The Jeremiah Tree

John and I drove to the other side of Longmont today to a big tree farm with an excellent reputation. We wanted to get an education on planting an aspen tree—and keeping it alive.

I had pictured having to get someone to truck a huge tree into the foothills and plant it for us at great expense. What I learned, however, is that this is something John and I will be able to handle ourselves. It will be a memorial tree for Jeremiah True, our first grandson. We want to have it solidly started before November 16th, the first anniversary of his short hour of life.

We chose the aspen for several reasons. They're so beautiful, and the slightest movement of breeze makes the leaves quake and shiver. The trees seem to live vibrantly, growing in clumps with white-barked trunks similar to the white birch trees I loved as a child playing in Northern Michigan's woods. They grow swiftly, and are extremely disease resistant. For a non-gardener, it seems like a perfect match. I know how to water. That's what it will need from me.

Add a little bench and a garden memory stone, and we'll have a wonderful place to commemorate our first grandson. His life may only have lasted ninety minutes, but his impact lives on. I've been donating blood again, which I had gotten away from since moving to Colorado. That's one thing I can do.

Hopefully our son and daughter-in-law will be able to join us here in November. We'll have the tree dedicated on the 16th. We'd like the tree to live on as a reminder—our Jeremiah tree.

Only Your Hairdresser Knows

I don't normally get my hair done on Sundays. It's not a me-day. We go to church, then have time together. We talk to the kids on the phone and eat together. It's a quiet day. Occasionally we'll stop at the grocery store on our way home from church for a few necessities, since we live up in the foothills and there are no stores close to us, but it's not a shopping day either.

This Sunday was different for a reason. The only person who has taken care of my hair in the four and a half years since we've moved to Colorado is Ambrosia, and she does such a good job, I just no longer trust anyone else to do it. I went in to see her in early November, just before we left for Louisiana for Jeremiah True's birth. Ambrosia was expecting her daughter Noel a week before he was born, and I just managed to have my perm (plus highlights as a novelty) before she went on maternity leave.

Ambrosia always commented on how unusual it was for someone in her 60s not to have gray hair. I explained to her that my mom's hair was just now, at 90, really starting to go gray, so I have good genes. I'd get my hair permed and cut, and when there was a special event, like a wedding or or for Jeremiah's birth, I would consider highlights just to feel a little extra special. She would do it in such a way that it would grow out naturally, with no root line, just like when the summer sun's highlights fade and disappear as your hair grows.

Yesterday she came back for the first time, even though it was Sunday, because it was a rare day when the baby's father was able to take over child care for her and she could get some hours in. She's not actually expected back until February, and my hair had gone stick straight and was looking its worst. Already feeling blue after Jeremiah's death, looking bad only compounded the situation. She was shocked when she saw me, since my perms normally last 3-4 months. Then she looked really close and saw that I have a root line for the growth on the last inch and a half or so—about the amount of time since Jeremiah's death. All the hair that's grown in since then is gray. Surprise...

Well, she asked me if I wanted to start coloring my hair, and I said no. I'd heard that grief could make a person go gray, but I'd never really believed it before. If I'm gray now, I'll wear it proudly. I loved that little boy, anticipated holding and rocking him, buying little treasures for him, reading to him and watching him grow. He'll always be my first grandson, and the first male Harrell born in his generation. Nothing will change that. And even if I get highlights occasionally, I guess I'm now officially one of the gray-haired old ladies. Maybe I should get some boring shoes?

For Jeremiah, in Memory

The Christmas season is a time when families gather together, and those who are no longer with us are painfully missed. As most of you know, we have just returned from welcoming our first Grandson into the world.

Jeremiah True Harrell was born November 17th with a bright spirit, but too little blood to sustain life. Heroic measures failed, and he passed from his earthly father's arms into his Heavenly Father's arms after just ninety minutes of life.

His parents, Jeremy and Elisha, have asked me to thank you for all your prayers, and I hope you will continue with that. They also request that anyone so inclined will donate blood in Jeremiah's memory. You may save another little one's life.

I sing this song in his honor, and in memory of all those whom we miss during this holiday season and beyond.

On The Road Again

We've been at my mom's in California, gone from home for nearly two weeks. We went to help her celebrate her 90th birthday, and it was really great to be with her. We also got to see some dear friends, although we were very rushed, since we were only there a week, plus three days on the road each way.

My sister Ellen is always the best hostess. She put together a marvelous dinner party for Mom and us on the 11th, with home made manicotti, too many great appetizers to count, and a beautiful cake she created out of a cheesecake and cream puffs. It was drizzled with chocolate syrup, and topped with candles—not only beautiful, but perfectly delicious. As always, I left wanting more of my sister.

We'll stay home long enough to unpack, wash clothes, repack, go to church, and bake cookies for our good neighbor Doug, who watches over our home when we're traveling (and when we're home, he's just a great guy to have around.) Then on Monday we'll take off again. We'll go to Louisiana. What? We were just there. We just don't want the kids to be alone on Christmas. Why should we do Christmas alone at our home, and have them be alone at theirs? It's better to be together.

We'll pull the trailer and continue to pray for decent weather and safety on the road, since we don't usually travel during the Winter months. This time the trailer will have their new bed in it, and they'll have John to help them turn the nursery into a guest room. I'm so glad they wanted us back. It seems unfair that some strange mess up has postponed their trip, but there's nothing any of us can do about that. We do only what we can. The rest is out of our hands.

Someone at Bingo, referring to the tragedy of Jeremiah's death, asked me why this would happen. "How can things like this happen? It's so unfair!" I've heard that so frequently lately, and I know what they mean. I told her what I've heard myself saying lately. Unless we're going to question every blessing we receive, it's not really fair to question the trials.

I've had too many blessings to count. We're going to Shreveport to visit a couple of them.

We Give Up — Temporarily

John recorded me singing at church yesterday. It was a memorial for Jeremiah True, and we can see it in the video camera. There's a little problem, though. We can't get it to transfer to the computer. He pushed a wrong button which switched the camera to a different mode. All the video clips which were currently in the camera became invisible on the camera's monitor screen, but are visible when you try to download on the camera. (I'll admit, though, that when you push the download button, all you get is a beep.)

The recording of me singing for Jeremiah is clearly visible and playable on the camera's monitor. However, when you attach it to the computer to download, it disappears. No amount of fussing and button pushing will make it appear for download. We've read the manual. We've tried the Mac and the PC. John sat up trying "just one more thing" until two a.m., even though we're leaving for California this morning and he's pulling a trailer. He's that kind of man. He was the one making the recording, so he blames himself.

I know it's my fault. I thought the camera was so easy I didn't think he needed to practice. Push one button, point and shoot. But there are a lot of buttons, and he doesn't hold the camera the same way I do, so "the one by your right thumb" isn't a very clear instruction. We should have practiced. What he did was turn on the long playing feature, which apparently stores the clip somewhere else or some way else. It also, unfortunately, makes the clip a very low resolution.

My feeling is that we should just wait until we're in California and have the beautiful little church we used to attend available and go down there to St. Matthews and set the camera up and let me play it again. He can record it again. It will be the same song, with the same feelings—how could I ever sing it and not feel what I do for Jeremiah?

Still, I think we'll end up at one of those photo transfer places where they might be able to help us. John thinks that's the way to go, and he's so very often right. Meanwhile, if you're waiting for this... sorry. I haven't been thinking too clearly lately.