My Existential Christmas

“So this is Christmas and what have you done,

Another year over, a new one just begun.”

—John Lennon

Each year Christmas enters my consciousness with an unrivaled confidence. One brought on by years of experience and presence. It feels good at first almost intoxicating with its cacophony of sounds, its sights and its smells. It even fills me with a sense of purpose. At least it does until it supplies me with a fair amount of ...well...discomfort. Somewhere between the humming of carols and the drinking of hot chocolate, the ether settles and I am overcome with a soft quiet panic. As I have grown older, this process seems to happen quicker each year. This irrational stress is bursting with oscillating emotions. Whether festive and happy or lonely and absent, Christmas evokes an involuntary emotional response in me. Just a week into the season, and I am already barraged with little Christmas chants vibrating over the airwaves. “It's for the children.” “It's better to give.” “Put Christ back in Christmas.” “Twenty shopping days until Christmas.” “Free Shipping!” I often wonder what it is I am reacting to. Why does December put me in such a rush? Is it the tradition, the shopping, the obligatory giving, the believing or, perhaps, the mad dash until January 6? Pick your poison, but it all starts with a party. The party at work, at your partner's work, your boss's party, church party, school party, friend's party; and, if you are really lucky, your own party. As these come to an end, you have a day or two before you must focus on the family. There you have a Christmas Eve party, a Christmas dinner, and, then, the all important after-Christmas-with-the-family party. Pause to breath. You work three more days before the big party or parties of New Year's Eve. In a few weeks, I will be back at work; it will be January; and I will be wondering where the year went. Whew! Just with all that, who has time to worry about anxiety or reasons for something? On a broader scale, who has time for meaning? Christmas should have meaning, after all, “It is Christmas!” I hear it all the time, “It's Christmas,” like just by saying it remedies all the negatives brought on by this great big machine of seasonal commercialism. You know, the one hurling us along fueling our need to spend all the while filling us with heightened anticipation—the anticipation of me getting something for Christmas. So, I ask myself, “What is my expectation? What do I hope to get? If I took the time, I might even ask what does Christmas mean to me?”

When I was a five, it was about Santa and seeing him fly through the night sky. By seven, eight and nine, I was staying up late to try and catch him in the act. As a teenager, it was time off from school. I still liked getting presents, but I was more concerned with how embarrassing this year's batch might be. I was worried more about the after Christmas chatter back at school. “Hey, Man, what did you get? I got this really cool thing-that-amazes-us!” says my classmate. “Wow! That is cool! Let's try it out,” I say hoping he does not flip the question on me. Then I would have to say, “Hey, I got these great boxers from my grandmother—they are the same kind my grandfather wears. Awesome! I also got socks, pants and another sweater.” In my family, the extravagance stopped when we moved from house A to house B. House A had lots of toys, bikes, sporting equipment, stereos and music. House B had undergarments, outer garments and other garments. During those years, though, meaning was mostly left up to a Christmas play or two and a few seasonal services. “It's about the baby Jesus anyway! What more do you want to know?”

Luckily my attitude changed as I grew older. My expectations were intentionally shifted from wanting stuff to helping others. This had to be the true message of Christmas, surely. To prove my conclusion, I studied the history and tradition of Christmas. Looking at the pieces, though, I began to have doubts. We have Christ being born, and He is the Son of God. Some even say He was born in December. We also have these pagans who have this birth-of-the-sun thing, which happens in December on the winter solstice. All of these are really important, therefore, we cannot leave one out. So, some historical people took this calendar and that event, factored in nine months, something, something, something, a little Yen and Yang for good measure; and, “Voila!,” *they* successfully merged two holidays and a celestial event. (For our purposes, we will ignore the the Eastern Orthodox Christians who celebrate in January.) What about the other side of tradition—the guy in the red suit? How does he fit into all this? Aside from the original St. Nick story, Santa has become Christ's biggest competitor for Christmas focus, attention or props. If you think about, they should actually work in concert with each other. I suppose they do in a way. Christmas is about giving, “Right?” Santa brings Christmas magic and Jesus feeds the hungry. What about our giving? What if you cannot give? What if I do not want to give at Christmas? Or what if I want to give you a gift because it is Tuesday or because I happen to like you as a person. Giving is a personal act. Charity, in general, should be a part of who you are. If so, you should give year round. Course, this takes some effort. You have to train yourself to do it. It does not come easily. Even then, you forget or get behind or let it slide, that is, until Christmas rolls around, and you feel the annoying sense of guilt about all you are not doing that you should be doing. Maybe Christmas is a giving reminder. We give now and throughout the rest of the year. Oh, I believe I have heard something about Christmas lasting the whole year. Still, is it just about giving?

As a father, Christmas has a different responsibility. The most important being, “How do I share it with my child?” “What do I say?” The first few years are easy, for it is about my child's experience. Christmas is these wondrous early years of discovery. The first one being, “I get presents at Christmas?”, which morphs into, “Who is Santa Claus and why is he coming to town?” and “Why is baby Jesus in the barn?” A few years go by, and you learn you have to reign in the gift giving lest you spoil the apple. The only problem, though, is I have totally convinced her Santa Claus exists. Well, me and a dozen other sources (a masterful conspiracy). Now that she has bought into the lying part of Christmas, I spend the next few years trying to determine at what age I should tell her it is all a fantasy? “Should I even tell her?” If you take away the fantasy, though, you take away the magic (some of the magic). At some point or by the time she asks, I have to know what it means. What do I say? “Well, Pumpkin, it's about this fictitious character, the baby Jesus, the tilting of the Earth, shopping, traveling, and overeating, which somehow all comes together preternaturally.” “Do I leave in the magical—Santa magic not Jesus magic?” Pull away the shimmering red curtain, and what do I have to give her: Black Friday, Cyber Monday, Purple Wednesday, the shopping malaise in general and—of course—traffic jams? Should we have a moment, we might stop and think of the birth of Jesus. Still it does not matter what I say. For years she has seen stress build up in me—in the atmosphere around me. It is this penetrating drumbeat calling me deeper and deeper into the seasonal abyss. I resist and resist until my breaking point where I humbly accept my embarrassing defeat and acknowledge I am minutes away from Grandmother's Christmas Eve party standing in a CVS buying soda, Q-tips, and a Christmas card for Aunt Bessie. But wait, before I leave the store, I will instinctively shout, “Oh, look! Here's a little Christmas knickknack -stuffed-pickle-thingy we can give second cousin Ceasie's little boy.” At this moment, I am lost. All my goings on about the meaning or spirit of Christmas are thwarted by my ridiculous actions at Christmas.

The strength of the Christmas machine is too great. We all fall under its weight at some point. So, I guess what I want is for the pressure to abate. “How do we do this?” “Could we change the tradition a little?” “To what?” Hard to say. The centuries of Christmases past have generated this garland giant. How can you even touch such a beast, let alone change it? If we cannot, then maybe all we can do is hang onto the spirit of the thing and share that with others. Maybe it is like politics, you have to take the good with the hypocrisy. Honestly, I find Christmas to be pleasant and good in spite of its flaws—and mine. How I quantify it for my daughter is a work in progress. Then again, I could be trying too hard. Sometimes, the miracle comes when we are looking the other way. Last week, I was driving home with her. Amidst our chatting, I turned on the local Christmas station. In a matter of seconds, she started singing along with the carolers. Hearing her belt out “All I Want For Christmas Is You,” I began to smile, then laugh, and, eventually, sing with her. All the way home, we murdered half a dozen Christmas tunes. It was wonderful! It was the first time all month, I had thought about Christmas as truly a time of joy. No matter what I, or anyone, says it means, its true essence is only tangible through experience. You cannot put it in a stocking or wrap it in a box, you just have to wade through it yourself. Whether it comes from divine intervention, animal spirits or cosmology, the illusive nature of Christmas has the capacity to represent our potential for goodness. It gives us human beings a chance to be kind, to share what is in our hearts, and to love all those around us.

Happy Christmas!

Evan The Mighty

Yesterday, I learned some distressing news. Impending as it was, I was not quite ready for it. The message said, "Evan passed this morning." By the age of five, he had developed a rare form of cancer called High-Risk Neuroblastoma. The year was 2006; and, being Stage 4, he was predicted to live two to five more years with treatment. On Thursday, scared and still fighting for live, Evan finally succumbed to his disease. Like so many who have died from this plague of cancer, he lived his remaining years with dignity and strength. Cancer battles are not easy or sightly, but their fighters, survivors and victims are a tough and beautiful group of people.

Evan was the son of my friend Melissa. She and I had traveled together just that summer in between her mother's death and Evan's discovery. We went with a group to Russia where we help support a local orphanage about six hours northeast of Moscow. Most of that trip is a blur to me now shadowed by the news she got shortly after returning. Since then Melissa, her husband, and their two boys have been through hell. From tests, medical trips, chemo and transplants, this family has endured great physical and emotional hardship. Now it has ended, but at such a devastating cost.

Death is not kind, but it is definitely poetic. I have seen no greater courage from individuals than I have from those facing their oncoming demise. Friends with HIV, my grandfather, my father, my mother, and now Evan, all walked boldly into their dark future. They knew it was coming, still they faced each day with optimism and intention. It is we who continue to suffer. We carry the death with us. We carry it like a stone affixed to our backs. Seems cruel, I know; but, perhaps, it is preparing us to face our own death courageously.

For now, though, the pain is ineffable (the way great pain always seems to be). It is intensified when I think of how they must feel. The duality of this tragedy—loss of a child and suffering cancer— burns me to the quick. It reminds me of my own loss, and how this kind of pain becomes a part of you as memory, as history, as aspect. It serves as a catalyst of transformation turning the love you felt into something different. A permanent ache. A tremor. A true and primal agony.

I apologize for the sadness of this post, but I needed to write something before I exploded. I had hoped this would be elegant, which might make it more bearable to read. Wishful thinking on my part, for death is death. I can, however, say I remember him as the happy boy running and laughing up and down the hall. I can still feel his infectious personality and the joy he still managed to exude. Even with all his treatments, Evan had really good days; and he did not waste them. All cancer patients do really. We as their caregivers must learn to make the most of those days as well. And when this thought is not enough, I pray we actually do have another journey awaiting us on the other side. A new life where we never die, where angels fly, and where we can daily come face-to-face with the presence of God.

Please pray for Evan's family. If you would like to read some of his story, you can do so here. Should you like to make a donation, you can give to CaringBridge and/or St. Jude Children's Hospital. These two organizations do tremendous work for families and children with cancer.

Postscript

For this, I will say, “War Eagle!”

While many of his days were excruciatingly painful and frustrating, many were not. One of his happiest days was just weeks ago. Evan was given V.I.P. access to Auburn's game against Mississippi State. Auburn sent an RV to pick him up. He got to meet Aubie, Coach Chizik and the entire team. Here is a link to the Auburn Every Day Show where Evan is featured starting at the 7:20 mark. I applaud Auburn University for their kindness and treatment of Evan. I know it meant the world to him.

The Imaginary Scientist

As I was making my transition from high school to college, I had a clear vision of what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to find a cure for cancer. At the time, I was a chemistry major with plans to go to medical school and then into medical research. Already at that age, I had seen the devastating effects cancer has on people and their families. My grandmother had died of stomach cancer and my dad's brother had throat cancer. Years later both my father and mother died of cancer. He of lung, and she of colon.

I did not follow through with my original plan. Still, I watch closely the progress of researchers around the world hoping, one day, cancer will be curable. I long for the time when we can stop torturing people with chemo, families with death and alleviate the fear of getting cancer. Had I stayed on my original course, I wonder if I would have been apart of the new developments coming out of modern cancer research. Would I have had some part in the story below?

Three days ago, The New Times posted an exciting article, on William Ludwig's cancer treatment. He was part of a new experiment, whereby, billions of his T-cells were withdrawn, reprogrammed and returned to his blood stream. Gene therapy, which began in the early '70s, is the replacing of genes or the introduction of new genes into a person's blood stream with the dual purpose of targeting/destroying cancer cells and remaining in the body as part of its new DNA—should the cancer cells come back. Before it was just a theory, but now we have evidence it could become a medical reality. Should this new method be discernible and repeatable, many lives will be spared what so many have already faced.  While I am sad to have not been apart of such a discovery-come-to-fruition, I applaud all of those who were—and all those who are still working diligently every day to end this plague of cancer.

Let us keep our fingers crossed!

For more information on the recent breakthrough visit here and even here.

Giving opportunities:

American Cancer Society

Abramson Cancer Center

Cancer Research Institute

Cancer Treatment Centers of America

You can also give to your local medical facility or cancer center.

The Duke

For the first ten years of my life, I was a complete fan of  John “Duke” Wayne. Whenever I watched a Wayne film, I felt stronger, stood straighter and believed in my own ability to be brave. He was more than just my hero. He was the model of what a man should be: honest, direct, loyal, dependable, decent and full of presence. As a “Duke” man, you respected people because of their character, you honored family, you were well-mannered in polite company, and you expected others to be. When you needed to speak big and loud, you did while others listened. John Wayne was the man who made a difference who neither flinched nor gave up. If he got knocked down, he jumped back up. You wanted to be on his side because you knew your were on the right side.

During those early boyish years, I knew him as the legend—the cowboy legend. He was the “real” cowboy sitting tall and broad in the saddle. If a Wayne picture was on, I was watching it. I lived for those scenes when Wayne's character decides to take matters into his own hands. These were the moments when a man did what he had to do. One such classic scene is the showdown in True Grit. Wayne as Rooster Cogburn stares down Ned Pepper's gang while out in the open on horseback. After a minute or two of warning, Cogburn jams the reins between his teeth and gallops full speed toward the four criminals some hundred yards away. He fires his guns, one in each hand, while riding head first into his apparent demise. Cogburn shows no thought of death or of fear or of losing. He only displays his sheer determination to defeat his enemies, which were, of course, my enemies.

Even now as I watch these films, especially the westerns, I still feel a certain giddiness. A reflex, for sure, from days long gone. Films like The Searchers, Cahill, Big Jake and The Sons of Katie Elder still rekindle my childhood fondness for him. If I watch them for too long, to be honest, I begin to see the parody in them much like you see in old Elvis movies. And, yet, amid this adult view of who he is and was, I have never really understood why he was the chosen one. Why not Humphrey Bogart, Cary Grant or Jimmy Stewart (The Lone Ranger or Batman for that matter)? I grew up watching old movies. I have probably seen Bogart, Grant and Stewart as often as I have seen Wayne. So, why was he the one who made the biggest impact on my young mind? In the broader spectrum of my existence, does it truly matter? Not much, I suppose. Then again, it could mean more than I realize. Perhaps, it is the key to discovering something new about myself. Too much of my life, past and present, is enigmatic and frustrating. By knowing this one thing, I will know (at least) something concrete about myself.

A few weeks ago, I was not focused on this question at all. That changed when I learned Joel and Ethan Coen were remaking True Grit. After a hesitative moment of disbelief, my mind was flooded with defensive questions about the nature of the production and, of course, the biggest question: “Who could possibly replace John Wayne as Rooster Cogburn?” Really, how could anyone follow in his giant footsteps. “What a risk,” I thought. The boy in me was rushing to his defense. "You can remake some things, but not a Wayne picture—not this picture." Rooster Cogburn was John Wayne, and John Wayne was Rooster Cogburn. From his Academy Award performance in the "real" True Grit to the reprising of his role in the sequel Rooster Cogburn, John Wayne had solidified his ownership of this character. It was like saying my dad was my dad. "Who could replace him?"

This news preoccupied me for a few more days, then I began to laugh it off. "This was silly," I thought. "It is just a movie, and, besides, I really like Jeff Bridges. He is one of my favorite actors." So, having come to peace with my younger self, I went to see the new version of True Grit. As I chose the day I would go, bought my ticket and made my way to my seat, I felt consumed with anticipation. I was concerned with the story and what might be seen without the added difficulty of looking past Wayne. In fact, the film was great—definitely worth the time. I laughed, winced and held my breath at all the right moments. A pure treat. As I watched the credits, I prepared to leave. A smile was on my face as I replayed the movie in my head. I stepped out into the aisle, down the stairs, turned left, and left again walking the corridor toward the light—the exit. During these few steps, without any provocation, I was struck with a thought—an epiphany—regarding my relationship with John Wayne. "It was not his life, which had made such an impression on me. It was, instead, his death."

When John Wayne died, I cried. In my tender heart, his death was devastating. It was, on that day, comparable to my father dying. He was bigger-than-life, so too were his characters. He was (they were) not suppose to die. He had, though, died on screen several times. In The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, he died of old age. In The Cowboys, he was murdered. In The Shootist, eaten with cancer, he chose to die through a gunfight. None of these deaths were acceptable to me. In my mind, he was not allowed to die a natural or an unnatural death. It was simply unbearable. The legend of John Wayne was too great for me to fathom his absence. For he was not just an actor or a man, he was something more. An icon. A symbol. A transcendental figure. As a boy, he taught me about manhood and being a man. As a man, he has taught me about boyhood and being a boy. Walking down that corridor, I remembered the heartache of that day. How I ran outside to hide my tears. While I cannot recall the first death I clearly understood, his death was the first one to cause me to feel loss. His death was when I first understood the mortality of a man. It was when I learned people, even the most dear ones, will leave.

The Tin Man

This spring, I had the good fortune to meet the artist, Charlie Lucas. He was speaking at an event to promote his new book, “Tin Man”. On board was the book's photographer and Mr. Lucas's co-author. As I listened to the contributors speak of him and his work, I watched a slide presentation featuring pictures of his studio, his compound and his numerous pieces. I was truly captivated at how each creation spoke some new language of color and composition. Mr. Lucas managed this by not hiding the shades of decay present on the objects he used. Instead, he allowed them to remain, thereby, letting their own individual experience mesh with the new life he had given them. Seeing several of his structures in person deepened my experience of this technique and its impact. I could even hear them saying something. I just could not tell what. Something was missing. His talent and skill were easy to identify, but I was not seeing the soul of his work. This proved annoying, and I found myself waiting for the program to end. That is to say, until I realized Mr. Lucas was to speak himself. At that moment, it all changed. From the instant he opened his mouth, a giant soul spoke. He told a new truth. One not bothered by art, art history or other artists. It was creation from opportunity, circumstance and passion. The stories of his life tell of an artist emerging from a world filled with ill fortune and misdeeds. As he called upon his faith and the community of his youth, he managed to bring meaning and a new understanding to the chaos of his life.

Since that day, I have been inclined to consider not so much his work, but him as an artist—an authentic artist. Many craftsman arise out of art programs or the study of art. For me, though, an authentic artist is one who creates out of an innate passion fueled solely by the vision one holds in one's heart and mind. Someone who, no matter where you put them, will still become an artist. It is from such sight that we begin to see a new understanding of life, history and purpose.

Additional Videos:

The Tin Man & The Storyteller

Year of Alabama Arts — Charlie Lucas

Alabama Artist Charlie Lucas 1

Alabama Artist Charlie Lucas 2

Alabama Artist Charlie Lucas 3

Alabama Artist Charlie Lucas 4

Alabama Artist Charlie Lucas 5

Charlie Lucas Interview 1

Charlie Lucas Interview 2

Charlie Lucas Interview 3

Leave It At The Door

Years ago, I read a poem by Wendell Berry called “A Purification”. He says, “At the start of spring I open a trench in the ground. I put into it the winter's accumulation of paper, pages I do not want to read again, useless words, fragments,...” On top of this paper, he puts in “the contents of the outhouse.” In the lines that follow, he talks of poring in all his “sins”, which lead to those false pages. He offers these items up to the earth and its tendency to recycle. By giving up all his misconceptions and conceits, he humbles his own perspective. He allows himself a purging of the soul. He then can start over writing with clearer vision and a renewed sense of wonder.

A few years after I discovered this poem, I was practicing a martial art. Over a course of a few months, I stopped attending. My excuse was circled around a number of distressing events in my life at that time. In discussing this with my teacher, he said, “Bring all those burdens and concerns you carry around with you to class—only leave them at the door. You can always pick them back up after practice, or you can leave them where they lay.” As I have gotten older, “leave them at the door” has become more of a necessity than a choice. I lug too much around, and most of it does not matter.

Mr. Berry's poem and my sensei's advice have stayed with me throughout my life. I have tried it with everything I have ever believed, owned or did. I continually burn and compost all my built up refuse. I have to do something, which says I cannot go back to it. I ask myself, “how much more do I need to discard before I can truly release the unhealthy burdens (habits, perspectives, beliefs, apathy) I keep with me.” So everyday, I try to leave it at the door. Frequently, I evaluate myself—where I am or where I am headed. I ask, “how are you being helpful or, at least, useful?” I also ask, “why does what I write matter and what I say or believe have meaning?” When I am convinced I have it figured out, I bundle it all up and bury it in the “ground”. And like all funerals, this is painful. It means I have to throw out all my personal rubbish, id est, the stuff I thought was important. This process is a little frightening, especially, when giving up what you have been attached to for so long; however, I have always been more afraid of being comfortably complacent than having to start anew.

Being stuck in the heap—a la “Happy Days”—breeds resistance to change. I long to be ever fluid, malleable and wonderstruck. In so doing, perhaps, I will find a new path, which frees me to gaze once again at the world with childlike eyes.

This post was inspired by Liz's (Beth actually) response to “Can You Hear The Bells”.

My Dad's Favorite Story

Eric peered around the holly bush at the corner of the house. Samantha was jumping rope on the front lawn. He crouched low and ran up behind her as she stopped at sixty-four and pulled her shorts down to her knees.

“ERIC! I'm going to git you!”

She chased him around the house several times before she caught him. At eight she was three years older than Eric, whom she defended at school with all her fury. At home, though (whether by maternal decree or self-proclamation), she was the boss. Eric was not too accepting of this and insisted on agitating her daily.

“STOP IT, SAM! I'm tellin'—I can't breathe. Git OFF!”

Samantha did, but only after he started to cry.

“That's what you git, you little brat! Now leave me alone!”

“You're so mean. I'm tellin' ma you hit me.”

“You're not tellin' anything, or I'll tell her what you did, and you'll git a spankin'.”

“Will not!”

“Will too!”

“Just go in the house. You don't deserve to be out here. You're such a baby.”

“I don't have to do what you say.”

“Oh, yes you do. Mama told me to watch after you, so I'm in charge.”

“Not!”

“Am too! You have to do what I say. Now GO!”

“Aaaaah! I hate you!”

Eric gritted his teeth, bawled his fists and marched off to the garage. Samantha watched him go, then resumed her rope jumping. She made it to seventy-nine before tripping. Her personal best was ninety-three, but she had only managed it once. Kate Dempsey, her closest friend and fiercest competitor, could skip continuously to one hundred and twenty-nine, so she still had a ways to go. She was determined to match her jump for jump at this year's field day. It was the only event where she was second best.

“Samantha...Eric...time for lunch.”

She heard her mother call her in just as she was coming up to thirty-six.

“In a minute.”

“Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine—”

“Now Samantha! ERIC!”

Samantha threw the rope down, ran up to the porch and through the front door.

“Mom, I have to practice. I can't even git past eighty now. I'll never beat Kate.”

“You can practice after lunch. Where's Eric?”

“He came inside already.”

“No, he's not here. If he is, he's ignoring me.”

“He's probably just hiding.”

“And why would that be?”

“He got mad when I sat on him.”

“Hmmm?”

“Don't look that way. He wasn't mindin'—besides, he pulled my shorts down again while I was jumpin' rope.”

“If you two don't learn to play together, I'm gonna...well,...I don't know what I'll do. Lose my mind probably. Now, go and get him.”

“He's probably still in the garage pouting.”

Samantha ran to the door, flung it open and yelled, “Eric! Git your butt in here!”

“Samantha Jane!”

“Sorry. Eric, time for lunch.”

“Go ahead and finish setting the table. I'll get him.”

She walked to the door and looked in the garage. After a moment, she turned on the light and walked down the stairs to the garage floor. She calmly circled around the room calling his name. She peered behind several boxes and looked out on the driveway.

“Samantha where is your brother, he's not out here.”

“What?”

“Go out and find him. I'll look around in here.”

By now, Samantha was worried herself. She ran the perimeter of the house calling after him. She climbed several trees, looked in his favorite hiding spots and scaled the fence for a view of the roof. When she came back inside, her mother was holding the phone receiver to her ear.

“Eric's gone! We can't find him!”

Samantha could see the panic in her mother's face as she told what had happened. Suddenly, she was quite afraid. Pounding him into lunch meat was one thing, but him disappearing was another. This was her little brother, and she was his protector. She had let him out of her sight, and now he was lost.

“Mom, we'll find him. He's just hiding. I'm sure of it. Eric, come out. NOW!”

“Your dad is on his way. When he gets here, we'll all go looking for him.”

Samantha's father worked about five minutes from their house. On the way he passed the elementary school, which had a huge field bordered by a chain-link fence. Along the south face, the fence ran parallel to the road separated by a small patch of grass and the sidewalk. The field had at its end a playground with swings, monkey bars, seesaws and a oversized sandbox. He remembered how Eric loved playing there, so he was intently driving by at a slow speed. As soon as he turned left onto the south street, he saw a blond-haired boy walking toward him at a steady pace. Pulling up beside Eric, he rolled down the window.

“Hey, Buddy.”

Eric stood there with his favorite cowboy coloring book pressed firmly under his arm and looked at him with moist wide eyes and pooched lips. It was hard for him not to smile or chuckle for he was not only relieved, but also, mildly impressed with Eric's innocent rebellious determination.

“Where you goin'?”

Eric paused a moment then looked him dead in the eyes.

“I'm goin' to see my daddy.”

****

My father loved to tell this story. By the time I was ten, eleven or so, we were not really buddies any more. I could never understand him or why he said, “no”, all the time. Those days morphed into a decline destined for total dis-communication. All our efforts grew into frustration and mistrust, which crescendoed with a painful meltdown some years after college. From then on, we withdrew and avoided direct conversation. Nothing worked. We wearied of the effort or became apathetic towards each other. At the end, we had lost our finesse and mostly spoke in sparsely polite tones or not at all.

After a half dozen years fighting cancer, my father died. We never really resolved our issues. Too much time had passed perhaps, but I have learned one thing. He was not one to say, “I love you,” to your face, but he would say it through his stories. He had a handful of them about me when I was a boy. This one, I believe, was his favorite because he always told it. And he always told it first. He loved to tell how pouty and proud I was. He always loved to speak my lines in a slightly mumbled deeply boyish voice. What I believe he loved most about this story, though, was the fact I was coming to see him.