In Memory of Warmer Summers

Halfway, OR to Baker City, OR

Friendly horn taps: 1

Miles: 57

Total miles so far: 4,192

The view behind us as we move west near Flagstaff Hill, Oregon

I was once asked by a MADD volunteer preparing a “shoes” display (a shoes display is the assembling of a specific number of shoes to represent the number of people killed in drunk driving crashes) if I would like to place a pair of Carlie’s shoes in the display as it was going to be at the state capitol.  I declined.

I have her shoes.  I have the very shoes she was wearing the night of the crash. They are in my closet.  I see them everyday, but I won’t lend them out for fear of losing them.  I received them in a horribly awkward moment when Carlie’s clothes were unceremoniously handed to me in a paper evidence bag, months after the crash.  That’s another story for another time.  What matters is I have her shoes…I have so precious little.

One of the things people in my position face is what to do with the personal possessions of a loved one.  In a moment of bravery, I once gathered all her clothes from her room and called a friend who worked at a church charity to see if I could come by privately, after hours, and bring them in for some needy children.  It was way too early, but I didn’t know that.  Things were going well, it was sad, but we went through the donation and sorted everything.  I thought we were done, because I had asked to be able to come in, drop them off, and leave.

My friend pulled out a receipt book and with pen poised to write, asked what monetary value they had.  I was overcome by the question, lost all control, and began sobbing in that shocking way that I was familiar with, but very few people were witness to.   I said something about priceless, and left as quickly as I could.  I learned very painfully it was way too early for me to be doing something like that.

For some people, for some items, there never will be a time when something like that can or should be done.  That’s OK.  A comment came into this journal and the writer moved and reconstructed her child’s bedroom in the new house. There are a lot of examples.  What was I  to do with the little hearts Carlie drew on a book shelf in the dust of my lax housekeeping?  I wouldn’t close the front blind to my house because that was the window through which I last saw her leave.  My porch light stayed on for two years until I moved.  I could go on…

I have her shoes, and I won’t lend them out.

The Powder River during a quiet stretch

The view ahead as we approach Baker City, Oregon

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Tomorrow’s ride is dedicated to Jason Moffitt

Jason Moffitt image not available

Twelve years ago, Jason Moffitt, age 22  was killed on 7/10/99.  Jason was a rear-seat passenger in a collision involving a drunk driver.

Jason’s mother contacted me and asked if I could make a dedication to him as she approached this anniversary, but was unable to forward a picture.