Not Dying Was Easy. Surviving Was the Hard Part – 17 Years Ago Today

17 years ago today my life changed forever. What follows is that story…

Not Dying Was Easy—Surviving Was the Hard Part

I wonder sometimes what might have been if I’d taken my normal route home; if I’d swerved faster; if I’d not been driving on the spare; but, I didn’t, I couldn’t, and
I was, and everything in the world changed because of it.  

“What time is it?” I asked. Everything was dark, but I knew someone was in the room with me. I tried to open my eyes, but my eyelids felt like they were made of lead, and what little light penetrated them was so bright that it hurt.

“It’s 4:30.” It was my mom’s voice. “You were in surgery for about seven hours,” she continued. “Do you remember me telling you about it when they brought you back to the room?” She asked. What she said didn’t make any sense. The last I remembered it was about one in the morning. How could I have been in surgery seven hours if it was only 4:30?

“4:30 in the morning?” I quizzed her—I was too confused to say more. 

“No. It’s 4:30 in the afternoon.” She was standing next to my bed and had her hand on my right arm. She wasn’t crying, but I could hear the worry in her voice. With her blocking the light from the open door, I was able to open my eyes enough to see her standing there. My brain was foggy, but I understood now what she meant.

“What did they do to me? I don’t remember if you told me.” I heard her take a deep breath and clear her throat. “Shit,” I thought to myself, “my arm is gone!”

“Mom, did they take my arm? Just tell me,” I said in a more demanding tone.

She squeezed my right arm, “Shhhh. I’m going to tell you, but you can’t scream in here.” I guess moms never stop being moms, even when their babies are hurt.

She told me that the surgeon spend the first two hours of the operation suctioning “bone dust” out of my arm. Every bone in my left arm from my shoulder to my wrist was shattered, and I literally had no elbow left. They implanted two titanium plates, sixteen screws, and a six inch titanium rod was inserted into the radius. The incision started in the middle of my upper arm and extended to about three inches above my wrist. She also told me that my left lung and kidney were both bruised, that there was extensive bruising on my torso and left leg, and that I had a concussion. 

“You have a long recovery ahead of you,” she said as she wiped the streaming tears from my face. “The doctors say probably a year or more until you’re fully recovered. But, you didn’t die, and that’s a miracle.” Not dying was the easy part—surviving was going to be the real trick.

Less than twenty-four hours earlier I was on my way home from my family’s Christmas celebration. I had dinner planned that evening with a friend whom I had not seen in some time. I was running a little later than I’d hoped and was driving above the speed limit. I never saw the small piece of metal in the middle of the highway, and the next thing I knew, I was struggling to stay in one lane. I pulled off the road. I got out and walked around to the passenger’s side of the car. BLOWOUT! The right front tire was completely shredded. Now I would be late for sure.

I opened the trunk to get the jack and spare tire. It was full of boxes and when I finally reached the spare tire, I discovered it was nothing more than the “donut” that car manufacturers included with new cars. My frustration growing by the minute, I unpacked it and the jack and went to work. As I tried to maneuver the jack under the car, I realized that where I pulled off the road was uneven and that the right side of the car was resting on a small hill. There was no room for the jack to fit. I tried it under the front bumper, but it was too small and wouldn’t hold sturdily to the car there. 

Thankfully, an old man passing along the road saw the trouble I was having, stopped and offered to help. I rode with him to his home not far away to get a big jack like I’d seen in mechanics’ shops. He told me that was the only way we’d get the car lifted to change the tire.

As we returned to the car, I saw my sister’s green Ford Expedition pulled over near it. She, my mother, and my niece were headed to Dallas for shopping and happened to notice mom’s disabled and abandoned car. As the old man put the toy spare tire on the car, I stood and talked to them. 

My mother tried her hardest to convince me to turn around and go back to her house. She was worried about me driving on the toy spare. I promised I would be careful and that I would go first thing the next morning and get a new tire. I pulled back onto the highway and headed for Dallas. 

As I reached the Stemmons/Highway 183 split, I noticed a small, gold-colored sedan traveling almost parallel with me for some time. Somewhere between the Walnut Hill and Royal Lane exits, the little car swerved and collided with my right front quarter panel. The impact wasn’t that hard, but the little toy spare couldn’t handle its force. I was stranded. 

I stepped out of my car and noticed that another car was stopped just behind mine. A young woman was behind the wheel. I motioned for her to wait and began walking toward her. She was driving a brand new silver Lexus with the dealer tags still on it. I walked up to her passenger window. I leaned in and asked if we could use her phone to call 911. She said we could and handed me the phone. I made the call and reported the accident.

“Do you know where Frankford Road is?” the Good Samaritan asked. I leaned into the window again and began to tell her how to get to Frankford. Then I heard the noise. . . like metal grinding followed by a gunshot. I looked up just in time to see the front end of an eighteen wheeler barreling toward us. Before my brain could process what was happening, the truck slammed into the back of the Lexus. Then, darkness.

photos of two wrecked vehicles On the left, the car I was standing next to. On the right, the truck that hit us.

I felt myself get hit, first from the right and then from the left. Everything moved in slow motion. There was no light and no sound, but I was not unconscious. I was keenly aware of what was happening, but at the same time there was nothing. It’s not true what they say–my life didn’t pass before my eyes–nothing did–it was just dark, and still, and deafeningly quiet. I never lost consciousness. I knew when my body was thrown into the air and I knew when I came crashing to the ground with a thud. 

In just a few seconds my brain assessed that I was still alive–I could feel my heart beating and I could hear myself breathing. I was hurt–badly, and I was still in the middle of the freeway. “Jason, get your ass up before you get hit again!” I don’t know if the voice I heard was my own, my mind, a guardian angel, or some other celestial sentry charged with saving my life. Whoever. . .whatever it was, I trusted it and picked myself up off the pavement.

My glasses were gone, but the rest of my clothing seemed intact: shoes, check; pants, check; belt, check; shirt, check. But, something was not right. I only felt one arm. I looked down at my left side. The arm was there, but I could not feel it attached to my body anywhere. I began to panic, thinking that the only thing holding my arm off the ground was my shirt sleeve. I heard myself scream in terror, “NO!” Almost simultaneously I realized the fingers on my left hand were moving. I couldn’t feel them moving, but I saw them moving. Left arm, check.

Traffic was completely stopped. I walked toward the right shoulder where I could see the back of the truck peeking over the ledge of the deep ditch between the freeway and service road. It was burning and people were rushing around from side to side. 

It was then that my head cleared and all of my senses returned. The smell of rubber and diesel burning filled the air and irritated my eyes and the inside of my nose and throat. The entire left side of my body, from shoulder to knee, felt like someone had smacked me as hard as he could with a baseball bat. It was an intense, burning and aching pain. I grabbed my left arm with my right hand and bent it at the elbow. I could feel the bones moving freely under my skin. As I brought my arm to my abdomen, I could hear them moving. It was a nauseating grinding and cracking sound.

“Somebody help me!” I screamed for my life. Until that point I don’t think anyone knew I was there. A man who was standing nearby ran to me. He grabbed my shoulders, and a lightning bolt of pain shot through me. I nearly collapsed, but the man caught me and sat me down on the pavement and leaned my back against the metal guardrail.

“Where are you hurt?” he asked calmly.

“I think my arm is broken,” I said, now writhing in excruciating pain. “No, I know it is, but what about my pupils? Are my pupils dilated?” I don’t know why I asked about my pupils, but I asked at least three times before the man assured me that my pupils looked fine. 

Before long, paramedics, firemen, and police officers descended on the scene. As they attended to me, I noticed a familiar voice. I opened my eyes and squinted. Through the strobe of red and blue lights and the smoke from the truck, now completely engulfed in flames, I was able to make out a familiar face. “Ben Roberts?” I asked. Ben was a friend from high school whose parents were the youth leaders at my church. I had not seen him in over ten years.

After a moment he recognized me, too. “Jason Walker?” He asked. “What are you doing here?”

I grabbed his hand and squeezed as tightly as I could. “Don’t let me die, Ben. Please.” I began to cry—the first tears I’d shed during the entire time. Ben assured me I was not going to die, but was honest and told me that I had significant injuries and that they needed to get me to the hospital quickly. I asked him to ride with me in the ambulance and he agreed.

It was surprisingly quiet and calm on the ride to the emergency room. Ben asked me to tell him exactly what happened. I told him the whole story: the first of about ten repetitions of it that night. Then, I took Ben’s hand again and asked him to pray with me. He agreed and proceeded to ask God to protect and heal me, and to give me peace and comfort. I did begin to feel peace—finally, peace. When he finished, I asked him to call my mother and tell her what happened. He reached her on her cell phone and told her where she would need to meet us. I could hear her crying on the other end of the call and Ben assured her that everything would be alright.

We finally arrived at the Parkland Memorial Hospital Emergency Room. Ben and the other paramedic wheeled me in on the stretcher and we were met almost immediately by a nurse who jotted down the vital signs Ben gave her. After they transferred me to a hospital gurney, Ben told me that he had to leave, but that my mom should be there soon and that he would check in with me the next day. I thanked him again and closed my eyes as he walked away.

There were what seemed like hundreds of people milling about in the hallway, and from time to time I would hear blood-curdling screams coming from down the hall. Since the accident happened, time had stopped. My watch was gone and I couldn’t see a clock. I had no concept of how long I laid there on that gurney in the hallway waiting. Waiting for someone to help me; to give me something for the horrific pain I was in; to tell me I could go home and get me out of that hellish place. 

Home. Five days later I was on my way, but not to my home. I was being released from the hospital and was headed to my mother’s home. I couldn’t take care of myself at all. On December 30th, the day I left the hospital, my left arm was still tightly wrapped in bandages. A drain tube and bag still collected the blood and puss which constantly oozed from the wound. I couldn’t take a shower or bath. I couldn’t dress myself. I could eat, but only if it was something which could be easily manipulated with my right hand alone. I was helpless, and if it hadn’t been for the wretched physical pain I was in, I would have felt that way. I had a fabulous apartment full of nice things which I’d worked hard to get, and something inside of me knew I’d never be back there again.

The first two weeks after I arrived at my mom’s house were spent in bed in various stages of consciousness and alternating between hydrocodone for the pain and Phenergan for the nausea that it caused. During the day, while Mom was at work, my sister would come and stay with me. Every other day for those two weeks, Eric, a friend from high school who still lived in town, came to help me get cleaned up. The entire situation was demoralizing and humiliating. I was ready to get out of bed, get moving, and get back to my life, but that wasn’t going to happen for months.

At the end of January, my doctor, who I had been seeing once a week since I left the hospital, released me to begin physical and occupational therapy. In the beginning I went three days a week. It was the hardest work I’d ever done. Even the simplest tasks wracked my body. My therapist began each session by having me lie on the floor. I held on to one end of a Theraband, and she held the other while I stretched my left arm as far across my bod as I could. The goal was to touch my right shoulder with my left hand—it took almost three weeks before I could do it. Each time I tried my weakened body would tremble, sweat would pour from every pore on my body, I would be as short of breath as if I’d run a marathon, and I cried like a brokenhearted schoolgirl. 

During those days, victories were small, and they were few and far between. Tying my shoes, spreading peanut butter on bread, combing my hair, and shaving were cause for celebration. But, there were many days when victory was nowhere to be found. After one particularly difficult session, I called my mom at work. “Mom,” I said, sobbing, “why didn’t you just tell them to cut my arm off.” I was sitting in the floor of the bathroom where I’d collapsed trying to get into a hot shower, the only thing that seemed to help my arm. The physical anguish was bad enough, but nothing compared to the unbearable sadness I felt the day I sat in my mother’s living room and watched most of the things I owned being sold to complete strangers for pennies on the dollar. There was no victory in that.

My adult life up to the point of my accident had been largely directionless. I played around at college for almost ten years before giving up and going to work full time. I had a good job, but not a career, and certainly not what I felt was my true calling. During the nearly nine months I was recovering, I had a lot of time to think, to reevaluate my life, and to consider my options. In an odd way, the same accident which turned my world upside down had also cleared my head about life. I finally had an appreciation for what I’d heard people say all my life—it’s too short to waste a minute. 

I was released to go back to work in early September of 2004, and I secured a job at Southern Methodist University that November. I was responsible for the operation of the Information Commons in the Hammon Arts Library. It was a dramatic cut in pay and responsibility from the job I had before my accident, but every day I was surrounded by people who valued education and hard work, including my boss, the library director. He knew my story and knew my goals. In November of 2006, after two successful and empowering years, I sat in his office and tearfully handed him my letter of resignation. I had finally saved the necessary money and was headed back to school full time. I was scared to death about what his reaction might be.

“Jason, I think this is wonderful, and I’m so happy for you,” he said with an enormous smile on his face. Not only was he gracious and encouraging, as usual, he gave me the biggest surprise of my life when about a month later, just before Christmas, a package arrived for me. It was a brand new computer with the latest software installed. It was from him. There was a note inside which read, “You are greater than your past. Love always, Tim.” I was overwhelmed.

Many things about the accident and the two years which followed it overwhelmed me. The worst thing that ever happened to me turned out to also be the best thing. Coming literally within inches of losing my life saved my life. Working to regain the ability to use my arm for the most menial tasks taught me that those things are not to be taken for granted. And, the day I walked across the stage at Texas Tech University, all of the pain and all of the heartache seemed somehow worth it.

In the end, surviving was the hard part. But, I could, I did, and everything in the world was better because of it.

 

My Hometown Series #10–The Little Library That Could

About three or four days after my family moved from Irving to Grand Saline, my great-great aunt loaded me and my sister up in her 1960-something mustard-colored Ford Fairlane and took us downtown to the Grand Saline Public Library to get library cards and check out some books to read. By late June, when we moved, there wasn’t a lot for kids to do in Grand Saline, especially new kids who didn’t know anyone yet. Summer baseball was already well underway, or maybe even over by then, and it was still a couple of weeks before we’d attend Vacation Bible School at the First Baptist Church. So, having been a teacher for over 50 years, she thought it was a good idea for us to get books so that we’d have something constructive to do. That was just fine with me. I loved to read, and I loved going to the library when we lived in Irving.

I’ll never forget my first sight of the little depot library. It looked so small. I was used to the Irving Public Library, a large, sprawling brick building with a huge circulation desk in the middle where three ladies sat checking in and out books, and many rooms full of books, magazines, microfilm readers, tape players, and even televisions. This little library in my new hometown was something quite different. As we walked in the front door, there was a small wooden desk just to the left where just one lady sat with a stack of books next to her on a cart. She smiled and greeted us as we walked in. My aunt, who greeted her by name, introduced me and my sister and told her we had just moved to Grand Saline, and that we needed library cards. The librarian carefully filled them out by hand—she didn’t have a typewriter like the ladies in Irving did, and placed them in a small box on her desk. We didn’t get copies—she would write on them whenever we came in. After the administrative work was done, we were off to find books.

There are so many memories of that day that I still carry with me—the way the floor creaked when I stepped in certain places, just like the one in W&W Dept. Store; the smell in the air of all of those wonderful books in such a small room; the almost churchlike silence—at least until the trains came by. I don’t know how long we were there that first day, but I do remember that while we were there, two trains came roaring past, literally shaking the floor. I was startled by the first one, and asked my aunt what the noise was. That’s when she told me the story that the library started out as a train depot where trains would stop to drop off and pick up cargo and passengers. I was fascinated, and when the second one came past, I made sure to run to the front door and look out to watch it. After a while, we gathered up our books and took them to the lady at the tiny desk. She carefully filled out our cards and stamped the books. My aunt thanked her and she told us that she hoped we’d be back soon. We were—many times.

There were numerous visits to the little depot library during the first few summers we lived in Grand Saline. There were many books checked out, and even an audio tape or two after I received a tape player and recorder for Christmas one year. Once I entered high school and started focusing on music more, I didn’t go as often, but would still visit once in a while to check out a book or two. For me, knowing the library was there always meant there would be something to do, somewhere to “go,” and some new characters to meet in the pages of books. I’m sure there are many more who felt the same way, and many who still do.

Over the years, that little depot library has become so much more than just a place to check out books. By the time I was in middle school, the back rooms had been renovated and opened to the public for events. I attended at least two dances there. We celebrated my great-aunt’s 90th birthday there, as well. And, later, my high school graduation party was there, as well as my sister’s wedding reception. It was also the location of the first wedding I ever played piano for. Now days that room is used for a wide variety of family, organizational, and community events. Especially noteworthy are the number of activities for local kids which the library sponsors there each summer. The library is an active and vibrant place to be.

But, it’s not only the many fun activities for local kids (and adults) that make the Grand Saline Public Library such an enormously important part of the community. For many folks in the surrounding areas, it is, quite literally, their access to the world. Computers with high speed internet service offer the ability for many of our neighbors who do not have internet access in their homes to conduct business, search for employment, or communicate with friends and loved ones far away whom they might otherwise lose touch with. Public Wi-Fi access allows for work to be done even if all of the computers are in use. The library also offers a number of other resources to members of the community who are in need.

Recently, on the occasion of the 50th anniversary of the Grand Saline Public Library, I shared a picture of Governor Abbott’s proclamation with a good friend who has been both a university librarian, and director of libraries for a large private school in Dallas. He was simply amazed that a town the size of Grand Saline still has a public library that is so active after so many years. He told me that in a day when so many towns and even large cities are shuttering their libraries due to lack of funding, the fact that ours is still open is truly remarkable. He said it was a credit to the librarian and the volunteers who have worked so hard to make that possible.

I can’t imagine my childhood without the library. It would certainly have been very different and most likely not nearly as fun. I’m happy to know that kids today get the same opportunity to experience it that I did so many years ago. But now, due to a series of unfortunate events—a “perfect storm” as one person described it—the little depot library is facing an uncertain future. Some funding that was expected won’t come this year, and that means that paying bills, purchasing books, performing necessary maintenance, and even some summer programs might not be possible. In a worst case scenario, this could leave many of our friends and neighbors without the resources they’ve come to count on from the library. That’s why, as much as this story is about my fond childhood memories of the little depot library, it is also a plea to those of you reading for help. Over the years, Grand Saline has faced many hardships and hard times, but each time pronouncements came that the town was “dead” or “dying,” folks stepped up and stepped in to make good things happen; to be sure that she just keeps chugging along like those trains that fly past the library every day.

When I was a very little boy, I had a copy of the book The Little Engine That Could, by Watty Piper. I’m sure you remember the story. A little train carrying a heavy load was faced with the daunting task of pulling that load up a steep hill. As folks looked on, doubtful that the train would make it, the little engine just kept saying to himself, “I think I can. I think I can.” Eventually, to the cheers of everyone watching, the engine topped the hill and sailed down the other side, exclaiming, “I knew I could. I knew I could.” Our little depot library is a lot like that little engine in the book. It has a steep hill to climb and a heavy load to carry. But, I’m confident that in the capable hands of our librarian, Kelly Bryant, and the many volunteers and Friends of the Library; and with the help of our generous and determined community, that little depot library will make the trip just fine.

A Go Fund Me account has been set up to take donations for the library during this important time. It can be found by searching “Grand Saline Public Library” at www.gofundme.com. If you don’t have access to make the donation online, I’m sure that an in person donation would be more than happily accepted. Please carefully consider making a donation to help get it up and over that steep hill.

Let’s not let this opportunity pass to save one of the most important resources we have. The loss of a library is a terrible thing, but together we can keep that from happening in Grand Saline. I KNOW we can!

**This piece was first published in the March 29, 2017 edition of the Grand Saline Sun.

My Hometown Series #7 — A New Year’s Midnight Parade

Almost every known culture celebrates the turning of the new year. They don’t all celebrate it in the same way, or even at the same time of the year, but at some point during our perpetual 365 1/4 day trip around the sun, billions of people mark its completion and the beginning of the next. New Years celebrations are full of happiness and hope, and offer a metaphorical, and sometimes literal opportunity to wipe the slate clean, start over, and resolve to do this year what we were unable to accomplish in the last. From Sydney Harbor in Australia to Times Square in New York City, those resolutions are made under fireworks, crystal balls, and to the tune of the Scottish poem, “Auld Lang Syne.” Growing up, I was always allowed to stay up until midnight to “watch the ball drop” and toast the new year with a drink of sparkling grape juice before I was shuffled off to bed. At midnight on January 1, 1981, standing on my great grandmother’s front porch, I was introduced to a new and uniquely local tradition–the New Year’s midnight parade in Grand Saline.

We had just moved to and spent our first Christmas in town. I was still missing the friends I’d left behind in Irving. Before, there always seemed to be something going on at our house or atsydney someone else’s house on New Year’s Eve with other kids around. That first year in Grand Saline, it was just us. At the stroke of midnight, just as the local stations broadcast the Times Square ball drop our time, the “fire alarm” (as my grandmother called it) downtown sounded one long alarm and in the air beyond it, I could hear the sirens of every emergency vehicle in town tune up and join in. If my mom hadn’t told me what was going on, I would have been convinced that something terrible was happening. As the fire alarm wound down and went silent, I could hear what sounded like hundreds of car horns alongside the sirens. We lived about a mile from downtown, so as the parade headed east down Highway 80 and up Highway 17 to Bradburn Road, the sound, now far away in the darkness, seemed almost as if it were part of a dream. Soon, however, the long line of New Year’s revelers following fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars made their way back to High Street and headed toward our house. I was disappointed when they turned on Houston Street before they passed by, but my grandmother told me it was because they couldn’t get that close to the hospital “making all that racket.” Who knows if that was the actual reason, but it sounded legitimate. Before long, the last of the cars had turned, and once again, the sounds of the New Year grew further away. I went back inside, toasted with grape juice, and headed off to bed having just experienced my first New Year’s parade in my new hometown.

 

I’ve asked a number of people how the tradition got started and how long it has been going on. No one I asked seemed to know, although I’m sure there is someone around who does. Regardless of its origins or age, the Grand Saline New Year’s Parade is one of those wonderfully quirky traditions that so many towns and cities across the country New Year's Celebration, Times Square, New York City.still practice. I don’t remember how old I was when I first participated in the parade, but I do remember loading up in my mom’s car with a friend, driving downtown and waiting in a long line next to the train tracks. We anxiously looked at the clock on the dashboard, which apparently was about three minutes ahead. At precisely 12:03 (according to that clock), the fire alarm sounded, the sirens wailed, and all of those horns began honking. Being in the parade added a new layer of sound–the shouts of “Happy New Year” from inside all of those cars. As we wound slowly through the streets of Grand Saline, we passed house after house with lights still on and folks out on their front porches, in their driveways, and standing curbside returning our New Year’s wishes with enthusiasm. There were even a few employees and residents waiting outside Anderson’s Care Home as we passed.

As I got older, I opted to ride or drive in the parade with friends. One year, the 1984 Chevy Celebrity that I drove in high school was loaded down with six passengers. Another offered the chance to ride in the bed of a pick-up truck, freezing with several other friends. As naturally cynical teenagers, we spent more time making good-natured fun of people standing outside in the freezing weather at midnight waving at car loads of high school students passing by. But, it was all in fun, and we did have plenty of that. In 1989, a dense fog had descended on Grand Saline, and the parade route got cut short. But, I was riding with friends who were somehow uninformed of the change. It didn’t take long to figure out that we had been separated from the main group and we never managed to find them. So, we drove around town honking and screaming solo–I’m sure residents appreciated our efforts. Two years later, I was the youth director at the Methodist Church, and had a New Year’s Eve lock-in for the youth group. At 11:30, we loaded the church van and drove downtown to take part in the parade. I had no idea until we were followed back to the church by the person in the car behind us that a couple of the kids had smuggled Roman Candles on board and were shooting them out the back windows of the bus during the parade. Of course, I played the part of the responsible adult and gave the kids a good dressing down, but secretly I wished I had thought of it myself!

There are, no doubt, countless stories that could be told by the countless people who have participated in the parade over the years–stories of good times with good friends celebrating the new year in our own special way. It’s been well over ten years since I’ve participated in the parade, but during the time that I still lived in town, hearing those sirens wail at midnight brought a smile to my face and, somehow, made me feel “at home.” Let’s be honest, it’s a kind of goofy The "crystal ball" in Times Square.tradition. Over the years, when I’ve told people who aren’t from Grand Saline about our little midnight parade through the streets, I’ve gotten reactions which ranged from raised eyebrows to outright belly laughs. The thought of multiple emergency vehicles and dozens of private cars creeping along the streets at midnight honking, screaming, and causing a genuine ruckus, is fairly humorous. But, it’s part of the charm of growing up in and being from a small town in East Texas. It’s part of what makes our little hometown feel like home. It’s part of what makes us who we are.

Even though I won’t be there to be a part of it, I know that tonight, at the stroke of midnight, Grand Saline will wake up to 2017 and the hope that comes with the new year. Holding on to traditions like our midnight parade provides us with a touchstone, a landmark to return to when times get tough and when we’ve somehow lost our way. They help us mark the occasion of a chance to pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and start all over again–doing away with the old; taking on the new. With a little luck, and an ample serving of Providence, this new year will be at least a little better than the last and will be filled with health, happiness, and prosperity. May that be what 2017 brings to you and to your family and friends, no matter how far from home you may be.