Why you shouldn't...get caught.

It was during a recent visit with our family that someone asked if Vince had gotten his hair cut and my gut reaction was to reply with, "No, he got them all cut". And then I laughed at myself. I remember you saying silly things like that all the time, these sayings, of course, came directly from your father, but it was still a moment in my mind that you distinctly stood out to me. The amount of dry sarcasm that literally poured out of your mouth was amazing, at times. The cheesy jokes and smart remarks were endless in our house. But to me, that is what made it so much fun to grow up as us.

Mom recently emailed me a typed 'essay', and I use this term lightly because it was hardly an essay but more like a paragraph, that she had made you write for some sort of punishment at one point. You had apparently received suspension from school for some act of rebellion, the best that we can guess is the time that you slapped someone at school. This is what it looked like:

When Mom sent this to me and I finally read it, I laughed so hard because this is SO you! In every way, shape, and form, this paragraph sums up your hard-headed, stubborn, self-righteous, sarcastic personality.

I started thinking about this 'assignment' of mom's and I quickly remembered a time that I too was made to write about a "transgression" of my own once. So I headed to the basement. After what seemed like hours (really just a few minutes) of scrounging through piles of boxes and dust I was able to locate a stack of papers from my middle school days laying, folded and rubber banded, in the bottom of box. The third one from the bottom was, indeed, the one that I was looking for. Mom made me write it after (one of thousands) of times that I had lied to her, this time I had been caught though. This was in a time before computers were at the finger tips of every kindergartner in America, so unlike you, I had to hand write mine. Mine also had to be 300 words, in which I had to hand count. I am actually surprised my hands are even still capable of working now because of all the things that I had to do by hand back then. Here is mine:

We were just so funny. I am not even sure how our parents survived us.

It seemed like to every comment or story anyone would tell there was another comment from Chelsea. It was like you had a notebook of sarcastic one liners stashed away in your brain somewhere and were ready to pull one out at all times. Whenever eggs were brought into a conversation: "Because they crack me up", when talking to Reagan about spiders: "because they bug me", talking about movie or show that you didn't like: Me: "it wasn't very good last night" You: "as opposed to when it was good? When was that?" I could always count on you for the last word of the conversation or a cheesy joke that I had to listen to your dad tell me since I was two. But it seems that those are the moments I seem to miss the most, right after I say something open ended, as if I am setting you up for the pun, but instead it just hangs in the air, and there is nothing. These are the priceless comments, phrases, and horrible jokes, the sarcasm, dry sense of humor, and especially the self preserving laugh of yours (the one that you actually got tickled with yourself) that I will miss for the rest of my life.

If someone who never met you heard you laugh, they would instantly start laughing as well. You had one of those amazing laughs that starts in the very middle of your body and radiates out to your legs and arms, and then to your face. It would start out deep and get a little higher in pitch and then dissolve into this plateau, almost as if it had wiped out all of your energy. If you got really tickled with yourself you would squint your eyes and hold your stomach. It was infectious and anyone in ear shot couldn't help but smile at your enchanting laughter. It was truly one of your most valuable assets and one that you showed off quite often (mostly at yourself).

#missthatannoyinglaugh

An obsession with pajamas

I spent last week working on the finishing touches on mom's Mother's Day gift and it was during a quiet moment alone in the garage that I found myself thinking, to you specifically, that this gift was definitely going to win me a place as "favorite daughter" with mom. It was another one of those 'A ha!' moments that I had to stop and remind myself that I would no longer get to enjoy our not so friendly competition between us. But I laughed anyway, not at the future lack of competition with you, but at all the memories of how silly we were for even trying to 'win' favorite daughter.  How could either of us be favored in our mother's heart? That is ridiculous, but it didn't keep us from trying regardless.

There was a time last year in which we were standing in my kitchen and we were talking about what to do for mom's gift, perhaps the impending Christmas holiday and the gifts that we planned to get. *Sidebar: Chelsea was too cheap to get anyone gifts for ANY holiday and often rode the coat tails of whichever sibling or relative had the best gift for said person. If she did give you a gift, you would have most definitely called into question where she got it and then quickly checked your own stash of belongings, because that is probably where it came from.* In this conversation we were again arguing over who would be giving mom the best gift and who would become the coveted 'favorite kid'. I remember telling you not to worry because I was pretty sure that you already held that title and had for quite some time. I began laughing when you turned to me and said that mom held me on a pedestal and that I was untouchable with the favored title. I started laughing again but as I turned to see your face, I realized that you truly believed what you were saying. I quickly reassured you that was the most ridiculous thing to say and that mom probably loved us both the same but tended to show better to you, 'her little toy poodle', as I often dubbed you. The argument went from who was the favorite child to who was the more neglected one. I laugh even now thinking how sad we both were in these pathetic moments of self-pity. But it was during this conversation that you told me that you remembered when you were four and we all used to leave you at home alone all the time! HA! I asked what movie that you pulled that load of crap off of and your reply was a classic 'Chelsea' response: "What? It's true, I remember that!" Your non-memories were always so comedic and could always make me laugh. You proceeded to argue that you remembered being alone when you were four years old and that you remembered having to "scrummage" for food or wait until we all came back. I wish I could have had just a little of whatever it was that you were taking, because your delusions were out of this world. *Sidebar: Chelsea was NEVER left alone when she was four....we didn't start doing that until she was at least 5 and half ;)*

I made mom a quilt out of your pajamas for Mother's Day, a project I have had in the works since the week after you died. Mom and I had gone to your room to collect some things that she wanted to take and, in true Chelsea manor, you had clothes spread every where and Girl Scout Cookies in the bed. We started looking through some of the drawers, terrified of what we would find ;), and discovered your amazing collection of pajama bottoms. There must of have been 20 pairs of pajamas in there. I lovingly folded them and took them with me with the idea of a quilt in mind. I was shown a tutorial at work, the week after, providing step by step instructions on how to easily put together a strip quilt. But for whatever reason, I never started the project. I figured Mother's Day was a world away and I haven't been overwhelmed with motivation lately, so I put it off. I only started turning your beloved PJs into shredded fabric about 3 weeks ago, and even then it was a struggled effort that I just couldn't get my heart into. There was even one evening that I had to stop because of the overwhelming wave of emotion that I got when stripped your pajamas into shreds of clothing. I literally stopped mid cut, pulled a chair outside of the garage door, and sat with my face in my hands and sobbed. When Jared approached, terrified of the possibility that my sadness was a result of his actions, I looked up and simply replied, "I hate cutting her clothing up; this means she is gone." But as Mother's day week fell upon the calender, I put aside the emotions and turned it into my mission.

I started thinking about a few months ago when I was getting Reagan ready for a spend the night party, you were hanging around the house, as usual. As I was getting her bag ready, I asked her to pick out some pajamas to take. Being Reagan, she naturally went for the extra large Braves shirt that her dad had given her. She went for her comfort zone. As she was about to stuff the shirt in the overnight bag, you quickly stepped in. As you sat her down on her bed, you, in your most 'caring' voice explained the importance of wearing the 'right pair' of pajamas at sleepovers. You explained that she couldn't bring a yucky tshirt, that she had to bring a 'pretty' pair of PJs. She of course argued for the sake of comfort but eventually gave into your choice of sleepwear of pink 'silk'. Do you know to this day, her favorite thing to wear to sleep in is a chiffon dress that I bought for her to wear to church? I laugh every time I go to tuck her in and that is what she is wearing. I only hope that she remembers that moment when you passed on your sleepover etiquette to her.

After I had finished the quilt and survived Mother's Day, I came home and thought of why it was that I struggled to finish that quilt. I know now it was because of the finality of cutting up items of your wardrobe. By cutting them up, I knew you would never wear them again and that was a confirmation of the events that are still very dreamlike to me. It meant that I would need to be pulled from that state and into one of reality. It confirmed what I already knew but couldn't bring myself to accept; that there would never be another sisterly competition for 'best kid' on Mother's Day.

I wrote mom a letter to go with her quilt, for several reasons, but mainly because there were so many things that I needed to tell her and let her know what amazing person she is to have raised four amazing people, especially you and seeing the amazing impact you have made in so many lives, but mainly because I needed her to remember the 3 hearts that still beat because of her, while there is nothing that I can do to ease her pain, I can only hope to absorb majority of it. That no matter how many days I struggle through and no matter how many painful memories I experience, I will never know the extreme heartache that both of your parents feel every day. I know that whatever amount of pain I feel daily, it is only a small fraction of what they feel.

So instead of a competition, I wrote to mom and told her that any time she feels sad, lonely, confused, angry, hurt, or lost that she could take the quilt, created from pieces of you by my hands, and know that she could wrap the quilt around her and feel both of our love and support wrapping their arms around her.

Screams amongst stars

Guest post by: Dan Kiessling

Children do not come with an instruction manual.  There may be numerous volumes of parenting books, articles, and training classes available but most only are effective until the first ear infection or bout of colic.  Since the loss of Chelsea, I have gone through what I suspect is a sixth stage of grief, one reserved only for those that have lost a child.  A stage that includes not only the grief of the loss of your child but also of a loss of your own identity creates a very self- reflective condition.  It is not just knowing that you will not be introduced as “Chelsea’s Dad” anymore.  It makes you question whether you fulfilled that role to the best of your abilities at all times.  Was I there for her, am I there now for my other children, was I a good provider, protector, role model, a steward of their development?  Those questions will be with me until I join Chelsea, perhaps she can help answer them for me. 

My parenting capabilities were brought to question concerning Chelsea not too long ago and I have reflected upon that particular incident a great deal recently.  It actually started almost twenty years ago shortly after Chelsea was born.  She learned to scream, and learned it well.  She experienced colic as a baby and was rewarded for her screams by having me walk her around most of the night.  I was recovering from some leg problems and needed the physical therapy anyway.   She enjoyed the limp and gimp and would eventually wear herself out screaming and fall asleep with me on the couch.

As she became slightly older she would religiously practice her screaming talents every Sunday morning, usually during the sermon at our Church.  Again, I would take her for longer walks and explore the outer reaches of the building or grounds.  Often we would return with her having recovered and she would dance in the aisles during the rest of the service.  I do not believe this was her criticism of the sermon, more likely the result of having an audience to develop her screaming talent.  While we would get several frowns and stares, most of the congregation became used to our quick exits with a smile and  later a hug and kiss to Chelsea after the service.  She appreciated being the only baby in the congregation at that time.

Then, of course, there was the trip to Disney World and the Haunted Mansion.  She was about three years old then and was still allowing me to carry her around the park.  She evidently felt the ghouls approaching early and started screaming and hanging on with all of her strength from the time we entered fake elevator in the Mansion until we were well out and into Tom Sawyer’s domain.   Over ten minutes of non-stop screaming directly in my left ear. 

The screaming did not diminish with age; in fact she enhanced it and used it as was necessary in her defense.  Older siblings and on occasion, even I, would tease her to the point that would elicit a piercing scream.  Depending on her mood at the time, that point was reached early or later in the process but always put an end to the teasing.  More enhancements came as she studied and practiced music and vocals.  She learned to project her voice, practiced breathing exercises where she could prolong the scream, and found ever higher pitches.  I knew it well. 

The question concerning my care and protection of Chelsea arose during her second trip to Nicaragua.  On this trip other local youth were present along with two other parents and those charged with the overall care of those youth and the group as a whole.  Dylan Schlandt, a dear friend of Chelsea’s and his father, Donnie were in that group along with Scott Kidd and two of his children.  There were probably close to a dozen youth altogether.  They had spent a grueling week of hard labor building homes, and a school in a small village and were looking forward to the next day’s non-work beach day, as were the adults.

As was the routine during the quiet evening time small groups developed scattered around the property enjoying conversations, cervazas, company, or just reading.  Donnie and I became aware of a problem when we were informed that many of the youth were “missing”, including his son, my daughter, and about six others once a count was taken.  Donnie and I continued our relaxation on the curb.  The scene became more hectic with others questioning the remaining youth, instituting search parties, and eliciting assistance from local security guards, and neighbors.  Donnie and I continued to remain near the cooler.  Eventually through extensive interrogation of the remaining youth, it became known that their missing friends had decided to visit the “field”.  Assumptions were made that it was a local ball field, or maybe the local park field.  Groups were dispatched to those areas with no luck in finding those missing. 

Finally, we on the curb were approached and questioned as to why we were not doing anything to hunt for our own children.  Those with us were asked “if your child was missing what would you be doing?’  “Don’t you care that your children are out there in a strange country, possible gangs, etc.?”  With our parenting skills in question, Donnie and I made a short walk around the block, discussed the situation and returned to our spot on the curb.  During that walk I explained to Donnie that I had absolutely no worry about Chelsea’s present well-being.  I knew that I would be able to hear her scream much further than she could walk.  I knew that deep down and without question.  Donnie’s reasoning was similar in that as far as potential gangs were concerned, they, our group of kids were the gang out that night.  The children all returned shortly thereafter from a rice field down the road, safe and sound.  I could have done more that night; I could have joined the intense efforts the others were providing, I could have roamed further, I could have called louder, been more hectic, but I did not.  I only trusted in my knowledge of my daughter and her screaming.  I will not know if I was right or wrong in this instance nor any of the others before or after.  The questions will always remain.

 

I did take Chelsea aside upon her return that night and of course asked “what the hell she was doing?”  She said that they went to the rice field just walking then stopped and looked at the amazing stars.  Stars that are not visible here, the Southern Cross and others that even if the city lights were dimmer cannot be seen from our hemisphere.  Stars and constellations that she may have recognized were now either missing or out of place.  She said that standing in the open rice field peering into heaven under all those bright stars made her feel small and insignificant.  I guess that we all have done that at one time or another and had those same feelings.  I know that now she is safe for I hear no screams and I know that she is neither small nor insignificant, that her star is large and will always remain bright. 

You could have been a car salesman

I was putting the dishes away the other day and stumbled across that nacho cheese maker you made me buy. I looked at it, laughed, and thought to myself that you would have made an amazing car salesman because of your uncanny ability to talk anyone into anything. You somehow made everything seem like a good idea, which is strange because most of your ideas, without the hypnosis of your voice pressing them, were terrible ideas.

It was Veteran's Day last year and I had the day off (Federal Employee ;) You had called the night before and asked if we were going to take our grandmother out to eat for her birthday (also Veteran's Day), which in your language meant: where was I taking you to lunch the next day? I agreed that it would be a nice thing to do for our grandmother but let on that I knew about your scheme. I told you to be at my house at 9:00 am.

The next morning you showed up at 10:30, after I had to call you and wake you up. We stopped at the outlet mall on the way down to Atlanta to buy some Christmas presents for Jared. Somehow in the midst of jumping between clothing stores we ended up in the Kitchen Collection store. For those of you who have never been in one, it is basically a store filled full of everything 'Made for TV', really neat gadgets that no one actually NEEDS but, that if working properly, had the potential to make you the laziest person in the world. We spent about an hour glancing and fingering all of the junk, amazed at the terrible things that people invented, feeling a little jealous that we hadn't come up with such things as the Perfect Meatloaf Roasting pan or the Progressive Curly Fry Cutter. You can imagine the comments and fun that we had in there. That place was saturated with sarcasm by the time we left. We were just about to leave when you begged me to buy this Nacho Cheese maker, which is essentially a very small, festively decorated crock pot, and nothing more. I looked at you like you were nuts. You proceeded to explain to me how great this product would be and how it would make my life easier. When that didn't quite have me persuaded you started using my hunger against me and talking about the delicious salsa cheese dip I could make with it. Now that I am thinking about it, I wonder why you wanted me to have it so badly. I eventually caved, cheese dip did sound really good at the time. While I was paying for this ridiculous crock pot you brought over the Eggies Hard Boiled Egg System and tried talking me into that! I told you that if you wanted to boil an egg you could do it the old fashion way with a pan and some water, that you didn't need a "system" to do it. Before I had finished paying you had also tried your hand at pushing the Bacon Genie and the Yonanas Frozen Desert maker, which I am pretty sure you liked just for the name. Before we left the lady that was working there, who seemed WAY too into her job, offered you a position there! Ha ha ha!

On our way back from Atlanta we just had to stop at the grocery store to get some stuff to mix in our new piece of junk crock pot. At this point I was experiencing a wave of buyers remorse that you quickly passed off as indigestion. Really? So I reluctantly stopped at the store but made it very clear that I just needed to get a few things for dinner and that we could get some stuff to make cheese dip. You asked me if you looked like you were five and said "okay, mom" in your ever sarcastic tone and then promptly asked for a quarter to get a crappy toy out of the bubble gum machine at the entrance! We grabbed the few items I needed and the most disgustingly large hunk of Velveeta cheese and were about to head for check out when you said that you needed to get some stuff for yourself but you reassured me that you had money. You got 12 packets of Pasta Sides and some makeup. Really, again? We get up to the front and just as I finish unloading my items onto the belt you look up from your wallet, that you were pretending to look through for money, and say "Ooops, I must have spent it already". Geez. So somehow, in one day you had talked me into a Nacho Cheese Maker, buying your lunch, a drink and some candy at a gas station, 12 packets of Pasta Sides, a hunk of Velveeta cheese, and some make up (that wasn't the cheap kind, either). I got taken that day.

I swore to you, after we had gotten home and were happily enjoying or disgusting melted cheese, that I would never again take you out for the day, that it was too expensive. You turned and smiled and said, "But, Holly, this is our yearly tradition. And besides next year I will have a job, but I will probably still make you pay for everything." At least you were honest.

Unfortunately, we will not get a chance to carry through on that tradition together, or any others for that matter, but I will do my very best to carry it out on my own. And when I stop at the outlet mall on Hwy. 400 on my way to Atlanta, I will be sure to go into the Kitchen Collection store, where I am sure that the same friendly lady will be working, not remembering the girl that she had tried to hire the year before, and I will buy an Eggies System. When I get home and Jared asks me why I bought it I will just laugh and tell him that "Chelsea willed me to do it".

You could have been an amazing car salesman.

A Balloon in Maine

Last Thursday, early in the morning, about 3:00 am I literally gasped myself awake. I am not sure what I had been dreaming about but when I startled awake I felt this tremendous urge to remember to tell you something important when you got back from your trip, and then I remembered, that it would never matter if I remembered what it was that I needed to tell you because I would never get a chance to tell you. It was in that moment that I felt that horrible sensation of weight on my chest and sadness in my heart. All of this, from the moment I awoke to when I fell back to sleep, all took place within a few minutes, maybe five tops. I woke up that morning to the sound of my alarm with greatest feeling of emptiness and dread, from which I blamed the episode that jarred me awake in the middle of the night. While I was getting ready that morning, Jared came into the bathroom and asked me what I had been dreaming about. I told him that I couldn't remember what it was and left it at that, feeling the need to protect him from my incessant whining. He gave me a hug goodbye and told me that he heard me crying, quite loudly, in my sleep, and was happy that I didn't remember whatever it was that made me so upset. I hadn't realized that I had been crying.

Right before I left to take Reagan to the bus stop I ran back into the bathroom to grab my necklace, the one with your ring on it, only to find it a tangled mess of confusion and mixed together with the the necklace with the red bird on it. I giggled to myself for reasons that I will leave between you and I. As I stood there, running late, exhausted, and detangling my necklace, I thought to myself that the day was not starting out very well.

Work did not go much smoother than the start of my day. There wasn't one particular incident that I could really blame for the rockiness but more a series of insignificant events that, on any other day would have meant nothing to me, but because I started off the day with my nerves exposed and feeling so raw, felt like mini tsunamis.

I cut my losses short and left work a few minutes early to attend a meeting at the church with our 5K fundraiser committee. We planned to discuss some strategic changes we could make to host a more successful event the following year. I was in no mood to discuss making anything better after the day that I had just experienced. So, taking some inspiration from the guest posts from your parents, I decided to "go on a little adventure" and take the scenic route to the church. As I took the unfamiliar right turn onto Richard Russell Scenic Highway (what an appropriate road name), I was remembering this time when you were much younger, maybe 11 or 12 years old. You got this idea, probably from some TV show, to write a note and your name and phone number, in permanent marker, on a balloon and then release it. You had imagined that it would make it to some far off country, perhaps India or China, and that some unsuspecting child there would find it and call you up to let you know. While I thought it was interesting idea, I am also a realist, and unfortunately a bit of a skeptic at times. So I immediately told you how ludicrous it was with a laugh and told you that I had doubted if it would make it across the street, and that even if it did make it a few miles that it would probably land in a tree and never found. You, being you, laughed at my skepticism and told me that I could believe what I wanted. I don't remember how much time went by, a few weeks, maybe a month, but one evening we received a call from a lady in Maine that had found your balloon in a tree in her yard (I was partially right). She had been so fascinated and tickled when she saw your name and request to call to let you know where the balloon had come to rest. You made sure to gloat and I would like to say that was the last time I ever doubted your bizarre ideas, but that would be a lie.

I am not sure what had made me think of that memory, perhaps it was a mechanism to help self soothe the anxiousness I had felt all day, but it was about that time that I came around one of the hundreds of twists in the route I had chosen and there, coming out of the trees of the Chattahoochee National Forest came what had, at first, appeared to be a dog, but upon closer examination I saw that it was the most beautiful black bear. I literally slammed on my breaks right as I came to be lined up with the beast, I pulled out my camera and was able to get a single picture of it. During the same trip, only moments after my encounter with the bear I stopped at one of the many overlooks and snapped the picture of Mount Yonah that is above.

I have prided myself my whole life on being punctual, if not early, to every engagement and as I stood there looking out over the trees and into scene of mountaintops, I thought how great it felt to not care. For one of the first times in my life, I wasn't rushing from one place to the other or glancing at my watch or welling up with anxiety of being late, I was just standing there. I thought about how you lived your life like this everyday, allowing fate to take you where you needed to go and not allowing yourself to be dictated by a schedule. I thought about the carefree mind that thought of the idea to set a balloon with a name and a phone number off into the air with the faith that some very kind person somewhere eight or so states away would actually take the time to remove the balloon from a tree and then take the time to call long distance to the little girl that let it go. Once again, Chelsea, you have taught me something new.

And do you know, I arrived at my meeting ten minutes early anyway. I remember that I still had the rocks that your nieces painted in the back seat of the car. Armed with a new sense of calm and some extra time on my hands I grabbed the rocks and the camera and went around the back of the church to the Memorial Garden, where we laid your ashes. I laid the rocks, that were lovingly painted by Reagan and Sophie weeks before, next to the bench in the garden so that you could always have a little piece of your home (the rocks came from Dan's property) with you there. I had been sitting on the bench for only a few minutes when I noticed that your name had been added to the large piece of granite that marked the people whose ashes were scattered in the garden. I took a few pictures and reflected on what an amazingly strange day I had.

How a day could start so horribly wrong and end with so many wonderful surprises? It was a day that reminded me of you, with so many logically incorrect thoughts and choices but so many delightful astonishments.

I guess I know what I have to do this weekend ;)

The Road to Tara

It's impossible to believe that today marks the two month point of your absence and it is no more real today than it was two months ago. 

Mom wrote a guest post about the last daycation that you two had together the weekend before you died. Only the two of you would WANT to go, voluntarily, tour Tara from Gone With the Wind...

A guest post by Patricia Kiessling:

I wanted to write about the last weekend I spent with Chelsea, which also turned out to be the last weekend of her life.

I was so pleased when Chelsea joined the chorus at North Georgia College.  I sent her Savannah Arts Academy choir dress to her and then decided I would like to attend her concert on February 26.  I knew I couldn’t attend all of her concerts, being about 5 hours away, but I thought I could at least go to her first one.  The week before the concert, she forwarded me a Living Social deal for a Gone with the Wind tour in Jonesboro, Georgia.  I e-mailed her and asked her “Does this mean you want to go to this?” and she responded “every time I go by that billboard on I-75, I want to go to visit it.”  So we decided we would meet in Jonesboro on Saturday and do the tour, which included a museum, a bus tour (not sure what that was about), and a ticket to Stately Oaks Plantation.  I got to the museum around 12:30, about an hour before the bus tour began.  I toured the museum, waiting for Chelsea, and then called her as the time for the bus tour approached.  She was in Roswell, Georgia, but thought she could get there in time.  I told her no way could she get from Roswell to Jonesboro in time and not to even try it.  I talked to the museum ticket lady and she assured me that we could use the bus tickets another time.  So Chelsea got to the museum about 1:45 and we toured the museum.  By that time, I could have conducted a tour of the museum I had viewed everything so many times.  We talked about how Hattie McDaniel (Mammy) was criticized for playing the part of a “negro servant” and how I read that Clark Gable had really bad breath and Vivien Leigh hated having to kiss him.

 After we finished at the museum, we drove out to Stately Oaks Plantation, which as far as I could tell had nothing to do with Gone with the Wind but was included in the deal.

 We had a good time wandering the grounds and visiting the gift shop, while waiting for the docent to take us on the tour of the home.  Afterwards, I told her maybe she could take the bus tour tickets and come back with someone else.  She said “who, except you and I would want to go on a Gone with the Wind bus tour?” Good point.  I still have those tickets.

My dad was in the hospital so we decided we would go visit him while we were down that way.  Unlike a lot of teenagers, Chelsea never seemed to mind spending time with her grandparents.  We went to St. Joseph’s and visited with my mom and dad for an hour or so.  While we were there, my mom asked Chelsea what she wanted to study in college and she told her grandmother she thought she wanted to be a nurse.  I couldn’t really see her as a nurse, but she certainly would have cheered up a lot of patients if she had become one! 

We decided to eat dinner on our way back up to White County and she couldn’t decide between the Varsity and Applebee’s, but in the end, she chose Applebee’s, where she, of course, knew a server who worked there. 

The next day, her dad and I attended her first North Georgia College chorus concert and then went to eat at a little restaurant on the square in Dahlonega.  As we were sitting down, two guys walked by outside the restaurant and she gets up and runs outside to speak to them.  She was such a people person! 

My mother thinks God gave me that last weekend with her because He knew He was taking her back soon.  I am so grateful for the (short) time I had with my baby girl, but naturally wish it had been much longer.  I love all of my children, but each one has a special place in my heart.  Now there is a huge hole in my life where Chelsea used to be and my heart aches from being broken when she was taken from me so suddenly.  I am amazed, but not surprised, at the impact she had on the people she encountered during her short, but full, life.  She was a happy-go-lucky, vibrant, exuberant personality who is profoundly missed and will be forever.  

The road less traveled

By: Dan Kiessling

Holly was recently relating a story to her daughter, Reagan, about when Holly was “lost” in the Cohutta Wilderness, the point of the story being never to take a “short cut” with me.   We had gone on a one day family outing to Rock City/Lookout Mtn.  Since we had gone up I-75 I, as was and is my nature, decided to take a different route home.  In those pre GPS days it often proved to be a rewarding experience seeing new sights and places while.  The Cohutta Wilderness Area of Georgia held those expectations.  So with the kids in the back, I took a left on to Ga. Hwy 2 going east which was the general direction of home.

The highway quickly turned into a gravel road with steps hills, many switch backs, beautiful streams and majestic views.  Several turns, many forks in the road and no signs started bringing comments from those riding with me.  “Go Back, Turn Around, and we are lost” echoed from most of the children.  The road got smaller and smaller and less well maintained until it was but a large trail.  I was still enjoying the scenery but beginning to get anxious in that we had been in there for about fifty miles and four long hours.  Then the smallest voice in the back was heard to say “keep going Daddy, all roads lead somewhere”.  It was true and we did eventually slip out of the wilderness and back on a familiar Highway.  “All roads lead somewhere” became a favorite saying of Chelsea’s and I heard her use it too many times in our travels.  She was always the optimist and lived to take the road less traveled.

At about the age of 14, her first, by herself, cab ride also turned into a challenging adventure.  I had taken her brother to Austria long ago on our “roots” journey and promised Chelsea I would take her on a similar trip.  She was so excited when I told her that we were going to Paris.  Less excited when she figured out that it was Paris Casino in Las Vegas, but she was still looking forward to the trip.  My sister was there getting married and we were to be at the wedding.  Sister Lynn was staying in a different Hotel further down the strip.  Chelsea decided to visit with them and share a meal while I went back to the Paris to game.  We agreed that my sister would put her in the cab and I would be there to pick her up at the front door.  What could go wrong with that plan?

Lynn called to say that Chelsea was on her way and I went to the front door to wait.  Expecting a short ten minute ride, I started getting worried after fifteen minutes passed.  Then twenty, then thirty minutes passed. Finally she came bouncing out of the cab laughing and laughing.  She registered the concern and question evident on my face and between the laughter explained how similar “Paris” and “Harrah’s” sound to an immigrant cab driver.  She had totaled enjoyed her tour of Las Vegas.

Whether it was her new favorite country song, “Put a Little Gravel in Your Travels” or as I would like to think, a genetic predisposition to my driving habits she called me a few months ago excited about being lost on a country road.  She was trying to find a new way back between Savannah and Cleveland, Ga. and had gotten hopelessly lost.  She had one gravel lane and fenced fields on each side.  This evidently meant a lot to her because she took pictures and called not only me but her sister Holly too.  Not that we could do anything, but just to share in her excitement.  I still don’t know where she was but she did make it back with a smile on her face. 

The road that she has taken through life is much shorter than I would have hoped it to be.  It is lined on every side with beauty and song.  It has been paved with love, wit, and humor the entire way.  All those that intersected that road were fortunate to have crossed it and I know it was well lit with her having traveled it.  I have no doubt as to where that road led and I can only hope that my road no matter how long, bumpy and narrow will eventually reach the same destination.

'Wash before applying'

I had to run some errands in Dahlonega the other day and decided to stop and get a picture of the cross that was put up at your crash spot. It is just a simple white cross that was made by two friends of yours and Sara Bennett's. She said that they thought you would want it to have little extra pizzazz so that they added the cheetah print scarf to it, cause God knows that your personality was anything but white. They have added a laminated photo of you to the cross since the last time I had seen it a couple of weeks ago. It is a picture of you giving your maid of honor speech at my wedding. The photographers were able to capture you laughing hysterically at one of your own jokes, not that it would be difficult to capture one of those moments because you thought everything that you said was funny.

I tend to be drawn to the crash site for some reason. While neither of our brothers, our mom, or even Jared would choose to take this route to Dahlonega, I often like to drive over here even if I have no engagements in Dahlonega. For me, it holds the same gruesome, painful reminder that it does for the rest of our family, but to me that reminder isn't always bad. I find myself thinking of you as though you have taken an extended vacation, off helping some third world country, or eradicating some sort of mutated strain of a virus, instead of gone...for good. So when I pass by the small patch of road, with the enormous tree that has been stripped and bruised by your car it reminds me that you are more than simply vacationing.

I was happy to see the cross appear a few weeks after your death and even happier to see your picture added to it the other day. So long after the grass grows in from your tire tracks leading from the road to the bottom of the embankment and the tree's bark covers up the raw patch on its side and the memory of your accident fades, the cross, scarf, and picture will still stand there to help me remember.

I started thinking about all of your legendary car accidents. I remembered one in particular that, while I wasn't present for it, the story of it makes me laugh, regardless. It involved "Moe" and one unsuspecting neighbors well house. A story that began when you were about 12 years old and you decided to take the little household utility vehicle, that you lovingly named "Moe", out for a joy ride. For whatever reason, you couldn't figure out how to get the brakes to engage, and came flying down the back end of  your dad's driveway full speed ahead. Instead of going straight to your dad's house, you steered the Moe towards the neighbor's house (luckily just uses the house as a vacation home) and ran SMACK into the side of their well house. The story that I later received from your father was one of extreme humor and side stitching laughter. You stumbled up to house, on foot, soaking wet, and completely shocked. The scene behind you was basically a giant water spot shooting out from behind the trees and the "Moe" nowhere in sight. I always picture you shrugging your shoulders, soaking wet from head to toe, trying to explain to your dad that it wasn't your fault and attempting (unsuccessfully) to blame it on any other universal force other than you, the driver. When I get that image in my head I can't help but laugh.

A picture of Chelsea's tire on the side of highway 85 after it blew.

Yes, you had some great crash stories. While we had liked to make jokes of how horrible our family was when it came to driving and would often make a game of comparing how many cars we had totaled or who had caused the most damage,  we always knew of your infamous record. You are the only person I have ever known to get a red light traffic ticket on your way to court to plead for a speeding ticket (65 in a 45) that you had received a month before. Or how you thought you would just ignore all of those parking tickets that you got on Tybee Island, but the truck was registered to your dad, so by the time he got the tickets in the mail they had been doubled in price. Or the time the you were running 80 down Hwy 85 with bald tires and the front driver's side tire blew and you some how maneuvered across six lanes of traffic to the side of the road. Or when you took mom's car to go to your friend's house, totaled it,  and ran over the neighbor's monster truck mailbox in your path of destruction, not 4 miles from my house. Or the time you rear ended a guy trying to parallel park the F150 in front of Starbucks in Savannah and your dad had to pay to have is car fixed so you didn't have to file an insurance claim. Or your insane determination to park your giant truck at the bank behind the inn that you worked at even though every time you tried you added yet another huge yellow indention down the side of it due to the yellow "caution" pylons there. Or, one of the better ones, was the time you drove from Savannah to Cleveland in the truck with the passenger side mirror hanging by a thread of the duck tape and the front bumper dragging under the front end of your car. Or the time you got a ticket in March for a tag that expired in July even though you had had the new sticker in your glove box since June, of the previous year. Your excuse for not applying it? The sticker's instructions clearly stated to 'wash before applying' and you didn't want to have to run the truck through the car wash!


Your dad brought up an interesting tid bit of information the other day. He asked if I remembered what your first memory was, obviously I didn't because I don't even remember my own first memory. I do recall you making some insane claims of remembering something that happened to you when you were 3 or 4 years old, but I would just tossed it off as some more of your wild assertions. Your dad reminded that the first thing that you claimed you remembered was getting in a car accident with mom when you were about 3 years old. You guys ran off the road and down a very steep embankment about 5 miles from the accident that took your life, right off of Town Creek Church Road, in Lumpkin County. You said that you could recall being put in the ambulance and taken to the hospital after that accident. Your dad and I reflected on a what a mysterious coincidence this was.

The night that you died, while we sat waiting in the early morning hours of March 3rd, for the funeral home to come and pick your body up, Mom said something to me that, at the time, kind of took my breath away. She turned to me with red, puffy eyes and tear stained checks and said, "She was such an awful driver, with all of those car accidents, I should have known that a car accident would be the end of her." I guess with your death still being so fresh on my mind, it kind of stung to hear that from her mouth, but I can't say that the thought hadn't crossed my own mind. It is just so hard to sometimes remember that all of those memories and events lead us back to where we are now, without you.

So, I will continue to drive past that spot, and sometimes I will even stop and walk down to the bottom of the embankment where your car came to it's final resting spot, just so I continue to remember that you aren't here but that you left your mark on all of us. While the pain of remembering your sudden and tragic death is, at times, almost too much to bare, the pain of forgetting is excruciating.

You were a horrible driver, but you were great at making the world laugh.

The below conversation was about this picture.