Growing Up

Celebrating Christmas in July.

2008-09-17T19:52:00.000-07:00

July 23, 2008.

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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.

---

A Promise of Rain

2008-03-12T00:23:00.000-07:00

Mid-June 2007

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The late morning rain is coming down in slow, heavy sheets, one wave after another, bringing life to the pasturelands of the high mountain plateau outside of Greer, Arizona. Undulating virgas, once dancing across the distant mountains, are now enveloping the truck and the small two-lane mountain road in a soft gray haze. I can barely see the road, yet I glide on it like a boat quietly catching a quick morning tide out to sea.

I've been the only person on this rain-slickened road for the last ninety miles. A battered cattle truck, my sole companion since Eager, disappeared from my rearview mirror and into the gray mist twenty miles back at the last junction. He honked his horn and I honked mine, and he was gone.

It's been raining like this since early morning - a cold, steady downpour without the promise of relief or a rainbow in sight. If this were the desert, it would've stopped hours ago and the ground would be dry. However, it's not the desert, it's the high mountains, and alpine forests and cold mountain streams surround me. That's why I'm here; taking the first week-long vacation I've had by myself in over thirty years and reveling in my third annual "Celebration of Life" Tour.

I don't have to be driving in the rain, but I am. I could be spending the day playing board games or cards in a nearby mountain lodge or fishing in a mountain stream with cold rain beating down on me. Or I could be enjoying a day of shared intimacy with a delightfully beautiful woman whom I met last evening at dinner. She's rediscovering herself after a recent mid-life divorce and invited me to a day of hedonistic carousel rides. I would love to be with her, but the emotional cost would be too high. She needs someone who will listen as she discusses the details of her marriage and how it went wrong, and I can't do that. I've already buried my dead.

Yet, I don't trust my loins, so I've been on the road since breakfast, heading to a small mountain town 200 miles west for a late lunch I don't need or want.

As I drive through the rain, I wish the seat next to me held a pretty woman with a good heart, but that won't happen until my heart is healed - and I'm not going to rush it. When I offer my heart, I will offer all of it, not just a portion of it. Love is far too important to be rushed.

In another hour, I'll reach my destination, a small roadside family-run diner known only to locals and former locals. Before I head in, I'll briefly hold my face to the heavens and smile as the rain pitter-patters against my glasses.

It's something I do whenever it rains. It's my way of giving thanks. Back home in the desert, rain is everything. It provides life, it offers hope and it brings promise for another day.

And on this morning, it helps me remember why I'm here.

---

Promise Me

2008-02-22T11:52:00.000-08:00

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When I was a young man, I loved a woman with all my heart, but we couldn't be together, so I moved away to another city.

They say you choose your own fate. Maybe that's true for I married a woman who was nothing like her, so I would never remember. She married a man who is just like me, so she would never forget.

She's past fifty now and gray around the edges, just like me. She has children and a good marriage, but it wasn't always a good marriage. Someone who knew us all asked me to help. What I did is known only to two people (and I promised I would never tell).

I think of her sometimes, but not very often and not within the wintry confines of a lost love. I think mostly of that promise.

She never knew what I did for her and she never will.

I promise.

--

Things That Go Bump In the Night

2007-10-20T16:07:00.000-07:00

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October 10, 2007

It's Mid-October again and officially Winter in the desert. The daily highs are above 90, nights are in the 60's and the sun is a milder, more welcome companion as it hangs lower in the southern sky.

As with each change of our two Seasons (April and October), insects migrate into our homes. In April, ants appear. In October, it's scorpions.

You never see scorpions enter the house and probably never will. They lay on top of doorframes or underneath the doorsill, just out of sight and waiting for prey. When the door opens, they crawl in. We don't see them, but they're there - waiting.

In my house, they enter through the laundry room door on the way to the garage or the back door. In the last three weeks, we've found two scorpions within the compound. I know they're others inside the house, but I'm not interested in finding them. They can fight over territory with the spiders... and those spiders are big.

I encountered the first scorpion three weeks ago at 5:00 AM as I walked to the kitchen for a self-promised cup of "bright and early". I had just opened the wide double doors to my bedroom and was heading to coffee land when I looked down at the brown dust bunny in the unlit alcove. It wasn't there last night, so I stared at it, trying to distinguish its features from the alcove's shadows.

As I stared, the small stationary object in the corner moved from its fixed position. How odd, I thought. Why would it do that?

With the curiosity and incognizance of a dazed rat terrier wearing bifocals, I bent down for a closer look. When I was within two feet of the brown dust bunny, it moved again.

There was a civility as to how he coiled his stinger, as if saying, "Hey, go get your coffee. I'll still be here when you get back." Inviting as a cup of "Hello, my Darling" would be, I couldn't take that chance. Within a few minutes, K, my daughter, would be heading to the kitchen for breakfast and… she's not a morning person and… she really doesn't like scorpions. Not… a… bit.

So, as quickly as I could, I captured and contained the two-inch long scorpion in a plastic paint tray. As I was heading to the laundry room door and out to the front yard for disposal, K walked into the kitchen. She was curious and half-asleep, just as I had been five minutes before and asked me about the painter's tray. Being a good father, I showed her what was in it.

The second scorpion was only an inch long, hardly anything to be upset about, but K thought differently about the experience. She was in her study looking for a book in a storage bin beneath her desk and noticed a small brown object on a piece of paper. We hadn't vacuumed the house in two weeks, so she thought it was the dark brown skin from a roasted peanut shell. We eat them almost every night as snack food. With disgust, she plucked the dark brown object from the paper and was prepared to put it in the nearby trashcan….. when it moved.

I was watching TV in the great room, with all of the windows open, when a young woman's scream penetrated my soul. Then she screamed again, only louder.

When I reached her, she no longer needed my help and was in the midst of capturing the scorpion. With me on the scene, she gladly let me wrangle the scorpion outside to freedom.

When I returned, she asked me why I never killed scorpions. It's for the same reason I don't kill spiders or rattlesnakes. A spider is a land shark and will eat every insect in your house, so long as you give it a corner to live in. Rattlesnakes eats mice, and won't harm you, so long as you stay away from them and they'll warn you if you come too close.

With cold nights fast approaching, the scorpion only wants to live a little longer and the warmth of my house extends its life. Yet, I can't have it living in my house, even though it eats more insects than the spiders.

Scorpions have a nasty habit of climbing walls and walking unsuccessfully across ceilings. When they fall to the floor, they quickly right themselves and coil their stinger, ready to strike at the next thing that moves.

And that would be me. Asleep. In my bed. Without covers. Or clothes.

Happy Halloween!

--

Man of a Different Color

2007-10-20T15:32:00.000-07:00

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Thursday, October 19, 2007

Before I left for my fishing trip in June, I took on new responsibilities at work. The pay is the same and the problems are larger, but the Blackberry is newer.

Last week, I solved a database problem that had growled at us for over five years. The person who couldn't solve it finally moved on and gave it to me. For the last two months, I worked on it over lunch and on the weekends, and as of last Tuesday, it growled no more.

I was expecting a small bonus for my endeavors, as I've received in the past, but nothing came of my work - except the end of the problem. I didn't appreciate that last part until this past Monday, when I noticed a recognition award on my Wall of Me at work.

I was at my desk, stumped by a design problem and seeking salvation and an answer in a banana and Dr. Pepper break, when I looked up from my papers and saw the cards that K has given me over the years for Father's Day and Christmas. Behind them on the cubicle wall were the Renoir and O'Keefe prints. To the left of them were the photos of my brother and his wife, Mom and Dad, K and one of me taken five years ago when I was fiercely muscular.

Between the photos of K and my parents was a faded recognition award I had push-pinned at an angle into the wall. It was a blue index card given to me eight years ago by Jeff, a client from Marketing. On it, he had written, "For being a Yellow in a Blue World".

It referred to a team-building exercise and questionnaire that ninety fellow departmental employees took when our new manager assumed his position. He didn't know us, and the questionnaire gave him a quick read on our decision-making style. Mine was Yellow (a free thinker, no rules) with heavy Blue tendencies (analytical and logical).

At the end of the exercise, we took a group photo and lined up according to the dominant color tag affixed to our chest. Our manager was first and set the color wheel. He was a Blue with Green tendencies, thus making him good manager material. As we formed a large U on the sixth floor portico, I noticed everyone in the group was Blue or Green except me. I was dead last out of ninety people and my new boss and I thought nothing alike. Within a week, I received my complimentary 11 x 14 group photo confirming that fact.

Jeff came by a few days later and noticed the photo laying on my in-basket. I told him how it rankled me. He picked it up, stared at it a few seconds and put it back down. "You're looking at it the wrong way. It's a Bell Curve and you're all geeks." He smiled, and then shrugged his shoulder, "You hafta be a Yellow and take chances and he has to be a Blue and follow the rules." Jeff was right.

The next day, I found a card on my desk. It read, "Take Risks!! It takes courage to take chances..." Inside was the recognition award and two movie tickets.

Jeff took a risk six years ago and followed his dreams to a small mountain town in Oregon with his wife. There, they enjoy the outdoors as they've always imagined.

And I'm here in Arizona. A happy Yellow who looks at life a little bit differently than others.

A man of a different color.

--

A Fishing Story

2007-06-11T14:37:00.000-07:00

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June 11, 2007

Greer, Arizona (8-day fishing vacation in the White Mountains of Arizona)

I fished yesterday for two hours and caught six trout. Not bad for using earthworms and a two hook-leader-weight fishing rig I've never used before.

It took me thirty minutes to tie the fishing rig (gotta know the bowline from the surgeon's knot) and less than two minutes to catch two trout. It was a mixed feeling to pull the two trout from the ebbing Tunnel Reservior, then set them free without harm.

My red "I don't care" chair was a lucky fetish as I caught my largest trout by using someone else's long forgotten fishing line and plastic worm. As I drug my two hook rig through the lake grass, the first hook grabbed the tangled mess of forgotten line and worm and caused its enticing wobble to be swallowed by a keyboard-length trout.

The size of the trout and my endeavors to release it caused a nearby fisherman to ask about my bait. Such is the fate of those who win by luck and not by skill.

I gave the other three fish I caught to a teenage girl who was fishing nearby. She was dressed all in pink, from her hat, to her shoes, to her braces. She thanked me and walked away with a good-sized dinner for her family.

By 2 o'clock, I was done with fishing. The sun was burning the only exposed part of my hands and I was tired of releasing fish. On my way to the truck, I asked those along the shore about their luck. One of the men was quite proud of his catch and displayed a trout a tad smaller than my largest trout.

As I marveled at his catch, the fellow who had seen my trout was walking past us. He smiled at the story and tipped his hat to me. I returned it and went back to listening to a proud man talk about his biggest catch of the season.

--

Dancing At The Monster's Ball

2007-06-01T21:17:00.000-07:00

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Mid-October 2006

It was 3 o'clock on a Monday morning when the phone rang. The man thought it was someone from work until he recognized the voice of his estranged son.

The boy was calling his father because he was an adult now and wanted answers about his life. The father had provided those answers years ago, as did the boy's psychiatrist; however, then, as now, the boy was not ready for the truth. Sadly, he never would be. Within ten minutes, the son ended the conversation just as the father started to explain what really happened in the old house.

The man sat on the edge of the bed and shook his head. So much lost at such an early age. The person on the phone was no longer his son, just someone trying to find his way in the world. Someone dangerous, but lost nonetheless. The bond that was once between them had ended four years ago when his son endangered him.

The boy had stopped taking his meds months before the incident and had slowly gone out-of-control. He was living with his mother full-time and she had convinced him and herself that they no longer needed their medication or psychiatric help.

They needed the remedies. It was the only way to quiet their personality disorder and the accompanying violence; yet, they didn’t see it that way. They were perfect. The world was wrong.

The man got dressed and made his way into the kitchen for an early morning cup of coffee. He took a sip and wondered why, after all these years, his son would call him. It didn't make a damn bit of sense, but, then, mental illness never does.

Looking for solace, he walked into his backyard. There he welcomed the warm embrace of the darkness and the quiet solitude of an early morning night sky. Looking to the south, he found Canis Major, Orion, Perseus and, finally, his answer.

The boy was in a dorm room, living away from his mother and feeling free for the first time in his life. His mother's tendrils were slowly unraveling from his psyche and he wanted answers and reasons as to what happened to his life. Unfortunately, he would never find them.

They're locked away in the unholy union between his mother and him - between the abuser and the abused. In the perversely balanced world of the mentally ill, those roles changed according to who needed to be hurt in their sick game of subjugation and violence. And woe be on to the Good Samaritan who comes to the rescue - for the jackals hunt as a pair.

The man took another sip of coffee and watched the night sky hoping to see a shooting star. He didn't have to wait too long.

The boy's phone call brought back memories of a turbulent time when chaos reigned in the Tempe household. It culminated on a horrible afternoon in an insane explosion of violence between two mentally ill people.

The man sat back in the Adirondack chair and traced all of the stars in Orion. Then, he closed his eyes and remembered the day when the world stopped.

It was a summer afternoon, a year before the divorce. The father had come home from food shopping and interrupted the mother and son in an intimate, psycho-sexual pas de deux of trying to strangle each other to death. They had, with all their god-given, down to the last ounce of strength, tried to kill each other and end their suffering.

But they had been interrupted and the real world returned to remind them of what they had done, but more importantly, failed to do. They were survivors from a head-on car collision that had planned to die in the crash and now stood ashamed having missed their chance at death.

The boy had scratches on his face and arms where his mother had clawed at him. She had bruises on her arms and across her body. Their face, chest, arms and legs were blotchy from the intense adrenaline rush that was now leaving their body. In its wake, it caused small muscular tremors to randomly shake their large muscle groups and extremities. Their necks, reddened from the strangulation, had handprints with perfectly outlined fingers still grasping at their throats. Their eyes were an odd mixture of pure white and small ruptured pools of blood from the petechial hemorrhaging. They both had each other's skin under their fingernails.

The father first administered to his son, making sure he didn't go into shock. The boy was fine, but his wife was not. She had flown too far into the abyss and wasn't coming back. She stared at him with wide eyes and babbled endlessly about having wanted to kill her son. The father made her focus on the here and now and slowly brought her back to reality, but those eyes remained of someone still floating in the abyss.

That afternoon changed everything in the Tempe household. The mother should have gone to prison and the boy to a psychiatric hospital, but that didn't happen. The father made a decision similar to one he made as a young man. He separated the living from the dead. He decided who would live and who would die. He triaged his family.

His daughter would be one of the living. She would go away to school. Three thousand miles would separate her from her mother's and brother's unstable mental condition and violent ways.

The boy and his mother would be amongst the dead. The boy needed his mother and her version of reality more than he needed the real world. And she needed someone to love her and to think that she was perfect, because she couldn't love herself.

The day after that horrible afternoon was the most telling as to his wife's mental state and her need to be perfect. She tried to convince him that the previous day's "incident" never occurred. He looked her in the eyes and coldly told her that she had tried to kill her son and she would have to live with that guilt. She never sought psychiatric help nor did she continue with her meds. After that, to him, she ceased to exist.

In the following year, the father worked closely with the boy's psychiatrist, creating behavior-modification tools and a strict regimen of daily medication. His wife didn't know that the psychiatrist and he were working together (and had been for many years - ever since the beginning). It was the only way for the boy to have kept one foot in the real world. His father hoped it would work one more time.

The mother fought the father's parenting methods, blaming him for everything. The father ignored her. He knew she spoke from guilt. It was her dirt and her hurt that churned her stomach. He focused on making his son better. At the end of the year, his son had changed. He was one of the living, at least for now.

Also during that year, the father worked on ending his marriage. He did so by leveraging the mother's personality disorder against herself. Within nine months, she came to him and asked for a divorce.

It was a year and a month after that horrible afternoon when the divorce was final. And a year after that, he said goodbye to his son on a fall afternoon in a greenbelt area near the mother's house.

He remembers that day quite well too. The three of them were standing together for the last time. The mother and son were hugging each other, happy that the father would no longer be a part of the boy's life. The mother said thank-you to the father. The boy was all hers now.

It was a scene she needed the neighbors to see, proof that she was a better parent, because she was a loving parent. These same neighbors, well-intentioned, but bloodied Good Samaritans, had quietly pulled the father aside on previous times to tell him about the violence that was occurring in the mother's house.

The man ended their conversation with a palliative lie. One that was understood by all and believed by no one.

"Maybe, in the coming years, we would see each other in a different light and, possibly, have a better relationship."

It filled the awkward space between people who no longer wanted to be together. The mother needed to hear it. No one else did.

She offered him dinner, but he declined. His belly was full and his heart was content. He hugged the teenage boy, who was once his son, and left without regrets.

As he drove away, he watched the mother and son walk back to their house. A house built on guilt and shame and a broken reality. Within a few months of living with his mother, she had convinced him the horrible afternoon had never happened. To enforce that lie, she provided him with a European vacation and flights of fancy. Such is the cost of lying and living in a tangled web of self-deceit.

They have each other. That's all that matters.

Together. Forever. They will dance at the Monster's Ball.

--

Between Friends

2007-03-01T04:33:00.000-08:00

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January 2007

I knew I was going to have a good time doing this. It wasn't my car, but the owner was nearby and he nodded to me. So, I hunkered down into the driver's seat of the customized '67 Ford Mustang, held onto the steering wheel and started the ignition. Then, all hell broke loose.

The huge engine roared to life and every guy who was standing nearby turned to look at the latest big dog barking from the porch.

The car fanatics, the ones who moments before were pointing to the engine and chattering in esoteric stats and specs, backed-off, then just as instinctively came closer as the car bucked from the engine's torque. They couldn't stop themselves. The sound was visceral, primal and true. It resonated with them as only a well-tuned, huge block V-8 engine could. This is why they came to the car auction today.

The other bull elephants wandering the packed parking lot heard the engine's low rumble and answered the call. Soon, a small herd of the faithful gathered around the car to trumpet their proud, cacophonous approval of heavy Dee-troit steel.

I smiled at my fellow brothers and turned off the engine. The ploy had worked. I nodded to the owner and he nodded his appreciation in return. Now everyone was looking at the car and that's what he wanted.

In a few minutes, I'd be driving this beautiful beast onto the carpeted auction area, but, for now, it was mine. With a big smile and the nonchalance of someone about to wet their pants from excitement, I pointed out the special features and custom tweaks on a car I had dreamed of driving since I was a teenager. That was forty years ago.

I looked over at the fellow who made my field day possible - Big T. He's a buddy of mine who every year volunteers his GTO car club members as presentation drivers to one of the larger classic auto auctions held every January in Phoenix, Arizona. This year he needed more drivers and I said yes.

Big T always smiles, but he's been smiling more this past month. The reason is simple. It's about life. The docs gave him the good news in late December. They had caught it in time and his treatments were a success. With a few more years of remission, he could count on enjoying his young grandsons for many more years.

I'm one of the few people who know about Big T's fight for life. When he initially confided in me, he was scared about dying, but almost equally apprehensive about sharing a secret (and a vulnerability) with someone from work, even a friend.

In the quid pro quo of friendship, I told him about my brush with death a few years back - that I had been there and done that. He was surprised (and saddened) that I had never mentioned it to him. It wasn't a slight on my part, I just needed to slip out quietly. (My doc had only given me two more years to live, but I fought and won a new life.) The only people who knew were my family: my daughter, K, my parents and my brother and sister.

I promised Big T that I would help him. Over the next year and half, I listened as he shared those parts of his life that we, as men, never share, except for those who are joined in war or damned to death. He tried to hide his angst, but I recognized the signs of a man swimming in the waters of his own mortality.

He was scared, but didn't want to talk about it, so we joked a lot. It was something to keep the boogey man away in the middle of the day. We'd go out for lunch and talk about everything - except what worried him. On the way back to work, I would turn into my mom and ask him how he was doing - how he was really doing. It's the same voice and face that K sees when I change from gentle father to gentler mother. The one that says everything is going be all right.

Big T addressed his life's list of woulda, coulda, shouldas. He repaired relationships that needing mending and started new ones. He attended high school and college reunions and remembered how he once was and still is. He took up the saxophone, something he had enjoyed as a boy and young adult. Then, he did one of those things we always promise ourselves and attended a two-week jazz camp last summer. He fondly remembers those days of music and good times.

In the end, he learned that life is lived one day at a time. It was a hard lesson to learn, but one that he has taken to heart. Because of it, he's become a better father, granddad, father-in-law and friend.

What he learned in life, he brought to work. In the engineering world of middle management, his unvarnished truth and openness was recognized and appreciated. This past December, much to his surprise, he received a promotion and now has an office in the building where the big dogs bark. (Congratulations, Big T.)

It was time for me to move along. The auction coordinator had signaled to me that I was next on deck. I told the car fanatics to move back, then jumped in the car and started it up.

Looking in the rear view mirror, I saw Big T standing twenty feet away, clipboard in hand, surrounded by attentive presentation drivers, all trying to get the next cherry road rocket to ride.

That's where I was twenty minutes ago when Big T tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to his car sheet. Running his finger down the list, he stopped on a car highlighted in yellow. With a knowing smile, he asked, "Would ya like to drive a '67 Mustang?"

It was his way of saying thank you - between friends.

--

When Dinosaurs Ruled The Earth

2007-02-11T15:46:00.000-08:00

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February 10, 2007

Joshua was a precocious little boy of two and he was quite done with breakfast, so his father wiped his face and pulled him onto his lap for some serious daddy hugging. After a few minutes the father turned to me and we continued our conversation about something unimportant.

We were sitting at the counter of the Hangar Cafe enjoying an early Saturday morning breakfast with the rest of the regulars. The father and son had recently joined the stalwart Saturday morning crew of pilots, retirees and farmers at the back of the restaurant. The young boy was welcomed as a prince and treated as such, though he was far too young to know it.

On this Saturday morning, he was getting fidgety, as he is wont to do, but his dad wanted to finish his conversation with me, so little Joshua started to sing. His father turned it into a game and soon Joshua became quiet again, but he was ready to leave.

The kitchen boss, Ted, who also ran the grill, noticed the little boy's frustration and came over with a gift. It was a tiny blue-green Brontosaurus.

"Here's something for you - a dinosaur", said Ted as he made the dinosaur gallop across the counter and stop just before the little boy's open hands. When Joshua picked up the dinosaur, Ted softly said, "Remember to keep it with you always."

The little boy mimicked him, "Keep it with me always", and started to play with the dinosaur, making it leap onto the plate and fly into the air.

My eyes went wide when I saw Ted offer the dinosaur to the little boy. I told him, "That was a nice thing to do."

He acknowledged me and immediately turned away to hide the tears welling in his eyes.

The dad didn't see Ted's reaction and continued to talk, but I wasn't listening. I was as quiet as the other regulars sitting nearby. The father didn't realize how important and precious that tiny toy was to the other man.

You see, he lost his only child, a teenage boy of 17, only three months ago. It happened just before Thanksgiving. A drunk driver killed the boy as he was returning home in his father's car after spending the day at his girlfriend's house. Since that day, the regulars have closed ranks around Ted - to protect him and give him time to heal.

The silence was broken as one of the older men started talking about the Phoenix Suns. It was our cue to start talking again and to grant peace and solitude to a fellow father as he mourned the death of his son.

I watched the boy play with the toy dinosaur, then looked over at Ted working at the grill. The toy dinosaur that had belonged to his son was missing from the prep table.

Some men are like that. Ted realized he could share his heart again and that he'd start with the innocence of a little boy who needed a toy. Now he would have two memories of that dinosaur. One of a little boy named Joshua. And one far more precious.

One from long ago and far away when his little boy and his toy dinosaur ruled the earth.

--

Saying Yes to Know

2007-01-01T20:33:00.000-08:00

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November 2006

It was Friday morning and the parking lot at my neighborhood Safeway food store was full of transportation vans and buses. They were from the nearby retirement homes and Sun Lakes, the large retirement community that abuts my backyard wall. My quick fifteen-minute trip would now take an enjoyable hour as I assumed the special role of a middle-aged, surrogate son.

I was that "nice, young man" of fifty-two years who read labels with tiny print. I reached high on the top shelf for that extra special can, cuz "that's where they keep the good stuff". I admired photos of grown children and grandchildren. I listened to stories of long ago and far away; of first kisses, lost loves and those lost to war. I shared in their happiness of being blessed with good friends and loving spouses, both here and gone.

In another ten years, I'll retire and join them in their jaunts. But for now, I'm their young neighbor from the other side of the wall. The one who listens and reaches high on the top shelf... to get the good stuff.

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Sharing the Road

2006-12-12T22:05:00.000-08:00

--

October 2006

The one lane mountain road was dusty, bumpy and getting more than a tad dangerous as I eased the truck up to another stop just before another blind curve and listened for oncoming traffic.

I don't know why I even stopped any more. I hadn't seen an ATC or motocross rider for over an hour. In fact, I hadn't seen anyone for over an hour. They'd all turned around at the first bad wash. I couldn't blame them. It had rained last weekend and the ensuing wall of water had chewed the washes and scoured the traversing roads into a tumbled mass of tangled rock beds.

Even so, I wasn't taking any chances as I listened for fellow travelers.

It was dead quiet except for a small plane overhead. I looked about the truck's interior and saw what two hours of mountain road driving would do. The fine, desert dirt had invisibly coated the truck's tan interior and myself like talcum powder dusted on a newborn's bottom. It was everywhere. When I raised my arm to adjust the rear-view mirror, the powdered dirt billowed off my sleeve like slow-motion tornados.

I made it past that curve and many others before stopping the truck close to a rock face wall. The narrow, one lane road was narrowing - yet again. I didn't mind that. I could handle it. What troubled me was how the very narrow road descended five hundred feet to a 270-degree turn before starting a long, slow climb to the north. There wasn't any room for negotiation or a second chance if I made a mistake.

I climbed out of the truck and brushed some of the dust off my shirt while adjusting my cap and eyes to the bright sunlight. I pulled the gallon jug of water from the back seat and took a good swig. It tasted like dirt, but that taste disappeared after a few more swallows.

I replaced the jug with binoculars and scanned the road ahead. I didn't have many options and the few I had, well, I was gonna take my time pondering. I didn't find any trouble spots (washouts and loose scree), but I also didn't find any gimmee areas (wide spots or possible turnouts). Then, to my left, I saw movement.

About a mile away, dust rose from the road as two fellows on quads barreled towards the 270-degree turn. They were having fun and moving fast. They were good riders and held the road like magnets on steel even with camping gear strapped to the front and rear racks of their quads.

I didn't want them to stop, but they needed to know I was here. Heck, I was having fun just watching them.

When the leader made the turn, he looked up and saw me waving my arms. He slowed down, and then stopped. With arm gestures, I let him know I would stay in my truck and his team could proceed past me. At the end of my signaling, I gave him a thumbs-up and he acknowledged by showing me two glove-covered thumbs-up.

He came up fast on the first five hundred feet of road, then backed it down to a crawl as he scootched past my truck. When he was close enough, I gave him a big smile and a farmer's wave. He nodded his helmet in appreciation. His partner followed his lead. When he was close enough, he waved and nodded. I tipped my cap and mouthed, "You're welcome".

He nodded again and disappeared up the road towards civilization.

I put the truck in drive and took the long way home.

--

An Old Habit

2006-12-11T20:06:00.000-08:00

--

August 2006

It was the end of a long workday and everyone in the vanpool was taking their time walking out to the parking lot. The awaiting van had cooked for a full day in the hot Arizona sun and no one was in a hurry to sit in that super-heated steel box and wait for the A/C to kick in.

I was walking slower than the others, avuncularly listening and nodding to my conversation companion, a lovely young woman in her early thirties. She was exotically attractive, smart and confident, well read and happily married to one lucky man. Normally she was a woman of elegance and poise, but now she was channeling a giddy, young teenage girl who was trying her best to keep a secret while sharing it at the same time. It was the same secret she'd shared with me as we rode the van into work this morning.

She usually sat in the front and talked with the driver, but this morning she sat next to me in the very back. I patiently waited as she talked about everything in the world except what she wanted to talk about. Finally, she leaned over and whispered her secret. I smiled, congratulated her, then gave her a small hug and passed blessings onto her and her husband.

Now, as we walked out to the parking lot, she noticed I was treating her differently. I thought I hid my actions so no one would notice, but she was well aware of them.

"You're protecting me."

She was right. It's something I've done since I was a little boy. At that early age, my parents told me to look after my sister, Diane. "You always protect your sister, Mike". Later that would apply to all the women in my life, even those I didn't know. Even the ones who never knew I had stepped from the shadows to protect them from harm (or that I got hurt in the process). I guess that's how it should be. Ignorance is bliss when it comes to experiencing the ugly side of life.

I nodded my head. "Yes, I am" and continued walking next to her.

She smiled from the inside out, as only mothers-to-be can smile.

She leaned over and whispered, "Thank you".

--

Windward Bound

2006-10-02T19:14:00.000-07:00

--

September 2006

It was Monday night and K, my daughter, was regaling me with her sailing adventures from Saturday and Sunday afternoon. She had joined the ASU Sailing Club a few weeks ago and was quickly learning the ways of the water on the small, man made lake near downtown Tempe, Arizona.

She used the entire kitchen (and some of the great room) to describe how, on Sunday, the boat capsized. She told of the difficulty in righting it, but also the fun in learning how. Since it took teamwork to capsize the boat, it also took teamwork to right it. That's half the fun of learning something new - sharing the experience with others.

As K told her story, her body moved with it. She reacted to the wind and the subtle, ever so slight pitch backwards as the wind caught the sail and filled the sheet. It's a wholly soul satisfying moment, and one you never forget, as you and the boat race with the wind.

It's the closest feeling akin to flying and you do it without wings. What a marvel to experience! Just you and the wind moving forward across the lake, rippling just inches off the water; flying just like you do in a dream.

This joy of the water is in her now and it will never let go.

She's found her freedom.

--

Watch Me, Daddy. Watch Me.

2006-09-27T19:37:00.000-07:00

--

August 2006

They were the words I heard when K was a young girl. After getting my attention, she would demonstrate something she had just discovered for the very first time: a new way to dive into the pool, a new sliding soccer kick or another way to climb the monkey bars. When she finished, she beamed with excitement and laughter as I went on about how stupendous she was.

My words of encouragement are different now that K is a young woman. She has a life and direction all her own and I'm mindful of that when she tackles something new.

It was the beginning of this summer and K was on the back patio sweating like a longshoreman on overtime as she installed clipless pedals on her mountain bike. Like any good dad, I was hovering nearby (in the comforts of the air-conditioned great room), ready to offer my assistance, but knowing I couldn't. Under the guise of reading a history book, I peered through the plantation shutters every ten minutes to watch her progress.

She wasn't stuck, but she was going slow, so I walked outside with a glass of ice-cold water and asked her how it was going. (Oh, how clever we parents are. Did I mention clever? I did?) She thanked me for the water, said OK, talked about a few things and went back to work. Being a clever parent, I returned to the comfort of my book.

Later on, I looked through the shutters and saw her standing over her completed efforts. There was a contented look to her face. She was dirty up to her elbows with chain grease and a touch of it had magically rouged her chin and cheek. She spun one pedal, then the other, satisfied in knowing she installed them herself.

Months later, I saw her return from a Saturday bicycling trek along the Consolidated Canal. Though she'd been a bicyclist for three years, the clipless pedals had transformed her abilities. She's every inch a bicyclist now. When she reached the driveway, she effortlessly popped her shoes from their metal posts and walked up to me with a big SE smile. She had the jaunty, very self-assured gait of someone who had just eaten the proverbial cat.

Well done, K. Well done.

Love, Dad.

--

Waiting on the 5:02

2006-09-26T19:26:00.000-07:00

--

September 19, 2006

Summer officially ended in this desert town a few days ago and not a moment too soon. The monsoons stopped, the clouds went away and the overnight temperature descended into the brisk high 60's, rather than the high 90's.

It was finally time to enjoy the night sky without the fear of keeling over from heat exhaustion. The evening news had promised a cool morning and a new moon promised a sky full of stars, so I set the alarm for 4:00 AM and an early morning show of the night sky.

At the designated time of too early, I fumbled my way to the kitchen for a cup of wake-up coffee. I took the long way to the kitchen, going from room to room, turning off night-lights in order to preserve my night sight. (gee, that rhymes.) I made coffee under the dimmed, low lumens of the oven range light and rubbed my knees where I hit the same table - twice. There was a reason for leaving those night-lights *on*.

With bittersweet nectar in hand, I opened the back door and walked into the welcoming shadows of a moonless night. It was quiet and pleasantly dark. It felt good to be out here again. I had been waiting for this change in the weather for the past two months and thought it would never get here. Now it had and my backyard never felt so good. I sipped my coffee, closed my eyes and took in the crickets and the cool air as summer slowly slipped away from me.

A slight breeze reminded me that it was colder than what I expected. I should have gone inside for proper clothes, but I made do by drinking coffee and rubbing the warm empty cup across my chest. A few small meteorites flashed across the sky before I decided to step inside for a quick refill.

On returning, I was rewarded with a large meteorite cutting the sky from northeast to southwest. It left a thin trail of white smoke on a dark sky that quickly vanished into the upper atmosphere. It appeared and disappeared in under a second. The show had begun.

I quickly arranged my front row seat by placing the Adirondack chair and two end tables towards the southern sky. Beach towels softened the chair and the one table I would use as a footrest. The other table held my morning jubilation (Sit here, my Precious). I marked the time and began searching the sky for low earth orbit satellites.

An internet site had provided me with the orbit times of the LEOs and their varying degrees of brightness (reflected light from the sun). One of the artificial stars would appear at 5:02 AM. It was promised to be the brightest one of the morning.

There it was. Right on time. From a hundred miles up, it moved from northwest to southeast, glowing brighter as it caught more of the rising sun on its metallic skin. It glowed like a tiny light bulb for a few seconds, and then grew dim as it disappeared into the southeast horizon. In less than twenty seconds, it had covered half the sky.

I watched more celestial bodies race across the darkness, but they were becoming harder to see as the black sky turned dark blue. The morning show was ending. The sun was rising to the East and the night was letting go of its sky. It was time to get ready for work.

I didn't want it to end, so I lollygagged a bit and was rewarded with a special gift. By chance, I looked directly overhead and saw a satellite cross from north to south. The sun caught the satellite just right and it reflected back to earth, back to the area where I was watching, just between night and day.

The sun glinted off the satellite as though it were a mirror set a quarter mile away. It was bright gold for the briefest of moments, then turned white and disappeared into the horizon.

I smiled at this sudden gift from the heavens.

Amongst all the twinkling stars, one from this planet winked back at me.

--

Jumping Hadrian's Wall

2006-07-10T20:11:00.000-07:00

-

In the last six months, I've taken a roller coaster ride of memories as I put to rest people and things which are no longer here. It started with my father's death in early January. As I sifted through my life with him, my failed marriage went along for the ride.

It's been four years since my divorce, but I never finished grieving over that loss. I was too busy trying to walk again and helping the two women in my life, my Mom and K, my daughter. In grieving over my father, I was able to shed the last tears over my marriage and finally move on.

For the last coupla months, I've been assembling whatever good memories I could find from the first eight years of my marriage. It's harder with the remaining thirteen. There are good memories in those years, but I'm not strong enough yet to find them.

In a few more years, the winds will die down and I'll look again.

And I'll find what I need.

-

Livin Life in These Old Black and Whites

2006-05-17T20:59:00.000-07:00

-

Mom used to play the upright piano when I was a young boy. It was magical to hear the sounds emanate from a piece of furniture that Mom dusted and touched like a religious relic.

When she played, which wasn't often, her eyes twinkled and a smile as wide as the James River brightened her face to the point of her becoming angelic. She wasn't a mother of four kids, but a young woman who understood how a song could change you. She was also a little girl who giggled as she made her little boy giggle too.

Mom always stopped when the memories of her older brothers came to her. They died a year after WWII ended. Her older brother, Junie (for Otto junior, German-Irish family) died from a wound he received in the Battle of the Bulge. Billy died in a shipyard accident.

Junie was musically gifted and could play the piano by ear. Billy, the second oldest (and the cute one as my Mom always said), would use his older brother's musical abilities to chat up the ladies as they listened to Junie play at parties during the war.

I knew when the memories would touch my mother. Her voice would catch and the playing would slow down, then stop as she talked about the uncles I never knew. As she spoke, she would smooth my hair with her hands.

"You remind me of my brothers, Mikey. You look so much like them. They were like you, you know, so full of the devil. You would have liked them." And she would stop and look at me, "I hope you play the piano some day". Then, she would kiss the top of my head and hug me.

For that reason, I took lessons as a young boy and was getting decent at it until a car accident laid me low for a while. (I still wear the small, faint telltale scars on my forehead, upper lip and around my right eye as reminders of that fateful afternoon when a part of my childhood stopped.)

After I left home for Arizona 26 years ago, Mom sold the upright to a family with a deserving daughter. I didn't understand why she cried when the piano left the house. Years later, I understood and cried a little myself. She was ready to let go of her brothers and, at the same time, let someone else enjoy the piano in their life.

It's for the same reason of letting go that I went back to Virginia last month. I had promised Mom in January at Dad's internment that I would return in April. She'd be ready for a change by then and I, as the physical reminder of her older brothers, would help her.

For ten days, we worked together as the house and yard were changed to reflect a new outlook on life. For the past twelve years, it was a house where Mom cared for Dad as he gradually slid away into Alzheimer's. She loved her dear, sweet Eddie so much and because of her memories, I was very mindful of what we changed.

Mom and I celebrated her life by finding new restaurants together; driving out to Williamsburg and Jamestown and visiting an art museum we often talked about, but never had time to see. It was a culmination of things we would have done over the years had I lived in Virginia and not Arizona.

During this time of discovery, Mom wondered what she was gonna do with her life now that her dear Eddie wasn't here. "What am I supposed to do with my life now, Mike? I cared for your Dad for so long, living each day only for him, that I stopped thinking about the future. My interests change so much and I don't have that much time to waste doing the wrong thing."

They were the kind of questions I had to ask myself a few years ago when I was gonna die in the wheelchair. I had two years to live, but I took a chance on surgery and won a new life. One in which I can walk again.

"Mom, life doesn't get much simpler than when you're facing death, no matter how much time you have left. I learned the hard way that every day is a gift and whatever you do, it's not the wrong thing or a waste. It's your life and you're here to enjoy every breath. Just focus on what your interests are right now. If they change, so be it. At least, you experienced it. And remember to love the ones around you. You'll live in their hearts long after you're gone. They'll always remember the special times with their grandmother and Mom. The neat thing about that is we get to decide what's special and a lot of times, it's just you being here."

I grinned at my Mom and we hugged. Whether she agreed with my life's creed wasn't important. She had listened to her older brothers and she would think on it.

On Easter morning, my Mom drove me to the airport for my flight out to Phoenix. She thanked me for my help and for listening. I could see it in her eyes that I wasn't the only man there. Her older brothers had come home to help her too. They'll always be in my soul as far as my Mom is concerned and I'm honored by her thought.

Our goodbyes were heartfelt, but not filled with sadness. Mom had some assignments from me and she'd promised to do them. Each one would give her more exposure to the world around her. It would be her way of safely entering the world again and she would do them at her own pace.

I knew that Junie and Billy were proud of their little sister. I was proud of my Mom too. She was gonna make it.

---

Black and Whites (Livin life in black and whites)
by Phil Vassar and Craig Wiseman

So many choices in my life these days
So much confusion, so many shades of gray
That sometimes I don't know
My left from my right
But I've got these old black and whites

Well, I'm every color that you can paint
A father, a lover, a mother, a sinner and a saint
From Sunday morning, to Saturday night
I've got these old black and whites

Under the spotlight or all alone at midnight
I know I'm right where I belong
It always unwinds me, it finds me then reminds me
That life is as simple as a song

Lovers, they come and surely they go
They fly you so high, say hello, say goodbye
And they leave you low
But that's all right here in these songs that I write
Right here on these old black and whites

Under the spotlight or all alone at midnight
I know I'm right where I belong
It always unwinds me, it finds me then reminds me
That life is as simple as a song

So roll over Beethoven
Cause ol' Phil could use a little room
I may be out of time and may be out of tune
But you know how it feels to pour out your life
Right here on these old black and whites
Livin life in black and white

---

Sweet, Sweet Sleep

2006-04-28T22:23:00.000-07:00

---

K, my daughter, was asleep on the sofa in the great room this morning. The semester is ending and the room has become her base of operations for all things called university. The smaller front bedroom is her study, but the great room's 10-foot ceiling provides a feeling of openness and better "studierability" (AKA access to the kitchen). It's why I like reading in there, too. grin.

After making sure she was comfortable, I turned on the coffee maker and went outside to view the stars. It was a new moon, but the stars were shrouded in clouds, so I went back inside to ready the house for a new day.

Going from room to room, I opened plantation shutters and turned on/off lights. I took out the garbage and brought in the newspapers. I started a load of laundry, washed the dishes in the sink and loaded the dishwasher for a 9:00 am washing. Then, I prepared my bathroom for my 30-minute routine of shower, shave and get-the-heck-dressed.

The smell of fresh-brewed morning coffee eventually found me in my bedroom as I checked the status on an overnight database job. Yes, it ran! I was tickled pink as I poured a cup of coffee and added some sugar to it. As I looked into the fridge for some milk, I remembered what I was supposed to get on my way home from Cathy's house last night.

I substituted extra sugar for the missing milk and it made the ungodly tincture somewhat potable. Actually, it was horrible, but I needed something to wake me up this morning. Leaning back in my Barcolounger, I sipped the bitter nectar as I alternated between the WSJ and a French comedy on the IFC movie channel.

Soon enough, it was time for me to get ready for work. I looked over at K. She was still asleep on the sofa, dead to the world and ready for a new day when she awakened.

I had one more thing to do. I left her a note on the kitchen counter. It read:

"K, Have a Great Day! love, Dad"

My Mom would leave me similar notes on the kitchen table when I was a college commuter. She would write them before leaving for the early morning shift at McDonald's. They were my Mom's way of giving me a hug, even when she wasn't there.

She told me once, "Honey, I can't help you with your schoolwork, but I can always let you know that I'm thinkin' about you". Then she gave me hug and whispered, "You'll make it, Mike. I know that in my heart."

Those little slips of paper were found throughout my textbooks. I knew what they meant to me and how important they were. I'd look at them and know that someone back home loved me and was thinkin' about me.

And that made life just a little bit easier.

---

Outside of Prescott, She Found A Tree

2006-04-19T21:44:00.000-07:00

Within a few hours in mid-December 2005, my daughter, K, changed into the woman she always wanted to be. It happened as we looked for our Christmas tree in the Prescott National Forest.
---

This was a year of new traditions in our house that was now a home. We started with Thanksgiving. Christmas would have new traditions as well.

K wanted a Christmas tree from the Prescott National Forest, so she submitted her choices to the Arizona National Forests Christmas tree lottery. As luck would have it, we were chosen and Prescott would be our destination.

This would a special trip for K. For the first time, she would cut the tree and drag it back to my truck. It was a job I had done for over twenty years in the cutting area outside Heber, Arizona, but I couldn't do it any more. She'd have to do it all.

We decided to look at the large cutting area (40 sq miles) along the Camp Wood forest service road. I remember reading about the road in an Arizona history book. In the late 19th century, it was used to transport people and goods between the gold-mining towns of Seligman, Prescott and Bagdad. Now, it was one of the old pioneer roads used by hikers, hunters and Christmas tree seekers.

The old road was dusty and wash-boarded in many places, so I let my Ford F150 float atop the ridges and slide wide through turns. I was having a ball.

I had learned to drive that way as a teenager in the family's '62 Biscayne station wagon on the backroads of Virginia. It was the kind of driving I continued to enjoy in Arizona when I joined my buddies on our monthly day hikes into the nearby wilderness areas.

I was smiling wide and goofy when I looked over at K. She gave me a look of "Dad, I like you better when you're boring". I throttled back and she smiled at me again. Yeah, Dad's are best when they're boring.

We drove as far as Yolo Ranch (with their small, dirt air strip) before doubling back to a cutting area on the near side of Camp Wood.

The area was a series of small, tree-covered rises. They were actually worn down granite outcroppings covered in a thin layer of poor soil. Later on, this made for some tricky moments as I negotiated the hills using the bow saw as a cane.

Before we left the truck to begin our search, we checked our gear and called out what we were responsible for on the team. It's something I'd learned the hard way and I didn't want her to learn it the same way I did.

After looking a bit, K found a nice, seven-foot Douglas fir tree adjacent to a closed, 4-wheeler trail. She cut it down and dragged it over to the blue plastic tarp laying on the trail. We used rope to truss the tarp around the tree and used excess rope to create a rope pull for K.

The truck was a half-mile away at the base of the scree-strewn trail. To get to the truck, she'd have to drag the tree up and down several rises. It would've been a hard pull for me even in my glory days. She did it in a remarkable amount of time and with a daypack full of emergency clothes, first-aid kits, water and a few other things.

As we hiked back to the truck, K would look back at me, making sure I was OK. She did the same thing when we stopped to rest; making sure I was OK before drinking her water. When she ran out, I gave her mine. It was a reversal of roles of when she was a little girl, but it was done with the same love and care.

We finally got to the truck and, with some carefully chosen words, loaded the tree into the truck bed. For the first time in her life, K had the special honors of attaching the bright orange Christmas tree permit to the Douglas fir. She was beaming after putting it on her tree.

We had one more thing to do. When we initially left the truck to look for the tree, I had asked my daughter to assume a huge burden. It was an old role for me, one I had learned many years ago, but I couldn't do it anymore. I would have a hard enough time trying to negotiate the hills without falling down. We needed someone who could do the job and carry it out.

K had trained for it and she knew what the job entailed. If she accepted, it would be the first time for her and she would be changed forever. It does that to everyone. K would have to be the Guardian.

She said yes and the responsibility changed her as soon as she stuffed the varmint protector into her daypack.

As we loaded our gear into the back seat, I asked K to return the object (and the responsibility) that had aged her. When it was safely in its case, I was the same person, but she had changed and she was stronger for it.

It wasn't a perfect tree, but it was a perfect Christmas tree. And K found it for us.

She also found the person she had wanted to be for many years. And as luck would have it, she was just outside of Prescott.

P.S. Congratulations, K.

Love, Dad

---

The Difference Between Men And Women

2006-03-28T23:36:00.000-08:00

---

I'm smiling as I write this. Women are far more advanced in discussing relationships than men could ever imagine. It's accepted (and expected) for a woman to share "things" about her relationship. I didn't understand what women really discussed until I took a few dance classes in college.

Before you go thinking things, I had five years of martial arts under my belt and was tired of learning how to kill people. Besides, being in a room full of women in leotards sounded "fun". I took a lotta razzing from my dojo brothers, but it was worth it. Anyway, I dated a few women in those classes and the sisterhood allowed me to listen in on the dirt.

Every day before class, the ladies reviewed their boyfriends, classmates (even some of my buddies!), hunks, hubbies, husband material, toys, maneuvers, kissing, romance, break-ups, cads, the allure of bad boys and other stuff. It was too much information and all of it was true. I just wanted to melt into the wooden floor whenever they looked in my direction, but they never reviewed me. They didn't have to. I did that myself. I cringed at some of the stories. Yeah, that's me to a "T".

I changed my ways and the group recognized my improved "dating" behavior. I was no longer a male buffoon, but a man sharing time with women in their environment.

I listened to them share their every day lives and their true relationships. I never knew women thought and felt that way. Every day was new to me. They were so different from men, yet they helped me become a better man. They taught me that listening is the best answer to a question, a kiss is a kiss is a kiss, a hug is sometimes better than talking and a good cry solves just about everything.

I recently started dating a very nice lady. I'm not mentioning names, but Hi, Cathy! *grin* Since Cathy is becoming more important in my life, I'm starting to talk about her with certain co-workers. The reaction from two co-workers brought to mind those noble ladies of the boards and their effect on my life.

Both co-workers are middle-aged and married. I'm middle-aged and divorced. (Thought I'd help you out there.) The guy reacted in typical guy fashion or what I would've done before the noble ladies. The woman reacted as I would've reacted. Yeah, education of the heart is hell, isn't it?

My statement: I smile and say, "I'm dating a nice lady".

Male reaction. "You deserve someone nice". Click. (Jeez, I thought I had the remote control.)

Once again, my statement with same intonation: I smile and say, "I'm dating a nice lady".

Female reaction. She searches my face for emotion and finds what she's looking for.

With a smile, she gets closer, "And?"

---

I Love This Poem - "To Risk"

2006-03-20T18:46:00.000-08:00

---

Dear K,

I found it many years ago in some bookstore. There's always been a copy of it in my drawer at work. From time to time, I'll look at it, smile and adjust my sails.

Love, dad

"To Risk"

by William Arthur Ward

To laugh is to risk appearing a fool,
To weep is to risk appearing sentimental.

To reach out to another is to risk involvement,
To expose feelings is to risk exposing your true self.

To place your ideas and dreams before a crowd is to risk their loss.

To love is to risk not being loved in return,
To live is to risk dying,
To hope is to risk despair,
To try is to risk failure.

But risks must be taken because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing.

The person who risks nothing, does nothing, has nothing, is nothing.

He may avoid suffering and sorrow,
But he cannot learn, feel, change, grow or live.

Chained by his servitude he is a slave who has forfeited all freedom.

Only a person who risks is free.

The pessimist complains about the wind;

The optimist expects it to change;

And the realist adjusts the sails.

---

Fortunate Man

2006-02-26T14:45:00.000-08:00

---

I begin and end my working day on a high note. I'm lucky that way. It's one of the benefits of joining a vanpool and riding as a passenger. I've been in this one for over a year now.

They're good people except for one woman. She thinks, because we’re both single, we should be dating. I've bluntly told her, on more than one occasion, that I am not interested, but she continues. Odd? Yes, but that's how she is.

Sometime last spring, she took her crusade public by asking me an ungodly question in front of the others - "When are you coming over to my house?". No kiss, no foreplay, just immediately into a fine-hello-how-do-you-do-show-me-your-knickers.

Everyone waited for my response. What they didn't know is she had asked me the same question (a bit more explicitly) in private and I had politely declined. Now, I was an unwilling participant in her afternoon show.

"I don't date women I know", I replied. She scrunched up her face and said, "I don't understand". I shrugged my shoulders, "That's how I am". "So, you like blind dates?" "No, I'd rather know a woman before I date them." "But, you just said you don't want to know women before you date them." "Well, I changed my mind."

She was well past flustered, "You're strange. That doesn't make any sense!" "You're right. Maybe that's my problem." "Well, you won't get dates that way!" The van got very quiet while everyone hid their smiles. She was quite oblivious and I was still quite free.

Since then, she's offered a few more times and I've declined, which has pi$$ed her off. Thinking something was wrong with me, she asked whether I was gay. "Nope, I like women, but thanks for asking." Whatta knucklehead.

So, you can imagine how I felt last week when, after a long day, I reached the lobby and there she was - holding a court of one. No one else from the vanpool was around. I looked about and couldn't find anyone else to talk to, not even George, our favorite security guard. George, who was known for his quick wit, had abandoned me when I needed him the most. George was a smart man.

I needed to sit down and the only chairs available were next to her. I sat down and silently waited for God's answer to my cry, "Please. Take me. Now". Well, He wasn't listening. Or She wasn't listening. Somebody wasn't listening, cuz Vanpool Woman started talking to me just as I waved at a lady friend walking by. You could tell by the way we smiled that we knew each other.

"Do you know her?" It was an accusation from VW.

"Well, yes", and continued smiling. VW continued with her soliloquy.

God, that woman could tussle the life from a conversation as easily as I breathed air. I continued to ignore her as she prattled on about something. She didn't care. She wanted an audience and I was it. Lucky me.

Everything was going along swimmingly. I was talking to friends and she was talking to someone sitting in my seat. All of that ended horribly when it came to the part of her soliloquy where I was to respond.

"Weren't you listening to me?!" I stared at her blankly wondering why I even cared to respond. Yet, an excuse was needed for this petulant child. Bad blood in a vanpool can make unholy alliances.

I fumbled something out of my pocket of lame excuses and plopped it on the floor between us.

It writhed with displeasure, grumbling about the sudden daylight it hadn't seen in years. The excuse looked up at her and hurriedly tried to scurry back into my pocket, wanting nothing to do with the she-devil who would shortly consume it - tail and all. It pleaded for the continued warmth of its gummi-bear existence, but, as Caesar, I condemned it. It mewed its acceptance and climbed into her hand.

She savored my excuse for two reasons: it was from a man and it was for my inattentiveness. In short order, the excuse was gone and she went on with whatever her dear departed husband should have heard.

Lucky B@stard.

---

A New Tradition for Thanksgiving

2006-02-04T14:35:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving 2005

This year, K and I decided to create a splendiferous Foretich Thanksgiving tradition. Out went turkey and in came elegance. With a clean slate and a smooth brain, we piloted ourselves down the aisles of AJ's Fine Foods store in Chandler. They're a gourmet and specialty store catering to discriminating tastes. Well, it sez so on their website, so I hafta believe 'em.

The butcher took our order, the flower staff helped us with a beautiful selection of flowers and the wine steward selected a nice red to complement the rack of lamb. To complement the meal, K made stuffed mushrooms and I did baby red potatoes with butter.

K made the day even better by creating an official Thanksgiving menu. We looked it over as we made dinner and gleefully pointed to the menu item as our masterpieces were completed. We had a grand time tasting our concoctions and enjoying the wine.

By 7:00 pm, we were ready to sit down and enjoy our dinner. We loaded our plates, grabbed a glass of wine and walked past the dining room table. We never eat there. It's strictly for decoration. We went to where we always sit to talk, laugh, giggle and eat. I sat in my Barcolounger and she hugged the inside arm of the deep green sofa. The oak side table between us held our wine glasses and napkins as we balanced plates on our laps. We clinked glasses and sat back for an evening of cheesy James Bond movies on the Spike channel.

It was a grand day.

---

My Fishing Buddy

2006-01-24T21:48:00.000-08:00

January 24, 2006

Two weeks ago, I was in Virginia sitting at my brother Steve's computer composing an email I knew I would send sometime this year. The first one was sent to my boss. I thanked him for his kindness and understanding on letting me take two weeks off on such short notice. The second one took a lot longer. I was sending this one to K. I ended it with "The waiting is over. Come celebrate my Dad's life."

My father had died the night before. He was 81 years old.

I'm luckier than some people. I made it back in time to see him a few days before he died. It was only three days, but it meant so much.

Diane, my sister, had the unenviable task of making "the call" to me. I had just dropped my cell phone service and she didn't have my new home number, so she left a message at my work number. I listened to it early Friday morning when I got into work.

I caught the first flight out on Saturday morning. By that evening I was by my father's bed with my brother Steve, his wife, Joyce and Diane. Dad died two days later.

I've been mourning my father's demise for the past two years as Alzheimer's slowly took him away. I cried the most on Christmas morning sitting alone in my backyard watching the stars. Mom had called me a few days before saying Dad was in extremely poor health. He was being moved to a convalescent home after a few days in the hospital for pneumonia. I didn't need to read between the lines to understand what she meant.

I spent a coupla hours that morning railing against the gods.

---
It was barely 4 AM and it didn't feel like Christmas. I sat in the comfortable Adirondack chair, carefully bundled against the cold desert air, watching the meteor shower and a few low earth orbit satellites whiz overhead. The stars were bright and the moon was hardly there, just a crescent slip descending into the southeastern sky. I couldn't appreciate the beauty and I didn't care. It was cold and my Dad was dying. *uck it all.

As the night drifted away to morning, nocturnal animals headed home. A large bat whispered over me. It tumbled to the east like a broken flip-flop thrown out a car window after a day at the beach. Sometime later, a barn owl, barely ten feet above me, its immense wings making no sound, headed east.
---

(Within two weeks, Diane would make a phone call and I'd be heading east too.)

I didn't want to return to Arizona without my father with me, so I asked my brother, Steve, for some of Dad's ashes. On the day of internment, Steve placed two small urns on the kitchen table: one for me and one, as a surprise, for Mom. She put her urn on the shelf above the kitchen sink. It's next to the photo of Dad and Christina, his other lovely grand daughter.

I'll keep some of Dad's ashes at work and some in my truck. I'll disperse a little bit of him into the river when I go fishing on the Colorado this spring.

And I'll store some of Dad's ashes in my tackle box. He taught me that "a man you can go fishing with is a good man". He's also a good friend.

Amen, Brother.

---

Sunday Morning Breakfast

2006-01-22T15:21:00.000-08:00

---

My alarm went off at 6:15 am. It was Sunday morning and I had to get ready for our Sunday morning breakfast at the Hangar Cafe. It's something K and I do every Sunday. It's our family time. However hectic the week was, Sunday morning breakfast is our time to share and catch up on our lives.

This Sunday morning was different. I didn't hear any activity from K's bathroom, so I opened her bedroom door. She was sleeping as only college students do. I didn't wake her. She needed sleep more than my scintillating, early morning humor.

Thirty minutes later, I was showered, shaved, lightly cologned and lookin' studly. Well, as studly as a middle-aged man can muster at 7 a.m. Yeah, I'm the Man.

I divvied up the Tribune and left the good parts on the kitchen counter along with a note for K. She'd still be asleep when I returned, but I left the note nonetheless.

I threw the weekend edition of the WSJ into the truck and selected an R & B compilation CD called "Funky Love". It's eleven dance songs, some slow, some funky, eliciting love and lust from my junior days. As I eased onto the street, Aretha Franklin eased into her spiritual testimonial about Dr. Feelgood.

I was driving past Arizona Avenue when Marvin Gaye started singing "Let's Get It On". Nothing like getting sanctified on a Sunday morning. Mercy, Mercy, me. Next came Aretha Franklin with "Rock Steady", a jump-up dance celebration that had me moving in ways that are illegal in some parts of Arizona.

She was still pumping when I parked the truck in the lot adjacent to the airfield. I walked through the security gate and saw four private planes parked on the apron outside the restaurant. They had flown in for a $100 breakfast.

To get to the cafe, I walked past the hangar of an acrobatic school. Two guys in slimline parachutes wet diaper-walked to a nearby acrobatic biplane. Both experienced pilots, the student was taking advanced acrobatic training to hone his abilities to get out of a "tight spot" - stalling, spinning, loss of an engine, frozen controls or a bad lunch. Within an hour, he'd be twisting the tiny biplane in the designated acrobatic air box five miles to the East.

Once inside the Cafe, I waved to the owner and waitresses. "Where's, K?", they asked. Lisa, our favorite waitress, made me promise I'd say hey to K when I got home.

The pilots, spouses and friends from the four planes were on the patio. They were a jovial bunch, so I joined them. Within minutes I was sharing the WSJ with those in need and conversation with those who were morning folk like me.

We were roughly the same age bracket, so we talked about our elderly parents, our adult kids and our own lives. Some of the topics were light and induced laughter and some earned shared nods and faraway looks.

It was the same kind of conversations that K and I share during our Sunday Breakfasts, but these were shared with strangers. It wasn't the same.

I guess that's what family is all about.

---

The Real McCoy

2005-12-23T11:11:00.000-08:00

---
December 22 2005

K had waited for this moment for a long time. Both excited and nervous, she stood before Judge McCoy and answered his questions. One by one, she came closer to what she's wanted since she was a little girl - a shorter first name.

I sat in the back and watched as a proud and anxious father. The young woman sitting next to me asked, "She's your daughter, right?" I nodded and whispered, "Yes".

Minutes later, the formalities were completed and we left the judge's chambers.

K had a smile that said it all. It was done.

She was finally herself.

---

Giving Thanks to My Father

2005-12-08T07:13:00.000-08:00

December 4, 2005

During my recent trip to Virginia in October, my Mom requested an outing to Yorktown Beach. The beachfront had been renovated in the past year and she wanted to see what had changed. She also wanted to have lunch at a new beachfront restaurant with dad and me.

When we arrived, it was too early for lunch, so we walked around the faux 18th century setting, taking in the amazing brickwork and human-scaled buildings. It had the feel of a small Williamsburg without the pressure from History and crowds. Eventually, we made our way to the beachfront.

As she sat with Dad on a bench facing the York River, I used binoculars to scout the different ships on the water. Way upriver, I noticed a ship coming our way from the ***. After a lotta guesses with mom, a Los Angeles Class attack submarine came into view. It was being escorted from the *** in a security bubble I've never seen before. Nothing from the land, sea or air could touch it. They had thought of everything.

As I watched the sub come closer, I tried to find the old post office wharf near the Coleman Bridge. Mom said it had been demolished last year in the renovation, yet I still looked for it. I needed it to be there. It seemed so silly. It was just a wharf we fished from when I was a kid.

As I thought about that wharf, I realized it was always special to me and I never understood why. I even took some of my college dates to that wharf. We'd walk around and eventually sit to watch the river. Why was I drawn to that decrepit wharf?

I always thought it was one of my idiosyncrasies - I couldn't explain it, I just did it. Even on the most recent trips to see my folks, I went to Yorktown Beach and looked for the wharf. Somehow, it always made me feel better. I couldn't understand why... and I didn't try. I lost a lotta of my old Virginia memories from the chronic pain, but they're slowly coming back.

When the sub was a mere 400 feet from shore, I saw a sailor on one of the ***s bend down and pick up something from the deck. For whatever reason, I looked upriver searching for the wharf, but it was gone. Of course, it was gone. Then I remembered why that wharf was so important to me.

My father had saved my life on that wharf when I was 12 years old.

Dad, Steve and I were fishing on the former ferry landing, along with some teenage girls and their families. As Dad helped Steve attach bloodworms to his bottom rig, I found the perfect spot to fish. It was at the far corner away from them.

Being twelve, I needed to be away from my family to look cool. Well, cool or not, my line soon got caught on an old piling below the surface. As I tried to unsnag it, I lost my balance and slowly tipped over.

The wharf was a treacherous place for anyone to fall from. The submerged rocks promised broken limbs from the 15-foot fall and a strong current drew anything without fins to mid-channel. No one, not even strong swimmers, ventured far from shore.

I knew I was a goner and waited for the water to come up to me, but that didn't happen. A big bear paw welded itself to my shoulder and brought me safely back to the deck. It was my father's hand, having lifted me as easily as he'd picked up a screwdriver from his tool drawer in the garage. How did he get from way over there to here?

He didn't yell at me as he usually did for one of my boneheaded acts. I was $hit scared and it musta shown on my face. My Dad looked at me strangely, softened his stance and quietly asked me if I was OK.

I couldn't use my voice. I knew if I tried, I'd cry and I didn't want to do that in front of the girls, so I nodded my headed, yes. He put his hand on my shoulder and we walked over to the tackle box. There he asked me if I wanted to fix up another bottom rig and I nodded again. He said good, put his big bear paw on my shoulder and went over to help Steve.

I ashamed to say nothing more was said or mentioned about his saving grace that day. It was lost in my transition from child to teenager when I needed my father to be my adversary. In order to be myself, I had to deny everything about him, including his kind and unselfish acts. Over the years, I became wiser and cherished those traits we shared, both good and bad, because it made us who we are.

I wanted to share all of that with my father and say "Thank You, Dad, for saving me", but I couldn't. The "long time coming" came for my father last year and it was too early in the day for him to fully recognize me. And I couldn't explain it to my mom. We were here to talk about happy things. It was a promise we made before leaving the house.

In frustration, I let the tears run down my face as I watched the sub ease down the river and wished things were different. My Mom saw me use a Kleenex on my eyes, but she didn't say anything. She knew why I was crying.

I wondered why I remembered it now and not years ago, then I realized our roles had not changed until this visit. Before, in some small way, he could still protect me as my father. Now, I protected him and the memory came forward.

I finished taking photos and walked back to my Mom and Dad on the bench. They were a loving couple who had known each other for over 60 years, sitting as older couples do: close together, sharing their warmth and time, accustomed to both and each other. She held one of his hands as he busied himself with his shirt.

Mom asked me, "Did you get enough pictures, sweetheart?"

She could see it in my eyes, having known me all my life, that I wanted to talk about Dad, but I'd made a promise and I kept it.

So rather than talking about Dad, we played our ancient roles. She was a Mom eagerly listening to her son describe the big machine that just went by. Mothers do that for their sons, no matter how old their sons are. Well, this little boy was 51 years old and talked like a five-year-old describing his first pony ride.

We both performed our roles well and I loved my Mom even more for letting me go on like that. I even said a few things that Dad would've said and used his mannerisms. I wondered if Mom saw that? She probably did. It was an homage to a man we both love.

It was time for us to get on to the restaurant. With Mom holding Dad's hand and with me resting my hand on his shoulder, we guided him along the brick walkway. I whispered into the wind towards the spot where the old wharf had been. "Thank you, Dad".

My Mom looked over at me. "I'm glad you're here, Mike."

I kept my voice even, hiding the slight tremble that wanted to get out and make my eyes water again. I lightly tightened my hand on my father's shoulder.

"I am too, Mom."

---

Ed the bear walks into a bar.

The bartender asks him, "What'll ya have?".

Ed sez, "Gimmee a burger and..... a Coke."

The bartender asks, "Why the big pause?"

Ed laughs and sez, "Cuz, I'm a bear".

---

Joining the Club

2005-11-01T04:06:00.000-08:00

November 1 2005 4:00 am

K is 21 years old today. When she awakens, a big bouquet of flowers awaits her on the kitchen counter along with a carefully chosen card. I wanted to write more in the card, but I kept it short and simple. I've always been more eloquent with flowers and a hug than with words.

I was thinking about how much K's changed in the last few years. She's a college woman now and not a college girl. She's thinner and more athletic. Her hairstyle and clothes are becoming cosmopolitan. She has her own flair as to fashion and decor. She's blooming into her own life.

I'm just happy to be here and watch her grow.

Happy Birthday, K.

love, dad

Going Places

2005-07-31T11:23:00.000-07:00

---

It was early Friday morning. For the last two hours, K had busied herself doing the last minute things a young woman does before a trip. I half-way listened to her preparations as the sounds echoed down the hallways to my bedroom on the other side of the house.

I had awakened at the ungodly hour of 4:00 am, gotten dressed and opened the plantation shutters to a crescent moonlit backyard. The backyard sprinklers had started their cycle and I watched mesmerized, wondering if I should fix a cup a coffee to stimulate a proper brain stem response.

No, she needs to do this on her own. A father's advice isn't needed this morning. Even so, I opened the double doors to my bedroom to let her know I was available for emergencies, and then promptly flopped back onto my welcoming, king-size, pillow-top bed for a semi-conscious, one-eye dad sleep.

It was suddenly quiet. I looked over at the alarm clock and saw that it was getting close to her departure. I gathered up what I could of my brain and sauntered over to her side of the house.

She was looking into her bathroom mirror, ensuring everything was where it should be. K looked great and I told her so. She beamed and hugged me. "Thank you, Dad".

It was a hug needed by both of us. Though she was the one taking the trip, we were both making journeys that day. Within fifteen minutes, she was on her way. With a quick kiss, a hug and an "I love you, Dad. See you later", she was gone. Godspeed, K.

It was close to lunch time when I checked the Sidekick for emails. There was one from K. She had arrived and was enjoying lunch in a nice restaurant on a mountain top. I had to smile. She was having a good time.

She closed with, "And, thanks for everything. Love, K".

I knew what she meant. And she knew what it meant to me, as a father, to hear that.

In future years, she will be a mother. From a distant city, she will hear the same words from her daughter and feel her face flush. She'll share the precious moment with me just as I shared it with my mother.

K's message was important not only to me, but to my Mom as well. My Mom now knows the love she gave to me was passed on to K and K will pass it on to her family.

Just thinking about that makes me smile.

---

Trailhead

2005-07-11T23:20:00.000-07:00

May 20, 2005

Lees Ferry was the second leg of my "Celebration of Life" Tour. I was here to fish and remember how I once was (in a wheelchair) and how I am now (walking). I was also here to bury the past and to do so, I'd have to smell the river.

It's a cold, clean smell of high mountain water. I first experienced it many years ago on the second morning of a Colorado River rafting trip.

In that early morning hour, I squatted next to the riverbank with a cup of camp coffee and watched the water push time away. There was a feeling of intimacy with the river that morning. The same one I've shared with the ocean since I was a little boy.

I became a part of the ocean when I was five or six years old at Buckroe Beach. I'd squat at the line just before the waves broke for shore, feeling them pull me along, asking me to join them. I’d close my eyes and listen to the waves crash against the shore before tumbling with them onto the beach.

With the cup of coffee in my hand, I squatted in the cold Colorado and swirled my hand in its waters. The crisp, slightly earthy scent of the water tickled my nose and made the coffee taste even better. I looked down into the water and wondered how I'd find its secrets. I closed my eyes and listened, wondering if I could find its strength, too.

As I cocked my head to the rapids upriver, the sounds of lapping waters at my feet changed to a gentle, distant roar. I stared upriver for awhile, sipped my coffee and took in this wondrous feeling. I smiled when the answer came to me.

I was here for this moment and I was to remember all of this. That was the river's strength and secrets - I was to remember this morning and the following mornings of this trip. I didn't understand the significance of these moments until years later. You see, these cool, clean memories kept me alive when I was in my wheelchair.

I tried, but I couldn't remember the river as I once did. I couldn't smell it as I fished from its banks in my red "I don't care" chair. It wasn't there in the early morning wind or the stillness of the afternoon. It wasn't on the trout I released back into its waters. When the Canyon wren warbled its song, I couldn't understand why I ever liked its melody.

It was this love for the water and the memories of good times past that beckoned me to a nearby 1880's homestead. At the end of its land was the Paria Canyon Trail head and a good view of the Paria River. A river guide said I'd find what I needed there.

I slowly walked the field of cracked earth to the edge of the property and sat atop a ridge of wet sand. I butt-rumped the sand and was cascaded to the river's edge.

The river guide was right. It came to me as I bent down next to the Paria River and watched its chocolate water move to the Colorado a mile downstream. The smell was cold and clean and it brought back good memories.

I sat on a nearby rock and watched the chocolate waters rush by.

I smiled as the Canyon wren sang its song. It's how I remembered it.

---

My Upcoming Fishing Trip to Lees Ferry

2005-04-26T20:21:00.000-07:00

--
In another coupla weeks, I'll be fishing for a few days at Lees Ferry, Arizona. It's a catch-and-release fishing area located on the Colorado River just below Glen Canyon Dam.

The area is well known by fly-fishing aficionados. The large rainbow trout and ample amount of fishing guides attract a high-end clientele looking for good fishing memories. I thought about using my fly-fishing stuff (10 o'clock, two o'clock, smooth flow, don't snap the line, doh!), but I'm gonna bring my open-face reel with a 2 lb line, sit in a Wal-Mart camp chair with an attachable sun umbrella (on sale) and pretend to care about catching fish. Ahh, life.

I'll be seeing a LOT of people in the mornings. The Grand Canyon starts a few miles downstream. People rafting or kayaking down the Colorado use Lees Ferry as their debarkation point. I'll try to fish around 'em. (grin). By 9:00 am, it'll be quiet except for the descending tone melody of the Canyon wrens.

I'll be staying at the Marble Canyon Lodge. There are two, count 'em, two, versions of the Lodge. Highway 89A, also known as the Highway of Death, divides the two. This is the $200.00 a night version. It has homey rooms or you can reserve a casita. All of it is surrounded by a small, preciously irrigated area of grass and a few trees. The Marble Canyon landing strip is a mere few hundred feet from its door. Ah, the comfort.

Across highway 89A is the other version of the Lodge. This is my $55.00 a night level of comfort. If I need to feel grass, I'll walk across the Highway of Death... or not. It looks pretty nice from this side of the road. You betcha.

A fellow named R. A. Taylor has a great site about the Lodge and the surrounding Vermillion Cliffs area. He's a pretty good photographer. Here's a series of his photos (one, two, three) of where I'll be fishing. Of course, I'll be fishing upstream by the boat ramp and camp ground. You think I can negotiate those rocks? Come on. Grin.

The lodge is located on the Arizona Strip. Strip is an appropriate description of the area, cuz there ain't nothing there. Even Mormon pioneers, who were a pretty strong stock, decided to settle elsewhere. To do it true justice, here are some satellite photos of the lodge and the surrounding area: Google Satellite photo and Terraserver aerial topo map.

Wish me luck.
---

Another Christmas for Abuela

2005-04-14T00:01:00.000-07:00

---

I wrote the following story on November 19, 2004.

Her name was Annie Craw. She died April 7, 2005. She was 71.

I knew her, however, the cancer had taken her so much that I didn't recognize her. I'm sorry, Annie.

She worked in my building and retired in 2003. She was one of the nice ladies who helped me laugh when I was in my wheelchair and prayed that I would walk again. Thank You, Annie. Vaya con Dios.

---

It was my day off. As usual, I had spent an early hour at the Hangar Cafe for my Friday morning breakfast. Lisa, one of the waitresses who had adopted K and me, knew of my need for morning brew and lotsa cream. She supplied plenty of both with an ample amount of smiles.

With breakfast out of the way, I popped over to Salem Boys Auto in Tempe for some minor repairs on my truck. It was gonna take awhile, so I brought a book to read.

As I settled into my chair, I looked around the room at my three fellow travelers.

A regal, Hispanic woman in her late 60's was sitting by herself on the sofa. She reminded me of someone's Abuela or grandmother as she wrote Christmas cards and affixed stamps to the envelopes.

Every few minutes, she coughed. It was deep and well-practiced. She tried her best to retain her dignity.

From the look of her face, she'd been ill for a while. Her face had begun to shrink away from the living world.

The other two customers were middle-aged guys. One was doing paperwork from a briefcase. The other busied himself with magazines from the rack.

After a few minutes of reading, I grew sleepy. I adjusted my right leg into a comfortable position and closed my eyes for a semi-conscious nap.

I listened to voices cascading down the staircase behind me. A high school automotive class was being held in a front office conference room on the second floor. Teenagers, male and female, were answering esoteric car questions.

When the class ended, the students filed past us in noisy clumps of loud conversations and boisterous camaraderie. When the door closed, there was silence.

The woman and I spoke about the kids and their great careers as technicians. She coughed a little bit, so I stopped our conversation while she recovered. She used the lull to tell everyone in the waiting area about her coughing spells.

No one else wanted to listen to her, but I did. She continued to talk with me from across the way, just as loud as possible with everyone listening.

She was 71 years old and had stage 4 lung cancer. Never smoked a day in her life and was quite adamant about that fact. She was supposed to die last Christmas, but she outfoxed the doctors.

The gentle-voiced woman had just buried another friend from the cancer ward last month. "The third one to die this year", she said.

She had helped her friends adjust to their cancer just as someone had helped her when she first entered the ward. That saintly docent of the sisterhood had taught the Abuela how to deal with life's last triage, then passed the docent role onto her and died.

The friend who died last month was going to be the Abuela's replacement, but the cancer took her friend too soon. "Too soon. Too soon. She wasn't ready. She wasn't at peace". She wondered who would help her friends when she was gone.

The Abuela's cancer had accelerated very quickly after the chemotherapy failed in the fall of 2003. Since springtime, it has slowly consumed her. Now, she waited to die.

The doctors promised she wouldn't have to wait too long. It was going to be very soon. They promised she'd make it to Christmas, but this was going to be her last Christmas.

She held up a handful of Christmas cards. "I'm doing my list early this year."

I asked her what she was going to do for Christmas. Her eyes sparkled.

"My children and grandchildren are coming in to celebrate at my house!"

She went on about their ages and how dear they were to her. She was as happy as a mother and grandmother could be.

The technician came over and discussed the repairs with her. She paid her bill, said her goodbyes to us and left.

She returned in a few minutes and passed out religious tracts to everyone, apologizing if her offer offended anyone.

When she came to my chair, I accepted her book of daily prayers and softly told her, "Merry Christmas". She smiled.

I'll never see her again. In the next few months, she'll appear as an obituary in the Tribune. It will list her accomplishments as a mother, grandmother, wife and friend.

But, it won't list her accomplishment for that Friday morning when she let us ride in the back seat of her '59 Cadillac of Hope as she cruised towards Christmas.

Thanks for sharing your ride, Ma'am.

---

Slow Dancing

2005-04-13T23:20:00.000-07:00

---

Music was filling the living room at the same rate light was leaving it. I stood next to her as she moved to the beat. She looked good. Damn good. But, truth be told, the margaritas and our time in the heated pool had tuckered me out. I needed to get home.

She was smiling and looking at me with half-closed eyes as I watched her move to a honky-tonk favorite by Alan Jackson. (I didn't know it was possible to get excited over a song like that.)

She opened her arms and smiled, beckoning me to join her in a dance. I told her I couldn't, cuz of my foot. She wasn't listening. I wasn't either. What the hell. I tossed my glasses onto a nearby table and drew her close.

We began to move as one, rocking slowly to the music, gimbaled at our hips. She looked up at me. I held her tighter and we kissed.

"Mmmm", was all she said. I agreed.

After many songs, one by Janet Jackson started. "This one is my favorites", she whispered. By the end, it was one of mine too.

I hadn't danced like that since my days in Washington, DC 25 years ago. It was slow and sensual. Time didn't exist and no one cared.

The kind of dancing you enjoyed in the privacy of a dimly lit living room at the end of a special evening.

---

Madame Henriot

2005-04-12T23:11:00.000-07:00

She watched me as I slept.

She was there when I awakened.

She watched me dress and undress.

She was the woman I made love to on Sunday mornings.

---

I would think of her in the early morning hours before a new day started, wishing things were different and that I could be with her.

But, I couldn't, so she lived with me as Renoir's "Madame Henriot". I joined her as Picasso's "The Seated Harlequin". As two poised portraits, we shared the bedroom wall. I was to the left of her portrait and faced away from her beauty, because I could not have her.

When I moved into my new house in late 2002, she was hung above the fireplace as the room's focal point. An accent light illuminated her face. Around the corner, in the foyer, I hung the Harlequin. He was to the right of her portrait. I finally faced my love.

I took her down in mid-December 2003 to be replaced with a Christmas wreath. I never put her back. The Harlequin was removed when I started painting the house's interior last summer. I stored them side-by-side in my walk-in closet next to my wheelchair.

I gave them both to Goodwill last month, the same day I donated my wheelchair and cane.

It was time to move on.

---

Ten Years to Tucson

2005-04-08T23:56:00.000-07:00

(First leg in my Celebration of Life Tour.)

April 8, 2005

This morning, I finished something I started over ten years ago. I made it to Tucson.

It all started with a race. I had planned to run the Tucson Marathon in January 1995, but my feet started tingling in late December, so I didn't register. Instead, I changed my practice routine to a faster mile time and ran the half-marathon portion of the ARR Desert Classic Marathon in February 1995.

It was my last race. The tingling in my feet would soon become intense pain. My years of ultra long-distance running along the ridgeline of South Mountain had caused permanent nerve damage to my feet. Running, which gave me my freedom, would soon take it away.

By May 1995, the docs from the Mayo Clinic had me in a wheelchair, telling me I would never run again. I spent six months in my bucket. I spent another year learning how to walk again and doing it without a limp. I also learned to live with chronic pain and not show it, cuz feelings weren't allowed in the Tempe household.

By 2001, I was back in the wheelchair for six months. In 2002, it was seven months. In January 2003, I was in my wheelchair again. My long-term prognosis wasn't good, so I made plans to live the rest of my life in a wheelchair. I took a chance at surgery in August 2003 and started walking again, albeit with a gimpy right leg, but walking nonetheless.

When I first rode in my bucket in 1995, I made a promise to myself to complete my race to Tucson. Until that point, I had completed every race. I never DNFed - Did Not Finish. I knew I couldn't run it, bike it or walk it, but I'd make it someday.

It sounds easy, but it's not. I had opportunities to go to Tucson during my marriage, but I didn't want to share my emotional journey with a woman I didn't love and who didn't love me.

After I was divorced in August 2002, I started thinking about the race again, but that was short-lived. Within a few months, I was in my wheelchair again, trying to make my world small enough to accommodate the pain. I gave up hope of ever making it to Tucson, but a buddy talked me into going with him. However, at the last minute, he couldn't make it. With or without him, Tucson became my goal again.

Since December 2004, the pain has gradually lessened to the point where it doesn't control my life any more. It still hurts when I walk, but I can walk further now. Without the chronic pain, I could explore the world again and make plans to finally finish my race.

It also meant I'd have to confront my life as a gimp. It's something I've purposely ignored, like the people who look at me when I walk. I had to accept the fact that this is how my life's gonna be from now on. It took me awhile to sort it out (I'm still working on parts of it), but I was ready for Tucson this morning.

K, my daughter, wished me well. She knew how important this day was to me and why I had to make the trip alone.

I was supposed to make the trek with that buddy of mine, Greg Carrel. He was one of the Good Guys who was supposed to live forever, but he didn't. One morning in the fall of 2003, Greg woke up, got ready for work and his heart stopped.

Greg was a good-hearted, decent guy who touched the lives of many people and helped an equal number by just being himself. He was that kinda guy. The kind that everybody liked.

We had a lot in common: fishing for the sake of talking, woodworking, computer geekery and parenting. Just like me, he was divorced and raising a daughter.

Over time, he became a brother to me. (A brother that I wish was still here to make the trip with me. I miss him.)

I never got a chance to thank Greg or tell him how much I appreciated his friendship. I guess that's something brothers always forget to say, thinking we'll have enough time. I made it a point not to make the same mistake with my brother Steve.

My destination in Tucson was the Pima Air & Space Museum. Greg and I talked about it from time to time and made plans to do a road trip to celebrate my ability to walk again. We'd joke about being two computer geeks surrounded by flying machinery. We'd be like a coupla kids with ten dollars in a five-and-dime candy store - all eyeballs and tongue wondering where to look next.

As I pulled into the Museum's entrance, a flight of two A-10 Warthogs flew low overhead on their final approach to Davis Monthan Air Force Base. I made it. I said a prayer for Greg. He made it too. Thanks for everything, Greg. Thank you, Brother.

I skipped the Museum and took the AMARC Tour to see the aircraft bone yard. When it was over, I got directions to the Titan Missile Museum. In my haste to get there, I didn't see the steel I-beam parking impediment. I drove over it and listened to the right front tire hiss flat. I'm flat on the same side. I smiled, then busted out laughing. Brand new tires and it had to happen here.

Two hours later, a new tire buzzed beneath my truck as I headed home on I-10 to Chandler. I welcomed the heavy traffic and the afternoon tunes as I sorted out the day and the last ten years of my life.

When I first started running races, I was intent on making my personal best at every event. In these early races, I would get caught up in the excitement and forget my pacing. I'd be three or four miles from the finish line, nearly exhausted and frustrated. That's when someone would pull up next to me and start talking. It was obvious the other guy was a better runner than me, but he would set his pace to mine and we'd finish the race together. He helped me finish my race while giving up his own.

Once I was attuned to these stewards, I saw them at all the races. They were old, young, women and men. They weren't doing the race for their personal best time. They had nothing to prove. They were there for the camaraderie. Hanging back and running slow, they were there to help others. A lot of them didn't even pick-up their shirts.

It took me a coupla years to do all of the races and make my personal bests. Then on a half-marathon through Scottsdale, I became a steward. A fellow who looked a lot like me on a bad racing day was about to give-up and start walking. I pulled up next to him and asked if I could run with him. We did a slow jog to the finish line where I let him beat me by a coupla strides. I didn't pick-up my t-shirt that day.

I started doing that at all of my races, except my last one. On that day, I was hurting three miles out from the finish line. A steward came up to help me. I told him what time I needed and he helped me set a personal best for a half-marathon.

We were hoofing it pretty fast. On the last quarter mile, he shouted over to me,"Let's make this a real race". He beat me, but not by much.

He didn't pick-up his shirt that day, but I picked-up mine. I'm wearing it tonight as I write this. It's my ten year badge. I earned it.

It took me ten years to get to Tucson. It was a helluva long journey. One that I wouldn't trade for the world, as odd as that sounds.

It was a journey where I learned a lot about people and myself.

I learned about life, how to share it and who to share it with.

I found out it's not how fast you are or how far you can run in life.

It's about helping somebody finish their race.

---

It's About Time

2005-03-30T22:11:00.000-08:00

Closets hold many things. The exercise room closet held objects and memories which K and I no longer needed: household items, books, Christmas and Easter items, knick-knacks, old family photos and wedding china.

For two days, we took turns looking over our past. We gave each other the time, privacy and dignity needed for such a task. We were burying our dead.

We kept those things which brought back good memories. If something was salvageable, we donated it to Goodwill or gave it to friends. The wedding china will be sold in the coming weeks. The remainder went to the trash.

In the coming months, the Tempe house glassware, flatware, cutlery, cooking pots and mixing bowls will be donated to Goodwill. Anything else of the old ways and old life will be removed from the house or sealed and forgotten. We no longer have time to waste on the past.

For that same reason, I donated my wheelchair and cane to Goodwill last Friday. I may need one or the other in the coming years, but I'm not planning my life on either possibility. I have better things to do.

---

Spring Time in My Backyard

2005-03-27T14:59:00.000-08:00

For the first time since I moved into my house, the back yard is in bloom. I threw the ten pounds of wild flower seeds around the gravel atoll surrounding my backyard in late October. The wet winter did the rest.

In the next two months, my favorites will blossom: Mexican Hat, Baby's Breath, Bishop's Flower, Blanketflower, California Poppy, Calliopsis and Sweet Alyssum.

Since 1997, I grew my spring flowers in the front yard of the Tempe house. Within three years, they consumed the yard in joyous color. I enjoyed sitting in the Fisher-Price kindergarten chair and listening to the radio while tending to my flowers.

On those mornings and afternoons when I weeded and collected seeds, I got a chance to talk at length with neighbors as they strolled down the street. At the end of the season, anyone who was interested received their fair share of seeds.

I received seeds from several people I would have never met except for their interest in flowers. One older woman of mid-70's age gave me some poppy seeds which, as an young girl, she grew in her back yard next to the railroad tracks near downtown Tempe. They are the most unusual poppies I've seen. Damn odd, but I like them.

--

Legacy

2005-03-18T21:07:00.000-08:00

Some things stay with you for life. That statue of Leif Erikson is how I remember my hometown of Newport News, VA.

He guarded the main entrance to Mariners' Museum when I was a little scamp. At over nine feet tall, he looked out to the horizon, searching for something. What I don't know, but he was steadfast in his decision and direction.

I have photographs taken with him as a small boy, later as a teenager with my junior year girlfriend and much later as a returning son visiting my parents. On one of those trips back home in the early Eighties, I was shaken when I couldn't find him. The museum had moved him during one of their remodelings. I finally found him in a small exploration park across from the old front entrance to the museum.

Within the last few years, they moved him inside the museum. Even in his new location, his vision hasn't changed. He still searches the horizon.

He was the son of Erik the Red, hence his surname - Erikson. He was a Viking and a Seafarer. My people were seafarers before we settled down in the shipyard town of Newport News. I'm glad they settled there. I'm very proud of my roots and my people.

I've always felt a kinship to Lief Erickson. As a young boy, I wanted to be named Erik or Erikson. It was a powerful name with a strong legacy. A legacy made of the seas, adventure and a new land waiting to be discovered.

Since I couldn't be Erik, I gave that name to my son. With it, he sails his own seas and, like Leif Erikson, he searches the horizon - searching for his own new found land.

---

Wearing the Uniform

2005-03-13T14:28:00.000-08:00

---

He was a U.S. Marine. You could tell that without his Dress Blues. Ramrod straight and with conviction in his eyes, he shook my hand. I thanked him for his service and said it was good to have him home.

He was one month fresh from the War in Iraq, still on active duty and ... still over there.

He was wearing his Marine Dress Blues from his city's celebration of soldiers returning home. His mother was so proud of him as she walked him around to her women friends in the building.

These were the moms who listened to her stories, looked at the photos, cried over his injuries and the loss of his buddies, agonized when he returned to fight again and always prayed for his safe return. The ones who now rejoiced that he was home. That he was safe. Safe as only a group of moms can make a son.

As his mom introduced him to my teammate, his mother's hands cradled and touched his head, then touched on his shoulders in a steepled affect. He didn't pull away. This was Mother Magic.

She sees it as reassurance, but he knows of its true power. This is the magic a boy receives from his mom on his first day of school and when he returns as a prodigal son. Both hands touch the top of his head, over his ears, then down to his shoulders. She was gracing him with a mother's mantel - the ultimate protection.

They both serve their uniform. He as a member of the U.S. Marine Corps. She as his mother. Each protecting the other in their own way. Each doing a damn good job of it. Each living by the following words:

Semper Fidelis - Always Faithful.
Honor.
Courage.
Commitment.

That sounds like Family to me.

---

Lunch Time Rhapsody

2005-03-11T12:13:00.000-08:00

Timing is everything. So is the sense of touch.

She was moving towards the microwaves when I saw her. I was next to the Coke machines talking with a buddy. She looked real nice and she smelled even better. We'd been making eyes at each other for the past few months and chatted a wee bit, but office romances are tricky.

I don't know why, but I held my hand out to guide her past me.

Her blouse was made of something silky, something deserving of a late night of long kisses and soft music. My fingers ran across her back as though we were dancing in her living room with the lights low. It was a motion akin to stroking a lover's back amidst a lost afternoon of long, sensuous foreplay. Both of us drifting like a feather in a stream.

It gave me chills touching her like that. She took in a quick breath.

"I'll talk with you later."

She gave me a look. "I hope so."

I would have kissed her had no one been around.

Kisses From Walgreens

2005-02-04T23:37:00.000-08:00

January 2005

I was sitting in Walgreens waiting for my prescription when the scent of a great memory walked up to the cashier. The middle-aged woman was wearing a perfume I've always called "Southern Lady Nice".

Thirty-two years had disappeared and I was in the arms of my university Psychology professor. She was 35, worldly and the first woman with whom I had a relationship. I was 19. We met at her house in Hilton Village every day for that semester.

I remembered every place she wanted me to find that perfume. God knows I searched for it. LOL. I was grinning so much I had to lower my head to regain my composure. When I raised it, the messenger was gone, but not the memory.

Some of her perfume lingered as I paid for my prescription. It caused me to blush when the cashier asked, "Did you find everything you needed?"

She was a cute, red-haired woman in her early 20's. Her attractiveness made me blush even more.

"Um, the lady's perfume reminded me of someone special. Someone from many years ago. She wore the same perfume. It brought back good memories." I gave her a sheepish grin. She knew I was remembering and was tickled to see me blush.

The middle-aged pharmacist gave me a quick glance and slightly smiled. She continued filling prescriptions in rapid order.

I looked over at the pharmacist and smiled, "You always remember the good ones, don't you?" She pursed her lips and grinned even more. This time her eyes smiled too.

Her husband would get a special kiss tonight and not understand it at all.

---

Building Sand Bridges Into the Sea

2004-12-31T22:35:00.000-08:00

-
One child escaped. She will be healthy, wealthy and wise.

The other child remains with his mother. He is lost in the constantly moving minefields of his mother's emotional dyslogia.

She has Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder - OCPD.
The RIGHT Stuff - Dr. Steven Phillipson
The Dimensional Perspective - High Conscientiousness Profile

(The disorder prevents her from forming intimate relationships and normal friendships. Worst of all, it prevents her from seeking help.)

She can't be wrong or emotionally out-of-control. To be either would be imperfect - and that's not allowed in her world. Since she was a little girl, there have been two constants in her life: to be perfect and be her mother's golden girl. In her innate need for both, she slowly disappeared into an all-consuming ball of self-hatred. Even embracing a religion didn't salve her soul. It only tempered her self-hatred with a profane love for self-righteousness.

She needs someone to love her, but it's a one-way street - she can't return the love. She must keep all of her emotions in check. To return love makes her feel weak and exposed, so she finds fault with the person seeking her love. It keeps everyone, including her child, at arm's length.

A young child soon learns that a mother's unconditional love, something so basic in human nature that you take it for granted, comes with an emotional slap every time the child gets close to momma. At an early age, the child begins the search to a question without an answer, "Why doesn't my momma love me?"

If someone knows her, even a little bit, she is threatened by their knowledge. They know her secret - that she is not perfect in mind, body or spirit. To keep people away, she drowns those around her, and ultimately herself, in an acidic, passive-aggressive love. The individuals who remain must be guilty for her failures and flaws and accept the blame for her sins.

The boy has never known any other type of love from his mother. Her world is his world; where the sane assumes the reality of others. To live in her world, he must assume her basis of character and truth. It's a world where they can't accept responsibility for their acts or behavior. A world where they place blame on anyone other than themselves.

The mental health professionals who helped the boy knew of the mother's condition and the devastation she caused, but they couldn't address her problem. To help him, everyone agreed to work around her. She never knew.

Since the gods are balanced in meting out a person's life, they gave the boy a golden feather. He knows she hates confrontation and the accompanying loss of emotional control, so he pushes her buttons and works her like a rented mule. In return, his mother opens her wallet, but not her heart. The boy gets what he wants, but not what he needs. It's a self-made prison that only he can escape.

The coming years will not be kind to her. Her condition, already advanced, will worsen. It will deeply affect her ability to accept change and interact with people. Unfortunately, by her basic nature, she alienates people. She needs people, just like everyone else; she just can't connect to them. She's never been able to.

Much to her chagrin, she's at a loss as to why people don't like her. Yet, anyone who has known her for a short period of time understands why. She sees and values a person as either above her in status or below her. There is no in-between.

Never one to make or keep friends, she now counts clients and business acquaintances as friends. To her, they are safe. They don't know her. They never will. They only see her practiced personality. The one reserved for the public and not family. The nice one that doesn't hurt. They see the five P's: Perfect Planning Prevents Pi$$ Poor Performance, Sir.

In the future, her son will be her sole companion. When he leaves for university, she will have no one to blame for her flaws and no one to love her. She will find cause for him to return home. If he does, he will never develop into a whole human being. If he leaves, he will realize how fortunate he was to escape.

Before her son moved in with her, no one else wanted her. After he leaves, no one else will. The door will close and she will pay for the sins she committed against her children.

They will not come to visit her. There will always be an excuse or a reason. She will blame them for not wanting to be with her. She will be alone - as she has always been all her life.

Alone to build sand bridges into the sea.

Alone to curse the waves for their destruction.

Alone.

Perfectly alone.

-

She Did It

2004-10-10T08:32:00.000-07:00

She'd been making the journey for awhile. Every day she practiced. Every day she returned.

I watched her make the journey a few weeks ago. This time it was different. This time she didn't return.

She did it without fanfare.
She did it without saying goodbye.

She portaged her boat to the next river
and went on with her life.

Congratulations, *K*.

Song of Love for Her Freedom

2004-10-09T15:57:00.000-07:00

August 5, 2003

As with all freedom, someone bears the cost. She looked into her own mirror and finally realized she could bear that cost. It was a decision with a God-awful price, but one she could live with.

I took full measure of the young woman standing before me in my kitchen. K was soulfully hurt beyond her years, but she held herself like a fighter.

She'd make it. It'd take her years to feel whole again, but she'd make it. And I'd help her get there.

I hugged my daughter and tried to make the hurt go away, but I couldn't; she would have to do that herself. Right now, what she needed to know was that I still loved her and she would stay with me, in my home, and make it hers.

In doing so, I continued to keep the promises I made to her when she was a little girl of six. If she was lost, I would find her. If she needed help, I would be there for her. Wherever I was in the world, I would come back for her. Whatever happens, she could depend on me. I would always protect her. I would never leave her. I would always love her. I was her Dad.

She held me as tight as she could and cried. All of those years she had kept to herself ran down her cheeks and soaked into my shirt. I wished I could've joined her in crying, but I couldn't. I had to be strong for her. I could cry later when she was asleep.

I held my daughter as I once did when she was a little girl. Back then, nothing in the world could touch her when I protected her, but I couldn’t protect her against this. I kissed the side of her head and gently whispered words of comfort knowing she couldn’t hear me.

Those words, sung by my mother in a soft singsong rhythm of love, had healed my broken spirit more than once as a boy. I hoped my song of love would heal my daughter as well.

---

Going Home Part One - Chasing the Evening Sun to Norfolk

2004-09-02T15:45:00.000-07:00

August 10, 2004

I was sitting in my favorite row - second from the back on the right side. It had the yin and yang of comfort: next to the toilet and the engine noise. For the comfort of an empty bladder, I wore earplugs.

The Southwest flight from Baltimore to Norfolk would last a brief 40 minutes. The storm-tossed flight from Phoenix to BWI had taken four and a half-hours. This puddle-jumper flight was just as bumpy as the pilot did his best with the remnants of a tropical storm.

The rain was normal for this time of year. It was hurricane season. One of them was expected to hit our area within a few days. I knew it would rain and flood in more than one way for the next 8 days of my visit.

Towards the end of the flight, the clouds broke away for a few moments and I looked down at the water as we chased the evening sun to Norfolk. It was slowly turning the small harbors and estuarial pools of the Chesapeake Bay from black to copper. One by one, they rhythmically caught fire and glowed for a few incandescent seconds before turning black again.

I felt a calmness come over me. So, this is how it's supposed to feel. I've been feeling this way for a few months now, but this moment made it real. I've wanted to feel this way ever since I left 24 years ago.

I didn't belong here. This was my past. This was no longer my home.

I suddenly realized I wouldn't be coming back here for long visits any more.

I didn't need to.

I was myself again.

---

Going Home Part Two - Needed

2004-09-02T15:33:00.000-07:00

--

August 18, 2004

I depended on this place and my people through 21 years of my misbegotten marriage. Now, on the second anniversary of my divorce, I was flying out to Virginia to help my Mom make a decision. And I would have to be a total bastard to do it.

My trip was an official one. I'm the family seagull. I fly in, $hit on everything and fly out. God, I hated making these trips.

This would be the third and last trip for this purpose. I had done as much as I could on the phone. Mom wasn't listening to my brother Steve, my sister Diane or me. So, I was flying out to see my parents on a weeklong vacation.

It wasn't really a vacation and she knew it. It was an intervention. My father needed more help than what my mother could provide. Mom didn't want help, but she did. Her health was failing. She knew I was here to help her make the decision about Dad.

She also needed to see her older brothers. I look like them. Since I was a little boy, I've been the physical memory of the two older brothers she lost shortly after World War II.

Junie's (for Junior) and Billy's deaths struck my mother hard. She was the only girl in a Good Catholic Family. My being here gave her time to talk about her brothers and see them again. I hoped they were in my heart as I spoke to my mom. She needed her older brothers more than ever.

We talked about many things, but mostly about what was needed for Dad and for her. My brother, sister and I had discussed it with Mom for the last two years, but she couldn't make the decision. Hell, who would want to?

Finally, she did.

On the night before my flight out, my Mom and I sat in the living room sharing secrets with just a few words and a nod. We talked about her new life and what she would do in the future. We also talked about my life and my future. I told her I wouldn't be coming back for long visits any more.

My Mom smiled and spoke in her sweet, Tidewater Virginia accent. "Honey, I felt that as soon as you walked up the front steps. You're yourself again. That makes me happy". She leaned over and touched my hand. "I hope you find a good woman."

It was my turn to smile. A mother never stops being a mother. "Mom, I will. There's no worries there."

The next morning, before my flight out, Steve came by the house. We briefly talked about Mom's decision. He's the executor of our parent's estate. All of the responsibilities roll onto his broad shoulders. I've always been proud of my brother and, this time, I told him why. Godspeed to him and his lovely wife, Joyce.

As I plopped into my favorite seat for the flight to Phoenix, I felt relaxed. I had tied-up all of my loose ends. For the first time since I left here 24 years ago, I wasn't anxious about leaving my birthplace. I had waited far too long for this comforting feeling.

My relationship with Mom had changed during that week. I wouldn't be the family seagull any more. That self-appointed role was no longer needed.

And after all these years, I was finally going home... to my home.

--

Miscellaneous Comfort

2004-08-03T23:13:00.000-07:00

Early October, 2002

They were long forgotten ink drawings. I found them a few days ago after I moved into my new place. They were stuffed into the many small boxes marked as Miscellaneous. I threw most of my past into those boxes in the last hurried hours of moving out of the old house. I wanted out and knowing what I had really didn't matter to me. I would soon be free of 21 years of a misbegotten marriage. I knew I would be myself again once I closed that door behind me.

I finished loading the boxes into the back of my truck and walked to the backyard for the final time. Through tearful eyes, I swung my open hand through the grass and touched the swing set. The memories became very strong, so I sat awhile.

I walked inside and looked around each of the rooms. The new owners would be moving in later that afternoon. It would be their house. They would bring a new life into it and make it a home. I touched the walls and closed closet doors for the last time. Good luck to them.

The house and the marriage had been well-kept mausoleums. There was no love between us for the last thirteen years of marriage. We kept together for the kids and the princely sums of money. Towards the end, it was more the latter than the former.

I kissed the front door and said goodbye to my old life.

I was spending the morning looking at my past. The morning sun warmed my face as I sat on the carpet in the smaller front bedroom of my new house. I smiled as I remembered the moments from each photo.

I went to the closet for another cardboard moving box and found something from many years ago. I forgot I had them.

They were small ink drawings of oyster boats at rest. I carefully laid them side-by-side on the carpet, sat down next to them and cried. They were the past that I had buried, along with myself, so I could survive the marriage. Just to f**king survive. By remembering the water and my people, I did both.

Two of the oyster boats were working boats and had many years left in their hulls. The other two boats were in disrepair - their keels resting on the sandy bottom. It felt good to see them. I was home again. I remembered the tides and the pull of the water.

I was a young boy again fishing on Red's pier. An old man with a week-old white beard was fishing nearby. It was old man Red. He patiently listened as I stuttered-out my question,"Why were some working boats anchored close to shore and forgotten?"

"Maybe the family just quit.. or the business gave out.. or maybe his heart gave out. Best to leave it be and give back to the sea what she always wanted. Just wait. The tides will take it soon enough. They always do."

His words gave me comfort - a boy listening to an old man as he talked about wisdom and lies on a short pier in a shallow creek... somewhere back over there.

---

Patience Will Grant Me My Freedom

2004-08-02T15:24:00.000-07:00

March 3, 2003

I'll be in my bucket through May or possibly through the summer. The chronic pain is not intense as it was in the past, but it fatigues me, as do my required exercises and the daily use of my wheelchair. This places caution in my thoughts as I make plans to walk again.

I wrote the following early this morning - around 3 am. I'm reading it while I drink my last cup of coffee. It's my affirmation of life.

----

I Hate The Pain

I hate the pain and what it does to my life and my love.

I hate how I can't stop it from hurting me, even when I do its bidding.

I hate how it awakens me every morning to cry and promises the same for tomorrow.

I hate how I become a timeless blur as the world and my children swirl around me.

I hate how I have to disappear into the pain, so I can survive.

I hate it and I disappeared into its maelstrom last Friday.

-

It owns me - my hopes, my dreams, my love and my life.

It shrinks me to the size of a small boy's handful of hope.

It says I can stay here forever with little pain, if I don't move...

If I stay very still...

If I give in.

It's my life, my pain, my decision and my pact with the devil.

-

I will sleep in the bowels of this f**king beast and daily measure my strength against its own.

I will ride with it across my broad, cloudless skies as it colors my days.

I will succumb to its painful, contorting spasms as my body heals.

I will remember nothing as it robs me of my remaining memories.

-

I will wait for its end, because patience will grant me my freedom.

I will endure, because I can.

I will awaken and embrace the world, because I have a life and love to share with others.

I will start my life again.

I always will.

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4/16/03

The chronic pain might win this time. I remember walking for six months last year, but my condition is getting worse. I've resigned myself to a life in the wheelchair. It's not much of a life, but I'm living.

The pain medication allows me to work, but the pain keeps me in the house after work. I'm deteriorating to the point of considering the doc's offer of a morphine drip in a convalescent home. I know if I go in, I'll disappear into a pain-free cloud and never wanna come back.

But I never will come back. I'll die in there. My doc only gives me two more years to live. My body is starting to shut down because of the pain. My heart is starting to go. Either way, I'm investigating some convalescent homes in the nearby neighborhoods.

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5/6/03

The doc sez he can operate, but the outcome is iffy. It's the same offer from 2002, 2001 and the original Mayo Clinic offer in 1995. Nothing has changed from his perspective. I have to change mine.

There's a 30% chance of reducing the pain. There's a 30% chance of dramatically increasing the pain. The remaining 40% is no change at all, but I'll have six months of even worse chronic pain as my foot heals.

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6/20/03

Last night in my dreams, I was running again along the ridge of South Mountain. It was wintertime and I was completing my favorite 36-mile trail run. It was a good run.

I have nothing to lose. If the surgery is a success, I'll walk again. If it's a failure, I'm still in the wheelchair. I'll ride it for as long as I can.

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9/20/03

The foot surgery last month appears to be a success. My doc is optimistic. He's a Texas orthopedist with a friendly, blunt manner. I appreciate his honesty.

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8/2/04

It's almost been a year since my successful surgery. I started walking AGAIN, albeit very, very slowly, in October 2003. The pain is greatly diminished and made tolerable, somewhat, with OTC acetaminophen. I pretend the pain doesn't exist and acetaminophen pretends to work (grin).

I'm officially a gimp. I limp with my right foot, which worsens by late afternoon. (Frankly, so does the pain.) I know people stare at me when I walk. Heck, I'd be curious too. They were curious about me being in a wheelchair. I'm used to it... not really.

I haven't donated my wheelchair yet. I see it every day in my walk-in closet. It's a reminder of those days when I rode with it, except now I color my own days.

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Waving Hello

2004-07-26T15:34:00.000-07:00

10/10/02

I said hello to a crop-dusting plane out on the Rez early this morning.

I was transporting boxes of fruit, breakfast bars and gallon water containers to a food bank on the west side of town - about 35 miles away. The truck bed of food was left over from a local event. After the event, I volunteered to take the remaining food items to a food bank later in the week. So, there I was driving my truck in the dark at 6:00 am.

As I drove through the Rez to reach the I-10 to Phoenix, I saw a crop-dusting plane doing its acrobatics over the road. I timed him as he completed two passes. The pilot was really good. The wheels appeared to walk on the tops of the soon-to-be harvested cotton plants. He was applying plant killer so the harvesting could begin in a few weeks.

The road was empty for a mile both ways. I watched him do the first pass and make his quick turn. I eased my speed up a bit (grin) to position my axis with his in the coming seconds. I turned on the interior light, lowered my front windows and waved at him outside the driver's window. When he was a second away, I turned on my lights and flickered the brights.

As he flew over our axis, he waved hello with his wings by rolling the plane back and forth. I honked the horn, waved back and continued on to the I-10.

I had a smile a mile wide.

My Inheritance - Life in This Order

2004-07-14T10:28:00.000-07:00

It was given to me at birth. It's been in my family for many years. My great grandfather brought it with him to America in the late 1880's.

Great grandpop Foretich (Foretic in the old country) was a shipwright (shipbuilder) who built 100-foot long ships without plans. They were all in his head. He built them in his homeland (Dalmation Islands, Korcula), in France and parts of Central America. He even spent a few years helping build the Panama Canal. He gave it to his son.

My grandfather was an shipyard engineer without a degree. He was a whiz with numbers. He gave it to his son.

My dad was a shipyard machinist & draftsman who could make things and draft shipbuilding plans like nobody's business. He gave it to his son.

I'm a data base geek who loves programming and the net. I shared it with my daughter.

My inheritance has driven me all of my life as it did my predecessors. It's also driven my daughter's life.

I have ADHD.

Unlike my predecessors, I was diagnosed and received treatment. That was seven years ago. I was 43 years old.

My doctor prescribed Adderall. Within a week, my life changed. I still remember the morning I woke-up to the "normal" side of life.

I was shaving and looked into the mirror. Something had changed. I had changed. I had crossed the river.

It was a good feeling.

I 'bout cut myself from smiling.

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Bar Ten Airstrip - My plane trip back to Marble Canyon, AZ

2004-06-20T10:35:00.000-07:00

July 2001

The faded, orange windsock looked like it always did. It was July and I was waiting on the small airstrip at the Bar Ten Ranch for the 90-minute plane trip back to Marble Canyon. Being a desert rat, I sat perfectly still atop my gear bag and waited for the breeze that never came.

I was heading back to civilization after a week long rafting trip down the Colorado. I had sat on this airstrip twice before following a 7-day trek and a glorious, 14-day what-day-is-this trek.

The large, pressurized and air-conditioned plane had left an hour ago. It'd be at the Marble Canyon airstrip by now. I had a seat on that bird, but gave it to someone else. The fine line between chivalry and stupidity was crossed an hour ago. The sweat pooling in my shorts proved it.

I was returning in a non-air conditioned sardine can with a student pilot, a certified pilot and three fellow river compatriots. As we boarded, the other passengers were concerned about which seat offered the better view. I made sure my window would open. The pilots gave me a knowing look and I smiled. We knew "it" was coming and I had the honor of a ringside seat.

As we waited for take-off, the four functioning windows (out of six) were wide open. This brought the combination of tarmac heat, aviation fuel and hydraulic fluids directly into the hot, sticky cabin interior where it swirled with the smells of river rot and fear.

I quickly played a short game of "what is that f***ing smell?" to desensitize myself. I came close, but I didn't see my lunch of bread, crackers and ketchup. That gob of spackle stayed where it belonged.

Two of the passengers had never flown in a small plane. They enjoyed the beautiful vistas from their carefully chosen seats for thirty minutes until "it" came for them. Within minutes, they stopped talking... and moving. This was not a good sign.

They closed their windows, which stopped the engine smells, but it also stopped the air from moving around them. In fear mode, their brains focused on the one thing that now intensified their fear – thick, gag-producing smells from the plane's interior.

They suffered and slowly lost all color in their faces. I remember tasting my "safe small plane ride meal" a few times when I saw the guys swallow small yerks (upchucks). After those episodes I had to focus on the terrain below. Gee, that's an interesting tree. And, there's another one. Clever how they’re all together like that.

The guys made the trip worse for everyone else by breathing through their mouths. It was sweet and sickly. I knew the gods were coming close to ending civilization as I enjoyed it, so I glued my head against the open window and freely promised my soul to any and all divinities.

My green travel companions stayed intact even when we encountered some "slight" turbulence, causing the light plane to suddenly dip a few times. For the next twenty minutes of intermittent drops, I wondered when they would make the cabin look and smell like a coupla chickens exploded in a $hithouse.

Finally, we landed. As we prepared to leave the aircraft, I remembered the two things a man's gotta do on his own and with the least amount of fanfare. Taking a healthy dump was one of them. This was going to be the other one.

The two guys exited the plane, walked to the runway's edge, knelt down and spewed their stomach lining onto the hot desert rocks.

They had a nice rhythm going when we passed them. We didn't bother shaking their hands. They were kinda busy anyway.

The Grand Canyon Bar Ten Airstrip is located in Whitmore, Arizona, USA.

You'll get a chuckle when reading the "Additional Remarks" at the bottom of the airport's web page. It's true.

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Father's Day

2004-06-15T10:25:00.000-07:00

I call him Dad. It's been his name for the fifty years I've known him. My mom calls him Ed or Eddie.

I used to call him other names. Names said in frustration and misunderstanding. Those names stopped when I approached the age of 18 and Vietnam loomed in my future. My father had watched WWII's herald unfurl as a young man and went to war. I did not.

His life was hard, but he was fortunate in marrying my Mom, Betty. They've been wed since 1949 and still live in the same house they bought in 1951. That house will always be my home.

There are memories of my dad that I hold close to my heart: Fishing in Lake Maury, the James River and around the Bridge Tunnel, crabbing at Grandview and clearing Bill Lambkin's woods. During these times, he was my Dad and a lot more. He was a buddy.

My dad helped me understand what I needed to do in life - as a man, as a father and as a son. He did it by being himself and sharing himself. As a father, I realize this is the greatest gift a boy could ever receive from his dad.

His name is Ed. My mom calls him Eddie. I call him my Dad.

I love you, Dad. Happy Father's Day.

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Sunday breakfast at the Hangar Cafe

2004-05-27T22:30:00.000-07:00

November 30, 2003

I arrived at the Hangar Café late this morning, around 8:30 am, for my Sunday breakfast. Not too many vehicles were in the parking lot, so the food would be fast and the company would be older. The two-person table in the back was occupied and I wanted a table, but I realized the waitresses had a short week and needed tips more than I needed space.

The counter was good enough and the short-order cook served my food. From my college days, I remembered my early morning drunk etiquette and left him a healthy tip. When the cook serves you at the counter, he’s your waiter. I guess college was good for my socialization skills.

The northern Arizona sheep farmers began their winter moves to the Valley last month. Some of the flocks lambed last weekend. The smaller fields around Hamilton High School have the frisky creatures cavorting like kindergarteners at a birthday party. I guess wearing your own sweater helps on these brisk 50 degree mornings.

Four cotton farmers were having breakfast this morning at the Café. All were robust men in their late 60’s and early 70’s. They had a table behind me and spoke of this year’s crop and their grandkids. The cotton harvest had ended two weeks ago.

As I paid my bill, one of the men was prepaying for one of his friend’s coffee. The waitress knew the friend didn’t like anyone paying for his food. The man said, “I know that. That’s why I’m paying for his coffee.”

Good naturedly, she said, “I don’t want him coming after me, because you paid for it. Make sure he knows you did it.”

I mentioned to the man that it was nice of him to pay for his friend’s coffee considering the consequences. “You guys must be good friends.” He smiled and said, “Yep. He won’t like it, but I’m gonna do it.”

This morning –

The planes were flying at Chandler Municipal Airport.

The breakfasts at the Café were damn good.

And a friend’s appreciation for another’s help in bringing in a cotton crop was expressed by a cup of coffee.

Enjoy your day.

www.airnav.com/airport/KCHD
Bird's Eye View
Review of Hangar Cafe
What it looks like inside and out

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Where's Waldo

2004-05-26T06:06:00.000-07:00

1980

It was a place that didn't exist. The building looked abandoned. The first floor was grimy and filled with long-discarded heavy machinery. You could peer inside the windows and quickly become bored. The top floors had broken windows and open freight doors.

The surrounding buildings also looked abandoned.

I entered my building from a secured rear entrance. The path to the entrance was narrow, weed-filled and uneven. You focused your eyes on the ground, especially in winter. When you followed it to the left, a long-discarded masonry debris heap forced you to quickly side-step into a small, blind courtyard. Then, you saw the Marine.

Thoughts of a father accepting his two-year-old daughter's deafness

2004-05-25T16:39:00.000-07:00

6/23/86 Tempe, Arizona

Often, I meet no one as I bike the canal to my gym. It's probably the time of day that I ride. It's 7 p.m. and many people are recovering from dinner and the news. The solitary runners I do meet will wave and continue on, as do I, both of us quickly returning to our thoughts. Mine are reflective and mostly about the day's events. After awhile, the day and its problems are solved or forgotten.

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Canal Snapshots

It's quiet along the canal at dusk - couples stroll by and nod hello, followed by runners checking their pulse. The runners quickly wave as they pass. The birds feeding on the banks hardly move for our presence. A family of ducks uses the canal's currents to find quieter areas.

The heat from the packed dirt path mixes with the evening temperature to make bicycling a canonizing act. Once in awhile I get lucky and briefly interrupt a cool breeze escaping from the water. It swirls in the evening heat and disappears behind me. The respite is quick and forgotten. The damned heat remains.

A harbinger of seasons is missing from the surrounding area. Sheep and their graze land, once plentiful, are gone. Subdivisions now line the canal. Only a short run of rusted wire fence in a nearby clump of cottonwoods mark their passing. I feel the tingle of childhood memories as I slowly ride by. Foot trails leading to the tiny cottonwood haven show signs of children's play. They, too, have found a respite.

The next mile is filled with romps and discoveries as I remember my youth. Captured times quickly flicker, leaving me awash with unresolved endings and forgotten faces. The days of summer woofle-ball and neighborhood friendships are replaced with present day thoughts and responsibilities. I begin pedaling faster.

The spillway signals my turnoff. I hear its roar above the traffic. I begin a slow stop in the canal road gravel. I patiently wait for a lull in traffic, feeling the sweat run down my legs and pool in my shoes.

The drivers play with bicyclists out here, so after several false starts, I cross the road. My canal is left behind.

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The Railroad Tracks : Listening to My Parents

2004-05-22T10:43:00.000-07:00

As a young boy of eleven, I learned to have fun near the railroad tracks. The Chesapeake and Ohio railroad company (now CSX) generously offered their land to me and my buddies as our private playground. We humbly accepted.

The tracks were gloriously located at the end of my street. Within minutes, I could jeopardize my life and the lives of many of my friends. Oh, the glory of being free.

My parents said the tracks were off-limits. In case I, their idiot savant son, didn't understand their reasoning, they included a death penalty clause. (If only I could have comprehended their language!) The tracks soon became my preferred hangout.

My buddies and I would walk the tracks, discuss life and discover the nearby marshes, creeks, abandoned shacks and Civil War redoubts.

It was in this nurturing environment I learned the ways of the firecracker, cherry bomb, ash can and the true M-80. It was the early sixties and America was proud to allow their boys to experiment with explosives. Ah, freedom. It mixes so well with young boy stupidity when a destructive device is nearby. Vive la Liberte!

While mentally obtuse in many areas of school, I quickly learned the patois of ze railroad track and the proper response to a railroad guard's query. The time to start running is right around the "E" in ... "HEY, YOU!"

I was never caught, but I did change my underwear a few times.

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