Five

APIS5

Be the change you wish to see in the world.

Gandhi

How and or where could I tell of my beginnings without painting the landscape of the life that grew to define my own in so many ways beyond those planned and or anticipated?
Wow, there’s a thought. I’ll leave it for now, though.
Let’s speak in stead of an inner light that shone forth on the world around her as a measure of true balance with her own environment held in sublime balance with that which she valued in not only her life, but in the lives of those around her.
Lacking both ability and resolve within, I’ll fall back on her strength to allow this part of the tale, in stead relying on her potency of engagement and intensity of living that I can still feel coursing within me from time to varied time, not only allowing me to keep the dragon at bay, but also sometimes empowering me to fight him back into his cave. Her love, her presence were like that. I’m talking about an inner light that is so rarely encountered in our cynical world, a strength that was never used for self but, in stead, was given freely to all around her, particularly me. It’s emboldened with that strength, then, that I feel able to tell you some about her As She Was rather than What Befell Her. That part will come later. For now, I feel warm and, armed with a smile that today she still empowers, I ask you to join me on this briefest of detours in order to share the beauty of a soul more noble, more intricately crafted than any master artist could endeavor to paint. Beauty’s name was and continues to be Beth.
Beth’s story begins the same year as mine, only in Arcadia, California, where things remained until collegiate education and Other Things Involving Josh stole her away to Ocean Beach/San Diego.
Along came Beth, or something like that.
In the photos her mother has shared with me over these precious years, I’ve seen many black and white artistic images shot of Beth’s mother holding a tiny baby with tow blonde hair, stunning light eyes always open and taking in the world around her, and hands up stretched as if trying to embrace the very essence of the world around her. Beth was engaged from her very beginning, her mother and father often told (tell) me, remaining quiet at birth, but looking very seriously around her with wide opened, clear eyes as the mid-wife handed her down to her mother’s chest. Beth didn’t utter a sound, in stead reaching out two impossibly tiny, chubby hands to touch her mother’s face. It was a moment, they both agreed, that they first glimpsed an inner light that shone forth as if provided by a higher power manifested deep within the soul of their only daughter.
Neither of Beth’s’ parents, mind you, were (or even are, given What Transpired) particularly religious. Still, as they’ve oft recounted with undiminished love, adoration and, perhaps most touchingly, admiration, Beth was touched by something far beyond herself even at an early age. Not many of us can lay similar claims.
Let’s forward a brief period of time. Early one morning Beth’s father came to her room to kiss her in her crib before leaving for work. A tiny toddler with white blonde hair looked up at him in the morning sunlight and, in a small child’s voice, very distinctly said “I saw butterflies outside” while she smiled all gummy and partially toothed and reached her small arms for her father to pick her up. As he still recounts with fondness and a smile that burns through the thickest glaciated ice: “And so it began, the talking was like a switch that turned on in Beth’s soul, and after that she never let up.”
I saw butterflies outside.
Not Dada, Poppa or any other such nonsense. My Beth, their Beth, was engaged in the world about her from the very beginning. Experience was the essence of living, part of her being from her earliest times on this rock. Wow. By way of comparison, I’m sure I wailed mournfully at birth and probably said little more than Mamma in the beginning. But, again, this part isn’t about me.
Now, lest you assume otherwise, I’m not trying to impart the image that the clouds parted, rays of celestially divine sunlight bathed her, and angels and cherubs sang for Beth. Not at all. By normal conventions, there were standard issues of childhood and adolescence including bed wetting, tantrums, scabby knees, power struggles, and whatnot. Rather, Beth possessed from the earliest a keen insight into how the very act of living affected others, and she attempted to act upon it in order to improve the conditions of those within her sphere of influence.
Her mother told me that around the age of three, Beth asked her rather solemnly one night as she lay down to bed “Mommy, if I have Teddy, who do the bears have to keep them warm at night?” Cute, quaint and all that, I know. Still, when you magnify that over the course of her life, such that it was, that degree of empathy and sentiment echoed in that one tiny question became a blueprint for a soul that was most at home when engaged with others, seeking to share her power with theirs, particularly when they, whoever “they” were, needed it.
Some of us muddle through life in a semi-catatonic state of semi-lucid engagement and/or higher degrees of self-absorption. We shuffle along in life barely engaged within the context of realization of ourselves, yet alone those around us. Beth? Nope. Who do the teddy bears have as teddy bears? That about sums it up, but the catalyst or seminal event that defined her will be told shortly.
On a humorous side note, there was apparently a development with the introduction of her adult set of teeth that beset upon her a lisp as she stood upon the threshold of puberty. Already a head taller than the other kids, her father still laughingly insists that Beth entered a brief period of chrysalis awkwardness. “It lasted less than a year. She lisped her s’es, and she briefly seemed to be all elbows and kneecaps, toe head notwithstanding. Then, Josh, one morning she staggered into the kitchen for breakfast, and there were boobs on her chest (I tend to blush on her behalf when he tells this part of the story), her legs were shaped like a woman’s and her lisp had given way from something akin to Cindy Brady into something that you’d, uhm, well, hear on late night cable television.
“I remember staring at her slack-jawed, wondering how this barely pre-teen had shed her cocoon seemingly overnight when, all of the sudden, this stunningly beautiful blonde looked out the bay window over the sink while grabbing my arm: ‘Look, Daddy, there are butterflies outside this morning.’
“Butterflies indeed.”
He was long over tearing up at that story, in stead remembering things as they were that day with obvious warm fondness. His voice trailed off, lost deep in thought and memories with a faint, dreamy smile on his face. I can never muster such resolve, however, and even now as I type this I feel a lump in spite of the strength she provides...
Butterflies indeed.
That children grow up all too fast while their parents lag behind is a reality of life, I’m certain. I had so hoped to experience that with her. Still, there was something indefinable in Beth’s nature from her earliest that hinted at an old soul, already rich with experiences and wisdom far beyond her years.
“When she was eight,” her mother told me once, “Beth was very late returning from playing in the neighborhood one afternoon. Needless to say I was a nervous wreck and was all but demanding that we call the FBI, the Coast Guard and Interpol to begin an immediate search.
“While her father and I tried to hold ourselves together, the front door opened, and Little Blondie walked in carrying a box that seemed twice her size.
“I ran to her, crying and beset with anger only to be shushed away by Beth with this truly remarkable seriousness. I was too instantly taken back to realize that the box had three small puppies in it. Beth was imploring me in a lispy whisper to be quiet, lest I wake them. I stood there incredulously, not quite knowing what to do, so I knelt down to ask what had happened.
“She gingerly set the box down and took my hand, her little ones trembling as she obviously worked for all she was worth to keep from crying.”
“I found them,” Beth said, seeming so very small at that moment, her mother said. “There were two others, but Momma, they were dead.” Her little chest was heaving but even still she was trying to be brave, looking down at the small, snoring puppies. “They were in the dirt field behind Mr. Nakamura’s house. I dug a small hole and put them in there, but these three were still breathing, so I went to Mr. Nakamura and asked him for a box.” (Note, I doubt she even bothered to tell the kind old neighbor what she wanted the box for, yet he gave it to the block’s Little Blondie. She was known for asking neighbors for odd things, never for herself, and, thus, the neighborhood knew to indulge her requests.)
“I put them in the box and slowly walked home. Momma, their eyes aren’t open yet, and they cry a lot. They’re scared and cold and hungry.”
Her mother paused, a tear streaming down her cheek as she relayed the story, years, mind you, Before. “Momma, I don’t know where their mommy is, I couldn’t find her. I looked and looked and looked. They were crying, and I had to stop looking, Momma. I knew I needed to bring them home. I couldn’t find their mommy.”
This is the point where the resolve of an old soul apparently broke down and a small girl began to cry, still holding her mother’s hand tightly but looking with such sorrow at the small pups as to break even the most stoic heart.
“I couldn’t find their mommy and the other two were dead. I took the box and walked home, Momma. I couldn’t find their mommy….” She broke down into quiet hysterics, by now clutching tightly to her mother’s neck and sobbing into her hair.
Again, how many eight year olds do things like that? Get a box from a neighbor, burry the dead puppies, ensure the remaining ones’ safety and then look for what must have been several hours for the mother dog, presumably dead—that much you and I and Beth’s mother could easily figure out, but Beth’s eight year old mind only knew that they little puppies needed their mother, and she was determined to find her. Only she didn’t.
Again, an off track aside. I remember hearing this story for the first time, the weight of young Beth’s actions sinking in but the outcome nonetheless hanging in the air above our heads while Beth’s mom trailed off, lost in the flood of memories.
“What? What happened?” I asked breathlessly, also clutching her mom’s hand as if equally young and in terrible need of adult reassurance.
“Oh, that!” Mrs. Johannsen laughed, suddenly breaking the breathless stillness. “Well, poor little Bethy cried so quietly—she was afraid to wake the puppies—but we managed to call the ASPCA. Unfortunately, they told me a female yellow lab mix was found several blocks away, hit by a car. I didn’t tell Beth that part. In stead, her father and I assured her that the ASPCA would continue to search for the mommy. In the meantime, we took Beth and the pups to the local vet, who pronounced them healthy and gave us explicit instructions about caring for three week old puppies.” She trailed off again while she sipped at a steaming mug of chamomile tea and stared at, apropos to Everything, butterflies in her purple trumpet vines outside.
I sat breathlessly again. “And?”
“And.”
“Ohmygosh, tell me what happened for the love of pete!?”
She laughed and mussed my hair, what little the Navy allowed me to have. “You are cute, Josh. I see what she sees in you.”
Dare I say I needed closure? Do Naval Aviators need such nonsense? When puppies and the loves of their misbegotten lives are at stake, you betcha they do. “What-happened-to-the-puppies?”
She threw her head back laughing, her sandy brown hair swaying gently while she patted my hands in hers. “Oh, you are too much, Joshy. We nursed all three back to health and adopted out two of them when they were eight weeks old.”
“You kept one?”
“Yes, a little girl that Beth named Butterfly.”
“Oh,” I said with a knowing pause, “naturally.”
“She was with us—mainly Beth—until her final year in high school. Butterfly loved that girl fiercely and slept with her every night.”
“Dogs are like that. Dog is God spelled backwards for a reason,” I said.
She hesitated with a smile on her face while my observation sunk in. “Indeed. That’s such a sweet thought, Josh. You are a sweetie; she’s right.”
“I am not. Aviators are not sweet,” I said with mock indignation.
“What then, what are you? Oh, here, have another cookie….”
“Fierce?” I slurred my soft ‘c’ due to a mouthful of oatmeal chocolate chip.
“Riiiight, fierce, then. Here, have some milk. Anyhow, Butterfly got very sick when Beth was 17, and we had to put her down. It was a horrid experience, but she was so strong on behalf of that dog. My gosh, we took Butterfly to the vet that last morning and Beth actually rocked and sang to her while the doctor administered the shot.”
I said nothing, staring slackjawed with a mouthful of cookie. I didn’t have pets growing up, but the image of that event was clear as day in my mind’s eye.
“Sweetie? You’re gonna drool on yourself, and that’s hardly a way for a fierce aviator to behave.”

Sigh. You know, I could go on and on about that conversation. But I won’t. Suffice it that I learned more about my wife-to-be that afternoon than I could have anticipated, all the while falling more in love with her as each parent shared a story with me. Somewhere years ago I read some poem about something called the Rainbow Bridge where all dogs wait in heaven for their humans to arrive. Butterfly met Beth there, that much I’m sure, and that provides profound comfort such that I can hardly articulate.
On an afternoon in the late 1980s, when Beth was an aspiring but still as of yet undecided undergraduate in college, Beth was driving along Interstate 5 in San Diego, heading north to her Cardiff-by-the-Sea apartment presumably after a long day of classes and studying. She witnessed a fender bender not far in front of her and pulled over to provide assistance. Whereas these events are every day occurrences in Southern California’s meandering Interstate system, it is nonetheless rare when a witness pulls over to render and/or offer assistance. Then again, Beth was rare in and of herself.
The person who was hit from behind was an elderly lady, and Beth initially went to offer assistance to the lady, only to be met by a stream of obscenities. Beth calmed her down, assuring the lady that she was a witness and was there to offer her testimony once the Highway Patrol arrived. The old lady calmed and thanked Beth, but continued to make rude remarks about the man who had hit her from behind. It was then that Beth turned her attention to the car behind. Something didn’t look right, and Beth felt the compelling need to walk over.
So she did. Once beside the driver’s window, she saw a young man, possibly in his early 30s, shaking and twitching without control but with a steady pattern that seemed far stranger than what little Beth knew of Parkinson’s, much less inebriation.
“I’m. I’m. I’m not drunk,” the man said, shakily handing a card to Beth through his open window, tears welling in his eyes.
Beth took the card and read: Hello. My name is Stephen Blankenship, and I have Huntington’s Disease. I am not drunk. Huntington’s is a progressive neurological disease that affects movement, speech and cognitive ability. If I’ve given you this card, please alert medical responders and call the San Diego Chapter of the Huntington’s Disease Society of America at (800) 473-4014. Thank you.
She looked down at Stephen and saw that he was quietly, patiently crying even as the twitching increased in intensity. The suffering of his soul, his adult sense of self was palpable. Beth placed her hand under his chin and brushed his tears away.
“Are you alright, Stephen?” she asked.
“I’m n-n-n-n-ot drunk,” he said, unable to look up at her while he cried. “I d-d-d-d-din’t hit her on purpose.”
“I know, Stephen, I know. It’s alright. My name is Beth, and I’m a biology student, and I know a little bit about HD. I’ll show the police your card and explain things.” Beth wasn’t, you know, at least not before that one seminal moment. In that moment, though, she experienced something particularly rare in our world of disaffected disinterest; she found her calling. Stephen, she told me years and years later, was a good looking man, one whom she figured was in the prime of his life when this horrid affliction made its presence known to him. His shame, his pain cut her to the quick, and in those moments before the police arrived, Beth heard and heeded her calling. “You’re going to be okay, Stephen. I’m with you.”
“Th-th-th-thank you. I won’t get to drive any m-m-more,” he said as the tears stopped even when the tremors did not. “I’m not independent any m-m-more.”
“Look, Stephen,” said later told me she said, wanting nothing more than to ease his anguish even as she was then unable to ease his suffering. “The wildflowers beside the road. There are butterflies. They’re lovely, Stephen. I want to you look at them, and I’ll tell you about their genus and species while we wait for the police and Huntington’s Society. I’m not leaving.”

Butterflies indeed. Neither she nor obviously I know what became of Stephen Blankenship. I have to assume with sadness that he left us years ago, and I hope that Butterfly was able to greet him to, wherever/whatever happens After. But, in that event, Beth took her life’s direction and focused it into something keenly unique. Within four more semesters, she had finished her undergraduate studies in molecular biology, carrying 24-27 credit hours. Her focus was laser sharp and defined with a sense of urgency punctuated only by sport climbing, cycling and volunteering at HDSA events in San Diego. The rest of her career I’ve either told you about or soon will. For now, I hope you understand a little more of her soul, and her sublime ability and, perhaps more importantly, willingness to engage with the world around her.
Beth stayed active with HDSA long after she met me, and, yet again, taught me to give of myself to others in need in order to learn more about myself. She was eventually voted the chapter sponsorship director and continued her affiliation until she, well, until she went to be with her dog. And, I suppose, Stephen Blankenship, who I hope greeted her with a smile and a big margarita.
For once I can say this, to tell this with warmth and light rather than cold smoke and dragon’s breath. Why? Beth. It’s really that simple.
Butterflies indeed.