Have You Accepted Jason Isbell Into Your Life?

It’s a part of Shawntel lore that playing Jason Isbell’s music was the only consistent thing that lowered her heart rate to a less worrisome level while she was hospitalized and largely comatose for while in 2013.  Her friends that were there insist it’s true.  That’s a less concise way of saying that she liked Jason Isbell.  If I remember correctly, she was first a fan of Drive-by Truckers, of which Isbell had been a member in his early twenties.  Her good friend and music snob – but in a good way – Jason (no relation) introduced her to their music.

She’d had fairly predictable musical tastes for her age and location – a lot of Bon Jovi, that one Live CD that everyone of a certain age owned, the Les Miserable soundtrack – but, by the time I met her, Jason Isbell was firmly at the top of her list of musical favorites.  It’s easy to discern why, as anyone can listen to a sampling of his songs and feel a connection to certain lyrics, such is the relatability of his writing.  Sure, sure, he has a song that’s literally about a woman terminally ill with cancer – and it it’s almost certainly one of the greatest sad songs ever written – but that wasn’t among the favorites, perhaps understandably.  It’s a good reminder, though, that he has something for just about everyone. 

Before meeting her, I was adamantly in that “almost anything except country” music fandom group.  I’m largely still there, if the definition of country music is what’s on most radio stations.  Sure, I’d do the, “I’m cool enough to listen to Johnny Cash” thing, but any other hint of a drawl meant a quick station change. 

                                                               And now, this is in my kitchen.

For clarification’s sake, Isbell, the Truckers, John Prine, Amanda Shires, The Highwomen, etc., are often classified as Americana, or, in the Truckers' case, just outright Southern rock, so that’s an easy opt-out for saying I still don’t like country music.  (Of course, most “country music fans” who might hear his accent and get all patriotic over half of ‘Dress Blues’ probably hate many of his other songs if they actually listen to the lyrics.  Or if they go to his shows, but then stage hilarious concession stand walkouts over certain songs without understanding that all of his songs are, to them, progressive.  The same could probably be said for any of those names I listed at the start of this paragraph, actually, uppity smart Southerners that they are.  

In the six-plus years we were together, we probably saw about two dozen Isbell shows, and it definitely would’ve been more if not for the pandemic and her health.  Seeing a few acoustic shows along the way, we’d decided we preferred the full band experience, both for sound and performance reasons, and she just liked all the members of the 400 Unit.  While she always wanted Amanda Shires to be on hand whenever we saw Isbell and the 400 Unit, she didn’t mind when Shires was off on tour with her own band, as that meant we’d have a chance to go see them, too, if they came nearby, which they did twice.  (I think there was a third opportunity to see them, but Shawntel might’ve been too sick for that one, if I’m remembering right.)  She wasn’t the type to take many pictures or videos at a concert, preferring to, you know, be at the concert, but she did get a shot of bassist Jimbo Hart that she thought was especially pretty in the stage lights.  She submitted that as a photography entry to the Boone County Fair.  

                                                                    Heh, it's Jimbo Art!

Regarding Isbell’s former band, we had tickets to two of the three Drive-by Truckers homecoming shows in 2020, just a couple of weeks before her birthday, but disappointingly had to cancel because she just wasn’t well enough to go.  The pandemic shut down music and all other in-person entertainment shortly thereafter.  The Truckers are also a great show, by the way, and must-see when the chance presents, but they didn’t tour as often or as near to us as Isbell had in recent years.  (At least one of said Truckers has been known to be graciously interactive on Shawntel's Facebook page from time to time - including since her passing - as well as in person while actively doing the rock star thing, which is a difficult balancing act with so much going on during a show.  Speaking of which, here's their current tour.)

One of my favorite developments resulting from her musical fandom came in 2016, when Isbell did back-to-back nights at the Taft Theater.  His opener both nights was Frank Turner and the Sleeping Souls.  We’d never heard of them, as is often the case with openers.  A Brit, Turner had made his name on the UK punk scene, and had seemingly transitioned more to a folk/rock sound in recent years.  I immediately loved them.  While they weren’t really in her musical wheelhouse, she liked them well enough, but they weren’t her favorites.  That made it a tad annoying that, after I had to leave the second night’s show during the encore to go to work, she was the one who met Turner hanging out in the lobby.  It seems he’s known for his accessibility and fan friendliness.

Just a year or so later, I woke up from a nap to her asking if I'd heard ‘1933’, the first released track from Turner’s new album, ‘Be More Kind’.  She'd already listened to it, and they, too, were among her favorites from then on.  We both agreed that their Bogart’s show later that year was among the best we’ve seen, and one of the openers, Bad Cop, Bad Cop, inspired a club photographer in a T-Rex costume to start up a mosh pit.  Turner closed the night by singing on a wireless mic while crowd surfing literally across the entire audience for the duration of his last song.  “I touched his butt,” was Shawntel’s contribution to getting him back towards the stage.

The last shows she attended were Isbell’s yearly Nashville run at the Ryman Theater in October of 2019.  If I recall correctly, we saw two or three of those shows that year.  (He spends over a week there, doing as many as eight shows over that stretch.)  Those October shows had become a tradition, as she’d get tickets for multiple nights, and we could stop in Bowling Green, KY, on the way to and/or from Nashville, to hit up her old favorites like Mariah's restaurant, to get – at the very least – a dozen of their rolls and all of the cinnamon butter she could carry. 

Among Isbell’s most beloved songs is ‘Cover Me Up’, which he wrote for his wife, who's the same Amanda Shires mentioned a few times towards the beginning of this post.  It’s kind of his ‘Nothing Else Matters’, in that it wouldn’t be shocking to hear shouts of, “This was our wedding song!,” except that doesn’t happen too often, since everyone knows it was written about a specific person, with context clues everywhere that make it a little less universally transferrable.  While Shawntel agreed with me in preferring ‘Traveling Alone’ if we were ever to decide on an “our song” from the Isbell oeuvre, ‘Cover Me Up’ still provided the most impactful snippet, in its second verse.  During every show, at that point in the song, she’d turn to look at me, smiling as she sang along with, “But home was a dream, one that I'd never seen 'til you came along.”  Every.  Single.  Time. 

                                    She'd planned to one day make cleaner versions, but I'm keeping these.

That’s the song I don’t listen to now.  Or, at least, I haven't.  I’ve since heard ‘Elephant’, the aforementioned cancer song with no problem.  Mostly no problem, anyway.  I’ve also been able to listen to her favorite Isbell song of his recent concert rotation, ‘If We Were Vampires’, even though we had specifically talked about these lines: 

“I'll…give you every second I can find
And hope it isn't me who's left behind
It's knowing that this can't go on forever
Likely one of us will have to spend some days alone
Maybe we'll get forty years together
But one day I'll be gone
Or one day you'll be gone”

Of course, we did not get forty years together.  She only got forty years, period.  We’d talked about those lines specifically because, once, while the song was playing, she said something about feeling bad that she wouldn’t be the one “left behind”.  I told her I found it odd that she thought I was the one getting the short shrift.  “I’ll just be gone,” she declared matter-of-factly.  “I won’t have to deal with losing someone.”  Who says that?  Shawntel Ensminger, that’s who.

See?  Isbell’s got lyrics for literally every occasion!  (Are you Ryan Adams?  There’s even a song about you!)    

I mentioned Les Mis up there earlier, and it was her favorite musical.  In February of 2020, Les Miz was at the Aronoff.  Since that’s her birth month, there was pretty much no way she wasn’t going, even though that wasn't long after she'd started the immunotherapy treatments.  In fact, she had a treatment scheduled on the day that we had tickets.  That kind of thing can happen when you buy tickets well in advance – say, for an Xmas present – and you don’t exactly reschedule a hopefully-lifesaving treatment regimen for, well, anything.  The issue wasn’t the treatment itself, as the effects of immunotherapy aren’t really immediate.  However, to stave off a reaction, they’d give her Benadryl first.  As you might expect, Benadryl tended to knock her out for a while, so she asked to skip that in order to be alert for the show.  Given that she’d had no sign of a dangerous reaction to the first treatment a few weeks before, the doctor was okay with that. 

Later that evening, everything went just fine.  At first.  During the final third of the show, though, she began feeling extremely warm, and her skin became noticeably flushed.  She was alert, though, and the show was predictably top notch, so we stayed.  She especially liked the actress playing her favorite role, Fantine, and she loved their rendition of her favorite song, ‘One Day More’.  Ultimately, she was able to tough it out, as she so often did, though she scurried out of there as quickly as she could the second the show ended.  She did not decline the Benadryl before her other treatments.  (Incidentally, one of my favorite people, Ed, is a longtime Cincinnati community theatre institution.  During the time we were together, Shawntel never had an opportunity to meet him.  This year, though, he was involved in a local production of Les Mis that he thought very highly of.  It opened on her birthday.  That would’ve been perfect.)

Had we gotten married – and, with Brynn in college and Shawntel’s health increasingly in question, we’d begun more seriously considering it, during a pandemic, naturally – we’d half joked that this onefrom ‘Galavant’ would be our wedding song, and I think she would’ve actually gone along with it.  She did love that show, and me, and had long resigned herself to my mantra of always going for the laugh. 

Ultimately, though, I doubt I would’ve insisted on that.  Even I'd like some things to be sacred, and I’d had yet another Isbell song in mind, the sneakily underrated ‘Flagship’

"You gotta try to keep yourself naïve

In spite of all the evidence believed

And volunteer to lose touch with the world

And focus on one solitary girl

Baby, let's not live to see it fade

I'll cancel all the plans I've ever made

I'll drive and you can ride in the back seat

And we'll call ourselves the flagship of the fleet"

The basic point of all of this is that Shawntel really liked Jason Isbell’s music, and Isbell’s music is especially hard to listen to following her death.  I mean, look at those lyrics right up there.  “…let’s not live to see it fade.”  We didn’t.  Mission accomplished, but…damn, Jason, you really make it hard to listen to your stuff during times like these.  Or, for some people, ever.   

When he resumed touring after the pandemic’s letup (or whatever you want to call how society’s decided to act), I was asked if I was going to go see him.  “Hell no,” was my reply, I believe.  I’ve only ever been to Isbell shows with Shawntel, and I’m not sure I can go without her, especially, as established, given the nature of his songs.  Even the most recent Shoalsfest, featuring Isbell (and the 400 Unit), Shires, and Drive-by Truckers – a dream lineup, as she’d been optimistically wondering whether Isbell and the Truckers might ever tour together again – just seemed like a bad idea to attend.  Much too soon, at least.  

Maybe, though.  I don't know.  I did notice Isbell and the Truckers played ‘The Day John Henry Died’ at the aforementioned Shoalsfest '21.  After ‘Goddamn Lonely Love’ started making live appearances again a few years back, ‘John Henry’ was the song she’d most wanted to hear, though she’d figured it was extremely unlikely given its rarity since his ‘Truckers’ days.  (Given that, it makes sense that they'd play it if/when they're together again.)  She'd find it highly predictable - and hilariously infuriating - that the song reappeared among the first(ish) grouping of live shows after she'd died.

I realize that this is probably the blog version of a sitcom-style "clip show", and that, in the words of John Cusak's 'High Fidelity' character, "...you're using someone else's poetry to express how you feel.  This is a very delicate thing."  Considering that I'm not great at that, it seems fitting to stand behind others who're able to do it better.  The next post will probably be the "lightest" of these, if you plan to keep reading, and probably no links to music.  

Addendum:  Brynn proofreads and otherwise edits these before they're posted.  Here's what she wrote at the end of the above:  "When ya'll got married, I was gonna try to convince Jason to come make a surprise appearance at the wedding and play 'Vampires'.  One of the many reasons why I was tryna rush ur asses up!"  

Where the Heart (and Occasional Wild Fox) Is

To say that things progressed relatively quickly between us is probably true, though it never felt like we were rushing anything.  We first met on August 27, we closed on our house less than a year later, on July 6, and it all felt perfectly reasonable.  (At this point, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that at least a few of you reading likely contributed to us getting the house in question.  Hopefully, beyond the many expressions of gratitude made at the time, the following account will better convey exactly what it all meant to her.  Please keep that in mind while reading what follows.)

I don’t remember when, exactly, we decided to start looking for a house together, but I remember why.  While it’s probably obvious why any couple would look for a home to share, we had primarily practical reasons.  I was working two jobs at the time, looking to pay off as many bills as possible before starting nursing school, while taking one or two pre-reqs per semester.  She also worked, had Brynn’s care, feeding, and extracurriculars to juggle, and, of course, more doctors’ appointments than the average person.  Then, once nursing school began I’d have a full-time class and clinicals schedule to go with the one full-time job I’d keep.  Basically, if we wanted to see each other at all, we’d kind of have to live together.  So, we decided we would, and that was pretty much that.  (Also, her apartment was pretty small, with Brynn’s room not much bigger than some walk-in closets I’ve seen.)

While I did already have a house, it wasn’t in the best school district, which mattered far more with Teen Brynn on hand than it did when it was just me living there.  If it weren’t frustrating, it would’ve been funny just how hard the district line had to veer to seemingly intentionally exclude basically just my street from a much better school district, all gerrymandering-like.  With her mom’s illness-necessitated relocations, Brynn had bounced from schools in Florida to Kentucky and back a few times.  With some stability finally within reach, Shawntel wanted her to be able to stay at Beachwood until she graduated.  So, to the Fort Mitchell housing market we looked!  

And looked.  And looked.  By now, everyone knows how miserable it is to look for a house.  A hyper competitive market, starting the bid at or well above the already-inflated asking price, and a promising house going ‘Pending’ an hour after you see the listing, before you’ve had a chance to even schedule a viewing.  That’s the norm now, but, hipster-like, I guess, that was Fort Mitchell in 2015.  Or always, probably.  That relatively small area having its own Benz dealership should’ve been a tip-off.  

In a nutshell, looking for a house in Fort Mitchell sucked.  We managed to set foot inside one place that we could kind of afford, and that was a two-bedroom, one-bathroom house that, honestly, just wasn’t big enough.  Or even close to big enough.  Not that we didn’t make a serious run at talking ourselves into it, ‘cause we did.  We really did.  Ultimately, though, paying more than we wanted for a place that wasn’t big enough just didn’t seem smart, Beechwood be damned.  The only other place we viewed - a townhouse, and it, for a little while, it seemed like we might actually end up there - turned out to have aluminum wiring that needed to be replaced, and a price tag that didn't reflect that. Ultimately, it was another place we were trying to talk ourselves into.

Throughout our search, I’d occasionally send her houses from outside Fort Mitchell.  Most of those emails she never opened, because, well, they weren’t in Fort Mitchell.  I was largely keeping an eye on longshot eastern Cincinnati areas like Mariemont or Madeira, where we also probably couldn’t afford anything.  I liked the idea of being close to the bike trail, and the school districts were just as good as Beechwood.  (Frickin’ snooty Eastsiders.)  One that she did open, though, was on the west side.  Less than a mile from the house I already owned, but in the Oak Hills school district, and just listed that day.  At a glance, Shawntel really liked the house.  Enough so that she showed the listing to Brynn.  Brynn saw a pool, therefore, Brynn loved the house.  It had a dishwasher, too, which her apartment did not.  That was at least as important to Brynn as the pool.  Also, it turned out that Brynn really wasn’t really enthralled by the idea of staying at Beechwood for five more years.  

Through Shawntel’s high school friend, realtor extraordinaire, Sara Foltz, we set up a viewing.  We went, we saw, and we still loved it.  If I remember right, that was on a Thursday, and an open house was scheduled for that Sunday.  Sara gave us a heads-up that the house was getting serious interest, and that we should make our first offer our best offer, and to do it rightnow, as it probably wouldn’t last until the open house.  

So, we did.  We made our best offer – close to, but still below the asking price; ah, those were the days, weren’t they? – and, as we were driving to Louisville to pick up a boxer then-named Romeo whose family had literally voted him out, Sara called to say that our offer had been accepted.  We got our house and our beloved pooch, Romie, on the same day.

Pictured:  not that car trip, but a reasonable approximation. 

Of course, we didn’t get the house that day.  No, that took about seven more weeks, and was easily the most enraging closing process I’d been through.  The first two places I bought – plus one refinancing – had all gone smoothly, with nary a headache.  This one, though?  The less said the better.  Anywho…

Despite wanting to rage-quit the process many times, we ultimately jumped through every hoop and ended up with the house we wanted.  More importantly, it was the house that she wanted.  Shawntel really did love the place, and right from the start.  Sure, she was only initially open to the idea because Brynn wanted it, but with that approval in hand, she was free and clear to just love the place for herself.  In hindsight, I think a big part of that was that, after getting sick, she’d probably figured that she’d never own her own home.  She’d had dorm rooms or apartments since leaving for college, and was living in an apartment while in grad school when she was diagnosed.  Once she got to the point in her treatment where she could no longer work, she and Brynn had to move in with her mother, and, on separate occasions, two different friends.  Considering that she’d only recently been cleared to work part-time – and her strength and health really didn’t permit much more than that – I’m sure buying a house was the furthest possibility from her mind.  Hell, she’d only found an affordable apartment in Fort Mitchell, small as it was, due to an extraordinarily unlikely chain of acquaintances and happenstance.  

Yet, as of July 6, 2015, she was taking the keys to her own house, and one that she loved rather than just one we could afford.  Built in 1910, it had its warts, sure, but that’s also why we could afford it.  The wood comprising the back deck, back fence, and front porch was all aging, and would need replacing sooner than later.  The pool liner had visible holes.  Of the two complete HVAC systems, literally nothing was newer than twenty-two years old.  The driveway needed to be resealed within a couple of months.  Yadda, yadda, yadda.  None of it really mattered then, though, and that never changed.  She loved her house.  

She also loved holidays.  Those of you moderately close to her probably know that.  Over the five-plus years we lived in the house, she liked decorating for Halloween, Xmas, and even Thanksgiving a bit, though it’s more difficult to find decent Thanksgiving decorations.  We hosted a couple of ugly sweater parties, and she had a trophy picked out and on hand for the winner of the next one, whenever COVID and/or her health would've allowed.

 She was going to make a nameplate, too, because, of course, she was.

She had her own yard, and, damn it, she was going to decorate that, too.  So, she did, with a rotating set of lights, inflatables, wicker reindeer, and the like. I hunted and found an out-of-production, fifteen-foot tall inflatable Rudolph that she never got to see.  (Apparently, that Rudolph is a lot easier to find right now.) Her Facebook cover photo is still a set of Misfit Toys that we saw while driving around looking at decorated yards and houses.  When her lymphoma recurred in the fall of 2019, and after the ensuing, disheartening PET scan, I scheduled a contractor to come to the house on a day that she’d be gone.  (At work, I think.)  By the time she got home, our house had permanent Xmas lights, to go along with the string lights and other decorations she still insisted on putting up and/or out. 

The little spiral trees refused to stay up.  That made the reindeer wary.

Being permanent, they were multi-season, any-occasion lights, but that’s not really a term.  So, for Xmas, New Year’s, Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, and any other occasion over the next year-plus for which she felt festive, our house was lit.  Literally, though.  Not whatever The Kids mean when they say that.  If they still say that.  From Thanksgiving through New Year’s, she’d play with the app and schedule each night’s displays, and make new ones for better holiday diversity.  During this year’s Super Bowl, the lights were orange chasing black, which is also what she would’ve done, because she made that sequence in the app, for a random game a year earlier.  It doesn’t just come with a Bengals sequence, you know. 

Then there are the dogs.  Even they are strongly linked to her and her house.  I’ve already mentioned Romie, and he was pretty much my doing.  I grew up with boxers, two of my brothers had boxers, and I’d long wanted another one once I was sure I could properly take care of one.  While I was still working long hours, Shawntel and Brynn were now on hand, so I found Romie.  Shawntel wasn’t really a dog person, but Romie won her over to the extent that we now have two other boxers.  Those last two are mostly her doing.  We had the room and the yard, and the dog in question at the time needed a home.  Those were the two pillars of her opening pitch, with sad/cute pictures soon to follow (or precede).  Ella was living outside in a pen after her owners couldn’t breed her anymore, and Duke was at the pound, looking sickly and scrawny.  Not that she ever stopped looking at and sending other needy pooch pics.

That paragraph was just an excuse to use one of my favorite pics of her, with Ella.  

She made various attempts at gardening, but usually didn’t have the sustained energy and/or health to make anything stick for too long.  We did have homegrown green onions for a little while, and her army of potted rescue succulents were mostly easy enough for her to maintain up until the end.  It was mentioned in her memorial post, but, on the morning of April 7, as we were getting into the car to leave, she did remark on her favorite tree being in bloom.  “Look how pretty the tree is.”  Even leaving for what turned out to be the last time, the house made her happy.

And that’s where she is now, at home.  A natural question to ask following someone’s cremation is what to do with the ashes.  While she’d long made known that she wanted them spread in Red River Gorge at a spot her family had frequented in her youth she hadn’t spoken of that recently, even with her health seemingly irreversibly in decline.  Also, in the nearly seven years we were together, we’d never gone to the Gorge, or even talked about making plans to do so.  Undoubtedly, a key reason for that is that she was simply not able to do the things that you tend to do when visiting the Gorge.  She was taxed by walking on even the slightest incline, so a genuine hike was out of the question, as was swimming.  Even going there wasn’t medically advisable, as she couldn’t even drink well water when in a rural enough building, and her ultimate cause of death was the result of a fungal infection that the rest of us fight off regularly without even knowing we’re doing it.

At first, I felt a bit defensive when answering the aforementioned question by saying that Brynn and I planned to keep Shawntel home.  Sure, part of it was because we didn’t feel ready to part with her ashes by whenever we figured the memorial would take place, and, to be clear, if Brynn had insisted that we take her to the Gorge right away, that’s what we would’ve done.  In time, though, staying put just seemed to make more sense.  Virtually all of her talk about spreading her ashes came before we lived in this house.  As if what I’ve written above wasn’t indication enough, she did explicitly say from time to time, “I love this house,” on various occasions (some of which may or may not have involved watching foxes frolic in the back yard).

Like this one.

Given all of that, I no longer feel defensive in having decided to keep her with us, at least for as long as we’re still in this house.  If and when it’s no longer mine or Brynn’s or either of ours, we can always take her to the Gorge then, to stay.  While she never said as much, there is ample reason to believe that her wishes had changed, rather than my inability to part with her being the reason for going against what she had told her family and closest friends in those first several years after being diagnosed.    (You’d think we’d have made a point to clarify this prior to her passing, but, while she had been declining, it was still surprisingly sudden, and it certainly wasn’t supposed to happen right after a fairly routine medical procedure.)

I’m only now able to begin thinking about what the house should be without her.  Most of her stuff is still here, and mostly where she left it.  Much like becoming less strict in our COVID-precautions following her death felt simultaneously liberating and like a betrayal, it’s difficult to think about what to do with the spaces that were mostly/completely hers, and that was so much of this place.    We’ll figure that out over time, though, and we do have time.  Brynn and I figure to be here for a while, and, as long as we’re here, she’ll be here, too.

Ghost Writing

In another life, under different circumstances, I might be inclined to do a Bond villainesque chair turn, followed by my most gravitas-laden voice saying something to the effect of, “You may be wondering why I’ve gathered you all here.”  Shawntel, of course, would then sigh in faux exasperation, possibly accompanied by an eye roll.  

Hello, everyone who may have been surprised to get an alert for a new blog post. My name is Alan. Before I get started with...whatever this is, I want to make something clear up front, because it might seem odd if noticed while reading these.  Basically, I won’t really be describing Shawntel very much. At least, in the context of what she was like, no matter how overwhelmingly positive.  The main reason for that is something that hit me pretty hard during the leadup to the memorial, and has proven very difficult to shake.  Even at my verbose best – or worst; your choice – nothing I say or write (or think) ever feels like it's good enough.  No string of adjectives, regardless of how obscure or poetic or esoteric or hyperbolic, ever looks or sounds remotely meaningful enough, as if the words themselves just aren’t worthy of the subject they’re describing.  That probably sounds pretty obvious, but try coming up with something that feels like a fitting tribute for someone you love.  Yeah, like wedding vows, except that the person in question is gone, and what you’ve written and/or are saying is meant to stand in as a representation of who that person was and what he or she meant to you.  There’s a reason we pay funeral homes to do stuff like this, and I now have a far greater appreciation for them than I ever did before.  One of Shawntel’s best friends, Katie, put this all in perspective when I was struggling with helping to write the memorial post on her blog:  “None of this is a substitute for her being alive.”    

Sobering, eh?  But appropriately so.  That’s why there won’t be many flowery descriptions.  I can and will describe things she liked, how she’d react to certain things, but it just feels empty to say that she was beautiful, smart, funny, clever, creative, optimistic, hopeful, uplifting, etc., etc., etc.  Those are just words, especially now.  On the other hand, I feel just fine relaying that she hated puns, but only when someone else (i.e., me) made them.  I do it, and she’d roll her eyes and audibly groan.  If she came up with one, though, she’d laugh her ass off for five minutes, and I’m not even exaggerating.  Hell, her Etsy shop was named WellOwlBe.  How hypocritical is that?!

                                                                                              The nerve!

Anyway, what am I doing here?  As many of you undoubtedly know, today is Shawntel’s birthday.  A year ago, she wrote here about turning forty, and what that milestone meant to her.  I've known very few people that have ever been so happy to turn forty.  Then, just six weeks later, she was gone.  It’s difficult to believe that it’s been almost a year since she passed, but that hits in oft contradictory ways.  Primarily, it feels like we’ve been without her for far, far longer than that.  At the same time, though, it can’t possibly have been a year, already.  That day – April 8, for those keeping track at home – seemed to happen in slow motion while also being a careening, confusing blur.  Surreal is the word I’d often use on the rare occasion I’d talk about it, and it still feels like the best way to describe life since then.

None of that answers what I’m doing with this right now.  The answer is something.  Or nothing, really.    I don’t know.  It’s her birthday, and our first one without her.  Less than two months from now, it’ll mark one year since we lost her.  As has so often been true for much of this past year, I don’t know what I’m doing, but I want to talk about her.   So, I will.  Starting today.  I’m not a writer by any stretch, and that probably became apparent a good half dozen or more paragraphs ago.  She was a writer, though. That’s why you’re even reading this right now, after all.  It's her blog! To me, it seems at least somewhat fitting to maybe end her blog on a less abrupt, more complete note than life allowed last spring.   

I’ll probably put something new up every so often – maybe weekly – between now and April 8, and then I plan to repost her memorial as the last blog entry here.  (We’ve fixed the pictures on it so that, if anyone refreshes last year’s or reshares the link, it won’t have that dissonantly odd pic of Brynn making a mock sad face, which was taken years ago as she lamented stolen food.  While Shawntel would’ve found it very funny, it could certainly be a bit jolting to those of us mourning her, so it’s been fixed.  I don’t know why it so stubbornly kept coming up as the default in the first place, but it didn’t let go of that spot without a fight.  That also seems appropriate.)  That would probably also be a good time to change her Facebook page over to archive/memorial mode.   Brevity is not my strength, so I’ll end this here and follow shortly with a post chronicling how we met.  You already know how it ends. I'll revisit how it began.

In terms of significant others, I’ve found that the best time to meet someone is when you really don’t want to.  Or, at a minimum, when you’re not trying.  When you’re just doing your own thing, going about your life, perfectly content with how everything’s shaping up to that point and for the foreseeable future beyond.  That’s the ideal time for someone to come merrily along to muck everything up, the universe decides.  Which is pretty much what happened in the summer of 2014.  

That’s when I got a notification that someone had sent a message to my OKCupid account.  At the time, I’d been paying so little attention that I would’ve bet money that I’d already deactivated that profile.  Clearly, though, I hadn’t, since it was telling me I had a message.  So, I read it.  And then I’d deactivate the profile, I figured.  As implied above, I wasn’t really looking to meet anyone.  I was working two jobs, muddling through the prereqs needed to start nursing school, and barely finding the time to keep the grass mowed to a length deemed acceptable by my neighbor.  I didn’t even have time for a dog, let alone a human with unknown care-and-feeding requirements (and they’re never honest about those up front).  

Still, I read the message.  From eBookworm81.  Perfectly fine, as far as introductions go.  On to her profile, then, the intent to deactivate my account notwithstanding.  Alright, she’s cute enough, clever enough, and she knows how to write, were my superficial impressions.  None of that changed my situation, though.  I still wasn’t looking to meet anyone, and I still doubted I had the time to properly devote to someone else, anyway.  Still, though, I didn’t want to be rude and just not answer.  Besides, how often does something like this actually work out and lead somewhere significant?  It’s a very small percentage, if you do the math.  

At most, I’d send an appropriately superficial, cute, and clever reply, we might banter back and forth for a bit until she found someone better – possibly on that same site – and that’d be that, as these things so often seem to go.  What’d be the harm?  (That it does work out.)  What’s the worst that could happen?  (That she then dies.)  So, I replied.

Then she replied.  And I replied again.  And so on, and so forth.  She remained cute and clever.  Apparently, so did I.  The process of her finding someone better was, presumably, taking longer than I’d expected, so we kept messaging long enough to make plans to meet.  Despite being a Kentuckian – a strike against her, to be sure - she suggested Sitwell’s, a classic go-to first meeting place.  (Their first location, in the basement, was better, though.  I’ll never not insist on that.)  

Once I get to Sitwell’s and settle in, it happened.  Not immediately or all at once, mind you, but eventually, as the realization slowly grew from amusingly fleeting thought to inevitable conclusion, it did happen:  she stood me up.  

And that turned out to be true.  Of course, there was a perfectly good reason.  While I was sitting in Sitwell’s, she was stuck on Martin Luther King, Jr., Blvd during rush hour with a flat tire.  She was waiting on her dad to arrive to change it.  She sent the following pic with her most apologetic face as a gesture of her sincerity. 

                                                                                Who could be mad at that face?

As one does when at Sitwell’s during a time when one expected to be eating, I ordered lunch, and then went home.  That was August 25th.  We obviously did meet for the first time, and that was two days later, on the 27th.  We both showed up that time.  

Of course, the date itself went well.  Even if she’d tried to hide her health issues – which she didn’t – the then-ubiquitous eyedrops made their first appearance within five minutes.  The gist of it, from my memory, was, “Got cancer, now have another person’s immune system, it tries to kill me if we don’t keep a close eye on it, almost died a few times, but I’m now in remission and doing alright these days.” 

After a reasonable first-meeting-in-public-so-this-stranger-can’t-kill-me-without-at-least-being-seen-by-a-lot-of-people length of time, she had to go because her friends were moving her stuff into her new apartment.  While she wasn’t physically able to do much of that moving herself, she felt it rude to not be present.  I think she’d also promised to feed them in one of the standard I’ll-give-you-food-in-exchange-for-manual-labor deals we all make when moving into a new place.  

Upon leaving, we found that she’d gotten a parking ticket because her meter expired, and Clifton cops are on it with that kind of thing.  If that alone weren’t omen enough to never see me again…

She didn't take heed, though, and she never did get around to finding someone better.