Deborah Lewis is a Methodist minister who works with students at the University of Virginia. In her spare time, she enjoys quilting and shouting words of praise and damnation while watching TV. We'll let her explain in this essay she recorded at our Charlottesville studio.
Death is not a subject we talk about much in our society, and it's especially hard to broach the subject of suicide with someone who has lost a loved one, but Charlottesville writer, editor and publisher Anne Carley has some advice in this essay.
When I was eighteen, my cousin Umberto visited us from Italy. I sat in the passenger seat of Umberto’s rental car as he sped through a red light at a busy intersection in Hartford, Connecticut. I shrieked, “Stop. Stop. You’ve got to stop!”
Umberto smiled. “In Italy, red light is optional.”
Umberto wasn’t kidding. When my husband and I visited Tuscany last fall, we discovered that some Italians considered all rules of the road optional.
I could hear Tony tearing up the trail from Squirrel Creek toward our campsite in the middle of a blueberry patch in remote Avery County, North Carolina. All the forest creatures could hear him, too.
Tony was anything but subtle when he’d caught a fish and he wanted every thrush, every gray squirrel, every white-tail deer, every groundhog and—most of all—me to know he’d hooked a penny-bright, native, feisty rainbow trout.