Celebrating Christmas in July.
July 23, 2008.
---
It's 2:00 AM and I'm sitting in my backyard enjoying the stars, a cool morning breeze, good memories and a hot cup of coffee. I don't know which one I like better right now.
It's a good morning to watch the stars. To the east, the last sliver of a waning moon is disappearing into the Superstition Mountains and to the south, there's nothing but sky. What a beautiful morning.
I'm waiting on a shooting star, an extraordinary one, for it will be, in all its entirety, my fourth annual "Celebration of Life" Tour. I had different plans for the celebration, but they changed last week. This, in so many ways, is a better Celebration of Life.
I was making plans for weekend trips to L.A. and Chicago, and then I heard that a friend of mine from work, someone I had known for over twenty years, was in the hospital. This past Saturday, he passed away in his own bed with friends and family nearby.
I'm going to miss him. He was one of those people who helped me when I was in my wheelchair. Five years ago, we switched places in the cosmic order of ambulation - I started walking again and he began his time in a motorized wheelchair, crippled by the diabetes that would eventually kill him.
The first time I met him, he was Santa Claus, walking the halls of our new office building dressed in full Santa Claus regalia. The suit was his own as was his white beard and large frame.
He made me smile, this man dressed as Santa, as he went from cubicle to cubicle wishing everyone a Merry Christmas. With candy canes, jingle bells, a gentle laugh and a ready smile, he welcomed all to join him in the reliving of a child's Christmas.
There was something special about him in that outfit that made me believe he was Santa and that I was five years old. For the first time - in the longest of time - Christmas was made magical again.
Years later, when my daughter, K, was six, I brought her to work and introduced her to him. He wasn't Santa Claus, but a portly, mid-level IT manager with a kind heart, a white beard and black-rimmed glasses.
He surprised us both when he signed to her. Having a daughter too, he knew what a little girl needed and made her giggle. He made her feel special. When we ended our conversation, he nodded his head, smiled and whispered, one father to another, "She's a keeper". As we walked away, K signed, "I like him".
She doesn't remember him or that day, but I do.
For that memory and many others, I gave the Tour money to his family to help offset his medical bills.
They say for every falling star, another one rises.
Well, there's your bus, Dale, and she's a beauty.
Godspeed, brother.
Safe travel home.
---
---
It's 2:00 AM and I'm sitting in my backyard enjoying the stars, a cool morning breeze, good memories and a hot cup of coffee. I don't know which one I like better right now.
It's a good morning to watch the stars. To the east, the last sliver of a waning moon is disappearing into the Superstition Mountains and to the south, there's nothing but sky. What a beautiful morning.
I'm waiting on a shooting star, an extraordinary one, for it will be, in all its entirety, my fourth annual "Celebration of Life" Tour. I had different plans for the celebration, but they changed last week. This, in so many ways, is a better Celebration of Life.
I was making plans for weekend trips to L.A. and Chicago, and then I heard that a friend of mine from work, someone I had known for over twenty years, was in the hospital. This past Saturday, he passed away in his own bed with friends and family nearby.
I'm going to miss him. He was one of those people who helped me when I was in my wheelchair. Five years ago, we switched places in the cosmic order of ambulation - I started walking again and he began his time in a motorized wheelchair, crippled by the diabetes that would eventually kill him.
The first time I met him, he was Santa Claus, walking the halls of our new office building dressed in full Santa Claus regalia. The suit was his own as was his white beard and large frame.
He made me smile, this man dressed as Santa, as he went from cubicle to cubicle wishing everyone a Merry Christmas. With candy canes, jingle bells, a gentle laugh and a ready smile, he welcomed all to join him in the reliving of a child's Christmas.
There was something special about him in that outfit that made me believe he was Santa and that I was five years old. For the first time - in the longest of time - Christmas was made magical again.
Years later, when my daughter, K, was six, I brought her to work and introduced her to him. He wasn't Santa Claus, but a portly, mid-level IT manager with a kind heart, a white beard and black-rimmed glasses.
He surprised us both when he signed to her. Having a daughter too, he knew what a little girl needed and made her giggle. He made her feel special. When we ended our conversation, he nodded his head, smiled and whispered, one father to another, "She's a keeper". As we walked away, K signed, "I like him".
She doesn't remember him or that day, but I do.
For that memory and many others, I gave the Tour money to his family to help offset his medical bills.
They say for every falling star, another one rises.
Well, there's your bus, Dale, and she's a beauty.
Godspeed, brother.
Safe travel home.
---
posted by Mike Chandler | 7:52 PM
2 Comments:
Please write more... I'm missing your sweet output.
Hi, I knew a Katy in high school and college, and am hoping to find a way to reach her. If she went to MSSD/Gallaudet, then I think this is your daughter.
If there is a way to connect, I would love nothing more than to do so.
Thank you,
Paula
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