A Life Such as That : Patrick Thomas Dougherty

 

I began this particular blog on December 20, 2020. I couldn't post it then though. There was just too much inside me, that I personally had to come to terms with. Perhaps it was the thought that I was blessed with some amazing people in my life that I was actually able to call family and that I didn't fully appreciate the fact, or maybe it was me realizing that right before my eyes, the kids of Ray and Grace were almost gone. There was also the very real fact, that for some reason, this loss, absolutely caught me off guard. At any rate, this blog has sat mostly done but unpublished all of this time. Now, on the heels of yet another loss, I feel that today is the day to post this. Today....I remember my Uncle Pat Dougherty. 

As I have stated before, my mom was the youngest of 11 kids. Since their births spanned out over the course of 20 years, they had what was known as "the big kids," "the little girls," and "the little kids." My mom, of course, was the youngest of the three little kids, and sadly, yesterday, my family lost the last of the little kids, my uncle Pat.

Patrick Thomas Dougherty was born June 6, 1933. He was the tenth child and youngest son of Ray and Grace Dougherty and at the time, they firmly believed he would likely be their last child. Aunt Margaret once told me that Uncle Pat was the cutest baby she had ever seen, and as he grew into a tow-headed freckle-faced little boy, his sibling's nicknamed him Cornbread, which followed him through his early childhood years. Together, Pat, his older brother Jim and his baby sister Mary Jane, (yes Pat was not to be the baby after all), made up "the little kids" of the Dougherty family. As I heard it, the three of them kept both Grandma and their older siblings hopping with their mischief and adventures as young kids.

Growing up in my house, Uncle Pat was someone my mother talked about a great deal. There was three years difference in their ages, and because of this, they grew up very close. Mom loved to tell us stories about long summer days and the fun she and her brothers used to have. Sometimes what started out as fun though, ended up with one or all three of them in trouble, like their great cotton-picking adventure.  Pat and Jim had to go to the field to help pick cotton, and Mom was not about to be left out of the fun she just knew they would be having. Because she was the baby and because no one could pout like Mary Jane, they of course had no choice but to take her and her faithful dog and sidekick Shep, to the field with them. They had no more gotten to the field, when Shep surveyed the area and saw that there were strangers (the other field workers), in the vicinity of his Mary Jane. That apparently was not going to happen, so Shep immediately rounded up all the field workers and chased them into the back of the wagon and I guess for good measure, he treed Pat and Jim. Mom tried to call Shep off to no avail, so she then had to go find Grandpa as Shep refused to let anyone out of the tree or the wagon. Needless to say, Mom got in a lot of trouble and was never allowed in the cotton fields again.

As they got older, Mom refused to ever be one-upped by her brothers, especially not Pat, so when Pat and Jim would play "burnout" baseball without using a glove, Mom refused once again to be left out. They would throw the ball as hard as they could and the other would catch it bare-handed. This left them all with bruised, sometimes bloodied, and always swollen hands, but none would back down and Mom swore they threw it harder to her because she was a girl. It was in one of these baseball games that Mom swung the bat, not knowing Pat was behind her and she split his head open. I don't think Pat even got stitches, because country kids just didn't, but according to Mom, he had a scar which she was sure he carried the rest of his life. Even all the years later as she told the story, you could tell she still felt awful, but it likely didn't stop future shenanigans from the three. 

My mom might have been the baby, which garnered her special attention at times, but Pat was the baby boy and according to Mom, Grandma held a special place for him in her heart. Perhaps it was because he was the youngest boy and for at least two years, she thought he would be her last child, or maybe it was the adorable ornery grin that seemed to melt her, whatever the case though, Pat was special to her and Mom said they all knew it and accepted it and that bond held strong until my Grandma's death.

Mom told of one time when Pat was in high school and he had made the football team. They had an away game and Grandma was just beside herself not wanting him to go. She just had a feeling that something bad was going to happen, but Grandpa and Pat talked her into letting him go and she spent the entire evening wringing her hands and pacing. It turns out that Grandma was right. Pat was put into the game and within moments he was tackled and carried off the field with a broken leg. Yes, apparently she was that connected, to her youngest son. 

Mom's stories about Pat were endless and you could tell that her childhood had been one of hero worship with a little sibling rivalry thrown in for good measure. The Dougherty kids might not have had a lot, but growing up, they always had each other.

When Pat graduated, he went into the Marines and three years later, when Mom graduated, she went into nursing school at St. Anthony's in Oklahoma City. It was here that Mom met another soon to be nurse named Rita Wolf. They became close friends and as Mom told it, she introduced her beloved brother to her new friend and as they say, the rest is history. It wasn't long before Pat and Rita walked down the aisle and began a life together. 

After they got married, I am not sure of the logistics of exactly where they went and what they did, because Mom had graduated nursing school, joined the Army, and was stationed at an army hospital in  Colorado. Mom and Pat's lives were now going in different directions and for whatever reason, the once-close siblings began to lose touch. 

I don't know whether it was eventually or immediately, but Pat and Rita ended up in Columbia, MO and Mom ended up in Kansas via a couple of years in Colorado. Pat and Rita ended up having four girls and a boy and Mom had us. It is funny how time and distance can change even the closest of siblings. I think though, it was mostly my mom. She had a way of compartmentalizing her past, as she moved on to each new phase of her life and even siblings weren't exempt from this. She of course, would hear things through the family grapevine here and there about Pat's job or their kids, but with time and distance, Pat and Rita and this Missouri family, were little more than stories with no reality to my life. 

Even with the distance though, my mom remained fiercely proud of her older brother, and in 1972, when Mom learned that Pat was going to be in the movie Tom Sawyer, with Johnny Whitaker and Jodie Foster, she was over the moon for him. The movie was being filmed in Missouri, not too far from where Pat lived and he showed up to see if he would be picked as an extra. According to Mom, he was chosen because he was one of the only ones who showed up that could drive a team and wagon. 

When the movie came out, Mom took us to the theater to see it immediately and she just beamed with excitement every time she caught a glimpse of her big brother. His appearances were sprinkled throughout the movie and I remember that she wouldn't leave the theater until all the credits rolled, just to see if his name appeared. My mom was so proud of him. 

It was rather funny looking back, that Uncle Pat was really quite a legend in our house. He was this perfect big brother, who by this time had been a Marine, a professor, a civil rights activist and now was an activist for the aging in the job market, through his job in the non-profit sector, and yet I had never met him. 

One time, my Aunt Ruth and her family decided to take a trip to Pat and Rita's and I remember my cousin Susie coming back and talking about that trip. Pat and Rita lived in an old house on some land on the outskirts of Columbia. On their property was an old tavern that had been around since the 1700's and was a historical landmark, that family took care of with great love and respect for the history it represented. It was also a great place to be regaled with ghost stories and spooky nights around the campfire. Susie came home with tales of how amazing Uncle Pat and Aunt Rita were and how much fun she had had with their kids and I was truly jealous. I remember thinking that I really needed to know these people. 

It wasn't until I was in high school that I finally got to meet Pat and Rita for the first time. There was a reunion at Red Rock Canyon State Park, and this time, many of Mom's siblings ended up being there together. I knew Pat the minute I saw him. He was tall and lanky and at the time, his hair was beginning to turn a little gray. He had an amazing smile and he hugged me like he had known me all my life. His personality was big and so was his laugh. I knew then that the stories were not just stories. Uncle Pat was someone special. 

In the years after that, there were more reunions and Uncle Pat became the official family photographer, taking pictures of the individual families and then trying to get the whole bunch of us together, all smiling and all facing forward for the big family photo, and that photo always took more than a few takes to get it right. Even today, when I think of Uncle Pat, I think of him with the camera hung around his neck, his straw hat, and his amazing laugh. Trust me, the Dougherty's know how to laugh.

One of the most intriguing things I ever heard about Uncle Pat came from his youngest daughter. She and I were talking one time at a reunion, it was early on and I had just met them all. I can't even tell you for sure what exactly we were talking about, but she was talking about growing up with Uncle Pat as her dad. She said that they would sit around the dinner table and talk about everything from day to day things, to politics, religion, and world affairs (all things many families shied away from). She said periodically in their discussions, he would flip the page on them, and play devil's advocate, changing his stance completely. She said that by doing this, he made them look at both sides of any issue and thus make their own decisions on the issue. He didn't want school, him, or anyone or anything to influence them. He wanted them to research and decide about life and the world for themselves. He actually trusted their judgment. I never forgot this, maybe because this was much different than I had been raised, and all these years later, it still stays with me. What a brilliant way to raise the next generation and he and Rita did raise some pretty great kids. 

As time went on, we had more big family reunions and then they began adding "Brother/Sister" reunions, where it was just the siblings and their spouses. It was a good way to bring the siblings who were spread out all over the country, together for a weekend at least once a year. This brought them all closer and renewed not only sibling relationships but also sibling friendships.

In 1995, my mom was diagnosed with cancer. She was going to have to have surgery and a bit of a recovery. She lived by herself and I was pregnant at the time. Out of nowhere, Aunt Rita called to tell her she was going to come to town after her surgery and stay with her. Mom knew she needed this but she had anxiety beyond belief. She was so used to doing it all by herself that she was afraid she would just get mad and tell Aunt Rita to leave. Uncle Pat brought her here though and Aunt Rita stayed with mom through her recovery. It was a Godsend for Mom and it was a Godsend for their relationship as it brought them all closer together. 

From that point on, Pat and Rita were a part of the landscape of our lives. They helped Mom through two more cancer surgery's and they even loaded Mom and Aunt Ruth, into their van and took Mom to The Mayo Clinic in Minnesota, an adventure they all seemed to enjoy. 

When Tim (my husband) died suddenly, I walked through the days following his death, with little attention to who was around or what was happening. I was shell shocked and completely lost. What I do remember is when I was at his funeral, I looked up and I saw Uncle Pat and Aunt Rita sitting there and I nearly lost it. Their presence gave me so much comfort and in some strange way, held me together for the rest of the day. It was something I will never forget.  

About 18 months later, once again they would be my comfort and hold me together when three days before Christmas, Mom died. They were on their way to town to see Mom, as she was in the hospital, but sadly she died before they got here. I don't think I had ever felt so alone in my life. David was just barely a year old, and even all of these months later, we were still all struggling with the loss of Tim, and now, Mom was gone. I literally wondered if I was going to survive it all, but then they showed up. When I saw them walk in my door, I dissolved into a mushy, emotional mess....and they let me. They then did one of the kindest things they could have done and instead of going back to MO for Christmas, they stayed with us and then went with us to the funeral the day after Christmas. I remember feeling so guilty that they were missing their own family Christmas, but I was more grateful than they can ever know that they were there. 

In 2011, David was accepted to be seen at Shriners Hospital in St. Louis. This meant periodic trips to St. Louis for him to see the doctors and go to the clinic and for them to make a plan on what he needed. It was decided that he needed major hip and leg surgery. When Pat and Rita, heard about Shriners, they insisted that since it was a 7-hour trip one way, that we cut the trip in half and stay with them on our way through. Our first time through was the first time that I had ever been to their house. It was once again so comforting to see their faces after driving for several hours on uncharted roads....for me anyway. I was beyond stressed about what we were in for with David but walking into their home, it always felt inviting and Uncle Pat seemed to have a way of distracting me and reminding me that all would be well. The man knew a lot about a lot and he and I shared a mutual love of genealogy, which always gave us something to talk about and something other than my own situation to think about. 

After a while, I got braver with my trips to St. Louis, and eventually gained the stamina to make those long trips, round trip in one day. I know it worried Aunt Rita, but we still stopped in to say "hi" on the way up and on the way back. After a while though, David no longer needed Shriners and the trips stopped and at some point, I became my mom, caught up in my own world and basically shuttering myself off from everything that didn't have to do with what was going on in my own day to day life. 

A few times I have talked to Aunt Rita by phone over the years, but time, and circumstance have kept a distance there, maybe the same distance Mom created all those years ago, and maybe it was a way for me to not get too close and risk the pain of losing people I truly adored. 

When I started writing this, I didn't know what it would be or how it would go. I didn't know if it would be a memorial or a reminiscence. I think it turned out to be a walk down memory lane, remembering a man who started out in my life as a character in a story but turned out to be the real deal. He was a devoted son, a little sister's hero, a teacher, a civil rights activist, a warrior for the aging in the workforce, a historian, a genealogist, a photographer, a husband, a father, a grandfather and so much more to so many more. He was kindness, compassion, humor, and wisdom with my grandma's eyes, and my grandpa's laugh. He was the best of this world, and don't think I am the only one of his many nieces and nephews that felt this way. He was funny, kind and one of the coolest uncles a kid could ever have. 

Living in a world without Uncle Pat seems unimaginable, but then again, I know how blessed I was to have been able to call him "uncle" and how much he gave us all while he was here. To Aunt Rita, his kids, and grandkids, my heart aches for you, but Patrick Dougherty was one of those rare truly good humans, who left this world a better place because he was here, and in the end, what more could any of us ask, than to have lived a life such as that?

We All Have a Story to Tell

Stories. We've all got one or many and we are all apart of one...or many. Our stories link us to others and tell us who we are as an individual, a family and even an ancestry.

I grew up in a family of storytellers. Hard to believe I know. From my earliest moments I remember my mother regaling me with tales of her youth, growing up as the eleventh child and also youngest child of farmers in the red dirt of Oklahoma. As a kid, I would rather listen to my mom tell stories than watch TV and ever so often I could corner her of an evening and prod her for hours about her childhood, her life and all that she was willing to divulge in story form.

My mom had a decided advantage over her other brothers and sisters growing up and that advantage was that she was the youngest. The baby. With there being a 20 year gap between her and her oldest sister and a three year gap between her and her brother who was the next above her in age, Mom pretty much had my grandmothers undivided attention whenever she wanted it and like me, she would corner her mother and prod her for hours to tell stories of her childhood, her life and all the stories she knew about the family.

From my mother and my grandmother by extension, I learned about my maternal great grandfather Henry Bennett Etier, who was a French Canadian and a roamer. He seldom settled for long, traveling all over from Louisiana to Oklahoma and areas in between. Even though settling in one place for more than a short while was not to be his life, he managed to marry three times, outliving all of his wives and through these wives he ended up with 14 children. All of his boys were named after presidents or famous men and all of his girls were named after flowers and states. My grandmothers name was Grace Missouri. She later change it though to Grace Mary after joining the Catholic church. My grandmother was also Henry's youngest child and she was the seventh daughter. My mother was also a seventh daughter which my grandmother always said that the seventh daughter of the seventh daughter was special and that my mom would have an understanding and knowledge of things that others do not. She was right. My mother did.

There were stories of how Grace married into the large and boisterous Dougherty clan and she would tell of my my grandfathers father and how he had died in a tragic horse and buggy accident leaving my great grandmother a widow. There were stories of how the Dougherty's came to the United States from Ireland and how once arriving here were looked on as "dirty Mick immigrants" and were seen as only good for hard labor such as working on the Erie Canal or working as chamber maids for the more affluent English immigrants.

There were stories of how the Dougherty's left the New York area and traveled by covered wagon  hoping to find a better life and land of their own. They were part of a wagon train heading west towards the promise of freedom and their own part of this vast and quickly developing new country. They settled in Iowa and stayed there until the Oklahoma Land Rush and the promise of an even better future beckoned them....and then it was Oklahoma with it's red dirt and land a plenty where they settled.

All of these stories handed down and told in great detail always filled me with pride and a sense of who I was and were I came from. I soaked every ounce of information in like the geeky little sponge I was and even at a very young age, long before the internet and Ancestry.com I was researching even more of my family. Through this fascination and determination I broke out of my shell and began to bug other family members about their memories and even began long pen-pal relationships with distant relatives that I never met face to face but knew intimately because of the life stories they shared with me. It was a great hobby to have and I learned so much.

Now don't think that my mother was the only one that I would corner for these family history lessons. My grandfather Robert Castle Jacques on my dads side was still living when I was a young child. He had had an exciting life (at least by this small town girls standards), and he loved to spend hours talking about his life and the people he had met in his life almost as much as I loved listening to him. He was part of large family growing up in a tiny town in Kansas. When he was seven years old, his family could no longer afford to provide for him as times were tough, so he took out on his own. Over his life time he worked as a ranch hand at the famous 101 Ranch in Ponca City, OK which was owned and run by Buffalo Bill Cody. He of course met the man himself, not to mention Annie Okley and the famous Sitting Bull. He also worked on the railroad and in the oil fields for many years and met the likes of Howard Hughes Sr and his infamous son Howard Hughes, Lyndon B. Johnson before he ever even thought of the White House and various other famous and not so famous and yet extremely colorful people. I would sit for hours mesmerized by his life and the humility in which he told his stories. I don't think he had a clue how fascinating he truly was.

After my grandfather passed away, I would then harangue my own dad to continue the legacy started by his dad and to fill in the questions that one has after someone dies and you think "I should have asked that." My dad given the right opportunity and the right state of mind could tell a pretty good story himself and I would learn what it was like for him as a small town Kansas kid during the depression. He would tell of times when his family was well off enough to have housekeeper and then when the depression was full on, how they barely had enough to eat. There were stories of my dad as a young man with a dream to own his own farm and how he worked night and day to keep that farm up and running. When farming was no longer a viable way for him to make a living, he came to Wichita and went to work where he stayed until he retired. 

I guess you could say I am a story junkie. I love my families stories and I love to hear the stories of other families too. We each are so much more than the world knows and we all have a family legacy of sinners and saints, tough times and glory days. They make us who we are and give us something to pass on to future generations. Sadly, with the world as it is today, my kids aren't the story lovers that I was. They don't have the time and maybe the interest to sit down without TV, phone or electronic gadgets and just learn about who they are and about the people who came before them. Perhaps this is why I blog. Perhaps someday, long after I am gone, my kids and grand kids will be able to look back on my body of written work and learn a little about me, my parents, grand parents and about how their family came to be. My hope is that it gives them roots and a sense of the history that makes them who they are as both individuals and family. If that happens, then perhaps, my purpose here on this earth will have surely been fulfilled.

The Boy (Based on a true Story)

His blue eyes danced as the excitement of the house made him giggle. Today was a special day and the little blonde haired boy was so happy. He wasn’t sure but it seemed like a really long time since he had been this happy. The mom seemed a little stressed as she packed up the little one lying in the crib. He was still fragile and required a bag full of “stuff” every time he left the house. The blonde haired boy though, loved the little one and even though he was only 5 years old, he understood that the little life there in the crib, almost didn’t make it home.

The boy remembered the many days and nights that he and his older brother had to stay at home while Mom and Dad spent many long hours at the hospital. He remembered the tears in his mom’s eyes when he went to the hospital and they were all told by the doctor that his baby brother might not make it through the day. He was told to say goodbye, but he refused. Instead he reached in the clear crib where his youngest sibling lay and quietly whispered, “You’ll be fine. I talked to the Blessed Mama and she told me,” referring to a long talk that he had, alone in his room with Jesus’s mom.

The boy had been right. His baby brother had come home and in his eyes, that baby was perfect. Since he had come home though, life had been busy and this new little family member took a lot of care. The boy had long since realized that his days as the baby of the family were over and truthfully, it hadn’t really bothered him giving up the title as he never much liked being called a baby. He knew that the new baby had fought hard all those months in the hospital and he deserved a little babying and special treatment in his life, so Mom and Dad fussing over him really wasn’t so bad.

Today though, it was going to be different. Mom and the little one and the older one were all leaving and it was just going to be him and Dad. The boy could hardly contain his excitement. It was just two days until the 4th of July and he and Dad were going to get fireworks….together….just the two of them. He couldn’t wait and he giggled and bounced around as Mom finished packing up the baby and tried her hardest to motivate the older one out the door. Earlier, Mom and Dad had talked about the baby staying home and the boy had stood back breathlessly waiting for the verdict. He would have said nothing and would have shared the day with the little one, but when Mom said, “No….I’ll take him. You guys just need to go have some fun,” the boy’s heart nearly leapt out of his chest. It was going to be just him and Dad and he was so excited.

As Mom drove out of the driveway, the boy stood looking at his dad. He didn’t know if all dads were as great as his dad, but he knew his dad was the best. His dad was his hero. He had a loud booming laugh that rang through the house. He was smart because he worked on airplanes and the boy just knew you had to be really smart to do that. His dad had a beautiful voice and he loved to dance and the boy loved listening to his dad sing with the radio and then grab his mom and dance through the living room with her. Yes, he had the best dad in the world and now standing there looking up at him, he knew that today, this day was theirs…..all theirs and he couldn’t wait to get it started. This might just be his best day ever.

The boy’s dad grabbed him up and said, “How about we go get some fireworks?” The boys blue eyes began to sparkle. Spending time together AND fireworks!!!! This day was going to be so cool.

The dad took the boy back to the master bathroom and told him he needed to get in the shower. The boy quickly undressed and jumped in the shower. He scrubbed himself as quickly as he could and then yelled to his dad to help him turn the water off. The dad came walking back with a cup of coffee and a pack of cigarettes. The bathroom was the only room the mom would let him smoke in. He helped the boy out of the shower, wrapped him in a towel and sent him into the master bedroom where he had already laid the boys clothes out. “Now you stay in here and get dressed,” the dad instructed, “and I will take my shower. Then when I get out, I’ll get dressed and we will get our day started.”

Once again the boy could hardly contain his excitement as his blue eyes were clear blue sparkling pools. The dad was almost as excited as the boy. This after all was one of the first times in a very long time that it felt as if the family was starting to find its way back to a new kind of normal. Now, being able to spend this day with this little blonde haired boy who had stayed calm and cool during the last few months when everyone else was anything but, who had constantly told everyone that would listen that his little brother would be fine and who had welcomed his new sibling without envy or attitude….gave this dad pure joy. He planned to take his son and let him choose anything he wanted at the fireworks stand. Today, money didn’t matter. All that mattered was the two of the spending time together and making his little boy laugh and smile as much as possible.

The dad opened the ventilation window above the toilet and then sat down next to the toilet and proceeded to set his coffee next to him on the floor. The bathroom wasn’t huge, but he had found a comfortable spot between the wall and the toilet to sit, drink coffee and have a cigarette. He lit his cigarette and took a sip of his coffee. Mentally he was planning the day ahead and trying to imagine the boy’s excitement when he told him that he could have ANYTHING he wanted at the firework stand. He put the cigarette to his lips, took a long drag and……..

The boy was hurriedly drying off and trying to dress. He wanted to be ready as soon as his dad was out of the shower. He heard the clank of his dad’s coffee cup hit the floor and he could smell the smoke from his cigarette. He knew Dad wasn’t in the shower yet and that it would likely be a few before he finished his cigarette. The boy felt a twinge of disappointment that his dad didn’t get directly in the shower, but then again….he knew he never did. Then he heard a single word…..”Ouch.” There was another sound but the boy wasn’t sure what the sound was. Gingerly he pressed his ear to the bathroom door and tentatively said, “Dad?” There was no answer. The dad always answered. So the boy knocked. Still no answer. Confused, the boy opened the door.

The dad lay with his head between the toilet and the wall. He held a lit cigarette and his coffee cup sat on the floor by his side. His eyes were closed but there was a slight gurgling sound coming from his chest. The boy’s eyes grew wide as he tried to understand what lay before him. Then he knew, his dad was teasing him. His dad loved to kid around. He carefully walked closer to his dad, expecting at any moment that he would jump up and grab him, all the while laughing his booming laugh…but there was no movement. “Dad,” the boy said. Then more quietly, “Daddy.” The gurgling continued. Maybe he passed out the boy thought. Using the extent of his 5 year old knowledge, he picked up the now luke warm coffee cup and he poured the coffee in his dads face. There was nothing…not even the slightest movement. It was at that moment that the boy knew. He took the still burning cigarette from his father’s hand. He squashed it out in the ashtray next to his dad, just as he had seen him do it a million times.

The boy sat there. He touched his dad’s hand. It was warm and rough as always. At that moment, he knew that hand was the hand he loved the most in the world. He wanted with all of his heart for that hand to reach up and grab his. He wanted to feel the warmth and security of his own small hand wrapped deep inside his father’s big and safe hand. No!!!! He wanted his daddy to sit up and smile at him. He wanted to sit in his lap and feel those arms around him. He didn’t want his dad just to lay there, covered in coffee with that horrible gurgling sound going on. Then it stopped and the boy just sat there, his blue eyes now a steel grey as he continued holding his dad’s hand and watching his dad’s face turn from a pink to a grayish color. Slowly the warmth was leaving his dad’s fingers and the boy just wanted this to be a dream. He kept thinking that he wanted to wake up. He wanted to run into his mom and dad’s bedroom and hug his dad. He wanted to tell his dad about the awful dream and he wanted to hear his dad say, “It was just a dream. I am fine.” He wanted to get fireworks. He wanted to hear his dad laugh and sing and he wanted to watch his dad dance with his mom across the living room floor. Most of all though, he didn’t want to be there alone. His young brain was beyond full and he was trying to process the most unthinkable situation and it simply wasn’t possible. He was alone and suddenly he was scared.

The boy had never been home alone and this was the worst way to have that experience for the first time. Fighting back the tears he looked behind him and the family dog sat quietly, just watching. He obviously had no idea what to do either. The boy tentatively pulled his hand away from his dad. He knew this might be the last time he felt that hand, but waves of reality kept hitting him. He was alone, he was scared and he knew that his dad was gone. He looked at his father’s face, looking lifeless and colorless and he quietly whispered “Goodbye Daddy.” He then made his way to the dog. He buried his face in the fur of the animal and let out a sob. The dog whimpered sensing how devastated his little human was.

The boy, still scared, still alone and still not knowing how to handle the way his world had just changed, slowly walked to his bedroom. The dog followed. As the boy walked in his room, all the things he loved, all the things that made him happy and all the things that made him secure, no longer existed. He just wanted to feel safe and he didn’t know how to do that. The boy walked towards his bed and grabbed his pillow and blanket and then he got down on his knees and crawled under his bed. The space was small, but then so was he. The dog, knowing how much the boy needed him, got down on his belly and pulled himself under the bed too and lay his head on the boys stomach. Together they remained like this for what seemed like forever.

The boy startled awake and the dog whimpered at the boys’ sudden movement. For a second the boy thought it might all have really been a dream. Then he looked up to see the bottom of his bed and his heart sank once again. He had no idea how long he had been under the bed nor did he know when anyone would be home. Then the fleeting thought went through his head, what if they don’t come back? He knew deep inside they would, but what if they didn’t? He continued to lay there, the dog never moving from his side and the boy wondering one thing….Why?

Suddenly the dog whimpered loudly and backed out from under the bed. The boy lay there listening. The car door shut. Then another. THEY WERE HOME!!!!! The boy quickly rolled out from under the bed and rushed down the hall. He ran to the door and opened it just as his mom, with the baby and his older brother stepped in. A huge uncontrollable sob welled up and escaped his chest and then the words that he knew to be true, but the words he hadn’t been able to say finally came exploding out as 
he grabbed his mom and held her tightly. “Mommy, Daddy is dead!” And as she looked into those eyes that had aged a hundred years since she had left that morning….she knew it was true.