Blue

Blue


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.

The Meaning in the Ink

The Meaning in the Ink

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.

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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.

Letting Go — and Letting Go for Real

Letting Go — and Letting Go for Real

Throughout our girls’ college years, we moved each of them at least three times. From home to dorm, dorm to apartment, and from apartment back home.

Today our oldest, Elizabeth, 25, moved again. This one is for real.

In fact, as I write this, she’s driving a U-Haul, towing her car, somewhere between Birmingham and Atlanta, on the way to Charleston, South Carolina. Which in and of itself is a major Mommy Freakout Moment.

But amid the anxiety is a swell of pride and a sense of excitement for her. She left our nest years ago, but today she flies far away.

Her move reminds me that our primary job as parents is to equip our children to live independently, and to prepare ourselves to loosen our grip as they pursue their dreams.

The hardest lesson for parents to learn is to hold our children more loosely with each passing year. The times we most wish to wrap them tightly in our arms to protect them from harm and struggle are the times it’s most essential to let go. It’s not easy. But I choose to be thankful — and a little proud — that we’ve raised a strong woman who can handle this challenge.

Elizabeth, a three-time marathon runner, ran the last 10 miles of her first marathon after badly spraining an ankle. Rather than quit, she kept running through the pain, and completed the race with a more-than-respectable time. She knows how to gather her strength, but rely on her faith to see her through adversity.

Not far from Aniston, Alabama, the U-Haul truck blew a tire. Every woman’s nightmare is to be stranded alone at night on a highway with car trouble, but Elizabeth kept her head, called for help, and is now on her way again, frustrated at the loss of travel time. She is strong and determined — she is not patient.

As difficult as it is to watch our children take risks, the rewards of watching them face uncertainty with courage as they run toward their dreams are manifold.

I’m letting go for real this time, and I can’t wait to see what happens next. Look out, Charleston!

Hold everything in your hands lightly, otherwise it hurts when God pries your fingers open. — Corrie ten Boom

Being and Becoming

Being and Becoming

happy-birthday-feature

It’s weird when my birthday is on Thanksgiving Day.

My birthday is the one day each year when I give myself permission to be a little selfish and indulgent. I get control of the remote, choice of meals, and I don’t do dishes, laundry, or any other housework. I love reading the birthday greetings on Facebook, but give myself permission not to do any work. My mom makes homemade chicken and dumplings for me and my entire extended family gets together for a big meal.

I hate how this sounds, but the truth is, my birthday is about me.

Thanksgiving is about everything but me. It’s about being thankful for how richly I’ve been blessed; beyond what I need, what I deserve, or anything I’ve earned. The good things in my life have nothing to do with any goodness in me; they are all gifts that God, in His generosity, has bestowed on me.

To consider Thanksgiving on my birthday is a bit like Dr. Doolittle’s pushi-pullyu, a “gazelle-unicorn cross” which has two heads (one of each) at opposite ends of its body. When it tries to move, both heads try to go in opposite directions.

It’s tempting to think about gratitude in the days and weeks that lead up to Thanksgiving Day, forget about it in the Black Friday madness, and wrap ourselves up in Christmas preparations. Birthdays don’t give us that option.

Yesterday was my 55th birthday. I’m still 55 today, and I’ll be 55 until I’m 56 this time next year.

I also hope that I’ll be just as grateful throughout the year as I have been for the past few days.

My birthday isn’t about being 55 for a day; yesterday I became 55.

The dictionary definition of become is

to come, change, or grow to be.

I hope that through my 55th year, I will continue to grow to be more grateful for the extravagantly blessed life I enjoy. I hope I’ll think more of others and less of myself, and that by the next birthday I’ll be less focused on my own comforts and pleasures and more resolved to improve the lives of others.

Not just to be grateful, but to become grateful.

Morning By Morning

Morning By Morning

Tuesday, February 19, about 8:45 a.m. Just a bit more than nine months ago.

I was about to leave for work when my phone rang. I recognized the number as Jim’s old cell number and wondered why on earth he was using it to call me.

The answer came when I accepted the call. His work cell phone was no longer his, nor was his office. The CFO had informed him that due to a reduction in force (RIF), his position as vice president, software applications, was being eliminated. Along with 24 others, including one additional vice president, he was ushered out of the building by security and told to return on Saturday to clean out his office.

Somehow we both managed to get in touch with our girls, our families, and others who needed to know. I decided to stay home from work that day just to be with Jim and offer support. But there was no need.

Jim wasn’t coming home just yet. He had already planned two coffee dates with people from his network and would visit several recruiters before the day was done. When I came home after work, our dining room had been converted to what we jokingly referred to as The Office of Transition. The centerpiece was replaced by an aging iMac, and the table was already littered with papers, business cards, notes with phone numbers, and numerous unfamiliar items that had formerly lived in his office. By the end of the first week, he had already found several good job leads in Memphis. Not bad for an introvert.

The higher you go in management, the fewer positions are available, and we knew this would be a long process. After a few months, we prepared ourselves for the possibility of moving away from Memphis for the next opportunity.

We decided to think of it as an adventure in empty nest living. Maybe we’d live in a small miniscule downtown condo in Chicago; a rambling stony house with a beautiful pool in a Houston suburb; Minneapolis, where we would finally get enough snow for my taste; a home within walking distance of the beach in Jacksonville, Florida; or maybe in a city like Roanoke, Birmingham, Atlanta, Louisville, Nashville, or … St. Louis. I could almost hear the crack of the bat in Busch Stadium, where we’d have season tickets.

Having Jim home each day was new for me, and we began to develop routines. In the late afternoons, we’d both take a break and watch Gilmore Girls together. Some days I’d work from home and we’d head to the patio to work and enjoy the outdoors. Many mornings he made coffee, and I loved waking up to the smell. We counted the days until the opening day of baseball season, and the Cardinal games meant we always had something to do in the evenings. When Sara Ann moved back in with us, he was here to spend time with her and help her move, and he enjoyed taking walks with the dogs.

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There were times that it felt like too much, as if the house would fall on us and we’d be left standing in the midst of fallen walls and shattered windows. When our girls were small and they were afraid, I’d tell them that nothing is as scary as God is strong. In their childlike faith, those words were comfort; in our adult doubts and fears they brought peace as we realized we were not alone. Over these months we were reminded that faith is more than just church on Sunday morning and a check in the offering plate. We learned anew that beyond every disappointment there’s a bit of new wisdom and that God is always, always faithful. I knew I’d grown when, after a particularly difficult no on a potential position, I realized I wasn’t upset or angry, but confident that the right opportunity would come, and excited for something better that must be in store.

From the moment I caught my breath after that phone call in February, our faith gave us an underlying peace, as we knew that God was with us, He was in control, and that the important things in our lives are not things. As the hymn reminds us, morning by morning new mercies I see. And we did. Some large, some small.

Jim’s old iMac, which should have long since stopped working, is still going, though frustratingly slow. His car needs $1200 worth of work, none of it critical, and will likely be done by whomever we sell it to after the holidays. My freelance work picked up so much that for a while I had no downtime. We were taken to dinner too many times to count, and spent long hours lounging in my sister’s pool. In May, my mother treated me to a incredible trip to New York, and in October my sister and brother-in-law took me to a World Series game in St. Louis.

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Family “picnics” after church in a meeting room we borrowed. Some of the best-tasting
peanut butter & jelly sandwiches ever.

But most of all, God gave us four seasons of faithfulness: spring flowers, home-grown tomatoes, beautiful sunsets, cool breezes, and fall leaves of every color. There is nothing that He cannot use for good, and He has outdone himself in our lives. Growth and learning always follow adversity, and to have faith is to be assured that divine good will ultimately outweigh earthly struggles.

The happy ending

Last week, Jim began a fantastic new job at a Memphis-based company. It’s essentially a raise, a promotion, and carries the added perk of an I-240-free commute each morning. Next week I’ll celebrate my 55th birthday. Yes, in my kids’ eyes, and probably many of yours, that’s old. But I like to say that no cancer survivor ever complains about getting older. Each year is another year of life that cancer didn’t take away.

Another year of wisdom — and 365 more days of new mercies.


Other posts I’ve written about these nine months:

Funk.

Funk.

Funk has at least three meanings: it is defined as a genre of music, a foul smell, or a dejected mood. I’m kind of familiar with the first definition, all-too acquainted with the second (we have dogs, remember?) and am currently experiencing the third.

I’ve thought twice about writing about this, because I like to stay positive, I try not to moan about my (mostly first-world) problems, and, as a person of faith, I sometimes expect myself to be brimming with joy at every moment.

That’s a load of crap.

We all have adversity; Jim and I, like everyone else, have endured our share, from serious illness to loss, and, now, unemployment. And though I do have an underlying peace, that doesn’t mean I feel like smiling all the time. In fact, recently I haven’t felt like smiling at all. I’m seriously bummed out for three reasons:

  1. Job. Blah, blah. Jim hasn’t found anything yet, which isn’t surprising or even particularly concerning. He’s at a higher level than he was last time he searched for a job, and those jobs are harder to come by. I know he’ll land somewhere awesome. I’m just ready for it to happen. Now. It’s hard on him not to have an office to go to every day — somehow, the Office of Transition (aka, our increasingly cluttered dining room) just isn’t the same.
  2. Stress. He’s stressed, I’m stressed … everyone knows about stress. I find myself much more easily overwhelmed these days, and it gets worse when things pile on. Having to put Molly to sleep, a stupid branch that fell on our roof and cost $200 to remove, and the computer Jim uses, which is much better at displaying the spinning beach ball than loading a Web page; little things, big things, medium-size things. They all add up to make us want to scream.
  3. Pain. I’m not just talking about psychic pain, though there’s plenty of that. I have a long-standing herniated cervical disk that has begun to bother me again. And by bother I mean torment. It’s nearly impossible to sleep because every position hurts, and it’s torpedoed my summer running program. Lack of sleep brings irritability, inability to focus on a task, and discouragement at my low level of productivity.

I share all of this to say that sometimes we need to trust others enough to be transparent, to be real, to stop saying, “I’m fine” when we’re really not. I have people in my life who like/love me whether I’m wearing my happy face or not, and if you’re one of those, I’m grateful. If you’re not, well, you probably stopped reading at the third definition of funk.

OK, the thought vomiting expression of frustration is over now. I realize and appreciate how blessed we are to have amazing supportive friends and family, not to mention faith. I think otherwise we’d have both lost it for good by now.

This past Sunday we were at an outdoor event, and after a brief summer thunderstorm, there was a lovely rainbow, which I realized only comes after the rain.

We’re still standing. And if you made it this far, you’re awesome. Thank you.

What Baseball was Like in the 1960s and 1970s

What Baseball was Like in the 1960s and 1970s

Stan Musial, the greatest Cardinal of all time, batting at the Old Timers' game

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

1973-hank-aaron-on-deck

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

cardinal-scorecard-19731-300x380They 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.

RIP Sweet Molly Girl: 14 Years of Love

RIP Sweet Molly Girl: 14 Years of Love

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In happier days — she loved playing with this foam football. She’d bring it to us over and over until we got tired of throwing.

One of the worst things about being a grownup is having to do hard things.

With "little sister" Gracie napping on her back. I think she liked it.

With “little sister” Gracie napping on her back. I think she liked it.

We did one of those things today. Our beloved 14-year-old yellow Lab, Molly, had to be put to sleep. She has been part of our family, a loving and dear pet, since about 2000. Both girls grew up with her and remember her as a bouncy puppy. Watching her, knowing the pain she was in was heartbreaking for all of us.

We knew it was the right time, but it was a mere eight months ago we lost our sweet Gracie. And, even though we remain positive, with Jim still in job transition, it was almost too much for us to handle.

I struggled with guilt; I would look in her eyes, so trusting, and wonder if she knew what we were about to do. But thinking of her suffering was the difference. You cannot love someone — even a dog — and want them to suffer. And to allow her to continue in a life with no quality would have been cruel.

molly-charlie-pogo-380x380Both of the girls came over and said “Goodbye” to her, with hugs and tears and memories as they saw her for the last time.

A couple of weeks ago, we were at my sister’s house in Arkansas. Sitting in her pool, she mentioned Molly’s condition. While we knew that it was inevitable, sometimes you just know the limits of what you can bear and I told her so.

So Sara, my sister, offered to take care of it for us, to actually take her to the vet. That was today.

I’ll miss seeing her, even if the last few weeks, she’s mostly laid on a towel on the kitchen floor. I’ll miss watching her chase and retrieve the foam football and bring it back to us to do it all over again. She was calm and quiet and a sweet presence.

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It’s not easy to get a photo of four dogs together. You can barely see Charlie behind the patio chair, but I promise he’s there.

This week has been extra hard; knowing what was to happen, anticipating the loss, all the while knowing it was necessary. Even knowing something is the right thing, that it’s best doesn’t make it easier to bear.

Real love is doing what’s best for someone else even when it hurts. Even when it puts you on the verge of tears and makes you pretty much cognitively impaired for the better part of two weeks.

Jim with Charlie (left) and Molly at the lake house in the summer of 2010

Jim with Charlie (left) and Molly at the lake house in the summer of 2010

Several days ago, a pastor friend of mine reminded me there is theological support for the fact that we’ll see our pets in Heaven. I find it comforting that I’ll see her again, and when I do, Gracie will probably be napping on her back.

Rest in peace, sweet girl. You were loved, you were cherished and you are missed.

On the Occasion of His 20th Anniversary in Heaven

On the Occasion of His 20th Anniversary in Heaven

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Daddy and Jim were always talking about camaras.

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.

  1. 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.
  2. 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.
  3. The iPhone — He’d have been an iPhone user for sure and would have loved downloading apps.
  4. 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.
  5. 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.
  6. 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.
  7. School — He never saw one of them start school. He’d have been much better at helping with math than I was.
  8. 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.
  9. 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.
  10. Boyfriends — Not sure how well he’d have done with boyfriends, but he was a great judge of character.
  11. Graduations — Tears.
  12. College — Tears.
  13. Weddings — More tears. Yes, he was a crier, just like me.
  14. 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.
  15. 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.
  16. 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.
  17. 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.
  18. Proms — I think he’d have gotten choked up to see the girls all dressed up like that.
  19. 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.
  20. 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.

Love, Tik (With a K, you know)

Social Media, Tornadoes, and Sirens

Social Media, Tornadoes, and Sirens

I admit I’m particularly freaky about thunderstorms, and when the tornado sirens go off, my blood pressure tends to rise
precipitously as the barometric pressure falls.

I was raised in Jonesboro, Arkansas in the 1960s and `70s. That was during the time that CB radios were the rage and Jonesboro was referred to as “Tornado Alley.” As in, “Yeahhh, I’m headed up ‘ere to Tornaduh Alley to git some dinner.” Not everyone in Arkansas talks like that, but some do. And most of them used CB radios in the `70s.

Jonesboro Tornado 1968

So one night — it was May 15, 1968, the weather got really bad. I mean bad. And in 1968 in Jonesboro, there were no tornado sirens. We knew it was storming, but there was no Dave Brown, no polygon, radar, or sirens. But my daddy had taken flying lessons and from that, he knew enough about the weather to know that when the lightning is constant, it’s time to hit the basement.

So we did. I remember how loud the wind and the thunder were, and how scary. I had read in my Encylopaedia Britannica that you should be in the southwest corner of the basement, so I was nervous that we were in the wrong corner. Mostly I was just scared out of my 10-year-old wits. I knew if Daddy was scared, then it was really, really bad.

It seemed like we were in the basement forever. The next day, Daddy and I drove around town and I saw houses completely gone, with nothing but the foundation left. I saw weird things, like one roof sitting on top of the neighbor’s house, or a house with nothing left but the front steps and a toilet, and I couldn’t believe the devastation. Then I heard that 34 people had been killed. From that time on, I was terrified of thunder and lightning.

Again in 1973

It happened again in 1973. There were three people killed this time and even more property damage than in 1968. It completely destroyed the high school, so when I started high school, it was at the fairgrounds in a portable building. The band and choir met at a local church, and everyone drove back and forth. It was my junior year when the new high school was finally finished and we left what had come to be called “Heifer High.”

social media and tornadoes
Our high school, destroyed. Photo: Jonesboro Sun, 1973

I guess the images and the memories stuck with me, as I tried to protect my girls when the sirens blared. They have spent entire evenings in our small half bathroom (our only inside room). I tried not to scare them, even as they complained about being in the bathroom, but I wanted them to be safe.

Still today, I text them when there’s a weather warning, just to be sure they are watching and that they are on the ground floor somewhere.

Experiences like tornadoes shape us forever. I’ll never forget our friends who lost their house. And the fact that if their son had been home in bed, he’d have probably been killed, as his room was blown to pieces. I’ll never hear thunder that I don’t jump, or a tornado siren that I don’t have the impulse to take cover, even if it’s not a real threat.

Perhaps irrationally at times, fear persists in the absence of a real threat, because of the memory of the threat. It has abated a bit through the years, but it’s still with me. I can’t go to sleep until I see on the radar that the storm has passed and only rain remains.

Thank Goodness for Social Media

So I thank God for Twitter’s #memstorm hashtag, which makes me feel like I’m not alone when I’m crouched in the half bath. For the social media community that cracks jokes, sends updates about the weather in other parts of town, and just generally comforts me.

Thanks, Twitter for being there for this neurotic, storm-phobic old lady. And always, always respect the polygon, y’all.

The Last of New York. And Home.

The Last of New York. And Home.

I shot a bit of video with my phone throughout our trip and sort of mashed it together here. (Remember, I’m not a video expert. I just have an iPhone and iMovie.)

Sunday brought steady rain and cool temperatures, so Mom just decided to hang in the room before we went to brunch. Determined not to waste a moment of my waning time in Manhattan, I decided to walk five blocks to NBC Studios and visit the observatory at the top on the 67th – 69th floors. It rained on me the entire time, and by the time I got there, my feet, shoes, and pants were soaked. Which is miserable. And for all that, this is the view I got. I know.

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Since the view was a bust, I decided to at least walk through Rockefeller Plaza

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Times Square in the rain

I’m really sort of glad it rained, as this made it much easier to leave. I felt bad for all the tourists making their way through Times Square; it was a sea of umbrellas and not easy to get around. As my mom would say, “Someone’s gonna lose an eye.”

I end with this photo, because this dinner was the best sendoff on the eve of our trip; we had a great time together, and it’s even OK to leave New York with these folks to come home to.
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New York City: Ground Zero, The Village, and The Flatiron

New York City: Ground Zero, The Village, and The Flatiron

It’s hard to write about Ground Zero.

Like most of you, I remember exactly where I was when I heard. Here at home, getting ready to take Sara Ann to school.

Elizabeth was already at school, as middle school started at 7:15. Jim was out of town — in Connecticut, actually — and my mom was staying with us, because I hated staying alone.

Mom was upstairs on the treadmill and I was in the den watching the Today Show. We both saw the first plane hit the tower at the same time — I heard her scream from upstairs.

I really didn’t want to take Sara Ann to school that day, but thought it would be better for her to keep a sense of normalcy. Which was fine, until I heard on the radio that another plane hit the Pentagon just after I dropped her off.

So, 12 years later, I’m standing in the shadow of those where those towers once stood.

Security is very tight while the Memorial is under construction. Almost like airport security. I’m told that it will be open to the public from all sides when the Memorial is complete.

Tight security

Tight security

When you are standing in line, you see these signs that remind you of the solemn nature of where you are. That the place where someone may have died is sacred ground. I needed no reminder.

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Now, we’re inside the Memorial site and I’m running my hands over the names etched into the railings on the north pool. In the very footprint of the buildings that fell. I cannot help but look up, far into the sky, where 12 years ago, husbands, wives, mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters, realized there was no escape. Where first responders witnessed the horror and walked up the smoky stairs instead of scurrying down to safety. My mom talked about how she ran her hand over each of the names and prayed for the families. I thought that was fitting.

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Then she reminded me about the survivor tree, which was salvaged from the wreckage of the towers, nursed back to health and replanted on the grounds of the memorial. A living tribute to the fact that this city, this country, will mourn its losses, but it will ultimately survive.

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After some time, I sat down to rest my tired feet. As I looked up at the beautiful new tower under construction, I noticed that every few minutes, an airplane was reflected in the building’s exterior. It’s small, but you can see it if you look closely, and, for me, it was haunting.

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If you’re anywhere near New York, go see this. It’s moving and beautifully done, and the museum when completed, will be a poignant reminder of the day that changed our nation forever.

Ground Zero was heavy and emotional and rightly so. After our tour, we were hungry, so my mom suggested we eat lunch at the Essex House, a small deli that served as a medical station in the wake of the attacks. They still have the spray-painted sign on the wall, and it was a fitting way to honor this establishment that was such an important part of the first responders’ efforts. And they make a darned good panini.

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This next part is going to sound weird. It certainly did to my mom. But, since I was 11 or 12, I’ve been obsessed with Simon and Garfunkel, which will come as a huge shock to those of you who know me.

So one of the things on my list was to go to Bleecker Street, which is the subject of a vintage Simon & Garfunkel song, one of my favorites. My mom had no clue why this was so important to me, but, bless her heart, was patient nonetheless as we made our way to Greenwich Village for the sole purpose of taking my picture in front of the street sign.

I suck at the Art of the Selfie, so I asked Mom to snap my photo. Apparently, she sucks at the art of the iPhone photo, as this is the one she snapped of me. But it’s ok. It is me and it is Bleecker Street.

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I decided while we were in the Village, we may as well see Washington Square Park, which is lovely. I confess here and now that I handed my mom’s iPhone (the battery on mine was long dead by this time) to a couple of total strangers and asked them to snap my photo.

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For our last night in New York, I had made reservations at Mesa Grill, a restaurant owned by noted TV chef Bobby Flay. It’s in the Flatiron District, a very trendy area which is, like most of Manhattan, expensive.

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Condos in the Flatiron District (5th Avenue @ 16th Street)

An emotional day; highs and lows. From the somber weightiness of Ground Zero to the thrill of something as simple as Bleecker Street and a phenomenal dinner. I didn’t want to go to sleep, as I knew when I woke it would be time to leave.

Tomorrow: My walk in the rain and Manhattan Miscellany.