My Friend's Wedding

I guess it's a little weird that one continues to grow older thinking that those whom he/she has come into contact with won't change over time. I mean, it's sort of like raising kids. First they are these cute little bundles of joy, then happy-go-lucky walking toddlers, then mouthy 5-year olds. Then you sit back and wonder where the hell the time went, you know?

So imagine my surprise when my friend actually went through with the wedding after seven years of pre-marital bliss. The last time I saw her she was about to become separated from her first husband and really wanted nothing much to do with men in general.

Over the years we kept in limited touch. Somehow, I always would remember her April birthday and send her a short email wishing her the best. She would write back. I would write back. Then after a couple of emails we were caught up and we moved on with our lives until the next birthday. But now she is married again and I honestly think, just from "talking" to her via emails, she is the happiest she has ever been.

She deserves it. Hell, we all do. But she deserves happiness because of what her ex has put her through and because she has raised a fine, upstanding young man of 18 by herself.

So Ann, congratulations! I am sooooooooooo happy for you. I wish you guys more happiness than all the waves that come ashore on a beach!

My Eulogy Honoring My Father

My brothers and I were given the opportunity to speak at my father’s funeral, if we wanted. No one wanted to except me.

As the time for the service drew closer, I refused to go into “that room” off to the side where the family sits during the service. I don’t know why, but every time I tried to enter it took my breath. I didn’t want this to be over. I didn’t want to sit in there. I didn’t want to do anything but sit by myself and try to sort things out.

Finally, the service director forced me to go in there. I had to sit on the front row with my brothers and my mother. I prayed for strength during the first song because when the song ended, I was supposed to go up to the podium and say what I wanted to say. I didn’t know what I wanted to say other than read this poem I had found several years ago.

The song ended, the pastor looked my way, and time stopped. I looked out to an over flowing congregation, and let it go………

“You know. It’s funny what you remember at a time like this. I remember when I was in the fourth grade playing pee-wee football. I remember losing our first game to Bonifay, Florida. I remember crying hard because we lost. And I remember my daddy telling me that if I ever cried again because I had lost, I wouldn’t be able to play. Well………………I hope he doesn’t mind my crying a little over losing him.”

I started to read and didn’t make it through the first line before I had to pause and hold back tears. “this isn’t happening.” I thought.

“After a while you learn the subtle difference Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,
And you learn that love doesn't mean leaning And company doesn't mean security,
And you begin to understand that kisses aren't contracts And presents aren't promises.
And you begin to accept your defeats With your head held high and your eyes open,
With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child. You learn to build your roads
On today because tomorrow's ground Is too uncertain for plans, and futures have
A way of falling down in midflight. After a while you learn that even sunshine
Burns if you get too much. So you plant your own garden and decorate
Your own soul, instead of waiting For someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you can really endure, That you really are strong
And you really do have worth And you learn and learn ... and you learn
With every goodbye………… you learn."


I folded the paper and put it away in my jacket pocket and looked down, trying to find words while fighting back tears.

“With my father’s passing, I have learned that death doesn’t care. It knows no boundaries and doesn’t discriminate. Maybe we can all learn a lesson from death.

“I have learned that my father had recently felt at peace with both himself and with God over how he raised us boys. But if you know us, we didn’t turn out that bad.

“But if I had to choose just one thing that I have learned from my father’s passing it is this. Whatever inadequacies he felt he may have had as a father, he more than made up for them as a grandfather. My father may be dead, but his loving, caring and kind soul still lives in the hearts of his sons and in the sparkle of his grandchildren’s eyes.”

“He was my hero.” I said while crying. “and I will miss him.”

And with that, with that long, silent, gut wrenching walk back to my seat, my goodbye had been said.

Does Death Mean I Don't Matter?

I have sat down a few times to try to write this, but I just didn’t know where it would lead or if I even wanted to go there. At times, I wondered if I should even write because now, it seems, a lot of my motivation to write and deal with the cards that life has dealt just isn’t there. It’s a feeling sort of like when you go on a date. And while you are on that date you just know that there won’t be another one. You can’t explain the feeling or know why, but you know that there won’t be another date for that person. That’s sort of the feeling, I guess.

I am also trying to write this without the aid of Sapphire, but I think I am going to have to tip the bottle after all. I just proved to myself that while I might not make sense writing while drinking, I definitely don’t make sense when I don’t because I feel like I have to write properly, that I can’t just focus, tap the keys and see what magically appears in the end.

Ahhhh. Bailey’s Irish Cream. The Elixir of the Gods, soothing my soul as it makes its way down. My mind is suddenly flooded with nothing but good memories from the times I and others got together and drank Bailey’s: buttery nipples down on Settler’s Landing, shots at 0800 while playing golf in cold weather, sniffers while fishing……………good times, good drinks, great friendships. Maybe, just maybe, I can now somehow come to grips with why I feel bad about not feeling worse.

I guess if you are not part of the inner workings of my life, you may not be aware that my father passed on October 5th. I’m not going into the details, but I just can’t get the image of my 83-year old father crawling on hands and knees, trying to make it to his oxygen out of my mind. Nor can I even comprehend the strength and courage it took for my brother to perform CPR on OUR father.

I can’t understand why on the 5th I was such a damn basket case all day, wanting to be comforted yet not being able to be around people. I dealt with it that day like I have every single damn major event I have had to deal with in my life: ALONE. Is that my own choosing? Yes, so I guess I probably shouldn’t bitch. But I feel like if I cry on someone’s shoulder that I am burdening them with my problems when they more than likely have their own. So I chose and have chosen to deal with it by not dealing with it, at least with others around.

But like most things in life, there isn’t a lot of understanding about things. But like few things in life, I have absolutely no regrets. But now I wonder if what I feel or if my opinion even matters.
As was expected, the existential meltdown that seems to encompass family members during mourning happened on Tuesday (the funeral was on a Sunday). At one point I asked some questions and was immediately called out on the carpet by one of my family members.

(NOTE: I live in VA. My family lives in AL) “Who the fuck are you talking to?” they asked me. “What fucking right do YOU have when you were never fucking here? You never fucking came home. You fucking never called mom and dad regularly. They worried about your fucking ass but you didn’t do what you were supposed to do as a son. So you have no fucking right to say anything to me you fucking asshole. So keep your fucking mouth shut because what you fucking have to say doesn’t fucking matter.”

“My relationship,” I replied “between my parents and I has nothing to do with you. It’s between us.”

Maybe it was then. Maybe that’s when it all came to light. Maybe I should have followed my instincts and duked it out with my family member so we could get it out of our systems. Maybe, I should have just walked away instead of sitting there and listening to more.

But I think it was then that I realized that what I had been thinking all this time actually was true: that while yes, I am a part of that family, I no longer belong. I don’t belong down there. I left home at 18 and never really returned. Sure, I might have visited over the years, but I have to wonder if I was ever really there once I left? I think my family member was right: I don’t matter any more. I’m NOT there helping. My life has gone back to the way it was before the death while the lives of my brothers have changed because they are now responsible for ensuring our mother is taken care of.

Don’t get me wrong. I am definitely not throwing a pity party. I’m just facing facts because I have had a long time to think about this in the last three weeks. Even after going home again this past weekend, the void seemed to be much larger than normal. And I don’t want you to think that I don’t care for or love my brothers either. Hell, I am probably the most thankful person in the world that they ARE there to be able to tend to our mother as good as they have. In a selfish way, that’s just one more thing I don’t really have to worry about because they take such good care of her. My brothers are God sent Angels, trust me. But……………………….

I arrived on the morning of the 6th. The first chance I got I went to the package store and bought some gin and tonic water and made it through the day by going through a fifth. People and food every damn where. While I appreciate the food and the condolences that came with it, my hero was still gone.
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My father lay in bed in the South Alabama Medical Center in the early part of 1990, having just had his quadruple bypass surgery when I got the call. The phone at my mom’s house rang one morning while I was there. It was Major John Clark letting me know that upon my return to Virginia I would deploy immediately in support of the ground operation during Desert Storm. I told my mom and brothers, and we discussed the best way to tell my father.

Shortly after my father’s release from the hospital, my brothers and I were sitting on the porch discussing whether we should tell him or not, when he walked out. Because of our immediate silence, he knew something was up and asked us what was going on.

“well,” I said, hesitating, “I’m going.”

My dad looked down, obviously thrown back some 50 + years to his days it Italy. As his unit was storming this hill, they came under sever mortar attack. A piece of shrapnel pierced my dad’s back, severing his left lung. He said he lay there thinking he was going to die and thought about his momma. He told me he knew his momma would be upset to the point of not being able to handle it because my father was the only son. As he lay there, his unit then came under sniper attach and he was shot in the leg. He laughed as he told me that when he was shot in the leg that the pain was so fierce he realized he wasn’t close to death after all. He said his leg hurt worse than his lung wound. He was eventually awarded both the Purple Heart and the Bronze Star for bravery.

He eventually looked up, but not at me or any of us. “just” he began. “just don’t try to be a hero. “

That was all he said, but I knew he was saying more. He wanted me to come home. He wanted me to come home, alive. But he didn’t know that I WANTED to come home a hero because I wanted to be just like him…………………..

Remembering Hal9000

In the late 80’s, early 90’s the Brotherhood ruled Thursday night bowling at Langley. A team of ragtag, diversified athletes swept through the league weekly, raising hell and drinking along the way. There was the perfection of Dickie, the Popeye fore armed E-bone, Ted Nugent incarnate Kapacko, Jake with his “Pressurized Whoopass” shoes, and Macho: characters all in their own right. But none stood out like the captain of that Motley Crew, Hal 9000. A diminutive, 5 foot something Napoleonic person, Hal9000 bowled leadoff, always pulling his pants up after he released his ball.
Hal9000 died Friday, September 28th in the early morning hours while sleeping. Now it seems, at least for the moment……..nothing really matters. But the pain I feel is real, and I’m surprised at how much it hurts.
Looking back, his family was struggling with the realities of his passing while Jake, HorHey, and myself were on our way to Virginia Beach to play in a golf tournament. How were we to know that our conversations about nothing, but actually about everything, had miniscule meanings when compared to the drama that was playing out in Hampton? I guess if I really thought about it, I could allow myself to feel guilty for not keeping in better touch with Hal9000. But I won’t…………..
I was talking to Commissioner Hughes a couple of days ago, maybe even last week, about the types of memories one has of someone when they die. He stated that people basically have two: one memory is the conglomeration of all previous memories and the other is the memory of the last time you saw that person. And I sat there and thought about what he said.
That’s why I don’t usually visit coffins during funerals. I don’t want THAT image of the person I care about to be the last image I have of them. I want my last image to be of something that I loved about the person. When MQ’s friend died, MQ tried to get me to go into the room where the body was to pay last respects. But I refused. I wanted to remember the person who was happy go lucky, the person who was at the beach with us a while back, not the cold, ashen person that lay in that room.
So in a weird way, maybe it’s OK that I didn’t keep in regular contact with Hal9000. Because I didn’t, my last memory of Hal is a good one. In fact, I have no bad memories of Hal.
The disturbing thing is now, more than ever, I realize that death doesn’t discriminate. And the reality that we are all getting older and moving just that much closer is, well, sort of frightening.
But I have to smile a little when I think about it. Maybe God needed a hard worker, and a good lead off bowler for his own Thursday night league, so he called the best there was: Hal9000. I wonder how Saint Peter and the fellas are going to respond when they see him release his ball, turn his hands inward, and pull up his robe for the first time?
Regardless, I hope they get the laughs and good feelings Hal9000 brought to us. I hope, one day when they are all sitting around BSing, that they can say the same thing about Hal that I can: That I have only good memories, and I’m glad he was a part of my life for the short while he was.
As I sit here and write this
I feel the tears
From losing my friend
From all those years.
Who lived each second
As if it were his last
Whose soul enhancing persona
Was constantly cast
Upon those who knew him
And those who did not.
Hal9000, I know you can read this buddy. We love you and are forever touched by you. The next time the Brotherhood gathers, we will hold our Bowling Balls, replay our fondest memory, and toast you with our drinks. We will then silently, but gladly reminisce, knowing that some day we will all bowl together again!
Rest in Peace, man. Rest in Peace.