by Margo Walter
Enough about transportation. During our summer vacation, the Labradors learned many new tricks. They stood in line with all the other children to get their picture taken in front of the Yosemite State Park sign. We took long hikes and only got lost on one trail one time. Dogs like to swim, and our all our dog’s web feet were there for a reason. The two yellow labs with their one black sister visited lakes, streams, and even the Pacific Ocean that summer. There was one incident worth reporting. We had stopped for a lunch break along the side of the road and realized that there was a beautiful stream running behind the rest area. Chris picked up a stick and gave it a toss. After all, our dogs were retrievers. Unfortunately, that was not a little stream, but a very fast-moving rapid, and all three dogs were in the water before we realized the danger. None of our dogs could swim against the current, and they were being dragged downstream quickly. I could see some class 2 rapids in their path and immediately began to wade to intersect their drift. Kate ran downstream with a rope, in case Chris and I could not catch the dogs. We were in the middle of a crisis and did not consider our own safety first. This does have a happy ending. I believe that my “higher power” loved dogs and worked anonymously that day to save them and us. There was a slight bend in the river before the faster moving water, and all three dogs were able to swim to this little eddy where we could reach them. We kept all retrieving sticks on land from that day forward.
Somewhere in Montana, Chris began complaining about the stomach flu and just feeling crummy. We put him in the back with the dogs and started covering a lot of miles in one day. In fact, the whole trip from Montana to Virginia was a blur, and our Chevy truck crossed state lines in record time. We really thought Chris would improve and reaching our destination would be much better for him. But that was not the case.
It was too early to take possession of our new home, so we holed up in a hotel. Finding a doctor was not difficult, and the diagnosis for Chris was a kidney infection. The prognosis was excellent, and the antibiotics put him back on his feet in three days. It was time to move into our new house.
Chris had recuperated, and the moving van was arriving the next day. We decided to take possession of our new home and camp out with no electricity, but the water had been turned on. The three Labradors checked out every vacant room and ran out the back door the first opportunity that they had. Everything inside had been freshly painted, the floors sparkled, and the garage was huge. We were all overly excited and could not believe that we had this beautiful home, our farm, and the breathtaking views. It was starting to get dark when we realized that the dogs were still outside. Our kitchen was about to be christened.
Shouts and whistles did not bring the dogs home. We decided to split up and start the search. Alex and Briana were in the pasture that belonged to our closest neighbor, but there was no sign of Callie. It was time to drag out the flashlights, split up, and find the youngest canine. I have two reactions when one of the dogs wanders off. When we do reunite, I am so happy, and I want to kill ’em. Well, Callie could not be found, and we were getting apprehensive. I heard Kate yell, “I found her!” Chris and I were in the kitchen, and Callie came running in and shaking her coat vigorously. That was a mystery, since it wasn’t raining. Why was she jumping around and throwing her tail back and forth? The white walls were splattered with red, and we realized that Callie had been shot. We still do not know who the perpetrator was but had a few ideas. She did look like a coyote with her long red-yellow coat, and most of the farms around us have young calves that needed to be protected. The good news is that it was birdshot. We threw her in the bathtub and picked out as many metal pellets as possible. We spent a couple hours at the veterinarian hospital and were told that Callie was lucky, since her face was not shot and most of her wounds were superficial. That is how we spent our first night in our new home.
***
I do not know when I started counting, but until we settled in our mountain retreat, I had lived in over twenty different houses. None of them were home. It did not have anything to do with a two-story, being a ranch, having a pool, not having a fireplace, being in the woods, or on the waterfront. Home really is where the heart is. Now, granted, that first night and that first year on the farm had its challenges. Our daughter decided she did not want to go to a high school next to a cow pasture. Chris’s teaching job was a forty-five-minute commute instead of the twenty minutes he thought. I had decided to pursue an education in the counseling field and was enrolled at Virginia Tech. Going to graduate school required twice as much time and effort than I had expected. Finally, we all realized that running a small farm would have to be a joint effort. There were some compromises, and everyone began to settle down. We were on a new journey, and no one was exactly sure of the destination.
***
Letters from the Admiral were unquestionably different. He began to report on his children and his nine grandchildren. The paragraphs were in-depth descriptions of his relationship with his wife and all the accomplishments that his five (does not include me) children were making. It sounded like everyone in his family were super-achievers and hugely successful. What was interesting is that I was jealous. That ugly emotion had reared its head before, and I did not like it. It felt like being mired in quicksand and not being able to do anything. I kept sinking, and the more that I wallowed in the envy, the more helpless and hopeless I felt. What about me? I am a super-achiever. Are you proud of me? I decided to call him and ignore one of his rules, “Never call.”
January 1, 1992
“My dear Janet… The phone call was at a time when we were involved in some serious problem discussion with one of the grandchildren. I would prefer you didn’t call. I believe I understand how you feel about the situation, but you must look at the problem from all angles. There is a lapse of over thirty years in any of our contacts prior to our first meeting. I have been married for sixty years this year. It hasn’t been all moonlight and roses, but I love her and have loved her over the years. I am not proud of my actions but then I guess that is life…. She is eighty-one years old and it has not been an easy life being married to me, I am sure. However, I am not giving up as yet and don’t bury me yet.
Contrary to your belief, I feel I understand your feeling and will do my best to help. I will certainly arrange to see you and your husband and talk with you, and it will probably help both of us…. I would love to meet you in Washington again. I could spend the good part of the day with you and would suggest we meet at the Army Navy Club on Farragut Square about ten o’clock that morning, 14th February, Friday. I will be waiting there, and if for any reason you can’t make it, you could call the desk and leave a message for me. I will keep the whole day free and we can talk and do a little bit of sightseeing or whatever you desire…. It is not an easy situation for either one of us, and I am very sorry that years ago that there was no communication or solutions—it sure would have simplified problems then from what they are now. Anyway that has been overtaken by events and there is little good in going into all the problems and background…. Unless I hear otherwise, I will see you in Washington on the 14th of February. See you Valentine’s Day. Love, Matt”
The visit was short, but I was so proud to introduce Chris to the Admiral. Watching them discuss military stuff was a dream come true. Two of my most favorite men (my two sons being the others) were in front of me, trying to get to know each other. It was a rare audience and both men kept me involved with the conversation. We talked about breeding Labradors, teachers of all kinds, the counseling field, staying educated, and end-of-life realities. The Admiral looked worn out, wrinkled and yet he shared the best part of him, his love for his family and his rare trait of remaining teachable, wanting to learn more. After lunch, Chris and I went back to the hotel quietly. I needed to decompress, to take in the whole experience, and to revel in all that had taken place. I did not know if I would ever see my father again, but I did get some closure during this visit. Havi
ng Chris present was so special. Now, the gates had been opened, and I could share all my feelings with my best friend. We headed home the next morning, and even though there was a sense of loss, I was grateful. I still had a lot to learn and even more to process, but my father–daughter time was worth every minute. We drove home without the radio blaring and talked about missing our dogs.
***
Like some of you, I grew up watching The Waltons on television and was thoroughly convinced that saying goodnight to John Boy was how a family lived happily and created a home. I maintained this idea of everyone being under one roof as the prerequisite to happy, especially during the holidays. That first Christmas in our new home was a huge disappointment. George did not come to our house for the holidays. He had his own family and spent time with his in-laws. David had other plans and promised to come for a visit during spring break. My father did not have time for a visit, and my mother was still living on the West Coast. Chris’s family was always very aloof, and no one met my expectations. That is when I discovered that it really was best to make plans but not to plan the outcome. My expectations were totally unrealistic, but there was some magic in the air.
Slowly, I realized that I needed to relax and enjoy what I had. What happened to live in the moment? Spirituality is not an event but a process, and it can be magical. Once I straightened out my priorities, I became much more accepting and finally, loving. After all, I now had my daughter living with us, a husband who adored me, and three crazy Labradors that were about to become parents. Our house was beginning to feel like “home.”
***
Kate joined her high school tennis team, got her driver’s license, and started making friends. Chris settled into teaching fourth grade and became an instant success. Not only was he one of the few male teachers, but he was special and took the kids out of the books and into the real world, teaching them how to think. There were family histories, building a dog sled for the Iditarod (using our Labradors as Huskies), and other projects which made learning fun and creative.
I mentioned that graduate school was time-consuming, and it was also a major challenge. I took courses like statistics that almost did me in. Fortunately, I found a tutor who was a math genius and he walked me through the class and together, we passed the final exam. Most of the courses were extremely interesting and I was like a sponge soaking up new knowledge. I not only devoured the recommended reading list but asked for more information from my instructors. The faculty were top-notch and were interested in giving me the best training possible. It was an exciting time to be in graduate school at the local university and launch my new counseling career. My whole family was so proud of me, and David traveled from New Mexico to attend my graduation. That was an extraordinary day, and I was beginning to believe in miracles. During those first few years at my new home and after our last visit to Washington, D.C., there was little contact with my father.
December 6, 1993
“Dear Janet… Congratulations! I know you must have worked hard to get it for VPI is not an easy school…. I know how difficult it is to go back to school after one has been out a while. It took me about twelve years of being a tramp scholar at many a university to finally get what I wanted.
Can’t say that I approve very much of the present administration’s approach to the foreign policy business. I believe Clinton is a loser and wouldn’t turn litmus paper. The world is a dangerous place and we better keep our powder dry and make up our mind what our objectives are before charging off in all directions.
This is just a quick note to tell you how glad I am for you to have gotten your master’s. I will write more later. Love, Matt”
***
The following summer I took a trip to visit my boys in Las Cruces. George and his wife were still in school. As I mentioned earlier, David had moved to New Mexico and was supposedly taking classes. It did not take long to figure out that David was majoring in golf discus and had dropped out of college. He seemed lost, and I do not know what was really going on in his life. I never met any of his friends and had no idea where he was living when he was not with his older brother. There were so many questions and very few answers. I just wanted to spend time with him.
My red-headed son was so tall. When did he grow taller than his brother? David was so skinny, and his legs were covered with red hair. His arms were so long. Where did he get those muscles in those biceps? I wanted to bring him home with me. I felt like we had lost that close mother–son bond, or did we ever have that? On the inside I was crying that we were not in tune with each other’s feelings or thoughts. Does this happen to sons and not daughters? Is it my fault, and will I ever get rid of the guilt that this is permanent and cannot be reversed?
Wanting to extend my visit, I devised a plan which would hopefully intensify our relationship and pull us closer together. David and I took a spur-of-the-moment bus ride to Juarez, Mexico. It was a lunch tour of the city. We laughed on the ride down, and I could hear his heart singing when he talked about past vacations we had taken when he was a child.
Oh, I relished those moments and was trying to figure out how to extend that trip indefinitely. It was only a two-hour trip across the border, and I saw all the poverty in Mexico from the bus. We arrived mid-morning and signed up for the walking tour of Juarez, which culminated at an incredible touristy restaurant with pinatas hanging everywhere and waiters speaking perfect English. David and I shared a look of disbelief that we were not in Mexico but had been transported to a very gaudy Mexican restaurant in the old U.S. It did not matter, as I was with my son and I wanted that moment to last forever.
I bought a souvenir sweatshirt with the name of the restaurant, Chihuahua Charlie’s, on the front so I could remember that incredible day together. I had never been to Mexico and would never return. Little did I know that that would be the last time I would see my son. Our world was about to come crashing down.
***
Late in October, I got the phone call that no parent ever wants to receive. My son David had been arrested in Mexico for using peyote and being drunk in public. No damage had been done so he was transferred to an American sheriff at the Texas border. The call was from a detective who told us that David was being taken to a shelter for the night and we could talk to him the next morning. I made plans to fly to Texas and bring him home to sort out the mess. I telephoned his father and suggested he help in some way. Being an attorney, certainly he could get David out of this predicament. His response was: “He is not welcome here. When he turned eighteen, he knew that he was on his own.” Early the next morning, the puzzle unraveled, and we will never know what really happened. David left the shelter in the middle of the night, and his location was unknown. It was all beginning to sound like an evil Law and Order.
October 23, 1995, we got the most devastating call ever. They had found a body by the railroad tracks, and the identification would have to be verified using dental records. The detective was 90 percent sure that it was our David. I collapsed in the bedroom and the next four days were a total blur. Everything from that telephone call forward became a living nightmare.
I do not remember the sequence of events, but I was sitting on my bed in some kind of unbelievable trance. Time seemed to stand still. My daughter was sitting next to me and my husband was talking. “What is he saying? Why is everyone crying?” I did not want to move, as just standing might have made that unbelievably bad nightmare real. I saw several of our Labradors on the carpet and suggested to Chris that he needed to feed the dogs. That was just like the Twilight Zone, where after the commercial, things surely return to normal. What is normal? Why is everyone talking in platitudes?
The local Methodist minister came to the house, and I do remember sitting in my bedroom staring at her as she prayed and began to take over the situation. Chris, Kate, and I were so lost and did not know what to do.
Looking back, our reactions and what followed in the
next few days were all devoid of emotion, and everyone looked and acted like the walking dead, zombies. There was a funeral, but there was no body. David had been cremated because of the horrific condition of the accident. He had been run over by a train. Suicide or murder? was the question, and everyone but me seemed to have an answer. Was he depressed? Was the peyote responsible for the outcome? Was he murdered by a known drug cartel that had killed in that area before? There was no one to blame, no one to yell at, and no one who had any conclusive answers. It would take a decade to stop asking those questions and just accept that David was gone. But the hole in my heart would never go away.
Kate, Lynn, and I were sitting on a double bed in a motel room. There was a man taking notes, and I found out later that he was the minister who would do the funeral service. He had a memo pad and was writing down information that Lynn and Kate were sharing with him. Who is he? Who are they talking about? I do remember thinking that they were all wrong but I have no idea about the answers they were giving the man. They were telling the strange man what David liked to do, what his hobbies were, and were describing David’s physical characteristics. Why is this man not asking me about my own son? Why are they talking about my son in the past tense?