The Rites of Life

2008-12-30T13:04:00.008-05:00

Stories by Liz Barry Slideshows by Kim Raff

Our lives are sprinkled with moments, big and small, that take us out of our daily routines and make us feel alive. Others prompt us to mark the passage of time. We consider what has come before and what lies ahead.

When woven together, these moments tell the stories of our lives.

About this Series

The News & Advance series, The Rites of Life, by reporter Liz Barry and photographer Kim Raff, chronicles some of these moments, from the beginning of life to its end. Watch the slideshow above for an overview of the series, or click a picture to the right to see each of the series' 10 parts.

Liz Barry has been a reporter at The News & Advance since October 2007. She graduated from Davidson College with a bachelor's in English, and was a 2007 Summer Fellow at the Poynter Institute in St. Petersburg, Fla. E-mail her at lbarry@newsadvance.com.

Kim Raff has been a photographer at The News & Advance since November 2006. She graduated from Rochester Institute of Technology and has interned at The Saginaw News, The Flint Journal and The Desert Morning News. E-mail her at kweiselberg@newsadvance.com.

The Rites of Life: Keeping On

2008-12-19T14:34:00.003-05:00

By Liz Barry | Audio slideshow by Kim Raff

Jennis Johnson leans at a jaunty slant against a shopping cart. There’s a chair nearby, but the 77-year-old insists on standing through his six-hour shift as a greeter at the Bedford Wal-Mart.

Sometimes his body betrays him, and his torso convulses in a hard, raspy cough.

But not today. Today is a good day.

Jennis salutes customers with a smile. At 5 feet 8 inches, he is lean of build and long of face. He has short white hair and a pencil-thin mustache.

Friends and family know him as “Little Man,” the nickname his father gave him at birth.

With his shift almost over, Jennis peers through the sliding glass doors at the bustling parking lot. A woman walks in. His eyes flicker in recognition.

“How are you doing, Little Man,” she says.

Jennis extends his hand.

“Oh, I’m doing fairly good,” he says with a chuckle, “for an old man.”

The will to live

During the past 10 years, Jennis has been treated first for prostate, then for lung cancer. In April, his doctor referred him to the Bedford Hospice Center with a prognosis of three to six months to live.

Spring melted into summer, summer into fall. More than seven months later, Jennis pushes forward with a firm resolve to live.

He works regular shifts at Wal-Mart (no more than 20 hours a week), to get out of the house. He walks his dog every day, sometimes for close to a mile. He spends quiet evenings with his wife, Frances, and on weekends he visits family and attends church.

His Christian faith, wife and dog, a chocolate brown Dachshund named Hershey, are his foundation. Without them, he says, he would not have lived this long.

Sometimes, his lungs burn like fire, a pain so severe he can barely stand it. Shortness of breath overtakes him in flashes, sparked by walking or talking too much.

Some mornings, he thinks to himself, “This is it.” But instead of staying in bed, he rises to start the day.

In rare moments, he becomes reflective about the life he has lived.

“I’ve lived a good life,” he says one day in the Wal-Mart foyer, amid the clatter of shopping carts. “I never have harmed nobody that I know of, you know.”

A few beats pass.

“Someday, I know I got to go, and I prepare for it.”

The hard days

Hershey barks wildly when Jennis walks into his Bedford home one dim afternoon in mid-November.

Jennis barely slept last night. His body was hurting, but he went to work.

A cold rain drums the window. Frances fixes supper in the kitchen.

“Sit down and catch your breath,” she says firmly.

Jennis sits straight up. His chest rises and falls in a quick staccato. He is silent except for the heavy sigh of his breathing.

Frances watches with a wary eye. Within minutes, his breathing regains its slow, regular rhythm.

His breathing has been more strained in recent days. Frances is worried. Jennis might be, too, but he seldom admits it.

Frances releases Hershey from the bedroom, and the small dog scurries over to Jennis and paws his lap.

Jennis wags a raggedy pink bear in front of Hershey’s snout.

“Play me a song, Hershey. Play me a song!”

Hershey gnaws the bear until it plays “Jesus Loves Me,” then looks up at his owner.

Jennis smiles.

A full life

Jennis has lived most of his life in Bedford, where he was born and raised.

At age 10, Jennis trained ponies for a Virginia horse trader. As a teenager, he pumped gas at Hilltop Service Station, his first real job. As an adult, he worked on the railroad, at a lumberyard, for a furniture company, at a grocery wholesale house.

He remembers when Bedford was segregated.

He was a pool shark, a boxer, and a soldier in the Korean War. His team is the Washington Redskins.

Jennis has no kids, but more nieces and nephews than he can count.

His first encounter with a debilitating condition came in 1985 when, after back surgery, doctors told him he had a 50/50 chance of walking again and disability was almost certain.

Within a month, Jennis was walking and had returned to work.

His battle with cancer began in 1998, when Jennis was diagnosed with prostate cancer. In 2003, Jennis — who smoked cigarettes for 60 years — was diagnosed with lung cancer.

In April, after years of treatments and medication and doctors’ appointments, Jennis decided to let the cancer run its course.

The news

Jennis is quiet before his doctor’s appointment at the Carilion Cancer Center in Roanoke on Dec. 1. He paces in the waiting room, then sits beside Frances.

The nurse checks his weight, blood pressure and oxygen level, then leads him into exam room 7.

Dr. David Buck reports the results of Jennis’ CT scan, taken the week before.

Good news, the doctor says. There is no sign of progression of the lung cancer since the last treatment. As for the shortness of breath, Buck recommends that Jennis see his pulmonary doctor about a tweak of his medication.

Jennis is quiet as he absorbs the news.

“See you in another six months,” Buck says.

As Jennis walks down the hall to the lobby, a grin crosses his face.

“I’m so happy, I could do a dance,” he says.

“I would love to see you cut it up,” Frances says with a laugh.

They schedule an appointment for June 1.

Keeping on

Four days later, Jennis buzzes with excitement as he recounts his doctor’s appointment to Sue Downhill, an RN with Bedford Hospice Center.

“You talk about somebody who was happy, I was happy,” Jennis says.

“So I might live a few more days.”

“Yeah, I know that,” Downhill says with a belly laugh. “You’re going to live to dance another jig.”

Frances is more subdued. She is concerned about his weight, his strained breathing.

Although he has had a reprieve, the couple continues with hospice care.

The RN checks Jennis’ vital signs and updates his charts. As they banter, Hershey scampers about the kitchen.

The conversation turns to Jennis’ decade-long fight with cancer.

“It’s never put me in bed all day yet. Thank God for that,” he says, pounding a fist on the table.

He continues in a quiet voice.

“Well, I tell you, Sue. It hasn’t been easy now. It ain’t been easy.”

When Sue leaves, Jennis lounges on a big green chair in the living room.

Tonight, he rests. Tomorrow, he works the 7 a.m. shift.

The Rites of Life: Generation Gap

2008-11-21T15:32:00.002-05:00

By Liz Barry | Audio slideshow by Kim Raff

The computer lab is silent. All eyes are fixed on the woman at the podium.

She holds up a sleek black object.

“This,” she says, pausing dramatically, “is the infamous mouse.”

Muffled chuckles circulate the room.

“That is your monitor in front of you. That’s your window to the world.”

The screens cast an artificial glow on the faces before them, exposing their wrinkles. For most, the lines run deep.

Tonight’s group — all 50 and older — gathered at Lynchburg Public Library for a basic computer skills class, offered by Parks and Recreation’s Fifty Plus program. The instructor, Marilyn Bryant, leads a 90-minute whirlwind introduction to the computer, mouse, Microsoft Word and the Internet.

The class assumes no prior knowledge. The most commonplace phrase — like “desktop” or “icon” — begs an explanation, and the most fundamental task — like using a mouse — can pose a challenge.

Plugged in

Internet technology saturates our lives. We use it to work, play, communicate, socialize; some even use it to find love. It has spawned a new generation of young people, known as “digital natives,” for whom learning a computer is as basic as learning the ABCs.

But while the technology is ubiquitous, it is far from universal.

About 15 percent of Americans — mostly older people — are “off the network,” meaning they do not use a cell phone or the Internet, according to a 2007 study by the Pew Internet and American Life Project.

Among those who are connected, many do not embrace it in their everyday lives. Approximately 49 percent of Americans “only occasionally use modern gadgetry” and many others “bristle at electronic connectivity,” according to the study.

For the older generation, learning how to use a computer can serve as a stark reminder of how technology — like time — eventually passes us by. It can confuse or intimidate, excite or reward. However we react, there is a moment when we all must decide, how, and if, we let new technology into our lives.

The Lynchburg area offers a limited number of opportunities for seniors to learn computer technology. Yet computer literacy is becoming increasingly necessary for things like applying for a job or choosing Medicare options, says Denise Scruggs, director of the Belle Boone Beard Center on Aging and the Life Course at Lynchburg College.

“In Lynchburg right now, I think we’re not meeting the needs of our seniors as far as promoting opportunities to learn or use computer technology,” she says.

“I think we need to make that a priority.”

Classes are offered through Parks & Recreation, Central Virginia Community College and Thomas Road Baptist Church, to name a few resources. To address the area’s slim technology offerings, the Center on Aging is working on an initiative to have local college students teach computer and Internet skills to the elderly, Scruggs says.

Master of the mouse

As the basic computer skills class progresses, it becomes clear that the “infamous mouse” has lived up to its name — especially for 74-year-old Gloria Doss.

Her face is frozen in grave concentration, eyes squinted and lips pursed. She attempts to double-click on a small icon on the screen.

Nothing happens.

She clicks again.

Nothing.

Since Doss is left-handed, she has difficulty controlling the mouse, which was designed for right-handers. She changes tactics, this time executing a two-handed mouse maneuver. She guides the base of the mouse with her right hand and clicks with left.

Click-click.

The word “Excellent” flashes on the screen.

“I got excellent,” Doss exclaims with a laugh. “I did something right.”

“It takes practice, it really does,” the teacher responds.

Why not try?

Doss acquired a computer by happenstance. When her neighbors moved, they insisted she take their old computer. Doss politely declined, but her neighbors insisted.

A friend set it up, and Doss enrolled in the basic computer skills class to learn how to use it. Her goal: to learn how to navigate the Internet and e-mail family members who live out of state.

The class makes her feel frustrated and overwhelmed.

“It’s terribly confusing, but it’s just going to take time,” she says after the class.

“These little kids in kindergarten, they know how to do it, and I say ‘Doggone it!’ ... Little kids, they’re not afraid. They just jump in and do stuff. Older people sort of hold back.”

Leo Klein, 71, of Bedford signed up for a computer class to learn how to streamline his small business, Klein Welding and Machine Service.

For more than 20 years, Klein has kept track of inventory on paper tablets. When a customer requests a part, it can take him upwards of 20 minutes to check his handwritten records.

So Klein — who is already proficient with e-mail and the Internet — signed up for a basic computer class through Thomas Road Baptist Church to learn how to make a spreadsheet. The class — which was filled up to its maximum of 40 people — met weekly at the computer lab in the Liberty Christian Academy this fall. One session was devoted to Microsoft Excel.

“I don’t want to be computer illiterate. This is our life in the future,” Klein says.

John Kinter, 57, a construction worker from Lynchburg joined the Thomas Road class for personal growth. For years, his computer knowledge was virtually non-existent.

“I knew how to turn it on, and I could play solitaire. That’s it,” he says.

His wife uses a computer at home for work, but he stayed away from it for fear of messing it up. Kinter hopes the class will make him more comfortable with the computer, so he can use the Internet and e-mail without asking his wife or sons for help.

“At 57, anytime I can learn something new I’m elated ... especially if someone younger than me teaches me,” he says, “because that gives me faith in the younger generation.”

Connie and Archie Gillis call themselves “low-tech people in a high-tech world.” But compared with some of their peers, they are advanced.

The retired couple bought their first computer about five years ago and installed it in their RV. Back then, the Altavista residents were on the road full-time, touring the country.

The couple learned by trial and error, an experience that Connie says elicited a range of reactions.

“Sometimes it’s exciting. Sometimes it’s very, very frustrating.

“When you’ve never been exposed before, it’s like learning a new language, a foreign language.”

Over time, they learned how to e-mail friends, shop online and look up maps on Mapquest.com. Though they know the basics, they still have trouble with more complicated tasks, such as downloading files from e-mails, which is why they signed up for the Thomas Road class.

“Like I say,” Archie says, “we’re always looking out the door for a teenager to walk by and help us out.”

Window to the world

The last five minutes of the basic computer skills Class at the public library are devoted to the biggest topic of the night: the Internet.

“Does anyone know what Google is?” Bryant asks.

The room is quiet except for the soft hum of computer hardware.

A woman peeps up, “A search engine is what I’ve heard it called.”

“That’s right,” Bryant responds.

She pulls up the stark white Google homepage onto the overhead projector screen at the front of the room, and instructs the class to open the site on their own screens.

Bryant types the word “jellybeans.” In 0.27 seconds, a new page pops up.

“More than four million results for ‘jellybeans,’” Bryant says, with a hint of awe.

Meanwhile, Doss’ computer has gone dark with a screensaver. She leans back in her chair, arms crossed across her chest.

No Internet today. First, she must master the mouse.

The Rites of Life: Caregiving

2008-10-24T14:43:00.004-04:00

By Liz Barry Audio slideshow by Kim Raff

Lisa Dibble, 51, sits on a stiff wooden chair, her eyes fixed on her father’s face. The fluorescent lamp overhead casts a jaundice gleam on his angular features.

It’s just past noon on Saturday, Sept. 20. With the beige privacy curtain drawn, no sunlight penetrates the room at the Medical Care Center, a nursing home in Lynchburg.

“I’m ready to get out of here if I have to crawl,” says her father, Earl Stinnett.

“Yeah, really,” says Lisa with a knowing chuckle.

A machine down the hall beeps at six-second intervals like a mechanical heartbeat.

Beeeep ... Beeeep ... Beeeep ...

Lisa’s father lies on his back on the twin bed, his feet inches inches from the edge. He wears a button-down shirt tucked into cotton sweatpants.

Lisa reaches into the CVS bag at her feet and pulls out a magazine, “Popular Mechanics.”

“Oh boy,” he says, with gratitude.

Beeeep ... Beeeep ... Beeeep ...

Lisa keeps the visit short. Afterwards, she will run errands for her parents and catch up on long-neglected chores at home. Before leaving, she clasps her father’s hand.

Earl speaks barely above a whisper. “You don’t know how much I need to get out of here,” he says.

“I know,” Lisa says.

Her voice is calm and steady. “I’m doing everything I can.”

Turning a corner

Before July, Lisa’s relationship with her parents, who are in their 70s, followed a comfortable pattern. She visited on birthdays and holidays, and talked to her mother every day by phone. Her parents were generous with advice; Lisa could rely on them if she had a problem.

Before July, Lisa’s life was full but manageable. As executive director of The Gateway — a small non-profit that helps homeless men struggling with alcohol and substance abuse rebuild their lives — she found her job demanding and fulfilling.

On July 27, everything changed.

A week before, her parents caught a virus, nothing out of the ordinary. Lisa called daily to check on them. After a few days, Lisa’s mother, in high spirits, reported that she and Earl had almost recovered.

Lisa called again, two days late: no answer. Concerned, she checked their house.

It was empty. Neighbors told Lisa that her parents had been taken by ambulance to the hospital.

Lisa was shocked at her parents’ condition. They were hallucinating, disoriented, confused. The doctors told her the diagnosis was dementia and failure to thrive, and that the virus weakened their bodies and sparked a sudden mental decline, she says.

“It was horrifying. I couldn’t understand it.”

Her parents were fully independent. Just a few months earlier, her mother completed their tax returns.

“It’s like you turned a corner, and you lost them,” she says

Lisa is forced to confront her parents’ decline and mortality. For the first time in her life, the parent/child roles are reversed; now Lisa is responsible for her parents’ welfare.

In 2006, there were as many as 38 million adult caregivers nationwide, and about 900,000 in Virginia, according to a 2007 report by the American Association of Retired Persons (AARP). As the baby boomer population ages, the number of caregivers is expected to rise.

During the next two months, Lisa muddles through a tangle of difficult choices. Her first big task is choosing a nursing home. She sorts through factors like cost, reputation, parents’ preferences and quality of care, and decides on the Medical Care Center, the same nursing home her grandmother stayed at years ago.

Under skilled care, Earl and Peggy rebuild their physical strength. Meanwhile, Lisa tends to their home, bills and responsibilities, and visits every weekend.

Going home

On Oct. 3 — more than two months after her parents entered the Medical Care Center — Lisa’s mother’s confusion is still pronounced. Her father, despite the initial diagnosis, bounced back and has gotten the green light from doctors to return home.

Since it’s a Wednesday, Lisa has taken the day off work. She arrives at the Medical Care Center just past 10 a.m.

In the dim room, Lisa stuffs her father’s clothes and belongings into plastic garbage bags. She works drawer by drawer, quickly and methodically. Earl, dressed in a button-down shirt and a crisp pair of blue jeans, sits quietly on the bed in his room.

Lisa signs the release forms.

“You go in and talk to her, and I’ll come back when I’ve finished loading up the car,” Lisa says to Earl, as they stand in front of Peggy’s room.

Earl hands his wife a canary yellow envelope. Peggy turns off the TV, and reads the card aloud, her voice cheerful and animated.

Earl sits on her bed, shoulders hunched. As she reads, he retrieves a crumpled tissue from his pocket and dabs his eyes.

“I wish I was taking you with me,” Earl says in a shaky voice.

“What?” Peggy says.

“I wish I was taking you with me.”

“Where?”

“To home.”

Peggy changes the topic to the weather. “Not a cloud in the sky,” she says.

Lisa enters the room, and watches for a moment. Earl, choked up, cannot speak. Lisa doesn’t want to leave her mother, but she has no choice. Her mother is not well enough to come along.

“We’ll be back over to see you when we get a chance,” Lisa says, blinking through tears.“I’ll get you some more things you need.”

With a final hug, daughter and father head home.

Reaching deep

After her parents' sudden decline, Lisa’s life hurtles forward at full speed.

Outside of work — her biggest time commitment — Lisa is an active member of Timberlake United Methodist Church, where she teaches a weekly Bible study class. She also serves as president of the Greater Lynchburg Transit Company’s board, and writes poetry in her spare time.

“All of a sudden I have a whole other couple of people’s lives to run. I went from stressed to overwhelmed.”

In the U.S., caregivers provide an average of 21 hours of care per week according to the AARP report. Studies have shown that caregiving can affect a person’s work productivity, financial situation, health and emotional well-being.

Lisa’s to-do list seems never-ending. When she crosses off one thing, she adds three more. Chores at her own home get neglected. There is little time to decompress.

“I’ve had to reach deep in my own faith and my own strength. I found that I’m a lot stronger than I ever thought I would be. I’m amazed that I’ve held up.”

Most nights, Lisa is lucky to be home by 8 p.m. She musters energy for a quick bite to eat and TV, before heading to bed, spent.

“You get to the point where you are a little bit numb, which is not a good thing because it means the pain level has gone so high that you can no longer deal with it.”

Lisa reached out for support at her church. Though some people were receptive, she wanted and needed more. Her church has groups to help a person grieve the death of a family member, but nothing for the life crisis she is experiencing.

So Lisa went on a mission. She approached church leaders about bringing the Stephen Ministries, a national program that provides one-on-one support for people going major life crises, to her church and United Methodist Churches across Lynchburg.

“For me, it’s about bringing about a positive change. If it’s happening to me, it’s happening to other people,” she says.

“I imagine there are a lot of hurting people out there that are facing this alone.”

A time of uncertainty

It’s Earl’s first day home, mid-afternoon.

Lisa sits at the kitchen table, counting pills under her breath.

“One, two, three, four. . . ”

She slides the colorful capsules along the glass tabletop into small piles, and sorts them into their proper compartments in the pillbox: Sunday. Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday . . . Morning. Noon. Evening. Bed.

Earl sits on a plush blue recliner, his favorite chair, feet propped on the footrest. Sunlight streams in from the window behind him.

He is animated as he chats with Emma Jones, a companion from Generation Solutions, a company that provides services to seniors to make staying at home easier. During his first two weeks home, an aide will stay with Earl from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m., seven days a week. Lisa hopes to scale back after that.

With the medicine sorted, Lisa devotes the afternoon to the chores remaining on her to-do list: Fill new prescriptions at the pharmacy; swing by the locksmith for a spare key; buy fresh fruit, meat and milk for Dad.

By 5:30 p.m., Lisa has loaded her father’s refrigerator with groceries.

“I’m tired,” Earl says.

“OK, your jammies are on the bed.”

With purse in hand, Lisa glances around the kitchen. Her eyes rest on a stack of papers that need to be sorted and filed away. Another day.

The Rites of Life: Last Stop

2008-09-26T13:45:00.001-04:00

By Liz Barry | Audio slideshow by Kim Raff

Bus 16 grinds to a halt along a stretch of Appomattox farmland.

The driver, Becky Shorter, peers into the rear-view mirror at the child behind her.

“OK, Ashley,” she says, as the door clanks open.

It’s June 6, the last day of school for Appomattox public schools. Becky has arrived at the last stop of her 36-year career.

“Can you give me a hug before you go?”

Ashley Morgan, 8, is a third-generation bus rider. In decades past, Becky delivered Ashley’s mother and grandmother to school.

After a quick embrace, the last child is gone. Becky heads back to the bus yard, past cow pastures and haystacks. The bus streaks yellow against the hazy horizon.

It’s quiet except for the rattle of the motor and gears. The floor is littered with the plastic tops of Kool-Aid bottles she passed out as a treat. The heat leaves beads of sweat on the back of Becky’s neck.

Becky sighs, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“I can’t believe I’ve been doing this for 36 years.”

The big goodbye

Meanwhile, more than 20 people with banners and balloons have gathered at the bus yard to surprise Becky. When Bus 16 rolls in — nearly 20 minutes later than expected — the crowd erupts into cheers.

Becky pounds the horn.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

She is speechless. Her husband, Bill, is there, with her children, grandchildren, fellow bus drivers and students — some adults now — from years past. They flood her with hugs, cards and flowers.

At age 66, Becky bids farewell to a career that has spanned more than half her life.

Her husband sheds a few tears; Becky does not. But inside emotions churn. Becky feels torn between excitement for what lies ahead and sadness for she must leave behind.

The past 36 years swell with memories.

Becky drove all five of her children, spawning stories that get rehashed to this day. There was the time Becky kicked her son Kenny off the bus for misbehavior, and forced him to walk home alone. And the time she sideswiped the assistant principal’s yellow Volkswagen while parking at a crowded sports game.

Becky was a friendly face to countless school children. They told her their secrets, solicited help with their homework and asked for the answers to their burning questions, most notably, “How long is infinity?”

For Becky, driving school buses was more than just a job; it was part of her identity. The surprise party at the bus yard reminded her how many lives she touched.

Now she is ready to let go.

As the commotion dwindles, Becky cleans out her bus. Her husband urges her to stop sweeping, to forget the mess.

Becky stops for a moment. “They can’t fire me today,” she chuckles.

She finishes the job anyway.

At 3:23 Becky clocks out for the last time, and heads home.

A new journey

Two days later, the pang of sadness has been replaced by total excitement. Today, Becky and Bill hit the open road for a 28-day journey into the west.

Retirement has been in the back of Becky’s mind for several years. Her wrists, shoulders and knees ache from years in the driver’s seat. And the constant kid chatter seemed louder this year than years past.

After a particularly rough afternoon bus ride, Becky decided to make this year her last. The details of that day have faded, but Becky still remembers the noise, and the throbbing headache that followed. It was time.

More Americans, like Becky, are working into their late 60s and beyond. In the last 30 years, employment of workers 65 and older has increased by 101 percent, compared to a 59-percent rise in the total workforce, according to the U.S. Department of Labor. As the baby boomer generation grays and medical advances allow people to live longer, the influx of elderly workers is expected to continue.

Becky retired to spend more time with her husband and nine grandchildren. She plans to continue old pastimes, like bowling, and try new ones, like water aerobics. And with her mother approaching 90, Becky now has the flexibility to take care of her mother, should she need it.

But like so many, Becky is not 100-percent retired. She plans to work part-time with her husband, delivering empty buses around the state. She will work because she wants to, not because she has to. It’s something extra to fill her days, and gives her some extra money.

For now, all that lies ahead for Becky is the open road. With bags packed and trunk loaded, Becky and Bill pull away from their home in Appomattox in a red Chevy Impala.

This time, Bill is driving.

Letting go

It’s Aug. 25, the first day of school for Appomattox.

Becky stands under the shade of a large oak tree at the end of her driveway, waiting. She came on impulse, knowing that in a few minutes her old bus will pass.

She stands with Dusty, a 4-month-old Labrador puppy, who sniffs the ground and pulls impatiently on his leash. Becky calls him her “retirement dog.” He is her companion during the idle days at home.

Almost three months have passed since Becky stepped off Bus 16. Since she is used to summers off, it does not sink in that she has retired until today.

Becky woke up early, although she had nowhere to be. She almost called the bus director, as a joke, to tell him she had overslept. Later, she babysat her grandson, Logan “Butterbean” Shorter, and went shopping with her granddaughter, Lindsey Glover.

Now it’s just past 3:30 p.m., and Becky waits in the August heat.

Her ears perk up at the sound of an engine rumbling in the distance. She shakes her head. Just a car.

Minutes pass before Becky’s ears perk up again. Once again, she knows before the vehicle comes into sight that it’s not a bus.

Finally, she hears it. She walks toward the edge of the road, pulling Dusty close on the leash.

Becky waves, a grin on her face, as the bus passes.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beeeeeeep.

Small hands wave back through half-open windows.

In seconds, the bus is gone. For Becky, it’s strange to see the bus go by without her.

With Dusty tugging at the leash, Becky walks slowly up the long gravel driveway, back to her husband, back home.

The Rites of Life: Letting Go

2008-08-29T15:21:00.004-04:00

By Liz Barry | Audio slideshow by Kim Raff

When Darlene Palmer returns to her home in Rustburg, she spots the pickup truck in her driveway and weeps.

“The Danger Ranger” belongs to her youngest son, Ethan Coleman. The ’93 Ford bears the scars of his teenage misadventures: a knick here, a dent there, a crushed tailgate.

Before, the truck was an ordinary sight, a sign that Ethan was home from school or work or a night out with friends. Today, it sends Darlene over the edge.

Just hours earlier, she watched her 18-year-old son board a bus to boot camp with nothing but the clothes on his back and $20 in his pocket. He is headed to Parris Island, S.C., to become a Marine.

For Darlene, 47, today marks a turning point in her journey of motherhood. For two decades, she has raised two sons and a stepson. All chose to join the Marines, and her middle child, Michael Coleman, served in Iraq last year.

The sight of Ethan’s truck strikes Darlene. Her last son is gone.

Yellow footprints

Thousands of mothers have experienced the pain, and pride, of sending their sons and daughters into the military — an experience heightened by the climate of war. Right now, there are about 34,000 Marines deployed worldwide, almost all in Iraq or Afghanistan, according to an Aug. 27 Reuters report. In the greater Lynchburg area, approximately 300 people have enlisted in the Corps since the United States invaded Iraq in 2003.

Ethan’s departure hits Darlene extra hard. He is the last to leave home, and her role as a mother has changed fundamentally. When Darlene became a parent, her children became the center of her universe. Now, she no longer takes part in their day-to-day lives. She stands back as they become adults.

Darlene spent 24 years balancing motherhood and full-time work at the Virginia Department of Corrections and, later, the Department of Transportation. She shared joint custody of Ethan and Michael with their father, Tim Coleman, and she considers her husband Frank Palmer’s son, Shaun, her son, too.

She watched as each son gained independence. After Ethan got his driver’s license at 16, he was always in and out. Darlene kept tabs on him through phone calls and text messages. The two were close, but they still clashed over parent/teenager things, like curfew, dirty dishes and music.

For Darlene, it’s a matter of pride to see her youngest follow the same yellow footsteps — the ones new recruits stand in upon arrival at Parris Island – as her two older sons, and her husband, also a Marine.

Darlene is also relieved. Ethan stirred up his fair share of trouble at times, including in the weeks before he left. He gashed his foot on a pool skimmer days before his Marine Corps physical. He smashed through a car windshield while roughhousing with friends.

Under Darlene’s watch, the foot healed, and Ethan paid for the windshield. Now, his fate is out of her hands.

After boot camp, Ethan will attend infantry school, which will train him for the front lines. Then, Ethan’s future becomes uncertain. Darlene know, however, that deployment to Iraq or Afghanistan is more than likely.

An ordinary morning

The morning of July 20 is like any other at the Palmer house. Darlene pounds on the bathroom door to expedite Ethan’s 45-minute shower. Later, she and Ethan sit on the living room sofa, watching Home & Garden Television over heaping plates of omelets.

The mood is relaxed. Darlene chides Ethan for his choice in sneakers. Ethan crouches on the floor to play fetch with Squirt, the cat.

Inevitably, the talk turns to the Marines.

Darlene heaves a sigh and looks at her son. “A couple of days, and you’ll have no hair,” she says.

“Yeah,” Ethan grunts.

“You’ll have skin, no hair.”

The banter continues.

“You better hope you don’t have a mole, they’ll cut that off, too,” Frank chimes in. The room erupts into laughter.

At 10 a.m., Ethan hands his cell phone and car keys to Mom. It’s time.

One more hug

The Palmers are the first to arrive at the Marine Corps recruiting station in Lynchburg. Darlene has been here before to send off two other sons.

Just past noon, it’s time for the final hug.

“I’ll be back, Mom,” Ethan says.

In a tight embrace, Darlene rests her face against Ethan’s broad shoulder. Ethan, who has been goofy all morning, turns serious. A tear creeps down his cheek.When the staff sergeant says it’s time, Ethan heads to the bus.

“You’d think after three times, I’d be good at this,” says Darlene between sniffles.

With a smile on her face, Darlene waves as the bus pulls away.

The letting go

Two weeks later, Darlene feels an unfamiliar quiet at home.

She has more time for Harlequin romance novels, dates with her husband and camping trips. But her son’s departure is still raw.

At home, she sees Ethan everywhere. The wooden doormat he made her in shop class. The teddy bear he bought her this past Mother’s Day. The bottle caps that have emerged from a party Ethan threw when Darlene and Frank were out of town.

Darlene misses Ethan’s bear hugs, his goofy sense of humor, kissing him goodnight, and even the things that used to irk her: rap music thumping from his room, the mess of unwashed clothes, the 45-minute showers.

At boot camp, Ethan has no computer, no cell phone. The daily communication Darlene has grown accustomed to is now gone.

Darlene checks the mailbox each day for a letter.

The first one came on Aug. 1. It was printed in neat handwriting on Marine Corps stationary. The sentences were short and peppered with military jargon.

“The first days sucked because of no sleep,” the letter says.

“Now that I’ve made it past the first week and the ISTs (initial strength tests), I have the confidence to do anything and everything I have to to get me through the next 12 weeks. . . Luv ya, Ethan.”

The second came a few days later. Darlene can sense changes based on Ethan’s mood, his experiences.

“How’s everything going? Pretty good here. Extremely hot. . . .

“I wasn’t really nervous at all on the yellow footprints. I was more nervous on the road to Parris Island. And, yes, the drill instructors were huge.”

This time, Ethan signs it with his boot camp name: “Rct. Coleman.”

For Darlene, the tears still sneak up unexpectedly. At work. Watching a Marine Corps ad on TV. Late at night, lying in bed.

Outside, Ethan’s truck is still parked in the driveway. Soon Darlene will drive it to her mother’s house for safekeeping, but not yet.

The Rites of Life: Husband and Wife

2008-07-25T14:58:00.007-04:00

By Liz Barry | Audio slideshow by Kim Raff

The bridesmaids take turns twisting Christin Smith’s hair into an elaborate up-do. Every curl must be in place. One false move risks a burn from the curling iron.

The air smells like vanilla perfume and hair spray. Armed with mirrors and makeup, Christin and her nine bridesmaids have transformed the recital hall in the basement of Snidow Chapel at Lynchburg College into a makeshift beauty parlor.

At 2:40 p.m., Christin examines her reflection one last time. Her dark hair is pulled up into a cascade of ringlets, secured by a tiara and invisible bobby bins. Her dress is laced up, her veil is pinned, and her bouquet is stocked with tissues.

“Oh my God,” she says slowly. “I’m getting married. I’m going to cry. I’m going to cry right now.”

The bride-to-be’s nerves are a marked departure from the morning, when she strutted into the chapel singing the ’80s hit “I’m So Excited.” Now, her breathing is erratic. A bridesmaid rubs her arms to calm her down. For four minutes, Christin swings between fear and excitement.

Suddenly, her face becomes calm. With a glance to Mom, Christin flashes a big grin.
“I’m ready,” she says.

Meanwhile, it takes Elijah Davis five minutes to change out of his jeans and polo shirt into his white tuxedo.

Now, it’s 2:48 — 12 minutes before the wedding. The bridal party has been roaming the hallways, pinning boutonnieres to tuxedos, delivering flowers to flower girls and making last-minute trips to the bathroom.

Elijah is nowhere to be found.

He has escaped into Practice Room No. 1, a rehearsal room no bigger than a closet. He sits alone next to a piano that is strewn with tuxedo bags, jeans, socks and an empty water bottle.

Elijah stares at a crinkled piece of notebook paper. His brows are furrowed, and his stomach is in knots. His lips move silently over the words he wrote last night, the words he will recite to Christin on the altar.

Five more minutes.

Lunchroom romance
Today, July 19, marks the beginning of Christin and Elijah’s life together — a moment five years in the making.

They met in the lunchroom at Heritage High School, sophomore year. Christin thought Elijah was cute. Elijah thought Christin was annoying. They started talking, though, and two weeks later they were an item.

The couple clicked. They exchanged secrets and love letters and late-night phone calls. After three months, they said, “I love you.”

But their parents were strict. Very strict.

Elijah and Christin waited two and a half years — when they both turned 18 - for their first date: dinner at O’Charley’s, followed by a stroll through Wal-Mart. It was their first time alone together in public. No friends. No chaperones. Just the two of them.

A few months later, they left Lynchburg for separate colleges in North Carolina. Christin went to Barton College in Wilson to study deaf and hard of hearing education, and Elijah went to North Carolina State University in Raleigh for a degree in animal science.

Some friends and family thought the relationship would fizzle. It didn’t.
In May 2006, Elijah proposed at the Peaks of Otter over a picnic of fried chicken, potatoes, and macaroni and cheese from KFC.

Now the 21-year-olds are ready to take a leap of faith and say, “I do.”

I now pronounce you …
Elijah and Christin stand face-to-face on the altar of the packed church. The crowd is hushed. Sunlight streams through the large windows.

The Elder Garry Davis, Elijah’s father, performs the ceremony. When the vows are exchanged and the rings in place, the couple present personal expressions — the most stressful part.

Elijah, who hates public speaking, recites the speech he memorized this morning. His voice is barely audible at first, but crescendos at the end:

“I think it was only about three months when I told you that I loved you, and I meant every word of that. I loved you then, and I love you now, and I’ll love you until the last day that I ever walk the face of this Earth.”

The church gushes “oohs” and “aahs.” Christin is speechless. Between sniffles, she introduces her big surprise: she’s performing the song “Makes Me Whole” by Amel Larrieux in sign language.

Afterwards, Elijah’s father’s voice fills the room. For the first time, he breaks from his solemn tone.

“Now I pronounce them husband and wife. King Elijah,” Davis says with a dramatic pause, “you may now kiss your queen.”

They lean in for a quick smooch. The church erupts into cheers.

It’s official.

A big step
Marriage brings a new level of intimacy. Though Christin and Elijah have known each other for more than five years, they have never lived together. As husband and wife, they take a step into that unknown.

After the honeymoon in Miami, the newlyweds will move into a three-bedroom apartment in Wilson, where Christin will finish her last year of college. Elijah will commute 50 miles to veterinary school in Raleigh.

They will share small things, like toothpaste, and big things, like a bed. For religious and personal reasons, the couple say they decided to wait until after marriage for sex. Now their relationship takes on yet another layer.

As they enter uncharted territory, Christin and Elijah bring shared values and years of history. They share a Christian faith, and a view on how to balance kids and careers. Not to mention the simple pleasures, like riding bikes, eating stuffed crust pizza and watching their all-time favorite movie, “Brown Sugar.”

Over time, they have learned the value of compromise. Though they agree on a lot, they definitely have their differences.

Take kids. They both want a family; the question is how soon. Christin wants to have children early. If Elijah had his way, they’d wait another 15 years. They have decided on meeting somewhere in the middle (five more years).

Even simple decisions can turn complicated. On a recent shopping trip, the couple spent an entire day debating the merit of every washer and dryer in the store before settling on one. It offered a glimpse of the day-to-day compromise to come as they share a life together.

The whirlwind and the calm
The celebration migrates from the chapel to the Ninth Street Parlor downtown — a swank ballroom decked with crystal chandeliers and sepia photographs of old-time Lynchburg.

The room overflows with guests. Family, friends, teachers and colleagues have came to celebrate.

Husband and wife are the last to arrive. They are greeted with a standing ovation, followed by a barrage of hugs and kisses.

When the commotion calms, Elijah seeks refuge in the back room, away from the crowds. He sinks into a big leather chair and shuts his eyes.

“I’m tired,” he sighs.

Elijah is jolted from the moment by a voice over the loudspeaker. The DJ orders him to report to the dance floor for the first dance — “Speechless” by Michael Jackson.
The reception is a whirlwind of cake-cutting, bouquet-throwing, picture-taking — all the essentials. Elijah and Christin never touch a bite of their food.

At 8:20, the couple pull away in Christin’s yellow Nissan Xterra SUV and head to Elijah’s parent’s home to change for a quiet dinner alone.

Christin sprawls across a wooden parlor chair in the living room, where a small group of Elijah’s family has congregated. Her skirt billows around her like a parachute. The day is slowly sinking in.

“I’m officially part of the family, Bro,” Christin says to her new cousin, L.A. Franklin Jr., or “Bro” for short.

“Sometimes I just can’t wake up from a nightmare,” Bro teases, before heading down the hall to check on the groom.

“Bro, is my husband back there? My hus — band?” she says with extra emphasis.

When the couple has changed, they go out for their first dinner as husband and wife. The destination is O’Charley’s, the site of their first date. Afterwards, they will drive two hours to Greensboro and a catch a plane in the morning to Miami.

Christin and Elijah slide into the booth and pore over the menus, chatting about the food options. They reach across the table and clasp hands. For a moment they’re quiet as they finger each other’s wedding bands.

The Rites of Life: Legal at Last

2008-06-26T14:55:00.003-04:00

By Liz Barry Audio slideshow by Kim Raff

The only thing standing between Allen Addair III and his first legal drink is a burly bouncer.

Addair waits on the sidewalk in front of Mudpuppy’s in Lynchburg with his best friend Kyle Schaffner. He compulsively checks the time on his cell phone. This time it’s 11:35 p.m. - 25 minutes and counting.

Addair, a car salesman and Jefferson Forest High School graduate, is the last of his friends to turn 21. Since his birthday falls on a Wednesday, Addair must report to work tomorrow at 9 a.m. But that has not stopped him from celebrating tonight.

“What’s your first shot gonna be?” asks the bouncer, Ed Marsh, who has checked the IDs of countless newly minted 21-year-olds.

“Jäger,” jokes Addair with mock enthusiasm, referring to the German liqueur, Jägermeister.

May 7 arrives quietly. Addair he must wait until 12:15 a.m. to enter the bar. House rules.

“This is the longest 30 minutes of my life,” Addair groans.

At 12:15, the bouncer signals Addair to the door and checks his ID.

“The gates to paradise are open,” Marsh says.

Addair enters the golden glow of the restaurant’s lobby and beelines to the bar. He gapes around the smoky room, and then catches the bartender’s attention.

“Two Bud Lights and two Kamikazes.” Addair says.

The bartender delivers the first round. With a grin on his face, Addair and Shaffner clink their beer bottles together. Legal at last.

The big 2-1

For a year, Addair kept a digital countdown to his birthday on his Facebook profile, visible to all of his 900-plus Facebook friends. When people asked him when he turned 21, Addair would rattle off the exact number of days remaining.

Turning 21 is one of the last gateways to adulthood. At 18, Addair earned a string of new rights: the right to vote, enlist in the army without parental consent and get married without parental consent, to name a few. But buying beer would have to wait.

The law’s ambivalent about when you’re legally an adult. The debate surrounding the legal drinking age is just one example.

During the past century, the minimum drinking age has swung like a pendulum from 21 to 18, then back to 21 again. When prohibition ended in 1933, almost every state established 21 as the legal drinking age - and it stayed that way for decades, according to the Virginia Department of Alcoholic Beverage Control Web site.

In the 1970s, states began to lower the drinking age to 18 - a change that coincided with moving the voting age from 21 to 18 in response to the Vietnam War. The argument was that if you’re old enough to die for your country, you are old enough to vote and to drink. Virginia followed suit in 1974, dropping the drinking age for beer to 18, while wine and liquor stayed at 21. In 1985, the drinking age swung back to 21 for all alcoholic drinks, part of a nationwide movement to cut back on alcohol-related problems, especially drunk driving.

Addair’s birthday celebration takes caution into account. Before the big day, Addair’s mother, Tara Addair, gave him the responsible drinking talk. The night of the party, Addair hands his keys over to Mom and arranges for designated drivers.

Beyond drinking, turning 21 is one of the last steps towards independence for Addair, a Texas native who loves basketball and playing the guitar. After graduating from high school, Addair lived on his own for a year in an apartment subsidized by Mom. He took classes at the community college and sold cell phones.

In the fall of 2006, Addair left Lynchburg to attend college in Tennessee, but moved back home after a year to be closer to his friends and family. Addair earned his real estate license. But with the downturn of the housing market, he put his real estate plans on hold.

Since February, Addair has been racking up 60-hour workweeks at a local car dealership. He pays his rent and the bills. Mom still covers the cell phone bill, but other than that, Addair is on his own.

Getting ready

After work, Addair heads to his apartment in Wyndhurst to get ready for dinner at O’Charleys with his family and friends. Addair splurged on a new outfit from Belk: a blue and whitestriped Ralph Lauren polo shirt and khaki shorts. His intention was to buy just a shirt, and he came back with a $60 outfit.

“I’m going to look dead sexy tonight,” Addair says with a laugh to his roommates, before heading upstairs for a shower.

In the excitement of the night, Addair accidentally uses his roommate’s toothbrush. For a final touch, he spikes his short brown hair with gel and sprays on Silver Cologne for Men by Ralph Lauren Polo. After one last look in the mirror, Addair heads downstairs to join his friends.

Dinner’s not for another half hour. To kill time, Addair chats with Schaffner and his roommates in his sparsely furnished living room. He sits on the sofa, absently strumming his guitar.

“I’m nervous,” Addair says to his friends with a sigh.

“Nervous about what?” Schaffner asks.

“Dude, I’m 21. It’s a big deal.”

The grand entrance

Addair makes a point to arrive at the restaurant fashionably late. The reservation is for 7; Addair comes at 7:15.

Family and friends bombard Addair with hugs and “happy birthdays.” In the chaos, a feathery pink birthday crown is thrust on his head, and a beauty queen sash with “Miss Birthday Girl” in pink cursive letters makes its way across his torso.

“It’s going to be a long night, ladies and gentleman,” says Addair, before heading to the bar for a drink.

Addair settles into the relative calm of thedinner table. He is joined his mother, stepfather, grandparents and an entourage of friends, mostly female. There are 15 people in total.

Friends and family order drinks for Addair, who washes it all down with a plate of chicken tenders and fries.

“Two shots of Jose Cuervo for me and him,” Addair says, pointing to his grandfather, Allen Addair.

The shots arrive with green salt around the lips of the glasses. A friend massages Addair’s shoulders before he takes the drink. Grandpa is undaunted; the Cuervo is nothing compared with the moonshine he used to drink.

Grandpa and grandson take the gulp, and exchange a high five.The table becomes more raucous as the night wears on. Stories, laughter and drinks circulate the table.

Towards the end of the night, Mom leans across the table and gives stern instructions.

“If you go anywhere tonight and you don’t have a ride, call a cab,” she says.

“We will,” says Addair, who has already arranged for designated drivers.

By 9 p.m., Mom’s purse is on her lap. Time for the adults to leave.

“Seriously, if Grandpa stays, it’s cool,” Addair insists.

But even Grandpa must go.

Last call

Just past 9:30 p.m., the party migrates down the road to Buffalo Wild Wings. Since it’s a weeknight, some of Addair’s friends head home. A dedicated majority joins him at the bar.

“Check out that birthday. Check out that birthday,” Addair says as he flashes his license to the bouncer.

“Oh wow, you’re really a baby,” the bouncer says with a laugh.

Addair and his friends grab bar stools facing a wall of big screen TVs, blaring sports games. Addair orders a beer, which arrives in a tall frosty mug.

Four hours later, the night ends where it all began Mudpuppy’s.

At last call, two sober drivers take Addair and his friends home. The morning after, Addair wakes up with one last birthday present: a killer headache.

The Rites of Life: First Hunt

2008-05-17T17:30:00.001-04:00

By Liz Barry | Audio slideshow by Kim Raff

Steven Browning kneels behind a tangle of leaves and branches, stone-still except for the flick of his eyes as he scans the woods. His father, Anthony Browning, kneels beside him, binoculars pressed to brow.

Today, Nov. 3, is Steven’s first hunt. He has been in the woods since before sunrise.

At 7:35 a.m., nature’s morning hum is jolted by the crunch of dead leaves.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

Father and son watch and wait. The sound continues for 10 minutes, an unknown creature.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

“Daddy, I think I see a deer,” Steven whispers.

Slowly, he raises his rifle. The minutes pass likes hours. Finally, the creature reveals itself.

Squirrel.

Steven exhales, and lowers his rifle. Not yet.

The first hunt

Hunting runs deep in the Browning family of Amherst County. Steven’s grandfather took Steven’s Dad squirrel hunting every Thanksgiving growing up. Dad took up deer hunting on his own as a teenager. Now, he passes the tradition to his sons: Steven and 11-year-old Jonathan.

Hunting reaches back beyond the frontier days, when it was essential to survival. While today the number of hunters is on the decline nationwide, hunting remains an ingrained tradition for thousands of families in Virginia.

More than 250,000 people have active hunting licenses in the state. With no minimum hunting age, the parents are the gatekeepers.

Steven had to wait until 14. That was the rule of his father, a hunter for more than three decades.

Over the years, Anthony taught Steven how to read the woods. Now, Steven can spot deer trails and estimate the size of the deer from a single hoof print. He knows when it’s mating season by the markings bucks leave on tree trunks from rubbing the soft velvet off their antlers.

Steven’s father also passed down his hunting ethos. For Anthony, hunting is more about spending time in nature than killing a deer. When he does shoot one, he uses all the meat and lets nothing go to waste.

Above all, Anthony taught Steven that safety comes first. Once a bullet leaves the gun, it cannot be taken back.

The final step for Steven was getting his hunting license. In October, he passed the state-required hunter’s educa-tion course with 96 on the final test, two questions short of a perfect score. He bought the license yesterday and signed it this morning.

Now the moment has arrived.

For Steven, a freshman at Amherst County High School, the first hunt is a mark of maturity. It gives him the power to end a life with the squeeze of a trigger. It also tests his knowledge of nature and the habits of deer. Most of all, it’s a moment that forges a special bond between him and his father.

Into the woods

Just before 7, Anthony and Steven enter the dark forest, father barely taller than son. Their path is lit by the glow of the moon and a single flashlight.

Their hunting ground is 150 acres of woods on a neighbor’s property, where they have permission to hunt. Yes-terday, the pair surveyed the land, chose an ambush spot and created a nest of camouflage with tree branches and brush.

Anthony and Steven step over a low line of barbed wire and walk down a long hill, kicking up dry leaves. In less than 10 minutes, they reach their spot and take position on the damp ground.

Steven leans against a thin tree trunk and watches the woods, rifle across his lap. He wears a blaze-orange shirt, wool gloves and a knit cap pulled over his long brown bangs. His camo pants are hand-me-downs from his father.

Anthony is propped against an adjacent tree, rifle by his side, puffing a Black & Mild cigar. His face is framed by a green outdoorsman hat and a stubbly gray beard. He wears a fleece jacket and insulated overalls for warmth.

Father and son are hunting with muzzleloaders, antique-style rifles used by Civil War soldiers, old-time mountain men, and folk heroes like Davy Crocket and Daniel Boone. They like the idea of preserving an old tradition, not to mention the adrenaline rush. With muzzleloaders, the stakes are high. Reloading can take more than two minutes. And the blast is loud enough to send a deer running.

Bottom line: You get one shot.

Watch and wait

By 7:30, the light is seeping into the gully. The forest emerges from the shadows in shades of green, yellow and brown.

“Dad, it’s getting lighter now,” Steven whispers.

“You see the sun as it’s hitting the top of the trees? It’s going to get lower on the trees,” Anthony whispers back. “As the sun gets higher in the East, it just kind of brings a whole different view. It kind of makes you appreciate what God gave us. There are too many people who never get to experience this.”

Anthony pauses. “This is what makes life worth living,” he says. “The dawning of a new day.”

The morning settles into the rhythm of the hunt, alternating between silent watching and easy chatter. On watch mode, every sound is amplified: a grumbling stomach, sniffle or zipper. Inevitably, the mood lightens. The pair laughs, shares stories and munches on Cheez-It crackers.

At 8:20, Steven’s body tenses.

“Daddy, daddy, top of the hill, there,” he whispers.

“You see some movement?” Anthony says.

“I see something,” Steven whispers, his eyes fixed on a far-off spot.

The rustling is louder now. The leaves snap and crunch.

A minute passes before Steven breaks the silence. “God, it’s another squirrel.”

One shot

After a lazy two-hour lunch, Steven and his father hit the woods at 2:30 to find a new spot. They discover fresh tracks, and set up watch by a fallen tree with dead brown leaves and branches like crooked elbows. Steven leans against a tree stump, gun on lap. Dad sits a few feet away.

Back to the waiting game.

At 4:05 – nine hours into the hunt – two bucks run across the clearing. Anthony hollers. One deer darts off, the other stops behind a tree and then crosses Steven’s line of fire.

Steven has a clear shot, but does not shoot. He follows the buck with the barrel of his gun; his finger fumbles with the trigger.

Boom. The shot cracks through the air, leaving behind a cloud of smoke.

Two minutes of silence pass as father and son take in the scene.

“I missed,” Steven says.

Steven surveys the ground where the deer was when he shot. He finds hoof prints, but no sign of blood.

“I can’t believe I was pulling the back trigger,” Steven says.

Steven’s rifle has two triggers, a set trigger, which prepares the gun to fire, and a trigger that releases the bullet. During the precious seconds when he had an open shot, Steven pulled the wrong trigger.

Disappointed but not dejected, the pair replay the deer encounter, analyzing the details.

“It was a nice six-pointer,” Steven says.

“It was. It was nice, Steven. Congratulations. I hunted for about six years before I got my first shot,” Anthony says.

The play-by-play continues.

“This deer had no clue we were here,” Anthony says. “This is a good ambush place.”

“Yes, it was,” Steven says. “We ought to come back here.”

“We will.” Anthony says.

The true story

Steven and Anthony wait two more hours for deer, to no avail. At 6, they pack up and head home.

When they pull into the driveway, Steven’s little brother Jonathan dashes across the lawn to greet them.

“I got me a 10-pointer in the back of the truck,” Steven says with a grin.

Jonathan’s face lights up in disbelief. Then the real story comes out -- the morning of squirrels, the two bucks, the wrong trigger, the big shot.

“And he missed a deer,” says his mother, Mona Browning, shaking her head.

“Yeah,” Steven replies. “It was my first deer. Everybody misses their first deer.”

Too young to hunt, Jonathan spent the day making a hand-stitched pouch to carry his essential hunting gear. Right now, it just contains his pocket knife. Jonathan must wait at least two more years until his father will allow him to join his big brother.

As for Steven and his father, they plan to hunt again next weekend.

Steven and his father hunted almost every weekend during hunting season. He has yet to kill his first deer.

The Rites of Life: Becoming Little Ladies

2008-04-19T16:01:00.001-04:00

By Liz Barry | Audio slideshow by Kim Raff

Kaunyia Harvey sits quietly in the ear piercing chair at Claire’s Accessories in River Ridge Mall, chewing a wad of bubble gum. Her hair is woven into thick braids. On her fingernails are the last remnants of red nail polish.

With her mom at her side, the 10-year-old Lynchburg girl picks out her first pair of earrings: flower studs with hot pink rhinestones. Kaunyia’s been waiting years for this.

But not without a dose of dread.

Kaunyia hates needles. As the story goes, it once took seven people to hold her down for a shot at the doctor’s office. That was more than two years ago.

Today, Kaunyia is cool and composed. Then her body tenses as Claire’s employee Samone Bowlds prepares the piercing gun.

“Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it,” says her mother, Stacy Scott, in a firm but soothing voice.

“I wish I could do this in my sleep,” Kaunyia replies.

Mom extends a hand to comfort her daughter. Kaunyia rejects it. She clutches the chair instead.

Bowlds raises the piercing gun loaded with a needle-sharp stud to Kaunyia’s earlobe. Kaunyia jerks her head away. She can’t bear for her mom and brother, Jamaine Harvey, 8, to watch. She orders them to turn around.

On the second attempt — click — the earring stud snaps into place.

“Ouch,” Kaunyia says with a flinch.

Then she smiles. The pink stud twinkles in her ear. One down, one to go.

A small step toward adulthood

Ear piercing. It’s a rite of passage for countless American girls.

Ear piercing is nothing new. We’ve been doing it for millennia, donning our lobes with metal, bone, shell, ivory, glass and other eye-catching objects. The reasons have varied, from religion to rebellion, from a mark of class to simply decorative.

For American girls today, ear piercing marks a small step toward adulthood, a “tween-age” milestone for girls straddling the line between childhood and adolescence.

For younger girls, ear piercing may signify a transition from generic/androgynous child to a female/girl, says Tim Loboschefski, departmenthead and professor of psychology at Sweet Briar College. For older girls, piercing may signify the transition from girl to woman, he says.

Ear piercing also makes a public statement, a common characteristic of rites of passages. The child is letting the world know, “I’m a girl,” Loboschefski says.There is also an element of emulating older role models — be it a celebrity, teenage sister or mom, says Nina Jablonski, department head and professor of anthropology at Pennsylvania State University.

Ear piercing is also about fitting in. During the transition from childhood to adulthood, “association with and acceptance by peer groups becomes extremely important,” Jablonski says in an email.

In Lynchburg, Claire’s Accessories is an ear piercing hotspot. On any given Saturday, Claire’s employees may pierce upwards of 10 ears.

Some of those ears belong to teenagers and adults getting second holes or cartilage piercings. For first-timers, it’s a big deal. Many of them have waited months, or even years, for the big day.

Birthday present

Jennifer Mattox usually sleeps past noon on the weekends. Today, she woke up at 9 a.m.

The reason: the Lynchburg girl is getting her ears pierced for her 13th birthday.

Jennifer slumps in the piercing chair as her mother, Rhonda Mattox, signs the forms. Jennifer wears a fuchsia Mickey Mouse T-shirt, striped skirt and leggings with hearts. Her toenails and fingernails are painted white.

Claire’s employee Alisha Floyd draws purple dots on Jennifer’s ears where the studs will go. Floyd notices some scar tissue and asks if Jennifer’s ever had her ears pierced before.

Mom explains that Jennifer got her ears pierced when she was 8. Because Jennifer’s a side sleeper, the earrings irritated her at night, so she let the holes close up.

Today,Jennifer is as nervous as ever but prepared for some mild nighttime irritation.

“It’s one of the things, being a girl, you’re going to have to deal with if you want earrings,” Floyd says to Jennifer.

“Yeah, exactly,” Mom says.

“Beauty is pain,” Floyd says.

Floyd positions the piercing gun against the lobe. Jennifer stares blankly ahead, squeezing mom’s hand. The gun clicks.

Silence.

Jennifer doesn’t flinch.

Round two, she’s still as a statue.

With the worst part over, Jennifer admires her new earrings. Tomorrow, she will show them off at her birthday party.

The big choice

Almost as important as the piercing itself is the selection of the first pair of earrings a girl will wear when it’s time to remove the piercing studs.

The studs must stay in for six weeks while the ear heals. After that, anything goes.

Claire’s sells earrings in every color of the rainbow, from the basic hoops and studs to quirkier options like miniature handcuffs and barnyard animals. There are hippie-inspired peace sign, skulls and crossbones for punk rockers, and cascading chandelier earrings for glamour queens.

Her first pair

Kaitlyn Alexander knows exactly what she wants.

In six weeks, the 11-year-old Mechanicsville native plans to replace her citrine piercing studs (her November birthstone) with earrings of Bobby Jack, a bubble-faced cartoon monkey.

Most of her female classmates already have their ears pierced, she says. Kaitlyn got hers pierced when she was 4, but they closed up. She wants them re-pierced before she goes to middle school next year.

Kaitlyn is in Lynchburg visiting her grandmother. Though she’s wanted her ears pierced for months, getting them done today was a spur-of-the-moment decision.

Now the moment has arrived. Eyes squeezed tight, Kaitlyn grimaces as she awaits the piercing gun. Tears well in the cornersof her eyes.

“Ow,” she says with a sniffle.

When both ears are pierced, Kaitlyn inspects them in the mirror with a serious face. Her mother, Kelly Jones,looks on with a smile.

Mother-daughter time

The first ear piercing is usually a mother-daughter affair.

Part of that is out of necessity. Children under 18 must be accompanied by a parent or legal guardian to get their ears pierced at Claire’s.

But mom provides more than just a signature for forms. She can be a pillar of support.

At Claire’s, the ear piercing station is located in the storefront window, usually the domain of mannequins and flashy merchandise displays. When a girl’s about to go under the gun, shoppers will sometimes stop in their tracks to watch.

Mom can provide the words of support that make the experience more bearable.

A big high five

In the case of needle-phobic Kaunyia, her mother’s watchful eye is making it worse.

With her both ears pierced, Kaunyia allows her mom to turn around.

“See, it wasn’t that bad,” Scott says, giving Kaunyia a big high five.

The subdued Kaunyia begins to speak quickly.

“Now my friends at school are gonna be like, ‘Kaunyia got her ears pierced,’” she exclaims.

She pauses. “I didn’t cry.”

After a glimpse in the mirror, Kaunyia grabs two lollipops from the candy jar at the piercing station and wanders the store.

She eyes a rack full of earrings.

“Aw, that’s tight,” she says, fingering a pair of pink spiky balls.

“Not now,” her mother says. The ears have to heal.

Six more weeks.

The Rites of Life: New Life

2008-03-21T15:56:00.005-04:00

By Liz Barry | Audio slideshow by Kim Raff

Luke arrived six days late.

For nine months, his parents, Jessica and Ian Kyle, expected him to arrive on Feb. 7. But Luke wasn’t ready.

Feb. 8 passed with no contractions. Same story the next three days.

On the morning of Feb. 12, the contractions began, but were too far apart for the Kyles to go to the hospital. One or two more days, the doctor told them.

That night, while Jessica was wandering the aisles of Barnes & Nobles on Wards Road, the contractions hit hard. Bags already packed, Ian drove her straight to Virginia Baptist Hospital through the pouring rain. They were there by 11 p.m.

At 9:45 a.m. on Feb. 13, Lukas Ian Kyle entered the world, a hearty 7 pounds, 2 ounces.

Now he’s barely 5 hours old, swaddled in a blue blanket in his father’s arms. Luke gazes at him through half-opened eyes. His face is splotchy pink, his fingers wrinkled.

“Try putting him on your shoulder,” Jessica says to Ian from the hospital bed.

“I don’t want his head to fall off,” Ian murmurs.

“They kind of intimidate me a little bit,” he says after a long pause.

Babies, that is.

Luke is the first child of Ian and Jessica, both Bedford-area natives. They attended the same middle school, but ran in different circles. The couple reconnected while students at Liberty University and married in May 2006. Now Ian, 26, is in seminary school at Liberty and Jessica, 25, is a nurse in Roanoke.

For the first time, their hospital room is quiet. Ian and Jessica are soaking up the first hours of Luke’s life.

The stark room has remnants from the swarm of family members who visited earlier. A silver balloon. A vase of blue carnations with a card that reads, “It’s about time.”

The parents haven’t slept in more than 24 hours. The baby is sleeping now, and has napped off and on since delivery.

Homeward bound

Luke is barely 50 hours old on the afternoon of Feb. 15 when it’s time to leave Mother Baby Unit 6. But not before the nurse gives his parents a rundown of what to expect during the first weeks, from how to give a sponge bath to the warning signs of postpartum depression.

As for typical infant behavior?

“Eat, sleep, pee, poop, cry. That’s pretty much it,” the nurse says with a chuckle.

Jessica signs the release forms and loads up the diaper bag. Ian plops the car seat onto the bed.

“Are you ready to go for your first ride?” Ian says.

Luke starts crying as he’s placed in the seat. He crinkles his beet-red face and splays his toes.

Arms entwined, Jessica and Ian poke and prod, adjusting the straps and nudging Luke’s limbs into place.

“That one’s just a little tight,” Jessica says. The baby wails. The parents fumble.

Snap. Snap. All buckled.

“There you go,” Jessica says as she bundles Luke with a blanket.

Home at last

At 3:25 p.m., Luke, asleep in his car seat, makes his entrance into his new home in Bedford County. His father rests the car seat on the kitchen counter. First on the agenda: diaper change.

That finished, Jessica breastfeeds Luke on the living room couch. Ian sinks in next to her, yawning deeply.

It’s quieter than usual. Something’s missing: the jangle of a collar and the scrape of claws on wood. The Kyles’ greyhound, Jimmy, is staying with family.

As Luke eats, the house is silent except for a ticking clock and the occasional gurgle.

After his meal, Luke is awake and alert. His grey eyes drift around the room. His toes clench and unclench.

“This is home now, little buddy,” Jessica says.

About an hour later, Ian’s mother, Elaine Kyle, arrives with a rotisserie chicken. Elaine holds her grandson as she and Jessica begin to rehash the delivery.

“The delivery, he did not like the delivery,” Jessica says, nodding toward her husband.

Ian chimes in. “It really did remind me of something out of ‘Alien’ or something.”

Elaine has a torrent of questions.

“How was the car ride home? Did he like the car?”

“Good, he slept all the way home,” Jessica says.

“Oh Mercy, such frowns!” Elaine says to the baby. “And how’s Mama?”

“OK, tired,” Jessica says.

Family time

Feb. 23. Luke’s been home for nine days and has already racked up some firsts:

First exposure to music (“Baby Einstein: Lullaby Classics,” a classical music CD for babies); first trip to the restaurant (Jersey Lily’s Roadhouse Grill in Roanoke); first TV show (“Miami Vice”); and first trip to the Wal-Mart parking lot. Jessica and Ian have decided to hold off on taking Luke to church until after flu season.

Luke will have more firsts today. He will meet three new relatives: his uncle, Aaron Moody, and his great grandparents, Betty and Howard Moody.

Around 3 p.m., the family starts to arrive.

Luke, face now clear of red splotches, wears a white Onesie and canary yellow booties. He’s passed around the room, with each family member taking a turn to coo and admire.

Jimmy, the greyhound, tries to claim center stage on the living room rug.

Luke is being rocked in the arms of Janice Moody, his maternal grandmother, who sits on the sofa. The dog’s not having it. The lanky greyhound pounces on the couch and peers at the baby before snuggling his long snout in Janice’s lap. The room erupts into chuckles.

After a few minutes, Janice is ready to pass Luke on. “Anyone want to hold him again?”

Howard Moody, Luke’s great-grandfather, chimes in. “Let me hold him a minute.”

This is the first time Howard has held Luke. He examines the tiny bundle, remarking on Luke’s hair, eyelashes, toes.

The final verdict: “Yes, he’s a Moody,” Howard says, laughing.

Late night

It’s March 3, and Luke is more than 2 weeks old. Yesterday, he had another first: a real bath in the tub, which resulted in much crying and fussing.

Just past 9:30 p.m., it’s almost bedtime for Mom and baby. Dad, the night owl, plans on catching the end of “Miami Vice.”

By 9:50, Luke is asleep in a brand new crib in the guest room turned nursery, which is now cluttered with baby gifts, diapers and stuffed animals. Luke usually sleeps for two to three hours between feedings. Jessica catches pockets of sleep whenever she can.

“Goodnight, Luke. See you in a couple hours when you wake up,” Jessica says.

Less than an hour later, Luke begins to wail. The pajama-clad Jessica emerges from her dark bedroom for another feeding. She cradles Luke on a cushioned rocking chair, dabbing his forehead with a damp paper towel to keep him awake.

The dog comes in to inspect for just a moment before turning back.

Jessica rocks back and forth, periodically rubbing Luke’s tiny earlobe with her thumb.

By 11 p.m., Luke is lulled to sleep by the electronic music of his mobile while Mom and Dad stand over the crib.

Ian and Jessica retire to the living room for what they hope will be two or three hours of quiet before Luke demands his next meal. This is the new rhythm of their lives. Luke’s needs set the terms now.

At 11:16 p.m., barely 15 minutes after his parents put him down, Luke starts crying again.