Gregory E. Lang's Blog, page 15

Why I Still Love You (originally published 2007)

A little more than a year ago my wife, Jill, and I sat back with members of my family in a crowded room and watched a man and a woman dance. He, agile and with deft feet, did most of the dancing. She, weakened by a long-term illness, smiled as he swirled around her. He held her hand to keep her steady and looked at her with love in his eyes, yet watching her closely for signs of fatigue. They were my aunt and uncle; it was their 50th wedding anniversary.

Uncle Mike and Aunt Mary Jean met in church at a youth fellowship event. They were each other’s first date; they had been each other’s only companion since that evening so long ago. Theirs was the longest romantic history of any couple I’ve ever known, except for my parents, who met over fifty-eight years ago.

As Jill and I watched my aunt and uncle dance, we were touched by the evidence of their enduring love, and yet somewhat saddened by a realization. We have been married only a few years; our union, a subsequent marriage for each of us, occurred when we were well into our midlife. We wish we had met sooner, fearing as we do that though we plan to spend the rest of our lives together, that time will be, indeed, too short. We will never see a 50th anniversary.

I tried to reassure my wife that evening by promising her I would make sure we packed as many wonderful experiences and romantic memories as we could into the time we would be given. I was confident in my promise because I have had good teachers to show me how to care for and nurture a lasting marriage.

In addition to my aunt and uncle and my parents, I have many other relatives who have also enjoyed long-lasting marriages. It is from my older relatives that I have learned spouses should always let their partner know he/she is irresistible, to never stop courting and flirting with one another, to reciprocate every gesture of affection and act of kindness shown to you, and always attempt to steal a kiss when it is least expected, no matter who may be watching. It was when watching my older married relatives interact that I have tried to discover the secrets of having a lasting marriage.

I think everyone has an older-generation couple in their family they look to as role models. We think of these people as role models because we see what we think are prefect or near-perfect marriages. We do not really know what their troubles might have been during their many years together, but we know that no matter what they were, the relationship endured the challenges they faced; the couple survived intact. Somehow they figured out what to do to overcome differences and stay focused on the love shared rather than the frustration or hurt that might have occurred. I wanted to know how to do that, too.

Perhaps, I think, one of the secrets of a lasting marriage is to understand that no matter how much you might love someone, your relationship will not be perfect. It will be tested, sometimes more than once. Love involves risk, hard work and compromises, even sometimes tears, but with the understanding that such difficulties will arise, they can be offset by the goodwill and good memories that have been intentionally created in advance.

An additional secret, and one which I hope will become common wisdom, is to also understand that to conquer the test is to reach a deeper, more enduring connection that helps the relationship to survive, if not thrive. More love is the reward for remaining persistent and diligent in protecting and preserving the relationship.

Uncle Mike and Aunt Mary Jean’s relationship thrived. I do not know of what difficulties they faced, but I am certain whatever they might have been, none were so great that any were remembered on the dance floor during that evening of celebration of their marriage. Nor were they a year later during one winter night when my aunt died at home.

That night her oldest son, another cousin and I, the first three grandchildren of our clan, stood at the foot of their bed and watched as my uncle held the body of his wife of fifty-one years. He stroked her hair, sang love songs to her, proclaimed her to be his best friend, and said to us, “I’m so glad she can finally rest.”

In the thirty minutes my cousins and I stood there bearing witness to this remarkable display of unselfish love, I learned what I now think is the real secret of lasting marriage. My uncle’s thoughts were not of the pain of his great loss, but of the absence of her pain, that which had gripped her for so long. In his heart, in his life, she came first.

And so it is. The secret to having a lasting marriage is that in all matters of life, the spouse comes first. It is the best, indeed the only, evidence which demonstrates, “You are more important to me than I am.” That is unselfish love. When both spouses abide by this moral, there is no fracture that could threaten the marriage, no obstacle that cannot be overcome, no limit to the love that can enjoyed.

I left the house that early morning carrying with me a new perspective on committing yourself to someone in marriage.

When I next laid eyes on Jill, I saw her differently. I held her differently. I loved her differently – I loved her more, and I pledged then not to waste an opportunity to tell and show her, “I love you more than myself.”

I first set out to write this book to celebrate long-term, committed, romantic relationships, to create a gift for a couple who wanted to tell each other “I’m still so in love with you; I would marry you again tomorrow!” For them, I hope these pages resonate familiar and are shared together with a laugh and a smile.

I also wrote this book for couples who will weather storms, be it because of specific events or the personal and relationship changes that might occur during a lifetime. For them, I hope this book might be the perfect gift for one to communicate to the other that they want the relationship to endure. May these words and photos inspire them to embrace their romantic history and recommit to one another with hope and optimism.

Finally, I sat down to finish this book soon after having the privilege to witness the passing of my aunt. I conclude it now with a renewed promise to my wife: Jill, you come first in my life and in my heart. To give evidence of that promise, I will make sure that in the last day we spend together, you will know not only why I loved you in the beginning, but why I continued to love you till then.

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The Three Worst National Parks

My wife and I have set out to visit all the US National Parks. We have been to 45 of the 63 parks and will visit two more this year. Because the parks are generally so beautiful and awe-inspiring, we struggle to agree on which are our Top 3 favorite parks. In contrast, we have no debate or delay in concluding which are our three least favorite national parks. Before I get to that list, let me explain our perspective on evaluating national parks.

In our opinion, a national park should be a beautiful, unique, and significant place. The desire that the park be beautiful is self-explanatory. We think it should be unique because who wants to go to the trouble to get to a park that looks just like a location near your home? Unique qualities may be found in the park’s topography, vegetation, wildlife, and nighttime views. We love stargazing in the dark sky parks! Regarding significance, we consider historical, geological, and ecological variables. If so much land is to be set aside and preserved into perpetuity, the space should actually mean something noteworthy.

What a national park should not be is common, unattractive, uninspired, and nothing akin to a theme park. With this in mind, here are what we think are the worst three parks in the national park system:

Congaree National Park, South Carolina

This park is a swamp that pretty much looks like any other swamp you might have visited. The park preserves the largest tract of old growth bottomland hardwood forest left in the United States. Elevated boardwalks pass through old growth forest of bald cypress and water tupelo, allowing guests a 2.4 mile stroll through the park. Frequently, the Congaree River floods the park and submerges the boardwalk. If you love frogs, mosquitos, and cypress trees, you might enjoy Congaree. Unfortunately, as admirers of the Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge, we were no impressed with Congaree National Park.

Gateway Arch National Park, St. Louis, Missouri

A 630-foot-tall monument, the Gateway Arch is the world’s tallest arch and tallest man-made monument in the Western Hemisphere. It is an impressive thing to see. No doubt, the Arch is an architectural and engineering marvel. But nothing about it is natural. The trams are small and not suited for passengers who are claustrophobic or have personal space issues. We sat knees to knees with strangers during our ride to the top. The views from the observation room at the top of the arch are far reaching but not particularly attractive. On one side you see the muddy Mississippi River, and on the other, the rooftops of downtown St. Louis building. The Gateway Arch was on our bucket list, we do not regret going there, but it fails as a national park. In our opinion, it is noteworthy only as a landmark.

Hot Springs National Park, Arizona

The hot spring water has been popularly believed for centuries to possess medicinal properties, and the area was the first land to be set aside by the federal government to preserve its use as an area for recreation. Most of the park is actually indoors, as in inside the famous bath houses that line the main street through the park. There are a few hot springs percolating outside, but none are very impressive to see. This park encompasses only a few blocks of downtown Hot Springs and is surrounded by old unkept buildings, some shuttered, and few choices of recreation once you’ve seen a bathhouse. The dining establishments are unremarkable. If you have the resources to visit every national park, then go. But if your travel dollars are limited and you want bang for your buck, skip this amusement park.

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Jesus is in the Boat

Let’s talk about Matthew 8:23-27, the story Jesus Calms the Storm. A quick recap – Jesus is asleep in a boat during a raging storm and his frightened disciples awaken him while shouting “We’re going to drown!” Jesus replied, “You of little faith, why are you so afraid?” Then he got up and rebuked the winds and the waves, and the storm immediately became completely calm.
 
Now imagine the disciples actually learned all the lessons that Jesus was trying to teach them, and one day a few weeks later they find themselves and Jesus in the same boat, in the same body of water, but encountering a more violent storm. And once again, Jesus is asleep. But this time, the disciples look out at the storm, then back at Jesus, and then to each other. They smile, nod, and kick back to get comfortable. And one says, “Don’t worry; Jesus is in the boat with us!”

How wonderful it would be if we actually learned from the lessons Jesus taught. What gain have we lost by not realizing the trial was a lesson? What benefit is gone because we did not understand our suffering was for our own good? What confidence has been squandered because we conceded to fear? What joy could have been more joyful had we know we were receiving a blessing? What if we were always aware that Jesus is in the boat with us?

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Bothers and Sisters (published 2006)

I began life as a firstborn child. Thankfully, my parents had the foresight to give me a baby brother to assure that I would not live as an only child. They saw that I enjoyed him so much they soon gave me two more. I always had a great time playing with my three younger brothers, climbing trees, digging holes in the backyard, collecting worms and other such little boy stuff. But, being the kind of child who wanted all life had to offer, I eventually asked them for a little sister. They happily gave me one of those, too.

Today, in my mid-forties, I cannot imagine my life without my brothers and sister. The five of us, just over seven years apart from the first to the last, have been comrades since day one. We did all the things happy siblings do together. We rode our bikes every day, spent weekend nights sleeping outside under the stars, celebrated each other’s birthdays, taught one another how to do things, pushed each other around once in a while, fought about who got to sit by the window of the station wagon, played tricks on one another, tattled on one another, kept secrets for each other, and each night shared a home-cooked meal together at the same table with our parents.

We have at different times paired off into different combinations depending on our ages and the life challenges facing us at the moment. Still, we always managed to come back together regularly as a unified bunch. In spite of the years that have passed since we all left the nest of our childhood home, we have not lost the special bond which ties us together. We know this to be true because every time we return to our parents’ home and take our places on the front porch, laughter quickly erupts, teasing pours forth, occasionally a few happy tears flow, and we all linger there together until the very last minute before rising to go our separate ways. And, though we spend more time physically separated than together, we are always on one another’s minds. I know this, too, because we call each other often between visits.

My family of four travels with me when I go to my hometown to visit my parents and siblings. My daughter and step-daughter love to sit alongside me and witness these front porch reunions. This is when they have the pleasure of hearing far too many embarrassing stories about me, when they get to see me in a different, less serious light, and when they get to see how close I am to my family. It is also when, I hope, they are taking note of what rich rewards are waiting for them as they continue to develop their own sibling relationship.

You see, my child was an only child, and so was my step-daughter, until her mother and I married a little over a year ago. Prior to our marriage, my then fiancé and I independently felt some sorrow that our children had not yet enjoyed the experience of growing up with a sibling. As we moved closer to marriage, one of the benefits we looked forward to was the combining of our small families that would result in the girls becoming sisters to one another. In the beginning, the new family was a bit of a challenge for both of them. They suddenly were required to negotiate, take turns, share, compromise, and in some cases, not get exactly what they might have wanted. Although my wife and I were troubled by these little conflicts, we knew it was a necessary and important process for the girls to go through. We shared the belief that siblings give one another a richer context for personal growth than can be had as an only child. We knew that by bringing them together through our marriage, we were better preparing them for their adult lives.

As we move forward in the second year of the formation of our family, I see evidence that the girls in our house are indeed, coming together as siblings. While each retains many of her previous “only child” personal habits, they have also formed new ones, “sisterly” ones. They advise each other on what to wear, share their shoes, shop and get their nails done together, negotiate their plans for the weekend so both get a little of what they want, keep secrets for one another, tattle on one another, laugh aloud as they make fun of the adults in the house, and stick up for one another to make sure neither is left out of anything we might do. Recently one said she looked forward to the day she would become an aunt, a role not long ago she thought she would never get to play.

My brothers and sister have given me a lifelong feeling of continuity. They ground me in a history that keeps me humble, belonging, and appreciative. They provide me with companionship I can always count on and enjoy. They make me laugh. They give me the kind of love that cannot be found elsewhere. More recently, they are doing something for me they probably don’t even recognize. They have embraced my new family with enthusiasm, and treat my step-child as if she has been their niece all along. They help me to create for both these young girls an example of what wonders lie ahead for them as they move forward, as sisters. For this, I thank them. For this, I love them even more.

The photograph of five adults sitting on a columned porch later in this book is of us. The smiles on our faces are real; we were just teasing my two girls who were trying to help me pose that photograph. As you can see, we still have a great time when we are together.

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Life Maps (published 2006)

Over the years I have had the delight of watching my daughter, Meagan Katherine, reach many milestones. I will never forget the first time she called me “Daddy,” her first steps, and when she became potty trained. Her words “I can do it” were spoken with insistence; she wanted the chance to accomplish by herself whatever the task at hand. I was thrilled to see my little girl growing up, yet also happy that she still wanted to hold my hand, ride on my back, and give me kisses.

As these early years passed and she continued to grow, other milestones approached and new tasks required mastery. Some I could just demonstrate for her, like how to tie her shoes, buckle her seatbelt, and use the microwave oven. Others required a bit of practice and explanation, as when she wanted to make her own scrambled eggs, shuffle a deck of cards, and later, use a computer. As my daughter grew up and became more independent and less willing to turn to me for what she wanted and needed, I began to feel the sting of loss. Too soon it seemed I was no longer needed to read her to sleep, walk her to class, or help her with her homework. All too quickly she entered her preteen and then teenage years. I knew other milestones were ahead and new life tasks would challenge her, but by now she had begun to turn more often to her mother for guidance, and I struggled to find a place in her life.

One afternoon while visiting my parents, who live on a remote country road, Meagan and I went for a drive. She was at the wheel. She had been driving in open fields for two years by then, an activity meant to give her as much driving experience as possible before she set out by herself, without Dad by her side to make sure she was safe. On this day I unexpectedly found myself requesting that my young driver turn off the familiar road and onto an unfamiliar one——and then another and another.

Soon she had driven much farther than she ever had before. She was frightened when she first pulled into traffic but smiled eagerly at the same time. She listened intently as I gave instructions and advice, following my directions without complaint or rebuttal. She beamed at me when I praised her as she skillfully negotiated the roadway. Under my tutelage she was learning something new. It reminded me of earlier times. I knew something she wanted to know, and she needed my help to master it; she needed me.

I decided that afternoon that driving was the bridge I needed to reach out to my daughter again, to have the occasion to spend time with her in the way that I missed, having fun together, laughing large, and teaching her something that would prepare her for the day when she would set out on her own. For the next three years we practiced driving every chance we got——driving in the rain, after sunset, practicing parking and hard braking, and learning how to intuit other drivers’ moves. I helped her study for the learner’s permit test. I was with her when she took it, and tried to calm her nerves as we waited for her results. A great sense of accomplishment came over me when she proudly held her permit up for me to see, and in that moment I was where I wanted to be, in her favor, basking in the warmth of her smile.

Meagan now drives nearly every time we get in the car. It was on one of our first extended drives that the need arose for teaching her about road maps. We were taking my eleven-year-old stepdaughter, Linley, to summer camp, and I did not know the way. I spread a state map out on the dining room table and proceeded with Meagan at my side to find a route. We began by looking up our destination in the index, then followed the grid lines to pinpoint it on the map. Once located, we surveyed the various roads we could take from our home to that tiny dot. We settled on a route that included city streets, interstate highways, two-lane mountain roads, and finally a winding dirt road. We chose an alternate route for coming back, one that would wind through the countryside, taking us through little town after little town and eventually home. Meagan was excited; it would be the longest time she had ever been behind the wheel.

The morning of our departure arrived. The girls and I rose early and had breakfast at a local diner before heading  toward the mountains. Linley got some extra sleep in the backseat while I navigated for Meagan. For the next three hours she and I followed the directions we had written down. I helped her recognize the landmarks we were looking for, coached her on keeping up with the distance between turns, and taught her that even-numbered interstates ran east-west while odd-numbered ones ran north-south. Suddenly she asked me what to do if she ever got lost. I reminded her of her cell phone, and then opened the glove box to show her the road maps I keep tucked away in there.

The three of us embraced before leaving Linley at camp, and then Meagan and I set out on our return route home. We listened to music, drove with the windows down, had lunch at a roadside barbeque joint, and stopped to shop at an old country store, complete with a few old men in overalls sitting in rocking chairs on the front porch. We were having fun. Once back on the road we encountered a detour and had to refer to our map again. We selected a new route for the last leg home and continued on our journey.

As Meagan drove she remarked once more that she worried about becoming lost, that she needed to practice using a map. I realized then that I had less than a year to teach my child all I wanted her to know before she became fully licensed and able to drive off without me alongside to help her find her way. I imagined her going into the world alone, driving to her first job, leaving for college, going on road trips with friends between semesters, hoping she would not lose her way. I thought of all the things I wanted to warn her about, the things I wanted to make sure she could handle, and the many other life tasks she would need to master on her own one day.

As I looked out of the car window, the old sting of loss and worry about her eventual departure came back to me. I know I have to let my child go. I cannot keep her under my wing, not that she would she let me. Yet I asked myself, how do I let my daughter go before I am certain she is ready for what she will face? How do I prepare my stepdaughter, Linley? I thought of Meagan’s fear of becoming lost and my own fear of her losing her way. I suddenly wanted to write down some directions for driving, even for living, and stuff them into the folds of the maps in the glove box. I smiled as I imagined her pulling off the road one day to refer to a map, unfolding it and my hand-scribbled notes falling into her lap. “Don’t drive too fast,” “Follow at a safe distance,” “Keep a diary,” “Laugh often,” and “Come home now and then,” they would say.

In that moment the idea of this book came to me. Better a book than random notes in the glove box, I thought, because she could keep a book at her desk, on her nightstand, in her briefcase, or anywhere else close at hand, ready and waiting for her when she wants to reminisce about what we have done together, when she wants to know how much I care about her, or when she needs a hug and I am not near enough to give it to her.

And so here it is, this book that might have been notes tucked away in a road map, a collection of fatherly advice and directions for living a wonderful life, offered with love to my little girls. Meagan, I hope you will read it when you get lost, when you just want to reassure yourself of where you are going, and when you miss me. And Linley, put your shoes on; we are going for a drive. You take the wheel.

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Why I Love Grandma (Original Introduction, 2003)

Thanksgiving is a reunion holiday for my family. It is a time when three generations converge on one house to laugh, play, talk, sing, and share a few enormous meals together. Biscuits as big as your fist with butter and homemade preserves for breakfast, and turkey, ham, cornbread dressing, bowls and bowls of vegetables, and cakes and pies for dinner, all made from my beloved late grandmother’s recipes, serve the seventy or so people who have come together to celebrate.

Sometime during the day the highly treasured family heirloom, The Thanksgiving Book, is brought out and shared, and the storytelling begins, reminding us all of why we have gathered together. An eight-inch-thick photo album, The Thanksgiving Book is filled with photographs of our family, all of which were taken at previous Thanksgiving celebrations. These pictures go back more than thirty years to the first Thanksgiving reunion that marked the beginnings of our tradition, the time we came together to comfort our grandfather and one another as we mourned the loss of my grandmother, Annie Ruth Lambert Brown, known to all as “Grandmomma.”

Although there are members of my family who never met my grandmother, or were so young at the time of her loss that they have no memories to call upon, everyone knows who she was. Each of her four daughters resembles her in their own way, and their children in turn also carry features that someone can point to and say, “Those are Grandmomma’s eyes” or “That’s Grandmomma’s smile.” As the great grandchildren who never knew her savor the sweet taste of a dessert made from a recipe handed down over four generations, they are told about Grandmomma. As the newest cooks in the family learn to make cornbread dressing and giblet gravy from scratch, they hear of how Grandmomma used to make it in the early morning, and of how the smell greeted all as they arrived at her house for a holiday meal.

Grandmomma was a short, plump woman with a face that always bore a smile. She wore horn-rimmed glasses and piled her silver hair high on her head, and nearly always had an apron tied around her waist. There were warm hugs upon greeting and departure, goodnight kisses for the lucky ones who got to spend the night, and a comforting hand on the shoulder of the one who walked next to her into church.

Grandmomma indulged her many grandchildren. I remember my cousin and me sitting at her feet, eating boiled peanuts she had just taken off the stove, as she watched the Lawrence Welk Show. Whether it was homemade peach ice cream, strawberry and rhubarb cobbler, or her famous Texas Pecan cake, there was always a dessert in the house to look forward to after the dinner dishes were cleared from the table. On warm summer afternoons we sat on the front porch and shelled peas or shucked corn and listened to her as she told us about her early days, our grandfather, and our parents.

The first great loss my young heart experienced was on the evening I learned that Grandmomma had died. I was inconsolable and grieved her loss deeply as did the rest of the family, especially my grandfather, who was never the same after that evening. Sometimes I look back and regret that I was so young at the time, too young to know then that time spent with someone you love is precious, because that time is not guaranteed. Realizing this now, I make sure my daughter, Meagan Katherine, has ample opportunities to spend time with her extended family, especially her grandparents.

Known to her as “Granna” and “MaMa,” Meagan has loving and unique relationships with both of her grandmothers. Whether learning to quilt, playing rummy, watching old black and white movies, shopping, or making peppermint candy, my daughter loves the time she spends with her grandmothers, and understands that because of it she grows a little more toward becoming a woman, when she will one day be a mother and then a grandmother and will in turn hand down traditions and delight the heart of a child as only a grandmother can. Once as I watched my child learn from my mother how to make biscuits from scratch and listened as Mother told Meagan of how she learned this skill from her mother, I felt once more the pain of my loss so many years ago, and wished I could sit on the porch and reminisce with Grandmomma again.

My child loves her grandparents just as I loved mine and looks forward to the time she spends with them. She helped me write this book and its companion, Why I Love Grandpa, as a way to memorialize our love for those dear to us. Together we made a list of what each of us enjoyed about our grandmothers, and we thought of what we admired most about the many grandmother-grandchild relationships we observed during the photo shoots for this book.

With this book Meagan Katherine and I celebrate the grandmothers we love and recognize them for the many caring gestures they have extended to us. We also celebrate the wonderful grandmothers we met along the way, those who provide continuous and unselfish affection, who welcome new grandchildren into the family no matter what their origin, who soften the hard lessons of life, who remember their youth and relive it when given the chance to do so, and who speak with a wisdom and understanding that enriches the lives of those who are listening. With this book we hope to give grandchildren a special way to reach out to their grandmothers and speak to them of what is in their hearts.

With each year something about our Thanksgiving tradition changes just a little. Those who were once children make the right of passage and move to sit at the adult tables. A new leader emerges within the youngest generation and rallies the cousins together in mischief. A son now helps the father; a daughter now hustles in the kitchen while the mother rests. A grandfather, the religious beacon in the family, passes the torch to a grandson who offers a prayer before eating. As we witness these changes take place, these signs that our family is ever evolving, someone inevitably says, “I wish Grandmomma could be here to see this.”  We mean this, of course, in the temporal sense, because we know that she is still with us—in our hearts, every day.

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Why I Love Grandpa (Original Introduction, 2003)

Prominent in my home is a handsome dining table made of heart of pine. Large enough to comfortably seat ten adults, it is affectionately referred to as the “Table of Hearts.” My grandfather made it for my mother over 35 years ago, and she has given it to me. Built of salvaged wood, its top surface hand planed to a smooth finish and its legs hand turned from one of his patterns, the table is a daily reminder to me of my grandfather, Obie Lee “O. L.” Brown, master craftsman, father of seven and grandfather to eighteen.

My grandfather was a major figure in my early years, and although he died before I became a teenager, I carry his beloved memory with me still. Along with my parents, he is credited with shaping the man I have become, and next to my father, is the model for the grandfather I hope to become.

O. L. Brown was a self-taught maker of fine furniture. As a young boy I sat at his feet many an evening to watch Gun Smoke or the Red Skelton show, at his side when he drove the pickup truck to the hardware store, or across the table from him when on Saturday mornings we enjoyed a cup of coffee, mine mostly milk, and a bowl of cold cereal. When finished with breakfast we walked across the backyard to his woodshop where we stayed busy for hours until grandmother brought out ham sandwiches and sweet iced tea for our lunch. I was too young to help much, except for moving boards from one stack to another, or sweeping sawdust. He died when I was twelve. My eyes still water when I think about him, especially on Sunday mornings as I drink coffee from what was his favorite mug, now another of my most prized possessions.

O. L. was a tall, barrel-chested man who wore his hair cut close to his head, and nearly always dressed in overalls, and when he did, he carried a pencil in his pocket “just in case.” He made funny faces, played practical jokes, and carried candy in his pockets at all times. I remember many stories about his childhood and our family history, which he told to me while sitting on the front porch, and the afternoon rides we took into the country to see old houses where relatives once lived or churches once attended. I remember his desire to work and to make things with his hands, both of which he did until he was in his early seventies, and his pride when giving a just finished piece of furniture to one of his children or grandchildren. I remember how he would drive for hours to attend the homecoming picnics held at the old family cemetery, where we cleaned, weeded and repaired family plots under the hot Georgia sun before sitting in the shade of ancient oak trees to enjoy the lunch prepared by the women of the family. It is there where he was laid to rest, alongside my grandmother. Today, all these years latter, when I find myself driving into south Georgia, I take the short detour off the highway, to sit under the old tree in the cemetery, and to think of these people who were so important to me.

It was my grandfather who first impressed upon me the importance of family, of tradition, and of loving one’s work. These are values that remain with me today, that I try now to impress upon my child. I have placed several photographs of my grandfather around my home, and have enjoyed telling my daughter about him when the occasion arises. Like me, when I was a young boy, my daughter has only one grandfather to enjoy. I make sure that they have ample time to spend together, so that she is left with as many memories of growing up with him as I have of growing up with O. L.

My child, Meagan Katherine, loves her grandfather with the same intensity that I loved mine. Known to her as “Gramps,” my father is to her what my grandfather had been to me. He lets her know that she is special to him, and they have a rhythm when interacting together that is all their own. They play, tease and torment one another with pat names or taunts about embarrassing events of the past. They try to scare one another coming around corners, purposefully get in one another’s way, and embrace and kiss at the beginning and end of each visit. She looks at his old photographs and listens with great interest as he tells her about the people within them. He makes things for her, and she enjoys being with him in his shop. He explains to her what he is doing as he restores an old car, and they sit in rocking chairs on the front porch and talk late into the night, or watch television together until one of them falls asleep. Meagan keeps a picture of him and her grandmother on our refrigerator, and she laughs when she tells her friends about the last joke that Gramps played on her.

In my father I see the best qualities of a grown man that makes for a wonderful grandfather. He loves his grandchildren unconditionally, he remembers how to have fun, he comes to their aid without hesitation, and he extends a calm patience and understanding that sometimes eludes overwhelmed parents.

It was Meagan who first encouraged me to write this book, and its companion, “Why I Love Grandma,” as a way to memorialize our love for my parents and Mrs. Ann Hord, her grandparents. Together we made a list of what each of us enjoyed about our grandfathers, and we thought of what we admired most about the many grandfather – grandchild relationships we have witnessed. As she helped me in taking the photographs for this book she was touched by the personal stories that were shared with us, and those stories combined with our own to help us to write this book.

With this book Meagan Katherine and I celebrate the grandfathers we love, and recognize them for the many caring gestures that have been extended to us. We also celebrate the wonderful grandfathers that we met while creating this book, those who stand in when fathers are absent, who welcome new grandchildren into the family no matter what their origin, who give of themselves unselfishly and continuously, who travel great distances on short notice just because their company has been requested, who share traditions and willingly learn of new ways from young and delighted teachers, who remember their youth and relive it when given the chance to do so, and who speak with a wisdom and understanding that enriches the lives of those who are listening.

My child and I reviewed the first draft of this book while sitting at the Table of Hearts, the dining table that is to be passed on to her when she has a family of her own to bring together to enjoy a meal and time spent together. She pointed to the many scratches and dents that she as a child made on the table, once banging her fork to get my attention or working a bit too carelessly on a craft or school project. She asked me if I would ever refinish the table to remove these signs of use. “No,” I said. “Granddaddy meant for this table to remind us of what we have done as a family.” She then shared with me her favorite memories of family gatherings and other celebrations that have taken place around this table, and I smiled as I nodded in approval and whispered to the memory of O. L., “It does remind us, Granddaddy, it does.”

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Why a Baby Needs a Mommy

Perhaps the most joyous moment of my life was when I held my newborn daughter for the first time. In the world only a few minutes, a nurse held her out to me, wrapped snug in a keeping blanket. I eagerly but cautiously reached out and accepted her, taking great care to support her with both hands without holding her too tight, bringing her close to my chest to make sure I did not drop her,  but not so close as to smoother her. I spoke to her in a near whisper, not wanting to startle her. “I love you,” I said, before leaning down to kiss her forehead. Her sweet smell filled my lungs, her skin warmed my lips, and her cooing delighted my heart. In those few moments the lives of her mother and me changed forever.

In addition to that momentous day, we’ve had many other memorable moments with our little girl, like watching her take her first steps, feed herself for the first time (most of the spaghetti ended up on her shirt), the first evening she went to bed without diapers, and my favorite, hearing the first time she called me “Daddy.” Nearly every day was fun and exciting, and yet nearly every day was challenging and at times stressful for either her mother or me.

She was our only child, and although we thought we had prepared ourselves well for her, we were fearful nonetheless, wondering if she was comfortable in our arms, was she wrapped too snug, was she hungry or sleepy. I had watched my mother take care of my younger siblings, and my aunts take care of my many younger cousins. My wife and I read books to educate ourselves about infants, we listened to family and friends as advice based on experience was given, and we took home and saved all the instructions the pediatrician had given us. Still, sometimes we didn’t know what to do, so we learned by trial and error, trying to read facial expressions, interpret baby jabber, remember schedules, and anticipate what need might arise next. We were afraid we would do something wrong, we feared causing some long-lasting harm, and we struggled with our confidence on difficult days when we could not please our unhappy child.

There were times that we wondered out loud what she needed from us, when we disagreed about what to do, and when we tried anything we could think of to handle the challenge of the moment. There were times when we doubted our abilities as a parent, when we wondered if my daughter would turn out all right, having been raised by inexperienced parents such as we were back then. There were times when I wanted desperately for her just to speak to us, to tell us what it was that she needed.

Those were the days that I wished she had come with a book, a parent’s manual that described all possible infant behaviors and strange noises, reasons for tears, how to stop a runny nose, explanations for the different colors of poop and what to do for each one. Such a manual would have saved us a lot of frustration and doubt, a few temper tantrums, and perhaps made my daughter a bit more content with her parents. But alas, no such book existed.

We tried to be perfect parents. We took her to most of the places she wanted to go, bought all the stuffed animals that would fit in her room, gave her the snacks she demanded even though we didn’t want her to have them, and read to her at night long after she could read for herself. But we did not do everything right. I’m sure we fell short more times than we would wish to count.

Fortunately, Her mother and I learned from our successes as well as our mistakes, and from the insights we shared with each other. We learned that children are loving, resilient, and forgiving, but they are also delicate and impressionable. They will forgive us for most of our mistakes as long as our intentions were well placed and we do better the next time, but they cannot thrive in our indifference, carelessness, or anger. We learned that children have many needs that require the purposeful service of devoted parents. While some of these needs are real only during early childhood, others endure for a lifetime and are staggering in their importance and effect if unattended. Some needs change, evolve, become less pressing, and others grow in importance as time goes by. Some needs must be met only once; others are never met but require constant feeding. Our children’s own sense of worth is determined in large part by the worth they believe we have placed in them, which is demonstrated by how attentive we are to their needs instead of our own.

Today our young adult daughter cannot recall all the care that her parents gave her, yet she knows of it. That is why now and then when she visits either of us she still reaches for a hug before departing, or calls on the phone in near bursting exuberance to tell about something she has conquered that day. These are the moments when we are rewarded for what we did years ago; these are more of the moments, like those of her infancy and early childhood, we will remember for all of our remaining days. These are the moments when I can smile and believe that her mother and I have done a pretty good job as her parents.

We never did find that manual, so I decided to write one. I do not hold this book out as the exhaustive book of wisdom that all new parents need to read in order to raise perfect children. However, I believe that somewhere there are parents lying awake at night, as my child’s mother and I once did, wondering what to do for their beloved baby. I hope that by sharing a bit about what I have learned, that giving a child a loving, supportive start in life, that taking care of a few basic, universal needs, those parents will find confidence in their abilities, comfort in their successes, and strength with each life lesson shared with their child. With this book I hope to give new parents, and especially moms, most often the primary caregiver, nurturer and teacher, a glimpse of what they should know about and do for their young children. When you put this book down, I hope you feel encouraged and appreciated for all you have done and have yet to do taking care of your own precious baby.

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Mom’s Little Angel

Almost immediately after the publication of my first book, Why a Daughter Needs a Dad: A Hundred Reasons, a book I wrote for my daughter Meagan, I began to receive email from readers asking, “What about moms?” Some were simply curious if a daughter-mom book was on my radar screen, others were rather indignant I had not written it first. All agreed mothers and daughters share a special relationship that deserved to be memorialized in a book.

Of course, I was well aware of the importance of moms in every child’s life – after all, I have a mother of my own.  Memories of my childhood always include the many things my mother did to make sure I was well cared for and happy. She cooked my favorite foods, tended to my cuts and bruises, drove me to baseball practice, helped with my homework assignments, wiped away my tears, and endured the existential drama of my teen years, all the while making sure not one of her other four children were overlooked.

The truth be told, my mother did many things for me, most remembered, some forgotten, that when taken one at a time may seem somewhat inconsequential. But when all those things she did are taken together, the sum total staggers the mind. While I cannot think of a single super hero moment, I can think of thousands of little moments that added up like coins in a jar. Neither I nor my siblings can fathom the number and range of ways our mother has influenced the outcome of our lives.

Further proof of the importance of moms, especially in a daughter’s life, came to me courtesy of my child, Meagan.

While Meagan and I enjoyed a close and playful relationship in her youth, things began to change as she entered her teen years. Soon, it was to her mother whom she looked first and with whom she preferred to share her secrets. It became her mother instead of me who my child sought out for consolation, protection, and understanding.

Theirs was a language of shoes, seasonal clothing, reality television, and desserts that contained not a single calorie. Theirs was a relationship that at times I could not understand, at times was jealous of, and yet understood clearly was needed and deserved. It was for my ex-wife and my daughter that I eventually wrote the book Why a Daughter Needs a Mom: 100 Reasons.

And just as had happened after my first book was released, letters from mothers and daughters began appearing in my email.

Daughters wrote of how their mothers had always been there for them, holding their hands when they were afraid, tucking them in a night, baking green bread or cookies for Saint Patrick’s day, mending Barbie clothes, helping with weddings and coaching them during labor, never skipping a beat while wiping perspiration or calming a hyperventilating husband. I read tales of mothers sending change of address notices to Santa and the Easter Bunny, and mothers who set aside the enjoyment of their retirement years to care for a sick grandbaby with needs too great for an ordinary daycare to handle.

I also sat back and thought of my wife and how she has helped me not only with my step-daughter, Linley, but with Meagan, too. Jill has a talent for bringing a laugh to tense moments, of teaching me to ignore the pesky things the girls do that used to get my goat, of gently advising me in a way that I can listen to what she wants me to know or do differently. I jokingly say (well, sometimes seriously) she is helping me undo the damage I did to myself living so many years as a single dad with a willful daughter.

All in all, drawing from the daughter-mom correspondence and my observations of the three women in my household, I pay tribute to mothers and daughters for the beautiful relationship they share and how they enrich the lives of those nearest them. For as much as I’d like to believe that I’m an awesome dad and my daughter and step-daughter have bonded with me solely on the merits of my interactions with them, I know that the truth is I could never have become as close to either of them if not for help and influence of their mothers.

Moms, I hope that when you finish this book you will experience the gratifying sensation that comes after receiving affirmation and applause from your child. And daughters, after you’ve turned the last page, I hope you’ll give your mom a call to say “Thanks for everything.” And I hope you will have a better idea of what you are in for when you become a mother, too.

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Daddy’s Little Girl

For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to write a book. Although I am a terrible speller and not a particularly skilled storyteller, the idea of seeing my own words on bound paper has always been very appealing to me. I had no clue, however, of what to write about. Years passed as I daydreamed about becoming an author and suddenly I was thirty-eight years old and still without even a short story to show for my writing ambition.

One day while at work I had a conversation about my relationship with my then eight-year-old daughter, Meagan, my only child. A divorced dad with joint custody privileges, my daughter lived with me for two weeks at a time during each month. This on-again off-again visitation schedule at times created challenges for me, both at work and in my personal life. Yet, it also gave me a wonderful opportunity to be very involved in my daughter’s day to day activities. I organized my schedule around hers during the time she spent with me, skipping lunch in order to leave work early enough to pick her up from school and hosting slumber parties on our weekends together.

During that workplace conversation I was asked if I truly enjoyed the rewards of parenting, or were they overshadowed by the challenges I faced, a single dad raising a young daughter. I answered quickly and adamantly – the rewards were endless and worth any challenge or lost opportunity I had to deal with. For the remainder of that afternoon my thoughts were filled with one reason after another about why I would rather, and without hesitation, compromise my career and single lifestyle than my relationship with my beloved little girl.

A lifelong note-taker and list-maker, I sat down when I arrived home that evening and in short order wrote out a list of reasons why I thought Meagan needed me; indeed a list of why I also needed her. I ended up with one-hundred reasons.

That list was originally like so many others I had written before, an attempt to get thoughts on paper before they were forgotten. When I finished the list I read it over – once, twice, and then many times. Suddenly I saw my written words were perhaps more than a simple list – they were a tribute to our relationship, a reassurance to my child that her father will always love her, passionately and unconditionally, no matter what.

It was also, quite frankly, a tangible reminder to myself of the things I thought I should do for her, as well as the things I knew, and hoped, not to ever do as one of her parents.

When it occurred to me that I had read the list over a dozen times before putting it down, the idea for my first book was finally born.

Today when I ponder my relationship with my daughter and now also my step-daughter, Linley, wondering how best to handle or what to think of this or that situation, I often turn to the email and letters I’ve received from dads and daughters of all walks of life who wanted to tell me about their own relationships. Over the years I have heard from daughters who heaped praise on their dads and dads who told me of their hopes and dreams for their daughters.

It occurred to me on one occasion while reading these stories that perhaps with the advice and insight I’ve found in them, I could help other dads and daughters better understand their own father-daughter relationship. With that, the plans for Daddy’s Little Girl began to materialize.

I corresponded with my readers, asking them to elaborate on stories they had shared with me, and tell me new ones. I wanted to hear what dads and daughters had learned from each other, how their relationship had changed over time, what challenges they faces and how they dealt with them, and their recall of favorite memories and special moments.

I eventually received nearly four-hundred stories; stories that not only continued to teach me a thing or two, but which reassured me there are plenty of dads and daughters who want to celebrate their relationship by sharing it with an eager and appreciative audience. I received funny and heartwarming stories about birthdays, daddy-daughter dates, emergency room visits, graduations, weddings, late night chats in the dark and so much more.

As I read these stories, I began to notice a few common threads running through them: fathers and daughters have a tremendous capacity to love each other no matter how challenged their relationship might have been at one time or another. Furthermore, I realized no father ever thinks his daughter is too old to call on him for help of any kind, just as eventually every daughter realizes she, no matter what her age, will always be her daddy’s little girl.

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