In Summary

         Sheila Brandt lay down the journals of her life on the small desk.   She sat in her wheeled desk chair and took a breath.   Years of life experience in written form, bound in joural pages held memories of times and places long forgotten,  It was her intent to make some sence of all that she had recorded before she ended her life.    She had begun journaling when she was about ten and she was fifty-four now.  Her dreams of being a well established writer and research sicientist had long been abanddoned.  She had been married twice and never did anything more job wise then become a waitress in a family restaurant in a small midwestern town.   She had raised one daughter who had gotten pregnant 17, who had reun away to an unknown State.   Both of her husbands had been alcoholic and had abused her mentally and physically.  She had taken the abuse from both her partners and then decided she had enough after 5 years  then ended both marriages with 4 shells from a  sawed-off shot gun. She  had gotten rid of the bodies in shallow graves in heavily wooded areas where she put the abuses and her two dead husbands to rest.      When she was a child she was very talented at taking things apart and putting them back together again;  appliances, electric tools, motors and daddy's car.   She had a knack of looking at machines and figguring how they worked. One thing was clear;  after looking at so many machines, appliances, and even daddy's car.  Things had parts, and the parts worked together for a reason and purpose.  They were not randomoly put together.  There was a design to them; no matter how complex a thing seemed to be, even chaoptic at times, there was order to it.     She was also a good writer.  She described the wiff of honey as a " sweetness that made her teeth ache, and   "the thunder of the trains like horses that roared by and shook her farmhouse".    These words  filled the journals before her.   She was also very adept at writing about people's feelings including her own;   sad, happy, lonely, joyus, elated, fatigued, bogged down, depressed...words of the spectrum human emotions fleshed out the people she had met in life.         And now,  at fifty-four feeling lonely, and   depressed in an old house with old furniture was hoping for understanding of what her life meant  before she ended it.  Then it occured to her:  in  summary, her life's meaning and purpose was to do what she had a knack for;   figgure it out.   To look at the parts;  the pages of her journals, and see how they all worked...together...and make some sense of it.  She was not going to let her LIFE abuse her as her husbands had.  No matter how chaotic it looked, her  marriages, her daughter, her ability to describe things:  there was an order to all of it, it made some kind of sense.   As  the thought settled in, she felt...lighter.   The heaviness meleted as the revelation of what she needed to do filled her.   She,  Sheila  Brandt had a mission, had a purpose and she could and she would figgure it out.  

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