August Reed

My Existential Christmas

2011-12-21T12:12:00.000-06:00

“So this is Christmas and what have you done,

Another year over, a new one just begun.”

—John Lennon

Each year Christmas enters myconsciousness with an unrivaled confidence. One brought on by yearsof experience and presence. It feels good at first almostintoxicating with its cacophony of sounds, its sights and its smells.It even fills me with a sense of purpose. At least it does until itsupplies me with a fair amount of ...well...discomfort. Somewherebetween the humming of carols and the drinking of hot chocolate, theether settles and I am overcome with a soft quiet panic. As I havegrown older, this process seems to happen quicker each year. Thisirrational stress is bursting with oscillating emotions. Whetherfestive and happy or lonely and absent, Christmas evokes aninvoluntary emotional response in me. Just a week into the season,and I am already barraged with little Christmas chants vibrating overthe airwaves. “It's for the children.” “It's better to give.”“Put Christ back in Christmas.” “Twenty shopping days untilChristmas.” “Free Shipping!” I often wonder what it is I amreacting to. Why does December put me in such a rush? Is it thetradition, the shopping, the obligatory giving, the believing or,perhaps, the mad dash until January 6? Pick your poison, but it allstarts with a party. The party at work, at your partner's work, yourboss's party, church party, school party, friend's party; and, if youare really lucky, your own party. As these come to an end, you have aday or two before you must focus on the family. There you have aChristmas Eve party, a Christmas dinner, and, then, the all importantafter-Christmas-with-the-family party. Pause to breath. You workthree more days before the big party or parties of New Year's Eve. Ina few weeks, I will be back at work; it will be January; and I willbe wondering where the year went. Whew! Just with all that, who hastime to worry about anxiety or reasons for something? On a broaderscale, who has time for meaning? Christmas should have meaning, afterall, “It is Christmas!” I hear it all the time, “It'sChristmas,” like just by saying it remedies all the negativesbrought on by this great big machine of seasonal commercialism. Youknow, the one hurling us along fueling our need to spend all thewhile filling us with heightened anticipation—the anticipation ofme getting something for Christmas. So, I ask myself, “What is myexpectation? What do I hope to get? If I took the time, I might evenask what does Christmas mean to me?”

When I was a five, it was about Santaand seeing him fly through the night sky. By seven, eight and nine, Iwas 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 Iwas 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 coolthing-that-amazes-us!” says my classmate. “Wow! That is cool!Let's try it out,” I say hoping he does not flip the question onme. Then I would have to say, “Hey, I got these great boxers frommy grandmother—they are the same kind my grandfather wears.Awesome! I also got socks, pants and another sweater.” In myfamily, the extravagance stopped when we moved from house A to houseB. House A had lots of toys, bikes, sporting equipment, stereos andmusic. House B had undergarments, outer garments and other garments.During those years, though, meaning was mostly left up to a Christmasplay or two and a few seasonal services. “It's about the baby Jesusanyway! What more do you want to know?”

Luckily my attitude changed as Igrew older. My expectations were intentionally shifted fromwanting stuff to helping others. This had to be the true message ofChristmas, surely. To prove my conclusion, I studied the history andtradition of Christmas. Looking at the pieces, though, I began tohave 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 whohave this birth-of-the-sun thing, which happens in December on thewinter solstice. All of these are really important, therefore, wecannot leave one out. So, some historical people took this calendarand 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. (Forour purposes, we will ignore the the Eastern Orthodox Christians whocelebrate in January.) What about the other side of tradition—theguy in the red suit? How does he fit into all this? Aside from theoriginal St. Nick story, Santa has become Christ's biggest competitorfor Christmas focus, attention or props. If you think about, theyshould actually work in concert with each other. I suppose they do ina way. Christmas is about giving, “Right?” Santa brings Christmasmagic and Jesus feeds the hungry. What about our giving? What if youcannot give? What if I do not want to give at Christmas? Or what if Iwant to give you a gift because it is Tuesday or because I happen tolike 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 letit slide, that is, until Christmas rolls around, and you feel theannoying sense of guilt about all you are not doing that you shouldbe doing. Maybe Christmas is a giving reminder. We give now andthroughout the rest of the year. Oh, I believe I have heard somethingabout Christmas lasting the whole year. Still, is it just aboutgiving?

As a father, Christmas has a differentresponsibility. The most important being, “How do I share it withmy child?” “What do I say?” The first few years are easy, forit is about my child's experience. Christmas is these wondrous earlyyears of discovery. The first one being, “I get presents atChristmas?”, which morphs into, “Who is Santa Claus and why is hecoming to town?” and “Why is baby Jesus in the barn?” A fewyears go by, and you learn you have to reign in the gift giving lestyou spoil the apple. The only problem, though, is I have totallyconvinced her Santa Claus exists. Well, me and a dozen other sources(a masterful conspiracy). Now that she has bought into the lying partof Christmas, I spend the next few years trying to determine at whatage I should tell her it is all a fantasy? “Should I even tellher?” 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 toknow what it means. What do I say? “Well, Pumpkin, it's about thisfictitious character, the baby Jesus, the tilting of the Earth,shopping, traveling, and overeating, which somehow all comes togetherpreternaturally.” “Do I leave in the magical—Santa magic notJesus magic?” Pull away the shimmering red curtain, and what do Ihave to give her: Black Friday, Cyber Monday, Purple Wednesday, theshopping malaise in general and—of course—traffic jams? Should wehave a moment, we might stop and think of the birth of Jesus. Stillit does not matter what I say. For years she has seen stress build upin me—in the atmosphere around me. It is this penetrating drumbeatcalling me deeper and deeper into the seasonal abyss. I resist andresist until my breaking point where I humbly accept my embarrassingdefeat and acknowledge I am minutes away from Grandmother's ChristmasEve party standing in a CVS buying soda, Q-tips, and a Christmas cardfor Aunt Bessie. But wait, before I leave the store, I willinstinctively shout, “Oh, look! Here's a little Christmasknickknack -stuffed-pickle-thingy we can give second cousin Ceasie'slittle boy.” At this moment, I am lost. All my goings on about themeaning or spirit of Christmas are thwarted by my ridiculous actionsat Christmas.

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

Happy Christmas!

Evan The Mighty

2011-09-24T06:33:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, I learned some distressingnews. Impending as it was, I was not quite ready for it. The message said, "Evan passed this morning." By the age offive, he had developed a rare form of cancer called High-RiskNeuroblastoma. The year was 2006; and, being Stage 4, he waspredicted 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, helived 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 hermother's death and Evan's discovery. We went with a group to Russiawhere we help support a local orphanage about six hours northeast ofMoscow. Most of that trip is a blur to me now shadowed by thenews 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 andemotional hardship. Now it has ended, but at such a devastating cost.

Death is not kind, but it is definitelypoetic. I have seen no greater courage from individuals than I havefrom those facing their oncoming demise. Friends with HIV, mygrandfather, my father, my mother, and now Evan, all walked boldlyinto their dark future. They knew it was coming, still they facedeach day with optimism and intention. It is we who continue tosuffer. We carry the death with us. We carry it like a stone affixedto our backs. Seems cruel, I know; but, perhaps, it is preparing usto face our own death courageously.

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

I apologize for the sadness of thispost, but I needed to write something before I exploded. I had hopedthis would be elegant, which might make it more bearable to read.Wishful thinking on my part, for death is death. I can, however, sayI remember him as the happy boy running and laughing up and down thehall. I can still feel his infectious personality and the joy hestill managed to exude. Even with all his treatments, Evan hadreally gooddays; and he did not waste them. All cancer patients do really. Weas their caregivers must learn to make the most of those days as well. Andwhen this thought is not enough, I pray we actually do have anotherjourney 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 thepresence of God.

Please pray for Evan's family. If youwould 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 dotremendous work for families and children with cancer.

Postscript

For this, I will say, “War Eagle!”

While many of his days wereexcruciatingly painful and frustrating, many were not. One of hishappiest 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 himup. He got to meet Aubie, Coach Chizik and the entire team. Here is a link to the AuburnEvery 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

2011-09-15T02:39:00.001-05:00

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

2011-01-10T15:37:00.001-06:00

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

2010-09-21T02:04:00.000-05:00

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

2010-07-02T09:49:00.001-05:00

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

2010-06-21T12:52:00.003-05:00

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.

Woods by George Winston

2010-06-11T14:11:00.001-05:00

George Winston has been a fond favorite of mine for more years than I have known most people. His awakened music you should experience on your own. My personal top choice is Winter Into Spring, but I like most everything he has published. This list includes arrangements of music by The Doors and Vince Guaraldi as well as his interpretation of Montana and the soundtrack to The Velveteen Rabbit narrated by Meryl Streep. He plays the harmonica and the guitar fingerpicking style know as Hawaiian Slack Key. He also likes to perform barefooted.

Can You Hear The Bells

2010-04-29T17:00:00.004-05:00

Pillaging through my own storage (junk) pile, I came across some old correspondence. Short little notes from friends of long ago. As I sat nostalgically, images nestled deep in my long term memory crept into my mind. Most of these people had been friends of mine. A few I do not remember knowing other than by acquaintance. I read and reread through all of the letters. And what struck me most was what the letters said about me.

Roughly ninety percent of the content was sentiments I recognized. That is, I could easily associate what was said to that letter's author. Much goings on about things we did, said or saw. The good part of them was they all seemed to say the same things about me; for example, they all remarked on my sense of humor. The other ten percent—and this was mostly consistent for each one—contained something I never knew was there. Words of affection, admonitions to keep in touch, addresses, phone numbers, party invitations and some unusual comments.

“Well,” you say, “perhaps it was from people you weren't that close to or interested in.” A good question. Partly true. Much of what was written came from people I would have liked to keep close. Even those I was less inclined to follow, it seems I should have acknowledge them in some way. You could say, “you just pushed away what you weren't interested in knowing.” That could be true. I could have wiped the memory of it early enough to believe I had never remembered it at all. To that I say, we usually remember the bad relationships as well as the good (sometimes more so). I suggest the answer lies in self-discovery. Truth reveals itself when you get caught seeing who you really are when you least expect to. And back in those days, I was too self-involved. I brushed over these words as though unseen. My expectations for who I was and what I wanted then only allowed my desires to matter. If what you said did not measure up to that, then they did not register for me. Honestly, I could not hide them because I do not believe I even saw them.

Now it sounds horrid, I know. As I put a spotlight on it today, it seems huge. And it is, I suppose because it is causing me to pause for something new. Really, we all do it. It is like gossip. No matter how much you protest, we all gossip. Funny thing is, I thought I was better today. Now I question that. Just how good of a listener am I. A few hours ago, I wrote an old friend who I have not spoken to in almost two years to tell her I was rubbish for having done so. Even those we care about, we gloss over without noticing them. Imagine what we do to strangers. Better yet, the person who takes your order in the drive through. What about the elderly lady eating alone in the restaurant. You are in a hurry to leave. You hear her silently, but you forget as you walk out the door.

Listening takes on many forms. It is as much what you hear, as what you read, what you see and what you feel. In this regard, we all fail to listen. Try this: tell someone something and five minutes later ask them to repeat it. It's like the rumor trail. I tell you, you tell someone. By the time it gets to the end, you have a different story. Ask them to tell you what your posture was or the inflection in your voice. Most of the time, you will not remember you said it—did it. I am not picking on you. I do it too.

So, why is that? Maybe it's because we just don't care. Maybe we are too busy thinking of our own thoughts, instead of listening in the moment. We are too busy thinking of our own response or our own next thing. Narcissism—“I would look away from my reflection, but I am just too pretty.” The key to listening is to keep your mouth closed and your mind still. Doing these two things, for most people, is hard like waiting in line to get your driver's license renewed—you know, the long line.

Personally, I am ashamed at how I treated those friends. They are long gone with nothing really to be done. Into the future, I can try to be better. Maybe these artifacts will help me do that. If anything, it may cause me to care more about people. To really care in a way that transcends my selfish idiosyncrasies. Who knows, we might just learn something about life, history and the universe. Most likely, I will forget what I just said. "Were you listening?”

PA'S BOOTS (Part 1)

2010-04-18T00:22:00.004-05:00

Pa woke up that morning looking heavy. It was different from his working-hard look. That look made his eyes wide and clear and his face seemed to smooth out like Dusty's ears when he's smells a cay-oat. During school-time, I worked from four thirty to seven in the morning. Seven was breakfast. Seven thirty I left for school. It was about a twenty-five minute walk from the house. Summertime, I worked 'til I dropped. Many days we worked 'til the sun went down. All those mornings I watched Pa ,and he didn't have a face like this one. I've never seen this one, not even when I set the barn on fire by putting gasoline in the kerosene heater.

It was early spring. We had been going all day removing stumps from our back forty. It was the reason Pa never wanted to use it—too many trees. We were pulling the tractor inside because it had started puffing black smoke. I was trying to help, but when it got dark I got the chills and I couldn't stand still. He told me to fill up the heater and turn it on low. He never let us use it in the barn, but his mind was elsewhere. Our last harvest was destroyed, and we were having a hard time making payments on the property. I was so cold I could barely move. I grabbed a fuel can and filled up the heater. When the flame ignited, it threw me into the tractor and caught everything within twenty feet on fire. Pa had let me set it just inside—just enough to feel it, but not be all the way in. I was knocked unconscious and part of the barn burned. He whupped me hard a few weeks later after I had healed up. But even then, he didn't have this look.