How I See It: Reflections on spirituality, technology, and the art of everyday life

Conclusion Copyright 2012 Odell S. Hathaway, III This is the conclusion of the book I have written about my late wife, “From Crack to Kitty Litter.” Linda Joyce (Belcher) Hathaway was an intelligent, caring, beautiful, passionate, compassionate, sexy, lustful, fun, childlike person. I loved her, and still love her very much. The world is a much better place because of the 46 years she graced it, and sadder now that she is gone. Linda’s life was tragically cut short by the use of drugs—something that, in the end, was beyond her control. There might have been a time, say in junior high school, when there was a choice for Linda, but choice was something she had lost long before she and I met. I would like to think that something good did come from Linda’s and my marriage—that somehow, despite everything that Linda lost, she was able to find something in her time with me. When she died, she had sunk so low that she was selling herself for drugs. That was the addiction, ...

Kitty Litter Copyright 2012 by Odell S. Hathaway, III This is part of Chapter 15 of the book I have written about my late wife, “From Crack to Kitty Litter.” Thursday, April 12 — Linda called me: “Hi, Beautiful!” “Odell, Carol was just in here. She is the person who took over the kitty fund from me. She told me that the money has disappeared from the safe and that she thinks I stole it. She wants me to give it back or I will get fired.” “Oh, my. Did you take the money?” “No, baby, I didn’t. What are we going to do?” “We can’t lose your job, Linda. We’ll have to pay the money back. But I want you to go to the head of your department and tell her what is going on.” “OK, but I need the money this afternoon.” “I’ll give you a check made out to the kitty fund.” “No, Odell, they can’t cash a check like that. I need the money in cash — the way it was when it was taken.” “I can drop by the bank at lunch, and I’ll drop by you...

This morning I was putting on a sweat jacket when I found that I could not get my arm inserted.  I found a sock had managed to make its way into the arm while it was in the wash.  This reminded me of an argument my late wi fe and I had years ago. One day Linda came to me and announced that she needed new socks, that she simply did not have any socks left.  I was surprised by this since I knew she had three dresser drawers full of socks (Linda was something of a sockoholic—I have no idea how many hundreds I donated to Goodwill after she passed). I asked: “Are you sure?  I know there are three drawers full of your socks.” “Yes, but none of them match!” “You have three drawers of socks and none of them match!  What happened to the missing socks?” “The washing machine ate them! Everyone knows washing machines eat socks!” I must say, in her defense, that she was not lying—she truly believed that the washing machine...