Four head

[I'm embarrassed that it's been so long since I've added to the blog. Sorry- I'll do better!]

Elizabeth flew in for Christmas and has spent a lot of time with all of us. She and Granger have a particular bond that amazes us all. Granger calls Elizabeth "Neena."

Granger, with his sensory issues, LOVES to be scratched. He'll often present a body part and ask, "Please scratch." The day after Christmas, Granger asked Elizabeth to scratch his "four head." After a minute, he said, "Now please scratch my one head."

Elizabeth, intrigued, asked, "Which is your one head?"

"Up there, on the top!"

"Where's your two head?"

"Neena- I don't have a two head..."

"Three head?"

"No Neena- just a one and a four head," with a look of "Why don't you understand this simple concept?"

His language play amazes us all.

Two worlds

[We're in Hilton Head for a conference and a brief vacation. This morning Sharlet and I took our daily walk along the beach. It was truly beautiful. As is our custom, we went a ways together, and then kissed goodbye while she went home and I pressed on. While pressing on, a thought struck me....]

As I turned around and headed back down the beach this morning, I found myself looking a different way. It's funny how we find patterns in our lives- always looking and walking to the left or right, always stepping aside for an older person, etc. Well as I headed south this morning, I found myself looking more to the left and to the ocean. As I'd glance to the right and to the mansions along the coast, the dichotomy of the situation struck me.

To the left was the glory of God. Some would say the most glorious beauty to be found on this earth. The beauty of the ocean- the comforting rhythm of the waves and their womb-like nestling against the edge of the earth. The sight of the mighty ocean almost overwhelms with the majesty of a creator and the beauty of this earth. Smells of ocean and salty fresh breezes flow around in a swirling, heady mix, creating a sensual symphony- almost a euphoria of nature. I do love the ocean. As a people we do- it brings such calmness and serenity and leaves us refreshed as we head home to our various destinations.

As I looked right a very different world came to view. The beach world and its terrestrial trappings nudged as close to the beach as possible. Mansions heralded the worldly success of their respective owners and then, the rows of condominiums speak to the ephemeral life on the beach and the price we willingly pay for the momentary bliss. Some think the beach life represents man at his or her most worldly. Who has the most toys, best body, best surfing skills, darkest tan, most money and largest house closest to the ocean?

The duality of these two worlds struck me this morning, as I walked their border, straddling them and dancing in turn with each. Like many, I enjoyed looking at the stately manor homes and pondering over the ways such wealth may be gained, but in the end, it was the ocean and its serenity which brought me the greatest joy and the true peace of soul which I sought on my walk.

I suppose we must live in both worlds and, in fact, must deal with both on a daily basis, but which one truly holds our heart may be the key to our happiness.

Mother

She brought me into this world. She raised me to be the person I am, and I love her. Now she sits languishing in an "assisted living facility" about an hour away from us. Alzheimer's is taking its morbidly progressive toll.

As we entered the room though, her face lit up with pure joy making the entire visit so worthwhile. It was only after a few moments that I realized that she thought I was my father (Husband #2) and my son was the teenage version of me. (Son #3) Reality finally eased in, I think, and we spoke of plans and family and friends. She smiled and laughed and helped us remember when the smiles and laughter were more knowing and more intentional.

She's traveled a bumpy path. Her battles with ill health have drug on for more than 40 years. I don't know anyone who thought she would make it this far- she'll turn 80 in two months. I remember as a teenager serving her as she lay in bed for months, recovering from the first of a long string of "we can fix this" surgeries. Two knee replacements, two hip replacements, and a heart valve replacement later, she is quasi-living proof of the miracles of medicine. Her three marriages, flood of family deaths and drama, and a personal life rife with tumult and pain led to an existence of always trying to scrape by and a find a way. So many skeletons in so many closets. I'm sure there are many that will come out only after her passing. Now her way is simply sitting there, quietly staring out the window.

I wonder what she sees in her mind's eye. A bit absent- a bit gone. But you can see the wheels slowly turning. Realities blend to suit her current mode and mood, as it was with my being my father.

There are times I think they should call them "assisted dying facilities."

Looking Up

I've written several times about my walks in the morning along the river wall in our little town. The focus has most often been the sights and sounds of the river. Now, by definition, unless you're swimming or drowning, the river is going to be below you as you encounter it.

Recently on a walk, I came up the little 10 foot hill that leads to the river walk, and happened to look up.

Th early morning sky exploded into my vision. The clarity of the cool morning allowed stars to appear which were normally too shy or reticent to make a showing. Well, that morning they burst forth in stunning depth and light. I literally stopped in my tracks and just stood agape and gazed at the celestial beauty.

A few jets left their own trails of twinkling lights, but we thought how sad that those people were missing this incredible sight. The stars seemed so crystalline and close that I wanted to reach up and pluck out a couple to take home to the kids. I wanted to bask in their light and soak up their twinkle. I couldn't take it all in, like those times when you feel so small standing next to the immensity of the ocean.

I'm not sure how long I stood there just capturing and recapturing the moment, but I know when I moved on I was literally and figuratively looking up. It is indeed a beautiful world, and I love pondering the stars and their own respective worlds. One of my favorite quotes is "We need to remember that we are spiritual beings having an earthly experience, not earthly beings having a spiritual experience." That morning on my little walk, that was brought home with great clarity.

Threshold/ Update

[It's hard to believe I have not written here for a week. Life does get busy. This isn't really writing in the sense of creation, but it is sharing something in which those who follow this blog might have interest.]

Here we have it- a classic, good news and bad news. The good news is that I've met another goal in my weight loss program. The bad (for me) is that I'm about to throw out some pretty embarrassing numbers.

I began a serious weight loss/conditioning/ better health program in mid-June of this year. At that time, I was nudging too close to 250 pounds. Scary. I was OOO-bese. The program has been going quite well, as I've commented about before in my blog, and I've enjoyed it thoroughly. This morning I passed another threshold and hit another goal. In my original goals, this was the one for Homecoming, which was last week. I was hovering, but didn't quite make it. So I'm a week late, but I'm there!! Today it's official. I'm in single digits- in other words- 2-0-something. I was actually 209. This is the first time in about 10 years that I have weighed in the 2-single digits category. VERY exciting. So in the 4 months since June 14th, I've lost 35-40 pounds.

In a few weeks to a month, I'll break through the MAJOR goal/threshold which is getting out of the 200's altogether. (And, I might add, KEEPING out!) I cannot wait for that, and honestly, don't know how long it's been since that has been the case. I suspect it's close to 20 years. (I'm 6'1" by the way, for those who are curiously calculating!)

I would like to thank all of you who have helped me in this program. And it has been quite a few. Even those who simply say, "Wow- have you lost weight? You look great!" And frankly, even the nay-sayers who ask suspiciously, "Are you keeping the weight off?" They certainly spur me on with greater determination! So many have helped, but I must express my deepest gratitude to my cherished companion in all things, Sharlet. For the past 6 weeks, she has been walking WITH me (She's lost quite a bit of weight as well.) and has been helping me with moral support. She's also become quite a phenomenal Smoothie maker!

Keep your cyber-calenders open, because in a month or so there's going to be a BIG (well- formerly BIG-) party. Under 200!! Thank you all.

Wordsmith

[I have loved writing for most of my 48 years. Like many things closest to us, we sometimes take for granted that which we hold dear. I have recently renewed my relationship with writing and have loved the second honeymoon! I must give thanks to my friends who have helped in the renewal. Having said that, I've been pondering over the craft of writing...]

One of the finest compliments a writer can receive is to refer to him or her as a "wordsmith." Like an athlete "in the zone," this conjures up images of the great ones and allows the newly great or someday great to feel hope and confidence.

I've been pondering over this word and as I did so, it struck me....

I have an uncle who is a blacksmith. Really. He lives in the country and creates glorious works of art in his shop- with heat, anvil and iron. And his eye for creating beauty from those simple things. From his dark sweat and grime emerge light and beauty. His works are sold at fine art places and the finest hotel shops along the east coast. He doesn't make horse shoes, he creates fireplace sets and kitchen hangings and beautiful pieces to grace a home and make it a more pleasant place to be. He twists and pulls the iron to milk every ounce of beauty from its simple strength. He evokes beauty from simplicity.

So it is with a wordsmith. From the simple and plain he extracts the beautiful and evocative. He has no need of verbosity or the ornate language of those who write to impress. He stretches and pulls and twists and wrestles with the words and brings forth a well-crafted sentence- and evocative paragraph- a thought-provoking idea. The key is the eye and the ability to forge the simple into the lovely. A turn of phrase. A spectacular image. A thought which demands an even greater thought from the reader.

Let us, as writers, make beauty from simplicity. Let us twist and wrestle and heat up our language that it might take on a new life in the mind of a reader. Let us forge spectacular, heart-stopping beauty from the lovely simplicity all around us. Let us be wordsmiths.

Training Wheels

The young boy wobbles less on his new bike,
And the training wheels disappear,
Leaving joy and doubt remaining-
both within and without.

The Father now assumes their role-
Supporting, lifting, providing safety.
But he continues to add encouragement, love and faith-
Things training wheels could never provide.

Yet so quickly, even the father is no longer needed.
Riding solo- wind in his face- free to fly or fall-- on his own.
Ecstasy of accomplishment and joy of freedom!
No outside influence or support from training wheels.... or dad.

But the faith, encouragement and love remain-- at the ready.
Both newly confident rider and anxious but proud observer know this.
And they find quiet comfort in the knowledge.

Now, the young man heads off to his first homecoming dance-
Taller, straighter, stronger- almost taller than Dad.
No training wheels.
No parents--- on his own.
Wind in his face again....Free!
To fly or fall.
But with the secure knowledge that
The love and faith and encouragement
Will always be there.

Training wheels- on call.

Two Chairs

In the fuzzy edge of my memory, where oft-told stories now ingrained co-mingle with true recollections, I see them there. In the chairs. They didn't LIVE there, like so many immobile couples, but they retired there each evening, to review the day's happenings, entertain whichever fortunate family member happened by, or just to hold hands and visit. The chairs sat as thrones for an everyman king and queen. I remember still the first time I sat in HIS chair; it felt so big and comfortable, as if it would completely envelope the small boy who deigned to take upon him that seat . But the envelopment was not one of fear, but one of love. It was as if the love my grandfather oozed every day of his life had somehow been transferred into that old chair, and then to me as my body sat where he had rested and my mind played over what I imagined were his thoughts. My curious hands couldn't help but touch his assorted necessities of life on the shelves next to the chair. A pipe, some tobacco, an ash tray, the obligatory assortment of pocket knives and the cornucopia of prizes bequeathed to and from the treasured grandchildren, one of whom I was so very happy to be.

He loved me- this I never doubted. Whether it was his incredible patience as I putzed around his workshop, or the truly admiring glances he shot my way as I out shot the relatives -even him sometimes- on the rifle, or just the stories he would tell- just to me, as if I were the only one who would ever hear or ever care to hear. He loved me. I know that, and I treasure that knowledge. But just as I know he loved me, I know that, with a depth I do not know, he loved her. Oh how he loved her.

They were together more than 60 years. How many evenings were spent in those chairs?! Reaching out- holding hands- but more importantly, reaching out emotionally. He would tell one of his stories- oh he was a story teller. She, his rudder in so many things, would remind him who he was. "Amos, you're not as funny as you think you are." Yet the loving twinkle in her eye shone through with a light only 60 plus years can produce. He'd throw his head back and laugh- that silent laugh we all adored- head back, mouth agape, and no sound whatsoever. He loved to laugh. And she with him- but hers were always closed mouthed, and a bit shorter- more proper for a southern grandma. That IS how it should be, after all. Then the warning, "Amos....." And his eyes would reciprocate the twinkle.

Today, though, tears etch grooves on his marble face. No head back in silent laughter. A different silence fills the air and acts to suck it from the room. No twinkling eyes and soft edicts. No stories told and stretched and re-stretched into the funniest and tallest of tales. Today, she is gone. He reaches to her chair as he has so very many times before, but his companion cannot reach back, cannot issue her warnings. We hear no "Amos..." She cannot touch his hand or call his name now. The sweet silent laugh is replaced by sad silent tears. Her chair is empty.

But there is hope, for their souls are united, and deep, deep in his heart, he can still hear her call, feel her touch, and know that their love still burns. Her chair is empty, but their hearts are full.

Write the Love

My friend the writer, who, without malice or even intent, inadvertently puts writers such as I in their place with his vivid portrayals of passion and love, leads a life seemingly filled with drama, excitement and intrigue. He sweeps ladies off their feet and gallantly rides in on his pony of passion to elicit romance known only to those few who brave the waters of torrid love and lingering lust.

I commented to him on my perception of the the excitement of his life and, what I was mistakenly feeling was the boredom of my own. I write, for goodness sake, about apple cake!! (See earlier post- if you dare.....) In his kind and gentle reply, as he has done so many times before, he provided sage advice: "Write what you see. That’s all I do. I write what I see. You see it. You can write to record it. Or you can write to right its wrong."

Right now, in my life, I see love. I feel love, and, I hope, I radiate love. I've decided, at least for today, I'm going to write the love.

I love my small town, which cradles me in its arms and helps me feel safe and happy. I love the nip in the air in the mornings as we take our walks and take in - not see- not view- but try to take in the raw and expansive beauty of the mountains, the river and the daily dynamic of clouds and mists and sunshine which act as an ever-changing lens on the beauty of this region.

I love this time of year, when as my wife said yesterday on our walk, "The breezes tickle Autumn right through your clothes and into you." Some leaves already explode with color and beauty as they signal their oncoming drift into another phase of life. The wind aids them as they cavort with one another, playing tag and footsie in the trees, savoring this resplendent time of love and life and beauty.

And I love, oh how I love, my family. They provide me daily with joy unbridled and soft peeks of the eternal happiness awaiting. They lift me up and praise me and help me through the rough times of doubt and discouragement. They love me when I'm most unlovable.

I live a short five minute walk from my work, so my family is never far away. Just today, my 15 year old daughter came up to hear an author speak at the University's weekly forum. He was funny and inspirational, and Kathryn and I shared a father/daughter time of joy and happiness as he signed the newly purchased books from two of his newest fans. Joseph and I share an evolving set of father/son bonds. Kicking the soccer ball used to suffice; now we need talks about things and jobs and girls and life. Those talks are often short, arising just after negotiating who will be driving to our next destination, but they are poignant, and, frankly, what a father longs for. And Granger, our 8 year old, brings me such deep joy and love each day. He is a spark to our smolder, a breeze to our doldrums and a purpose to our drift. We all love him so, and that love brings a greater unity to every other aspect of our family. And the joy, love and pride I feel for our exceptionally wonderful 23 year old, Elizabeth, is immense. She teaches special needs children and is not unaccustomed to coming home from work with bite marks or bruises. The love she feels for her work and her students is inspiring, and I'm sure it will be evidenced in her interactions with everyone she meets throughout her life.

Finally there is Sharlet, my wife. She has been by my side for almost 26 years, and has stood by me through the storms of life and the inherent drama of international moves, part time graduate studies, late in life doctoral studies and the myriad of tests and complications which make a 26 year relationship a 26 year relationship. She is my rock, my anchor. She brings me home- not with a look of distaste or a harsh word, but merely with a soft touch or knowing glance of love. Recently she and I have discovered the joys of text messaging, and it is truly thrilling to feel my heart skip just a bit at the sound of a new message from her. She holds my soul in her hand and has the power to do so many things to it. But her choice- and this says so much about her- is to sweetly, quietly and gently adore it and hold it to her breast.

She is the mother of our 4 amazing children. She has raised them to be wonderful souls who serve those around them, and seek to leave every person they meet a bit better, whether it be by a gentle greeting, a small act of service, or even a kind look which can say so much. Her motherhood has dropped the pebble in the pond of familial joy from which the circles will spread for generations.

When my shortsightedness brings darkness to my life and our lives, she is the light which remains, unwavering, ready to reach out and console and love and cherish. I cannot describe the debts I owe to her nor her willingness to waive all debt that we might simply enjoy life as two who act as one. We are united in life and love, and therein is my truest joy.

I feel so blessed and privileged to be living this life right now. Of course there are problems and concerns- but the love emanating from our marriage and home is a force not to be ignored. Today, it is one to be praised and written of. Please pardon what some may consider sappy ramblings. I love sap. I live for sap. For me, right now, sap is love and life and home. I may not be able to write drama and sexual intrigue, but I can sure try my very best to write the love.

On Being "A Writer"

The question of what exactly constitutes being "a writer" crops up with dramatic consistency amongst those who write. One can only imagine the Eagle and Child on Thursdays at 11:00, with Lewis, Tolkien, and the other Inklings pondering and debating the very same. So what does it mean to be...."a writer?"

I think, like most true answers, this one comes from within. If the state of being a writer is allowed to be bequeathed by those external to one's self, it will eternally come and go as the tide or the moon, waxing and waning in the spotlight of the uninitiated. It will be as ephemeral as the good wishes in a receiving line or the political cause du jour.

If, however, one draws a sense of self and "writerhood" from within, it becomes a state which means more than just a status- more than the transient dusty robes of academe- more than the whimsy of the Times critic or the inking sanctions of an overwhelmed editor. To be a writer, one must deign to acknowledge, first and foremost to self, that writing is what breathes air into tired lungs, sweeps the cobwebs from a mind thick of spreadsheets and reports, and fills the soul with a vibrance and awareness that comes only through the written word. A good wrestle to find the "mot juste" becomes a welcomed workout- not a distasteful labor in language. And, upon finally seeing that well-crafted, neatly polished and timelessly immortal sentence, a writer knows that the hours of paper balls or backspaces have been well worth the effort. Even if no one else ever sees it.

A writer writes- not just for others- but so he or she can breathe.
copyright @2008

Apple Cake

Our family has several close friends. (I know that might be surprising....) Certainly among, if not the, dearest, are the friends who brought us to our current job and town. Way back when, the father, with whom I share a birthday and a very close friendship, said, "Joe - we've just got to have you here." Twelve years later I'm still here, and we have loved it. They are celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary. What an amazing achievement in today's society! I've barely LIVED for 40 years, and they've lived together- married- happily --for that time. It's is truly awe inspiring to me.

Well, in honor of their anniversary and our friendship, we (Sharlet, my wife, did the lion's share, but I actually helped a bit- quite romantic, don't you think?) baked one of their favorite desserts- Apple Cake. (My friend doesn't eat chocolate. I know, I know- but we can still be friends....) We took it over to them last night and had a brief chat and just enjoyed being together as family and friends and doing a little good deed.

Now, here's the funny part. When we got back from doing that- we'd been gone maybe 40 minutes total-- on our doorstep was.... an apple cake.... from our wonderful friends who live two doors down. It was heavenly- a different recipe, but heavenly all the same. How did they know? And why apple cake instead of chocolate or white or yellow? I love the serendipitous moments of true friendship.

The circle of friendship is a tightly woven one, as our thoughts revolve around those who have come to own a piece of our hearts. Last evening this circle of friendship was evidenced by a synchronous circle of apple cake. And what a delicious and delightful circle it was. I do love small town life, and I especially love friends who know when a little apple cake is just what you need.

At What Price?

What is the worth-
Of a heart that is pure?
Of love that is untarnished and unbridled?

Without the niggles and vague memories
Of a former life- not real nor tangible-
Merely shadows of fantasy,
Masked with opaque luminescence.

Stand not in the opaque.
Embrace the sun
Dance in the open.
Live now and here.

Be.... and be free.

I Must Arrest Your Cheese

In early August of 1998, my family and I entered into a year long adventure which involved leading a group of students from the college where I worked on an excursion to China. They would study Chinese, and I would teach English as a "foreign expert." I always wanted to be an expert about something... In order to grease the proverbial skids, we arrived a couple of weeks before the students. And so it begins.....

We exited the plane ramp to the densest sea of humanity I had ever seen. There must have been a thousand people jockeying in line to go through a set of doors which appeared to lead to freedom- or at least air. What passed for air where we stood, gawking, was really little more than a tepid stench of body odor and stale breath, the mix of which was truly almost nauseating. With my American confidence, I quickly sized up the situation and pronounced, "That line's moving the fastest- let's get in it!" Now that statement in and of itself was not accurate. First, there were no lines, at least no lines as a western person understood them. They were more like surging masses and undulating groups where neither origin nor destination was known. Secondly, the use of the word "fast" with any of these masses proved completely inappropriate. We five, my wife, myself, and our three children at the time, Elizabeth, 13; Joseph, 6; and Kathryn, 5, stood out like Hassidic Jews and an Oral Roberts revival meeting. The only Caucasians in the mass of masses, we had no idea where to go or where we wanted to go. The signs, in Chinese only, provided no hint or even niggle of a possible productive outcome.

So we joined the fluctuating mass which seemed to be moving "faster." We had just spent 24 hours on a plane, and the children in particular had reached the end of their tethers. We tried to offer comfort, as parents do, but, let's face it, we knew nothing. We didn't know where we were, where we were going, where we were supposed to go, or how to communicate with anyone. After standing and micro-shuffling for 30 minutes in our line, we realized that it was NOT headed out, but back to some other part of the airport. We regrouped and joined another undulating mass.

The children would sit or lay or collapse on their carry-ons while Sharlet and I tried to ascertain where we were headed and if we were in the correct line. The mass/line of choice proved to be a correct one, and after another 45 minutes we were allowed to exit to the baggage claim area.

Now, we were essentially moving to China for a year. The airlines allowed 2 suitcases per person and we needed a lot of stuff. So we had 10 of the largest suitcases and or tubs we could manage. It was quite a sight- this young family with THREE children trying to lug so many suitcases onto so many luggage carts. (Bear in mind China's one child policy) We learned quickly, as would be the case throughout our wonderful year, that it was truly impossible to hide. We stood out wherever we went. Most often we were the objects of affection- requests to stand in with a family picture became common place, and the children, the THREE children drew copious amounts of attention.

Joseph, our 5 year old at the time, is asthmatic. We had been instructed to take a year's supply of his medicine with us. This had to be kept cool, so we brought a small cooler and put his medicine in at as well as a couple of large blocks of cheese. We had heard the horror stories of trying to buy cheese in China. Where we were living it was practically unavailable and what was there was not of favorable taste. So we had brought a long a bit to tide us over.

So imagine what would be considered an insanely large family waiting with an insanely large mountain of suitcases. Near dead children flailed themselves across the tops of the suitcases trying to rest while parents searched for a knowing set of eyes to offer any sort of assistance. The spectacle was not in the making- it had already arrived!

The hawk-like policeman circled us several times; I wasn't sure if he had more doubts about us or his ability to communicate with us. Finally he gathered himself and approached, pointing at the cooler. "What is that?"

"My son is sick- his medicine."

"Please open."

I reluctantly opened the cooler to expose Joseph's medicine, and what I would later find out was approximately $100 dollars worth of fine American cheese. Keep in mind that in 1998 the average Chinese college professor made $100 a month!

"What is that?" I almost laughed, but held my "Duh!" and just allowed the gleam in my eye.

"Cheese."

The policeman pointed to what appeared to be a World War II billboard with a list of "Prohibitive Items." This would not be our last encounter with Chinese translations. Sure enough- there it was- Cheese

"I must arrest your cheese."

Now, the thought of our beautiful blocks of cheese rotting away in some rancid Chinese cheese prison almost broke my heart, but the immovable policeman would have none of it. How exactly DO you "arrest cheese" anyway?

Finally, I reluctantly surrendered our cheese, to the unworthy hands of one who does not appreciate a casserole with gooey yellow heaven or a grilled cheese sandwich where the cheese drips oh so slowly down the side. I handed it over, feeling like some busted drug lord of the cheese cartel. As I did, though, I tried to get the last word, "I hope you have a great dinner tonight," but my words fell on uncomprehending ears. He just smiled that blissful, smile and escorted our cheese away to the hoosegow. For all I know it might still be awaiting liberation in the Chinese Guantanamo Bay.

Yes, we never saw our cheese again, but after a couple of cheese-less months we found a store which sold Australian cheese. We cried. We grilled; we casseroled. It was, indeed, a beautiful thing. We sang as we ate, "Let my cheeses go...."

The Idea Picker

[Our 8 year old son, Granger, has Sensory Integration Disorder. For the uninitiated, this means that his senses are not linked as "neuro-typical" people and that they do not produce the same effects on a person. This is not the key to this piece or to Granger's incredibly beautiful life, but it may provide some insight into his wrestle with language and society.]

Today is my birthday. I'm 48. Just a number- I don't dwell on it. I'm not proud or embarrassed. It's just a number. I love my life and my family and am so very happy with where I am- nuff said.

BUT- yesterday, as my wife and I were slowly wrapping up our morning snuggle, Granger ran into our room as is his habit, pounced on the bed, Tigger-esque, and began his agenda-driven morning discussion. "So Daddy..." (He begins MOST of his sentences with "So." "So Mommy." "So Neena." "So Joseph" etc.)

"Yes, Granger...."

"So, tomorrow is your birthday. Are you excited?"

"Yes I am! Are you?"

"So Daddy, would you like a handy mandy tool man kit for your birthday?" (Granger desperately wants one of these so he can "fix" things. And yes, that's what he calls it.)

"Well," I replied, "I think we should save that for YOUR birthday or Christmas. Hey.... are you being tricky?"

"No- I'm not being tricky. I am just a boy. I'm not tricky. I'm the idea picker."

Intrigued..."What do you mean, Granger?"

"So, I get lots of ideas, and I have to pick them."

The idea picker. Granger DOES get lots of ideas, and he does an amazing job of picking the good ones. I wish I did as good a job of sifting through my string of ideas and finding the ones that merited pursuit.

Granger has limitations on some skills; who does not? But one area where he has proven time and again that he is NOT limited is the realm of his ideas. I hope he remains, forever, our idea picker.

"I'll Teach You to Hit Your Sister!"

[I feel the need to write and know that there is not enough time- so I call this a draft and plan to come revise and polish. Please bear with me.....]

I carefully perused the cereal aisle- I often wonder why that seems to be the highlight and mainstay of grocery shopping trips. Perhaps it's the lingering longing from my childhood for just the right cereal with just the right prize- perhaps it's just that my children love cereal. Who knows?

A simmering feud interrupted my prize quest. I could sense the tension in the cart coming up the aisle. The two children, a 4 year old boy and 2 year old girl, had obviously been thrust into the cart, were not getting along, and the mother appeared to be close to reaching critical mass. Closer than anyone imagined, it turned out. I didn't see the catalyzing incident, but I assume there was some sort of sibling poking or smacking. Then this frustrated mother squelched out with such menace I had not heard in years, "I'll teach you to hit your sister!" and she hauled off and smacked the 4 year old full force, open hand, and hard- with intent.

Now this could easily turn into a biting indictment of the mother's reaction- and I honestly don't mean it to be so. Not that it was right- but.....it was her preceding statement that struck me like her hand had struck her son. "I'll teach you to hit your sister." I thought, "Yes you will, ma'am. Yes you will."

We have to have licenses to operate motor vehicles, to get married, and to own a weapon. Heck, we even have to have a license to catch a fish or shoot an animal. We don't, however, have to have a license to be a parent- the most sacred and holy calling, next to being a spouse, on this earth. I don't think that parental licensing is appropriate, but I do think that right along with English- and you KNOW how important that is to me- math and history, we should teach some parenting techniques.

The old aphorism, "The sins of the parents are visited upon the heads of the children" is too often true. And too often, far too many times, we DO teach our child to hit his sister.... or cheat on his taxes, or not respect womanhood or manhood or marriage. We teach; they learn, and the cycles repeat themselves. I plead with those who read here- be breakers of cycles- teach those you love in turn to love and respect and cherish. Therein we will find truly unbridled joy. And maybe the prize in the cereal won't matter as much. Maybe....

The River, Part 3

From the days of Huck and Tom, rivers, for many, have symbolized escape and freedom. This has been the case for me, I realized. Yet this morning, as I began my walk, things were different. On Saturdays I start a little later and go a little farther. Normally, the third of a mile through our little town which takes me to the Maury River is what must be endured to gain the vistas and beauty and escape found at the river's edge.

But for some reason, this morning that all changed. It was a bit lighter outside, and people already stirred about. Rather than silence and slumber-born stillness, I heard the sounds of small town life. A hammer struck somewhat rhythmically as a part time renovator got an early start on what promised to be a long day. I heard dogs inside, insisting to groggy families that it was, indeed, time to get up and get moving. I heard the symphony of crickets and morning birds and the bass of traffic simply added to the melodious mix of the morning. Intermittent lawn mowers provided an opaque percussion to the morning's harmonies. Even the basso profundo of an occasional semi-truck just brought depth to the heady mix.

And then, just as I was beginning to notice and hear and really listen, I was engulfed by the wondrous aroma of bacon and eggs cooking. Who knows from which home it was emanating- it just filled the neighborhood and spoke of home and love and sacrifice and good old time family breakfasts. I realized that this beautiful little town was not one which gave cause for escape. The sights and sounds and smells of this morning brought me home again and helped me feel peace.

As I did get to the river, I was still struck by its beauty. The river takes several gentle, graceful curves as it glides by our town, almost as if it's saying, "Wait a second....this is nice....let's slow down and enjoy this a bit." It snuggles up against us and cradles us into small town Americana. It does move on to the larger James, heading off to Richmond as so many of our young sons and daughters do, but first it relaxes and enjoys the moment it has here in this peaceful haven.

As I scanned the river and pondered my small epiphany, I met an older gentleman, walking a brand new puppy on a much stronger than needed leash. He urged and taught and spoke to the puppy as if it were his newborn child, in a constant stream of niggling encouragements and corrections. He broke from his canine counseling to look up with pride in his eyes and say, "Good morning, partner." I had never met this man before in my life, but this morning, I was his partner. I gave him the biggest smile I could muster, looking with admiration at his companion and back to his eyes, and replied, "Good morning, sir." I hope that in my glance and smile he felt my sharing of his pride.

I continued along the long slow curve of the river, and saw another form approaching. He too, was clearly enjoying the sights of the morning, but as he jogged closer, I realized he was my good, good, friend. "Hello, Scott!" "Hi Joe!" and he jogged past. Yes, he's as jogger- I'm a walker, but we're still friends! Yet with these two people, one a close friend, and one a new friend, I shared a brief bond which made the morning walk so much more pleasant.

I did my river loop and re-entered the town, pacing past businesses about to open. I realized that I knew just about every owner of every business- some quite well and some not so well. But we knew each other. We shared the gift of this small town and the magic that makes us wave to everyone we see and not feel the need not lock our doors- car or home.

As I prepared for the climb up the hill which acts as the capstone to my walk, I noticed the churches- 27 at last count- in a town of 6,000. That's a whole lot of religion going on! Perhaps that's what makes us even more quintessential of small town life- the good, good people who choose to live there. I also saw another friend loading a lawn mower into his car after having already mowed an elderly lady's yard. I'm sure he was unpaid, but I know he was very appreciated.

At the base of the hill I saw a flurry of activity. Sure enough- a yard sale and the deal bandits were already out- making the scores of the day and already preparing their war stories. "Well- she was asking $3.00 but I got her down to $2.25!" A family was loading the camper for a weekend trip- with a good deal of tension- "Get that stuff in here Nay-oh-wuh!!" (Yes, in some places in the South, the word "now" is polysyllabic.) Personally, I thought the trip did not bode well for the family, but good on them for trying. I hope it turns out beautifully. Finally I headed up the steep hill, and as I lumbered up it, I heard a voice call out words of encouragement. There she was- a good friend and former athlete I'd coached - urging me on from her balcony. We laughed and I moved on- a bit more quickly, with a bit more lightness to my step. I do love small town life.

Yes this small, serpentine river we have is gorgeous and mystical, but it is not an escape. It enriches and enhances the beautiful little town which it softly caresses as it wanders through the Shenandoah Valley. I love that river, and I love this town.

Fear Not

I know there will be fears
As man can be a weak and shallow thing.

But I say unto you, "Fear not."

For as the sun rises each day
And rivers amble to the sea.
As the tulips are reborn in spring
So you will be with me.

And herein lies my truest joy.
For I, love, will thus be with you.

The Bridle

Your patience with me has been phenomenal.
Wordlessly enduring the fears and questions.
Supporting, defending, consoling and comforting.
Bridling passions to allow passions to flow.

My grandfather's old pasture horse didn't do much.
He had seen his best years, and mostly just chomped slowly,
Tail swishing languidly to swat a persistent fly.
The irony of the bridle was his.
In restraining- he was set free-
To romp and play and run and feel-
To Be.
But with the bridle off,
He quietly resumed his slow chomping.
Not daring to live.

The Airport

Our eldest daughter finished her summer term teaching duties and decided to come out for a visit. She rode to Virginia from Utah with a friend who was beginning medical school at MCV, and then had a week or so to be with us. We stayed up late talking, rehashed old times, visited the relatives, went out to dinner, and just had a glorious time.

When the time came to head back to Utah, we had arranged for her to fly out of the Raleigh airport, the closest to her grandparents who live in Fayetteville, North Carolina, so she could have a chance to see them before heading back out for the fall semester. (Yes, the obligatory grandparent visit....)

We arrived at the airport uncharacteristically early, got Elizabeth checked in, and called the grandparents on their cell to see where they were. They were an hour away! As we walked back to the main terminal to wait, we saw a police lady on on of those two wheeled people movers. Granger, the eight year old, thought that was very exciting!

So we get back to the baggage claim/lobby area, and I have everyone sit down, while Elizabeth and I went to scout out where exactly she would be going through security, etc. Just as Elizabeth and I walked through the airport concourse, we saw the police lady again, having just arrived at her destination. She was saying, "Sir! Sir?" And then we saw him. The older gentleman had obviously arrested. His gray face contorted in an open-mouthed grimace. His left hand and fingers were similarly contorted. And he was quite obviously dead. No doubt. We must have been among the first on the scene, because there was no other security or other people around. We moved along and let the police officer do her morbid chore.

We found the security gate and then went to walk back to where the rest of our family was sitting. As we reached the scene again, they were just beginning to ask people to go around and not have any pedestrian traffic in the area. I sat down with my family, and, in a few minutes, saw a nice middle aged lady run in the doors of the terminal, obviously, or so I thought, late for a flight. She ran to the left and right, and then I heard her wail as she found her father. My heart rent in her sheer and utter agony.

Her sister had met their father just earlier that day in the airport. The family was meeting there to go down to the Outer Banks for a week at the beach. Her sister had said to their father, who was fine at the time, "You sit here, and I'll go get the luggage." While she did that, he quickly and quietly passed away. The only reason we know that, is that we offered to help the family- in particular the sister who had gone to get the luggage. Her sobs filled the airport, and, for some reason, the two sisters kept missing each other. One would be taken to an ambulance, one to a chapel, etc.. So she had been left alone. She was quite distraught, and no one seemed to be helping. My kind wife just went over and offered a hug, and which she readily and completely accepted.

Emotions ran high as the afternoon wore on. Finally the grandparents arrived and we had our obligatory visit, strained as it was by the circumstance. In due time, Elizabeth went through security and to her gate, as the terminal- even the word took on a whole new significance- returned to a more subdued normalcy. Crowds dissipated, officers moved on, families found solace in one another, and a solitary body was finally wheeled in to the airport chapel.

I learned three things from this experience. First, I learned that no beach trip, or day in the country or even a sacrosanct round of golf will stand in the way when it's time. We can't choose the time we leave this earth, and it may not always be the most convenient. Frankly, we'd better be ready and grab life with the gusto of an young man driving his first car while we can.

The second thing I learned has to do with the previous post. What was initially disappointment gave way as my anger rose towards the crowds that gathered to gawk and whisper and stare and point. Parents led their children and got as close to the cordoned off barrier as they could, as if Tiger was getting ready to tee off and they might miss the opportunity. I came very close to asking everyone to disperse, but my children urged me to remain quiet. We had retaken our seats waiting for the grandparents, and were facing the other way. It truly does seem that, for some people, life is just one big reality show- one more chance to catch people at their worst or most vulnerable. "Come see the dead guy!" "Watch the grief flow freely!" "Today only in the Raleigh Airport!" My heart ached to see this horrible time for this family made a cheap sideshow by the gapers and intrusive onlookers.

The third thing I learned was another testament of the tender mercies that so often surround us. Had my family not sat down to wait for the late grandparents, all of my children, including our 8 year old Granger who may not have the capacity to deal with this sort of trauma, would have been first hand witnesses to the event. As it was, it was the first time Elizabeth had ever seen a dead person. I had before, but his contorted visage was discomforting even for me. I am so grateful that they were spared that. I am also grateful that they could learn a lesson about how NOT to act at the hands of the crowd and how TO act at the hands of their loving mother.

When we were first dating, we used to go to the local mall or airport, just to hang out and watch people. That has taken on a whole new meaning.... Life comes at you in ebbs and flows, at various times and in various ways, and you need to be ready to deal with it yourself or to help others deal with it. Whatever you do, don't be one of the gawkers.

What Kind of a Question Was THAT??

So I'm sitting quietly in church yesterday, trying to mind my own business, as has been my habit of late, and a friend sidles up to me and asks, "So..... are you keeping the weight off?" I'll let the reader chew on that for a minute while I give some background. I began a serious weight loss campaign in mid June of this summer. Since then, in two and a half months, I've lost right around 30 pounds. I call the program, of my own creation, EBL/EBM for Eat Better and Less; Exercise Better and More. My ultimate goal is to lose another 20 or so pounds and then rebuild my body and keep it in shape. I've been very judicious about watching what I eat, minding portions, and I'm working out six days a week. So far things have gone quite well, and, while I've still got a bit of excess weight, I feel SO much better and, I hope, look better as well.

So this guy asks this question, and I guess my reaction was a bit obvious. He quickly added, "Or are you still losing?" To which I replied, perhaps a bit curtly- "Yes- still losing." He then kindly added, "You're an inspiration to my wife and I." But I could never get away from that first question! Why do people relish so much the failure of others, that they almost wish it upon them?

I AM still losing weight and I WILL meet my other goals, but questions like that just irritate me. It reminds me of the classic Don Henley song, "Dirty Laundry." "It's interesting when people die- give us dirty laundry."

It seems that so many in our populace now crave the failure-- no crave to to be a witness to the failure- of others. Reality shows flood the airwaves; tabloids scream at you from the checkout stands; and there's not a lot of local gossip about the GOOD deeds Mrs. Jones did last weekend. Why can't we savor the success of others rather than froth at the failure?

While I know not many people read this blog, I'd like to challenge those that do to congratulate someone today on a job well done. Give them a sense of encouragement and accomplishment and let me know, if you wouldn't mind, of the reaction you get. Perhaps we can begin to "pay it forward" and create at least a little ripple of encouragement and genuine esprit. Let's learn to encourage those around us and ask the NICE questions!

30th Reunion vs. "Boring"

Last night marked my 30th high school reunion. The shindig took place three and a half hours away. We had considered going, but opted not to.

I went to my 25th college anniversary last year. As I recollect the weekend what mostly comes to mind are sad thoughts. I like to think that I have changed quite a bit since my college days. (At least I HOPE so!) But as I reunited with my friends, so many seemed about the same. The language, the thoughts, the college humor, sophomoric sex tales. Excuse me, didn't we get off that train a long time ago? Do I really need to hear about your college sexploits? Geez, does your WIFE really want to hear about them? I remember that all I wanted to do was get home to my family. I spent too many of my college days and nights cleaning up literal and figurative messes after my drunk friends and roommates- I had no desire to do that in my forties.

So we opted to NOT go to the high school extravaganza. First, most of the people there I had not seen in 30 years. I delicately sent a list of my close friends and asked who, if any , were planning on attending- only one. Not enough incentive for 7 hours in the car.

Instead, we went out to lunch as a couple, went with the kids to the local college football game, and then took them to the teenage social event of the weekend and then watched a movie at home, together. As we watched and talked, my wife commented that, though our little town may seem a bit boring and the weekend's festivities were not those to write to Town and Country about, they were all she needed in the way of social endeavors. "Give me my family and small town life, and I'll be happy." I realized how right she was. All in all, it was a lovely evening wherein every person in the family felt fulfilled and happy.

So rather than an ephemeral and strained reconnection with a host of long-forgotten friends, we opted for real and present continued reconnection with family here and now. It was, I think, the better choice .

It's Officially Fall

We went to the first home football game of our college today. Now, I'm not a huge football fan,but you've got to make a showing and you've got to root for the home team, right? Besides, I have a special relationship with fall. It's been under my skin for a long time now. So much of what I do is wrapped up in fall.

For years, I been in love with fall. I think- no, I know- it is my favorite season. I love it when you feel the air getting a bit crisp. I can't wait each year to pull out the woollies and sweaters and start dressing like the stereotypical "professor" with the cardigans and corduroys! (I know-I've got geek written all over me- sorry.) I love the athletic endeavors of fall. I coached for so many years; the smell of freshly mown grass and newly painted lines on the field just take me back to wonderful times pacing the sidelines and trying to encourage young people to be their best. I love the thrill of soccer games and especially the first ones you need to wear your jacket to or your long sleeve shirt under your jersey. I remember those triumphant times when, win or lose, personal bests were attained and spent players gloried in their own victories of the day. I also remember the tears shed and voices lost and blood spilt in beautiful striving for an honor unobtained at times. But it was in that valiant striving that the best lessons are learned.

I've been an educator for 24 years, and fall is obviously a time of renewal in that arena. In college, you get to meet a whole crop of newly minted freshmen every year. Some year's cohorts are clearly better than others. Well, this year, we've got a good one. They are enthusiastic, energetic and sincere. I have already immensely enjoyed working with them and getting to know them. They have brought a willingness to serve and a passion for life which renews me and my faith in mankind at every turn. I am constantly humbled and amazed by how ready they are to learn and much they have to teach.

And I love the breathtaking beauty of fall. I live in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, arguably the most beautiful spot on earth,and it reaches its zenith in the fall. The Blue Ridge turn from their palette of blues to a symphonic overload of reds, oranges, burnt umbers and fiery yellows. The irony of the dying leaves bursting into such beautiful colors, and, in turn, giving life and happiness to those who see them has not been lost on this Virginia boy. What a way to go- in a burst of passion and flame!Oh that I may do likewise and give happiness and joy to those who encounter me before I drift to my next estate.

I do so love the fall.

By the way- the game-- we left at half time- we were winning 42-7! But fall is here!!

Bucket of Balls

The description of his reaction I received was "His eyes lit up like a Christmas tree!" I had called home on a Friday afternoon, said I was leaving work early and asked my son if he wanted to go hit a bucket of balls. (Working what have been 60-70 hours weeks of late has made that VERY unusual!)

Now, HE'S a golfer- shooting in the 80's or sometimes 90's. But for 16 that's great. He wants badly to play more. I should have helped that happen more. I'M a hacker- shooting in the realm just past embarrassment. But we went and we got the LARGE buckets and we started hitting.

It was a blast. He can drive the ball almost 300 yards. It's that whole control thing that he....and I.... struggle with. Just like when he was pitching in baseball or trying to score a goal in soccer. Plenty of power- plenty of skill- trying to harness all that and bring it under control.

We bonded- but I believe men bond differently than women. I don't mean this as some sexist rant at all, I just think it's different sometimes. We didn't say a lot. The act of asking had said so much. His excitement at going had also said so much. A couple of "wows!" from me interspersed by the old Dad willfully accepting coaching tips from the more experienced son did quite a lot. After about 20 balls, I broached, "So when is Homecoming?" He responded with the date. "Gonna go?" I asked. And there he went- talking about the young ladies he likes and who he might go with and who broke up with who and all the things a dad loves to hear but sons don't always want to say.

It was an incredible afternoon- and long overdue. I don't really like golf all that much, but I can tell I'm going to be playing more and more.

The River- again

It's truly amazing to me how much symbolism lies in the rivers of our lives. Perhaps it's because I've spent most of my life living in close proximity to, and often nestled in a bend of, assorted rivers. Perhaps it's because I'm looking for symbolism now in everything from my walk to the song on the radio to the prophetic formations my cheerios make in the morning.

We walk earlier now. The kids have an early morning class at 6:45, so we leave at 5:45 for the walk. My bride and I head to the river- to talk and walk and listen to its rumblings. Our conversation follows the vagaries of that first creek which carved a curvy path through our town centuries ago. Plans for the weekend, who are we? how are the kids? how are we? are all up for grabs in the morning conversational melee.

This morning it was dark- and the river lay obscured by the shrouds of fading night. yet the darkness held beauty. I was a step or two ahead when I saw it-- sure enough- a skunk. Now I had seen all manner of wildlife on the walk- deer, fawns, water fowl, puppies, geese, etc. They were all beautiful and added to the magic of the fog lifting off the river.....but I had never seen a skunk before. Luckily we eluded its observation, turned around and headed the other way. Particularly fortunate was the fact that Beau, the 13 year old golden retriever who accompanies us, has lost not only what little killer instinct he ever had, but also most of his hearing and powers of observation. "Skunk? What skunk? Why we turning around?" "Come one Beau- you protector you."

Interestingly, it could have been a bad morning. Here's the funny part- it wasn't . We could have dwelt on the dark morning, the obscured river, the skunk from hades, but instead we looked past the immediate difficulties and saw two people in love having a nice walk. When we came to the stop light that is our demarcation point, my love turned left to go home to the kids, and I turned right to go do a real workout walk and head up the big hill that traditionally finishes off my walks. Yet even our brief parting was not difficult, but just a realization that our needs were slightly different at that time, and we'd be together again shortly.

To overcome obvious symbolism and morning difficulties is a good sign. These days there are lots of them.

Friends

Monday was a rough day for me on many fronts. But the amazing thing was, these friends of ours called and asked us over for a Labor Day barbecue. Now that might not seem like much, but it was truly fantastic. They have a pool, so the kids swam and had a blast. We brought dessert, and some sides, but they provided the chicken and dogs and grill. We "men folk" went out to cook and just talk while the ladies stayed inside and did whatever they wanted. So here's the thing- my mind was occupied, but not by sad thoughts. My family was occupied, but not by sad thoughts. After cooking we went inside and the kids ate in one room, and we four good friends went to another just to talk. We reminisced about good times, laughed, joked, (didn't laugh sometimes) and yes even cried. But we did it within the supporting confines of true friendship, where no offense is given nor taken, and you can let your hair down and just say what's on your mind- well.... most of it. It was just the thing I needed to get through that day. How did they know? True friends just know. That's why we love them so much.

8 year old

This morning as our 8 year old son was doing his best to delay the oncoming morning by snuggling deep in the covers, he sat up and said, "Daddy, why do you go to work?" He does those kinds of things. He is not one for beating around the bush- he says what's on his mind. Like the time he said, "You smell revolting!" to one of our best friends who tends to wear a bit too much cologne. Well....our friend did smell a bit heavy, but his keen olfactory senses and limited vocabulary came out with "revolting." He has been an absolute joy in our lives. He has lifted up in times of trial and, through his innocence, made us realize who we can become. I love the way he likes to eat "cakeses" and watch shows and ride on the "far swing." He is a strength to us far beyond his years or experiences.

Cartharsis

I taught creative writing for years and years, and always encouraged students to continue to write and to journal. It's amazing how we don't take our own advice sometimes. It's also amazing, as I told my students so many times, the power of putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard and just getting it out. There's something about the process that allows you to peel the layers from that onion in order to see and say what is innermost in your heart. I already feel so much better. Thank you to my friends who have led me here. Your blogs have touched me deeply, and I hope mine may reciprocate somehow.