Change Is Hard

…but change is certain.

Tag Archives: family


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Hard hit

Stormy times

Stormy times

The safety of everyone on our roads and highways took a big hit last week. The Comprehensive Transportation and Consumer Protection Act of 2015 (S. 1732) passed out of the Commerce Committee and is headed to the full Senate complete with all the anti-safety aspects that we fought to extract. The ability for a truck company to hide safety statistics from the public, to allow the hiring of 18 year olds to drive across the country (some states had higher minimum ages, but this will now be overrun by federal law), creating more hoops for the Federal Motor Carrier Safety Administration to jump through in order to mandate higher insurance requirements, all of these and more are still included in the bill. Every amendment presented by a safety conscious Committee Member lost by one vote, or by a voice vote. Every amendment offered by a American Trucking Association supported Committee Member passed.

The voting was straight down party lines.

I don’t understand. If you’re elected by the majority of people in your state, but you’re only going to vote the party line without listening or even considering another opinion, what’s the point of discussing anything at all? If you can’t listen to the safety concerns of many of your constituents, if you can’t let the overwhelming evidence sway you even the slightest toward safety, if you are more concerned about your campaign contributors than the safety of regular citizens, well, then there is no hope for the future.

I’ll be honest. It has been a difficult few months. It’s hard to look forward and figure out what the next move is. Obviously the next move is to call Senators when S1732 gets to the floor of the full Senate. But sill, it’s been so discouraging. It would be easy to just let it go. I’m beginning to wonder if we’re wrong. Maybe this is what the population wants…larger trucks, younger drivers, longer driving hours, the public shouldering the expenses when a crash occurs…if so, so be it.

I was driving this morning, looking for a photo challenge shot. Out in the cornfields of rural America I had all sorts of negative thoughts bouncing around my brain. But as I drove the dirt roads, past farms and small towns, other voices started to push their way into my brain. Voices of the families. The sons and daughters, wives and husbands, siblings, grandparents, and parents of those we’ve lost. I remember saying years ago that if we saved one life my family would be even, and my sister responding emphatically that no we wouldn’t. We’ll never be even, never be whole, no matter how hard we work.

But that’s no excuse for giving up. It’s no excuse for abandoning those who can no longer speak, no excuse not to expose the horrors and the grief, no excuse not to push for change.

By the time I made my way back home I had taken a deep breath and begun thinking about what’s next. There is more than one way to approach safety. If we can’t get it done through Congress maybe we can get something done through the DOT. And if the DOT can’t get anything done then maybe we go straight to the big trucking companies. We’ve already done that with one, that company realizes that safe can be profitable. Maybe we just have to spread that word. Meanwhile we still provide support and advice and love to the families who have been forever changed by truck crashes, one family at a time.

We lost big time this month. But we won’t give up and we won’t go away. There’s only one way to move and that’s forward.

Did I get the photo I was looking for? You’ll have to wait and see.

Clouds around every corner.

Clouds around every corner.


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Memories of black raspberries

Berries in bowl

Berries in bowl


Warm, sweet, juice running down your fingers. That’s the way I remember the black raspberries I picked behind my grandpa’s workshop on the farm years ago when I was a kid. We each got to spend a few days at grandma’s house during the summers back then. I tried to choose days when the black raspberries were ripe and if we were lucky Grandma and I had fresh berries on our cereal every morning.

Years later my sister came here for a visit and we went for a long bike ride. One of the highlights that day was coming across a huge patch of black raspberries, hundreds ripe for the picking. So we did, turning our fingers purple with memories.

This year in my own backyard, where I haven’t noticed any growing before, I found plump ripe berries today. Reaching into the thorny bushes for the perfect berry I was 12 again and back behind the workshop picking for my grandma’s breakfast.

It was sweet.

Grandpa's workshop

Grandpa’s workshop


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WordPress Photo Challenge: Door

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Family Farm Barn Door

Windows and doors…some of my favorite things to photograph.  I like this photo because it’s on the family farm, and because it shows the ingenuity of farmers who use what’s available to create hardware that works.

Look around.  What doors do you take for granted that carry memories and beauty to you?  Share them with us.  Meanwhile, you can see the entries so far at the original post.  Or see a few of my favorites (so far, it’s early, this challenge lasts until next Friday) here, here and here.    Please take a moment and look at these, they are special.

I’m sure there will be more I like as the week goes on, and I might find another door or two of my own to share.    We’ll see.

 


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Father’s Day

Dear Dad,

I’m thinking about you today, sifting through pictures, reaching back, oh so far, for the smallest memory.  Not that I don’t think about you every day.  Both of you.

Remember all the great trips you took us on every summer?

Going on a trip!

Going on a trip!

I went camping up north a couple weeks ago.   I thought of you as I put up my spiffy modern tent alone.  Remember the big heavy green canvas tent we all camped in?  How it took forever and more than a few hands to get it up?  How it smelled like wet tent when it rained and you told us not to touch the walls or it would leak?  Remember how we used to fall exhausted into sleeping bags scratchy with sand every night after full days at the beach?  How we roasted all those marshmallows over the fire and you ate the our burned ones?  Those were the days.

I remember, too, how you could fix anything.

Changing the tire.

Polishing the fender.

I don’t know how you learned the way everything worked and how to make it work again when it broke.  But you did.  We’ve been using the tools in your workshop to fix things around the lake house.  Seems like you had one of just about everything.  And we keep finding little notes like the one written on a stud in the garage about when the driveway was last sealed or the house stained.   In fact we found the can of house stain you left for us, labeled by you, so we were able to paint that new fascia board to match.

And did you see I retired this month?  I’m not sure how you reacted to that because I’m still pretty young.

Catching some shuteye.

Catching some shuteye.

I remember when we were kids how you’d come across us sitting around somewhere and you’d ask us what we were doing.  We knew we better come up with something because if we didn’t you’d have some chore waiting.  I was thinking about that this week when I spent two whole days doing absolutely nothing.  That felt kind of uncomfortable.  I guess I was expecting you to show up and ask me what I was doing.  Napping never seemed like a good answer in those days, but I’m hoping you understand.  I’m thinking you probably do.

And remember how you used to read the Sunday comics to us, even when we were old enough to read them ourselves?

Once upon a time...

Once upon a time…

You read a lot of stuff to us, guess that’s how I turned into a reader.  And a story teller.  I wouldn’t mind hearing you tell one of your stories one more time now.  We sure laughed around the dinner table a lot growing up didn’t we?  Back then I didn’t know all families weren’t like that.  I just figured laughing until our sides hurt and the tears ran down our faces was typical at dinner tables across the country.  Turns out not to be true, but I’m glad it was that way at our house.

Remember all those family portraits we took?  How we’d gather in one spot, get ourselves all arranged, and then you’d set the timer on the camera and rush back to get into position before it went off?  How so often it wouldn’t go off at all and you’d go back to figure out why, and then it would flash?  How we used to laugh.

Oops!

Oops!

This is one of my favorite pictures.  Not because it was perfect, or we were perfect but because of the laughter.  Even though half of us were sick with the flu that day we couldn’t help but laugh because this was just so typical of us.

Anyway, I guess I could go on, turn this into a long eloquent thank you speech, but you were never so much about long speeches.  You were more about doing.   Judging from the photos and notes on Facebook (do they have Facebook in heaven?) there are an awful lot of very special dads up there with you.   I was thinking maybe you could organize a dad’s club of some kind, maybe go around and fix stuff for people.  But then again, there’s probably not a lot of stuff that needs fixing there.

So I guess you’ve earned a nap.  The best you can do is watch over all of us and give us a sign now and then that you’re around.  Maybe point us in the right direction when we’re looking for something in your workshop.

You taught us good Dad and we’re getting by, all of us, day by day.  But it sure is hard.

Love,

Your Kids

1990

1990

 

 


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Dreams

Apparently I was dreaming this morning.  And this is how it went:

My husband, brother, and I had a meeting with Governor Snyder (Michigan) to talk about truck safety issues.  But the night before I had to sleep overnight at the hospital because I had a blood draw scheduled for early in the morning.  And there was confusion about when the transport van was taking us to the meeting in the morning.

Morning comes after a restless night sleeping on an uncomfortable bed.  I can’t get my husband and brother to get moving and the nurse is there for the blood draw and I’m trying to find out when the car will arrive to take us to the meeting with the governor and she’s busy talking to some other patient.  Finally she takes my blood and tells me the car will be here at 6 a.m. but as its already 7:30 we’ve missed it.

Our meeting is soon, so the nurse drives my husband, my brother and I and, inexplicably, Howard Stern to the meeting location.  My husband and brother somehow got to shower.  I did not as there wasn’t time and I feel messy and unorganized.

We arrive at the meeting site, which appears to be a house with a two car garage that has been converted to a bedroom.  Katie (the dog) is in the house and is coming to the meeting too; my husband and brother go into the house to get her.  I sit in the van with Howard Stern and tell him this is not a media event, it’s a meeting about truck safety, and if I allow him to come he has to be quiet.  He says he’s never met the governor and would like to come.

He and I get out of the car, my husband, brother, Katie the dog, and Howard and I troop into the converted garage. Inside is a television camera, and a reporter that I didn’t expect. The governor is sitting in a chair wearing a mustard yellow shirt and bright green scrub pants. (This alone should tell you we’re in a dream – he only wears blue shirts at events like this, never mustard yellow.)  He hurriedly puts on a navy jacket and stands up to meet us.

There’s a bed in the middle of the room that we have to climb over to meet him.  I note that it’s not made and has grass clippings all over it.  Obviously Katie has been outside on a freshly mowed lawn and has jumped all over the bed.

I shake hands with the governor, others are introducing themselves to  members of my family.  The governor says “Let’s go talk a minute Dawn.” and we climb back over the bed and walk into a storage closet.

He wants to know why Howard Stern is there.  I tell him I’d told Howard that this was not a media event, but I wondered why there was a television camera there myself.  He said he would rather Howard not be at the meeting.

And then Katie the dog jumps on me for real to wake me up.  It’s 5:05 a.m.  I have a doctor’s appointment at 7:50 a.m.  Time to begin another day.

Which is just as well.

Our meeting with the governor wasn’t going anywhere anyway.


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Happy Mother’s Day

She grew up in the country, lived in many different places and traveled throughout the world.  She was a talented musician and artist; she played piano at a nursing home on Wednesdays, and her church organ the day she died.  She made the best potato salad ever.

Braun and Badger 050

But mostly she was a mom to four of her own kids and scores of others – friends of ours that felt welcome in our home, sat at our dinner table, laughed and played with our family.

Braun and Badger 010

Home is where your mom is, and these days she’s everywhere.

Braun and Badger 016

Happy Mother’s Day mom.  I know you’re planting your favorite purple petunias today, the ones that smell so good in the evening when you sit out on the deck.

Braun and Badger 047

Love you always.

Braun and Badger 059


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A message to the Secretary

I woke up this morning thinking about my dad, probably because of an article I read yesterday.  It’s so much like our own story, and the stories of thousands of other families.

Many of you know about my dad, but some of you are new readers.   And as I haven’t had the opportunity to meet the new Secretary of Transportation, Anthony Fox, yet I thought I’d share my story in a letter to him.

Mr. Secretary:

My dad was driving to the Atlanta airport early in the morning of December 23rd, 2004.  He was planning on spending the holiday with my sister in New Jersey because most of us couldn’t get home for Christmas that year.  Mom had died unexpectedly in July and we didn’t want him to be alone.

On Interstate 85, just past the Georgia line, he came upon an accident.  Police and other emergency vehicles were already there, lights flashing.  Traffic slowed.  There was a car behind Dad who saw, in their mirrors, the semi bearing down.  They drove into the median to avoid the crash, but dad didn’t have a chance.  He was driving 14 miles per hour when he was hit and pushed into the semi in front of him by a 80,000 pound vehicle that was on cruise control going 65 miles per hour.

Dad was partially ejected through the back passenger window even though he was wearing his seat belt.  We saw the car, what was left of it, later that week when we went to the junk yard to retrieve his Christmas presents for my sister, still inside his luggage, in the crushed trunk.  There was blood everywhere, but a particularly long wide stain running down the inside of the back seat door held my attention.

The image shocks you doesn’t it.

I don’t mince words any more Mr. Secretary, don’t shield people from the horror, especially not people who can do something constructive.  It’s been ten years and I’ve had plenty of hand holding comfort.  I don’t need more of that.

Four thousand people die in truck related crashes every year.  Not all of them are the fault of the truck driver.  But there are many tired and distracted semi drivers on the roads because the laws let them drive more hours than are safely possible and because many companies push their drivers to do even more.  Most of these people die as individuals, in crashes that don’t gain press.  They die one by one, two by two, across the country and no one pays attention.

Except the families.  Sixty-three year old Walter Manz, who died this week in a crash that sounds just like my dad’s, won’t be remembered by the President or his Governor, or even his local Mayor.  He won’t make the CNN news loop, his family won’t be interviewed by Anderson Cooper.   He’s just one more person lost for no reason.

But his family will be forever changed.

So while we appreciate you meeting with us and listening to our stories here’s what we really need Mr. Secretary.  We need more than warm support and kind words.  We need more than hugs and tears.

We need you to stand up for safety.

Stand up and work with us to make the transportation industry safer for all of us.  Not just the folks in the four wheel vehicles, but for the professional drivers as well.  Because for every family that is devastated by the loss of loved ones there’s a driver that is emotionally devastated as well.

We can make a difference.  We can make the roads safer.  We just need everyone, and especially you Mr. Secretary, to work together toward a mutually satisfying compromise that will save lives.  Make safety your legacy.  Be remembered as the Secretary that put safety first.

Safety over profits.  Has a sort of ring to it doesn’t it.

Thank you for listening.

Sincerely,

Dawn Badger King

Bill Badger’s daughter.

Forever.

Daddy and me

Daddy and me

 


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That moment

Ann Arbor was given another gift last night in their symphony’s performance of “Absolut Russian,” a program filled with formidable Russian composers.  We were treated to Borodin’s “Polovtsian Dances” complete with a 150 member choir, and the lush and romantic “Romeo and Juliet – Fantasy Overture” by Tchaikovsky.  Both pieces were stunningly beautiful in complete different ways.

But what I  really want to share with you is the opening piece, “Symphony No. 10 in E minor” by Dimitry Shostakovich.  Shostakovich (1906 -1975) was composing music in Russia during the reign of Joseph Stalin.  Some of his music was censored but Symphony No. 10,  scored shortly after Stalin’s death in 1953, made it past the censors. Only after it did would he reveal that the four movements represented, in order, the victims of tyranny, Stalin himself, the attempt at suffocating individual spirit, and ultimately liberation.  (Interpretation from program notes written by Edward Yadzinsky.)

Maestro Arie Lipsky gave a talk prior to the concert.  He introduced Symphony No. 10 by saying the first movement was long, and moved from sadness to anger to hopelessness.  I looked at my husband, rolled my eyes, and said “Great” just what I need!  But where there is anger and sadness there must always be hope, and in this piece you just have to wait for it.

My favorite movement, and coincidentally the shortest, is the second movement which represents Joseph Stalin himself.  I imagined a chase scene as I listened, the brass, as Lipsky said, chasing the fleeing strings.  Perhaps the original interpretations was that Stalin was chasing artists.  Listen to the intricacies of the music for yourself; what do you hear?

There are so many interesting and integral parts to No. 10 and they all come together in the fourth movement, building to a breathtaking and triumphant ending.  The clip I found for you of the second half of the 4th  is five minutes of music and then several minutes of applause.  Please watch it, you’ll be transported to the center of the symphony and you’ll feel the energy and the joy.  Then imagine hearing it live.  Breathtaking.  And as the woman behind me said as we were on our feet applauding; “That was exhausting!”

But after all, what I really wanted to tell you about isn’t even in the music.  I wanted to tell you about that moment that happens at the instant something as glorious as this piece ends.  It’s a moment when every musician is transported to the height of emotion, just as the applause begins, when musicians and maestro are still connected, eyes locked, instruments quiet, muscles still tensed.  There is a moment when the baton is lowered but the relationship is extended between musicians and conductor for just a second or two more.   It’s a private moment between people who recognize something beautiful has just been set free.

I witnessed that moment Saturday night, as Maestro Lipsky stood still, then lowered his arms,  nodded his head once in an acknowledgement of exquisite beauty, placed his hand over his heart and bowed slightly to his orchestra.  And they all grinned right back at him.

The music that night didn’t make me cry, didn’t send shivers across my shoulders.  Instead it sucked me in and spit me out — I was grateful to be there.   But that moment, the passing of silent love and respect between the orchestra and their leader, that moment filled my eyes with tears.

 

 

 


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Exercising with Aunt Vi

I went to visit Aunt Vi this afternoon.  She’s 99 and able to live in her own apartment with a little help doing the cleaning and laundry and grocery shopping.  She hasn’t been outside for anything other than doctor appointments for a good long while and she’s getting a bit of cabin fever.  She has her bird Buddy as company; we tried to get him to come out and play so that I could get a picture of him on her shoulder but he wasn’t having anything to do with me.  I guess he’s camera shy.

Come out and play!

Come out and play!

 

We talked a lot about the old days, the early years of her marriage and stories of when she worked at the local hospital.  She remembered getting off work late at night after a snow storm and not being able to find her car in the parking lot.  I guess in those days there was no such thing as a remote start.  We laughed about her having to dig through the snow with her hands to open the truck and retrieve the shovel so she could dig herself out of the parking lot.  She shook her head in wonder at the things she used to do when she was younger.

I shook my head in wonder too.

She was having a good day, so she showed me the exercises she does every day to stay loose.  Standing up and hanging onto her walker she did knee lifts.  Twenty on each side.  I told her I wanted to take her picture doing those and  she laughed and sat down.  Then she made me do them.  I was not as graceful and luckily there are no pictures of that either.  I did manage to get a couple of her using her stretchy bands.  She works her legs….

Keeping the legs in shape.

Keeping the legs in shape.

…and her arms every day.

 

Strong arms!

Strong arms!

I realized she’s doing more exercise than I am, even though I’m the one carrying the Fitbit in my pocket.  I feel guilty.

I’ve often wondered what a 99 year old thinks about as she sits in her apartment watching the world go by day after day.  Turns out she thinks a lot about the old days, her son, her sisters and brothers, her parents.  The same things we think about when we take the time to sit down and reflect.  She says she doesn’t plan anything out in the future, she just enjoys today.  I said that was a lesson for all of us to learn – to just enjoy today.

She says she’s tired and frustrated that her body doesn’t work the way it used to.  She’s not used to accepting help and it still bugs her that she has to.  But she’s grateful to be living on her own in her apartment, and she’s happy that she has friends and family that visit.   Still, she knows there’s not much to look forward to and sometimes she gets pensive.  She’s had a hard but good life filled with family and love and laughter, but there are only two of her original siblings left now.  She’s said so many goodbyes.

Telling stories of the past.

Telling stories of the past.

I wonder what I will remember most when I’m 99 and looking back.  I wonder what will be the most important accomplishments, the favorite memories, the things I will laugh about, what stories I will tell.  I wonder if I will be able to carry 99 as well as she does.  I don’t know, she’s set the bar pretty high.  I had a good visit with her this afternoon.  We’re lucky she’s still around to tell the family stories.  And if she keeps on exercising she just might be around to tell us about the good old days for years to come.

I certainly hope so.

Buddy

Meet Buddy