Hannah’s Puppy

I found this document on my daughter’s computer this morning… Just wanted to share it as it is so fitting. She wrote it when she was thirteen, five years after the car accident. It’s about Shomar. It is unedited 🙂

Hannah’s Puppy

By: Hannah

Once upon a time there lived a young girl named Hannah. Hannah was enjoying a lovely Thanksgiving meal with her family when her parents called her away from her delicious creamy mashed potatoes and gravy that she was beginning to get very excited to eat. Nevertheless, she could not ignore her parents beckon, for they were her parents.

Poor Hannah was in a horrible accident where she had lost her closest sister and grandfather. So Hannah was very lonely growing up, until this Thanksgiving when her parents called her over to talk to her. They began by saying that they knew she had lost her closest sister and best friend; then mom said “And because of that, we want to get you a puppy. We know you are going to be very lonely without Michayla, and we think a puppy will reduce that somewhat.” I was so overjoyed I didn’t know what to say! So they continued. They said it was going to be a Boston Terrior – not too small, but just big enough to be a lap dog .

Hannah was so happy! She thanked them what seemed like a million times and gave them a huge hug, then ran back to enjoy her mashed potatoes which seemed to taste even better than before, all the while thinking, “A puppy of my very own.” They went to pick him up and called him Shomar which means “guardian,” and he lives happily ever after guarding his precious Hannah to this day, October ninth, 2011.



Why I Write


Writing is a vehicle for the impressions, thoughts and feelings generated in my being when verbal expression is somehow deficient. I haven’t written a lot in my 52 years, in fact I didn’t write anything meaningful until the cold fingers of personal tragedy clawed their way into my life, crystallizing the river called my soul.

I have always been one of those people who can’t resist picking up and smoothing my fingers over the cover and empty pages of a beautiful journal, humble composition book or notepad, or opening a book and sticking my nose inside to smell the distinct aroma of words on paper and agedness. Pens and pencils, colored and not,  abound in the drawers of my house and the pockets of my backpack, my favorites relegated to that carefully selected place of honor in whatever form of luggage I am currently carrying.

Even the act of putting pen to paper and forming letters leading to words is akin to an act of worship. I say that carefully as my personal religious beliefs are quite specific when it comes to worshipping other deity’s (lol).  And so you would think that I would revel in the desire to write, after all what an opportunity to gleefully put quill to paper and neatly realize my cravings as part of the process.

I tried. The stack of unfilled journals in my house attest to my sincere devotion to the concept of writing down my soul. The entries are sporadic at best and usually morphed into lists of various sorts (another one of my great talents is list making which isn’t a bad way to put pen to paper).  I just couldn’t wrangle the elusive presentiments roiling inside me into any sort of graceful or witty fashion onto the page. Writing seemed so cumbersome.

After most of my children were out of grade school and making their young adult lives happen, I found myself working which included answering various correspondences. I did that job well enough but nothing sparked my desire to write like a nasty letter. I loved crafting the words to righteously fire back with a defense. I discovered how easy it was to formulate and write using the computer… it was so easy to delete, re-write, cut and paste and having access to an instant, digital dictionary/thesaurus was euphoric!!

I love the CRAFTING of it…  The left side of my brain craves the logistics of it, how precisely I can convey my thoughts and feelings. Words make pictures and the work involved in finding the perfect words and phrases to frame the smears of color I place on my canvas is extremely gratifying. Writing for me is creating art and art is expression and now that I have a tool to build my thoughts with I write!

So in time I will be posting pieces I have written from the past and creating new ones to share. It’s a very personal window into my soul. I hope you appreciate it.

Connie Em


October 26 2015

There are times in life when you wish you could fall down and not get up. Yesterday was one of those days.. the long awaited Oregon rain ruined by the inconceivably cold, hard reality of an irreplaceable best friend and companion mowed down on a careless country highway, cold and hard.

The loss of a family member is a devastating thing, let alone the loss of two family members. And then there is the loss of a family member who saw you through the first losing.. I am noting to myself the proper spelling of ‘losing’ .. it seems no one knows how to spell anymore..

Some beings are full of light and they share that light with you in your darkest hours. The bulldog embodied that light and more bringing his sweet Boston Terrier charm and intuitiveness to help us through those long days, weeks and years of overwhelming grief and mourning.

The day we picked up the tiny, rat-like puppy followed the worst ordeal of our lives. Purchasing the pup was a reflexive act following the loss of my youngest child’s next-older sibling, taken in a devastating car wreck that also claimed the life of their grandfather. The pup was a living, warm, pitiable being that in the helping, assisted us in keeping our focus on something alive… somewhat that is. It is a gruesome fact that when people leave you in this life, despite the memories that act as placeholders in your heart, there is a deafening, reverberating darkness that sometimes threatens to swallow you whole.

My daughter, then eight, gathered up the scrawny, tiny pup and focused. There is something about the face of a Boston Terrier that endears like no other breed and yet there are those people upon whom the terrier’s charm is lost. I once had a friend who claimed he looked like ‘a bat on steroids’… I will admit that in his more comical moments that opinion wasn’t wholly unjustified, but to Hannah and I he was always beautiful.

As I am writing this I watch the geese flying through the fall sky… my graceful fall and winter companions for nine years, their poignant honking through the cool, crisp air, never fails to take me back to those numb days following the wreck. I watch their beautiful flight against the backdrop of an early morning sky and am amazed at the timing of this current loss, also in October. I don’t ever think of myself as old, but as I notice myself in the mirror this morning.. a day later. I look like a tired, old lady. Tomorrow will be better.