“Nothing is Better…” (An Ode to Oatmeal)— A Miniseries (1 of 3)

An Acquired Taste
My wife doesn’t get it; in fact sometimes it just makes her cringe, my taste in tastes. She just can’t understand the way that I like to mix and match in one bite, things that some folks wouldn’t even put together on the same plate. Things like baked beans and applesauce, yogurt and wheat thins, beer and chocolate; sweet and salty, soft and crunchy, cottage cheese and…well, you get the picture.

It’s all about contrasts with me. I love the wonderful juxtaposition of contrasting flavors, temperatures and textures as they do their unique tango on my tongue-go, eventually meeting up in my belly — which, by the way, is the same place they would have met if I’d eaten them separately. So what’s the big deal?

It really used to bother her, but now in more recent years, I suppose Michelle has accepted her husband’s palate-ial weirdness and no longer feigns disgust at my crazy combinations like she used to. But then again, while she might not be the type that eats everything on her plate separately (a habit of some that drives me crazy) she’s still got a few food quirks of her own.

Michelle is usually very careful to not allow the different foods on her plate to mix, or preferably, even touch. Sometimes she’ll go to great lengths, using her knife to prop the plate up slightly at one end, in order that a particularly juicy dish is pooled at the low end and can’t mingle with those on the uphill side.

Sheesh. And she calls ME weird.

As for me, I never had a problem with my food touching; like I said, they all get mixed up in the end up anyhow. And again, I actually enjoy the mixture of tastes as I’m eating. More often than not, I’ll take a sample of two different foods on the same bite and revel in their mutual commingling in my mouth.

And speaking of baked beans and applesauce — my all-time fave contrast combo, BTW — at least now as an adult I’ve outgrown my childhood habit of literally stirring the two foods together on my plate before eating them (Emily Post might have a problem with that one). But either way, the sensation of contrasting foods in my mouth concurrently is something I have always savored and had never even questioned — until recently.

I believe I may have finally placed a finger on the genesis of my quirk about mixing foods, tastes and textures.

Perhaps you can blame it all on oatmeal…and my Mother, Annie.

All mixed up
You see, what I realized very recently is that nearly the sum-total of the few strong memories I retain of my Mother are surrounded by food; and one food in particular reigns supreme in those memories — oatmeal. It’s the first thing I can ever remember eating. And oh, how I remember eating it.

It quite possibly could be among my earliest memories, but I clearly recall sitting in my high chair, with a warm bowl of that golden mush in front of me, loving every bite.

However there was more than just oatmeal in that bowl — and therein lies my epiphany. Mom used to add one other ingredient to the standard mix of oatmeal, butter, sugar and milk — a soft, poached egg was also a part of the mix. And I so remember the wonderful conglomeration of tastes; the egg yolk with the oatmeal — the semi-solid yolk’s naturally saltiness combining with the sweetness of the sugar and the milk. It still literally makes my mouth water thinking about it.

And the weirdest part is that having held that memory my entire life, never once that I can recall, had I ever tried to duplicate it. It makes me laugh at myself to think about it. Why not try it again at some point? It’s almost as though I didn’t want to taint the memory because it was such a touchstone to my Mother for me. Maybe I was afraid it wouldn’t taste as good as I remembered it. Maybe I didn’t want to be disappointed if that were the case. Aww hell, maybe I was just too frikkin’ lazy.

Whatever the reason, it was a spur-of-the-moment decision that encouraged me to try to create at least a reasonable facsimile of that moment from my childhood one recent Sunday morning.

This whole thought process began innocently enough when I was preparing my oatmeal that morning. I reached into the fridge for the milk and spotted a hardboiled egg, just sitting there, waiting to be eaten. Immediately I thought, “Hmm…it’s not exactly poached, but, hey, why not?”

I peeled the egg, chopped it up and threw it into the microwave for about 15 seconds, just enough to take the chill off. Then I scooped the pieces into my bowl of oatmeal and mixed it all up.

You know, it’s truly amazing how our senses of taste and smell are such powerful triggers of memory, but I tell you honestly, with my first bite I was transported back to my mom’s kitchen, in our old house; my mind exploding with thoughts that I know I hadn’t touched upon in decades.

I saw glimpses of my Mother, the kitchen, our family eating dinner at the table. I saw myself eating spinach for the first time — and liking it. I saw Davey at breakfast, eating his own favorite cereal, Post Toasties, working that bowl so that he always had one last bite of cereal at the end of the milk.

I saw our old refrigerator — that scary thing where they kept the bananas; the bananas that made me so sick from eating too many that my stomach still feels queasy. I still can’t take bananas — or their texture — to this day as a result.

I saw my high chair. And again, I returned to that vivid memory of seeing my bowl in front of me, filled with all those wonderful ingredients that spawned my vision.

Then I thought, "Could it be — that unlikely concoction? Is that the source of my penchant for contrasts in taste and texture?" Perhaps that’s a bit of a leap. But just the same, it made sense to me. It even made sense to Michelle when I related my little flashback to her later. Ya just never know how the mind works or how quirks are born.

Now, where’s that plate of beans and applesauce…


Next: “Quaker? I just met ‘er!”

Changes ‘a Comin’

Cough-cough...Ahem...
Not sure if all the dust in the air around here is from the new construction — or if it’s just from a lack of activity over the past several months, but I'm happy to say that I'm fixin’ to stir things up quite a bit here shortly.

You may have noticed, but with the upgrade to the “New Blogger” things look a little different. I spent the lion’s share of last weekend tweeking the new and improved template and testing some of the new features that the overall Blogger.com upgrade has afforded. The look isn’t really different right now, but may change soon, after I've had a little more time to experiment with the CSS code (yes, Dylan, I’m finally doing it).

But then again, I may just decide to leave it as it is. Actually, I’d like to enlist the opinion of whomever is still out there (yeah...all six of you); those of you who continue to check faithfully each week to see if there’s anything new to read around here. Tell me what you think in the comments for this post. I’ve always considered readability my utmost concern, hence the white background. However the title of my blog was never intended to be anything that relates to its content, so it’s a little tough to do any kind of motif in that regard. I’m open to suggestions, so lay ’em on me.

Okay, and now the juicy part. I’ve started another blog; a private one — private, at least to the point that it will mostly be a one-way conversation, and it will not be listed as a public blog. The link will never be posted here, and I will do everything in my power to make it non-searchable.

Why am I doing it? Mostly to keep what has happened to this place over the past year from ever happening again. I want to have a place to tell the stories that nobody but me really needs to hear. I want a place to amuse myself with things that are important to me, but likely a bit on the boring side for those in my normal blog readership. And almost as importantly, I need a place to cut loose and be as non-PC as I want to be. I want to rant; and I really can’t do that here. There are too many people who visit this blog who might take something I say in a particular vein out of context, because they don’t really know me. And I guess that’s the gist of it.

Specifically, I’m referring to this current series, with which I’ve been laboring for well over six months now. It should have never been posted here in the first place and I’m sure that most of you have been absolutely poking your eyes out waiting for me to finish the damn thing. Believe it or not, It’s almost done, and I will finish it — but not here. I don’t want to hold things up any longer, so I’ve decided that I will pull it once again and move it to my other blog. I've got a half-dozen other stories already started that I can finish must faster and finally get back into a more frequent posting mode here; stories that are fun and important to me, without being the soul-sucking chore this current In Limbo series has been.

So where does that leave you, you may be asking? Well if you're interested in getting an invite to read my rants and boring personal shit, I’d love for you to join me. I never had any intention to have this other blog be a personal diary, although I have yet to decide whether or not to enable comments on it.

So here’s my proposition: If you want an invite, drop me an e-mail. If you don’t have my e-mail address, you probably don’t care anyway. I will be sending out invitations to the people I know read and care about this blog, so those who fit that description — and you know who you are — don't worry about it; I will contact you. If you’re a new or more recent reader, and want an invite as well, then by all means, let me know in comments.

I’ll certainly be interested to see the response. If my recent Site Meter logs are any indication, there won’t be a lot — but being the self-absorbed moron I am, I had to throw it out there anyway...

;)

ELF’n Myself

Just a little Holiday levity courtesy of OfficeMax.com.

If you wanna see this wild lil’ elf do his thang, you can check me out here (you may have to give it a few seconds to load, but I trust it’ll be worth the wait...*hee hee*), then you can do your own Elfamorphosis if you’d like.

But anywhoo, things are still pretty crazy in my life right now, and hopefully I’ll be posting about it soon. But in the meantime, here’s hoping that your Holiday shopping and preparations aren’t making you too looney!

I hope you’re all having fun — despite the stuff I'm dealing with, I’m certainly trying to. I hope you're taking time to love your families and friends; soaking up the season; taking advantage of the opportunity that this time of year affords all of us — to fall in love with life again, if but only for a little while.

God Bless you all, my friends. Talk to you soon...

Gobbledee-Gook

Happy Thanksgiving!
Just a short note to wish everyone a wonderful Thanksgiving. Here's hoping this finds you either full of turkey or preparing to to get there soon!

The wife, kids and I are currently in Florida until Saturday, spending the holiday with Michelle's parents. It's been a kind of different experience, this little mini-trip. I really don't have time to go into it now, but it all sort of melds with the current circumstance I find myself in that I hinted about in my last post. So although I still can't get into it yet, I will when I continue things in a few days.

Suffice it to say, these next couple of months will be an important period for me. I'm really not trying to be melodramatic, withholding the details as I have since my rather cryptic post of a few days ago, but I just figured I'd try to at least get something out there today, if nothing more than to wish everyone a Happy Turkey Day. Given my recent history of weeks and months between posts, I really am tryin' to do better here.

And of course I would be remiss to let this hollowed day of thanks pass without saying how truly grateful I am to have all that God has so richly blessed me with, regardless of the potential difficulties that lie ahead for me. I'm thankful for this ability I have to communicate with and share in the lives of the friends I've gained through this little corner of cyberspace (and forgive me for using that insufferably trite little euphemism again; being more creative is gonna be my New Year's resolution ).

So here's hoping you all are having a fantastic day. Give someone a hug and tell them how glad you are to have them in your life if you can. Good friends, family, even the problems that teach us how to live our lives more completely and successfully than before — these are what Thanksgiving is all about. Be sure to ponder all that you've been blessed with, and give a little back if you can sometime soon.

Bumped Off

Waxing Seinfeldian
So what’s the deal with this fist bump thing, anyway?

Just when I thought I had the “you’re the man” finger-point down, somebody decides to change the rules again? Did somebody send out a memo that I missed? I mean, who decides these things?

Oy…the plight of the tragically unhip. Once again, yours truly has met with yet another humbling affirmation that time is passing him by faster than a cheetah on roller-skates. It happened earlier this week at my place of employment.

I’m not exactly sure whether Paris Hilton designed this office building I work in or it’s regular practice to build them this way, but most of the hallways in the place are pretty darned narrow. We’re talking like, wide enough to fit one and a quarter bubbas standing shoulder-to-shoulder — and no more. In fact, it’s standard practice for one to have to turn ever-so-slightly askew when passing someone else in these claustrophobic corridors to avoid bumping shoulders; and that’s especially necessary when some people decide to take their half down the middle, which happens more often than common courtesy should allow.

Anyway, the other day I was heading back to my cubical when I looked up to see two other guys approaching from the opposite direction. One of them was a man I recognized as a guy I don’t know well but see fairly often in the building. We’ll call him Harry.

This past summer, Harry was briefly a part of my regular workout group on Tuesdays and Thursdays at the fitness center we have here onsite. We’ve had a few friendly conversations since and he now always makes it a point to acknowledge me whenever I see him. Nice guy; around my age, but not anyone you’d mistake for a hipster or pop culture maven on any level. He’s always seemed to me to be a pretty middle-of-the-road, regular Joe.

As we approached each other and our eyes met, we simultaneously extended the universal Southern guy-greet (which thankfully has never gone out of fashion): the quick, upward head-flick/eyebrow-raise, followed by a brief, semi-enthusiastic, “Hey.”

If it had ended there it would have been no problem. However this time my opposite number decided to throw a new wrinkle into the playbook.

Harry was on the outside, furthest to my left of the two men. He was walking alongside another guy I didn’t recognize. Just as the three of us were about to pass each other, I had to turn my shoulders slightly to make room for all of us to squeeze by. As I did, my head turned also — to the right (quite unintentionally) — away from the two men. At the very same moment, Harry reached across his body toward me with the right hand in a closed fist, palm down. As it turned out, his gesture was somewhat exaggerated, given that it required extending his arm in front of the other man as well in order to reach me. Problem was, having looked away I didn’t notice until I was already a half step beyond them, catching his movement out of the corner of my eye.

Then it dawned on me. I thought to myself (in my best internal George Costanza voice) “Oh crap! He was trying to bump me! What a dope! I missed the bump!”

I immediately turned and called out nervously, “Oh…sorry! I didn’t see it until it was too late…my bad…” As my voice trailed off in utter mortification, my fellow man-greeter returned my apology with a nervous smile of his own, as his hand — still in a fist — slowly returned to his right side.

Yikes.

If you’ve ever whiffed on a handshake (i.e.: extended your hand only to have the other person, either accidentally or purposely, not return the favor) then you know how he was feeling right about then.

Nonetheless, I seriously doubt that he could have been a whole lot more embarrassed than I was at that point.

The scene reminded me of the recent Taco Bell commercial in which the girl, flanked by her two nerdy-looking lunchmates, is too out-of-step to participate in an around-the-horn fist bump, in celebration of nerd #1’s creation of his taco superlative, “crunch-oo-eesy.” The difference here, of course, was that at least the chick in the commercial got paid for looking like an idiot.

The sad thing is that this tragedy could have so easily been avoided. If only we didn’t so insist on keeping up with the Coolios. What is it about we men that drives us to keep reinventing the “secret handshake” of our childhood? Why do we insist on continuing to modify such a time-honored institution as the good ol’ standard grip of affirmation?

The Handshake had remained basically unchanged for a hundred years until the 1960s when my wonderful generation conspired to transform this stalwart symbol of trust and friendship into a fashion statement to be morphed and mutated without warning. Its various new incarnations have been a staple of the Hip and Famous for the past 40 years.

Knowing the proper and/or hip handshake–of-the-moment isn’t necessarily a deal-breaker for one’s being accepted in modern pop culture, but it certainly does separate the hacks from the made-men — and I purposely emphasize men over women in this particular equation.

Its interesting to notice how little women seem to be affected by the shifting winds of handshake fashion. As in so many other instances, the ladies just seem to remain above it all. They appear to have no need for these elaborate demonstrations of hipness. As always, they seem to exist on a plane of maturity and practicality far beyond the reach of their male counterparts; funny how things work like that.

Boys will be boys, I suppose.

Perhaps if I’d paid better attention, I could list more of the dozens of handshake permutations that have slipped in and out of fashion in my adult lifetime, but seriously, I just can’t keep up.

Just when I thought I possessed the confidence to properly ask my brother to slide Me some skin, we all started high-fivin’ each other silly. Then when I got that timing down, they upped the ante again, and started doin’ all that combo shit.

Gawd knows what the current routine is, but there was one I particularly found amusing, which was actually administered to me — in all seriousness — by a complete stranger I happened to meet several years ago.

He started off with what I like to call the Man-Shake, a.k.a. the Brother, upright cross-palm handshake, and then slid directly into a conventional handshake, which in turn slid into a four-finger fist-clasp, finally culminating in a one-for-one, single, top-to-bottom, hammer fist bump.

Whew! Freakin’ wears me out just to type it…

Needless to say, the only thing that surprised me more than the barrage of MAN-ual dexterity itself, was the fact that I instinctively went with the flow and followed the progression, missing nary a beat.

Hmmm…maybe this white boy has some rhythm after all…

Nah…doubt it.

However since that momentous occasion, I really haven’t followed handshake fashion all that much, and only within the past year or so have really been aware of the fist bump’s ascendance to its position as the high five of the moment.

And now that The Bump is the Greeting O’ the Day, can we finally dispense with the often-awkward “Man Hug?” That one always did sorta creep me out. But on second thought, my ego sure could’a used a hug that day, when Harry met Silly.


finis

Beside Myself

BA: Hey, man. What's up?

AJ: Meh…n'much...

BA: Not much? Really? Geeze…could’a fooled me!

AJ: Yeah? And what’s that supposed to mean?

BA: Oh, I think you know.

AJ: Okay, alright. I guess you could say I’ve been pretty busy. No, make that really busy.

BA: And…?

AJ: “And” what?

BA: And, lots has been going on in your life, your job, your kids’ lives, your relationship with your wife…need I say more?

AJ: Yeah…okay. So what’s your point?

BA: My point is, you’ve been keeping it all to yourself, Doofus! What about the Blog? The writing, it was how we communicated; working it all out together. It was our outlet…our means to help process it all. I know you think about it all the time, but what happened? Why’d we stop talking?

AJ: Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that; we still talk…a little...don’t we?

BA: Man, you really ARE out of it! I guess you haven’t you read any of Michael’s comments lately, have you?

AJ: Yeah, yeah…I saw ‘em. He was just bustin’ my balls is all. He’s rather good at that, y’know…

BA: So you just ignore it…without so much as a snappy comeback? My Gawd! What’s happened to you, AJ?!

AJ: Life, Dude. Life.

BA: Talk to me, Boss...

AJ: *sigh* Oh you know. Hell, you know what I’ve been going through at work. Sure, I came through that initial period of uncertainty with the new boss okay, but things are so much different now. There are so many new things that I have to deal with. I battle with so much uncertainty about what I’m really capable of; whether my presence is truly appreciated or merely tolerated. Sometimes I really wonder.

Before, well…things were easier — maybe too easy, I guess. My job was more or less automatic. Nobody else in the whole company could do what I did. But things are different now. Hell, everything’s different. I have so much to learn, so many new procedures to follow. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’ve lost at least a little confidence that I can deal with it all. It’s all I think about lately.

BA: Um…Hello! Am I talkin’ Chinese here?! Do ya not remember what you always used to say — that your Blog was that which allowed you to get rid of the stuff rattling around in your head, so you wouldn’t have to think about it anymore? So what, that doesn’t work now?

AJ: Yeah, I know, I know, but it’s harder now. I mean…anymore I just want to come home at night and veg, y’know?. I just don’t seem to have the inspiration to write like I used to. I get bored with my own stories; I spin off into tangents and struggle to get back on point…

BA: So what else is new? That never seemed to stop you before…

AJ: Yeah, but before it was different; it seemed as though I always had something to say; it didn’t matter how long I drew it out. I always felt it would be something that others would be interested to hear. Now I’m not so sure. I don’t know that even I would be interested in my babbling these days.

BA: Oh, so now it’s about what “others” think? Well here’s MY opinion. It wasn’t supposed to be about what anyone else thinks, it’s about YOU. It’s supposed to be about expressing your life, your memories, your opinions. It’s supposed to be about building a library of experiences that you yourself can return to again and again; a library built for an audience of one, but that can be enjoyed by all.

And who cares if you fell off the horse? Get back on that beast for chrissakes! What are you afraid of? They already know you talk to yourself, ‘ya freakin’ nutcake! Everybody knows you’re a weirdo, so whadaya got to lose?

G’ahead. Take it slow. Get your groove back on. You’ll feel better, I promise.

AJ: Yeah…maybe you’re right.

BA: ‘Course I’m right! I AM the better angel of your nature, aren’t I?

AJ: Yeah, and you’ve really been buggin’ the HELL out of me lately…

BA: Deal with it, Doofus. You’ll find a way. I gots confidence in ya.

AJ: Sh’yeah…I guess. Besides, I just noticed that Gooch is back, so I reckon I really have no excuses now…

BA: Ya got that right, Homeboy, not a one. Now get busy...


finis

Good Things Come… (Part I)

Worldview Adjustment
Again, this is a story of expectations; worldview; assumptions of how we believe things are “supposed to be.” It’s the way we perceive normalcy; the weight we place on some things over others. It’s about how we gauge happiness, for the most part. It’s how we discriminate — both in good ways and bad. And it’s not necessarily that we think we’re always right, just most of the time — by default, you know — just because.

It’s an interesting thing to witness — the way a husband and wife play off of one another; responding both to the environment they have created together as well as the one that was created by their parents, and the sensibilities their upbringing instilled in them. It’s an especially interesting dynamic when you can see it happening in your own relationship.

How do we respond to our differences in what is “right?” Do we truly acknowledge our partner’s worldview when it differs form our own? Do we not even care about what they think or are we actively sensitive to their individual sense of things?

It’s quite a balancing act, yet it’s an easy thing to ignore, since we naturally have a tendency to assume that everyone thinks like we do — and you know we’re ALL guilty of that sin; it’s human nature. I believe we need to remind ourselves; we need to guard against taking on those assumptions that can crop up, sometimes unconsciously, during the course of our everyday lives, creating division, and sometimes, even resentment.

We need to remind ourselves to walk a mile in the other person’s shoes; try not to judge too harshly if we don’t exactly see eye-to-eye on an issue. And being the expectant types we were born and trained to be, that’s not always an easy self-assessed call to make.

It’s been nearly twenty-eight years for me and I still haven’t figured it out completely, but hopefully I’m getting there.

I’m still learning that there really are two sides to a story; that there’s more than one way to skin a cat; that chunky peanut butter actually is way better than creamy.

Well, maybe not so much on that last point, but anyhow…I’m still learning, and always will be.

Seeing so many examples of this sort of thing in my life lately, I can’t help but think that somebody’s tryin’ to tell me something. And while at times I’ve been buoyed by the growth I’ve seen, I’m still reminded that there’s more than enough of that selfish, assuming, doofus part-of-me to go around than I would like to admit.

The bottom line is, I’m still a work in progress. My body may have stopped growing when I was in 10th grade, but hopefully my stature as a human being will never be stunted. I believe that when you stop learning, you stop living, ‘cuz you’re probably dead at that point. And if you’re not, you might as well be.

This summer I’ve learned some particularly important things about expectations and the inconsistencies that surround them — both in the way I perceive myself and how others perceive me.

Double-dealing Daddy-O
On the approach of my 50th birthday back in July, Michelle was beside herself.

I had let it slip (yeah, right…) several weeks earlier that I might want to actually do something on this particular birthday, seeing as how it was, like, sort of a landmark point in my life. Perhaps more than just our family — maybe something a little more akin to a…oh, you know…an actual party? Some of my friends…some of our friends…people from work…you know…a houseful.

She didn’t say anything at the time, but now here it was, two weeks before the day and she still didn’t know what to do. You see, a birthday party was a notion I’d rarely, if ever, even alluded to before in all the time we’d been together — and I guess it sorta caught her flat-footed. She obviously wasn’t expecting it; in all fairness, it was the last thing she would have expected from of her ole’ birthdays-ain’t-no-thang hubby. No wonder she was freaking.

Finally, she came to me and tried to talk me out of it. She felt terrible, but really, how could she pull it off, she asked. She didn’t know any of my work friends; how could she possibly plan something like this?

And she was right. It’s not like we do this kind of thing often (read: ever). This just wasn’t something that was part of my motis operandi.

As a rule, I’ve never put a lot of stock into these often overblown anniversaries of life — not for myself, and really not much for others either. I’ve really never quite seen the value in making a big deal out of birthdays. A nice card, a quiet evening with family and perhaps a few friends, enjoying dinner at my favorite restaurant or my favorite home-cooked meal — to me, these are the appropriate elements of a birthday celebration — not the extravagant parties, expensive gifts and “look at me” accoutrements that many of my generation seem to place so much emphasis upon. It’s not that I think effusive celebration is so wrong, it’s just not me. I guess it’s all about what you’re used to. Certainly the idea of financial prudence comes into play, and in that regard, I’d have to say that I come by my sensibilities honestly.

I was raised a tightwad.

I’ve never been thrown a surprise birthday party, and honestly I can’t remember anytime in my life having much more than just my family present when it was time to blow out the candles — from childhood to adulthood. Needless to say, when Michelle, whose family had always considered birthdays a pretty big deal, came into my life, I learned quickly that I was pretty much in the minority.

I learned that most people actually do like to make birthdays a significant event — especially where kids are involved. And so I began to change my opinion — for our kids’ sake anyway — and I’ll have to admit, it was a pretty cool thing to behold. Some of my fondest memories of Shawn and Amy’s early years were the big birthday parties we (or I should say, Michelle) put together for them, with all the neighborhood kids and the church friends’ kids in tow. It was all a frenzy of activity and excitement; squeals and messes; joy and bedlam — kiddie-style.

There were piñata parties for Shawn and big girl dress-up-fashion-runway parties for Amy. They were as major an operation as could possibly be imagined in light of the lean financial circumstances that were our lives back in the 1980s. Michelle was so incredibly resourceful, and we had a lot of gracious friends and family members who pitched in to help. Those parties always seemed to turn out great. I really have to smile when I think about the fun we all had. But then again, those experiences were somewhat bittersweet as well.

To be honest, at times I remember actually feeling a little jealous of my kids, having never experienced even one birthday party as a child, but what the hell; after all, I didn’t exactly have what anyone would consider a normal childhood. At any rate, it didn’t take long for me to snap out of it and remember how lucky I was to have married a woman who cared enough to want as full and rich a childhood experience for our kids as she could possibly provide. Lord knows, had it been left up to me, those parties wouldn’t have happened in a million years.

Yet even in seeing the by-product of it all — the joy so abundantly evident in my children’s eyes — I still couldn’t solve the mystery as to why it was such a big deal — to apparently everyone but me.

Whether it was sour grapes or what, I simply didn’t get it. The way I looked at it, why spend all that extra money? Why take the chance that something could go wrong and everyone end up being disappointed? And what purpose does it serve to set those kinds of expectations in a child anyway? Life is hard. Why encourage the idea that anyone “deserves” an extravagant birthday celebration? Isn’t the “I deserve it” mindset the root of most of our financial ills these days?

Yeah, I know. What a party-pooper. I really do need help.

But I’m just being honest here. I really didn’t see the need, although I had now become well aware that I was the minority party (pun intended) in that regard. As I knew they would, the kids came to expect it, and their Mom never disappointed, so I played along; I adjusted. I learned to do my part to feed the need, regardless of whether or not I felt hungry myself.

But then my one solo effort really made me feel like a hypocrite.

With a great deal of help by one of our friends from church, I pulled off a surprise 30th birthday party for Michelle back in 1986, and to date, it ranks near the top of the list of things I’ve ever done in my life. Michelle was flabbergasted; she had no idea, and she loved it. We had a wonderful time with about 15-20 of our best friends gathered together at our home in Long Beach. It was a weeknight, so nobody could stay too late, but just to realize that most of those people, who had small children as we did and had to arrange babysitters for the evening — on a school night, no less — it just blew me away to see the love and respect they had for us, and the honor they held for Michelle.

That experience may have changed my opinion a little, but I kept it to myself. I officially maintained my poo-poo-on-parties stance, but deep down inside I was hoping like hell that Michelle would return the favor and surprise me someday.

My hypocrisy knew no bounds.

But since my own 30th birthday had already passed, it would have to be another occasion — perhaps the big 4-OH or sometime in between. It wasn’t something we ever talked about, just a secret wish — a totally dumb, selfish, duplicitous wish — but something I hoped for nonetheless.


Next: Conservative Party

Good Things Come… (Prologue)

…To those who wait
I’d like to think the title of this mini-series is also a statement of fact regarding the post-frequency of my blog, but hey, even I’m not that full of myself. So instead, let’s just say that the title speaks to something much more practical, but perhaps a little decadent as well; something spiritual in one sense yet ultimately tangible in another.

The familiar adage, Good things come to those who wait is a nice, “patience is a virtue” kind of cliché, but for the most part we all know that in today’s reality, it is…well…it’s bullshit. After all, this is the age of instant gratification, right? People want it, and they want it yesterday.

If you stop and think about it, nobody’s life is really all that much better if they’re forced to wait, is it? They may appreciate things a little more if the earning requires time and/or effort, but I mean, really, does anyone want to burn down Burger King? Dismantle their microwaves? Say their goodbyes to the Friendly Skies?

Nah…we’re all way too spoiled for that. Can’t un-ring that technology bell, now, can we?

And why is that, anyway?

It’s all about expectations, boys and girls.

Pavlov’s Blog
We humans are a predictable lot. Doctor Pavlov conducted his famous study on a pooch, but it may just as well have been you or me in that cage, salivating at the ringing of the bell. You see, we humans love routine too. We like knowing what’s coming next. We thrive on expectation, whether you’re talking about the comforts and conveniences of modern technology or the security and warm fuzzies of a personal relationship.

We love knowing what we’re getting, as well as what we’re getting into. Oh we like surprises too, but just the good kind. We don’t care for curveballs. We love living in a manner to which we’ve grown accustomed.

And what does all this rhetoric have to do with patience? Oh, quite a lot, actually. Our entire lives are built upon a foundation of expectation, from the cradle to the grave. This is particularly true in marriage. Expectations are a reasonable part of any long-term relationship, but can be a double-edged sword as well.

We greatly value a person with whom we have grown to know and love, based on a level of comfort and dependability. However sometimes there is a fine line between dependability and predictability; between sameness and staleness. We talk about “keeping things fresh,” which means for the most part, thinking outside the box with regard to our partner; purposefully changing our usual tendencies for something better; something new.

Successful relationships require time and effort if folks are really serious about making them work. That effort requires balance — it can’t be one-sided, although women are usually way ahead of their male counterparts on that particular score. It almost needs to be a sort of competition; a game to see who can surprise the other with some new show of thoughtfulness and respect.

Maturity (both emotional and financial), learning the kind of things your partner really responds to — these are things that take time to develop in most people (particularly we guys).

That’s where the patience comes in.

Expectation, reciprocation, mind control, sound of soul
Let’s just get one thing straight. No one that I know of — whose name isn’t Jesus or Mother Theresa — is truly selfless. We all want something, especially out of our spouses and partners. A relationship is an investment, not a charity; if you put something in, you expect to get a return.

Oh yeah, I forgot — you still think you love your sweetie unconditionally. Well, hopefully you’ll grow up snap and out of that delusion eventually.

Every person alive has some expectation that the love they express to others will be reciprocated in some form or another; it’s how we’re built; it’s a large part of what makes relationships tick.

And that particular expectation is quiiite the sticky wicket in modern society. How much; how little; who makes the first move? And it’s no longer the man only whose needs must be met. It must be a level playing field for both partners if a relationship is to succeed long-term.

But once again that fine line develops. When does reasonable expectation become entitlement? At what point can we say with true justification, “I deserve this?” And how does that differ from, “You owe me?”

This is a story of my history, subsequent struggles and ultimate reconciliation (such as it is) with the concept of self-entitlement. It’s not a blueprint for happiness, nor is it a cautionary tale; it is what it is… because I am who I am, and Michelle and I are who we are, together.

It’s about the present Michelle gave me for my 50th birthday — versus the one she didn’t give me.


Next: Worldview adjustment

Stupid Things That Make Me Crazy (Vol. 1, No. 1)

Note: This is the first of a number of concert posts I plan to share over the next several months. I’ve been savin’ ‘em up, so some are already pretty old. Nevertheless for one reason or another they’re all pretty memorable for me, as is this one — for all the wrong reasons…

David Gray Concert: Thursday March 2, 2006:
Fair warning — I'm gonna go off on a bit of a rant here. I’m also going to commit what could be considered sacrilege here in Music City. I’m calling out one of the most hallowed places in the history of American Pop Music, The World Famous Ryman Auditorium, as also being one of the most frustrating venues to take in a concert that I know of.

I’ve had experiences there before that weren’t the best, but nothing like my last visit, which may change forever my willingness to brave anything but the most prime of vantage points in the house for events I’d be inclined to attend there in the future.

Don’t get me wrong — it’s a special place, and there are hundreds of good seats from which the concert experience is unparalleled. However the conditions that could turn and sour that experience from most any one of those remaining 1,800 seats are so fragile, I just don’t know if I’m willing to take the chance anymore.

Am I getting cranky in my old age? Oh yeah.

Every musician in the world wants to play The Ryman because of the musical significance of this venerable shrine of a concert hall. It’s the birthplace of the Grand Ole Opry, and while that may not mean much to non-Country Music fans, you may be surprised to know how important it is to musicians of all genres. Given the immortal names that have graced The Ryman’s stage in its Opry heyday, it's not a difficult thing to understand. However, despite its appeal as a rite-of-passage for modern artists wishing to mingle with ghosts of Williams, Cash, Adkins, Orbison and other greats who’ve performed on it’s hallowed stage, The Ryman might well lose a bit of its luster as a must-play venue if they ever make it a prerequisite for those wishing to play a concert there to first have to sit in the audience and watch one — stuck behind a pole.

The Ryman — and FYI, that is what the place is called by us locals (simply referring to it as, “Ryman Auditorium,” instantly exposes oneself as a know-nothing-outta-towner/Music City wannabe...just thought you'd like to know) — is renowned for it's exquisite acoustics, and by all means, that reputation is well deserved. But in my humble opinion, there are factors well beyond mere acoustics that make just as much a difference to the level of enjoyment of the concert experience.

Things like sight lines, poles, and other obstructions (such as temporary spotlight fixtures affixed to balcony railings that aren't even being used for the show (more on that later).

Then there are the pews; those wonderful seats that are easily as famous as the building itself but which are also uncomfortable beyond belief. You see, the Ryman was originally a church; hence it’s moniker, The Mother Church of Country Music. A bank of wonderful stained-glass windows line the top of the back wall of the auditorium, bathing the stage in warm colors on summer evenings prior to showtime, before the evening’s bright spotlights are first engaged. Yet as surreal and picturesque as this grand old hall may be, little else can make up for the literal pain-in-the-ass that those pews are sure to deliver — not at first, necessarily — but certainly within an hour or so into the evening.

Another aspect of The Ryman’s pews, aside from their abject dearth of ergonomics, is the dynamic created by such a seating arrangement. The only barrier of separation along these 15-20 foot-long benches is a low-rising arm-like septum, repeated every six designated seat spaces (which are approximately 25" in width) as indicated by the small metal plate with the engraved seat number at the head of each space. There is no accounting for people of the large persuasion whose girth might, oh, exceed twenty-five inches, which can create a very cozy circumstance within any row sporting a bubba quotient above a three or four.

Combine this wonderful reality with the sloping floor that makes it virtually impossible to keep anything you unwittingly set at your feet (like an empty or partially-filled beverage cup) to remain upright, which also means there's a good possibility you might find your shoes suddenly transformed into islands in a stream of alcoholic liquids flowing downhill at any given time.

But that’s not the worst downfall of the pew-seating arrangement — at least not for me. The larger problem for someone of diminished stature like myself is dealing with the greatest of all sight-line obstructions: the tall guy or big-haired gal sitting in the row directly in front of you.

Now granted, the balcony seats are situated at a fairly steep, downhill angle towards the stage, so that the line-of-sight for most everyone is clear. That being said, the fact remains; not everyone is of the same height, width and coiffeur and it doesn’t take much to create a mismatch. This is less of a problem with individual stadium-style seats, as you’ll find in most other concert venues. At least with that type of seat, the occupant stays put and lateral movement is minimized.

But this is no average auditorium, it’s The Ryman; a veritable museum amongst concert venues. The pews are part of its charm and a huge part of its history. There will likely be no “upgrade” to stadium seating anytime soon. The pews are there for the long haul, so you deal. You deal with numb-butt syndrome that is surely coming later, you deal with the sticky floor that may come later, and you pray to God that you won’t have to strain to see around the person sitting in the row front of you.

But on this particular evening I encountered a new wrinkle in the Ryman obstruction dynamic; something I had yet to deal with in all my years of concert experience within this revered house of music; my obstruction decided to become a moving target.

Enter Ursula and Monkey Boy.

Mister Peepers lives.
It was the classic good news/bad news situation. The good news was that I was even able to get tickets; the show sold out in less than 30 minutes and I ordering online via TicketMaster.com, I had but one shot to get seats that appeared to be pretty decent balcony seats. Main floor was out of the question.

The bad news was that they were on the severe left-hand side; in other words, our sight angle was the closest to being parallel to the front of the stage that it could have been. My seat was on the aisle, so mine was the most severe angle of all.

More good news: our seats were forth row balcony, which meant we wouldn’t have to contend with those dreaded poles that might have come into play had we’d been seated on the main floor.

More bad news: there was a small, unused temporary spotlight fixture attached to the balcony railing almost directly in front of me. It wasn’t tall enough to completely block my line of sight, but was more than enough of a visual nuisance to crank up my distraction level a notch or two. But all in all, I seemed to have a pretty good vantage point to see the show.

And just when I was thinking it was my lucky night after all…

During the two opening acts (one guy whose name I never did catch, followed by a very cool British band called Aqualung), the end seats in two of the three rows in front of us were empty, affording me the opportunity to lean a bit more to the right and see around the spotlight fixture. It was great. I could see clearly ahead of me, and even though I still couldn’t see the entire stage, I would have a clear view of man I’d paid my hard-earned money to see: British Pop Star, David Gray.

But noooo…

Halfway through Gray’s opening song, in came the fashionably late Ursula and her boyfriend, heretofore ever to be remembered as Mister Peepers. Seems the couple wasn’t fortunate enough to acquire adjoining seats for the sold-out show, so they had to settle for single seats in different rows — you guessed it — in the two rows directly in front of yours truly.

Of course this wouldn’t have been as much a problem if they’d just stayed put. However the kind gentleman occupying the second seat in the row directly in front of ours quickly offered to trade his seat for the one Mr. Peepers was getting ready to settle into, one spot down from his. The guy would get to be a little closer to the action and Ursula would get to enjoy the concert snuggled up next to her Monkey Boy. It was a win-win situation for them — but certainly not for Michelle and me.

Remember the moving target phenomenon I mentioned earlier? Well there’s more than one reason I dubbed my next-row neighbor, Mr. Peepers.

If you recall the character of the same name made famous by Saturday Night Live’s Chris Kattan then you already understand what I mean when I say, the dude would not sit still. One big difference though — Kattan was acting.

And lest you think I’m being overly harsh, let me ‘splain it to you. It’s not that I begrudge anyone his or her freedom to move around a bit while enjoying a show, but this guy was unbelievable. He was bobbin’ and weavin’ like a prizefighter ducking punches; constantly moving from side to side, leaning over to retrieve a sports-type water bottle, which I’m inclined to believe contained something other than water; craning his body one direction, then the other, peering through the miniature binoculars he wore around his neck to study someone either onstage or in the crowd below; turning to whisper something into Ursula’s ear, then slip in a five-to-ten second tonsil-hockey smooch.

The pointing, the whispering, the laughing, the drinking, the moving back and forth. Oy vey, can somebody get me a freaking Dramamine?

I mean, really, can we have a little common courtesy here? It never ceases to amaze me how people seem to believe that the price of admission includes carte blanche to do and act any way they damn well please in a public auditorium. Am I being too anal here? Maybe I am, but nonetheless, I for one always try to be aware of whether I’m being a distraction to people around me. It’s just common courtesy.

The good news was, Mr. Peepers didn’t completely ruin my evening. The concert was great, and though the distractions I had to deal with were just that, I will always have a positive memory of the showmanship and dynamism that is a live David Gray show. The man just knows how to perform. He did every song in his catalogue that I’ve ever liked. It was fabulous.

I still kick myself to think that I had the opportunity to see Gray perform in an intimate setting at 3rd & Lindsley back in 2000, soon after the release of his landmark White Ladder CD, but before his career really caught fire here in the States. I decided not to go at the last minute for some reason. I figured he’d come back, but what I didn’t figure was that it’d be impossible to get a decent ticket to see him when he did.

But bad seats or not, it was a great show. Michelle still talks about how good a time she had that night, despite all the distractions of the folks in front of us. I guess she’s just not as easily bugged about those things as I am. She actually found Mr. Peepers to be rather amusing.

I guess the moral of the story for me is to learn when it’s time to just bite the bullet. I’ve enjoyed some of my greatest concert experiences ever at The Ryman — but I’ve also endured some of my most disappointing. And the single determining factor in either case has always been seating. I just can’t stand it when I can’t see, so I’ll have to accept the fact that unless I can get really good seats, I just can’t go. That may sound a bit shallow, but it’s an important reality for me. It’ll be a tough policy to stick to, but in the long run at least I know I’ll get the most out of my experience. And I don’t know about anyone else, but to me, the experience is everything.

But again, maybe I am getting cranky…


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A Letter from Heaven

Another Fiftieth
On July 28th, I celebrated my fiftieth birthday — obviously a big milestone for me. However July 29th marked another fifty-year anniversary I would like to commemorate as well.
A month ago in my hometown of Anderson, Indiana, at my family’s Annual Cousins Reunion (which is held each summer, but which I had never gotten off my butt to attend until just this year), I was approached by my cousin Maggie, whom like about 90% of the other folks at this gathering I hadn’t seen more than once or twice in the past 35 years. She didn’t greet me with a hug or even a “hello.” She simply walked up to me, leaned in and deadpanned, “Did he give it to you yet?”

“Oh…HI!…and, um…no…no he hasn’t, but he says he will.” I replied, believing I understood what she meant.

“Tell him I will HURT HIM if he doesn’t give it to you AS SOON as you get back to his house this evening.”

Maggie is a former marine. She could make good on that threat.

So what was “it?” It was a letter; a letter from Heaven; a precious piece of personal history that Maggie discovered amongst the belongings of her Mother (my Aunt Lee) penned by my mother, Annie, fifty years ago yesterday.

After running across it this past Spring, Maggie sent the letter to Jack, who was supposed to give it to me in late March, when I was in town for Uncle Jake’s funeral. But he set it aside and forgot. After learning about it in a phone conversation later, I was determined to remember and retrieve it when I returned for the reunion in June. Nonetheless, no one brought it up and I had forgotten all about it until Maggie’s query jogged my memory.

The letter was originally a communiqué from Annie to her Mother, my Grandmother Vera, the morning after the day I was born. Annie was in the midst of a four-day hospital stay — unusually long by today’s standards, but right in line with the custom of the day — recovering from her fourth out of an eventual five childbirths, all of which were boys.

My Dad would tell me years later just how much my Mom hoped I would be a girl — her “Julie Ann” — but as you’ll see shortly, while her understandable desire was to have at least one daughter, her love played no favorites.

Having never had the opportunity to ask her about it, I have often wondered if she really ever was disappointed that in me, the Y chromosomes had won again. But now, wonderfully, via this gift of yellowed, dime store stationery, I have my definitive answer.

Whether the letter was ever mailed, I do not know, but it ended it up among Aunt Lee’s keepsakes where Maggie found it following her mother’s death of a few years ago.

Let me now publicly thank both Lee and Maggie for blessing me with such an incredible link to my past; a gift too precious for words.

To briefly set up the context of the letter, Annie had just given birth to me, her fourth son on Saturday, the day before. However the circumstances were rather unique in that Lee, her directly younger sister and lifelong sibling companion was also pregnant and could deliver at any time. The hospital agreed to reserve the bed beside Annie’s for Lee, who would give birth to my cousin Samantha just the next day, on Monday July 30th.

Annie was understandably excited to be able to share such a rare and special experience with her sister, and while waiting for Lee to arrive, wrote to my Grandmother to talk about it.

In addition to being a very personal, wonderful, priceless glimpse into the mind and personality of the woman who gave me birth, this letter is just a tremendous slice of life; an authentic sampling of late-1950s American culture. My Mother’s description of her hospital room and meal; her doting accounts and descriptions of my brothers, as well as her simple, almost naïve-sounding commentary about childbirth, speak to an innocent, less-worldly existence back in a day when life just seemed to make sense.

Of particular interest to me is the wonderful grammar and sentence structure she exhibits in her writing; it’s nearly perfect — also a sign so typical of that time, but which is nearly non-existent in today’s culture of colloquial communication.

My Mother was a woman of faith — that much is obvious. She speaks of her relationship with God with such calm sureness; it is a testament to her spiritual strength. Included in the letter are numerous references to friends from church, a community from which, along with her family, she drew strength and purpose.

While nothing in the letter is really all that profound on its own, the fact that it affords me an opportunity to glean even a little bit more of the essence of this woman — whom I have so little first-hand knowledge of — is highly significant to me.

The Players
And since ya can’t tell the players without a scorecard, here’s a brief reminder who they are:

Mother: My Grandmother Vera, age 65
Annie: My Mother, age 37
Darren: My Dad (heretofore unnamed in any of my stories; It isn’t his actual name of course, but it means, “Great” so it fits), age 35
Lee: Annie’s younger sister, age 35
Jackie: My eldest brother, a.k.a. Jack, age 9½
Davie: My brother David, age 7½
Kenny: My brother TK, age 2½
AJ: Your neighborhood bouncing baby boy, age 1 day

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sunday Morning

Dearest Mother:

I’m lying here in bed wearing your yellow gown and your blue bed jacket while a nice cool breeze is blowing in on me. The bed next to me is still empty — waiting for Lee to come up here. I don’t know if they will hold it much longer — actually, thanks to Dr. Donaldson, they’re holding it as a personal favor to us.

Honestly, I’ll just die if they bring someone in who smokes, swears or has a radio. It’s so peaceful and quiet up here. This room is the nicest one I’ve ever had; it’s nice because it’s a corner room with one window on the west — alongside my bed and another window at the foot of my bed facing south. Then there is another window facing south at the foot of Lee’s bed.

So much about the room. Well, Mother my girlhood dream has finally come true — I have the four children I dreamed about for so many years. You can’t imagine how proud I am of them.

I know lots of people are disappointed that I didn’t have a girl, but Darren, the boys and I don’t care so why should anyone else! We are the ones who should be concerned. Before Jackie went to camp, he said, “I don’t care whether it’s a boy or a girl — it doesn’t make any difference to me.” When Davey left for Tippecanoe to go after Jackie yesterday, the last thing he said to me was, “Mommie, just be sure it’s a little boy.” And Kenny all along has said, “I don’t like ‘gulls.’” It isn’t that we don’t like girls or that we didn’t want one — it’s just that we never believed we could get one.

The real test for me came when I came to yesterday and Darren told me we had a little boy. If I had hoped for a girl — as Rev. Losh claimed — there would have been a tinge of disappointment in my heart when he told me the news. But there wasn’t a tinge of disappointment at all. A little girl would have been very welcomed, but for some reason it wasn’t in God’s plan. And after all, He gives us what He feels we need.

So actually the prayer I prayed while I was in the delivery room was answered. I simply asked Him to have His way and we wouldn’t complain.

I was disappointed though in the fact that AJ only weighs 5 pounds & 4 ounces, although I don’t think I’ll have the trouble with him that I had with Jackie. At least he drinks his glucose and has nursed just a tiny little bit. If I can keep him awake long enough to eat, maybe I won’t have the trouble getting him started — like I did with Jackie.

I just had a wonderful dinner. I had the breast, wing and neck of a chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, broccoli, fruit salad on lettuce — chocolate ice cream and iced tea. Believe me I ate every bit of it and I’m stuffed!

Now I’ll get on with my news. Darren would probably get mad at me if he heard me say this, but I believe in being honest. AJ isn’t a pretty baby like Kennie and Jackie were. As a matter of fact, Davey wasn’t a pretty baby either. But just look how cute Davey turned out to be with his dimples and dark eyelashes. So there is hope for AJ too. When he fills out he’ll be cuter. But now he’s skinny and scrawny — but awfully, awfully sweet. He’s just a teeny, weeny thing. The first two times they brought him to me he wasn’t asleep nor did he cry. He just looked at me with such a sweet helpless look and I wondered then how anyone could be disappointed in the sex of a child.

I think Lulabelle Palmer paid us a great complement when she said, “Annie, boys need lots of love, care and understanding, and I think God knows which parents to give them to.”

We do love our boys and they’ve given us an awful lot of happiness. If I can just get AJ to nurse so that he’ll gain weight quickly I’ll feel a lot better.

Mother, I didn’t tell you about my water breaking because I didn’t want you to worry. I figured you were sick enough as it was without something new to worry about. Actually Davey’s birth was the easiest, but this one too was a cinch. Dr. Donaldson isn’t in favor of having “forced labor” and the only reason he did me was because I had lost all my water. I didn’t cry with any of my labor pains at all. In fact every time I felt one coming I would picture Jackie’s sweet face as we had devotions together before he left for camp — then I’d picture Davey’s dimpled smile and pretty eyelashes as he said goodbye to me and told me to bring home a little boy — and finally I could see little Kenny as he said, “Mommie, do you know what? I love you!”

And by the time I pictured all three of my boys in my mind, my pains were already gone! I learned more about having babies this time than I ever had before. I asked the nurse anything I didn’t understand and she told me.

By the way, AJ has a lot of real black hair and he’s dark. He doesn’t resemble anyone I know. Lee and Darren think he’s cute.

Well I guess I’d better bring this letter to a close. Maybe I’ll remember to ask Darren for a dime tonight and I’ll try to call you up.

Bye for now and here’s five kisses for you. X X X X X. I miss seeing you a lot, but I’ll be past Tuesday afternoon to show you your 6th straight grandson.

Lots of Love,

Annie

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Golden
I’ve never heard an untoward word ever uttered in association with my Mother; though there’s no doubt in my mind that she must have had some type of shortcoming, I’ve just never met anyone so inclined to list a single one. Naturally to that end I have to admit feeling more than a little bit cheated in not having any memory of a true connection with her.

Sadly, I don’t remember ever having a conversation with her on any level; only flash images of her doing housework, talking with friends on the phone, sunbathing on the back patio — wearing shiny copper pennies over her eyes to protect them from the sun — things of which I’ve written before; these are the memories I cling to, yet which often ring hollow; mere silent movies with no meaningful interaction.

Unfortunately I can’t hear my mother’s true voice within my memories. More often than not, the only voice I hear is that of the confused, middle-aged woman I knew when I was eight years old; her mind clouded by physical forces she had no way of understanding. I hear only frustration and the anger, not the love and vitality I’ve come to know as her hallmark by the accounts of those who knew her well; those fortunate souls who can reach back and pluck from their memory banks any number of rich interactions with Annie in her prime.

And though I’m indeed envious, I’m really not bitter, because I know I’ll meet her again someday, and I’ll know everything there is to know about her; and she about me.

But for now I’ll be content to augment my own memories with those of others. I’ll take advantage of opportunities such as the advent of this wonderful letter, projecting Annie into new scenarios, creating new memories for myself of her; learning what I can; what she thought; how she lived.

What a powerful thing to fathom, knowing what she was thinking so long ago. What a humbling experience to actually feel through her written words, the love that only a mother can have for her children.

Sunday Morning

Dearest Mother:

I’m sitting here at my computer, wishing so much that you could see the man your scrawny, little black-haired baby boy has become; wondering if you’d be proud; wondering how different my life would be if I hadn’t lost you so very many years ago. And although I cannot know the answer to these questions now, I look forward to the time when I will know all things fully, just as I have also been fully known.

Thank you for this letter; for giving me another precious glimpse into your life and spirit; a spirit I’ve tried so desperately to emulate over the years.

I’m not sure whether or not they have Internet access in Heaven, but I trust this will get to you somehow. Thank you for giving me life; for loving me. Thank you for always being with me.

Love, eternally,

AJ

finis