I'm tired of the campaign for president.
I'm tired of listening to conservative Republicans whine about John McCain. I'm tired of Mike Huckabee's last name being turned into a verb, as in He's been huckabeed.
I'm tired of the Clinton campaign making snide comments about Barck Obama and then withdrawing them and firing the person who made them, all the while repeating them in the statement of apology, as in, "We're so sorry we pointed out that Barack Obama's name got changed from Hitler when his father emigrated to the United States. It was unprofessional of us to point out that Barack Obama's surname was orignially Hitler, and we won't mention that his name was Hitler again. It makes me puke.
I'm tired of Barack Obama revealing personal details that are totally immaterial to his -- or anyone's -- qualifications to be president.
I'm tired of the media sensationalizing every time Barack Obama burps (he obviously dare not fart), scratches his nose (again, not his ass), spends more than a half hour working out in a day, chewing nicotine gum because he's trying to quit smoking. And I'm tired of the media taking every word any candidate (or spouse) says out of context and blowing it into treason.
The three main contenders at this point to be president are Senator John McCain (R., Arizona), Senator Hillary Clinton (D., New York), and Senator Barack Obama (D., Illinois). It's time these people step off the campaign trail for a while and rejoin their colleagues in the Senate.
Maybe between now and the election in November, they can start doing things for the good of the country instead of the good of their parties: stop the hemorrhage of dollars to Iraq, start us toward affordable universal health care, provide finances for soldiers who suffer mental problems after returning from Iraq (I think I heard that it's 25 per cent of them), do something to make sure the housing collapse doesn't happen again and that we don't fall into another Great Depression. In short there's plenty for them to do besides campaign.
Working at their jobs could earn them votes, respect, and would give one of them the Presidency.
That wouldn't be all bad.
As always, please post your comment below.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Monday, February 18, 2008
The Village
It takes a village to raise a child, according to an old African proverb, and Hillary Clinton capitalized on it with her book of the same name. I haven’t read the book, but I certainly subscribe to the theory.
When my son was alive, a lot of people helped him: volunteer soccer and wrestling coaches, Sunday School teachers, godparents, teachers, neighbors who had very little stake in his behavior as long as he didn’t bother them, and a host of others. It turned out that in addition to us, his parents, an entire metaphoric village raised him. These people did things we were not available to do or didn't have the expertise to accomplish.
There is no way we can pay back all the people who helped him – and us. What we can do, however, is to be kind to others and to help out those we can. All of us need “safety nets” of all kinds: emotional, financial, and even physical. We all need someone to catch us when we fall. I wouldn’t have broken my ankle on the ice a month ago if someone had. But since breaking it, the number of people who call, who volunteer to bring in food, to come and chat, who bring and send funny get well cards, who walk dogs, who drive me around. That number of people in my village is amazing. And humbling.
At a recent family gathering – and we are involved with chosen family because our blood families live so far away – I found a lot of people willing to be part of my village. One piloted my wheel chair up a ramp and to a table, many made a deliberate effort to stop by the table where I was sitting and give me and my wife hugs and chat at length, and a few stopped by to tease me good naturedly about being klutzy (I slipped, in truth, and in a fluid graceful arc landed flat on my back looking at the sky. Nothing klutzy there, thank you very much!). I enjoyed seeing and talking to all of them. I am at least twice as old as most of them, but I feel as if I am their contemporary. I have to step back and realize I am their parents' (or grandparents') age.
And so it distresses me when people reject the village. At the family gathering, some extended members of our chosen family made it a point to avoid me and my wife. This is the second event that these people have made a point to snub us. I suspect they think we are trying to “alienate the affections” of the ones who chose us. In their narrow view, it seems, there is only a certain quantity of love that exists, and if we get some of it, they get less. This is an attitude I don’t understand. The more I love, the more capable I am of loving and receiving love.
On the other hand, their cliquish attitude kept these family members in a tight little circle and few of the people who greeted us also greeted them. Maybe they are afraid, maybe they are jealous. Maybe they are angry because I am a loud person, too frequently profane, too outspoken. For whatever reason, they got less of the available affection that infused the room because they couldn’t accept it.
At first I was angry and felt rejected. But I realized I had a much better time (despite or perhaps because of being stuck in the wheel chair), I connected with more people, and I can merely feel sorry for people who are not open to love. I cannot survive without others, and I don’t feel joy just by being alone although I need time by myself.
My village is large. Their village is very small. What a pity.
When my son was alive, a lot of people helped him: volunteer soccer and wrestling coaches, Sunday School teachers, godparents, teachers, neighbors who had very little stake in his behavior as long as he didn’t bother them, and a host of others. It turned out that in addition to us, his parents, an entire metaphoric village raised him. These people did things we were not available to do or didn't have the expertise to accomplish.
There is no way we can pay back all the people who helped him – and us. What we can do, however, is to be kind to others and to help out those we can. All of us need “safety nets” of all kinds: emotional, financial, and even physical. We all need someone to catch us when we fall. I wouldn’t have broken my ankle on the ice a month ago if someone had. But since breaking it, the number of people who call, who volunteer to bring in food, to come and chat, who bring and send funny get well cards, who walk dogs, who drive me around. That number of people in my village is amazing. And humbling.
At a recent family gathering – and we are involved with chosen family because our blood families live so far away – I found a lot of people willing to be part of my village. One piloted my wheel chair up a ramp and to a table, many made a deliberate effort to stop by the table where I was sitting and give me and my wife hugs and chat at length, and a few stopped by to tease me good naturedly about being klutzy (I slipped, in truth, and in a fluid graceful arc landed flat on my back looking at the sky. Nothing klutzy there, thank you very much!). I enjoyed seeing and talking to all of them. I am at least twice as old as most of them, but I feel as if I am their contemporary. I have to step back and realize I am their parents' (or grandparents') age.
And so it distresses me when people reject the village. At the family gathering, some extended members of our chosen family made it a point to avoid me and my wife. This is the second event that these people have made a point to snub us. I suspect they think we are trying to “alienate the affections” of the ones who chose us. In their narrow view, it seems, there is only a certain quantity of love that exists, and if we get some of it, they get less. This is an attitude I don’t understand. The more I love, the more capable I am of loving and receiving love.
On the other hand, their cliquish attitude kept these family members in a tight little circle and few of the people who greeted us also greeted them. Maybe they are afraid, maybe they are jealous. Maybe they are angry because I am a loud person, too frequently profane, too outspoken. For whatever reason, they got less of the available affection that infused the room because they couldn’t accept it.
At first I was angry and felt rejected. But I realized I had a much better time (despite or perhaps because of being stuck in the wheel chair), I connected with more people, and I can merely feel sorry for people who are not open to love. I cannot survive without others, and I don’t feel joy just by being alone although I need time by myself.
My village is large. Their village is very small. What a pity.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Public Integrity
I have to admit first that I currently vote Democratic although I consider myself an Eisenhower Republican. The party has made an about face since his time, however. I didn’t vote for George W. Bush either time he ran, and I have a bias that Florida and the Supreme Court gave him the election in 2000, and that election fraud, particularly in Ohio, gave him the election in 2004.
My reasons for not voting for W the first time are probably silly. I couldn’t vote for a man who couldn’t speak, and I couldn’t vote for a man who had no lips. As I say, pretty silly. And I knew voting against him was a lost cause in 2004 because we just don’t switch presidents in the middle of a way, all things being equal. And somehow things were more than equal.
When terrorists demolished the World Trade Center, I felt violated, horrified, and strangely disconnected because little really seemed to change in my life except that flying was more arduous than it had been previously. My blood pressure went up, I’m sure, because my son Derek (you can read about that in early blog entries) was in the Navy as Communications Officer at NORAD in Cheyenne Mountain, since closed. He talked to all the bigwigs, Bush, Cheney, Powell, Rumsfeld, that day and on the orders of his supervisor grounded the commercial airlines for the following few days while we regrouped. I was terrified we would lose Derek too.
In the weeks and months following September 11, 2001, the propaganda machine shifted into overdrive. When I was in college, propaganda was a way of putting the best face on facts. Since then, however, it has become outright lies.
That is why I am not surprised at the following report issued jointly by the Center for Public Integrity and the Fund for Independence in Journalism, both of which I checked out. They are independent think tanks without any bias except independence and integrity. That is to say, they are funded by neither liberals nor conservatives. They merely seek the truth.
Because of copyright laws, I am unable to replicate the report here. The highlights, however, are that Bush and seven of his top advisors conspired to lie (over 700 times) about Iraq’s involvement in the destruction so of the Twin Towers so we could invade Iraq. The media, sadly, didn’t investigate the lies and thereby became implicit in the current quicksand we call the War in Iraq.
I have a masters degree in journalism. I am an American. But I feel ashamed that we allowed our “leaders” to fool us with their emotional blackmail and outright lack of integrity. They pushed us into a totally unnecessary war. They pushed us into quicksand and we are slowly drowning.
Read the entire report at Center for Public Integrity site.
As always I am interested in your comments. And since I am housebound after breaking my ankle, I especially need a little intellectual stimulation.
My reasons for not voting for W the first time are probably silly. I couldn’t vote for a man who couldn’t speak, and I couldn’t vote for a man who had no lips. As I say, pretty silly. And I knew voting against him was a lost cause in 2004 because we just don’t switch presidents in the middle of a way, all things being equal. And somehow things were more than equal.
When terrorists demolished the World Trade Center, I felt violated, horrified, and strangely disconnected because little really seemed to change in my life except that flying was more arduous than it had been previously. My blood pressure went up, I’m sure, because my son Derek (you can read about that in early blog entries) was in the Navy as Communications Officer at NORAD in Cheyenne Mountain, since closed. He talked to all the bigwigs, Bush, Cheney, Powell, Rumsfeld, that day and on the orders of his supervisor grounded the commercial airlines for the following few days while we regrouped. I was terrified we would lose Derek too.
In the weeks and months following September 11, 2001, the propaganda machine shifted into overdrive. When I was in college, propaganda was a way of putting the best face on facts. Since then, however, it has become outright lies.
That is why I am not surprised at the following report issued jointly by the Center for Public Integrity and the Fund for Independence in Journalism, both of which I checked out. They are independent think tanks without any bias except independence and integrity. That is to say, they are funded by neither liberals nor conservatives. They merely seek the truth.
Because of copyright laws, I am unable to replicate the report here. The highlights, however, are that Bush and seven of his top advisors conspired to lie (over 700 times) about Iraq’s involvement in the destruction so of the Twin Towers so we could invade Iraq. The media, sadly, didn’t investigate the lies and thereby became implicit in the current quicksand we call the War in Iraq.
I have a masters degree in journalism. I am an American. But I feel ashamed that we allowed our “leaders” to fool us with their emotional blackmail and outright lack of integrity. They pushed us into a totally unnecessary war. They pushed us into quicksand and we are slowly drowning.
Read the entire report at Center for Public Integrity site.
As always I am interested in your comments. And since I am housebound after breaking my ankle, I especially need a little intellectual stimulation.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
A Student's Wisdom
One of my former students, who goes by the nickname Tez, posted this on his Myspace page the other day. After graduating from Stanford Law, he is practicing in Chicago. One of my favorite memories of him was when the library ladies were whispering about whether to call him "African-American," "Afro-American," "Black," or what. I motioned him over and asked him what he wanted to be called. He said, "Call me Tez," and walked back to the table where he was working.
I broke his essay into smaller paragraphs for easier reading.
Here are Tez's words:
1-27-08
I wanted to take a few minutes to comment on something of great personal significance that occurred during the presidential primary in South Carolina yesterday evening. Many of you who know me know that I don’t talk about race often. I generally prefer to elevate the discourse beyond it. But considering this week in which we have both celebrated Dr. King’s legacy and also endured a bitter political discussion with serious racial overtones, I thought I’d comment on yesterday’s events in my old home state.
I very much believe in a country and a world where race is neither a hindrance nor of any consequence—not to say a color-blind country, after all I bemoan blindness and ignorance of all kind—but a country where something like race with such a powerful and pervasive history and effect can be acknowledged, understood, and ultimately made a non-issue. A country where as Dr. King said people are judged not on their color but on the content of their character. I believe in such a country and I saw evidence of its coming last night.
Some may assume that this day has already passed and that race is already a non-issue. And while I love their optimism, my life has shone a different picture. The world is changing but real change happens slowly.
As some may know, I grew up in many places, but mostly in the South—namely South Carolina. First, in Charleston, North Charleston, then the small town of Summerville. It was in these early days in South Carolina that I was introduced violently and vividly to the concept of race. The notion of race was born for me one sad day on a playground when little southern kids taunted me, harassed me for being black, calling me every name under the sun but my own, and told me to go back to Africa where they said I belonged, where their parents had taught them I belonged, despite the fact that my family has been on this land for 350 years.
It was in those days in South Carolina where I saw the Klu Klux Klan march through the streets of Monks Corner and Goose Creek, where I was forced into that vicious world of hate and prejudice. And since that time, in this day and age, both in the north and south, I’ve faced countless acts of racism, been called the n word more times than I know, had bottles and stones and bricks thrown at me, threats of nooses pointed in my direction, and even death threats towards my family members simply for moving into a neighborhood where we were different.
But yesterday, with so many pundits and talking-heads describing how the primary vote broke along racial lines, and all this talk about what role race and gender would play in the South Carolina election, I saw something else. There was one statistic that jumped out at me, that in this southern state where I was introduced to racism, in this former Confederate stronghold, one simple statistic gave me such a palpable sense of hope—that even in this place, the younger generations are rejecting a tradition of ignorance and prejudice and moving on towards something better. That although white voters in SC over 65 yrs old overwhelmingly favored any white candidate, literally one-half of white voters 30 and under in South Carolina actually voted yesterday for a black person to be President of the United States! (Compare this to the nominal 5-10 percent Jesse Jackson got in 88' when he won the state)
This statistic could easily be missed by some who were born and raised in the north with the luxuries of a different heritage, or for those whom the issue of race was not forced upon them. But for those of us who have endured the emotional beatings and let downs of a different southern culture with different rules that change at a glacial pace, this is something special, a sign of a new day. I emphatically reject the juvenile politics of racial identity that so much of the media focused on leading up to this primary, and I don't mean to overstate results from a democratic primary.
The point is not that these young voters chose a particular candidate over another, but instead that they were willing to actually consider all three candidates at all, where less than twenty years ago when I lived there, they would not have. This election is another clear sign that positive change is still occurring. The young are rejecting the misguided ways of the past. And that even in the most unlikely places, and in this perilous age of red states and blue states, the sons and daughters of the South have been willing to open their hearts and minds to a new day of tolerance and open-mindedness. For me, this is a great sign for the future of this country and for what we can be, that we will be able to see beyond the divisions of race, religion, sexual orientation, and gender and see each other for our ideas, values, and commonalities.
I would love to say that my influence in his words shows through, to take some credit. I can't. Rather, I admire his wisdom.
I broke his essay into smaller paragraphs for easier reading.
Here are Tez's words:
1-27-08
I wanted to take a few minutes to comment on something of great personal significance that occurred during the presidential primary in South Carolina yesterday evening. Many of you who know me know that I don’t talk about race often. I generally prefer to elevate the discourse beyond it. But considering this week in which we have both celebrated Dr. King’s legacy and also endured a bitter political discussion with serious racial overtones, I thought I’d comment on yesterday’s events in my old home state.
I very much believe in a country and a world where race is neither a hindrance nor of any consequence—not to say a color-blind country, after all I bemoan blindness and ignorance of all kind—but a country where something like race with such a powerful and pervasive history and effect can be acknowledged, understood, and ultimately made a non-issue. A country where as Dr. King said people are judged not on their color but on the content of their character. I believe in such a country and I saw evidence of its coming last night.
Some may assume that this day has already passed and that race is already a non-issue. And while I love their optimism, my life has shone a different picture. The world is changing but real change happens slowly.
As some may know, I grew up in many places, but mostly in the South—namely South Carolina. First, in Charleston, North Charleston, then the small town of Summerville. It was in these early days in South Carolina that I was introduced violently and vividly to the concept of race. The notion of race was born for me one sad day on a playground when little southern kids taunted me, harassed me for being black, calling me every name under the sun but my own, and told me to go back to Africa where they said I belonged, where their parents had taught them I belonged, despite the fact that my family has been on this land for 350 years.
It was in those days in South Carolina where I saw the Klu Klux Klan march through the streets of Monks Corner and Goose Creek, where I was forced into that vicious world of hate and prejudice. And since that time, in this day and age, both in the north and south, I’ve faced countless acts of racism, been called the n word more times than I know, had bottles and stones and bricks thrown at me, threats of nooses pointed in my direction, and even death threats towards my family members simply for moving into a neighborhood where we were different.
But yesterday, with so many pundits and talking-heads describing how the primary vote broke along racial lines, and all this talk about what role race and gender would play in the South Carolina election, I saw something else. There was one statistic that jumped out at me, that in this southern state where I was introduced to racism, in this former Confederate stronghold, one simple statistic gave me such a palpable sense of hope—that even in this place, the younger generations are rejecting a tradition of ignorance and prejudice and moving on towards something better. That although white voters in SC over 65 yrs old overwhelmingly favored any white candidate, literally one-half of white voters 30 and under in South Carolina actually voted yesterday for a black person to be President of the United States! (Compare this to the nominal 5-10 percent Jesse Jackson got in 88' when he won the state)
This statistic could easily be missed by some who were born and raised in the north with the luxuries of a different heritage, or for those whom the issue of race was not forced upon them. But for those of us who have endured the emotional beatings and let downs of a different southern culture with different rules that change at a glacial pace, this is something special, a sign of a new day. I emphatically reject the juvenile politics of racial identity that so much of the media focused on leading up to this primary, and I don't mean to overstate results from a democratic primary.
The point is not that these young voters chose a particular candidate over another, but instead that they were willing to actually consider all three candidates at all, where less than twenty years ago when I lived there, they would not have. This election is another clear sign that positive change is still occurring. The young are rejecting the misguided ways of the past. And that even in the most unlikely places, and in this perilous age of red states and blue states, the sons and daughters of the South have been willing to open their hearts and minds to a new day of tolerance and open-mindedness. For me, this is a great sign for the future of this country and for what we can be, that we will be able to see beyond the divisions of race, religion, sexual orientation, and gender and see each other for our ideas, values, and commonalities.
I would love to say that my influence in his words shows through, to take some credit. I can't. Rather, I admire his wisdom.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Brief Update
I am getting along somewhat better. Daughter Shannon and her boyfriend Ray came over for brunch and helped me get a shower, which involved struggling with me up the stairs, finding a couple of milk crates for me to sit on, taping a plastic bag over my cast, and getting me in and out of the tub. I offered to trade our split level for her single story house, but she didn't think I was serious. And maybe I wasn't, but she has a lovely walk in shower. . . .
Ann said I was reasonably discrete and Shannon kept her eyes on the ceiling, which of course, was the least of my worries. She promised to help take care of me in my old age, but I didn't think it would be so soon. God bless her!
Of course, you have to read why "I am the problem" below to understand this. As always, feel free to comment below.
Ann said I was reasonably discrete and Shannon kept her eyes on the ceiling, which of course, was the least of my worries. She promised to help take care of me in my old age, but I didn't think it would be so soon. God bless her!
Of course, you have to read why "I am the problem" below to understand this. As always, feel free to comment below.
I am the problem
My wife has had a rough couple of days. She’s worried, concerned, overworked, and exhausted.
And it’s all my fault.
Friday was bright and clear, cold and crisp. I woke up when I woke up, put on my robe, let the dogs out, found my indoor-outdoor slippers from L.L.Bean, opened the garage door, and stepped down the driveway to pick up the newspapers.
Three steps and I went ass over teakettle. I found myself flat on my back staring with surprise into the cloudless, clear blue sky. My right food was stuck underneath me and my robe was flapping around me. I could well have been arrested if a cop had driven by or a neighbor had complained.
I took a breath, pulled my foot out from under me, rolled over onto my stomach, crawled into the grass and stood up. I hobbled down to the end of the driveway and got the papers, hobbled back and spread salt so the ice, invisible as it was, would melt, and went inside to have a cuppa and read the Chicago Tribune. My wife came down from her shower, and I told her what happened. My ankle was sprained or twisted, I said. She looked at it, already beginning to bruise and swell, and got an old cane from the basement with the promise to wrap it later. I hobbled upstairs to take my shower, balancing precariously in the tub, got dressed, hobbled back downstairs, and she wrapped my ankle/foot with an Ace bandage.
We went to breakfast with our neighbors, a regular Friday morning ritual, and they suggested it might be broken. As long as I didn’t put weight on it, it didn’t really hurt and I pooh-poohed the idea. But Ann insisted we call our chiropractor buddy, who told us to come in immediately for X-rays. He took the pictures, developed them, showed us the four breaks and scheduled me for an appointment with an orthopod that afternoon.
I went in to the orthopod's office, got a cast – a NON-WALKING cast - and more X-rays to make sure the bone hadn’t shifted. The doctor and his staff couldn’t have been more accommodating, more pleasant. Ann wheeled me to the car and took me home.
Getting into the house from the garage, up one step, was close to being nightmarish because it was too high for me to hop, and I couldn’t find anything to grab on to. We finally got me inside, ensconced on the couch in the family room and Ann went to buy a pair of crutches.
I can get around fine on the crutches as long as I don’t try stairs. The first night I pushed myself up the three steps from the family room and couldn’t stand. I had to crawl to the stairs to the second floor, push myself up that filight, and figure out how to get on a chair so I could stand and eventually get to the bedroom. Not only was it not a pretty sight, it was totally exhausting. For Ann as well as for me.
Saturday carpenter friend Randy Oyster carried a bed from upstairs to the family room and I’m sleeping there, close to the television, a huge book case, the four-season sun porch where I eat my meals, a half bath, and the bed.
I don’t see me living like this for the next six weeks, but I’m finding stairs impossible. And not having a shower or washing my hair is going to drive me crazy – and chase away any potential visitors.
Ann is far more bummed out than I am. She lets the dogs in and out, fixes my meals, brings me a glass of water or milk when I need it. Milk to help bones knit, of course. I never drink milk otherwise. And does everything else she always does. She is pretty tired already. She needs to go to work just to get some rest and get me off her mind.
In the meantime, I appreciate any visitors, with or without their dogs, and I wouldn’t mid a burly nurse who could carry me upstairs and shower me once in a while, either.
So we’ll see how long I make it before I end up at the funny farm. One, I hope, all on one floor. I’ll keep you posted.
As always, feel free to comment below.
And it’s all my fault.
Friday was bright and clear, cold and crisp. I woke up when I woke up, put on my robe, let the dogs out, found my indoor-outdoor slippers from L.L.Bean, opened the garage door, and stepped down the driveway to pick up the newspapers.
Three steps and I went ass over teakettle. I found myself flat on my back staring with surprise into the cloudless, clear blue sky. My right food was stuck underneath me and my robe was flapping around me. I could well have been arrested if a cop had driven by or a neighbor had complained.
I took a breath, pulled my foot out from under me, rolled over onto my stomach, crawled into the grass and stood up. I hobbled down to the end of the driveway and got the papers, hobbled back and spread salt so the ice, invisible as it was, would melt, and went inside to have a cuppa and read the Chicago Tribune. My wife came down from her shower, and I told her what happened. My ankle was sprained or twisted, I said. She looked at it, already beginning to bruise and swell, and got an old cane from the basement with the promise to wrap it later. I hobbled upstairs to take my shower, balancing precariously in the tub, got dressed, hobbled back downstairs, and she wrapped my ankle/foot with an Ace bandage.
We went to breakfast with our neighbors, a regular Friday morning ritual, and they suggested it might be broken. As long as I didn’t put weight on it, it didn’t really hurt and I pooh-poohed the idea. But Ann insisted we call our chiropractor buddy, who told us to come in immediately for X-rays. He took the pictures, developed them, showed us the four breaks and scheduled me for an appointment with an orthopod that afternoon.
I went in to the orthopod's office, got a cast – a NON-WALKING cast - and more X-rays to make sure the bone hadn’t shifted. The doctor and his staff couldn’t have been more accommodating, more pleasant. Ann wheeled me to the car and took me home.
Getting into the house from the garage, up one step, was close to being nightmarish because it was too high for me to hop, and I couldn’t find anything to grab on to. We finally got me inside, ensconced on the couch in the family room and Ann went to buy a pair of crutches.
I can get around fine on the crutches as long as I don’t try stairs. The first night I pushed myself up the three steps from the family room and couldn’t stand. I had to crawl to the stairs to the second floor, push myself up that filight, and figure out how to get on a chair so I could stand and eventually get to the bedroom. Not only was it not a pretty sight, it was totally exhausting. For Ann as well as for me.
Saturday carpenter friend Randy Oyster carried a bed from upstairs to the family room and I’m sleeping there, close to the television, a huge book case, the four-season sun porch where I eat my meals, a half bath, and the bed.
I don’t see me living like this for the next six weeks, but I’m finding stairs impossible. And not having a shower or washing my hair is going to drive me crazy – and chase away any potential visitors.
Ann is far more bummed out than I am. She lets the dogs in and out, fixes my meals, brings me a glass of water or milk when I need it. Milk to help bones knit, of course. I never drink milk otherwise. And does everything else she always does. She is pretty tired already. She needs to go to work just to get some rest and get me off her mind.
In the meantime, I appreciate any visitors, with or without their dogs, and I wouldn’t mid a burly nurse who could carry me upstairs and shower me once in a while, either.
So we’ll see how long I make it before I end up at the funny farm. One, I hope, all on one floor. I’ll keep you posted.
As always, feel free to comment below.
Monday, January 7, 2008
Anniversary
I don’t have much of a mind for specific dates. A few obvious ones stick with me. September 11, of course. The Fourth of July. Christmas, December 25. November 22, the day Kennedy was shot, the day I first learned that the world is not as fair and wonderful as I thought it was, the day my generation lost its innocence.
And January 7, 1993.
That was the day Daniel, our son, our only child, died in a stupid, tragic accident when he was at college. It was a day I learned once again that the world isn’t fair. At all.
Today is a warm day in January in Chicago. A beautiful day to be out with the dogs, although it’s a little muddy at the dog park. It doesn’t seem a lot different from a lot of other days, and it isn’t. The clouds scud across the sky in a way that reminds me of good film making. The air smells like wet dog, at least in my back yard where we haven’t cleaned up frozen dog poop for weeks, and it’s not going to happen today either.
Today is totally different and totally the same from all other days for my wife and me. We got up and put one foot in front of the other. There was a time when we could barely do that. We took our showers, and washed our hair, and put on our clothes. We drank our breakfast coffee and read the morning newspapers.
Ann and I don’t talk about the anniversary because it is too painful, but it looms large between us, and we acknowledge it with little kindnesses. I may do an extra load of wash while Ann works. We have lunch, we take naps, just like every day. Perhaps we have a stiffer drink than usual. Perhaps we are more silent, or perhaps chattier, today. Perhaps we are crankier or more patient.
And in truth, this anniversary is not as bad as it could be or as bad as it has been in the past. The second anniversary was the worst because that was when the realization hit that every day after it we would live in a world without Daniel. Without his college graduation. Without his wedding. Without his children. Without his house in the suburbs or his loft in the city.
The pain of the finality has eased, blunted, softened. We are surrounded by people who love us and whom we love. Tim, whose parents died when he was in high school, gave us his two sons to grandparent. He was the first who really saved our lives. David is already in college. And Jonathan, the younger of the two boys, really the two young men, has so many of Daniel’s mannerisms, and looks like him in so many situations, that it’s uncanny and sometimes makes my heart pause and my throat tighten.
Derek and Shannon saved our lives when they asked me to be their chosen dad. I will be forever grateful! Derek went to Annapolis and then had a six-year tour of duty in the Navy. My blood pressure went up when he spent his six months in the Gulf, and came back down when he returned to the States. He was at NORAD in Cheyenne Mountain on 9-11, and grounded the commercial flights that day on his supervisor’s command. He talked with Colin Powell, and Donald Rumsfeld, and Dick Cheney, and George Bush. After his tour of duty was over he went to Veterinary School at the University of Illinois and graduated last spring. He is back in Colorado working as an intern in a veterinary emergency hospital. (Can you tell how proud we are of our Derek?) His sister Shannon, whom we love no less deeply, lives less than a mile from us, and we see her frequently, have dog play dates, and depend on her more than we should. She bought her own house, earned a masters degree, is Phi Beta Kappa, all those good things that make us proud of her, too.
Of course, we continue to "get by with a little help from our other friends," to quote an old Beetles song. They support us in a variety of ways. Our church community, our wonderful neighbors, old friends and new friends, people we worked and work with: they all extend themselves in ways they don’t recognize or understand. They are angels unawares.
Which is not to say we don’t miss Daniel. We miss him terribly. The weeks leading up to the anniversary, the anticipation, are always worse than the day itself. I dream about him and weep in my dreams. My eyes well up at unexpected times and a dagger of fresh grief carves another hole in my heart. But it happens less often than it used to.
Today is a beautiful day. It reminds me of the day the terrorists attacked the twin towers in that it is so ordinary. That day I went outside and looked at the blue sky, void then of airplanes, looked at the flowers in bloom, looked at the green grass and the green trees, and wondered how everything could be so much the same when life had shattered. I took the dogs this morning to the dog park, and talked with Pat and Connie, with Fred, with Petra, and felt the same way.
Life has changed, but it still looks the same.
As always, I welcome your comments, by first name, first and last, or anonymously.
And January 7, 1993.
That was the day Daniel, our son, our only child, died in a stupid, tragic accident when he was at college. It was a day I learned once again that the world isn’t fair. At all.
Today is a warm day in January in Chicago. A beautiful day to be out with the dogs, although it’s a little muddy at the dog park. It doesn’t seem a lot different from a lot of other days, and it isn’t. The clouds scud across the sky in a way that reminds me of good film making. The air smells like wet dog, at least in my back yard where we haven’t cleaned up frozen dog poop for weeks, and it’s not going to happen today either.
Today is totally different and totally the same from all other days for my wife and me. We got up and put one foot in front of the other. There was a time when we could barely do that. We took our showers, and washed our hair, and put on our clothes. We drank our breakfast coffee and read the morning newspapers.
Ann and I don’t talk about the anniversary because it is too painful, but it looms large between us, and we acknowledge it with little kindnesses. I may do an extra load of wash while Ann works. We have lunch, we take naps, just like every day. Perhaps we have a stiffer drink than usual. Perhaps we are more silent, or perhaps chattier, today. Perhaps we are crankier or more patient.
And in truth, this anniversary is not as bad as it could be or as bad as it has been in the past. The second anniversary was the worst because that was when the realization hit that every day after it we would live in a world without Daniel. Without his college graduation. Without his wedding. Without his children. Without his house in the suburbs or his loft in the city.
The pain of the finality has eased, blunted, softened. We are surrounded by people who love us and whom we love. Tim, whose parents died when he was in high school, gave us his two sons to grandparent. He was the first who really saved our lives. David is already in college. And Jonathan, the younger of the two boys, really the two young men, has so many of Daniel’s mannerisms, and looks like him in so many situations, that it’s uncanny and sometimes makes my heart pause and my throat tighten.
Derek and Shannon saved our lives when they asked me to be their chosen dad. I will be forever grateful! Derek went to Annapolis and then had a six-year tour of duty in the Navy. My blood pressure went up when he spent his six months in the Gulf, and came back down when he returned to the States. He was at NORAD in Cheyenne Mountain on 9-11, and grounded the commercial flights that day on his supervisor’s command. He talked with Colin Powell, and Donald Rumsfeld, and Dick Cheney, and George Bush. After his tour of duty was over he went to Veterinary School at the University of Illinois and graduated last spring. He is back in Colorado working as an intern in a veterinary emergency hospital. (Can you tell how proud we are of our Derek?) His sister Shannon, whom we love no less deeply, lives less than a mile from us, and we see her frequently, have dog play dates, and depend on her more than we should. She bought her own house, earned a masters degree, is Phi Beta Kappa, all those good things that make us proud of her, too.
Of course, we continue to "get by with a little help from our other friends," to quote an old Beetles song. They support us in a variety of ways. Our church community, our wonderful neighbors, old friends and new friends, people we worked and work with: they all extend themselves in ways they don’t recognize or understand. They are angels unawares.
Which is not to say we don’t miss Daniel. We miss him terribly. The weeks leading up to the anniversary, the anticipation, are always worse than the day itself. I dream about him and weep in my dreams. My eyes well up at unexpected times and a dagger of fresh grief carves another hole in my heart. But it happens less often than it used to.
Today is a beautiful day. It reminds me of the day the terrorists attacked the twin towers in that it is so ordinary. That day I went outside and looked at the blue sky, void then of airplanes, looked at the flowers in bloom, looked at the green grass and the green trees, and wondered how everything could be so much the same when life had shattered. I took the dogs this morning to the dog park, and talked with Pat and Connie, with Fred, with Petra, and felt the same way.
Life has changed, but it still looks the same.
As always, I welcome your comments, by first name, first and last, or anonymously.
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