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."

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.