He loved the lake, and he loved the Cardinals. And he loved me so well.
I miss him a lot in the summertime. Baseball season.
Busch Stadium II. The Bottlecap. Baseball Heaven.
The seats were red and they were so hot in July. Yes, St. Louis is north of Arkansas and Tennessee, they get more snow in the winter, but it gets darned scorching hot in the summer. We had excellent seats, which meant we were very close to the 120-degree turf and there was no chance of shade. I was nine, maybe 10. I didn’t really care how hot it was. I made sure to sit next to him because I wanted to hear him explain what was happening on the field. He told me about throwing around the horn, taught me to fill out a scorecard, and corrected me when I got confused and wrote five instead of six for the shortstop.
I remember the loud “whack” that made me jump when Bob Gibson’s fastball hit Ted Simmons’ mitt as they warmed up before the game. We got there early to watch batting practice and get autographs and I didn’t want to miss one moment.
I watched Gibson warm up from about 10 feet away. I’m not sure how long I stood there watching, but I can’t imagine myself leaving that scene voluntarily. In the 1960s, there wasn’t an MLB At Bat app, nor a smart phone, so I found out that Gibson, my favorite pitcher, was taking the mound when we got to the ballpark.
That’s Hank Aaron kneeling on deck at Busch II
Dal Maxvill played a pretty good shortshop, but he could not hit. Steve Carlton still pitched for the Cardinals, and Joe Torre played the infield. The outfield was Brock, Flood, and Maris. Pitchers often pitched complete games, and no one talked about pitch counts.
Brock batted leadoff. When he got on base, Daddy would point to him and tell me to watch while his lead off first base grew until he finally ran, blazingly fast, to second base, safe, while the crowd roared.
Yes, it’s baseball, but it’s so much more — I know what it meant to him, and I remember how thrilled I was to share it. I think of the passions of mine that I’ve shared with my girls — some of them silly, and some important. We laugh at inside jokes, share funny stories and memories that others can’t appreciate.
I’m so grateful my Daddy shared his love for baseball with me, and for the many hours we spent watching, whether in St. Louis, or at home on our TV on Sunday afternoons. We always listened to the Cardinals on AM radio on the way home from the lake on Sundays.
Not too long ago, Jim and I were in the car while the Cardinals were playing. He was searching for the XM station where they broadcast the games. I told him, no, we had to listen on AM — the sounds I remember from my childhood, when I knew Daddy was at the wheel, the Cardinals were on the radio, and all was right with the world.
I attended a Catholic school in first and second grade, a perfectly fine school. However, in Jonesboro, Arkansas at that time it was the only private school, and 99 percent of all of the children went to the public schools in town. They were creatively named North, South, East, and West, and I desperately wished I could attend one of them. I hated being different.
Our Lady of Jonesboro Catholic School* was small, with only one class in each grade, taught by nuns from the adjacent convent. I can only describe myself as possibly the worst Catholic school student in history.
Each morning we went to chapel. Girls were required to wear a veil on their heads, and I was fascinated with the many different designs and colors available. My parents probably spent a fortune on them, because no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t keep up with a chapel veil to save my poor scatterbrained soul. Thankfully, our teacher, Sister Ann*, kept a supply of extras for girls who had no veils, but I’m pretty sure I depleted her stock a couple of times that year, which did nothing to endear me to Sister Ann.
Sister Ann just didn’t like me, no matter what I did — I’m pretty sure I knew that, even at six. She didn’t like that I couldn’t keep up with my chapel veil, and she didn’t like that I didn’t like milk.
After my first day of school at Our Lady of Jonesboro, I knew I was in trouble and that first grade was going to be a long year. Apparently Sister Ann thought it was very important for little first graders to drink their milk. All of it. And lunch came with one of those small milk cartons that sat squarely in the very special milk-carton-shaped space in the lunch tray. I still hate those things.
Sister Ann would stand at the cafeteria’s exit, next to the trash can where all of the good children threw their empty milk cartons. The good children would crumple the top of their milk cartons into the bottom, signifying to Sister Ann that it was empty. She would look at them and smile and nod as they threw away their empty cartons and ran out to play. Good, nice, milk-drinking children.
I knew I’d be in trouble if she caught me with a full milk carton, so I would wait and watch for her to become distracted, then bolt to the door, pitch the milk and leave. But more often than not I was stuck at the door with Sister Ann. She would pick up my milk carton, shake it, and send me back to my seat to drink my milk. No smile. No nod. I tried to bash in the top to make it look empty, but they don’t bash all that well when they are mostly full. Once I tried just telling Sister Ann that I didn’t like milk. I was sent back to my seat to drink it anyway.
I began to develop strategies for disposing of the milk. By the second week of school, it dominated my entire lunch, as I searched out other kids who might drink my extra milk. As my welcome wore out with one group, they would finally tell me they were sick of drinking my milk, so I would move on in search of true milk lovers. No time for socializing, I had work to do. I had to get rid of that milk.
Soon I got the idea to mix the milk in with uneaten food. This meant I had to leave food uneaten, so there were a lot of hungry afternoons in school. Spaghetti was especially good for soaking up extra milk, and the rolls looked good, but I only used them for milk sponges.
I realize how obsessive this sounds; but the fact that I remember these thought processes means I had far too much anxiety as a six-year-old. I spent my entire first grade year in dread of lunchtime. All morning I’d be sick with worry over how I would deal with the milk and avoid Sister Ann’s reprisal. Then after lunch I could relax, only to do it again the next day.
I’m not sure why I never told my parents about the milk anxiety; I’m sure they would have done something to help. They weren’t milk drinkers either, and my dad really didn’t think it was that good for you. But I didn’t tell, and I spent my first year of school unnecessarily miserable about lunch. I made few friends because I spent lunchtime table hopping to find takers for my milk. I probably didn’t learn a thing in the classes before lunch, preoccupied as I was by lunch anxiety.
I also remember feeling that I didn’t fit in; everyone else liked milk, why didn’t I? What was wrong with me? Sister Ann sure thought something was wrong. I remember wishing I could just like milk and be like everyone else. And I wished I could go to public school like everyone else, where I was pretty sure there wouldn’t be a Sister Ann.
I was thankful when the year ended, and even more thankful when my second grade teacher turned out not to be a nun, but a lovely woman named Mrs. Garfunkel* whom I admired greatly. And Mrs. Garfunkel didn’t care about milk.
This dumb little story tells me a lot about myself; it at least partially explains why I still feel like I never fit in anywhere. We never know the full extent of the demands we make on children, and the impact it can have. I’m not blaming Sister Ann for all of my issues, but in her stubborn insistence on my drinking milk, she planted a seed in me: that I was a screwup who couldn’t remember her chapel veil, and a bad girl because I didn’t like milk.
We never know what the children in our lives are miserable about and don’t tell us. But I think the lesson is that we need to be very careful that the hills we choose to die on are worth it. Sister Ann chose milk and chapel veils. And, partly because of her choice, there’s a 56-year-old woman who still doesn’t fit in. I wonder if she would think it was worth it.
*All names have been changed. This is not a smear piece, just some thoughts and insights I wish I’d had when my girls were six. Also, I have nothing against nuns, but Sister Ann was really just not a very nice woman.
Epilogue: I got smarter in the ensuing years. I didn’t like tomatoes either, and remember telling one of the counselors at church camp I was allergic to them. Much to my relief, they kept me far away from tomatoes the entire week. If I’d only known the word allergic in the first grade, my entire life might have been different.
Just yesterday, I marveled at the fact that I didn’t feel a bit blue this week.
The first two weeks in June are always difficult, as the anniversaries of two loved ones lost occur within days of one another; my sister-in-law (killed in a car accident June 9, 1999) and my dad (died of a sudden cerebral hemorrhage June 13, 1993). And this year, they fall in the same week, which culminates in the celebration of Fathers’ Day.
Yesterday I realized I hadn’t really felt the familiar sense of loss and heaviness that is usual for this time of year. I decided that maybe this year it had been long enough, and I was over it.
But it hit me between the eyes. Today. It’s not long enough.
Not long enough to lose the ache of loss, to stop thinking about the experiences we haven’t shared.
Not long enough to forget his nickname for me, his lovely white hair, or the wisdom with which he’d have helped us through difficult times.
Not long enough to forget her laugh, and the way she played with my young daughters, or to wonder how many selfies they’d have taken together.
Not long enough to forget how much he loved to watch the Cardinals play this time of year, and how thrilled he’d have been to know his two daughters saw them play a World Series game at Busch.
Not long enough to forget about the mother she would have been, the friend she was, and the sweet times she treasured with my mother.
Not long enough to forget what he taught me about love, that it isn’t dependent on how well we behave, what we wear, our grades, our jobs, or anything else … it just is. And when it is, it envelops us, holds us, cherishes us, sacrifices for us, and comforts us as nothing else can. It’s enough.
No, it hasn’t yet been long enough. And today I realized it won’t ever be long enough.
I’d rather feel the familiar ache and shed the tears than forget one moment. Because the memories are precious enough.
My mother is an incredible woman (This is not her arm). She’s a registered nurse, and was one of the first nursing instructors at Arkansas State University when the program was new. After she left nursing, she was a stay-at-home mother for many years, though active in the community. When the nest was empty, she enjoyed a second career as a real estate agent. She is smart and accomplished.
Mom despises tattoos, and she isn’t shy about sharing her opinion. Which is a bit inconvenient, as she has two daughters, a son-in-law, one granddaughter, and one future grandson-in-law who are People of the Ink.
Sometimes we get ideas stuck in our heads and can’t grasp that things change; or maybe we just can’t accept the changes. Maybe the perceptions are too ingrained. Or perhaps it’s just a personal preference. Of the (extremely) opinionated variety.
My mom isn’t alone; there are a lot of people who think ink is icky. I used to be one, until my daughter, Sara Ann, changed my mind. What I’ve realized is that most tattoos are deeply meaningful. I can’t imagine a person permanently putting something on their body unless it’s profoundly important. So the art that a person endures hundreds of painful needle sticks to etch upon their body forever says a lot about what they value and who they are.
Several months ago, we ate at a popular suburban restaurant and our waitress was a 20-something young woman with a large tattoo on her arm. It was colorful and the art was quite lovely, so as we were settling the bill I asked her about it. She explained that she had lost her mother a couple of years ago, and the design incorporated elements that her mother loved, and a butterfly that reminded her of her mother’s life and their relationship. Hearing her explain its meaning moved me, and I was struck by how much it comforted her after the loss of her mother.
I don’t imagine many people in this neighborhood love that tattoo, and I would bet there are a fair number of conclusions drawn about the woman, but I wonder if perceptions would differ if the meaning were understood. I felt differently about Sara Ann getting a dove on the inside of her wrist when she explained to me the significance of the dove with regard to her faith, and asked me to join her in the experience.
People of my generation (55 and up), ask before you judge. Young people express themselves differently than we do, and what you perceive as “gross” (I’m talking to you, Mom) is precious to another. When you turn up your nose at the art, you make a value judgement on something that’s just as meaningful to another person as your most prized family heirloom is to you.
It’s OK not to like tattoos, but try to appreciate the art and the meaning. Most tattoo artists are highly skilled, and worthy of respect for their enviable talent.
A friend once shared with me a quote from a former (well inked) pastor of mine, who said,
“Jesus has a tat … see Revelation 19:16: ‘On his robe and on his thigh he has this name written: King of Kings and Lord of Lords.'”
I’m thinking if it’s good enough for Jesus, it’s good enough for me.
My next bit of ink: A Cardinals bird on the bat, not just because I’m a fan, but in memory of my daddy, who taught me everything I know about the game, and with whom I shared many, many innings of baseball.
I dare you to judge that.
P.S. I’m not mad at my mom; there’s no family drama. No one is upset with anyone, and this isn’t anything I haven’t said or wouldn’t say to her face.
Stan Musial, the greatest Cardinal of all time, batting at the Old Timers’ game
My passion for baseball began at an early age and grew, as each year our family headed to St. Louis for a series, usually in July, which is just as miserable in St. Louis as it was in Arkansas. But I loved the Cardinals more than I hated the heat, and looked forward to the trip each year.
As I watch today, I realize how much the game has changed. I don’t mind most of the changes, but there’s going to be trouble in River City if the National League decides to implement the designated hitter. Here are a few things I remember from my younger days.
Pitching
It was not unusual for a pitcher to throw a complete game; in fact, I remember that being more of the norm than the exception.
There were starters and relievers; no one talked about closers or middle relievers, and certainly no one brought in a pitcher just to pitch to one hitter.
No one ever talked about pitch counts.
Nolan Ryan (California Angels, before they were called Anaheim Angels) was the first pitcher I ever heard of who threw 96 miles per hour, and it was. A. Big. Deal. I was glad he wasn’t in the National League, but curious to see what that looked like, so occasionally I’d tune in to an American League game.
Stadiums
A lot of them had names like Three Rivers, Riverfront, Candlestick Park, Shea, and Veterans, before the days of the ubiquitous naming rights. Of course, Busch was Busch even then, replacing the old Sportsman’s Park.
Ballpark food was hot dogs, ice cream and peanuts, cotton candy and sno cones. I don’t remember Bar-B-Q nachos or that fake-looking yellow cheese product.
Astroturf was a hot surface, so a field box at a day game in St. Louis in July meant you were going to be miserable. Except for the fact that you were mere feet from the field in Busch Stadium. They’d always tell the temperature, and then follow that with, “But it’s 120 degrees on the turf.” And probably about 110 in the field boxes.
Players
The great Hank Aaron on deck in St. Louis the year before he broke Babe Ruth’s home run record
Lou Brock and Bob Gibson were my favorite of all, though Hank Aaron was right up there with them. I remember one day being at Busch and watching Gibson warm up pretty close to where I was standing. I had never heard that sound so close up before; when the ball hit the catcher’s glove.
Al Hrabosky was so much fun to watch. He would have been a closer if he were playing today; he threw heat, almost exclusively fastballs. And he looked wild and weird and psyched the hitters out. Which is why he was always called The Mad Hungarian. He’s a Cardinal broadcaster today, and, although a lot of people hate listening to him, I love him. He reminds me of my childhood.
I saw Hank Aaron play at Busch the year before he broke Babe Ruth’s record. He had gotten pretty close that year, and we bought our tickets with the hope that we might see him hit one out. Sadly, he didn’t hit a home run that night, and ended the season one run short of Ruth’s record.
There was no such thing as Twitter; the only time fans had a chance to interact with players was before the game if you were lucky enough to have great seats close to the field, or organized autograph signings. No tweeting your favorite player or following the team via social media. Though I don’t imagine Bob Gibson would have been much of a tweeter.
Teams
There were Expos (Montreal), but no Nationals (Washington D.C.); Senators (Washington D.C.) but no Rangers (Texas); no Rays (Tampa Bay), no Mariners (Seattle), no Diamondbacks (Arizona), no Rockies (Colorado); the Brewers (Milwaukee) were in the American League and the Astros (Houston) were in the National League. And there were only 24 teams; six in the Eastern Division and six in the western division; no central. The Cardinals were in the National League East, along with the Mets, Pirates, Cubs, Expos, and Phillies.
Scorecards
They always gave out scorecards. My daddy taught me how to fill out the scorecard and keep track of the plays. I always started the game filling it out, then got slack as the game went on. I can’t remember the last time I was handed a scorecard at a baseball game, either minor or major league. I bet there’s an app for that, though.
Lights in Wrigley Field
I never thought I’d see the day, but Wrigley finally got lights in 1988.
One of These Days …
Someday I want to see the Cardinals in every National League ballpark; I’ve only ever been to Busch. I still get a little giddy walking into the stadium. Even though it’s not the same one I grew up going to each summer, half of the new stadium sits on the grounds of the old one, and they have markers to indicate where the old foul lines were.
I remember the bottle-cap stadium, the view of the Arch, and most of all, sitting next to my daddy in those hot red seats.
I’ve noticed for the past week or so that I’ve felt inexplicably blue. Even though they come around every year, somehow the anniversaries always seems to sneak up on me. In 1993, my dad passed away suddenly on June 13, and in 1999, my sister-in-law was killed in a tragic car accident on June 9. So, even though I know that early June comes after late May, somehow it always takes me by surprise.
It was 20 years ago today that my daddy passed away. Elizabeth was four-and-a-half and she was devastated at the loss of her Dada. They were so close, and even now, at 24, she has memories of times shared with him.
Quite the artist even at an early age, she drew a picture of her Dada “going up to heaven” for my mom, which years later we had framed for her at Christmas. When Elizabeth was little she would remember, “When Dada was still on land … ” and sometimes we still say that we wish he were back “on land.”
He’s been gone a whole lifetime now. Enough time for my girls to grow up to be adults without him in their lives.
Here are some things he’s missed; one for each year he’s been gone, in no particular order.
The Internet — He was a lifelong learner. I get my ability to teach myself things from him. He’d have been endlessly fascinated by the Internet.
Email — I’m guessing this would have been a bit like the telephone, which he hated. He answered it when he had to. I think he wouldn’t have been a huge fan of email.
The iPhone — He’d have been an iPhone user for sure and would have loved downloading apps.
Windows — I think he’d have ended up being a Mac user, but the computer he was using at the time he died was pre-Windows.
The comeback of Apple — He had a Mac in the `90s, but got the PC due to compatibility issues with software. I think he’d have definitely been a Mac user. After all, he was a Betamax fan.
All but three of his nine grandchildren — He loved them so much and truly delighted in them. He spent quality time talking to them and teaching them. It breaks my heart that six of my nieces and nephews never shared the earth with him.
School — He never saw one of them start school. He’d have been much better at helping with math than I was.
Teenage years — I’m not sure how this would have gone; I know he’d have rolled his eyes at MmmBop and Justin Bieber would have made him barf.
Driving — Even as an adult, I hated driving with him in the car; he would constantly criticize my driving. In fact, no one could drive as well as he could, in his estimation. I bet my girls would have gotten away with much more than I ever did.
Boyfriends — Not sure how well he’d have done with boyfriends, but he was a great judge of character.
Graduations — Tears.
College — Tears.
Weddings — More tears. Yes, he was a crier, just like me.
Cheerleading — I think he’d have enjoyed watching them compete, but he’d also have given me tons of crap for how much time it took and how expensive it was. Still, seeing his granddaughters on ESPN would have thrilled him.
The death of my sister-in-law — I think he’d have been a tremendous support for my brother in a difficult time, and would be thrilled that he found love a second time. But it would have devastated him.
My breast cancer and my sister’s melanoma — He’d have been strong and reassuring for us, would have researched it and provided knowledgeable and educated counsel and encouragement. And, in private he’d have cried his eyes out.
My career change (from audiology to online communications) — He’d have been fully supportive; he always thought I should be a professional editor and often gave me orthodontic journal articles he was working on to edit.
Proms — I think he’d have gotten choked up to see the girls all dressed up like that.
The girls learning to water ski — as much as he loved the lake, this would have given him endless joy, and he’d have been happy to spend days on end pulling them. He was especially good at dragging the rope right to the skier, so they’d have been spoiled.
Game Six of the 2011 World Series — Oh, how I wish I could have shared that with him. Not to mention the win.
The loss becomes less acute over the years, but the wistful feelings never quite go away. There’s always the wish that he could have shared in the joyful times, the craving for his comfort in the trials, and the desire for his wise counsel in the midst of important decisions.
If I could talk to him today, I’d say,
Daddy, congratulations on your 20th anniversary in heaven. I can’t imagine how awesome it must be. We miss you every day, think of you often and heed your wise words more than you ever knew we would. You were loved, respected, and revered by many, and, now missed by many. You wouldn’t believe how grown up the girls are, and how Little Tik and Teeny Tik (my spelling because this is my website) have grown up to be brilliant, beautiful young women you’d be so proud of. And Jim could really use your encouragement right now with this job thing, because it sucks. And, yeah, I know you’d probably say “potty mouth” for that, but, sorry, it just does. And, Daddy, our Cardinals are doing so great, and I remember everything you ever taught me, how you’d explain things as we watched. So now I explain them to Jim while we watch the games, like you did for me. And I’ve still never seen anyone hit for a cycle.
Most of all, even though I miss you terribly, I love you too much to wish you were anywhere but Heaven. Tell Stan the Man hi for me, ok? I’ll see you again someday.
My sister’s prized possession: 1946 Cardinal jersey, signed by Stan Musial, especially for Jason Motte
Stan Musial died today. And it made me cry.
Stan Musial, for those who aren’t baseball fans, is the greatest Cardinal who ever played the game. He played his entire career — 22 years — in St. Louis. His statistics are impressive, to be sure, as he was the consummate player. Off the field, he was reportedly humble, approachable, friendly and kind to all. He was married to his high school sweetheart, Lillian, who passed away in May 2012, for 71 years.
His accomplishments and his character were admirable, but that’s not why I cried.
My total obsession with love of baseball comes from my dad. I grew up on Cardinal baseball — Sundays we went to church, ate lunch and settled in to watch the Cards on TV. As we watched, Daddy would explain things to me; he’d point out the break on the pitcher’s curve ball, he’d get just a little bit giddy when Lou Brock took a big lead off first base, and he was always awed by Bob Gibson’s fastball. When we traveled, he’d search the radio stations until he heard Jack Buck’s familiar voice, then we’d settle in and listen, cheering and groaning as if we were there.
But Musial was his idol, his all-time favorite player. I think they must have been a lot alike; both married their high school sweethearts, both kind, gracious, generous and known as gentlemen with character above reproach. Musial retired in 1963, probably a couple of years or so before I started watching baseball, so I never saw him play. But I heard my dad talk about him so much I feel as if I did.
We met him once, at his restaurant in St. Louis, on one of our yearly baseball trips. We asked for his autograph, and I don’t remember much, but I remember how nice he was. And his sense of humor when my brother, then probably four or five, began to tear up the photo he had just autographed.
Sara in the Musial jersey and Robbie in Carlos Beltran’s All-Star jersey
This past November, Cardinal closer Jason Motte and his wife, Caitlin, held a benefit for cancer research, which we attended with my sister, her husband and their 11-year-old son. The silent auction featured many great items of sports memorabilia, mostly Cardinal-related. But the last item presented, the ultimate, was an authentic 1946 Cardinal jersey, signed by Musial.
When the Musial jersey came up for auction, I was not that surprised to see my sister’s hand go up, though the starting bid was more than she had said she’d spend. As the bidding became heated, her hand kept going up — along with my heart rate. She won the auction and the jersey was hers for far less here in Memphis than it would have sold for in St. Louis. Motte told us afterward that he went to Musial’s home to ask him to autograph the jersey especially for the event.
Brother-in-law Robbie, Cardinal closer Jason Motte, me, Sam, my sister, Sara, Jim with the Musial jersey
She felt, as I did, the connection with Musial through my dad. It meant more than its monetary value, it reflected a piece of our childhood, a legacy that we now share with our own children. As we all took turns trying it on, I imagined the smile that would have lit up my dad’s face when he took his turn.
So now I’m comforted by the idea that Daddy and Stan are talking Cardinal baseball in Heaven. And I’m sad about the loss of someone who impacted the life of someone I loved, and, therefore, my own.
Rest in peace, Stan the Man. And be sure and tell Daddy about the 2011 World Series.
Wearing his usual striped tie with the navy sportcoat over his shoulder
Today I think about my dad on the 19th anniversary of his passing. He taught me most of what I know about life, love and how to be a good person.
He also taught me 99 percent of what I know about baseball. I don’t even remember when we started watching games, I must have been six or seven, but I loved the time with Daddy and I loved sharing it with him.
I wanted to play baseball, but the closest thing to Little League for a girl in Arkansas in the 1960s was YMCA softball, so I signed up. The fly balls and grounders Daddy threw me in the front yard made me a pretty good third baseman and what he taught me about hitting earned me the cleanup spot in the lineup. I loved watching the outfielders back up when I came to the plate.
Every year we spent the better part of a week in St. Louis watching Cardinal games in person. I sat next to Daddy so I could listen to him talk about the game. He taught me to fill in the scorecard, told me about Stan Musial and how the catcher gives signs to the pitcher. We went early to watch batting practice and get autographs.
Sundays at home were baseball days; we watched on TV each Sunday after church and in the evenings during the week; we listened on the radio in the car on our way home from trips to the lake.
You can barely see the words “National League”
I’ve got lots of old baseball moments from the 60s and 70s — here are the highlights:
Watching Bob Gibson warm up, standing about 10 feet away. I still remember the intensity, the concentration, the sound of the ball hitting the glove at 90-something miles per hour.
Getting Lou Brock’s autograph
Catching a foul ball in the bottom of the second inning, after getting hit with a foul ball during batting practice
Meeting Stan Musial and getting his autograph (true to his reputation, he was kind and gracious)
Getting a photo of Hank Aaron looking right at me and waving, the year before he broke the home run record. Sadly, some idiot stole the roll of film from our hotel room.
Over the past two years, I’ve made some new baseball memories: last year’s St. Louis trip with the family, September’s amazing comeback, playoff race and the World Series. Game Six — enough said. And less than a month ago, a chance to see the World Series trophy at AutoZone Park.
When Stan Musial’s wife passed away recently, my first thought was, “Daddy just met Mrs. Musial.” I love the thought of him watching Game Six from heaven. And, boy would he have loved to see that trophy.
The last photo taken of us together – at an Easter egg hunt in my hometown, Jonesboro, Arkansas on April 10, 1993
About 17 years ago (June 13, 1993), my Daddy left this earthly life. Each year at this time I write about him and one or more of the qualities that made him the kind of man I want to write about 17 years after his death. This year, it’s idealism.
His idealism was best understood through the words of his favorite song, The Impossible Dream from his favorite story, Man of LaMancha. He first introduced it to me via the soundtrack recording on eight-track tapes on the way to our farm just outside the Jonesboro city limits.
At the time, I was too young to fully grasp the meaning, but I listened carefully and learned the words because I knew that for Daddy to let me listen to music that contained the words hell and whore, it must be very special.
Based on a book by Dale Wasserman, the play is about Miguel de Cervantes, an imprisoned novelist who defends himself by staging a play. The central character in the play is a country squire named Alonso Quijana, who might have rightly been called an early social justice advocate. His despair about oppression and evil in the world drives him to madness and in his mind he becomes Don Quixote of La Mancha, who fights to rectify society’s wrongs and bring about justice.
After losing a battle with a windmill, which he sees as a four-armed giant, he attributes his inability to conquer to the fact that he has never been properly dubbed a knight. As Don Quixote, he sets out with his servant, Sancho, on a journey in search of glory and knighthood so that he can fulfill his quest to conquer injustice. Along the way he finds himself at a small inn, in his eyes a castle. Here he encounters a band of rough, drunken men and several prostitutes, one of whom he comes to adore and admire as the fair maiden he see when he looks at her. The woman, Aldonza, is initially cynical but is won over as he sings to her of The Impossible Dream and joins him in his quest. (Read a full synopsis of the play here.)
Regardless of the writer’s intention, the message of the story communicated to me by my Dad was the beauty that Quixote sees in ordinary things and people devalued by society, the importance of fighting for truth and justice even when it seems impossible, and the idea that we are each called to do, sacrificially, what we can to improve the lives of others.
To dream the impossible dream
To fight the unbeatable foe
To bear with unbearable sorrow
To run where the brave dare not go …
And the world will be better for this
That one man, scorned and covered with scars
Still strove with his last ounce of courage
To reach the unreachable star.
— Lyrics by Joe Darion, full lyrics here
Today would have been my Daddy’s 75th birthday. I always write about him on his birthday and reflect on his impact on my life. One of the qualities he lived and taught by example is giving.
Many times after he visited, we would find a $100 bill tucked away in some random place with his business card attached, usually bearing a bad money-related pun. We would find it days — in some cases, weeks — later. The last one I found in the freezer, and it said hard, cold cash. Groan.
A year or so before he died, Daddy decided we needed a piano and asked my mom, who sold real estate, to split the cost. He contacted a musician friend of ours who knew my preferences and swore him to secrecy. One Saturday morning, after my parents had spent the night with us, a man in a large truck came to the door and asked where I wanted my piano. As much as I had wanted a piano, I thought it was cruel irony. Until I saw the devilish grin on my Daddy’s face.
His lesson for us was that the kind of pure giving that the Christian life calls us to does not depend on the gratitude or perceived worthiness of the recipient; it does not require — and often avoids — recognition and seeks no reward other than the sheer joy of the giving.
Twice each year I get very sentimental about my Daddy; the week of the anniversary of his death and on his birthday, October 4. He died June 13, 1993, after a sudden, completely unexpected massive cerebral hemorrhage. Before that day his health was perfect, he was an active man, an avid golfer and led a life devoted to God, family and community.
An accomplished orthodontist, he was known for his research, admired by his students in the orthodontic department at the University of Tennessee in Memphis and loved by the patients he saw in his Jonesboro, Arkansas practice. As president of the Jonesboro Rotary Club, he was deeply involved in the community and after his death the Club named their most prestigious award after him, the James F. Gramling Service Above Self Award. He taught orthodontics in various places around the United States and abroad and published in professional journals. He had an impeccable sense of personal style, elegant and classic; much like a Brooks Brothers ad — blue blazer, well-cut gray slacks, starched white shirt and striped repp tie.
He was Dr. Gramling to some, Jim to many, Jimmy to my mom, Sonny to family and childhood friends and Dad to me. I remember him best driving the boat at the lake wearing this goofy baseball hat, which I still have. Though he taught hundreds of orthodontists in his career, I value the most the lessons less well-documented: the way he explained the early-morning dew on the grass to his granddaughter (my oldest daughter) Elizabeth, how he taught her to shop at Wal-Mart (never buy the one in front) and the grace, kindness and generosity he modeled for us all. He had the spiritual gift of wisdom and I cannot count how many times since he’s been gone that I’ve needed that wisdom.
After 16 years, I can look at photos of him, like this one, and smile and remember. I can watch a video and hear his voice and it doesn’t rip me apart from the inside out. Though there are still tears, it’s not overwhelming grief, but gratitude that, for far too short a time I got to know him and be loved and mentored by him.
One of the last photos taken of my Dad; Jim took it in the backyard of the house I grew up in, probably in late May 1993; they were cooking on the grill, which is why the dishtowel is slung over his shoulder.
The most important thing my Daddy taught me: grace
The Oxford American Dictionary defines grace as:
Simple elegance or refinement of movement,
(in Christian belief) The free and unmerited favor of God, as manifested in the salvation of sinners and the bestowal of blessings.
A divinely given talent or blessing
The condition of being favored by someone
My Dad had grace in all its meanings. He moved gracefully, both physically and socially. He swung a golf club with grace and practiced orthodontics with grace. When he drove the boat, he could bring the rope right into the hands of the skier without missing a beat.
He loved to learn and schooled himself thoroughly on a variety of subjects; it’s hard to imagine that he never knew the Internet, never had an email address.
He loved most music, especially classical, and amassed an enviable collection. Among his favorites were Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 6 in B minor, Pathétique, Op. 74, The Impossible Dream, from Man of LaMancha and his favorite hymn, When I Survey the Wondrous Cross.
He had a nickname for each of his patients and always remembered it. A handsome, well-dressed man, he could move easily in the most sophisticated social and professional circles, yet he could truly relate to and be accepted by those in the most humble of circumstances.
He wrote beautifully, was an accomplished and poised public speaker, he sang beautifully and just about the only thing at which he was not particularly adept was resealing a zip-top plastic bag.
His faith was profound as anyone I’ve ever known, yet as simple as a child’s. He knew that it was not our own goodness or our compliance to a set of rules that earned our place in heaven. If we could earn our own way, it would only give us cause for pride and arrogance. With a burning passion he hated the legalism that so many are willing to accept as a counterfeit for grace. Though they frustrated him, he felt for them, as he knew they would never know the true peace of the Father’s agape love.
When we chose his epitaph, we decided on one simple word — one word with several meanings that represented every facet of the life he lived on earth: grace.
