Piddling

I guess it doesn't help that I live so far away and barely make it home. Hell, I have been home more since my father passed away than I had the entire previous year. So maybe if I live closer and could go home more often to see my mom, her deteriorating condition of dimentia would not cause me to be so taken aback every time I see her now.

It's not that she's unhealthy. I pray daily that when I am 80 something that my physical well being is just as good as hers. But what I can't get used to is the way her dimentia is causing her to lose her short term memory. As a result, one could answer the same question or here her make the same comment over and over throughout the day. Throw in some visitors that causes her to "get off schedule," then it is really bad.

But the one thing I just can't seem wrap my understanding around is how she piddles. She seems to be more than content to stay there in that house and just piddle around all day, hiding things in fear that someone is going to come in and take her "stuff," or just moving items from one closet to another, from one room to another, just piddling. She doesn't cook that much because my brother and his family take her her meals. They had to set up her medicine in a way so that she will know when to take the morning pills and the evening pills. They have step-by-step instructions on how to make coffee. Thankfully, they bought her a pot that automatically shuts off after a period of time.

Every time I call her and ask her what she has been up to, she gives the same response.
Me: so, what have you been doing?
mom: oh. you know. just cleaning the house and getting things straightened out.
me: why? who are you cleaning for? there is no one there but you.
mom: yeah, but you don't know who might stop by.
me: well, who has stopped by lately?
mom: well, james and his family mostly.
me: you can't clean house all day. a house can only be so clean. what else have you been doing?
mom: oh, just piddling around.

When i have discussed this with James, he says that is the way dimentia effects some people: it causes them to build a "safety net" or comfort zone, and her house is hers. Take her out of that comfort zone and, as Larry the Cable Guy described about Arby's employees: watch the fun begin. But it really isn't fun, though. It's sad, actually.

I came home from my last trip saddened by the weekend I just spent with my mom because that wasn't my mom. Sure, it was the physical manifestation of her, but it wasn't "her" because of the way her mind has gone. My mom was the person who cried for us boys when daddy would spank us, or who bought me ice cream when I was crying, or who was full of life while going to church and singing in the choir every sunday. Not the person I had spent the weekend with. But you know what? I still Love her. She is still my momma.

But let me get back to this piddling thing...........

A couple of weeks ago the Future had one of his school friends over to play. We were all outside. They were jumping on the trampoline, then took a couple of my old fishing rods out there and were pretending they were fishing. I was working in the garage and before I knew it, I had swept and arranged the garage, and had taken bags of mixed up screws, bolts, nuts, washers, nails, etc. and arranged them and placed them in their own compartment in my hanging storage bin. I went through my fishing cart and put my Striper rods and tackle in their proper place until next season, arranging the lures and other tackle in a way so that it all fit nicely and neatly in it's own place.

I hung up the boat bumpers, wrapped up the ropes, hung up all of the life jackets, cleaned out my tool box and arranged things in a way that would make them easy to find no matter who goes through there. I cleaned out my truck, arranged some of the locked cabinets where the paint and things are, and made a mixture of lime and milky spore to be spread to kill the grubs in the yard which will help get rid of the moles.

I wrapped up all of the extension cords and loaded all of the spare wood from the privacy fence into my truck to take to the dump, then placed the extra landscaping bricks on the side of the house to get them out of the garage. I took a break and was standing outside, in front of the garage, drinking some bottled water, feeling the wind, watching the neighborhood, listening to the kids play and laugh and giggle and argue and fight.

I watched my neighbors from across the street load their two kids into the van, then noticed the kid from the house caddy cornered to mine on the left was shootin' some hoops. My neighbor caddy cornered from me to my right was on the side of his house hitting a tennis ball with his pitching wedge so that his Australian sheppard, Sidney, could chase it down and bring it back. I noticed that his neighbors to his right were sitting out in lawn chairs in their driveway doing the same thing I was, and I lifted my bottle of water to then in a silent hello. My next door neighbor to my left was going somewhere to get medicine because everyone in his house was sick, but him. I notice several people were walking their dogs, riding their bikes, or just walking on the trail that goes through the entire development. It was then I chugged the rest of the bottle of water, threw it in the back of my truck and went back into the garage. I pulled out this huge garden/tool cart that I use for my freshwater fishing tackle when MQ comes to the door.

MQ: where are the kids?
me: in the back
MQ: are they playing nicely?
me: they seem to be.
MQ: looking at the cart: what are you doing?
me: I'm going to go through this to see if there is anything I can get rid of. I don't really use it anymore.
MQ: Why not?
me: well, you know we fish mainly in salt water now that we have the boat. And when we DO go fresh water fishing, you know we fly fish exclusively now.
MQ: yeah, you're right. what have you been doing?
me: nothing really. just piddling.

And we both stood there in silence because she has had to listen to me rant about my mom piddling, and here I had just admitted that I was piddling.

I stood there for a moment after she went inside and thought about my thoughts about my mom. Then I looked around in a satisfied way because I had gotten so much done with little interruption. I sat down on the top of my fishing bucket as I opened the tackle cart and thought to my self, "You know...............................Piddling ain't bad. .....................It ain't bad at all."

The Smell

Oft times when I am cutting grass, the smell that the grass emanates takes me back many years to the fall of 1979. When I smell that smell, I remember how the grass smelled in Chanelle-Lee football stadium as we did pre-game warm ups. And I remember standing at the top of the stairs leading down to the field, and looking in amazement at the sea of people who had given up a couple of hours on a Friday night to watch football when it was real, and kids played in hopes of somehow securing their legacy in a town already riddled with memories of their own versions of Friday Night Lights. WE were Friday Night Lights before the world knew of Friday Night Lights.

I remember the sounds of our cleats as we walked down the stairs in our armour: pads, gold pants, gold helmets, and black jerseys with gold numbers. And I remember being able to always hear Johnny-O’s drums over everyone else’s as we ran on the field and the band played our fight song. And I remember looking up to the band section to make sure Johnny-O was there because, in a lot of ways, I was playing for him as much as I was me.

And I remember how nervous I would be standing on that goal line, waiting for the opening kick off, hoping like hell I didn’t drop the ball. But mostly, I remember the silence I felt when the ball was in the air, and how I couldn’t hear anything but my thoughts and breathing until the play was dead. The sounds of the fans were deafening to me, but I remember not wanting to be anywhere else but on that field. My life, my entire being was tied to Friday nights.

The taste of grass, the burning of the sweat, the pain from being tackled, and the painkillers that somehow got me through the games. All of this I remember just from the smell from cutting the grass.

So it shouldn’t really surprise me as much as it did when The Future and I were riding bikes today and I smelled something that reminded me of my father. I can’t remember the smell and I don’t know how to describe it, but it was as if he were there.

It shook me a little because I have done a fairly decent job of isolating my thoughts about him so that they don’t overtake me at weird times. Some times, though, when I think of the way his belt buckle shook when he laughed or I go back and read the cards that friends sent after he died, I can’t help but cleanse my soul with a good ol’ fashioned cry. In fact, I am tearing up now because that smell is making me miss him.

Sure, I may not have been there as often as I should have. I may not have called regularly like Thomas did. Yes, my lack of communication may have made my parents nervous and all. But that doesn’t mean that I didn’t love him any less than anyone else. And it doesn’t mean that I don’t miss him at times. It just means that I now know him through this smell that I can’t identify and am assured he is OK.

The Flag of My Father

They approached a hill in northern Italy, dead set on taking it. In order for them to advance, this hill was tantamount to the success of their mission.

As they climbed the hill slowly amidst machine gun fire, they came under mortar attack. After an explosion, a piece of molten hot shrapnel pierced his back, severing his left lung. He lay there and thought of his mother, and how he wanted to go home.

He was dying a slow death when a sniper opened fire on his company. Shots rang out and spat up dirt all around him. His eyes burned with sweat and pain seared through is body. “This” he thought, “is how I am going to spend my final minutes.” And, for some reason, he thought about the taxi he drove back home for fifty cents a week. He smiled as he thought about the freedom that came with driving, whether driving around town or through the back roads of southern Alabama. Then it happened.

The sniper’s bullet found his leg, penetrating all of the way through it, almost severing one of the bones. He realized then that he wasn’t as dead as he thought he was, as the pain from his leg wound was far worse than the pain from his shrapnel wound.
*******************************************************
My dad had a far off look in his eye as he told me this story. It was the first and only time I had ever heard him speak of what he went through during world war two. After he told me this story, I asked him if he was scared.

“They wanted to send me back.” He said. “But I fought real hard so I wouldn’t have to go.”
“Why?” I asked. “Didn’t you feel it was your duty to go back?”
“My duty had been fulfilled, son. I went and left a part of me in Italy. God didn’t want me to go back.”
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As I sat here and watched the final thirty minutes of Flags of Our Fathers, I wondered how many people had fathers that fought in the world wars yet still had unanswered questions. I wonder if that is how it is supposed to be, that we live our days now with only memories and questions, living each day wondering if we will ever really know those whom we love.

I look back now and am comforted having had my father for as long as I did yet I have an insatiable longing to go back so that I can possibly “know” him. Now that I think about it, I don’t think anyone knew him, not even my mother.

But that isn’t bad, I guess. Maybe that’s the legacy he and the others left for us all………..to not to know them so that our children could know us through them.

Golf

One of my favorite pasttimes is playing golf. Some of the best times of my life have happened while playing golf either with my brothers or with my friends. Now that my son is five and has been hitting golf balls since he was three, I'm patiently waiting for the day when we can play golf together.

Taking it one step further, however, I love to play in tournaments, particularly the four-person best ball type tournaments. The place where I work recently sponsored a team in the Hampton Roads Technology Council annual tournament. We were looking to improve on our second place finish last year, but we finished third in the first flight, but one stroke too good for first in the second flight. Anyway, we had a good time and my good friend CR won the longest drive! Here are some pictures from that day. WE had a blast!

Me and CR

Me and the Jake Man

Me and HorHey

My approach shot on #14 from 109 yards. It bounced once, hit the pin, and ended up there. Yes, we DID birdie this hole!

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.