Meanderings and Musings of a Cluttered Mind

My youngest son, Stephen, hates the song, "Blue Christmas." I'm a big Elvis fan, so I love the song "Blue Christmas." I sometimes sing it randomly at appropriate and inappropriate times, without ever paying attention to the lyrics. Yesterday, when a friend shared this link of an amazing, 16-year-old Elvis impersonator singing the song, I couldn't help but share it, too. "I can never get away from 'Blue Christmas,'" my boy said after it popped up on his Facebook page. And then I have to remember why. It's more than just mindless words to him. He takes each sentence to heart. My wife and I have grieved, recovered, but continue to grieve the loss of our oldest son, Devin, who was killed Aug. 7, 2011, by a driver answering her cell phone. We've slipped into the "new normal" and go on with life, with a hole in our hearts. I've cried and ranted and wrote a book to help heal my pain. I give distracted driving pr

            I hate cats.             It’s nothing personal, mind you, it’s just that they’re … you know … cats.             I was born a dog person. I’ll die a dog person. Never owned a cat, never wanted to own a cat.             Devin liked cats.             I do not like cats.             And while an argument can be made for cats taking care of themselves, pooping in boxes that are easy to clean and being generally self-sufficient, they never seem particularly happy to see you, and could care less if someone breaks into your house in the middle of the night.             Dogs are always happy to see you, except when they poop in the house. They are also great for scaring would-be burglars by looking ferocious and willing to bark loudly at anyone thinking of breaking in. In the case of our Wonder Dog Shadow, they also bark at the leaves falling, the wind blowing, the air and at all other times of the day, too, but that’s beside the point. Shadow the Wonder Dog, keeping

It may have been the most dangerous thing I ever did in a long time -- or at least a little stupid -- but can't help but think Devin put me up to it. Since I'm still alive to write the tale, guess it doesn't matter, danger or stupidity aside. And I may have made a new friend in the process, all the while just stopping to say "Hello" to my son at St. James Cemetery. It's been 22 months since Devin was hit and killed by a driver on a cell phone. I talk to him often in my car, but really felt the urge to visit his grave today. Sometimes I just get a sense to do it. Great Cemetery People -- whoever they are -- left us a nasty note a month or so ago, and said we couldn't have any toys by the grave, so we moved the white angel that decorated the back. The party pooper patrol in charge of such edicts took the other knick-knacks Devin's friends had left as tokens of their visit. Couldn't help but think the grave looked way too lonely and naked. &qu