Seeing a marquee sign out front of the first little gas station a couple of miles away that said simply “Love You.”  Knew it was a message that they loved us back.

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