Catching Covid: 10 Days a Basement Dweller

“Stay vigilant.” The two words our daughter used to conclude conversations. Last November, nine months into the pandemic, the tide of Covid cases continued to rise. I sounded off to work colleagues that after all this time of caution and care: wouldn’t it be a dumpster fire to get the virus now?

So when the test results became available, I held my breath and clicked on the screen to see in bold letters at the top of the page:

“Positive.”

In seventh grade, the final cuts for the basketball team were posted on the hallway bulletin board. I still see the names of my friends on the list. I experienced instantaneous embarrassment, exclusion from the community I hoped to join, and the existential pain of adolescent angst.  

I got cut.

Fast forward half a century.

I caught Covid.

Same difference but add fear of the unknown, disappointment of letting others down, and uncertainty of wanting those you love to be okay with the possibility that you may not be okay.

Thus commenced my ten days as a basement dweller.

Unlike those who suffered tragedy in this catastrophic pandemic, I experienced only minor physical inconveniences such as a slight cough, a sore throat, and muscle aches. I never ran a temperature nor lost my sense of smell or taste. And our basement, not to give a misleading impression of discomfort, had plenty of windows, a couch, a fridge, and a walk-out screened-in porch. I was fortunate.

I quarantined with cellmates Curious George, Cedar Point Snoopy, and a Beanie Baby turkey who kept me company, although I did most of the talking. My sister and brother-in-law dropped off a care package with a dozen Mt. Everest-size pumpkin spice chocolate chip cookies, which I planned to ration by consuming only two per day. Time alone plays tricks on one’s psyche. In Castaway, Tom Hanks strikes up conversation with Wilson, the volleyball, and I found myself telling Curious George to quit eyeballing my cookies. The massive pumpkin delicacies disappeared in less than 24 hours, and I’m convinced the curious little monkey helped himself.

I learned how to FaceTime, which I had done a few times, but only to respond to someone ringing me. For once, I self-initiated the use of this technology. Tap the app and boom: “I see you.” I FaceTimed with Deb, who quarantined upstairs after being exposed to me, and gave her instructions to prepare my meals to specific culinary standards.

This did not go over well.

Deb dropped down peanut butter and crackers in a bucket tied to a rope. We laughed as she lowered the provisions. The dry goods proved sufficient with no need to spear fish in the neighborhood pond where the bass have an extra set of fins and feet from the fertilizer run-off.

The first morning of my ten-day seclusion, I flung open the shades to bring in light therapy and brighten up my mood. The sunshine greeted me with an unexpected, unframed canvas leaning against the window ledge. Since the basement curtains had been closed for months, I’d forgotten about this graduation gift from a former, memorable student who painted two words in red letters across an ocean blue vellum background: carpe diem.

Given my present scenario, the rediscovered gift seemed like a reunion with high school students from yesteryear. The ubiquitous decree to “seize the day” permeated school yearbooks, garage bands, and youth culture for a decade. Any dare to dive off the 30-foot tower at Pine Lake or streak across the camp beach in a birthday suit (after dark and before cell phone cameras) or back flip off the diving board in a three-piece suit and dress shoes needed only this two-word yawp to unleash the power of teenage spontaneity.

I repeated the canvas catch phrase and attempted to recite what I could recall from the dialogue that made this two-word battle cry from the 1989 film Dead Poet Society a canon for a generation of young people. The hallway scene with the new English teacher, Mr. Keating (Robin Williams), remains a vintage movie moment on the brevity-of-life motif: “Carpe diem, seize the day boys, make your lives extraordinary.”

These YOLO events seemed too distant in a faraway yesterday as I sat with coronavirus, staring out the ground level window and stuck in storage. Mr. Keating defined carpe diem a.k.a. “seize the day” as making one’s life extraordinary, but what does that look like in a basement? What does that look like in the socially-distanced world? What does extraordinary look like under the monotony of the ordinary?

 “Seize the day” may mean making the most of the moment, but the pandemic has had the paradoxical effect of slowing time down and speeding it up in a simultaneous conundrum. Covid has given us plenty of time alone wanting not to waste it. And in quarantine, one cannot go anywhere or do anything in physical proximity to anyone. Everything is put on hold, on standby, on layaway.

My days in quarantine passed with a strange familiarity to weatherman Phil Conners (Bill Murray) in the classic time-warp movie, Groundhog Day, who lives the same 24 hours over and over and over, each day a replica of the one before: an excess of the ordinary. Film buffs surmise that the sardonic newscaster relives February 2 at least 3,000 times, minimum, and perhaps much longer to acquire his artistic skills and knowledge of the town that he so despises. Once he enters the time loop and realizes his actions have no consequences, he pursues a self-indulgent buzz of local diner breakfasts and hedonistic revelry, thievery, and conquest. After a clockwork replication of days, he discovers the endless pancakes unfulfilling as well as his manipulative maneuvers to woo women. He cannot escape Punxsutawney, PA, and attempts to end it all, yet to no avail as he continues to wake at 6:00 a.m. on Groundhog Day.

Like many of us living under the constraints of the pandemic, Phil Conners suffers an interminable cycle of sameness, trapped in the tedium of unchanging routine. But in Phil’s day-after-day imprisonment, he discovers a window to explore new possibilities and gain a new perspective. Having exhausted his self-gratifying binges, in a paradoxical paradigm shift, he exchanges his sly attempts to bamboozle and exploit others for a sincere mission to help others. He loses his smug, sarcastic contempt for the small-town yokels and finds contentment by getting to know the people in the community, lending a hand, and saving a life or two.

As a result of living within the confines of a single, repeated day, Phil’s life becomes extraordinary, not because of his newly acquired chainsaw ice sculpture ability or his piano playing skillage, but because he finds a better purpose and a higher calling when he decides to enjoy others rather than use them. The “wasted time” in the tiresome loop of an endless day draws his attention toward what matters most: the incalculable value of relationships.

My ten days as a basement dweller, though at first a mix of fear and frustration, gave ample time to recalibrate and reload. In this pandemic, we have lost time in a collective sense of isolation. The pandemic “time out” of this past year has forced a reckoning with the loss of unacknowledged or unnoticed ordinary moments of time together.

As a kid, my dad tucked me in at night, and then I got my goodnight kiss. In the teen years, I saw my father strike fear in local hooligans, and yet throughout high school, Dad publically threw his arm around me for a strong embrace. One Christmas, my 40-something, younger brother observed me enter the kitchen as the family gathered, and he swooped over to Dad, enveloping the patriarch in a sustained wrestler hold and bragged, “Hugged him first.” Our family hugs.

The pandemic put hugs on hold.

I never spent a holiday season without visiting at least one parent until now. During the Pandemic Christmas, I saw neither Mom nor Dad. For the first time in years, I did not see my brother and his family. Though my basement quarantine ended well before the holiday season and I rejoined life on the first floor, the pandemic pulled a Grinch Christmas theft upon us, snatching away time together: no family soccer games in the adjacent park; no kitchen creations and presentations for the annual cookie contest; no gatherings around the dining room table; no carving of the roast beast; no opening presents together on Christmas morning; no shopping in family cohorts the day after Christmas; no late night board game revelries; no walks, no movie theaters, no restaurants, no midnight mass, nothing.

In keeping with safety-first-protocol, before available vaccines, our extended family participated in a virtual Christmas Day Zoom, which the Little Ones set up for the technologically challenged: “Dad, you have to face the camera.” For personal entertainment, I reappeared on the Zoom screen with my shirt off and cradling my whale gut with both arms so it wouldn’t fall to the floor. Carpe diem. 

This new technology allowed us to see and hear from everyone on the flat-screen monitor, but Zooming was nowhere and no way close to the same as being together. The Grinch may have had a change of heart, but the coronavirus stole Christmas from the kitchen table and the family fireplace. 

Yet like Phil Conners’ endless Groundhog Day, maybe these missed opportunities will prompt a change of perspective in us. Maybe ordinary time with one another has more extraordinary value than we realize. Time with parents and grandparents may seem rather commonplace, until taken from us, and then, maybe it is not so ordinary. Tally up the conversations we didn’t have, the hugs we didn’t give, the games we didn’t play, and the memories we didn’t make: how much would we pay for such moments?

With my resurrection from the basement, I hope to model the reconstructed Phil Conners of Groundhog Day: we become the best iteration of ourselves in relationship with others. My daughter’s directive at the end of our conversations to “stay vigilant” may be appropriate for the future as the pandemic dissipates. When social distancing and basement dwelling passes, we have ordinary days ahead of us with extraordinary value. May we take the time, find the moment, make the call, write the note, do the dishes, and go the distance with one another. In our day-to-day routines, may we “stay vigilant” with the opportunities to seize the day for what matters most: life together.

The extraordinary never happens alone.

QuaranTeaming: Seven Tips to Not Overstay One’s Welcome in a Pandemic

During the shelter-in-place quarantine, the lovely wife permitted me to travel 671 miles to visit our daughter and son-in-law to help with home improvement projects. Taking every precaution, we considered this a safe choice as my 90-year-old mother-in-law still lives with us, and my time away would be a responsible decision to limit contact with high risk loved ones. I travelled south stopping only twice and spent 59 days in Atlanta with the directive from Spouse Force Command: “You go help the babies.” Cora told me during our adventures that her friends on Zoom and Facetime would pause to say: “Wait. Your dad is still there? …and you’re okay with that?” We laughed about this, because we not only survived, but also had an epic time together. With the virus still uncooperative, I have written a few thoughts for making long stays sustainable or why CBD (Cora, Brian, and Dad) works.

1. Mutuality. Find it. We like to hike, so we found parks. We like movies, so we watched Netflix. We like to read and discuss books, so we read and discussed books. Find the areas of mutual enjoyment and plan them together. For one who grew up playing board games, I testify that Settlers of Catan stands in the Olympic Pantheon as the greatest board game ever. Deception, duplicity, and double-dealing dupery are all legal, which makes the game ridiculously fun. Years ago, Brian introduced Cora and me to this Game-Above-All-Games, and we played almost every night. We played at lunch too until the day became less productive, and we all had responsibilities.

Time by itself does not foster relationships but it does provide opportunities, if we search for activities to enjoy together. We explored seven state parks and preserves with multiple visits, and reaching the mountain summit or scenic overlook or shady bench, we would admire the view and sit and talk, or sit in comfortable silence alone together. Discover those activities, areas, exercises, events, goals and projects that are mutually enjoyable.

Trip to Home Depot.
We did not stand out.

Be creative if possibilities are limited. Except for groceries and parks and Home Depot (project supplies), we passed on going out during the pandemic, but we loved the front porch, so we hung out there in the morning and in the afternoon and in the rain.

2. Deference. Keep high maintenance low. Go with the flow. I had no hidden agenda and rolled with their routines and did as I was told. As an Enneagram Type 7, The Adventurer, I’m always ready for globetrotting, but both Cora and Brian had work and school online. I tailored my time around their management and supervision.

Adapt.

During the pandemic, apparently everyone else decided to work on home improvement projects too. Not a single lumber store in Atlanta had the “decking” wood we needed. A spontaneous family research forum organized and found that the closest deck lumber was 2 ½ hours away at the Home Depot in Augusta, Georgia. After the initial disappointment, we brainstormed and decided on bendability. We adjusted our schedules and reframed our plans. The obstacle became the adventure:

Road Trip!

With appropriate preparations (Brian rented a U-Haul trailer, Cora packed sandwiches, and I toodled around), we three struck out for an across-the-state cruise, and what others may have considered a huge hassle became a high adventure and a huge memory.

 

3. Generosity. Give a little. Consider Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass “answer” to life—“That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.” Contribute. I cannot cook, or so I’ve been told, although I make a super bowl of cereal and excellent toasted bread. Brian, a culinary artist, experimented with new dishes for almost all the daily meals he prepared. I ate his creations with an Oliver Twist attitude: “Please sir, I want some more.” But I support the universal truth that whoever cooks the meal should not be expected to clean the kitchen. I do dishes. I’m a very good cleaner. That’s my expertise. After a fine gourmet meal no one objects when I say, “I got the kitchen.” Also, if one cannot cook, then if finances allow, buy the takeout for a few lunches and dinners. Sow generously; reap food.

4. Work. Help out. During the quarantine, Brian and I constructed a deck in the backyard the size of an ocean liner cruise ship. We put up a fence and also built a massive summer cottage behind the deck that the less informed may refer to as a “shed,” plus we designed a two-tiered compost pile as big as a dump truck behind the storage facility complex (a.k.a. shed).

I have questionable, should-he-be-handling-that skill with power tools, but I can wind electrical cord and gather lumber and move dirt and follow directions. In our super hero dynamic duo, I have a moniker, “I am Robin.” We also christened our own company name, BAD (Brian And Dad contracting) with zero customers and no plans to take any more. Dependable labor is hard to find and always appreciated. The Bible calls this serving. Who doesn’t mind free help?

5. Space. Give plenty. We three navigated living with quarantine restrictions in a limited physical area by communicating with and creating room for one another. Brian’s office morphed into my bedroom. He communicated when he needed the room and would ask Cora and me to keep the noise level down when he had conference calls. I never walked into his daytime office without knocking and waiting for permission. Cora’s office subbed as our home-project-equipment-and-storage room, and she shared when we needed to steer clear and keep out. If Brian fired up the power tools in the backyard with me as his sidekick, the Cocoa Bean moved to the front porch to work. Also, I loved morning walks, which restores my soul, and gave the two of them a little breathing room and privacy. By communicating, we learned to dance together with good spacing.

Interpersonal dynamics require space. I’m a talker but did not walk into conversations uninvited, nor did I inquire about discussions that did not include me. Prodding provides nothing authentic. Prying produces time alone. Also, I’m learning to perceive when no one shows interest in my pontificating. I often fail here because I love to hear myself, but if I practice a generous spaciousness, then I may be tolerated in my need-to-work-on areas. Brian, who enjoys talking almost as much as I do, knows he has a small window of time before my mind involuntarily strolls away. We are learning to be brief with our anecdotes and articulations before attention becomes torture and active listening dies.

On a serious note, discussions yield better dialogue and more fruitful understanding, particularly in areas of differing views, if one recognizes that personal perspective on issues or situations may not be complete or even correct. Also, no one gets a free pass to excuse incivility. Sarcastic and shame-based interjections may be humorous in comedy sketches, but in real life, they kill meaningful conversations. Sarcasm corrodes relationships. In the words of Princess Buttercup from The Princess Bride, “You mock my pain. Never do it again.”

6. Confession. My daughter wears a t-shirt: “Settlers of Catan: Destroying friendships since 1995.” On one particular evening as the sun set over the Catan sky, Cora and I deduced (correctly) that on Brian’s next turn, he would acquire the Largest Army and win. We strategized to thwart him, and I gave Cora all the resources she needed to take the Longest Road from our nemesis and prolong the game. Brian was not a happy camper and “on principle” walked away from the golden wheat fields and stomped out of the living room in protest. The Cocoa Bean and I took no notice and showed no mercy to this silver-tongued competitor, and as his protégé, I quipped that my cutthroat tactics were learned from him. This escalation demonstrated the truth of Cora’s t-shirt, perhaps ending our travels and life together in Catan, but upon further discussion at a calmer time and tone, Brian pointed out that I actually did not make a trade with Cora, but gave away resources for free, violating the rules of Catan commerce, and thus ruining the “spirit of competition,” which he would not agree to do. In this context as he thoughtfully framed it, I saw the light and confessed my lust for power and “throwing the game” that I could not win. I repented of my greed and agreed to a Council of Catan to negotiate proper procedures for future beguilement and flimflam.

Jesus said that offenses will inevitably jab us (Luke 17:1), and James instructed that we all stumble, particularly with our tongue (James 3). Careless words, petty disagreements, perceived slights and the like all work to wreck relationships. Corrosion happens quickly in the big dramatic fights, but also spreads quietly in the small acts of unkindness. Ignoring tensions or letting frictions fester becomes a most dangerous game. The best players, in appropriate moments, acknowledge wrong moves with the wisdom and goodwill to make amends. Genuine apologies strengthen relationships and make for better board games.

Time, by itself, does not have restorative power. If unaddressed issues or unresolved conflicts intervene, then time with one another may be counterproductive and frustrating. The wonder of forgiveness, sincerely expressed, is the extraordinary ability to heal the hurt, to repair the broken, and to clean up the messes. Learn to ask for it; learn to give it.

7. Celebrate. Be creative. The author of Ecclesiastes writes: “the eye never has enough seeing, nor the ear its fill of hearing” (Ecclesiastes 1:8), and we will never have enough time with those we love. The paradox for me in this global tragedy has been the physical separation from our older loved ones for their safety, and yet I received an unexpected gift of time with the grown up, Little Ones. For every major project, we had a celebration. For every minor project, we had a celebration. Someway, sometime, somehow this pandemic will end, and may one lesson be that we continue to find ways to celebrate with the best gift we have…each other:

 

 

If the Beanie Bear had known this video would be sent into cyberspace, I’m sure she would have insisted on more than two takes, but I did receive permission to share this celebratory clip from the summer cottage we built behind their house.

Finally, in the movie, Fighting with My Family, the career-wrestling dad says to his career-wrestling daughter, which I used in an essay one year ago, today, because it is the most endearing, greatest parental quote, and best Father-to-Daughter movie saying of all-time:

“You are the spark in our lives no matter what you do with yours.”

 

Sawnee Mountain Preserve

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

New Year’s Resolutions

I am a good goal setter; I am not a good goalkeeper. Making New Year’s resolutions gives me hope with possibilities to become a better person: daily reading, weekly exercise, monthly projects written on “2020 Goals” that I tape to the bathroom mirror, beside the bed, and in my hardcopy calendar. I’ve done this for years and may whirl through two days or two weeks or two months before a resolution rolls to a stop.

Most of us ordinary people have been here.

Instead of Carpe Diem, we get carp.

Deb and I watched a movie earlier this year where I predicted she would cry before the end credits. Wrong. She started crying within seconds of the first scene because the main character, a dog, narrated the movie. In The Art of Racing in the Rain, I reached for a pen when the crew chief said, “There is no dishonor in losing the race. There is only dishonor in not racing because you are afraid to lose.”

My track record through the years has been checkered by losing efforts (in high school, I got cut from every sport that required cuts), but the effort, the drive, the race produced a polish in perseverance and hope that better results will shine up. Teddy Roosevelt’s instruction to his children to never go around or go back, but to always go through and forward—has gotten me lost in the state park forest (for another story), but he has a quote that keeps me falling forward: “Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure, than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much, because they live in the gray twilight that knows not victory nor defeat.”

We do not fail because we lose; we fail because we quit.

Granted, in a rush of adrenalin, we may make an impractical resolution that will crash and should be trashed. At nineteen years old, I read the book Why Revival Tarries by Leonard Ravenhill, and committed to prayer the rest of my life for two hours a day. This lasted two days.

Noble? Yes.
Realistic? No.

Far better to create a smart goal that stretches us beyond ourselves yet remains attainable a.k.a. realistic and keeps us striving, climbing, moving forward until we reach the finish.

Perfection is best; perseverance is better.

In the day-to-day press, if busyness or weariness grinds a relevant resolution to a halt, then the first of each month represents a fine opportunity to restart. March 1^st—calls for the wonder of the redo. I reboot after holidays: Valentine’s Day or St. Patrick’s Day or Easter. Or I recommit Sunday. Or Monday.

Today is a new day.

On this day, I plan to become a better me, who I was meant to be, and maybe this time will be the key. I don’t have to be perfect, but persistent.

For my 35^th birthday and in the throes of mid-life crisis, Deb gave me a framed quote from Winston Churchill that stays in my office: “Success is moving from failure to failure with no loss of enthusiasm.” I’m a successful plodder. If I miss today, I will make tomorrow and press on toward the goal despite my imperfections. I believe in the do-over. My dad and I still hit the links once a summer, and adhering to a high standard as senior citizens, we allow ourselves one mulligan off the tee per hole. We have a great time together.

For humor, on January 1, 2019, I posted my New Year’s Resolution Day #1 success, (ate my veggies, read the Bible, pumped some iron) and then posted the next day and the next day too:

January 1, 2019 post:
“Totally kicked it with the New Year’s Resolutions. Have not missed a day. Boom. 2019 :)”

January 2, 2019 post:
“Don’t want to brag but…just strung together two days in a row for my New Year’s goals. Double Rainbow across the sky! Boom.”

January 3, 2019 post:
“My Friends, the Trifecta, the Triple Threat, the 3-in-a-row with the New Year’s Goals. Who know? Who would have bet on this? Thank you to all in my life who inspired me to make this possible. Tomorrow, I’m going for four. Boom!”

Amusing myself, I continued to post and soon an unexpected phenomenon followed. The playful posting produced an energetic resolve to keep the thread going. Evidence-based research, common sense and experience affirm that involving others for accountability in goalkeeping increases the chance for success. Posting my progress on Facebook with the potential to be seen by millions escalated a determination to keep the streak on track before the American and global public. My following consisted of one mom and one former student (and maybe a former classmate and a nun), but the longer the streak rolled, the more enthusiastic I became.

I also felt an uneasy premonition that if the streak broke, like careening off a racetrack, I might experience a spin out. This does not clash with my refresh and redo mentality because a broken streak does not equal a flameout crash, but once we veer off the smooth groove of a good pace, the path back can be rough with detours and distractions. Our daughter did Duolingo language exercises online everyday for 150 days in a row until she missed once, then seeing her streak counter roll back to “O,” she took her foot off the gas and lost momentum. Instead of a rigorous drive to stay the course, an intermittent braking and lurching forward may result until we hit a good pace again.

Recognizing this power of a streak, somewhere early in 2019, I called in back-up by starting a “group text” with Cora and Brian. Every time I made my daily trip to the gym, I texted them with my streak numbers. Great way to keep in touch, and when one reads quick quips, “Good job, Dad!” the resolve stays sharp.

On Day #194 of 2019, I stopped the Facebook thread, but I did not stop the streak. I continued the daily text to Cora and Brian, and, among other resolutions, finished the year with 366 visits to the gym. One may suppose I no longer look like the Pillsbury Doughboy with my shirt off, but alas, around the mid-section, I still own a white-as-snow, rolling mass that small Keebler Black-Ops elves attempt to knead, if they jump over the belt before I can swat them away. I need to curb the barrel-O-food intake. My abs have disappeared into history. The real kicker with physical aging is that I am becoming a crinkle. But persistence produces improvements: not that I can run faster or jump higher, but I do feel better and can walk close to forever without getting tired.

Consistency wins.

If one reads a poem a day, then one year equals six or seven poetry collections. If one reads a couple three pages a day, then a dozen or more books will be read in a year. If one writes a little each day, the book can be finished. If one presses one set of pushups a day, by the end of the year, surprising strength returns, if one doesn’t start with too much too soon and pull a muscle and get benched.

How long does it take for habits to form that shape the future? I do not know but hope to find out.

From the 2019 Facebook posts, the former student and I now have a daily text. I’m drinking sixteen ounces of water a day; anymore and too much of my life requires bathroom visitation. I’m crunching 100 sit-ups a day to stop small elves from hopping on my gut for sled practice or running under it for shelter in the rain. I will continue the daily texts to Brian and Cora to keep accountable with the resolutions: a prayer a day makes a difference.

In 2020, I have revisited the New Year’s Resolution Facebook posting with the plan to see the thread through to the end of the year. This January and February, I have not missed. Sweeeeeet. Even if a miss would have messed me up, March 1^st is the perfect day to begin again. To start is great, to finish is better, to be consistent is best.

Making New Year’s Resolutions gives me hope. Hope keeps me moving in a positive direction with the anticipation that life will get better. I resonate with Tom Hanks in the movie Castaway who determined not to give up: “I know what I have to do now. I’ve got to keep breathing because tomorrow the sun will rise. Who knows what the tide could bring?” Hope inspires perseverance. This year I plan not to skip a single day, but if I do, tomorrow will be a new day, a better day. The poet, Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. wrote, “I find the great thing in this world is not so much where we stand, as in what direction we are moving.” And someone has said if we reach high, we may not touch the stars, but we don’t come up with a handful of mud.

“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” – Galatians 6:9

“For some reason we like to see days pass, even though most of us claim we don’t want to reach our last one for a long time. We examine each day before us with barely a glance and say, no, this isn’t one I’ve been looking for, and wait in a bored sort of way for the next, when we are convinced, our lives will start for real. Meanwhile, this day is going by perfectly well-adjusted, as some days are, with the right amounts of sunlight and shade…” – Tom Hennen, excerpt from his poem, “The Life of a Day”

 

 

Windfender!

WindFender!

On the corner of Indiana Avenue and Maple Grove, I kick-stopped my bike to brake and stare. A friend peeled up with a motorcycle engine attached to the frame of his Sting Ray bike with the banana seat and “sissy” handlebars. He turned the ignition key, and his 1964 Varoom engine roared.

What new marvel was this?

With a thin dash of hope, I asked my parents for such a wonder.

And lo! It came upon a midnight clear, the motor appeared months later underneath the Christmas tree. Spring could not arrive fast enough.  My machine was not the automatic ignition key model, but a manual motor that roared when one cranked the red throttle. Such unfathomable coolness does not easily translate to adults. My bike transformed into a Harley and made candy-cigarette-smoking and slugging down Mom’s Pepsi from Dad’s shot glasses mere child’s play. I cruised the neighborhood like a Hell’s Angel leader of the pack.

Eventually rain and wear and wipeouts ruined the plastic engine, and in time, my sophistication advanced to a 3-speed Schwinn (thanks again, Mom and Dad), then to a 5-speed Schwinn, which I bought at Kern’s Toyland on Calhoun Street across from South Side High School with the coins I saved from my allowance each week in a Lincoln National Bank manila envelope at school.  Later, I purchased a 10-speed Varsity Schwinn, the standard bearer of my high school era and a sweet ride back and forth to Lake James before earning a driver’s license. Yet, none of these models could match the glory of the former biker days with the Varoom motorcycle engine. Such Transformer-esque wonder would not be surpassed until the turning of a half-century.

For the last decade, I’ve ridden the Rivergreenway trails with a mountain bike given to me by a friend. The wheels have worked fine, but Jesse Hanna, a triathlon athlete, suggested I trade in this scrap iron for a real racer. I reminded him that I could ride alongside him for an hour in my “cast iron” frame, and he could not keep up unless I slowed down, albeit, he was jogging, but no matter.

Last fall, Jesse and I spotted a new set of wheels on clearance at the Fort Wayne Outfitters and Bike Depot, the only one in the store with fenders and a bell. Perfect. They raised the handlebars to accommodate my senior citizenry, and the effortless glide around the storefront surprised me. I bought my first bike since the teen years. In The Lord of the Rings, famous swords have noble names, so a worthy steed deserves the same honor.

What rides like the wind and has fenders?

WindFender!

With the fall season almost gone, the mythic thoroughbred and I put in over 200 miles together.  WindFender spent the winter in the house bedding down close to the fireplace, using only essential oils and getting plenty of rest to stay in top shape.

Last Christmas, Brian and Cora decked out my trusty steed with a classic saddlebag, cool water bottle, and supersweet neon green lights in the spokes that flash with each other in concert. On a warm January day, I rode WindFender to the YMCA, and as I prepared to trot home at dusk, I turned on the front tire chartreuse neon lights in public for the first time. Kids leaving the Y gasped and swooped around my mount in wonder.  I knew more applause would follow as I gleamed and turned on the backlights, “Yes, my friends, behold!”  On the gallop home, joggers stared, men wept, women swooned, children whooped, and one young lad pointed and cried out to all standing by: “Look, it’s…it’s…look at that!”  My friends, the wonder of the 1964 Varoom engine biker days has returned.

With newer wonders to behold…

This past spring break, I visited Cocoa Bean and Brian in Atlanta, and we experienced a new phenomena known as “birds,” motorized scooters that speckle the sidewalks and bike lanes of the downtown area.  My first night as we walked to the Korean-Mexican fusion restaurant, Takorea, for Two Dollar Taco Tuesday, Brian pulled out his phone, opened an app, then flew across the street on a “Bird.”

What new marvel was this?

Brian introduced me to the creature. After initial bobbling and real concern about face-planting into a random car trunk or pitching into the local shrubbery, I got the hang of it, and became one with this Mountain Banshee.  We soon swept down the street, my eyes closed, hands behind my back like the five-year-old biker over half a century ago.

One balmy evening during our visit, The Kid and I rode the popular Atlanta Beltline, weaving through the crowds like birds darting through branches. We perched at a skateboard park to watch teenagers do their creative, X-treme Sports cray cray on the concrete. Unlike the roar of the 1964 Varoom, a “Bird” (or any of its species–Lime, Jump, Lyft) flies in silent wonder.  The only drawback to these battery-operated raptors is they die after a few hours, and mine bit the dust at the skateboard park. Still, we enjoyed searching for another bird on my brand new app, like hunting for Easter Eggs, and captured one nearby.

The last day, Tootie and I flew birds in Atlanta’s Grant Park, and after showing a curious British lady with the cool Beatles’ accent and her friend how to ride, the Little One shot off at falcon-speed for a destination unknown. I used all my aeronautical skillage to keep up, and it dawned on me that she must have a goal in mind.  Yep, off in the distance, The Kid flew up to a local ice cream feeder, and we alighted for refreshments…one medium sundae and one large malt… sixteen dollars…what? … still, a sweet ending before being packed up, and Cora releasing me to the wind at the ATL terminal.

My wife, who spent her early career in nursing and saw too many Intensive Care Unit biker accidents, has never let me talk or think about a motorcycle, but now with the daughter and son-in-law, we ride the streets of Atlanta as scooter avatars. “This is how we roll.”

“You are the spark in our lives no matter what you do with yours.” – Best Parent quote of all time—from career wrestler dad talking to his daughter in the movie, Fighting with My Family, a film with surprising depth and insight.

As a public school teacher, mixing among a large population sample of students, I see that my life and childhood provided privileges that many youth today do not get to experience: having both biological parents who demanded we be home every night by 6:00 p.m. for sit-down dinner; having a lake cottage, an inconceivable fairy tale for students who drift from night to night with no permanent home; having twelve years of parochial school private education; having the financial means for epic family camping trips across the country in our station wagon; having a motorcycle engine that Dad mounted on my bike. Such boyhood opportunities make the sense of wonder much easier to experience into adulthood.

Yet, I submit that wonder is available to all: “Blessed are the poor for yours is the kingdom of God” (Luke 6:20).

When a dozen teammates kept a running argument over whom among them was the greatest player, their captain instructed them to consider a new paradigm: the perspective of a child.

The disciples came to Jesus and asked, “Who, then, is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?” He called a little child to him, and placed the child among them. And he said: “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever takes the humble position of this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.” – Matthew 18:1-4

Jesus could not mean the innocence of childhood. His men consisted of blue collar, veteran fishermen and a white collar, seasoned tax collector, all of whom would not be naïve or unfamiliar with the mire of life. One band member’s moniker (all we know of him) was Simon the Zealot.  Extremism does not breed in flowers and sunshine, but zealotry grows in mud and rain. If their leader did not expect innocence, then what does a child have that Jesus wanted in his kingdom from his followers?

From my perspective, little children have what all healthy adults want to rediscover in themselves and hope to see in others:

Realness.

I aspire to be like the Velveteen Rabbit and someday become real. Jesus said of one of his men, Nathaniel: “Here is a true Israelite in whom there is no guile” (John 1:47).  No hidden motives. No deceit. When Pinocchio finally learned to be truthful, he became a real boy. Perhaps more than any other virtue, we desire this from others as well as from ourselves. Sincerity. Authenticity. Genuineness. An original is more valuable than a copy. Little children are what they are. Adults are not.

Maybe Jesus wants us to stop striving for our individual significance and stardom and start enjoying life with others. Adults vie for personal advancement and prominence. Little children have not yet learned these ambitions, but delight in adventures, especially with one another.

Children have an jubilant receptivity. As little ones, both my niece and daughter opened gifts like fireworks bursting in the night sky. Little children receive gifts not with ungrateful entitlement, but with exploding joy.  When I first got laid off at forty-two years old, I was stunned upon receiving an unemployment check. Until that point, I truly did not know such a shocking governmental service existed. The second time laid off, my previously thankful attitude changed: “Hey! Where’s my check?”  How quickly we adults become entitled.

Little children love to bounce, run, swing, and move with an unquenchable energy and inexhaustible repetition. As a Special Education teacher, I have a student who will rock and sway on our school “Theraplay” swing set until forever. He never tires. Each time I give him a good push, he smiles and laughs and points to the swing chain for me to do it again.

In his classic work, Orthodoxy, G.K. Chesterton shares that children want things repeated: “They always say, ‘Do it again’ and the grow-up person does it again until he is nearly dead.” Chesterton further writes that the repetition in Nature is not the result of automatic necessity or mere reoccurrence, but a theatrical encore from heaven: “God says every morning, ‘Do it again’ to the sun; and every evening, ‘Do it again’ to the moon.” He creates every daisy separately because he never tires of making each one. Chesterton pens a thunderous epiphany: “Our Father is younger than we.”  The implication being that God views this world with the wonder of a child. Is this the desire Jesus has for his followers? That we do not lose our sense of wonder?

Catholic author, Matthew Kelly, writes that too many people sleepwalk through life missing moments, possibilities, and others. The flip side of the same coin is also true: we get too busy in the press and grind of the day-to-day to notice the extraordinary right in front of us. We get so fixated on self-interests and career advancement that we do not enjoy the present or the presence of others. Little children know how to rollick in the moment, and if their romp includes playmates—all the better.

Little children trust. At four-years-old, I stared out the upstairs bedroom window at 303 West Rudisill hoping for a glimpse of Santa’s reindeer until I fell asleep. I invested my tooth under the pillow with great anticipation of financial gain in the morning light. As a nineteen-year-old summer counselor, I quietly pulled three 3^rd grade campers outside, and in private told them that the cowboy villain, Black Bart, who swaggered into our camp meeting, was really a church deacon and only acting like a bad guy, because these three little cowpokes with eyes as wide as the moon, started crying when Black Bart growled and interrupted our beloved camp director with western trash talk. I didn’t help the scenario by yelling at my campers, “Quick! Get down!” and dove under my chair with dramatic flare. Black Bart would get saved by the end of the week, but these little guys crying on a Monday night with four more days to go might need a little extra, helpful insight. Children trust us, and they have a boundless capacity for imagination, which requires care and skill to direct as they grow.

Little children are teachable. For a brief moment, they have unlimited curiosity. They don’t know everything until they get to be teenagers. Maybe Jesus wants us to admit that we still have much to learn. Maybe Jesus wants us to ease up on the overconfidence in our own personal strengths and acknowledge our interdependence with others. Like little children, we need people to watch out for us. As adults, we all have the capacity to drift toward stupid. Trust and teachability both take humility, or as Jesus said, “whoever takes the humble position of this child” (Matthew 18:4). Humility recognizes the contributions of others in our lives. We are not as great as we think; we need one another.

If we refocus to relearn the qualities of little children, no matter what our life situation or station, from the least to the greatest, we may rediscover wonder. We find what we seek, if we are willing to stop, listen, and look around. Maybe Jesus is saying to his guys: “Humble yourselves. Stop the self-marketing strategies and self-promotion. Trust and follow me like a little child.” If we do this, we start to become real, and like the Velveteen Rabbit and Pinocchio, I suppose only real people enjoy the wonder of the Kingdom of Heaven.

 

 

“It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”  – the Skin Horse talking to the Velveteen Rabbit in the nursery

 

Alignment

Because the road to the daycare goes east,
on spring mornings we drive towards the sun
along a corridor of flowering dogwoods,
and it may be the illuminated white petals,
the second coffee I had before we left,
or Pink doing a Steve Miller song, the one
from Happy Feet that made me realize
she has a great voice, but suddenly I’m close
to tears. I have to lock my elbows to keep
the van on the road. Then I start laughing
because of how difficult it would be to explain
I drove into a tree after being overwhelmed
by the enigmatic beauty of this world.
From the backseat, my son asks, “Daddy,
What’s wrong?” and when I say, “Nothing,”
I’m just happy,” he claps, “I’m happy too!”

– Joseph Mills, from his collection of poems, Love and Other Collisions.
Used by permission.  Thank you, my brother.

Thanksgiving 2018

Upon hearing the announcement that school closed because of freezing rain, I skipped and twirled in the living room like a ballet dancer with a touch of Napoleon Dynamite flare. Deb, who witnessed the performance, said I was worse than a child. She also said I could help her clean the upstairs, particularly The Kid’s old bedroom. Far from becoming a childhood museum, Cora’s room had become the dumping ground and junk drawer for everything in need of temporary housing.

In the obedience that marriage requires of men, I clambered up the steps and prepared myself with a blowtorch and bulldozer mentality for the quick liquidation of excess inventory. In the ensuing hours, we filled three industrial 42-gallon contractor bags with bedding and bric-a-brac destined for the Goodwill. However, the recycle enterprise uncovered unforeseen reflections. At various intervals during the removal phase, the project manager (a.k.a. wife) welled up with tears as the rain fell inside our home.

Sifting through the knickknack debris, Deb discovered the pink, toddler snowsuit that we packed Cora in for cold winter weather. Like the snow outfit in the movie, A Christmas Story, the Beanie’s arms would not bend, and I’d carry her at my side like a briefcase. This would make Deb laugh and inspired the encouragement I needed to cart The Kid around this way. Deb held up the pink winter wear toward me…and cried.

The next item up for tears was the blue and yellow plastic car that The Beaner rolled around the house in as a rug rat. I thought the vehicle was in the attic, but somehow it appeared in Cora’s room. The preschool roadster could never be given away, and Deb instructed me to display it on a bedroom shelf after a good spray wash and polish.

The major thunderclap came with the discovery of Rudy. Rudy is a moose, a stuffed animal Christmas moose, whom Deb purchased at the ZCMI Department Store over three decades ago in Salt Lake City while visiting my parents. Before Cora was born, Rudy lived with Santa, Frosty, and a couple unemployed elves and reindeer who worked the Christmas season in our home for their room and board the rest of the year in the attic. We knew Rudy was destined for greater things when Beanie clothed him and moved him from his attic apartment into her bedroom for the rest of childhood and beyond. He attended college with her.

Neither Deb nor I knew Rudy moved back home, but here he sat schmoozing among a herd of Easter bunnies. Deb lifted him up and squeaked his tail. We thought for years he was nonverbal only to discover he talked upon the squeezing of his backside. Deb had held herself together well, but burst into a thunderstorm when he squeaked out an endearing, “Hello, old friends.”

At present, just like old times, Rudy is working as a Christmas model and hospitality greeter in our downstairs living room. Except for the Christmas bow, he is wearing the same outfit Cora dressed him in when they first met.

Mom’s scattered showers mixed with Dad’s intermittent laughter, who in an effort to keep the project moving continued to shovel through the shelves. Yet, when I straightened the Little One’s framed Kindergarten diploma on the bookshelf adjacent to her dry-cleaned wedding dress hanging from the closet door hook, I was struck with the transience of this life. Didn’t we just celebrate Miss Muffet’s Kindergarten graduation party? Didn’t my academic brother, who visited on his niece’s first day of 1^st Grade, see the Kindergarten Degree displayed by the Congratulations Cake and muse with laughter, “This is so wrong”? Where went 12 years of formal education and 4 years of college and 3 years of graduate school and almost 5 years of marriage?

What just happened?

Adding to this, Emily Dickinson’s phrase from her poem, “A Bustle in the House,” also came to mind: “The Sweeping up the Heart / And putting Love away.” The striking metaphor comes from the impossibility of the task. The heart cannot be swept up or packed away. Dickinson knows this and uses the irony to underscore the power of love and loss.

Upon such reflection, in no area of human culture and in no era of human history has any parent ever loved a daughter more than I love mine. This is not hyperbole, embellishment, or bias. It is the correct perspective and pure truth from Dad.

The formidable, geniune danger of such love is loss.

I have been a monthly patron of St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital since our daughter’s infancy as if I could barter with the Creator: “I’ll do this, if you’ll keep her safe,” which is not good theology, but the honest plea of a parent.

Our PK (preacher kid) married an MK (missionary kid), and if they were to ever move across the sea for a decade of holiday seasons, I can’t speak for the Mothership, but as long as the Little One is fine, I’m fine. But if anything should happen to the Miracle Baby, specifically, if our child left this earth, I would spin into the tempest more lost than Shakespeare’s wandering bark. The skippity-do-dah bounce in my personality would flatten. The twirling dance dip would end. A full recovery in this life would not be possible. One marvels at the depth of pain such love exacts from parents who experience this loss. How does one keep breathing and moving through a day?

Last month, my wife lost the best friend of her life, which came as a total shock to all. Deb has cried more in the last 40 days than all the tears she has shed in the last decade. She postponed a trip planned for months with her mother to attend the funeral.

At Judy Conner’s memorial service, her youngest son shared memories from his youth, which brought simultaneous laughter and tears. John spoke with gratefulness for his mother, and his whole message emanated thankfulness:

So what do I want to exude most in this season? Not bitterness, not anger…but thankfulness. My wife Melissa shared with me some notes from her journal that have helped me wrap my head around this. With an expiration date of only 12 hours, what did Jesus count as most important? ‘Then he took a cup of wine and  gave thanks…he took some bread and gave thanks…’ (Luke 22:17, 19). Deep joy is found only at the table of thanksgiving.  The height of my joy is dependent on the depth of my thanks.

John’s heartfelt insight struck deep. Does the way forward begin by looking back with thanksgiving? I believe so. May I follow in his steps.

John continued to speak about his mom in the present tense, which also gave great comfort and joy to me in the crush of sorrow. His mother cannot be forgotten because she is not gone. As St. Paul shared, she has taken “hold of the life that is truly life” (1 Timothy 6:19). C.S. Lewis, who journaled the loss of his wife in A Grief Observed and knew such pain, often called this world, “The Shadowlands,” based on a biblical reference from the Book of Hebrews that the things in this present existence are only a shadow of the true reality of heaven. Everything good, everything we love and enjoy here is only a glimpse, a foreshadowing of what awaits. St. Paul writing on the topic of love shared that now we see through a glass darkly, but someday we will understand what appears incomprehensible. We will know even as we are fully known, and our why pleas will receive a response from the one who will answer us “face-to-face” (1 Corinthians 13:12).

Shoveling out the daughter’s bedroom and seeing yesteryear’s mementos that seemingly “just happened,” makes a dad realize his own fragile ephemerality. Yet, I find myself struck by the juxtaposition between the raw pain this life requires and the repeated sounding joy offered to those who have ears to hear. Hope sings a song in the midst of sorrow. We do not recover fully from the loss of those we love, but maybe we are not meant to:

If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world….If that is so, I must take care, on the one hand, never to despise, or be unthankful for, these earthly blessings, and on the other, never to mistake them for the something else of which they are only a kind of copy, or echo, or mirage. I must keep alive in myself the desire for my true country, which I shall not find till after death…   – C.S. Lewis in Mere Christianity.

This Thanksgiving weekend, I appreciate the extra time to plow through leftovers and home improvement projects, but I am most thankful for those loved. For every sorrow and loss that awaits, I will give thanks for what has passed as I anticipate the promised reunion and blessed hope (Titus 2:13), which will be joy unspeakable and full of glory.

“It is not happy people who are thankful. It is thankful people who are happy.” – Hand painted on an unframed canvas at the Brown Elephant thrift store in Chicago, Illinois.

29th Birthday

The problem with love is the pain of departures. Waving good-bye to our daughter as she weaves through the airport security line inevitably breaks into waves of tears from her mom that are as predictable as the ocean tides. I tell my wife, “At least, you have me at home,” but this sets off a flash flood. The worst soakings happen at these airport departures. Mom and I stand at the curb like elderly street urchins longing for more time as The Kid sets off to study across the sea or across the continent. Our pathetic display of parental pleading does not seem to abate as the holy child grows older.

On our daughter’s last visit home, we discovered she was flying from Fort Wayne to a wedding in New York. A parental lecture ensued: to always stick with the group, to always be aware of her surroundings, to never stay out too late, and to never take candy from eye-patched, woodened legged pirates who might try to lure her close to their ship.

“Seriously, Cora, be careful.”

“Guys. You know, I am 28 years old.”

How does that matter one iota? She will always be the Cocoa Bean, the little Beanie Baby. I’m almost 60 years old, and my dad at random moments will pat me on the head and say: “My boy, my little Scottie.”

Like grown-ups who get stuck in the music of their youth from its sweeping power to recollect the memories of formative years, we parents get stuck in the era of our children’s youth from the wonder of those experiences. Plus they were cuter and easier to steer.

As we age, departures become harsher because of their frequency and force. We experience more endings. We lose more than we find. The body begins to bail on us. We decline and learn to adapt to wrinkles, rolls, sags, and pulls. Through my forties, Deb said I would pole vault out of bed to meet the day, but no more. I hobble to reach the bedpost and stretch the calves so my planter fasciitis doesn’t flare up and pitch me into the wife’s closet. Shuffling to the bathroom, I dim the lights so the flash of brightness doesn’t knock me back into a laundry basket.

In time, we lose the white teeth, muscle mass, keen hearing, sharp vision, and car keys. We remember less and babble more. We start in the wading pool with our parents holding our hand, and we end in the wading pool with our children holding our hand. Such is this life. Though these bodily losses cause physical challenges and discomfort, other losses trigger an even deeper ache.

Two Christmas vacations ago, a tradition began that lessened Mom’s tears and tempered the pangs of departures. Our son-in-law, Brian, spent the holidays with us. He is the best answer-to-prayer son-in-law any parent could have. We prayed for him twenty-five years before we knew him. On their airport departure after New Year’s, Deb and I, as usual, walked alongside them adjacent to the security line until they reached the first checkpoint. From here, we took our familiar place by the glass partitions that overlook the security area. We watched them unload all their personal effects into bins. When they looked our way, we overcompensated with grins and waves like amped up teenagers in a Mountain Dew commercial. At the end of the bin assembly line is the dreaded escalator where they would ascend out of sight and leave us. With the first floor ceiling blocking our view, they would disappear halfway up the escalator. Through the years, Cora would wave and give a “thumbs up” in an attempt to assuage her parents’ strained smiles, but her efforts never stopped the dam from bursting in her mother’s eyes or the pang of the moment from hitting me with dull force. We would walk back to the car feeling a little older.

This specific spot outside the glass walls of security in the Fort Wayne International Airport is not a favorite site, but it allows us to keep saying good-bye for as long as possible. The irony is that right to next to this place is the double door entrance for arrival flights where people wait to meet and rejoice upon the appearance of loved ones. Here, in this area, the joys and sorrows of life converge.

During this Christmas departure, Brian and Cora waved at us frequently as they moved through the security checks and before they got on the escalator. Deb and I were holding hands and waving. I pointed to Mom’s tears, which had begun. The kids waved as they ascended up the escalator and disappeared.

The tears and familiar pang returned.

But as we turned to leave…wait…Cora came quick-stepping back down the “Up” escalator and waving at us. She did this long enough that we laughed as she kept logrolling down the “Up” escalator.

But wait…Brian appeared on the stair steps next to the escalator, and he stood and waved for a long time before ascending back up.

Aww. Thanks, guys. We felt better.

But wait…Cora was coming down the “Down” escalator on the other side of the steps and waving at us. Now Mom was laughing more than crying, and she said, “I bet Brian will come down too.” Sure enough. Soon we saw Brian’s feet, then torso, and then smiling face waving both hands as he also descended the “Down” escalator. At the bottom of the steps, they met, hugged, joined hands, kissed, and waved at us. We were all laughing. Their surprise performance induced a cathartic balm, and instead of our pathetic waving with tears, Mom was laughing and waving them forward, motioning them to go up and get to their gate in time. They stopped at the “Up” escalator and waved at us for a long time, then kissed again and waved and ascended up the escalator and out of sight.

Like pigeons pushing the lever for food pellets, we stayed for a moment longer in case they had more for us, but we knew this was the end of the presentation. We experienced a moment that would not be forgotten.

What made their Parental Live-Aid Charity concert even better—we were not the only ones who witnessed the performance. On the other side of the arrival entrance sits a small café and gift store. The escalators and steps can be seen through the glass partitions from any table in the café. Unbeknownst to us, two dear friends from yesteryear, Dan and Terri, were sitting in the café waiting for their plane to depart, and they watched the whole episode take place. Dan said he almost teared-up when he saw the spontaneous drama unfold. They understood; they were parents too.

When others identify with our struggles, the acknowledgment of shared experience has the power to make us feel better, knowing we are not alone. This is empathy in action. We talked with Terri and Dan for a good thirty minutes. Deb and I walked out of the airport in lighter spirits and with thankful hearts. We felt younger.

Encore appearances on the escalators have since become a tradition. Now instead of inescapable crying, the administrative pragmatism in my wife will take over and wave the little ones forward as if to say after a couple encores: “Okay, thanks, now don’t miss your flight, get going, move on with your life together.”

This last spring break, I took a working vacation in Atlanta, Cora and Brian’s current residence, to hole up with them and finish a school project where Cora proofread and edited all my work.

When it came time to leave, the kids accompanied me into the airport to make sure I made my flight. The “convenient” airport check-in touch screen buttons confuse me. They never work correctly like people purport, and I get agitated, frustrated, and wander about the terminal trying to figure out where I’m supposed to be. When I go out in public places someone should just tape a sign to my back: “Help Me Please.” In the ATL airport, Brian and Cora parked and came inside to scoot me in the right direction. My previous Atlanta visit, I almost missed my flight. When my name was announce over the speakers, I thought I won something, but it was the last call before losing my seat. I get distracted too easily by the twinkling lights, all the bustling people, and the neon wonder of the big city airport. Fifty years ago, my dad took me by the hand in crowds, and now my daughter does.

Brian and Cora found the proper security line for me. Good thing because I was heading in the wrong direction. We hugged, prayed, and waved good-bye. They departed once I was safely confined inside the security line ropes. “Dad, stay between these ropes, follow the yellow brick road, and you’ll make it home.”

I zigzagged through the queue, guided by the ropes, until I approached a young lady in a biker outfit at the end of a formidable line of people. I said to her that the line looked long, and I hoped to make my flight because I almost missed it the last time. She sighed and turned the other way to express with icy clarity she had no interest in conversing with a talkative old guy in a Cubs hat that didn’t quite fit. Fair enough. I obediently shuffled between the ropes in silence for about 30 feet, until we came to the place where the terminal concourse could be viewed from our line. There stood Cora and Brian in the middle of the causeway.

They saw me.

They waved.

They began their performance.

They danced down the ATL main terminal in a combination tango, salsa, hip-hop, disco, and freestyle medley pausing only briefly between dance moves to wave at me. I waved back. They spun and shimmied through the length of the corridor, until they came to the end where they kissed, waved, and with a concluding flare finale, exited stage right.

During the performance, the ice lady with the dragon tattoos began a heartfelt commentary of oohs and aahs as she watched the entire dance routine: “Ooh. That’s special. Aww. How do you know them?” This seemingly hardened lady caste in claws thawed quickly, and after the performance she did not stop asking me questions: “She is your daughter? You were here visiting her? Do you visit often?” Even as we dismantled our personal items into the security bins, she stayed close by me and continued to inquire: “How long have they been married? Do they like living in Atlanta.” I was not at a loss for words, and as she asked about Brian, I told her that I have now two wonderful children. Brian is the best son I could have, an answer-to-prayer child. As we passed through the security check and parted ways for our respective gates, the last words this biker lady said to me: “You are very lucky.”

On the flight home, I became aware once again that the treasure in this life has little to do with the accumulation of things, or the accolades of achievements from our talents. Not to brag, but my stellar list of abilities is most impressive: my deft, fine motor skills can change a diaper in less than five minutes; my acute intellect can still recite a good 25-plus state capitals; my bench press maxes out at almost over 100 pounds; and my tech savvy abilities continue to astonish the younger generations: “How do I take your picture on this phone when it keeps showing me…me?” The value of my life is not wrapped up in this remarkable array of abilities. The latest performance of my two grown-up children evokes reflection. Worth does not revolve around what I have or accomplish. The great wealth and joy of my life, which includes the paradoxical pain of departures, comes from the fact that I am loved.

Happy 29^th Birthday, Cocoa Bean.

 

 

Singing of the Birds

Grandpa would call my name in a booming voice, “Scott, come over here,” and with a strong grip, place a handful of coins in my palm. A nickel looked bigger than Grandma’s blue china dinner plate and had enough spending power to buy a full size candy bar, so a handful of change meant major league cash.

In a Columbia City Five and Dime store, a top shelf displayed a box with a cellophane window that housed two holstered, silver six-shooters with a cowboy bandana and canteen. Grandpa must have seen my fixed gaze. He pulled the twin irons off the shelf, and asked if I wanted them. I could not speak or move, but only stare in unparalleled wonder as Grandpa placed the treasured hardware in my hands.

Grandma made a matching cowboy outfit, and I felt like the two boys in Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath staring in the candy case, “—not with craving or with hope or even with desire, but just with a kind of wonder that such things could be.” Life for a six-year old cowpoke reached a glorious high noon. Instead of cattle, this cowboy herded turtles. Grandma wove nylon net around a coat hanger, and Grandpa tied it to a long piece of wood siding from the garage, and I had a terrapin catcher and spent the summer herding snapper, painted, and pancake turtles.

Grandma and Grandpa also had a full fridge with Neapolitan ice cream (chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry in a single carton) and stacks of bottled cola in their single car garage, which confirmed what I already knew—they were rich.

Grandpa and Grandma with their grandchildren at Tri-Lakes. Taken 1970, Grandpa’s last summer with us.

The cowboy life on Tri-Lakes did not last long. Grandpa had a stroke soon after my self-appointed election as Big Cedar Lake Sheriff. He never recovered. I got to visit him only once in the hospital and heard the strange words, “Grandpa is sick,” and felt the confusion as he no longer talked or acted like Grandpa. Two years later, he passed from this life. For his funeral, I served as an altar boy with my cousins, Pat and Danny. I could not hold back the tears (still have that problem) and my oldest cousin, Pat, put his arm around me and said we would get through the mass together. We did.

How soon such hallowed memories fade with the artificial invincibility and self-absorbed wanderings of the teen years. Dad gave me Grandpa’s golf club woods (Driver, Brassie, and Spoon), and without contemplating the meaning, I slung them into my golf bag and occasionally pulled one out with friends to tee up for the novelty: “Guys, check out this old duffer club.” Two decades later, with the maturity of age to see the sacred in common things, I took the clubs to Bobick’s Golf Inc., whose owner was a middle/high school classmate, and he restored them back to their original glory. As a gift, I gave them back to my dad.

A few summers ago at Deep Creek Lake in Maryland, Grandpa’s clubs reappeared at the family cottage in a special golf rack my dad built to display them. Seeing the clubs made me smile as big as a 1960s kid receiving a handful of change.

Next to the clubs, my dad placed a thick portfolio filled with congratulatory letters to Grandpa from his co-workers for his retirement in 1967, along with pictures and other mementos. I meant to browse through this album, but at the cottage when extended family get together, which doesn’t happen often enough, the time fills up with lake activities, and I’ve never gotten around to exploring Grandpa’s tribute collection.

This past summer, after my brother and his family left the cottage (vacations together end too soon), I stayed behind to sand and stain the decks and found myself alone for the first time at the lake. One evening I pulled down Grandpa’s album and read every letter, studied his job training certificates, and examined pictures I had never seen before.

One photo looked straight out the of the “Carpe Diem” high school hallway scene in the movie, Dead Poet Society: “Seize the day boys. Make your lives extraordinary.” Grandpa graduated from Central Catholic High School in Fort Wayne in 1922, and at 6’ 6”, a huge height for that era, he played center for their championship basketball team. I could not stop flipping back to this picture. Six strong, proud youth staring into the flash with their “1922 CHAMPS” basketball in front of them and a lifetime before them.

Reading over forty letters from friends and co-workers and absorbing the relatively few, but poignant pictures, I became aware of how little I knew my grandpa. He financed my early cowboy career, but as a child, I only saw him old, and not the self-assured young man in this 1922 basketball picture. What was he like as a teenager? What was he like as the father to my dad? How did the confident young man in that basketball picture become Grandpa? I worked through the archival collection and wrote down three pages of questions to ask Dad. I didn’t put the album down until well after midnight.

I spent the next three days having cell phone conversations with my father.

I left Grandpa’s senior year basketball picture at the lake cottage, but found this treasure from his sophomore year at CCHS in the Genealogy Department at the Allen County Public Library.

“Dad, I looked through the album you put together for Grandpa. He played basketball? I have a lot of questions…” I never considered Grandpa athletic (what child does?), but he must have been. If he had aspirations for sports, the reality of the era ended those dreams. Few went to college. The majority looked for work. Grandpa was no different. In 1923, the year after high school graduation, the center for the Central Catholic basketball team took a job at Fort Wayne General Electric on Broadway Street where he worked until his retirement 44 years later.

I asked my dad, “Did Grandpa work anywhere else?”

“No. In those days, if you got a job with a good company, you stayed there for life. Good jobs were scarce.”

In 1929, Grandpa married Grandma and the same year he buried his father who could not cope with losing everything in the Stock Market Crash that ushered in the Great Depression. I knew some of these stories, but now I wanted to know more. What happened to the Central Catholic High School senior in the center of that basketball picture?

“Did Grandpa ever get laid off in the Depression years?”

“He worked loading steel. G.E. cut hours, but not jobs, and I don’t believe your grandpa was ever out of work.”

Ironically, the build up to the war finally ended the Great Depression.

“During the war years, your grandpa never had a day off.”

“What? Not any weekends?”

“No.”

“Not the holidays?”

“No.”

This stunned me. Grandpa worked at G.E. every day, seven days a week throughout the war.

“Everyone worked. On Christmas Day, G.E. worked a half-day.”

“You didn’t get to spend much time with him as a kid?”

“No. He was always working. He had to. The sacrifice was made by every family.” My father spoke with no hint of regret. Those years were not lost or wasted, but spent serving in a conflict that bonded families and American communities together by duty and allegiance.

My dad called it the war effort.

I knew the term, but now it became real.

“Everything was scarce. Oil, tires, gas…sugar, lard, butter. Everything was rationed. No one kept lights on at night.”

Grandma had a Victory Garden in the backyard of 3506 South Harrison Street. Most of the neighborhood had them, all part of the war effort. Grandma would never frost a cake with more than paper thin icing. Living through the depression and the war kept her from such wild extravagance.

I could not wrap my head around Grandpa never having a day off, and like my frequent flipping back to the basketball picture, I kept circling back to this in my conversations with Dad.

“Scott… good jobs were hard to come by…opportunities were limited…as a supervisor, Grandpa had to be there…always working…”

Dad also mentioned the repercussions for those who stayed behind and the ill feelings felt by some families who lost sons. Grandpa was in his late 30s during the war, and men like him ran these production plants, “but some men came back with injuries, missing limbs, and resentments toward those who stayed behind…”

The scorch of war burns far beyond the battlefield into unexpected places and can sear long after the last fire ceases.

“Everyone made sacrifices and it didn’t end after the war as shortages caused demands, and soon after came the Korean War where your Uncle Jim fought, and in time, Vietnam…”

“Did you ever have a family vacation?”

“One.”

Dad was in 5^th or 6^th grade, and they rented a cottage on Sylvan Lake in Rome City. Dad laughed as he shared Grandpa getting sunburned when they spent an afternoon in a rowboat.

I didn’t know this. One week together? Only one? Yet, I knew Dad and Grandpa were close, and my dad reiterated this in our phone conversations. Grandpa couldn’t spend much time with his son, but he expressed love in other ways. I suppose my dad was like his father.   He raised me with military authority, and yet, he threw his arm around me often for a bear crunch and never hesitated to say he loved me. As a teen, I shrugged off such gestures, but they registered within. In our three days of phone conversations while I stayed at the lake, Dad mentioned that Grandpa was a hugger. My father learned it from his father and passed it on to me. Our family hugs.

My dad had placed his first set of golf woods next to Grandpa’s on the rack at the lake cottage. I asked if they golfed together. “Maybe a half dozen times.” By the time Grandpa could afford such a luxury, my dad was raising his own family and trying to establish a career. Dad followed in his father’s footsteps. He spoke of Grandpa with clear respect and candid affection. He understood Grandpa had to work. The times he lived in called for it.

Each generation has its own battles, but some live through and stand up to extraordinary adversity. My childhood visits to Grandma and Grandpa’s became fond memories, but I was clueless of the costs. As an adult, I never considered being the future generation of their patriotic toil, the benefactor of their protective care. I reaped the benefits of their unseen labor.

My grandparents’ small bungalow home on Big Cedar Lake is gone. Their huge willow trees have fallen and disappeared. Central Catholic High School is torn down. My grandparents are no longer with us, and yet, Henry Ward Beecher, an eloquent orator of two centuries ago, preached, “When the sun goes below the horizon, he is not set; the heavens glow for a full hour after his departure. And when a great and good man sets, the sky of this world is luminous long after he is out of sight. Such a man cannot die out of this world. When he goes he leaves behind him much of himself. Being dead, he speaks.”

The young man in the 1922 Central Catholic basketball picture with his life before him still speaks. I appreciate him more now than the kid sitting on the dock in the cowboy outfit catching turtles. Marred by family tragedy in his 20s, plunged into the Great Depression in his early 30s only to enter World War in his late 30s, and a few years after V Day, to have his eldest son march as a combat soldier in the Korean War, my Grandpa fought the good fight. He retired in the height of Vietnam. I’ve heard that the only truly great men are those who have children that grow up and call them such. My grandpa serves as a great example for a grandson who has never had to make such sacrifices. The letters in his portfolio describe a good man. I hope to follow in his steps.

In those 1960s summers, I loved sleeping on my grandparents’ porch and waking up to the singing of the birds. I connect with the Bible verse in Song of Solomon, the time of the singing of the birds has come, which reminds me of those mornings, and at times, I can still hear and smell the breeze rustling through the willows in their yard. Now I can add to those memories of Grandma and Grandpa. I can add the conversations I have about them with their son.

In our last phone conversation, Dad and I decided the next time he visits Fort Wayne, we will stop at General Electric on Broadway Street, and explore what’s left of it. We may attempt to walk through Building 4-6, where Grandpa worked—a place that housed a thriving community of men and women who have disappeared, but whose unseen sacrifice allowed my generation to enjoy what we have and gave us the opportunity to spend time with those we love.

 

Old houses were scaffolding once

                           and work men whistling.

— T. E. Hulme

 

“There has never yet been a man in our history who led a life of ease whose name is worth remembering.” –Teddy Roosevelt quote on Allen County Public Library main hallway wall

 

 

 

Monopoly, Settlers of Catan, and Beyond

To win at Monopoly one must become a slumlord. Whatever it takes—sweeten the deal with Twizzlers, negotiate making a BLT for Marvin Gardens, offer to jump fully clothed into the pool for Boardwalk—do whatever necessary to buy properties, build hotels, and win. A Monopoly board flying across the room means someone had a good game.

At five or six-years old, Cora received Junior Monopoly for Christmas. One evening, she asked me to play, but I had no interest in learning minor league Monopoly, until I opened the box and saw the familiar framework set to a carnival theme. Let the games begin. When Cora landed on the Ferris Wheel, a one dollar purchase price, I offered to give her two dollars for the ride.

“Yes! Thanks, Dad.”

I swallowed up the carnival rides and paid top dollar giving her double their value. She enjoyed receiving so much money.

“Cora, it’s not about me. I’m here to help.”

I soon owned all the commercial property and everything on the board, but rather than declare victory, I set a new, higher goal to acquire all the game money and build a financial empire. I allowed the daughter to borrow from the bank to pay her debts. At one point, she gave me a quizzical look and asked, “Dad, can I win?”

“Cora, all things are possible to those who believe. Roll the dice.”

Halfway through achieving my monetary objectives, Deb came home and looked pleased. She observed the yellow and green hotels on the properties and assumed (wrongly) in an even distribution of wealth among the players.

“Who’s winning?”

“Dad owns all the hotels.”

“What? But I see two colors.”

“Dad ran out of green hotels and had to use the yellow ones too.”

“But, Cora, you have so much money?”

“Dad let me borrow from the bank.”

My wife’s warm countenance turned to flame as her eyes flicked fire.

“Scott Mills!”

My six-year old daughter, who intuitively knew something ran amuck, turned on me as well, and she scolded, “Scott Mills!”

Mom pulled her daughter away from the negotiation table and they made their way into the kitchen disparaging my good name. “Can you believe your father!”

To celebrate my business savvy and parenting skills, I burst forth into song, a sweet ditty of victory, while putting away the game pieces.

John Ortberg wrote a book, It All Goes Back in the Box, in which he too played Monopoly and realized, in the end, everything we win, achieve, or accomplish all goes back in the box. Properties, titles, bank accounts—we don’t get to keep anything. Applying this fact to life should make us consider priorities. Stephen Covey said as much in his book, The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, with his 2^nd Habit called Begin with the End in Mind.

In February 2013, I visited a friend in the hospital whose priorities I want to emulate. We were camp counselors together decades earlier. I had not seen him in some time and did not realize the extent of his sickness. Before leaving, I asked if I could pray for him.  He sat up, turned toward me, and said I could pray for his children. He said if his kids were well, he was well.  I walked out struck by his words and determined to follow in his steps. A week later he moved beyond this place.

Last month, Deb and I spent a week at the University of Oregon to visit Cora and Brian for The Kid’s graduation, a Master’s degree in the fine art of writing. What struck me more than the impressive facilities and academic rigor of this neon green university was the community of friends Brian and Cora had made in the MFA program. The Kid let me tag along to parties, which I was more than happy to do. All writers, all gifted. In one get-together, I listened to a graduate explain her poetry in the context of Emerson and Kant.

“Uh, yeah,” said Cora’s dad, “You’re really smart.”

A week or two before our visit, Cora and her crew entered a local Battle of the Bands competition, which Mom and I viewed via YouTube. My wife watched in hopeful anticipation that our daughter had the pipes of Gladys Knight, and I got chided by the Mother Ship for saying, “Nicely done, buddy, but stick to writing.” Still, does anything compare to singing “Hey Jude” on stage with your peeps, in a band, in a bar, with supportive friends in the audience, doing the raised arm sway? The wonder comes not from the chorus of their dulcimer voices, but from their striking out together in a unified, grand adventure. G. K. Chesterton said anything worth doing is worth doing badly. I would add anything worth doing is worth doing together. In adolescence, friends are life. In adulthood, this priority tends to get brushed to the side. John Lennon sings we get “busy making other plans.”

At Beanie Bear’s commencement ceremony, one of the exceptional speakers adjured the graduates to sacrifice everything for their creative work. She shared that some authors were intolerable to be around, yet their books lined her shelves. I understood the context, but hoped she used overstatement to drive home the discipline needed in the profession. Good writing does not equal bad relationships. Prioritize both and sacrifice neither.

Life shared moves beyond bearable to worthwhile.

As a senior citizen, I started a surprise, new career teaching severe disabilities, which was motivated by the encouragement of a group of paraprofessionals and teachers. If not for their collaborative approach and we-are-a-team mentality, I could not have done it. I love these ladies, because they first loved me. I love the work, because I love the community of people with whom I work. Without them, I would not have made it. “No Man is an Island.”

I suppose writers take up the pen for personal enjoyment, but also so that others might read. David Foster Wallace said writers have fantasies about creating something that makes everybody drop to one knee. Emily Dickinson asked her sister to burn her correspondence, but she did not request this of her poetry, discovered in neat notebooks in her cloistered bedroom. I suspect she hoped some day her poems would find an audience. We write to add value to this world, to make a contribution. Friendship does the same. The influence is not as wide, but I contend much deeper.

My favorite contemporary poet is Joseph Mills, distinguished professor at University of North Carolina, Winston-Salem, who has published six volumes, won writing awards, and happens to be my brother. Given an opportunity, I will sound off and brag him up. I’m a fan. But his poetry and academic accolades would hold no value and little interest to me, if in our half century of family dynamics together, he was a turd.

He is an exceptional writer, but I’m biased to think he’s an even better brother. That makes all the difference. Writing lives beyond us, but so does the influence of our life and character by those who know us.

In Cocoa Bean’s growing up, every new phase of her life from elementary school to college, to graduate school, one common denominator stood out to Mom and Dad. We loved her friends. She always had great buddies, for which we gave thanks. How did this happen? How did she get so lucky with friendships?

Oscar Wilde said no good deed goes unpunished, but apparently he did not do enough good deeds or wait long enough to witness his words as untrue. We get what we give; we reap what we sow. Like yesteryear’s Grand Theft Auto Superbowl Coke commercial jingle, “You give a little love and it all comes back to you.” The nuances of meaningful relationships are multiple, but stated simply, to have good friends, be one. To be in good relationships, be good.

To learn the art of bad relationships, play Settlers of Catan. Ironically, almost every night during our Oregon visit, Cora and Brian’s friends came over for dinner and Settlers. Like Monopoly, the game requires quick calculations and good negotiation skills, but it also has a brilliant tactic that leaves the Monopoly icon-top-hat-gentleman in the corner sucking his thumb. Open deception, sure betrayals, clear lies are all legal and acceptable behavior. Alliances form, “He’s about to win, stop him,” and carnage ensues, “Cut off her roads, don’t let her build.” On the last night of our visit, with six students and one dad in the field of battle, my daughter doomed her empire by getting landlocked with no place to build roads, yet she held onto power by threatening like a medieval Eminence Grise to distribute her resources to whomever she fancied. She would determine the winner.

A cry went up from the field, “No. You can’t do that.”

“I can and I will,” as she slapped down her cards of Brick, Ore, Wheat, and Sheep for all to see and said, “Don’t mess with me.”

The humor in such imperialistic fervor and inappropriateness comes from the realization that these behaviors applied to real life may allow us to conquer material prizes, but will leave us dearly loathed and utterly abandoned to our valueless riches. In the banter of our Catan conversations, we recognized the Dark Side, so maybe this makes Settlers a good game. “Only try this at home.” In a game, it’s a comedy; in a life, it’s a tragedy.

I found it fitting that before the opening salvos of our last battle of Catan, we had too many militants (the pros around the table said no more than six combatants for a quality game), and so two delightful, young ladies deferred and teamed up together as one player. They kept quiet, comparatively, as the rest of us pillaged and plundered one another into oblivion. The two won as one. Seemed apropos. I love our daughter’s friends.

Last Friday evening, I attended my 8^th Grade Reunion. The social media phenomenon has allowed a couple dozen of us to reconnect. We mixed and mingled over the past 42 years. A bit surreal to see our middle school pictures as senior citizens. What did we talk about? Bank accounts, properties, acquisitions, degrees, titles? No. We shared about our families. We talked about classmates we loved who left us too soon. We laughed about good times together in youth. The stuff of life. The power of relationships.  Community.

Someday, the game will end, everything will go back in the box, and we will ask what Raymond Carver wrote in his poem “Late Fragment”

And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.

The Little One has grown up with wonderful friends, especially with her closest one named Brian, which will make for a wonderful life. And, if The Kid is well, all is well.

I did, too, Raymond.

 

Journal entry: May 17, 2000

Monday I picked up Cora at school. It was not a good day for me. Too many irons in the fire. I took her to the carwash to vacuum out my car. And as usual, she locked me out of the car—a couple three times. We fought with the vacuum a couple times. We had a great time, in the midst of a rotten day for me. She asked if we could play Putt-Putt. No way. I didn’t have time for that.

I looked at my daughter. Ten years old. Where did the decade go? In a couple years, she will not be interested in playing Putt-Putt with me. In eight years come this time, she will be getting ready for college and will be gone.

I called Debbie. We met together at 5:15 p.m. to play Putt-Putt.

The Princess Bride

Last Spring break, I boarded a plane to visit our daughter and her newlywed husband. Brian spent more than a few college breaks at our home, since his parents lived in Africa, and for the first time, I found myself heading West to be his guest.

I hadn’t flown in over a decade and kept my nose pressed against the window. In Seattle, the hike to my connecting gate stretched for miles, but I enjoyed scooting along the automatic walkways. I sprinted off the end of one to see what would happen to my legs and almost nosedived into the floor, but kept my equilibrium and remained upright. Good as running up the down elevator at J. C. Penney’s as a kid.

Anyone who wants snapshots of happiness should hang out at a major airport and watch people hug, smile, squeal (kids), and tear-up as they greet loved ones arriving off the planes. I should fly more often.

Bear hugs for Cora and Brian while quoting Lloyd at the airport in Dumb and Dumber, “Hey, how ‘bout a hug?” As we left the terminal, Cora jumped up into the driver seat of Brian’s monster pick-up truck, “The Boss”.

“You driving?” asked Dad.

“Yeah, what?”

The strangeness of sitting in the passenger seat as the little one rumbled down the road in their beast “Le Jefe” pick-up struck me. Everything changes.

Before heading to their home in Eugene, Oregon, The Kid and Brian took me urban hiking in Portland, the land of yoga, yogurt and a Voodoo Donuts line that stretched around the block and down the street like a Cedar Point rollercoaster ride. I discovered the parade of outlandish outfits were normal attire, but felt good with my one pair of blue jeans and one pair of shorts for the week—didn’t want to pay the extra $25.00 for a suitcase.

Every night, Brian and Cora served me a diet of Netflix’s Portlandia, and I fell for Carrie Brownstein, whom Rolling Stone magazine listed as the only woman in their Top 25 Most Underrated Guitarists of All-Time.

Every day became one that I wouldn’t trade. One evening we hiked together and sat on the top of Spencer’s Butte that overlooked the University of Oregon. Another day, Cora gave me a tour of the university, and showed me the office she shared with the other “second years.” One afternoon, we hiked to the Voodoo Donuts in Eugene and split a mutant donut the size of a major league baseball stadium where one needed a fork to eat it.

“Can I get a fork please? said Dad.

“We don’t do forks,” smiled the cashier dude in the Skeletor T-shirt, “We’re saving the earth one plastic fork at a time.”

We also ate at a never-to-be-forgotten greasy spoon “fish n chips.” Brian spoke truth; “open 24/7, seven days a week” and “a menu the size of a phonebook” may not be a good thing. The dive could have doubled as an auto repair and oil-change jiffy lube. We had to walk into the kitchen to use the restroom, and one could stir the clam chowder with one hand, and open the bathroom door with the other, or shoo away the flies buzzing above the encrusted chowder pot. I couldn’t stop laughing in the parking lot, until I wretched. Glad Brian cooked for us the rest of the week.

On Palm Sunday, after church we took our first trip to the Pacific Ocean. Once again, Cora grabbed the steering wheel because she said Brian drove through the mountains like a Formula 1 driver. Her driving reminded me of the Millennial Force at Cedar Point, and I held onto the handles above the passenger door and prayed.

As we curved through the mountain pass, I shared my one historic visit to the Oregon Coast. My family took an epic three-week camping trip across the nation when I was ten. I had a Sea Lions Cave banner on my bedroom wall for years afterwards. We also spent a day at a beach that had tide pools with sea creatures, all kinds of rock formations, and two monolithic rocks that rose out of ocean just off the beach. I met a kid my age and we spent the day climbing rocks, poking crabs and squishing sea sponges that shot spray back at us. I enjoyed recounting this visit to the captive audience in the beast pick-up not realizing I was in for a surprise.

Cora and Brian smiled as they pulled into Sea Lions Cave.   What? No way. How cool was this? We took pictures at the entrance. The moment seemed strangely remarkable to be back four decades later with a grown-up, married child. Reality hit though when the cost to walk down to see the seals rang up at $14.00 per person, so we loitered around gift store, asked for the free ice cream samples, and left for less expensive adventure.

My daughter and new son-in-law wanted to explore a new beach that a couple from their church suggested we visit. Sounded good to me. We circled around a steep curve and passed under a bridge into a parking lot located a fair distance from the beach. As we got out of the car I said, “Yeah, the beach my family went to looked something like this. Those rock formations out there look like the rocks on that beach.” We walk over the sand to the rocks, and as we got closer, I stepped into the Land of Oz, “Wait a minute. Hey, wait a minute. This is it! This is the place! This is the beach we went to 45 years ago!”

The strange convergence of yesteryear with the present made me feel like I walked into an animated Disney fairy-tale. This never-expected-return to a childhood Xanadu struck me as too twilight zone, yet here we stood. I texted a picture of Cora and Brian to my dad, and he remembered the name, “Heceta Beach.” I sent my brother a message to see if he remembered this place, but he was only five. He threatened to punch me if I ever wrote skip or frolic again. I may have gotten carried away in my description, expressing my wonder to him.

After the initial shock and jubilation, the annoyance of reality set in. Brian, unafraid of heights, leaped from rock to rock and vaulted from ledge to ledge. I tried to stay silent and not shout, “Be careful!” but as Brian bounced right to the edge of some high precipices, my parental mode took over, “Don’t give me another life memory from this place because of tragedy.”

I plodded below along the rock formations calculating each step before moving forward, and when the two of them peered over a ledge high above me, I yelled, “I’m not enjoying this,” which they graciously scaled back their exploring and helped me navigate down to level ground. I felt much better walking along the beach with them. Now I have two never-to-be-forgotten life memories from this mythical place, and I could not have had a better week with this wonderful couple.

I wrote a few years ago some thoughts about Cora’s second grade field trip called Mid-Life. This week reminded me of that experience. We want to hold on to our youth and not grow old; we want to hold on to our children and not see them grow-up; we want to hold on to life, but reality keeps changing on us. We wish the good moments could last forever or stay frozen in time, but they don’t. Everything changes. But I realized again that if I had my way and remained young forever, then Cora would not be in the picture. Staying young would have cost me the greatest treasure. And as a dad, my wanting to keep Cora locked in the castle was just a bad idea; I would have missed Brian. I would have missed this entire week with them, one that I would never trade.

Last month, I read a newsletter sent out by Brian’s parents, who serve as missionaries, and they mentioned their children, “Mark, Brian and…Cora.”

What?

But it is true, isn’t it? She was never ours to keep. Whatever we try to cling to, hold onto, we lose. But we won’t lose when we grow older, if we give away what we have. We won’t lose when we grow older, if we invest in others. Sooo, if Cora is their child now, then Brian is our child now too, right?

Cool.

Today, June 1, is the day of our daughter’s birth. With school out, she and Brian struck out for the coast. The memory of these two rocketing through the mountains like an Apollo Space Capsule gave me pause for prayer.  They will have a great beach day.  “Drive safe.”

A few years ago, as her 20^th birthday approached, on a cruise to Garrett for a Blue Moon burger, Cora shared in a melancholic moment that she had not yet done anything significant with her life. With great wisdom, I puffed something to the effect, “You are my son and the one true king. Remember who you are…you must take your place in the Circle of Life.”   I’m not sure if that helped out or not. But today, on this day of my daughter’s birth, I can say with indubitable confidence that she has achieved something of great and everlasting significance.

She married Brian.

And they have let me share in a few of their adventures—with new chapters to be written.

“This is true love. You think this happens every day?”

 

Senior Citizens

In a moment of teenage insanity, I called my mom and sister “goons,” when they couldn’t find my baseball mitt. Later that same day, after dinner, Dad announced he wanted to take a walk with me. Great. “What’s up?” said the son as they strolled down Indiana Avenue. My father’s eyes flashed and his voice thundered, “So, you’re mom’s a goon?” He kicked me in the seat of the pants so hard I could see Ohio, and at the apex of my ascent, I briefly viewed the waves hitting the surf on the East Coast. Like the teenage son in Little Miss Sunshine, I had a few maturity issues that needed attention and caused no little turbulence between us. Those days have long passed, for which we both give thanks. The roiling rapids of adolescence smoothed out into an easy flowing adulthood that we both enjoy.

The tension between Dad and me rose in part because he never acknowledged or realized my vast and superior wisdom of all the world. He had no clue. My sixteen year-old brain had more knowledge than he could possibly fathom. I understood all of life; he did not. Age obliterated my mythical teenage omniscience. Thank God. Looking back, I feel like Buzz Lightyear in Toy Story 2, when he wrestles another version of himself for the cool, new utility belt:

Buzz Lightyear #2: “Buzz Lightyear to Star Command. I have an AWOL Space Ranger.”
Buzz Lightyear: “Tell me I wasn’t this deluded.”

Time has a way of stripping away our grandiose self-delusions. The older I get, the less I know. Time allows us to see the flaws in our pathetic self-reliance. No man (or woman) is an island, but some of us need to age to understand this.

For a time, after my sister, brother and I grew up, my father’s work took him overseas to Edinburgh, Scotland. With a new baby, Deb and I decided not to visit the British Isles, and I saw Dad maybe twice in three years. In time, he opted to finish his career back in the states. Upon his return, the little Beanie, Deb and I travelled to Maryland for a week to celebrate his August birthday.

Dad and I hit the golf course for the first time in years. As a kid, he bought my first set of “Patty Berg” clubs that I proudly carted into my teen years. In those days, Dad could drive a tee shot 300 yards with a striking fusion of grace and violence. But as we golfed on his birthday week, the familiar velocity and whip in his swing had disappeared.

Orval Lund writes a poem, Wrist-wrestling Father, in which he reflects upon a number of his achievements from dining with a Noble Prize poet, to catching a 19-inch trout, to raising two fine sons, but he ends the poem with these lines:

Camping in Yellowstone. Didn’t get any better.

But I’ve never been more amazed
than when I snapped my father’s arm down to the table.

With my lifetime average fluctuating between a triple and quadruple bogey per hole, I did not beat Dad on the golf course, but for the first time, I experienced something new with him. I never saw it before. My dad, a bastion of strength and power, looked old. For the first time, my invincible father, showed the vulnerability that growing older extracts.

Time has no favorites and gives no exemptions. We don’t last. We all know celebrities who have sculpted their faces in an effort to stay young only to look like caricatures of their former selves. Attempts to hold back aging are like trying to stack water. Although I want to die young—as old as possible—no one can stop Time’s handiwork. Ironically, my epiphany with Dad on the golf course happened when he was only one year older than I am now. I don’t know which question strikes me deeper: how did Dad get there so quickly, or how did I?

Last fall, I became an official senior citizen and have followed in my father’s footsteps, “This includes the 10% senior citizen’s discount, right?” Like him, I intend to frequent restaurants, movie theaters, and elder-friendly establishments to take full advantage of my advancing years. I have confidence that my mid-life crisis of twenty years ago will not recycle, and like the measles, will not appear again. But where did the years go? Time’s subtle swiftness surprises all.

Dad and I still have a few golf games left in us, but I have to wear elbow braces on both arms to keep the tendonitis in check and gulp Ibuprofen between holes. As much as we try, we can’t stop the body from wearing out. The longing to fight against the reality of time appears to be a universal desire. Evolutionary adaptation doesn’t work here. We humans may acquiesce to time, but we never acclimate to it. To quote a former agnostic:

Not only are we harried by time, we seem unable, despite a thousand generations, even to get used to it. We are always amazed at it – how fast it goes, how slowly it goes, how much of it is gone? We aren’t adapted to it, nor at home in it. If that is so, it may appear as proof, or at least a powerful suggestion, that eternity exists and is our home.  –Sheldon Vanauken, A Severe Mercy

People may argue with Vanauken’s conclusion, but not too many honest souls will disagree with his premise that we don’t get used to time. If we could dip into Ponce de Leon’s Fountain of Youth, who would not take the plunge?

The writer of Ecclesiastes offers a similar consideration in an oft-quoted passage, “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). The next seven verses give fourteen contrasting inevitable experiences in a lifetime. The sixties band, The Byrds, recorded these verses verbatim in their song, “Turn! Turn! Turn!” which became a Billboard Hot 100 #1 hit with the pop chart’s oldest lyrics, Ecclesiastes 3:1-8. Most people, including The Byrds, stop at verse 8, but reading further reveals a significant insight. “He [God] has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart” (Ecclesiastes 3:11).

Perhaps, we cannot adapt to time because we are made for eternity. Time has limitation; we have a limitless bent. God has “set” eternity in our hearts. Time has a purpose. Ravi Zacharias says, “Time is the brush of God as he paints his masterpiece on the canvas of the human heart.” Time works as a servant for eternity, a tool to get us ready for the reality above, or what St. Paul calls, “the life that is truly life.” Age has a way of sanding off the rough edges, the delusional, if not caustic, arrogance of youth. Time gives us the opportunity to mature, to grow in grace, to learn character, and serves a greater purpose— to appreciate eternity. The moment will arrive when I exchange this newfound senior citizenship for another residence beyond this place. I’m in no hurry, but I anticipate seeing Dad’s youthful vigor return. Mine too. For now, in the meantime, I appreciate Ecclesiastes 3:11, “God has made everything beautiful in its time.” Does this mean the latter season of our lives can have beauty? I believe so.

For my last birthday, as a brand new senior, I received a card from Dad with a picture of a man cradling a newborn on his chest. The front caption reads: “Gone are the days when I carried you in my arms… (open the card) But I will always, always carry you in my heart. Love you, Son.” My father sent this with the help of Hallmark, but I have no doubt he meant the sentiment. How fast the years have gone. As a child, I still remember him holding me in his lap and singing two words, “My buddy, my buddy.” Yet, these last few years have been as memorable as the growing up ones. Probably better. I foresee our senior years together, without knowing how many are left, to be the best. I intend to embrace them and see what this autumn season with all its beauty, and all the discounts, have to offer. I hope the journey into senior citizenship lasts a couple more decades for my daughter’s sake. For Dad and me, time may soon sweep us apart, until we meet again as young men on the other side. For now, three words sum up my life with him: love you, too.

 

My Father’s Voice

I scuttle up the trunk
and straddle a branch. He
reaches. Hugging my frame
back to earth. I swing up
higher to witness his
steel arms once more, but the
game ends. I watch from on
high as the Titan strides
across the earth, casting
aside snow, and the ducks
who shared our lunch. He treks
to the distant speck, our
station wagon cruiser.

I clamp down to stay for
ever. He will not leave.
He will see the danger
of my frozen frown, my
cold strength, my icy stare,
my steel will, my power.
I will not be moved. No,
not until the world ends,
not until time ends, not
until a thunder rolls
above the firmament
across Franke Park pond
to one on a tree limb.

Scott! Get down. Let’s go. Now!