The Aimless Saunter

January 6, 2021

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce) — Mon, 11 Jan 2021 20:59:00 +0000

Do not be mistaken, the attack on the United States Capital on January 6, 2021 was a greater threat to our Democracy than the attack on 9/11. While the loss of life in this recent attack was fortunately much less, the impacts and ramifications are disturbingly different. After 9/11 we United as a nation. Our allies rallied to our side. We were shocked, saddened, and resilient as one.
Wednesday's attack has turned over a rock to reveal the frightening divisions that we have. We are a now a laughingstock across the world, and no longer that "shining city on a hill." Our neighbors, lawmakers and even pastors have raised voices and arms against our Democracy. They have proven that they do not believe in a nation for all, but only for them and what they believe. They believe that only their rights matter, and that sacred symbols of American pride and democracy can be thoughtlessly desecrated.
For those who have tried to maintain a middle ground, or want to respect both sides, this should be a moment of deep introspection. You should be thinking of not just what you want America to look like, but who you are as a person.
Consider this: after 9/11, we were United in our support of our intelligence agencies and law enforcement to find, arrest and prosecute anyone who participated or in any way supported the terrorists. We wanted them arrested, tried, and imprisoned for attacking the country we love.
We enthusiastically supported the creation of the Department of Homeland Security, and most supported the Patriot Act to help search for those who would attack us from without and within. We were bloodthirsty and determined to find those who threatened our Democracy. It was easy then, because they did not look, or sound just like us.
Now we are looking at similar investigations, although those connected with 9/11 were very secretive, the unstable geniuses who desecrated the halls of our nation's Capital proudly posted videos and photos on social media. These people will be extremely easy to track, and so will their known associates.
Beyond those that participated in this recent attack (those who entered restricted space, broke doors and windows and pushed back at police lines; those who entered the Capital Building to do damage, kidnap, injure or just stroll around), there are those who encouraged and enabled them.
Where is the line in participating in a violent insurrection and only encouraging the behavior with "moral" support? Is it only foolish, or is it illegal and dangerous to be spouting unproven conspiracy theories and blaming others for the attack? I am not sure how the law will look at it. I am not sure where First Amendment rights to free speech ends and Sedition and insurrection begins. I know that after 9/11 we would have been clear on our assessment. I will be curious to see how our hypocrisy fuels our response now.
Will we feel different because they are white and American? Because they say they are Patriots? Is it okay because they say they are on the side of “God?” (don't forget, that is what the Terrorists on 9/11 said too)
I would suggest that you be careful who you are friends with. Be careful what you post. Be careful what you let other people post on your pages. I do not know how far these investigations will lead. If this were 9/11, we would want anyone who helped or even sympathized with the attackers punished to the furthest extent of the law. At least I did. And I feel the same today about what happened on January 6, 2021.
Pleading ignorance is not an excuse for sedition or other acts of criminality. Being upset with the outcome of the election is not an excuse. Those who are crying now, losing their jobs, and being arrested for what they did on January 6, can say they are sorry and made a mistake, but that doesn’t work when someone robs a bank, steals a car or sells drugs, so it doesn’t work when you attack our Democracy. Stupid is not a defense.

Lives in the Balance

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce) — Tue, 10 Jul 2018 20:23:00 +0000

Like a lot of people around the world, I’ve been following the story of the soccer team and coach trapped in the cave in Thailand. In a time when we seem to be bombarded by bad news daily, the completed rescue of these young men so far away makes the Earth seem a little smaller and a little brighter today. The heroism and fortitude of the rescuers has been amazing and inspiring. I am in awe of their bravery.

Now that the team is out of the cave and recovering in the hospital, I can’t help but wonder how they got to such a dangerous place. I’m always curious about the decisions that are made when bad things happen.

Anyone that knows me can tell you that I’m not the most “adventurous” guy around. I’m definitely a worse case scenario thinker. It kind of drives my family crazy. I don’t like risks or taking chances, especially when lives are at stake. I am sure I miss out on a lot of fun because of this, and I’m sure that my girls have too, but I am my mother’s child. I’m a worrier.

The story I hear about this 25-year-old assistant coach and his young soccer team is that they went exploring the cave after a game. Apparently, there was a sign at the entrance of the cave that warned of potential flash floods. That means that either the leader read the sign and ignored the danger, or he was oblivious to the sign and walked past it without reading.

This also means that he was either not fully aware of the cave and its dangers (meaning he had not done any prior research or had any general knowledge of it), or he knew all this and ignored it, therefore endangering not only himself, but his young team, who followed him. He apparently did not check the weather or knew it was monsoon season. He was completely unprepared for potential problems and did not have proper supplies or food to sustain them in case of problems. He (and those that followed him) blindly and stubbornly entered the cave and kept going deeper and deeper until they realized they had reached a point of no return.

Hundreds of people aided in the search and rescue, with dozens of workers and divers risking their lives in the flooded cave system to find and extract the team. One diver lost his life in the effort.

I can’t help but see the blatant parallels in the leadership, lack of skills and general knowledge with our current national situation. There was no sense of the great responsibility required. Lives were at stake, yet the most dangerous path was chosen. The unbelievable arrogance of saying, “follow me, I know what I’m doing,” despite knowing very little.

At what point, I wonder, did the young team begin to question his leadership? Did they ever? Even when they were trapped miles deep in total darkness with waters rising that could soon choke out their lives…did they ever say, “why did we follow you here?”

Fortunately, they have lived to see the sun again, but only because of the sacrifice of others. I hope they learn from their mistake, and so does the world; that following someone who doesn’t know what they are doing, and leads without the best interests of those following, is not only foolish, but very dangerous.

Livermush

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce) — Mon, 02 Jul 2018 19:02:00 +0000

I’ve come across some odd menu items as I’ve travelled to different areas of the country. I find it interesting that each region has specific local delicacies that those folks consider staples, while the rest of us might not consider eating them at all. This weekend I was in the Highlands of North Carolina, just outside of Boone, and as I looked at the breakfast menu of a local diner, I came across a selection I had never seen before. Along with other breakfast meat options, such as “bacon,” “sausage,” “ham” and “steak,” was a listing for “Livermush.”

For those not aware (like me), I have learned that “livermush” is made up of pig liver, cornmeal, sage, black pepper, and apparently anything left from the pig after all the good stuff is taken. This is pureed into a “mush” and formed into a loaf, where it is then refrigerated until it “congeals.” When the “meat” is needed, a slice is carved off the loaf, then fried and served for breakfast, or possibly on a sandwich.

Not to offend those raised on “livermush,” but whether separate or combined, the words, “liver,” “mush,” and “congeal” are not in the least bit appetizing to me.

Now, anyone who looks at me can tell that I am not a stickler for healthy food options. I’ll choose hot wings over a salad any day of the week. However, I do have my limits, and “livermush” is over the ridge and out of viewing distance of the line I won’t cross. That being said, I did eat Spam when I was a kid. In fact, I have very pleasant memories of Mom frying Spam to a golden brown, covering it with a slice of Velveeta cheese (which would probably do wonders for a slab of “livermush”) and serving it up for summer lunch. Unlike many meals Mom fixed that I have attempted to recreate as an adult, I have not attempted the “fried Spam and Velveeta sandwich.” I just don’t think I would have her magic touch.

Spam is probably a first cousin to “livermush,” as is the northern relative “Scrapple,” which I have also not sampled. Scrapple has similar content, and it can be argued whether the choice of the word “Scrap” in its name is better than “liver” or “mush.” I am on the fence.

I remember when I was a kid and Dad bought some hogs to have prepared for hams, bacon, sausage, etc. After they were slaughtered and processed, he came home from the butcher with a box of hog heads. This was fascinating to me at the time, and I watched with morbid curiosity as he boiled them and worked to remove the meat. He chopped up what needed to be chopped after it came off the bone and added various spices and vinegar to make what he called “souse,” but which is also known by the more unappetizing name “head cheese.” He talked about having watched his Dad make it and I’m sure at the time I thought, “someday, I’ll teach my children how to do this.” One bite of the finished product was all I needed to swear off on “souse” for the rest of my life, and therefore end the dream of sharing the making of “head cheese” with my kids. I know they are grateful.

I must admit, however, that I have come across a local “delicacy” that is so unappealing to me that I would choose “Livermush,” or “Scrapple,” or probably even “head cheese” rather than partake. When I visited Rochester, New York with a co-worker several years back, the locals insisted that we try what is lovingly known to them as a “garbage plate.” In appearance, it actually does look like the plate used to scrape all the leftovers together to transfer to the trash.

Built on a base of macaroni salad, home fries and baked beans (one on top of the other); meats are chosen to add layers, including hamburgers, fish, ham, chicken tenders, red hot dogs or white hot dogs, and then topped with mustard, onions and hot chili sauce. If you say to yourself (as I did initially), that you like some of those things separately, so it might not be so bad, then you will probably find yourself unprepared (as I was) for the nauseating visual of the garbage plate that they proudly present to you.

I poked at it with my fork for a while before giving up and deciding that my “garbage plate” needed to go home to the garbage. My co-worker was braver and had a “when in Rome” attitude that pushed him to persevere and taste the full “Rochester Garbage Plate” experience. He spent most of his evening in his hotel room sick, and soon after converted to a Vegan life-style that he continues to this day.

I guess we all have our food eccentricities. When I married Connie, she was shocked to learn that I grew up eating Chili mixed with spaghetti noodles. I’m sure this was a poor family way of making the food go further, but I’ve also been a strong believer that adding pasta (or cheese) to almost anything makes it better (unless it’s a “garbage plate,” which is a concept that cannot be saved).

I can’t help but wonder what kind of things we eat now that will be strange to my grandchildren and great grandchildren. In the meantime, I’ll stay on the lookout for local delicacies, and if they don’t have the words “liver,” “mush” or “garbage” in the name, I might even give them a try.

Further reading, for those with strong stomachs:

Livermush

Scrapple

Head Cheese

Garbage Plate

Mother's Day 2016

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce) — Thu, 05 May 2016 15:58:00 +0000

I’m not sure that my daughters fully appreciate what a truly wonderful mother they have. I know that they love her and they appreciate her as much as they can at this moment in time, but like all of us until we have children of our own, I don’t think they really get it. They don’t see the tears or hear the prayers or know how much she simply wants them to be happy. They don’t grasp the sacrifices she makes, or the pain she feels when they hurt, or the depth of her love for them. As they were once a part of her body as she carried and protected them to birth, she continues to try to protect them as she carries them in her heart. There is no greater bond.

This weekend as we celebrate Mother’s Day, two of our girls are not only leaving the nest, but leaving the state. Shelby and Ashlyn are moving to Asheville, North Carolina and our emotions are battling. We are happy for them, and proud. We know they will do well and are excited for their new adventure, but we are also worried and a more than a little bit sad.

For once, I think I am less worried than Connie. I think it’s because I see so much of her in my girls. Smart, independent and beautiful. She has given them the best of herself, like a good mother does. They are well prepared for life and being on their own because of the things she’s taught them and the example she has set.

This weekend won’t be easy, but it’s a tribute to my incredible wife and mother to my children that we are all bound together by such a strong love for each other. No matter where they go or what they do, I hope my children will remember that...and to call their Mom.

4am

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce) — Mon, 07 Sep 2015 15:44:00 +0000

It’s 4am and I’m sitting next to my dying father’s bed. The nurse has just given him another shot of morphine, but it will be at least fifteen or twenty minutes until it starts granting him any comfort. Until then he will be restless and his eyes will open and stare away at things I cannot see.

He can receive morphine every four hours to make him comfortable, but at this stage he’s only getting about 3 hours of benefit. The last forty five minutes or so the effect has been lost and he gives weak moans and is in noticeable pain. Then it takes a while to kick in again after a new dose. It’s a long hour.

Dad would have been 87 in November, and for most of that time, he’s been one of the strongest men I have ever known. At five foot eight and slight build, most people would underestimate his strength, but those who worked with him knew that my Dad was primarily muscle and iron will. He worked hard his entire life, even after retirement when he dedicated his life to taking care of my sister and my Mom.

That was his prayer, he often said, that God would let him live long enough to take care of them until they didn’t need him anymore. His prayers were answered and he’s now lived three years beyond when we lost them both in that painful late summer of 2012. He cared for them selflessly and tirelessly, and now he is simply tired.

His health has been deteriorating slowly since their passing. Congestive heart failure, renal failure, lung problems, lymphoma. He’s dealt with it all in good faith and good spirits. He attended church every Sunday that his health would allow (and many that I’m sure most of us would have stayed home). He sang a solo in church just a few weeks ago. He couldn’t play his guitar anymore, and he had to sit down to sing, but it was a blessing to all who heard him.

It’s 4:30am and Dad is talking. I can’t understand because his voice is so weak and he can barely push air out from his lips. I lean in close to his face and ask him to repeat what he said but his eyes are closed again. Whatever he needed to tell me is now gone. I’ll never hear it.

There is nothing I can do and there is nothing more frustrating.

It’s 5am and I know my Dad is dying. He knows too, because despite his failing body and the effect of the morphine, his mind is strong. He knew what it meant when the doctor said they were discontinuing the dialysis treatment. He knew what it meant when they said they were going to give him morphine to help keep him comfortable.

He told me just yesterday (when his voice was a little stronger and I could lean in with my good ear), that he was ready to go, but he hated to leave us. I told him, “Dad, you’re not leaving us. Mom didn’t leave us when she passed. She’s still with me every day…and you’ll be with us every day too. The things you taught us will always be in our hearts.” He looked at me and nodded in acknowledgement. I kissed him on the forehead and told him, “I love you Dad.” He whispered back, “I know, love you too.”

As his breathing patterns changed throughout the night and into the morning, I could feel him slipping away. He was becoming less a part of this world and more a part of the next. He couldn’t swallow so I began to wipe his mouth with a wet sponge and dribble drops of water into his mouth from the end of a straw. These little things were as much for me to feel like I was doing something…ANYTHING…other that just standing there feeling so helpless.

Just before Noon, as my brother Wayne stroked his forehead and I held his hand, Dad took his last breath. I thought it would be easier, since I knew he was dying, but it was that same low punch in the stomach that I felt when I got that late night call that Mom had died. The air in my lungs compressed and I was hit with the reality that the man who had been there for me my entire life was gone.

It’s 4am the next day and I’m laying alone in the house that was once filled with the laughter and love of my family. Mom and Dad moved here in 1960 and it was and always will be home. I get up and wander through the dim light of the rooms and see my brothers and sister rushing past, still flush with youth and hope. I see Dad in his chair and Mom at the stove cooking dinner. I see my life here and it was a good one. I will be forever grateful.

In the light of the morning, as I carried some things to the car, I could see some of the small cracks appearing in the foundation. In the months that the house has been uninhabited, the porch has taken on a few loose boards, and the roof has become in need of some repair. Mom’s garden is getting overtaken by weeds. Dad’s fence needs cleaning out.

I make mental note that we’ll have to come back soon and take care of all these things. It’s strange that at the moment, they seem both unimportant but also extremely important. As I back out of the driveway I can’t help but think that the house seems much smaller now, and kind of sad, almost as if the house is grieving too. It will miss the smell of Mom's cooking and Dad watching over it from his chair on the front porch. So will I.

Dad...a life in pictures

Orlando Vacation pt 2

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce) — Tue, 21 Oct 2014 18:11:00 +0000

Vacation planning is tricky. I had given the girls the choice of spending more time at Disney or a longer stay at Universal. Because of money, we couldn’t do multiple days at both theme parks, so they had to make the choice. I just wanted them to be happy. That was and is always my ultimate goal.

Of course, we’re talking about three very unique individuals (four if you count their mother), so finding a satisfying balance was not easy. I’m still not sure that we found it, but at some point during the week I completely lost the ability to care. There was no way that all four could be perfectly happy all the time. I had to let that pipe dream go. I had to search for the moments of joy in one face (while the others looked on with a mix of boredom or frustration that we weren’t doing what they wanted to be doing). If all this makes them sound incredibly self-centered and lacking in compassion for their fellow family members, then I’ve succeeded in getting my point across.

Just kidding. (Not really) No, of course I’m kidding. They are not like that (all the time).

The decision was made to go to Disney’s Magic Kingdom for one day and then three days at Universal Studio and Islands of Adventure. As the girls have gotten older, the big rides at Universal have gained more appeal. Universal also has Harry Potter. Never underestimate the power of the Boy who lived.

After experiencing Disney on Sunday, we had planned three days at Universal, culminating with Universal’s Halloween Horror Nights on Wednesday night. We were hoping that the lines would be less at Universal than we experienced at Disney on Sunday, but they were still fairly long. Apparently the entire world has read the guides that suggest going to Orlando in the off-season because eighty percent of the people were International. Huge families ranging from grandparents on motorized scooters to children in strollers and babies breastfeeding roamed the parks in genial packs that could only communicate with us in smiles or friendly nods. It was a fascinating smorgasbord of languages passing by at any given time, almost always speaking much faster and more animated than our slow, American drawl.

That first morning at Universal we made our way to the back of the park, shed a little tear for the missing Amity Island section and the loss of the Jaws ride, to stand on the cobbled streets of Harry Potter’s London, gaze upon Kings Cross, the three decker bus, and find our way into Diagon Alley. For Ashlyn, the semi-obsessive Potter fan, this was Nirvana. For the rest of us, it was simply amazingly awesome.

Better than just walking onto the set of the movies, we were dropped into an alternate Potter reality. We were constantly struck by the detail and artistry on display. Dark and spooky and magical all at once; overseen by Gringott’s Dragon that occasionally belched out fire so intense you could feel the heat 40 feet below.

Shelby and Ashlyn got in the long line to ride “Escape from Gringott’s” while Connie, Taylor and I explored the side streets and dark alleys nearby. We got the famous “butterbeer” that is in no way beer, but a syrupy sweet butterscotch concoction that I’m glad I tried but will never feel the desire to try again.

Once back together we got in the long line to ride the Hogwarts Express from Kings Cross station and platform 9 ¾ to Hogsmeade and the other half of the Harry Potter experience. They have gone out of their way to make you feel a part of the book and movie. It’s incredibly immersive and (with apologies to Disney) magical.

At Hogsmeade we had a nice lunch at the “Three Broomsticks” restaurant. I had heard from a friend that the Fish and Chips were good, but they were actually exceptionally good. The design of a rustic tavern added to the appeal and you could almost imagine Hagrid, Ron or Hermione walking through at any moment.

Hogsmeade was designed with the cozy appeal of a Christmas card, where despite the Orlando heat; snow graced each roof and smoke drifted from chimneys. Somehow, just seeing the fake snow made the heat slightly more bearable.

Once we finally slipped out of Potter world, we stepped into the tropical jungle of Jurassic Park and then on to the streets of the Marvel Hero section. From ride to ride we wandered, each girl stating a preference for one ride over another, but generally getting along. Connie and I found an air conditioned bar to sit while they did the big Marvel rides (Hulk, Spiderman, and Dr Doom). It was a nice break.

Fun as the day was, I was enormously grateful that the Universal parks closed at the reasonable hour of 7pm. Unaccustomed to the heat or the walking, I was pretty tired. It’s a shame what office work and a sedentary lifestyle will do to you. My shin splints had shin splints.

The girls had wanted to spend an evening at our hotel pool, and it was a great night for that. There was a café and a Pizza Hut poolside, so we enjoyed some pizza and a beautiful sunset. A perfect end to a pretty nice day.

The next day we were back at Universal early, trying to catch anything we didn’t see the day before because of our Potter mania. Connie rode many of the rides with the girls and they all agreed that the Harry Potter rides were the best they had ever ridden. Repeatedly I was told how much I would love them, but they also were pretty sure that the motion would make me sick.

It’s a bit of a cruel joke that someone who loves movies as much as I do can’t ride most of the movie rides, but if I had any moment of feeling sorry for myself at the park, I was immediately grounded back into reality by one of the numerous children being pushed in wheelchairs throughout the park. Their faces had no room for self-pity. Their eyes were wide with wonder at what they could see and not bitterness at what they couldn’t do. They live their life on the terms they’ve been dealt. It’s really not a big deal that I can’t ride a few rides at a theme park while on vacation.

That afternoon clouds started to roll in ahead of the forecasted rain. We slipped out of the park and walked over to Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville restaurant for an early dinner. I won’t say how much I ate, but I’m pretty sure I blew out my flip flop and lost my shaker of salt.

That night, we crashed hard. As the rain poured outside, sleep took us one by one. Each drifting off to dreams of dragons and wizards, princesses and heroes. I was last to go, after watching them sleep for a while. I was so tired that night that if I did dream, I’m sure I dreamed about sleeping.

Orlando Vacation pt 1

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce) — Tue, 21 Oct 2014 14:48:00 +0000

We just returned from our third family trip to Orlando and I am sure it will take me a while to recover. It certainly was not a bad experience, but I definitely returned home far more exhausted than when I left. I don’t know what the original purpose of a “vacation” was supposed to be, but I don’t think it left you ready to return to work so you could get some rest.

It was 656 miles from our door in Oak Ridge to the hotel in Orlando. Our plan was to leave at 4am, and since everyone was excited about the adventure ahead of us, we were actually packed and in the car, pulling out of the driveway at 3:59! Somehow, the girls slept for 90% of the 12 hour trip; only waking for a Cracker Barrel breakfast stop and a few rest area pee breaks. It was a quiet drive but tiring.

That evening we went to the Florida Mall because there aren’t enough places to shop in Tennessee and we needed to walk a few miles under fluorescent lights for no reason.

Sunday morning we were parking in Disney’s Magic Kingdom parking lot (which I’m pretty sure is bigger than our town) by 8:30am so we could get in the park when it opened at nine. The line at the ticket booth should have been a clue for what the day would be like. Then the line to get on the monorail should have confirmed it. My hopes for minimal crowds because it was fall and the “off-season” were being slowly crushed in the shoulder to shoulder sardine can search for Disney magic.

Shelby had a plan for attacking the park, and I was more than happy to give up control. It’s kind of exhausting to be in control of everyone’s happiness. Planning a trip and trying to satisfy everyone is like wrapping your arms around two dozen helium balloons and trying to keep any from flying away. I told her to lead and I’d gleefully follow. We hurried to the back of the park to experience “Splash Mountain.” Since lines for it get longer through the day, it was wise to get there early.

Let me pause here to give a brief explanation: I love theme parks. I love the logistics. I love the design and structure of rides. However, in general, I do not ride them. I have battled severe motion sickness for my entire life, so even the use of Dramamine doesn’t always ensure my ability to ride anything that spins, drops, loops or shakes. It’s a risk I’ve learned not to take, because I don’t want my illness to affect everyone else’s good time. I enjoy the park through their experience. I am also the designated “bag” holder, which is a very important role…(seriously).

Fortunately, I’m a major “people watcher,” and there is always a consistent and entertaining flow of people to watch at a theme park (Dollywood wins the prize in this field, but any theme park has its virtues).

When they got off of Splash Mountain, all laughing and wet and happy, I gave them their bags and we quickly followed Shelby to the next target on her agenda. I don’t actually remember the next hour because they were a blur of running from one end of the park to the other, finding attractions that were showing up on her Iphone App as having shorter lines. I did ride the Haunted Mansion, because even little kids and people with weak stomachs can handle that one. That and Pirates of the Caribbean are the only two rides I planned to ride that day. They are my speed.

By 10:30am Shelby realized that the crowds were so thick that any real planning was pointless. Everything was busy. The good rides had lines of at least an hour and usually 90 minutes. Even the lines to lesser attractions were lengthy.

I know this is hard to believe, but I became a bit surly. I’m not a crowd person, and I don’t like lines. Magic Kingdom is the oldest of the Orlando theme parks and it shows in the way traffic flow is designed. I am sure it was inconceivable for Walt Disney and his architects at the time to imagine the incredible number of attendee’s flowing through their gates and walking their narrow paths in 2014. They didn’t foresee double-wide strollers and oblivious people on their smart phones rudely stopping in a high traffic area to do a selfie.

It is a beautiful place…a magical place…it actually brought a tear to my lovely wife’s eye as she walked in. It is immaculately clean and staffed with consistently friendly, considerate employees. Without a doubt, it is one of the best managed places I have ever been.

But by 3:30 that afternoon, I kinda hated it.

Originally I thought the park was closing by 6pm…7pm at the latest. But no…Disney does everything better than anyone else…so their day lasts until 1am! While this is certainly a bargain for a family that has just paid out over $500 for five one day tickets, all I could think of as the hot afternoon drug on was how tired I was getting…and how bad my feet were hurting from that hard concrete…and how long those stupid lines were.

Rather than walking around aimlessly from long line we didn’t want to wait in to another long line we didn’t want wait in, we decided to start going to attractions that were not as attractive anymore. Despite the girls having said that morning that they didn’t want to do “Hall of Presidents” (because it was “boring”), they did not put up a fight when we said we could be out of the heat and in air conditioning for about 30 minutes. I think I fell asleep for a few minutes during the Presidential roll call and robot head nod. I’m pretty sure we all did.

After that we tried to do the Pirates of the Caribbean ride (one of the few rides I can do), but it had shivered its timbers somehow and was not available. In desperation, we did “Country Bears.” For nostalgia purposes, I hope they never get rid of Country Bears. It is one of the original Magic Kingdom attractions. Everyone should see it once out of sheer respect. This was the third time in my lifetime. It made me want to go hunting.

Despite their ages, the girls still get excited about seeing the Disney Princesses and characters. They each have their favorites. Shelby loves Belle. Taylor loves Ariel. Ashlyn loves Peter Pan. We couldn’t hook up with Belle, but they did get their picture with Gaston (and in the tradition of good girls liking bad boys, they decided he was good looking enough to overlook his dark heart). We also saw Ariel and Peter Pan, along with Donald Duck, Goofy and some others. I loved watching their excitement as they stood next to a person pretending to be an animated character. THAT is the real magic of Disney.

As darkness fell across the park and cooler air replaced the oppressive heat, I found myself bearing the crowds slightly better. The lines relaxed a little and the girls did Space Mountain while Connie and I waited on a welcoming bench.

We tried one last time to ride Pirates of the Caribbean but it was still broken. While the girls waited in another line Connie and I rode the steamboat around Tom Sawyer Island. Away from the crowds and most of the noise, with the dark water beneath us and the lights of the park all around, it was my favorite part of the day.

Around 10 o’clock the crowd gathered for the Disney celebration light show and then the fireworks. Like everything else they do, Disney excels at spectacle and despite my exhaustion and frustration; I looked up at the castle and the sky like a little kid. Awed and amazed at the magic of imagery and music. It was a great end to the day.

Yes, the end…because Bless their hearts…the girls said we didn’t have to stay until closing. I think they were tired too, but maybe they just took pity on their old Dad. Disney had given us a good long day. Worth the money despite many rides unridden and many princesses unseen. That night, after collapsing into bed and falling asleep instantly, I was haunted by dreams of strollers blocking me at every turn. There was no escape.

Facing the Stranger

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce) — Thu, 15 May 2014 18:27:00 +0000

This week I had my first job interview in over twenty-four years.

It’s a strange thing for someone who’s fairly self-deprecating and relatively sarcastic to have to talk about themselves and give people the impression that they are somewhat mature, responsible and will somehow be an asset to the organization. I can be that person, of course, but I don’t like to talk about it.

I have to stop and think a lot before I speak. My mind doesn’t coordinate as well with my mouth as it does with my typing fingers when communicating (and not always that well with my fingers either). I have said stupid things way too often, and been burned by my rush to say what I think is on my mind. I’m sure this comes across as indecisive at times, or rambling, but I’d rather delay my answer a few moments than say something I shouldn’t say.

When I am asked the standard interview question, “Where do you see yourself in five years?” my initial thought response is, “I didn’t see “fortune teller” on the job description. Should I go buy some Tarot cards?”

Fortunately, my first level filter kills that idea. My second thought response to where I want to be in five years is usually, “Gainfully employed.” While this is a much more accurate gauge of my true feelings, it’s still not what I know they want to hear.

Finally, I sputter out what I think will sound professional and attain the right level of enthusiasm, “In five years I would like to be recognized as a productive and valuable member of your organization.”

In the end, what is said and done during the interview process means very little when it comes to the actual job. I’ve seen lots of people who have spectacular resumes and give great interviews but fail miserably at performing the duties they were hired for. I don’t want to be one of those people. I’d rather lower their expectations and then surprise them.

Appropriately, I guess, the old song by David Bowie has been bouncing around in my head all week…

Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the stranger)
Ch-ch-Changes
Don't want to be a richer man
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the stranger)
Ch-ch-Changes
Just gonna have to be a different man
Time may change me
But I can't trace time

I’m sure this means different things to different people, but when I “turn and face the stranger” I see the person that I probably should be if I were more open to change.

(Of course, I really would like to be a “richer man,” so me and Ziggy Stardust differ on that little nugget. Besides, he was already rich, so it was easy for him to say that!)

Change is a constant in life, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. I’m a prehistoric creature of habit. Routine is my sanity.

With so much “out of control” in my life, I cling to what is “normal.” By that, I mean what is “normal” for me. My “normal” would be strange to anyone else, and vice-versa. In a world of bombings, global warming, car crashes, plane crashes, animal attacks, random gun violence, and Fox News…I find the comfort of my “normal” reassuring.

People are always saying, “Get out of your comfort zone!” They say it like all “comfort zones” are a bad thing. I disagree. It all depends on where that zone is located. If your “comfort zone” is located in a bottle of Jack Daniels, then yeah, it is probably time to pack up and move out. If your “comfort zone” is located in an unhealthy relationship, a miserable job, or a complete life of gluttonous sloth, then you should definitely, move on.

But there is a positive side to being in a “comfort zone” too. If your “comfort zone” makes you happy, then you should stay there. If leaving your “comfort zone” creates a high level of risk to yourself, your loved ones or others, then you might need to reconsider. There is no shame in staying in a productive, healthy “comfort zone.”

(I apologize for that meandering tangent. I no longer feel like talking about “comfort zones.”)

Less than twenty-four hours after my interview, I was offered my new position. In essence it is very similar to what I’ve been doing for the last 13 years, but with some added responsibilities and opportunities. It means that I get to stay with the company that I’ve been with for most of my adult life. It means I get the warm and fuzzy feeling of the familiar (no longer using the “C-zone” word) while also being offered some new challenges. It’s a good thing. I hope.

If nothing else, this returns me to a sense of stability, which I haven’t felt for a while. That story is a page for another day, much like many of the other things that have happened to me and around me in the last couple of years. Some things I’ll write about and some things I won’t. Some secrets belong to the stranger and me.

The Far Better Half

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce) — Tue, 06 May 2014 16:06:00 +0000

One of the most difficult things for me as a father has been to balance what I want for my daughters with what makes them happy. My primary goal so far has been to keep them safe. I’m sure they think that if I had my way, they would all be living in a bunker deep in the ground, or in the tallest tower of a far away castle. In truth, this would be appropriate because they are my Princesses, despite the fact that I am in no way a King.

One of our goals as parents has always been to give our girls a strong self esteem. We didn’t want them to go looking for their self-worth in a man, because a lot of men prey on young women who crave even the slightest bit of attention. These men can easily take advantage of that lack of self worth and eventually they take complete control. This was not a life we wanted for our daughters.

As I look back on my life as a father, I realize that I have done a few things right, but many things wrong. I was probably too over-protective (although, in my defense, they have been largely injury free!). I did not set a good example regarding diet and exercise. I was sarcastic when I should have been sincere. I was jokey when I should have been honest.

It’s amazing, miraculous even, that they have turned out as wonderful as they have. They are good kids. Better people than me. Better people than most (yeah, I am not very objective on this subject).

I owe much of this to the Grace of God, who gifted me with them in the first place and then didn’t let me mess them up too much. They also have a great support system in their extended family, who love and support them unconditionally. Finally, they have their mother, the best choice I ever made both for them and myself.

I see Connie in all the good things about my daughters, which fortunately outweigh the faults they got from me. They are careful, but not paranoid. They are sarcastic, but caring. They can joke and play, but know when to be serious. They like pizza AND salad!

A good marriage, and a successful family, is based on teamwork. While I find myself usually out in left field, Connie is our most valuable player, and also our Coach, team doctor and our cheering section. Without her, we wouldn’t know how to play.

I hope my daughters understand that why I love their mother so much is that she doesn’t need me. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t love me, but that she doesn’t need my constant approval to make her happy. She is her own person, and she has her own interests. She doesn’t think she’s as awesome as I know she is, but she has a healthy self-esteem. She stands up for herself when she needs to and she will sacrifice for others without giving all of herself away.

She is comfortable in a crowd, and can light up a room, but her favorite place is sitting quietly in a field in the mountains. She has an adventurous heart, tempered by logic not to do something insanely dangerous. She hikes for the journey, not the destination.

I hope my girls remember that she is never too tired for them. No matter how late it is or how little sleep she has had, she listens intently to whatever story they think is important enough to share. As my “Dad Hearing” ability to tune out chatter becomes stronger with age, she hears everything they say and remembers. She understands more than most of us that nothing is unimportant when it comes to your child.

In case I’ve made her pedestal a bit too high, let me say that she’s not completely perfect. She doesn’t believe me when I tell her how beautiful she is. She doesn’t understand that I think she’s one the smartest, most capable people I have ever met (and at my age, I’ve met a lot of people…and a lot of them have been VERY smart and VERY capable). She doesn’t grasp how proud I am to be her husband and anytime I don’t show it is due to my issues and not hers.

So, as my daughters get older and are reaching crossroads in their lives, I hope they pray for guidance and listen carefully for the answers they should hear and not what they want to hear. I hope they think about the example set by their Mother. I hope they appreciate her as much as they should.

It seems so little to say, but here it is, "Connie...my wife, my love, the amazing mother of my children...Thank You…"

If it had been me...

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce) — Wed, 17 Jul 2013 14:00:00 +0000

It could have been that when I was 17 years old, I was walking home from my job at the library. It was a cool evening and I was enjoying the darkening skies and the look of the glowing lights in the windows of the storefronts and my neighbor’s homes. It was my favorite time of the evening, and knowing that a delicious Mom-cooked dinner awaited me added a little extra hitch to my step.

Amid the thoughts that bounced around a 17 year old boy’s head (girls, school, girls, work, girls, etc.) I suddenly awoke to the sound of footsteps approaching behind me. This was not unusual at this time of day, as others were getting off work, or walking their dogs, or just taking an evening stroll. I didn’t glance back, and at the next corner, I turned to head east on Main.

In one of the angled windows of the Lerman’s department store, I caught a quick glance of a man walking about 15 steps behind me. In the dimming light, he was cloaked in shadows, and I couldn’t make out his face.

At the corner of 5^th and Main, I turned and headed toward home. To my surprise, the footsteps followed and seemed to be picking up speed. I began to walk faster myself, not really nervous, but curious. I found it strange that someone would be making the same turns I was, but I would certainly lose them as I cut across the parking lot behind First Christian Church.

About halfway across the parking lot, I realized that whoever was behind me, was still right there, and as my concern began to rise, it felt like he was closing the gap between us rather quickly.

I decided to make a detour, away from home and back up 4^th street to Main. I still thought he might just be heading home in the same direction that I had been. If so, he could go his own way and I’d breathe easier. Besides, Mom was home with my little sister alone. Dad was out of town and my brothers were working night shifts. I didn’t want to rush there for safety and bring danger to my home.

Main Street was quiet and when I turned the corner I began to run. About halfway down the block, I could see that the man had indeed followed me, and was now running to keep pace. I turned and cut through a yard, hoping to lose him in the bushes. I came out the other side into a parking lot that sat mostly empty, except for a few cars. I thought for a moment that I should hide in one of the cars, and I tried a few doors, but they were locked.

The man ran into the parking lot and I turned to look him in the face. His eyes were wide with what appeared to be rage, but maybe just crazy. I couldn’t tell. I realized quickly that I was a little bit bigger than he was. I was not much of a fighter, but I didn’t like my options. The police station was many blocks away. There were no big stores nearby to go to. Nearby there were only houses, and I didn’t know these people.

It was dumb, but I decided to confront him. Seventeen year old logic isn’t always logical. We jump bikes over quickly constructed wooden ramps. We climb to the top of trees and stand on swaying limbs. We don’t give a lot of thought to consequences.

He wasn’t carrying a weapon, so I thought if nothing else, I could kick him between the legs and drop him to his knees. It might give me enough time to get away.

I turned to him and said, “What are you doing? Why are you following me?”

He said something that sounded like, “… are you up to,” but the pounding of fear in my ears made it hard to hear. It was far and away the most frightened I had ever been in my life. He took another step toward me, and I decided to attack with my right foot.

I took two quick steps and started to kick, but he jumped forward too quickly, and my foot hit his knee. He groaned in pain and fell against me, knocking us both backward onto the ground. As we were falling, I turned my body enough that I was able to roll him over and get on top. I only wanted to stop him from following me, but in my panic I began to pound on him with both fists. A flood of adrenaline washed over me and raged at the fear he had brought into my peaceful life. I raged at the terror I should never have experienced. I raged and screamed, “I’ll kill you…” but my hands were already aching and my onslaught was slowing. I just wanted to get up and run home.

His hands slapped and punched at me, but he couldn’t get any momentum from his position. Suddenly I saw his hand reach into his jacket and come out with something dark and shiny in the glow of the street lamps. I reached to grab it and for a second felt the cold chill of metal before blast of light exploded from its barrel and hit me in the chest like a sledgehammer.

I flew backwards and hit the ground hard. The lack of pain surprised me. I felt warm, as if warm oil was being poured over me, spreading across my chest and covering me like a blanket. It wasn’t comforting at all.

I thought of Mom, standing by the stove and finishing dinner. I thought of Dad, on the road and hours from home. I thought of God, and asked him what I had done to deserve this.

I opened my eyes, and as my vision cleared I could see a tiny star glowing above me. My mind drifted back to my childhood, which in my fear and sudden smallness, I realized I was still in. Star Light, Star Bright…First star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish…

It could have been me...but for pigment of skin.

Searching for Gratitude

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce) — Wed, 21 Nov 2012 18:30:00 +0000

If I seem to have been preoccupied with death and dying recently, I think it’s because death and dying have been preoccupied with me. I have a tendency to be a bit morose on the best of days, so cover me in a shroud of mourning and mortality and watch me devolve into what can best be described as “the dark place.” Since the first of August, my family has lost my sister, my mother, my uncle and just a week ago, my cousin. Meanwhile, my Dad has been dealing with ongoing health issues and now my brother is in the hospital for the week of Thanksgiving.

Yes, I’ve been in “the dark place.” It’s not very pretty here, and I’m not very fun to be around. I’ve been describing my thought process lately as “Swiss cheese,” with big empty holes where logic or short term memory used to reside. My mind is muddy, and my self-pity has been keeping me from finding my way out.

I would be content enough to wallow in all this for a good long while, I think. It’s an excuse for lots of things. I can be anti-social, sullen, sarcastic, bitter…and it’s so easily explained by my loss rather than just being my “go-to” place when I’m not happy with myself. Like the crutch of “comfort food” (and I went there too…with gleeful and gluttonous abandon), playing the “woe is me” card is the easy way to deal.

After the punch in the gut of a loved one’s death, sometimes you need another punch in the gut to wake up. On Monday afternoon, Shelby called to tell us that one of her fellow music majors had died Sunday night in a house fire. I had seen the news reports that day and seen the smoldering rubble on television. The report was that three had survived but one had not. Turns out that the woman had three children (ages 12, 8 and 5) which she got out of the house, but then she returned to save the family dog and never came back. Horrible as this is, we learned that her husband had died in late August of heart disease.

So now these kids have lost their father, their mother and all their earthly possessions in the course of 3 months. The immensity of this just breaks my heart. I know how hard it has been for me to deal with death in the last few months, but at their age…to watch their mother go back inside that smoking home and not return…the fear and pain must be immeasurable.

For the first time since Mom died I was sincerely overcome by incredible gratitude that I had been able to have her in my life for as long as I did. I was able to see past the loss of the moment and see how fortunate I was. She was there for me through so many important moments in my life. She was able to share her special kindness and love with my children, who are old enough to have those memories and carry her with them for the rest of their lives.

Over the course of my life, I received so many smiles and so many hugs.

I am grateful on this first Thanksgiving without her, that I have so many Thanksgiving memories of her. Mom was the warm heart of our family, and she gave a piece of herself to each of us. My self-pity would not honor her.

Last weekend I was cleaning up messages on my phone and was grateful to find two with my mother’s sweet voice speaking to me. One was wishing me a happy birthday last year and the other was from this summer when she was checking in to see if I was okay. She always worried over us. She worried about me travelling and flying so much. I’m grateful she doesn’t have to worry any more.

This has been the hardest year of my life. Sometimes it seemed like too much, but that’s only because when I look back, my burden had been pretty light for the most part and I hadn’t built up the strength to carry a heavy load. I should be grateful for that. I’ve had a great life. I’ve been blessed with loving parents and siblings, an incredible wife, wonderful children, and good friends. When I start to stoop from the load I’m carrying, they lift me up. The faith my parents instilled in me lifts me up as well. If I just let go, my burden will be light once again.

I have so much to be thankful for.

What I didn't know...

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce) — Wed, 26 Sep 2012 15:51:00 +0000

The “Proscenium Arch” is a theatrical term for the framed area of the stage where the primary action takes place. It is where our focus is drawn. Actors perform for us within that arch and then go off stage, where they might spend their time refreshing their makeup or checking their scripts. We don’t really know what they are doing, because we don’t see them…and frankly, when they aren’t in that arch, we quickly lose interest in their existence.

In truth, we each live our lives like that. Our vision creates our own personal “proscenium arch” on which the theatre of our life plays. We see what is in front of us at any given moment, and those things that are going on behind us or far away from us (out of our line of sight) take on a far lesser importance.

I had the crazy idea once that if I turned around fast enough, I might actually see that there wasn’t really anything behind me. My theory (which is incredibly self-centered and kind of ridiculous) was that if I wasn’t seeing it, maybe it didn’t really exist. It’s kind of like that old saying that “if a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to hear it, would it make a sound?”

My point in all this theorizing and postulating on what is real and what is not is that there are a lot of things going on in this world that I can never see or experience firsthand. Still, just because I don’t see it within my personal “proscenium arch” doesn’t mean it isn’t taking place somewhere and might at some point have an impact on me or someone I care about.

Since my world revolves around me, I usually think I understand it pretty well. I know those who have fallen into my orbit (family and friends) and I think I have them pretty much figured out. Ask me about one of them and I can sum up who they are in a couple of common, simple words or phrases. I can do this because this is “my world” and it’s all about what I know.

The problem, as I have become acutely aware, is that I don’t know that much…and what I do know, I don’t understand all that well.

Before she died, I would have described my sister with a few words: “strong willed,..fun loving...stubborn.” I would have told people that she “loved her family and friends” and I was “amazed at how resilient she was in the face of her physical challenges.”

I would have said these things to encapsulate the entirety of her life. Almost 44 years boiled down to 23 words. Not even close to a word per year.

I loved my sister, despite some of our differences, and I thought I knew her, but I did not. I knew what I saw, in that narrow window that I view the world through, but I did not see her off my stage, living and interacting with others.

It was not until after her death that I began to get a better view of Tracy and who she was. Through the words of others a picture of my sister emerged that was much more complete than the role that I allowed her to play in my life. I did not see the impact her compassion and friendship made on others. I did not see how her determination to live life on her terms was inspiring to so many.

I did not know.

Our life has many Acts, and sometimes characters that perform such an integral part within one Act will play a much less significant role in others. Without a doubt my parents, my two brothers and my sister were the stars of my life’s first Act.

Mom was the central character; my moral compass, my teacher, my healer, my therapist. She defined my childhood with her unconditional love and her acceptance of who I was and who I wasn’t. She was rarely off the stage, and if she wasn’t front and center, she was busy in the background, doing something to make my life easier and happier.

My life’s second Act began when I met Connie. When she was on stage, she held my rapt attention, and when she wasn’t, she was rarely off my mind. The stage was reset when we married and after moving to Tennessee, the sets and scenery changed. Three new stars took center stage when our daughters were born, and the appearance of beloved characters from the first Act were far less frequent.

You justify in your mind that talking on the phone once or twice a week or visiting three or four times a year keeps you involved in someone’s life, but that leaves a lot of time unaccounted for. You don’t intend for those characters to stay offstage for so long, but there are so many things going on in front of you at any given time that it is easy to forget who is waiting in the wings.

We do not recognize that we are co-writers of our own script. We have considerable control over who comes on stage and who doesn’t. Since we are generally making things up as we go, most of the time we see what we want to see at that particular moment…and later we might wish that we had written things differently.

As I look back on the staging of my life, there are many scenes I wish I had written differently.

I did not know that my sister would die on August 1, 2012 and that I would be fortunate enough to be there and say one last goodbye.

I did not know that only six short weeks later I would receive a 2am phone call from my brother telling me that my mother was gone. I did not know that I would never get to tell her “Goodbye…I love you,” or give her one last hug.

I did not know, when I spoke to her in that quick conversation from the airport the Friday before she died, that it would be the last time I would hear her sweet voice. I did not know that when I was busy on Wednesday evening and thought, “I’ll call tomorrow,” that Thursday would be my first day without my mother.

There are so many things I did not know…

Mom was offstage for much of the Second Act of my life. She was often on my mind, and always in my prayers, but I didn’t write her into as many scenes as I should have.

I must also recognize that Mom was living her own play in which I was a character. She did not write me out of her script, but set me free to live my own. She did this because she loved me, and she never stopped. I loved her too, and I am grateful that I told her that many times.

Her final Act on this Earth ended much earlier than I wanted. I thought she would be with me for many more years. Still, I could not ask for a more wonderful passing for someone that I love so much than to go peacefully in her sleep in her own bed. A better author than I wrote that part of her script.

There are times when I would like the chance to do a re-write on parts of my own life, but I know that is impossible and probably unwise. I have to accept the simple fact that there was much I did not know, much I did not do, and much I did not say. These are things which I hope will inform me as I enter the final Act of my life. If nothing else, Mom would have wanted me to learn something, to find out those things I “need to know,” and to be a better person.

I have just begun the long mourning and the missing of her physical presence in my life. To never be able to pick up the phone and hear her voice and her wise counsel again breaks my heart. To walk up that path to the family home and not see her at the back door, smiling and ready with a hug, is almost unbearable to think about. But as the wise young pastor, who spoke so eloquently at her funeral said, "she's now waiting at another door."

I know that to be true...and I'll hug her again one day.

I love you Mom.

Tracy

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce) — Thu, 06 Sep 2012 18:01:00 +0000

It’s been a little over a month since I watched my sister take her last breath, and it still does not seem real. For the longest time I felt confident that I was ready for her to go; convincing myself that she would be better off without the pain and what I considered to be her poor quality of life thanks to the ravages of Buerger’s Disease. I never thought it would be easy, but I also never expected it to be so difficult.

Tracy had gone to the edge and back so many times that I foolishly expected her to do the same again. I had seen her labored breathing before. I had seen the waxy, discolored skin. I had seen her weak and struggling. Somehow, she always fought through it and came back, smiling and laughing and ready to get what she could out of the life she had been given. Even when the doctor came out and told us that morning that she wouldn’t make it through the day, there was a little voice in the back of my mind saying, “You don’t know my sister.”

I was four years old when Tracy was born. With three older brothers, she was both protected fiercely and teased mercilessly at home. She and I had the same color hair and eyes, setting us apart from our brothers and bonding us somewhat along with our closer age. Of course, she was still a girl, and I wanted to be like my older brothers. I didn’t want to play with her dolls and she didn’t want to play with my trucks and toy guns.

We often played games in the yard, usually epic battles of Kickball, and I’m not sure how her self-esteem fared, but mine took a few hits. It always seemed that I could not kick a ball that my brother David could not get to and catch in mid-air. It was a rare thrill to actually get to first base. As we got older, I’m pretty sure that it didn’t take long before even Tracy was better at the game than me, but it was always fun, and we’d sometimes play until it was too dark to see the ball.

I find myself remembering our childhood in nostalgic, Rockwellian ideals. I’m sure it wasn’t perfect, and I know that we had our moments of fighting or frustration, but those moments don’t rise to the surface of my memory. What I remember is my little sister, wearing her cute little dresses and black patent leather shoes for church on Sunday mornings. I remember Mom combing her long blond hair and pulling it back a little with flower barrettes. I remember Christmas mornings and her bright eyes; waiting at the top of the stairs for the okay to run downstairs and see what Santa had brought us.

By the time I entered High School, my interest in anything outside my own selfish preoccupations had begun to separate me somewhat from the day to day issues of my sister’s life. We lived in the same house, and I am sure that I had some marginal concern for what was going on, but I never sat down and asked her how her day had gone, or what her friends were like, or if there was anything I could do for her. I’m sure I thought I was a “good” big brother, but looking back, I know that I was not what I should have been.

During this time, my grandmother came to live with us, and I had no idea what effect this might have on anyone else in family. I was able to escape to my room or to work and school. I didn’t think about the pressure it put on my mother, and I certainly didn’t think about the stress it must have put upon Tracy.

I have wonderful childhood memories of my grandmother and grandfather, Pauline and Hack. Mamaw loved Tracy, and being an accomplished seamstress, she made her some beautiful dresses. They didn’t have a lot of money, but they gave us lots of hugs, and we never ended a visit without Mamaw saying “Give me some Sugar,” and we would happily kiss her on the cheek.

Unfortunately, Mamaw had a stroke in 1977, requiring her to spend five days a week with us while Papaw worked, and after Papaw died in 1979 she came to live with us full time. The stroke had changed Mamaw, and her worst traits came out. She treated my Mom like her personal servant and was constantly, often rudely, asking for something. Also, and probably because she could see that Tracy still needed my mother’s attention, she grew jealous of Tracy and would give her mean looks from across the room or mutter ugly comments.

I was not happy about the way Mamaw acted toward Mom or Tracy, but my young mind thought there was only one answer to the situation (Mamaw should leave our once happy home). I didn’t realize that I could have helped Mom more or offered Tracy a safe haven from that torment. I was blind, stupid and selfish.

As Tracy moved into High School, she looked for escape where she could find it. Some of her friendships were not healthy, and she picked up some very bad habits. She started smoking and later admitted that her experimenting with drugs began in high school.

Mamaw died in 1985, having lived in our home for nearly half of Tracy’s life. I often wonder if Tracy’s path would have been different if Mamaw had not come there. I wonder if it would have been different if I had been a better brother.

I have tried to teach my girls the importance of choices. I tell them that no matter what mistakes I might make as a parent, or what bad influences others might have, they have to live with their own choices. Sometimes even the small decisions might have a big impact. That’s hard for a kid to understand. It’s not that easy for adults either.

None of us knew that we were carrying the gene for Buerger’s Disease. We didn’t know that it is triggered by smoking or the brutal damage it could cause. It wasn’t until after Tracy was diagnosed with it in her mid-twenties that I learned that my Dad’s father had it. I knew that he had lost a leg, but I thought it had something to do with an accident at work. I didn’t know it was related to a disease. I didn’t know that it had killed him.

Tracy was the only one in my immediate family that smoked. I’m sure she thought she could quit anytime she wanted. I’m sure most smokers start out that way. I have been that way about losing weight. When I’m ready, I told myself, it will be easy.

Tracy threw that back at me once when I told her that she needed to stop smoking (this was before the Buerger’s started systematically destroying her body). She could be brutally honest, sometimes painfully so, and her response to me still cuts to this day, “When you lose your weight, I’ll quit smoking.” Once more, I failed her.

Tracy was a magnet for men who didn’t deserve her. She was loyal to a fault and always committed (to her detriment). She looked past their multiple problems and loved them unconditionally. None of them earned this through actions or any obvious potential for change. She saw something in them that no one, especially her family, ever saw. It always took something drastic, and usually horribly sad, to break the spell they had on her.

It’s a testament to her spirit, though, that she never dwelled on her broken heart. She mended quickly and opened herself up to the next heartbreak. Her faith in others was usually unmerited, but it never faltered.

After I moved to Tennessee, my contact with Tracy was limited. We’d see each other a few times a year or talk on the phone when I had the time. Her life and mine had taken different tracks and I found less and less in common with her. She loved my kids (and all her nieces and nephews), and once it became obvious that the disease would not allow her to have children of her own, she doted on them.

As the disease grew more painful, and the doctors were forced to start taking drastic measures of amputation, her use and dependence on drugs grew. We were all concerned, and we could see the difference in her mind…once sharp and focused, becoming more scattered and foggy.

Looking back on that time, I hate what the drugs did to our family. We were all hurt in different ways, and I know that Tracy would never have said nor done some of the things she did if the drugs hadn’t been controlling her. She loved her family…and I know she loved me and my girls.

The doctors finally intervened and put her on a regimented drug program to control her pain, and slowly she began to come back to us. With her mind clearer, she started recognizing that some of her so-called “friends” were only using her, and she worked hard to re-establish relationships with family. She went to church when she was able and was baptized; turning to God for comfort and doing her best to keep a positive attitude.

The smoking and the progression of the disease continued to take a toll on her body. By the end she had lost her right foot and most of her left leg. She had also lost all her fingers and thumbs, down to mere nubs. The addiction to smoking was only intensified by the Buerger’s, and although she tried every way she could to stop, she smoked until the end of her life.

For most of us, the multiple amputations and pain would have been too much to overcome. I can’t imagine the will and strength that it took for her to do even the simplest things. Her independence was important to her, and she lived alone, which still amazes me. She adapted and learned how to write with better penmanship than most of us. She used her computer to stay in touch with friends and family. She could text on her phone better and faster than I ever could.

Of course, she had help, and my Dad was there for her almost every day for something. Mom did her laundry and they did her shopping. Dad took her to doctor’s appointments and on errands, loading her wheelchair in and out of the car at every stop. Their devotion to their baby girl was amazing and inspiring.

As her condition worsened, my brothers and I were frustrated that she did not agree to go into an assisted living center or a nursing home. We were very concerned for our aging parents, and Tracy's health, and we often told them that we thought they needed to pull back and not do so much. Dad always answered the same, saying, “We would do the same for any one of you,” and I knew it was true.

Dad got sick and had to be rushed to the hospital on the evening of July 3^rd. I got the call that night and my brother Wayne told me it was “congestive heart failure.” Dad could barely breathe and had a large amount of fluid on his lungs. The next day as the family sat in the waiting room outside of the Critical Care Unit, it briefly crossed my mind that it was a rare thing for the four of us kids to be together and Dad would like that. I didn’t know that it would be the last time.

As his condition began to improve slightly on July 5, Tracy was brought by ambulance and placed in the room next to Dad. The family took turns going from room to room and nurses joked that this should be renamed the “Warford” wing.

They both went home after a few more days and Tracy knew that Dad could no longer be there to help her like he had been. Dad’s recovery would be long, and the doctors put him on a strict diet and told him he could not drive.

Everyone pitched in to help, and I greatly appreciate that my brothers lived close by since I live so far away. At the end of July, Wayne called to tell me that Tracy was back in the hospital and it was serious. A nurse had told him that she didn’t think Tracy would leave the hospital. I had received many of these calls over the years, and I had become a little jaded. I had made several emergency trips home after hearing “it doesn’t look good,” and although grateful each time that she recovered, I had begun to think that she was indestructible. Having just returned from a trip to take my Dad to the doctor, I almost convinced myself to wait a day and see how she was doing then. Something told me I should go on that night.

The next morning, I picked up mom and met Wayne at the hospital. My cousin had planned to come in for a visit and Dad stayed home to meet him. None of us thought August 1 would be any different than any other day.

Tracy was sleeping when we got to her room, her breathing was heavy but she appeared to be resting, which we knew she needed. We went to the waiting room so we wouldn’t disturb her. They told me that the afternoon before Tracy had asked my Dad to come and sing to her. Dad sat on the edge of the bed and sang “Amazing Grace” while she weakly sang along with him.

It wasn’t long before her doctor came into the waiting room to ask about resuscitation, if it became necessary. Wayne told her that it was Tracy’s wish not to be revived. The doctor agreed and explained that the Buerger’s disease had slowed the blood flow to such a degree that her internal organs were dying. He said that there was nothing more they could do and he could not see her making it through the day.

I left immediately to get Dad, and he was waiting at the door when I got there. We were back in twenty minutes and went straight to her room. Wayne stood outside on the phone and we went in to find Tracy breathing heavily, her whole body shaking with each rattling breath. Dad went around the bed and sat down beside her, placing his hand on her arm. I stood by her and leaned in to kiss her forehead, whispering, “Love you, Sis.”

A nurse came up behind me and said, “The doctor asked us to take the monitor off,” and I stepped aside. She reached to remove the electrodes attached to Tracy’s upper chest. As her fingers touched the first lead, I noticed that the room had gone quiet, and I saw Tracy’s head move slightly to the side. The nurse laid her hand softly on her chest and looked at my Mom and Dad. “I think she’s gone.”

It was that quick. Dad and I had not been in that room more than two minutes and her life was over. Tracy was 43 years old.

I could almost feel myself stop breathing. I have never been present when someone stopped living. I’ve seen people die in movies and been to funerals where I’ve viewed a body. I’ve experienced death from a distance and mourned for lost loved ones. I thought I understood the process of death and what it would be like, but the reality of it was crushing.

Mom turned away and sobbed. Dad sat stunned and continued to hold her arm. I backed out of the room and looked at Wayne. Through trembling lips I could only repeat what the nurse had said.

We went back into the room and were followed by more nurses who checked for a pulse or any sign of life. Tracy had been in the hospital so many times in the last few years that most of the staff knew her by name and by smile. She joked and cut up with them, even when she was feeling her worst. Most of them fought to hold back tears.

I tried to console Mom, but she was feeling pain no physical injury could bring. She cried for her baby and she cried for the life that Tracy never got to live. When I finally helped her out of the room, she didn’t look back, nor did she go back again. She said she wanted to remember her as she was.

I called Connie, because I needed to hear her voice. I called my brother David, who was trying his best to get back from Nashville before she passed, but instead would have a long, grim drive home.

While we were out of the room, the nurses removed all the wires and IV’s and cleaned her up. When I returned a little while later, she was laying much as she had been when I left, head turned to the side, but with a crisp, white sheet pulled up to just below her chin.

Knowing that Tracy had made arrangements for her body to be donated to the University of Louisville for research into Buerger’s Disease, I understood that this would be the last time I would ever see her. Sitting there beside her bed, the wall that had stood between us for so long finally collapsed. I said things that I wished I had said while she was still alive. I told her how sorry I was that I hadn’t been there like I should have been. I told her how much I loved her.

I didn’t need to hear anything back from her. I just needed to say it…and I believe with all my heart that she heard every word.

I Are Stupid Too

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce) — Thu, 26 Jul 2012 14:49:00 +0000

Last week was a tough week in our house. I think we’ve been kind of spoiled with the generally mature behavior of Shelby and Ashlyn as the years have gone by, so when they do something monumentally stupid (which most teenagers tend to do on a fairly regular basis) it comes as quite a shock to their mother and me. We often remind ourselves, as we did again last week, just how lucky we are that they aren’t out drinking and doing drugs like a lot of kids. They aren’t at wild parties every weekend or chasing every guy they see. They don’t dress like they plan to be on a street corner looking for business. They seem to genuinely care about others. They are good kids. Seriously.

But, sometimes…

Shelby is almost twenty-two and will be moving into an apartment very soon, so it’s understandable that she would be stretching her wings of independence to see how far they spread. She forgets, however, that she still lives in my home and the walls there don’t allow for a lot of stretching and certainly no flying. Ashlyn, who at 18 wants to be considered an adult when it comes to doing what she wants, but can brilliantly play the “I’m still a little kid” card when it benefits her. They may be considered "Adults" by some standards , but only if they are graded on a curve.

Although we might have an occasional test of our parental authority from Shelby or Ashlyn (and multiple ones from Taylor), last week they hit us with a series of surprise attacks in a very short period of time. Staged one after the other with little chance to rest or recover in between, Connie and I were left battle weary and ready to place our finger on the big red button of doom: the nuclear option of taking car keys and keeping them under house arrest.

Before I explain what happened, let me say that I understand that in comparison to what a lot of parents deal with, their infractions were relatively minor. I completely get that. I also don’t care. We play by the rules set in our house, not in someone else’s. As parents our rules are tougher than some, more lenient that others. All that matters are that our rules and expectations are clear.

Our week of discontent started on Sunday night, when Shelby and Ashlyn changed their initial plans of coming to our house with some friends to watch a movie into going with a friend to his grandmother’s house to watch a movie there. This, of course, did not make Taylor happy, since she was included (by nature of living there) in the first plans, but excluded from the second. It doesn’t matter how often it happens (and it happens a lot), I never get used to the emotional drama of teenage girls.

Before they left, Connie and I clearly told Shelby and Ashlyn that they needed to leave for home at 10:30pm. Our reasons were sound:

· Shelby had to work the next day

· they were in someone else’s home and should not stay late

· that gave them plenty of time to watch a movie

· because we said so

They had not been gone 30 minutes when Ashlyn called to say that they were going to get pizza with their friend and his grandmother, so they might need some extra time to watch the movie. It was a reasonable request, and being reasonable people, we agreed. After some negotiating, we added an hour to the time they needed to leave. Don’t say we aren’t fair minded.

We told them to text when they were leaving.

At midnight we texted Ashlyn, since we had not heard from them. She responded quickly, saying that the movie was almost over and they would leave as soon as it ended. I asked “how long?” and she replied “fifteen minutes.”

Forty-five minutes later we texted them back and asked where they were. The response was, “we’re talking and getting ready to leave.” Apparently not.

For once, it was Connie who got up to wait for them and give them the glare of shame as they walked through the door. It’s usually me that plays bad cop, but I think she was afraid I would say something I would regret since I’d been in a grumpy mood for a few days anyway. Unfortunately for the girls, and something none of us really knew, Connie’s “bad cop” mode apparently goes into overdrive once it gets past 2am, so when the girls finally walked in at 2:15, she was not her typical happy self.

Leaving the parenting in her capable hands, I was sleeping peacefully in my cozy bed, but she told me the next morning that she gave them a pretty strong lecture on responsibility and doing what you say you’re going to do. There were feeble attempts at explanation from them and threats of future consequences from her. In all, not a lot was accomplished, but everyone went to bed appropriately disgruntled.

Monday night I arrived home from work to learn Shelby and Ashlyn had been invited to spend that night at the home of a young lady from church, along with a couple of other girls. Not a big deal except that...again, Taylor was not invited. The drama is never ending. I don’t blame Taylor for being upset, and I don’t blame Ashlyn and Shelby for wanting to hang out with friends without their little sister tagging along. It’s a vicious Catch-22. If one is happy the other can’t be. Either way, Connie and I are left in the middle and that means that almost always, we aren’t happy.

Since this was a sleepover, we didn’t have to worry about them overstaying their welcome or driving home late at night. Connie and I slept well with the knowledge that they were safe.

A little after 5am, Connie got a text. “Are you seeing the stars?” It was Ashlyn, who can get as excited about a cute kitten or a prancing deer or a particularly brilliant cluster of stars as anyone in the world. Rather than running outside to look at the wonders of the pre-dawn sky, Connie and I both were in awe of the fact that they were obviously still awake.

As we left for work that morning, we texted them to remind Shelby that she had to be at a staff meeting at 10am. We also felt it was necessary to remind her that she should come home, shower and look somewhat appropriate for work. Why we did this, I do not know. It’s been a long time since I’ve stayed up all night long and then had to function for work or school the next day. If I stay up much past midnight now, I’m a fuzzy brained drooler most of the next day. I need a mass consumption of coffee to function as it is.

Shelby was fine and made it home in time to clean up and dress nice for work. I shouldn’t have doubted, but sometimes as a parent you see patterns of behavior where there isn’t one.

But sometimes, there is…

That afternoon I was at work when Shelby called to say that she was going to drive 30 miles over to Maryville to see her soon-to-be roommate Lindsey so they could discuss all the stuff soon-to-be roommates need to discuss. I told her that there were severe thunderstorms rolling in and the radio was predicting high winds. She said that Lindsey told her it was clear in Maryville, which in Shelby’s mind meant no harm could possibly come to her. Rather than argue, I simply said, “you’re going to do what you want, so I won’t waste time trying to talk you out of it. Be careful…love you.” I would like to say that I was practicing reverse psychology, but it was really just resignation to the knowledge that I could not win the battle.

I hung up the phone and for the next five minutes I thought about her driving to Maryville and back that night. As I’ve said before, I am the worst case of all worst case scenario thinkers. I generally stop just before the involvement of marauding zombies or rampaging dinosaurs, but pretty much every other conceivable bad thing that could happen crosses my mind when it comes to the safety of my kids. I picked up the phone and called her back.

“Hello?”

“Hey Shelby,” I said. “Where are you now?”

“I’m coming through Oak Ridge on the way to Lindsey’s.”

“Okay…I’ve changed my mind. You can’t go to Maryville. Turn around and go home.”

She thought I was joking. “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.”

“But we had planned to meet today for almost a week.”

“You should have thought of that before you stayed up all night last night and most of the night before.”

I let that sink in and then gave her my justification. “You are tired, and you will likely be driving in a storm in heavy traffic. I have no idea what time you will come home tonight, and after the last two nights I don’t expect you’ll choose to come home early. Finally, you are driving a car in my name and under my insurance. If you are tired and have an accident you could not only hurt of kill someone, which would be horrible and something you’d have to live with if you survive, but you’d also destroy us financially, since I would have a share of the responsibility.”

It was one of my more well organized and logical rants and one which she obviously had no reasonable response to. There was silence for a moment and then a very frustrated “Fine, I’m going home.”

The line went dead and I immediately began to dread what I would face when I got home. Would I get the silent treatment from Shelby? A lecture from Connie that I had gone too far? I expected the worse, but instead got “absolutely normal” Shelby; calm and excited to show me some crafts she was doing for display in her new apartment. Any resentment she felt toward me she hid well…or else she knew that she would soon be escaping the warden’s prison and there was no point stirring things up now.

Later, I finally asked her if she was upset and she said she had been disappointed but understood why I had done it. This was the mature Shelby I was used to dealing with.

Tuesday night, Ashlyn went to dinner with a lady from our previous church who has been a dear friend and Christian mentor to Ashlyn for several years. Due to scheduling issues, they had not been able to meet for quite a while, so Ashlyn was excited to get together and catch-up on all that had been going on in their lives. I have always been grateful to this woman for taking the time to meet with Ashlyn and listen to her problems and encourage her. She’s young enough to be fun and cool to Ashlyn, but she’s also a wife and mother of two, so she’s a great mature role model as well.

The plan was to meet across town at 6pm and as she was leaving Ashlyn said, “Can we all watch White Collar at 9pm?” White Collar is one of the rare shows that we can all watch together. I watch it because of the witty scripts and characterizations. The four ladies of the house watch it to get lost in the eyes and smile of actor Matt Bomer.

When 9pm came and Ashlyn was not home, my first spark of worry arose, but it was minimal. I knew they had a lot to talk about and that the restaurant didn’t close until 9, so I let it go. Twenty minutes later I made the first call to her cell-phone and got only voicemail, and this continued for the dozen or so calls I made across the next forty-five minutes.

I asked Shelby if she had heard from her and unbeknownst to me she began texting Ashlyn’s friends to see if they knew anything of her whereabouts. At 10pm Connie and I were trying to find the cell number of Ashlyn’s mentor, which we somehow didn’t have. I hated to call her home, because she had two small kids who might be asleep, but we were very close to doing that. Finally Shelby came upstairs saying that Ashlyn had called and was on the way home.

Connie reminded me not to be mad when she came in, but I wasn’t. I was mainly just relieved. She came in smiling her Ashlyn smile and said, “Sorry, I didn’t know my phone was on silent.” I wanted to say that if she wasn’t in school, church or a movie, there was no reason for it to be on silent, but I didn’t. She apologized again for being late, and said that they talked until the restaurant closed and then sat in the parking lot talking some more. She had no idea that we were all so worried. Kids never do.

We gave her a brief reminder to just keep us informed about what was going on, and she tried to deflect our concern by saying she was perfectly safe. What kids don’t get is that while they may be perfectly safe where ever they are, if we don’t know that, then we are envisioning them stopping for gas and getting carjacked, or running off the road into a tree-lined ditch, or any number of horrible things that happen randomly.

I told her something I had told Shelby that afternoon when we talked about her driving to Maryville. “No one ever plans to have an accident, but you CAN plan for ways that might keep accidents from happening.” (You might have to read that a few times for it to make sense, but trust me, there’s a slight bit of genius in that logic).

Wednesday night was uneventful, and I was grateful. I was getting too old for this.

Thursday morning Taylor and I drove to Kentucky to spend time with my parents and left Connie with the two troublemakers. I thought that after the issues of the last few days that it would be fairly calm and uneventful for my sweet wife. That night I called her just before 10pm to check in and say goodnight and I could tell from the noise in the background that something was going on.

“The girls and some friends are going to the midnight showing of The Dark Knight Rises,” Connie told me. This did not cause me to worry. I don’t begrudge them being young and doing fun things. The theater is less than 10 minutes from our house, so it wasn’t a big deal. There would be lots of people since it was opening night, so I knew they would be safe. I was actually a little jealous that they were getting to go and I wasn’t.

The next morning Connie called me a little before eight and asked if I had been watching the news. I told her that we had not turned on the television that morning and she told me about the shooting in Aurora, Colorado. My heart shook at the thought of my girls sitting in a dark theater at the exact same time, watching the exact same movie.

I asked if they were okay this morning and she said they were still asleep and didn’t know about what happened, but something in her voice let me know there was something else wrong too. After some prodding, she finally told me that she had told them when they left to come home immediately after the film. That should have been some time just after 3am, since it was a nearly three hour movie. She had told them to text her when they left the theater so she would know they were on the way. She woke up at 4:30 and realized that she had not received a text. She got up and found the light in the living room still on. Hoping that they had just forgotten to text or turn out the lights, she looked outside and the car was still not in the drive.

Kids cannot comprehend the sudden panic that takes over a parent when their child is not where they are supposed to be when they are supposed to be there. It’s a full body experience that can wake you completely from a groggy slumber until every nerve in your body is screaming.

I never understood or even considered this feeling when I was growing up, and when I was in college and still living at home, I was just as thoughtless and unaware of my parent’s feelings. I think back now to the nights that I was out late and did not call (even though we didn’t have cell phones back then, it’s not a great excuse for worrying the people who love you most in the world).

While in college I began working on the tech crews with the local community theater. I loved the creative, open-minded atmosphere, and the people were amazingly fun and sweet. After almost every performance there was a cast and crew party and there were a few nights I didn’t come in until dawn.

Did I do anything wrong at these parties? No (whether you believe me or not), I did not. I have always been a bit strange about not bowing to peer pressure, so despite what might have been going on around me, I was either too clueless or simply didn’t care to be involved. I didn’t drink or do drugs. I mainly sat around and talked and enjoyed the energy of the people. I never did anything at those parties that I look back on now and say I am ashamed of…except…now I wonder if my parents ever lost sleep or had that terrible parental fear that I get now. If I did that to them, then I am deeply and sincerely sorry.

Connie called and got Ashlyn on the phone, who explained that they were hungry after the movie and were now at IHop with a lot of other moviegoers, waiting on food. She apologized and said that she had reminded Shelby that they were supposed to go home immediately, but was overruled by the power of pancakes. Connie was not happy.

The shootings put things back in perspective somewhat, but we were still not happy with the choices the girls were making. Like I said, they weren’t necessarily doing anything wrong except not honoring what they had told us they would do, which in hindsight is not a very big deal, but also a VERY big deal.

We have told the girls many times through the years, and I’ll bet others have heard a variation of it as well, “it’s easy to lose trust and very difficult to gain it back.”

I talked to Shelby over the weekend and asked what she had been thinking throughout the week. She said she didn’t know and that she felt like she wasn’t doing anything right anymore. She said that sometimes it felt like twenty-some years of being responsible was too much and she was pushing back. I told her that I understood and that sometimes we get in a pattern of making bad choices and that it’s almost like our mind gets temporarily rewired that way. I’ve been at points in my life where I thought every decision I was making was wrong. The only way out is to recognize it and start asking for help. Prayer is always the first place to go.

I told her to err on the side of too much information when it comes to her Mom and me. If we know where they are and that they are safe, we’re much less likely to be upset. Not knowing is such a horrible feeling to a parent.

If you think I am too hard on my kids, you may be right, but it’s only because I love them so much and want to protect them. I know that they will do stupid things, because all kids do stupid things and because I did an amazing amount of stupid things (and still do more than my fair share). I don’t want them to repeat my mistakes. I was lucky to survive some of them.

When I was just out of high school and stretching my wings a bit too, my friend Rodney and I went to Louisville one afternoon to see a movie. As we pulled into the parking space at the theater in Rodney’s old yellow Ford, we slammed particularly hard into the concrete parking barrier. I looked at Rodney and he said, “My foot went all the way to the floor, man. The brakes are gone.”

Now, any logical people would have called someone, maybe a wrecker or AAA or their parents, but not us. We went inside and watched our movie and came back out and got in that same yellow Ford. I’m not sure how we didn’t catch a light on Bardstown Road. I don’t know how we got onto Watterson Expressway or exited onto Interstate 64. It made sense at the time that we could do it, just as drunk drivers are positive that they can drive safely or people who text think they can do that while paying attention to the road. I can’t speak for Rodney, but I admit to being a little nervous, yet I didn’t offer up a single suggestion that it was a terrible idea or that we should not be doing it.

Amazingly, we made it the thirty miles back to our exit and even somehow maneuvered that big curve on the ramp taking us back into town. It was less than a half mile from Rodney’s house that a car pulled out in front of us and with no brakes he had no choice but the swerve wildly and take us off the road and head first straight down a steep embankment. We came to sudden stop that was so jarring I can still feel it in my teeth some nights.

We were watched over that day because we not only survived without a scratch, but more fortunately, we did not kill anyone else. Even if I was to combine all the stupid things my girls have done so far, it wouldn’t come close to how stupid that one incident was. I understand “stupid” all too well.

I hope my kids make smarter choices than I did. I hope they understand that sometimes even the littlest decisions can have a huge, life-altering impact. Unfortunately, there are no time machines to correct our mistakes. All we can do is hope and pray that we live through them so we can ask forgiveness and learn not to do them again.

My Happy Place

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce) — Mon, 23 Jul 2012 21:59:00 +0000

The first time I stepped inside a movie theater I fell in love. The sound of fresh popcorn popping in the lobby welcomes you along with the rich buttery aroma that seeps into your lungs and surrounds you like a hug. I loved how the people in line are almost always in a good mood, knowing that they will soon have crunchy snacks to enjoy and cold drinks to sip, and just beyond the door lies escape from their mundane world. I loved the careful balancing act of carrying a tub of popcorn and a large soda while simultaneously trying to hand the attendant my ticket.

Stepping into the dark theater and finding that perfect seat still makes me feel like a kid again. I love being transported to new and distant places. I love the craft of a well told story. I love characters that come to life and change for the better throughout the run time of the film. It is a hopeful place for me, and when I step outside afterward, into the bright light of the afternoon or the crisp cool of the evening, I always think I am entering a world that was better than the one I left just a few short hours before.

I love movies.

Saturday afternoon, Connie suggested that we go see a movie, and she didn’t have to twist my arm. It was miserably hot, as it has been for most of the summer, so the cool, dark theater would be preferable to doing anything that involved going outside.

The popcorn smelled the same, and the lines were nearly as cheery as usual (although slightly more subdued, since this was an art-house, limited engagement theater and most of the clientele was over-40). We entered the theater and chose our seats just as the pre-show was winding down. It was then that I realized that I would probably never enter a movie theater again without looking at the exit doors to make sure they were closed.

Although I enjoyed the movie a great deal (“The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel,” which is now on Connie’s all time favorite list), the sanctity of the movie theater experience has been slightly disturbed for me. I can no longer fully escape the outside world. Lessons have been learned that will not be easily forgotten. I’m sure I will not be the only one to take my eyes from the screen occasionally to check doors and glance around for any signs of strange activity. It will become a part of our national consciousness, much like men approaching a cockpit door, or large trucks parked and abandoned in front of government buildings.

It’s sad to think that my kids will grow up in a world where nothing is completely safe. I don’t remember having to fear about home invasions or school shootings when I was a child. I don’t recall every wondering if I would return home after going to church or a movie. It’s a sad reality that makes up our life today and our kid’s tomorrows. We have allowed our world to get out of hand.

I’m glad I “got back on the horse” and saw a movie so soon after the shooting. I honestly believe that if you don’t live your life because you have a fear of dying, you’d just as well be dead. I don’t want to lock myself in my house and never leave. I don’t want to live in fear. I don’t want that for my kids either. I want them to see movies…and I want them to see the world. Despite all the potential danger and the crazy people, it’s still a truly beautiful, magical place.

Keep the Change

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce) — Thu, 07 Jun 2012 17:43:00 +0000

It is often said that “change is inevitable” and that is certainly true. Most change comes in almost imperceptible increments over time:

· One gray hair becomes two, then ten, then a hundred, then a head full.

· We step on the scale and have gained a pound…then suddenly our clothes don’t fit…then we look in the mirror and say, “who is that fat person?”

· The naïve puff of a single cigarette or the taste of a solitary drink or the brief escape of a tiny pill start out controlled, but become an addiction.

We see change in our faces. We see change in our spouse, in our kids. We don’t always notice because it happens so slowly. Some days we just wake up and say, “how did this happen?”

Like most people, I’m not a big fan of change. I find comfort in stability. I always have, even when I said that I didn’t. When Connie and I first married, she told me that no matter what, she did not want our marriage to get “comfortable.” She described it as the “death” of romance and excitement. I promised that we would not fall into that trap and we would never become “comfortable.”

We failed. Miserably.

We did become “comfortable.” Extremely “comfortable,” in fact. She admits now that she likes our comfortable life, and it has not been what either of us would call a “death.” Romance is definitely still there, just different. It’s not always roses and candlelit dinners. Sometimes it’s bringing them a cup of coffee or rubbing a sore back. There are many ways to show your spouse you love them. The best way is to not expect anything in return.

Having children changes your perspective rather quickly. Happiness becomes less about what you think you’re going to do with your life than about what you want for someone else. For most of our marriage we have lived inside a rare bubble of family unity, safety and (for lack of a better word) “coziness.” We were blessed with three daughters who generally enjoyed being at home with us and (most of the time) got along well with each other. I was spoiled.

The last few years have been a little different. That incremental change process began speeding up. The girls got older, their individual goals and dreams began to form and challenge our carefully established status quo. Now I am facing what I have so long tried to ignore and hoped would just go away. My family is going through drastic changes. Life as I know it will never be the same.

In the last month, three momentous events have occurred in the lives of my daughters (and therefore, mine and Connie’s). Taylor finished Middle School and will begin High School in the fall. As our baby, this is difficult to deal with and not just a reminder, but a relatively violent slap in the face that we are getting older.

Ashlyn graduated High School last week and will start college in the fall. Although she will still be living at home and commuting to classes (which makes me selfishly happy), it is still a major milestone. Connie and I both agree that Ashlyn graduating is hitting us much harder than Shelby’s graduation three years ago. I’m like that father in the car commercial. I still see Ashlyn as that little blonde haired toddler, so quick to give a hug and a smile. So young.

Then, last Saturday, Shelby and her friend Lindsey signed a lease on an apartment, and she will be moving out this summer. Like I said, I have been spoiled by having all my girls at home for so long. Shelby has been commuting to college classes for three years, and although I knew the day would come when she would go, it doesn’t make it any easier. I wasn’t ready for her to grow up.

I wasn’t ready for me to grow old.

I went with Shelby and Lindsey to look at the apartment complex and if you’ve heard the expression “bouncing off the walls,” that was their reaction to the possibilities of moving out on their own. I was happy to see their incredible enthusiasm, but as they danced from room to room, pointing out decorating options and paint colors, I felt like I was suddenly dropped underwater and was watching it all in slow motion.

That night, we held Ashlyn’s graduation party. Our house was full of celebration and laughter, and as I sat in the corner, resting from a long day of food preparation and the trauma of being abandoned by my oldest child, I quietly watched as my girls interacted with their peers and family. They are so different from me; more adventurous and open to new things…more relaxed and happy. I don’t think change will kick them in the stomach like it seems to do me. I hope not.

I hope they stand firm in their beliefs but keep their minds open to the possibility of their own misconceptions.

I hope they hold themselves to a higher standard, but do not place judgment on others.

I hope they realize that “going with the flow” doesn’t mean letting others take you down a river of destruction.

I hope they find comfort and peace in their hearts, but keep their mind open to the beauty and mystery that life offers.

I hope that they strive for positive change, and don’t let the things that are out of their control bring them down.

Most of all, I hope I haven’t screwed them up too bad. I am sure that one of the major concerns I have with them moving on and moving out is my insecurity that I haven’t done enough. I have mini panic attacks that there is some major life lesson that I was supposed to teach them but somehow forgot. What if they don’t know how to balance a checkbook? Or boil eggs? What if I never told them that Wrestling is fake or how to put air in a tire? There are so many things to teach and so little time.

It’s not that I don’t have faith in them. They are amazing girls who fortunately take more from their mother than they do from me. I just don’t have a lot of faith in myself. Some things never change.

Why I am an Angry Person

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce) — Mon, 21 May 2012 17:38:00 +0000

A few weeks ago I attended my daughter's graduation ceremony from Community College. It was a wonderful program with inspiring speakers, good music, and the promise of a better future for hundreds of graduates. As I watched my daughter cross that stage and take another step toward a life of independence and adventure, all I could think of was, “Why can’t those idiots behind me shut up?”

Don’t laugh, but in the last few years I have honestly tried to become a more tolerant person. I have attempted to overlook the blatantly obnoxious, oblivious, self-involved behavior of our current society. I have tried to make excuses for them, such as “they just don’t know any better,” or “it was the way they were raised,” or “someone must have dropped them on their head when they were kids.” I tried (hand on a Bible), I really, really tried.

But it’s gotten to the point that bad behavior is not just overwhelmingly prevalent, but has become accepted as a societal norm. We hear so many people talking about “Freedom,” that people think that means they can do anything they want. God Bless America! Home of the Free and the Rude!

I’ve ranted before about bad behavior in movies, but it’s pretty much everywhere now. You might expect bad behavior in a bar, or a ball game, and almost certainly at a family reunion, but I’ve noticed it rearing its ugly head at Church also. What used to be a place of absolute reverence and respect; is now a place where people chat during songs, during the sermon, and even during prayers.

When I was a kid, if I was bored, I drew quietly in a bulletin. If I got loud or misbehaved in any way, I was promptly taken outside and dealt with. Take my word for it, those hard wooden pews do not feel good after a spanking. I learned my lessons quickly.

Youth today don’t get spankings, and in general it seems that parent’s drop them at the door and don’t look their way again until they get in the car to go out to eat for Sunday lunch. I’ve noticed the youth in our church line up across a row and talk, laugh and pass notes throughout the entire service. They don’t even have the decency to sit on the back row like my peers did. They sit toward the front where everyone behind them can watch them misbehave. Everyone, I guess, except the parents (who are probably too caught up in their own conversations to go up and grab their kid by the earlobe and drag them out for some good old fashioned lessons in proper church behavior).

My girls know that I’m watching, and I’m proud of the fact that they also seem bothered by the bad actions of their fellow youth. Often they will come and sit with me and their mother on Sunday morning and when I asked them why they aren’t sitting with their friends, they have answered “they talk too much during the service.” It gives me a big Dad smile.

Another thing I’ve noticed in church lately is how many people do not take advantage of the nursery facilities. I don’t have a problem with that. In fact, I think kids should get used to being in the service and learning to be quiet and respectful. But (and there is almost always a “but”), parents need to use some common sense and have respect for others.

If you have small children, sit in the back and on the end of the pew. That way you can get up and step out quickly when they cry or act up. Don’t bring any toys that make noise or can be used as a horn, drum or hammer. These suggestions may seem too obvious, but apparently not. It happens on any given Sunday.

I’ve noticed that one mother brings books for her pre-school child, which I whole-heartedly agree is a good thing. I would not expect a child to sit still and listen to a sermon with multiple Old Testament references and themes based on eternal damnation (and to be perfectly honest, if I could bring a copy of Berenstain Bears to peruse during some of the drier sections of certain sermons, I’d be happier too). This particular mother though, doesn’t just bring her child books; she chooses to READ them to her during the service. I’m not talking about a onetime occurrence, but every Sunday morning. I’ve actually had to move where I sit (which is a major concession in a Baptist church, where seats are leased on a lifetime basis) because if I continued to sit near her and listen to her soft narration and turning of pages, I may have eventually lost my religion.

Of course, we are inundated with examples of bad behavior in media, and more often than not we see that behavior rewarded. How many reality shows do you see that follow a family who is respectful, loving, kind and generous? Between Jersey Shore, the plethora of “Real Housewives,” the Kardashians, the Teen/Dance Moms, the know-it-all cake boss/restaurant gurus, and any number of B-grade star wannabes who allow cameras to follow them around; we don’t have a lot of quality role models. Rude, loud, selfish, ignorant and greedy gets the attention these days.

All of this is a great reminder of something I have tried so very hard to ignore. I don’t like people. Not any of you reading this right now, of course, but those other people. We know who they are.

As we sat in the cramped seats of Thompson Boling Arena to watch Shelby graduate and listened to the hoots, hollers and air horn blasts coming from the large family of morons behind us, my lovely and much more tolerant wife leaned over to me and whispered in my ear, “Can we request to sit in the non-redneck section next time?”

Sadly there isn't a section to escape bad behavior. Not anymore.

I am not exaggerating about this group, and if you do not believe me, you are welcome to ask my wife or any of our other family members who were present. The people behind us behaved like they were sitting in their back yard, drinking beer and waiting for the cock fight to start. I picture them arriving at the arena on a large flatbed truck or in an old yellow school bus (so old, I imagined, they had bought it from a church, which means it had been retired from service twice). They came there to honor “Billy,” whose name they screamed loudly and often throughout the entire ceremony. I later learned (and I swear this is true) that his name was “Billy Bob.” I can’t say that I was shocked.

I tried hard to ignore them, but considering that they raised their voices to be heard over the arena speaker system, I couldn’t help but hear most of their constant chatter. Apparently one of the three women sitting directly behind us was pregnant and would soon be giving birth, although based on appearances, it was difficult to tell which one it was. They talked about OB/GYN visits and the use of drugs during childbirth (they were all for it). Then the soon-to-be-mother, with incredible conviction, said “if it’s a boy, I’m pushing him back in until he comes out a girl.”

I wanted to turn around and educate her a little bit. “Hi, I’m not a doctor, but I used to watch ER all the time, and I just want you to know that it really doesn’t work that way.”

I wanted to turn around a lot that evening. I wanted to tell them shut up. I wanted to say, “There are other people who would like to hear what is going on and maybe even hear their loved ones name called out at graduation.” I wanted to say, “Did you ever think that Billy Bob might be humiliated that you’re up here acting like you’re at a tractor pull?”

I didn’t do any of these things, of course. I didn’t say anything to them. Fortunately, they did have a lull in their conversation when Shelby’s name was called, so we did hear it, or that might have been the proverbial straw that sent me to jail that night for assault. I was frustrated though, and it affected my enjoyment of the evening because I couldn’t just relax and be in the moment.

The situation left me wondering what is the right thing to do. How do you teach other people how to behave properly? I don’t think my asking them politely to “keep it down” would have worked. I got the impression that they would have kicked my seat and said “Move somewhere else if you don’t like it!” By implication, that left me with two choices: a) move somewhere else, or b) start liking it. I didn’t like either of those choices.

I was also afraid it could escalate in other ways. These ladies had the look that if they had not been in a bar fight recently, that they at least knew every move in the WWF catalog, and although I was pretty sure Connie could handle one or maybe even two of them, three would have been just a little bit too much (plus, I'm fairly confident that the rest of the clan would have joined in the battle, including their feral looking children sitting behind them).

The other problem when confronting crazy, rude people is that their unbridled belief in their right to FREEDOM and doing whatever they want to the detriment of others could well extend to their personal right to bear (and use) arms. Not that all gun owners are crazy, rude people (and I know several gun owners who are polite, well-balanced citizens), but I can pretty much guarantee that if you have a guy named “Billy Bob” and at least two women with “America: Love It or Leave It” tattoos on their upper chest then there is probably a gun rack in the back truck window and a handgun in a purse.

My frustration with bad behavior only goes so far.

It's not a bomb...

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce) — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 14:50:00 +0000

There was a lot of backlash when the TSA first installed full body scanners at many of the nation’s airports. There were concerns of privacy and how much the security personnel would see and what would happen to those images. I’m sure that many women were very concerned (with great reason), but I didn’t really worry about it for myself. I already had a pretty poor body image, so all I felt was a bit of sympathy for any poor TSA agent who had to cast their eyes upon my unrestricted frame.

In response to the backlash, TSA adjusted the image so that (supposedly) the shape is standardized and only the area where contraband is suspected will be highlighted.

Something like this:

Of course, we have the option to bypass the scanner and request a pat down, but I’m not a fan of strangers laying hands on me. It’s awkward and I never know whether to look really uncomfortable (which I am, but might make me look guilty of something) or to try and relax and go with it (which might make them think I’m enjoying it). It’s far too much pressure when I’m already worried about the twenty ton metal tube I will soon be trapped inside for a four hundred mile an hour rocket ride five miles above the earth.

So I always go through the scanner. I don’t worry about the potential radiation, although I probably should. I already have a cell phone to my ear for half my day and I live in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, where animals routinely grow extra legs and no one eats the local fish. It just gets to be too much to worry about, and I could already serve on the US Olympic Worry Team.

Now, after all the fuss about what the image would show, the tricky thing about the new full body scanners is that you have to get almost naked to go inside. Shoes off. Belt off. Coat, jacket and sweaters off. Nothing in your pockets (even a tissue). It’s only you and a thin layer of clothing.

I think I’ve mentioned before that one of the more difficult things for me is removing my belt. I’m kind of at an “in between” size right now. Not quite snug in one size, but too big for the next size down. Since I don’t aspire to the idiotic teen male trend of having my pants hang down to my upper thighs showing my underwear to the world, I keep my belt tight and my pants around my waist. Once my belt is removed and I step unsupported into the body scanner, I am required to raise my hands over my head (see photo above) and remain still. This is not so easy and I know it is just a matter of time before a video of me hobbling out of an airport scanner with my pants around my ankles ends up on YouTube.

This past Monday I showed up at the Knoxville McGhee Tyson Airport for my flight to Washington like I had done for the last three weeks and many times throughout the last ten years. Being an experienced traveler, I have learned to wear the same basic clothing when I fly. My logic is that once I found an outfit that gets me through security without issue, I will stick to that. It makes sense and in general, it works.

Monday I arrived and after checking my luggage and getting my boarding pass, I made my way to security. After a short wait in the serpentine control line, I started filling the gray plastic bins with my personal items: belt, wallet, cell phone, two tissues, boarding pass and shoes. In a separate bin I placed my laptop and then pushed them all into the conveyer for their fun ride through the tunnel of no secrets.

I then waited behind a slightly older gentleman who apparently had neither flown nor watched the news in the last ten years. He also did not appear to have the capacity to listen, since every two minutes there was a loud and clear announcement blaring through the entire area stating that you need to remove your shoes, belt, etc. He ignored all of those things, threw his oversize bag on the conveyer and marched proudly forward.

The TSA Agent sent him back to remove his shoes, watch, coat, cell phone, and clearly said “Do you have anything else in your pockets.” The man shook his head and said, “No.”

He stepped into the scanner and didn’t raise his hands. The agent pointed at the large sign inside the scanner (about 12 inches from the man’s face) that showed a clear diagram of a body with their hands over their head. The man put his arms straight out. It was brutally obvious at this point that the man was a career politician. No one else could possibly be so oblivious to their surroundings.

Once he finally grasped the correct standing procedure and the scanner ran, he was stopped and informed that he had something in his right pants and left shirt pockets. He stepped back through the scanner and emptied a few dollars in change, some car keys and his boarding pass into a bin and tried again. I wanted to suggest that this man must have been hiding something and in the interests of security he should submit to a full cavity search. Unfortunately, he was cleared on this go through and he began the slow process of gathering his belongings.

Swift and practiced, I stepped into the scanner and planted my feet on the painted yellow feet on the floor and my hands in perfect symmetry with the diagram in front of me. This should be quick and painless and I would soon be on my way to the gate.

The scanner bar made it’s quick half turn and I was motioned by a TSA agent to step out and wait to be cleared to proceed. It only takes a few seconds, twenty at most. I don’t even look back at the screen anymore because I am the model of travelling efficiency and I know that there can be no problem.

I knew something was wrong when the eyebrows on the TSA agent standing in front of me went unnaturally high. He looked at the female agent to my right and said, “We’re going to need a supervisor.” I watched as she lifted her radio to her lips and in soft, calm voice said, “Supervisor to One…we have a Groin Alert.”

I turned to look at the screen and the cut-out human diagram displayed there, and sure enough, dead center of the crotch was a bright yellow square.

Supervisors must be trained to respond rapidly to “groin alerts” because by the time I looked back a very tall and intimidating man was standing within inches of my face. He gave me a quick look up and down and then without a hint of humor, said, “Sir, do you have anything in your pants?”

There was only one correct answer in that instance, because TSA agents are not known for their appreciation of sarcasm, so I simply said, “no.”

“Okay,” he said. “Are you willing to go through the scanner again?” I quickly agreed to that option because I was almost positive that any other option might not be very pleasant.

I stepped back inside the scanner and silently prayed that whatever had set it off the first time was a technical glitch and would not happen again. The supervisor stood just outside the entry and said, “Sir, please untuck your shirt from your pants and pull your pants waist up as high as it will go.” I did as I was told. “Now sir, please raise your hands above your head.”

I quickly glanced around to see if anyone had their cell phone out filming my moment. I knew that without the extra snugness of my shirt being tucked in, my pants were considerably loose. I had no idea what would happen when I raised my hands. If nothing else, I could prove that I wasn’t carrying a weapon.

After a few attempts to raise my hands and feeling my pants start to slip, I finally pulled them as high as I could and spread my knees a little bit, hoping against hope that this bizarre yoga squat move would hold them up long enough for the scanner to run. The TSA supervisor gave me a strange look but hit the button to start the scanner. As soon as it was done, I grabbed for my pants and stepped outside, waiting nervously to see if my groin was still considered a threat to national security.

After what seemed like a half an hour, but was only about 30 seconds, the screen flashed bright green with the simple word OK on it. The TSA supervisor looked just as relieved as I was, probably because the next steps in the screening process would have been somewhat awkward for us both. He stood by me as I gathered my belongings and I asked, “I guess this happens a lot, right?”

“No,” he said. “Fortunately, it’s very rare.”

As always, lucky me.

.

Alive and Kicking

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce) — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 15:10:00 +0000

.

Connie told me last week that she has added something to her bucket list and she was going to make it a priority to see it through. Having seen the 2007 Morgan Freeman/Jack Nicholson film of that name, I knew what a “Bucket List” was and it didn’t really surprise me that she had one. She loves to experience new things and likes a little bit of adventure thrown in. Then she said that Taylor had mentioned something being on HER bucket list, and I was a little taken aback. Why does my 13 year old have a bucket list?

After various prolonged discussions about how we could make her bucket of dreams come true, Connie asked me what was on my bucket list. I had to think for a minute. Then I had to think for a very long time. I knew that I had never made a formal list of things to do before I died, but was there even an informal list floating around in the ether of my frazzled mind?

After giving it some thought during this last week, it struck me that the only thing sadder than not doing what you want to do before you die is to not even have a general idea of SOMETHING outside of our normal day to day existence that we would like to accomplish.

Starting from scratch, I was a little overwhelmed with the thought of filling an entire bucket…so I decided to start small and make a “coffee mug list.” I’m a big fan of coffee, and holding a steaming cup of java in a heavy mug gives me a high degree of comfort. Buckets are little unwieldy, and besides all that, I had a misfortunate run-in with a galvanized metal bucket as a clumsy toddler that left me with stitches over my left eye. Buckets haunt me.

The first thing that popped into my head when I asked myself, “What would I like to do that I haven’t done before” was: Take an uninterrupted nap.

I realized immediately the fault in my thinking because surely at some point as a child I had experienced a nap which was not broken up by a phone call, a crying child, a barking dog or the emergency need for me to replace batteries in the remote control. I reasoned that just because I could not remember something didn’t mean that I hadn’t done it, so I needed to set the bar slightly higher.

“Where would I like to go?” I asked myself. This question is a little difficult for me considering that I spend an average of 30 weeks a year away from home. When you spend that much time eating airport food and sitting in cramped “built for maximum occupancy” seats, the thought of sitting at home in your comfy recliner is more attractive than seeing one of the seven wonders of the world. (Combine my recliner with an uninterrupted nap and I may have found enough wishful thinking to actually fill a large dump truck, forget the bucket). After perusing the web and a spending a few hours watching the National Geographic channel, I still couldn’t find any place that I had an overwhelming desire to visit. I’m sure I would enjoy a visit to Ireland or Australia, Alaska or Brazil, but I’m also pretty sure that I wouldn’t feel all empty inside if I never go there.

I thought about other people’s lists. They seem to contain acts of adventure like Sky-diving, Zip-lining, bungee-jumping or swimming with dolphins. Considering that I can’t play most video games because I get motion sick and I also can’t swim, I pretty much had to rule out most of the standard “thrill” acts that make it on the lists. Living on the edge doesn’t appeal to me. I’m more of a “stay way back in case I trip” kind of person.

My blank list was getting more pathetic by the minute as the implication settled in that I seemingly had nothing to live for. What would people say about me when I was gone? Not that I grabbed hold of life and lived every moment, but that I existed…watching each hour pass from the safe cocoon of my comfort zone.

After berating myself for a good long while over what I couldn’t imagine myself doing, I had a brief moment of clarity when I simply asked myself, “What would make me happy?”

Now, that shines an entirely new light on these semi-morbid proceedings. I don’t need an impressive list of accomplishments to be happy. My joy comes from other things.

-I want my daughters to be healthy, happy and stable. I want them to find a good man who will love them unconditionally and worship them as they deserve. I want them to live the life that they were meant to live without the binds that hold so many of us back. I want them to find their inner peace and develop a strong personal relationship with their maker.

-I want to retire and spend mornings with my beautiful wife sipping coffee on the back deck until the sun becomes too warm and we have to switch to ice tea.

-I want to help my family achieve their goals.

-I want to travel some…but I don’t care about the destination.

-I want to be a better person.

Some of these items are out of my control, but I might be able to nudge them in the right direction a bit. This is my list of things that would make me happy, and now that I’m thinking that way, I’m sure I’ll think of more. I’m a very lucky man to have options. I’m not going to call it my “bucket list.” This is my “Cup runneth over list.”

The Big Deal

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce) — Tue, 02 Aug 2011 22:24:00 +0000

I think I’m pretty laid back as a father, which probably has more to do with the quality of my kids than with any specific personality traits I may have mastered. I don’t have to do a lot of yelling and screaming, and when I do it usually backfires on me and requires some type of humble apology and a pathetic explanation that I misunderstood what was going on. Fortunately, my kids don’t hold those mistakes over my head too often and they accept my groveling as part of who I am.

In the last couple of weeks we’ve had some situations that required me to pull back the mask of fumbling idiot and be “serious Dad.” Even rarer was the fact that I was justified in doing so. I know this to be true because Connie did not give me the evil eye while I was doing it.

The first incident occurred on a Saturday night two weeks ago when Shelby and Ashlyn invited a 16-year-old male friend from church over to practice music. As it turns out, there was no music practiced and soon plans had changed into going out to eat and seeing a movie. Life changes fast in the mind of teenagers (or twenty year olds, in the case of Shelby). Their mutual love of music was overpowered by their desire for buttered popcorn and a night on the town.

After some drama and debate over leaving little sister Taylor at home (why can’t they all just get along?), the gang of three left the house with the promise to call later to let me know what’s going on. A while later, while watching Disney channel re-runs with Taylor, I get a text from Ashlyn saying that they were “in Turkey Creek” to eat. For those who don’t know…Turkey Creek is a shopping and restaurant haven that is not in our town but is on the outskirts of Knoxville, about 15 miles away.

Now, before I describe my reaction, let me explain a few things. First, it might sound like that’s not a big deal. Second, it’s a big deal because I say it is.

My text response was this: I am not happy

This prompted a quick text response of “why?” by sweet, dear, oh so innocent Ashlyn and almost immediately a phone call by the same sweet, dear, oh so innocent child. “Why are you upset,” she said, completely unprepared for the hurricane of parental judgment about to befall her.

“Well,” I said, “you have driven to Knoxville without telling me that you were going. It’s Saturday night, so the roads are full of people who have just had a few glasses of wine or beer with dinner. And…you have a minor in the car whose parents think he is at our house or at least in our town.”

“His parents won’t care.”

“Did he call them for permission?”

“No, but they won’t care.”

“I would care…don’t try that with me in the future.”

“We didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“It’s a very big deal,” I told her. “I’m not just responsible for your well-being, but for his as well.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take responsibility.” She said, thinking that at seventeen she could bear that weight.

“No, you don’t understand,” I told her. “I own the car that you are in. I pay the insurance. If anything happens, I am completely responsible.” I let that sink in for a few seconds. “Not that his parents would do it, but if anything happened to him, they could sue and take everything we have. I am absolutely responsible!”

She got quiet and then said, “Sorry.”

I was too upset to let them off the hook, so I said “it’s easy to be sorry after you do something,” and then added “and I’m very disappointed in your judgment.”

That last part probably stung me harder than them. When I heard myself saying it, I thought about the times I had seen disappointment on my parents face. There was nothing worse. I’d have rather been beaten.

I thought of them riding in our van; the joyous mood of youthful fun that left our house had been sucked out by the vacuum of my anger. I didn’t want them driving so upset. In my always churning “worst case scenario” mind, I didn’t want what might be our last conversation to be so harsh.

“Now listen,” I said, calmly. “The main thing is be careful…and know that I love you.”

There was a brief pause, and I can only imagine the look on her face, because Ashlyn responded with “Geez Dad, I hate it when you do that.”

“What?”

“You get all upset about something and get us all upset…and then you say you love us, like it’s all over or something.”

“Oh,” I told her, “it’s not over. We’ll talk about this again. But I do love you.”

“Fine,” she said, in frustration. “Love you too.”

“Be careful then,” I said, “and text me when you get where you‘re going…and again when you leave. Then let me know when you get to the movie.”

“Fine,” she said, although her voice made it clear that it wasn’t. The call ended.

Taylor had listened to my end of the conversation and wanted to know the details, both out of some sisterly concern and also a barely repressed glee that the older kids who had abandoned her at home were now in trouble. I tried to use my explanation as a teaching lesson, telling her that she would do well to learn from the mistakes her sisters make, and hopefully avoid the same problems.

A little later I got a text: We’re leaving.

I responded: Okay, be careful.

Twenty-five minutes later I was surprised when the front door opened and the three silently came inside. “We decided to skip the movie and stay home,” one of them said. They did not look happy, but they did not look mad. In fact, my girls looked different than I had seen them before. They looked like they knew they had screwed up.

It was not a common thing for them. It was not a common thing for me.

When Connie and I talked about it later, we discussed the fact that one of the reasons that I responded so strongly and they took it so seriously is that they have not done anything remotely like that before. They had not done the typical, stupid teenage stuff that most teens do. They had almost exclusively been thoughtful, careful, dependable kids. This behavior, while not malicious, had been a serious error in judgment, and reminded us that they were still going to make mistakes.

Another mistake they made that night was wanting to talk about it when they got home. Since Ashlyn had talked to me on the phone, Shelby led this discussion, and although I had planned to stay quiet until their friend had gone home, I decided that if she wanted to talk about it, then talk about it we would.

She did start with an apology, and it was completely sincere, but when the excuses began I had to cut her off. I explained again that this was not a problem of trust. She didn’t have to tell me that she is a good driver because I know that. Being a good driver doesn’t matter when you’re suddenly staring into the headlights of a drunk driver. Even years of experience can’t prepare you for that.

I tried to explain that no matter how ridiculous my rules and demands might seem, I have only one goal and that is to keep them safe. If I die with the epitaph of “over protective,” but my kids are alive to see me buried, then I will have died a happy man.

It’s not always fun to be a parent. We somehow assume that our kids won’t make the same kind of dumb mistakes and make the same poor choices that we made at that age. We think that our wise guidance will keep them on the straight and narrow path of perfection. When they wander off that path it’s a bitter reminder of how often I stumbled off myself.

So, I’ll try my best to teach them. I’ll pray for them and ask that they be protected from both their own mistakes and the mistakes of others (including mine). I’ll reprimand them when they do something wrong, and hope and pray that I will always have the opportunity to do that. They aren’t perfect, and neither is their father.

And even if they don’t like it, I’m going to tell them that I LOVE them after I get through yelling.

Hoops

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce) — Thu, 24 Mar 2011 22:24:00 +0000

(Part two of the backpack saga begun in "Lost")

Our drive to the airport was uneventful and just like the driver had promised; we came to a stop in front of the airport at 1pm…exactly 30 minutes. I paid him his fee and a generous tip, grabbed my bags (after carefully checking that I had everything) and hurried inside.

I had flown the 1:40pm direct flight from Reagan National Airport to Knoxville’s McGhee Tyson Airport many, many times. Rarely did it leave exactly on time, and almost never did they begin boarding thirty minutes early like they say they will. Still, despite my good fortune in finding my back pack, I did not feel I could push my luck. There was no time to waste.

I turned the corner to find that there was only one person in line at the First Class check in counter. Let me stop here to make a brief explanation: One of the few benefits of excessive travel is the accumulated appreciation of airlines and hotels for your return business. The more you fly, the higher your status rises within their particular program. For several years I had been a Gold member with USAir, but this year, for some reason, I was bumped up to Chairman…their highest level. This sounds much more extravagant than it is. My primary perk is getting to step up to the First Class check-in desk (which I was also able to do with Gold level) and bypass the longer lines. The First Class desk is more about status than seating. The small commuter jets that fly back and forth to Knoxville do not have “First Class” seats, so usually I end up sitting in the back near the smelly bathrooms. It’s extremely glamorous.

I used the available self-service kiosk to confirm my seat and print my ticket, but then had to wait for the agent at the counter to check my bag. The person in line in front of me was not happy. Apparently his flight had been delayed from its original departure point due to mechanical problems. Personally, I have never understood why people get so bent out of shape about Airlines having to fix an airplane before flying. I hope I am never in so big a hurry that I am willing to get on a plane that isn’t in near perfect working order.

This gentleman wanted an explanation for the delay and some kind of compensation for his time. The extremely patient lady behind the counter tried to calm him down while also explaining that since he had made his connection to his next flight, there was nothing the Airline could do. I wanted to tell him that his complaining might cause me to miss my flight and would he compensate me for that, but I remained silent. I had my backpack. I was happy.

The man finally walked away, sulking and growling under his breath. I put my suitcase on the scale and quickly showed my ticket and photo ID. “You’re a little overweight,” the lady said. The words stung like a slap. I couldn’t help but be offended, despite the fact that saying I was only a “little” overweight could have been considered a compliment. I started to say something when I saw the digital readout on the scale reading 56 lbs. The weight limit for checked bags was 50 lbs. each.

I took a step back and realized that I had placed my carry-on duffel bag too close to the scale and a corner of it was adding extra weight. I moved it aside and the weight dropped to forty seven. I smiled and apologized, hoping that the agent had not noticed the red on my face when I thought she was making a personal comment about my size.

Once my bag was checked (with the assurance of the agent that it would make it on the plane), I rushed down to the security checkpoint. If there is one thing that I have learned from my years of air travel, it’s that you never know when there will be a long line. I’ve been there at the same time on many different days and sometimes it’s insanely crowded and other times it’s a ghost town. I had two minutes until boarding time, so I was hoping for the ghost town.

There were no tumbleweeds or boarded up storefronts, but the lines were shorter than I had seen on many days, and best of all, each of the six security lanes were open. I jumped into a line with about five people in front of me and smiled at the thought that I just might make it. After each person stepped up to the TSA agent and presented their ticket and ID, they were moving quickly and efficiently up to the conveyer belt. There did not seem to be any “amateur travelers” in this group. Everyone was taking off their shoes before going through the metal detector. Those with laptops were removing them from their cases and putting them in a separate bin. It was like a training video on proper airport behavior.

An attractive, but stern looking redhead stood in front of me, wearing a dark, blue business suit and a look that said that she might be late for her flight as well. Just as she handed the agent her ticket and ID, another agent came past us and began sliding the doors closed to the two security lanes we had expected to use. The woman grabbed her ticket and rushed forward, but it was too late. The door was open only enough for the agent inside to put his face through and say, “These lanes are closed, please use one of the other open lanes.”

“Are you kidding me?” the woman said, although I think I was the only one listening at that point. The agent who was now checking my ticket and trying to decide if the face on my ID matched the one on my head did not seem to hear her or care. I’ve learned not to argue or question TSA agents, and I think they’ve learned not to care if anyone is late for a flight.

I stepped forward, ticket in hand, and tried to decide whether to choose the two lanes on the right or the two lanes on the left. I couldn’t tell that the lines on either side were any shorter, and so I chose the right. The redheaded lady made the same choice.

Because we had been in line together, I think she thought we were bonded in a common goal. “Do you think we made the right choice?” She asked.

“Probably not,” I responded, laughing. I didn’t really seem to care as much as her. I had my backpack. I was happy.

We moved forward slowly until I could peer around the corner and see the conveyer belt, x-ray machine and metal detector. Then the line was stopped cold. At the front of the line was an older gentleman in a wheelchair. Two TSA agents were beside him, trying to figure out how to get him through the security system. First, they tried to get him to stand up so he could walk through, but after a few wobbly moments, it was obvious that it was not going to work.

I had to wonder what was so important that it required this man to fly somewhere; when his portable oxygen tank, wheel chair and physical debilitation made it seemed more appropriate that he should be under a doctor’s care. I was, however, impressed by his determination.

The redheaded lady was not impressed. She whispered, “Why is this taking so long?” I did not answer. She could see the older man as well I could, so the answer as to why we were not moving should have been obvious. I was more concerned with who the man was travelling with, because it was not readily apparent, and from the look of things, he had no business being alone.

After coming to the realization that he would not be able to make it through the metal detector without his wheel chair and oxygen tank, TSA finally rolled him through the bypass gate on the side and took him on for further screening. The line began to move once again.

I got to the conveyer belt and swiftly placed my shoes, laptop and cell phone in bins and put my duffel and backpack through the x-ray machine. As I stepped through the metal detector the alarm began to beep and I did a quick pat down of pockets to make sure I had not forgotten anything. I found nothing and shrugged at the TSA agent who was looking at me with sullen suspicion. “Are you wearing a belt, sir?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, “but I wear this belt every time I come through here. I was wearing it last Friday when I came through this security line and it was fine.” As I finished talking, I knew I had simply wasted my breath and more time. You don’t argue or try to explain anything to TSA agents. They do not care.

“Take off the belt, sir.”

I stepped back through the metal detector and grabbed one of the small white bowls they have for change and small items. I pulled off my belt and wound it around my hand so that it would fit nicely in the bowl and sent it through the machine. When I returned to the metal detector, the TSA agent pointed me to the larger machine next to it. “Go through the body scanner, sir.”

I had been fortunate enough to avoid the newly installed body scanners for the last couple of months, but my belt had betrayed me, so I stepped into the large plastic tube and put my feet on the yellow painted feet outlined on the floor.

“Raise your hands over your head and don’t move until I tell you,” said the TSA agent controlling the scanner. My next thought was, “How loose are my pants?” I was pretty sure that the final straw for my day would be the humiliation of my beltless Khaki’s falling to my ankles in front of hundreds of people at the Reagan National Airport while my off in the distance my flight lifted peacefully into the skies on the way to Knoxville.

I took my fingers off my belt loops and slowly raised my hands over my head. I held my breath and hoped I wouldn’t feel a sudden cool draft of air on my legs.

“You’re clear,” the agent finally said, and I dropped my hands quickly to secure my pants and shuffled over to where my bags and personal items were waiting. I grabbed the belt first and cinched it tight around my waist, then carried everything over to a nearby bench to get out of the way. As I sat down to put on my shoes, I heard my name being called over the loudspeaker. “…please come to gate 35A immediately for final boarding of flight 2553 to Knoxville.”

I gathered my stuff and hurried through the crowds in the terminal, making one brief stop at the water fountain to take my motion sick pill, which I was grateful I didn’t forget. I ran down the moving steps of the escalator that led to gate 35A, finally reaching the gate agent, who looked up and smiled. “Mr. Warford?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry I’m late…it’s been a crazy day.”

“Don’t worry about it. We knew you were here. And we wouldn’t leave without you.” She took my ticket and scanned me into the system. She handed my ticket back. “You have a great day.” I had been sent another angel.

Gates 35A and B are not gates in a typical way. They are doors that lead out to shuttle busses which then take you to a waiting zone of midsize commuter airplanes. Some people are thrown by this when they leave the airport for the first time, but I was very used to it. I did my walk of shame (reserved for the person who has made everyone sit on the bus while the announcements are made to get the lost and late to check in) and climbed the stairs into the shuttle.

The shuttle was not full, but the only empty seats were in the back. Unfortunately, these were completely blocked by the people sitting in the front two rows who were (to put it kindly) “over extended” into the aisle. I’m a big guy, and I’m pretty aware that I’m a big guy. I know my limits and what space I can fit through (and how much space I take up). The people who were blocking the aisle-way of the bus did not seem to be aware of the space they inhabited, because they looked at me with the childlike expectation that I could somehow slip right through the half inch of daylight between the person on the right and the person on the left.

“I guess I’m standing,” I said, and waited for the driver to come on board and take us out to my carpet ride home. As he did, I happened to notice that I was at least a foot and a half in front of the infamous yellow line (the one that all riders are supposed to stay behind), but thankfully he didn’t say anything to me. He just sat down and started driving.

I was the first one on the plane, thanks to my position on the bus, and I would have hugged the flight attendant, but I was afraid it might get me arrested. I collapsed into seat 12D, just in front of the bathroom, and was asleep before we crossed the Potomac. I was happy. I had my backpack. More importantly, I was finally on my way home, where the four angels God has blessed me with awaited me…and there’s nothing better than that.

Lost

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce) — Wed, 23 Mar 2011 14:02:00 +0000

It had been a horrible week. Stressed and exhausted…I was worn down by lack of sleep and a brain addled by too much second guessing and a plummeting sense of self-worth. I’ve often heard the phrase “running on empty” and by Friday of that week I felt as hollow as a cave...and just as dark and dreary.

It was my sixth straight week on the road. Week after week in a different hotel, meeting with different people and feeling further and further from my family and the warm comfort of home. I’d been doing this kind of travelling for a long time, but I’d hit a low point. I did not like myself that week. I did not like the world I was living in.

Friday morning did not feel like going home as much as it felt like escaping. I quickly packed my suitcase and duffel bag and put my laptop in my backpack. I could not get out of there fast enough.

The Twinbook Metro stop on the Red Line of the Washington Metro system is just across the street from the Rockville, Maryland Hilton. I had walked out the back of that hotel many times in the last ten years and rolled my bags the hundred or so yards to the Metro entrance. From that Metro station it is normally a 45 minute train ride (with a change from the Red to Yellow line) to the Reagan National Airport. I could do it in my sleep.

When I reached the platform, I expected to check the monitor and see that a train would arrive in the next three to five minutes, but that was not the case. The monitor listed the next train arriving in 9 minutes. 9 minutes is an eternity on a train platform…at least when you are desperately ready to go home.

I found a piece of wall and leaned against it, dropping my backpack to the ground and pulling my suitcase and duffel close against me. It was 11:30am and my flight was scheduled to start boarding at 1:10pm. I should still be fine, I thought. As long as I’m there by 12:30.

I didn’t check my watch, but it seemed much longer than nine minutes when the train finally rolled to a stop in front of me. I recalled the previous week when I had missed a train because I politely stood back and let others board in front of me. The doors had closed and left me on that platform feeling charitable, but also slightly foolish. I did not have time for either on this day. I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and hurried through the open doors of the train.

Oddly, for being so far outside of the city, the train car was already nearly full. With my large bag hindering me, I was forced to stand in the space near the door. I thought of the long, swaying ride ahead of me and that little voice in my head that loves to make things worse whispered, “you know that you will probably get motion sick.”

At the next stop I moved back to make room for the half dozen or so new passengers who squeezed their way into the car. As the door closed I looked down at my suitcase and suddenly had the uneasy feeling that something wasn’t right. I took a quick inventory and immediately realized that I was missing my backpack.

My brain was tired, but it put the pieces together anyway. I had left my backpack leaning against the wall on the Twinbrook Metro station. I was in such a hurry to get on the train that I did not stoop to pick it up. I felt like I had been punched in the stomach.

I turned pale with panic and beads of sweat popped up on my brow. Inside my backpack was my personal laptop, with family photos, videos, slideshows and attempts at writing. I tried to remember when I had last done a back up and wondered what had been lost forever. It was gone, many internal voices were telling me, and it was my own stupid fault.

A few minutes later we pulled into the next station. I staggered off, probably looking like a wild-eyed lunatic to anyone nearby. I quickly devised a plan of returning to the Twinbrook station while simultaneously assuring myself that it was pointless. Too many people come and go in those stations, I told myself. The backpack was gone.

According to the monitor, the next train heading back the way I had come was due into the station in three minutes. I started pacing, pulling my heavy bag behind me and muttering words like “idiot” and “moron.”

There were not many people on the platform, which was fortunate, but I did notice one young man who was looking my way with some concern. I thought at first that he might call security but instead he approached me and asked, “Is there something wrong?”

I told him my tale of woe and regret and he calmly listened. I’m not sure how much sense I was making because my breaths and words were choppy, my lungs felt like they had been reduced to the size of golf balls. Being rather cynical about human nature in general, I was surprised at his look of sincere concern. I was even more surprised by what he said next.

“It will be okay. I’m going to pray that it all works out.”

I meet a lot of people when I travel. Most do not inspire confidence. It’s not that they are bad people, but it’s exceptionally rare to meet someone who offers genuine compassion. Most of us put up walls in public. We wear masks to hide ourselves from others. We don’t want to get involved in someone else’s problems.

The train arrived and the young man followed me onboard. He started asking me about my life; where I was from and what I did for a living. He asked about my family and we learned that we had both grown up near Louisville, Ky. As I answered his questions, I felt my breathing returning to something that resembled normal. The pounding in my chest began to ease and the screaming in my brain calmed down.

He apologized when we reached the next stop, saying that he had to exit but wished he could stay and find out what happened to my bag. We shook hands and I thanked him, telling him that I appreciated his efforts to calm me down and regain my senses. He turned back just before he stepped out the door and said loudly, “I’ll keep praying…it will be alright!”

I sat down and thought about what he said. It would be alright. The laptop was almost certainly gone, but it was just a thing. It was frustrating and I knew that I would spend many hours wondering what exactly I had lost since the last backup, but it would be alright. People go through much worse.

We arrived at the Twinbrook station and I stepped out into the cool crisp air. I took a deep breath and made my way down the platform toward the wall where I had been leaning. I checked the time and confirmed that I had been gone for nineteen minutes. I whispered a little prayer, “God, please let it be there.”

I turned the corner and there was nothing but empty wall and empty floor. The bag was gone. I was disappointed, but not surprised.

I glanced around to see if it had been moved or if by chance someone was carrying it, but it was simply not there. I debated my options. It was past noon now, and my time to get to my flight was getting tight. If a train came soon, I could still make it. However, if there was any chance of finding my laptop bag, I felt I should risk it. There was always another flight back to Knoxville.

I decided that it was worth the time to check with the Station Manager, just in case there was a Good Samaritan on the platform that day. I have to admit, my confidence level was low. I have a tendency to live in worse case scenarios, so I was fairly certain that my effort was pointless.

Inside his glass booth, the manager was on the phone, so I waited. It didn’t sound like a business conversation, but I didn’t interrupt. It’s not that I was overly patient at the time, but I didn’t mind prolonging the bad news.

When he hung up the phone, I knocked on the glass and he opened the door with a frown. “Can I help you?”

I stammered a bit and finally spit out, “Did anyone turn in a black backpack?”

He looked at me suspiciously and said, “What’s in it?”

I exploded with a list of contents like a kid giving his Christmas list to Santa, “A blue Acer 17 inch laptop, a cell phone charger, a USAToday newspaper, four black thumb drives, a set of keys on a blue metal key-ring, a bottle of motion sick pills…”

He held up his hand to stop me. “I guess this is yours then.” He reached under his desk and pulled out my backpack. I nearly cried.

I thanked him about five times and said that I wished I knew who turned it in so I could thank them too. He said it was a Metro staff person, so I asked him to please offer my sincere appreciation to that worker. I walked away feeling twenty pounds lighter, despite the weight of my twelve pound bag once again hanging on my shoulder.

It was too late to catch the train. If I had a chance to make my flight, I had to get a taxi. I grabbed my bags and ran back across the street to the hotel. I made my way to the lobby and out the front where cabs were always waiting. Except that day.

I was almost resolved to miss my flight when I saw one of the black sedans from the Limousine service pull up to the front. As soon as the driver finished helping their passenger with their bags and received his payment, I grabbed him. “Can you take me to the airport RIGHT NOW?”

He looked at me slightly confused, but I am very used to getting that expression from people. I explained further, “My plane starts boarding in forty minutes, can you get me there?”

He nodded and said, “Thirty minutes…unless we have traffic.”

I threw my suitcase and duffel bag in the trunk and hugged my backpack close against me as I settled into the backseat of his comfortable Lincoln sedan. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Whether I made the flight or not, I could relax for a while.

My mind raced through the events of the morning but stopped on the young man I had met on the platform. I wished that I had gotten his e-mail so I could thank him again and let him know that his prayers had been answered. I also wished I could introduce him to my oldest daughter.

It struck me that despite my own best efforts to ruin my day; I had been sent some guardian angels. The young man calmed me down when I was ready to lay down on the tracks…and the station workers did the right thing, reminding me that the better part of human nature actually is honest. These people not only helped me that day with a lost backpack, they helped soften an increasingly cynical heart, which truly is a miracle. I had much to be grateful for.

***In case you’re wondering…yes, I did make my flight, but not without a few more hoops to jump through. By that point, I was taking it all in stride. Things that would have frustrated me before just gave me a chuckle. All it takes sometimes is a slight adjustment in your perspective.

Intruders

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce) — Thu, 21 Oct 2010 16:32:00 +0000

About a week before Halloween, the year after our encounter with the bat, I was awakened from a deep and peaceful sleep by a loud noise from within our home. Sitting straight up in the bed, I looked at the clock and saw that it was just past one a.m. Connie had heard it too and grabbed my arm. “What was that,” she said, in a frightened whisper.

“Shhhh...” I hissed, and listened carefully to the silence we were now drowning in. It was one of those ridiculous moments when you want to hear the noise again, to confirm that it really happened, but also didn’t want to hear it, because that would prove that something was making the noise.

I swung my legs off the bed and set my feet quietly on the floor. The noise replayed in my head over and over and I tried to make my best guess as to where it had come from. When my mind cleared from its sleepy fog, I reasoned that the sound must have originated downstairs. It was not the sound of breaking glass, but could have been something knocked over as an intruder stumbled around in the dark.

I slowly made my way out of the bedroom and into the hallway; my hands reaching out along the way for something to use as a weapon but finding only a hairbrush and some jewelry on top of the dresser. I tried to remember where my baseball bat was and then recalled that it was in the storeroom downstairs, along with anything else I might conceivably use to protect myself and my family.

I cautiously opened the door to the basement a few inches and listened. At first I couldn’t hear anything, but then I could make out a strange break in the silence. It didn’t register as a recognizable sound, but more like a soft change in the tone of nothingness.

I slipped my hand through the doorway and flipped on the switch for the light on the steps. I half expected to hear footsteps and the hurried rush of our intruder to escape, but there was nothing. I knew that this could be either very good or very bad news.

At this point I had the option of calling 911 or investigating for myself. With no weapon and having little or no skills at martial arts or hand to hand combat, the logical thing would have been to close and lock the basement door and call the professionals. I, however, in an extremely rare moment of perceived masculinity, decided to live free and die hard. My name is Bruce W. after all.

I moved carefully down the first few stairs, cringing with each alarmingly loud creak of the wood beneath my feet. There were six stairs down to a landing and three more stairs after turning a blind corner before reaching the basement. If someone was waiting on those lower steps, I would have little time to rush back up the stairs to lock the door.

I listened again and the odd, broken noise was louder. If I could describe it, I would say it sounded like someone with asthma taking a long, wheezy breath. I froze. The sound was almost identical to the breathing noise that Jason Voorhees made behind his mask in the Friday the 13th movies. My mind tortured me with the words that followed his intense respiration on film…”kill, kill, kill.”

Then my nostrils flared at a sudden, pungent smell that I didn’t expect. It was a hot smell, not like wood burning or fire, but like burning hair. It was strong and getting even stronger.

I slid down the wall and peeked around the corner, not sure what I might encounter, but very relieved to see the sliding glass doors that led outside were closed and locked, glass still intact. The breathing sound continued to grow louder and the stench was beginning to smell like burning rubber. My heart beat furiously in my chest and my own breathing was becoming somewhat panicked.

I moved onto the landing and stepped down, but stopped short of the last step. The light switch for the basement family room was just around the corner and I twisted my arm around blindly to find it. I half expected someone or something to grab my hand in the dark, which would have surely caused me to drop dead of a heart failure or at the very least awaken everyone within a five block radius with my high-pitched siren scream.

I found the switch and with a deep breath flipped it upward, bathing the area in the warm glow of soft white bulbs. The noise and smell did not alter or stop; and whatever was causing it apparently had no fear of me or any weapon I might be bringing with me down the stairs. I considered yelling out some manly threat like, “I’ve got a gun,” or “the police are on the way,” but I was pretty sure that the fear in my voice would come out sounding like Barney Fife or a six year old girl, so I stayed stoically silent.

Gathering all my nerves, I peered around the corner to see what horror awaited me. My eyes scanned the room for shadowy figures or grotesque monsters and finally settled upon two furry lumps lying calmly on the green felt of our pool table.

The grey tabby looked at me like I had just woken her from a peaceful slumber. The black cat was more alert, but taunted me with a “what are you doing here?” look on his face. If not for the loud, hissing breathing sound still emanating from somewhere in the room and the stench burning my eyes and nose, it could not have been more peaceful.

Let me stop here and explain a little bit about the cats. It’s no secret that I am not a pet person. This is not to say that I don’t like animals. That is not true. I enjoy visiting zoos and love a good horse movie. I think aquariums full of fish are really swell and I was a big fan of the Lassie shows as a kid. I like animals just fine. I just don’t particularly want to have a pet.

I’m can’t remember how we got those two particular cats, but I know that I had nothing to do with it. Like most of our horrible experiences with pets I’m sure it started off with someone’s best intentions. You know the kind. They always say things like, “Every child needs a pet, blah, blah, blah,” and “those allergies are all in your head.”

As usual, I went along for the ride (mostly in the backseat, and sometimes in the trunk).

Anyway, the cats were not guests in our house for a very long period, and their untimely demises (which I assure you were not of my doing) are now the stuff of neighborhood legend, but in their brief stay we seemed to have had a mutual agreement to stay out of each other’s way. Most of the time, it worked out just fine.

I stepped down and walked over the table, relatively sure at this point that no one was lurking in a corner to get me, but still completely perplexed over the continuing noise and the overpowering smell. The cats watched me with their wide, glassy eyes and I asked them, “Okay, what did you do?”

And then I saw it.

Behind the pool table, lying on the floor, was our ironing board…and beside it, hissing loudly and burning its way through our carpet and the foam pad beneath, was our iron.

I grabbed the hot iron and pulled it from the sticky, melted mess of the carpet and pad. Thank goodness for the cheap material of the low cost floor covering because a good shag rug would have probably burst into flame rather than melt into black goo. We were very lucky.

One thing I know is that Connie is very vigilant about turning off the iron when she uses it. Most of the time she unplugs it, but she always turns it off. Anyone who’s seen my wrinkled shirts knows that I rarely iron, so that left me with one explanation. Obviously one of the cats had jumped on the ironing board and toppled it over. When the iron hit the floor the switch had somehow turned on.

After unplugging and safely putting away the ruined iron, I gave the cats one last disappointed look (which they totally ignored) and made my way back to bed. Connie looked relieved when I walked back into the room and asked what had happened. It was too late and I was too tired to go into detail, so I just said “stupid cats…” before collapsing into bed and pulling the blanket over my head. She knew me well enough to let it wait until morning for the rest of the story.

Going Batty

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce) — Wed, 20 Oct 2010 15:00:00 +0000

It was a dark and stormy night…

Actually, no…it was dark, but the sky was clear and the air was crisp and cool. It was a beautiful October evening; the night before Halloween 1996. I swear upon the grave of Daniel Webster that the story I am about to share is true.

It was a little after 9pm. We had just tucked our Shelby and Ashlyn into bed and Connie and I had settled onto the couch to watch a little television. I can’t remember what we had planned to view because within minutes of sitting down, the phone started ringing. I stepped into the kitchen to answer the phone and barely started the conversation when I heard Connie scream.

Our kitchen at the time had a door on one end that opened into the hallway that led out of our living room to our bedrooms. The other end was open to a small dining nook and back into our living room. Essentially, you could make a circle through our kitchen into our living room and back.

As I looked up in reaction to the frightened yell of my usually calm and rational wife, I heard the strange flap of wings and came face to fangy face with a large bat. It swooped past my head and flew through our kitchen, making a wide turn through our living room and back past my face again.

This was not one of those little bats that you see flying out of chimneys and caves at twilight. I’ve seen those before. I don’t like them, but I’m not completely freaked out by them. This was what I call a “movie” bat. The wingspan was over a foot wide and its head looked to be the size of a tennis ball. It looked like the thing that Gilligan turned into in that weird vampire episode I watched growing up.

I know what you are thinking. I am obviously exaggerating the size of what was simply a regular bat. Or maybe it was even a bird that I mistook for a bat. In the hysteria of the moment, I could have only thought it was a bat. That is logical, and if I were alone when it happened, I would tend to agree. However, as I said, my very logical and clear headed wife can confirm my story. It was a bat. It was big. And it was in our house.

I hung up the phone (after politely saying I would have to call them back) and told Connie to run back and close the kid’s bedroom door. Crawling quickly through the flight zone, she did just that, and locked herself in with the girls.
I dodged the next pass of the bat and ran to the front door, unsure of what to do except hold the door open and hope that it would fly out on its own. From behind the glass of the storm door I watched as it circled, again and again, and wondered how long I could wait. Looking once again at the wingspan and the pointy ears on its massive head, I decided I could wait a good, long while. It was a beautiful night and I decided that the fresh air would do me good.

After twenty minutes of watching and carrying on an anxious conversation with Connie through the window of the bedroom where she was trapped, I saw the monster bat finally fly through the opening and disappear into the night sky. I hurried inside, closing and locking the door.

We checked all the windows and access points (upstairs, downstairs, attic, and basement) and could find no obvious point of entry for the creature. We never found a sign of its existence. No scratch marks on the walls, no little bat droppings. We had no idea how long it had been in the house before it made its presence known. It could have been hiding under our bed or in one of our closets for days or even weeks. It was more than a little un-nerving.

The mystery has never been solved.

It won't happen to me...

noreply@blogger.com (Bruce) — Wed, 29 Sep 2010 15:14:00 +0000

A recent study claims that despite new laws banning the act of texting while driving, the percentage of accidents due to texting might actually be increasing. The study suggests that now that drivers can be stopped, ticketed and fined when they are seen texting by police officers, they have not discontinued their behavior, but are doing so in a more discreet manner. Instead of holding the phone at windshield level (where their actions can be viewed), they are holding their phones lower; therefore taking their eyes and concentration even further from the road.

How stupid are we?

I won’t go into the numbers. The statistics are overwhelming regarding the percentages of drivers who text and the number of deaths caused by distracted drivers. Do a Google search: “Texting while driving.” Pages and pages of the same data will be available to you, but do you really need it? Does it take a genius to know that this is an incredibly dumb and dangerous thing to do?

In today’s world, texting is becoming the default communication. It’s the way teens (and a lot of adults) talk. Many feel that not responding to a text immediately is the same as ignoring someone who asks you a question face to face. Even while driving, they consider it “rude” not to answer.

Amazingly stupid.

Like all idiotic things people do on the road (speeding, aggressive driving, driving while under the influence), it wouldn’t be so bad if they had the road completely to themselves. We have all heard the expression “they think they own the road.” Apparently, many people actually do.

When I heard of a single car accident in Knoxville a few months back where the driver was killed while racing down a busy street at speeds in excess of 120mph, I felt bad for the family (and no matter how an accident happens, there will be pain and loss experienced by someone), but I was also glad that this person was no longer on the road. I drive that road with my family. My wife drives that road. My daughters drive that road.

People get behind the wheel of their car and forget the awesome responsibility that they are taking on. The crushing weight, speed and power of the vehicles we drive can change from a beneficial mode of transportation into a violently brutal weapon of destruction in a matter of seconds. Unlike the little Matchbox cars I pushed around my bedroom floor as a child, they are not toys.

We are spoiled and selfish. We want what we want. We get aggravated when someone is driving in the passing lane and going too slow (I’m as guilty of this as anyone). We fuss and fume when people do not race through a yellow light so that we can follow. We honk our horns if they do not floor it as soon as the light turns green.

We are not only the most important person on the road at all times; we are the only person who has the right to actually be there. I have places to go and things to do! Why don’t these people get out of my way? Why don’t they know where I am going? Where did they learn to drive?

Our excuses and justifications are endless:

I am an excellent driver.

I’ve never had an accident.

I’ve never had a speeding ticket.

I only had a couple of drinks.

I don’t text often…

It won’t happen to me…

I get angry about this kind of thing because it’s personal. It’s not just personal to me; it should be personal to all of us. My worst fear is that dreaded phone call or knock on the door, when someone’s moment of stupid might forever change my family’s future.

Part of me wants to grab my wife and kids and go hide somewhere deep in the Canadian woods (this is also my fall-back plan if Sarah Palin is ever elected President), but I’m not sure the kids could handle the lack of cell phone reception.

Yes…my kid’s text. So does my wife. Occasionally I even get my own chubby fingers to bang out a message. Like many things taken on their own, texting is not evil. It’s just the way that we opt to use it.

My kids know my rules. They know that if I ever find out that they are texting and driving they lose the phone (and a good bit of their driving privileges). They know that if they need to answer or make a phone call while driving, they need to pull over. They know these things. I pray they do these things, because I can’t be with them all the time (and I think they know that despite what I have told them in the past, I do not actually have a video camera hidden in the car).

I hope that if I have taught my children anything about responsibility, it is that they are not just responsible for themselves, but also those around them. As I’ve told my daughters many times, the only thing worse that causing an accident that gets yourself killed, is causing an accident that kills someone else and having to live with that the rest of your life.