"Life is so full of unpredictable beauty and strange surprises. Sometimes that beauty is too much for me to handle. Do you know that feeling? When something is just too beautiful? When someone says something or writes something or plays something that moves you to the point of tears, maybe even changes you." — Mark Oliver Everett (Things The Grandchildren Should Know)

I just returned from San Diego after a four-day re-bonding trip with my old friend John McCarthy who hired Rose years ago at NCAR. Before going to bed, as I always do, I logged on to Rose’s memorial site to say good night. I was stunned to see that beautiful photo of Miss Ellie holding her grandmother’s photo that Jens and Lesley had posted. Tears came spontaneously, not from sadness, but because it was so incredibly precious and captured in one image exactly what I wanted to write about but couldn’t because I couldn’t quite get my words organized to convey how Rose felt about her grandchild. 

Rose worshiped her; there was not a day that went by that she did not turn on her phone and play the latest video that Lesley had sent. She would play it over and over and I would hear a belly laugh now and then. It was a joy to listen to her do this because I knew her stress level was at its lowest point. Now and then I would look into the bedroom where she read, worked on her crossword puzzles and viewed videos on her phone and just smile at her; she would have that big, almost bursting, grin on her face that said “I love this child, and she makes me so happy.”

There’s another side to this story. Miss Ellie was Rose’s first grandchild but she dreamed of the ones to follow. At least once a week she would say, “I can’t wait until Lisa and Neema have their first baby. Can you imagine how beautiful he or she will be, beautiful dark skin with blue eyes? If it is a girl she will be a striking, beautiful, exotic girl and if it is a boy he will be the most handsomest man. I can’t wait!” Her anticipation would always make me smile.

Now and then she would suddenly get serious and sad after thinking these thoughts. I would ask her why such thoughts made her feel depressed and she would say, “I was just thinking for a minute about who Sammy would have married and what my grandchildren would have looked like." This always broke my heart. I would usually not say anything but hold her tightly for a few minutes. She would recover quickly though as her thoughts went back to Miss Ellie and the grandkids she so anticipated and say, “I’ll give them double love, from me… and from Sam.”

"If I’d known how wonderful it would be to have grandchildren, I’d have had them first." — Henny Youngman

"Like a band of gypsies we go down the highway
We're the best of friends
Insisting that the world kep turning our way
And our way
Is on the road again
Just can't wait to get on the road again." -- Willie Nelson, On the Road Again

Driving 1000 miles from Rosie’s Place in Fayetteville, TX to Tucson, AZ a few days ago was bitter sweet. It was the first trip in our motorhome since my sweet Rose passed away. It was good to be back on the road again -- we always played the song by Willie Nelson of the same name as we pulled out -- but incredibly sad to look over at the empty co-pilot seat and not see her smiling face. As I listened to Willie wail, tears came fast, and I tried to overcome the grief I felt by focusing on the good times we had as we had pulled out onto the highway on the many trips we had taken. That’s what she admonished me to do, but it was not easy.

I was so grateful to have our trusty pooch, Miss Maizy, along. Just as was done on the battlefield, when a leader fell another was promoted into their position and the unit marched on, I promoted Miss Maizy to official Co-Pilot of our rig. She couldn’t just sit in the seat, which she was never allowed to do before; she had to be on guard now, with a laser focus on the highway and roadsides looking for that idiot deer just about to jump in front of us and take us out in a suicide run. She seemed to relish this new assignment and quickly looked at me each time I turned the key on to warm the diesel engine before starting, asking with her big brown eyes if it was really OK to jump into the seat. “OK, let’s go”, I would say and she would immediately leap into position, looking keenly ahead as if she knew something was going to be an issue any minute. She made me smile.

Rose and that dog were bonded like nothing I have ever seen. Rose claimed that somehow she and Maizy were intertwined spiritually. I doubted this at first but as the months went by I saw signs that caused me to think that she might be right. When I would see Rose coming home and before Maizy had spotted her, I would say “Where’s Rose” and she would immediately begin a series of body movements -- tail wagging, smiling face, a loping up and down combined with her entire body moving sideways in an undulating fashion like a slippery seal -- that could only be interpreted as “Oh boy, oh boy, my Mom and best friend and pack mate are back.” She would jump up to the window of the car, Rose would roll the window down and there would be at least a minute’s worth of kisses exchanged. Those two loved each other.

I guess it is that bond and seeing Maizy sitting in the co-pilot seat that allowed me to finally adjust to the trip and use it more for a good time to think about a lot of things. Miss Maizy is my co-pilot now but Rose is clearly with both of us in spirit as we make our way down the road to our next destination. They both make me smile.

"If there are no dogs in Heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went." -- Will Rogers

“I got my toes in the water, ass in the sand

Not a worry in the world, a cold beer in my hand

Life is good today, life is good today.”

-- Zak Brown Band (Toes)

Rose’s tag line on her email was “Dreaming of Palm Trees”; she loved palm trees. To her they not only represented warm, beautiful beaches but also some exotic, far away, place she dreamed of visiting. We had Palm tree decals on the motorhome mirrors, on our tow vehicle mirrors, and on her shirts.  A few years ago I bought her a beautiful beautiful rose gold palm tree pendant with a diamonds along the fronds. She loved it and wore it continuously. She had it on the morning she died. If you wanted to get a big smile, big hug and big thank you from Rose you just had to tell her that you booked a flight to a place with palm trees. It is one of the prime reasons she fell in love with our property on the Gulf that we called Sam’s Place.

Palm trees also were memories that we shared of places we had visited. One of our favorite places and our favorite hotel was Las Brisas in Ixtapa, Mexico. The photograph above was taken there and was a place where we read many a novel to each other under those palapas as we listened to the large waves breaking on the beach as they rolled in from across the Pacific. This was a blissful place for Rose. Her stress, which was always with her, subsided to minimum levels and you could visibly see the tension drain away from her. Visits there were usually a week to 10 days but they were never long enough. She never wanted to get back on the plane for the return flight. As she packed her bag for the return trip she would always pout like a little kid and say, “I don’t want to go back home.”

There was a darker, more worrisome side to her thoughts about palm trees. Her dad had served his time as a radioman in the Philippines and surrounding tropical islands. He rarely talked about it but she learned enough to know that it was a very difficult time. “My dad said he lived off of coconuts for awhile during the war because they didn’t have enough to eat”, she would say, out of the blue. Obviously the trees that she loved so much also usually reminded her of her dad’s ordeal and you could tell that it had an emotional effect on her. She would ponder this for an hour or so during our trips but then go back to her blissful enjoyment of the place.

When I see a palm tree now I always think of my Rose. I planted one for her near her granite memorial marker in her rose garden in Fayetteville. I now wear her necklace and palm tree pendant. It is always with me and gives me comfort when I think about her and feel sad.

“I thought of you and how you love this beauty,

And walking up the long beach all alone

I heard the waves breaking in measured thunder

As you and I once heard their monotone.

Around me were the echoing dunes, beyond me

The cold and sparkling silver of the sea --

We two will pass through death and ages lengthen

Before you hear that sound again with me.”

― Sara Teasdale

“If you cannot be a sun that illuminates the light, be a moon that never tires of reflecting the light.” -- Subhan Zein

After several years of discussions with PRC aviation representatives regarding weather-related research focused on aviation safety, we decided that the famous “5-year Plans” that the Chinese always said they were going to develop for us, were never going to materialize. We knew that the burgeoning aviation sector in the PRC was very weather sensitive but we were not getting any return for our investment of time, energy and money. However, Taiwan was still an open question and we had done work with the Taiwanese for several years in other areas so we decided to take our exhibit and make our presence known at a large international aviation conference in Taipei.

International conferences are more difficult because of customs clearances and other red tape type of issues that we did not have to deal with in the USA, but Rose, working with her shipping colleagues at UCAR always seemed to pull it off. As we were finishing two days of setting up our exhibit Rose came over to me and said, “that’s Bell Helicopter setting up just across the aisle from us, a large, 40x40 foot display. We have never seen them at any of our shows before. I’m going to go and talk to the guy setting up the display.” I was not surprised. Rose usually knew half of the exhibitors by the end of the first day.

She went over and introduced herself and began to chat about our organization and Bell Helicopter. The guy was quite helpful and seemed very knowledgeable about the company, so after a bit, Rose asked, “well, what do you do in the company?”  He immediately said, “I run it.” She said, “Yeah, right, and I run UCAR. Now tell me, what do you really do?” He smiled patiently and said again, “I run Bell Helicopter.”  “If you’re trying to impress me or this is a come on, it ain’t working. You're trying to tell me that the Top Dog of Bell Helicopter is setting up his own exhibit rather than having company techs do it? I’m not buying it Mr.”

Before he could respond another Bell employee walked up and greeted him by name. Rose turned to him, introduced herself and then said, “this guy is trying to convince me that he runs the company. What does he really do?” “He does run the company” the other guy says with a big grin. Rose had that OMG look on her face, she was turning a bit red, her jaw dropped, and the only words that crawled out of her muffled mouth was “Oh shit.”

Bob, the Top Dog, was enjoying every bit of this. As Rose was trying to apologize, he assured her that all was well and he really appreciated being challenged. Rose brought him across to our booth and I introduced myself. He said, “why don’t we all get out of our jeans, get a shower and some fresh clothes and go check out Taipei.” He knew some good restaurants and some fun places to visit. We agreed and went to get dressed. We had a grand time but had to get back before too late since the show opened early the next morning.

Over the course of the four-day conference, Rose and Bob bonded as she had done with others before. She knew his entire family history. He told her about every family issue he was trying to solve and sought her advice. He told her things he had never told others before and he told her he wasn’t quite sure why he was sharing it with her but it felt comfortable and she had a gentle, spiritual manner about her that made it easy. She gave him an earful of advice. On the last day he came over and said goodby to us but wanted to stay in touch. We agreed to do so.

Back home at the office a few weeks later, Rose came running into my office and said that Bob had called her. Bob? Which Bob. Bob from Bell Helicopter. He wanted her to join him at the Jeffco Airport to have dinner aboard his private jet. He was enroute to the West Coast and would be making a stop. “This sounds dangerous” she said, clearly concerned that his motives might be more than discussing family issues and spiritualism. “Tell me what to do, I have to call him right back because he is coming in tonight.” I have to admit that it did look fishy. We discussed it for a half hour, pro, con, and in the final analysis we agreed that it was OK. She was a big girl and knew how to take care of herself. I had seen her do this on several occasions when guys would get too friendly and she would shut them down squarely. She was always dressed nicely at work and decided that what she was wearing would be just fine.

She went to the Executive Airport lounge and met Bob who escorted her to his plane. The caterer had just been there and the dining table was set with a wonderful dinner. She was still very nervous and decided to just lay it on the line and tell him how she felt and how difficult it was for her to decide to come. He laughed and said never fear; he just enjoyed her company and advice so much in Taiwan that he wanted to continue it. They had a great two-hour chat about everything but work stuff and enjoyed it very much. She called me as soon as she got home and gave me a “safe arrival” message. He was a perfect gentleman and very nice company.

As the week’s went by, Rose would stick her head in the office, deep in thought and I would say “looks like you just talked to Bob.”  “Bob who” she would say. I said “you know four people that you reference often who are named Bob. Why don’t you come up with a different moniker for Mr. Bell Helicopter.” She had that look on her face like a light bulb just went off. “Mr. Bell Helicopter. Yeah, that will be his name from now own, or we could shorten it to MBH.”  I endorsed the idea so over the next months “MBH” was referenced frequently. Every time he had a family issue he would call Rose and she would discuss it with him.

Over a period of about five years, MBH would always call ahead and see if Rose was available for dinner aboard his plane. Never once did he suggest anything inappropriate. They never discussed business, just friendly human interactions, usually of a spiritual nature. He quickly discovered the spiritual bond that Rose and I had and was probably envious but became an extension of it over time. MBH left BH after a few years and moved to a large software company in the Northwest. The alliance that we had had gradually drifted away, for no particular reason, but likely because we did not meet like we did before, he had new job responsibilities and pressures, and perhaps met someone else with a spiritual connection. Rose and I both lost track of him completely by 2010.

I’ve thought recently about trying to find him and let him know about her passing. He would be deeply saddened… but perhaps he already knows.

“Spiritualism is not a religion: it does not divide; it unites; It advocates oneness of spirit with the universe; it involves knowing the ultimate truth; In such realization, one forgets the self and ego; One merges mind and body with the spirit…” -- Gian Kumar

“The sun did not shine. It was too wet to play. So we sat in the house. All that cold, cold, wet day." -- Dr. Seuss, The Cat in the Hat

Rose and I traveled to Italy twice to staff our exhibit at Intelligent Transportation Systems conferences. The first conference was in Rome which each of us had visited before; however, neither of us had been to the fabled Cinque Terre (Five Lands) north of Rome on the coast. I checked out the internet and determined that the only way you could get there easily was by boat or by train. There were few interconnecting roads to the main Italian freeways since the five villages, each within a few miles of each other, were built on the sides of very steep cliffs rising above the sea. Vernazza was in the center of the villages so it seemed like a good location to stay for a few days and be able to hike north or south to see the others. There were no rooms available in the village proper but I found a B&B just outside and to the south that had rooms. It was advertised as “just off the hiking trail with beautiful views of the Ligurian Sea below”. We booked our rooms, and flight reservations to go into Rome but out of Genoa to the north. We would take the train north from Rome after the conference and head for Genoa but stop off for four days in Vernazza to visit the area.

We arrived in Rome on schedule but one of Rose’s checked bags did not. United Airlines told us not to worry; the bag would be brought to the conference hotel. Rose always carried a few backup items in her carry-on bag so she was able to skimp by and all went well with the conference otherwise. When the conference ended the bag was still lost but the hotel said they would forward it so we caught the last train north in the evening. We knew we would be arriving between 3 and 4 am in Vernazza but that did not concern us because our assumption was that we would be dropped off at the main train station there and would just hang out until the village woke up and the train staff arrived so that we could ask for directions to our lodging place. Well, that was the theory, but in practice it didn’t work that way.

It was April and the weather had been almost perfect in Rome but by the time we headed north, a cold front had come through and it was damp and cold along the coast. When the conductor announced Vernazza next stop, we sleepily gathered up our stuff -- Rose’s purse and large brown carry-on bag, and my suitcase, computer case and backpack -- as the train brakes squealed and brought us to a stop. We stumbled off, the only passengers disembarking there, into a dimly lit train platform that was only about 200 feet long and literally nestled in between two tunnels -- the one we just came through and the one half of the train ahead was in. the train sped off only seconds after we stepped off and there we stood, bewildered. Where is the train station? The village street could be seen below the platform area leading away to buildings we could barely make out in the cold fog.

We began to shiver because we had not dressed for cold weather. Rose only had a light sweater on and sandals. It was a wet, penetrating cold that I remembered from my days at Navy Officer Candidate School in Newport, Rhode Island and from visits to Hong Kong in the winter. It may only be 45 F, but wet cold seems to be able to dig deep into your body, seemingly a stealth invader, bypassing any insulation from your clothing.

We were starting to shake from the cold, so I suggested that we go into the tunnel nearest us that looked like a storage tunnel that ran adjacent to the train tunnel. We proceeded into it for about 50 feet, opened up my bag and Rose’s bag and started searching for anything that we could put on to keep warm. We were able to put on extra shirts and sweaters but we had not brought coats and most of Rose's warmer clothing was in her missing suitcase. We trudged out of the tunnel and down the platform stairs to try to find the rail station. There had to be one.  We found it back in the direction we had came, a level down, but it was under construction!  We walked into the concrete building but there were no windows and no doors, just construction rubble. We were so cold and shaking. The only thing to do was to stay close together and make the best of it. It was around 5 am by this time and we still had 2 hours to go before the sun rose, and since we were on the west side of a steep coastline, the Sun’s rays would not reach the village until about 7:30 am. We were miserable.

We did our best to keep warm for about an hour sitting on concrete rubble in the train station but then we couldn’t stand it any more and decided that walking, even with bags, might warm us. Who knows, maybe a small coffee or bake shop might be open by now, so we, the bedraggled, sleepy, tired and cold travelers we were, wandered into the village like two beggars looking for a handout of a bit of heat. Nothing was open. All of the shop doors were locked. We figured out our direction, and found a stucco wall that we knew would see the Sun’s rays first. We plopped down our bags, weaved ourselves into a small pile against the wall and shook for another hour.

Finally, we discovered life in Vernazza. A shopkeeper had strewn into view and was putting his key into the lock of a door about 50 feet away. I scampered down to talk to him with the few Italian words I knew, but I had a map and the name of the B&B and showed that to him. He rattled off Italian like a machine gun and kept pointing up the cliff to the south. Somehow he managed to point me to where the trail head was located and just kept saying in Italian something that I interpreted as “go south, go south down the trail.” I thanked him and went back to rescue a frozen, immobile Rose.

We went back to the train station location and kept going uphill this time until we saw what looked to be the trailhead. Luckily, a lady was just coming down the trail with an armful of flowers. I showed her the map and she smiled and said the same words the other guy had said to me. We then began our slow trudge up the trail. We climbed and we climbed. The bags seemed to gain weight as we plodded on. We stopped now and then and looked down. I estimated that we had increased our elevation above the sea by 600-700 feet. The trail was narrow and in many places only a step or two to the right would be disasterous. I was nearly exhausted, but as I looked back at poor Rose, laboriously taking each step, I suddenly was hit by the hilarity of it all. I sat down in the middle of the trail, took out my camera and took her picture (see above). When she reached me, her scowls had also turned into smiles. We sat there and laughed about our predicament.

Finally, the trail leveled off and we were able to walk level again. In another quarter mile we came to a gate on our left with the sign of our B&B and stone steps leading up the hillside. More climbing!  It was not far. We got to the house, knocked on the door but no answer. Oh great. We came all this way and the place is not open. We laughed again. I tried another door but got no answer. So, we piled our bags on the porch and decided to go back to the village and find a place to get coffee and breakfast and get warm again. The hike had warmed us but now the cold was settling in again.

Going down was easy and we notice a little restaurant about half way down that we did not see on the way up that was open later in the day. We did find a place to eat in the village. The coffee was wonderful and the food too. The owner spoke fairly good English so we explained our situation. She laughed and said that there were not that many tourists there yet in early April and the owners, who lived in Rome did not stay in Vernazza until later. There was a housekeeper there and she thought they should have been at the B&B by then. She also told us that the daughter stayed in Vernazza in the parent’s apartment this time of the year. She knew her and made a call for us. Within an hour the daughter was sitting at our table apologizing for the inconvenience. She said we were the first guests this month and had the place to ourselves. She led us back up to the B&B and pointed out things along the way.

At the B&B we learned that the housekeeper was there but she was in the basement getting supplies and did not hear us on our earlier visit. No problem. We were here now. Warm and well fed but very tired. The daughter showed us our rooms and gave us a lot of information about things to do. We explained the situation about the lost bag. She took down all of our information and promised to call the Rome hotel for an update. We crashed and slept for hours.

During the next four days we enjoyed the area by hiking to the village to the south along the same trail.  The little restaurant we noted turned out to be our favorite place to hang out. We had never eaten fresh sardines before. The chef there cooked them in olive oil, white wine and shallots, served with roasted local vegetables and pasta. We had at least one meal there every day.

On our day of departure the daughter came with good news. She was able to arrange with the hotel for her parent’s to pick up Rose’s bag in Rome and bring it here. They were on their way and would meet us at the train station. We made the bag handoff just fine, thanked them and headed north to Genoa to catch our flight.

In later years, anytime we would get cold, we would look at each other and smile and say, “yes, but never as cold as we were in the Cinque Terre.” This trip as difficult as it was at times, turned out to be one of the all time highlights of our travels.

“I love those who can smile in trouble….”  -- Leonardo da Vinci

"To each there comes in their lifetime a special moment when they are figuratively tapped on the shoulder and offered the chance to do a very special thing, unique to them and fitted to their talents. What a tragedy if that moment finds them unprepared or unqualified for that which could have been their finest hour." -- Winston Churchill

Rose had several videos on her phone and tablet computer that she often played. Most of them were of her beloved grand daughter Miss Ellie, but she had one that she played several times a week, and always on Sunday morning for some reason. It is a recording of an Andre Rieu concert featuring a young 13 year old girl, Melissa Venema, playing Il Silenzio on her trumpet. It is an awe inspiring performance by any measure but Rose elevated it to something more than that, some form of spiritual uplifting that gave her great comfort and peace. It was if she saw herself in this young girl, triumphfantly taking on the world, shedding her fears and achieving success at a very difficult task.

There were times when I would hear the beautiful music, go into the bedroom and see her listening to it with her eyes closed, and tears flowing down her cheeks. It obviously plucked a special chord in her complex and often traumatized mind. When it was over she would wipe the tears away, look at me and say, "isn't that the most beautiful thing you've ever heard?"

The URL for that video is listed below. Turn the background music off on this site by clicking on the "Sound" icon at the top of the page then click on the URL. Listen to it and you will feel some of the peace and beauty that Rose felt when she played it. I play it every Sunday morning in her memory... and now the tears flow down my cheeks each time.

http://www.flixxy.com/trumpet-solo-melissa-venema.htm

"Hark, now hear the sailor's cry,
smell the sea, and feel the sky,
let your soul and spirity fly, into the mystic...." -- Van Morrison

In the mid 90s I learned to sail, then went out to the West Coast to get professional training and a certification for serving as Captain of a vessel up to a certain length. A few years later after gaining a lot of experience on my boat and charter boats, I had the desire to try some real blue water sailing. Rose was my most ardent cheerleader. Every week she would ask, “where are we going sailing? Come on, get it organized Mister.”  After several months of planning I put together a group of willing volunteers: Rose and Bob, my ex-wife Sher, Jacquie, and Darien, a friend at work.. I chartered a large, 45-ft catamaran out of Castries, St. Lucia and a trip down the Windward Islands, terminating in Secret Harbor, Grenada. This motley crew agreed to safety rules, hard work at times and respect for rules related to immigration and customs. Although I hated catamarans - like sailing a large raft - I yielded on this point because the girls wanted a “party boat.” Hmmmm, this sounded like trouble.

The trip went well, we all settled into a sailing routine after a few bouts of seasickness and all looked forward to each day’s final destination, going ashore, shopping, just relaxing or getting some beach time. As Captain I spent a lot of time navigating, watching the weather, teaching folks to handle the boat and trying to make sure that we did not violate any of the immigration and customs rules as we went in and out of various countries, working our way south through the Grenadines.

On one of our anchorages we found a spot just off of a beautiful beach about 200 feet from shore. The only problem was that Bob and I would have to take the dinghy about a mile back up the coast to check in. We put up our quarantine flag to indicate that we had not cleared yet and prepared for the trip; but, Rose and the girls started complaining loudly. “You guys are going to be gone forever, and we have to sit here on this boat and look at that beautiful beach? Really? We could be getting a great tan. Come on. Drop us off at the beach on your way out.” The rules say that no one can go ashore until customs and immigration are cleared. I put up a bureaucratic argument but was shouted down. Mutiny on the ship was close at hand!

I finally yielded and we loaded up the dinghy with all six people, some beach gear, Bob’s new movie camera and all of the crew/boat documents in a ziplock bag. As we approached the beach the surf was high so we had to time the waves just right to keep afloat all the way in. We had done this several times already and I had done it dozens of times prior so even though the waves looked threatening I was not too worried. However, I had not anticipated the eagerness of the crew to get on that beach. As we got within 40 feet of the shore I misjudged the wave train just a bit which put us into an awkward angle for a few seconds. Rose and Sher at the front, were to slide off the side of the dinghy when they thought they could touch bottom, but the unanticipated angle caused them to panic a bit and they began to unload too early. All of a sudden, the unbalanced boat was very vulnerable and along came the next big breaker. It flipped us on to our side, everything went ass over teakettle in a second. I managed to kill the engine just as we were going over and grab the documents. Bob went in hard, with his new camera. The girls swam us into the beach and were doing their very best not to laugh; they knew that Bob and I were totally pissed off, particularly since they had begged to go ashore.

Bob and I righted the boat, bailed water as best we could, got his camera and the documents, started the engine and made our way back across the shore surf to smoother water and headed down the coast. Even over the sound of the surf we could hear the hilarious laughing on the beach. Rose told me they laughed uncontrollably for an hour as they kept retelling the story over and over, how pitiful we looked, like two drowned rats with scathing scowls on our faces and not saying a word because we were so mad.

Bob and I did not say a word to each other the entire trip to the checkpoint. He kept trying to dry his camera and save it. I just tried to think about the documents, hoping they didn’t get soaked, and how I had screwed up that beach landing so badly. When we walked in everyone looked at us with a smile and some asked if we had swam to the office. We didn’t laugh. Thankfully, the documents stayed dry. We checked in and headed back, still angry but trying to settle down.

As we approached the boat we noticed that the girls had swam back to it with their gear and had opened the bar. They were giggling and having the best time. The girls said no way were they going to ride in that dinghy back to the boat with two mad pirates who could kill with their stares. When we tied up and got aboard they handed us a drink. Rose was the ringleader as she usually was and did everything she could to cheer us up. We finally did and all was forgotten… except for the good lesson that we learned. We told this story over and over for the remainder of the trip and even I was able to laugh. Bob did too, but his camera was toast.
 

“Once in a while you find yourself in an odd situation. You can get into it by degrees and in the most natural way but, when you are right in the midst of it, you are suddenly astonished and ask yourself how in the world it all came about.” ― Thor Heyerdahl

"The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen." — Elisabeth Kübler-Ross

Rose was deeply compassionate with regard to all of the other Earthlings she met in her Earthly Journey, but particularly, older people, the down and out, and animals of every type, I’m sure much of this came from her own suffering and her ability to rise above it; but, she had a more innate, deeper, almost spiritual compassion, that was instantly obvious if you were one of the lucky few she connected with. She seemed to be able to see into your soul and feel your pain as if she had felt it herself before. Perhaps she had.

Several years ago on a cold December night, we were walking from the Buell Theater in Denver, after seeing a play there, back to our car several blocks away. We passed an old man curled up over a steam grate with a cardboard box over most of his body. She stared at him in disbelief as we walked by and said, “he must be freezing.” You could almost hear her heart breaking. As we walked slowly away, she kept looking back and I could see tears in her eyes. When we got to the car she went to the back and pulled out a heavy blanket -- actually one of those that you use when you are moving furniture -- that I kept for emergency purposes. I knew what was coming next. “Come on, we have to help that man,” she said. I grabbed the heavy blanket from her and we walked back two blocks to where the man was huddled. She gently put her hand on his shoulder and he jumped, thinking someone was trying to harm him. “You must be cold. Here, please, take this blanket to keep warm.” He looked bewildered for a moment, but then a slight smile showed on his grizzled face. She helped him put the blanket around him, gave him a big hug and told him to have faith, her spiritual guides would take care of him. He took her hand and kissed it and said, “Thank you… Merry Christmas Sister.” We walked back to the car without a word spoken. When we were about to leave she gave me a hug and said, “Thank you for helping me do that.”

In the fall of 2010, after being hospitalized for more than two weeks with hepatitis, the doctors determined that they had done everything they could for her and transferred her to a hospice and rehabilitation facility in Boulder, where she could try to recover if her will and her body would allow it. She had lost most of her hair, had gained considerable weight from water accumulation in her tissues, and had so much muscle debilitation that she could not turn over in bed without assistance. It was a long row to hoe for her but by the end of the first week she was able to get her mobility back enough that she could scoot around the hall in her wheelchair or take short walks in a walker. When she saw the condition of others at the facility, her compassion took over and she spent considerable time going around and comforting others. I visited her twice a day before and after work. She proudly showed me how she had learned to climb up five steps in the PT room, then took me around in her walker to be introduced to all of her friends. She enjoyed going outside to get some sun with a Vietnam veteran who was likely my age but looked 20 years older. She would ask him about the war and he would tell her stories about his experiences. Everyone she met there, including the nurses, loved her and the way she cared for her colleagues, seemingly forgetting that she was as bad off as they. It was just her way.

Earlier this year we took a day trip through many of the small Texas towns that had been the sites of so many events during the state’s march toward independence from Mexico. As we were returning to Colorado Landing in La Grange where we lived, we took the “backroads”, mainly farm to market roads, just to enjoy the areas off the main highways. As we were coming down one isolated stretch of narrow road, a large tortoise was making its way, inch by inch, across the road. I had to swerve to avoid hitting it. Rose was immediately upset. “A car is going to hit that poor thing,” she said, “we have to go back and get it off the road!”  I had learned a long time ago that arguing against such a proposition was akin to debating with a brick wall, so I turned into the next place I could find and headed back. The turtle had made it to about the middle of the road. I pulled over, put the hazard lights on, made sure no vehicles were coming, jumped out, grabbed the old guy by the sides of his shell and carried him to the ditch along the road. Just as I had him safely moving away from the road, a large truck came whizzing by and honked with annoyance that we were blocking the road. We quickly got moving again. Rose just had that satisfied smile on her face. As I drove back I kept thinking about the headlines in tomorrow’s local paper: “Couple Killed on FM 1099 Trying to Save a Turtle.”

Rose was definitely a high overhead person when it came to helping others, but it is one of her characteristics that I loved the most.

"A mind needs a book as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge." -- Mahatma Gandhi

Rose and I read to each other almost every day. This practice started several years ago when we would be on road trips and Rose would tell me that she needed to keep me awake while I was driving. At first it was articles from magazines that we subscribed to but then it transitioned into novels. We read all of Wally Lamb’s novels and loved them. Rose had a keen interest in World War II, probably as a result of trying to understand what her dad went through in the Pacific. We read “Band of Brothers” then Rose bought me the entire TV series later that we watched several times. All in all we read about a half dozen novels written about the war. Rose loved to get connected to the characters and talk about them during our readings. We read and in some cases reread many of Michener’s books because Rose was a history fan and he always gave you a deeper understanding of how things evolved historically.

We always had a book that was our current “read” and during the day when we were free of other things to do, or particularly every night before we went to sleep, we would read several chapters of our book. This became contagious after a while because you got so caught up in the novel that you didn’t want to put it down. Rose would always laugh when the book fell on my face after I got so sleepy I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. This was such an enjoyable thing to do, something I had not experienced with another person before and something that was so special because you shared the book simultaneously and got to discuss every aspect of it. It was like adding the pleasure of reading a book to the experience of discussing a novel in a book club, all in one.

Rose was a prolific reader and could down a novel in two days when she got on a binge or she was suffering a lot from her PTSD and just needed to focus her mind and slow it down, so she didn’t need to read with me; however, she loved this as much as I did and was very willing to go at a slower pace. Besides, it made long journeys go by faster and it did keep me awake because I was hanging on every word. I could always tell when she was getting impatient. When it got too much for her she would say, “read to me!.... please…” like a little kid, or if we were driving she would say, "clear your mind, I'm going to read the next chapter.".

In the fall of 2011, when we headed for Tucson, prior to coming to Texas in January 2012, Rose said that she wanted the Bible to be our next book to read. I was surprised and asked her why. She said that for starters, her dad had given her a modern language version of the Bible which she had never read and secondly, she wanted to see if there was any connection between her “guides” and the Christian Bible. I told her that I had done this in my first year of college when I was searching for my religious roots and it would take a long time. She didn’t mind that since this was a goal of hers and she wanted to do it. We read every day anyway so we decided to push ourselves a bit and set a goal of two books per day. Given the 66 books in the Old and New Testaments, that would be 33 days of reading but we knew we probably couldn’t sustain that pace every day. As it turned out it took us two and half months to complete it.

Rose was cute during this read with her typical inquisitiveness and observations. After we read Matthew, Mark, Luke and John (The Gospels) in the New Testament, she said, “ why does the Bible tell the same story over and over again? If this was a modern novel an editor would have a field day with this.” I laughed, and explained that it was the same story, but told by different people. She said "if Jesus turned water into wine for the wedding guests and the Apostle Paul said that wine taken daily is good for the digestion, why do churches serve grape juice at communion? I didn't have a good answer for that one. She found Revelation to be weird and spooky, but understood that somebody had to describe The End. She tried to learn something new every day,so when she realized that the first five books fo the Christian Bible are identical to the Jewish Torah, she beamed. Psalms and Proverbs were two of her favorite chapters because much of the verse was written like poetry.

So when we closed the book I asked her if she found guidance regarding her guides. She said no, but she learned a heck of a lot and thanked me profusely for going through this reading with her. I could see a glow from her like I had seen so many times before when she accomplished something difficult that she had always wanted to do.

Oh, how I miss those daily readings and the camaraderie and pleasure that they brought to both of us. Our last read, Wally Lamb's new book, is still right where we left it on the bedside table.  I haven't had the courage to open it yet; however, when I do, I know what I will do; I will read it aloud.... for both of us. 

“The mediocre teacher tells. The good teacher explains. The superior teacher demonstrates. The great teacher inspires.” ― William Arthur Ward

From Rose’s Journal:

My dad was a hard driving, high standards, drill sergeant who was going to see his kids raised right -- “right” was his definition. I did my very best to live up to those standards but as I grew older I realized that those were his standards, not mine, so I had to define my own and strive to achieve those for my own purposes. However, the thing that I most loved about my dad was the fact that I knew deep down he loved me -- although he rarely if ever told me in words -- and that he taught me so many things as a young girl.

One day I asked him how water got into the house so that it could come out of the faucet when it is turned on. He thought about it a minute, then took me outside. We got a shovel and he dug down to show me the water pipe that came from the street to the house and explained that the water was treated so that it would be safe to drink at a central place. Who knew! I didn’t. Silly me.

When it was time to start school, Dad took me by the hand and walked the route to the school with me, pointing out landmarks so that I would have a visual reference and not get lost. We walked this both ways several times until I had it memorized. Of course he warned me of all the things not to do along the way like talking to strangers, crossing the street without checking for cars both ways, and stopping at friends houses before coming directly home.

When it was time for me to learn how to drive, my dad took great pains to teach me all of the things I needed to know: fixing a flat, watching the gas guage, good driving practices, etc. He didn’t just talk to me about these things; he made me do them. Changing a tire on my car was a lot of work!  I figured out that I would do the exercise with him but if I had a flat I could con somebody into helping me change it. I did run out of gas once but I never told him.

How many parents would go to such great lengths to teach their kids? I didn’t really appreciate this at the time but looking back on it after I raised my own kids, I was incredibly lucky to have someone who cared enough to teach me these things. It was also another way I knew my dad loved me.

"Forsythia is pure joy. There is not an ounce, not a glimmer of sadness or even knowledge in forsythia. Pure, undiluted, untouched joy." -- Anne Lindbergh

Cognitive behavioural training (CBT) is a form of treatment that allows a person with phobias or experiences of trauma to gently approach them with the goal of eventually understanding them and negating some of their damaging effects. Rose and I first experimented with this about a decade ago when we began to understand the underlying complexity of her PTSD and ways to treat it.

After Sam’s death, Rose had several periods of the year, we called them the crying times, when she could not hold back the tears -- holidays, Sam’s death date in June and his birthday April 1st. This would start two to three weeks prior and be almost daily and often spontaneous without warning. I would often go into her office and see her typing away at the keyboard with tears flowing down her cheeks.

With her Boulder doctors encouragement we selected Sam’s birthday as a place to start with an extension of her CBT exercises. The idea was to gradually turn this date into a day of celebration instead of grief. Rose listed all of the wonderful things she knew about Sam over the thirteen years of his life. We referenced these often in the run up to his birthday. To make the date even more special as a celebration we went to the garden store and bought six forsythia plants that are normally in full bloom on Sam’s birthday and planted them around my house. Rose called these her “Sammy bushes.”  Finally, we would always buy a bottle of champagne and sit next to the forsythias in the garden in lawn chairs to toast Sam on his birthday. These procedures had a significant positive effect on Rose. After the second year of this celebration she rarely had crying times prior and even looked forward to the special event. We only had one year when we were on travel on this date but we managed to find a forsythia hedge row and sat beside it for our annual celebration.

Each time I see a forsythia in full bloom in the future I will think about these fond memories and my sweet Rose. I will also plant forsythias at Rosie’s Place, her memorial site in Fayetteville, and Sam’s Place, our RV property on Mustang Island near Port Aransas.

“Your battles inspired me -- not the obvious material battles but those that were fought and won behind your forehead.”  -- James Joyce

Almost no one understood the daily struggle that Rose went through with her gradually more complicated and troubled mind, either in its intensity or its nature. Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) is an insidious mental disorder that results in anxiety that ebbs and flows, sometimes to extremes, fear generated from surprise events, potential loss of those you love, forgetfulness that comes from parts of the brain shutting down or off to protect itself, depression, significant changes in personality, withdrawal from society and difficulty interacting with other people. Rose dealt with all of these every day of every week of every year.

A couple of days ago I watched Sgt. Ty Carter receive the Medal of Honor from the President and then listened to his testimony of how he belittled PTSD early on, like many of his military colleagues,  because he didn’t understand it; but, when it took control of him, destroyed one of his buddies, he knew he had to speak out and try to educate other soldiers about this lurking evil of the mind. As I listened to him, I could only think of Rose. PTSD can come from a single event but it is more common for it to be a result of “layers of traumatic events” stacked one on the other until the person’s mind breaks under the duress. In war, this layering can occur over a few weeks or months.. For Rose it developed over years and decades; her life was punctuated with layers of traumatic events and stress but the event that devastated her with unimaginable mental anguish was the death of her son Sam. What was lurking in her mind, just below the surface, as hidden PTSD when I met her 21 years ago, became full-blown PTSD after that event.

She was very good at covering up her inner grief and pain, but if you knew her, really knew her, you realized that this was only a mask laid over a struggling soul.  Her mission in this Earthly existence was to bring forth her children and put them on a successful path for their journey in life, so, to lose one of her brood was the worst thing she could imagine. She often told me that Sam’s death taught her that nothing in the world could ever hurt her more, so she should go forward with that relative comfort. In a joint counseling session her psychiatrist turned to me and said, “in all of my years of practice I have never seen a woman with her background of traumatic events, go about her daily business in such a way that the outside world could not tell that there is anything wrong. I don’t know how she does this.”  

Boulder, Colorado had brought her many wonderful positive memories but it also had brought her memories of unimaginable grief and the latter trumped the former. Rose desperately wanted to leave the area and go back to her native home in Texas but she had her mission to carry out so she just kept stoically marching forward until her kids were out of college and on their own. When we traveled together her whole demeanor changed as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders as soon as the aircraft left the ground and she knew she was going to another place, away from the source of her grief. When returning it was the reverse. She would begin to have tremors in her hands the morning of our return, often getting to the point where she could not hold a cup steady to drink because she was shaking so badly. Sam’s grave was only a few blocks from her home but she could never bring herself to visiting it; the images were just too much for her. In October 2011 we bought a small solar light that she wanted to put on his grave before we left for Tucson and then on to Texas but when we got to the street that goes to the cemetery she told me to stop, she couldn’t do it. She said we’ll do it on the next trip. We attempted to do this on three following visits back to Colorado but the result was the same. That little light is still in the car, so one day I shall place it on Sam’s grave for her as her beacon to him.

We discussed her disorder frequently, but only when she was comfortable in doing so. I asked her what it felt like when she was having the peak events that were so difficult for her. She said it was like her brain was spinning, faster and faster and she could not control it.  If she didn’t do something it would lead to a total panic attack. Anything that would slow her mind down was a Godsend for her. Alcohol was a very effective antidote but it came with its own set of dependency issues if overused. Reading was a great relief for her. She would read two novels a week to try to relax herself. For a period of months she did crossword puzzles, almost around the clock, to try to bring some relief. Shopping and her dog Miss Maizy were other ways to help her “learn to be still.” Yes, she played the Eagles song by the same name now and then to help remind herself to try to be calm.

There were a lot of well meaning people who tried to help her during all of this, but sadly, they just did not understand her needs, and more particularly the dangers associated with her delicate situation, well enough to help her. The standard approach was to simply view her as an individual that had an alcohol problem. This misdiagnosis ended up addressing only a symptom, not the core PTSD that was at the heart of her struggle and had the downside of triggering even more stress for her to cope with.

The treatment answer for PTSD is a) getting a tailored prescription medicine regimen worked out that results in a calming of the mind and b) months of cognitive behavioural therapy to reduce or negate the memories of the traumatic events. Since 2009, we had made very much progress in this regard. Leaving Colorado in 2011 itself had a very positive role on Rose’s state of mind but it also meant that we had to re-establish all of her doctors in Houston and Austin. Once this was done however, her stability improved markedly after her new psychiatrist aggressively treated her disorder and she underwent a series of hypnotherapy sessions. We were very close to getting her stabilized again when she passed....... so terribly sad.

“The mind can go in a thousand directions, but on this beautiful path, I walk in peace.” -- Thi′ch Nha′t Hanh

“The first peace, which is the most important, is that which comes within the souls of people when they realize their relationship, their oneness with the universe and all its powers, and when they realize at the center of the universe dwells the Great Spirit, and that its center is really everywhere, it is within each of us.” ― Black Elk

Rose was the most spiritual person I had ever met when she and I met over 21 years ago in June 1992. She always said that she knew from that very day that we were two old souls who's paths had finally crossed in this Earthly epoch of our spiritual journey. I told her that I didn't sense that from the very beginning; however, after working with her for five years, particularly the year and a half after her son Sam died, trying my best to connect with her inner self and help her from falling into a pit of depression, I felt that deep, spiritual presence emerge and embrace me, almost as if it had always been there.

We both remembered exactly when this epiphany occurred for me -- in Long Beach, California, on Valentine's Day in 1997 at the Atrium Cafe, Hilton Hotel, on the terrace.  We had spent most of the afternoon sitting there after a late lunch following our exhibit setup. The more we talked the more I realized that we were spiritual soul mates, old soul mates, on a long journey, drifting apart down our separate paths now and then to carry out our mission, merging as one for periods of time ranging from days, to decades to centuries. 

There was nothing physical about this, simply a spiritual bond and an unconditional love for each other that transcended our Earthly social state. We knew it was the highest order of friendship, the highest order of commitment to always be there if the other was in need, regardless of where we were, whom we were with, or our social situation. Each of us shared this experience with our spouses at the time and supported each other in that regard. Rose's highest mission while here was to birth her children and see them along until they were on their own successful path, spiritual or otherwise.  I had several things still to accomplish in my Earthly journey.

Almost a year later, Rose asked me if I could remember where we were and when we realized our spiritual bond. To her surprise, I could remember the details since it was such a powerful realization for me. She was pleased and said from this year on we shall refer to this as "our anniversary" as old souls bonded for the long journey. So, for the last 16 years we have celebrated this anniversary. This past celebration was very special being coincident with the birth of Rose's first grandchild, Ellie. Of course she said "there are no coincidences."

This spiritual bond has been a Godsend for me after her passing. I feel her presence with and around me all the time. I find myself talking to her frequently much to the puzzlement of our dog, Miss Maizy. I shall join her again in the next phase of our journey.

“One’s options in this world are as vast as the horizon, which is technically a circle and thus infinitely broad. Yet we must choose each step we take with utmost caution, for the footprints we leave behind are as important as the path we will follow. They’re part of the same journey — our story.” 
― Lori R. Lopez, Dance Of The Chupacabras

One of the things I most admired about Rose was her desire to learn something new every day. She was a voracious reader and could read a novel in two days. She loved the history, nature and science channels on TV and would often save programs for us to watch later. She always had that little kid look of surprise on her face when the realization of a new piece of information settled into her mind.

About 10 years ago I described to her the concept of a world line. In physics this would be a trace of an object in four dimensional spacetime. I told her that the object could be a person and that person's "track" would look like a bunch of squiggly lines on a three dimensional globe as the person moved north, south and up and down (drive up a mountain, fly in a plane, etc). Their total world line would be from their location in space and time at the time of their birth until the time of their death.

She got caught up with this concept and started to try to generally figure out what her world line looked like up till then. OK, I was born in Clute, Texas, moved around a lot in this area, Shiner, my grandma's house in Tennessee, then we moved to Colorado, then I got married and went to Idaho, then back to Denver, got married again, traveled in Europe, traveled with my kids and friends, etc. Once she had this concept down, Ms. Inquisitive asked me the next logical question: "I wonder if our world lines have ever crossed!" She got all excited about this and started a Q&A session that lasted about a week. OK, when were you in this place, and oh, how about that place? We finally concluded that our world lines had almost crossed (same city, same time) three times before we met 21 years ago and our world lines became coincident. She was pleased with this exercise but it only caused her to ask more questions.

I had been working on family genealogy for almost two decades by then which caused her to ask, " I wonder if our ancestors world lines ever crossed."  So I told her that I had not seen that in the few 7 or 8 generations I had done for my family and some I had done for her Quick side of her family. But, I said there is a way we could see in general where our ancestors came from and when. The National Geographic Society had just funded a National Genographic Project whereby people could submit their DNA and the project would then combine it with hundreds of thousands of other people around the world to see how our DNA profiles (called haplogroups) tracked back in time. We ordered our kits, did our cheek swabs and submitted them.

 The results came back from NGS in a few weeks with a map for each of us showing how our lineage branched back in time. For females, only the mitachondrial DNA can be tracked so Rose's track was for her maternal side, i.e. her mother, her mother's mother, etc.  For men, the Y DNA is tracked along the paternal side, in other words my father, his father, his father's father, etc. The maps were fascinating. We had separate tracks going back to different locations in Europe, then Rose's track was farther north and east (into Western Russia) than mine, which took a more direct track into the Middle East, but then her track joined with mine in the southern Middle East and was almost coincident into northeastern Africa, i.e. the cradle of humanity.

She was so excited and interested in this. She could see that our ancestor's world lines were very close in the beginning (but likely almost everyone's were close since the populations were small) but then they diverged for hundreds of generations. She had that "I just learned something neat" look on her face but then after some thought she said, "my parents have no idea."  I said "you're right, and don't even try to explain it because they ain't gonna buy it no matter how scientific it is." We laughed and congratulated each other for doing one of the most fun projects we had ever done.

Postscript: The National Genographic Project has now received DNA samples from over 600,000 people from 140 countries. A new generation 2.0 version is available. I will try to find our kits (stored somewhere) and submit them for an upgrade which will give much more resolution than the first phase did 10 years ago. 

Rose and her little brother Dean (she called him Rocky) were always very close. He was only four years younger than her and looked up to his big sister with admiration. She was always there for him when he needed help, which was frequent. If Rose had trouble living up to her dad's standards and rules, Rocky had double trouble. Trouble was his middle name.

One evening Rocky and some of his friends had been out late, had a little bit too much to drink (a big no no in the Ripple house), and had lost his key to the front door. His friends (Rick, et al?) didn't know what to do so they took Rocky around to Rose's bedroom window and started tapping on it. Rose got up to see what was going on and sized up the situation. She said to be real quiet and just help him get through her window and she would make sure he got into bed without waking up their parents. The only problem was that Rocky was too out of it to help them get him through the window, so they just picked him up, with his arms down to his sides so that he would fit, and launched him into her bedroom unceremoniously. He landed right on his nose with a loud thunk. Rose felt sure that this was waking her parents so she told Rocky to be still and quiet. She walked into the other part of the house to make sure the coast was clear, went to the bathroom to get tissue to wipe Rocky's bloody nose, and then, with difficulty walked him to his room and threw him into it. She doctored him best she could, told him to be very quiet and sleep. 

The next morning there were a lot of questions about when he got home, what happened to his nose, etc. but between the two of them they explained everything away and to this day neither parent ever knew this happened. Rose loved to tell this story and would erupt with one of her famous belly laughs when she did. Over the years, Rocky paid her back in spades by helping her out of several jams or covering for her when needed. They had each other's back. 

Rose's Dad, Laddie, was a tough parent that set high standards for her, perhaps a carryover from his military days in WW-II. Rose did her very best to live up to these standards: making good grades, doing her chores, learning music, participating in the debate club, etc. She was an adventurer from a young age, always willing to try anything, at least once, just for the experience. That means that now and then she would get into trouble.

Although she couldn't remember what caused this event, when she was still in grade school she did something that was pretty bad and Doris told Laddie that she had to be punished to teach her a lesson. Rose was scared about what was about to happen but knew she had punishment coming. Her dad nodded and took her by the hand back to her bedroom and closed the door. He slowly took off his belt as Rose's eyes started to fill with tears. She closed her eyes and waited for the first blow across her backside. She heard a loud "pop" of leather meeting leather and opened her eyes. Her dad had doubled the belt over, was holding the ends in each hand, was pushing his hands together to make the belt slack and then was jerking them out rapidly to make the belt pop loudly. She looked puzzled at first and then he quietly told her to yell when he did this and cry. She complied for 7 or 8 pops, then he put his finger to his lips to tell her to be quiet and he left the room. She was amazed by this deception that verified that her dad did have that soft spot in his heart for her and didn't want to see her harmed.

She told this story to me at least a half dozen times always as a means of proving to me that her dad really loved her in spite of his tough demeanor. To this day Doris probably never knew this happened, well, on second thought, she probably will now if she reads this.

This did not mean that her dad never punished her; he just found more effective ways of doing it. For example, he had built a scale model doll house for her, big enough for her to play inside it. When she did something bad he simply locked the doll house, one time for a month, as her punishment. She wrote in her journal that she would rather get the whipping than have her doll house locked. 

In our job at NCAR Rose and I met with military organizations now and then. When we were in Monterey, CA we set up meetings with the research group there and I contacted an old friend who had been on Guam, Don Mautner.

When we arrived at the Fleet Numerical Meteorology and Oceanography Center in our rental car Rose let out a whoop and said, "Look at the sign on the reserved parking space right at the front door." It read "Reserved for VIPs Richard Wagoner and Rose Lundeen." I smiled and said well I guess that's ours. We parked and signed in for our meetings. A message was there for us that said that Don wanted to have lunch with us at a certain time. I told Rose it was just an old friend and that she would enjoy his company.

After our morning meetings we were escorted to the dining area to a reserved table, again with our name on it. Don came in and we had a warm greeting since we had not seen each other in several years. I introduced him to Rose and he was immediately taken with her and she played right into it by saying how a handsome man in uniform just did it for her. We had some fun talk for ten minutes or so and then Rose said "Well Don, what's your job here; what do you do?" Don glanced at me and I gave him a wink. He turned to Rose and said, "well, I run this place." "Oh, come on now, what do you really do?" she said again. "You can't run this place because you are a Captain. If you ran it you would be like a General."  Don and I were cracking up at this point. I intervened and explained that she had her branches of the Armed Services mixed up. She would be correct if he was in the Army or Air Force, but in the Navy a Captain is an officer, level 6. Just think of the Captain of a ship I said. "Oh my god, you do run this place. That's why the signs were out front, right? You did that. You guys let me embarrass myself" she said, red faced. We were still laughing and had a very enjoyable meal before Don gave us a personal tour of some of his facility.

When we parted Rose said "Well, Captain Mautner, this was a fun visit and I still think you are incredibly handsome in that uniform." She gave him a big hug and we were on our way. 

When we returned to the office Rose had me write down all of the military ranks for the various branches of service. She could then study them from her desk and I would catch her doing this many times for the next several weeks. She was bound and determined not to get caught on that issue again.  

We were so very, very sorry to learn of your dearest Rose's passing... when we first met Rose we really liked her and felt as though we'd known her a long time.

Because of the losses of our sons, we felt an instant kinship and were able to communicate our feelings of sorrow over lives cut so short and futures lost. I was having back and leg problems when we were in Kansas City and Rose helped me with my exercises... even gave me a massage.

In Virginia Beach, we were so disappointed you were unable to make the reunion... we were looking forward to seeing you and Rose. And, unfortunately we couldn't attend the Colorado Springs get together in 2010.

Remember the love you shared and all the wonderful memories you made together. When you wrote about what Rose wanted when she left this world as we know it, it sounds like she wouldn't want you to dwell on negativity... remember the positive influence and impact she made in your life.

(Thanks J&R... I will try to make your Myrtle Beach reunion in early November... Rw) 

In our travels, Rose and I had been on nearly every mile of the coast road from Brownsville to New Orleans, to Key West to Jacksonville to Savanah in search of her "place with palm trees near the beach." In 2012 we were visiting Port Aransas, an old haunt of Rose's. I went exploring on my own one late afternoon and came across a gated RV park where each site is personally owned. As soon as I saw it I knew this was the one we had been looking for: well maintained, lots of palm trees, some large corner lots, boardwalk to the beach and lots of friendly people. I drove back and picked up Rose; she wanted to see it right away so we got back just as the sun was setting. She fell in love with the park and a particular site but when we looked at the price tag, it was just too much, particularly since my house had not yet sold in Boulder County.  I could see her disappointment. I promised her to watch it.

In January 2013 we had to be in Colorado by mid month. I surprised Rose by saying "Why don't we take another look at your beach property on the way to CO since I now have a contract on my house."  She screamed and jumped around for joy. "Yes, yes, yes!" she kept saying as she gave me a big thank you hug. I cautioned her that it might still be to pricey but this didn't phase her.

When we got there, to our surprise the price had dropped $34K. We asked about the owner and were told that he was in the park at one of the three sites he owned. We drove to his site on "Million Dollar Row" and saw his wife sitting outside. "Go talk to her!" Rose said. Fred and Lynne Olanski are Canadians and since the tax laws had just changed for foreign nationals owning property in the U.S. (to their disadvantage), they had to sell two of their three sites and had just lowered the price the day before. When Rose came over and heard this she said "there are no coincidences." To make a long story short we gave Fred $1000 check to hold the property until the end of February on a handshake.

As it turned out, Fred later requested that the closing be scheduled for April 1st due to things he had to work out on that end. Rose and I traveled there and signed the  papers that day. I paid cash for the property from my house sale and Rose was to pay me installments until her half was paid. We looked at each other in the car after the signing and asked what we should name this place. Rose smiled and said "there are no coincidences, we should call it Sam's Place." * She was so happy she could burst. Afterwards she said now I don't have to worry. If something happens to you, our RV friends will drive Maxine (our motor home) to Sam's Place and i will live out my days there. Sadly she passed first, but her spirit will be there with me as I make Sam's Place my permanent home.

* For those who don't know, April 1st was Sam Lundeen's birthday, Rose's eldest son who died in an accident at age 13. 

Rose had an adventurous and sometimes traumatic early life. The latter caused her great stress and she, even at this early age, began to look for escapes to calm herself. One might think that drugs or alcohol might be the easy choice but they never were in this phase of her life. Instead she would seek shelter in her closet to feel protected and she would journal while she communicated with her "guides." Throughout her life she would always seek their guidance regarding stressful events or decisions she had to make. At times she would stay in her closet for hours and on one occasion the hinges had to be removed from the closet door to get her out.

Her desire for small, comfortable hideaways was always with her. Her car, Louis, was often a refuge for her usually with the radio on and her seat back, just trying to get her mind to be still. When she saw the motor home for the first time when I brought it home from Tampa in 2010, she fell in love with it. This was the perfect, comfortable living space for her. It had all of the comforts of home, was the perfect size and just felt protective and good to her. She would curl up on the living room couch with a good book or watch an old movie and she felt that life was good. The fact that it could transport her to anywhere was just a great bonus. She loved getting out on the road, stopping to see things she had never seen before and just enjoying the trip. She thought it was the neatest thing that we could nestle up in between 18 wheelers at a rest stop or a Walmart parking lot for the night.

She could never figure out why people kept asking how she could live in a 38 foot motor home. They just don't get it she would say. Even her parents would often say "why don't you stay in the extra bedroom at our house?" when we were in their area. We would always respond with a thank you but we really enjoy the comforts of our motor home... it is our home.

 

When Rose was a young girl she often spent summers at her Grandma Quick's home in Tennessee. She met several other young girls there and they became fast friends who would go "exploring" when they didn't have chores to do.

One afternoon Rose and her girlfriend were taking a hike through a neighbor's pasture when they came to a fence. Her girlfriend said they couldn't go across the fence because that bull they could see about 100 feet away was a mean bull that would try to trample you. Rose, always the risk taker and "I'll try anything once" type of person, sized up the situation for a few minutes. "I'll bet that bull wouldn't hurt me. He looks like a nice bull", she said. "No, no, that's a mean bull. You can't go in there," her friend said.

Without any more conversation, Rose crawled under the barbed wire fence and started to walk toward the bull. "Rose! Come back. That's a mean bull," her friend pleaded. Rose kept walking at an even pace until she was about 50 feet from the bull and cooing to him to be nice. The bull stopped grazing, looked at her, snorted and charged toward her. Rose screamed and ran faster than she had in her life. She dove for ground at the base of the fence and rolled under just as the bull pulled up short a couple of feet from her. She could feel his hot breath on her face as she creeped farther away from the fence saying a prayer to her "guides" who had just saved her.

"I told you he was a mean bull! her friend said. "OK, I believe you now. Don't tell grandma because she will be meaner than that bull if she finds out," Rose said. They walked home quietly together, thinking about the close call and why that bull was so mean.

I Remember Rose:

 I remember you first coming down the hall, high heels clicking on the marble floor, so professionally dressed and beautiful, on your first day of work for me.

 I remember as we worked hard, with Lara, to make the furtive Walt Roberts Institute come alive.  In spite of the difficulties, we had fun times, major challenges, and disappointments.

 There were the Friday afternoons with a wonderful gang of fun-loving people doing Tapas, when no one know what Tapas were.

 I remember with great sadness when the wrenching horror of Sammy’s death descended on you, and your tears, and your long struggle to make sense of the senseless.

 I remember the beginnings of your struggles to cover your grief with whatever means you could find to cover the loss.

 I remember struggling with my best friend, Rich, to help you find ways out of the most difficult of times, with RAP/now RAL, with your marriage, and the huge number of conflicts you faced, and the cycles of hospital stays, but by then I had edged off your horizon.

 Rose, you have needed peace, and now you have it.  You deserve it.  You have endured way too much, and may the light of the Universe Shine Upon You.

Love from your friend,

John McCarthy

"No one is ever more him/herself than when they really laugh. Their defenses are down. It's very Zen-like, that moment. They are completely open, completely themselves when that message hits the brain and the laugh begins." -- George Carlin 

Rose had a contagious impromptu belly laugh that made everybody smile. No matter what the setting if something tickled her funny bone the laugh would erupt. At NCAR one day we had scheduled a sexual harassment seminar for all staff... mandatory attendance... serious stuff. Rose was sitting in the middle center of the room and Brant Foote and I were sitting together several rows back. The presenter was going through his material with everyone transfixed on this material so that they would all understand the rules. At some point he said something that Rose interpreted as funny and she let out a loud belly laugh and then immediately covered her mouth when she realized that you could hear a pin drop in the room and everyone was looking at her. Brant and i were chuckling... he leaned over and said "Isn't that exactly what makes her so endearing to all of us?"

We laughed about this many times later on but never did figure out what triggered her eruption. That was just our Rose and she made us smile.