I was flipping channels the other afternoon and came across one of the court room programs; not that those mindless programs are in the least entertaining, but the subject caught my attention and brought back some past memories as well as some recent ones. What was so interesting about this was that the plaintiff was suing the defendant for grunting. My first thought was ONLY IN AMERICA! The defendant was rather well built gentleman who obviously was fully engaged in staying fit. The plaintiff, on the other hand notably was what I would call an attendee at the gym. The plaintiff was angry and offended that the defendant grunted while working out and was suing to prevent him vocalizing in the public. For me, the evidence was clear the one was committed to personal growth, fitness and willing to put forth the effort with the knowledge that he would gain for his effort. The other simply wanted to pleasant gym experience. Notably, the "grunter" was older than the "non-grunter".
My Dad and Mom both were "grunters"; both literally and metaphorically. I worked alongside my Dad quite a bit while he physically able. When he was in the garden using his hoe to weed he would grunt (in a small way). When he cut wood, he would grunt loud. I would stand and observe him working and I guess I "caught" the grunting thing. Mom on the other hand, she didn't grunt literally, but she did pour herself out daily to accomplish whatever it took to finish out her day. I guess I "caught " some her grunting ways too.
I see people all the time, and I occasionally hire one (unknowingly) that are like the plaintiff. They do not mind you working, pouring yourself into your job... but "please do not expect the same from me" is their attitude. In the court case, the plaintiff stated that the defendants grunting disturbed him and distracted him. I, for one, am inclined to think it shamed him. As it should!
I have very little patience with anyone who expects maximum benefit from minimal effort. I see this in our gym all the time. People who pay fees, hire trainers and simply "go through the motions" They, for some odd reason think that walking for 30 minutes at 3 miles per hour while socializing will bring great reward. Now, if you are elderly it probably will. If you are recovering from some health issue it just might. I am not talking about those kinds of things. I see perfectly healthy, but purely LAZY people there just passing the time. What a waste! I would venture a guess is that is how they live life too.
Just last week, I had a gentleman make fun of me to others in the gym for grunting. I usually have my I-Pod blasting and hear nothing from anyone. But, I was very into my routine and was giving a good effort and was going at a good pace. The guy was much like the plaintiff. He had come into the gym and gone to the tanning booth first. I had just completed about 15 sets of heavy lifting and was finishing with some shrugs, which were from my point and experience HEAVY. 230 pounds is heavy for me to do shrugs, especially 4 sets. I had noticed that the guy that when he came out of the tanning booth that he took a curling bar (35 lbs) and placed 5 lbs weights on each end. A whopping 45 lbs. While he was doing his curls I was completing my 3rd set of shrugs and my I-Pod came to the end of a song... so I had some silence when I heard him grunting and staring at me. His wife, who is as big as a barn started laughing too. I got a little angry for a moment. Then I realized that I have nothing to angry about. I thought of some sharp things that I could say too... but I didn't! We both get out of our workout what we put into it.
Grunting is more than making a noise. It is an expression of total commitment, of complete dedication, of a willingness to give yourself fully to a cause, a goal and job. It means that you are engaged... willing to exert yourself in order accomplish a task.
Our culture is in the process of perfecting the notion that "movement" means progress. NO SO! Expecting dramatic results while giving minimal effort is one way of defining insanity in my book.
You do not have to literally GRUNT... but going through the motions is a pathetic way to live life.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
Fried Taters and Onions
I love food! I think you know that for a fact and nothing can generate a memory like food. We have had the privilege of eating at some of the most wonderful places one could imagine. One of my favorites was The Carnivore, in Nairobi. Swords of fire roasted exotic meats in an all you can format, Wow! Another very nostalgic place for me is “Lotos”; a place that defines “hole in the wall” there in Morogoro. Cheap, fast and greasy; what else could a guy want?
I guess nothing brings nostalgia like the food you were raised eating. The food of mountain people is often interesting, and a definite link to my (our) personal history. When I tell people what we sometimes ate growing up that shake their head in disbelief and say no way.
One day a gentleman came by the house with an opossum clinging to his bicycle rack. Man was that possum angry, and scared. He had been caught in this man’s rabbit gum (trap). Dad bought him (the possum) and kept him in a 55 gallon barrel for a few weeks so he could fatten him up. We ate him one night for supper with roasted vegetables.
I could come up with a rather long list of critters I have eaten over the years. Everything from elk to warthog all are a delicacy to somebody. One delicacy we had growing up on the farm was when we would slaughter a hog. Nothing went to waste! Pork rinds came from the skin, the feet were pickled, the fat “rendered” to use in cooking. Everything was processed somehow, someway to get the most out of the hog. We didn’t just go for the ham, bacon and sausage the real treat came the morning of the slaughter when breakfast would be hog brains and eggs, biscuits and gravy. I know you are think.. yum, yum right now.
I have often told you that we grew up poor and I have even shown you the little white house on Price Street. One night my brother Clarence and I were hungry. Dad was in the hospital for cancer treatment and Mom was with him. We both loved (still do) bread. We had this habit of making bread and eating it with butter for a snack. This particular night, we were making our bread and when we opened the bottom of the oven to get a pan a huge rat jumped out at me, he had to be at least 8 inches long. I jumped back and slammed the drawer shut and caught that rat. His head was halfway out and he was making this squeaky noise trying to get loose. We were all excited (scared at first) so I ran to get this golf club I had found at a nearby golf course. Being kids, well you can guess what that rats head was used for… it was a little messy. Afterward, we cleaned it up, made our bread and had our snack. No we didn’t eat the rat.. just in case you are wondering.
But for me, the real memories come when I think about the time I got to spend with my Mom and Dad alone on the porch eating a biscuit with tomato, or breaking beans in the summer. I will tell you this, there is never a time that I eat or make fried potatoes and onions, pinto beans, cream corn or fried okra that my mind doesn’t make a lap around those precious times. In my minds eye, I can still (40+ years later) taste the wonder of a fresh slice of tomato from the garden stuffed into a day old biscuit or crumbling cornbread into a big bowl of pinto beans and onions. I have eaten in some fine restaurants, eaten exotic foods on several continents… but there is nothing better than the simple things.
I guess nothing brings nostalgia like the food you were raised eating. The food of mountain people is often interesting, and a definite link to my (our) personal history. When I tell people what we sometimes ate growing up that shake their head in disbelief and say no way.
One day a gentleman came by the house with an opossum clinging to his bicycle rack. Man was that possum angry, and scared. He had been caught in this man’s rabbit gum (trap). Dad bought him (the possum) and kept him in a 55 gallon barrel for a few weeks so he could fatten him up. We ate him one night for supper with roasted vegetables.
I could come up with a rather long list of critters I have eaten over the years. Everything from elk to warthog all are a delicacy to somebody. One delicacy we had growing up on the farm was when we would slaughter a hog. Nothing went to waste! Pork rinds came from the skin, the feet were pickled, the fat “rendered” to use in cooking. Everything was processed somehow, someway to get the most out of the hog. We didn’t just go for the ham, bacon and sausage the real treat came the morning of the slaughter when breakfast would be hog brains and eggs, biscuits and gravy. I know you are think.. yum, yum right now.
I have often told you that we grew up poor and I have even shown you the little white house on Price Street. One night my brother Clarence and I were hungry. Dad was in the hospital for cancer treatment and Mom was with him. We both loved (still do) bread. We had this habit of making bread and eating it with butter for a snack. This particular night, we were making our bread and when we opened the bottom of the oven to get a pan a huge rat jumped out at me, he had to be at least 8 inches long. I jumped back and slammed the drawer shut and caught that rat. His head was halfway out and he was making this squeaky noise trying to get loose. We were all excited (scared at first) so I ran to get this golf club I had found at a nearby golf course. Being kids, well you can guess what that rats head was used for… it was a little messy. Afterward, we cleaned it up, made our bread and had our snack. No we didn’t eat the rat.. just in case you are wondering.
But for me, the real memories come when I think about the time I got to spend with my Mom and Dad alone on the porch eating a biscuit with tomato, or breaking beans in the summer. I will tell you this, there is never a time that I eat or make fried potatoes and onions, pinto beans, cream corn or fried okra that my mind doesn’t make a lap around those precious times. In my minds eye, I can still (40+ years later) taste the wonder of a fresh slice of tomato from the garden stuffed into a day old biscuit or crumbling cornbread into a big bowl of pinto beans and onions. I have eaten in some fine restaurants, eaten exotic foods on several continents… but there is nothing better than the simple things.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Retarded?
Retarded?
“Stupid is, as stupid does”
Forest Gump
Retarded is what they called him. When they said the word it seemed natural, not derogatory or mean spirited. Just a simple recognition of something lacking, as measured by what is called “normal”. Of course, they suggested he be become a ward of the state and shipped off to some place for “those kind of people”, the retarded ones. More importantly, Franklin Troy Warren was my brother. In reality he was my half brother, the son of my mother and an unknown gentleman whose name I have never heard nor care to hear. Nevertheless, in my mind and in all of our hearts he was greatly loved and fully accepted as a brother. Dad never thought of him in anyway, other than a son -- fully accepted. Whatever happened to him took place in his infancy. Spiking fever and resulting seizures was what we were told caused his “retardation”.
I remember pictures of Frank playing outside and riding a horse when he was young, around 10 years old. It is “funny” that we really never consider the impact of a human life upon our own lives until they are gone.
When I was little, before Dad passed away our relationship (mine and Franks) was not that memorable. My memories of him during that time frame are sketchy—some make me really sad. For instance, Frank had a room all his own, while I had to sleep with another brother. Yet, Frank’s “room” wasn’t really a room. The little white house on Price Street had a back porch that was hardly a room. Plastic covered over the screen to prevent wind and rain from coming in, but winter had to have brutal. He would always have 3-4 heavy quilts to keep him warm. Conversely, summer time had to have been the extreme opposite. To this day I struggle with a sense of shame when thinking about how he was relegated to the back porch.
Later, after Dad died, our relationship began to develop. To be more precise, God began a deep and abiding work in my pre-adolescent heart and Frank was a major player in God’s plan.
Those years right after Dad died brought about horrific change in our household. Thinking back it was much worse than I thought at the time. Soon after Dad died we moved to 111 Hall Street. How I remember that address I will never understand --strange for sure. Sara married just before Dad died, during her senior year of High School. Clarence had joined the Air Force against Dad wishes (a story that deserves it own space) So, suddenly, that little over crowded house was full of just Richard, Mom, Frank and I. We were all that was left. So, I assume to escape the memories, we moved about 1 mile away. Frank had his own room this time—not a porch. It had walls and a window. Richard and I shared a room. Somehow I ended up with my own bed.
Household dynamics changed dramatically too. Mom’s work schedule had to change to accommodate taking care of Frank. She had to take a job on 2nd shift in order to be at home during the day, while Richard and I were in school. Richard was in High School and I was in the 5th grade.
One major adjustment was that in order for Mom to get to work on time I had to get out of school early every day so I could care for Frank. In my mind this was a really good deal, for me. School was not my strong suite. I was known for trying anything to get out of school. . Like I said, in the beginning I thought it was a pretty sweet deal. It turned out to be something very difficult for a 5th grader to deal with. I found myself being at home alone with Frank until way late most evenings. I cooked sometimes, cleaned the house and managed what I told as best as I could. I was there to make sure Frank was taken care of…Only God could make something good come out of this situation. There were many evenings that I was terribly scared… and lonely… I was only 10! One evening, I was so scared that I was carrying a gun and it went off. Mom never knew how that hole found its way in the kitchen ceiling.
Frank during this period also went through some serious changes. He was already struggling with going blind and around this time frame it seemed to escalate. He had these special glasses he was to wear that were suppose to help correct some of the issues with his vision --- but it was too little to late.
To be honest, caring for Frank wasn’t that hard… it was just that I didn’t have a clue has to do it. So, I learned along the way. Experimentation without supervision is a very dangerous. I could hardly take care of myself – and here I was caring for Frank. Later, in my adult years I apologized to him for how I treated him at times. It seemed like a blink of an eye and several years passed. During that time I was impacted – Frank became very precious to me. Yes! There were times that I really struggled with anger -- feelings of neglect and abandonment – thinking how “unfair” life really is to ME! Why do I have to stay home all the time? A question I must have voiced a million times. Nonetheless, caring for Frank became a source of personal pride – we became close – he didn’t say much except when he wanted or needed something. There weren’t deep conversations about the complexities of life, sports or anything else for that matter --- we just did life TOGETHER. Today, I see it as such a grand privilege to have had that time with him.
There are a myriad of lessons, and unexpected gifts that came to me through that time. Those are gifts and lessons that only the gracious and sovereign heart of a loving God could bestow on someone like me. Certainly, adolescence blinded me to God’s sovereignty in those days, but today they are treasured beyond gold or silver.
Today, when I hear the word “retarded”, first I consider the source. Then in the back of my mind I see my brother and I think BLESSING! Frank wasn’t retarded, what he lacked in “normalcy”, was more than made up for in grace and kindness. No one made you feel more accepted, loved and treasured than him. That was his God qualities flowing toward each of us. He could really get excited to see you –especially if you had been away for a while. He would raise his arms real high and get figgity and start calling your name wanting you to come close so he could hug you and hold you tight. When he had you in his arms he would just warmly pat you on the back --- just the memory makes me feel loved and brings a joy to my heart that can’t be explained.
In January of 1996, about 2 am one morning I was jolted out of bed to the phone ringing. It was my sister Sara calling to say that Frank had died. He had died in his sleep. I can not remember a time ever that I have cried so long and so hard. It was one thing to feel the pain and the sense of loss. For me it was more, much more. My pain was magnified, because of all that I had been given through him. I was eight thousand miles away and my greatest friend was gone. Today, without a doubt I know my personhood was uniquely shape in some ways through him.
It has been more than 10 years now. The memories of that flight stateside and of the funeral are long and faded into a mist in my memory. But, the one thing that is very clear is the imprint of his life upon my own. “Retarded”—no way!
I have taken great comfort in that Frank passed away in his sleep. I know that may sound a bit unusual, but to me it was a precious gift and a huge comfort. I never wanted to see him suffer for a long period of time at his passing. It was something that I thought about deeply as a child. When I was a child, church wasn’t my thing – but the one thing that caused me to be sensitive to God was Frank. As a child, I would pray at night that Frank would not suffer in his death and that he would die in his sleep. I can’t tell you how many times I would lay in bed and cry for him and ask God to make sure he died in his sleep. When Sara told me he had died – her first words were that he “died in his sleep”. It was like God said to me ---- I heard you – I was listening – He is with me now – you will see him soon.
It is funny, that in my minds eye even today I can see Frank sitting in his favorite chair – my heart is saddened for only a moment – I eventually start to smile – because of all that God did in me through Frank. God’s greatest gifts are often wrapped less than perfect (less than perfect from our human perspective)… totally perfect from God’s sovereign perspective.
________________________________________________________________________
I close with a simple thought from John11. A crowed asked Jesus one day, who sinned in regards to the blindness of a young man. They were looking to find fault – Jesus said, NO ONE! Then he made an incredible statement --- He was born blind in order than God may be glorified.
Here is what I have learned: What appears to be God’s cruelty in a life like my brother Frank --- is sufficient evidence of his kindness to us.
“Stupid is, as stupid does”
Forest Gump
Retarded is what they called him. When they said the word it seemed natural, not derogatory or mean spirited. Just a simple recognition of something lacking, as measured by what is called “normal”. Of course, they suggested he be become a ward of the state and shipped off to some place for “those kind of people”, the retarded ones. More importantly, Franklin Troy Warren was my brother. In reality he was my half brother, the son of my mother and an unknown gentleman whose name I have never heard nor care to hear. Nevertheless, in my mind and in all of our hearts he was greatly loved and fully accepted as a brother. Dad never thought of him in anyway, other than a son -- fully accepted. Whatever happened to him took place in his infancy. Spiking fever and resulting seizures was what we were told caused his “retardation”.
I remember pictures of Frank playing outside and riding a horse when he was young, around 10 years old. It is “funny” that we really never consider the impact of a human life upon our own lives until they are gone.
When I was little, before Dad passed away our relationship (mine and Franks) was not that memorable. My memories of him during that time frame are sketchy—some make me really sad. For instance, Frank had a room all his own, while I had to sleep with another brother. Yet, Frank’s “room” wasn’t really a room. The little white house on Price Street had a back porch that was hardly a room. Plastic covered over the screen to prevent wind and rain from coming in, but winter had to have brutal. He would always have 3-4 heavy quilts to keep him warm. Conversely, summer time had to have been the extreme opposite. To this day I struggle with a sense of shame when thinking about how he was relegated to the back porch.
Later, after Dad died, our relationship began to develop. To be more precise, God began a deep and abiding work in my pre-adolescent heart and Frank was a major player in God’s plan.
Those years right after Dad died brought about horrific change in our household. Thinking back it was much worse than I thought at the time. Soon after Dad died we moved to 111 Hall Street. How I remember that address I will never understand --strange for sure. Sara married just before Dad died, during her senior year of High School. Clarence had joined the Air Force against Dad wishes (a story that deserves it own space) So, suddenly, that little over crowded house was full of just Richard, Mom, Frank and I. We were all that was left. So, I assume to escape the memories, we moved about 1 mile away. Frank had his own room this time—not a porch. It had walls and a window. Richard and I shared a room. Somehow I ended up with my own bed.
Household dynamics changed dramatically too. Mom’s work schedule had to change to accommodate taking care of Frank. She had to take a job on 2nd shift in order to be at home during the day, while Richard and I were in school. Richard was in High School and I was in the 5th grade.
One major adjustment was that in order for Mom to get to work on time I had to get out of school early every day so I could care for Frank. In my mind this was a really good deal, for me. School was not my strong suite. I was known for trying anything to get out of school. . Like I said, in the beginning I thought it was a pretty sweet deal. It turned out to be something very difficult for a 5th grader to deal with. I found myself being at home alone with Frank until way late most evenings. I cooked sometimes, cleaned the house and managed what I told as best as I could. I was there to make sure Frank was taken care of…Only God could make something good come out of this situation. There were many evenings that I was terribly scared… and lonely… I was only 10! One evening, I was so scared that I was carrying a gun and it went off. Mom never knew how that hole found its way in the kitchen ceiling.
Frank during this period also went through some serious changes. He was already struggling with going blind and around this time frame it seemed to escalate. He had these special glasses he was to wear that were suppose to help correct some of the issues with his vision --- but it was too little to late.
To be honest, caring for Frank wasn’t that hard… it was just that I didn’t have a clue has to do it. So, I learned along the way. Experimentation without supervision is a very dangerous. I could hardly take care of myself – and here I was caring for Frank. Later, in my adult years I apologized to him for how I treated him at times. It seemed like a blink of an eye and several years passed. During that time I was impacted – Frank became very precious to me. Yes! There were times that I really struggled with anger -- feelings of neglect and abandonment – thinking how “unfair” life really is to ME! Why do I have to stay home all the time? A question I must have voiced a million times. Nonetheless, caring for Frank became a source of personal pride – we became close – he didn’t say much except when he wanted or needed something. There weren’t deep conversations about the complexities of life, sports or anything else for that matter --- we just did life TOGETHER. Today, I see it as such a grand privilege to have had that time with him.
There are a myriad of lessons, and unexpected gifts that came to me through that time. Those are gifts and lessons that only the gracious and sovereign heart of a loving God could bestow on someone like me. Certainly, adolescence blinded me to God’s sovereignty in those days, but today they are treasured beyond gold or silver.
Today, when I hear the word “retarded”, first I consider the source. Then in the back of my mind I see my brother and I think BLESSING! Frank wasn’t retarded, what he lacked in “normalcy”, was more than made up for in grace and kindness. No one made you feel more accepted, loved and treasured than him. That was his God qualities flowing toward each of us. He could really get excited to see you –especially if you had been away for a while. He would raise his arms real high and get figgity and start calling your name wanting you to come close so he could hug you and hold you tight. When he had you in his arms he would just warmly pat you on the back --- just the memory makes me feel loved and brings a joy to my heart that can’t be explained.
In January of 1996, about 2 am one morning I was jolted out of bed to the phone ringing. It was my sister Sara calling to say that Frank had died. He had died in his sleep. I can not remember a time ever that I have cried so long and so hard. It was one thing to feel the pain and the sense of loss. For me it was more, much more. My pain was magnified, because of all that I had been given through him. I was eight thousand miles away and my greatest friend was gone. Today, without a doubt I know my personhood was uniquely shape in some ways through him.
It has been more than 10 years now. The memories of that flight stateside and of the funeral are long and faded into a mist in my memory. But, the one thing that is very clear is the imprint of his life upon my own. “Retarded”—no way!
I have taken great comfort in that Frank passed away in his sleep. I know that may sound a bit unusual, but to me it was a precious gift and a huge comfort. I never wanted to see him suffer for a long period of time at his passing. It was something that I thought about deeply as a child. When I was a child, church wasn’t my thing – but the one thing that caused me to be sensitive to God was Frank. As a child, I would pray at night that Frank would not suffer in his death and that he would die in his sleep. I can’t tell you how many times I would lay in bed and cry for him and ask God to make sure he died in his sleep. When Sara told me he had died – her first words were that he “died in his sleep”. It was like God said to me ---- I heard you – I was listening – He is with me now – you will see him soon.
It is funny, that in my minds eye even today I can see Frank sitting in his favorite chair – my heart is saddened for only a moment – I eventually start to smile – because of all that God did in me through Frank. God’s greatest gifts are often wrapped less than perfect (less than perfect from our human perspective)… totally perfect from God’s sovereign perspective.
________________________________________________________________________
I close with a simple thought from John11. A crowed asked Jesus one day, who sinned in regards to the blindness of a young man. They were looking to find fault – Jesus said, NO ONE! Then he made an incredible statement --- He was born blind in order than God may be glorified.
Here is what I have learned: What appears to be God’s cruelty in a life like my brother Frank --- is sufficient evidence of his kindness to us.
Last Words
Birthdays are special, even your 81st. It was definitely a special day. People who I had rarely ever seen were roaming around our house. The little white house on Price Street was more than overcrowded this day. Dad was turning 81 and that brought everyone to town; at least that is what my 9 year old heart was telling me. I knew one thing; when the house was full of people the food was abundant and that made the day special for me.
Dad was in his usual place. The front porch was where the early summer breeze could be felt and away from the noise in the house. Across the street was Dad’s garden. To me it seemed huge, but in his mind it was just enough to keep his kids fed and the neighbors appreciative. We spent plenty of time together in that garden the past few summers. The garden was a testament to Dad’s indomitable spirit and passion to under-gird his family through the sweat of his brow. We never lacked for healthy food, fresh vegetables and sweet melons. My favorite memories are those where we were together either in the garden or sitting together on the front porch. It still puts a smile on my face every time I eat biscuits and tomatoes; our favorite snack to eat together ---the precious memories of times with Dad during the summer.
This particular day and those that followed I do not remember much about the garden. Those days were to be overshadowed, dulled by the pain that I could not in my youthfulness foresee coming.
Dad loved to be on the porch. My favorite place to be was on the first step or playing in the dirt right in front of the house. I didn’t have friends that I can remember that well. People that really influenced me were always close. Brothers, Sisters, Mom and Dad were my world. On this day, most were present, if my memory is trustworthy. All I know is that in the background numerous conversations were taking place and I wasn’t part of any of them. It did seem that something needed to be done and that arrangements were underway. Dad was in his chair on the porch just waiting.
Dad’s illness had apparently worsened. Nine year old boys like me were not privy to all the information being exchanged among the others. Dad’s pace had certainly changed, and I knew that he was struggling more and more for each breath. Mom was notably anxious these past few weeks leading up to this day; rightfully so, I guess seeing all that would follow.
Everyone was in the front yard when Dad stood to make his way to the car parked in the road. I had caught enough of the conversations by now to know that Dad was headed to the hospital. His Birthday present was the presence of his children. For him that was plenty enough, on this day at least. I watched as he steadied himself with his long walking stick. Standing at the bottom of the step as he descended he seemed weary and yet in my eyes he was larger than life. Someone was on his left helping him down the steps, who I do not remember. This was the moment a sense of dread and despair began to invade my life. Something wasn’t right!
Emotion and sentiment wasn’t part of Dad’s personality. Expressions of affection were reserved and limited. This particular day that wouldn’t change. Looking up to him as he descended those few steps, as any little boy would his father, all the world stopped for me in a moment in time. Frozen and etched into my mind, the memory, to this day can be played frame by frame. His hand reached out to rub my head, this was as sentimental as I knew him. The words he spoke were like cement blocks to my soul, leaving me alone in the crowd of soon to be mourners. Hand on my head, looking me in the eye, “Son I will never see you again”, he said. As I struggled to grasp the meaning of his words he made his way to the car to be gone moments later.
He was right! A few days later, in the shadows of the early morning I awoke to the whispers of my Mother telling others… “He’s gone”. I laid there trying to be quiet and cried myself back to sleep. Now, only his memory lives…..
________________________________________________________________________
I can’t say I am much like my father when it comes to sentimentality. I long for, and enjoy the preciousness of a hug from you, my children. I can’t recall ever being affirmed or told that I was loved by my father. I will never stop telling you that I love you. You are more precious to me than my own life.
Why Watermarks?
WATERMARKS
Sometime back the idea of watermarks flashed across my mind while contemplating some childhood memories. The idea seemed to fit how I look at my life.
Why watermarks? Formal documents are often decorated with a watermark. Some appear to be a small stain. Most frequently, you have to hold them in a particular light in order to see them. Most forms of US currency have some kind of watermark in order to prevent duplication as well as to establish authenticity. So it is with a life, in certain “light” a life observed becomes uniquely real. Experiences provide a backdrop for respect, appreciation and deeper understanding.
The first time I really began to understand what I just wrote is while my children (Caleb and Lacy) were asking their Grandmother questions about her childhood. She was reluctant to go very deep, but I knew the deeper reality of her unfortunate upbringing. As guarded as she was with my children they too understood the power of life events on personal history.
That day, I also got a glimpse of another form of watermark; this one much more distinct and visible. Like lines on a building denoting the flood levels reached in a storm, I saw the impact of pain, deep pain and sense of loss. Those waters in her life had long receded, but the marks were real, all too real. Etched into the landscape of her soul was her history. Yes, the marks had long faded, but the memory of such pain was still evident. Sadly, eighty years gone, and so many had not gone to the well of her heart to taste her sweetness, myself included.
What is to follow are simple and crude excerpts from memories and life events that I am compelled to share with you my children. Why? History! Personal history. I know so very little about my father and mother. For one reason, I failed to inquire about their life. I am not writing to peak your curiosity, but rather to pry the lid off my own heart and soul and give you something to pass along if so inclined. My memories are fragile and often pastel in color, rather than high definition. Sometimes along the way, I might interject a life lesson or two… “keep the meat and throw away the bones” would be good advice for those times. Keep in mind that I am not gifted with words. So I trust love will cover a multitude of sins in that regard.
You may receive these little parcels in a jumbled up order. It is sort of how memory flows, rarely in a strait line, but sporadic and faded. I hope to somehow bind them together somehow someway.
Love,
Dad
Sometime back the idea of watermarks flashed across my mind while contemplating some childhood memories. The idea seemed to fit how I look at my life.
Why watermarks? Formal documents are often decorated with a watermark. Some appear to be a small stain. Most frequently, you have to hold them in a particular light in order to see them. Most forms of US currency have some kind of watermark in order to prevent duplication as well as to establish authenticity. So it is with a life, in certain “light” a life observed becomes uniquely real. Experiences provide a backdrop for respect, appreciation and deeper understanding.
The first time I really began to understand what I just wrote is while my children (Caleb and Lacy) were asking their Grandmother questions about her childhood. She was reluctant to go very deep, but I knew the deeper reality of her unfortunate upbringing. As guarded as she was with my children they too understood the power of life events on personal history.
That day, I also got a glimpse of another form of watermark; this one much more distinct and visible. Like lines on a building denoting the flood levels reached in a storm, I saw the impact of pain, deep pain and sense of loss. Those waters in her life had long receded, but the marks were real, all too real. Etched into the landscape of her soul was her history. Yes, the marks had long faded, but the memory of such pain was still evident. Sadly, eighty years gone, and so many had not gone to the well of her heart to taste her sweetness, myself included.
What is to follow are simple and crude excerpts from memories and life events that I am compelled to share with you my children. Why? History! Personal history. I know so very little about my father and mother. For one reason, I failed to inquire about their life. I am not writing to peak your curiosity, but rather to pry the lid off my own heart and soul and give you something to pass along if so inclined. My memories are fragile and often pastel in color, rather than high definition. Sometimes along the way, I might interject a life lesson or two… “keep the meat and throw away the bones” would be good advice for those times. Keep in mind that I am not gifted with words. So I trust love will cover a multitude of sins in that regard.
You may receive these little parcels in a jumbled up order. It is sort of how memory flows, rarely in a strait line, but sporadic and faded. I hope to somehow bind them together somehow someway.
Love,
Dad
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