Brock Booher's Blog, page 5
November 8, 2014
Time Flies
It would an understatement to say that I have been busy, but that still is no excuse for not posting a blog last month. I recently participated in a writing exercise using Storymatic, a group of cards that are used as story prompts. I chose the following random cards - 1) Write the story in the 1st person 2) Pilot 3) Someone who just got out of prison 4) Unopened envelope 5) Overdue apology. With those cards as my story prompt, I wrote the following short story. Enjoy.
Time Flies
It took exactly forty-seven seconds for the prison door to slide open. After spending six years, four months, fifteen days, ten hours, twenty-three minutes, and thirty-nine seconds behind bars, you would think I learned patience, but you’d be wrong. I learned to wait. Patience is different than waiting.
My lawyer was there to greet me with his politician’s smile when I walked out a free man. “How does it feel to be exonerated?” he asked.
I stared right through him for five whole seconds but didn’t answer the question.
He had never served time a day in his life and nothing I could say would make him understand. On top of that, his efforts didn’t set me free. While he cleaned out my savings account, I gave information to the Feds until the case broke, and they arrested the real criminals. Now he wanted to stick me in front of the cameras and bloviate about saving innocent people. I never even smiled for the camera, and saved my energy for more important matters.
When the press conference was over, he pulled me aside and put on his courtroom face. “She’s here in the US now. She wants to see you Jack. She wants to apologize.”
She was Beatríz – chocolate skin, brooding black eyes, and even blacker hair. She told me she loved me. She told me she wanted to marry me. I believed her, right up to the point when she betrayed me.
I wanted to see her too, but not to apologize.
I jumped in a cab and headed for the rendezvous location so I could hear her apology, or something like that. The sky was a crisp blue with puffy white clouds, the perfect kind for cloud chasing, just like the day they hauled me to jail and clipped my wings. All I ever wanted to do was fly, but jailbirds don’t fly. They flap their wings in the yard like some fat chicken, but never get off the ground. Beatríz had betrayed me, and her betrayal kept me on the ground for six long years. Now it was time for payback.
The cab pulled up and I saw her sitting in front of the Starbucks with sunglasses on. She stood when I got out of the cab, and for a moment I thought she was going to rush over and hug me. I think the look on my face stopped her.
She took off her sunglasses when I walked up. “Hola Jack, it’s good to see you,” she said.
I stood there with my arms folded and didn’t say anything.
She reached out to touch me but drew back her hand. “I’m very sorry.”
I glared back and sat down. I was trying to decide if a Starbucks cup could be used as a deadly weapon. Several other people sat at nearby tables engrossed in their phones. I wished I had insisted on meeting somewhere private, someplace without cameras, or witnesses.
She sat down across from me and slid a cup across the table. “It’s dark roast, just the way you like it.”
What did she know about what I like anymore? How could she possibly think that an apology over a cup of coffee could set things right between us? I ignored the goodwill gesture and asked, “What do you want?”
She looked at me with brooding eyes. “I know you’re angry, but it really wasn’t my fault.”
“Angry? Not your fault?” I began to mimic her pleading voice from six years ago. “Por favor, Jack! It’s just one suitcase. My cousin is in the hospital and needs these things. You don’t even have to take it to him. Just get it on the airplane and a family member will pick it up in baggage claim. Please!”
I was happy to see a tear roll down her cheek. My rage searched for a way to extract revenge on the spot, but six years of learning to wait kept me from it. I waited at least a minute for her to speak.
She wiped a tear and said, “They threatened to kill my family if I didn’t convince you to carry that suitcase for me.”
I knocked the cup of dark roast off the table and stood. “So you chose your family over me? I was expendable? You didn’t trust me enough to let me in on the secret?” I leaned forward and grabbed the small metal table at the edges gripping for something to control my rage. “You stole six years of my life!”
I stood there grasping the table and clenching my teeth as hot breath surged in and out of my nose. She put her face in her hands and began to sob. I wanted to somehow extract six years of pain in sixty seconds. I noticed that a man sitting nearby stood and began recording with his phone. I glared at him, like only a convict can, making him cower and mind his own business. I released my grip on the table and sat down again.
I checked my watch. I had waited six years, four months, fifteen days, twelve hours, forty-one minutes, and eighteen seconds for this encounter. The exact moment of my revenge had arrived and in the end it felt more hollow than an empty prison minute. I looked up at the sky, the delirious burning blue, and longed to escape the heavy emotions that had kept me on the ground. I realized that revenge would only serve to ground me again, and I could never spend another second as a jailbird or another minute unable to fly. The moment I had waited for was not to be filled with revenge, but with release of the past that weighed me down like sandbags on a hot air balloon.
I stood to go. “I don’t care anymore. I just want to get on with my life.”
Beatríz slid an envelope across the table. “He loves airplanes. He has your eyes and looks just like you.”
My pale hand trembled as I reached out for the sealed envelope. A knot formed in my stomach and worked its way up my throat as I tore it open and revealed the photo. I cradled the photo in my hands and gawked at the almost six-year old face of my son. He was holding a red toy airplane.
Time flies. My son had been alive six years the first time we went flying together. It was worth the wait.
Time Flies
It took exactly forty-seven seconds for the prison door to slide open. After spending six years, four months, fifteen days, ten hours, twenty-three minutes, and thirty-nine seconds behind bars, you would think I learned patience, but you’d be wrong. I learned to wait. Patience is different than waiting.
My lawyer was there to greet me with his politician’s smile when I walked out a free man. “How does it feel to be exonerated?” he asked.
I stared right through him for five whole seconds but didn’t answer the question.
He had never served time a day in his life and nothing I could say would make him understand. On top of that, his efforts didn’t set me free. While he cleaned out my savings account, I gave information to the Feds until the case broke, and they arrested the real criminals. Now he wanted to stick me in front of the cameras and bloviate about saving innocent people. I never even smiled for the camera, and saved my energy for more important matters.
When the press conference was over, he pulled me aside and put on his courtroom face. “She’s here in the US now. She wants to see you Jack. She wants to apologize.”
She was Beatríz – chocolate skin, brooding black eyes, and even blacker hair. She told me she loved me. She told me she wanted to marry me. I believed her, right up to the point when she betrayed me.
I wanted to see her too, but not to apologize.
I jumped in a cab and headed for the rendezvous location so I could hear her apology, or something like that. The sky was a crisp blue with puffy white clouds, the perfect kind for cloud chasing, just like the day they hauled me to jail and clipped my wings. All I ever wanted to do was fly, but jailbirds don’t fly. They flap their wings in the yard like some fat chicken, but never get off the ground. Beatríz had betrayed me, and her betrayal kept me on the ground for six long years. Now it was time for payback.
The cab pulled up and I saw her sitting in front of the Starbucks with sunglasses on. She stood when I got out of the cab, and for a moment I thought she was going to rush over and hug me. I think the look on my face stopped her.
She took off her sunglasses when I walked up. “Hola Jack, it’s good to see you,” she said.
I stood there with my arms folded and didn’t say anything.
She reached out to touch me but drew back her hand. “I’m very sorry.”
I glared back and sat down. I was trying to decide if a Starbucks cup could be used as a deadly weapon. Several other people sat at nearby tables engrossed in their phones. I wished I had insisted on meeting somewhere private, someplace without cameras, or witnesses.
She sat down across from me and slid a cup across the table. “It’s dark roast, just the way you like it.”
What did she know about what I like anymore? How could she possibly think that an apology over a cup of coffee could set things right between us? I ignored the goodwill gesture and asked, “What do you want?”
She looked at me with brooding eyes. “I know you’re angry, but it really wasn’t my fault.”
“Angry? Not your fault?” I began to mimic her pleading voice from six years ago. “Por favor, Jack! It’s just one suitcase. My cousin is in the hospital and needs these things. You don’t even have to take it to him. Just get it on the airplane and a family member will pick it up in baggage claim. Please!”
I was happy to see a tear roll down her cheek. My rage searched for a way to extract revenge on the spot, but six years of learning to wait kept me from it. I waited at least a minute for her to speak.
She wiped a tear and said, “They threatened to kill my family if I didn’t convince you to carry that suitcase for me.”
I knocked the cup of dark roast off the table and stood. “So you chose your family over me? I was expendable? You didn’t trust me enough to let me in on the secret?” I leaned forward and grabbed the small metal table at the edges gripping for something to control my rage. “You stole six years of my life!”
I stood there grasping the table and clenching my teeth as hot breath surged in and out of my nose. She put her face in her hands and began to sob. I wanted to somehow extract six years of pain in sixty seconds. I noticed that a man sitting nearby stood and began recording with his phone. I glared at him, like only a convict can, making him cower and mind his own business. I released my grip on the table and sat down again.
I checked my watch. I had waited six years, four months, fifteen days, twelve hours, forty-one minutes, and eighteen seconds for this encounter. The exact moment of my revenge had arrived and in the end it felt more hollow than an empty prison minute. I looked up at the sky, the delirious burning blue, and longed to escape the heavy emotions that had kept me on the ground. I realized that revenge would only serve to ground me again, and I could never spend another second as a jailbird or another minute unable to fly. The moment I had waited for was not to be filled with revenge, but with release of the past that weighed me down like sandbags on a hot air balloon.
I stood to go. “I don’t care anymore. I just want to get on with my life.”
Beatríz slid an envelope across the table. “He loves airplanes. He has your eyes and looks just like you.”
My pale hand trembled as I reached out for the sealed envelope. A knot formed in my stomach and worked its way up my throat as I tore it open and revealed the photo. I cradled the photo in my hands and gawked at the almost six-year old face of my son. He was holding a red toy airplane.
Time flies. My son had been alive six years the first time we went flying together. It was worth the wait.
September 22, 2014
Forsythia Bush Deterrence
Deterrence is a state of mind brought about by the existence of a credible threat of unacceptable counteraction. (Oxford Military Dictionary)
I was a rambunctious and energetic boy, and consequentially, didn’t want to sit still in church.
One Sunday a family friend watched my mother deal with me as I became irreverent and disruptive in church. Each time I began to get noisy, irreverent, or disruptive, she would simply open her purse and show me something. Every time I looked inside her purse, I settled down and behaved as I should. The family friend saw my mother repeat this process several times during the church meeting. Curious, he approached her at the end of the meeting and asked her what she had in the purse. My mother smiled and opened her purse. There, on top of her wallet, keys, and various other personal items, was a small switch from the forsythia bush in front of our house. My mother understood deterrence in its simplest and most effective form.
My parents were good parents, in fact, exceptional parents considering that they raised ten (mostly normal and functional) children. (We are all normal and functional most of the time.) Our house had a large yellow forsythia bush right outside the front door, and when we misbehaved, we had to march outside and pick a switch from that bush that would then be used as the instrument of our punishment. As one who went to the bush several times, I tried various sizes in an effort to find the size that wouldn’t hurt. I can tell you from personal experience that size did not matter. They all hurt.
Now you might think such punishment harsh, but in reality they were in good company. The Bible explains that Jesus cleansed the temple with a “scourge of small chords” (a whip) and overturned the moneychanger’s tables. In one of the rare displays of physicality, Christ reinforced the law with physical force and moral momentum. By the way, He cleansed the temple a second time right before he was crucified. It seems that Christ himself was passionate about obedience and was not afraid to use physical restraint to extract it. My parents were in good company.
Don’t misunderstand me, they didn’t beat me or abuse me. I think they chose the switch because although it stung, it didn’t do any permanent damage. It also allowed them a bit of distance since they could punish me without striking me with their own hands. Afterwards they would always wrap me in their arms and let me know that they loved me. It was discipline with purpose, not just punishment for punishment’s sake.
With my own children, my wife and I took a slightly different route. We used restrictions and “time outs” more often than the physical punishment. (Maybe because we didn’t have a forsythia bush.) We set standards of behavior that we expected to be followed. When a child chose not to follow that standard of behavior, unfortunate consequences followed. Corporal punishment was less prevalent than when I was raised. We also tried to discipline with purpose, not just punish for punishment’s sake.
I will be the first to admit that I lost it a few times and either said or did inappropriate things that I later regretted. Unlike Christ, who remained in control of his emotions and maintained the moral high ground as he used physical force, I sometimes punished in the strong emotion of the moment. I don’t admit to being guilty of abuse, but of punishing in anger instead of love, or of simply gratifying my bruised ego instead of trying to teach. Of all my sins, those moments of poor parenting still bring me the most pain.
I don’t know all the facts surrounding the Adrian Peterson child abuse case (Or any of the other cases in the media right now). I don’t know if his punishment exceeded what would be considered reasonable. But I can imagine how difficult it must be for both the parent and child to have their relationship judged in the court of public opinion. It will be a tremendous wedge in their relationship for years to come, no matter what the outcome. My heart goes out to the both the father and the son. Ironically, Peterson lost another son (from another relationship) to abuse at the hands of another man just a few short months ago. He is no stranger to the results of abuse.
Parenting takes courage. Sometimes that means the courage to discipline. Sometimes that means the courage to swallow your pride and ego. Sometimes that means the courage to allow your child to feel the pain of their actions as artificial or very real consequences. Sometimes it means having the courage to show mercy and love. It is never easy to know what type of courage is needed day to day.
Parenting also takes a great deal of love. Sometimes that love comes in the form of patience. Sometimes that love manifests itself as restraint. Sometimes that love is shown as much by NOT extracting punishment as it is by punishing. Love doesn’t leave any permanent damage, even when that love is shown through discipline.
Just as Christ was passionate enough to use physical force in the extreme cases, He also admonished that anyone guilty of abusing children would be better off at the bottom of the ocean with a millstone around his neck. It seems that even He was intolerant of domestic abuse.
I have no permanent marks on my legs from all those forsythia switches. I hope my children bear no permanent marks (emotional or physical) from the punishments I meted out. I do hope, however, that the discipline they felt at home will be a deterrent that will keep them from unruly, and rambunctious behavior as an adult. I hope that it will deter them from illegal or immoral behavior. Without proper discipline at home, a society will soon find itself unraveling at the seams and plunging into utter chaos.
However, I certainly hope that the threat of jail time, loss of income, and becoming a pariah of society are successful deterrents to those who would abuse spouse or children. My mother wouldn’t stand for bad behavior. We, as a society, shouldn’t stand for it either.
Yellow Forsythia Bush
I was a rambunctious and energetic boy, and consequentially, didn’t want to sit still in church.
One Sunday a family friend watched my mother deal with me as I became irreverent and disruptive in church. Each time I began to get noisy, irreverent, or disruptive, she would simply open her purse and show me something. Every time I looked inside her purse, I settled down and behaved as I should. The family friend saw my mother repeat this process several times during the church meeting. Curious, he approached her at the end of the meeting and asked her what she had in the purse. My mother smiled and opened her purse. There, on top of her wallet, keys, and various other personal items, was a small switch from the forsythia bush in front of our house. My mother understood deterrence in its simplest and most effective form.
My parents were good parents, in fact, exceptional parents considering that they raised ten (mostly normal and functional) children. (We are all normal and functional most of the time.) Our house had a large yellow forsythia bush right outside the front door, and when we misbehaved, we had to march outside and pick a switch from that bush that would then be used as the instrument of our punishment. As one who went to the bush several times, I tried various sizes in an effort to find the size that wouldn’t hurt. I can tell you from personal experience that size did not matter. They all hurt.
Now you might think such punishment harsh, but in reality they were in good company. The Bible explains that Jesus cleansed the temple with a “scourge of small chords” (a whip) and overturned the moneychanger’s tables. In one of the rare displays of physicality, Christ reinforced the law with physical force and moral momentum. By the way, He cleansed the temple a second time right before he was crucified. It seems that Christ himself was passionate about obedience and was not afraid to use physical restraint to extract it. My parents were in good company.
Don’t misunderstand me, they didn’t beat me or abuse me. I think they chose the switch because although it stung, it didn’t do any permanent damage. It also allowed them a bit of distance since they could punish me without striking me with their own hands. Afterwards they would always wrap me in their arms and let me know that they loved me. It was discipline with purpose, not just punishment for punishment’s sake.
With my own children, my wife and I took a slightly different route. We used restrictions and “time outs” more often than the physical punishment. (Maybe because we didn’t have a forsythia bush.) We set standards of behavior that we expected to be followed. When a child chose not to follow that standard of behavior, unfortunate consequences followed. Corporal punishment was less prevalent than when I was raised. We also tried to discipline with purpose, not just punish for punishment’s sake.
I will be the first to admit that I lost it a few times and either said or did inappropriate things that I later regretted. Unlike Christ, who remained in control of his emotions and maintained the moral high ground as he used physical force, I sometimes punished in the strong emotion of the moment. I don’t admit to being guilty of abuse, but of punishing in anger instead of love, or of simply gratifying my bruised ego instead of trying to teach. Of all my sins, those moments of poor parenting still bring me the most pain.
I don’t know all the facts surrounding the Adrian Peterson child abuse case (Or any of the other cases in the media right now). I don’t know if his punishment exceeded what would be considered reasonable. But I can imagine how difficult it must be for both the parent and child to have their relationship judged in the court of public opinion. It will be a tremendous wedge in their relationship for years to come, no matter what the outcome. My heart goes out to the both the father and the son. Ironically, Peterson lost another son (from another relationship) to abuse at the hands of another man just a few short months ago. He is no stranger to the results of abuse.
Parenting takes courage. Sometimes that means the courage to discipline. Sometimes that means the courage to swallow your pride and ego. Sometimes that means the courage to allow your child to feel the pain of their actions as artificial or very real consequences. Sometimes it means having the courage to show mercy and love. It is never easy to know what type of courage is needed day to day.
Parenting also takes a great deal of love. Sometimes that love comes in the form of patience. Sometimes that love manifests itself as restraint. Sometimes that love is shown as much by NOT extracting punishment as it is by punishing. Love doesn’t leave any permanent damage, even when that love is shown through discipline.
Just as Christ was passionate enough to use physical force in the extreme cases, He also admonished that anyone guilty of abusing children would be better off at the bottom of the ocean with a millstone around his neck. It seems that even He was intolerant of domestic abuse.
I have no permanent marks on my legs from all those forsythia switches. I hope my children bear no permanent marks (emotional or physical) from the punishments I meted out. I do hope, however, that the discipline they felt at home will be a deterrent that will keep them from unruly, and rambunctious behavior as an adult. I hope that it will deter them from illegal or immoral behavior. Without proper discipline at home, a society will soon find itself unraveling at the seams and plunging into utter chaos.
However, I certainly hope that the threat of jail time, loss of income, and becoming a pariah of society are successful deterrents to those who would abuse spouse or children. My mother wouldn’t stand for bad behavior. We, as a society, shouldn’t stand for it either.
Yellow Forsythia BushAugust 23, 2014
I Am Not A Sports Fan
fanatic |fəˈnatik| - a person with an obsessive interest in and enthusiasm for something, esp. an activity
I am not a sports fan. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy playing sports, but watching sports, not so much. I always feel guilty sitting on the couch watching other people get their exercise, or spending hundreds of dollars on tickets for a seat in the nosebleed section of some arena. I am not a sports fan, but I am a fan of sports.
The word “fan” is short for “fanatic.” My youngest son Carson is headed off to college soon, and spite of the fact that the TV in our living room was rarely tuned to Monday Night Football or ESPN Sports Center, somewhere along the way he became a sports fan. I’m not really sure where his love for sports came from, but he truly a sports fanatic.
Carson's First Soccer PictureHis sporting career started with soccer with my wife as his coach. Then, after a few successful seasons, a neighbor invited him to try baseball and he took to the game very quickly, and his baseball team won the league trophy a couple of times. He played on the All-Star Team. For a time, baseball was the best sport in the world. Then, he went to high school, and because of some bad influences, he left baseball. Next, he took up basketball. He played on a league, played pickup ball, and went to clinics. Within a short time he was an excellent player, but when he tried out for the JV team, he came up short and was listed as the 2nd alternate. Not to be discouraged by the setback, and with the advice from his mother, he took up soccer again. Within a matter of just a few months he was good enough to make the JV soccer team in spite of the fact he hadn’t played the sport for several years. Soccer became his latest passion. He made the high school varsity team, and started. As the season ended his senior year,hHe even went and auditioned for a college team, but once again barely missed making the team.
During all this time, my wife and I attended games, practices, and clinics. I spent time with him throwing baseballs, shooting basketballs, and kicking soccer balls. I watched him strike out, make double plays, and even hit a grand slam to win the game. I watched him make three pointers and miss free throws. I watched him score amazing goals and lose the ball to defenders. I spent a lot of time in bleachers, at courtside, and staring through the fence at the baseball diamond. Through all of this, I never became a sports fanatic, but I did become fanatic about sports.
We love to cheer for the winner – the athlete that excels and breaks the record, scores the most points, or wins the championship, but who are the real winners in sports?
As parents we strive to teach our children the value of hard work, persistence, practice, dedication, teamwork, and the pursuit of excellence. Sports provide opportunities to teach all of those things in ways that are both relevant and real. With sports you are not in some classroom listening to someone lecture about success principles. You are applying success principles and learning by doing. Sports can teach more life lessons in a single season than four years of classroom lectures, and it doesn’t really matter who wins the game, match, or race. It only matters if you participate.
Perhaps Teddy Roosevelt said it best. “It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”
In the end Carson did not get the athletic scholarship. He wasn’t recruited to play for a professional soccer team (yet). His career as an athlete may never be a success in the way we like to think of success. However, in my eyes he has succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. He has learned the value of work, the necessity of dedication, the demand for excellence, the importance of practice, and the beauty of struggle. He has felt the joy of victory, and the agony of defeat. He is a better man because of his efforts. He is better prepared because of his failures. He is more likely to succeed in life, not because of his athletic prowess, but because of the things he learned from sports.
So here’s to my son Carson, the sports fanatic, and all the other young men and women whose lives are shaped in the crucible of sports competition! May you internalize the lessons learned on the baseball diamond, the soccer field, the basketball court, the swimming pool, the volleyball court, and the track and apply them to the most important sporting event of them all – life.
I may not be a sports fan, but I am a fan of sports.
Carson Playing Soccer With Doodle
I am not a sports fan. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy playing sports, but watching sports, not so much. I always feel guilty sitting on the couch watching other people get their exercise, or spending hundreds of dollars on tickets for a seat in the nosebleed section of some arena. I am not a sports fan, but I am a fan of sports.
The word “fan” is short for “fanatic.” My youngest son Carson is headed off to college soon, and spite of the fact that the TV in our living room was rarely tuned to Monday Night Football or ESPN Sports Center, somewhere along the way he became a sports fan. I’m not really sure where his love for sports came from, but he truly a sports fanatic.
Carson's First Soccer PictureHis sporting career started with soccer with my wife as his coach. Then, after a few successful seasons, a neighbor invited him to try baseball and he took to the game very quickly, and his baseball team won the league trophy a couple of times. He played on the All-Star Team. For a time, baseball was the best sport in the world. Then, he went to high school, and because of some bad influences, he left baseball. Next, he took up basketball. He played on a league, played pickup ball, and went to clinics. Within a short time he was an excellent player, but when he tried out for the JV team, he came up short and was listed as the 2nd alternate. Not to be discouraged by the setback, and with the advice from his mother, he took up soccer again. Within a matter of just a few months he was good enough to make the JV soccer team in spite of the fact he hadn’t played the sport for several years. Soccer became his latest passion. He made the high school varsity team, and started. As the season ended his senior year,hHe even went and auditioned for a college team, but once again barely missed making the team.During all this time, my wife and I attended games, practices, and clinics. I spent time with him throwing baseballs, shooting basketballs, and kicking soccer balls. I watched him strike out, make double plays, and even hit a grand slam to win the game. I watched him make three pointers and miss free throws. I watched him score amazing goals and lose the ball to defenders. I spent a lot of time in bleachers, at courtside, and staring through the fence at the baseball diamond. Through all of this, I never became a sports fanatic, but I did become fanatic about sports.
We love to cheer for the winner – the athlete that excels and breaks the record, scores the most points, or wins the championship, but who are the real winners in sports?
As parents we strive to teach our children the value of hard work, persistence, practice, dedication, teamwork, and the pursuit of excellence. Sports provide opportunities to teach all of those things in ways that are both relevant and real. With sports you are not in some classroom listening to someone lecture about success principles. You are applying success principles and learning by doing. Sports can teach more life lessons in a single season than four years of classroom lectures, and it doesn’t really matter who wins the game, match, or race. It only matters if you participate.
Perhaps Teddy Roosevelt said it best. “It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”In the end Carson did not get the athletic scholarship. He wasn’t recruited to play for a professional soccer team (yet). His career as an athlete may never be a success in the way we like to think of success. However, in my eyes he has succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. He has learned the value of work, the necessity of dedication, the demand for excellence, the importance of practice, and the beauty of struggle. He has felt the joy of victory, and the agony of defeat. He is a better man because of his efforts. He is better prepared because of his failures. He is more likely to succeed in life, not because of his athletic prowess, but because of the things he learned from sports.
So here’s to my son Carson, the sports fanatic, and all the other young men and women whose lives are shaped in the crucible of sports competition! May you internalize the lessons learned on the baseball diamond, the soccer field, the basketball court, the swimming pool, the volleyball court, and the track and apply them to the most important sporting event of them all – life.
I may not be a sports fan, but I am a fan of sports.
Carson Playing Soccer With Doodle
July 28, 2014
The Kentucky Courthouse Run
Simpson County CourthouseI was driving down the road sometime last year telling my brother how much fun it would be to fly around Kentucky in a small airplane and see how many courthouses I could photograph in one day. He suggested that it would be a lot more fun on motorcycles. Thus, the idea for an adventure (and a magazine article) was born.I pitched the idea to Kentucky Monthly and to my pleasant surprise they liked it. They gave me a deadline and turned me loose. I bought a motorcycle. We planned the ride, and in mid April, we hit the road. It was such a treat to ride the country roads of Kentucky.
You can read the digital copy of the article here - http://www.kentuckymonthly.com/explor...
Of course you can buy the August issue of Kentucky Monthly and read it on page 18.
Below I have posted more pictures from the two-wheeled adventure.
Thanks to Steve Vest, Kim Butterweck, and the staff of Kentucky Monthly for letting me have some fun and write about it. Thanks to my brother Chock for helping me hatch the idea and see it through. Thanks to Tahlee, Russell, Shelvin, Bryce, and Tim for joining me on the ride and making it fun. Thanks to my father-in-law, Brent for driving the chase vehicle. And most of all, thanks to my wife Britt for putting up with my crazy notions and taking such wonderful pictures.
Bryce, Tahlee, Chock, Tim, and Me in front of Simpson County Courthouse
Election signs that dotted the highway
A very unique roadside character in Monroe County
Annie Ruby's Cafe in Burkesville KY
A photo by the Alpine Motel above Burkesville, KY
Tim with the Adair County courthouse in the background
The open road
WWII Veteran Roy in Dedman's Drugstore
It's very hard to pass up a store with "fudge" in the name.
A tender embrace with Britt (state capitol in the background)
Ready for an afternoon ride after Moonlite Bar-B-Q Inn
Scars from a previous conflict
Tim taking a break
The friendly dog at Penn's Store
Tahlee and the friendly dog
We decided against using the restroom at Penn's Store
Anderson County Courthouse
We stopped by to visit Steve Vest at Kentucky Monthly
A photo op with Mr. Twain the bobble head
The end of the road at Frosty Freeze in Franklin - Get the baby burgers!July 11, 2014
Drew and the Dragon
Drew was one of my brother’s best friends. I first met him at one of our family reunions. He was a good ole boy from North Carolina that loved life, motorcycles, University of North Carolina, and teasing my youngest sister about getting married. I didn’t know him that well, but I have often thought of him over the years since his murder, and how much of a loss it was for my brother. Now I was standing next to his Star Wars adorned headstone in motorcycle gear paying my respects.
Robbinsville, North Carolina lies in the Smoky Mountains along the border with Tennessee. I had ridden Charlie Brown, my BMW motorcycle, down from my hometown in Franklin, Kentucky along with a nephew, a nephew and his wife, and a brother-in-law to meet my youngest brother Amory in a cabin just off of the Cherohala Skyway. After a night at the cabin, we mounted up for a ride along the Cherohala Skyway to Robbinsville, and Drew’s grave.
I scared myself a couple of times getting out of the long gravel driveway from the cabin and down the winding hillside road to the Skyway. The gravel was deep and loose making my back tire fishtail several times, but I kept it upright until we connected to the asphalt. The sweeping turns and majestic, mountain vistas of the Cherohala Skyway took my breath away as it alternated between tunnels of green forest and mist-covered mountaintops. The road was pure riding perfection. It was like a group of motorcycle riders got together and designed the road for the ultimate in motorcycle riding pleasure. It was the right balance of adrenaline, peacefulness, and breathtaking. I’m sure that without my full-face helmet bugs would have flown straight into my wide-open mouth as I rode around each bend in utter amazement at the perfection of the experience.
R2D2
I had never seen a gravestone with Star Wars figures on it, but then again Drew was as unique in life as he was death. He was buried in a hillside surrounded by large trees next to a Baptist church. His mother and sister were buried next to him. They died together, and it was fitting that they rested together in death on the same verdant hillside.
Drew was helping move his sister and her children out of their home during an ugly divorce (Is there any other kind?) when the estranged husband showed up with a high-powered hunting rifle and shot his wife, mother-in-law, and brother-in-law. The eight-year old son and four-year old daughter fled the home and were rescued by their grandfather a few minutes later.
The estranged husband admitted to the triple murder in a plea deal. He told the deputy, “I shot them. They were taking my kids. I shot them.” For his confession, he avoided the death penalty and got three consecutive life sentences. He will die in prison. Unfortunately, that is little consolation for Drew, or his family.
After honoring Drew, we mounted up and headed for Deal’s Gap and the Tail of the Dragon.
The Tail of the Dragon is an eleven-mile stretch of US 129 that begins at the North Carolina/Tennessee border and includes 318 unique turns in that short stretch of highway. It is not a road for cruising and sight seeing. The attraction is not the beautiful wooded roadside, but the road itself. Amory had ridden it several times, but it was the first time for everyone else. We stopped at the souvenir shop with the parking lot full of motorcycles for a bit of memorabilia before we challenged the Dragon.
I got my gear on first and since I was probably going to be the slowest rider, I motored out of the parking lot ahead of everyone else to get a jump on the winding road ahead. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Would I feel the rush of adrenaline, simply the fear of death, or maybe a little of both? Would I be up for the challenge or had I become a dawdling old man putzing along on without pushing myself?
I may not be the ego-driven man of my twenties anymore, but as I approached the first turn, I put on my game face. I wasn’t going to break any records on a motorcycle built like a prairie schooner, but I was going to stretch myself just a bit. After all, the road of life is very boring if we never roll on the throttle and let the engine roar. At first I was timid, but with each curve I felt my confidence grow. I found a rhythm in the road. Man and machine working together to slay the Dragon. It was exhilarating as I leaned into each turn and accelerated out of every twist only to find the road curving away from me again. In my rearview mirror I saw my younger brother Amory. I rode a little harder. It felt good to push my personal envelope a bit. Somewhere in those 300 plus turns, I felt the joy of the experience, the unadulterated thrill of the ride, and the satisfaction of a challenged life.
We were all grins when we made a pit stop at the other end of the Tail of the Dragon.
Amory spoke at Drew’s funeral, and afterwards the family gave him Drew’s old motorcycle. He fixed it up a bit and still rides it today. Death, it seems, may separate us from those we love, but it will only defeat us when we stop living our lives. My brother rides on, not to forget Drew, but to remember him.
Life is a highway – a journey, not a destination. It can be a boring, mindless journey if we only travel down straight roads. Sometimes we have to challenge the dragons in our lives to remember why we are living.
Robbinsville, North Carolina lies in the Smoky Mountains along the border with Tennessee. I had ridden Charlie Brown, my BMW motorcycle, down from my hometown in Franklin, Kentucky along with a nephew, a nephew and his wife, and a brother-in-law to meet my youngest brother Amory in a cabin just off of the Cherohala Skyway. After a night at the cabin, we mounted up for a ride along the Cherohala Skyway to Robbinsville, and Drew’s grave.I scared myself a couple of times getting out of the long gravel driveway from the cabin and down the winding hillside road to the Skyway. The gravel was deep and loose making my back tire fishtail several times, but I kept it upright until we connected to the asphalt. The sweeping turns and majestic, mountain vistas of the Cherohala Skyway took my breath away as it alternated between tunnels of green forest and mist-covered mountaintops. The road was pure riding perfection. It was like a group of motorcycle riders got together and designed the road for the ultimate in motorcycle riding pleasure. It was the right balance of adrenaline, peacefulness, and breathtaking. I’m sure that without my full-face helmet bugs would have flown straight into my wide-open mouth as I rode around each bend in utter amazement at the perfection of the experience.
R2D2I had never seen a gravestone with Star Wars figures on it, but then again Drew was as unique in life as he was death. He was buried in a hillside surrounded by large trees next to a Baptist church. His mother and sister were buried next to him. They died together, and it was fitting that they rested together in death on the same verdant hillside.
Drew was helping move his sister and her children out of their home during an ugly divorce (Is there any other kind?) when the estranged husband showed up with a high-powered hunting rifle and shot his wife, mother-in-law, and brother-in-law. The eight-year old son and four-year old daughter fled the home and were rescued by their grandfather a few minutes later.
The estranged husband admitted to the triple murder in a plea deal. He told the deputy, “I shot them. They were taking my kids. I shot them.” For his confession, he avoided the death penalty and got three consecutive life sentences. He will die in prison. Unfortunately, that is little consolation for Drew, or his family.
After honoring Drew, we mounted up and headed for Deal’s Gap and the Tail of the Dragon.
The Tail of the Dragon is an eleven-mile stretch of US 129 that begins at the North Carolina/Tennessee border and includes 318 unique turns in that short stretch of highway. It is not a road for cruising and sight seeing. The attraction is not the beautiful wooded roadside, but the road itself. Amory had ridden it several times, but it was the first time for everyone else. We stopped at the souvenir shop with the parking lot full of motorcycles for a bit of memorabilia before we challenged the Dragon.
I got my gear on first and since I was probably going to be the slowest rider, I motored out of the parking lot ahead of everyone else to get a jump on the winding road ahead. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Would I feel the rush of adrenaline, simply the fear of death, or maybe a little of both? Would I be up for the challenge or had I become a dawdling old man putzing along on without pushing myself?I may not be the ego-driven man of my twenties anymore, but as I approached the first turn, I put on my game face. I wasn’t going to break any records on a motorcycle built like a prairie schooner, but I was going to stretch myself just a bit. After all, the road of life is very boring if we never roll on the throttle and let the engine roar. At first I was timid, but with each curve I felt my confidence grow. I found a rhythm in the road. Man and machine working together to slay the Dragon. It was exhilarating as I leaned into each turn and accelerated out of every twist only to find the road curving away from me again. In my rearview mirror I saw my younger brother Amory. I rode a little harder. It felt good to push my personal envelope a bit. Somewhere in those 300 plus turns, I felt the joy of the experience, the unadulterated thrill of the ride, and the satisfaction of a challenged life.
We were all grins when we made a pit stop at the other end of the Tail of the Dragon.
Amory spoke at Drew’s funeral, and afterwards the family gave him Drew’s old motorcycle. He fixed it up a bit and still rides it today. Death, it seems, may separate us from those we love, but it will only defeat us when we stop living our lives. My brother rides on, not to forget Drew, but to remember him.
Life is a highway – a journey, not a destination. It can be a boring, mindless journey if we only travel down straight roads. Sometimes we have to challenge the dragons in our lives to remember why we are living.
June 24, 2014
Milk Run
This short story was inspired by real events, well... sort of.
Deputy Crawford sat in his cruiser with window open enjoying a ham sandwich and the warm spring night when his radio came to life. “Dispatch to Crawdaddy,” sang the radio. The diligent Deputy swallowed and picked up the mike. “This is Deputy Crawford. Go ahead.” “Your wife called Crawdaddy. She wants you to pick up some milk on the way home tonight.” Laughter echoed over the airwaves as the dispatcher held the microphone button down after making his transmission. “I would remind dispatch,” warned Deputy Crawford, “that county regulations do not allow for personal transmissions over official frequencies.” “Okay Crawdaddy, forget I told you to pick up some milk on the way home, but don’t ask me to explain to your wife how you came home empty handed when she has hungry mouths to feed.” More laughter. “I would also remind you to refer to me by my official title of ‘Deputy Crawford’ when you address me over the radio.” “Sure thing Crawdaddy.” Laughter erupted again. “Deputy Crawford out,” snarled Raymond Crawford, the newest deputy of Jessamine County. He polished off his sandwich and washed it down with his Coke. “I get no respect,” he mumbled to himself as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “They stuck me out here on this country road because of a bogus tip and tease me over the radio.” He spat out the window and shook his head. “No respect.” A black Camaro zipped past with the lights off. “What the devil!” Deputy Crawford flipped on his lights and brought the cruiser to life. He burned rubber as the tires connected with the asphalt as the black Camaro disappeared around the next bend. Deputy Crawford grinned at himself in the mirror. He loved a good chase. It reminded him of his days on the racetrack before his wife made him quit racing and get a real job. County regulations didn’t prohibit him from modifying his cruiser, and he had taken the liberty of upgrading and improving his machine. He was on the Camaro’s bumper in less than two minutes. The black Camaro pulled over and came to a stop. Deputy Crawford shined his spotlight on the license plate and ran a background check – nothing out of the ordinary. He tucked his ticket book under his arm and slipped from his cruiser, adjusted his belt, and kept one hand on his gun as he approached the vehicle. The black Camaro had the windows tinted, but the driver had turned on the dome light and rolled down the window. Deputy Crawford gave a sigh of relief when he saw the driver’s hands on the dashboard, but didn’t take his hand off of his gun. “Going a little fast ain’t we?” asked Deputy Crawford as he approached the open window and shined his flashlight at the driver. “Sorry officer, I was just trying to get home to my babies.” The woman’s voice was silky smooth and dripping with penance. Deputy Crawford gawked at the woman in the front seat. Her hair was blacker than the Camaro and her doe eyes were as brown as the leather seats. Her blouse seemed to be missing a few buttons. “Wh… wh… why such a hurry to get home to your babies?” She batted her eyelashes and shifted in her seat. “I’m breastfeeding twins and I’m about to pop.” Deputy Crawford swallowed and loosened his collar. “Twins? Uh… license and registration please, uh… ma’am.” He dropped the beam of the flashlight and shifted his focus to the car hoping she couldn’t see how flush his face was. He shined his flashlight along the smooth lines of the machine and tried to stay focused on doing his job. He loved fast cars – the sound of roaring engines, the smell of burning rubber, the feel of pushing the suspension to the limit in a turn. He shined his flashlight at the tires and wrinkled his brow. “Here you go officer,” said the woman as she handed him the requested papers. Her hands were reddish and rougher than he expected. He looked over the papers. “It says here you live in Madison County.” “Yes sir, out in the country all by myself, with my twin babies.” “Then what are you doing in Jessamine County going away from Madison County at a high rate of speed?” She sighed and adjusted her blouse. “You got me officer. I don’t have twins.” She smiled a devious smile. “I’m on my way to a little secret rendezvous and the excitement of it all made me drive a little too fast.” She winked. “You do know what its like to get… excited, don’t ya?” “Uh… yes ma’am,” replied Deputy Crawford as he pushed up the rim of his hat with his flashlight. He shined the light at the car. “You mind telling me why your car is setting so low on its suspension?” She leaned out the window letting her blouse open even more. “It looks fine to me.” “I’m going to need you to open the trunk,” said Deputy Crawford as he focused on the sleek lines of the Camaro. “The trunk? Why?” “I suspect that you are transporting beverages from unlicensed producers for sale on the black market.” Her face turned sour, and she buttoned up her blouse. “You got a warrant?” “Don’t need one. I pulled you over on a legitimate traffic stop and saw evidence of a crime. The law gives me the right to investigate.” Deputy Crawford shined his flashlight in her face and put his hand on his gun. “Now, open the trunk.” The driver shook her head, leaned forward, and popped the trunk. “See for yourself.” Deputy Crawford grinned when opened the trunk and shined his flashlight – the tip was right. The trunk was full of large mason jars packed in coolers of ice. It was the mother lode. He strode back to the front of the car. “Ma’am, I’m afraid I’m going to have ask you to step out of the vehicle.” “For that?” she said as she pointed her thumb at the rear of the vehicle. “That ain’t hurting nobody.” Deputy Crawford straightened himself up to his full height. “Kentucky Administrative Regulation 902 prohibits the transportation, or sale, of raw milk. I can see from your red hands that you do the milking yourself. On your way to Lexington to sell it to some unsuspecting city folks?” “Look Deputy, it’s milk for crying out loud. It ain’t like I’m running moonshine. It’s milk! You know, cow juice, moo-moo, crème de la crème – MILK!” She shook her head. “Don’t you have something more important to do, like catch REAL criminals?” “A criminal is someone that breaks the law. You are clearly in violation of Kentucky Administrative Regulation 902, and that makes you a criminal.” She shook her head. “Do you starch your own underwear or do you make your wife do it for you?” “Now just a minute…” Deputy Crawford stopped midsentence. He scratched his chin with butt of his flashlight. He grinned. “I believe that the regulation does allow you to share the milk with friends and family. You wouldn’t happen to be visiting family in Jessamine County would you?” The woman’s mouth fell open. “Uh… why yes, I am visiting my aunt Susie. She lives in Jessamine County. She loves my milk.” “That looks like a lot of milk for Aunt Susie. Do you think you could spare a little for a friend… in law enforcement?”
When Deputy Crawford turned his cruiser down the lane to his house at the end of his shift, he had two mason jars full of ice cold cow juice on the back floorboard, each with the a thick layer of cream at the top.
Deputy Crawford sat in his cruiser with window open enjoying a ham sandwich and the warm spring night when his radio came to life. “Dispatch to Crawdaddy,” sang the radio. The diligent Deputy swallowed and picked up the mike. “This is Deputy Crawford. Go ahead.” “Your wife called Crawdaddy. She wants you to pick up some milk on the way home tonight.” Laughter echoed over the airwaves as the dispatcher held the microphone button down after making his transmission. “I would remind dispatch,” warned Deputy Crawford, “that county regulations do not allow for personal transmissions over official frequencies.” “Okay Crawdaddy, forget I told you to pick up some milk on the way home, but don’t ask me to explain to your wife how you came home empty handed when she has hungry mouths to feed.” More laughter. “I would also remind you to refer to me by my official title of ‘Deputy Crawford’ when you address me over the radio.” “Sure thing Crawdaddy.” Laughter erupted again. “Deputy Crawford out,” snarled Raymond Crawford, the newest deputy of Jessamine County. He polished off his sandwich and washed it down with his Coke. “I get no respect,” he mumbled to himself as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “They stuck me out here on this country road because of a bogus tip and tease me over the radio.” He spat out the window and shook his head. “No respect.” A black Camaro zipped past with the lights off. “What the devil!” Deputy Crawford flipped on his lights and brought the cruiser to life. He burned rubber as the tires connected with the asphalt as the black Camaro disappeared around the next bend. Deputy Crawford grinned at himself in the mirror. He loved a good chase. It reminded him of his days on the racetrack before his wife made him quit racing and get a real job. County regulations didn’t prohibit him from modifying his cruiser, and he had taken the liberty of upgrading and improving his machine. He was on the Camaro’s bumper in less than two minutes. The black Camaro pulled over and came to a stop. Deputy Crawford shined his spotlight on the license plate and ran a background check – nothing out of the ordinary. He tucked his ticket book under his arm and slipped from his cruiser, adjusted his belt, and kept one hand on his gun as he approached the vehicle. The black Camaro had the windows tinted, but the driver had turned on the dome light and rolled down the window. Deputy Crawford gave a sigh of relief when he saw the driver’s hands on the dashboard, but didn’t take his hand off of his gun. “Going a little fast ain’t we?” asked Deputy Crawford as he approached the open window and shined his flashlight at the driver. “Sorry officer, I was just trying to get home to my babies.” The woman’s voice was silky smooth and dripping with penance. Deputy Crawford gawked at the woman in the front seat. Her hair was blacker than the Camaro and her doe eyes were as brown as the leather seats. Her blouse seemed to be missing a few buttons. “Wh… wh… why such a hurry to get home to your babies?” She batted her eyelashes and shifted in her seat. “I’m breastfeeding twins and I’m about to pop.” Deputy Crawford swallowed and loosened his collar. “Twins? Uh… license and registration please, uh… ma’am.” He dropped the beam of the flashlight and shifted his focus to the car hoping she couldn’t see how flush his face was. He shined his flashlight along the smooth lines of the machine and tried to stay focused on doing his job. He loved fast cars – the sound of roaring engines, the smell of burning rubber, the feel of pushing the suspension to the limit in a turn. He shined his flashlight at the tires and wrinkled his brow. “Here you go officer,” said the woman as she handed him the requested papers. Her hands were reddish and rougher than he expected. He looked over the papers. “It says here you live in Madison County.” “Yes sir, out in the country all by myself, with my twin babies.” “Then what are you doing in Jessamine County going away from Madison County at a high rate of speed?” She sighed and adjusted her blouse. “You got me officer. I don’t have twins.” She smiled a devious smile. “I’m on my way to a little secret rendezvous and the excitement of it all made me drive a little too fast.” She winked. “You do know what its like to get… excited, don’t ya?” “Uh… yes ma’am,” replied Deputy Crawford as he pushed up the rim of his hat with his flashlight. He shined the light at the car. “You mind telling me why your car is setting so low on its suspension?” She leaned out the window letting her blouse open even more. “It looks fine to me.” “I’m going to need you to open the trunk,” said Deputy Crawford as he focused on the sleek lines of the Camaro. “The trunk? Why?” “I suspect that you are transporting beverages from unlicensed producers for sale on the black market.” Her face turned sour, and she buttoned up her blouse. “You got a warrant?” “Don’t need one. I pulled you over on a legitimate traffic stop and saw evidence of a crime. The law gives me the right to investigate.” Deputy Crawford shined his flashlight in her face and put his hand on his gun. “Now, open the trunk.” The driver shook her head, leaned forward, and popped the trunk. “See for yourself.” Deputy Crawford grinned when opened the trunk and shined his flashlight – the tip was right. The trunk was full of large mason jars packed in coolers of ice. It was the mother lode. He strode back to the front of the car. “Ma’am, I’m afraid I’m going to have ask you to step out of the vehicle.” “For that?” she said as she pointed her thumb at the rear of the vehicle. “That ain’t hurting nobody.” Deputy Crawford straightened himself up to his full height. “Kentucky Administrative Regulation 902 prohibits the transportation, or sale, of raw milk. I can see from your red hands that you do the milking yourself. On your way to Lexington to sell it to some unsuspecting city folks?” “Look Deputy, it’s milk for crying out loud. It ain’t like I’m running moonshine. It’s milk! You know, cow juice, moo-moo, crème de la crème – MILK!” She shook her head. “Don’t you have something more important to do, like catch REAL criminals?” “A criminal is someone that breaks the law. You are clearly in violation of Kentucky Administrative Regulation 902, and that makes you a criminal.” She shook her head. “Do you starch your own underwear or do you make your wife do it for you?” “Now just a minute…” Deputy Crawford stopped midsentence. He scratched his chin with butt of his flashlight. He grinned. “I believe that the regulation does allow you to share the milk with friends and family. You wouldn’t happen to be visiting family in Jessamine County would you?” The woman’s mouth fell open. “Uh… why yes, I am visiting my aunt Susie. She lives in Jessamine County. She loves my milk.” “That looks like a lot of milk for Aunt Susie. Do you think you could spare a little for a friend… in law enforcement?”
When Deputy Crawford turned his cruiser down the lane to his house at the end of his shift, he had two mason jars full of ice cold cow juice on the back floorboard, each with the a thick layer of cream at the top.
May 21, 2014
Chaff Is Cheap
My favorite scene in the movie about the life of country music legend Johnny Cash, I Walk the Line, is the scene when he first auditions for a record deal. The young artist sings an overplayed gospel song for the record manager. I loved the manager’s response.
“If you was hit by a truck and you were lying out in that gutter dying... and you had time to sing one song, huh, one song... people would remember before you're dirt... one song that would let God know what you felt about your time here on earth... one song that would sum you up... you telling me that's the song you'd sing?”
When I was growing up, hauling hay was dirty, dusty work. Unlike the modern hay-harvesting machines of today that automate the entire process for one person to do, hauling hay in my day involved driving a truck or wagon into the hay field, picking the bales up off the ground, stacking them on the wagon or truck, and tossing them into the barn. My older brother and I used to run a crew of our own and hired out to local farmers every summer. One summer we kept track, and we hauled over eighty thousand bales that summer. I can promise you that I lifted every one of those bales at least twice. (I have the bad back to prove it.)
Most of the time we hauled alfalfa, or Bermuda grass. Occasionally we hauled clover or fescue. During wheat harvest time we sometimes got a job hauling straw. We loved hauling straw because it was light compared to the hay. You could grab a bale in each hand and toss it around like they were made of air. The only problem with hauling straw is that it tended to be dustier. Unlike the hay, straw was just the stalk of the wheat, or barley, plant after the grain had been harvested. That meant that when you hauled straw, you had a lot of chaff in the air. It was easy on the back, but hard on the lungs.
In addition to being lighter and dustier, straw has little nutritional value. The nutrient-rich grain has been stripped from the stalk leaving only the chaff. Livestock can’t live off of chaff. They need the nutrients of the grain, or the hay. Farmers use straw as bedding for livestock in the barn. It’s great for soaking up bull excrement.
I was recently reading a book about developing a marketing platform. The book encouraged you to get involved in all the various social media outlets. It said that you should post or tweet as much as you can. It encouraged you to find a niche topic that you could post, tweet, or talk about on social media every day. Of course that left me baffled since I might have enough knowledge to post or tweet daily for about a month before I reach the limit of my expertise, particularly if I am limited to my own original thought. (That might get me through a week, but I doubt it.)
So I added a twitter account to my social media bag of tricks. It was pretty cool to get a tweet from some celebrities, or a tip of the day from an expert. But I noticed that just like most social media, it offered me little of substance and was abundant with chaff. Most of what I read consisted of retweeted or reposted news articles, most were interesting, but certainly not original. I read promotions for new books, movies, or products – helpful, but not life-changing knowledge. Then of course I found myself wading through endless selfies, pictures of food, or comments about how people felt on any given day. Each of these is important in their own perspective. They are each a piece of the personal mosaic painted by the producer and gave me a window into the personal life of the person who put it out there on social media. They connected me, in a small way, to someone else’s life. However, I certainly wouldn’t classify selfies and pictures of food as platform-worthy. What difference does it make if you can reach out and touch a million followers and all you have to offer them is a picture of the burrito you just ate - #myfavoriteburrito?
Don’t get me wrong. I love social media. It keeps me connected to friends and family across the miles. I enjoy learning of important family events and seeing pictures of family and friends during good times, and bad. I’m thankful that people post news about newborn babies, birthdays, graduations, and deaths in the family. However, like the levity of straw, social media consists mostly of chaff, and often lacks any nutritional value. It offers little value, except perhaps entertainment, but works well as filler. (And soaking up excrement.)
Chaff is cheap.
A writer’s job is to sift through the chaff and find the grains of truth for the reader. The really good writers not only sift out the chaff, but they mill the grain and bake it into something palatable for the reader, even when the truth is distasteful. That isn’t something you can often do in 140 characters.
Here’s what the radio manager told Johnny Cash.
“Or would you sing something different? Something real, something you felt? Because I'm telling you right now... that's the kind of song people want to hear. That's the kind of song that truly saves people. It ain't got nothing to do with believing in God, Mr. Cash. It has to do with believing in yourself.”
The scene ends with Johnny Cash singing “Folsom Prison Blues,” and the rest is history.
Chaff is cheap, but when we can find a way to connect to others; when we can share something real we have learned during this human existence; when we can offer a grain of truth to the world ground up and baked into something palatable, then we should shout it out on the rooftops of social media. The grain of truth might be heavy to carry, but it will fill the soul.
April 15, 2014
Homeward Bound
Most children think that their parents want to run their lives forever. Nothing could be further from the truth. Most parents want children that are capable of taking care of themselves, but the pathway to that independence can take a while, and is fraught with setbacks and dangers.
The air was cool at five thousand feet when they opened the side door of the Cessna Caravan and the wind gusted through the cramped cabin. I straddled a bench with my tandem instructor crammed in behind me, and two more tandem pairs ahead of me. Through the puffy white clouds, I could see the surf breaking below and the rows of white foamy water rushing to shore. We were circling above a hole in the clouds hoping that it would move over our drop zone so we could tumble out of the open door and into the mirth. The scenery was spectacular, but my heart was pounding. The turboprop hummed along and in spite of the swirling winds, the smell of the engine exhaust lingered in the cabin. My stomach did flips while we waited for the right conditions.
Early that day my son, Rian, had graduated from BYU Hawaii – my first college graduate. The speakers were succinct and spoke of character over academic performance, and integrity over income. Before they began to read the names of the graduate (not an easy task at the most diverse university on the planet), a choir sang a beautiful rendition of the song “Homeward Bound” by Marta Keen. It gave me chills as the metaphors from the song conjured up deep emotional images for me.
In the quiet misty morning When the moon has gone to bed When the sparrows stop their singing And the sky is clear and red
When the summer’s ceased it’s gleaming When the corn is past its prime When adventure’s lost its meaning I’ll be homeward bound in time
ChorusBind me not, to the pasture Chain me not to the plow Set me free to find my calling And I’ll return to you somehow
That was my chorus as I approached adulthood. I dreamt of far off places removed from the pastures and plows of home. My parents not only refused to bind or chain me to a future of their choosing, they encouraged me to go forth and find my calling, even if it took me away; Even if it put me in danger. Never once did I feel bound to a life I didn’t want to live. My parents gave me wings.
Through the hole in the clouds we could see the drop zone. The pilot gave the go ahead and my stomach did one more flip as I looked down at the volcanic mountains covered in green trees and the deep blue water of the Pacific. I wondered if I was ready for this experience. (During all my flight training, jumping out of an airplane was always considered an emergency.) I wondered if I was ready to die. My son sat just a few feet in front of me in the second half of the group. Was I ready to let him go?
He was my firstborn, my oldest son, the experimental child. I thought about all the mistakes I made as a young parent. I remembered all the foolish things I had said to him, or all the times I yelled at him, or was too tired to play with him. Had I prepared him well enough to succeed at life? Did I give him the courage to find his own calling? Could I give him the wings he needed to fly and push him from the nest?
If you find it’s me your missingIf you’re hoping I’ll return To your thoughts I’ll soon be listening When I’m homeward bound again
Then the wind will set me racing As my journey nears its end Then the path I’ll be retracing When I’m homeward bound again
ChorusBind me not, to the pasture Chain me not to the plow Set me free to find my calling And I’ll return to you somehow
The pilot gave the signal, and we shuffled to the door and fell into the blue, homeward bound. Skydiving is to flying what motorcycle riding is to driving a car. I felt like I was one with the scenery as I fell to earth and felt the rush of the wind. We tumbled and hurtled downward reaching terminal velocity, and personal discovery. When the chute opened and the rushing wind became a whispering breeze, I let out an exhilarating yell. I was going to live. Perhaps more importantly, I was living.
As I touched down and disconnected, I looked upward for my son.
I don’t know what road he will choose, how far he will go, or what dangers he might face. I only hope he knows that he is not bound to the pasture or chained to the plow. He is free to find his calling. I only pray that when he has, the wind will set him racing homeward bound again.
BTW here's the video - https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=10203634888295710&set=vb.1321445124&type=2&theater
The air was cool at five thousand feet when they opened the side door of the Cessna Caravan and the wind gusted through the cramped cabin. I straddled a bench with my tandem instructor crammed in behind me, and two more tandem pairs ahead of me. Through the puffy white clouds, I could see the surf breaking below and the rows of white foamy water rushing to shore. We were circling above a hole in the clouds hoping that it would move over our drop zone so we could tumble out of the open door and into the mirth. The scenery was spectacular, but my heart was pounding. The turboprop hummed along and in spite of the swirling winds, the smell of the engine exhaust lingered in the cabin. My stomach did flips while we waited for the right conditions.
Early that day my son, Rian, had graduated from BYU Hawaii – my first college graduate. The speakers were succinct and spoke of character over academic performance, and integrity over income. Before they began to read the names of the graduate (not an easy task at the most diverse university on the planet), a choir sang a beautiful rendition of the song “Homeward Bound” by Marta Keen. It gave me chills as the metaphors from the song conjured up deep emotional images for me.
In the quiet misty morning When the moon has gone to bed When the sparrows stop their singing And the sky is clear and red
When the summer’s ceased it’s gleaming When the corn is past its prime When adventure’s lost its meaning I’ll be homeward bound in time
ChorusBind me not, to the pasture Chain me not to the plow Set me free to find my calling And I’ll return to you somehow
That was my chorus as I approached adulthood. I dreamt of far off places removed from the pastures and plows of home. My parents not only refused to bind or chain me to a future of their choosing, they encouraged me to go forth and find my calling, even if it took me away; Even if it put me in danger. Never once did I feel bound to a life I didn’t want to live. My parents gave me wings.
Through the hole in the clouds we could see the drop zone. The pilot gave the go ahead and my stomach did one more flip as I looked down at the volcanic mountains covered in green trees and the deep blue water of the Pacific. I wondered if I was ready for this experience. (During all my flight training, jumping out of an airplane was always considered an emergency.) I wondered if I was ready to die. My son sat just a few feet in front of me in the second half of the group. Was I ready to let him go?
He was my firstborn, my oldest son, the experimental child. I thought about all the mistakes I made as a young parent. I remembered all the foolish things I had said to him, or all the times I yelled at him, or was too tired to play with him. Had I prepared him well enough to succeed at life? Did I give him the courage to find his own calling? Could I give him the wings he needed to fly and push him from the nest?
If you find it’s me your missingIf you’re hoping I’ll return To your thoughts I’ll soon be listening When I’m homeward bound again
Then the wind will set me racing As my journey nears its end Then the path I’ll be retracing When I’m homeward bound again
ChorusBind me not, to the pasture Chain me not to the plow Set me free to find my calling And I’ll return to you somehow
The pilot gave the signal, and we shuffled to the door and fell into the blue, homeward bound. Skydiving is to flying what motorcycle riding is to driving a car. I felt like I was one with the scenery as I fell to earth and felt the rush of the wind. We tumbled and hurtled downward reaching terminal velocity, and personal discovery. When the chute opened and the rushing wind became a whispering breeze, I let out an exhilarating yell. I was going to live. Perhaps more importantly, I was living.
As I touched down and disconnected, I looked upward for my son.
I don’t know what road he will choose, how far he will go, or what dangers he might face. I only hope he knows that he is not bound to the pasture or chained to the plow. He is free to find his calling. I only pray that when he has, the wind will set him racing homeward bound again.
BTW here's the video - https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=10203634888295710&set=vb.1321445124&type=2&theater
March 17, 2014
Prepare to Meet God
I read in the motorcycle handbook that a motorcycle rider is sixteen times more likely to be injured or killed in an accident than someone driving a car. And yet, here I was straddling a BMW K1200LT (affectionately christened by my daughter as “Charlie Brown”) hauling down the Kentucky highway. I hoped the day would be at least seventeen times more fun than driving.
The snow-covered hillThe temp was twenty-six degrees when I woke up. It wasn’t supposed to get below freezing during the night, but then again we are talking about the weather, and it was the year they invented the word polar vortex. The thought of sitting by the fire all day instead of riding did cross my mind. Besides, I could hear every you’ll-shoot-your-eye-out lecture I had received since I announced that I was buying a motorcycle running through my head. Whatever impulse made the first cavemen leave the fire and venture out into the unknown was thumping inside of me. I had Raisin Bran with raw whole milk for breakfast. (It was the closest thing in the house to Wheaties.) I took my vitamins, trying to be health conscious. (I wouldn’t want to put my health in danger.) Then I geared up for a cold-weather ride and headed up to the shop to get Charlie Brown and head out on the highway.
It was thirty-one degrees when I walked out the door, but the sun was shining. I could see that large chunks of the gravel lane were covered with snow. I had to get the bike out of the shop, up a hill, down a hill, around a bend, and all the way to the asphalt highway that bordered the front of the farm. The highways and roads were clean and dry, but because it got below freezing again during the night, I had several sections of snow-covered driveway to traverse before my tires would find dry asphalt. I had visions of getting five feet and dropping the bike in the snow. I thought of various ways to avoid it, but most of them were ineffective or simply returned me to sit by the fire. I uncovered the bike and slipped on my helmet worried that I would slip on the snow and end up in the corral behind the barn with the cows instead of on the asphalt highway calling my name.
I figured I had to make it uphill through about ten yards of snow and then I would probably make it. I backed Charlie Brown out of the shed and pointed him up the hill. No time like the present. I took a deep breath and let it go. Of course that fogged up my visor and I had to open my visor and let it clear. I took another deep breath. I feathered the clutch and started up the hill. The snow and ice crunched beneath the new tires. I kept my feet close to the ground, but I knew if the bike started to go, I would have to let it fall. (You don’t catch a BMW K1200LT weighing over seven hundred pounds.) To my relief, the tires held, and I eased up the hill and onto the gravel. I breathed a sigh of relief and fogged my visor again.
The next phase was getting down the hill and around the icy corner. I steeled my nerves and popped the clutch. I kept it slow and eased onto the patch of ice. Luckily, the ruts were deep and kept me from spilling the bike and I made it to gravel again. I breathed another big sigh of relief and kept the bike moving towards the highway. At last I could see the black, dry asphalt ahead of me, but ten feet of ice lay between me and a day of riding with my brother. I held my breath. Just as the back tire began to slip, the front tire made it onto the asphalt. I was free!
The ride to my brother’s house was smooth and I was grinning from ear to ear when we pulled out of his driveway. We were headed over to Western Kentucky to see my Granny and I was excited to spend some time on two wheels cruising down country roads. The sun was out and I was bundled up, but the first part of the ride was cold. I had the windshield all the way up to block the wind and the heated handgrips were on their highest setting, but the chill, and worrying about crashing, made me tense. I was tense and worried. I kept hearing the same you-will-kill-yourself lecture going around and around in my head. I knew that if I injured myself in a crash, my wife would kill me.
Riding a motorcycle heightens your senses. I felt the wind whipping over the windshield and welcomed the sunshine as the sun climbed in the morning sky. I could feel the curve of the road along with every climb and descent. I took in the vistas of fallow fields and evergreen trees mixed with the barren trees of winter that bordered the fields and roads. The ride heightened my sense of awareness, my sense of enjoyment, and perhaps my sense of pain if I crashed.
People in Kentucky are very religious. I enjoyed all the quotes on the church marquees as I rode past – A clear conscience is a soft pillow. ASAP – Always Say A Prayer. WDJD – What Did Jesus Do. Jesus Saves. (I’m not sure if could save me from my wife if I got killed while riding a motorcycle.) As I came around one curve someone had posted a sign in the yard – Prepare to meet God. I was prepared to meet God, but I was hoping it wouldn’t happen that day on that particular curve. I slowed down a bit.
I followed my older brother around Russelville, past the Jefferson Davis monument (Why did we build a monument to the loser?), and over to Hopkinsville. As we entered Hoptown, we passed the state mental hospital and I thought about stopping and checking myself in. Here I was, a grown man, out gallivanting around the countryside on two wheels. Surely, I had lost it. I downshifted and accelerated past.
We made it without incident or problem to my Granny’s house. She is ninety-years old and doesn’t get a lot of visitors living so far away from the rest of the family, but she wants to stay in her own home. I say – More power to ya’ Granny. We offered her a ride, but instead we drove her Camry to the local fish place for some fried catfish and hushpuppies. The scrumptious deep-fried meal was probably the most dangerous part of the day. After lunch, we sat and visited while Granny read to us from the obituaries. I was hoping it wasn’t a bad omen before the ride home.
Muhlenberg County CourthouseWe took the long way home. We cruised over to Muhlenberg county with the words of Roy Acuff’s song echoing in my helmet. Daddy won’t you take me back to Muhlenberg County, down by the Green River where paradise lay… We stopped at the picturesque courthouse to stretch our legs and talked about the old adage concerning dropping a bike or laying a bike over – those who have; those who will. I was hoping that my minor scrape on a Yamaha back in high school would put me in the those-who-have category. We cruised over to Drakesboro, back down through Russelville, and back home to Franklin. My brother pealed off and headed home. I made a stop at the Frosty Freeze for some baby burgers to finish out the near-perfect riding day.
Parked in front of the Frosty FreezeWhen I turned down the lane at home, I was glad to see gravel, but when I topped the hill and my uncle’s tractor was in front of the house blocking my way. I slowed down, but after a day of riding I decided I could get around it if I swerved up on the berm in front of the house. When I started up the berm, it was softer than I expected. The tires slipped, and for a second, I thought I was going to lay old Charlie Brown on his side right in front of the house, but I kept my cool and made it back onto the solid gravel. I breathed my last sigh of relief. I had made it.
Then I turned the corner to head up the hill, and that patch of ice from the morning was still there, but this time the ruts were gone and the ice was wet. The sign – Prepare to Meet God – flashed across my mind. I panicked and tried to keep my momentum going in the right direction, but in less than a second, Charlie Brown was on the ground.
There I stood after an incredible day of riding looking down at that big beast of a motorcycle laying on its side in the ice and mud. I laughed. I banged my right shin getting off of the bike, but I other than that, the bike and I were fine. My wife was right. I was crazy.
I was prepared to meet God, but thank goodness I didn’t have to meet Him that day. With the help of my Uncle, I righted the bike and put Charlie Brown to bed in the shed.
By the way, It was fifty times more fun than driving.
The snow-covered hillThe temp was twenty-six degrees when I woke up. It wasn’t supposed to get below freezing during the night, but then again we are talking about the weather, and it was the year they invented the word polar vortex. The thought of sitting by the fire all day instead of riding did cross my mind. Besides, I could hear every you’ll-shoot-your-eye-out lecture I had received since I announced that I was buying a motorcycle running through my head. Whatever impulse made the first cavemen leave the fire and venture out into the unknown was thumping inside of me. I had Raisin Bran with raw whole milk for breakfast. (It was the closest thing in the house to Wheaties.) I took my vitamins, trying to be health conscious. (I wouldn’t want to put my health in danger.) Then I geared up for a cold-weather ride and headed up to the shop to get Charlie Brown and head out on the highway.It was thirty-one degrees when I walked out the door, but the sun was shining. I could see that large chunks of the gravel lane were covered with snow. I had to get the bike out of the shop, up a hill, down a hill, around a bend, and all the way to the asphalt highway that bordered the front of the farm. The highways and roads were clean and dry, but because it got below freezing again during the night, I had several sections of snow-covered driveway to traverse before my tires would find dry asphalt. I had visions of getting five feet and dropping the bike in the snow. I thought of various ways to avoid it, but most of them were ineffective or simply returned me to sit by the fire. I uncovered the bike and slipped on my helmet worried that I would slip on the snow and end up in the corral behind the barn with the cows instead of on the asphalt highway calling my name.
I figured I had to make it uphill through about ten yards of snow and then I would probably make it. I backed Charlie Brown out of the shed and pointed him up the hill. No time like the present. I took a deep breath and let it go. Of course that fogged up my visor and I had to open my visor and let it clear. I took another deep breath. I feathered the clutch and started up the hill. The snow and ice crunched beneath the new tires. I kept my feet close to the ground, but I knew if the bike started to go, I would have to let it fall. (You don’t catch a BMW K1200LT weighing over seven hundred pounds.) To my relief, the tires held, and I eased up the hill and onto the gravel. I breathed a sigh of relief and fogged my visor again.
The next phase was getting down the hill and around the icy corner. I steeled my nerves and popped the clutch. I kept it slow and eased onto the patch of ice. Luckily, the ruts were deep and kept me from spilling the bike and I made it to gravel again. I breathed another big sigh of relief and kept the bike moving towards the highway. At last I could see the black, dry asphalt ahead of me, but ten feet of ice lay between me and a day of riding with my brother. I held my breath. Just as the back tire began to slip, the front tire made it onto the asphalt. I was free!
The ride to my brother’s house was smooth and I was grinning from ear to ear when we pulled out of his driveway. We were headed over to Western Kentucky to see my Granny and I was excited to spend some time on two wheels cruising down country roads. The sun was out and I was bundled up, but the first part of the ride was cold. I had the windshield all the way up to block the wind and the heated handgrips were on their highest setting, but the chill, and worrying about crashing, made me tense. I was tense and worried. I kept hearing the same you-will-kill-yourself lecture going around and around in my head. I knew that if I injured myself in a crash, my wife would kill me.Riding a motorcycle heightens your senses. I felt the wind whipping over the windshield and welcomed the sunshine as the sun climbed in the morning sky. I could feel the curve of the road along with every climb and descent. I took in the vistas of fallow fields and evergreen trees mixed with the barren trees of winter that bordered the fields and roads. The ride heightened my sense of awareness, my sense of enjoyment, and perhaps my sense of pain if I crashed.
People in Kentucky are very religious. I enjoyed all the quotes on the church marquees as I rode past – A clear conscience is a soft pillow. ASAP – Always Say A Prayer. WDJD – What Did Jesus Do. Jesus Saves. (I’m not sure if could save me from my wife if I got killed while riding a motorcycle.) As I came around one curve someone had posted a sign in the yard – Prepare to meet God. I was prepared to meet God, but I was hoping it wouldn’t happen that day on that particular curve. I slowed down a bit.
I followed my older brother around Russelville, past the Jefferson Davis monument (Why did we build a monument to the loser?), and over to Hopkinsville. As we entered Hoptown, we passed the state mental hospital and I thought about stopping and checking myself in. Here I was, a grown man, out gallivanting around the countryside on two wheels. Surely, I had lost it. I downshifted and accelerated past.
We made it without incident or problem to my Granny’s house. She is ninety-years old and doesn’t get a lot of visitors living so far away from the rest of the family, but she wants to stay in her own home. I say – More power to ya’ Granny. We offered her a ride, but instead we drove her Camry to the local fish place for some fried catfish and hushpuppies. The scrumptious deep-fried meal was probably the most dangerous part of the day. After lunch, we sat and visited while Granny read to us from the obituaries. I was hoping it wasn’t a bad omen before the ride home.
Muhlenberg County CourthouseWe took the long way home. We cruised over to Muhlenberg county with the words of Roy Acuff’s song echoing in my helmet. Daddy won’t you take me back to Muhlenberg County, down by the Green River where paradise lay… We stopped at the picturesque courthouse to stretch our legs and talked about the old adage concerning dropping a bike or laying a bike over – those who have; those who will. I was hoping that my minor scrape on a Yamaha back in high school would put me in the those-who-have category. We cruised over to Drakesboro, back down through Russelville, and back home to Franklin. My brother pealed off and headed home. I made a stop at the Frosty Freeze for some baby burgers to finish out the near-perfect riding day.
Parked in front of the Frosty FreezeWhen I turned down the lane at home, I was glad to see gravel, but when I topped the hill and my uncle’s tractor was in front of the house blocking my way. I slowed down, but after a day of riding I decided I could get around it if I swerved up on the berm in front of the house. When I started up the berm, it was softer than I expected. The tires slipped, and for a second, I thought I was going to lay old Charlie Brown on his side right in front of the house, but I kept my cool and made it back onto the solid gravel. I breathed my last sigh of relief. I had made it.Then I turned the corner to head up the hill, and that patch of ice from the morning was still there, but this time the ruts were gone and the ice was wet. The sign – Prepare to Meet God – flashed across my mind. I panicked and tried to keep my momentum going in the right direction, but in less than a second, Charlie Brown was on the ground.
There I stood after an incredible day of riding looking down at that big beast of a motorcycle laying on its side in the ice and mud. I laughed. I banged my right shin getting off of the bike, but I other than that, the bike and I were fine. My wife was right. I was crazy.
I was prepared to meet God, but thank goodness I didn’t have to meet Him that day. With the help of my Uncle, I righted the bike and put Charlie Brown to bed in the shed.
By the way, It was fifty times more fun than driving.
February 10, 2014
Death Is Stubborn
When I started writing this blog I made it clear that some things belong in a journal, not a blog. Last month I wrote several potential blogs that ended up as journal entries because they were too personal. That's why I missed posting last month. I apologize if this entry is too personal as well, but I figured a lot of you have dealt with death on a very personal level also. Maybe you can relate to some of these emotions.
I went running a few of days ago for the first time in almost a week. It was a nice spring morning in Phoenix with a nice breeze. I should have been enjoying it, but instead I stopped in the middle of my run to cry. I was falling to pieces inside.
My mother is dying, but that isn’t a surprise. Let’s be truthful, we are all dying. Her date just happens to be a little closer and the signs of her impending demise are beginning to show. The cancer in her peritoneal cavity is taking its toll. She has grown very weak and has lost so much weight that she is barely recognizable. She hasn’t eaten since Dec 24th, and sleeps most of the time. If it weren’t for her stubbornness, she would already be dead.
I visited her several times last month, and after every visit, I struggled not to fall apart inside.
She is one of the strongest women I have ever known. Her mother died when she was eight years old. She bounced around from relative to relative for a few years while her father struggled to provide a home and a future for her and her sister. She married young, and started having children (by choice) at an age when most young women are still thinking about high school prom. Ten children later, she battled with dirty diapers, dirty dishes, and dirty floors. Along with raising ten children, she raised a garden. She stretched a dollar until it screamed and shopped for bargains at second-hand stores. She learned how to repair cars, frame houses, and weld. If you wanted her to do something, just tell her she couldn’t do it. I think the only thing she never really mastered was the computer, but that’s mostly because she viewed excessive time in front of a screen as frivolous.
When she had cancer as a younger woman, I didn’t worry. I knew she wasn’t ready to die, and she wasn’t going to give in to disease so easily. Her stubbornness would carry the day. She lived, of course. Now, after two battles with cancer and a death sentence passed on her by modern medicine, she is finally succumbing to the disease that tried to rob us of her so many years ago. Death, it seems, is more stubborn than she is.
I knew she would not go in for treatment this time, and I accepted it. I knew that her faith in the next life was strong and would carry her through. I had accepted her death intellectually. I had accepted her passing spiritually. But I had not come to grips with her demise emotionally. How could I let her go? What lighthouse could I turn to in the storm of life? What rock could I count on when everything else was falling apart?
My mother has always held her emotional cards close to her vest. Her even temper and poker face carried the day. I could rarely tell when she was angry, unless she was switching me with a switch from the forsythia bush. When chaos and emotional mayhem reigned around her, she was steady as sunrise. When tempers flared and voices rose, she was like a duck on the water, smooth on the surface, but paddling like crazy underneath. She was a hard person to get to know, but not a hard person to love.
I guess that I was still in denial about death really claiming her. Somehow I still believed that she would figure out a way to stiff-arm death once again. I expected that she would be too stubborn to let death take her one single second before her appointed time. So far, she has done just that.
My mother continues to linger and wait for death to claim her. As the signs of the gaining disease begin to show, I have accepted the fact that death is more stubborn than she is, but only by a narrow margin.
This picture is from several months ago. Her condition has worsened day-by-day and we wait for her merciful passing. Meanwhile she continues to make death wait, or maybe death is finally making her wait.
My sweet sisters, like angels, have carried the weight of caring for her in her final days. My father keeps vigil for the appointed hour.
I went running a few of days ago for the first time in almost a week. It was a nice spring morning in Phoenix with a nice breeze. I should have been enjoying it, but instead I stopped in the middle of my run to cry. I was falling to pieces inside.
My mother is dying, but that isn’t a surprise. Let’s be truthful, we are all dying. Her date just happens to be a little closer and the signs of her impending demise are beginning to show. The cancer in her peritoneal cavity is taking its toll. She has grown very weak and has lost so much weight that she is barely recognizable. She hasn’t eaten since Dec 24th, and sleeps most of the time. If it weren’t for her stubbornness, she would already be dead.
I visited her several times last month, and after every visit, I struggled not to fall apart inside.
She is one of the strongest women I have ever known. Her mother died when she was eight years old. She bounced around from relative to relative for a few years while her father struggled to provide a home and a future for her and her sister. She married young, and started having children (by choice) at an age when most young women are still thinking about high school prom. Ten children later, she battled with dirty diapers, dirty dishes, and dirty floors. Along with raising ten children, she raised a garden. She stretched a dollar until it screamed and shopped for bargains at second-hand stores. She learned how to repair cars, frame houses, and weld. If you wanted her to do something, just tell her she couldn’t do it. I think the only thing she never really mastered was the computer, but that’s mostly because she viewed excessive time in front of a screen as frivolous.
When she had cancer as a younger woman, I didn’t worry. I knew she wasn’t ready to die, and she wasn’t going to give in to disease so easily. Her stubbornness would carry the day. She lived, of course. Now, after two battles with cancer and a death sentence passed on her by modern medicine, she is finally succumbing to the disease that tried to rob us of her so many years ago. Death, it seems, is more stubborn than she is.
I knew she would not go in for treatment this time, and I accepted it. I knew that her faith in the next life was strong and would carry her through. I had accepted her death intellectually. I had accepted her passing spiritually. But I had not come to grips with her demise emotionally. How could I let her go? What lighthouse could I turn to in the storm of life? What rock could I count on when everything else was falling apart?
My mother has always held her emotional cards close to her vest. Her even temper and poker face carried the day. I could rarely tell when she was angry, unless she was switching me with a switch from the forsythia bush. When chaos and emotional mayhem reigned around her, she was steady as sunrise. When tempers flared and voices rose, she was like a duck on the water, smooth on the surface, but paddling like crazy underneath. She was a hard person to get to know, but not a hard person to love.
I guess that I was still in denial about death really claiming her. Somehow I still believed that she would figure out a way to stiff-arm death once again. I expected that she would be too stubborn to let death take her one single second before her appointed time. So far, she has done just that.
My mother continues to linger and wait for death to claim her. As the signs of the gaining disease begin to show, I have accepted the fact that death is more stubborn than she is, but only by a narrow margin.
This picture is from several months ago. Her condition has worsened day-by-day and we wait for her merciful passing. Meanwhile she continues to make death wait, or maybe death is finally making her wait.
My sweet sisters, like angels, have carried the weight of caring for her in her final days. My father keeps vigil for the appointed hour.
