Year One.

 Where do you run on the anniversary of your kid's death? We live in a world where anniversaries of all kinds are celebrated---at least joyous, momentous occasions.  But what about a death day? I’ve heard people call it an “angel-versary, or “Heaven Day”.  I’ve declared October 8^th simply as the day my family died. At least that’s the way I think of it in my head, deep down in my heart.  Our family as we knew it essentially evaporated. So here we are. Trying to figure the rest out.

 A friend asked me recently if I remembered the very first thing I noticed or did differently that symbolized the life we knew was gone.  Immediately without a beat, I remembered a friend dropping us home around 2 or 3am after Corban’s accident, then climbing the front stoop and entering an empty home closing the door, and for the first time in at least a decade, intentionally turning the deadbolt shutting out the world and locking us in to an unexpected life we hadn’t asked for.  For some reason we just never locked the deadbolt while Corban was here at least in his older years but that night when I turned the deadbolt, I felt it.

 For the next 364 days we felt our way through the darkness trying to focus on new

meaning and new purpose while bumping into unexpected painful things along the way.  My wife poured herself more than ever into the kids in her classroom and having been an admirer of home and garden related shows she also poured into home design, DIY projects, landscaping, rearranging all manner of things, bathroom redo’s, and even having our deck removed and rebuilt. Along with that we got our new sanctuary an amazing screened in porch, the product of her imagination and design. Now a place we go to breathe and sit--mostly in silence. 

 So while she DIY’d or DIH’d (did it herself) I cancelled several comedy opportunities and hid from new ones, while also pouring myself into other creative things like songwriting and blogging. More specifically I focused on the song “Gonna Leave” honoring our son, other grieving parents, and first responders.  Thankfully “Gonna Leave” released on the target date, “Father’s Day weekend” and has since been played quite literally around the world on willing and excited indie stations, and on some benevolent radio stations less concerned by commercial things.

So while not a success commercially, “Gonna Leave” nevertheless is impacting others, and the emails and messages I receive regularly from grieving parents keeps my creative motor running and serve as a therapeutic salve for my soul.

 And I mutter to myself regularly about local radio, country and Christian stations.  “Obviously they don’t know a good story when they hear one”, “Obviously they don’t realize this really happened”. “Obviously they’ve never lost anyone and felt the need to scream their story from every mountaintop in a desperate plea to keep them alive.”  Obviously petty I know. But I do think all that.

And while we both coped by staying busy with creative grief, October was closing in.

I used to look forward to October. I longed for Fall and the change it represents. Not so much anymore. I’ve had about all the change I can stomach. In fact, on more than one occasion, I’ve mentioned I might be more inclined to hate October now.

My wife has shared similar feelings about autumn full moons. She and Corban bonded over many a harvest moon. Now the full moon’s beauty has dimmed somewhat as the fullness of its light serves mostly to greater illuminate grief and loss, --especially in October.

If you haven’t experienced grief and traumatic events, it’s important to understand that milestones of any kind can be painful, and often unexpectedly so.  Anniversaries are monsters--Godzilla’s of grief that roar and taunt hurting people reminding them a year has passed with many more to come.

 So back to the question:  What do you do when the anniversary rolls around?  I knew what we were not going to do---we weren’t going to the beach. Corban loved beaches and we’d tried that over the holidays soon after he left us and it was an emotional disaster.  I also knew we were not going to a cabin in the mountains. Corban loved our extended family’s cabin in Pennsylvania. And as much as we love it and hope to go there again someday--- for now it’s a beautiful, special place with a lifetime of memories but with a devastating emptiness and so off limits.  Beaches out. Mountains out. Baltimore out. So many places and things for now-- are simply out.

Then it hit me. Do something you’ve never done before. Go somewhere you never traveled as a family. Build a new memory. Do this certainly not to pretend the  anniversary isn’t happening, but maybe to distract or deflect some pain and emotion.  Beat back the grief monster.  Of course, there’s the phenomenon of guilt that your kid is somehow missing out, or the appearance that you’re somehow choosing not to remember. Both untrue. Both wrong.  Back off Satan, Godzilla grief monster, and guilt. You have no powers here. 

So it was settled. I’d plan a trip over the anniversary not to celebrate it, but to get us through it. 

My wife is a fan of HGTV and Ben and Erin Napier’s Home Town focused on rediscovering and reclaiming the beauty of Laurel, Mississippi. She’s also a fan of Chip and Joanna Gaines’ Fixer Upper and Magnolia out of Waco, Texas. They are also known for making old things new again and for repurposing, and then there’s Ree Drummond’s Pioneer Woman from Oklahoma. I don’t know everything she does but my wife enjoys her show and I feel certain I’ve been the beneficiary of her cozy, common sense comfort foods. So there’s that.  I figured one of these potential trips might work.

With fall break from the university (my day job), I had 4 days, maybe 5 to work with. After I calculated time back and forth, the trip that made the most sense was Laurel, Mississippi.  I was worried what she’d think about my philosophy of traveling for the anniversary. She got it.  Turns out we’d both be happy not to be at home during these days. Instead we’d be in Ben and Erin’s Home Town. Laurel here we come.

 Shuttling away from home in order to somehow deal with your grief elsewhere is a bitter sweet prospect.  We stayed in a Tuscaloosa hotel the first night, and I was appalled as I rolled our luggage into the lobby of that hotel decked out in all things Alabama. My son would not be happy. I could picture those wide-eyes, scrunched up nose.  Friends even suggested we go to Rama Jama's a local sports-themed diner. I’ll admit it looked cool. In my grief and loyalty to my redheaded Vol Fan, I could look outside but I dare not go inside. So that idea was a no-go.  Remaining loyal to Corban actually gave my grieving heart some cheerful joy.  Silly I know. Sometimes the things we do in our grief don’t make sense to others or ourselves.  And here’s a piece of advice. They don’t have to.  If you’ve lost a kid—you do you.

 

We made it to Laurel, also known as the City Beautiful without incident. What we hadn’t realized when we booked our trip, was that we were heading straight into the town’s famous “Loblolly Festival” a celebration of Laurel’s heritage, beauty and success, none of which would be possible without the loblolly pine tree.  Who knew? 

Our first stop was the Scotsman General Store and Woodshop, makers of handcrafted wood products, and purveyor of all sorts of manly merchandise. It’s also home to a display window with a sign reminding fascinated onlookers and fans to keep quiet if cameras are rolling and a new episode of Hometown is in progress. The Scotsman belongs to the taller, scruffier half of Laurel’s beloved Erin and Ben.  Corban would have loved everything about the Scotsman.

 We were shopping for merch and I managed to get the world’s softest mustard yellow sweatshirt (apparently too small for me) stuck over my head. As I was wrangling it off, the neck hole was reluctant to work its way from my scalp and I shot glances left and right to make sure no one was watching.  I looked back to my left only to find a friend I hadn’t seen in 25 years obviously trying to figure out if it was me, and out of embarrassment I pretended I was not in fact me.  As it turns out, you don’t have to be in your own home town to see old friends. You can be just in Laurel, Mississippi quickly becoming America’s hometown.  After we filled our bags with merch we headed out to our car. I thought to myself how cool it would be to run into Erin and Ben.  I’d never talk to them, I’d never wanna bother anyone—I just thought it would be cool.

After the Scotsman, we headed over to the Loblolly Festival and as we rounded our first corner, --well, there they were.  Erin and Ben and their little family. Erin leading the pack, Ben following behind pushing a stroller at a brisk pace. They made their way through the festival craziness and I watched in amazement as people, for the most part, left the local celebrities alone.  It made me happy. Yes, let families be families. Let them enjoy these moments. I've become very mindful and careful not to steal precious moments from families.

 We did just about everything there was to do in Laurel.  We admired every open shop and enjoyed some great food. My word, the food y’all.  It’s all so good. If you’re ever in Laurel you gotta check out Pearl’s Diner and whatever you do, don’t miss Vic’s! Oh and the beignets at Café Le Fleur are phenomenal.

We took a few drives winding through the beautiful neighborhoods, saving our self-guided walking tour as our grand finale.  My wife shared with me about the historic homes reading from the official walking tour guide map, and shared with me from memory about all the various houses that had been highlighted or brought back to life thanks to the efforts of Erin and Ben.  I told her I think every town needs local cheerleaders like Erin and Ben.  I also

 pointed out I’d never met nicer people. Truly. Everyone we met in Laurel was so friendly.  I’ll never forget as we approached the end of the tour, a couple walking their dogs stopped and talked with us for a moment. They were obviously super proud of Laurel especially the downtown area.  As they walked away, the husband turned around and called back to us “You know it hasn’t always been like this. Laurel’s been through a lot. And this…this is a comeback story.” They went on their way and that moment stuck with me.

 

Our last stop on our walk was the historic St. John’s Episcopal Church, which opened its doors in 1894.  It’s also known for never closing its doors. Day or night people are welcome to come inside and enjoy the view or take care of spiritual business. It was beautiful. We stood silently amid the richness of woodwork, breathing in the history and taking in the overall simple grandeur.

I noticed candles flickering up front and was drawn there. I lit a candle in memory of my kiddo and I prayed. Praying is hard for me these days. I do pray, it’s just not like it used to be.

As we drove back home I remembered the man with the dogs calling back to us “You know it hasn’t always been like this. Laurel’s been through a lot. This is a comeback story.”  

We made it to our home town.  Joy tended to the animals and I unpacked the car. And after carrying everything inside, I took a breath, and turned the deadbolt again and I felt it.  

--CorbansDad

p.s. Yes it took me exactly a month to get my thoughts together.  I have to really work at that these days. 

p.s.s. A note about Smarties: Smarties were our son's favorite candy since he was a toddler. My last conversation with Corban was actually about Smarties. Without going into a lot of detail, Corban came home with a larger roll of Smarties and before he went to bed he offered them to me and said, "You know I only share these with people who love me right?" At the Memorial service, we had a basket of Smarties (thanks to a friend) and a sign including that quote.