The Magic of Mass Effect

Ever since Leif died, we had his Mass Effect game here but no one played it. Our great niece Kimberly tried it once, and our grandson Marcus as well, but both were too young to play it and lost interest. Mass Effect is the game that Leif bought about three months before he died. He was absolutely captivated by it and he played it for days, once even 24 hours straight until he solved the game more than once. He created both a male and a female character to play with.

Our granddaughters are now interested in strategy games and Aly in particular likes first person shooter games, so I wondered if she would like Mass Effect. To our amazement, as soon as she tried it, she was as captivated as Leif and she has played it every waking minute that she's been allowed to use the television, up to 8 hours a day. She even set her alarm clock to get up early just to have more time before others were up.

The game has proven fascinating to Madeleine and Peter Anthony as well, and even Peter W. has enjoyed watching them play. How I wish Leif were here to enjoy the game with them. He would be giving Aly tips, chuckling at her intensity and helping her along. I can see the two of them together playing. How he would have enjoyed that, a kindred soul to share one of his passions.

It seems a little bit amazing to me that over three years after Leif's death, the game he loved has brought such pleasure to the family.
----------

The photo is a screen shot of Aly's character in the game.

Will They Remember Him?

Leif's nieces and nephew found him irresistible. They would climb all over him, touch his beard, play with him, act silly, make cell phone videos together, play chess together, and generally horse around. He was good with the kids, gentle and tolerant, and amused, my gentle giant. I wondered how he felt about being with them, whether he wished he had children of his own to go home to, though he never really voiced that sentiment.

I wonder, now, whether they will really remember him. I know they will remember that he lived, that they had an uncle that died, but they were so young when he left them that I imagine they will only remember him from photos or stories we tell.

I have a lot of photos of him with them, but I don't post photos of them online. This one is an exception because it was taken six and a half years ago and their faces aren't shown. That night in July 2004, all three of them were climbing all over him and having a great time. He was pretending to roar and flex his muscles like some kind of giant and they loved it. I loved watching it. That was a happy evening with all of us together, and Leif seemed relaxed and happy. It's a good memory.

The photo was taken in our old stone house in Manhattan, Kansas. Now neither Leif nor the house is still on this earth.

Leif's Birthday

It was a time to remember, to cry, to feel his loss so deeply, a time to share our grief, and time to wish that today, the day that would have been Leif's 35th birthday, we could see him happy, well and successful, not visit his remains at a cemetery. It's a sad form of remembrance, but it feels like the right place to be at this moment, the right commitment to his memory.

It was a beautiful day, the kind he would have loved to be out riding or driving, and oddly enough, when we parked our car at MacDill AFB after we had visited the cemetery, I looked to our right and the next car was a silver Mazda RX-8, the kind of car Leif drove. Such an odd coincidence.

And tonight there is a glorious full moon. Leif loved the moon and stars.

I'm going to drink a beer in his honor tonight and light his special candles, the ones made for us by Darlene and Marcus, and from Peter W's cousins in Heidelberg. It's not like having him here to celebrate, but at least we can remember the day of his birth and be glad he was with us for 33 years, even through our tears at his absence.

It's All Right to be Happy

I was driving along a couple of days ago, thinking of Leif. For some reason, I always think of him when I'm driving alone, and usually it makes me sad. I often talk to him then, though I have no illusion that he is there listening.

It was a gorgeous day, and I realized I was actually feeling happy, even though I was still missing him and thinking of him. The thought came into my head, as though someone had said it, "It's all right to be happy."

That made me think. I realized that a few days earlier, I had been happy on a bike ride, the same kind of happiness I used to feel before Leif died, a real appreciation of the beautiful day. Its not that there hasn't been any happiness since he died. There has, but it hasn't been the same. It's been in some sense subdued, or tinged with the knowledge of Leif's death and the sadness and regret that brings, the feeling of a hole in my heart that is never going to be filled.

These two instances of a real happiness, not weighed down by grief, were a window into what was and what I expect will be. The thought or voice telling me it was all right to be happy was something (me? Leif?) giving me permission to feel it without guilt. I asked myself the question, "What kind of a mother can be happy when her child is dead, particularly the kind of sad death Leif died?"

I think the answer is not simple. It depends on time. It depends upon the mother. It depends upon those around her. It depends upon being able to live through grief and mourning long enough to understand that it will in some sense always be with me, but it doesn't have to overwhelm everything else forever, that time and coming to terms (not peace, terms) with it will allow happiness to shine through, even while understanding that the sadness will still come back at times, and so will the tears. It depends upon the slow appreciation of something I knew all along; all of the good people and things I still have in my life.

I think some people carry grief like a badge, like a new identity, and don't know how to give it up, thinking there is something wrong with them if they do. I remember feeling that I would somehow be a bad mother if I could be happy again after Leif's death, even though I knew that was wrong. Feelings and ways of doing things can become a habit, too. Grieving is emotionally all-consuming at first. It wears off only slowly and slightly at a time, and it is right for the loss one has been dealt. The transition from that encompassing misery to the kind of sadness that comes over one occasionally when one thinks of certain things or is reminded of the loss is neither easy nor a straight path. It twists and turns. It doubles back. It ebbs and then crashes in full force. It was in the same week that I was driving home one night and was overcome by sadness, thinking that Leif would not be here for Christmas, the second one since he died.

I think it will be like this for a long time.

But it is all right to be happy, and I will be glad for the days and hours when happiness comes.

How I wish Leif had been happy, as happy as he was in this picture.

----------------------

This photo of Leif was taken in our old stone house in July 2003, when we were all sitting around the dining room table having a great conversation and beer (which Leif brought) in Peter W's German beer steins. His brother, Peter A. was there, and so was Darlene, and Marcus, and Leif's friend Michael. It was a happy evening.

Thanksgiving 1985 - Honolulu, Hawaii - Leif at age 10, nearly 11

Today is the second Thanksgiving since Leif died, our second one without him. Last year we went to the DC area and spent Thanksgiving surrounded by Lannay's family, Peter A's family and Rick's family, a large group of warm and loving relatives that made the holiday special and took away the sting of our loss, though it was ever on my mind. I didn't think I could bear to face Thanksgiving here without family last year and I am grateful we had the possibility of so many of us being together. I needed that and they were all so good to us.

We stayed with Rick and Mac, had such a good time with them and their daughters, enjoyed Mac's wonderful Thai food. We celebrated Marcus's eighth birthday there, spent time with Peter A. and Darlene, too, briefly, as they were engrossed in packing to move to India. We enjoyed a terrific Thanksgiving dinner with the whole gang at Lannay's and Doug's house, and I was glad we could take my mother with us to be a part of it.

This year is so different. Rick and Mac are in Germany. Peter and Darlene are in India. That kind of gathering may never be possible again, so I continue to be thankful for it, that it could happen when I needed it most.

Now we will just have three of us for Thanksgiving dinner, Peter W., my mother and me. I always conceived of Thanksgiving as a large family gathering, and for nearly all the years of my life, it was, whether my own birth family sharing our bounty with neighbors, or us having Peter W.'s relatives in Germany come to our house for our feast, or at least the four of us when we lived far away in Japan or Hawaii. Sometimes we went to the army mess hall to be with others. Back in Kansas after Peter W. retired from the army, we all went to my mother's house, where we had from 13-16 people gathered to celebrate. And then, when we moved to Florida, it was the four of us, Peter W., me, mom and Leif.

How I looked forward to Leif's arrival, waiting for his car to drive up the driveway, usually announcing itself with loud music or at least the insistent beat of the bass. I waited for that tall, strong guy to come in the door and give me a big bear hug. That will never happen again, and Thanksgiving will always be saddened by knowing that.

I wish we could have Peter A's family with us, but the expectation of their presence hasn't been there ever, as he hasn't come home for Thanksgiving since he left home and except for last year, we weren't able to travel to be where he was on Thanksgiving, either, sometimes because we needed to be home for Oma (Peter W's mother) and not leave her alone on Thanksgiving, sometimes for Leif, sometimes for my mother, or all three. But except when Leif was in the army, he was always with us on Thanksgiving, always until 2008, so a part of what we came to count on was his presence.

Last year I knew I had a lot to be thankful for but it was hard to feel it. Grief was too new and too acute, only seven months after Leif's death. It was one thing to know I had much to be grateful for; it was another thing to feel grateful when my heart was broken and I was sad and missing Leif, just trying to get through the days without ruining them for others.

This year, I am still sad at times. I still cry for him. I still miss him, but this year I can feel thankful and grateful for my wonderful, loving husband, for my son Peter A., for my grandchildren, for my mother, for my home and my country, for all the experiences I've been blessed to have, the material things I am fortunate enough to own. In so many ways, life is good. I am grateful for my family, my brother and sisters and their families, for my friends, for freedom and freedom from want and hunger. I don't ever want to forget all the good in my life and only concentrate on loss and mourning.

So today I will be thankful, even though I may have some tears in my eyes when the table is set for only three, and I will be thankful for Leif, for my brilliant and handsome son, who taught me much, who I loved, who I had for thirty-three years. I will be grateful for those years, even though they were not enough. I will be grateful for his life, even though it ended too soon.

-------------------------------------
This photo of our family was taken in our living room in Honolulu, Hawaii on Thanksgiving Day 1985. Peter A. would be 17 in a month and Leif would be 11 in two months.

BIttersweet Memories - Leif With a Telescope in Japan - June 1982

What was he thinking? That is was a telescope? Or was he pretending it was some kind of fantastic weapon he was firing? We were in a park in Japan, in June 1982 and Leif was seven years old, so ernest, so intense.

Yesterday we were with our grandson, Marcus, for his ninth birthday party, and I remembered how I had cried when my sons each reached the age of nine, realizing that half their time in my household as children was gone. It brought tears to my eyes again, to think of it and tell Peter A. about it.

It was a joy to see Marcus having a good time with his friends, SO excited about having a party, telling his mother, Darlene, that she "nailed it" by making and decorating a cake just the way he wanted it. It was wonderful to see his enthusiasm and enjoyment of his gifts. I loved seeing it, but it also hurt. I remembered those days with my sons, days no long past and no one to remember them that way but me.

I remember making cakes for and then with the boys. Ours were never so professionally decorated as Darlene's. We were rank amateurs! Plus I let the boys help, really help, so the decorating was usually more than a little childish and garish, but we had such a good time doing it.

I've already posted photos of some of those odd-looking cakes. I suspect that most kids these days would take a look a laugh, but my boys were proud of their efforts.

Those days were so precious and they went by so fast. Look at that slim little boy. He looks so innocent and sweet, so full of imagination. I still cannot fathom, though there isn't a day I don't try, what happened to him in the wee hours of April 9, 2008. Why is he not here? I am so fortunate that Peter A. and Marcus are, and I am so glad I can be with them, but their presence still brings home with a vengeance that I am missing Leif.

Leif - Honolulu, Hawaii - April 1984 - Age 9

These photos were taken after Leif came home from a soccer game in April 1984 when he was nine years old. Unfortunately, I made no notes on the back of them, but he looks really contented, so I think they must have won. Like most kids he loved to win and took losing hard. He's flopped on our living room rug here, looking relaxed and then acting silly.

It's hard for me to realize that I now have a grandson who will soon be nine, and although I never thought that Marcus looked like his Uncle Leif, I do see some resemblance in these two photos.

I wonder, if I could ask Leif now, what he would say the happiest years of his childhood were. I suspect that they were the three years in Hawaii. Those were good years for all of us, although I wore myself out working on my master's degree at the University of Hawaii, determined to finish it before we were moved again.

How I wish I could go back, just for a few days, with my boys and Peter W., have a Sunday breakfast on the lanai, go to Bellows Beach, head down to Waikiki for a movie and video games at one of the game parlors, dinner at It's Greek to Me  . . . those are fond memories. We were so fortunate to be able to do those things together!

Leif Would Have Loved It

Tonight I was looking online for birthday and Christmas gifts for my soon-to-be nine-year-old grandson, Marcus, and I couldn't help thinking how much Leif would have loved the things that are available today, particularly the computer games and the Nintendo DS and the games for it. If he were alive and had a boy of his own, he would have such a good time playing them with a son.

He had wonderful toys when he was a boy, too, particularly because of our three years in Japan. The Japanese shows and toys made it to Hawaii about the time we left Japan and followed us to the mainland USA, where he got interested in other things as well, like his radio-controlled model cars.

I still have so many of his computer games here, wondering what to do with them, ones he purchased as an adult. He loved the action, the simulations, the sci fi worlds he could inhabit.

Another thing I found on his computer was his iTunes subscription to marvelous photos taken by the Hubble space telescope. And Peter W. reminds me that Friday night was sci fi night on television, with his favorite shows.

His imagination soared. He found a creative outlet for it in his association with ZAON, but I wish he had done more on his own.

I remember shopping for gifts for him when he was a boy Marcus's age, and his delight in getting those gifts, how earnestly and devotedly he played with them, how thoroughly engaged he was.

He never outgrew those kinds of games, toys or gifts, in a sense; they just got more sophisticated (and expensive).

I was looking at the photos of him opening birthday gifts, remembering how much fun we had. Sometimes, in the sadness and mourning his loss, it's hard to remember that we had so many good times. I am so grateful for all the photos we took, because I will always be able to look at them and be reminded that there WERE good times, great times, happy times, for him as well as us and be glad for that. For every one of them.

We didn't know how good they were until they were gone. We appreciated our life and our family, but not enough. None of us really know the value of what we have until we lose it, no matter how much we love and are and are thankful for it.
------------------

This rather pensive photo of Leif was taken in Osaka, Japan in February 1983. We were there because I was attending a conference of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, Japan District, and Peter W. came along with the boys and went signtseeing in Osaka while I was in the conference. Leif had just turned 8 years old. He still has the cast on his left arm from when he fell on the school playground and broke it.

He's a part of so many conversations . . .

Leif is so much a part of us. Almost anywhere we go, we think of him. If we are at a restaurant, we comment on what he would have ordered (lobster, if it was on the menu!). If movies come out, we know what he would have been eagerly waiting to see and how he would have talked about them from every angle, acting, story, special effects. He would have been anxious to see the new Star Trek movie, Terminator: Salvation, and X-Men Origins: Wolverine. He would have been vitally interested in what's transpiring with our American auto manufacturers, the political scene, the appointment of Judge Sonia Sotomayor to the Supreme Court. We would have had stimulating conversations on every one of them, and when we talk about them now, we include his ideas, "Leif would have said," or "Leif would have been so interested in that."

Yesterday we went over to Disney World and visited the Hollywood Studios park. Leif would have loved the Endor Space Shuttle simulator and the Indiana Jones Stunt Spectacular. That one he saw in 1990 when we took him to Disney World on our through Florida when we were moving to Puerto Rico, but it's been updated since then and the stadium covered. We remember being there in beastly heat. But even more than that, he would have loved the Disney Extreme Stunt Show "Lights, Motors, Action!™" That was quintessentially Leif . . . fast cars being driven to their limits, spinning around, burning rubber, jumping ramps, racing in and out of tight turns, crotch rocket motorcycles doing the same . . . with the drivers and riders shooting at each other. Fast cars, fast cycles and guns. As Peter A. said, the only thing missing was a gorgeous redhead. While Peter W. and I were watching the show, I said, "Leif not only would have loved this, he would have been asking how to apply for a job." Getting paid to drive like that and shoot a gun would have had enormous appeal to him, at least for awhile.

We see the world through a different filter now. We always would have thought about how Leif would have enjoyed something, or what he would have thought and contributed to the conversation, but now we know it's only our minds that will bring those things, that he won't be there, and as Peter A. said, "it is a tremendous loss." It is. That kind of loss changes you. You realize emotionally what you only knew intellectually before . . . how fragile life is, how easily you can lose someone you love, and how hard that is to bear. You miss not only the person and their company, but their intellectual and humorous contributions to your life, and your opportunity to contribute to theirs. You miss their affection and giving it to them. There isn't a situation in which they aren't considered just as much as when they were alive, but it's all tinged with sadness that they are not longer there. Something vital and important is missing.

That will never change, but despite that, remembering is good. I cannot be one of those people who shuts off the memories and doesn't talk about their lost loved one because of the pain. I would rather have the pain and have the memories.
-----------------------------

I love this photo of Leif because he looks so joyful, like he is really enjoying himself. I wish I had seen that in the last years of his life. This was taken at our old stone house in Manhattan, Kansas on July 29, 2004. We were all sitting around our dining room table having a great conversation and drinking Leif's favorite beverage, beer, out of his dad's German mugs. He was animated and full of fun. It was a great group for that. In addition to Peter W. and me, Peter A., Darlene and Marcus were there, and Leif's friend Michael. What I wouldn't give for another evening like that!

Leif's Memorial Service at St. Petersburg Unitarian Universalist Church - April 29, 2008 -Marcus Lights a Candle for His Uncle (Video)

Marcus was Leif's only nephew. He participated in the Celebration of Life ceremony at the St. Petersburg Unitarian Universalist Church in his Cub Scout uniform, honoring his Uncle. He and his mother, Darlene, made a very special candle for Leif, with all his favorite things depicted on it, and photos of him, too. I've already posted photos of the candle. Marcus also wrote his own farewell to his uncle and did a reading before he lit the candle.

Following Marcus's candle lighting, the rest of those in attendance were invited to come forward and light smaller, white candles of remembrance.

Leif's Memorial Service at St. Petersburg Unitarian Universalist Church - April 29, 2008 - Candle Lighting and Speakers

Leif's nephew, Marcus, prepared a reading which he did with his mother, Darlene's help, and then lit the special candle they had made for Leif, a beautiful candle surrounded with photos him and things he loved and a small Specialist 4 army insignia, his rank.

After that, everyone attending the ceremony was invited to light a candle and speak if they wished to do so. Peter W., Leif's dad, went to the podium to make his remarks, and Leif's friend, Michael, spoke from the floor. Everyone lit one of the small white candles of remembrance.

We brought Marcus's candle home with us and will light it on special occasions along with the one that Peter W's cousin Wolfgang and his family sent to us.

Remembering a Year Ago

Last year at this time, I was frantically trying to scan all the photos for a slide show of Leif's life to be shown in the evening after his memorial services. Those photos and many more are finding their way into this blog.

I was racing to have all the details ready for the two memorial services, the house in order for family and friends. Peter Anthony, Darlene and Marcus were already here. I was dealing with Leif's financial mess, still notifying people and companies about his death, trying to sell his belongings and clean out his apartment. It was a whirlwind of activity overlaid on alternating waves of sadness and numbness.

I was glad I had found the two places I wanted for the memorial services, Bay Pines National Cemetery in St. Petersburg for the military service and inurnment, and the St. Petersburg Unitarian Universalist Church for the celebration of life ceremony. I wanted both of them to be right, to be real remembrances of Leif and his life.

I didn't want some sterile religious ceremony that relied on scriptures that would have been meaningless to him. I knew it would be almost unbearably hard to do, but I asked family members and friends if they wanted to be a part of the services, and they responded. I wrote a short piece including "Sea Fever," the Masefield poem Leif loved, for the military service, and "Farewell to My Gentle Giant" for the church service. I posted those last year. Peter W. wrote something short for each of them, including poems he found meaningful. Neither of us was sure we could control our emotions enough to get through them, but we resolved to try.

Peter Anthony wrote an insightful and poignant talk for the church service, "Who Was My Brother?" Leif's friend Jason agreed to read what he had written on Leif's MySpace page when he found out about his death. Darlene offered to read the Twenty Third Psalm, and Marcus prepared a reading and candle-lighting, with the candle he and Darlene made.

All the activity and planning gave me focus, something that had to be done, and that kept me from collapsing into depression. Work is great therapy, even if the effects aren't lasting.

It seems incomprehensible to me that it has already been a year since his death. It still feels as though he should be walking through my door. And yet, the forwarding order for his mail is about to run out and little comes. Email no longer comes to his email accounts. Fewer and fewer people visit his Facebook and MySpace pages.

There is a fairly consistent number coming to this blog every day. I don't know if they are all readers or whether many are chance hits on keywords, but I am glad people are finding it. So far, though, no one has sent me any memories to include. I'm on my own here. Melissa said she wants me to continue writing it. I want to, but how long can I find something new and different to say? How many more photos can I find that aren't essentially part of a series that are similar? I want to keep it meaningful. Leif deserves that.

I didn't expect that the anniversary of the memorial services would also be as meaningful and sad to me as the day Leif died and the day we found him. I suppose I should have known that the day we gathered to commemorate his death would be that significant for me. The first anniversary of it is in days, and that will be another milestone passed, another sign of how long he has been gone from us.

Every photo I post is a reminder of the life that meant so much to me. Every photo makes me want him back. Every photo makes me thankful I had him.

Why couldn't life have been kind to him?

---------------------------------
The photo above was taken in front of our quarters at the Sagamihara Family Housing Area in Japan, as he was coming home from school. He had his gym bag of stuff and instead of carrying it the usual way, he hung it on his head like that. It was taken in May 1983 when he was 8 years old.Sea

Leif & Scamp - Fort Sheridan, Illinois - May 1986 - Age 11

Today I spent a long time talking with my grandson, Marcus, about many things, but mostly about my books, especially "Imagicat." He's going to do a report on me and my writing for school (third grade) and was "interviewing me" for some information. I had sent him photos of our two cats that were the inspiration for Mortimer in "Imagicat," and one of them was this cat above in Leif's arms, Scamp. Scamp was just a small kitten in this photo. Leif picked him out at the pet shop and made sure that he picked the most active, "crazy" kitty he could find.

Scamp was such a terrific cat, intelligent, funny, careful, affectionate; the perfect cat for Leif. He loved that kitty! I've written about him and Scamp before, I think. Scamp only lived four and a half years, dying young of an enlarged heart. He, too, was too young to die but brought so much companionship and joy while he lived.

I've been trying to decide how to acknowledge the first anniversary of Leif's death and the day we found him. We had planned to go to the cemetery then, but we were in St. Petersburg yesterday for an event and it seemed right to go then, when we were already over there because I don't know if I should go out of town and leave my mother just a week after she gets out of the rehabilitation facility after breaking her back.

It was an absolutely gorgeous day, the kind of day Leif would have loved to ride his motorcycle under BOB (Big Orange Ball . . . the sun). The birds were singing. It should have been a joyous day, and it would have been, if he were still alive.

I cried my heart out, as I always do, missing him, wishing he were still alive, wondering for the thousandth or ten thousandth time why this had to be.

I thought of the Serenity Prayer, and wondered if accepting the things I cannot change actually does bring serenity. It sounds good, but I think it doesn't always do that, or perhaps my definition of acceptance is different than Reinhold Niebuhr's. Maybe what he means is acquiescence, and that I don't think I will ever have. I know which things I can change and which I can't, but in this case, that's no help, either.

We so often see that first part of the prayer written or quoted, but not the second part, about "Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace," and surrendering to God's will. I can't accept that. Hardships cannot be the way to peace. Not hardships like this. They don't bring peace. They bring misery, sadness, endless questions. And how could something like this be "God's will." A god like that would be cruel. What kind of loving father, earthly or heavenly, would doom his children to a terrible death . . . my son or anyone else's child, any of us. I don't blame God.

But I do wonder, and will always wonder (knowing that life is unfair) why Leif couldn't have had just a scrap of the luck so many people take for granted, just some lasting happiness as an adult, just some achievement he could be proud of. Why did he have to suffer? Why did he have to die?

It's nearly a year and I don't miss him any less. It's a year, but it feels like so much less.

The Music Leif Listened To The Last Two Weeks of His Life

Leif loved music all his life. He had eclectic tastes. His huge iTunes music collection, nearly all songs ripped from CDs he had purchased over a twenty year period, encompassed everything from Bach organ fugues to rap, from acid rock to Kitaro. The one genre he really didn't go for was country music, but there were even some country songs he liked and had in his library.

Music can either set a mood or reflect the mood we're in. We chose it to lift our spirits, commiserate with our sorrows, inspire us, even help us deal with anger. I think that listening to a lot of dark and unhappy, angry music sets a bleak view of life that's not conducive to happiness.

In the last couple of years of his life, Leif discovered new artists he liked, and I know he listened to a lot of what he called techno music. Much of what he liked was too "growling" with too strong a bass beat for my tastes, without much melody. He cranked it up loud in his car, very loud. He was delighted when it became possible for him to mount his iPod on his dashboard and play it through the car's stereo system instead of having to either pop in one CD at a time or have a changer in the trunk.

iTunes keeps a count of how many times a song has been played, and the last play date. Because of that, I could see what songs Leif was listening to the last two weeks of his life, and how many times he listened to them, and I could listen to them myself. I found that to be a very sad experience. He was listening to very sad music, the saddest of which was Johnny Cash's rendition of "Hurt," from the album "American IV - The Man Comes Around." This is one of the saddest songs I have ever heard, with the line, "I hurt myself to see if I can still feel," and the lines about everyone going away in the end. Leif listened to it 10 times in those last two weeks of his life.

This count is only what he listened to at home on his computer, not what he was listening to in his car. I don't know what he listened to then. But it was at home that he would have been alone and most likely to be feeling lonely and depressed.

I cried when I heard that song, and some of the others. Leif purchased it from the iTunes store not long before his death, and only that song, not the album. As I said, he wasn't fond of country music, but that song must have spoken to him in a deep way.

I know he didn't always go for that kind of depressing music. He loved the guitar soloists from some of the big rock bands in the 1980s, the magic of Kitaro, the hard charging rock of the 80s and 90s.

The photo with this post was taken in Germany in May 1988, twenty years before Leif died. He was 13. We had taken a "Space A" trip on a military refueling plane from Chicago to Bamberg, Germany. There we rented a car and drove to see Peter W's relatives in Heidelberg. Unfortunately, Leif didn't remember his German (he had been so fluent at the age of 5 when we moved to Japan from Germany), so he couldn't talk with his German cousins, but he enjoyed the trip.

One funny thing that happened while we were there staying with Peter W's Uncle Helmut and Aunt Elfriede was the Pink Floyd tape incident. They gave Leif some spending money as a gift and suggested that he and his cousin, Marc, go shopping. Leif wanted to get a cassette tape for his Walkman and found just what he wanted, a Pink Floyd album called "Ummagumma." It has several minutes of some rather odd animal sound noises on one track, called "Several Species of Small Furry Animals Gathered Together in a Cave and Grooving with a Pict."

Leif thought this was hilarious and wanted Marc to listen to it. He couldn't explain to Marc what it was, so when Marc listened to it, he thought there was something wrong with the tape and that was why Leif was having him listen to it. When they got back to the apartment, Marc told this to the adults, who thought they should go back and exchange the tape for one that wasn't defective. When we asked Leif what was wrong with it, he had a good laugh and quite a hard time trying to explain that there was nothing wrong with the tape and he actually wanted it that way.

Since Leif's death, I've come to look at music in a different way. I grew up loving music, too, and I fully appreciated the emotional range and impact of music. Now that is even more pronounced. Peter W. said yesterday that he noticed that just about all of the songs on the radio are either love songs, or lost love songs, or somebody done somebody wrong songs. I got to thinking what kind of effect that would have on someone who was lonely, who was looking for love. Wouldn't that just make it all the more poignantly sad?

I've also come to realize that although these songs are written to be about romantic love, many of them have lyrics that apply just as well to any kind of love between people, and those about missing one's love are so much sadder to me now, for although I have my romantic love with me, I don't have my son, and the words of those songs are too true.

Music is powerful and musical tastes are individual. I didn't share much of Leif's musical taste, but I could appreciate what he liked about some of it; some I did like. There were bands and artists he introduced me to that I still enjoy. But now, I look at that music he listened to those last two weeks, and I wonder if it didn't help send him deeper into depression.

It would have been better if he had listened to happier, more uplifting music, instead of matching his own dark mood.

Leif's 7th Birthday - Sagamihara, Japan - January 28, 1982 - Age 7

Here's Leif blowing out the candles on his seventh birthday cake in the middle of our tour in Japan. It was a good time for us, one of the best times in our family life. The boys had good friends and good activities. We got to see a lot of Japan and Japanese culture.

And yet, on base, it was like living in a little 1950s town with Little League baseball and soccer games, programs at the schools, community theater, and our American celebrations like Christmas and Halloween, and birthday parties, right alongside Japanese festivals like the Obon in August.

I'm still amazed and rather amused when I see the birthday cakes. They really do look SO homemade . . . but they tasted great! And the boys always looked forward to them and of course, to the presents. The presents in Japan were the BEST, because of all the cool Japanese toys.

I should have had enough sense to take photos of all of those toys at the time, and failing that, before I gave all of them to Peter A. for Marcus. The were special, mind-stretching, wonderful imagination-building toys, and we were there are the perfet age for the boys to appreciate them. They played an instrumental role in the personalities of both boys, along with Star Wars and Star Trek, in making them devotees of science fiction and futuristic ideas.

This school year, in which Leif turned seven, he was in first grade at Sagamihara Elementary School, where he was not only the tallest child in his class, but taller than his petite teacher. She said he was a "straight arrow" and never gave her any trouble or bullied the other (smaller) kids.

He did, however, attack his brother and a bicycle. In December 1981 I got a job as the public affairs officer of the Japan Engineer District of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. Initially it was a part time job, so that year, I was usually home when Leif and Peter A. were home. One afternoon, Peter A. had taunted Leif one too many times. I no longer remember just what he had done, but one of this favorite ploys that drove Leif nuts was to just point at him and keep pointing. I think this time it must have been something "worse" because Leif had a chain with a bicycle lock on it and chased Peter out the door and all the way out to the street swinging it. I don't know whether he would really have hit him with it if he had caught up with him, but if he had, he could have done some serious damage. I HOPE he was just threatening him.

I think it was that same year that he got really angry at another boy who lived near us and rather than attack him, he beat on Chad's bicycle with a broom. He really attacked it savagely. At least it was the bike and not Chad he was beating on. We couldn't see any damage to the bike but his family claimed Leif had damaged it. Somehow, it seems comical now to think of a seven-year-old attacking a bicycle with a broom, but at the time, he certainly was serious about it.

None of that mattered on his birthday. He was exuberant and full of fun.

Happy Birthday, Leif.

Leif's Sixth Christmas 1981 - Sagamihara, Japan - Almost 7 years old

By Christmas 1981 we had been living in Japan for almost a year-and-a-half. We loved it there. The boys were both enthralled with the Japanese toys, particularly the transforming robots that became jet planes, trucks, and all manner of other things. The robots also could shoot a variety of projectiles and pop off their hands, as well as wield all kinds of fancy weapons.

I don't know exactly when the boys got specific ones, like the Big Dai-X boxed robot toy in the picture, or Godo Siguma, or the other ones, some of which I've talked about on the blog before, but Leif might have gotten one like this for Christmas in 1981 or 1982.

We saved all of the boys' Japanese toys, and now our grandson, Marcus, has them. Leif gave his to Marcus, too. I had saved them in case he ever had a child who might enjoy them, as I doubt there will ever be toys like that again. But Leif never had any children, so he gave both his Japanese toys and his large collection of GI Joe paraphernalia to Marcus.

The Tokima Watch robot is another thing he got as a gift while we were in Japan. That he treasured. There is a small robot that detaches from the face of the watch. It's quite ingenious. It had been packed away for a long time and when I went through everything before moving to Florida, I took this photo and sent it to Leif and Peter A. to ask whose it was. Both of them claimed it, but Leif insisted it was, "MINE, all MINE!" He still wanted it and wasn't willing to give it up. I found it in his apartment after he died.

We celebrated Christmas in Japan in much the same way we did everywhere else. We put up our Christmas tree and Nativity Scene, played Christmas carols, exchanged presents, and had our traditional Norwegian Christmas bread (Julekage) and cookies (Berliner Kranse), but it was just the four of us.

In these photos, Leif is actually wearing a jacket that belonged to Peter Anthony, who had worn it just the year before. It was a bit large, but Leif was astonishingly big for his age and wore hand-me-downs from Peter A., who was 6 years older, within a year or two.

I like the cute nose-to-nose photo of Leif and his dad. When I look back on all the years of our children's childhoods, it seems to me that some of the very best years were the three we spent in Japan.

A Bittersweet Homecoming - Leif When He Lived Here

I couldn't face Thanksgiving here, with just me, Peter W., and my mother, without Leif, so I talked Peter W. into a trip to the DC area to visit our nephew, Rick, and his family, my sister Lannay and her family, and Peter A., Darlene and Marcus. It was a good trip, and I really enjoyed seeing everyone. The kids (Rick and Mac's daughters Kimmy and Christina, and our grandson Marcus) were great to be with, along with all the adults, and we had a wonderful Thanksgiving feast prepared by Doug at Lannay and Doug's house.

Even with all the happy times, I still had some tears and missed Leif, but it was easier there to be distracted from that because I wasn't used to expecting to see him there.

Coming home today was harder. As we traveled south on I-75 past Tampa, when we passed the exit we would have taken to go to see Leif, I choked up, realizing I'd never do that again. It got worse when we got home, and I saw his mountain bike hanging up in the garage, his motorcycle helmet on the dining room table, his uniform in my closet, and all the other reminders, his portrait on my desk. I remembered how he lived here, in this house, slept in what's now our guest room, had his computer and stereo in what is now my office, for a year. How the guest bathroom was his, how he used to park his car and cycle in the garage, and then how, when he moved out, I could look forward to him driving up to visit, seeing him at my kitchen or dining room table, sitting in the living room.

I will never see him in those places again, and it hurts. It makes me deeply sad and brings tears to my eyes. I see photos of his life cycling through my iGoogle slide show and I hope, oh, how I hope, that in the last days of his life he was able to remember that once he had good times with us, with his friends, that he was loved.

This photo was taken March 13, 2005, right after we moved Leif and Peter W. to Florida. He set up his computer desk in the room he used for a year and spent so much time in playing online computer games, searching for companionship on eHarmony and March.com, and looking for jobs. Leif was a true technophile and loved computers. The one you can see on the right side of the desk is the one he built himself.

He was only here with his dad for 11 months, but I will always see him in this room of our house in my mind.

I'm home, Leif, but you are not, and my heart is heavy.

A Bittersweet Father's Day

Yesterday was a bittersweet Father's Day, as all holidays from now on are likely to be. We were so glad to be able to talk with Peter Anthony, and Marcus, and remember how fortunate we are to have such a wonderful son and grandson.

But, of course, there isn't any way possible to even think of Father's Day without realizing that, as Peter Walter said, "I'm less of a father now," that Leif is dead.

I'm surprised that he got through the day as well as he did. Leif was always there for Father's Day, every year of his life except when he was far away in the army. We thought he would be there this year, and many years to come.

Peter W. thinks that my writing this blog isn't good for me, that it makes me focus on Leif and not get on with life. He keeps asking me how I am. He thinks I should take a break from this.

I don't know. How am I? Some parts of the day seem fairly normal, but it doesn't take much to scratch the think surface veneer and send me into tears. I don't think that taking a break from this will help, because I don't think I will have Leif any less on my mind, and it helps to remember him and all the things about his life.

However, since it seems to matter to Peter, I am going to try to take a break until next Sunday. We shall see. I believe I will be anxious to get back to writing this blog about Leif.

I miss him every day. It is not getting easier.