October 12th 1990 It is one date I never ever forget and never really want to forget it. At my recent divorce hearing the judge asked me the date of my wedding. I said wrongly... October 9th...now I was nervous and my sister was married October 9th... but the truth is the wedding date never stuck to me like October 12th... and one of my reasons for wanting to get married near the anniversary of my accident was because the anniversary means so much to me...Life and death so close together what could be more bone chilling? And I love fall; the colors, the air, the chill, the daily temperature changes... Love it all
October 12th.......
By Robert Fulghum...
HANGING ON FOR DEAR LIFE
If I could I would have called you this morning around seven to say you should roll out of bed, coffee-up, and get dressed for a field-trip excursion. I would come by to pick you up around 7:30. Why? Because I have something lovely to show you. I’ve done this before and, since it usually turns out well, you would not have complained about the hour or asked to know more. You would say, “Right, count me in.”
In short order we would have driven through a gate into a large tree-lined park, where the first leaves of fall are already blowing across the brown grass. “Come on, follow me,” I would have said - and led you across the grass for a ways and said,” “Look . . .”
You would have seen five children, dressed in warm winter caps and coats and boots. They are locked together on a small sled headed downhill in the snow. Fear and joy are intertwined on their faces. Fear of the speed and what might happen at the bottom of the hill . . . and joy that in this ineffable moment of companionable fun . . . in this moment . . . life is about as good as it gets. You can almost hear them scream and laugh as they roar by, hanging on for dear life. If there was room you would gladly climb on the sled and join them in this moment of infinite delight. Hanging on for dear life.
But the children do not move. They are, in fact, a life-size bronze sculpture. And this, in fact, is not a park. It is a cemetery. The Mount Pleasant Cemetery on the north end of Queen Anne Hill.
From time to time I walk through burial grounds. They’re quiet and peaceful, especially on early Sunday mornings. It’s a good place to remind myself of the brevity of life, to put down the mundane worries and petty concerns of the day, and revive my intention to be as alive as I can be as long as I can. To hang on for dear life . . . all the way down. The memorials in cemeteries are much the same everywhere. Solemn granite stones with names, dates, and predictable sentiments. Markers at the end. This person is dead. Rest in peace.
But every once in awhile I run across evidence of thoughtfulness, as though somebody used the fact of death as an opportunity to address the living who pass by. This remarkable bronze sculpture of children caught in mid-glee is a case in point. Not only have I noticed it in passing by, I’ve come back to visit it on several occasions.
The sculpture stands at one end of a family burial plot. A few feet away, at the other end stands a large, white granite marker that says simply, “PUDDY”. Two benches flank a message from the Puddy family - carved into stone:
“Come, sit with us awhile and share our sorrow. Though you weep, share the joyful memories, too. Look in your heart: in truth you mourn for that which has been your delight. For joy and sorrow are inseparable.”
And then you and I would sit for awhile in the sacred silence, looking across the empty spaces where the Puddys are yet to lie . . . seeing the children in bronze . . . forever caught in an exhilarating moment . . . headed down a steep slope, hanging on for dear life.
And we would have walked back to the car in silence, our arms around each other’s shoulders, holding on for the life that is dear . . .
Thanks, Puddys, whoever and wherever you are.
Please Note: This journal contains a wide variety of stuff -- complete stories, bits and pieces, commentary, and who-knows-what else. As is always the case these days, the material is protected by copyright. On the other hand, I publish it here to be shared. Feel free to pass it on. Just give me credit. Fair enough?
Fulghum description of the autumn day and the statue is how I feel about my accident. Unable to separate the joy of living from the sorrow of what happened. A deeper meaning to my life. A moment of freedom that comes from a perspective bigger than yourself.
Long before the town of Needles was founded; this valley was home to the Mojave Indians for thousands of years, many of whom still live in the area today, called the Fort Mojave Indian Tribe.
Guess we better keep walkin'
Guess we better keep walkin'
