Abundance

Everything Happens...But Not For a Reason

2008-05-21T21:21:00.002-05:00

An idea that there is a great plan in works and we are pawns in the play of God is summed up in the well intentioned cliche: Everything happens for a reason. That is disturbing to me. Who is this God of reason who supposedly then has a reason for blue m&m's and a reason for crushing little kids to death? The big plan could certainly be improved upon by eliminating murder and mayhem.

I'm not buying it. Free will is acceptable to me. I can accept that God created a world where people are free to make choices and suffer the consequences. In the same world people are free to make choices which doom other people. That seems fair and humane to me. Throw in Guardian Angels and God answering prayers, picking who lives and who dies-- by any number of horrific attrocities -- and things get sketchy. What God says no to the prayers of starving children and yes to pleas of gluttons?

But it's part of a plan which we are not meant to know-- we're told. Maybe not. But maybe we knowing too difficult. Maybe the answer is simply that God created the world, and Man is free to live and learn. Our lives are our own. You may live, you may die. The more we have, the more ways we have to live and die.

Everything does happen. Things happen because of an action--not for a God reason. I don't think God causes the trigger to be pulled, or the intoxicated driver to run over a family, or a car to go off of the road at the worst possible spot. All those things can happen, and they have. God was not part of the reason--in my opinion. God is there to give Grace. Not to cause havoc or despair.

Stand By Me

2008-05-08T17:32:00.006-05:00

The movie was made in 1986. Stand By Me. A story about being 12 year old boys and being friends in the 1960's. Aaron and I watched it together when he was younger than 12 wishing he was 12 and I was much older wishing the same.

Being a Dad in the 90's was different than being a Dad in the 60's, at least from my perspective. My Dad friends and I,looking back over the generation agreed dads of the 60's didn't get down on the floor or grass and play with the children like we did. A three foot high barrier existed in our child hood. Dads could bend over to look down at you or crouch to look close to you, but that was the limit. As if they might never get up again, dads of the 60's kept the soles of their shoes firmly planted on the ground when interacting with us. Picnic tables were invented for dads lest they have to stand and eat while Mom's and kids ate on the blanket on the ground.

My friend Tim described it perfectly when Aaron was four and his daughter Claire was five, "Liz scolds me like I'm Claire's brother." I think once our knees touched the ground we became "My Dad-Friend" to our kids. That was OK by me. Playing Peter Pan, Swords, Johnny, Pirates, Green Bay Packers, World Heavyweight Boxing Champions, was fine by me--not for the days without end way that Aaron approached make believe, but long enough to get dirty. I could still play.

The movie Stand By Me ends with Richard Dreyfus keying a story. He ends it by writing, "It's been over ten years since I last saw him. I miss my friend."
Today is three years since I saw Aaron last. In fact, I wrote about him at the time I was hearing his voice in the other room for the final time. You can read that memory in the archives May 8, 2005. Three years. I miss my son-friend. I'm grateful to have my surviving son-friend.

I said his name over and over today. All the different names I called Aaron. Air-Bear. AJ. Air-foil. A-GEE. AGE. A-Ron. Aaron John. Aaron Johnny. I miss calling out his name. I miss our conversations. I remember watching movies with him. I remember. Stand by me Air-Bear. Ben E. King Sang Stand by Me

Love you.
Dad

Happy Birthday Air Bear

2008-05-05T19:53:00.003-05:00

Mom is baking your coconut cream pie right now. Three years ago she baked two for you. You ate half of one before leaving to give your friend a ride that terrible day May 10, 2005. May is bitter sweet. Coconut cream pie was my favorite. It tastes better without tears.

Miss you. Love you.
Dad

Connectedness

2008-04-29T18:53:00.003-05:00

Books on the night stand and shelf sit ready. They have so much to say. Eager to offer up advice and insight, they look content. That is, if you judge them by their covers. Most aren't extra thick but they're deep. I'm judgmental by practice. Fat books don't appeal to me. They're heavy. What takes one author 1000 words to say could be said in 235... or in a picture.

Friday nights are not too exciting around our house. Chelsea says we have to get out and "get wild". Cathy stays up and waits for Patrick to get home. He's always on time. We can hear his Civic vvvbbrrrrrmmmmm vvbbrrrrmmmm as he comes up the hill, down shift, around the corner, down shift, vvbbrrmmmm vvbbrrmmm, back up into the garage. Garage door closes, door opens.."Imm owhmm", teen age for "Hi Mom and Dad, I'm home." With Patrick safe and sound, off to bed, Cathy continues her ritual. She stays on the couch waiting for Aaron to come home. I suppose his curfew is well after midnight by now. Eventually she falls to sleep. I've put the book down hours ago and sleeping soundly with Molly tucked in where ever she's most comfortable. The bed is big on Friday nights.

Last Friday I went up early. Tired, I looked at the books on my stand. Reaching for one, I picked up another. The Bible. Purchased in 1984 to select readings for our wedding, the Book was first read in 1998. A book mark is the Tyme card receipt--a half-size heavy paper computer punch card looking relic-- for the $10.00 I withdrew to buy what would become our family Bible. King James Catholic version. From 1984 to 1998 our Bible stayed pristine. More dusty than read. Since the summer of 1998 when I heard our priest tell a joke about Catholics not reading their bibles, mine has been read black and blue. The broken back is surgically repaired with duct tape of course. We are connected in brokenness.

On the surface it appears books wait for us to pick them up so they can pick us up. On Friday night, this book must have selected me. I flipped through reading highlighted paragraphs and sentences. Wisdoms and words which guided me over the years through the mountains and valleys. Children appeared to be topics relavent to my past as I had circled and underlined, starred and commented, on verses where Jesus spoke of innocence and importance of children. Mourn with those who mourn appears in several books of the Bible. The house of sorrow is more sacred than the house of joy because in the house of sorrow we are closest to God. A concept I came to know intimately.

I closed my book, turned out the light and slept until 7:30 am Saturday, when Cathy came into the room. "Tom, Brad called." she was crying and stumbling over the words and to the bed. I couldn't think of who she was talking about. My mind was running through the archives to find a connection. "Jen and Courtney and Zach were in an accident. Jen died and Courtney's not expected to make it." My mind caught up. Jen is a dear friend. She and Cathy shared a passion for learning about challenges facing Zach and Aaron. They became the best advocates they could be together. She and her ex-husband Brad had asked us ten years ago to be Courtney's God Parents. Zach is their son. Brad and I have a bond I value tremendously. He was a very young guy when I was a younger guy. They live in Oconomowoc. We left home within an hour. Courtney died later that day. Jen was seven months pregnant. Her unborn baby is Sophia. Zach and a friend of Courtney's survived with injuries. Zach's at home. Courtney's friend should be home this week. A funeral is set for Friday.

Mathew 18-5 Whoever welcomes one such child for m sake welcomes me.
Ecclesiastes 7-2, 3 It is better to go to the house of mourning than to the house of feasting, for that is the end of every man and the living should take it to heart. Sorrow is better than laughter, because when the face is sad the heart grows wiser.

God bless Jen, Sophia, and God bless the girl who blessed us as a God Child. You are God's child, Courtney Bella.

Prayers for moments of peace and contentment for the families.

A Night at Aaron's House

2008-04-11T22:08:00.003-05:00

When Aaron told me of his idea to move back to Oregon, get a house, live with friends, and go to Bend Community College, I told him I would help him find a house to buy. Aaron responded in classic son fashion, "Dad, you can stick around for a while and spend a few days with us." I wonder how many days of my sticking around would have put him over the edge.

We didn't get to make the trip to Oregon but we did keep the idea alive. I'm at Aaron's House tonight. The guys who live here are thankful. They make me feel welcome. They let me stick around. I saw another young man who is applying to move in. He's eager. I recognize that sound in his voice. Cathy stopped by on her way home tonight. We went for pizza down the block the way we would have if we were visiting Aaron in a campus community.

When Patrick moves out I'll spend a few days with him at his place. He'll tell me when it's time to go home.

Yield To The Flow of Life. This is The End of the Past.

2008-04-03T09:47:00.004-05:00

Yield to the flow of life. Surrender. In the last month before the third anniversary, I accept the Now. What cannot be undone, is as it is. I know what is "Peace of God". I will create no more pain, no more suffering.

These are the last photos I have of Aaron's physical self. They were taken in April, and maybe one in May, '05. His true self never died. I see his true self in Patrick, Cathy,people who knew him, people who are moved by his story, myself and in nature. I accept the mistakes I made as his dad, and I acknowledge the good. It is finished. Now is where I am and where I will stay.

Right this second, just as I was to close this blog, the song "Where Oh Where Can My Baby Be" came on the radio. ...the squealing tires, the busted glass....now she's gone I hold her tight...where oh where can my baby be, the lord took her away from me...

Let it be.

My Jango Juke Box---Music I wish I Wrote

2008-03-26T21:45:00.000-05:00

www.Jango.com

Long Distance

2008-03-26T20:14:00.004-05:00

Heaven has an unlisted number.

Disappearing Dreams of Yesterday

2008-03-21T13:28:00.003-05:00

Looking around the house I see pictures of me with two boys. Arm extended, they both fit. A hand on my shoulder, my hand on one of theirs, another on a brother. It's a unreal that I have...or had, two boys by my side. "Where's your brother? Get your brother. Help your brother. Stop hitting your brother." I miss giving those orders, yet I can hardly remember. The words seem familiar and foreign to me. Visions of the future with the boys maturing together are incomprehensible. They're part of The disappearing dreams of yesterday. (kris kristopherson)

Easter weekend. The last holiday with Aaron, Easter '05. Many Easters were spent in Florida. Lots of Aaron and Patrick pictures on the beach. Big fun with beach Easter egg hunts. Maybe we will hide Aaron's basket this year.

The Aaron House, Madison

2008-03-16T21:21:00.004-05:00

A Sunday night 9:21 PM. Almost three years after the event and I'm sitting at the same spot doing the same thing--writing on this page. So much has changed. Words I write can't explain everything that's happened.

Here is a link to a work of art by some friends of the Aaron Foundation. It tells a story well.

Aaron's House Madison, WI

Awareness

2008-03-12T21:15:00.004-05:00

Bodies and minds die,
they are form.
Spirit can not die,
it is essence.
Death is a shedding of all that is not essence.

Planets, stars, galaxies exist in space.
Space is not a place.
Heaven is not a place.

Spirits are released from the body encumbrance,
if not through awareness, then through death.

Fortunate Son

2008-03-07T13:46:00.002-06:00

Time is an illusion. The journey is real.

I know what my work is. Time does not do the work. I do the work of being. All of the work of being can't be accomplished in clock time. It is never done. I can quit, but I can't finish.

When I was a little kid I saw my Dad stopped in his steps with chest pains. He would crouch down or sit until the pain passed. Sunday I reached the familiar, family position. The scenery is small from that position. I could see my truck, where my phone was left. I might be closer to the door to the other side than I was to the door of my truck. Wedensday I found out just how close I was to the door. Too close. The cardiologist said "That's probably how your father died."

Gratitude for the doctor who took a stance with me. Peace is in me. I am.

Words I Think I Wrote

2008-02-27T19:24:00.003-06:00

The more I read, the more I read ideas I think I thought, or I think I read.

Words get their power from being strung together with other words. By themselves, a word is a word. Some inspire emotions on their own. Here's one that comes to mind: Orphan. Unless you invented the word, (three-peat), anyone can use the stand alone words for free. Start stringing them together exactly or reasonably exactly and Hilary will take you to task. Someone else monitors musical notes--probably Tipper.

Robert Fulgham wrote a book I thoroughly enjoyed: Words I Wish I Wrote.Even the title is art. Aaron, a fan of well written verses, and I shared that book. Our copy may be in the library at Mount Bachelor Academy, outside of Prineville, OR. If you ever get there, see if it's on the shelf. I'd like to get that book back.

A couple of the words Mr. Fulgham wrote he wished he had wrote:

Sometimes it rains on the just. Sometimes it rains on the unjust. Sometimes it just rains. (I don't remember who he credited with that one)

In the midst of winter, I found there was within me, an invincible summer. (Camus)

There was something in there about suicide. I don't remember the words exactly but Aaron and I had a good laugh over the wisdom suggested. It went something like: Suicide is one thing that can always be put off to tomorrow. I probably don't have all of the words and/or the order isn't exactly right, but you can find it int he book.

Now the only reason I bring up that quote is because of a conversation I was involved in one morning. People I know were sharing their thoughts on the topic as it pertained to people they knew. As I was listening, my mind was clicking through the archives of my memory. Somewhere in there was stored the words Fulgham wished he wrote. I wandered around the vault for a while and thought about the terrible emotions the word "suicide" triggers. Another word with a shady reputation is "procrastination". Suicide has redeeming value as an act of evil doers, Hitler for one. Procrastination has it’s place in the sun too. I mixed and juggled some words to see if they might fit. Here is an idea in words I think I wrote:

Procrastination has its redemption as a character trait of one who contemplates suicide.

C. S. Lewis, A Grief Observed ....by an Artist

2008-02-26T20:30:00.004-06:00

Maybe more than two weeks have passed since I cried even a tear. I don't keep track, but it's been the better part of February. The last time was a good cry. Anguish.

Grief is not lineal. The journey is circular. C.S Lewis concluded the same and shared his observation in his 1961 book, A Grief Observed. I read his book this week. A very short four chapter journal of emotions, Mr. Lewis wrote his observations from the path trudged by humans forever.

Some people appreciate paintings. I love writings by people who make writing an art. I'm fond of the simple verse. They are deep and filled with power. The sentences of a man with an artistic pen speaks for us who write with crayons.

C.S Lewis--
Writing about grief anger: I was getting from it the only pleasure a man in anguish can get; the pleasure of hitting back.

What grief is like and how it compares to pain: Grief is lik a bomber circling round and dropping its bombs each time the circle brings it overhead; physical pain is like the barrage on a trench in World War One, hours of it with no let-up for a moment. Thought is never static; pain often is.

On selfish wishes for the deceased: Could I have wished her anything worse? Having got once through death, to come back and then, at some later date, have all her dying to do over again? They call Stephen the first martyr. Hadn't Lazarus the rawer deal?

These and more observations in his book I felt and contemplated over the last 2 1/2 years. Not in as articulate manner, but I stayed within the lines with my Crayola; especially the Lazarus comment. Definitely, Lazarus and his loved ones may have been the most abused by death and living.

There is a way out of Suffering and Into Peace

2008-02-16T19:03:00.005-06:00

When there is no way out, there is always a way through.

Those aren't my words but I attest to the truth. I am a blessed man.

Patrick and Amanda gave me a ten dollar book store gift card for Christmas. I put it somewhere safe. I forgot where that place was. The gift stayed there until it was found by Cathy on Super Bowl Sunday. That gift changed my life.

Super Bowl Sunday was supposed to be spent with the Packers. Things changed. I chose not to participate in a Packer-less game day. Cathy and I went to see a movie. I picked the movie: my favorite actress, Diane Lane in Untraceable. Thirty minutes in and we agreed the film was disturbing. We walked out. We went to the book store.

I had been in and out of all the Borders, Barne's and Noble, Half-Price Books in Madison since Christmas and couldn't find a book cover I could judge appealing. But that Sunday was different. Walking in the door I saw a paper back with no "O" Club sticker, so I picked it up. The Power of Now, A guide to spiritual enlightenment.

God did not give me a great ability to explain in great clarity what it is I read. I'm grateful for that withholding of talent. I can learn by living. I can't live by telling, but I can say that I now know Aaron's true self never died. Only form and thoughts die. Aaron is free. His divine presence is here as it has always been. Living in the past and in the future I resisted the Now. I know the past. The past is comfortable. I imagine the future. Through my perception of the past, I form an image of the future. Time is an illusion. Living in the past and future, resisting the Now is insanity.

Enlightenment is the end of suffering according to Buddha. The way out of suffering is through the fire according to the Burned Thigh Lakota Tribe.

I miss my son Aaron as I knew his outer self. I am experiencing his true self as it always is. Knowing that what is can't be undone, I accept what is not and say yes to what is. Nonresistence to the pain. Surrendered to the grief.

February 16, 2008

Dog n Suds Coney Dogs and Society

2008-02-03T19:31:00.001-06:00

The first entries of this blog were made in spring of '05. Those prior to May 8, 05 were written as if I thought people would be reading. From 5/8/05 I wrote without caring if anyone was reading. Sometimes the writting was for safe keeping of thoughts, others for getting emotions out into the light. This one is to share somethings that are good.

My favorite junk food of my youth is the Dog n Suds Coney Dog. A hot dog in a soft, fresh bun, with a sweet, non-chili sauce sauce. Sometime in the mid-seventies, when the country was early in the process of removing all that is good, Dog n Suds went the way of the Woolworth's and their french fries and chocolate malts. Nobody likes SPAM the food and it has it's own web site. Why can't the Coney Dog have a place on the grocery shelf too?

Saturday I did a little research and found a recipe which when modified a bit, might be the proper mixture. The taste is remarkable. So much so that I think I was momentarily transported to 1969 Antigo, WI sitting in the back seat of our family car, where a tray loaded with glass mugs and plastic baskets of fries in white crunchy paper, hung on the half rolled down window next to my Dad. Surely a summer Saturday evening.

If your taste buds can evoke memories as mine do, here's the way to make your window to the past.

Recipe, Dog n Suds Coney Dog:
1 lb Lean ground beef
4 tablespoons Yellow mustard
1/3 Cup Baker's sugar
1/2 teaspoon Tabasco sauce
1 large sweet onion, chopped fine
2 tablespoons brown vinegar
3 tablespoon water
1/2 teaspoon celery seeds
24-30 oz of Heinz ketchup

Brown the burger chopping it in the pan so it doesn't clump. Keep the pieces of burger fine.
Drain the fat.
Add all ingredients except Ketchup and Onion.
Stir in ketchup.
Stir in onion last.

Use the mustard bring the color from red to orange.
Simmer for 1 hour.

Boil, not Microwave (we didn't have microwaves in 1969) Oscar Mayer All Beef hot dogs. Don't wimp out and use the skinny dogs.

Place the hot dog in a VERY soft hot dog bun Don't go cheap here. Get the fresh, soft buns.
Spoon the Coney Sauce over the dog. Put enough on so that it runs over the top and out the other end. With the right amount, your fingers and corners of your mouth should get an orange stain.

When I was a kid, my Dad would let me eat two coney dogs. When I was riding my bike to Dog n Suds and had a couple of dollars, four Coney Dogs and a root beer was my regular order. Last night I ate four because I liked the trip back.

My sister Carol estimated the calories and fat grams, commenting on my Saturday night indulgence asked "What music do you want played at your funeral?"

I choose Society by Eddie Vedder. Then serve Coney Dogs, fries, and strawberry shakes.

Eddie Vedder sings Society from the Into The Wild Soundtrack.

The Greatest Possession

2008-01-30T13:53:00.001-06:00

...Cling to the thought that, in God's hands, the dark past is the greatest possession you have-the key to life and happiness for others. With it you can avert death and misery for them.
...January 28, Daily Reflections

A stunning experience I was not prepared for, spiraled into a chaos I could not control, and ended in an obliteration of past, present, and future joy, is my greatest possession. I now am saying yes to what is not.

In some hours, the dark days of the past crush me. I can't bury or disown the past. Rewriting is beyond unhealthy. The only way to live in the present is to acknowledge the past. Humility is the reward for bearing the truth. That's enough.

Left living where we died, the dark past is our only possession which matters, and that's OK.

Life is the gift from God. What we do with our possession is our reciprocation.

Into The Wild

2008-01-26T19:16:00.000-06:00

The older person does not realize the soul-flights of the adolescent.
a quote attributed to a father who's twenty year old son vanished in the desert

Last Sunday Patrick and Tim were discussing Into The Wild. They had read the book and suggested it was worth reading. Patrick's copy was in Aaron's room so Monday I started reading. By Wednesday I was over half way through and I wasn't liking the young man who the story was about. The guy,Chris McCandless, graduated college, packed his car, and left his family without warning to drift across the U.S. for two years, ending up dead on the Stampede Trail outside of Fairbanks, Alaska. A true story. It wasn't until I nearly finished that I understood why I was annoyed with young Chris through the first 100 pages.

At the time when he was at the top of his accademic life, Chris chose to turn his back on his family society. He dived into a life of rambling around the country exploring a life of freedom as he defined it. With an ability to make friends easily and welcomed anywhere, Aaro...I mean Chris lived on the edge. The longer he was away the more he embraced the life his parents would not approve. The deeper he went into the drifting life, the more the life owned his soul.

After two years on the road, the final three in the Alaskan wilderness, Chris writes that he is ready to return to civilization. He packs his few belongings and starts walking out of the wild. The stream he wadded thigh deep across in April was flowing deep, fast, and wild with summer runoff in July. Chris stood on the wild side ready to go back, but he couldn't cross. He was trapped. Cunning and baffling, nature owned Chris.

His body was on the wild side but his mind was ready to be back in society. After returning from the edge of the river to his camp to sit tight until the time would be right to venture out, a mistake no one could explain for certain and some concluded as intentional caused his death.

I know that story. Nature was Chris McCandless' drug of choice. What started as intoxicating freedom of the road grew into a dangerous concoction of a little knowledge and an overdose of wilderness.

Chris, his parents, and his sister, are not people I know yet they are a family I relate to. Nature coaxed Chris across the point of no return. If the story wasn't true it could have been a metaphorical account of the life and times of families affected by drug addiction. I wonder how they are today.

Super Bowls and Distractions

2008-01-18T20:33:00.000-06:00

Ten years ago this month Cathy, Aaron, Patrick, and I went north to join my family for a retreat. We were joining relatives to watch the Packers and Broncos play in the Super Bowl. The destination was a cottage in the deep woods of Northern Wisconsin. My sister, her husband, and their daughter were in retreat from the agony of the death of son and brother Kristopher two months earlier. We were retreating to a distraction from the resounding helplessness and our own grief.

Just a year earlier we were all besides ourselves in happiness over the Packer's first Super Bowl win in nearly 30 years. Our families were intact and Packer football was more than entertainment. We sent a Christmas card of Patrick and Aaron in Lambeau Field with a heading...Dear Santa, all I want for Christmas is a Super Bowl! It was all games and fun. Cathy and I went to New Orleans for the game. I had a ticket. Cathy snuck in. That's another story for another time.

In 1998 the Super Bowl, sure to be another victory would provide a much needed distraction and something to be happy about. A momentary relief. If ever I had all my emotional eggs in one basket that was the day. The Packers didn't do their part. They lost. A painful battle finished when hope died with an incomplete pass. Grief would not be relieved. Dissapointment mixed with the grief. Ugly as slush. Bitter as January. I expected more than a game; more than entertainment. I wanted happiness, peace, relief, comfort.

Ten years later I am grieving the loss of another young son in our family. The Packers are close to another Super Bowl. Aaron is gone. Patrick is two years older than his big cousin Kristopher. This time I'm only interested, not invested, in the outcome of these games. Expecting happiness or freedom from suffering in a game is to live on the doorstep of hell.

The last Packer playoff game I attended was with Patrick, Aaron, and Cathy on a Sunday night. That cold January night was a beautiful family evening. It was our last game as a family. Four years have passed since I've been in the stadium. I can't imagine a game without Aaron. I thought I would never go back.

Patrick and I will attend the game Sunday night as the guests of Tim and Charlie Kritter. I'm wiser now. Tim has an idea what this trip might mean to me. The outcome of the game will not effect my well being. Going back to the stadium with my son and my good friends is good. And it's enough.

Cat's Cradle

2008-01-12T20:16:00.000-06:00

And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon,
Little boy blue and the man on the moon.
"When you coming home, dad?" "I don't know when,
But we'll get together then.
You know we'll have a good time then."

-------harry chapin

Somewhere along the way Aaron and Patrick picked up on this lyrics when they were little boys. A way to give dad a good natured ribbing when they wanted me to participate in one thing or another when I'd rather loaf.

"Dad, wanna build a soap box derby car to ride down the hill?"
"A Dad gets to nap in a hammock on Sunday afternoon."
"And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon...."

My turn eventually came to sing the later verse to them.
"When you coming home son?" "I don't know when...."

Kurt Vonnegut wrote the classic Cat's Cradle in 1963. Aaron was a reader of Vonnegut's books. Patrick bought the copy we have in our house. I read the book this week. Characters in Vonnegut stories are typically defined by peculiar habits or appearance. In the end of these books of humorous fiction an odd character, representing something clearly American, will say something deep and meaningful about our insanity. "Ambassador Minton", delivered the deep thought in Cat's Cradle.

The scene has the Ambassador to San Lorenzo preparing to toss a wreath into the sea to honor the Hundred Martyrs to Democracy. "We are gathered here friends to honor the Hundred Martyrs to Democracy, children dead, all dead, all murdered in war. It is customary on days like this to call such lost children men. I am unable to call them men for this simple reason: that in the same war in which the Hundred Martyrs to Democracy died, my own son died."

"My soul insists that I mourn not a man but a child."

"I do not say that children at war do not die like men, if they have to die. To the everlasting honor and our everlasting shame, they do die like men, thus making possible the manly jubilation of patriotic holidays."

"But they are murdered children all the same."

"And I propose to you that if we are to pay our sincere respects..., that we might best spend the day despising what killed them; which is to say, the stupidity and viciousness of all mankind."

On another day when I miss my son, I pause to think of the fathers and mothers who miss their children sacrificed in stupidity and viciousness by insanity. The media shows us their photos in their uniforms. The faces of these souls, these men/women who are children to their parents, are real. I'm sorry these children are dead on this beautiful winter evening.

15

2008-01-07T21:33:00.000-06:00

Bart Starr was my favorite Packer as a little kid. He wore number 15. I remember getting a set of used shoulder pads in the mid 60's, probably in a rummage sale. A gray sweatshirt became my jersey. I used a black marker to imprint 15 on the front and back. My dad gave me a helmet, red with white stripes. Numeral decals made for boat registration numbers (my Dad's store was the Sport Marine---more Marine than sport as far as I was concerned) were stuck on my helmet. Fifteen. That was going to be my number. It looked strong. Confident. 15. Good guys wear 15. Winners wear 15.
You can trust 15.

At Antigo High School in the 60's and 70's, the jersey numbers under 20 were few. In fact, they were three: 10, 11, and 12. When I was a junior 10 and 11 were taken. I became 12. It didn't matter to me then that there was no 15, I had a jersey and I was happy.

In his youth, Aaron's favorite football number was the number of his first favorite football player--himself, number 29. Two-Nine as he used to say. When Aaron was a Sophomore, he was one of a few in his class to suit up for every varsity football game. Being a first year player Aaron had probably had no choice in numbers. He was given jersey number 15. He looked good in 15. Aaron was glad to have a jersey. I was happy with the number.

Tonight, LSU is playing Ohio State for the College Football Championship. LSU wears uniforms identical to the uniforms of Aaron's high school. LSU's quarterback wears number 15. From the back, he looks like Aaron, bigger of course, but the same style 15 on the same jersey. I want to watch, but I can't watch. I see the jersey, the number, a player, and it's not my son. If I watch the player on TV it may confuse my fading memory. I'm losing the grasp of the memory I have of Aaron's distinctive running style. His ability to leap and climb air. His hands. I can't confuse the image with someone else.

15 is solid. 15 is safe. 15 is my Aaron.

Outlive Money

2008-01-04T21:51:00.000-06:00

Trudging overfed to the end of the year I ended the trip on the couch. None of the bowl games interested me. Same for the movies. The Twilight Zone Marathon was a favorite New Years Day happening around our house. My attention span was too short this year. Maybe that's why the ad caught my attention--- "Don't Outlive Your Money"

Why not? Why should I not outlive my money? I outlived my oldest son and the world didn't stop. It should have, but it didn't. If I outlive my money, what's the penalty? Is it worse to outlive your money or your children?

What do you have to do to not outlive your money? Make more? Save more? Chase it. Capture it. Fight for it. Worry about it. Sounds like fear driven hoarding. I had that experience. I'm not interested in repeating past lives.

If I have nothing will I be less of a person? Does money in the bank translate into compassion in the heart? Isn't it possible that if I have more compassion than money I might have something to offer the world in my last days?

I couldn't save my son. I doubt I can save money. I love my sons, not money. If the money's gone, I won't miss it. I don't have the emotional energy to miss more than my son. Someone else can worry about money. As far as I know, they'll make more.

Traditions

2007-12-31T18:09:00.000-06:00

Traditions, are the jagged rocks
waves of life crash their survivors against.

With no mercy,
the giant events
loom on the horizon.

Rendezvous with landmarks, the memories.
Energized, suppressed emotions.
Rudderless we rise and fall,
collision inevitable.

It's The Most Wonderful Time of The Year, excuse me?

2007-12-20T18:45:00.000-06:00

Andy Williams lived in a dream world in 1964. How is this the most wonderful time of the year?

I'm all in favor of a week of slowing down and spiritual reflection. Instead we have Christmas... or the Holiday Season. Neither slow or spiritual. But I don't have to participate. Detachment.

Peace on Earth. Violence in our actions.

Christmas, when all your wishes come true. What was Bing Crosby wishing for in 1939? Bing lived in Andy's world. I never knew Christmas could be so painful. I grew up in Andy's Christmas Special world.

I might go to church on Christmas Eve. The church I grew up in. The church we attended with Aaron and Patrick at Christmas Past. My heart will break.

I'll Be Home For Christmas, if only in my dreams

2007-12-16T18:51:00.000-06:00

We cleared a spot for the Christmas tree last week. The spot is unfilled. Cathy decorated a little. Most of the boxes of magic are too hard to open. The hand carved Santa we bought for our first Christmas in this house 16 years ago stands at the fireplace. His string of bells is missing. He appears to be waiting for something.

My brain's sending stray voltage ideas lately. I've caught myself turning toward the telephone to call Aaron. "Oh, I should tell Aar......ohh." Orphaned electrons fire and I think "When will Aaron come ho....?..ohh." I don't have a grasp on reality. Maybe this is where acceptance is crossing paths with denial.

Aaron's been in my dreams almost nightly. We had a swimming race and played on the same football team. Aaron and Patrick were back together being brothers. Just being brothers. Aaron and Cathy left PT and me for someplace. I'm sure they had fun.

Christmas number three without Aaron is actually the fourth in five years. In '03 Aaron was in his first month at MBA. I guess we've had a long time without a family Christmas. I'm not getting used to it.