Jeffery Craig's Blog

The wind often blows over a grassy Panhandle hill, bending stalks and blades as it makes its way across the plains. It teases and pulls the leaves of the twisted and gnarled cottonwoods, causing sparkling glimmers of light to dance and play in their silvery green canopies.This specific hill is in a beautiful spot, well maintained and cared for, and spots of festive, seasonal color breaks up the expanse of sun-bleached green than spreads out as far as the eye can see. It’s peaceful and serene in that place, and always hushed. Often, the loudest sound is the wind, sometimes lifting voices of mournful song into the air and carrying them away. The leaves flutter, as do the wreaths, flowers and small flags that have been careful placed on the graves.Near one tree, six feet under the grass, rests the remains of my grandfather. Deep down in the soil, his casket is nestled in a metal vault, engraved with his name, dates commemorating his birth and death, and an etched medallion acknowledging and celebrating the fact he was a veteran of the armed forces, and had fought for his country on foreign shores.My grandfather was raised in Kansas, and was one of several children born into a farm family, struggling to scratch a living out of the fertile, but rocky, soil of their homestead. The family had a proud background, but somewhere along the way, had fallen on hard times. Soon after his birth, the Great Depression hit, making the fight for survival even more difficult. He only attended school until the eighth grade, because another pair of hands was needed at home to put food on the table. His childhood is documented through only one or two photographs. One of these has a place of pride in my dining room. This photograph’s informal setting is different than many from that era.In this photograph, two young boys —my grandfather and his brother— are pictured, seated on a small wooden wagon. They don’t wear fancy clothes and their faded denim overalls, white cotton shirts and worn, lace-up work boots speak volumes about their daily lives. My grandfather holds a collie dog, and he and his brother look up at the camera, shy and defensive. The brothers were close, and that dog was a beloved friend. Sadly, just a few years later, my grandfather’s brother was dead, claimed by a sudden illness, and his world became smaller and less bright. I never knew what became of the dog. My grandfather didn’t talk about his childhood, and the disconnected pieces of information I gathered over the years came from others in my family.To my knowledge, there weren’t any other photographs taken of him until he was a grown man, striking out on his own to make a life for himself. Those later photos are less casual, and in one, denim overalls are replaced by dark slacks, polished shoes, crisp dress shirt and a sweater vest. The key difference is this photo is not in the clothing, but in his smile. Still a little shy, underneath the surface a hit of mischief lurks, and his eyes sparkle with possibility. A few years later other pictures were taken, many of them including a young girl who lived on a neighboring farm a few miles away, who eventually became his wife, and in time, my grandmother. Times were still tough, but their hope and boundless sense of possibility comes through in those later pictures. They started the work of building a house and my mother was born.In the central, rural parts of the United States the war in Europe was a distant thing, almost abstract to most of the people who farmed the land, or ran the various small businesses that supported the community. Daily news updates were broadcast over the radio and were listened to each evening after supper, and there was a growing amount of uncertainty and worry. Still, it was all happening far from Kansas, and although horrific, the distant conflict wasn’t the primary concern for many. Ordinary folks were still focused on trying to make a better future for themselves and their families. That changed on December 7, 1941 when the Japanese Empire bombed Pearl Harbor, ushering in the United States’ formal entry into the war. Our country had been attacked, its sovereignty and its foundation of liberty, freedom and justice threatened. Soon, my grandfather, and hundreds of thousands of young men like him, were wearing uniforms and shipping off to battle. Some headed to Europe to join the fight there. He was sent to the South Pacific.When I was growing up, I was a frequent visitor to my grandparent’s home. They’d relocated to Texas several years earlier and for the first years of my life, my family lived right next door. When we later moved away for a time, my brothers and I spent our summers there, dividing our vacation between two sets of grandparents. I was the oldest grandchild on both sides of the family, and until I was about five years old, all of my grandparents and great-grandparents were alive and I remember all of them vividly. They indulged me and shared many stories. I was a precocious child, although sometimes shy among strangers. I could ask just about anything I wanted, and always got an answer. Except when I asked about the war. Then, there was silence. My grandmother would change the subject and redirect my attention. Watching war movies was not permitted, and the only food my grandfather wouldn’t eat was rice. I didn’t really understand these oddities, but accepted them as just the way things were. It wasn’t until many years later that I learned there was a time when the only thing my grandfather had to eat was rice. POWs in the Pacific didn’t receive anything else, and when they were fed, the rice was often spoiled, fermented or infested with insects.In many ways, my grandfather was my best friend. He called me his little buddy, even after I was well into middle age. He was a proud man, but not prideful. His sense of right and wrong was a fundamental part of him, and he did his best to instill the same values into me. He never spanked me, although more than once I deserved it. Instead, he’d take me out into the backyard and sit me down at the white picnic table to talk things over. He occasional cursed, but never yelled. He advised me to always carry a clean handkerchief, and pointed out that a pocket knife was a handy tool to have. He gave me my first one, although I lost it long ago. I still have his. He carried it all the years I knew him.We had our rituals. My brothers and I would wait for him to get home from work, and would have a big glass of iced tea waiting for him. He’d greet us, drink his tea and ask us about our day. He was always interested in how we’d spent our time, and would shake off his own worries or stresses by immersing himself in our childhood world. Late at night, he and I watched the news together, and he’d explain what was going on. Walter Cronkite and Harry Reasoner where highly respected journalists, and he liked hearing what they had to report. They stuck to the facts, good and bad. Paul Harvey dispensed the ‘rest of the story’ and offered a wry, cynical twist to his segment. Opinion pieces and speculative editorials were clearly labeled as such, and came with the appropriate disclaimers. After the news, we’d watch Wagon Train or Rawhide, and then the national anthem would be played, accompanied by footage of the American flag flying in the breeze. He never turned off the television until the anthem was finished, and kept his eye on the flag the entire time. How times have changed.My grandparents’ friends came from similar backgrounds, and all lived within a mile of each other. Most, if not all, of the men were veterans themselves and all of their wives had also served in their own ways, by building munitions, volunteering for the war efforts, and keeping things running as best they could while the war was fought. They all remembered the Depression years, and the men all saved scrapes of metal, pieces of wood, and jars and cans filled with nuts, bolts, hinges, latches and screws. They helped each other build fences, pour concrete, and shingle roofs. I knew each of their homes well, and was well acquainted with their individual quirks. Once in a while the men would huddle together, talking about their past, and their shared experience. It was a private time between comrades, and never lasted long.Those men all had their prejudices —my grandfather included. He wasn’t any kind of angel, and was hardheaded to a fault. To give him credit, he never let a prejudice get in the way of making friends with hardworking, honorable people, or of accepting them into his home. A man of faith, he had little use for organized religion. In later years, he continued to watch the news, bewildered at times at the direction we, as a nation, were taking.My grandparents managed through years of hard work and perseverance to establish themselves firmly in the middle class. They were raised to believe neighbors helped neighbors, and raised their families accordingly. Education was respected, probably because they were limited by circumstance in their own educational opportunities. However basic their education, they’d learned the Bill of Rights in primary school, and had a good working understanding of the precepts of the Constitution. They dreamed of a better life for me and my brothers and helped us with our dreams as best they could. They didn’t always understand our choices, but accepted that we had to find our own ways. Both my grandparents welcomed my husband, although same sex marriage wasn’t legal, and accepted him as a part of his family. There was never a question about it.My grandfather was a man of few words, and he picked them carefully. He abhorred lies. Even painful, devastating truths were preferable, and could be accepted. He didn’t hold grudges, but never forgot betrayal. He was leery of politicians and told me once to check everything they said, since most of them had their own agenda. He observed that some were working people when they took office, but most were wealthy when they left and there was good reason for that. He urged me to vote, and never missed casting his own ballet. A Republican, he didn’t hesitate to cross party lines when he felt the other side offered a better choice. He would have been dismayed and saddened by the situation today —not by the differing opinions, but by the deep divisions working their way into our national psyche, and by the depths of dishonesty and duplicity demonstrated by both political camps.During the years he was a part of my life, he never spoke of the war or the battles he’d been a part of, all those many years ago. Except once, and that moment was less of a discussion than an offered glimpse back in time. One day as he was going through drawers hunting for some misplaced paperwork, he pulled out a small cardboard box. He hesitated, and after a moment, he offered it to me. I unwrapped the ancient rubber band holding it together and opened the lid. Tucked between layers of cotton were the service bars, stripes and medals he’d hidden away for over fifty years. He didn’t say anything as I examined each one, and I couldn’t think of anything to offer or ask, except respectful silence. When I was done, he placed them back into the box, secured the lid, and placed it back into the depths of the drawer to remain hidden until the end of his life. I never mentioned that moment to anyone else. It was a secret, special moment shared  between two men; one near the end of his path, and the other well in the middle of his own. I knew I’d learned something in that moment, but wasn’t sure what it was, other than maybe— maybe he felt I’d become someone worthy of the offering he made that day.A couple of years ago, my mother told me she was sending me a package, and that it included a few things from my grandparents’ house, in which she now lives. She didn’t provide much detail, and I honestly didn’t think anything about it. A few days later, the package arrived, and I put it aside to open later. The next day, I unwrapped a selection of childhood toys saved, a serving bowl, and some linens. Near the bottom of the box was a tissue-wrapped parcel. I parted the wrapping. Inside, I discovered a journal of sorts, about a half inch thick, bound with creased brown leather. My mom included a note: “Your grandfather would have wanted you to have this,” it said. “I tried to read it, but it was just too hard. Now it’s yours to keep.”The old, tattered journal had been squirreled away in one of my grandfather’s hidey holes. Each page was filled with tiny, cramped handwriting, and told the story of his time in the service. There were a few snapshots included, tucked between the pages. The words inside aren’t particularly well-organized, but offered a glimpse into the man he was before his years of service and provided clues about how those years changed him. The pages are filled with mundane, day to day observations, doodles, lists of things he learned to do, and occasionally, short yet profound offerings. ”Why?” asks one. “Terrible deaths,” states another. “Afraid,” and “Freedom,” and “thoughts of home.” There are unsettling sentences and paragraphs buried unexpectedly within the mundane, and my mother was right —it’s hard reading; poignant, personal and revealing hidden layers of a very private man. Like those talks at the picnic table all those years ago, it became a kind of discussion between us, forming new additions to my own foundations. Those private recorded thoughts offer a view into the mind and personality of the man who stood by me all of my life, and who I stood by as he took his last breath.There’s a sense of ordinary greatness to the words in those pages, and unplumbed humanity in all its glory and disappointment, now meshed seamlessly with the memories I carry with me.Under that grassy hill rests the remains of my grandfather and my greatest friend. He fought for his country when needed, then moved on to other things. He did the best he could in life. He was protective of his family, and defended the rights and the principles of the nation he knew and believed in. He pledged his allegiance. All Presidents were his, even the bad ones. He owed his own responsiblity in their election, because he was inherently a part of this nation and its choices. Near his grave are others, of course, and somehow, their placement is eerie. Like a grid of the old neighborhood, friends and neighbors in life rest near their fellows in death. Most fought for the same things my grandfather did and their grave markers and tombstones bear witness to their service to the nation and inform visitors to this windy place. All had their own secret stories. All had hopes, dreams, horrible truths and prejudices that defined their lives. All fought against that horrible darkness which haunts men and women the middle of the night, and wrestled with demons unknown. All prayed for deliverance and succor. All loved, and were beloved.This Memorial Day weekend, the smell of hot dogs, hamburgers and steaks cooking on the grill floats through the air. The sound of music and children’s laughter is carried through our neighborhoods. People argue, fight, and battle each other on social media. Lies will be told; truths revealed. Children will be born. Lovers will hold hands and whisper secrets to each other. Some will pause to listen to the birds sing, and marvel at the freedoms we enjoy and the sacrifices many made to ensure our futures. The wind will blow, causing leaves on a cottonwood tree to dance in the summer afternoon light above the peaceful graves of those past soldiers who fought the good fight.Thank you, grandpa, from your little buddy. Because of you, and others like you, I live free.

Some Native Americans believe that white animals are spirits, sent down to Earth to guide us on our journey in this life. They become both touchstone and totem, providing us anchorage while we sort our way through all the challenges life throws our way. Their eyes gleam with a soft understanding of the universe, and the foibles and joys of life. They are from the Otherworld, and have journeyed many times before.We’ve been fortunate to have two white dogs in our years together. Sasha was our first — a white German Shepard my mom rescued and convinced us to adopt right after we’d moved to our new house in the country. She gave us lessons in being hardheaded and tried to teach us patience. Sasha was fierce in battle, and gentle in offering love. She was both wise and wary. About a year after she joined our household, we got a call from the country vet located about a mile away from us. “We have another dog for you guys,” we were told. “And she’s white too!”They were excited , but we certainly weren’t looking for another pet. We already had Sasha and two of the worst cats in the entire world, who we loved dearly. Nevertheless, we agreed to come take a look and loaded Sasha in the jeep and headed down the county road. After all, she needed to have her say about this possible new addition. They hit it off immediately, and before we knew it, Gypsy joined the household.We named her Gypsy, because the vet warned us she had a tendency to roam. She frequented the sixteen thousand acre ranch behind us, and the winding country road leading into our subdivision. A fence was only a challenge, and one she enjoyed.  Gypsy was a strange mix —German Shepard and Coyote. She was ranging and too thin, but beautiful, with soft, heavy fur. She’d obviously been mistreated somewhere along the way, and shied away when you reached down to pet her. Someone must have struck her across the face a time or two. She never really grew out of the habit, no matter what we did. She was a joy to watch. She loved to run, and hunt, and would literally pull birds out of the air.  In her mind, her territory reached all the way up to the sky and they were trespassing. She made friends with the felines, shed long, silky fur around the yard and the house, and everyone settled in. Gypsy and Sasha learned about skunks, and to our dismay, so did we.Several years later, Sasha died of old age. Gypsy went into deep depression and secluded herself under the bed to mourn her absent friend. We tried coaxing her out to no avail. Clayton cooked chicken and rice, and she ignored his offering. Once in a while, she’d drink, and then promptly retreat back to her den. Never prone to weight gain, she became alarmingly thin and we knew something had to be done. After some discussion, we decided to get another dog, hoping an addition to the pack might help turn things around. A week later, Gilbert and Sullivan, two eight week old Mini-Schnauzers took up residence.There’s nothing as wonderful as puppies, and these two were no exception. They quickly discovered something was under the bed, and poked their noses beneath the dust ruffle to investigate. Gypsy was hooked, and made her way out to investigate. She was exceedingly careful of the little ones, and over the weeks, shepherded them around the yard, keeping watch. She steered them away from the pool, and kept watch on the sky. We lived in the country, and like us, she knew there were hawks and owls and crows and jays. She was the Queen of the Pack. One fine evening, when the pups were about twelve weeks old, she taught them to sing. We watched in amazement as those little fur balls listened for a moment, and then sat on their haunches, lifted their heads and howled, joining her song.The years passed. Everyone grew older. Life happened, with its ups and downs and shifts and changes. Gypsy remained a shy girl, although we learned her habits. She loved to be petted, and hated to be brushed. Her fur was like Teflon, shedding water and mud and grease, and in turn, shedding on navy pants, dark rugs and purple-gray couches. She didn’t care much for food, but loved treats and bones.  She slyly stole pomegranates right off the bush, and consumed them with child-like enjoyment, delighting in the fact she’d outsmarted us while holding each one between her crossed paws and savoring each bit. She carried herself proudly with tail held high, and escaped the confines of the fenced yard now and again, often making her way down to visit the country vet who first found her.  She’d laugh silently when we brought her home.We moved to a new house in a new state, and she watched from the back seat as the road passed behind us, remembering each twist and turn the world presented, like we would. The first day here, she led her pack up to the upstairs balcony and then out onto the roof in pursuit of a squirrel. She found the perfect spot in the back yard to dig a wallow to escape the heat, and no matter how many times we filed up the hole, she dug it out again. We gave up, as she knew we would. The two cats were now ancient, and eventually passed on. Scamp went first —he was twenty-five. Then two years later, Loof followed at twenty –seven. Changes happened in our lives, but she was always there, greeting us as we came through the door and offering comfort when times were rough.Another few years passed and Gypsy began to slow down. She slept a lot. Still, during the mornings and evening she was out and about, scouting the yard and keeping an eye on her territory. Always happy to see us or a visitor, she’d say her “hellos,” accept a fair number of compliments and strokes on her head, and then find a quiet place to nap and dream of birds, squirrels and walks.Two weeks ago, I traveled on business. When I returned home, Clayton told me she hadn’t been acting normal. As I walked through the back door, I realized he was right. She lifted her head and looked up at me, but didn’t get up. I knelt down beside her and scratched the special spot behind her ear, and then she put her head down and slept. The next morning, she was slower than usual, but did make the rounds in the yard. She drank some, but ignored her food. I told myself it was all right. “She’s never been a big eater,” I rationalized, “and two days out of seven, she skips meals.” The day wore on, and we both kept an eye on her, not admitting the truth. Afternoon turned to evening, and soon it was twilight time. Clayton headed to rehearsal, and I started a late dinner. A friend was coming over, and I decided to keep things simple. Deep down inside, I knew. I did what research I could, trying to prepare myself.I vacuumed up trails of white fur from the carpets, and got down the wineglasses. I greeted my friend at the door and poured us each a drink. Gypsy curled up on the rug in the den. An hour later, she stood —then fell. And so it started.Seizures are common, I’d learned. The body begins to shut down, step by step. My friend stayed near as I held Gypsy close, whispering what comfort I could.  I sent her other dad a text. Finally, she calmed, and then stood, a bit unsteady on her feet. Soon, she was back to normal, more alert and active than she’d been the last day. She went outside and made the rounds, and drank a little. Still, I knew.CPK came home and we watched, trying to keep ourselves busy as we waited. About midnight, she had a second, short seizure. Then she paced, refusing to find a spot to rest. She wanted out, but couldn’t manage the stairs on the back porch. So, we carried Gypsy down. She slowly roamed the yard, visiting each of her usual places —saying goodbye. She stood by the gate, looking from the back yard to the front. She followed the fence line, looking for a way out so she could run. We carefully herded her, just like she’d once herded two tiny, new pups. Finally, we carried her back up the stairs, inside.Dying is a funny thing. I stood watch by my grandfather’s side as he started the process of leaving this world. Restlessness is the norm. The living almost always fight the process, if they’re able. Like my grandfather, Gypsy did not go easily.We held her tight, assuring her we were with her every hard step of the way, and offering what comfort we could.  I don’t know if she heard or understood, but I hope she did. Near the end, she sang one final time, with her two smaller pack mates raising their voices to join her in a last goodbye. We stroked her head and sides softly, crying together as her breathing became shallow. Finally, she found her final road to roam, and slipped away.For almost twenty years, Gypsy was our spirit animal, sharing the steps of our journey. She saw each year pass, and marked the changes like we did. Twenty years is a long time, and I’ll always miss her. She was one of life’s temporary constants, and offered no judgement or criticism, only love, as only the truest and best of friend do. There are still wisps of white fur here and there, even though I’ve vacuumed several times since the night she died. I suspect there will be for some time. I don’t really mind. In a way, they are last gifts.At night when I close my eyes, I sometimes imagine I can see her, coat shining white like moonlight as she slips through long prairie grasses on her way to new adventures. She stops and turns, tongue hanging from the side of her mouth as she shares a canine grin full of secrets that aren’t mine to know, yet. Her bushy, plumed tail wags once in salute, and then she turns her head, and runs up the great hill ahead. Right before she vanishes, she stops and sings in the twilight.  A lovely ghost, saying goodbye.

So today I spent several hours polishing silver. You might ask,"why in the world did you do that?" Believe me, I was asking myself that same question about two hours in.  Here's the scoop...Sunday evening we're hosting a fundraiser at our home benefiting ABF – one of the excellent local organizations providing support services and support to the members of the community who have contracted and are living with HIV/AIDS. For the last several years, Hubby and I – along with a great group of

Last night I dreamed about chocolate cake. You know the kind I mean: rich, dense and covered in thick, gooey butter cream frosting. The kind of cake that melts in your mouth and tempts you to take just one more bite. I'm normally not a big fan of cake and much prefer pie. But the cake I dreamed of last night was the kind that could change my mind.  After I woke up, I wondered what the dream meant. Was it simply a dream about cake, or was it some mysterious message from my subconscious? Was it

It's hard to believe that another week has gone by. When I look back over the last seven days, I can only summarize the week as busy, bewildering and beneficial.  The busy part is understandable. I released two books this week (Done Rubbed Out and Hard Job) and there has been a lot of administrivia to take care of related to that. The initial response to the books has been great and I've had the privilege of interacting with some readers. I saw the paperback version of Done Rubbed Out move to[image error]

Today, both of my new books are released. Done Rubbed Out, the first book in the Reightman & Bailey Series, is available on Amazon.com (Paperback), on Kindle, Nook, Kobo and Apple iBooks. The second book in the series, "Hard Job" is also available on Amazon.com, Kindle and Kobo, and the other channels will be online soon. Additionally, beginning in the next few weeks, both books will be available in select bookstores and libraries.  If you order, "Thank you!" If you like them, tell a friend and

As I reflect back over the last week, I realize it's been about choices. Some of the choices were easy ones, and some weren't so easy. They all came with a set of trade-offs – as most choices do. As some of you know, I've been working to get everything finished so my first book, "Done Rubbed Out" can be published and available. Things were going along swimmingly, until I decided that I'd work to get the second book, "Hard Job" released at the same time. They were both finished as far as the

This morning, I woke up to the sound of rain. I knew it was coming and wasn't surprised, but I still just snuggled down into the covers and listened to it for a while – drifting in and out of that half-state where the mind is free to travel wherever it wants to go. I was reluctant to get up and get things started – content to just be in the moment. I could see the glass in the window was foggy, and the view outside was blurred.  I rolled over and pulled the covers up over my hand, blocking out

This week has been a week of waiting. Waiting for the proof of the first book to arrive. Waiting for images and edits to upload. Waiting on responses from inquiries. Waiting for the pollen that we've been plagued with to ease up so we can breathe. The blanket of gritty yellow on absolutely everything gets old fast.  Maybe it's just that time of year. This is the season for waiting before new possiblities emerge. Easter weekend is upon us, and it seems like in this part of the world, things are

Early in the new year I was sharing a few (more than a few!) glasses of wine with the hubby and a dear friend, Rhea Merck. A couple of years ago we instituted a weekly gathering we call "Wino Wednesday" to meet and hash over whatever is going on in our lives and to bounce ideas off of each other.  On this particular Wednesday evening Rhea was sharing Elizabeth Gilbert's concept of "Big Magic" (from her wonderful book of the same name – check it out!) and we started talking about times a flash of