I grew up United Methodist. I went to college for a while at a Methodist school. There I was educated by some radical Methodist scholars who loved golf and homemade ice cream. Hell, my propensity to drink fermented beverages every once in a while may have already clued you into the fact that I'm a dyed-in-the-wool Methodist (as will the fact that I just used the word 'hell" in a sentence.) But guess what - I didn't wake up this morning wanting to go kill some Roman Catholics (them with their Apostolic succession and 'Power of the Pope" and all 'dat) I've never wanted to kill some Jews. Seriously, they're WAITING on the Messiah?? There's "POWER IN THE BLOOD!" by God!!!!. (And if you'd just split a bag of pork rinds and a cold PBR with me you'd not worry so much about that Kosher issue.) I don't want to kill 7th Day Adventists - who goes to church on Saturdays??!! (The Good Lord set aside that day for college football!) I've never thought about killing Hindus - WHO doesn't like a chunk of red meat cooked on a fire?
I can certainly live with you if you can find a way to live with me. If you're using religion, societal differences and prejudices as justification for murder, me thinks you left the womb with murderous tendencies. I quote her often, but my dearly departed Mother would tell you that the devil's getting your room ready. (But she was a DIEHARD United Methodist....perhaps you should've gotten to her in a smart bomb or a random shooting before she was able to show herself as an "infidel.")
Friday, January 9, 2015
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
A Christmas Verdict....
Well, it's that time of year again. And I'm not talking the birthday I celebrate today. I'm talking about that OTHER birthday that is celebrated this time of the year. The one where we decorate trees, spend money we don't have and listen to music exclusive to this month....although it seems we're sometimes starting to hear it around November 15th. It's the time of the year when those that know me look to see which state of mind I'll be in as December 25th gets closer. I'm usually in between a Currier & Ives snow-covered portrait and a stupid little ditty about a kid wanting a rhinoceros for Christmas. And that's an improvement - I used to be somewhere between the rhinoceros kid and "Humbug!"
This Christmas, I have different perspective on many levels. Back in October I had a scare that provided an ambulance ride, a week in the hospital and the realization that when we reach a certain age the parts in our body do begin to wear out. By the miracles of modern medicine (both in the hospital and in the handful of pills I take daily) I should be around for a few more Yuletide celebrations. To quote that Great American Jesse that I worked with many years ago, "Damn,,,,if I'd known I was gonna' live this long I would've taken better care of myself!" (Jesse, as a POW in WWII had no reason to regret any day or way he spent living his life. Those of his ilk are the reason those of us native to these lands speak English today.)
More perspective was added by the recent loss of one of the kindest, wisest souls I've ever encountered. He sweated as many buckets over Georgia Tech football as I do and he raised a beautiful family (with his BEDROCK of a wife.) He taught me a lot about what it means to be a gentleman....all while sitting one row in front of me for many years at Bobby Dodd Stadium. He was watching the men in gold hats play ball when the season started...but cancer won the physical battle and he wasn't there for the end of the season. I wish I'd known that when Deion Hill ran across the goal line with 30-something seconds left in that Georgia Southern game it was the last opportunity I'd have to get a high-five from him. He was already too weak to stand but I felt that hand slapping my ankle and, when I turned, saw that hand in the air and the day was made. As I say, cancer may have won the physical battle, but I firmly believe that he won battles that go beyond our physical, very temporal existence. The day he died, Tech went out and THUMPED those Tigers from Clemson. Sometime in the third quarter I stood up and gave the loudest "WHAT'S THE GOOD WORD!" cheer ever heard in section 206 in his memory. Then last Saturday when a 53 yard kick BARELY made it over the crossbar at Sanford Stadium - sending a game to overtime that seemed lost - I knew who was there playing like Tree Rollins and giving that ball a tip up and into the history books. But now, he's not here to celebrate holidays with his family but I hope they know he's there, just as he was to help the boys beat Clemson and Georgia (and I hope he's ready to tip a few more balls into glory when we play FSU Saturday night.)
Back to my ambulance ride. I knew that I was in danger when the EMT's refused to go to the recommended hospital and headed to something closer. I didn't really fear DYING itself - I DID worry that I'd leave this planet and not have one more minute with the prettiest, sweetest girl I know. I feared not having the opportunity to tell her goodbye and thank her for the miracle that it was when someone like her decided to accept an offer from someone like me to live life with this goober. If you're someone that has known me over the years, you'll know that I wasn't exactly marriage material for a LONG time. There were many bartenders, music and sports venues, liquor stores and the sellers of chicken wings and pizzas that lamented my domestication. Our world is now much bigger than any of the "daily unadulterated crap" that would try to keep us down. This Christmas, more than ever, I'll cherish celebrating with her (even if it involves nothing more than our bathrobes, sleeping late and old movies.) Someday, I promise her a time when she can sit on her back porch and stare at nothing but her pool, a ton of acreage stretched out behind it, and 14 or 15 dogs chasing the same tennis ball. For now, though, I cherish our little suburban patio that stares at a privacy fence with a sweet yellow Lab lying there, sniffing the air in between naps in the sun. If that is all we ever have I'll consider it riches beyond measure. (And you're a Jimmy Buffett fan from a LONG way back if you didn't have to confer with Google to see why I put "Daily unadulterated crap" in quotes.)
Final verdict - I may be more "Feliz Navidad" than "Humbug!" this year. Alert the media...
This Christmas, I have different perspective on many levels. Back in October I had a scare that provided an ambulance ride, a week in the hospital and the realization that when we reach a certain age the parts in our body do begin to wear out. By the miracles of modern medicine (both in the hospital and in the handful of pills I take daily) I should be around for a few more Yuletide celebrations. To quote that Great American Jesse that I worked with many years ago, "Damn,,,,if I'd known I was gonna' live this long I would've taken better care of myself!" (Jesse, as a POW in WWII had no reason to regret any day or way he spent living his life. Those of his ilk are the reason those of us native to these lands speak English today.)
More perspective was added by the recent loss of one of the kindest, wisest souls I've ever encountered. He sweated as many buckets over Georgia Tech football as I do and he raised a beautiful family (with his BEDROCK of a wife.) He taught me a lot about what it means to be a gentleman....all while sitting one row in front of me for many years at Bobby Dodd Stadium. He was watching the men in gold hats play ball when the season started...but cancer won the physical battle and he wasn't there for the end of the season. I wish I'd known that when Deion Hill ran across the goal line with 30-something seconds left in that Georgia Southern game it was the last opportunity I'd have to get a high-five from him. He was already too weak to stand but I felt that hand slapping my ankle and, when I turned, saw that hand in the air and the day was made. As I say, cancer may have won the physical battle, but I firmly believe that he won battles that go beyond our physical, very temporal existence. The day he died, Tech went out and THUMPED those Tigers from Clemson. Sometime in the third quarter I stood up and gave the loudest "WHAT'S THE GOOD WORD!" cheer ever heard in section 206 in his memory. Then last Saturday when a 53 yard kick BARELY made it over the crossbar at Sanford Stadium - sending a game to overtime that seemed lost - I knew who was there playing like Tree Rollins and giving that ball a tip up and into the history books. But now, he's not here to celebrate holidays with his family but I hope they know he's there, just as he was to help the boys beat Clemson and Georgia (and I hope he's ready to tip a few more balls into glory when we play FSU Saturday night.)
Back to my ambulance ride. I knew that I was in danger when the EMT's refused to go to the recommended hospital and headed to something closer. I didn't really fear DYING itself - I DID worry that I'd leave this planet and not have one more minute with the prettiest, sweetest girl I know. I feared not having the opportunity to tell her goodbye and thank her for the miracle that it was when someone like her decided to accept an offer from someone like me to live life with this goober. If you're someone that has known me over the years, you'll know that I wasn't exactly marriage material for a LONG time. There were many bartenders, music and sports venues, liquor stores and the sellers of chicken wings and pizzas that lamented my domestication. Our world is now much bigger than any of the "daily unadulterated crap" that would try to keep us down. This Christmas, more than ever, I'll cherish celebrating with her (even if it involves nothing more than our bathrobes, sleeping late and old movies.) Someday, I promise her a time when she can sit on her back porch and stare at nothing but her pool, a ton of acreage stretched out behind it, and 14 or 15 dogs chasing the same tennis ball. For now, though, I cherish our little suburban patio that stares at a privacy fence with a sweet yellow Lab lying there, sniffing the air in between naps in the sun. If that is all we ever have I'll consider it riches beyond measure. (And you're a Jimmy Buffett fan from a LONG way back if you didn't have to confer with Google to see why I put "Daily unadulterated crap" in quotes.)
Final verdict - I may be more "Feliz Navidad" than "Humbug!" this year. Alert the media...
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
"CATCH THE BALL STEPHEN HILL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! GOOD GRACIOUS!"
"I don't know if we each have a destiny, or if we're all just floatin' around accidental-like on a breeze. But I, I think maybe it's both." (forrest gump)
I knew nothing of this man and his family that started sitting in front of us at Georgia Tech football games some 15 years ago or so. But over the next 15 years we were afforded the opportunity to get to know a fine soul, one that tolerated me becoming sometimes loud, sometimes stupid, sometimes, uh, "over-served." There in section 206 he and I became buds, we became philosophers, we became coaches (convinced that we knew full well what needed to happen on this play, this fourth down or in this time-out than more-so than anyone Tech had on their payroll.) A good day was one where I went home with my hand stinging because he and I had exchanged so many high-fives.
However accidental it was that he and his beautiful family ended up part of our lives, the years that followed acquainted me with his destiny - To make everyone around him happier, better, stronger and feeling important and good about themselves.. It didn't matter if it was family, stranger, someone getting their chemo treatment at the same time he was getting his or just some goober sitting behind him at a ballgame. Perhaps it was his destiny to be that feather that floats on the breeze in and out of lives that needed him.. For a large chunk of the time that I had the pleasure to watch those ballgames with him, I was in terrible health due to large amounts of excess weight. There was a time when my family had to consider whether or not it was safe for me to go through the rigors required of climbing to the upper tier of that venerable old stadium. I was, quite often, mocked in public, pointed at, laughed at and became a sideshow for many sad folks. It often made me rather reclusive, the game was - after all- going to be on t.v. (and a Georgia Tech football game was sometimes the only time I'd even consider putting myself in a crowd.) But knowing HE would be there I insisted on getting there. And there he was, just glad I'd made it, not seeing the fat guy, not seeing the one getting help going up and down stairs, I was just ME and he always seemed glad to see ME. Many times he offered to get me a bottle of water or something from the concession stand knowing that navigating stairs more than I had to wasn't possible. He'd asked how I was feeling but without dwelling on it. Instead, he knew I was there to talk football and I imagine he knew that the time I spent talking it with him took my mind off much sadder issues that usually occupied my mind. He never mentioned my weight to me until I lost a CONSIDERABLE amount of it and could then bound up and and down those stairs like a teenager and get my own bottle of water. THEN he took a minute to shake my hand and say "You look great." He could've slipped me a wad of cash and it wouldn't have felt any better.
We got word that his fight was over very early Saturday morning, just as I'd started loading tailgating necessities into my truck, getting ready to watch the boys play their final home game of 2014. We contemplated not even going to the game wondering if that would show a a certain measure of disrespect to the passing of our friend,. But in those pre-dawn hours we decided there was no greater measure of respect that we could show him than by being there and being very loud. At our tailgating festivities we drank a toast to him (though I'm not sure he approved of such libations) And then, in the third quarter, I stood up on my row and gave the loudest "WHAT'S THE GOOD WORD???????????!!!!!!!!!!" cheer that I've ever mustered for the inhabitants of section 206. Those around us joined with great gusto, emboldened by the beating those wearing white and gold were throwing down on Clemson. I'd like to think he heard us and laughed. Many times over the years he and I dared each other to give that cheer our best shot. My bride told me that on this Saturday she'd never heard my voice get that loud. I told her I must've had some help. Speaking of getting some help, those poor boys from Clemson didn't stand a chance. I like to think Bill was somewhere, giving a push the likes of which he could've never given from section 206 At least one son of Tech did, indeed, "arise, behold!"
The spirit of the cheering throng
Resounds with joy revealing
A brotherhood in praise and song,
In memory of the days gone by.
Oh, Scion of the Southland!
In our hearts you shall forever fly.
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
Returning to the scene of the crime...
The crime in question started 14 or 15 miles down the road with a simple doctor's appointment in Buford, Georgia. I'd been fighting bronchitis and, as everyone that has known me my 50 years on earth, a simple respiratory infection that is a nuisance to most quickly becomes something that kicks my posterior, all because of respiratory issues I inherited from our dear Mother (all the sweet things I COULD'VE gotten from her but I got bad lungs...anyway.) On October 21, 2014 I went to see why this infection was hanging on so long and had beaten two rounds of antibiotics and why I couldn't take a shower or pour a cup of coffee without having to sit down and rest afterwards.
The doctor came into the room and after the obligatory "Who's Tech playing this week?" (my doctors know me well) He put a stethoscope to my lungs and heart and said "Dang....that ain't right" and looked outside the exam room door and hollered at his nurse - "BRING ME THE EKG AND CALL GWINNETT COUNTY!!!" I figured they'd had a toilet backing up or low water pressure and wanted the county to come out and see if they could fix it!! No, he was summoning some brave young men from the fire station right up the street to come and take me somewhere for help. I asked him what was wrong. He said "I need you to relax. But you ARE in A-FIB at the moment." I asked for an explanation. He said "It means you're not going home....we're going to the hospital." Again, I asked him for an education on A-FIB. He said "either you've had a cardiac episode or you're about to have one....either way, we need to get you to a hospital.....but relax." Hmmmm...ok...there's a pack of wild dogs chasing you and you might survive....or you might end up supper.....but relax.
When these brave young men arrived (I'm fairly certain that I have socks older than all of them) I was - in spite of my fear - impressed at the way they went about their work. The one in charge told the doctor (after seeing my EKG) "We're not going to Gainesville (where my doctor wanted them to go) We're not taking that chance. We need to get him someplace closer." Not exactly words of comfort. They decided to take me to Northside/Forsyth in Cumming, apparently figuring I'd live that long! As we made our way out to the ambulance I told one of them that he probably would've eaten a bigger bowl of Wheaties if he'd known he was going to have to drag ME into the back of a truck. His response - "I ain't lost one yet, Mr. Freeman. Me and you both are about to go for a ride." I wanted to give him a big man hug. He was right....we both got in the back of that truck. And we both made it to Northside Hospital..
I say all of that to say this. During that ride, despite hearing transmissions from ambulance to hospital telling them how far out we were and what EKG was showing and to make sure they had this, that and the other thing ready to stick, strap and glue to me, it wasn't my demise I was most afraid of facing. I knew it was a possibility but it became a separate issue. What was at issue was the fear that I might cross into whatever happens to us when we leave this very temporal existence without seeing the sweetest, most perfect face I know ever again. She's the soul that braved taking me as her own. She's the soul that had a thousand other chances in life but decided I was the one she wanted to live with "til death do us part." I just didn't want that to be right there, right then.
Long story short (too late, right) she made it to the hospital and the grasp of her hand felt better than anything they'd given to relax me. The minute she was there she became two people. The RN I married and my wife. She was asking doctors questions and keeping a close eye on monitors. With her there, I felt like I was gonna' beat this thing like a rented mule. Still, it was touch and go for a while (as my heart wouldn't find normal rhythm until they forced it to with a dose of electricity late into my second day there.) But that very first night, after they moved me to a room on the cardiac floor, she fell asleep with her head on the railing of my bed, not letting go of my hand, refusing to be comfortable anywhere else. Again, it made me realize I was walking out of this damn hospital and nothing would stop me. And a bunch of tests and procedures later (some of which hurt like hell - I've never had a needle puncture the lining of my lungs) I did, in fact, get in her car and come home and sit in my recliner and pet my Labrador Retriever.
Fast forward to yesterday, when I went to a professional building next to the hospital for a follow-up appointment with one of the specialists that saved my life. I saw an ambulance flying around to the emergency entrance. I felt compelled to follow. The ambulance parked. And so did a woman nearby who got out of her blue car and broke several olympic records running to the ER entrance to meet the soul being rolled down the same hall I'd recently traversed. I watched her and I cried because I imagined my own angel running across that same parking lot and felt guilty that I'd put her through that.
Her favorite show comes on tonight. I'm gonna' cook her a steak and rub the feet that she works on all day while she watches that show. And I'm going to say a prayer for some folks we know that have taught me what life and love and eternal things are all about. They've done this all while watching their husband and father (one of the finest spirits I've encountered) fight something far worse than what I faced. To my boy I say this...let those 3 lovely ladies take care of you and think "THERE ya' go...." (which I've heard you say with every Georgia Tech first down.)
"So, if I had a barrel of rum and sugar 3,000 pounds....a college bell to put it in and a clapper to stir it 'round. I'd drink to...." THAT good fellow.......
(And also to my cousin Patrick who - standing in my hospital room - told me he missed my writing. You lit this fire....)
The doctor came into the room and after the obligatory "Who's Tech playing this week?" (my doctors know me well) He put a stethoscope to my lungs and heart and said "Dang....that ain't right" and looked outside the exam room door and hollered at his nurse - "BRING ME THE EKG AND CALL GWINNETT COUNTY!!!" I figured they'd had a toilet backing up or low water pressure and wanted the county to come out and see if they could fix it!! No, he was summoning some brave young men from the fire station right up the street to come and take me somewhere for help. I asked him what was wrong. He said "I need you to relax. But you ARE in A-FIB at the moment." I asked for an explanation. He said "It means you're not going home....we're going to the hospital." Again, I asked him for an education on A-FIB. He said "either you've had a cardiac episode or you're about to have one....either way, we need to get you to a hospital.....but relax." Hmmmm...ok...there's a pack of wild dogs chasing you and you might survive....or you might end up supper.....but relax.
When these brave young men arrived (I'm fairly certain that I have socks older than all of them) I was - in spite of my fear - impressed at the way they went about their work. The one in charge told the doctor (after seeing my EKG) "We're not going to Gainesville (where my doctor wanted them to go) We're not taking that chance. We need to get him someplace closer." Not exactly words of comfort. They decided to take me to Northside/Forsyth in Cumming, apparently figuring I'd live that long! As we made our way out to the ambulance I told one of them that he probably would've eaten a bigger bowl of Wheaties if he'd known he was going to have to drag ME into the back of a truck. His response - "I ain't lost one yet, Mr. Freeman. Me and you both are about to go for a ride." I wanted to give him a big man hug. He was right....we both got in the back of that truck. And we both made it to Northside Hospital..
I say all of that to say this. During that ride, despite hearing transmissions from ambulance to hospital telling them how far out we were and what EKG was showing and to make sure they had this, that and the other thing ready to stick, strap and glue to me, it wasn't my demise I was most afraid of facing. I knew it was a possibility but it became a separate issue. What was at issue was the fear that I might cross into whatever happens to us when we leave this very temporal existence without seeing the sweetest, most perfect face I know ever again. She's the soul that braved taking me as her own. She's the soul that had a thousand other chances in life but decided I was the one she wanted to live with "til death do us part." I just didn't want that to be right there, right then.
Long story short (too late, right) she made it to the hospital and the grasp of her hand felt better than anything they'd given to relax me. The minute she was there she became two people. The RN I married and my wife. She was asking doctors questions and keeping a close eye on monitors. With her there, I felt like I was gonna' beat this thing like a rented mule. Still, it was touch and go for a while (as my heart wouldn't find normal rhythm until they forced it to with a dose of electricity late into my second day there.) But that very first night, after they moved me to a room on the cardiac floor, she fell asleep with her head on the railing of my bed, not letting go of my hand, refusing to be comfortable anywhere else. Again, it made me realize I was walking out of this damn hospital and nothing would stop me. And a bunch of tests and procedures later (some of which hurt like hell - I've never had a needle puncture the lining of my lungs) I did, in fact, get in her car and come home and sit in my recliner and pet my Labrador Retriever.
Fast forward to yesterday, when I went to a professional building next to the hospital for a follow-up appointment with one of the specialists that saved my life. I saw an ambulance flying around to the emergency entrance. I felt compelled to follow. The ambulance parked. And so did a woman nearby who got out of her blue car and broke several olympic records running to the ER entrance to meet the soul being rolled down the same hall I'd recently traversed. I watched her and I cried because I imagined my own angel running across that same parking lot and felt guilty that I'd put her through that.
Her favorite show comes on tonight. I'm gonna' cook her a steak and rub the feet that she works on all day while she watches that show. And I'm going to say a prayer for some folks we know that have taught me what life and love and eternal things are all about. They've done this all while watching their husband and father (one of the finest spirits I've encountered) fight something far worse than what I faced. To my boy I say this...let those 3 lovely ladies take care of you and think "THERE ya' go...." (which I've heard you say with every Georgia Tech first down.)
"So, if I had a barrel of rum and sugar 3,000 pounds....a college bell to put it in and a clapper to stir it 'round. I'd drink to...." THAT good fellow.......
(And also to my cousin Patrick who - standing in my hospital room - told me he missed my writing. You lit this fire....)
Tuesday, September 9, 2014
Dear Ray Rice,
Granted, I've got a soft spot for football players. It's the only sport in which I've participated (in an "organized" fashion - I also played a bunch of touch football and tackling games in the neighborhood. Tackling is fun) It's the only meeting point my father (who died when I was pretty young) and I ever had together. When we could talk about nothing else, we could talk about why tackling has left the game (Dear GOD, if he could see the way people tackle now!) But here's the other side of the equation - growing up in a house full of sisters taught me that it's never (repeat NEVER) appropriate to put your hands on a member of the fairer sex.
They can be hard to understand. They can be hard to relate to on ANY terms. But guess what? They're human spirits who are not as physically strong as we were built to be. Note that I said "physically." Doesn't mean that they're not strong. My dearly departed mother used to say "there's a good reason the Good Lord decided to let women have the babies - men would've surrendered." She also used to tell me that "any man who would hit a woman is a coward. It's easy to be brave when you know you're stronger." How many movies and stories (and reality) have we seen play out where chaos reigns until a woman tells everyone in the room to shut up and settle down? From Mama Corleone ("Santino!!! Don't interfere....") to Scarlett O'Hara ("God is my witness...") They can kick ass and take names on their own terms. Even now the woman I love the most can make me behave with a telling glance from across the room (or, usually, from her seat at a football game....yeah, I'm a lucky Neanderthal.)
So here's the rub Ray Rice. I wish you well in whatever you choose to do going forward. But stay away from anything that makes you a symbol for stronger and faster professional athletes, many of whom I've been fortunate enough to meet face to face. My impressions of them have always been that they're guys just like the rest of us. All we see is them running over people, causing concussions, throwing 99 mph fastballs at batters' heads, stopping short-handed goals with high sticks or putting dunks back in faces, But I'm quit sure that MANY of them have one of those "weaker folks" somewhere saying "We need to talk..."
They can be hard to understand. They can be hard to relate to on ANY terms. But guess what? They're human spirits who are not as physically strong as we were built to be. Note that I said "physically." Doesn't mean that they're not strong. My dearly departed mother used to say "there's a good reason the Good Lord decided to let women have the babies - men would've surrendered." She also used to tell me that "any man who would hit a woman is a coward. It's easy to be brave when you know you're stronger." How many movies and stories (and reality) have we seen play out where chaos reigns until a woman tells everyone in the room to shut up and settle down? From Mama Corleone ("Santino!!! Don't interfere....") to Scarlett O'Hara ("God is my witness...") They can kick ass and take names on their own terms. Even now the woman I love the most can make me behave with a telling glance from across the room (or, usually, from her seat at a football game....yeah, I'm a lucky Neanderthal.)
So here's the rub Ray Rice. I wish you well in whatever you choose to do going forward. But stay away from anything that makes you a symbol for stronger and faster professional athletes, many of whom I've been fortunate enough to meet face to face. My impressions of them have always been that they're guys just like the rest of us. All we see is them running over people, causing concussions, throwing 99 mph fastballs at batters' heads, stopping short-handed goals with high sticks or putting dunks back in faces, But I'm quit sure that MANY of them have one of those "weaker folks" somewhere saying "We need to talk..."
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
The Sad Clown
Make 'em laugh, make 'em have a good time and point out the absurd....do all that and they won't take notice of everything you hate about yourself. That's not a quote. That's the way I lived a lot of my life. Self-confidence never my forte, I lived looking for a thousand diversions to take people's attention away from what I thought they saw and put it, instead, on how darn entertaining and funny I can be (even if, on the inside, I thought myself to be one pathetic creature.) As long as they thought I was fun I could fight my own demons.
And that's a word I've heard thrown around a lot in the last 24 hours - "Demons." Very trendy. Very psycho-babble. . But something I fear that, sadly, is only associated with poor souls that have taken drastic measures. "They were fighting demons." "Here he is, discussing his own demons." Hell! We're ALL souls living inside very finite, physical vessels! I would think that we're ALL fighting enemies that would seek to destroy by trying to teach us to define ourselves in very temporal terms.
I grew up in a suburb of Atlanta that in a lot of ways was the "touch of country in the city" about which the Atlanta Rhythm Section sang so eloquently. I went to school, to church, to Boy Scouts, to the grocery store, to the barber shop and to the doctor with a lot of the same folks. But, in each of those locales, there existed different caste systems, each independent of the others. For instance, there were folks that would worship, sing and pray with me at church. But at school - there in the world of student councils, cheerleaders, drill teams, exclusive lunch tables, clubs and homecoming dances - they were forbidden from recognizing me as a living creature. I warranted a fleeting glance in hallways between classes - "I know you, but you understand I can't talk to you here, right?" It was in THAT world I learned to entertain people. It was in that world that a literature teacher first taught me the concept of the sad clown. Sad that - at such an innocent age - I could closely identify with what being a sad clown was all about.
Often the price of a creative mind is that it's nothing but a sponge. It absorbs all that it sees and hears and there are no barriers to what it will let inside itself. Unfortunately, the downside to that is that often the sad creeps in along with all the good stuff. Even if you can hear the laughter and the accolades you can also hear the jeers, coming mostly from yourself and the aforementioned demons. And sometimes the bad stuff wins. Sometimes you believe them when they tell you you're fighting battles you'll never win and that - despite the applause - you ain't about all that. If you've fought them your whole life, sometimes you don't want to fight anymore.
So, yet again, we're burdened with sadness because someone whose day to day existence is light years from our own is now gone. We wonder why we're so sad. But then we realize that it's because their craft became something that diverted our attention away from our own realities. Thanks for that, Robin Williams. Maybe you were tired and had no more craft to give. Maybe the sad clown just wanted to go somewhere and smile just for the sake of smiling...not because it was his job to make the rest of us smile.
And that's a word I've heard thrown around a lot in the last 24 hours - "Demons." Very trendy. Very psycho-babble. . But something I fear that, sadly, is only associated with poor souls that have taken drastic measures. "They were fighting demons." "Here he is, discussing his own demons." Hell! We're ALL souls living inside very finite, physical vessels! I would think that we're ALL fighting enemies that would seek to destroy by trying to teach us to define ourselves in very temporal terms.
I grew up in a suburb of Atlanta that in a lot of ways was the "touch of country in the city" about which the Atlanta Rhythm Section sang so eloquently. I went to school, to church, to Boy Scouts, to the grocery store, to the barber shop and to the doctor with a lot of the same folks. But, in each of those locales, there existed different caste systems, each independent of the others. For instance, there were folks that would worship, sing and pray with me at church. But at school - there in the world of student councils, cheerleaders, drill teams, exclusive lunch tables, clubs and homecoming dances - they were forbidden from recognizing me as a living creature. I warranted a fleeting glance in hallways between classes - "I know you, but you understand I can't talk to you here, right?" It was in THAT world I learned to entertain people. It was in that world that a literature teacher first taught me the concept of the sad clown. Sad that - at such an innocent age - I could closely identify with what being a sad clown was all about.
Often the price of a creative mind is that it's nothing but a sponge. It absorbs all that it sees and hears and there are no barriers to what it will let inside itself. Unfortunately, the downside to that is that often the sad creeps in along with all the good stuff. Even if you can hear the laughter and the accolades you can also hear the jeers, coming mostly from yourself and the aforementioned demons. And sometimes the bad stuff wins. Sometimes you believe them when they tell you you're fighting battles you'll never win and that - despite the applause - you ain't about all that. If you've fought them your whole life, sometimes you don't want to fight anymore.
So, yet again, we're burdened with sadness because someone whose day to day existence is light years from our own is now gone. We wonder why we're so sad. But then we realize that it's because their craft became something that diverted our attention away from our own realities. Thanks for that, Robin Williams. Maybe you were tired and had no more craft to give. Maybe the sad clown just wanted to go somewhere and smile just for the sake of smiling...not because it was his job to make the rest of us smile.
Monday, June 2, 2014
'...cheer the living, dear...."
Some days, you wake up with your brain too damn full. Today a good friend of ours would've celebrated a birthday. I wrote a blog when back when she died. She loved the woman I love the most. She was the friend I was most worried about meeting, I knew her her opinion meant a lot to this sweet soul, the one I'd just started dating- the one with the world's cutest dimples and sweetest smile. And hers was the death I watched that sweet soul grapple with the most, wondering why it had to happen. I wish, still, I could tell her why.
Then, when this hit my mind, I started thumbing through yesterday's local paper. There was a story about about a gentleman that was the public address announcer for one of the local high schools for twenty-something years. He'd taken the job voluntarily when his sons started school there. He was 62 and out playing golf and had a heart attack. For this high school, it was Tech losing Al Ciraldo or Georgia losing Larry Munson (still the only thing I've ever like about the evil empire in Athens.) 62? That's 12 years from where I am right now! Hell, the flip-flops I'm wearing are probably more than 12 years old...12 years go by right quick! And 12 more years ain't NEAR enough time to build the life I want to build with the girl with the cutest dimples and sweetest smile.
And then I started thinking about the first time I experienced an unexplainable death. We found out my cousin Alan was sick when I was 16 years old. Until I got married, nobody on the planet knew me as well as Alan did (even if I was only 18 when he died.) I've never written much about him because it still hurts too bad. His is the only grave I ever go to and talk out loud.
The first vehicle I ever drove (even before I was old enough to drive) was his 1970-something big, black Silverardo. I now drive a big, black Ford F-150 with a lot more bells and whistles than his Silverardo had (he'd be shocked to know that I can answer my phone by pushing a button on my steering wheel!) When I do go and talk to his grave, I always try to irritate him with a little truck envy.
He taught me to love dogs, I think. When the world's most beautiful Irish Setter died he dug a hole big enough to bury a Volkswagen, crying the whole time. He'd be glad to know that since I ran into the kitchen for more coffee, scribbling notes for this blog on a piece of paper (and shedding a few tears myself) a Labrador Retriever followed me to find out what was wrong.
When I was a small child he called me "Monkey." Years after I was small child (when I was a teenager and he was pretty sick) I was talking to him in the part of the day he and I used to always find ourselves talking. The late hours of a summer day when the sun had gone down but the air's still hot and the lightning bugs and cicadas have come out to play. "Monkey, just because this has happened to me doesn't mean that bad things are out there, waiting to happen to you. Don't live scared..." I wish to God that teen-aged awkwardness hadn't kept me from saying something more meaningful than "Ok, I won't." I now know that those few words represent some of the greatest advice ever given me by anyone.
He'd be most disappointed if he knew that I STILL live very much afraid of many things. I rationalize it by saying "well, if he'd lived longer, he would've found out how scary life can get!" But somewhere, deep in my soul, I also know that he'd smack me upside the back of my head and throw me in Lake Lanier - "QUIT WHINING! LET'S GO SWIMMING!!" That's how I learned to swim, after all. (He'd also probably be disappointed to find that you can't discipline a knucklehead in the waters of Lake Lanier anymore without a soccer mom calling 9-1-1 from the cul-de-sac that now resides where our woods and our playground used to grow.)
I said all of that to say this - I was most confused by Alan's death and - at 50 years old - I'm still pretty confused. If we leave here for a much better place, whey does everyone get so sad when someone dies? I reckon it's because they're no longer here to help US figure out what's taking place in our very temporal neck of the woods. I don't much care if I never walk the "streets of gold." The only gold I've ever owned is the gold I purchased when I got married. I'd just like to think that when my time comes, I'll spend eternity pulling fish out of a lake with Alan and his father, my Uncle Ralph (who was more a father to me than my biological father.) And then, when the girl with the cutest dimples and the sweetest smile comes along later (you know, statistics show that's what will happen!) I can say "Come over here and meet Alan..."
And he'll grin... "You did good, Monkey."
Then, when this hit my mind, I started thumbing through yesterday's local paper. There was a story about about a gentleman that was the public address announcer for one of the local high schools for twenty-something years. He'd taken the job voluntarily when his sons started school there. He was 62 and out playing golf and had a heart attack. For this high school, it was Tech losing Al Ciraldo or Georgia losing Larry Munson (still the only thing I've ever like about the evil empire in Athens.) 62? That's 12 years from where I am right now! Hell, the flip-flops I'm wearing are probably more than 12 years old...12 years go by right quick! And 12 more years ain't NEAR enough time to build the life I want to build with the girl with the cutest dimples and sweetest smile.
And then I started thinking about the first time I experienced an unexplainable death. We found out my cousin Alan was sick when I was 16 years old. Until I got married, nobody on the planet knew me as well as Alan did (even if I was only 18 when he died.) I've never written much about him because it still hurts too bad. His is the only grave I ever go to and talk out loud.
"I cannot buy you happiness, I cannot buy you years. I cannot buy you happiness in place of all the tears. But I can buy for you a gravestone, to lay behind your head. Gravestones cheer the living, dear, they're no use to the dead."(Steve Noonan/Greg Copeland - Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, 1967)
The first vehicle I ever drove (even before I was old enough to drive) was his 1970-something big, black Silverardo. I now drive a big, black Ford F-150 with a lot more bells and whistles than his Silverardo had (he'd be shocked to know that I can answer my phone by pushing a button on my steering wheel!) When I do go and talk to his grave, I always try to irritate him with a little truck envy.
He taught me to love dogs, I think. When the world's most beautiful Irish Setter died he dug a hole big enough to bury a Volkswagen, crying the whole time. He'd be glad to know that since I ran into the kitchen for more coffee, scribbling notes for this blog on a piece of paper (and shedding a few tears myself) a Labrador Retriever followed me to find out what was wrong.
When I was a small child he called me "Monkey." Years after I was small child (when I was a teenager and he was pretty sick) I was talking to him in the part of the day he and I used to always find ourselves talking. The late hours of a summer day when the sun had gone down but the air's still hot and the lightning bugs and cicadas have come out to play. "Monkey, just because this has happened to me doesn't mean that bad things are out there, waiting to happen to you. Don't live scared..." I wish to God that teen-aged awkwardness hadn't kept me from saying something more meaningful than "Ok, I won't." I now know that those few words represent some of the greatest advice ever given me by anyone.
He'd be most disappointed if he knew that I STILL live very much afraid of many things. I rationalize it by saying "well, if he'd lived longer, he would've found out how scary life can get!" But somewhere, deep in my soul, I also know that he'd smack me upside the back of my head and throw me in Lake Lanier - "QUIT WHINING! LET'S GO SWIMMING!!" That's how I learned to swim, after all. (He'd also probably be disappointed to find that you can't discipline a knucklehead in the waters of Lake Lanier anymore without a soccer mom calling 9-1-1 from the cul-de-sac that now resides where our woods and our playground used to grow.)
I said all of that to say this - I was most confused by Alan's death and - at 50 years old - I'm still pretty confused. If we leave here for a much better place, whey does everyone get so sad when someone dies? I reckon it's because they're no longer here to help US figure out what's taking place in our very temporal neck of the woods. I don't much care if I never walk the "streets of gold." The only gold I've ever owned is the gold I purchased when I got married. I'd just like to think that when my time comes, I'll spend eternity pulling fish out of a lake with Alan and his father, my Uncle Ralph (who was more a father to me than my biological father.) And then, when the girl with the cutest dimples and the sweetest smile comes along later (you know, statistics show that's what will happen!) I can say "Come over here and meet Alan..."
And he'll grin... "You did good, Monkey."
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