Traditional bad news day

I always feel a bit apprehensive around this time of year, especially today. This marks the 23rd anniversary of the day our house on Great Northern Road burned down. We lost everything but gained a tremendous sense of the powerful goodness of the human race.

Just as Pearl Harbor Day, JFK's Assassination and 9-11 touch generations deep to the core, December 20 will always remain infamous within our immediate Love family unit. Bill attended his father's funeral that same week, maybe even the same day.

Nineteen years later, on Dec. 20, one month after his grandfather had died, Willie rolled his grandfather's pickup, fortunately walking away unscathed but terribly upset at the circumstances. He had driven the truck no more than two miles down HWY 95 after making a deal to buy it from his grandmother. He was bound for Les Schwab's to get some snow tires when he hit a patch of ice and slid over the embankment near Selle Road.

The calendar date hit me square in the eyes afterward and only intensified the subconscious dread I harbor for the date and the relief I always feel if the day goes without incident. Well, the day stands true to form in the news. So far, so good for the Love family, though, and our fingers are crossed.

Nonetheless, I can't help but think about the calendar when the first news item I read this morning was about a significant earthquake in New Zealand---the other Heaven I know on earth and home to some wonderful friends. Ironically, I had a very vivid dream last night that our family had traveled to New Zealand.

Of course, in my quirky existence, there was a complicating twist. I had forgotten to reserve a hotel room, and we were already there. Somewhere in the murkiness of the dream, efficient Annie, the hotel queen, had come through and taken up the gap where Mom's brain had faltered. Then, I woke up, soon to read about the earthquake and hoping my friends are well.

The next disturbing item I read was on Huckleberries Online. The blogfather, Dave Oliveria, had posted at 1 a.m. this morning to inform his blog followers that his wife and daughter had been involved in a three-car collision a few hours before. They fortunately walked away, but his daughter did go to the ER for observation. Oliveria noted in his posting that all-too-familiar phenomenon----how quickly life can change for us.

So true, and so sad when I realized this morning with the obituaries that 42-year-old Angie Johnson, whose name and death announcement appeared in yesterday's obituaries, was the bubbly, friendly Angie Bond Johnson who made it a point to call me whenever they had a new supply of barbecued beef at the Pack River General Store.

I'm still stunned to learn that she died because of complications with heart surgery. I'm sure this has sent a wave of grief across our community. Her mom was the cook through most of my career at our high school.

I taught several members of her family and her in-laws. I'm sure her SHS Class of 1983 grads will feel the sting. And, for sure, anyone who ever visited the Pack River Store knew and appreciated Angie's warmth and willingness to serve. I can tell you that's an eclectic group and I know a community is feeling as saddened as I am this morning.

My heart goes out to Angie's family and to the staff at Pack River General Store who have certainly lost one of their shining lights and phenomenal cooks.

It's a date on a calendar, and its shadow of wariness continues to intensify in my heart. There's not much we can do about the grand scheme of things, so I guess the message continues to be: make the most and give the most with every day because we never know when those life-altering events are going to strike.