The Lost Piece of Me

When Paul died, I lost more than a husband.

I lost my very best friend, my lover, my confidante, my advisor, my companion and my encourager. I lost my roommate, my ally, my co-conspirator, my protector and my helper. I lost my lawn mower, my car mechanic, my vacuum repairman, my plumber, my electrician and my light bulb changer. I lost my spider killer, my garbage remover, my curtain hanger, my furniture mover and my ceiling fan cleaner. I lost my income provider, my bill payer and my decision maker. I lost my dance partner and my dinner date. I lost the one person I could be totally honest with.

Who will I cook for now? Who will I talk to while I cook? Who will I shop for? Who will help me fold the king-sized bedspread? Who will I fight with and then make up with? Who will tell me how beautiful I look no matter how I really look? Who will hold my hand in church as we pray? Who will hold me close at night? Who will sing the melody to my harmony? Who will be there to wrap his arms around me and tell me everything is going to be all right? Isn’t it ironic that the person you need the most to help you through this experience is the person who died?

Who am I now? I am no longer a wife, no longer a lover, no longer a partner and no longer a helpmate.

I feel like I am on an emotional seesaw from the moment I wake up in the morning until I finally fall asleep at night. Every morning when I wake up it hits me – Paul is gone - and I have to get up and face the world all by myself. The day drags by with too many reminders of his absence. Night comes and I can’t bare the thought of going through yet another night alone. I miss his presence. I miss the companionship. I miss his embrace. I miss the intimacy.

I miss his deep southern drawl and hearty laughter. I miss his booming baritone voice and his unique style of singing. I miss the absurdly stupid jokes and silly sayings that he so freely tossed about. I miss my best friend. I miss my other half.

How does one go on?

Hurricane Angels

In August of 2004, the home I shared with my son and his family, was severely damaged by Hurricane Charlie. . After the storm, as we picked through our belongings, we were blessed to have been able to salvage many of our special treasures. While the furniture, televisions, stereo, computers and most of our clothing were all lost, five year old Cheyenne’s porcelain dolls, Patrick’s Harley Davidson Motorcycle Models and my collection of Angels somehow sustained little or no damage by the winds and the rain. Everything we were able to retrieve was put into a 5’ X 8” storage unit until we can get another home and start over. The last year has been hard on all of us as we struggled to rebuild our lives in temporary housing.

This year, the hurricane season has been the worst in recorded history. Each time another hurricane would develop, we found ourselves anxiously watching every news report. So far, our area has been completely storm free until the end of October, 2005. Then…. Hurricane Wilma popped up out of nowhere and went from being a Tropical Depression to a Category 5 hurricane in a little more than 12 hours. As the weather reports began warning our area of the impending storm, we all began making preparations to evacuate to a safer structure. Cheyenne, now 6 years old, became almost hysterical at the prospects of experiencing yet another storm. I took her into my lap and tried to explain to her that we were all going to be just fine. I told her that God had His Angels surrounding us to keep us safe from the storm. I thought I was doing a pretty good job at calming her fears until she stood up, put her hands on her hips and very firmly told me. “Gramma, all our Angels are packed in a box and locked up at the storage place….. Just how much help do you think they are going to be?”

NEWS STORY - COPS FIND POT IN GRANNY'S VAN

When City of North Port Police Officer Selzer stopped Carol Cannon in her 1979 Dodge Hippy van for a headlight violation he never dreamed he would find a fat old grand- mother with her pot. Due to the late hour and the suspicious nature of the van, officers requested to check the van's interior for anything illegal. The grandmother was very co-operative. When asked if there was anything in the van the officers should know about, the grandmother calmly replied,"Nothing but my Pot." The officer immediately called for back-up and had the grandmother and a passenger, Patrick Cannon, step out of the van and wait against the nearby building while the van was searched. As the officers started to enter the back of the van the grandmother smiled sweetly and stated, "Yep, I just came back from a weekend camping trip. I'm 53 years old, fat and too old to go Pee in the bushes. I always carry my own Potty when I go camping. " A thorough search of the van revealed exactly that, a portable “toilet”. The grandmother and her passenger were release immediately. When contacted later by the local Victim Advocate, Officer Selzer stated, "Yeah, that old lady scared the hell out of me when she said she had “POT” in her van. I thought I was going to have to frisk her, and she looked like she might enjoy that...."

IMPORTANT QUESTION

Way back in the 60's, we used to sit around in Herbal enhanced "smoke" filled rooms and ponder some of the great questions of the Universe. These sessions were the launching pad of many "brilliant" ideas. Somehow, over the years, many of these ideas have been lost or just forgotten. As I sit here tonight, I can't even begin to remember most of those conversations. BUT..... I do remember the one question that used to cause us the most intense brain cramps. It took me years to figure it out. Some of the group never could..... Can you?

IF TODAY WAS TOMORROW YESTERDAY;
WOULD TODAY BE YESTERDAY TOMORROW?

Ahhhh!!!! The good old days......

POTATOES * POTATOES * POTATOES

POTATOES – POTATOES – POTATOES

Today I experienced a major breakthrough in my journey from sorrow to joy.

When Paul went home to be with our Lord almost eleven months ago, I was totally devastated. I truly believed that my life was over. Depression and grief were my constant companions for over eight months. Absolutely every thought of Paul caused my heart to break with sadness. I saw no joy in my life or in my future.

It was after much prayer that I made the decision in March, to move in with Paul’s sister Peggy so that we could help each other through this time of grief and sorrow. That decision was met with much opposition by some of my friends. It was stated by several people that I was turning my back on God and backsliding my way to hell at full speed. Well, everyone can relax and be at peace with the knowledge that I have not turned my back on God; in fact, I am closer to Him today than ever.

Today Peggy and I were talking about when Paul first came to the Lord and his hunger for more information. Suddenly, Peggy started laughing hysterically and yelling:
“POTATOES – POTATOES – POTATOES.” Immediately, a memory flashed before me, and I too began to laugh. This was something I was not used to; a memory that brought joy and laughter and not tears. It’s a memory that I would like to share with you. Let me tell you about Spiritual Starch.

When Paul first came to the Lord he was totally unfamiliar with the concept of the Holy Spirit. What little contact he had with organized religion had been in a very conservative congregation. The gifts of the Spirit were not spoken of or taught. And heaven forbid you should even mention “Speaking in Tongues.” .

One night after service, Paul went to Pastor George for prayer for healing of the cancer that had recently been diagnosed. After we got home that evening it was obvious that something was really bothering Paul. He sat on the porch for quite awhile, deep in thought, when he suddenly asked, “What the heck is all this Potato – Potato – Potato stuff?” Peggy and I looked at each other completely confused and answered almost in unison, “What??????” To which Paul answered, “When Pastor George was praying for me, he touched my head and started mumbling something about Potatoes - Potatoes - Potatoes. How come?” When Peggy and I finally regained our composure after the fit of hysterical laughter, we tried to explain to him that Pastor George was praying in tongues and not speaking of starchy vegetables. Apparently, some of Pastor George’s prayer language sounded like he was saying potatoes.

Offended by our laughter, Paul wasn’t the least bit receptive to our explanation of tongues, so as a last resort we called the Pastor at home and made him come over and explain it all to Paul. Paul was so intrigued with Pastor George’s explanation of the Baptism of the Holy Spirit that he enthusiastically began seeking that “next step” in his relationship with God. “I want what you’ve got George. What ever it is, I want it.” Paul was heard to say. Peggy and I just looked at each other and said,
“POTATOES – POTATOES – POTATOES.”

Pastor Paul and Carol Cannon 

It was a typical hot and steamy July afternoon in Sunny Florida when my grandmother called me and the boys to join her and the two “older” women that she took care of in her home for lunch. Since I NEVER denied her anything, I agreed to come right over, but I wasn’t looking forward to the visit. It was hot, and her home was not air-conditioned.

Imagine my surprise when I pulled into the drive and there was my 79 year old grandmother, and her two housemates, 92 year old Estelle and 94 year old Mary, sitting out in the front yard in their patio chairs, in their petticoats and bras, sipping iced tea as the garden sprinkler showered them with cooling rain. It was positively hysterical.

Nanny immediately stripped the boys down to their underwear and the children and the old ladies had a ball dancing and playing in the homemade rain shower. I remember thinking at the time, “Lord, don’t ever let me get so senile that I behave like this.” Now… at 53, I have learned that senility had nothing to do with it. Those three old ladies were just “Living For The Moment.” And you know what? I hope that when I get old, (sometime next week) I have the Pluck and Chutzpah to abandon proper protocol and do the same thing.

KIDS = 1 MOM = 0

I vividly remember the day I got the first grey streak in my hair.
Note that I didn’t say, “My first grey hair.”
This sucker was a bonified STREAK!!!

The boys, ages four and six had been happily playing in the back yard
when suddenly they began beating the heck out of each other.
I raced out into the back yard and pried them apart.
“What the heck is going on?” I yelled as I began wiping the blood off Patrick’s nose. “He called me a dummy.” Sobbed Patrick.
“OH yeah! Well first he called me a jerk.” Yelled Paul with his little hands balled up into fists at his side.
“So… he said I was stupid.” Said Patrick.
“Yeah but….. He said I was an idiot.” Whined Paul.
Back and forth the insults had flown.
“Moron” – “Kootie Head”
“Creep” – “Doofus”
“Doo-Doo Brain” – “Butthead”
Each boy tattling on the other.
“But Mom,” Paul said in a hushed tone, “He said that I was a ……,” he leaned in close to whisper in my ear, “a jackass.”
Before I could scold both of the boys for their language, the truth finally came out and I realized that the final verbal blow had been aimed directly at Patrick.
Patrick looked up at me with those big blue, tear filled eyes, his nose still bleeding and cried, “Yeah ….. but Mommy, Paul said his pee-pee was bigger than mine.”
“Oh hell! Kill each other.” I yelled as stomped back into the house to finish cooking supper.

I'm sure you'll think this is JUST a poem, but the truth is.... this really was "A TYPICAL DAY" in my life when the kids were small.. cgc

A TYPICAL DAY Written by: Carol Cannon (copyrighted)

Dirty diapers, a Snotty Nose.
Grubby hands upon my clothes.
Chewing gum in Patrick’s hair;
no-one knows how it got there.
Paul Jr., gave his dad the slip,
fell off the fence and split his lip.
Paul Sr., says, (so I can hear)
“Sure could use another beer.”
Car parts soaking in my sink.
Someone dyed the hamster pink.
And don’t you know, it’s just my luck,
Aunt Suzie gave the kids a duck.
Kate’s nightgown hanging on a lamp.
Patrick’s more than a little damp.
Lipstick squashed into the rug.
Patrick tried to eat a bug.
The phone is out, my dryers broke.
This whole day has been a joke.
And you know, I have a hunch.
It will be the same after lunch.

THE HOMECOMING (copyrighted)
From: My Journey from Sadness to Joy
By Carol Garrott Cannon
February 5, 2004

The family stood, in anxious anticipation, watching the clock and the large display board that announced the arrival times of the incoming flights. They were all there: Mother and Father, sister and brothers, grandmother and great-aunt, uncle and nieces. They gripped the small American Flags tightly. The “Welcome Home” posters were ready to be raised in an instant as the red, white and blue balloons and ribbons danced festively in the breeze. The family’s excitement was contagious. Even total strangers were standing in eagerness to welcome home the young soldier. Security Guards and Baggage Handlers were now drawn into the waiting game. It had been nine months since he had left. Nine months of prayers and worry. Nine months of unanswered letters. Nine months of tears and fears filling each day. But today, all that was not important. Today, he was coming home. Home from Iraq.

At long last the voice on the loud speaker announced the arrival of his flight. The family crowed toward the security ropes, anxiously looking down the long corridor for that familiar face. Already the stress was becoming more than the young mother could endure and she could hold back the tears no longer. The grandmother, not being able to see over the heads of her family, pushed her way to the front of the crowd. No one would stop her from catching that first glimpse of her first born grandchild. As people began coming down the passageway the air of excitement in the waiting area began to grow. Strangers now gathered with the family to search the faces of the arriving passengers. The Security Guards stood out in the middle of the long walkway watching – ready to alert the family the moment the soldier stepped off the plane. One by one, two by two, the passengers came down the corridor. Where was he? As the family searched the stream of strange faces the tension grew. Where was he? Had he missed his flight? An elderly woman made eye contact with the aunt. “Don’t worry,” she whispered, “He’s coming. Your soldier boy was on the plane with us. He’ll be out in just a minute.” Suddenly the Security Guard raised his arm and waved to the family, pointing down the long passageway. The mother rushed to the gate to be the first one to welcome home the soldier. As the young man came into view the family and onlookers burst into hearty cheers. There he was. Yes, that was him dressed in his Desert Battle Uniform sauntering ever so cockily down the corridor. One of the Security Guard snapped to attention and saluted as he passed. More cheers and thunderous applause greeted him as he stepped through the security gate and into the arms of his sobbing mother. She held him close and patted his back just as she had done years ago. This was her little boy – come home.

The father anxiously waited for his turn to greet his son. At long last the mother released the boy and the father pushed his way in between them. The big, burly man gathered his son to his chest and hung on tightly. He didn’t care who saw the tears in his eyes. All that mattered was his son was home.
One by one each family member hugged the soldier and welcomed him home. His brothers, sister, grandmother and aunt, uncle and nieces all eager for their turn to touch him, to hold him and talk to him. As the teen-aged sister hugged her big brother, she pulled back and with the sweetest smile said, “Oh…….. so that’s what camels smell like.” The soldier burst into laughter and loudly proclaimed, “I do not smell like a camel.” The tension was broken. The family was back together again, whole and complete.

As the family started to leave, perfect strangers would shake his hand and welcome him home. “Welcome Home Soldier, we’re proud of you” was spoken over and over. The mother stood back and watched in awe. Was this confident and mature young man the baby boy she held in her arms just a few short years ago? Had this war changed him? These were all question that would have to wait. Right now, she just wanted to get him home. Home where he belonged.