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Tag Archives: sad
Remembering our friend Ludo
We knew him as a puppy. Follow the link to read his first post, introducing himself to all of us. What a cutie! He was one of our first blogging doggy friends eight years ago. We loved reading about his adventures with his mum and dad and his rabbitdog siblings.
We watched him grow up — into a handsome, fun loving, adventuring dog. He loved his Mum and TNP (his dad) so very much. In fact he got to attend their wedding!
And he came to love his little brother Arran too, even though we all know little brothers can be a bit of a bother sometimes.
Ludo liked to take us along on his vacation adventures, and through him we got to see a lot of the Lake District in the UK. His parents were always careful to choose dog friendly locations including restaurants and hotels. Ludo was a very very lucky boy; he got to visit some of the most beautiful country I’ve ever seen.
And it was always special to see it through his eyes.
And did I tell you he won awards in agility? He loved to run and jump, especially with his mum.
He even got to go camping at agility events! Katie says she’s glad Ludo got to camp, it’s a truly special thing to do with your folks.
Ludo enjoyed holidays too. Especially Crispmas. He liked to celebrate with his family and always wished us good holiday cheer. Crispmas just won’t be the same now.
But most of all Ludo loved running along the sea, getting his furs salty and wet. Chasing his ball. Chasing the waves.
Just chasing life.
Ludo only got to live eight years. It wasn’t enough for any of us, especially for his mum Dee and his dad Richard. Though we knew he was fighting cancer we all hoped he could stick around a few more months. Years maybe if we were lucky. But it was not to be and Ludo went on to his next adventure beyond the rainbow bridge last month.
Ludo carefully taught Arran all the important things about being a sheltie. How to ask for treats, to get the best belly rubs, to chase a ball. How to tilt a head for the best effect and make the humans smile. And now he’s taught us, once again, how to smile through our tears.
Eight years was not enough. We all wanted to watch Ludo’s antics forever. We all wanted the bad cancer stuff to go away. But he had become uncomfortable and his parents made the oh so difficult decision to let him fly. Now he’s running, forever free, by his beloved sea chasing the waves and barking with joy. It’s the way I’ll always remember Ludo.
He’s not so far away. He’s right there in our hearts where we can visit him whenever we need a glimpse of his silly handsome face.
Thank you Ludo, for sharing your life with us. And thank you Dee and Richard for facilitating that sharing. Ludo was magical. And magic lasts forever.
Hugs.
Note: All photos were taken by Dee or Richard. Wedding photo taken by their professional wedding photographer.
Happy Birthday Mom
Used to.
Now I’m more likely to realize it’s August 11 when I hear on the news about the Perseid meteor showers which always lit up the sky on your birthday. Like your own personal fireworks.
Happy 88th birthday Mom. It’s been twelve years since I’ve mailed a card to you. But I’m sure you know that we’re thinking about you on this and every day. I bet you knew we were all together last week at the home you and Dad built. We had a good time at the lake.
But it would have been better if you’d both been there too.
Lunch with Mom
But we weren’t like that. We rarely shopped together, neither of us were really into it. We didn’t meet for lunch at little coffee shops, though she made all of us lunch thousands of times at home. No, we weren’t the stereotypical mother/daughter. Plus she lived in Alabama. I lived in Michigan. Each visit I made was a big deal, a family reunion. Something she’d plan for weeks.
An event.
The hellos were wonderful, full of anticipation of time spent on the lake or around the table, all of us together. The goodbyes were heart wrenching, never knowing how long until the next reunion.
I want to go to lunch with my mom. Just a casual lunch, nothing special. I want to talk about her ducks and my dog. Her garden and mine.
Sometimes at night I look at the sky, stare at the stars and ask her to please come home. Please. But I know she is home now, and there aren’t any flights that leave there.
I’m here and she’s there.
Someday I’ll have lunch with my mom. It probably won’t be a casual meal because it will be a pretty special reunion. An event. For now I guess I’ll go make a sandwich and talk to her in my head. About her ducks and my dog. What’s in her garden today, and the tomatoes in mine.
You know – just casual stuff.
Wordless Wednesday
Paddling the blues away
My family has come out to the lake and gone home again. The house feels empty and I’m feeling a little blue. But this morning the sun rose on another perfect day and there’s nothing to do when you’re feeling blue except take a paddle on a gorgeous lake.
So I set out.
This is what we lake people call ‘water ski water’ because it’s the perfect glassy surface to fly free at the end of a tow line. I’ve had plenty of beautiful skis like that over the years but this morning was designed for more quiet refection.
Going around a bend I lost the perfect water and headed into a bit of a wind. And I realized I had forgot the sunscreen and the water bottle.
So paddling got more difficult physically and mentally. But I wanted to see how far I could go with a bum shoulder. So I’d rest a bit, floating silently, looking at all the lake houses, now empty of their people for another week.
And up at the next point I saw a tree. A tree that made me feel even more blue.
Because surely that was not fall color! Surely that was just caused by the drought. Even though it’s sitting right on the shore with plenty of water. Sure.
I quickly paddled around that point, and the water was smooth again.
I’d have to go way past that island and around that next point to get even close to the mountain where my parents’ ashes were spread. So even though I was curious about whether I could paddle that far I floated a bit and reluctantly turned around for home.
After all the turkey buzzards were circling above, waiting for me. And I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of dehydrating in the hot Alabama sun.
As with any trip, the paddle home seemed a lot shorter than the going out had been. Partly because that breeze was at my back. Partly because I’d moved into a rhythm, one with the water and the sun and the breeze and the paddle.
Still, home looked pretty good.
Paying our respects at the Freedom Tower
There are no words adequate to describe the sheer size while looking up at the tower gleaming against the bright blue sky. No words to describe the deep emotion running through a crowd that stands mostly silent around the perimeter of the two pools ringed with names of the nearly three thousand that died.
No words.
Each day memorial staff place white roses in the names of those victims who would have been celebrating birthdays. Their lives are remembered by their families still and now complete strangers linger to gently touch the letters of the names cut into the smooth stone. Showing respect. Honoring.
Inside the museum our tour guide provides detailed history. She is careful of our feelings, telling us it’s a difficult story to hear, to have experienced, to remember.
She reminds us that there are those among us that were not yet alive on that day and that it is important to tell the story. To not forget. To pass the lessons on.
In the great hall there stands the last piece of formative steel to be removed from the site. Taped to it are pictures of some of those that died, put there by the construction crews and city employees working on the cleanup. A makeshift memorial captured and preserved forever.

Back wall is the original footings of the tower. Last formative steel removed covered in heartfelt graffiti.
A long wall is covered in tiles, each of the 2,996 a different shade of blue, no two alike, because each of the 2,996 victims was unique. Blue, because the sky on September 11, 2001 was the wonderful clear blue of a perfect autumn day.
There are things inside the museum that are hard to see but important to remember. There is a room with photos of each of the victims. Photos lined up, from floor to ceiling, row after row of faces smiling, eyes looking back, stories to be told, memories captured.
Hard.
But our guide reminds us that this memorial wasn’t built with hate. It was built with love. And that coming to visit is an act of love and respect and honor.
So we swallow our tears and we promise to pass the story on to the next generation in hope and peace.
And then we move out of the museum and back onto the streets of New York City under a brilliant blue sky.
Healing doesn’t mean you aren’t grieving anymore
In the beginning you believe the worst possible thing that has just happened to you and your family is the absolute worst possible thing ever. That no family, no person can possibly be grieving as deeply as you are. And time passes and your focus shifts slightly beyond your own searing pain and you see that someone else is hurting too. That others have experienced similar events.
That it’s not all about you.
And that’s the first baby step to healing. That realization that you are not alone, that others have similar stories, similar, though not exact, pain.
I’ve started reading Cheryl Strayed’s “Brave Enough.” I’m not very far into it — barely started in fact — and already this quote of hers makes me stop and reread. And nod in agreement. And read it again. And want to share it with all of you.
“”When you recognize that you will thrive not in spite of your losses and sorrows, but because of them, that you would not have chosen the things that happened in your life, but you are grateful for them, that you will hold the empty bowls eternally in your hands, but you also have the capacity to fill them? The word for that is healing.”
And now, not an hour later, I’m reading a blog written by a woman who has been through trials most of us couldn’t imagine, including the sudden death of her husband a year ago. A line down near the bottom of the post stops me again. And makes me want to share it (and her) with you.
“Emotions don’t get better. We get better at holding them. They don’t get less heavy, we get stronger.”
Both women are right. Out of trials and loss and grief and pain we get stronger. And often we grow in directions we might never have moved without the experiences that left indelible scars on our souls.
I never wanted nor dreamed of the losses that changed our family. But given that’s the way it is, I’m pleased to continue the growth, spawned but not defined, by life events.
Wherever you are in the cycle of life, I hope you can see the light and hope and growth shining ahead of you. If you need a hand up, there are plenty of people willing to take hold. And if you’ve moved into a good place yourself, glance around once in awhile. Someone might be there, just in the shadow, ready to move, but needing a little nudge.
I’ll get off the soapbox now.
Crash dummy survives!
I’d never been a witness to a test crash before. I suppose not many people have. It’s kind of a surreal experience, especially for a person that’s had a loved one die in a violent crash.
My husband and I, along with several other of our truck safety volunteers attended an all day conference at the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety in Charlottesville Virginia on Thursday.
And it wasn’t just us in attendance.
In an unprecedented move truck companies, trailer manufacturers, safety advocates, bicycle and pedestrian representatives, policy makers, and researchers were all together in one room to talk about the problem of truck underride.
Most of you don’t know what truck underride is, and I wish I didn’t have to explain it to you. But because our country is a generation behind Europe you probably haven’t seen a truck sporting a side guard to keep a car from traveling under the trailer in a crash.
Perhaps, if you’ve been in New York City or Boston recently, you’ve seen city trucks with side guards; those two cities have now mandated this safety precaution after several bicyclists and pedestrians were killed by falling beneath the trailers and being crushed by the wheels.
Side and rear underride is a huge problem outside cities too. As you pass a semi out on the freeway, and if it’s safe, glance over and see where the underside of that trailer would hit you if you slid under. Just about the height of your head. And if you slide under your airbags won’t deploy as there would be no impact of the engine and front of your car. The first impact would be the windshield, and that won’t save you.
And don’t think you’re safe if you hit a semi from behind. Many of the rear guards were built to 1953 standards and will collapse if you hit them with any speed. Once again, the only thing between your head and the back of that trailer will be the windshield.
So for years safety advocates, including the Truck Safety Coalition, have been asking the Department of Transportation to require better rear guards, and to start the process to mandate side guards. It’s another one of those no-brainer things that we just can’t seem to get done through normal channels.
Thursday’s conference wasn’t a normal channel. Never before has the industry met with the safety people to discuss making changes that would move ahead of any regulations that might some day come out of the D.O.T. Never before has such candid conversations been held, without animosity, without rancor, with only safety in mind.
It was amazing.
At noon we went into the lab and watched a test crash of a Malibu slamming at 35 mpr into the back of a semi trailer that had been equipped with a new, stronger rear guard. Some of us weren’t sure we wanted to witness such a thing, but we’re all glad we did.
Because in this case the new rear guard held up and the passenger compartment, crash dummy inside, was not penetrated. (You can watch the crash test here.) Everyone inside this particular car would have survived. For many people the test crash was the highlight of the day. But I thought the highlight was later in the program.
During the day we had speakers from New York City and Boston tell us about the processes they went through requiring side guards on trucks within their city limits. We had speakers from government talking about where in the regulatory process we are, speakers from trailer manufacturers talking about stronger rear guards that are ready for market now, from a truck company that has ordered 4,000 of the new, safer rear guards, and from Virginia Tech students who showed us their own new design for a stronger, safer rear guard.
Those students almost made me cry. They were undergraduates, the project assigned to them was to build a better rear guard for a semi truck. They, like most people, had never heard of underride crashes before. They learned about the problem, dreamed up a number of potential solutions, weeded their options down to four, and then figured out which one was the most plausible, most acceptable to both the trucking industry and safety advocates.
And then they built a it.

Virginia Tech student and a Truck Safety Volunteer who has been fighting for side guards since her dad was killed 33 years ago.
Incredibly 18 and 19 year old young people spent a year on this project, realized the importance of their work, and were brave enough to come and speak about it to a group of adults working in the industry. They were excited about their design and proud to show it off. And a room full of jaded adults sat respectfully listening, leaning forward, following along, congratulation the students at the end for a good design, inviting them to join the industry after they graduate. To think that this whole room of people, including the kids, was there to make the roads safer for everyone. Well. That just about made me tear up.
It should make you tear up too.
Because change is happening. It’s happening because we’ve moved past regulations and asked the industry to listen and to do what’s right. And they are responding. Not everyone. And not every request. But some. And some change will lead to more change. And every step we make toward safety saves another life.
Change is hard. But it’s not impossible.
Arlington musings
We meant to spend part of the day at Arlington Cemetery and the rest of the day at the Air and Space Museum. After all, it wasn’t our first trip out to Arlington, and we’ve been to the National Cemetery in Michigan a few times as well.
Turns out we underestimated our time wandering the cemetery grounds.
We spent nearly the entire day exploring, searching for particular grave sites, contemplating, watching. Listening. Listening to taps being played at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldiers, listening to a marching band playing military music off in the distance during the changing of the guard…
…listening to a mocking bird singing high over the endless rows of white marble markers.
And toward the end of our visit just when I was commenting about how peacefully quiet it was, how beautiful this particular tree was…
…a military flyover came roaring up from the Potomac, right overhead, shattering the peace, but raising the awesome level of our total experience.
We saw Senator Frank Lautenberg’s grave site. He was always so supportive of our safety efforts. We miss him – he was a good man. His stone should have proclaimed his work toward saving people’s lives on our roads.
It doesn’t, but we know.
But the stone that touched me the most was that of Medgar Evers. A simple white stone, like hundreds of thousands of others, set down over a hill below President Taft, it was evident that several people had come to visit and pay their respects.
He did good work too.
Wandering in Arlington was beautiful, but oh so sad. Because we had to acknowledge that every one of the thousands of headstones represented a person, someone’s child. They all belonged to someone.
And now they all belong to us.
Sobering.
On the back of the stone for Oliver Wendell Lewis, a Major General who served in World War II, Korea and Vietnam but was only 71 when he died, was this quote:
I like to think that those of us working for truck safety are doing just that – walking in the world for our loved ones. I think the General has it exactly right.
I wish everyone had the opportunity to visit this cemetery, to experience the solemnity, the sense of awe, the feeling of pride. I have to think the country would be in better shape if everyone spent a day exploring this special place.
There’s sadness here, but there’s peace and hope too.
Visit if you can.

















































